#at first i just wanted half of it to be the gif half of it to be the lyrics but it didn't turn out good | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bunni0nbanhg · 3 days ago

Text

|Ink| 02

Tattoo artist!Bang Chan x Fem!Reader

Genre(s): Strangers to lovers, One night stand, Unexpected relationship

Smut Warnings: Intoxication, unprotected sex, Soft!Dom Chan, Switch!Reader, Degrading, Creampies, Breeding kink

Synopsis: You needed to get a tattoo covered up, one you got for your ex. You’re in a new city and go to the closest tattoo parlor by your apartment. The main tattoo artist and owner just so happens to live across the hall from you. Drunken actions turn into a spiral of emotions and your first healthy relationship.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Part 3- ࿐ྂ

The tattoo was healed relatively quick, as quick as most tattoos.

Chan kept his promise to see you too, a few days after the tattoo you hear a knock at your door.

It’s not too late, around half an hour his shop closes. You know this because it’s written on the card Felix handed you before you left.

“Who knew I could charm someone enough to make them want to see me so soon.”

The older laughed in response, shaking his head as he held up a plastic bag with snacks inside. “What can I say, drunk girls who look like they’re about to throw up are my type.”

It was your turn to laugh, tongue pressed to the inside of your cheek out of mock annoyance.

You stepped aside to let him walk in, watching as he kicked off his shoes next to yours already there.

He was wearing another one of his black tank tops, maybe he knew to wear it, saw when it caught your eyes during the session.

“K, show me the wrist.” He turned around as soon as his shoes were off, effectively pulling you away from your trance or staring mindlessly at his back.

“Oh? Really going to use that excuse for real?” Chan grinned in response, tilting his head to the side while taking a careful step forward.

“What else am I here for?”

He turned back around before you could answer, taking your flushed face as a good enough response and deciding to change topics.

“I brought beer too, where’s your fridge?” He held up the bag again to enunciate his question and you nodded before showing him the way to your kitchen.

It wasn’t like he needed you to show him, your apartments had the same layout, but it was the polite thing to do. You didn't care for beer so much, it was bitter and sometimes tastes too much like wheat, especially if cheap. It did the job though, and gets less bad through out the night longer you drink it.

After he put the beverage into your fridge and took out the snacks from the bag he turned back to you again. He bought some salty and sweet stuff, what caught your eye was a chocolate bar, your favorite brand of chocolate.

"I know what I'm calling dibs on." You grinned, snatching the sweet treat from the counter as he tried to grab it before you. You raised an eyebrow as his arm drops with a dramatic pout. "That's my favorite."

He mockingly whined and went to grab it again, but you hid it behind your back. "And I called dibs!" Your voice wavered as he continued trying to get the candy. Even going as far as to try and reach behind you, stopping you from stepping away by wrapping his other arm around your lower back.

It made you nervously laugh, trying to shift your shoulders and wiggle free from his surprisingly firm grip. When seeing no way out, you made a fake hissing sound.

His arms pulled back in a flash and concern immediately filled his eyes. It made you feel guilty for a moment as his eyes darted to your wrist. "Did I squeeze it?" He asked while obviously gesturing to your healing tattoo.

You grinned in response, making him immediately groan in annoyance at being fooled, but also sighing in relief. "You're sly." He shook his head while pointing an accusatory finger.

He seemed to forget about the chocolate, or gave up and let you eat it in victory.

You two settled on a movie, not hungry enough for anything past snacks so dinner was out the way but you needed something to do to squash the lingering awkwardness when you're not too familiar with a person.

"Favorite movie genre." He started, watching you as you picked up your remote to scroll through the movie options. You hummed in though as if you didn't already know. "Depends on my mood, you?"

He copied your hum, leaning back until the back of his head lit the back of the couch. "Action Sci-fi. I love Marvel." You smiled in response, you enjoyed a superhero movie too.

"Favorite movie theater snack." You threw back at him, eyes darting to actually pay attention to what movie you wanted to watch.

"The classic, a big bucket of popcorn with extra butter."

Questions flew back and forth between you two, steering off topic of movies to things like dog breeds to hobbies. Conversation seemed to flow easier than you'd expect, and any awkwardness seemed to fade quickly.

The movie long forgotten and your first cans of beer already cracked open. "Why'd you move out here, just because?" He asked, taking a long swing after.

You looked down at the small opening in your can to drink out of, sloshing the liquid side to side. "Same reason I got the cover up."

His eyebrows raised a little with a thoughtful hum. "So it was a recent break up? I thought it was a while ago." You shook your head with a tightlipped smile, tracing the rim around the can with your index finger.

"I needed a fresh start, it was one of those relationships that should have ended months before it did. I have a habit of talking myself through tough things think it'd get better, but running as soon as I see something good happening for myself. Unintentional self-sabotage you could say."

Chan knew what that was like, to some extent. He'd convinced himself he wasn't worthy of certain things, ultimately ruining a lot of things in his life from overthinking.

"Those relationships suck. I've had my fair share of bad ones before, especially a few long ones."

You'd be lying if you said his words didn't pique your interest, curious to know more. "What was your longest one?"

His eyes flickered down to the bear can just as yours had done, biting down on the two lip rings pierced into his skin. "3 years.." His tone seems reluctant, but you're more surprised by the time he gave you.

"That's a... serious amount of time." You nodded with a little bit of shock obvious in your voice. "Can I ask why it ended or is that too personal?"

He laughed almost bitterly, quickly looking back up to you while resting his free arm over the top of the couch. "We were at different stages of our lives, and it wasn't something we properly discussed."

It was vague, but told a lot at the same time. Some relationships were just that, confusing but natural. Easy but stressful. It made your chest tighten with annoyance at how much you could relate.

"In short I wanted to settle down together and she still wanted to keep her options open."

You sucked in a sudden breath, shocked again. "That'll end a relationship." You nodded with a curt nod. He chuckled again, less bitter and more in amusement at your obvious words.

"Was your last one your longest?" He asked while taking another sip. You took one too before sighing deeply. "Yeah, a year, that's why I got the tattoo. Thought I'd be in it for the long run."

"Thought it was bad, so why stick around?" It didn't mean to sound judgmental, but Chan felt like it did and quickly added. "Was it just, easier?"

You hummed with a nod. "Part of it, yeah. It was mostly because I felt like I was losing out, running out of time. Wasn't the shittiest of past partners I've had, you could say I settled for less than I deserved and didn't realize until I was too far in."

Silence hung in the air as you took another large swig, looking up to see his expression, maybe try and guess what he was thinking despite not knowing much about him as a person and body language.

His eyes were directed at your black screen T.V, still nibbling on his bottom lip in thought. His eyes are darker than usual, but not out of annoyance. The soften when they lock with yours, seemingly snapping out of whatever trance he put himself in.

"I'm guessing you're going to take a break from dating?" He cocked an eyebrow before immediately breaking eye contact with you again.

"I always say that but end up talking to someone again, I think I'm more in a... drifting with the current phase. Whatever I bump into and wants to stick around I'll see if it's worth it."

"But, if it's too good you'll peel them off you?" He guessed, making you sigh at how accurately he can read you. "It's not like I think I don't deserve something good, but you could say I psyche myself out. Get so attached it's scary, I don't like being needy to something that can easily be taken away."

Your fingers trailed up and down the side of your almost empty can, sipping the last of it back before setting it down on your coffee table and getting up from your couch. "Another?" You asked and he nodded.

You handed him the chilled can when sitting back down, simultaneously cracking it open. Yours foamed over a bit and you quickly had to slurp it up before dripping down your hand and arm.

"Have you moved on since your ex?" You asked to resume your conversation, and you got a sigh in return. "Yeah, mentally. Haven't really gone on a date or anything. The night we met was me trying to try my luck but nobody really stuck out to me."

That night was still foggy in your mind, you hope he hadn't seen you do any embarrassing faces or said anything uncomfortable. "What made you stop to help me?" You knew it was probably going to be some bullshit answer about how he just wanted to help, because that's how considerate he seems to annoyingly be.

He's a lot of things actually, stuff you've been able to gather through the back and forth questioning and this conversation alone. It's annoying how he's effortlessly able to keep the flow going, it feel natural to keep on talking. He seems thoughtful in a way that is entirely selfless, and mature enough to not need any parenting.

That's more than most of your exes can account for.

"You were the only one that caught my eye at that point into the night, well, in the night in general. Had no idea I'd get the honor of meeting you again so soon. Much less becoming your neighbor."

There's an obvious teasing tone to his voice and it makes you roll your eyes. He's able to make you want to throw a pillow at him and kiss him at the same time, a dangerous feeling for someone who's already becoming something more than just a neighbor.

"Wow, so flattered, so should I count this as both of our first dates since our shitty breakups?"

He laughs in response, jokingly raising his can to yours to softly clank them together. "Technically, but if I were to take you on a first date I would have hoped it'd be nicer than this."

"My apartment is very nice." You teased with a fake annoyed expression, Chan easily able to see past it with another laugh. "It is, but that's probably because you stuffed all you mess in your room probably."

Your foot gave his thigh an annoyed nudge, shaking your head before taking a long swig of your beer. "I'm not some kid that shoves their toys underneath their bed."

"Sureee." He drags out, jokingly acting like he wasn't convinced. Your eyes narrowed before grinning to match his. "I'd invite you to go check but I'm afraid you might get other ideas, and I'd hate to bump into my new tattoo."

He let out a dramatic scoff, face flushed at your implications, though if asked he'd blame it on the alcohol. "I have self control, might not seem like it with how eagerly I was to show up tonight but that's only because I had to check said tattoo."

You rolled your eyes again, him back at using your tattoo as the excuse to see you. "Guess I'll just have to invite you back when it's healed so we can stop using it was a get out of jail free card."

His eyes darted to you, surprised at how casually you practically invited him to "check your room out" with him. "Because, Y'know, gotta test to see if I put my bedframe together right."

He choked on the sip of beer he just took, topic seemingly escalating far more quicker than he anticipated. Sure, his goal was to flirt here and there, test the waters to see if you were open to something. After all, he was the one to cover your tattoo that was for an ex.

You grinned at being able to get a reaction out of him, also taking another sip. That is until he propped his head with his free hand and leaned a bit closer after recovering from initial shock at your smug look.

"A little bump or two to it won't harm it's healing process much, just gotta make sure your arm stay's above your head."

It was your turn to freeze, having thought you had the upper hand of teasing for a second. His head tilted to the side with a hint of mockery to the action, almost challenging you to say something back.

And you did, challenge him I mean, just not with words.

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

You'd have to apologize to your neighbors next to you, your headboard positioned on a wall connected to their apartment. The good thing however was that now you knew your bed frame was stable.

The buzzed feeling wasn't just in your head, and it wasn't there just because of the few cans of beer you two both downed. It was the adrenaline of doing something you knew probably shouldn't be done, I mean, come on, fucking your tattoo artist after just two days of knowing each other was crazy work.

What was worse than fucking your tattoo artist, someone you could avoid if shit hits the fan, is fucking your neighbor. Who knows how often you'd inevitably run into each other to take the same elevator or throw your trash in the dumpster on trash day at the same time.

The awkwardness of running into someone who've you've seen naked and know they've seen you naked is something hard to avoid no matter how hard you try to without talking about it.

You hope it wouldn't end up like that between you two; not when his tongue felt so good pressed against your own. It made you moan when feeling something cool hit the roof of your mouth when he lazily flicked the pink muscle up.

"How did I not see your tongue piercing until now?" You panted against his lips already beginning to look redder with how aggressively you two pulled on each other's bottom lips. You could feel the smirk growing on his lips as he pressed them back against yours.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure you become well acquainted with it."

And that he did, right after sliding off your soaked underwear down your legs and throwing it somewhere on your floor. Your nightshirt and bra didn't last long after, Chan getting hungry to taste more of your skin.

You shivered as you felt the ball of his tongue piercing drag across your collarbone, it retracting as his lips sucked on your skin right under that part of your skeleton.

He groaned as your legs shifted, brushing against the hard on in his basketball shorts. "So desperate for me already." You practically purred with amusement, earning yourself a glare from the man above you. "Princess has a cocky mouth, doesn't she?"

"Only speaking facts baby. Maybe pretend to be a little less eager if you don't want me to call you out on it."

You knew you were a hypocrite, heat pooling at your core that ached for some sort of relief. Chan knew it to, knew it even before reaching a hand down to lazily drag through your folds, earning a surprised gasp from the sudden but appreciated friction.

He brought his two fingers up to suck on and grin back at you. "I'm the eager one?"

You huffed, going to reach a hand down to flick at his forehead when you were reminded of his free hand pinning them above your head. "Oh, forgot about that, did you Princess? I'm only making sure you don't bump your wrist on accident."

His hand held onto yours by lacing together with your fingers, making sure not to touch the plastic around your healing tattoo. Your tongue clicked in subtle but half-hearted annoyance, distracted as soon as his lips started pressing kisses down your exposed chest.

Your eyes glanced down to watch with bated breath, his hot breathing fanning over your skin as he continued going lower and lower. He paused at your lower stomach, making to presses multiple kisses around there while switching occasionally to both your hips and hip bones.

He trailed back up before giving you exactly what you wanted, saving your heat as an indulgence for afterwards.

"Gonna be a good girl and keep your hands up for a second?" He presses his lips to your ear, enunciating his question by squeezing your hands. An embarrassingly desperate whine fell past your lips, effected by the careful movement of his lips earlier down your torso.

"Such a good girl." You mumbled with a nod of your head, Chan satisfied with your promise as he momentarily let go. Your hands laid limp, making no attempt to move from their spot on the upper part of your mattress.

His hands left your body to quickly strip off his tank top, making drool pool in your mouth like wetness did in your cunt. What really made you moan was seeing the entirety of his tattoo when he twisted to throw his tank top in the same pile of your clothes.

He looked back at you with a grin, biting his lower lip to suppress a laugh. No matter how many people complimented or flirted with him based on his body alone never made it any less flustering when someone who's opinion he truly cared about also complimented it.

Next was his shorts, the bulge already noticeable despite the loose material. What you didn’t expect us to see an Ampallang piercing right as his hard length was freed from his boxers.

“How did your ex not lock you down?” You groaned, hips shifting to adjust as you felt your wetness almost trickle down your inner thigh. Chan this time really laughed, throwing his head back with a hand to his chest.

He bent down soon after getting himself to stop laughing, a pleased smile still stretched across his lips as he leaned closer to your downstairs ones. “You gonna make the same mistake?” He hummed before pressing a light kiss on your upper inner thigh.

The action was more affectionate than anything, a total contrast to how he later becomes aggressive with his tongue pressed to your clit.

The barbell of his piercing provided an extra stimulation you didn’t know you needed until now, especially with his mouth was doing an amazing job by itself.

You had to stifle most of your moans with the back of your hand, still being mindful of your neighbors who could not even be home at the moment for all you know.

“What’d I say about your hands?” Chan asked, lips departing from your puffy clit that pulsed with want and need from the sudden lack of touch. You whined in slight annoyance and desperation but moved your hand to rest next to your other wrist.

“Don’t want to be deprived of those pretty little moans.” He grunted before diving back in to seemingly swallow you up whole.

The sound of your panting, little ah’s and whines every time he pressed practically good against your clit sent heat straight down to his dick that already ached painfully so. He’d hold out though, wanting to taste your release on his tongue before anything else.

The knot in your lower stomach tightened as you felt yourself nearing your end, breath hitching. Chan immediately began speeding up, hands gripping your thighs to stop them as the threatened to close.

“Close princess?” He grinned, pressing sloppy kiss through your folds as you moans in response. “Is that all it takes to make you cum? That desperate for a man you just met?”

Your eyes widened as you felt yourself clench around nothing, his tongue immediately sliding in with a quiet almost nonexistent groan falling from his lips. You tasted better than he could ever imagine.

“Fuck, more of that.” You mumbled with a shaky breath, hands lacing together as your fingers twitched to grab onto something. He chuckled against you, eyes trained on the feast he was devouring.

He knew what you meant, and he’d make sure to give you all of the demeaning words and insults he can when fucking it into you, for now he just needs to coax this first orgasm out of you and onto his tongue.

He made sure to flick his tongue up, pressing the medal if his piercings on the roof of you gummy walls. “Shit!” You gasped, stomach tightening.

Chan groaned again, thumbs rubbing circles into your hips as he pressed himself closer, your legs resting over his shoulders. You would have worried about if he was able to breath or not if it wasn’t for him grunting and groaning with every movement he made with his tongue.

And then it hit you, a flash flood wave as the knot in your stomach snapped and heat spread throughout your cunt. “Chan!” You gasped, hips bucking up before you could control them.

He moaned against your folds with pride, not tearing away until you were shaking and trembling and he was able to drink up all of you.

“Such a good girl, took it so well.” He instantly praised, propping himself up to lean his face into your neck.

He pressed sloppy kisses to your skin before wiping your release from his mouth to kiss you. “Think you can handle being in top?”

You nodded pathetically into the kiss, moaning at the taste of yourself on his tongue.

He’d have to make sure to do that again, maybe even wake you up by burying his tongue deep inside you, only if it was something you gave him permission to.

“Hands don’t leave my chest.” He grunted before flipping you two over, easily maneuvering you to straddle his lap.

You shuddered as you felt yourself pressed against his cock, eyes staring back down at the surprise piercing through his tip.

He hummed while watching you gaze hungrily, hands back to rest in your hips before gathering your hands to pull you forward slightly and rest them on his chest.

“Right here.” He enunciated with a tap to your knuckle, making you nod again. “Can’t even talk? Too needy for me to fill you up? Such a desperate girl.” He clicked his tongue as you moaned in response.

Sure you’ve been domed before, possibly the only good reason you stayed with a few exes in your past, but the mix between praise and undeniable affection with degrading words did something to stir need in your chest and pussy.

“You should be prepped enough from my tongue, or are you about to ask me for your fingers too?”

You but your bottom lip in thought, already knowing your answer as you shook your head.

His fingers tapped against your thighs before squeezing the flesh there. “Words slut.”

You shuddered before letting out a moan. “I’m ready.”

He hummed in seemingly approval before lifting you up by the bottom of the ass, making you look back as he moved his tip to align with you.

Gathering some of your wetness by smearing precum into your folds, he finally lowered you to sink down onto him.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to just flip you back over and ram into you, but he was able to stay still to let yourself adjust.

You weren’t doing much better yourself, feeling like you could feel him and his piercing in your guts. It was a feeling of being full nonetheless and it made you even more needy.

“What, can’t handle me” he moved one of his hands to grab onto your chin and make sure your gaze locked with his. “Need to pull out?”

You whined instantly in protest, grinding down harder to prove your point. “Don’t you dare.” You gasped as he let out a chuckle.

“Might get the wrong idea if I don’t see you drooling for me to move.” He teased right before you raised your hips up to slam back down.

His own moan cut off any words he wanted to add, making you grin. “Baby can’t believe that a pussy can feel this good.” You mockingly cooed, Chan grunting in response to your tease.

“I had you falling apart on my tongue.”

“Well let’s hope your dick can achieve the same goal.”

Chan decided he liked it better when you were on your back. You gasped as he flipped you toe over again, able to not have to disconnect himself.

“What’s that? Princess gone quiet?”

You shivered as he slowly dragged himself out maybe only half a centimeter, making a point for you to feel the silver barbell rub against your walls.

You moaned as he pressed back in, pulling out a bit more with every thrust until he was setting a pace. “Not so quiet now.” He groaned, eyes trained as he watched himself disappear into you over and over again.

Your hands still laid over your head, one of his hands laced back together with them again.

It was intoxicating, making your mind foggy with bliss. How long had it been since you got a good fuck? Along with the insanity inducing head he gave you; you weren't sure how this man could possibly still be single.

"Spacing out?" His breath hit's the shell of your ear, earning a whine in response. His chest pressed down into yours with his hands between your bodies to grip harshly at your hips and keep them in place. Your head would be smashed into the headboard if he didn't hold you down against his thrusts.

"Can't believe I already got my princess dumb on my cock. What was it you said? Let's see if your dick can do the same? Tell me, is it?"

Your breath hitched as he arms looped underneath your lower back, making your back arch off the bed and he continued ramming into you. Your hands, now free, carded into his hair.

He groaned at the faint burn of his hair getting pulled, same cocky grin on his lips. It made you want to make them red all over again, bite and swap spit like you had done desperately as soon as he pressed you into your mattress.

"Please, please-! Don't stop, don't slow down!" You moaned, knowing your face was flushed impossibly red and eyes glossed over in a haze of bliss and need. "That's not a yes or no." He hummed, moving one of his hands to hike up your thigh to wrap over his hip.

You yelped in response, overwhelmed with the change of position as he drilled at more of an upwards angle. "Yes! yes- just-" Your chest heaved, a shaky moan leaving your lips at the intense familiar feeling of your abdomen tightening.

Chan moaned back, eyes squeezing shut once he felt you clench around him. He knew what it meant, having felt it when his tongue was buried deep inside.

He felt his own impending release start to build up, sighing out. "Tell me, in or out?"

Your mouth dropped open, not quite registering his words fully when he was fucking into you like a god. "Princess, need to know." He urged, dropping the hand on your thigh to tap your cheek.

Your eyes snapped up to look at him as soon as you felt his finger touch the side of your face, still panting with every moan he was able to coax out of you. "In."

Chan could feel his eyes almost roll back, that was the response he was secretly hoping for. Just the idea of getting to see his seed spill out of you when he pulled out. Maybe he'd be able to push it back in with his fingers and fuck more of it into you, if you'd allow him.

There's a lot of stuff he'd gladly do to you if you gave him the ok, and just the image of your cunt, dripping and creaming from your mix releases made him almost cum on the spot.

That mixed with how tightly you were clenching around him, mind and body both wanting to milk him for every single drop he could give you. You hadn't realized how hot it made you feel to know someone was about to cum in you before Chan, maybe it had more to do with the person than the action.

"Really? Eager to carry my kids?"

Like a switch in your mind, your eyes screw shut and something akin to the loudest moan in existence left you, along with the knot in your stomach undoing for the second time that night.

Chan wasn't far after you, breath hitching as you gushed around his length with no warning.

That wasn't a problem for him, never. He gladly fucked into you needily, knowing he looked like a desperate puppy as his hips snapped against yours quickly.

You could have cum again from just the feeling of his seed shooting into you. Hot ropes of cum stuck to your walls, kissing your cervix along with his tip. You best believe Chan had to capture your lips in a kiss if he didn't want to scream like you did.

The bedframe was able to handle more than you could imagine, maybe Ikea furniture wasn't so bad.

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

Taglist: @sarastayy @estella-novella @danceonmyheyday @iweirdthingsblog

#stray kids #skz #bang chan skz #skz smut #stray kids smut #bang chan smut #tattoo artist #tattoos #bangchan smut #bang chan x reader

179 notes · View notes

ssa-dado · 2 days ago

Text

21 - Physics

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, slight angst, whump Summary: Aaron Hotchner navigates the chaos of a teammate’s tragedy, personal struggles, and unresolved emotions toward you, with fate as his only constant. Past and present blur, coincidences and camaraderie intertwining as if tied by a red string. A case hits too close to home for everyone, forcing him to confront buried fears while managing the fallout as Unit Chief. But as events unfold, he realizes that nothing - neither relationships nor outcomes - ends quite the way he had foreseen. Warnings: violence, trauma, mentions of what happens in 3x09 & 3x11, use of alchool, some cuss words here and there, Hotch being a lot in his head, mentions of the fact you and Hotch fucked once, whoops. HOTCH SMITTEN LIKE A FOOOOL Word Count: 20.5k Dado's Corner: Flustered and smitten Hotch are peak Hotch. Also, I’m proud of finally nailing down a phrase that perfectly sums up their dynamic: he overthinks, while you overtalk. Oh, and one more thing: I officially have a new favorite character now, hope you love her as well. This chapter is a bit of a wild ride. A bit of fan service and the fan is me.

masterlist

In Stoic philosophy, physics (physikē) explores the nature of the universe, its structure, and the principles that govern it, providing the foundation for understanding humanity’s place within the cosmos.

For the Stoics, mastery of Physics was essential because it revealed the rational order (logos) underpinning all things, emphasizing the interconnectedness and inevitability of events.

The Stoics believed that fate (heimarmenē), the unbroken chain of cause and effect, binds all events in a web of necessity, with every occurrence unfolding as part of a rational, divine plan.

---

Sometimes, there’s just too much to do.

And honestly, sometimes, that feels like a blessing. A distraction.

Something to keep your mind from wandering back to the chaos of the past week. Not the mountain of paperwork waiting. Not the echoes of a case that clung to your thoughts. And especially not the emotional wreckage left behind.

No, you’d had a to-do list long enough to drown out anything else.

First, there had been guest lectures to prepare - because, God forbid, you gave up the career you’d built on your own before coming back to the BAU. That was yours and yours only, and you could never giving it up entirely.

Then, the FBI conference materials. A seminar on terrorism to finalize. Hours of research and fine-tuning to make sure it had been flawless, because that was the standard you’d set for yourself.

And let’s not forget the decade’s worth of solved cases you’d sifted through for examples to present. Because nothing screamed ‘productive’ quite like revisiting every horrifying thing you’d helped stop.

Then there was the apartment.

The apartment you still weren’t sure you wanted to call “home,” even though the rent you’d just paid suggested otherwise. Half of the boxes Aaron had helped you carry inside were still unopened, stacked against the walls.

And, of course, there was the team. The team that wouldn’t stop offering to help.

“We can chip in,” JJ had said.

“It’s no big deal,” Derek had insisted.

“Think of us as your moving dream team,” Penelope had declared, complete with jazz hands.

You had turned them all down. Firmly. Politely. And then less politely.

Aaron didn’t push, though.

He hadn’t insisted since your first no. He understood - probably better than anyone else - that you had to do this alone.

At least now you felt safe. For the first time in a year. And wasn’t that a luxury?

Another luxury? The fact that Hotch let you stay up late in the bullpen without questioning it too much. Not that he could afford to comment on your habits without opening the door to some pointed remarks about his own hypocrisy.

Because he stayed late, too.

Both of you. Night owls. Just like old times. Well, not exactly like old times.

Back then, you stayed late out of pride.

Who could solve the most cases? Who could earn the higher stats by the end of the quarter?

“I’m just saying,” Aaron had said one night in ’99, leaning against your desk with the kind of smugness that made you want to throw your stapler at him, “if I were you, I’d revise page ten of the case file. You clearly missed something.”

You, of course, had bristled. “Missed? I missed something?”

His reply was maddeningly neutral. “I’m just saying.”

You spent the next two hours poring over the file, only to realize, to your horror, that he was right. The unsub’s pattern was buried in the details you’d overlooked.

“Oh, you think you’re so clever,” you’d muttered as you shoved the solved case onto his desk.

“Not clever,” he’d replied with a faint smirk. “Efficient.”

Efficient? Well, now it was war.

What started as a casual rivalry quickly devolved into a full-blown competition. Nights in the office turned into marathons of who could close the most cases, complete with snarky comments and ridiculous one-upmanship.

“Did you just solve two cases in one night?” you’d asked incredulously one evening, staring at his smug face.

“Three, actually,” he’d corrected, leaning back in his chair like some kind of overachieving Greek god of profiling.

“Oh, it’s on,” you’d muttered, dragging another file off the pile and practically slamming it onto your desk.

By the end of the year, the two of you had obliterated every record the short-lived BAU had.

Even Gideon, who was famously difficult to impress, couldn’t believe it. He’d handed you a plastic trophy with the words ‘Most Productive Agents: 1999’ scrawled on it, muttering something about how he’d never seen anything so hideous.

“Let me remind you,” Gideon had said, handing over the trophy, “Rossi left the FBI before the end of the year. So, technically, you broke our streak by default.”

Neither of you cared. You’d still done it.

The trophy? Aaron had it proudly displayed in his office, perched next to his battered copy of Hegel for Dummies with a spine so broken it looked like it had been run over.

Yours? It was buried in one of those unopened boxes in your new apartment, its significance too bittersweet to face just yet.

Now, though, things were different.

The late nights weren’t about pride anymore.

They were about survival.

Aaron, in his office, scribbling away as if Haley’s forgiveness could be found at the bottom of yet another case report. You, in the bullpen, scratching out notes for your lectures with the same relentless drive - but this time, with the weight of a broken soul behind it.

Both of you would go home to spaces that felt more hollow than comforting.

Aaron’s was an empty house, caught in the eternal limbo of Haley’s indecision. Would she forgive him for being, in his words, a terrible husband and father? Or was he bracing for yet another blow in what felt like an endless cycle of disappointment?

Yours wasn’t much better. An apartment that didn’t feel like yours. Foreign surroundings that refused to settle into something familiar. Which was strange. For years, you’d thrived on not knowing where you were.

Changing countries more often than you changed your phone plan, living out of suitcases, hopping between temporary homes without so much as a second thought.

So why now? Why did this emptiness sting in a way it never had before?

“Maybe I’m getting soft,” you muttered under your breath, scribbling a note so aggressively you nearly tore the paper.

“Talking to yourself already?” Hotch’s voice carried down from the mezzanine, his tone calm but laced with just enough amusement to catch your attention. He stood leaning casually against the railing, looking down over your desk, which happened to be situated directly beneath him.

“Wouldn’t have to if you came out of your cave every once in a while” you shot back, not looking up.

There was a long pause before he answered. “Fair enough.”

But even as you bantered, you knew the truth: this wasn’t about the apartment.

It was about everything you’d tried to suppress catching up to you all at once.

It was fear. Fear of what had happened. Of what might still happen. Of being alone.

You sighed, leaning back in your chair and staring at the ceiling. Admitting it to yourself felt like defeat but at least, it was the first step forward, wasn’t it?

“Everything okay?” his voice cut through your thoughts again, quieter this time.

“Fine,” you said, your voice sharper than intended.

There was a pause. Then he said softly “You’re allowed to say you’re not, you know.”

You glanced up toward him, and sighed. “So are you,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then, as if fate had synchronized your thoughts, both of you said it at the same time. “I’m not.”

You blinked, looking at him, unsure whether to laugh or crumble under the sheer awkwardness of it. He seemed just as taken aback, standing there with that signature furrow of his brow, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d said it out loud.

“Well,” he said finally “that’s one way to break the tension.”

It felt strange - refreshing, maybe - to hear it spoken aloud. Even though you’d known, deep down, that neither of you was okay, sometimes you just needed to hear the words.

To have it acknowledged. Somehow, knowing he felt the same made it just a little easier to carry.

You nodded toward the stack of papers on your desk, eager to redirect the moment before it got too raw. “Well, since we’re both in the mood for honesty, I’ve got something for you.”

He tilted his head slightly, now moving down the stairs and crossing the bullpen toward you. “You always know how to make the best gifts,” he said, a touch of dry humor lacing his tone.

“Oh, this one’s a real treat,” you said, sliding the folder toward him.

Aaron opened it, skimming the first page, and raised an eyebrow. “Case summaries. You shouldn’t have.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied with a wink.

He chuckled lightly, closing the folder. “I’ll review them and file them in the system immediately. Truly, a gift worth cherishing.”

“Or,” you countered, leaning back in your chair, “they could wait until tomorrow morning.”

His brow lifted, probably not convinced of your ungodly offer. “And you think I’d waste your hard work like that?!”

“No,” you said, shrugging. “I think they could be the very first thing you file tomorrow morning. None of my efforts wasted, and you get to go home.”

You could tell he considered it for a moment, even if he kept his gaze steady on yours. “You make a compelling argument.” He said in mock formality.

“I know,” you said, smirking slightly.

He glanced back at the folder, then at you, and sighed. “Alright,” he said finally. “Tomorrow morning.”

“Good choice,” you said, your voice softer now, the teasing edge gone.

Hotch leaned slightly against your desk, holding the folder in one hand. “That applies to you too, you know. Whatever you’re working on… it can wait until 8 AM tomorrow.”

You opened your mouth to respond, barely managing to say “Alri-” before the sharp ring of his phone cut through the air.

His expression shifted instantly.

That composed, slightly softer look he’d had moments before hardened into something sharper - focused, intense. You recognized it immediately, the way his jaw tightened and his posture straightened. Something was wrong.

“Hotchner,” he answered, his voice low. The sudden shift in his tone made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

You didn’t need to hear the other side of the conversation to know it was serious. The single word he barked into the phone - “Where?” - told you everything.

You shot out of your chair, your heart already racing, and rushed toward his office. By the time he hung up, you were there, pulling his coat from the rack and holding it out to him. His eyes met yours as he moved toward you, his pace quicker than you ever remembered.

“What happened?” you asked handing him his coat, though you had a sinking feeling you didn’t want to hear the answer.

He didn’t even hesitate.

His eyes locked on yours, and in that split second, you saw everything you needed to know.

“Garcia got shot,” he said.

---

“What do we know?” Rossi asked as he walked into the hospital waiting room, headed straight for him.

“Police think it was a botched robbery,” he replied, his voice clipped, with a tense jaw.

Emily, looked toward you, her eyes wide and disbelieving, the shock still fresh. “Where’s Morgan?” she asked, her tone edged with worry.

You shook your head. “He’s not answering his phone.”

Hotch could sense the strain beneath your calm exterior, the cracks starting to show despite how hard you were trying to hold it together.

Why were you doing that? He was there for that reason.

Spencer didn’t even pause. He turned away immediately, his usual hesitance replaced only by urgency. “I’ll call him again,” he said over his shoulder, already pulling out his phone as he strode toward the corner of the room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hotch saw Rossi move closer, when he spoke, his voice was low, only meant for him. “What aren’t you saying?”

He didn’t look at Rossi right away, his eyes fixed on some indeterminate point across the room. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter than before, almost a whisper. “I spoke to one of the paramedics who brought her in. It doesn’t look good.”

And so, all you could do was wait.

Time moved strangely there, in this place of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smells, where the hum of machinery and the distant shuffle of footsteps filled the silence.

Seven FBI agents in a room.

But the titles didn’t matter there. Because each of you felt completely useless.

There were minutes of restless movements, of silent prayers, of thoughts no one dared to voice aloud. Some paced the hallway, unable to sit still, as if walking could somehow outrun the helplessness threatening to suffocate them. Others fidgeted, their hands twisting and folding into patterns born of nervous energy.

But eventually, you all stilled.

Emily and JJ sat down together. Emily’s hand found JJ’s, gripping it firmly, as if she could siphon away some of her fear, absorb the weight of it into herself.

Across from them, Spencer perched on the edge of a chair, his arms crossed tightly, his right hand rubbing absentmindedly up and down his left side in a motion that felt almost protective, almost desperate.

Rossi stood apart from the rest of you, his back turned, his figure outlined by the stark light of the hallway. He held a gold bracelet in his hands, the same one he always carried, his fingers moving over it in a rhythm that suggested it was as much for grounding as it was for comfort.

And then there was you.

You sat to Spencer’s right, your brow furrowed, your breaths slow but audible. Your eyes moved rapidly, scanning nothing and everything all at once. He could tell you were buried deep in your thoughts, lost in the labyrinth of your mind.

He wanted to know what you were thinking - wanted to reach into the chaos and pull you out.

He couldn’t, that thing he knew.

Probably, you were still sifting through philosophies, trying to find the right citation to cling to, the one that would hold you steady. Something wise and comforting, something that would tell you this wouldn’t end in tragedy.

And him?

He stood still, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He knew he had to keep it together - for all of you, for himself.

He stood so close to your left that he could feel your knee brushing the fabric of his pants every so often, a touch so faint it barely registered but still managed to tether him.

He observed his team, each of you unraveling in their own quiet way, while he avoided, at all costs, the thought clawing at the back of his mind.

The thought of living this again - he knew what it felt like, this helplessness. He remembered it too well.

Back when it was you lying on an operating table, under needles and lights, fighting to come back to him. That same sense of uselessness had consumed him then, and now it was here again, circling like a vulture.

But his mind, cruel as it so often was, always found new ways to torture him.

It conjured new voices, fresh what-ifs, flashes of memories he didn’t want, tethering him to the fear that churned relentlessly in his chest. None of it was helpful. None of it worth listening to more than once.

And yet, amidst the noise, it was something small that healed him now.

Your touch.

Your knee pressed fully against the side of his leg, a quiet, grounding gesture that pulled him from the spiral before it could drag him any deeper.

He glanced down at you instinctively, and when your gaze met his, it was steady, knowing, and impossibly calm.

It wasn’t extravagant - there was no dramatic gesture, no soft-spoken reassurance. Just a nod.

A simple acknowledgment, because you knew.

You knew he needed to hold it together. As Unit Chief. As the leader. As the anchor in this storm of uncertainty.

And yet, in that single nod, in the quiet understanding etched into your expression, you told him something else, too: if it were just the two of you, you’d let go.

Together.

If you could, you’d be wrapped in each other’s arms, sinking into one of those uncomfortable chairs, your head resting on his shoulder, his leaning gently against yours.

Just like you had in his living room that one night when everything else had fallen apart.

That memory burned in his mind, as vivid as if it had happened moments ago. The way you had leaned into him, your hand brushing against his chest, anchoring him in a way he hadn’t known he needed.

He’d been thinking about it for weeks, replaying it over and over, striving for it without even realizing.

Your touch had burned itself into his memory. It was solace, it was safety, it was the only thing that made the world make sense when nothing else did.

And then, without warning, the moment broke. None of you moved first - you didn’t have to. Derek’s hurried steps into the waiting room shattered the fragile quiet.

“She’s been in surgery a couple hours,” JJ said softly, her voice almost hesitant, as though saying it aloud made it worse.

“I was in church,” Derek responded, his voice tight, his eyes darting to Hotch. “My phone was off.”

Spencer spoke up, his voice quiet but insistent, trying to reassure Derek, but Hotch’s gaze softened as it drifted to him, the tension in his team mate's expression contrasting starkly with the rigid lines of his suit.

He barely noticed your shoulder brushing against his arm - because apparently, personal space was just a suggestion with you - but he didn’t mind.

If anything, the contact softened the edges of his thoughts, kept him tethered to the present.

Then, the door opened, and a doctor stepped in. “Penelope Garcia?” he asked.

Hotch stepped forward immediately. “Yes.”

“The bullet went in her chest and ricocheted into her abdomen. She lost a lot of blood. It was touch and go for a while,” The doctor’s tone was clinical, detached, but the words carried the weight of everything they’d been dreading. “But we were able to repair the injuries.”

Aaron felt his breath hitch.

“So, what are you saying?” JJ asked, her voice strained.

The doctor hesitated for a moment before continuing. “One centimeter over and it would have torn right through her heart. Instead, she could actually walk out of here in a couple of days, and I’d say that’s a minor miracle.”

The words barely registered, muffled under the synchronized exhale of relief from everyone in the room, including him.

His chest rose and fell heavily, the tension still coiling so tightly in his body that he had to bite his lip to stop himself from letting it all spill out.

He couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.

“She needs her rest. You can see her in the morning,” the doctor said before being immediately thanked and leaving the room.

Hotch straightened, forcing his composure back into place. He had to focus. He had to do what needed to be done.

“David and I will go to the scene,” he said, the words leaving his mouth almost automatically. “I think the rest of you should be here when she wakes up.”

Your brow arched slightly, the corners of your lips twitching upward for just a moment.

“I don’t care about protocol,” he added firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I don’t care whether we’re working this officially or not. We don’t touch any new cases until we find out who did this.”

Because when the family is involved, the law can go to hell.

You gave him another nod, this one filled with something more - pride, maybe.

---

But the consequences of his choices - of that particular decision, of every decision since - were harder to ignore.

It had started as something small, almost imperceptible. The kind of shift you only notice when looking back, piecing together the moments that led to now.

You spoke to him less on the job.

Maybe it had begun after Penelope was shot. Maybe it was even earlier than that - after that argument in the car the day Rossi rejoined the team.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t noticed. He’d thought about it more times than he cared to admit, replaying conversations and briefings in his head, trying to pinpoint the exact moment it changed.

Still, whatever the catalyst, it was there - distance.

You were more careful now, more reserved.

The way you hesitated before voicing disagreements during case discussions, when you used to challenge him so freely, so instinctively.

The way your once-abstract musings - philosophical detours that most of the times used to drive him to the brink of frustration - were almost entirely gone. He rarely heard them from you anymore.

It was Reid now, who would bring up some concept or theory, his voice filling the space that used to be yours.

And Hotch would sit there, listening, waiting - hoping, even - for your voice to cut in, to weave those extra threads of detail, to challenge or expand the discussion in that way that had always been so uniquely you. But it never came.

Your language had shifted, too.

Gone were the sweeping truths and nuanced arguments that once made every discussion with you feel like a labyrinth. Now you were grounded, concrete.

Practical. Logical... ironic, really.

The very thing that sometimes frustrated him - the way you could lose yourself in abstraction, dissecting every nuance as if it held the key to the universe, even when a case demanded quick action - was the same thing that made you indispensable to his being… to work.

Indispensable to work.

It was why the two of you had been able to crack so many cases together - at work.

The confrontation was what made it work.

Necessary. Vital.

His logic sharpening your abstractions, your ideas loosening the rigidity of his structures. Because both of you wanted to be right.

And in that pursuit, you always found the balance - in the balance, you caught killers. In the balance, you saved lives. Different truths, coexisting.

But now? Now, he found himself paying more attention to the details that had slipped through the cracks.

You’d stopped calling him “Partner”.

It wasn’t the word itself that mattered. It was what it signified. How for a brief amount of time it had even become a running joke, how you’d introduce him to people as “my partner,” and how they’d inevitably misunderstand, assuming you were together.

Maybe it was the way you talked about him. Maybe it was the way he looked at you... back then.

Anyways, it was gone. Because now, on the job, you only called him "Unit Chief".

Clinical. Precise. A title that left no room for interpretation. Best friends outside of work; your superior within it.

But he missed the ambiguity.

He missed the way you’d once spoken to him on the job like he wasn’t just your colleague, or your boss. Like he was someone you trusted - completely.

And maybe that was what stung the most. That sense of trust between you, once so natural, now felt… guarded.

He wanted to fix it, but how could he, without crossing some invisible line?

Because pairing himself with you on a case would have been the easiest solution, but he’d never allow himself that.

He never did. He couldn’t. To do so would feel selfish, like he was abusing his authority to serve his own ends… even that thought alone made his stomach churn.

So, instead, he paired you with Reid for geographical profiles or with Rossi in the field, keeping you at a polite, professional distance, telling himself it was better this way.

Telling himself it didn’t matter that you barely spoke to him unless you had to. Telling himself that your sudden carefulness wasn’t personal.

And yet, outside the job, it was a completely different story.

You two had grown closer - seeking each other’s company in ways that felt almost inevitable.

You didn’t plan it, but somehow, you always ended up together. And considering how close you’d already been, it was startling, almost disorienting.

Your shared tragedies should have been the sole reason for it, forging something unshakable, but this… this was different. It was more intimate, more vulnerable.

It felt more… familiar, though with what exactly?

Maybe it was the way you always seemed to gravitate toward each other, how his phone would buzz with a text from you - asking if he had time to grab dinner or if he could help you pick out furniture for your new apartment.

“Don’t worry,” you’d said that morning, flashing him a grin that instantly made him suspicious. “I just need your muscles, not your opinion. Unless you want to tell me I’m wasting money.”

He raised an eyebrow, following you into the store like a man marching to his doom. “You brought me for labor but not to stop you from making bad decisions?”

“Exactly,” you replied, already strolling ahead like you owned the place. “And don’t worry - it’ll take a couple of hours at most.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, letting out a disbelieving laugh. “A couple of hours? Wars have been declared, fought, and peace treaties signed faster than it takes to shop for furniture.”

“What, you think I’m indecisive?” you shot back, turning to face him.

“I know you are,” he replied, his tone flat. “And meticulous, which doesn’t exactly speed things up.”

“Just trust me, Aaron,” you said, your grin widening in a way that felt more like a warning.

Indeed, it didn’t take a couple of hours. It took the entire day.

And by the time you got back to your apartment, he was certain he’d pulled at least three muscles he didn’t even know he had.

“Next time,” Aaron said, panting slightly as he set the box down with a loud thud. “I’m bringing a forklift. Or an entire moving crew.”

“Next time?” you asked innocently, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “You’re already signing up for next time?! That’s so thoughtful, Aaron. Wow, you’re such a friend.”

“You’re lucky I have patience,” he muttered, glaring at the box like it had personally wronged him.

“Patience?” you laughed, crossing your arms. “You were ready to snap at that poor woman asking about the extended warranties!”

“That’s because she asked me six times,” he snapped, the memory still fresh.

“Well,” you said, grinning as you grabbed a water bottle from the counter and handed it to him, “now that torture is over, I think you deserve your prize. I have some office gossip for you.”

Aaron scoffed, took a sip from the bottle and crouched down to unbox the bookshelf. “I don’t care about your office gossip,” he said, his tone betraying none of the interest that actually was bubbling inside of him.

“...You don’t have to stay and build this, you know,” you offered, watching him carefully slide the first plank out of the box. “I’ve already dragged you into enough.”

“I’m staying,” he replied, glancing at you briefly. “I want to help.” Then, after a beat, he added, “So, what were you saying?”

You raised an eyebrow at him, making him regret what he just said. “Oh, so you do want to know?”

“You were going to tell me anyway,” he replied, pretending to be slightly annoyed.

“Well, now I’m not so sure,” you teased, plopping down next to him.

Then it happened.

Your hand reached for the instruction manual at the exact same moment as his, and your fingers brushed briefly. He froze, just for a second.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. No jolt of electricity, no world-tilting moment. Just… a touch.

Ordinary. Mundane.

And yet his brain, apparently bored of rationality, decided to hit pause.

You didn’t even seem to notice, already flipping open the pages of the manual like it was nothing – because it was. Meanwhile, he forced himself back into motion, his hand retreating too quickly as he muttered, “Sorry.”

“For what? Existing?” you quipped, glancing at him with a smirk that teetered on the edge of infuriating. “It’s fine, Aaron. Don’t worry, no need to be so polite.”

Polite. Yes, that’s what he was. Polite.

Not distracted. Not caught off guard. Certainly not anything else.

“It’s not a habit I plan to break,” he replied, his tone as steady as he could manage, focusing intently on pulling out the next piece of wood.

He just needed his personal space. You were close, physically, and his brain had momentarily overreacted. That’s all it was. It wasn’t significant. It wasn’t anything.

“I always forget I’m friends with the Queen of England,” you said, deadpan.

He shot you a flat look, holding up a piece that vaguely resembled part of a shelf. “So - are you actually reading those instructions, or are you just turning pages for fun?”

You squinted at the manual. “I mean… how hard can it be to put a rectangle on top of some other rectangles?”

He gave you a long, unimpressed stare. “…I’ll take that as a no” As usual, you got lost in your thoughts, your half-finished sentences going nowhere - resulting in still no gossip for him.

Thankfully, Aaron was used to that by now.

“So,” he said pointedly, cutting through your ramble, “the gossip you were so desperate to tell me?”

“Right,” you began, leaning in slightly, “I think Garcia and Kevin Lynch are dating.”

Aaron glanced at you, his brow furrowing. “Based on what?”

“Oh, come on, you were the one who planted the seed in my brain!” you said, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You met him first and said they’d be perfect together.”

“I told you they’d get along,” he corrected, his voice calm. “Not that they’d date, it was an observation.”

“Right,” you teased, leaning toward him. “Because Mr. Rulebook doesn’t meddle in office relationships.”

“I don’t,” he replied flatly, though the precision with which he was aligning the screws suggested otherwise.

“But you’re not denying it,” you teased, as you handed him the missing screw to complete his geometrical composition.

He sighed, already regretting the conversation. “Fine. I might have… noticed some things.”

Your eyes widened dramatically. “You’ve been paying attention? To gossip?”

He shot you a look so dry it could’ve absorbed a flood. “Not gossip. I noticed she’s been flirting with Derek over the phone less often in the past couple of weeks.”

You stared at him, probably trying to decide whether to be impressed or amused. “Oh so you do keep track of Penelope’s flirting habits?!”

“It’s hard not to notice, when all of this happens less than five feet away from me” he replied, focusing a little too intently on tightening a bolt. “She used to call him ‘chocolate thunder’ at least twice a day. Now it’s barely once.”

You snorted, clapping a hand over your mouth.

“What? If you’re going to accuse me of gossip, I might as well be thorough.” He frowned, though the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

You burst out laughing, sitting back on your heels. “Oh my God, I knew it. You secretly love this.”

“I don’t love this,” he said firmly, though his tone lacked conviction.

“Sure you don’t,” You smirked, glancing at the instructions and pretending to read them, just enough to give the illusion that you were actually contributing in some meaningful way. “So, what’s your theory? Think they’re dating?”

He shook his head, clearly weighing his words. “If they’re not already, they’re on the verge. Kevin’s nervous around her, and she’s not exactly subtle.”

You grinned, leaning closer. “I knew it! Now admit it, Aaron. You like the drama.”

Aaron sighed, picking up a screwdriver and turning his attention back to the pile of screws, as if sheer focus might absolve him of this entire conversation. “I don’t like the drama,” he said flatly. “I like efficiency. And indulging you in this nonsense means I won’t have to hear about it in bits and pieces over the next week.”

You gasped, clutching your chest with exaggerated offense. “Nonsense? This is workplace anthropology, Aaron. This is about human behavior, relationships, and the intricate web of connec-”

“Gossip,” he interrupted dryly, cutting you off mid-monologue.

You rolled your eyes, but your grin was unrelenting. “You are so reductive. This is about understanding the human condition! Philosophers have been debating the nuances of human relationships for centuries. Aristotle, Plato”

He glanced up, giving you a look that bordered on skeptical. “If this is about Aristotle and Plato, I’m out of here.”

“Oh, come on,” you said, nudging his arm. “You’ve read Hegel. You know this stuff!”

Aaron straightened the piece of wood he was working on, his voice impossibly dry. “I’ve read ‘Hegel for Dummies.’ The most philosophical thing I got from that book was the idea that contradictions eventually balance out.”

“Exactly!” you said, pointing at him. “Which is why gossip is just the dialectic in action - thesis, antithesis, synthesis. We’re observing interpersonal contradictions and resolving them through discourse. Hegel would be proud.”

“Hegel would ask for his name to be removed from this conversation,” he replied, his tone bone-dry.

“That’s not true!” you said, laughing. “This is exactly his philosophy. I know him.”

“He’s dead,” Aaron replied.

You froze, your hand hovering over a plank as your face morphed into an expression of exaggerated shock.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to cry because I reminded you he’s been dead for 200 years,” he added, the corners of his lips twitching despite his best efforts to stay serious.

“You’re heartless,” you said, glaring at him dramatically. “I’m grieving, and you’re mocking me.”

“You’re grieving a man you never met,” he pointed out, turning the screwdriver.

“Well, I’m sure we would have been friends,” you said, tilting your chin defiantly. “He would see me for who I truly am. A philosopher. A visionary.”

Aaron snorted quietly, shaking his head. “He’d last five minutes before walking out of the room.”

“Wrong,” you shot back. “He’d last five minutes before asking me to co-author his next book.”

He glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “It’s a shame you weren’t born two centuries earlier. You’d have spared him from obscurity.”

“Yes!” you exclaimed, pointing at him. “Thank you. See, this is why you’re my best friend.”

Aaron stilled, glancing at you briefly before returning his focus to the plank in his hand. “Because I humor your philosophical ramblings?”

“Because your dry humor is just a cover for the fact that you secretly love my ramblings. And I’d say you also agree with some of them.” You corrected, leaning in slightly.

He tightened a bolt, refusing to look up. “You’ve cracked the code. My life’s work of masking my enthusiasm has been undone by your unshakable confidence.”

“You’re so sarcastic,” you replied, grinning. “But seriously, Aaron. You’re the best.”

Before he could respond, you slid your arm around his shoulders in a quick side hug, leaning your head briefly against the curve of his neck.

It was nothing, really, again, just a fleeting gesture, casual. And that’s exactly why it felt so strange. So different.

He stilled, not visibly - at least he hoped not.

It wasn’t like those rare hugs of yours, the ones that seemed to stretch on for hours. This was just a fraction of a second, over before it even began, and yet it lingered, leaving behind a sour taste of wanting.

Maybe that was why it unsettled him. Your relationship didn’t rely on physical contact, it never had. Mostly because he wasn’t the type to invite it. Not intentionally. It just always felt too… intimate. Too exposing. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it - it was just… too much.

Too raw. Too close.

But you didn’t seem to mind. You always knew how to adjust, to make things work between you without pushing too hard or pulling too far.

And still, now once again you pulled back like it was nothing, grinning as though the moment hadn’t shifted anything at all.

That’s what got to him, he realized. The ease with which you could offer something like that and let it go, as though it didn’t mean anything. He envied it.

Jealousy, he thought, was too strong a word. Or maybe it wasn’t.

“But I’ll never be Hegel,” he said finally, his tone dry, laced with irony as he reached for the next piece of wood.

You blinked at him, tilting your head like he’d just said something utterly ridiculous. “Aaron Hotchner,” you began, your tone a mix of exasperation and fondness, “you’re better than Hegel.”

He glanced at you briefly, his expression somewhere between skeptical and resigned. “Oh please don’t you start.”

“I mean it,” you insisted, sitting up straighter, your grin turning softer. “He might’ve been a genius, but you’re… well, you’re you. Thoughtful. Smart. Kind. You’re my best friend, and I wouldn’t trade you for any dead philosopher.”

As much as he tried to act like he was above it, like he didn’t need the reassurance, he couldn’t deny how heartwarming it was to hear those kinds of words. Cheesy as they were. Deep down, he was a sentimental man, after all.

And so he sighed, but the small smile tugging at his lips probably betrayed him. “Could you please just hand me the next piece before this takes another century?”

“Anything for you, Queen of England,” you teased, passing him the next piece with an exaggerated flourish.

He gave you a look, the kind that said he was both exasperated and quietly amused. “Thank you,” he said, his voice dry but undeniably softer.

“Anytime, Your Majesty,” you replied, grinning as you reached back for the instruction manual. “Now, what’s next? Philosophical insights on brackets?”

“Just read the instructions.” He had just aligned another plank and was reaching for a screw when the sharp knock at the door interrupted the quiet rhythm of assembling furniture.

He froze, mid-motion, and then glanced at you. “That’s Mrs. Lee,” he muttered, already resigned.

Of course, it was Mrs. Lee.

She lived across the hall and seemed to have an uncanny ability to sense whenever he was over. In her late seventies, retired, widowed, and far too invested in both your lives, she had made it her unofficial mission to drop in with sweets every time Aaron was around.

Coincidentally, these sweets only ever appeared when he happened to stay over, as though he were the primary recipient and you were just a necessary middleman.

Well, it wasn’t exactly true - she adored you - but it was clear where did her preference lay.

Mrs. Lee, as Aaron had come to learn, was an enthusiastic watcher of outdated rom-coms, a self-proclaimed expert on “young love” - a category she had prematurely placed you and him into - and an avid admirer of “handsome men in suits.”

Naturally, she adored him.

You, softhearted as ever, had figured out early on that Mrs. Lee was lonely. So you occasionally let her hang out in your living room. She’d settle onto your couch with her movies, chatting about her glory days while Aaron begrudgingly assembled whatever piece of furniture you’d roped him into.

It had become a tradition he hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t seem to escape. And so the knock came again, more insistent this time.

“You want to get that?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

You grinned, tossing the instruction manual aside. “Of course. It’s probably for you anyway.”

Aaron sighed as you opened the door, revealing Mrs. Lee in all of her five-foot glory, holding some freshly baked pie.

“Hi, sweetheart,” came the familiar greeting, warm and affectionate as always. Then her eyes landed on Aaron, and her grin widened to near cartoonish proportions. “Oh, Aaron! I knew you’d be here.”

He glanced up briefly, bracing himself. “Good evening, Mrs. Lee.”

“I brought some blueberry pie,” she announced proudly, stepping inside and placing it on your counter. “I know how much you like blueberries, Aaron.”

He blinked, momentarily thrown. “How do you-”

“Oh, you just strike me as someone with good taste,” she interrupted as she made herself comfortable on your couch.

You turned to him, barely concealing your grin. “I think she’d be a great profiler.”

He agreed.

“Mrs. Lee, if only we weren’t already overstaffed, I’d hire you right away,” Aaron replied, his polite tone perfectly measured.

“Oh, Aaron dear,” Mrs. Lee cooed, waving her hand as though batting away a compliment, “you’re so kind. But I could never work at a job with a boss as handsome as you. I’d be far too distracted just watching you talk.”

Aaron froze, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled the t-shirt he was wearing.

“How do you work with him every day, sweetheart?” Mrs. Lee asked you, her tone conspiratorial.

You laughed, leaning back. “Oh, it’s easy. I just remind myself that under the suits, he’s really just a big softie.”

Aaron shot you a pointed look, his voice deadpan. “Not helping.”

Mrs. Lee giggled as she made herself comfortable on the couch, clearly entertained. “So, what’s today’s project?”

“Bookshelf,” you replied, gesturing toward the pile of wood and screws scattered across the floor.

Aaron frowned at the chaos. If it could even be called a bookshelf, it certainly didn’t look like one yet.

“It’s a bookshelf,” you insisted, catching the look he was giving it. “It’ll look better once you stop glaring at it and we actually continue working on it.”

“You’ll forgive me for not being optimistic,” Aaron muttered, crouching down to inspect the mess.

Mrs. Lee immediately chimed in, turning to you. “Oh, don’t listen to him, sweetheart,” she said, waving you off. “I’m sure it’ll be beautiful once it’s done. You two always make such a good team.”

Aaron sighed, already resigned to the commentary. “We’re not a team. I’m the one building this thing while she-”

“Supervises,” you interrupted brightly, leaning over to grab a stray screw. “You’re muscles and I’m brain, don’t forget about it.”

Mrs. Lee clapped her hands together in delight. “Oh, it’s just like my Charles and me! I’d dream up all sorts of projects, and he’d grumble the whole time but do them anyway. That’s how you know it’s love.”

Aaron froze mid-turn of his screwdriver, he glanced up. “We’re friends, Mrs. Lee,” he said firmly, keeping his voice as even as possible, though the comparison to her late husband didn’t exactly sit comfortably.

Mrs. Lee just laughed. “Oh, shoosh, Aaron, really, you’re exactly like my Charles,” she said, her tone fond but pointed. “Too serious, too practical. All logic. He was a lawyer, you know.”

Lawyer. Ha.

Weird how the coincidences had a way of piling up like bricks whenever Mrs. Lee was around.

Before he could deflect, you jumped in, far too quick for his liking. “Well, that must be fate! Mrs. Lee, did I ever mention that Aaron used to be a prosecutor before he joined the FBI?”

Her gasp was so loud it startled him. For a moment, Aaron thought she might drop her pie.

“A prosecutor? You?” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together as though she’d just unearthed some life-altering revelation. “Oh, Aaron, that is just too perfect. And I bet you were ruthless in the courtroom, weren’t you?”

Aaron opened his mouth to respond, but the words barely made it out. “Mrs. Lee, I-”

“Don’t be modest, dear,” she interrupted, brandishing her fork like it was a judge’s gavel. “I can just picture it - some poor defense attorney sweating buckets while you paced the courtroom like a lion on the hunt” She paused dramatically, then added an actual ‘rawr’ for emphasis, because apparently, the imagery wasn’t enough. “My, my, my. You must’ve been a sight to behold.”

Aaron rubbed the back of his neck, wishing desperately for the bookshelf to magically assemble itself so he could escape the conversation.

“You should’ve told me this sooner!” Mrs. Lee continued, turning to you as if you’d kept some scandalous secret from her. “I bet all those courtroom skills come in handy now, don’t they? You must be able to intimidate anyone with just one look.” She squinted the best she could, doing what Aaron assumed was her impression of his so-called “serious face”.

You laughed, nudging him playfully with your elbow. “She’s not wrong, you know. The Hotch Stare has probably solved more cases than our actual profiles.”

Aaron turned to you, leveling you with the exact look you were referring to - but the effect was slightly ruined by the warmth creeping up his neck, spreading to his cheeks. He could feel it, much to his dismay, and he looked away quickly, clearing his throat.

“The bookshelf,” he said dryly, but the flush in his face betrayed him entirely, and he knew it. Damn it.

You bit your lip, trying - and failing - to suppress a grin. “You’re blushing,” you pointed out.

“Oh, don’t tease him too much,” Mrs. Lee said, her grin widening as she leaned forward. “He’s probably shy. Aren’t you, Aaron?”

He didn’t need to look in a mirror to know the flush had deepened. Great. Now he was even redder. Wonderful.

“Extremely,” he replied deadpan, tightening the bolt in front of him with more focus than necessary, trying to ground himself in the mechanics of the bookshelf rather than the conversation swirling around him.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his failed attempt to use sarcasm. “Don’t worry,” you said with a smile that was far too fond for his peace of mind. “It's actually very cute when you blush.”

Aaron froze. No, no, no.

That was not something he was prepared to handle. He was already red, that much he knew - but now? Now, he could feel it spreading like wildfire.

He cleared his throat, his fingers tightening around the screwdriver with more force than necessary. “I don’t think that’s the kind of feedback the instruction manual had in mind,” he said dryly, though his voice wavered just enough to betray him.

You laughed again, soft and warm, and it only made things worse.

“Oh, come on,” you teased, leaning forward just slightly, your grin far too mischievous for his peace of mind. “You can’t possibly hate a compliment that much.”

“I don’t hate it,” he countered quickly, almost too quickly, still refusing to meet your eyes. “I just don’t think it’s relevant to… this.” He gestured vaguely at the bookshelf, hoping the movement would divert some of the attention away from his face.

He never thought he’d see the day when he’d be genuinely grateful for Mrs. Lee to launch into another one of her stories, but here he was. Apparently, miracles did happen. She’d managed to cut through your conversation, sparing him from further embarrassment.

“You two remind me so much of me and my Charles,” she said, a nostalgic sigh punctuating her words. “We teased each other constantly too. Oh, he’d look at me with those serious eyes of his and say, ‘You’re impossible, Sharon.’ Every single time.”

Aaron glanced up, her voice the reminder that, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, his heart wasn’t made of stone. Far from it, in fact.

“And I’d tell him, ‘No, Charles, you’re boring,’” she added with a chuckle. “And oh, the arguments we’d have! But they were the best arguments, you know? The kind that keep you sharp. Keep you… alive.”

Mrs. Lee’s expression softened, her smile turning bittersweet. “We got married after four months of knowing each other,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Fifty-two years of marriage. It wasn’t always easy, but I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. And I still miss him every single day.”

He was lucky enough to know what love felt like, but he could only hope to be as fortunate as her, to know what it felt like for a love like that to last even half as long.

He didn’t dare look at you. He already knew you’d give her that soft, understanding smile you always did.

“Some people are just meant to be, aren’t they?” you said, your voice quiet but carrying the kind of certainty that made it feel like a universal truth.

“Wise words, dear.” But then she grinned suddenly, the mischievous sparkle returning to her eyes. “Still, he was a pain in the ass sometimes. Wouldn’t let me watch ‘The Love Boat’ as much as I wanted. So, you know what? Fuck him.”

Aaron blinked, srprised. He caught the way your mouth twitched before you burst into laughter, and he shook his head, half-amused, half-incredulous.

“Mrs. Lee,” he said, his voice flat, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

As you handed him another piece of wood, Mrs. Lee leaned forward. “Speaking of love,” she began, her tone dangerously casual as she turned to you, “Sweetheart, don’t be shy about asking me to turn off my hearing aid tonight… you know, if the two of you need to unleash all that stress. Especially you Aaron, you need to loosen up.”

Aaron froze, screwdriver slipping slightly in his hand.

What?

Both of you blinked, eyes wide, before instinctively turning to each other to confirm if you’d just heard the same thing - or if it was some bizarre, shared hallucination. Then, in perfect sync, you turned back toward Mrs. Lee.

She was grinning, eyebrows raised expectantly, as if she’d just offered you an excellent tip on couponing and was waiting for your gratitude.

Oh, so she’s serious…

“Mrs. Lee,” you managed finally, your voice shaking with suppressed laughter, “what on earth makes you think we need to, um… ‘unleash’ anything?”

She raised an eyebrow, looking far too pleased with herself. “Oh, honey, I’ve been around. I notice things. It’s been a tough week for you at the BAU, hasn’t it? All those cases piling up. All that stress. I can see it.”

Aaron set down the screwdriver, his jaw tightening. “How do you even know what kind of week it’s been?”

Mrs. Lee sat back, crossing her arms like she’d been waiting for the question. “I know everything, dear. I have contacts.”

Aaron exchanged a look with you, utterly baffled. “Contacts?”

She nodded sagely, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “I play bridge with a lady from the FBI cleaning staff. Lovely woman. You know… we simply talk.”

He couldn’t exactly fire the entire cleaning staff over this… but, for a fleeting moment, the thought had crossed his mind. Maybe just reassignments.

Practical. Strategic. Manageable.

But then the mental image of the inevitable paperwork reared its ugly head, and his idyllic fantasy died a quick and unceremonious death.

He’d just have to endure this one bookshelf and hope Mrs. Lee didn’t decide to take up poker with the IT department next. The idea of Garcia and Mrs. Lee joining forces was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat.

Mrs. Lee twirled her fork between the two of you, her grin devious. “And I also know you’ve been pushing yourselves too hard with all those late nights. That’s why I’m saying… you should just do it. Trust me, it works wonders.”

Oh, he knew. He definitely knew. You’d both made that mistake once. But no - never again. Absolutely not.

“Mrs. Lee,” he said evenly, “I don’t think this conversation is appropriate.”

“Oh, Aaron, don’t be such a prude,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Just fuck and then you’ll thank me.”

Charles was right, she really was impossible.

He turned to you, half-expecting to see the same look of disbelief mirrored on your face.

But instead, what he got the moment your eyes met was worse - infinitely worse.

You laughed. A real, unfiltered laugh, bubbling up and spilling over as though the absurdity of everything had finally caught up to you.

The sound was so unexpected, so you, that he couldn’t help it. That was it. A chuckle escaped him before he could stop it, and then another.

God help him, he was laughing too. Unguarded. He could feel it, the exasperation, but also something almost electric, different.

That feeling. That lightness.

When was the last time he’d felt that?

---

1998.

Aaron Hotchner liked to think of himself as a rational man.

A man who could look a brutal truth in the face without flinching, who could hold himself together when the world around him was falling apart. He prided himself on composure, on logic, on not succumbing to the whims of emotion.

But apparently, all it took to unravel that carefully cultivated persona was you showing up in a miniskirt and lace tights.

Really? A miniskirt? This was what undid him?

Not an unsub with a gun, not the horrors of the job… no, it was a skirt that wasn’t even all that short.

It was the perfect length, actually - tasteful, stopping just above the knee, not too long, not too short. The kind of length that somehow drove him to the brink because it hinted at more without being too much.

Perfect.

Why was he even thinking about the length of your skirt?

He was a grown man with a law degree, a rising star at the BAU, and yet here he was, mentally cataloging the specific placement of a hemline like some Victorian prude scandalized by the sight of a woman’s ankle.

It wasn’t like he’d never seen legs before.

Everyone had legs. He’d seen hundreds of them. Thousands. He even had his own pair of legs, for God’s sake.

And yet, here he was, sitting across from you, hyper-fixating on the floral lace pattern winding up your tights - roses, specifically - and spiraling into thoughts so unholy that he half-considered ordering another drink just to drown his embarrassment.

It didn’t help that you’d picked a rose-scented perfume to complete the ensemble, as if you weren’t already doing enough damage.

Subtle but it hung in the air every time you shifted in your seat or leaned forward, wrapping itself around him like it was mocking his rapidly dwindling self-control.

Forget a taunt - this was an ambush, and he wasn’t sure he’d survive the assault without visibly combusting.

Fantastic. Death by roses. How poetic.

And as if the scent alone weren’t enough, his brain - traitorous thing that it was - kept linking it back to the roses on your tights.

It was as if fate had decided he wasn’t already pathetic enough, so it hit him with a one-two punch of matching visuals and aromas, because God forbid he forget for even a second where else he’d seen roses tonight.

Seriously? Did you want him to lose the last shred of dignity he had left? Of course not, you were oblivious to the chaos you’d wrought. Blissfully unaware.

And now he was mentally punching himself for being this ridiculous. He was better than this... he had to be.

So he told himself it was nothing. Just surprise, that’s all. He was simply adjusting to seeing you out of your usual loose-fitting work pants, a new variable.

Of course, that’s it. A new variable. Totally normal reaction.

And yet, despite all his internal lectures, he couldn’t stop his thoughts from spiraling every time his gaze drifted south, the delicate floral patterns climbing up your legs in a way that was almost cruelly mesmerizing.

And why was he even thinking the word “mesmerizing”? It was fabric. Just fabric.

He tried to justify it - he was just being thorough. After all, he was a trained investigator. Thoroughness was part of the job. He definitely wasn’t looking because the curve of your legs had rendered him incapable of rational thought.

He’d just wanted to make sure you still had both legs. That’s all.

Limbs accounted for, Agent, move on.

Except, of course, he couldn’t move on. Not technically. His brain had a knack for circling back to things - moments, words, details he should’ve let go of but couldn’t seem to shake.

This time, it was a few days ago. The way you’d casually invited him out tonight, as if it were nothing. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like that’s just what friends do. Because, apparently, that’s what you were - friends.

Never mind that your so-called friendship was still in its embryonic stages. Never mind that you’d somehow managed to completely upend his world with one offhanded sentence.

“Mind joining me for a couple of drinks on Friday?” you’d said, so effortlessly it was almost infuriating.

Friday. Your day off.

The one day of the week you didn’t see each other.

You were asking to see him again on the only day you didn’t have to.

What were you doing to him?

Did it mean you actually wanted to spend time with him? Someone boring like him - not out of necessity, not because you were stuck at work or chasing down leads, but because you wanted to?

Why would you?

Why would someone as amazing, competent, smart, beautiful, and funny as you - someone who wore lace tights and a miniskirt on their Fridays off, and yes, Aaron, circling back to that again, apparently - want to spend time with him?

Bland. Broken. Overworked. With a sense of humor so dry even he didn’t fully understand it half the time.

And yet, before he could fully process what was happening, he’d agreed to your request... of course he had.

Because what was the alternative?

Spending yet another Friday night alone, replaying the worst parts of the week in his head?

Trying to convince himself that bad takeout and reruns of movies as old as you were somehow counted as "self-care"?

Going out with other colleagues and getting lost in the noise of too many conversations, only to utter a grand total of four sentences all night and come home feeling even worse?

Or…this. You.

Sitting across from him, lighting up the entire room with another absurdly entertaining story, because the universe had somehow decided you were its favorite magnet for chaos.

It wasn’t fair how easily you turned misfortune into something bordering on comedy gold, but he wasn’t complaining. He wasn’t even sure how you’d gotten here, exactly.

One moment, he’d managed to summon the courage to ask what you’d done on your day off - a monumental feat, as far as he was concerned - and the next, you were recounting it with the kind of unrestrained enthusiasm that could make a trip to the post office sound riveting.

Because, of course, you - a federal agent with an inexplicable knack for philosophical musings and a seemingly endless need to keep busy - had spent your day off at a flea market.

Except, as soon as you mentioned which market, his stomach dropped like a stone.

That place? That wasn’t a flea market - that was where good judgment went to die.

He’d made the mistake to even voice it out loud, so here it came. That spark in your eyes, the one that always appeared when you decided to mount your intellectual soapbox to prove him wrong. “Do you even know the history of that area?”

He blinked, halfway through lifting his glass, because no, he didn’t.

Maybe he did that to himself because straight up asking it wouldn’t make you raise your brows in such a disarming way when you voiced you facts.

And the words you used? Completely disarming. Most of them sounded like they’d been plucked straight from some forgotten 19th-century manuscript, one that had probably been touched by a handful of scholars and a few unlucky grad students. Words no one in casual conversation would ever use - except you.

Who even talked like that?

And, God, why was that so damn attractive?

It wasn’t like he was unfamiliar with big words - he was a lawyer by training, after all. He’d spent years with his nose buried in legal jargon and Latin phrases. He shouldn’t be so affected by vocabulary.

But what probably didn’t help was the fact that he was a history nerd. A big one.

He prided himself on knowing every obscure fact there was to know about Washington - dates, places, people. He could rattle them off in his sleep. And yet, you’d managed to pull out something he’d never heard before.

That was probably why now he was clinging to every word - because, naturally, you’d managed to hit his competitive streak, too... you just had to outdo him, didn’t you?!

He should say something to prove he wasn’t completely in the dark. Maybe casually mention that he used to collect coins as a kid.

But no. He wasn’t going to tell you that.

Not because it wasn’t true - it was, and he still did it sometimes, if he found one interesting enough - but because the second those words left his mouth, you’d know exactly what kind of loser he really was.

And what was worse? You’d probably tease him for it. Which, honestly, was the last thing he needed.

Or maybe the first. Hell, he didn’t know anymore.

“You’re really pulling out Reconstruction history to convince me it’s a flea market?” he said finally, lifting his glass to his lips in a poor attempt to hide the smile threatening to betray him.

“Yes,” you said simply, leaning back and crossing your arms with an air of victorious confidence. "Because it is a flea market. The absence of your knowledge does not negate its existence."

Aaron bit the inside of his cheek harder this time, half to keep from smiling and half to stop his brain from melting entirely.

God, you were insufferable. And brilliant. And - he really hated himself for thinking this - beautiful.

He could easily argue back.

He could tell you the truth - that the place you went to had devolved into anything but a market. That it was the kind of place he would’ve chased down suspects, not strolled through on a lazy afternoon.

But then you said the phrase “integral point of trade,” and Aaron swore he nearly choked on his drink. He busied himself taking another sip, just to avoid staring at you any longer.

He sighed softly, just enough to get you to glance at him. “What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes like you were daring him to say something contradictory.

Aaron shook his head, leaning an elbow against the table as he set down his glass. “Nothing,” he said smoothly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a twitch. “I’m just impressed.”

Your brow furrowed slightly, clearly suspicious. “Impressed?”

“Mm-hmm.” He tilted his head, pretending to scrutinize you. "With how effortlessly you’ve managed to transform a casual conversation into a dissertation defense."

The look you gave him was preciously smug. “You’re just jealous you didn’t know any of this.”

Jealous? No… yes, kind of.

Bewildered? Yes.

Smitten? Absolutely.

But Aaron - trained professional, seasoned profiler, master of keeping things close to his chest - only picked up his drink again, hiding behind its edge as he muttered, “Sure. We’ll go with that.”

He let you have this one.

You looked far too pleased with yourself, your lips curved just slightly, your chin lifted like a challenge. It was a rare thing to see you so smugly triumphant, and as much as he wanted to argue - to win - he couldn’t bring himself to ruin it.

You’d never know that, technically, you were the one who was wrong. And that was fine.

Because if you knew, you wouldn’t be rambling so happily about your day, weaving it together with that unrestrained enthusiasm that made every mundane detail sound like it was something crucial.

You were, in a word, adorable.

The kind of adorable that made him laugh - not the polite, carefully curated chuckle he usually offered, but a real, startled laugh that felt foreign in his chest, like dusting off an old, forgotten relic.

The kind of adorable that came with you talking with your entire body, hands darting through the air as though you were trying to physically sculpt the story from nothing.

And somehow, Aaron found himself hanging on every word.

Even when the plot made no sense. Even when the punchline was nowhere in sight.

Adorable. Absolutely maddening. But utterly, ridiculously adorable.

And God, he was so completely smitten with you it was almost embarassing.

“…and then, as if the day couldn’t get worse, this guy completely cuts me off at the table. Like, who does that? It was so rude!” you said, your hands gesturing wildly and accidentally knocking the edge of the salt shaker.

He caught it just before it toppled and set it back in its place.

Oh, how you talked.

If Aaron was someone who overthought everything, you were someone who overtalked.

It was a paradox, really. You knew more languages than anyone he’d ever met. You were a genius, with a vocabulary so vast it could send people running for dictionaries. And yet, somehow, synthesis wasn’t in your lexicon.

You could spend twenty minutes setting up a punchline for a story that should’ve taken two, and he never minded.

You were recounting your flea market disaster like it was the most thrilling adventure, and of course, you weren’t just telling him. No, that wouldn’t be enough for you. You had to make him see it, live it, feel it the way you had.

“Wait, Hotch, you’re not getting it,” you’d said, your tone urgent, like it was a matter of life and death. And then, without warning, you grabbed his hand.

His heart did something humiliating - a stutter, a skip, whatever it was, it made him feel ridiculous.

Like a teenager with a crush. Which, of course, he wasn’t. He was a grown man. A rational man. One who should’ve been able to handle something as simple as you taking his hand to demonstrate a story.

But no.

You pressed his hand flat against the table, arranging his fingers like they were vital props in your reenactment. “This is the table,” you said with all the seriousness in the world, completely oblivious to the fact that you’d just stolen another year of his life with that one touch.

Your hands were on his.

Aaron Hotchner: a sheep in his nursery school Christmas recital, Pirate Number Four in his high school production of The Pirates of Penzance, and now - a table. A progression so absurd it might have made him laugh if he weren’t so desperately trying to breathe.

Stay calm, Hotchner. It’s just a table.

He should have felt ridiculous. Sitting there, his hand splayed out, but instead, all he could think about was how hollow his hand would feel the second you let go.

You had no idea, of course.

Oblivious to the fact that his brain was screaming at him to pull it together while simultaneously begging you to never stop touching him.

“And this is me,” you said, gesturing to yourself with your free hand.

Still, all he could think about now was the warmth of your hand on his, the way your fingers fit so easily against his own.

It’s a table, Hotchner, again. Just a table. Don’t lose your mind over a damn table.

“And this - oh, wait, I need something-” you said, pulling your hand away to grab the salt shaker, and in that instant, you proved his theory correct: his hand felt utterly and painfully empty without yours.

The salt shaker landed beside his hand, completing your bizarre little scene. “This is him,” you declared, as if it all made perfect sense.

“Salt shaker guy. Got it,” he said, his voice steadier now that you weren’t touching him.

You shot him a look. “Don’t make fun of the salt shaker. He’s pivotal to the story.”

He almost laughed at himself, for sitting there like a lovesick fool, hanging on your every word and praying for an excuse for you to touch him again.

Put them back. Please, for the love of God, put them back.

And then, as if you’d heard his silent plea, you reached for his hand once more, rearranging it.

Perfectionist. Adorable perfectionist.

“So,” you said leaning closer, “I’m here, looking at this table, minding my own business, when this guy” - you gestured to the salt shaker - “just swoops in out of nowhere and starts taking things. Like blatantly stealing!”

You were still holding his hand, your thumb brushing against his as you were, recounting how the ‘suspect’ had made off with a brass dolphin statue, of all things.

“A dolphin,” he’d said, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.

“Yes, Hotch, a dolphin. It was hideous, and I needed it,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him like he was the one who’d stolen it.

“And then - get this - the guy starts knocking over everything. A lamp falls, hits the table, and it all comes down.” you said, grabbing his other hand. Both of his hands now in yours. He was gone. Absolutely gone.

You continued “So - what am I supposed to do?” You looked at him expectantly, clearly waiting for his answer. Because, naturally, that’s what questions are for.

He straightened up slightly, clearing his throat. “You called the police because you’re FBI and have no jurisdiction-”

“I arrested him,” you interjected with flair, as if this were the most logical and inevitable conclusion. “Citizens’ arrest, it was humiliating. There was a crowd. They were staring. I had no choice. Society would crumble if we let salt shakers like him run wild.”

Aaron shook his head, his lips twitching as he fought off a grin. “And what? You read him his rights?!”

You adorably groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Worse - I might have told him, ‘Sir, drop the dolphin.’”

That was it. He lost it.

His laugh erupted, loud and unrestrained, turning heads at the bar. A few strangers even chuckled along, unaware of the joke, but Aaron didn’t care. He couldn’t stop.

For a man who lived by control, it should have been unsettling - the way he couldn’t rein himself in, the way his body betrayed him with laughter that felt too big, too loud.

But it wasn’t, not with you.

Because you’d managed to do what no one else could: make him forget himself. Make him let go.

And so he did.

His mind drifted away, pulled by a current he couldn’t control.

Aaron blinked, the memory of your hands on his burning his skin like an old scar. For a moment, he was back there: you across the table, reenacting the chaotic events of a flea market fiasco with a salt shaker and his hands, the sound of your laughter ringing in his ears.

But then the world shifted.

The small table stretched, the edges elongating, growing wider and longer until it wasn’t just the two of you anymore. The air thickened, filled with louder sounds - voices, overlapping conversations, a cacophony of presence.

This wasn’t 1998 anymore.

Now, the long table was crowded.

JJ sat at one end of the long table, her hand lightly resting on a glass of water as she laughed at something Penelope had said, her cheeks slightly flushed.

Whatever they were talking about, Aaron couldn’t quite make out - though the dramatic hand flails and an occasional squeal from Penelope made it clear it was probably something absurd.

On the closer side of the table, however, the conversation was significantly… less wholesome.

Next to JJ, Emily leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her face shifting between disgust and reluctant amusement, like she couldn’t quite decide whether to roll her eyes or encourage it.

Across from him, Derek grinned like a man who knew exactly what he was doing, his hands moving in exaggerated, circular motions that left no room for interpretation.

It was amazing, really.

When these two were this animated, it was either because they were dissecting some niche crime novel they’d both read or... this.

“And I’m telling you,” Derek declared, spreading his hands wide, “they were this big. Unreal, man. You’d have to see it to believe it - the biggest pair of - ”

“Boobs, Derek?” Emily cut in, raising an eyebrow so sharp it could’ve sliced through his bravado. “Subtle. Really. I’m impressed by your dedication to being as respectful as a middle schooler on spring break.”

Derek leaned forward, his grin turning downright wicked. “Oh, please, Em. Don’t even try it. I’ve seen you straight-up melt over a girl in a button-down. Subtle ain’t exactly your thing either.”

Emily rolled her eyes, taking a deliberate sip of her drink before setting it down with a smirk. “First of all, button-downs are hot. Second of all, mind your business, Morgan.” She leaned back in her chair. “At least I’m not out here narrating a National Geographic special on boobs. Talk about subtle.”

And then there was Spencer.

Of course, Spencer. Talking fast - too fast - gesturing wildly as he rattled off some philosophical theory that had to involve at least three different German philosophers whose names Aaron couldn’t spell, let alone pronounce.

And you.

Sitting at Aaron’s left, your hands flitted into Spencer’s space every other second, countering his arguments with rapid-fire points that seemed to form their own language.

Aaron caught maybe a couple of words out of every ten.

Something about Nietzsche. No, wait - you hated Nietzsche. Kierkegaard? Possibly.

Honestly, it could have been both. Or neither. For all he knew, you were inventing philosophers now just to keep the conversation interesting.

The two of you had been talking nonstop for the past hours - since the moment you boarded the jet. It had gone on so long, so consistently, that the noise was no longer conversation but had evolved into a kind of background static.

The rest of the team had tuned it out completely, treating your relentless back-and-forth as white noise punctuated by occasional bursts of excitement whenever one of you discovered a particularly “thrilling” point.

...thrilling for you, anyway.

Aaron was fairly certain no one else on the jet had ever found Kant ‘thrilling’ - at best, just a dead guy with a vaguely suggestive name that occasionally got a laugh.

It stung a little, though, when Aaron thought about how the team had spent a good portion of that time joking about you and Spencer - probably their way of coping with the relentless noise of your debates.

“Okay, seriously,” JJ had groaned at one point. “when we get to the bar tonight, they are sitting at a separate table. I can’t handle this anymore. And with alcohol involved? Forget it. My brain will shut down.”

Emily, sitting across from her, smirked. “Oh, come on, JJ. Don’t you want to learn about something completely useless while sipping a margarita? Could be fun.”

JJ shot her a look. “Pass.”

“We could all sit together at first and then just sneak off,” Derek said, leaning back in his chair with a self-satisfied grin. “Teach and Pretty Boy probably wouldn’t even notice… you know what they say - philosophy’s the language of loooove,” he added in a sing-song tone, waggling his eyebrows.

Penelope, who had been giggling quietly behind her hand, finally chimed in. “Aw, like two adorable little nerdy lovebirds. It’s so sweet!”

Lovebirds. Aaron’s jaw tightened as he stared straight ahead.

They were joking, of course. Obviously. There was no way they actually thought you and Spencer could be a thing. Relationships at work were strictly forbidden, after all.

It was in the rules.

Not that Aaron was thinking about relationships. That would be absurd.

It wouldn’t work - not because he didn’t like Spencer. Hell, Spencer was practically his first child. But the idea of you and Spencer together? It just didn’t make sense.

Sure he was brilliant, compassionate, genuine - all the qualities anyone could ask for. But Spencer wasn’t… well...

He just wasn’t for you.

Not that Aaron knew what your type even was. It wasn’t as if he’d spent the better part of a decade cataloging your preferences. That would be ridiculous.

But he did know one thing - you liked clever people. And Spencer was clever. A genius. Of course, it made perfect sense to everyone else that you’d be potentially a good match. Didn’t it?!

And what about him?

Aaron felt like he was drowning.

The table was alive with energy, with three conversations firing off simultaneously. And Aaron sat in the middle of it all, the only one not speaking.

Still, he absorbed it all: every word, every shift in tone, every burst of laughter. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t interject, even when he had something to say.

He just listened.

He wished he could do more than that. He wished people could see that he cared, that he was invested in what they were saying, even if his quiet nods and glances didn’t scream it like everyone else’s chatter did.

Because that was the thing about Aaron: listening came naturally to him. Reacting? That was harder.

He watched as Penelope exclaimed, “No way!” her hands flying up dramatically, her voice a beacon of enthusiasm. JJ chimed in with a soft “Really?” that pulled everyone into her orbit for just a second. Derek countered with a smug remark that had Emily rolling her eyes, but even she couldn’t suppress a grin.

And Aaron? Aaron just sat there, absorbing it all while his voice disappeared.

An hour could slip by without him saying a word, until someone finally remembered he was even there.

And that was the irony of it all: he was probably the most physically imposing person at the table, but his silence erased him. The conversation moved forward, leaving him stranded somewhere back in the past topic, unheard and unnoticed.

Most of the time, he didn’t mind. He didn’t need to be the center of attention, didn’t crave the spotlight - not here, not after a long day of being the Unit Chief.

But when he did notice? It hit him like a freight train.

Suddenly, he became hyper-aware of everything. The way his arms rested awkwardly on the table. The position of his hands. The stiffness of his posture. The sheer weight of his silence.

He felt out of place. Like a ghost at his own table.

Aaron shifted in his seat, stimming with his fingers - a small movement, but one that betrayed his discomfort. He glanced at the others, wondering if anyone had noticed, if anyone might throw him a lifeline.

But the table buzzed on, oblivious.

It started to sting when Aaron realized no one had asked him a question in the last 45 minutes.

He sat there, at the table with his team, feeling like a ghost at his own gathering. The laughter and voices surrounded him, a cacophony of sound that made it impossible to pinpoint one conversation from the next. He could barely hear himself think, and yet, inside his own head was where he remained, trapped, desperately wanting to be part of the moment but unsure how to step back into the light.

There’s a theory that says you don’t exist unless someone calls and you respond.

So there was light.

A warm touch of a hand on his left shoulder.

Aaron froze.

And then, it happened. Finally, a question. At him.

“So, are you going to New York tomorrow?” you asked, your hand still resting on his shoulder.

He hesitated for a second, as if needing to confirm that you were actually speaking to him. But the look in your eyes, the way they searched his, and the slight tilt of your head in his direction were more than enough to prove that you were.

It was strange. He wasn’t really used to being addressed like this in group settings - directly, personally. When people spoke to him, it was always about work, requests to stretch the days off into a long weekend, or about Jack, asking if he’d seen him recently.

No, he hadn’t. Not really.

He’d seen Jack about a month ago for barely a minute. He’d been asleep. Aaron had only gone to Jessica’s house because he’d needed to, after the worst case he’d handled all year.

Even now, guilt lingered for intruding like that, for being selfish enough to need that quiet moment, and it only deepened when questions like those came up, pulling him back to what he hadn’t done, to who he hadn’t been.

And yet, no one ever asked him about that. About him.

The questions were always for Hotch the Unit Chief or Aaron the dad. They were never about just Aaron.

“I-I don’t know yet,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. He half-expected you to nod politely and return to your conversation with Spencer. But you didn’t... why?

“What play were you planning to see?” you asked, your voice soft but curious, as though the answer genuinely mattered to you.

He paused, caught off guard by the question. He wasn’t sure why you even bothered. You knew next to nothing about musical theatre - less than he knew about philosophy, and that was saying something.

Because, if he were honest, he probably knew more about musical theatre than you did about philosophy. And you had a PhD in philosophy. Every paper you’d ever published had some philosophical angle, every argument you made seemed rooted in it. Hell, your mind practically breathed in philosophy. But musical theatre? That was his realm.

He wasn’t just an occasional fan - he was a theatre nerd, borderline obsessive. The kind of person who read scripts for fun, hummed overtures from shows no one else remembered, and had opinions on whether revivals ever truly lived up to the originals.

So why did this simple question throw him? Why did it feel like there was a weight behind it he couldn’t quite place? Maybe because you didn’t know that about him - not yet, at least.

Sure, you knew he loved musical theatre - which, honestly, was already an achievement. He rarely felt safe enough to share that detail with anyone. You knew he made it a point to see a Broadway play every time he was in New York.

But the rest? The details? Those he never shared. Not with you, not with anyone.

You didn’t know how often he went back to see the same shows, over and over again, as if they were old friends waiting to welcome him home.

Or how much he cherished the intimacy of tiny off-Broadway productions - the kind performed in spaces that barely qualified as theatres, where the air buzzed with raw, electric talent.

And he wasn’t sure how to tell you all of that without sounding like… well, like him.

Aaron Hotchner: Unit Chief. Father. Theatre Nerd.

“I haven’t really decided yet,” Aaron began, the words tumbling out faster than he intended. “But I’ve been thinking about catching this play. The original cast is coming back for a limited run this month to celebrate the anniversary… it’s kind of a big thing.”

What the fuck had he just said?

He sounded like one of those pretentious purists who thought only the original cast could do a show justice - the kind of person who wrote overly passionate forum posts about “artistic integrity.”

The same kind of person, ironically, he’d wasted too many hours of his life arguing with in comment sections, armed with nothing but a sense of logic, proper grammar, and the faint hope that maybe he could introduce them to the concept of reasonable thought.

And now? He sounded exactly like them. Great. Just great.

He needed to fix it. Immediately. Before he dug the hole any deeper.

“It’s not that I don’t like the current cast ,” he added quickly, as if that would save him. “Far from it. They’re incredible. I saw them last year, and they were just as powerful as I remembered. But…”

Oh, great. There was the but.

“The first time I saw it…” He trailed off for a second, feeling a pull he couldn’t quite articulate. “It was on opening night, back when it was still off-Broadway. No one really knew about it yet. It felt… raw, I guess. Intimate in a way that stayed with me.”

Intimate. Really, Hotchner?

He immediately winced internally. Now he sounded like a creep. Fantastic.

That was probably why you were smiling at him like that, with those soft eyes and that too-kind expression. Compassion. Pity.

That had to be it. You were humoring him.

Perfect. Just perfect. Can he do at least one thing right in his life? Just one? Apparently not.

The words started coming faster, his attempt to salvage whatever dignity he had left. “I mean, it’s the themes,” his hands twitched as if to emphasize the points, but he forced them to stay still. “They’re… timeless, but also distinctly modern. Community. Survival. Resilience. Love in its purest and messiest forms.”

Now he was waxing poetic. Could he even hear himself?

“People finding each other and holding on, even when everything around them is falling apart,” he continued, fully aware he’d gone too far but somehow unable to stop. “It’s hard to explain, but there’s something about it - the music, the storytelling. It’s honest, but it’s hopeful. It doesn’t shy away from how ugly life can be, but it still manages to show there’s beauty in the fight.”

He finally stopped, feeling his face grow warmer by the second. He might as well have just stood up and shouted, “Hi, I’m Aaron Hotchner, I’m 42 and I’m currently experiencing a complete emotional breakdown over a musical. Please be kind.”

What was he even doing? Did he think this would impress you? No, worse - for once he didn’t think at all. That was the problem.

“I don’t know,” he added quickly, trying to reel himself back in. “I’m probably just being sentimental.”

Beautiful, Hotchner. Very subtle. He was officially done talking. Forever, if possible.

You still smiled, leaning in slightly, and Aaron braced himself for the inevitable teasing, the polite that’s nice before you turned the conversation elsewhere. But instead, you tilted your head and said softly, “That doesn’t sound sentimental to me.”

He blinked, caught completely off guard. That wasn’t what he was expecting. Not even close.

“It sounds… personal,” you continued, your voice steady and calm. “Like it left a mark on you. I think that’s kind of incredible, actually.”

Aaron stared at you for a second, his mind scrambling - you weren’t laughing at him. You weren’t humoring him. You were listening.

“I-” he started, but the words caught in his throat.

You tilted your head, your smile growing just slightly, like you could see how much he was struggling to process this. “Really, I mean it. The way you’re describing it… honestly, it sounds beautiful. You connect with it. That’s the whole point of art, isn’t it? To find meaning in it, to feel heard.”

Beautiful.

Now you were waxing poetic. But somehow, hearing it from you didn’t make him wince the way his own words did.

He huffed a small, almost nervous laugh, more to himself than to you. It was infuriating how easily you could do that, just be this way. “I guess it is”

“Of course it is.” You teased lightly, sitting back in your seat but keeping your eyes on him. “Now, are you finally going to tell me the name of this life-changing musical, or is it some kind of classified information?”

“It doesn’t really matter,” he muttered, already trying to move past it. “You probably wouldn’t know it.” He caught himself. “It’s not important.”

You tilted your head, your smile unwavering, clearly not letting him off the hook. “It sounds important to you,” you said softly, leaning forward just a little. “And if it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

He huffed a small breath, glancing down at his hands. He couldn’t tell if your persistence was infuriating or disarming - or maybe it was both.

“It’s called Rent,” he finally said, the word slipping out before he could stop himself.

“I know it,” you responded without hesitation, and he was so surprised that he couldn’t help but chime in again.

“You do?” he asked, the surprise clear in his voice - not because Rent was niche, far from it. It was one of the most iconic musicals ever.

But coming from you? This felt like a monumental achievement, especially considering that the last time you two talked about musicals, you’d admitted to not knowing The Sound of Music was anything more than a movie. At this point, he’d learned to expect anything from you.

“Yes,” you said with a small smile. “It’s actually the only live show I’ve ever seen. My mom practically dragged me to it ages ago… it was the day I finished my PhD in linguistics.”

Aaron didn’t know where to begin. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He did.

He knew you’d lived in New York while working on your PhD at Columbia, just a stone’s throw away from the very theatres he’d spent hours traveling to whenever he could manage a free weekend.

And yet, in all that time, you’d seen exactly one show. One.

It was baffling. Almost impressive, really - your sheer commitment to avoiding the arts.

Was it a conscious effort? A statement? Honestly, he wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or begrudgingly admire the consistency.

“I don’t remember much of the songs, sorry” you admitted, your tone softer now. “I do remember, ironically, when we came in, they said the creator had passed the day before from a heart attack. I really could feel the emotion in the room. It was amazing - one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

It couldn’t be.

“January 26th, 1996,” he said, the words spilling out before he could stop himself.

You paused, your brows knitting together as you thought. “Oh, wow,” you murmured after a moment. “Yes, that’s right. How could you possibly know that?”

He felt his cheeks flush even as the words formed on his tongue. “That was opening night,” he said softly, almost hesitantly. “I was there too.”

You stared at each other, eyes locked. Silence.

He couldn’t quite put into words what it was that made the realization feel so… heavy.

Maybe it was the sheer improbability of it. How, out of all the places in the world, your paths had crossed that night in a tiny theatre in New York.

Because in 1996, you didn’t know each other. You were strangers in the truest sense of the word - two lives moving parallel, unaware of the other’s existence.

Of course, you wouldn’t remember seeing each other. How could you? The thought was absurd, and yet, the thought of it - of you there, somewhere in that 199-seat theatre, maybe half full - flustered him.

Had your eyes met in the foyer, just for a fleeting moment, the way they were meeting his now?

Had you brushed past him, two strangers moving toward seats that would bring you close but never quite close enough?

The thought sent him spiraling, not because it felt impossible, but because it didn’t. It felt inevitable.

Maddening and beautiful all at once, the kind of paradox that left him breathless.

There was a sweet, aching ignorance in the idea.

Neither of you had any way of knowing what you would one day mean to each other.

Of knowing that the stranger sitting nearby, lost in the same music and emotion, would one day become one of the most important people in your life.

It had to be fate.

You, sitting just as you were now - beside him, to his left. Or at least, that’s how liked to imagine it. Maybe you’d even leaned toward your mother then, the way you leaned toward him now, smiling.

Some people are just meant to be, aren’t they?

Fate, he thought again. Because if that wasn’t fate, he wasn’t sure what was.

So maybe he should go to New York. All the streets seemed to lead there.

Besides, someone he knew had just been assigned to lead the NYPD, maybe he should pay her a visit.

---

Hotch hadn’t expected how much the latest case would affect his team - or himself, for that matter.

He’d noticed something was wrong with JJ the moment they stepped into the first crime scene together.

There was a heaviness about her, a stillness he’d learned to recognize in the years they’d worked side by side. It wasn’t unusual for these cases to take a toll, but this one felt different.

He’d confronted her almost immediately, pulling her aside when Reid and the officer weren’t within earshot. He’d told her he understood - how could he not?

Ever since Jack was born, cases involving children had clawed at him in ways he couldn’t fully prepare for, no matter how many times he tried to steel himself.

But for JJ, it was different. It was worse. Every case they worked on - every horror they encountered - came across her desk first.

Every victim’s file landed in her hands before it reached anyone else. And far too often, those victims were women her age, mothers, daughters, lives cut short in ways too cruel to fathom.

He’d told her it was okay to lose it every once in a while, that no one could carry this job without feeling its weight. She hadn’t looked convinced, and he couldn’t blame her.

Coming from him - the Stoic - it must have felt hollow.

He saw it in her eyes, in the way her shoulders barely eased under his reassurances. She was still carrying it, even after the case was over.

And so he tried again.

He approached JJ as the officer closed the door on the car, securing the unsub’s wife, Chrissy, inside. She had killed him, desperate to protect their future child from his violent legacy.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

JJ stared blankly into the distance, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. It took a moment before she answered, her voice low and reflective. “You stop caring, you're jaded. If you care too much... it'll ruin you.”

“Just know that you did everything you could,” he replied softly. “Sometimes we get it right with a little luck, and most of the time we don't. That's the job. It's never perfect.”

He paused, his gaze shifting to her as his tone softened further. “It's still better to care.”

“You really believe that?” JJ asked, finally turning to look at him, her arms still folded defensively.

Of course not. Caring too much destroys you - it always does. Look at what it had done to his own life.

He shook his head slowly, his mouth twitching as if suppressing a more honest reply. “I believe it's never perfect.”

And maybe that’s what haunted him the most - how helpless he felt in the face of it. Because he knew better than anyone that words could only do so much. Pain like that didn’t dissipate because someone told you it was okay to feel it.

It lingered. It lingered in the quiet moments, in the spaces between cases, in the dark corners of your mind when you finally stopped moving.

Another one who didn’t show the weight of the case quite as visibly as JJ, but was no less affected, was Prentiss.

She was better at masking it - that much he could see. But Hotch also knew her well enough to recognize the way she carried her thoughts.

The motive behind this case, the layers of injustice, had settled heavily on her shoulders. It wasn’t hard to imagine why. Her frustration wasn’t so different from JJ’s in essence, it came from the same place - a longing for justice.

But for Prentiss, it wasn’t just about the crimes committed. It was about the deeper, systemic unfairness that had brought them here in the first place.

He could tell she was thinking about Chrissy, the young mother caught in an impossible situation.

About how, in a patriarchal society, the person who would truly pay the price for all of this wouldn’t be the perpetrator alone - it would be Chrissy, the woman who had tried to protect her child in the only way she thought she could.

It was horrifyingly unfair.

Aaron could feel her anger in the quiet moments, the way her jaw tightened when Chrissy’s name was mentioned, the way she avoided eye contact with anyone when the case wrapped. He understood it, but he didn’t say anything.

How could he? He had no right to.

As a man, he knew he was part of the very system she was furious with. Even unintentionally, even passively, he benefited from it. So he stayed quiet.

But that didn’t mean he did nothing. As a former prosecutor, he understood the gravity of Chrissy’s situation. The trial would not be easy. The legal system often wasn’t.

But he also knew the power of a voice within that system, the importance of framing the narrative with care. So he took the only step he could think of, the only one that felt right.

He sat down and wrote a letter addressing the complexities of the case. He focused on the circumstances that had forced Chrissy into a decision no one should ever have to make. He laid out the context, the systemic failures, the humanity of it all. And when it was done, he filed it with the process.

It wasn’t much, but it was a step.

It was all he could do - to have faith that the trial would deliver justice, not just for the victims, but for Chrissy as well.

With Morgan and Reid, the reasons were different - the questions a case like this left behind were vast, yet the two of them had latched onto the same one, albeit in opposing ways.

The cyclical nature of violence. The profound impact of familial legacy on individual behavior. Can you pass down the gene of evil? Is it inevitable? Or can it be changed?

It was ironic, really - how the same theme could yield two entirely different interpretations, juxtaposed like night and day.

For Morgan, who was slowly reapproaching a faith he’d long abandoned, the answers came from above. Or at least, he hoped they would.

Morgan searched for meaning in something greater, for the divine to offer clarity in a world that often seemed devoid of it.

Hotch couldn’t offer much in that regard; he understood it too well. He’d grown up in a family that confessed the same beliefs, heard the same hymns, recited the same prayers. And while the answers Morgan sought were his own to find, Hotch could offer a small gesture of solidarity.

So, when he went to the kitchenette for coffee, he made one for Morgan too. He didn’t say anything, just handed him the steaming cup, hoping the caffeine would keep him awake long enough to wrestle with those questions and, luckily, find some peace before it spiraled further.

He added an extra touch - his last dark chocolate truffle. He wanted it for himself, truthfully, but Morgan needed it more. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the right thing to do.

Because if there was one tenet of faith Aaron could still believe in, it was this: ‘be kind to one another.’ And sometimes, kindness came in the form of caffeine and chocolate

Then there was Reid. For him, the search for answers took a different path, one turned inward.

He sought them in the vast expanse of his mind, a database larger and more intricate than anything Hotch could fathom.

He knew that Reid’s healing process often began in solitude, pouring over facts, theories, and philosophical musings until they settled into something resembling clarity.

So, when he made coffee for him, he took care to prepare it the way Reid liked it - sickeningly sweet, almost more syrup than coffee. He didn’t interrupt Reid’s silent contemplation. It was still too early, the thoughts too embryonic.

Handing Reid the mug, he let the younger man be, knowing that if Spencer needed logical confrontation, he would come directly to him. They’d discuss the meaning of words, the patterns of human behavior, and then Reid would likely move on with his day.

What concerned him, though, was the possibility that Reid might go to you instead.

It wasn’t that Hotch doubted you - quite the opposite. If there was anyone who understood Reid’s need to dive deeply into the cultural and philosophical nature of humanity, it was you.

You had a way of peeling back layers, of digging into the complexities of existence, even when it required hours of intellectual and emotional suffering to do so. Hotch trusted you more than he trusted himself to guide Reid in those moments.

But if Reid came to you, it would mean the case had struck him harder than Hotch had realized.

Because you weren’t the first step in Reid’s process - you were the last. The one who could challenge him, pull him deeper, and help him emerge on the other side.

Hotch took a sip of his own coffee, glancing toward Reid, who was already lost in thought, and then toward Morgan, who sat quietly with his faith and his chocolate.

They’d find their answers in time, he knew. Whether above, within, or through someone who truly understood.

Rossi though was, without a doubt, the most frustrating one to figure out.

It wasn’t that Hotch didn’t understand why the case had affected him - he did. The reasons were as plain as day.

But Rossi’s stubbornness and unyielding pride made it nearly impossible to offer any kind of help, let alone get close enough to understand the full picture. He was still adjusting to the group dynamic, still learning to balance respect for everyone’s boundaries with his old habits of calling the shots.

Sure, there had been progress.

Rossi had made small steps toward blending in since rejoining the team, he was more open with him especially - but there were moments when his gaze drifted backward, to how things used to be.

That same tendency to look to the past was what Hotch knew had cut deepest in this case. The past haunted Rossi.

Hotch had seen it in the way his demeanor shifted, the way he threw himself into conversation with the local detective, whose story mirrored something unspoken in Rossi.

The detective had just closed a case that had haunted him for 27 years - a case that had cost him everything. His job. His mental sanity. His sense of self.

Rossi wasn’t as different from him as he probably wanted to believe.

Hotch had overheard more than one of their conversations, seen the way Rossi leaned in when the man talked about his regrets, about the weight he carried. And more than once, Rossi had mentioned his own “unfinished business,” those words lingering in the air like a loaded gun.

Hotch didn’t push. He couldn’t. Rossi had to face it on his own first, to admit - to himself, above all - that there was something he needed to confront.

But he hoped that when the time came, Rossi would find the strength to do more than just admit it. He hoped he’d find the strength to let it go.

Only an agent was left - two, if he counted himself.

It didn’t surprise him that the reason this case had shaken you was the same as his own, even if you hadn’t told him yet.

You didn’t need to. He knew you too well by now, and silence wasn’t as opaque as you probably hoped it would be.

And the thing that would help you was the same thing he knew would help him: dialogue. A confrontation of two broken individuals, trying to make sense of the same chaos from different angles.

You and him, speaking two completely different languages: physics and metaphysics. One grounded in logic and structure, the other stretching toward something bigger, intangible.

You sought answers in the abstract, in the why, while he clung to the tangible, the how.

Together, somehow, you always found your way.

Hotch made his way down the aisle of the jet, paperwork in hand, catching sight of you before he even reached your seat. You were hunched over a file, so engrossed that you didn’t notice him until he stopped beside you and cleared his throat.

Predictably, you snapped the file shut in an instant, like you were hiding state secrets. Too bad for you - he already knew.

“There’s no need to be so secretive about that case file,” he said, his tone deceptively casual as he lowered himself into the seat across from you, one hand tugging his tie back into place. “Especially when we’re both working on the exact same one.”

Your eyes flicked up, skeptical, and then down at the file he placed on the table - its size dwarfing yours like a monument to over-preparation. “Impossible,” you said, your arms crossing defensively. “Yours is the size of an encyclopedia.”

“Probably because it seems I’ve worked on it more than you have,” he replied, allowing himself the faintest hint of a smile. “Tell me, is it the Boston Reaper case by any chance?”

Caught you, Philosopher.

Your eyes widened, the look of someone watching a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat. “How? Why?”

That was all you managed to say, and Hotch had to fight back the urge to laugh. The great oracle of philosophy, reduced to caveman syntax. You sounded exactly like Jack when he was first trying to string together sentences as a toddler.

Those questions weren’t even for him - they were clearly for yourself.

How does he know? Why is he working on this case?

And honestly, Hotch thought, the answers were so obvious it was almost endearing that you bothered to ask.

He knew why you were both silently working on that case on the jet back to Quantico. It was your way of coping with the uncomfortable fear today’s investigation had stirred - that an old, unresolved case like this one could resurface, leaving a new trail of victims in its wake.

Fear - that you might end up like the detective from today, unprepared. All this time later, and still haunted by what could have been done differently.

The Boston Reaper wasn’t just another unresolved case. It wasn’t just about the local police pulling both of you off it before you’d even had the chance to work on a proper profile.

That had been frustrating, sure, but the ties to this case ran deeper.

For him, it had been his first case as a lead profiler, thrust into the role just as Rossi had abruptly left the team without so much as a warning.

For you, it had been your ever first unresolved case, the kind of professional scar that stayed with you no matter how many victories followed.

And then there was the part neither of you would ever mention aloud.

It had been the case assigned to both of you the morning after what could only be described as a monumental lapse in judgment - a lapse Mrs. Lee, would still gleefully encourage you to repeat.

“Fear,” Hotch said simply, answering the unspoken why. He didn’t dare meet your eyes as he added, “And you already know the ‘how.’”

Because of course you did.

That unspoken moment of realization between you was something he definitely didn’t want to linger on - mainly because the second he saw it in your eyes, he’d probably blush like an idiot, and you’d never let him hear the end of it.

“So,” he said briskly, gesturing toward your file, “can I read the Oracle’s thoughts on the case now?”

You hesitated for a moment, then handed him the file. “I got stuck,” you admitted, your tone less defensive now. “There’s barely anything in there.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here. Let’s see -” he said, flipping open the file.

His eyes immediately landed on one word written larger than the others, circled as if it demanded top billing in the drama of your thoughts.

“Fate,” he murmured, his lips twitching at the irony.

Of course it was fate.

If the past few days had taught him anything, it was that the universe had an excellent sense of humor - albeit a twisted one.

You leaned forward slightly, pulling him back to the present. “He uses the Eye of Providence as a symbol for his killings,” you explained, saving him from the philosophical essays you’d undoubtedly penned in the margins... thank God.

You continued “That’s where I started. But it led me nowhere. Then I thought about how he wrote ‘fate’ on the windshield of one of his victims in their own blood.” You paused for a bit. “Words are more powerful than symbols.”

That struck a chord. Words required intent, precision. They carried weight. They cut deeper.

Hotch’s eyes dropped back to the file, scanning your notes as he absorbed what you’d said. Pieces started clicking into place, fragments of thought aligning in a way that sparked something.

He looked up at you. “What if he sees himself as the personification of fate?” he theorized, his eyes searching yours for confirmation.

“Well, didn’t you read my mind, Unit Chief?!” you said with a grin. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to prove.” That look - the one you knew drove him just slightly mad - prompted him to respond before he even had the chance to think better of it.

“And to do that, you had to go back quite a bit. Since Christianity influenced Western culture, we don’t talk about fate anymore - that’s more pagan. Instead, we talk about providence,” he said, his voice steady, almost clinical. “Ancient Greece, on the other hand, is full of myths where fate is one the central themes.”

Your grin only widened, amused and maybe a little impressed. “Wow. You really are good, Agent Hotchner,” you said with a mock coo. “Yes, exactly.”

Of course.

You were teasing him - again - but there was a glint in your eye, a genuine spark that reminded him why he always ended up drawn into these conversations with you, whether he wanted to be or not.

“I did try the those first,” you continued “but the imagery didn’t match. To explain it, I had to revisit Stoicism. They saw the universe as governed by this entity called logos - a rational, divine order where everything connects in an unbroken chain of cause and effect. What I found particularly important is that fate, in their view, isn’t something chaotic but part of a structured system. It’s revolutionary.”

He wasn’t used to your characteristic back-and-forth during cases anymore. He hadn’t paired you with him in what felt like ages - since long before Rossi rejoined the team. Maybe it was deliberate. Maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t want to think too hard about it.

But hearing you now, rattling off ideas with that same unstoppable energy, he realized just how much he’d missed it. Your wits, your knowledge, your uncanny ability to pull connections out of thin air - it was as maddening as it was impressive.

Not that he particularly missed the mock praise you’d thrown his way earlier. That could stay firmly in the past where it belonged. Or, at the very least, it could try to sound a bit more genuine.

Not that he wanted to hear it, of course.

…Okay, maybe it was better to change the subject entirely.

He missed you.

“So, by presenting himself as ‘fate,’” you continued, “the Reaper excuses himself entirely. He’s not making choices - he’s just the inevitable result of the universe’s design. Or at least, that’s how he sees it. Responsibility lies with the deterministic nature of existence itself. Quite of a sophisticated delusion.” you added, leaning back with a wry smile.

Hotch tilted his head. “Interesting… but if he truly believed that, why leave a signature? Why call 911? That’s ego. He wants us to know it’s him. That’s not someone surrendering to inevitability - that’s someone demanding recognition.”

“That’s why I’m stuck,” you admitted, with a frustrated sigh. “The contradictions don’t align. His actions suggest ego, yes. A desire for attention, for dominance. But that one 911 call…”

He leaned forward slightly. “What about it?”

“The call bothers me,” you continued, your voice softer now, more introspective. “Too deliberate. Too… purposeful. I feel they aren’t just challenges. There’s something else, I can’t see it yet, but it’s not just about superiority. It doesn’t feel like pure ego.”

He responded to you way too quickly. “Then what does it feel like?”

You hesitated, searching for the right words. “Something human, maybe,” you said finally. “There’s something… ordinary about the Unsub. Normal. He blends in so seamlessly that even his grandiosity doesn’t seem entirely self-serving.” You gestured at the file in front of you. “I can’t connect these pieces. The deterministic philosophy. The theatrical ego. The calculated call. It’s like he exists in two worlds at once - one of chaos, and one of order.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment. “And you think the truth lies somewhere in the contradiction.”

You shrugged. “Doesn’t it always?”

Hotch exhaled softly, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched you.

You couldn’t help yourself, could you? Always had to end with something emblematic, like you were writing the last line of a novel. Throw in a fade to black, and you were set.

“When you’re done making fun of me,” you said, raising your eyebrows at him, “could you explain how, with the same lack of material, you somehow have a file twice the size of mine?”

He couldn’t help the brief laugh that escaped him. Of course, you’d noticed.

“I’m not particularly proud of this…” he began, his tone measured but edged with a hint of self-deprecation. “But after we were pulled from the case, I went back to Boston a couple of weeks later.” He paused, gauging your reaction before continuing. “I got George Foyet’s testimony while he was still in the hospital.”

Your head snapped up, staring at him, completely stunned. “You?” you said slowly, suspicion lacing every syllable. “You went back to Boston? The man who practically has the Constitution tattooed on his soul took a statement after being removed from the case? That wasn’t even legal, was it?”

“It wasn’t,” Hotch admitted, his smirk widening just enough to make you narrow your eyes further. “But I knew they’d write a book about the Reaper case eventually. Once it became public domain, the testimony would be usable. I was just… proactive.”

“Proactive,” you repeated, shaking your head with a disbelieving laugh. “That’s barely ethical.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I blame you.” His tone was deadpan. “You brought out the worst in me back then.”

You snorted, leaning back in your seat with an exasperated smile. “How convenient, blaming it all on what were actually your overthoughts after some drunk sex.”

Oh no. Absolutely not. He was not going there.

He looked down at the file on the table, hoping the angle would save him from the inevitable reddening of his face.

Why, of all the things you could’ve said, did you have to bring that up? It wasn’t even relevant - well, not entirely relevant.

Deflection. That was his only move now. Luckily, the one he had in mind was at least partially truthful.

“We’re landing in a few minutes,” he began, keeping his tone calm and measured, “so how about this: when we’re back, we exchange files. You can go through the testimony, and I’ll take another look at where you got stuck with the phone call. We both take the night to work on it, and tomorrow, we compare notes.”

You tilted your head, skepticism written all over your face. “And what if someone finds out we’re working on a closed case?”

“That’s why we’re doing it at your place,” he said, his tone completely matter-of-fact, like this was the most logical solution in the world. Because it was. It wasn’t an excuse, at all.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, so now you’re inviting yourself over?”

“Haven’t seen Mrs. Lee in a few weeks,” he said smoothly, like that was somehow a perfectly valid justification.

You laughed at that, shaking your head. “Right… You know what? She might adore you, but let’s not forget who she entrusted with her blueberry pie recipe.”

What?

And you waited all this time to tell him that?

So this is what betrayal feels like. A little less dramatic than expected, but still, very disappointing.

---

If there was one universal truth about the BAU team, it was this: no matter how different you all were, no matter how much tension simmered beneath the surface after a long case, there was one sacred ritual that bound you together - going out for drinks.

Especially after the cases that were draining, but not devastating.

The ones that left you raw but still intact, just enough to crave the company of those who understood the madness you faced.

This case had been one of those.

There was a quiet hum of unspoken agreement as everyone wrapped up their notes, pens clicking shut, desks tidied with a precision that came from mutual understanding rather than coordination.

It wasn’t planned, but somehow, you all ended up converging in the bullpen at the same time, like a gravitational pull none of you could resist.

The collective exhaustion that had hung heavy all day began to lift, replaced by a singular, unifying hope: to fuck up your livers just enough to lighten the weight pressing on your minds.

It was Derek who broke the silence, standing up from his chair and tossing his notebook across his desk with a grin. “Who’s up for a drink?”

Emily cheered like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Who’s up for five?”

“Five bottles, you mean?” you chimed in, feigning doubt as though you were on the verge of saying no.

“Each,” Emily clarified with a playful wink.

That was all it took for you to reach for your pen, clicking it closed with a dramatic flair before placing it back into your holder.

“Count me in,” Rossi said casually, like this wasn’t the team’s collective miracle of the week. For someone who had only recently started joining you on these outings, this was practically a declaration of loyalty.

“I don’t know,” Spencer muttered, adjusting the strap of his bag - a move so predictable it immediately set off Derek.

“Stop with the ‘I don’t know.’ You’re in, kid,” Derek said, striding confidently across the bullpen, leaving no room for argument. “JJ?”

“I’d love to, but I’m gonna have to take a rain check,” JJ said, offering a soft smile that carried just enough warmth to make Emily’s heart squeeze.

That meant only a single person remained.

“Unit Chief,” you said, striding toward him with that determined glint in your eye. “Just one beer.”

Hotch exhaled, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips as he glanced at you. “Sure,” he said simply, afterall he couldn’t say no to that, not after a case like this.

But apparently, his mere will hadn’t been enough to seal the moment.

The sound of the bullpen doors opening pulled his attention, the heavy glass swinging wide as a man in a suit entered. He moved with purpose, his expression unreadable, carrying an envelope and a folder that seemed too heavy for their size.

“Agent Hotchner?” the man called out.

Hotch straightened immediately, his spine rigid, the shift so automatic it was almost reflex. “Yes,”

What happened next took seconds, maybe less, but it felt like a lifetime compressed into the space of a breath.

His left hand moved to sign the notice, his name scrawled neatly onto the blank space with a pen he didn’t remember reaching for.

The man nodded once, taking the signed folder back with an efficiency that bordered on mechanical.

And just like that, he was gone - disappearing through the same doors he had entered, leaving destruction in his wake as swiftly as he’d brought it.

All that remained that could prove his existence was the envelope in Hotch’s hand, the weight of it far heavier than paper should ever be.

The bullpen was suddenly too quiet. Too still.

“What is it?” Emily asked, her voice cutting through the silence.

He really didn’t want to look up, but he still did anyways.

He gestured faintly with the envelope, his voice quiet, flat, as though detachment might dull the edge of it. “Haley’s filing for divorce.”

He paused, his gaze drifting back to the envelope, as though it might explain itself if he stared hard enough. Then he spoke again, his voice even quieter this time, almost resigned. “I’ve been served.”

Before anyone could respond, he turned on his heel, the envelope still clutched in his hand like a foreign object he didn’t know what to do with. He walked out, back through the glass doors, the weight of their closing behind him louder than it had ever have been.

You stared after him, your hand falling away from where it had hovered, wanting to reach out but knowing better.

You didn’t want to drink anymore.

And him?

Somewhere beyond those glass doors, Hotch kept walking, as though forward motion might somehow keep him from falling apart entirely.

The envelope burned in his hand, and every step felt heavier than the last, carrying him into a night that suddenly felt colder and far too empty.

Because now, it was real.

---

Phi’s Corner: Did I just waste 5 hours of my life discovering that Tumblr only allows 1,000 text blocks max and had to re-edit everything? Yes, I did. Because I’m a sucker for distanced one-liners, and the universe clearly hates me. Also… did you catch the little countdown? Hehe. I’m evil. Oh, and for the record - I am Mrs. Lee’s #1 stan. Don’t forget it.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

#aaron hotchner #hotch #criminal minds #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #criminal minds x reader

164 notes · View notes

red-riot-unbreakable-heart · 2 days ago

Text

Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 8

Previous Chapter: Part 7 | Next Chapter: Part 9 Coming Soon!

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Ship: Shoto Todoroki x Fem Reader! 💋

Genre: Fluff, Romance, S*xual Tension, Smut

🚫🔞THIS IS AN ADULT BLOG CONTAINING EXPLICIT CONTENT. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, A18+ ONLY.🔞🚫

CW: MDNI!, A18+, kissing, romance, sexual tension, spicy scenes.

Chapter 8: The Party Part 2 / Shoto’s Revenge

She shrugs and gives you a knowing half smile. “Sometimes people need a little push!” She starts to notice the room getting quieter as everyone waits for her to call out the next participant. “Speaking of which…you’re next!”

You look up in surprise as the crowd around you cheers and starts to chant your name encouragingly. Mina scoops up the bottle off the floor and holds it out to you expectantly.

“Come on, Y/N!”

“Y/N! Y/N! Y/N!” Your friends chant around you.

You can practically feel Shoto’s gaze burning into your back as you stare down that problematic glass bottle.

Shit.

-----------

“Huh!?” Oh no. Oh helllll no. You weren’t planning on participating in this crazy game – especially not when Shoto is off the table. “No, Mina, I’m okay. Really.”

Mina pouts, but relents. Instead she turns to Hagakure. “How about you, Toru? Want to take a spin?”

“You know it, girl!” Toru cackles, shifting in her seat.

Mina turns back to the group and signals for attention. She’s going to make such a good hero one day – she can so easily control a room and grab the spotlight. If only she would stop pushing things too far all of the time…

“Allllright! Toru’s up next!” She passes the bottle over to your invisible best friend and scoots back to give her some space. Toru wiggles with excitement, her bracelets jingling on her invisible wrists as she leans forward and gives the bottle a hard spin.

The bottle ricochets across the floor, whirling round and round. You feel the excitement rolling off of Hagakure in waves as she waits to see where it will land. Within seconds, the bottle’s pace slows and it comes to an abrupt stop. You look up eagerly to see that it’s pointing at Mashirao Ojiro.

“Oh!” Toru says softly.

For once, The Invisible Girl is absolutely speechless. You imagine she’s blushing as she takes in Ojiro’s equally shocked face. Across the circle, Ojiro’s jaw is slack in surprise. He quickly closes it and absentmindedly straightens his hair as the group is watches on and laughs.

You narrow your eyes and glance over at Mina, suspicious. How is everyone being miraculously paired up with their crushes!? She’s definitely rigged this game somehow, you just know it. She’s playing matchmaker somehow!

You refocus on Toru, who seems to be frozen in place.

“Get over there girl!” You and Mina push Toru up and she stumbles, nearly tripping over the glass bottle. Ojiro hops up to meet her in the middle and catches her arms before she can fall.

“Um…hey.” Ojiro says as he steadies her. Everyone looks on eagerly; this game is truly a spectacle to behold.

“Oh, Ojiro!” Toru says theatrically as she bounces on the balls of her feet. “This is so embarrassing! My face is bright red!”

Ojiro actually rolls his eyes at this, he’s used to Toru’s dramatics at this point.

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” One thing you like about Ojiro – he’s steady and reliable. If anyone can balance out Toru’s constant chaotic energy, it’s The Tailman. “But…maybe you should take the lead here – I can’t see your face?” He says weakly, staring at her hard as he tries to discern where her mouth is.

Toru wastes no time, throwing her arms around Ojiro’s neck and pulling herself up she can crash their lips together. Ojiro’s face is bright red and his eyes are wide in shock as Toru all but climbs on top of him. You and Mina laugh so hard you feel like you can barely breathe. For a moment, all thoughts of Shoto have left your mind as you watch one of your best friends have her first kiss with her crush.

Ojiro’s eyes slide closed and he wraps his arms around Toru’s back and waist, holding her to him in a sweet embrace. They’re flush against each other, and he lifts her up a bit so that she’s standing on top of his shoes.

It’s kind of weird to watch Ojiro make out with an invisible partner. You can see Toru’s body since she’s wearing clothes, of course. But her head is completely invisible, so you can see right through her. Quirks make intimacy hella weird sometimes. Through Toru’s nonexistent head, it looks like Ojiro’s lips are flattening and pursing of their own accord.

Finally, Toru breaks apart from him and reaches up to ruffle his hair. He smiles stupidly down at her invisible face. They break apart and she skitters back over to you and Mina to reclaim her seat. Ojiro stumbles back to his seat next to Kirishima, who claps him on the back kindly with a smile.

“Eeek! I had my first kiss!” Toru whispers urgently in your ear.

“I know! I was there!” You laugh.

At the break of action, the sound of babble swells in the room again as everyone gets back to chatting and laughing. The mood in the room is good; everyone is a tiny bit buzzed and feeling warm and fuzzy.

“What was it like!?” You ask eagerly, sitting forward to hear every word.

“Soft! Warm! Hot! Ojiro is a good kisser!” Toru squeals. You and Mina laugh happily as your friend wiggles with joy. “I hope that this night never ends!”

Mina checks her bedazzled phone. “Oh! The rest of the group is here!”

You and Toru look up towards the entrance and see that a small group of Class B students have entered the building. Mina, ever the master of ceremonies, waves them over and has them join the circle. Itsuka Kendo, Setsuna Tokage, Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu, Juzo Honenuki and Yosetsu Awase find spots on the floor. Honenuki waves at you in greeting, and you return the gesture with a friendly smile.

“How did the distraction go!? Did Hatsume’s creepy little machines work?” Mina asks Kendo excitedly. The red head smiles back wickedly.

“We definitely fooled Mr. King into thinking that Mineta needed his help. He took the bait hook, line and sinker.” Honenuki cackles out.

“Wait…Neito – weren’t you supposed to be part of the distraction alongside Kendo?” You ask your friend. Neito looks a bit embarrassed when he answers.

“Well…I needed some extra time to get ready and Kendo said she could handle things with Setsuna, Tetsutetsu and the Class B gang. Plus I didn’t want Mr. King to think I was always running around tattling on my classmates. He told me recently that I need to work on being a bit more ‘social’ and ‘likeable.’ I just couldn’t bring myself to let him down again.” Neito says smoothly. This tracks – Neito has a ten step skincare regimen, after all. You can only imagine how much time he took to primp ahead of his big night with Shinsou.

“We thought it would seem more authentic if the class rep took the lead here.” Tetsutetsu chimes in, grinning widely. “And Mr. King totally bought our lie when we told him Mineta was getting bullied and strung up on the flagpole as a prank. We watched him run over to where Mineta was hanging and boom! He was instantly covered with drones. He didn’t even land a hit while we were watching.”

“Wow sounds like Hatsume really does know what she’s doing here.” Toru says in awe. Mr. King is an experienced hero, so Hatsume’s drones being able to go toe-to-toe with him is truly impressive.

“The trick wasn’t very manly of us, I’ll admit.” Tetsutetsu says, running his hand through his hair guiltily.”…but it sure was effective!”

“Yeah I really tried to make it seem like we’d been casually walking through the area when we noticed Mineta had been ‘attacked.’ Hopefully Mr. King won’t think we were connected with the drone nonsense.” Kendo says uncertainly.

“I’m sure it’s finnnneee!” Mina says, throwing her arms out wide. “Hatsume knows what she’s doing. And so does Mineta – he’s got skin in the game.” You glare at Mina when you remember that you had promised to kiss the little pervert in exchange for his help. As much as you hate the whole situation, you do truly believe that the kissing offer will keep Mineta on-task. He’s unlikely to betray you all where sexual favors are involved, after all.

“So what’s going on?” Tetsutetsu asks excitedly as Kirishima passes him a bowl of chips and a drink. “What did we miss?”

“Well you guys only missed a little – YaoMomo, come over here and give it a spin!” Mina calls out across the crowd. Momo has joined Shoto in conversation and looks up in surprise.

“No, no I’m alright!” She waves Mina off, blushing. She’s wearing a sensible lavender turtleneck and expensive looking blue jeans, flawless as per usual. “You all keep on playing without me.”

“Come onnnnn Momo!” Mina whines, scooping up the glass bottle and proffering it up to your creation-quirked friend.

“No, really! I must refuse.” Momo says, her eyebrows arched nervously as she tries to wave Mina away.

Momo and Mina continue to bicker (if you could call Momo’s polite declining bickering…okay Mina continues to bicker at Momo and she tries to turn the spotlight away from herself).

Your phone buzzes a few times in your pocket and you slip it out, hoping its Shoto.

It’s not.

Nope - it’s Honenuki.

Honenuki: Hey.

You glance up – the pale skeleton-faced young man is looking up at you with his wide grey eyes from across the circle. No one notices - everyone else is focused on Mina and Momo’s back and forth.

You type.

Y/N: Hey! You were part of the distraction team? I thought it would just be Kendo calling over Mr. Vlad King.

Honenuki: We all thought it would look more believable if we did it in a group. We told Mr. King we were walking back from the library when we heard yelling and found Mineta. Mr. King told us to head back to the dorms in case a villain had broken through the UA barrier.

Y/N: Oh shit. You think we’ll go into lockdown?

Honenuki: Nah. We told him it looked like a student prank, and he seemed to believe it.

Y/N: That’s gnarly. You could get in SOOO much trouble if he finds out this was all a fake set up.

Honenuki: Yeah. But isn’t it worth it for one night of being reckless teenagers? We’re all so good most of the time.

Honenuki: It can be a little fun to walk on the wild side.

A tiny lion emoji accompanies the text.

You smirk, glancing up at him to see his eyes crinkling at the corners to indicate that he’s smiling.

Honenuki: By the way

Y/N: ??

Honenuki: You look really cute tonight

Oh.

You feel a blush bloom in your cheeks, warm and rosy. You dart a quick look up at him and see that he’s still staring you down, eyes intense. You don’t know what to say…

After a moment’s pause, you start typing.

Y/N: A girl’s gotta look her best for an illegal party, ofc!

Honenuki: You always look cute though. Just thought you should know J

Um…okayyyyy!? Is he…flirting with you!? Honenuki liking you…like-liking you…that is not a possibility that you have considered?

You’ve been so caught up with your tryst with Shoto Todoroki that you haven’t really been paying attention to any other men. Your brain flies back through the text conversations you’ve had recently with Honenuki – sharing jokes, swapping music. Oh shit. He’s been flirting with you the entire time! And you’ve been…flirting back?

Your brain is reeling with the revelation. You stare down at your phone screen. You should type something. You should say something. You’re taken, aren’t you? Sure, you and Shoto haven’t put a label on…whatever it is that the two of you are! But you’ve agreed not to hook up with anyone else, right?

Your mind feels a bit hazy. The feeling of being wanted by two different men is a little intoxicating.

You think about Honenuki – his sweet messages and his chill demeanor. He’s kind – you know he’s always willing to help a classmate with training or math homework. You’ve heard nothing but good things about him in passing. He’s also strong – like Shoto, he’s one of the few students who gained admission to UA by recommendation and he’s currently at the top of Class B’s rankings. There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that he has the potential to be a powerful hero.

You bite at your lip, staring at your phone screen blankly as you brain continues to cycle through Honenuki’s positive qualities. On top of his academic success…you have to admit that he’s kind of hot. Perfect skin and shaggy hair. You’ve seen the way he fights in battle; you imagine he’s well muscled under that floral shirt of his. You even like the haunting quality of his skeleton-like teeth. There’s something so genuine about him – he’s open and can put anyone at ease. He’s uncomplicated.

In a world where Shoto had never asked to kiss you, you can see yourself continuing to encourage Honenuki’s advances. If you hadn’t started hooking up with Shoto…would you and Honenuki have gotten together? You’re overwhelmed as you think back to all of Honenuki’s previous messages and the way he’s been treating you so tenderly lately. How could you not have realized earlier that he’s been giving off flirty vibes!?

The atmosphere of the spin the bottle game is far too horny and must be influencing you, because a vision comes to mind of being alone with Honenuki. Your mind scrabbles together a quick flash of white hot images – your hand running down his bare toned chest; his strong hands enveloping the curves of your waist; his grey eyes widening in surprise when you whisper his given name, “Juzo.”

Toru grabs your arm and shakes you from your wild, fuzzy thoughts.

“Y/N! Girl! Are you okay!? Why are you staring at your phone like that?” She tries to make a grab for the device, but you spin it out of her grasp before she can get a good look at the screen.

“Sorry…I was checking to see if Hatsume texted us.” You lie quickly. “I wonder how her distraction is going.”

“Oh!” Toru says in surprise, clearly having forgotten about Hatsume and Mineta’s role in the party planning. “I’m sure she would have sent us all a group text if there was a problem.” She turns back to her conversation with Fujita, leaving you alone with your thoughts for a moment.

You think a bit more about Honenuki and Shoto, two wildly different guys. While Honenuki has confidence and a unique charm, he lacks Shoto’s intensity and vibrancy. With Shoto, each conversation feels like unlocking a new video game level – you’re always learning something new about him. His upbringing, his passions, his sense of humor. Getting to know Shoto has been such a joy - he’s complex and sweet and kind in ways you never could have imagined.

As tempting as it is to innocently flirt back with Honenuki over text…you feel a strong sense of loyalty to Shoto. Sure, the two of you aren’t officially in “a relationship,” but the growing bond you share is intimate. You can’t imagine your day to day without Shoto – his tiny smiles in the hall, the way he sends you odd little texts about Pokémon and his love of cold soba.

And so you leave Honenuki’s text on read. You’ll need to sort through your feelings more later in the comfort of your own dorm room and decide how to approach the situation further.

Mina’s shrill voice brings you back to the present.

“Momooooo!” Mina whines out, throwing up her hands in exasperation. Your attention snaps back to your arguing friends. “Class B did so much work to help us throw this party. Joining in on some of the official festivities is the least we can do to show our appreciation. Plus weren’t you saying earlier how important it is to participate in cultural activities? This is prime teen culture right here!” Mina gestures wildly at the empty bottle lying in the middle of the circle. You’re honestly in awe of Mina and the way she can just make up convincing shit like this.

“Well…I suppose I did say that.” Momo bites her lip, thinking. “As deputy class rep I should participate in such an important show of friendliness between our two classes! And if Todoroki went through with it, I expect I can too.” It seems that this is what Mina was banking on. She grins like a Cheshire cat as Momo walks over to join them.

“Alright Momo, all you need to do is spin this!” She presents the bottle in all of its glory. It seems to sparkle with possibility under the florescent lights.

Momo accepts the bottle and flings it across the ground with an enthusiastic spin. It spirals across the floor, turning end over end before coming to a stop in front of Class B’s Yosetsu Awase. Awase’s eyebrows dip down and he mutters a curse under his breath.

He looks up at Momo, and based on his expression alone he looks either angry or terrified. Kendo laughs heartily and pats him on the back. “Go on, Awase. Go get your kiss.”

Momo watches him with fretful eyes. “Awase. We don’t have to do this if you don’t want - ” The welding hero raises a hand, signaling her to be quiet. Despite the gesture, he can’t bring himself to fully look her in the eye. The welding hero gets up slowly and crosses the circle to reach her, his cuffed blue jeans and dark Doc Martens make him look effortlessly cool. He reaches her in two strides.

Awase is taller than Momo by a few inches – his boots giving him the slightest boost. She looks up into his face nervously, her brain clearly whirring as she tries to devise a strategy to get out of this nerve-wracking situation. Maybe if she makes a break for the door everyone will magically forget this whole silly game and her role in it? Her eyes dart between Awase’s lips and the exit. He finally lets himself look at her, a dark scowl clouding his features.

“You know.” He says quietly, causing everyone in the circle to lean in a bit to catch his words. “I think you’re the smartest student in our year. Maybe even the smartest in the entire school.” He looks away, his skin red with embarrassment, sweat beading at his forehead. “I’ve been wanting to tell you that for a while.”

“Oh.” Momo covers her mouth and looks at the ground with embarrassment. “Thank you, that’s so kind.”

The room is so quiet, Present Mic would find the space absolutely offensive. All eyes are on Momo and Awase.

“You cool with this?” He asks, jerking his head to gesture at the crowd of classmates circled around them.

Momo blushes and looks away once more. “Well it is an important coming of age event, isn’t it? And I don’t want to stand in the way of building class unity, of course.”

This matter-of-fact response draws a slow smile out of Awase, his scowl melting into a light grin. “Oh, of course. Class unity is super important.” He takes a deep breath to steady himself, pressing his hands deep into his pockets as he leans into kiss her. Momo shuts her eyes as if she’s afraid, but as soon as their lips meet she leans into it eagerly. The smooch lasts for a few moments before Awase jumps backwards, face overheating. He looks up at the ceiling in embarrassment, hands still pressed into his pockets.

“Thanks Yaoyorozu!” He says too loudly and too enthusiastically. “I’m glad we could contribute to uniting our classes! See you around!!!” He turns and rapidly exits the room, disappearing into the hallway. Everyone turns to look at Momo, their eyes wide and interested to see what she’ll do next.

To everyone’s surprise, she bursts out laughing. Her mirth is infectious, and before long the entire room is giggling and guffawing, all tension of the room broken. Classes A and B are hanging out and having the time of their young lives together, it definitely feels as if new bonds have been formed.

After a few minutes, the laughter dies down. Kendo runs after Awase and returns a few minutes later with him clutched in her big fist. He looks abashed, but he’s laughing too.

Momo rejoins Todoroki and Tokoyami on the sidelines, and you watch the group of them warily for a moment. Momo is blushing like crazy, though, so you feel its safe to assume that her affections lie with the Class B Awase, not with your sweet Shoto Todoroki. Awase walks over to join their conversation, and after a few moments of chatting, its clear the tension between them has broken. Chatter breaks out amongst the rest of your classmates, and you watch out of the corner of your eye as Shoto smiles, happy to be included and making friends.

You try to shake your jealous insecurities from your body – after all, Shoto deserves all the friends. He deserves comfort and love from all areas of his life. You realize that you can’t be the only source of affection he receives – he’s a full person, not some romance novel character simply created for the protagonist’s need fulfillment and sexual fantasies.

You let yourself come back down to Earth, and out of your head. You listen in on the chatter surrounding you -

“Kendo – do you think we can train together sometime? You have some really awesome moves with your quirk!” Ojiro asks the Class B rep, and Sero chimes in as well: “Yeah, I’d love to spar with you and see Big Fist in action!” Kendo smiles at the compliment and makes a promise to reserve gym time together in the coming weeks.

Nearby, Tetsutetsu and Kirishima are chatting animatedly about their favorite chivalrous heroes. “Have you seen this interview of Crimson Riot from the ‘90s!?” Kirishima taps his phone to hastily pull up an old video on the web. “This has got to be my favorite video of him in his classic costume.” Tetsutetsu and Honenuki crowd around his shoulder to watch, even Setsuna glances over with interest.

Across from you in the circle, Shinsou and Monoma sit talking softly to each other. Shinsou still has an arm around Nieto, the blonde leaning gratefully into his side and basking in the attention. He cracks a quiet joke that brings a smile to Shinsou’s lips, his eyes crinkling in response.

You take it all in – the joy, the laughter. You’ve got a glowy feeling bubbling up in your chest. This is why you all threw the party. This is certainly a night to be remembered. Everyone is happy and bubbly and bonding. You try to take a snapshot of the scene in your mind. It really doesn’t get any better than this, does it?

“Hey, Y/N – are you good?” Toru reaches over and shakes your shoulder, pulling you from your sappy reflection.

“Oh, yeah.” You say, refocusing on your friend next to you. “Just got lost in it all for a sec. I forgot how good a party could be.”

You feel Toru radiate happiness as well – you don’t need to be able to see her expression to know that she’s on Cloud 9. “I know what you mean. It’s really nice to hangout like normal teenagers, right?”

“Yeah, it is.”

Hmm. Normal. You’ve never really thought about it that way. Toru’s got a point – going to the top hero school in the country has certainly come with its sacrifices.

You’re truly not like normal Japanese teens – its rare that you get a night like this to just hang out and be silly. To flirt with classmates and get to know people outside of training and studying. You look around you – how many of these people do you truly know? If you weren’t all constantly cramming and training 24/7, what hobbies would your classmates have taken up? How would they choose to spend free time?

Training to be a hero is a just cause, a task worthy of sacrifice. But you’ve gotta wonder…throwing yourselves fully into this lifestyle so early in your lives at such a crucial time of social and emotional development…how good can that truly be in the long run? Will you all develop into well-rounded, emotionally adjusted humans? Or will you be at a disadvantage in regular society because you spent all of your youth on training and hero-work? It’s an interesting idea worth more exploration – you wonder what Shoto would think of it all. You make a mental note to ask him for his opinion later on.

“I wish we could do stuff like this more often.” Toru sighs, resting her invisible chin on an equally invisible palm. “It would be nice to get to know everyone as people, not as heroes-in-training.”

“It’s like you read my mind.” You laugh, throwing your arm around Toru and pulling her close. “I’m glad we threw this party. And I’m glad we’re friends.” You see your friend shimmer in the light next to you, her joy manifesting in her quirk’s light refraction.

“Me too, I’m glad we became BFFs!” She leans into you and whispers “Also I’m glad that Ojiro has such defined biceps…because honestly wow.”

You laugh at this, trying to see if you can get a good look at Ojiro’s arms from your seating position. Unfortunately, his arms are covered with thick sweater sleeves, so you’ll have to trust your friend on this.

“I’ll take your word for it.” You say under your breath as you check your watch before turning towards Mina. “Sato said the sweets should be ready about now.” Mina nods and looks off to the kitchen where a few of your classmates are bustling around baking goodies for the rest of the group.

“Alright, let’s do one more spin before we take a snack break!” Mina calls out over the crowd, her voice cutting through the bubble of conversations like a knife through butter. “We need more Class B representation…Honenuki, why don’t you come up?”

The crowd around you quiets and everyone’s eyes land on Juzo, waiting for him to step up to the plate and spin.

“Heh, alright.” Honenuki clicks his teeth and gets to his feet, chill as ever. He strides two long steps towards your group where he accepts the empty bottle from Mina’s protective grasp. He catches your eye and winks before turning back towards the center of the circle. Your stomach does a weird little jump in response to the gesture. Once again, you acknowledge to yourself that you enjoy the flirtatious attention. You imagine what it would be like to meet Shoto’s eyes across the room and for him to wink at you like that. Your secret love affair would no doubt boil the air between you.

You refocus on the game at hand – Honenuki stands at the center of the room. He’s wearing a floral button down with light wash jeans that hug his legs in a pleasing way. For the second time that night, you note that he’s definitely attractive, and his chill vibe seems to put everyone around him at ease. If all the attention is making him nervous, he doesn’t show it.

He places the bottle on the ground and gives it a slow, leisurely spin. The glass rotates slowly across the floor a few times, everyone eagerly looking on. After a moment of slow rotation, the bottle rolls to a stop and it’s pointing…straight at you.

Honenuki turns to face you, his wide-eyed look of shock mirrors your own.

“Ooo, looks like you gotta kiss Y/N!” Mina squeals out, grabbing your arms and hauling you to your feet.

“Wha-?” You ask, clearly stunned as everyone’s eyes focus on you. You turn to look quickly from Mina to Juzo. The sudden shift of everyone’s attention to you is over-stimulating and your brain feels like it might short circuit.

“You’re up, Y/N!” Mina whispers as she pushes you towards Honenuki. “It’s all you!” You stumble forward and try to ignore the giggles around you. Class B has started up a chant of “Juzo! Juzo! Juzo!”

Honenuki’s pale cheeks darken under all the attention, but when you look up to meet his eyes again you notice that they crinkle in the corners. He can’t quite grin with his mouth, but with a pang of warmth you realize that he smiles with his eyes. He meets you in the middle, taking a small step towards you.

Every nerve in your body feels alive. You don’t like the way that everyone is staring at you and Honenuki, waiting for the two of you to act. A part of your overwhelmed brain wonders vaguely if Shoto is watching. Will he step in here? Will he say something to stop this from happening? Will he claim you as his own before the combined audience of Classes A and B!?

“You know, I was really hoping it would be you.” He says softly. You’re fairly certain you’re the only one who hears the sweet words underneath all of the chanting.

“Oh! Really?” You say breathlessly. Your classmates start to shush each other as they try to listen to your conversation. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Shoto staring at you, mouth agape as he watches Honenuki take a step closer to you.

Juzo’s wide eyes look down at you, his gaze warm. “I’m not the best person for this game. I’m not really built for kissing.” He laughs, pointing at his face. The florescent light glints across his bright teeth.

“That’s alright.” You say, unsure of what to do next. Juzo takes another step towards you until his face is just a breath away from your own. He smells like the clean dorm soap, as if he’s just had a shower.

“Despite the fact that I don’t have lips, I have always wanted to try. Do you mind?” His words are so gentle, so vulnerable. You look up into his large grey eyes and nod, giving him the go-ahead to move forward. You feel Shoto’s hot gaze burning into the back of your head, but there’s nothing to be done about that right now. You can’t reject Honenuki – not here, not in front of the entirety of the Hero Course. Not when he’s being so sweet and open.

You try not to feel guilty as you lean towards Honenuki. Besides, Shoto participated in the game too, hadn’t he!? He’s already kissed that strange girl from the Support Course, so what right does he have to be upset about this whole thing?

There’s another guilty thought nagging at you as well…you feel bad for how much you’re enjoying Honenuki’s intimate attention. It’s wrong, isn’t it? Are you leading him on now that you’ve realized he’s flirting with you? Should you put a stop to this and expose your situationship with Shoto to the entire room to show Todoroki that your heart and body are loyal to him alone? The thoughts and feelings are all much too complex to sort through quickly, so you decide to just go along with the game and let Honenuki kiss you. You can do damage control and figure out your feelings later.

Juzo reaches one hand down to rest on your side, his fingers spread gently against the curve of your hip. The delicate touch is almost intimate, and his closeness is making your head foggy. He brings his other hand up into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he leans down to bring his face to your cheek. You feel his smooth, cool teeth make brief contact with the side of your face. You can’t wrap your head around how he manages to make the “kiss” so tender, so sweet. After the brief contact, he pulls away to look at you.

“Was that okay?” He breathes, nervous for your answer. You respond by shifting so that you can give him a kiss of your own (it’s only fair). You bring your plush lips to his cheek in turn, planting a soft smooch on his pale face.

The joint classes cheer and clap as you pull away. Honenuki is blushing a sweet strawberry hue as you pull your face away from him. His eyes are sparkling with an emotion that you can’t quite place. He squeezes his fingers lightly on your hip before releasing you.

“Thank you.” He says to you kindly before turning to sit back with his classmates.

You feel a tingle of butterflies in you stomach from the gentle, focused attention Honenuki gave you. But at the same time…Honenuki’s sweet kiss doesn’t make you feel quite the way that Shoto’s kisses do. You turn and search for Shoto in the crowd. Your heart sinks down into your stomach when you can’t find him.

“Alright, everyone! Cake time!” Mina claps her hands and everyone gets to their feet, breaking the circle. The group starts to move towards the kitchen area where Sato has whipped up an amazing array of baked treats. The scent of baked chocolate wafts into the room enticingly, but you feel sick to your stomach as you search the crowd unsuccessfully for your icy-hot hookup.

You loiter behind, needing a moment to collect yourself after your very public romantic interaction with one of Class B’s top students. You watch as members of Class A and B joke and laugh together on their way towards the scent of Sato’s delicious sweets. You turn away from the commotion, hoping the redness in your cheeks has started to disappear.

You hear quiet footsteps come up behind you and for a moment, you fear that it’s Honenuki. You have so many mixed emotions you’re not sure what you’ll say to him.

“Y/N.” Shoto’s soft, steady voice breaks through over the chatter. You spin around in surprise and all but crash into his solid chest.

“Shoto, I - ” He cuts you off with a short hand gesture.

“Mind if we talk?” He asks quietly, glancing around to make sure you aren’t overheard. You nod weakly and follow him into the hallway outside the common area. “This is a bit more private.”

You lean against the wall and wrap your arms around yourself, shivering with discomfort. You’re not really sure what to do or say. What just happened between you and Honenuki, between Shoto and that girl…did that technically count as cheating? What you and Shoto had together…it wasn’t truly a relationship, was it?

Shoto turns to look at you, and you take in his face with shock. His features are screwed up as if he might cry – his eyebrows are dipped down and he’s biting his lip. You’ve never seen an expression like this on his typically unreadable face.

“Shoto – what’s wrong!?” You reach up to touch his beautiful face and he flinches as the contact. You keep your hand steady as it cups his cheek.

“What just happened…I think I’m having a complicated mix of emotions.” He says uncertainly, finally leaning into your touch. “I don’t know how to process it all.”

“Okay. Yeah, me too.” You say almost breathlessly, dropping your hand to your side. “Let’s talk it through.”

There’s a pause, neither of you know quite what to say. You stare at each other mutely. Shoto’s still chewing on his lip anxiously, a habit you’ve never noticed before. Finally, he takes a deep breath and decides to speak.

“You kissed Honenuki. And I didn’t like it.” He says simply. Your stomach drops.

“Okay…when you say you didn’t like it – what does that mean? Can you identify what you were feeling in that moment, and what you’re feeling now?” You prompt, needing more context. Shoto thinks on this for a moment.

“I felt jealous and a little angry. Maybe the feeling is…possessive? But I don’t know if it’s right for me to be feeling that way. I don’t own you, I don’t have sole possession of your time or the right to your body. We never discussed any sort of commitment to each other.” He pauses for a shaky breath. “And right now I feel…still a bit angry, but mostly sad and disappointed.”

“Disappointed?”

“Yes…I thought that maybe the way that we touched each other…I was hoping that kissing and touching would just be for the two of us. Then I saw the way he looked at you, how he touched you so gently. It looked like it came so naturally to him. And for me…well, I’m awkward. I know I can be…” He trails off, searching for the right words. He makes a strange, tight-lipped face when he finally says: “Emotionally stunted and inexperienced.” The phrase sounds unnatural on his tongue, and your eyes widen in surprise. It’s clear that he got this language from someone else – it just doesn’t sound like something Shoto would say. You roll the words over and over in your brain as he continues to speak.

He still can’t make eye contact with you as words tumble from his sweet mouth. “I just keep thinking…that if you would rather pursue Honenuki physically, romantically…then I need to step aside.”

“What!?” You hiss out, completely dumbfounded by this dramatic confession. Shoto is spilling his guts here in the hallway and you have no idea what to say to any of it. Finally, his mismatched eyes meet your own – they’re filled with sadness. In this moment, he looks impossibly young and unsure.

You take a deep breath to calm yourself, hoping to regulate your nervous system a bit before you dive in. You’re not sure how to work at this complicated knot of thoughts that Shoto has just word-vomited out into the hallway. You try to remember the basic de-escalation skills you’ve learned in class. Miss Midnight had once advised the class that in certain situations, the best approach to supporting someone is to reassure them and make them feel safe before getting to the heart of a problem. You decide to go that route.

“Shoto.” You say softly, trying to keep your voice even and warm. “Thank you for sharing these thoughts with me. I appreciate that you feel you can be open with me about these things. The first thing I want you to know here is that I care about you and I want us to talk through this the best we can.” At your words, you see Shoto visibly relax, his shoulders softening at your gentle tone of voice.

“I’m going to be honest, I’m figuring this out as I go. I don’t have all the answers and I’m not sure how to talk about some of these things with you – but let’s try our best to communicate together here. Alright?” Your brain is moving a million miles per hour, but you take another deep breath to calm it. You pretend you’re in an emergency situation and that Shoto is the victim of a natural disaster. You need to calm him. You need to listen to him. You want him to listen to you. It’s okay not to know everything; you just need to make sure he feels seen and heard. “Now I want you to take a deep breath with me.”

“Alright, Y/N.” Shoto says, matching your breathing to take a slow, rumbling breath. You deep breathe for thirty seconds, maintaining eye contact with Shoto. You put a hand over your heart and monitor your heart rate as you breathe, and watch as he mirrors you. You feel yourself getting calmer with each passing breath – and you hope that Shoto feels similarly.

You remind yourself that Shoto has an incredible amount of trauma from his childhood that you don’t know about. You’re guessing that he never learned to properly regulate his emotions the way that you had growing up. You were lucky enough to have parents who took the time to teach you how to process feelings and situations. You are quickly realizing that Shoto never had this as a kid – his father likely forced him to be malleable. As a result, Shoto tends to respond much more reactively to high stress situations. You may just be a teenager, but you have a few regulating tools that you can share with Shoto to help him cope. You make a mental note to suggest therapy to him some point in the near future.

“Shoto. I want you to know that I am a safe person to talk about feelings with. I’m going to try my best to be calm and even keeled if we need to work through difficult emotions. I know I kind of blew up at you when I thought you were romantically interested with Momo, but from now on I’ll put effort into giving you the benefit of the doubt and addressing things straight forwardly.” You pause to let him digest this. You try to filter all your thoughts into simple language. “I’m having a lot of feelings right now, too. I don’t want us to be afraid of talking to each other like this. I think we can really help each other process by talking things through. Are you up for that?”

Shoto continues to breathe deeply, his chest rising and falling slowly beneath his cute navy sweater. He nods. You wonder if stress makes him less verbal.

“To start, I do not think that you are “emotionally stunted.” We’re teen

agers, so of course we’re going to be inexperienced with things. We’re still figuring it all out! But there’s certainly nothing about you that’s “stunted.” For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been very in tune with emotions and are extremely kind and empathetic. I’ve never heard you use that turn of phrase before – did someone else say that about you?”

“Oh.” Shoto looks away, avoiding your confused gaze. You get the feeling that he regrets speaking the phrase ‘emotionally stunted’ aloud. “Natsuo said it when I visited home recently.”

You feel a pang of anger deep in your gut. Why can Shoto’s family be so callous?

“Why did he say it?” You force yourself to keep your tone even.

“Mm.” Shoto hums uneasily, searching for the right words to explain what had happened. “We were having dinner and he was arguing with my dad. He was blaming him for a bunch of things that had happened growing up. He said “the way you treated us as kids is the reason why I’m so angry all the time, Fuyumi is such a people pleaser and Shoto is emotionally stunted. You’ve ruined our lives.”

“Oh. Oh my goodness. Shoto.” There’s no way you could have anticipated this sad fucking trauma dump and you aren’t quite sure what to say. You try to remember if Miss Midnight had given you any other good advice on talking with trauma victims. You recall her telling you to ask gentle questions to better understand, if the person seemed like they wanted to talk. “How did that make you feel?”

Shoto looks very uncomfortable as he thinks through his next words. He shifts from foot to foot anxiously. “It made me feel stupid, Y/N. Like everyone else knows how to approach social situations except for me. Like I’m just a clueless idiot.”

“Shoto. Shoto, you’re not an idiot. Not at all.” You mumble, running a hand through your hair in frustration on Shoto’s behalf. “What Natsuo said isn’t right. And it’s definitely not true. I think that you just tend to be more private with your emotions. And that’s perfectly alright. Over the past few weeks you’ve been emotionally vulnerable with me plenty of times.”

Shoto chews on this for a moment, really letting your words roll around in that interesting brain of his. “You really think that, Y/N? You’re not just trying to make me feel better, are you?”

“Shoto. I promise you I will never lie to you. I respect you and value your friendship too much for that. I swear you are not emotionally stunted. It sounds like Natsuo is having his own issues and decided to unnecessarily shit on you and the rest of your family to upset your dad.”

“I didn’t think of it that way.” Shoto says, breathing out a deep sigh of tension. “He was really angry at dad that day.”

“It sounds like he’ll say just about anything to get under your dad’s skin. And he didn’t just pick on you – he talked some smack about your sister as well. Do you think Fuyumi is a ‘people pleaser?’”

“No. She’s kind and independent and she takes care of us all the best she can since mom went to the hospital. I have never thought of her as a people pleaser.” Shoto says almost instantly.

“So if Natsuo is wrong about Fuyumi, then he’s likely also wrong about you. Right?” You try to help him make the connection.

“You’re right.” Shoto huffs out another deep breath and rolls out his shoulders stiffly. “I’ll need to think more about this.”

You nod quietly in confirmation. You can’t even imagine how much family and childhood trauma Shoto has buried that he needs to process. From what Shoto has told you and implied with stories about his past, this comment from Natsuo is likely only the tip of the iceberg of Todoroki family drama. You decide to divert his attention away from family issues so he doesn’t get stuck in an anxiety loop about it.

“And here’s another thing I want you to get through your mind – I don’t want you to ‘step aside’ for Honenuki.” You take a step closer to him, crowding his space. In typical Shoto Todoroki fashion, he does not move to step back. He just stares down at you questioningly. “I want you. Romantically. Emotionally. Physically. I don’t want Juzo Honenuki the way that I want you.” You say, vehemently.

Shoto raises his hand as if he’s going to caress your cheek – his hand hovers mere centimeters away from your soft skin before he drops it back to his side limply. You mourn the loss of the almost-contact with a light ache in your chest.

“But what about the way he kissed you?” Shoto has this wrecked look on his face as he says this, it’s as if you are a complete mystery to him. “It looked like…it meant something.”

You think about this for a moment, trying to figure out the right words for Shoto.

“I think that I liked the kiss in a way – but probably not the way you think! I liked having the attention the kiss gave me. It was nice to have a public display of affection like that…and also the way that Honenuki focused so much energy on me in just a few seconds, it was definitely thrilling. But I suppose that’s the entire point of Spin The Bottle – it adds a layer of intensity onto everything. All in all, I think he’s nice. But it’s not quite the same as when I kiss you.”

At these words, you see Shoto visibly relax. His shoulders seem to become a little less tense.

“Plus, he’s not a member of the Squirtle Squad.” You add, smiling. Shoto snorts lightly through his nose at the joke.

He’s quiet for a beat before he asks you a question you aren’t expecting: “Is this how you felt when you thought that I was hooking up with Momo? That’s why you were so angry, wasn’t it?” Shoto says slowly, realization dawning on him. “I have been very confused about that, but I think now I understand.”

You exhale loudly, still embarrassed about the whole Momo debacle. “Yeah, admittedly I massively overreacted to that whole situation. I was just having so many feelings and I thought what has been happening between us is too good to be true. And so when I thought there was even the slightest chance that you were hooking up with Momo…well, I got jealous. And possessive. And that’s not fair to either of us. You were open with me from the start and I let my insecurities get in the way of the truth.” Now you’re spilling your guts right outside the biggest party of the century. You hope to God that no one walks by and overhears the two of you.

“Ah…so this feeling I’m having – it might be insecurity?” Shoto says thoughtfully. He bites his lip and you can see the wheels turning in his brain as he pieces it all together.

“It could be! It sounds like you’re having a big combination of emotions right now, and you might need some time to sort through it all. But that’s totally fine! You can take all the time you need to figure out your feelings.” You say warmly, and Shoto’s face finally relaxes into a soft smile. He appreciates the guidance, and the permission to just feel.

“Thank you, Y/N.” Shoto says gently. “You know…I’m always impressed at your ability to approach difficult situations with thoughtfulness and kindness. That’s why I like you so much. You’re going to be such a great hero.” You glow at the words. You feel your cheeks heating up as he stares at you with that intense eye contact of his. You notice for the first time that his grey eye has flecks of hazel around the iris.

You break the eye contact, looking at your shoes as you share your next thoughts. “Listen, Shoto…at the expense of being a bit mean to Honenuki…he wasn’t nearly as good a kisser as you.” You say, holding your hand out for Shoto to take. He gratefully accepts, slipping his fingers into yours and interlocking them. It feels good to finally touch him. All night, he’s been just out of reach. His fingers are warm and comforting as they press into your own. “He didn’t really ‘do; it for me, you know? Also, this is called waffling.” You can’t help but snort out, enjoying the confusion on Shoto’s face. You nod your head at your joined hands.

“…waffling?” He says weakly, looking at your interlaced fingers with wary interest.

“Yeah, because our fingers are crisscrossed together, kinda like how a waffle looks? Oh never mind.” You shake your head with a grin, making a mental note to show Shoto a picture of an American style waffle later on Google so you can explain more in depth.

“I feel like I learn something new from you every time we talk.” Shoto tilts his head to the side, doglike, as he considers your interlaced fingers. “I grew up with little to no exposure to pop culture, and so I feel like I’m missing a decent amount of context for modern romantic practices.”

“Shoto. My dude. What are ‘modern romantic practices?’ You can just say dating.” You say mockingly, but he knows you don’t mean it. He cracks a smile, and the butterflies in your stomach rejoice at the flash of bright Todoroki teeth. You squeeze his hand softly and then recall that you have feelings to work through as well. Since you’re both being so vulnerable and share-y, you’ve got plenty of questions to fire back at Shoto. “Hey – can I ask you something?”

“Anything.” He squeezes your hand back lightly.

“How did you feel kissing Fujita?”

An embarrassed sort of look crosses over his features – he subconsciously wrinkles his nose in discomfort.

“Is that the name of the girl from General Studies? Shinsou’s old classmate?”

“Yes. She’s very nice – I got to hang out with her before the party. Apparently she’s friendly with Mina.” You say, trying to speak kindly of a girl who very well could be your romantic rival in the quest for Shoto Todoroki’s dick.

“Oh. I didn’t even think to ask her name.” Shoto says in surprise. “That’s rude of me, isn’t it?”

“It all happened so quickly, I’m sure she wasn’t insulted by you forgetting to ask her name.” You try to sound casual, but you’re bouncing a bit on your feet. You’re nervous about what he might say about the kiss.

“Were you jealous, Y/N? The way you were jealous when you thought I was seeing Momo in a romantic context?” There’s a teasing smile pulling at the edge of his lips, but he has the decency to bite it back.

“Um, well, of course I was jealous when you kissed someone else! But I also know that it was just a game, and so I didn’t let it bother me so deeply.” You think back to the gentle way he had kissed the young woman’s cheek. “I was most envious of the fact that you were able to kiss her out in the open, in front of all our friends. Nothing was hidden. She was allowed to gush about it with the other girls, and it wasn’t a big secret. I wish…” You trail off, flapping your free arm in exasperation.

“Y/N. That kiss meant nothing to me.” The sentence tumbles from his lips before he can even think. He squeezes your hand harder this time and holds your gaze. “I was embarrassed that I was put on the spot like that. Everything happened so fast and I didn’t feel like I could say no. I wish I could have said no.”

“Oh.” You say, a sinking feeling in your chest. “Shoto, you should absolutely not have felt forced to participate. It was meant to be a fun game to bring everyone together and to be silly. I’m so, so sorry you essentially felt forced into it.”

“It felt like my brain wasn’t working quickly enough. Mina was just talking so fast, and everyone was looking at me. I was trying to keep a cool head but I was overwhelmed by all the eyes staring at me.”

You are going to need to have a talk with Mina about this, you have a feeling not everyone else was thrilled and comfortable with their role in the game. Shoto was likely not the only one feeling so distraught right now.

Shoto’s eyes roam the wall above your head as he thinks out loud. “How am I going to be a hero if I can’t make quick decisions under pressure?”

“Oh my goodness, Shoto! You can’t think like that!” You’re a little startled at how rattled he seems to be about this whole thing.

“Sometimes I don’t understand things as quickly as everyone else. I feel like I’m always a little behind socially.” He admits, eyes still dodging your own. “And at this point, I’m not sure if I’ll ever catch up. My Dad always says so, at least.”

“Shoto.” You reach out and grab his hand in an attempt to ground him. He’s clearly in an anxiety spiral downwards. “Shoto listen to me – everyone learns and grows at their own pace. Like I said earlier…we’re teenagers and we’re just figuring things out! It’s alright if you don’t understand every social situation right away. Being a hero is about having your heart in the right place and having quick reaction time in battle. You have both of those things in spades. As for the social awareness – well as a hero you’ll have a PR rep who can take care of all that. And as a hero-in-training, you have me.” You smile up at him. “You can always ask me for my perspective on a situation. And I can try to step in next time something gets too overwhelming – I can be your social buffer!”

His stormy expression seems to soften a bit and he finally meets your gaze. “You’d do that?”

“Of course!” You say resolutely. “And like I said – a hero is defined by their true heart and their willingness to jump into action to help people in trouble. Your heroism isn’t measured by your inability to resist peer pressure in high school.”

“Well when you say it like that…” Shoto shrugs, clearly feeling a little silly for his intense reaction to the spin the bottle debacle. “Maybe I’m overthinking this. I have a lot to process about tonight.”

“Yeah. Agreed.” You say, relieved that the two of you are figuring it out. But still…you need to be absolutely certain that you’re on the same page about everything.

“So you’re saying you didn’t have any feelings while kissing Fujita?” You ask slowly, trying not to seem too upset by the whole thing. After all, Shoto had admitted to feeling overwhelmed and not wanting to participate in the crazy game the first place.

“Oh. Well…she was kind of cute, I guess. But I didn’t really feel anything when I kissed her face.” He thinks for a moment. “It wasn’t like when we kissed for the first time. The first time our lips met, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Like I needed more of you as quickly as possible or I would explode.” You feel your cheeks heat up a bit at these words.

He continues, “That’s really my only baseline for this sort of thing. So similar to you and Honenuki – it was a pleasant experience, but it didn’t really “do” it for me.” He smiles as he meets your eyes. He squeezes your hand yet again, a secret language you’re creating together. He’s trying to convey that he feels comfortable physically this way only with you.

“So it seems that we both feel similarly about the whole experience.” You say, giving his hand a squeeze back.

“That does appear to be the case.” Shoto agrees. “And it seems like we are both very attracted to each other.” He steps closer to you, getting into your personal space.

“Mmhmm.” You say distantly, looking up into his sparkling mismatched eyes as he leans down to capture your lips with his own. A spark ignites in your chest as your mouths connect and it feels so goddamn right. You drop Shoto’s hand so that you can wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him closer. You need him so badly you wish you could pull him into you somehow, for your bodies to meld and become one being.

Voices down the hall cause you to jump apart. You stare at each other with wide eyes – this is bad. If anyone sees the two of you together, your cover will be absolutely blown. It’s one thing to be seen kissing during Spin the Bottle, it’s another thing to get caught canoodling together in secret. Mr. Aizawa’s whole “no relationships” policy reverberates in your head. If someone were to see you and Shoto and start a rumor about the two of you being together…well, it was only a matter of time before your teacher catches wind of it and puts a swift end to your sexual exploration of Shoto Todoroki.

“Quick. Hide.” Shoto hisses under his breath, as the voices grow nearer. You look at him blankly, a proverbial deer in the headlights. There’s nowhere to hide – you’re in a damn hallway!

Shoto rapidly looks left and then right, searching for a way out. The hall is much too long and neither of you lives on this floor – by the time you manage to get to the end of the hall to the staircase, you would already be caught together. Despite this, Shoto grabs your hand and pulls you down the hall in the direction of the stairs. He stops in front of a door and wrenches it open, roughly pushing you inside. You yelp in surprise as you trip over something and almost fall to the ground. Shoto scoops you up in his strong hero arms and closes the door behind you both with a soft thud.

You try to take in your surroundings, but the room is dim and crowded with shadowy objects. It takes you a moment to piece together where you are.

“Oh my God – this is the janitorial closet. I didn’t even think to hide here.” You breathe out, realizing that you had just tripped over a mop. Shoto nods and presses against you in the small space, his tense body imploring you to keep quiet.

The voices get louder, and you realize that its Kirishima and Mina discussing something heatedly.

“I can’t believe you did that!” Eijiro says roughly. “In front of everyone. Mina, that was really shitty of you.”

“Well excuse me – weren’t you saying just last week that you wanted to kiss me? You wrote me that little note and everything. ‘Oh Mina, I think about your lips every day.’ Or some poetic shit like that. I didn’t think you’d have a problem with it.” Your pink friend shoots back defensively, her tone scalding hot.

“Mina…Mina I’ve been wanting to kiss you so damn badly. But not like that. Not in front of all our friends and classmates.” Eijiro says in a deflated sort of tone, the fight seeping out of him. “That wasn’t how I pictured our first kiss going.”

“Oh, so you’re embarrassed by me? Well you can fuck all the way off then.” Mina says almost shrilly, completely missing the point Kirishima is trying to make.

“Really, Mina? You really mean that? You’re acting like you don’t know me at all.” Eijiro sounds heartbroken, yet angry. “Fine. Enjoy the rest of the lame party – I’m going to bed.”

“Eijiro – wait.” Mina says, her tone panicky. She clearly wasn’t expecting things to go this way.

“No. I need some time alone.” He says soundly, adding: “I need you to respect my personal space for once.” His tone is cold as ice. He stomps off down the hall to return to his room, clearly finished with the conversation. You can just picture Mina looking after him, crestfallen.

You hear let out a loud Mina groan of frustration. She lands a hard kick on the janitor closet door and you nearly jump out of your skin at the unexpected bang! After a moment, you hear her footsteps headed back down the hall and towards the party.

Your heart sinks a bit. Mina has been mooning over Kirishima for a while now, and you know that this confrontation is likely to crush her boisterous spirit. However, you think that if Kirishima was uncomfortable with the kiss, he has the right to air his grievances. After all, hadn’t the teachers been trying to teach you all about the importance of consent in relationships? You chew on your lip, not sure how to feel about the situation. Mina had certainly pushed things a bit too far for certain classmates with her exuberant approach to Spin the Bottle. She is definitely going to need to learn to have a bit more empathy and situational awareness when it comes to handling crowds as a Pro Hero – not everyone appreciates being told what to do.

“I should go after her.” You whisper to Shoto, who’s still holding you securely to his chest.

“This seems like a private matter between Kirishima and Aishido. She sounds angry and may want to be left alone. Plus…how would you explain how you overheard them arguing?” He has a good point there – you’re not sure how you would explain to your friend that you were ease dropping on her from inside of the janitor’s closet. “I think you need to give her a couple of minutes to sit with this.”

“And when did you become so great at reading social interactions?” You say, half teasingly. “Weren’t you just telling me you weren’t great at things like this?”

You can picture Shoto’s bright smile in the dark. “I just know that if I were in either of their shoes, I would need some time alone to process my thoughts and feelings. And I’m fairly unhappy on Kirishima’s behalf. It seems like everyone could use some time to cool off.”

“Ugh…you’re right, Shoto. I know you’re right.” You try to put yourself in Mina’s shoes as well. You bet she’s feeling pretty embarrassed right now and likely needs a hot minute.

“I think maybe I need to get better at sorting through my feelings.” Shoto says thoughtfully. “I appreciate the way you are able to guide me through processing how I feel, but I would like to get to a point where I can do that on my own. The better I become at managing my emotions and feelings, the less likely I’ll be to lash out at people the way my father does.”

In response, you reach up and caress his soft face. Now that you’re alone, he easily leans into the touch in a way that’s heartbreakingly sweet. He lets you run your hand through his bangs and into his hair, touching him so gently that he lets out a soft sigh of contentment at the contact. You almost forgot what a sucker he is for a light touch.

“You, Shoto Todoroki, are a good person.” You say as you continue to comb your fingers through his soft hair. “You are not your father. You are soft and sweet and strong.” He closes his eyes, focusing on your voice and your gentle touch in the dark. “You are good.”

His eyes flutter closed and he leans into your touch. He breathes slowly and deeply, you can tell he’s savoring this time with you. You try to commit this moment to memory – the smooth curve of his cheek, the steady beat of his breathing, the way his long lashes flutter as he opens his mismatched eyes to look at you.

“Thank you.” He breathes, turning his head so he can plant a soft kiss on the palm of your hand. “Thank you.” He says again more quietly, bringing his hand up to cover your own as he presses his lips to the pulse point of your wrist.

You stand like that for a bit, breathing together in the thick darkness of the janitor closet. With a thrill, you realize how trope-y it is to be alone with a hot guy in a closet during a big illegal party. You feel like you’re in a high school romcom or something. Based on what he says next, Shoto seems to be having the same train of thought.

“I like it when you remind me that I’m a good person, and that I’ll be a good hero. Your confidence – it gives me so much strength.” Shoto pauses and interlaces his hand with your own, bringing your waffling hands down to rest at your hip.

“You know…” Shoto says slyly, eyes wide and endless as he throws you a hot gaze. “I like being good. But being locked in this closet with you, while all of our friends are just a few feet away…well, I’d kind of like to be a little bad for a moment.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

“What do you mean?” You ask, surprised at the sudden shift in his tone.

“Let me show you.” He says, his voice dropping lower as he drops your hand and moves to reposition you both.

He easily spins you around so that your back is now against his chest. He places his hands on your hips – and it’s not the gentle way Honenuki had held your hips earlier. No, Shoto is being rough on purpose. This is a side you’ve never seen of him before. And goddamn you love it. Your pussy comes to life at the motion. You make a mental note to invest in more panties – Shoto is really giving your underwear drawer a run for its money today.

Todoroki’s fingers hold you in a grip that’s almost bruising as he presses against you. He slowly kisses a trail up the back of your neck before sliding his hands up over your top. He reaches your breasts and begins to knead them lightly over the fabric of your shirt and bra. You groan at the unexpected sensual contact, feeling a spark flare in between your legs in response to Shoto’s touches.

“I’m still feeling a little jealous of the way Honenuki was able to kiss you in front of everyone. Would it be alright if I…explored those feelings?” Shoto finds your nipple through your bra and gives it a pert squeeze.

“W-what do you mean?” You practically purr out as he returns his lips to the curve of your neck.

“Let me show you how jealous you made me.” He whispers wetly into your ear, tracing soft circles around your clothed breasts with his fingertips. You feel yourself start to get wet from the simple motion.

“Dude we shouldn’t – there’s no lock on this door.” You try to resist temptation as he continues to plant kisses on your exposed skin. Maybe if you’re stealthy the two of you can sneak up the stairs and into one of your dorm rooms? You’ll need to be careful, though; especially with both Classes A and B all buzzed and hanging out in the dorm building.

“Don’t worry, Y/N. I’ve got it covered.” Shoto says, and you can hear a smile in his voice. He releases a hand from one of your boobs and reaches out to grasp the door handle. In the low light coming in under the doorjamb, you watch as he freezes the doorknob shut, a sheet of ice running across the knob and part of the door. “No one can get in now. No accidental interruptions.”

Okay, you were totally not expecting that.

“Honenuki made you this jealous?” You ask as he wipes a few ice crystals onto his pant leg.

“Yeah. I’m feeling kind of…aggressive? Possessive?” Shoto tries to name the emotions pumping through his veins like fire. “I want to show you that I can give you things that Honenuki can’t.”

“I thought I already made it pretty clear that I like you more than Honenuki, Todoroki.” You tease; he puts his hands on your hips again and pulls you back into him. You can feel him starting to become hard against the smooth curve of your ass. He grinds into you slowly and you gasp at the contact.

“I know, and I’m grateful you’re reminding me. But I still feel an overwhelming need to show you – physically.” He draws you into his arms, his head dropping onto your shoulder. “Would you be up for something new?”

You don’t even need to think. “Yes.” You feel something electric and hot zipping through your veins – what could Shoto possibly have in mind? Despite his claimed feelings of “aggression,” he’s still being so sweet and gentle with his words. You muse that even though Shoto has a flame burning brightly inside of him, this Todoroki is nothing like his father.

“Would you be okay with me…using my teeth a bit? I’d really like to leave a hickey on your skin.” He nuzzles your neck with his nose, causing goose bumps to break out across your body at the touch.

“Y-yeah.” You stutter out, absolute putty in his hands. “Just nothing too big. Make sure it can be easily hidden under my clothing. You know Mr. Aizawa’s rules about hooking up.”

“Now why,” Shoto plants a kiss on your neck. “Would you” another kiss “mention Mr. Aizawa at a time like this?” He’s teasing. Had someone asked you a month ago if Shoto Todoroki was capable of teasing, you would have said absolutely not. But now this beautiful boy is kissing your neck and roasting the hell out of you. Jeez.

“Alright. I’m going to go very slowly, and I’ll do it on your shoulder just to be sure it doesn’t show.” He continues to kiss down your neck and towards your collarbone.

He brings his hand up to your collar so he can move the fabric of your top aside to expose more skin. “Can I take off your shirt? It might make things easier.” He gets back to kissing as he awaits your confirmation.

“Please!” Is all you manage to choke out as you feel his tongue run across your clavicle. He drops his hands down to the hem of your shirt and slowly pulls it upwards, the soft fabric flowing against your sensitive skin like a river. You raise your arms up above your head and he guides the top up and over your head, your hair becoming staticky as he goes.

“Much better.” He breathes as he carefully places the shirt on a nearby shelf of cleaning supplies.

You stand there in your bra and shiver as the cool air hits the bare skin of your stomach. “Oh no, you’re cold.” Shoto brings his hot hand down to rest on your belly and modulates his temperature with his quirk, slowly warming you up. Satisfied with your body temperature, he resumes kissing across your shoulder. He uses the colder of his hands to lightly pull your bra strap down your shoulder so he has better access to your smooth skin.

“Alright, you ready?” He asks calmly, tracing over your collarbone with his cold finger. You shiver, this time with anticipation.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Shoto ghosts the edge of his teeth across the length of your shoulder before choosing a spot close to your neck.

“Holy Fuck, Shoto.” You hiss out and you can feel him smile against your shoulder as he sinks his teeth lightly into your delicate skin and sucks, leaving a tiny mark. He kisses the area repeatedly before sucking on the skin more roughly, ensuring that a small bruise will form. After a few moments more, he runs his tongue soothingly along the hickey. At this point you’re dripping wet with both of your hands holding on to Shoto’s hot arm for dear life.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” He says, almost smug as he traces an icy finger across his handy work. “What would you like me to do next?”

“Touch me, please.” You whine out, almost desperately. Shoto obliges, bringing both his hands back to your breasts to play with your nipples over your bra.

“Like this?” He asks softly, continuing to kiss and suck along your shoulder.

“I need more!” You throw your head back into his chest, and he runs the palm of his cold hand down your toned stomach. He pauses his hand just above the waistband of your skirt.

“You know…” Shoto breathes thickly as he continues to feel your tummy under his fingertips. “I’ve always been attracted to how muscular you are.” This takes you by surprise.

“Really?” You manage to whisper out, you try to ignore the way that your cunt is throbbing with need between your legs. “Sometimes I convince myself that you’d go for someone more petite and feminine.”

Shoto pauses, drumming his fingers thoughtfully against the smooth expanse of your waist. With each movement of his fingers, you can practically imagine how it would feel to have him repeat the rhythm on your clit.

“Hm. No.” He seems to be deep in thought. “I’m attracted to the way you take care of yourself and train to be a good hero. Sometimes…” He pauses and licks his lips, sounding a bit embarrassed as he says this next part. “Sometimes I get turned on when I see you lifting in the gym. Or when I see you throw one of our classmates across the mat during sparring practice. Your strength is just so…sexy.” He says the last word low with want before he presses a hot kiss to your neck.

“Oh!” You know he’s not intentionally talking dirty to you - but the way he’s praising you and divulging his secret horniness for your strength is so damn hot. You can’t believe you ever wondered if he’d go for a more petite girl like Fujita. The way he’s praising your physique and workout routine is too genuine, too adoring. Too horny.

“You like watching me bench press?” You say cheekily, recalling a moment a few months ago when you had made awkward eye contact with Shoto at the gym. At the time, you’d thought it was just a coincidence – your eyes had accidentally met while you were completing some reps on the bench and he was doing pull ups nearby. But now that he had divulged his attraction to your lifting…

“Yes.” He buries his face in your neck, radiating heat. “The look in your eyes when you bench. Fuck.”

“How hard are you right now, Shoto?” You groan, rolling your ass against him. He makes a noise in the back of his throat in answer to your question. “Yeah that’s what I thought. Unzip your pants – I want to give you a handy.” You start to pull away from him so you can turn around, but he holds you fast in his arms.

“No.” He says soundly, surprising you. You’re certain that most men aren’t quick to turn down a hand job. “I appreciate the offer, but there’s something else I want to do right now. If you’re up for it.”

“Oh yeah?” This whole situation is unexpected – hooking up in a closet during a secret party? Yeah, definitely not on your UA bucket list. You tilt your head so you can look at him more clearly. His eyes are stormy, his hair mussed up just so. He looks so devastatingly hot and needy, you practically cum on the spot.

“I’ve been wondering…” He says quietly, running a finger back and forth on your lower stomach, causing your pussy to quiver in your panties. “What would it feel like to touch you…more intimately?”

“More intimately?” You squeak, and you feel his fingers slide under the elastic waistband of your skirt, tracing gently across the delicate skin of your waist. You feel your pulse quicken as you realize what he’s getting at. He kisses up your neck and you feel his breath in your ear – hot and wet. He traces his fingers across the waistband of your panties now, moving his fingertips in a slow, circular motion. You’re so wet you can barely stand it. It’s not a stretch for your brain and body to imagine how that motion would feel on your bare pussy.

“Ever since you gave me a hand job for the first time…well, I’ve been wanting to return the favor.” Shoto says softly, and your brain feels like its full of static. Is he saying what you think he’s saying? He wants to finger you and get you off?!

Of course, you’ve thought about this scenario before. You’ve gotten off to it about a dozen times – picturing the way that Shoto’s fingers would feel curled up inside of you and pulsing against your most intimate spot. But you’ve never been touched before like that, and to be perfectly honest you weren’t sure how to ask Shoto if he’d be up for it. In your mind, a dick is so much more straightforward. Just jerk at it and eventually you’re likely to get it right, right? Would it take Shoto a while to figure out the complexities of female anatomy? What if he thinks it’s gross how wet you get, or how gooey you feel inside?

You blush at the thought, but your body is so needy for him that you shove all of your insecurities away and lean more into his touch. Clearly he’s wanted to do this for some time. And everyone needs to start somewhere before mastery, so he might as well do it for the first time with you, right?

His fingers flutter just above the hem of your skort, uncertain. You shimmy your hips lightly, encouraging him to go further. He sucks in a breath and moves his fingertips smoothly under your waistband, feeling the gentle pull of the elastic. His movements are confident and precise – you wonder if his actions are partially fueled by his raucous jealousy of Honenuki, because after a moment of playing with your skort’s waistband, he slides his fingers beneath the thin fabric of your panties to explore your pussy.

You groan at the sudden contact – his strong fingers fan gently across your vulva, taking in the feel of it. Experimentally, he traces a single finger between your lips and dips it towards your core.

“You’re so…wet.” He barely breathes out into your ear as he swipes his finger around the lips of your pussy, feeling your slick spread across his fingers. He unintentionally hits your clit and you moan at how good his calloused finger feels against you. He mimics the motion, eliciting another sweet sigh from your lips.

“Oh…does that feel good?” He whispers as he rubs a slow circle around the spot, testing the waters. You nod breathlessly as you enjoy the way he’s playing with you. He caresses you like that for a big, letting you really get a feel for his fingers. You groan when he draws his hand away, wanting him to continue on.

He lifts his hand to his mouth and starts sucking on his pointer and index fingers.

“Shoto, what are you - ?” But you shut up as he slips the hand back beneath your skort, his saliva covered finger doing wet loop-di-loops around your clit in a way that makes you see stars. “Jesus – fuck! Shoto! Sho…” You start mumbling nonsense as he pleasures you, drawing a finger down to poke at your entrance.

“Can I…can I go inside?” Shoto whispers thickly, asking for your consent.

“Yes. Yeah. Please.” You’re practically begging. He wastes no time and slowly slips inside you. You’re so wet and turned on that you take his finger into you easily. As he softly pushes a finger into your needy cunt, you can’t help but moan at the light stretch. You’ve never felt so full before. Your pussy clenches around his finger and he gasps at the slight constriction. He starts to slowly thrust his finger in and out of your pussy, letting you enjoy the feel of the smooth penetration.

“I’d like to see Honenuki do this.” He whispers as he finger fucks you softly. You whimper in reply.

“I have something to admit.” You gasp out as he continues to finger you, slowly slipping his pointer finger in and out of your slick entrance and gauging your reaction.

“What?” He says absentmindedly, completely focused on the way your gummy walls squeeze his finger with each light thrust. You wonder if he’s imagining how his cock would feel pushing into your tight heat.

“You know how we used Mineta as a distraction to get Mr. Vlad King away from the party?” You say breathlessly.

“Yeah.” He kisses the side of your neck, wet and open-mouthed.

“Well I promised that in exchange for his help…I’d kiss him.”

Shoto pauses his movements, causing you to moan at the loss of friction. He then shifts his position, leaning so that his back is against the door. He places his free hand on your stomach, his other hand still between your legs. He pushes you forward so you’re almost bent double. He slides his fingers around your swollen clit before slipping back inside your entrance. He adds a second finger, stretching you our and pushing into your core insistently. He starts to thrust his fingers inside you at an almost brutal pace that causes the air to leave your lungs. Your ass bounces relentlessly against his clothed cock as he works at you.

“I’m going to need you to stop.” Thrust. “Kissing.” Thrust. “Other.” Thrust. “People.”

The authority seeping into his voice, paired with his two skillful fingers pushing inside you are too much to bear. If it weren’t for Shoto’s strong hand holding your stomach and anchoring you, your shaking legs would be giving out right now. Your pussy flexes and flutters around his hungry fingers, pushing you over the edge.

“S-Shoto. Shoto! I’m gonna…I’m gonna…”

“Please, Y/N.” Shoto groans from somewhere near your shoulder, sounding desperate. “I want to feel you finish around my fingers.”

And that’s literally all it takes.

His needy words bring you to the brink and you try to stifle a moan of satisfaction as you cum on Shoto’s capable fingertips. It’s so delicious and oh so terribly dirty. Your legs continue to shake and your head falls back against Shoto’s steady body as you absolutely lose yourself to your pleasure. You don’t give a fuck if anyone hears you, you’re too far gone as you cry out “Shoto!” over and over, relishing the way his name sounds on your lips. It’s like an oath, a prayer as you ride out your orgasm in this tiny supply closet. You almost forget that mere feet away, the biggest party the UA dorms have ever seen is continuing to rage. You vaguely wonder what your classmates would think if they knew how slutty you are, drunk on the feel of Shoto’s hand in your panties.

Shoto gets a feel for your orgasm and tries to match the pace of your frantic hips – he’s a gentleman, after all. He wants to help you ride it out as long as possible. He lets out a moan of pleasure as you thrust and grind back into him with abandon. The swell of your ass bouncing back against his cock is too much, and you hear Shoto curse under his breath.

When you finally stop thrusting back into his fingers, he takes the hint and slowly slides his hand out from your pants. His fingers are absolutely soaked.

You watch in awe as he brings his hand to his lips without hesitation, sucking for a moment on fingers covered in your slick. “Wow.” She says quietly. “You taste…really good.”

“Jesus Christ Shoto.” You say, shaky legs nearly buckling under the weight of his hotness. He wraps his hand around your waist, holding you steady. He ghosts a kiss across the nape of your neck, your shoulder, wherever he can reach at this odd angle. You stand there in silence until your breathing slows – your back against his chest.

He smells amazing, intoxicating. You don’t think he’s wearing cologne – but he’s covered in this indescribably clean, expensive scent. Your cloudy brain guesses that it’s some kind of fancy shampoo that only old money has access to. You want to bathe in the scent, marinate in it. You try to commit it to your memory.

Shoto’s chest rises and falls in time with your own breathing. It’s gentle and it anchors you to the moment. It makes you long for bed – if only it was the end of the night already. If you could sink to the ground, you could probably fall asleep on the closet’s carpet. You want to tuck yourself into his soft sweater, surrounded by that delicious expensive shampoo scent. He holds you to him, giving no sign that he wants to let go.

When your soul finally finds its way back into your body, you shake your head to clear it a bit.

“Shoto…” You whisper, voice thick and sleepy. “Shoto, can I get you off now baby?”

Shoto smooths his hands over your hips appreciatively. “That’s alright…I, um. I’m fine.”

You blink awake, brain rapidly putting the pieces together. You think back to the way you were insistently rocking your ass against him, the way he had cursed under his breath earlier as he worked you up to your orgasm.

“Holy shit. Shoto did you just…? Oh my god. You came in your pants didn’t you?” You step forward and away from him, and his hands release you easily. You turn to look him up and down, eyes wide.

Shoto meets your eyes, cheeks red with shame. His pants are absolutely ruined – you can see the damp spot where his dick is pressed up against the fabric.

“Touching you like that…it was too much. And the way you were grinding on me. I couldn’t…” You can tell he’s ashamed from the way his voice wavers and dips. He doesn’t even attempt to cover himself, he just lets his arms hang at his sides uselessly.

“Shoto – no. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about!” You quickly try to reassure him. His eyes are bright with humiliation as he looks down at himself. “You just need to throw those pants into the wash and everything will be good as new.”

Shoto actually chuckles at this, the mood in the tiny closet shifting and instantly becoming lighter.

“Y/N…you’re just so sweet. I can’t even begin to explain to you the things you do to me.” He reaches out and drags you back into his arms. “I’ve never been so attracted to someone in my life.” He squeezes his arms lightly around you, holding you to him. Your hair is soft against his cheek as he snakes up hand to hold the nape of your neck. No one’s ever held you like this, so tenderly.

He exhales softly, his breath warm as it lightly tussles your hair. “We should get back to the party, shouldn’t we?”

“Can we just go clean up and go to bed?” You say, your voice drawling lazily. “We can sneak up to my room and snuggle up with my plushies. We can sleep in tomorrow.”

“That’s tempting.” Shoto presses a kiss to your temple. “But I think that the party crew is going to miss their leader. And I think that Mina could use a friend.”

He’s right. You know he’s right.

“Yeah.” You take a deep breath in. “And Hatsume can’t hold off Mr. King forever. I should check in with her.”

“That crazy support course girl is involved in this?” You can hear the smirk in his voice.

“That genius crazy support course girl is involved in this.” You amend, laughing quietly. “Let’s get out of here, Shoto.”

He nods and scoots away from you so he can place his hot hand on the frozen doorknob. Steam fills the room as he melts down the ice around the door and you marvel at how much control he has over his quirk.

He cracks open the door to the hall and you both blink uncomfortably in the light that shines into the closet with a brightness that’s almost violent. Shoto pops his head into the hall and quickly comes back inside to huddle up next to you.

“It’s all clear, Y/N. I’m going to head up to my room and change. See you back at the party?”

You nod, suddenly all business. “See you back at the party, Shoto.”

You both dart out into the long empty hall, going your separate ways. You skitter up to your room to change your panties and tame your hair. Shoto veers off towards his dorm to change out of his own pants.

Neither of you notices the pair of sunglasses that lies abandoned on the closet floor.

End of Chapter 8

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author's Notes:

Okay hey fam!

How we doin'!? I hope it was worth the wait for Chapter 8!

I'm dying to know how you all felt about these latest Spin the Bottle developments 👀 Quite a few of you predicted that The Reader would end up "kissing" Honenuki and I love that! Honestly I think that Juzo Honenuki would be SUPER hot in bed 🤷‍♀️ He's so sweet and tender and idk the skeleton face is cool AF. Honestly happy to be back in the "smut zone" with this chapter - I hope you enjoyed the spicy scene towards the end.

Not gonna lie, this chapter has been the hardest for me to write so far! There are a lot of emotions that are getting processed here - The Reader is trying to learn from her mistakes and give Shoto the benefit of the doubt after she assumed that Shoto and Momo were hooking up. But she's jealous that Shoto kissed someone else and she wants to talk about it! Shoto is processing the fact that he didn't want to participate in the game in the first place! It brings out a lot of his insecurities! PLUS he is jealous AF when he sees Honenuki smooch our dear Reader! On top of that...literally everyone is horny in this chapter. Writing the dialogue for the post-kiss discussion between Shoto and the Reader this was TOUGH!

Also I'm getting way too precious with this story and trying to make it something that satisfies everyone/avoids plot holes. I think I will need to be a little less strict with myself about the plot here to keep things fun and keep updates going regularly. This story is pushing me a lot as a writer and I'm excited about that! But TBH I'm also just here to have some smutty literary fun. This is my first long form fic so I'm gonna try to give myself some more grace as I write.

Anyway...that's all for now folks! I hope you have a lovely New Year! I can't wait to see all the good things that 2025 has in store for all of us! <3

XOXO,

Red Riot Unbreakable Heart ❤️

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

❄️🔥THE ICYTHOTS🔥❄️

Want to join or be removed from the tag list - let me know! Once again, this is an ADULT ONLY blog. The IcyThot club is exclusively dedicated to the Shoto's First Kiss series and will only include A18+. Do not request to be added unless you are over 18. If your blog is ageless/your age isn't listed in the bio you cannot be an IcyThot member! I'm also adding the "sexual content" label/tags.

supersecretsamm luvsymai s0uldarling quackledoodleduck

bakugosgirl01 jeanbabygirl ninayourdad dumbdysstuff

duffyinwonderland purplesuunset brundark100 sh3752 erinalysa

luna100v0 justagirlfr mayurin17 kiromiix ellalcves pokeureyesoutmf

kimsrie inlovewithluffy wtvbabes s0uldarling jeanbabygirl ava-cjkk

theblueslytherin amajikisbabygirl ilovefanficsandstars

brundark100 dee-writes-smut doodlingpizza xjustxlookingx

ankle-biter69 s0uldarling tridentgumfreshy kimsrie

brie-is-cheesy jeanbabygirl kinichmyma ellielover69 ilyless

slut-4-gojo kiromiix celesteeeluv zanzie y0urlittlebaby

saucypeanuttt gojosukuna2268 purplesuunset wifeofleviackerman

kunikissr hicallmeveronica 18wqs lviaaaa shoutolust

jeanbabygirl aespie aniyaaaaayyya annonymoose

solarsistem sugurusmoon morganalatina21 hanta-seros-wifey

vr00m-vr00m desiree-lee zozosnothere tnywabbit

winters-midnightquiet jennapancake himitsu-hikari

captainshindo fluffy-strawb3rry mollyrocks420

elizarikaallen stanseventeen signmyheart llymoonju kinichmyman

scaranarav neogogori stoat-a10 instabull abrielletargaryen toriiee holographicage v1ben

charliepoopyfart mollyrocks420 angel-jihyun

snowingavacado randomhuman112 mysticbasementnightmare

143 notes · View notes

icarusredwings · 3 days ago

Text

Putting Wade through it again cause I said so

Accurate representation->

Thinking about how Wade just... dies..

And I mean this in the most sweetest way possible- It's fucking terrifying.

Imagine your husband just has these episodes of "ded" -ness that causes him to silently have heart palpitations and collapses cassully by laying down somewhere himself so he dosn't bust his head open by falling when the time finally comes.

Most times, Logan can smell it. That encroaching scent of death and failure in his organ. But there's nothing he can do about it. Nothing at all.

So when he comes to find Wade already laid out on the floor, he asks him whats wrong, what can he do to help, but Wade just keeps smiling at him and giggling, caressing his face and tells him he's just sleepy. "You're so cute when you're worried.." He mumbles nonsense and then just.. passes out. But not the aggressive type, no.

It's almost sweet how camly he's taken.

Like someone coming home to their lover, crawling into their arms for a bit and just.. resting.. falling into a deep sleep

Sometimes, before he lays down, he mentions his head hurting. Mentions how his body is hot and he feels heavy. Like the weight of the earth was dragging him down to lay in those fresh fields of green, waiting to be taken by the decomposers and candid scavengers. (What? He could be poetic sometimes)

Internally, Logan is panicking. He's at his side, sniffing Wade and grunting cause for a split moment, he had died. His heart stopped. His brain activity still going but his vital organ did not. It freaks him out to this day, especially if they were not in battle or was an obvious explanation for the need to go into a mini coma.

This, of course, is an exaggeration, seeing as in reality Wade simply lays here, breaths so shallow that only Logan can hear them. Any other person on earth would think Wade has stopped breathing, called an ambulance and told them that he was dead.

Though this is untrue. Because Wade was not dead, simply on the brink, arguing with the archangel in charge of Heaven's gates to let him in. Metaphorically, of course, because realistically, Wade would never want to go to Heaven. Does it look like his friends and family would be there? No.

In truth, Wade's little visits with Death herself lasted on average for 30 minutes, to 2 hours, and sometimes extending to 4.

The only shitty thing about this is that Wade would wake up feeling worse at first. Waking in a hot feverish sweat as if too many blankets were on him during summer. His head would hurt. His body would feel like lead, dragging and stiff.

Sometimes, during his deep slumbers, someone would try to wake him, but he'd feel otherwise very... well.. unconscious. At times yes he may roll over or grumble something about how ceos who dont care about peoples pain in a company made to ease it deserve to be shot. "Free my boy Luigi, Mario needs him." He'd mutter this like a mad man then pass out on his face, again dying, hesrt clentching with distress before starting up again.

"What??" Logan would ask and stick by him like a loyal dog at a mans death bed. Sometimes, he would get him a pillow. Sometimes, he'd hold him, cuddling him close in hopes he didn't die on him permanently.

It was probably his one and only fear. He's had plenty of lovers die on him. Plenty who were not Wade though. Wade was bassically immortal, as was he. He wouldn't be suprised if Wade lived longer then him actually, but he feels a tight pain in his heart when he thinks about Hope taking him from him without even a kiss goodbye. Or even a "See ya later, Alligator." Just... gone..

When Wade does wake up, he feels wonderful once the initial pains of being revived are over, once the drowsyness is gone and his head is clear. His body hurt less, he felt well rested, and he very much enjoyed waking up to Logan next to him, worrying over him.

With a light, half full lunged gasp, he lifts his head up, groaning. "Shit... ow... did I hit my head?"

"Wade! Uhm.. no.. a-Are you okay? You were out for a while."

"I'm good just.. gimme a second.." as he sits up, cracking his joints and streaching with a large yawn. "Haahh- anyway. What are you thinkin' for dinner?"

"What??"

"Im kinda hungry."

"..You just... Wade you were just dead for 4 hours. I even shook you and you didnt wake up."

"Yeah well.. what can you do about it? Im thinking spaghetti. Oooh or maybe that rabbit stew you made?"

Logan blinks, watching as he cassually gets up, walking to the kitchen and peeked inside the fridge. How did he... why did he...

At the end of the day Logan just has to sigh and roll with it. Because honestly, what was he too do about it? Perhaps this was a side effect of his mutation... or cancer. Yeah.. Cancer seemed like a reasonable examination..

The worst part is, Wade barely remembers what happens before it hits at all. Or during. He doesn't remember saying anything. Dosn't remember laying down in the first place, and Dosn't remember being held.

#:) hehe #chronic illness #deadpool and wolverine #poolverine #logan howlett #wade wilson #deadpool #wolverine #deadpool 3 #deadclaws #lady death #mistress death #deathpool

136 notes · View notes

hitlikehammers · 2 days ago

Text

oh golden boy (don't act like you were kind)

part iii: at your best you were magic

(this one has length, you guys, but the boys needed so much RESOLUTION 🥺)

for @kultiras at the ❄️ Winter @steddieexchange 🖤❤️

<<< part two // start at the beginning

Eddie kind of expects to be clocked hovering outside the window, or by the rattle of his van. He kinda expects to be left standing on the porch.

His heart’s fucking pounding, and he’s halfway to shivering because he didn’t wear a decent coat, because no one’s there anymore to bully him into being a little more aware of taking care of himself and he…he kinda feels like he did when he was running for his life, when they found him in Rick’s boathouse, he’s maybe gonna hyperventilate and wouldn’t that be a pretty fucking picture, pass out from lack of oxygen, or die flat-out, heart giving out on the steps of the man he loves, that he loves and that he wasn’t good enough to keep and—

“Oh.”

It doesn’t even matter how flat it comes out: Eddie’s breath catches just to hear that voice, holy fuck.

“Steve.”

He can’t even keep the word in, that single name in his chest knocked clean to launch from his lips, and Steve…

Steve looks rough. Drawn, kinda pale but in that exhausted washed out way where he’s not just blanched for his skin tone but in a way that makes the saturation of his whole self seem washed out and sallow. He’s got more stubble than he normally allows, much as Eddie has enjoyed the hell out of that gorgeous scruff now and again—he knows Steve only lets it get that way when they fuck too many hours in a row to want to get out of bed and properly plan to leave, or of he’s sick, or anxious, or…

Not good.

Eddie thinks it’s probably the generally not-good thing that’s to blame, here.

And yet somehow he’s still the most beautiful thing Eddie’s ever seen in his whole fucking life. No contest.

God, Eddie’s so fucking gone on him. All he wants is to reach, and pull him close, and keep all the sour things from his heart. All Eddie wants is to fucking…love him. For the rest of his goddamn life.

“I,” Eddie’s voice comes out raw, sandpaper rubbing to bleed; he would have wanted better, Steve deserved him to be better no matter what they were, what they weren’t, what they’d never be or maybe could be—but Eddie knows he’s weak as a rule, and here and now he breaks clean open, heart cleaving straight down the middle to bleed free because…

Fuck: Eddie had been hurting for being without Steve, but he’d underestimated just how much seeing him, breathing his air again would undo him. The sheer relief down to his cells, just to know in his bones that Steve was in the world. He’d been less than a shell, he’d been only half-floating through the world on his own for the way he’d healed himself around the give and take of Steve and to know it again, even just at arm’s length, feels like breaking water for the first time after drowning, but then it every single atom of him had been diminished on its own, then started vibrating again all at once after a fucking age spent stopped-dead.

“What are you doing here?”

Of all the things Eddie could hate out of the situation he’s standing in—outside of anything and everything that surrounds the fact of Steve, all that is Steve because that could never be hated at all—but of all the things to hate, the worst is maybe how flat Steve’s tone is. And worse?

How Eddie can’t read him. How, how did Eddie…

How did Eddie lose that?

“I,” Eddie moves his mouth, lips stretching awkward around the sound, and he’s adrift, man, he’s fucking loose ends with no hope of ever tying together, ever tethering to anything but the man in front of him, he believes that in his soul: with anyone else, anywhere but here, and Eddie would still just have this collection of stray threads of what it means to be himself, just reaching for Steve fucking Harrington forever and for always, holy fuck, and—

“I’m,” he grasps as best he can at the straws of what it means to form a thought, but all of what he comes up with is insufficient, rehashes the same core sentiment: I’m less of a person when I’m not with you, I’m scared by what that means but I’m more scared by what it means not to have you, I’m most scared by how hollow your eyes look and how dry your hair is at the ends because I pay attention where maybe almost everyone else has been letting that slide under the radar, I’m so fucking in love with you I think they could cut me open and only find you inside, I’m yours and I will be yours long after I’m more soil than corpse in the fucking ground, I’m—

“Jesus,” Steve huffs, and something in Eddie’s chest perks up at the bitchy little tone he throws put as he seems to give up on whatever was letting him stand in the doorway as he throws the door open and backs up into the hall, waving Eddie’s direction with too much resignation: “get in here, you’re gonna get frostbite, man.”

And maybe there’s a plummeting in Eddie’s gut at the tone but…he doesn’t need to be told twice.

He also doesn’t need to experience the thickness of the tension that descends immediately between them once the door clicks closed, suffocating, burning in his lungs.

“Hey,” the word gets punched out of him, not least because Eddie’s a little afraid that he won’t be able to draw another breath to get anything further said.

“Hey.”

And Eddie still can’t fucking read him, and holy shit, does it sting.

“Steve,” he only just manages not to moan but then—

“Why are you here?”

And it’s so…toneless. Kinda curt. So blunt and somehow Eddie feels it more like a spike, a fucking harpoon through his sternum that drags bloody against his heart with every goddamn beat.

“I,” Eddie licks his lips; “Dustin, he was—”

“Oh,” Steve sighs a little, bitter at the edges and Eddie’s just grateful that it’s something; “he send you?”

And Eddie doesn’t expect to feel it like a slap to his fucking face like this but: fuck if he doesn’t. Fuck if that’s not exactly what it is.

“No one sent me,” Eddie’s fucking quick to correct that because Dustin may have begged him, but Eddie thinks his heart’s been ready to scramble to Steve’s doorstep and maybe just fucking grovel and promise to try and be whatever about him made Steve happy to begin with, or not be whatever put Steve off of him and they could be happy again, maybe, and Eddie’s chest could feel less in a vise all the goddamn time.

“He, uh,” and Eddie stumbles a little around giving context when all Steve does is raise a doubtful brow at his denial that he’s here primarily because of anyone but himself.

“He said some stuff that,” Eddie swallows hard, works his throat around a lot of half-formed things he doesn’t think he can quite get out before he ultimately just rasps:

“I got worried.”

“Nice of you,” Steve laughs a little save there’s no humor, sniffs a little and it’d read haughty if you didn’t know what to look for, if you couldn’t tell that Steve’s eyes are stretched too wide, and shine a little too bright and his hand’s twitching to rise to the bridge of his nose and pinch which only ever means—

“Not necessary though.”

And it’s so hollow, it’s just…it’s filled with so much nothing, those words, that voice, that it’s an anguish all on its own, and fuck, but how Eddie’s voice breaks on the next words that he doesn’t even give conscious consent to even come out at all:

“You’re supposed to be happy, Stevie.”

He feels the way his lashes stick as he blinks too fast, his heart hurting because Steve looks like he’s in fucking pain and why are they both in pain—

But Steve’s expression is all scrunched up, and he’s frowning, fucking baffled at Eddie from across the space, so small, cramped to the wall next to the closed front door but as good as a continent, an ocean stretched between for how Eddie’s can feel his heat, can’t reach, and then Steve’s squinting and near snapping:

“What?”

And it’s said so sharp but then weirdly without the bite in its anding, like he’s too worn down, too drained somehow to manage it, or even really want to. Eddie..

Eddie isn’t sure he wants to keep learning just how many times, how many ways a heart can fucking break.

“I,” Eddie’s throat’s dry as shit and he cannot possibly care because his heart’s pounding in a way he doesn’t know he’s felt before, because it’s all wrong, isn’t it, it’s all so fucking wrong; “whatever I was doing that was bringing you down,” he shakes his head, desperate as he leans forward to Steve as far as he dares, closer but not close enough, never close enough:

“If I’m gone, you’re supposed to be happy and it’s like,” Eddie groans, and maybe it’s more of a whine really, fuck it all, that fits, that fucking makes sense because; “you didn’t want me here anymore, so I—”

“I never said I didn’t want you here.”

Eddie startles, heart in his throat again and hammering, violent and hellbent as Steve cuts him off, voice bowstring-taut where it cuts through the mounted tension, but does nothing to diminish it in the process; does nothing to ease the way it makes Eddie’s pulse work harder, desperate to fight the weight of it.

“I have never once wanted you to be anywhere but here,” and Steve’s voice is fucking…pained and just, just: how?

“Stevie,” Eddie pleads, because he doesn’t fucking understand; “you flinched when I touched you,” and Steve does it just then, the slightest bit; Eddie’s chest clenches just at the echo of it.

“You moved away from my mouth when I tried to kiss you,” and oh, how that had hurt, how that had withered things in Eddie’s ribs that never died long, just regrew to be burned back because Eddie didn’t know how not to love Steve, didn’t want to know such an unthinkable thing: but good fucking god, if it didn’t start to hurt worse than dying when Steve stopped wanting him—and Eddie was okay with it not being love, for Steve, with it being too much or maybe too soon but he’d…

He’d believed what they had was something beautiful; he’d clung maybe foolishly to the possibility of…maybe Steve someday growing into love with him.

And then he’d pulled back; then he’d spurned Eddie’s affection with his body, he didn’t even have to say it, it was sown in his skin, he…

“That’s not tru—” Steve starts, tone tight as he tries to defend but: no. No, Eddie hadn’t fucking created his own heartbreak from whole cloth, without reason.

“You turned, repeatedly,” Eddie hates that it comes out as accusatory as it does, but he…he wasn’t fucking imagining it, he hadn’t been because you can’t make up that kind of knife in your chest, you can’t.

“You tried to make it look like a coincidence. But when you keep getting your mouth on the man you lo—” and Eddie, he chokes it back as much as it wants to come out, to be spoken and known even if it’s not returned, never returned because it’s not going away, it’s never going away, but he, he—

He can’t. Not…not now.

“When you keep getting your mouth on your guy’s cheek and not his lips, damn,” Eddie’s breathing shudders; “you fuckin’ notice.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, but his gaze has shifted to the ground. Eddie…doesn’t know if he should take that as permission to keep going. He doesn’t even know if he wants to keep going in the first place.

His heartbeat’s still a torrent, though, and he…he doesn’t know if he could stop the words that come next if he tried.

“You stayed on your side of the bed all curled up, like you,” Eddie swallows hard, because what he’s about to say out loud fucking hurts to put into words; goddamn—because he thinks it’s true:

“You made yourself small to not be near me.”

Steve’s shoulders shift, then, but he doesn’t move, just keeps staring at the floor.

“You won’t even look at me when all your plans to avoid me go wrong and we actually miraculously end up in the same place because of the kids,” Eddie keeps going because he’s opened the floodgates, he’s let the feeling in him sneak through and it was too fucking big, it tore off the dams he tried to put in place to hold it all at bay; “if you can’t get away quick enough, every time I almost catch your eyes you look like you’re in pain,” and he looks like it now, he looks like he’s just made of hurting: “you jump like you got burnt.”

Steve’s next inhale is a sharp gasp of a thing. Eddie tries very hard not to feel something like victory to get somereaction from him.

He fails miserably.

“Robin hisses at me when I see her,” Eddie keeps on, because he wasn’t lying, the gates have been obliterated, there are no guardrails left for the way his heart’s such a mess and it’s spilling onto everything, into everything; “and I’m convinced she’s basically your subconscious manifest when it comes to who she turns her venom on,” and even Eddie would have missed it if he hadn’t been fixated unwavering on Steve in all of his glory, now: those lips don’t quirk, exactly, but they move the slightest bit.

Eddie, again, didn’t really think that his heart could learn to break in any more ways, but: here he is.

“You didn’t pick up the phone—” he damn near fucking moans because it hurts, it still hurts, it might always hurt—

“You didn’t leave a message.”

Steve’s volley is clipped, a not-so-subtle indictment, gaze flicking upward when he speaks and Eddie’s caught in those sad fucking eyes so swift and complete, it feels like all that he is might be forfeit in their hold.

He’s okay with that, though. He’s been okay with that—more than.

It’s when he’s nothing to that gaze, when Steve can’t even bring himself to look, that Eddie starts to crumble.

“The machine isn’t on,” he breathes out, barely a whisper, and Steve just blinks, then looks back at the ground and Eddie…Eddie’s not this strong, y’know? Eddie’s been barely anything for weeks, in so many ways, and he…he can’t just keep holding himself together when all he sees is Steve in pain, when his own pain makes him weak on top of everythingbegs.

“Steve,” he murmurs, nothing short of a plea for fucking mercy, for this man to take pity and maybe just explain a little, help Eddie understand where it all went wrong; “talk to me.”

And Eddie isn’t expecting it when it happens, given the mostly-stoic mask Steve’s perfected to keep him at bay: but when Steve breathes in deep and the motion, the sound of it shatters around something broken like a sob?

Eddie breaks right along with it.

“Jesus,” he half-gasps; “you need to sit down, sweetheart, come on,” because Steve’s shaking, fucking shaking where he stands; “here, I—”

And Eddie reaches, hand fucking trembling as he forces himself to keep enough distance for it to have to be Steve’s choice to touch, because if Steve doesn’t want him, if Steve doesn’t want any of him, ever, then Eddie has to learn that’s what his world is, that’s what his world will always be, no matter how his heart aches with it all and—

Steve steps, leans, and Eddie doesn’t need more assent than that; feels his nerves light up when Steve gives into his touch, doesn’t shy from the way Eddie’s grip tightens on his arms as he walks them slow from the door to the living room, to the couch where he settles Steve carefully near where the throw pillows will cushion him; reins himself in from finding a blanket he knows is in the cabinet hidden by the TV and wrapping Steve up tight in it, keeps himself from sitting next to him too close, stops himself from gathering Steve in his arms, but…he can’t go too far.

He can’t.

“This okay?” Eddie asks gently as he can when he settles down the shortest distance away that he can justify, that he thinks he can get away with; Steve doesn’t stop him, doesn’t react and Eddie’ll fucking take that.

He doesn’t even wholly-consciously put his hand, palm-up, on the cushion between them; certainly doesn’t expect anything but for Steve to scoot further from it once he realizes it’s there, but then—

Then Steve’s hand is landing in Eddie’s, and Eddie…after the shock settles, he fucking folds his grip around Steve so goddamn tight.

And Steve doesn’t fucking flinch away.

“Talk to me, Stevie,” Eddie breathes out, his heart doing wild things for the way it feels to touch that skin again, even so slight, so innocent: it’s everything. “Stevie, please,” and he wasn’t above begging before; with Steve’s hand in his he’s sure as shit not above it, now.

Eddie thinks he’s holding out for nothing, then he scolds himself—he’s not holding out for nothing, he’s got Steve’s hand in his hand, he can feel Steve’s pulse at the wrist and yeah it’s too heavy, it’s too fast and all Eddie ever wanted to was to be the safe place that Steve’s tension could ease into but the proof of life, of Steve, here, with him, is enough, it’s enough and Eddie is a rich man beyond measure, he’s, he is, it’s—

“I’m,” Eddie jumps a little, clings tighter to the palm pressed against his own when that voice scratches low into the space between them, and then starts to bleed feeling deep and unbridled when Steve whispers harsh:

“It was already so fucking hard, before I loved you.”

And Eddie…look.

Eddie’s felt ice run through him before. He’s felt it when he ran terrified from what it meant to face down death. He’s felt it in another dimension as the bat bites stole the life from him. He’s felt it in his room because he’d lost the sun he’d shaped his world to orbit around, to draw life from.

But…Eddie’s not sure he’s felt it take him over quite like it does just now; like it does when he has to ask, because there’s nothing else for it, he has to know and so he has to be the one to invite the ice into all he holds dear and maybe fucking ruin them both when he says it, pushes them past this point of no return:

“What’s hard, Stevie?”

And he waits, again, and tries not to fall for being too greedy, for getting too much when he’s grown horribly accustomed to nothing, and he should just give thanks for the way he can hear Steve breathe, a fucking miracle, a gift; he doesn’t dwell on just how much the idea of Steve answering, of Steve speaking more and telling Eddie what went wrong, where Eddie maybe went wrong—

“Losing you was the worst thing that ever happened to me,” is what Steve says, plain like reciting a law of physics, a rule of the universe. “And I wasn’t even in love with you yet.”

Eddie…feels bowled over and a little light-headed. Steve…loved him? He knew he loved him like he loved the Party at large, fought for them all, would stupidly give his whole fucking life for each and every one of them but…this kinda sounds like more, and maybe Eddie’s just got rose-colored glasses over it all, maybe he’s suffocating himself under the veil of wishful thinking—

But then he sobers because: loved. Loved. Maybe it’s just what he’s saying and how he’s saying it, like, incidental.

But it also sounds…past tense. And Eddie’s heart, like; Eddie thinks somehow his heart wails for the idea that he had this singular, precious man, maybe even his singular, precious heart, all this time, but now, now he doesn’t, and—

“I can’t sleep. I’m just…” Steve shudders, and Eddie, he has to just grip harder to Steve’s hand; if he can’t hold to more of him, he has to hold hard to what he’s allowed, what he does have.

“I woke up next to you, the most random morning, nothing out of the ordinary,” Steve says it, voice a little distant, all of it sounding more like a story than anything save for how Eddie can still feel Steve’s rabbit heart under his fingertips.

“And I realized how fucking deep I was in this,” and Steve turns Eddie’s hand a little in his own, spins one of his rings like he used to and Eddie’s breath catches for it because it feels too intimate, it feels too right, like a dream that’ll fade so fast, that’ll decimate him all over again, what’s left of him, in an instant when it’s gone again.

“So fast, I know,” and Steve says it like he has to justify his heart like this, and Eddie’s struck with the stark realization of just how well he must have been able to hide what he thought he’d been broadcasting to the fucking cosmos despite his best efforts not to be too much, or too intense, or too insane.

Not to broadcast to the world the obvious truth that his heart got rewired early to beat in the rhythm that spelled Steve Harrington out in the goddamn stars—but Steve doesn’t seem to have seen it. Or maybe…didn’t believe what it was if he did catch a glimpse.

Fuck.

“And it was never about, like, what if you didn’t feel the same, or weren’t ready, that’s not, I mean,” Steve tosses his head a little, and it’s not just that the concept is already absolutely absurd—how could Eddie know Steve, truly come to know Steve, and be anything but ready to offer all that he is to him in half-a-blink?—but it’s more than that, it’s that Eddie can feel that it’s just going to get worse, that it’s going to be more devastating when Steve finishes that thought—

“I’m used to that, I wasn’t planning on saying anything, at least not yet.”

That. That is more devastating, because how can Steve be used to not being loved with everything, it never fails to break Eddie when it’s pointed out, when he’s reminded that so many people had hurt him, had failed him, and now, now…had Eddie done it too, without ever meaning—

But even more than all of that, fucking selfishly: Steve had been thinking of things in terms of not yet. Of a future, where they had love.

Eddie’s heart’s fucking sick with it, reluctant to pump at all because it just…it just feels pointless.

What had he fucking done?

“It wasn’t something I even planned on having change how I acted, really,” Steve’s continuing on, like the things he’s saying aren’t earth-shattering, soul-torching; “realizing I was like, whole-heart, soul-deep in love with you was…” and Steve just shakes his head and oh, oh but his lips kinda curve, he kinda smiles, and it’s…

It’s full of so much regret, like, a wistful thing in the worst goddamn way, and Eddie doesn’t think he can recover from this. He…doesn’t even know where to start.

“It wasn’t that new, right, it didn’t just happen, the only sudden part was putting it together, like, consciously,” Steve lays out like he’s making a map to try and explain to Eddie how his heart moves, as if Eddie hasn’t been making a study of that singular thing for months, planning to continue it for a lifetime, and apparently still failing to realize so much that he’s missed.

“So it’s not like, I mean…” Steve worries his lower lip; “I’d still treat you the same, y’know? I didn’t have to change. And you didn’t have to know.”

“But,” Eddie can’t hold himself back before his mouth moves before he thinks twice, automatic because; “you…”

The way Steve changed, the way they changed was…that’s the reason for all of it, and if Steve specifically hadn’t—

“Oh don’t worry,” Steve bites, so fucking sarcastic, so dismayed and so…goddamn resigned, unconscionably disgusted:

“I’m fucking well aware.”

And Steve folds in on his himself, and Eddie…Eddie can’t maintain the distance anymore. If Steve doesn’t want it, he’ll move back but he, he needs to be close enough that Steve could fall into him, if he wanted—

It takes less than a heartbeat, and given how Eddie’s pulse is auditioning for the role of a caged bird sobbing, it’s swift: as soon as he’s close enough to think he can feel how Steve’s body moves the air around him just for breathing, never once letting go of Steve’s hand in the process, Steve’s following the slightest pull Eddie gives on that hand, and falling into Eddie’s side.

And fuck if Eddie doesn’t wrap around him the instant he’s pressed against him; if he doesn’t tuck Steve into him and keep him under his arm; doesn’t sink into and relish the way the weight of Steve’s head goes just to the side of his chest, can undoubtedly hear the cacophony inside, and…he just presses harder, nearer.

Eddie might fucking cry.

“Nightmares,” Steve finally croaks, and the way it resonates, the way it hangs foreboding as a horror is thick in Eddie veins. “Like I’ve never had before, not after any of it,” and he shivers, ducks somehow closer into Eddie’s collarbone, like he means to hide and of course Eddie will keep him, will shield him, will protect him from the whole goddamn world. For anything and everything.

For fucking ever.

“I know what your chest feels like without a heartbeat I can find,” Steve turns his face further into Eddie’s chest, will damn well fucking feel the skip of that heartbeat that’d be a trial not to find just now, and oh, oh just: Stevie.

“What your mouth feels like without breath coming out, what your lips feel like cold,” and he sounds so tormented, so wrecked but then beyond that: disassembled and left for carrion, unforgivable—Steve should only be treasured, not taken apart and…discarded.

Eddie…Eddie didn’t discard him, he would never.

So how the fuck did they end up here, like this, where Eddie’s just trying to hold Steve close enough, steady enough that he can staunch all the invisible, undeniable bleeding in him?

“I know what your blood tastes like,” Steve breathes into the notch between his clavicles; “because it was all over when I tried to breathe for you.”

Steve’s mouth’s right there when Eddie’s breath caches, when the whine brews just under his lips where they drag sloppy against Eddie’s shirt, wet on the cotton and so alive, so alive—

“I know how my heart stopped when I thought it had all be for nothing,” Steve whispers there, and then holds where Eddie knows he can feel the pulse; “that I’d failed you, that—”

And Steve shakes his head, and Eddie makes to speak, to tell Steve he could never fail him, not ever, but Steve seems to have broken his own floodgates, now, and he spills:

“But that’s wasn’t new, right, so I wasn’t expecting any of it to shift, y’know? Like, if anything I figured, with love in the mix it’d be more, like, fear of rejection, shit from, just, with all the girls, with Nance, like all that old high school bullshit would be what reared its head,” he laughs, the most tragic sort of agony in the sound where it never should be, where there should only ever be Steve’s joy:

“But nope. Nope, my scrambled goddamn brain decided fuck that, let’s try something else.”

And Eddie can’t seem to get any words out anymore, now, much as he wants to. His mouth’s too dry, throat too tight. He just clings, clings so tight and fucking…prays that Steve can feel in his hold, in his heartbeat, in everything between them here and now, that he loves all of Steve. That all he is, is committed to making sure that Steve doesn’t hurts like this anymore, ever again.

If Steve will let him.

“I didn’t want you to leave,” Steve whispers, “I never,” and he shakes his head, smashes his lips over his teeth, jaw tense enough to twitch and Eddie just wants to fix it, just wants to ease all of it and make Steve okay, and somehow make up for how he—despite never meaning to, despite never choosing to be—seems to be the reason Steve’s in such turmoil, such pain.

“I can see how it looked like that, like, I hear what you’re saying and I get it, but,” Steve licks his lips, brow furrowing in the way Eddie loves to smooth but he doesn’t think he can, now, doesn’t think he should and it’s twice the wound just to watch like this: to know it might not be welcome, and to know that Steve may have to hurt here, beyond Eddie’s capacity to soothe, in trying to work through what it is that’s gutting him so harsh.

“When you’d reach for me, sometimes it would jolt me out of the, like, fog of it all,” Steve finally says it, tells him without looking to make eye contact but he’s tracing Eddie’s fingers, now, and it feels…significant; “because it’s the worst when I sleep, when I see all the what-ifs, but when I wake up it always lingers, and I get lost in it all the same, it all hits just a little different from what’s actually happening and then from the dreams, how it was when I’d watched just seconds before, when you’d,” and as much the words dry up in an instant, choked on a swallowed-down sob, Eddie can hear the obvious ringing out as if it was ripped straight from that precious fucking chest, raw and bloody:

When in the dreams, you’d died.

“You in reality was just, so opposite to what everything in my head sticks on?” Steve breathes, less a question than a plea for Eddie to accept what he’s saying, to understand and believe, as if Eddie would, could do anything else; as if the way the sheer truth of it in Steve’s aching tone isn’t soaking into the layers of Eddie’s fucking heart and flaying the pieces apart in real time. “The echos, the, umm,” Steve swallows, and Eddie cannot look away from the way how he swallows stretches the skin of his throat; “the ghosts of the horror shows I get on repeat every time I close my eyes,” he screws his eyes shut, then, like it’s muscle memory, like it’s ordained and unavoidable, to recoil from the magnitude of what haunts him in the night.

“Like, how could you be touching me, when you were…”

Steve lifts their clasped hands to his mouth and Eddie nearly comes apart for how it feels, but then at the very same time he aches for the way Steve’s hand can’t wholly stop trembling, even as he pulls Eddie’s pulsepoint to the swell of his lips where he murmurs:

“How could you be warm?”

Eddie watches, refuses to blink, as Steve holds there, breathes there, nuzzles a little against Eddies wrist and drags his lips there, back and forth and Eddie might fucking die here and now, like this, because it’s perfection, but at the same time, it’s devastation incarnate.

It’s pure fucking pain.

“I didn’t want to make you feel how the,” Steve’s throat clicks for how hard he swallows; “how the things in my head felt. Especially after the first few times,” he shakes his head, and Eddie can taste his own pulse for how hard it beats at the base of his throat; “I couldn’t tell what was real, when you were against me. Because it felt more real then anything, but I’d just watched you,” and again, the unspoken is louder than words themselves could ever be:

But I’d just watched you die.

Eddie wants nothing more than to slice himself open somehow, and gather Steve inside him and hold him closer than close, so that he can know all the reassurance he needs and Eddie can know it too, at the very same time; so they can know each other’s lifeblood as close as their own, because for Eddie, Steve’s is closer, means more than his own: he just wants to gather Steve close and keep him so fucking safe. Keep the whole of him, unwavering.

“It scared the hell out of me, but then the first time I woke you up,” Steve closes his eyes, bites at his lip again.

“You were out of it, I think I scared you, too, and I couldn’t even see everything beautiful about you without seeing,” and Steve’s voice is a harrowing thing, is so fucking gutted out, and Eddie just wants to be…Eddie just needs to go back to that moment, he can’t even remember the moment where he didn’t even know he failed to make Steve feel better, safer, not fucking alone and all he wants is to go back and find that turning point and turn it on its head. Make it right.

But then Steve is gabbing his hand, and lacing their fingers so tight it fucking hurts in the best possible way, before he breathes out a whisper:

“It was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, when it actually happened,” and they both know he means the bats, and the blood, and the red lightning sky; “but it’s like my brain got stuck there, like it stopped at the losing and not what came after,” and Steve brings Eddie’s hands up to his lips and less kisses, more buries his face in Eddie’s hands and just breathes before he moans a little around the words left:

“It got stuck, and it just runs from there.”

And if that’s not the simplest line of pure ruinous hurt that Eddie’s ever heard, holy fuck.

“Stevie,” and it’s Eddie who moans around the word, now, because god, his baby’s been aching with all this for…for how long?

“You hold your breath sometimes when we kiss,” Steve says, more incidental on the back of a breath, mostly air around the moving of his lips; “and when my head’s been like this, just, soaked in this, I can’t—”

And, oh.

Oh, Steve’s…Steve’s telling him why. He’s explaining why he, why he did all the…why he turned away, why he pulled back, and oh, oh god—

“Robin doesn’t know all the details,” he pushes on, and Eddie can see how he’s biting down on his tongue fucking hard behind his lips; “I’m sorry she’s been,” he huffs a little, tips his head as he circles his thumb a little against Eddie’s knuckle; “growly at you.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Eddie breathes, cupping Steve’s face because he…he needs to, he needs to show him he’s cherished, that Eddie’s heart is his, fucking beats for him and belongs to him and he, he is…

“Baby, don’t be sorry about anything, please don’t be sorry,” Eddie begs because, because fuck: “I’m the one who’s sorry,” and he is, he’s so sorry, he didn’t know but he never wants Steve to hurt and he’s only made Steve hurt harder because he thought he understood and was doing what he could to help and in truth he was doing anything but—

“I couldn’t look at you because my heart hurt,” Steve turns his face into the palm Eddie’s framed against his cheek; “and I know you stepped away because I can’t get my shit together, because I’m losing my fucking mind and,” but he didn’t, he didn’t and he wants to say it but Steve’s barreling on, convinced as fuck and that’s, that’s not okay; “and I know, of course I know that it’s better that you don’t go down with me, I know that. But fuck,” Steve laughs in that terrible, self-sacrificing way that has no idea what he’s worth, what he means:

“I don’t know what hurts more, the dreams or the waking hours when I see you and you aren’t, you don’t feel,” Steve’s words catch again, and he shakes his head into Eddie’s hold, breathes as Eddie strokes his cheek and holds him, just holds him until he can say the rest:

“Losing you like that is worse, but it’s not real,” Steve swallows hard, keeps his eyes clenched shut tight like that’s the only way he can manage to keep going; “losing you like this is better, because you’re still,” and Steve’s fingers find the pulse at his wrist again—because somewhere, it’s still beating:

“But then, it’s the truth, and,” Steve’s voice cracks and god, this man, this beautiful man…

“It just hurts,” Steve says “so goddam much and—”

“That’s not the truth.”

Eddie can’t keep waiting, just to let Steve keep circling this horrific pit of agony, for all the things they both misunderstood, for all the hurting they’ve both breathed through too long.

No more. Steve blinks up at him, and…yeah.

Eddie’s turn, now.

“I am yours,” Eddie pledges like his whole life’s behind it, and in truth: it is. It absolutely is.

“And I feel so fucking much Stevie-baby,” Eddie whispers, because there’s something profound in it, and there’s something magical and beautiful and sacred inside all Eddie feels so much of, and it needs to be revered accordingly as he traces Steve’s cheekbone, the bow of his lips with nothing less than worship. “I didn’t think people were built to love like this. I’ve never seen it. I didn’t know it was a thing to feel at all until now.”

He means it. Steve’s gaping at him a little, marveling a little even, maybe, but it’s not an unbelievable thing. Because this is Eddie Munson’s heart. For Steve Harrington.

This is the only thing.

“And I am sorry,” Eddie exhales all that he has in him to give to an apology because he is sorry, he thinks that sorrymight be seeping out his pores: whatever he did to cause this, whatever extent of a part he played, as much as he never wished or planned to.

He’s fucking sorry.

“I didn’t leave, I just,” he tries to explain, tries to prove somehow that no matter how fucked it all came out to be, he could never leave his Stevie.

“I didn’t leave you, not at all like you’re thinking,” he kisses Steve’s temple, and then draws him close to speak into his skin, like he can press it deep enough for Steve to know without a shred of doubt as he strokes Steve’s hair, tangles his fingers and holds him dear, breathes him in.

“I thought maybe you needed space, but I should have asked,” Eddie laments with a waver in his voice, eyes watering because fuck, fuck:

“I wanted to be what you needed so bad I hurt you on the way,” and isn’t that the fucking kicker? Isn’t that the gut punch, the unbearable truth at the core.

“Then I stayed away, because all signs pointed to it being me,” Eddie murmured into the crown of Steve’s head; “but that was just because I’m scared, because loving you this much is bigger than I can hold sometimes,” and he makes himself pull back so he can meet Steve’s eyes, red-rimmed to match Eddie’s where they’re actively streaming now as he breathes out the truth of his deepest, truest fucking soul:

“You’re the best thing I could ever ask for and I,” and he bends his forehead to Steve’s, breathes there for a handful of beats:

“I didn’t want to push you, and ruin it,” he confesses as the weakness that drove him to cause so much suffering, in only hoping to help. “I didn’t want to lose you, because I’m selfish, and having you taught me a whole new level of what made breathing worthwhile,” and he brings Steve’s hands both to his chest now, presses them tight to the shaky rise and fall, the tremorous hammering underneath as he speaks clear the only truth he really knows:

“Heart and soul I love you, Steve.”

And Steve’s hand on his chest clenches, and Steve’s breathing stumbles, and Eddie loves him.

So goddamn much.

“I didn’t mean to leave you, I would never mean to,” Eddie tells him, shaky and watery with the tears that are still falling; “I thought I was doing what was right,” he huffs, because, nice fucking work on that one, Munson, definitely bet on the winning goddamn horse there, Jesus Christ.

“I never, ever wanted to hurt you, I could never want to hurt you, I’d rather cut my own arm off, my own heart out,” and he turns his head the slightest bit, so he can find skin to kiss how much he means this into:

“I am so fucking sorry.”

Steve chases his mouth and Eddie leans, keeps himself pressed up close to speak straight against him as he gathers Steve’s hands at his chest a little tighter, tries to convey everything he might do with his eyes with the rest of his body now, with the way his voice floods with the heart of him whole:

“Could you ever,” he stammers a little, because he…he doesn’t want to face what it means if the answer to what he’s about to ask is set to break him apart all over again.

But he loves this man, and now that he has what could be a chance—Steve can’t be leaning into his touch, can’t be telling him all of this started because it hurts too much to lose Eddie, with there being no possible chance—but Eddie might have a chance to have Steve back, to keep Steve for always.

Like fuck he’s gonna be a coward at risk losing this again.

“Could you, y’know, like, ever think about giving me a chance to make up for it?” Eddie’s voice is so small, but so earnest, because he will do anything. “To fix it, and prove I’ll never hurt you again if I can help it,” and he will, he will do whatever it takes to prove what his heart and soul knows through to the bottom, bright inside his bones:

“Fuck, I’d break myself in half before I hurt you again, baby,” he promises, vows deeper than anything—

“I don’t want that.”

Steve blinks at him, eyes fucking intense, and Eddie stills, his heart plummeting because…well, of course it was possible, and of course Eddie understands, he hurt Steve in a way he doesn’t know if he can wholly forgive himself for, in a way that’s maybe worse for how Eddie’d tried for anything but, such a gross misstep and he—

“I don’t want you broken,” Steve reaches, flips his palm from atop Eddie’s heavy thumping heart and grasps, brings Eddie’s hand to his lips and kisses there, pinning Eddie with his gaze through his lashes:

“Not ever, not for anything,” Steve says it heavy, emphasizes each word with intention: “never for me.”

“You’re the only thing that’s worth it,” Eddie counters, just as firm, just as committed to that truth with his whole goddamn chest: “worth anything.”

Worth everything; and Eddie thinks Steve hears that too; hears it all.

And it’s Steve who’s reaching, now, who’s framing Eddie’s face and pulling him in and Eddie sinks into it, falls into the way that Steve moves him, takes control in those subtle, automatic ways and fuck if Eddie didn’t quite realize just how much he missed this part, the way that Steve commanded the moment and tipped his chin just so to kiss deeper, to draw moans from spaces inside Eddie that he didn’t even know he possessed: electric.

In-fucking-toxicating.

“Come home?” Steve asks-but-tells him soft, earnest; “what I do want, is for you to come home.”

And fuck if Eddie wants anything else in the world; fuck if that isn’t everything.

Home. With his Stevie.

He chokes on a fucking sob and he wraps around Steve so goddamn tight.

“Thank you,” Eddie presses lips to his jaw, peppers kisses up to his temple, across his brow, down the bridge of his nose, worshipful and dazed, so viscerally relieved, like a noose he didn’t know was tightening around his neck was suddenly torn free and he can breathe, he can breathe, he’s still got the best fucking reason to breathe.

“Thank you,” he mouths at Steve’s lips as he makes his way down his chin to his neck to worship that space with this gratitude, his devotion as he swears deeper than he’s ever even considered committing to anything:

“Promise you won’t regret it.”

“I don’t regret it,” Steve shakes his head like the idea’s anathema; “maybe it was hard, some of it, and maybe it was getting harder, worse than I could keep a handle on, but without you,” and Steve’s voice breaks a little, and he shakes his head harder, more like he’s trying to get rid of a nightmare, his eyes glassy when he looks back up:

“Without you is so much worse, Eds.”

And Eddie’s heart jumps because he’s not okay with that hurting.

But also because Steve…Steve’s saying outright, after all of this, that with Eddie is a better way to be.

Fucking sue him if that hits him just so, okay?

“I’m sorry I made you feel like I could ever want a life without you in it,” Steve whispers into his temple, teasing his hairline. “Fucking unthinkable, baby.”

And Eddie shivers, because…he’d hoped this could be where they’d end up, but he…he was scared. So scared that he’d lost it, that there was no coming back.

“God, I missed you,” Eddie breathes, shaky as fuck, wet on the edges at best; “every second of the fucking day.”

“Me too,” Steve meets him, a little sniffly in his own right; “so much, Eddie. So much.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says again, wobbly, because he is, he fucking is—

“Stop saying you’re sorry,” Steve chides him with a peck at the bow of his lips; “I believe you, that you thought it was the right thing.”

“Because it meant making you happy, not for me,” Eddie needs to he sure Steve knows that part, knows it in his fucking bones. “I would never leave you because I wanted to,” Eddie whispers, kinda fucking horrified at just the idea; “nothing could make me want that.”

He cups Steve cheek and lets Steve lean into how it fits just so before he murmurs low, still shaky:

“Barely even survived it,” because fuck, now that it’s over, Eddie can appreciate how much it took from him, being away from Steve, and when he couldn’t even see why. “You’re the sun, Stevie.”

And fuck, if that’s not the truth. He is the center of the galaxy. He is all life in the universe.

Everything.

“Steve,” Eddie finally disturbs the sweet bubble of yes, right, this is right that they’re holding between them, and only because he…

He can’t risk this. Ever again. And he’s not foolish enough to think this thing’s fixed, that it’s one and done. But Eddie, and his devotion to Steve, and his love: that’s not ever going to be done.

Loving Steve is not something he is fucking ever going to be done doing. Done drowning in gratitude for the goddamn privilege of.

“I need you to promise me you’re never going to keep this, anything that hurts like this, locked up ever again, okay?” he runs his thumbs along the crests of Steve’s cheekbones. “I am here with you, I want to be here for everything, all of it, always,” and he kisses just between Steve’s brows, holds there for a few moments before he leans back and lifts Steve’s chin on his fingertips to look him straight in the eyes, see down to his soul entire:

“I’m never not going to want to help, to try and make the hurting go away, or at least find a way to help make it easier to bear,” and he means it, and he holds Steve’s gaze firm until he can see the conviction in his own veins start to color Steve’s irises brighter, to be taken in and believed.

“You could tell me to fuck off forever,” he tucks his cheek along Steve’s, burrows a little on the crook of his neck to breathe in the scent of him, to feel his blood move under the surface; “like…leaving you alone this time was a bridge too far, go to fucking hell Munson. You could come to me in twenty fucking years and I’d still drop everything just to make you hurt less.”

And Steve cranes his neck, opens up that space for him and lets Eddie fit there closer and just breathe, breathe, breathe, tucks Eddie under his chin like the tables are turned and…maybe they are. Or else: no, not maybe. They both were hurting. And they both love too much to let any of that hurt be anything but tended to, but dressed and cleaned and soothed, now that they have each other in arm’s-reach. Now that they can press each other close and hold and be, and remember all over again what life feels like where it sings in one body held tight to another, when it’s loved this full.

Steve keeps him there, lets him get his bearings, before Eddie inhales extra deep so he’s got Steve in his lungs when he makes himself pull back; gathers Steve to him again, now, and it’s…it’s just as much a comfort. It doesn’t matter who’s in whose arms. So long as they’re here.

So long as they’re them

“This is,” and Eddie makes damn sure that his hands are on Steve and nowhere else, that he’s holding onto Steve, that his fingers are locked with Steve’s, that he’s entangled to the point where it’d hurt to get out but he’s never going to try so it’s irrelevant. He needs Steve to know, and never question that Eddie’s never going anywhere.

“All this, is heavy, Stevie,” and he’s got his lips pressed to Steve’s hair before Steve can even finish how he makes to tense up; “and it breaks my heart that you’ve been carrying it all on your own.”

And Eddie holds there, holds and keeps Steve so close, until the other man slumps a little, until he gives that little bit of tension and then some back into Eddie, and it feels…it feels like how Eddie imagines someone feels when they exchange vows at the altar, or else, how they want to, how it’s talked about. Because there’s nothing present in this moment save sheer fucking trust, and the willingness to give between two bodies, two souls.

Eddie can’t help but pull him a little closer, duck down to trail his mouth down Steve’s forehead, his cheekbones, the apples of his cheeks, just: show him how much he feels. How much he feels lucky that Steve’s leaning into him, that Steve’s giving him this; this…opportunity to hold him up, too.

The fucking gift of it. Of him.

“So strong, my sweetheart,” Eddie mouths against Steve’s lips, then; “so brave,” and it kinda fucking floors him, really it does, that this man is…all that he is. Fucking superhuman, sometimes, good fucking god.

“But I love you, and that means you never have to shoulder anything alone ever again,” Eddie moves to kiss Steve straight on, properly, and then he lets Steve deepen it as far as he wants: and shit, he wants.

And Eddie cannot put into words what it means to have this again. To have his Steve in his arms, to have him want to be there, to let go in Eddie’s embrace.

“Never alone, baby,” Eddie nips his lower lip when they break apart, gasping; “yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, clear eyed and red-swollen lipped and fuck, he’s exquisite.

“I can’t take back what happened, with Vecna, the first time, or anything before or since,” Eddie needs, all of a sudden, to bare a little more of his heart, to make sure Steve knows all the little crevices of him, so he’ll never fill the gaps in with anything but the unfettered love that’s meant to be there, that lives there always and creates the shape of what Eddie holds in his chest.

“I can’t erase the fuel for your nightmares, and I hate that,” Eddie moans, and Steve’s the one who leans in for his lips this time, who kisses Eddie so fucking thoroughly he feels lighter, he thinks, for the pieces of him blissfully surrendered up on how their mouths meet.

Eddie decidedly does not hate that.

“I do want to die in your arms,” and Eddie’s a little dizzy as he says it, giddy and buoyant with how his heart flutters and maybe another time he’d think twice before being this candid, but not anymore. Not flooded with relief and joy and gratefulness like this, and faced with the real possibility of the future he aches for:

“When we’re old and grey and wrinkled and still so fucking in love that we’re rewriting what it means to feel,” Eddie rips open the whole of his lovedunk heart for Steve to see and hear and know, and maybe even embrace for all the hopeless romance Eddie’s finding real hope for holding in Steve and Steve alone; “making new rules and setting new standards for everyone who comes after us, for how deep and much and well we loved.”

Eddie’s never seen Steve’s eyes shine like they do when he looks up and locks their gazes, takes all that Eddie’s giving, showing: he’s not just witnessing it.

He’s embracing it. He’s fucking eager like Eddie is, and how could Eddie be this lucky, to be welcomed, to be forgiven, to be understood, to be given the chance to earn this for keeps, to hold Steve close and safe to his chest for fucking ever.

“I’m sorry I hurt you, for trying to do it ahead of schedule down there,” Eddie murmurs at the corner of Steve’s mouth, just…just kinda to be close, to feel his breaths as they come; “and then thinking I knew what you needed and fucking it up, here,” and he makes himself draw back, then, to hold Steve’s chin and look him square on, because he needs Steve to see, he needs to hear and know, just, like, one more time, in case it’s the one that sticks strongest, most lasting:

“I never meant to hurt you,” he doesn’t let himself drown in those eyes just now, needs to tether in them and weave himself in the thick glow of them, the way the caramel color swims; “never want to hurt you,” and he lifts his touch to run his thumbs under Steve’s eyes, no tears to wipe but he feels…he feels a need to touch there, delicate, reverent:

“Never want you to hurt.”

“I know,” and Steve wraps his fingers around Eddie’s wrist, holds tight; “I know, babe, thank you,” and Eddie is going to make sure he doesn’t overlook any of this ever again: Steve failing to understand how deep Eddie’s feelings run, how much he means to Eddie, how Eddie’s heart couldn’t even beat right without him, for how much of it’s made up of Steve.

He’s going to make sure Steve knows that the only thanks necessary in what they share is the all-encompassing gratitude. Is just being thankful, for the fact of a love unprecedented.

“Maybe I could,” Eddie throws off the first thing that comes to mind to face how they got here head-on, and maybe he riffs out loud a little, goes with the pull at the base of his heart and leaps, tries to chart the right course to make sure he does get to die in Steve’s arms one day, where they both take their last breaths in the same second and their hearts go to whatever’s next—something other or something quiet, something next or something final—together, always together, never-not-together, ever again:

“Maybe I could hold you tight to me, like, every night, all the time, and now that I know what’s happening here,” he taps Steve’s head lovingly, rests fingertips at the side of Steve’s neck to touch at the pulse as he offers, kinda fucking clumsy, and hopes like hell the depth makes up for it; “then I can be ready to catch you.”

And Steve pulls back, just looks at him, and he feels so dismantled in the best of ways, like being unraveled when the knots holding you up were too tight anyway and then it’s just pure release, and when he sees the soft little hint of a smile on Steve’s lips, blinding in his eyes—it’s everything as Eddie promises from his goddamn cells:

“I will always catch you, Steve.”

And Steve, he just sighs, and falls into Eddie once more—again, the gift of that kind of trust, Eddie will never get over it, or take it for granted—but Steve just falls and burrows into Eddie’s chest, settles at the center and Eddie would put fucking money on the fact that his heart swells to meets that weight, that presence of Steve; that every part of him just knows who’s there to listen and feel. That his beating fucking heart wants, because of how much Eddie wants. How much Eddie knows this man means.

“Maybe we could get a really big shirt,” Eddie muses as he stokes up and down Steve’s spine, spread over Eddie’s whole chest as he is; “and stretch out the neck so we can both fit, then when you wake up and you think,” Eddie pauses, doesn’t want to put those things into words to live in the world any more than they’ve already been forced there.

“But then you’re pressed as close as you can be, and you can feel the truth, and I can hold you until you believe what you feel,” he doesn’t know if that makes sense at all, but Steve’s breaths are damp and warm over the barest ends of the scars that stretched a little farther toward the center of his chest and…fucking hell.

That’s just a heady fucking feeling, y’know? And all Eddie wants is to keep.

“Like, maybe we could try it?”

He’ll try, more than try, just about anything.

“What if I—” and Eddie doesn’t need Steve to finish that thought, he can read the fear, the worry, the resignation that he’ll somehow have some reaction that being held tight to Eddie will make unbearable, maybe even dangerous given just how wide those eyes go.

Eddie’s not gonna let that shit stand anymore. Not ever a-fucking-gain.

“There’s nothing you could possibly do that I’m not ready and willing to catch, and hold so close, and keep so safe. Remember?” He tips Steve’s chin up so he can look at him, drink him in entirely and hold him there until he can read that he’s heard and understood through and through when he vows with his everything:

“Always gonna catch you.”

And Steve’s hands come to Eddie, now, and he writes the moment again, takes control of the momentum in between them and grabs Eddie’s face, draws him into the kind of kiss that lights up his nerves neon bright and sparkling, shimmers through him like pure fucking magic:

“I love you,” Steve breathes in between Eddie’s lips, then goes to pressing that feeling all over, drawing the dopiest grin to Eddie’s whole fucking face:

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” then he braces his palms on Eddie hips, and honestly, Eddie had apparently floated a little bit into the here and now because he hadn’t even wholly processed Steve straddling him until he’s gazing down at him with so much fucking affection:

“Thank you,” and the serious tone he says it in is somehow made, like, twenty-dimensional and all the more significant; “for coming back.”

And Eddie…Eddie doesn’t really understand how that’s something to be thanked for when coming back feels like putting his heart back together again, but: fine.

He can meet the sentiment.

“Thank you, for letting me,” Eddie leans in, kisses Steve’s still-a-little-swollen lips; “for wanting me.”

“I want you forever,” Steve answers, solemn and sure and without hesitation. “I want you,” then he smiles, because maybe they’re a little fucked up to find joy in this sentiment but fuck if it’s anything but the best possible thing Eddie could imagine:

“’Til the day we die.”

“Swear it, sweetheart,” and Eddie isn’t even going to try and deny, or reshape the fact that he’s just gazing at Steve, now, fucking marveling because how can he not?

Why would he do anything but wonder at the goddamn miracle in front of him, perched atop top him, nestled in his chest and safe inside his heart: why the fuck would he do anything else, anything less?

“Stevie, baby,” he exhales a little shaky, leaning into just, just…kiss all of it into Steve’s soul:

“I fuckin’ swear it.”

❄️

✨ also on ao3🖤❤️

for @kultiras🖤

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @grtwdsmwhr @mensch-anthropos-human @@hiei-harringtonmunson @theheadlessphilosopher @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson @theheadlessphilosopher @sadisticaltarts @bumblebeecuttlefishes @shrimply-a-menace @wheneverfeasible @1-tehe-1 @themoonagainstmers @dreamercec @ravenfrog @live-laugh-love-dietrich @stealthysteveharrington @tinyplanet95 @theohohmoment @samsoble @tinyloonyteacups @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @pretend-theres-a-name-here @dragoon-ze-great @warlordess @notaqueenakhaleesi @pukner @captain--low @theintrovertedintrovert @tillystealeaves @depressed-freak13 @yourmom-isgay @wordynerdygurl

divider credit here and here

108 notes · View notes

damn-stark · 3 days ago

Text

Chapter 34 Erasing myself from the narrative

Chapter 34 of Moonlight

A/N- 🤭

Warning- ptsd, ANGST!!!, swearing, talks of blood, and death. SPOILERS!! FOR FUTURE EVENTS OF HOTD, USING FIRE AND BLOOD, long chapter.

Pairing- Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!fem-reader, Cregan Stark x Velaryon!fem-reader

Episode/Pages- 561-578

(If you want to be tagged let me know)

————

If you close your eyes now, as you twist your son's hair in between your fingers, you can still remember the whiffs of your mother's sweet perfume hitting your nose as she stood behind you. You remember her warmth that radiated off her body and embraced you, providing a comfort only a mother could. You remember the gentle touch of your mother's soft and delicate hands as she carefully gripped strands of your hair and braided them herself.

She was the King's heir so she tried to keep herself busy to learn everything an heir should, but she always took time out of her day to braid your hair. She made it her mission to learn how to braid so your hair would be protected.

It’s been years since then, but you remember it all as if you had lived it yesterday.

Sometimes after a good night's sleep, as you stir awake you believe for a flicker of a second that you’re still there, in the Red Keep with your mother and your brothers, but you then snap out of your grogginess and decades have passed by, aging you to an age you mother never reached.

“Maekor,” you call out to your eldest son and child with your husband. “Has your brother tried talking to you?”

“Which one?” He queries as he can’t possibly read your mind about which out of four brothers you could be referring to.

“Torrhen,” you mention as you take another strand of hair to continue the same process. “He’s…been having a hard time again, and I reminded him that he could talk to you or Jace. I just don’t want him to feel isolated if he doesn’t want to talk to me.”

Maekor sighs deeply and licks his lips before he gives you a response. “No, he hasn’t. I’ve hardly seen him.”

You hum and slump in your seat, letting his half-twisted hair go and dropping your head to fix your rings. “Well, could you try talking to him? I know I shouldn’t ask you, but he’s reluctant to talk to me, and you know how he feels about his father,” you begin to grow quieter with every word that comes out of your mouth. “I know it shouldn’t be your burden to bear, but you’re his older brother, he might feel more inclined—”

“I’d argue Aerion is the eldest,” a third voice interrupts you; one suave and taunting.

When you lift your head and peer back you see Jacaerys, your third child and second son with your husband. Albeit, he also counts as your sixth child out of seven if you count your three children with Aemond. But if you count your husband's firstborn with his first wife, Jacaerys is your seventh child out of eight.

It's all such a mess…

“Jacaerys,” Maekor scolds his younger brother.

“Mother,” said man greets you sweetly as he reaches you and bends down to press a peck on your cheek before he walks forward so he can be in front of you and Maekor.

“You stink of sweat,” you point out with your nose wrinkling in disgust. “Have you been out all night?” You probe.

Jacaerys steals a wooden chair and drags it back to swing his leg around it and sit with his chest pressed against the back of the seat. “Yes, I’m enjoying my last moments of freedom before I’m forever enslaved as a brother of the Night's Watch.”

“To be a brother of the Night's Watch is a great honor,” Maekor reminds his brother who immediately shows that he disapproves of that ideology.

“Says you,” Jacaerys quips as he folds his arms over the back of the chair and then rests his chin on his arms. “You’re a second son. You’re father's spare if anything happens to his firstborn son.”

“Jacaerys,” you gently scold your son as you stand up to continue twisting Maekor’s hair.

“Mother,” he mocks you and then continues to spew his regular complaints. “It’s true. He won’t ever have the responsibility of having to join the Night’s Watch. He’ll never be sworn off women, or be forced to live at the wall with outcast men.”

“You don’t even like women,” Maekor remarks under his breath.

“I do,” Jacaerys points his finger at his brother. “But that’s not the point! The point is that you won’t ever have to be forced to join the Night’s Watch.”

You finish with the twist you were working on and then drift your focus to Jacaerys. “You don’t have to join the Night’s Watch either, Jace. You have dragons blood in you—”

“So I can either be forced to procreate with one of your cousins' daughters and be tied down that way forever, or be trapped at the Wall until I die.” He scoffs, making Maekor groan.

“You’re in a mood.”

You step away from Maekor and approach Jacaerys with a knowing smile that makes him lower his head. “Mother,” he mutters and you crouch to be at his level.

“You can do whatever it is your heart desires,” you tell him in a sweet and sincere voice. “If you don’t want to join the Night’s Watch, you don’t have to. If you don’t want to get married and you just want to get on a ship and travel, then you will get on that ship and I will bid you goodbye.”

The tension holding Jacaerys’ shoulders and jaw captive let him loose, and in its place, a softness unfurls in his eyes that makes them glisten like glittering snowflakes on an untouched blanket of snow.

“But father…will be disappointed if I don’t join,” Jacaerys reminds you, or more so shares the only reason why he feels like he has to join. “It’s my duty. Maekor cannot join, and Torrhen…is too burdened by his visions to be fully there. It lies on me to bring that honor to our family.”

You huff and lift your hand to stroke his cheek. “No, my love, your father wouldn’t be disappointed. He understands what it’s like to want things too, and if he didn’t I would make him because you, my darling boy, are our son and we want you to be happy. We want you all to be happy”

As tough as Jacaerys acts, he’s still the most sensitive out of all your children, so his eyes well up, but he doesn’t let himself cry. He lowers his head and you slide your hand back to cup the back of his neck.

“So if you don’t want to join the Night’s Watch, then don’t, okay? I’ll be proud of you with whatever it is you choose.” You assure him as you press a kiss on the back of his head before you let him go and stand up to return to Maekor, leaving Jacaerys with his head hanging low.

“Anyway, talk to Torrhen, okay? Maybe go out together or I don’t know, do brother stuff,” you continue your conversation with Maekor. “Just let him know he can rely on you.”

“I will,” Maekor assures you. “I won’t disappoint you, mother.”

——

*NOW*

Gardens that were once vivid and full of life are now bare and haunting without Helaena here to fill them with the pure love she had for insects and plant life.

You never understood her fascination for the gross critters, but she loved to talk about them and show them off when she’d catch them, so you always listened of course. You’d walk around the garden side by side until she grew tired or you had somewhere to get to. Now…not even the chirping of an insect is here to keep you company. Sure, it’s due to the winter climate, but without her, the gardens are so desolate either way.

“Your Grace?”

You perk up at the sound of you being called and turn away from the fountain thinking you might see Cregan. Even though you’ve been rejecting his summons and have been averting your gaze when you’re in the same room, you still hope that when you turn around it's him joining you in the gardens.

Alas, when your eyes fall on the figure approaching you, for a split second you freeze as you swear to every god, new and old, that it's your mother. You see her beautiful face untouched by any fire. You see her long golden-silver hair flowing behind her, and captured under the soft hue of the cold sun. Albeit, when you blink she vanishes and Lord Kermit is approaching you in her place.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Lord Kermit catches the disappointment on your face and offers you a teasing smile.

“Ah,” you breathe out and fix an invisible wrinkle on your light sea-green gown. “Well perhaps,” you admit shamelessly. “My cousin Rhaena should be arriving at the city soon, and I’m still waiting on responses from the Lord and Ladies we sent pardons to, so,” you pause and sigh as you fix your ring next. “Yes, actually. Sorry.”

Lord Kermit scoffs and reaches the fountain you’re sitting on to respond. “No, it’s alright. You are a very busy woman. I do not envy it.”

You scoff softly and then pat the empty spot beside you. “Will you sit with me? At least for a moment?”

Whether out of obligation, because he was seeking your company, and or because he had nothing better to do, he takes you up on your offer, filling your heart at least with a flicker of warmth.

“I am only out here now because Lord Stark says that if I’m with him whilst he’s questioning suspects, they might feel obliged to hide the truth, so,” you sigh. “I'm here.”

Lord Kermit looks around at the gardens and huffs. “Out here in the cold?”

You giggle. “It’s either here or wait impatiently for me to be questioned next.”

Lord Kermit drops his head at that and mutters his thoughts. “It’s mad that Lord Stark is questioning you too.”

Your face falls and you slowly lower your head, finding your reflection painted on the water's surface. “Why is it so mad?” You ask as you stare long and hard at the woman staring back at you.

“Because…you’re the Queen Regent and you shouldn’t be put to question.”

“Is that all?” You whisper and catch Lord Kermit’s confusion reflecting on the water's surface.

“Had it been me?” You clarify. “Would it be so mad then? Would it make me a villain?”

You keep your eyes on your reflection and you know you don’t see someone full of guilt looking back at you. You don’t see someone wicked either like others paint you out to be. You don’t know who or what you see exactly, but you know guilt and wickedness is not something on the surface.

“Many would see a villain,” Lord Kermit admits, pulling your gaze to his flesh-made face with an immediate sadness.

“But I wouldn’t see the same,” he continues, making your breath catch in your throat. “He would have deserved it and you would have had all the reason to do it. Even if the weapon was less than honorable.”

You blink repeatedly and hum in response before you drop your gaze on the water's surface again and ask yourself if settling with someone understanding like Lord Kermit would be something you’d like, considering Cregan’s current position in these current affairs.

Lord Kermit is not ugly. He’s quite handsome with his fire-kissed hair and he’s a Lord and a Warden no less. He’s seen you fight so he wouldn't be against it, and he’s not afraid of Astraea, so settling for him wouldn’t be terrible. After all, you also have a duty to your family to restore your line now that most of it is gone. However…could Cregan really turn out to hate you so much that he wouldn’t consider a future with you anymore? After so much longing to be together and finally have the opportunity, would he really throw it away over a man who’s not even worth the fuss?

Are you really not worth that much to him?

“Tell me, Lord Kermit,” you interject in a much sweeter tone. “Has snow reached Riverrun?”

Lord Kermit is caught off guard by the sudden change in subject but he welcomes it and matches your energy right away. “Perhaps. I have not been home in some time. I imagine the winter snows have reached Riverrun by now…but I really wish it wouldn’t.”

“Oh?” You probe. “You prefer the rain?”

Lord Kermit chuckles and your lips pull to a smile.

“It’s not always raining, alright?” He retorts. “It's a common misconception.”

You smile wider and he continues. “There’s actually a lot of sun. I myself prefer the sun.”

You nod gently in comprehension before you cut in. “Me too. I love the sun, hot summer days by the sea or in the sea. I wish it would be summer now because then at least I could keep myself busy by diving.”

“Diving?” He questions and you nod excitedly.

“It’s fantastic and liberating. There’s so many secrets to uncover, and so many different sea creatures to meet. Even in rivers!” You point out with a grin as you’re filled with warm memories. “The world is truly endless underwater,” you muse and glance down at the water filling the fountain.

Lord Kermit hums with a sense of admiration before he interjects boldly. “Well then I’m sure you would be fond of the Riverlands, there's so many different waters to explore.”

Your smile falters but you don’t drop it even if it fades in your eyes, leaving them dull and uninterested. You’re about to give him a response, but you then catch the sound of footsteps and as if waiting for someone to come rescue you, you immediately drop the matter and snap your attention to the incomer, catching Cregan approaching with his gaze hardening on Lord Kermit.

“Lord Stark,” the young lord greets almost bregudgly

“Lord Tully,” said man responds and then glances at you expecting some kind of greeting, but you keep quiet, making him interject. “I see a lot of you as of late. Have you grown to like the Keep?”

Lord Kermit steals a glance at you as you keep your eyes pierced on Cregan as if you want to curse him or undress him with your eyes. Lord Kermit doesn’t realize that though so he just looks at you to gain his answer.

“I have grown quite fond of its beauty, yes,” he references you and Cregan catches it and sucks in the inside of his lip to try and keep from showing his emotions.

“Do you need something, Lord Stark?” You act clueless. “Lord Kermit was talking to me about the Riverlands.”

Cregan’s eyes drift to you and you hold his gaze and press him speechlessly.

“Well yes, I do, you are next for questioning,” he says what you already knew.

“You did not have to come all this way,” you taunt him, making him scoff.

“Well you left me no choice, you weren’t outside of the throne room,” he quips and you hum and then stand on your feet, but turn to Lord Kermit first as he mirrors your actions—“Thank you for keeping me company,” you tell the young lord and offer him a small curtsy, making him bow in response with a charming smile on his face.

“Thank you for letting me be in your company,” he redirects and tries to hold your gaze, but you quickly turn away and spare Cregan a glance before you walk ahead of him. He then tries to walk at your side but you speed up and fill the silence by talking to Ser Cane about nothing truly important, you just don't want to leave space for Cregan to talk to you.

When you reach the throne room, in the echoing silence you find yourself feeling nervous. Usually being with Cregan would calm down any unsettled nerves, but as of now being in his presence and knowing what he’s after without the guarantee that you’ll be supported no matter what makes you nervous. More so as he has the guards leave the room except for Ser Cane.

“We both know why you’re here, my Queen,” Cregan is the first to break the silence while you keep your back facing him as you slowly wander the room trying to prolong the matter—“there’s no use dancing around the question or the answer.”

You slowly peer at him over your shoulder and bat your lashes as you graze your finger on the wooden seat he has below the Iron Throne.

“Then ask what you’ve been dying to ask me, my Lord,” you quip and look away to start ascending the stairs that lead to the Iron Throne.

“Did you provide the poison to the King?” He asks, doing what he said, but you purposely prolong the silence by reaching the Iron Throne first and sitting down on the cold and hard seat.

You’ve never let yourself sit on the Iron Throne before; especially not when Aegon was king and not after he died. No matter how much you dreamed of sitting on it once upon a time, when you finally had the ability to do so you never could do it because it was a reminder of everything you lost for it. Now though…you sit on the throne not because you’ve grown an interest in it. You sit on the throne to tip the power scales back to you so Cregan remembers that you are the Queen Regent first and foremost.

“No,” you deadpan and don’t actually lie. You didn’t give Aegon the poison, you might have provided it for his murder but when it came down to it it was not you who slipped it in his wine.

“Hm,” Cregan hums in comprehension and slowly walks to the foot of the Iron Throne to be closer without climbing the steps. “You were his wife. You were closer to him more than anyone in this castle. You shared a marriage bed. You had the opportunity to see him whenever you desired. It would have been easy for you to slip the poison in his wine.”

Your lips droop to a deep frown whilst your eyes harden, but also start to slowly grow red as tears well up, making Cregan’s reflection clear as all your attention is on him.

“We were married under the eyes of The Seven, yes, but the marriage was never consummated,” you clarify. “He tried many times to consummate it, but after his injuries, he was not the same. So after a while of failures, he stopped summoning me to his private chambers.”

Cregan nods and probes further. “And you slept in different quarters?”

You scoff and nod stiffly. “After the death of his son at the beginning of the war, they had the King and the Queen sleep in different chambers, so no, we never shared the same quarters. We never shared a bed. I was his Queen because there’s no consummation needed to gain the title, but besides that, we were basically strangers.”

Cregan drops his head and lets out a deep breath before he continues. “You had more motive than anyone here to see him dead though. You were in the middle of a coup when he died too, so it would have been easier to slip him the poison. Or have others do it for you.”

You blink and draw out a small breath. “Perhaps, but what do you think, Lord Stark? You know it all, and you have gained all the testimony’s from the other suspects, so tell me now Lord Stark if you think it was me.” You sneer as you lower your chin to pierce your watery glare on him and await his answer.

“No more dancing around,” you press. “Tell me and then ask me directly.”

Cregan draws in a deep breath and you let out a shaky breath as you grip onto the throne so hard that the blades start to break your skin.

“I,” he parts his lips and looks into your eyes to find his answer in the eyes of the woman he loves more than life itself. And that’s what blurs his judgment. “I like to think you didn’t. Did you? Did you poison him?”

Based on his answer you draw in a deep breath and lie because what he expects is what he wants to hear. He doesn’t want to blame you, but he would and that’s what drives you to lie to the man you love.

“No, but if I had, did I not have every right to? After what I told you, from what you know, do I not have every damn reason to kill him in any way?” You remark and grip harder onto the Iron Throne, to the point blood begins to leak out of cuts growing deeper the tighter your grip gets. “Would it have mattered what weapon was used to kill the monster that ruined not only my life but everyone else’s? Tell me oh noble Stark.”

And with that Cregan’s rose-colored glasses fall from his eyes and he finally sees you, the woman he lived with for 5 five years. The fierce woman who wields a sword and walks through fire without getting burnt. He sees a fierce dragon in his midst and he starts to realize that he might be wrong about you and that you are more than likely lying.

“You were in the middle of a coup it’s not so outrageous that it could have been you,” he lets it be heard and you tilt your chin up and query.

“And since I was in the middle of a coup wouldn't it have been easier for me to slay him with my sword? So the masses could be witnesses?”

“Most of the Smallfolk hate you for the violence you used against them,” he counters right away, and you don’t stay quiet for a second. You hit him right back.

“And they hated my mother because she raised the taxes after their king's men stole the money. I am also a woman. After they killed my dragons I stopped caring about what they like or hate. They may cry a river and I would not bat an eye. I’m keeping them alive, that's all that matters.”

Cregan takes in what you spat and finds himself caught off guard by this change in you, but then again if he wasn’t letting his heart get in the way, your change wouldn’t be at all surprising.

“Proving you wouldn’t care if you used poison or not,” he rebuttals, making you sit back and tilt your head low to scowl.

“No,” you counter bluntly. “A weapon is a weapon. He was a monster,” you spat and cloud your vision. “He deserved what he got. He deserved more suffering actually, but he got his end so why can’t you just let him rot?” You hiss. “You defend him with so much passion because of your honor, but if you weren’t so blinded by it you would know what I do. You would see it in my eyes and the eyes of many, but you’re blind and it’s so easy to tell.”

You get up swiftly and storm down the steps. When you reach him, when your chest is grazing against his you tilt your head, glance at his lips, and then look him in the eye. “Believe me if you want to, I don’t care. He’s dead and my brother's life doesn’t hang in the balance anymore. I can breathe again. That’s all that matters to me.” You swallow thickly and he licks his lips before you shove past him and storm out of the throne room.

Once you’re at the door and the moment they open your grandfather walks up to meet you under the frame and grabs your shoulders.

“I will think about what your father and your grandmother would have wanted,” he whispers and for the first time in a long time, he presses a kiss on your forehead, showing you a kindness he hasn’t shown you in so long.

“Grandfather,” you whisper back but he lets you go and walks away. When you turn the doors close behind him, forcing you to wait where he left you with your bloody hands clasped, and your heart sinking.

The tears you were so against fall down your cheeks and when you try to wipe them off blood stains your face. The blood doesn’t even get to dry before the doors open and your grandfather walks out with his hands restrained and guards now holding onto him to make sure he doesn’t escape.

“Grandfather,” you cry and run over to grab his arms with more tears mixing with the stains of blood running down your cheeks. “What are you doing?” You direct at Cregan. “Let him go.”

The man you’re now looking at stares at you hard and then mutters. “He admitted to poisoning the King. His freedom will come when he’s dead now.”

You shake your head and your grandfather cuts in. “Hush now. You are Queen. Do not shed any tears for me, Your Grace. I did what I did for you and the good of the realm. There’s no shame in it.”

Your heart. The poor withered thing starts to hurt and you cry harder. You even look at Cregan with a heartbroken look. “Please don’t kill him. I demand it. I beg. Please.”

Cregan looks away and clenches his jaw as he finds your weeping too hurtful to bear. “It has to be done and your demands can’t overpower it. He dies tomorrow at sundown. You can say your goodbyes then. Let’s go,” he then directs at his guards and leaves no more room for arguing or pleading. He couldn’t stand it, and he knew prolonging the matter would only hurt more.

“Cregan,” his name comes out shakily from your lips and he hears it but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He can’t or he’d break.

——

*THE NEXT DAY*

With mustered excitement, you shift from one foot to the other as you watch Rhaena, at last, descend her dragon after almost a year of not seeing her.

With fewer friends to talk to even though the Red Keep is buzzing with people, finally having someone you know you can confide in and a shoulder to cry on is like a light breaking in the darkness. Albeit you don’t run to her right away, you let her reunite with her sister. You let them enjoy their own moment before you finally depart from your spot and run to her to greet her with an embrace.

“Rhaena,” you whisper out in relief and hold onto her tightly.

Said girl returns your tight embrace and whispers your name too before she immediately expresses her condolences. “I am so sorry about what happened. I am so sorry about Rhaenyra. I should have been with you all. I’m so sorry.”

She pulls back to grab your arms and look you in the eye with pity and grief of her own. “Will you forgive me?” She asks.

Your breath shudders and your eyes sting as you immediately offer her relief by nodding. “Of course, but there was nothing to forgive anyway.”

She draws out a heavy breath that seems to have been weighing her down and lets her eyes linger on you for a moment before she steps back to look at her sister. “Now what is it I hear about the two of you being at odds with each other? Now when we’re supposed to be at our strongest?”

Both Baela and you avert your gaze out of shame and stiffen as the tension is quick to slip around you.

“I know what happened, you had opposing mindsets on the matter, but the sin was committed and our family was eradicated, forgive each other or live the rest of your lives like Rhaenyra and her brothers did,” Rhaena scolds you both and pinches your arms, making you roll your head down and then slowly bring your eyes up to meet Baela’s shameful gaze.

“I’m sorry, Baela,” you interject first. “That’s all I can offer you because if I said I regretted what I did then I would be lying and I don’t want to lie, so I’m sorry.”

Baela rubs her offended area and sighs deeply before she also directs her apology at you. “I hope you forgive me too. I shouldn’t have let it go on for as long as I did. I am sorry.”

Her bottom lip begins to tremble and yours quickly does the same. Before either of you could be seen shedding a tear though, you step in for an embrace and shed your tears then, when you’re both out of sight.

“Thank you,” you mumble and cling onto her. “For forgiving me.”

Baela rubs your back in response and you linger in the embrace for a moment longer before you pull away and face the twins. “Do you want to go see Aegon?” You direct at Rhaena, and she immediately looks at you puzzled.

“What about our grandfather? What are we going to do to stop Lord Stark from killing him? Lady Arryn told me about the letter Alyn sent. Does Lord Stark really want to fight another war?”

“He’s eager to keep shedding blood,” Baela grumbles whilst you sigh and then try to offer her some consolation.

“I will talk to Lord Stark soon, do not worry…” you trail off as you don’t have much confidence in yourself, but you still try to be positive on the matter. In response, the twins share a look and you think it’s because they catch your own doubt, but they start to giggle.

“What?” You probe.

They share a knowing look and leave you clueless as they grab your arms and lead you back inside. However, perhaps you should have stayed outside, or gone a completely other way to visit Aegon because on your way there, in a corridor that overlooks one of the many training yards, your heart crushes at the sight of Cregan talking to Lady Alyssane Blackwood.

They’re talking close to each other, closer than they need to be. Not as close as Cregan and you tend to talk, but so close you could know each other's scents and pick them apart.

As to what could have brought them so close, you don’t know, you wouldn’t know either, but you begin to wonder about it. The thoughts are so plaguing that it’s hard to think about anything else but him sharing his warmth with her the same way he would share his warmth with you. You think about him letting her hear him laugh his deep rich laugh that so easily brings a smile to your face. You think about his pale and soft lips belonging to her and no longer letting you be the only person to know how they taste. You think about the tender way he loves even though he has a cold exterior.

You think about him and her and ask yourself why he shouldn’t find his happiness elsewhere? You thought about settling down with someone else if he can no longer find a way to love you, so why shouldn’t he also find his happiness?

He should!

You don’t want him to be happy with anyone else, but he should be happy with someone else who isn’t you if that’s what he wants…

Alas, that’s not what’s important when the time comes to meet up. You had every need to go down to the courtyard and interrupt him and Black Aly, but you controlled your intrusive thoughts and remained with your cousins and the children until it was time to talk to Cregan.

Even then the twisted and jealous part of you expected Black Aly to be at his side, but when he met up with you he came alone.

“Your Grace,” he greets with a bow.

You draw in a small breath and offer him a simple greeting. “Lord Stark, I’m glad you came.”

He scoffs. “Of course, I came. You summoned me, my Queen.”

A warmth unfurls over your cheeks and a smile threatens to spread on your lips, but you manage to keep it away and instead move to the side to point him toward your favorite secret spot. “Walk with me?” You ask and he nods right away, letting you face your sworn protector.

“Stay here, Ser,” you command him, but you see his hesitation right away, making you quickly try and reassure him. “Don't worry, Lord Stark will be my companion, if anything happens he will protect me.”

Ser Cane’s eyes fall on said lord and they turn heavy as he passes him doubt. Not because he doesn’t trust him, but because he’s seen you cry over him and you’re the most important thing to Ser Cane.

“I swear I would never let any harm come to her,” Cregan also assures him. “Rest easy good Ser.”

Ser Cane hesitates some more, but he doesn’t disobey, he steps back and he lets you and Cregan walk off alone, causing tension to fall over you and Cregan as you both take in the fact that you’re alone and no one will be a witness to your conversation. It will be like when you were young and sneaking off to find some discreet place where you wouldn’t be caught.

“Should I expect Lord Kermit to be at the end of this trail, or have him interrupt us?” Cregan breaks the silence to be cheeky.

“Why would he?” You remark and look back at him over your shoulder, catching him looking at you annoyed.

“Because he always seems to be around you…” he mutters and lets his voice get drowned out by the crashing waves that grow louder the further downhill you get.

“No, not true. It only seems that way because you come to find me when we happen to be talking,” you defend yourself right away so he doesn’t get the wrong idea even though yesterday you were making him jealous on purpose—“but we’re not here to talk about him.”

“Good,” Cregan quips, causing the corner of your lips to twitch to a smile that’s fleeting as the weight of why you brought him here grows heavier.

“Why did you bring me all the way out here?” He presses as his eyes wander the sunless horizon and the never-ending sea drifting a cold breeze that adds to the already icy wind—“Is this…the spot you would come to with your husband?”

You scoff and shake your head. “No. Well we would come here together on occasion but this is not our spot, this is my spot. I would come train here with my sword…” you trail off before more memories can come along and dampen the mood you set to ask what you need from him.

“Ah, so this is the spot? Hm. Couldn’t have imagined it any differently.”

You huff at his comment and then proceed to welcome the silence, letting it linger until you finally reach the platform and you’re faced by the mighty sea and a rather white cloudy sky that threatens to drop snow on the dry lands. Behind you is a staircase that leads back to the Red Keep, green hills, and Cregan who soaks in your presence like one would soak the sun in their pores.

There’s no need for the sun when he’s with you though, that much he knows for certain.

As to why you brought him here? He knows that too, but he keeps basking in the sight of you for a moment longer. Besides, you also seem to be in agreement with maintaining the tranquility because you remain unmoving with your eyes focused on the body of water. It’s not until Cregan falls beside you that you break your gaze away from the horizon and slowly look at him with softened eyes already brimming with salty tears, and downturned lips already spilling your plea.

“I know…what my grandfather admitted to was wrong, but Cregan,” you say his name ever so softly, in the way you always say it when you’re aching deeply and want nothing more but his comfort. “You can’t kill him,” you beg. You don’t demand a thing. You beg him.

He hears that clinging onto your shaky voice and drops his head while he mutters your name. “I can’t spare him because of what he means to you. That’s not fair. He’s still a traitor,” he presses. “He should die a traitor's death just like everyone else.”

You nod your head. “I know. I know what he did, but you know what Alyn will do if you kill him. He will bring more war, more blood, and more destruction.”

He swallows thickly and his eyes harden. “There’s worse ways to die. Winter is here,” he insists and you hold his gaze as your mind races with what to say next. A way to get him to agree and not commend someone you love to death.

“If you kill him…you will have to kill me,” you blurt and try to spark a fire in your eyes, but your ferocity at this very moment is nowhere to be found. You’re not mad, you are passionate about saving your grandfather, but right now, with Cregan you feel desperate.

“I was a part of the plan to kill Aegon. I organized the council and plotted and schemed so if you kill my grandfather then you will have to put me to the sword too,” your voice shakes and he looks at you with disbelief as if he was already committing the act.

“No, no, do not say that,” he hisses. “Do not put me in that position because…you know what you are to me,” he finishes off softly, letting you approach him to grab his forearms and bring each other closer.

“I will lay down my life with his,” you press. “People will pay to see it and I…will be better off because of it—”

“Why would you say that?” He cuts you off.

Tears roll down your cheeks and you shrug. “I told you,” you speak softly. “I died with my mother. Aegon took all the meaning from my life.”

Cregan’s eyebrows knit together and his grey eyes glisten. “Am I not meaning enough?” He asks with a vulnerability you take into account.

“You are, but I cannot bring myself to keep dragging you around. You,” you pause and think back to what you saw. “You deserve to have a good life with someone who does not bring so much drama and such a heavy burden of grief. I…I’m broken, Cregan. You deserve someone stronger who doesn’t cry all the time because lately, that’s all I can do. You…”

“I,” he continues for you. “I want you. I have wanted you since the moment we met. The moment you had to leave, and even now. You are not a burden, and your grief is normal after what you went through. I don’t like that you think that way about yourself.”

You look at him with hurt and he brings his hands up to cup your cheeks, making your breath hitch.

“I want you my darling love,” he whispers against your lips. “Say you want me and…I will give you what you want. Say you will marry me at long last and be my wife, and what you want is yours. Come home with me so the gods don’t break us apart again.”

You didn’t confess to actually providing the poison, and maybe he has an idea, or maybe doesn’t. You don’t know and you’ll never know. That’s a secret you’re willing to take to the grave so he’ll continue loving you.

“I want to be your wife,” you assure him and begin to smile through your tears. “I want to go home with you.”

A wobbly grin breaks on his face and he leans in to the point his lips graze against yours, but he doesn’t kiss you. “I will kiss you again when you become mine under the eyes of the old gods.”

You giggle. “Is that so? We do share a child together,” you share teasingly, causing him to gasp and back away to face you with disbelief.

“I will never be truly certain,” you continue sweeter. “And her name will never change for her safety and my own, but Daenerys is yours. I don’t know how it's possible for Daenys to be Aemond’s, and Daenerys to be yours, but I know it in my gut that Daenerys is yours. She has your eyes.”

“She does?” He asks breathlessly, and you nod.

“Grey like a brewing storm.”

He laughs softly and you close the gap between you to press your hands on his chest. “Come meet her tomorrow?”

“Why not tonight?” He asks impatiently.

You sigh. “I need to talk to Baela and Rhaena. I want to get married here so what’s left of my family is present,” you explain. “After that, we can leave. I want to leave. And when we do I won’t be here to be regent, meaning Aegon will be left alone. I need to make sure he’s not left defenseless.”

Cregan hums. “I would offer a longer stay but the longer we do stay, the harder it will be to get home with winter upon us.”

You nod in comprehension since it was already something you expected.

“So it’s fine if we get married here?” You query as you stroke his chest. “I know the Godswood isn’t as beautiful as the one in Winterfell, but is it fine?”

He nods without hesitation and offers you a sly smile. “We’ll have two ceremonies. One here and one at home.”

You smile brightly and he quickly cups your jaw and looks at you with a love-struck gaze. “I missed you,” he says as he admires your smile.

“I missed you too,” you redirect before you wrap your arms around him and pull him for an embrace that he immediately returns, causing tears to come rushing to your eyes.

“Cregan,” you mewl as the weight of comfort hits you. “My mother is gone.”

“I know, my darling love,” he coos against your head. “I know. I’m sorry.”

——

*LATER*

With your grandfather spared, the weight of guilt no longer sits on your shoulders, and the strain of more heartache no longer endangers your heart. There was a threat of war if Cregan harmed your grandfather, but now that's no longer in your midst so everyone can take a deep breath. Only worry lingered as Cregan put the men who helped you get rid of Aegon to the sword, but pleading you to spare their lives is not the same as exposing your part in the entire plan, so you turned a blind eye and watched them die in the evening under the rain.

After that worry still tensed you up as you had to talk to your cousins about leaving everyone and everything behind. And you do wish that your reasons for leaving were as simple as just marrying Cregan and becoming the Lady of Winterfell, but the truth is your reasons for leaving are a bit more selfish than that. That’s why it’s so hard bringing up the matter when it’s just the three of you alone.

Then again it's hard to talk about any matter. There's a lot to talk about but it all seems wrong to bring up, so maybe bringing up your matter to break the silence will be relieving.

“I have to share something,” you finally push yourself to interject and raise your eyes to watch Rhaena stop braiding Baela’s hair.

“In exchange for sparing our grandfather's life today, Cregan told me to marry him.”

A smile quickly pulls on Rhaena’s face but when she doesn’t see you smile her lips slowly begin to droop.

“I obviously agreed not only to spare our grandfather's life but because I do love him,” you pause and Baela presses impatiently.

“But?”

“I’ll be leaving with him back to Winterfell the moment he leaves,” you reveal and swallow back nervously and quickly continue before they can ask the loaded question. “That means leaving Aegon behind and it breaks my heart having to leave him behind, but…I can’t continue living here. Everywhere I look, every corner I find myself to be reminds me of Aemond, and if it’s not him it’s my brothers, and if it’s not them it’s my mother. I'm being tortured every minute of my life and I,” you gasp. “I don't think that I can continue carrying on like this. I can’t,” you breathe out and slap your hands on your thighs. “So I have to leave, I have to abandon my title as regent and I have to abandon Aegon.”

“But,” Baela quickly argues. “Aegon is still a child. He can’t rule yet. Who will rule in his stead until he becomes of age? Who will protect him if not you and your dragon?”

You sigh and mutter your response. “The two of you, or either one of you. You are also Daemon’s daughters, and Rhaena has Morning. You’re strong too, you have the fire to be Regent, don’t underestimate yourselves.”

Baela and Rhaena share a look but you drop your head before you can know what it means.

“I will continue being Aegon’s sister but I can’t be his mother, nor can I be Regent. I…can’t…I’m sorry.”

They respond with silence, making your stomach knit together as you think that they’ll hate you for putting this burden on them, but then the sound of clicking heels echoes in the silence, and when you look up you catch Rhaena approaching you before she throws her arms around you.

“It’s not just your burden to bear, so don’t feel guilty for leaving. We’re here, we will look out after Aegon in your stead because we’re his sisters too,” Rhaena assures you and also seems to be scolding you for thinking so selfishly as if you don’t share Aegon as a brother.

“Yes,” Baela follows along before she walks over and joins you and Rhaena with an embrace. “You can leave the realm to us. We will make sure he’s not picked apart by vultures.”

You scoff lightheartedly and return their hug with more force than the one they’re using. “Thank you,” you offer them softly. “Thank you for understanding.”

“You get married to your barbarian,” Baela teases. “And expand our blood there.”

You giggle and nod. “Yes, yes, I will.”

With that said, with neither of them reprimanding you for leaving, the knot in your stomach comes undone and it doesn’t feel like you’re going to puke or give out with all the weight. You’re put at ease—or you feel as tranquil as you can feel with everything else still tormenting you.

At least you can go on with your wedding without guilt. You acknowledge that leaving Aegon and abandoning your title as Regent is selfish, but you didn't see a future if you went on as you were. It’s depressing to admit, but it’s true. And leaving it all behind won’t heal you, all the pain will follow you, but if you leave there is no endless abyss, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and perhaps the most selfish reason of them all; Cregan.

After so much yearning there’s finally no obstacles, no other uncle coming in the middle and breaking you apart. At long last you can meet under the great, vibrant Heart Tree and become one.

Getting to that day did take a while, there’s so much to deal with after a war is over, but once The Reach, Casterly Rock, Storm’s End, and Old Town accepted your terms and swore fealty, and once Alyn was no longer a threat, you finally came to the day of your wedding. And given that this will be your third time getting married you shouldn’t be nervous, but fuck, knowing that the man you love is waiting at the other end of that aisle is nerve-wracking.

“Are you ready?” You recognize your grandfather's voice before you see him approaching you—“Third time is the charm right?” He tries to ease your nerves. And you do laugh, but your nerves don’t disappear.

“I’m ready,” you assure him and draw out a deep breath.

Your grandfather reaches you as you stand a few feet away from the Godswood, and looks at you up and down before he parts his lips. “You look absolutely beautiful.”

Your breath catches and your gaze softens. Before you can thank him for the compliment he continues.

“My wish about Aerion being my heir and my ward still stands if that’s what you want.”

You blink in surprise and stand dumbfounded for a moment before you breathe out and nod softly. “Yes, of course. Once he’s old enough I’ll take him to you.”

“Good,” he says quietly. “I’m glad, I thought I had ruined my chance after I stood against you when you needed me the most.”

You gulp a thick lump and then shake your head. “You stood by your morals. I was mad but I can’t blame you. We’re headstrong. That’s how we are as Velaryon’s, right?”

He chuckles and nods. “That’s exactly right. You continue to be headstrong, little siren. Keep fighting. Live your life as you please in the North. It’s what your father and your grandmother would have wanted.”

Tears fill your eyes and you nod in comprehension. “I’ll teach Aerion everything my father taught me about ships and sailing. I’ll teach him everything you taught my father and my father taught me,” you assure him in a shaky voice. “I’ll make it a bit easier on you.”

Tears fill the eyes of the great and fearsome Sea Snake as he nods gently in comprehension. “That would be great.”

You draw in a shaky breath and he points to the Godswood and asks one more time. “Are you ready?”

You draw out a deep breath and let your tears dry out before you agree one more time and make your way to Cregan.

Now every breath and every step that you take brings you closer to him. Bit by bit your thumping heart grows louder in your ears as it beats harder with every ba-dum. Your running breaths grow unsettled as the thought of him unravels your mind, and it feels like you’ll grow mad until at last you enter the Godswood and meet his intense grey eyes under the clear blue winter sky.

He’s so beautiful. So god-like in his best fur, his most expensive leathers, and with that perfectly structured face. Even if you saw him the night before, the very sight of him leaves you swooning as if this is the first time seeing him in your life.

And he could say the same thing about you, but he has so much more to say. His heart almost feels like it stopped the moment his eyes finally find you in your rich long-sleeved grey-white silk dress adorned with beautiful gold designs that match your golden circlet. He swears a Valyrian goddess is walking toward him with the way your cloak shaped like dragon wings embraces you, and the sun seems to shine just for you.

He always knew you were beautiful, more beautiful than anything his eyes have seen, but right now, as you approach him you are truly angelic, divine, and mystical. You are every kind of beauty people use to describe goddesses.

It makes it so easy to get lost in one another when you both think like that about each other. You can’t begin to care about something so mundane as time, what’s surrounding you, and who are all the souls watching your eyes glimmering under the sight of one another because you’re so lost in your own world that none of it matters, just you and him, two hearts and two souls at long last joining together after so much longing.

Now nothing can tear you apart. You are one in it all except in what truly matters, physically, but little by little the barrier of space grows thinner and thinner as you walk to him under the Heart Tree until only thin barriers keep you apart.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this afternoon?” Cregan interjects, sending chills down your spine.

Your grandfather then proceeds to speak your name and hesitates for a second before he continues. “…of the House Velaryon. Whoms here to be wed. A woman grown. True born and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Cregan steps up and bows his head. “Cregan of House Stark. Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Who gives her?”

You keep your eyes on Cregan and he spares a glance at your grandfather, but he comes back to you as if afraid something will take you out of his sight just as you're mere moments away from becoming man and wife.

“Lord Corlys of House Velaryon, grandfather to the bride,” he gives his response and then turns to face you. “My Queen Regent, will you take this man?”

Your eyes flicker to your grandfather to offer him a sweet smile before you let him go and step forward to give your response without hesitation. “I take this man.”

The corner of Cregan’s lips lift to a blissful smile and you mirror him before you at last break the last barriers of space keeping you apart and join hands.

Once again, even if you have felt his warmth and his hard hands before, feeling them now in this instance feels like the first time. A small shock even passes between your fingers when you touch hands, but it’s quickly forgotten when you walk to the Heart Tree and bow before it.

You are now supposed to bow your heads in submission, but before you can you and Cregan hold each other's gaze and smile at each other before you bow and spend a few more minutes in silence.

When Cregan is done praying, he looks to you, and you look to him and stand back on your feet. He proceeds to let your hand go, welcoming a chilly breeze against your palm so he can grab a fur cloak with his house sigil. He is supposed to take your own maiden's cloak off but since you’re not a maiden, and you were previously married, he doesn’t take anything off. He proceeds to put his cloak over your shoulders, signifying him taking you under his protection and taking you into his family, making you man and wife. You are now one. At long last!

It’s a special moment that will be unforgettable. It’s a joyous moment! Blissful, and almost relieving, like you can finally breathe.

You get drunk off those feelings and live on like that until the moment you reach your new and forever home. Not because you regret marrying Cregan and becoming the Lady of Winterfell. You’ll never regret that. You take in the ancient castle resting just past the snow-covered hill, and you’re hit with a wave of melancholy as you think about everything that happened in the past two years that brought you to this moment.

Astraea is burdened with the same wave of emotions so a melancholy song that’s mistaken for bliss from everyone but you is what welcomes you home.

A/N- TWO CHAPTERS LEFT!!!

Tagged- @namelesslosers @stargaryenx @chainsawsangel @lauftivy @winxschester @cloudroomblog @llarue @padsdarlg @sofietargaryen @gracielikegrapes @dreaming-of-the-reality @itzelpeyton @patdsinner33 @mrsdominickstark @elaena-aerrin @todoroki-slut @snh96 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @nifujiswhore @sweethoneyblossom1 @kaetastic @lightdragonrayne @squidscottjeans @oh-you-mean-me @wallacewillow0773638 @icefrye19 @thescottpack @fiction-fanfic-reader @crazymusicgirl104 @r-3dlips @strangersunghoon @just-pure-trash @ethereal-athalia @missyviolet123 @callsignwidow @xunquish-blog @tabathastan @weepingfashionwritingplaid @answer-the-sirens @silverlightsaber @rosey1981 @amortentiaaaa

78 notes · View notes

butlervibesonly · 2 days ago

Note

Queen of my heart, my fluff Queen. I love angst but it’s almost New Years so I have two ideas. But the main idea would be that reader and Austin get to spend New Year’s Eve together at a party with his friends, watch the fireworks together, have dinner. It can either be fluff or angst however you like it. 🤭🤭🤭

𝑁𝑒𝑤 𝑦𝑒𝑎𝑟’𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 | Austin Butler

• NOTE: This is for my girl @eternal-love, thank you for this beautiful idea as I was loosing hope to write anything 😭 Hope you’re going to like it, my queen!

• WARNINGS: kissing, flirting , typos

• PAIRING: Austin Butler x female reader

The house is so alive with talking and laughter as the New Year’s Eve party is in full swing. Everything is festively decorated, while the dining table is overflowed with plates of food and glasses of bubbly drinks.

You and Austin arrive hand in hand, greeted warmly by some of Austin’s friends who mostly host this party. As much as Austin wants to pay attention to his friends who he hasn’t seen in years, he can’t stop admiring you. You look effortlessly stunning, your sparkly dress catching the light and reflecting it perfectly.

As the dinner is served, group is now crowded around the table. Stories are shared between y'all, drinks clink, and laughter echoes through the room. Austin sits beside you, lovingly lost in the melody of your voice as you talk and share stories with the others.

After a while you get up to use the restroom. His gaze follows you, lingering on the way your dress sways as you walk and the way they hug your body more than perfectly. He doesn't realize how obvious he is until a voice breaks through his thoughts.

“Woah, could you stare any harder, Butler?” one of his friends teased, smirking. Another friend joins in. “Pretty sure you could melt that poor girl with that look.” Austin chuckles, shrugging his shoulders. “Can y’all be any surprised? She’s amazing.”

“Amazing enough that you’ve barely touched your food, Austin,” his friend says, pointing to his half-finished plate. The teasing goes on for a while, all in good fun, and Austin takes it with laughter, though his eyes always find you, chatting with some girlfriends of his friends. When you come back with a plate of desserts, you look at him curiously. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Austin says quickly, his hand travelling to rub your bare back, which is due to cut of your stunning dress. The others burst into laughter. “Don’t lie! He can’t take his eyes off of you, Y/n!” one of them shouts, and you glance between them, smiling.

After dinner, everyone moves outside. The cold winter air hits your face and you shiver a little. You all find a good spot at the garden with a perfect view of the nearby fireworks show, which is set to begin as the new year approaches.

Austin wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close to him to protect you from the chill. You, without a doubt, lean into him, head resting lightly against his chest.

“You’ve been acting suspicious tonight,” you say softly, tilting your head up to look at him. “Have I?” Austin asks, his voice teasing. “Yeah,” you reply with a shy smile. “What’s on your mind?”

“Just you,” he says. The way his voice drops makes your cheeks warm, despite the cold.

The countdown begins, as the crowd around both of you joins in unison. “Ten! Nine! Eight!” The first fireworks shoot into the sky, blossoming into all types of colors. Yours and Austin’s eyes reflect the bursts of light as you guys stay locked on each other.

When the final “Happy New Year!” echoes around you, Austin touches your cheek gently, pulling your lips to his to give you that sweet kiss he has been craving for the whole evening. “Happy New Year, baby. I’m so grateful I got to start it with you.”

You smile widely, your eyes sparkling. “Happy New Year,” Both of you stay there for a moment, the world almost fading away as the fireworks paint the sky. Your lips meet again, in a kiss that is now soft and slow.

As the sky continues to light up, Austin leans his forehead against yours and grins. “You know what – they were right.”

“About what?” you ask. “I really can’t keep my eyes off you.” Austin revealed and you laugh loudly, cheeks turning pink again. “Well, lucky for you. At least they know I belong to you and you only.” With this Austin smirks, pulling you even closer if that is even possible.

You both keep watching fireworks, which are almost an exact definition of what's happening to your heart thanks to Austin, wrapped in each other's embrace, ready to take on the new year together.

#austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler imagine #austin butler x reader #austin butler x you #austin butler x y/n #austin butler fandom #austinbutler #austin butler fic #austin butler imagines

71 notes · View notes

accio-victuuri · 3 days ago

Text

「 I AM NOT HERE 」 clowning post part iv. aka the main candy compilation now that we have the whole song. here’s part one & two & three for reference which are very short ones.

before we dive into the cpns, i wanna congratulate yibo for another exceptional song! the lyrics are so good and his voice??? his voice??? you all know the part i’m talking about— it’s singer yibo!

let’s start with this ⬆️⬆️⬆️ i think the side by side photo is self explanatory. you have xz drawing the mountains and yibo integrating himself into it and became the mountain himself. i like this whole concept of him being in nature, being all around this person even if he is not there physically as himself. this is so special too considering we always clown about them loving camping & hiking — and other outdoorsy stuff. it may be that nature reminds yibo of those happy times they spend together exploring that environment.

now let’s move on to a very yizhan-y interpretation of the song…

1. some fans have pointed out that it’s 2000 days since the 12.28 tencent starlight awards where they were together. it was post-cql and them going into new roles — a start of well, more complicated times, but they had each other. i don’t really believe too much in these anniversary cpns but i will just leave this here.

2. comparing the water theme & mountains from xz’s photoshoot before that had us all going 🥵🥵🥵, it matches the imagery from yibo’s song.

3. the official description of the song provided by music platforms gave a solid perspective of what it is all about & it’s not far off what we think it is when the teaser/s came out.

“I" is rooted in this land, connected by veins, and time and space are close to each other. "I" live in symbiosis with the mountain, breathe with you, and experience the ups and downs of life. We go through the ups and downs with all things, so the green mountains are flat, and "I" is always present.

I am here, a dialogue with the world. I AM NOT HERE, but I will always be there. This is what "I’m here" is all about. So darling, DON'T BE CRYING, Because this song is a symphony between you and me.

Let me just sit and think about this. It’s such a beautiful meaning. Their love goes beyond the romantic and it’s real. You can see it all around you.

4. Time to dissect the first half of the lyrics 🎶

Many years later // Where will I turn back and look? // Holding flowers I've never seen before // Facing toward you

this reminds us of their first meeting in the field of flowers. out of all the things he can start with, why this? also the graphics for xz’s album is an eternal flower. if we look at it further, it’s more than the literal sense too. the flower he hasn’t seen is this new feeling and having this one person that is became so important to him. the first line is also telling, cause it’s like he is looking back at that moment, many years later, out of all his time, that time is what he wants to recall.

Waving my hand // Don't stay on the lonely island // I'll become a small boat to take you to find the oasis

we knew of this line already and it’s still so romantic. it’s this person who is alone but wyb wants to take him away and help him find that oasis. oftentimes, people tend to have that selfish type of love where they want the other to be isolated. but yibo is not like that. he wants to take the person outside, see the world and fins that happiness together. and him being a small boat is too cute! like he knows he is not that strong but he will do his best to make a difference in his (xz) life and give him freedom & happiness.

My heart enters the mountains / My body sinks into the sea / All to reunite with you and return

the integration of himself with nature. how he has to sink into the sea so he can reunite with that person.

5. second part of the lyrics 🙌🏼. just a disclaimer that he had someone working with him to create this song and the lyrics, but that doesn’t mean he had 0 input. we all know how yibo is at this point and something as personal as his year-end song definitely had his approval with every line.

Falling, scattering into dust

And then being reborn

Pointing at the fireworks

in the sky, never fading

Are you there?

You just need not cry

You just need to bloom

And I will never leave

Don't be crying x 3

You don't need to wait

I'm here

Don't be crying

i am weak for that first line, the thought of scattering into dust and being reborn. that’s some eternal love right there! we have reincarnation cpn at some point in the fandom so that feeds into that. the idea of yibo believing in that kind of love, never ending, not even in death makes me feel some type of way 🥹🥹🥹

next up is the imagery of fireworks. something he seems to be fond off per that video ybo shared before. also connect that to when xz was watching the fireworks during shooting wrap.

then it moves into him telling the person to not cry, you just need to bloom and he will never leave. I have explained the very real cpn about this whole crying thing before and it’s such a sweet sentiment! it’s a simple and honest promise, i will not make you cry. you just have to do what you want. yibo is there and will support xz as he succeeds (blooms).

and the last part is the nail in the coffin. you don’t need to wait, i’m here.

well who do we know at some point said that waiting is romantic?

hmmmmm. xiao zhan 🥰🥰🥰🥰

waiting. this word is very charming, it encourages people to expect. if you told me, someone is waiting for me, i would feel very moved. whether it’s my parents, or my lover, i feel that “waiting” is a very romantic word; to have something beautiful in the future waiting.

so this is yibo’s answer. you don’t have to. I’m here.

I hope everyone is having a fun weekend right now! listening to this new song, watching ETU and later follow yibo along at an event 🥂

-END

#yizhan #bjyx #there is no science here i’m just clowning like i always do

134 notes · View notes

wandering-winchesters · 2 days ago

Text

First Moments: I love you

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader Summary: The first time I love you's are exchanged. Requested: @roseblue373 A/N: This was completely inspired by the above Gif.

The vampire nest was supposed to be easy—a clean job, quick and quiet. At least, that was the plan when you and Dean Winchester had rolled into town two days ago. The intel suggested maybe half a dozen vamps, tops. It was the kind of hunt that Dean had shrugged off with his usual cocky smirk and a “Piece of cake.” And you… well, you’d trusted him, because trusting Dean had become second nature, no matter how much it scared you sometimes.

Now, standing in the aftermath of a bloodbath, you weren’t sure whether you wanted to punch him or patch him up first.

Dean leaned heavily against the crumbling brick wall of the warehouse, his breathing ragged. Blood streaked his face and neck, some of it his and some of it… not. The torn collar of his jacket revealed a series of lipstick-shaped bruises on his skin, the telltale marks of a close call with a particularly persistent vamp. You could still feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins from when you’d staked her, barely in time to keep her fangs from sinking into Dean’s throat.

“You okay?” you asked, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice as you wiped your blade clean on your jeans.

Dean gave you that infuriating smirk, though it was weaker than usual. “Takes more than a love bite to take me down.” His voice was strained, but the humor was still there, always his default shield.

“This isn’t funny, Dean,” you snapped, your hands clenching into fists. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed. What the hell were you thinking?”

His smirk faltered, and for a moment, he looked away, his jaw tightening. “I was thinking I’d rather take the hits than let you get hurt,” he muttered, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it.

The words stopped you in your tracks. Anger and worry warred in your chest as you stared at him, your pulse thundering in your ears. “That’s not your call to make,” you said, stepping closer. “We’re supposed to be a team, Dean. You don’t get to play hero and leave me to pick up the pieces.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and the vulnerability in his green eyes made your breath hitch. “It’s just how I’m wired, alright?” he said, running a hand through his blood-matted hair. “I can’t… I can’t lose you.”

The raw honesty in his voice knocked the wind out of you. Dean Winchester didn’t talk about feelings, not unless he was three drinks deep and barely holding it together. But here he was, laying it bare in the middle of a vampire nest, his blood staining the ground beneath him.

“Dean,” you said softly, your anger ebbing away. “You’re not gonna lose me. But you’ve gotta stop trying to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. We do this together, or not at all.”

He nodded, the fight draining out of him. “Yeah, alright.” But the way he said it made you think he didn’t quite believe it.

The drive back to the motel was quiet, save for the low hum of the Impala’s engine and the occasional hiss of pain from Dean as he shifted in his seat. You kept your eyes on the road, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary to keep your hands from shaking. The image of Dean, bloodied and battered, kept replaying in your mind, and it took everything in you not to let the tears that threatened to fall win.

Back at the motel, you set Dean down at the edge of the bed and rummaged through the first aid kit. He watched you silently, his expression unreadable, as you pulled out gauze, antiseptic, and bandages. When you turned back to him, he was already shrugging off his jacket, wincing as the movement pulled at a gash on his arm.

“Let me,” you said, kneeling in front of him. He didn’t argue, for once, and the fact that he didn’t made your chest ache even more.

You worked in silence, cleaning and dressing his wounds with practiced efficiency. Dean flinched occasionally but didn’t complain, his eyes fixed on a spot over your shoulder. When you reached the bruises on his neck, your hand hesitated, the anger you’d been holding back bubbling to the surface again.

“You scared the hell out of me tonight,” you said quietly, your voice thick with emotion.

Dean’s gaze snapped to yours, his brows knitting together. “I’m sorry,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice nearly undid you. “I didn’t mean to…” He trailed off, looking down at his hands.

“You never do,” you said, finishing with the bandage and sitting back on your heels. “But you can’t keep doing this, Dean. You can’t keep throwing yourself into danger like your life doesn’t matter.”

He didn’t respond right away, his jaw working as he processed your words. Finally, he looked up, and the raw emotion in his eyes took your breath away. “It’s not that my life doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s that yours matters more.”

The weight of his confession settled between you, heavy and unspoken. You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. How could they, when everything you wanted to say felt too big, too messy for this moment?

Instead, you reached up, your hand brushing against his cheek. His eyes closed at the contact, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. When his gaze met yours again, something had shifted, something unspoken passing between you.

“Dean,” you began, your voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to do this alone. You don’t have to carry everything by yourself.”

He swallowed hard, his hand coming up to cover yours where it rested against his cheek. “I don’t know how to do it any other way,” he admitted, his voice breaking.

“Then let me help you,” you said, your heart pounding in your chest. “Let me be there for you, the way you’re always there for me.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, his eyes searching yours. And then, finally, he nodded, his fingers tightening around yours. “Okay,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Okay.”

The rest of the night passed in a blur of exhaustion and quiet companionship. Dean eventually fell asleep, his head resting against your shoulder as you sat on the edge of the bed. You stayed awake, watching over him, your mind racing with everything that had been left unsaid.

It was a week later, on another hunt, when everything finally came to a head.

This time, it was a wendigo, and once again, the plan had gone sideways. Dean had pushed you out of the way of a swipe meant for you, taking the brunt of the attack himself. You’d managed to take the thing down, but not before Dean had been thrown into a tree, leaving him bruised and dazed.

Back at the motel, you’d had enough.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you demanded, pacing the room as Dean sat on the bed, holding an ice pack to his ribs. “Do you have some kind of death wish, or are you just that stupid?”

“I was trying to protect you,” he shot back, his voice rising to match yours. “What do you want me to do, just stand there and let you get hurt?”

“Yes!” you yelled, the word bursting out before you could stop it. “I’d rather get hurt than watch you kill yourself trying to save me, Dean. Don’t you get that?”

He froze, his eyes wide as he stared at you. The room went silent, the air heavy with tension.

“Why?” he asked finally, his voice low and rough. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

Your chest tightened, your heart pounding as you met his gaze. “Because I love you, you idiot,” you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I love you, and I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his expression unreadable. And then, to your surprise, he laughed—a soft, disbelieving sound that made your stomach twist.

“You’re serious,” he said, his voice tinged with awe. “You’re really serious.”

“Of course I’m serious,” you said, your voice trembling. “Why the hell would I say that if I wasn’t?”

He set the ice pack aside and stood, closing the distance between you in two steps. Before you could react, his hands were on your face, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that stole the breath from your lungs.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes were brighter than you’d ever seen them. “I love you too,” he said, his voice raw and full of emotion. “God, I love you too.”

@hobby27 @roseblue373 @jc-winchester @whump-loverz @pizzagirlxnsfwx @king-of-milf-lovers @jollyhunter

135 notes · View notes

bonny-kookoo · 2 days ago

Note

Hey Bonny!! I saw you wanted to play a game, so how does this sound for a drabble? Dragon! Yoongi (or Kookie since I know he's your guy) x Fairy! Reader?? Idk if you've written fairies before, but I know you've done dragons! 💜🤍

I have a dragon kook x fairy reader on my patreon as early access, so I'll make this one yoongi!

-----------------

Yoongi

Hidden in the woods

Dragons are rather social creatures- but when a young Dragonblood named Yoongi fails to find a partner while all his friends and family have moved way past those events already, he isolates himself, believing he might just be destined to be a loner. But maybe, he was just impatient.

Tags/Warnings: Dragon hybrid!Yoongi, Fairy!Reader, strangers to ???, reader is described as short oops, SFW

Wordcount: 1.6k (it was supposed to be a Drabble... oops)

♥━━━━━━━━━━•.♡.•━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

“You rarely visit these days.”

His mothers words still echo in his mind as he tries to find a new composition on his piano that doesn’t sound like everything he’s already put out. Of course he hasn’t visited- with his brother’s twins constantly around, he’s always reminded of how far ahead everyone around him is, while he’s yet to find his first real love. He’s thirty, for god’s sake- and yet all he has is his house, a stable career as a musician, and a lot on his mind.

All his friends are married. Some have kids, others are busy preparing for the day they’ll have them. He feels out of place.

Yoongi has made peace with the fact that he’ll be the uncle to all of them, the one guy who never really seems to be happy about anything, never has a family of his own. It’s alright.

He sighs, loudly, gripping his hair for a second in frustration. This is stupid- why is he having an artist’s block right now of all times? People are waiting for something new, especially after he’s already taken a break to help his creativity. And yet, it did nothing- except for giving him a little bit more room to breathe and most of all move out of his apartment and into his new house near the woods. It’s nice here- about half an hour away from the bustling neon city he’s used to after years of living there, and also a bit more distance from his family and friends. A newfound excuse for when they ask him once more where he’s been.

The doorbell rings, attracting his attention. He’s not awaiting any guests or packages- who could it be?

Via the camera installed he can see that there’s a person he doesn’t know at the door- you're rather short, but visibly curious, looking around for any signs of life inside his home, and for a short moment, he sees them;

Delicate little slightly translucent wings. Pointy ears, tilted a bit downwards.

A fairy.

As he opens the door, you seem startled for a second or two, taking a step back, before you speak. “Oh, hello!” You greet him. “I was just about to ask- do you have uh.. Jungkook’s number?” You wonder, and he becomes hostile, crossing his arms. “A coworker of mine, Jimin, said you have it. I’m sorry I’m just, you know, showing up here like that-”

The door closes. But despite what he was expecting, you just ring the doorbell again- and again, until he opens.

“Okay, as I was trying to explain before you so rudely interrupted me-” You tease a little, arms now crossed as well as your wings flap around a bit. “-tell him at least that I need his help fixing my washing machine. He broke it and left the crime scene for me to find, and that’s, pardon my language-” You lean in a bit as if you’re about to tell Yoongi something secret, “-pretty crappy behavior.”

Yoongi stares you down for a moment, before he speaks.

“That’s it?” He asks, and you nod. “Why don’t you ask Jimin for Jungkook’s number?” He wonders, not entirely convinced. Jungkook is pretty much a magnet for people no matter what gender, and the worst part about it is that many if not most always try and get to him through Yoongi.

No one’s ever interested in him. Only his friends, or the things he can provide.

“Cause Jimin doesn’t have it either!” You whine, stomping your leg on the ground in agony. “Listen, I don’t know how to fix it and my bathroom smells like a laundromat already, my coffee machine is also broken and my script has been rejected for the third time, I really need some good news. Please?” You ask, and Yoongi contemplates.

“What if I fix it?” He asks, and your eyes begin to sparkle, wings lifting to flutter in excitement. It’s like in this very moment, he can hear the keys of his piano chime, creating a new piece in his mind.

“You can?!” You ask, stepping closer.

“Probably. Where do you even live?” He asks, before you point towards the woods.

“I live in the woods, pretty much. It’s not that far.” You say, and Yoongi sighs, looking back inside his house. It’s not like he’s going to get anything done either way, so who cares? It might take his mind off of things for a moment or two-

So a few hours later, he’s in your house, enjoying some hot coffee from your machine, which he’d fixed as well while he was at it. Well, fixed is a strong word- he pretty much just explained how it properly worked to you. It was working just fine- you just lost the manual and couldn’t figure it out on your own.

“I always thought dragons were scarier.” You say suddenly, opening a pack of cookies to put in the middle of your wooden coffee table. “You’re really nice. Tall, and a bit gloomy looking, but very nice.” You say, sitting down on the couch next to him, legs pulled up towards you.

He’s noticed something glittering all over the small house- like sparkling glitter, but much finer, and barely noticeable. Looking closer to his pants, he notices it there as well- and even after a brush with his hand, it sticks to his fingers now.

“Oh- I’m sorry! It keeps getting everywhere, especially now.. Wait- I have like, a plastic thing-” You hurry, getting up to search for something in a drawer close by your TV. “Ah, there!” You say, giving him the lint-roller. “It’s one designed for fairy dust. I’m sorry, I should’ve thought about that..” You say, but for some odd reason, he declines.

“It’s fine.” He denies. “Doesn’t bother me.” he tells you, and again, you look at him like he’s just told you the earth is flat after all.

but it truly doesn’t bother him. It would, technically, if he was anywhere else. But right now, in this moment, he couldn’t be any more indifferent towards the ‘mess’ you leave sticking to his clothes and skin.

As soon as he’s back home, the sight of your sparkling smile is still in his mind, as his feet almost automatically move towards his piano, where he sits down, and presses a record button to play something new. The melody has been stuck on repeat in his head the entire way back home through the thick snow, like his imagination was finally finding color again.

But it’s different from what he usually creates.

This piece is playful almost, intriguing. It’s a little hesitant, like someone holding back a thought itself just to not indulge too much in a fantasy they’re already creating in their mind. Fluttering notes interrupt these parts however, sneaking in with excitement and curiosity, trying their best to convince the player to let themselves go.

And Yoongi does, as he finishes the piece, and leans back in his chair, recording finished before his phone chimes with a message.

“You left your scarf at my place!” Is what you tell him.

“I’ll get it tomorrow.” He texts you back.

“I could make us dinner?” You question.

He contemplates, finger hovering over the virtual keyboard of his phone, before he begins to write his answer. Fluttering touches of his fingers moving with a hint of excitement, fine fairy dust on the skin of his hands shimmering in the setting sun dipping everything in a golden glow.

“I’d love that.”

#bts imagine #bts fanfic #bts fic #yoongi imagine #min yoongi imagines #yoongi x reader #yoongi imagines #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi imagine

141 notes · View notes

movingmusically · 2 days ago

Text

@12joeywheelerfangirl asked

I would love a request where Austin is still dating Kaia even though he begins to feel something for the reader or something like that. Even though the relationship between them starts to fizzle out. I would love it if it was steamy as well.

Author’s Note:

This is a long one—I thought about splitting it into two parts but decided to keep it as one. Also, it’s my first attempt at writing some bits from Austin’s perspective. I hope it’s what you had in mind!

Word Count: 12,898

Masterlist

What Comes After

The restaurant was alive with chatter, the kind of low hum that filled every corner without being overbearing. You took a deep breath as you stepped through the doors, the faint scent of rosemary and wine hitting you immediately. This dinner was a big deal—a chance for the cast and crew to meet before filming officially began. It was your first time working with this director, a name that carried weight in the industry, and you didn’t want to make the wrong impression.

The maître d’ greeted you with a polite smile, guiding you toward a table at the back where the director and a handful of others were already seated. You felt the nerves tightening in your stomach as you approached, but then you saw him.

Austin Butler.

He was standing near the director, his head tilted slightly as he listened to something being said. He looked effortless, his posture relaxed, but it wasn’t his looks that caught your attention—it was the energy around him. There was something about him, something calm and open, that seemed to draw everyone toward him without him even trying.

When the director spotted you, he waved you over enthusiastically. “Y/N! There you are. Come, come!”

You smiled, stepping forward and shaking hands with him.

“I want you to meet your co-star,” he continued, turning to Austin. “Austin Butler. Austin, this is Y/N.”

Austin turned toward you, and for a split second, your heart skipped. His eyes were striking, a piercing blue that seemed to look right through you. His handshake was firm but not overbearing, and when he smiled, it was warm and genuine, as though you’d been friends for years.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, his voice carrying that quiet confidence he was known for. His eye contact didn’t waver—not in a way that felt intimidating, but in a way that made you feel like, for those few moments, you were the only person in the room.

“You too,” you replied, hoping you didn’t sound as flustered as you felt.

“First time working with him?” Austin asked, nodding toward the director, who was already engaging in conversation with someone else.

You nodded, relaxing slightly. “Yeah. I’ve admired his work for years, though, so I’m excited. You?”

“Same here,” he admitted. “I’ve wanted to for a long time. Feels like a good fit.”

The sincerity in his tone made you smile. There was no arrogance, no sense of him thinking he was bigger than the project—just pure enthusiasm.

“Glad I’m not the only newbie then,” you said lightly, and his smile widened just a fraction.

As the conversation shifted around you, you couldn’t help but notice how he treated everyone at the table. He gave the same kind of attention to the assistant director as he did to the producer, nodding thoughtfully and asking questions that made it clear he was genuinely interested in their answers. That same quiet focus was there when he spoke to you, and for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, it made your nerves fade away.

The conversation around the table shifted, the director launching into a story about the early days of his career. You listened, half-focused, but your attention kept drifting to Austin. He was listening intently, nodding along at the right moments, his lips curling into a faint smile when the director made a self-deprecating joke.

“You always this good at small talk?” you asked softly, leaning toward him so your words didn’t carry to the others.

He turned to you, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “I like listening. People have better stories when you’re quiet.”

“That’s a polite way of saying I should stop talking,” you teased, your voice low enough to keep the playful remark between you.

His smile widened, and for a moment, he just looked at you—like he was trying to figure you out. “Not at all,” he said finally. “I’d rather hear yours.”

The weight of his gaze made you blink, a flicker of warmth creeping up your neck. You cleared your throat, reaching for your water glass to steady yourself.

“So,” he said, breaking the comfortable silence. “What made you say yes to this project?”

You hesitated, glancing at him. His question wasn’t surface-level—it felt genuine, like he really wanted to know.

“Honestly?” you said, crossing your arms lightly. “I loved the script. The characters felt real, like they weren’t just there to drive the plot forward. It’s rare to find writing like that.”

He nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “I felt the same way. There’s this weight to it, you know? Like it’s more than just a job.”

“Exactly,” you said, smiling slightly. “I mean, I’m nervous as hell, but I’m excited too.”

He tilted his head, his expression softening. “You don’t seem nervous.”

“That’s because I’ve spent the past hour hiding it,” you admitted, laughing lightly.

“Well,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, “you’re doing a good job. For what it’s worth, I think we’re in good hands.”

You met his gaze, something unspoken passing between you. His words were simple, but there was a quiet sincerity in them that made your chest feel lighter. Before you could think of a response, the director stood, clinking his glass to grab everyone’s attention.

“Alright, folks, I think we’ve taken up enough of this fine establishment’s time,” he announced with a laugh. “Thank you all for coming tonight. Let’s make something incredible together.”

The table broke out in scattered applause, chairs scraping as people began to stand. You followed suit, pulling your bag from under your chair and slipping it over your shoulder.

Austin lingered near the director for a moment, thanking him for dinner, before turning back to you. He offered a warm smile, his jacket slung over one arm. “See you on set?”

“Bright and early,” you said, smiling back despite the flutter in your stomach.

He gave you a small nod, his gaze lingering for just a second longer than necessary, before he turned and followed the group toward the door.

As you watched him walk away, you caught yourself wondering what it was about him that made him so easy to be around. It wasn’t just his warmth or the way he made eye contact when he spoke—it was the way he seemed to be entirely present, no matter who he was talking to. Something about that was rare, and you found yourself grateful to have noticed it.

As you stepped outside into the crisp evening air, you couldn’t help but let out a small breath of relief. The dinner had gone well—better than you’d expected, really. And Austin… well, there was something about him. Something calm and grounding that made the idea of spending long days on set a little less daunting.

Your nerves hadn’t disappeared entirely, but for the first time since signing onto the project, you felt a flicker of excitement.

Tomorrow, the work would begin.

————————————————

Austin slid into the back of the car, leaning his head against the window as the driver navigated the quiet city streets. He didn’t know what he expected tonight, but it wasn’t this. Meeting you had been like flipping a switch. You were sharp, quick to laugh, and so easy to talk to that it almost threw him off.

There was something about the way you carried yourself—confident but not overly polished, like you were trying to stay grounded despite the pressure of being in a room full of industry heavyweights. And then there was the way your smile had caught him off guard, lighting up your face in a way that made him feel like smiling, too.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, pulling him from his thoughts. He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he pulled it out and glanced at the screen. Kaia.

The last conversation with Kaia played in his head on repeat, her voice clipped, distant, and so unlike the way she used to sound when they talked.

“You’re pulling away, Austin,” she had said. “And honestly, I don’t know if I even care enough to pull you back anymore.”

He hesitated, his thumb hovering over the answer button. It wasn’t the first time he’d hesitated lately, and he hated that. But tonight felt… different.

Not because of you. That would be unfair. It wasn’t your fault he felt like this—like the space between him and Kaia had grown too wide to bridge.

The phone stopped buzzing. He slid it back into his pocket and let out a long breath. He’d call her back later. For now, he just needed to clear his head, focus on his work. But as the city lights flickered outside the window, his thoughts kept drifting back to you—the way you’d laughed, the way your voice softened when you talked about the project.

It wasn’t fair to compare, he knew that. But something about you had cut through the haze he’d been stuck in lately.

————————————————

The morning air was crisp as you stepped onto the set for the first time, your breath curling in faint clouds as you made your way to the trailer with your name taped to the door. The excitement that had flickered after last night’s dinner had settled into a steady hum, buzzing under the surface of your nerves.

You dropped your bag onto the small couch inside and glanced around the trailer. It wasn’t fancy, but it was yours for the duration of the shoot, and that was enough to make your stomach flutter with anticipation.

A knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. You opened it to find one of the assistants smiling at you.

“Morning! Director wants everyone for a quick walkthrough before we start blocking the first scene.”

You nodded, grabbing your coat. As you followed her to the main set, you tried to focus on the logistics of the day ahead: lines to memorise, marks to hit, the balance of bringing your character to life without overthinking every move. But all of that flew out of your head the moment you saw him.

Austin was already there, standing near the director, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. He turned as you approached, a small smile spreading across his face when he saw you.

“Bright and early,” he said, his voice warm with amusement.

“Like I had a choice,” you teased, your lips twitching into a smile of your own. “You ready for this?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he replied.

Before you could say anything else, the director clapped his hands together. “Alright, folks, let’s get started!”

The first few days of filming flew by in a blur of rehearsals, takes, and long hours under bright lights. Your character and Austin’s shared a playful dynamic—quick-witted, teasing, and often toeing the line between camaraderie and something deeper.

It was easy to fall into that rhythm with him. Too easy, really. He had this way of putting you at ease without even trying, his energy grounded and steady even when the days stretched long.

There was one scene in particular that stuck with you.

You were both standing close, the camera tight on your faces as the director called out adjustments. Your character was supposed to deliver a cutting remark, and his character was meant to respond with a disarming smile, their tension palpable.

“Okay, let’s try it again,” the director called.

You reset, your focus narrowing to Austin. The way he held your gaze made it impossible to think about anything else—not the lights, not the camera, not the dozen people watching just out of frame.

“Cut!” the director called, satisfied this time. “That’s the one.”

But you didn’t step back right away. Neither did Austin.

For a moment, the lines between character and reality blurred, and you found yourself holding your breath as his eyes stayed locked on yours.

“Nice work,” he said softly, breaking the moment as he stepped back.

“Yeah,” you murmured, clearing your throat as you forced yourself to look away. “You too.”

————————————————

Austin leaned against the wall of his trailer, a mug of coffee warming his hands as he stared out at the quiet set. Most of the crew had gone home, but he’d stayed late, going over notes and running lines for tomorrow. Or at least, that was the plan.

His mind kept drifting.

You had been incredible today—not just in the scene, but in the way you carried yourself. There was an authenticity to you that he couldn’t quite put into words. It wasn’t just your talent, though that was undeniable. It was the way you treated everyone, from the director to the PAs, with the same kind of attention and respect.

And then there was the scene.

The way you’d looked at him—not as your character, but as you—had thrown him off balance in a way he hadn’t felt in years. He’d told himself it was nothing, just the intensity of the moment, but the memory lingered, replaying in his mind on a loop.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. His phone buzzed on the small counter next to him. He glanced at the screen: Kaia.

He didn’t pick it up.

————————————————

Back in your own trailer, you sat cross-legged on the couch, your script open on your lap. The day had been long, but it had gone well—better than you could have hoped, really. Still, your mind kept drifting back to that scene.

It wasn’t the first time you’d felt the weight of his gaze on you, but today had been different. There was something unspoken in the air, something that made your pulse quicken and your thoughts scatter.

But he had a girlfriend. You reminded yourself of that fact, letting it ground you. Whatever fleeting connection you thought you’d felt wasn’t yours to explore. He wasn’t yours to think about in that way.

You shook your head slightly, pushing the thought aside. This was work—important work. And that’s where your focus needed to stay.

But as you leaned back against the cushions, letting out a soft sigh, you couldn’t help but wonder if he’d felt it too.

The days on set had started to blend together, each one filled with the hum of crew members, the buzz of cameras, and the weight of bringing your character to life. But somehow, you didn’t feel drained. Exhausted, maybe—but there was a strange energy that came from being around people who cared about the work as much as you did.

And then there was Austin.

Working with him felt… easy. Not in the sense that it wasn’t challenging—your scenes together often required precision and intensity—but there was something about him that made the long hours and high stakes feel manageable.

He treated everyone the same, from the director to the intern delivering coffee. He remembered names, asked questions, and listened like he genuinely cared. You’d noticed the way the crew lit up around him, how even the most stressful moments seemed to soften when he offered a small smile or a word of encouragement.

It wasn’t just an act for the cameras, either. You saw it in the quieter moments, when he stayed behind to help a set decorator move furniture or when he thanked the lighting team for adjusting the rigging after a difficult shot.

You were no exception to his kindness. Every time you stepped into a scene together, he made you feel like you belonged, like you were more than capable of holding your own—even when your inner critic whispered otherwise.

It was in the way he caught your eye before a take, offering a subtle nod that steadied your nerves. Or how, after a particularly challenging scene, he’d lean over and say, “You killed it,” with that soft sincerity that left no room for doubt.

The day’s shoot had been long and physically demanding. You’d spent most of it outside, the sun beating down as you worked through a series of intense dialogue-heavy scenes with Austin. By the time the director called for a short break, you were more than ready to collapse into a chair.

Austin appeared moments later, a bottle of water in hand. He offered it to you with a small smile.

“Here,” he said. “You looked like you were about to melt out there.”

You took the bottle gratefully, unscrewing the cap and taking a long sip. “Thanks. I think I left all my energy somewhere back in the last scene.”

He chuckled, settling into the chair beside you. “You’re not the only one. I’m pretty sure I forgot how to stand halfway through that last take.”

“Liar,” you teased, glancing at him. “You were solid the whole time.”

He shrugged, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. “Well, you make it easy.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the compliment, but before you could respond, the assistant director called for everyone to reset. Austin stood, offering you a hand to pull you to your feet.

“Come on,” he said lightly. “Let’s make it through one more.”

————————————————

Later that night, Austin sat in his trailer, staring at his phone as it buzzed against the counter. Kaia’s name lit up the screen, and with a sigh, he picked it up.

“Hey,” he said, leaning back against the small couch.

“Hey,” she replied, her voice warm but tired. “You’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, filming’s been… a lot,” he admitted. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she said, but there was a pause that spoke volumes. “I just feel like I haven’t talked to you in days, Austin.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he said, guilt tugging at him. “It’s just… this project is a lot more intense than I thought it would be.”

She sighed softly. “I get it. I do. But sometimes it feels like I’m not even part of your life anymore.”

Her words stung more than he wanted to admit. She wasn’t wrong. Somewhere along the line, things had shifted between them. What once felt easy now felt strained, like they were both trying to hold on to something that wasn’t there anymore.

“It’s not intentional,” he said finally. “I’m just trying to keep my head above water here.”

“I know,” she said again, but her voice was quieter this time. “Just… don’t forget about me, okay?”

“I won’t,” he promised, but as the call ended, he couldn’t shake the hollow feeling in his chest.

It wasn’t just the distance between them—it was the growing realisation that the connection they once shared might not be enough to carry them forward.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He couldn’t end it—not yet. Maybe it was guilt, or maybe it was the fear of letting go of something that had meant so much to him for so long. But the thought of walking away entirely felt too final, too heavy.

Still, the space between them seemed to grow wider with every call he didn’t answer, every text he read but didn’t respond to.

And then there was you.

It wasn’t fair to compare, but he couldn’t stop himself. You had this way of bringing life to every room you walked into, of making people feel like they mattered. He’d seen it time and again on set—the way you treated everyone with the same respect and kindness, the way you threw yourself into your work with everything you had.

This wasn’t something he could afford to think about, not now. But the thought lingered anyway, threading its way into his mind as he closed his eyes and tried to focus on anything else.

————————————————

The crew had been granted a rare day off after a gruelling week of filming. Most of the cast and crew seemed intent on using the time to sleep in or catch up on errands, but you found yourself itching to do something that didn’t involve sitting in your apartment all day. So when you saw Austin in the hallway looking lost in thought, you made a split-second decision.

“You doing anything today?” you asked casually, balancing your bag on your shoulder.

Austin looked up, a little startled. “Not really. Figured I’d just… take it easy.”

You hesitated, your nerves flickering, but you pushed through. “How about a hike? I heard there’s a trail not far from here with amazing views.”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. “You’re a hiker?”

“Not really,” you admitted with a laugh. “But it’s better than staring at my walls all day. Come on, Butler. Fresh air, exercise… it’ll be good for you.”

He seemed to consider it for a moment before nodding. “Alright. Let me grab my stuff.”

The trail was more challenging than you’d anticipated, winding steeply upward through dense trees that offered only occasional glimpses of the valley below. But the effort was worth it—every turn revealed a new, breathtaking view, the kind that made the burn in your legs feel like a fair trade.

“You didn’t warn me this was a workout,” Austin teased, slightly out of breath but still managing to keep pace with you.

“Oh, come on,” you shot back, grinning. “I’m carrying the backpack. What’s your excuse?”

He chuckled, the sound echoing through the quiet forest. “Touché.”

As the trail levelled out, you found yourselves walking side by side, the conversation flowing easily. He told you stories about filming in different cities, sharing small, funny moments that had you laughing so hard your sides hurt. In return, you told him about your own experiences—the good, the bad, and the ones you probably shouldn’t have admitted but did anyway because his laughter made it worth it.

At one point, you stumbled slightly over a tree root, and Austin’s hand shot out to steady you, his fingers brushing your arm.

“You alright?” he asked, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Yeah,” you said, laughing at yourself. “Apparently, walking is harder than it looks.”

His hand lingered a moment longer before he let go, his smile soft. “Good to know you’re human after all.”

When you finally reached the overlook, the view was nothing short of spectacular. The valley stretched out before you, a patchwork of green and gold, with the faint shimmer of a river winding through the middle. You both stood there for a while, taking it in, the silence comfortable.

“This is… wow,” you murmured, breaking the quiet.

“Yeah,” Austin agreed, his voice softer than usual. He glanced at you, his gaze lingering. “Thanks for dragging me out here. I needed this.”

You met his eyes, something unspoken passing between you. “Me too.”

For a moment, it felt like the world had stilled, the only sound the distant rustle of leaves in the breeze. Then he bumped your shoulder lightly, a playful grin breaking the tension.

“Think you can make it back without tripping over anything?” he teased.

You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly. “No promises.”

As you made your way back down the trail, the conversation turned more serious. You found yourself opening up about things you didn’t usually share—insecurities about your work, moments of self-doubt, the pressure to live up to expectations.

To your surprise, Austin didn’t just listen—he related.

“I get that,” he said after a pause. “After Elvis, it felt like everyone was watching, waiting to see if I’d mess up. Like the weight of it wasn’t just the role, but what came after.”

You looked at him, surprised by his vulnerability. “That must’ve been… a lot.”

“It was,” he admitted. “Still is, sometimes. But I try to remind myself that I’m not doing this for them. It’s for me, you know? Because I love it.”

His words struck a chord, and you nodded. “Yeah. That’s how I try to think about it too. Some days it works. Others… not so much.”

He smiled, a quiet understanding in his expression. “Guess we’ll just have to remind each other.”

It had been weeks since that hike, and somehow, without either of you meaning to, you and Austin had fallen into an easy rhythm. You shared lunch breaks, where you realised you shared a mutual love of old movies, ran lines together, and traded jokes that made even the longest days feel lighter. But the unspoken pull between you? That was harder to ignore with each passing day.

The set was quieter than usual that evening, most of the crew having wrapped for the day. Only a skeleton team remained, adjusting lighting and prepping for the next morning’s shoot. You were seated on one of the couches, flipping through your script, when you noticed Austin approaching.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low as he slid into the seat beside you. “You staying late too?”

You nodded, holding up the script. “Figured I’d go over tomorrow’s lines a few more times. What about you?”

“Same,” he said, though his script remained untouched in his lap. “Mind if I join?”

“Not at all,” you said, scooting slightly to give him more room, even though the couch was more than big enough.

You started reading through the scene, taking turns delivering your lines, but something about the quiet intimacy of the moment made it hard to focus. Every time he leaned closer to check a note, his shoulder brushed yours, sending a flicker of warmth through you. And when he laughed at one of your improvised lines, the sound was soft and genuine, filling the empty space around you.

“Alright, let’s try this part again,” you said, pointing to a particularly emotional exchange between your characters. You cleared your throat, slipping into character. “I don’t think you understand what’s at stake here.”

Austin’s expression shifted instantly, his gaze locking onto yours. His intensity was startling, even though you’d seen it a hundred times before. “Then explain it to me.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, it didn’t feel like you were rehearsing anymore. The tension between your characters bled into reality, and you found yourself leaning forward, your voice softer this time. “If this falls apart, there’s no coming back. Do you get that?”

He didn’t respond right away, his eyes searching yours like he was looking for something. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “I get it.”

The moment stretched on, neither of you moving, neither of you breaking eye contact. You could feel your pulse quicken, your thoughts scattering as his gaze flickered briefly to your lips.

“Austin!” one of the crew members called from across the set, snapping the spell.

He blinked, leaning back slightly as he turned toward the voice. “Yeah?”

“Director wants to go over tomorrow’s blocking,” the crew member said, motioning him over.

“I’ll be right there,” he replied, his tone steady despite the tension still hanging in the air.

As he stood, he glanced back at you, his expression unreadable. “We’ll pick this up later?”

You nodded, your voice catching slightly. “Yeah. Later.”

Later that night, you found yourself pacing the small space of your trailer, the memory of that almost-moment replaying in your mind. You told yourself it was nothing—that you’d just gotten too caught up in the scene. But the way he’d looked at you, the way his voice had softened… it was hard to believe it was just acting.

A knock at the door startled you, and when you opened it, Austin was standing there, his jacket slung over his arm.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low. “You busy?”

“No,” you said quickly, stepping aside to let him in. “What’s up?”

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering to the script still sitting on your couch. “I just… wanted to make sure we’re good for tomorrow. That scene’s a big one.”

“Yeah, of course,” you said, though you could tell that wasn’t the real reason he’d come.

He sat down on the couch, running a hand through his hair. “You were great tonight, by the way. In the scene. It felt… real.”

“It’s supposed to feel real,” you said lightly, trying to keep the mood casual even as your heart raced.

He looked at you then, his expression more serious. “You know what I mean.”

You swallowed hard, the air in the trailer suddenly feeling too warm. “Austin…”

“I know,” he said quickly, cutting you off. “I know this is… complicated. And I don’t want to make things harder for you. Or for me.”

You nodded, unsure of what to say. The unspoken truth hung heavy between you, neither of you willing to say it out loud.

He stood abruptly, pulling his jacket back on. “I should go. Early call tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice softer than you intended. “See you tomorrow.”

But as he opened the door, he hesitated, glancing back at you. For a moment, it looked like he was going to say something else, but instead, he just nodded and stepped out into the night.

You closed the door behind him, leaning back against it as you let out a shaky breath. Whatever this was, it was getting harder to ignore.

————————————————

The next day’s shoot had been brutal. Austin could feel the strain in every muscle, the kind of exhaustion that seeped into his bones. It wasn’t just the physical toll—it was the emotional weight of the scenes, the demand to bring something raw and real to the surface again and again.

He’d barely spoken to you all day, too focused on his lines, the blocking, the constant adjustments from the director. But you were never far from his mind. Every time the camera panned toward you, every time he caught sight of you out of the corner of his eye, that quiet pull he couldn’t explain would rise again.

When the director finally called it for the day, Austin felt a wave of relief mixed with lingering adrenaline. The golden light of the setting sun cast a warm glow over the set, softening the edges of the hard day. He spotted you sitting on a bench, a bottle of water in your hand, your shoulders slumping in a way that made his chest tighten. You looked as drained as he felt.

Without thinking, he walked over, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. His hair was still messy from the last scene, and the weight of the day was evident in his steps.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low as he slid onto the bench beside you.

You looked up at him, offering a small, tired smile. “Hey. Long day.”

“Yeah,” he replied, leaning back and letting out a slow breath. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” you said, but there was a slight sag in your posture. “Just… tired, I guess.”

He studied you for a moment, the furrow in his brow deepening. “You were amazing today. That last scene—damn.”

Your cheeks flushed faintly, and you looked down at the water bottle in your hands. “Thanks. You weren’t too bad yourself.”

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating in his chest. For a moment, he just watched you, the quiet between you settling like a blanket. It wasn’t awkward; it was… comfortable. Easy.

But there was more he needed to say, more he wanted to acknowledge.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you…” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair before his eyes found yours again. “I really appreciate how you’ve made this whole thing easier. I mean, this shoot, the long days… it’s been better because you’re here.”

Your gaze lifted to meet his, surprise flickering across your face. “I could say the same about you.”

Your honesty hit him like a jolt. He smiled, but his heart was thudding in his chest, louder than he wanted to admit. “You’re good at this,” he added after a moment. “Not just the acting, but… the way you make everyone feel seen. It’s rare.”

You didn’t respond right away, but your expression softened, your eyes dropping briefly to the space between you. Austin noticed the faint tremor in your breath, the way your hand brushed his, light and unintentional. Or maybe it wasn’t. Either way, he didn’t pull back. Couldn’t.

The warmth of your skin against his sent a quiet hum through his body, a reminder of how little distance there really was between you. His pulse quickened, and for a fleeting moment, he let himself imagine what it would be like to close that gap.

“Y/N,” he said softly, your name falling from his lips like a secret.

You looked up, meeting his gaze. The intensity in your eyes nearly undid him. He could see the questions there, the same uncertainty and pull that had been gnawing at him for weeks. The world seemed to shrink in that moment, narrowing to just you and the golden light that framed your face.

But then reality came crashing back. The lines he wasn’t supposed to cross. The complications he couldn’t ignore.

He pulled his hand back, the loss of contact sharper than he expected. Clearing his throat, he forced himself to break the silence. “We should probably… get going.”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, standing and brushing off your jeans. “Long day tomorrow.”

Austin nodded, standing with you. But as you walked away, his eyes lingered on you, following every step until you disappeared from view. The weight of the moment hung in the air, heavy and impossible to shake.

He let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair again. Whatever this was—this thing between you—it was becoming harder to ignore. Harder to push away.

And harder to forget.

————————————————

The tension between you and Austin had been building for weeks, simmering just beneath the surface. It was in the way his hand would linger a little too long on your arm, the way your gazes would lock and hold for just a moment longer than necessary. And tonight, it felt like all of that tension had reached its breaking point.

The cast had gathered for drinks after another long day of filming, the kind of informal get-together that was meant to blow off steam. The dim lighting and soft music in the bar created an intimate atmosphere, and you found yourself gravitating toward Austin like you always did.

You didn’t mean to. It just… happened.

You were standing by the bar, a glass of wine in hand, when he appeared beside you.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low enough that it sent a shiver down your spine. “Having fun?”

“Trying to,” you replied, smiling slightly. “What about you?”

“Depends,” he said, his gaze steady on yours. “Are you going to make me laugh tonight?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I think you’ve got that backwards. You’re the one who’s always making me laugh.”

“Not true,” he countered, leaning a little closer. “You’ve got me beat.”

The warmth in his tone made your chest tighten, and you found yourself leaning slightly toward him, your shoulder brushing his. The noise of the bar seemed to fade into the background, leaving just the two of you in your own little world.

“Austin,” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the music.

“Yeah?” he replied, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before meeting your eyes again.

You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest. There was a pull between you, something magnetic and undeniable. You wanted to close the gap, to see if his lips were as soft as they looked, to give in to the tension that had been building between you for weeks.

But then, like a bucket of cold water, the reality of the situation hit you.

He wasn’t yours.

You stepped back, breaking the moment. “I should… get some air,” you said, your voice shaky.

“I’ll come with you,” he offered immediately, his expression unreadable.

“No,” you said quickly, holding up a hand. “I just… need a minute.”

He nodded, stepping back to give you space. But as you walked away, you could feel the weight of his gaze on you, and it took everything in you not to turn around.

The next few days on set were intense, but in a way that felt different. The scenes you and Austin shared carried a kind of gravity that mirrored something unspoken between you. It wasn’t just chemistry anymore—it was connection. You found yourself laughing at the same moments, finishing each other’s thoughts during rehearsals, and sharing quiet smiles when no one else was looking. It was easy to forget the lines you’d drawn in the sand when being near him felt so… effortless.

That evening, the crew wrapped after a particularly long day of shooting a demanding scene. You were emotionally wrung out, the kind of exhaustion that left you too drained to make plans but too restless to call it a night.

So, when Austin knocked on your trailer door and offered an impromptu walk to clear your heads, you didn’t think twice before agreeing.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, bathing everything in a soft, dusky glow. The air was cool, and the quiet hum of crickets filled the spaces between your steps as you walked side by side. You weren’t sure where you were headed, but neither of you seemed to care. The world outside felt expansive, and yet, the space between you felt impossibly small.

For a while, you talked about everything and nothing—the intensity of the shoot, stories from childhood, and fleeting moments of joy that felt almost stolen in your busy lives. But as the silence grew, the tone shifted, and the weight of something deeper settled over you.

“Do you ever think about why you do this?” Austin asked suddenly, his voice quiet but steady. “Why you’re here? Why you put yourself through… all of it?”

You glanced at him, caught off guard by the question. His eyes were distant, his expression tinged with something you couldn’t quite name.

“Yeah,” you said after a moment, your voice soft. “I think about it all the time.”

“And?” he pressed, his gaze sliding to meet yours.

You hesitated, unsure how much to say. But something in the way he looked at you—open, vulnerable—made it impossible to hold back. “It’s… it’s the connection, I think. The chance to tell stories that matter, that make people feel something. To feel something yourself, even if it’s fleeting.”

Austin nodded, his brow furrowing slightly. “I get that. It’s like… sometimes it feels like the only way I can figure myself out is through someone else’s story. Like the only time I’m honest with myself is when I’m pretending to be someone else.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, the rawness of them leaving you momentarily speechless. “I’ve never heard anyone put it that way,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “But yeah. I think I know what you mean.”

The two of you stopped walking, the night air cool against your skin. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the way it lingered on you like he was searching for something he couldn’t name.

“It’s terrifying, isn’t it?” he said softly. “Letting yourself be seen, even when it’s not really you.”

“It is,” you admitted, your heart thudding in your chest. “But it’s worth it. I think it’s worth it.”

Austin stepped closer, and the air seemed to shift around you. His hand brushed yours, tentative but deliberate, and your breath caught as his fingers lingered against your skin.

“Y/N,” he murmured, your name a quiet plea on his lips.

You looked up at him, and the intensity in his eyes made the rest of the world fade away. For a moment, it felt like everything—your fears, your doubts, the boundaries you’d both tried so hard to keep—had disappeared, leaving only the undeniable pull between you.

He leaned in, so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. Your heart pounded, every rational thought slipping away as his hand lightly grazed your arm, anchoring you in the moment.

But then, as if a switch had flipped, reality came crashing back. You thought of Kaia, of the tangled mess that his life already was, and you knew you couldn’t let this happen—not like this.

“Austin,” you said softly, your voice steady but tinged with hesitation. “We can’t…”

His jaw tightened, and he looked away, running a hand through his hair as if trying to push the moment aside. “I know,” he said quietly. “I know.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything you’d shared before. When he looked back at you, there was a vulnerability in his eyes that made your chest ache.

“I haven’t… I haven’t been fair,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “To Kaia. To you. To myself.”

You didn’t respond right away, letting his words hang in the air. Finally, you spoke. “Austin, I don’t… I don’t want to be the reason you make any decision. If you’re not happy, if things aren’t working, that has to be about you and her. Not me.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to the ground. “It’s not about you,” he said after a moment. “Not entirely. Things with Kaia… they’ve been off for a while. I’ve been trying to convince myself we could fix it, that maybe it’s just a rough patch. But the more time passes…” He trailed off, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his words.

“It’s not easy,” you said gently. “Letting go of something you’ve put so much into.”

“No, it’s not,” he agreed, his voice soft. He looked at you again, his expression unreadable. “But staying when it doesn’t feel right anymore… that’s not fair to either of us.”

You felt a pang of guilt, knowing how much his words echoed your own thoughts. You wanted to say something, to offer reassurance or clarity, but the truth was, you didn’t know what to say.

After a moment, Austin let out a soft sigh, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I need to figure this out,” he said, his tone more resolute. “Not just for her, but for me.”

You nodded, keeping your distance even as everything in you ached to reach out. “I think that’s the right thing to do.”

He offered a small, tired smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks, Y/N. For being honest. For… everything.”

You nodded, unable to find the words to respond. The moment felt too big, too fragile, and all you could do was hope that the connection you shared—whatever it was—could survive the weight of everything left unsaid.

The final day of filming arrived faster than you’d expected. Weeks had blurred into one another, filled with long hours on set, endless retakes, and the constant hum of life on location. The bittersweet weight of it all settled over the crew as the final scene wrapped, applause breaking out as the director called, “That’s a wrap!”

You smiled and clapped along with everyone else, but there was a hollowness in your chest. Filming this project had been an incredible experience, and working with Austin had been unlike anything you’d ever known. Despite everything that had happened—or almost happened—you’d managed to keep things professional. Friendly, even. But it had taken more effort than you cared to admit.

Austin had been the same—kind, supportive, and respectful of the boundaries you’d both set after that night. But there were moments, fleeting and unspoken, where you felt the tension simmer just beneath the surface. A glance that lingered too long. A brush of hands that neither of you acknowledged. You’d both done your best to ignore it, but the connection between you refused to fade.

As the crew began packing up, you found yourself standing off to the side, watching the flurry of activity with a strange sense of detachment. Austin was nearby, speaking with the director and a few producers, his easy smile lighting up the small group. He looked at ease, but you knew him well enough by now to see the subtle tension in his shoulders.

Before you could overthink it, he turned, his eyes finding yours almost instinctively. For a moment, you held his gaze, the rest of the world fading away in the way it always seemed to when he looked at you. But then he smiled—a soft, almost wistful smile—and started walking toward you.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low as he stopped in front of you.

“Hey,” you replied, returning his smile despite the tightness in your chest. “Congrats. It’s been… a journey.”

He chuckled softly, nodding. “Yeah, it has.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything, the silence stretching out between you. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy with everything you couldn’t say.

“I just wanted to say…” he began, his voice trailing off as he rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been really great working with you. I mean it.”

“Same here,” you said, your throat tightening. “I couldn’t have asked for a better co-star.”

His smile widened slightly, but there was a flicker of something else in his expression—something you couldn’t quite place. “I’m gonna miss this,” he said quietly. “Miss working with you.”

Your heart ached at his words, but you forced yourself to keep your tone light. “You’ll probably forget all about me once your next project starts.”

His eyes softened, and he shook his head. “Not a chance.”

The sincerity in his voice made it hard to breathe, and for a moment, you felt the fragile line you’d both been walking start to fray.

“Well,” you said, breaking the silence before it could pull you under. “At least we’ll see each other at the press tour.”

“Yeah,” he said, his smile tinged with something bittersweet. “Yeah, we will.”

Neither of you moved, the weight of the goodbye pressing down on you. You wanted to say more, to tell him how much this experience—and he—had meant to you. But you couldn’t. Not when things were still so complicated.

“Take care of yourself, Austin,” you said finally, your voice soft.

“You too,” he replied, his gaze lingering on you like he was memorising your face. “And… thank you. For everything.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat as you forced yourself to step back. “Goodbye, Austin.”

“Goodbye, Y/N,” he said, his voice barely audible.

You turned and walked away before you could change your mind, the ache in your chest growing with each step. You didn’t look back, knowing that if you did, it would only make it harder to leave.

But as you reached the edge of the set, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t the end of your story with Austin. It was just… on hold. For now.

The days leading up to the press tour passed in a blur of preparations—outfits, schedules, interviews to brush up on. You’d done press tours before, but this one felt different. Bigger. And there was the added weight of seeing Austin again after months apart. The thought made your stomach twist with nerves, though you told yourself it was just the usual pre-tour jitters.

When you arrived at the hotel where the cast and crew were staying, the nerves only grew. You were checking in at the front desk when you heard his voice behind you.

“Y/N?”

You turned, and there he was, leaning casually against his suitcase. His hair was slightly longer than it had been during filming, and he had the faintest hint of stubble along his jaw. The smile he gave you was easy, warm, but it was the flicker of something in his eyes that made your breath catch.

“Austin,” you said, smiling back, hoping he couldn’t see the way your hands tightened on the strap of your bag.

“It’s good to see you,” he said, stepping closer. “Feels like it’s been forever.”

“It has,” you replied. “How have you been?”

He hesitated for just a second before replying. “Good. Busy, but good. You?”

“Same,” you said lightly. “Ready to dive into this madness?”

His smile widened. “Let’s just hope we survive.”

The casual exchange settled something inside you. Whatever had changed since filming, he was still the same Austin—kind, grounded, and impossibly easy to talk to.

The press tour officially kicked off the next day, and from the moment it began, the schedule was relentless. Long days of junkets, late-night talk shows, and back-to-back interviews left little time for anything else. But somehow, having Austin there made it bearable.

Your chemistry carried over seamlessly, whether you were sitting side by side answering questions or playing one of those silly “get to know the cast” games that interviewers loved to throw at you. One memorable segment involved you both trying to guess each other’s answers to questions like “What’s their go-to karaoke song?” and “Who’s more likely to survive a zombie apocalypse?” By the end, you were both laughing so hard the host could barely get through the outro.

The lightness of those moments balanced out the more gruelling parts of the tour. In between interviews, you’d find yourselves tucked away in greenrooms or leaning against walls in quiet hallways, catching up. It felt easy—like no time had passed at all since the last day on set.

So, what’s next for you after this?” you asked one day, sitting cross-legged on a couch while waiting for the next round of interviews to start.

“Austin leaned back in his chair, letting out a small laugh. “You mean after the press tour marathon? About four projects, apparently.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Four?”

He shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, it’s kind of… a lot. Two are already in pre-production, and the other two are still being finalised. But I guess I’ll sleep next year.”

“You’ll crush it,” you said, smiling despite the weight of his schedule. “You always do.”

“Thanks,” he replied, his tone softer. Then he tilted his head, studying you. “What about you?” he asked, tilting his head. “Any big projects lined up?”

You hesitated, debating whether to downplay it, but his expression was so open, so genuinely interested, that you told him. “There’s something in the works. Not officially announced yet, but… it could be big.”

He nodded, his eyes lighting up. “I’m not surprised. You’ve been on a roll lately.”

“Stop,” you said, laughing softly, but there was a warmth in your chest at his words.

“Hey, I’m serious,” he said, his tone softening. “That last film of yours? It was incredible. If the Academy doesn’t recognise that, they’re out of their minds.”

You glanced away, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “Thanks, Austin. That means a lot.”

“It’s not just me,” he added, smiling faintly. “My sister called me after she saw it. She said, ‘That Y/N is something special.’ And she doesn’t hand out compliments lightly.”

As much as you tried to downplay it, his belief in you meant more than you could say. And it wasn’t just his words—it was the way he looked at you when you spoke, like he was listening to every syllable, like you mattered.

As the tour went on, the connection between you only deepened. It wasn’t just the jokes, the shared looks, or the way you seemed to fall into step with each other so naturally—it was the quiet moments that stayed with you. Like when you’d both sit in comfortable silence after a long day, the unspoken understanding between you more comforting than words could ever be.

Still, there was something different about him. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but you knew Austin had been different since the tour began. More focused, maybe. Or perhaps more present in a way that made your heart ache.

And yet, he hadn’t said anything. Not about Kaia, not about the distance you both seemed to be navigating with such care. Whatever had happened between them, he wasn’t bringing it up, and you weren’t sure if you should.

For now, you focused on the work, the long hours and the endless questions, the energy it took to be “on” for so many people. And through it all, Austin was there, steady and warm, his presence grounding you in a way you hadn’t realised you needed.

The truth was, no matter how professional you tried to be, no matter how many boundaries you reminded yourself to keep, being around Austin felt like coming home. You didn’t know what would happen after the tour ended. But for now, it was enough to be here, in this moment, with him.

The energy at the premiere was electric, a sea of flashing cameras and murmured admiration filling the air as you stepped onto the red carpet. The stylists had outdone themselves, and you felt a little like you were floating as you moved down the line of photographers, smiling and pausing for the endless snaps of the cameras.

And then there was Austin, walking beside you, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit that made heads turn. His hand brushed your lower back, guiding you toward the next photographer, and the warmth of it sent a jolt through you.

“You look incredible,” he murmured, leaning closer so only you could hear.

Your cheeks warmed under the lights, and you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

The interviews followed, with questions about the film, your characters, and your favourite moments working together. The praise for your chemistry was constant, and the way Austin looked at you during those moments—fond, teasing, but layered with something deeper—made it impossible to ignore the tension simmering just beneath the surface.

As the night wore on, the subtle touches continued. His hand on the small of your back as he helped you through the crowd. His fingers grazing your waist as he moved to let someone pass. Each moment was fleeting but deliberate, leaving your skin tingling in their wake.

Finally, after the premiere wrapped, you both returned to the hotel with the rest of the cast. There was an afterparty in full swing downstairs, but you weren’t ready to dive back into the noise just yet. Instead, you found yourself heading to your room, the quiet hallway a welcome reprieve from the chaos.

You’d barely kicked off your heels when there was a knock at your door. Your heart skipped as you opened it to find Austin standing there, still in his suit but with his tie removed, his hair slightly disheveled.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice low. “Can I come in?”

You stepped aside, letting him in without a word. The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the city outside.

“You didn’t go to the party?” he asked, glancing at you.

You shook your head. “Needed a break. It was a lot.”

“Yeah,” he said, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “It was.”

There was a beat of silence, and then he stepped closer, his gaze steady on yours. Your breath hitched as he reached up, brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

“Austin…” you started, your voice barely a whisper.

“I’m not with Kaia anymore,” he said quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I haven’t been for a while. I just… I couldn’t tell you before. But now…”

His words hung in the air, and you felt your heart stutter in your chest. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I didn’t want to mess this up,” he admitted, his voice raw. “I didn’t want you to think that any of this was… because of her. It’s not. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

Your knees felt weak, and you leaned back against the desk, gripping the edge for support. He stepped closer, the heat radiating off him pulling you in like a magnet.

“Say something,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours.

You swallowed hard, your thoughts a whirlwind of emotion. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t,” he said softly, his voice dropping lower. “Just let me…”

Before you could respond, he reached for your hand, his fingers curling around yours as he stepped even closer. His other hand brushed against your waist, the touch gentle but grounding, and the air between you grew heavier with every passing second.

“Austin,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

But instead of pulling back, he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. His breath was warm against your skin, and you felt your heart pounding in your chest as his thumb traced slow circles against the back of your hand.

“I’ve wanted to tell you for so long,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “But I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” you replied, your voice just as soft.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the weight of everything unspoken settling between you. And then, as if the tension finally snapped, his lips brushed yours—tentative at first, but growing bolder as you tilted your head and met him halfway.

It was everything you’d tried to hold back for months, pouring out in one perfect, breathless moment. His hands slid up to cup your face, and you clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

The kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours in a way that made your stomach twist and your knees weaken. He tasted faintly of the champagne from earlier, warm and intoxicating, and the heat of his mouth sent a shiver down your spine. His thumb brushed against your cheek, and the simple gesture made you melt further into him, your hands instinctively sliding up to grip the lapels of his jacket.

When his tongue brushed against your lower lip, seeking entry, a soft, involuntary whimper escaped you, startling you with its rawness. The sound seemed to undo him; a low, guttural moan rumbled in his chest, vibrating against your lips, and he tilted his head to deepen the kiss further. His tongue slid against yours, the sensation sparking a jolt of heat that spread through your entire body.

His hands shifted, sliding from your face to your waist, pulling you closer until there wasn’t an inch of space left between you. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket, holding on as if letting go wasn’t an option. Every stroke of his tongue, every soft press of his lips, was deliberate and consuming, as if he was pouring everything he couldn’t say into this one moment.

Your head tilted back slightly, granting him more access, and he took full advantage, his lips leaving yours to trace a slow, heated path down the line of your jaw. His breath was warm against your skin, and when his mouth found the sensitive spot just below your ear, a soft gasp escaped your lips. He groaned in response, the sound low and almost desperate, and you could feel the tension in his body matching your own.

“Y/N,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough and unsteady. His hands splayed against your waist, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress as if anchoring himself.

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so instead, you pulled him back to you, capturing his lips with yours again. This kiss was hungrier, more urgent, and you felt his grip tighten as he walked you backward until the edge of the bed hit the back of your legs. The soft press of his body against yours left no doubt about how much he wanted this—wanted you.

You felt him, hard and insistent, pressing against your stomach, and the sheer need radiating from him made your breath hitch. The sensation sent a molten wave of heat pooling between your legs, your body responding instinctively to the unmistakable evidence of his arousal.

His hips pressed forward, and a low groan escaped him as he ground himself against you, his cock straining through the fabric of his trousers. “Tell me to stop,” he rasped, his voice thick with emotion, though the look in his eyes made it clear that stopping was the last thing he wanted.

You shook your head, your fingers threading through his hair as you tugged him back down to you. “Don’t stop.”

Your head fell back as his mouth found the sensitive spot on your neck again. His teeth scraped lightly against your skin before his tongue soothed the sting, the combination making your knees buckle. You pressed yourself against him, feeling the heat and hardness of him through the thin layers separating you, and the friction sent a delicious spark straight to your core.

“Austin…” you whispered, your voice trembling with need as your hands roamed over his chest, pushing his jacket off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. Your fingers moved to his belt next, brushing against the waistband of his trousers, your touch deliberate and seeking, the anticipation making your pulse race.

He hissed at the contact, his hips jerking involuntarily. “God, Y/N,” he groaned, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you firmly against him. The pressure between your thighs was maddening, and the desperate, unrelenting hardness pressed against you made your mind fog with desire.

You reached for him, your lips finding his again in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and desperation, and the sheer intensity of it made your whole body ignite. His tongue slid against yours, coaxing another soft moan from you, and he swallowed the sound like it was the answer to every unspoken question between you.

Austin’s hands roamed down your sides, brushing over the curve of your hips before settling firmly on your thighs. Without breaking the kiss, he gripped the backs of your legs and lifted you effortlessly, your body instinctively wrapping around his waist. The feel of him, solid and warm, pressing into every part of you sent a jolt of heat straight through your core.

He groaned again, the sound vibrating against your lips as he set you down on the bed. Your back met the soft mattress, but you barely noticed—too lost in the way his hands were exploring every inch of you, the way his mouth never left yours for more than a second.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice low and rough, vibrating through you. “You have no idea what you do to me.” His hands slid under the hem of your dress, pushing it up slowly, his fingers skimming over your bare thighs. The touch was electrifying, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, and you arched into him, silently begging for more.

Your hands found the buttons of his shirt, fumbling slightly in your haste to undo them. The sight of his chest, toned and smooth, sent a fresh wave of desire crashing over you, and you couldn’t help but let your hands wander, tracing the lines of his muscles as he shrugged out of the fabric.

Austin’s lips left yours, traveling down the line of your jaw and to the sensitive spot on your neck. His teeth scraped lightly against your skin, and when his tongue followed, you let out a soft whimper before you could stop it. He smirked, his lips ghosting over yours as he murmured, “I like that.”

His hands gripped your thighs tighter, spreading them slightly as he settled between them, his arousal pressing against you in a way that left no doubt about how much he needed you.

“Austin,” you managed, your hands threading into his hair, tugging gently until he met your gaze. “Now. Please.”

The plea seemed to undo him entirely. His mouth captured yours again, his kiss rough and demanding as his hands slid higher, brushing against the thin fabric of your panties. His fingers teased along the edge, the sensation sending a sharp thrill through you, and when he finally pressed against you, the heat of his touch made you gasp.

“You’re so wet,” he groaned, his forehead resting against yours as his fingers traced over you through the fabric. “Is this all for me?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your hips bucking against his hand. “All for you.”

His lips curved into a wicked smile against your skin, and then his fingers slipped under the fabric, finding you bare and aching for him. The first brush of his touch sent a shudder through your entire body, and you couldn’t stop the soft, desperate sound that escaped you.

“God, you’re perfect,” he said, his voice reverent as his fingers began to move, stroking you in a way that made your toes curl. His other hand slid up your body, pushing the straps of your dress off your shoulders until the fabric pooled around your waist, leaving you exposed to him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his eyes dark with desire as he took in the sight of you. “I’ve wanted this—wanted you—for so long.”

You could barely form a coherent thought, let alone a response, as his mouth closed over one of your breasts, his tongue flicking over your nipple while his fingers continued their slow, torturous rhythm. The combination of sensations was overwhelming, every nerve ending in your body alight with pleasure.

“Austin,” you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders as you felt the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your core. “I can’t—”

“I’ve got you,” he said softly, his voice full of reassurance even as his movements became more insistent. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

His words were your undoing. The tension snapped, and a wave of pleasure crashed over you, leaving you trembling and gasping beneath him. He didn’t stop, his fingers coaxing every last tremor from your body as he pressed soft, reverent kisses to your skin.

When you finally opened your eyes, you found him watching you, his gaze filled with something you couldn’t quite name but felt all the way down to your soul.

He brushed a strand of hair from your face, then his lips were on yours again, his kiss deeper, hungrier, as he began to unbuckle his belt.

His belt clinked softly as he pulled it free, his movements deliberate but trembling with restraint. His lips never left yours, his tongue teasing and tasting as his hands worked to free himself from the confines of his trousers. You could feel the heat radiating from him, his urgency barely contained, and it sent a thrill coursing through you.

Your fingers trembled as you reached for him, skimming over his stomach, the faint trail of hair beneath his navel, before wrapping around him. He hissed at the contact, his forehead falling against yours, his breath warm and ragged as his hips twitched into your hand, the sheer reality of how much he wanted you made your head spin.

That was all the encouragement he needed. His hands gripped your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed as he settled between your legs. He paused, his gaze sweeping over you, the way your dress bunched around your waist and your panties still clinging to your hips. With a soft, almost reverent touch, he reached for the waistband of your panties, sliding them down your legs and tossing them aside. His hands found the fabric of your dress next, easing it the rest of the way up and over your head, leaving you completely bare before him.

His breath hitched, his fingers brushing over your skin as if he couldn’t believe you were real. “God…” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

His lips found yours again, this time slower, deeper, as if he was trying to savour every moment. One of his hands slid down, guiding himself to you, and when he pressed into you, the stretch was both overwhelming and perfect.

You gasped against his mouth, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he filled you completely. He groaned, his forehead resting against yours as he held still for a moment, letting you adjust. “God, you feel so good,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Better than I ever imagined.”

Your heart stuttered at his words, but there was no time to dwell on them as he began to move. His thrusts were slow at first, each one deliberate and measured, as if he was trying to memorise the way you felt around him. But soon, the rhythm grew more urgent, his need driving him faster, harder, until the sound of skin meeting skin filled the room.

You moaned as he angled his hips just right, brushing against that spot that made your vision blur and your thighs tighten around his waist.

You clung to him, your bodies moving together in perfect sync. Every thrust sent a wave of pleasure crashing through you, and the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered—made your chest ache with something far deeper than just desire.

His hands slid under your thighs, lifting you slightly to pull you closer, deeper, and the new angle had you crying out his name, your voice trembling with need.

“God, yes—like that,” you gasped, your back arching off the mattress as you chased the pressure building low in your stomach.

“Austin,” you gasped, your hands tangling in his hair as his teeth scraped lightly over your earlobe. The soft sounds he made—those low, guttural moans—were enough to push you closer to the edge, your body tightening around him as the tension coiled in your core.

“I’m so close,” he murmured against your skin, his voice strained. “I’m so fucking close. I don’t want this to end.”

“Me neither,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you felt yourself spiralling toward the edge. “But don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

His movements became almost frantic, his hips snapping against yours with a desperate intensity. He reached between you, his fingers finding that sensitive spot that sent you hurtling over the edge. You cried out, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave, your head tipping back as your body trembled beneath him.

The sensation of you tightening around him pushed him over the edge. He groaned your name, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep inside you, his entire body shaking with the force of his climax.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your heavy breathing the only sound in the room. Austin finally lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours, and the vulnerability in his gaze made your chest tighten.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“More than okay,” you replied, your lips curling into a small smile.

He returned the smile, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips, and you felt yourself melt into him all over again.

This wasn’t just desire. It was more, so much more, and you could feel it in every touch, every glance, every whispered word between you. But for now, you let yourself exist in this moment, holding him close as the rest of the world faded away.

————————————————

The sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting soft patterns on the walls. Austin had been awake for hours, his thoughts swirling like the city below. He lay still, the warmth of your body pressed against his side, your breath soft and even as you slept. His fingers moved absentmindedly over your back, tracing slow, gentle patterns.

It had taken everything in him to knock on your door last night, to say the things he’d been holding back for so long. But now, with you here, tangled up in his arms, he couldn’t imagine not saying them. He couldn’t imagine walking away from this—from you.

You stirred slightly, your eyelashes fluttering as you blinked up at him, your sleepy smile making his chest ache in the best way. “Morning,” you murmured, your voice low and rough with sleep.

“Morning,” he replied softly, his thumb brushing over your shoulder. God, you were beautiful like this—completely unguarded, so real it made him feel like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

“What time is it?” you asked, shifting slightly to prop yourself up on your elbow.

“Early,” he said with a faint chuckle. “But I couldn’t sleep.”

“Why not?” Your gaze searched his, and he felt the vulnerability tighten in his chest.

“Because I can’t stop thinking about what this means,” he admitted, his voice low. “About you. About us.”

You sat up, the sheet falling around you as you crossed your legs. “And?” you prompted, your tone steady but cautious.

“And… I don’t want this to just be a moment,” he said, the words spilling out before he could second-guess them. “I don’t want to leave here and pretend like nothing’s changed. I want this—whatever this is—to be something we figure out. Together.”

Your lips parted slightly, your expression softening as the weight of his words settled between you. “Austin, it’s not going to be easy,” you said, your voice gentle but firm. “We live in different worlds half the time. The press, the schedules… it’s a lot.”

“I know,” he said quickly, leaning forward. His hand found yours, his fingers threading through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I know it won’t be easy, but I don’t care. I’ll make time. I’ll show up. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it.”

You searched his face, your eyes scanning his like you were looking for something you weren’t sure you’d find. Finally, you let out a soft breath, and the smallest smile tugged at your lips. “I’m willing to try.”

Relief and something deeper—something that felt dangerously close to joy—flooded through him. He exhaled slowly, his forehead lowering to rest against yours. “Then we’ll try,” he murmured. “And we’ll figure the rest out as we go.”

The rest of the morning passed in a haze of quiet intimacy. The press tour resumed soon after, the chaos of interviews and cameras pulling you both back into the rhythm of work. But something had shifted. It was in the way your hand brushed his when you passed notes, in the way your laughter lingered a little longer when you teased him. The unspoken connection between you wasn’t hidden anymore—it wasn’t loud, but it was there, steady and grounding.

Later that night, after the last event of the day, Austin found himself standing on the rooftop terrace of the hotel, the city sprawling out beneath him. He heard the soft click of the door behind him and turned to see you stepping out, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” you asked, your tone light.

“Not really,” he replied, his smile soft as you joined him by the railing. “Too much on my mind.”

“Anything you want to share?” you teased, your gaze flicking to meet his.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice low and serious. “I’ve been thinking about what happens after this.”

“After the tour?” you asked, your brow furrowing slightly.

He nodded, his fingers brushing against yours where they rested on the railing. “I don’t want to lose this. Lose you. But I know things are going to get crazy. I’ve got projects lined up, and I know you do too. I just… I don’t want us to get lost in it.”

You turned to face him fully, your expression thoughtful. “So what are you suggesting?”

“Something to keep us grounded,” he said, his tone soft but resolute. “Dinner. A weekend. A plan—whatever it takes to remind us that this is real, no matter where we are or how crazy things get.”

Your lips curved into a faint smile, and you nodded. “I like that.”

He grinned, the tension in his chest easing slightly. “And if I get too busy or caught up in my own head, you can just show up and remind me what really matters.”

“Deal,” you said softly, your hand lifting to rest lightly against his chest. “But only if you promise to do the same for me.”

“Deal,” he echoed, his hand covering yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the quiet hum of the city filling the space between you. Then he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that was soft and slow, the kind of kiss that felt like a promise. A beginning.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and his voice was barely above a whisper. “Whatever happens next, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

And in that moment, with the city lights flickering around you and your fingers intertwined with his, Austin knew one thing for sure: he was exactly where he was meant to be.

#austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler fic #austin butler imagine #austin butler x reader #austin butler x y/n #austin butler x you #fan fiction #fanfic #imagine #fiction

64 notes · View notes

curlyfriesgalore · 9 hours ago

Text

the tulpar's very own "mom" & "dad."

i sent an anon message to a user (iykyk 🫣) about the reader dating curly while being a co-captain/pilot alongside him. they're seen as the mom and dad of the group because of their positions as leaders, and daisuke claimed they both had major facebook mom energy. definitely not self-projecting.

the two rolled with it, but discovered that they liked it way more than they realized, eventually calling each other mommy and daddy in their own space.

★ this is a list of headcanons and what is essentially a one-shot that's broken up into bullets. although, fair warning, i wrote A LOT, so there's so much to scroll through under the cut. anyway, the first half is sfw and other is nsfw.

☆ gen tags: fem! reader (she/her) who loves being captain and doesn't know what's popular these days. reader and curly are in their early 30s. no crash au. curly wants to have a family with you. jimmy is a janitor here LMAO.

★ nsfw tags MDNI: mommy (mama) kink. daddy kink. role switching but leans into fdom/msub. curly secretly got a thing for breeding 🫢.

[any feedback on my writing is much appreciated btw! since i'm doing this to improve —iris🌠]

sfw.

★ the dynamic.

you and curly met through working at pony express. both of you were equally capable captains and pilots of your respective ships, bonding over the responsibilities and pressures of your roles.

curly adored your genuine drive for this job. you were so passionate about bringing out the best in people and enjoyed micro-organizing every little detail, making sure everything went smoothly.

meanwhile, he was just good at talking, which you would always praise, but he never found much pride in what he does. however, it paid immensely well, and, at the very least, he got to indulge in his love for astronomy at every waking hour, distracting himself enough from cycling through his depressive thoughts.

so, he's not complaining. plus, he gets to ogle at and hang out with the prettiest and coolest person at pony express.

(sure, he had jimmy, so he wasn't always so alone with his mind, but with you in his life, he might actually have a chance at settling down. though, curly was getting ahead of himself. he'll try to drop his future family fantasies for now... juuust until he's sure he can bag you).

curly finds your way of leading to be so endearing and... intimidating, honestly. while he was calm and compromising, you were firm and authoritarian. you were never swayed by incompetence and planted a strong ground when navigating discourse between crewmates, but, at the same time, you were nurturing. you have an air of deep kindness and wise guidance that sends him reeling. he'd openly tell you how much he admired that, but would never admit that he daydreams of how hot you looked when you ordered your crew around. he's got to stay professional, after all!

at some point, the two of you were paired for a 3-month long-haul flight. you, the captain, and he, the co-captain. one thing lead to another and without the company's knowledge, you two fell for each other.

how could you not? you two had all the elements of a power couple and understood each other better than anyone else. besides, he is one hunk of a man. of course you'd want to snag him for yourself, who wouldn't?

funnily enough, you guys asked to see each other in the cockpit with the same intention of declaring feelings.

and, of course, since you two were grown adults stuck on a spacecraft far too long for your libidos to handle, it only took two confessions interrupting each other, two pairs of hands holding, and two soft kisses to lead to the two of you passionately making out, with you straddling his lap as he wrapped his arms around your back.

it's been years since then, and the tulpar was just one of many long-haul trips where the two of you got to work together.

however, you guys have kept your relationship hidden for the sake of professionalism. even jimmy was dumbfounded to accidentally find out nearly a year into dating.

"dude, why the fuck do you have captain l/n in your wallet...?" jimmy squinted at the photo. his eyes scrolled down the print, coming to a halt and widening at what he saw, "wait, shut up, is that you two kissing?" his eyebrows contorted into a tense knit. his mouth gaped as he stared at curly, who stood and scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "since when?!"

as curly explained himself, jimmy half-heartedly laughed as he shook his head, bemusement painting his face. whether or not he was ever happy to learn about this, curly will never know.

then, realization hit. jimmy frowned as he pinched the bridge of his nose, "oh, god, please don't tell me those stains i've been cleaning were from you guys?"

"huh?! no, no! jimmy, i swear, that wasn't us, i promise!" curly panicked, his head shaking profusely.

turns out, it was, lmfao. jimmy gave him an earful, and curly kept apologizing, embarrassed that his best friend knows a little too much about what he's been doing around the ship.

this man adored you, more than anything. the security you had in him—in yourself, most of all, was intoxicatingly comforting.

the two of you swore to stick together for as long as it takes, and have already planned out your wedding, buying a house together, changing careers (curly wants to be a stay-at-home dad, maybe freelance in something if he's got time), owning pets, raising kids (he is 100% a girl dad!!! i can see him wanting at least 2, but if you still have room for one more, he'll gladly take responsibility *wink* *wink*), etc.

curly believed that you both balanced well as parents. you would teach the kids to be brave and confident in themselves, whereas, he would help them learn to handle confrontation calmly and be friendly to all.

(he's not saying that you weren't friendly, just that, between the two of you, he specialized more in the charm department. he wasn't wrong, though! back before you guys dated, he cranked his charisma to a max, and look where that's got him now 🤭).

all of this meant everything to curly. he had quite a rough start to life, not financially but familially (how you want to interpret that is up to you). it's why he's become such a people-pleaser and tends to be a doormat, growing used to internalizing his feelings because he believed others were more deserving of pity (a belief that's been reinforced by jimmy throughout their friendship).

not to mention, how much he worried about being with someone who had to stay on earth. he felt guilty for this hypothetical person, how they'd be akin to a military spouse, waiting for god knows how long, just for curly to come back and stay for less than 6 months at a time. it sickened him to think of how that would affect his future children.

so, for him to be in a relationship with someone in the same occupation and caliber as him eased a lot of that fear. and, this is the same person who is known for her emotionally maturity, who knows how to express her thoughts and feelings, and who loves curly for all that makes him him, giving him more reasons than he already had to get down on that knee.

good GOD does he wish he could go ahead and do that already, but proposing on an aged piece of metal in outer space wasn't the most... romantic setting, as much as you jokingly insisted it was.

but, no worries, curly's got it all planned out. once you all land back on earth, curly is making sure you get your dream proposal, for that man is stopping at nothing to wed you and love you for the rest of his life!

★ the beginning to a never-ending petname.

one night, anya pulled out a pop-culture board game, one that the others understood the rules and references of fairly quickly. but, you and curly? oh, you guys needed time.

you two weren't dumb by any means, you guys were just... a little behind on the trends—trends that have been out for forever 💀.

everyone poked fun at how much you would both pause and say, "huh...?" or "w-what's that from, again?" how your brows would knit and furrow, your faces looking blank as ever. the two of you would take a slow glance at each other, then at the others, and shake your head in confusion.

admittedly, swansea was in the same boat as you two, but even he knew a couple of things better than you lot. "the benefits of raising two nerds for kids," he'd say. he liked laughing at you guys, made him feel young.

"ohh, isn't that the game you play on your gameboy, daisuke? the... you know, uh, the cute pika ball thing?" daisuke stared at curly, dumbfounded by what he was hearing.

"CAPTAIN. HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW THE NAME OF ONE OF—IF NOT—THE HIGHEST FORMS OF ART?!" he turned to you, desperation fueling his eyes. "l/n, please tell me you've at least heard of pokémon before..." daisuke exaggeratedly clasped his hands together. you sat there, pursing your lips with shifty eyes and pretended to whistle as you looked away.

"anya. swansea. i think i'm gonna faint..." he dramatically dropped himself onto the two. swansea shook his head, uncrossing his arms and pulling daisuke off his and anya's laps, "kid, you are way too dramatic for your own good."

daisuke exasperatedly commented on how you and curly were so much like his parents, clueless and far too involved in work to know his interests.

then, he thinks for a second, and finally decides that you guys were technically the parents of the ship.

"right? think about it. if the tulpar were a house and we were family, l/n and curly would be mom and dad 'cause they're responsible for us and the ship. swansea's the grandpa—oh, come on, swan, don't look at me like that!"

"i mean, you do have grandkids, swansea..."

"exactly. THANK YOU, anya. now, you get to be the cool older sister, i'm the even cooler teenage son, polle can be like... our little pet or something, and jimmy is the uncle!"

"wh-why am i the uncle?"

"'cause you know... you're... you."

"what is THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!"

as an "argument" ensued between the others, you and curly were flushing. nobody but jimmy knew of your relationship, but the fact that daisuke figuratively paired you guys as a married couple turned you into a bashful, blushing mess.

nobody noticed, really. jimmy was too busy grumbling about being seen as the weird uncle, and everyone started getting really annoyed by him. so, in classic curly and y/n fashion, you two tried to resolve the situation (curly reassured jimmy that uncles can be cool! but jimmy's frown just deepened).

the game ended, and the two of you walked to your sleeping quarters, reflecting on how it went. not bringing up the mom/dad thing just yet, but it lurked in the back of your minds.

deciding to stay in his room, you and curly changed into your pjs. you snuggled up under the covers, but he momentarily checked on some paperwork. you groaned, rolled your eyes, and patted the pillows.

"babyyy, just get into bed now." you pouted.

curly chuckled, "okay, okay... just give me ooone more sec, mama, i'll be right there—"

your eyes widened, a fuzzy warmth bubbled within you. curly quickly got embarrassed and apologized, but when you softly chuckled and reassured him that you didn't mind, he relaxed.

hearing how smoothly 'mama' rolled out his tongue unlocked something deep in you.

the truth was, curly had been calling you 'mom', 'mama', and 'mommy' in his fantasies for quite some time now. he told you, now with him in bed, how it helped him immerse himself in imagining his future with you. even in scenarios where you didn't have kids yet, it still felt so soothing to call you by those titles.

he rested his head in the crook of your neck as you circled his back with your palm, occassionally playing with the ends of his hair. as he yapped about it, trying to make it seem less of a big deal for him, you lifted his chin to face you. he instantly softened, his words faltering as you looked down on him.

"you can call me, mommy, more often if you'd like to, baby... i really don't mind." you reassured in a low voice.

curly was uncertain, but his ocean doe eyes remain glued to your deep gaze. he swallowed, "are you sure? you don't have to put up with it if you don't really like it, honey, it's okay—"

you softly hushed him, thumbing the golden hairs scattered on his cheek. "no, i mean it." you paused, hoping the following words sounded smooth, "...mommy thinks it's genuinely cute when you call me that."

curly squirmed. a whimper resided in his throat, but, as the rumbling of your voice trailed down his spine, he let a quiet, high-pitch moan escape his lips.

for a man who presents himself as someone very self-assured, he does have a hard time accepting that you were really okay with it.

however, when his hesitancy eases into normalcy, he's calling you 'mommy' and 'mama' in every other sentence. if not, all his sentences.

"hey, mommy, where'd you put my mug?"

"mama, you need to stop sleeping so late. it's bad for your health." (he's a hypocrite and he knows it).

curly's voice was naturally deep, saccharine sweet, and a bit raspy at times. but, when he called you by your motherly petnames, he'd go an octave softer, especially as the night came to a close and sleepiness was taking a toll on him. he'd sound a little dumb and incoherent, but the bass in him remained strong.

he still calls you by the classic petnames, mainly 'darling' and 'honey' since those are his other personal faves. though, minutes prior to work, he'd try to use your actual name or settle with 'babe,' so he doesn't accidentally call you 'mommy' in public. it was deeply personal for him, and if someone like jimmy caught wind of that, it would greatly upset curly, even though he would very likely tell you it was fine (just so you wouldn't chew jimmy alive).

so, when YOU began calling him, 'daddy,' it sent his mind into a haywire. (how it happened is in the nsfw section!)

he loved the safety of calling you his mommy, how it relieved the weight of his captain duties and the thoughts burdened in his mind. but, with his newfound title, he'd flip between feeling secure in your protection to wanting to do nothing but protect you. not from any real danger, perse, but, moreso, caring for each other's well-being when either of you wanted to indulge in a little less control.

it made sense that even you, the commanding leader who enjoyed delegating and dominating others (other than him), needed a break from your responsibilities and wanted curly to take the wheel for a change.

you both took turns pampering one another. he would do everything you wanted, and made sure to wrap you in his big, strong arms by the end of the day.

"rest your pretty head for me, okay, mommy? daddy's got you..." he brought the back of your hand to his lips and kissed it deeply, thumbing your knuckles with his large, calloused fingers. with his other arm, curly pressed your waist closer to his, letting you relish in his warmth.

when it was his turn, a long snuggle session, loads of praise, and kisses in every place was all he needed (don't forget to call him your good little boy! he needs his mommy's praise after a rough day at work).

"honeyyy, i've called you 'good boy' like 24 times in a rowww...!" you whined. of course you didn't mind peppering kisses on his face with the same adoring name over and over again, but now, he was just getting greedy.

curly giggled, nuzzling his nose against your cheek as he softened his sea blue eyes, "just ooone more, pleaaase, mama? please...?"

he loved how reliable the term 'daddy' felt. it gave him a little ego boost. he's always had a pretty good relationship with his masculinity, but this just added onto that like a good affirmation.

the way his mind would get so lost in replaying how you two back-and-forthed with your respective petnames. it felt like he was role-playing his future family with you in real time.

★ extras.

it became an ongoing joke with the crew, especially with daisuke. whenever you'd tell him to get back to work, he'd drawl out a long "okayyy, mommmm," but quickly apologized after swansea smacked the back of his head.

"tch, don't talk to your captain like that."

"ach! i'm sorry, I'M SORRYYY—i was kidding!!!"

anya found it silly, never really saying anything like daisuke, but since you two became good friends (both because you guys genuinely clicked and were the only women on board), she had a knack for teasing you about it. she knew something more was going on between you and curly. so, maybe, just maybe, during a psych eval, you eventually spilled to her about your relationship.

"hehe, called it."

"seriously?! how?"

"y/n... it's so obvious. i've seen you guys go into each other's rooms."

swansea didn't care. he was an actual dad, after all, and practically everyone he knew eventually became a parent one way or another. though, if you felt comfortable enough with swansea and told him about your relationship, he surprisingly wouldn't mind giving you two a piece of advice. how to keep a long-term marriage? dude's been with his wife for over 40 years and counting. raising children? please, he's done it twice. unclogging the toilet after your kids threw your deodorant down the drain? don't ask, just listen. you're much better off not knowing how.

whatever it is, ask away, but don't expect anything easy on the ears. swansea gives advice in poetic prose that borderline sounds like he's taking a jab at you.

truthfully, jimmy is somewhere in between being deeply irritated by the both of you and not giving two shits. he hates how you're sort of a curly clone, in the sense that you're also a high-performing person that everyone adores to work with. but, what's worse, is that you're so much harder to get mad at and are 100% capable of calling out his ass.

he's had to catch himself from saying anything too mean to curly multiple times. he knows he's easily replaceable, he's the janitor for god's sake, and if he said too much in front of you, he knows you'd tell pony express to fire him on the spot.

but, if we're assuming that jimmy is mentally better in the head, he'd eventually get over it and shrug off your guys' relationship, not wanting to grow envious as he does by default.

nsfw.

★ mommy.

it didn't surprise you that curly loved calling you 'mommy' in bed too. he'd always say, "mommy, you're so beautiful", "m-mommy, it's too tight...!" and when he gets overwhelmed, he'd become so dazed as his dick ached, crying because his mama felt so good.

he was like pavlov's dog, only the bell was your petname and you were the meal. if either of you were ever so slightly horny and everyone was stowed away in their quarters, hearing 'mommy' reverberate out of your mouth had him squeezing his thighs.

however, he's gotten used to mostly keeping it in his pants. not letting himself get needy when it's used casually. otherwise, he'd cease to function.

he loves it when you ride him, he gets all whimpery and brain-dead, begging his mama to let him cum out of his "little" boy dick.

all he wanted was his mommy to use him, make him so overstimulated until all that was left in his empty head was you.

sometimes, he loved the feeling of reaching his orgasm more than the orgasm itself. it's that momentary numbness he gets that he enjoys chasing, how every single thought completely disappeared, leaving him into nothing but a panting mess — all of him leaking out of his cock.

★ daddy.

one night, you were laying on curly, sitting upright. he held you in his arms as you spread your legs far and wide, toes digging into the mattress, gripping onto curly's biceps for support.

and, just like curly when he called you 'mama' for the first time, you accidentally slipped out a "daddy—!" as he fingered you, knuckles-deep.

you suddenly went quiet, quickly covering a hand over your mouth.

curly's eyes widened, his fingers stilled inside of you as his heart raced in his chest... he didn't expect it, but his shock washed into dominance.

he pulled out his fingers, his tone more stern and husk as he whispered, "say that again."

you whimpered, the loss of fullness making your thighs shudder. without a single thought, you called him daddy again, and again, and again... until he flipped you onto your stomach and was back to toying with you, digging into your insides at much greater speeds than before.

when you began regularly using it, he'd grow so romantic and reserved, wanting to take his time to just worship you—peppering deep kisses from head to toe—because in his eyes, you were the most precious person in existence.

he's never rough unless you tell him to be or he knows that it'll make you cum even better, but this man just loves to be slow and sensual. it's his go-to speed.

his favorite thing to do is coo at you, asking if you like how daddy is loving you or if daddy's doing a good job at touching your little hole. even when he's assuming a dominant role, he wants your reassurance.

curly is never mean. he only likes to light-heartedly tease you whenever you'd whine for him to keep going. other than that, he was heavy on his praises, loved complimenting you till you were blushing all over.

★ taking turns.

now, you guys would call each other 'mommy' and 'daddy' regardless of the dynamic, but if either of you felt more subby, you'd settle for the classic, 'good girl,' and him, 'good boy' (or any other submissive petname you prefer).

if you're domming and he's subbing, he wants you to use up all of his cum for your pleasure. he hopes you'll let him spill all that's left in him for hours on end.

however, most of the time, he's not really built for that, only able to handle a little over a round. so, to make up for it, he'll let you get him all pent up and force him to hold it in, using his desperation as energy to serve you.

the longer you left him like that, the faster his licks and finger-fucks became.

if you're cruel, making him rut into you would send him shaking. he'd struggle so hard, needing to take breaks as he alternated between slow and steady thrusts to rough humps according to what you ordered... oh, tears were definitely rolling down his cheeks.

(don't worry, he's not hurt. it's just a lot for him to physically handle. but, for you, he'd withstand anything!)

on the off-chance that he has the energy to go longer, he wants you to use him in all positions with only a minute to breathe after each cum. he wants to lose it, make him sweaty and breathless, please. turn him into a pathetic display only for your eyes to see.

if he's domming and you're subbing, he finds it fun to deny your orgasm, loving how surprised you get whenever he'd lift your vibrator off your clit or leave his dick in you, barely moving an inch. but even then, he quickly caves in and lets you have your way because nothing turns him on more than you cumming and crying for your 'daddy.'

he doesn't do that to hurt you, after all, he hates the mere possibility of even remotely making you uncomfortable. but, when he asks whether or not mommy misses his fingers, and you'd mewl in agreement, he can't help himself from edging you.

★ curly thinking of you. (extras).

he jerks off to the idea of breeding you.

but, even though it gets his dick all wet, he won't re-enact it just yet. he doesn't want to accidentally impregnate you when neither of you were ready—especially since you're the one carrying.

even if you were incredibly horny and adamant on it, he'd keep his rationale.

"mommy... i'm not cumming inside you." he chuckled, shaking his head with his tone, firm. you whined, "but, why not?" a needy frown formed on your lips, "i just want to feel good, daddy. you said i could...!"

you grinded down on his boxers, wetness seeped through the fabric of your panties. curly stifled a groan as he felt your clothed folds slide against his tip, drenched in his pre-cum.

"i know, mommy, i know... daddy'll take care of you soon, i promise... but i'm not risking anything, okay?" he pressed a kiss on your forehead, thumbing circles on your stomach with his hands gripping your waist. "it's for your own safety, mama."

but, since this was all in his head, he could indulge in it as much as he wanted.

curly loved remembering the way your cum dripped out of your hole, how softly your pussy parted. it made him wish it was his, wanting to fill you up and let his mess soak up inside you.

he wished he could finger it back into you—or, even better, tongue-fuck it in. the thought of having you sit on his face with him lapping his cum into your walls, as you rubbed your clit against the end of his nose got him all hot and bothered.

with his hand pumping himself from base to tip, he'd think of you laying down on your back, wrapping your legs around curly's head as you pushed his mouth further into you. he'd moan into your pretty parts, purposefully deepening it so his voice would vibrate all over your pussy.

[holy shit, i wrote so much. thank you for reading all the way ♡ let me know if you guys want more captain! reader and/or mommy/daddy kink! curly —iris🌠]

#whew had to edit it since i accidentally deleted a chunk 💀 but all is saved #hopefully i wrote everything in?#curly mouthwashing #curly x reader #mouthwashing x reader #mouthwashing #captain curly #anya mouthwashing #daisuke mouthwashing #swansea mouthwashing #jimmy mouthwashing

80 notes · View notes