#can you all hear me. do you understand me.

[nanamiskentos]

SCORCHED EARTH ✤ (五条 悟, gojo satoru)

── NO GOD, THE ONLY MAN IN THE SKY IS ME. Gojo Satoru is the nation's treasure, and its most dangerous asset. In a world where Supes are lauded as celebrities and heroes, there's only a select few that sees superheroes for what they really are ─ cogs in the propaganda machine, corrupt and lecherous. You're determined to hunt down the golden boy that leads them, to find Gojo Satoru and bring him down. But he's just as obsessed with you, and he gets to you first.

➤ 𝐉𝐉𝐊, gojo satoru & afab!reader, wc ─ 5k

cw ─ MDNI. enemies to lovers, THE BOYS AU, love/hate sex, HOMELANDER GOJO 😁, superhero au, cat & mouse dynamics, vigilante!reader, evil!gojo to some extent, mentions of a plane crash to be safe, kitchen s��x, breaking n' entering but they're into that, súb!gojo if u squint, fíngèring, òral (f), usage of powers, 3x01 homelander/butcher inspired, BIG DÍCK GOJO!!

呪術廻戦 : 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ( author says ) s/o to the evil man who inspired the gojo in this fic. and these scenes: 1/2 ofc (i'd rec watching to understand who reader/gojo is also inspired by). art, gojouify.

A ballpoint cap balances between your teeth as you scribble furiously, blue ink streaking across a spare napkin. The address is way too far out, a shipping container, two hours away and tucked into the skeletal maze of the port.

"This is a long drive for a maybe." You press the phone tighter against your ear, frowning at the scrawled numbers and letters, "You're sure I'll find something?"

On the other end, Nanami exhales sharply, the sound of a clock ticking faintly over the static. He's still in the office, no doubt hunched over a desk lit by the sickly glow of a desk lamp.

"Well," he hedges, ever the careful one, "I wouldn't go alone."

You tip your chair back, gaze drifting to the chaotic sprawl of files pinned to the red-string board by the wall. Photographs, names, offshore accounts that all lead back to the same festering rot. Lawmakers, politicians and billionaires.

The smiling, all-powerful titans who owned the system that was supposed to hold them accountable.

At the centre of it all? Gojo Satoru. The strongest superhero that the world had ever seen, barely held in check by Vought and international courts.

You chew at the soft inside of your cheek, "And you're sure this is the best lead we have?"

"After that shitshow at Congress?" Nanami sounds tired, stretched far too thin, "This is the only lead we have, or the only thing that I can find right now."

Ah, yes. The hearing.

The day you almost had them — Gojo, Vought and every polished, pre-packaged lie they peddled. A smoking gun to set the set the system ablaze.

And then, you could only watch the live television stream as every key witness's head popped like a balloon. Blood spraying against mahagony desks, gray matter splattered across the Capitol.

And not many had managed to escape that room unscathed. Save for a select few politicians and reporters, dealing out breathless, shaken interviews alongside an unshaken Gojo Satoru and Congressmen Geto.

You exhale through your nose, fingers tightening around the napkin, "Yeah, I'll check it out. See if I can find somethin' to nail that cunt."

"Let me know what you find," Nanami intones, a pause. And then, in a far more cautious tone, like he already knows you won't take heed, "Stay safe. And if you do come across Gojo, do not engage with him. In any way."

The line clicks dead.

You toss the streaky pen aside, reaching instead for the amber bottle on the cluttered table, the burn of whisky that's begging to be made familiar once more.

Regardless, it's far too late now to head out and check the address, for night has fallen and you doubt you'll manage to get far.

Beyond the murky glass of your balcony doors, the city pulses with sleepless energy. Neon signs flickering like dying embers, billboards — no doubt plastered with the airbrushed faces of the Supes who run this nation.

Sirens wail in the distance, and somewhere, far beyond the skyline you swear you see it.

A streak of white and blue, fast as lightning, splitting the sky for a fraction of a second. You blink, gummy and dry, nothing. Just the tired hallucinations of an exhausted, paranoid mind.

Pretending that there isn't a ghost in the sky watching you right back.

Your apartment is dying.

The walls peel like old skin, flaking onto the floors that were never properly finished. The overhead light's flickering, buzzing with a weak and dying hum. And the power outlets sputter like they resent being used. It's not a home, it never really was. Just another hideout, another temporary grave you haven't had to lie down in yet.

You press your knuckles into your eyes, willing the exhaustion away, but it sits heavy in your bones. Haven't you been running long enough? But even now, even here, you know it's not enough.

Because he knows. Gojo Satoru must have caught onto your trail months ago, and you can feel it in the way that the law often seems to let you go, and nation-wide manhunts culminate in no harm done. Like Gojo's toying with you.

Your fingers skim over the mess of papers on the table, stopping beneath a stack of unpaid bills and flyers. A small USB drive, wrapped in blue and silver.

Ah. Flight 37, a transatlantic flight carrying 123 passangers that never managed to land safely. But a goldmine had been fished out the torn wreckage, a shaky video clip that held proof of what Gojo Satoru truly was.

Not a saviour, not a hero. Not the golden boy that was worshipped on screens, talk shows and the international stage of diplomacy.

There's a prickling sensation under your skin, a slow burn that crawls up your arms. Then, it sinks deeper, heat. Your stomach clenches, cramping up as nausea slams into you like a freight train, your head spinning, your vision pulsing black at the edges.

You stumble, dropping the USB on the table as desparate fingers gripping the kitchen counter to stay upright. But you recognise the blisters blooming on the pads of your fingers, slow and ugly welts that bloom like flowers of rot.

This is no wayward sickness, for you would recognise the familiar decay of radioactive exposure. Something that's not quite human, or mortal.

Your blood turns to ice. Hold tightening around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the cheap laminate. Slowly, carefully, you approach the balcony.

The terracotta curtains are coarse under your fingers as you pull them aside. The city beyond is still alive, cars streaking through wet pavements and lights beaming in the smog. But it all feels muted.

Standing on the ledge, hands folded neatly behind his back, Gojo Satoru.

Your breath stutters as you force yourself to inhale, exhale. Slow and steady, through your nose. Whatever sick ploy he's radiating, you know it's simply meant to shake you. A twisted power play on his end.

So you hold your ground, and after a moment, the nausea ebbs. The blisters on your fingertips sealing over, cells stitching the edges of your frayed flesh back together.

You've never seen Gojo out of that deep blue suit, never without the brass eagles that pin the ridiculous cape over his broad back. Most heroes at least pretend to be human, some charade that they cling to for the chance of a secret life, away from the eyes of the press and the authorities. Supes often put on disguises, and casual clothes, something to blend in with the mortals that they claim to protect.

But Gojo?

There's no separation, no mask nor pretense. He doesn't walk among mortal men, he hovers above them. There's no separating him from the brutal power he wields — capable of striking a laser through a man's skull, or razing a city to rubble. Just a god with a PR-approved script, and the power to carve regimes into ribbons.

And yet, aren't you still standing?

If the strongest wanted you dead, he would have made a spectacle of it. Blood and fireworks for the evening news, another death used as collateral propaganda so the masses can thank him. That's the only mercy that Gojo knows.

You school your features, masking the instinct to flee. Or toss a plastic chair at his face. Gojo is akin to a hungry shark, and fear is blood in the water. You know that the safest way to deal with him is sheer indifference. If you give him nothing, he has nothing to bite or feast on.

You tilt your head, resting your weight against the large window as you pry it open. Letting the night air seep in, cold pricking at your skin, but it's nothing compared to the chill that Gojo's already dragged in with him.

He's staring. The blindfold is gone, and those impossible blue eyes fix on you, as though they're trying carve a jagged cut straight your ribcage — his handsome features stilled to stone.

You arch a brow, "If you're here to watch me get off, it'll cost you a tenner."

A beat of silence. And then, the smallest flicker of something that isn't amusement, but not quite irritation. Gojo doesn't rise to the bait, but his brow ticks up. The barest movement, as though he's debating whether or not to indulge you.

Jaw twitching as though Gojo seems to chew his words, slow and measured, "May I come in?"

You stare at him, gaze sweeping up and down, almost against your will. The way his suit hugs his body, emphasising the unfair curve of his chest, the sharp lines of Gojo's muscles, the tensions in the fabric as it stretches taut over skin. Eyes falling to the strand of white hair that flutters across his face, swaying in the night's breeze. Absurdly perfect, as if he's crafted from some celestial ideal.

But you refuse to indulge him, pressing your lips together tightly, not even a flicker of acknowledgement to the fact that he's standing on your balcony like he owns the damn place. Slowly, you step aside from the window, taking the invitation. Gojo doesn't need permission, but you give it anyway.

As Gojo sweeps past, your eyes linger on the sharp strands of his undercut, the delicate sweep of his hair, so pale it almost looks unreal. But you can see his nose wrinkle, disgust painted across his fine features as electric eyes skim the clutter of your apartment. The peeling walls, the cracked appliances, the mess of papers strewn across your table.

Gojo stops at the red string board, his gaze lingering on the photos and notes that have been painstakingly pinned up, and you see his mouth twitch. As though he's amused by your conspiracy, your obsession, your silent war.

"It's really always about me, isn't it?" Gojo's tone carries the faintest edge of mockery, that damn entertained smile curling the corners of his petal-pink lips.

Your jaw tightens, a flash of anger rearing up inside you. You tear your gaze away from him, "Why are you here? Got no-one to fuckin' torture over at Vought?"

Gojo sighs, almost theatrically, and he's puffing his cheeks out. As though he's bored, like this is a mild inconvenience for him, "So, you're going on a trip tomorrow, huh?"

You track his gaze to the napkin still resting on the table, the address scribbled carelessly across its surface, "What's it to you?" Hoping that your voice is level, and as neutral as it can get.

Gojo Satoru doesn't quite answer immediately. Instead, he pulls off those thick blue gloves, one finger at a time. His hands are oddly elegant, but you know just how capable they are of ending a life in a second, how capable they are of tearing a throat out without breaking a sweat. The very same hands now tuck the gloves into the bronze-metal band of his belt with an almost unsettling level of care.

"Well, I'm just hurt you're going somewhere without me," Gojo quips slyly, "We could have had ourselves a little road trip, sweetheart. Thelma and Louise on the open road, eh?"

You don't say anything, although you're dying to mention how Thelma & Louise ends. Gojo just rolls his searing-blue eyes skywards dramatically, as though he's used to your stubborn attitude.

"Y'know, I could jus' pull you apart, limb by limb," Gojo tacks on casually, "Make you tell me where you're going."

You can feel the tension in your gut tighten, but you refuse to let the Supe catch onto it, although you have no doubt that his superhuman senses can hear the beat of your heart pumping, every hitch in your breath.

"Nah," you bite back, "That'd be worthless. Victim always goes into shock. You gotta' start small. Fingers, nails, ears..." Your voice trails off, calling Gojo's bluff, forcing your words out as if the prospect doesn't shake you.

Gojo's vibrant, jewel-tone stare doesn't break, but the amusement in his eyes sharpens like iron against a whetstone. "It could be a matter of national security, you know," he murmurs, "I have a duty to protect his nation, to weed out any enemies of the state."

You huff in weary, mock exasperation, dragging a hand over your chin in faux-contemplation, "Look, uh, I don't mean to be rude, but can we just skip to the part where you laser my fuckin' brains out?"

Gojo just swears under his breath, "Oh, for fuck's sake," he's muttering, side-stepping around your rickety table, stepping closer as an almost fond smile tugs at his lips, "Where's the fun in that? Come on, look at ya'. It'd be like putting down a wounded dog?"

You don't flinch, you refuse the possibility. But there's that pulse of heat, low in your spine, when Gojo leans into your space. An electric storm about to crack wide as he studies you, eyes falling to the table where your cards are laid out blatantly, and you jolt. Remembering the innocuous little thing, that USB. The one that could very well be his undoing.

"What do you have on me, doll?" Gojo drawls, his voice smooth and untempered, towering over you like an impossibly magnetic force. You hold your ground as his eyes widen, "You do have something, I presume?"

With slow precision (and trembling fingers), you lift the USB, dangling it between your nails as Gojo's eyes flicker for a split second. Amused smile slipping just enough to show something that's less calculated. As though he knows what you grasp, what you're capable of.

Gojo's expression hardens for a split moment, blush-pink lips parted as he watches you, drinks in the sight of you gredily. All before cold steels locks into place once more, his demeanour laced with something far more callous, like a man cornered who knows exactly how to strike back.

"Go ahead. Release it," Gojo steps closer, until you can feel his breath against your skin, and you catch the tang of iron and clean, expensive leather. "Let's light this candle, huh? I mean, sure, I'll lose everything, doll. But then, I'll have nothin' to lose." His voice is quiet, but there's unmistakable malice beneath it.

"First, I'll take out the nerve centres. The seat of the government, the High Courts. Then, any domestic defense capabilities. Critical infrastructure, cellular, Internet, all of it. And then?" Gojo pauses, teeth catching onto the plush flesh of his lower lip.

"Then, I'll just wipe this city right off the fuckin' map, for fun," Gojo adds, a dark smile curling at the edges of his lips, "Hell, I'll throw in that little town your friend's from. Kento, right? Nanami, from the office? Because, why not?"

Gojo's lips brush the shell of your ear, and you resist the urge to shiver, locking your eyes with his own defiantly, venomously as he continues, "See, sweetheart, I'd prefer to be loved. Y'know, as the strongest, I really would. But if you take that away from me? Well, being feared is A-one, okey-doke by me."

Gojo wants you to challenge him, to hear you break the silence with something other than terror, "So, doll," he murmurs, practically cooing, "Go ahead. Do it." His lips curl, sharp fangs poking out from his glossy, red mouth, "No? You don't wanna? Well, then, I'd say you have absolutely no fuckin' leverage. Because I am the strongest, and I can really do whatever the fuck I want."

You blink angrily, breath catching as Gojo watches you with an almost affection gleam in his eyes. As though he's enjoying this, this sparring match where he's got you pinned. So you swallow thickly, and deep down, you know he's right.

Gojo Satoru is unstoppable. He could easily turn on the world that worships him, props him up, and there's nothing anyone could do about it. No nuclear treaty, no tank nor fighter jet could stand a chance against Unlimited Void or Hollow Purple.

There's no undoing the seams and stitches that hold Gojo together. None, apart from...

Your eyes flicker downwards, instinctively, to the thick curve that bulges through the tight suit he dons. That mouth-watering, delicious bulge that's packed, and if Gojo steps any closer, it would jostle against your thigh.

You inch closer, smoothly, grasping at the stray strand of ice-white hair to tuck it behind Gojo's ears. His expression widening, raw and open for a split second as he shivers, purrs.

"Say I call your bluff, Gojo," you say coolly, "What are you gonna' do, right here, right now?" Your hand trails away from his ear, brushing the high, stiff collar of his suit. Fingers gently pressing into the warm flesh of his neck. You feel his pulse jump under your touch, staccato beats that hiccup along.

And you could have sworn that Gojo breathes out a gentle sigh, lips parting around the words, "Finally."

But his cerulean eyes are narrowed, jaw still clenched, as though he's trying to figure out your angle. Now, he truly does push closer to you so that packed curve brushes against your thigh. And it's big, larger-than-life, like everything about Gojo Satoru is.

Fuck this, you shake your head, as though you're tossing away your rationality. Reaching up to thread your fingers through soft, white hair. Pulling Gojo closer as he groans, closing the distance. Lips crashing against your own, forceful and desperate.

You can feel Gojo freeze, stutter as he seems to work through his shock. But then, something irrevocably shifts in him. Ocean-blue eyes fluttering close, so white lashes kiss his creamy skin. A large hand gripping at your waist, pulling you impossibly close.

It's rough, and messy — and your tongue lingers on the taste of something like espresso, and sweet, sugar syrup to boot. The creamy taste of Gojo Satoru that lingers on your tongue and makes your mouth water.

"Tch', you –" Gojo murmurs, as though all the air in the world has been stolen from his lungs, "You jus' don't k-know how long I've wanted this. Ever since you, heh, fired that bullet at me when we first met."

His tone is erratic, large hands splayed against the small of your back, pushing you further against the kitchen counter.

"That shit went right through ya' head," you breathe, struggling to stay steady against the hard plane of Gojo's form, the muscles curling into you, "Didn't do a fuckin' thing."

Gojo's giggling, giggling as though he's already drunk on your touch, so utterly dangerous. Tugging at your top, fingers spread wide over the curve of your chest. Flicking at the sharp peaks of your nipples, "Waste of a perfectly good round, eh, doll?"

The tips of Gojo's ears are a searing shade of crimson, as he's pulling and toying with your clothes. You have never, ever in your wildest and most illicit fantasies imagined Gojo Satoru like this.

You've never pictured him so obedient, so desperate to meld into your hold. Bright blue eyes glazed over, filmy and hazy as his cheeks are mottled pink.

The most dangerous man in the entire world (or so you'd wager) has you firm against the cracking plastic of your counter, with his lips finding home on whatever skin he can find. Kissing, bruising, sucking at the tender flesh in a way that you know will leave blooming marks.

"C-can I?" Gojo pleads, as though he hasn't spent a lifetime whispering quiet threats into your ear, but now his large hand is softly pressed against the back of your neck.

Slick-strands falling from his lips as he sips at your taste, sucking gently on your tongue.

He kisses you firmly with such force that it leaves you dizzy, and the way he strokes at your cheek with a bruised knuckle is far too tender for a man who's practically a walking, ticking bomb.

He's roughly cupping your tits, kneading at the soft fat and flesh, "Hah, pretty, aren'tcha?" Strands of snow-white hair tickling at your neck as Gojo leans his head down, wrapping his lips around your nipple, lickin' and sucking wherever he can reach.

You arch your spine, pulling Gojo even closer. Grinding your clothed core right up against the hard length taut in that damned suit. Feeling every inch brush up against you.

"F-fuck," Gojo murmurs, slurring out babble and praise out through his kiss-swollen lips. You're slowly rocking your hips back and forth, unintentionally honestly, but you're desperate for some friction to relieve the ache that's blooming within your searing groin.

The pads of his fingers are tilting your jaw at the perfect angle, swollen lips sticky against yours, "Just like that," Gojo grunts, running his pink tongue over the kiss-bitten flesh of your own mouth, "N-not so mouthy now, are we?"

But then, because you think Gojo Satoru is unable to go even a second without antagonising you, the white-haired man is lifting his head. Glossy eyes tearing over your apartment as he pulls an unimpressed face, "Damn, this place is kinda' a dump. You really live like this?"

Your fingers latch onto the stray strands on his head, bucking your hips into his bulge harsher, "Says the cunt who made me a fugitive."

Gojo shakes his head, making a faint pshh, dismissive sound as he scoops you up, biceps not even curling to strain as he roughly stomps towards your meagre, thin bed. Laying you flat on the flat mattress as he rumples the waistband of your pants, hooking his thumb underneath the fabric.

You don't even realise it at first, but you're admiring those razor-sharp, strikingly handsome features. Watching as Gojo tugs at his cape, rough and coarse until the fabric tears away from his shoulder plates — until the azure stars and stripes end up on the wooden floor discarded.

"So, doll, how exactly do ya' want me? " Gojo titters, gently pulling a finger into the flimsy cotton of your panties. You can see his nose twitch, eyes flutter shut for a split second as he visibly reels from the messy, filthy slick pooling under his nails. You can only groan, arching at the sudden stimulation as he begins to crook his fingers faster against your folds.

You suddenly pull your thighs taut together, clenching the flesh to trap his hand, "Taste me, Gojo." Breath shuddering as Gojo's fingers suddenly still, ice-blue eyes blown wide at your gall to give him a command.

But he's always been an excellent soldier, hasn't he? Because he seems to be moving on autopilot, pulling his dripping fingers away and gently lolling his tongue on your translucent sheen, "Hah, I can't believe you're g-giving me orders." Gojo almost whimpers at your sweet tang, desperate to have your pussy drool into his waiting mouth.

"M-more, can you – oh, fuck," You inhale sharply, feeling Gojo's fingers imprint on your thighs, firmly spreading your legs apart so he can shuffle further back, his breath moist against your wet cunt, "Heh, never thought you'd ever be like this."

Gojo gives you a flat look, the underside of his eyes crinkling as he stares at you, "Don't get used to t-this." He's grumbling, but his eyes are blown wide, tongue darting out of his mouth to catch a stray drop of your precious arousal dribbling down your inner thigh, "It's just 'cause –"

You don't give his smart-alec mouth time to formulate any words, groaning as you pull at the thick, soft and tousled strands of white hair. Letting the tip of his sharp nose nudge against your clit as Gojo suddenly muffles a desparate, thirst-laden whine, "Mhm, mhm, fuck!"

"Yeah, y-yeah," You breathe, sighing in relief as he presses his tongue flat against your pussy, laving thickly at the glossy folds that he's desperate to munch at, "That's what I thought."

Stifled sounds prick at your ears, a mantra of words falling from Gojo's mouth, something that sounds suspiciously like "Thank you, t-thank you, thank —." The strongest man in the entire world losing his mind, so grateful to wrap his lips against your swollen bud, your throbbing clit as he sucks. Hard.

Your walls clench suddenly, and you can feel the tip of Gojo's tongue prod at your entrance. That length somehow managing to render you gummy, dazed and speechless as he pushes the wet muscle into your cunt, "Ah, ahh, 'Toru, please."

Nothing prepares you for how Gojo's long, slender fingers come to slap at your pussy. Lengthy digits pistoning right into your tender, sensitive walls as he's eager to curve and search for that sweet spot that will make you scream, "What'dya call me, sweets? 'Toru?"

Gojo's looking up at you, and if you didn't know better, you'd say his expression was almost shy. Those eyes, blue like the core of a searing star, like something inhuman was barely contained and desperate to break free. There's something eerie about how bright they are, how they seem to glow even in the dim, murky light of your apartment.

There's glossy, snapping strands of Gojo's new favourite thirst-quencher falling from his lips as he laps at you. Long lashes fluttering against high cheekbones as there's a slight sheen of exertion beading at his temple, "If, if I had known that all I had to do to shut ya' up was eat you out, then —" Gojo whistles low, the vibrations echoing through your cunt, "Woulda' drank this pussy a longgg time ago."

You buck your hips against his nose, canting against his shapely nose bridge, "Don't get c-cocky." Seems that Gojo's just that desperate for you to boss him around, because he's already turning his attention and bratty mouth back to your cunt, licking you right up until he's certain you're seeing stars.

He's still got his suit on, broad-shoulders snugly wrapped in the textured fabric. Sculpting over his bicep even as he draws you even closer, until he's face to face with his new, second favourite girl. With you being his number #1, of course, Gojo isn't afraid to admit that you plotting to kill him has turned him on immensely over the years.

The idea of you planting your thighs around his head 'til he's devoid of air has had him pulling and jerking at his cock, whimpering until he was shooting blanks.

"Come on," and Gojo's snickering at his own play on words, "Or s-should I say c-cum on." Smacking his lips filthily against your folds, fingers pushing at your clit and rubbing furious circles over and over again until you feel the world go blank, and you're star-struck.

Gojo's whispering sweet nothings, adoring praise into your cunt as you ride out your high against his face, "Pretty girl, s-so good for me, heh. Think 'm fuckin' addicted."

You're already lazily pulling yourself up, propping yourself back on your elbows as you take in the sight of a teary-eyed Gojo Satoru. You watch as he pulls himself up, frame towering over you in the flimsy bed as he tugs and paws at the thick, firm bulge in his suit. Now darkened with a translucent patch of his release.

Gojo's fisting his hand over his cock in some ineffective form of relief, "Wanna' show you, g-gorgeous, wanna' show you how the strongest fucks."

But then, his eyes are looking up, wide and superhuman. Searing blue that lights up the dim room like a torch, and it's only then you notice that the lightbulb that once precariously teetered from your ceiling has shattered, and there's a crack in the large window that you swore you've never seen before.

And clutched within Gojo Satoru's fingers, shards of silver metal and blue chips. Fuck, that hag, that doped-up cunt must have had that USB clenched between his fingers the entire time, swiping it off the table when you pulled him in.

"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart," Gojo scoffs, pulling out a cock that beams with an angry, red mushroom tip. Thick spurts of cum already clinging to the slit as he hisses, and your thighs clench in anticipation of the delicious split, "I got something b-better for you right here."

[heyimkana]

Currently thinking about... how break-up sex would go with JJK men...

Like what if, even though you're both so in love with each other, the situation you're in right now forces you to break up with them. They'll try to fight about it, of course, you're crazy about each other, after all. But you insist on breaking up, even going as far as to tell them that you don't love them anymore just so they'll believe you. And before you say goodbye, you ask them to hold you one last time.

Satoru would be quiet. Sex was always fun with him. rough, fast, exhausting, but never boring. Sex with him was always filled with laughter, giggles, and playful kisses that would end with gasps and moans but your last time with him would be quiet. So quiet, in fact, that you could probably hear the sound of him gritting his teeth while he was fucking you from behind, all because he was trying to stop himself from saying, "This is a joke. This must be a joke. We play tricks on each other all the time. You're just trying to get back at me, aren't you, baby? There's no way you don't love me anymore. But even if you do, I don't care. I had let someone go a long time ago and I'd spent years of my life regretting it. I'm not letting you go, not now, not ever. You're staying. No, I'll make you stay." He wouldn't look at you when he fucked you, not once, as he was actually scared that you truly hated him then. But it wouldn't matter if you did. He was never going to let you go.

Suguru would listen with his stoic face intact when you told him that you wanted to break up with him. And softly, he'd ask you why, and you'd lie and tell him that you just didn't love him anymore and his eyes would turn cold as he looked at you, trying to read between your lies and you were scared that he'd know the truth. And if you told him that you wanted him to hold you one last time, he would smile and say, "Sure." but it felt so eerie that you had goosebumps breaking on your skin. Suguru would drag you out of the bed, tear open your dress and his grip was hard enough to leave bruises on your skin but he would still be smiling, even when you flinched in pain. "You like it better like this anyway, right?" he'd say as he fucked you standing up from behind with his fingers wrapped around your neck. He'd have you stand in front of a mirror, making sure to see the pathetic face you made every time he fucked you stupid. He'd show you that you were his in every way possible, making sure you understand that you were going to fucking regret it if you decided to leave him.

Yuuji would be so confused. He'd be confused when you kissed him after you said you didn't love him anymore. He'd be confused when you still hugged him afterward, and kissed his neck, and tugged onto his shirt before you pulled it over his head. He'd be confused when you asked him to hold you one last time, and he wouldn't say anything when you pushed him down to the bed. It was only when you sat on his lap, trying to slide his cock inside that he'd stop you. "No, wait, I can't do it," he would say, unable to look at you because suddenly, tears started to brim in his eyes. "If you're going to leave me after we're done, I can't do it. I love you. I don't know why you suddenly changed your mind about me, but I'm still in love with you and I don't think I can love anyone else but you. You'll break me if you do this, so please..." His voice would break and he would hug you close, his chin placed on your shoulder, his voice, sketched with the tears he was trying to hold back, reverberating right in your ear. "Please stop and tell me. I'm an idiot so I'm very slow at figuring things out and I don't know if I hurt you and I'm sorry but... I want to understand... Why...? Why are you leaving me? Am I... not enough for you?"

Megumi would not do it. He wouldn't kiss you. He wouldn't touch you. He'd only clench his jaw and ball his fingers into fists the second the words "I don't love you anymore" flowed past your lips. And when you tried to kiss him, he'd take a step back, his voice deep when he asked you, "Have I done something wrong?" You'd shake your head no, saying "It's not because of you, Megumi. It's me—" and he'd cut you off with a "Don't give me that bullshit." He'd raise his voice, but only because he was shaking inside. "If that's true, then tell me what it is! Whatever you did, I'll forgive you. If it's a part of you that you think is the problem, I'll accept it. If it's the situation we're in, let me know so I can fix it. Don't just show up and tell me you don't love me anymore, don't—" he took a breath, his voice breaking at the end. His face would twist in heartbreak when he finally gathered the strength to look at you in the eyes. His voice would soften when he continued, "Don't tell me you're leaving me. Please."

Yuuta would feel a thousand emotions at once. For the first few minutes when you told him you didn't love him anymore, he'd keep asking you, "Why? Was it something I said? What did I do wrong? How can I make this right? Please. Tell me. Tell me so I can fix everything." And you'd see tears glazing his eyes and he would look so frightened, so heartbroken, unable to believe that the love of his life was slipping out of his fingers. When you told him, "It doesn't matter, Yuu. I just can't do this anymore." Yuuta would panic, colors leaving his face and he'd start begging, "No, please, you can't leave me. I don't know what I'd do without you. You're my everything, please don't do this to me, please tell me how to make things right," and it was breaking your heart seeing him like this so you'd try to distract him by kissing him.

He'd whimper against your mouth, cupping your face with both hands, still whispering, "Don't leave me" again and again. He'd slowly regain his composure, his body melting under your kiss and when you started touching him, he'd respond with as much passion, love, and desire as he usually offered you, not knowing that it was going to be his last time with you. It was only when he was holding you in his arms, your legs tangled around his waist, his mouth slicked with your cum, his hips thrusting slow but deep, that you told him the truth, "This is going to be our last time."

Yuuta would freeze, his eyes turning round in both surprise and horror, but after that... You'd find your body folded in half, your head trapped between your knees, your jaw hanging low on your face, unable to even scream his name as he was fucking the breath out of you. His usually delicate moans would turn into heavy grunts, and he'd bunch the sheets under his fingers before he grabbed your wrists and pinned them to the bed, holding them with one hand as he used his other one to grip firmly onto the back of your thigh, pushing you up even further so he could bury himself deep inside you.

"You're not leaving me," he'd breathe out. "I won't let you. We promised each other we'd be together until we die. I won't let you break it." He'd kiss you, rough and messy, smothering you with it. He'd see a hint of fear written in your eyes, maybe you'd even cry a little from how rough he was being with you, but he'd kiss the tears away, his smile looking both beautiful and terrifying when he said, "Don't worry, Sweetheart. There's nothing to be afraid of. No one will love you better than me, I promise you. And if anyone dares to come between us," he'd angle your face to the side, lick a stripe up your neck before he let his smile graze your ear.

"I'll fucking kill them."

[gordonengineswifenirmal]

I was physically healthier in grade school, but I had a lot going on emotionally. I had ppl calling me trans n lesbian before it was acceptable. Im cisgender n thought I was straight at the time. (I turned out to be very asexual). I started missing school because the emotional torment was too much.

The principal n teachers thought I was hearing voices - because I could not identify the harassers. They were in a younger grade, they harassed me for years in another school before they were old enough to attend this one. I didn’t know their names. I could pick out what they looked like if I’d seen them, but they would whisper it and run away.

I have never heard voices or seen things except when I was on some bad meds for depression that really didn’t agree. Never before or after. This particular incident was long after I’d been off those meds, n hadn’t been hearing voices at all. Never heard anything at home, on the high street. Also, this was before cell phones were a thing, so I couldn’t just snap a picture of them in the hall n b like here - these ruddy bastards did it.

I nearly quit school because of it. It still triggers things to this day. This is also why I’m extreme sensitive to being misgendered. It goes far beyond JUST being proud to b who u r n whatnot. The backstory is emotionally painful. Luckily, I was able to get home schooling after a real fight for it with the district. I probably fought for that shite more than most did for an education. I then went on to get 2 degrees, n help others get theirs.

The point is -

People need to listen. Actually listen. Don’t make arrogant assumptions. Instead of snide remarks n accusations, ask questions, try to help find solutions, try to better understand the situation. That kid who is in pain n missing school, or that kid who is traumatised by school probably has a reason. They’ve been ignored n shot down so many times, they’re probably afraid to speak up. Don’t add to that. Be the difference. Believe me, it can affect them later. You can honestly b part of the problem or part of the solution. You may be able to help more than one person, n it doesn’t take much.

Sadly though, people treat older folks the way they do kids. Have the same approach - and understand that writing them off is offensive for a reason. Just like a kid wants to genuinely be heard, so do we older folks. We have life experience. You don’t want to be insulted, talked down to, patronised, n made of? Neither do we. How do u avoid this? Don’t do it. Learn to communicate better, appropriately. You want to be valued too? U won’t be by treating others like shite. And for the younger lot - one day, u will get older. You might b in a position where u r mistreated by younger folks. Just remember that.

When I say “school should be disability accessible”, I don’t just mean we need handicap rails and EAs. Kids should be able to miss a day without failing out of school. You shouldn’t be dismissed from clubs because your attendance record is “spotty” (true story). I once missed an entire week of school because of a terrible, unending migraine. I was expected to keep up with my studies despite the blinding pain that came with working on my computer. When I heard my teachers say that you couldn’t miss exams, I asked what I would have to do to be excused from them. Their response? “Either get a doctor’s note an hour before the exam or death of an immediate family member.”

I cannot express how rigid this expectation was. First of all, with my condition, I wouldn’t have enough warning about my sickness to go to the doctor and request a note. For many people, this is exceptionally difficult, especially with the current shortage of medical professionals. Next, it ignores the fact that my schedule may not line with theirs because of my medical needs. Once, I had to visit a hospital a province away (which I was on the waiting list of for over a year) on the same day as an exam. I begged my mother not to take me because I was so nervous that I would be marked as an automatic fail. I was lucky enough to make it work, but that’s only because of my spectacular support system consisting of family members and wonderful doctors.

Disabilities aren’t always about needing a bus that can accommodate wheelchairs. It’s already difficult enough for many of us to maintain school attendance without the harsh punishments involved for skipping a day. We need to be able to miss school without being punished. Only than can you claim that the school is “accessible”

[imsofreakingtired]

Hihiii I was wondering on how you think sevika would handle reader who has a mental illness? Like bipolar, bpd or anything like that

Btw I love ur fics and headcannons so much 😭😭

hii anon,, actually crazy cuz i have bpd and having a pretty bad episode rn so imma write a drabble. will probably take it down later and rewrite a more polished version to do ur request justice; i'm very very sorry for the rushed nature of this and the atrocious amount of projection you may see

content warnings: depiction of depressive episode/breakdown, self destructive thoughts, sh, panic attack

please please PLEASE do not read under the cut if these topics may be triggering to you. please take care of yourself

i'm not going anywhere.

___

you don't hear Sevika come in.

you don't hear anything.

you're stuck in your head. slippery muddy slope. you can claw at sanity and bite down on the thoughts but they'll pull you down eventually, and you guess you should have known it would catch up to you, all the sleepless nights and spiraling thoughts and sick, sick self loathing.

she fucking hates you. why do you even stay? leeching off her energy.

the water in the sink runs and runs, but you can't hear that either. the cold tile of the bathroom floor against your face. your eyes burn like someone's driving nails into them. it's not even crying anymore. something between hysteria and panicked gasps for air. your lungs seize and you breathe and breathe nothing.

get yourself together. get yourself together.

try to knock some sense into your head. your fists in your hair, then beating against your temples, the world momentarily spins dark.

you can't breathe, your throat's scraped dry. odd, almost, how your body can still produce so much tears when you can't even swallow, when you can barely feel your tongue, when your chest hurts so bad it feels like it'll tear apart.

get it together, fuck you, get it together-

"hey. hey."

a calloused hand closes around your wrist. pulls your hand away from your face. through your blurry vision you see Sevika kneeling on the floor beside you, looking strong and massive as a rock rising from the sea in that small bathroom. her eyes are sharp with alarm.

"what the hell happened?" she asks. her voice low and fast. she thinks you were in danger. doesn't know you are the danger. "what happened here?"

you can't speak. you're fucking furious at yourself for getting caught.

she pulls you up into a sitting position. checks you all over for injury. sees the raw marks on your forearms. sees the bruise forming on the side of your head. for a moment she doesn't say anything.

"i'm sorry," you whisper at last. "i'm so sorry."

she shakes her head.

"i just... i was... i don't know," your voice is so small and broken you aren't even sure if she can hear you. "i'm sorry."

"what are you saying sorry about?" she demands quietly.

"i don't know."

"why are you hurting yourself?"

"i don't know." you bite down on your tongue to stop another wave of tears. "i'm sorry."

"stop it. stop apologizing."

you try to take a breath. your lungs feel like they'll never be full again.

Sevika stands and turns off the faucet water. disappears for a moment. you sit and listen to the air settle, cradling your arms. this is the end. she's figured you out.

she'll leave you.

Sevika returns with a glass of water, kneels on the floor beside you again. "drink it. all of it."

silently you try to obey but your throat closes against the water and you set the glass down quietly on the floor.

"you should go," you say.

"what?"

"just...leave."

"i don't understand."

"i know you already want to," you say, but you're not quite sure if you're really saying it, or if the words are just that fucking loud in your head. "i'm just a burden to you. i don't want to be anymore."

a long silence follows. then Sevika says, "look at me."

you keep staring down at your hands.

"look at me."

you look up. Sevika's gaze is intense.

"just what the hell did i do or say to put that thought in your head?"

you shrug. it's a stupid motion. suddenly you're too tired to talk. you're too tired to do anything. you genuinely want her to leave, just so you can go back to the comfort of the bathroom floor, the static of your thoughts. but Sevika does not leave.

"what did i tell you?" she says. "go that long without any sleep and you'll be thinking up nonsense like that."

when you don't reply, she picks up the half-empty glass of water and places it carefully on the sink. then she wraps her human arm around you, her mech arm firmly supporting your legs, and lifts you up.

"you're going to bed. you're going to get some sleep. then you'll feel better."

"i can't sleep," you tell her.

"you will."

"i can't."

she carries you into the bedroom anyway, lays you down. then she sits next to you. smooths the hair away from your face.

her voice is gentler when she asks, "why can't you sleep?"

"the thoughts..."

"...they're too loud?" she finishes. "i'll beat the shit out of 'em."

you crack a small smile.

Sevika hesitates, as if hovering on a decision. then she unclasps her prosthetic arm and lays it on the table beside the bed. she lies down beside you, pulling you close to her.

"i'm not going anywhere," she says in a low voice. "you hear me?"

you nod once against her chest. her heart beats steadily against your ear, and your burning eyes close.

"i'm not going anywhere."

___

[neeeooon]

hi !!

could you do headcanons for blue lock characters in a relationship with someone whos really really pretty and she models, like she could just be walking past and people wouldn’t be able to take their eyes off her.

characters could you include karasu, bachira, barou and whoever else idm!!

you can ignore if you’re not interested! thank you!!!

thank you for the request!! i hope you like it <3

when you’re a model ;

bf bllk x fem!model!reader

karasu tabito

-> oh my god karasu is so in love with you. like he’s the boyfriend that worships the ground you walk on and isn’t embarrassed to show it

-> gets doors for you, pulls your chair out so you can sit, blocks you from cameras and prying eyes when you get overwhelmed, always tells you when you have lipstick on your teeth. yep, he’s a keeper

-> he willingly takes a step back and lets you make your own decisions. since your careers are both so fast paced, you’re often traveling. that just means when karasu sees you again, he’s all yours

-> “what’s the plan for today?” “i don’t know. can we just stay in bed and watch cringe tv?” “of course, pretty.”

bachira meguru

-> bachira doesn’t care that you’re a model, the same way you don’t care that he’s a soccer player. you’re proud of and support each other, but those occupations aren’t the reason you’re together

-> one thing he does love about your job, though, is the unlimited (and free) supply of sponsorship handouts

-> the deals that come with soccer are boring. energy drinks? shoes? no. bachira much prefers your calming face masks and cleansers

-> “you’re only dating me for the free facials, aren’t you.” “hey! you get to keep the energy drinks. it’s a fair trade!” “sure. i love you.” “i love you too~”

barou shouei

-> barou knows you’re beautiful. you’re a model, for goodness sakes. it’s never a surprise when people’s eyes follow you when you’re in public, but he can’t not keep a hand on your back or around your waist

-> that said, he isn’t the type to crowd or control you. if you want to go out late with your model friends, he comes with but only to keep an eye on you. doesn’t ruin your fun and even gives in when you drag him onto the dance floor with you

-> one thing he won’t stand for, though, are any of his teammates making comments about you. innocent or not, your name is banned from the locker room

-> “if i hear her name leave your lips one more time, i’m gonna stick my fist so far up your—“ “okay! i’m sorry!”

yukimiya kenyu

-> yukimiya is also a model, not to the level that you are, but he understands a bit of what it’s like for you

-> one thing he does do is push the healthiest diet and exercise plans in your direction. healthiest as in ones that still require you to eat three full meals a day and not work yourself to exhaustion

-> your modeling career is still new, so you don’t know what you’d do without your supportive boyfriend. his only intentions have been to love and support you since day 1, not use you

-> “y/n, love, do you need anything while i’m out?” “hmm, do we have enough protein powder—“ “dark chocolate and blueberries, got it.” “yuki :’)”

[winterscaptain]

professional courtesy.

...or berry hill (aaron's version) Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

a/n: hello it’s me from beyond the veil i’m sorry i haven’t updated this in three years, but enjoy! i figured i’d warm up from my hibernation with a long-requested installment. (i dont want to hype myself up too much but the discord girlies about died)

words: 17.3k (damn) warnings: language, a far less vague mention of aaron’s anatomy (masturbation in the shower, nothing too extreme), alcohol, the vibe is self-loathing, catholic guilt™

summary: “i go itchy with want, thin on sleep. i feel her fingers in mine. the way we could be both hard and soft on each other. her sandy voice calling out as i climb one exposed cliff after another. ... all night this all goes through me, the four hours of sleep i get.” - kawai strong washburn, sharks in the time of saviors. december 6th-12th, 2010

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | ajf faq | taglist | what do you want to see next?

It’s way too late and you both know it, but Jack is still on his annual winter vacation with Jessica and the rest of Haley’s family, so there’s simply no incentive to leave. Aaron sits back in his chair, a soft smile on his face as he watches you kick back in one of the chairs in his office, your feet on his desk like you own the place. 

The Montana case wrapped up neatly, and any remaining or incoming paperwork this week is light. If Aaron were an honest man, he’d have a few problems. The first, though, would be how much he missed JJ. He, of course, knows and understands the importance of her role, but he didn’t anticipate that losing her to the State Department would feel more like losing a limb. He knows you feel similarly - he’s seen the way you look up in the office and in the field, the ghost of her name on your lips. 

That aside, he’s in the middle of a story - one that took place just before Jack left for the lake. “...And then I found the actual writing on the wall.” He clarifies, seeing your furrowed eyebrows. “He drew on the wall.”

“What do you mean he drew on the wall?” You say through a laugh, popping a grape in your mouth. “Are we talking like a crayon mark here and there or a full on mural?”

He loves the way you love his son. It’s palpable to anyone who sees the two of you together - the love that Jack has for you and the fierce, consuming love you have for him in return. 

If he thinks about it too hard, he can imagine how seamlessly you could fit into their lives, how faithfully and seriously you would step into your role in Jack’s life. If he thinks even harder, he can imagine sleepless nights beside you, caring for the children you share. 

So he doesn’t think too hard. 

“Multi-media mural - glue, paper mache, markers, crayons, you name it and it was there.” He laughs and he takes a grape from your bowl, kicking his feet up on the desk - mirroring you. “I have no idea how he managed it. I was in the house the whole time.”

“Oh my God, he’s a terror!” Before Aaron can agree, your phone starts ringing. You pick it up, smiling as you see the caller ID. “Hey Dean!” You stand and give Aaron a ‘sorry, just a second’ finger and step out of the office, leaving the door open behind you. 

Aaron watches you go, taking another grape. He can’t hear what’s said on the other line, only your reply.

“Oh, not at all. I’m still in the office with Hotch getting some work done.”

Aaron raises his eyebrows, catching your eye. “Work?” he mouths. You shrug playfully, pulling a face, a light, lovely smile just for him. He smiles when you turn your back.

You’re doing anything but work right now. 

Work was over…

He checks his watch. 

…Nearly three hours ago. 

Is it that late already?

“So what’s up?”

There’s a pause while your friend speaks. When you reply, you sound defeated. Aaron’s brow crumples and his feet come off the desk. He sits forward, not really meaning to eavesdrop, but he is anyway.

I hope everything’s okay…

“It’s okay. I get work stuff, trust me.” 

He watches as you tip your head up to stare at the ceiling. He can hear the tears in your voice. “Yeah, I’ll figure it out. None of them knew to ask off work, so if we have a case I’ll be on my own regardless.” 

Oh no.

“It’s okay,” He hears you say. He knows it isn’t, but you’re a good friend. The last thing you’d want is for someone to feel bad on your behalf. 

Too damn bad and too damn late. 

Aaron starts to think. Time off work could be for anything - it sounds like an event? He got (and approved) your leave request ages ago. Maybe a vacation? 

Maybe I could… 

No. Don’t go there. 

There’s something in his head screaming danger! danger! danger! at the possibility that you and he could be somewhere alone for an extended period of time. It’s not that he doesn’t trust himself (really), but he’s not sure he’s that good of an actor. 

“Okay.” You heave an uneven sigh. “I’ll talk to you then. Really - don’t worry about it, it’s fine.” You hang up quickly and rest your forearms on the railing. Aaron watches your head hang, watches you swipe at your face and take a deep breath. 

He watches as you fruitlessly try to maintain the frivolity and decadence of the moment before, sitting in your same chair with your feet up and a cluster of grapes in your hand. 

It doesn’t work. Aaron sees right through you. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” but your voice breaks. You clear your throat and blink a few more times. 

He squints at you. “What’s wrong?” 

“Oh, you know.” You sniff, and gesture vaguely as you continue. “My best friend from college was supposed to be my date to a friend’s wedding next week, and the friend getting married also happens to be someone I dated in college so I was really hoping Dean could come with me, and now…” You trail off. He can see there’s more to say, but you’re holding back. 

It’s more than you’ve ever shared about your time in college, certainly more information than he’s ever had about your dating history. You’ve been through so much together, Aaron almost finds it odd that he’s never asked, but his curiosity is squashed by guilt. 

It’s been years…and he’s never asked. 

All those moments you’ve shared, the horrors and the joys, and he never thought to ask about something as simple as a college boyfriend? 

Maybe because it’s inappropriate, Hotchner. Ever think of that? 

He’s never asked Derek about his college flames, or Emily about her first kiss or anything of the sort. Why does it feel so odd with you? 

He knows. He just won’t admit it to himself. 

“Do you want someone to go with you?” He watches you chew on your lower lip. A long time ago, he decided there was nothing worse than seeing you upset. 

This is the least you can do, Hotchner. First personal weekend in nearly four years, you can at least do what you can to make it suck less. He reasons with himself, but he can’t help the sly thought that sneaks in on the tail end. Being a backup is better than being nothing at all. 

That’s enough. 

You scoff, still trying to shake it off. “Well, yeah. Obviously.”

He smiles a little. You completely missed his point.

The smart choice is to let it go—to offer some reassuring sentiment about how you’d be fine on your own, that you are more than capable of handling an awkward situation. And yet, he can’t ignore the weight behind your words, the way your shoulders have drawn just a little tighter, how your voice cracked when you first answered his question. His instinct to protect, to ease whatever discomfort you’re feeling, is strong—always has been. But it’s tangled up in something else, something quieter, far more dangerous. His fondness for you, his respect, his attraction — lines that had once been clear but have blurred over time into something he wasn’t sure he can still call professional. His ability to hold those boundaries is tenuous at best, these days, and this would only make it worse. But then you exhale, soft and resigned, the fight to downplay your disappointment slipping away. 

And, really, what was one more bad decision?

“If you wanted…” He hesitates, debating how to phrase it, but you beat him to it.

“Oh, God, Hotch.” You cover your face with your hands. “Please don’t feel like I’m trying to guilt you into anything. I’ll be fine.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re not guilting me into anything. I’m offering.”

Your hands fall away from your face, eyes searching his. He keeps his expression even, waiting.

“Really?”

“Really. I can get the weekend off—things are pretty slow around here. Where is it?”

You look a little stunned. “It’s, ah—it’s down at Berry Hill Resort, right by the North Carolina border.” You hesitate. “It’s about a three-and-a-half-hour drive.”

He nods, pulling out his phone to check the route. “If we leave early, we can switch in Richmond. I’ll start, if you’d like.”

Your smile is small but genuine. “Hotch, you’re the best.”

Warmth spreads through him at the ease of your acceptance—at the way you don’t second-guess his offer, don’t try to talk him out of it like he was making some grand sacrifice. You’re just… happy. Glad to have his company. And that shouldn’t mean as much as it does, but it settles somewhere deep in his chest, steady and certain.

He clears his throat, nodding as he glances back at his phone. “If we get on the road by seven, we’ll have plenty of time to stop if we need to.”

You hum, thoughtful. “You’re gonna regret offering when I make you stop for coffee every hour.”

He laughs a little, shaking his head. “I think I can manage.”

+++

He hits send on his brief email to you (no subject, just a come see me when you can - ah) and leans back for a moment, rubbing a hand over his jaw. It’s the middle of the day, but it already feels much later. 

Hotch’s desk phone rings, the director’s name flashing on the tiny screen. He sighs before answering.

“Hotchner.”

“Aaron,” the director greets, his tone brisk. “I wanted to go over the paperwork from your last case. I received your after action report and the folks down at records supplied the rest.”

Hotch straightens. “Of course. Was there an issue?”

“Not an issue, exactly,” the director hedges. “But there are a few inconsistencies between your initial report and the final case file. I need clarification before this goes any further.”

Hotch exhales slowly. “I assume this is about jurisdictional oversight.”

“In part. There’s also a discrepancy in the timeline of the suspect’s apprehension and when the local PD filed their report. It’ll need to be accounted for.”

He had anticipated as much. A minor issue, more bureaucratic than substantive, but one that requires correction nonetheless.

There is a knock at his door before you swing in, one hand gripping the doorframe. Your movement is easy, familiar—Hotch is thrilled that you never hesitate in his office, never second-guess your place here. It’s a good quality. Confidence without arrogance.

Stop it. 

Hotch lifts a hand, beckoning you inside. You step in and close the door behind you, waiting patiently near the couch on the far side of his office.

“...No, sir, that won’t be an issue. I’ll review the reports and send the necessary adjustments this afternoon.”

The director says something else he’s not really listening to with any depth, distracted by the way your eyes wander out the window, the sun catching your face in the light…

Stop it!

A pause. The director said something nice, something he needs to respond to as soon as he pulls his head out of his ass. “Understood. And I appreciate that. I’ll pass that along to the rest of the unit.”

“Thanks, Hotch. Have a good night and get home safe.”

“You too, sir.”

He sets the phone down, lacing his fingers together as he regards you. “Question.”

You drop into the chair across from him, resting your elbows on his desk. “Answer.”

Hotch levels you with a flat look, but his eyes betray his amusement. He can’t let your ability to make him laugh go to your head. “Funny.” You smirk, but he ignores it, pressing on. “I’m not sure if it matters to you, but I have an absurd number of ties. Color preference?”

A short huff of laughter leaves you. “You called me in here to ask whether or not I want to have a color scheme?”

“Yes,” he says, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. “A united front, or at least a coordinated one, seems like the best strategy, right?”

The reasoning is sound—practical. Coordination suggested cohesion, something seamless and intentional. It’s a subtle but effective advantage. He had seen juries make unconscious associations based on far less.

That was the only reason he asked. Definitely no ulterior motives. 

+++

Aaron descends the stairs from his office, phone pressed to his ear, the steady hum of the bullpen grounding him in the familiar rhythm of the day. Outside, the snow is falling in thick, lazy flakes, dusting the base in a quiet hush. Jack had launched into a continuation of the story he’d started earlier in the call—something about a rabbit nearly the size of his backpack darting across the backyard. He had, apparently, spent the better part of the afternoon watching from the window, hoping to see it again.

“You’ll have to tell me if you see it tomorrow,” Hotch says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe it’ll come back looking for more crumbs.”

Jack hums thoughtfully. “Maybe I should put out some carrots.”

Hotch chuckles, “That might work. Just don’t be too disappointed if it doesn’t come back. Wild animals don’t always stay in one place for long.”

“Yeah,” Jack sighs, clearly unconvinced. “But it was really cool.”

“I bet it was,”

Jack hums his agreement, then shifts gears, asking to speak to you. Hotch is already on his way toward your desk.

You’re in the middle of a consult with Ashley, walking her through your approach with the same steady patience Emily once used with you. Hotch’s hand comes to rest on your shoulder, and you glance up at him.

“Yeah?”

He pulls the phone from his ear just long enough to say, “Jack wants to talk to you.”

Your expression softens, a small smile playing at your lips as you shake your head. With an apologetic glance toward Ashley, you take the phone from his hand.

“Hey, kiddo,” you greet easily. “How’s Grandpa’s house?”

Hotch can’t hear Jack’s response, but he doesn’t need to. The way your face lights up told him everything he needs to know. He catches a few words here and there—aunt, snow—but mostly, he hears the warmth in your voice, the way you so easily match Jack’s enthusiasm.

“Aw, bubba, I miss you, too.” You assure him. “You’ll be home really soon, and when you get back we’ll go out to ice cream and you can tell me all about your visit.”

Another pause, then your voice, quieter, almost absentminded, as if the words had slipped out on their own. “I love you too.”

You hand the phone back without looking at Hotch, refocusing on Ashley as if nothing had happened. “So, like I said, Hotch prefers to—”

Hotch takes the phone, walking back toward the stairs.

Jack’s voice calls out as soon as Aaron greets him again. “Bye, Dad!”

Hotch feels a quiet pang of affection as he lifts the phone back to his ear. “Bye, Jack. Let me talk to Aunt Jess.”

There’s a shuffle on the other end, and then Jess’s voice comes through, bright and teasing. “Well, he’s having the time of his life, if that wasn’t obvious.”

Hotch huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s good to hear.”

“He’s been an angel,” Jess continues. “Which, honestly, is shocking, considering my family has zero faith in your parenting skills.”

Hotch lets out a real laugh at that, not bothering to argue. “I think that has more to do with you and—” He catches himself, shaking his head. “With the people he has around him.”

Jess hums, but doesn't press. 

+++

The crystal decanter clinks softly as Dave pours a generous measure of scotch into Aaron’s glass. He slides it across the polished wood of his desk, then leans back in his chair, swirling his own drink with the practiced ease of a man who has lived (at least part of) his life in leisure.

“So,” Dave begins, his voice laced with amusement. “You gonna pretend we’re just drinking in companionable silence, or are you finally going to tell me what’s going on?”

Aaron inhales slowly, lifting the glass to his lips. He knows Dave isn’t asking about the Orioles game yesterday. “Nothing is going on.”

Dave scoffs. “Oh, please. I’ve known you for too long to believe that. Tell me.”

Aaron shakes his head, gaze fixed on the amber liquid in his glass. “There’s nothing to tell.”

Dave leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Uh-huh. And that’s why you look at her like she hung the moon?”

Aaron’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t need to ask who Dave’s talking about.  “She’s a valued member of my team. Just like you, or Morgan, or Prentiss, or Reid.”

“She’s also someone you’re clearly crazy about.” Dave takes a sip of his drink, watching Aaron with knowing eyes. “I mean, come on, Hotch. You really think I haven’t noticed?”

Aaron stays silent.

Dave smirks, using his hands now for emphasis. It’s absurd. “Let me paint you a picture. She walks into a room, and suddenly, you’re not the unshakable, unflappable Aaron Hotchner anymore. You’re—what’s the word? Present. Engaged. Maybe even happy, if I squint.”

Aaron sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Dave.”

“I’m just saying,” Dave continues, undeterred. “If there’s nothing there, then I’m a damn fool. And we both know that’s not the case.”

Aaron hesitates, then, almost reluctantly, admits, “Maybe there’s something.”

Dave grins like he’s just won a bet. Maybe he has. “Knew it.”

Aaron shakes his head again, but the small smile tugging at his lips betrays him.

“So what’s the problem?” Dave presses.

Aaron takes another measured sip before answering. “Jack, for one. It’s too soon after Haley. I have to be careful about—”

“Careful about what?” Dave interrupts. “Being happy? It’s been two years, Aaron.”

Aaron shoots him a look. “About how this affects him.”

Dave softens slightly, nodding. “Fair. But have you considered that maybe she’s already a part of his life? That maybe Jack — God forbid — actually likes having her around?”

Aaron doesn’t respond.

Dave tilts his head. “And let me guess — your other concern is her?”

Aaron lets out a slow breath. “There’s fourteen years between us, Dave.”

“Oh, give me a break. You were born in November—that’s practically thirteen years.” Dave waves a dismissive hand. “You’re acting like you’re twice her age.”

“She has a career to think about,” Aaron continues, ignoring him. “A reputation. If there were even a whisper of inappropriate behavior… or a conflict of interest, the whole team would get torn apart. Just imagine what Strauss—”

Dave groans. “Aaron, you are the most upstanding man I’ve ever met. If anyone tried to imply something inappropriate, they’d be laughed out of the room.”

Aaron still doesn’t look convinced.

“And as for the age thing,” Dave goes on, “she’s a grown woman. A brilliant, capable woman who—let’s be honest—doesn’t take crap from anyone, including you.”

That earns him a faint smirk from Aaron.

“She’s not some kid with a crush,” Dave says. “She knows exactly who you are, baggage and all. And let me tell you something—you might be able to fool yourself into thinking this is just one-sided, but I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”

Aaron stills, his lowball glass touching his lips. He recovers, taking a sip in what he hopes is a nonchalant fashion.

Dave raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. Thought that might get your attention.”

Aaron shakes his head, exhaling sharply. “Even if you’re right, it doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”

Dave studies him for a long moment, then leans back with a sigh. “Hotch, let me ask you something. When’s the last time you let yourself want something just because it made you happy?”

Aaron doesn’t answer.

Dave nods knowingly. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” He takes another sip of his drink, then points at Aaron. “At some point, you have to stop talking yourself out of the good things in your life. Otherwise, you’re gonna wake up one day and realize you let something incredible slip away.”

Aaron looks down at his glass, turning it slowly in his hands.

Dave smirks. “Just think about it, is all I’m saying.”

Aaron sighs, shaking his head. “You’re relentless.”

“That’s why you love me,” Dave says, raising his glass.

Aaron huffs a quiet laugh and clinks his glass against Dave’s, but he says nothing.

Dave takes a slow sip of his scotch, eyeing Aaron over the rim of his glass. Then, as casually as if he were asking about the weather, he says, “So… Any plans to spend time together outside of work?”

Aaron sighs, already anticipating where this is going. “She asked me to go to a wedding with her next weekend.”

Dave’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”

“As a favor,” Aaron clarifies, setting his glass down with a firm clink. “Nothing more.”

Dave makes an exaggerated show of nodding. “Ah. A favor. Because obviously, of all the people she could have asked, she just happened to land on you.”

Aaron gives him a look. “It’s a professional courtesy. And I was right there, so it was probably just convenient.” He leaves out the part where you didn’t ask outright, knowing his offer is damning evidence that would only prove Dave’s point.

Dave outright laughs at that. “Oh, that’s rich. Hotch, if this were any other woman in your life, you would’ve given her some excuse about being too busy with Jack or the job. But you didn’t.” He points a finger at Aaron around his scotch. “That means something.”

Aaron shakes his head. “It doesn’t.”

“Sure it doesn’t,” Dave says, smirking. “But since you’re doing this grand, selfless favor, tell me—what’s your game plan?”

“My what?”

Dave leans forward. “Your approach. This is the perfect opportunity to figure out where she stands, and you’re not about to waste it, are you?”

Aaron sighs. “Dave—”

“Nothing untoward, of course, nothing unprofessional,” Dave interrupts. “Just a little fact-finding mission. See how she responds to being close to you—seizing the opportunity to dance, for example.”

Aaron exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “I’m not—”

“Why not?” Dave cuts in. “It’s a wedding. It’d be weirder if you didn’t.”

Aaron pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous,” Dave counters, “is pretending there’s nothing there when it’s obvious to everyone else. Just consider it—see how she reacts to you in a setting that isn’t life-or-death. Give yourself permission to look for the signs.”

Aaron doesn’t respond right away, and Dave knows he’s planted the seed.

After a moment, Dave smirks. “At the very least, you get to have a nice weekend out with a beautiful woman. Not exactly the worst way to spend a few evenings.”

Aaron sighs, finishing off his scotch and repeating, “You’re relentless.”

Dave grins. “So you’ve said.”

+++

Aaron sits alone in his armchair, an ill-advised finger of bourbon in his glass. He’s sure he’s had more to drink this week than in the previous five years combined.

There’s something, even now, that leaves him feeling unsettled when he’s in his apartment alone. Maybe it’s PTSD, maybe something less pathological, but it’s nevertheless uncomfortable. 

Maybe you don’t like to hear yourself think. That’s an option, Hotchner. 

The voice that narrates his thoughts isn’t always his. When it’s critical or snide, it’s almost always his father. 

Maybe he should work on that. His mouth twists and he takes another sip, letting the liquor roll across his tongue before warming his chest. 

Drinking bourbon is an art form at the most, a learned skill at the least. He’s almost certain it was a required item for law school, but he couldn’t quote the statute. 

He’s stalling, avoiding both his (far too reflective) thoughts and the phone call he needs to make. It’s just you. Why is he so nervy all of a sudden?

All of a sudden. Right. Like I haven’t been that way this whole time. 

There is some irony in creating artificial distance between him and the one person who can reliably calm him down. What, then, happens if you’re the thing freaking him out?

No. Aaron Hotchner does not freak out. Become subject to the whimsy of his neuroses, sure. Fine. Let’s call it that. 

Neurotic. Sure. 

He exhales, rolling the tension from his shoulders. The house is quiet now, still—a stark contrast to the nerves humming under his skin.

It’s just a wedding. A favor for a friend.

And yet, as he reaches for his phone, he knows that’s not the only reason he’s calling.

The line barely rings twice before you answer. “Yeah?”

The tightness in his chest eases immediately and he feels even sillier for putting it off. “Hey, it’s Aaron.”

“Ah, my saving grace,” you say, a smile in your voice. “Calling to cancel on me, after all?”

His lips twitch. “Not even close. Is 6 a.m. still good to come get you?”

“It’s so early.” The dramatic whine earns an actual chuckle from him, surprising even himself. “But yes, that’s fine. That gives us enough time even if we hit some traffic out of the District and into Richmond.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

A pause, then: “You’re still okay with this, right? I know I couldn’t grab that extra hotel room for you, and I don’t want you to feel pressured or—”

He doesn’t let you finish. “Enough,” he says firmly, calling you by name. “I offered, remember? I’ll see you at six. Bring a pillow so you can sleep in the car.”

There’s a beat of silence, then a quiet, “Thanks, Aaron.”

He knows you’re not just thanking him for the reminder.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” you add, after a beat of silence.

“Of course.” He hesitates, then adds, “Sleep well.”

The call ends, and he stares at his phone for a moment before shaking his head and setting it down.

He doesn’t sleep much that night, either.

+++

At 5:55 a.m., he pulls up to your driveway expecting to have to knock, maybe even call. Instead, you’re already outside, standing on your porch with a pillow under one arm and a travel mug in hand.

He blinks.

You look only mildly worse for wear, but you’re ready. And you have coffee.

His mouth twitches. “You’re awake.”

“Barely.” You step forward, holding out the travel mug. “Thought you might want this.”

He takes it—along with your suitcase, because he won’t let you carry it. “Thank you. Jump in.”

You don’t argue, sliding into the passenger seat and immediately wedging your pillow between your head and the window.

Aaron tosses your bag into the trunk before getting behind the wheel. He glances over as he starts the engine, and his chest does something strange at the sight of you, curled into yourself in an oversized sweatshirt, already half-asleep.

He shakes his head, exhaling as he backs out of the driveway.

Just a wedding. Just a favor.

Aaron has always been good at compartmentalizing. It’s a necessity in this line of work, the only way to keep from drowning in the weight of it all. But this morning, he finds it harder than usual to box up his thoughts and shove them aside.

He blames Dave.

"Any plans to spend time together outside of work?""This is the perfect opportunity to figure out where she stands.""Seize the opportunity—see how she responds to being close to you."

Ridiculous. This—the drive, the wedding, the whole weekend—isn’t about that. It’s a favor, nothing more. You need a date, and he is more than capable of stepping in.

So why does it feel like something else entirely?

Aaron lets out a slow breath, glancing to his right. You’re curled against the window, your pillow wedged beneath your head, still fast asleep. Your sweatshirt is too big for you, the sleeves bunched up where your arms are tucked close to your chest. Your face is relaxed, peaceful in a way he rarely sees when you’re awake.

Something shifts in his chest.

Would he have offered this to anyone else?

Emily? Maybe. JJ? Possibly, depending on the circumstances. But would he have gone out of his way to clear a weekend, to ensure they didn’t have to face something alone?

No.

He knows the answer, even if he doesn’t want to.

He knows you’re different, and that frustrates him. Confuses him.

Would it really be so bad to… pay attention? To see if Dave is right?

His hands tighten around the steering wheel. It doesn’t matter. There are too many reasons this is a terrible idea.

Jack. The team. His own grief, still lurking beneath the surface, no matter how much time has passed.

A year and change, almost two, has passed since Haley’s death, but there are still mornings when he wakes up gasping for breath. Jack still has nightmares, too. He knows you would always pick up if he called—no matter the hour.

And he has called. More times than he can count.

You never hesitate. Sometimes you talk to him about anything and everything, filling the quiet until his mind settles. Other times, you simply read to him, your voice a low, steady thing in the dark.

You understand in a way no one else does. You have been there. You have seen him at his lowest, taken Jack from his arms when he couldn’t stop shaking. You know what haunts him.

And yet, you stay.

You murmur something in your sleep, shifting slightly. He could swear it was his name. Aaron glances over, watching as you burrow deeper into your pillow, a small smile tugging at your lips.

His fingers flex against the steering wheel. That warmth—the one he has been trying to ignore—stirs again.

He shakes his head, looking back at the road.

And then there’s you.

The age gap isn’t something he’s ever consciously thought about, but now that Dave has addressed it, he can’t help but consider it. Would it even matter to you? Would it matter to anyone else?

That’s not the only thing that concerns him. You have worked hard to build a career in the Bureau, and despite your talent and intelligence, it has taken you longer than it should have to be taken seriously. You once told him that being a young woman in this line of work often feels like a battle you never really win—only survive.

And what would people say if there was suddenly something between the two of you?

He exhales sharply through his nose. Not that it matters, because there isn’t.

Still, he keeps his hands firmly on the wheel, afraid that if he loosens his grip, that warmth might spread beyond his control.

The car slows as he takes an offramp, the change in speed pulling you from sleep. You lift your head, blinking sluggishly as you look around.

“Are we in Richmond already?”

Aaron glances at you, his lips quirking slightly at your sleep-heavy voice. “Not yet, but I figured you hadn’t eaten yet.”

You tip your head, still shaking off sleep. “I could eat.”

He gives you a knowing look. “You should eat.”

You huff a small laugh, rubbing at your eyes. “You take your supervisory duties very seriously.”

He only shrugs. “It’s my job.”

You smile at him, still soft around the edges from sleep, and something in his chest tightens.

Aaron looks back at the road.

Dave is wrong.

This isn’t a fact-finding mission.

Unfortunately, he already has enough facts to know he’s cooked.

+++

Aaron refuels the SUV and makes sure you’re settled with food before pulling back onto the highway. The morning settles into a comfortable rhythm—quiet, but not stiff. But then again, it’s always easy with you.

When you offer to take over driving, he shoots you a look before shaking his head. “If you drive, I don’t get to pick the music.”

You frown, still shaking off the last bit of sleep. “I thought shotgun picks the music.”

“That’s Morgan’s house rule, not mine.”

You hum in consideration, eyes narrowing slightly. “Okay, so what are your house rules?”

He lets a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. “Driver picks the music and critically considers any suggestions made by shotgun.”

You groan. “So, what I’m hearing is that we’re listening to the White Album.”

Aaron flips through his playlists, selecting the album in question without a word. The familiar opening chords of Back in the U.S.S.R. fill the car, and he glances at you just in time to catch the way you bite back a smile.

You might tease, but he knows you like it. Or maybe you like that it’s his favorite. It’s a thought he doesn’t prefer to dwell on.

The road stretches out ahead, and for the first time in a while, he feels something close to ease. The usual tension in his shoulders dulls, the steady hum of tires on asphalt lulling him into a rare sense of contentment.

“Why is this one your favorite?” you ask suddenly.

He considers the question for a moment. No one has ever really asked. Maybe no one has thought to.

“I’m… not sure,” he admits. “I think it might have something to do with my mom. She bought the record a couple of weeks after I was born, and when I got my own record player in college, she made sure I had a copy.” He shrugs, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel. “It’s been around just as long as I have, and there’s something a little— I don’t know— comforting about that.”

You nod, thoughtful. “I get that.” A pause. Then, with a wry tilt to your voice, “Grease 2 came out the year I was born, so I can’t say I share a similar affinity for the pop culture phenomena of my birth year.”

Aaron lets out a low whistle. “That film really was awful.”

Your laughter is immediate, warm. He finds himself waiting for it before continuing, “I saw The Who on their final tour that year.”

You turn in your seat, brow furrowed. “Weren’t you, like, barely in high school?”

He nods. “We snuck out—some friends and me. It was really stupid, and we got in a lot of trouble, but it was fun.” A nostalgic smile plays on his lips. “I have no idea how we managed to get all the way into the District, let alone find tickets, but everything was a little less complicated back then. Buses ran on time, people read maps and paid in cash, and parents didn’t all have cell phones.” He smirks, glancing over at you. “But of course, that’s before your time.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Oh, come on. I’m not that young. I remember the world before the mainstream internet and 9/11 and all that pre-Patriot Act shit. I remember when the Berlin Wall came down, at least.”

That gets a real laugh out of him. “Fair enough.”

The conversation slows after that, the easy quiet of the road settling in again.

Every so often, he reaches a hand toward the center console, and without prompting, you pass him a fry from the fast-food bag. It’s a small thing, but it makes something in his chest feel steady.

Aaron keeps his eyes on the road, but he knows you’re watching him. You always notice things—little things no one else pays attention to. Like the way his fingers move in time with the music, a habit so ingrained he barely thinks about it. Until now.

“Hotch, do you play guitar?” There’s something in your tone—amusement, curiosity, maybe a bit of disbelief.

He shrugs. “I played a little when I was younger. I guess you could say I know how, but I don’t claim to be decent at it.” A short exhale, a shake of his head. “Sean’s always been better at those kinds of pursuits.”

That isn’t untrue. Sean has a natural talent for things Aaron has always had to work at. Music, art, charming the hell out of people. But that isn’t why Aaron stopped playing.

After a moment, you ask, “Have you and Sean always butted heads?”

Aaron lets out a short laugh. “Yes.”

That’s the simplest way to put it. There’s silence for a moment. 

“My dad was right-handed, so I play right-handed,” he admits, voice quieter than before. It’s a non-sequitur, but he suddenly itches to share something with you, something he rarely talks about. “When he taught me, it never occurred to me to try the left-handed way.” A beat passes, then a wry smirk. “He wasn’t exactly the type to entertain the idea of doing something differently just because it might’ve been easier.”

That’s putting it mildly.

He sees you nod, filing the information away in that sharp mind of yours, but you don’t push. Instead, you say, “I’d like to see you play sometime.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, unsure if you mean it or if you’re just being kind. It’s been years since he picked up a guitar for anything more than a few absent-minded chords. Longer still since he played with any real enjoyment.

Then you say, almost absently, “You have a Gibson in your office at home.”

His grip tightens on the wheel for half a second before he forces himself to relax. “It was my dad’s Les Paul.”

He doesn’t know why he keeps it. The guitar is a relic of a man he has no desire to remember and is worth well over ten grand, yet there it sits, leaning against the bookshelf. The same man who once took a young Aaron by the hands and taught him his first chords is the same man who turned those hands to violence. And yet, Aaron has never been able to bring himself to get rid of it.

Maybe it’s proof that his father was once something more than a monster. Or maybe it’s just another burden he carries because that’s what he’s always done.

He doesn’t look at you, but he feels your attention shift—feels the moment when you connect the dots, understand the weight behind something as simple as a guitar in the corner of a room.

You don’t say anything.

And for that, he’s grateful.

Instead, you let the silence settle, let the music fill the space between you. And slowly, as if nothing has happened, his fingers resume their absent rhythm against the steering wheel, tapping along to Happiness is a Warm Gun.

+++

Aaron listens and participates quietly as the conversation drifts between you both. He’s used to the silence that comes with long drives, but he knows that when you have something on your mind, you don’t always jump straight to it. After a while, though, the air feels thick with unsaid things, and he finally asks, “So, who is this guy?”

He glances at you quickly, the question hanging in the air. He can already tell you’re hesitating, unsure whether to share more detail with him. But he isn’t expecting anything specific. His job has taught him that people open up when they’re ready, not when they’re pushed.

You sigh, tipping your head against the seat, clearly reluctant to dig into old memories. “Ugh. You really want to know?”

Aaron shrugs, keeping his eyes on the road. “Of course. Isn’t it protocol to brief the team before arrival?”

“Yes, sir,” you reply, sounding almost mockingly formal, and he can’t help but smile more at that.

You begin to tell him, your words flowing easily now. “His name is Austin. We met in some random general education class and became fast friends. Then we started dating. We were talking about marriage, kids... the whole thing. We were together for two years.”

The weight of it all hits him—he can tell it’s not easy for you to talk about, and yet you’re doing it without hesitation. He listens, letting you pace yourself, because he knows that’s what you need.

You pause for a moment, and Aaron glances at you, catching the small frown forming on your lips. “Then I went abroad for a semester… When I came back, I found out he’d been seeing someone else the whole time I was gone.”

The shift in your tone makes something twist in his chest. He knows that feeling of betrayal too well. But he doesn’t interrupt. You need to get it out.

“It’s kind of cliché, I know, but it broke my heart in half,” you finish, your voice a little shaky but hiding it behind humor. Aaron doesn’t push. He knows it’s still there, the hurt, even though it’s been years.

“You handled it better than I did,” he says, keeping his voice soft.

You continue, telling him about how you’ve tried to remain civil with Austin’s family, keeping in touch through other people over the years. Your words drift back to the wedding invitation. “I think his mom sent it. I mostly accepted because I wanted to see her and Austin’s little sister. I miss them the most.”

The warmth in your voice when you talk about them catches Aaron’s attention, and he finds himself focusing more on the things you miss, the parts that matter.

“What are they like?” he asks, genuinely curious.

You smile as you tell him. “Allison is funny—always putting more cream than coffee in her mug. And their mom—she is the best. She had great taste in books. She still sends me copies of her favorites, even now. It’s nice to get something from her every once in a while.”

Aaron can’t help but admire how you’ve managed to keep that connection alive, even after everything. He knows what it’s like to try and maintain ties, even when it’s difficult. He appreciates that you haven’t let it all go, even when it would’ve been easier to cut the ties for good.

“It was good of you to keep in touch,” he says quietly, a genuine respect in his tone. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, but he doesn’t need to tell you that. You already know.

You shrug. “I guess. I mean, I know it’s different, but you have Jess.”

The comparison catches him off guard. His relationship with Jess has never been about choice. He loves her because she’s family, because she took care of Jack when he couldn’t. But if Haley were still here, would he have made the effort?

The difference, he decides, is that you’re kinder, more patient than he is. Jess would hardly be in his life at all if Haley were still here. He had a hard enough time keeping up with Haley’s family when they were married. Keeping up with them after the divorce? There’s no way to know, but he can’t remember much affection between them even before Haley’s father decided to hold him personally responsible for her death.

He’s a little startled when your hand reaches out, resting lightly on his arm. Your hand is a little cold, but it’s nice, almost refreshing. Your thumb traces softly over the skin of his bare forearm. The simple gesture unravels something in him.

“It’s different now, and it would have been different then,” you say, gentle but certain. “There’s no right way to do anything.”

Aaron exhales in a huff, unsettled by how easily you know him. How you always seem to.

“I spent almost twenty-five years knowing Haley,” he says. “You know that.”

“I do,” you reply. “I also know you spent longer than twenty-five loving her. And probably won’t ever stop.”

Aaron feels the weight of your words settle into the quiet between you. There’s no hesitation in the way you say it, no pity—just an understanding and acceptance that feels too easy, too natural. It catches him off guard.

He knows you pay attention, but this is different. This isn’t just observation. This is something deeper, something that makes him feel more seen than he’s comfortable with.

He thinks about deflecting, about making some comment on profiling, turning it into a joke to lighten the moment. He considers arguing, telling you that love like that doesn’t last forever, that people move on, that they have to. But he doesn’t believe that—not really.

Instead, he wonders if he should correct you, if he should remind you that love isn’t what it once was, that time has reshaped it into something quieter, something lonelier. But that isn’t entirely true either.

So many things come to mind, but none of them feel right.

So he exhales, leans onto the center console, and settles on the only thing he can say.

“How do you know everything?”

You rest your head against the seat and adjust so your body is angled toward him. A small smile crosses your face as you take in his profile.

“I dunno. I guess I just pay attention.”

+++

Aaron watches as you exhale, shoulders sagging the moment you step into the room. His eyes flicker to the lone king-sized bed before returning to you, gauging your reaction. He registers the way your breath hitches just slightly, your posture going momentarily stiff. He understands immediately—it’s not what you expected.

It’s not what he expected, either, but it’s fine. There’s a couch, if it comes down to it. He adjusts quickly, out of habit, but beneath that practiced ease, something unspoken lingers—something that makes the space between expectation and reality feel impossibly small.

But years of practice, of adapting to the unexpected, have conditioned him to recover faster. He doesn’t hesitate. Instead, he moves toward the left side of the bed, the side closest to the door. That instinct runs deeper than thought. It’s the side that gives him the fastest access, the clearest vantage point. It’s the side that lets him place himself between any unknown variable and you.

As he sets down his bag, something flickers across your expression, something just shy of startled realization. You follow his lead, wordlessly taking the opposite side, unzipping your suitcase in tandem with him. It doesn’t escape him how easily the two of you move in sync.

He files the thought away before it can settle.

Your small, satisfied smile doesn’t go unnoticed. Neither does the way it vanishes just as quickly, as though you’ve chastised yourself for it. Aaron doesn’t linger on it, though. Instead, he unzips his garment bag and retrieves the suit he had set aside for the occasion.

The moment you look over, he senses the shift in your focus.

“Mind if I take up some real estate?” you ask, holding up a handful of hangers.

Aaron shakes his head, wordlessly making space for you. He notices the way you glance over his suit again as you hang your things. It’s a suit like any other for him, part of the uniform of his life, but this one is particularly well-tailored, undeniably expensive. Maybe you hadn’t expected that. 

When you both finish, he watches as you sit on the bed, sinking down with the weight of exhaustion. 

“What time is our first obligation?” he asks, more to get a read on your energy than anything else.

You huff a small laugh. “5pm Cocktails at the hotel bar for everyone who arrived today. Rehearsal dinner after that is wedding-party-only, thank God.” You glance at the clock, confirming, “We basically have the day to ourselves until then.”

Aaron nods, considering the hours ahead, then meets your gaze. “How do you feel about a nap?”

Something flickers across your expression too fast for him to catch. But whatever it is, it makes his lips curve slightly, his body instinctively seeking relief at the idea of rest. He’s running on fumes. He knows it. 

And yet, there’s something in the way you immediately agree, something in the easy way you say, “I feel great about a nap,” that makes something in his chest loosen.

He doesn’t let himself analyze it.

Instead, he reaches for a pair of flannel pajama pants from his bag, retreating into the bathroom. He changes quickly, splashing cold water onto his face, gripping the edge of the sink as he studies his reflection. 

This is fine. You’re just tired.

He takes a steadying breath before stepping back out.

The room is dim now, the blinds drawn to a gentle shade, leaving a soft hush in the air. You’ve already curled up under the covers, body relaxed, breath slow. He stops just short of his side of the bed, gaze drawn to you despite himself.

Your brow, usually furrowed with thought, is smooth in sleep. Your hands rest loosely in front of your face, fingers curled slightly. He watches the way your breath moves evenly past the curve of your lips, steady and undisturbed.

Something in his chest tightens.

He knows he should slip under the covers properly, let himself rest. But the thought of shifting the bed, of disturbing whatever delicate balance exists in this moment, makes him hesitate. Instead, he carefully places his jeans back in his duffle bag and stretches out on top of the covers beside you.

His body is heavy, exhaustion pressing into him, but his mind refuses to still.

He lets his eyes close, but sleep does not come immediately. Instead, his thoughts remain preoccupied—not by the case files in his briefcase, not by the endless to-do lists or the weight of responsibility.

But by the quiet phenomenon beside him, the simple, inexplicable comfort of your presence.

This should not feel as natural as it does.

Eventually, exhaustion wins. But even in sleep, he drifts toward you, drawn by something he isn’t ready to name.

+++

Aaron stirs, the warmth of your hands grounding him before he even fully wakes. His fingers are curled around yours, your hands clasped together between them, the smallest space between your foreheads. Not touching, but close. Too close.

There is no memory of how this happened. No recollection of seeking your hand, of the moment skin met skin. Either he has reached for you, or you have reached for him. He doesn’t know which possibility unsettles (or excites?) him more. A small shudder goes through him.

Of course, this isn’t the first contact you’ve ever made, but it feels different. Hair ruffles and shoulder squeezes and hugs for comfort are one thing, but this is entirely another.

His first instinct is to move, to create distance, to restore the boundaries that have served him so well. But he doesn’t. Instead, he listens—to the even cadence of your breath, to the way his own heart hammers in his chest, an erratic counterpoint to the quiet, and the things that heart says. He tells himself you are still asleep, that you don’t know what is happening, that you won’t wake up and see him like this, so weak and subject to the strength of his feelings and impulses.

And then he watches as your hand shifts slightly, as if in response to his own. You are awake.

A slow exhale escapes him, measured, careful. He releases one of your hands, feeling it drop onto the coverlet, fingers relaxed. He should roll away. He should sit up. But his body betrays him before his mind can stop it.

His fingertips skim the arch of your brow, tracing downward, barely brushing your skin. He follows the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips. He tells himself he is committing your face to memory, as if it is something fleeting, something he will lose the moment he lets go.

His hand moves lower, tracing the line of your jaw, lingering for half a second before he pulls away. His fingers wrap around yours again, grounding himself in the simplest touch. And before he can think better of it, he brings your hand to his lips, pressing the faintest kiss to your knuckles before tucking it back against his chest.

His eyes close, but sleep does not come easily. He is too aware.

Of you.

Of the way his body angles toward yours.

Of the way his heart beats too fast in his own ears. It takes time, but eventually, his breath evens out.

But you don’t sleep.

Your eyes open, and you look at him, really look at him. He can feel it. The quiet study of your gaze, the slow path of your fingers as you trace the angles of his face.

He fights the instinct to react. He knows what this is—knows because he did the same to you only moments ago. He remains still, perfectly still, even as a shock of adrenaline spikes through him.

You know.

You know how he feels about you.

And worse—you know how you feel about him.

His chest tightens, his grip on your hand nearly faltering before he forces himself to stay still. The truth is too much, too soon. He isn’t ready. You aren’t ready.

This is temporary, he tells himself. It has to be. There is no space for this, no space for you in the life he has only just started to rebuild. His time belongs to his son. His efforts belong to his healing.

But even as he tries to convince himself, something inside him wavers.

The new normal is the hardest thing to find, his therapist once told him.

He’s been so sure he could find it on his own. He isn’t sure anymore, especially as your finger rests on the hollow under his nose, just above his mouth. He can hear your breath catch.

It takes everything in him to stay still as your fingers card through his hair at his temples. His breath remains steady as he resists the urge to lean into your touch like a cat, deeply comforted by your gentle touch.

You pull away first, slipping your hand free from his and rolling onto your back. He tells himself the loss of contact is a relief. He tells himself he doesn’t miss it.

You check your phone, the early afternoon light filtering through the drawn blinds. He forces himself to move, inhaling deeply before stretching, shifting onto his back as if he is only just waking up. He laces his hands behind his head—it’s a play at casual, but he mostly just needs to occupy them.

When you turn to look at him, your expression is composed. Normal. Too normal.

“Good afternoon,” you say, and he almost smirks at how carefully neutral you sound.

He lets a small smile play at his lips, refusing to betray what he knows. “Good afternoon.”

You shift, pushing forward before anything can slip between the cracks. “So, tonight.” Your voice is casual, almost too casual. “Do you just want to be ‘work friends,’ or do we want to lean into the whole ‘let’s ruin Austin’s life’ thing?”

Aaron laughs, the sound breaking the tension like the first crack in ice. “I’m comfortable leaning in if you are.”

+++

The cocktail hour isn’t as horrible as Aaron anticipates. He stays close to you, your right hand resting lightly in the crook of his arm, a small tether between you. You hold a glass of wine but he hasn’t seen you drink much, if at all, your fingers idly twisting the stem as you navigate the room.

When your name is called from across the space, he tips his head down to listen as you whisper a quick debrief—names, relationships, a crash course in shared history. It’s impressive, really, the way you move through social circles with ease, offering him just enough to fall seamlessly into step beside you. The person he knows at work—put together, capable, confident—is here, but this version of you is just a little different. A little more put-upon, a little more deliberately engaged.

You’re performing. Just a little.

Which version of you is closer to the truth?

If he were profiling you in this moment, he’d see someone who knows how to navigate a crowd, someone who controls the conversation with quiet grace. But he also knows you’re nervous. He admires the effort you’re making to connect, to meet these people where they are after years apart.

As expected, he plays his role well. Warm, charming, a careful observer, taking his cues from you. He listens as you catch up with old classmates, some you remember fondly, others whose faces don’t stir a single memory. He’s proud when he can recognize the momentary blank look on your face when you don’t remember someone, but you always cover neatly. He nods at the right times, adding the occasional comment where it makes sense, content to exist in your orbit.

“How did you two meet?” The question comes from a woman whose name he catches (Leslie)  but you did not. He resists the urge to smirk at your near-imperceptible pause before you answer.

“We’re in the same department at work.”

The man beside her—Carson, apparently, based on the murmured correction from someone else—tilts his head. “Where is that, again? I can’t remember where you landed after your internship.”

“DoJ, in Quantico,” Aaron supplies helpfully.

“FBI,” Leslie interjects before Carson can fumble through another half-formed thought. “Keep up.”

“No shit!”

A small group gathers now, drawn into the conversation, and instinctively, you shift closer to Aaron. Without thinking, his arm slides around your waist, his stance adjusting to keep you securely within his personal space.

Protective. Steady. Natural.

It makes sense. You have moved closer, and he has responded accordingly. That’s all.

“Shit,” you say, bumping him playfully with your shoulder. “We don’t have our creds on us tonight, so if you get arrested, you’ll have to bail yourselves out.”

“We also don’t have jurisdiction even if we did,” Aaron adds smoothly, his voice low and even, laced with quiet amusement. “So keep it high and tight, and we’ll all do just fine.”

He feels the tension in your body shift—not quite a flinch, but something subtle and telling. A second later, you take a longer sip of your wine than necessary, as if to mask a reaction.

Shouldn’t have said that.

Not with his hand where it is, his chest just barely against your back. Not with how easy it is to stay close to you, to let the boundaries blur just a little too much.

But, again, it’s for the show. A natural response. Just acting.

“There he is!”

The exclamation shatters the moment, and he feels you tense before your head whips around so fast you nearly lose your balance. His grip adjusts instinctively, a steady hand at your shoulder keeping you upright.

That, at least, isn’t acting. Just reflex.

“Thank you,” you murmur, just for him.

He hears you. Of course he does. And before he can think better of it, he presses a light kiss to your temple.

Too much.

“Always.”

Unnecessary.

It sells the image, sure, but it also crosses the line. He justifies it easily—you’re nervous, you need reassurance, and this is the most natural thing to do.

The instinct isn’t for the act, but the justification certainly is. How much more can he get away with, without taking advantage or being gratuitous? You don’t seem to mind, and that’s good enough for now. 

Austin approaches, looking more polished than Aaron expects, with a stunning fiancée at his side and an easy, practiced smile.

Aaron lets you go just as Austin pulls you in for a hug—longer, warmer than necessary. He uses the moment to assess, his gaze sharp as it flicks over the man’s expression. Austin’s focus lingers on you, but there’s something calculating, almost judgmental in his eyes when they finally land on Aaron.

He introduces his fiancée—Madeline—and you, in turn, introduce Aaron.

“Austin, this is my…” You hesitate.

Aaron’s fingers curl gently around your waist, a silent reassurance, a quiet prompt. He’s just as interested in what you’re going to say as Austin appears to be.

You let the implication settle before making a light recovery.

“Aaron.”

That works. 

The smirk threatens at the edge of his lips, but he suppresses it as he extends his free hand. His grip is firm, unwavering, just a touch longer and more of a squeeze than is entirely necessary. He watches as Austin’s expression falters, his jaw tightening briefly before he lets go and flexes his fingers.

“Pleasure,” Aaron says. “Congratulations.”

Austin gives a slightly forced laugh, shaking out his hand. “Thanks. We’re really glad you both could make it. Mom will be really happy to see you.”

Aaron simply nods, his hand settling back at your waist, his touch light but deliberate.

Just to sell it, that’s all. 

+++

“That could have been so much worse.” You shuck Aaron’s blazer off your shoulders and hang it in the closet as he passes behind you. He’d passed it to you when you shivered slightly at the bar, and it wasn’t even a point of conversation. Just instinct. Draping it over you, placing a hand on your back. He’d barely thought about it, but now, watching you slip it off, he kind of wishes you’d kept it on a little longer.

It is both shocking and uncomfortable how much he likes to see you in his clothes, even if it is just stuffy outerwear.

“Thank you for enduring the mayhem down there.”

Aaron sits on the bed and slips off his boots. “I can’t remember the last time I went to a social event that didn’t directly affect my career trajectory.” He looks up at you, and the way you smile at him—soft, easy—makes him feel a little looser than he should. His buzz from two drinks hasn’t quite worn off yet, and he lets himself enjoy that.

You shake your head, walking past him to retrieve your pajamas and toothbrush. “Do you ever want to move up the chain at all?”

“Not really. Something big would have to change to get me to leave the BAU.” He looks at you over his shoulder. “We tried that, remember?”

He had tried, during one of the most trying periods of his life. With every incentive and push, he tried. And it hadn’t stuck. The BAU was grueling, consuming, and unrelenting, but it was also the work that made him feel most like himself. The thought of stepping away—leaving behind the team, the purpose, the sheer necessity of what they did—felt impossible. He knew he wasn’t built for desk work, wasn’t made for a role where he wasn’t in the thick of things, reading people, preventing the worst. Every time he’d thought about moving on, the idea had crumbled under the weight of what he’d be giving up. 

“I do, actually.” At his chuckle, you continue. “I can’t say that’s something I’d like to relive anytime soon.”

You move easily around each other, and he takes more notice of that than he probably should. There’s a comfort here. A rhythm. Changing into pajamas, brushing your teeth, the little rituals of getting ready for bed. He’s seen you like this before, sure—late nights at his house with Jack asleep in his room, movie credits rolling—but this is different. It’s just you and him. No cases, no responsibilities, no excuses.

He catches his own reflection in the mirror, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, letting the fabric stretch over his shoulders as he pushes his hair back. He shouldn’t be encouraging anything, but if you’re looking, he won’t stop you.

Lost in thought, he stares into space for a moment before coming back to himself, preparing everything he needs for bed. 

Eventually, you throw back the covers and crawl in without thinking about it too much, while Aaron lingers in the bathroom doorway, still in his slacks, his shirt untucked, barefoot. 

“I really can take the couch.”

You look at him and pointedly turn off the lamp resting on your side table. “We’re adults. I don’t mind it if you don’t. And for that matter, if either one of us is sleeping on the couch it’s me.”

“Oh?” He asks, amused. “Why’s that?”

As you answer, he reaches for the fresh t-shirt he set aside earlier, slipping into the bathroom and pulling the door while he changes. The motion keeps him busy, gives him something to focus on besides the knowledge that he will be sharing a bed with you–again–this time, separate from the team, independent of necessity and absent professional boundaries or inconveniences. You’re here, with him, settling into bed like it’s normal. 

He hoped, probably somewhat irrationally, that you would let him sleep on the couch. This is an unfair temptation of his ability to repress his feelings. He’s good at it, but he doesn’t know how much longer that skill will hold up to continued stress before something snaps.

“Because as you so astutely pointed out earlier, I am significantly younger than you, and I think my back will fare better than yours after a night of lumpy cushions.”

The bathroom light flips off, and he scoffs in the dark. “Never once did I say significantly younger.”

“Well, Aaron, ‘before your time’ is rife with implication.”

He chuckles as he moves toward the bed, sitting on the edge and putting his socks on. He’s stalling. The king-size bed feels small, almost claustrophobic. 

“You know what? Nevermind. I forgot who I was talking to, and I would hate for you to go full-tilt lawyer on me.” You curl up, bringing the covers to your chin. He laughs, and he knows, in that moment, that if he let himself, he could get used to this.

He flips the covers back and forces himself to lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He’s rigid, his hands resting lightly on his chest. He makes an effort to unlock his knees, but it takes some work. 

Don’t get comfortable.

Why not? She’s right here.

Because she’s your friend. Because this is temporary.

You’re both quiet for a little while, listening to each other breathe in the dark. Then a sigh—yours. He catches it too late to figure out what it means. 

“Are you okay?” His voice is softer in the dark and he turns on his side, facing you. You nod. He can hear your head move against the pillow, but he’s not sure if you’re being honest. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

You pause, then, carefully, “Yeah, I’m fine. I just—I really can’t tell you how grateful I am that you’re here with me this weekend.”

That shouldn’t hit him the way it does. He reaches out, tentative, and when your hand finds his, he lets himself hold on.

“Of course. I’m glad I can be here for you.” He means it. You trusting him like this, being this open, it’s something he won’t take for granted. “Thank you for letting me come.”

I’d like to let you come—

Jesus Christ.

What?

Read the room.

He swallows the thought and keeps his voice steady. “With that in mind,” he continues, “I’m really proud of you. And not in a ‘I’m your boss and you’re making significant progress’ way. As your friend, I’m really proud of you.”

Your friend.

That’s what he is.

That’s what he needs to be.

That’s what you expect.

He can hear the fondness in your voice when you reply, “Goodnight, Hotch.”

Hotch.

Not Aaron.

He takes a deep breath. He doesn’t correct you. “Goodnight.”

He belatedly realizes you’ve avoided accepting the compliment. 

+++

Aaron wakes slowly, the weight of his arm around your waist both grounding and comforting. For months now, he’s woken from these moments with a lingering sense of peace, only for reality to rush in and steal it away. He hasn’t dreamed of Haley in months. It’s you. It’s always you. And he’s long since stopped trying to deny what that means.

It’s always like this in the best dreams.

He exhales slowly, nuzzling in. His breathing matches yours, slow and steady, as the warmth of your body sinks deeper into his, and the scent of your skin fills his senses. There’s something about this moment, the way you fit against him, the way you’re tangled up with him, that feels like the best part of every dream he’s ever had.

His eyes flutter open, and for a moment, everything feels like it’s been pulled from the world he visits in his subconscious. But then something shifts—the warmth beneath his palm, the way your fingers brush against his in sleep. And the realization hits him like a punch to the ribs. The softness of your skin against his, the quiet rhythm of your breathing, the way your hair smells like something impossibly familiar—he’s not imagining it. He’s not dreaming.

For a brief, disorienting moment, he doesn’t recognize where he is, but it all comes back to him fast enough. You’re tangled together—his knee between your legs, his face buried into your shoulder. He feels you breathe, slow and even, your body molded against his like you belong there.

The feeling sends a wave of warmth through him, and the last vestiges of sleep fade. His first instinct is to pull away, afraid that you’ll wake and find him draped over you like some kind of ridiculous backpack. 

But as his mind clears further, reality sets in with an almost physical weight. He’s not sure how he’s gotten here. Last night feels like a blur of quiet conversation, laughter, and unspoken tension, but here you are, wrapped in his arms as if you’ve done it a thousand times before.

God, what am I doing? 

The thought is sharp, cutting through the haze in his mind. He tries to pull away, but he can’t. His body refuses to listen to the voice that tells him to stop—to retreat, to keep the distance between you that’s always been there.

This is wrong, he tells himself. But the longer he stays, the more that little voice feels like a lie. He’s wanted this—wanted you��long before he ever admitted it. You’ve been there in his dreams, in his thoughts, in places he never thought he’d let anyone reach. But now, with you here, so close, it feels too much like something he’s been afraid to face.

You’re here because you want to be, he tells himself, even though the thought makes his chest tighten. The last thing he wants is to ruin this by overthinking it. But how can he not? He’s tangled up with you, wrapped around you in a way that feels natural, but still entirely new. Your breath on his skin is soothing, but it’s also a reminder of how close you are. The thought shakes him, unnerving in its simplicity. 

You, with your vibrancy, your youth, your life ahead of you... how could you possibly want someone like him? He’s older, with baggage that comes with the territory - a dead ex-wife, a son, an irreconcilably difficult relationship with his work. He’s seen the toll of his career on his own soul, and he’s no fool—he knows he can’t give you the things someone your age deserves.

And yet... he can’t picture a life without you. Whenever he looks ahead, you’re there. You’re part of it.

You shift in your sleep, and the movement makes his body react in ways it shouldn’t, as if it’s betraying him on purpose. Morning wood was always inconvenient, but he can’t deny that his body has a good reason for reacting the way it is, this morning. He can’t rightly blame his body or his brain for this one, but he can mitigate the issue. He swallows hard, trying to keep his thoughts in check. This is foolish. He’s being foolish. But the pull of you, the way you trust him enough to let him in this close, it’s all too much.

Quit while you’re ahead, Hotchner. 

He tries to shift away, slowly, gently—careful not to wake you, though your soft protests make it clear you’re not fully asleep. The last thing he needs right now is a reminder of how real this moment is.

A shower. That’s what he needs. Something cold. He picks up his toiletries and makes his way to the bathroom, locking the door behind him for some semblance of space, of control. He starts the water and palms himself, trying to relieve the uncomfortable pressure insistent and painful between his legs. 

Hotch braces a hand against the cool tile, his other already wrapping around himself with a practiced ease that borders on shameful. The heat of the water is nothing compared to the warmth of your body still lingering in his mind, the phantom press of your back against his chest, the way your fingers had laced so easily with his in sleep. He bites back a groan, jaw tightening as his strokes fall into a familiar rhythm, one he knows too well. This isn’t new—he’s had years of practice burying his want for you in moments like this, years of pretending that letting it out like this will make it any easier to ignore in the daylight.

But this time, it’s different. This time, it’s not just a fantasy. This time, he has the memory of you in his arms, your scent in his nose, the knowledge that, even unconsciously, you reached for him just as much as he reached for you. His chin falls down to his chest, breath stuttering as he pictures what it would be like if you weren’t just beside him in sleep but in this, too—if it were your hand, your touch, your voice whispering his name in the quiet. He grits his teeth, trying to hold back the rush of it, but it’s no use.

The release comes fast, sharp and overwhelming, and for a moment, it’s everything. But then it’s gone, leaving him panting under the spray, the guilt creeping in at the edges like it always does. He lets the water scald his skin for a moment longer, trying to drown out the truth of it.

He’s fucked. He’s completely, hopelessly fucked.

He takes another breath and turns the spray to a shrinking cold. Serves him right. 

When he finally emerges, he’s grateful for the cold that follows, the chill of the bathroom driving out the last of the thoughts that have been clouding his mind.

He doesn’t expect you to be awake when he returns, but he hears your soft chatter and typing before he even opens the door. He’s aware of your presence, as always, and of the tension in your voice as you speak to someone on the phone. He leans toward the door, his fingertips pressing with the lightest of touches to hold his weight as he eavesdrops. 

He can’t even bring himself to feel a little bad. 

And then he hears your voice.

“…he’s just here because he likes to owe me favors.”

Hotch pauses, and huffs out a quiet laugh. He can’t even be annoyed because, honestly? That’s funny.

He can’t hear the response, but he does hear you when you say, “My God, Em. Would you quit?”

Ah. So it is Emily.

“I’m not going to do anything about it because there’s nothing to do anything about...Don’t give me that...You have absolutely no proof...I don’t care if you’re a profiler or not, there is no way you can say with any definitive certainty—”

Your voice drops, too low for him to catch the rest over the hum of the bathroom fan.

With a frustrated huff, he ties the towel around his waist and ventures out, entirely aware of his state of undress.

And if he enjoys the way your voice falters at the sight of him, well—he doesn’t owe Emily a damn thing.

The sight of you, trying to pretend you’re unaffected, makes something in him tighten.

You’re not as unaffected as you’d like to think. Neither of you are.

He catches the faintest hint of a smile as you try to recover, but it’s gone before it fully forms, replaced by the distraction of your laptop, your fingers flying over the keys.

“Yeah, for sure,” y0u reply, still determinedly typing with a little more force than necessary.

Hotch smirks to himself as he pulls on his shirt, taking his time with the buttons. He may not be able to hear Emily’s exact response, but your reaction tells him everything he needs to know. The sharp click of your typing, the force behind your words—he’s spent enough time reading you to know when you’re flustered. And if Emily is pressing you, it means she knows it too. She reacts to sexual tension like a shark with blood in the water. 

Emily must say something in reply, as you retort, “Emily, you know I’m not going to dignify that with a response.” 

He’s not blind. He knows he’s at least somewhat attractive for a man in his early forties—he keeps in shape (his mile time and bench max are better than they were in his 20’s, in fact), his suits are finely tailored, and he’s been told more than once that the whole “stern FBI unit chief” thing works for him. But knowing you think he’s attractive? That’s something else entirely.

And it’s more than enough of an ego boost to wash away any lingering guilt from his… activities in the shower. Because really, can he be blamed? When you look at him like that, wide-eyed and breathless, struggling to pull yourself back into focus?

No. No, he absolutely cannot.

He bites back a knowing smile as he reaches for his tie, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. You’re still determinedly avoiding looking at him, fingers flying over your keyboard like it’ll somehow drown out the conversation entirely.

Poor thing.

He almost feels bad for you. Almost.

In the bathroom, he decides to forgo the tie until it’s time to leave for the ceremony, leaving the top two buttons of his white dress shirt undone. He notices that something on your computer must be riveting, because you don’t look up at all as he returns to the suite. 

+++

Austin's family had clearly spared no expense for the ceremony or the reception. The moment he and you had walked in together, arm-in-arm, he could feel the weight of the event pressing down on you. You’d chosen seats near the back, on the groom’s side.

He knows this is strange for you—this wedding, this man who was once supposed to be your future. But you aren’t sitting beside Austin now. You’re sitting beside him.

Aaron doesn’t miss the way your eyes flick over him when you think he’s not looking, the warmth in your gaze when he adjusts his tie—the tie that matches your outfit, as promised. He had seen the way you watched him put it on earlier, how you’d ducked your head with that little smile you always tried to hide. He pretends not to notice, pretends it doesn’t stir something in him, but it does.

The ceremony itself is a blur. He follows the motions—standing, sitting—but what he notices most is you. You rest your head on his shoulder, playing the role. But when you take a shaky breath, he knows it’s more than that.

You don’t love Austin anymore, not even close. But he recognizes that look in your eyes—the quiet ache of knowing time keeps moving, that you are married to nothing but work. He knows because he’s felt it himself.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice pitched low enough that only you can hear.

You nod. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“About?”

You shake your head, pressing your temple deeper into the fabric of his jacket. “Later.”

For a moment, just a moment, he lets his cheek rest against your hair. He isn’t worried, not exactly, but he’s never seen you like this before—existentially untethered. It unsettles him, not because he doesn’t understand it, but because he does. And there is nothing he can do to make it easier for you.

+++

At the open bar, you snag a glass of wine for yourself and two fingers of whiskey for him—good whiskey, because of course you would—when an older woman embraces you with unmistakable warmth.

Aaron watches as you break into a genuine smile. “Hey, Laurie,” you greet her, embracing her with an ease he doesn’t often see from you. He knows exactly who she is—Austin’s mother, from the ceremony. He doesn’t need to hear your words to know that she means something to you.

He doesn’t eavesdrop, exactly, but he can tell the woman is pressing you for information. When she gestures toward him, he schools his expression into something neutral, waiting for you to answer.

With a long-suffering sigh, you grab the drinks and make your way back to the table, the woman in tow. Aaron watches your approach, the amusement flickering behind your carefully composed expression.

“Aaron,” you say, placing the whiskey down in front of him, your hand resting briefly on his shoulder.

He turns, catching the way you glance at him before stepping aside. He stands, extending his hand. “SSA Aaron Hotchner. Thank you for having us. I’ve heard so much about you and your family.”

“Oh no, that can’t be good.” Laurie laughs lightly and takes his hand in both of our own. “Laurie Miller. As I’m sure you know, I have a great amount of love for this one here.” She releases Aaron’s hand and tucks you into her arms again, kissing your cheek. You laugh. Aaron smiles. 

“C’mon, Laurie. You don’t have to lie for my benefit.”

Aaron takes his seat as Laurie settles across from him, and you lean forward on your elbows, watching as he answers her questions. He doesn’t talk about their work often, not outside the team, but here, away from the weight of the job, he lets himself. He tells stories—ones that won’t bring the room down—and watches as Laurie hangs onto his words.

When he glances at you, he sees something shift in your expression. Something that almost makes him forget what he was saying.

“...Preventing loss of life is always rewarding, and our team is a family.”

Laurie nods, clearly enamored. “It’s so lovely you have so much fondness for each other. I imagine it makes everything much easier.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “It does.” He lets the words sit between you for a second longer than necessary before your phone buzzes, pulling you away.

You excuse yourself with a hand on each of their shoulders, your touch lingering on his just a second longer than necessary. He watches you step away, lifting your phone to your ear. “Dean, you bastard!”

Aaron huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he turns his attention back to Laurie. He picks up where he left off, but his mind stays on you, lingering at the edges of his thoughts.

Her expression shifts, her gaze turning knowing as she studies him. “So,” she says, resting her chin on her hand. “What exactly are your intentions with her?”

Aaron exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “We’re just colleagues,” he answers honestly, though he knows that’s not the whole truth.

Laurie tsks, tilting her head as if she’s seeing straight through him. “I beg to differ. I’ve been watching you two. The way you look at each other.”

He doesn’t quite squirm, but he feels a warmth creep up his neck. “She’s important to me,” he admits carefully.

“Of course she is,” Laurie agrees, her smile soft but pointed. “I just think you should consider how important she is to you. And in what way.” She pauses. “Just don’t break her heart and you’ll do just fine.” She smiles a cheeky, knowing smile. There’s a little pain behind it. “Trust me, I know.”

Aaron doesn’t have a response to that, and Laurie simply pats his hand before shifting the conversation elsewhere. But the thought lingers, settling somewhere in his chest as he watches you, framed by the doors to the balcony. 

+++

When the dancing starts, Aaron’s anticipation reaches his nervous system in a way it hasn’t in a long time. He finds himself chuckling when Signed, Sealed, Delivered (I’m Yours) starts to play. He thinks of what Dave said earlier, about letting himself have a little fun, and for once, he’s inclined to listen. Maybe he will seize an opportunity tonight. 

Old dog, new tricks?

With a confidence and certainty that only feels partially for show, he stands and offers you his hand. There’s no hesitation when you take it, and only after does it seem to dawn on you what he’s doing.

“Hotch, you can’t be serious.” You stop in your tracks, and he tightens his grip just enough to keep you tethered to him. There’s amusement in his eyes as he looks back at you.

Of all the things to say to me, of all people…

“When have you ever known me to be otherwise?” He tugs you forward, and you fall into his arms with an exasperated huff. “Humor me. Just one, and I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the night.”

Your skeptical look is well-earned. “Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because I’m lying.”

You give in, and when you do, something shifts. He keeps you both to one side of the dance floor, mindful, careful. The push and pull of movement is familiar, natural, and his grip on your waist is steady, grounding without constraint. There's laughter—his, yours, mingling with the music—and the ease of it catches him off guard. He hadn’t realized how much he missed this, the quiet joy of sharing something simple, something good.

Your tension eases gradually. He notices the way your fingers stop gripping his shoulder so tightly, the way your steps become more fluid. He catches sight of Austin across the dance floor and, in an instant, recognizes the way your eyes dart away.

“Hey.” His voice is low, nearly teasing.

Your eyes snap back to his. “What?”

“Relax.”

“You’re one to talk,” you scoff.

With a smirk, he spins you out, then pulls you back in against his chest. “I’m plenty relaxed. You, however, are tense.”

Aaron's heart pounds in his chest, and he's sure you can feel it. Whether it's from exertion or something else, he's not sure. He’s pushing the line now, taking liberties. 

In for a penny…

You sigh, relenting. "It just feels weird."

“What does?” He turns you again, your hand landing lightly over his heart as he pulls you close once more. His hands are politely centered on your back. Now that is a liberty he’s not going to take.

“I just—” You hesitate, then push through. “I don’t love him in that way anymore, but it’s strange to think I ever did. That I thought he was it for me. And now he’s with someone he loves, and both of our lives just… kept going after we split, you know?”

He nods. “I do.”

And he does. The memories of Haley—of their love, their pain, their loss—never truly leave him. But right now, for the first time in what feels like forever, those thoughts aren’t heavy. They don’t weigh him down. Instead, there’s just this—just you, warm in his arms, laughing as he spins you under his arm. The sound of it tugs something loose in him, something he hadn’t even realized was so tightly wound.

When you return the favor, spinning him under your arm, he lets out a surprised laugh, bright and uninhibited. The song shifts into something slower, and he doesn’t let you go. Doesn’t even consider it.

Your head comes to rest against him as you sigh, exhausted and content.

“Thank you for being here with me.”

The words settle in, warm and unexpected, and something in him softens. When he speaks, it's quiet, but certain. “Of course.”

Nowhere better. 

+++

By the time you both retreat upstairs, Aaron feels something he hasn’t in years—genuine lightness, unburdened by the usual weight he carries. His suit jacket had long since been abandoned, leaving him in rolled sleeves, a loosened tie, and an altogether uncharacteristically unkempt appearance. He carries it slung over his shoulder, holding onto the collar with a single finger. He leans against the wall, his ankles crossed. He’s the picture of ease.

“You look positively rumpled, Agent Hotchner.”

The teasing lilt in your voice makes him laugh, a sound he’s only now realizing has come freely tonight. “It’s past my bedtime.”

“You don’t have a bedtime.”

And it’s true—he hardly sleeps on cases (or at home, for that matter), and you’ve seen him function on nothing more times than you can count. But here, in this moment, he feels the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from stress or overwork, but from something simpler, something warmer. Something that could actually inspire him to sleep soundly, for once. 

You turn away to sort through your belongings, and Aaron watches for just a second longer before disappearing into the bathroom to shower.

When he returns, his hair damp, you’re already asleep—curled up on top of the covers, out like a light. He exhales softly, flicking off the last of the lights before making his way to your side of the bed. Carefully, he peels back the covers, shifting your legs beneath them, then your torso. You stir, your fingers curling around his wrist before he can pull away.

His breath catches, his eyes closing for just a moment. Then, gently, he slips his hand from yours.

And when he finally slides beneath the covers, you instinctively curl into his side, your leg hooking over his. He doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t move away. He only lets out a quiet sigh and allows himself, for once, to enjoy the comfort of something good.

+++

Aaron watches you sleep, your face tucked against his chest, your breath warm and steady against his skin. He should wake you soon—checkout isn’t far off—but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to. His arm tightens slightly around you, as if that will keep this moment from slipping away.

Your body is curled into his, trusting and unguarded. He tells himself it’s just the circumstances, that you’d be this way with anyone who made you feel safe. But something deep in his chest twists at the thought, and he wonders if he’s being selfish, holding onto this feeling for just a little longer.

The morning light filters through the curtains, catching in your hair, casting soft shadows across your face. You shift slightly, murmuring something he can’t quite make out, and he freezes, barely daring to breathe. But you settle again, your fingers lightly curling into the fabric of his shirt. He lets out a slow breath, relief and something else washing over him in tandem.

He wishes he could have this every morning—waking up warm, wrapped in quiet moments before the world intrudes. But joy like this isn’t for men like him. He knows better than to reach for things that aren’t meant to last.

Still, he lingers, allowing himself just a few more minutes in this fragile peace before reality calls you both back. He tips his head back against the headboard, letting himself fall into the fantasy where this is his every morning, waking up with you in his arms. 

Get over it already. Jesus. 

He’s still looking at you, memorizing the peace on your face, when your eyes crack open. Your eyes flicker up, meeting his with a surprise that doesn’t seem all that unwelcome. 

“Good morning,” he says. 

Best to start simple. 

You tuck your face back into his chest. He takes the opportunity to pull you closer, hold you a little tighter. “I’m sorry - I’m clingy when I sleep.” 

His laugh sings over the crown of your head. “It’s alright. I don’t mind.” 

Too much? He freezes for a moment, but you haven’t pulled away. 

“What time is it?” You crane your neck and look at the clock on his bedside table, but he’s sure his arm is blocking the eyeline. He’s not inclined to move, so he just answers. 

“Just before nine. We have an hour before checkout. Want to get packed, grab some breakfast, and head out? I’ll drive.”

“You drove here.” You shove at him and sit up. He lets himself fall back as you leave the circle of his arms. He’s not imagining it–you’re much readier to make contact now than you were before. Sometime during the weekend, the contact became less taboo. 

The zings of electricity that jump through his skin when you touch him haven’t stopped though. He hopes it never does. 

He shrugs and tells the truth. “I like driving.” 

I am also a control freak. But you knew that. 

“I won’t argue with that.” 

You sigh, stretch and stand. You miss the way Hotch’s brow crumples as a sliver of your skin becomes visible as your arms stretch above your head. He very purposefully keeps his back to you as he gathers his things, tidying up and hiding the rather unfortunately timed hard-on. While you’re in the bathroom, he changes with practiced haste, using a trick he hasn’t needed since college - the old flip into the waistband move. Minimizes adjustments, maximizes suffering. Especially in jeans. Serves him right.

You switch places, letting him brush his teeth and shave. He takes your zipped suitcase in one hand, his roller bag in his other. 

“Meet you downstairs?” He asks. 

You nod, smiling. “Checkout should be taken care of, but I’ll check at the front.” 

“Bill me if it’s more than five dollars,” he says with a wink, already halfway out the door.  

He meets you outside, sunglasses on, the sun baking his dark hair. It is rather pleasant outside, even if it is the beginning of winter. “Ready?”

You snap back to attention and give him a wide smile. “Yes, sir!” 

He finds himself loving the side of you unlocked by this trip–the shameless silliness and easy laughter. He hopes it can stick around when they get home. He hopes a lot of this can stick around when they get home, but he knows the magic of being ‘out of context,’ as it were, for a weekend can’t last.

Breakfast is an eventful affair. As soon as you sit down, you get a call from Penelope. 

“Hey, Pen, what’s up?” You look across the table at Hotch with amusement in your eyes, and he smiles, still digging into his eggs benedict. He is starving, the ver corner of a hangover at the edge of his eyeline. He only had two or three drinks, but his metabolism isn’t what it used to be. 

“Oh, well we’re just at breakfast,” you say, “almost on our way back. My laptop is in the car, can I take a look at that for you when I get home?” 

He studies you behind his sunglasses. There’s something intangible that changes in your demeanor when you’re omitting something - he’s seen it in the interrogation room. He’s almost certain Penelope wants you to spill. 

There’s a small part of him that idly wonders how many details you shared in advance of this weekend. 

With a laugh at Penelope, you reply, “Of course. You know, it might be easier if you just stop by - I’ll text you when I get home and we can do dinner or something.” You push your food around your plate. 

Is that… disappointment? 

For what, though?

You put your phone away as Penelope appears to abruptly hang up and shake your head. “She’s very predictable.” 

He nods, looking at you from under his brows. “Indeed.” 

You both continue to dig into your food, not realizing how hungry you are from all your antics the night before. His phone rings next, and it’s Jack. 

“Hey bud!” 

“Hi dad!”

God, he loves that boy. He has no idea (okay maybe some idea) of how he turned out so great so far. 

“You having a good weekend?” He asks. 

“Yeah! I saw that rabbit again!” 

Aaron smiles. “I’m glad buddy.” 

“What’s all that noise?” 

Aaron looks up, finding a dog barking on the sidewalk, a leafblower going strong across the street, and the sounds of the hotel valet drivers tossing keys and getting people checked out. “We’re at a wedding this weekend, remember? We got to go to a big party last night, and we’re driving home today.”

“Did you have fun?” Jack asks in that polite way only children can. 

“Yeah,” he looks at you, “we did have a lot of fun.” You smile, crinkling your nose at him. He smiles back. “I’m so glad you had a good time with Aunt Jess and the Brooks cousins this weekend.”

“I did! We ice fished, too!”

“You got to go ice fishing? That’s so exciting! Did Grandpa take you?

“Yeah. He showed me how to put bait on and everything.”

“Awesome, bud.”

“I gotta go, Dad. We’re leaving to go…” Jack must have pulled the phone away from his mouth, because all Aaron hears is ambient noise of an entire house getting ready to leave. 

“Sounds good,” he says uselessly. “I’ll call you when I get home, okay?”

Jack returns to the receiver. “Love you Dad!”

“I love you too.”

When he puts his phone away, you ask, “How’s he doing?”

“It’ll be a fight to get him home, that’s for sure.” 

You take another bite of your food. “How are things with Haley’s family? Any better?”

Isn’t that the question of the hour. “Not at all. I’m not sure there’s much I can do, at this point. Jess does what she can, but her dad is...not a fan of mine.” 

Aaron vividly remembers the cold fury in Roy’s eyes at the funeral, the icy conversation they had after the service. Roy’s feelings about the whole affair–Haley’s murder, his role in it–is clear. Aaron’s responsibility for her death is one of the few things they agree on, these days. But even that isn’t enough for a functioning relationship. 

Like you can read his mind, you say, “I know you know this, but none of this is your fault.” He can tell just by looking at you that you mean it, which is very kind of you. 

Kinder than he deserves, surely. 

He doesn’t want to get into it with you again, so he just says, “Thank you.”

+++

Hotch lets you pick the music on the way home, and doesn’t say a word when you sing along (sometimes good, sometimes bad). He secretly enjoys your karaoke-esque abandon in the car. He catches himself smiling more often than not. 

At a certain point, you turn the music off and sit back in your seat. 

Uh oh. 

This feels like a preamble to something.

“Yes?” He asks. 

“I know I keep saying this, but thank you for coming with me this weekend.” Your body shifts toward him. He can see out of the corner of his eye that your attention is glued on him. If he didn’t like it so much, it would be unnerving. 

“You’re welcome.” He glances at you before looking back at the road. “Thank you for trusting me not to embarrass you in front of people you haven’t seen in almost ten years.” 

You smile a kind of lopsided sort of smile. “You could never embarrass me.”

He frowns playfully. “That’s not true.” He’s sure he has, in fact, on multiple occasions. 

“You are exceedingly upstanding, and you just got your hair cut, so the odds are in my favor.” 

“Hey!” He self-consciously runs a hand over the back of his head. He did get a haircut before this weekend, but he was sure you hadn’t noticed. You reach over to shove at his shoulder and he laughs, letting himself get jostled. 

“I’m kidding! I like it long, though.” You look over fondly at him. Something grows warm in his chest and his lips turn up at the corners, almost without his permission. “It was longer when I first met you, remember? You started keeping it shorter after the div - well, after.” 

He quirks his brow, the corners of his lips upturn just the smallest amount. “Nobody ever accused you of being unobservant.” 

And ain’t that just the coldest truth. 

You grin widely at him and turn the radio back on. 

+++

Aaron has never been more reluctant to pull into a driveway in his life. Yours, specifically. He slows more than he needs to, as if delaying the inevitable might somehow change the outcome. But real life is waiting for both of you, and pretending otherwise is just another cruelty he’s allowing himself.

He turns off the ignition, and for a long moment, neither of you move. He can feel the weight of everything left unsaid hanging between you. Maybe you don’t realize it, but he does. He knows the exact shape of it, the way it’s been growing, pressing in at the edges. And still, he sits in it, selfishly, because soon he won’t have the luxury.

You sigh, and it feels like a cue. He follows you out of the car, circling around back without thinking. He should just let you take your own damn suitcase, but he doesn’t. Carrying it is another excuse—one more fleeting moment before the goodbye he doesn’t want to say.

At your doorstep, you fumble with your keys, and he thinks, just for a second, that if you never got the door open, he wouldn’t have to go. He sets your suitcase down, but his hands don’t leave it right away. They ache with restraint. You get the door open and take a few steps inside. 

Then, before he can stop himself, he reaches for you. Covers your hands with his own. He shouldn’t, but he does. He shouldn’t lean in, but he does. The kiss he presses to your cheek is light, barely there, but it lingers between you all the same.

“Thank you for inviting me.” It’s not what he wants to say. Not even close. What he means? 

Thank you for letting me love you, like I would. Like I want to.

But it’ll have to do for now.

You nod, but your smile is tight, your lips pressed together. You feel it, too, don’t you? This thing neither of you are naming. He swallows and lets you create distance. He can scarcely allow himself to hope. It’s not fair to hope. 

He’s not sure if it’s more unfair to you or to him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He steps back because he has to. Because if he doesn’t, he’s not sure what he might do.

Something regrettable, no doubt.

“Bye, Hotch.” Your voice is steady, but he knows better. “Thanks again.”

He turns before he can look too long at the way you watch him. He pulls on his sunglasses, a weak shield, and opens the door, looking at you over his shoulder. “Anytime,” he says, and it’s the biggest lie he’s told in years.

He is proud that he only looks back once, to see you waving with the tips of your fingers, peeking out behind the door, as he follows the stone path back to the driveway. The walk feels miles long, the distance between you stretching like a reflection in a funhouse mirror.

You disappear inside when he reaches the edge of the poured concrete. He waits until the door closes before he exhales, before he rubs a hand over his face and forces himself back into the driver’s seat. He doesn’t start the car right away. He sits there, gripping the wheel, knowing that for the first time in a long time, going home doesn’t feel like relief. It feels like loss.

Fuck.

+++

tags: starting fresh! hit up the spreadsheet if you want to come back to the taglist :)

[galaxywannabe]

Listen I know I promised a Bucky fic and it's COMING I SWEAR but I need to get this Joaquín headcanon out of my brain because it's been bouncing around in there for like a week and I can't make it stop.

Imagine Joaquín and reader who constantly call each other babygirl.

At first it started out as a complete joke.

You walk into the Captain America office one day to visit him for lunch with a big ass grin on your face, strutting right up to his station.

"Hi babygirl, whatchu doin?"

His brow crinkles with bewildered amusement, a huff of a laugh escaping his lips as he stands to wrap his arms around you.

"Babygirl?"

You shrug, nonchalant, but there's a mischievous glint in your eyes. You'd been cooking up that greeting the whole drive over here, eager to see his reaction to the new petname.

"What? You call me that all the time, I thought I'd try it out on you. What do we think, does it fit?" You tease.

He can't even pretend not to be completely enamored by everything you do, his amusement unmistakable as he gets a grin on his face to match yours.

"Babygirl, huh? Yeah, no, I think it works. I think it's cool, it's manly for sure." He tries to look serious as he nods his agreement, but he can't pull it off with his megawatt smile.

-

It was just a stupid one-off joke to get a reaction out of him, but you can't help teasing him with it later on when you're at home in your shared apartment.

He pops his head into the bedroom where you're reading a book, looking slightly flustered as he rushes to get dressed for guys' night with about 5 minutes to spare.

"Babygirl, have you seen my watch?"

You smirk fondly at his disheveled appearance, button-down only half buttoned, wallet and keys hastily shoved into the back pockets of his jeans.

"I don't know, babygirl, have you checked the charger?" You sass, your brows raised expectantly.

He freezes for a moment, buffering a little at the rather obvious suggestion, and then his face breaks out into a grateful smile.

"Totally. I totally already checked there. Thanks, babygirl." He winks, dashing out of your room to grab his apple watch and - you're hoping - button the rest of his shirt.

-

From then on, it's just...a thing. An inside joke between the two of you. And honestly it doesn't take long before it's such a force of habit, you guys forget that it's weird for you to call your boyfriend 'babygirl'.

A few weeks later Sam is over at your place. Joaquín and him are sitting on the couch in front of some sports game you pretend to vaguely understand, chatting and exchanging stories. You're nearby, listening but trying not to intrude on the bonding moment. Your man calls over his shoulder, his eyes not quite able to leave the action on screen long enough to look at you.

"Babygirl, can you grab me another beer, please?"

You roll your eyes fondly. The man usually dotes on you hand and foot, but when it's game time, you don't mind taking a turn so he can keep watching balls go through hoops or whatever. You grab his requested beverage and walk it over, holding it out with a teasing smirk.

"This one's free, but you gotta pay for the next one, babygirl."

Joaquín just chuckles at your antics, accepting the cold beer with a grin.

"Man, the bartender here's really strict..."

That first time he hears you say it, Sam pauses for a second, confused, but brushes it off pretty easily. Maybe he'd misheard you. Torres didn't react, after all, and he definitely would have if you'd said what Sam thought you said...right?

But maybe an hour or so later, you do it again, and Sam knows it's not a fluke. You've been yawning heavily for the past several minutes, and it's pretty obvious you're fading fast from the way you jolt upright in surprise when Joaquín yells at a referee on the TV screen.

You sigh, finally admitting defeat. "Alright, I'm sorry boys, I think I've gotta call it an early night. You'll just have to let me know who won tomorrow."

You walk over to Sam first, and he stands to let you give him a hug. "Sam, so great seeing you as always. You're always welcome here to drink my beers and entertain my boyfriend."

He laughs at that, and you turn to said boyfriend next, leaning down to kiss his cheek with a sleepy smile.

"Will you please clean up out here when you guys are done?"

Joaquín nods, distracted by the screen but taking a moment to meet your eyes to indicate he's heard you. "Yeah, babygirl, 'course I will. Sleep tight, we'll try not to be too loud out here."

You snort, rolling your eyes. He can 'try' all he likes, your man doesn't stand a chance at maintaining a normal volume if his team starts to lose. You glance at the score on the screen, relieved to see they're up by a few points.

"Alright, I'll hold you to that. Goodnight, babygirl, I love you."

There's no mistaking the way he makes direct eye contact with you as you say it, or the way he smiles adoringly as he responds.

"I love you too, babe."

Sam's brain screeches to a halt, and he stares at you like you're two dogs who suddenly got up and started dancing the flamenco.

"Waitwaitwaitwaitwait. Hold up. Did you just call him 'babygirl'? Twice? And he let you?!"

It takes a second for you to even register what he's so worked up about, but when you do a Cheshire grin spreads across your face. You pause, exaggeratedly tapping your chin as you recall the past couple of hours.

"Hmm...yep. Sure did. Wow, only twice? That's honestly pretty tame for us, sometimes I feel like it's every other word out of our mouths," you chuckle, thoroughly enjoying both Sam's reaction and the brand new shade of red your boyfriend is turning.

Sam's mouth opens and closes a few times, bewildered by your nonchalance, the way you act like this is something normal couples do every day. Then he turns on Joaquín, shifting on the couch to face him better with an imploring gaze.

"Torres, man, you let your girl call you babygirl? That's her nickname for you, really?"

Joaquín looks like he'd rather be anywhere else right now, and if it wasn't so goddamn funny you would almost feel bad for him. Sam's his mentor, practically an older sibling to him, and he's always trying to impress the guy or emulate him in some way. But there is not one single thing that's cool about letting your girlfriend call you 'babygirl', and you can see the horror in poor Joaquín's eyes as he realizes that fact. He's never gonna live this down, and for a moment you even wonder if he'll try and deny it.

But your heart skips a beat when, after a moment of awkward silence, Joaquín just rubs the back of his neck and grins sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders like 'what are ya gonna do?'

"Uh...yeah, it is. It started out as a joke, but then it just kinda stuck, and now I honestly don't even notice when she says it, it's so normal" he admits, bright red but honest.

And goddamn if your heart doesn't grow three sizes that day. Cause your boyfriend just admitted in front of his hero that he lets you call him 'babygirl,' and he's definitely embarrassed, but he's trying not to be ashamed of it for your sake. Your grin melts to a soft, adoring smile as you look up at him, reaching for his hand and squeezing it encouragingly.

"You tell him, babygirl."

-

AHHH okay I'm so sorry I don't know WHY I couldn't get this idea out of my head thank you for humoring me. I wrote this on my phone in like half an hour so I know it's pretty sloppy and I know it's very dumb but for some reason it was one of the first thoughts I had after seeing the movie 😭

[eand47]

The 'Nice Lady'

ONE SHOT (REQUEST) - Portgas D Ace/Reader (female)

REQUEST: I am not sure if you take requests but if you do, can you do a small fluff of ace introducing y/n as his wife in alabasta to the strawhats!

WARNINGS: english is not my first language, explicit language, use of pet names, Ace is a little touchy but you don't mind, stealing, fighting marines

WORD COUNT: 3,7K

✰ masterlist ✰

NOTE: This request was so fun to write so I hope you guys enjoyed it as much as I did ♡ I know that it took me a month to post it and that is why the end is kind of rushed, for which I'm sorry, but I hope you guys understand that things take time and that writing is just a hobby for me ♡ Thank you for all the support ♡ Feel free to like, comment and reblog as it helps reaching more people ♡ Enjoy♡

Arabasta – the hottest island and country you have ever been on. Sand and endless kilometers of desert between each city are everywhere. Right now, you are in Alubarna, an ancient city and the capital of Arabasta. The city architecture is manly domed buildings and towers, with ruins from the past all over the outside parts of it, making it very exotic and attractive for people from other islands to visit and explore, though now it is mostly local people around as the country has suffered a big lack of water so the drought that has taken over the country is life treating, except for the capital.

Looking for an escape from the burning hot sun in the busy market streets in Alubarna, you have found yourself in a small clothes shop, trying on different and typical for the country dresses or two-piece sets. Taking look at the mirror and twisting your body left and right you will lie to yourself if you say that you haven’t fallen in love with the current two piece set you are wearing. It is a beautify long white skirt with golden belt on top of the waistline with small Caribbean blue stones attach to it. Your chest is covered by a white top – white see-through long sleaves and a bra part, covered in white and golden sequins with a beautiful crafted Caribbean blue stone in the middle of it, you have never felt prettier in a pair of clothes as you feel now. Looking at the mirror you feel like a princess of the desert.

“You are definitely coming home with me.” You murmur with a smile to yourself as you check yourself out one last time. “How much are you by the way?” Tapping with your hands trying to find the price tag your eyes widen once you have found it. “A thousand and five hundred berries! Are they crazy?” Shaking your head in disbelief you take the price tag in your hands and tear it away from the skirt. “Not like I was planning to pay for it anyway.” You whisper with a smile as you gather your own clothes in the small green zebra print bag you have carried with yourself. Stepping out of the changing room you look around carefully before going to the cash register.   

“Oh, I see you have liked the set, m’lady.” The middle-aged man, the owner of the shop you guess, says as he sees you approaching him.

“Yes, I did – in fact I plan to buy more, but you see...” Your gesture to him to get closer to you like you don’t want the rest of the customers to hear what you are about to say. “I’m very pretensions and I was wondering - do you by any chance have something that it hasn’t been displayed yet?” You flutter your lashes at him. “The price doesn’t matter.” You give a little wink as you see him falling for your little act.

The middle aged, slightly round and bald man’s eyes spark with happiness as he hears this – you are his favourite type of client. He tells you to give him a second and that he will be back in just a second and the moment he leaves the cash register you don’t waste any time and run out of the shop. After a moment you hear a scream, a yell, something among the lines “Catch the bugler!”, but it is too late now as you have already escaped and blend yourself with the crowd in the market.

Walking along the streets you start to look around for your husband. He has to be somewhere near by, you just hope he hasn’t wandered somewhere far away, as sometimes he has the habit to does so.

“Buy this apple and you will be able to live up to thousand years.” You hear a merchant offer his scammed goods to someone.

"Sorry, I'm not interested in living thousand years. I just need to live today." You hear the person responds, and a sly smirk appears on your lips. Fixing your posture and lifting your chin up a bit, you start walking around the market a bit more confident. It doesn’t take long before you hear a voice behind you. “Who in their right mind has let you wander around all by yourself?”

Biting on your inner cheek, trying to stop yourself from smiling, you answer. “My husband.”  

“Ah, what a fool is your husband. Letting a gem like you all alone.” The person walking behind dramatically says. “What if someone steals you?”

“I doubt someone would dare.” You shrug with one shoulder as you make a turn, walking into a small dead-end alley, away from preying eyes.

“Hm, how so?” The man behind you smirks as he has followed you and now stands even close to you.

“Because my husband always finds me.” You smile as you turn around to face the man standing behind you and you wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a burning, full of passion kiss.

“You look beautiful baby.” Ace says as he pulls away from you and checks you all without any remorse. “Damn, I really need to stop letting wander by yourself, because someone might steal you from me for real.” He pulls you close to him as he runs his hands around your bare waist, feeling your soft skin under his fingers.

“I can say the same for you Portgas.” You giggle as you place your fingers on his broad muscular chest, feeling the warmth of his skin under your fingers. He is always so warm, even without the burning sun, Ace is like a walking one, but you don’t mind it, you never had and never will. After all you have gotten a personal heating blanket in the face of your husband for the rest of your life, how can you complain? “Are you hungry my love?”

“Always.” He slowly nods and licks his lower lip, not being able to tear his eyes from the curves of your body in this two-piece set. He usually can’t take his eyes of you no matter what you are wearing, or not wearing, but this piece of clothing is doing something to him.

“I meant food Ace.” You softly sigh as you place two fingers under his chin and lift it up so he can look at your eyes. “Eyes here boy. So, are you hungry?”

“Always.” He says as he pulls you close to him once again and kisses the top of your head before you get on your way to dish and dash somewhere.

You are both sitting at the bar in the first restaurant you have found. While Ace is already on his third plate you are still on your first, taking your time savouring the taste of the tipical local dish you have ordered for yourself, enjoying the new flavours that you are trying for a first time ever, while your husband just appreciates the fact that the food is good.

“Have you got any leads so far?” You ask your raven-haired husband.

“No.” He answers with frowned brows. “But I’m sure I have something on Lu-” Hearing a loud splash noise from the plate of your husband, you jump on the side as you don’t need to look to see that it is in fact him having a narcolepsy attack midway lunch.

“Thanks God, he didn’t eat something with sauce on it.” You breathe out relieved, after checking your outfit to see it has gotten a spot or something from the food. People in the restaurant gather around your worried, but you told them not to worry as you got this. Pulling Ace up, you clean his face with a napkin as this has become like a second nature to you now, as he slowly starts to wake up.

“Sorry, baby. Please don’t tell me I ruined your clothes.” He gives you an apologetic look as he checks you out to make sure he hasn’t splashed any food on you. You shake your head with a smile and before you get the chance to respond to him - he is gone. Your husband is literally gone, as he has been swept away with a force straight through some walls and now instead of him, a guy identically looking like your husband, stands next to you.

“Ha, now this is interesting turn of events.” You chuckle as you observe the boy with the straw hat standing next to you. “Running away from trouble Luffy?” You ask like you have known him for years, even though this is the first time ever you see your husband’s little brother, whom you only know from stories and his bounty poster.

“Yes, this annoying Smoker doesn’t leave me alone.” He answers to you without even questioning how you even know him or what is he running from. “Hey, are you eating all this by yourself?” He looks back and forth between you and the three extra plates left with food from your husband.

“Eat them if you are hungry.” You smile and hand one of the plates to the young reckless pirate and his eyes widen from happiness as he takes the plate and devours it in seconds. “You can take the rest as well.” You say standing up as you make your way to where your husband has been sent flying to make sure that he is okay, you know he is, but you are sure he would like to know that it was his little brother who caused all that.

“Thank you, nice lady.” Luffy screams after you with full mouth.

You just giggle as you make your way through the broken walls. “Damn, this was quite the impact.” Murmuring under your breath you finally reach your husband, who is getting up from the ground and doesn’t look very happy with what have happened. “Are you okay, Ace?” Your sweet voice catches up his attention and he just nod. Opening his mouth to say something he is getting interrupt by a yell from Smoker, who you haven’t even noticed until now, but he is long gone before any of you can react as he goes to chase after Luffy once again.

“Straw-hat?” Ace looks at you with excitement.

“Yes, I forgot to mention that the person behind this mess in no other than your little brother, so I think you might want to jump in the chase.” With a little twist of your body to the side you gesture to your husband to go run after his brother.

“You know where to meet me princess.” Ace says as he gives you a quick peck on the lips and runs after his brother.

“Huh? That’s weird. Why am I the only one here?” Luffy wonders as he finds himself in a dead alley sitting on a water barrel, with neither his crew nor brother around. Speaking of his brother, he still can’t believe he has reunited with him after not seeing each other for who knows how long. “Where did everyone go?”

“Sheesh! I guess my letting you escape was pretty pointless.” Luffy hears the too familiar voice sarcastically says somewhere close to him. Looking around and then finally up, Luffy sees his older brother standing there with a big smile.

“Yo, Ace!” Luffy jumps on his feet as his brother lands on the ground.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Luffy.” Observing now his grown little brother, Ace can’t feel anything else but be proud of him and of the man his is becoming.

“You too, Ace.” Both grip on each others’ hands is a strong lock over the barrel. “How long has it been?”

“Good question, but Luffy, it looks like you still go on your own pace, just like you did when you were kid.” Ace smirks mischievously as he can feel his brother putting force in trying to get Ace’s hand down and claim himself a winner.

“You too, Ace. I was surprised you ate a Devil Fruit, but besides that you’re the same.” Luffy says with a big grin.

“Oh, ye?” Ace laughs out loud as he hasn’t expected to hear this. He has definitely changed a lot since they last saw each other.

“Like when you would sneak into the fields and eat a hundred watermelons and then spit the seeds like your mouth is a gun and run?” Luffy blurs out fast as Ace has taken upper hand in their hand fight.

“This wasn’t me. It was you.”

“And then you got big bumps right here.”

“That was you again. I just watched and laughed.” Ace says as he is close to take the hand of his little brother down, but the barrel with water under them breaks due to their strength and their hands stay in the air locked in a firm handshake.

“I guess we’re both the same.” Luffy’s big smile spread across his face as him and Ace unlock hands and go for a high-five. “This brings back memories.”

Walking around town the two brothers are having small talks and catching up to each other, yet Ace still hasn’t mentioned the fact that he has married the girl of his dreams recently as he wants to do this when you are standing next to him. You have turned his life upside down in the best way possible and having you in it makes it finally worth living.

“Say, what kind of crew you have?” Ace is curious to know with what people his little brother has surrounded himself and Luffy wastes no time telling him about his crew – a swordsman, a navigator, a cook, a lair and the latest addition a reindeer. “That’s quite the variety you’ve got there.”

“We also have a princess and a duck now.” Luffy excitedly exclaims. “They’re all so interesting.”

“I’m sure you are the most interesting of them all.” Ace chuckles. “Still, a handful of people for a pirate crew... That’s just like you.” He smirks looking at Luffy.

“And I want a musician, too.”

You are waiting patiently by the Striker. It has been some time now, but you are sure that Ace is just catching up with his little brother. As you are sitting and waiting, finally, you see you husbands silhouette approaching you. You get up on your feet and smile at him once he stands in front of you.

“How was it?” You ask while wrapping your arms around his neck.

“You have to meet him officially.” Ace tells you with a big smile. “He is already on his ship so we can make a quick visit. After all I need to check his crew personally, what if they are not good enough for him?”

“Ay, ay commander.” You laugh out.

You and Ace gather your things quickly in the Striker and get to the open sea fast. As you are approaching the Going Merry you notice that there are quite lot of marines.

“I will take care of them.” Ace winks at you and you playfully roll your eyes. He just wants to show off to his little brother and crew, but you won’t deny that you enjoy the show yourself. It doesn’t take long for your husband to take down the three marines ships after all he is Fire Fist Ace, what else is there to be said?

Landing on the railing of the Going Merry, Ace is met with an awe by the entire crew. While they are having their little interaction you have reached the ship with the Striker and quietly made your way up to your husband who sensed you the moment you stopped your little boat.

“Hey, Luffy.” Ace awkwardly says with a big grin spread across his lips. “There is someone I would like you to meet.” He scratches the back of his neck as he is not sure exactly how to announce to his brother that he is a married man now. “You see I-”

“Hey, what are you doing here, nice lady?” Luffy asks confused as he is the first one to notice you standing next to Ace on the railing, and now him, his crew and your husband all look at you confused. A sea of questions start being thrown at you from how you managed to get on the ship to who you are, until one particular question takes everyone out by surprise.

“Nice lady? Why does he call you this?” Ace looks at you in confusion.

“Oh, we met in the restaurant where he sent you flying.” You explain with a smile and Ace’s eyes shit to Luffy who nods his head in confirmation.

“She let me eat for free.” Luffy adds and now it all makes sense to Ace why he calls you the ‘nice lady’. “How you two know each other?”

Looking at you, with all the love and admiration in the world, Ace can’t stop the smile which spreads across his face as he says, “This is my wife.” You return the smile as you two step down of the railing into the deck and interlace your fingers. “Luffy and crew, this is my wife (Y/N).” Ace introduces you to everyone and they are all in awe, now that the confusion and shock has passed away.

“He is a good big brother.” Chopper, the cute reindeer doctor says, and Usopp the guy with unusual long nose nods in agreement.

“Wish I had one growing up.” Usopp adds to Chopper’s comment.

“And he is a good husband.” Nami the navigator of the ship as she has introduced herself to you exclames as she cluches her chest admiring you and Ace.

“A loving one on top of it.” Vivi, the princess of Arabasta, adds as she wraps her arms around Nami.

“I hope I get blessed with such a beautiful, gorgeous wife myself one day.” Sanji, the cook of the ship cries out, and for a moment you even think that if his eyes can turn into a heart shape they will. 

“Simp.” Zoro, the swordsman, makes fun of him, but the blush on his face is not helping as he shyly takes glance at you.

“Wife? Why?” Luffy’s eyes shifts between you and Ace in slight confusion. The whole concept of marriage has been something he has never understood so this is a bit confusing for him.

“What do you mean by why, you idiot?” Sanji screamed at him. “Having a wife as beautiful as (Y/N)-swan must be the closest feeling to heaven.” He cries out again.

You and your husband just laugh at the scene in front of you. His brother is exactly as he has described him, but he is obviously a good kid with good friends along his journey.

“When did you two married?” Vivi looks at you excitedly and Nami follows her with a question.

“How did you two meet?”

“How do you find a woman like her?” The lovesick cook cries out... again.

Before you or Ace can answer any question Luffy interrupts. “Why don’t you stay with us for a bit?” To which you agree.

Two days have past since you have joined the crew and both, you and Ace, are having fun with his brother and friends. The similarities between Ace and Luffy sometimes scare you a bit, due to the fact that you are aware they are not biological brothers by any means, yet they act and look like ones so much.

The night has taken over the desert and you are having fun with the girls, missing the feeling of having female company around you, as the crew you are part of is mostly made of men, which you don’t mind, because not only you have met the love of your life among these men, but also your family.

Everyone has started preparing to go to sleep, while the little adorable reindeer Chopper is having a little banter with Usopp, but Zoro is quick to put an end to it. Meanwhile Ace is observing everyone and everything carefully, enjoying the night, but also lost in his own thoughts.

“Yo, Luffy. Come here.” Ace calls out for his brother and signals to him with a nod to follow him. Stepping aside from everyone and making sure that no one would hear him, Ace looks at Luffy seriously. “I want you to promise me something.”

“What?” Luffy raises one brow a little annoyed with his brother interrupting his fun before bed.  

“If something ever happens to me, I-” Ace can’t finish his sentence as he is quickly being interrupt.

“What do you mean if something happens to you? You have promised me that you won’t die.” His brother is quick to remind him the promise Ace has given a long time ago.

“And I won’t.” Ace replies slight harshly as his brother doesn’t even let him finish his sentence. “Now let me finish what I have to say.” He scolds Luffy. “I’m saying – If something happens to me, I want you to promise me to take care of her.” Ace can’t help but look at your direction. “I know she is strong and can handle herself no matter what, but please, promise me that you will look after her if something ever happens.” He returns his attention to his brother.

“I promise Ace. But you also have a promise to keep.”

“And I will.” Ace winks to his little brother as he pats his back, and they return to the rest of the group.

Seeing them coming back you give Ace a smile – a smile for which he is willing to die for but also keep on living for every day, as his days have become better since the day he saw it for a first time ever. Back there he has promised to himself on the spot that he will call you his wife no matter what, and he did keep his promise.

writing, format, header & dividers © eand47 ©eand47, do not copy or plagiarise my work.

[wlwsoccerfics]

Supporting Momma(KatieMcCabeXCaitlinFoordXBabyReader)

Summary: you and your Mommy support your Momma and aunties after a loss at the olympics.

Your Mommy was so proud of your momma. Cause she had qualified for the Olympics with her national Team, the Matildas. Maybe they were your future national Team as well. Altough that was still out in the Open. Cause ireland was still an option. The right one in your mommys opinion. But honestly they didn't even knew If you would like football. Cause right now you couldn't even walk yet. Your current Goal was to sit up by yourself for longer then just a few seconds.

Unfortunately the Olympic experience was cut short for the Matildas. But you were at the game. So you and your Mommy picked up the pieces afterwards.

"you did amazing Babe! You and the Girls fought so hard!" Your Mommy pulled your momma in for a hug who was crying. You made some noises and grabbed onto your momma. She happily held you close.

"thank you Babe!" Your momma told your mommy. "hey sweet girl." She added and looked at you. Kissing your head.

You cuddled up to her. Your momma already felt a bit better when you were in her arms. Harper & Harley also cuddled their moms. All three of your girls actually were held by all of your aunties on the Team to make them feel better. Which actually worked. Of course you little ones couldn't take away all the pain but at least you did make them feel a little less bad about this. Your momma doesn't know it yet but in the future you would win an Olympic Medal for her and your aunties. But that is a Long time coming.

The stadion was cleared at some point, your momma and your aunties freshly showered. Going back to the hotel. You and your Mommy joined them. All getting ready to grab some food together at a Restaurant and be supportive of one another. Picking eachother back up. Currently your auntie Steph had you in her arms. You had your face hiding in the crook of her neck. drooling slightly. So good thing your auntie had a Baby burp cloth over her shoulder.

"Babies and little kids have healing hugs. She already makes me feel less sad." Your auntie Steph told your auntie Macca.

"the little Tillies make everything better! Especially cause they don't fully understand what's happening when we lose. Like Harper and Harley told me there will be other games. You gonna win some and lose some." She said with a soft chuckle escaping her lips.

"Well that's how Kids think. So innocent and cute!" Your Momma replied while scooping you into her arms, which resulted in a slight protest from your auntie Steph.

"hey, i wasn't done with the Baby cuddles!" She said playfully.

"too bad, i get dibs on her, carried her for nine months so i won this! Maybe it's time for you to give y/n a Playmate, Steph!" Your momma replied just as playfully.

"glad you can joke around already! It's a good to hear!" Your Mommy answered and kissed your momma's cheek before kissing yours. Which made you smile from ear to ear.

"making the best out of the Situation." Your auntie Macca stated.

"also Babies make everything better!" Your Momma said and smiled softly.

"agreed! Especially our little Ray of sunshine. I mean look at that adorable smile." Your mommy answered and tickled your little feet which resulted in you letting out some adorable Happy noises, kicking your legs.

An hour later at the Restaurant everyone was talking about what was next and how they try to find the good things in what happened so they would come back stronger. Your momma didn't want to let go of you and held you the entire time, which you were really Happy about.

And a few days later everyone has moved on from the loss for the most part. It wasn't as painful anymore as It was when it had just happened.

[thebluediner]

BROKEN HEARTS AND BROKEN MINDS

you know you shouldn't. the relationship was over months ago you should be over it by now but you're not and that was the reality of it. you told yourself you were never in love with her anyway it was just attachment but the more you think about her the more your heart aches.

the more your mind tortures you with memories of you together the more you realise how heartbroken you are. you try to push it way and focus on someone else but it all makes you feel desperate. which in truth is what you are .

you were still bitter about the relationship ending because how could someone break up with you because they think you deserve so much better ? why would they make a decision for you and let you go when all you ever wanted was them? why would they talk about your elaborate future together if they were going to leave you ? why couldn't they become the person you deserve?

why would billie do that to you. you didn't understand.

and when she reached out a few days ago about how she wanted to atleast talk to you it ruined your day. your heart started beating hard against your chest ,your eyes feeling the hot tears roll down you cheek and your skin breaking out in a sweat.

why is that the first thing she says to you after months of not talking or seeing each other. why hadn't she reached out to you sooner ? why didn't she beg for you to come back ? you had blocked her but why couldn't she try through email or something?

fuck. you've been told how gut wrenching first queer breakups can be but you didn't think that would be you. but now it was you.

you missed her . you were desperate to feel her eyes on you again. you were desperate for her to touch you and embrace you again. you were so desperate to be in her presence again.

your mind and heart kept fighting over what to do. your heart wanted to run to billie as fast as it can but your mind shamed you for wanting somebody who dumped you. your mind constantly reminded you how you're unwanted by her so why would you go crawling back ?

your mind was clouded you didn't know what to do. what you did know though it how much you wanted her regardless of anything else and that angered you.

so when you grabbed your phone dialing the familiar number and waiting as it rang you weren't suprised. you needed something to calm you down or atleast take your anger out on and if it made you seem desperate then so be it.

"y/n?" her voice calls out over the phone echoing in your dark apartment . you sniffled, your eyelids pressed harder letting your hot tears flow down your cheeks just by hearing her voice after so long.

"y/n speak to me please " billies voice tremors with anxiety over the silence on your end.

"fuck you " the words spat out of you mouth followed with cries that you couldn't even hold back so she heard them.

she heard the pain in your voice and the hopelessness in your cries. knowing she was the cause your cries broke her inside.

she was immature and she knew that. she was fucked up and she knew that. she would apologise to you for years for those things but both of you knew she wouldn't change, atleast not for you. it's not that she couldn't she didn't want too.

all her coping mechanisms that landed her in the hospital or left her high out of her mind or disappearing for weeks she would never leave not even for you.

so when her heart felt heavy and her guilty conscience was eating her up all she could mutter were useless apologies.

she triggered all the emotions you've burried and convinced yourself weren't there and she knew it. she knew you. billie knew what your heart was aching for but at the same time she had the capability to think further and assume your brain stopped you from all those desires.

"fuck baby i'm sorry i really am" she says through a strained voice caused by the huge knot chocking her. her nails dug deeper into her skin to restrain herself from coming over to you. tears dropped hot from her eyes and landed on the floor cold.

she never wanted this but too bad she was the cause of it all.

a/n :@miss-oconnell wasn't what you expected huh? i'm saving your ask for a sexy onee tho dw (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

[revelboo]

We just said goodbye to my bro's dog last night and rereading your stories is one of the few things getting me through the day without completely breaking down (yay distractions) 🙏🏻 lord help me as I go to work.

Pic cause he was the goodest boy who ever boy'd.

Oh, no- I’m so sorry to hear that. Huskies are such sweet, silly babies

Worker Bee Pt 22

Waspinator x Reader

• Stiffening when several slightly wilted daffodils, bulbs, roots and all, including the dirt are dumped in your lap and on the book you’re curled up reading, you take a deep breath. Head tipping back to stare at Waspinator looming over you, his mandibles shift into what you’ve decided is his equivalent to a smile. “Pretty for pretty little mate,” he says, antenna lifting. Not even going to try and argue the mate bit as you wonder which of your poor neighbor’s yards he’d been digging up. You’d convinced him to drag the azalea out of the living room and even to dig a hole and plant it near the house. Of course that had backfired when he’d came back inside looking like he’d been rolling around in the mud and had immediately pounced you for a hug.

• “Gee, thanks,” you mutter, little nose scrunching. Kneeling by the arm of the couch, he rests his chin on it, mandibles idly snagging the sleeve of your covering. “Don’t eat my clothes, please.” Sitting up you gather the flowers to yourself and head into your food area. Trailing behind you, he watches you cut one of plants’s stems and drop it into a glass with water. The rest you hold out. “Want to plant these?” Perking up, he takes them, servos sliding against the back of your hands and those eyes flick up to him. Encouraging him to move closer, venting to pull your scent deep.

• Skin prickling as his head tips, wings flicking fitfully, you back up and he lets you go even if there’s something almost predatory in the way he watches you. You’d hoped he’d ease up some if you just went along with his dating attempts, but he’s much more focused than normal now. Still your clingy wasp, but something has definitely shifted. And he follows you, moving slowly. Deliberately. Like he’s trying not to spook you. “Waspinator do good?” This is new, too. Keeps doing little things for you and then asking if you’re happy with him. Pleased with him. Like he’s a junkie for praise. Needs it. “Good at dating?”

• Watching you stumble to a stop when you back yourself into a wall, he cages you there with his palms splayed on either side of you. Watches you tense. Doesn’t understand this game. Letting him court you. Thanking him for taking care of you like a mate should. Then retreating from him. Avoiding him. Part of human courting? Keeps trying to confirm that he’s doing it right. That you’re happy with him, but you still shy away. Making him anxious with the need to please you so he can stay. “Waspinator,” you whisper, voice tense as you look up at him. “You’re crushing the daffodils.” And it’s so novel to be bigger than someone. He’s always been smaller than most of the other Decepticons.

• He’s too close. Looming over you and pinning you without touching you. And you don’t know what to do with this Waspinator. With his sudden, new found confidence. His boldness. Or maybe you’re just more aware of him now that you know what he’s up to. Maybe he’s not changed, just your awareness of him. “Waspinator good mate?” Forearm sliding against the wall, the spines at his elbow scrape the drywall when he leans down. Can feel the warmth of his venting stirring your hair. Suddenly breathless, you shove at his arm and all but run into the kitchen, aware of his soft, puzzled, “little mate?” Because that’s what he’s started calling you instead of little friend and it’s one more thing you’re not equipped to deal with right now.

Previous

[magicfaealaric]

Alaric walked closer to the blinding light and looked around for the spirit he saw before. He quickly wiped his eyes and walked over. Two spirits were talking. “Do you help?” He asked. “New spirits?” He asked softly. “I.. I died and I- I was just.. I’d like to see my love.. maybe for him to see me? Or just hear me? Even if it’s not everyday. . I understand but.. but can I sometimes.. and I come back here other times?” He asked.. “ I know I can’t live again but please? Some help?” He asked tearfully. “I can’t.. I can’t be without him not all the time please.”

Alaric didnt ever grow up with much... in fact he lived on the streets since he was a child and would stay in little abadoned buildings he saw. He tried to never steal instead would try and work only most places were afraid to hire him, not with the rumours of who his parents had been or at least his mother. "into dark magic so she was, a sorcerer" said another. "Can you believe her husband almost worked in the castle kitchen...? I heard their spawn even used to play wiht the prince.. disgraceful." They would say. There was one small llittle place barely staying open itsself that would give him anything left over. In return he would help with repairs. Alarics father wasnt father of the year up and leaving when he didnt want to sahre his wifes attention but he did teach him some things. His little shed had a whole in the roof but he didnt mind, Alaric loved watching the stars and when he had more energy painting them.

A loud eruption in the streets and suddenly a banging at his door sent him suddenly falling out of bed and rushing towards the opposite wall just to get a glance out of the window. Heart pounding he clutched his chest and stiffened before starting to barricade the door with anything he could find, iced objects suddenly flew across the room his hands quivering. "BY ORDER OF THE KING OPEN UP IMMEIDIATLEY. the king?? What did the king want with..

"BY ORDER OF-" enough of this" Anorther said and kicked the door down. Alaric fell back against the wall. "Grab him.. hes to be taken straight to the king.. this is the one... he owes the kingdom a great deal.. thinking they could rob the kingdom.. marry off to nobles.. pathtic. He'll do well as a servant." Alaric didnt understand a word of what they meant and yelped as he was grabbed. "Restrain him.. we dont want him possibly trying to escape or hurt our prince."

The queen knocked gently on Ferre's door. " I do hope you are up by now.. its nearly 9." She chided. "Its a beautiful day come down darling." @combeferre-the-mothman

[lynzishell]

TW: Religious themes; Homophobia

Prev // Next

Transcript below the cut:

Ezra: Why are you so quiet today? Henry: No reason. Ezra: You’re lying to me. Why?

Henry: If I tell you, do you promise not to tell anyone? Ezra: This is about Atlas, isn’t it?

Henry. Promise me. Ezra: Okay. I promise. This conversation stays between us. No matter what. Henry: We’re leaving. We’re going away to college. Somewhere we can be together. For real.

Ezra: Oh Henry. This is so much worse than I thought. Henry: You don’t understand. We’re in love. I love him, and I don’t want to stay here and live a life where I’m told that’s wrong. Where I’m forced to be someone I’m not. I refuse to believe that’s what God would want for me.

Ezra: Don’t you see what’s happening? Henry: I do. I’m not sure you do. Ezra: Henry, you’re being tested. You’re at a fork in the road, faced with a decision that will determine the fate of your soul. And I’m afraid for you.

Henry: No— Ezra: If you leave, there’s no coming back. You will be sentencing your soul to the Fire for betraying God, not to mention your family. This will break your mother’s heart. Is that what you want? Henry: Of course not, but…

Ezra: Let me put it this way: What would you tell me if Chrissy wanted me to do something that would tear my family apart? If she wanted me to turn my back on my friends, to give up my whole life for her. What would you say to me?

Henry: That’s different. Ezra: Is it?

Ezra: You know as well as I do, that’s not love. Atlas doesn’t love you. He wants to destroy your life and steal your soul because that’s what people like him do. Henry: People like him?

Ezra: Yes. He acts all innocent and harmless, but he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I know it’s hard to hear, but I will always tell you the truth. You’re my best friend, I have always been there for you, I’ve kept your secrets, and I always will. No one ever has to know about any of this because you’ve been given an opportunity to set things right. To prove you are worthy. Let Atlas leave. Once he’s gone, you’ll be free from his temptations and lies. Your sins of the last year will be forgiven, and you’ll be free to live the life you’re meant to.

Ezra: Please Henry, I’m begging you, do the right thing.

[crk-kr-to-en]

EN:

At the Peak of Truth, Despair Not

KR:

진리의 꼭대기에 올라선 자여, 좌절하지 말지어다!

He who stands at the pinnacle of truth, do not despair!

Another vers: Do not be discouraged, O one who has ascended to the summit of truth!

"자자, 곧 2부 강연이 시작됩니다~! 다들 자리에 앉으세요!!"

고즈넉하지만 오래된 역사를 자랑하는 조그마한 광장에 울려 퍼지는 경쾌한 목소리! 화려한 모자를 쓰고서 우유 왕관 칼라와 와플콘을 닮은 금빛 소매를 멋드러지게 흔들며 강론을 펼치는 이가 여기에 있다.

옹기종기 모인 쿠키들의 중심에서 장대한 연대기를 막힘없이 읊다가도, 이해하기 어려운 철학을 갓난쟁이 쿠키도 알아들을 수 있을 만큼 쉽게 풀어 설명하는 수수께끼의 쿠키.

이야기를 듣기 위해 광장을 찾는 쿠키들은 존경심을 담아 그를 진리의 현자라고 불렀다.

처음부터 이 자리에 존재했다는 듯 유유히 나타나 기꺼이

"Okay, the second part of the lecture will start soon~! Everyone, please take your seats!!" A lively voice echoes through a small square that boasts a quiet but long history! Here is someone giving a lecture while wearing a fancy hat, a milk crown collar, and golden sleeves that resemble waffle cones. A mysterious cookie who can recite a grand chronicle without hesitation at the center of a huddle of cookies, and explain difficult philosophies in a way that even a newborn cookie can understand. The cookies who came to the square to hear his story respectfully called him the Sage of Truth. He appeared leisurely as if he had been here from the beginning and was happy to be there.

.

처음부터 이 자리에 존재했다는 듯 유유히 나타나 기꺼이 가르침을 베푸는 이를 향한 호기심 또한 뒤따랐으니. 누군가는 그가 마법 학당의 교수일 것이라 말했고, 누군가는 저명한 도서관의 사서라고 말하기도 했다.

마침내 질문하기를 두려워하지 않는 한 쿠키가 현자가 거쳐 온 곳을 묻자, 그는 평소처럼 과장된 몸짓으로 하늘을 가리켰다.

"아주 높아서 발 디딜 곳 없이 좁은 자리에서 왔다네!"

단 한번도 이해하지 못할 답을 주지 않았던 현자의 아리송한 대답. 그제야 쿠키들은 현자가 자신에 대한 이야기를 단 한번도 하지 않았다는 것을 기억해 냈다. 유쾌하지만 속내를 알 수 없는 현명한 친구가 계속 머물러주기를 바라며 쿠키들은 더 이상 그의 이야기를 묻지 않기로 약속했다.

There was also curiosity towards the person who appeared leisurely as if he had been there from the beginning and willingly offered to teach. Some said he was a professor at the magic school, while others said he was a librarian at a prominent library. Finally, when a cookie, not afraid to ask questions, asked where the Sage had come from, he pointed to the sky with his usual exaggerated gestures. "I came from a very high place with no place to stand!" The wise man's puzzling answer, which never gave an answer that was incomprehensible. Only then did the cookies remember that the wise man had never told them anything about himself. Hoping that their cheerful but mysterious wise friend would stay, the cookies promised not to ask about his story anymore.

.

평소와 같이 현자의 말을 듣기 위해 광장에 모여들었던 쿠키들이 모두 집으로 돌아간 특별하지 않은 하루. 그러나 소리 없이 내려앉은 땅거미와 함께 현자를 찾아온 손님이 있었다.

칠흑처럼 긴 망토를 입고 커다란 모자가 드리우는 그림자 밑으로 표정을 숨긴 손님은 아무런 말 없이 그저 현자를 바라볼 뿐이었다. 현자는 그의 뒤에 넘실대는 절망의 그림자를 눈치챘지만 누구에게나 그러하였듯 유쾌하고 친절하게 말을 건넸다.

"처음 보는 친구 같은데... 오늘 강연은 끝났으니 내일 다시 찾아주겠어?"

It was an ordinary day where all the cookies who had gathered in the square to listen to the wise man's words went home. However, there was a guest who came to visit the sage along with the silently descending twilight. The guest, wearing a long, pitch-black cloak and hiding his expression beneath the shadow cast by his large hat, simply stared at the sage without saying a word. The sage noticed the shadow of despair looming behind him, but spoke to him cheerfully and kindly, as he did to everyone else. "I don't think I have met you before, my friend... Today's lecture is over, so will you come see me again tomorrow?"

.

돌아가 주기를 고상하게 돌려 말했으나, 어두운 손님 또한 뜻을 굽히지 않았다.

"쿠키들에게 진리를 전하는 것을 멈추세요."

현자 역시 순순히 그의 말을 따르지 않았다.

"그렇게 해야 하는 이유는?"

되돌아온 질문에 무표정하던 입가가 일그러지고 수수께끼의 손님이 현자에게 다가섰다. 현자는 그제야 불청객의 얼굴을 확인할 수 있었다.

현자는 놀라움과 감탄을 담아 연극에 오른 배우처럼 과장된 인사를 건넸다.

"진리의 은둔자께서 찾아오시다니. 황송하여 몸 둘 바를 모르겠군요."

He made a polite remark to the dark guest, telling him to go back, but the dark guest did not budge. "Stop telling cookies the truth." The Sage also did not follow his words obediently. “Why should I?” The expressionless lips contorted at the question returned, and the mysterious guest approached the Sage. Only then was the Sage able to confirm the face of the intruder. The Sage gave an exaggerated greeting, like an actor on a play, filled with surprise and admiration. "The Hermit of Truth has come to see me. I am so embarrassed and at a loss as to where to put myself."

.

동시에 현자의 반짝이는 외알 안경에는 호기심과 의문 또한 비쳤다.

"진리의 꼭대기를 지키고 서서 절대 내려오지 않는다 들었는데... 이 미천한 학자에게 무슨 용건이 있으셨을까?"

진리의 은둔자의 두 눈에는 비통함이 맺혔다.

"다 알고 있으면서 되묻지 말아요. 당신 또한 진리의 꼭대기를 확인했다면... 그 무엇도 기다리고 있지 않다는 것을 알고 있잖아요."

현자는 과장되게 손뼉을 쳤다.

"아하~ 우리의 은둔자 님께서 꼭대기를 내려오지 않았던 이유를 드~디~어~ 알겠네! 진리를 구하는 쿠키들이 조금이라도 깨달음에 가까워지려고 하면 가차 없이 밀어내던 이유도!"

At the same time, curiosity and questions were also reflected in the Sage's sparkling monocle. "I heard that he stands at the top of the truth and never comes down... What could he possibly want from this lowly scholar?" The eyes of the Hermit of Truth were filled with sorrow. "Don't ask questions when you already know everything. If you have confirmed the peak of truth... you know that nothing is waiting for you." The Sage clapped his hands exaggeratedly. "Aha~ I finally understand why our hermit never came down from the top! And why he mercilessly pushed away any truth-seeking cookies who tried to get even a little closer to enlightenment!"

.

현자는 은둔자의 확인을 구하듯 고개를 비스듬히 기울였다.

"나는 또 어떤 욕심쟁이가 진리를 독차지하려나 했는데~ 그저 진리 앞에 좌절하는 쿠키가 없기를 바랐던 것뿐이었으렷다?"

은둔자는 굳이 대꾸하지 않았다. 오히려 잔인한 진실을 알고 있음에도 알게 모르게 쿠키들을 진리의 길로 이끄는 현자를 이해할 수 없었기 때문에.

"나 역시 아무것도 없는 그 꼭대기에서 마주한 끔찍한 진실... 모두를 구할 진리는 없다는 사실에 이끈 마음속 목소리를 수천 번, 수만 번 원망했지!"

은둔자 역시 거쳐온 수천 번, 수만 번의 원망을 누르지 못하고 절규하듯 되물었다.

"그렇다면 더더욱 왜...!"

The Sage tilted his head as if seeking the hermit's confirmation. "I was wondering if there was another greedy person who wanted to monopolize the truth~ I just hoped that no cookie would be frustrated in front of the truth?" The Hermit did not bother to respond. Rather, he could not understand the Sage who was leading the cookies to the path of truth without knowing it, even though he knew the cruel truth. "I too faced the terrible truth at the top of nothing... I cursed the voice in my heart thousands, tens of thousands of times, that led me to the fact that there is no truth that can save everyone!" The Hermit, unable to suppress the thousands and tens of thousands of resentments he had experienced, asked again in a screaming voice. "Then even more so, why...!"

.

현자는 다른 쿠키들에게 그러했던 것처럼, 하늘을 가리켰다. "완벽한 진리는 없지만... 불완전하더라도 자신만의 진리를 걸어갈 가능성마저 부인할 수는 없지 않겠어?"

그리고 그 만의 과장되고 우아한 움직임으로 두 손을 펼쳐 보였다. "어쩌면 다른 쿠키들이 고난을 겪지 않게 하겠다는 은둔자 님의 진리처럼 말이야."

은둔자는 현자의 말에 대답하지 않았다. 그러나 현자는 은둔자의 대답을 알고 있었다.

기나긴 밤이 지나 언제나처럼 광장에는 아침이 찾아왔고, 현자는 새로운 강론을 시작했다. 그림자를 닮았던 불청객이 다녀갔음에도 광장은 여느 때와 달리 평온했으나...

현자는 들을 수 있었다. 세상 곳곳에서 진리를 찾아 가장 높고, 좁은 곳으로 향하는 쿠키들의 발걸음 소리를.

The Sage pointed to the sky, as he had done to the other cookies. "There is no perfect truth... but can't we deny the possibility of walking our own truth, even if it is imperfect?" And with his own exaggerated and elegant movement, he spread out both his hands. "Perhaps it is like the truth of the Hermit who will not let other cookies suffer." The Hermit did not answer the Sage's words, but the Sage knew the hermit's answer. After a long night, morning came to the square as usual, and the Sage began a new lecture. Despite the visit of the shadowy intruder, the square was unusually peaceful... The Sage could hear the footsteps of the cookies heading to the highest and narrowest places in search of truth all over the world.

"Wise man" and "Sage" are interchangeable. (Too lazy to change them all lmao)

My favorite details that are Parallels to Canon

His actions are described as "exaggerated."

"tilted his head" referenced to Beast!Smilk's Curious Sprite.

"Pointed to the sky" is something he does in game when he's talking while seated.

Kr Sage!Smilk calling himself "lowly scholar" to parallel Kr Beast!Smilk calling himself "lowly jester" (Also with En with "humble jester" and "humble scholar")

"his own exaggerated and elegant movement, he spread out both his hands." is a reference to Beast!Smilk's Happy Sprite. (And I imagine it's also not creepy lol.)

En under the cut!

.

"Quiet, quiet! Our lecture will resume shortly! Please take your seats in a timely fashion!"

A sonorous voice filled the old, quaint square. The voice belonged to a peculiar Cookie dressed in white and gold. Surrounded by a crowd of spectators, this mysterious Cookie now stood in the center of the square. He had just finished reciting an epic poem and was now explaining a convoluted philosophical concept to a freshly-baked flock, wide-eyed with wonder.

"The Sage of Truth," they called him.

It almost seemed as if the Sage of Truth had always stood in that spot, sharing truths and teachings with anyone interested. With time, more and more Cookies came to listen to the Sage. Some said he was a professor of magic, others claimed he was an archivist, until an eager disciple decided to put an end to this dispute with a question. As always, the Sage welcomed the query with a graceful gesture.

Pointing upwards, he uttered, "I hail from a peak so tall and narrow, it pierced the firmament itself!"

His confounding reply caught everyone by surprise. Only then did the disciples realize that never once had the Sage spoken about himself. Yet, they wished for the lectures to continue and chose never to pry again.

Another day, another fascinating lecture came to a close. The sky above began to tinge with red and Cookies headed back to their homes when a stranger entered the square.

The visitor was draped in a dark cloak and donned an enormous hat that cast a shadow over his face. The Cookie stood there without saying a word and watched the Sage. The silence was broken by the Sage’s courteous greeting, his eyes having already discerned the shadow of despair hanging over the guest.

"I don't believe I've seen you here before, my friend...! Alas, today's lecture is over. Care to come back on the morrow?"

Yet, the dark visitor paid no heed to his words.

"Stop teaching about the Truth."

"Why must I?" inquired the Sage.

The guest only grinned in reply and stepped closer. For the first time, a ray of light illuminated his face, and the Sage of Truth exclaimed delightedly.

"Aaahh, if it isn't the Truthless Recluse himself. To what do I owe such a pleasure?"

His monocle glistened with genuine curiosity.

"It is said that the Truthless Recluse never descends from the Peak of Truth... How may this humble scholar be of service to you?"

The Recluse's eyes brimmed with sorrow.

"Stop pretending. You know all too well that there is nothing at the Peak of Truth."

The Sage clapped his hands.

"Eureka! At last, the answer to the age-old question is found! Why the Recluse never leaves his beloved peak vacant! Why every Cookie who neared true enlightenment was inevitably pushed back from the ascension they so craved!"

He tilted his head, expecting a confirmation. "All this time, my best hypothesis was that the Peak of Truth had been seized for good by some petty curmudgeon. Do you mean to say you sought only to protect seekers from disappointment?"

The Recluse did not bother to deny the Sage's words for he loathed the Sage for guiding Cookies right into the maw of the cruel Truth.

"I, too, once made the same mistake, and for that, faced despair upon the Peak... There was no Truth expecting me. No Truth to save us all. And I cursed myself hundreds, thousands of times over for my folly."

And all his sorrow and despair surged forth in a single question.

"Why do you persist?!"

To that, the Sage only pointed upwards and said, "Alas, the Truth is imperfect by design... and yet, one must not turn away from the light of one's own Truth."

And with a welcoming gesture, he added,

"Not unlike yourself whose Truth is to protect others from anguish."

The Recluse never answered. The Sage knew the answer anyway.

A long night passed and a new day dawned.

Yesterday's guest was long gone, and the square was as peaceful as it could be...

But the Sage could hear them. The footsteps of many seekers, stepping forth towards the Truth.

[cherryblossompink303]

Patience: ~Until the day it becomes a pumpkin!~

➼ pairing: Kyoya Ootori x Reader ➼ summary: It is halloween in ouran academy ➼ what to expect:  "Am i your girlfriend now? I don't recall you asking" ➼ warnings: none ➼ Part Nineteen | Part Twenty One

"I regret ever agreeing to wear the costumes with you guys" you sigh as Kyoya helps to lace you into the big gothic gown that Tamaki had provided you. "At least it makes sense to dress up at this time of year"

"What is the appeal of vampires anyway I don't find blood loss to be all that attractive" Kyoya pondered, pulling out the fake fangs. "I think it's the danger aspect, the same reason that girls like werewolves I guess"

"I do find it strange that Tamaki has asked you to be the bride of dracula"

"I guess it is the closest we're ever gonna get to a couple's costumes" Kyoya raises an eyebrow "I was unaware that was something that interests you" you shrug "Not particularly but it's just a bit of fun"

"I suppose so"

The two of you step out from behind the curtains "Wow y/n-chan you look so cool!" Honey exclaims. "Thank you Honey-senpai" Tamaki stares back at you in awe "Ah y/n look at you! You are so cute! Look at my beautiful daughter!" Tamaki spins you around.

This is the magic spell. Tamaki calls the host club family, and you are here with your fiance, happy.

♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡

Until the day it becomes a pumpkin!

♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡

"Trick or treat, girls. Give me candy, or else your blood.” 

"Oh tamaki, you make such a handsome vampire" "Those fangs look real"

Tamaki leans into one of the girls "May I nibble on your lovely neck for a treat?"

"Oh no you musn't, you will have to play a trick on me instread"

"And indeed I shall"

"Hello" The twins and haruhi slide into the host club "Why are you guys late? Hurry up and change"

"Sorry boss but from now until Halloween count us out, okay?"

"What?"

"Count you out?"

"We're on the preparation commitee for a special event, class 1-A is sponsoring it."

"Duty calls then"

"Good luck without us here for the week" "And that reminds me, y/n, our numbers are uneven so we need extra person, do you mind joining our group for it? Its a test of courage tournament"

"Me? I'm second year though"

"It doesn't matter the event is school wide we are just organising it"

"Oh, well i guess its okay then"

♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡        ♡

You, haruhi, the twins and the class president end up huddled against a wall after you get caught up on his phobias. "Are you not scared y/n?"

"Scared? No, I live for halloween, and horror movies"

"I guess Halloween does have a flare for the dramatic, not surprising from a theatre kid" "Gee thanks kaoru"

Haruhi is busy caught up with reading an anxiety selfhelp book to the class president. "Are you kidding me? None of those things actually work! Call me the captain of all cowards, you can scream it from teh rooftops, just get me out of here!"

"Really? Even if it means Kurakano will think you're a big chicken"

"Huh?"

"Woah, wait a minute, what's going on with you and Kurakano?"

"No! It's nothing like that! We're just friends! I've known her since we were little, none of this has anything to do with it!" The class president is turning redder by the second.

"Fine, fine, we understand"

"Funny how you had told us you didn't wanna throw your weight around..." "When the reason you agreed to any of this is because you didn't wanna look like a freak"

"That's not it, that's not the reason why I couldn't oppose it. I...it's just...Kurakano...well, she had her hear set on this tournament. I didn't wanna let her down, so I couldn't say no"

"You mean...oh crap! He's totally pure!" "He's got a heart of gold, Hikaru!"

"Our powers are nothing against his wholesomeness!"

"Believe it or not, not all guys are manipulative pervs like you two" you butt in.

"Hey!" "We're not Manipulative!"

"That's the part you're arguing?" You raise an eyebrow.

"So, does this mean we have to help him now?"

Something passes the window "Did you see that?"

a skull drops down the staircase nearby "No way, it's a sneak attack from those A-team hacks!" "Hey it's not your turn guys! Follow the rules!" Hikaru kicks the skull back up the staircase

"Yeah you show them!"

"My skull..."

"My skull..."

The clocktower chimes, and a shadowy figure appears at the top of the stairs "Could it be the clocktower witch?"

"Why did you kick....my skull!?"

The five of you run off, you and Kaoru tripping and ending up in some net trap.

Nekozawa stands back in the corridor watching in glee as you all run away and freak out "My fright strategy was perfection itself...Kyoya are you not joining in on the fun?"

Kyoya is leant against a wall nearby reading a flashlight "I am not, I'm just waiting for my girlfriend to be done with this and then we're leaving."

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"Ow! This is supposed to be a tournament not a hunt....Hikaru! Where is he? I've gotta find Hikaru!" He starts thrashing around "Hey cut it out! I know you worry for him when you two are apart but he will be fine...now I'm sure I have something on me that can get us out of this..."

You route around your bag to pull out a letter opener "Why do you have that on you?" You shrug "I recieve a lot of mail"

"Hold still for a second...this is gonna be awkward I apologise" You lean over to start hacking at the rope. "Excuse me miss l/n you have a boyfriend"

"Something tells me Kyoya will forgive me...besides...I don't know if he's my boyfriend"

"Huh? I thought you guys were together? That photo from the play seemed pretty final on it"

"We are we just haven't really put a label on it, we have been introducing eachother as fiances even before there was anything between us so I guess it does not really matter anyway"

"i see"

"I'm not to bothered about it...one day...a bit sooner than I would like, I will be married to him anyway"

"Do you not want to marry Kyoya? I mean I know you have not been together long but surely dating your fiance is good for an arranged marriage"

"It is not so much about being married to Kyoya but what it means about our lives, our responsibilities will widen much. I think you know what I mean too Kaoru. We all have something waiting for us after we graduate. we can't all live in denial forever"

The spell is upon us, where we can all wit around in nice outfits and hold tea parties. But when the clock strikes, and the carriage turns back to a pumpkin, the spell will break.

The rope snaps, dropping you both to the floor.

Kaoru sits up "I need to find Hikaru" He gets up, running off in the direction that the rest of the group went"

"There you are"

Kyoya wanders up to you, standing over as you look up at him. "Do you want to go now?" he outstretched his arm to offer help up.

You nod, taking his hand "I think I've had enough of this tournament"

"Our driver is waiting outside, there should be candy waiting for us at the apartment"

You raise an eyebrow "you hate sweets"

"I do, but you love halloween, the candy isn't for me"

You pause looking up to him, his eyes still trained ahead. "Kyoya...is this a date?"

"You sound shocked"

"I am a little"

"Is it so shocking that I may want to take my girlfriend on a date"

"Am i your girlfriend now? I don't recall you asking"

"Do you need me to ask?"

You roll your eyes "Whatever, I have a craving for sugar"

The two of you walk out of the school hand in hand.

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The two of you are sat on the couch in the apartment, 'veronica' playing in the background. "I must admit when I said you can pick the movie I didn't expect it to be in spanish"

You shrug "Horror knwos no bounds, including language"

the two of you fall into a comfortable silence. "Are we going to talk about it?"

"Hm?"

"The email I got, about your family...and what my father is covering up..."

"That email is not proof that what you think is true"

"There is no other way to interpret it Kyoya"

"My father is not exactly the most morally sound man but I refuse to believe that he would do this"

"It is the only explanation Kyoya there is something going on in your families hospitals, and whatever it is people are potentially dying from it."

"I know....I just refuse to belive it...let me look into it more"

"Okay...." Eventually you fall asleep halfway through the movie, slumped over leaning on Kyoya. But the question still lingered in Kyoya's mind.

Next time on patience 'Mori senpai has an apprentice candidate!'

Tag list (reply to be added): @skottch @cgmajor @rebirthbunbun @bbybubbles @blueberry19000 @katgirl05 @smellslikelovinglies @veras-fanfic-reblogs @sadprimrose @mirtalikesdr @sleeplesssskeleton @ritzes28 @crackpeole @rory-cakes @renjunniex @II-kita-san-II @angelicwillows @missbrebre1012 @sleep-7372 @strawberrbitch @reticent-writer @eternal-dokja @meme848 @mistyhydrangeagarden @nanaloverz @hyuninslutbbgirl @rebel-author-chick

[kawaiikenna]

Hey look at that, I finally finished the fic I was writing for this! 😅 Here’s the link to the AO3 posting. :3

~~~

It had been a joke at first. Something that she would tell at parties and gatherings to spark interest or further conversations. It was something that she hadn’t thought about anymore than just a hobby. It wasn’t supposed to turn into something like this. How did she even know the people to actually make this happen? In all honesty Jazz should still be at home, studying for finals and making sure her thesis is watertight before submitting it.

Yes, that is exactly what she should be doing. Not going through customs on her way to Paris! And even more so, she should not be on a plane with the rest of the sharpshooters on their way to the god damned Olympics! And yet here she is, on a plane about to taxi down the runway, to then fly to Paris, France, to compete in the Olympics.

“Jazz?” A worried voice breaks her out of her own thoughts.

She looks over to see one of her teammates, Lucy, staring at her with concern plainly written all over her face. “Sorry, were you saying something?”

“Oh, um, no. I was just worried about you because you seemed like you were having a really deep dissociative episode there. I just wanted to make sure you were ok. I know that competitions can be really stressful and nerve wracking.” Lucy rambles. The seatbelt light turns off and Jazz unbuckles herself. “Sorry, I guess I’m nervous myself. I tend to ramble a lot when I’m nervous.”

“It’s alright.” Jazz offers with an understanding smile on her face. “I can understand why you’re nervous. Would you like to talk about something else instead? We should probably stay awake for a little longer otherwise jetlag will come for us.”

Lucy’s eyes lit up. She leans in closer, nearly hanging out of her little seat cubby and halfway across the walkway. Her eyes glint in a way that Jazz has seen in countless others. Some juicy gossip was about to be traded. Jazz leans in just a bit, showing her interest in whatever Lucy was about to share.

“Did you hear that one of the Wayne boys is competing in the Olympics as well?” A huge grin spreads across Lucy’s face.

“Wayne?” Jazz questions. She knows that she’s heard the name before but can’t quite put her finger on it. “I feel like I should know that name but tell me anyway.”

Lucy gasps. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I know you know who the Wayne’s are. It’s nearly impossible to not know who the Wayne’s are!”

“Lucy, I think you’ve forgotten that I’ve lived my entire life in a city that was completely cut off from the rest of the world. We only got outside connection back a little after my 20th birthday.” Jazz rolls her eyes in a playful fashion. A lot of people who know her forget about this little known fact. “I’ve only been attending my college in person for a year. Please forgive me if I haven’t been able to keep up on the gossip and know ‘who’s who’ in the celebrity world. Now, are you going to tell me who the Wayne’s are?”

Oh boy. Jazz would later come to regret that but it did help pass the time as their flight neared Paris.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jazz had to say that she was not impressed at the accommodations provided for the Olympians. Sleeping or otherwise. Who the hell thought that it was a grand idea to make all of the athletes sleep on the equivalent of padded cardboard boxes? The closets provided were nothing more than dollar store wire racks held together by bits of plastic and hope. Only staying together out of sheer spite. Now, she’s one for keeping things as green as possible and for companies to reduce their carbon footprint, but when it starts to impact the living quality of people, that’s when it should be stopped.

Don’t even get her started on the food situation. Jazz bets that if Sam was here instead, she would be absolutely elated. Considering that nearly 78% of the food options were vegetarian. Which is all good and well, but if you expected athletes who expended quite a few thousand calories with the sheer amount of exercise and activity that they do daily. Now, if done right, a vegetarian, or even vegan, lifestyle can greatly benefit athletes. But if thrown into this lifestyle without the proper precautions, evaluations or accommodations, it could lead to devastating outcomes.

She had her own dietary restrictions that no one would be able to cater to. Luckily she had a little brother with connections that could get her the ecto necessary for her to continue functioning properly. Which then brought up the whole ‘how are metas handled in the Olympics?’ debate. One that Jazz politely listened to but didn’t contribute a lot to. Seeing as she was still technically a non-sentient being by the government’s standards. Even if they didn’t actually know that’s how they classified her. Enough about that though, she was going on a mental rant about the food provided to them.

Not to mention that the athletes that don’t need to eat calorie dense meals were given the same options as those that did need it. Was it healthy? Yes actually, it was very healthy. Was it what she was expecting? No, not at all. She wasn’t enjoying it in the slightest either. Jazz had built up this amazing expectation of what kinds of international and local cuisine was going to be offered only for those expectations to be completely and utterly crushed. At least the chocolate muffins were good.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

That had to have been the longest boat ride Jazz had ever been on. Sure it hadn’t poured rain the entire time but it was enough to be annoying. Her face hurt quite a bit from how much smiling she did while on the boat. It wasn’t a pleasant kind of pain either, more of the ‘forced customer service smile’ pain. And sure it was a really cool experience that Jazz would be able to tell her future children as well as future nieces and nephews. She really wasn’t sure how some of these athletes could do this kind of thing multiple years. At least the Olympics weren’t something that happened yearly. And even if they did, Jazz was very firmly not going to go again. Even if they asked nicely.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It wasn’t until the morning of the 27th that Jazz was finally able to catch her first glimpse of the elusive ‘Wayne boy’ that was supposedly competing in the men’s team gymnastics. He was tall but still wasn’t quite as tall as she is. Though with black hair and icy blue eyes, he looked like he could be related to herself and Danny. He was slim but extremely fit, which made sense since gymnastics was a very demanding sport.

Richard Grayson was the perfect picture of a billionaire’s son, adoptive or otherwise. Rich enough to pull people in, charming enough to keep people engaged, and yet still horrendously shallow. Jazz rolled her eyes and kept going past Richard and his posse of onlookers to go get some breakfast. She thought that that would be the last she saw of him.

How sorely was she wrong.

The gymnastics were one of the first events held that day. They also took the longest since they weren’t a single event but several mashed together under one name. Jazz had tried to spend her time practicing at the ranges they were provided with but was instead dragged away to watch some of the other events. Lucy was currently holding her hostage and forcing her to watch as the men’s gymnastics team did their routines. You could tell exactly when a fangirl spotted Mr. Grayson by the screaming and cheers and frenzied ‘I love you Dick!’s that would ring out across the stadium. And every time Jazz would roll her eyes. She was used to working with people that had pHDs, sometimes even multiple. People that knew how she thought and could actually understand and keep up with her when she talked. All of which Richard Grayson could not do so why would she be interested?

Jazz is ripped from her thoughts by Lucy shaking her fairly violently. “Oh, oh no, oh no!!! Jazz, Jazz! He’s looking over here! The Dick Grayson is actually looking over here! Directly at us!” Lucy squealed in fevered delight, a dreamy look on her face.

“That’s nice Lucy.” Jazz looks up to see that Team USA were starting to gather up and head out, presumably for a late lunch or early dinner. “Why don’t you go over and talk to him? I’m sure he’d love to talk to you.”

Lucy gasps and clutches at Jazz’s arm. “No! He’s like, famous and his family is stupid rich and how could I even compare to that?”

Jazz shrugs. “My little brother is dating an heiress. Of course, she also goes against everything, or at least tries to, her mom tries to get her to be. I’m pretty sure she’s had extensive education in politeness, manners and pretty much every form of etiquette you can possibly think of.” Jazz says as she discreetly maneuvers herself and Lucy through the crowds and towards one Mr. Grayson. How Lucy hadn’t noticed yet was a mystery though. “Sam is a lovely young lady though. Never grew out of her gothic phase and now lives it like any other lifestyle. She’s vegetarian and incredibly involved in animals’ rights. If anything, you’d think that she’s just like any other 19 year old.”

“Ok, but-” Was all Lucy could get out before she noticed just how close they were to the competition floor with Richard only a few meters away from them, surrounded by teammates and coaches. “Holy shit, he’s so close.” She whispers with wide eyes as she stops dead in her tracks.

“Mhm, and you’re going to go talk to him. Because if I have to listen to you sigh dreamily over him one more time I think I’ll be sleeping in Jessica’s room on the floor.” Jazz hums before pushing Lucy just those few feet closer to the barrier.

She leans over the railing and waves to Grayson. It takes a moment, but she’s actually able to catch his attention. He says something to the teammate he’d been talking to before walking over to them. Lucy squeals again and clutches even tighter to Jazz’s arm. At this rate she’s going to make herself pass out.

“Hey there ladies. What can I do for you?” Richard says, his tone is suave and Jazz will admit that he has a very nice voice to listen to. An easy, wide smile graces his lips.

Jazz leans on the railing with her arms folded under her. “My friend here thinks you are absolutely amazing and so cute and handsome.” She points to Lucy.

Lucy then comes back from her starstruck state just enough to blush bright red and smack Jazz on her arm. “Shut up!” Lucy hisses before giving the gymnast a nervous smile.

Jazz raises a brow at Lucy. “I’m just repeating what I’ve heard. And let’s be honest, I could repeat much worse.” Jazz throws her friend a sly smile.

Lucy buries her head in her hands. Mumble jumbled curses are the only things Jazz can hear from her extremely fluster teammate. She smiles and laughs a bit. This is what she gets for non-stop chattering about the man in front of them. Another good natured laugh startles her a bit and she glances back down at the gymnast.

“Thank you, I appreciate it, but I think red heads are a personal favorite of mine.” He winks at Jazz and she’s not entirely sure how she feels about this. She can still feel it as her face flushes though.

Lucy’s head shoots up out of her hands. Initially, Jazz thinks that she’s hurt from being so thoroughly rejected. Realization dawns on her just a moment too late. Instead of tears, Lucy has a nearly manic grin on her face and a teasing glint in her eyes. She grips the railing and leans as far forward as she can to get just that much closer to the gymnast.

“Jazz is single. She says that you’re not her type but I’ve seen her staring at your wonderful, glorious ass. If you want I can drag her to the-” Lucy blurts before Jazz is able to pounce on her. She slaps a hand over her teammate’s mouth, effectively shutting her up.

“Well would you look at the time!” Jazz says, a bit of embarrassed desperation making her voice a much higher pitch than it usually is. Jazz tries to get Lucy to back up and away from the railing. It does not work all that well but she tries anyway. “We need to get going for our warm ups Lucy!”

Jazz is able to get them two steps away from the railing when Lucy is able to get free from Jazz. She runs back to the railing where Richard is still standing, looking up at their antics with a genuine smile. She grips the railing as Jazz tries her damnedest to pull her away.

“We’re having dinner at 6:30 tonight! I’ll make sure she’s there!” Lucy shouts with a manic smile on her face.

“I’ll make sure to be there too!” Richard shouts back. “I’ll see you then Jazz!”

Jazz is finally able to get her friend away from the railing. Sure, she had to use a bit of her liminal strength, but she did it. Jazz didn’t put her down until they were out of the stadium and on their way to the shooting range.

Jazz stares down at her friend, hands on hips and an enraged disappointed expression on her face. “You, are a menace.”

Lucy smiles sweetly up at Jazz. “A menace that just got you a date.”

Jazz stares down at her for a moment. “I will not thank you.”

“You will when you get laid!” And with that Lucy took off down the street, Jazz hot on her heels.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jazz sighed as she sat down with her tray of food. Sure this wasn’t where she really wanted to sit, but Lucy had said that she absolutely had to sit here and wait for her while she got her own dinner. Which was kind of strange but whatever. It wasn’t the weirdest thing she’s experienced or dealt with in her life, and she was willing to bet just about anything that this wasn’t going to be even the weirdest thing she’ll experience on this trip alone.

Ugh, her head pounded a bit. She was due for another dose of ecto soon but that would have to wait until after dinner. She stretched a bit and took note of what hurt the worst. Her arm was incredibly sore and her head was ringing. Apparently her shooting style was something that most people didn’t expect. So what if she didn’t care for any of the fancy equipment? It wasn’t all that difficult to shoot the way she does. Either way, Jazz was just looking forward to taking a hot shower after eating dinner.

Of course, there was something that she was forgetting and it was really bugging her. Something that didn’t quite seem right. She spent a moment trying to figure out when a familiar black haired, blue eyed man sat directly in front of her with his own tray of food.

She stares at him for a moment, not really knowing what to do in this situation. “Um, hi?” She ends up saying dumbly.

“Hi.” Richard ‘Dick’ Grayson responds with a wide smile. “I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to catch you before you left. Good thing I found you though.”

“Uhhhh, thanks? I guess?” Jazz responds, still unsure of the situation and how to proceed. She massages her temples, she really didn’t have the capacity to sit through more bullshit. “And why, pray tell, were you looking for me?”

“Because your friend set us up on a date, obviously.” He says, his smile not slipping in the slightest.

Jazz raises an eyebrow. “A date? Is that what this is?” She continues to eat, not bothering to look at him again.

“I would think so at least.”

Jazz hums, contemplating. “If this is a date then you’re not doing very well, are you?”

“How so?” He raises an eyebrow.

“For starters, you haven’t bothered to actually introduce yourself. Are you just used to people already knowing who you are that you don’t have basic manners anymore? What a shame.” She gives him an unimpressed look.

Laughter spills out of him. A joyous sound that Jazz actually really liked. It sounded genuine too, which was a nice plus.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m Richard but you can just call me Dick. And yes, that is the name I prefer.” Dick grins widely, humor saturating his entire expression.

“Nice to finally officially meet you Dick. My name is Jasmine, please call me Jazz though. Only my mother uses my full name.” She says with a chortle and smiles. “Now what is it that you usually do on first dates? I haven’t had many considering my family’s reputation and my major.”

“Really?” Dick asks, eyes wide with curiosity. She nods. “Well, I guess you talk about yourselves. Get to know each other more to see if you’re interested and compatible with each other. Why don’t you tell me about your major. I didn’t know that you’re in college. What do you study?”

And that was how the rest of the night went. Talking and sharing stories and lamenting over shenanigans that their younger siblings had done. She learned that he had three officially adopted younger brothers, but the Wayne household was home to quite a few of their friends and ‘honorary’ siblings. Jazz told him a little about the time she was growing up, a very curated version but necessary alteration.

By the end of the night, Dick walked her back to her room and bade her goodnight. As soon as she walked into her shared apartment Lucy and Jessica were on her like wolves on an injured animal. They just about backed her up against the door as they crowded in and basically shouted questions over top of each other.

“Was that Dick?” Lucy demanded. “Did he walk you back?”

“Oh my god, did he kiss you? Did you like it?” Jessica questioned with fierce determination in her eyes.

Lucy gasps. “No, he wouldn’t go that far yet, right? Jazzy here wouldn’t let him.”

Jessica nods wisely. “You’re right, you’re right. She’s far too uptight to let him do that.”

“Wha- hey!” Was all Jazz was able to get out before her two friends, and teammates, bulldozed over her.

“Holy shit, you are so right. It probably has to do with her always psychoanalyzing everyone she meets.”

“See, see. But he did walk her back so there has to be some kind of interest. Right?”

“Right.” They both turn back to Jazz. “So are you gonna tell us about him or are you just going to stand there?”

There’s a moment of silence where Jazz makes sure that they’ll actually let her talk. She gives them both a look and they nod, encouraging her to go on. “He was, nice.” Was all she was able to say before a bright red blush made its home on her face.

Lucy and Jessica both burst into twittering giggles. Jazz just sighs. It was going to be one hell of a long night and she fears that it will be an even longer time before she could indulge in a hot shower. She’d really been looking forward to that. Oh well.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jazz couldn’t believe it.

She had placed. In the Olympics. How in all of the Infinite Realms, did she manage to do that? It didn’t feel like something she could accomplish. Sure Jazz had started bettering her aim when it became apparent that she was more of a danger than a help to Danny. But that didn’t explain just how all of this happened. It felt like she’d somehow stumbled upon the most unbelievable series of events and the following consequences.

“Jazz! Good job!” Her coach cheered when she came back from the podium. “I think in celebration, we should take the whole team out for a nice dinner!”

Jazz just nodded. She wasn’t quite sure if the reality she was currently experiencing actually was reality or just a trick some ghost was playing on her. In the end she decided that she might as well enjoy the moment, if it ended up not being real she could kick the ecto entity’s ass into next millennium. So she spent the rest of the night in a fancy French restaurant surrounded by her teammates as they all cheered for her and showed her their unwavering support. It had to be the most fun she’d had in a long time, maybe the most fun she’s ever had to begin with.

When dinner had been finished and cleaned up, they all stumbled out into the streets. Now that all of their events were over, they were free to go sightseeing until their ride home in a week or so. Jazz could feel the sheer amount of ecto that radiated throughout the older parts of Paris. And it may be a bad thing that the ambient ecto was starting to make her feel a bit buzzed. Like she’d had a couple drinks and was now somewhere between waking and unconsciousness. Everything felt warm and fuzzy, as if nothing bad could ever happen. Not now, not ever. Soon the fuzziness was interrupted by one very handsome and dashing Dick Grayson.

She smiled widely at him. She couldn’t really string together words to make a coherent sentence at the moment but she knew that actions spoke louder than words.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jazz woke with a start. The first thing she noticed was how badly her head hurt. A pounding headache was overtaking her entire thought process to the point of wanting to just go back to sleep. And she was really considering it as well. But when she settled back into her cardboard bed, another presence in her bed made themselves known. Jazz is frozen in place, afraid that if she moves at all the other person will wake up. But with her sudden stiffening the other person carelessly ensnares her in their hold and presses her to them. Now there’s a delightfully toned and warm body that is fully pressed to her back. One strong arm encircles her waist as the other pillows her head.

This, this was bad. Jazz tried to wrack her brain to figure out what happened or even how it happened. The last thing she remembered was that she came in third place in the finals, everyone being ecstatic over the placement, and them all going out to eat at a local restaurant. Then she came back? Jazz wasn’t sure, that’s when it started to get hazy. First of all, before she did anything else, she needed to figure out who the hell was in bed with her and how the hell to get out of this specific situation. So, carefully, she turned around to get a look at the person that was currently sharing her bed. And why was she not surprised to come face to face with a naked Dick Grayson?

‘Wait, naked?’ Was all she could think.

A cursory glance down tells her that she is also buck naked. There are constellations of hickeys and love bites all down her chest and torso, with a few decorating her arms and legs. She had absolutely no doubt that if her body looked like this, her neck would more than likely look like a scarf of blues and purples. Of course, with a closer look, Dick didn’t seem to come out of whatever happened unscathed either. He had his own intricate pattern of hickeys and love bites across his skin. There were a few surface level scratches along his arms and shoulders though.

Jazz was staring at Dick, in all his fully naked glory, when he woke up. It was a slow process. A lot slower than her own jolting into consciousness. His eyes fluttered open for a split second before closing again. He pulls her in even closer, twining his legs with hers, the arm under her head shifting so that he had better access to card through her messy red locks, his other hand drifting down to caress her butt. With how close they were now pressed together, Jazz could feel his erection firming up against her stomach.

Jazz lets out a little squeak at all of the contact. She’s still uncertain about if this is ok, but she sure as hell knows that it all feels really damn good. His eyes jump open and he holds her in a more protective way as he scans the room for some unknown danger or threat. When his sleepy brain finally figures out that there wasn’t anything of the likes in the room he settles again before glancing down at her. They lock eyes and he smiles. It’s a wide and sleepy thing, like he still isn’t quite fully awake. It makes Jazz blush like none other.

“Mornin’ beautiful. Di’n’t think you’d s’ill be here when I woke up. Nice to see you’re s’ill ’ere though.” Dick’s voice is an even deeper timbre with sleep roughness softening his words.

“I’m, I’m not sure what exactly happened?” Jazz says in an unconfident tone. She shifts away from her bed partner to try and gain just a little more space between them. Though with how narrow the bed was, she didn’t have much success. “How, exactly, did we get here?”

That woke Dick up a bit more. Clarity was slowly starting to show in his eyes as the sleepiness began to fade. “What’d you mean? Here, like in your room, or here like in your bed?”

“Um, both?” Jazz answers honestly.

Dick hums, relaxing back into the tiny twin mattress. “We went on another date after you had a celebratory dinner with your team.” Luckily he wasn’t slurring his words too badly. Meaning Jazz could understand him more clearly. “We took a tour down into the tunnels. You know, the ones filled with bones?” Jazz nods, not really like where this was going. “After we’d been down there for a little while you started acting weird. Kind of like you had alcohol or you somehow got drugged. And I swear, I didn’t do anything like that to you. If you don’t believe me, that's alright.” He leans back and stares up at the ceiling.

“I believe you.” Jazz says in quiet confidence.

Dick whips his gaze back to hers. “You do?”

She nods. “I know this feeling and sadly it’s nothing a mortal could ever inflict.” She sighs heavily and slumps into Dick’s chest.

She really should’ve been more careful traveling around a city that had so much death. The ecto was deep seated and older than anything she could ever hope to find in America. It was no wonder her body reacted the way it had. It didn’t help that the centuries and centuries of ghostly wants and needs that had piled up had found a way to become fulfilled through her. Jazz knew that she was a far more likely choice as a conduit for the dead than others.

“Anything a mortal could inflict?” Dick repeated, though it sounded like he was repeating it more to himself than back to her.

Jazz hummed. “Yep. Lucky you, you seemed to have been able to bed the former Queen Regent of the Infinite Realms. I don’t really count as fully human or mortal anymore.” She closes her eyes, suddenly feeling more tired than she should be. They should be able to squeeze in a nap before anyone came looking for them, right?

“Jazz?” Dick tries to shake her awake. She just groans and shifts to hide her face in his chest. If she’s gone as far as the situation implies, then she’s going to enjoy it, dammit. Dick shakes her again, a little more firmly now. “Jazz, you can’t just dump that on me and expect to not have to explain.” His voice sounds reedy and stressed.

She hums and further cuddles into his chest. “Later.” She says. “Not now. Sleep now, talk later.”

─── · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

And later they did talk.

It took a few hours but Jazz patiently answered all of the questions she could over a late lunch. With just the two of them in the room, Jazz was more than willing to answer any questions Dick might’ve had. They exchanged numbers and promised to stay in contact. Sure they still had at least another week to spend in Paris but she sure as hell hoped that he’d stay away from her until they were back in the States. Of course, the universe couldn’t make this too easy otherwise she wouldn’t be a Fenton.

“Mr. Wayne, how nice to meet you.” Jazz says with a slightly strained smile as she shakes Bruce Wayne’s hand. She shoots Dick a scathing look. “I didn’t realize you were even in the country.”

“Of course I would be in the country.” Mr. Wayne says with that kind of air headedness that only those born with too much money have. “It’s not every year that my eldest son competes in the Olympics.”

Dick clears his throat. “This is the third time I’ve been in the Olympics, dad. You came to see me in Tokyo too.” He was wearing a fond smile and it made Jazz’s heart do a little flip in her chest.

“Really?” Mr. Wayne asks, his brows knit together in deep thought. Trying to figure out how he’d forgotten the event. Dick nods. “Hmm, my memory must be slipping from me in my old age.” Mr. Wayne says with some sort of faux concern.

Jazz keeps a pleasant smile on her face. Sure she might not be as knowledgeable about nearly all celebrities, but even she knew who Mr. Wayne was. It was kind of hard not to when Tucker would talk about Wayne Tech near constantly. Now that she thought about it, Jazz was fairly certain that she’d heard Sam complain about Mr. Wayne and his gaggle of adopted children. How had she not made the connection earlier?

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Jessica walking into the room. Jazz perks up at the potential escape. She catches her friend’s eye and they have a silent conversation with Jazz asking for her help and Jessica rolling her eyes but agreeing anyway.

“Jazz! Lucy and I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Jessica loudly calls as she walks over to the group. “C’mon! You’re gonna be late for your interview!”

Jessica didn’t even stop to consider just who she’d interrupted but ended up shuffling Jazz out of the room quite successfully.

“I-wait, I had an interview today?” Jazz asked in confused surprise.

“Uh, yeah.” Jessica said, rolling her eyes. “You’d think for a psych major you’d be more organized.”

“Hey!” Jazz complained with a pout. “I’ll have you know that I am actually very organized.”

“And yet here we are.” The smirk obvious in her voice, even if Jazz couldn't personally see her face.

Jazz rolled her own eyes and looked over her shoulder. “I’ll see you guys later! It was nice to meet you Mr. Wayne!” She shouts with a mildly embarrassed expression.

Once they’re a safe distance away, Jazz slows down and looks over at Jessica. “I don’t actually have an interview that I seriously forgot about, right?”

“No, you do. It starts in like 10 minutes. So you better start running missy.” Jessica says with a devilish grin.

Jazz stares at her, wide eyed and disbelieving. “Seriously? Jess, what the hell!” And with that Jazz took off running with Jessica laughing manically in the background.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jazz sighed deeply as she relaxed into her economy class plane seat. It had been a very stressful last few days. What with dodging not only Dick but also Mr. Wayne. Because she had a feeling that they were going to pin her down and demand even more information out of her that she didn’t feel comfortable sharing without Danny’s consent. Though, as soon as she was able to get back home and talk with her little brother, she had a feeling that she’d be seeing more of Dick and his family.

Jazz sighs again and leans against the wall, looking out the window at the painted clouds beneath the plane. In all honesty she was just ready for a nap and a full course meal of Ectoplasm. Even with the surplus of ecto that was in Paris, it didn’t taste quite right. And it didn’t help when the whole waking up naked in bed with someone thing happened. She should probably ask Frostbite about that and if it had any lasting consequences.

“You ready to head home?” Lucy says, a large smile plastered on her face.

Jazz hums and closes her eyes for a moment. “Yeah. I think I’m ready to just be home right now. It’s been a stressful couple of weeks.”

“True that. Kinda sucks that we weren’t able to stay for the closing ceremonies as well. Hopefully next time we’ll be able to.” Lucy says in a cheerful tone. How was she so chipper when Jazz could feel the exhaustion dragging at her bones?

“I’m not sure I’ll even make it on the team for the next Olympics. Besides, this isn’t what I want to do for a living. I just got here through a very lucky set of circumstances.” Jazz gives Lucy a tired smile before laying down against the wall, looking back out at the slowly fading sun set.

“I don’t think you’ll be that lucky Jazz.” Jessica says as she twists around in her seat to face them. “I don’t think Coach would let you skip out after placing on the podium.”

Jazz just sighs overdramatically as her two friends giggle at her antics. And maybe it wasn’t all that bad? She had a new community that supported her and friends that didn’t judge her because of her background. Maybe she could keep doing this. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll see Dick at the next Olympics too. Jazz smiles softly at that thought. Yeah, that sounded nice.

DPxDC the Olympics AU.

Jazz is competing for sharpshooting

Dick is competing for team gymnastics

Y’all can work it out from there :)