#despite the fact that when it comes down to it he'd do the same thing as them

[foreverl0stinmymind]

A festival full of fun.

(ignore the title I'm bad with titles)

This was inspired by @kirshimadenkisero

Ao3 link here

about 700 words.

No content warnings. Except kinda gay but if that's an issue with you we got a problem. 

…

Lucifer had canceled on Diavolo for his regular trip to the fair. Said he was busy, had work to do. Which made sense, Lucifer had his brothers to keep and eye on and all that.

But this fair was an important part of Devildom culture. And he was just... Skipping?

He'd sent Mammon in his stead, who was currently admiring a case of fancy watches. Each would cost about 10,000 Grimm. Barbatos was quietly following behind, still dressed in the same formal way he always dressed. Apparently, Lucifer had promised Mammon souvenirs if he kept his hands to himself and off of the stalls.

Satan would've been better, if one of the brothers had to come. Or maybe Asmo. Beel wouldn't work, he'd eat all the festival food. And Belphie would just sleep through it. Nothing wrong with Levi, but he'd never chose to go. But he had to deal with Mammon.

Mammon wasn't so bad, unless your job was to make sure everyone was following the rules of the festival and nothing was stolen from the stalls. At that point, Mammon was a pain. For the fifth time in the past eight minutes, Barbatos made Mammon put back something he'd stolen. Diavolo cleared his throat. "Mammon? Why don't we get something to eat before we continue. What sounds good to you?" 

By Mammon's fifth bowl of spicy ramen noodles, Diavolo was silently wondering if maybe Mammon was actually the avatar of gluttony. He and Barbatos had both only needed one bowl a piece. But as long as Mammon wasn't stealing anything...

Over the next hour, Mammon stopped grabbing for stuff as much. But you could still see his eyes follow every shiny object. Bracelets, watches, gemstones, earrings, rings, and brooches. Every shiny thing. A bit like a crow, or a magpie. But still, he'd given in to the fact nothing was coming home with him if he didn't buy it. Barbatos had headed back to the palace to finish up some work. For the first time in fifteen minutes, Mammon stopped at a stall, and inspected the contents. He pulled out his wallet, and asked for an item behind the case. Mammon? Actually buying something, rather than stealing it? It was a miracle.

It was only 500 Grimm. Nothing Diavolo couldn't easily buy Mammon. 

And so he did.

Mammon was excitedly talking about his new watch for what felt like the next century, despite it only being two hours.

He quieted when he heard the announcement four the fireworks. "Are we gonna stay to see those? I didn't even realize they had fireworks. I never go to these, and Lucifer hasn't mentioned them." Diavolo nods. "I intend to stay through the fireworks, yes. Lucifer doesn't enjoy them. Says they're 'loud and distracting.' Just like you and me, I suppose." Diavolo chuckled. "Why don't we go get some ice cream, and find a place to sit on the field? The show has been beautiful every year."

Barbatos had apparently saved a spot, a soft blanket lying over the grass, big enough for two to lie down. He'd left a small placard, not staying to watch. Mammon gave it a curious look, and Diavolo sighed, sitting on the blanket. "Barbatos, like Lucifer, doesn't like the fireworks. They're similar in so many ways, you know." Mammon nodded at Diavolo's explanation, confused but unbothered.

They laid next to each other, throughout the whole fireworks show. When an especially loud one went off, Mammon grabbed Diavolo's hand tightly. Diavolo sat up to check on Mammon, who flushed and apologized once he realized what he'd done. 

When they were cleaning up the blankets after, Diavolo smiled at Mammon. "Thank you for coming, Mammon. You weren't my first choice, but I had a nice time, and I hope you did as well." Mammon grinned. "Just take me along next time, instead of boring old Lucifer." Diavolo sighed, and shook his head, a smile growing across his face. "As long as you keep your hands to yourself, Mammon. Do you want me to walk you back to the House Of Lamentation?"

Mammon shrugged, rolling his eyes. "I can walk myself. Would you like me to walk you back to the palace?" "So you can steal my stuff? Not a chance." Diavolo said, his tone half joking, and half serious. Mammon rolled his eyes, and gently took Diavolo's hand. "Yes, I would like you to walk me back to the House Of Lamentation." 

[ferryfoam]

I think about The Seige of AR-558 all the time. It's probably one of my absolute favourite ds9 episodes (along with In Purgatory's Shadow and By Inferno's Light which can not be topped) that one part where Julian is treating the wounds of one of the star fleet officers who've been essentially abandoned in this war zone and the officer is clearly so deeply traumatised by his experiences there is one of the most poignant moments in the entire show to me. The dialogue is so good and it really reminds you that this is an actual war theyre having, not just some flashy space battle where the good guys win and then everything is fine- it's had lasting impacts on these people who star fleet is meant to protect but really they send out a group of officers to a planet and then leave them there for months longer than they were supposed to be and so utterly do not care about these people because they see them as disposable. Even after Sisko and the ds9 crew realised how awful the conditions were everyone was expected to stay there - a position too important to the federation for them to let these people go home but not important enough for them to send backup or replacement officers (I though Quarks presence in the episode was really good as well for providing a perspective of someone not in StarFleet and a lot of the things he said about human nature and the actions of the federation really reflected how I was feeling about it as well haha)

Also the music was really good

(Edit if you want to hear more of my take on star fleet corruption I have put it in the tags)

[ozzgin]

Just read your arranged marriage kidnapped by a most post and the humor in the servants always thinking reader is in peril. The same going for monster hubby (He just thinks they're submissive and breedable)

Like none of them realize they are a moster fucker cause they hide it so well. Like just imagining reader be like "oh be gentle with me I'm a dainty maiden" and then giving him the night of his life is hilarious. Or them having dinner and the servants feel bad for them cause monster hubby is eating human meat but their just thinking about other things he can use his tongue on.

Or maybe someone comes to rescue them from the terrible monster finally. But they don't wanna leave and instead fight the knight off. The knight thinks they've been brainwashed or something. Meanwhile the servants think the knight just wasn't good enough to rescue them.

Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance, NSFW! [Part 1] | [More Monsters]

The servants are not blind by any means: they can tell, quite plainly, that their monstrous Lord has a soft spot for you. Not only that, but the beast nearly worships you! They've come up with many theories, the latest one involving witchcraft. Surely you must have some sort of magical trickery under your sleeve in order to subdue their Master. There's no other way around it. All previous humans have been devoured, or have died in a pitiful attempt to escape, terrified to the bone upon gazing at his blasphemous Majesty.

You can't blame them. It's probably better for everyone involved if you omit the fact that your source of witchcraft lies in your...genitals. Well, not just that, of course. Your husband had started to lose hope. His appreciation of humans never came to fruition before your arrival. He was expecting you to cower in fear, not throw yourself at him.

He wondered if you wanted something from him in return, but no one could possibly pretend so flawlessly: the way you clung to him unprompted. The way you hungrily took him in, tears welling in your eyes, refusing to let go until you could feel his load avalanching down your throat. The way you'd trap his hips with your legs, despite being weak and feverish, asking that he doesn't stop yet. If that wasn't proof enough, your whines and moans were loud and clear. To think he could have his own little human, one who isn't repulsed by his monstrous form. He would've been content with mere tolerance, yet someone who begged to be fucked by him? He's been delirious ever since.

He loves everything about you, naturally, but he can't deny the shameless addiction he's now developed towards your body. He'd pound you anywhere and anytime if he could. If he needs to leave for official matters, know that the return will burn in the back of his mind.

"An important date, Sir?" one traveling servant will ask, glancing at all the scribbles in the calendar.

"Indeed", he answers solemnly. It's the times when he can finally fuck you dumb.

While the servants worry about their devilish Master being put under leash, for the other fellow humans the opposite seems to be true. You recall your last "rescuing" attempt distinctly. During one of your evening walks, burly, foreign arms swept you off in an instant. Before you knew it, you were holding onto the armored shoulders of an unknown man, as he made his way out of the traditional garden.

"I'll get you out of here", he promised between heaving breaths.

You stared in confusion. What was he saving you from? A good dicking? No matter how much you explained that you do actually like your newly appointed husband, the hero wouldn't budge.

You ended up just walking back home when the man fell asleep.

"That was quite the long walk", your monster partner remarked, polishing his weapons.

"Oh no, I was kidnapped", you state casually. "Got us some fruits on the way back."

Would it have been better to lie about it? On one hand, you do feel terrible for whoever attempted to retrieve you from the claws of the tyrant. Your husband is very possessive, and you know he'll scorch the Earth until that treacherous pest is gutted and fed to the pigs.

On the other hand...he becomes particularly savage after such incidents. You won't be able to sit properly for the next few weeks, but it's worth it.

Tough luck, you tell yourself, lounging in bed with a satisfied smirk and torn apart hole.

[coffeebanana]

some things i've been thinking about (this was supposed to be separate ideas but now i guess it's a rough fic outline in bullet points kasdbfksbjd):

marinette telling adrien the truth YEARS later, after everything's settled down and the butterfly's been recovered and their identities are revealed

maybe they live together. maybe he was getting ready to propose

after his initial shock, anger, time he needs to process, mostly he just wants to understand WHY she lied

when she tells him the she just couldn't bear to hurt him any more than she already had to by telling him his father died, and some part of adrien sees that as his own failing--surely if he'd been stronger, if he'd been the kind of person she thought could handle the truth, then she would have given it

maybe they go to couple's therapy. one of the exercises they're given is to practice honesty with each other and marinette goes... a little overboard

adrien thinks it's sweet, at first. until he realizes she's scared to leave a single second of her day unaccounted for. she's stressing out because she forgot to tell him something minor and he doesn't want him to think she just decided not to tell him something again

he realizes just how much she's been beating herself up about this all these years. just how much she's always loved him despite her mistakes

he remembers the ring he has stashed upstairs

and maybe it's not the time for proposals. but all he can think is that even at their worst, he still wants forever with her

of course, he's never been one for keeping his affections to himself. so he tells her.

it's not a question, it's not an offer. it's a fact: I want to spend the rest of my life with you. i want to marry you. she looks at him like he's crazy, so he pulls out his ultimatum. but i need you to forgive yourself first

all these years, marinette's been secretly awaiting her punishment. secretly awaiting having to pay for what she's done. forgiving herself was never on the table

do you forgive me, she asks in a quiet voice

i don't know, he says, and marinette's heart sinks until he adds, but i know i want to

and in the end, it's not so hard for him to get there. for him to forgive one decision she made under the worst possible circumstances. one mistake in the midst of all the ways she's made him feel safe and wanted and loved. all the times she's held his hand or helped wipe his tears, all the times she's let him do the same for her

when it comes time to exchange vows, for better or worse is already something they've agreed to

[ghostwhippet]

Size 14

18+

Nutrition Info: Ghost/fem!Reader; Ghost develops an attraction to a massage therapist he's forced to see, hates it, and hates you for it.

CW: Headlock during imagined sex; Ghost Is Angry (and swears a lot)

The idea of a massage makes Ghost’s fucking skin crawl. It's not complicated why. 

But the idea ends up having nothing on you.

Garrick wouldn’t fucking shut up about you. Then Johnny and König wouldn’t. They even roped Price in. And then Ghost had a fucking shoulder injury that wouldn't heal right, and the fucking Physical Therapist had put in his official fucking recommendation.

You agreed to Ghost’s conditions over the phone – “Clothes on, door open, and I’ll have my head covered. Not negotiable.” – and you were used to working with military, so maybe that was something.

If it wasn't... he’s done hard things before. Gotten around rules and procedures plenty of times before, too.

But then the day came, he showed up, and you took one look at him and what you didn't do was try to tell him to get on your table. Or the shiatsu chair that would put you at his back all the same. 

You had Ghost sit in a regular chair. Then you crouched down just off to his side and you got to work on his gloved hands. Gave some bullshit excuse for starting there when it was his shoulder that was messed up.

And you…. Fuck you. 

You weren't scared of him. 

It was like you met big fucks dressed as death with the light gone from their eyes every day. He could tell you weren’t afraid, even though you never looked up. You glanced at his forearm and thigh a few times, even his foot twice, and that was all you needed to know how to adjust.

Apparently, even when he was fucking covered head to toe in thick clothing, you found him easy to read. Like an open fucking book.

So yeah: Fuck. You.

You asked him about the pressure twice, but otherwise, you were silent as you worked up his arms and moved to stand at his side to start on his back. You never leaned over him, never tried to get behind him. Your eyes almost never left the area around your hands, but you could tell not just where he had knots, but what hurt, and what felt better than he'd ever admit.

You got him to lean forward so you could get below his shoulder blades and didn’t say anything about the fact that he was tight as a rappel line the whole time.

The third session he had with you, he ended up in the goddamned shiatsu chair. His eyes closed that hour, just for a second. Barely let himself blink after that.

The fourth time, he closed the door on his way in – always showed up right after you went in looking for him – and the sixth time… he layed down on the fucking table.

Somewhere that day, you find some knot, feel your way into some muscle, and he just… liquefies. He feels relaxed, didn’t know he could feel that way anymore. 

Something starts moving through him, like an echo in reverse, crashing and screaming and scraping louder and louder the closer it gets, and when he realizes it, he couldn’t say how much later, he’s up and damn near bolting from the room without a word or a look back.

He shows up at the next appointment and hands you the completion form – despite the fact that his round of prescribed sessions isn’t done – and tells you to sign and post-date it. 

All you do is look up from the paper to his covered face, your eyes moving back and forth between his, glance at his fucking tit like you can see through to his back injury, then sign off without a word. Little tension in your neck, but otherwise nothing. No pity, no annoyance, no judgement, no fear, not of him, or apparently any professional consequences.

Just as he’s passing through the door, you tell him that if he wants to come back, you’ll open up a spot for him. And you fuckin’ say it calm, like it's the same to you either way - or like you know he’ll be back. See you on Tuesday, Ghost.

He looks into you after that. You’re a good person, as good as anyone comes. Don't even have any bloody parking tickets. You visit extended family in the north every year around the holidays, own an adopted dog, give to charity. You volunteer with vets, do the same thing you do at work for free. (When do your hands get a break?)

You become a sick sort of obsession. You crawl under his skin – that feeling of melting crawls under his skin – and his hate of you solidifies, turns into something slower and colder. He doesn’t care that it shouldn’t be isn’t right.

He’s back in your room two months later, and sees you at least once a month when he’s not deployed. Usually more.

You don’t say anything the days he leaves your room hard, either.

Ever the fucking professional.

And then… one of the lads has to go and make a fucking comment. Doesn’t matter that they’re all two months into a dark operation and completely isolated the whole time, doesn’t fucking matter. Because you’re as good as you are, because you read a body that isn’t isn’t even moving, without words, without breath, without a face to look at. Because you seem to know just what it needs, what it wants, what it’s feeling every second you're working it, like you’re inside it. Like you knew when Simon had finally come apart on your table. He’d been able to feel it in your hands.

“Yeah, but that's what I'm saying, innit? Just hypothetically, ok, imagine what else she’d be good at. Imagine her with your cock. Right? Hands, mouth. C—”

Stops fucking talking quick when Ghost’s size 14 boot hits the wall an inch from his face.

Because the problem is, Ghost already has been imagining it. He’s been imagining it since you sat him down and made yourself small in front of him and your eyes jumped up to his as you went, just a quick glance, steady and clinical. Perceptive. He’s thought about it obsessively. Has your eye color etched into his brain.

He also thinks about what you’d make of someone who could read you right back. How would you handle that? How much would it take before you went liquid, too? 

Would you give in right away, or would you fight it, make him work taking you apart?

Would he want to do it again once he had, or would once be enough? Too much? Would he have you close the door to your room and fuck you against it slow, see how quiet you could be? How much control do you have over yourself? How much does it take to break it, and what do you look like when your seams are ripped open? When you can’t think?

He has the thoughts, pictures every detail of taking you apart and ruining you. Pulling you right up to the edge until you can see him at the bottom. Until you think you want to dive in. That’s when he snaps out of it and the thoughts make him sick. Most of what he wants to do to you makes him sick. But he keeps having them. Keeps deciding to stay away from you and your fucking hands and your fucking room and your fucking table, stays away for weeks or months. Keeps going back eventually.

Garrick starts tossing around the idea of asking you out. Getting you to ask him out, because you'll want it so much you'll find a way to reach over professional lines.

You won't, though. You're not the type. You rely on the lines. You understand them, and he wants to yank you across until you can’t put them back together or even find where they were supposed to go again. But is that because they keep something out, or keep something from getting out?

No, Garrick isn't what you need. Not even what you want. 

Who could blame Ghost if he sighs, laying on the couch at his place one night, because he's gotten hard again? Or if… if just this once, he decides to touch his cock while thinking about you, just a little, just to test. Just through his trousers. If he ends up taking it out and lightly, carefully rubbing his thumb over its head, expecting this whole thing to crash down around him at any second…. 

If he thinks about having you under him, pinned by his weight, his hand fisted in your hair, keeping your head back so far your neck is bowed while you're fucking sobbing. Or one arm wrapped under your hips with you face down to keep you angled, to keep you from moving even a millimeter, other arm wrapped around your neck, fingers digging into your back while he slams his hips into you over and over and over and over….

…If, for the first time in a long, long time, Ghost manages to cum, and it's so fucking intense it makes his back arch off the couch….

……

…Fuck. 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck.  

He has to stop seeing you. Has to.

……

He knows goddamn well that he won't.

He sighs again, bookending the shitshow, one arm thrown over his eyes. Definitely not thinking about where else that arm just was in his mind, definitely not already starting to picture it again.

He scrubs a hand down his face, stopping when his fingers grip his jaw. He digs them in until it hurts, holds them there like that.

Ghost looks over at the back of the couch, now a mess of cum.

He lays there, no sound but the quiet fridge motor kicking on, his breathing already gone back to silent, knowing he needs to get up. Knowing he's got a fucking mess he needs to clean up now, and knowing... knowing it's not going to keep holding.

Masterlist

[pix-writes]

Stanford Pines relationship HCs

(ford pines x reader) there will be smut so, 18+ below... Some angst, mainly fluff, I HC that most if not all of the pines family are neurodivergent in some way.

A/N: I had a long journey last week and all I could think about was the stans, so this will become specific... 😅 Will do the same for Stanley too in the future.

Ford has a lot to catch up on when he comes back through the portal, but he won't jump into a relationship immediately, it will still take a little time, he's got a lot to adjust to in his home dimension and being with someone has not been his forte.

But once he does he's surprisingly clingy, will want to cuddle up to you, in bed, on the couch, wherever you both are. Not one for real PDA, but will be close to you and call you terms of endearment out in public, just a little less than he does at home. I HC that he'd call his partner "dear" "darling" "honey", looooves your hips and putting his arm around your waist (it's a great way to pull you in to snuggle).

Doesn't hold your hand at first but since you like him to hold your hand and give him assurance over the fact that you like his six fingers, he does. It loosens his insecurities around his hands a lot.

Gets addicted to kissing you, doesn't care whether it leads to more or not, Stanford simply loves kissing whether it's brief or a good long make out session. But he does prefer to take his time over it.

Stanford is very logical, good at patching himself up from decades of portal hopping and therefore will do the same for you if you need it, is meticulous if you get hurt in any way but also has an appalling bedside manner! Doesn't tell you if he's going to do something that will sting and tells you not to be overdramatic if you react negatively to it (you know how people can get a little angry when someone they love gets potentially seriously hurt?). And yet you know him to be a gentle man, generally touches you softly like you're made of glass (unless it's to pull you away from something dangerous), so having him take care of you can also be comforting, he'll never do something painful unless it's necessary. (Don't worry though, his brother will make you stan cakes to cheer you both up.)

Speaking of food, Ford definitely prefers his home universe food to what he had in the other dimensions, tried lots of different unusual dishes, some he even liked, but none of it can compare to his homely comforts. When not sailing and adventuring, he puts on a few pounds. Satiates his sweet tooth and caffeine addiction with mabel juice (is the only other one of the pines to like it), prefers it to coffee. Stanley swears his tastebuds must've been affected during his time away. Doesn't like it with as much edible glitter as mabel does, but this is the only deviation from the original recipe he has.

Excellent teacher, you want to learn how he does something? More than eager to teach you with a steady hand and clear pace. Will teach you regardless how to shoot his laser and magnetic guns, how to defend yourself and how to meditate (if you didn't know these already). Can get into the information and ramble like you know about a topic and then realise (eventually) that he needs to break down or explain what he means.

Despite this he also has a romantic streak, whilst he can forget everything aside from his work or adventures, including important dates, he can also be a very considerate and supportive partner and post-portal wants to include you as much as possible in his life and conversations. You can talk for hours about any and all topics and he loves to be mentally stimulated in a relationship, however that may be.

Does sometimes have nightmares and deep guilt over Stanley and is dealing with it as best as he can, likes to know he can count on you for comfort and guidance, makes him feel less panicked or paranoid after Bill. He and his brother talk things out too and these talks can go on all night into the early morning and it's best for them to have space, Ford is grateful for your patience and willingness to be involved in his life, especially as he knows he wasn't good at opening up to you when you were starting to become friends let alone a relationship.

Ford would be shy at first, but once he gets comfortable with how to pleasure you, expect this man to be kind of obsessed. That absorbing focus he can have on his projects and studies? Yeah that can be transferred to you just as easily, which can be a little intense!

You off-handendly mention something about sexual experiences, perhaps even a joke about things you haven't tried, catching his perplexed look afterwards, you say it's simply fantasy and not really something you need to experience. However what you took for confusion or slight insecurity was actually Ford processing what you said. In fact, it doesn't leave his mind and so he does something he's good at: he does some research 😏

One night you might even wake up from sleep to find him sitting upright, lightly snoring, bedside lamp on, clearly fallen asleep whilst writing on his portable writing desk (it's either a gift from you or the twins, not sure which to choose!), when curiosity gets the better of you and you sneak a page out into your hands, you're faced with his attempts at organising fantasies, what he thinks you would want to try, how would you react to different stimuli or some of his own fantasies... Mainly figuring out how many orgasms he could coax out of you or how long he thinks he could edge you over time, what positions or rp you might like: he's worked it all out in a haphazard kind of way, like he's brainstorming the best approaches.

It's so plan-sexual scientific it's frank but... attractive, because it's so... him.

Whether he wakes up on his own or you wake him up, he ends up blushing, though he's not really sorry that you've found it. He's looking at you with this mix of nerves for how you'll react and new found smugness when he sees that you've been affected by what you've read... And yeah, neither of you are leaving that bed for a long time.

Basically, like a true scientist, he is down to experiment! 😄 He's willing to try anything as long as it's not going to seriously hurt you or it's something he wouldn't try on himself first, this is a boundary he's never willing to cross. Trust and open communication is an important thing for him post-weirdmaggeddon especially, and he's getting better at it as he goes along, so even though he often doesn't feel confident, he is infuriatingly good at aftercare and all the rest!

This means when he's not tripping over his words or flustered by you himself -he can be a damn tease at times and will chuckle to himself when you curse him out for the subtle touches he'll give you over the course of the day before pulling away. Sometimes he doesn't even know he's done it, which is evil.

Stanley will make grumbly jokes about how "you two lovebirds need to get a room!" Or about needing to move out 😅 but honestly he's truly happy his brother is happy and if you get married he will sob the whole time, even through his roasting joke filled best man speech! (Cracks a joke more than once to you that you need to make Ford an "honest man" and then laughs at it himself before whispering to you that he can get the rings if you really want to.)

Will and does suffer in the warmer months because he will wear long sleeves, full length pants and or a turtle neck for the comfort aesthetic

Personality wise him and Stan are different as can be but they often sync up physically in their mannerisms or what they say, as freaky as it is cute in a way, when you are tired/drunk you can swear you're seeing double, which amuses both of them.

His favourite shared past time with you is any kind of board or card game, some of them the rest of the family will join in for, but will also love someone to play d&d&md with if you're willing! Loves to get into the details of the rules of whatever you're playing together and it can get quite heated (secretly finds your frustrated side quite attractive, as long as you're not actually angry at him).

I feel like Stanford would get into videogames as soon as he becomes more adept at technology in this dimension, likely it's dipper who is the one to introduce it to him and he loves it (nerd). Will marathon catch ups on all the movies and shows he's missed; especially the series he was into that got continued after the portal incident. You lose him to Star Wars prequels etc for at least a couple weeks of him getting his head round all the lore and how it works, may have controversial opinions and needs to work it all out, may need to contact dipper about this.

Regularly has calls with the family (mainly the twins) over video chat (and will always call it 'video calling' no matter what platform they're using), so once you're together that includes you too and be prepared to be bombarded with questions from them (your their new graunty or grunkle after all) ❤️

[realcube]

bnha men as your boss

characters ♡ bakugo, iida & aizawa

tws / tags ♡ NSFW , MINORS DNI. sex, power dynamics, vaginal. specific triggers are before each character.

BAKUGO

tw : vaginal , degradation.

♡ you have to give him credit where credit is due: he is very upfront about his intentions, even before you get hired for the job

♡ he lets you know during the interview process that he is looking a for a personal assistant to not only do menial paperwork and make coffee, but to also attend to his personal needs. and that if you're not up for that, you can find another job.

♡ but you only thought of that as another perk , so you went ahead with it

♡ and like he said, a lot of your duties during the daytime were ordinary and banal: running errands, scheduling appointments and managing his calendar.

♡ but the night is when things would heat up

♡ and perhaps some of the tension and passion from the after-hours affair would still be lingering between you two come the morning, but you tried to brush it off the best you could and act normal so bakugo's co-workers wouldn't get suspicious

♡ although, they were all starting to get a feeling that something was going on between you. and their suspicions were only furthered when you came rushing into a meeting with bakugo's coffee and accidentally spilled it all over him. and instead of yelling at you or cursing you out, he just sighed and left the room to clean himself up.

♡ baring in mind, this is the same man who fired a past PA for stepping on his shoe.

♡ but really, the reason he didn't lash out on you in front of everyone else in the meeting, was because he knew he would get to do it later..

---------------------------

he has you bend over his office desk, ass up and bare while he rams into your leaking pussy. one hand is tangled in your hair to keep your face pressed crudely against the smooth surface, while the other is free to imflict hot smack against your ass. coming down and causing a surge of pain to race through you, as he leaves a searing handprint on your supple skin.

"what the fuck.." he grits through his teeth, his harsh pace unwavering, "was that?"

you groan against the desk, your whole body shakes with each fierce thrust into your tight pussy, creating lewd slapping noises. " 'm sorry.. katsu— ah! " you're cut off as he lands another rough slap against your ass, gripping the flesh in his scolding hand afterwards.

"you're gunna be fuckin' sorry." he groans, entranced by the way your walls grip onto him in reaction to the impact. continuing to plough into you at an absurd rate, his girthy cock splitting you right open, and causing your pussy to leak all over him. "let's see if your still such a clutz after i'm done with this dumb pussy." he spits down at you, rubbing the fluid against your folds for a disgusting mixture of liquids.

"gunna use it til you can't walk." he slaps both cheeks this time consecutively, gaining two identical yelps from you, at which he chuckles lowly between thrusts. " 'ts all your good for anyway."

IIDA

tw : praise

♡ very much a gentleman

♡ despite the fact he feels a certain way about you , he would do his best to suppress his feelings and avoid acting on them as he knows he's your boss and he'd hate to make you uncomfortable

♡ but even though he tries his best to treat you the same as everyone else.. pretty much anyone, including yourself, can pick up on the fact he likes you

♡ it's made obvious by the way he gravitates towards talking to you first thing in the mornings, and how even the most banal conversation between the two of you is enough to put a cheesy grin on his face and start his day off well

♡ or the way he gives you the lightest workload out of all his other sidekicks and employees

♡ or how he praises you for doing even the most minor accomplishments or carrying out the most straight-forward duties. you once did 10 minutes of overtime and the next day he gushed to you about your outstanding work ethic for like half an hour and continued to rave about you to everyone else, as though you were a star worker

♡ and you just can't help but find all of this quite endearing. and if you were being honest, he was quite attractive too. the way he'd flash you a cute smile and you'd get a whiff of his strong, musky cologne whenever he'd walk by you in the hallway was enough to make your head spin — you really couldn't get enough of him.

♡ which is why you said yes when he eventually asked you out to dinner

--------------------------

"such a good girl.." he groans against your skin, peppering soft kisses down your neck and collarbone, while you're stood with your back pressed flush against his foyer wall. the tension between you two was too thick, you couldn't wait until you made it to his bedroom before starting.

his hand delicately traces your curves as his lips make their way down your chest, nibbling at your clothed nipple before halting. casting his crimson red eyes up to meet your own, "now, do you promise not to tell anyone else at work about this, sweetheart?" he mutters, lips inches away from yours, as his hot breath teases you.

"why not?" you squeak as his hand roams under your dress and his strong palm grinds against your needy clit.

he almost chuckles at your innocent question, "it's not very professional what we're doing together." he clarifies, using his fingers to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose, while the fingers of his other hand continue to explore between your thighs, and gently rub against your heat through your soaking panties. "but i really don't want this to end, do you?"

your lip quivers and you shake your head, "no.." you say breathily, capturing his hand between your legs, "i need you." you whine out for more, as he was giving you just enough to leave you desperate.

"i need you too, angel."

AIZAWA

tw : thigh riding, implied age gap.

♡ very indifferent; king of (pretending to be) nonchalant

♡ they'd likely give him a teaching aid for the betterment of the class' academic performances or something like that, and he'd be really opposed to the idea because he thinks he can run the class just fine on his own, like he has been for years now

♡ but he'd slowly but surely come around on the idea of having a teaching aid, not only because it gives him more time to sleep instead of working, but also because you are his aid and he can't be mad at the fact he gets to spend time with you

♡ the two of you have undeniable chemistry straight off the bat, but you do your best to hide it in front of the students and other teachers

♡ but it's definitely there.. and it doesn't take long for the chemistry to manifest in your after-hours discussions

♡ there is probably a little bit of age gap going on in your relationship , but nothing too drastic. you're just the new, barely experienced aid looking to gain wisdom off aizawa, so you spend the majority of your shift swooning over him, trying to get him to teach you stuff and show him all the resources you've made in an attempt to impress him

♡ meanwhile he's just straight-faced the whole time, pretending to be unamused.. even though, on the inside he is quite charmed by you and thinks you're just the sweetest

♡ maybe, if you're extremely observant, you'll see him crack the tiniest smile inbetween sips of his coffee, while you are enthusing to him about your new lesson plans

---------------------------

he's sat at his desk in his private office after-hours, with papers scattered all over it. in one hand is his red pen which he is using to grade papers, and in the other is your waist. you are straddling his thigh, with your arms draped lazily around his shoulders and your nose buried into the crook of his neck.

feeling the subtle flex of his muslces against your already sopping cunt caused you to groan into his neck. you had worn a dress today with no tights so your clothed pussy was sat directly on the harsh material of his jeans, but you wanted to experience every single ounce of satisfaction. hence, you pulled your panties to the side and pressed your bare cunt against his thigh, whining like a whore into the emptiness of his office.

though he didn't pay you any mind, and was fixated on his papers. which somehow made the situation even hotter. soon, you began to grind against his leg, sliding yourself back and forth, allowing the fricition between your sensitive cunt and the rough denim to coarse through you. pressing your tender clit down against him repeatedly, and moaning his name lewdly like he was the one responsible for your worlds of satisfaction. which he partially was, even though he put no effort into it. he wouldn't even spare you a glance when you were screaming out for him.

it was a while before you were able to make yourself come undone all over his leg, but it was all so worth it. one of the most cathardic climaxes of your life. you were panting heavily and completely out of breath, laying your tired body against his for a few minutes, until he told you to sit upright.

his hand wandered down to your cunt, and even the fleeting brush of his fingers against your heat was enough to make you whine lowly. but really he was trying to established how wet you were, and of course when he pulled his fingers away, they were drenched with your juices. "hm," he grumbles, exmaning his hand, "look at this mess. who is going to clean this up, dear?"

argh sorry this is short i was gonna write another character but idk who......

[viennacherries]

okay hi sorry i need to talk about the lucanis romance for a moment and why i think it's absolutely perfect. spoilers below the cut ofc

so obviously there are a limited number of romance scenes. i really do believe in the case of lucanis' romance this lends itself to telling his story.

we learn through party banter with him and emmerich that his relationship with rook is his first. and that's not suprising really, he's an assassin. he faces death constantly and aside from the fact that he could die at any moment, being in a relationship gives his enemies a weak spot to exploit. love and the weakness required to accept and give it is a risk he cannot afford in his line of work.

then you add on the fact that he's been in the ossuary for a year. he was definitely sure he was never getting out of there. and then he does but he's possessed.

so here's rook. and they're flirting with him and being all enticing and he thinks they're great. but he doesn't deserve love and he certainly can't risk it. he's an abomination, he'll put them in danger. and what happens afterwards? when he goes back to taking contracts? it only takes pissing off the wrong person once for rook to be in danger. so he mostly just talks around it. tried not to think about it or aknowledge it.

and then spite breaks through for the second time. and there's rook. again. and they're soft and understanding and kind and they remind him that under everything else, all of the trauma and the fear, he's human. they make him feel so safe and he starts to let his walls down.

we can't know for sure why he pulls away in that moment, but i think it's because he reminds himself how dangerous it is for him and for rook. he wants them terribly but it's such an awful no good idea so he drags himself away.

but he still cares for them. he makes them dessert and he keeps them safe and eventually he has to admit to himself that they're not just friends anymore.

and then rook is taken into the fade by solas.

he never tells rook, you only find this out in a bellara romance, but rook is in the fade for weeks.

all that time, lucanis is there and he's just full of regret. because holy shit he's fallen in love with them and now they're gone and he should've just told them. he should've held them like he wanted. because now he can't and he never will again.

and then they're back.

and he comes into their room and his words are so simple.

"i never thought id see you again. i thought id lost you"

and obviously the rest of his dialogue can vary in this scene but all of it is SO weighted if you consider the fact that he really did think they were dead.

"i do. i know how to feel."

"it's one of the things i love about you"

"i'm not going anywhere."

he is in LOVE with them and he's tired of fighting it. he's tired of pretending he isn't. he's tired of denying himself of what he wants because he's scared. because ultimately he did lose them, despite how careful he'd been, and it hurt just the same.

"i know how to feel." because he DOES now.

so in the last battle, before you fight elgernan, he tells you again just how much he loves you. how he'll do anything he needs to to be back in your arms when it's over. because those weeks without you were torture and he never wants to do that again. he wasted all that time terrified to hurt you but you got hurt anyway. why keep pretending? why keep denying himself the person he wants more than anything in the world? he goes from 0-100 because this is so much more real now. there's so much to lose.

"i've assumed you knew my heart because it beats for you. it's been beating... when i wanted you. when i was afraid to want you... tell me this ends with me asleep in your arms and i will kill any god you ask."

this one sentence conveys EVERYTHING. all of his longing throughout the game. how long he has loved rook. he didn't say it because he was afraid. but he's not afraid anymore.

so much of lucanis' romance is about subtext. it's about the things he doesn't say rather than the things he does.

i think it's absolutely beautiful.

[allfearstofallto]

How They Mark You as Theirs

Yandere x Fem! Reader

A/N: because I genuinely can't stop thinking about Scaramouche putting his makeup on you! It's been keeping me up at night.

Diluc: With jewelry

You sparkle when you walk into a room. Not just your glowing eyes or large, puffy dresses, but also what adornes your body. A pendant around your neck, large gem rings on your fingers, and earrings, more expensive than most could afford. People wondered if maybe all of your gems and stones were too heavy, maybe that's why despite the fact that you looked so lavish, you never smiled.

Diluc would be at your side, slipping another ring onto your finger. The other ladies would fawn at the sight, silently wishing for a man who wanted to adorn them with silver and gold, but to you, every ring, every stone, every bracelet, and every gem was another lock on the chain harboring you to him, claiming you as his.

Childe: With Bruises

Your neck is littered with love bites, your thighs covered in scratches from where his nails would dig into them, your wrist would have markings around them, from where he would hold you down, pressing passionate kisses and maybe more if he desired.

Even though you were embarrassed by the blatant proof of what he'd done to you all over your body, he still made sure you wore rather revealing clothing. You'd flush with embarrassed, knowing eyes looking all over you, but Childe would smile happily. A hand around your waist would caress you, making it known that he wished to claim you more.

Scaramouche: With make-up

How did everyone know that you were married to number six of the Fatui harbingers? Well, they had to look no further than your eyes, framed in that familiar red shade. The first time he makes you wear it, it's because you watched as he did his own. His nimble fingers held the brush like it was second nature, creating the lines against his eye with ease.

“Come here,” he'll order while still standing in front of the mirror. Before you can ask what he needs from you, he's already squeezing your cheeks between those same fingers, holding your face in place.

The brush tickles as it slides across your eyelids, making you shake a bit in his grasp as you hold back laughter. The smile on your face making his demeanor melt for just a moment, he softens and stops his work, just staring at your features, “I know how it feels. Stop moving,” he'll order. And you do your best to obey.

The sight of your smile is more than enough to make this a habit, instead of a one off thing. Everyday after your kimono dressing, he calls you to him, holding the brush stained with that familiar red makeup.

[xayasmrxsoftlyx]

Imagine...

Imagine you recently moved to the outskirts of a forest. The nature is beautiful and you do your part to keep it that way. You plant pollinator friendly flowers, rabbit friendly herbs, deer friendly bushes, you put out bird feeders, hummingbird feeders, squirrel feeders (though honestly, it's just extra bird feeders with less specific seeds since you noticed the birds didn't always eat the variety equally). Hell, you even changed out your lawn from traditional grass to clover and native wild flowers to use less water. You've been putting in a lot of effort to keep things nice for nature-- it's certainly been noticed, too.

In fact, you've no idea of the amount of eyes watching your beauty preserve nature's beauty- and to them you are nature's finest beauty. Looking at your plush body care for, tend to, and love the very things that feed their lives' essence; it's a sight that cannot be beat. At first, it was a competition amongst the forest. Who was yours? Who you belonged to? Now, now they understand that just like you work so hard to aid all of them, they can all share, love, tend to, and care for you, as well.

Imagine the first you meet, unbeknownst to you, is planned- it's all planned. You're sitting outside on a blanket, book in hand, just enjoying some rare free time when you hear a loud buzzing. It sounds as if a humming bird were flying right beside your ear. Yet, when you look up, it's certainly not that far from the truth despite not being completely correct in concept.

He's shorter than you, but not by much, barely hovering a foot off the ground. He hides half his body behind your oak tree- the one with all your feeders on it. He's got brilliant colors and jerks almost completely behind the tree when your eyes meet. (He's supposed to be speaking to you but when his eyes met your own shining gaze, he couldn't help but grow shy.) Your sweet, comforting scent has wafted in the air, stirred up in part by his own rapidly fluttering wings. He's buzzing with anxiety and adrenaline, the need to prove and show you his skills battling with his fear of your rejection. Now that he's gotten so close to those plump cheeks, he needs to kiss. Now that he's seen how soft and warm you are he needs to get closer; he needs to feel how soft and plush you are as he clings to your chubby form from his own anxiety.

Imagine you softly call out to him, voice sounding like both the sweetest lullaby to soothe his racing heart and mind and also just like home- like the sound he'd come come to with a nest full of little hatchlings and your warmth shared. It's that thought that spurs him into action, faster than you could reasonably expect. After all, the speed he can achieve gets to nearly the same as a traditional hummingbird.

He's higher in the air than you'd ever think he'd go, he shoots down, nearly towards you- no, definitely towards you, nearly at you the speed of which creates a loud chirp and you hear the sweet melody of whistles erupt from him as he's closer to you. As he hovers before you, dance still pumping adrenaline through him, he's more than proud of the awed expression you've been unable to shake. When you close your book and set it down to completely give him your full attention, he preens at your acceptance. You may not fully understand your own consent to his courtship, but the primal, feral instinct within him is more than satisfied with your open attraction and silent acceptance of him into your space- your life. He lingers by you for a moment and when he doesn't hide or fly away from you, it indicates he's comfortable enough with you. You smile and begin to speak.

Imagine you still keep your voice soft, welcoming for him. It's so, so sweet of you to care so much for him already- such a precious, soft, sweet mate you are already without hardly trying. You introduce yourself to him- you give him your name! As you do so, he flits around you with little twirls and swoops in his own excitement. Instinctually, you hold your hand out to shake. He grabs it instantaneously within his own soft, warm grasp. He holds your hand, enjoying how his hands are still just a smidge bigger than your own little, pudgy ones; even if it's barely noticeable to you, he can tell. You give the shared grasp a shake but he doesn't release you, instead he uses it to hover closer to you. (He's tempted to swoop into your outreached arm and cuddle into your side, he's strongly resisting that temptation. The mantra in his head is "not now, don't do it, not now...")

You smell like the flowers you plant, the earthiness of fresh watered soil, and there's a warmth beneath it all he can't place. It's enchanting, nearly hypnotizing. (Fuck, the other's are going to drool over your scent later when they get closer- maybe even over him if it's strong enough lingering on him after he meets you.) When he finally releases, he gives you his own name breathlessly with a giant blush upon his cheeks. His feathers puff up around him in his embarrassment before he dashes off towards the forest. As he does so, he pauses to look back at you every few yards. Instead of following you like he's silently urging and beckoning you to do, you smile, little puffy cheeks rounding adorably as you tell him "see you soon!" (fuck- his heart is going as fast as his wings and that cannot be healthy)

Imagine you start seeing Calypte more often. In fact, you start meeting him in your garden at least twice a week. After your first week, you begin to bring him fruit to eat, since you didn't quite think he drank from the hummingbird feeder like his look alike. The first time he ate the orange so ravenously for you that you never stopped. He knows that in nature, if he were true to his counterpart, he wouldn't be building the nest- you would. He knows in nature his counterparts instinct wouldn't be to linger after copulation, but he supposes that side of him is entirely the human part.

The need to preen and nest for you, the need to stay by your side, the need for you attention, for your care, for your love. That is surely, entirely his humanity. After all, hybrids are different from their animal inspiration. They're an interesting amalgamation of all the best parts of both. That's why they were created, why they were designed, right? Before the humanity and ethics caught up to it all, anyway. His parents acted very human after all, it just depended on genetics. However you.... you brought the humanity out of him. You bring the humanity out of him. It thrills him, makes him feel alive, and he can not get enough of it- of you.

[simping-overload]

ᴀ/ɴ: getting back into mha! If anyone wants to commison a fic dm me <3

ᴛᴀɢꜱ: fluff, cuddling, headcanons, all comfort no angst. not proof read

ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ: gang orca(kugo sakamata), hawks(keigo takami), hound dog(ryo inui), miriko(rumi usagiyama), eraserhead (shota aziawa), gunhead

ᴅɪꜱᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇʀ: ヾthis is a multi-fandom blog that is designed for mlm/nbmlm identifying readers! so if you're female or fem, she/her, she/they please do not follow or interact with my mlm related post!! Please respect this! ゛

kugo is rather reserved when it comes to affection, unsure of how to ask for it, and hopes you can simply pick up on hints. cuddling with you brings great comfort to him, especially when you're the one holding him. he's a little spoon all the way, regardless if you're smaller than him. he can find himself sleeping like a baby whenever it's you holding him. However, he likes holding you, too. lay your head on his chest as he rubs soothing circles on your back to lul you to sleep. he likes intertwing his hands with yours as he sleeps, for him its a very grounding and comforting feeling.

keigo clings. as soon as you lay next to him, he's latching onto you. curling his arms and wings around you and keeping you there. he's not picky when it comes to positions, but he really likes laying on top of you. due to his wings, he's a natural stomach sleeper, and resting on your chest is both comfortable and convenient for his wings. the mix of your heartbeat and you running your hand through his hair makes him sleep like a baby. he whines a lot when you try and pry him off, in the mornings he always tries to keep you in bed with him.

ryo loves cuddling, anytime, anywhere. he's, unironically, a lap dog. he's quick to make himself comfortable in your lap, whether he'd be sitting fully in it or laying down. your electricity bill is unbelievably high due to the fact he's an absolute heat box. having ac on is a requirement, especially during the summer. during the winter months, he's your savings grace in the cold. he's a big fan of spooning. curling his large body around you and nuzzling his snout in your hair. his arms as strong as they are very comfortable pillows to hold onto as you sleep. oh, and watch out for the drool.

rumi is a cuddle bunny and likes being held. she likes resting her head in between the hallow of your neck and shoulder, her strong arms curled around your torso. Hsr grip on you is like iron, and unless she's awake, she won't let go. you'd often find yourself carrying her around in the mornings since you literally can't pry her off. she'll wake up once you start cooking, though. she is a vivid dreamer, and her body is reactive when she's in a deep sleep. more often than not she'll accidentally kick or hit you while she sleeps. she apologizes for it in the morning. she likes to cuddle under loads of blankets with you, as hot as it gets its very comfortable.

shota loves to sleep, so it'd make sense he loves to cuddle, too. despite his complaining, he likes waking up in the morning, your arms and legs entangled around each other. he runs cold when he sleeps and loves spooking you awake with his cold hands or feet. shota likes to sleep facing you, waking up to your face is his favoriate thing ever. he likes holding you, embracing you in his arms holding you tight to his chest. his grip is surprisingly strong but its easy to break out of with a few tugs. when its his nap time snf your around he'll simply drape himself over you, whether hes in his sleeping bag or not.

gunhead is a cuddle monster, he loves pyshsical affection with you in general. he likse holding you when he reads, letting you rest on him with his hand on your hip, rubbing soothing circles into your skin. not picky about sleeping positions at all, its not like you'd wake up in the same spot anyway. sleeping with him is comfortable but chaotic as he moves often. its often that he wakes up drapped over your stomach or torso. hes another heatbox man but- its mostly bearable in contrast to the others. he's like warm spring heat, somewhere right in the middle of being hot and cold. his arms are the most comfortable things ever.

[skyahri]

Hate |Naruto Men X Reader| HC

Characters: Kakashi Hatake, Shikamaru Nara, Sasuke Uchiha

Summary: Hate is a strong word, but it's also a very fragile one.

Warnings: Brief smut, kissing mentions of p and v. Some angst, but all comfort. Mentions of blood, violence, and death.

Masterlist Ko-fi

- - - - -

Kakashi Hatake

You hated how full of himself he was. He was always talking down to people, to his teammates and so-called friends. He goes out of his way to show people up no matter how inappropriate the situation may be.

He hated that you always stuck up for people he considered weak. He hated how much time and energy you put into helping others instead of focusing on your own training. He hated that you had so much potential, yet seemed to waste it at every opportunity.

As time went on and you were forced into each other's inner circles, your occasional arguments became a constant bicker. It got even worse when you were assigned to his ANBU team. You questioned his every move and fought every decision he made.

In return, he always gave you the least desirable night shifts. He'd make you write all the reports, saying something about needing to learn to respect your elders (he's only a few months older than you).

Once you were put in charge of your own team, things quieted down. Not because either of you had mellowed out, but because you didn't cross paths as often anymore.

Because of how rarely you saw him, you always made sure to make your brief encounters worth it. You had practically written a list of insults to throw his way. He returned the same energy with out hesitation.

Eventually, after his genin team had gone their separate ways and you had finally retired from ANBU, you had a seemingly infinite amount of time to rekindle your rivalry with him.

He always seemed to be heading in the same direction as you were. It didn't matter if you were on your way to the Hokage's office, the shops, or meeting up with someone- he was always there.

You tried to fight with him like the good old days, but it was different now that you were grown adults. Maybe the ungodly amount of trauma combined with the wedge distance had created in your odd relationship had finally put an end to your petty war.

Thinking back, maybe this is what it had been all along, and your stupid kid brain was too proud to admit what was really going on.

Your arguing had turned into kissing the moment he stepped through your apartment door. Things moved quickly, expert hands doing away with endless layers of Jonin uniforms in a rushed attempt to feel more of each other.

It felt right. Like the decades of tension had finally come to a head and you were being forced to deal with it in the most animalistic way possible.

"I hate you."

Your mumbling between desperate kisses. He doesn't acknowledge you immediately, opting to instead lift you by your ass so your legs could wrap around him. He pushes you against the wall, pressing his clothed election right against your womanhood.

"I hate you, too."

Neither of you acknowledges the elephant in the room, that the word you're looking for isn't actually hate. But that's beyond your cloudy minds right now.

Shikamaru Nara

Shikamaru has never really bothered with social pleasantries or subjected himself to cater to what people like and dislike. In fact, he often chastised people for caring what others think.

He always commented about what you wore, how well groomed you were, and the overall effort you put into your appearance each day.

You hated listening to it, which is why you always did your best to avoid him.

It wasn't even about you specifically. You hated hearing how rudely he'd shut down Ino when she would ramble on about anything. You hated when he complained about how loud Naruto and Kiba were despite knowing that they're just excitable people. You hated hearing the damn near sexist remarks he'd make about how stupid people were for giving any shots about how they looked.

It was annoying. It didn't seem to phase anyone else anymore, but that almost made it worse.

You were at your breaking point. Just one comment away from losing your composure and you prayed to God you'd be able to refrain from saying anything too harsh.

But alas, Kakashi had assigned you to yet another mission with him- the sixth one just this month.

At least he waited until you were at the Inn before he started up with you. You honestly don't know why he let you shower first if it was going to be such an issue.

"Finally. I thought you'd be in there forever."

"What the Hell is your problem with me?"

He paused in his tracks. He wasn't expecting you to say anything to his usual grumbling, and especially didn't expect it to be so hostile.

"You always take forever in the bathroom."

"It was twenty minutes. You'll live."

"It wouldn't be that long if you didn't bother with all the extra shit you use."

"Why is it such a problem that I care about what I look like? I don't ever involve you in it and yet you're always talking about it."

He rolled his eyes, about to blow off whatever you were saying, but you started up again before he could.

"All you ever do is bitch and whine and moan about dumb shit that doesn't concern you. I like to look nice. I like wearing clothes that compliment my figure and putting time into the health of my hair and skin. It's not the end of the world, so shut the fuck up about it already."

You walked past him and lay in one of the twin beds, tired from the journey and pissed about your teammate's usual poor behavior.

He didn't say anything. He continued with what he was going to do before the argument and carried on like nothing had happened.

He kept any conversations strictly professional for the duration of the mission, something you were ecstatic about.

It wasn't until a few days after you returned home that you heard from him. He showed up at your apartment unprompted, looking irritated and slightly flustered.

"After talking with my team, it may have come to my attention that I might be kind of an ass."

You invited him in, curious as to what he had to say. He admitted that he had never been called out on it. Most people don't take him too seriously and he may have gotten a bit too comfortable voicing every thought that crossed his mind.

Although he had mostly soothed any nerves you had, you still decided he owed you.

You dragged him into your room, sat him at your vanity, and laughed when he groaned. You pulled out all the stops for him. You took him through your entire routine start to finish and when you were done, you asked him hiw it felt.

He hated that it felt nice. He hated that he suddenly realized how dry his skin usually was and how clean he suddenly felt. He would never fully admit that to you, though.

Him showing up at your apartment the next day, conveniently around the time you usually started these things, was all the confirmation you needed that he no longer deemed it a waste of time.

Sasuke Uchiha

He hated going to the Hokage's office, not because he was still in the thick of earning his freedom after the war, but because he hated Kakashi’s assistant.

You annoy him. He hates that you so confidently push his buttons. He hates that you're just a civilian, but you've been given so much authority over him. It was an unfit existence for the last Uchiha.

You enjoyed messing with him. He would grumble when given his assignment and you made sure to mock him with a playful pout. You'd check in with the ANBU watching over him to make sure he was behaving. You always used that word- behaving. As if he were a child.

Unfortunately for Sasuke, Kakashi isn't in the village right now, meaning he's stuck taking orders from you. He swears Kakashi picked you to oversee him intentionally, knowing how much it would bother him.

He's sitting next to you, helping you go through seemingly endless piles of paperwork. He wasn't sure if this was better than all the D-rank missions he'd been assigned lately, but he begrudgingly accepted the change of pace.

He glances at you through his peripherals. The sun is just going down, the orange light illuminating your soft features. Your usual bratty expression was replaced with a more peaceful one.

This was most likely just as much a break for you as it was for him. He wasn't oblivious to the way you had to reel Kakashi in every day, damn near having to tie him to his chair to get anything done.

"You can go home. I'll finish up here and we can resume tomorrow."

He didn't argue, thankful for relief from the horrifically tedious task. As he was leaving the building, he suddenly got this feeling in his gut that he should stay.

Of course, not wanting to do more paperwork than he was required to, he ignored the feeling and carried on.

He should've stayed. Just an hour after he left, while you were packing up for the night, the tower was raided by rogue nin.

The alarm sounded in the village, immediately calling all available shinobi. Bee, the ANBU assigned to him, gave him permission to lend a hand, and off they went to the tower.

He teleported himself to Kakashi’s office, knowing you would most likely be in there or at least somewhere near. What he wasn't expecting, however, was you standing over a body, kunai in hand and blood splattered across your body.

"Y/N?"

You didn't move, couldn't move. He reached forward, tugged the blade out of your shaky grip, and let it fall to the floor. You let him, not really in the mood to fight any more than you had to right now.

"Is he dead?"

Your question caught him off guard.

"I've never killed anyone before."

Ah. Civilian. Right. Sure, you belonged to a Shinobu village and even worked under the Kage, but that was vastly different than being on the front lines.

He thought for a second. Was he in any sort of position to be responsible for you at the moment? Should he hand you off to one of the other nin and return home?

"Cover your eyes."

It took a minute for his words to register in your hazy mind, but once they did you obeyed. If there was one thing you knew would benefit you, it would be allowing him to take the lead for now.

He put his hand between your shoulder blades and guided you through the hallways, down the stairs, and away from the tower completely. He glanced around, but couldn't find Bee, so he opted to take you back to his apartment. It would cause a lot less trouble if he was where he was supposed to be after all.

At home, he sat you down in the tub and turned on the water. He left you there, letting all the blood loosen from your skin. He returned a moment later, setting a stack of clothes down on the counter and grabbing a rag from the cabinet.

Neither of you spoke as he gently scrubbed your face. When he was done, he got a little bit of shampoo and worked all the red out of your hair.

You were slowly coming out of your daze. It was nice being brought out by something kind and comforting. It was almost enough to distract you from the night's events. Almost.

When he was done, he handed you the cloth, telling you to finish up and see him when you're done. You nodded, standing up and undressing when the door closed. You noticed how clean the water ran, most likely due to how thoroughly the Uchiha had taken care of you.

When you stepped out of the tub, you noticed the clothes on the counter. Upon closer inspection, they were similar to the ones he was wearing now- a t-shirt and sweats.

You joined him in the adjacent bedroom where he waited patiently. He all but forced you into his bed, shutting down all of your protests. When he went to leave the room, you quickly grabbed the fabric of his shirt to stop him.

"Please stay."

He didn't fight you. He walked around to the other side of the bed and sat down, leaning against the headboard and staring blanky in front of him.

You were thankful for the comfort of simply not being alone. Not after tonight, when so much had happened and the trauma was still fresh in your mind.

He tried telling himself that this was not a personal act, but instead one that would aid his village. But who was he kidding? He was realizing you weren't all that terrible and he had just allowed his angst brain to manipulate him into thinking so.

[mrs-weasley-reid]

TEN'S A GOOD NUMBER

Aaron Hotchner x psychiatrist!reader

Sypnosis: After Aaron's traumatizing encounter with Peter Lewis, he's sent to you, but who knew a profiler is the worst patient you'll ever have? Warning: enemies to lovers— ish(?) angst. a dash of fluff. light mentions of death and trauma. a few curses. went ballistic— it's lengthy, so pace yourself. A/N: loosely follows Mr. Scratch timeline for three seasons.

Monday, May 4, 8:34 AM

Aaron Hotchner sits across from you.

He studies you in every detail like he's about to take an exam, and you're the topic.

The weight of your scribbles—light, almost featherlike. Ink leaves a soft trail of words, a map of your thoughts, your perception of him.

The speed of your hand. Swift and elegant. Each movement portrays a scene in a movie. As if they're telling a quiet story, your story he is yet to unravel.

The way you deprive him of eye contact.

What are you hiding?

Why can't you look him in the eye?

The occasional nod to remind him that you're listening—not like anything's coming out from his end.

In conclusion, just about everything you do, really.

To Aaron, you're a cheat sheet. His way back to the field, to work—the part of his life that cannot be halted despite the need for a break.

"Your hand is heavier," Aaron vaguely goads.

You silently stare at him, waiting for the rest of his thoughts to spill out of his mouth.

"Usually, you write like you're afraid to puncture the paper, but just right now, your strikes are deeper. Your grip on your pen is also tighter. Am I annoying you?"

Creative.

You think to yourself as he rakes his eyes down the canvas of your face, blank and land of nothing but mirroring eyes.

Although you prefer Aaron's comment about your new lipstick and how it makes your skin glow—something about your prospect of finding a lover—fifteen minutes into your session. You didn't peg him as a man who knows his lipstick shades, but you stand corrected as he says coral with the utmost confidence for a man who wears his tie like a choker.

Aaron does it all the time. Every five minutes, he says one thing he's noticed about you and then proceeds to zip his mouth, denying you details about him like you're some hired criminal paid to torture the King's hidden fortune out of him.

And as per your entertainment, you'd do something out of your character to throw him off. If you can laugh at his gullibility, you would.

His goal is to intimidate you. Pressure you. Make you tick like every other serial killer he's encountered. Because he'd really rather be across an unsub than you. Aaron would rather be the one to ask questions and not you. In his eyes, you're no better than a small-town detective ignorantly interrogating a serial killer for a cheap gas station robbery, unaware of the skeletons in his closet.

At this moment, Aaron ponders why he agreed to meet with you once a week only to sit in almost absolute silence for about an hour, then go about his day like he hadn't just wasted minutes of his—and your—life.

It's always the same.

He arrives, flaunts his profiling skills for an accumulated total of twelve minutes, and then sits across you like a rock for the remaining forty minutes.

Aaron could've talked more, but...

He despises you.

Well, not you, per se. He despises the profession, and you just happen to choose it as your career. Nonetheless, Aaron generalizes and includes you on his list.

He finds it unnecessary and a waste of one's valuable time. Presenting a series of well-thought-out facts that he's sure Spencer Reid will enjoy. A list of reasons why talking to a psychiatrist isn't as helpful as people perceive it to be.

Aaron spits the words 'family' and 'friends' for the sake of ease and comfort as if he doesn't flinch at the words 'your father' and his face hasn't been frozen into a permanent stern. Because why talk to someone who doesn't know you when there are people who know you best? He lies through his teeth. He lies to himself.

Then, there's you.

You don't know him enough to trust his lies.

"Profiling me won't get you cleared," you state out of the blue. "This is our seventh session, and you haven't said anything." You add, finally lifting your gaze.

Aaron feels taken aback. He'd never encountered a shrink with such pride at their job—they managed to infuriate him. You infuriate him.

Now that you've granted him the wish—your eyes meeting his—it's having an effect on him instead. One that he wishes he didn't feel creep under his skin, stimulating the anxiety he's worked hard to ignore.

Still, Aaron squares his shoulder, "Nothing is wrong with me," He claims like he's not feeling the pit of his stomach churn with every word. "I'm only here for the formalities." He says.

"Ahh," You deadpan, pulling your eyes down on your clipboard. Hushed scribbles echo in the room. "Is that what you told, Dr. Briar? Or Dr. McCormick? Stiles doesn't seem to remember you at all—"

"They deemed me fit to go back to work, which you don't seem to realize." Aaron cuts you off. He doesn't notice the slight lilt of his voice. How a vein peeked on his forehead as he furrows his brows.

You have an effect on him, and Aaron's in strong denial.

"How?" You lean a bit, propping against your lap. It's the first time he's ever let himself tear out of his 'I don't break' shell. You consider it a crumb of a breakthrough and a laughable stain on your pride.

Challenging his stability—you raise your brows—makes him tick.

A faux frown draws on your face—patronizing, "Did you play a staring contest, and they lost against you?" You notice the little twitch of his eye masked as a blink.

It's a little unprofessional to provoke your patient, but you do, anyway.

This one's been particularly adamant about manipulating you into permitting him back to work like you were born yesterday. You think it hilarious how smug he's been for the past six sessions. It is as if you didn't spend almost half of your life devoted to the study of behavior. Like you hadn't figured out his plans from the get-go.

Profilers. They catch a criminal out of idea of sorts, and they think they can read everyone. It makes you want to laugh while pointing at him.

Aaron stares at you with his usual stoic expression, intimidating eyes filled with unforeseen horrors, and a straight mouth that's no use in your four walls.

He decides then that he hates you with a passion.

You feel a vibration on your wrist, "Would you look at that? Your time's up, Hotchner." You withdraw, straightening your back as you scribble yet another word Aaron is curious to know.

If he only knew you're not really writing anything new about the nature of his mental state or anything legible at all, you imagine Aaron exploding like a stack of case files blown by harsh wind.

But can he blame you when he's given you nothing to write?

"Agent Hotchner," He corrects with gritted teeth. Aaron's jaw clenches as he pierces his gaze through you. His hands intertwined with each other as if he's preventing himself from clawing at you.

You smile at him, "In this room, you're just Aaron Hotchner. A patient. A case." You know the specific word will piss him off, much less the motherly tone you paired it with.

A tactic. Unlike him, you don't need a team of agents to get a rise out of a culprit. The bare idea of you, a stranger who has access to his life on a piece of paper, is enough a stimuli to get an individual aiming at your neck.

"So, between you and me, I think you should start talking if you ever want to fly to wherever city your team wanders in. The longer you take, the less progress we make, and the less progress you make, the more possible that the bureau will assign a new psychiatrist for you." You say nonchalantly, letting his anger lead him right into your trap.

The words float like small fire specks of dust, both dazzling and dangerous to the eyes. Getting assigned to a new psychiatrist is like getting an easy case directly handed to Aaron. However, it also means he'll have to restart his psych evaluation process, and he knows firsthand how time-consuming that is.

"But, then again, who knows? Maybe the next fella will let you slide like the others did. Or you'll have to attend a series of sessions again for a lengthy psych evaluation. I've got friends too, you know? They might do me a favor and make your life more… difficult." You're bluffing. In no way, shape, or form will you jeopardize his health, even if Aaron's the most stubborn patient you have ever met in your lifetime.

His nose flares as he stands up. You know that he's done and murdered you in his mind at the way he's glaring at you with invisible daggers, but you play it well and act blameless.

Aaron marches out of your office with blazing hatred. You watch as he dulls every vicinity he's stepped into like death taking a stroll. A part of you is apologetic to his colleagues. They'll be having one hell of a day.

Retreating back inside your office, you plop on your chair behind your desk as a heavy sigh escapes your lips.

You stare at Aaron Hotchner's patient chart.

"What am I going to do with you?" You ask rhetorically in the air.

Aaron Hotchner is—for you at least—a special case. A case so intricate you had to be careful how you'd tread the water, wary of its fragile ripples.

When Aaron's chart landed on your desk, you immediately knew that he'd be toilsome. He'd make it his goal to skip the talk and jump back onto another case. The same routine he did with his old therapists and psychologist, anyone that was able to write a note and say he's fine when he's really not—never have been for a long time.

You already had enough patients on your plate, but you just couldn't say no to your favorite Italian patient; you only had one. You're the best bureau-mandated psychiatrist. His words, not yours.

Then, again, you never fail to mentally brag about how easily you read Aaron just from his chart, his image, and the first step he took to get inside your office. You read him like an open toddler's book, a piece of cake.

During the first session, you learn how badly Aaron's last case had affected him. The intonation of his voice. The way he'd shake his hand, your hand. His scorn. His fiddling fingers.

It's amazing how he's managed to divert his anger towards you instead of the man who traumatized him.

Melodic ringing snaps you out of your trance.

Aaron Hotchner might just get what he wants.

Sunday, May 10, 11:51 PM

A sniffle tickles your nose as you lay flat on the carpet floor of your apartment.

Your face stings from tear stains, and you muse how horrid you must look after your makeup runs dry. Your chunky heels were still on. In a minute or two, you expect one of your feet to cramp.

The day has been hostile towards you.

The mind, which used to be an oasis of positive thoughts, has gone draught. Sleep begins to blur your vision, and you don't hesitate to let it take over.

Until a bombarding knock jolts you up.

"I'm here! I'm here! Calm down!" You shout as you swing the door open. A familiar man stands in front of you with a dour face. Your eyebrows narrow tightly, "Mr. Hotchner—"

"What did you write?!" Aaron badgers as he storms inside your apartment like he owns the place. He pivots on the balls of his feet once he's reached your living room, glowering at you with scalding fury. "I was relieved to know that you released me from your care and looked forward to my clearance. So, tell me why a random therapist called me this morning to confirm an appointment I didn't even know I had. What did you write on my report that I have to go through this again for the second time? Is dealing with your sick games not enough? I'm fine. I know I'm fine. I'm straight in the head to go back in the field. I aced the psych evaluation questions. Your sessions are the problem. You're the problem." His ears, face, and neck are burning red. If he's a cartoon character, you imagine he'd be steaming with smoke by now.

Quite surprised; you're standing speechless. You're watching Aaron like he's a crazy old hag yapping about the Revolutionary War and how she hates not having the power to shoot every redcoat for the sake of rage.

You head towards your sofa, taking a seat.

Aaron examines you in confusion, furrowing his brows.

After a moment, you look at him expectantly. "Don't be shy, Mr. Hotchner. By any means—" you nod towards the armchair across you, glancing back and forth between him and the empty space "—continue with your thoughts. You already started. Might as well let it all out."

He only clenches his hands inside his pockets as he bores holes into your head.

What a sad little man.

You scoff in your mind.

You lean against the back of the sofa, tilting your head to meet dagger-like brown eyes aiming at you. "No? Suit yourself, then." You shrug, feeling the soft cushions under your palms.

"Let me remind you that I'm a federal agent, and I can make your life a living hell if I want to." He threatens, glaring at you as if the twitch of his eye is enough to make you combust into thin air.

But all you see is a child on a tantrum, deprived of getting what he wants.

"Answer my question. What. Did. You. Write?" He growls.

Silence coats the two of you.

His heavy breathing fills the deafening air. Your nonchalance fuels his hatred more than ever and the sentiment is beginning to emit from both ends. It takes a lot out of you to think of multiple ways to sprinkle some salty sense onto him without stinging his wounds.

One thing you learned well enough in time is how good Aaron is when pushing someone's buttons. A perk of his prosecutor days and seasoned by his bureau career.

He's just troubled.

He's just in denial of his own pain.

You chant the words in your head—uncertain of its purpose. Detachment ironically detaches from your senses like old velcro.

"You're not the first agent in my office, Mr. Hotchner. And frankly, you should be thanking me for taking you in. Unlike your old therapists, I actually read through your chart and took the time to understand you to the best of my ability. I cared—" Shocked as he is, your eyes subtly widen.

Before you can continue Aaron speaks over you, "I do not care about your pity. What I wanted was for you to do your damn job and clear me back to work. But that's just little to no pay for a shrink, isn't it? You need messed up people to stay messed up so they can continue knocking on your door." A clear hint of a demeaning smirk flashes across his face.

The sheer irreverence makes you dizzy. The calm snaps, banishing kindness and composure out the window. And rage knocks on your door.

"That's the problem. You don't care. You don't care about yourself." Your tone is sharp—stern.

You knew. You knew from the moment his file thudded on your wooden desk. The moment SSA David Rossi charmed his way to get your favor. You know that Aaron Hotchner does what he believes is right. Not because the unit chief title has gotten in his head. No. Not the slightest. But because he only cares about his values and people.

And you're neither.

It's not you to hold grudges. So, you had it down and set before you accepted Rossi's request. You had it tattooed in your mind that no matter how sharp-tongued and insensitive the man before you might be, he's still just a man under the weight of the world's greatest horrors.

You cannot break. You're not allowed to break.

Pieces of you shatter at the realization that some patients under your care inevitably slip away from your fingers. How your promised oath to do no harm did nothing—not enough to stop the monsters that haunt the world. Not enough to stop you, Aaron's psychiatrist, from dumping your own frustration onto him the same way he's currently doing to you.

But you're not Aaron's psychiatrist today. You're not anything today. You're not on the clock. And no one except Aaron—to your demise—will ever witness such an ugly sight. If ever he shuts up about his dilemma, that is.

"I did my job exactly as I should." You declare, licking the bottom of your lips. Damned the Hippocratic Oath. You wonder if the healing gods will forgive you.

You really shouldn't say the words that are about to leave your mouth, but you've been taking whatever hostility he's got for the last two months; the capacity has reached its limit. A little bit of harshness wouldn't hurt, would it?

"When are you going to admit that the reason you can't sleep at night is not because of all the serial killers you claim I prevent you from catching?" You finally stand. You are a few inches shorter, yet you have never felt taller than you do right now.

You grit your teeth as you move closer to Aaron, almost a breath away, tiptoeing. "When will you admit that the mighty SSA Aaron Hotchner, unit chief, doesn't blink, not once, because he's afraid he'd become the very thing he promised to put away." You raise your brows, challenging him.

Aaron's face morphs into bewilderment and perturbation. His brows are sewn shut. His jawline pops out as he grinds his teeth.

Resentment. Fury. Vexation. Chagrin.

All Aaron felt was anger.

Antagonized.

A walking tower of pure acrimony, finger-pointing towards the innocent.

"Don't you dare compare me to those— I'm anything but." He towers over you, losing his words through the stream of lividity flooding all over his senses.

"Do you really believe that?"

Aaron studies your face. It's different. It's raw and maimed. A squeeze of guilt whispers, but he shoves it quickly.

"What did you write?" He asks once more, earning a scoff out of you.

You step back, staring straight into his glare. Crossed arms tight against your chest. Brows rest over your deadpan eyes.

"While SSA Aaron Hotchner is proficient at his skills and rather placid in physically and mentally challenging situations, I strongly recommend further evaluation in psychotherapy as his emotional capacity is at its limits. The stress accumulated from the job itself has given him little to no time to allow himself the indulgence to properly process certain impacts of the stimulus he encounters on the job. Will update after further observation. Is what I wrote… so far."

You pause.

"Aaron Hotchner is an insufferable, pompous idiot who's afraid of nothing but himself. He is incapable of stepping off his pedestal and refuses to cooperate while complaining about the consequences he himself caused. He has been through enormous trauma. It will be torture to try and help him cope properly. I do not want him in my care as he is a danger to his own progress, and I don't want any part of it. Is what I wanted to write."

Silence.

For him to reflect.

For you to breathe.

Aaron's frozen before you. A pale statue bleached under the moon's harsh reality. Words that used to be superficial insecurities float in the wind of truth, forming into a cage he's sentenced for life.

Your fuse still runs—a long time coming from two months of his deliberate disrespect. The silence annoys you, so you break it. "Excuse my hostility. No one's invaded my privacy and barged into my household at such an unreasonable hour before." The impassive smile on your lips can haunt anyone.

Maybe you've gone too far.

Maybe it's evil to say such blunt things to someone fragile.

But Aaron started the countdown. He lit the fuse. Now, you're exploding right before his eyes, reaping what he sowed. And he's forced to eat up all the debris.

His eyes twitch, scanning your face for any sign of bluff, any sign of fallacy. Any sign that he successfully pissed you off and your words were nothing but overwhelmed impulse.

"I—" he closes his mouth, then agape. Any sign. Aaron will take anything besides the forthright expression on your face. He inhales, "I'm sorry." The sound dies before it can roll off his tongue.

It's like watching a bully shrink into the tiniest man who's ever lived.

Okay, maybe you were a little bit brutal.

You gulp as guilt creeps along your veins, wishing that someone out there would just do you both a favor and snipe you out before the embarrassment settles.

Drawing in a gentle breath, you take another step back from Aaron with a delicate voice, "You're not starting a new evaluation, but you're not done either. I transferred you under someone else's care because of personal reasons. My life doesn't revolve around you, Mr. Hotchner. So, if you have nothing else to say, go home." Your eyes drift to the vast selection of objects in your living room to diffuse the growing pity you can't help but harbor.

Only then does Aaron discern his impulsivity. Internally arguing with himself as he allows himself to look at you. One thing he's never done since the moment he met you with screwed brows and unwavering bias. His gaze instantly softens like a thick fog around him finally dissipates. Like he's achieved a clearer vision.

The first thing he notices is the state of your face. The dry mascara that drew faded stripes down your cheeks. Your puffy eyes are now faint pink, but he recalls them being red when he arrived.

Then Aaron brings his attention to your black dress. It's a simple formal, mesh midi dress, but he admits how it elegantly fits you. But he doesn't say it aloud because there's only one reason why you'd wear such an article of depressing clothing.

As if your words and his own realizations aren't enough, he gets a glimpse of the clock on your wall that reads 12:03 AM.

His blood suddenly stops flowing—skin clammy and pale. Aaron's lightheaded from guilt and penitence.

Without another word, you lead him towards the door, swinging it open. The past 24 hours already drained you, and Aaron just about made it fifty times worse. All you wanted was to get a shuteye.

Aaron swallows the shame and makes his way out. Before he leaves, though, he turns to face you once more. Genuine curiosity pinches his brows.

"Why didn't you just clear me out like the others did if I was such a difficult case?" The word tastes bitter in his mouth. What used to be a desired flavor turned rotten on his palette.

He asks with utter softness, leaving you skeptical to respond.

"Same reason why you kept attending my sessions even though you clearly hated it." You slightly close the door, only leaving enough space for the two of you to see each other.

He looks at you like the answer's all over your face but written in some foreign language he's not familiar with. Aaron barely opens his mouth when you answer the question in his mind.

"You needed a place where you can just be."

The door shuts.

Friday, June 19, 11:02 PM

"I didn't know where to go."

You pore at Aaron Hotchner with nothing but a flimsy robe to prevent his imagination from going rampant—and dirty.

It's eleven in the evening. It's been one month since you last saw him. It's been a month since he barged into your apartment like an entitled brat. It's been a month since you let your emotions take over. It's been a month since the two of you revealed parts of yourselves either of you don't dare think of.

A month and no contact.

You didn't wonder; just hoped and prayed that Aaron finally finds it in him to let go of the emotional turmoil that's torturing the soul out of his body.

Sighing, you step aside and let him in, closing the door behind you like it's normal to stop by one's ex-psychiatrist's apartment in the middle of the night without prior notice and, most importantly, without meter to run the minutes he's inconveniencing you.

Aaron walks in, and the heavy humidity of arousal immediately hits him.

Oh.

Well...

If he had something to say, Aaron kept his mouth shut. He is at fault for driving straight to your place like he's your bestest friend. So, he doesn't mention it, ignoring the fact that you're barely clothed.

Besides, after your last interaction with him, Aaron's certain he didn't have any prerogative in how you'd like to spend your Friday evening.

"Take a seat. I'll be with you in a minute." Your steps are light behind him—feet nimbly grazing the wooden floor.

He turns to face you but quickly averts his gaze to avoid the glistening sight of your thighs. "Thank you..." He does his best to sound normal, choking in between syllables.

Aaron begins to regret his decision. Though, not enough to leave your place.

You disappear in the corner of the hallway. Allowing Aaron to finally release the breath he didn't know he was holding.

With you out of sight, his mind deliberately wanders...

What were you doing?

Aaron shakes his head vigorously like a worm under a storm of salt. The thought is undiscovered—untouched territory, forbidden to be exact. Should he form such thoughts, he'll do it somewhere else or rather about someone else.

Just as he caters to the sudden dizziness caused by his action, a man, half-dressed, walks past him, cursing under his breath and buttoning his shirt. Aaron's eyes widen a little, keeping his stoic face.

Oh, that's what you were doing.

Ick—as Aaron would like to call your visitor—had brown and curly, unruly hair. He was tall and definitely had a face, which, Aaron assumes, is nothing like the one he envisioned you're attracted to.

Somehow not a pleasant discovery compared to what he attempted to imagine—you, alone.

Ick looks at Aaron with a scoff echoing out of his throat, "Oh, what a surprise! She's a slut." He states smugly.

"Or she just wants someone better." The words spill out without hesitation, fired on sight. Aaron doesn't know where the boldness came from as he leans against the seat with a cocky smirk on his face. Definitely no more perplexed than the uncertainty of anger boiling inside of him. He glares at the man either way.

The man scoffs again before leaving with a couple more insults that Aaron thinks he's lucky to whisper, or your visitor would've left your apartment in an ambulance.

Ick slams the door, shaking the vase on the accent chest by the entrance.

Where did that come from?

He's questionably not as big of a hater as he was before, but Aaron can't determine the motivation that made him act the way he just did with a person who has business with you, which he should have no interest in.

Moments later, you come back, fully clothed, in an oversized hoodie and a pair of wide-leg linen pants. Comfy and a 180 contrast on how you dress at work, plus the garments you had on minutes ago.

You make a beeline to your kitchen, "Water or scotch?" You holler out, opening cabinets with a creek on their hinges.

The question is rhetorical. You place a glass with brown liquid glinting under the warm ambient light on the coffee table in front of Aaron, then plop on the armchair across from him, catering your own glass.

He stares between you and the glass while you kiss yours, never breaking your gaze. You hum in delight, making a popping sound with your lips.

Aaron opens his mouth and then closes it, falling into a cycle like a fish underwater. How should he explain himself? How does one explain why they're bothering their ex-psychiatrist past working hours? After making a scene a month ago? He swallows the thick void in his throat.

"Don't talk, just drink. Sit here for an hour. Then, go home." You say, opening up a book that's been sitting on the table since he arrived.

Aaron feels a surge of relief. He reaches for the drink and lets the smoky taste trail down his throat without hesitation. He wouldn't have guessed you as a fan of scotch—or anything not clear or fruity. This is the first he's seen you without some sort of filter he can't read through, and the observation prints you under a new light.

The silence comforts him. The occasional scrape of paper against paper with each flip of a page provides him reassurance. The company he finds within your presence gives him solace.

You let him be. Asked no questions, reading in peace like he was just any other friend who needed company.

He does as you said. Indulging in the hour of tranquility and stillness. His nerves tame. And he forgets why he went to you in the first place.

Why did he go to you?

Of all people. Of all the friends he brags about. The family he cherishes. His feet dragged—drove him to you.

The onerous unit chief chose to wander to your front door, sipping scotch as he enjoyed the silence and absence of others' guilting worry and constant craving to make him feel better when all he wanted was peace and letting the ache pass in gradual acceptance.

By the end of the hour, you call him a cab with the instructions for him to pick up his car the next day.

Aaron slept effortlessly that night.

Saturday, October 24, 9:24 PM

Aaron expected some sort of rejection or for you to slam the door close, or worse, ignore him as soon as you see his face through the peephole.

One can only tolerate a couple of unannounced visits from an insufferable ex-patient, right? He's surprised you haven't called the cops on him.

He skims your face for any sign of irritation or annoyance as soon as you reveal yourself behind your door, standing next to it to give him way. Aaron saw nothing but impatience.

You knit your brows, slightly tilting your head at his frozen build outside the frame of your door. "Well? Are you stuck or something? Get in, Hotchner—" You turn before you can even finish talking, disappearing down the small entryway.

He turns deaf for a moment. Your voice rings in his ears as if a bomb had just popped the only working drum he had left.

Hotchner.

Agent.

Mister—

Just Hotchner.

One simple change, and the light above your head suddenly looks brighter.

Like he's found something good. Something he can say he knows. Something he can trust(?)

"Don't forget to take your shoes off and shut the door!" You holler from the living room—unfazed.

Aaron flinches, snapping out of his trance. He wonders where you'd gone to, furrowing his brows, and yet enters your apartment with the permission you'd given him. He closes the door, pivoting on the soles of his dress shoes as he tentatively takes them off per your instructions.

He emerges back in your peripheral while you stare at the screen on your laptop, blue-filtered glasses back on. Your fingers hammer on the keys, soft sighs slipping past your lips every once in a while.

You glance at Aaron when his figure stays at the corner of your eye, cupping a coffee mug between your hands. "There's fresh coffee if you'd like. Are you hungry? I don't usually eat dinner, so I have nothing ready to eat, but I can whip something up." You blow over the surface of caffeine, and steam wafts on the tip of your nose.

"No—" He shakes his head, scoffing in confusion, "I'm sorry—"

"Apology accepted," You muffle into the mug.

Aaron's brows connect tighter, and his forehead creases. He looks at you like he's under an illusion, a hypnotic dream he can't quite distinguish.

"Hold on," He hoists his hand up as if to pause a scene in the movie. "I'm very confused. What is going on? Why are you being… casual and nice?"

"You say it like I'm incapable of human decency." Your back makes contact with the cushion of your sofa, pulling your legs close to your chest while one hand holds the handle of your mug. You roll your eyes when Aaron only stares at you, "Are you uncomfortable? Do you want to leave?"

Aaron shakes his head.

"Problem solved, then?" Confusion is still fresh on his blank face. You mentally smack your forehead. "There are patients who lack temporal sense, but turning them away when they clearly need immediate tending to would be a form of negligence on my part. So, feel at home." You theatrically stretch your arms, offering every corner of your space as his own.

"But I'm not your patient anymore. I've been back on duty for weeks." Aaron informs. Although he finds a place for his go bag on your floor.

If you didn't know any better, you'd assume he's about to stay for a sleepover—coming to your apartment late at night.

You wrinkle your nose, "Okay?" You look around as if someone else is in the room with you two. "Is that why you went here? You wanted to brag?"

Three months.

Aaron's been back to his usual routine for the past three months. And it's been four since he drank scotch on the very couch you're comfortably in.

A chuckle.

The sound tickles your ears, filling you with unexpected pride.

"No," Aaron shakes his head as the chuckle resonates through his chest. "I… I don't really know why I came here, if I'm being honest." He swallows air.

You nod, setting your laptop back on your lap. "Like I said, you're free to feel at home. Scotch is in the third cupboard. Coffee's in the pot. I've got some stuff to take care of, so help yourself." Your eyes are already fixed on the screen, hands jumping from one key to the other.

With your permission, Aaron ventures into your kitchen. Neat. Clean. Cozy. He somehow imagines you cooking as a hobby.

He settles for coffee. Asking you from the kitchen island if you'd like a refill—which you took without a thought, hoisting your cup up—and taking out a couple of his files to get a head start on his paperwork. He wasn't allowed to bring them outside the bureau's building, but it didn't matter at the moment.

Your apartment becomes a haven.

Aaron, for the first time in years, feels comfortable to slouch. He had no collection of when and how, but turns out he'd changed into a quarter-zip and one of his pajamas tucked in his go bag through the hours.

The two of you silently took care of your own thing until 1 AM strikes, and a yawn pulls you back into the earth.

You turn your head towards the kitchen to find Aaron scribbling over your kitchen island. He's sipping coffee—a fresh batch he made not long ago.

Stretching, you make your way past him. After placing the mug into the sink, you lean against it, crossing your arms as you stare at him. "Ten."

"What's that?" Aaron halts on his seat, lifting his head to look at you.

"I'm granting you ten visits," You announce.

"And that means?.."

Your face deadpans, and he does well at stifling a smile. "You can come here whenever you want—need, but only for ten free visits. It doesn't matter if it's late, too early, or unreasonable. I'm allowing you to knock on my door whenever you need. Any more than that, you have to attend my sessions in my office, where I get paid."

"What's the catch?" Aaron entwines his eyebrows, straightening his back as he props on the edge of the counter.

"No catch. Just one condition," You shift your weight on your other leg, "Don't come empty-handed. Food, drink, things, a person, anything. Bring something." Your brows hang on your forehead, anticipating any type of response.

Aaron weighs his choices. Calculated every possible outcome and benefit. He meets your eyes again. Index and thumb rubbing the growing stubble on his chin.

"Ten's a good number," He says as he nods.

Wednesday, March 2, 7:31 PM

Eleven months pass by in the blink of an eye.

It's the seventh time Aaron showed up without warning, and by this point in whatever acquaintance you two had, you aren't fazed or surprised anymore.

The fourth time he knocked on your door, he was carrying a hefty price of whiskey. An odd reason for a psychiatrist and a former patient to bond with, but you had no qualms about sipping neat whiskey that night.

At first, he stayed for an hour. Then, an hour turned into three. One time, a case hit too deep, and three became seven, but that only happened once—all you remember was a Wednesday night.

"Are you okay?"

Gentle sighs escape shivering lips. Tears pooling deep inside sockets.

One sharp sniff breaks it all.

You sob under Aaron's worried eyes as your grip on the knob almost snaps it off the door.

His brows twists and he reflexively yanks you by the back of your head into his chest, bringing you out of your apartment and into the complex's hallway.

"What happened?" He carefully inquires while he rests his chin atop your head.

You're a mess in his arms. Uncontrollable whimpers muffled in his soaked chest.

Aaron suggested that you two step inside for more privacy and heat, but he didn't complain when you two stayed frozen in the end of winter evening.

When it stops. The suffocating ache. You lightly push yourself off him, wiping the leftover tears off your cheeks—half of it already dampened his shirt.

Fifty-three minutes and seventeen seconds.

You cried to the point of dehydration.

"Sorry," you mutter, eyes down. "We should go inside if we don't want to catch hypothermia." You sniffle.

"Oh, we don't want that," Aaron attempts to joke, closely observing whether you'd react to it.

You didn't.

He closes the door behind him, following your figure as you practically drag yourself to your unofficial designated spot on the sofa.

"I know I'm the last person you'd want to hear this from, but would you like to talk about it?" He bites his inner cheek.

Nothing.

You only mold yourself into a ball.

Aaron hesitates whether to stay or leave you alone. It's true that you said he's welcome anytime, but you're definitely in no condition to entertain his own problems when you can't even look him in the eye the way you would, no matter how insufferable he is.

But he can't just leave you by yourself either. Nothing is stopping him, but he's not cold-blooded enough.

"It's not easy," Aaron fractures out of his trance at the sound of your small voice. You look at him with a tight-lipped smile. "This job, I mean."

You inhale a sharp breath, tucking your lower lip between your teeth. "I can be hopeful, positive, supportive… Everything to prove that a better life is possible, but at the end of the day, it's not my choice." You wryly chuckle. "It's the patient's. It's your decision to want to feel better. To want to change. To want to live—" You choke, and the tears flow once more.

"It's not about me, but I can't help feeling like a failure." Sobs spill off your lips, gasping for air. "I was supposed to make everything better. I was supposed to heal everyone and save everyone from whatever monster was hurting them. She said she's never felt so much better. She said it's the first time she felt so peaceful for years, Hotchner. She said she was looking forward to our next session. But she just… I didn't—" You gulp—struggling. "I didn't catch it. I didn't catch her lie. And hours later, I get a call from her mother telling me she— she died." Your hands shakily clasp your mouth to push the sobs back, but you fail.

Aaron doesn't know what to say.

But he knows what to feel.

He knows it well.

The guilt. The shame of never living up to your own promise. The pain of losing someone you swore to keep safe.

Then, it hits him like a wrecking ball.

How difficult of a patient was he before?

Has he ever made you cry before?

It's a stretch that you'd ever shed a tear over his stubbornness, but Aaron hopes you never did.

Because he's never seen anyone care so much despite getting all the hate. Despite taking all the blame. You stood your ground and became other people's foundation. You became their comfort.

You became the only thing that gave him serenity.

With the little time he's known you—a total of 43 genuine friendly hours—Aaron can testify in heaven that they had mistakenly dropped you into the earth. And he's never felt blessed to have someone like you. Never felt lucky enough to find someone with who he could feel broken as much as he could but never needed to save face.

So, he's heartbroken for you. And guilty that more than half of the time you'd known him, he made your passion a miserable experience.

And also guilty of developing feelings for you.

Saturday, August 13, 4:16 PM

"I'm not playing favorites, but your tech analyst definitely deserves better than being cooped up in the bureau's building." You say, plopping on the sofa with a soft bounce and a squeak from the coil spring.

Aaron hands you a glass of bourbon while sipping his own. Eyes fixated on the board on your coffee table. "I have no other choice. It's the only way to keep her safe. Unless you're willing to adopt her, I don't want to hear it." He chuckles, connecting his brows at the sight of your winning streak.

You two are playing Scrabble. It was Monopoly twenty minutes ago, but along the lines, you learned how butt-hurt a six-foot and two-inch man can get. Not an enlightening experience. It would have been two stars if you had to rate it.

So, you switched to Scrabble.

And Aaron is losing again.

Boy, were you so entertained.

He just came back from a fairly short case from Los Angeles. The case is not heavy or mentally draining—according to Aaron, but Jack's at a two-day sleepover, and Aaron has no idea how to spend the rest of his day—turning down Derek Morgan's and David Rossi's invitation to grab a drink at O'Keefe's with you in mind.

Aaron leans on the back of his seat. You don't know when your reclining armchair became his designated seat, but you noticed how lax he is in it and didn't question it further.

Months and months of relaxing stillness in your home—only ever full of bizarre surprises and irresistible joy whenever Aaron knocks at your door. With no means of communication or ever seeing each other at either workplace, Aaron's visits are welcomed but never fully anticipated. Thrilling.

Spelling the word 'loser' on the board with triple points, you bite the tissue inside your lower lip. "Maybe you can play Scrabble with her. Who knows, maybe you'll get lucky and win." You grin smugly at him.

Aaron gapes at you with a mixture of disbelief and merriment. He looks down on the flat entertainment, then back to you as he blinks. "You're cheating." He declares, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

A hearty laugh Aaron's never heard before roars out of you, and it's melodic to his ears. The meringue light spills through the forgotten open blinds of your window, painting your face with a dreamy filter. Aaron feels dizzy at the sight.

Your smile is contagious, and out of nowhere, his heart starts to pick up as if he'd caught whatever illness your radiant lips had by only staring at it. The loose hair over your forehead frames your face differently—different good. Like you'd been glowing, and the watts in your core mysteriously increased, so you're as bright as the sun and as warm as its light.

"You're just a sore loser. Suck it up, Hotchner." You shake with mirth, casually running dainty fingers along the curve of your ear.

"Aaron," He blurts too fast, too soon—too late to take back.

With a nonchalant shrug, you rephrase, "Suck. It. Up. Aaron." Much more emphasis and friskiness.

You tease him more about his lack of greatness in board games compared to his undeniable talent in every case the BAU encountered. But Aaron's already dazed by your lips calling his name.

Without either of you realizing it, 4 PM became AM.

Talk about abusing one's privileges. Aaron's moderately good at that. You conclude he's simply a strutting opportunist.

After the longest winning streak you've ever had in your life, you and Aaron decided to take a much-needed break and fell into silent reading—or, in your case, grooming your schedule for the next five months.

Midnight strikes along the grumble of Aaron's stomach. You two were too quiet. It echoed all over your apartment. Both of you fell into an obstreperous fit of laughter for another hour, stopping for a minute in between only to laugh some more as soon as you met each other's eyes.

Now, it's four in the morning. You're busy munching on Chinese takeout from a 24-hour restaurant Aaron called in. He claims he has handsome privilege courtesy of the owner, which you mockingly laughed at, to his dismay.

"I'm still terrified." He blurts.

The case must've been very difficult, then. He lied yesterday. However, at this point in your friendship, you expect him to do so, even if it's obvious.

You'd long given up on coaxing Aaron to talk about the case that brought him to your office. Or any other cases that got him knocking on your door at the most unreasonable hour. You thought that the best you could offer him was the comfort that no matter how beaten up he looked, you'd ask no questions and let him sort his boggled mind until he was ready to talk about it.

Looks like tonight's the moment. It only took more than a year, so it is not a big deal—to either of you, at least.

He looks at you when you remain quiet, silently asking for your permission. You nod, and he continues, "What Peter Lewis did to me was terrorizing. I always wonder whether I'm making the right decision or sending my agents straight to their deaths. I second guess. I'm scared that a part of him is still in my head, driving me to make a fatal mistake." Aaron starts playing with his food, poking an orange chicken with his chopsticks.

The memory brings a tangy taste to his tongue, and Aaron can't help but cringe. It's the first time he's ever talked about Peter Lewis. Granted, Aaron spoke about the event numerous times but never about how it made him feel. Never how it broke him.

Is it weird to say you're a little proud of Aaron?

Of course, you don't tell him that. Not out loud. You know he knows you're proud of him. And that's enough said.

With a few audible chews—caused by a carrot bit stuck between your teeth—that somehow doesn't piss Aaron off, you swallow the food and draw your lips into a thin line. You place the chopsticks on the side, wiping the rim of your mouth.

You know he's watching you. Anticipatingly waiting for a response for anything other than the silence he's accustomed to.

"Breathe," You gently instruct, clear enough for him to hear but not too loud for Aaron to jump in shock.

And he does.

His shoulder blades rise and fall into a soft rhythm. Aaron was holding his breath, and you knew. Of course, you knew.

"Do you know the purpose of defense mechanisms?" You quiz him, earning a nod from Aaron, and yet no following answer. "You were already mad at me even before we met. And for what? Nothing concrete, I'm sure."

Aaron was about to object, but you raised your hand to stop him, "I'm not trying to attack you. All I'm saying is that rather than being in denial, you displaced your frustration on someone else less threatening—me."

Silence.

"I'm sorry—"

"I'm not done, shush!" You close your fist to mute him, cutting him off.

Aaron subtly rolls his eyes. He started doing so on his fifth visit when Aaron brought Jack and a few video games.

He told you that Jack's heard about your interest in a couple of games and wanted to play with you, but you know damn well Aaron bought the game for himself. Nonetheless, you entertained them by teaming up with Jack and obliterating Aaron. He vowed never to play against you ever again, at least not to your face.

"I would never know the pain and suffering that you went through. And somehow, even with that fact, a part of your life was in the palm of my hand. You had no control, but I did. So, instead of understanding the why, you hated the wrong who. And it's okay."

You take a sip from your straw, and a bubbly sensation fills you. Your tongue glides over your lips as you lean against the counter. "In short, for a man who's been through a lot, you know how to cope." A shrug ends your sentence, grabbing another bite of chow mein on your plate.

"Yeah, right," Aaron scoffs. The sincerity in your voice sparks something in him. It's giddy and tempting. But he can't possibly show the smile that's itching to spread his lips.

But his nonchalance may have triggered something in you because Aaron doesn't expect your next move. His neck felt like a snapped glow stick after you manually turned his head to face you—grabbing him by the space between his neck and chin. Aaron widens his eyes in the process.

"Listen here, you stubborn poopy head." You start, forehead creasing.

Aaron badly wanted to poke fun at your poor, intimidating skills, but he realized you didn't need any pointers just by the glare in your eyes.

"Peter Lewis got to your head, but that doesn't mean you were weak to let him. Yes, you fought through the influence of the drug heroically. Yes, you saved your agents and, most importantly, yourself. But it's still okay to be scared. It's okay that you feel broken. Who says broken things aren't great?"

It might be the sleep deprivation that's hitting Aaron, but he's very much enjoying your little fuse. How your words meant nothing like how you sound.

"That silver watch of yours—" you glance at his wrist "—has been broken for years, but I bet if you pawn it, it'll be more valuable than me. Antiques are expensive because they have unique histories. They survived beaten up, scratched, damaged, but still as beautiful as ever."

You're rambling, explaining more than you need to. Felt obligated to drill in his mind that despite the bad things, Aaron remains good. You're uncertain—clueless—as to why you felt the need to prove his praiseworthy, almost as if you're trying to convince yourself rather than him.

"From my observation, you're a sharper profiler despite all the things you went through. A part of you suffered and died in that house and many houses before. Of course, you'll be broken. You're a human being, Aaron. Act like one for Pete's sake!"

"I don't know whether you're being nice or mean." He chuckles with a mischievous grin, marveling at the way your eyes narrow as you look at him.

"I liked you better when you didn't talk." You tut, rolling your eyes.

For a moment, your senses heighten, and the simple brush of his hand against the skin over your wrist, as he takes your hold off him, sends billions of electricity throughout your body.

Aaron smiles—genuinely. "Thank you," He says softly, clearing his throat. His hand is still tight around your wrist. "You simply could've slammed the door the first time I knocked, but you always let me in. I appreciate you tolerating me."

You laugh, retracting your hands off his skin before you melt in his grasp. "I did not let you in the first time. You barged in like I'm some fugitive." You fix your posture on the stool beneath you, looking away.

His chuckle wakes the butterflies in your stomach, and you shove them right back down by stuffing your mouth with food.

Your eyes catch a glimpse of the time, "Y-you better go home and change before your son wonders why his father smells like Chinese food for Sunday brunch. Jack's a big fan of good 'ole syrupy pancakes, there's a good one by the bureau's building. Better hurry up and pick him up." It's amazing how much you almost choked and stuttered as you spoke, hoping that Aaron wouldn't question the way your demeanor changed.

Aaron takes one last bite before towering next to you, "Let me clean up. It's the least I can do for imposing half of your weekend." He insists, swiping the styrofoam off your hands.

"Glad you got manners," You nod approvingly, earning another chuckle from him, making sure you gave him enough space to move around without brushing any part of your body, or you wouldn't know what the brewing feeling in your chest would make you do.

You mindlessly peer at Aaron's broad shoulders and dark hair that looks so soft you wonder if it'll melt with your touch. You blink, catching yourself mid-swoon.

After a few minutes, Aaron bids you goodbye and you wish him well, asking to relay a short message to Jack.

"I think you're only nice to me because of Jack," He jokes, pivoting on the heel of his shoes to get one last glimpse of you.

You give him a tight smile, raising your brows as you shrug.

One visit left.

Thursday, May 5, 12:51 PM

The news said Mr. Scratch escaped prison. Peter Lewis is out and about, no doubt, planning serious harm against Aaron. You turn the TV off. The image shrinks into a small diamond spark 'til it leaves a dark screen.

Ninety-eight beats per minute are your normal, but you surmise it's about a hundred and twelve at the moment as your mind anxiously ruminates your not-so-favorite-unofficial patient's well-being.

You glance at your phone, debating whether to give him a call, but even if you gain the guts to do so, you don't have his number. Who knew that refusing personal contacts would backfire? Aaron can knock anytime, you said. It doesn't matter whether he texts or calls before, you said.

Now, you have no means of contacting him, and you refuse to resort to his ways—going through his file like he went through yours.

It's a shitty feeling.

You keep your fingers as far away from your mouth as possible, afraid you'll bite your nails to its quick. If Aaron was with you, he'd say something annoyingly witty about how your anxiety's too easy to read, and you'd be bantering back a remark about his tells that not many notice but sure slightly pisses him off that you know him like the back of your hand.

Eyes dart in the direction of your entryway, waiting for any distinctive sound only Aaron makes whenever he closes the door like a teenager coming home past curfew.

"This is driving me crazy!" You ruffle your own hair, rubbing your face in frustration.

Tempted to wait outside your door for Aaron to arrive, in need of a company. A once-in-a-lifetime bone-crushing hug, given by yours truly. Or open up the 1997 Old Forester bourbon on top of your shelf that Aaron's been eyeing for a year.

You need to know if he's okay. You need to see that he's okay. Physically, mentally, and emotionally okay.

No one ever knocked.

Friday, November 18, 2:33 PM

"Aren't you curious?"

You look at Rossi, "About?" Your eyebrows pinch together. You backtrack the entire session in your mind, trying to remember if there is anything you are supposed to be curious about.

There's none.

Rossi turns to face you, a hand emerging out of his pocket. "You're not curious where he's been? I've known him for years, and I've never been more curious about his whereabouts 'til now." The hand waves around as each syllable flows, and slices the air every emphasis he makes like a conductor of his emotions.

He usually talks with his hand whenever he's emotionally troubled, attempting to make a point to himself, justifying that his feelings are reasonable.

David Rossi has been your patient for years; you can write any and everything about him into a best-selling book.

"You said it yourself, Dave," You shrugged with your arms. "You've known him for years. He and I saw each other a couple of times during our physician-patient interaction. Any interaction we had after is just the two of us drowning in silence."

Aaron never knocked that day.

He hasn't redeemed his last visit for the past five months. While it isn't the longest time he's never stopped by, you're bitter about it.

You couldn't sleep for a week after Peter Lewis escaped prison. You were afraid that Aaron's name would flash across any type of screen or mark a headline on every article and newspaper. You had to take anxiety medication to stop your body from trembling whenever the thought of him crossed your mind.

It was hell.

The utter hopelessness and lack of courage teared you apart. The strangeness. The nonexistence. You don't reckon a conversation with Aaron that involves you and him. Only you or him or whatever depressing topic comes up. You're not even sure if you had actual conversations. Always wallowing in silence while sipping either scotch or coffee.

But you two had a deal. No catch. Not even feelings. Developing one for Aaron did not cross your mind when you granted him the power to bother you at any running time.

All of it is to say you wish you had known Aaron's last visit was, in fact, the last.

Rossi squints, "You're telling me the quietness you shared didn't matter? That his company didn't benefit you the same way it did for him?" He stands tall, pleased with his words.

It did.

Of course, it did.

And you loved every second of it.

Even if you realize it too late.

But you won't say that to Rossi. Or to anyone ever.

A sigh drops your shoulders. You give him a blank stare, letting his question hover for a moment. "What do you want me to say?" You continue packing up your things on your desk, breaking eye contact.

If you knew David Rossi like the back of your hand, David Rossi knew you like every family of the victims he managed to save.

Worried.

Heartbroken.

Hurt.

Aaron never told Rossi about any interactions with you after he was released from your care. It's information Rossi's only ever heard a confirmation from you. But he knew it from the moment Aaron came to work after his first session with you and couldn't seem to get the specific idea of you out of his head.

"We're doing everything we can to catch Peter Lewis. Aaron will be back, I promise."

Pause.

You fight your every single sense to remain composed. Hearing Aaron's name instantly made you crumble. The sound of it hitting your chest with such force you had to bite the tissue behind your closed lip. You badly wanted—needed to cry and throw a tantrum.

The inner ends of your brows lift up as you nod, "Good for you... and for him. I'll see you in two weeks, Dave." You dismiss, walking around your desk to push him out of your office.

"Wait, wait! Just listen!" You retract your hands off his back and let him face you. "He's okay. He and Jack are safe somewhere I, unfortunately, don't know." He tries to meet your gaze—successful. "But! But that's a good thing. Not knowing where he is while in protective custody is good. Safe. I just thought you'd want to know."

You nod, "Certainly a good information, Dave. But not really necessary." Your tongue subtly swipes the bottom of your lips. "Aa—Agent Hotchner was a patient. Anything outside of that is not my business." Liar.

Rossi tucks his mouth into a thin line, nodding. "See you in two weeks, kid."

Tuesday, March 27, 6:12 PM

It's a nice Spring.

Your hair dances like the breeze is music as you trudge back to your apartment against the rush hour sidewalk traffic.

A year and a half.

You moved to a different place since then.

Moved on— from something that never existed, but really, your old complex just ran out of business.

You couldn't possibly move on, even if you wanted to.

"Good evening, Mrs. Willows," You smile at the old lady as she steps on the base of the stairs.

Mrs. Willows was old, close to ninety. And she's the best landlady you've ever met.

She smiles back, "Oh, just in time!" She waddles towards you, scraping the soles of her flats against the creaky floorboards.

"Did you need anything, Mrs—"

The old lady doesn't let you finish when she yanks you back up the stairs. Confusion fills you, but if you are being honest, you're more amazed by her speed. You didn't know it was possible for her to have that much energy.

"There's this handsome boy knocking at your door earlier. So, I let him in."

You dig your feet on one of the steps, halting her. "Mrs. Willows, you let a stranger in my house?" Your brows knit.

She looks at you, "Well, I figured it's one of your patients." She shrugs.

"I wasn't expecting any home visit today." You announce, peeking at the top of the stairs. "And I would've been home if there was…"

You excuse yourself, cautiously walking towards your door. The floor plan is different from your old apartment. But everything still felt the same.

The anxiety of a random stranger going through your place left you rushing to the living room. You don't exactly let any random patient inside your home. It's usually the profilers that seem to have a liking to you that lucked the privilege to visit your home at any given time.

"I'm sorry, but you're gonna have to set an appointment at the clinic—" you abruptly stop, blinking.

Aaron Hotchner.

He's sat on the armchair, only lifting his gaze after he'd closed the book you were reading before you decided to step out to run some errands.

He is wearing a navy blue quarter zip sweater and a white shirt, peeking from under. It's paired with loose-fitting gray casual pants. Like his closet had an upset stomach and threw up all over him.

The bags under his eyes are almost invisible. It used to be a tint of greenish purple. A proof of his late nights and stressful days. He's caught up with sleep for a while now.

His hair, a little longer than you're accustomed to, somehow made him look young and boyish. Probably why Mrs. Willows referred to him as a boy.

It's quite an image. Not one you'd expect to see upon opening your front door, but you mentally admit liking it.

He looks refreshing and well-rested.

"I heard you started your own practice?" He didn't mean to form it as a question, tongue-tied by nervousness. He flashes an awkward, subtle smile, dipping his hands into his pockets.

Your lashes flutter like butterflies gliding through the soft wind of Spring, except you're struggling to go against the breeze, winded by the city pollution.

"H-have you eaten?" You ask, snapping out of your trance as you head to the kitchen. Great. A question for a question. You're as nervous as he is, and you don't feel the need to hide it, though you aren't inclined to admit it.

He chuckles, and it still makes you melt after a year of trying to remember how it sounds, "That's your first question? Not 'What are you doing here?' or 'How did you find me?'" He follows you to the kitchen, it's a lot smaller than the one at your old place but you had a dinner table now, which still feels like an upgrade.

You turn and face him, leaning against the counter, "I'll just charge the entire team on their next visit. But I have a feeling David's the culprit." You blurt, earning raised brows from Aaron. "Oh? They didn't tell you? Your team unofficially designated me as their psychiatrist. I guess they also kept an important information from you." You twist on your feet to focus on the produce you carefully picked in hopes someone would join you for dinner.

But you didn't expect Aaron to be that person.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No!" You almost stumble as you spin back to face him. "I'm in no position to be mad. If a patient doesn't need my services, then I have no say." You lick the lower of your lip, biting it as soon as your tongue glides past. Heat pooling in the back of your eyes.

Aaron steps closer, "I didn't mean to—"

"I told you I'm not mad."

"You're really going to lie to an FBI profiler?"

"Former," You correct him, sniffing as you fight the tears from rolling down your cheeks. Your head's tilted up, almost facing the ceiling. Anger and frustration hammer into your chest.

He rolls his eyes, trying to catch yours. "Former, right." He parrots with a little more sarcasm. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you anything... I needed to make sure Jack's safe." He softly speaks, making sure you understand every syllable.

It's your turn to roll your eyes, blinking and letting a tear fall in the process. "You don't have to apologize for protecting your son. I'm not evil, Hotchner. I'll do the same thing for my family. I'm completely indifferent about your disappearance, and i-it's allergy season. I'm fine." You wipe the tear stain off your face.

"I missed hearing you say my name like it's a foul word." Aaron smiles so brightly you thought you were dead and some divine was just using his image to guide you across.

"Seriously? That's what you took from it?" You shake your head, turning your back to him once more. "I feel bad for Jack now that you're a full-time father."

Aaron laughs, and by definition. "Oh, he's had enough of me." His eyebrows jump on his forehead, drifting his eyes aside as if he's replaying every instance Jack's complained to him.

You laugh, too. A full hearty laugh that seems to source from the casualty between the two of you despite the irritation you felt.

It's still the same. The ease. The effortless flow and connection despite anxious nerves. It felt like talking to an old friend you've known longer than you are alive.

You nibble on your lips, "So? You're off protective custody, or do I have to call you Brad?" You quiz airily, back still facing him to hide any form of amusement that's forming on your facial features.

"Brad?" He scoffs, crossing his arms and knitting his brows. He sounds about offended as if you'd disrespected his entire bloodline.

"Yeah, you look like a Brad to me." You remember a story from the women in the BAU. One that they happily shared one evening at Rossi's before they all begged to be added to your list of patients once you start your private practice.

Aaron lets out another scoff. "No, I'm just Aaron. Aaron to everyone. Aaron to you." He grumbles something under his breath that you don't hear, but a clear indication of his disapproval regarding the name.

You stifle a giggle, "Well, just Aaron. Consider yourself lucky that I got a free slot. I would've been with a patient by now." You state.

"Am I really just a patient to you?" Aaron inquires from behind you. He attentively observes for any subtle movement or expression in your voice. There's a longing look in his eyes that you aren't aware of. A frown drops his lips as he adds, "I at least thought we were friends."

"Mm," You hum a chuckle, "More like my stalker. But sure, we'll go with yours... friends—"

He spins you by the waist, and you're not sure if your initial thought of dreaming is ending anytime soon as your body tenses under his hold.

A small yelp squeaks out of you, hands flying behind you on the counter as if to hold yourself up from your wobbly feet. And you're certain both of you can hear the loud pulse on your carotid.

"Hotchner, what the hell?!" You chastise, pulling back, but to no avail. Caged and pinned by his strength, and you're too baffled to react accordingly.

"I'd like to redeem my tenth visit." Aaron smiles from ear to ear. You never thought it possible for a stern-faced man to ever grin this wide. To ever be this bright and bubbly.

Aaron keeps the two of you that way for a few minutes. His face is a few inches from yours. You can hear him calculating in his head.

Only the busy street outside and one of your neighbor's loud TV fills the silence.

"Your pupils are dilated." Aaron grins mischievously. He further scans your face, the same way he did when he used to be your patient, reading you like it's his job to know every micro-movement and expression you make.

Your eyes widen, "Stop—" Your voice barely comes out, breath hitching halfway through your throat. "—profiling me." The space between you and his body feels suffocatingly good. It's making you dizzy.

"Usually, you're composed, but you can barely look me in the eyes." His hands remain on your hips, and every twitch of it makes you stiff like a statue. "Am I making you nervous?" He quips wittily.

Like a switch, your heart rate steadies, and his image becomes clear.

It's Aaron Hotchner.

Just Aaron, he said.

Warmth surges through your veins. You stare at the grin on his face.

Your head tilts, and you blink excruciatingly slow. "Are you trying to ask me out, Hotchner?" You mirror the trail of his eyes like a map.

Aaron beams like he'd won the lottery. Sending you impulsive thoughts such as kissing the smile off his face.

It's tempting and nauseating.

And if he doesn't stop, you just might.

"Ten."

Your eyebrows merge in confusion, "What?"

"Ten dates," He breathes as he looks you in the eye. "Let me take you out on ten dates. Then you can decide if I'm just one of your many stubborn patients or if I can be more. Let me make it up to you in ten dates. Please." He implores, hopeful, or rather knowing that you'd say yes.

And he'd be right.

All you want at that moment is to say yes.

But teasing him won't hurt, at least not you.

"And what's in it for me?" You try your best not to smile as you taunt him.

Aaron rolls his eyes, but his grin tugs the corner of his lips up. "You get unlimited access to me?"

"Wow, that's... very compelling." And you burst out laughing, folding on your stomach as you lean against his chest. You inhale, "Sorry, I expected better negotiation. Uh, any catch?" You say between chuckles.

He shakes his head, "Just one condition," He's chuckling now, too. Not immune from your contagious giggles. "I spend most of my days with you. Even if it's just sitting in silence. I want it to be with you." He lets go of one of your hips and tucks a strand behind your ear.

The giggles die down a bit, gazing at him with reverie. You nod after a few seconds, squeezing his arms. You lift yourself, tiptoeing, closing the gap.

You leave a quick, soft peck on his lips, smiling as you get back on your feet.

Aaron smiles, and you're as ecstatic as he is.

Another nod fills your chest with utter joy as you breathe in euphoria.

"Ten's a good number."

[swarvey]

how they would propose | sdv bachelors x g/n!reader | part two

-> summary: in game, the farmer is always the one to present the mermaid's pendant to their lover — what if it was the other way around?

pt. 1

a/n: here are the rest of the boys! i'll do the bachelorettes next, i might do all of them in one post. sorry for the slow updates y'all <3

harvey

wants it to be a completely special, private moment between the two of you

he knows how prone he is to getting overly anxious about moments like this, so he prepares months beforehand

if there is one thing in life he refuses to mess up, it's his proposal to you

and what's more flawless than tying everything back to the start?

harvey smiles as he watches your eyes grow big, following the sun as it steadily heads for the horizon. the hot air balloon rises into the sky slowly, to his relief — a little extra time to prepare never hurts.

a couple seasons ago, on a rainy, fall day, harvey had told you he had some errands to run before heading down to the beach. he'd been slightly shocked to actually see the old mariner standing there in the rain, despite the speculations that had always circled around town. despite the fact he was apparently a ghost, he had actually been patient with harvey, answering all of his questions with wisdom and guidance.

after nearly two hours of standing under his umbrella, harvey had finally made up his mind, handing a small bag of coins to the old mariner in exchange for the pendant.

"took ya long enough," the older man huffed as he handed the necklace over.

now, harvey waits until the air balloon is higher up in the sky before gently reaching for your hand. you look at him, a small smile on your lips.

"are you enjoying this as much as the first time i brought you up here?" he asks sweetly.

"maybe a little more," you admit, looking over the side again. "i was a bit nervous coming up here in the first place, you know, and seeing you all stiff and anxious didn't help."

"you can hardly blame me!" he laughs. "my fear of heights is deathly, i only did it because you were there with me."

"yeah? and how about now?"

"well, nothing's changed, has it?" he squeezes your hand, looking down at your intertwined fingers. "you're still here."

"i am."

when his eyes meet yours again, he feels warmth bloom across his chest — the setting sunlight seems to make you glow, and he suddenly feels unstoppable.

you squint at him, trying to read his face. "you know," you start softly, "you have the same look on your face as you did back then."

"i do?"

"yeah, you do." you pause, watching as his other hand reaches for his pocket. "harvey, are you—"

"y/n," he interrupts, "that day, when the two of us were up here for the first time, i felt something i never did before — i felt brave, strong. i never thought i was capable of feeling that way, but you proved me wrong, as you always seem to do, and i can only hope i make you feel at least somewhat the same way." he inhales deeply, feeling his face burn red as he takes out his hand from this pocket and opens his fist, the mermaid's pendant gleaming in the light.

"harvey," you breathe, rendered speechless as your eyes widen even more than before.

"you mean the world to me and more, honey," he says quietly, and you can hear the tears he's holding back. "i promise i will do everything in my power to make you as happy as you've made me, so please . . .

"will you marry me?"

after a beat, you let go of his hand, and harvey's heart drops.

then, you grab the necklace and pull it over your head, watching as it shines against your neck.

"yes, harvey," you answer, smiling widely up at him. "the answer has always been a yes."

tears finally fall from his face as he gently kisses you, resting his forehead against yours before pulling you to his chest.

"thank you," he whispers. "i promise, i won't let you down."

you laugh. "this isn't a business contact, you know."

"i know, i know, it's just . . ." he grabs your hand again, pressing a firm kiss on the back of it. "you've already done so much for me, dear," he says, the sun finally dipping beneath the mountains.

"it's time for me to return the favor."

sam

bought it like a week ago since it happened to be raining and he was on the beach

i mean, you'll say yes, right? there's no reason for you not to. so why should he be nervous? he's not nervous at all. not one bit.

at least, that's what he keeps telling himself as he keeps scheduling a bunch of dates with you, thinking there'll be a moment during one of them when he'll make his move

(the moment has yet to come, by the way)

sam slaps his face sharply as he paces around his room, continuously glancing at the clock. he honestly can't believe the pendant is still in the small pouch his mom gave him and not around your neck — her scolds after he returned home with the necklace still in his hands for the fifth time rings in his ears.

"sam, this is an important moment in both of your lives!" she had said, hands sternly placed on her hips. "you can't keep making these plans, just to avoid them at the last second because you're scared. you need to go show them how much you love them, properly!"

he shivers. his mom rarely ever yells at him, so he knows she must have been serious. how was i supposed to know proposing would be this scary?

after realizing he was due to meet you in a few minutes, sam rushedly left his home, heading towards the park where he told you to meet him. he smiles as he sees you sitting on the swing, but before he can get a word out, you're standing up and walking to him, face scrunched in worry.

"sam, is everything alright?" you ask, fidgeting with your fingers. "i've been thinking about it, and you've been worrying me a bit."

"worrying? why?" he grabs the sides of your arms gently, tilting his head. "did i . . . do something wrong?"

"i mean, no?" you shake your head slightly, sighing. "it's just, you've been asking to do so many things, which is great! this just isn't what we normally do. i'm a little worried you're not telling me something."

"wh-what?" he stutters, huffing and shrugging his shoulders. "honestly, sweetheart, i have no idea what you're talking about, really. i mean, do i seem like the type to hide something from you?"

you stare at him blankly for a moment. then, you deflate, a twinge of sadness in your eyes.

"are you breaking up with me?" you question quietly. "is that what this is? because i'd really rather you not drag it on like this, sam—"

"whoa, whoa, what?! break up with you? are you crazy?" he half-shouts, his own heart breaking that he made you think that. "baby, no, i would never."

"i don't know what to think!" you exclaim, a sudden emotion taking over your voice. "you've been acting so odd recently, i didn't know what to think."

he shakes his head, letting out a deep sigh. guess this is what i get for not listening to mom.

"here, why don't i just show you?"

"what?"

trying his best to keep his hands from shaking, sam reaches into his back pocket, holding up the small pouch in front of you.

"you see, i, uh, have been trying to figure out the right way to give you this," he finally admits, running his other hand through his hair nervously. "every time we went out together, i thought i would figure it out, but i guess i couldn't. i'm sorry for worrying you, y/n, i really am — i hope you can forgive me, though, or else i seriously have no idea what i'll do with this."

you open your mouth to question him once more, but before you can ask, he opens the pouch and lets the mermaid's pendant fall into the palm of his hand.

"i love you so, so much, honey, more than my words can describe," he rushes passionately, voice determined as he bends his head down and lifts the pendant up. "all i know is, being with you makes everything feel new again. like, the music we listen to, the places we go, the food we eat, everything is better when i do it with you. if i'm being honest, i'm not a hundred percent sure what comes after this, but i do know that i think we'll be okay, as long as we're together." keeping his head down, mainly to hide his flushed face, sam lifts the necklace even higher. "i guess what i'm asking is, will you marry me, y/n?"

sam feels your hand cup his chin to tip his face back up, revealing to him your watery eyes and pink cheeks.

"of course i'll marry you, sam, that's all you had to ask," you say, laughing lightly.

he stands up straight suddenly, whooping and throwing his arms in the air before picking you up and spinning you around. after putting you down, he hastily puts the pendant around your neck and kisses you, feeling your hand entangle itself in his hair as he pulls you close.

"you're such a dork," you tease after pulling away. "what were you so nervous about?"

"what were you so nervous about?" he fires back, crossing his arms and raising a brow. "did you seriously think i would break up with you?"

"like you gave me a reason to believe otherwise! when have we ever gone on dates for an entire week straight? we usually just sit in your room!"

"hey, we do more stuff than that!"

you look at each other in annoyance for a moment before bursting into laughter. unbeknownst to the two of you, abigail and sebastian had seen the whole thing as they were passing by, looking at each other in amusement as they continue toward the town.

"they sound like a married couple already," seb grumbles, and abigail laughs.

"just shows they were meant to be."

sebastian

similar to harvey, he wants his proposal to be for your eyes only, so he decides to do it while the two of you are alone at the lake near his house

determined to do the whole thing by himself, but his mom ends up seeing the jewelry in his room

got the pendant the last summer, it’s the start of spring now

(he’s spent every night since then falling asleep with it in his hands)

sebastian waits for you anxiously near the edge of the water, looking at the pendant in his hand. part of him still can’t believe this is his reality — someone like him, getting married? he scoffs, covering the jewelry with his fist and looking out towards the lake. the water shines under the moonlight, soothing his heart just a bit.

“seb!”

just like that, his sense of peace is gone, blood rushing to his face as he turns to greet you. he smiles softly; you’re wearing one of the coats he gave you since it didn’t end up fitting him properly. he always thought you’ve looked good in his clothes.

“hey,” he greets, hugging you to his side and pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “how was your day?”

“a bit busy,” you sigh, melting into his arm. “spring always jumps on me before i know it.” he hums, subconsciously pulling you closer as he plans out his next words. “how about you? everything okay?”

“hm? yeah, ‘course,” he replies, the necklace clutched tightly in his hand. “just . . . couldn’t sleep that well, is all.”

“why? are you feeling okay?” you ask worriedly, turning to face him.

“stop worrying.” he pokes your forehead, pushing you lightly. he huffs a laugh at your frown. “i had some stuff on my mind.”

“like what?”

like his mom’s advice. seb chews his lip as he quickly thinks back to what his mom had said after finding the necklace lying on his desk.

“this is a serious decision, seb,” she’d said, sitting with him in his room. “you’re sure you want this?”

“of course i am,” he’d retorted sharply. he’s always been a bit defensive over you. “why wouldn’t i?”

she’d sighed, smiling at him warmly. “that’s not what i meant. i’m over the moon about this, i am, i just want to make sure you understand what marriage means.” she paused, lightly placing a hand over his. he’d let her, just that once. “promise me you won’t treat it lightly, okay? they deserve the world, you know that.”

seb smiles slightly. though he’ll never admit it, he’s glad his mom spoke to him.

“about you, actually,” he replies. “i’ve been thinking about you a lot recently.”

“oh yeah? am i that hard to resist?” you say jokingly.

he rolls his eyes, but doesn’t disagree. instead, he calmly shows you the necklace in his hand, silently reading your reaction. your eyes widen, darting between the pendant and his face.

“i’ve never met anyone like you, y/n,” he finally says, swallowing thickly after hearing how shaky his voice has gotten. “you know it’s never been easy for me to open up to people, but it never really felt that way with you. you always seem to know what to say, no matter what i talk to you about. i mean, seriously, i don’t really get it still, but i do know it would be stupid of me to let someone like you go.”

“as if i were going anywhere,” you say, voice watery and quiet.

he gently grabs one of your hands, intertwining your fingers.

“well, now i know i’ve got you all to myself,” he replies amusedly. “i’ll take that as a yes?”

laughing, you lightly push him away. “you didn’t even ask me!”

“fine, fine— y/n, will you do me the highest honors and stay by my side for the rest of—“

“alright, stop, stop! you ass.” he laughs as you smack his arm, feigning hurt before grinning. “i could say no, you know.”

“yeah, sure you could, sweetheart.” he places the necklace around you and uses it to pull you to him once more, wrapping an arm around you to kiss you lovingly, the moon brightly shining down on the two of you, as if it approves.

“i’m sure you could.”

[silent-stories]

𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆

Pairing: Eddie x GN!Reader

Summary: The soft way you wake Eddie in the morning is very different from the way his father used to.

Warnings: fluff, Eddie's father being an ass

1977

Eddie's bedroom door slammed open and his father strode in, heading for the bed where Eddie had just woken up from the loud noise.

His dad already had a bottle of alcohol in his hand even though it was only seven in the morning.

"Wake up, asshole." He said kicking the bed, making Eddie jump, "It's eight o'clock and you're already late for school."

Eddie rubbed his eyes with a hand, yawning.

Al Munson, who evidently wasn't the very patient type, grabbed the mattress and basically tipped it over, knocking Eddie, who was thin and not very tall for his age at the time, to the floor.

"If you'd woken up earlier this wouldn't have been necessary." His father mumbled walking out of the room slamming the door behind him.

Of course, it was never his fault but always Eddie's. It was easier for him that way.

Eddie rolled onto his back with a grunt and stared at the ceiling of his room.

"Well, good morning to me."

1986

"Eddie."

He heard your soft voice calling his name and slowly opened his eyes.

"Hey, good morning. It's almost nine."

You were sitting on the edge of the bed next to him and you were wearing only one of his black Metallica t-shirts which was way too big for you. Your face was still slightly sleepy so you mustn't have woken up long before but still Eddie thought you were one of the most beautiful things he'd seen in his entire life.

Daylight was filtering through the window, lighting up Eddie's messy bedroom.

You reached out and moved a strand of dark hair from his face, your fingers gently caressed his skin.

Eddie still had to get used to that. To you waking him up in that sweet and peaceful way. Without haste, without yelling, without any kind of violence.

He still had to get used to the way you caressed his face or kissed his cheek to wake him up every time you did before him, when you spent the night at his trailer, and he still had to get used to the fact that there was no one left to kick him out of bed every morning, even though it had been years.

He sat up on the bed in front of you, the blanket slipping off his body revealing his bare chest and the tattoos covering his pale skin.

Seeing you in his shirt gave him a feeling of absolute peace, he felt like not only he felt at home and safe when he was with you but you did it too when you were with him.

"Do you wanna help me make breakfast?" You asked, a soft smile on your lips.

Eddie in response slowly wrapped his arms around you and pulled you against him.

Not yet, that meant.

You giggled. "Are you okay Eds?"

He nodded as he rested his head on your shoulder and you ran your fingertips against his bare back. A shiver ran through Eddie's body but it was a good feeling.

Thank you for still being here with me, he wanted to say. Thank you for waking me up every morning like you do.

You softly ran your fingers up and down his spine for a few more moments, your gaze falling on the almost invisible freckles on his skin.

You gently brushed his hair away and planted a kiss on his bare shoulder, only realizing you'd tickled him when you heard a small, muffled laugh come from the crook of your neck where Eddie was resting his head.

Despite this he didn't ask you to stop when your lips found his shoulder again, leaving a trail of soft kisses.

During that quiet intimate moment the only sounds that could be heard in the room were your breaths and the sound of your kisses.

"I love you." He muttered as he gently pulled away from you, after some moments, and you cupped his face in your hands after tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

"My sweet, sleepy boy." You laughed before placing a soft kiss on his lips. "I love you too."

My.

Eddie still couldn't believe it.

You took his hand in yours and got out of bed as he did the same, Eddie was still shirtless and his bare feet met the cool but pleasant floor of the trailer.

"Pancakes?" He asked as you both made your way to the kitchen.

A smile appeared on your face. "Exactly what I was thinking about."

Tags: @jacklesdeanvessel @morning-sky7 @pipsqueakkitten @navs-bhat

[oct0bra1ns]

Can I please request, four platonic yandere brothers with helpless y/n who only grew up relaying on their brothers

My god, i take so long to answer, anyways teehee, im finally answering things yayayayay my trip back home is uh not going to happen i think, very sad, anyways also omg, four brothers also also, im lazy so for now, their names are numbers :p

Reblogs and comments are appreciated

Having four brother to look after you is probably great when you're young but a pain when you're older, combined with the fact their yandere behaviour it's probably hell on earth.

You have to ask them permission for any and everything you do, and unless they say yes, you won't be able to do anything. If involves a friend, one or two will always be hiding in the background in case something happens.

The eldest, One, makes all his brothers report everything to him, where you go, what you do but he himself, never steps in to stop you from doing something, instead, he'll have Two or Three do the dirty work.

One is your beloved brother, who'd never do anything to make you upset, he may be pulling the strings but he'll never out himself as the villian.

One probably has the best job out of all the brothers and he has no problem handing you his card to go buy whatever you want, eat whatever you want. Hell, he takes you to expensive restaurants every now and then.

Even if you ask for a luxury car, he'll get it for you, no questions asked.

What his parents couldn't do, what they couldn't buy you, he'll buy it for you, he'll make sure you never lack in anything, whether it's something you need or something stupid, he'll hand it to you.

Having a good job, also means he's quite busy, but he makes time for you no matter what, one call and he'd drop everything to come to you, after all, his company should be more than equipped to deal with things in the absence of their CEO.

Two is the second eldest, the more strict brother, one who seems he'll scold you for sitting the wrong way, when in reality, he'd never do anything like that.

Despite being the one who finds a way to spoil all the plan One disapproves of, he makes sure to let you down gently, how horrible of an idea it is, how dangerous the outside is, especially when you're so looked after by four brother, the world is not as kind as they are.

Being a professor, Two is out most of the day but when he comes back, he always makes sure you have something to eat or buying something you want to eat. There isn't a single day he doesn't come back with a trinket in his hand.

Two is the brother you go to when you're having trouble with your assignments, he'll take all the time he has to explain it to you, no matter how busy you are, no matter how many assignments he has to complete, he'll always ready to explain things to you If you ever go into the same field as him, he'll pull some strings to get you into the same college he works in.

Two knows better than anyone how much you hate when people raise their voice at you, after all, he was the one who always comforted you after you got yelled at for not being able to understand your school work.

Two does not hesitate to go argue with the teacher if he sees and mishap in your grades, Two has years of experience and multiple connections, he'll make sure that teacher never gets to grade another paper again or if you get a lower grade than expected, he;ll go through the paper with you.

Three is someone who quiet, but the moment he opens his mouth, only sarcastic sentences and insults fall out of his mouth and even you as his sibling are not immune to this, although, he might tone it down so he doesn't get smacked by One again for making you upset.

Three is the brother you'd call after getting in a fight or if people were being creepy towards you, he wouldn't hesitate to break their nose off, and he always reaches the spot suspiciously fast.

Three might not be as rich or smart as the other two but he sure as hell knows how to deal with problems through violence. It's the only way he knows to look after you, you who used to get into ridiculous arguments, who used to stand there and accept every insult, not doing anything afraid to disappoint One or Two. He used to deal with people back then, he used to drag you away when your parents were fighting over something stupid, if he could he would have made sure you never has to see those things but back then, he wasn't as strong nor was he as capable as he is now.

Three is the brother you go to when something goes wrong with your car/bike, he'll fix it up for free, arguing how it got this bad because you took it to some random mechanic outside.

God forbid, Three ever find out a mechanic overcharged you with something, he'll go down there and pick a fight before demanding One to shut down the place.

Four is the youngest and closet to you in age, someone who's always up and about. He'd be dragging you to different places to try out different things.

Always going against One and taking you places, One disapproves off, claiming how you'll be completely safe with him and that nothing could go wrong.

Four knows how much it upsets you when Two or Three stop you from going somewhere when everyone is busy, so he makes it a point to take you there whenever he's free.

Four has always been stuck to your side like glue, back in school when no one wanted to sit with you and now when all your friends happen to be busy all the time.

He'd make it a point to show how awful your friends are, hanging out with others while ignoring you everytime. Unlike the other three, Four doesn't mind if your feelings get hurt a bit, perhaps sitting in a cafe, waiting for your friend for hours will teach you how unreliable they are and how much better your own brothers are, when they drop everything to come attend to your needs.

Of course, he doesn't go too far, four is well aware how one already disapproves of his ways and the last thing he needs from his brother is a lecture.