#he also looks different than the rest of the cast as in he has a bland colour palette and 99% of the cast is skinny guys n hes not😭Yall dont | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

strcwbrryklss · 3 months ago

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୨୧﹕ forgive me .ᐟ oneshot

pairing ; father charlie mayhew x fem!reader contains ; tension , smut ( oral m receiving ) a/n ; i rewatched fleabag season two and HAD to write this for my own sake ( also havent proofread this,, so just ignore any mistakes pls. summary ; it has been 160 days since your last confession.

the soft hum of hymns filled the stone walls of the church, echoing through the vast, candlelit space. the congregation sat quietly, hands folded in prayer or resting on their laps, their eyes fixed on the alter.

the heavy scent of incense hung in the air, weaving between the polished wooden pews, where you sat toward the back, trying to focus on the words of the sermon. the light from the stained glass windows poured in, casting delicate hues of red, blue, and gold across the congregation, illuminating the man at the front of the church.

father charlie.

your heart pounded in your chest as you stared at him, your fingers nervously gripping the edge of the pew. you had tried to stop coming to mass, but something always drew you back here—drew you back to him. each week, you told yourself it would be different. you would listen to the sermon, find solace in his words, and leave without this gnawing ache in your chest.

but it never worked.

father charlie stood at the altar, the bible held firmly in his hands as he delivered his message, his voice deep and smooth, filling the grand space with a quiet authority. his tone was soft, but it held power, a magnetic pull that kept everyone’s attention on him. but while the others listened intently to the words of faith, of virtue and devotion, your mind was far from holy thoughts.

your eyes traced the lines of his jaw, the way the sunlight caught in his brown hair, making the strands shine beneath the dim lighting of the cathedral. his features were sharp but kind, his strong brows furrowed in concentration as he spoke about resisting the temptations of the flesh.

temptation.

the word reverberated through you, sending a jolt of heat to your core. temptation, the feeling you knew far too well. father charlie’s hands moved as he gestured lightly with his sermon, and you found yourself imagining those hands on you, instead of the bible. you swallowed hard, pulse quickening as your thoughts drifted to places you knew they shouldn’t go, especially here — especially with him.

he was the very definition of unattainable, a man sworn to a life of celibacy, of purity. and yet, you couldn’t stop the thoughts that rushed through your mind every time you looked at him. every sunday, you sat in the same pew, feeling that same magnetic pull toward him, a pull you couldn’t explain and couldn’t resist.

his robes hung loosely on his tall, lean frame, the fabric shifting with each subtle movement he made. beneath them, you knew there was something stronger, something more human than the holy image he portrayed. and the thought of that made your stomach twist with desire.

you could barely breathe, the church suddenly feeling too warm, too confined. you bit your lip, eyes darting to the floor as you tried to steady your racing thoughts. this was wrong. so wrong. but you couldn’t help it. every word that came from his lips only seemed to make it worse, sending your mind spiraling deeper into a fantasy you had tried so hard to bury.

you imagined it so clearly now — being alone with him after the congregation had gone. the church would be empty, the candles burning low, the flickering flames casting long shadows along the stone walls. you would step toward him, heart pounding, and when your hand brushed his, you’d feel the heat of his skin, the tension between you palpable. he would hesitate, of course. his vows, his faith — they would hold him back for a moment. but then, in the quiet of the empty church, his restraint would finally break.

your pulse raced as the image flashed vividly in your mind: his hands on you, pulling you close, his lips crashing into yours with all the pent-up passion he had kept locked away for so long. the forbidden thrill of it sent a shiver down your spine, your breath coming faster as you quickly glanced back up at him, half-expecting to see him watching you, knowing your every sinful thought.

but he wasn’t. father charlie’s gaze was still fixed on the congregation, his words steady as he spoke about virtue, about control.

you looked across the church, towards one of the many paintings of god, his expression seeming almost disappointed. you felt a flush of guilt, heat rising to your cheeks. how could you sit here, in a place meant for worship, and think these things? how could you look at him — father charlie — and imagine him like that? it was wrong. but that only seemed to make the ache in your chest grow stronger, the desire burning hotter with each passing moment.

the service was drawing to a close, and your heart pounded as you realised you would soon have to face him. father charlie always stood at the door after mass, offering a handshake and a few kind words to each person who passed. every week, that brief moment of contact set your skin on fire, leaving you wanting more.

and then you saw him — father charlie, standing by the entrance, his eyes warm and kind as he greeted the parishioners. you swallowed hard, heart racing as you approached. his gaze shifted to you, and for a moment, the rest of the world seemed to blur at the edges, leaving only the two of you.

"god bless you, y/n" father charlie said softly, his voice sending a shiver down your spine as his hand extended toward yours.

you hesitated for the briefest moment, your breath catching in your throat as your hand slipped into his. his grip was firm but gentle, the warmth of his skin sending a spark of electricity through you. you looked up into his eyes, searching for… something. some sign that he could feel the same pull, the same tension that had been building between you for months. but his expression was as serene as ever, his smile kind and distant.

"thank you, father," you murmured, your voice barely audible as you let go of his hand, your fingers tingling where they had touched him, before turning around to leave the sacred building. however, you stopped in your tracks.

turning towards him, you spoke timidly, "actually, father.."

as you approached, father charlie glanced up and saw you, his warm smile instantly making your heart skip a beat. his dark eyes met yours, and you felt that familiar pull, a flutter in your stomach that made your knees weak.

"yes?," he responded kindly, his voice a calm, steady presence that filled the space between you.

"father," you began, your voice shaking slightly as you stepped closer. "i was wondering if… there’s any chance i could confess later?"

there. you’d said it. the words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, you were certain he could see right through you — into your mind, your thoughts, your desires. you tried to keep your expression neutral, but the tension coiled in your chest made it nearly impossible to hide how nervous you were.

father charlie’s smile softened, a gentle, almost unreadable look crossing his face as he studied you. he took a small step closer, lowering his voice slightly as if sensing the weight of what you were carrying. "of course," he said, his tone compassionate, "confession is always available for those who seek it. Would you like to meet later this afternoon?"

the way he said it — just us — made your stomach flip. you nodded, unable to fully trust your voice at the moment. your throat felt tight, your thoughts tangled. "yes. that would be… good."

his gaze lingered on you for just a moment longer, his eyes holding yours in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. there was nothing inappropriate about it, nothing overt, and yet you couldn’t help but feel as if there was something deeper there, hidden beneath the surface of his composed expression. you tried to ignore the way your body reacted to it, the way your skin seemed to burn with the need for more than just words.

"come by around eight," he said, his voice soft but firm, as if he was giving you permission to unburden yourself in a way you hadn’t before. "we can speak privately in the confessional."

your heart raced as he said it, the reality of what you were asking for sinking in. it wasn’t just confession — not for you. It was a way to be close to him, a way to sit in that small, private space, separated only by the thin barrier of the confessional screen. the idea of it — of being so close, alone, with him — made your chest tighten with anticipation.

you swallowed hard, nodding again. "thank you, father," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

he gave you one last kind, reassuring smile before you turned to leave, the echo of his words still ringing in your ears as you made your way toward the exit. as you stepped out into the cool air, your body still tingling with the thought of what was to come, your mind raced. confession wasn’t supposed to feel like this — like a secret thrill, a forbidden opportunity. but that’s exactly how it felt.

and it wasn’t just the confession itself. it was him. the way he carried himself with such calm authority, the way his voice seemed to wrap around you, pulling you deeper into your thoughts. you had tried to fight it, tried to deny it, but there was no use anymore.

you wanted him.

by the time the clock struck eight, you found yourself back at the church, your heart racing as you made your way inside. the church was mostly empty now, the quiet stillness of the afternoon wrapping around you like a heavy blanket. you could hear your own footsteps echoing softly as you walked down the aisle toward the confessional booth.

you hesitated for just a moment before stepping inside, the small, intimate space feeling even smaller than usual. the soft rustle of father charlie’s robes reached your ears as he entered the adjacent booth, and your breath hitched in your throat. the thin screen between you offered a sense of privacy, but it did nothing to stop the electricity that buzzed in the air.

"whenever you’re ready," came his voice, low and soothing, sending a shiver through you.

your mind raced, the words you had rehearsed suddenly seeming inadequate. how could you confess these feelings to him? How could you possibly admit that the sin you carried was him? the thought alone made your throat tighten, but you knew you couldn’t back out now.

"forgive me, father, for i have sinned…" you began, your voice shaky, barely more than a whisper, "it has been 160 days since my last confession"

you weren’t sure how you were going to get through this confession, but one thing was certain — the desire that burned inside you wasn’t something that could be easily absolved.

you hesitated, grappling with the words that felt so heavy on your tongue. "i've been having… thoughts," you started, feeling your cheeks flush. "sinful thoughts that i know i shouldn’t be having."

"sinful thoughts about someone?" he asked, his voice a mixture of curiosity and caution.

"yes," you admitted, heat creeping up your cheeks. "someone i shouldn’t be thinking about. i know it’s wrong, but i can’t help it."

"tell me more," father charlie encouraged, his tone gentle but firm, as if he could sense the struggle within you.

"it’s... complicated,” you continued, feeling a knot tighten in your stomach. "i’ve been trying to push these feelings away, but every time i see him, it’s like i’m drawn to him in a way i know isn’t right."

"why do you believe these feelings are wrong?” he asked, and you could hear the slightest hint of tension in his voice, a challenge that made your heart race.

"because he’s... celibate,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "and i shouldn’t feel this way about him. but i do."

the silence that followed was deafening. you could almost hear the clock ticking, each second feeling like an eternity. you held your breath, waiting for his response, feeling the heat of your confession hang in the air between you, "i don't know what to do, father. these thoughts won't go away"

the scent of incense swirled around you like a comforting yet suffocating blanket. you could hear the soft rustle of the priest’s robes on the other side of the screen. he took a deep breath.

"kneel"

the unexpected command took you by surprise. your heart raced at the thought, a mix of anxiety and anticipation flooding your senses. "kneel?" you echoed, trying to process his words.

"i want you to kneel."

you hesitated for just a moment, but something in his voice compelled you to comply. slowly, you knelt before the screen, feeling the coolness of the floor beneath your knees. your heart raced, each beat echoing in your ears as you sensed the shift in the air around you.

the curtain opened slightly, and father charlie stepped into view, his expression unreadable. the light from the candle illuminated his features, and for a moment, you were taken aback by the intensity in his gaze. there was a hunger there, a spark that made your pulse quicken.

father charlie looked down at you, bringing his hand down to your chin and tilting your head upwards to look him in the eyes. as the moment hung in the air, your heart raced, a wild drumbeat echoing in your ears. you could feel the heat radiating between you both, a magnetic pull that left you breathless. anticipation coursed through your veins, mingling with a desperate thrill that made your pulse quicken.

unexpectedly, he leaned down, stopping only inches away from your lips, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. you looked down at father charlie's parted lips, before looking back up at his eyes, glistening in the candlelight. your thoughts raced, much more sinful than they were before.

and just like that, father charlie closed the gap between you in a slow but passionate kiss. it felt as if you were breathing each other's air, your fingers moving up and tracing his arm. he then pulled away. you almost followed him, desperate for more, but you couldn't.

looking up at him, your heart raced, a needy look in your eyes.

the sound of father charlie unbuckling his belt rang through the church; anyone who walks in would know what was happening. but you didn't care.

he unzipped his pants before pulling them down, just past his underwear, the thin fabric revealing his large bulge. your was mouth already salivating at the thought of it. father charlie looked down at you with a nod, giving you permission.

your fingers made their way towards his waistband, slowly curling underneath his clothing before slowly pulling them down, just enough to reveal his erection.

gasping slightly at the size of him, you hesitated, your heart quickening.

father charlie moved his hand to the back of your head, urging you.

you couldn't wait any longer. you took deep breath before licking his tip, the taste of his pre-cum giving you the need for more.

desperately, your mouth took as much of him as it could, causing him to let out a soft moan as his tip touched the back of your throat. you looked up at him. the sight of him looking down at you with so much lust, so much greed in his eyes caused your stomach to flutter.

he grabbed onto the back of your hair, lightly pushing you back and forth before picking up momentum. father charlie threw his head back in pleasure, before looking into your eyes once again.

you moaned as the pace grew faster, causing his eyebrows to furrow at the vibration. and with that, he released, the warmth of it running down your throat.

looking up at him with admiration, he smiled slightly.

you knew this wasn't the last time.

#nicholas chavez #nicholas chavez x reader #father charlie mayhew #father charlie x reader #father charlie smut #grotesquerie #nicholas alexander chavez #777 #݁₊ ⊹ ݁˖ ⋆ strcwbrryklss

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stellar-skyy · 10 months ago

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FAMILY (OF SORTS) — Platonic Fatui Harbingers & reader.

i. SUMMARY: The Fatui Harbingers have a soft spot for Arlecchino's child. ii. CONTENT WARNINGS: None! iii. NOTES: STRICTLY PLATONIC, headcanons, fluff, parent!arlecchino, house of the hearth!reader, all of the harbingers are reader's weird aunts and uncles, gn!reader, they/them pronouns used, 1.6k words. iv. A/N: the fatui are just a dysfunctional found family and i will die on this hill. shoutout to @romaritimeharbor for listening to my rambles about this idea 🫶🫶 also pierro and pulcinella aren't here because i could not think of anything to write for them :')

All of the harbingers knew about Arlecchino’s child; the one that appeared in Fatui Headquarters stuck to her side, eyes cast to the floor. They all saw the way that Arlecchino had held a soft grip on their shoulder, guiding them through the halls with the gentle touch of a parent from the gentle hands of a monster.

The Knave always swore she didn’t play favourites, but from an outside view it was clear that they held a special place separate from the rest. Anyone could see the way they appeared so much more frequently by her side. They were permitted to sit in on meetings, following her like a shadow. Some of the Harbingers guessed that she had picked them to be her successor; that their frequent shadowing was training them to take over once she was gone. Others joked about Arlecchino’s apparent soft side taking over. Whatever the reason, time went on, and the Fatui saw more and more of them.

All of them varied in their opinions of them—some indifferent, some fond—but the Harbingers all cared for them in their own ways.

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Columbina simply adores them. They’re just so small and cute, so tiny and fragile! Admittedly, her idea of ‘tiny’ is rather skewed—applying to anyone she deems weaker than her (notably, this label also gets given to Capitano and Tartaglia, despite their larger size and physical strength. The Damselette is truly an enigma.)

Whenever Arlecchino allows her to watch over them, she is delighted. She has a penchant for pet names, so ‘angel’, ‘my sweet’, and ‘lovely’ are all more commonly used than their name. Sometimes there’s a ‘baby’ or ‘bub’ if she’s feeling particularly affectionate, but no matter the name, it is always dripping with sweetness. She’ll sing to them too, to calm them down or get them to sleep. Her voice is gentle, laced with as much love as she would show her own child.

Some Fatui believe Columbina is a woman formed from hollow sweetness; that behind the lazy smile and soft voice, lies a callous and unfeeling heart, but her insistence on singing them to sleep comes from a place of genuine affection.

When they have to return home, she’ll kiss their cheeks and sweep them into a hug, making them promise to visit her soon.

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The fact that Arlecchino would tear out his throat with her bare hands if he dared to look at them the wrong way is the only thing stopping Dottore from roping [Name] into one of his experiments. Even then, he can’t help but investigate them a bit. Nothing extreme—please put the knife down, Knave—just some simple trials to see how they work. A quick strength assessment, a test of their reflexes, enough to judge the effectiveness of the House of the Hearth’s training.

The segments all had different opinions of them, varying from Prime’s general indifference to some of the younger segments fondness towards them. The latter were less likely to try to trick them into the lab—not that Arlecchino would allow them anywhere near it without strict supervision—and instead focused their efforts on convincing them to help mess with the rest of the Dottores. They proved to be an excellent partner in crime to thoroughly ruin the older segment’s day.

Despite his assertion that he won’t harm them, Dottore tends to be the one Arlecchino trusts least around her child. His unwillingness to get on her bad side doesn’t stop her from insisting Columbina or herself accompany them whenever they visit his lab.

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Tartaglia loves them. The days he gets to see his siblings are few and far between, so he’s always eager to play the older brother for them, and for any other House of the Heath kids that stop by. In fact, whenever any of the children visit, he makes sure to buy them plenty of sugary treats and candies before quickly sending them back to their Father.

(Arlecchino was not happy the first time this happened. It didn’t stop him from doing it every time, though.)

He was the first to convince them to call him Uncle, a feat that he bragged about to the rest of the Harbingers. This small incident would inadvertently lead to a petty competition to see who their favourite is, an event that would quickly spiral out of control with bribery and promises coming from all sides.

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Sandrone is very particular with who she allows in her workshop. When the rare guest was allowed inside, they had to follow three simple rules: do not touch anything, do not move unless I tell you to, and do not talk to me while I work. When [Name] first stumbled into the room, she was prepared to discourteously shoo them out the way she did whenever Tartaglia poked his head in to see what she was working on. But after some extensive begging, she relented and sat them down in a corner to watch her work.

Even if she is far less fond of them as some of the other Harbingers, she still audibly squeaked the first time she was called Aunt Sandrone. This was covered up with a cough, but nothing could stop the warmth blooming in her chest. It was the first time a living creature had addressed her with such a familial title; some of her synthetic creations had a habit of calling her Mother, but this was a living, breathing person.

After they started calling her that, she quietly told them they were free to visit when she was working—provided they did not interfere with anything.

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As much as he denies it, Scaramouche has a big soft spot for kids. He’ll swear up and down that he doesn’t care for them at all, but he treats them noticeably gentler than he treats any other member of the Fatui. Arlecchino once caught them huddled against him, using his wide-brimmed hat to shelter from the rain. She never let him forget that moment—the fearsome Balladeer, who notoriously never let anyone close enough to touch him, allowing her child to use him as an umbrella.

They remind him a little too much of the young boy he once considered his family. Whenever he spends time with them, there is something inside that both urges him to protect them in the way he couldn’t protect that child, and warns keep them at arm’s length before they betray him too. But his endearment towards them prevailed, and he begrudgingly allowed them a place in his heart.

Unlike Columbina’s affectionate pet names, the only nicknames Scaramouche gives them are ‘kid’ and ‘brat’, depending on his mood. On good days, they might even get called by their name, though it is a rarity. He cares for them, truly. In his own, strange way.

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Capitano is the best at giving advice out of all the harbingers. He is much more down to earth than Columbina and Dottore, and far less cynical than Scaramouche and Sandrone. He’ll let them ramble about their frustrations freely before offering gentle suggestions on what they should do to help. Even if they aren’t looking for a solution, he’s patient enough to hear out their thoughts, however jumbled and incoherent they may be.

He also likes teaching them skills he deems important for a young person to know. These include cooking—Tartaglia is not allowed to join them in these lessons after he almost burnt down the kitchen trying to ‘help’—as well as sewing and mending clothes.

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Pantalone never would describe himself as parental. He never cared too much for kids; he hadn’t enough patience to deal with constantly crying babies or needy toddlers. Arlecchino’s child was thankfully far above that age, so they were less unbearable to deal with.

He was quite happy to spoil them with extravagant gifts and treats to win their favour, but the most effective way he does so is simply spending time with them. Trips to luxurious restaurants for lunch, allowing them to shadow him while he works. He also likes to give them advice—completely unasked for—about life, and relationships. Unlike Capitano however, his advice is of a much less helpful; he has a habit of advocating for blackmail for solving problems.

In exchange for a box of the most expensive pastries in Teyvat, he got them to call him their favourite uncle in front of Tartaglia. The miniscule dent in his funds was worth the look of betrayal on the younger Harbinger’s face.

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Signora easily took the longest to warm up to them. When she first met them, it was easy enough to label them as Arlecchino’s brat and move them from her mind. But they kept appearing, in and around the headquarters. At first they were always glued to the Knave’s side, but eventually Signora began to see them wandering alone through the halls. She took note of them—not out of any attachment to them, only out of self-preservation knowing that if Arlecchino found out her child landed themself into trouble while she was close by, it would be her funeral soon.

The sense of obligation faltered when she started to grow fond of them. They were irritatingly innocent, a rarity within the Fatui. Something about the spark in their eyes reminded her of when she was young—when she still had warmth in her heart and blood in her veins. For the first time in centuries, her frozen heart began to thaw with care towards another person, and begrudgingly, she began to accept that they were not as unpleasant as she once believed.

reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡

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quillyfied · 2 years ago

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There being two movies now in the Benoit Blanc world, and both movies sharing some recognizable tropes and archetypes to build its flavor, there’s a specific type of character that I’m struck by, particularly as a white woman, in both Knives Out and Glass Onion:

The Sympathetic White Woman.

In KO it’s Meg. In GO it’s Whiskey. They both bond with the (WOC, very important to emphasize) protagonist by being less crappy to her than the rest of the cast, and both signal to the audience that they’re trustworthy as far as the protagonist goes. They tell the protagonist that they’re on her side. They try to be supportive. They’re sympathetic to the audience.

Then comes the moment when the Sympathetic White Woman’s security is threatened.

(Brief added interruption to just say: please dig through the notes and replies on this baby for some additional excellent thoughts from other people, including the very important distinction that Marta is a white Latina and not a woman of color (my mistake thank you for the corrections), and more thoughts on Whiskey’s actual/additional betrayal moments!)

For Meg, it’s her mom telling her she has to drop out of school if they don’t get the inheritance money. For Whiskey, it’s Duke dying. In both cases, the protagonist reaches out—Marta tells Meg she won’t let that happen, she’ll support Meg with whatever money she needs; Helen tries to soothe a hysteric Whiskey by telling her she doesn’t need Duke and he deserved what he got (not realizing Duke is dead, of course). It’s a slightly different moment in each movie, but the basic framework is the same: the woman of color protagonist reaches back to the Sympathetic White Woman, and notably, reaches DOWN, offering the support the Sympathetic White Woman offered earlier.

Only…the Sympathetic White Woman was never intending to be the one the protagonist had to reach down to. So she snaps. Meg tells her family about Marta’s mother and they use it to threaten her. Whiskey latches onto the belief that Helen killed Duke and tries to kill her with a spear gun in what she thinks is self-defense. The Sympathetic White Woman Heel-Turn.

Meg and Whiskey both also sort of try to make amends after their Heel-Turn moments, but…the trust is already broken. The protagonist knows better now. The Sympathetic White Woman is not to be trusted.

Why this sticks out to me personally is the very obvious callout that feminists of color have been making about white feminists for literal decades: that white feminism lacks any true support or compassion for non-white people, that it’s empty promises of support and when the chips are down, white feminism upholds whiteness over feminism in an act to protect itself. And whiteness…is a damn difficult thing to even see when you’re white and raised in an overwhelmingly white community, let alone begin to pick apart and unlearn. It’s reactionary, how Meg and Whiskey turn on Marta and Helen to protect themselves.

It would make Meg incredibly vulnerable to support Marta fully, the way she promised to back when she thought she had the resources for it, but Marta is that vulnerable every day just existing as a Latina woman in America. Whiskey’s Heel-Turn moment is a little more immediate trauma based, but when looking for someone to blame, she doesn’t hesitate to blame Andi (Helen), scrapping together the few pieces of information she has—Andi hates all of the Disruptors, Andi got screwed over by them, Andi fought with Duke just minutes before he died, Andi was in their shared room tearing it apart when Whiskey came in distraught. She’s looking for an outlet. There’s Helen red-handed and in view. Boom. Whiskey grabs the spear gun instead of talking it out with the person she admitted just hours ago to feeling sympathy for.

Growing up white and steeped in whiteness causes defensive reactions when that whiteness is brought up, or, god forbid, challenged. It’s a knee-jerk thing for people who haven’t begun to deconstruct it for themselves; even for people who have, to see just how far and deep in American society that reaches is troubling. Humbling. Enraging. The Sympathetic White Woman archetype is, to me, a warning to not let whiteness overrule sense and morals. To be smart about it. And, crucially, to check myself for condescension, especially when interacting with non-white folks in any capacity.

(Also why the presence of Benoit Blanc is so important. He is also sympathetic, he also offers his own support, but crucially, he just uses his whiteness to clear a path for the WOC protagonist to take her place and do what she needs to do. He doesn’t speak over her, he doesn’t turn on her, he just listens, and presents the truth for her to do with it what she will. Or, in one case, hands her highly volatile crystal hydrogen for when she’s really ready to tear the Murderer’s crap down.)

#knives out #glass onion #major spoilers for both obviously #and hoping I got this post right with what I was trying to say #listen I shotgunned both movies for the first time in a span of two days #I am VIBRATING with good brain juice

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wuffgang-ameowdeus-moozart · 2 years ago

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Eddie is gushing about Steve to Robin and he mentions how it's so fucking metal the way he never shies away from danger. Like, quite the opposite, he literally jumps right into it without a second thought!

And suddenly Robin remembers how Steve wanted to be tortured by the actual real Russian secret service if it meant that his then friendly coworker who he never saw outside of Scoops would be at least a little bit safer. And she notices for the first time how Steve always makes sure that everyone is safe before he leaves a dangerous place - how he makes sure to always be the last one - and she thinks fuck.

(She feels so fucking bad. He is her best friend. Her soulmate. The person who knows her best and vice-versa. How has she never noticed this before?!)

They start paying closer attention to him, then. Neither like what they see. Steve's eyebags grow bigger with every day that passes. He doesn't eat a lot. He can never say no to others, no matter how much it inconveniences him. And when Robin and Eddie gush about what an awesome person he is, he gets an uncomfortable expression on his face and denies it. Robin had never noticed how most their interactions were self-deprecating jokes until now, either.

They need to stage an intervention.

The next time Steve walks through the doors of Family Video, Robin and Eddie are ready. They lay down all the facts and propose a simple deal: either go talk to a professional, or they will explain everything to the rest of the party and they will force him to talk to a professional. It will end the same way no matter what he chooses, might as well take the path with least resistance.

The only thing that sounds worse than paying a stranger to talk about his feelings is to be forced to talk about them to his friends, so he agrees.

He doesn't think it will make a difference, at first. It's not like he is allowed to talk about monsters and other dimensions.

The first session is awkward. But Robin and Eddie always look at him with such worried and expectant looks and he cannot bear to burden them in any way, so he starts opening up more. He can't talk about the time he almost got eaten by Demogorgons in a secret supernatural underground tunnelsystem, but he can talk about the time Billie almost beat him to death. He can't talk about the secret Russian operation beneath the mall, but he can talk about almost dying in the "mall fire". (His memories of his time there are all scrambled because of the drugs, anyway. It is more about the 'near-death' thing and never being able to feel safe, which he can talk about)

He doesn't mean to talk about his interpersonal relationships at first. But then his therapist cautiously asks him about his parents, and before he knows it he is spilling beans he didn't even know needed to be spilled. He talks about how he only seems to be friends with people who went through traumatic experiences with him, and what does that say about him? He talks about when he first realized that other kids are not left behind by their parents for months at a time. He finally starts unpacking the whole Nancy situation and realizes, wow, turns out he isn't nearly as over the whole thing as he'd hoped. (There are a lot of tears).

He seamlessly fills session after session, and at first he doesn't think that it makes much of a difference. Until the kids meet him after he is exhausted from a double shift at Family Video and beg him to drive them somewhere or other, and he can say no and not give in without fearing that they will cast him aside.

(Robin and Eddie are smug when they also notice the changes, but Steve supposes they have earned it this one time.)

#steve looking at an oceans worth of issues:#“oh man i sure hope i have enough problems to justify paying a professional”#and then has the audacity to act surprised when he doe #pen.#stranger things #steve harrington #robin buckley #eddie munson #stobin #steddie #stranger things drabble #steve harrington drabble #stobin drabble #steddie drabble

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tragedybunny · 1 year ago

Text

Something Like Love - Astarion x F!Reader

Astarion has failed to seduce you, but even so, a bond has begun to grow between the two of you. It all comes to a head when Astarion almost loses you.

You infuriated Astarion. At first it was because stopping to help every person you happened upon was delaying dealing with his problems. Now that you had been traveling together for some time, not only were these little side adventures a delay, but you didn’t seem to be careful about how much they took out of you and how tired they left you. Even your other companions didn’t seem to care, letting you agree to solve every problem that you came upon and even adding to the pile.

But not him. Astarion was always right there at your side with a glare and a snapping refusal, which you’d usually brush off, but at least he tried. The rest of them just smiled and nodded, without noticing the circles under your eyes, or how slow you moved some mornings, or how thin you’d gotten. Protector wasn’t a position he normally found himself in, but you were different, you were kind to him, without expecting anything in return, as far as he could tell anyway. The two of you hadn’t even slept together, not for lack of trying on his part. The couple times he’d tried you firmly refused, and yet somehow you stayed kind to him, even still offering him your blood. In fact you didn’t seem to want anyone in camp. That was also exasperating. How could he expect your continued kindness, and protection which he desperately needed, without repayment? And what was he better at than sex?

So he resolved he’d give you whatever small gestures he could. Whenever you tore an item of clothing, he’d mend it at first chance. When the group made camp for the night, he always made sure your tent was up first, in whatever spot you wanted, and helped you pack when it was time to move on. Every battle, he stood at the backline with you while you cast spells, aiming arrows at anyone who got too close to you, his first priority keeping you safe. And he still tried to keep you from overextending yourself, despite no one ever listening to him. Which had led to the shouting match with Halsin earlier. Well it wasn’t really a shouting match, the Druid had remained frustratingly placid in the face of Astarion’s blustering. He’d already been vocally unhappy about looking for this Thaniel or whatever, but you’d found him, and still Halsin asked more. “We need to worry about Thorm, we don’t have time to keep bothering with this!”

“Curing the land could help break Thorm’s hold. I know you all don’t owe it to me.” Gods why did he ask like that, all humble and dissembling. You would cave to that for sure,

“You’re right, we don’t.”

“But…”

“Hells, can’t you see how much all of this is taking out of her!” Astarion had exploded, voice loud enough that some of your other companions jumped.

“It’s fine Astarion,” you’d gently placed a hand on his arm, “let’s finish this.”

With a frustrated growl, he’d yanked his arm away, regretting the hurt on your face. “Fine.”

That all led to this moment, you’d fended off the creatures summoned by the corrupted spirit, and Astarion watches as you calmly approach it. Speaking softly, your words soothe it, and he could see it starting to trust you. As always, you amaze him with your ability to solve things with your words, but he feels a twinge of something else, a want for something like those kind words that fell from your lips so easily. The spirit vanishes and Astarion finally feels a bit of relief it seems over. That is until your knees give way and you collapse to the jagged paving stones beneath you.

He's at your side instantly, a scream tearing itself from his throat. “Somebody fucking help her.”

Shadowheart js the first to respond, hands peeling away the light armor you wear, revealing gashes left by one of those shadow creatures that had gotten close. Teeth bite down into his lip to hold back a sob, he hadn’t even noticed, he’d failed the one duty he had. That ire finds a new target easy enough though, as Halsin attempts to join Shadowheart in tending to you. He’s barely started to kneel next to you when Astarion lunges, hissing and fangs flashing. “No you stay the fuck away from her, this is your fault!” For a second his face falls with guilt, but Astarion is in no state for empathy, all blame now on the Druid in his mind.

Hands fight to grab hold of him, to get close enough to tear his thick throat out. A pair of strong arms wraps around his waist, pulling him back from his murderous goal. “Easy Fangs, she’ll be alright,” Karlach tries to reassure him.

He struggles against her iron hold, still flinging curses and furious words. “That’s not the point, this shouldn’t have happened. But no one wanted to listen to me, none of you selfish idiots care when you’re asking too much!”

That was it, they’d all turn on him now, especially without you aware enough to defend him. To his surprise, Karlach just holds him slightly tighter, and keeps whispering that it was going to be fine. Wyll comes over to lay a hand on his shoulder, face stoic. "Shadowheart has this.”

At least Halsin has stepped back, expression troubled. Good, let him suffer. A spell glows in Shadowheart’s hands, suturing back together your skin, and your eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, for a moment before closing again. Karlach wisely releases him, leaving him free to hover over you and ward off Halsin as he takes a hesitant step toward you. He’d be damned if anyone else was carrying you, the lot of them were untrustworthy. Reverently, he leans down, taking you in his arms, and lifting you from the ground. Gods, you were so small, there was almost nothing to you. How did you seem so imposing most of the time?

Silently, the group makes it’s way back to camp, Astarion holding tightly to you the whole way. When they reach the cluster of tents, he goes straight to yours to lay you down gently in your blankets. Turning back to the rest of the party he snarls in their direction. "All of you better stay the hells out of this tent until she's properly healed," he snaps the tent flap shut and wishes he had a door to slam on their faces.

Sitting down next to you, he pulls your hand into his and tried to forget about the stinging in his eyes. "You're going to be alright Darling. You have to be."

For hours he sits there, hand holding yours, waiting, watching your chest rise and fall, the reassurance he hadn’t lost you. Losing you, he can’t even fathom it. His protector, companion, he'd even go so far as to say friend. Even if you didn't notice how he was always at your side whenever you stayed up to launder your clothes, or how you never took a turn to cook alone, or how he was always walking right next to you on the road.

You sigh in your sleep and he feels a tug in that place that sometimes wonders if you could be more than friends. Which was stupid, you hadn't even wanted sex with him. Besides, what you already gave him was more than he deserved considering what he had been planning after sleeping with you.

Finally, exhausted, he drifts into meditation, still holding onto you, until your sleep heavy voice pulls him out of it. "Astarion?"

His eyes are wide immediately and without a second thought, he throws himself into your arms, nuzzling into your neck. "You're awake." Then he starts crying like an idiot; ugly, undignified sobs against your skin. "I was worried," he tries to explain leaping on you and his ridiculous tears.

"I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you." You put your arms around him, accepting him without question, like always.

"You silly, silly girl, you were the one that almost died. Don't apologize to me." He's trying desperately to stop bawling uncontrollably.

"I know, but I don't like to see you upset." Ever so lightly, he can feel your hand brushing through his hair.

"Why," he's managed to get himself somewhat under control, but doesn't move from where you've let him lay. "Why are you like this? Always giving, even when it's too much for you?"

You hesitate for a moment. "Because I care about you."

"You do," he asks, unwilling to let himself believe what he's heard.

"Well, I care about everyone," of course he should've realized, "but I care about you a very great deal, Astarion."

Astarion freezes, the words leaving warmth in that secret place inside that he's been trying to keep from himself and you. "I don't understand."

"I see you. I see how hard you try and how far you've come, and how much you try to do for me." There's a smile in your voice and impossibly he thinks it has something to do with him.

"Why didn't you say anything?" His hand searches yours out and your fingers interwine.

"I didn't think you were ready to hear it. But today it was almost too late to tell you." You've placed both of your hands over your chest and he can feel your heartbeat.

"I…I don't know how I feel." Inwardly, he quails, worried that will drive you. "But this is nice."

"It's alright Astarion, there's no rush to this." Impulsively, he leans up to leave a feather light kiss on your cheek, grateful for you in ways he can't understand.

#Astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x female reader #x reader #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #my fanfic #my writing

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moonstruckme · 5 months ago

Note

Hey lovely, how are you?

I’m not sure if I should be answering this through here, but here we go

I had already read that lil’ drabble and it’s perfect!!! Please don’t get me wrong, I really love it, but I was thinking of something a little different.

Maybe reader has to get a vaccine (because she was stalling to do it) and when the boys find out they were like “you need to get it, it’s for your health” and reader goes like “fine”. Well, it wasn’t fine. When reader finally realizes what’s happening she turns into this sobbing mess and it just breaks the boys hearts 💔

I know this is kinda specific, sorry. It’s what always happens to me when I go get vaccinated and I always end up crying more than I thought I would.

It’s totally fine if you don’t want to do it, though! Also, sorry if some terms were wrong, english is not my first language lol

Anyways, love you and love your work!! 🫶

Thanks for explaining babe, and for requesting <3

cw: needle, also I have once again written myself into an inaccurate emt situation and am once again asking for your feigned oversight of the erroneousness. Thank you mwah!

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

You’re being quiet. James keeps trying to pick up conversation, but you won’t engage for more than a few words and a terse smile before falling silent again. They’ve all picked up on it. From the driver’s seat, Remus keeps casting scrutinous glances at you in the rear view mirror. James has given up on trying to get you to talk and is just grateful you’re letting him be near you, his hand on your leg while you stare out the window.

It’s obvious you’re upset. You like being told what to do as much as the next person, and when they’d found out you’d been avoiding going to get your vaccine they’d been more than a little bossy. Though he’d been as insistent as the other two that it was important to get done, James had honestly felt a bit sorry for you; Remus had decided you were going the next morning before you could get a word in, which would have been next to impossible anyways with the tirade Sirius had embarked on.

James feels a bit sorry for you now, too, when he and Remus are trying to go along with your wishes and keep quiet and Sirius is, quite naturally, goading you.

“You don’t have to be mad at us, baby,” he says, fully turned around in the passenger seat to give you his poutiest look. “We’re all on the same team here, yeah?”

“I’m not mad,” you say to the window.

“I get that you’re not needles’ number one fan, but you know how important this is. We just want you to be healthy.”

You shift in your seat, crossing your legs so James’ hand falls away from you. It stings a little. “Can we not talk about it?”

“Sure, dove.” Remus’ eyes are on you in the rear view mirror again, his hand reaching across the console to cover Sirius’ knee warningly. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

You’re quiet the rest of the drive. James is used to being around people that are stewing (years of friendship with Remus and Sirius will accustom one to that), but it makes him fidgety to think you’re angry with him. He really wants to reach for your hand. You’re too stiff to make him confident you’ll take it.

But when you enter the curtained-off room and don’t go to hop up on the table, you don’t reject the helping hand he offers you to get up. You don’t let go.

Remus leaves to prepare your vaccine, and you don’t seem any more inclined to talk than you had been in the car. James decides to hop up on the table beside you, putting an arm around your shoulders when you seem amenable to it, and Sirius leans against the desk, thwacking a pen in a lazy rhythm. You feel tense under his arm.

James is beginning to suspect you’re not actually angry.

“You okay, angel?” he asks gently.

“Fine,” you say, clipped. It’s the same response you’d given when they’d strong-armed you into this appointment. He’s not sure if he believes you anymore.

James is suddenly glad he came. Though Remus and Sirius had to come in for their shift and will be staying after, he only tagged along because he wanted (as always) to be wherever the three of you are. Now that he has an inkling of how you’re feeling, James is glad he’ll be with you to drive you home, look after you in case you have any side effects, and generally help you relax after this is done. Right now, you seem to be winding tighter by the minute.

Remus comes back in, and James looks over to find your bottom lip trapped cruelly between your teeth. Your expression looks almost pained.

“Honey…” he murmurs.

Remus and Sirius look up in alarm as your eyes line with silver.

“Hey, baby, it’s okay.” Sirius pushes off from the desk, sitting on your other side and winding an arm around your waist. “You’re fine, this’ll only take a second.”

You give a little sob, reality setting in. James sees the surprise and anguish he’s feeling reflected on Sirius’ face as the other boy kisses above your eyebrow.

Remus’ expression is carefully calm as he approaches, holding up an antiseptic wipe like a symbol of peace. “Just breathe,” he says, voice soft and slow as he pushes up your sleeve. You watch his every move, every one of the muscles beneath James’ hand tense. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. In just a little bit we’ll be sending you home with Jamie, yeah?”

He picks up the vaccine, and you suck in a breath, pressing into James’ side to get away from it. “Wait wait wait,” you say in a rush, voice tipping up with panic as tears spill over your waterline. James' heart veritably shatters. He feels it happening in his chest, but they’ve all dealt with patients like this before. Waiting doesn’t help anything.

“You’re fine,” Sirius promises you, helping Remus to hold your arm still while James shields your vision with his hand. “Don’t look, you’re okay.”

James doesn’t watch the needle go in, but he hears your reaction, a wet inhale that catches in your throat followed by a torturous whimpering sound.

He presses a kiss to your hair, whispering a quick, “You’re good, lovie.”

Remus hums in quiet agreement. A moment later he’s setting the syringe back down on his tray, replacing the spot with a plaster. James lets his hand drop, and Sirius cheers as Remus rubs small, sympathetic circles over the spot with his thumb.

“You did it, gorgeous!” He pecks you on the cheek, mindless of its dampness. “You’re done.”

Another tiny sob breaks out of you, and Remus’ brow creases pityingly. He touches his lips gently over the plaster on your arm. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t realize quite how nervous you were.”

You sniffle. “It’s okay,” you say. Your voice comes out a bit frayed, and both James and Sirius coo in sympathy.

“My poor girl,” the latter whines. He tugs you away from James’ hold, clearly fed up with not doing his fair share for your physical comfort. “I thought you were just peeved with us. I didn’t know they made you that freaked, sweetness. You did amazing.”

“You really did so well.” James thumbs under your lashes, collecting water on his thumbnail. “You were so brave.”

“Don’t patronize me,” you mumble, growing sullen again.

“We’re not, dovey, we’re not.” Remus rubs up and down on your arm placatingly. At this rate, James thinks, you won’t have any muscle pain at all. “This is more difficult for some people than others. It seems like it's really difficult for you, and I’m proud of you for getting through it. Alright?”

He’s looking at you intently, waiting for you to confirm you understand. You go a bit shy under his gaze. “Okay,” you acquiesce softly.

“Good.” Remus kisses your forehead. “You’re all done here, so you two can head home. If you start to feel ill or odd at all say something to Jamie, alright?”

“I’ve got her,” James reassures them both, hopping down from the table. Sirius holds you still a moment longer, kissing the same spot Remus had before letting you go. You slot under James' arm like you always do, like it’s where you’re meant to be. “We’ll text you pictures of all the ice cream we eat and films we watch while you’re working.”

“Fuck off,” Sirius laughs. It catches, and you chuckle softly. The sound makes all three of them breathe a sigh of relief.

James squeezes you with his arm around your shoulders as he walks you out.

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puppym3 · 5 months ago

Note

I’m kinda new to tumblr tbh but I need someone to write this so here goes lol

I love your writing and I was wondering if you could write a smut story where Chan is feeling kind of insecure about himself and the reader ends up jerking him off while like cooing to him how pretty he is

basically a fic where the reader praises the fuck out of Chan cause he deserves it 🥰

.·:*¨ insecure!bangchan x reader ¨*:·.

wc: 1.3k (the shortest i've written)

warnings: MDNI 18+, smut, kinda subby chan?, established relationship, insecurities, comfort, praise, body worship, sweet, fluffy, slight oral (m. rec), handjob, (lmk if i missed any)

a/n: omg. i just finished writing and i was about to go to bed and then i read this and immediately needed to write it. tysm @hyunjinx42 for this suggestion <3 i hope it lived up to what u wanted

i love getting suggestions so if anyone has anything they'd like me to write, pls lmk!!! i also have a taglist if anyone is interested!

.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.

You and your boyfriend were nestled comfortably on the plush, oversized couch, the soft glow of the table lamp casting a warm, inviting hue across the cozy living room. The air was filled with a serene ambiance, created by the gentle hum of the TV, which played a movie neither of you were particularly invested in. The flickering light from the screen danced across the room.

Your head rested gently on Chan’s broad shoulder, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest providing a comforting background to your quiet evening together. His arm, strong and reassuring, enveloped you in a protective embrace, pulling you close to him. The plush blanket draped over both of you felt like a cocoon, wrapping you in warmth.

Chan’s fingers traced idle patterns on your arm, his touch light and soothing. Yet, there was something different about his demeanor tonight. His usual warmth was overshadowed by a distant look in his eyes, as though his thoughts were caught in a whirlwind of uncertainties and insecurities that clouded his mind.

Sensing the shift in his mood, you shifted slightly, your instincts telling you that something was amiss. “Hey, Chan,” you said softly, your voice tender and concerned. “You okay?”

He sighed deeply, a sound laden with unspoken worries. His gaze flickered briefly to the TV screen, but it was clear his thoughts were elsewhere. The movie played on, a mere backdrop to the inner turmoil that occupied his mind. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied, but his voice lacked its usual warmth, replaced by an undertone of hesitation.

With a gentle movement, you propped yourself up on one elbow, your eyes locked on his troubled expression. Your heart ached at the sight of him so distant, and you knew he was carrying a burden he wasn’t ready to share. “You don’t seem fine,” you said, your voice carrying a quiet intensity. “You’ve been distant for a while now. Talk to me, what’s on your mind?”

He hesitated, a fleeting moment of vulnerability crossing his features. He nervously bit his lower lip, a gesture that spoke volumes about the feelings he was experiencing. “It’s just… stupid thoughts,” he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your frown deepened, your concern growing. “Chan, you know you can talk to me about anything, right? No matter how silly it seems, I want to know what’s bothering you.”

He took a deep breath, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of apprehension and sadness. “It’s just… sometimes I can’t help but think you could be with someone more attractive. Someone who’s… I don’t know, more everything than me.”

The words struck you like a cold wave, leaving you momentarily speechless. It had never occurred to you that he, the sexiest man alive, might harbor such insecurities about his appearance.

Before you could gather your thoughts, Chan continued, his voice trembling with a mix of vulnerability and self-doubt. “Like, I see the way other guys look at you, and they all seem to be models or something. And then there’s me. I mean, I know I can be sexy when I try, but it takes a lot of effort and makeup. Sometimes I just feel like you could do better, you know?”

The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, and you shook your head vehemently, your heart aching for him. “Chan, that’s not true,” you said firmly, your hands gently cupping his face. “You know that’s not true. You’re right about one thing—you look nothing like those other guys.”

You trailed your fingers down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate care. As you slowly opened the shirt, revealing his well-defined muscles, you couldn’t help but admire the smoothness of his skin. Your touch was tender, each movement imbued with love and reverence.

“They could never look like you,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his neck. “They could never have this sexy body, and your sexy voice, and your adorable dimple.”

As you kissed a trail down his chest, your lips lingering on his skin, you felt the tension in his body begin to dissolve. Your hands roamed over his muscles, appreciating the hard-earned contours of his physique. You adjusted your position, gracefully moving off the couch and onto your knees in front of him.

Your hands traced the lines of his toned abs, your fingers gently caressing the faint lines and bumps that spoke of countless hours in the gym. “Too sexy,” you whispered, looking up at him with a playful yet adoring smile.

His face flushed a deep crimson, and he looked down at you, his breath hitching in his throat. The vulnerability in his eyes was palpable, but there was also a flicker of desire that ignited as he watched you.

Your hands moved lower, reaching the waistband of his jeans. With a slow, deliberate motion, you unbuttoned and unzipped them, pulling them down along with his boxers. The anticipation in the air was electric as you exposed him to your view.

His half-hard cock was freed, and you wrapped your hand around it, gently stroking it.

"Nobody can have a prettier cock than you," you murmured, admiring its size and shape. "Not even a porn star."

Your hand ran slowly up and down his length, looking up at him.

He groaned, his cock twitching in your hand.

You smiled, moving closer. You pressed a kiss to the tip of his cock, then licked the slit, tasting the bead of precum that had formed.

"Did I mention the sexy voice?" you asked, looking up at him again. "And the pretty face? And the way your dimple looks when you smile?"

You gave the head a kitten lick, your hand moving faster.

"So beautiful," you whispered.

He moaned, his cock throbbing in your hand.

You smirked, pressing a wet kiss to the head. "Too bad nobody else can have you, you're all for me," you murmured, your other hand giving attention to his abs.

His face was flushed as he watched you touch him.

You stroked him faster, kissing his cock again. "I bet none of those guys could make me cum like you can," you whispered, licking up the side of his cock. "No one makes me feel as good as you."

His cock twitched in your hand, and he bit his lip, stifling another moan.

"Nobody stands a chance against your hot body, your cute face, and your amazing cock," you whispered, pumping him faster. "You're so sexy, you're too much."

He gasped, his cock pulsing in your hand. He was close.

"You're mine," you whispered, stroking him faster.

"Yours," he groaned, his cock throbbing in your hand.

"So pretty honey, nobody else compares," you mumbled, stroking him harder.

You pumped him faster, eager to feel him cum.

"Come for me baby," you whispered, licking the tip of his cock.

His body tensed, his hips jerking as he came. His cock throbbed, shooting hot cum over your face and hand.

"Even pretty when you cum," you murmured, stroking him through his orgasm.

His body shuddered as he finished, his cock twitching a few more times before he relaxed, breathing heavily.

You released his cock, smiling up at him. You looked up at him through heavy eyelids. "So sexy, and all mine."

He smiled, reaching for your face, and pulling you up for a kiss.

You smiled, breaking the kiss. "Is that enough proof?" you asked, wiping his cum off of your face.

He nodded, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you back onto the couch.

"Thank you for that, I love you," he murmured, holding you close.

"I love you, too," you said, nuzzling against him.

The two of you lay there in each other's arms, the TV still humming in the background.

.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.

taglist for my beauties: @loverbangchan, @reignessance

#stray kids x reader #skz #stray kids #skz smut #skz imagines #skz fic #skz x reader #stray kids imagines #straykids #stray kids bang chan #skz bang chan #bang chan smut #bang chan #bangchan smut #chan smut #chan fluff #skz chan #christopher bang #bangchan fluff

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sanguineterrain · 6 months ago

Note

okay i've had this thought brewing for a while and i think you're the only writer who would do it justice!

reader meets jason again post-lazarus pit and he's amazed by how different reader is look-wise. reader was a teenager the last time they saw jason and now as an adult they've gotten a more "adult" body. reader is curvier, fleshier, no longer as lean as they were as a teen and is a bit self conscious about their body. but it drives jason wild to see his old crush all grown up into this mature body, hell he's changed a lot too. but yeah i feel like jason would be so body positive and full of praise 🩷

decided to combine this with a request i got for this prompt: 8) we share the bed because this is what we’ve done since we were kids, regardless of the adult implications now. i so agree with you anon, i think jason would be simultaneously body positive and absolutely FERAL for his old/current crush ;)

jason todd x gn!plus-sized!reader. reader used to work with the bats and is best friends with jayjay. reader is insecure and speaks poorly about their body. jason does NOT like that and desires you carnally! wahoo! suggestive content but no outright smut.

****

You haven't been in Jason's room in five years.

Alfred's kept it pretty much the same. Same books on the shelves, same Gotham Knights sweatshirt Dick gave Jason for his birthday. The curtains are the same shade of maroon, and the left one has a tear from when you played with a batarang. Jason had covered for you and was grounded for a week.

You flip through a dog-eared copy of The Three Musketeers. A few of the pages have underlining in pencil. You trace them with your finger.

The door creaks open. You look up.

Jason freezes in the threshold. His wrist is bandaged and you can see stitches on his forehead. You frown.

"Hey." You set down the book and go to him, offering your shoulder for him to lean on. "You okay?"

Jason sighs, ignoring your shoulder. "Who called you?"

"What d'you mean? We're psychically linked, Jay-Jay. I sensed that there was trouble afoot in Gotham City."

"Uh-huh. That didn't work when you tried to convince the old man I needed a puppy because you psychically divined that it knew me in a previous life."

"You and that Terrier were soulmates and I'll hear nothing of the contrary."

You take Jason's arm, despite his protests that he can make it two feet to the bed. He lays down, trying to hide how his arm twinges in pain. You frown and slip in beside him.

Jason's a lot bigger than he was the last time you shared a bed. Well. You both are. You roll over so you're facing him, squished against his side. You pull your leg up, suddenly self-conscious about everything Jason might be able to see.

Jason is warm. He's warm and big and solid and good God, you've missed him.

Your best friend is also fucking gorgeous and you really want to kiss him, but, uh. Ignoring that. You're very practiced at ignoring the urge to kiss Jason.

"Thanks for comin'."

The light is still on, casting a soft orange glow across Jason's features. He glances at you, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. You can count all the freckles on his nose, this close.

"I'll always come when you call, Jay," you say. "Well, when Dickie calls. Said you got a concussion."

He turns his head, sighing at the ceiling. "'S not a big deal. Mild concussion. Leslie said I'll be fine in a week, but we all know that's code for two days."

"Yeah, I don't think so. You bats really are birds of a feather."

"How dare you. 'M nothing like those wackos."

"Sure, buddy. Keep lying to yourself. You brought me in all those years ago for a little normalcy."

"My mistake," Jason says.

He gets thwacked with a pillow for that. It fluffs his curls. He grins at you.

You tuck in closer, resting your chin on his shoulder. Jason turns his head so his cheek rests on the top of your head.

"You can have the bed," he says.

"Don't be a silly goose."

"'M gonna go home anyway."

You scoff. "Not like this, you're not."

"Been worse for wear."

You roll your eyes. "How are you gonna ride your bike with a hurt wrist and a concussion, genius?"

"Please, babe. The real question is how will I sneak past Alfred?"

"I'm a babe, now?"

Jason half-smiles. "Always were."

"Liar. Can you imagine me in a Batsuit again? Exactly, you can't. I simply don't have the bod for it."

"Hey." Jason reaches down and gently pinches your thigh. "Why ya doin' that?"

"Doing what?"

"Talkin' bad about yourself. Don't do that. 'Sides, it ain't true."

"Jaybird." You level him with a look. "Be serious. I know you're my best friend and you have to say that, but c'mon. I've seen the hotties you work with. Hell, I've seen Bruce and Dickie."

Jason's face twists in disgust. "Do not call my dad and brother hot."

"Okay, fine. I've seen you."

His brows rise. "What?"

"What, what?"

"Are you... callin' me..."

You snort. "Duh. Have you seen yourself? You've always been cute, Jason. If you didn't have the demeanor of a honey badger, you'd be fending off marriage proposals left and right from the Gotham public. You've always been the prettier one of us, Jay-Jay."

Jason's quiet. You keep going.

"Anyway, neon's never been my color, and it seems like that's a pretty immovable requirement these days. Like, I get Clark's trying to be seen from space but he doesn't get bloated. And the Spandex? Goodness gracious—"

"Y'really see yourself like that?"

Jason's staring at you with a wrinkled brow, mouth set.

"Like what?"

"Like you're not pretty? Like I'm too good for ya?"

You prop your head up on your arm. "You've always been too good for me, Jason Todd."

"That's just not true. And you're fuckin' beautiful, so stop sayin' that shit."

You blink. "Jay, c'mon—"

"No. It's true, so stop. You're the most beautiful person I've ever had the pleasure to know, and if anybody's gettin' proposed to, it's you."

"Jason." Your face is on fire. Why did you open your mouth? "Stop. It's fine. So I'm different; my body's changed and shit. I'm not an athletic vigilante anymore. My thighs have, like, their own zip code. It's my own fault. I didn't keep up the training and whaa—!"

In one fluid motion, Jason's rolled you onto him. Your legs straddle his waist. You catch yourself on his shoulders, then begin to scramble off, burning with embarrassment.

"Sorry, I'm heavy, you're injured—" you babble, picking up your leg.

"Will you quit?" Jason keeps your leg exactly where it is, tenderly stroking your ankle with his thumb. "Actin' like I'm made of whipped cream."

"You're concussed."

"Mildly."

"Stop, Jason. Please. You don't have to do this to-to prove a point. I get it, I won't talk bad about myself."

Bit hypocritical, considering some of the stuff you know for a fact Jason believes about himself.

But this is humiliating, your extremely attractive, crime-fighting best friend pretending that you haven't totally let yourself go all to bolster your ego.

"Nah, I don't think you get it," Jason says conversationally. His hand creeps under your shirt. You squirm. "I really, really don't think you get how fuckin' gone I am for ya."

"Huh?"

"Oh, yeah. Now, that's my fault, never sayin' anything. I was being cowardly. So lemme make it clear for ya, sweetheart."

His hand leaves your ankle and pulls your face to his. And then Jason kisses you.

"You're concussed," you whimper against his mouth. "Jason, you're—"

Jason laughs, low and sweet. He strokes the side of your face. "I could have amnesia and I wouldn't forget the fact that I've been in love with my best friend since I was fourteen."

"Are you sure you don't want me to move? I can—"

"No way. Y'know how long I've wanted you on me? Shit, I sound like a creep, thinking 'bout you like that, but—"

Jason rolls you both onto your sides. He hefts your leg over his, so you're slotted between each other. Then he kisses your neck, mouth hot and desperate. You gasp, belly swooping.

How long have you wanted this? How long did you believe you'd never feel this way about another person after Jason?

"I can promise you," Jason says, breathing hard against your skin. "You're a knockout. You knock me out. And I'll knock out anyone who says otherwise."

You huff and get a little braver, kissing Jason and returning him onto his back. He grins, sharp and hungry. He wants you. There's no doubt.

"I still think you're concussed," you murmur, letting him feel up your shirt. "But lucky for you, I have the utmost sympathy for poor, bedridden bats."

Jason hums, grunting when your teeth scrape his ear. "Oh, I've always known I was the lucky one, having you."

#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd x plus size reader #red hood x you #red hood x y/n #jason todd x gender neutral reader #jason todd x yn #jason todd fanfiction #dc fanfic #batman fanfiction #jason todd imagine #inbox #blurb

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meyousing · 1 year ago

Text

𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐀 𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you’re used to light being distant, so when he decides to lay the affection on heavy and proposes a new idea to you at the same time, you’re helplessly intrigued. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: nsfw, yandere light yagami x reader, idk if this matters to say right off the bat but you’re wearing a skirt :] also mentions of death like always lol but none fr! alsoalso this idea has probably been done to death by now but to be fair I started this A YEAR AGO!! pls enjoy despite that lol ily <3

“What is it?” his eyes sharpened as they narrowed at you from across the room, voice laced with blatant boredom. That was what you told yourself anyway, truly hoping that it was boredom and not annoyance because the look he always gave you at times like this made you cave in on yourself, instantly regretting whatever you had done to be such a bother. All that you were doing now was laying idly on his bed, legs swinging out of habit as you were on your stomach and flipping through a magazine that he had given as a pacifier. Maybe he knew that you were actually keeping your eyes on him this entire time, rather than the sheets before you.

“What do you mean?” playing dumb never worked with Light, but you would always do it anyway. It could provide a delay of the inevitable if nothing else.

You heard the tap of his pen as he dropped it on his desk, followed by the soft thud of his notebook closing before he stood from his chair. A regular notebook, you noticed, thankfully.

“Trying to outsmart me again?”

Right, his interpretation of your playing dumb was much less simple than what you intended to get across. Of course, he knew that you knew better, so your deception was instead seen as defiance; a flaunt of superiority.

“Of course not,” you shut your magazine, sliding it to the side of the bed and cringing when it slid off of the bed, crumpling up in an ironically tense pile on the floor. Surely Light wasn’t too attached to it, as he merely spared it a passing glance before casting his eyes upon you once more. Then he began to approach, making you swallow a newfound lump in your throat as you scampered back to sit up on your haunches.

“Then what is it?” he leaned over you, his hands resting at your sides with your faces inches apart. His breath was slow through his nose, soft and cold as each exhale blew onto the tip of your nose.

How to tell him that the stupid magazine didn’t pacify you at all, that only his attention could soothe you? And how embarrassing it could get if you admitted to the exact type of attention that you needed.

He began leaning closer as your mind raced, thinking of a different possible answer, but then it went entirely blank as he was close enough to brush his lips over yours. Tantalizingly, the gentlest nudge and he only did it once before pulling back slightly, you could have missed it had your brain continued thinking so hard. The sensation nearly made you crumble, a chill shooting down your spine as you inhaled and resisted the urge to wet your now trembling lips, focusing on maintaining your posture. He knew how to break you, you didn’t want him to see it happen this soon.

“Nothing” was all you could say without simply blabbering out every dirty thought plaguing your mind.

“You never stare at me like that for nothing,” he said pointedly, even adding a cheeky but very slight tilt of his head. Had your stare really been so obvious? You truly did try to be subtle. Either way, you found it humorous how he could go from cold with seemingly deadened emotions to a teaser within minutes. Finding it humorous helped you cope with how scary you knew he could be.

With the lightest shove to his chest you could muster alongside a bashful turn of your head, you tried creating some space between yourselves to alleviate the fast beating of your heart.

“Really, it’s nothing. I didn’t mean to distract you from your work…” Your hand lingered on his chest after the little push, kneading the material of his shirt idly as you hoped this excuse would suffice. This mannerism alone proved the opposite of your hopes to him.

When the full press of his lips fell upon yours in a genuine kiss this time, you knew that you had failed. Even more so when you subconsciously deepened it with a lean closer, making your grip on his shirt firmer to keep him from moving away. Though it seemed he had no intention of doing so, instead easing you down to lay your back against his mattress, crawling over you as soon as you were horizontal.

This kiss, unlike all of his others which would be quick and half-assed–your lips barely meeting before he was already turning his head away to tend to some other matter–was compassionate. One of his hands found the side of your face and he caressed your cheekbone with his thumb, his other fingers which became entangled in your hair from the placement were massaging your scalp soothingly. The sensation lulled you and had you sinking even deeper into his bed while pulling him along with you, your fingertips meeting at the back of his neck and fiddling with the ends of his hair. While this kiss was unusual, it was not unwelcome.

You didn’t know that there would be a catch to this sudden affection.

You could feel Light smirking against you, his entire aura darkening once he did, so much that you could feel it–and your reaction to such a peculiarity was communicated with a tensing of your shoulders. Upon sensing this, Light was quick to groan and prod his tongue against your bottom lip, which surprised you further and allowed him to invade your mouth. The intimate sound he let out and the way he just seemed so infatuated with you right now had your heart racing.

This moment ended almost as quickly as it started though, he pulled away from you and nudged his nose against yours. You tried not to show your disappointment, but you knew that it must have been obvious when a frown graced your lips.

“I want to try something.”

This could go in any direction. He was always so unpredictable, mood changing on a dime whether it was for better or worse.

“What’s that?” you asked with a small voice, indicative of your anxiety about the unknown. You were already playing right into his hands.

“I want to reward you for being so obedient.”

A reward? Who is this and what has he done with your Light?!

His hand on your cheek rubbed it once more before he lifted himself off of you, steadying himself with hands on your waist as he did. You remained in your place, only watching with your eyes as he leaned over to reach into his desk and a drawer.

The drawer.

You turned your head with a gulp as you watched him retrieve his arm, now holding the dreaded notebook that you had tried to shield yourself from, trying to stay ignorant for the sake of keeping your relationship peaceful with the man you couldn’t help but love.

“So long as your obedience remains the same, you’ll be rewarded. We’re going to test it right now.”

He placed the book by your hand which had fallen to your side once he moved, putting his pen between your loose fingers and adjusting it until it stayed still there without tipping over. Your limbs had frozen, so it was no tough feat for him. You were shocked even further when Light’s expression altered somewhat once he actually took notice of how tense you were. Last you could remember, he couldn’t care less when your discomfort was so obvious.

“It really is going to be rewarding for you. Don’t you trust me?”

He always had to ask you that. How much more obvious could you be about your unequivocal devotion to him, your infinite trust? You’d been by his side all this time, yet he would still ask, nearly daily, most commonly before asking you to do something that you didn’t want to do. As if anyone else would remain with him when finding out his secret, and he still doubted you.

“You know I do.” You murmured, fingers twitching around the cold pen in your grasp.

“Then at least hear me out” he chuckled dryly, not with any sense of legitimate humour. You tried to be subtle as you swallowed the lump in your throat, having heard such an impatient laugh come from him countless times before.

“This won’t be going away any time soon,” he patted the notebook, “and I can tell that you won’t be either. I mean, as long as you keep following along with me, here.” He glimpsed at you differently then, as if his eyes were asking you to challenge that statement.

You only nodded. Light grinned.

“Good.”

His fingers moved to peel open the book, and you glanced away from it as he skimmed past so many pages that were filled from margin to margin with names. The crisp sounds of paper brushing together stopped once he found a blank one.

Your eyes stayed on him, and you could feel some burning bile churn and slosh around in your gut as a little smirk pulled at his lips. His eyes darkened when they met yours.

His free hand, which was out of your line of sight, traced the waistband of your skirt. You flinched slightly in surprise, and Light’s smirk widened as he leaned closer to you.

“Write your name.”

Despite being unmoving already, you froze even further, stiffening like a stone and watching him desperately, trying to detect any hint of jesting in his demand. But the wickedness surrounding Light was unrelenting; he meant what he said.

“What?” you asked quietly, needing to hear it again to really believe that he meant it.

“Start writing your name. Trust me, won’t you?”

“I-I do–”

“I know. So do it.” Light’s tone was more firm now.

You could only hold your breath when your eyes flitted over to your hand, your fingers readjusting the pen as you tried to point it toward the paper. The book itself felt alive, you could sense its unreal gaze–like it was taunting you, mocking and laughing at you, tempting you to write, and calling you a coward if you dared to show any hesitation because it shouldn’t be that hard.

Having been with Light for so long now, you fully understood the notebook’s functionality. Knowing that, would it really be so crazy if you were being a coward about this?

“Any time now, love” Light’s voice became impatient, and when you looked up at him, his kneeling posture was equivalent to being on the edge of his seat. He looked like he could implode had you made it this far and chose to back out now, he was so eager. You’d hate to disappoint him, even if his little pet name for you was clearly insincere.

Your body went cold and numb once you pushed the tip of the pen against the page, watching the smallest droplet of dark ink soak into the lines. Your hand remained stagnant following this, and you spared a short glance up at Light, noting how his eyes were stuck on the pen. You took in a breath, holding it and letting your lungs fill so you’d become a little lightheaded–a little less aware of this horrible reality–before moving further with utmost reluctance to drag the tool, lining the shape of the first letter in your name.

You could hear Light exhaling as you finally did. You couldn’t let out that breath of your own just yet. Maybe your cause of death would be suffocation, then.

Your focus was ripped away from the note in an instant once you felt a cold fingertip trace over your clit from above your panties, making your body jolt as you met eyes with Light. He wasn’t looking at you yet, only doing so once you stopped writing.

“Go on. I’m staying true to my word.” To emphasize this, he pressed down against your clit again, his push firm but gentle–leaving you on the cusp of craving more as the sensation gave you chills, yet also sent heat through your lower half.

So pathetically, that small second of pleasure was enough to incentivize a continuation, and you managed to finish printing that very first letter.

“Good…”

He resumed what he had been doing, gently circling your bud and using the advantage of that added layer from your panties to optimize the friction; encouraging you. You could feel the way that you were starting to get wet, soaking the material and only making such movements smoother for Light.

You paused as the feeling grew slightly more intense, coping, and your pause made Light do the same. You two were playing a little game, it seemed, and you obviously didn’t want it to stop–you had to keep going. You had wanted him minutes before this, after all, and you were finally getting what you craved.

Letter two manifested; your grip on the writing utensil weakened as he pulled your panties aside to touch your skin directly.

You shuddered from the sudden cool air that brushed along your exposed skin, and he dragged some of your slick up from your pussy, using it to make rubbing into your clit that much easier, that much more pleasurable. Your limbs shuddered and you had to breathe out a more vocal huff of air in exasperation, your lungs aching while your muscles tensed in delight from Light’s direct tending to such newfound sensitivity.

You remained paused with your eyes shut firmly as you became accustomed to the bliss that he inflicted. Light, seeming to understand exactly what he was doing to you, was a bit more forgiving now–continuing his ministrations even when you stopped, but not changing his pace or furthering the intensity enough for those feelings to grow, to bring you closer to any type of climax. It still made you moan though; still made your heart skip a beat and made your walls tighten around nothing.

Perhaps you had been successfully swindled into playing with fire because now your mind understood a simple formula; if you wanted more, you had to keep writing. Would he let you come if you wrote your entire name down?

Would you even feel the aftershocks of your release before you died?

The prospect of death hit your lust-fogged mind like a truck, and your eyes shot open–that slowly building knot in your abdomen became a tightrope clenching out of fear rather than anticipation. This was a death note, and you were already on track to penning yourself down within it.

Light could sense your change in stature and returned his gaze to your face once again. His hand slowed, but it was as if he could detect your worry and didn’t want to let you succumb to it–he wanted to keep you within the cusp of pleasure, to keep you malleable and submissive to his desires, not whatever lies your mind was telling you. So he kept touching you.

“You know that you can’t stop now that you’ve started, right?” He looked cocky, like he had you right where he wanted you. And it seemed that he did, because now with such confusion and so many conflicting feelings plaguing you, you weren’t sure about that–could you back out now? Was the damage already done now that your first name was almost down entirely?

Your drying lips parted as if to ask, but you couldn’t find your voice. Light let out a short, dry laugh and nodded his head, his face inches away from yours, like he fucking knew.

“Mhm. You have to keep going, now. You’d better hurry, too. You know that there’s a time limit… don’t you?”

Your lungs were burning and your hips squirmed as he traced his fingers around your core, swirling them within your copious wetness and gently prodding his fingers, hardly getting inside of you, yet you still writhed from the sensitivity of such a precise, close touch.

You shook your head deliriously in delayed response to his words and all Light did was nod his own head toward the book again. Suddenly you were reminded of the pen in your grasp which had now absorbed the growing heat from your palm; hot to the touch.

Noting that apparent time limit, you felt your heart thrumming as it raced and you started writing again. The pace of your fingers scraping the pen back and forth was a little quicker than before, yet you couldn’t shake that lingering hesitance even while knowing that you really should have been rushing. Light hummed as he watched, nonchalantly pushing a finger inside of you as you progressed, which made a whiny sound catch in your throat, and made your back lift slightly off the bed.

Your arm trembled and your chicken scratch ceased again, but Light knew that he had you, because you hurried to carry on with haste once more, and he didn’t bother to stop stroking inside of you anymore. He even slid in another finger following the last time he pulled out, the added thickness made your thighs attempt to close from the new nerve-tingling pleasure that it gave, even despite the way that his body between your legs kept you nice and open for him.

“Please,” you bartered, voice muffled and representative of the state you were in; wholly weak. He grinned and kept going, his body solid in its place on top of you, forcing you to take it even as his skilled fingers overwhelmed you so deliciously. You wanted the end result now–you wanted to come, to feel that sweet release by his hand.

Light initiated this entire thing, he set his rules, and you knew that finishing wouldn’t happen just like that, because it wasn’t what he wanted.

“Please what, Y/N? You already know what you have to do. Don’t play stupid.”

The little jab at the end hurt only a little bit, making your stomach drop, making you feel as stupid as he said–but his fingertips rubbed along and pressed into your sweet spot which made you whimper, and that feeling was all you could focus on now; remedying the sting of the insult with the soothing cradle of his fingers. Oh, how successfully he was able to distract you and change the path of your thoughts once again. You could hardly bring yourself to care about such blatant manipulation, because release was getting closer and closer, and that was all you wanted.

You couldn’t even tell if the pen was pressing into the paper hard enough to leave any writing behind at all; your hand was hardly moving because your eyes remained shut in elation, and you chose to squeeze the pen in your fist as you coped with his touch, but Light just seemed content with the fact that you were resuming any transfer of penmanship at all. He was certainly rewarding you as he promised, keeping his fingers inside of you until his knuckles pushed into the plush of your pussy lips, and they rocked into you so good that you could almost feel that hard pressure in your stomach.

It was starting to become too much–you knew how close you were getting, but you didn’t know if that’s what Light wanted. He liked to be in control of most things in his life, and you were at the very top of that list.

“I-I can’t, I’m gonna–”

A gasp-like mewl left you once you felt a hot, wet stroke against your clit at the same time that Light pushed rather hard against your g-spot, holding his fingers there and making you squirm. Your eyes shot open and you craned your neck off of the mattress to look down, watching as his lips closed around your clit and sucked it into his mouth, rolling his tongue over it and keeping his eyes on yours the entire time. Your entire body shuddered, it was so intense that you had to try and pull away, but he wasn’t having it, using his free hand to pin your hip down and keep you still.

“Light,” you whined, a warning to him that he was pleasing you too well too quickly, you were about to come and you were hardly finished with writing down your first name.

His eye contact only became bolder, he didn’t relent, if anything he was trying to get more out of you; intent on making you come now. He hadn’t instructed you otherwise, so you felt safe enough to finally give in–with a weak, raspy whimper you felt yourself release that buildup of desire, your vision turning into static behind closed lids as your body writhed and churned even while he kept you down, putting himself against you with more force. Your hips rocked into his mouth to ride out every last remnant of your orgasm until you felt no more, the only sound that you could hear was your own heavy breathing and Light’s last few caresses against your audibly sopping wet pussy.

Light moved off of you slowly, and you noted that his eyes were trained on the book rather than your body that now glistened with a light sheen of sweat. Before you could say anything to him (but even then, what could you say?), his eyes scanned over the page and your writing while he nonchalantly wiped your release off of his fingers, onto the material of your skirt.

You followed his line of sight and looked over your work, seeing how scribbled and disastrous it was. You had probably produced better writing back in kindergarten.

Now that your heat had finally been tended to, however; your arousal sated, you blinked a few times, then realized exactly what you were looking at: part of your name, written in the death note.

What about the time limit? Was your first name enough to make it work either way? Your heart began to race and so did your breathing–were these the side effects of the incoming, inevitable heart attack?!

I suppose the cause wasn’t suffocation after all, a fleeting voice said so sarcastically in the back of your head, making you grimace. You propped yourself up on your elbows in a panic and your eyes flew back to Light, who was still skimming over the page with a look of maintained scrutiny. He was so… calm. Were you not about to die? Did he not care?

“That’s a good start,” he murmured, reaching out to trace his index finger (the one that wasn’t just buried in you to the hilt) along the shaky lines that hardly resembled any of the alphabet.

“Wha–” You could only heave the word out since it felt like your heart was beating in your throat, though your body gradually relaxed as Light seemed completely neutral to the situation. The longer that he did nothing, the more time passed, and you realized that… you were still here.

When silence fell completely between both of you, Light looked over with such casualty that you felt like none of what just happened even did.

“If we can get to your last name next time, too, maybe I’ll actually fuck you.” He slid off the bed as he spoke, his tone so normal as if he was just talking to you about the weather, making your jaw drop. He grabbed the book and closed it, walking over to the drawer and taking his sweet time ensuring that it was properly put away.

All you could do was lay there in silent disbelief, watching him with wide eyes while he acted like nothing even happened.

“I’m fine, then?” you asked, your voice firmer and a little louder than normal, more demanding for direct answers. Light glanced over at you and laughed coldly, standing up straight once the drawer was closed once again, his hands on his hips lazily.

“I like that you’re a little dumb, Y/N. It makes things like this more exciting, don’t you think?”

Before you could respond verbally–only able to scoff for now–Light turned to leave the room, murmuring a nearly inaudible “I’ll get some water” before the door closed behind him. His muffled footsteps became more distant as he descended downstairs, isolating you to the top floor.

Helplessly flumping back against the bed, you stared at the ceiling, reliving everything that had just happened in a mental state that you imagined neurosis to feel like. Although, you didn’t have to worry for long… you would get used to it. You understood that this was not going to be the first time something like this would happen, Light was truly only getting started with you.

#✧meyou #✧musinghxhmasterlist #death note #light yagami #death note fanfiction #death note x reader #yagami light #light x reader #light yagami x reader #light yagami smut #light yagami x you #light yagami x y/n #death note x you #i hope this doesn't have any typos lmao i'm sorry if this comeback sux

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trippinsorrows · 18 days ago

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looking through your eyes + twenty nine

authors note: it's all coming together...

cw/tw: fluff, angst, suspense, discussion regarding sexual assault and incest

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

cast + masterlist +story playlist + taglist request form

words: 8k

There’s a calm that befalls Solana and Roman following her discharge from the hospital. A welcomed respite from the chaos that’s consumed the both of them in the past couple of weeks.

A space of peace and appreciation following the scariest of things.

Solana was truly convinced that she was going to lose her babies, a loss so catastrophic, she’s not certain what recovery from said catastrophe would look like.

What that would mean for herself and her marriage.

But, it was avoided. A horrific scare, at best. A scare that somehow helped husband and wife have much needed, long overdue conversations. Even the argument between them that preceded the scare. Though she regrets that it ever reached that point, there’s a part of her that is happy it occurred. It allowed for the demolition of a budding wall of mistrust between them.

Demolition that was a must for their marriage to continue to grow and strengthen.

And, it will.

Because she loves this man and what they’ve built too much to watch it all fall apart.

They owe each other that much.

Most importantly, for their girls.

The day Solana is released is spent almost entirely with her laying in bed with Roman, the two of them embracing both each other and the solitude and comfort found in once another. A necessary thing, given all that transpired.

But also, something that Roman largely attributes to the doctor’s orders that she take the next couple weeks “easy.”

That seems to be something, however, that her husband has taken perhaps a bit too literally.

He doesn’t want her doing anything outside of showering and using the bathroom. Dulce needs to go outside? He handles it. They need to eat something? He reaches out to his private chef and has meals delivered. She wants some air? He sits with her out on their balcony.

Thoughtful and kind is his dedication to making sure she follows the doctor’s orders both for herself and the pregnancy, but it’s also….a lot.

It’s why she tries to make her “great escape” while he’s napping. They both were, but she woke up to find him still asleep, providing her the out she needed.

Solana makes it downstairs and into the kitchen, is even able to settle on the dish she wants to make for them, a small smile of satisfaction on her face as she relishes in her victory.

“What are you doing up?"

Damn.

Solana turns around to find her scowling husband standing before her with his arms crossed.

“Baby,” she smiles nervously. “You’re up.”

His expression is unwavering. “Yeah, and you shouldn’t be.”

Sighing, she walks over to him. “Roman….” Solana moves her hands up down his broad chest, trying her best to help him understand this in the simplest of terms. “I’m on pelvic rest. Not bed rest. They’re—they’re different, baby.”

“Close enough,” he shrugs. Solana’s shoulders slump as does the small smile that was on her face. “In bed.”

“Ro,” she whines. “I was in the bed in the hospital. I’ve been in bed since we got home. I’m tired of being in the bed. I need to move around.”

“Didn’t you go to the bathroom?”

“Yes.”

“Then you moved around.”

She closes her eyes. “Roman.”

“It’s bad enough your ass was picking up and holding Dulce. She weighs more than your weight restrictions.”

Solana’s eyes widens. “She’s five pounds, Roman.”

“Exactly. Anything five and over is too much.”

With another heavy sigh, Solana goes for a different approach. “Roman?”

“Yes?”

A warm smile, soft voice, and pleading eyes. “I love you. I love you so much, but I think….I think you’re being a little too much.”

He looks absolutely baffled. "I’m following the doctor’s orders.”

Solana makes a sound, head nodding side to side to depict her not outright agreeing with his statement. “That’s….debatable.”

Roman rolls his eyes and pulls his phone out his back pocket. “Since we’re on the subject, I made a list of some of the things we need to change while you’re pregnant.”

Somehow, someway, Solana already knows this list is just going to be another continuation of his extreme overprotectiveness. “Oh?” Roman unlocks the phone and navigates to something, handing it to her to reveal a list in the notes app. Solana is more surprised by the length of said list than anything. Her finger keeps moving to scroll. “Ro, how—how long is this?”

He shrugs. “It was while you were sleeping at the hospital. I was bored and had the time.”

Solana stops when she catches wind of one of the suggestions being ‘no cooking for the twins.’

That most definitely has nothing to do with the pregnancy.

With a gentle smile, she places the phone on the counter and moves her hands up his chest, asking in a soft voice, “Roman, how are you?”

A fair, valid question, because the past few weeks have been a bit of a storm for both of them, but in the middle of said storm she cannot and will not forget the presence and impact of his grief.

He looks visibly taken back by her changing of topics but eventually moves his hand down to hers, guiding them into the living room where he sits down on the sofa and carefully pulls her down next to him.

She starts to ask him another question when he reaches for the coffee table where a stack of papers are spread.

Her stomach twists. She knows exactly what said papers are.

Roman is the one surprising her this time when he hands them to her, sharing, “I want you to read it.”

Naturally, she’s shaking her head, refusing to accept it. “Roman, no. Fetu left it for you.”

“And I want to share it with you,” he pushes back, offering, “it’s easier for you to read it than it is for me….for to me to explain.”

That, she most definitely understands. It’s a large reason why she wants to have him read her letter from her mom.

It truly is easier that way.

Still, Solana has to ask one more time. “Are—are you sure?”

There’s not an ounce of hesitation in his voice nor on his face. “Yes.”

Another deep breath as she finally accepts the letter, taking a second before allowing her eyes to take in the words from beyond this world.

Roman,

My sweet, big eared boy.

If you’re reading this, I’m probably dead. Go figure.

I imagine you’re upset and sad, and that’s okay. It’s like I’ve always told you, you have feelings, and it’s okay to have them.

But, I’m also going to tell you something I haven’t told you in years, you have a big heart, Roman. A good heart, and it’s never made you weak. It’s always been your greatest strength.

But, I know they tried their best to strip you of that, and Roman, in many ways. they did. By keeping me from you for so many years. Rikishi’s big ass knew I would work my damn hardest to help you keep your humanity, because you are so much more than what they tried to turn you into.

You are not an unfeeling killer. You are a young man who lost so much as a young boy. Who was always expected to be perfect. That’s why I tried so hard to just encourage you to be a kid, to be human, to recognize it’s okay to have feelings.

Now, for the truth.

Roman, I’m tired.

I’ve been tired for the past few years. Especially since the diagnosis. The thought of dying and not remembering my family, remembering you, is something I can’t accept.

I want to leave on my terms, with the love and all the memories I have for you, for Ava, for this life I’ve been blessed to live.

But, I’ve held on this long because my prayer has always been the same. That my days would be extended long enough to make sure you’d be okay once I’ve passed. Because I’ve never wanted to leave you alone.

And now I don’t have to, because you have Solana.

She is the one I’ve been praying for. The one to make sure I don’t have to leave you alone in this cold world.

She’s your soulmate, Roman. In every sense of the word. You must stay with her, no matter what. Do not push her away. You need her just as much as she needs you. You’re especially going to need her when I’m gone.

But not just her.

Roman, I am going to ask something of you that I know you’re not going to like, but I really don’t care, because it’s what you need.

You need to establish a relationship with your brother. I know that’s always been a sensitive subject for you, no thanks to that mother of yours, but true family is everything. We were not meant to be alone in this world.

You need more than just Solana.

We lost so much, yes, but with Matteo, there is hope. I know there is a lot of pain and hurt and rejection there, but both of you were victims of the politics in this life we live.

You need Solana, but you need your brother, too.

It is my dying wish that you try to form some kind of relationship with him.

I am leaving you something in return though. There is a key included in this envelope. I'm sure your perceptive ass has seen it already. In the GREEN trunk in my closet, NOT the blue one, trust me—you don’t wanna know what’s in there—you’ll find a stack of letters I wrote to you all those years we were separated. And beyond. Life lessons. Silly shit. Reflecting on good times. All of the things. Something you’ll always have from me.

This is actually my last letter I will write to you, and it’s to say goodbye.

Roman, know that I am sad to go. Sad that I will not be around to meet your children, but I have no doubt you will be an amazing father. You and Solana will break the cycle of generational dysfunction from before you.

As I said, I am tired. It is time for me to rest, and I can finally do so knowing that you will continue to be just as loved, if not more, as I have always loved you.

You may have been Nakoa and Viviana’s son, but you’ve always been and always will be my boy.

Love,

Fetu

By the time Solana finishes reading, her eyes are teary and her mind is all over the place. She looks over at her quiet husband. “Roman….”

As with her letter from her mom, there is so much to process. Fetu wanting to die. Her leaving behind an abundance of letters for Roman, so he’ll always have a part of her. The part about Matteo, which is, arguably, the most shocking section for her.

She thought Roman and the man resembled each other in an almost uncanny way, but she could have never guessed that they were brothers.

So, not only does she have a brother she didn’t know about, but Roman has one he does and has known about but doesn’t claim?

He must be reading her face well, because he immediately moves into explaining that part in particular. “I’m sorry I lied to you about who Matteo is, but…..” He starts, looking off, clearly uncomfortable with this discussion but most likely knowing it needs to happen. “That’s hard for me. My mother…..our mother never tried to hide the fact that he was the son she wanted. That he…..he was the one she loved.”

Solana’s chest tightens as she moves closer to him, placing the letter down on the coffee table and holding onto his arm. “Roman, I’m—I’m sure your mom loved you in her own way.”

He still doesn’t look at her as he calmly counters, “she loved what she thought I could do for her one day.” Solana’s confusion is short-lived as he offers further explanation. “My mother loved Matteo’s father, but he was a commoner and Turkish, so it was forbidden. But, she didn’t care, and they maintained this secret relationship that ended in a pregnancy.” Matteo. “They got found out, so my mother’s father had him tortured and killed. And my mother’s punishment was to be sent off to America and married off to my father, who she never loved.”

Solana tightens her hold on Roman’s arm, asking, “and Matteo?”

He sits up, still not looking at her but reclining further back into the sofa. “He stayed in Italy and was raised by distant relatives.” She can see the way his jaw clenches and feel the tension building in his big body. “She wanted me to eventually be the one to kill my grandfather. To make him pay for what he did to her, who he took from her. It’s why she pushed me so hard to be….what I’ve become.” He finally turns to her, turmoil and conflict written all over his face. “She loved that I could one day be her key to revenge.”

The more Solana learns about Roman’s past and his upbringing, the more and more sense he makes. She realized this a while ago, but once again, she’s seeing just how stacked the cards were against him.

Leaning against him, she kisses his shoulder, murmuring, “baby, I’m so sorry.”

It’s a minute before he says anything. “Matteo hasn’t….he’s never actually done anything to warrant my dislike or distrust, but acknowledging him as my brother is….hard for me.”

She can see that, and she has a good guess at to why. Because Matteo had the one thing she’d suspect Roman wanted at one point in his life, especially as a child.

His mother’s love.

With a heavy sigh, she does her best to be respectful of his boundaries while also honoring Fetu’s final wishes. “Fetu….she knew you well, Ro.” He swallows, hand moving to her knee. “And I think…..I think she was right to encourage you to develop a relationship with Matteo.” He looks toward her, Solana going to clarify. “In your own timing, of course, but I do—I do think you should at least try.”

The eye contact is short-lived, as he looks away, Solana opting to give him a bit of a respite. She moves her hand atop his, sharing, “we should go get the trunk tomorrow.” His gaze falls on her once more. “Those letters she left you….they need to be here. In our home. With you.”

Specifically in the library he created just for her. A shared space. Their space.

Roman doesn’t say anything, just nods, clearly still feeling a myriad of emotions. She just moves even closer to him, continuing to hold onto him, mumbling an “I love you” followed up with and, “we’re going to get through this.”

Because, they will.

She’s going to make sure of it.

Because she loves him too much for them not to.

Because, as Fetu said, they’re soulmates.

————

It takes some convincing, but Solana is eventually able to talk her husband into an outing. An essential one, given it’s a grocery trip, but a trip, nonetheless.

She can tell it’d be beneficial for him to get out the house.

Upon arriving, Solana thought the parking lot was pretty empty outside of a few black SUV’s that she recognizes to be Bloodline. Security. However, it’s not until they’re actually inside the grocery that she realizes how much of a ghost town the place really is.

As Roman pulls out the cart for her, Solana asks, “where is everyone?”

To which he answers so simply, “I had it closed off for us.” She accepts the cart, placing her purse down in the kid’s seat. “Bloodline only.”

Ahh. That would definitely explain it. “Roman, was that—was that really necessary?”

“Sure was.” He doesn’t even need to think about her question.

Sighing, she tries from a different angle. “I–I go grocery shopping all the time without it being shut down.” With her security detail, of course, but that’s always been more than enough to help her get there and back without issue.

“That was before.” He doesn’t need to add on the noun, the pregnancy component. “This is now.” She sighs and begins to lead the way, as he adds, “besides, you know I don’t like being around people.” Rolling her eyes, a small smile falls on her face when he’s behind her, arms around her waist, face nuzzled in the side of her neck, “except for one….”

“I’ve noticed,” she giggles, stealing a kiss on his cheek before redirecting them. “Okay, come on.” Solana digs in her purse and pulls out her phone, unlocking it and opening the notes app where she completed her grocery list shortly before they left the house. Handing him the phone, she instructs, “read these off for me, so we don’t forget anything.”

Back at her side, a scowl falls on his face as he uses his finger to scroll through said list. “Solana, how much food are you getting?”

Solana turns to him, one hand on her hip. “Ro, do you have any idea how much you eat?” And, of course, he looks at her with his brow lifted, evoking a blush from her. “You know what I mean.” Clearing her throat, she explains, “between you, Jimmy, and Jey—”

“Don’t worry about them,” he interrupts, expression and voice hardening. “They don’t need to be over at the house anymore. At least, not for a while.”

Solana frowns, extending her hand to stop them from walking. Turning to him, she asks straight up, “Ro, what’s going on between ya’ll?” Before he can protest, she reminds, “we promised we were going to be honest with each other.”

He’s quiet, Solana seeing her reminder stir something in him. With a reluctant sigh, he responds, “when I confronted Rikishi for how he acted with you, they were there, and it….it was ugly.”

“How ugly?”

Forever perceptive with her husband and all his tell-tales, Solana doesn’t miss the anger—and hurt—that flashes in his eyes. “Jey and Solo took his dad’s side. Jimmy seemed more unbiased, but that’s still his brother. And Jey and I still haven’t been….fine….since your party.”

She winces. A hurtful reminder of that awful turn in events. “Roman, I really am sorry for that. If I had known things were bad between Jey and Sami—”

“It wasn’t your fault, Sol.” Roman sighs, mouth shifting as he continues to share, “my relationship with Jey…..it’s complicated. It always has been.”

Solana chews on her bottom lip. “I know….I know he challenged you a lot when you guys were younger, that—that he challenged you for the ula fala at some point.” Roman looks, understandably, surprised by her knowledge. He doesn’t inquire as to how she knows, however, just continues to listen. “I know the twins get on your nerves a lot, but I also know you do value them, so it’s a bit hard for me to see….to see you all like this.”

Because, it is. Because for all the times she’s seen her husband get annoyed with his cousins, she’s also overheard and witnessed normal, friendly interactions. The three of them discussing sports, talking about their shared love of football, and even reflecting on experiences from when they were kids.

It hasn’t all been bad, which is why she’s partially appalled to see where they are right now.

In a small voice, she adds with a slight shrug, “I guess I thought….thought your relationship was stronger than that.”

“So did I.” It pains Solana to hear the sadness brewing underneath the surface level neutrality in that response.

Holding onto his arm, she offers an encouraging smile, “you’ll all figure it out.”

There’s a spark of maybe hope that fades into that typical indifference. “It doesn’t matter.” She sighs, as he moves his hand to her stomach. “I don’t need them. I have you, and I’ll have them.”

“Of course, you will.” Always. “But, baby, your friends can’t just be your wife and kids.”

“Why not?” His look of distaste at the word ‘friends’ makes her chuckle. He can be so damn stubborn. “I don’t like anybody else.”

“I’m aware,” she frowns. “What about a cl—”

“No.”

The frown deepens. Of course. Solana reaches for the pack of tortillas, tossing two in the basket. “Ro, you didn’t even hear what I was going to say.”

“Does it involve me being around people?”

An obvious answer but one she provides him, nonetheless.“Well, yes.”

“Then, I’m not interested.”

Rolling her eyes, she begins to push the cart again, prompting him to follow her. “I was going to say a photography club—”

“No.”

“Ro, you love photography.” Not to mention he’s exceptionally good. Having seen not only the shots he’s taken of her as well as sitting on his lap watching him edit, Solana can see the relaxation and enjoyment it brings him. Building upon it could be helpful.

If only he could see it that way. His dismissal is swift and to the point. “Yeah, and I hate people.”

She rubs her temples. As much as she loves this man, he can be so damn petulant. “Ro, the point—the point is to be more social. To....to make more friends.”

He's never looked so horrified and disgusted. “You say you worry about my blood pressure, but you out here trying to get me to interact with people that I hate?"

“Roman, you don’t even know them.”

“And?”

Deciding to take a risk, a big risk, a leap even, Solana is only able to get out. "What about Mat—"

"No."

Just like that. No consideration. No hesitation. Just immediately rejection.

She can't say she's surpsied.

Stopping the cart once more, she stands in front of him. “Roman….” She moves her hands to his chest, voice lowering and softening. “You know what Fetu said…..” Solana is very much aware as to the way his expression easily shifts from something hardened to something solemn. “It was…..it was her wish that you form a relationship with Matteo.” Roman looks away, prompting her to gently tug on his hoodie. “He’s your brother, Roman.”

As expected, he backs away from her, swiftly dismissing, “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“Ro—”

“We can. Just….not right now, alright?” There’s believability in his voice and expression. Solana nods, understanding the importance of timing as well as him being in a place to be more receptive. Not to mention she understands entirely the difficulty he’s facing.

Cause she’s dealing with the same thing.

They continue to move through the aisles, but instead of Roman simply reading off and allowing her to grab said items, he, of course, handles both tasks, thus delegating his wife to simply pushing the basket.

The reason?

“Too much movement for you.”

Rubbing her temples, Solana finds herself unable to take it anymore when he reaches for the six pack of yogurt before she can. Looking up at him as they walk, she vents. “Roman, I love you, but this is getting ridiculous. They’re groceries, not—”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

Solana looks away from her husband in favor of whatever he’s now looking at with disgust.

“Matteo.”

Because, sure enough, there stands her husband’s older, half brother next to a beautiful woman with a deep complexion, soft features and black box braids that cascade down her back. She’s also pushing the basket as the two of them now stand across from Solana and Roman.

Matteo’s facial expression is neutral as he acknowledges her, “Solana.” His gaze then shifts to Roman, to whom he gives a small nod. “Roman.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Roman!” Solana whispers harshly, tugging on Roman’s hoodie sleeve.

Matteo scoffs. “I could ask you the same.”

“Matteo!” The other woman scolds, shaking her head and focusing on Solana with a kind smile. “Solana? Roman’s wife, correct?” She walks over, extending her hand. “I’m Afia. Matteo’s wife.”

For some reason, Solana didn’t even think about the fact that Matteo could have a whole wife. Let alone a wife who’s in the states with him while he works.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Solana greets, accepting the handshake. She then gestures to her still scowling husband. “We were just getting some groceries.”

“Same,” Afia chuckles, also motioning to her husband who’s also scowling at Roman. Solana has a hard time not thinking about how much they resemble each other in this moment. “This one hates when we’re interrupted.”

“How you think we feel?”

Solana sighs. “Roman, please.” Her husband can be so damn petty sometimes.

“Trust me, when the guards said Bloodline only, I was thinking it would just be your wife, not you,” Matteo suddenly comments, partially glaring at Roman. For a second, Solana is taken back by his demeanor. The last time she encountered him, he was a lot more approachable and gregarious. However, she quickly reminds herself of what Afia just told her.

“This one hates when we’re interrupted.”

It seems Roman and his brother have more in common than just looks. They both hate having one-on-one time with their wives disturbed.

Afia then asks, “Do you shop here a lot?”

Solana nods. "I do."

“Oh, good.” Afia shakes her head, pulling out her phone and moving closer to share her screen. “I’m Nigerian, so I make a lot of Nigerian food, but I’m having a hard time finding some of the ingredients.”

Solana shakes her head, explaining, “some things are arranged kinda weird around here. What are you looking for? I’m sure I can help.”

Afia makes a face. Filled with appreciation. “That would be wonderful.” She scrolls a bit, Solana gasping when she sees the photo of the food.

“That looks delicious,” Solana smiles, hand naturally moving to her stomach.

Afia returns the smile. “It is. It’s called Afang soup.” She gestures to her husband with a light chuckle. “This one doesn’t really care for soup, but the kids love it.”

Matteo continues to scowl, partially defending himself. “Soup does nothing to abate my appetite.”

Solana giggles, also pointing to Roman. “He doesn’t really like soup that much either.”

And like his brother, Roman argues, “because I end up being hungry again an hour later.”

Solana opts not to comment on her husband and instead focuses on something that Afia said. “You….you guys have kids?”

Her smile could light up all of New York and then some. Hitting the side of the phone to lock it and then unlock it reveals Afia's lock screen photo which depicts three, smiling young faces. Two boys, obviously twins, no more than 5 and a little girl who can’t be more than two.

Solana gasps, briefly overcome with emotion. Roman has a niece and two nephews.

A family.

“They’re beautiful,” she comments, trying her best not to cause too much of a scene, not only because of where they stand but because of the two men who are only a few feet away.

But maybe, just maybe, she could find time outside of a random run-in to talk with Afia. To have a sit-down and figure out if they can maybe work together to build a relationship between their husbands.

Work together as sister-in-laws.

Clearing her throat, Solana pulls out her phone, starting to ask, “can I get your num—”

“Oh, hey!”

Four sets of eyes fall on the newest person to walk in on this impromptu meeting, Afia looking skeptical, Roman and Matteo irritated, and only Solana to reciprocate the kind introduction.

“Sami,” she smiles. “Good to see you.”

“Who the fuck is this?” Matteo gestures to Sami but directs his question toward Roman.

Roman, who is running his hand over his face, answers in a low voice, “a pain in my fucking ass.” Raising the volume, he asks with all the irritation, “Sami, what the fuck are you doing here?”

Solana rolls her eyes, as Sami stammers with a response, “just picking up some groceries, TC.” Roman scowls, mouthing ‘TC’ with all the confusion as Sami says with a chuckle, "surprising my wife tonight by cooking dinner for her.”

Afia gasps. “What a sweet thing to do.” She playfully cuts her eyes at her husband. “Did you hear that, my love? He’s cooking for his wife.”

“And?” Matteo is unimpressed. “I’m supposed to take advice from a homeless man?”

Solana jumps in, not wanting Sami to feel bad, though she’s partially stunned at just how much Roman and his brother are like.

“What are you making?” She asks. This is the first time she's seen the man since her welcome home party, and while a part of her feels a bit guilty about unintentionally putting him in that situation. There's just a kind aura about Sami that makes her want to bypass any awkwardness that conversation could bring and proceed with the pleasantries.

“Shawarma,” he answers with a proud smile.

Solana's jaw drops. “Really? I’ve always wanted to make that.”

“Me too,” Afia gasps. “Do you have a recipe you’d be willing to share?” She then offers her hand, “I’m Afia, by the way. Matteo's wife.”

Sami’s grin widens, accepting the handshake and offering his name as well. “Sami Zayn. Super nice to meet you.” He crosses his arms, offering, “You bet I do. A lot of them, actually, if you guys are interested.”

“Sami, I didn’t know you cooked like that.” Because, for some reason, Solana can’t picture the man before her knowing his way around a kitchen. Looks truly can be deceiving, though.

“I surely do,” he says it with so much pride. “I’m Syrian, so a lot of the food I make is Middle Eastern.”

Afia makes a sound of almost awe. “Oh, I love Middle Eastern food, but making some of those meals is always a bit of a challenge.”

Solana nods, agreeing, “especially with finding some of the ingredients.”

Sami makes a face, asking, “have either of you been to the international food market on 54th and Granite?”

Afia shakes her head, explaining, “my family and I are here….short-term, so we haven’t been a lot of places, to be honest.”

Solana tries to not think too much about the fact that her time to work with Afia to help Roman and Matteo may be limited. She just continues to focus on the conversation at hand. “And I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.”

Sami makes a sound, head temporarily thrown back. “You two absolutely have to go. I’ll be honest, I get most of poultry from there.” He leans forward, whispering almost. “A lot more lean. Less fat to cut.”

“Really?”

“Yup!”

He then offers, “you know I would be more than happy to escort you both. I mean, my uncle Louis works there, so you could get the family discount as well.”

Afia giggles softly. “That is so sweet of you.”

“I would love that so much,” Solana chimes, directing her comment to the both of them, “we should exchange recipes or something. I’m half Mexican, so I make a lot of Mexican food.”

Sami places his hand over his stomach. “You two are making me hungry already.”

As the three exchange laughter, Roma finds himself unable to stand patient and quiet as his suddenly social butterfly of a wife trades pleasantries with a woman she just met and fucking Sami.

“Sol—”

“Roman,” Solana practically whines briefly, informing in a more assertive voice, “I’m talking.”

And as she turns her attention from her husband and back to the conversation at hand, an equally annoyed Matteo attempts to get his wife’s attention as well.

“Fia—”

Afia, however, waves him off, muttering something in Italian as she too proceeds to be dismissive.

Matteo is the first to say it, the other three completely immersed in their culinary conversations. “I don’t fucking like him.”

Roman looks over at the other man, not exactly disagreeing but also not wanting to engage with him, either.

There’s a brief moment of silence that overcomes them, one that Matteo is the one to break.

“How are you doing?”

More forced social interaction. Even worse, a valid but irritating question. That doesn’t mean Roman has to answer it. Directly, at least.

Rolling his shoulders, he answers in a gruff voice, “fine until you and your damn wife interrupted us.”

Matteo makes a sound and rolls his eyes. “Trust me, it wasn’t intentional.”

And on some level, Roman knows this. Understands this. But, it's the combination of the letter, Solana being slightly on him about Matteo, fucking Matteo standing a few feet away from him that feels like too much.

Way too much.

Roman clears his throat and makes a comment about needing to make a call.

He doesn't really need to.

He just needs to get away, needs to not have to deal with this right now.

Or ever, preferably.

Though no longer an option.

If only.

————

After exchanging contact information, Solana is finally pulled away by her husband, who cites them being away from their dog too long as a reason to finish shopping so that they can leave.

An excuse that makes her smile, but an effective one, nonetheless.

The two arrive home, and Solan is able to fix dinner for herself and Roman, the two sharing a meal together, Dulce begging for scraps, Roman eventually relenting not to the human food but some fancy dog snacks that apparently Jimmy started feeding Dulce.

There's even brief conversation about the unexpected run-in. One that goes better than expected.

It’s a nice calm before a potential storm.

Because a few hours later, Solana is sitting in the middle of their bed, letter in hand when Roman walks out of the bathroom, freshly showered and clean. Right away, his eyes settle on the papers, expression softening.

“Solana, we don’t have to—”

“Yes, we do,” she interrupts, voice light but firm. “We said we’d start being honest with each other. You let me read Fetu’s letter. It’s only fair I let you read this. I—I want—I need you to.”

Her words seem to alleviate the sense of unease he feels at potentially “invading” her privacy. But, there is no privacy in this situation, because not only have the contents changed her life, in so many ways.

It’s about to change their lives in many ways.

Roman moves to sit on the side of the bed, Solana handing the letter to him, only asking, “can you not read it aloud?”

He nods, accepting them and the request. “Of course.”

She can only offer him a small smile before she watches him unfold the letter and begin to read, starting off the longest patch of time she’s ever experienced. It’s like the sound of big ticking playing and taunting her, seconds stretching into minutes that feel like hours.

So many of the initial thoughts and feelings return, and before she realizes it, her eyes are watering.

“Holy shit….” is Roman’s only comment as he finishes his read, Solana chuckling bitterly.

“That—that’s what I said,” she whispers, eyes closing. “He wasn’t my father.” The lump in the back of her throat thickens as she murmurs, “Paloma is…..she’s my grandmother.”

Roman looks off at the wall, eyes slightly wide as he shakes his head. “That’s why your mother always talked about that place. Because it was where her family was.”

“Where my family is,” she corrects, pushing back some of her hair, eyes misting all over. “I have a family.”

Roman looks at her, dots continuing to connect, “shit, that means Bayley is your cousin, right?” She nods with a small, sad smile as he looks away, muttering, “fucking Santos Escobar is your damn cousin, of course.” Catching himself, Roman apologizes, “I’m sorry.”

Her smile grows a tad bit. “It’s okay.” She appreciates the brief break from heavy emotions, albeit short, as his expression shifts into something serious.

Lifting the letter, he asks in the most sincere way, “what do you make of all of this?”

“Which part?” She asks more herself than him, rolling her still misting eyes. “I—I don’t know. It’s…it’s so much to take in, but….and this is the part I hate, I feel…..I feel angry with her.”

Roman asks in a quiet voice, “with your mom?”

Solana nods and looks away. Silence followed by an almost whispered, “I need to tell you something.” Solana is focused on the dresser instead of her husband whose eyes she can feel burning into her. “But, I never—I never want you to ask me about it again after today, because I’ve never—I’ve never told anyone, and I don’t want…..I don’t want to tell anyone or—or process it in therapy. I’ve—I’ve always to pretend it never happened. I wanted…..I wanted to die with this secret.”

Roman swallows, clearly sensing the building emotion. “Solana, you don’t—”

“He tried to rape me.”

Solana is forever grateful for not seeing the expression on her husband’s face when the words leave her mouth, because the horrified nature of his tone combined with what she’s about to share, is hard enough. “What?”

Head down, eyes closed, she starts recalling the deepest of her darkest secrets. “I was—I was sixteen, and—and Wes wasn’t home. I don’t know….I don’t know where he was, but it—it wouldn’t have made a difference either way.” Because, it truly wouldn’t have. “My d—” Solana catches herself, offering the more appropriate correction, especially given what she now knows. “Xavier came home drunk as hell. It had to have been close to 2 in the morning. I always….I always tried to stay out of his way, especially when he was drinking. And usually, if I was out of sight, I was out of mind. But….but that night, he—he came in my room.”

“Solana—”

“He started….he started rambling about things that didn’t make sense, and he—” She blows out a deep breath, pulling at the material of her shirt. “He started to call me a whore and a slut and accused me of sleeping around, which is why he said he needed to check me.” Solana wipes at her eyes, hugging herself as she whispers out, “and he did, but after, he tried—” Another pause, followed by a quiet, murmured, “he couldn’t get an erection, and I think he was too embarrassed by it, which is why he didn’t beat me. He just…..he just left.”

Roman's voice is saturated with sympathy. “Solana….”

“That next morning was the first time I tried to kill myself.” A vacant stare and hollow voice accompany the recalling of a night of attempted, horrific, unspeakable horrors. “Because….because I’d rather be dead than have another man hurt me like that.” Finally, Solana turns to look at her husband, a mixture of so many emotions, the strongest being a rage she knows she’s can’t fully comprehend.

Rage directed toward the man whose life he took methodically, slowly, and in every painful way known to man, but none of that would and will ever be enough to justify what he did.

Especially now that Roman knows this part of her story.

“I went through hell in that house because of her,” Solana finally allows herself to voice the truth she’s been sitting on since reading the letter. Finally frees the thoughts that she feels partially ashamed at having, though justified at feeling. “Because she wanted a daughter.”

Roman reaches out to cup her face, clearly wanting to help comfort her. “Baby—”

“She knew how he was, Roman. Knew what he was capable of, but she still kept me with her and let—my brother, who she didn’t tell me about, go with my real father, who she also didn’t tell me about.” She speaks from the heart, hurt and anger dipping from her words. She gestures to the letter, continuing to finally break down, “and then she puts in a fucking letter that I find at almost 30 years-old, and I’m supposed to just be okay with all this?”

“Solana—”

“I hate her!”

Silence.

A sniffle. A gasp. A sob.

Solana breaks down crying, face in her now wet palms. She’s instantly offered a slice of comfort when Roman’s strong arms wrap around her, holding her as he kisses her temple and tries to console her.

It helps. It’s comforting, but doesn’t negate the fact that the one person she never thought she could hate or have any ill will towards has now become part of the mountain of suffering she’s endured in her life.

A cruel twist of fate, indeed.

————

Solo’s foot taps against the floor one too many times, evoking a chuckle and comment from his perceptive father.

“Patience, son.”

Solo cuts his eyes at the older man, while stopping the foot tapping. Sitting forward, he states the obvious. “They’re late.”

This is a given, obvious by the lack of bodies present in vacant, waiting chairs.

“Good things come to those who wait, my boy.”

Solo scoffs, tone sharp as he asserts, “I’ve waited long enough.”

Rikishi smiles. “Agreed.”

And as if being summoned, the door opens and in enters the Elders, one by one, each taking a seat. As protocol, Solo stands and bows his head, properly acknowledging those who came before him.

Aleki wears a bored expression. “Well?” He motions with his hand. “Why have you requested an audience with us?”

Rikishi sits forward and shares a look with his son before going over the script he’s had memorized for years. “My brothers. I asked you to meet with me and my son, Solo, today regarding some significant concerns we have about the Bloodline.”

Solo specifies, “about Roman Reigns.”

Something flashes in Aleki’s eyes before he grants permission. “Go on.”

Rikishi gives a deep, heavy, fake sigh. “As much as it pains me to say this, as I love him as if he were my own, it deeply troubles me what may happen to the Bloodline and all we’ve built if he continues to sit at the Head of The Table.”

Sione, another Elder, speaks up, “that is a bold statement to make, Rikishi.”

Solo’s father doesn’t disagree. “It is.” A firm expression, followed by, “but a true one, nonetheless.” He sits forward in his chair, continuing, “make no mistake. None of us can take away what Nakoa’s boy has done for the Bloodline, how far he’s advanced us, but I fear Roman’s previous dedication has been….compromised.”

Another Elder asks, voice sharp and to the point. “Compromised how?”

Rikishi looks over at his son, giving him the nod to take over. Just as they rehearsed.

Ready and determined, Solo’s voice is strong as he asserts, “Roman Reigns has become so distracted and consumed by his love for his wife that it’s blinded his judgment. A wife who still hasn’t produced an heir yet seems to think she is above our ways and laws.”

“It’s true,” Rikishi adds. “Why, just the other day, I was trying to help her understand the importance of an heir, and she slapped me and told me to remember my place.”

Aleki sits forward. “What?” Anger flashes in his brown eyes and fills his aged face. “Does she not know it is forbidden to strike and speak in such way to an Elder?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rikishi calmly counters. “Because Roman justified her behavior and even attacked me, choking me, threatening to kill me just for speaking to her.”

Gasps and shocked expressions around the table as Solo fills the silence with additional information. “And that shooting a couple months ago? Solana wasn’t the target. Roman was. He was shot, but he was shot because he took the bullet for her.”

Sione gasps, narrowed gaze to Rikishi. “You told us—”

“He told ya’ll what Roman told him to tell ya’ll, and he threatened to kill him, to kill all of us, if we told the truth.” Solo answers, gaze hardening. “Roman uses and abuses his power and title to justify his and his wife’s actions that go against not only our rules and traditions, but the Bloodline as a whole.” Voice unwavering, Solo surveys the room and lifts his chin. “He is no longer fit to wear the ula fala.”

Silence

Aleki clears his throat, voice deceptively calm. “These are strong accusations you two make.”

“They can only be accusations if untrue, but I assure you, everything we’ve said is true,” Rikishi places his hand over his heart. “My son, Jey, is even willing to come and testify to what he’s seen, even more than what Solo and I have shared today.”

At that, it takes everything in Solo to not look over at his father with surprise. That wasn’t part of what they discussed. Last he heard, Jey was still on the fence when approached with the idea of talking to the Elders about Roman being removed as the Tribal Chief.

And Jimmy was straight up against it.

But despite this unexpected piece, Solo manages to remain focused on the task at hand.

“And I hate to bring this up, but brothers…..even if Roman’s wife was to provide an heir, Roman is Afakasi. His wife is Black and Mexican. What true Samoan blood will run through that child’s vein?” Rikishi challenges, shaking his head. “I fear Nakoa’s taking an outsider as a wife may have strengthened us at the time, but now, it will lead to our erasure.”

Another Elder points out, “we have decided to give Roman until the end of the year to—”

“That won’t work,” Solo reiterates. “You all don’t understand. Roman is not the man he used to be. His obsession with his wife is limitless. He’ll kill every single person in this room before he allows anyone to interfere with his marriage. He is dangerous. And not just to our enemies anymore.” Solo's voice darkens once more as they arrive at the climax of said script. “There’s only one way we can fix this problem.”

Another blanket of silence that extends longer than the last episode.

Aleki is quieter than before, tone chilly, “what exactly are you two proposing?”

Rikishi is the one to announce the ultimate goal, the key to making his longtime plan come to fruition. “Roman Reigns needs to be eliminated.” He surveys the face of his brothers, asserting, “We either kill him or he kills us. There is no other way.”

He then turns to Solo, hand on his shoulder, “and in his place, my son, Solo, who, at one point, served as Roman’s personal enforcer. Before Roman delegated him to being that wife of his bodyguard.” He then adds, for good measure, “Solo, who also already has four sons who are already in training to serve the Bloodline.”

More silence as someone brings up a prior, similar incident. “Rikishi, didn’t one of your sons already attempt to take the ula fala from Reings?”

“I’m not my brother,” Solo reminds, gaze around the room. “Jey failed. I won’t.”

Something appears in Aleki’s eyes, similar to excitement. He clears his throat, announcing, “you know we have protocols and traditions in situations like this, none of which are being proposed, thus we cannot approve such a coup.”

“We don’t need you to,” Rikishi informs. “We will only need you to approve and bless Solo wearing the ula fala and being our new Tribal Chief when the time comes.”

More silence. This lasting the longest before the older men share looks of unspoken conversation amongst themselves, eventually standing as Aleki shares, “we will take your…request into consideration.”

Solo bows while Rikishi simply nods. “Thank you, my brothers.”

Not another word is shared until the room is emptied of the majority of the Elders, leaving just father and son.

Solo is quick to sigh, running his hand over his face. “I don’t think it went well.”

Rikishi, however, simply smiles. “It went perfect.” Seeing the confusion on his son’s face, he explains, “Roman has shot himself in the foot with his disrespect over the years towards the Elders. They’re just as eager for that son of a bitch to be put down as we are.” He places a hand on Solo’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, my boy. By the end of the year, it will be you who sits at the Head of the Table.”

At that, Solo looks up, proud and determined. “Thank you, tamā.”

And once again, fate is on their side, cards continuing to fall right in place. Rikishi pulls out his ringing phone, smirking when he sees who the requested video is from. He instructs Solo to cast it to the flat screen TV mounted on the wall, said screen filling with a now familiar face.

“Well?” Luca’s deep, accented voice is thick with irritation and impatience. “How did it go?”

“Just as we needed it too,” Rikishi is the one to answer. “I have very little doubt that they will in any way object to Solo’s ascension.”

“I don’t give a fuck about that,” Luca Rossi is many things: cold, unfeeling, ruthless and so many more. All of which are reflected in the disgust in his voice. “The only thing I care about is Roman Reigns head on a fucking platter, so that I can have my rightful place as Capo di tutti capi.”

A smug Solo doesn’t hesitate to point out, “wasn’t he just in Italy? Why didn’t you make the killshot then?”

Luca growls something in Italian. “Because you people failed to inform me of his visit, as was our agreement. Not to mention that damn Dwayne worked hard to get him in and out.” The mutual disdain for the Tribal Chief and Capo’s second-in-command is certainly a shared thing among the three men. “And let us not forget I have been working for months here to create unrest to draw him out. You said he would come shortly after his wedding.”

“Things changed,” Rikishi shrugs, recognizing there is a hint of truth to what the man is saying. “It doesn’t matter though. The time is finally nearing.”

Luca's expression and voice are filled with skepticism. “Are Dwayne and Matteo still there?”

Solo, partially confused, is the one to answer. “Yeah. Why?”

Luca curses quietly. “Be careful with them. They both hold undying loyalty to my cousin. Neither should be underestimated, especially Matteo. He is just as brutal and sadistic as his brother. He just hides behind that charismatic personality. So is Dwayne. Not to mention the wild card the opo will play.”

Rikishi frowns. “Opo?”

“Matteo’s wife.” Luca scowls. “A former master assassin with a kill count that could probably rival any of your best men. Her codename was Opo, and that bitch has taken out the best of the best. Retired when she fell in love with an assignment.”

Solo puts two and two together, guessing aloud. “Matteo?”

Luca nods, eyes traveling elsewhere as he plays out different scenarios. “You seem sure of this plan, but know this, you’re in for one hell of a fight should Dwayne, Matteo, and even the opo decide to stand with Roman.”

The words go in one ear and out the other for both the father and son duo. They’ve worked too hard and too long to not be fully prepared to go to war, should it reach that point. They didn’t create the alliances and recruit the participants they did for no reason.

Luca’s eyes twinkle with mischief and disdain. “And as a friendly reminder, the minute my cousin takes his last breath, this background partnership as well as the alliance between the Bloodline and the Cosa Nostra is over with.” He sneers, vowing, “our people will never be on the same side again.”

Solo scoffs, gaze just as dark as Luca’s eyes. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And with that, the screen goes blank. Solo doesn’t hesitate to murmur, “fucking hate him.”

“So do I, but he’s served a purpose,” is Rikishi’s only comment as the two walk out of the room, eventually exiting the building and entering the limo waiting for them.

Across the seat, a hard set of brown eyes land on them. “Well?”

Rikishi smirks, buckling his seatbelt and answering with a proud smile, “it’s all going to plan.” He and Solo share knowing smirks, before he asks in a hardened voice, “is it ready?”

Nia’s smile is sinister and malicious as she lifts the phone. Tapping on the screen, “Solana’s” voice fills the car.

“Brandi? It’s me, Solana. I need you to meet me at the library this afternoon. Bring Emma, too. I can’t say why, but you just have to trust me. Please! I think you guys are in danger. I’ll be waiting for you.”

As the audio ends, Rikishi laughs, proudly. “Excellent.” Looking out the window, he says mostly to himself, “Finally, the last of Nakoa’s bloodline will be gone for good.” An evil, pleased smile falls upon his rotund face. “I can finally finish what I started almost 30 years ago.”

#roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fic #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns #arisnotebook

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cozymochi · 11 days ago

Note

Nyoka Information & Class

(Gonna assume that’s a typo. Meme here.)

Class: Who is your twst OC's classmate(s)? How would you describe their relationship? Did they have different classmates in previous year and did they get along?

Nyoka is a third-year student in Class D. The only other cast member who is in that class is the Malleus Draconia. Their relationship is… classmates. Will interact a bit inside the classroom due to circumstance, but not so much outside of it.

Small talk may be exchanged if Malleus or Nyoka has something to say. Nyoka would never disrespect royalty, so he treats Malleus accordingly. Malleus treats Nyoka with courtesy as well, as he’s expected to.

They will be paired up often because the rest of the class fears Malleus on principle due to his reputation and overall presence, and Nyoka can carry an unapproachable aura too despite his docile behavior. He’s not scared of Malleus per se, just reasonably cautious. He certainly wouldn’t willingly venture to Diasomnia, though. I can imagine Malleus in his weird-fae-way teasing an invite every now and then if Nyoka ever asks a question (like, say about the loud reptile who keeps escorting Malleus to class every day). It’s probably a real offer laced in mild ironic humor, but it’s hard to tell. Besides, a Savanaclaw student waltzing into Diasomnia? Absolutely not.

I’d probably describe the relationship as amicable. Not unpleasant, but neither really go out of their way to hang out. They’re both kinda stiff and dignified, but Malleus has a cheekiness that Nyoka lacks, I think. Malleus can be kind of in his own world, and Nyoka is just going through the motions. Reptile solidarity 🤝 Sort of. Not friends though. It’s not a thought that crosses their systems.

It’s hard to say if Nyoka ever shared a class with anyone else in previous years because I don’t really know how NRC is structured in that regard. It’s possible, but I can’t be sure with certainty. I won’t rule it out, so I’ll put a pin in it. Might’ve crossed paths with Rook though in previous years, for sure.

Second answer as optional read under cut. Out of universe yapping.

Inspiration: Is your twst OC inspired by any villains? Concepts? Anything Disney-related?

YES! Primarily inspired by Ushari the Egyptian Cobra, secondary villain in season 2 of “The Lion Guard.” Visually, though, I focused more on the real species and some legends attributed to it.

So artistic liberties were clearly taken. Blud looks more like an Indian cobra. BUT! I will let it slide because red/purple hues are more visually eye catching for a cartoon snake than black (and in some lightning, looks gold), so I can kinda see the thought process there. I didn’t wanna nix that red/purple entirely so I just threw Ushari’s og color scheme and pattern into Nyoka’s eyes and eye makeup. That was my compromise. My little subliminal bell to ring.

I think the closest Disney-ish related concept that I also incorporated in subtext is something I can’t articulate too well.

Maybe it’ll be brought up in some future material.

HAHA SEE I ACTUALLY ANSWERED ONE OF THESE THINGS. TAKE THAT ME FROM MONTHS AGO WHO ALWAYS FAILED TO.

#cozy ask #twstposting #nyoka wadjet #IS THAT MALLEUS?!#my art #I DIDNT NEED TO DRAW ALLAT when theres walls of text

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ssa-dado · 3 months ago

Text

16 - Sapphire

Aaron Hotchner x fem!teacher!reader Genre: fluff, but mostly whump and angst Summary: Hotch loses a significant bet to you, which triggers a visit to your apartment, where he is joined by his family. While there, Hotch picks up on your relaxed demeanor and her strong connection with his son, Jack. However, he also notices the absence of her engagement ring, leading to a deep conversation about your true desires and the life you're building with your fiancé, Peter. Warnings: heartbreak, mentions of CM cases (2X12, 2X15, 2X23)... why it’s always whumptober in this blog and never kinktober? Kind of unfair Word Count: 10.5k Dado's Corner: I'm so sorry. Feel free to send hate in my inbox or in the comments, I truly deserve it this time. @c-losur3 sorry for turning one of our brainstorming sessions in such a nightmare.

masterlist

That was the very first time Hotch had ever lost a bet against you… and it wasn’t even close.

You had finished the paperwork with time to spare, working steadily even in your own home office, while he was left scrambling to catch up. Over the years, the two of you had built a history of small wagers and playful bets, and though they never held any real stakes, this one was different. This one mattered more than any before.

It wasn’t about solving a case, or testing each other with some trivial challenge to see who could push themselves further. This time, it was about something deeper. For Hotch, it was about holding on, about keeping you close in a way that felt necessary, almost vital. The fear of losing you again, of watching you slip out of his life like you had once before, still lingered.

And it was about the electricity between you - the undeniable chemistry, the way you seemed to spark off one another when you worked together. He missed that energy, that connection that felt so natural, like you were in perfect sync.

He needed to win.

But he hadn’t.

Now, as Jack’s cries filled the car on the way to your apartment, the weight of that loss settled on Aaron, heavier than he expected. His hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, his jaw clenched in frustration. Haley, sitting next to him in the passenger seat, glanced back at Jack, her brow furrowed in concern. Jack’s wails were louder now, and every minute that passed seemed to make them sharper, more strained.

“Aaron,” Haley began, her voice calm but firm, “maybe we should cancel. Jack’s been upset all evening, and I don’t want to overwhelm him, or her.”

Aaron shook his head, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. "No," he muttered, quieter than usual, almost as if he were trying to convince himself. "She insisted. She already has everything prepared, and I need to pick up those reports anyway."

Haley’s lips pressed into a thin line, unconvinced, but she let it go. She knew better than to push when Aaron was like this - focused, determined. "If you’re sure…" she murmured, though her eyes lingered on Jack, who was still squirming uncomfortably in his car seat, as the rest of the drive passed in tense silence, broken only by Jack’s occasional hiccuping sobs.

By the time they reached your apartment building, Jack’s cries had escalated to full-blown sobs. Haley cast him one last pleading look, her expression full of concern. “Aaron, really. We don’t have to do this tonight.”

But Aaron wasn’t ready to turn back. "No," he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument. "It’s going to be okay. She’ll understand."

Haley sighed softly, holding back her reply as Aaron lifted Jack from the car seat, gently cradling him against his chest. Jack’s small fists clutched at the fabric of Aaron’s shirt, his tear-streaked face flushed from crying. He bounced him lightly, whispering soothing words, but the child remained restless.

As they approached the door, Aaron could hear your voice drifting through the hallway, warm and light as you called out to Peter. “Hun, could you grab the door, please? They should be here any minute!”

When Peter swung the door open, his usual flamboyant confidence softened in deference to Jack’s distress. He greeted Aaron with an easy smile and a firm pat on the shoulder. "Aaron, my man. And Haley, it’s so good to finally see you again," he said, his grin widening as he took her in. "You’re even more beautiful than I remember. Motherhood clearly made you glow even more."

Haley smiled warmly at him, her eyes crinkling at the compliment. "Thank you, Peter. Always the charmer. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?"

Peter’s gaze shifted to Jack, who was still fussing in his father’s arms. His expression softened with sympathy. "And this little guy must be Jack. Poor thing. Rough night, huh?"

"Yeah," Aaron replied, his voice heavy with worry as he bounced Jack gently. "He’s been restless all evening."

Peter stepped aside, waving them into the apartment. "Come on in, make yourselves comfortable. She’s just in the kitchen, pulling the focaccia out of the oven."

The moment they crossed the threshold, the rich, savory scent of freshly baked focaccia enveloped them – rosemary and olive oil mingling in the warm air. The apartment had an undeniable coziness, from the soft hum of classic rock music playing in the background. It was definetely a stark contrast to the high-pressure atmosphere of the BAU. Everything here felt softer, more lived-in, more… home.

Before Aaron could fully absorb the warmth of your cozy apartment, you appeared in the doorway like a quiet breath of ease, your presence soft and effortless. An apron hugged your waist, and oven mitts dangled from your hands, tangible proof of the care you’d woven into the evening.

Your hair, usually held in careful precision, was loosely gathered in a low ponytail, yet a few rebellious curls had slipped free, framing your flushed cheeks like gentle whispers of imperfection, stirred by the heat of the oven. Those small, defiant tendrils danced against your need for control, quiet reminders that not everything needed to be perfectly in place to feel right.

A faint dusting of flour trailed up your arm, adding to the charm of the scene, as if this place - this life - was made for comfort, for easing the burdens of the world outside.

The moment your eyes found them, your entire face lit up with a warm, welcoming smile, one filled with genuine happiness at seeing them.

It was the kind of smile that could make anyone feel at home, and after the long, tense evening, you were exactly the kind of comfort they all needed.

"Aaron, Haley! You made it!" you said brightly, hurrying over to greet them, still wearing the apron tied at your waist. "I’m so glad you’re here. Sorry, I’m a bit of a mess, been running around getting everything ready."

Aaron found himself momentarily caught off guard, taking in this unexpected side of you. You looked different - more relaxed, more at ease, and there was a warmth about you that felt… disarming. It was a side of you he wasn’t used to seeing, and for a moment, he didn’t know how to respond.

Before Aaron could say anything, Jack let out a soft whimper, and your attention immediately shifted to him. You stepped closer, your expression softening as you knelt down to his eye level, your voice warm and soothing. "Hey there, Jack," you murmured gently, the soft lighting around you adding to the calmness in your tone. "What’s going on, little guy? What’s got you so upset?"

Jack’s sniffling continued, his tiny fists clutching his stuffed pine marten tightly, his wide, teary eyes staring up at you. For a moment, it seemed like he might burst into fresh sobs, but then something shifted.

The moment he heard your voice, his breathing slowed, his cries softened. His wide gaze remained fixed on you, and Aaron could feel the change, too - he could feel the tension slowly melting away from Jack’s little body as he began to calm down.

You smiled softly at Jack, your touch featherlight as you gently brushed your fingers over the plush toy in his hands. "Oh, the kuna," you said with a soft chuckle, glancing up at Aaron with a teasing glint in your eyes. "You weren’t kidding when you told me this was his best friend, huh?"

Aaron let out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, the weight of the evening’s stress finally beginning to lift. Jack’s tears had stopped, his body visibly more relaxed in his arms. He offered you a small, grateful smile. “Yeah,” he said, his voice filled with a mix of relief and exhaustion. "He doesn’t go anywhere without it."

Haley, standing off to the side, watched the scene unfold with wide eyes, her surprise evident as she took in how quickly Jack had settled in your presence. "Wow," she breathed, her voice low, almost in disbelief. "I’ve never seen him calm down that fast… not with anyone but Aaron."

Jack, now much calmer, gazed up at you with wide, curious eyes, his small body melting fully against Aaron’s chest. His tight grip on his father’s shirt loosened, his fingers relaxing around the kuna. You reached out gently, wiping away the last of his stray tears with a tender touch, your smile comforting and soft. “There we go, little guy,” you whispered. “All better now, huh?”

Peter, who had been leaning casually against the doorway, watching the interaction unfold with a knowing smile, let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. "You’ve got the magic touch, babe," he said, a teasing note in his voice, though the admiration in his eyes was real.

Peter crossed his arms, shooting Aaron a meaningful glance, his eyebrows raised. "Didn’t I tell you? She has a gift with kids."

Aaron, still processing how quickly Jack had settled down, offered a brief, tight smile, nodding slightly as his gaze flickered between you and Peter. Before he could respond, Peter’s expression softened, and he turned back to you with a more sincere smile. "You’d be such a good mom," he added, his voice full of affection.

For a moment, the comment hung in the air. You hesitated, the briefest flicker of emotion crossing your face before you waved it off with a casual smile. "Thanks, Peter," you said lightly, though there was a slight tremor in your smile that Aaron didn’t miss. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay?”

Peter chuckled softly, though the warmth behind his teasing was unmistakable. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”

With that, the evening eased into a rhythm that felt unexpectedly comfortable. Dinner was light and full of conversation, the kind that once flowed effortlessly between you and Hotch when you worked side by side. Aaron found himself watching you throughout the meal- studying your movements, catching glimpses of the person he knew so well but with subtle changes that felt unfamiliar.

That’s when he noticed.

Your engagement ring - it wasn’t there.

At first, Aaron told himself it was nothing. You might have taken it off to cook, or maybe it was being cleaned. But the more he observed, the more that small detail began to gnaw at him. Each time you reached for a dish or gestured as you spoke, your hand moved effortlessly, with no absentminded fidgeting or reaching for the ring that wasn’t on your finger.

If you had just taken it off for cooking, you would feel the absence. He knew that. But you didn’t, and that unsettled him even more.

The absence of that ring started to weigh on him, a small but heavy knot in his chest.

Peter, still unaware, smiled at you from across the table as he finished his drink. “We’ve been talking about it,” he said, his tone casual but with an underlying seriousness. “Maybe it’s time we think about having one of our own, you know?”

The words hit Aaron like a punch to the chest.

Every time he’d seen Peter since that night at the bar, his conviction grew stronger: Peter wasn’t right for you. But Hotch’s face remained composed; years of masking his emotions had made him an expert at keeping his true feelings hidden. His jaw tightened slightly, but outwardly, he stayed calm, choosing instead to focus on your reaction, watching closely for any sign of how you really felt.

You deflected with ease, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you glanced at Jack, who was happily babbling, completely at ease. “Jack’s an angel,” you said, smiling warmly. “But I don’t think he looks a thing like his father.”

The table shared a brief laugh, including Haley, who leaned over to rub Jack’s tiny back affectionately. "He definitely has his own little personality," she said with a smile. "But sometimes, he has that same intense stare as Aaron."

But Aaron didn’t join in the laughter. He was too focused on you - on the way you had brushed off Peter’s comment, your laugh just a little too quick, your deflection a little too smooth. He’d seen it a few times tonight, how you dodged certain topics, especially whenever Peter mentioned anything about the future. Something was off, and Hotch couldn’t ignore the way it gnawed at him.

After a while, the conversation drifted, as it often did when you were involved, to philosophy. Your eyes brightened as you began to speak about Plato, a passion filling your voice that seemed to draw everyone in.

"Fun fact," you began, your voice soft but deliberate, a small smile playing at your lips, "Plato believed that the world we live in is only a shadow, a reflection of something far more perfect. Everything we see, everything we touch, it’s just an echo of its true essence."

You glanced around the table, your eyes lighting up as you continued. "Imagine love," you said, your voice growing more poetic, "the love we feel here in this world is beautiful, yes, but it’s fleeting, imperfect. It can break, it can fade. Plato thought there was an eternal, perfect form of love - pure, unchanging. A love that exists beyond us, untouched by time or pain, an ideal we can only glimpse in brief moments."

As you spoke, your words seemed to hang in the air, captivating the room. Aaron couldn’t help but watch you intently, remembering how your passion for philosophy had always been so infectious. Even though part of him had once joked about its "abstract nonsense," he couldn’t deny how your enthusiasm pulled him in.

He felt the weight of your words, particularly the way you described love - an ideal so perfect that it almost seemed unreachable, a reflection of something distant and far from the everyday struggles of life.

You paused, letting the thought settle before continuing. "What we see here - whether it’s a chair, a focaccia, or love itself - are just shadows of something greater, something more real. In Plato’s realm of forms, that perfect love is waiting, eternal and untouched. It's something we can strive for, something we can long for, but never fully possess."

Peter, leaning back in his chair with a grin, shook his head lightly. "Only you could make Plato sound like a romantic," he teased, though his voice held a certain warmth, clearly caught in the flow of your words.

You returned the smile but didn’t stop, a deeper reverence creeping into your tone. "In a way, he was a romantic. Plato believed our souls long for that perfection, for the beauty and truth that we can only find in glimpses here. Every love we feel, every connection we make, it’s just a reflection of something pure that exists beyond our reach. But it’s that longing, that striving for the ideal, that gives love its meaning. Without that yearning, what would love be?"

Your words trailed off as Aaron, now smirking to himself, leaned closer to Jack. With a playful, conspiratorial tone, he whispered softly, “Jack, she said Plato,” his grin widening. He watched Jack closely, half-expecting his son to remember their little “deal” - to cry on cue at the mention of those philosophical names.

But Jack didn’t cry.

Instead, he stared up at you with wide, mesmerized eyes, his tiny face full of wonder and curiosity. It was as though, in that moment, Jack understood every word you were saying. His focus was absolute, his gaze unwavering, as if your voice held the answers to questions far beyond his grasp. For a one-year-old, it was almost eerie how captivated he seemed, his little brow furrowed in concentration, as if he were pondering Plato’s theory of forms alongside you.

Hotch stifled a chuckle under his breath, shaking his head.

So much for their plan. Jack was clearly enchanted.

Noticing Jack’s fascination, you paused, your expression softening as you leaned slightly toward him, your voice gentle and warm. “Oh, are you interested in Plato, buddy?” you teased, your smile widening as you addressed him like he was the only person in the room. “Looks like we’ve got a future philosopher on our hands. Aaron, are you sure he’s your son?”

Haley burst out laughing, covering her mouth as she tried to contain her amusement, and Peter joined in, shaking his head with a playful grin. "You might need to get him a children’s book on philosophy at this rate," Peter added, glancing at Jack. "He’s already hooked.”

Without missing a beat, you and Aaron spoke at the exact same time, your voices overlapping in perfect unison. “Hegel for babies.”

The way you and him had responded in sync, without hesitation, brought a rush of nostalgia for him. It was like stepping back in time, reminding him of all the moments you’ve always shared especially at work, finishing each other’s thoughts, operating with an effortless rhythm that required no words. That connection, that familiar flow between you, was still there, ready to rise to the surface as if nothing had changed.

But something had changed.

Even as Aaron enjoyed the easy moment, his mind couldn’t let go of the puzzle forming around you and Peter. Throughout the night, he kept discreetly watching, searching for subtle signals - anything to explain the absence of your engagement ring.

Aaron’s eyes darted between you and Peter, watching your interactions closely. Was it strained? Were you keeping something hidden behind those well-rehearsed smiles? The more he observed, the deeper his suspicion grew. The playful banter with him felt easy, real, but with Peter, there was a distance, subtle but present.

---

After dinner, as Peter and Haley’s laughter echoed faintly from the living room, you led Aaron into your office to collect the files. The space between you was tense, charged with everything unspoken that had been simmering throughout the evening. As Aaron followed in silence, his mind churned, trying to reconcile the image of you with the life you said you wanted.

Then he saw it.

Your engagement ring.

Sitting on the desk, carelessly placed beside a stack of papers, as though it were something you had tossed aside without a second thought.

For a moment, Aaron said nothing, his eyes fixed on the small band. His heart sank as everything he’d been suspecting solidified. He had convinced himself earlier that maybe you had taken it off for some practical reason, but now, seeing it here, forgotten or abandoned - it wasn’t just off.

It was discarded.

His pulse quickened. He could no longer avoid the truth staring back at him.

“You know,” Aaron began softly, the weight of his words heavier than he anticipated, “even though I didn’t win the bet, the offer is still on the table.”

You glanced up sharply, startled by the quiet intensity in his voice. A flicker of something -uncertainty, fear - crossed your face before you could mask it.

Your hands gripped the edge of the papers on your desk, as if trying to ground yourself in the familiar. “Aaron, we’ve been through this,” you replied, your voice steady but not as confident as you intended. “Teaching at the academy... it’s the only way I can settle down. With Peter, I can finally have a normal life. It’s what I need.”

The words fell from your lips, practiced, deliberate - but hollow. Even as you said them, they felt rehearsed. There was a tremor beneath them, a quiver that Hotch could sense immediately.

He didn’t need to be a profiler to see the cracks forming.

He stepped closer, his eyes unwavering as he searched yours. “Is that what you really want?” His voice was gentle, but there was no mistaking the depth behind his question. He wasn’t asking for surface-level answers anymore. He was asking for the truth, the one you’d been avoiding, even from yourself.

You bristled at the question, standing taller as if the extra inches could shield you from the vulnerability creeping up on you. “Aaron, I’ve made my decision,” you said, more forcefully this time, crossing your arms over your chest, protecting yourself. “Teaching is a stable job. Peter and I... we can have a life together. A normal life. Isn’t that what everyone wants?”

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating, as if the air itself had become too dense to breathe. Aaron’s gaze never left yours, piercing through the fragile facade you were clinging to. His eyes flicked down to the ring on the desk, lying there unwanted, untouched, as if even the symbol of this so-called “normal life” didn’t quite fit into the image you were trying to present.

And in that silence, he realized it fully: you were living a life constructed from rehearsed lines and half-truths. Your answer to him was almost identical to the one you had given earlier, only reworded, as if the questions he asked were catching you off guard, pushing you off the script you’d so carefully crafted.

Aaron would have let it slide if you’d been able to offer him some real, grounded reason for choosing teaching over the BAU. He might have accepted your words if you had taken a moment to explain why you needed distance from the relentless horrors of the cases, how the endless cycle of darkness had begun to wear on you, or even how teaching offered you a different kind of purpose, a safer way to make a difference.

But you hadn’t said any of that.

You hadn’t shared anything deeper.

It was as if you couldn’t bring yourself to commit to this life you claimed to want.

And then, of course, there was Peter.

If you’d taken a moment to talk about the life you were building together, if you had described it with real conviction - if you’d said that you wanted to marry him, that you wanted to have a family with him, that the ring lying unworn on the desk was a symbol of a future you were ready to embrace - maybe then Aaron would have believed you.

But you hadn’t.

Not now, and not at any point during the evening. Every time Peter was mentioned, every time the conversation grazed the topic of your future, you deflected. You laughed it off, offering vague, safe answers as if uttering anything more concrete might break the fragile illusion you had constructed for yourself. It was as though speaking those words aloud would make you confront a truth you weren’t ready to face.

You had spent the entire night avoiding anything real, anything that would force you to look at the choices you’d made, at the life you were building with Peter, and the pieces of yourself you were leaving behind.

If this life with Peter was truly what you wanted, then where was the passion, the excitement? Where were the words that could solidify the direction you were headed?

Every evasion, every empty laugh, only confirmed what Aaron already knew. This wasn’t the future you were running toward with open arms.

It was a future you were trying to convince yourself to accept.

The ring on the desk was more than just an oversight, it was a symbol of the disconnect between what you were choosing and what you truly wanted.

And he couldn’t hold back any longer.

“You hate your ring,” Aaron said quietly, his voice cutting through the thick silence that had settled between you. The words landed softly but cut through your defenses, each syllable chipping away at the fragile wall you’d so carefully built.

You stiffened, feeling the accusation burrow into you, your immediate response flaring with anger as you struggled to keep him from breaking through. “Excuse me?” you snapped, the words sharp, but your tone betrayed you, there was a quiver of uncertainty. You felt a wave of panic ripple through you as the walls closed in, as if the room itself were shrinking around you.

Aaron took a step closer, his gaze steady, his voice calm but laced with a gentleness that almost made his words sound like an offering. “You hate it,” he repeated, as if handing you a lifeline, as if he were daring you to take it. “And it’s not just because you took it off to cook or forgot to put it back on. You’ve been taking it off more and more, haven’t you? Because every time you look at it, every time you wear it, it feels… wrong.”

You forced a laugh, trying to brush it off, to slip back into that casual, deflective tone that had worked so well all evening. “Aaron, it’s just a ring-”

“No, it’s not,” he interrupted, his voice firmer, yet still soft, his gaze holding yours, unwavering. He took another step closer, so close now that you could see the resolve etched into his face, the sadness lingering in his eyes. “I don’t believe that. I don’t believe a single word of what you just said.”

Your breath caught, the air suddenly thick, pressing down on you as his words struck deep. His expression softened, his voice dropping almost to a whisper, yet it carried a quiet strength that made you feel exposed, vulnerable.

“It’s not just a ring to you,” he said, his tone so gentle it nearly unraveled you. “Nothing is ever ‘just something’ with you. You find meaning in everything. That’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you. It’s the way you look at the world, every little thing matters. You give meaning to things others would overlook, sometimes things they’d never notice. You find depth where others would only see the surface.”

You felt his words dig into you, reaching parts you had tried to bury beneath practicality, beneath a life you had convinced yourself you wanted. He wasn’t letting you hide, wasn’t letting you deflect with empty words or rehearsed responses.

“Even tonight,” he continued, his voice taking on a quiet, reflective tone. “When you spoke about Plato, about the meaning of love through his forms, you weren’t just talking about philosophy. You were talking about yourself. You said the love we feel in this world is a shadow, a reflection of something perfect we can never fully reach. You spoke of it as if you were making excuses for why your love with Peter could be flawed, imperfect, why it could never be what you long for deep down. It was like you were giving yourself permission to settle for less than what you truly want.”

His gaze held you, steady and unyielding, and you felt your defenses slipping, cracking under the weight of his words. He took a breath, and you could see the intensity in his eyes, the way he was letting his own walls down, the way he was stepping into a vulnerability he hadn’t allowed himself in years.

“I’m not a philosopher, I will never be a philosopher,” he said softly, his voice carrying a depth of sincerity that felt like a confession, “but I remembered every word. And I couldn’t agree more when you said that it’s the longing, the striving for the ideal, that gives love its meaning. You said it yourself, ‘Without that yearning, what would love be?’ So tell me-”

He continued, his voice steady, yet filled with a quiet urgency, “are you really reaching for something true, something that reflects that ideal, or are you just convincing yourself to accept a love that’s flawed because you think that’s all you’re going to get? Are you settling for something safe because it’s easier than admitting you might want something more?”

He paused, his words hanging heavily in the air, his eyes searching yours, cutting through every excuse, every half-truth you’d told yourself. “I know you, and I know that nothing is ever ‘just something’ to you. Not love, not life, not death and certainly not this ring.”

Your hands trembled slightly, and you quickly folded them over your chest, your gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t want to talk about this,” you whispered, the words barely audible, but the trembling in your voice betrayed the flood of emotions swelling up, threatening to break through.

But Aaron didn’t stop.

He saw the tiny cracks forming, the way you were beginning to buckle under the weight of the truth. He recognized it - the way someone’s guard began to fall when they were too close to a truth they weren’t ready to confront. He had seen it so many times before, sitting across from suspects, unsubs. But this time, it was you, and that difference made this moment more personal, more agonizing than any interrogation he’d ever conducted.

He softened his tone, but his words were as precise and cutting as ever, his profiler instincts turned on you, searching, pushing. “You took it off because it’s become something foreign to you. ” he continued, the words gentle but relentless. “It’s been weighing you down ever since that night at the bar, when Peter overstepped your boundaries.”

The room felt impossibly small as his words hung between you. The memory of that night surged forward - Peter’s laughter, his casual dismissal of your privacy, turning it into something public, something you hadn’t even shared with the people closest to you. He had humiliated you, and you had buried the hurt because that’s what you always did.

“Aaron, stop-” you pleaded, your voice shaking.

But he pressed on, the profiler in him pushing past the walls you had built. “He outed you in front of the team. In front of people who, at that point, were practically strangers to you. For a story. And you didn’t confront him about it, did you? You let it go, just like you’ve been letting so many things go.”

You felt the weight of his words press down on you, your breath coming in shallow bursts as you turned away from him, gripping the back of your chair, desperate for something solid, something to hold onto. “We talked about it,” you said, but even to your own ears, the words sounded hollow, a poor attempt at keeping the cracks from widening.

“No, you didn’t,” Aaron countered, his voice low but unyielding, filled with quiet conviction. “You accepted his apology because it was easier than having the fight you needed to have. And honestly, Peter didn’t even know why what he did was wrong, did he? I had to point it out to him when we were alone at the bar, otherwise, he wouldn’t have noticed. He wouldn’t have realized how deeply he crossed your boundaries, how it made you feel. And now you’re standing here trying to convince yourself that this” he gestured toward the ring on the desk, discarded like something forgotten "is fine. That it’s just a piece of jewelry. But it’s not, and you know that.”

You felt the burn of frustration bubbling up inside you, your composure slipping, but it wasn’t just anger anymore. Beneath the frustration, there was a raw, unspoken hurt that you had kept buried for too long. It was beginning to surface, clawing its way to the forefront, and you couldn’t stop it. “Aaron, you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” you bit out, your voice sharp with desperation, your hands tightening into fists.

But Hotch didn’t back down. He stepped closer, his voice steady, yet full of conviction, a quiet determination that refused to let you retreat. “I know you better than you think,” he said, his eyes softened, but there was still that relentless force behind his words, the same precision he used when interrogating someone, when he was peeling back layers to get to the truth. “I’ve known you for years. I’ve watched you. I know how you move through the world, how you give meaning to things, how you choose things carefully, with intention. I know that Peter gives gifts that are meant to impress people, not you.”

You blinked, feeling your throat tighten further as you fought to hold back tears, but Hotch kept going, his words unraveling every defense you had put up.

He gestured toward the ring, his gaze unwavering, holding yours with a quiet intensity. “That ring? A thin band to make the stone look bigger than it is. -

It’s flashy.

It draws attention, but it’s not elegant.

It’s not thoughtful. -

It’s not you. You would have never chosen that ring for yourself. It doesn’t fit your style - yours is subtle, refined, timeless. You wear things that hold meaning, things that blend seamlessly into who you are. You need something sturdy, something with a thicker band, something that won’t get in the way because you use your hands every day.”

He took a step closer, his words steady, unraveling each piece of the life you’d convinced yourself you wanted. “You’re always writing, always creating, whether it’s notes for your students or lesson plans, or even cooking for yourself at home. You never thought you’d have time for hobbies, but now you’ve found them. You’ve grown, and you need something that can grow with you. He didn’t think about that, about how your hands are more than just hands. They’re an extension of you, of how you express yourself, how you care for others. You pour yourself into everything you do, with a quiet grace that’s always been there and that I’ve always loved about you.”

Hotch’s voice softened, though the conviction in it remained. “We’ve exchanged letters for years - six, to be exact. I’ve watched how, in those letters, your handwriting changes. I know when you let the ink smudge, it’s because the topic is close to you, and you can barely keep up with the pace of your thoughts. You don’t just write; it’s a way for you to let your true feelings flow, to put something of yourself onto the page. You need a ring that reflects that, one that fits the life you’ve built - not something that just looks good, not something that’s just there to be seen.”

His voice softened as he stepped closer still, his gaze locked on yours, searching your face. “That ring, it’s not practical for you. And Peter didn’t even think about that, did he? He didn’t think about how you would wear it every day, how you would feel with it on your finger. He chose something that would look impressive to other people, not something that would make you feel at home in it. And it’s not even your favorite stone, is it?”

You froze, your breath catching in your chest as his words hit you harder than you were prepared for. Your heart pounded in your ears, the weight of the truth pressing down on you, suffocating.

“You don’t even know what my favorite stone is,” you whispered, your voice so quiet, so fragile it barely broke the silence. The words were almost a plea, a final attempt to keep some distance between you and the truth he was forcing you to face.

“Yes, I do.” Aaron’s voice was soft, but the conviction in it was unshakeable.

“It’s sapphire.

Dark blue.

The exact shade of the ink you’ve used for years, the ink you wrote every single letter to me with.”

Your heart stuttered, the breath catching in your throat as his words hit something deep inside you, a place you hadn’t let anyone reach in a long time. You felt your hands tremble, and for the first time that night, you truly looked at him - saw him in a way you had been avoiding all evening.

His gaze was locked on yours, steady, relentless, and beneath the surface of his calm, you saw something raw. Something vulnerable. It was a part of him you hadn’t allowed yourself to see for years.

He wasn’t finished. His voice softened, like he was admitting something that had been buried inside for too long. “That color… it’s the only color you allowed yourself to have, especially at work. I’ve never seen you wear anything but black, except for the day you gave that guest lecture in Quantico. You showed up at the BAU afterward, after all those years of just exchanging letters, and you were wearing a light blue shirt.” His eyes flickered, a ghost of a memory crossing his face. “That’s when I realized. You used that color, blue, for everything that mattered. Everything personal. You made sure to keep it close to you, like it was a part of who you are.”

Your throat tightened, emotion pressing down on your chest like a heavy weight, and you couldn’t stop the memories from flooding back.

“Even when I gave you the anniversary pen,” Hotch continued, stepping closer, his gaze never wavering from yours, “the one I bought for you to commemorate the 200th day you failed to beat me to the office - you didn’t use it once for your everyday reports, did you? After a while, I noticed the ink in the pen was lighter than what you usually used. It wasn’t your blue.”

You swallowed hard, your voice failing you as he kept going, each word peeling back a layer of your defenses.

“But you still wrote with it,” Hotch said, taking another step toward you. “Maybe not for everything, but for the things that really mattered. Like my wedding speech… you wrote that with the pen I gave you. And it ran out of ink right at the last sentence. But you didn’t throw it away, even when it ran dry, did you?”

He glanced at the pen sitting on your desk, displayed carefully like an artifact from another time. His voice dropped, almost reverent. “It’s still here. You kept it, not because of its value, not because of how it looks, but because of what it represents. That pen means something to you, something personal.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle, and then his eyes flickered to the engagement ring sitting on the desk, gleaming in the dim light. “But that ring? It doesn’t mean the same thing to you, does it? You don’t keep it with the same care, the same tenderness. It doesn’t feel personal. It doesn’t feel like yours.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you were frozen, unable to move as his words sunk in. How had he noticed? How had he known? You had never consciously thought about it, but it was true. The color blue, it was the only piece of yourself you allowed into the world. It was a quiet reflection of who you were.

Dark blue ink.

A light blue shirt.

And now, with that ring, none of it felt right.

“What do you think you’re doing, Aaron?” Your voice wavered, your tone fragile and desperate as you tried to find solid ground beneath you. The weight of the conversation pressed down on you like a vice, tightening with every word he spoke. “Why are you saying all of this?”

Hotch stepped even closer, his voice filled with something heavy, something undeniable. “Because I care about you. Because I want you to be happy, just like you told me once, years ago. You told me I deserved happiness, and now it’s my turn to say it to you. You won’t be happy with Peter. Not really.”

His words hit you like a blow, knocking the air from your lungs. You swallowed hard, trying to push the emotions back down, trying to keep your voice steady. “You can’t talk to me about my happiness, Aaron. You’ve found yours. You have Haley, you have Jack. You don’t get to tell me what will or won’t make me happy.”

Aaron’s expression darkened, an intensity flickering in his eyes that took you off guard. His voice dropped, and it was filled with an emotion you hadn’t seen in him in years, something raw and unguarded. “Is that what you really think? That I have it all figured out? Do you want to know why I care so much about you being truly happy? Why I can’t bear to watch you waste your life with someone who doesn’t see you? You really want to go there now?”

You straightened, your defenses rising, your voice sharp as you threw the challenge back at him. “Yes, I do.”

The room fell into a tense, charged silence, a storm of unspoken words swirling between you, years of carefully avoided feelings suddenly laid bare. The air felt thick, heavy with everything you’d both been too afraid to say. And then, quietly, Hotch spoke the words that would change everything, words that broke through every wall you had built, that shattered the careful balance you had clung to for so long.

“I loved you.”

The words lingered, quiet yet devastating, tearing through you with a force that left you breathless. You could feel your heart splinter, every emotion you’d tried to bury rising to the surface, raw and exposed. You had spent so long convincing yourself that he had moved on, that you had made the right choice all those years ago. But here he was, laying everything bare, pulling back the curtain on a truth you hadn’t allowed yourself to imagine.

But he wasn’t finished.

“I loved you,” Aaron repeated, his voice soft, almost broken, like a man confessing to something he’d kept buried for too long. "I’ve loved you for years.”

The silence between you was deafening, the only sound your ragged breath as the weight of his words settled in your chest like a heavy stone. The pain that had been festering for years, the doubts, the regrets, they all surged to the surface at once. And before you could stop yourself, the words came spilling out, raw and trembling.

“You loved me?” you breathed, disbelief trembling on your lips before it hardened into something sharper. Years of hurt and anger bubbled up, mixing with the grief you’d buried for so long. “You loved me?”

Aaron’s eyes searched yours, and you saw the flicker of pain, the vulnerability in his gaze. But it wasn’t enough. Not after everything.

“You want to talk about love, Aaron?” Your voice cracked, the weight of eight years of silence breaking apart, spilling out as though you couldn’t contain it any longer. “The reason I took that job abroad was because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I needed to run from you, from us. I left everyone I knew, everything I loved, and threw myself into a life where I had to start over, day after day. I thought that maybe if I was far enough away, if I was alone enough, I could forget what we could have been. That maybe, somehow, I could leave all the ‘what-ifs’ behind. But it didn’t work. It never worked. It just made it hurt worse.”

Aaron flinched, his face tight with pain, absorbing each word like a fresh wound, but you pressed on, the anger burning in your chest, spilling over.

“And do you know what the worst part was?” Your voice cracked, thick with emotion. “It was your letters, Aaron. -

I lived only to read your letters.

They were my lifeline. Every time I saw your handwriting, it was like being reminded all over again of what we could have had. I read them over and over, hoping that maybe they’d help me remember why I’d made this sacrifice in the first place. But they only made it worse. Every letter, every single one, was a reminder of what I’d lost. And all I could think was, what did we really gain? What did all of this sacrifice really bring us?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off, the words pouring out, your voice rough with unshed pain. “I loved working at the BAU. I built my entire life around it, Aaron. That job was my purpose, and I left it because of you. I spent years in Europe, moving from one city to the next, trying to outrun everything that reminded me of us. But as soon as I felt at home somewhere, it would all come flooding back - the memories, the regrets. I’d lie awake at night, wondering what we’d lost, what we’d thrown away. And then, eventually, I stopped. I had to stop. I couldn’t keep living on the hope of what might have been. That’s when I let Peter in, when I started to believe that maybe I could make a new kind of happiness. Not the one I’d dreamed of, but a real one, grounded and steady.”

Hotch’s expression shattered, but you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

“You think you know what love is?” you spat, your voice trembling. “I loved you more than I loved myself. I tore myself apart for you because I thought you’d be better off. I walked away because I wanted you to be happy, and I’ve never regretted it, I would choose your happiness over mine, every time. So don’t you dare stand here, six years later, and tell me you loved me. I’m over you, Aaron. I’ve been over you, for a long time now.”

Hotch looked as though he had been struck, his face etched with anguish, and for a moment, it seemed like he might crumble. His voice, when he finally spoke, was rough, barely above a whisper. “You loved me that much… and you just walked away?”

“Yes,” you continued, your voice hoarse with emotion. “I loved you enough to let you go. Now, Aaron, it’s your turn. Let me go.”

Hotch’s face crumpled, the pain in his expression morphing into something raw, almost desperate. His voice rose, his frustration breaking through, spilling out in waves. “But you’re still living a lie! You sacrificed yourself for me, and now you’re doing the same with Peter. You’re going to settle for a life that doesn’t make you happy because you think it’s what you need? You deserve more than this!”

The anger surged up, hot and fierce, and you stepped closer, your eyes flashing. “You don’t get to tell me what I deserve. You think Peter is less? You think I don’t know what I’m doing? I made my choice, Aaron. I’ve built a life with him, and you don’t get to judge that.”

He shook his head, his voice rough and bitter, the frustration rolling off him in waves. “He doesn’t know you like I do. He doesn’t see you the way I do. He doesn’t know how your mind works, how you pour yourself into everything you do, how you can’t sit still in a world that asks for mediocrity. You were never meant to live a quiet life in some corner of the world, pretending to be content with something less. You’ve always needed more. You deserve more.”

His voice thickened with emotion, his gaze hardening as if the truth of his words hurt him as much as it hurt you. “You deserve someone who understands that. Someone who knows you’re not the type to settle. You need someone who’s willing to love you fully, the way you deserve - someone who can see the fire in you and fan it, not extinguish it. Peter doesn’t see that in you. He can’t give you that.”

Aaron’s voice cracked, his frustration spilling into something closer to anguish. “You deserve someone who’s willing to love you as fiercely as I did back then, someone who truly understands how much you’re worth and knows the lengths you’ll go to just to be understood. You deserve someone who sees the way you challenge the world, who knows how hard you fight, and respects every bit of that fire in you.”

He ran a hand through his hair, his voice breaking with the weight of what he was saying. “You were strong enough to walk away all those years ago, to tear yourself apart so that I could have the life you thought I deserved. And if you were brave enough to do that, then you should be strong enough now to stop lying to yourself. You’re pretending, trying to convince yourself that settling with Peter is what you want. But it’s not who you are, and it never will be. You’re not the type to choose a life that asks you to be less than everything you’re capable of being.”

He took a breath, his eyes dark, intense, his voice a mix of longing and frustration. "I know you. Better than you know yourself right now."

Your heart pounded in your chest, but you forced yourself to stay steady, your voice low, laced with fury. “You think you’re better than Peter because you didn’t overstep my physical boundaries? You’re wrong, Aaron. Right now, you’re worse, you’re overstepping my emotional boundaries - I asked you to stop but you didn’t listen, not even once. You lost the right to tell me how to live my life the moment we walked away from each other. If you can’t respect that, if you can’t let me go, then I’ll make sure to erase myself from your life.”

His face crumpled, his hands trembling at his sides, his entire body taut with the force of everything he was holding back. He looked like he was going to break, like he was fighting a battle that he knew he was losing. He took a step back, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just wanted you to be happy,” he choked out, his eyes meeting yours, raw, vulnerable. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

His words tore through you, unraveling something deep inside. You saw the sincerity in his gaze, the desperation, the sadness. He looked at you one last time, his eyes lingering as if trying to memorize everything, his face filled with a pain that was almost unbearable to witness.

Finally, he turned to the door, his movements stiff, almost mechanical. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, his back to you, and for a moment, you thought he might turn around, that he might say something else, that he might reach out, one last time, to change everything. But he didn’t.

“If that’s what you want,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “If you want me to let go, them -

I’ll let you go.”

---

Hotch hadn’t heard from you since that night.

The night that left him feeling hollow, stripped bare like a man exposed to a storm he’d never anticipated.

He replayed the words you’d spoken, over and over, each one twisting deeper like a knife, carving wounds he had no way of healing. You’d been his last constant, the one person who had seen him fully, who had known the side of him he kept hidden from everyone else.

Now, you were truly gone, more distant than you had ever been, even when the Atlantic had separated you. There would be no more letters, no careful, handwritten notes, no familiar roughness of paper bearing your looping, blue-inked script, only the echoes of what you’d shared, remnants of a partnership and friendship torn away from him.

And the pain of losing you was so much deeper because you were the one person he never thought would leave.

He was already disappointing Haley on the daily basis, failing to be the husband she deserves as he chose the demands of his work over the family they’ve always dreamed of. The guilt over Jack haunted him daily - the missed milestones, the countless nights he’d spent in hotel rooms instead of by his son’s side.

He had come to accept that his choices had cost him more than he’d ever anticipated, that his absences had created a rift in his family he could never fully mend. But you… you were the one person he’d believed would always stay, the one person who had somehow seen past the darkness and chosen to stand beside him.

And now, you had stepped away too.

The realization struck him with a weight so heavy it almost brought him to his knees. You, who had known him better than anyone, who had been his friend, his confidant, his solace through all of it, were now just a memory.

In some ways, it felt like the final blow, the one that shattered whatever hope he’d clung to that he might still have someone by his side who truly understood.

You had been his last anchor, and without you, he felt adrift, more alone than he ever had before. The pain of it made everything else - the failures, the regrets - seem even sharper, a brutal reminder that he had pushed away the very people who had mattered most.

And now, there was no going back.

With you gone, the work was all he had left to cling to.

But every moment he spent trying to bury himself in case files and late-night profiles only reminded him of what he’d lost. More and more, he found himself imagining how different things might have been if you had stayed - if that night, instead of saying goodbye, you’d agreed to return to the BAU, to stand by his side once more.

How the team would have flourished with your presence, how your calm confidence and unyielding strength would have held them together, even as they all faced their own private battles. And how he, too, would have found a sense of solace, knowing that his partner, his confidant, his best friend, his lost love was there to share the burdens he carried.

In the months since you left, Hotch had watched his team begin to fracture.

Derek, always the strongest among them, had been forced to confront the ghosts of his past. Hotch saw the hurt in Derek’s eyes, the way he hid behind a mask, shielding himself from those who reached out to help. Hotch had tried to be there, to offer words of comfort, but each time he spoke, he felt the words fall flat, hollow, unable to bridge the distance between them.

He knew you would have known what to say, that you would have sat beside Derek and quietly drawn him out, helping him face his pain. Nights after, Hotch would lie awake, wishing he could call you, just to hear your voice, to ask you what he should do.

But he couldn’t.

You weren’t there to reassure him, to guide him, to help him carry the weight he so often bore alone.

And now, you would never be there again for him.

Then there was Reid.

He would never forget the hollow look in Reid’s eyes after his abduction, the way he seemed almost lost, his usual sharp mind clouded with a fear and vulnerability that shattered Hotch’s heart. Reid had always been their anchor, his intellect a shield against the horrors they faced. But that shield had cracked, and Hotch found himself struggling to help Reid rebuild, to provide the guidance Reid so desperately needed.

He knew you would have understood Reid’s pain in a way Hotch simply couldn’t. He could picture how you’d take Reid aside, your quiet, wise words full of empathy, your presence soothing the rawness of his wounds. You would have known exactly what to say, using your own intellect to help rebuild his, weaving in those philosophical insights Reid cherished so much. You had a way of reaching him, grounding him with calm understanding, and speaking to him on a deeper, metaphysical level that only you could.

Without you, Hotch felt helpless, as though he were failing the very people he’d promised to protect.

And then there was Gideon.

Watching Gideon unravel had been like staring into a mirror, reflecting a grief Hotch knew all too well.

Gideon, the man who had faced countless horrors, who had weathered storms that would have broken anyone else, had finally crumbled under the weight of his own loss. Frank’s cruelty had robbed him of Sarah, just as Hotch had been robbed of you. He could see himself in Gideon’s brokenness, could feel the pain that Gideon bore in silence, the same pain that now echoed in his own heart.

You and Gideon had both been his beacons, the ones who had filled the shadows with a light he clung to, and now, with both of you gone, he was left to navigate the darkness alone.

He was left to stumble through the darkness, to fight battles he was no longer sure he could win, knowing that the one person who had truly known him, who had quietly loved him even when he couldn’t love himself, was gone.

Each case, each crime scene was a reminder of all the moments you’d shared, of the life you’d built together, only to watch it crumble. He clung to the hope that somehow, some way, he could find you again, that the life you’d left behind would come back to him. But deep down, he knew that hope was just another ghost, haunting him, whispering of things that might have been.

And now, standing in Strauss’s office, the weight of it all pressed down on him, so heavy he thought it might break him. He met her gaze, the sharpness in her eyes a harsh reminder of everything that had fallen apart.

She watched him, waiting for him to justify himself, to justify the team that had become the only thing he had left.

He could see the doubt in her eyes, the calculation. She saw him as a man on the verge of failure, and she wasn’t wrong. But she didn’t know the cost, didn’t know what it had taken for him to keep standing.

"As your superior, I am questioning your ability to lead your team.”

He took a breath, summoning every ounce of strength he had left. His voice was steady, but beneath it lay a trembling, a fragility that betrayed just how close he was to breaking. “My team?” he said, a hint of defiance hardening his tone. “Let me tell you about my team.”

He thought of Derek, his mind flashing to that moment in Chicago, the pain etched into his friend’s face, the way he’d borne the burden alone because he didn’t trust anyone enough to share it. “Agent Morgan fought to protect his identity from the very people who could save him - why? Because trust has to be earned, and there are very few people he truly trusts.”

He paused, a bitter taste in his mouth as he remembered how he’d failed, how he hadn’t been able to reach Derek in the way he needed. You would have. You would have known how to ease his pain.

“Reid’s intellect is a shield which protects him from his emotions,” he continued, his voice softening, a raw edge creeping into it as he pictured Reid’s broken expression, the hollow look that haunted his eyes. “And at the moment, his shield is under repair.”

Hotch’s chest tightened. Reid’s pain had become his own, a constant reminder of the fragility he’d seen in you, the way you’d fought to rebuild yourself when you’d come back from the edge. You would have been there for Reid. You would have known what to say. But now, without you, Hotch felt helpless, standing by as the people he cared about struggled to hold themselves together.

“Prentiss overcompensates because she doesn’t yet feel she’s a part of the team.” A flicker of pride crossed his face as he spoke of her, her fierce determination, her unyielding loyalty. “She needn’t worry.” He thought of how hard she worked, how much she wanted to belong. He knew you would have recognized it in her, would have encouraged her the way only you could.

He forced himself to continue, his voice growing firmer, even as the sadness in his chest grew heavier. “Every day, Agent Jareau fields dozens of requests for our team. And every night, she goes home hoping she’s made the right choices.” He thought of JJ’s quiet strength, the way she carried the weight of her decisions, never letting it show how much it cost her. He knew you would have admired her resolve, would have understood the strength it took to keep going.

“Garcia fills her office with figurines and color to remind herself to smile as the horror fills her screens.” He thought of Garcia’s laugh, the way she fought to keep the darkness at bay with her light. You would have seen the courage in her, would have understood that her joy was her shield, the way she protected herself from the horrors she witnessed every day.

But it was Gideon’s pain that hit him hardest, and he struggled to keep his voice steady as he spoke of the man who had once been his mentor.

“And Agent Gideon… In many ways, he is damned by his profound knowledge of others. Which is why he shares so little of himself, yet he pours his heart into every case we handle.” Hotch remembered the look in Gideon’s eyes, the emptiness that had consumed him since Sarah’s death. He had seen the same hollowness in himself, the same agony of losing someone you had let into your heart. Gideon had been undone by it, just as Hotch had been undone by you.

He straightened, meeting Strauss’s gaze with a fierce determination. “I stand by my actions, and I stand by my team. And if you think that you can find a better person for the job, good luck.”

Strauss’s expression remained cold, her eyes narrowing. She leaned forward, her voice a sharp blade, cutting through his defenses. “Agent Hotchner,” she said, her tone clipped.

Hotch’s response was immediate, his voice a quiet, simmering intensity. “How do I know you favor your son? I’m good at my job.”

He knew he was good at his job.

He had to be.

It was the only thing he had left, the one thing he could control in a world that felt like it was slipping away.

He’d lost you, just as he had lost so much.

But he wouldn’t lose this.

He couldn’t.

---

Dado's Corner pt.2: I always read this whenever my heart gets broken... To build something meaningful, sometimes we have to tear down the entire house and rebuild from the foundation up.

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#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #hotch #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #criminal minds x reader

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