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chuellas · 2 months ago

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Shut Me Up | The Housekeeper generally stays in her lane. You mind your business and run the cleaners’ division of the Port Mafia with scary efficiency. But a particular Executive forces your hand and you finally have to put your foot down.

⤷ Ft. Nakahara Chuuya

Warnings | Fem!reader, mentions of alcohol, cussing, term “Doll” is used, possible minor spoilers to SB if you squint, edited but who knows how well andjajsjjas, WC: 4.5k

A/N | LONG TIME NO FIC POST I AM SO PROUD OF THIS ONE I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOY READING IT AS MUCH AS I ENJOYED WRITING IT <33 Stay tuned at the end for a description of readers ability !!

Working for the Port Mafia has always been messy — having a whole division dedicated to cleaning up the chaos that this organization's members create is a testament to that. Most days are busy, dispatching several teams in an hour is normal for you when you’re head of the division and work directly with the elite teams and the executives. Well, the executives minus Ace, he evidently prefers his subordinates to do the cleaning up for him. You’ve always been suspicious of the vile and loathsome snake, but that’s above your paygrade and qualifications to worry about. You’re sure the boss knows what he’s doing.

With all that being said, despite the nature of your role, you generally like to mind your own business. That’s one of the reasons why you were given this division in the first place, you’re efficient and you never asked any questions. You’ve been commended for the trait and pride yourself in not getting involved in your assignments.

But even you have your limits.

Today has been particularly busy — obscenely busy actually. You’ve been nonstop taking dispatches for the Black Lizard and one specific Executive. He just got back from a mission in the west and apparently things didn’t go as planned. It’s par for the course, you’ve heard he’s been known to have a bit of a short temper, one that he likes to take out on the Port Mafia’s enemies but it’s never been this bad. Usually it’s an extra one or two teams being dispatched, not your entire crew. You have to wonder what set him off so badly that he’s dropping bodies left and right, much to your dismay.

Whatever it was, Nakahara Chuuya has now successfully made it your problem too.

Your phone rings again and the same caller ID pops up for the fourth time this hour, which causes your left eye to twitch in vexation as you reach over to pick up the line. “This is the Housekeeper.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, displaying a clear signal of irritation—not that the person on the other side of the phone can tell—and you can feel the telltale signs of a migraine coming on. Your vision whites out for a split second and when it comes back, everything is rimmed in a multi-colored aura. You were supposed to go out with a few colleagues for dinner and some drinks tonight but at this point you think that plan has gone straight out the window. All you want to do now, after this dreadfully long day, is go home and rot on your couch or in your bed.

You internally curse Nakahara Chuuya for ruining your rare after work plans. You’re not even sure you’ll get out of the office at all tonight with the way things are playing out, let alone in time to meet up with your colleagues. Why do you have to pay the price for this grown ass man’s tantrum?

Men.

“Hello, Otetsudai-san.” Your mood lifts a little at the sound of Akutagawa Gin’s gentle voice, but then you can feel the way your body physically reacts, blood pressure spiking at the reminder of why she would would be calling and the pressure goes right to your already aching head—you’re officially nursing a migraine. “I’m sorry for all of the trouble you’ve been put through today, but we do have another scene that needs to be cleaned up…”

You let out a heavy sigh. “Right. Text me the coordinates and I’ll send my final team. You better let your executive know that this is the last team available. He needs to slow down. Your only other option is having myself personally come out to get my hands dirty and, trust me, he doesn’t want that.”

Gin swears to deliver your message and hangs up to promptly send you the promised coordinates. You’re quick to dispatch your only available team and sit back in your chair. You should be checking on the progress of your other teams but you need a break. A shooting pain runs through your temple when you think about the amount of reports you’re going to have to fill out just from the executive and his team alone.

You think you wouldn't be so bothered by all of this if it wasn’t for the fact that the executive hasn’t bothered to personally call or contact you himself. He’s made his mess yours and his subordinates' problem, as if he’s too good to be bothered himself. The thought alone makes you scowl. His obvious arrogance puts you off and works you up even more than it probably should but you’re tired and annoyed and your head hurts thanks to this man. The least he could do is talk to you personally and thank you for your hard work.

You think it’s far too often that your division is taken for granted, as well as the mailmen. No one has proper appreciation for your work. No one seems to understand that without the cleaners and the mailmen, this organization wouldn’t run as smoothly as it does.

It’s insulting, you really need to have a word with the Boss about this and maybe devise a plan in which each member (including executives) takes a day to work in each division to better appreciate the hard work you all do, but before you can do that you have to get through this god awful day. You pick up your phone for the umptieth time and check in on the crews you have assigned to the several messes that have been made today and none of them have finished. You could pull some teams from other assignments but that would run the potential risk of falling short in staff for other divisions just because some ginger with questionable taste in head accessories is having a bad day. You refuse to let that happen.

Maybe you should consider cutting the executive off, for the day at least. You’ve been allowed the liberty by Mori himself to cut anyone off from your services that gives you a particularly hard time. luckily, you’ve never even considered it, let alone been forced to exercise the right to cut someone off. You cannot believe this carrot topped, below average height, freckled freak of a man is making you consider changing your stance on your right to refuse services.

Not even twenty minutes after Gin called, you receive yet another message from her alerting you of another scene that needs your attention.

That’s it, you’ve had enough of this. If the ginger wants to throw a fit that’s fine by you but you’ll be damned if you continue to let him make it everyone else’s problem, but more specifically your problem. You decide this man is going to get a piece of your mind whether he likes it or not. You request both the coordinates and that Nakahara Chuuya be present for your arrival at the scene before getting up from your desk and calling for an escort.

Chuuya is irritated beyond belief, his patience is nonexistent today and now he has to wait for this “Housekeeper” person to show up. He doesn’t have the time for this. The longer he spends waiting around to speak with this asshole, the more time the Yokohama branches of the organization he met with abroad have to flee. He can’t let that happen. The traitors need to face the consequences of their actions for sloppily selling Port Mafia secured information to their rivaling organizations.

He’s already taken care of their overseas branch, now he needs to wipe out their entire domestic operations. He’s already behind schedule, he should’ve been done by this time, but now he has to send out more teams in his place because someone needs to have a word with him and apparently he isn’t allowed to leave the scene until that conversation happens in person. At least, that’s what Gin told him and she’s not one to exaggerate unlike her brother who frequently gets carried away.

The current scene is an abandoned factory building—or, the remnants of an abandoned factory, Chuuya has no time to care about how neatly things are done right now, he just needs to get them done. Although, he does have to admit, this job was particularly messy and maybe Chuuya shouldn’t have used his ability to knock down the entire structure, but again he is in a hurry and it’s not like anyone was using the building. Really, he was doing the city a favor by demolishing that factory for free. However, the ginger knows that the Housekeeper isn’t going to be happy about it.

“Is this a goddamn joke?! What the hell is all of this?!” A shrill voice pierces through the sound of waves hitting the nearby cliffs.

Chuuya winces, he hates how right he can be sometimes, and whips around to find the owner of the voice to be a neatly dressed woman no older than himself—maybe even younger. He’s not sure why, maybe it has to do with the fact that Kouyou is the only woman of power that he knows in the Port Mafia (one thing that has really never sat right with him due to the fact that it reeks of misogyny) or maybe it’s because of how efficiently the cleaners run, Chuuya has always been under the impression that the Housekeeper was an older man. One that held the same stature as someone like Hirotsu. It makes the executive wonder who her predecessor might have been and what they did to have such a young woman set to replace them.

Thankfully Gin has intercepted her and is seemingly trying to deescalate whatever fit the division head seems to be having. Why Chuuya has to be here for that is a mystery to him. His patience is waning even further at the fact that this Housekeeper seems hellbent on wasting the executive’s time.

The division head and Gin exchange a few more words before the (possibly?) older woman’s head swivels to the side, her sharp gaze narrowed in his direction. Suddenly he feels uncomfortable in his own skin, entirely too seen, a chill running through him that he can only explain as a sort of intimidation. Chuuya doesn’t get intimidated easily, he finds it hard too when he is both the strongest fighter and ability user in the entire organization. He hasn’t felt something like this in quite some time. Only one other person that still resides in the Port Mafia has made Chuuya experience this feeling and that was Mori Ougai himself, the boss of the entire Port Mafia. Besides the older man, there is only one other person that has elicited this kind of reaction from Chuuya.

Now he has to add one more person to that list.

She moves with a sort of elegance that the ginger would expect from a dancer or a fighter, but with her stature and fragile frame, Chuuya couldn’t imagine this woman ever fighting. So a dancer then, she has to be, with movements as calculated and light as her’s there is no other explanation. The ginger realizes he’s blatantly sizing her up just a little too late, the expression on her face tells him she notices. The deep set scowl etched onto her face gives that away pretty easily.

She crosses her arms over her chest and looks at him in obvious contempt. “Nakahara-san.”

“Housekeeper, I assume?” You nod your head at him, confirming his obvious suspicions about your identity, clearly it wasn’t really that hard to figure out with the way you made your entrance a bit of a spectacle.

If your outburst when you first got here wasn’t an indication, the look on your face solidifies your clear annoyance with the executive. Chuuya internally flinches at the thought, he generally tries to stay on the good side of other members of the Port Mafia, always being respectful no matter the position, unless otherwise provoked. The last thing he wants is to have offended someone so vital in how efficiently the Port Mafia operates.

Chuuya can’t imagine the delays in assignments if they didn’t have the cleaners to sort the messes for them or the mailman division to deliver important messages that cannot be delivered through a phone. Judging by your appearance here though, he has decidedly not made a good impression on you. Your presence alone was already a huge neon sign displaying that, the scowl on your face is enough to let the executive know he has in fact disrespected you in some way or another. The thought alone is enough to make the nausea settle in, feeling physically ill as his stomach churns uncomfortably.

“…You’re upset.” Admittedly, that’s not the brightest vocal observation Chuuya has ever made but something about you makes him nervous and it’s the best he could muster at this moment.

Your jaw tightens and your left eye twitches ever so slightly. “How very astute of you, Nakahara-san. It doesn’t matter who you are, where do you get off on ordering your subordinates to do the dirty work for you? Poor Gin alone has contacted me more in one day than she ever has in her entire time with the Port Mafia. Your arrogance truly astounds me. Y’know, I have never had someone so blatantly disrespect me and my division quite like you have today, congratulations. I’m highly disappointed, I’ve heard countless people rave about how respectful you are, but I suppose everyone has their limitations, right? Your courtesies clearly only extend to members that join you on the field and not for the aftermath.”

Your words cut into Chuuya’s chest like razor sharp blades. He does pride himself in his ability to respect others so outwardly, his words and actions always carefully mapped out. He didn’t start learning about proper etiquette until his mid to late teens, going from a street rat running a gang of other children from the streets to attending high society galas was a culture shock to say the least. It was hard for him to adjust, took years of constant guidance from Ane-san to completely sand away at the rough edges that once defined him.

So the notion that he would look down on anyone lower than him in the chain of command in the Port Mafia is laughable at best. However, the executive isn’t too sure that now is the best time to bring that up. Your anger is tangible as is, maybe it’s best that he keeps his mouth shut and lets you get your frustrations out.

The longer you prattle on about your grievances toward the executive, the more Chuuya finds himself shocked at just how much he’s okay with it. His lips are parted slightly as he watches you in awe, waving your hands around to emphasize the way you’re harshly scolding him. It stirs something inside of him that’s slightly concerning.

Is he attracted to this? Or are you really just that beautiful when you’re angry?

Chuuya decides he would like to find out.

The ginger has to find out.

“Not all of us live, breathe, and eat the Port Mafia. Some of us would like to have a life outside of this organization and what you’re doing here today is hindering me from being able to obtain that healthy work to life balance ratio. I don’t care if you’re an executive—I wouldn’t care if you were the boss himself—I deserve the decency of getting a heads up from you personally that my teams were going to need to be prepared for a tantrum of this magnitude. Wouldn’t you agree?” Your shoulders visibly deflate, the tension in your body dissipating after finally voicing your issues with the way the ginger was handling this operation, but your gaze is still sharp and expectant, clearly wanting an answer to your question.

Chuuya can’t say he disagrees, after reflecting he has acted like a huge dick, making a mockery of you by not extending any sort of common decency towards you. Instead of speaking, Chuuya removes his hat from his head with his right hand and crosses his arm over his chest to rest the head accessory over his heart. He kneels down to bow formally and suddenly all the chatter from his subordinates ceases, everything going eerily quiet.

You splutter in embarrassment at his show and look around awkwardly.

“I deeply apologize, Otetsudai-san, for both the disrespect and for ruining your after work plans. I agree, I should have allowed you the courtesy of being prepared for this—” Chuuya can’t help himself and peers up at you with an amused grin as he chooses his next words. “What was it that you called it? Tantrum.”

You bristle at his words, already flustered as your face flushes deeper. “You’re a Scoundrel, Nakahara Chuuya. I will be veiling this mess you’ve made and any others from this point forward until my teams can finish up at the other locations. I expect a direct phone call from you and no one else. Unless you feel like cleaning up your own messes. Do I make myself clear, Scoundrel?”

Chuuya chuckles at your retort and nods his head as he raises back to his feet, placing his hat back on his head. “Crystal clear, Otetsudai-san.”

You roll your eyes at him with a huff and spin on the balls of your feet, waving dismissively at him as you walk away. Chuuya relishes in your reaction, finding it quite endearing with the way a blush blooms at the tips of your ears and travels down to the back of your exposed neck. Even in your plain clothing and slicked back hairstyle, there’s no denying the fact that you have this natural beauty that shines through all of that. Maybe that’s why you make him so nervous, the executive doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone quite like you.

He’s utterly captivated.

His phone ringing lifts him out of his stupor, eyes never leaving your figure as he reaches into his pocket and answers the call. It’s Akutagawa—he’d stepped in for Chuuya when he couldn’t resume with this assignment himself thanks to your request. The executive picks up the phone, only half listening to the younger man’s mission report as you activate your ability. He watches in wonder as you make the rubble from the fallen factory completely disappear.

Dangerously captivating.

It’s been a week since you personally met the notorious executive/scoundrel, Nakahara Chuuya, in the flesh and you no longer know what to think of him.

Maybe you’d have a better chance of doing any sort of thinking if it weren’t for the overwhelming floral scent swirling around inside of your office. Thirteen bouquets, all a variety of flowers from lilies to carnations to even dahlias. This was getting ridiculously out of hand. The first few deliveries were a pleasant surprise, but by the seventh delivery, you were completely out of surface area to set the massive and intricate bouquets down onto.

You feel like you’re swimming in a sea of petals. What’s worse is that, whether it’s a specific flower or all of their scents and pollen being combined together like this, something in here is making your allergies act up. Your sinuses are either clogged or leaking like a faucet, there has been no in between, and your eyes. They were starting to become unbearable with how itchy they’ve become. You’ve tried opening the windows but the clutter in your office is masking the fresh air and hardly doing anything to help.

The clutter is so bad that you had to start using chairs to house all of the flowers that were slowly but surely infesting your work space. The absolute worst part of this all, though, is that your subordinates have started whispering about the relationship between you and Chuuya. You too would love to know what that is because as of right now you’re completely unaware of your own standing with him. Last you checked he was simply some stupidly overpowered arrogant asshole that just so happens to have a pretty smile and striking eyes. Of course you don’t tell them that last part but you’re quick to remind them of the first part.

They clearly don’t buy it, how could they when the flowers continue to flood in, the evidence overwhelmingly stacked against you.

Treacherous flowers.

Nakahara Chuuya is truly a pain in your ass, a bug crawling under your skin, a thorn in your side.

Your secretary scurries in with an unusually nervous look on her face and you check the time while letting out a sigh. Six in the evening on the dot. That’s when the second bouquet has been arriving every day for the past six days.

You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose in exasperation, you take a deep breath but it only serves to wound you up further when the strong floral scent causes your head to spin. “Sign for the flowers and you can just keep them at your desk, I couldn’t care less.”

“Aw…You’re breaking my heart, Doll. Did you not like my flowers? Would you have preferred I sent you treats from Paris instead?”

Your eyes fly open at the sound of his smooth voice, you’re sure it’s comical how they almost bug out of your head because even your secretary has to stifle a giggle. To her credit she does catch herself but it’s too late and you give her a wilted look, completely mortified. She bows her head and backs out of the room, probably on her way to tell the others what just transpired.

He said Paris. As in, Paris, France? As in the City of Love? Who does this guy think he is? Casanova? It’s bold of him to assume you’re easily swayed by grand romantic gestures. Jokes on him, you aren’t huge on the lover girl aesthetic or mentality. You’re simply exhausted and maybe just a little emotionally unstable.

You thought your outburst and chewing him out last week was enough of an indication of that.

Your gaze finally focuses on the ginger and what he’s holding. A bouquet of red roses. You want to roll your eyes—you do roll your eyes at him, you can’t help it considering the absurdity of it all. Red roses. Seriously? And of course he’s standing there with that stupid ass smirk and a mischievous glint in his bicolored eyes.

You let out a scoff through your nose. “You expect me to believe that a scoundrel like you had these flowers flown in from France?”

You’re decidedly unnerved by the way his smirk turns into an amused grin and his eyes soften with a fondness that catches you off guard. You don’t think anyone has ever looked at you that way. It makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

“You think too little of me—kinda hurts, y’know?” Chuuya fakes a pained expression that’s surprisingly convincing—or it would be if it weren’t for the fact that his tone gives away his clear amusement. “No, I expect you to believe that every day for the last seven days, I have been personally going to France myself and picking out the bouquets and traveling back.”

You blanch at this revelation, eyes once again turning into cartoonish orbs on your face and mouth hanging open in utter disbelief. “Why would you go through all that trouble just for me?”

Suddenly you feel a pit in your stomach churning and it makes you nauseous. Guilt starts chewing you from the inside out as you realize all that he’s done to try and prove to you he’s sorry. You start to feel bad about ever thinking ill of him.

You looked into him. Two days ago your request for Chuuya’s personal files were authorized and Mori called you up to his office to hand the folder to you himself. You were shocked, having expected your on-a-whim request to be denied. So, when he had a strange gleam in his eye, his amusement palpable, you knew something was suspicious but you couldn’t figure out what. He sensed your hesitation and an even more unsettling grin curled at his lips.

He said something about how years ago, Chuuya’s files had been taken, unauthorized and this was his way of repaying that.

It was an odd interaction and maybe Mori was actually telling the truth. Or maybe the man was just bored. It doesn’t matter now, because either way you regret reading his file. Knowing where Chuuya came from, that he was not only a child abandoned on the streets, but he was…God you can’t even think about it without a wave of sadness washing over you. All of that contempt you held for him previously has completely dissipated.

You definitely shouldn’t have read his file.

Chuuya’s entire face softens, he almost looks embarrassed—no, he does look embarrassed. The slight dusting of blush blooming onto his cheeks and his free hand rubbing the back of his neck are all telltale signs of how flustered he is by your question. Maybe even the answer he has for it too.

“I think it’s pretty important for you to like me, or at least to tolerate me. Someone in your position deserves respect and I’m sorry my first impression was lacking. I’m also sorry for fucking with your plans. Let me make it up to you?”

He looks at you expectantly and you can’t help the incredulous laugh that slips past your lips as you shake your head, an involuntary smile creeping onto your face and brightening your features. “If these flowers were just the precursor to your apology, do I even wanna know what the real apology is? Anyone ever tell you that subtlety isn’t your strong suit?”

“Nah, don’t think it’s ever come up. But…Let me take you out for dinner and drinks. On my dime of course.”

You watch him fiddle with his bottom lip, scraping it nervously between his teeth, not quite biting it. You ponder on his question before coming to a realization. Today was oddly slow for you, which means it was a slow day for the mafia altogether. You can’t help but wonder if that had anything to do with the man standing nervously before you, still holding that damn bouquet of roses. You let out a sigh of defeat and tip toe over to the ginger, plucking the bouquet from his hand.

You bring the flowers up to your nose and inhale deeply, the scent of roses overpowering the rest of the other flowers. Despite never being a romantic, the scent of roses has always been your favorite. You peer up at Chuuya through your lashes and you swear you hear his breath catch in his throat.

“I suppose I can spare one night to dine with a scoundrel.”

⤷ More on reader’s ability | Fukai Mask (Masks by Fumiko Enchi) - An ability to mask objects or a surrounding scene. This ability allows its user to also mask herself from others but she cannot apply her own ability to other living things apart from plants. The mask acts as a veil that hides things from the naked eye as well as making the objects or user permeable. When the user has the ability activated only she is able to see what��s been hidden. The ability can be activated in more than one scene at a time as long as the user has physically been there before but while the ability is being used externally, the user cannot mask her presence and vice versa.

#chuuya x reader #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #chuuya x you #bsd x you #bungo stray dogs x you #chuuya x fem!reader #bsd x fem!reader #bungo stray dogs x fem!reader #bsd chuuya #chuuya nakahara #bsd #bungo stray dogs #writings ʚїɞ

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imagines-for-the-fangirls-soul · 1 year ago

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Enchanted to Meet You - Colin Bridgerton

A/N: I am so hype for the new season, and Colin isn't even my favorite Bridgerton sibling. When I was thinking of who should get Enchanted, I knew the story had to happen at a beautiful ball, so really this was one of the only choices. (There may be more Enchanted inspired fics, who's to say!) Hope you enjoy!

TS Prompt #6: Enchanted

Pairing: Colin Bridgerton x Reader Word Count: 3.0k Synopsis: After years of knowing, and not liking each other, Colin and the reader meet again at a ball, and share a magical evening together.

"Isn't that your second glass?" Eloise asks, a glass of champagne in her own gloved hand.

"No. It's my third," you say. She doesn't even try to hide the un-ladylike snort she lets out.

"I thought your mother said one."

"She did," you say, peering about the crowded ballroom for her deep red dress. "But, as this is my third ball of the season, I thought it only fitting."

"I'm sure she'll see it that way, too," Eloise says sarcastically.

It was true, this was your third ball, but the three glasses of champagne didn't really have anything to do with that. The matching numbers did add some kind of magic to the night, but truly, you just needed them to get through the evening.

It was your first year out, and after three balls, you weren't sure you would ever find someone to marry. It wasn't like you hadn't had callers. You had blossomed in the last year. So much so, that people often did a double take when they looked upon you. It wasn't so much that they weren't interested in you, but that you weren't in them.

This evening was looking to be another night of forcing laughter and faking smiles with men you had no interest in. The thought of another glass of champagne was too enthralling.

"I don't believe it," Eloise says, leaving your side. You watch her nearly run across the ballroom, and run into the arms of a man. When they break away, you see it is Colin, returned from his travels around the world.

It is hard to believe, but he has become more handsome, in his travels. You spent years and years at the Bridgerton household, and never found Colin anything other than annoying. He was the brother closest in age to Eloise, and he spent most of his time picking on the two of you.

But walking towards you now is a man. A very handsome man, whose smile seems to make your insides melt. You think you might melt, too, as he walks up to you.

"Have we met?" he says, taking your hand in his.

"Are you joking?" you ask, watching as he places a soft kiss to your gloved hand. "Colin, it's me."

"Y/N?" he asks quietly, his brow furrowed as he studies your face.

"Of course it's Y/N, you idiot," Eloise says, slapping his arm.

"You . . . you look completely different," he says.

"Bad different?"

"No, no, not bad at all," he says. He stares at you for a moment longer, seemingly speechless.

"Oh cut it out, will you?" Eloise says, "Both of you are staring like you've never seen the other before."

"Well, he looks different, too," you say, "A good different," you add, looking to him. He smiles, his mouth turned up to one end in playful amusement.

"Eloise, I hope you do not mind if I ask Miss Y/L/N to dance," he says. Eloise begins to say she does mind, but your mind is only on Colin as you drop your hand into his.

You are trembling as he leads you out onto the dancefloor. You have danced this dance hundreds of times before, and have done so to this exact song at the previous two balls. But now, the man in front of you is Colin, and that makes it completely new.

When he pulls you into his arms, your chests a touch closer than societally acceptable, you aren't breathing.

"Hello," he says softly.

"Hello," you say, as the music begins around you. Your moves are instinctual, as you let him lead you into the dance. He is still studying you, his eyes on every angle of your face. You laugh at his ministrations.

"What?" he asks.

"You act as if you don't know me."

"Well, I don't."

"I've spent nearly every summer at the Bridgerton household."

"No, that was Eloise's annoying childhood friend, that wasn't you," he says, his eyes locking on yours.

"Well, it has been a while since we've seen each other. And I have changed."

"I can tell," he says deeply. Goosebumps appear along your neck, and you watch his eyes track them.

"You've changed, too," you say, "Traveling agrees with you."

"Thank you," he says. He spins you out of his arms and back in. "How are you enjoying your first season?"

"Truthfully, it has been pretty boring so far."

"Boring?" he asks in surprise. "Don't tell me you've been a wallflower."

"Oh, on the contrary, everyone seems to notice how much I've changed," you say with a grin, making him laugh, "It's just, I haven't found their company as agreeable."

"And how about my company?" he asks, his voice quiet again.

"I'm not sure yet," you say thoughtfully, studying his face. "But so far, you are certainly a far better dancer than any of the other men I've danced with."

"Really? I'm honored."

The music comes to an end, and both of your hands linger for a moment longer on the other. The dancefloor starts to shift as couples enter and leave. You are supposed to be dancing with Lord Charmbord for the polka.

"Care to have some more fun?" Colin asks.

"What?"

"If you don't mind leaving Lord . . ." he trails off as he touches your wrist again, glancing at your dance card. "Lord Charmbord in the lurch, I'd be happy to prove that my company is much more enjoyable," he says. There is mischief in his eyes, and you know you will go wherever he wants you to.

"Where to?" you ask.

"Meet me at the fork in the gardens," he whispers in your ear, as he walks past you casually. Again, the goosebumps appear.

You walk off the dancefloor, keeping your head down so that no one, especially Lord Charmbord or your mother, see you slip out onto the terrace.

There are a few couples lingering out on the balcony, but they are too involved in their conversations to notice you move down the steps to the garden. You move silently as you look around for Colin, or anyone else.

Scandal would be sure to follow you if anyone were to catch you out here, but you can't bring yourself to care right now. This is the first time all season that you have felt anything, and you aren't going to let it go.

As you round a bend in the gardens, hands grab your waist and you nearly scream out. Quickly, though, Colin turns you around and reveals himself. You clutch a hand to your pounding heart.

"You frightened me," you say.

"I'm sorry," he says, laughter still in his eyes.

"No, you aren't," you say with a laugh.

"No, I'm not. But I am glad you met me here."

"Well, I was promised good company,” you say. Colin straightens, a smirk on his face, as he extends his arm to you.

“A promise I intend to make good on.” He leads you deeper into the maze like garden, as if he has explored it before. Before you can ask, he says, "You know, I used to play with the lord's son when we were kids. He knew where all of the hiding spots were in here, and challenged me to hunt him down. It took a few years, but I was eventually able to find all of his spots, and a few of my own."

"So if I asked you to hide right now . . ."

"You would not find me."

"You assume so little about my seeking skills?" you joke.

"No, just that my hiding ones are much more polished."

"Ah. Well, I should hate for us to have to split up, anyhow."

"As would I. You know, I still can't truly believe that you're you."

"I really haven't change, Mr. Bridgerton," you say.

"No?" he asks, looking you over thoughtfully. "Well, perhaps I have."

"You have."

"How so?" he asks, a small smile on his face. You look him over for a long moment before smiling back.

"You've gotten taller," you say. Colin lets out a tut of laughter.

"Indeed."

"But, I'm sure it's also your travels that are to blame for the man I met tonight."

"I would agree with that estimate," he says, "I learned a lot during my journeys that I am not sure I would have ever discovered at home."

"I can't help but feel envious," you say, "I've always wanted to travel, too."

"Really? Where to?" he asks.

"Anywhere, truthfully. But I've always been fascinated by Florence."

"It is truly gorgeous," he says with a nod.

"You've been?"

"I have. They have absolutely the best food of any of the places I've been. But what's more is they even have the best dances."

"The best dances?"

"Yes, they've taken our plain old quadrille and changed it into something magical," he says. He seems to notice the excitement in your eyes, because his smile only grows. "I couldn't help but notice that you're an accomplished dancer."

"Oh, please," you say, self-depreciatingly, "I'm passable, but certainly wouldn't call myself accomplished."

"I had no complaints," he says softly. He waits for you to give him a smile before continuing. "And if you spent one day in Florence, I know you would out dance every woman in there."

"They are truly that good?" you ask.

"Would you like me to show you?" he asks. He has come to a stop in the center of the gardens. A large fountain trickles softly behind him, the air moist with the shooting spouts. You study him for a moment, waiting for him to say he was joking, to turn back to the Colin you had known.

"Are you serious?" you ask.

"Of course," he says, holding out his hand.

"There's no music."

"You don't need to hear the music to feel it," he says, taking your hand in his and pulling you in close. "Just follow along. It's got the same steps as the quadrille you know, but with a little more movement."

You nod your head and focus on the moves. Without music playing, it is a little harder to get into the rhythm, but he is correct, after a few steps, you can feel the music echoing inside of you.

His hand on your waist presses slightly, making your hips move more fluidly. You are certain if anyone were to see, it would mean scandal, but you cannot fight the smile growing on your face. Again, he shows you how to add more movement into a step, bringing the two of you closer again.

You have danced through one whole song in your head, and you don't want to stop anytime soon. Never in your life before have you danced like this. You feel so free, so graceful. And it is at this feeling, that you trip on an upturned stone and crash into Colin's arms.

The music has stopped playing in your mind. There is only the soft sound of water, the trill of crickets, and your pounding heart.

You have never been this close to a man. Your chest is flush against his. You can feel his breath, and watch as he looks down, too, at your bodies pressed together.

His eyes catch yours and everything seems to slow. There is only his warm brown eyes, locked onto your own, and the hand on your back that moves softly, comfortingly.

"Colin," you whisper. He smiles widely.

"I like when you say my name."

"I've said it a million times before," you say with a laugh.

"You've never said it like that."

"We should be heading back," you say. The hand on your back grows firmer, like he would do anything to keep you against him.

"No one knows we're out here," he says.

"My mother will come looking soon."

"Y/N," he whispers, his head ducking so that his words dance over your neck. You shiver slightly, and his smile only grows.

"I see what you mean," you say, looking back up at him, "I like the way you say my name, too." The look on his face is purely prideful.

"Don't go back inside," he says.

"We'll both be ruined."

"What if I don't care?" he asks.

"You do care," you say gently, "And so do I."

"Perhaps you're right."

"I am right, Colin," you say, beginning to pull away. He pulls you back in and your lips are a breath from his. His eyes flicker between your own and your lips, that are practically begging to be kissed. Your eyes close, against your better instinct, and you lean in.

Snap!

In an impossibly quick moment, Colin has pushed you out of his arms and ducked into an alcove of the garden. You wait for someone to appear, for your reputation to be ruined, but no one comes. Another minute passes and Colin comes out.

"Perhaps, you should get back inside, Y/N."

"Where did you run off to?" you ask, jumping again at his appearance. Before he can answer, you sigh. "Right," you say with a laugh.

"Let's get you back inside," he says. "That was too close."

Colin does get you back into the ball without scandal falling on you.

When you find your mother again, her face is nearly as red as her dress. Clearly, she has not followed her own rule regarding glasses of champagne. She says that Lord Charmbord had been searching for you, but you can't even begin to pretend to care.

For the rest of the ball, your eyes are always on Colin. Unfortunately, you don't get to spend any more of the evening with him. The closest you get is a moment on the dancefloor where you briefly switch partners.

His hand meets yours at the same time his eyes do, and once again, the world around you is gone. There is only the music and his face, looking at you in a way you can't precisely name, but that you're dying to know.

But just as soon as it happens, it is over, and you are back in the arms of a man you have absolutely no interest in.

As the night comes to a close, you bid Eloise and Lady Bridgerton goodnight. You can't help peering around the both of them for Colin, but just when it appears he is not coming and you have turned towards the exit, he calls your name.

"Miss Y/L/N," he says dashingly, "I would be remiss if I didn't bid you a goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mr. Bridgerton," you say, watching as he bends down to kiss your hand. Quietly, so that only you can hear, he says, "Say it just once more, please."

"Goodnight, Colin," you whisper. When he stands up straight, he is fighting off a smile. He bids your mother goodbye, and then you are getting handed off into your carriage, and ripped away from what feels like the first real night of your life.

The ride home is quiet. You answer your mother's few questions, but when she can see you're in no mood to talk, she sinks into her own thoughts.

The countryside is dark, but as you look out upon it, you can't help but wish. Wish that this was the very first page of your story with Colin, not where your story line will end. That he was as enchanted by you as much as you were by him. And pray that he is not in love with someone else.

At home, when you finally get into bed, you are restless. You toss and turn well into the early hours, questions rolling about your mind, all about Colin.

Too early the next morning, you are awoken by a lady's maid. The day after a ball is always busy. Gentleman callers all morning, and mothers and daughters in the afternoon, to get caught up on the morning callers.

While your handmaidens go about getting you dressed and pinning your hair up, you can't help but relieve the night before. It sparkles in your mind - truly the most perfect night you could have imagined.

You pray that it is not the last, but you know that you have to remain practical. Besides the looks and smiles he gave you, Colin did not lead on that he was interested in marriage anytime soon. You, on the other hand, were very interested in getting wed off this season.

As you walk down the steps to your sitting room, you assure yourself that it will be okay, if Colin does not feel the same.

"It is too early for callers!"

At the foot of the stairs, you hear your doorman arguing in hushed tones. You can hear another voice, but not clearly enough to match the sound to its owner. Before you can open the door and find out, your mother comes bustling down the staircase and passes you.

"Who could it be at this hour!" she says, ripping open the door.

Colin Bridgerton is standing in your doorway, a bouquet of orange tulips in hand. His eyes are wide when they circle to meet yours, but then they soften.

"Y/N," he says gently. The doorman stutters a response at this lack of formality, so Colin corrects himself. "I mean, Miss Y/L/N. Mrs. Y/L/N," he says, turning to look at your mother.

"I apologize for the early arrival, but I wanted to be the first here," he says.

"The first here for what?" your mother asks in shock.

"To call upon Miss Y/L/N, of course. You see, I shared quite an exquisite time with her last night, and hope that I may spend more time in her good company."

"Really?" you and your mother ask in unison. You laugh, and feeling bold, walk towards Colin. Still keeping a respectful distance from him, knowing that your doorman was watching closely, you take the tulips from him.

"Really," he says. "I was enchanted to meet you again, Y/N. Please don't have someone waiting on you."

"Not at all," you say. "Would you like to come in for tea, Colin?"

"I would love to," he says with a grin that nearly takes your breath away.

#colin bridgerton #colin bridgerton x reader #colin bridgerton x you #colin bridgerton imagine #bridgerton #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton fanfic #ts prompts #colin bridgerton fanfic #colin bridgerton fanfiction

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winterscaptain · 3 months ago

Text

professional courtesy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he doesn’t think too hard.

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

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

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

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

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

You’re doing anything but work right now.

Work was over…

He checks his watch.

…Nearly three hours ago.

Is it that late already?

“So what’s up?”

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

I hope everything’s okay…

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

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

Oh no.

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

Too damn bad and too damn late.

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

Maybe I could…

No. Don’t go there.

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

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

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

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

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

He squints at you. “What’s wrong?”

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

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

It’s been years…and he’s never asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s enough.

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

He smiles a little. You completely missed his point.

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

And, really, what was one more bad decision?

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

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

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

“Hotchner.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stop it.

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

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

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

Stop it!

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

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

“You too, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

“I bet it was,”

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hotch takes the phone, walking back toward the stairs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jess hums, but doesn't press.

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaron stays silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaron doesn’t respond.

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

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

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

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

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

Aaron still doesn’t look convinced.

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

That earns him a faint smirk from Aaron.

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

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

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

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

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

Aaron doesn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dave’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”

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

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

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

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

Aaron shakes his head. “It doesn’t.”

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

“My what?”

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

Aaron sighs. “Dave—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dave grins. “So you’ve said.”

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neurotic. Sure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My thoughts exactly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t sleep much that night, either.

+++

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

He blinks.

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

His mouth twitches. “You’re awake.”

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

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

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

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

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

Just a wedding. Just a favor.

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

He blames Dave.

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

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

So why does it feel like something else entirely?

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

Something shifts in his chest.

Would he have offered this to anyone else?

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet, you stay.

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

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

He shakes his head, looking back at the road.

And then there’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are we in Richmond already?”

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

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

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

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

He only shrugs. “It’s my job.”

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

Aaron looks back at the road.

Dave is wrong.

This isn’t a fact-finding mission.

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaron lets out a short laugh. “Yes.”

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

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

That’s putting it mildly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t say anything.

And for that, he’s grateful.

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How do you know everything?”

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

He files the thought away before it can settle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t let himself analyze it.

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

This is fine. You’re just tired.

He takes a steadying breath before stepping back out.

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

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

Something in his chest tightens.

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

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

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

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

This should not feel as natural as it does.

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of you.

Of the way his body angles toward yours.

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

But you don’t sleep.

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

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

You know.

You know how he feels about you.

And worse—you know how you feel about him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

You’re performing. Just a little.

Which version of you is closer to the truth?

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

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

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

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

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

“DoJ, in Quantico,” Aaron supplies helpfully.

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

“No shit!”

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

Protective. Steady. Natural.

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

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

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

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

Shouldn’t have said that.

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

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

“There he is!”

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

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

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

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

Too much.

“Always.”

Unnecessary.

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

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

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

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

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

“Austin, this is my…” You hesitate.

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

You let the implication settle before making a light recovery.

“Aaron.”

That works.

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

“Pleasure,” Aaron says. “Congratulations.”

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

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

Just to sell it, that’s all.

+++

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

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

“Thank you for enduring the mayhem down there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I really can take the couch.”

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

“Oh?” He asks, amused. “Why’s that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t get comfortable.

Why not? She’s right here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’d like to let you come—

Jesus Christ.

What?

Read the room.

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

Your friend.

That’s what he is.

That’s what he needs to be.

That’s what you expect.

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

Hotch.

Not Aaron.

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

He belatedly realizes you’ve avoided accepting the compliment.

+++

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

It’s always like this in the best dreams.

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

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

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

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

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

God, what am I doing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quit while you’re ahead, Hotchner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he hears your voice.

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

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

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

Ah. So it is Emily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. No, he absolutely cannot.

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

Poor thing.

He almost feels bad for you. Almost.

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“About?”

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

Old dog, new tricks?

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I’m lying.”

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

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

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

Your eyes snap back to his. “What?”

“Relax.”

“You’re one to talk,” you scoff.

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

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

In for a penny…

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

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

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

He nods. “I do.”

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

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

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

“Thank you for being here with me.”

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

Nowhere better.

+++

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

“You look positively rumpled, Agent Hotchner.”

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

“You don’t have a bedtime.”

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

Get over it already. Jesus.

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

“Good morning,” he says.

Best to start simple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won’t argue with that.”

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

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

“Meet you downstairs?” He asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is that… disappointment?

For what, though?

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

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

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

“Hey bud!”

“Hi dad!”

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

“You having a good weekend?” He asks.

“Yeah! I saw that rabbit again!”

Aaron smiles. “I’m glad buddy.”

“What’s all that noise?”

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

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

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

“I did! We ice fished, too!”

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

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

“Awesome, bud.”

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

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

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

“I love you too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kinder than he deserves, surely.

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

+++

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

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

Uh oh.

This feels like a preamble to something.

“Yes?” He asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And ain’t that just the coldest truth.

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’ll have to do for now.

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

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

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

Something regrettable, no doubt.

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

+++

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

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #hotch x reader #hotch #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds imagine #tali writes fanfiction #tali talks cm #a joyful future fanfic

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fluentmoviequoter · 1 year ago

Text

More Than Meets the Eye

Excellent idea inspired by 5x18 with Tim and his wife from @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 ! I hope you enjoy!!

This is a documentary-style fic! All scenes in italics are the interview scenes, and the non-italic portions are body cam footage, additional scenes, etc.

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!cop!wife!reader (+ they have twins: a boy and a girl)

Summary: You and Tim go undercover as your criminal doppelgängers. When the case is turned into a documentary, the interviewer and viewers learn that there's often more than meets the eye.

Warnings: interview scenes in italics! fluff, angst, murder, credit card fraud, violence, threats, slightly suggestive in parts (bc Jake Butler) but SFW!

Word Count: 3.4k+ words

Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

Death, deception, and doppelgängers. When the Los Angeles Police Department responded to an urgent 911 call, no one expected what would happen next.

“911 what’s your emergency?”

“Send help! He’s- oh my lord, I don’t know- there’s blood and he… I heard a scream, but not the shot!”

“Sir, where are you?”

A single scream, no witnesses, a silent shot, and a once-in-a-lifetime interaction between suspect and officer. This is More Than Meets the Eye.

When you and Tim walk into his office, where two chairs are waiting, you’re surprised to see three people and a camera shoved into the small area behind his desk. You smile at the interviewer as you sit, and Tim waits for you to settle before he lowers beside you.

“Hello! We’ll start right away. I’ll introduce you first,” the interviewer says. “Whatever feels best, and then we’ll get into the dirty details of the case.”

“Like they’re ever clean,” you mumble.

“This is Sergeant Tim Bradford of the LAPD, and his wife-“

“Don’t do that,” Tim interrupts. “She’s not my wife in this case, she was instrumental to solving it. Use her position title.”

“My apologies.”

You send the interviewer a kind smile as your elbow taps Tim’s in thanks. Tim doesn’t really want to be here, you know that, but you appreciate him standing up for you regardless. When your introduction is complete, you straighten your shoulders as the case is introduced and travel back in time to one of the weirdest days of your life.

“Sergeant Bradford, you were the first responder at the scene. But when you returned to the station is when this case truly took its first turn, correct?”

Tim sighs before he answers, “Yes, that is when this became more than just a call for me. For all of us, really.”

“Can you tell us more about that moment?”

“I walked into an interview room and saw a guy who looked like me on the other side of the glass. There was an opportunity, and our detectives were quick to jump on it.”

“Tim, switch to a private channel,” Angela requests. “I know you’re on a Metro patrol, but dispatch just alerted us to a suspected murder. You’re nearby.”

“I’ll check it out,” Tim answers. “Did the caller give any other details?”

“One of interest. He said he heard a scream but no shot. Apparently he mentioned more than one shot suffered by the vic.”

“He heard a scream but not numerous shots?”

“That’s what the call said. He told the dispatcher a name of a neighbor who had some sort of argument with the vic yesterday, so we sent another unit to pick him up.”

“Got it.”

“Thanks, Timothy. I owe you one.”

“Just one?”

“Two baby ones. Let me know.”

Tim rolls his eyes as he sets the radio aside. He reaches the address quickly and knocks on the door. There’s no answer, even after his yelled introduction as a police sergeant. Because of the exigent circumstance and probable cause of the phone call, Tim enters the house without a warrant. Inside is a blood bath, with one body spread in the tile of the entryway. Tim alerts Angela to the dead body, and she asks him to stay close to the scene and guard it until Nyla arrives.

“But the moment she gets there, come back to the station,” Angela adds.

“10-4,” Tim replies.

He clears the house, then closes the door behind him as neighbors gather near the front yard. One neighbor tells the others about what happened, and Tim assumes he is the caller. Several minutes pass before Nyla arrives with a CSU team, and Tim waves as he returns to his shop.

When he steps into the bullpen, Angela jogs to Tim’s side.

“Don’t freak out, Tim,” she says.

“I never do,” he argues.

“This- this is different Tim. So, just consider everything before you say no.”

Angela leads him into the interview observance room. On the other side of the one-way glass is a man who strikes an uncanny resemblance to Tim.

“It’s creepy, right?” Nolan asks. “He looks just like you!”

“Why are you here?” Tim counters.

“I brought him in. His name’s Jake Butler, though I fully expected his prints would come back as a Bradford.”

“He doesn’t look that much like me,” Tim argues.

“He really does,” Angela says. “I thought it was you for a split second.”

“I agree,” Wade interjects from the open door. “But whether you can see it or not, you’ve got an opportunity here, Bradford.”

Tim looks back to the window just as Jake stands to examine his hair in the reflection. Face-to-face, Tim can see the unsettling resemblance, though it pains him to voice that aloud.

“Fine, we- there’s some things in common,” he mutters.

“I’ll take it. I want you in the room with me,” Angela responds. “Shake him a little bit and find out what he really knows.”

“He saw me and immediately asked if the victim was dead,” Nolan fills in. “And his front door had blood all over the knob.”

“I’ll try not to let your wife see the competition,” Wade jokes.

Tim rolls his eyes as he follows Angela into the interview room. Neither of them speaks before Jake sees Tim and gasps.

“Yo,” he breathes out dramatically. “Your face looks like mine, man! Hey, do you have a long-lost twin? ‘Cause I’ve always felt this connection and-“

“No,” Tim says firmly.

In another part of the station, you hear about Nolan’s arrest of a murder suspect and decide to offer your assistance to Angela. A dead body in a nice neighborhood will need a lot of hands willing to do dirty work, and that’s something you don’t mind. Nyla looks up from her computer as you approach Angela’s empty area and smiles like she knows something you don’t.

“Hey,” you greet. “I was just looking for Lopez. If you need help, let me know.”

“Oh, we do. Our suspect has an acquaintance of sorts that I think you could help us find. Come with me?” Nyla replies.

You follow her to an interview room and don’t question when she asks you to walk inside. Once the door is closed behind you, you see Tim and Angela, then-

“Baby!” the man at the table cries.

Your eyes widen as he stands and steps toward you with his arms up. Tim pushes his hand against Jake’s chest and points to his chair.

“Give us just a moment, Mr. Butler?” Angela requests.

“Why you wearing a uniform, sweets?” Jake asks you. “C’mon, don’t leave me alone in here.”

You ignore his plea to stay and follow your husband into the observation room. Looking through the window, you suppress a shiver at how eerily similar Jake Butler is to Tim.

“Baby?” Tim repeats loudly. “What was that?”

Nyla raises a tablet with the criminal file of a woman who looks nearly identical to you. The name is different, and she’s currently in holding after being arrested on a warrant for missing court.

“Jake Butler’s girlfriend. Tell me that’s not lucky,” Nyla jokes, her smile wide as she observes the concealed horror on your face.

“This is too weird,” you mumble.

“It is,” Angela agrees. She lays her hand on your shoulder and smiles before she asks, “Want to go undercover for me?”

You look at Tim, who sets his jaw and lifts one shoulder slightly. He’s letting you choose. Neither of you are undercover officers; given the situation, it’s likely the only chance you’ll have to close the case.

“Only if one of you agrees to watch the kids,” you answer. “I need someone I trust with them if I’m going to pretend to be…”

“Shop,” Nyla answers with a giggle. “And that genius in there is Dim.”

Tim drops his head as he shakes it. You understand the nicknames, especially when compared to your lookalike’s credit card fraud scheme, but it only makes this more real. You’re going undercover as another version of yourself with another version of Tim. You’ll need a lot of help to get through this case.

“Neither of you are undercover officers,” the interviewer points out. “Yet you seemed eager to be launched into a dangerous situation, even if it meant leaving your children for an indefinite period of time.”

Tim clenches his jaw, and you lay your hand on his knee, below the camera's framing.

“We’re cops,” you argue. “Every morning when we kiss our twins goodbye, we know that we’re walking into danger and risking never coming home to them. What made this moment different was that we knew the outcome. With our team behind us, we could be pulled out at any moment, and the whole ‘lookalike’ thing gave us an advantage to call more shots than most UCs.”

“We didn’t abandon our children for some crime spree through the hills. It was a job, a performance, and it had a clear end date,” Tim adds. “Being a cop is the job. Our son and daughter, though, they’re our lives and we keep that line very clear.”

“Then that must’ve made what happened next hard. If your children, your relationship, are your life… how did you turn into - um - Dim, also known as Jake Butler, and…”

“Kaylee Longworth,” you fill in.

“That’s not what you called her, is it?”

“No. She was dubbed ‘Shop.’”

“Why? Dim is a play on Sergeant Bradford’s name, and an insult to Butler’s intelligence. What’s the connection from Kaylee to Shop?”

“It rhymes with cop,” Tim answers. “And she had a shopping habit that caused her financials to take a nosedive. We never would’ve found her if she’d stopped shopping sooner.”

“How was Longworth brought into custody initially?”

“A report of a stolen credit card,” you explain. “She was arrested in a Los Angeles Victoria’s Secret for using the stolen card.”

“Okay. So, you effortlessly become Dim and Shop. Where did those parents you seem to identify as go during your escapade through the hills?”

“What are you asking?” Tim interrupts. “If we feel guilty about pretending to be other people to catch a murderer?”

“Dim and Shop was just that, an act, pretend, and keeping this city safe for our family was the only thing on our minds,” you finish.

“The act went well, didn’t it? Was there any moment where you struggled or thought you did a bit too well?”

“Both,” you and Tim answer together.

“Hey, this isn’t the minor leagues, Butler! Get your head in the game or get out of my way.”

You roll your eyes at Jake’s criminal handler as Tim tightens his grip on your hips. He presses his chest against your back and licks his lips as he smiles at the man before you.

“You try controlling yourself with a woman like this,” Tim argues. “We got it handled.”

“Got something handled,” you murmur, turning your chin over your shoulder to see Tim.

“Focus,” the man snaps. “I need ten more credit cards by tonight. If you can’t do that, then maybe you’ll have to find a new girl, Butler. Can you get that through your girl-centered mind?”

Tim straightens and steps around you. As he crowds the shorter man, he drops his voice and slaps on a fake smile that does little to hide the anger in his eyes.

“I got it, pal. We’ll get it done. And when we do, you may want to find a new way to keep me in line.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Tim wraps his arm around your shoulders and leads you out, whispering an apology as you turn a corner. It’s just a cover, you remind yourself. When Tim acts like someone you don’t know, you remember that you’re playing a part, too. This isn’t you. Though it’s hard, the case is all that matters.

“Jake,” you whisper harshly as another hand wraps around your arm.

“I got the account number,” Tim grunts. “What more do you want?”

“A promise that you’re not the one and done lucky loser you look like,” the man holding a gun against Tim’s temple answers.

“The only lucky thing about him is me,” you call. “You seriously think he can manage to fall into coincidence after coincidence? He only seems like that because that’s what he wants you to see. You can’t replace us, and you know it.”

“Oh. He’s lucky to have you, huh? Then maybe we’ll keep you here for the next score and see if Jake can deliver on his own.”

“Sure. Just make sure it’s not a man he’s ripping off.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because, like I said, I’m his luck. I can press men easier than he can, if you can understand that.”

He presses the gun harder into Tim’s skin, and you level your expression. After a moment, he drops his hand and signals for the men behind you to release you.

“Let’s go, Jake,” you say.

“Where are you going? We’ve got a casino hit tonight.”

“We’ll be back,” you promise. “I doubt a little unlucky boy like you would understand.”

“You’ve got an hour.”

“More than I need,” Tim brags.

“But all those attempts to maintain your covers together fell short,” the interviewer adds.

“How so?” you inquire.

“The interruption in the park. You were millimeters from adding another felony to the arrest when an unexpected interruption occurred.”

“You mean our kids?” Tim asks. “They came up and called me dad, and we did our jobs to maintain our covers and get our guy. So, no, it didn’t ‘fall short.’”

“What are you saying?” you question. “You want me to draw him back to a room so you can pop one in him?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’m sure getting men to follow you into private spaces can’t be too hard. So, lure him to my room and I’ll make sure this payday is doubled for you.”

You glance at Tim where he stands on the other side of the semi-circle of criminal conspiracy.

“Dad!” a young girl yells.

You bite your tongue when you hear the familiar voice and look over slowly to maintain your composition and cover. Your daughter stops between you and Tim, and her twin brother pauses beside you. He furrows his brows as he looks at the tattoos covering Tim’s skin but doesn’t ask.

“Dad,” she repeats. “What are you doing here?”

Your son looks up at you, but you keep your eyes on Tim. Raising your eyebrows in faux accusation, you cross your arms and ask, “You have something you want to tell me, Jake?”

Over Tim’s shoulder, you don’t see Nyla or any sign of someone who should be watching your kids.

“Yeah,” the man beside you agrees. “Do you?”

“Man,” Tim drawls. “Do I look like I have something to tell? Unless his mama didn’t do her part after I bailed out, she’s just a confused little kid.”

“She’s not confused!” your son defends. He’s a few minutes older than her, fiercely protective, and he doesn’t stand for anyone talking down to her. “You’re not being kind.”

You look at the man beside you and shrug. Someone – you and Tim – taught your children too well. Gently, you tug the back of your son’s shirt to get his attention.

“Go back to where you’re supposed to be, alright? You shouldn’t run off,” you encourage.

He nods eagerly, grabs his sister’s hand, and runs back the way they came. You watch them go up a hill, then see James meet them at the top. Jake’s handler needs a performance now, so you look at Tim and tilt your head as your smile grows. You step toward Tim, loop your arms around his neck, and push yourself against him. Tim swallows at your sudden and awkward attention but recovers quickly as his hands drop to your thighs and slide up slowly.

“You may not have anything to tell now, but… It does give me an idea,” you flirt.

Tim cocks his head to the side quickly and then angles his face toward yours. “Tell me more, baby.”

“On your own time,” the handler interrupts. “Car, now, or we miss rush hour at the casino, and you can kiss your cut goodbye just like those kids.”

In the second part of your interview, set up in your living room, the interviewer asks, “And then what happened? You arrest the handler, who turned out to be the killer after a credit card robbery gone wrong. Plus, you apprehend everyone involved in his criminal racket. But a character like Jake and Kaylee can’t just disappear, right?”

“It can,” Tim assures. “That hair grease and the tattoos washed right away. You wouldn’t be asking these questions if we were trained UCs, but we had a team walking us through every step. This wasn’t something we just threw ourselves into.”

“I understand that. You performed well and closed the case. You got your spouse and kids back as you returned to your normal lives."

"Right. The job ended, and we returned to our real lives," you agree.

“You mentioned that the roles were hard to play at times, but your attraction and obsession with Butler seemed effortless,” the interviewer says.

“What are you implying? That I developed feelings for a felon who played a role in the murder of an innocent man?” you reply incredulously. “I was playing a part.”

“Well, sure, but there was no script. Everything you did was your choice, was it not?”

“Stop,” Tim warns. “What we did had nothing to do with the real people. If you can’t see that, you’re not looking in the right place.”

“My mind was never on Butler, it was on the truth. I did what I had to and what would get us the evidence we needed,” you defend.

“Those played up moments were completely necessary in your mind then?”

“Imply that she cheated one more time and we’re done,” Tim interjects. “Ask something about the case or you can finish this documentary on your own.”

“We’ll take another look at your cover identities, then. The moment in the park with your son had to have threatened that act and your composure,” the interviewer muses, changing the subject.

You nod at Tim before you answer, “Well, sure, but police work is everything expect predictable. Things happen in police work, but the detectives and a tactical team were nearby, plus Tim was right there, so there was never a real safety concern in my mind.”

“You trust Tim that much?”

“With my life.”

“And your children’s apparently. They didn’t sign up to go undercover, so how can you justify having them in that-“

“How can you justify a question like that?" Tim interrupts.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’ve made more than enough implications. If you think that we willingly let our children stand in a dangerous moment or put them in the path of any sort of harm, then this interview is over.”

“There’s just a few-“

“We’re done. We’ve covered the case,” you agree.

The door behind you opens, and you turn quickly. You and Tim smile as you walk to greet your children, who are returning from school.

“Mom!” your son calls as he hugs your legs. “We learned about dolphins today! Did you know they can see themselves in a mirror and know that it’s them?”

“Dad!” your daughter squeals as Tim pulls her up to hug her.

“I missed you today,” he tells her. “Do you think we should just stay here and play forever?”

“No!” she says with a giggle. “You have to stop bad people and I need to go to school.”

“I’ll stay home,” your son offers.

You laugh and take his offered drawing of a dolphin. The interviewer and the camera behind you are long forgotten as you interact with your children. This moment, the real you and Tim in your own life contrasts the limited information the documentary makers have about your parenting style.

“Alright, go put your stuff away and we’ll make dinner,” Tim instructs.

“My favorite?” your daughter asks.

“No, it’s my turn!” your son argues.

“You have the same favorite.” Tim chuckles as he directs them down the hall before he turns back to the camera crew in your living room.

Your children run to their rooms, and the interviewer asks, “Just one more thing, please. Why do all of this? You aren’t specially trained or viewed as an officer who has to do this. It’s outside of your scope, so what made this case worth it?”

“Everything we did, everything we continue to do, we do out of love for our kids and our city," you answer. "No matter what you say or how you try to twist this case, we acted from our sense of duty and from love.”

“Not that you’d understand,” Tim sighs. “Being a parent, being a cop... there’s always more than what you see from the seat you’re in outside of it all.”

#tim bradford x reader #tim bradford x fem!reader #tim bradford x y/n #tim bradford x you #tim bradford fic #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford #the rookie x reader #the rookie abc #fem!reader #requests

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marsbutterfly · 5 months ago

Note

MECHANIC BADDIE HANJI WHO FIXES UP READERS CAR. SHES ALL LIKE I CAN TAKE CARE OF IT DARLING. YOU JUST SIT THERE AND LOOK PRETTY. (IDK SHIT ABOUT CARS) JUST NEED AN ACTS OF SERVICE HANJI

I'll Fix It All

a/n: omg happy new year!! this turned out way longer than I originally intended for it to be. i was hoping to post it before the year turned but i'll also accept the first day of the year lol. enjoy.

warnings: fem!reader (she/her), nb! hanji zoe (they/them), modern au, anxiety, panic attacks, kissing, fluff, comfort. also like, i don't know much about cars or car repair so pls bear with me. tagging: @wizzy21 wc: 2.5k | wattpad! | ao3!

"No, no, no, no, NO!" You cry out as your car slowly begins to lose speed. This isn't the first time this week, nor the second, nor the third. You couldn't even count on one hand the amount of times the engine had been making that weird noise and the light had been blinking at you like a malevolent eye.

But you thought you could put it off, that you could easily ignore it, and that it would fix itself like it had many times before. Maybe you just needed to check the coolant or add some more water to the radiator, except you continuously forgot to do so. And it finally came back to bite you in the ass.

As the smoke comes out of the hood, you grip the steering wheel tightly, a loud grunt escaping your lips as your forehead presses against the horn, the loud noise filling the air all around you. Still, you are lucky enough to be in a somewhat empty area so the least amount of people will be disturbed.

Your first instinct is to panic. You can feel the blood rushing through your body, your face getting warmer as a few tears begin to prickle in your eyes. You let out a shaky exhale, cursing yourself for allowing this situation to happen in the first place. Before you can even begin to cry, you feel your phone vibrating in the cup holder next to you, the caller's name showing up on the screen attached to the dashboard. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ‎‎‎"Sunshine ☼"

With a sniffle, you wipe the tears before they even have the chance to roll down your cheeks and pick up your phone, pressing the green button on the screen as you try your best to sound like you are composed and not entirely freaking out at the moment.

"Hello, my most beloved," you say, trying your best to sound like your playful self. Though it has no sound, you can almost hear the smile dropping off Hanji's face. It was not out of the ordinary for them to quickly pick up on the slightest change in your tone of voice.

"What happened?" They ask without missing a beat, the tone of their voice filled with love and concern, almost as if they were already expecting you to be in some sort of distress. "I was doing the dishes and accidentally broke a glass because I got such a bad feeling that my hand started shaking."

You sniffle but a small giggle exits your chest, the idea that the two of you are so intertwined that they can even sense when you are in some sort of distress, "Yeah, I'm fine… My car just finally gave out on me and I'm in the middle of a random neighborhood because I decided today, out of all days, to take a random shortcut!"

"Send me your location, and I'll get my tools and meet you over there," they say and you can already hear them moving around on the other end of the line. You wish you could protest but, the more you look at your car, the more panic fills your body. So you simply let out a quiet "okay" before hanging up.

Though your hands nervously shake, you can open your text messages and send Hanji a pin of your exact location. It isn't too far from your house, maybe five minutes if you speed up, and that knowledge only adds more fuel to your frustration. "Why now? I could have easily pulled into my driveway before you gave out!" You can't help the angry grunt that leaves your throat as you slam your hand against the steering wheel.

The waiting time seems like an eternity, an eerie feeling in the back of your mind like you are being watched. Your eyes dart to your phone, half convinced that maybe you should just call a toll truck when you see the headlights of Hanji's motorcycle as they speed down the road.

The light from the post shines above them and you can barely distinguish if they are an angel or a real person. As soon as their bike is parked behind your car, you exit the vehicle, running towards their embrace.

Their hair is still messy from having a helmet on and they hold a small toolbox with their left hand, but that does not stop them from hugging you as tightly as they possibly can. Their lips press against your head as the two of you remain like that for a while.

"Shhh, it's ok, my love," you can feel the smile in their voice, a gentleness like nothing you have ever experienced before, "Hanji is here to fix your problems."

"I truly appreciate you coming this fast," you whisper against their chest, "I genuinely thought my car would be able to handle the journey today but… I guess I was wrong."

"Did you have any trouble starting it this morning?" They pull back, their arm still wrapped around your frame. You think for a second, having trouble focusing on anything other than this panicky feeling in your chest.

Slowly, you begin to remember your day: you left work and the car started. You left for lunch and the car started. Clearly, it had started when you left home that morning… Didn't it?

"Oh shit…" You whisper while an embarrassed expression takes over your features. Your eyes shift towards the ground as you pull slightly further away to create a bigger distance between your bodies, too self-conscious to even look at them. "I couldn't get the engine to turn this morning. I had to start it, put it in neutral, and then start it again."

They nod, kissing your forehead once more as they stand in front of the hood of your car. You are still too embarrassed to look but you can hear the moment their toolbox touches the ground and as their hands pop it open. A few seconds go by as they begin tinkering with the metal inside, though your knowledge of cars isn't deep enough for you to fully understand what is going on.

You cross one arm against your chest while the other rests above your hand, your index finger tapping on your cheek while you can't help but take small nibbles on your thumb's nail. The anxiety inside of your chest never dissipates, nor the shame.

The morning had been nothing but a blur. You woke up late for work, forgot to eat or even bring anything to snack on until you had time to go to lunch, spilled water all over your car, and, to top it all off, it was raining in the morning. The engine not starting was just one of the many, many things that had gone wrong. You meant to text Hanji about it so they could meet you during your work hours and fix it but, of course, you forgot to charge your phone the night before.

You close your eyes and exhale, leaning against the car. Before you can get yourself into a frenzy, you hear Hanji's gentle voice pulling you out of the dark spiral you were about to send yourself into, "Okay, good news and bad news."

"Please explain it to me like I'm five," you say, shooting them an exhausted look and it causes them to chuckle quietly. "Bad news first."

"The alternator, or thing that charges your car battery, isn't properly working for some reason. Maybe because it's old, maybe it's faulty, but it for sure will not start working again, like, that thing is dead."

You nod, surprisingly following along with what they are telling you. You realize that all this knowledge comes from the previous times they have come to your aid or maybe from all the times they would check under the hood of your car before you left their house while the two of you still lived in separate households. Regardless, you turn your attention to them once more.

"I checked the fluid and the coolant and everything seems to be full and working ok. I ran some codes and nothing out of the ordinary popped up and lastly, I checked your oil." They say, wiping the grime out of their hands with a bleached towel, their face slightly sweaty, especially around the area where their glasses sit on their nose.

"Fuck… And the good news?" You ask, biting your nails even more, almost to the point of blood. With a gentle and concerned expression, Hanji takes a few steps forward, wrapping their dirty digits around your trembling palms, and only then do you notice just how short your nails have become.

"I can easily fix it. The last one we bought still has a warranty, so I can just change them." They whisper, placing a kiss against your fingers. A sense of despair fills your body again as tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, your lip trembling as you speak in a quiet yet pathetic voice.

"Please, don't leave me alone."

They sigh, running their hand over their messy hair. They look over to the open hood of your car and around the neighborhood, trying to think about what the best choice would be in this situation.

"The store is fifteen minutes away, on my bike, I'll be back in - "

"Please, don't leave me alone!!" You beg desperately, whatever is left of your fingernails now digging into the skin of their biceps, your eyes are wide open as tears stream down. You weren't that upset about the car breaking down, but just the intensity of all the feelings you had been holding back finally caught up to you the moment you realized you would have to be without them for even a second.

Hanji is taken aback by how sudden your response is, and how desolate you sound. They can see the anxiety written all over your features and it causes their heart to ache in their chest. That's the moment in which they realize just how many feelings you have been bottling, just how bad your week has been, and just how you have refused to talk to them about it.

Almost like they gain consciousness, their arms wrap around your frame, pulling you closer to their body. In exchange, you bury your head on their chest, not carrying that their shirt is now covered in grime and sweat, even if it is chilly outside. "Is there anything you want to talk about?" They whisper, their lips pressed against the top of your head.

You want to shake your head, to put your walls up once more and brush it off as "just a bad day", but it was more than that. It had been a bad week, a bad month, and you had gone through it all by yourself, in silence. Crying in the shower but still putting on a smile when around them, your appetite barely exists but you still eat all of their cooking. But before you can deny anything, the tears begin pouring down your face once more, you cling to them like they are the last life vest on a sinking ship.

“I d-don’t know what is going on with me…” You gasp, hiding your face in a mixture of shame and search for comfort. “I just… I just want to be close to you at all times, I just never want to be alone and I just… Everything is too much and not enough, everything is going wrong. I…”

“My love,” they whisper, holding you slightly tighter with one arm. With their free hand, they prop up your chin, a gentle and warm smile taking over their lips once your eyes meet. “You don’t have to suffer alone, ok? I am here for you, no matter what, when, or where. I will always be by your side.”

“Good and bad?” You sniffle and they chuckle softly, brushing a strand of hair away from your eyes as they lean down so their forehead is touching yours. They nod.

“Good and bad, my angel…” They whisper, their eyes closing as your noses brush together. You lean closer, your lips brushing against theirs so lightly that it nearly feels like a paint-filled brush against a canvas, working its way through a halfway-painted masterpiece.

Hanji gently presses your body against the car door, their grip on your waist is tight as they make sure to keep you safely in place. Your lips are half-open, temptingly wet in the dim light of the street pole, your face is stained with silent tears and the only thought going through their head? “I really need to kiss her.”

And so they do. They lean forward ever so slightly until there is no more room between the two of you. When your lips collide, you can’t help the quiet gasp that exists in your body, your hand gently resting on their cheek while your thumb brushes against the softness of their skin.

You get lost in the warmth of their body, in how comforting it feels to have them pressed against you like this. Your nose brushes against theirs as your head tilts slightly to the side, the faint smell of coffee and menthol cigarettes still lingering on their breath as it mixes with the scent of the gum you had in your mouth earlier.

They nibble on your tongue gently, sometimes brushing the tip of their own against it and it’s enough to cause you to nearly melt in their arms. If it wasn’t for their strong arms holding you in place, you would have fallen to the ground into a puddle underneath their feet.

Neither of you wants to pull away, but the need to breathe is becoming stronger by the second. When you separate, your forehead rests against theirs, and your eyes remain closed as you enjoy the smell of their skin. Even if it isn’t a pleasant smell, it brings you too much comfort in this moment for you to care.

“I’ll call Moblit and he can come to help, ok?” They whisper, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You nod, lacing your fingers with the ones on their left hand while they pull their phone out of their pocket with the other. "I'll send him to the store and I will stay with you. You won't be alone, I promise."

As they speak to the man on the other end of the line, you can’t help but allow a small smile to form on your lips as you think about how lucky you are to have someone like them in your life. Someone willing to stop everything at the drop of a hat to come to rescue you when you need them most.

As they blow you a kiss, you find yourself thinking about that one specific sentence once more, realizing that no truer words had ever been spoken:

“Hanji is here to fix all your problems.”

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atinyslittleworld · 5 months ago

Text

Practice Makes Perfect

wooyoung x f!reader

a/n: Hello everyone!! Here’s Part 2 of the “Step by Step” fic with Wooyoung! Thank you so much for all the love and support on the first part—it seriously means the world to me.

I hope u enjoy it!! Happy reading xx

Word Count: 1,277

Genre: romance, fluff, mild angst

Warnings: mild tension, none other i think

Your lips still tingled from Wooyoung’s kisses when your phone vibrated loudly on the nightstand, the harsh sound shattering the charged silence. You froze, Wooyoung’s lips hovering just inches from yours. His breath was warm on your skin, his hand still lightly resting on your waist.

The vibration came again.

Reluctantly, you turned your head toward the sound, catching sight of the caller ID on the screen. Your stomach sank.

It was him.

The guy you’d been telling Wooyoung about—the one whose flirting had made you so nervous, the one who had indirectly set all of this in motion.

Wooyoung pulled back slightly, his dark eyes flitting from your face to the phone. His hand slipped away from your waist, leaving behind a lingering warmth. “You should answer that,” he said softly, his voice calm, though his expression betrayed nothing.

Your chest tightened as you nodded, sitting up. You reached for your phone, your fingers trembling slightly as you swiped the screen and brought it to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” the guy said, his voice cheerful. “I was wondering if you’d want to grab dinner later this week? Maybe Thursday?”

Wooyoung’s gaze stayed fixed on you, his expression unreadable.

“Um,” you began, trying to focus on the conversation despite the intensity of Wooyoung’s stare. “Yeah, Thursday works.”

Wooyoung’s lips twitched, a fleeting expression you couldn’t quite decipher. Then, slowly, he nodded. It wasn’t much—just a small, almost imperceptible movement—but somehow, it felt like encouragement.

“Great,” the guy said, sounding pleased. “I’ll text you the details. Looking forward to it.”

“Me too,” you replied weakly, your voice faltering. As soon as the call ended, you set your phone down, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on your chest.

The room felt stifling.

“Well,” Wooyoung said finally, leaning back on his hands. “Looks like you’ve got a date.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, avoiding his eyes.

Silence stretched between you, thick and uncomfortable. Just minutes ago, he’d been kissing you like you were the most important thing in the world. Now, he was encouraging you to go on a date with someone else.

Wooyoung stood abruptly, breaking the tension as he stretched. “Better make it a good one,” he said lightly, though his tone carried a strange edge you couldn’t quite place.

You looked up at him, searching his face for any trace of the vulnerability he’d shown earlier. But he was already turning away, heading toward his closet to grab a hoodie.

“I should go,” you said, rising to your feet and grabbing your bag.

Wooyoung glanced over his shoulder, his expression softening slightly. “See you later, Y/N.”

You nodded, forcing a small smile before slipping out the door. But as you walked home, your mind raced.

Minutes ago, Wooyoung had been kissing you like his life depended on it. Now, he was acting as if nothing had happened.

The conflicting emotions churned in your chest, leaving you feeling confused and strangely hollow.

The days leading up to your date passed in a blur. Wooyoung didn’t call or text, and every time your phone buzzed, you found yourself hoping it was him. But it never was.

And as Thursday approached, your unease only grew.

When the night finally came, you found yourself sitting across from the guy at a cozy little restaurant. He was nice—charming, even—but you couldn’t seem to focus on him.

“So, what do you do for fun?” he asked, smiling warmly as he leaned back in his chair.

“Um,” you began, your thoughts immediately drifting to Wooyoung. You thought about his laugh, his playful teasing, the way his lips had felt against yours during your so-called “lessons.”

“Y/N?” the guy prompted, looking slightly concerned.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, shaking your head as if to clear it. “I, uh, read a lot. And I like music.”

“Nice,” he said, nodding. “What kind of music?”

As he continued talking, you did your best to pay attention. But no matter how hard you tried, your mind kept circling back to Wooyoung.

Why hadn’t he reached out? Why had he acted so unaffected after everything? And why, even now, could you still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin?

By the time the date ended, you were barely holding it together. You thanked the guy politely, telling him you’d had a nice time, but as soon as you said goodbye, you found yourself heading in a completely different direction.

Toward Wooyoung’s place.

You knocked on his door, your heart pounding in your chest. A part of you wanted to turn back, but before you could, the door swung open.

Wooyoung stood there, barefoot and dressed in sweatpants and a loose hoodie, his hair slightly messy. His eyes widened when he saw you.

“Y/N?” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a date.”

“I did,” you replied, your voice trembling slightly.

“And?” he prompted, crossing his arms as he leaned casually against the door.

“And I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” you blurted out, the words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them.

His eyebrows shot up, and for a moment, he just stared at you.

“I couldn’t focus on him or anything he was saying,” you continued, your voice growing steadier. “All I could think about was you. The way you kissed me. The way I felt when I was with you. And…” You hesitated, your heart hammering in your chest. “I think I have feelings for you, Woo.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Finally, a slow smirk spread across Wooyoung’s face, his cocky confidence returning. “Thank god,” he said, stepping closer.

“What?” you asked, blinking up at him.

“If you’d come back here saying the date went well, I would’ve had to beat that guy up at some point,” he said casually, though the possessiveness in his tone was unmistakable.

Before you could respond, he wrapped his arms around you, lifting you effortlessly off the ground.

“Wooyoung!” you squeaked, your hands flying to his shoulders for support.

He just grinned, kicking the door shut behind him as he carried you to the couch. Sitting down with you in his lap, he looked up at you with that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Took you long enough to figure it out,” he teased, his hands resting on your waist.

“Shut up,” you muttered, though your cheeks burned with embarrassment.

He tilted his head, his gaze softening. “You’re really into me, huh?”

“Maybe,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with something you couldn’t quite name. “Because I’m definitely into you.”

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours, soft and insistent.

This kiss wasn’t like the ones you’d shared before.

This wasn’t practice.

This wasn’t a lesson.

This was Wooyoung, kissing you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

Your hands slid into his hair as you kissed him back, the weight of your earlier confusion melting away. Every touch, every kiss, every breath felt electric, igniting something deep inside you.

Wooyoung’s hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened. His lips moved against yours with a perfect rhythm, and when his tongue brushed yours, it sent a shiver down your spine.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, tangled together on his couch, kissing like your lives depended on it. But eventually, Wooyoung pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warm and uneven.

“I’m really glad you came back,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

“Me too,” you whispered, your heart still racing.

#ateez fanfic #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #ateez fic #ateez #jung wooyoung #jung wooyoung x reader #jung wooyoung imagines #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung imagines #wooyoung

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slavdollz4mangione · 3 months ago

Text

where are ü now? - luigi mangione x reader

i’m not too sure how i feel about this :’) but alas, here it is. thank you for requesting anon, i hope you enjoy it <3

the first time luigi kissed you, it felt like the world stopped spinning. his hands were rough but gentle, his smile beautiful and warm. he was a man of contradictions—quiet but bold, guarded but tender. you never thought you’d fall for someone like him, but you did, hard. and for a while, it seemed like he’d fallen for you too.

but then, one day, he was gone. no goodbye. no explanation. just silence.

you searched for him everywhere—his favorite coffee shop, the park where you’d shared your first date, even the dingy bar where he used to play pool with his friends. but he was nowhere to be found. it was like he’d vanished into thin air.

and just when you thought things couldn’t possibly get worse, your world turned upside down.

when the news broke about brian thompson’s murder, you were as shocked as everyone else. the name “luigi mangione” flashed across the screen, and your heart sank. no. not him. not the man who held you like you were the most precious thing in the world. not the man who whispered promises into your ear when the nights got too dark.

but it was him. and as the days turned into weeks, you found yourself standing by his family, waiting for updates, praying for answers. you never gave up on him, even when the world did.

・・・・・

in the cold, sterile confines of the metropolitan detention center, luigi’s thoughts were consumed by you. he replayed your memories like a broken record—the way your laughter filled the room, the way your hand felt in his, the way you looked at him like he was someone worth loving. but now, those memories were all he had.

“i gave you the key when the door wasn’t open.”

he’d let you into his life, given you his heart, even when he didn’t know how to love himself.

“see, I gave you faith, turned your doubt into hoping.”

he wondered if you still thought about him, if you’d moved on. he hoped you had, but deep down, a selfish part of him wished you hadn’t, wished you were still waiting, still believing in him.

“now I’m all alone, and my joys turned to mopping.”

the days blurred together, each one heavier than the last. he missed the sound of your laughter, the way your eyes lit up when you smiled. he missed you. but he convinced himself you were better off without him.

“couldn’t find you anywhere.”

he didn’t know you’d been by his family’s side all along. he didn’t know you’d spent countless nights crying, praying, hoping he’d come back to you. he thought you’d given up on him, walked away. and maybe, in some twisted way, he thought he deserved it.

・・・・・

one evening, as you sat on the couch aimlessly scrolling through news channels, your phone buzzed. the caller ID showed an unknown number and you hesitated before answering.

“hello?”

“ [full name] ? hi, this is karen friedman agnifilo speaking. i’m luigi mangione’s attorney.” her voice was calm but firm. “i’m reaching out because luigi has asked to see you. he’s… struggling, and he’d like to know if you’d be willing to visit him at MDC.”

your heart raced so fast you were afraid karen would be able to hear it. “of course,” you said without hesitation. “when can i see him?”

when the day finally arrived, you felt a mix of emotions—nervousness, hope, fear. what would he say? what would you say?

the visiting room was cold and impersonal, but the moment you saw him, everything else faded away. he looked thinner, his face shadowed with exhaustion, but his eyes were the same. those deep, soulful eyes that had always seen right through you.

“you came,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“i never left,” you replied, tears welling up in your eyes.

and for the first time in months, luigi felt a flicker of hope. he reached out to take your hand, his touch familiar yet foreign. “i thought you’d given up on me,” he admitted.

you shook your head. “i was always here. always.”

・・・・・

the months that followed were agonizing. the trial dragged on, each day more grueling than the last. you sat in the courtroom, your heart breaking as the prosecution painted luigi as a monster. but you knew the truth, you knew the man he really was.

luigi’s lawyer karen, fought tirelessly. she dismantled the prosecution’s case piece by piece, exposing inconsistencies and casting doubt on their narrative. through it all, luigi held onto the memory of your visit, the way your hand felt in his, the way you’d looked at him like he was still worth fighting for.

the day of the verdict, the courtroom was packed. you sat in the front row, your hands clasped tightly in your lap. luigi glanced at you, his expression unreadable. but in his eyes, you saw the same fear and hope that mirrored your own.

once the judge pronounced him not guilty on all charges, the room erupted in chaos, but all you could see was luigi. his shoulders sagged with relief, and for the first time in months, he smiled. a real, genuine smile.

when he was finally released, you were waiting for him outside the courthouse. he walked toward you, his steps slow but steady. and when he reached you, he pulled you into his arms, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

“i thought i’d lost you,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

“you never could,” you replied, burying your face in his chest.

and in that moment, you both knew that no matter what happened next, you’d face it together. because love, real love, doesn’t give up, not even in the darkest of times.

#luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione imagine #luigi mangione fanfiction #luigi mangione x yn

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night-night-stories-before-bed · 8 months ago

Text

Nightly banter

Warning ⚠️; Blood and bad jokes

Pairing; Ghostface x gn!Reader

Summary; It is almost the Devil’a hour when you get a phone call. You know who it is and if this is to be yours last night, then you’ll make your caller work for it.

Note; I am currently sick with the flu and pretty high on meds so hopefully I didn't correct like shit. Sorry if I did :(

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sitting in your living room you enjoyed a good horror movie. The bowl of popcorn and potato chips on your lap was getting lighter with each minute that passed. You chuckled, knowing that movie by heart and whispering the quotes as they came. The jump scares didn't affect you anymore even tho you still appreciated them. Your eyes turned to the clock and realized it would soon be 3:00 in the morning. The Devil’s Hour.

And what a crazy time it was lately. The town was plagued by a series of murder featuring the sadly known Ghostface of Woodsboro, California. You grew up there as a kid and moved away to here. As an adult you didn't leave, yet, but with all those murders? Might be safer to take a plane to somewhere else.

You chuckled at the thought and shook your head.

Nah. You didn’t really fit any criteria to become the victim in a horror movie. Quite the contrary in fact. You lived a quiet life and enjoyed the calm that came with being in a small town. Well, maybe enjoying horror wasn't smart for the moment.

And you were careful; locking doors and windows and always keeping your best friend the blinky with you. While you weren't usually one for firearms, you did get one after the first murder. It was safer this way. While not wanting to give in to the paranoia, you also knew it wasn't worth the risk of staying harmless.

Your phone rang, stopping you from shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth. You eyed the phone, wondering if you should answer or not. The caller was masked, and the number not showing and a shiver ran down your spine.

It could be anyone.

The killer.

Or kids wanting to make a prank.

With a shaky finger, you answered your phone, pressing it against your ear as you said as soft “Hello.”

- “Hello.” The voice of the caller replied. There is something sickly sweet about it. “Who is this?”

- “Who are you trying to reach?” You asked back, frowning as you get up to make sure all the doors and windows are locked.

- “What number is this?”

This time you freeze in your track, a shiver running down your spine. The conversation sound familiar. Too familiar. A feeling of dread fill your heart and you hold your phone tighter deciding to keep going, just to make sure.

- “Well, what number are you trying to reach?” You tried to keep the shaking of your voice discreet, but you are bad at it.

- “I don't know.”

You can hear the amusement in the other's voice, can almost imagine the smirk and hope this is a prank.

- “I think you have the wrong number.” Your voice has an edge to it now. You only want to cut the conversation short.

- “Do I?”

- “It happens. Take it easy.”

Enough is enough. This prank had lasted for too long already and you could feel your hand shaking. You stare at your phone, ready to hang up but the voice keeps talking.

- “You still haven't told me your name.”

- “Why do you want to know my name?”

- “Because I want to know who I'm looking at.”

The answer almost made you drop your phone. You looked around you frantically, trying to get a glimpse of where the fucker was. But all your curtains were closed.

- “What do you want?” You asked, returning to the sofa to grab your gun.

You heard the caller, Ghostface chuckling on the other side of the line. You wanted to throw the phone away and smash it in the wall. There was no way…

You clenched your jaws deciding that if this was real… you were going to make the fucker work for it. You'll be his nightmare and make him regret picking you for his next victim.

- “What do you want?” You asked again, slightly raising your voice.

- “To see what your insides look like.”

- “That sound kinky.”

- “What?”

You hit your head with the barrel of your gun, cringing at what you just said. It came out without you thinking about it. At least the killer sounded astonished, not expecting you to say something so… so… yeah. You decided to roll with it. At least you would die making fun of him.

- “You heard me, you kinky bastard. At least you could offer me a drink before wanting to jump to see my insides. For what do you take me? A harlot?”

- “Listen here you bitch…”

- “Oh, now I am the bitch?” You interrupted him, walking around your house and still making sure everything was locked. “Yet you are the one thirsting over my guts.”

You felt pride as the killer fell silent, as if he didn't know what to reply. Almost. Almost because you knew he was probably pissed off at you and God knew what he would do now. You weren't wrong, however. That fucker really was a kinky creep.

Walking around your house, you made sure everything was still locked. The killer wasn't talking anymore, but you could still hear his breathing. You hated the silence. It felt like a knife being held above your head, ready to fall and stab you.

- “You think yourself funny, don't you?”

Ghostface’s voice almost made you jump out if your skin. You didn't expect him to talk so suddenly nor to have such a cold voice.

- “Yeah, I am.” you replied with a chuckle, moving the curtain of the last window you checked. You saw a silhouette standing next to a tree. “I see you there, Micheal Myers wanna be.”

- “I see you too, future victim.”

You saw the silhouette waving at you and snorted. He could have at least given you a better surname than that!

You jumped away from the window as you saw the silhouette sprinting toward you. Raising your gun, you were ready to shoot the second the killer tried to touch the window. But instead of the sound of glass breaking, you heard something hit it followed by a loud thud. Moving the curtain again and looking toward the ground, you found the killer lying down. On the phone, you heard him groaning in pain.

It didn't take long for you to understand what just happened and you couldn't resist but laugh. All fear had left your body as you realized just how clumsy he was. Did he step on his dress? Did he stumble over a root?

- “S-shut up!” You heard the Killer’s voice growling on the phone.

But you didn't stop.

You fell on your ass laughing, holding your ribs for a few more minutes before putting the phone back to your hear.

- “Go home mister killer, you are drunk.” You chuckled, shaking your head. “Maybe stop at the hospital first, you might have a concussion.”

- “Fuck you!”

- “Fuck me yourself, clumsy boy.”

You heard him cursing at you and you only replied by making kissing sounds. You sighed as the killer hung up on you and there were no more sounds. You closed your eyes, pressing your back against the wall and waiting for something, anything.

But he was gone. Humiliated by his own clumsiness, he had left you. Hands shaking, you laughed again, this time nervously. Guess you were going to be in his sequel if he survived until then.

#scream #Ghostface #male reader #x male reader #x reader #fanfic #x gn reader #ghostface x gn reader #ghostface x reader #ghostface x male reader #ghostface x you #halloween #reader #gn reader

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walpu · 1 year ago

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Hello, first of all i want to say i really like your work and your writings 💞 Can i request some sickness headcanons with Aventurine when dating reader? Preferably hcs about how he would act if he was the one sick, and if the reader was sick. Thank you!

Thank you so much 🥹

Hope you'll enjoy it!

sickness headcanons with Aventurine

characters - Aventurine notes - gn!reader, hurt/comfort, no beta

I think Aven has a weak immune system due to the hardships he faced as a child. It's quite easy for him to catch a cold even if the weather is nice.

Hates it with a burning passion.

I mean it always sucks to be sick but he hates it for a bunch of other reasons as well.

It's time-consuming and he's a busy person, that's what he tells everyone.

And while it's true, the main reason is that he simply hates being so weak and vulnerable.

He has a private doctor who treats him but Aven doesn't fully trust them either.

He usually just takes his meds and tries to walk it off. Not like he can afford to take a day-off anyway.

When the two of you start dating and you notice that he doesn't feel well, he would try to brush it off. No big deal, baby. Just a bit tired. If we cuddle I'll get better <З

He trusts you, he truly does. However, it doesn't mean he wants you to see him miserable, weak and with a red stiffy nose. He doesn't like this image of himself so what if you won't like it either?

If he has a fever he will try to distance himself from you. Doesn't want you to get seek as well, he truly doesn't wish to be a cause of your discomfort.

Plus, what good can he give you when he's like that anyway? A bit off-topic but I just keep thinking about his "you can use me however you want me even betray me <З" line and his lunar new year card where he's like "yeahhh if you spend the day with me you'll be lucky for the rest of the year soooo" babygirl i promise you don't need to bribe me or be convenient just to have some company

Would never refuse your care though. Simply can't do it, he's a weak weak man. May whine a bit at the beginning, trying to convince you that this is not necessary, but as soon as you sooth him and maybe kiss his forehead he gives up completely.

Suddenly forgets all about the possibility of you getting sick if you keep being too close to him, will cling to you like a kitten.

"Your cuddles are the best medicine~" my ass.

Would follow all of your instructions even if they're questionable.

Wants to be spoon-fed too. Anddd tuck him in. And kiss his forehead. And stay by his side until he falls asleep.

He's needy okay. He never had anyone who would care for him when he's so weak so he cherishes every moment. May even get a bit upset when he's feeling better.

Would ask you to look after him for a few more days juts to make sure he's 10000% okay. Keep dotting on his tho because what if he'll get sick again because of the lack of cuddles!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If you're the one who's seek he'll overreact.

Like even if it's the smallest thing, he'll insist on calling his own private doctor to check on you.

You're the best thing in his life, his promised dawn. Of course he'll look after you. Even if looking after you means being a clingy mother hen.

No excuses, he'll take care of you. Even if you have seen worse. Even if you're very busy. Even if it's not that big of a deal.

The problem is. He's never looked after a sick person before.

His every attempt to nurse you back to health is overwhelming. Tries every single method he can find in the internet so please stop him if needed.

Insists on cuddling you all of the time. Generally tries to do everything you do for him when he's sick since you're literally his only example.

If you receive too many work-related phone calls from someone he would not hesitate to pick up the phone before you and say that yeah y/n is busy right now, they are sick, so the optimal solution would be for the caller to deal with their own problems, surely they are not so helpless to rely on a sick person to do everything for them :)

Just wants for you to be alright as soon as possible.

#hsr #aventurine #hsr aventurine #aventurine x reader #honkai star rail #reader insert #walp's writing

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yan-lorkai · 8 months ago

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.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Day two: Rook scaring his darling.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A/n: Any and all excuses that let me write for Rook, I'm happy. He is my silly little guy with his silly ways 🥺

The phone rang, shattering the serene silence of your room. You glanced at the clock, your eyes tired and strained from the intense focus on your alchemy homework. It was 10:30 PM and pretty chilly, as you took to wrap yourself on your warm covers while studying. You ignored the first ring, your head already aching from the complexities of your studies.

Like... Why is alchemy so hard? And why you have to learn this? And why you need to know this?

The phone rang again, persistent and noisy. Your annoyance grew with each shrill ring, breaking your concentration at each passing second. You just wanted to get done with this and then to sleep. Finally, you picked up the phone, noticing the caller ID was from an unknown number. Usually you wouldn't answer.

But you were exasperated and tired. "Hello?"

A raspy, menacing voice replied, "Oh my, you finally answered. I hope you're enjoying your quiet night?"

Your heart skipped a beat, unsure. For a second you though you were dreaming but quickly discarded this when you blinked, drowsiness still present on your eyelids. "Uh… who is this?"

"That's not important," The voice hummed softly, a little laugh escaping his throat. You strained your ears, trying to hear something, anything at all as you let your notebook and pens at your table, rubbing your eyes slowly. "What is important is that I have been watching you for the last few hours. Your face is so cute when you don't understand a simple concept. Don't know what those ingredients are used to? I could help you with it."

Your mind raced, trying to place the voice. It was familiar, yet distorted with a sinister edge to it. "What do you want?"

A low chuckle came from the other end. "Oh, it's not what I want but what you fear. Do you remember leaving your window slightly open last night?"

You stiffened, recalling the slight breeze that roused you in the middle of the night, thinking nothing of it at the time. "How do you know that?"

"Let's just say I have my ways," The voice continued, dripping with malice. "You should be more careful, mon lapin. There are dangerous people out there, and they might want to pay you a visit."

A cold sweat broke out on your forehead, your heart pounding as you fiddled with your pen. "If you're trying to scare me, it's working. But you won't get away with this."

"Oh, but I already have," The voice taunted. You could almost feel his smile through the phone. "Look behind you, mon amour."

Fear paralyzed you, your breath hitching as you slowly turned around, expecting the worst. You were ready to strike whoever was behind you with your pen. But there was no one there. Just your room, exactly as it had been for the last few hours. You exhaled a shaky breath.

You rethink everything for a second, massaging your temple as you placed the phone back to your ear. "Ha ha, very funny, Rook. Only you throw around some french words"

Of course this was a prank, you thought bitterly.

Then the voice on the phone burst into laughter —familiar, musical laughter. Your fear turned into exhaustion. And the laughter continued for a moment before the voice softened, becoming the one you knew so well.

"Ah, mon trésor, you should have seen your face! You were so brave, so deliciously frightened. Pardonne-moi." Rook's breath hitched. He sounds like he was running or climbing something. You'd rather not know.

You stared at your shaky hands, your heart still racing. You wondered why you still loved him, then his smile, blushy face came to your mind. You sighed, you loved him, that's why you put up with his antics. "One of these days, your pranks are going to give me a heart attack."

"Forgive me, my love," Rook said, half chuckling half meaning his words. "But you must admit, life with me is never dull," His voice was full of warmth and affection.

You shook your head, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. "Yes, Rook. Life with you is definitely never dull. Just… next time, maybe choose a prank that doesn't involve scaring me half to death?"

"Ah, mon ange, I will consider it," He promised, though you could hear the playful tone still lingering. "But I cannot make any guarantees. After all, where is the fun without a little thrill?"

You rolled your eyes, feeling your heartbeat finally returning to normal. "Alright, alright. Just get over here, you mischievous hunter. I think you owe me a relaxing evening after that scare."

"I'm already here, my love," Rook purred. Then you saw; he was climbing through your window, still wearing his vampire costume, little red details clinging to his face and lips. His face blushy and a trickle of sweat running through his temple. "And as a token of my apology I brought you something sweet to soothe your nerves."

"Oh! That sounds perfect," You replied, locking your eyes with his. "Won't you share those sweets while we cuddle, mister Hunt?"

"As you wish, mon trésor."

Hanging up the phone, you couldn't help but shake your head again, a fond smile playing on your lips. Life with Rook was certainly unpredictable, but you wouldn't have it any other way.

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bangtaninborderland · 2 years ago

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JJK- Late Night Calls.

you get a call from Jungkook at 7am, struck with worry you pick up only to find your adorably tired boyfriend.

Genre: smut, fluff, Jungkook x reader.

Warning: NONE!

A/N: came up with this in 10 minuets thought it was cute enjoy :)

The familiar tune of your phone ringing broke you from your sleep, your vision was blurry but you could still clearly read the caller ID

Incoming Factime Video call: JK ♥️

It must have been 7am in Korea, Jungkook was never awake this early. You quickly answered, a million scenarios running through your mind as to explain why he was calling at such a time and none of them were good.

“Hello?”

He must have seen the panic in your face as he croaked out. “Baby what’s wrong?”

“I thought something happened you’re never awake this early?” You felt a small weight lift off your shoulders as he chuckled.

“I’m fine baby just couldn’t sleep, missed you.” You loved how he sounded when he was sleepy.

You laughed at the way he was laying across his bed, small rolled up pillow underneath him. “You have got to get different pillows.”

“No no I like my pillow.” He laughs, showing you how comfortable it is. “How’s London jagiya?”

You suddenly regretted being in a different country for work, the idea of morning sex seemingly more attractive than anything else. “It’s fine here, I can’t wait to be back home though. The food isn’t as good.”

“The food is the only thing?” He pouted, pulling the blanket further over his face. “What about me and bammie?”

You turned to the side, resting your leg atop the blanket. “Of course I miss you and bam too kook.”

“The bed is cold without you, empty. I think you should quit work and just be a stay at home wife.” He laughed again, although you could tell there was a sliver of hope to his absurd suggestion.

“Never gonna happen, you may be rich but I’m only half way there.” You both laughed, money was never something either of you took seriously you had always shared everything for as long as you could remember. You’d buy him dinner and he would buy dessert. He would buy you designer but he would also be more than happy if you brought him a pack of ramen. “Besides we aren’t even married.”

“Don’t remind me.” He shakes his head, before shifting to rest it upon his arms. “How many days until your back?”

“We should have the contracts finished up in a day or two and then we will have a celebratory dinner and I’ll be on the first flight back.” You explained as you watched him, his tattoos standing out against the white fabric of his sheets, his hair messy. You let your eyes wander, your imagination running wild thinking about how he would look completely naked. “are you wearing pants?”

“Come back and find out jagiya, I’m sure you’re already picturing the ways I’d fuck you.”

The sudden vulgarity of his words left you in a state of shock. “I- when I get home we are definitely doing whatever I’m thinking right now.”

“And what is that doll?” He laughed, fingers drawing circles on the sheet. “What’s going on in that pretty mind of yours?”

“Just thinking about how good your hand would look wrapped around my neck.” You pushed yourself further into the pillow, slightly shy.

“Too bad you’re too far away baby. We should sleep.” He closed his eyes, teasing you.

You groaned, fighting the urge to grind against the sheets. “Kook.”

“Hmm?” He mumbled, lazily.

“You turned me on.” You giggled, closing your eyes.

“I’m hard too beautiful, I’ll go to sleep thinking about good good your mouth will feel around my cock.

“Why couldn’t you call me at 8pm and get all dirty with me? Why does it have to be when I’m too tired to do anything?” You whined, wanting to cry from how much you missed his touch.

“It’s okay princess when you’re home I’ll take care of you. we should still sleep you have a meeting tomorrow morning don’t you?” You opened one eye, just enough to see him staring at you smiling.

“At six am, it’s 11pm right now. I have to wake up at 4am so I can finish the presentation.” You explained, your words slurring as you started to drift off. “Are you working tomorrow?”

“I have a few appointments nothing important, call me anytime tomorrow I’ll be there but for now get some sleep baby, I won’t hang up.”

“Promise?” You whispered, the folds of sleep covering you in a sheet of darkness.

“Always jagiya.”

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darkfemininenergy · 2 years ago

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LET’S PLAY THAT GAME ━ ethan landry

pairing: gf!ethan x fem!reader

warning: smut, ghostface phone call, dom!ethan, sub!reader, fingering, rough sex, choking, ropes, spit kink, fingers sucking, dirty talk, gloves kink.

author’s note: english is not my first language, and also my first time writing smut so i hope it’ll be good. if you have any request, let me know !

YOU’D COME HOME from the gym an hour ago, the only classes you had were this morning and you were grateful to have the whole afternoon off for once. you'd had lunch with mindy at noon and then decided to take her home, since the ghostface attacks had hit new york, following the 4 survivors of woodsboro, you didn't want the young meeks martin to go home alone, even in the middle of the day, who knows what might happen, especially when you knew who her uncle was.

now you were in your kitchen after a nice shower, in the background as sound of « how to get away with murder », one of your favorite tv shows, mindy found it quite ironic since you were in a law major.

you were cooking dinner quietly after a bit of studying, standing in front of the hob, dressed in a short, tight-fitting black top and gray shorts, your phone at your side as you wrote to the young meeks martin, who was confiding in you about her feelings for anika.

and that's when your phone began to vibrate, thinking it was mindy, a slight smile appeared on your lips before you grabbed your phone, but this smile slowly disappeared in your face due to what appeared on your screen: unkown caller.

a bad feeling began to take hold of you as, paranoid as you were, you looked around you at the knives just inches from you, spotting the largest of them.

you then answered the phone, adrenalin coursing through your body.

- hello ?

the sound of the oil against the frying pan camouflaged the sound of your series in the living room, as you added spices, waiting for an answer from your interlocutor, the wait was heavy.

- hello, y/n, replied the deep, gravelly, modulated voice.

ghostface.

a shiver ran down your spine, and your body froze, paralyzed as you realized the obvious: you were part of the group of friends of the survivors of the 2022 attacks.

you turned off the gas, stopped cooking. And clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth.

- well, go ahead, i’m wainting for the “what's your favorite scary movie ?” part.

you tried not to show any signs of fear, but inside you were terrified, imagining yourself already dead on your kitchen floor, but you knew you didn't have time to think about it and passed your index finger between the various knives on the rack in front of you, leaning slightly over the worktop.

the only response you got was a little laugh of amusement, mixed with a hint of sadism, from the killer, and it made your blood run cold.

- you're a bold one, aren't you? now, i think that i'm really going to enjoy this.

- fuck you.

-but you're also a very pretty one... he said with a seductive tone, too bad that i have to correct that filthy mouth of yours, he finished with a voice full of brutality, as if your insult had made him angry.

his change of mood startled you, and you immediately straightened up, then nervously tapped the surface of your kitchen with your freshly manicured nails.

- what do you want ? you asked, trying not to show how scared your voice sounded.

he hums slowly, as if he's thinking, and you can feel the goosebumps on your skin.

- that's a good question... what do i want... ? i want to play a game.

your heart was starting to race, so without thinking any further, you grabbed the largest knife and suddenly turned around with dynamism, all your senses now activated.

- do you want to play a game, y/n ? the modulated voice asked you.

- go to hell, i’m not going to play any of your sick game, you replied brutally.

- you look cute with that knife, tell me, what are you going to do with it, sweetheart ? stab me ? he teased.

you could practically hear the smirk in his voice and it drived you insane as well as the pet name, your grip on your knife was starting to tighten.

- where are you, asshole ? you spat hatefully.

you started to look from left to right, if anyone else could see you through your window, they'd think you were crazy to get so agitated, you leaned over to look towards the right exit which led to the hallway of your apartment, before returning to the kitchen which overlooked your living room.

you put your phone on the worktop behind your hob not far from your fridge, and activated the speakerphone to leave the call and type in the police number before he even answered.

- oh i wouldn't try to call the police if i were you, y/n, it'd be a real shame for mindy and anika to pay the consequences of your stupid actions.

your fingers stopped typing on your screen, not only because of the threat, but also because a detail had caught your attention, how did he know i was going to call the police ?

- h-how.... you began before cutting yourself off, can you see me?

he was sniggering again, and you were really beginning to hate that horribly creepy sound. you swallowed that awful lump in your throat that prevented you from speaking properly and waited for an answer.

- of course i can see you. i must admit that you look good in those, a little bit short though, does your boyfriend know you carry around in your apartment like that, y/n ?

panic-stricken, you hung up, and what a grave mistake you'd made, dropping your phone onto the wooden surface, you clutched the edge of it as if your body were threatening to collapse and you were looking for something to lean on. but then you pulled yourself together and grabbed your phone, never letting go of the knife you'd armed yourself with.

you moved towards the large window in your living room and pulled back the curtain slightly to see if anyone was outside watching you, since your kitchen was connected to the living room and, above all, open, with no door separating them.

but you couldn't see anything suspicious, only the horrible traffic jams of the city that never sleeps and people minding their own business down your street. you weren't the least bit reassured, certainly not, you had no idea where he could see you and you were terrified of it.

then you let out a groan of surprise when your phone started vibrating in your hand again, except this time it wasn't a call but a notification from an unknown number, it was a video.

your hands began to shake as you huffed and puffed to regain your composure, naively hoping to regain an ounce of control over the situation. once you'd opened your phone and clicked on the video, you saw mindy and anika on it, kissing on a sofa, the video had been taken from outside through your window and you pursed your lower lip, anxious, but starting to get angry that ghostface wasn't just threatening you, but also your friends, after everything mindy already endured because of that stupid mask.

and then, another call, again. you stared at your screen for a few seconds, looked around your living room and swallowed, grabbed your tv remote to turn it off, a silence falling over every room in the apartment when you finally accepted the call as you peered into every corner of the room, your stomach burning with fear.

- hang up again and i'll rip their heads off and send them in a box at your door ! shouted the killer menacingly and violently.

the violence of his threat burned your eyes, but you were able to swallow back your tears. you were sure he could feel your panic through the phone.

- not them, don't hurt them, s-stop it, i’ll do anything, i-i promise, you cried, afraid that something might happen to your friends.

- good girl, you see how easy things are going when you start obeying ? his voice softened, but you could still hear the amusement in it that told you he loved what was happening, that he loved scaring you.

despite the fear, the nickname he'd used triggered a reaction you'd never have suspected: a wave of heat spread through your body, even between your legs, and you suddenly felt ashamed.

- now, let's play that game. have you ever heard of hot and cold ?

you simply nodded, tucking a lock of hair behind your ears, knife still sharp in hand.

- words, pretty girl.

another heat wave.

- y-yeah, yes, i have.

- perfect. you want to know where i am, right ? then come and find me. go on.

you frowned, apprehensive about the objective behind this game, especially apprehensive about the moment when you were going to meet him.

- and then, if i find you, what will happen ?

- find me and you'll see, answered mischievously ghostface.

a new silence, neither of you speaking, the silence was heavy for you. you took two steps forward, and turned to look behind you again, the fact of not knowing where he was disturbed you and increased your degree of fear.

- are you scared, sweet thing ? he continued to mock, knowing he had the upper hand.

- shut the fuck up motherfucker, you're gonna pay for all of this, you grumbled in between.

- oh, really? i’m waiting then, he sneered, and you were willing to bet he was smiling.

his words only provoked you and you walked out of the living room, realizing that he couldn't be there, you were surprised to realize that you actually started looking for him, now angry at the way he was openly mocking you. you opened the bathroom door, peering in after turning on the light.

- cold.

you immediately left the room, closed the door and stepped into the corridor, which this time led to your bedroom. but before you got close to it, your steps slowed down, as you became more reluctant to head towards this part of the apartment, what if he was inside ?

- why are you slowing down ? maybe I'm inside.

- fuck it, you muttered.

you continued to hold your knife, getting ready to use it, when you arrived at the door to your room and opened it, you went in, and looked all around, near your desk, in the nooks and crannies, then your gaze fell back on your wardrobe, which was closed.

- are you in there ? you asked, your breath catching.

you heard his breathing through the phone become more erratic, and that's all you could hear as you held it to your ear.

- open it.

without further hesitation, you grabbed both wrists of your wardrobe and suddenly opened them, brandishing your knife in your face the next second.

but surprisingly, he wasn't there, so you straightened up and let your arm fall back down your body, then brought the phone up to your ear to hear your interlocutor, who seemed to love playing with your mind and emotions. he started laughing again, and the more he did it, the more it annoyed you than it frightened you now.

- no, i'm not there sweetheart, i was just messing with you.

- asshole, wanting to play a game without even knowing how to play it, you laughed bittersweetly.

you could sense that he wasn't happy with your answer, maybe even angry, but in any case, he didn't show it and decided to restart the game.

- you're getting colder, keep looking.

since you'd gone in the opposite direction and weren't getting any closer, you decided to return to the area you'd been in when you received the bloody call, retracing your steps, finding yourself in the hallway where your bathroom was once again.

- you're still cold.

you sighed in annoyance, but kept on walking, and when you passed the bathroom door you'd already looked in.

- warm, he warned you, and his husky voice sent shivers down your spine.

the further you went, the more your heart pounded to the point where that was all you could hear now. now you were back in your living room, you couldn't make any sense of the situation, you must have misunderstood his directions, he couldn't be there.

- you're getting warmer, good, very good sweetheart, you're almost there.

and yet, the praise almost made you blush again, you felt butterflies in your stomach and snapped inwardly as you remembered who you were on the phone with.

slightly frustrated by the flirtatious tone, you began to hold your knife out in front of you, preparing yourself better in case you found him.

as well as being frustrated, you were in total bewilderment, you had no idea where he could be, he kept messing with your head and he was very good at it.

he definitely wasn't in the kitchen, nor in the living room, not even towards the entrance, since you'd glanced around.

- keep looking, y/n, it'd be a shame if i find you first, wouldn't it ? tormented ghostface.

you held back from insulting him once more, avoided the living room areas you'd already looked at, and moved towards the only corridor on the opposite side of the apartment where you hadn't glanced.

and to do this, you had to pass through the corridor to your left leading to the front door, when you passed this door, and moved into the unlit corridor where in one of the doors lay your washing machine and other belongings, he spoke again.

- you don't want to turn colder again, don't you ? now, turn around.

paranoid, you thought he was right behind you, so you quickly turned around and took a big step back, the knife right in front of you, your arm raised, and you let out an expletive when you couldn't see anyone again. He was definitely playing with your mind and you'd had enough. You could feel the frustration heating your blood.

you made the choice not to pay any more attention to your footsteps, beginning to believe that he had lied to you and wasn't even near you, that this was just to scare you.

- warm.

but then you stopped, and that's how you noticed you were near the entrance hall. no, it couldn't be.

you headed in that direction, advancing slowly, cold sweat beginning to take refuge on your forehead.

- warmer.

shit. shit. shit.

you noticed the cupboard embedded in the wall a metre from the landing, and realized he was probably here. I'd have heard him, the kitchen's right next door. you had no idea what was going on.

- very very warm, he whispered.

your trembling hand came to rest on the wrist of the hall cupboard, hesitantly, you didn't open it immediately, feeling your breathing quicken.

in a split second, you brought your other hand to the cabinet and jerked it open. but nothing, absolutely nothing.

- fucking bastard, you growled.

you sighed, and slammed the wardrobe doors shut, the sound echoing throughout the apartment after this act of anger and you could hear him laughing in your ear.

pissed off, you returned to the kitchen to the very same spot where you had decided to call the police, still holding your weapon in your hand which was now on the kitchen counter facing the living room.

- now you're boiling.

you held your phone so tightly in your hand that you could have crushed it. you didn't know whether your hands were shaking with fear or anger, or both.

- i’m done with that shit, you growled again, if you want me, come and get me.

- want you in which way, darling ? don't get me wrong, both involve ropes, but it's an important distinction to make before we proceed.

- w-what ?

and just then, you saw a shadow with a very tall figure forming right in front of you.

you immediately dropped your phone from your hands, about to turn and brandish your knife to stab him, but a large gloved hand pressed against your mouth and an imposing body slammed you against the surface.

your scream was then muffled by the hand over your mouth, and your knife was snatched from your other hand, panic instantly seizing you after your weapon was snatched from you, you tried to fight back by reaching behind him with your hands, but his free hand had no trouble grabbing both your wrists and pinning them behind your back.

- i told you it'd be a shame if i find you first, he said mockingly.

the tears in your eyes blurred your vision, you kept squirming in all directions and your screams kept choking against your attacker's glove. then you felt them, your hands bound by ropes.

ropes that burned your wrists, he had to take his hand away from his mouth to bind your hands, and you couldn't control the rhythm of your breathing.

- no no no no no, you protested, naively trying to free yourself from the ropes.

just then, you felt his hips push you against the counter again and his hand slid down your back to force you against the surface, bended you over, he towered over you.

- p-please, please let me go, you tried not to let the tears roll down your cheeks, but your voice betrayed your fear.

- where's that attitude you were giving me earlier, hm ?

- i-i’m sorry, you let your forehead hit the cold surface of the counter, your eyes closed.

- you look so good like that, he murmured under his breath, bended over, begging for me, better than i have imagined.

a new complaint came from the back of your throat, and you started to struggle again, unconsciously moving your hips to push him away. then you felt something against you, something hard, then you heard him growl.

your mouth fell open in astonishment, you must surely have heard wrong, you thought. then you continued to rub your hips against him, your two bodies pressed together, and suddenly his left hand grabbed your hip to immobilize you.

an amused smile spread across your lips, contradicting the tears in your eyes.

- does this turn you on ? do i'm turning you on mr. ghostface ? you said in a playful tone.

- shut up, i'm gonna fuck that attitude out of you, spat the killer.

a groan threatened to leave your mouth but you managed to control it, feeling all wet after rubbing yourself against him and his modulated voice making you feel things you shouldn't feel.

a moan threatened to leave your mouth but you managed to control it, you felt all wet after rubbing yourself against him and his modulated voice made you feel things you shouldn't feel.

quickly, he removed your shorts followed by your underwear, leaving you almost naked apart from your black top, your wet intimacy exposed to the cool apartment air sending a shiver down your spine and forcing you to squeeze your thighs together.

- uh uh, none of that, open those legs for me, he said, slapping one of your thighs.

aware of the extent of your desire between your legs, you spread them slowly and slightly, enough for him to slip his hand in.

his fingers began to tease your crotch, you were about to open your mouth to express your desire, but closed it when his fingers moved to brush over her clit. you breathed deeply and closed your eyes as you felt his fingers gently beginning to knead at your clit and press against your entrance.

you took a shaky breath, clenching down around the finger gently as it was pushed in up to the second knuckle.

you moaned happily, your hips pressing forward. your hips swayed further as he began to move his fingers slowly. his fingers moved in and out of her slowly. then he gently curled them as he moved them, smiling at the cry he drew from you. his thumb gently massaged your clit, and you arched your back silently asking for more.

- you like that, huh ?

you nodded positively, moaning softly, your lip still between your teeth.

- come on, what did i told you earlier, sweetheart ?

words.

- f-fuck, y-yes.

- yes what ? while curling his fingers inside of you.

- yes, yes i-i like that.

he was starting to pick up his pace, you could hear his breathing jerking in turn, getting harder and harder by the pretty sounds you were making and the way you were moving your hips against him. although he'd been using a fairly gentle rhythm, now he was thrusting his fingers into you harder and harder, going even deeper.

causing moans that you could no longer control, especially when he added another finger, unconsciously, you closed your legs once more against the sensation that invaded you, but his other hand forced you to keep them spread for him.

even if you wanted to deny him access to your legs by closing them, you couldn't, his grip was too strong for you to move, it would probably leave a mark later.

when his fingers reached that spot inside you, you tilted your head back, eyes closed. he took advantage of your position to lean towards you, so that his fingers were deep inside you, and your belly was completely pressed into the countertop surface, as were your hips.

he grabbed your jaw to force you to open your eyes and tilt your head back even further, causing you to arch your back even more to the point of slight pain, and with your hands tied behind your back, it wasn't easy, so when you did, you fell into the big, intimidating black eyes of his mask.

but the idea of him fucking you in his ghostface costume, mask and gloves made you wetter, it was so wrong.

you gave him those doe eyes, and he swore he could have cum right now just from the look you were giving him. you half-opened your mouth as if to let out another moan, but nothing came out.

his thumb moved to your lower lip, his hand still gripping your jaw. his other hand continued to penetrate you roughly, but you still wanted more. he could read the desire on your face, in your eyes.

- what's the matter, pretty girl ? do you want my cock instead ?

you nod eagerly.

- please, i w-want it so bad.

the position you were in meant you couldn't breathe properly, your back arched, your head back as you stared into the big black eyes of the ghost mask.

his thumb pressed your clitoris just right, in a delicious way that brought back that exquisite sensation in your lower belly. but suddenly he withdrew his hand, feeling you suddenly empty, you let out a whine.

but he quickly silenced you by pushing the two fingers inside you into your mouth, his other hand controlling your movements through your jaw and forcing you to take his fingers covered in your juices.

- that's it, taste yourself, take those fingers right down your throat, whispered ghostface.

you felt your taste on his two fingers deposited on your tongue, you closed your mouth to suck greedily on his fingers that he pushed deep into your throat, creating new tears in the corner of your eyes and causing you a gag that seemed to satisfy him.

his fingers were so deep in your throat that your saliva was starting to drip down the corner of your mouth.

His hand that held your jaw withdrew from it, you felt the trace of the fabric of his gloves burn your jaw in the absence of his hand, then just after, you heard the sound of a belt unbuckling just behind you.

claiming only his fingers or his cock inside of you again, you moved your hips back, and felt the brutal material of his jeans, and then, from his underwear, you could especially feel his erection that was right against your ass.

you tried to speak, but with his fingers in your throat and the taste of your wetness on your tongue, those sounds were muffled, but you knew he'd heard you because he pushed his fingers even deeper into your mouth, making you feel a little dizzy.

as he let out a muffled moan against the movement of your hips against him, he in turn thrust against you, feeling your clitoris swell with excitement.

then, a few seconds later, unexpectedly, without any warning from him, you felt his tip right in front of your entrance and quickly, he penetrated you brutally, knocking the wind out of your lungs, causing you to scream due to the impact.

- did i go in too fast ? he laughed, tilting his head to one side, his voice still modified by the modulator.

he started to thrust in and out of you at a pace that made you see stars. his fingers left your throat, and you took a deep breath of air, you were suffocating, and yet his index finger remained between your mouth and your teeth, understanding what he wanted you to do, you bit the material of his glove, allowing him to slide his hand out, removing his glove for him, letting go of the glove in your mouth, you could then observe his hand.

large and covered with veins. You could almost recognize his hand. Your pussy was throbbing and the harsh thrusts didn't help.

suddenly, his hand grabbed the back of your neck and tilted you forward, pushing your chest against the surface where you rested your cheek. it felt so good, you could hear him growling behind you and your whole body wanted to submit to him. his thrusts pushed your belly against the counter, his hips slammed into your buttocks.

for support, he grabbed the ropes he'd tightened around your hands, still holding your neck to make sure you didn't move, you were his to fuck.

you tried to straighten up, but his grip prevented you, so you tried to look over your shoulder, and just seeing him fucking you could make you cum on the spot, his tall figure, the mask, him dominating you.

the erotic sound of his cock thrusting into you filled the room and mingled with your moans and grunts.

- harder, please fuck me harder, you begged, letting your forehead fall back against the counter, eyes closed.

- you want me to fuck you harder ? he said playfully, fine then, i’ll fuck you harder.

he did as you asked, but first by slowing down his thrusts, you then let out some moans as you arched your back, but then he thrust more brutally, deeper into you, all the while being fast. you opened your mouth in pleasure, before going back to biting your lip.

his bare hand grabs your waist and uses it as leverage to thrust into you, leaving you little or no time to adjust as he drives deep into you.

he pulls you back, using his grip on your wrists as your pussy tightens around his cock under his thrusts.

after a few more strokes that made you feel disoriented to the point where it was hard to keep your eyes open. a small noise near you caught your attention, you reopened your eyes breathing hard, and noticed the ghostface mask right next to you, he'd just pulled it off. your eyes widened in astonishment.

- taking it so well, hm whore ? he said in a taunting tone, the modulator was off, god, you feel amazing, he moaned.

and you recognized that voice.

- e-ethan ?

you couldn't see him, but he was smiling and pounding into you, his curly hair falling back on his forehead with a little sweat on his temples.

without you expecting it, his hand on the back of your neck slid down your throat to pull you back to his torso, your hands tied behind your back making the position slightly uncomfortable, but when you let your head fall below his shoulder to look up at him, you forgot the discomfort.

you couldn't believe it, ethan, the shy, dorky guy you were so close to.

- hi baby, surprised ? he smirked devilishly.

- i- you tried to speak, but another of his blows triggered a soft moan.

he laughed again, his eyes never leaving your face, watching as your eyebrows furrowed and your mouth opened in pleasure. he tightened his hand around your neck enough to reduce the air passing through to your lungs, and again he felt you tighten around him.

- look at you, what a little slut. you look so pretty with my hand around your throat.

wanting to look at him, you opened your eyes again, your eyes met and you noticed how dark his gaze was as I'd never seen it before. his hand on your hip began to rub your clit deliciously while he was thrusting in you.

he leaned over and placed his lips against yours to kiss you passionately, not giving you a chance to breathe, you kissed him back without hesitation, which made him smile.

when the kiss ended and you parted, you looked up at him again, his hand still around your neck. you let out at surprised gasp when he forced you to bend over once more, removing his hand from your throat to move it into your hair, which he grabbed to pull you back.

you found yourself in the same position as before, your back curved and your head tilted back. you could see him, but instead of the ghostface mask, you saw ethan's angelic face, who wasn't actually so angelic.

his grip on your hair made you groan, and you'd never have suspected this dominance from mindy's number one suspect.

- open your mouth.

damn.

you opened your mouth as he asked, tongue out, with a doe eyed gaze that made him growl. he leaned closer and spat into your mouth.

- swallow it.

and you did. you swallowed without replying under his eager gaze. you stuck out your tongue to prove it, god, you were sure you looked so dirty like that. his gloveless hand found its way to your cheek, and he patted it before caressing it with a delicacy that contradicted the brutality of his strokes that made you stammer.

- that’s it. you’re being very good baby.

the praise pushed you to give him a fucked up smile. the more time passed, the more you felt that knock in your lower belly. you were close,and ethan could feel it too by the way you tightened around him.

- s-shit, e-ethan, i’m close.

- i know, baby, cum for me.

with his hand pulling your hair tighter so he could get a better view of your face to see you cum, before long, you were cumming and felt your legs trembling under the intensity, and when you came, you let out the prettiest sound without worrying whether your neighbors heard you or not.

he let go of your hair, and both his hands bestially gripped your hips, he was close too, you felt overstimulated but you knew he was going to cum soon so you

let him use you. he muttered "fuck" under his breath, and cummed as he sank deep inside you, stopping his thrusts to stay deep inside you. he tilted his head back, his adam's apple perfectly visible and you didn't have to look at him to know he must be incredibly beautiful like that.

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