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ponderingmoonlight · 4 months ago

Note

Hello!! If you’re still taking requests I’d love to see a Nanami x Reader fic where the reader is pregnant but doesn’t realize yet but I’d like showing OBVIOUS symptoms and for Nanami to start to catch on to them, I don’t know if that’s like weird? 😭 Also I hope you’re doing good!!

THIS. IS. EVERYTHING.

Yeah, we're doing this right now

Nanami realizing you're pregnant before you do

Pairing: Nanami x fem!reader

Word Count: 2,2k

Synopsis: well, basically the request above hehe

Warnings: I mean, reader is pregnant lol, fluff fluff fluff, Nanami is just the greenest flag I can't, please tell me you enjoy this as much as I do, I LOVE THAT MAN

Lately, everything feels… off.

It's subtle at first. Mornings are harder than they used to be, a strange kind of sluggishness that lingers in your limbs no matter how much coffee you drink after waking up. Your back aches at the most random times. And don't even get started on the nausea that strikes out of nowhere, leaving you clutching the bathroom sink with trembling hands.

But, still, it doesn’t cross your mind - not at first.

Nanami’s been noticing though. He’s always been perceptive, sharp in the way he observes the world, but lately, his focus seems to rest more on you. It starts with the small things: a subtle glance as you push your breakfast away with a grimace, the way his brow furrows when you wince, pressing a hand to your lower back. He doesn’t ask you about it immediately, and you’re grateful for that. Nanami doesn’t rush things, never has. He knows you well enough to wait until the right moment.

Today, however, something is different.

It’s a quiet Saturday morning. You’re both in the kitchen, sunlight streaming through the curtains in soft beams. Nanami’s making coffee, his movements precise as always, while you sit at the kitchen table with your hands wrapped around a cup of ginger tea. You’ve been craving that instead of coffee these days, the rich scent of the brew turning your stomach in a way it never used to. To be honest, you’ve never been a tea drinker your whole life.

He’s noticed that too.

You yawn, stifling the sound behind your hand as you stretch in your chair. There’s a strange heaviness in your body, and the thought of going back to bed, even after a full night’s sleep, is oddly tempting. It’s the third time this week that the idea of a nap has crossed your mind before noon. You blink hard, forcing your eyes to focus, and turn to Nanami, who’s watching you over the rim of his cup.

“Are you feeling alright?” he questions, his tone neutral but his eyes searching.

“Yeah, why?” you respond, but your voice lacks its usual energy.

Even to your own ears, it sounds tired. You clear your throat and offer a small smile, hoping to brush off the question as well as the wave of concern that starts bubbling up your chest all over again.

“I’ve just been a little out of it lately, that’s all.”

Nanami places his cup down on the counter, his gaze never leaving your face.

“You’ve been ‘a little out of it’ for a while now, darling.”

There’s a weight to his words, a quiet concern that has your defenses rising instinctively. You sit up straighter, forcing a more convincing smile this time.

“I’m fine, really. Just tired. It’s probably work.”

It’s true, to some extent. Work has been stressful, the usual demands piling up, but this exhaustion feels… different. It’s deeper, sinking into your bones in a way that no amount of rest seems to fix.

Nanami doesn’t say anything right away, but you can feel him assessing you. His silence is almost louder than words. You know he won’t push you to talk, but his patience, the way he waits for you to come to your own conclusion, can be just as insistent.

You sigh, leaning back in your chair and rubbing at your eyes. There’s no way you’ll get out of this situation, not when your beloved boyfriend sits opposite of you with his calm but demanding orbs staring straight through your soul.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m coming down with something?”

It’s a flimsy excuse, and you both know it. But before you can think of anything else to say, a wave of nausea hits you hard and fast, making you lurch forward. You press a hand to your mouth, eyes wide as the world tilts just slightly. Oh god, not again.

Nanami is at your side in an instant, his hand on your back, warm and grounding.

“Hey, hey… breathe,” he murmurs gently, his thumb rubbing small circles against your spine.

“It’s okay. Just breathe.”

You close your eyes and focus on the rhythm of your breathing, counting each inhale and exhale until the nausea begins to subside. Slowly, you sit back, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand. The embarrassment is hot on your face, and you can’t quite meet Nanami’s eyes.

“I’m fine, Kento”, you mutter, though you can tell it sounds unconvincing.

Nanami’s hand is still on your back, his touch firm yet gentle. He doesn’t say anything, not yet. You know he’s waiting, giving you space to figure out what’s going on. But even through your haze of denial, a part of you knows the truth is starting to unravel.

“Does this happen often?”

His voice is calm, but there’s an undercurrent of something more. Something you can’t quite place.

You swallow hard, not sure how to answer.

“It’s just been the past couple of weeks,” you admit quietly.

“I think it’s stress. Maybe some kind of stomach bug?”

Nanami’s brow furrows slightly, and he crouches down beside your chair, his eyes searching your face with that same quiet intensity.

“Are there any other symptoms?”

Your mouth opens to say no, but then you stop, thinking back over the past few weeks. The tiredness, the nausea, the strange sensitivity to smells, your shifting moods - small things you’d brushed off or tried to ignore. But now, all at once, it feels like they’re adding up, slotting together in a way that you hadn’t considered before.

You glance down at your hand, the one resting on your stomach, and something inside you clicks.

Oh.

Nanami must notice the shift in your expression because his hand stills on your back.

“What is it?” he asks, his voice low and steady.

You swallow hard, the words catching in your throat before you finally manage to speak.

“I think… I might be pregnant.”

There. You’ve said it. And the weight of those words hangs heavy in the air between you, a truth you hadn’t been ready to acknowledge until now.

Kento doesn’t react immediately. His expression stays calm, though you can see the flicker of something in his eyes - surprise, perhaps, or maybe something more. Did he already suspect this? Is this why he pushed you to think about your symptoms further? Slowly, he straightens up, standing in front of you now as he takes a deep breath.

“Are you sure?”

You shake your head, feeling a little lost.

“I’m not. I… I hadn’t really thought about it until just now.”

The truth is, you hadn’t considered the possibility at all. With everything going on - work, life, the general busyness of existing, it hadn’t crossed your mind that this could be the reason behind everything you’ve been feeling.

But now that it’s out in the open, you can’t help but wonder how you missed the signs.

Nanami’s hand gently cups your chin, tilting your face up so that you’re looking at him. His gaze is steady, calm in a way that grounds you, just like always.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions yet,” he says quietly.

“But if you think there’s a chance…”

You nod, your throat suddenly tight.

“Yeah. There might be.”

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The air between you feels thick with unspoken emotions, a quiet understanding settling between you. Nanami steps closer, his hand moving from your chin to cup your cheek instead, his thumb brushing against your skin.

“We’ll figure this out,” he murmurs, his voice soft.

“Together.”

The sincerity in his words washes over you, bringing with it a flood of emotions you hadn’t realized you were holding back. You blink, your vision blurring slightly as you reach up to cover his hand with yours.

“I’m scared,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Nanami’s expression softens, and he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“I know. But whatever happens, we’ll face it together. I promise” he mutters against your skin.

You nod, your heart swelling with a mix of fear, uncertainty, and something else, something warmer, softer. You aren’t alone in this. No matter what happens, you have your boyfriend by your side, steady and unshakable.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes meeting yours again.

“Do you want to take a test?” he asks, his voice careful, as if he’s gauging your readiness.

You hesitate, biting your lip.

“I… I don’t know. Maybe? I mean, I guess I should, right?”

Nanami nods, but he doesn’t push.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

The idea of taking a test feels overwhelming, like it would make everything real in a way you’re not sure you’re prepared for. But at the same time, the uncertainty is starting to weigh on you, the not knowing gnawing at the edges of your thoughts.

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment as you try to gather yourself. When you open them again, Nanami is still there, watching you with that quiet patience you’ve come to rely on so much.

“Okay,” you say finally, your voice trembling just a little.

“Okay. I’ll take a test.”

Nanami squeezes your hand gently, a reassuring presence beside you.

“I’ll go get one,” he offers, his tone calm and matter-of-fact, like he’s suggesting something as simple as picking up groceries.

You nod, feeling a little more settled now that a decision has been made.

“Yeah, okay. Thank you.”

He leans down, pressing another soft kiss to your forehead before pulling back.

“I’ll be back soon.”

With that, he grabs his keys and heads for the door, casting one last glance over his shoulder before he slips out into the hallway.

Once he’s gone, the quiet of the apartment feels almost too loud. You sit there for a long moment, staring at the cup of tea in front of you, your mind racing with thoughts you can’t quite hold onto.

Pregnant. You might be pregnant.

The idea feels too big, too surreal to grasp, and yet it’s there, lingering just at the edge of your awareness. A part of you is scared, terrified of the changes this could bring. But another part, a part you’re only just beginning to acknowledge, feels something else. Hope, maybe? Excitement? It’s hard to tell.

All you know for sure is that everything feels different now, that your whole life will be turned upside down if this test comes out positive.

When Nanami returns a short while later, test in hand, you take it from him with trembling fingers. He doesn’t say anything, just gives you a small, reassuring nod as you disappear into the bathroom.

The minutes that follow are some of the longest of your life. You pace back and forth in front of the sink, your heart pounding in your chest as you wait for the results. The silence feels deafening, and all you can do is focus on your breathing, trying to keep yourself calm.

Finally, the time is up. You glance down at the test, your breath catching in your throat as you read the result.

Positive.

You stare at it for a long moment, your mind struggling to process what you’re seeing. And then, slowly, the reality starts to sink in.

You’re pregnant.

With shaking hands, you open the bathroom door to find Nanami standing just outside, waiting. He looks up at you, his expression calm but expectant.

“Well?” he asks quietly.

You swallow hard, your voice catching in your throat as you hold up the test.

“It’s positive.”

For a moment, Nanami doesn’t say anything. His eyes flicker to the test in your hand, and then back to your face, his expression unreadable. And then, slowly, he steps forward, wrapping his arms around you in a gentle, grounding embrace.

“We’re going to be okay,” he murmurs against your hair.

“You’re going to be okay.”

And somehow, with his arms around you, you really believe him. Maybe you will be able to work this out. After all, you have none other than Kento Nanami by your side, right?

“Kento…”, you begin, the flood of sniffs and wild emotions now slowly but surely calming down.

“What is it, darling?”

“Did you…did you know?”

He sends a small smile your way while gently stroking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I couldn’t be sure. But after seeing you like this for a couple of weeks now, I had some suspicions”, he admits quietly.

You let out a huff.

“I can’t believe you realized it earlier than I did.”

“You are my life, (y/n). I notice every little thin about you.”

“And now you’ll be the father of a child”, you breathe out.

The words still feel strange while rolling off your tongue. Kento Nanami will be a father – the father of your child.

You are pregnant.

This is real.

“And I couldn’t ask for a better mother for my child.”

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luvvyouforever · 26 days ago

Text

undercover - aaron hotchner x reader

synopsis: in the middle of a case, your worst fear comes true. you have to go on an a date with aaron hotchner, the boss you've been crushing on for months. content: canon-typical violence, tropey, kissing, flirtatious aaron, mentions of alcohol, afab reader who wears a dress. word count: 4k+ a lil bit oops author's note: ahhh my favorite trope in crime shows. enjoy!

"so based on this geographical profile y/n and i worked on, there's only two bars our unsub could frequent with his victims. the first one is more of a nightclub and we don't think it's likely that he'll be bringing them to such a rowdy environment," reid spoke to the crowd of officers and agents awaiting instruction. "the other bar also has a restaurant attached so we'll be keeping our investigation here."

jj grabbed a handful of papers with the bar's information and passed them out to the officers. once reid had stepped to the side, aaron came forward to wrap up their profile.

"he's cunning, yet incredibly violent. do not ambush him. he will escape your grasp and hurt you in the process. be on the lookout officers," he said with a tap to the desk that sent everyone back to work. with a subtle turn, aaron gazed at you and reid. "good work on the mapping. meet back up in the conference room in 5."

"thank you, sir," you and reid echoed before beginning to organize your files back into a folder.

all the while you tried to remain professional, your heart throbbed in your chest at the smallest ounce of praise from your boss. the way he held the room in his hand and demanded respect without ever having to actually ask for it was a part of the reason why you've had a crush on them for the better part of a year.

crush, now, felt too small. it was an infatuation at this point.

it didn't matter much, however, because would you ever confess your feelings for your boss? the boss who has been nothing but stoic your entire time of knowing him? absolutely not.

shrugging the butterflies in your body away, you head over to the impromptu coffee station created for the large number of people inside the police station and pour a cup of stale yet hot and much needed energy. this case was a doozy, one that had every agent just wishing for its end. and it felt like it was soon to come to a close. they had been coming up with some kind of plan. what that plan was, you weren't entirely sure.

when you managed to snap a lid on the coffee cup, you headed into the conference room where the rest of the bau were seated haphazardly around the room. you took a spot between emily and reid, eyes focused on aaron and rossi standing in front of a whiteboard.

"that coffee's not any good, is it?" rossi asked, noting the cup in your hand.

"every sip is somehow worse than the last, but i think we all need it," you said, following your statement up with another pained drink. rossi laughed and out of the corner of your eye, you could've swore that the corner of aaron's lips titled into a smirk. you ignored it, though, and began reading the words on the board.

"so, we're hoping to catch the unsub tonight," aaron started suddenly, turning with his ever-present air of professionalism. "if he's still following his schedule, he'll find his next victim tonight, most likely at the bar reid and y/n found. we've thought about how we're going catch him and i think we'll have to go undercover. two of us."

"under what pretenses, exactly?" derek asked on the other side of the table.

"on a date," rossi answered. just faintly, a red tint appeared on aaron's cheeks. you wondered what could possibly have made him- "we've picked our two already. y/n and aaron."

"oh!" you said surprisedly. "what led to this decision, pray tell?"

aaron looked down at his folders as if they were the most important thing in the world in that very moment. rossi glanced over, shook his head, then looked at you again.

"you two just seem the most likely out of any of us to go on a date. we don't want to look suspicious, no?" rossi answered.

"i-uh-i suppose not," you said. "my go bag isn't really packed with date wear clothes. mostly just pantsuits and academy t-shirts."

aaron finally cleared his throat and met your eyes for the first time since it was announced that you two would technically be going on a date. even if you would be wearing bulletproof vests under your clothes.

"that's okay. we won't be going out till 7pm. it's only three now. you're free to find something. as long as it's easy to move in," he said in a voice that felt an octave deeper than usual. and then he did something that almost made you faint on the spot. aaron dug into his pocket, fished out his wallet, and pulled out a credit card. his credit card. "use this."

sheepishly, you took the card from his hands and placed it into your own bag. "thanks," you muttered. an elbow jabbed its way into your side from beside you and emily was smirking at you. you dismissed her with your hand and stood to exit the room.

"hotel lobby at 7, yeah?" aaron said.

you forced a nervous smile to your face and nodded, then left the room. with aaron's credit card in your bag. about to buy an outfit. for a date with him. you weren't entirely positive you could safely drive.

౨ৎ

with the information you had about the bar, you picked a semi-formal, simple dress that paired well with heels you already packed. aaron was already paying for the dress. you couldn't ask him to also pay for the accessories.

after some test laps up and down your hotel room, you declared the outfit was "easy to move in" and grabbed your bag, ensuring that his credit card was still inside. the time was only 6:45, but you knew aaron would already be there, waiting.

with a check that your holster was properly attached to your thigh, you left the room and took the elevator down to the first floor. your heart was beating irregularly in your chest and your hands were clammy, but the reflective surface of the elevator's walls let you know that you looked good. for a fake date with aaron hotchner.

the elevator dinged when the doors opened and immediately, you saw aaron sitting in a lobby chair. he looked up at the sound and stood. he was dressed impeccably well in a suit with his hair done in its usual middle part. handsome was the only word on the tip of your tongue.

"you look beautiful," he said upon reaching your figure. it seemed like he didn't mean for the words to slip out, but instead of retracting them, he simply held out his arm for yours to wrap around.

your mouth went dry, but you knew you had to say something back. "thank you, hotch. you look handsome yourself."

"i think for the purposes of tonight," he said, "you can just call me aaron."

you nodded, finding words hard to muster up. instead, you allowed him to lead out of the hotel to one of the least suspicious looking SUVs parked outside. when he reached the door, he opened it for you.

you couldn't hold back a little laugh at the gesture. "you know...we're not on the date yet," you said. regardless of the light humor of the situation, you allowed him to help you into the passenger seat. he smirked, shut the door, then walked around to his door.

when he got in, his usual stone expression found its way to his face again. "forgive me for wanting to make this feel as natural as possible. i'm sure it's awkward going on a date with your boss. even if it is undercover."

"oh, no!" you blurted out. his eyebrows raised as he backed out of the parking spot. his arm wound its way around your seat, neglecting the back-up camera for the traditional method. "sorry. it's not awkward. you don't have to worry. promise."

"yeah?" he asked, putting the car back into drive and heading to the downtown area of the small town you were in. at a stop sign, he turned to look at you. if you weren't such a highly trained profiler, you would've certainly missed the way his eyes raked up and down your body, taking in your dress of choice. "you made a good pick."

your cheeks warmed with his flattery. to avoid meeting his gaze, you fished the credit card out of your purse to offer back to him. "thanks," you muttered. "you didn't have to pay for it, you know?"

he took the credit card from your grasp and shoved it into his pants pocket. "don't worry about it," he said with a wave of his hand. "figured if you're forced into going on a date, you should have something nice to wear at least."

you looked over to his body in the driver's seat, his face focused on the road ahead of him. "why do you keep assuming that i'm hating every second of this? i mean...how rare is it that we get to eat somewhere nice while on a case? and i'm getting paid for it while in the presence of a handsome man. could be worse things." you didn't know what compelled you to add on the last bit, but when you saw his cheeks flare up, you didn't regret it.

instead of responding, aaron's body relaxed in the driver's seat.

after several minutes of driving, the bar came into view and you bit your lip in nervousness. this unsub was pretty intense and you were heading directly into the lion's den. you tried to cram the nervousness deep down in the pit of your stomach as aaron pulled into the small parking lot next door.

before turning the car completely off, aaron turned his body towards yours. "now we really need to look as inconspicuous as possible. it might feel weird, but we need to look like a real couple on a date, okay?"

"yes, sir," you responded on impulse. "i mean...yes, aaron."

despite his attempts not to, he breathily chuckled. "already off to a great start," he joked. you chuckled with him and unbuckled your seat. "i'm gonna text the team that we're heading in. don't open your door. let me do it."

a minute of quick texting passed by and aaron shut off the car, then stepped out. a few seconds passed before your door opened and aaron was extending his hand to yours. you took it with a sweet smile and let him lead you out of the car. he shut the door behind you and your arm found his own again.

regardless of the reason being for the case or for just the pure want to be closer to him, you leaned into aaron's strong body. he took to the gesture immediately and held you even closer. it was intoxicating, but you kept your gaze focused on the bar ahead.

after what felt like agonizing hours of walking side by side, you came onto the host stand at the front of the restaurant.

"how many?" the host asked.

"two," aaron responded. the hand that was holding on to your arm began rubbing the skin there up and down. every touch of his fingers left goosebumps.

the host gestured for the two of you to follow her. quicker than you'd like, she led you towards a table in the middle of the restaurant. your eyes surveyed the restaurant and bar around you, scanning for someone that resembled the unsub's profile. once the host walked away, you and aaron looked at each other and shook your heads, signaling that nothing felt out of the ordinary so far.

"order whatever you'd like," aaron said, his head pointing towards the menu in your hand. "hon," he added.

the petname rolled from his tongue naturally, as if it was a name he had been calling you for years. you tried to not show that it affected you much, but aaron noticed the way your breath caught in your throat. despite the nervousness that settled over your body, you decided to take another leap and with a shift in your seat, your heeled foot grazed over his leg. he was shocked at the sudden touch, but spread his legs further nonetheless.

you didn't pull away either when the server came forward.

"welcome, guys. date night tonight, i'm guessing?" she asked with a smile.

"mhm!" you answered first. "decided to get out and dress up for once in a while."

aaron looked at you with an almost impressed look. maybe rossi was right. you did look like a couple.

"isn't that nice? well, what would you two like to drink tonight?"

"an old-fashioned, please," aaron responded. "and a water."

"i'll take a cosmopolitan and a water," you added.

the server noted down the drinks and walked away. your foot continued sliding up and down aaron's legs, becoming a subconscious act at that point. he flipped through the menu once, then glanced around the room again. still nothing.

"an old-fashioned, hmm?" you asked, eyeing one of the meals on the menu that sounded particularly tasty.

"is that shocking?" he asked.

"no," you answered honestly. "just learning more about you, aaron."

aaron hummed, as if he were about to say something, but instead focused on his menu again. a few minutes of comfortable silence passed before the server came over with a tray of your drinks. she sat them down on the table, along with the waters, then pulled out a notepad again.

"had enough time to pick what you'd like?" she asked.

"know what you want, dear?" you asked, looking up at aaron.

"i'll take the steak frites," he said to the server.

both he and the server looked at you. you told her what you'd like from the menu, hoping it wasn't expensive enough for aaron. he barely registered the price, though, and instead collected your menus to hand to the server. if this was what dates were usually like with him, you could definitely tolerate them.

"you look like you're thinking about something," aaron said from the other side of the table where he had been watching both you and the door intently.

you took a sip of your drink and sat it back down. "i thought we said no profiling your coworkers, dear," you teased. "i feel like that applies tenfold when you're on a date."

he chuckled and took a sip of his own drink. you noted just how attractive he was with a glass of whiskey in his hand, laughing.

"pardon me for wanting to know what my beautiful date has in her head," aaron said. his words made you bite your lip and look down at the table. suddenly, though, his demeanor shifted as his eyes connected with someone coming in at the door. "don't turn around."

"is he here?" you whispered.

he nodded and picked up his drink, eyes following him to the bar. almost imperceptibly, he tilted his head towards the bar. "fifth seat," he whispered back.

sure enough, an unsub matching the physical profile had seated himself next to an alone woman at the bar. almost immediately upon sitting down, he began talking to her. the fact that the man you had been trying to catch for a long time, the man who committed some really gruesome murders was that close to you made you almost ill. you passed your emotions off by taking a drink.

"i'm gonna grab another drink, baby. i haven't seen the server around," aaron suddenly said. he nodded to you, perhaps for reassurance, before standing and adjusting his blazer to ensure the holster on his side was covered. luckily, the seat directly next to the woman was empty and he positioned himself on the other side of it. the unsub barely registered his presence, which was good. you took note of his clothes, his hair, everything, just in case she slipped through your grasp again.

eventually, aaron had flagged down the bartender, ordered his second drink, and came back with it in his hand.

"he's just flirting with her," aaron whispered once he was out of earshot. "but she's falling for it. probably not long till he tries to leave with her."

"i won't get to finish my food," you said half-seriously.

"i'll get it boxed up for you, hon," he said. though that time, aaron's voice was a whisper. the petname was for you alone.

just as aaron had expected, the unsub stood from his seat at the bar, the woman next to him following suit. together, they headed towards the back where the bathroom was, along with an exit inside the kitchen which he was likely going to use. both yours and aarons followed them and with a curt nod, you both stood to head towards the back, several paces behind them.

suddenly, they went through a door, to what seemed like a closet first before going into the kitchen. you and aaron paused at the beginning of the hallway. then some noises erupted from the closet, ones that would make an older woman blush and hold her hand to her mouth.

aaron looked back at you with a confused look on his face. at that very moment, the closet door opened. you and aaron looked at each other in panic, but just before they stepped out of the closet, you grabbed aaron by his tie and pulled him closer to you.

within seconds, you had hiked your leg up his own, revealing your thigh in the dress. his hand quickly came to the skin and he squeezed tightly. to add to the scene, you wrapped a hand around the base of aaron's neck and pulled him down. his lips met your own with a rough clash, but then the kiss smoothed out.

at first, he was still, lips unmoving against yours. when your fingers tangled themselves into the short hairs at his neck, he finally kissed you back. acting, he thought to himself as he deepened the kiss and pulled your leg higher up his. undercover, he tried to remind himself when your lips let forth a whimper into his mouth.

neither of you wanted to pull away. you only pulled your head back when you heard the kitchen door swing open and closed. you inhaled a deep breath and met aaron's dark brown eyes. they were wide and his cheeks were flushed.

"sorry. i-it was all i could think to do," you stuttered out.

aaron shook his head. "don't be," he said quickly. "come on, he's about to leave. we'll talk after."

you felt the warmth of aaron's body leave yours as he pulled the gun from his holster. you retrieved your own from your thigh and followed him through the kitchen. he flashed his badge towards the chefs to get them to stop yelling and they pointed towards the exit where the unsub had just left.

both of you picked up your pace. had the kiss deepened for a few more seconds, you would have certainly missed him. however, as soon as you threw open the exit door, the unsub was forcefully shoving the young woman into his car.

"fbi! put your hands up and back away from the car!" aaron yelled. the unsub didn't do immediately as asked, despite two guns pointing in his direction. "i won't ask again! put your hands up and back away from the car!"

in a quick flash, the unsub reached inside his jacket. in the streetlight, you saw the glint of a gun. hardly a second passed before he pulled it out, aimed, but then fell to the asphalt.

your finger came off the trigger and before lodging it back into the holster, you turned the safety back on. you hadn't killed him, only immobilized him in his right leg. it was enough for aaron to run forwards, take the gun and throw it to the side. while he placed handcuffs on the unsub, you ran to the other side of the car and rescued the woman from the passenger seat. crying, she fell into your arms. suddenly, you were surrounded by the town's police department, along with the rest of your team who had been waiting just down the street.

before everything got too hectic to seek each other out, you and aaron took a long look at each other. he nodded with a smile, his form of praise, before hauling the unsub into a police car.

౨ৎ

a few hours had passed before everyone was released from the scene. the bau loaded up into their SUVs, aaron taking the one you had rode together in. much to your chagrin, his car filled up before you could get in with him. instead, you rode with emily and reid on the way back to the hotel to gather your belongings.

when you arrived to the hotel, everyone split off into their rooms. aaron seemed to be speaking privately with rossi so you opted to go upstairs and change out of the outfit you had been wearing for the better half of the night.

as you were unbuckling your heels and placing them back into your go-bag, you heard a faint knock on the door. you rose from the bed, feet aching, and answered it.

there, aaron stood with a white t-shirt on, having had to change out of his clothes from the scene.

"hey," you said.

"can i come in?" he asked.

only then did you notice that he was holding something behind his back. you stepped to the side to allow him to enter and he scooted the item in front of him to prevent you from seeing.

"what do you have there?" you asked. slowly, he brought forth two boxes of food, having kept his promise from earlier.

"it's probably not the freshest anymore, but nothing that a microwave can't fix," he said sheepishly.

you could've cried on the spot. smiling brightly, you took the food from his hands and sat it on the hotel desk. a grunt escaped his lips as your arms engulfed him in a hug. his arms wrapped around your body and your feet lifted from the ground a little.

"thank you," you said genuinely.

aaron watched as you took the food and warmed them up, going for yours first so that he could have the slightly warmer meal. once they were both ready to be ate, you found some plastic silverware in the little coffee tray and handed one set to him.

"round two?" you said with a shrug.

"round two," he agreed. "but...i wouldn't mind a round three, or four, or five, when we get back home." he picked up a fry from his plate and popped it in his mouth.

"glad to know my impulsive gift didn't scare you off," you joked. you paused for a second and set the food down. "which, i mean, i wouldn't mind a round two on that either."

aaron paused too, setting his own box back down on the desk. he stood and offered his hand to help you up from the bed. you took it and rose. then, his hand wrapped around your back where his palm was splayed across the skin there.

"i wouldn't mind a round two either," he said quietly. "but i call the shots this time."

your knees felt weak being so close to aaron. you didn't miss the way his cheeks flared and one of his hands shook nervously. had he been feeling the same way for you for this long too?

"you can call the shots anytime, hon," you teased, echoing the petnames for earlier.

smirking, his free hand ghosted up your side till it met your chin. his fingers titled your head upwards and ever so softly, he leaned in. this kiss was much more romantic, more loving, less rushed. he had time, now. he wasn't kissing you to hide from someone else. he was kissing you because he has been wanting to for oh so long.

minutes must've passed before the two of you pulled away to a pure need to breathe. he smiled. "good round two?"

"i think i'm gonna need a few more just to double check."

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner criminal minds #thomas gibson #aaron #hotchner #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner fluff #ssa aaron hotchner #bau

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itsswritten · 6 days ago

Text

love in ink

Pairing: Azriel x fem reader, (there's a bit of Az and Elain too sorry)

Word Count: 2.6K

Warnings: Heartbreaking angst, rejection, blood, injuries, war, possible death.

Summary: On the brink of war, it was now or never to finally confess your feelings to Azriel, but when you stumble onto a moment you wish you hadn't perhaps it's the gods way of saying your confession had been too late.

The envelope was crumpled at the corners, the paper sure to wear thin under the pads of your thumbs. You stared at your handwriting, his name spiralled in ink slightly faded now.

Words you had written just over 50 years ago, a confession, a secret— a love letter for your best friend. A string of sentences and poetic prose that still rang true. You’re not even sure you remember what you wrote exactly, never really intending for it to see the light of day, however you knew your feelings were still the same. Despite the worn out paper in your hand, the envelope changed with time— your feelings had not. Unchanging. From the moment you met him, your love for him had always remained the same. If anything, it had only deepened and expanded with time.

The atmosphere of the war camp was heavy, the enemy soldiers high on the borders. It was only a matter of time before you would need to take your place on the frontlines. Before he, and your family took their positions among the soldiers to fight to protect the home you all held dear.

Death was lingering in the air, whispers of it rustled through the trees that sent a shiver down your spine. An impending end felt as though it was looming over you, a clock about to strike its final hour or an hourglass about to crack. For the first time in years you weren’t sure how you’d all make it out of this one. That’s why it had to be now, those words that had always been on the tip of your tongue, the secret behind your gentle touches, the confession deep within your yearning gaze, you needed to tell him—to finally speak your truth.

You moved between Prythian soldiers and Illyrians prepping themselves with armour and weapons, weaving between people with one destination in mind. Turning to see the commanding military tent you and Rhys had left him in hours ago. You hesitated for a moment outside, smoothing your fingers over the old parchment, your heartbeat quickening with nerves before taking a breath for confidence, stepping inside.

A shadow had tried to catch your elbow, its usual cool presence going amiss with your emotions shrouding your senses. If only you had noticed, noticed how it tried to save your heart. But with the adrenaline pumping in your veins, nothing could stop this now.

Your eyes blinked adjusting to the dimly lit tent, filled with small fae-lights and a large table with a map spread across. Small figurines representing flanks that were knocked over now, there was no strategy to win this war— only luck, prayer and hope.

It didn’t take long for your eyes to find him, to settle on the large Shadowsinger who had always captured your attention in any room he was in. Even when he lurked in the quietest of shadows, your eyes always found him. He was so beautiful, not just in form but in heart too.

That’s what you had fallen for first. Not his angelic looks, or that secret smile of his, not those expansive large wings that made you feel protected whenever in his presence— well it was easy to love all those things too, but it was his kind heart that spun this wheel of fate. Perhaps if you weren’t so tangled in your own heart you may have noticed there was someone else here. Scented another, a female. But it wasn’t until you saw his lips locked with hers that your gut sank.

Time seemed to slow in that second, while you saw Elain embrace Azriel in a moment you’re not sure you should have been privy to. Something so private and intimate. A farewell kiss before a war— a kiss you had hoped would have been yours.

Elain’s body was flush against his front, her arms thrown around his neck to pull herself up to his height. Azriel’s hands, though hesitant, still sat on her waist. It was a twisting torture as you seemed to take in every detail of their embrace, the flush of Azriel’s cheeks, the beat of his heart, the light sound of Elain’s moan.

Your throat tightened then, time finally catching up as a gasp involuntarily left your lips. Heartbreaking and wobbly that you hadn’t even realised you’d made such a distressing sound before you’d stumbled backwards from the tent. One foot in front of the other, forcing your legs to move you faster as your heartbeat thudded in your ears.

Your cheeks were hot, blood rushing to your ears, teeth gritted as you tried to control the sob that was threatening to bubble up. Not here, not now. You couldn’t waste tears on this, not when it was your fault you had left it so long— not when you were about to go to war and you may never make it out again.

You think you heard your name being called, but you pushed through the crowd further. Winding through the stifling tension within the camp, slipping in and out of pockets of soldiers, a dizzying spiral to try and escape what you had just witnessed. The image of them both kept replaying in your mind, your own vision becoming distorted with tears blurring with that near perfect picture of a heroic farewell you thought would have been yours.

With one wrong step you collided with a body, a shoulder barging into you that only meant your wobbly legs followed your wobbly mind, and you collided with the mud below. You grunted at the collision, a whispered curse leaving your lips.

You needed to get a grip.

You brushed the back of your sleeve against your face, wiping whatever tears that had already spilled and encouraged yourself to get ahold of at least a semblance of composure. You hadn’t endured 50 years under that mountain, 50 years away from your family— away from him to now suddenly break.

“Y/n…”

You could recognise his voice anywhere. That deep tone that always seemed to dance on the wind to you, weaving a melody around your heart. There was a shuffle behind you, and with a swiftness those familiar smoky tendrils came to you. Their aid and touch, always so soft as they tried to assist you from the ground. But in a movement so unlike you, you swatted them away. Their touch almost burning you. The embarrassment, the shame, the heartbreak that was coiling in your chest was too much to bear. And although there was nothing that you desired more than the cooling comforting touch of his shadows, you couldn’t bring yourself to indulge in it. Not now. Not after what you’d just seen.

Azriel breathed your name again, raspy and almost pained as you refused his help, pushing yourself from the ground. You couldn’t bring yourself to look up at him, choosing to wipe the dirt off your leathers, your gaze remaining on the ground below. You could see him shuffle slightly, his boots stepping closer towards you in the dirt. His hand just in the corner of your peripheral lifting to reach, only for it to fall back to his side. Scarred fingers flexing and twitching against his leathers, the only indication that perhaps his own emotions were reeling right now too.

“Sweetheart…”, the name of endearment he always used with you fell from his tongue like a siren's song. You hated how much of a hold he held on you, how easy it was to give in, how desperate your heart wanted to submit. “Talk to me,” he breathed.

There was a pause for a moment, before you found the courage to look at him. Convincing yourself that this might even be the last time, and despite everything you had just seen, did you want to deprive yourself from one last look at the male who had held your heart for over half a century.

His hazel eyes locked with your teary ones, an expression upon your face that had Azriel’s brows furrowing deeper. He reached for you this time, no hesitation after he got his confirmation that you were upset. His hands coming to your arms. “Hey…hey. Talk to me sweetheart, I need you to talk to me, we can sort this…”

Did he even know what this was? What your tears were spilling over? Did he know it was he causing you pain?

You were certain he didn’t. Otherwise he would have known there was no fixing this. There was no way Azriel could fix your broken heart. But as those thoughts seemed to dwell in your mind, it was as if the Shadowsinger began to feel your defeat, a desperation in his tone, “Look at me y/n, hey…look at me. Talk to me, my lo-“

Rhys’ talons scratched on the edges of your mind, and you welcomed your High Lord in. An urgent broadcast not just to you but all his inner circle.

“Enemies have broken through the barriers on the East I need someone—“

The perfect escape.

“I’m on my way,” you replied with haste. Only to get a harsh no from Azriel in response, his grip tightening on you.

“Don’t leave like this-“ his voice broke.

A part you almost stayed, your eyes lingering in his gaze, those three words still on the tip of your tongue. You’re not sure you could have survived outright rejection from him though, so, instead, you winnowed away from his hold.

Azriel stood there for a moment, his hands still out in front grasping with the cold air that was now between his fingers. A confusion simmering under his skin as to what had happened. All he had known was that something was wrong, from the moment Elain kissed him, to seeing you stumble out of that tent. Everything was wrong.

And this was not a time for things to be wrong. There was a war unfolding right before him and he didn’t have the privilege of time for things to be wrong. Especially not with you.

His shadows were coiling around something in the mud. An envelope with his name on, in a handwriting that was unmistakably yours.

✴

The air despite being cool and crisp was stifling, choking, making it hard for Azriel to breathe. Although there was no fire here, no molten ash or smoke coating his lungs. Just an emptiness of a person he held dear who was nowhere to be found. An emptiness so heavy it was getting harder to breathe.

Azriel felt weighed down by the stench of blood that lingered in the air, the battle was over. They had won, barely– and now what could be heard were the grunts and cries of injured soldiers.

Azriel’s torn wings dragged behind him, as he trudged through the eastern battle line. There were more bodies littered here than on the main battlefield, a fact that hadn’t gone untouched by the Spymaster. You had gone here in an instant, leaving Azriel grappling with your scent on the wind as you’d left. Leaving him to find a worn out letter with words he wasn’t sure he was deserving of– a letter that changed everything.

A letter that made everything feel right.

The letter was folded neatly in the breast pocket of his leathers, just above his heart.

“Where are you?” his voice was hoarse, he had been searching as soon as the battle was won. The usual quiet Shadowsinger had not relented when shouting for you in his search. But with every step he took his chest got tighter, the further down the bank he walked the probability of finding you was becoming less and less. His shadows that lingered on him for comfort began to move frantically, a direct reflection of Azriel’s fears bubbling under his skin. Their jittery movement hovering in the air around him.

Then he caught it. A faint scent he would always recognise. Barely there beneath the copper and rot. His head snapped toward the source, and before he could think, his feet carried him forward.

His shadows converged at a pile of rubble, a mound of shattered stone and splintered wood. They darted in and out, trembling as if confirming what he already feared.

“Please, no…” Azriel whispered, his voice raw. He dropped to his knees and began digging, ignoring the way the sharp edges bit into his palms. He pulled away debris with savage strength, tearing through the wreckage until—

You.

He found you. Broken and soul barely a whisper of the female he knew. Blood was matted in your hair, skin littered with gashes and bruises but your chest rose. Azriel could see small shallow breaths leave your lips, his own movements frozen before his shadows moved into action first. Moving you gently into their master’s arms, he cradled you. Sweet whispers falling from his lips that were pressed against your temple.

“Az–Azriel..” your voice hitched.

“I’m here sweetheart, you’re going to be okay. You’re so brave sweet girl,”

“It hurts…”

“I know, I know my love…you’re so strong okay. Help is on it’s way, you’re going to be okay,”

Azriel had already sent a mental plea into the vastness but as he watched your eyelids begin to flutter he shouted into the cold air, crying to anyone who may hear for a healer, for help. Because he could not lose you, not now he knew.

Your name left his lips in a sob as he pulled your fragile body tighter against him “Just hold on a little longer my love, please, for me…” His hand delicately came against your cheek, his own forehead resting against yours as a flurry of pleas rolled on his tongue. “Just a little longer…”

He swore he heard some semblance of a hum in response but your eyes were shut. He was stroking your blood-matted hair now, rambling and whispering.

“I got your letter, I’m not sure if you really wanted me to have it, not sure if I’m really deserving of what you’ve written in it but oh sweetheart…your lovely words…I’m so blessed…so lucky…so undeserving…”

“But if it’s true..” he was stumbling over his words now, in between the sobs, “if you give me the chance to make this right…”

“I know now why you were so upset before…I think a part of me understood…felt your pain because in some way I was feeling it too…” his thumb was rubbing small circles on your cheekbone.

“If I could go back and change it I would. I need you to know it was a mistake…with Elain…tensions were high, feelings misdirected…

“I was thinking I could take you to the bakery you love when you’re feeling better, if you’d let me…we could make a day of it…walk along the Sidra…maybe our first proper date…

“I wish I hadn’t been so blind my love, you’ve always been the most special person to me…after you came back from under the mountain…I…well I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again…I just felt grateful to have you back, told myself I didn’t need anything more than that…

“Can you hold on for me…please…my love, just a little longer…

“Az…”, his name pulled him from his ramblings, although it wasn’t your voice that had spoken.

Azriel looked up, Rhys was kneeled in front of him. They weren’t on the battlefield anymore though. They were in a healers tent. When had they moved? Azriel couldn’t recall.

“I need you to give her to me now.”

Azriel looked at his brother confused, then glanced down to your limp figure in his arms.

“Azriel, now.”

a/n: sorry i know I had some requests for some festive fluff but instead I bring you this angst...sorry not sorry tee hee <3 thank you @writingcroissant for your help I mentioned this fic idea to her months ago and literally only found it the other week, if you don't like the elusive ending blame her ;) Although if I had taken @illyrianbitch advice y/n would most definitely be dead so I think the elusiveness means you can all choose your own endings. Maybe both her and Az are dead and actually Rhys is the devil I dunno

forever tags: @lilah-asteria @sleepylunarwolf @daily-dose-of-sass @alittlelostalittlefound-blog @milswrites @amberlynn98 @marscardigan @illyrianbitch @searchingforbucky

#acotar #azriel x reader #azriel x you #acotar azriel #acotar fanfiction #acotar series #angst #azriel angst #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel fanfic #azriel x y/n #azriel spymaster #azriel

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whosscruffylooking · 1 month ago

Text

Militiae Species Amor Est

Militiae species amor est - "Love is a kind of war."

Part II Is Up Now!

This is a story based on an original character, Iris. She has no description in regards to hair, skin color, eye color, etc. It doesn't follow any particular timeline and the events in this story extend longer than the events of the movie. I saw the movie last night and wrote this today in between appointments, so please don't judge if it's slightly messy haha. Please enjoy!

warnings:// some mentions of blood and weapons. time period typical violence.

word count: 6.7k

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The air in the colosseum was thick with noise—cheers, jeers, and the distant clang of swords meeting shields. You sat stiffly in the patrician’s box beside your fiancé, Caius, his hand possessively resting on the arm of your chair. He was absorbed in the spectacle, his dark eyes gleaming with excitement every time the sand turned red. You barely heard him as he leaned close, muttering about the skill of one gladiator. Your attention, however, was elsewhere.

“Hanno,” the announcer’s voice boomed over the crowd, and the colosseum erupted into a frenzy. “The Eagle of the Arena!”

The title was grand, but it wasn’t the name that sent a shiver down your spine. It was the description whispered about him in every corner of Rome: a fighter with unmatched presence, defiance in his eyes, and a grace that reminded you of someone you thought you’d lost forever.

Lucius.

The boy who had once been your entire world.

Your heart raced as the gates creaked open, and Hanno stepped into the sunlight. The sight of him stole your breath. He was older now, broader, his body honed by years of struggle, but there was no mistaking him. His hair, still curling the way you remembered, caught the light, and his eyes—those stormy blue eyes that had once looked at you as though you were the only thing that mattered—swept over the crowd.

Lucius.

He moved like the wind, his steps steady, his posture unshaken. The arena seemed to bend to him, the crowd hanging on his every movement. He raised his sword, saluting the emperor, but you knew him too well to miss the flicker of contempt in his gaze. That small defiance confirmed it.

You didn’t realize you were staring until Caius’s voice cut through your thoughts.

“You seem unusually captivated, my dear,” he said, his tone light but edged with suspicion.

You blinked, dragging your gaze away from the arena. “It’s… he’s remarkable,” you managed, hoping your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

Caius smirked, his pride swelling as if he were responsible for the spectacle before you. “Hanno is Rome’s finest now. A true warrior.”

Your eyes drifted back to Lucius—Hanno—before you could stop yourself. Memories of your childhood together flooded your mind: running through the gardens of Lucilla’s villa, the way his laughter had filled the air like music, the nights you whispered your dreams to each other under the stars.

He had been everything to you, even though the world told you he couldn’t be. You were a servant, an invisible presence in the household of his mother, Lucilla. But to Lucius, you had been more. He’d promised you, one night under the moon, that he would find a way for you to be together.

That promise had been shattered the day Maximus died. Lucius was sent away, his mother’s grief consuming everything in its path. You were left behind, forced to grow up in silence, betrothed to Caius—a man you didn’t love, who saw you as nothing more than a beautiful possession.

Now, years later, here he was. The boy who had held your hand in secret was now a man commanding the attention of thousands, and yet he was still fighting. Not just for survival, but for something greater. For freedom.

You couldn’t look away.

As the match began, Lucius moved with the precision and grace of someone born to the sword. Every strike, every parry, every step was measured and deliberate. He fought like a man who had nothing to lose and everything to prove.

When the fight ended—his opponent crumpled in the sand, and the crowd screamed his name—Lucius raised his head. For a fleeting moment, his eyes met yours, and you saw recognition spark there, sharp and immediate.

He knew you.

Your breath caught, your hands gripping the edge of your chair. He didn’t look away, his chest heaving as he stared up at you. The distance between you felt both vast and nonexistent.

“Are you unwell?” Caius’s voice jolted you back to reality, his brows furrowed in irritation.

You forced a smile, your heart pounding. “No. It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was him.

Lucius.

And you would find him again. No matter what it took.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The roar of the crowd surged like a wave, crashing against the walls of the colosseum, but Lucius barely heard it. He stood in the center of the arena, the weight of his sword steady in his hand, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the fight. The sand beneath his feet was stained red, the air thick with heat and blood.

Another victory. Another step toward survival.

He turned to acknowledge the emperor with a sharp salute, but his movements were mechanical. His body obeyed out of habit, but his mind was elsewhere, as it always was after a fight. Somewhere far from Rome, far from the sand and the chains. Somewhere warm and quiet, where he wasn’t a gladiator, wasn’t the Eagle of the Arena.

Then he looked up at the crowd, scanning the patrician’s box with a glance he’d perfected—casual enough not to attract suspicion, sharp enough to note every detail.

And he saw her.

At first, he thought his exhaustion was playing tricks on him. He blinked, his grip tightening on his sword as he stared at the woman seated high above. The sun caught her hair, and though she was dressed in the fine silks of a noblewoman, there was no mistaking her.

It was her.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The world around him blurred—the cheers of the crowd, the stink of the arena, even the pain radiating from his bruised ribs. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the woman in front of him.

She was older now, more poised, her features sharper, but it was still her. The same eyes he used to stare into when they were children, the same curve of her lips that had whispered his name in the dark corners of his mother’s villa. The servant girl who had once been his whole world.

The girl he had loved.

Her eyes widened as they locked on his, a mix of shock and disbelief crossing her face. He wondered if she thought him a ghost, just as he had often imagined her face in dreams, only to wake and find himself alone. But this wasn’t a dream. She was here.

His chest tightened as a thousand memories flooded back. Running barefoot through the gardens together, laughing as they dodged his tutors and stole food from the kitchens. Her small, warm hands brushing his as they sat by the fountain, sharing secrets no one else could know.

And then the promises. He had been so sure, so determined, swearing under a sky full of stars that he would always protect her, always come back for her. But life had taken that choice from him. His father’s death, his mother’s grief—it had torn him from her side and thrown him into a world where love had no place.

Yet here she was, staring at him as though no time had passed at all.

The man beside her shifted in his seat, leaning close to speak to her. Lucius’s jaw clenched as the man’s hand brushed hers, the gesture small but possessive. So, she was engaged. Of course, she was. A woman like her, even a servant, could be bartered into a match that served some Roman noble’s ambitions.

But when she looked at her betrothed, there was no warmth in her eyes. None of the light he remembered.

She turned back to him, and for a moment, it felt as though the years melted away. The noise of the arena faded, the weight of his chains forgotten. It was just her and him, as it had always been.

Lucius felt something stir inside him, something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years.

Hope.

His salute lingered a moment longer than it should have, his gaze unwavering. He saw the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers gripped the edge of her chair as if grounding herself against the storm inside her.

And then the guards called for him to return to the cells. The gate creaked open behind him. He forced himself to turn, to walk away, but every step felt heavier than the last.

She was here. She had found him.

And now, no matter the cost, he would find her again.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The barracks were dark and quiet, save for the faint crackle of the brazier in the corner. Lucius sat on the edge of the wooden bench, his head bowed, his hands idly tracing the grooves of the blade across his lap. Around him, the other gladiators had fallen into a tense silence, their usual jests and muttered complaints subdued after the day’s bloodshed.

He’d been Hanno for so long now, the name sliding easily from the lips of the guards, the crowd, the men who fought and bled beside him. Hanno, the invincible gladiator, the Eagle of the Arena. No one questioned where he had come from, why his skills surpassed so many others. They only saw what they wanted—a spectacle, a story to worship or envy.

But tonight, none of that mattered.

Her face had been burned into his mind since he’d seen her, her wide eyes locking with his in the colosseum. Every move he made since had been automatic, his body fighting and surviving on instinct, while his mind reeled with the impossible truth: she was alive.

He gritted his teeth, clenching the blade harder. For years, he’d allowed himself to believe she was lost to him, married off to some faceless noble, her life swallowed by the world of the Roman elite. He’d tried to bury the ache of it, the guilt that he hadn’t fought harder to keep her, the memories of her laugh, her touch, her whispered promises in the moonlight.

But now she was here, close enough to reach, yet still out of his grasp.

“Oi, Hanno,” a gruff voice broke the silence. One of the older gladiators, Gaius, sat sharpening his sword in the corner, his one good eye glinting in the firelight. “You’ve been starin’ at that blade like it owes you coin. What’s on your mind?”

Lucius glanced up, his expression carefully neutral. “Nothing.”

Gaius snorted, unconvinced. “You’re a terrible liar. You’ve been off since the games today. Can’t say I blame you—crowds like that, they’ll rattle anyone.” He leaned forward, a sly grin spreading across his scarred face. “Or maybe it was someone in the crowd?”

Lucius froze, but only for a moment. Long enough for Gaius’s grin to widen.

“Thought so,” Gaius said. “Some patrician woman caught your eye, eh? Happens to the best of us. Those fine silks and soft hands… nothin’ like the sand and blood we’re used to.”

Lucius forced a smirk, playing along. “Maybe. She looked familiar, that’s all.”

“Familiar?” Gaius raised a brow. “A patrician you’d know? From before?” He lowered his voice, his tone suddenly serious. “Careful, lad. That kind of thinking’ll get you killed. We’re gladiators now, not men with pasts.”

Lucius ignored the warning, leaning back and keeping his voice casual. “You’ve been here longer than most. You hear things. You know people. If I wanted to find out about someone—just out of curiosity—how would I go about it?”

Gaius squinted at him, suspicious now. “Depends who you’re asking about.”

“Her,” Lucius said, his tone sharper than he intended. “She was in the patrician’s box today. y/h/c, y/e/c. Engaged to some nobleman.”

Gaius let out a low whistle. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Hanno. Asking about a patrician’s bride-to-be? What, you think you’ll sweep her off her feet, carry her out of here on your shield?” He laughed, but when Lucius didn’t respond, the humor faded from his face.

“You’re serious,” Gaius muttered.

Lucius didn’t answer, his jaw set in a way that made it clear he wasn’t going to let this go.

Gaius sighed, shaking his head. “Fine. But you didn’t hear this from me. There’s a steward who works the colosseum, handles the guests in the noble galleries. Quintus is his name. He’s got loose lips when he’s had a bit to drink. You might learn something from him.”

Lucius nodded, already planning his next move. He would find this Quintus, he would learn what he could, and he would find a way to see her.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The barracks were suffocating, the air heavy with the stench of sweat and blood. Lucius sat on the stone bench, his head bowed, hands clasped as though in prayer. But he wasn’t praying. Not to the gods, at least. If they had ever cared for him, they had long since turned their backs.

Her face haunted him—the moment he’d locked eyes with her in the patrician’s box. Everything about that instant had shattered his focus, his purpose. The games, the crowd, the blood—they had all faded in that one heartbeat when he saw her again. Iris.

The name stirred something deep within him—something he had buried long ago. She shouldn’t have been there. In this place, with him, after all this time. But there she was, sitting among the nobles, looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and recognition, as though she, too, had never forgotten their past. The girl he had loved. The girl he had lost.

He had to know who she was with now—who held her heart.

He caught Titus, one of the younger gladiators, in the corridor late that night when the air had cooled and the others were lost in their rest. The torchlight cast shadows that made everything feel like a dream.

“I need you to send a message,” Lucius said, his voice quiet but firm.

Titus hesitated, glancing nervously at the hallway. “A message? To who?”

“Quintus. The steward,” Lucius said. “Tell him Hanno requests an audience.”

Titus frowned, confused. “Quintus? Why him?”

“Just do it,” Lucius ordered, his tone hardening. “Tell him the Eagle wants to speak to him.”

Reluctantly, Titus nodded and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Lucius alone again with his racing thoughts.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

It wasn’t long before Quintus arrived, stepping into the dim light of the corridor with a casual air that belied his sharp eyes. He stopped just outside the bars of Lucius’s cell, arms crossed, his usual smirk playing at the edges of his mouth.

“To what do I owe the honor, Hanno?” Quintus asked, his voice thick with mockery.

Lucius moved to the bars, his grip tight. “I need information.”

Quintus’s eyebrow arched. “Information? About what?”

“Her,” Lucius said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The woman who was in the patrician’s box today. Iris.” He said her name with a careful hesitation, as though he had spoken it too many times in his head already. “I want to know who she’s engaged to.”

Quintus’s smirk faltered for a moment, but he quickly masked his surprise. “Caius Livius, if you must know,” he replied, his tone as indifferent as ever. “She’s promised to him. A senator’s son.”

Lucius’s jaw tightened, anger rising like a fire within him. Caius. The name tasted bitter on his tongue. He had no claim on Iris anymore, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“And where do I find her?” Lucius asked, his voice colder than before.

Quintus leaned closer, his expression unreadable. “You think you can just walk into their life and take what’s already promised?”

“I didn’t ask for your judgment,” Lucius shot back, gripping the bars so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I asked for information.“

Quintus held his gaze for a long moment, as though weighing the consequences of giving away more than he should. “Fine ,” he said finally, his voice lowering. “The wedding is planned for the Saturnalia, and he’ll be parading around the city like any nobleman would. But you, Hanno, are nothing but a gladiator. You’re not in their world anymore.”

Lucius’s eyes hardened, his resolve set. He didn’t care. He would find a way.

Quintus sighed, seeing the determination in Lucius’s eyes. “Be careful. Men like Caius do not take kindly to those who try to steal what they believe belongs to them.”

“I don’t care about their world,” Lucius muttered, his grip still tight on the bars.

Quintus chuckled softly, backing away. “As you wish, Hanno. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

And with that, he disappeared down the corridor, leaving Lucius standing alone in the darkened cell.

Iris. She was still here, still within his reach. But now he had to find a way to cross the divide between the life she lived and the life he had been forced into. It would take time, cunning, and risks—he knew that.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The days dragged on in the darkened confines of his cell, but Lucius’s mind was sharp, focused on one singular goal. Iris. Her name burned in his chest like a flame, and every passing hour only fueled his determination to find a way to see her again.

The opportunity finally came in the form of a pre-wedding celebration, a lavish event that would be held in honor of Caius Livius and Iris’s upcoming union. Lucius had learned the details from his fleeting conversation with Quintus. The nobles would gather, music would fill the air, and the festivities would overflow with rich food and wine. And what better place to make a grand appearance, to show his worth and cement his place in the arena, than there?

It was a risky move, but Lucius had long learned that risks were the only path to getting what he wanted. And he wanted Iris back in his life—somehow.

He had been pacing in his cell for days, his mind spinning with ways to gain Macrinus’s approval. The man who oversaw the gladiators was a hard man to impress, focused only on profit and spectacle. But Lucius knew something that could sway him—something that could make Macrinus see the value in letting him appear outside the arena.

When the time came, Lucius finally approached Macrinus after training. The large man stood by the door to the gladiator barracks, as usual, his eyes calculating, a permanent frown etched across his face.

“You’ve got something on your mind, Hanno?” Macrinus’s voice was rough, like gravel scraping against stone.

“I want to fight at the pre-wedding celebration,” Lucius said boldly, stepping forward, meeting Macrinus’s gaze without flinching.

Macrinus’s frown deepened, his brow furrowing as he studied Lucius with suspicion. “What do you mean? You’re already booked for the next game.”

Lucius’s voice remained calm, confident. “A demonstration. A show for the nobles. Not just a fight. A spectacle—something more than just the blood and sand they’re used to. I am worth more than that. My name is already known. They’ll talk about this for weeks. It’ll bring attention to the arena.”

Macrinus scoffed. “I’m not here to pander to noble whims. They want to see blood, Hanno, not performances.”

Lucius leaned in, dropping his voice to a low, convincing tone. “What if you gave them both? The fight, the blood, and the spectacle? You know how the rich love their games, their entertainment. They’ll throw more coin at you than you’ve seen in months. You think I’m just a tool for the sand? No. I’m a showman, too. I can be both your champion and your attraction, Macrinus.”

Macrinus studied him for a long moment, a trace of hesitation on his face. Lucius knew he had his attention. It was all about playing to the man’s greed.

“You think they’ll pay for that?” Macrinus asked skeptically.

“I know they will,” Lucius replied confidently. “You know they will.”

There was a long pause, the silence thick with the weight of the decision. Finally, Macrinus spoke, his tone begrudging. “Fine. But don’t disappoint me, Hanno. If you fail to deliver, you’ll never see the light of day again. Understood?”

Lucius gave him a single, sharp nod. “Understood.”

The deal was struck. He would appear at the celebration—not as a mere gladiator, but as an entertainer, a spectacle that would tantalize the nobles and remind them of the fierce warriors they had come to worship. But Lucius’s true goal wasn’t just to perform. It was to find Iris again.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The night of the pre-wedding celebration arrived, and the grand estate was alive with opulence. Torches lined the paths, casting flickering shadows over the marble columns that held up the towering structure. The air was thick with the sound of music, the chatter of guests, the clinking of goblets filled with wine. Lucius stood in the center of the courtyard, wearing a costume not meant for battle but for spectacle—a fighter’s attire mixed with elaborate decorations meant to draw the eye.

The moment he stepped into the midst of the crowd, all eyes were on him. His reputation had already preceded him, and now, in the midst of this rich, noble gathering, the anticipation of the fight—his performance—was palpable.

Lucius’s heart pounded in his chest, but not because of the crowd’s gaze. He was searching for her. Iris.

It didn’t take long before his eyes found her, seated at the edge of the grand table, surrounded by the high-ranking men and women of Rome. She was seated next to Caius, her fiancé, but it was her presence that caught Lucius’s attention, her graceful posture, the way she held herself with a quiet elegance that made his heart ache.

She hadn’t noticed him yet, but Lucius knew this was his chance. He had to speak with her. He had to know if she remembered what they had shared. If she felt the same pull he did.

He played his part well, engaging in a mock duel with one of the other gladiators, performing for the crowd, his movements sharp and exaggerated. He could hear the gasps of excitement, the laughter, and the murmurs of approval. But his gaze never left her.

When the crowd finally began to thin out, when the festivities had moved inside to the banquet hall, Lucius saw his opportunity. He took a deep breath, stepping away from the cheering spectators and weaving through the courtyard, making his way toward the quiet area where Iris had slipped away from the crowd.

His pulse quickened as he neared her, and when he saw her alone for the briefest of moments, he stepped forward, his heart pounding with urgency. But just as his hand reached for the veil of the moment, a shadow fell across his path, and he froze.

“Iris.”

Her name, spoken with the weight of ownership, cut through the air. Lucius’s breath caught in his throat as Caius Livius stepped into view, his posture commanding and his eyes sharp with the kind of possessive authority that had always made Lucius’s skin crawl.

Iris’s face faltered for a split second, the mask she had been wearing slipping just enough to reveal the turmoil beneath. She turned, her eyes wide with shock at Caius’s sudden appearance.

“I was about to—” Iris began, but Caius stepped closer, his presence towering over her, blocking Lucius’s approach.

“You were about to what?” Caius’s voice was calm, but there was a hard edge to it. His gaze flicked briefly to Lucius, a look of recognition passing between them before he returned his attention to Iris, his hand subtly resting possessively on her arm. “You should be with your guests, Iris. This isn’t the time for wandering off.”

Iris stiffened at his touch, but she said nothing, her eyes darting briefly toward Lucius.

“I just… needed a moment,” Iris murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She pulled her arm away from Caius’s grasp, the coldness of the gesture unnoticed by him, though Lucius felt the tension between them all the same.

Caius, however, didn’t miss the unspoken exchange. His eyes narrowed, and his tone sharpened. “I’ll take her back inside. It’s better that way.”

Without waiting for her to respond, he placed a firm hand at the small of her back and guided her away, leaving Lucius standing frozen in the shadows of the courtyard, the words he longed to say locked behind his teeth.

As they disappeared into the throng of nobles, Lucius’s gaze remained on Iris, heart sinking as the distance between them grew. He had come so close—too close—and yet fate had thrown him back into the same endless fight.

This was far from over.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The atmosphere in the grand hall was suffocating. Candles flickered in golden sconces, casting long shadows along the marble floor. The chatter of the guests—nobles and dignitaries alike—filled the air, but Iris barely heard any of it. Her mind was elsewhere, her heart somewhere far from the lavish feast unfolding before her.

Tonight was supposed to be a celebration—a night to honor the union of herself and Caius Livius. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped. She had played her part in the arrangements, had donned the gown of a bride and smiled for the guests, but everything felt like a dream she couldn’t wake from. Caius, standing at her side, had not noticed the distance growing between them. His attention was fixed on the guests, on his own image as a future senator, as a man who had already secured his place in Roman society. But for Iris, it was all just a gilded cage, and she was desperate to escape it.

Her gaze drifted toward the center of the room, where the gladiators—Lucius among them, disguised as Hanno—stood, their presence an odd contrast to the aristocratic crowd. They had been invited for spectacle, for entertainment, to make the celebration more “authentic” in the eyes of the nobles. But Iris only saw the man she had once known—Lucius.

There, in the corner of the hall, he stood with his fellow gladiators, their grim faces betraying nothing of what Iris felt in her chest. The way he moved—like a predator, every inch a warrior, but still, something about him seemed so familiar, so painfully alive.

Her breath caught in her throat as their eyes met. It was brief, a moment suspended in time, but it was enough. He hadn’t seen her as a noblewoman. He hadn’t seen her as the fiancée of Caius Livius. He saw her, Iris, the girl who had once run barefoot through the gardens of Lucilla’s estate with him, the girl who had watched him train and fought by his side in secret. And in that instant, she could see the same longing in his eyes—the same recognition that told her he had never forgotten her, either.

Her heart raced, and she felt the familiar tug of old emotions threatening to pull her back to him. The years apart, the choices they had made, all seemed so distant now. But standing there, in the same room, everything she had tried to bury came flooding back.

“Iris?” Caius’s voice interrupted her thoughts, pulling her back to the reality of the celebration. She turned to face her fiancé, whose eyes were sharp with suspicion. “You’re not listening.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, offering him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I was… distracted.” She forced her gaze away from Lucius and back to Caius, though the effort felt like a betrayal. “I need to step outside for a moment,” she added, the words tumbling from her lips before she could think better of it.

“Outside?” Caius raised an eyebrow, his face hardening. “Why?”

“I just… need air,” Iris said, her voice trembling. She couldn’t explain it to him—not in this moment, not in front of the guests. She didn’t even fully understand herself.

Caius’ frown deepened. “We’re in the middle of a celebration, Iris. You can’t just—”

“I must go,” she interrupted, her tone sharper than she intended. She could feel the weight of the room, the pressure of everyone watching, and it made her skin crawl. “I’ll return shortly.” She didn’t wait for his response, turning away and heading toward the door before he could say another word.

She had already rehearsed this moment in her mind a hundred times—slipping away unnoticed, making her way to the stables where the gladiators were kept. She wasn’t supposed to be there, but the pull of Lucius—the pull of him—was stronger than any duty she had.

Tonight, of all nights, he would be transported separately from the others. She had learned of his arrival through whispers, and she knew the gladiators would be kept in the cages, awaiting transport to the barracks after the night’s festivities.

But Iris didn’t want to wait. She needed to see him again, to know if it was truly him.

She had paid off a guard earlier, sliding him a small pouch of gold, instructing him to turn a blind eye to her movements. He had agreed, eyes gleaming with greed. She knew it was risky, but she had no choice.

She made her way to the small courtyard behind the villa, where the cages awaited the gladiators. It was dark here, the shadows stretching long and deep, and Iris felt the safety of being hidden, away from the scrutiny of the celebration. The night was still, save for the sound of distant chatter from the main hall.

Iris crouched low behind one of the larger cages, her heart hammering in her chest. She knew they’d arrive soon, and she had one chance—just one. The cage was meant to carry the gladiators back to their quarters, but Iris had found a way to be there first. She slid inside one of the empty cages, curling into the corner where the shadows would hide her. She had to remain out of sight. If anyone saw her, if anyone knew she was here, it would be over.

The cage door creaked open, and the sound of boots on stone grew louder. She held her breath, knowing who it was. When Lucius—or Hanno—finally stepped inside, his form battered, bloodied, and worn from the fight, he stopped, pausing in the doorway. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling, his posture slightly hunched from exhaustion. But even in this broken state, there was no mistaking him.

He didn’t see her at first, his gaze on the floor, but then his eyes flicked up, and they locked. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Iris…” His voice was low, hoarse, almost disbelieving, as if he had to convince himself that she was real.

She swallowed, heart in her throat, and stepped forward. The air between them was thick with unsaid words, but neither of them moved. Not at first. “It’s me,” she said softly, almost in a whisper, afraid to break the fragile spell between them.

Lucius’s gaze softened as he took in the sight of her. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, but still, there was something holding him back. He paused, just a few feet away, as if trying to process the impossible truth of the moment. His eyes searched hers, as if looking for something—some reassurance that this wasn’t just a dream.

“What are you doing here, Iris?” he asked quietly, his voice rough. “You shouldn’t be here. You—” He glanced toward the entrance, where the guards had started moving around, no doubt expecting him to leave soon. “You should be with your fiancé. This is no place for you.”

Her heart stung at the mention of her betrothed. But she couldn’t turn away now, not when he was standing here in front of her, so close and yet so far. She took a tentative step toward him, her fingers brushing the cold bars of the cage, wanting to feel him, to know that he was still the same.

“I couldn’t stay away,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I just needed to see you. To know that you’re still here. That you’re still alive.”

Lucius’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away from her. His eyes were filled with something she couldn’t quite place—sorrow, regret, and something deeper, something that made her heart ache with a longing she knew she couldn’t act on.

“I’m not who I was,” he said, his voice quieter now, filled with a mixture of pain and something more. “I’m not that boy anymore, Iris.”

Iris closed her eyes for a moment, her hand still gripping the bars, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions inside her. She knew the truth of his words. They both knew that nothing had changed—except everything had. The life she had once known with him was long gone. She was promised to another. Lucius was a gladiator, shackled by the life he had been forced into.

“I don’t need anything from you,” she said, her voice breaking as she opened her eyes to meet his. “I just wanted to see you. To know you’re still fighting. To remind myself that you’re real.” Her hand trembled slightly, reaching out. She could barely make herself do it—touch him, feel the reality of him. She just needed to know he wasn’t a memory.

He stood still, watching her, his own hand coming up as if he reached for her, but he didn’t. There was an unspoken understanding between them now—one that neither of them wanted to acknowledge. They couldn’t change what had happened, couldn’t undo the time that had passed. The distance between them now was unbridgeable.

“You have to keep fighting,” Iris said softly, her voice full of quiet desperation. “You have to win these battles, Lucius. Not just for your freedom—but for yourself.”

He nodded slowly, the weight of her words settling in his chest. “I’ll keep fighting,” he said, but his voice was strained. “But what if I don’t win? What if there’s nothing left for me once this is over?”

“You have to try,” she said, shaking her head. She felt her throat tighten, but she held it together, taking a deep breath. “For you. For the chance to have something more than this. I can’t change what’s already been decided. But you…” Her voice faltered for a moment. “You can still change your life. You can change Rome. The emperor’s reign terror over us all. The very thing Maximus fought to destroy has been reborn. This…this could be Rome’s second coming. You could change everything!”

He stood still, eyes narrowed as she spoke, her voice growing more urgent, more pleading. The hope in her words was thick, almost suffocating. The weight of her expectations settled onto his shoulders, heavier than any armor he had ever worn in the arena. She was asking him to be a symbol, to be something more than just the man who had been torn apart by the brutal hands of fate. To rise up, to fight—not for his life, not for his freedom—but for something else, something bigger than them both.

The bitterness swirled inside him, bitterness he couldn’t quite shake, even though he knew it wasn’t fair. He wanted to pull her close and ask if she had really come here for him—or if she had come because she needed him to be more than the gladiator she saw. Was she still seeing the boy she once knew? Or had the weight of Rome’s problems and the brutality of their world transformed that image into something else?

“You think I’m here to save Rome?” His voice was low, thick with disbelief, and maybe something sharper, something closer to anger. He took a step closer, his breath quickening. “Have you really come to ask me to fix a city that’s rotting from the inside? To fight in the name of some grand idea, as if that would change anything?”

He could see the shock in her eyes, the way she stiffened at his words, but the feeling that burned inside him wouldn’t let him soften his tone. “I was a boy who used to laugh with you. Who dreamed of something better. And now, I’m here, in chains, fighting for my life like some beast in a cage—and you expect me to change the world? To fight for a cause that wasn’t mine? To be your hero? What do you even want from me, Iris?”

The sharpness of his words hung in the air, and he regretted them almost immediately. He knew it wasn’t her fault. He knew the weight of everything she had said came from a place of fear, of wanting him to be the person he used to be—the person she wanted him to be. But something inside him twisted in frustration, the lingering taste of his own disillusionment clouding his thoughts.

“You don’t even know what it’s like in here,” he continued, his voice quieter now, but still edged with that underlying anger. “What it takes to survive. I’m not some gladiator who can just rise up and change the world, Iris. I’m just a man trying to get through the next fight. And if I die in the arena tomorrow, what’s left of me? What good does it do Rome?”

His fists clenched at his sides, but his gaze softened just a little, though he didn’t allow himself to look away from her. “I know what your life is supposed to be. I know you’ve got your future planned out, with your betrothed and your family. You don’t need me. You don’t need this.” He gestured toward the cage, the arena that held him captive. “You don’t need someone like me anymore.”

There was silence between them now, and for a long moment, Lucius simply stared at her, the weight of his words still hanging between them. It wasn’t anger he felt—not entirely—but frustration, confusion, and something deeper that he couldn’t put into words.

"You do not get to ask me to be someone I’m not anymore.”

Iris stood there, her hand still gripping the bars, her body trembling slightly under the weight of his words. She hadn’t come here to convince him to save the empire. She had come to see him, to remind herself of who he was before he became Hanno—the gladiator. But Lucius, had taken it another way.

Maybe it was too much for him to hear. Maybe he didn’t know what to do with her presence here, what she expected from him, what he was still capable of giving. And maybe he was right to be angry, right to wonder what had brought her here tonight.

But Iris, standing in the cold dark of the cage with him, wanted to say that she didn’t care about all the politics, the battles, the blood. She didn’t care about Rome or her betrothed or the life that had been set out for her. She just wanted him. The boy she had known, the one who had made her laugh and dreamed of a future together. The man standing in front of her now, in chains, so far from the man he had once been.

But she didn’t know how to tell him that. Instead, she stepped back, slowly, her heart breaking with each movement. She had come here to see him, to remind herself of who he was—but now, as he stood there, unable to see past the fight that consumed him, it felt like all of that was slipping away again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. She turned away, the weight of his words still echoing in her ears. “I didn’t mean to ask you to be someone you’re not.”

And with that, she walked away, the door of the cage closing behind her with a final, resounding thud. Lucius watched her go, his chest heavy with regret, but no words came. The cage was cold. The night outside was full of laughter and light, and yet, it felt impossibly far away.

#lucius verus x reader #lucius verus #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #gladiator 2 fic #gladiator ||#hanno x reader #paul mescal #paul mescal x reader #lucius verus x y/n #lucius verus x you

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calumfmu · 6 months ago

Text

tell me its a bit

"Steve, can I ask you something? What are we doing?"

He pulled away fully to look at you, brows knitted together in confusion as his eyes went back and forth between your eyes and mouth. "Uhh.. sex?"

He loved the cat and mouse game you had once started, not choosing to end it despite him being yours and you being his, despite titles given.

or; the extended version of Baby, No Attachment: Steve continues to reveal his true self to you.

cw: 18+, mdni, soft!Stevie, smut, teasing, spanking (brief), fingering, unprotected sex, p in v, wrap it up kids, cream pie, hair pulling, slight choking kink if you squint, yada yada yaddaaaa (2.8k+ words)

The Steve you had become so accustomed to had been different in the last few weeks since that car ride. Treating you with grace and kindness, he tended to your needs no matter what they were. It had taken some time getting used to, always feeling like he was lying about something despite giving you no reason to believe so. His act had shaped up, him treating you like the princess he had once called you, not hesitating to leap whenever you said jump.

He loved the cat and mouse game you had once started, not choosing to end it despite him being yours and you being his, despite titles given. Still sneaking into your bedroom window at all hours of the day, throwing rocks at the glass, throwing himself at you in the back of his BMW whenever he had the chance, no matter the welcoming arms your mom held for him (she was still his favorite). It made you feel like a young preteen again, the excitement of this romance pulling at your heartstrings in every possible good way there was.

The window was open, blowing in cold air as late winter made its final claim in Hawkins. Bedroom curtains were bunched up at the windowsill, caught up from where he had fallen through, shoes kicked off at the bottom. His jacket was thrown somewhere on the floor, half draped over the radio that softly played George Michael in the background. He had insisted on turning it on, whispering ‘We’re gonna get caught’ despite you urging ‘My mom loves you, shut up’. It didn’t stop him, silent moans filling the air as he touched you, your bodies so familiar with one another.

You were pressed into the mattress, both mouths slotted together as one of his hands snaked at your chest, slowly unbuttoning your top as he half-laid on you. His bulge ground into your thigh, small gasps escaping his mouth as you tugged at his hair.

Pulling away slightly, you mumbled into his mouth, “Steve, can—can I ask you something?”

He barely nodded, moving his weight over you to push you further into the bed. The hand at your chest moved to caress your hip, fingers splayed wide across the skin.

“What are we doing?”

He pulled away fully to look at you, brows knitted together in confusion as his eyes went back and forth between your eyes and mouth.

“Uhh… sex?” He laughed, leaning into you to return to his previous position. You stopped him with a touch to his chest. He looked even more confused than he did previously, shaking his head at you.

“No, Steve,” you sighed, slightly rolling your eyes at his comment. One thing you learned about him was that the boy loved playing dumb, especially when it came to actually discussing important things. “Like what are we?”

Realization crossed his face as his eyebrows shot up, an ‘O’ formed between his lips. The look went away as quickly as it appeared, a smirk given to you.

“You’re my girl, right?” He returned his mouth to yours, moving his hand lower to run across your inner thigh. Frustrated, you pushed him completely off of you, noticing the way he just looked so shocked at your fast movement.

He remained silent as you sat up, turning your body to look at him as he was laid on the bed, stuck in the position that he fell in. His hair tussled over his face, eyebrows raised and hands slightly up as he seemed to be awaiting your next move.

“Are you serious?” Your voice was raised, anger between your eyes as you looked down at him. He seemed small in the moment, a red blush crossing his cheeks.

“Do you not want to be?”

“No, Ste—” you cut yourself off with a sigh as you pinched your nose bridge, pulling your knees to your chest. You searched for the patience to deal with him, not understanding why he didn’t get it. “Steve. That’s not what I mean.”

“Well… what do you mean? I thought we were, like, together,” he asked, voice small compared to yours as he slowly sat up. He raised to lean on one hand, the other being placed on your knee, rubbing the skin.

You shot your eyes open to look at him, a loud cackle thrown at him that caused his face to fall. You felt bad to laugh at him, realizing that this ‘King Steve’ who had fallen from grace had so much to learn about girls, despite revolving his life around them.

“Together?” He pulled away from you, moving to sit at the end of the bed with his back turned to you. You saw him lean over on his knees, heard him clear his throat in discomfort. “Babe…”

He ignored the nickname as you moved to perch behind him, pulling him so his back was pressed to your chest, your head resting at his shoulder. Wrapping your arms around him, you felt him relax into the embrace, head tilting onto yours. With your legs on opposite sides of his hips, you leaned into him, the size difference between the two of you causing you to melt.

“Babe… we’re not together because… you never asked me,” you whispered, pressing kisses to his cheek in the pauses of your words. His head turned to look at you, shock the only emotion you could decipher.

“I never asked you?”

“No, dummy,” you giggled, pressing kisses to his cheek and jawline interchangeably. He fucking giggled at the touches of your lips on his skin, tilted his head to try to ‘avoid’ them, yet he made no other effort to move—you knew he loved it.

“Well, do you want to be my girl th—my girlfriend then?” He asked you, looking at you through long lashes, blinking slow as he became shy. You pressed your lips together, shaking your head, laughing as his mouth dropped open at you.

“No?” His voice raised a pitch, suddenly moving so you fell into his arms with a loud laugh. Steve pressed kisses to your nose this time, nuzzling his face into yours as he held you.

“That’s not going to cut it, Harrington.” His last name fell from your lips in a faux-mock, you haven’t muttered his last name since the two of you made amends, if you wanted to call it that—really it actually was just the two of you fucking for the first time in the back of his car. It felt foreign to you, cheesy nicknames shared behind closed doors and whiny drawls of each other's names replacing it.

He paused for a moment, face inches away from your own as he studied you. Drawing your eyes over his features, you took note of the moles dotting his face, constellations drawn in the beauty marks that you loved to trace your fingers over. Steve Harrington was a beauty, a wonder that you felt so grateful to have between your fingertips. Words couldn’t describe the feelings you had bubbling in your chest for him, he was everything and more you had thought him to be.

His breath hit your face with a flutter of your eyes closed, enjoying the bliss of being in his arms.

“You’re going to make me work for it, princess?” The nickname he used to call you had you shivering, arousal pooling between your thighs. His voice dropped an octave, a chill through your spine at the lowness.

“Mhmm,” you mumbled, digging your teeth into your bottom lip as he leaned into you, pressing a kiss to your mouth.

“I can do that,” he whispered back, deepening the kiss as he maneuvered the two of you to the previous position you held, you on your back, legs sprawled with him in between. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling at it as he ground down into you.

“What else are you going to make me work for?”

One of his hands trailed down the length of your abdomen, fingertips dancing over your stomach before settling at your groin. Your legs widened without a second thought, hips arching onto the touch. He began to work a small circle over your clothed clit, the material dampening as your wetness deepened.

“Ah—” your voice cut off as you tried to respond to him, his fingers working magic as you began to fall apart.

“Not so much to say now, yeah?” He laughed at you, mouthing at your neck as a breathy sigh escaped you. As much as you hated to admit it, you loved this side of him, the cockiness that once was returning to your lover boy, dominating the situation as he made you melt.

“Shut it, Harrington.”

The only words you were able to mutter before he took over, filling up your senses with his body against yours. He was overwhelming, crowding your brain with thoughts of him, thoughts of his touch, his everything. His fingers began to creep lower, pushing your panties to the side as he ran a finger over your slit.

He leaned up to nip at your ear, teeth digging at the lobe of skin, your neck craning to the side as you exhaled in pleasure.

"Not quite sure I like that name anymore," he whispered against your skin, tongue darting out to lick at the skin beneath your ear. He exhaled against you, the coolness of his breath sending shivers down your spine.

"You-"

You couldn't speak as he began to tease you, finger inching into you slightly, just for him to remove it, reaching up to toy with your clit ever-so-slightly.

"I?" He dragged out the letter, leaning back to smirk down at you as he questioned what you were going to say. Irritation crossed your features as you took him in between hooded eyes, lids fluttering shut as he took his teasing to a new level.

His hand left your underwear, grasping your hand between his as he grinded against you. His clothed crotch rubbed between your legs, an exasperated sigh leaving you.

"Steve."

Your tone was firm this time, chastising him as he pushed your leg up with his own. Your free hand reached down to grab at the top of his jeans, fingertips dancing over the button there.

"Yes, princess?" His breath grew a little more shallow, his head dipping to watch your fingers slowly unbutton his jeans, the zip sliding down audibly in the room. His bulge poked out of his jeans, boxers tenting towards you.

"Cut the act."

With a nod, it was over—his mouth was pressed into yours, and his hands were pushing down his jeans, boxers following suit. His cock sprang free of its restraint, beat red and dripping with arousal. In the heat of the moment, you were flipped over, ass sticking straight into the air with your underwear pulled down mid thigh.

It was just enough freedom of the two of your sexes to make ends meet, the head of his cock nudging between your legs, pressing at your entrance. He had his fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back as he entered you in a swift motion, pressing to the hilt.

The two of you groaned in unison, hips flush to one another with Steve taking a break to breath, his head pushed towards the ceiling.

"Fuck, you're so—"

He cut himself off, a hard smack filling the air as his hand made contact with the plump skin of your ass. You pushed your hips back at the assault to your ass, groaning as he pressed even deeper.

"You're going to fucking kill me, princess."

He began to thrust into you, hips rutting into your own. It was quick, thrusts relentless and brutal as he fucked into you. Your hands tried gripping at the sheets around you, failing as the movements had you faltering, body rocking in unison with his own.

His name left your mouth in high pitched whines, eyes fluttering shut with the pleasure that overcame your senses.

"Ste-Steve, fuc-"

You could barely get a word out as he continued rutting into you, his hand gripping your hair tightly, the other running over the skin of your back, reaching down to rub at your lower back, rearing back to smack down into your cheek. The loud sounds of your sex and the smacking of his hand filled the room, becoming louder with each thrust.

You tried shushing him, worried that the sounds would be able to be heard from downstairs. The last thing you needed was your mom coming up the stairs, opening the door to find her sweet daughter in this compromising position.

He leaned over you, pressing your hips into the mattress as he continued fucking into you, grinding his hips in small motions. The atmosphere of the room changed, love filling the air as his hand left your hair, reaching around and down under to grip at your neck. Your neck craned back as he pulled you into him, back to chest.

Steve's breath was hot in your ear, small grunts leaving him.

"Is this what you wanted?" He asked, tone of his voice gruff with arousal.

You attempted to nod, eyes squeezing shut and sweat prickling at your hairline from the heat of the moment. He reached down underneath you to rub at your clit, the bundle of nerves growing more sensitive as the two of you were brought closer to completion.

"Making me work for it—you're such a tease, princess."

The nickname had you whimpering, memories of your prior relationship flooding back. That first night spent together filling your mind, overcoming the small amount of senses that you had left.

A high pitched uhh left you, breath caught in your throat as his grip tightened, hips grinding down into you even further. He couldn't get any deeper, reaching that spot inside of you that was only reserved for him.

"'S not enough, Harrington."

You were insistent on teasing him, eyebrows knitted together, eyes squeezed shut. He quickened his pace, pulling out almost completely just to thrust back into you.

His fingers at your clit sped up, he sensed how close you were solely on how your body tensed up.

"Come on, princess. I know y—"

His hand covered your mouth as you came, drowning out the loud whine that escaped you. He knew your body so well, knew exactly when to stop torturing your clit, when to slow his thrusts so you wouldn't become overwhelmed. Steve's own pleasurable end reached him, a low groan suppressed by pressing his face between your shoulder blades as he came deep inside you.

"Ah, fuck, princess, I lov-"

He cut himself off, another moan escaping him as he bottomed out before pulling out, collapsing on the bed next to you. You took a few moments in silence, catching your breath before turning to face him, blinking slow as you took him in.

Fingers reaching to you, he pulled you closer to him, pulling up the blanket that was pushed to your feet in the same motion. It was so domestic, this moment, your favorite side of Steve making an appearance that was slowly becoming the main event of your relationship.

He lay beside you, leaning on one elbow and hip, his fingers running over the expanse of your skin. You were starstruck in his beauty, the way his hair fell over his eyes, the slight glimmer of sweat sticking to his skin, moles dotting his body even in places the sun couldn't reach. And he was all yours, even if he was being stubborn, being Steve about it.

"You know I loved you the entire time?" He suddenly said, low in tone as he stared you down. Eyes leaving his body, you looked into his deep brown, shock evident on your face.

"I-you what?"

It was the first time these words left his mouth. You knew how you felt, but it was shocking to hear it from him.

"Since the day I saw you, I loved you. Love you," he confirmed, finger running up his body to run against your breastbone. He hovered over your heart, mimicking the shape of one over the skin.

"So... you were being an asshole just for fun?" You teased, turning on your side to lean into his space. Being in his proximity brought you a comfort that should have scared you, but definitely didn't.

He smirked at you, wiggling his eyebrows as he recalled the memories of your early relationship.

"How else was I supposed to make you fall for me?"

Your mouth dropped open in faux shock, your hand reaching up to slap at his chest. A guffaw left him as he grimaced at the red mark forming.

Rubbing at the spot, he whined your name. "Well it worked, didn't it?"

You rolled your eyes playfully, pretending to turn up your face at him. Turning on your side away from him, you closed your eyes, ushering sleep.

"You're such an asshole, Harrington."

You felt his arm snake around you, pulling you into his chest, both of your naked bodies pressed against each other. Instantly, you melted in his arms, your own hand coming up to grip at him.

"I love you too, princess."

Ah jeez, here it is. I love this pairing so much, I never want to part ways with them. part three.

Masterlist. <3

#my writing #Steve Harrington fanfic #Steve Harrington x you #Steve Harrington x reader #Steve Harrington smut #smut #ahhhh #asshole!steve #you guys know how I feel about him #I love him #baby no attachment!uni

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starscabaret · 7 months ago

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Cowboy Yandere! Lane HeadCanons ✧.*

pairing : yandere! lane x fem reader

summary :

authors note : i hope yall enjoy pls lmk

warnings : nsfw, breeding, pregnancy, daddy kink

yandere! lane is a country boy through and through…he eats as much as a prize bull, making him damn near the size of one. Due to his hard labor, he is the perfect blend of muscles and fluff. He is the size kink king.

yandere! lane cannot be convinced to wear a condom or use protection no matter what stage of the relationship y’all are in. He wants a football team of kids and you will have them all.

yandere! lane also won’t wear a condom because the idea of anything separating him from his darling’s insides is infuriating.

yandere! lane is a true dom, he values your pleasure more than anything.

yandere! lane size comes into play when he’s pounding your pussy from behind. He tries to hold himself up and not squish you underneath him but somehow his chest always ends up pressed to your back. His arm around your tummy pulling your smaller body onto his cock as he continues his pounding. You couldn’t escape him if you wanted

yandere! lane never suppresses his guttural moans and groans from you. He doesn’t know how to be quiet but neither do you…

yandere! lane lives by the phrase ‘save a horse ride a cowboy’. When you’re on top of him he’s using his hips and hands to bounce you silly on his dick. Or he’s guiding your hips in just the right back-and-forth motion.

yandere! lane washes his hands of all dirt and grime the second he enters the house, because right after he is going to find you and pick you up for a kiss. “Missed me Dollface? Daddy missed you.”

yandere! lane has rough hard days sometimes. If he’s too tired to fuck you silly he loves to pull you on his lap, lift your legs, and mindless play with and finger your cunt. Your back to his chest his large form looming over you with his chin resting on your shoulder. “Mhm good girl darling, too tired to fuck you properly, but what kind of man would I be if I didn’t pleasure my sweet girl every day?”. He definitely has just gotten off work, still clad in his jeans, hat, boots, and a black t-shirt.

yandere! lane does not like to see you beg. He’s too soft and believes his darling shouldn’t want for anything, he is very willing to give you anything and everything that you want. Especially his mouth on your pussy.

yandere! lane will fuck you any and everywhere if you let him, god do you look so plump and round in a pair of blue jeans, but those long tight skirts are his favorite. The way they look when it’s pooled around your waist as he plows into you in the back of his truck drives him insane.

yandere! lane prefers that you have most or all of your pubic hair, his pussy just looks so cute with its little bush.

yandere! lane will not pull out no matter how hard you beg and squeeze his bicep, what’s the point of cumming, if it’s not in you?

yandere! lane when he finally gets you pregnant is the happiest man on earth, kiss your job bye bye the day you pee on that stick. You often catch him admiring every part of your body. Below your pregnant belly, he watches intently as his dick slides in and out splitting your perfect cunnie in half. Thinking about how it was just like this he bred you the first time.

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gffa · 1 year ago

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The way she says this, almost like she's relieved to say it, "He was a good Master." like all those years she spent still loving him, still unable to let him go, still remembering the kind things, she wasn't wrong. We've seen how much Ahsoka doubted herself throughout this series, especially when it comes to trying to resolve her feelings about Anakin and what he did. That she had to work to accept that he became Vader, that he murdered their family and friends, that he took the light of the Jedi out of the galaxy, that he went on to kill so many more, to help an Empire that slaughtered its way through countless lives. And through all of that, part of her felt so guilty because she couldn't stop remembering the kind things he did, too. "What would have surprised people was how kind he was," she said to Ezra, mere days before they confronted Vader on Malachor, where he was serious about killing all of them, killing her. That there was no reaching him, no matter how badly she wanted to. But still she loved him. She couldn't stop loving him and it tore her up because she couldn't let him go, this man who chose to become the worst monster. And then he came to her in a Force vision, when she was ready to hear him, to really listen to him, and he told her that she's more than just a warrior, just as he's more than that, that he's more than Vader. They're everything of the Masters that came before them and more. So, now she can remember the good things he did without having to immediately remember Vader. She can remember, yes, he was a good Master to her, that his teachings helped shape her life into something good and worthwhile, that she can still play the holos he made for her when she needs to settle her mind before a fight. She can remember that she loved Anakin Skywalker and that he was a good Master without having to tear herself apart because of Vader and her inability to stop loving him. He's more than Vader, he was also a good Master and that's just as true as everything else about him. Him believing in her and encouraging her isn't a sign that she's going down the same path as he is, it's her Master being kind and supportive and good. And she is so relieved that her love for him wasn't mistaken, it wasn't misplaced, because this was real, he really was good to her and for her.

#star wars #ahsoka series #ahsoka spoilers #anakin skywalker #ahsoka tano #rosario dawson #meta

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mariasont · 9 months ago

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Office Sleepover - A.H

a/n: this is honestly kind of shit but whatever

might make this a mini series?

part two here!

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: in which reader gets put on a hit-list and has to stay in the office (kind of based off when penelope got put on a hit-list by the dirty dozen)

warnings: reader kind of flashes hotch, really inconsistent with how the gov works i'm sure, there's also definitely not an oven in the break room but in my world there is <3

wc: 3.8k

Hotch's voice reached you, but the words tangled into an indecipherable code as they hit the air. You nodded, a reflex, but it was as if your brain had short-circuited. You could make out fragments--a hit on you, stay at office, 24/7 protection, you can take the back office. But no matter how many times he said it, it seemed to ricochet through your head, making less sense each time. You were on a hit list? A hit list?

It all felt very made up, like a script ripped straight out of a tv show. Risk was a part of the BAU job description, but a hit list? For a fleeting moment, a chuckle hovered at the brink of your lips, but it was swiftly swallowed by a wave of dread that rose in its place. You blinked a couple times, probably too many in a vain attempt to clear the fog and bring Hotch's face into focus.

"But what about all my stuff? And you want me to camp out here in the office? For how long, Hotch? I mean, I'm all for overtime, but this is... this is a lot, and I--," you babble, your speech racing ahead of your thoughts. "And my baking? That's my biggest stress reliever. Not to mention my DIY projects--I can't just abandon my half-finished throw pillowcases. Plus, how many pairs of shoes is too many for an office closet?"

Your pout formed a delicate bow, and though he said nothing, his eyes softened. Hotch could feel the frown marring his features. He might never say it, but seeing you like this struck a chord, making it a little hard to breathe.

Circling the desk, he planted himself in front of you, his hand settling on your shoulder. "Hey, take a deep breath," he urges softly. "Let's take it one step at a time. List out what you need, someone will bring it here. Your baking supplies, DIY projects, even your shoes."

True to Hotch's word, as usual, you found every piece of your life carefully compartmentalized into cardboard boxes, lined up carefully in the office that now doubled as your temporary room. There was an odd sense of dislocation in finishing your workday and needing only to count about thirty steps before arriving at your room.

You swung the door closed, the sound sealing the room as a deep sigh wrapped around you and you started sifting through the boxes. The pullout couch serving as your bed was less than appealing, its worn fabric making you grimace internally. Nevertheless, you diverted your attention, busying yourself with the organizing of your extensive collection of things. Spencer would definitely shake his head at the sight of the vast amount of clothes you had brought.

The irony wasn't lost on you; surrounded by the office's ceaseless motion, yet you felt more alone than in the stillness of your own apartment. God, this was pathetic, and you needed a drink, but you had a nagging suspicion the office handbook would have a thing or two to say about that. You spent a solid two hours attempting to infuse the sterile space with a touch of home, it wasn't perfect (at all), but it would have to do.

Rossi knocks on the doorframe, poking his head in with a grin. "I didn't realize we were redecorating the bureau in shades of bubblegum," he teases. "How you doing, kid?"

"Actually, it's blush," you correct with a mock-serious tone, meeting his smile with one of your own. "I'm fine," you insist, but Rossi's knowing look prompts a quick add-on. "I am, really, I mean I've always said I wanted my own office."

"An office with a view of the bullpen, no less. You're living the dream," he says, his eyes scanning the room. "Need any help with anything? Or anything else from your place? Maybe your favorite mug to make feel more like home?"

"Don't worry, I'm already one step ahead of you," you assure him, revealing a drawer brimming with mugs.

Rossi lets out a low appreciative whistle. "Why am I not surprised?" he chuckles with a broad grin. "Well, I'm heading out for the night. Remember, I'm just a call away if you need anything. And Hotch is still here, buried in paperwork as usual."

He left, and you were alone--a cue to try and cling to some normalcy of your routine; you drew the blinds and slipped into the comfort of your pajamas. You hauled yourself off to the office bathroom, reluctantly at that, and proceeded to attend to your skincare, brush your hair, and polish your smile with a thorough teeth brushing.

Eyeing the hallway warily, you made a silent exit from the bathroom, the carpet softening your footfalls. But in your rush to avoid prying eyes, you crashed into a solid wall of a figure, the force sending you tumbling backward. You hit the floor with a muted thud, your ass hitting the ground, legs splayed inelegantly in front of you. Your eyes rose to meet the firm, penetrating look of Hotch. Of fucking course.

There was a pause as Hotch's eyes drank in the sight of your flushed complexion and the wide, doe-like eyes that seemed to capture the light just so. He felt like his heart could stop then and there. And he knew it was wrong, but he certainly liked the sight of you sprawled below him. He blinked, breaking the trance, and offered a concerned, "Are you okay?" His hands were outstretched, ready to pull you back to your feet.

Your cheeks turned a deeper shade as you held onto Hotch's hand, the feeling unexpectedly comforting, rough in yours but nice. "What? Oh, yeah, I'm all good, sorry about that," you managed to say, the words squeaking out a tad too eagerly.

You stood up, and his closeness was all-consuming. You were suddenly intensely aware of every breath, every throb of your heart, and your mind went blank; the usual stream of thoughts replaced by a buzzing silence.

His eyes held yours for a fraction longer than necessary before he stepped back, creating a respectful distance. The hallway's warmth seemed to dissipate with the space, leaving you with an unexpected stab of disappointment.

"Rossi said you'd be here. Anything I can do to help?"

You rationalized the offer as a gesture of your goodwill, but a small part, well a big part, of you knew just wanted to be close to him, to be alone with him maybe--in the office, after hours, in his office. This was weird, I mean, you'd always admired your Unit Chief, but this was different. You chalked it up to the day's unfortunate series of events--you were tired, and lonely, and you needed desperately to snap out of it before you made a fool out of yourself.

"No, you need to rest. It's been a long day, and you've been through enough." He paused, his gaze assessing you. "How are you holding up?"

"At this rate, I'll need a sign that says 'I'm fine,' to stop the check-ins." Although you silently doubted that would deter him. You gesture to the surroundings. "And this? It's like a sleepover at work. Just hoping this so-called hit man doesn't show up."

Hotch internally recoiled at your words, leaving him with the sensation of a cold grasp tightening around his heart. He cleared his throat, the joke falling flat in the gravity of his concern. "I'll be here for a while longer. If you need anything, don't hesitate to come find me," he managed a nod before retreating to his office.

A while longer? You knew Hotch was a workaholic, but it now occurred to you that he must never sleep. Quickly, you gathered your scattered belongings, and made your way to your office.

The pull-out couch seemed even less inviting than you remembered, if that was possible. You perched on the edge, the metallic frame cold through the thin mattress. As you lay down, the couch seemed to swallow you in its awkward angles. Perfect. Tossing and turning, you struggled to find a comfortable spot. Eventually, exhaustion won over discomfort, the rhythm of your own breathing lulling you into a fitful sleep.

Your eyes flickered open at some point during the night and the blinds drifted apart, as if by an unseen hand, and through the gap, your eyes fell on a hooded figure, the face not visible in the dim light. Your muscles locked in terror, an icy fear clawing its way up your spine as you tried to move--to reach for your gun, to call out for Hotch, to do anything. But as if imprisoned by an invisible force, you could only watch, confined to the bed, as the figure crept towards the door.

A scream tore from your throat, a raw and piercing sound that ricocheted off the walls and echoed through your eyes. This was it, you thought.

Then, in an instant, you were awake and disoriented, your breaths coming in short bursts, and your body covered in a sheen of cold sweat. Your fingers clenched the sheets, the fabric twisting in your grasp as you fought to decipher what was reality. Your eyes snapped to the blinds, half-expecting to see the figure from your dream materialize, but the emptiness beyond them slowly calmed your racing heart.

With a throat dry as parchment and your pulse still echoing in your ears, you drifted from your room towards the break room. As you ambled past Hotch's office, you paused. The door, slightly ajar, felt like an invitation. Despite knowing better, a foggy curiosity nudged your feet forward. With a shaky breath, you eased the door open wider and slipped inside.

His office felt different at night--it was quieter, more personal, and you felt like an intruder on Hotch's private world. You took a moment, absorbing the sight of his meticulously organized desk, the case files that were always present.

It was tempting to try to piece together the man from his workspace, but you held back. As you turned to leave, a familiar scent stopped you--the subtle hint of his cologne hanging in the air. It wrapped around you, easing the tension that had sunk into your limbs. Almost without thinking, you found yourself sinking into the couch.

The room, infused with his distinct scent, seemed to have your blinking growing heavier, more intentional. You nestled deeper into the cushions; the fabric familiar beneath your fingers, lulling you into a sense of security. Just five minutes, you thought.

Hotch's steps were slow, his eyelids having a hard time staying open as he made his way through the bullpen. He carried his briefcase, the leather handle worn and conformed to his hand. He contemplated a detour to your office, a silent check-in to ease his mind, but he dismissed the idea--you were probably still asleep, and he'd definitely look like a creep. Reaching his own office, he noticed the door ajar, a sliver of morning light spilling through the gap.

He stepped into the room, and time seemed to stand still as his gaze landed on the couch. There you were, fast asleep on his couch. Your hand lay gently under your cheek, a makeshift pillow softening the hard angles beneath, while your nose gave the faintest twitches. Your lips were parted as if mid-whisper and strands of your hair were splayed in a disarrayed crown around your head. He knew that in no way could that have been comfortable. It hurt his back just looking at you, but still you looked so peaceful.

He moved with quiet steps, heat creeping up his neck as he placed his things on the desk. Turning back to you, he couldn't help but notice the gentle dishevelment of your pajamas, buttons undone in innocent disarray, the fabric parting to reveal the gentle slope of your breasts. He felt an odd mix of emotions--a gentle chiding for finding you in such state, and the guilt of finding the sight so undeniably sweet.

A quiet cough escaped him, more out of habit than necessity, as he approached a cabinet where blankets were neatly stacked--a nod to many nights spent just as you were. He draped one over you, his movements slow and unhurried, shielding you from potential curious eyes before finding his normal place behind the wooden desk.

He tried to focus--really, he did. I mean, he had a towering pile of paperwork and responsibilities that demanded his attention. But despite his best efforts, his gaze involuntarily drifted to you time and time again. It was as if he needed visual confirmation of your steady breathing to assure himself that you were okay. He thought about you here all night, alone, and he found his knuckles whiten against the grip of his pen. He knew you had security on you at all times, but somehow, he found no comfort in that.

Hotch's eyes flicked to the clock--7:30 am. You still had at least another half an hour before you technically needed to start work, although truth be told he would let you sleep as long as your body allowed. There was no way in hell he was going to disturb you when you looked so content.

As Hotch worked, the morning light grew stronger, casting a warm glow over his desk. It was nearly 9 am when the sound of shifting fabric eventually roused you. You were waking up, blinking away the remnants of sleep, confusion etched on your face. As your eyes caught sight of the clock and Hotch, mortification set it.

"Oh my gosh, Hotch. I am so sorry," you blurted out, embarrassment coloring your cheeks. "You could've woken me up--I... I should've set an alarm. And I shouldn't even be here, but I can explain, sort of..."

In a flurry of motion, you leapt from the couch, only to feel a sudden tug at your chest as a button from your top snagged on a stray thread. The fabric pulled open, revealing way more than what was appropriate for your boss to see. Your face turned a shade redder as you scrambled to cover up. Hotch, momentarily sidetracked by the sight of the cleavage of your tits once again, quickly refocused and interrupted your flustered explanations.

"It's fine," he assured. "Given everything that's happened, you needed the rest." He nodded towards the couch. "You're always welcome to sleep here if you need to--though I can't promise it'll be any more comfortable next time."

"Oh no, it was super comfortable, really," you insist, despite the awkwardness clinging to your words. Hotch gives you a look that says he's not entirely convinced. "Okay, well, I'm going to uh... go," you mumble, stopping short at the door with a sudden concern.

Hotch understands immediately and offers, "They're all in the briefing room--won't be out for a while."

With a relieved nod, and minimal eye contact, you dash out, hoping to reach your office unnoticed. But because the world just hated you these past days, just as you're rushing by, Morgan's hands come to your shoulders to stop you.

"Easy there, mama," he teases, a smile on his face. But as he gets a good look at your attire, his grin grows wider. "What in the world...?" he starts, laughter in his voice. He glances from you to Hotch's office door, then back again. "Hold up, hold up--you didn't... with Hotch? Are you?"

"What? No, Morgan, absolutely not! Why would you even--oh my god," you gasp, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. God, I mean, the day hasn't even started, and you needed it to end. Realizing your voice has risen in your flustered state, you quickly lower it to a harsh whisper, your eyes darting around to ensure no one overheard. "Why would you even suggest that?"

"Um, maybe because you're making a grand exit from the boss man's office in your PJs? Just a wild guess."

"No, Morgan, it's not what you think," you insist, but your attention snaps to the sound of the team's voices nearing the door. "I don't have time for this," you mutter, darting back to your office.

In a whirlwind, you shed the pajamas, slip into your work attire, and hastily run a brush through your hair. Good enough.

You threw yourself into work, the stack of papers becoming a welcome distraction, a rare sense of relief rather than the familiar dread. It was a considerable effort to divert your mind from the distractions--Hotch, the hit man, and Morgan's incessant teasing. Not that anyone would believe that you and Hotch were together; he was the very definition of sophisticated, handsome, and successful, and you were just, well, you.

Not that there was anything wrong with you. You liked yourself just fine; you laughed too loudly at jokes, talked to your houseplants as if they were your old friends, and you had an odd fascination with weather patterns. These things made you wholly you. You just knew you couldn't be more different from Hotch.

With a bit of luck and purposeful avoiding, your day passed smoothly, sparing you any unnecessary run-ins with Hotch. Everyone had gone home for the day which is why you stood in the break room attempting some baking recipe from Pinterest.

The slippers on your feet padded against the carpet as you hummed around the room. With swift motions, you ushered the coffee cake batter into the oven, then turned to tackle the mess you had created on the countertops. Cleaning as you go wasn't your usual style, but office break room didn't seem like the place for your usual creative sprawl.

Your phone had buzzed incessantly with Penelope's calls--her offers the keep you company is why you loved her, but you weren't going to subject her to that, no matter how many times she said she didn't mind.

Hotch's office was quiet, save for the soft scratching of his pen against paper as he finally closed his files. He moved into bullpen and as he passed the breakroom, the soft hum of the light and faint sound of movement drew him in. There you were, engrossed in tidying up, with your hair casually gathered above your shoulders and wearing your sweats, Hotch found him instinctively pausing to watch.

He knew he shouldn't bother you, knew he was likely the last person you'd want to see, yet he found himself rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on you, the warmth in his chest intensifying with each fleeting second.

The moment you turned and saw a figure, a sharp gasp cut through the silence, and the icing in your grasp became a sweet projectile that flew across the room. Relief washed over you as you realized who it was.

"Jeez, Hotch, give me a heart attack why don't you," you said, half-laughing as your heart rate settled. "Especially when there's a hitman who might beat you to the punch."

Hotch parted his lips to speak, but you were quicker, a stream of thoughts tumbling out before you could stop them. "I thought everyone was gone. You weren't at your desk earlier--oh wait, you had that meeting with the DOJ, right? Did they have anything about the people who marked me?"

In your haste, you closed the gap between you, and only then did you spot the icing on his cheek. "Oh, sorry about that, Hotch," you said with an apologetic grin, reaching out as if to wipe it away.

As your palm made contact with his skin, a shared realization of the intimacy of the gesture washed over you. Time seemed to slow as your thumb traced a lingering path through the icing, your whisper barely audible, "There."

The word seemed to hang in the air as you froze, the proximity suddenly overwhelming, your breath caught in your throat. Hotch's backward step was almost imperceptible, but it was enough. You cleared your throat awkwardly, cheeks warming with a flush. "Um, did you need something?"

Hotch shook his head slightly, "No, just wanted to check on you before I head out."

You gave a thumbs up, mustering a smile. "Well, consider me checked."

Hotch nodded, his expression unreadable. "Goodnight," he said, to which you echoed in response as you watched him leave.

Alone now, you slumped against the counter, your hand pressed to your face. Consider me checked? God, someone needed to tape your mouth shut.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #criminal minds fanfic #hotch #hotchner #aaron hotch hotchner #ssa hotchner #agent hotchner #cm #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x fem reader #Spotify

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rinachains · 2 months ago

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true form!sukuna x gn!reader; mentions of cannibalism; sukuna deals with emotions (kind of); biting as a love language

The king of curses, seated on the soft upholstery of his bed with you facing him in his lap, ogling one of his bare arms as you trace the defined, bulging muscles with your fingertips, would surely paint an obscure picture to any intruder.

You’re so small underneath him, his cursed energy draped over you like a veil – shielding and trapping you - and he could crush you so easily, in a matter of a few seconds, and nothing and no one could stop him - except for you. And you don’t even have to do anything. You’re just sitting there, sharing each other’s warmth, while he observes you, one pair of his arms holding your sides, the other crossed over his chest. That’s all it takes.

Sukuna isn’t a whirlwind of emotions, he’s simple and aware of what feelings reside in him; he’s in control of himself. Not a victim of weak, futile desires. Not like other humans – that’s what makes him superior, a king.

So he knows how he feels about you; but not knowing what to think about it and what to do with it, he decides to listen to what his body and his mind are telling him, and he even finds himself listening to that irregular beat hidden behind the resilient muscles on the left side of his chest, one that he believed he’d never hear.

He once mistook the pit in his stomach for mere hunger, so he ate and he ate, but the hunger didn’t vanish, he was never fully satisfied, so he kept on eating and eating, tearing into flesh after flesh. Assuming that he was cursed with an unfulfilling life – a repetitive routine of killing and eating presumptuous humans who dared to cross him, providing little to no entertainment - he figured that nothing would change and that he would continue to go on with this life.

And then you came along, and he felt hunger overtake him. However, it was different from simple hunger, it wasn’t just a growl in his stomach – there’s another spot inside of him that he didn't know existed until he met you. And that spot is reserved for you and you alone. No one else can fill it.

His mouth itched, his fangs ached, and he wanted – still wants - to devour you, but not in pieces, but all of you. Your whole, entire self.

"Are you hungry?" you break the comfortable silence, gaze still lingering on his arm, as you realize that this would usually be the time for him to eat his first meal.

"No."

"No?" Surprise drips from your voice at his answer, one of your brows lifting in disbelief.

"My hunger is satisfied for the moment. I’ll eat later."

That makes you peer up at him for a few seconds, an indecipherable expression, before returning your attention to his arm.

“Hmh, alright.”

Another few beats of silence pass, and then, suddenly, your fingers stop dancing along his tattooed skin, replaced by your hot mouth as it latches onto him.

Sukuna makes no noise at first, the muscles in his face barely moving as if he anticipated your attack, but you can feel his fingers twitch and then tighten around your sides, his strong arms visibly flexing.

A low chuckle emanates from him at your attempt to break his thick skin, your eyes momentarily flickering up to his face at the guttural sound that shakes your body.

You’ve become shameless, he notices, unrestrained craving swirling in your eyes that is usually found in his own when he’s around you.

His tongue drags along the sharp tips of his canines, glinting at you. The image of a menacing predator, dangerous and meant to frighten and devour you, yet you find yourself melting willingly into his arms, the claws digging into you granting you security.

To him, your bites are akin to tickles, like nips that a cat gives its owner, and his first instinct is to laugh. He doesn’t, but the urge remains.

Instead, Sukuna’s face splits into a wide grin, “And what exactly are you trying to do?”

All four of his piercing eyes are pinning you in place as he stares down his nose. Sukuna isn’t sure what to focus on, so he takes his time to memorize every single feature of your face, from the curve of your cupid's bow to the soft flutter of your eyelashes casting shadows across your cherubic cheeks.

“What do you think it looks like?” you grumble, your voice muffled by your mouth still pressed against the resistant limb, “I’m trying to bite you the way you like to bite me, Sukuna.”

He used to demand that you call him by his proper title, yet he finds that he doesn’t mind the lack of title slipping from your lips as much as he thought he would; it’s second nature to you, rolling off your tongue so effortlessly, and it tastes like nectar from the sweetest flower in his mouth.

“You’re trying so hard, aren’t you?”

You huff, “Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not. I respect your effort. It’s amusing – but it’s also welcoming.”

There’s a raw sincerity behind his words that you weren’t prepared for, causing you to put some distance between your mouth and his arm.

Sukuna’s waiting, patient and with mild curiosity.

A wild flame of affection ignites in his chest as he watches how hard you, a mere human, try to put some damage on him, the desire to claim lurking behind every caress of your teeth.

Want swims across his normally indifferent face, something other than vain lust, nothing perverse or violent, but something that goes even deeper, more vulnerable. It takes root in his chest, threatening to burst forth and fall into your waiting hands, ready to catch it.

“Are you proud of yourself? Are you giving it your all?” Sukuna taunts, his controlled voice slightly strained as he pokes you in the face, making your nose scrunch up.

He sees how you almost flinch, all four of his eyes tracking your every move attentively, but you try to keep a nonchalant demeanor, acting unaffected, and not pulling away. You’re not scared – you’re merely sensitive to his touch, Sukuna notes.

He levels you with a smirk; as if you’re an amusing little thing, his personal jester.

“Don’t hold back,” he warns you, maroon eyes burning into you, heavy with intent. So you don’t.

Your soul enters Sukuna before your teeth do, and he can't - doesn't want to - stop it.

There’s noise, emerging from the back of his throat.

A wave of ecstasy washes over his body as you finally manage to draw blood, lapping at the small wound with your tongue, the sting sending goosebumps across his skin and briefly blurring his vision.

You hold him in the palms of your hands without realizing it, your teeth - your pitiful, useless fangs - unintentionally releasing venom that spreads through his guts, paralyzing him against your electrifying touch.

Sukuna’s immune to poison – he himself is a lethal poison - but not to your venom; for it is not filled with poison, but with something else, something he can’t quite identify, having never experienced it before.

One of his hands tangles in your hair, holding your head in place, urging you to continue on with your gentle assault.

“C’mon, try harder. You can do better than that.”

You could tear him apart for all he cares, and he’d let you. Chip away at the flesh that protects his bones and swallow his cursed energy until it merges with your own. Become one.

Sukuna wouldn’t fight back, wouldn’t protect the gaping wounds you have inflicted upon him, and to him that is the strongest sign of devotion he could present you with. And you’d understand.

“Are you even feeling anything?” you ask him as you withdraw from his now marked arm, forehead creased and lips pursed.

Removing his arms from his chest, he brings one of his hands up to cup the underside of your jaw, the gesture oddly tender. His thumb glides along the plush, pillowy flesh of your lower lip that is stained with blood – his blood – and he relishes how the single digit covers your lip completely, and how the lids over your eyes grow droopy, that particular look sending a tingle down his body.

“I’m feeling everything.”

#idk i just want to bite sukuna so i wrote this #is this fluff chat? i can't tell bc it is to me but some people might disagree :D #jjk x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x you #sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #cw biting

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morallygreychaoticneutral · 2 months ago

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Astarion is only real around you.

More in my head only canons about this seemingly simple conundrum of an elf. Contains some game spoilers.

Astarion is only "real" around you. And by real, I mean his true personality as he regains it.

Trust clearly goes a long way with him and if you befriended or romanced him, you've earned it and that is no small thing.

One hidden truth being that he is capable of caring. Something that got him into one hell of a predicament in the past that makes him reject that aspect of himself.

However, you were a complication he did not see coming.

Around the group he is guarded. More resting bitch face and flippant retorts. Most of the banter he has with the party reflects this. His answers are mostly deflective or avoidant.

Lae'zel: "The more I learn of this plane Astarion, the more I believe love is its greatest disease."

Astarion: "Oh, I don't know. The screaming fever is pretty bad."

( I laughed till I had a headache when I heard this the first time.)

Trauma armor : People can't hurt you, if you offer no weapons. So he makes it seem he is aloof and unmoved under the mask of sass.

But as time progresses he shows you that hidden part more often.

For example, his comment about he noticed how kindly you speak to him and about not selling yourself so short in the conversation after his siblings attack. Which to me translated to "Don't speak about yourself as if you are not a unicorn amongst jackasses you abnormally wonderful person." Or the Dark Urge speech where he tells you he is not afraid of you and is by your side no matter what. He's genuine, soft and giving full eye contact in those statements. Its just you and him and he's confident and forward. But wouldn't dare show such vulnerability with the others. Such as when you meet Araj in act 3 (Spawnstarion) he still expresses his concern about not wanting you hurt, but it comes out like its uncomfortable to express.

The difference? People are around. And it's not that he's ashamed. But it proves he has a soft spot for you and he learned that is dangerous information in the hands of others. So the armor goes back on.

Even a the epilogue party, he genuinely wants his friends happy. But he still keeps his distance and instead grouses about the lack of blood.

Which was kind of rude on Withers’ part. Really you dusty rag? You obviously made a stop at a butcher shop.

Anyway...

I like to think Astarion info dumps Gale style when you are alone together after a day of adventuring.

Him telling you excitedly about something he witnessed or learned. His face animated with the memory of how he felt about it. His hands gesturing wildly to make his point. Or laughing so hard at a mishap he has to wipe tears off his face. Or contemplating how each companions' are doing amidst their own plights.

You: "Aww, I can't wait to tell Gale you are worried about him."

Astarion: "Pft..you can try my love. But, thanks to my hard work, he would never believe you."

#astarion #baulders gate 3 #my headcanons

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betweenstorms · 3 months ago

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Part Two of Where We Part (previous chapter) (next chapter) (masterlist) Childhood Friend!Simon x fem!Reader

Time has a funny way of slipping through your fingers, doesn’t it?

The years passed as they do, quietly, relentlessly and somehow, unintentionally you followed Simon Riley’s advice, no matter how much it stung during that particular summer night.

You grew older, wiser, or at least you hoped you did.

At the end of that warm, suburban summer, you left Manchester behind, moved to London for university, found yourself caught up in the complexity of adulthood, chasing dreams, making mistakes, falling in love, losing it. You lived your life, embraced its peaks and valleys, and let it sweep you along. Some days were golden, like those late summer days in your twenties when laughter was easy, love felt endless, and the world seemed filled with promise. You travelled with your new friends from university, gelato dripping down your wrist as you laughed under the bright Sicilian sun, the loud conversation with your girls echoing across the cobblestone streets. You invited your parents to London several times, playing tourist with them, showing them your new apartment, savouring moments of connection between the gaps of your new life and their old one. And then there was the day your boyfriend knelt before you, a ring glinting in the rose gold streetlights of Paris, asking you to be his fiancée.

Oh, it was the kind of moment you had always dreamed of, the fairy tale that every little girl secretly hopes will come true.

But life isn’t all dreams, is it?

You wept like a child, your heart shattered when you found out about the affair. Your fiancé, with your college roommate of all people. It felt like betrayal layered upon betrayal, and the sadness you carried then weighed more than all the joy of your past put together, manifested in the hollow echoes of your aching sobs in the shared flat you once called home. You moved out shortly after that incident.

Unfortunately, there were other disappointments, too. Failed job interviews, missed opportunities, the loneliness that seeped into your bones in those years after university, when friends began to drift away and the beauty of childhood transforms into a fading memory. But you picked yourself up. You always did. Because that’s what you did. That’s what you knew best. You kept moving, because the alternative, sinking, was unthinkable.

But through it all, you lived.

And you wouldn’t change a thing even if you had the chance.

You threw yourself into your work, into the messy and beautiful chaos of life. There were still some moments where you felt like you had the world at your feet, laughing with your high school mates over beers in dingy pubs, watching the sun set over London’s skyline, those spontaneous trips to the coast where you tasted freedom in every salty breeze. And you moved forward, not necessarily because you wanted to, but because time forced you to. But that was fine by you.

And in the quiet corners of your mind, Simon Riley became a distant thought—like the chorus of a song you used to know like the back of your hand. You thought of him less and less as the years went by, as your life became more complicated, more full.

You took his words to heart, didn’t you?

You left him behind.

But still, he lingered.

There were those times, in the early years, when your parents would call, giving you updates on Manchester, on the neighbours, on the old street you grew up on. You’d ask about the Rileys, casually, as if it didn’t really matter. You weren’t prying, not really, just curious. What had become of Simon? Of Tommy? Your parents mentioned Simon had joined the military at some point, which didn’t surprise you. He always carried a soldier’s weight, even as a boy.

They told you about Tommy too, how his life had spiralled out of control with drugs and the wreckage of his past trauma. Your mother sighed when she mentioned Mrs. Riley and how she had hit rock bottom. But Simon, when he returned from deployment, finally helped them rid themselves of Mr. Riley for good, breaking the cycle of abuse that had poisoned their lives for years.

Your parents even got a bit more involved in the Riley’s lives after that—dropping in with food, attending Tommy’s wedding with a kind soul named Beth, helping with little Joseph, their gorgeous newborn, who your mum absolutely adored. She’d tell you about him during your weekend catch-ups.

However, as time went on, the Rileys faded from your thoughts, a chapter you had quietly closed.

Your own life was blooming in London, despite the mistakes you made along the way. You loved fiercely, lost greatly, and found your way back to yourself time and again. The more you lived, the less you thought about the boy who once lived next door.

Until that cold November afternoon.

The air was ice cold, but not just from the weather. It was the kind of chill that settled deep in your bones, the kind that gnawed at you long after the sun had set during winter.

The day had been unremarkable at first—work was its usual rhythm of meetings and emails, the sound of your co-workers chattering as a familiar background noise. But then your phone rang, your mother’s weak voice trembling on the other end like the fragile crackle of dry leaves in the wind during autumn.

You had heard your mother cry before.

The grief at a relative’s passing, the heartache of a goodbye too long drawn out—but this was different. Her sobs were frantic, her rushed words spilling over each other in terrified, broken fragments, so hurried you could hardly catch the meaning.

“The Rileys… oh God, love, the Rileys are gone…”

It took you a moment to grasp what she was saying.

Gone? How? You sat frozen, the world around you blurring as your mum’s words came in and out like waves crashing against the shore.

“Dear Lord, some maniac... a psychopath… some madman…” she choked. “He killed them. Killed them all. Tommy, Beth, even little Joseph, an innocent baby, Oh God…”

You could hear your mother’s quiet anguish, but it was as though you were outside yourself, hearing everything from a great distance.

The Rileys. Dead. It didn’t make sense. Mrs. Riley, Tommy, Beth, the child—how could they be gone? The thought was too large and too grotesque to fully comprehend. It was like a nightmare, one you couldn’t wake up from.

“And… Simon?”

A name you hadn’t uttered in years.

A name that had always lingered on the edges of your memory, like a shadow cast by fading light.

Your mother’s breath caught. “I don’t know. Oh, love. He wasn’t there… I think he’s still in the military, but… we don’t know, we were asleep, didn’t hear a thing.”

She was crying again, her sobs muffled by the phone. Her sobs broke through, and she confessed, through gasps of guilt, that she and your father had been sound asleep when it happened, oblivious to the horror just next door. The sanctuary of your childhood, the quiet safety of the neighbourhood, shattered in a mere second.

Your mind raced, your heart thundering in your chest.

Oh, all those years, all those moments where you hadn’t thought about Simon Riley, and now, now the past was clawing its way back, forcing you to confront something you had thought you’d left behind.

Your coworkers looked up, sensing something was wrong. One of them asked if you were okay, if you needed anything, but you barely heard them. You wanted to scream, to cry, to do anything, but all you could do was tremble. Your hands squeezed as you gripped your phone, trying to keep your voice steady as you told your mother you’d drive up to Manchester right away, that you’d be there soon. When the call ended, and you were out the door before you had time to gather your thoughts. The moments after that were a blur, your body on autopilot as you stumbled to your car. The urgency to get there, to understand what had happened, burned through you, like liquid fire in your veins.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Pain hit you suddenly, sharp and overwhelming, something you’ve never felt before. It started as a dull ache in your lower stomach, but it intensified rapidly until you were doubled over, gasping for breath. You couldn’t drive, you couldn’t think. By the time you finally made it to your flat, the pain had become unbearable. Something was wrong, you knew. Terribly wrong.

You had to call for an ambulance, your hands shaking as you dialled the number.

However, you weren’t thinking about yourself as they wheeled you into the hospital, weren’t listening to the doctor’s voice as he explained the situation—appendicitis, nothing lethal, a routine surgery, and you’d be fine but you had to stay still.

Throughout your surgery, all you could think about was Simon. The boy who had grown into a man who you barely knew anymore, the man who had lived through hell and had come back to face it once again. Was he back in Manchester? Was he grieving? Or had he been claimed by the same nightmare that had taken the rest of his family?

After the surgery, you lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, tears streaming down your face. It wasn’t the pain of your own body that made you cry—it was the helplessness, the not knowing, the fear that somewhere out there, Simon, your childhood friend, was lost, alone, and there was nothing you could do to help him.

You spent the first few hours after the surgery drifting between sleep and wakefulness, your mind clouded with both painkillers and the overwhelming ache of uncertainty. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw flashes of the past—memories of Manchester, the Rileys, Simon. The years blurred, and for a moment, you could almost feel the gentle summer sun on your skin again, hear the distant murmur of a time that seemed too far gone.

But the present was relentless.

Your parents arrived in London as quickly as they could, your mother staying by your side, fussing over you as she had when you were a child. Her hands were warm, but her eyes betrayed her fear. Fear for you, fear for what had happened back in Manchester. She stayed while your father left for the funeral—the collective service for the Rileys, held only a week after their brutal end.

You couldn’t go, of course. Fucking appendicitis.

The thought of missing that final goodbye gnawed at you. You couldn’t let it go. Therefore, you wrote. A letter. A really long letter. In the small hours of the night, with the hospital lights dimmed and the distant hum of machinery as your only company, you penned a letter.

The words didn’t come easily.

What could you possibly say to Simon Riley, after all these years? What could you write that would bring him any semblance of comfort, any understanding in the face of such senseless tragedy? How could you explain to him how sorry you were? Sorry for what had happened to his family, sorry that you weren’t there when he needed someone most, sorry for all the years you’d spent avoiding the memories of your childhood, of him. But you had to try.

You wrote with a trembling hand, pouring everything you couldn’t say aloud into that letter, every apology that had been lodged in your throat for years. You tied it to your father’s soul, knowing he would deliver it to Simon, wherever he might be. And your father, with his quiet strength, promised he would.

When the day of the funeral came, you lay in your bed, imagining the cold November air, the way the ground must have looked under the grey Manchester sky. You pictured the small crowd, neighbours, and friends from the community, all standing in sombre silence as the Rileys were laid to rest. But what haunted you most was the image of Simon—if he was even there at all. You wondered if he stood apart from the others, his broad shoulders hunched, his face unreadable as ever. Or maybe he hadn’t come at all, disappearing into the shadows once again, as he always had.

The week crawled by, each day dragging longer than the last. Your mother stayed by your side, but the quiet weight of what had happened in Manchester pressed down on both of you. Your father returned, but there was no news of Simon. Your dad told you that they didn’t talk much. No sight of him after the funeral. No trace of him in the days after. He had vanished, leaving behind an empty house and a tragedy too vast to comprehend. And when you finally recovered enough to leave the hospital, you made the trip back to Manchester with your mother.

The familiar streets felt like a ghost of themselves—places once filled with memories now overshadowed by the grim reality of what had happened. The Riley house stood empty, its windows dark, the air around it thick with loss. You stood at the gate for a long time, staring at the house that had once been so full of life, of pain, of everything in between. But now, it was nothing. Just a shell. Just another haunted corner of your past.

There were no answers. No signs of Simon.

And in the end, after a week of trying to help your parents, after a week of grieving and remembering, you left. You packed your things and drove back to London, promising yourself you’d never return. The city you had once called home felt cursed now, and the memories it held were too heavy to bear.

You couldn’t escape the past, though. Not really.

The promise you made to yourself all those years ago, to never return to that godforsaken city, was one you kept for a long time. It wasn’t out of spite or bitterness, but rather out of a quiet resignation. You had moved on, created a life in London that was full of both the mundane and the extraordinary. And after your parents moved to Wimbledon, following your father’s cancer diagnosis, the ties to Manchester became even more frayed.

It wasn’t until your thirty-fourth birthday that you found yourself heading back to the place you swore you’d never return to.

Not for family, not for closure, but for something as trivial and absurd as a fucking high school reunion. It had started with a sudden phone call from one of your old mates, the same group you used to run around with in your youth.

You hadn’t heard from them in years. Well, apart from the occasional likes on Instagram posts or an awkwardly short birthday text.

“Fifteen bloody years,” your friend had said, her voice bright and insistent. “You’ve been stuck in London with your fancy life, and we’ve barely seen you. Time to get your arse back here and have a pint with the group, eh? It’s been too long, girl.”

You laughed it off at first, citing your tight work schedule and your responsibilities. But the more she talked, the more you realised how long it had been since you’d even thought about that part of your life. A simpler time, before the complexities of adulthood and all its responsibilities weighed on you.

So you agreed. You didn’t really know why, maybe out of a sense of pure nostalgia or maybe out of some lingering guilt.

The drive up to Manchester was long, and your nerves sat uneasily in your chest. What would it be like to see those familiar faces again, to walk the streets that had once been the backdrop of your childhood? Would it feel like home? Or would it feel like you didn’t belong anymore, a ghost walking through memories?

However, by the time you saw the familiar landmarks, something in you began to settle. The nervousness faded, replaced by a strange calmness, as if the city itself recognised you and offered some kind of unspoken truce. You arrived at the pub where your reunion was being held—the same one you used to frequent during your teenage years. It was a dive, the kind of place that hadn’t aged well, but that’s exactly what made it feel like time had stood still.

Inside, the air was warm, thick with the smell of beer and the hum of conversation. And then there they were, your dear friends, sitting in a corner, laughing just like they always did. The moment you walked in, it was as if no time had passed at all. They greeted you with familiar smiles, pulling you into tight hugs and offering you a pint almost immediately.

The conversation flowed easily, old jokes resurfacing, stories being retold with exaggerated details and you found yourself chuckling. No, truly laughing, in a way you hadn’t done in what felt like ages. The weight of the years melted away, and for those brief hours, you felt like you were a teenager again, full of life and possibility, untouched by the heaviness that had since followed you. Oh, you hadn’t even realised how much you missed it, missed them. The simplicity of it all. The foolishness of youth.

As the night wore on, you found yourself drinking more than you should have. The beers went down easy, their familiar taste blending with the warm laughter and nostalgia. You hadn’t had a drink in a while, not properly, and it didn’t take long for the alcohol to loosen your limbs and soften the edges of reality. You felt light-headed, slightly detached from your surroundings but in that comfortable way that comes with the perfect level of drunkenness. Your words were slurring a bit, your laughter louder, but you didn’t mind.

Not tonight.

Eventually, the haze became a bit too much, and you excused yourself from the table. You needed fresh air, a moment for yourself to step away from the heat of the pub and the noise of the reunion. You fumbled with your jacket as you headed for the back of the building, where the designated smoking area was. It was behind the pub, near the dimly lit, empty parking lot, and as you made your way there, you nearly tripped over a discarded bottle on the ground.

“Bloody hell,” you muttered under your breath, the curse falling easily from your lips. Even small inconveniences seemed dramatic when you were tipsy. Some habits never died.

When you reached the smoking area, you were grateful to see it wasn’t crowded. Just one man, standing off to the side, leaning against the wall of the building, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he took a long drag. The tip of the cig glowed bright orange in the darkness. His silhouette seemed larger than life, almost unreal in the way he stood. He was massive, the kind of bloke you’d notice even in a crowded room, let alone in the quiet of the night.

Tall as a statue but built like a brick wall—shoulders broad and thick with muscle, his frame nearly filling the space between the wall and the edge of the lot.

At first, you stopped, startled by his size.

He was the sort of man you’d expect to see guarding the door, maybe a bouncer or a security guard. That made sense, considering how much physical strength he had. You nodded at him out of politeness, the way you do when you make eye contact with a stranger and want to acknowledge their presence without committing to a conversation. His gaze lingered on you, sharp and calculating.

Why was he looking at you like that?

You quickly turned away, feeling oddly self-conscious, and pulled out your cig, attempting to light it. But of course, as your luck would have it, your lighter chose that moment to give up on you. No matter how many times you flicked the damn thing, it refused to spark.

“Seriously?” you muttered, cursing your luck again. The bravado of the alcohol in your system pushed you to turn towards your only companion, flashing him an awkward smile. “Hi. Hello. Any chance you’ve got a lighter, mate?”

The man didn’t speak at first.

He just watched you, observed you, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark and reflective under the dim light of the parking lot. There was something oddly familiar about the way he held himself, something in the way he stared at you that sent a ripple of recognition through you, but you couldn’t quite place it.

Without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a black, well-worn lighter, and flicked it open. The flame sparked to life, small but steady, and he leaned forward, offering it to you. You stepped closer, holding your cigarette to the flame.

As you did, you couldn’t help but take a better look at him.

His face was mostly obscured by the dim lighting, but his features were hard and chiselled. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken more than once, with a small scar running through his upper lip. His lips were thin, pressed into a line that gave nothing away, and the faint lines around his eyes hinted at a man who had lived through more than most. However, it was his gaze, those beautiful hazel eyes, that stopped you cold. They were sharp, almost piercing, and there was something else behind them—an intensity that made your stomach tighten.

For a moment, you thought it might just be the alcohol playing tricks on you, but the longer you looked, the more certain you became. There was no mistaking it.

Those eyes, guarded and haunted, belonged to Simon Riley.

“Thanks,” you muttered, taking a quick drag from your cig, stepping back, trying to act casual even though your heart was racing.

There was something about his presence, something that felt both familiar and distant at the same time. It had been years, after all. You’d moved on, or so you thought. But standing here now, the weight of the past pressed down on you, the memories flooding back like a tide you couldn’t hold back. This random bloke before you… yes, the resemblance was mad uncanny. You stole glances at the giant man, unsure, your mind buzzing with uncertainty and the effects of the alcohol. Was it really him? Could it be?

You hesitated, your hand trembling slightly as you took another drag from your cigarette. You wanted to ask, but the words stuck in your throat, too afraid to sound foolish. Too afraid that if you asked, you’d break whatever fragile moment this was. But before you could find the courage to speak, the man sighed.

That sigh.

It was unmistakable—quiet, irritated, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders and he was tired of carrying it. It was the same sigh you’d heard all those years ago, on that warm summer night beneath the street lamps.

“Fuckin' hell,” he muttered under his breath, the deep, rough rumble of his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “S’me. Stop gawkin'.”

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