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gloomwitchwrites · 8 months ago

Text

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical cursing, suggestive themes, brief mention of childbirth, kissing, domestic!Simon, brief military-based discussion

Word Count: 5k

A/N: Part Thirteen of Ink & Needle

Archie's solicitor comes for a visit. Evie goes into labor. You and Simon talk over breakfast.

Chapter Twelve // Chapter Fourteen

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

“Please give me some good news, Mister Grant.”

Leaning against the edge of the kitchen counter, you cross your arms over your chest as Ewan Grant, Archie’s personal solicitor, comes to a stop just inside the entryway. Jennifer Hopkins, the estate agent for Evie and Archie’s house, sits on the couch with her assistant Mollie. The two of them talk in hushed voices, their gazes focused on the stack of paperwork and open laptop computer resting on the coffee table.

Ewan Grant sighs, more from exhaustion than annoyance, as he sets his dark brown briefcase on the counter and removes his tweed coat. The whole situation with Archie’s family has been a hassle for everyone, but Grant speaks with the family directly, and that is an entirely different beast.

“Will Lady Evelyn be joining us?” asks Mr. Grant, adjusting his rain-spattered spectacles.

Evie is upstairs resting. The two of you have been in Cambridge dealing with more house business over the last few days. She’s so close to her due date, and any burst of energy is starting to wear her down. While you’ve taken much of the mental and physical load onto yourself, it doesn’t seem nearly enough to do anything substantial. You’re floating in stasis. Directionless. Unsure of where you’ll float off to.

“Don’t let her hear you call her that,” you chastise, a smile spreading across your face.

Evie might have gained a title when she married Archie, but she rarely enjoys hearing it used. To her, she’s simply Evelyn Green from Southern Missouri, and Archie is—was—Archie. Just Archie. That is how you see them, and it how they’ve always wanted to be seen.

Those are—were—their wishes, and you’ve always respected that.

“Old habits,” he chuckles, removing his glasses and inspecting the lenses.

“You’re forgiven,” you smile. “But really, how are things?”

Mr. Grant reaches into the front pocket of his suit jacket and extracts a small cleaning cloth. “You want to know if the Williams plan on seizing everything?”

You shrug. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

This has been an ongoing issue since Archie’s death. He wasn’t even dead a week before Evie started receiving communications from the family about “cutting off family money,” as if Archie and Evie only lived off what the family was kind enough to give them. It’s a farce. Everything given was promptly donated, and everything Archie and Evie earned on their own belongs to them.

At the end of the day, that is what needs protecting.

Mr. Grant rubs the cloth against one the lenses. “The Williams wish to contest everything. Unfortunately for them, they have little ground to stand on.”

“That’s a good thing then?” you ask hopefully, pushing off from the counter.

“Oh, yes,” nods Mr. Grant, moving the cloth to the other lens. “The family money is the only footing they have, but even that isn’t guaranteed.” He holds out his spectacles for examination. Nodding, he returns them to his face.

“Now,” he continues, opening the briefcase and removing two leather-bound folders. The topmost one he holds up in front of him. It’s thin. “This is everything they could easily lay claim to. In actual court, these assets could be transferred to the family.”

Mr. Grant sets it down on the counter. Reaching for it, you open it up, scanning through the few documents inside.

“There isn’t much here,” you muse, finding the last page blank.

“No, and it’s not anything significant. The family allowance is there but anything gifted cannot be returned. They can only shut the tap off.”

“They’ve already done that,” you mutter, closing the portfolio.

Mr. Grant presents the other portfolio. This one is larger. Thicker. “Everything in here will be much more difficult for them to seize.” He sets this one on top of the other folder. “These are all of Lord and Lady Williams’ assets. Personal investments. Property. Private income.” Mr. Grant adjusts his glasses. “Since there is also a legitimate child and heir, that will also curb much in Lady Evelyn’s favor.”

Your head snaps up. “Are they saying the baby isn’t Archie’s?”

“Goodness, no,” says Mr. Grant quickly, waving his hand in the air. “Not that I have heard. Even if they try, paternity tests are easy to acquire, and contesting the fact without proof will only put them in a bad light.”

You shut the portfolio. “But will they actually do it?”

Mr. Grant frowns. “Challenge the paternity?”

“Try to seize all of Archie’s assets,” you correct.

He nods, lips pursing slightly as he considers his next words. “You want my personal or professional opinion?”

“Both?” you ask with hesitation, wanting to know but also not.

Mr. Grant taps the edge of the counter a few times before speaking. “Professionally, they might. However, it will be an uphill battle. The Williams might be aristocracy, and their titles, land, and money seem infinite at times, but Lady Evelyn is the widow, and she is about to give birth to Lord Archibald’s child. That is far more important in the court’s eyes.”

“How so?” you ask, genuinely curious. As an American, these rules and regulations are entirely foreign to you. Yes, there is vast wealth in the States, but there are no Lords or Dukes or Baronesses.

“No child means most of his assets would revert to the family and Lady Evelyn would likely receive a comfortable settlement. But a child means the assets can move forward so to speak. That’s important to the courts. It shows a continuation. If the family tries to seize everything, it’ll place a shadow over the proceedings. The judge will want to know why when there is an heir for the inheritance.”

“And personally?”

Mr. Grant laughs. “They’re peacocking.”

You grin, covering your mouth as you stifle a snort. “So, I can start moving some of this?” You gesture behind you, indicating the house.

“The Williams Estate hasn’t officially filed anything. However, they are also immediate family, so they can contest the will. Have it picked apart for inconsistencies to make the process unbearable.” He shrugs. “Might tie up some of his assets. Make it more difficult for Lady Evelyn to use them. Assets directly tied to her should be fine.”

“Evie wants to sell the house. Can we do that?”

“The house is under Lord Archibald’s name, not the family’s estate. When I helped draw up the paperwork, I don’t recall a cosigner, but I will go through the records again to make sure.” Mr. Grant glances into the living room before his gaze returns to you. “Everything inside the home is…fair game, as you Americans put it.”

It’s a relief to hear. Evie doesn’t want to look at this place anymore. She wants it gone. If the solicitor is giving the go ahead, you can start selling, donating, or trashing items in the home before the estate agent prepares for showings.

“Thank you, Mister Grant. I’ll make sure Evie sees these and that the information is passed on.” Lifting the portfolios, you tuck them against your chest.

“How is she?” he asks, genuine concern in his tone.

Happy with a fake smile. Crying when she thinks no one is looking.

“Tired,” you answer, because it’s the truth. “She’s tired.”

Mr. Grant nods, sighing softly, his shoulders heaving. “I came here directly from the Williams estate. Usually, I don’t wait long before someone greets me but…”

“But what?” you probe.

He shifts on his feet, clearly agitated. “I don’t know if it’s even my place, but I think it should be said.” Mr. Grant glances over your shoulder at Mollie and Jennifer, the middle of his brow creasing with concern.

“Speak quietly,” you instruct, leaning in a bit.

His gaze lingers on the two women before returning to you. “When I arrived at the Williams estate this morning, I spent almost an hour waiting in the drawing room before anyone came to speak with me. That is highly unusual. Many would consider that not only improper but horrible manners. While I object to their treatment of Lady Evelyn, the family has always been traditional when it comes to hospitality.” He shakes his head. “Tis most strange.”

“Did something happen?”

“Well,” he begins. “Someone came but it was one of the household staff. Brought me tea and some finger sandwiches. Said it would be a bit longer. So, I waited. Waited a bit more. Eventually, I decided to wonder off.” Mr. Grant’s smile is like that of a child who just pulled off a deliciously perfect prank. “The estate itself is one of those old manors. The whole ‘upstairs downstairs’ business. Found a few new hires that don’t know it’s not good to talk.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Apparently, I was kept waiting because someone from British Intelligence was there asking questions about Lord Archibald’s death.”

“He was killed in the States,” you say, even though Mr. Grant already knows this information.

“‘Looking into his death’ is what they said. Sent his body back home without a proper investigation. Lord Archibald is from an important family. Covering all possibilities, I suppose.”

“Should we expect someone?”

Mr. Grant inclines his head. “That would be my guess. Unless Lady Evelyn has already spoken to someone previously.”

You weren’t here for the week of Archie’s death. Evie was completely alone. Someone might have talked to her then.

“I’ll check with her,” you nod. “Thank you for saying something.”

“We certainly don’t need any more unpleasant surprises. Given everything that’s happened.”

You rub at your temples, a headache starting to form there. “You’re talking about Adam.”

Mr. Grant snorts. “Nasty business and a deeply unpleasant man. I’m not surprised by his behavior toward you in the slightest.”

“It’s fine,” you mutter. “It’s over.”

Adam is the last person you want to think about. That entire conversation in the restaurant is just another thing you want to forget. Simon’s fury toward the man sent Adam into a spiral. All the chest-beating silliness between the two men only made things worse. At least, potentially. But you don’t blame Simon for any of it. He was only trying to protect you.

Mr. Grant picks up his coat and begins putting it on. “If the family contacts you directly, refuse. Make sure I’m present for any future interactions.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. I can’t see them wanting to visit us.”

Mr. Grant retrieves his briefcase and the two of you head for the front door. “Though their behavior says otherwise, I suspect they’ll want to see the child.”

“Absolutely not,” you say immediately. “After everything they’ve done?”

He shrugs as he turns the handle. “Like I said. If they make an appearance, call me.”

You watch until his car disappears down the drive. When you reenter the kitchen, Jennifer and Mollie are up and alert, their faces eager.

“Good news?” asks Jennifer, her hands clasped in front of her.

“We can start selling things.” You place one hand on your hip and gesture at the large living room. “But I’m concerned about sticking to a schedule once the baby arrives. If most of this stuff needs to go, I’m not sure how often Evie or I can be here.”

Jennifer nods. “I can bring someone in to do appraisals and estimate the value of everything in the home. Perhaps even host an estate sale to help push it out quickly? You won’t have to lift a finger.”

“Great,” you reply, throwing up your hands. “Do it.”

Jennifer and Mollie say their goodbyes, exiting quietly, but leaving a mountain of paperwork behind. It’s just more shit piled on top of more shit. It’s a never-ending river of garbage that you’re floating on. One thing can shift, and you’ll slip right down into the swamp.

Outside the patio doors, the sky is gray, and rain falls gently from the low clouds. Autumn is in full swing, nearing Halloween if you have the date right. Once the baby arrives, everything will be different. Evie will need a different kind of support, one you’re absolutely willing to give, but aren’t entirely sure how yet.

And then there is Simon. Your wraith. The man you think about nearly every waking moment.

Stress is eating away at you like termites embedded in wood. It’s dissolving the good memories you’ve recently formed with him. It’s hard to forget what he did in the dark and how he made you feel. Difficult to ignore the sensation of his mouth and tongue between your thighs, or how his fingers slipped inside and curled so sweetly.

It is odd to you that he hasn’t tried for more. Men are pushy creatures. They’re prone to acting in selfishness. At Riot Room, you and Simon were like colliding atoms, exploding and meeting in frenzied repetition. Simon is moving slowly this time. He’s being careful. Maybe he thinks you don’t see it, but that isn’t true.

Your wraith is learning your habits and curiosities. He listens, but he also talks, sometimes pushing to the point that you want to slam your fists against his chest. Simon is gentle. Rough. Sometimes all at once. There is so much comfort in the way he treats you, the way he turns to you when you’re in the same room. It is haunting. Clinging. Occupying your mind and emotions where there is already little to spare.

Every touch and kiss are laced with possession. Every glance and gesture are a mark. A statement of ownership. Yet there is nothing about Simon that feels like a cage. He’s saying mine without barricading you from the world.

And you miss him. All the time.

The moment you’re no longer with Simon, his absence is like an open wound. It cuts deep, leaving hollow spaces behind.

“Did they all leave already?”

You turn at the sound of Evie’s voice. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, dark hair a mess from the pillow.

“Jennifer and Mollie left a bit ago. They’re going to bring in someone to appraise everything. Maybe do an estate sale. If that works for you.”

Evie wraps her cardigan around her tightly, approaching the patio door, coming to a stop beside you. “That seems like a lot of work.”

“You want do it while you’re taking care of a newborn?”

Evie smiles softly. “Not really.”

“Ewan Grant stopped by as well.”

“Archie’s solicitor?” You nod. “And you didn’t wake me?”

“You need the sleep,” you counter. “Plus, if I woke you up, it would take nearly half the day for you to roll out of bed.”

Evie snorts and rubs the top of her belly.

“He left some information about Archie’s assets. We talked about—well…” you trail off, unsure of how to broach such a sensitive topic.

“It’s fine.” Evie lightly squeezes your upper arm. “I can take a look.”

Sucking on your bottom lip, you recall Ewan Grant’s mentioning of the British Intelligence officer coming for a visit. Is this the right time to ask? Should you say anything?

But when will it actually be a good time?

“Evie?”

“Hm?”

“After Archie died, did anyone come visit you?”

Evie frowns. “Many people did. Even his family though I could tell they hated it. Why?”

“I don’t mean family or close friends. People outside of that sphere. Anyone you didn’t expect?”

You’re trying to say it without saying it. The whole thing was a mess. Evie was told that Archie was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but that came from the American mouth, not the British one.

Her frown only deepens. “Well, yes. I received plenty of visitors that Archie worked with or went to school with. Mostly people I didn’t know but wanted to give their condolences.”

She’s not picking up on your line of questioning which means you’ll need to be more direct.

“What about police?”

She shrugs. “When his…body came home.” Evie glances out into the rain as her eyes begin to water.

You fear pushing too much, but a surprise visit from British Intelligence sounds mighty inconvenient at the moment.

“Mister Grant brought up a few things during our conversation that I just need some clarity on.”

Evie simply nods, still staring out into the rain.

You’ll ask later. You’ll ask another time. It’s clear that this isn’t the place to do it.

Glancing down at your watch, you groan. “Oh hell. We’re running behind. We need to go, Evie.”

Bags are packed quickly, the two of you returning to London by train.

It’s late, the sun just below the horizon by the time you walk into Amelia’s house. Dinner is reheated, wine is had (only by you and Amelia), and a romantic comedy is watched with a massive bowl of buttery popcorn.

Evie is asleep twenty minutes in, and Amelia follows after thirty. You remain up, watching the rest before waking Evie and sending her off to bed. Amelia eventually finds her way as well. With the quiet, you catch up on a few work emails and finalize several things before sending them off for approval.

When your head hits your pillow, sleep hits you like a fist to the face. There are no dreams to be had, just a dark endlessness you’ll forget upon waking.

But it’s not the alarm or the morning light that wakes you.

It’s a small, warm hand on your shoulder that startles you into consciousness.

“What?” you mutter, turning over onto your back, one hand reaching out in the dark for Evie. You don’t find her, but your palm crosses over dampness. It’s not a cold wet. It’s warm like room temperature bathwater.

You blink a few times, the dark of the room still sitting heavy on your eyelids.

“Evie?” you call out, the dredges of sleep clawing at your vocal cords.

The reply is a whimper, and then a sharp inhalation.

There is fear in that breath, one that startles your senses into action. Reaching for the bedside lamp, you tug on the small chain. The lightbulb illuminates, and with it comes a brightness that makes you flinch.

“Evie?” You twist toward the rest of the room, searching for her.

She’s standing next to the bed, one hand cradling the bottom of her belly, the other resting against the edge of the mattress. Her eyes are wide and there is a dark stain down the insides of her pajama pants.

“Oh God,” you whisper. “It’s happening.”

Evie nods frantically. “It’s happening.”

The air kicks in, blowing gentle heat into the room.

Machines beep. Voices chat beyond the open door. Evie quietly rests in her hospital bed. Her eyes are closed but you’re not entirely sure if she’s sleeping or not. Using your elbow as a support, you rest your chin in your palm, staring down at the adorable little bundle in the hospital-provided bassinet.

The tiny newborn is all pink cheeks and soft coos. Lillian is a precious thing, and named after Archie’s little sister who died young. She’s wrapped up like a human burrito in a white blanket embroidered with yellow ducks. On her head is a pale pink cap.

Lillian wiggles in her wrap, her cooing becoming a disgruntled gurgle like she’s angry at the world but is too tired to voice her frustration.

A soft knock draws your attention away from Lillian and to the open door.

Amelia stands there in a yellow rain coat and black rain boots, both speckled with raindrops. In her arms is a large, flat takeout container. From this distance, you can’t see what’s inside, but you can hazard a few guesses. She’s grinning, her smile stretching toward her ears.

“Hello, Amelia,” sighs Evie, her eyes blinking slowly as she sits up to greet the woman.

“Brought you something,” giggles Amelia like she’s entirely too pleased with herself. She nearly skips over to the bed, presenting the container to Evie.

Pushing off from the ledge you’re leaning on, you go to the side of Evie’s hospital bed, extending the small tray that emerges from the side. Swinging it over Evie’s lap, you secure the safety lock to make sure it doesn’t slip away and spill whatever Amelia has brought.

Amelia sets the massive container down. It nearly dwarfs the tray it sits on. She removes the lid and sets it aside.

“You brought me sushi,” gushes Evie, immediately opening the chopsticks and lining up the packets of soy sauce.

Of everything Evie’s been craving, it’s sushi.

“Oh, yes,” replies Amelia. She glances over at you with a knowing smile, one that immediately puts you on alert. “Brought that, and a few other things.” She nods toward the door.

You immediately turn the moment a large shadow steps into view.

It’s Simon.

He looms like a dark beast in the doorway, not coming in but not leaving either. His gaze is darting everywhere like he’s checking the place out. Simon carries two backpacks. One is draped over his right shoulder and the other over his left. In his right hand, Simon grips a large, black duffle bag. In his other hand, he holds Amelia’s pink purse with white flowers on the strap.

Behind him are two nurses, their faces stricken by his sudden appearance.

Bravo is not with him.

Amelia shrugs. “Needed an escort.”

“In a hospital?” asks Evie, amused.

“It’s like having a scary dog with you,” jokes Amelia, gesturing over her shoulder at Simon. “No one stopped us.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Evie cackles as she tears open a soy sauce packet with her teeth.

Simon enters the room slowly, placing all the bags on the ledge under the window. He pauses there like a phantom, surveying the three of you before heading in your direction. Lillian coos and Simon freezes.

His balaclava-covered head turns to the bassinet. Simon shifts, leaning to the side, staring down at the small bundle. You can’t read his expression. The only thing you can gauge is his gaze. It’s intense, focused, but impassive.

“You should go home and rest, dear.” Amelia’s gentle voice tugs you away from your wraith. You turn back to them just as Evie shoves a piece of sushi into her mouth.

“I’m fine,” you reply, but even you hear the exhaustion. You’ve been at the hospital for nearly a full day, and the time between going to bed and the time that Evie woke you up was only a couple of hours.

You haven’t slept at all.

Amelia tuts. “I knew you’d say that,” she says. “It’s why I brought Simon.” She nods in his direction, but you don’t have to seek him out.

Simon is already beside you, one large hand resting on your lower back. Instinct triggers, and you lean into his touch like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Warmth floods in from where his hand makes contact, invading your system like a virus.

“That’s thoughtful, Amelia.” You lift your hand to gesture toward Evie. “But—”

“Shut up and go,” interrupts Evie as she talks around the sushi in her mouth. “We can manage.”

You open your mouth, another protest forming on your tongue, but Evie is having none of it.

“Go,” she repeats, shaking her head, eyebrows rising toward her hairline as she picks up more food.

You’re not about to argue with a woman who just gave birth.

“Okay,” you agree. “Fine. But call me if anything happens.”

Simon’s hand remains at your back while you retrieve your coat and purse. The two of you take public transit back to Clapton. It is then that the exhaustion truly sets in. The gentle lull of public transit causes you to drift off a few times, but Simon wakes you when it’s time to depart.

He does not take you to his flat. Instead, he takes you to Amelia’s. On the stairs, your feet are lead. They drag, and it’s a wonder how you even make it into the bedroom. Simon does not disturb you, giving you privacy as you shower and change into comfortable clothing.

You never make it back downstairs.

Collapsing face first into the bed, sleep comes suddenly. It is the dipping of the bed beneath you that rouses you briefly from sleep. Reaching out, you find Simon. Your arms wrap around something large and hard. It’s not his arm. Likely his thigh.

It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that he’s warm and perfect and so goddamn close. You snuggle up to him and return to that blissfully dreamless state.

When you wake again, it is with the sun’s rays on your face.

Simon is not in the bed.

Pushing up, you glance around the room. There is no sign of Evie or that anyone has stopped by to grab anything. Stretching your arms over your head, you ease out of bed, surrendering the warm covers for the chilled air in the room.

Downstairs, you find Simon.

He’s in Amelia’s kitchen. There is breakfast on the table and the morning news is on. It plays from the little, boxy television on the counter. It’s muted but closed captioning is on.

“Morning.”

Simon glances over his shoulder. The balaclava is pushed up to his nose, the rim of a tea mug hanging before his mouth.

“Morning,” replies Simon, setting the tea on the counter and striding toward you.

He always does this. The moment he can be near you, Simon takes it, seizing it like he would a prize.

There isn’t a chance to ask a question or reply to Simon’s greeting. His arm snakes around your waist, hauling you against his muscled chest, mouth meeting yours for a kiss that sucks the air from your lungs.

It is fire. It is light. It is a beating heart. Lifeblood.

Simon’s hand cups your cheek, and the possessive, nearly primal way he kisses you softens to a delicateness that sends a tingling sensation down to your toes. His thumb traces over your chin, and then presses against your bottom lip when Simon pulls away.

“Hungry?” he asks, and your stomach answers for you.

There are waffles, scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, several types of juice, buttered toast with two kinds of jam, and fried sausage.

“We feeding an army?” you ask, unsure of where to begin.

Simon shrugs. “Idleness makes me nervous.”

“So you made everything in Amelia’s kitchen?” The soft song of the dryer decides to go off immediately following your question. “Are you doing laundry?”

“That a problem?”

You pause. “No.”

Simon smirks behind his mug and takes a sip of tea. Placing the cup back on the table, Simon piles his plate high with extra sausage and eggs.

Leaning forward in your chair, you decide to poke.

“Did you take the trash out?” Simon glances up, the same smirk still plastered on his face. “Vacuum?”

He remains silent.

“Clean the bathrooms?”

“Mop the floors?”

“Remove the weeds from Amelia’s garden?”

“Are you done?” replies Simon blandly, his gaze unwavering.

You shove some toast in your mouth as answer.

Simon leans back in his chair, all casual sensualness. “You’re much better like this,” he says, voice dropping slightly.

“Much better how?” you ask, taking another bite of your toast.

“With your mouth full,” he purrs.

You nearly choke on the bread, cheeks flaming. Simon’s chuckle is soft but victorious. He got you back, and he’s enjoying it.

You cough, dislodging a bit of toast. “Has anyone called?”

Simon nods. “Amelia did. Said she’s being released today.”

“When was this?”

“An hour ago.”

You sigh. “I’m not sure how it is here, but it might be a while yet before they come home.” Simon makes a sound in his throat but says nothing.

The window above the sink is cracked, and from it comes the sounds of traffic and songbirds. Resting an elbow on the table, the last two days come flooding back, infiltrating your head. Ewan Grant’s conversation whispers in your ear, insisting.

British Intelligence.

That’s what he said, and you have no idea if they’ll come to Amelia’s door. But Simon is former military, and he might know something.

“Can I ask you something?”

Simon glances up from his plate. “If it’s to ask about what else I’ve cleaned I don’t want to hear it.”

“No,” you laugh. “No. I—” You pause. “I want to ask about your military service.”

The gentle playfulness melts away replaced by a neutral expression. It’s not unnerving but it does make you cautious about how you’ll approach the subject.

“Is it something specific?” asks Simon.

You shake your head. “Not exactly.”

Simon sets his fork down on his plate. Leaning back in his chair, Simon’s gaze becomes pointed. “You’re worried about something.”

“Is it that obvious?” you mutter.

“What’s wrong? Is it that prick from the pub?”

“No, Simon,” you say quickly, the stress of the last few days coming back like a hammer to the finger.

“Talk to me.” Simon’s voice is so soft, so full of concern that you blurt out the question without second guessing the decision.

“Did you ever work with British Intelligence?”

You glance up and find a blank expression on Simon’s face. He’s no longer leaning in his chair but sitting up, completely stiff and alert.

“I worked with a lot of different agencies. Why?”

You look away, staring at the clock on the wall. “So, you weren’t part of it?”

“No,” replies Simon automatically. “I was part of Special Air Service. Some of my missions happened because of intelligence information but I never directly worked with them.”

It’s helpful, but not. If they come knocking, you don’t know what to expect.

“Why are you asking me this, love? What’s on your mind?”

Sighing, you decide to spit out. You have no reason to hide anything from Simon.

“Archie’s solicitor came by. He mentioned that someone from British Intelligence was at the Williams’ estate. Following up about Archie’s death.”

“Did they come here? To Amelia’s?”

You shake your head. “No, but they might.”

Simon is tense. Not only can you sense it, but you see the tightness in the way he holds himself.

Your voice cracks. “Should I be worried?”

Simon’s shoulders heave as he inhales.

“No,” he says after a long moment. “It’s probably nothing.

“Probably,” you repeat softly, pushing the cold eggs around on your plate.

Probably, as if saying so will somehow make it true.

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12woso12 · 4 months ago

Text

Dorothy lands in North London- Prologue

Arsenal buy America's top defender: You.

TW: mentions of mental health, suicide, please don't read if you don't feel up to it

You were built to survive pressure. You were moulded perfectly by the drunk slurs of your father and the untimely death of your mother. There wasn't a single moment that you couldn't handle, you took everything the world threw at you as though you'd been and done it all before.

World cup penalty? No problem.

Injury setback? Bring it on.

Arsenal transfer? Hell yes.

You took everything in your stride, laughing at your own misfortune, finding humour in the darkness. That's how you'd handled your mum's suicide: with insensitive jokes and a cheeky grin that never quite managed to meet your eyes. Most of your frustrations were taken out on the pitch, rough tackles or risky arguments with the opposition had resulted in you being the most carded playing in the NWSL at just 16 years old.

But your aggressive nature on the pitch never seeped into your personality away from football, you made sure of that. You'd do anything to ensure you never inherited your dad's temper and hurt people the way he'd hurt people. The way he'd hurt your mum...the way he hurt you. It was essential that your frustrations were kept firmly on football.

The year you were first called up to the USWNT was the year you finally made enough money to move out. You were sixteen and desperate to escape the clutches of your dad and his disastrous ways. The call up was a long time coming, the NWSL hadn't seen a player with as much potential as you since a teenage Alex Morgan first appeared on the scene.

The call up gained you more attention than you were used to. Granted, you were pretty well known in the States already having played with Gotham city for a year but the media attention you gained for a national call up? That changed the course of your life forever.

Your first tournament with the national team had been nothing short of incredible. It was the 2019 World Cup and you'd spent the entire group stage sat on the bench until Becky Sauerbrunn had gone down injured in the round of 16 and suddenly, you'd been given the chance of a lifetime.

Courageously, at your big age of sixteen, you played in every game until the trophy was in your hands and you were being hailed as the next Bobby Moore. A comparison you were incredibly embarrassed about but one that your teammates, Alex especially, were more than happy to keep reminding you of.

Five years later and you were coming to the end of your contract with Orlando Pride after playing two seasons for them. You were weighing up options for the future, you'd received enough interest from teams across the world to make the decision challenging enough and it was Marta who'd first noticed your troubled expression at training which was an unusual sight compared to your normal sunny nature.

'What's the matter, kid? Your face stuck like that or something?' Marta approached you after drills, concerned as you struggled to shoot her a smile. If there was someone who had all the answers, it was Marta.

'I don't know what to do' You began dropping onto the pitch as the rest of your teammates scurried inside, eager to get to lunch. Marta sat herself down besides you frowning.

'What?' she questioned

You sign and shrug, deflated. 'I've got a lot of interest for my next contract. Obviously Orlando want me to stay but...Gotham want me back, San Diego have been in touch. Even some stuff from Europe'

Much to your surprise, Marta chuckles. 'Kid if i had your problems i'd never want a problem-free life again. You're a superstar! All this attention is deserved'

A small smile stretched across your face. You supposed that Martha did have a point, you were in an incredibly lucky position.

'The offer from San Diego did sound promising...' your mind began to wonder to the conversation you'd had earlier with your agent. He'd be ecstatic about the deal they were willing to offer, there would be a lot of money involved.

'San Diego?' Marta scoffed 'Anjinho, you should set your sights further. If Europe come looking, you make sure you are found.'

You sighed. Europe was just so far away. 'Arsenal have been interested for a while'

Marta slapped you gently on the shoulder 'Arsenal!' she exclaimed 'You love Arsenal...why would you pass on their offer?'

'They're a top team, i mean Leah Williamson plays there. Alessia Russo, Kim Little. I can't hold a candle to them' It was true, you thought. You were only 21, why would they need a kid when they have all the experience and expertise of England's captain?

'Don't be estupida. They would be lucky to have you. You can't spend your entire career in the states. You're too good for that. Way.Too.Good.'

You feel pride seep into your bones. If the great Marta thought you were good, then that was definitely a compliment worth keeping close to your heart.

'Go to Arsenal.' Marta continued. 'Get as far away from here as possible'

'Yeah?' You asked nervously.

'Make yourself found, kid'

Part 1

#woso #football #woso community #woso imagine #woso x reader #leah williamson #arsenal #marta #gotham city

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ezeepay · 1 year ago

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#money transfer business franchise #domestic money transfers #money transfer agent

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alpha-mag-media · 1 year ago

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FA launch probe into Jermain Defoe’s transfer from Tottenham to Portsmouth over alleged dealings with unlicensed agent | In Trend Today

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ur-mag · 1 year ago

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Football agents vote on worst Premier League transfer of the summer with Chelsea involved in FIVE of top eight | In Trend Today

Football agents vote on worst Premier League transfer of the summer with Chelsea involved in FIVE of top eight Read Full Text or Full Article on MAG NEWS

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#Celebrities #Football agents vote on worst Premier League transfer of the summer with Chelsea involved in FIVE of top eight #Money #Motors #Politics #ShowBiz #Sport #Tech #UK #US #World

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boldlyvoid · 1 year ago

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Bigger than the Whole Sky | Part One: Peter Losing Wendy

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Summary: Reader has been with the BAU for 2 months when she walks into the bullpen with a fat lip and a bloody nose. Her husband's been keeping secrets and breaking her heart for almost a decade now. However, it takes her 10 minutes to decide she's done with him.

Aaron has been harbouring a crush on our dear reader for as long as she's been on the team... he knew it would never go anywhere when she was married, but that crush goes from a hopeless dream to a heartstopping love faster than he could say "be mine."

Warnings: spousal abuse (physical and mental), infertility, self-esteem issues, friends to lovers, divorce meetings

word count: 8.1k

fic Masterlist

When she transferred to the BAU, everyone knew she had a husband. The thing no one knew was that her marriage was dangerously close to falling apart. No one ever suspected it in her personal life, however, in a room full of profilers… she couldn’t hide the problems for long.

At this point, the BAU had gone through enough female profilers to know that there was no telling what was going on in their personal lives. Between JJ’s secret time at the Pentagon and Emily’s time with the CIA, they had no reason to suspect their newest agent was in an unhappy marriage… especially not one where she had been trying to get pregnant for years and gaslit the whole time that it was her fault that they couldn’t conceive.

Peter, her husband, was happy to start trying in the beginning, they ditched condoms a few months into their relationship and she discarded her birth control a few months after they tied the knot. At first, the sex was fun, the first handful of negative tests just caused them to fuck more often and in different positions and times of the day… then the heartbreak settled in as her friends and family around her age started popping out babies while she only saw negatives.

This went on for years. 8 years to be exact. 8 years of monthly devastation means her heart was broken 72 times and Peter never cared. Each month he told her to get over it and try again… It wasn’t until she brought up going to a fertility specialist that her he finally snapped at her. He said she could go, she could get her hostile uterus checked and get the broken title while he stayed at home. He refused to test his sperm, he refused to go to appointments, he said IVF was a waste of money and a surrogate was too “unnatural” for him to feel comfortable. He didn’t even want to adopt or foster.

For a year she left it alone. Too busy with work, she put her focus into trying to climb the corporate ladder and land her dream job with the BAU. There, she made friends, she made connections, too… JJ gave her the number for a fertility specialist that she was seeing in private and Y/N made the appointment.

“Hey, Pete!” She called from her closet as she got ready for work.

“What?” He showed up in the doorway, buttoning his shirt. “I have to leave, the markets are open already.”

“I know… I made you an appointment at the fertility specialist I talked to you about, it's tonight at 6. All you have to do—

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He blew up, turning redder than a stop sign. “I said I wasn’t going to one of these fucking—

“WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?” She yells louder, “They said it’s not me, I’m fine, it’s clearly you—

He charged her, pushing her against the organizing cabinet and holds her there by her throat, “I’m not fucking broken.”

“No?” She croaks out, afraid but trying not to show it. Treating him like an unsub. “Seems to me like you are. Maybe we shouldn’t have any fucking kids if you’re going to be so controlling.”

The words hurt enough and then he swung, he let go of her throat and punched her right in the mouth, hoping to shut her up. It was just 1 punch but it felt like an earthquake, taking her dreams and turning them into nothing but rubble. He jumps back, realizing what he just did, and his whole body shook with rage.

She remembers it in slow motion. The crunch of cartilage in her nose, the rush of blood down to her lips that caused her hand to come up and cup her chin saving her white shirt from an inevitable stain… if it wasn’t the bloody nose that ruined her white dress shirt, it was the way he ripped her heart out of her chest and threw it on the ground with the rest of her broken dreams.

He didn’t even apologize. He just stares at his hand, “Do you see what you’ve made me do? I was never going to be the husband who hit his wife. I was never going to become my father. If you didn’t push and push and push to have fucking kids we wouldn’t be here, Y/N! Do you want to know the truth?? Why we haven’t had kids yet? I had a fucking vasectomy before we met. Okay?! Is that want you wanted the doctors to tell you? I don’t want your fucking kids!!! I don’t even want you anymore!”

“Okay,” is all she says. Her eyes are wide and her breathing is heavy. She’s stuck there, frozen in the moment. She can’t believe that just happened. “Okay.” She repeats, mainly to calm herself.

She can’t say anything else. She just watches him turn and leave, she hears him gather his things and then the front door slams. He’s gone. Just like that, he’s gone.

At that moment she decided she couldn’t do this. The gaslighting, the name calling, the loneliness… for almost a decade of marriage, she’s spent more time alone than with him. And not because they were working or busy with their separate friends, he just stopped spending time with her after they got married, like tying the knot made her his property and now he didn’t have to try to make her like him. Once he had her, he kept her.

Not anymore.

That same day was also the marker of her being with the BAU for 2 months. Everything had been ramping up to this point, she can’t lie and say she was surprised that he snapped and hit her. He’s been getting angrier and she’s been losing interest in him… all she wanted was a baby. The only person who suspected anything at work was Hotch, and in his own Hotchner way, he was dropping little hints that he knew something was going on. He’d ask her about her nights at home, he called her into his office to share takeout when he saw her at her desk well into the night, he always says he’s there for her, but she didn’t know what he meant until now. He was waiting for the day she told him about the abuse. He could sense it.

Now that she’s staring at herself in the mirror, wondering how she could hide the bruises before work, she realizes he was trying to tell her she was a part of their family. One that would go to war for her if she needed them. So she took him up on that offer and arrived to work with her fat lip and swelling around her eyes on full display. She didn’t even change her shirt.

“Oh, my god?” Penelope reacted first, rushing over to her with the click-clack of her heels alerting everyone in the room that she was in a hurry. She cups Y/N’s face gently, “Who did this to you?”

“Holy shit,” Derek says a bit too loud, alerting JJ and Spencer over at their shared desk, who turn and ask “Are you okay?” At the same time.

She was already close to tears before she walked through the double glass doors of the bullpen, saying his name only made her burst into tears. “Peter, he-he—“ she buries her face in Penelope’s shoulder and lets out her cries, sobbing as reality finally hit her as well.

Penny is quick to get her up the stairs and into the briefing room, away from everyone else, she closes all the blinds and politely asks Anderson, who’s already in there, to get some ice and the first aid kit, all while Y/N takes a seat in her usual spot. “I’m so stupid, I should’ve known. I should’ve—

Derek is quick to follow them, he sits beside her and rubs her back, soothingly. “No, no, sweetheart,” Derek stops her, “It is never a woman’s fault when a cowardly man uses violence to feel powerful. No matter what you said or did, it is not your fault. This is all on him. He’s the problem.”

“I just wanted a baby,” she admits, lip quivering.

“Oh, honey,” Penelope’s shoulders drop and she tilts her head to the side, “he’s not the kind of man—

“I’ve been trying to get pregnant since a few weeks after our wedding and he always made it feel like it was my fault that it wasn’t working…” She takes a deep breath, shaking her head, she can’t believe this part is even true. “When in reality he had a vasectomy before we even met. He’s been infertile for the last 10 fucking years and made me feel like it was me who had the problem the whole time.”

“Are you serious?” Penelope can’t believe it. “And he just never told you?”

She nods, “I think he thought I’d give up trying at some point and just deal with it… but I want to be a mom. I’ve always wanted to be a mom and he just never thought to tell me he didn’t want the same things. He really thought I’d just give up on my dreams like they’re nothing.”

The icepack and first aid kit don’t show up with Anderson, instead, it’s Hotch who is standing in the doorway, listening to what’s going on before he makes himself known. He clears his throat and starts to enter. “Penelope, Derek, could you give us a minute?”

“But— yes sir.” Penelope is quick to give up, and Derek follows suit, the two of them don’t want to leave but they know Aaron has it covered.

“Aaron…” She doesn’t know what else to say. She feels ashamed, she wants to hide. She doesn’t want him to see her like this but then again, he’s the whole reason she showed up at work like this at all.

He takes a seat beside her and hands her the icepack, “has he done this before?”

She shakes her head, “no.”

“Alright,” he believes her as he opens up the kit. “This is fresh… did it happen this morning or last night?”

“Before he left this morning,” she answers, shaking her head as the tears start. “I made an appointment for him to go to the clinic after work and he lost it. He finally told me the truth about his vasectomy after he hit me.”

“My divorce lawyer is really good,” he explains, peeling open a bandaid for just above her eyebrow. “If we take some photos of this and document it then it’ll help with your case. Did you have a prenup?”

She shakes her head, “no, he said we didn’t need one, we were in similar tax brackets when we got married and he said he didn’t see us ever getting a divorce anyway. I believed him.”

“You make more money than him, now, this will ensure he can’t sue for spousal support or anything. I’m going to be frank, you need to leave him before this gets worse.”

“I know.”

They just stare at each other for a few moments after that. “Aaron?”

“Yes?”

“What am I going to do now? How do I just start all over again? I want kids and I’m already old enough, I can’t just wait to see if I fall in love again and then wait for the right time to ask them for a baby. I want kids now,” she explains. “But I can’t do it on my own, I can’t. I wanted to do it with my husband.”

“It’s going to be hard, I won’t lie,” Aaron is honest. “But, if I can be honest… you’re beautiful and smart and when you’re ready, love will find you. I know it.”

“Thanks,” she tries her best to believe it. It’s just hard to do right now. “What’s your lawyers name?”

“Andrea Cortez, she’s the best in the business… but if you really wanted to hurt him back, you should call all the lawyers in the area, pretend to fish around so that when he goes looking for a lawyer, everyone that’s good will have to turn him away.”

“How do you know this?”

“It took me a while to find someone who would take on my case,” Aaron admits. “Haley didn’t do it on purpose, she was just trying to find one who didn’t go to college with me but it ended up fucking me over in the long run… and then I found Andrea.”

“Was it awful?”

He shakes his head, “We didn’t go to court, we had a mediator and we settled it all ourselves. She got 70% custody, I’d see Jack on weekends and if I wanted him over spring break or during my vacation time then I just had to ask… it’s a lot harder when you have kids already.”

“So I’ve been told…”

“Have you thought about leaving him before?” Aaron can hear it in her voice.

She nods, choking on a sob as she covers her face, her voice comes out in a quiver, “I just never admitted it to anyone.”

“You have my support when you leave him. You’ll have Penelope and Derek, JJ, and Spencer, too. We’re going to be here for you while you adjust to this and we won’t ever let him hurt you again,” he says in the softest voice, he reaches out for her hand and holds it tight. “I’ll be here, especially. We can have dinner together more often and we can talk… I know how hard it is. I can be your friend through this.”

She can’t help it, she’s so overwhelmed with emotions that she reaches over and pulls him into a hug that he gladly accepts. He rests his chin on her shoulder and holds her tight and he doesn’t plan to let go until she’s ready.

—

A few nights later, after a week-long case, Aaron follows her home in his SUV with his gun still on his hip. He makes sure she gets into her home to pack her things without issue from Peter. She packs a few suitcases worth of clothes and Aaron helps her get them into her own car, “is this everything?”

She nods, “Clothes wise… I’m just going to grab some of my favourite things, too, I don’t imagine he’d break them but I also never thought he’d hit me, so.”

“If you need to put stuff in my car, you can,” he offers as he follows her back inside.

She uses some laundry baskets and fills them with pots, pans, throw blankets, trinkets, candles, you name it. She didn’t trust him at all, so she took almost everything that she knew was hers or just things she held dear since their wedding. As soon as it’s all in her car, she realizes just how real this is and she starts to cry again.

“It’s okay,” Aaron runs his hand over her back. “Are you still going to stay with Penelope?”

She nods, “Yeah, she said I can have her couch for the time being.”

“You know what? Derek might have a place for you?” Aaron can’t help but think of when he was leaving Haley, Derek offered one of his houses that he was renovating to him.

“How?”

“Hold on,” Aaron digs his phone out of his pocket and calls him. “Hey… do you have any unoccupied homes right now?”

Her eyes go wide, she didn’t know Derek as well as Hotch did, mainly because she hasn’t worked with him as long.

“Can Y/N stay in it?… She’d really love that, thank you, Derek. We’ll meet you there… yes, you can bring Penelope,” he says with a smile before hanging up. “You’re in luck, he’s between renters on one of his properties.”

“Aaron, thank you, really, you’ve made this so much easier than I ever thought it could be,” she can’t even express how much she appreciates him.

“We’re a family,” he reminds her. “You can follow me, I know the way.”

And so she does.

It’s a quick drive, not too far from where she was living but also closer to work now too. She’s going to have to go grocery shopping and… fuck, she never even asked if this place is furnished.

When they pull up, Aaron takes the road and she parks in the driveway, they sit on the front steps together and chat. Derek said he wouldn’t be too far behind them, he was close by but he takes longer than they expect. When he does pull up, however, he has his pickup truck and the back is full of furniture, including a mattress.

“Thank you,” she whispers so she doesn’t cry.

“No problem… I have a storage unit with things for when I stage the homes after I flip them, you can use all of it if you want, but I thought we’d start with a bed.”

“I literally love you,” she rushes out.

“It’s nothing,” he brushes it off and hands her a key. “Now, while we carry in the heavy stuff, would you get the door for us?”

“Anything for my knights in shining armour.”

—

Hotch is a lot more open and soft than she ever expected. On the nights Jack is with his aunt— which are normally reserved for Aaron to do paperwork and stay late at the office, Arron instead, now has dinners with Y/N and watches movies with her on her new couch well into the morning. He even accompanies her to the lawyer's office to be her emotional support when recounting the years of abuse.

And the abuse has continued even when she’s not in the same house as him or even talking to him. Peter texts her almost daily to say mean and terrible things, calling her a whore and accusing her of sleeping with someone else. He thinks that the reason she was able to leave so quickly is because she’s already with someone new… he even sends her pictures of their security footage from the night she moved out, already forgetting what her boss looked like as he accuses her of cheating with him.

She wants to block his number but Hotch tells her not to, all the harassment will only help her case going forward. She keeps every message and Penelope prints out the text logs for her every few days to bring to her lawyer, who is astounded by what Peter is able to say every time.

The day she had the divorce papers served to him, they were on a case in California and he called her phone 23 times. She didn’t answer any of them, she didn’t even listen to the messages he left. She had Penelope go in and forward them all to her lawyer, then delete them all off her cell for her.

She sends him one last message to Peter that read: “If you have something to say, say it through your lawyer. Please don’t contact me again.” And then she blocks his number.

They’re at Aaron's house this time, she doesn’t want to be alone tonight of all nights. With a couple boxes of Chinese take-out, they’re sitting at his dining table just talking about their days, like always, when her mind stumbles across her darker thoughts.

“I took a huge step back in my life today.”

“No, you haven’t,” Aaron assures.

“I had all these plans, I picked out baby names that went well with his last name, I imagined our nursery and what mothers days would be like and everything… every dream I had with him died and today I buried them.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but did you really want him to be the father of your kids knowing what you know now?” Aaron asks. “What if he hit your children?”

“I know… it’s just hard,” she can’t help but feel awful.

“I’m sorry, I know. I know it’s hard, I shouldn’t be saying—

“It’s okay, I need to look at the bright side… I mean, sure, I had some big dreams that will never come true but I can make new dreams. I can become a new person. That girl I was with him is dead but I can make a new me. A better me,” she sits up straight and nods a few times while taking a deep breath. “It’s going to be okay.”

“See what I mean?” Hotch teases, “you’re so strong, this is all going to work out for the best.”

“Thank you,” she smiles, feeling bashful, compliments like this mean the world to her.

“You know… something I tell Jack pretty often is that if we talk about things, memories can’t die and I’m pretty sure dreams are the same. If you ever want to talk about what you wanted, I’m always here to listen to you.”

“Jack is very lucky to have you,” she compliments him first, her heart is too full to do anything but smile. “I really want a boy… I would be happy with any child but I’ve always dreamed about having a boy.”

“I was fairly certain Haley was having a girl the majority of Jack's pregnancy, she just had such a tiny bump and I could picture us with a little girl,” Aaron shares. “I don’t think I ever told you, but I have a younger brother who is 12 years younger than me, I practically raised him, so I wanted a little girl to get the whole experience, but having Jack was easy because I already knew what I was doing.”

“You’d be fantastic as a girl dad,” she compliments him again and can’t help herself from imagining having his babies and imagining a whole life with him.

“Thank you,” it’s his turn to smile and blush a little. “I even had a list of girl names picked out, so figuring out a boy name was what was hard for us.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“I really like J names, apparently? My list had Jane, Juliette, Juniper… I think they all sound good with Hotchner,” he explains and it’s the cutest thing.

“I love that, I don’t know many men who would admit to having a baby names list,” she teases.

He shrugs, “I guess I’m not like most men.”

“You most certainly are not,” she says with an arch of her brow. “And according to Peter, you’re my ‘hot’ new boyfriend.”

Hotch just laughs, “Men like him are so insecure they can’t handle the 1 woman who tolerated them giving any other man some attention. He would’ve done the same thing if it was Morgan or Reid at the door.”

“I just can’t believe I let it get to the point where he hit me.”

“You loved him,” Hotch simplifies it. “It’s hard to just drop that… you’re a rare case where the second he laid his hands on you, you left.”

“For about 20 minutes I just stared in the mirror trying to figure out if I was going to call in sick or just cover it up with some makeup,” she admits. “I didn’t want to hide it from you guys and I didn’t want you to think I’m weak. I couldn’t take everything I’ve learned and abandon it just because I loved him… and then I realized I don’t remember the last time I loved all of him. I loved our memories, I loved the version of him he was when we got married, but I haven’t really loved him in a long time.”

“You’re incredibly strong, it takes a lot of strength to figure that out,” Hotch can’t help but compliment her again.

“Thank you,” she says, reaching her hand out over the table to hold his. “I wouldn’t have been able to do this without you.”

—

Aaron is sitting with her on the plane, on their way to their next case, when she gets a text from her lawyer.

“His lawyer has reached out to me, he is fine with keeping the house and taking on the rest of the mortgage, he just wants you to pay him back for his half of the downpayment, he says it’s not fair that he will be paying the rest of the mortgage when all you did is pay that original $25k. He is fine without spousal support as long as the abuse stays quiet, he doesn’t want this to affect his own job. If you’re okay with that, I’ll tell him and he will sign the papers.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” She says out loud, getting everyone's attention.

“What happened?” Aaron asks, leaning over her shoulder to read the text as well. “oh… if that’s all he wants, I think it’s a good deal.”

“I’m going to lose all my savings again,” she admits. “We put up 50 grand together and I gave him a thousand dollars each month for the mortgage, I lost— Reid?”

“25k with 1k a month for 8 and a half years that’s 127 thousand dollars,” Spencer answers right away.

“Thanks… I have paid more for that house than I currently make in a year,” she can’t believe it. “I also bought all the groceries, all the cleaning products I used to clean the fucking house, I paid to pick up his dry cleaning, I did the laundry every few days, I made sure he had a lunch packed every morning… I did so fucking much for that man, I’m not giving him any more of my money.”

“So let’s go back with that, we can have Penelope gather all the information from your bank statements and previous taxes and she can total up the amount of money you’ve spent on him and that house and we can argue that he should pay you for your time. He treated you as a maid, you should be paid for your services and if they equal out to 25 grand or higher, then he has to pay you the difference or shut up,” Hotch explains, knowing how to play these games as he was once a lawyer and he’s been divorced.

“Okay,” she agrees, “yeah, I think that would work.”

Hotch leans over her, towards the TV is, and presses the button on the screen to call Penelope. It dials and calls quickly, and she answers just as fast. “Yes, my lovelies?”

“Can you do me a favour and gather up all of Y/N’s financial records over the last few years and find out the total she spent on groceries, dry cleaning, house expenses and the money she’s transferred to Peter’s account?”

“I can,” she says and then looks at Y/N through the screen. “You’re okay with this?”

“Oh yeah, total it all up and send all the findings to my lawyer as well, I’m taking Peter down,” she agrees with a smile spread over her face. “He’s going to wish he never met me.”

Penelope hangs up after that, slipping into Y/N’s life and doing the lords work, basically. It would take her accountant months to do what Penelope can do in 30 minutes. And god bless her.

She settles into her seat again with a sigh, everyone else goes back to what they were doing, except for Hotch. They share an armrest between them, he places his hand over hers and looks at her with a soft smile, almost like he’s saying with his eyes that he’s proud of her and that it’s okay. She just smiles back, turning her hand over and interlocking their fingers, “thank you,” she whispers.

“Anytime.”

—

Normally on away cases, they all had their own rooms, unless the hotels were overbooked, and this was one of those times.

Derek is with Emily, Spencer is with JJ and that leaves Hotch with Y/N. She changes into her night clothes in the bathroom, her pyjamas consisting of a plain shirt and blue butterfly-covered pants, nothing too scandalous. When she comes out, she finds him sitting up in his bed, also changed, reading over a case file with his glasses on… she didn’t even know he wore glasses?

She just stands there in the bathroom doorway and stares at him until he looks up at her, “You okay?”

She nods, “when did you get glasses?”

“A couple years ago,” he shrugs. “They’re readers, sometimes I have a hard time reading at night.”

“They look nice on you,” she compliments him, sending a soft smile his way before she puts her work clothes back in her suitcase.

When she turns back to her bed, Aaron is putting the files on his night table and taking said glasses off. “Are you tired?”

“Not really,” she admits. Turning the comforter down, she slips into bed and turns to him, “Are you?”

He shakes his head softly, “I was going to call Jack and then I remembered it’s well past midnight over there, I did text Jess, however, and she said he had a good night.”

“You’re such a good dad, I hope he tells you that all the time…” it just rolls off the tongue, she didn’t even have a chance to stop herself. But the smile on his face is worth the embarrassment she felt for telling him how she feels.

“Thank you,” he’s so soft about it. “You’re going to be a great mom too, I know it.”

She just presses her lips together and hums, shaking her head slightly she bites her lip so she can hold back the tears that want to start coming. “I don’t think it’s going to happen for—

“It will,” he cuts her off. “You’re doing the right thing by getting away from him, I promise you, it’s going to work out for you.”

She wants to cry, normally she spends most of her alone time crying in her lonely bed, be it at the house Dereks letting her crash in or a hotel somewhere in the country, she always ends up crying her eyes out. Tonight she can’t do that. “I hope so.”

“It will,” he’s serious about it. “Do you need a hug?”

She just nods and he gets out of his bed in a hurry to make it over to hers, he slips under the covers and pulls her into a hug and she can’t help but cuddle into his chest. “It just gets loud in my head sometimes, like everything he’s said to me starts to echo around and I can’t help but believe it… like maybe I’m not ever meant to be someone's mom?”

He just rubs her back and lets her get it all out. “Can I be honest?” She nods against his chest. “I didn’t trust him when I first met him. He seemed off and now I guess I know why. He was keeping secrets and he knew the better you got at your job, the closer you’d be to figuring out all the lies he was telling and he’d be alone again. Men like him tell lies because they know that they can’t keep wonderful women like you when you know the truth about them. And now that you know the truth, he’s making it your problem.”

“I just can’t believe he was going to let me believe I was broken instead of just telling me he didn’t want kids. Do you know what that does to a person?” She asks as she sits back up and looks him right in the eyes. “I haven’t felt good enough in years… I’ve hated myself for so long, Aaron.”

“I don’t think you’re broken, I think you’re miraculous and wonderful… exceptional, even,” he admits, staring deep into her eyes like he’s found her soul in there. “And I know what it’s like to try for a long time, Haley and I tried for years and I watched it slowly suck the life out of her, any man that can sit by and watch that and not care, is a sociopath.”

“Did you and Haley want more kids… before everything happened?” She asks, eyes trailing down to his lips and then back to making eye contact with him, she can read the hurt on his face.

He nods, “I’d still love to have more kids.”

Her eyes light right up, “really?”

He nods again, “I would… I wasn’t going to ask you out until well after the divorce was final. I don’t want to get in the middle of everything or ruin the chances of you getting away from him without issue… but I’ve thought you were beautiful since the moment I first saw you.”

“Aaron?” She really can’t believe it. “What are you saying?”

“If you want to have a child, I’d gladly show you what it’s like to have a real man love you,” he rephrases it with a lot more confidence and passion in his voice. He knows what he wants and every part of him hopes she wants it too.

She can’t believe it. The words don’t seem real. Part of her thinks she fell asleep quickly and this is all a dream. There’s no way her boss— and the most handsome man she’s seen in her life, is saying this to her. “you want to sleep with me?”

He laughs, “More than that… which is hard for me to admit because I’m your boss, I shouldn’t like you as much as I do. But I do. I would love to see where this goes… After the divorce.”

“Aaron, am I dreaming? Are you serious?” She shakes her head and shuffles further away from him. “What the hell is happening?”

“You’re awake, I promise,” Aaron assures her while also keeping his distance. “I’m sorry, if you don’t feel the same, I’ll back off—

“No, no, it’s not that, I just— I’ve just never been with anyone but Peter, he was my first real boyfriend, I never thought anyone else would ever want me?” She’s honest. “Are you serious?”

“I’ve been with 3 women,” he admits, it’s not like his number is crazy, but it’s still not what she expected.

“Really?”

He nods, “Haley was my first, back in high school, then I slept with someone during my time doing security for U.S. diplomats— Haley and I were on and off again all the time before we got married... And then Beth, last year.”

“You worked for Emily’s mom,” she knows that story�� “did you and Emily—

“It was just a one-time thing. She was an adult and still living at home and also still rebellious as hell… she wanted to piss her mom off, but I didn’t know until after the fact,” Aaron is exceptionally honest. “We’ve always had a good friendship. That’s the one thing all 3 women have in common, actually. They were all my friends first.”

She hums, following along with a nod, “You are my closest thing to a best friend, currently… I think you’re actually the best friend I’ve ever had in my whole entire life. I just don’t know if I’m ready yet.”

“That’s okay, it’s more than okay, actually,” he rests his hand on her knee. “I was never going to say anything about how much I like you, I wasn’t going to ruin your marriage or convince you to cheat, I’d never do that—

“I know you wouldn’t, believe me, I know you’re a good man,” she places her hand on top of his and holds it tight.

“Thank you… I just mean to say that I would wait forever for you.”

“It won’t be that long, I can promise you that,” she smiles, moving back in closer to him. “Best friends can sleep in the same bed… and my marriage is already over, so it’s not cheating no matter what anyone would say if they saw us cuddling.”

“Should I turn the light off?” He says with a smirk.

She just nods, “yeah, get comfy, Hotchner, you’re not leaving my bed tonight.”

—

Turns out, she’s spent close to a quarter of a million dollars on taking care of Peter and their home over the last 8 and a half years.

That’s not even including the time they were living in an apartment together, before and a few months after their wedding. She has her lawyer go back to his lawyer with this information and the fact she will Not be paying him for his half of the downpayment. He doesn’t like that. So, they come to an agreement to meet with a mediator. This way, she can voice her concerns, he can voice his and they can hopefully get the papers signed without going to court.

Standing her ground and sitting in a chair opposite him was going to be the best way for her to win this. He is so much more confident on the phone, sending her threats and derogatory comments, he’s not that confident in front of her. Especially not when she has her boss in the chair beside her.

“Why is he here?” Peter says the second he walks into the meeting room of her lawyer's office. He sits down aggressively and leans back in his chair, exuding an air of fake confidence that both she and Hotch don’t believe.

“He’s my boss, he’s here to ensure my safety and my lawyer's safety,” she stands her ground. “I’m not about to get choked out again."

“You’re that afraid of me?” He laughs.

Hotch flips open the folder in front of himself and holds up the photos of Y/N’s face the morning she came into work beat up. “You did this to her, what else are we supposed to think about you?”

“There’s no proof my client did that,” his lawyer speaks up. The man can’t be more than 30, he must be a new lawyer with less experience than Andrea or Aaron. “She works a difficult job where she gets tossed around by criminals—

“We have the footage from the security camera inside your shared home,” Y/N’s lawyer cuts him off.

“What?” Peter can’t believe it. “Since when is there one inside the house?”

“We got them installed after the neighbours were robbed, or did you forget?” Y/N looks at him like he’s an idiot. “You signed off on it, you wanted to be able to see who was in our house if we got robbed like the neighbours did. There is one in the front hall, the living space, your office and our closet. You sent me photos of me and Aaron packing my things. You know it’s in there.”

“My client—

“Is a liar,” Y/N’s lawyer cuts him off once again. “we have his signature and testimony from the security company saying he was the one who called and asked for internal cameras. They even kept the call logs and we’ve got a copy of the work order from the men who set them up.”

Peter slumps in his seat. His tongue runs along his top teeth as he shakes his head, “what do you want?”

“I want out.” Y/N simplifies. “You wasted the last 10 years of my life, you lied to me and you abused me. I want you to sign the papers and let me go.”

“So you can go fuck your boss?”

Y/N stands with such force her role chair goes flying back, she slams her hands on the table and stares him down the way she would in an interrogation with an unsub, “What I do with my time isn’t any of your concern! This is a 1 party divorce state, if you give me a hard time I will not hesitate to take you to court and get a judge to sign off on this. I don’t need your help, I just thought this would be easier for you, but if you want the whole state of Virginia to know you’re a wife-beater, I can do that.”

“And she’ll win,” Hotch offers, “I’ve been inside enough courtrooms to know that with this much evidence, you’re never going to see any money from her.”

“Fine,” Peter gives in with a wave of his hands. “Where do I sign?”

She sits back down then, biting back a smirk as she’s filled with pride. She really did it. She won.

“So you’re agreeing to keep the house and she doesn’t have to pay you anything to get out of the mortgage?” Her lawyer clarifies.

He nods, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Andrea hands the paperwork over to Peter's lawyer. “This is the original agreement I sent you. It states what items still in the home belong to Y/N and if I remember correctly, you already agreed to her taking those with her at an arranged date and time with a mediator on the premises.”

“That’s correct.” Peter's lawyer reads it over quickly, assuring it’s exactly what she says it is and then hands it over to Peter, “Sign there, there and on the last page, each spot is marked.”

“Got it,” Peter says, not caring at all. He signs the 3 spots and slides the papers back across the table. “What now?”

“What time is good for me to come get my things?” Y/N asks, trying not to smile with happiness.

“Are you okay to do it tonight?” Peter asks, “I moved most of it into boxes and put them by the door… I’ve had a lot of time to organize. I think I’m going to sell it and move closer to where my parents are.”

“That would be good for you,” she agrees. It’s weird to see all his aggressiveness fade now that she’s no longer his wife. “Aaron’s going to come with me, is that okay?”

He nods, “I’m surprised you’re so comfortable bringing your boyfriend around me already.”

And there it is.

“You know, I’m not surprised this ended. You’ve always been so insecure about every single man in my life, even my brother and my cousins? Did you really think I’d just stay single my whole life after you? Did you really think you were such an amazing husband that I’d be so broken and damaged I’d never be able to move on? You weren’t anything spectacular and I think you’ve always known that.”

“I’ll put your shit on the porch,” he says with a huff as he stands up to leave. “Have a nice life.”

“We will,” Aaron answers, digging more salt into the wound as Y/N waves at him with a smile.

Finally, she’s free.

—

It doesn’t take long for them to load all of her things into Aaron’s SUV and with Peter's lawyer in the house to supervise. She does one final sweep to make sure she has all her things. It looks good, so she gives Peter one final smile and a wave and then she’s gone.

She watches the house fade to nothing in the passenger side mirror and her smile only grows. It doesn’t feel like an ending like she thought it would. All those dreams that seemed bigger than the whole sky are nothing but rain clouds that were once disguised as happy shapes… the rain that burst from them washed away all her sadness and left her with a blank space of sidewalk where she could once again be decorated with beautiful chalky colours.

“So?” Aaron asks, looking between her and the road with a mighty smirk. “What’s next?”

“I thought you were going to ask me out on a date?” She teases.

“You’re ready already?” He’s a bit shocked, “I thought we were just pushing his buttons?”

She shakes her head, “We were… but I’m also ready to be loved by a real man. The same man who’s always there for me, the man who would do anything to protect me. I want you too, Aaron.”

“Well, okay then, Agent (your maiden name), where should we go for dinner tonight?” He asks, “Do you want to go somewhere fancy or should we order from our regular place?”

“Hmm… as tempting as that sounds, I think I’d like to get dressed up and go somewhere with you.”

And so that’s what they do. While she’s changing into something nice, Aaron makes a call to a friend who would be able to get them a table at the nicest place in town with only an hour to spare. Luckily, he has good friends in all sorts of places, so before she can even really second guess the date, they’re sat in the back corner of a dark restaurant sharing a candle-lit dinner.

“So… how is this going to work?” She finally asks, she can’t keep it in any longer.

“What do you mean?” Aaron asks.

“Like, are we going to file fraternization paperwork? Are we going to tell the team? Should I transfer to another unit?”

“Oh… I think we could file the paperwork if you want to and you don’t have to leave, you’d just have to report to Morgan or Cruz, it wouldn’t be that hard.”

“And are you going to tell Jack?”

He nods, “Eventually.”

“Does he even want to be a big brother?”

Aarons a bit taken aback by that question, “I… I really don’t know?”

“Cause I don’t want him to hate me, I’ve seen so many cases where kids grow up to hate their dad's girlfriends and new stepmoms and feel like they lost their dad when a new baby shows up,” she just lets all the worry out then and there, there’s no point keeping it from him. He’d figure it out eventually.

“Well… the best thing we could do is go slowly, I can talk to him about it and see where he stands with it all. I know for a fact he really liked Beth and he was very little when Haley left me so I don’t think he holds any resentment for the divorce, I think it’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” she repeats while letting out a deep breath. “Cause… I know you like me but I never got to tell you how I feel about you. I think you’re a wonderful man and you’re so astoundingly handsome it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside and—”

“Really?” He cuts her off with a smirk.

“Yeah,” she manages to laugh, snapping out of the panic because it’s just so easy with him. “This is how I was supposed to feel with my husband… thank you for making me realize I deserve better and thank you for being what I deserve.”

“I feel the same way… I mean, I loved Haley even after the divorce, hell, a part of me still does love her and I don’t think it will ever fade. However, it’s so nice to feel like this again,” Aaron agrees. “I’m just a little anxious that it’ll all come crumbling down around me again.”

“Why?” She asks, not thinking she could ever leave him heartbroken.

“Our job isn’t the safest environment. If you get hurt on the job I don’t know what I’ll do… my little crush on you was hard enough to deal with out there, and that was when you were married and I thought there was no chance of us being together because I’m not a home wrecker, but now… now I have to watch you go out there into the unknown every day with half of my heart in your pocket,” he explains, almost tearing up.

She shakes her head softly and reaches out for his hand, “Aaron, I’m always going to come home with you. Even if I get a little hurt, I know I’ll always fight to get back to you… and I have the same worries, I never want to lose you and physically see it happen or know I could’ve been there to stop it. It’s going to make the job harder, sure, but we could also just get better at what we do because we love each other.”

She watches all the worry fade from his face as his jaw drops for a moment. “You love me, too?”

She can’t help but laugh, “Yeah, Aaron, I love you.”

Just as they lean in to kiss over the table, Aaron's phone starts to ring in his pocket. With a disgruntled sigh, Aaron sits back down in his chair and takes his phone out, answering it with his last name, she watches him go devoid of feelings. “Yes sir, we’ll be right there.”

She sighs, “I’ll get the car, you get the check.”

They stand up at the same time and before she can get too far, he pulls her in close. Hand on her lower back, faces inches apart, “I’m going to show you just how much I love you when we get home, okay?”

“Okay,” she smiles, leaning into their first kiss.

Still smiling as their lips touch, she could swear sparks fly around them as the restaurant fills with the screaming sound of a million colourful fireworks.

General Taglist

@ncsls0515 @stevesmunsons @reidsbookclub @sweetyyhippyy @manuosorioh @mrs-dr-reid @k-k0129 @squishyturtle @katsukis1wife @babybisexual @marsmunson86 @x-a-delama-x @kylakins88 @harrypotteranna23-blog @moonlightspencie

Bigger than the whole sky taglist:

@ssamorganhotchner @mrs-ssa-hotch

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch x you #hotch smut #hotch x reader #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine

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simply-wlw-kpopstan · 8 months ago

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30. Minjeong to the rescue

You entered minjeongs room to find her sitting down on the ground, already fidgeting with new pieces of Lego to finish up one of the towers. "you know I kind of feel like a double agent since you showed me your private account."

"knowledge is power after all." you smiled as you sat down. " how did things go after I left?"

" the usual. Jimin said you weren't feeling well and that she told you to go and lay down. We ended up talking about all things that happened this semester including the Uhm... The Parker incident. He won't be around for much longer at the university, his dad is transferring him to some military thing or something. "

"you went over to his place after everything happened didn't you? Jimin and I talked about it and you told her you were with me, you told me you had other plans and the next day you have a bruised hand and Parker claimed he had a fight with some guy." you reached over for another bag of Lego pieces and started to build a new part of the castle.

"he had it coming. I knew you couldn't do it with your scholarship being on the line and he would have found a way to get you kicked out."

"he threatened with it when he saw me with jimin. Guess he didn't like people knowing he wasn't all that. Makes me wonder how he slept with so many girls if he isn't that good? Rumours spread fast around campus yet nothing about him being bad in bed until jimin dumped him. "

"he has money and looks, some girls don't care about anything but bragging rights. Who knows, maybe they tried to get something out of it themselves." she clicked the last piece onto the tower and connected to the growing structure in front of you. "enough about him. Why did you suddenly disappear?"

You sighed and thought it over, would minjeong listen and understand your feelings or would she defend jimin without thinking about it? One thing you know for sure is that she stays true to her feelings and opinions so she probably wouldn't just brush it off and defend her friend. "jimin came up to me in the kitchen and hugged me. I told her we probably shouldn't and then she turned me around, if I didn't push her away she would've kissed me. It was like she didn't see the problem in that. I was introduced as a friend and didn't want to be caught kissing their daughter in their kitchen at all. That would be disrespectful wouldn't it? "

"you were scared of getting caughed I understand that but you do realize your fighting over a hypothetical thing that could've happened? Unless you're mad about something else and are using this as an excuse. "

"i'm not." you frowned as minjeong gave you a look before focusing back on the Lego piece.

"so you're not mad about meeting her parents as a friend instead of her girlfriend?"

"No? We're taking things Slow and I understand if she isn't ready for any labels yet. I-"

"i'm gonna stop you right there before you try to sell me more bullshit." she layed down her work before stealing your lego's out of your hands," You've been acting like a couple long before you confessed to one another. If and I say if you are upset over the fact she was so careless you should tell her because right now she doesn't know why you're upset. Now if it is about meeting the parents as a friend you should've thought about that before you joined the trip, you knew they were coming and you knew jimin told them you were a friend. "

"since when are you a therapist?" you clocked an eyebrow.

"since the day I met these girls." she smirked.

"well if you'll excuse me I have to go and talk to jimin. I'll come back after so we can finish this castle."

"you better! We should be able to finish it in an hour together I think. Just don't let jimin drag you into bed, I'm waiting and the rooms aren't soundproof just so you know." she sent you a playful glance as you walked out laughing.

"noted!" you walked into the living room to see aeri and ning watching a new k-drama, Once aeri spotted you she motioned to the bedrooms. You made your way over to jimin's room and softly knocked on the door.

"yeah?" jimin's voice came softly from inside and you opened the bedroom door to see her laying on her bed with a book.

"Hey, I just wanted to say I'm sorry for today. I should've never put you in the position to make up an excuse for me to your parents." you quietly sat down on the bed as she placed the book on her bedside table.

"I don't care about that. What I do care about is that you got all weird without any explanation."

"I got upset over the fact that you were so careless about kissing me. It hadn't been a day since I met your parents and it felt wrong. They think I'm your friend and I got scared about them finding out that I'm not just a friend. That I..."

"that you?" She raised an eyebrow at your sudden silence.

"that the whole Parker thing was my fault."

"what are you talking about? You weren't -"

"jimin if we didn't sleep together when you were together with him, he wouldn't have hit you. Do your parents know why he did it?"

"They know enough, Parker probably told his dad that I cheated too. I don't know if my parents know but they'll find out eventually. It was my choice though, you didn't pressure me into anything. Parker chose to hit me and it's no one's fault except his."

You nodded as you looked down at the ground. The sound of blankets rustling filled the room before you felt arms wrap around your waist. Jimin placed a kiss on your shoulder as she nuzzled her nose into the crook of your neck. "I promised minjeong I'd come back after talking with you. Her exact words were 'don't let jimin drag you into bed'"

"I didn't drag you, you sat down voluntarily." she smiled against your skin, "wouldn't you rather spend time with me in bed then build Legos with minjeong?"

You sucked your teeth, "see that's were you get too cocky. Minjeong and I have a goal we need to achieve. I'll come back once we're done though." you turned towards her as she pulled back from you.

"wha- you're not kidding? You're actually choosing lego's over me?" She looked at you in disbelieve.

"I made a promise to my friend so yes." you smirked as you stood up, "I don't have favorite's you know."

"She's your friend, I'm your-" she cut herself off but you both knew what she was going to say. "just go." she blushed as she picked up her book.

To be honest you were debating on teasing her with that near slip up but decided to leave it for now. You leaned down and kissed her on the top of her head, jimin looked up with a smile and pouted her lips slightly. After planting another kiss on her lips you left her alone and went back to minjeong to finish the Lego castle.

masterlist | next

#aespa smau #karina smau #yu jimin x reader

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senorabond · 1 year ago

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Rumor Has It (Peña x f!Reader x Pike) Series Masterlist

Series Summary: (Javier Peña x fem/afab!Reader x Marcus Pike) You've recently transferred from a promising job in D.C. to Texas when DEA Special Agent Javier Peña approaches you with his current case. Rumor has it you have an in with the FBI art crimes unit, and the DEA could use your skills and connections on a suspected narcos money laundering case. You need to do well on this case to prove yourself, but you're not sure Marcus Pike will even help after the way you left.

Reader/Character notes: Reader is fem!afab; No mention of Reader’s body size, shape, composition, or skin color.

Series Warnings: no use of y/n, previous relationship (Pike x f!reader), future Javi x Reader x Marcus (MFM/FMM dynamics), masturbation (m & f), fantasizing, Dom/sub dynamics, praise kink, workplace romance, initial slowburn (Javi x f!reader), so much yearning, additional chapter-specific warnings.

Chapter 1: The Javier Peña comes to you for help on a case.

Chapter 2: You’re reviewing the case file Javi gave you when a memory of your last night in D.C. distracts you.

Chapter 3: After a bit of a brainstorm, you decide it’s finally time to call Marcus and get his opinion (he always has the right words). Javi has opinions of his own on the matter.

Chapter 4: Marcus is still reeling from your phone call and can’t stop thinking about the last time he saw you. Peña is ready to get things moving.

Chapter 5: Peña has done more than you expected by making you the Customs Agent in Charge, and you’re already starting to feel the pressure. While preparing to give your first official brief, you reach out once again to Marcus for reassurance. The call leads you down memory lane to the last conversation you had with Marcus face to face.

Complete Evidence Locker Flashback This is the complete flashback, which was originally pieced out across chapters 2, 4, and 5.

Chapter 6: Javier meets you at the office the next day to help you with the big briefing, then shows you a different side of Houston.

Chapter 7: The case is progressing more quickly than expected, presenting the first opportunity to set the bait for the narcos. When plans for the undercover operation go awry, you have to think and act fast. Meanwhile, whatever is going on between you and Javi gets kicked into high gear.

WIP Wednesday post with a lil' sneak peak of Chapter 8!

Chapter 8 Before going any further, you set some ground rules with Javi. Then it's fucking game on.

Chapter 9 (NEW! Posted 4/5) Flashback: All rules go out the window the first time you and Marcus are truly alone.

Chapter 10 - Coming Soon!

#rumor has it fic #senorabond writes #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #javi x reader x pike #javier pena x reader #javier pena fanfiction #javier peña #narcos fic #narcos #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike #the mentalist fic #the mentalist

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gloomwitchwrites · 9 months ago

Text

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, heavy suggestive themes, lots of kissing, intimate touching, domestic!Simon

Word Count: 8k

A/N: Part Nine of Ink & Needle

Evie fractures. You spend the evening with Simon in his apartment. An unwanted caller makes contact.

Chapter Eight // Chapter Ten

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

The excitement of the day is starting to set in. Everything was a whirlwind this morning, and only now, in the quiet of the kitchen in Evie’s Cambridge home, is it all beginning to catch up with you.

The continuously growing list of things to do is as messy and vast as the scattered assembly of carryout boxes on the kitchen island. Most of it is Chinese takeout boxes—which, to your disappointment—is not like American Chinese takeout at all. Evie thought it hilarious when you began opening boxes only to discover multiple containers of curry sauce and mushy peas. Greasy burgers were ordered and consumed instead. Now, as you begin sifting through the mess, tossing containers into a trash bag, exhaustion is showing its teeth, reminding you just how hectic it’s been.

Outside the patio doors, the sun is low, it’s beams hardly breaking over the natural hedge fence along the property line. The lights above the kitchen island and stove are on, adding to the low, warm glow of the evening sun. Scattered across the countertop behind you are various stacks of paperwork. You and Evie need to go through all of it, but you’re unwilling to burden her with too much.

Evie is still grieving, and she’s eight months pregnant, quickly approaching nine. The only thing Evie needs to worry about is getting plenty of rest and the upcoming labor. She doesn’t need to fret over conversations with the estate agent or Archie’s solicitor. Not to mention the fact that the solicitor brought up potential troubles with Archie’s family, indicating a barrister might be needed if they decide to fight over Archie’s money. That did not reach Evie’s ears. Those people have already done enough, and if you can, you’ll keep their poison away for as long as possible.

No. The main concern is Evie’s pregnancy. With the move to London, all of Evie’s medical history has to be transferred to her new hospital and doctor. It’s incredibly close to the due date for everyone’s liking, but it can’t be helped. Evie won’t be giving birth in Cambridge.

Sighing, you toss yet another empty container into the bag, purposefully keeping your back to the stack of papers. You offered up the idea to the estate agent of selling the place fully furnished to which you were quickly dismissed. Frustrating, because it means your job becomes much more difficult, but understandable. People want to make new memories. They don’t want to cling to someone else’s old ones.

Over dinner, you and Evie discussed how she wanted to clear out the house of her belongings. Sell it? Donate it? Put it in storage? Take it with her? There wasn’t a true decision but there was an agreement on beginning the process.

It’s a start. It’s something.

Tomorrow, Friday afternoon to be exact, you and Evie are heading back to London. It’s a quick turnaround, but you’re eager to return and see your wraith. Just thinking of him, speaking his name in your mind, is enough to swirl the quietly simmering heat in your belly to a healthy boil. The warmth that arrives with Simon’s name spreads to your toes and throughout your limbs.

Smiling, nearly giggling, cheeks fevering with the memory of his kisses from Monday, you lightly press the tips of your fingers to your lips, floating in the memory of how they tasted his skin.

Then, you remember where you are. And what you’re supposed to be doing.

“Get a fucking grip,” you mutter under your breath, stuffing the last of the takeout boxes into the trash bag.

When you return from tossing the bag into the outside bin, you wash your hands before reaching for your phone. In the group chat with Jade and Sam, you give them a quick update, silencing your phone afterward, plugging it in to charge for the night.

Evie is upstairs somewhere, likely rummaging around in things she shouldn’t be. She has a knack for that, doing things without asking for help, believing that doing so is a sign of weakness. It’s that American Midwest can-do attitude. Independent and self-sufficient. A good ole’ Missouri girl. That’s Evelyn Green.

Rubbing at your right temple, you head upstairs, aiming for the master bedroom. The door stands open, and as you approach, you stop short the frame when you hear a choked, strangled sob.

“Evie?” you call out.

You listen intently, not sure if you’ve misheard. But you hear it again, a pained sound that sounds more injured animal than human.

Cold fear twists your stomach, drags it down to the floor, stomps all over it and grins.

“Evie!”

Shoving through the door, you don’t find her anywhere. Scanning the master bedroom, you notice the scattered clothes across the bed and the rumpled sheets. But the room is dark. The only light comes from the walk-in closet. Its angles are sharp like a blade and you fear the worst. What if she’s fallen? Surely, you would have heard the crash, or a solid thump?

Heading toward it, the rising fear intensifies until it lodges in your throat, waiting to emerge like a striking snake.

You step into the beam of light.

Sitting in the middle of a large pile of clothes is Evie.

She’s bent over, at least, as bent as her belly will allow her to be. Her pale cheeks are slashed with red and tear-stained. Her shoulders shake with every sob, each one appearing painful. And, in her hands, she cradles a little beige box.

The lid is off. The white ribbon on the top is yellowed and brittle. It rests to the left of Evie’s right foot on one of Archie’s button ups. Within that little beige box is a boutonnière. It’s Archie’s boutonnière. The one he wore on their wedding. It’s dried out now, more potpourri than flower, a silent witness to Evie’s suffering.

“Oh. Evie,” you sigh, going down on your knees in front of her, your hands outstretched but not touching, unsure of how she’s needing comfort.

She glances up. Chokes. Hiccups. “He’s gone,” she whimpers, and all you want to do is absorb her pain.

“I know,” you murmur. “I know, Evie. I’m so sorry.”

“He—he’s gone.” Fresh tears form in the corners of her eyes. They quickly compound on each other, rapidly filling the bottom of her eyelids. “He’s gone and I—”

A gut-wrenching sob rips from her. Like someone is reaching down her throat to tear out her vocal cords.

With extreme gentleness, you place one hand on her shoulder. The other cradles her hand holding the small beige box. “Evie—”

“He’s gone!” she wails. “And this is all I have left!” Evie gestures around at the clothes.

“You have so much more than that,” you soothe, lightly rubbing her shoulder in slow circles.

But Evie is shaking her head, sniffling hard, sucking up all the phlegm that threatens to slip from her nostrils. She’s a mess. A cacophony of a storm.

She glances up. Stares at the ceiling of the closet. “What happens when I start to forget his face?” Evie turns her gaze to you, the defeat and sorrow there sharp enough to shred the soul. “What happens then?”

“You won’t,” you insist, grasping the sides of her face. Strands of her dark hair stick to her tear-stained skin. Your brush them out of the way. “You love him, and the memory of that love is enough.”

Evie keeps shaking her head. “I can’t do this,” she murmurs, cradling her belly with one hand. “How do I do this without him?”

“You can, Evelyn Green. And you’re not alone. You have me. And Amelia. Jade. Sam.” With the pad of your thumb, you remove a few falling tears from her cheek. “This baby will be surrounded by love. She’ll never be without. She will always be safe. And when you tell her stories of her father, all she’ll know is how much you love him, and how much he wanted to meet her.”

Tears spillover to paint Evie’s cheeks as she leans into you. You wrap your arms around her, pulling her close, offering your shoulder to rest her head on. Neither of you talks, and this isn’t your place to say anything at all. This is for Evie, and whatever she needs.

Keeping one hand clutching the beige box, Evie reaches up with the other, fingers wrapping around your forearm. Digging, digging in where they land and are sure to leave little half-moons behind. Fuck it. You hardly care. You’re too focused on keeping her aloft, on being Evie’s anchor where she has none.

You won’t allow your friend to sink.

You stay like this until your knees hurt and your lower back aches. You stay like this until Evie signals she’s ready to let go with a gentle squeeze of your arm. As she pulls away, Evie wipes at her eyes. She still clings to that little box, but she needs rest, and you know she’ll never forgive herself if she takes it to bed with her and crushes it.

Placing both hands around the box, you silently implore her to let go. Evie does, hesitantly, and you lay the precious cargo on the ground. Presenting your hands, you put Evie to bed, keeping watch until you’re certain she’s truly asleep and not faking it for your benefit.

Only then do you return to the closet. Only then do you lift the little box from off the floor to carry it downstairs and set it next to your charging phone. Going to the mantel over the fireplace, you select your favorite photo from Archie and Evie’s wedding day. It’s a simple one, but the love oozes from it, sticks in between your teeth to blissfully rot away the enamel.

In the photo, Archie and Evie look at each other and not into the camera. It’s not staged. Just a moment caught when they thought no one was looking. A moment special only to them. Taking it to the kitchen, you rest it next to the box holding Archie’s boutonnière.

By the time you crawl into bed in the guestroom, it’s close to morning.

The few hours you manage to snag are not nearly enough. And when you awaken, you realize quickly that there is no amount of coffee in the world that can save you. Dragging yourself from bed, you clean up the clothes Evie left on the floor of the closet without disturbing her. Down in the kitchen, you make breakfast and place several phone calls. Nearly all of them are to Archie’s solicitor and the estate agent.

You’re exhausted. Fucking gone, but you have to do this for her.

Evie doesn’t drag herself out of bed until almost noon. By that time, the two of you need to start heading back to London. You take the driver seat, and Evie sits passenger with the little box holding Archie’s boutonnière and the framed photo resting in her lap.

“Simon came to see you,” are the first words out of Amelia’s mouth when she greets you.

“He did?” you squeak, nearly dropping the bag you just removed from the trunk of the car. Excitement and giddiness blooms in your chest.

Simon came to see you. He came…to see you.

But why would he not? He chased you down. Pursued you. Looked for you relentlessly. Of course he’d come by. You know this.

After visiting him at 141 Ink on Monday morning, you stopped to grab some groceries before heading home. Amelia and Evie nearly tackled you when you came through the door, both of them eager, pecking like annoying hens, seeking information. Too embarrassed to admit that you’d straddled him in front of the big window and sucked on his neck, you glossed over the more intimate moments much to their frustration.

Amelia had popped open a bottle of wine afterward and asked you if you knew anything about his history in the military. In all honesty, you know very little, just what he mentioned that morning. Thinking about it now, you truly don’t know anything concrete about your wraith. Physical chemistry is a good thing to possess, but that won’t last if there is nothing else to connect to.

Amelia already appeared to know this, and mentioned that you might want to take a delicate step with him in that area. “A bad injury” is what she said, but Amelia didn’t know any of the details. Then again, Amelia might know, and was only considering Simon’s privacy.

“Oh, yes. He was here. Burst through the backdoor and yelled at me for forgetting to lock the front one.”

Evie’s head pops up above the top of the car. “He yelled at you?”

You glance at Amelia, unbelieving that someone like Simon would raise his voice at her.

“Oh, posh,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “Perhaps yell is a strong word. Growled. Said with irritation. Better?” Amelia shrugs one of the bags over her shoulder.

You and Evie exchange a knowing glance.

Could you go see him tonight? You consider the options. You could stay here and have dinner with Amelia and Evie. Or, you could go see Simon. Enter his shop while he’s working, observe him in his elements. And afterward—

“Are you all right? You look like you’re about ready to faint.” Amelia’s voice snaps you back to reality.

Shit.

Evie stands slightly left and back to Amelia. She’s grinning, knowing exactly where your mind drifted off to.

You smile awkwardly. “I’m fine. Just surprised.”

Amelia makes a face like she doesn’t believe that for a second. But she shrugs, not commenting about it. “You should visit him. It’s Friday. Make a night of it.”

“Are you sure?” you ask hurriedly, not wanting to sound too eager.

Amelia scoffs. “Evie and I will be perfectly fine.” She turns to Evie pointedly. “Won’t we?”

“Perfectly peachy,” winks Evie, shimmying her shoulders suggestively at you before following a cackling Amelia inside.

Your grab several more bags as if one less trip will truly cut into seeing Simon time. Then it’s done, and you’re nearly sprinting up the stairs for a shower and a change of clothes.

“How do I look?” you ask around your toothbrush, turning slightly so Evie can see every angle.

Evie glances up from her phone and grins. “If Simon isn’t all over you the moment you walk through the door, he’s a fucking idiot.” She points at you with her phone. “And you can tell him I said that.”

You snort, and then cover your mouth quickly. Evie laughs too but it’s more of a wheeze and that only makes the strangled, airless sounds you both make that much worse.

“Oh shit,” hisses Evie. “I peed. Thanks, bitch.” She half-rolls, half-flops out of the bed and starts waddling toward the bathroom.

“You’re welcome,” you call out to her retreating back.

Evie holds out her middle finger before shutting the bathroom door. Pulling on your coat and grabbing your purse off the top of the dresser, you head downstairs to slip on your boots.

Every step you take toward 141 Ink is light. Unhurried. It’s easy. Yes, you’re anxious, but that’s only because you’re eager to see Simon, to feel his hands on you, and forget yourself for a bit in his embrace.

As you near, that nervousness starts to slither up, blooming like a poisonous flower. Beautiful, but deadly, waiting for you to consume it. The black and eggplant-purple exterior come into view and that only amplifies what is already screeching under your skin.

“You’ve got this,” you tell yourself. “It’s fine. Calm. Down.”

Your heart and brain and limbs won’t listen. It amplifies further as you reach for the door.

Pushing it open, you’re met with warm air and the scent of pine underlined with the faintest hint of sterile cleaning solution. There is no soft chime when the door opens, but it might have been swallowed up by the music. Heavy metal rushes out from the speakers. It’s not overly loud, nothing that would damage the ears, but it’s certainly loud enough to muffle a conversation. You’re curious if this is Simon’s choice, or if it’s the customer currently in the tattoo chair.

Your glimpse of Simon and his client is brief. Immediately upon entrance, an all-black German Shepard leaps off the couch and greets you, tail wagging so fast it stirs up the air creating a breeze.

“Hello, Bravo,” you croon, scratching under his chin and then between his ears. Bravo leans into it, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth in perfect contentment. “Good boy.”

When you straighten your back and glance up, you notice Simon in the back of the room next to the tattoo chair. He sits on a small stool with a black cushion on wheels. The person receiving their tattoo is on their stomach, back presented to Simon as he works. He hasn’t noticed you yet. He’s completely lost in his craft.

You take this time to observe him, standing there in the entrance of his parlor while Bravo aggressively licks the inside of your hand. Simon isn’t wearing a jacket, only a black t-shirt with short sleeves. It fits him snuggly, clearly hugging every muscle. Both tattoo sleeves are on full display. One is solid black. The other consist of various images and symbols that all interweave around each other. Other than the black t-shirt, Simon wears black joggers and sneakers.

Simon sits up a bit, rolls both shoulders. The muscles in his arms flex with the movement. Your wraith is all power. There is so much strength there, and your brain conjures up the memory of Riot Room when Simon lifted you effortlessly, held you aloft as he brought your bodies together over and over again.

He dips the tip of the needle into the ink, bends forward, returning it to the skin. Returning to his work. You desire closeness, to admire the art as he’s creating it on the man’s back, but also don’t wish to disturb his concentration. Watching him in his natural elements is peaceful. All that earlier anxiety is suddenly gone.

When Simon reaches for the ink again, Simon finally glances up. The moment your gazes lock, he freezes, hovering in a moment of stasis. It breaks, and Simon starts to stand, his arm extending outward to turn off the tattoo gun.

Nope. No. This is not what you want. You’ve disturbed him, throttled his concentration.

You shake your head vehemently, holding up both hands, pointing at the couch in the waiting area. Bravo lightly headbutts your thigh, clearly upset that you’ve taken away your hand for him to lick.

Simon holds his position. Knees slightly bent, legs just starting to extend like he’s ready to leap up at your request. Moving quickly, you settle yourself on the couch, Bravo jumping up next to you, snuggling down onto his belly, his large head plopping into your lap.

Only then does Simon sink back onto his stool.

The distance between the two of you is too much for your liking, but you know the feeling is mutual. Simon’s gaze is heated, and his body, which at first faced the client in the chair, is turned in your direction. Those dark, gorgeous eyes of his linger. They drag up your body, and back down again. Simon is taking his time, and under that wanton stare, you feel bare. Exposed. Chest cavity broken up and strewn out. Vulnerable.

It's unnerving. And yet thrilling. It’s how you felt when you first accepted his offer at Riot Room, when you off-handedly brought up the proposition and Simon made sure to end it.

His gaze remains a few seconds longer before Simon finally returns to the man lying face down on the chair. With one hand on top of Bravo’s head, you press the other hand to your cheek. It’s hot. Feverish. And you suddenly notice the growing slickness between your thighs.

Attempting to shift focus, you give most of your attention to Bravo, talking softly to the dog about your day, lulling the massive hound to sleep.

Even like this, you can’t help but notice all the times that Simon consistently glances up from his work, gaze focused in on you like you’ll somehow disappear. Sometimes it’s a quick one-two and he’s right back in it, set in on his work. Other times, he draws it out, as if silently telling you that he sees you. Those glances seize your heart, wrenching it right down into your stomach.

Once Bravo falls into a gentle snooze, and you have nothing else to direct your attention toward—except Simon’s lingering stares—you opt for productivity. With no idea how much longer Simon has with his client, you slip your phone out of your coat pocket and start catching up on work emails. Several deadlines are approaching quickly, and you’re terribly behind. You need an afternoon to yourself to simple work without interruptions. But that’s been difficult, especially when most of your time has been devoted to Evie.

“Done.”

Your head snaps up at the sound of Simon’s deep timbre. The client stretches, half-rolling half-stumbling to his feet.

Simon gestures for them to turn around. “Back to the mirror,” he instructs.

From off a rolling cart, Simon snags a hand mirror, presenting it to the client. It allows the man to admire Simon’s work. You have a clear view of the mirror. It’s just an outline, but it’s massive, covering the man’s entire back.

“Color and shading will take a couple sessions,” says Simon. “What do you think?”

You don’t catch what the man says, but you do hear Simon’s amused chuckle. He takes the hand mirror and places it on the tattoo chair. The two of them talk for a bit as money is exchanged and Simon hands him a care packet. The client shrugs on his shirt and coat, heading for the door.

As he approaches, he slows, noticing you on the couch. The corner of his mouth turns upward. He pointedly takes his time opening the door, a flirty smile on his face aimed at you as he steps out onto the street.

When the door clicks shut, you glance at Simon. His fists are clenched, hanging at his sides. Those dark eyes of his are bullets, ready to kill, completely fixated on the shut door.

“Simon,” you call out softly, a little of your worry slipping in. His gaze immediately adjusts, moving to you, softening entirely when he takes you in.

He tears off his black latex gloves and tosses them into the trash, already striding toward you as he does so. Bravo grumbles a protest as you bolt upward and off the sofa. You don’t even make it halfway to Simon before he’s on you, grabbing at the back of your neck and your waist, pulling you in for a kiss.

There isn’t a chance for you to push up the balaclava. And Simon doesn’t appear to care. He kisses you through the rough material, and you giggle against his cloth-covered lips.

“Simon,” you laugh, pushing lightly on his chest with your palms, voice slightly muffled from the balaclava.

He pulls back just enough to give you the faintest bit of breathing room. Then, he’s shoving his balaclava up to his nose, revealing those gorgeous lips of his. They are there and gone quickly, Simon already reclaiming what is so rightfully his.

You open and Simon slips his tongue inside, fingers digging roughly into the back of your neck, drawing you closer. This kiss is desperate. Needy. And so full of emotion that when he draws back, you’re momentarily breathless.

Simon’s smile is soft and you easily match it with one of you own. “Amelia told me you stopped by,” you murmur.

“You went to Cambridge,” he states. It’s not a question, and that gives you pause.

You nod. “I did.” You do not elaborate or give him an explanation. The situation with Evie is…complicated. While you wish to tell Simon everything, you also don’t want to unload, to dump all your worries onto him without warning.

“Do I have you for the evening?” he asks, hopefulness laced within the words.

A creeping sadness wiggles in. Simon cannot have you for the whole evening even though you’d love nothing more than to stay the entire night. But you won’t allow the disappointment to make a home. You are still here, with him, and that is enough.

“You have me for a few hours,” you answer, waiting for the discontent on his end.

It does not come.

Simon’s thumb traces the length of your throat. His smile is still there. Unchanged. “Do you want to join me upstairs?”

“Upstairs?”

“To my flat. For a drink.”

“Oh.”

“If not it’s fine,” says Simon quickly. “I understand. Quieter than one of the pubs.”

You nod eagerly, popping up on your toes. “Yes,” you breathe. “I’d like that.”

Going upstairs to his flat means that you and Simon will truly be alone. And that singular thought, one that speaks to uninterrupted pleasure, starts a thrumming in the lower recessives of your belly that only moves farther south with each passing second.

“Good,” he sighs with relief.

Did he think you’d say no? Is Simon just as nervous, just as eager to want to be with you?

Have you not thought about me? Not once? Because I’ve thought of you. Every day.

And what if I wanted it to be more? What if I still want it to be more?

Of course he does. Of course.

“Just need to,” he gestures to the room. “Close up.”

“How can I help?” you ask.

Simon thinks for a moment. “Floors?”

“Done.”

The two of you work in tandem, moving through the motions in a natural, domestic dance that seems so normal and so routine that it doesn’t feel odd. It’s comfortable. Cozy. Like you could live this life easily and not regret a single moment.

When the floors are cleaned, and surfaces are sanitized, Simon shuts off the main lights, locks the front door, and arms the alarm system.

Simon doesn’t say anything. Just overs his hand to you, palm upward.

There is no hesitation on your end.

Gently, you take his offered palm, admiring the little tattoos on his fingers as they fold over your hand. Simon guides you to a door you’ve never noticed before. It’s blocked off by a curtain, and when Simon opens it, the two of you step into a narrow hall. To your right is a door that leads out to the sidewalk. To your left is a staircase heading up to a landing.

Simon’s grip on your hand tightens as if you’ll make a run for the street. He does this sometimes. You’ve noticed these tiny gestures where he seems to cling a little too tight, and you question whether it’s a need to feel close to you, or anxiety.

Remembering what Amelia told you the other day, that you may need to be gentle with him, that Simon had a bad injury, you consider how that might influence someone. How it might change their perspective on things.

You return his tightened grip with a gentle squeeze of reassurance, silently prompting him to take the lead. Simon does, bringing you to the top of the landing. The front door doesn’t have a traditional lock but a passcode. Strange. Completely odd. But, then again, Simon is ex-military. Old habits?

Simon punches a series of buttons and the little red light on the top righthand side turns green. The audible sound of gears turning and locks—definitely plural—unlatching reaches your ears. Simon pushes down on the handle, and then you’re inside, Bravo right on your heels.

You’ve never thought about what Simon’s space might look like. Perhaps you figured it would be like any other bachelor pad. But Simon’s home is warm, and has a similar feel to the tattoo shop downstairs.

The interior is industrial with brick walls and exposed grey-black pipes running along the ceiling. The floor is hardwood, a deep, rich brown. To your left is a kitchen and dining area. All the cabinetry is black, the countertops butcher block, and the appliances stainless steel. To your right is the living room. The television is massive, and the sofa is large. You easily picture yourself and Simon snuggled on it, watching a movie.

Directly ahead of you is a short hallway. It branches left, disappearing to a place you cannot see. But you do notice an open bedroom doorway to the right of the end of the short hall.

“I have whiskey.”

You glance away from the doorway and find Simon. He nods toward a small bar next to the dining table. He’s right. There is only whiskey there. “Then whiskey it is.”

Simon laughs softly and grabs two rocks glasses. His gaze scans over the various bottles. Finally selecting one, Simon lifts it from its perch. Removing the cork, Simon pours a double on both. He brings your glass to you, and you take it with both hands, glancing down at the amber liquid.

This will hit you hard. You haven’t eaten since lunch.

“Are you hungry?” asks Simon, as if reading your mind.

“What?” you blink, looking up.

“I can order us something. Or I could cook.”

“You cook?”

“I’ve perfected a few meals.” Simon shrugs. “And instant ramen.”

“Instant ramen?” you ask, deadpan.

Simon crosses his arms over his chest, the whiskey in his glass sloshing slightly as he does. “And other things.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he says automatically.

He wants to do this. He wants to do this.

“Okay. Yeah.” You nod. “You pick. Cook’s choice.”

Simons starts to turn away, but promptly returns, holding up his hand like he’s about to say something. He pauses, and sets his whiskey down. “Hold on.”

“Holding,” you say to his retreating back.

Simon disappears for a minute and reappears clutching a stack of papers. At first, you’re confused, but as he draws closer, you recognize them for what they are.

They’re pages out of a sketchbook, and there isn’t just a handful. Simon has to be holding as least a few dozen individual pieces of paper. And that’s not even the most startling thing. It’s the way he’s holding them, almost nervously, his thumbs rubbing the pages in an anxious tick.

Simon presents the stack to you. “Couldn’t decide on what I liked best.”

Your whiskey glass is on the dining table in an instant. Fingers itching, you gently take the papers from him. Already, from the very top sketch, you’re awed by the artistry. You don’t even look as you sink down into a chair. Placing them on the table, you begin to fan them out in a wide arc.

“These are lovely, Simon,” you murmur, captivated by how creative his mind is.

“You don’t need to select one today. Take a look and pick what you’re leaning toward.”

Quickly, you sift through them, spreading them out across the table, dividing them up to make the process easier. It’s almost overwhelming. Some of the pieces are similar, but most of them are entirely different. Completely unique.

As you start through your first organized stack, Simon is already in the kitchen, a large pot of water on the range. Before him on the countertop is a small pile of flour. He makes a well, cracks three eggs into the center, and the smallest splash of water. Taking a fork, he starts to whisk.

Is he—no.

You hold a paper in each hand but you’re not even looking at the artwork. You’re watching Simon make pasta. Fucking pasta. From scratch. And he’s not breaking a sweat. He looks so goddamn casual it’s almost maddening.

Bravo sits at your side, but all of his attention is on Simon. He licks his chops periodically but is otherwise statuesque. Your wraith wraps up the dough and sets it aside, quickly cleaning up his mess before retrieving a large frying pan, cutting board, and sauce pot.

Glancing between the artwork you pick up and Simon’s movement in the kitchen, you start to see a different side of him. Garlic, onion, fresh basil, and grape tomatoes are tossed into the sauce pot. Oil is drizzled into the large pan. Chicken breasts are pounded out, made thin, and then coated in breadcrumbs.

You at the table. Him in the kitchen, cooking you dinner. Nothing planned. Just present and existing, content with each other’s company.

By the time you’ve sorted through all the sketches and selected ten you’re leaning toward, Simon is rolling out the dough, cutting it into long strands, depositing the homemade spaghetti into the salted boiling water. The chicken cutlets are finishing under the broiler, topped with chunky tomato sauce and cheese.

Bravo’s no longer sitting but laying down. He’s still alert to everything happening in the kitchen, but Simon is meticulous, dropping nothing for Bravo to vacuum up.

“Simon?”

“Hm?” He briefly glances at you over his shoulder before returning his attention to the pot of cooking pasta.

You lick your lips, pausing before asking the question. “How did you get the tattoo shop?”

The tongs Simon holds hesitate before dipping into the water. “Part of my retirement,” he answers. Cooked pasta and leftover sauce are tossed together.

“Military retirement?” He nods but says nothing. You’re not sure if this will be too sensitive to ask, but you’re curious, and Amelia’s words from earlier in the week keep grating on your mind. “What did you do to earn you an entire tattoo shop at retirement?”

Simon divides the pasta up between two plates. “Early retirement from an injury. Got me this flat, too.”

Early retirement? An injury? What the fuck happened to him that the government would give him enough money to afford all this? That is unheard of, at least by American standards. You couldn’t say for certain what it’s like here, but it couldn’t be much different.

You sip on your whiskey, the amber liquid burning smoothly on the way down. “So you didn’t plan on becoming a tattoo artist originally?”

Simon shuts off the broiler and removes the breaded chicken cutlets. Placing them on a fresh cutting board, Simon slices them quickly, transferring one cutlet to each plate. “I was military.”

“I know,” you say quickly. “But—did you ever think about after?”

Opening a nearby drawer, Simon grabs two knives and two forks. “Sometimes.”

Why is he being so evasive? Was the injury that bad? Thinking on it, you do recall several scars. There is the one running along the edge of his jaw. That one is clear to the eye. The other scars you noticed were hidden under the ink.

Simon picks up the plates and you hastily clear away the sketches, piling up the ones you didn’t select.

“Find anything?”

“These.” You gently push a small stack toward him.

Simon doesn’t even look at them until your plate is in front of you and you’re holding the silverware. Social norms and general social expectations might say to be dainty when with a new romantic partner, but the food in front of you is begging to be devoured. Simon made this for you to enjoy, and you’re going to do just that.

And Simon doesn’t appear to give a shit anyway. With one hand, he’s cutting through his chicken. The other is spreading out the sketches you selected, his gaze entirely fixed on the paper. He takes a bite of his food. Chews. Lifts a sketch up to study it.

You tuck in, eating but silent, observing every twitch and change in Simon’s expression. There are few of note. You have no idea what he’s thinking. Is he conjuring up new sketches already? Is he itching to pick up his pencil or charcoal or whatever he enjoys working with and starting immediately? Is Simon surprised by your choices?

The strongest reaction you pick up on is the arch of a singular eyebrow.

Eventually, he nods, seeming satisfied. With one hand, Simon neatly situates your selections into a stack, setting it aside. Your plate is nearly empty at this point, inhaling the meal like an addict.

Simon settles into his chair, his gaze fixating on you. “Why’d you go to Cambridge?”

Does Simon mean to make it feel like an accusation?

“I went for Evie,” you answer.

“Your friend.”

“Yes.”

“That’s why you’re here?”

“In London? Yes. I am.”

You don’t know how far you can take this conversation before crossing into territory you don’t want to discuss. It’s not that you don’t want to discuss it with him, you simply fear the idea that you might unload on him. You are fully aware how stressing the entire situation with Evie is, but Simon doesn’t need to hear all of it at once. There are some things that are private. There are some things that if spoken to another, might break Evie’s trust in you.

Simon twirls his fork in his hand. “She’s pregnant.”

“Very pregnant,” you add.

“Married?”

How the fuck do you answer that?

“Widow,” you decide, because it’s the truth, and there isn’t any reason to hide it.

“How recent?”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“She buried him a week ago.”

Simon stops twirling his fork. “A week?” You hear the surprise in his tone.

“Dead two. Buried one.” Saying it like that makes it sound so final. Archie is gone, and Evie is alone in that regard. She’s lost a piece of herself. A pillar of support.

This whole time, Simon’s gaze has been locked on you. But it drops down toward the floor for a brief few seconds before returning. Sometimes you really wish he’d take that balaclava off so you can get a full picture of what might be happening behind it.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Simon doesn’t press for more, and you nearly sigh with relief.

“I’m helping her for a bit. Easy for me since I work remote.”

“What do you do?”

Oh shit. Simon doesn’t know. All this time, and it’s never come up in conversation.

“Freelance mostly. Technical writing and editing.”

Simon swallows and takes a sip of his whiskey. “And what is that?”

“User manuals, medical documents, press releases.” You list a few more things and as you do, Simon’s lips stretch into a smile. “What?” you ask.

“That sounds incredibly boring.”

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth as you try not to choke. “Pays the bills. Wouldn’t call it exciting.”

This is easier conversation. This is what a normal back-and-forth is supposed to be between two people. Isn’t it?

But what is normal about this dynamic? The two of you met and hooked up in the basement of a club. You ran and he chased, kept chasing for three years, and when you finally appeared before him, you ran again and he followed after you without hesitating.

“Can you stay?” asks Simon, and you hear the silent plea in his voice. It draws up every needy thought simmering beneath your skin.

“For a bit,” you reply, purposefully being non-specific.

He inclines his head toward your plate. “Finished?”

“Yes.” You start to pick it up, standing with the intention to take it to the sink. Simon is having none of it. He whisks it out of your hands before your legs have a chance to fully extend. You plop your ass back in the chair.

Simon rinses out pans and cleans knives. Sitting in a chair and doing nothing is not something you’re accustomed to.

“Would you like me to help?”

“I’d like you to relax.”

“Yes, sir,” you murmur, finishing off the last of your whiskey.

He washes his hands and dries them on a towel. As he strides toward the dining table, he snaps at Bravo. “Kennel.”

Bravo’s ears droop, but he complies to Simon’s command.

Simon watches the German Shepard disappear down the hallway. He turns toward you, offering his hand. When you place your hand in his, Simon’s fingers take hold, drawing you out of your chair, pulling you against his body. His other hand cradles the side of your neck and lower half of your jaw. His thumb traces over your bottom lip.

“Can I take you to bed?” he asks, voice slightly husky with need. His thumb returns to your bottom lip, lightly pressing on it. “I want to kiss you. To touch you.” Simon is still holding on to your hand.

Not sex then? Just kisses. Touches. Even the thought of that is sending you into overdrive, every nerve in your body firing at once until your heart thuds loudly in your ears.

“Take me to bed,” you whisper, hardly believing you managed to get the words out.

Slowly, Simon’s hand falls away from your face. It is a gentle release, one that speaks of desire but doesn’t feel so primal and raw as when the two of you first came together. Walking backwards, Simon leads, entering into the dark of his apartment, heading down the hall, and entering the bedroom you noticed earlier.

You don’t even glance at your surroundings. You’re too focused on Simon, and the way he guides you around, easing you onto your back upon the bed. He drapes himself over you like a protective cocoon. One knee slides between your legs, forcing them to apart. The other digs into the bed just shy of your thigh.

Simon rests his forearm just above and to the side of your head. His other hand immediately goes to your waist. You are pinned in. You are under him, and it’s deliciously perfect. Better than what you’ve conjured up in your head. Beneath him, you feel protected. Safe.

Your fingers are already on the balaclava, pushing it up further, seeking him. You know not to go past the eyes, and while it pains you to not see Simon fully, you respect the boundary. That will fall away eventually. As will your uneasiness about being completely open and honest with him about Evie’s situation.

These things will happen. They have to. You want them to.

The moment you have full access to his lips, Simon is on you. Your hands fist the front of his shirt, dragging him closer. Simon lowers himself, his pelvis slotting perfectly with yours. Each kiss is slow. Measured. Every stroke of his hand along your waist, hips, and thighs sends a wave of rippling heat straight to your core.

It grows and grows, melting your resolve into mush. Your legs fall open wider, and Simon instinctually moves in. You clearly sense his needs. It’s fucking poking you. And fuck—what’s a few more hours? You can stay. You can.

Your hand slides between your bodies, slipping beneath the waistband of his joggers, your fingers finding him, wrapping around his hardness.

Simon swallows down a groan as his hips reflexively press against your palm. He breaks the kiss, breathing heavy, his teeth finding your throat.

Simon gently bites your neck, his large hand squeezing your thigh in warning. “Keep touching me like that and you won’t leave this bed until morning.”

The intensity of his delivery zaps you right out of your haze. “Sorry,” you gasp, withdrawing your hand quickly.

Simon’s answering growl pins you to the spot. He snatches your retreating arm, encircling the wrist, only to draw your hand back to him.

“Never apologize for touching me. Never.” His lips and teeth trace over your skin. When he finds your lips again, there is nothing chaste about the way he tastes you.

“Simon—”

“Not tonight. I—Not like this.”

Your hand that still rests on his chest slides upward. One finger delicately traces that scar you know so well.

“Will you walk me home?”

“You never have to ask.”

Simon guides your hand away from his groin. In the next moment, he wraps his arms around your waist, lifting up and off the bed, and onto your feet.

He’s smiling down at you, and it’s full of joy. You don’t know how to receive it. It’s almost too much, and you slightly feel undeserving of it.

“I’ll grab my coat.” You start to move but Simon’s arms around your waist tighten.

“Wait.” You glance up, find an intensity in his stare. “Can I take you out?”

“On a date?” you blurt.

“Movies. Dinner.” He shrugs. “Normal things.”

Your lips part slightly in confusion. There is nothing normal about Simon. “You don’t want to take me out for normal dates,” you say slowly.

Simon’s jaw clenches. “No.”

You grin, knowing you’ve trapped him. “What kind of date would you actually like to take me on?” Leaning forward, you rest your chin on his chest.

“Take you for a ride for starters.”

“On a bicycle?” you ask with mock innocence.

Simon sharply lands a slap to your ass. “I’ll put you back on that bed.”

“Promise?”

His answer is a growl, and a firm squeeze. “I’d take you to the coast. Or the country. Maybe up to Manchester. Show you where I grew up. All my favorite spots.”

“Go on,” you entreat.

“I’d show you the Highlands. Stay in a little cottage on a friend’s family farm.”

“What else?”

Simon’s brow softens, and then he’s bending down, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. “I’d make new memories with you,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“Promise?”

“That’s a fucking guarantee, love.”

For several minutes, the two of you embrace just inside his bedroom door. For several minutes, the two of you almost return to the bed, to fall right back into each other’s arms. But Simon has far more control than you.

Coats are collected. Bravo’s leash is found and attached to the dog’s collar.

The two of you don’t hold hands on your walk to Amelia’s. Instead, the two of you loosely intertwine a few fingers. There is no rush. No need to arrive quickly. And while there is silence, it’s a contented, peaceful thing.

Reviving. You are reawakening with Simon.

At Amelia’s front door, your parting kiss is not a kiss at all. With both hands, Simon cradles your face, closes his eyes, and rests his forehead against yours. You match him, closing your own eyes, placing your hands over his, simply breathing in his presence.

You’re practically skipping up the stairs to your shared bedroom with Evie. You expect to find her asleep. But when you open the door, you don’t find her tucked under the covers. She’s sitting up, resting against the headboard, wide awake, and crying quietly.

“What is it?” you ask, panicked, dropping your purse and coat onto the floor, crawling onto the bed to reach for her.

Evie wipes at her eyes, smirking through her tears. “Shouldn’t you be in your man’s bed right now?”

“Oh hush,” you mutter, waving her comment off. “What is it?”

Her smile falters. “Archie’s older brother called.”

The panic disappears. The contentment and peace that clings to you from your time with Simon evaporates instantly. All of it is gone. Poof. Like a popped balloon.

In its place is a seething anger.

“What the fuck does he want?”

“He wants to meet.”

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