#the moment i open some windows air starts blowing and doors rattling

[my-queer-awakening]

Me (attempting to air out the house): *opens a couple windows*

Every single poltergeist in the neighborhood: For me? *starts rattling doors*

[chronicroderick]

Post-Fall

Hannibal and Will are together once again, peacefully undisturbed, and in a moment of intimacy and affection, Hannibal reveals how he dealt with their separation after Mizumono.

Fluffy Fluff, Post-Fall, Light Mentions of Canon Violence, Light Mentions of Smut

-----

“I went ahead and searched through all of time. There is only you,” Hannibal said, caressing the loc at the forefront of the other man’s scalp. “There is only you. Some people produce a soft echo from their soul that may sound like you on occasion, or hum a funny little tune that tastes like something you would sing, but there is only one you. He sits here before me.”

There was the cooing of a dove somewhere outside the window. Spring had greeted the Earth as it did every year, washing the room with yellow light, a combination of the blue morning and the foliage in the garden. A breeze, gentle, warm, swept the lace curtain inwards, as if the house was taking a breath at the same time the men were. It carried with it the sweet scent of the hyacinths, cascading on some invisible river.

“There was a man,” He started again, tracing small shapes on Will’s chest, “nothing like you. Not in wit or in tongue. I did not long for him, ache for him, like I do for you. Nevertheless, I had spent so much of my journey on my own, searching for someone who could compare to you, who could fill this hole in my chest that screamed only your name, that when I came upon this blue eyed man, who looked all for naught like some cherub version of my Dogfox...”

Hannibal paused, moved his hand against Will’s cheek, forefinger gently rubbing the stubble, as if he couldn’t get enough of the sensation, and turned the brunet’s face towards his. Will, who had been peacefully listening with his eyes closed, opened them, a pleasant smile on his face.

“Oh how I missed that oceanic gaze.” Hannibal whispered, maroon eyes darting back and forth as he focused on one eye and then the other, his face sharp and intense for a long moment of glinting pupils.

“Are you attempting to memorize my eyes?” Will whispered back, a twinge of humor in his voice.

“I never forgot them. I simply find comfort in confirming it is really you in this bed.” His jaw flexed as he swallowed, “If you’ll permit me to finish my story I will. The last thing I want is to upset you or cause you jealousy.”

Will shook his head, “I’m jealous, but I’m not that jealous. We had parted ways. There was no way to know we would find our way to each other again,” Will absently rubbed the center of the sideways scar that ran across his belly, a phantom pinch manifesting itself as he spoke, “Plus, you already buttered me up to soften the blow, might as well keep going.”

Those dark eyes flickered to where Will’s fingers drifted over his skin. Hannibal made no attempt to grab his hand, but he could use their love language to convey comfort.

“Before I continue it might be helpful to know the man I speak of is dead. Never was there a time I was compelled to take his life for any reason other than to consume him.”

Will nodded once, “Playing with your food. Tsk tsk,” the slightest curve of the corner of his mouth all the permission Hannibal needed to go on.

The breeze blew inwards once again, the change in air pressure causing the closed door to the adjoining bathroom to rattle quietly against the doorframe. This time the wind carried the sound of a moped horn, polite in its short spurts, yet assertive.

“I sought a place I had not been in so long in the limbs of a body that was no more comforting than the empty halls of a hospital,” a pale hand ran over Will’s bicep, into the dip of the inside of his elbow, “though it may have brought physical excitement, and though even now it is with great shame that I retell such a sordid encounter in your presence,” his hand ran down the swell of Will’s forearm, “hiding from you has never been my instinct.”

He turned Will’s hand palm up, and began running his thumb back and forth over the veins on the inside of Will’s wrist, in exactly the spot where Hannibal’s skin was pulled together in a long apricot colored scar.

“I called him by your name, Will.”

Then a deliberate silence, filled with all the sounds of a lovely morning. Agitated tweeting of chickadees in the apple tree. A lawn mower in the deep distance. Even the sunbeams seemed to exist with an elegant hum.

“He grit his teeth then chuckled,” Hannibal continued. “There seemed to be no resistance to the name. I realized what I'd done, almost struck to apologize, but I withheld that apology. Then, the amoeba that he was, told me to say your name, to call for you, and I did. Over and over it was your name through my lips, your skin I wished to have beneath me, the whisper of your hair that I smelled in the back of my mind. I can not live without you, Will. There is nothing except you.”

Will glanced slyly at him when he finished speaking, “That story makes you sound incredibly pathetic. Desperate, even, for a shred of me.”

“Pathetic indeed,” Hannibal agreed with wide, insistent eyes, “you occupy every part of my memory palace. Every minute without you was an eternity. I lament fate for not bringing us back together sooner.”

Warmth streaming in from outside. Everything is hazy. Their hair does not seem to have edges, only obscure clouds of curves, and their limbs do not have a beginning or end when it comes to each other or to the way they form white snakes beneath the sheets. Electricity buzzes, sparked by the honesty from Hannibal, sustained by the acceptance from Will, who leans upwards to press a soft kiss onto his nose.

To anyone else, there may be an assumed hostility in the idea of a lover telling his man of old conquests. Fortunately for us these are no ordinary men. The time they spent apart was hollow for Will, was he not sharp enough to know that Hannibal was a hot commodity? Was there not a worm of wonder, no matter how much Will tried to squash it, as to where Hannibal would be and who he would be with in his time in Europe? Now he had his answer; in his mind Hannibal was always with Will, he was just as hollow, enough so that he fucked someone with Will’s name spilling from his lips. Someone with low enough self-esteem to allow such a thing. Someone weak. Someone Hannibal could never love. Will is charmed, as is evident from the soft look in his eyes. He had had a wife after all, a screaming, purposeful, opposition to all that Hannibal was, in an attempt to pull a cloth over those burning, burgundy irises.

“We both tried to survive separation,” Will said as Hannibal lays back down, “why tell me now?”

Hannibal is quiet for a moment, “I was curious what you would think. I'm always curious what you think.”

Will chuckles, “I like the idea of you using someone else as a surrogate for me. It's kind of… bittersweet.”

“Like when you killed Randall Tier.” The older man suggested with a smile.

“Yes, like when I killed Randall.” Will rolled over, one leg thrown over Hannibal as he laid his head on his shoulder.

Hannibal only hums and pulls Will closer. Another moped horn sounds, farther this time, softer. The wind becomes rhythmic, bursts of flowery aromas fill the lungs of the house, so strong you can almost see them, and a lazy bee tries to figure out what a window pane is. The two men do not stir, though they lay awake, adorned in this Italian spring. Their heads are not empty, never empty, but their scars remain healed. We must retreat now. This intimate moment is theirs and theirs alone. If you do not understand it then I will not judge you, but we must go. Let them enjoy this bliss. They've been through so much.

[tealeaf89]

Flight Chapter 1 Rewrite

I wanted to re-do chapter 1 of Flight because I found some mistakes. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Life can take unexpected turns when you let your guard down. That's what I'm coming to find out anyways.

How did I end up here? That's what I've been asking myself for the last few months.

I have yet to come up with a good answer to that question. Why is it that no matter what happens in my life, I always end up back here?

Alone Falling Wishing for things to be different

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Keelie really should just tell Victor to fuck off. He's a pretty disgusting human...if you can even consider him human.

My stroll to work has my mind wandering to the book I just started reading.  It's been challenging to focus on anything else when I want so desperately to find out what happens to the main character.

Tucking my hair behind my ear as I adjust the shoulder strap to my bag. I run my hand along the tall grass hanging over the edge of the fence leaving early morning dew clinging to my finger tips.  

The walk to work takes about 30 minutes if I hurry. On beautiful days like today, I take closer to 45 to really soak up the vitamin D.

Putting my headphones in to listen to my music while I take my time and admire the scenery.  I don't feel like I've really started my day until I have fresh air in my lungs and sunshine on my face.  

Once I get to work, I put the thoughts of my latest book aside to focus my energy on my tasks for the day.

My little sandwich shop is on the busiest street in the city.  It was love at first sight when I noticed the for sale sign in the window.  Others may have seen a run down and neglected mess.  The only thing I could see, were the possibilities. It took every last penny I had and months of sleepless nights to get it up and running.  But I did it.  With only occasional assistance from my best friend.  He fancies himself an expert electrician.      

After letting myself in, I flip the closed sign to say open. Walking through, turning all the lights on, and get a fresh pot of coffee brewing.

Opening doesn't take long, as I only have to cut up some vegetables.  Twice a week, I come in extra early to bake all the bread for the sandwiches.  There really isn't anything better than the smell of freshly baked bread wafting through my store.  

We have a small seating area for people who want to eat in.  A small nook with book cases and couches lining the wall.   A stack of blankets pilled on a stool nearby.  A set of glass doors leads out to the patio with tables and benches.  Flower buckets line the edge of the patio separating the busy sidewalk from the cozy atmosphere within.  

Customers begin to arrive.  I know my early crowd is looking for quick service.  They hastily grab their coffees and breakfast sandwiches.  Once they've dwindled away I have a short break from the rush to clean up the counters and restock any supplies that need it. The next few hours my indoor and outdoor seating areas are full to the brim of happily chatting people.  My line never ceasing.  Making friendly conversation with everyone as I finish up orders left and right.

After the last customer walks out the door, I release the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.  Slumping against the counter as I wipe the hair from my face.

Finally, I get a break and decide to drink a cup of coffee. Just as I sit down for the first time in hours loud banging rattles the whole shop.

Seeing as this street is notorious for villain activity, I rush to hide the cash from the register in the safe below some floorboards in the back room.  

Stepping out onto the main street to see what's causing the commotion, people are frantically running down the street away from billowing smoke heading in my direction.  A gust of hot wind blows my hair back as I cover my face to avoid getting the dust into my eyes, to no avail.  I can feel the water prick at the edges of my eyes.  

At that very moment, the fight brings itself to my front door. A huge villain is fighting a couple hero's in the street. Explosions are heard like they are happening right in my face.  I step back against the wall, watching calmly.  

I should probably go grab a broom...they're kicking up a bunch of dirt in front of my shop.

Going back inside I grab some window cleaner and towels as well. Knowing full well that they'll move on shortly and I will have a big mess to clean up.  Sighing in frustration, I stretch out my shoulders preparing to keep moving.

Please don't damage my shop.  

Once I'm back out onto the street I take a seat on an overhang on the wall of my shop. Playing on my phone to kill time while I wait, occasionally peering up to see the damage. I watch as one of the heroes throws the villain violently onto the ground and blasts him with explosions from his hands. People start to emerge from their shops now that it looks like the fight will soon end. Some start to take pictures and jump up and down with excitement at the heroes.

Apparently, they're a big deal.

When they finish taking down the villain I begin sweeping all the debris away from my store front.

Pretty soon the police are on the scene and have arrested the villain and taken the statement of the heroes who took him down.

Finishing up my last window I retreat back inside to continue on with my workday.

[tteokdoroki]

had it | k.bakugou.

♡ pairing: katsuki bakugou x fem!reader.

♡ word count: 4.5K

♡ rating: everyone.

♡ genre: pro hero!au, married!au, fluff, comfort.

♡ summary: your pro hero husband is a show off, always has and always will be... but when his big ego gets in the way of you doing your job, you give him little piece of your mind..

♡ warning(s): please read ! mentions of violence, i gave reader a quirk?? bakugou with a daughter ok literally nothing. oh and angst if you squint.

♡ author’s note(s):  hi besties!! happy birthday to meee!! today i’m dropping a fic that’s been a long time coming, its a short and fluffy little piece with domestic baku bc i love him with babies n kids ok ok!! i hope you all have a lovely day <3

♡ masterlist | requests | kofi

some say that working for a pro hero is an honour, no matter what the position is. some may work behind the scenes— creating gear and suits that support the pros protecting their cities or livelihoods. others are in charge of things like reports, PR and even physical health. everyone plays an important role in a hero's career. there’s never a dull moment working in a team supporting the pros, especially if that pro was dynamight.

the offices for katsuki bakugou’s hero agency were always buzzing; usually because the clean up team were rushing through with stacks upon stacks of receipts and paperwork from the damage done during bakugou’s patrols— other times it would be his secretaries gossiping about how good he looks in his winter costume because damn did that tight black shirt do his arms justice but usually it was just because of the PR team contacting media outlets with excuses for bakugou’s potty mouth.

working for the hot headed blonde was more laid back than it seemed however, the man himself was rarely ever in the office as the number two hero but out on missions instead, the pay was pretty decent and no one ever really faced his angry wrath nor his sailor like mouth unless they had royally fucked up on their job. katsuki bakugou was someone to admire, he never gave a damn about what people had to say about him— he only cared about getting the job done and maybe that’s why most people enjoyed their time under the dynamight agency.

particularly this time, right around noon.

the doors to the floor of the secretary offices fly open, crashing loudly against the walls and drawing the staff from their daily work. this office space is around ten floors up and somehow you’ve made it in record time today. “where is he?” your voice crawls through the entrance of the room, settling over the workers like a thick fog— commanding, menacing and soft all at the same time. newbies cower in their boots, confused at what’s going on and it’s safe to presume those who have been working here for years have yet to give them the run down. “don’t make me ask again.” you add, eyes darkening as you cast your gaze across the room.

an intern approaches you, visibly shaking with fear which makes you loosen your stance and raise an eyebrow toward them. “he-uh... he just went for his lunch break—“ the stutter, gulping under the stare of another highly ranked pro hero. “in his...office— ma’am!” they stumble through their words, hiding behind the ungodly amount of paperwork that's been dumped into their hands. you make a mental note to chew bakugou out on the load his interns have been getting as well as your prior reasons for coming to his agency.

nonetheless you shake your head and drop the frown, a sweet smile quickly replacing the look that could put anyone six feet under if you really tried. with a tap to the side of your head, the visor to your hero costume rises above your eyes— allowing you to give the poor little intern a cheeky wink as thanks. “‘ppreciate it darling, have a good one!” you thank them properly with a ruffle to their hair, resuming your previous stance as you march the rest of the way through the office and kick open the door at the end of the room.

the intern sags, a whimper of relief passing from tired lips while they wipe at the sweat forming on their brow. they’d not even encountered their boss yet and they’d already come face to face with a top pro hero. “w-what’s her deal?”

a chuckle to the left of the poor kid startles them out of their mind; but they relax upon realising it’s just another one of dynamight’s secretaries— haruto, who’d apparently been working at the agency since it started up. “that’s nightsky, her quirk is lullaby, which allows her to control certain people if she hits the right note. she can also put them to sleep, if she really wants to,” the intern now perks up, remembering you from countless interviews on tv. you ranked pretty highly too, managing to the reach the top five this year along with others like shoto and deku. “she owns the hero agency across the street, herself and dynamight have been going at it ever since. it’s like they’re elderly lovers or somethin‘.”

“d-do you think they are? lovers like you say?” the intern asks a little too excitedly, touching at their messy hair from where you’d ruffled it. a crimson blush warms their cheeks, the idea of two pros playing enemies to the public eye but being lovers in secret seemed like something right out of a romance novel. how romantic.

haruto only chuckles at the newbie, standing to ruffle their hair as well before heading over to the coffee stand to fix himself a cup. “beats me,” he mumbles cheerily as he walks away, arms crossed behind his head. “but with the way yn bursts in here at the same time everyday to scold bakugou, and leaves with a huge smile on her face— i wouldn’t put it past them. they probably have a whole life together.” he taps his nose once as if he’s given away too much information, turning away without a word.

the intern hums, seemingly happy with their superior’s answer and easily heads back to work from there.

katsuki bakugou was bored out of his mind.

being a successful pro hero was all he’d ever wanted— being the number two pro hero just came with that. bakugou wanted to get to the top and show everyone he was the best of the best and with him being blessed with a powerful quirk there was no way he couldn’t be where he was today. yet, now that he’d finally achieved his dream all he wanted was a fucking break. the blonde stares down at his microwaveable bowl of home cooked stew, a frown cutting deep into his cheeks. it was his lunch break for crying out loud, but instead of scarfing down the delicious meal before him, the hero was forced to watch it cool as some dumb fuck reporter asked him questions over the phone.

the telephone interview ( or a waste of his fucking time, as katsuki had called it ) , had been set up by his PR team right after he’d taken down a couple low level villains downtown earlier this morning. katsuki had called it nothing but apparently the whole world and their mother had been on his ass, watching as he took the criminals down with ease and raving about how glorious dynamight was during that fight. the reporter drones on about said event, asking the same old questions and it takes everything within the hot headed pro not to blow a casket— he’d been promised a few extra days off from his manager if he could finish the interview without blowing something up and only god knew how much katsuki needed a break from dumb paps and some overly obsessive fans.

‘so, final question, how does it feel to be the number two?’

bakugou grunts, buying himself time to formulate an answer. what he really wants to do is kindly tell the reporter to fuck off and ask more original questions; but with the prize of a longer weekend hanging in the balance he bites his tongue for the sake of freedom. “well i—“

“katsuki bakugou.” your voice cuts through his sentence before he can finish, vermillion eyes land on your hero costume clad form as you burst into his office. a lazy smirk now decorates the hero’s lips, brow quirked with piqued interest. “i have a bone to pick with you, you motherfucker.”

the reporter on the other end falls silent as katsuki watches you, leaning back in his plush leather chair. you look slightly disheveled, costume torn in a few places, scrapes littering your skin as you pant heavily from exertion— chest rising and falling with every breath, it seems ragged and bakugou makes a mental note to remind you to get your ribs checked out later. “you’re late, shitty woman.” the number two sits up a little straighter as you enter the room, leaning up to look at you while you slam your hands down on the smooth marble desk— the force rattling the items he has neatly placed on it.

‘uh-? mister...dynamight-? sir?’

your eyes sweep the room while the pro before you deals with the reporter, mentioning to her that they’ll have to continue their call later. in the meantime, you note that katsuki’s office is meticulously clean, not a single book, folder or pen out of place— it’s high up with a perfect view of the city and the large windows allow golden beams of the sun to light up the room. the sound of a phone being placed back on its hook brings you from your thoughts; annoyance settling deep in your veins as you turn to face bakugou again.

“i had it,” you growl lowly, jumping the gun before he can even register what you’ve said. “i’m a grown woman, katsuki, i can handle a couple of criminals myself, you know.”

the blasting hero does nothing but smirk even wider at the irked tone that litters your voice, standing up as well to tower over you. bakugou still wears his own hero costume, considerably in less damage than yours— not a single tear had formed in his suit, mind the small scratches on his face no doubt from his stupid explosions creating some debris. leaning over the desk between you, bakugou uses a forefinger and thumb to tilt your head up, bringing you even closer than before. “clearly y’didn’t sweetheart, or otherwise that icyhot bastard wouldn’t have needed to back you up ‘fore i got there...” his timbre voice sends sparks of electricity through the air in the room, it’s low and gravelly which is enough to send shivers down your spine but you’re not about to let katsuki bakugou know that he makes you flustered— it’d go straight to his head, the cocky bastard.

nonetheless; you roll your eyes at the mention of your old classmate and fellow pro hero— shoto todoroki. yourself and shoto got along fairly well, even back in high school, so it was normal for you to work together from time to time; you both made a great team and your skill set complimented each other’s well. katsuki was just jealous. he never really got along with todoroki like that. “he didn’t back me up, we were working together,” you snap back at the blonde, shaking yourself from bakugou’s grasp and flicking him right between those alluring vermillion eyes. “something you might not be familiar with, mister number two.” bakugou backs away from you completely ( only wincing slightly ), making you smirk in victory. you’ve struck a nerve. deciding to leave the conversation at that, you turn to make your exit as he collapses back into his seat with a deathly scowl and a quiet ‘tch’. “like i said, i had it, dynamight. next time, don’t jump in uninvited.”

happy that you got the last laugh, you open the door to leave his office but pause when a wave of heat hits your back. you should have known, katsuki bakugou was never one to back down from a challenge and you certainly weren’t an exception. well shit. when you turn around to face the blonde, small explosions spark from his right hand and he has some what of a look of a feral pomeranian, blood red eyes full of rage.

you visibly gulp and katsuki growls out his next words with the upmost venom, designed to hurt and cut at your feelings. “well maybe y’sudda let the actual pros handle shit like this,” bakugou begins, voice rising in volume with every syllable that passes his lips. “we both know you’re no good at short distance attacks with your quirk, shitty woman, you couldn’t have taken those villains down without me.” the blonde finishes with a short ‘tsk’, settling the explosions that spark in his palms. now it’s your turn to be pissed. you could handle katsuki’s jealousy, his petty reasoning for joining you on your patrol and taking the credit but bashing you and your quirk? no way in hell would he get away with that.

“bakugou?”

“what? the fuck y’still here for?”

you roll your shoulders, gracing the blonde with a devilish smile as your eyes light up mischievously. “why are you hitting yourself, bakugou?” you sing, hitting just the right notes that will have him under your spell, the tone in your voice as smooth as chocolate. katsuki’s eyes widen in horror and before he can stop himself, his free hand comes up to slap him across the face. that was your quirk, lullaby. you had the ability to sing your way out of any situation— adjusting the tune of your song to control the actions of certain individuals or groups of people. it was near impossible to resist but the more people you used your quirk on, the weaker your control over them was. that doesn’t mean you weren’t going to use it on bakugou from time to time. the blonde tries to fight it, he really does, but he’s no use up against your ability— losing all control of his own body. he grunts on impact, looking bewildered for a moment as he moves to grab his own wrist to stop any impending blows. “not so cocky now, are we dynamight?”

“h-hey!” he stammers, refusing to accept defeat against you. “shitty woman, no fuckin’ fair. you know i can’t use my quirk against you in here.” he was right, while your quirk was poor against short distance attacks ( meaning you had to result to hand to hand combat ), bakugou couldn’t use his own in enclosed spaces without hurting anyone he didn’t want to. especially you, he would never hurt you intentionally unless you were sparring.

“shoulda thought about that before you decided to taunt me, you know better than to piss off your wife, katsu.” you chide, still smiling just as brightly as you were earlier, before taking a seat on his desk and folding one leg over the other. it was quite amusing to watch your husband of four years fight against himself— everyone knew katsuki had an unbelievable amount of strength even without his quirk so he was definitely beating himself up ( literally and figuratively ).

bakugou looks up at you through gritted teeth while he struggles to keep the wrist you have control of down and you almost feel bad for the guy. “turn it off, dammit!” he curses at you, said hand rising above his free one to tug at his own sun kissed locks.

feigning interest in the objects on your lover's desk, you ignore his pleas for you to release him from the holds of your quirk and hum “apologise.”

“f-fuck... fuck y-you.”

you sigh knowingly, picking up a hand crafted paperweight, covered in glitter and sequin stars,  inspecting it carefully. bakugou could hardly ever say the word ‘sorry’, it was just in his nature and he’d been that way since you were young. part of you knows it’s because of how he was treated as a child where people praised him for his quirk. that meant he became prideful yes, thought highly of himself too and struggled to admit when others were right...but he had his own way of apologising— through actions instead of words.

like when you first moved in together and he had broken your favourite mug, instead of saying he was sorry, he spent all night super glueing it back together for you to use in the morning. to him, actions were louder than words but you right now; you were being mean and just wanted to hear him say it.

“fuck fuck, fine. alright. ‘m sorry.” bakugou lets out a strained growl as the hand you control gives a particularly hard yank to his hair. “i’m sorry for lying about your quirk. it’s not shitty…’n ‘m sorry for... barging in on your patrol. again.” you grin, satisfied with his answer and grab the hand he keeps down with his wrist. you press a simple kiss to the skin, making your husband blush as you release your hold over the limb. katsuki shyly yanks it from your grip, rubbing over the area that you’d kissed, shooting his gaze to the side in the process. “jesus shitty woman, if i don’t die from being a hero or of old fucking age, i know for a fact you’ll be the one to kill me first.” he mutters harshly under his breath, but you know he’s only kidding from the way his hands now fall to your thighs and his fingers rub small circles into the exposed skin.

“pro hero nightsky murders number two pro hero dynamight in cold blood!” you joke as if you’re reading a headline in a news article, katsuki only glares up at you— making no effort to curse you out because of your shitty joke, which causes you to frown while leaning  forward to brush some of his hair away from his face. “you know i’m only kidding right? is something wrong? did i come at a bad time?”

it’s only now that you notice the exhausted expression that paints your lover’s face. he’s always up to playing this game with you, at the same time every day— you come to bother him about some trivial matter, tease him a bit and leave with a kiss. but today, you can tell he’s trying to hide something from you. something that bothers him.

bakugou shakes his head, leaning into your touch as you play with his hair— a habit he’d picked up from even before you started dating back in high school, although he’d never admit that to you if you’d asked. “nothin’, just this stupid fuckin’ interview the PR team want me to do about the fight today. the one i took from you,” your husband smirks slightly at the thought and you roll your eyes for what seems like the nine hundredth time that afternoon. “didn’t get to finish my fuckin’ lunch but they promised me a couple days off if i got the interview done.”

“better the number two than me, eh? but don’t worry, i’ll order us some take out tonight,” your suggest, voice coming out as soft and mingling with your slight giggle— a quiet melody to katsuki’s ears. your only reply from him is a grunt, so you stop your fingers in his hair and watch as he scowls up at you. you quickly press a kiss to the explosive hero’s lips, pulling away to reveal his blushing face. you smile, knowing that you’re the only one who can make him flush red like that. “there’s something else bothering you, isn’t there?”

if there’s one thing katsuki bakugou hates, it’s how you read him like an open book. one look at him and it’s like you know exactly how he’s feeling. he can never hide anything from you— sometimes that both pisses him off and reminds him of how much he is loved by you. he hesitates with his words at first but decides to confide in you anyway, knowing that you’ll get it out of him in one way or another. “‘m worried about you, dumbass.” he mumbles, nudging your hand with his head as if to ask you to continue your earlier actions. “i know you had it, yer fuckin’ powerful but you looked so tired in that fight today ‘n i thought something bad was gonna happen to you, y’fuckin’ shitty woman.”

he toys with the tears in your costume now, smoothing over scars from your bumps and scratches as a result of combat. “oh lovebug,” you mumble, cupping his cheeks to make him look up at you. “you know i can handle my own, they just took a lot out of me today. i promise i’ll—“

“that’s not it, fuck,” katsuki cuts you off, brows furrowing deeply as he grabs your wrists— pulling your from his desk and into his lap. he holds you close, burying his nose into your neck as if you’re going to disappear. you sit still, a little shocked by his actions and his quick change of mood, but wrap your arms around him anyway and slowly fall silent. “it's just that...we’re both pros now and at the top of our ranks ‘n we both have a lot to lose.” you instinctively cling tighter to katsuki, mind flickering to the homemade paperweight you’d spotted on his desk earlier... causing your heart clench.

your daughter had made that for him during her time at preschool for fathers day; something your husband cherished with his whole heart, even if the thing was still sticky with glue when he’d gotten it.

katsuki loved taiga more than anything in the world and if something had happened to her because of your line of work, you don’t know what either of you would do. “what if something were to happen to you? or to me? or shit...both of us? who would look after taiga? you know what happens to kids who end up in the fucking system.” bakugou pauses, the same tired expression from earlier now sitting heavily on his face. “i just want you to be careful, stop pushing yourself so much, y’fuckin’ dumbasss. we have a family take care of. it’s not just you and i anymore.”

you nod, grasping onto your lover’s clothes tightly. the air is flooded with a comfortable silence, the pair of you holding one another right the way through it. you treasure moments like this, where the world stops and katsuki shows you another, more vulnerable side to him.

he would never admit or show this to anyone; but he cares , more than he lets on... especially for you and especially for your daughter. he was attentive, paid attention to you and your weaknesses and helped you overcome them. it was something you couldn’t stop loving about him. “i promise to be more careful, for you and for taiga,” you say quietly after he’s done scolding you, brushing your lips against the side of his head in a soft peck. “that must’ve been why jumped in earlier, you were worried about me?”

“somethin’ like that, you crazy woman,,” bakugou whispers, there’s a tinge of fondness to his ruby eyes as you pull away to look at him, his hands settling on your hips while he moves up to press a soft kiss to your awaiting lips. “didn’t want you getting yourself killed.”

you stay with katsuki in the office for a little longer than usual, laying on his chest as he prattles away about everything and anything even though he should be working. you make sure he eats his lunch, despite how cold it is and promise him a boat load of take out when he comes home later— your sweet cuddling session only being cut short by a call from your assistant to tell you that your daughter is ready to be picked up from school. “better finish that interview katsu, taiga’ll be happy to know her daddy’s getting some time off to spend with her soon,” you remind him as you gather yourself together, your husband pouting ( he swears on his life he wasn’t ) from the loss of your warmth in his lap. “she has a lot to tell you.”

the blonde quirks a brow, watching you as you head for the door. “yeah? like what?” a hand comes up to cover your mouth as you giggle at his curious face. sometimes, when you look at katsuki, you could see how much your daughter resembles him, right down to his mannerisms. she had somehow inherited the shape of your nose and the brightness of your smile ( the only reason barely anyone realised bakugou had a kid, he never fucking smiled. ) but the bakugou genes were incredibly strong so there was no way she’d miss out on those crimson eyes and uncontrollable, untameable messy blonde hair.

she even acted like him. a very brazen little girl who knew what she wanted and how to get it, so she had her daddy wrapped around her stubby little fingers.

you grin, eyes sparkling with the same mischief as before. “oh y’know, just her little crush on midoriya’s boy.”

“yer fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

“i would never joke about such a thing,  just make sure you’re home in time for dinner, number two!” you squeal, dashing out of the office before your husband has time to demand more answers from you. slamming the door shut, you chuckle at the melody of curses that leave your husbands mouth before heading off to pick up your daughter.

on your way, you admit to yourself , that maybe you didn’t have this fight in the bag. but what you did have; was a loving husband, a beautiful daughter and the best life you could have ever imagined.

extended ending:

“so, taiga... daddy hears you have a little... crush on someone.”

you’re in the kitchen, washing the dishes from tonight’s dinner as bakugou wipes tentatively at your little girl’s messy face— she was a poor eater but it’s something you didn’t mind, not when your husband was so soft with cleaning her up. you can see them from where you stand, watching katsuki knowingly.

taiga looks up from the colouring you’d set out for her when she finished up her meal, crimson eyes shining brightly as she fixes her gaze on her father. “mhm mhm!! he’s mister deku’s son! and i’m gonna marry him!”

“no yer not.” bakugou answers simply, looking close to popping a vein.

“why not?”

your husband scoffs, throwing away the tissue he’d used to clean his little girl up before joining her in her colouring. “‘cause daddy says so ‘n boys are gross, especially ones who’s dad’s look like broccoli.” the older ash blonde seems satisfied with his answer, grinning to himself as you dry the dishes with an amused smile.

but taiga isn’t finished, swapping her green crayon for a red one to finish up her drawing. “but you’re a boy...and mommy still married you!”

bakugou pauses, lost for words as taiga continues to colour— humming the theme song from a commercial for some of deku’s merch. you can tell it’s taking everything katsuki’s got not to combust right there on the spot, but he can’t stay mad at taiga for too long, not when she’s describing her wedding and how her daddy is going to walk her down the isle.

setting the dishes to dry and towelling your hands; you smile to yourself as you admire your family. some would say you had it all, and looking at the pair of bakugou’s now, who were you to deny the truth.

[dracowars]

LOVED YOUR TOM RIDDLE. Can I please request a arranged marriage au where yn is in love with him but he hates her so when she decides to let him go or someone else wants to marry her, Tom finally realises he’s in love with her. happ ending :))))

my heart belongs to you | tom riddle

pairing: tom x black!reader

word count: 3,3k

summary: where tom and y/n are in an arranged marriage

a/n: i'm so sorry for being so inactive recently, uni is taking its toll on me.. i had to do a bit of research for this one and also tom is a pureblood here!

warnings: toxic relationship, violence

universe: harry potter

“Get out of my sight, will you?”, he angrily snaps at you out of nowhere, for the third time already on this still very early day. Furiously, he stomps past you, pushing you to the side harshly, the filled glasses on your tray swaying dangerously. Knowing that you should just leave him alone, you stand there completely frozen at the door, still feeling the breeze on your skin after he stormed past you.

The glasses clink on the serving tray as you try to keep your trembling hands under control, but you terribly fail while tears shoot into your eyes. A lump forms in your throat and you gasp in desperation, losing your composure after hearing the front door slam shut.

Slowly, you slump down and therefore with a loud rattle let happen what could have been foreseen already: a thousand shattered pieces of glass scattered across the floor around you while you cower against the wall, your elegant dress pulled over your knees, your forehead leaning against it. Heavy sobs rock through your body and tears find their way down your cheeks, dripping from your chin onto the expensive fabric of your dress.

You just wanted to spend some time with him. Together, in the house of your parents, who went on a daily trip with their close friends early in the morning, all part of the most notorious popular pureblood families in the wizarding world – the Nott’s, the Macmillan’s, the Malfoy’s, the Lestrange’s. And if his parents were still alive, probably with the Riddle’s as well.

This is primarily the reason why you even are in this position right now; crying and huddled in the living room because your fiancé hates you profoundly.

After graduating from Hogwarts last year, the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you, descendant of the pureblood Black family, got engaged to Tom Marvolo Riddle, the last living heir of the Riddle’s. He would offer you a good future, they said, and you would never have to worry about anything again.

But nobody knows that in reality, your own beloved fiancé really does not want to have anything to do with you. He does not even want to stay in the same room as you.

You can’t explain why he acts like this towards you. You do not know why he harbors such an abysmal hatred for you and any clear-headed, rational person would have done something about it long ago. Unfortunately for you, you feel the exact opposite for him.

Your heart belongs to him and only to him.

You have liked him since you first met him at Hogwarts, back in 1938, when the two of you were sorted into the Slytherin house. This initial friendly liking has quickly evolved into something more than that over the years and lead you to where you are now, at a point where you would have never seen yourself back then.

You have already tried everything to convince him that you are not as bad as he seems to think. Every morning you bring him his breakfast, you give him everything he needs. Even when you were still at Hogwarts, you always looked after him, finished his homework for him when he was too busy to do it by himself, and helped him pass all of his exams.

And not once did you hear a thank you. Not then and not now either.

Slowly gathering your thoughts together again, you rub the long sleeves of your velvet dress over your damp face, wiping away all of your tears before you get up on shaky legs and begin to clean up the mess that you have created. After you went back to the kitchen with the broken pieces and some injuries on your hands, your gaze longingly slides out the window.

Outside, the sun stands high over the magnificent garden of the mansion, making the clear water in the fountain shimmer in its bright light. A gentle breeze blows through the air and rustles through the perfectly cut trees that line a small path through the garden.

The loud, excited voices that suddenly roar through the house snap you out of your daydream and you quickly wipe the blood from your fingers before you step into the huge marble entrance hall. You arrive at the front door just in time to open it for your parents, who, to your surprise, did not come back alone. You are amazed to find not too familiar faces in front of you as they climb up the stairs to the door where you are still standing.

“And that has to be Y/N. Oh, how you have grown!”, an older man smiles friendly at you and you return his smile with a certain uncertainty in your face.

“Darling, we brought guests over for dinner today. You surely remember the Lestranges?”, your father announces happily and only now do the faces that you have seen at numerous balls and celebrations seem familiar again. Especially one.

“Reinhard?”, you ask in amazement when you spot him standing behind his parents, a big smile on his face when he sees you.

“Y/N, how nice to see you again”, he grins, carefully pushing his way past your parents in order to slightly bow venerably to you, taking your hand in his to place a kiss on the back of it. “It has been some time.”

“I am sure you have a lot to tell each other”, your mother mentions in a sweet voice, but before she can continue, she watches how your facial expression changes from one second to the other as you look past them, out into the yard.

Next to the carriage with which they have returned, Tom is standing now, petting one of the splendid noble white horses before he joins all of you.

“Tom! There you are, I was already wondering where you went”, your father says, visibly pleased when he too spotted his future son-in-law, drawing everyone’s attention to him.

“Reinhard?”

“Tom?”

Within a few seconds, the two former best friends lay in each other’s arms, obviously happy to finally see the other again.

“Let us go inside. We want to show you our newest masterpiece of art in our wonderful collection, come on”, your mother announces happily and leads the Lestranges inside, but not without turning around to you once more. “The children can catch up on what they have missed.”

“I can’t believe it! You are really here, Tom. Man, you look even better than at Hogwarts”, Reinhard laughs, playfully pushing Tom to the side while you watch them in silence. “What are you doing here with the Blacks?”

“They kindly took me in”, Tom lies to him and for a moment you think he threw you a glance out of the corner of his eyes after uttering these words. His statement makes Reinhard realize that you were still there with them, who had apparently completely forgotten that you were even there.

“I am so happy to see you again, Y/N!”, he grins and takes a step closer to you, probably to be able to take a closer look at you. “Still just as beautiful as I imagined. And just as smart, I guess?”

Reinhard’s sudden compliments make you blush and your cheeks glow, which is why you nervously avert your gaze from him, directly falling on Tom, who looks at the scene in front of him with incredible resentment.

Unlike Tom, Reinhard was always there for you. You spent a lot of time together in your school days and if your parents had known about your close friendship, you are sure that he would have been your fiancé by now. Which, to be honest, does not sound bad anymore right now.

And yet your heart still belongs to Tom.

When you all sit together at dinner later in the evening, where your parents are talking about irrelevant things like Ministry of Magic, you keep making eye contact with Reinhard, who seems to be staring at you.

“Is there something on my face?”, you ask uncertainly and put your glass back on the table when you can no longer bear his piercing gaze.

“No, no, not at all. I was just wondering how a beautiful witch like you could have become so much more stunning”, Reinhard winks at you, causing you to swallow hard. You are not used to getting compliments, especially not from a handsome young man like him. Before you can answer to him, however, there is a loud clink and you startle, your eyes immediately fixed on the cause of the noise.

The glass, which you have certainly placed far away from the edge, is now lying in your lap, the little liquid that was still inside now spread over your elegant evening gown. You move your chair back in shock when, in the corner of your eye, you see how Tom puts away his wand. And not only did you notice Tom just now, but the rest of them follow your gaze.

“Tom, darling, how about you tell our guests how you and our daughter got to know each other”, your mother suddenly prompts him, not even realizing that he has just deliberately spilled your drink on you. But why did he in the first place?

„I would love to“, Tom puts on a really believable smile that no one but you questions and starts telling them how you met and fell in love with each other. He tells one lie after another, explaining the web of lies that you have spun around you over time to make your relationship as credible as possible, at least in front of other people. And suddenly nobody cares about you or your still soaking wet dress anymore.

“What a wonderful story”, Mrs. Lestrange applauds and everyone else seems to be completely enthusiastic about Tom’s fairytale. To top it off, he then reaches across the table to take your hand in his, just like a real affectionate couple would do.

You lower your gaze as he gently strokes the back of your hand with his thumb, trying your best to not show how uncomfortable you are. Oh, how much you wish that this were real, that Tom would actually treat you like this when you are alone, the same way as he does in front of your parents.

But he does not and deep down you know that he will never do.

“So, you are engaged?”, Reinhard scrutinizes the statement of his former best friend, his eyes focused on you suspiciously, as if he is expecting an answer from you and not from Tom. A slight pressure on your hand makes you flinch and look up.

“Y-Yes”, you force a smile onto your lips, whereupon Tom seems satisfied with your answer, letting go of your hand again with a - what seemed to you like a – disgusted expression on his face.

An uncomfortable silence spreads between the three of you, which is drowned out by the loud conversation of the adults on the other side of the table. Finally, making up your mind, you clear your throat loudly and get up from your chair, gaining everyone’s attention in a matter of seconds.

“Excuse me, I have to go freshen up for a moment”, you explain with a slight polite bow before turning away to leave the dining room.

“Reinhard, would you be so kind and help Y/N”, Mr. Lestrange asks his son, who stands up with furrowed brows, apparently just as surprised about this sudden request as you, but then follows you out into the hallway with no further objection.

“I really do not need any help, thank you”, you try to get rid of him as you walk up the large staircase leading to the first floor together, only wanting to be alone.

“Dinner like these are totally boring anyway”, he chuckles softly and shows no intentions of leaving your side any time soon, which is why you do not even try to search for further arguments. He follows you to your room where you are able to tear yourself away from him to put on a new dress while he waits outside in front of the door.

With an equally elegant burgundy red dress you step out of your room after a few minutes, Reinhard’s eyes greeting you with a sparkle.

“Wow”, he breathes out barely audible and takes you hand without asking to swirl you around, causing your dress to fly around gorgeously. Unintentionally, warmth rises in your face again and your hearts makes a barely noticeable jump inside your chest when he looks deep into your eyes after catching you back in his arms.

The loud clearing of a throat behind you makes you turn around in shock, only to see that Tom himself is now standing at the end of the corridor, not seeming very enthusiastic.

“We did not see you there, Tom”, Reinhard disguises his obvious nervousness with a laugh, acting like Tom had just caught you in doing something he should not have seen. Tom, however, does not even react to his words, but looks past Reinhard at you, his eyebrows raised meaningfully.

But when you do not move under his piercing gaze, his facial expression changes and he quickly approaches you, Reinhard instinctively pushing you behind him so that you can only see Tom approaching further over his shoulder. Before neither you nor Reinhard can say or do anything, Tom has already pulled out his wand and aims it directly at Reinhard, who flies back through the air only a few seconds later, hitting the hard marble floor at the end of the corridor with a thud.

“What the-?!”

“Come with me”, Tom orders, now standing directly in front of you. When you stubbornly refuse, he suddenly grabs your wrist to pull you away from there. No matter how much you fight against his firm grip, you cannot tear yourself away from him as he pulls you into the closest room, which turns out to be the library.

Once there, you can finally free yourself from his tight grip, but before you can reach for the doorknob to leave immediately, he locks the door with a spell. Angrily, you turn to him, despair written all over your stunning face.

“What is this supposed to be, Tom? Let me out of here, now!”, you command him in a loud voice, not caring if anybody can hear.

“What did he want from you?”, he asks you urgently and steps closer to you. Since the door is in your back, every possible escape route is blocked, and you are caught.

“We just talked to each other, you know. Like normal people do”, you answer irritably and cross your arms in front of your chest, not in the mood to justify yourself, especially not in front of someone who does not care about you at all and not after what he has done.

“But that did not look like it.”

“Tom, stop it.”

“You belong to me and nobody else!”

These words coming out of his mouth echo loudly through the dark library, his face wrapped in an eerie candlelight. Before you can even control yourself and fully process what he said, you severely slap him.

Frightened by your own horrible deed, you immediately pull your hand away, your gaze filled with fear, but the anger that keeps building up inside of you winning the upper hand after all.

“How dare you call me your property?!”, you scream in rage and tears form in your eyes because of your uncontrollable anger. However, Tom needs a moment to collect his thoughts after your heavy smack before he can answer you.

“You are my fiancé”, he spits out coldly, a touch of shock in his voice, apparently not expecting you to react like this.

“And that does not make me nowhere near your property! You never treat me like your fiancé anyway, so why now all of a sudden?!”, you bicker at him, your voice loud and constant, even though you would like to flee from this situation right away if you were able to.

But Tom does not have an answer.

“Fine, okay. If you have nothing to say to me, like you never have, then I will go back now and ask my parents to end this damn failed engagement and engage me with someone else who truly cares for me!”

Suddenly, without letting you time to catch your breath after your outburst, he presses you with your back against the door completely, his hands tightly grabbing your wrists, a little too tight for your personal liking.

“You mustn’t do that”, he softly whispers, his head lowered as if he does not dare to look you in the eyes.

“What is stopping me?”, you hiss, still full of anger and – probably for the very first time – hatred towards him.

But when you feel his lips on yours all of a sudden, all of these emotions evaporate and all that remains is your racing heartbeat, which is being repaired at this very moment. You never would have thought that at some point in your life the moment would come when Tom Marvolo Riddle, who absolutely loathes his fiancé, kisses you.

After kissing you, he looks straight into your eyes, and the Tom you met in 1938 is standing in front of you again. The Tom you fell so deeply in love with.

“I can’t explain it to you”, he finally breaks the silence, his gaze directed to the floor as he moves away from you, giving you enough space to breathe regularly again. You, however, do not say anything but just stare at him.

“I was not aware that I am capable of feeling such feelings for someone. I am unfamiliar with this feeling and I did not know how to deal with it, Y/N. I treated you badly because I did not want it to be true, I did not want to accept it. I could not imagine having feelings for the little nuisance that has always been running after me”, Tom explains, choosing each and every single word very carefully, trying to put his emotions into words which does not really work the way he would like it to. But that is how you know him. You know that this confession must be extremely difficult for him, but you can’t help but feel a sense of relief inside of you.

“When?”, you ask and manage, with this tiny little word, to make him look up at you. “When did you know?”

“Since I have been here. You served me every day and took care of me, even though I wanted to push you away from me with all of my might. You have already helped me so many times in the past without me even asking, you have always accepted me for who I am”, he desperately tries to but his feelings into words, asking himself what he is even doing right now.

“Tom..”

“No, I have to sincerely apologize to you. I had no right to treat you the way I did. And also today.. when I saw you with him and how well you got along, it finally became clear to me. Reinhard has felt something for you since our school days, I know that even though I could never understand, but now I do. I understand why he fell in love with you”, Tom continues without breathing, pouring out all of his feelings that he has hidden for so long.

“I understand if you want to dissolve this engagement and I will not stop you if that is what you want”, he quickly adds, looking at you with desperation in his eyes. He already prepares himself for the worst when you are the one getting closer to him this time.

“Idiot”, you smile slightly and place a gentle kiss on his lips while he looks at you puzzled. “I love you, I thought you knew that.”

“I know, but-“

“But nothing”, you interrupt him and take his hand to lead it to your fast pounding heart. “It always belonged to you.”

[mello-jello]

hi jello!! what about post timeskip levihan? commander hanji is working very hard and rarely, rarely sleeps (let alone eats and bathes properly. its worse than before now though.).

what if one time levi discovers hanji passed tf out due to sheer exhaustion in the most weird and random of places. he doesn’t want to wake them up bc hanji def needs the rest so he carries/tucks her into bed.🥺❤️

JAZZY thank you for the prompt! I kind of combined it with this one too:

Thank you, Anon!

Preview:

Hange gave a small laugh before saying, “Thank you Levi, I feel much better now.”

“Tch, you haven’t even done what we came here to do,” Levi scoffed.

Hange made a confused sound.

“Drop the dish.”

It had been 3 years since Shiganshina. Levi climbed into the carriage and sat across from Hange, who was still reading through her notes from the long and grueling meeting that lasted for the better part of the day. All the highest ranking military officials had been called to the capital to discuss Paradis’s best course of action. Queen historia was there, along with her staff, advisors, and of course Zackley. Levi had been to plenty of these meetings before, but this time was different in a bit of a distressing way.

Over the years, Levi had watched Erwin defend the scouts countless times. From questionable means of gathering information, to explaining away hundreds of lives lost, he always had an answer for everything and he always managed to leave with a favourable image. It was something Levi truly admired and even envied about Erwin.

But now he had been watching Hange flounder. She has indeed improved over the last 3 years, but she still doubts herself and while it might not be known to those around her, Levi can’t help but feel sympathetic to her situation. Today however, the other officials had been particularly ruthless.

“Take a break, Hange,” Levi ordered. Hange just sighed. Then her stomach growled. “Have you eaten today?”

“Uuuuuuuhhh,” Hange mused as she genuinely struggled to remember.

“Tch, there’s your answer,” Levi crossed his arms. The rest of the officials had a big dinner scheduled for tonight, but of course the Survey Corps got shafted and had to leave early in order to prepare. Hange met his eyes again with an exhausted look he was all too familiar with.

“How have you been sleeping?”

“Not great,” she admitted. Levi’s stomach sank. He had dealt with his own insomnia his whole life, but it seems worse on Hange. Perhaps it was the stark contrast from her former bubbly and loud personality. Hange pinched the bridge of her nose and let out another long sigh. Levi couldn’t help feeling inadequate and helpless. He rarely got himself to sleep, how could he help Hange?

Levi looked out the window at the setting sun when he got an idea. He realized what Hange had been neglecting while trying to be a good commander. Something that wasn’t just eating and sleeping. Something that was unique to Hange.

“Hange, there’s one more thing you need to do before we leave.”

Hange raised an eyebrow.

Levi told the driver to wait for them and escorted Hange to the dining hall.

“Levi, we were technically invited, but I don’t think showing up for food after we already said goodbye is a very good look for us,” Hange practically whispered.

Levi opened the doors and they were greeted with a sweet aroma of bread, appetizers, and whatever was going to be the main dish. Hange’s mouth watered. The long elegant table was decorated with ornate candles, beautiful china, crystal glasses, and there were 4 sets of cutlery for each place setting.

“Relax, they won’t be here just yet. They will all be busy getting dressed for dinner.”

Hange grabbed a bread roll and took a huge bite, not bothering to chew before she commented, “I never understood ‘dressing for dinner’ ugh. What’s the point?”

Levi was about to make a half hearted comment about how Hange could never fit in with “civilized” society, but he stopped himself when he saw she was eating and was a little bit more relaxed. He found a small plate of savoury looking appetizers and handed it to her. She immediately took one.

“MMM, Levi!” she exclaimed, pointing at the plate. She popped another in her mouth before saying, “you gotta try these!”

Levi put up a hand and said, “you enjoy.”

Hange enthusiastically cleared the whole platter in less than a minute, and Levi was watching her, endeared at the behaviour. He had missed this side of her. Despite how gross it was, there was a glimpse of the carefree Hange he once knew. A small hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Then Hange belched.

“Disgusting,” Levi waved the air in front of his nose.

Hange gave a small laugh before saying, “Thank you Levi, I feel much better now.”

“Tch, you haven’t even done what we came here to do,” Levi scoffed.

Hange made a confused sound.

“Drop the dish.”

Hange’s one eye widened as she processed what Levi was saying.

“C’mon, you need to blow off some steam. They were total assholes to you today, and for what? You didn’t know the exact amount of your food budget? And yet,” Levi gestured to the banquet. He then picked up a delicate looking wine glass. He held his arm outstretched, and loosened his grip, letting it crash to the ground. “Oops.”

A mischievous smile stretched across Hange’s lips. “Oops,” she mimicked Levi and let the empty platter fall to the floor, breaking into dozens of pieces. She slowly started to lap around the long luxurious set up, like a predator admiring her prey before pouncing.

“Right? And Nile, ugh, what a hypocrite! Giving me shit for not knowing about that small thing, belittling me in front of everyone,” Hange snapped a salad plate against the edge of the table. “It wasn’t too long ago when he would have been the first to admit he had no idea what the first interior squad were up to! We had to find out for ourselves. Erwin was almost hanged!” Hange kicked a chair over on its side.

“Yeah, fuck Nile,” Levi egged her on. He took a seat at the head of the table and started sipping from one of the water glasses.

“Is this his spot?”

Levi shrugged but Hange was already pouring out a glass of wine all over the white seat, staining it a deep crimson. Levi hid his delight behind another sip.

“And did you catch what he said at the end? ‘Some of us have wives to get home to’”, she imitated in a mocking tone as she casually pushed a platter of dumplings off the table. “Yeah, run home, Nile. Run home to Erwin’s SLOPPY SECONDS!”

Levi blew water out of his nose, and before he could react, Hange reached under the short side of the table and flipped it over, sending its contents hurtling across the room. Hange was elated at the result, laughing almost maniacally.

“Idiot,” Levi hissed, grabbing Hange’s wrist and leading her out the side door. He heard footsteps, and so he instinctively dove into nearby shrubbery, taking Hange down with him.

They hid in the bushes for minutes, Levi pressing his hand to suppress Hange’s uncontrollable laughter. It had been so long since she’d laughed like this. It was infectious and Levi might have actually laughed himself, were it not for the fear of getting caught. He had no problem telling the MPs where to shove it, but he didn’t want Hange to get in trouble. Her whole body was convulsing, and it was rattling the leaves around her. Levi used all his body weight to stop her jerky movements.

After about another minute of total silence, Hange tapped Levi’s arm, signalling to let go. He was hesitant, but he obliged. Hange drew a couple deep breaths, fanning herself, trying to calm down from laughing so hard. Levi was transfixed by the way the moonlight danced on her tear-stained face. They stared at each other for a moment before Hange snickered once more, causing Levi to cover her mouth yet again. “You’re impossible,” he said, pushing her head back down.

Once the coast was clear, they ran back to their carriage, hand in hand. Partly because Levi wanted Hange to keep up, and partly because it felt nice to hold her hand. They ducked their heads until they were off of the main roads. A few minutes later, Hange started giggling again.

“What?” Levi asked.

Hange bit her lip playfully as she reached into her coat and pulled out a bottle of expensive wine she must have swiped from the banquet.

Levi rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help his smile. She looked like a child that just got away with stealing more dessert. She looked joyful for the first time in a long time. She yanked out the cork and took a swig before offering the bottle to Levi. He graciously accepted and tasted the wine for himself. It was too sweet for his taste, but he couldn’t deny that it was spectacular.

“That’s nice,” he commented.

“Pfft! It tastes the same as the cheap stuff!” Hange scoffed as she took the bottle back. Any other time, Levi would have teased her and started an argument, but not today. He wanted to cherish this moment. He leaned over to look at the stars through his window. Not a bad ending to an otherwise terrible day.

After Shiganshina, he and Hange had lost so much. Their comrades, friends; life as they knew it had completely changed and they barely had a moment’s breather to come to grips with it all. Levi was unfortunately accustomed to it, but Hange wasn’t. Hange had been so strong through all of this and Levi wanted to find the right words to tell her. Maybe it was the exhaustion they both felt; maybe it was the close proximity, but for some reason, somehow, Levi felt a tiny bit of courage surge through his veins.

“Hey, Hange, I-”

When he turned to look at her, she was fast asleep, neck crooked as she cradled the bottle of wine. Levi smiled at her. She looked peaceful, like she was getting quality sleep. He took the bottle from her arms and gently maneuvered her to a more comfortable, lying down position. He removed his jacket and draped it over her, as a make-shift blanket.

“Goodnight, Four-Eyes,” he mumbled to himself and returned to his seat. Hange slept the whole way home. When they finally arrived in the southern barracks, Levi couldn’t bring himself to wake her up. He quickly ran their luggage up to their rooms, and came back for Hange.

Being as gentle as he could, he scooped up the commander and ignored the curious look he got from the carriage driver. She was taller than him, and her long limbs made the trek a little difficult, but he was determined. Her steady breaths tickled the skin of his neck.

He carried her up the winding staircase and into her quarters. He lowered her on the bed, careful not to go too fast. He cradled her head for a split second longer than he needed too. He took off her long boots one at a time, placing them silently on the floor at the end of the bed. He undid the top two buttons of her jacket and shirt, just for comfort. Then he pulled the blanket up to her chin, and tucked around the sides.

Finally, he removed her glasses and eyepatch, caressing the tender skin underneath. Placing them on her night stand, he got up to leave. The door hinge creaked as he opened it, and Hange stirred.

“Mmm Levi?” She called out.

Levi wasn’t sure if she was actually awake, or if she was sleep-talking. He was still deciding whether he should answer when she continued, “Thank you, Levi. For everything.”

“You too, Hange,” he spoke just above a whisper, as he closed her door.

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief, @padaleckimeon donated $100 and requested Dean Jr. meeting Sam and Dean in heaven. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts) 

(read on AO3)

When Dad dies, Dean takes a week off. It wasn’t sudden, or a surprise. Dad had been sick for a while, his body starting to fail him. At first Dean had been scared, and then he’d been angry. He was only twenty-four when Dad got the diagnosis and it wasn’t—fair, in some stupid but essential way. He’d barely graduated from college and, yeah, Dad was kind of old, older than a lot of his friends’ parents, but—he thought, somehow, that him dying just wasn't… applicable. Dad was just—there, always. Solid, supportive, kind of boring maybe but also stronger than anyone Dean had ever known, or would ever know, and it wasn’t right that he could just be sitting in his apartment midway through a novel and get a call and kind of sigh, because he was in a good part in the book, and then to sit up straight with his hair standing on end to hear Dad say, quiet, I'm sorry, buddy. We need to talk about something. That’s what he said, first. That he was sorry.

There were treatments, but not many. Dean had flown out and gone to a few of the appointments with the oncologist and Dad had been quiet, listening to the options. He’d researched a lot of this on his own, because Dean had done the same thing, and they’d both been nodding along during the options. Injections, radiation. Chemo. Dad had asked, polite, what the life expectancy was for each option, and Dean had watched the side of his face and not the doctor, and when the answer was given Dad had closed his eyes briefly, and then looked away from both Dean and the doctor, out the window at the snowy day, and Dean had known, then.

Dad made it past Dean’s twenty-fifth birthday. He had a party with his friends, at his girlfriend’s apartment, and they tried to keep his spirits up but it was a pretty shitty party, all told. The next day, his actual birthday, he flew back out to Dad’s house and he was in good spirits—had a mini-cake, even, with a single candle that he made Dean blow out—but he was thin, and his hair was growing back in snow-white and tender-soft, and when Dad fell asleep in front of the crappy old cowboy movie that Dean had picked just because he knew Dad for some reason liked it, Dean went out onto the porch into the nearly-springtime air and he cried, pissed at himself. Pissed at everything. Then just—unbearably sad, because he liked his current girlfriend but he didn’t think he was going to marry her, and that meant that whatever girl he did marry would be one his dad would never meet—if he had kids, they’d never know how his dad concentrated like a motherfucker on crossword puzzles and obsessed over documentaries and knew every single piece of the inside of that behemoth car in the garage and was just the smartest kindest most stubborn person. Just—the best person. They’d listen to Dean’s stories maybe but they wouldn’t know, because Dad would never meet them, and that was just—unbearable, that night. In the morning, Dad made oatmeal and Dean added a bunch of sugar because Dad’s oatmeal was inedible otherwise, and Dad smiled kind of rueful like he always did when Dean did that, and then Dad said, I’m sorry, again, kind of quiet, and Dean reached out and held his hand—thin, and the bones feeling frail—and he said don’t be sorry, Dad, and four months later, Dad was dead.

Dad was always pretty up-front with him about most everything, especially after he and Mom split up. When he was twelve, Dad explained the supernatural very carefully, telling him that he was safe but that other people might not be, and why. When he was thirteen, Dad told Dean that Hell and Heaven were both real and that there was, definitely, confirmed, a God, and maybe it wasn’t the same God that other people knew but that Dad said he was kind, in his own way. The person in charge of Hell, Dad said, was maybe less so, but she wouldn’t hurt Dean, ever. Dad said he knew that for fact, and he said it so certainly, looking Dean in the eye, that Dean believed him. When Dean turned eighteen, a few months from graduating high school, Dad took him to a tattoo parlor and said for maybe the first time in Dean’s life that something was non-negotiable, and Dean hadn’t cared because what other kid in the senior year was going to walk at graduation with a kickass demonic tattoo?

There were other things, though, that they didn’t talk about. Dad said one day a lot when Dean was little but then, when he was older and it was clear that one day would be never, he just said—I can’t, buddy. I wish I could.

After the week off, rattling around the old house, and the cremation with no service that Dad had insisted on, Dean drives out to the lawyer in Sioux Falls. She’s nice. Respectful but not cloying. The Samuel Winchester Estate that Dean is the sole beneficiary of is—a lot of money. A lot more money than he knew Dad had, or that he could have ever earned. Dad has assigned some of the money to go to charities, and to some people Dean doesn’t know—the lawyer doesn’t say who in the specific, but says they’re kids of some of Dad’s old friends. Dean didn’t know Dad had many friends, much less ones who’d get trust funds in inheritance. Aside from the stock options and the accounts and all the money left over, Dean inherits a list of assets. The house, of course. The Chevy in the garage, with the stipulation that he can never sell it. A safety deposit box, from which the lawyer has already retrieved the contents.

She leaves him alone, to go through the box. Neatly organized, like everything else in Dad’s life. File-folders of pictures, printed out all old-fashioned. Some of Dean when he was a baby. Some of when Dad and Mom were still together, leaning against each other, Dean hugged between them. Some—much older, creased and faded, stored in little plastic sleeves so they can't degrade. He recognizes a few from the framed copies Dad always had in the house. Some he hasn't seen. Most of them—almost all of them—are of his Uncle Dean, who died before he was born, and he looks especially at one that just—hits him in the gut, in this awful way where he has to sit there looking at the soothing taupe paint of the conference room wall before he can look at it again. Uncle Dean's facing the camera, sort of, although he's laughing about something and not really looking into the lens, and there's Dad, laughing too. He looks… young. Younger than Dean is now. He flips the picture over. Dad's handwriting, careful: 2006, Bobby's house. Almost fifty years ago. An entire life he didn't know. He thinks again of his imaginary future kids. These lives they have, grandfather to father to son, that overlap like a venn diagram but—not enough. Not close to enough.

*

What's a life? How to summarize, from beginning to faded end, in a way that would make sense to anyone but who it happened to?

Dad left letters, explaining, but he's gone and the context is missing. There are so many questions Dean wants to ask but he can't, of course, anymore. The first letter is attached to the key to the bunker, where he would never take Dean when he was alive, and on winter break from med school Dean flies from Boston to Kansas and rents a car and drives alone through the snowfields.

Dark, inside. He throws the big switch and the lights crackle, hum on, almost reluctant. He has no idea how it's getting power. Dust, but not as much as there could be. A library, a kitchen. Archives upon archives. Dad had explained, but what little he'd said both in life and in the letters didn't come close. It was home, he wrote, for over a decade. The only one we had with four walls, for our whole lives, although we didn't think of it that way. I didn't, at least. Dean doesn't know what that means but he looks into the bedrooms and sees… emptiness, plain bunks and old desks and funny lamps. I just picked a random room, Dad said, and as Dean's looking he really can't tell which was Dad's. Figures. Their house when Dean was growing up didn't change a bit, no matter how terrible that wallpaper was. It's only when Dean pushes open the door to room 11 that there's any personality, and he flicks the light and stands there blinking, surprised. Guns and knives on the wall. Books, piled up. Empty beer bottles crowded on the little table. Dust, but—not as much as there could be. He walks in, cautious, this feeling in his gut like he's in someone's home and they've just walked out, and could return any moment. A food bowl on the floor. A shirt flung over the chair. On the desk: more books and magazines and a folded actually-on-paper newspaper from 2024, and a job application, half filled out. Dean Winchester, it says at the top, in mostly-neat capitals, and Dean rests a hand on the back of the chair and feels… strange. He tries to picture it—the man from the pictures, Dad's brother, filling up this space. Drinking beer and reading pulp westerns and checking out—oh, weird, magazine porn. Dean shakes his head. Impossible.

In the letters, Dad said: Hunting was all we knew how to do. With everything we knew, it was our duty to use the knowledge the best way we could. I went back and forth on it. Your uncle never did, even if I know there were times he wished he—that we both—could be something else. I don't want that for you. I want you to live exactly the life you want for yourself. No expectations, okay? Not from me or anyone else.

There are printed files that go back a hundred years. More than. Paper files, but old SSDs too, with connectors Dean has to find adapters for. Dad: If you want to know what we did, it's digitized. I know I always said I'd tell you one day, but I never knew how to say it. I'm sorry for that. I always thought I'd be one hundred percent honest, if I ever got a kid, because of how we were raised. I didn't know how hard that could be. Stuff that you'd want to say, but when it came time to just open your mouth and say it there weren't any words.

Dad wrote up all the old hunts, it turned out. Simple notes about where/when/how, the kind of monster it was, the number of people who died and the people who were saved. The people they had to explain things to, who knew now about the supernatural underbelly to the universe. He noted, too, if there were injuries, and Dean reads with his hand over his mouth a long, long litany of Dean W. shot, right arm; Sam W. broken bone in hand; Dean W. concussion; Sam W. strangled. On and on. No wonder Dad didn't make a big fuss when Dean broke his leg in the fourth grade.

He sleeps in the bunker overnight, in one of the spare bedrooms that's not room 11. There's a fan on the ceiling, dusty office supplies on the desk. By lamplight he reads the letters, on his back on the stiff terrible mattress, his eyes stinging and past-midnight tired. Our lives weren't the kind of thing anyone would want, Dad wrote. I spent so long trying to get away from it because I thought 'it shouldn't be this way' – and I was right, you know? It shouldn't have been how it was. But it was that way, anyway, and in the end that was something I was okay with. We were making what difference we could. We were happy. A lot of people have it worse.

'We'. Dad hardly writes Uncle Dean's name but he's in every letter. We, we, we. Dad told Dean stories, of course, the dumb stuff they got up to when they were teenagers, or the (sanitized, Dean's sure) adventures they had as adults, but despite the pictures on the wall at home and the pictures in the deposit box and the whole life that's here, Dean can't—see it. Beer bottles on the table in the bedroom, one on either side of the tiny table. The shirt slung over the chair. We were happy, he says, but—how? Dean can't imagine it.

In the last letter Dad wrote, I think I'm writing this when I've got a month or two left. Dr. Hendricks isn't sure. I wish I had more time, to explain how it was. Who we were. I never told you the most embarrassing thing in the world, but I'm old and I'm not going to be around and not much will be able to embarrass me anymore, so screw it. (Fifty years ago I would have gotten really mad at myself for that kind of comment; more things age can fix.) There are books about us. There's a hard drive, in the bunker. It's labelled BURN THIS. (That's your uncle's handwriting.) They're true, more or less. Written by a really crappy, amateur writer, but he was a kind of prophet, and he knew everything there was to know about us, and he wrote books for about five years, based on our life and the real things we did. Some of it is exaggerated and melodramatic. A lot of it is just how it happened. You'll have to decide which is which. I don't come off too well in some of them but I hope you'll understand that the world… I don't know how to describe it. Somehow the world felt different, then. It was just us, trying our best. I hope it gives you some idea of the life we had. No matter what happened, I'm glad that life led me to you.

*

What's a life?

Dean marries. Not the girl from college but a woman, later. Red hair, blue eyes. Absolutely no sense of humor beyond puns. Hates cooking and has strong opinions on movies from the 1980s. They have three kids, a girl and then a boy and then a girl again. All dark-haired, smart. Dean gives the boy the middle name Samuel and his wife holds his hand, says it sounds great.

He's a doctor. He meets hunters. He sets bones for free and prescribes medication when needed and when it will be needed. A woman, last name Novak, calls him and says you know, your dad was one of the greats?, and he meets people—older than him by twenty, thirty years, with scars and dangerous lives and guns hidden in every corner, and he hears stories. Sam Winchester, who saved the world. Dean knows—he's read the books—but there are more years that the books didn't cover, more people who didn't die because of his dad's intervention. "They were the best," one man says, shrugging, and gets no argument, nods and shrugs from every hunter in the room, and Dean goes home that night and kisses his littlest girl where she's already tucked up in bed, and he thinks: what will she know, about who her grandfather was? Who their family is? What could she possibly know?

Dean's wife dies in her eighties. An accident. A broken hip, an infection following. Still happens, even in this new century. The kids are grown, have kids of their own, and the funeral is big, and there are people at his elbow who say to him we're so sorry and who share anecdotes of her life and who support him to his chair, even though at ninety he's perfectly capable of getting to his chair himself. He's a cranky old man, he realizes. She would've laughed at him. He thinks, inevitably, of his own father's death. Silent and unmourned, except by one. What's a life.

He writes letters, for his children. The estate is handled. He calls the oldest girl and explains to her that she's going to be the executor, and that there are things she has to keep. A key. A car. Pictures, so that her boys will know where they came from. "Of course, Dad," she says, placating a little because he's old and clearly starting to lose his grip, but she'll do it. She's a good kid. Dean learned how to raise a kid from the best.

When he dies, he's expecting it. The trip to the hospital. The monitors. He knows the pain meds even if he's retired and his doctor looks like an infant but she gives him the good stuff. It's—easy. A slipping away. He closes his eyes to sleep and there is a moment where he thinks with surprisingly clarity, this is okay, isn't it, and has the feeling of someone's hand laid on his, and then he sleeps, and doesn't wake up again.

*

He opens his eyes in an armchair, in a house that he doesn't recognize but that feels instantly familiar. Music playing, somewhere, and a gold-tinged afternoon spilling through the window, and tone-deaf singing from the kitchen. His mind feels clearer than it has in… Tears come to his eyes but it doesn't hurt. He puts his fingers to his mouth and smiles, breathing in slow, and thinks—well, this is it. Heaven.

Time is no longer time. Space is—immaterial. There's a house, not their house, but it's roomy and it has what he needs and the bed he crawls into with his wife at the end of a day is comfortable, and that's what matters, as he lays his hand on her hip where he used to lay it always, and she sighs against the pillow and squirms and tucks herself into a fetal pretzel, like she always used to. The spill of her hair red against the pillow. Her warmth, plush against his bones. She smells not of honeysuckle or vanilla but just like warm, human skin, the faint bite of salt-sweat at the nape of her neck, the must in the morning in thin bluish light when she turns over and finds him awake, and smiles. Incredible. The weight of her is real, and the spot between her breasts when he kisses her there is real, and he'd always believed in some distant way that what his dad had told him was true—that there was a heaven, that there would be some kind of justice after death—but it was distant, and academic, because of course there was a life to live and patients to care for and children to raise and a wife to bury and a death to get through. What a thing, to come to. This place, with her hair on the pillow, and her smell. He hadn't forgotten it, in the end, after all.

The house sits in some place that feels like South Dakota. Home, or close to it. A lake among trees. A distance between things. He reads, and plays games he barely remembers from being a kid, and he watches the Ghostbusters movies again because his wife insists and they are, he has to admit, still funny, but he makes fun of the weird museum guy anyway, and she kicks him where her feet are tucked in his lap, and he tickles her in retaliation, and then—well, the movie will be there, later, when they're done.

She rides her bike every day. One day she comes back and says she was just visiting her mother, and Dean sits up and says, "What?" But—of course. What's time? What's a space, between this shared slow heaven and another? She shrugs—his mother-in-law says hi—and he sits there on the couch with his game paused, watching her go into the kitchen and shake her sweaty hair back from her face, redoing it into the practical twist at her neck like she always does, and he thinks—okay. Okay, maybe now.

The bookshelf has every book he could want, and seems to know what he needs to read before he does. Raining outside, spattering gentle on the eaves, and his wife made a huge pot of tea and took it to bed upstairs and left him just a cup, and so he sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea and opens the book—Home, by Carver Edlund—and reads it, lingering, even if he's read it three times before online, his thumb brushing over the cheap too-thin pages of this physical copy. There's a poltergeist, preposterous. The psychic, odd and familiar. The brothers, united, and he reads the next-to-last chapter very slowly, lingering, as they find the box of pictures, as they get into the car together. Drive off, to meet some new dawning day.

He finishes his cup of tea. Puts on a clean shirt, combs his hair. "I'll be back," he says, to his wife, and she blinks at him from her nest of blankets with her own book and then only nods, and Dean goes downstairs and gets into his car and finds the road, beyond the garden gate, and drives.

He doesn't know where he's going but that doesn't matter. He turns on the car radio and it's playing—oldies, but really oldies, the stuff that was old when he was little. What childhood sounded like. Farms appear, melt away. Trees rising, through hills. He sings along, under his breath, remembering: a roadtrip to his grandma's house, Mom sleeping in the passenger seat and Dad driving through the night, and Dad singing very, very badly, as quiet as he could, and Dean thinking even as a kid that this was some private thing, to see, and he had to be silent and not show that he was awake or it would disappear. That feeling, it crept up on him at the oddest times, when he was an adult, and later. That sensation of the armored tank of the car moving through the dark, and the silence around them, and the quiet music inside, and Dad, in a world of his own, entirely separate from the world he shared with Dean.

Another hill. Climbing a mostly-paved road. Not raining anymore but the sun coming in slanted gold through the trees. Distance, and a curve, and then: a house. Old-looking. Older maybe than the one Dean and his wife share. In front of it, a car. The car.

Dean parks. He gets out, and the air smells washed-fresh, a little fecund. Like summer. He puts his hand on the hood of the Impala and it's sun-warm and he tears up, completely unexpected, and has to sit on the hood and hold his hands over his face, his heart—full, in a way he's felt since dying, but not in this particular way, this way of feeling that he thought had mellowed, a lifetime ago.

So much for putting on a good face. He wipes over his mouth and dashes his eyes clear. A porch, with new-carved railings. A door, painted blue. He knocks, his body feeling empty and clean and young, terribly young, and before he's quite ready the door opens, and it's—his uncle, in a purple plaid shirt and paint-spattered jeans and grey socks, frowning at him, saying, "Uh, hi?"

He looks—almost exactly like he looked in the pictures. Maybe forty, lines beside his eyes and heavy stubble on his jaw. The age he was when he died. Dean opens his mouth, can hardly dredge up what to say, and then he hears a voice say, "Dean?" and Dean and his uncle both turn their heads to see—Dad, young too, completely shocked, standing on the far side of the porch in running gear with sweat slicking his hair back from his head, and Dean drags in air and says, "Dad," and Dad grins at him, that big creased dorky-looking dad-smile that Dean only got once in a blue moon, and he steps forward and they're hugging, then, and it's—heaven. That's all he can think. Heaven, Dad's arms tight around him, his shoulders slotting in under Dad's because—Dad was so tall, and this is where Dean fit and never would fit again once Dad was gone. Here, under Dad's arm. Like being a kid again.

Dad's hand on the back of his head. A startled, shaky, deep breath in, and then hands gripping his shoulders, and being shoved reluctantly back to have Dad look down at his face, serious and worried. "How long has it been?" he says. "Are you—you didn't—?"

"I was ninety-seven," he says, and Dad's eyebrows go high and he smiles, big and glad and real, relieved. He touches Dean's face and Dean smiles back, tears rising again for no reason and for so many reasons. "I look good, don't I?"

Dad huffs a laugh. "You look great," he says, and then his eyes lift over Dean's head, and Dean has to turn around because—

What to call him? Uncle Dean. Standing there with his shoulder against the doorframe, his mouth tucked in on one side. Like from right out of one of the pictures, returning Dad's look. His eyes drop after a second to meet Dean's and Dean feels this odd jolt, in his chest. Bizarre, to see. He's real. All Dad's stories, the wall of memories, the books, and here he is, in grey socks, looking all over Dean's face like he's seeing it for the first time. "Guess you got your looks from your mom's side of the family," Uncle Dean says, finally, and Dad says, behind him, "Nice, dude," and Uncle Dean shrugs, unrepentant, but with an unexpected dimple quirking into his cheek, and holds out his hand to shake, and Dean takes it and has another shock at it, warm, callused, firm, real—while Uncle Dean says, wry, "Well, I guess some introductions are in order, huh?"

Uncle Dean and Dad share the house. It's nice, inside. Old fashioned in a way that feels comfortable, as Dean's come to expect. (He wonders, in a few hundred years—will new arrivals to heaven expect old-fashioned arcologies?) Uncle Dean brings beers from the kitchen and Dad takes his without even looking, drinking in Dean's face when Dean's doing the exact same to him. He looks so young. Younger, maybe, than he was even in the few pictures Dean has of him being a baby, held tiny in the crook of Dad's massive arm—some past time, some time Dean doesn't belong to, but Uncle Dean clearly does. Dad shakes his head after a few seconds, huffs again, rueful. "I don't even know where to start," he says.

Uncle Dean rolls his eyes, behind him, and says, "How about you ask the kid how he's doing, genius." Mean, but he squeezes Dad's shoulder too, and Dad bites his lip, looks at Dean, his head tipping. Asking.

It's awkward, but only in the way Dean would expect. To see his dad after so long—and both of them dead—and to explain��� what? A life. Being a doctor, meeting a wife. Children. Grandchildren. "Great-grandpa Sammy," Uncle Dean fake-whispers, "told you you were old." Nudging Dad, half-sitting on the arm of his chair. Looking proud enough he could burst, although Dean doesn't know exactly why.

"Are you going to make dinner or are you just here to heckle?" Dad says, looking up, exasperated, and Uncle Dean raises his hands, says, "Oh, I'm here to heckle," but he gets up, too, says, "You get tired of the inquisition, kid, we've got more drinks in the kitchen," and cuffs Dad around the back of the head before he disappears down the blue-painted hall—and music comes on, after a moment. The kind of music that was on Dean's radio as he drove. Comfort sounds that go deep into some space beyond his bones.

"He's a lot, sorry," Dad says, after a second.

"I know, I read about it," Dean says, and Dad blinks at him, mouth half-open, before he remembers.

They have dinner. Uncle Dean makes burgers, fries, a spinach salad that Dean and Dad both groan at, and he looks at them across the table with his burger in his hands and shakes his head. No salad on his plate, Dean notices. They talk but about—nothing. Uncle Dean asks if the Broncos ever won the Superbowl again and Dean tries to dredge up an answer. Dad asks what his wife did for a living. Dean wants to ask things and doesn't know how. There's time, he knows, but for now all he can do is—watch. Dad leaning back in his chair with a beer, smiling at him while Uncle Dean tells some probably well-worn story about trying to fix the Impala in a rainstorm, and Dad was pissed for some reason and so kept handing him the wrong tools. "It was too dark to actually read the grip numbers," Dad says, patient like it's the hundredth time, and Uncle Dean says back, immediately, "Who needs the numbers? You can feel the weight in your hand!" Old arguments, well-worn, in the well-worn house. The way they move around each other, washing dishes, putting plates away. The way Dad's eyes will jump across the table, half a second before Uncle Dean's even opening his mouth, a smile already waiting to be pushed back down.

When it's night he says he should get back to his wife. "I'd like to meet her," Dad says, "some day."

"Gotta see who's willing to put up with a Winchester," Uncle Dean says, eyebrows waggling.

Dad sighs but nods, too. Dean gets folded into a hug, there under the tuck of his arm, and then he hugs Uncle Dean, too, impulsive and just—wanting to, feeling like a kid. Uncle Dean startles but hugs him back right away. "You're good, kid," he says, quiet against the side of Dean's head, and Dean nods and says, "Thanks," for more than he can say other than that, right then on this particular day, and then he gets into his car and pulls away from the house and looks back to see Uncle Dean gripping Dad's shoulder again while they watch him move away—and when he's home, after a blurring drive that's long enough for him to settle himself, he comes up the stairs to where his wife's warm in bed and slides in beside her and she says, sleepy, "How was it," and he says against her hair, "Perfect," because—it was. It was perfect.

*

Dean comes alone to their house twice more, on days when he needs it and doesn't see a reason not to. He brings his wife, the third time, and Dad's extremely polite and Uncle Dean asks her about engineering and Dean enjoys it, from the couch, while she gets the same interrogation he did, and they're driving home with her at the wheel, his eyes on the passing trees, before she says, "They're an interesting couple," and it doesn't strike him, for what may be a mile of blurring distance, why that sentence wasn't quite right.

It should be a shock. It isn't. That it isn't should, itself, be a shock, but he sits with it for a few days, the easy rhythm of heaven sliding around them.

He goes to see his mother, finally. She's in a place on a lakeshore. Her first husband, kind but remote, giving them space. She presses his hands between her own and he goes through the list of answers to all her questions, smiling, feeling déjà vu, and then says, cautious, that he's been to see Dad. "Oh!" she says, and doesn't seem upset. "How is he?"

"Good," he says. They never married, his parents—Dad had told him, much later, that it just didn't occur to him to ask—and he knew they didn't resent each other, but there wasn't much closeness there. He didn't realize how little until he was married himself. Still, he's cautious as he says: "He and my uncle have a place. Uncle Dean, you know?"

Mom sits back in her chair. "Well, then," she says, soft. She's youngish, too. Fifty maybe, her hair shot with grey. "That sounds about right."

He doesn't know how to ask but there's no way to do it other than just—to ask. "What do you know about him?"

Mom smiles, slow, and looks out at the lake. "Honey, your dad's a good man, but I think you know as well as I do that he doesn't give a lot away." Dean follows her look. A boat, far out on the water. Not close enough to hail. "He didn't talk about his brother, much. That said more than I think he knew it did. All those pictures. Well, you remember." She shakes her head, looking down at her lap. "I resented him for a while. A dead man. Silly of me. But then I suppose your dad could have resented Luke, if he'd—cared more. Sorry. That sounds like I'm angry, but I'm not. There just wasn't much left in Sam, that's all. He loved you and he loved someone that wasn't here anymore and there just wasn't room for me, or at least not room for what I needed. I wished I could've known him. Dean, I mean. I would've understood your dad a lot more, I think, but then—I don't think I would've ever met him, if Dean were around."

When he gets home he pulls a book off the shelf. Frail, the spine cracked badly. Supernatural, the first book in the whole series. When Dad was at college and the whole thing started. He sits on the floor by the bookshelf and lets the cup of tea his wife brings go cold on the rug, and reads again and again the scene—coming down the stairwell, finding the car in the garage, going through the details of the voice on the tape, on where their dad (Dean's grandfather) could possibly be, and Dad says there's this interview he can't skip. His whole future, on a plate. In the story, it's Dad's point of view, and he looks at Uncle Dean and Uncle Dean smirks, and Dad thinks, This is exactly what I was getting away from. Dean drags his thumb over the page, looks at the shelf. All those books. All the years in them, and the horrors in those. Hell, and apocalypse, and none of it euphemisms or easy metaphor. All the things Dad wanted to get away from—and then all the years, after, where he stayed exactly where he was. And then—a lifetime later—to come back home to a house, with a blue door, and his eyes not bothering to follow his brother as he leaves a room, because he knows without doubt that he'll be back.

In bed, he asks his wife, "When do you think the kids will get here?" and she turns over and stares at him, and says, "Hopefully not for years?"

He shakes his head, folds his arm under his head. "Duh," he says, and gets her to punch his chest lightly. "Ow. I meant… I don't know. What do you think their lives will be? Like… who will they be? I can't even imagine."

She stops trying to lightly beat him and goes thoughtful. Her thumb finds the little scar on her chin and rubs it, as is her habit, and her eyes slip over his shoulder to the distance. "They'll be—them." He raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs, rolling closer. "I mean, what do you want from me? I knew Abbie for fifty-one years and I still think that girl's a mystery. When she's… probably a grandmother herself, now, I guess. Is she still at Notre Dame? Are she and Andre happy? Are the boys healthy and do they like each other, and did she ever get Jacob to stop drawing cartoon dicks on the walls?" Dean laughs—god, he'd forgotten that—and she smiles at him, props her head on one fist. Says, softer, "Did she live the life she wanted to have? I don't know. I guess when she gets here we can ask her, but we'll never…"

No, they'll never. Dean touches the scar on her chin and she focuses on him, instead of some other world they're no longer privy to. "It's a venn diagram," he says, after a moment. "All of us. Abbie, overlapping with you and me, and then us overlapping with our parents, and on and on, all the way back. I guess we don't get to know what's outside the center parts."

"Even if there's a hundred and four crappily-written books about the other parts," she says, raising her eyebrows, and Dean shrugs, caught. She grins, shaking her head at him, and then squirms in close, tucking in under his chin. Kisses his throat, sighs. "Why not stop at a hundred? Seems random."

"I don't know, maybe the publisher wanted him to stretch it out," Dean says, and she hums, and puts her nose on his collarbone to settle in. He smooths her hair back, away from her shoulder. His favorite book is Swan Song, probably. The final one, as far as most people knew. His dad, the hero, saving humanity and the world, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the army man, stuck in the door. His dad, looking at that, and meeting his brother's eye, and that being—enough. Just that, and all the life it represented. Enough.

"Venn diagrams," he says, aloud, quietly.

"Yes, you're very brilliant, Dr. Winchester," his wife says, mumbling. "Now go to sleep."

He kisses her hair, and does.

[chocosvt]

⚬ pairing: joshua x reader ⚬ word count: 5040 ⚬ warnings: mentions of alcohol ⚬ genres: FLUFF, shallow angst, guitarist/bandmate!joshua, some annoying neighbour tropes, a little bit of pining, wintery pizzazz, joshua is a hopeless romantic :( 

✧✎ synopsis: somebody new just moved into the upstairs apartment. they’re loud, irritatingly sweet, and unfortunately, very pretty. but you’re not looking for a new relationship, even if it comes in the form of joshua hong. 

✧✎ a/n: oooUUooouu YES! this is a gift to my lovely secret santa, @luvshuas !! ♡ in my first ask, i learned that dani liked using paint by numbers, AND I THOUGHT THAT WAS ADORABLE so i helped use it to create this fic! dani, you are such a joy to talk to AND I HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS XOXOXO !! :D

Last week, someone new had moved into the empty apartment one floor above yours. You didn’t know who. Not their name, not their face, just that they occupied the once vacant space of room 24D. Supposedly, their next-door neighbours had already brought them some housewarming gifts. A watering can filled with flowers, a wreath of white candles, and an old sewing tin now converted into a container for oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.

All closely resembling the gifts you received during your first week at the apartment complex. It made sense though, considering most rooms were home to very elderly couples. At first, you planned a brief gap in your day to visit this stranger and welcome them to such a small complex. Find out if they were old or young, endearing or irritable, sensible or flat out crazy. But you never visited room 24D, because you were currently in a moat about your ex-partner.

An extremely deep, inescapable moat.

Not only had they broken up with you on the day you planned to introduce them to your parents, they decided it would be most efficient to do so through a stupid text message. From Monday to Friday, you’d been moping in a curled-up ball on the couch, blowing into tissues and flicking through the holiday romcoms even though they were all so cookie-cutter and dull. To make matters worse, it had been snowing all week, shutting you indoors as a draft built up outside the windowsills.

You had completely forgot about the newbie who’d just moved in upstairs. Until one day, when they decided to make their presence known in the most jarring way possible.

That particular morning, you were finally feeling stable enough to not eat dry, stale cereal straight from the box. You were feeling well enough to avoid another twelve hours moulding into the couch. While a cold wind blew against the windows and rattled the glass, you poured yourself some tea with the new teapot your mother parceled as an early present. And that’s when you heard it: an eruption of electric sound from the floor directly above yours. It sounded like a guitar, if that guitar were plugged into a massive amp and its chords were being plucked by one thousand fingers.

Coincidentally, you spilt tea, scalding and runny, all over the countertop. It started dribbling down your cupboards and creating blotches on the tiled flooring. At random, the sound stopped.

By lunchtime you were unwinding in the shower, your eyes shut as the water poured onto your face and streamed toward the drain. When you squeezed out some shampoo onto your fingers, you heard the chord progression again. This time louder, if that was even possible. The bottle flung from your wet hands and crashed against the floor, startling you half to death, a trail of wasted shampoo then painted to the wall. But the sound didn’t stop immediately. Unlike last time, the stranger railed on their guitar for half an hour at least.

Yet the last straw didn’t come until evening.

Sitting at the kitchen table with a water jar next to your elbow, you were using your new paint by numbers kit. You had been waiting all day to try it, brushing in the mesmerizing colours of a watery-purple landscape. For the last time that day, you were jolted by the riff of an electric guitar, causing you to jerk a huge, thick streak of black paint right across the paper, effectively ruining it. How horrible. How Terrible.

And you were not going to let the incident slide.

Room 24D. 

The room directly above yours. After banging your fist rather inhospitably against the door, you couldn’t lie that the face which greeted you was a definite shock. A young man probably in his early twenties, with curly, brown hair styled neatly yet in disarray, and these wide, glass-like eyes that felt so penetrating you were afraid to glare him down. In fact, you were a bit nervous.

“I don’t know where you stayed at last, b-but at this complex, people don’t usually slam on their electric guitars.”

But so what if you were nervous? You had grown accustomed to sharing this complex with seniors. The thought of someone this young (and admittedly – quite beautiful) had somewhat stunted your brain. The stranger looked at you as though he had nothing to say. He started bobbing his head and shrugged.

“Yeah, well, I’m guessing it doesn’t happen ‘cause everyone here is over seventy and crochets scarves until bedtime. It’s not my fault you’re the only one who’s still got decent hearing.”

Your eyes narrowed; your brow heavily creased.

“What’s your name?” You asked.

 He hesitated at first, then replied, “Joshua.”

“Okay, Joshua, I’d rather have everyone in this building crocheting scarves out the damn window if it meant not listening to a stupid electric guitar all day. You ruined my paint by numbers kit.”

Joshua laughed. “Your what?” He then flashed a grin which suggested he was holding back a satirical comment.

“My paint by numbers kit!” You repeated, feeling your nervousness dissolve into irritation. “It’s ruined, and I’m blaming it on you because it’s your fault. My whole week has been awful and you just made it even worse. So there. I hope you’re happy.”

For some reason, Joshua leaned his shoulder against the doorframe like someone who had all the time in the world. He appeared way too comfortable. Something about it irked you while simultaneously pulling this weird, fuzzy string in your chest. The boy folded his arms and raised a curious eyebrow.

“Why was your week awful?” He questioned.

There was a sweetness to his voice which hadn’t been there before, and you absolutely weren’t going to fall for it, even if it sounded like he ate a spoonful of honey and might taste just as good.

“No. Forget it,” you sighed, waving a dismissive hand, “I said what I had to say. Just be quieter, please.”

You turned around sharply, making your way toward the elevator based at the end of the corridor. Those magnetic eyes of his seemed to be glued to your backside, an almost palpable feeling.

“Okay!” He called out. “Great chat! Nice to meet you too!”

The boy was being wholly sarcastic of course. After returning to your apartment, you cleaned up the kitchen table, sweeping away your paint by numbers kit into a drawer just in case you were one day struck with the motivation to fix it up. Probably not.

“Uh—excuse me? You called me, remember? So don’t go shifting the fault like always. I just can’t believe how immature you are! And, you know what, I’m hanging up now! Don’t call back!”

Smashing your finger against the phone screen, you ended the call, silencing the aggravated voice that had pounded through the line just a second before. An unfortunate misdial resulted in your ex phoning you at the supermarket. The interaction immediately turned south, prompting you to hurry outside into the snow, wedging the brown paper bag of produce underneath your arm and against your chest, all while you barked into the phone with the other hand.

Snowflakes were brimming the edge of your wool hat; your fingertips numb and stiff. Your pacing, impatient footsteps were stamped across the white ground. Things had been difficult enough without your ex invading even the most boring parts of your life, and now a mundane stop at the market had left you intensely unsettled.

As you huffed a web of your breath into the air, you spotted something unexpected: Joshua helping Mrs. Akané load the groceries into her small silver-bullet car. She lived alone on the bottom floor of the apartment complex, one of the kindest old ladies in the whole building. Every winter she had knitted you a pink pair of mittens. When Joshua opened the car door for her, she gave him a gentle pat on his shoulder and her patented rosy-cheeked smile.

Since you scorned him for his abrasive guitar playing, it only happened less often, though it was never any quieter. You realized that he belonged in a band. From time to time they would take the stage at the downtown bar, engendering a space so packed it was nearly impossible to wriggle to the counter for a quick drink. Joshua invited you to his Friday night gig – which was tonight – and while you had contemplated the decision to attend, the disheartening encounter with your ex had officially soiled the mood.

Joshua noticed you, probably looking cold and mad.

“So,” he began, “are you coming tonight?”

Adjusting the groceries underneath your arm, you shrugged, meanwhile the hollow nature of your eyes screamed a blatant no. If anything, you wanted to be back on that living room couch, eating an entire tray of frosted shortbread cookies and dabbing at your tears.

“Seriously?” Joshua frowned. “You’re gonna pass? It is ‘cause you’re still mad about the guitar playing? I’m sorry, okay.”

“No,” you shook your head, “no, no. It’s not because of your disruptive, loud guitar playing. I’m just not having a good day.”

Bits of snow began to powder Joshua’s brown hair. His cheeks were blushed and his nose rosy.

“No offense,” the boy laughed, “but it seems like you’re never having a good day.” He then shook his head, scattering the snowflakes from between the fibres of his hair. “How about you come to our little concert shindig thing, listen to our set – which is great, I promise – then we can talk about it, back at my place.”

For a moment, you paused, and this perplexed expression briefly eclipsed your features. Did he just subtly attempt to persuade you into some sort of… Date? No, it was too soon for anything like that. He was probably joking anyways (despite his straight face).

“I don’t know… I’m tired. Maybe another time.”

You started carrying the brown bag of produce to your car, parked just down the street. Joshua chuckled and tagged along at your side, the snow crunching softly under your feet.

“When’s another time?” He asked.

Throwing open the car door and sliding the bag inside, you sighed. “Another time is another time. It’s self-explanatory.”

“So you’re not coming?” Joshua questioned in finality.

“No.” You replied, rubbing your cold fingers together, attempting to spark some warmth. “I’m not.”

It was then that Joshua took your hands in his, a gesture that completely flicked you off your axis, and started to squeeze them, kneading your skin with his thumbs until you felt the uncomfortable stiffness gradually wear off. He brought your hands close to his face, pursed his pink, very pretty lips, and started to blow on them. A sensation fizzled to life in your lower tummy. Not only were you heating up significantly, but you felt too hot. Scary hot.

“That’s a shame.” Joshua said, releasing your hands carefully, like he’d just touched gold. “But I can wait for another time.”

You couldn’t sleep that night.

Most likely because you were regretting the decision to not attend Joshua’s gig at the bar. The fact that no matter how hard you pushed, memories of your past relationship would still linger like a heavy mist, preventing you from being happy, from detaching, from forming new connections. Wet drops of snow tapped against your window. And then, at around one in the morning, you heard a knock at your apartment door.

Joshua. Evidently intoxicated. His guitar case slung over his back. A foggy sort of look disrupting his usual countenance.

“Hey there,” he mumbled, rubbing at his eye, “couldn’t get into my room. Think I could crash—” the boy stopped midsentence to yawn and hiccup, his face flushed pink, “crash here?”

“Did you walk home from the bar?” You asked, disregarding his inquiry. 

“No, Jihoon drove me.” Joshua answered, bracing his hand against the threshold. “Pretty please? Can I stay?”

“Fine.”

You took the dark green guitar case from Joshua’s back, stamped with numerous luggage stickers that made it seem as though he’d flown all over the globe. After settling the case beside the couch, you helped Joshua lie down, though he flopped rather ungracefully with his face squished into a pillow.

For an awkward moment, you were just standing there, twiddling your thumbs as Joshua squirmed onto his back.

“Do you want a glass of water?” You proposed.

Joshua carded a hand through his brown locks and further dishevelled them. His face seemed to glow and the manner in which his eyes softly shut had you feeling oddly sympathetic. Like you needed to take care of him.

Rather than answering your question, Joshua sighed.

“I can’t believe you flaked on me.” He said. “I looked forward to seeing you there all week. I told my friends about you.”

Your toes dug into the carpet; teeth fastened into your bottom lip. You couldn’t tell if he was rambling drunken nonsense or being wholly truthful. Joshua titled his head to the side, nestling his cheek comfortably against the pillow.

“Like I said, there’ll be another time.”

“Can I have a blanket?” He mumbled sleepily.

Disappearing into your bedroom for a moment, you grabbed Joshua a spare blanket which often lied next to you on the bed, just in case it got a little too cold at night. Your heating was fairly shabby.

“Here you go.” You said, dropping it on him.

After pulling the fabric up to his chin and spending a minute getting comfy, Joshua started smiling, lashes long against his cheeks.

“Appreciate it.” He replied. ”Kick me out early if you want.”

When Joshua scheduled his next gig at the bar, you made sure to be there, settled near the back at the cocktail counter. As you anticipated, the space filled up quickly, and you kept tucking in your legs whenever someone scooted by to use the washroom or find a better vantage point. You didn’t mention that you were coming. It was supposed to be a surprise which had oddly excited you. Like you were someone important to him, even though you probably weren’t.

You enjoyed his band’s performance. While sipping at something syrupy and a little too cherry flavoured, you couldn’t help but smile behind the glass, shake your foot even, as Joshua strummed down on the electric guitar. There was a pink-haired drummer seated behind him, and a bassist with a dashing, heavenly smile. Eventually, the tone of their music shifted near the end of the set. Joshua exchanged his electric guitar for the acoustic one kept in that dark green, stickered case. And when he started to sing a slower, more sentimental song, you felt something cotton-like in your chest.

How could his voice be this soft? How could it turn so sweet? How could his eyes switch from a powerful ripple to calm water? And why were you heating up all over? The glass hit your knee as you continued to watch Joshua sing, as though you’d fallen into a trance, like a sailor caught by the lullaby of a siren.

But then, as your eyes scanned the crowd for a brief moment, they attached to some who looked awfully familiar.

Goddammit. Of course.

Why did your stupid ex have to be everywhere? 

Why did they have to invade every aspect of your life? Especially the enjoyable parts? Once the stage ended and Joshua began thanking the crowd for an energetic reaction, they turned around and grabbed their friend excitedly. Yet, the thrill on their face disappeared the second they noticed you, glaring bitterly, angrily, still clearly hurt. That’s when you decided to leave.

You were halfway down the block when you heard your name being shouted. Pausing beneath a street lamp, you attempted to peer through the heavy flurries sweeping down from the night sky. A silhouette began to take shape. Joshua finally pressed through into the light, without his jacket, his equipment, or even a damn sweater.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” You questioned him, wondering how cold he must be feeling in that white t-shirt.

Joshua took a few more steps forward. “I saw you there,” he replied, still trying to catch his breath, “but then you just stormed out. I nearly threw myself down the back entrance trying to catch up with you, y’know. How do you walk that damn fast?”

“I just—I wanted to beat the crowd home.” You lied.

Joshua took in another big breath, then nodded his head. “So, what did you think? You like the music?”

“It’s cool… Why did you leave without a jacket? I mean, it’s snowing like crazy. You’re gonna get hypothermia or something.”

“Well, I didn’t want to let you get away.” The boy laughed, brushing off some flurries compiling on his shoulder. “It was great to see you there. But, why didn’t you tell me? Why the secrecy.”

You shrugged. “Why should I tell you?”

At that, you weren’t expecting Joshua to have a response. Maybe he’d be a little puzzled and have to think about it. Instead, he seemed to be formulating a surprise of his own.

“Because I have a song for you,” Joshua revealed, “I wrote it with Jihoon. It’s an acoustic thing. But I could turn it hard rock too.”

It felt like someone had turned the table. Ironically, you were the one struggling to reply, your brow furrowing in the dim light as you stared at this boy with his glowing cheeks and his hair disrupted by the flakes of snow. You sniffled, cold air hitting your lungs.

“Why would you write a song about me?”

No one had ever done such a gesture for you before. Not that you had been acquainted with many musicians or lyricists. You felt strange, but also warm, and heart-fluttery, and like you were possibly falling for someone harder than ever before. Joshua approached you tentatively and grabbed your hand, his eyes soft.

“Probably because I like you.” Joshua murmured. “A lot.”

Your heart started to pound, and it felt like someone was banging their fists against your chest. Even if you had denied it in the beginning, the truth was that you liked Joshua too. And yet, those reciprocating words somehow fell to the bottom of your feet. Because as much as you wanted it, you still weren’t ready for someone new.

“Joshua…” you squeezed his hand and looked into those endearing eyes of his, “I-I can’t right now. I was in a relationship not too long ago, and now that’s over, but I’m still trying to get over it. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

The boy shook his head. “You don’t have to be sorry.” Joshua answered, running his thumb between your knuckles. “You’re not ready, I get it.”

Breathing out slowly, you smiled at him. 

You were yanking open all the drawers in the kitchen, trying to remember where exactly you had stuck that little metal whisk. A bowl of unmixed cupcake batter was waiting to be stirred. Each year that it was open, you signed up for the Complex Gift Exchange, and it just so happened that sixty-five-year-old Miss Dupont really liked vanilla cupcakes. You pulled out the drawer that had been hiding the ruined, stained paper courtesy of your paint by numbers kit.

Rolling your eyes, you slammed it shut, only to realize you’d left the whisk sitting behind the big bag of flour on the counter.

Even though you had turned down Joshua that one night in the snow, he didn’t act spiteful or weird about it. And somehow, you two had grown closer since. Joshua was very easy to talk to. He was a good listener. No matter how many times you ran into each other on the elevator, or at the supermarket, the letter boxes in the lobby or at the car lot, Joshua always made time to listen to whatever mishap had bothered you that day. He still railed on his electric guitar every now and then, though you were beginning to accept it. Baby steps.

Apparently, one of his bandmates was visiting today. 

You knew exactly when he’d arrived too, because as soon as you pulled the cupcakes out from the oven to cool, this wave of intense sound; drumming, symbols, guitar, everything, exploded from the floor above, like someone had just thrown a clump of instruments into a hurricane. You stared up at the ceiling winsomely and sighed.

Dressed in a long, thick winter coat, you went outside the complex to visit the garden, now blanketed by snow and sparkling white. You brushed off the bench that had once sat before a fiery pink row of petunias and took a seat. It was much quieter.

“Hey!”

Or so you thought.

Turning around, you gazed up at the apartment complex, spotting two familiar faces hanging out from a fourth story window.

“What?!” You shouted back.

Joshua grinned, then cupped his hands around his mouth as an amplifier. “Were we being too loud?!” He asked.

“Yeah!” His friend yelled. “Were we too loud?!” You had learned the other face was Jihoon, the band drummer, his hair now a rusty shade of crimson. He helped write most of their music.

“No, I’m just sitting out here in the wind and snow and below zero temperatures because I want to!” You replied at the top of your lungs.

Waving at you apologetically, Joshua kept smiling. “Sorry! I’m gonna kick him out soon!” He pointed at Jihoon. “If you want, you can come up here and listen to our last rehearsal!”

Jihoon shoved Joshua’s head out of the way.

“Don’t come up here!” The drummer exclaimed. “It’s not even close to ready yet. He’s just saying that because he’s in—”

A hand clamped swiftly to the boy’s mouth, muffling the remainder of his sentence like it was top secret. Joshua then dragged him away from the open window. Quirking an eyebrow in confusion, you stared at the vacant space until Joshua reappeared a moment later, scratching the back of his head and looking sheepish.

“Sorry about that!” Joshua called. “We’re almost done!”

“I’m in no rush!” You answered, turning back around.

It was true. There weren’t too many pressing things you needed to get done today, besides making the buttercream frosting for Miss Dupont’s cupcakes. The weather wasn’t even as terrible as you made it seem. The wind was light, and the shining sun helped mitigate the usual bitterness of winter. It was quite nice out.

Until about ten minutes later, when Joshua threw a snowball at your back. You spun around quickly, glaring at the boy who was dusting his hands clean of snow, standing near the complex doorway. In that moment, you wanted to be angry at him. But, to be honest, you felt like laughing instead.

“Shouldn’t I be the one throwing snowballs at you?”

Joshua shrugged. “If you could even hit me.”

“Keep your eyes open tonight, Joshua Hong.” You comically threatened him. “Where are you going, anyways?”

“I have to get my person a gift for the exchange thing.” He said, pulling a hat over his hair. “And a new guitar pick.”

“Have fun with that.”

Then, waiting for him to turn around, you hastily packed together a snowball and threw it against the back of his coat.

Miss Dupont somehow figured out who was responsible for her gift. She asked you to give her the cupcakes early, because she swore, she was had been able to smell them baking through the air ducts. Maybe you added too much vanilla. Everyone was supposed to exchange their gifts tomorrow, leaving them by the door or delivering them in person. You didn’t have a clue as to who could be preparing your gift. As long as it wasn’t another candle wreath to collect dust in your closet, you figured you’d be fine with it.

Tonight would be your last opportunity in a long while to watch Joshua’s band perform at the downtown bar. You’d missed their last show, ruminating over the possibility of encountering your ex again; feeling those horrible emotions which were nothing more than poison in disguise. After the New Year, Joshua was planning to visit South Korea with his bandmates for a few weeks. It would be awfully strange to not hear another symphony from his electric guitar, or Jihoon’s drumkit. Jeonghan never really stopped by much.

It was at least an hour or so before Joshua was scheduled to perform. So, you decided to walk down the street to the lane of trees now wrapped and curled with lights. There were small, twinkling white lights. Large, blue lights shaped like hanging icicles. Some blinked in a specific pattern while others morphed colours. At night, it made quite the spectacle. Many people had stopped, much like yourself, to admire the aurora and pull their significant other a little bit closer. You huffed, hating this lonesomeness inside you.

But then you felt a quick pair of fingers dance up your back, and immediately recognized his eyes shining like stars.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you at the lights.” Joshua remarked, zipping up his jacket. “They’ve been up for a while now.”

“It’s always a magnet for couples.” You told him, glancing around at all the handholding and heads leaned adoringly on shoulders. “And I am—well, I was, standing here alone.” Inside your coat pocket, you played with a piece of lint, realizing that perhaps you finally felt ready and significantly healed to consider another relationship.

Looking at you from the corner of his eye, Joshua nodded.

It seemed as though the lights were a place he visited frequently, even amongst all the couples. To you, Joshua seemed like someone who was inspired by love. The not so subtle nature of awkward yet enamored eye contact which made people giggly. Holding onto the very tips of someone’s fingers because you couldn’t let go of their hand even for a second. Pressing an ear to a comfortable chest, listening for a rhythmic, thumping heartbeat. You bet he liked kisses too. Quick kisses on cheeks and gentle kisses on noses and slow, warm kisses to the mouth which could set a fire in your belly.

Out of the blue, you asked him something personal.

“How fast do you usually fall for someone?”

Joshua’s eyes traced the twinkling lights of the tree, all the way to the very top.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I’ve never thought about it.”

Kicking at a lump of hard snow, you sighed. “I think I fall too quickly. Maybe that’s why my last relationship ended the way it did. I just… I don’t know, it could be that I jumped in without knowing what’s beneath me. I don’t want that to happen again.”

The boy glanced at you, snowflakes already beginning to stick in his hair. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with taking things slow. I mean, there’s always going to be some chance in a relationship. You don’t know until you’re in it.”

“I guess so.” You replied. “When I think about it, anything’s better than getting text message-dumped right before a family dinner.” Joshua wasn’t a stranger to the humiliating affairs of your past relationship. One night, after one too many beverages at the bar, you introduced him to the entire story.

“Bad luck.” The boy said.

“Bad taste, more like.” You sighed. “I mean, what was I thinking?”

Joshua shook his head, his hand rubbing your shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up. Seriously, the right person will come along.”

Short laughter burst through your nose, and you looked at him with a knowing, lighthearted grin. “Are you supposed to be that person, Joshua Hong?”

“I’d like to think I am.” He chuckled, his cheeks getting rosier. “But I know you’re not ready. I can be patient, though.”

“So, you’re going to wait for me?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.

Joshua nodded. “For you, and you only? Of course.”

At that, something deep in your chest began to stir. The feeling robbed you of your words and left you breathless. Afraid of what you might do in the silence between you, quickly, you changed the subject.

“Am I going to hear that special song you wrote? Or have you scrapped it already?”

“You’ll hear it.” Joshua said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an ivory guitar pick. “Save your applause for the very end, though. I know you might be tempted to start cheering, come up on stage in front of everyone and try to kiss me or something.”

Rolling your eyes, you started to laugh, your breath becoming a thin cloud in the still coldness of winter.

“You wish, Joshua Hong.”

He sighed, a faint smirk on his lips. “You’re right. I do.”

At approximately five o’clock in the morning, you were awakened by a fist banging at your front door. For a moment, you believed it was nothing more than part of a fuzzy dream, and simply tossed over in bed as your arms dug further under the pillow. However, the banging resumed almost instantly, and though it was very muffled, someone was calling your name.

Groaning, you dragged yourself from between the sheets and into the washroom, taking a quick sip of water before splashing some to your face. In a loose pair of shorts and a poorly adjusted tank-top, you stumbled to the front door, throwing it open while yawning.

“J-Joshua?” You mumbled, rubbing circles to your eye.

He stood on the opposite side of the threshold with a glimmery-red gift bag in his hand. For some reason, he was dressed in his jacket, those dark brown locks of his seeming damp or partly soaking as they were brushed back from his forehead. His cheeks and mouth were rosy, eyes glistering, and he was breathing deep.

You thought he looked gorgeous.

“Hey!” He exclaimed a little too loudly, as though he’d forgotten how early it was. “So, uh, weird news. Turns out we’re leaving for South Korea today, and we have to catch this seven-am flight. We’re kinda pressed for time. Jeonghan’s been helping me throw all my shit into these suitcases and—anyways, besides the point.” Taking in another breath, Joshua then held up the pretty red gift bag. “I got you for the Gift Exchange. Well—not really. But I made Mrs. Akané switch with me. This is for you.”

The sudden splurge of information had for feeling even more disorientated than when you first awakened. Joshua had to leave already? Had he been packing ever since you walked home together from his show? He pulled strings to get you for the Gift Exchange?

Reaching into the bag and pushing around some tissue paper, you pulled out a rectangular-shaped kit. It felt fairly heavy.

And then you realized just what he’d gotten you.

“Really?” You smiled, letting the bag drop to the floor because all you cared about was the project in your hands. “Another paint by numbers kit? I didn’t even know they sold these here!”

Joshua nodded, brushing some melted drops of snow off his cheek. “It wouldn’t have arrived on time if I ordered it online. Trust me, it was a process. I had to get Jeonghan’s grandma to make some calls because she’s friends with this craft store lady.” He half-sighed, half-laughed. “I just remembered you were so upset about it when I met you. About a lot of things. And I never stopped feeling sorry. I know I laughed at it and everything, but I thought it was cute.”

You brought the project to sit on the dinner table. Looking outside into the street light, you were shocked at how heavily it was snowing. Huge, fluffy clumps. No wonder Joshua’s hair was so damp and his skin so flushed. You couldn’t believe that just a few hours ago, you were sitting on that barstool near the back of the dim room, listening to him sing and feeling like you were starting to love all over again. Now, Joshua was being whisked away.

“I should really get going.” Joshua said, rubbing his pink nose, “Jeonghan and Jihoon are waiting for me down there.”

“W-Wait!” You exclaimed before the boy could disappear.

Joshua paused, though you could read the look of urgence coloured to his face. It was merely a few seconds you stood in that spot, fiddling anxiously with your fingers and struggling to take another step, yet it felt as though time had stretched itself out like plasticine. 

And even though it was slightly terrifying, you had never felt so warm and full of thrill until you had crossed the space to kiss him. Your hands pushed against Joshua’s chest, searching for stability, as you experienced the soft sensation of your lips pressed so desperately to his. Joshua grabbed your cheek in his cold hand to tilt your head a little more left. He stared at you with a hazy, sort of dreamlike look, just for a moment, before kissing you again.

“Am I making you late?” You laughed breathily in between the heated breadth of another kiss.

Joshua shook his head, taking your face in both his hands, moulding his mouth against yours in a smile.

“They can wait just a minute longer,” he answered, “I can’t believe you’re doing this right when I have to leave. You’re really screwing me over, here.”

“Then finish it when you get back.” You smirked.

This time, you were certain of something: you hadn’t jumped too soon. You weren’t going to crash. You were falling in love.

✧✎ a/n: the end the end!! happy holidays !! <3 honestly think it’s kind of the dream to get joshua as ur apartment neighbour xoxo. HOPE U LIKED THIS DANI AND THAT IT GAVE YOU SOME SMILES heheh. i actually haven’t written for joshua in quite a while so i rly appreciated getting to experiment with this. i also love the idea of joshua in a band and being a sappy romantic who always writes abt his future muse ;_; i’m not a huge fluff person BUT I WILL GLADLY GIVE UP EVERYTHING FOR THAT! 

[a-simple-imagine]

sugary sweet

requested by anonymous:  “could u pls write a story abt spending ur birthday with vanessa?”

pairing: Vanessa (in the heights) x fem!reader

words: 1.4k+

A/N - this is not as fluffy as you probably expected. I just never write happy stories that involve birthdays, it’s cute at the end though

the bright, early morning sun peeked through the blinds as you slowly open your eyes to find the space beside you vacant. evidence of your girlfriend was there but she was nowhere to be found. the apartment felt eerily quiet. had she already left for work? what time was it? normally she'd at least say goodbye first. what a way to start the day. the rattle of the elevated train shakes throughout the apartment as it zooms past the window. you let out a heavy sigh. today was gonna be a very long day.

"happy birthday!" an excited voice as the bed dips suddenly bouncing you against the mattress. Vanessa wears a bright smile and in her hand was a ceramic white bowl.

"thank you," With both hands against the bed, you push yourself upright. full of fresh berries, Vanessa offers up the bowl but not without stealing one or two first.

"I gotta get to work but you can sleep more if you want," odd offer. you rarely spent time here without her. it was her apartment so you didn't really have a reason to plus that train can be awful annoying sometimes... most of the time. "do whatever but if you plan on goin home just come by the salon with the key, yeah?" a gentle kiss bestowed upon your forehead. a simple nod to confirm you understood the instructions and Vanessa was rushing out the bedroom, only to reappear a mere moment later. "you gonna be alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Unspoken words hang in the air as Vanessa keeps her eyes trained in on you; her feelings left unclear by her quick shrug before rushing out the door. you hear the door click this time. your smile fades into the silence, glancing down at the fruit. picking up a berry, you toss it into your mouth then place it off to the side. a heavy feeling twists at your stomach and pulls at your tear ducts. it was a complicated feeling. you didn't exactly have a reason for it but seeing your birthday as a day of celebration was also difficult. every year felt like it came with a personal checklist of life achievements. career milestones. marriage. babies. fitness goals. buying property. it was like a reminder that you were so far behind other people your age but then again, you weren't even sure what you wanted in life. following such a linear path seemed so trivial in the grand scheme of things. there was no guarantee of happiness or fulfilment but rather they were just the milestones of life everyone was expected to want. all you had was a dead-end job and your developing relationship with Vanessa. She made you happy, you weren't denying that. but did your whole life just equate to settling down with her? dark clouds hung low in your mind. how to spend this oh so special occasion? you could go out? you didn't have a lot of friends so it wasn't like you weren't used to doing things alone. today, however, the thought of doing anything just seemed... pathetic. like a strong reminder of how isolated you truly were. in the end, you decide against going out. decide against going home. you would merely entertain yourself until Vanessa returns. it was strange being in her apartment without her. you focus on her atrociously messy desk. paper, pens, cutouts scattered everywhere. getting out of bed, you take a closer look at the designs pinned to the wall. it was rather selfish but often your cloud of insecurity blinds you from the thought of Vanessa's dreams. you pull one of the designs down. simply but elegant and coloured in a metallic silvery-blue it looked like an evening gown. you had discussed her desperation and desire to leave Washington heights. you knew all too well that she wanted to be a fashion designer and there was nothing you wanted for her more than for her to achieve her dreams. but where do you fit into all of that?

The sun is long gone by the time Vanessa finally arrives home. "you decided to stick around then."

"guess so," you shrug, glancing towards her. she drops a plastic bag or two on the kitchen counter. "I can leave if you want?"

"no- no, I'm glad you're still here," Vanessa quickly responds, breezing right past you towards the bedroom. "so... what did you do today?"

"nothing,"

"for real?" she calls out. "you didn't do anything for your birthday?"

"didn't feel up to it,"

"I knew I shouldn't have left you here alone," was that sympathy or pity in her voice? they sounded similar.

"it's fine,"

"no, it's not," your girlfriend huffs. "I feel bad,"

"don't need the pity, nessa." Vanessa reappears from the bedroom dressed in nothing but a long t-shirt. "isn't that mine?"

"probably," a quick shrug as she looks over herself, "I just... you could have come to the salon or something."

"it's not a big deal," you insist. "it's all good."

"you should care more," she replies, "and we're gonna finish it off right,"

"what does that even mean?" your brows furrow, eyes following the other woman to the kitchen area. "have you eaten?"

"Nah- thought I'd wait for you," truth be told you just didn't feel like cooking but a little white lie never hurt anyone. plus it sounded sweeter to think you waited just so you could eat together.

"Great," the woman spins on her heel and from her hand dangles a white plastic bag that explained the tantalising aroma that had enveloped the apartment. "because I brought take out."

"What kind?"

"Chinese," Proud words accompanied by a knowing smirk. "your favourite."

"you know me well," jumping up, you join Vanessa at the kitchen counter. she's unloading different cartons of food. a quick kiss is placed on her cheek as you grab the cutlery. nothing beats a little Chinese food after a long day

with dinner done and dusted, Vanessa tasks you with taking out the trash despite your protest. it was your birthday you shouldn't have to do it but there was no convincing your very stubborn girlfriend. marching all the way down the stairs of her apartment building; the elevator was once again, broken. it conveniently always seemed to be out of order when you wanted to use it. a slow climb back up, you arrive back to a very dark apartment. "power out or...?" that didn't make any sense. the lights in the hallway were clearly still on. the roar of the train brings with it a warm flicker of candlelight in the corner of the kitchen.

"happy birthday to you," her quiet melodic voice starts to sing as she turns slowly. in Vanessa's hand sits a cupcake with a single pink candle expertly placed in the centre. "happy birthday to you," slow careful steps closer, her hand shielding the flame. "happy birthday dear-"

"do we have to do this?"

"yes," she declared finishing off the song as she meets you in the middle. it's hard not to appreciate the cheesy gesture, an embarrassed smile settling on your lips. "now make a wish." taking a deep breath, you let your eyes flutter closed before blowing out the fire. handing over the cake, you swipe a little of the white frosting on the tip of your finger and into your mouth. sugary sweet. "how is it?"

"want a taste?" a playful quirk of your brow, you place the cupcake on the counter and pull Vanessa flush against you. her hands fall to your hips and you place your arms over her shoulders. "well?"

your girlfriend nods a little, keeping her eyes on yours. leaning in slowly, you connect your lips in a gentle embrace. Vanessa smiles into the kiss. " Feliz cumpleaños, cariño." whispered against your lips. "sorry for not doing more."

"don't be," you shrug a little. "this was enough. you are enough."

looking into her eyes and even in the darkness, you can tell she's holding something back. some comment or feeling. it's the same with you.  despite your words, that heavy feeling still burned in your chest. a lost, empty feeling that may never truly leave but you didn't want to have that conversation. "let's go to bed."

backing away from her, visible confusion crosses your face. "it's only like... ten?"

"exactly," Vanessa takes your hand, a smirk on her lips.

"what about my cupcake?"

"what about it?" A soft little giggle but you don't protest as she leads you towards the bedroom.

[laurensprentiss]

Jouska [Hotch x Reader]

Chapter 13:

Gif credit: @hqtchner

A/N: I toyed with several ideas for this one, but I wanted the reader to be strong in her own right which is why this takes the direction it does.

Warnings: Strong depictions of violence, assault, blood, vomiting. Graphic injury, choking, gun violence.

———

“What you remember saves you.” - W.S Merwin

———

“You don’t like what I’ve done with the place?” 

“Jordan.” You breathe. “What did you do?” 

His jaw sets. His expression goes from glee to fury and he’s next to you in a flash, nose to nose, dragging your head back by the hair on the nape of your neck. A wince escapes your mouth when the pulling sends a sting up your scalp. 

“What do you mean, what did I do? Isn’t it obvious?” He sneers, punctuating his words with another pull of your hair. 

You cry out in pain, your neck straining. The rabid look in his eyes and his bared teeth send shivers down your spine.

He continues, “I made sure you were going to stay all...mine.” He whispers, releasing his grip, smoothing the top of your head. “Isn’t it sweet? I did it all so I could have you all to myself… and instead of thanking me, you’re acting like you’re above me. Like you always do. Maybe I need to teach you how to be grateful-” 

“I’ll be grateful.” You offer in a quick breath. “I mean- I am. I am grateful. I was just so…” You swallow thickly, tearing your eyes away from the pictures, “Surprised that you did all this. For me.” You fight the tears pricking your eyes. 

“You mean that?” 

You swallow the bile rising in your throat. “Yes. I do.” 

“Good. Y’know all I ever wanted was us to be together? When you broke up with me, I admit, I was angry. I thought you were fucking somebody else.” He paces the length of the room and that’s when your gaze falls to the gun he has tucked into the waistband of his jeans. “But I realised you couldn’t possibly.”

You brace yourself when his gaze falls to his handiwork on the walls. 

“But then…” He inhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I saw you with him.” His volume rises steadily. “I send you gifts, I send you letters, I give you clues, I even draw blood for you and you repay me by parading around another man?!” 

You cry out when he delivers a blow to the left side of your face, a crack resounding in the room. Your skin blisters red hot where he strikes you, you swear he’s torn open some skin on your cheek. It sends your head spinning, you figure you’re already nursing a concussion, this just makes it worse. 

“That’s not-”

“Don’t you interrupt me.” He spits, his face close enough for you to smell the bourbon on his breath. “You had him come to my house today, try to scare me? He thinks he’s a big powerful man, FBI… that badge doesn’t mean shit, he doesn’t know who I am.” 

“Jordan-”

“What was it about him anyway? You could’ve had me, you know, we could’ve been a dynasty.” He’s grandstanding. Always did have a problem with his fragile ego. He turns his back to you, scanning the pictures on the wall. “He’ll get what’s coming to him. I’m having it taken care of.” He mutters.

Your blood runs cold. “What do you mean?” 

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re not stupid, you couldn’t possible have thought that I’d let him live?” 

Your heart skips. The ‘other guy’ that was to be taken care of - Hotch.

“Jordan, no. It wasn’t like that, I swear.” He turns slowly, rage behind his eyes that’s only thinly veiled by a psychotic smile. “There’s nothing between us! Please don’t do this. I’m begging you, don’t do this.” You plead.

“Why do you care?”

“-What?”

“Why… do you… care?” His eyes are fanatical, nostrils flared. “If nothing happened between you, why do you care what happens to him?” 

You know why now.

“Because I don’t want anyone to die! Him, Emily, anybody! I don’t want anyone to get hurt.” You stutter through your sobs. “Please don’t do this.” 

“You don’t want him to die? How stupid do you think I am?” He grabs the back of your head and directs you to a picture of you and Hotch on the gazebo - the day you’d met. “You look at him like that because he’s a friend?” He spits. 

He’s right, though - that’s the thing. 

You don’t know how you didn’t realise sooner, how you didn’t see it sooner. Maybe it’s because you couldn’t see your own face when you were around him, but the way you look at him, your smile. 

You don’t think you’ve looked at anybody like that before. 

Tears roll down your cheeks now, eyes welling over. 

He smooths over your hair, straightening out his own shirt. “I will make it quick though. Humane. I owe him that much.” 

“What?” 

“I owe him. How do you think you got here?” When you can’t formulate the words he continues, “Hm, let me spell it out for you.” He continues his rapid pacing, fingers compulsively scratching his neck. “We break up, you betray me, so I leave the country. I come back, try to get you back, you betray me, again. FBI man comes into the picture, his girlfriend feels neglected, said girlfriend then conveniently runs into me at a bar after an argument, confides in me and starts sleeping with me. She’s a real peach, though. Total Type-A, wouldn’t let me fuck her raw.” He adds, rolling his eyes. 

You feel nauseous. 

You wonder if Hotch knows. 

He goes on, “I fuck her, she tells me everything I want to know. Including the fact that she thought he was cheating on her.” He laughs bitterly. “I thought we might have had something when you called me a few months ago, remember that? That was a good time.” Your stomach turns when you think back to the worst mistake you’d ever made. “But then you stopped taking my calls, I put two together from there, figured you were fucking him. I knew then that he had to die.” He rolls his eyes. 

His smile reveals a row of eerily straight teeth but there’s nothing behind his eyes except a sick kind of glee. 

“It wasn’t like that, I swear to you, he never touched me.” You plead with him, desperately. You reckon with the fact that if you couldn’t regain control of this situation, Hotch would die. “Look, I’ll do anything.” 

“Anything?” 

“I swear. Anything. Just call it off, please.” He considers your statement for a moment, kneeling down between your knees again. He makes a point to flash you his gun, the silver glinting, before reaching for a switchblade that’s tucked into his back pocket. You flinch when he brings it purposely closer to you but he cuts you free. 

“I’m going to test you. Stay here with me. You run, I kill him.” He lays the knife flat against your bruised cheek, “Then I kill you.” He whispers. You wince when the sharp edge breaks a thin layer of skin and you feel a warm trail of blood on your cheek. 

You nod desperately, agreeing. “I swear. I’ll do anything, just call it off.” 

Just as he finishes cutting you free, his phone vibrates against the wooden table under the window. He excuses himself, face lighting up for a moment. You try your best to hear, but the voice on the other end is indistinguishable. 

Jordan’s responses are short. 

“Fitz.”

“Hello?” He presses the phone closer to his ear. “Lawrence? It’s done?” He smiles at the response from the other side. 

“30 minutes.” He hangs up and rattles off a quick text message before setting the phone down again. 

He sighs, concealing his unhinged glee when he turns to look at you. “Bad news babe.” He says tutting, knowingly with a disturbing smile. “I know I said I’d call it off but,” he waves the phone in the air, “it’s already done. Your friend, Aaron?”

Oh please, no. Don’t say it. 

“He’s dead.” 

———

Once the first bang reverberates in the nurses’ station, time seems to move in slow motion. McCall yells for everybody to get down, cocking his gun. Panic erupts for a moment before everybody falls to the ground, the first shot already fired. 

Where it comes from, who fires first, it isn’t clear, the whole thing in reality is over in a matter of seconds but time still seems to stop. 

Now, McCall kneels over a dead body, hyper-aware of eyes on him, “He’s gone.” He whispers. 

A hand grips his shoulder from behind as he stares down at the corpse in front of him laying in a pool of blood, three bullet holes in the chest. 

His ears still ring. 

“Hey. Emily’s fine. I had two cops posted outside her door.” He turns to find Hotch, who can’t tear his eyes away from Officer Lawrence’s dead body in front of them. 

They’re about to let medical personnel clear out the area and wheel him away in a body bag when Hotch spots something in Lawrence’s scrub pockets. 

“Wait! Hold it a sec?” He asks, retrieving a piece of paper and cellphone from Lawrence. They make their way back to Emily’s hospital room in unison.

McCall looks at him, puzzled. “You okay?” 

“Yeah, why?”

“That was the first person you ever shot, right? He’s dead. You’re allowed to not be okay.” 

“I’m fine - I need to focus. I need to get her back.” He’d be lying if he said his hands weren’t trembling but he has more pressing matters on his hand. The need to get you back safe and sound outweighs any personal conflict for him. He unfolds the piece of paper, muttering aloud a series of numbers. “It’s a phone number. What’d you wanna bet it’s Jordan?” He does a double take when he sees his own name written in capital letters on the other side of the paper, passing it to McCall. 

“Some vendetta, hm? He was sent to kill you.” McCall takes the phone from Hotch and starts to dial when Hotch places a stalling arm on his. 

“Wait.”

He dials Garcia’s number deftly, asks her to search for a location on the number before they call it, but to his disappointment, it’s a prepaid. He then has Garcia set up a track and trace before he lets McCall dial the number.

“Ready, Garcia?” 

The phone rings three times before it’s answered, Jordan’s voice curt and straight to the point, assuming it’s Lawrence. Hotch can hear Garcia’s typing and beeping but when McCall doesn’t say anything, Jordan takes matters into his own hands. 

“It’s done?” Jordan asks outright. 

“Yes.” McCall replies with little inflection, keeping his voice even so as to not arouse suspicion. Jordan gives McCall a time - 30 minutes, before snapping the phone shut. 

McCall tries the number again, but it’s dead. Destroyed. 

“Garcia, anything?” Hotch asks desperately. 

“No, sir, it was barely long enough to triangulate the call, I’m sorry.” 

“Keep searching, Garcia, we need this address. Look for something in isolation, out of the way. It’s gotta mean something to him.”

“Yes, sir. Typing as we speak.”

Hotch rubs an exasperated hand over his beard, “Y’know the media can’t get wind of this, if he has access to a TV or radio and sees I’m alive? He’ll kill her.” He shudders as the words leave his mouth, making way for the possibility that he does not want to reckon with. 

You might already be dead. 

He dials quickly “Chief Barnes? I need a favour.”

———

He’s been pacing the length of Emily’s hospital room for the past twenty minutes, waiting for Chief Barnes to call in every favour he can to keep the media at bay so they can keep up the charade. He increases the TV volume opposite Emily’s bed when he sees a news report flash across the scene. 

“Good evening, everybody. We come to you live tonight with some breaking news.” 

He braces himself. Did Barnes manage to cover the hit on him?

“The daughters of two US Ambassadors have reportedly been involved in what appears to be a multi-car collision in the Virginia countryside, earlier tonight.” 

Two pictures appear side by side of you and Emily. 

“The daughter of Ambassador Prentiss was rushed to hospital earlier tonight and remains in critical condition at Bridgepoint Hospital after sustaining multiple injuries. The daughter of the US Ambassador to France however, is reported to be missing. The Ambassador himself is reportedly unaware of his daughter’s condition, presumed to be en-route to Paris tonight. Three people were pronounced dead at the scene, including Metro PD officers Evan Matthews and Howard Denton.”

He waits anxiously for any mention of his own name or Jordan, Lawrence, but the anchor passes over to the correspondent.

He sighs in relief, just as his phone rings. 

“Garcia?”

“I think I finally have a location on Fitzgerald. I checked for any and all properties under Senator Fitzgerald’s name, his second and third wives, his spawn’s name, even the Fitzgerald Family Trust. Nada.” She pauses for breath. “So. I dug down deeper. I searched instead for any properties under Sloan Marie Fitzgerald - still nothing. But then I chanced a search under her maiden name, Hamilton, and wouldn’t you know - the Hamilton family had a cabin between Rock Creek Park and Montgomery County. The late Mrs. Fitzgerald would take him to said cabin most summers before she died.”

“Alright, good work. Send us-”

“I'm not even going to let you finish that sentence, because it’s quite frankly insulting. Coordinates are on their way to you now, Sirs.”

Hotch huffs a laugh, it’s the most he can muster right now. He knows he owes Garcia a massive bouquet of flowers after all this is over. 

He grabs McCall by his jacket. “Suit up. We’ve got an address.” 

———

‘He’s dead.’ 

The onset of shock and unmistakable rise of nausea had caused you to retch violently and empty the contents of your stomach into the nearest toilet. 

Your legs had given out then, and you’re now planted on a dusty armchair, finding yourself staring into nothingness, your body still stinging with the shock and injuries you’d sustained. 

It’s all you’ve done for the past fourty something minutes. The blood stays rushing in your ears, and the pounding in your head is unrelenting. You haven’t said a word since, your body’s energy drained. You’re almost catatonic, unable to even shed a few tears for Hotch’s death. 

He’s dead. He’s dead because of you. 

You think back to the first time you met, he’d been so bright eyed and optimistic. Disarming. You think about the way he’d told you about his hopes and dreams, his plans for the future as a profiler. He’d had so much to live for. All of that had been ripped away from him because he’d gotten involved in your case. It was your fault he was dead. 

And you didn’t know how you were going to make it out of this. Your limbs feel like concrete - fatigue, shock and grief make it hard to formulate any kind of rational thought. Jordan’s hand comes to smooth the top of your head once again, but the gesture is far from comforting or loving. 

“It’s okay. You’ll see in time, this was for the best. This way, there aren’t any distractions.” He whispers. He’s been pacing the length of the cabin, repeatedly checking his second burner as though he’s awaiting some news. 

He resumes his pacing when you finally break your silence, your voice hoarse. 

“You killed a man.” You whisper. 

“What’s that?” 

“You killed a man.” You sob quietly. “You had someone killed, that doesn’t mean anything to you?” 

“Oh I did more than just have your little lover killed. I made sure your father and that Prentiss bitch were taken care of too.” 

Your vision tunnels, a high-pitched whine penetrating your skull. You feel like the ground has just been ripped from under you, like you’re falling. You can feel your heart shatter, the splintering fragments of your life piercing your skin. 

“My father? He’s not here. He’s-”

He glances at his watch. “-On his way to Paris?” You feel the bile rising again. “I know. Like I said, I’m having it all taken care of. They’re all dead, babe - or will be, soon.” He brings a hand to your face, brushing his thumb over your cut. “Don’t you see? I did it so I could have you all to myself.” 

The glee in his voice provokes something in you, a rage you’ve never felt before. You figure you have nothing else to lose, everything and everyone you ever loved is dead, you’d either fight and die quicker, or you’d stay and die slowly. 

In a move that stuns even you, you spit on Jordan’s face and bring your hand up to strike him notwithstanding the piercing pain in your ribs. The flat of your palm makes sharp contact with his bearded cheek. The sound echoes in the room, and your own hand stings from the force, but a minute satisfaction settles into your bones. 

He takes a minute to steady himself, but when he turns to look at you, his eyes flash with something you’ve never seen in a person before. In one fell swoop, he drags you to stand by your hair, pushing you into a glass frame against the wall. 

The glass shatters, puncturing the skin on your cheek and forearm where you bear the brunt of the impact. He lands two blows to your stomach, causing you to keel over, winding you. The pain blooms to your already bruised ribs, your breaths ragged. He grabs you then by the throat, pinning you against the wall, your breaths coming short and constricted. 

He shakes you against the wall, his hand tight around your throat, cutting off your air. “You ever pull something like that again, I’ll kill you in ways you couldn’t possibly imagine.” He growls in a low voice. “Do you understand me?” You can feel the blood pumping in your face, your eyes starting to bulge. 

You drive your knee into his crotch with all the force you can muster, exactly like Hotch had taught you. You then go for his shin that only gives you mere seconds to grab your breath when he lets you go in pain. 

You fall with him, knees giving out when you gasp for breath, and when you see him charging towards you again, you reach to your right for a dusty glass vase that sits on a single table. You manage to get yourself back on your feet right as he’s about to make contact with you again, the butt of the vase smashing into his skull. 

He cries out in pain as he falls to the ground again on all fours, blood streaming down his face. A gash on his forehead seeps blood and several pieces of glass are embedded in his face. 

You’re still trying to catch your own breath when you spot the silver glint of his 9mm catch the light in his back pocket. 

This is your chance.

You half-crawl, half-run to him, landing a violent kick to his stomach to strike him down. You grab the gun from his back pocket, stumbling a little from the adrenaline coursing through your veins, your hands trembling. You check the magazine and load it as fast as your hands will allow.

You grip the Beretta just as Hotch had taught you, wrapping your dominant hand around the magazine, your index finger parallel to the chamber. Your other hand wraps around your dominant, as you stand over him.

“Get up.” You snarl. “Get up, NOW!” You order him through your coughs. 

He turns around slowly, slipping twice on his way up, groaning with the exertion. His face mirrors your own, a gash on his lip and forehead, blood streaming down his cheek. 

He chuckles darkly, revealing a set of shark-like teeth that are covered in his blood. “Oh… you think you’re hot shit. You even know how to use that thing? Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.” 

Your body aches feverishly and you swear you could pass out at any minute, vision blurry. You can feel your grip loosening and you’re trying to centre yourself when Jordan takes advantage of your momentary slip. 

He lunges for you in a flash, knife in hand. 

———

“We’re about a mile out, I want sirens and lights off. He can’t know we’re coming.” Hotch says into his radio. He’s watching the road ahead as they get deeper into the woods, the off-road terrain making it hard to keep control of the SUV. 

They’re backed up at rear by three MPD police cars, Chief Fuller’s attempt at making nice with Hotch after their earlier altercation.

He swallows thickly, his mouth like cotton. He knows he can’t afford one wrong move, not here. Not with you. He needs to get you back. He made a promise to Emily. 

He’ll die trying. 

He keeps a firm grip on your chain, rubbing it one last time for steady luck before tucking it into his shirt pocket. 

A clearing of trees reveals another path to them. It leads off into the distance, to a small wooden cabin around 80 feet away. It’s illuminated by amber light emanating from a single window. 

“Alright, guys. Nice and slow, headlights off, we’re gonna dismount now. Everybody out.” He whispers into the comms once they clear another 50 feet. 

Leaves rustle underneath their feet as they stealthily approach the cabin, guns cocked. Hotch has three cops flanking him and McCall brings up the rear, covering the back exit. 

They’re almost at the entrance when a loud bang resounds from inside, and Hotch short circuits, his knuckles white around his glock. 

Inside the cabin, you send Jordan flying with a shot to his shoulder, the smell of gun smoke burning your nostrils. Your hands tremble violently, your mind temporarily blanking - you feel like you’re swimming. Your ears ring from the noise, a high-pitched whine piercing your brain. 

There’s another bang almost immediately after Jordan stumbles backwards but you’re sure you only fired one shot. 

Jordan’s body in front of you is your only focal point, so much so that it’s only when you see McCall and two cops approach him writhing on the floor that you come back into your body. 

You realise the second bang had been them kicking down the front door. Your hands on the Beretta loosen just slightly and you let out a deep exhale. The voices in the room are still swimming as your brain slowly catches up. 

“Grab her.” McCall’s voice calls out. He shouts into the comms that he needs medics, and suddenly there’s a distinct feeling of a hand on your wrist and a body next to you. You reassure yourself that Jordan is on the ground so you let your hands fall limp, dropping the gun and it falls to the ground with a sharp clack. Your eyes are still trained on McCall pressing on Jordan’s wound. 

“Hey, hey, hey. Look at me.” The voice cuts through your still-ringing ears. 

You know that voice. 

You’d know that voice anywhere. 

Your heart thunders, and your lips start to tremble as you try to reconcile everything you thought was reality with what’s really in front of you. 

You turn slowly to find an achingly familiar pair of warm hazel eyes. 

He’s alive. 

“Aaron?” You sob. You reach out for him but he catches you before you can stumble, his arms steady around your waist. He whispers into your hair, bringing a protective hand up to cradle your head as you sob into his chest. 

“It’s okay. I got you. I told you I’d come for you.” 

His voice is the last thing you hear before you black out, your body finally offering you some well-earned reprieve.

———

Tags:​ @oreogutz @andromedasstarship @galacticnerd-78 @izzyl13 @bananabucky @crying-river @purpledragonturtles @gabbysblogthingy​ @archiveofadragon​ @yoshigguk @acidicbloody @jeor @ivebeenthinkingboutu​ @bauslut @averyhotchner @vashanatasha @hotchwhore15 @pjmjams @slxtherinchxser

< Prev | Next >

[heyyyharry]

Deep End - Chapter 4: Royal Ball

…in which Ezi causes trouble at the Styles' manor.

Word count: 6.1k

AU: famous!harry, siren!mc, adult modern retelling of the little mermaid? lol, fake dating, enemies to lovers.

WARNING: MATURE THEMES, ASSAULT.

All chapters / Synopsis / Moodboard / Playlist

Wattpad link

A/N: Please let me know what you think. I need feedback to feel motivated. Also, what do you expect to happen in the next chapter?

.

.

.

When Harry came to the guest room this morning and couldn’t find Ezi, he had hoped that something had happened overnight, and she’d magically returned to where she’d come from, and he, at last, could have his old life back. But no. He was immensely disappointed to find her sitting cross-legged on the edge of his pool, just staring blankly at the water like she was in a sad music video. What did he expect? It wasn’t like she could grow some wings to fly all the way home.

“Good morning!”

Ezi flinched at the sound of his voice. She pulled her feet out of the water and frantically stood up as Harry approached.

He held out his hand to ask her to stay. “It’s okay. You can use the pool. I rarely go swimming anyway.”

Ezi’s brows furrowed slightly as she tucked a strand behind her ear and stared anxiously at the blue water. “How can you swim in this pond? It smells funny.”

“It’s not a pond. It’s a swimming pool. There’s chemicals in it; that’s why it smells like that.”

Ezi cocked her head, seemingly confused. “Why you gotta make your own pond and put chemicals in it? Why do humans have to make their own versions of everything that’s already available in nature?”

“It’s cleaner and safer to swim in pools,” Harry pointed out.

Ezi couldn’t look more offended by his remark. “The ocean was clean before you trashed it with your chemicals.”

“I didn’t trash the ocean,” Harry corrected, pointing to his chest. “How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not responsible for environmental pollution?”

Ezi folded her arms and glared at him. “Why are you afraid of the ocean?”

“You’re literally a killing machine.”

“You people make machines that shoot fire and blow up each other’s ships, and yet we’re the killing machines.”

“Well, the ocean is scary anyway. It’s deep and dark.”

“It’s literally water,” argued Ezi. “Water is the driving force of all nature, and you’re afraid of it.”

“Forget it.” Harry exhaled as he tossed his hands in the air. “I can never win an argument with you.”

“Good,” Ezi said with a slight shrug.

“Anyway.” Harry rolled his eyes. “Come inside for breakfast. I have something to discuss with you while you eat.”

“Your maid brought you something this morning,” Ezi said when Harry was about to walk away.

Slowly, he turned back to face her with his eyebrows raised. “Who?”

“Your maid,” she said with a straight face. “The girl with green hair. I think she brought you some clothes and put them in the room next to mine.”

“That’s Amy, my assistant!” cried Harry as he gripped his own hair. “You two didn’t have a conversation, right? Please tell me you didn’t call her a maid to her face!”

Ezi looked rather amused when she saw how distressed Harry was. How could she be smiling? He wouldn’t be the only one who’d be in trouble if her identity was revealed. Fuck that. What if the government found out that he was keeping her here and locked him up, too? Was it a crime to keep a mythical creature in your house? Could he be executed for that?

“No,” Ezi calmly said while Harry could feel the blood draining from his face. “She just brought you some clothes and left. Though I could barely see her face, she didn’t seem very friendly.”

Harry pressed a palm to his chest, feeling his heart thundering as he let out a sigh of half-formed relief. Once he’d regained his composure, he told Ezi, “Amy is friendly to everyone. Maybe it’s just you.”

Ezi didn’t look at all bothered by that. She shrugged. “I’m not here to make friends. I don’t care if Amy likes me.”

Harry found it funny that one moment she could look and talk like a human girl with human feelings, and the next she acted as cold as the ocean she’d come from. But she was right. They weren’t friends, and there was no reason for them to be more than just civilised to one another.

“You sure you didn’t talk to Amy?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Good,” Harry nodded. “Come inside. The food’s getting cold.”

It seemed like Ezi got hungry very quickly. She finished the hard scrambled eggs Harry had made for her and even asked him for more. Harry didn’t mind feeding her. It was better to keep her full. After all, she had shown him her predator side, and he’d prefer to never see it again.

“So what’s something you want to tell me?” she asked with her mouth full while stuffing it more with another big bite.

Chilli was sitting at Ezi’s feet, staring up at her as a way of asking for a taste, but Ezi just ignored the cat and continued to enjoy her breakfast.

Harry knitted his hands on the table and straightened his back as he began, “Well, I actually wanted to ask you for a favour.”

Ezi stopped chewing immediately. She swallowed hard, her face contorted. “I’m not doing you a favour.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“But I already know that I don’t want to do it.”

“Of course you want to do it.”

“No, I don’t!”

Harry sucked in a breath and held up a finger to stop her from interrupting him again. “I promise you’ll like this. Just hear me out.”

Ezi folded her arms in front of her chest and pouted like an angry little girl as she sank into her chair.

Harry’s lips curled into a smile. “You like those Disney movies, right?”

Ezi nodded, and Harry watched in content as the line between her brows eased.

“Good. So what if I tell you that you can be a Disney princess for one night.”

“What do you mean?” Ezi frowned again as she sat up straight. “Are you messing with me?”

Harry shook his head. “No, I’m being dead serious. I’ll take you to a ball.”

“A ball?”

“Yeah. I’m invited to a royal ball that’s held in a real ballroom, like the one in Beauty and the Beast.”

He would’ve said Cinderella, but she hadn’t watched it yet. It would’ve been a better reference. Still, Ezi’s eyes lit up when she heard about the ball. “Like...in a castle?”

“Y-Yeah.” Harry worked up a bright smile as he nodded fast. “A castle.” To be fair, his mother’s manor was as huge as a castle. It was twice the size of his house, so that’d be more than enough to convince the naive siren.

“Do I get to wear a pretty dress?”

“Yeah. Who do you think the clothes Amy brought here are for?”

The realisation washed over Ezi’s face, and her mouth fell open in shock as she slammed her hands on the table, rattling the silverware and startling Chilli. “You’re not messing with me?”

“No.”

She bit her lip and arched an eyebrow. “What’s the favour then?”

“That’s the favour -- You going to the ball with me,” Harry said. “It’s tomorrow night.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing, to be honest,” Harry said with a weak shrug. “Maybe getting back in my mother’s good graces. She’s hosting the ball, and so many people are invited.”

“Is she the Queen?”

“No, but she thinks she is.”

“So she’s like my sister Koa.”

Harry chuckled at how serious Ezi looked when she said that. “Well, maybe not as bad as your sister. My mother loves me.”

Ezi pursed her lips as she focused on fidgeting with the fork in her hand. Harry leaned forward on the table. “So?” he asked. “Can you help me?”

Ezi blew out her cheeks as she locked eyes with him again. “Fine,” she said. “Not because I want to help you, though. I just want to go to a ball.”

“Good enough for me.” Harry smiled.

While Ezi continued eating, Harry gave her a few rules that she would have to follow when they arrived at his family’s event. He could not risk having her interact with anyone without his supervision. He’d nearly had a heart attack when he heard that she’d met his assistant when he wasn’t there. He was sure that Amy had only assumed Ezi was another girl Harry regularly hooked up with. Money didn’t really matter to him, so he usually spoiled his friends and the girls he fucked. However, he couldn’t risk having anyone find out that Ezi was actually living here.

When Ezi finished eating, Harry went upstairs to get the bath ready. He’d have to figure out a way to give Ezi a bath without having to touch her. How would she feel about hot water, though? His cat Chilli always left at least one or two scratches on his legs and his shirt whenever he tried to give her a bath. He could imagine Ezi doing the same.

“Hey.”

Harry whipped his head to the bathroom door and found Ezi standing there in his joggers and Mickey Mouse t-shirt that flowed down to her thighs. He must admit that she looked cute when she wasn’t frowning or roasting him. If only she’d lost her voice like Ariel did in the movie.

“Stop staring at me, human!”

Exactly his point.

Sighing, Harry got up from the edge of the bathtub. “We’ll let the water run,” he told her. “In the meantime, I’ll show you your new clothes.”

Ezi said nothing and followed him down the hall to his walk-in closet. It was actually a room with big windows, a shiny tiled floor, and white-cushioned sofas. Harry took a deep breath of the comforting perfumed air only to see Ezi covering her mouth and nose with her palm.

“It smells weird in here,” she complained.

“Just like living with my mum,” Harry whispered to himself. To her, he said, “Speaking of smells.”

Ezi looked horrified as Harry leaned in and started sniffing her.

“Why don’t you smell?” he asked, stepping back.

Her eyes went wide. “Am I supposed to?”

“Well, yeah.” He nodded. “You literally came from the ocean. No offence but...you’re supposed to smell fishy.”

“Do humans say no offence before they offend you?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Or maybe I’m just blunt because I’m British. Anyway,” Harry sucked in a breath, “it’s weird that you don’t smell. You don’t have a smell at all. When you first came on land, I could still smell a bit of the ocean on you, but now you don’t smell, and you haven’t showered.”

Ezi shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not like I could ask my mother why her curse didn’t give me a smell.”

“True.” Harry sighed. “Anyway. That’s good. Don’t want no fishy-smelling girl walking around my house.”

“I will scoop out your eyeballs right now.”

“Just kidding.” Harry chuckled. “But please don’t do that.”

“I’ll try.” Ezi put her hands on her hips and swept her eyes around the room. “Why do you have so many clothes?”

“They make me look good. I’m a public figure, so I care about my appearance.”

“Maybe you should focus on fixing what’s inside you and not your appearance.”

“I like you better when you don’t talk,” Harry said, then brushed past her to grab the Chanel shopping bag Amy had left on the white marble counter. He pulled out a sparkling silver slip dress and held it up to show Ezi. “This is for you. It comes with a pair of high heels. I’ll definitely have to teach you to walk in them, but baby steps.”

Ezi took the dress with both hands and was being as careful as possible as if she was afraid she might rip it. Although she didn’t let it show, he could make out the excitement in the way her eyes twinkled. He’d made sure to ask for a dress that looked similar to the one Ariel had worn in The Little Mermaid when she’d come from the ocean.

“Before you try this on,” he said when Ezi lifted her bright blue eyes up to him. “Repeat what I told you earlier.”

Ezi clutched the dress to her chest and glanced up at the ceiling. A line appeared between her brows as she recited Harry’s words, “Do not talk to anyone there unless you ask me to. Never leave your side. If I have questions, ask you in private. Um...what else? Oh! Avoid your mother at all costs.”

Harry nodded. “My mother and Dawson.”

“Who’s Dawson?”

“You’ll know.” With a sigh, Harry thrust his hands into his pockets. “Now, I’ll leave you here to change. I could only guess your measurements, so if it doesn’t fit, we can have it fixed as soon as possible.”

“Measurements?” Ezi looked down at her body, confused.

Harry cleared his throat and waved his hand at her. “Just hurry up and change. Let me know when you’re done.”

“Wait!”

“What?”

With a cute little pout, she asked, “Can you put it on me?”

Harry was shocked for a second when he heard that, but then he remembered that Ezi had never worn a dress before, let alone one with so many...strings.

“Here.” He took the dress from her and tried his best to demonstrate. “So this is the front. This is the back. This string goes over your right shoulder–No, wait, your left. Wait, is it? Hold on. Fuck.”

Ezi breathed out a laugh and covered her mouth with her hands, making Harry glare at her. “Fine,” he huffed. “I’ll help you put it on.”

“Good.”

Before Harry could even say a word, Ezi pulled his oversized t-shirt that she was wearing over her head, and Harry let out the most inhuman scream as he looked away and covered his eyes. She was naked underneath his shirt. Completely naked.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted into his palm when he heard the sound of the shirt falling to the floor.

“What is it?” Ezi asked.

“Oh, God.” Harry shrugged her hand away as she tried to take his.

“Why are you being weird?” She giggled as if she wasn’t standing fully naked in front of him. “You’ve seen me without clothes, and I’ve seen you,” she said.

“Fuck. I know that.” He exhaled. “But…” Harry stopped and took a deep breath. With one hand over his eyes, he calmly told her, “You need lingerie.”

“Ooooh. I learned this word today from a movie,” Ezi said with confidence. “Laundry means–”

“No, not laundry.” Harry sighed. “Lingerie.”

“Huh?”

“Okay, you know what? Put the shirt back on. I’ll return with more clothes for you.”

“More clothes?” Ezi cried with frustration as Harry turned his back to her. He heard her put the shirt on, and she tapped him on the shoulder when she was done. “I hate being humans,” she complained, looking cross. “Clothes are so uncomfortable.”

“I know, right?” Harry chuckled and patted her on the head. He liked seeing her face scrunch up whenever he did that, because he knew that she couldn’t harm him. “Be a good siren and stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“And help me put on clothes?”

He sighed and turned away. “I will.”

“And launderey?”

The question stopped Harry at the door. He pinched his eyes shut and pressed a fist to his forehead. “Yes.” He let go of a defeated long breath. “That, too.”

.

.

.

Harry managed to find a brand new pair of underwear in his bedroom drawer. It was an embarrassing story, but he’d bought it as a gift for a girl he used to sleep with, then he found out she’d been lying to him about not having a boyfriend when she’d already been engaged. So now he just happened to have a set of new lingerie lying in his drawer.

“I don’t know if this would fit, but I’ll get you new ones tomorrow.” Harry froze in the doorway when he found his closet empty. “Chili, where’s the crazy girl?” he asked his black cat, who didn’t even bother to reply as she kept licking her little paw. Ugh, lucky for her, she was cute.

“Ezi! Where are you?!” Harry shouted as he padded down the hall.

“I’m here!” Ezi shouted back, her voice echoing from the bathroom.

It was only then that Harry remembered he’d left the water running, but when he got there, he found Ezi sitting in the bubble bath with a bright smile on her face; his joggers and Mickey Mouse t-shirt had been discarded on the floor.

He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed, smiling at her.

“I love this room!” she exclaimed, gathered bubbled in her palms and blew at them.

So, Harry was wrong. She liked warm baths.

“Water was spilling out, so I turned it off and gave myself a bath,” she told him.

“You know how?”

“I saw Ariel take a bath in the movie.”

Her response made him laugh. “Wow, you learn so much from Disney films.”

Ezi folded her arms on the edge of the tub as Harry sat down on it beside her. She glanced up at him, chin on her arm. It would be a lie to say Harry didn’t feel anything watching her covered in soap and naked in his bathtub. The steam made him sweat, dampening his shirt as it stuck to his skin. He wasn’t a sex addict or anything, but he’d been so stressed out lately and hadn’t been able to find a release with his unpaid babysitting job. It wouldn’t be a problem if Ezi’s human form wasn’t so attractive.

“Stop doing that,” Ezi’s voice pulled him back to reality.

He blinked at her. “Doing what?”

“You sometimes stare at me without saying anything.”

He pressed his lips into a smirk. “Aren’t you a clever girl? Just read my mind.”

“Can’t.” She shrugged while unconsciously spreading the bubbles across the edge of the tub. “Even if I could, I wouldn’t want to know what’s going on in that dirty little head of yours?”

The way she’d said it without the intention of making it flirty was so funny to Harry.

“Your head is dirty and little,” he teased.

“No. Yours.”

“Yours.”

“Yours.”

“Your head can literally fit between my palms,” said Harry as he cupped the sides of her heads to demonstrate. For the first time, Ezi burst out laughing and tried to shove him off. He didn’t let go of her, and they kept pushing back and forth until Harry lost his balance and fell headfirst into the tub.

The water splashed all over. When Harry realised what had happened, he found himself kneeling in the water between Ezi’s legs. Frantically, he pushed away, but the tub was so slippery that he landed back down on his butt. Laughter crackled out of Ezi as Harry managed to escape from the sticky situation and grabbed a towel to cover himself with. Most of the water had spilt outside the tub, revealing Ezi’s soapy breasts, which gave Harry an instant boner.

He grabbed another towel and held it up and open as he ordered. “Bathtime’s over. Get out.”

“You’re such an idiot,” Ezi said, still laughing as she stood up and let him wrap the towel around her body.

Harry frowned at her playful grin. “You’re the idiot,” he said, but his face was red. “Rinse yourself. I’ll wait.”

Then he waddled out of the bathroom, quietly cursing himself.

.

.

.

To not make the same mistake, Harry taught Ezi how to put on underwear by having her put it on over her clothes first, then letting her do it herself when he wasn’t there. She was a fast learner, so it didn’t take long until she’d learned how to put on clothes and tie her shoes. He could now imagine how hard it must be for single parents to raise a kid all by themselves. He was lucky that he didn’t have to work this week and could stay home to take care of Ezi. But starting from next week, he would have to go back to his busy celebrity life, and Ezi living with him would become a bigger problem than he’d expected. He could only hope that her mother would just take her back before the following Monday. It didn’t seem possible, though. He should never have brought her to London.

Anyway, first things first.

He’d have to get through his mother’s event without anyone suspecting a thing, and then he’d try to figure out what he should do next.

This was why he didn’t want kids. At least Ezi had common sense.

“Hey, there will be so many humans tonight at the ball. What if one of them triggers me? I can’t even threaten them?”

Forget what he’d just said.

“No, you’re not allowed to threaten anyone,” he told her from outside her room and blew out his cheeks as he checked his watch. “Hurry up. Our ride is almost here.”

The door was pulled open. Ezi emerged in her sparkling silver dress with her hair in a messy bun and subtle makeup but enough to accentuate her unique features. Harry didn’t know he was gawking until she gave him a playful smack on the cheek to bring him back to Earth. He blinked and caught her big round eyes. The silvery glitter on her eyelids made the blue in her eyes stand out even more. A sudden chill rushed down his spine as he squared his shoulders and fixed his black tie. “Y-You did your hair and makeup?”

Ezi nodded enthusiastically. “The girl in the magic board taught me!”

“You were watching those makeup tutorials?”

Harry swore he had never seen her so happy. She smiled so big that her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Thank you for that board, by the way.”

“It’s an iPad. But you’re welcome.”

Yes, he’d got her an iPad so she could watch YouTube videos and play dumb games and not be all up in his business. He was a single dad now. First to Chilli. Now to Ezi.

“An iPad,” Ezi mumbled to herself. He thought it was cute how her eyebrows would furrow every time she learned a new word and tried to memorise it.

Realising that he was about to simp, Harry shook off those pleasant thoughts about the fish girl and put on a nonchalant expression as he looked down at her white ballerina flats. He’d got her a nice pair of high heels to wear with this dress, but she’d kept falling and broken a vase in the living room, so he’d given up and got her these flats instead. Well, as long as she was comfortable and still looked cute and appropriate.

“Ready?” he asked her.

She took a deep breath; determination lit up her eyes. “Ready.”

“Hold on.” He held her shoulder, took a nice look at her, then let down two strands from her bun, so they nicely framed her face. “Better.” He smiled and pinched her cheek. “You look like someone I would date.”

As expected, Ezi responded to his compliment with a frown and smacked his hand away. “Touch my face again, and I’ll make sure you won’t be able to touch anything again.” Then she shoved past him and hurried down the stairs.

.

.

.

Ezili felt ashamed.

She had been looking forward to the ball tonight. She’d been so excited that she’d stayed up to watch those...what did Harry call them again? Oh, makeup tutorials. Just to look like those human girls with sparkling eyelids. The mermaids back home would be so impressed, but her mother certainly wouldn’t. She didn’t even want to imagine her mother’s reaction to her look tonight.

Harry had pointed out that human Ezili didn’t have a smell. In an animal kingdom, the signature smell set those animals apart from the other kinds and acted as proof that they were a part of a community, that they belonged. Human Ezili not having a smell was a reminder from her mother that she was not a siren right now, but she was not human either, and so she should finish her mission as soon as possible to return to the sea and be with her kind.

Ezili could not be distracted from her mission anymore. Harry had invited her to the ball, which meant there was no competition for her at this point. She was already making progress being the only female in his radar. Tonight, she hoped the romantic atmosphere of the ball would make him fall in love with her.

With her arm around his, they ascended the red-carpeted stairs of the castle leading to the ballroom. Ezili was amazed by the guests in fancy attires and expensive decorations sparkling silver and gold. The ballroom was impressive, with crystal chandeliers spiralling down from the arching sky-blue ceiling, illuminating the glimmering walls and a floor so polished it looked like a frozen winter lake.

Harry said their names to a servant at the door, and he bowed to Harry and Ezili as if they were royalty. Ezili didn’t show it, but she enjoyed being treated like the princess she knew she was.

“Finally, someone showing respect to me,” she mumbled as they followed the other guests inside.

Harry laughed at her remark. “I respect you.”

“You don’t even respect yourself,” she said, glaring at him.

“Can you just not insult me tonight? You’re pretending to be my date.”

“What’s a date?”

“Like...lovers,” Harry said, flicking his eyes around like the prey trying to spot a predator.

She thought she should calm him down, so she squeezed his forearm and said, “Do you wanna dance?”

Harry shook his head. “No, not the time.”

Confused, Ezili’s eyes followed Harry’s worried gaze to the lady in a seaweed coloured dress that fanned out at her feet. She was beautiful, with features resembling Harry's. That must be Harry’s mother -- the host of the ball.

“Remember what I told you,” Harry said, squeezing Ezili’s cold hands. “Do not say a word to my--Mother!”

“Oh, my darling son, you came!”

Harry let go of Ezili to hug his mother. The woman pulled away and turned to Ezili with the same dimpled smile as her son’s. “Ahh, this must be Ezili,” she said, and Ezili shook her hands like how humans did in movies.

“Yes.” Harry cleared his throat as he laced his fingers with Ezili’s. “This is my date -- Ezili Hans.”

His mother smiled at him. “I was afraid you were gonna bring Niall with a wig.”

“Didn’t work the last time,” Harry said. “Never do it again.”

Harry’s mother laughed before turning back to Ezili. “It’s so nice to meet you. You may call me Mrs Styles, or Annalise. What do you think about this event?”

Ezili flicked her helpless gaze to Harry, who quickly spoke on her behalf, “She thinks it’s great. Very s-shiny.” Seeing Annalise’s smile vanished, Harry added, “Sore throat. The doctor says she has to stay silent for a week. Also, do you mind if I show her around and introduce her to the other guests?”

“Wait, but we haven’t--”

“Love you, Mum.”

Harry pecked his mother on the cheek, grabbed Ezili’s hand and pulled her with him. They finally made it outside to the garden’s fountain, where the guests were chatting in groups and sipping on wine. Harry released Ezili’s hand and exhaled through his mouth. “That was scary.”

“That was awful!” She hit him on the arm. “You almost blew our covers.”

“I know. I’m always anxious around my mum,” he said, looking distressed. “When I was little, she could always tell when I was lying.”

“Maybe you’re not a good liar.”

“Not as good as you,” he chuckled, putting his hands on his hips. “You know what? Changing plans. You’re allowed to talk, but just say simple things like ‘hello’, ‘how are you?’, ‘it’s wonderful’, bla bla.”

Ezili nodded. “Got it.”

Harry opened his mouth to say something else but suddenly froze; his eyes went wide. “Shit, that’s Aunt Beatrice.” Ezili looked over her shoulder to see a chubby late laughing with a group of people and being the loudest. “Super annoying,” Harry said. “Everyone in my family hates her.” He turned to Ezili and patted her on the shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Let me come with you.”

“Not when I’m talking to Satan. I mean, Aunt Beatrice. Just stay here and don’t talk to anyone.”

“But--”

Harry already left.

Ezili muttered curses at him under her breath. She had no choice but to sit by the fountain and wait for him to return. She saw him approaching the woman he hated with just a happy attitude as he’d had when talking to his mother. Fake. Humans were all pretentious and fake. They disgusted her. All these people.

“Hey, may I sit here?”

Ezili’s heart nearly jumped out of her chest when she heard the voice. She looked up and went stiff when she locked eyes with a tall handsome man. The black frame of glasses sat nicely on his high nose. His high cheekbones raised as he offered a polite smile. “Sorry. Am I bothering you?”

Ezili was thinking of what to say to him when she saw what was in his hand.

“An iPad!” she exclaimed. “I got one! Harry gave me one yesterday!”

The man looked at the iPad in his hand and chuckled. “Oh yeah, I brought it with me to read because I don’t really like these events.”

Ezili nodded fast. “I don’t, either. I’m so glad I’m not the only one.”

The man smiled again; his dark eyes twinkled with the fairy lights above their heads. “May I sit with you.”

“Sure!” Ezili hurriedly scooted over for the man to sit. Forget Harry. He’d told her never to leave his side then left her here all on her own, so who cared if she talked to one stranger? At least this one didn’t want to be here, either.

“What do you read on your iPad?” she asked him.

“I’d say books to impress you, but I’m actually reading a manga,” he said and chuckled. “Attack on Titan. Have you heard of it?”

Ezili shook her head. “Do they have something like this for The Little Mermaid?”

“I don’t know. But I’m sure they have a manga for everything these days, so you might find one about mermaids, too,” the man said and put the iPad down on his lap. “What’s your name?”

“Ezili...Hans. Ezili Hans,” said Ezili as she offered her hand.

The man shook it with another warm smile. “I’m Dawson Styles.”

It took Ezili a second to recognise that name. “Harry told me not to talk to you,” she mumbled, frowning.

However, Dawson didn’t look bothered by it. “Oh, right, you came here with Harry,” he said. “He gave you an iPad, right?”

“Yeah. He’s my...date.”

“So why are you here all by yourself?”

Ezili crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. “He needed to talk to that loud lady over there. He said she was evil.”

Dawson leaned forward to look past her, and when he spotted Harry with his aunt, his mouth curled slightly. “Yup, that lady is scary. We’re all scared of her.”

“You know her?”

“Yeah, she’s my mum.”

Ezili flinched, her eyes shot open. “Oh...sorry.”

Dawson just laughed. “Well, Harry wasn’t wrong. My mother could be scary sometimes.”

“All mothers are,” muttered Ezili, but she wasn’t sure if Dawson had heard her.

“You’re from the States?” he asked.

She blinked. “What?”

“Your accent.”

“Oh. Y-Yeah.”

“How long have you been in London?”

“Just three days.”

“How do you like it?”

“It’s...grey.”

The answer made Dawson cackle. “Yeah, it is.” He lowered his head and adjusted his glasses. “Bet it’s way more sunnier where you’re from.”

Ezili lifted her shoulders. “I don’t like the sun that much either, so it’s all good.”

Dawson nodded. They sat in silence for two seconds, then he said, “You look beautiful, by the way.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, not knowing what else to respond.

“How did you know Harry?”

Ezili was about to answer when she realised that Harry hadn’t taught her what to answer for this question. He’d probably assumed that they would be together all night, so he wouldn’t have to prepare her to lie about such basic information. Helplessly, she looked back to find Harry, but he wasn’t there anymore. Both he and Dawson’s mother had disappeared.

Ezili jumped to her feet. “Sorry, I have to go. It was nice talking to you, Dawson.” Without paying him a second look, she ran off to look for Harry.

He couldn’t have abandoned her, right? At least not here at his family’s ball. But how could she be so sure? She’d witnessed him being courteous to his enemy. That man could not be trusted.

Why were there so many people?

Where was she?

Ezili was too busy cursing Harry in her head that she hadn’t paid attention to where she was going. Now she found herself standing in an empty hall. She could hear the muffled sound of the ballroom behind her, so she intended to return to it.

“Hey, baby,” said a blond-haired man she ran into at a turn. She tried to sidestep him, but he was in her way. She blocked her nose with a finger and took a step back to keep a distance from him. He smelled funny. Why were his eyes red?

“H-Have you seen Harry?” she asked the man with the buzzcut. “Tall. Curly hair. Walks and talks slowly. Acts like he’s better than you when he’s not.”

“Harry?” The man snorted, his eyelids fluttered as if he might pass out any moment. He put a hand on the wall to keep his balance. “Damn, that motherfucker always lands the hotties.”

Ezili guessed that this man was not in his right mind to tell her where Harry was, so she pushed him aside to go. Suddenly, he caught her by the wrist and yanked her into him. “Hey, where are you going, baby?”

“Let me go!” she screamed and tried to shove him off. It seemed like all of her strength had disappeared with her tail. She felt helpless against this man. He managed to take both her wrists and pinned them above her head and her against the wall.

“Leave Harry,” he whispered into her ear, his breath hot and foul-smelling. She felt like she might throw up. “He’s trash anyway. The rat of the family. Can’t believe he’s getting all this when his mother dies.”

Ezili was trapped between the man’s stinky body and the wall. She knew she’d promised Harry not to attack anyone tonight, but she needed to fight for herself. Without hesitation, her teeth went straight for the man’s neck. He screamed and jumped back, losing his balance and dropping to the floor. Ezili could taste blood on her tongue as she licked her lip and gazed down at the terrified man. The bite mark on his neck was bleeding, staining the white collar of his suit.

“You bitch!”

“Ezi!”

Ezili whipped her head and found Harry, so she ran to him as the evil man clumsily got to his feet.

“What happened?” he asked her, his face pallid with fright.

“This bitch bit me!” the man shouted, pointing the finger at Ezili.

Harry turned back to her with rage in his eyes. “You bit my cousin?! I told you not to hurt anyone! What’s wrong with you?!”

“I didn’t have a choice,” she yelled back, angry that he’d believed the words of this bastard. “He was touching me! I don’t like being touched!”

The realisation flashed across Harry’s face. He put his hands on her shoulders; his eyebrows sloped as he swept his eyes from her head to toes. “Where did he touch you?”

“I didn’t do anything to your whore.”

Before Ezili could even react to those words, Harry went straight to him with his foot in his cousin’s stomach and again when his cousin tried to say something. Ezili had to grab his arm and pulled him away before he murdered someone. She didn’t care if he did, though. She just didn’t want to draw more attention to herself and get exposed in front of all the other guests.

Panting, Harry adjusted his tie and stabbed a finger at the man on the floor. “If I see you put your hands on a woman again, I’ll beat your ass and make sure you’ll never get to set foot back into this family again. You hear me?”

The man couldn’t speak, only whimper.

Ezili opened her mouth to question, but Harry stopped her by taking her hand. “Come with me.”

[duskholland]

The Fame Game (Part Nine) - Tom Holland

Summary ↠ Breaking up is hard. But breaking up with your fake boyfriend, with whom you’ve fallen irrevocably and painfully in love with? It’s almost impossible.

Warnings ↠ Angst, Y/N’s being stubborn but can we blame her? Cursing and crying. All the good stuff. 

Word count ↠ 5.2k

A/N ↠ This part? Emotional rollercoaster and a half. We’re almost at the end of the story, though! :((( Only part ten and the epilogue to go, and I am not okay. Crazy crazy crazy. Anyway, buckle in and enjoy part nine :)

NINE: Expiration Date (Y)

It’s raining in London. Tracks of grey, miserable water stream down the dirty window, obscuring the view of the city beyond. Your fingers are cold as you hold a mug of stale tea, the liquid pale and long-past its best. You’d poured it an hour ago, intending to throw it back and pull yourself out of your stupor, but you’d failed.

Today is the end of your relationship with Tom - the expiration date, as your team likes to call it. In a move of obscene pathetic fallacy, the weather curled across London seems to emanate your innermost thoughts. It’s cloudy and grey, darkness settled across the sky. In the distance, the clouds grow blacker, and a part of you wonders if it’ll thunder later.

You feel a tear slip from one of your eyes, and the warm line traces down your cheek as you sniffle. With slow movements, you finally put down the mug, crossing your arms over your chest as you continue to stare out of the window, vacantly. You’re in your London flat, your belongings in boxes around you. With the conclusion of a final filming project comes the end of your lease, and when you leave London tonight on a plane, you leave behind your flat, your job, and your boyfriend.

Your boyfriend.

Your fake boyfriend, who sometimes acts like your real boyfriend, but has made it all too clear that he is only, only, only your fake boyfriend.

A scowl springs out across your face, and your fingers curl into fists at your sides.

You thought you’d been hurt by Tom before. For years, you’ve felt anger towards him - resentment, irritation, burning frustration. You’ve cursed him out on countless occasions, publicly denounced him, and watched on as he’s returned every move you’ve made against him with equal ferocity. At almost every given opportunity, Tom has launched blow after blow at you, but you’d taken it. You had accepted that that was just your relationship - that sometimes two people don’t get along, and sometimes they thrive off irritating the other. His insults didn’t touch you - not really, not like this. They’d riled you up and they’d made you seethe, but they were just insults - just empty, irritating insults, which you’d returned with a smile on your face. But now…

For the first time, Tom Holland has actually broken your heart.

It’s painful when you think about him, as you cast your mind back to your last day together. You’d been so excited, so hopeful, when you’d turned up at his place in LA, and as he’d laid you down and you’d held one another, you’d felt the love you have for him grow. Each time he’d kissed you, you felt your love deepen. Each pass of his hands over your skin made your heart race, your mind shake. You’d been waiting on the right time to open your mouth, say the three golden words, and then propose giving your relationship a real shot, only for Tom to jump the gun and tell you that he, in fact, loved you.

To have Tom stand opposite you and tell you that he loves you - only to immediately follow it up with a retraction - has shattered you. You can’t stop thinking about the moment that you’d let yourself believe, for one brief, shocking second, that Tom reciprocated your love - that Tom had softened out, and grown to love you, too. His words had knocked you off-guard, but fuck, if they weren’t the sweetest three words you’d ever heard. You’d been fully prepared to drop everything and jump into his arms, only for him to add--

“No… Wait, no.”

You are upset. You are so fucking angry. You are a whirlwind of tears and clenched fists and stiff jaws. The more you contemplate it, the hollower you feel. You have never known heartbreak as pronounced as this.

You hate the power that you’ve given Tom. Hate that you’d walked straight into this, eyes open. You can’t even blame it on blind infatuation, because you’d been aware at every moment how dangerous your budding feelings were, just you’d chosen to ignore the warning signals, too distracted by Tom’s easy smile and his kisses. You hate that you let him break your heart, hate that he’s emerged from this unscathed when you feel the weakest you’ve ever been.

But above all, you hate that you don’t hate him. It would be so easy to slip back into old habits, to return to that blind, festering hatred that used to roar through your veins at the mere mention of his name. You can’t return to that, and every time you try to drum up some anger towards Tom, you’re instead reminded of how nice, and funny, and sweet he can be.

You release a shaky breath. It’s your expiration date, today. All that’s left of your relationship is a visit to Tom’s house to collect your things, and a few pap photographs of you leaving his place, in pieces. There’s no doubt in your mind that the paparazzi will find it convincing: you’ve been a mess for days, your tears will be real. You’re full of apprehension and rattled nerves about seeing him again, about walking back into his house knowing it’ll be the last time and having to act like he hasn’t reached into your chest and ripped out your heart.

You are an actor, to your core, but your role within this relationship has been your hardest performance to date - and you have the sinking suspicion that not even you can pull off the denouement.

The paparazzi are already outside Tom’s as you walk down his front path, raindrops bouncing off your jacket. The flashes from their cameras illuminate the garden, and your eyes hurt as the light glints off the collection of small garden gnomes Harrison and Tom keep in front of their house. You’re quick to drum your knuckles on the front door, tugging on the chords of your hood and trying to shy away from the yelling journalists.

After what feels an eternity, the door is opened. Tom stares out at you, eyes widening as he takes in the pouring rain.

“Shit, it’s wet today, isn’t it?” He mutters, quickly moving aside. You hurry into the house, sighing contentedly as the warmth envelops you. You kick off your shoes, but your fingers are frozen solid and you can’t quite tug the zip of your coat. “Do you need help?”

You glance up, seeing Tom eyeing your shivering fingers as you try and fail to release the slippery zip. “Yeah,” you mutter, quickly glancing away. It’s not your intention to stay long, but you’re not so inconsiderate that you’d traipse through Tom’s entire house in a dripping jacket.

You stay very still as Tom steps forward, one of his hands holding the bottom of your jacket as the other goes up to the zip. His tongue slips out between his teeth, and a deep crease appears between his eyebrows as he grasps the zip and carefully tugs it down. A smile splits over his face, and you sigh as the coat releases.

“There you go.” Tom doesn’t stop there, though. He goes so far as to help you wiggle out of the jacket, and even hangs it up on the peg for you. The same peg you’d used when you’d stayed with him a few months ago. Your peg. “So.” Tom rocks back on his feet, looking at you through narrowed eyes. “Why haven’t you been answering my texts?”

You clear your throat, crossing your arms over your chest. “What?”

“Y/N.” Tom steps a little closer, his eyes wide with hurt. “My calls, too. I really needed to talk to you.”

“Sorry,” you fib. You’re not sorry, not even one bit. Every time you’d watched your phone go through to answerphone, you’d felt a little stronger. “I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Oh, you know. Stuff.”

Tom frowns at you. “Well, I needed to talk to you.”

“Yeah, you said that.” You clear your throat, shaking out your arms as you try to lighten the air between you. You hadn’t meant to come into your last encounter with Tom with so much hostility on your shoulders, but being so close to him again makes your chest ache. “Sorry,” you mutter. “What did you want to talk about?”

Tom nods his head. “Well, it’s… It’s complicated.” Now he’s hesitant, with reluctance clinging to his features. You feel irritation stir inside as you watch him fluster. All you want to do is get this over and done with, so you can leave his house before you start crying again. You don’t want to drag this out.

“Well, can we talk about it as I pack my things?” You ask, your voice clipping a little at the edges.

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” Tom moves out of the way, letting you into the main body of the house. “What do they want us to do, again?”

You bite your lip as you see the photograph that hangs from the wall in the hallway. It’s new, and it shows you, Harrison and Tom, laying out together on one of their sofas. You remember the night well: Harry had taken the picture, teased Tom for the way he’d got you wrapped up in his arms and refused to let go for the duration of the scary film you were all watching. On your other side is Harrison, glaring at you and Tom, mock outrage on his face. It was a good night - near the end of your trip to London, back when things were better.

“Did they send you a box?” You say, voice vacant. You can’t stop looking at the photo, at the way Tom has his face buried in your neck. You look so happy. “They want me to put all my stuff in a box. Apparently, paps just need to see me leaving with all of my things, and then they’ll get the picture.”

“Pretty simple, then?” Tom drops down to his knees, beginning to rummage in the cupboard under the stairs until he procures a big red box. “This is the one they sent.” He passes it up to you. “Will that be big enough?”

“Yeah. I only have a few things here, I think.”

“Cool. Do you want to start upstairs?”

“Why not.”

You feel awkward as you slowly climb the staircase. The air between you is unsettled, and you can tell Tom’s hurt that you’re clearly less than enthused to be here. Part of you wants to soothe him, but the other part wants to run, run, run.

“Harrison not here?” You ask as you walk past his empty bedroom. You enter their spare room, which you’d been crashing in back when you’d stayed, and quickly start pulling out the odd book and bottle you’d left. Management had instructed you to leave a few things back when you’d left, and now you understand why.

“Nah, Liverpool,” Tom says. “It’s just me.” He sits on the edge of the bed, watching as you quickly pile everything into your box. “Look, Y/N, can we please talk?”

“I’m listening.”

“No, no.” Tom stands up, and you freeze as he reaches out for your arm. The second his warm fingers touch your skin, a lump comes to your throat. “I need to- we need to talk.” You stay completely still, closing your eyes as you feel him slide his hand up your arm. His palm rests on your shoulder, weighted and familiar, and the contact makes your heart pang.

“What do you want to talk about, Tom?” You ask, voice hoarse. You keep your eyes shut. The scent of his cologne is so familiar it brings back the tightness in your chest. You aren’t sure if you’re so upset because this is the last time you’ll be together, or if it has more to do with the fact that you can’t look at Tom without being reminded that he doesn’t love you.

“Come and sit down. I can make tea.”

You suck in a deep breath. “You know that I’m walking out of your house in ten minutes and probably never coming back again, yeah?” You mutter. “What’s so important that it deserves a cup of tea?”

Tom only chuckles, not seeming to mind the bitterness of your voice. “I’ll tell you. Over tea.” He squeezes your shoulder, and you finally open your eyes. Your vision swims with tears, but if he notices it, he doesn’t comment on it. “You can pack your stuff up here, and I’ll meet you in the living room. Okay?”

You nod. “Alright.”

You try to delay your conversation for as long as possible, which takes you on a short trip into Tom’s bedroom. In your defence, you don’t mean to snoop - you did, in fact, leave your favourite book on his desk - but you do also take the opportunity to have a little look around.

On Tom’s windowsill is a line of very dead plants, their leaves shrivelled and broken. You roll your eyes as you peer into the empty watering can, chuckling softly. Typical. On his desk is a pile of scripts, dog-eared and stained with the round marks of spilt tea, and crumpled clothes hang everywhere, shoved over various armrests and laying in heaps on the floor. Tom’s entire room is organised chaos.

What catches your eye, though, is the large shelf hammered into the wall. You’ve been in Tom’s room before, hell, you’d spent your last night in London in his bed, but you’d never taken the time to look up and examine this shelf. Settled in the middle of it, gathering dust, is Tom’s BAFTA. You sigh, and instinctively, you reach up and take it.

It’s heavy in your hands. You’ve felt it before, but you’d forgotten the weight of the blue glass trophy. When you’d last touched it, it’d been on the night of the show, and Tom had thrust it into your hands mockingly, making some flippant comment about it being a mark of his success. You’d immediately tossed it back at him, almost dropping it in the process, and shut him down with a snide remark.

Now, you run your thumbs over the award. The curves are smooth beneath your fingertips. You blink a few times, and two tears splash out onto the thing. As you rub them away, you take a deep, shuddering breath.

Pull yourself together, Y/N.

You swallow, and when you release a deep exhalation, you feel steadier. The award goes back to the shelf, and you pick up your box. Just ten more minutes. One conversation, one cup of tea, and ten more minutes. Then you can leave him behind.

How much can change in ten minutes, anyway?

There’s something melancholic about the way you find yourself sitting on Tom’s sofa, facing him again. You’re in the same position that you were in back when you’d customised your shoes together, before everything had gone to shit: you, leaning up against one armrest, Tom against the other, both of you with your legs outstretched and meeting in the middle. Tessa has staked her claim sitting on your feet, and as you sip nervously at your tea, you keep your eyes on her.

“So.” Tom’s fidgeting. If he’s not drumming his fingers over the ceramic of his mug, he’s picking at the strap of his watch. “I need to talk to you.”

You wince a smile. “Yeah, you keep saying that.” You take a sip of your tea. It’s still hot, and it burns the tip of your tongue, but part of you wants to down the whole thing just so you can leave. Being so close to him makes your chest sting.

Tom takes a deep breath. “I said something really stupid the last time we were together. I was… I was just going to leave it, but then I realised that doing that would be even more stupid,” he starts. Immediately, you feel yourself bristle. You can’t have this conversation again.

“We don’t need to talk about it, Tom,” you mutter. “What’s the point? I’m leaving soon.”

“Which is exactly why we need to talk about it, love.” Tom’s eyes are wide, a hint of desperation swirling in them. He sets his tea down on the coffee table and sits up straighter. “I didn’t mean it.”

You sigh, rubbing at your forehead as you feel another stab of pain in your chest. He’s really twisting the knife, now.

“I know,” you remind him. “You’ve already told me that you didn’t mean it.”

“No, no.” Tom shakes his head, running a hand through his curls. “No.” He’s visibly anxious, but you’re too perplexed to consider offering him any comfort. “I mean… I said I didn’t love you. Well, I said I loved you, and then I took it back.”

You release a sound somewhere between a whimper and a groan, and it brings on a fresh set of tears. “Yes, I remember, Tom.”

“Well, I was wrong.”

Very slowly, you look up at him. You put down the tea and bring your knees to your chest, staring at him through hard eyes.

“What?” You say, voice dull.

“I was wrong. I shouldn’t have taken it back.” “Tom.” You’re exasperated and confused. “What are you trying to say?”

“I love you, Y/N. I’m in love with you.”

Your eyebrows pull together. “What?”

“I love you.” Tom’s lips quirk into a soft, warm smile. “And- And I know you probably don’t feel the same way, and you probably don’t want to hear it, but I had to tell you before you leave. You have to know how I actually feel.” He sits forward, and his foot nudges your knee. “I love you. I’m sorry for being a dick, I just… I panicked, I guess.”

Your brain feels like it’s running slow, wading miles behind the rest of you. You’ve spent so many days coming to terms with the fact that Tom doesn’t love you that the evidence for the contrary isn’t sinking in.

“What- but you said that you didn’t love me?” You puzzle.

“I was wrong.”

You look at him. You look at him long and hard. Your eyes dissect the soft smile on Tom’s lips, the eagerness in his eyes, and the blush on his cheeks.

You don’t believe him.

“How can you get something like that wrong?” You ask him, frazzled. “Tom, I- I don’t know if I can trust anything that you say.”

Tom raises an eyebrow. “So you want it to be true?”

“What? Shut up, this isn’t about me.” You have a lump in your throat. “Tom, this is- this is about you, not knowing how you feel.”

“But I do know how I feel. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you-”

“Stop.”

You can’t take it. With every repetition, it feels like Tom’s rubbing it in your face.

“Y/N?”

You stand up from the sofa, displacing Tessa who whimpers in response.

“You’re so cruel, Tom.”

Tom scrambles to his feet too, hopping as he regains his balance. He stands in front of you. “What? What do you mean?” His eyes are wide with hurt. “I’m being honest, Y/N. How is it cruel to love you?”

Tears form in your eyes.

“You don’t get to take it back. You… First, you said that you loved me. Do you… Do you know how happy that made me?” You screw your hands into fists, voice hoarse. “I thought, for a second, that you loved me. I really, really did. I thought that we could end this stupid thing and just be happy. But then, you turn around, and you take it back. You’re not allowed to take back a declaration of love, Tom. Do you know how- how crushing that was?”

“-But-”

“No, I’m talking.” The end of your nose tingles, and you reach up to brush the wetness from your cheeks. “You… You broke my heart, Tom. Because I-” You break off, and you meet his eyes. You speak directly to him. You finally bare your soul. “I love you, Tom. I fell in love with you, and so for you to turn around and take it back-” You break off, waving a hand through the air. “It broke my heart.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice is raw, and you watch as Tom rubs at his eyes. “I didn’t know, Y/N.”

“How am I supposed to believe you?” You look at the floor, vision blurry. “How am I supposed to believe that you aren’t going to turn around in two minutes and take it back again?” You rub at your arms. “Why do you get all of the power?”

Tom steps closer, but you just move away. “Y/N, please. I don’t want to hurt you. I would never, ever want to hurt you. I was confused, but I know now more than ever how I feel about you.”

“But you have hurt me, Tom,” you say, finally looking back at him. “Our entire relationship has been us hurting each other. Why should it be any different now?”

Tom clasps his hands together, his cheeks red and ruddy. “We both know it’s different now.”

“Is it?” You release a dim laugh. “Because I feel, just now, exactly as horrible as I used to feel when we’d argue, Tom. All we’ve ever done is hurt.”

“That’s the past.” Tom’s voice is picking up now, growing in strength. When he looks at you, you see his jaw flexing. “I’m sorry for the ways I’ve acted, Y/N, but I can’t change it now. All I can tell you is that you’ll be making a bad decision if you walk out of the door.”

“I have to.” It’s too much to process - too much to think about when Tom’s looking at you so desperately. This morning you’d woken up expecting an awkward visit and then a plane ride far, far away from him. This revelation upends all of that.

“No, you don’t.” Finally, you let Tom take your hands. He runs his thumbs over the back of your palms and you whimper. “Stay. Stay here with me. Fuck PR, fuck the paps. We can be together. We can love each other.” He smiles again, softly. “Let me love you. Please.”

It’s very tempting. As Tom holds your hands tightly and stares into your eyes, you want so desperately to cave. You want to throw yourself into his arms and tell him that you love him, that yes, yes, of course you’ll stay with him. But you think back to all the tears that you’ve shed, and you look at his face, and you’re reminded of the night at the BAFTAs when he’d thrust his polished trophy into your face and bragged about it. You think about all of the times he’s made moves against you and tried to trip you up. You think about your last day together, and how easily he’d retracted his statement.

How can he stand here in front of you, and ask you to forget about all of that so easily?

“I can’t.”

You step away from Tom and instead grab your big red box. You walk quickly into the hallway, your eyes full of hot tears. He follows.

“Yes, you can.”

You sit on the stairs and start lacing up your shoes, staring at Tom angrily.

“I can’t.” Your fingers shake as you tie your laces. “I have a flight. I have a life in LA that I need to get back to. This was never part of the plan, Tom. You’re my fake boyfriend. You aren’t supposed to be my real boyfriend.”

“But you love me.” Tom’s blocking your way, his biceps bulging from his black t-shirt as he stands in front of you desperately. “You told me. You said that you love me, Y/N, and I’m telling you that I love you too.”

“Love isn’t always enough, Tom.” It hurts to look at him, to think about how easily and foolishly he’s handled your heart. “Let me go.”

“Love can be enough.” It’s his final attempt; you can see it in his eyes. “Don’t let us end like this, Y/N. Please.” He takes your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips. His mouth moves over your skin, dropping kisses to your cold skin.

You feel trapped. You know the car is waiting outside, and it’s all come on too fast, too soon.

“Tom,” you say. You pull your hand from his grasp. “Let me go.”

Tom steps aside. He finally slumps against the wall, pressing his head into his hands. “Is this what you really want?” His voice is raw, broken, and his eyes are red.

You tug your soaking jacket from the peg on the wall as you shrug haplessly. “You can’t drop these feelings on me ten minutes before I’m out the door and expect me to change my life for you.” You look at him. “It isn’t fair.”

“Fine.” Tom stands up straighter. “You should take off your hoodie, then. It’s mine. Wouldn’t be the best impression of the paparazzi to be seen wearing my clothes, would it?”

You drop your jacket to the floor and start shuffling out of the pink hoodie. It’s an oversized fit, and it comes off easily, but you chuckle bitterly. Tom’s taken everything from you - your heart, your sanity - even the very clothes from your back. What more could he possibly want to take?

“There.” You shove it into his hands and angrily pull on your coat. The sleeves are cold and damp against your skin, making you shiver. “Happy now?”

Tom looks down at the jumper. “No,” he says, voice soft. His eyes are round again, widening further as you reach for the front door. “Y/N, please.”

Your fingers linger on the doorknob, cold to touch. You hesitate. When you glance back at Tom, your resolve crumbles. As frustrated and bemused as you are, you love him. You love him, and he’s your best friend, and you’re leaving him.

“Tom,” you whimper. You step away from the door, dodging the box, and fold into his arms, crying with your face on his shoulder. Tom’s arms wrap around your back and he pulls you in tightly. “I’m sorry.” You aren’t sure what you’re apologising for - your departure, your broken heart, your tears staining his shirt. You just know you are so overcome with every emotion that it’s overflowing now, leaving your mouth in ugly sobs.

“Shh.” Tom rolls a hand over your back, patting in large circles. Your jacket crinkles at the action, and you think you can feel his chest shake. “It’s okay.”

You stay in his arms, your face buried in his neck until you stop crying. Even then, you feel clogged up and weakened. He’s so warm - his embrace strong, and comfortable. You feel protected, and when you step back, you feel your heart break again.

“I’m sorry, Tom.” You wipe at your eyes and pick up the red box. Tom’s face falls in response. “I just… I need time. I’m not- I’m not saying that we can never be together, I just… I can’t stay just now. It’s too fresh, I don’t...”

“It’s okay.” Tom steps forward. One of his hands goes to the doorknob, the other rests on your shoulder. He’s near to you - so near that you can see the flecks of pain in his eyes and the freckles on his face. His gaze flickers down to your lips. “I can wait.”

You lean in and kiss him, softly. His lips taste of salty peppermint.

“I… I’ll see you later.” You want to say it, want to tell him so desperately that you love him, but the words choke in the back of your throat.

Tom just smiles, the action not stretching to his eyes. He tilts his head towards the door. “Are you ready?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

Tom looks at the box in your hands and reaches up. He tugs up the hood of your jacket and tucks your hair into it carefully. “Safe flight, darling.”

“Thank you.”

He opens the door and steps aside, and then you’re on your own.

London Heathrow Terminal 5 is very empty. You’re sitting alone in the back corner of the waiting room, hood drawn around your face, sunglasses resting heavily over your nose. You haven’t been able to stop shaking since you left Tom’s house. Feeling numb through bag drop, security, and duty-free, it’s a miracle you’ve made it to your gate on time.

You close your eyes, and you see him. You open your eyes, and you expect to see him. He’s everywhere.

Is this what you really want..?

It plays on loop, lilted in his voice. Is this what you really want? To be sat alone, crying in Heathrow airport, when Tom is waiting back at home, finally willing to take you into his arms?

You sniff as you wipe at your eyes, furiously trying to stem the flow of tears. It had all happened so quickly; it felt almost unfair.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you’re grateful for the distraction.

Tom <3: Have a safe flight. I’m sorry for being such a dick. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I love you. I love you and I’ll wait for you. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to figure it out. I love you. Xxxxxxxxxx

You put the phone down, sucking in a deep breath. Your eyes fall to your feet. You notice, for the first time, that you’re wearing your special personalised Converse.

With shaking hands, you pull off your sunglasses and stare at your feet. The ink has run a little, obscured by the pouring London rain, but you can still make out some of the shapes Tom had drawn over them, all those weeks ago. A love heart, a flower, a couple holding hands. The lump in your throat grows bigger.

Is this what you really want..?

“Now boarding, Flight BA0269, London Heathrow to LAX. We now invite our platinum club to board.”

You sigh. You stand up and pull your backpack over your shoulders. You look back at your feet.

The love heart is wobbly and uneven, and you remember the look of concentration on Tom’s face as he’d tried his best to doodle over your shoes. The room had been so warm, back then. Just the two of you, together, finding comfort in one another’s company. It’d been simple, and you can remember looking up at him and feeling warmth for him in your heart.

Is this what you really want..?

No.

Your relationship has felt like a series of rash decisions lately, and you aren’t about to make the final, irreversible choice of leaving London. You can’t leave - not now, with the path finally clear. You can’t leave Tom, who’s finally told you how he feels. He’s messy, and complicated, and being around him makes you feel like your heart is on fire, but you love him. You love him, and maybe he’s right - maybe love is enough.

You know that you have come too far to throw it all away without giving him a chance.

You’ve never been a fan of bold, romantic gestures, but as they call your gate again, you turn off your phone and you turn around. You turn around, and you run. You run back to him.

↠ next part

[star--anon]

Work

I suck at signing asks smh Anyway, @ticklish-wilbur, *slaps tag on fic*

*ੈ ☪ ೃ༄*ੈ ✩ ೃ༄*ੈ ✧ ೃ༄*ੈ ☪ ೃ༄*ੈ ✩ ೃ༄*ੈ ☪ ೃ༄*ੈ ✧ ೃ༄*ੈ

The dying sun slowly sank into the horizon. Its blood seeped into the sky, tainting the darkening blue into a deep scarlet. The red poured onto the clouds, making it look like tiny puffs of cotton balls were drenched in blood and were now floating in the sky. From the other side, the moon poked its head up from the ground, almost like it was cautious. A few stars were accompanying the moon, sticking to it like ants to a leaf in the middle of a pool.

A few birds landed on the trees outside Wilbur's window, brightly chirping into the growing dark. Red sunlight spilled onto the birds' azure feathers, painting them a rich violet. A thin breeze shyly whispered its way into Wilbur's room, circling around the dreamcatcher hanging on his wall (a gift from Niki) and rattling the beads and feathers. The cold wind slid on his skin, causing goosebumps to erupt. The trees outside swayed to the current, waving their branches as they sang along, creaking and groaning out songs as the wind picked up speed. The leaves rustled against one another. Combined with the birds' chirping, the branches' singing, and the wind's whispering, it sounded like the forest outside was alive.

Despite the beautiful concert playing outside, the whole of Wilbur's concentration was focused on something else entirely: the scrolls in front of him.

His charcoal pencil ran across his papers in a furious frenzy. Letters and words were hastily scratched onto the dry parchment as Wilbur rushed to respond to every letter and finish every important paper he had been given. The only time his pencil ever paused was for him to grab a piece of flint and shred off a few pieces of wood whenever the charcoal started to dull.

He was so invested that he didn't even hear his bedroom door creak open, or notice someone walking in. It wasn't until a worried hand gently gripped his shoulder was he aware of his company.

"Wilbur," murmured Phil, "I think a good idea would be to put the pencil down and go to sleep."

"In a minute," Wilbur mumbled back, shrugging the hand off.

"Wilbur, you've been working nonstop for the entire day..."

"I'm busy."

"You should take a break."

"Not right now."

"Wilbur, got to sleep. Now. Put the pencil down and take a break."

The boy frowned at the sudden edge to Phil's voice, but he didn't stop his work. Other than shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he didn't react, clearly deciding that the papers in front of him were more important.

"Wilbur," Phil repeated, adding more weight into his tone. "Wilbur, put the pencil down."

"Just give me a moment. Please? Just a moment?"

"No. No, because if I give you a moment, you're going to ask for another. If I give you another, you're going to ask for a minute. If I give you a minute, you're going to ask for an hour." Phil reached out and slowly slid Wilbur's papers out from underneath his hand. Wil sighed in defeat and let it happen, although he stayed hunched over his desk and his grip on his pencil only tightened. "I meant it, Wilbur. Put the charcoal down."

"Give me a reason why I, and independent twenty-four-year-old, should listen to you?"

"Because I'm your dad and I'm telling you to."

"So what?" And perhaps it was because Wilbur was currently fueled by nothing but forty minutes of sleep and eighteen bottles of speed potions (sugar and netherwart mixed together creates a caffeine-like effect), but he was starting to feel oddly woozy. Random confidence burst into his sleep-deprived mind. He stuck his tongue out at the avian. "You gonna tell me to go sit in the corner, Dadza?"

Phil chuckled. "Nope. Even when you were young, sitting in the corner wasn't a punishment for you. But there was one surefire way to get you to listen.

"Yeah? I don't remember that." Wilbur scrunched up his face, pretending to think. His body stiffening and hands moving to cover up his stomach betrayed his knowledge of what Phil was talking about. "Was it maybe counting the three-EEE! Phihihihil!"

"Starting to remember now?" teased Phil.

"Fuhuhuhuck youhuhu!"

"Here, maybe this'll help you remember." Phil delved his hands into Wilbur's armpits and swirled his fingers around, tormenting the sensitive nerves. "Anything?"

"Y-Youhuhu're gohohoing t-toho mahahahake mehehe drohop ihihihit!" squealed Wilbur. Good charcoal pencils didn't come by often; wood and charcoal often being quite the luxury items. Wil wasn't in the mood to drop his favorite pencil and risk breaking the delicate charcoal stick inside the wood casing.

"Yes, charcoal pencils are very expensive," Phil conversationally said, almost like he had read Wil's mind. "Don't drop it because I'm not interested in spending another stack of emeralds on your pencils. You'll have to make-do with a quill and squid ink."

"I-Ihihi'm tryhyhyhying!" Wilbur just about shrieked when Phil moved to poke, prod, vibrate, and tease his ribs in any way. "Ack! W-Wahahahait! Phihihihil, cohohohome ohon, thihihihis ihihis chihihildihish!"

The avian didn't say anything back, only speeding up his fingers, which earned another shrill squeal. Wilbur thought he was playing the quiet game to further torment him until he heard Phil softly whispering, "...four... five... six... seven..."

"Ahahahare youhuhu fuhucking couhuhuhunting?!"

Phil flashed him a toothy grin. "Gotta make sure you have the right amount of ribs, right?"

"Whyhyhyhy thehe fuck-"

"Language," Phil warned. Then he paused. "Dammit, you made me lose count."

"Wh-Whahat?" giggled Wilbur.

"You made me lose count," he repeated. Phil shrugged. "Eh. We'll just start again. One... two... three... four..."

"Oho, youhuhu ahahahsshole!" Wilbur cackled. He tried to say more, but Phil dug his fingers in between his ribs and squeezed with his other hand, and his laughter went silent.

Smirking, Phil leaned closer to Wilbur, who was feebly trying to thrash his way off his chair. "I'm slooooowly making my way down your ribs... You know where I'm going next, don't you~?"

A sharp gasp came from Wilbur as his laughter slowly turned audible once more and he managed to get some air into his lungs. Still laughing helplessly, he reached out and slammed his pencil on his desk, no longer caring about the delicate charcoal breaking.

Despite this, Phil still pushed his shirt up and began to mercilessly tickle the scar on his stomach. What little break Wilbur had managed to get was immediately erased.

"PHIHIHIHIL!" the poor boy shrieked. "ST-STAHAHAHAP! I-IHIHIHI PUHUHUT IHIT D-DOHOHOHOWN!"

"I noticed," Phil simply replied. Whether or not Wilbur heard him, he wasn't sure.

The sun had left the sky, now completely hidden by the horizon. The moon inched its way up, clawing at the darkness for purchase. Thousands of stars were dragged along with it, each speck of silver light chasing the moon, as if captivated by its beauty. Without the sun around to illuminate them, the clouds faded into the dark. With the clouds no longer visible, the skies looked as though someone had spilled glistening white glitter over a pool of ink.

The birds outside Wilbur's window had left their earlier perches and flew home to sleep. The raging wind blew through the trees, ripping at the leaves and snarling loudly. The trees responded equally as loud, screeching at the gale. This was the thunderous part of the forest's song, where the gentle hums of the birds were gone, leaving only screaming and wailing from the wind and leaves.

Despite the beautiful concert playing outside (and the absolutely stunning moon who I've been trying to get the attention of for years), the whole of Wilbur's concentration was focused on something else entirely: getting away from Phil, who was blowing raspberry after raspberry on his scar.

(not revised so I'm sorry if this is terrible HHHHHHHH-) -🌟

[jetaime-jespere]

I Was Enchanted To Meet You

This is a long time in the works, and a gift to my dear friend @cmhotchniss-blog, who sent me her idea of how Aaron and Emily met. Most of the ideas are hers, and I am forever grateful she let me connect some of the dots. 💓

"I’d like to think this is how we were supposed to meet. For a brief moment in time, that’s all. To steer one another in the right direction, if you will.”

One night for Aaron and Emily has a lasting impact on them both, twenty-four years later.

A mess of metal is what’s left behind on a dusky stretch of Route 66. Shattered glass sparkles like diamonds along the wet asphalt in the darkening sky as night meets the last moments of the day. Smoke curls and hisses around the mangled frame of the SUV, the stillness of the air a juxtaposition to the chaos that wraps around them - a slew of first responders, a few ominous rumbles of thunder, the mounting traffic on the other side of the highway. It’s a cacophony of sounds and sirens, shrill and relentless, that bring them all back to the reality that it can’t get much worse than this.

Read the rest below or on ao3!

There’s shouting - so much shouting - the frantic and panicked voices from the normally imperturbable team as one of their own is pulled from the passenger seat, limp and unresponsive. It only took seconds for things to go horribly wrong. Accidents were never supposed to happen, and yet here they were, helplessly surrounding a team of paramedics who were just a little too quiet in their intense focus, their faces stretched a little too thin, a little too grey, as they bent over Emily.

Her speech is slurred; her eyes flutter and blink weakly as they fight to keep her conscious and alert, rattling off blood pressure numbers with thinly veiled concern. They abruptly push JJ to the side, curtly demanding the need for more space to work, bark directions to the hospital, and start preparing to move her into the ambulance.

On the other side, a hand with a set of bitten down nails grapples for purchase at Dave’s shirt, fingers wrapping around the folds of expensive fabric to pull him closer in one last moment of semi lucidity. With a fading grasp Emily drags him down close enough to whisper something inaudible in his ear, words meant for only him to hear. The older man frowns, eyebrows furrowing with confusion as she falls unconscious, the last lick of light disappearing behind the trees.

____

“Dad, are you sleeping?”

Aaron’s eyes snap open a little too quickly, the bowl of popcorn nearly spilling into his lap when he jumps to attention. The voice, a familiar one, is insistent, as if it’s not the first time he’s said his name in the last few minutes. “No,” he says quickly and he’s not entirely sure who he’s reassuring. “No. I was just -”

“Let me guess,” Jack scoffs, taking a large handful from his own, much larger bowl of popcorn in his lap. “Just nodded off.”

“I’m paying attention,” Aaron attempts weakly as Jack laughs under his breath and shakes his head.

“I’ve heard that before.” His son reaches for the remote to rewind the last ten minutes of the scene he’d missed, still laughing. “This is what … the third week in a row?”  While he’s right, Jack doesn’t seem bothered. The years away have made him wise beyond his years, with a patience not often possessed by hormonal teenage boys who spend most of their time with a screen in their face. Aaron often thinks his son inherited the best of Haley - her patience, for starters. He resembles her too, and every now and then, looking at Jack is like looking into a window of the past. A past that could have been a fantasy, for now it seems like so far gone.

“Something like that,” Aaron mumbles. It’s true. In the four months they’ve lived in the quaint Philadelphia suburbs of Chester County, an idyllic place without the Main Line housing prices, adjustment has taken on a new meaning once again. Gone are the fake identities, the constant checking and double checking of doors and windows, the frequent looks over their shoulders, the unsettling notion that it might not end - that this might, unfairly, be their reality. He knows they’d go to the end of the earth to find Scratch - they’d done it before to find Foyet, then Doyle. They fought monsters before, but somehow, this was different.

There had been a finality in his decision to take Jack and go into Witsec. His final act to name Emily as Unit Chief was an easy one, and while it didn’t lessen the blow of the circumstances in which he and Jack left, in a flurry of panic, reminiscent of one his son experienced once before, it gave him a semblance of peace he wasn’t expecting. A little bit of reprieve, the ability to sever ties that may never be rebuilt, to no fault of their own. The cruel and unusual situation was one that they always risked with the nature of their work, one that was always a distant possibility.

In the quiet moments, he thinks of her. The what ifs and the whys. Everything between them that was said, and what never was. What he’s never told anyone is just how long he’s thought of her in one way or another, the one night they shared together, years ago, tucked neatly away in his mind to save for nights when he wondered just how things got to be this way.

“Come on, Dad,” Jack laughs. “At least try to make it through this movie. You said you wanted to see this one.”

With a hint of guilt as his obvious disinterest, Aaron sits up a bit straighter on the couch, grips the popcorn bowl in his hands, locking his eyes on the television. The plot of the movie is already lost on him, despite it being a topic of conversation for the last several days. “Just play the movie, Jack.” He stifles a yawn into his fist and valiantly attempts to focus his attention on the screen.

Aaron is dozing when he’s interrupted again; this time by his phone vibrating on the table. He doesn’t miss Jack’s eyes flickering over to the phone. “It’s just like old times,” he sighs. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

The name on the screen is the very last he expects to see at such an hour in the middle of the week. Aaron frowns, the phone cradled in his hands as the phone vibrates insistently. It’s the familiar push and pull of guilt he feels when his eyes shift between his son and the phone again, an unexpected window into a life he long left behind. The phone keeps ringing, immediately following the first unanswered call. Not a good sign, he thinks.

“Dad?”

“I need to take this, Jack,” Aaron says quickly. It’s late enough that this is anything but a casual phone call. The blanket is tossed aside and the popcorn already forgotten. He barely hears Jack’s half-hearted protest as the phone crackles static and then connects. The voice on the other end speaks first, his tone clouded with thinly veiled fear.

“Aaron.”

“Dave.” His tone is equally clipped, even and steady even as the phone is held tightly in his hand, waiting for whatever news is about to come.

“Aaron, you need to get to Prince William Medical Center as soon as you can.” It’s the urgency in Dave’s voice that unnerves him; it sets off every warning bell in his head. His normally unflappable, at times annoyingly rational friend sounds harried and exhausted, as if it’s already been the longest of nights, as if making this very phone call was a last resort. “It’s Emily.”

Emily .

The words reverberate through his head, the implications tear through his chest like a series of spears. He knew it wasn’t good, but he didn’t expect this. “What happened?” But years of experience and unbridled heartache have steeled his nerves, tested his resolve time and time again. He should be used to this by now - bad news that haunts those he loves. But the fear is like a vice, a cold stab that wraps itself around his mind and back again.

“There was an accident.” Dave begins. It’s been a few years since he’s seen him, but through the phone Aaron can see the lines on his forehead that have certainly deepened by now, perhaps a few have been added over time as the years add up.

“Accident? What kind of accident?”

He barely listens as Dave recounts the last few hours in excruciating detail. They were on a case - local - Reston - on their way back to Quantico. A poorly timed summer storm made visibility terrible, rendering driving nearly impossible. They were sideswept by another SUV, the impact sending them careening into the median on 66 just outside of Woodbridge. It sounds like anyone’s worst nightmare - airbags deployed, the windshield shattered upon impact, the entire hood a mangled mess of metal as the car careened to a stop, the threatening hiss of the engine.

But the totaled car was the very least of their problems.

“She’s in critical condition, Aaron,” Dave says carefully, as if it’s only part of the truth, as if somehow it’s even graver than this. “She’s unconscious.” It doesn’t sound good - her head hit the window on impact, the rest of Dave’s news confirms his worst fears - a likely head injury, the extent of which they don’t know.

It doesn’t make sense. It seems like some kind of sick, ill joke - a nightmare he’ll wake up from, only to find Jack having devoured both bowls of popcorn and the credits of the movie he never actually watched rolling. “What aren’t you telling me Dave?”

“I think you’d want to be here, Aaron. It … it could go either way at this point.” Dave’s voice is so heavy, something Aaron isn’t used to. His friend was typically the voice of reason, the one he went to for assurance when things seemed to be spiraling out of control - something he did many times over. And now the tables were turned to their side, a cruel twist of fate. It takes no convincing; he’s already reaching for his jacket on the hook by the door, grappling for an umbrella shoved unceremoniously in a closet somewhere closeby.

“I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

…

“Mendoza is on his way.,” JJ says quietly as she rounds the corner with two cups of coffee in her hands. “ He just called me.”

“That might complicate things.” Dave wrings his hands and paces the tiny hallway. “Who told him?” He asks curiously. It hadn’t been long since Emily had shown up in his office one night, shoulders heavy as she relayed the news of their breakup. Dave is no stranger to the failures of love - having been thrice divorced himself. Sometimes timing was to blame, other times it was priorities. In their case it was commitment, or lack thereof, things fizzling out and hasty goodbyes, half-hearted assurances of keeping in touch, that one will call the other. Yet Dave isn’t exactly surprised to hear the news. Despite their challenges, Mendoza had been all but enamored with Emily, in awe of her at times. He wasn’t a stupid man; he wasn’t surprised when she didn’t follow him to Colorado. There was always something else that stood in her way. He just never knew exactly what.

“Word travels fast.”

“Aaron is on his way.” After a long pause, Dave scrapes a hand across his face, exhaustion bleeding through the cracks of age. “I just called him.”

JJ only nods and stares into Emily’s room with a pensive expression. “What do we tell them?”

“We tell them what we know. Hope for the best. That's all we can do.”

...

The storm takes the humidity with it, a soft chilly breeze spreading through the darkness. Aaron hurries through the hospital doors, charging past the triage nurse towards the elevators. He’s only vaguely aware of the other man that wedges himself past the doors just in the nick of time. He looks just as distracted as Aaron feels, eyes distant -worlds away - and lost in his own thoughts as he offers a quick smile, fists shoved in jacket pockets.

“What floor?” Aaron offers with a tight smile.

“The ICU.”

He nods and pushes just one button, indicating that they’re in fact going to the same place.

“I’m sorry.” The other man nods his head in solidarity, noticing the single illuminated circle on the panel, shuffles his feet, checks his watch and hangs his head. The phone in his pocket buzzes; he checks it with a resigned sigh. Aaron feels a touch of sympathy for him, wonders just what brings him there.

Except he doesn’t have to wonder much longer, because not only is Dave waiting when the doors open, but he clearly knows whoever Aaron just shared the elevator with. And judging by the way Dave’s eyebrows lift just enough at the sight of them both, practically side by side, something tells him there’s more to the story than just a simple coincidence.

“I see you’ve met?” Dave cocks his head to the side, scrubs his chin with his hand thoughtfully. “I wish it wasn’t under these circumstances.”

“What the hell happened?” The man beside Aaron demands, a little more forcefully this time.

“So you haven’t met.”

“What the hell is going on, Dave?” Aaron snaps first, his patience starting to wane. The last three hours of travel have already started to catch up with him. It’s been years since he’s had to channel his feelings into something more stoic and taciturn. It doesn’t return as easily this time. He tells himself it’s because of age and time, yet the nagging voice in his head says it’s something else entirely.

“Andrew Mendoza, meet Aaron Hotchner. The former chief of the BAU. Hotch, this is Andrew Mendoza. Mendoza was the Special Agent in Charge of DC’s Field Office. He consulted with the BAU on a few local cases about a year ago.”

“Was?” Aaron questions, quickly putting together what Dave doesn’t tell him about Andrew Mendoza. There’s only one reason why he’d be there - a reason he didn’t anticipate. He has to swallow the bitter pang of regret that rises in his throat. It shouldn’t exist at all, but a familiar feeling that has lingered just within his reach whenever he thought of Emily. The chances they never took, the timing that seemed to elude them for one reason or another. Time. It had never been on their side.

“The Denver Field Office offered me a promotion last month. My daughter and I are moving out to Colorado in a few weeks.”

“Congratulations,” Aaron says stiffly as he offers his hand. It’s obvious why he’s here - the same reason Aaron is. “I’ve heard good things about Denver.” There’s something about the news that satisfies him.

“I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances.” Mendoza glances at Aaron, then Dave, then back at Aaron again. “But what the hell happened tonight?”

“JJ didn’t tell you?”

“Just that there was an accident.”

Dave presses his mouth into a thin line, relaying the story with such tact that Aaron knows it’s an abridged version, a slightly less terrible rendition of what happened back on the highway. “We were right outside of Woodbridge. On our way back from a case in Reston. Visibility was awful. It happened so fast. Emily must have hit her head on impact. She lost consciousness shortly after the ambulance arrived. They’re considering surgery to relieve the pressure in her brain.”

Dave pauses, letting the news sink in, taking a deep breath of his own to compose his frayed nerves. “There’s a chance of brain damage but they won’t know more until after she regains consciousness.” His gaze shifts between them both, gauging their reactions.

“When will that be?”

“There’s no easy way to tell. Could be hours after the surgery. Or days. She’s not breathing on her own. It’s going to be a while before we know anything.” He repeats the doctors’ words as calmly as he can. Dave’s typically unflappable demeanor is strained; the weariness laces through his voice.

“How did this happen?” It’s Mendoza who speaks up this time, clearly distraught and searching for words of his own. He almost looks embarrassed by his uncharacteristic show of emotion.

“It was an accident,” Dave repeats as calmly as he can, as if he’s practiced this speech in his head before giving it. “No one is to blame.”

The air seems to thicken around them, the reality setting in that while it’s already been a long night, it’s only just beginning.

“We’re here because of Emily. It’s a waiting game now, as long as it might be. May as well make yourselves comfortable. There’s a waiting room just down the hallway and a cafeteria on the sixth floor, if you want some coffee. It might eat a hole in your stomach, but it’s something.”

The room around him starts to spin. Aaron can’t remember the last conversation they had - something hasty by phone, he suspects, in the days of time differences and small talk. Never awkward, but something always lingering beneath the surface. Their conversations were all about what wasn’t said - subtext, layers of awareness only they possessed.

“One other thing,” Dave adds, as if on afterthought, a fleeting thought he nearly forgot, nothing more than a passing thought. “Before she lost consciousness, she was rambling incessantly about apple pie.” Dave adds, as if on afterthought, eyes narrowing in confusion. “The best apple pie in DC. Any idea what that could be about?”

Aaron stiffens, his jaw flexing at Dave’s seemingly innocuous mention in the midst of everything else. It’s been years since he’s last seen her and another fifteen since that night, one he’s never actually spoken of out loud. It could have been a lifetime ago, a distant memory. It feels so foreign at this point he could have dreamed it. Surely he misheard - there’s no way she’d be thinking of that. He pinches the bridge of his nose, stifles a yawn into his fist. It’s about to be a very long night. “Where is she? Is she in surgery yet?”

“Not yet. She’s just down the hall.” In the distance a monitor beeps then an alarm starts to go off, punctuated by the efficient scramble of nurses. It reminds him just how much he hates hospitals, and Aaron breathes a heavy sigh of relief when they don’t go into Emily’s room.

“You can see her, you know.” Dave offers gently, sensing the growing tension. “One visitor at a time.”

It’s somehow decided, without officially being decided out loud, that Aaron will go in first. Mendoza quietly mentions something about needing to call his daughter. Not for the first time this evening, Aaron is actually grateful Jack can hold his own at home for a little while, that they’re long past those years of constant check-ins. A simple text will do in a few hours’ time. And he steels his nerves with a few deep breaths before slipping into the room, the silence punctuated by the staccato beeping of monitors and a ventilator.

She’s like a ghost, translucent almost - amidst the machines and wires. He remembers a time, years ago, when the roles were reversed. Aaron wonders if she felt the same clench of fear in her gut, the awful feeling of helplessness that came along with being at someone’s bedside in a hospital. He wonders if she felt the same desperation clinging to every nerve in her body that things would be okay.

“Hey,” he says, sinking into the hard plastic chair at the side of the bed. “It’s been awhile.” Deep down he knows she won’t - can’t - respond. But there was a moment of hope - a tiny one - flimsy and built on nothing - that maybe she would move or something to indicate she heard him. There isn’t one.

Aaron swallows the rising lump in this throat, thick and pressing right down into his lungs. “I really need you to wake up, Emily.”

...

“When’s the big move?” Dave presses Mendoza gently, asking all the questions Emily never gave answers to. He folds his arms across his chest, unable to tear his gaze from the scene before him. From his place behind the window, he watches Aaron lower himself onto a chair on shaky legs, taking a few steadying breaths as he settles beside her. He rests a weary head on his fist.

“Two weeks. Keely wanted to finish her soccer season.” Mendoza crosses his arms over his chest as his eyes follow Dave’s.

Dave nods without really comprehending the words. “You’ll have to let us know when you’re both settled out there.”

“Yeah.”

Dave breaks an awkward silence. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out between you two.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t.” By now, Mendoza’s full attention is on the scene before them both, face solemn and stiff. “What’s the story between them?” His eyes narrow ever so slightly, shades of suspicion cloud his features and his shoulders tense. Years of profiling make Dave keenly aware of these subtle changes in his behavior. He’s questioning it .

Dave shrugs. “Friends? Colleagues?” By now, Aaron is brushing Emily’s arm with his thumb, and if he isn’t mistaken, swears he sees his lips moving too. “Anything else and your guess is as good as mine.”

It seems to smooth things over for a few moments, even as something else is planted in his mind. Something he never considered at all.

…

“Have you been to Boathouse Row yet?”

It’s an attempt to make small talk as they sit down; it doesn’t get past Aaron, who stays silent, completely ignoring the question.

“So what is it you’re not telling me?” Dave passes a flimsy styrofoam cup over the small table.

“Now might not be the best time, Dave,” Aaron retorts, rolling a tiny cup of creamer in his fingers.

“We’ve got nothing but time, Aaron. Surgeon says things could take hours. She might even be conscious immediately after. And you’re not driving back to Philly anytime soon.”

He has a point . “She was talking about when we first met.” He sighs heavily as he spins the cup around in his hands. “It was a long time ago.”

“At the BAU?” Dave knits his eyebrows in confusion.

Aaron rubs his eyes tiredly. By now any movement feels like effort, the space behind his eyes starting to throb with an oncoming headache and exhaustion. “Before that.”

“You mean you knew - “ Dave stops, his coffee ignored and interest piqued. “You two knew each other before?”

“We met years ago. Would be at least twenty now.” He’s too tired to do the math of exactly how long it’s been. “We met when I was working for her mother one summer in DC.”

“I certainly had no idea.”

“No one did. It never really came up.”

“By choice or on purpose?” Dave quips, his eyes just a touch brighter than they were moments before. He chuckles when Aaron just stares right back, the hint of a smile hidden in his eyes. “So what’s the story?”

His expression is wistful, as if he were dusting off a long held memory. “It was kind of an accident.”

__

Twenty-Four Years Ago

DC

Not for the first time that evening, Aaron checks his watch discreetly and sighs into his fist. It’s only eight-thirty; who knows how long this thing will last. It wasn’t that he agreed to this. It’s practically a rite of passage when working for an Ambassador, or so he’s been told -working one of the many extravagant parties and benefit dinners that were practically part of her job description. The ballroom is full of DC’s political elite - congressmen and senators, the Secretary of State and the Attorney General. Rumor had it the Vice President would be making an appearance. For that reason alone, security was heightened, every egress monitored, yet he’s never felt more invisible in a room full of people.

Aaron spots her accidentally, but something tells him she’s not trying to blend in. The tall figure on the opposite side of the room is entirely too young to be one of them , yet she mingles easily with a champagne flute between her fingers. She’s wearing an elegant black dress with a high neck and open back. It shows off delicate shoulder blades that jut out like wings when she moves. He isn’t the only one staring.

She’s the Ambassador’s daughter - Emily . Aaron has only heard of her from the others, her name being uttered in exasperation when one of the agents finds her breaking protocol yet again - sneaking out and in at all hours of the night, slipping an endless parade of friends past the entrance logs without proper verification. He’s never spoken a word to her; he knows almost nothing about her except that she’s a student at Yale, supposedly speaks multiple languages, and has a knack for causing trouble.

They haven’t spoken a word to each other, but her eyes meet his across the square in the middle of the room that is supposedly a dance floor. His mouth goes dry and he immediately looks away when Emily excuses herself from whatever conversation she’s immersed in, only to look back seconds later to find her sauntering directly towards him , effortlessly maneuvering through the crowd.

Aaron nods a polite hello, attempting to keep his expression neutral when she’s finally closed the gap between them both.

“You know,” Emily says with amusement, eyes flicking over him. “You could at least try not to look so miserable.”

“Who said anything about being miserable?”

“It’s practically part of the job requirements if you work for my mother. Besides, you’ve been wearing the same expression since this thing started.” When she catches his look of sheer bewilderment and mild annoyance, she laughs softly. “Trust me. I’ve been to enough of these things to know what I’m looking for.”

“Are you spying on me?” He glances around, wondering just where the Ambassador even is amidst a sea of black suits. He should be keeping a close eye, after all. He strains his neck a little, scanning the crowd purposefully until he sees the woman that strongly resembles the miniature version of her in front of him.

“No. I’m just observant.” Without missing a beat, Emily waves to someone - a Congressman Aaron immediately recognizes from the news - something about a scandal involving a rather young intern under a desk - but he hadn’t been paying too much attention to remember all the details. “He’s such a scumbag,” she adds quietly without any elaboration.

He senses her reticence immediately; he wonders just how she knows all of this, if he should push, if at all “Isn’t that part of their job description to a degree?”

“Some of them,” Emily mutters. “But he’s one of the worst.”

“So I’ve heard,” Aaron murmurs, tearing his eyes away from the crowd to get a better look at her. Up close she’s even more stunning, with sharp cheekbones and a perfectly symmetrical face, her smile wide and eyes like dark orbs. “I’m sorry, have we met before?”

“I’ve seen you around. You’re the new guy.”

“New-ish. I started in March.” It comes out a bit more dejectedly than it should, but it’s hard to hide the disdain he feels for it all. Things have been far from easy over the last few months. It’s a mindless shuffle of one foot in front of the other, days that blend together similar to the ones before, with the slightest hope that a few more weeks of patience might wield a change.

“New to me.” She’s only been home for the summer a few weeks at most, so he can count on one hand the number of times he’s actually seen her. “So what’s your story?”

“My story?”

“You stick out like a sore thumb.” She cracks a grin at her own remark. “You’re too tense.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Agent …”

“Hotchner,” he fills in quickly.

“Agent Hotchner, you certainly wouldn’t be the first security detail to use this as a stepping stone to a different career. You’re all just biding time until something better comes along.” She’s so matter of fact, so assured, it’s as if she’s had this very conversation with every other agent in the room at one point or another. “It’s usually the quiet ones. They have less to prove.”

“Are we that transparent?”

“Some of you. And I can’t say I blame you. This place surely isn’t a means to an end.”

“What does your mother think of your beliefs?”

“My mother knows exactly what I think of her career and everything that goes along with it. It’s what’s gotten us to this point, actually.”

“And what point might that be?” He’s only heard of some of the epic arguments between the two of them, the harshness of their voices reverberating around the Ambassador’s office or some ornately decorated living room. The bitter clashes of two strong wills, hidden behind the fact that just maybe they were more similar than different.

“A story for a different time,” Emily says smoothly. “Can’t exactly talk about it here.”

“You’re full of stories, aren’t you?” Aaron deduces but she isn’t even paying attention anymore as she scans the crowd. He can see the wheels start to turn in her head, the flicker of an idea materializing somewhere. She turns back, this time a grin stuck to her lips. “What?” He asks reluctantly.

“Let’s get out of here.” Emily bats her thickly lashed, heavily lined eyes. “This thing is going nowhere fast. Besides, you look like you could use a break. “How long have you been on?”

“And go where?”

“Anywhere,” she says casually with a wink as she plucks a champagne flute from a nearby tray, downing it quickly. “I probably shouldn’t drive, but you can.” It’s accompanied with a flippant toss of hair over her shoulder, an expectant purse of her lips.

It’s certainly not the smartest idea or the most prudent, but something tells him Emily could care less about prudence and image. “I could be suspended for unauthorized use of a government-issued vehicle.” Not to mention, having his boss’s daughter in said government vehicle with him, or completely leaving his assignment altogether. He remembers skimming over the terms of employment months ago, specifically the section about fraternization with members of the Ambassador’s Family.

“Who said anything about one of theirs?” She looks almost bored now, tapping her fingers against the empty flute. “That’s no fun anyway. They have trackers on them. For security purposes.” She forms air quotes with her fingers. “We wouldn’t get far.”

He’s about to ask her how she even possesses that knowledge when he feels her hand on his waist, dipping into the creases of his jacket like a lover would. It doesn’t phase her, and while normally his reflexes would spring into quick action, he’s glued into place.

“You have a car don’t you?” Emily unabashedly pats his pocket, feeling for keys.

He opens his mouth to object, but she’s too fast. She grins with satisfied smirk, a triumphant click of her tongue as he stiffens awkwardly when they jingle against her hand. “You aren’t a great liar, Agent Hotchner.”

“Aaron,” he says somewhat stiffly, resignedly. He’s doing his damn best to keep his eyes centered on the ballroom but it’s getting harder and harder to concentrate on the task at hand. The scent of perfume - something undoubtedly expensive - lingers and it makes him dizzy even if he hasn’t had a sip to drink. “And I didn’t lie.”

“Aaron.” His name rolls off her tongue thoughtfully. “Aaron,” she repeats, as if it’s the first time she’s ever heard it. “I never understood why there were two A’s. What do you do with the second one?”

His head spins to keep up with her, how her mind somehow bounces from one thought to the next with seemingly little direction. “Never gave it much thought myself, actually.” From the corner of his eye he catches one of the other agents giving him a quizzical, perhaps slightly jealous, eye roll. It’s a bad idea to entertain, but one he can’t ignore. Emily is staring at him, eyes sparkling, with the slightest touch of longing. Longing for what he isn’t sure, but whatever it is, it wouldn’t be found in the middle of the opulent ballroom.“What do you have in mind?”

“I’ve been told of a place not too far from here,” she begins slowly, a smile on her face at his gradual acquiesce. “A diner that supposedly has the best apple pie in DC.”

“Apple pie?” Just how much has she had to drink?

“I’m starving ,” she offers with a hand pressed to her flat stomach. Aaron’s eyes follow, lingering up and down on her narrow frame.

“They’re about to serve dinner,” He says lamely, shaking his head to ensure he heard her correctly. Waiters have started to circle the room with large serving trays balanced precariously above their heads, passing around the plates that he guesses must cost a few hundred dollars a head, maybe more. The crowds have thinned as more guests take their seats.

Emily shrugs with disinterest. “Once you’ve been to one of these things you’ve been to them all. Besides, this is when things start to get really insufferable.”

“Is that so?”

“Someone will start talking,” Emily drawls sardonically, surveying the crowd starting to take their seats at previously assigned tables - tables he could probably rattle off by name if asked. “Make some big speech promoting their campaign trying to get reelected or whatever. Then they all will. They love hearing themselves talk.”

“Part of the job, I guess.” He stares, unsure of what to say next. Her attitude towards politics is the complete opposite of that of her mother. His interactions with his boss have been somewhat limited; he doubts if she even remembers his first name. Yet he’s seen the way Elizabeth Prentiss revels in a world seemingly dominated by men, a woman in a league of her own. He wonders just how much the Ambassador has sacrificed; wonders if her daughter might be amongst that list. It would certainly explain their tenuous relationship.

“So what do you say? Surely you don’t want to sit around listening to a bunch of old guys spout a bunch of half truths to line their pockets?” She seems unbothered yet again, almost amused by the sight in front of her - as if her premonition of how the night would go is coming true.

There’s nothing he wants less. “How do you suppose I get out of this? I’m still on the clock, you know.”

“I’ll leave that up to you.” Emily sets the champagne flute on a nearby serving tray and spins on her heel, sauntering back towards the center of the ballroom. “I’ll be outside of the South Gate when you figure it out.”

…

In the end, he makes up an excuse to leave. It’s not exactly convincing and the agent in charge doesn’t exactly believe him when he feigns an emergency - food poisoning. But Aaron has always had an exceptionally good poker face, grimacing just enough to make it look questionable, and the other agent curtly nods, grunting something about having enough security for the evening, and making up the hours later in the week. It falls on deaf ears - he’s already out the doors of the security office, a small grin playing at the corners of his lips as he strides across the asphalt driveways with his back toward the house.

Sure enough, Emily is waiting for him, finishing the rest of a cigarette when he pulls around to the South Gate. He keeps his taillights off; the less attention he draws to himself the better.

His car has seen better days, the leather seats worn smooth and the stereo outdated, the steering wheel permanently indented from the grip of his own two hands, scuff marks and faded carpets. But it’s well maintained, and Emily smiles appreciatively when he holds the passenger side door open, then explains how to adjust the seat, just in case . She doesn’t seem to notice at all, just unceremoniously tugs her long skirt out of the way of the door and kicks off her heels.

“Fucking things,” she grumbles. The heels are sharp as knives, ridiculously impractical yet Aaron can’t help but picture her wearing them in a dress much shorter than the one she currently has on. He shakes his head, reminding himself not to go there, because the reality is, she’s still his boss’s daughter, and if anyone were to see them, he’d most definitely be written up, maybe worse, for taking her off property without following protocol. But she’s close enough to touch, her arm a gentle weight against his own on the center console.

“So,” Aaron asks, his voice barely audible. He shifts the car into reverse, breath hitching when his knuckles brush against her hand. “Just where is this diner you speak so highly of?”

“Silver Spring.”

“I thought you said DC.”

“It’s close enough.” Emily tucks a long piece of hair behind her ear with a roll of her eyes. “Just trust me.”

It’s the way she says it that makes him wonder if she would do the same for him. Aaron grips the wheel in silence as the cool night air seeps through the open windows. He catches her shiver and is about to offer his jacket when she breaks the silence.

“Make a right up at the light, and then it’s a quick left.” Emily shifts in the passenger seat. Her fingers twitch as if she were still holding a cigarette between them; she tucks her hand against her cheek daintily. She’s very much aware the passenger side is nearly spotless - nothing to indicate someone sits there frequently. No wayward sunglasses or a forgotten piece of jewelry belonging to a significant other. She straightens the wrinkled fabric of her dress and lowers her eyes.She’d had him pegged wrong - certainly he’d had it all figured out, the well intended nature that comes along with a mostly idyllic existence. She imagined a naive wife or girlfriend completely enamored with him, both parties working to make ends meet for bigger and better things - not happiness, for one. That they had in spades. But maybe a white picket fence, a dog and a baby or two one day.

Instead, he seems lonely and guarded, a choice he was forced to make. Circumstances, maybe, she thinks as the traffic light ahead blinks from a glowing green to yellow, to red. It shines a little brighter than usual, a universal warning everyone should understand . It makes her shiver again.

“Here. Take my jacket” The red light gives him the chance to shrug out of the confines of his suit jacket, which he hands over. He palms the wheel a little tighter when she wraps herself into it, the fabric draping over her like a shield.

“This is the place?” Aaron studies the gaudy exterior of the diner, hard to miss and yet, the type of place you wouldn’t give a second thought. The fluorescent lighting nearly blinds him, and he’s somewhat surprised to see through the windows that multiple tables are full despite the late hour. He can hardly conceal his disbelief. “How’d you learn about this place?”

“Word gets around,” Emily says lightly as she slips her shoes back on, wincing slightly when she stands upright, nearly enveloped by his jacket. “I’ve learned not to judge a book by its cover. Maybe you should do the same.”

They find a booth in the back, tucked away from the clamor of the bustling kitchen and constant jingle of the doors. Again they’re left with nothing but silence, a few wayward glances, and two plastic coated menus between them. The haggard waitress only nods abruptly at their order - two black coffees, one with splenda and one without, one slice of apple pie, and two forks.

“You think she thinks we’re a couple?”

“I’m sure she has a lot more on her mind than us.” Aaron twists the paper straw wrapper between his fingers and studies her across the table. What he’s not expecting is to realize she’s doing the same thing - analyzing his body language with a degree of precision that matches his own, an expression that hides what she’s thinking. He wonders if she’s practiced it over time. She wears his jacket like a coat of armor yet she’s curious, the mundane quietness of the diner a stark contrast to their initial surroundings a short time ago.

“How does someone like you end up working for my mother?” Emily asks out of nowhere, direct and forward without an ounce of hesitation. It could be mistaken for an interrogation, he muses.

“Someone like me?”

“Decent. With manners. Not some macho guy with a little man complex or some baggage like that who gets off swinging his gun around.” She blows the straw wrapper across the table; it hits him square in the shoulder and stays here until he flicks it off. She doesn’t seem to notice as the waitress sets down their much anticipated order amidst a promise to come back with some cream for the coffee.

It’s his turn to laugh; he knows exactly what type she’s referring to. He could name more of them than he has fingers. “Trust me, it wasn’t supposed to turn out this way.”

Emily carves out a large bite of apple pie with her fork, eyes closing with delight as it disappears between her lips, along with a delicate moan. “This is so good.” She pushes the pie plate towards him. “So then what was it?”

“Bad timing, for starters.” Aaron stabs his fork into the jagged slice of pie, cuts off a bite for himself. His stomach growls; it’s been hours since the early dinner he’d scarfed down behind the wheel on his way back to work the shift he just abandoned. “You’re right,” he says around a mouthful of apple and pastry crust. “That’s really good.”

“Told you.” She proudly lifts her shoulders, momentarily triumphant before she digs in for another bite. But she also looks expectant, ready for an answer, even with another forkful of pie. He supposes he owes her one.

“I wanted to join the FBI,” Aaron begins slowly. It comes to him that she’s only the second person he’s ever told any of this to. He supposed talking about it would make it real, take it from a pipe dream to something that could irrevocably fail right in front of his own eyes.

“The big leagues, huh?” She waves her fork in a circle, and it takes a moment for him to realize she isn’t totally shocked. “I could see that, actually, now that you mention it. You have the poker face for it, at least.” Emily gives a little grin, one that meets her eyes. “But that didn’t happen?”

“Had the application filled out and everything. Was going to send it in.”

“So what happened?”

“My girlfriend … She didn’t like the idea. The recruitment process takes months and basic training even longer. Close to a year sometimes. Haley wanted me to do something a little more traditional. Wanted me home at 6 for dinner and around on the weekends.” He takes another bite of pie, partially to gather his thoughts, and to let Emily give her own.

“Girlfriend, huh?”

“Well.” The fork in his hand feels heavy all of a sudden; he sets it down with a clatter. “We’re taking a break right now.”

She takes in his words, chuckles a little bit. “I’m a little disappointed in myself. I definitely had you all wrong.”

“You keep saying that.” It’s more of a question than a statement, a curiosity he can’t contain.

“I took you as settled. Happy. With Haley. ” His girlfriend’s name rolls off her tongue; hearing it sounds strange, like she’s saying something she shouldn’t.

“I’m ... figuring things out. We’re figuring things out.”

“Do you love her? Does she love you?” Emily asks directly without hesitation. “If you do, there shouldn’t be much to figure out.”

He stiffens. “I don’t … not love her. But we want different things. At some point, you have to be honest with each other, right? When you can’t make it work, what do you do?”

“I’m definitely not the person to ask.” She laughs but there isn’t any humor in it, more of a resigned sadness if he looks close enough through the rough edges hidden by carefully curated appearance. “Relationships aren’t something I’ve had a ton of luck with.”

“Maybe you’re dating the wrong people.”

“Maybe.” She looks around the diner, rests her chin in her hands. “I’m pretty directionless myself at the moment, if it makes you feel better.”

“It doesn’t, but thank you.” He takes a sip of coffee, more for something to do with his hands than a need for it. He wants to know more, wants to ask just what could possibly make her directionless. Someone who seemingly had it all.

“Sounds like we’re both lost.” There’s a dreamlike tone to her voice, as if they’re sharing a secret.

“We don’t have to be.”

“If I keep going at this rate, I’ll be a bored socialite by 30 throwing cocktail parties every night and getting drunk by the pool by day.”

“Who says?”

“No one has to say it. It’s … expected of me, I think?”

“Is that so?”

“I’m certainly not following in my mother’s footsteps into politics.” She scoffs. There’s contempt in her voice, for what he deduces is years of being put second, something she never asked for but received over and over again. “What else is there for me to do? Someone has to carry on the family tradition somehow.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” Emily says, dragging her fork through some of the remaining bits of pie on the plate. She flicks a crumb into the air.  “I’ve never really had a home , you know. Most of my life has been spent overseas. Just staying in one place for a while would be nice.”

“I always wanted to get away.” Aaron laments. “From Manassas at least.”

“Well, that’s understandable. You aren’t missing much there, or so I’ve heard.” She stirs a spoon into her coffee to work in the mess of splenda packets she’s dumped in.

He watches the liquid swirl, her mezmirzation at it. Something comes to him - something he’s always wanted to know. “Is it true you speak four languages?”

Emily looks up from her coffee, temporarily distracted by his question. “Six, actually. French, Italian, Spanish, Arabic, Greek, and some Russian.” She ticks them off on her fingers nonchalantly as if she were counting inanimate objects.

He does a double take. “Six? I can barely handle English.”

“It’s always been easy for me. I just wish I knew what to do with it, you know?”

“When I applied, I remember seeing that the FBI needs linguists. People with language experience to work overseas.” He takes his own fork to the last remaining bits of the pie, watching her face carefully for a reaction. She’s almost unreadable; he can’t discern just what she’s thinking.

She laughs - not the reaction he expected. “You know, applying for the FBI would absolutely piss my mother off entirely. She would hate it if I did that. Kind of makes me want to do it.”

“She and Haley should meet. I’m sure they’d have lots to talk about.”

“You want to hear what I think?” Emily says after a few long moments, the coffee and the pie that once sat between them are now gone. “I think you should go for it. The FBI. Do it and don’t look back. And call your girlfriend. Let her talk, but tell her how you feel.”

“And?”

“If she comes back, then you know it’s meant to be.”

...

“Never even knew this place existed,” Aaron says, lingering at Emily’s elbow as they pick their way across the pebbled driveway of the diner. She’s a little unsteady on the heels now, not unsurprising given the late hour and the time they spent sitting down.

“Who knew a diner in the middle of Silver Spring Maryland would have such great pie?” Dangling from her wrist is a to-go bag with an extra slice of pie for the morning - the waitress had kindly given her one on the house - the leftovers from the day before.

“I thought New Jersey was the diner capital of the world,” Aaron muses. “New Jersey is all about their diners and traffic circles.”

“And Bruce Springsteen,” Emily adds pointedly. “He’s from New Jersey.”

“Him too.” Aaron laughs quietly. The tension in his shoulders mounts; he doesn’t want this to end. He wants to talk to her, wants to keep her there. But the moment feels final. Emily catches the wrist of the hand that reaches out to cup her cheek, wraps her fingers around it. “If things were different -” he starts quietly, looking almost embarrassed.

“I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to go, is it?” Emily leans into the weight of his calloused palm, into the touch of a man that isn’t her own. It feels foreign, like she’s taking something that isn’t hers. “I don’t think that’s in our cards, Aaron. Maybe in a different life.”

The ride back to DC is again silent, save for the crinkling of the paper bag in her lap. Aaron skips the main entrance and the long paved driveway, taking a shortcut around the massive property to the South Gate entrance. Emily side eyes him, looking slightly impressed. “Trying to remain inconspicuous?”

“I think that’s for the best.”

“I’d like to think this is how we were supposed to meet,” she offers as he pulls up to the outside of the South Gate. “For a brief moment in time, that’s all. To steer one another in the right direction, if you will.”

“Maybe.” He tells himself to pull away, curling it back around the steering wheel protectively. “Remember what I told you, Emily.” He watches her reach for her shoes, their moments together dwindling down to seconds. “Don’t live your life on the terms of someone else. Especially your mother. If our paths cross again and you’re a bored socialite throwing cocktail parties, we’ll have to talk.”

She loops some hair behind her ear, gives him a small smile. “If our paths cross again in ten years and you aren’t leading some FBI unit somewhere, I’ll have some words for you as well.” She draws a breath, carefully slips on her shoes. “Thank you for the pie, Aaron.” The creak of the passenger side door is the only thing he hears as she slips away like a ship in the night, not to turn back around.

Aaron watches her disappear across the grass, blending into the deep blue of the early morning, the sky not quite awake but out of the depths of night. She’s a shadowy dark figure amidst the promise of a new day. The clock on the dashboard nears 6:00 AM. The little red numbers glow are a reminder of the inevitable crash that will most definitely come later on. He isn’t 20 anymore, after all. But when he drives away, there’s a sense of renewal, one he can’t explain, but deep down understands.

He hands in his resignation before he can work another shift, and he never does make up the time he promised. Three days after that, he mails a thick packet of papers in a standard manila envelope to the FBI Headquarters in Quantico.

A week after that, he takes out his phone and dials Haley’s number. About thirteen years later, his son comes into the world, wailing and screaming with healthy lungs and a head of dark hair. Haley is tired and beaming, his pride is obvious as the tiny bundle is placed in his arms.

They name the baby Jack.

In some ways, the stars aligned.

He’ll sometimes wonder if Emily’s did too.

…

Present Day

“Why didn’t things ever work out between the two of you?”

Dave’s voice brings him back to reality, out of the daydream he’s held so close to his heart for so many years. It’s jarring at first, a confusing limbo of then and now, past and present blending together for a few long moments. He glances around, the harsh overhead lights glaring bright, the low hum of hospital sounds reverberating through his ears. Along with it comes the reality of why he’s there, and the bitter rush of fear that floods his consciousness.

“Timing.” Aaron spins his now empty coffee cup in his hands. “Even after Haley and I got divorced, it was never the right time.”

“You’re going to blame timing ? That’s the oldest trick in the book.”

“I never wanted to take the risk.” It’s the closest thing he can think of as truth. They built a tentative friendship after a rocky start, something built on mutual respect. His divorce brought new challenges - co parenting amidst a ridiculously stressful career, supporting and leading his team. Emily had always been one to hold her own, a silent backbone of their team, a friend to all of them. He’d relied on her, never wanted to lose what they had in hopes of something else . Ian Doyle had taken her from them all; her return was tense and it didn’t take a profiler to understand that Quantico just wasn’t home to her anymore. He let her walk away, encompassed by a fragile shell of his own tentative happiness, and in the years after she went to London, there was a permanent hole in his heart that never quite mended itself again. “Maybe I should have.”

“Love is a choice, Aaron. It doesn’t just happen. You have to choose to make things work.” Dave leans back in his seat, checks his watch, an eyebrow arching just a bit. “I thought you would have known that by now.”

“You and Krystall made a choice?”

“We still do. Every day we have to choose to love each other. Some days it’s easy. Others, not so much. But you know the best part?”

“I think you’re going to tell me anyway, Dave.”

“It’s never not been worth it, Aaron.” There’s a subtle gleam in his eye that wasn’t there before. “Something tells me you might just feel the same, if you gave it a chance.” Dave fumbles for his phone, patting the pockets of his jeans and then that of his blazer before finally pulling the phone from his breast pocket. He flips it open, his eyes widening at whatever message lights up the tiny screen.

“What is it?” Aaron asks with baited breath.

Dave looks up from his phone. For the first time since all of this began, he looks full of hope. “Emily’s out of surgery.”

…

The surgeon is pleased with the outcome of Emily’s procedure, and the air around them seemingly lightens with each minute he explains the procedure, and its success. The three of them hang on every word he says, asking questions and seeking assurances.

“She should be awake within a few hours. We’ll know more then, but her brain activity is good, and her vitals are strong. Agent Prentiss got very lucky. I have patients who often have a very different outcome.”

The relief is palpable, as if the tension was cut with a knife as they all exchange optimistic smiles and tentative handshakes, while profusely thanking Emily’s surgeon. Aaron excuses himself to call Jack - something he should have done hours ago. “I’m not going far,” he reminds Dave, his words a warning of what to do if anything changes in the next few minutes.

“We’ll be right here.”

Mendoza is shrugging into his jacket and digging for his keys with a look of resignation on his face. He catches Dave’s sideways glance. “I think it’s time I head out, Dave. Please give Emily my best wishes on a quick recovery when she’s discharged.” There’s a change in his voice, one that wasn’t there earlier.

“You’re leaving?” Dave asks curiously. “You aren’t going to stay and see Emily? It shouldn’t be much longer before we can go in.”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Why?”

Mendoza shakes his head, runs a hand over his scalp. “I learned something tonight. You know when it’s just not meant to be, but you can’t find the reason why?”

Dave nods, a glimmer of understanding appearing in his eyes. “I do. I know it very well, actually.”

“I think I found the why.” His eyes roam around before they finally land on Aaron and Dave’s do too. The phone is still pressed to his ear but he’s still staring right into Emily’s room, never once looking away, even as his mouth moves in conversation to Jack on the other end. “I tried to deny it, so did Emily. But I don’t think her heart ever belonged to me. I think it belonged to him.”

—

Emily finally wakes up a few hours later. Aaron and Dave wait outside the room as she’s tended to by a horde of surgeons and nurses, testing brain function and vital signs, spattering off medical terms with ease. It’s a language only they understand, one Aaron never wants to learn. But their voices are hopeful, they have smiles on their faces as they talk to Emily, assessing her cognition and running tests. She’s a little confused and extremely tired, but awake and alert . Dave is just as relieved to see things appear normal; they’re both very aware of just how lucky they got.

Eventually, they’re finally allowed to see her.

“Do you mind if I … “ Aaron trails off, except he doesn’t need to finish the question.

“Go, Aaron. I take it you have some things you want to get off your chest,” Dave quips. “I’m going to call the others and give them an update. They’ve been waiting awhile.” He departs with a pat of encouragement on the back, a shared moment between them.

Moments later, he’s back in her room, at her side on the same uncomfortable chair from earlier. Her eyes flicker open once again, widening almost impossibly when she sees him. Years of unanswered questions are written on her face in seconds, a shared history fraught with more than what most people experience in a lifetime. But there’s something oddly content there too, as if she woke up from a dream that has somehow materialized in front of her.

“Hey,” Aaron says softly, reaching out with a nervous hand to touch her for the first time in years . He dodges wires and IV lines, finds her fingers with his own and gives a gentle squeeze. “You’re up.”

“You’re here?” Emily blinks with confusion, still making sense of just how she got there in the first place. “But I thought you were .. you and Jack are in Philadelphia. What are you doing here?”

“Of course I’m here,” he says soothingly, ignoring her question. They can talk about that later. “How are you feeling?”

Emily gives a wry grin, slightly distorted and weak, but there. “They asked me who the President of the United States was.”

It’s his turn to smirk. “What did you tell them?”

“To ask me after 45 leaves the Oval Office,” she says without hesitation. “I think I made at least two of them laugh.” But then something comes over her face, the reality of it all setting in. “You came all this way,” she croaks, throat raw from the intubation tube. “How did you know about all of this?”

“You were there for me, remember?” He’s not only talking about Foyet, but all the years she spent at his side. The years they spent doing a dance around one another,  their steps never quite aligning. This time feels like a second chance he never thought he’d get, one he can’t mess up.

“That was a lifetime ago, Aaron. So much has happened since then.” Emily tries to sit upright, pushes herself up about halfway before exhaustion overtakes her. She grumbles in frustration; he shouldn’t smile but he does. It means the Emily he knows, the Emily he fell in love with years ago is somewhere in there.

“Take it easy,” he soothes, adjusting the pillows so she’s more vertical than horizontal. He uses the opportunity to press a kiss against her forehead. He touches his own to hers and murmurs, “That’s something I should have done a long time ago.”

A smile spreads across her face, just as brilliant as the night he met her. She remembers it all, just as well as he does. “Funny how it always seems to take one of us dying to figure things out.”

“What are you talking about?” It’s a morbid thought, one he can’t entertain for long because despite his question, there’s an element of truth to it. He brushes some hair from her eyes and tucks it behind her ear. It’s matted in his fingers and dirty yet he doesn’t even notice. His heart swells, the hand in her hair trails down to her cheek, a thumb against the blush that spreads there. “And by the way, that’s not funny.”

“I’m saying maybe after I get out of this place,” she gestures to the mess of monitors and wires and tubes, “You can ask me out on a date. Finally.”

“Anywhere,” Aaron agrees. He would go anywhere, if it meant he could be with her.

“I know a place in Silver Spring. Supposedly they have the best apple pie in DC.”

[queenmagnusao3]

AO3 Link (COMPLETE)

Lin had been in a bad mood all week.

Kya was leaving in a few days for the South Pole and she’d be gone for a whole month. She wasn’t upset with Kya, they had discussed the expectations of their relationship at length and Lin had said she was okay with the reality that Kya was going to have to be away for various periods of time.

But it didn’t mean she had to like it.                              

She was always in a foul mood right before Kya left… and while she was gone. She tried not to bring it to work with her but it was hard not to. She’d chew out some poor, unsuspecting subordinate before holing herself up in her office. She saw the knowing looks that passed between the select few who were a part of her inner circle.

It had been Mako who had made the connection between her bad moods and Kya’s trips away from the city. He had mentioned it to Saikhan who had grown a pair and said something to Lin directly. He had left her office pretty quickly, nobody speaking of it again.

But they knew. And she was honestly glad they knew.

Any friendly chatter in the bullpen died as she walked through the desks to her office, closing the door behind her without a word. She was halfway to her desk when her phone rang and she cursed loudly, crossing to the desk and yanking the phone up to her ear.

“What?!”

“Well that’s not a very friendly greeting.”

Lin relaxed a bit at the sound of Kya’s voice.

“I’m sorry. What is it?”

“I know how upset you are that I’m leaving for so long-“

“I’m not upset. I want you to go.”

Lin winced. That didn’t come out the way she meant it.

 “Just let me finish Lin. Tenzin and Pema have some event tonight and they asked if I would keep an eye on the kids. And I was wondering if you would join me.”

“Kya, I”

 “This will be one of our last nights together for a while. I know it’s not ideal but I just really want to spend as much time with you as possible.”

Oh, she was good. Most people had the wrong idea of Kya. She had somehow managed to give herself the image of being some wise and innocent master healer. But Lin knew better. Kya was much more complicated than that. And she had a rap sheet that put Su’s to shame. It wasn’t anything serious, mostly protests or defacing of property but Lin would wager most people didn’t know that about the master waterbender.

“That’s a low blow, Master Kya.”

 “I know, but it’s true. And I know the kids would love to see you. Please, Lin.”

She didn’t know when she had gone so soft but before she could comprehend how it happened, she found herself agreeing to babysit Tenzin’s kids and was actively helping Kya put the four of them to bed.

Lin slipped out of Rohan and Meelo’s room as Kya quietly followed behind her, closing the door with a soft click.

“What-“

Kya silenced her by covering her mouth with a warm hand, bringing her index finger to her own mouth in a shushing motion. She walked past Lin towards the main living area, waving for her to follow. Once they were in the kitchen Kya spent just a moment listening.

“I think we’re safe.”

“What do you mean?”

“You always need to give it a few minutes of quiet before trusting the kids are actually asleep. If they hear anything that might indicate they’re missing out on something it’s all over and we’d have to start the nighttime routine all over again.”

Lin perched on the edge of one of the counters as Kya started clearing away dirty dishes. She watched as the waterbender made small movements with her hands, the water literally bending to her will as she made quick work of cleaning off the various bits of food stuck on them. Lin mused to herself that she wouldn’t mind cleaning so much if she could make the water do most of the work for her.

“I didn’t know you were so good with kids.”

Kya laughed and Lin felt her heartrate increase at how beautiful she looked when she smiled. She looked to Lin over a shoulder.

“Lin, I’m the oldest of three siblings. Spirits, I’m the oldest of all of you. Well, except Zumi. But she doesn’t count because she didn’t live in the city growing up. Listening to you all crying and whining all the time, being a full time, unpaid babysitter… best birth control there is. Well that and being a lesbian.”

A decent stack of clean dishes was piling up and Lin hopped down from the counter, grabbing a towel and getting to work drying them.

“You’re not so bad with kids yourself, you know.”

“Yes well, I practically raised Su when my mother wasn’t home. Which was pretty much all the time.”

Lin focused intently on the plate she was drying but she could feel Kya watching her. She was working on working through her childhood traumas but it was still a sore subject. And Lin really didn’t want to talk about it right now. She hoped Kya would pick up on that and steer the conversation away from Lin’s complicated upbringing. With a rare stroke of luck the phone rang, Kya flicking her hands quickly so the water returned to the sink before bolting for the phone.

“Hello. Yes, this is Kya. Right now? I’m kind of busy at the moment. Yes, I understand. No, it’s okay. Just give me a little time. Yes. Thank you.”

Kya hung up the receiver and turned slowly to Lin with a look Lin did not like at all.

“Kya…”

“Lin, I’m sorry but I have to go. One of my mother’s old students is very ill and asked for her personally. Obviously mom isn’t coming to the city right now so I’m the next best thing.”

“Kya, you can’t leave me alone with the kids.”

“They’re asleep. It’ll be fine.”

“And if they wake up?”

“Lin, I’m sorry but I have to go. If they wake up you’ll have to figure something out. Just think of what your mother used to do if you or Su got up after being put to bed.”

Lin snorted. Her and Su wouldn’t even make it to their bedroom door before Toph would bend a piece of earth in their path that would not so gently push them back towards the bed until they got the picture and accepted defeat. Once Lin had gotten a handle on earthbending it had become more of a game. For both her and Su. Trying to see who could get the closest to outsmarting their mother. The only time Lin had gotten the upper hand before the age of 12 was when Tenzin had helped her “float” above the floor with his airbending so Toph couldn’t sense her. It was one of the few times her mother had actually said she was proud of Lin, at least out loud.

Kya walked to Lin and took her hands, planting a gentle kissing on her cheek.

“I promise you’ll be fine.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t guarantee.”

Kya rolled her eyes, moving to the door to slip on her shoes. Lin helped her with her bag and crossed her arms as Kya opened the door to leave.

“I’ll be back before the sun rises.”

“Be careful.”

“Always am, chief.”

She gave her a lazy salute and Lin rolled her eyes, watching her descend the stairs. Once she was out of visual sight Lin stomped her foot to the ground and used her seismic sense to follow Kya until she was completely out of range.

Lin let out a long sigh making to close the door. She froze as bright light flashed across the sky followed a few seconds later by a low rumble off in the distance. Her mouth got dry as she closed the door with a quiet click. Of course there would be a thunderstorm while she was on Air Temple Island alone.

She felt her chest tighten and tried to control her breathing, willing her thoughts to stop spiraling. But she couldn’t stop the memories that hit her. A darkening sky. The sound of rain as it pinged against her scorched armor. A masked face. A cold thumb pressed against her forehead…

Another loud boom of thunder sounded, close enough to make the house shudder and Lin jumped, closing her eyes tight. She felt something then. Light, barely there, footsteps running down the hall towards her.

Lin wiped her eyes quickly, just in time to relax her face as Rohan came running into the room. His heartbeat was pounding and his eyes wide with fear. At least she wasn’t the only one who didn’t care for the storm.

She softened her face into a smile and walked to him, holding her arms out. He didn’t hesitate at all before running to her and she picked him up easily, his tiny legs wrapping around her waist.

“It’s all right. It’s just a storm. I’ve got you.”

He buried his face in her chest and Lin smiled. She didn’t know why she had been so worried. She could handle this.

“Let’s get you back into bed.”

“No!”

“I’ll sit with you until the storm is gone, okay?”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Okay.”

Lin carried him quietly down the hall to the room he shared with Meelo.

“Now we have to be quiet so we don’t wake up your brother, okay?”

Rohan lifted his head from her chest and nodded quickly. She pushed open the door and moved to the small bed in the farthest corner of the room. She glanced over at Meelo who was completely covered by his blankets but thankfully still sleeping. Lin sat on the edge of Rohan’s bed and he jumped from her arms, immediately pulling his own blanket over his head. Just as she started to coax him into laying down lightning flashed again and Lin closed her eyes in anticipation of what was to come.

The storm must be right over them now because the next boom of thunder shook the house so badly that the windows rattled. Lin heard a shrill scream from one of the rooms down the hall and she watched as Meelo shot 4 feet into the air on a gust of wind, startling awake.

Perfect.

Lin carefully uncovered Rohan, the young airbender not waiting for an invitation before jumping back into Lin’s arms. They stood and turned to where Meelo now sat with his eyes wide and staring.

“Come on, Meelo. You can ride on my back.”

Lin suspected that Meelo wasn’t actually all that frightened of the storm but wasn’t going to waste the opportunity to take full advantage of Lin’s offer. He jumped on her back and she felt it in her knees. When did the kid get so heavy? He got into a more comfortable position and Lin lead them all into the and down the hall towards Ikki’s room.

“Ikki?”

A small head popped out from under her blankets. Lin walked to the edge of the bed and started to sit, Meelo jumping from her back and perching on the corner of his sister’s bed while Rohan curled up against her chest. The rain was coming down hard now and the thunder and lightning was going off at regular intervals.

Rohan was still holding tightly to Lin and as she looked at Ikki’s nervous face she knew there was only one thing to do.

“Ikki, move over so I can lay down next to you.”

The young girl’s face lit up in apparent surprise but she moved over without a word. Lin pried Rohan from her arms and laid him on the bed next to Ikki before shuffling herself into the position next to him.

“Can, can you be in the middle? Just so I know you’re really here.”

Lin refrained from letting out a sigh before she shifted Rohan to her other side, inching herself closer to Ikki. She immediately nestled into Lin’s side and she could feel her heartbeat slow. Meelo was already asleep sitting up against the wall and Lin was hopeful she would be able to sneak away before long.

Of course, the universe had other plans as the loudest crack of thunder yet rang out across the sky. Even Lin herself jumped at the sound and Ikki let out another shriek. Meelo seemed a bit more concerned now as he moved closer to Lin, taking up the spot between the wall and Ikki.

“Are you guys okay?”

Lin started as she looked up to see Jinora standing in the doorway. That girl really was twinkletoes the third, she hadn’t even heard her approach.

“Everything is fine. It appears not everyone is a fan of the storm.”

“Oh, okay. I’m glad everyone is okay.”

Lin raised an eyebrow as Jinora still lingered in the doorway.

“Maybe you can come join us and help me keep an eye on these three?”

The teenager’s face relaxed as she climbed up to join them, curling up at the foot of the bed with her head against Lin’s legs. There was another flash of lightning and Lin decided she had had enough. Before the thunder could disturb them she wriggled her right hand free from under Ikki and made a quick, violent movement with her hand. Thick slabs of earth shot up from the floor to the ceiling, soundproofing their little room against the raging storm outside. She had left a small opening by the doorway so she could make her escape once they were asleep again.

It didn’t take long for the four tiny heartbeats to slow to a resting pace but it was then that Lin realized she was in the unfortunate situation of not being able to move without risking waking everyone up again. She took in a deep breath and weighed her options. She could move in one quick motion and hope for the best. But she was already so tired and didn’t want to deal with any more bedtime routines. She supposed she could just close her eyes for a bit, at least until the storm had passed. She shifted slightly, getting as comfortable as she could with the gaggle of airbenders she was surrounded by. She’d just close her eyes for a few minutes…

///////////

It had taken Kya longer than she expected to return to the island, the thunderstorm making it impossible for the ferry to make the trip across the bay. She hoped Lin was doing okay, last she knew Tenzin’s kids weren’t overly fond of storms.

What Kya didn’t expect was to find Lin completely passed out in a bed with her nieces and nephews draped all over her. Rohan had his head on Lin’s chest, her arm wrapped around him protectively as an impressive drool stain spread across Lin’s shirt. Ikki and Meelo were back to back on Lin’s other side, Ikki hugging Lin’s arm close to her as she rested her head on Lin’s shoulder. Jinora was curled on her side at the foot of the bed, her head resting in between Lin’s sprawled legs.

Lin’s face was more relaxed than Kya had seen it in a long while. Even in sleep, her partner was full of tension but right now she looked peaceful. Kya smiled as she backed out of the room, avoiding the large stone slabs Lin must have used to shelter the room from the loud sounds of the storm.

The house was quiet and Kya dragged herself to Tenzin and Pema’s empty bed, determined to get a little bit of sleep before the sun began to rise. She smiled again as the image of Lin and the kids snuggled together flashed in her mind. She laid her head down, sleep overtaking her as soon as her eyes had closed.

[kechiwrites]

tension headache

Ground Zero x Publicist!Reader

wc: 2.2k

“Being Ground Zero’s publicist comes with its own set of challenges, luckily there are quite a few benefits to sweeten the deal.” warnings: anal play, dirty talk, light degradation, light spanking, d/s undertones (or overtones w/e), bakugo being the king of bullies

author’s note: i’ve been writing this since august and it’s finally done. special thanks to @lady-bakuhoe​, @some-kindofgnome​, and @nightly-tales​ for betaing! 

Your head is throbbing. The sort of building tension headache you became most familiar with in high school; the kind that starts in the morning and gets stronger with every little irritant. You’re sure it's a tension headache from having your shoulders hunched up to your ears most of the day, a seemingly ever-constant by-product of trying to keep Pro Hero Ground Zero from biting a journalism student's head off. The obscenely large TV hanging above the receptionist’s desk plays Ground Zero’s greatest hits on mute as your heels click-clack towards the steel and glass elevators. 

It’s almost the end of his patrol and you know he’ll be up soon, sidekicks and assistants (two this month, because the first had the good sense to resign soon, lucky bastard) in tow. Four consecutive texts rattle your phone in your pocket to confirm this. Each one an iteration of “on our way up!.” Waving at his secretary, you let yourself into his office setting your purse on the floor. Further behind you can already hear the clamor of voices and activity that announces Ground Zero’s arrival, people no doubt scurrying out of his warpath lest they incur his wrath. He pushes open the heavy door and says nothing to acknowledge your presence. 

Your forehead throbs with irritation at the snub. You know it’s only a matter of time before either of you begin to push the other’s buttons but your employer seems to have a secondary quirk he uses only for you.

You like to call it Extreme Irritation.

“Would it kill you to be nicer to the press?” You give first, sitting on the overstuffed leather couch pushed against the easternmost wall underneath a frankly, unnecessarily large, framed photo of U-A’s graduating class. “Why do you insist on making my job so hard?”

“Can’t pay you for fucking nothing,” he scoffs, leaning against the desk in the center of his office. Carefully he divests himself of his gauntlets, handing one to his senior assistant, and placing its twin onto the desk next to his big gaudy nameplate, muttering; “Take this to Yumikawa, I think I broke the fucking thing.” When he’s halfway past the threshold, Ground Zero adds, “And tell her to do better with her shitty paint jobs!” His gaze snaps to the newest recruit, a tiny shivering thing who looks like a stiff wind could blow her over, “What the fuck are you standing there for? Go with him! Do I have to fucking tell you everything?”

She practically leaves a dust cloud in her wake. You roll your eyes and begin reading through news updates on your tablet, nails clicking lightly against the screen. Tweet after tweet and article after article summarize Ground Zero’s latest exploit, every title and byline more sensational than the last.

“Ground Zero Overshadows Daring Rescue with Another Tirade!”

“Is Ground Zero the Meanest Pro-Hero Ever?!”

‘imagine ground zero calling you stupid 🥴 #imahole’

You could almost laugh if it weren’t for the startlingly large amount of retweets on that last one. Finally, the pro hero deigns to address you; “I did as you asked, I smiled, I laughed, I didn't blow anyone up.” He actually sounds proud. You blubber in shock. “You called the reporter a fuck wit! They can't even air that!” For good measure you hold up the tablet to replay a heavily edited fancam of Ground Zero sneering at some poor junior reporter. “Isn't that what you wanted? Less of my insults on TV?” He is so smug, it drives you crazy. “Not like that!” You toss the tablet onto the couch beside you and stand, stomping towards Bakugo, who’s leaning against his desk, clenching his jaw, arms crossed, as if he didn’t spend the entire morning making you wish you’d never laid eyes on him. The two of you are growing more and more irritated with each other and it’s evident in the rapidly rising volume of your conversation.

"I'm serious, if you want to be ‘Number One’,” you stress through your teeth, “people have to like you, at least a little bit. That. Includes. The. Press.” Every word is punctuated with a strong poke to his sternum, and you try to ignore the pain of jabbing your finger into his brick wall of a chest. It feels as though the pristine white collar of your button-up shirt is digging into your throat while you try to restrain yourself from biting his stupid, perfect nose off.

Now it’s Bakugo’s turn to roll his eyes, “People like me.” He looks to his sidekicks for confirmation and you pointedly ignore them bobbing their heads in unison.

“Who?! Who are these people that like you?”

Bakugo gestures wildy at his sidekicks, “They like me!”

“They’re afraid of you! They respect you but they don’t like you!” You shake your head in disbelief.

“You like me!” He barks at you.

You almost choke on your surprised laughter. He really was absolutely ridiculous.

“I have to like you, you pay me!”  

“That’s right. I sign your cheques, you deal with all the media bullshit and make me look good.”

“You make it impossible for me!” If it weren’t for the intense tunnel vision your arguing was giving you, you would have seen Ground Zero’s sidekicks inching slowly towards the door.

“Well maybe you’re just shit at your job!” He turns away from you to push papers to the side of his desk, the gesture a clear dismissal that only serves to rile you further.

“Oh fucking bite me, Katsuki!” As soon as it’s out you slap your hands over your mouth, eyes wide as dinner plates.

You were exhausted and tense and so mad but it’s not what you agreed on, never at work and never in front of subordinates. In an instant it’s like all the air’s been sucked out of the room. Bakugo’s expression is furious when he whirls on you. You chance a look over at his assistants and all colour has left their faces, ‘Impressive,’ you think idly, ‘Considering Haruto is literally purple.’ 

“Out. Now.” He growls, and his teeth are clenched together so hard you think they might shatter, his throat is rapidly turning red and his hands are clenching and unclenching around nothing. The sidekicks hesitate and you’re a little grateful for their loyalty. 

“Fucking out. NOW!” He yells, and they nearly fall over each other trying to get out the door. 

“And there goes the loyalty,” you murmur while you watch their hasty retreat. “I’m sorry,” you say, turning to face him head-on, apology punctuated with the slamming shut of his office door. You focus on the wall of windows behind him, the city skyline slowly lighting up in the nighttime, preparing for an infamous Ground Zero meltdown. “That was inappropriate, especially in front of subordinates.” Idly, you wonder what the theme this time will be; Disrespect? Insubordination? Or just a good old-fashioned dress down? He’d become quite wordy over the years, you were almost beginning to enjoy them.

While you muse Bakugou inches closer to you, cheeks a mottled red. His shoulders rise and fall repeatedly, like he’s bringing himself down from the peak of his anger. For a moment you think he’ll just outright scream in your face, but when he pulls you, first towards him and then past him until your stomach presses against his desk, you realize quickly what he’s planning. 

His forearm presses against your back until you’re bent over his desk, your hands palm down between the wood and your chest to prevent your face meeting the cool oak. It’s bordering on humiliating how easy he can manipulate you. But they don’t teach hand to hand combat in the business sector, and although you’d toyed with the idea - being in a high-risk industry and all - you never put stock in seriously learning. 

The blond’s hand snakes over your shoulder, slightly damp palm advancing until it’s pressed against the smooth flesh of your throat. Katsuki pulls you towards him this way, and for a short moment breathing is a laboured task. The other hand makes quick work of divesting you of your skirt and underwear, coming down in an instant to make contact with your bare ass. He rubs at it covetously, a shallow attempt at soothing your stinging skin. 

There’s no formality when he thrusts into you, only a few seconds between feeling  the head of his cock parting your embarrassingly slick folds and him being fully seated within you. You grit your teeth against a whine, fingers scrambling for purchase when he withdraws and fucks into you again, and then again, pace slowly gaining momentum until you can swear the heavy oak desk (and seriously that thing weighs a fucking ton) is shifting with the force.  Your stomach presses painfully into the gilded metal decorating its edge but it’s good. Katsuki is so fucking good at taking you apart with every inch he drives into you. Above you he mutters lowly about how fucking wet you are, how eager you must’ve been all day, waiting for him to fill you. It goes on like this for a while, you bouncing between his hips and the desk, him whispering filthy, untrue shit in your ears that makes your nipples hard and your breathing shallow. 

He places his free hand on your back, first up under your shirt, then slowly slides it down, until it’s resting on the roundness of your ass again. You don’t know what he’s planned till his thumb’s parted you, sliding softly over the clenched furl of muscle above your stretched open cunt. 

“Bakugou, no!” you whisper hoarsely, your voice just edging on hysterical as you struggle against his hold. 

“Excuse me?” He hisses between his teeth, thrusts not slowing for a second. The hand around your throat tightens and when he pulls you closer so his sneering mouth is brushing the shell of your ear, you unwillingly tighten around his dick in response. 

“(Y/N),” his voice is almost pleasant, and had you not been split open on his cock in his office, you’d ask him who taught him an ‘interview voice’. 

“Can you tell me who's name is on the building?” While he teases you, you can feel yourself getting wetter around him, thighs tensing and relaxing with the sensation of being spread open beneath him.

“Yours.” You wish you could fall through the fucking floor.

“I’m sorry?” His thumb presses a little more insistently against your pucker. The pressure is foreign, but not at all bad. Dear God, you’re really about to let him do this to you.

“Yours, sir.” You pant, the burning sensation in your cheeks and neck a mix of exertion and shame.

“Fucking say it,” Katsuki tightens his hold on your throat and your whimpers are barely audible over the sound of his hips brutally meeting your ass.

“G-Ground Zero.” you choke out through your clenched teeth. 

“Oh good, so you can read!” Katsuki releases you from his hold and you fall forward. With every thrust, your feet lift off the floor, and you lurch forward like a ragdoll. Katsuki pushes his thumb further inside you, belly-laughing when you cry out in pleasure.

“Where’d all that resistance go, sweetheart?” His digit fucks in and out of you in tandem with his cock, keeping you full constantly. “You know what? Next time, I’m gonna take my time stretching you, keep you wide open, maybe you can wear a plug for me, huh? And then after you’ve been soft and needy all day, I’ll slide right into you, fuck you till you gape for me.” 

You’re incapable of firing back, mouth occupied with moaning incoherently while you drool against the desk. Katsuki chokes off his own moan, using his unoccupied hand to hike up your leg so he can have easier access to your clit. The calloused pad of his fingertips press hard against you. He goes so slow, pushing and nudging at you until your entire body feels feverish and your climax takes you by surprise, forcing a yelp from your lips when your legs begin to shake. 

“That’s it. Come for me. Come on my dick.” Once he’s sure you're done, he pulls his finger from your ass and releases your leg, blanketing your back with his chest. His hips are quick to lose their rhythm as he fills you, ropes of his spend coating your insides. Katsuki shudders against you, hands running a course along your hips. He pulls away, the evidence of your time together sliding down the inside of your thigh without Katsuki’s cock to hold it in.

“I’m going back to working for Hawks.” Your voice is hoarse when you can finally speak again and levering your chest up off the desk onto shaky knees only serves to make your head spin more. You glare at your boss your boyfriend as he dresses.

Katsuki’s grin is derisive while he tucks his softening dick away, “Like fuck, you love working for me way too much to work for that fuckin’ pretty boy.” He leans down in front of you and slides your underwear up from your ankles back into place, followed by your skirt before pressing soft lips to your forehead, smoothing his hands over your cheeks. 

At least your headache is gone.

taglist: @enjifuckersupreme @pleasantanathema