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kiwriteswords · 4 months ago

Note

more bombshell reader and maybe jealous hotch!!

Something in the Way She Moves

Masterlist || Ao3

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Bombshell Female Reader||Word Count: 20k!!

Tags/Warnings: No use of Y/N, canon-typical violence, canon-typical themes, spoilers/mentions of past character's death(s), hurt/comfort, jealousy, fluff, angst, breakups, forbidden romance, smut, sex without protection, yearning Hotch, Reader is Hotch's Boss, holidays, Reader has hair, cheating if you squint (not on each other; not Reader on/by Hotch), mentions of alcohol at social setting, bombshell reader, possessive Hotch, jealous reader

Sypnosis: As the new section chief of the BAU, you’re determined to lead with professionalism—despite an undeniable connection with Aaron Hotchner, the stoic unit chief who understands you like no one else. When your growing romance draws scrutiny from the Bureau and threatens both your careers, breaking things off feels like the only choice. But resisting your feelings is easier said than done, and navigating the fallout proves more complicated—and personal—than either of you anticipated.

Aaron Hotchner had always believed in rules. They provided structure, a way to ensure order in the chaos of the world he inhabited daily. He lived by them—until you walked back into his life.

When you first stepped into Erin Strauss’ old office as the new Section Chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, Aaron had already known you would get the job. Not because you were an excellent candidate, though that was undeniable, but because he had written the letter of recommendation that tipped the scales. He’d been the one to argue your case, to convince the higher-ups that your tactical mind, people skills, and years of leadership in the Child Abduction and Serial Killer Unit made you the right choice.

He knew he couldn’t take on the job himself. He didn’t want to sacrifice his time in the field or more time away from Jack. Things with Beth had just mutually ended, and he knew now wasn’t time for a big change in his career. His team needed stability, too. He knew where to find it for them. He couldn’t think of a better boss for himself or his team.

But what Aaron hadn’t expected was how your presence would shift the ground beneath his feet.

From day one, you were everything he remembered—commanding, intelligent, and stunning. But there was a new energy to you now. Your style was impeccable, all sharp lines and elegance, yet undeniably bold. You wore heels that clicked purposefully against the tiled floors, and your perfume lingered just long enough to be distracting. Every room you entered turned its attention to you, though you never seemed to revel in it. You worked hard—harder than anyone—but also knew how to treat yourself. Aaron admired that, envied it even.

And then there was the personal side, the one you didn’t show many. The way you smiled when you spoke about your niece’s upcoming recital. The way your laugh, a warm and genuine sound, filled the briefing room when someone cracked a joke. You were extra, yes—extravagant even—but never entitled. You could be sharp-tongued and exacting, but you were also kind and humble. You never asked anyone for anything you wouldn’t provide for yourself.

You were a paradox, and Aaron found himself drawn to you more every day.

The first time the two of you crossed the line, it had been... unplanned.

It was late, the kind of late where the bullpen was empty except for the faint hum of desk lamps and the rhythmic clicks of Aaron typing. You had come down from your office, a mug of tea in your hand and a softness to your expression he rarely saw as you popped into his opened door.

“You’re still here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” he replied, looking up from his laptop as you perched on the edge of his desk.

The conversation started as work but soon meandered. Aaron had always valued your opinion, and it wasn’t unusual for the two of you to linger over cases. But that night, as the hours stretched on, there was a shift.

“I’ve always admired your dedication,” you said quietly, your gaze steady on him.

“Thank you,” Aaron replied, his throat tightening.

“And the way you fought for me to get this position... Aaron, it means more than you know.”

There was a vulnerability in your voice, a crack in the armor you so carefully maintained. Aaron wasn’t sure what compelled him, but before he could second-guess it, his hand covered yours where it rested on his desk.

That simple touch was all it took to change everything.

Weeks passed before either of you acknowledged what was happening. It started innocently enough—a lingering glance across the briefing room, the brush of hands when passing files, the way your voices softened when it was just the two of you. But it didn’t take long for the connection to deepen, slipping past the professional boundaries you had so carefully constructed.

Aaron would find himself texting you late at night, ostensibly to discuss case details, but the conversations often veered into personal territory. It wouldn’t take long until you crossed the boundary, deciding the messages weren’t enough phone calls were needed. He learned that you hated mornings but loved the ritual of your complicated coffee orders, that you missed the simplicity of fieldwork but thrived in your new role because it gave you a broader sense of impact. You learned that he still struggled with guilt over Haley, that he missed spending more time with Jack but refused to let his son see his father falter.

The shift wasn’t dramatic, but it was undeniable. The way you looked at him during meetings lingered too long, your gaze softening when you thought no one else was watching. The way he always stood a little closer to you than necessary, catching your perfume—an elegant mix of jasmine and citrus—that lingered long after you walked away. The stolen moments became something he craved, something he couldn’t ignore.

Aaron knew it was wrong—or, at the very least, complicated. But the way you saw him, truly saw him, made it impossible to stay away. Aaron had met a lot of people in his life, nobody who completely saw him. It was almost as if he spent his whole life searching for it, for it to be looking him in the face all of these years.

The first time he kissed you, it was in your office.

You were pacing, heels clicking against the polished floor, your tailored suit jacket hanging neatly on the back of your chair. The soft silk blouse you wore glimmered faintly in the dim light, catching his attention more than it should have.

“Can you believe this?” you muttered, gesturing toward the papers on your desk. “A dozen forms to approve before tomorrow, as if I don’t already have enough to do. And the Director wants an update on—”

“Stop,” Aaron interrupted gently, his deep voice cutting through your frustration.

You froze mid-stride, turning to face him. Your expression softened slightly, but your eyes—those piercing, calculating eyes that could read anyone in a heartbeat—searched his face for answers.

“What is it, Aaron?” you asked the edge in your tone melting into something warmer.

He stood from the chair opposite your desk, his broad shoulders and crisp suit making him seem even taller in the small space.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he admitted, his voice quiet but firm.

Your brow furrowed, confusion flickering across your features. “Do what?”

He stepped closer, his dark eyes locked on yours, his presence overwhelming in the best way.

“Pretend that I don’t want more.”

For a moment, the air between you stilled, charged with an unspoken tension that had been building for weeks. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came. Instead, you tilted your head, studying him with the same intensity you reserved for interrogations.

And then your free hand moved, reaching up to curl into his tie, the silk fabric slipping easily between your fingers. You tugged gently, pulling him toward you, your breath mingling with his.

“Aaron,” you murmured, a faint warning still lingering in your tone.

But he didn’t stop. His hand rose to cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone. Your skin was warm, impossibly soft, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt anything so grounding.

The kiss started tentative, almost hesitant, but the moment your lips met, it shattered whatever walls remained between you. You leaned into him, your other hand finding its way to his chest, where his heart pounded beneath the crisp cotton of his shirt. His other hand slid to your waist, his fingers pressing lightly against the curve of your hip, steadying you as you deepened the kiss.

You tasted like mint and something sweet, and Aaron thought he might be losing his mind. The world outside your office door ceased to exist; there was only you, your warmth, your intoxicating presence.

When you finally pulled back, your cheeks were flushed, and your breathing uneven. His tie was slightly askew, and your fingers still clutched it loosely as if unsure whether to let go.

“Well,” you said, your voice teasing but laced with something raw, something real. “That’s one way to solve a bureaucratic nightmare.”

Aaron chuckled softly, his forehead resting briefly against yours.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, though he didn’t look it. He certainly didn’t feel it.

“Don’t be,” you replied, your fingers brushing the lapel of his jacket. “Just... don’t make me regret this.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice steady.

And he meant it. Whatever came next, whatever complications or consequences arose, Aaron knew one thing for certain: this—you—was worth it.

Aaron Hotchner had never been one to let himself indulge—not in anything that wasn’t for Jack, at least. His life revolved around necessity and function, keeping his head above water while ensuring those around him could do the same. Haley and Beth had been simple…these minor things didn’t appeal to them. But with you, indulgence didn’t feel frivolous. It felt... right.

The kiss had been a turning point. It wasn’t just the line crossed—it was the invitation to something more. After that moment in your office, there was no going back. Within days, the two of you had quietly shifted from colleagues to something undeniably personal. By the end of the first week, Aaron had asked you out, and to his surprise, you’d agreed without hesitation.

Your first date had been dinner at a small but elegant restaurant nestled in the heart of Georgetown. Aaron had chosen the spot carefully—upscale enough to meet your polished tastes but intimate enough to keep prying eyes at bay.

“I have to admit,” you’d said over a glass of sauvignon blanc, “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to keep up with me.”

Aaron had raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Keep up with you how?”

Your expression had turned playful, your eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “Let’s just say I’ve been accused of having... expensive taste.”

Aaron had leaned back in his chair, swirling his whiskey casually. “You think I don’t know that by now?” he teased. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met who insisted on a specific brand of bottled water for office meetings.”

“That’s called maintaining standards,” you countered with mock indignation.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “Don’t worry. I might be frugal, but I’m not struggling. And I like to spoil the people I care about.”

The admission had caught you off guard, he could tell. Your confident demeanor had faltered just enough for him to notice, and for a moment, you’d looked down at your glass, your smile softer. “Well,” you’d said finally, meeting his gaze again, “I won’t complain about that.”

By the time you’d gone on a few dates, Aaron found himself more at ease with the idea of what you were becoming. It wasn’t just the shared dinners, the quiet moments in the corners of bars, or the back seats of dimly lit movie theaters. It was the way you fit into his life so seamlessly. Despite your differences—you with your love of extravagance and meticulous planning and him with his pragmatic approach and quiet restraint—you balanced each other.

You worked well together, too. Surprisingly well. If anything, your meticulous attention to detail and unrelenting standards had only strengthened the BAU. Aaron had always considered himself by the book, but compared to you, he realized he could be downright lenient.

“You’re more Type A than I am,” he commented one night after a case briefing, leaning against the doorframe of your office.

You glanced up from your perfectly organized desk, where every file was stacked at precise right angles. “Is that your way of saying I’m bossy?”

“Not at all,” he replied, his tone teasing. “I’m saying you’re by-the-book to a fault. It’s impressive, really.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “Says the man who color-codes his case files.”

“Touché,” he admitted, crossing his arms over his chest. “But I don’t panic at the thought of bending the rules when necessary.”

Your expression sobered slightly, and Aaron noticed the way your hands stilled over the papers in front of you. “I just... I don’t want to give anyone a reason to question me—or us.”

Ah. There it was.

“You’re worried about telling the Director,” Aaron said, stepping further into the room.

Your silence was answer enough.

Aaron sat on the edge of your desk, his presence grounding. “Things are going well,” he said firmly. “The team respects you. Cases are running smoothly. We work together seamlessly. There’s no reason for anyone to take issue with this—unless we give them one.”

You looked up at him, your expression vulnerable in a way few ever saw. “But what if they do? What if they say it’s inappropriate or unprofessional? I could lose this position, Aaron.”

He reached for your hand, covering it with his. The touch was gentle, but his grip steady, reassuring. “You won’t lose it. You’ve earned this. No one can take that from you.”

“But what about you?” you asked quietly. “If this affects your place on the team...”

“I won’t let it,” Aaron said with conviction. “We’ve handled worse than bureaucratic red tape. Besides, I think the Director has bigger problems than two senior members of the BAU in a consensual, functional relationship.”

Your lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Functional, huh? That’s romantic.”

Aaron smirked, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “What can I say? I’m a realist.”

You shook your head, your laughter soft but genuine. “I don’t know how you stay so calm about this.”

“Because I’ve spent my life trying to control everything,” he admitted. “And I’ve learned the hard way that some things are worth the risk.”

Your gaze lingered on his, the weight of his words settling between you. And for the first time since this all began, Aaron saw the tension in your shoulders ease.

“Okay,” you said finally, your voice steady. “We’ll tell the Director. Together.”

Aaron nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Together.”

In that moment, as the two of you sat in the quiet comfort of your shared understanding, Aaron knew one thing for certain: whatever the future held, you were worth it. Every risk, every consequence—you were worth it.

Aaron Hotchner had walked into more high-pressure situations than he could count. Interrogating unsubs. Negotiating with armed suspects. Delivering heartbreaking news to grieving families. But as he sat outside the Director’s office with you beside him, he felt a knot in his stomach that rivaled even the most tense of standoffs.

You sat with your legs crossed, your polished heel bouncing ever so slightly—a nervous tick Aaron had come to recognize. You were dressed impeccably, as always, your tailored blazer sharp enough to cut through steel. But Aaron knew you well enough to see the tension in the way you smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from your skirt or adjusted your necklace.

He reached over, his hand brushing yours lightly. “We’ll be fine,” he said quietly, his voice low enough not to carry.

You turned your head, offering him a small smile, but the doubt in your eyes was unmistakable.

Before he could say more, the assistant opened the door. “The Director will see you now.”

The Director’s office was a testament to order and authority. Every book on the shelves was carefully aligned, the awards and commendations behind the desk displayed with precision. Aaron Hotchner had sat across from this desk many times, but today, the air felt heavier. He wasn’t just representing his team or defending a decision. Today was personal.

The Director greeted them with a curt nod, gesturing for them to sit. Aaron glanced at you as you settled into the chair beside him, your posture immaculate, your gaze steady. He knew the nerves beneath the surface were hidden behind that calm, polished exterior.

“You wanted to discuss something... personal,” the Director said, leaning back slightly, his hands folded on the desk.

Aaron cleared his throat and straightened in his chair. “Yes, sir. We wanted to inform you about our relationship.”

The Director’s eyebrows rose slightly, but his face remained unreadable. He waited, prompting Aaron to continue.

“We’ve been seeing each other for some time now. We’ve taken every precaution to ensure it doesn’t interfere with our work or the team’s performance. Cases continue to run smoothly, and morale remains high. We believe—”

The Director raised a hand, signaling for Aaron to stop.

Aaron exchanged a brief glance with you. The air seemed to grow heavier.

“I appreciate your honesty,” the Director said, his voice even, almost sympathetic. “But this isn’t acceptable.”

You leaned forward slightly, your tone measured but firm. “With all due respect, sir, we’ve maintained professionalism at all times. There has been no impact on the team’s dynamics or efficiency.”

The Director sighed and leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful but resolute. “This isn’t about professionalism or efficiency, though I trust that both of you believe you’ve kept those intact. It’s about perception. The BAU is already under a microscope. The media, oversight committees, politicians—they’re all waiting for any reason to scrutinize this unit further.”

Aaron shifted in his seat. “Sir, we’ve handled public scrutiny before. We’ve worked under immense pressure and still delivered results. I believe—”

“You believe,” the Director interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “But this is not about what you believe or how well you perform. It’s about how this looks. Two of the highest-ranking members in the same unit, in a romantic relationship? It opens doors for questions about bias, favoritism, and poor judgment.”

You stiffened slightly, and Aaron could feel the tension radiating from you.

“We’ve had to address optics before,” the Director continued, his tone less stern and more weary. “When Erin Strauss was here, we allowed too much to slide—her personal struggles, her decisions that created friction within the team. It put the BAU in a precarious position, one we barely recovered from. And now, with our history, with every move under scrutiny, I can’t let this slide. Not again.”

Aaron pressed his lips into a thin line, forcing himself to remain composed. “Sir, neither of us would let this compromise our responsibilities. Our records speak for themselves.”

The Director nodded slowly. “They do, Hotchner. Both of you have impeccable records, and I trust your intentions. But this isn’t about trust. It’s about precedent. If I allow this, what message does it send? That personal relationships among senior staff are acceptable? That the rules don’t apply here?”

You spoke next, your voice calm but resolute. “We’re not asking for special treatment. We’re asking for acknowledgment that this doesn’t interfere with our ability to lead.”

The Director exhaled, his tone softening. “I understand what you’re saying. And if the world operated on logic alone, I might agree. But the reality is perception matters. The BAU is too visible, too scrutinized. I can’t allow this.”

“What are you saying?” Aaron asked, though he already knew the answer.

“I’m saying one of you has to transfer, or this relationship ends,” the Director said evenly. “Those are your options. I won’t dictate which path you choose, but this arrangement cannot continue while you’re both in these positions.”

The finality in his tone hit like a cold wind. Aaron’s fists clenched in his lap, though his face remained impassive. Beside him, he could feel you bristling but holding yourself together.

“Is there any room for reconsideration?” you asked, your voice level but tight.

The Director shook his head. “I wish there were. I respect both of you immensely. But this is a line we can’t afford to cross.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

“I can draft up some reccomendsations for units to transfer,” he continued, “But I’d warn you, that may put a bigger target on your back with the brass.”

“Is that all, sir?” you asked finally, your voice sharper than you likely intended.

“That’s all,” the Director replied, his tone tinged with something almost regretful.

The Director’s words still echoed in Aaron Hotchner’s ears as you stormed out of the office, your heels clicking sharply against the tile floor. Aaron trailed behind you, his thoughts spinning, barely registering the brisk pace you set.

When you reached the bullpen, you didn’t stop. You headed straight for the stairs that led to the upper offices, bypassing your usual elevator ride. Aaron hesitated for a moment before following, his long strides catching up to you as you pushed through the door to your private office and let it slam shut behind you.

For a moment, Aaron stood outside, his hand hovering near the doorknob. He could hear you moving inside—papers rustling, a muffled sigh, the creak of your chair as you sat heavily into it. He took a breath and opened the door, stepping inside and closing it quietly behind him.

You didn’t look at him. Instead, you stared at your desk, your hands resting on its polished surface as if grounding yourself. Your jaw was tight, your expression unreadable, but Aaron had known you long enough to see the storm brewing beneath the surface.

“This is ridiculous,” you said finally, your voice low but trembling with barely contained frustration. “We’ve done everything right. Everything. And it still doesn’t matter.”

Aaron didn’t respond immediately. What could he say that wouldn’t feel hollow? That he agreed? That he hated the situation just as much as you did? None of it would change the reality bearing down on both of you.

“We’ll figure this out,” he said quietly, though the words felt inadequate even as he spoke them.

Your head snapped up, your eyes blazing as they met his. “How, Aaron? How do we figure this out? Do I transfer? Do you? Do we just pretend we’re fine with throwing everything away?”

Aaron opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. He’d been in impossible situations before—ones where no option felt right, but he had to choose anyway. This time, though, the stakes felt different. He wasn’t deciding a case, balancing strategy and risk. He was standing on the precipice of losing something he hadn’t even realized he needed until it was almost too late.

When you finally looked away, your shoulders slumping under the weight of the conversation, Aaron allowed himself a moment to think. To really think.

He imagined what it would mean to leave. Retiring from fieldwork had crossed his mind before—Jack was growing up fast, and Aaron had often wondered if he was missing too much. But the idea of stepping into a more conservative role, away from the pulse of the work, left a hollow ache in his chest.

And then there was you. He thought of you sacrificing your position, giving up this incredible opportunity that you had earned through sheer determination and talent. The thought twisted his stomach.

Aaron couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t let another person give up so much of themselves for his job. He had promised himself, after Haley, that he wouldn’t let his work consume anyone else. That was why he had let Beth go so easily when she wanted more for herself and her career.

But you weren’t Haley or Beth. You were different. You were his equal, his match in every way that mattered. And yet, the guilt and shame of letting you make that kind of sacrifice—for him, for them—was unbearable.

“You shouldn’t have to leave,” Aaron said finally, breaking the silence. His voice was steady, but the weight behind the words was impossible to miss.

You looked at him sharply. “And you think you should?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I can’t ask you to give this up. I won’t.”

Your hands curled into fists on the desk, and Aaron saw the flicker of pain in your eyes before you looked away. “So what? We just... stop?”

Aaron exhaled slowly, his heart aching at the rawness in your voice. “I don’t want to,” he said honestly. “But maybe it’s what’s best.”

Your laugh was bitter, your head shaking. “Best for who? Them? The optics? Certainly not us.”

Aaron stepped closer, his hands resting on the edge of your desk. “It’s not fair,” he said quietly, meeting your gaze. “None of this is. But if we keep fighting this, it could hurt the team. It could hurt you. And I can’t live with that.”

Your eyes glistened, but you blinked quickly, refusing to let tears fall. “So that’s it? We just... agree to walk away?”

Aaron’s throat tightened. “I don’t want to,” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I think we have to.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you felt heavy, suffocating as if the weight of what you were agreeing to was pressing down on both of you at once.

Finally, you stood, your movements slow and deliberate. You rounded the desk, stopping just in front of him.

“Do you really think this is the right thing to do?” you asked, your voice cracking just enough to betray the strength you were trying to hold on to.

“No,” Aaron admitted, his own voice hoarse. “But I think it’s the only thing we can do.”

The words hung in the air like a final verdict, sealing something neither of you wanted to face.

When you stepped closer, your hand resting lightly on his chest, Aaron’s heart broke a little more. He covered your hand with his, holding it there for a moment as if trying to memorize the feeling.

“I hate this,” you whispered, your eyes meeting his one last time. He didn’t miss the tears beginning to well in them. It was instinct to want to look away, it was a sight too painful to unsee, but he found himself still looking through to you.

“So do I,” he replied, his voice raw.

And then, as you stepped back and let your hand fall away, Aaron felt the loss like a physical blow—a kick to the knees. You walked past him, your steps unsteady but resolute.

He didn’t turn to watch you leave. He couldn’t. All he could do was stand there, alone in your office, knowing that this decision—the right one, the necessary one—was going to haunt him for a long time.

The weeks that followed were some of the hardest Aaron Hotchner had endured, and that was saying something. He had always prided himself on compartmentalizing, on keeping his personal life from bleeding into his work. But this—you—made that impossible.

The day after the decision, you had returned to work with the same polished professionalism you always displayed. Your suit was impeccable, your tone measured, and your focus sharp. But Aaron saw the cracks beneath the surface. He saw the way your eyes avoided his during meetings, the way your smiles—rare as they were now—never reached your eyes.

And it wasn’t just you. Aaron could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, a constant ache in his chest that no amount of distraction could dull. He would catch himself looking at you across the bullpen, remembering how it felt to have you close, to hear you laugh in those unguarded moments. The memories were like splinters—small, sharp reminders of what he’d lost.

He wondered if it were some sort of sick joke. That once again, here he was, Aaron Hotchner choosing the job over what was right in front of him.

The team picked up on it quickly, though they didn’t understand the cause at first.

“Something’s off,” Morgan said one afternoon, leaning against Aaron’s office door.

Aaron didn’t look up from the file in front of him. “What do you mean?”

Morgan shrugged, his casual demeanor belying the concern in his eyes. “You and her,” he said, nodding toward your office. “I don’t know... You two used to be so in sync. Now it’s like there’s this... distance.”

Aaron’s jaw tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. “We’re fine. Just busy.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but he didn’t press further. Still, Aaron knew the others had noticed it too. Reid’s hesitant glances during meetings, JJ’s subtle attempts to smooth over the tension, and even Garcia’s uncharacteristic silence when she addressed the two of you.

The pain of working together was a constant, gnawing ache. Every interaction felt like walking a tightrope, balancing professionalism with the unspoken emotions neither of you could completely hide.

During briefings, Aaron found himself hyper-aware of you. The way you avoided sitting too close. The way your voice would falter, just slightly, when addressing him directly. It was subtle, so subtle that no one outside the team would notice. But Aaron noticed.

You rarely joined the team in the field, but you were more present than Strauss’ constant absence due to her dislike of fieldwork when in your role. Even in the field, the strain was palpable. The easy rhythm you had once shared was gone, replaced by clipped exchanges and a formality that felt wrong coming from you.

“You’re clear on the approach?” Aaron asked during one such mission, his voice firm but hollow.

You nodded, your tone equally curt. “I am.”

It was efficient. Professional. Everything it needed to be. But it wasn’t you. At least not the you he knew.

The worst moments came in the quiet, in the spaces between the chaos. Late nights at the BAU, when the rest of the team had gone home and the building was quiet. Sometimes, Aaron would catch a glimpse of you in your office, the light from your desk lamp casting long shadows across your face. He wanted to go to you, to break the silence and bridge the gap, but he never did.

One night, as he packed up to leave, he saw you sitting at your desk, your head in your hands. You didn’t notice him watching, and for a brief moment, he considered walking in, saying something—anything. But then you straightened, brushing a hand through your hair, and the moment passed.

Aaron turned away, the pit in his stomach growing heavier with each step he took toward the exit.

The team never said anything outright, but Aaron could feel their unease. They didn’t know the details—didn’t know that the two of you had once been something more, or how close you had come to risking everything to stay that way. But they felt the shift.

JJ tried to smooth things over with small acts of kindness—bringing coffee, lightening the mood in meetings. Morgan watched both of you with quiet curiosity, his usual teasing replaced by a patience Aaron hadn’t expected. Even Garcia, ever perceptive, gave him a long, searching look one day before sighing and saying, “You know, you can talk to us, right? About anything.”

Aaron had nodded, offering a faint smile he didn’t feel. “Thanks, Garcia.”

Months passed, and the ache dulled, but it never went away. Aaron learned to live with it, to bury it beneath the weight of his responsibilities. He told himself it was the right decision, the only decision, but there were moments—late at night, when the silence was deafening—when he let himself imagine what could have been.

And you—he could see it in your eyes, the way you carried the same weight. You were just as professional, just as efficient, but there was a sadness in you now that hadn’t been there before. It mirrored his own, and that was perhaps the hardest part of all.

You were both doing what you thought was best. And it was killing you.

The bullpen was unusually quiet when Aaron Hotchner stepped out of his office. His team was gathered around JJ’s desk, their conversation hushed but animated. The moment his presence registered, they all straightened slightly, trying to appear busy.

Aaron didn’t buy it for a second.

“Morgan. JJ,” he said, his tone even but curious as he descended the steps. “What’s going on?”

JJ exchanged a quick look with Morgan before speaking. “Oh, uh, nothing, Hotch. Just catching up on some... Quantico gossip.”

Aaron arched an eyebrow. Gossip wasn’t something his team typically indulged in—not during work hours, at least. “What kind of gossip?”

Morgan rubbed the back of his neck, a rare flash of discomfort crossing his face. “The kind that probably shouldn’t leave the locker room, but since it’s about someone we all know... it didn’t sit right with me.”

Aaron’s jaw tightened as he stopped a few feet from the group. “Who?”

Morgan hesitated, glancing at the others. Emily crossed her arms, her expression skeptical but intrigued, while Penelope fidgeted, clearly torn between curiosity and concern.

“Look,” Morgan started, his tone careful, “it’s about…You know—”

Aaron’s stomach sank. He didn’t need Morgan to say your name to know exactly who he meant.

“Go on,” Aaron said, his voice clipped but controlled.

Morgan sighed, leaning against the desk. “JJ and I were at the gym downstairs yesterday. I was in the locker room, and I heard some guy—one of the suits from Finance, I think—talking about her.”

Aaron’s chest tightened as Morgan continued.

“He was bragging about how they’ve been... seeing each other,” Morgan said, his expression darkening. “But the way he was talking—man, it was gross. Like, disrespectful. He was sexualizing her in a way that made my skin crawl.”

JJ chimed in, her voice tinged with frustration. “He called her a ‘great ass with brains’—as if that’s all she is. Then he made some comment about how lucky he was to have caught her attention.”

Aaron’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“I told him to knock it off,” Morgan said, his tone sharp. “Told him it wasn’t cool to talk about her like that—especially in a damn locker room, where anyone could hear.”

Penelope’s mouth fell open, her indignation bubbling to the surface. “You’re kidding me. He said that in the locker room? What kind of—ugh! Men are the worst sometimes.”

Emily smirked faintly, her voice dry as she added, “Not all men. Just most.”

Rossi, who had been quiet up until now, leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. “So she’s seeing this guy? Or is he just running his mouth?”

Morgan shrugged. “Couldn’t say for sure. But he seemed pretty confident.”

Aaron’s jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He could feel the team’s eyes on him, but he refused to let his expression betray the storm brewing inside.

“Hotch,” JJ said gently, her voice pulling him back. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Aaron said curtly. “But I need to remind all of you that gossip—about anyone—isn’t appropriate here. If there’s a problem, it needs to be addressed through the proper channels.”

The team exchanged glances, but no one pushed further.

Aaron returned to his office, closing the door behind him with a bit more force than necessary. He sank into his chair, staring at the stack of files on his desk without really seeing them.

The idea of you seeing someone else didn’t sit well with him. Not because you didn’t deserve happiness—you did, more than anyone. But because the thought of you with someone who didn’t appreciate you, who reduced you to nothing more than your appearance or used you as a bragging point, made his blood boil.

He hated the way that man in the locker room had spoken about you. Hated that it had happened at all.

And yet, there was something else eating at him. Something sharper, more selfish.

Jealousy.

The idea that you might have moved on—might have found comfort in someone else’s arms—cut deeper than he wanted to admit. He had no right to feel this way. The two of you had made your decision, painful as it was, and he had to live with it. But knowing you might be with someone else, hearing those crude words about you... it was unbearable.

Aaron rubbed a hand over his face, willing himself to focus. He couldn’t afford to let his emotions cloud his judgment. Not now. Not ever.

But as he sat there, the words from the locker room replaying in his mind, he couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that he had let you go too soon. Too easily.

And it was killing him.

Time had a way of dulling pain, or so Aaron Hotchner told himself. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. The ache of what had been and what could never be dulled into something he carried silently, like an old injury that flared up when the weather changed. But it never went away.

And then he found out for certain.

He hadn’t meant to overhear the conversation—it was the kind of thing he normally tuned out. But as he passed by the kitchen in the Quantico building, he caught the tail end of a conversation between two agents from a different unit, their voices low but not low enough.

“Yeah, they’ve been going out for a while now,” one said, his tone carrying an unmistakable edge of smugness. “I can’t believe he managed to lock her down. She’s way out of his league.”

The other laughed. “I heard she’s really something. Smart, gorgeous, the whole package. Lucky bastard.”

Aaron didn’t need to hear your name to know exactly who they were talking about.

He found himself sitting in his office later that day, staring blankly at the case file in front of him. The words on the page blurred together, his focus shattered.

You were seeing him—the man from Finance. The one Morgan had overheard in the locker room, the one who had spoken about you like you were nothing more than a conquest.

Aaron’s jaw tightened, and his chest ached with something that felt dangerously close to regret. He hated the thought of you with someone who didn’t truly see you—who didn’t appreciate the sharpness of your mind, the strength in your character, the way you carried yourself with grace and confidence even under the heaviest burdens.

And yet, what right did he have to feel this way?

You had every right to move on. Every right to find happiness where you could. It wasn’t your fault that he couldn’t shake the lingering shadow of what the two of you had shared—or what might have been if things had been different.

As the weeks dragged on, Aaron tried to bury himself in his work. He tried not to notice the way you laughed at something someone said in the bullpen or the way your eyes lit up during a briefing when an idea struck you. He tried not to think about the nights you spent with someone else, someone who wasn’t him.

And then Beth called.

It had been months since they’d last spoken, her name long buried in the recesses of his mind. But there she was, her voice warm and familiar, asking how he was, how Jack was if he might want to grab coffee sometime.

Aaron hesitated.

He thought of you—of the distance that had grown between you, the way your conversations were now stilted and professional, the warmth that used to linger between you replaced by a polite coolness. He thought of the man from Finance, the way his name had crept into conversations around the office, always tied to you.

Maybe it was time, Aaron thought. If you had moved on, maybe he should too.

He met Beth for coffee and then for dinner. She was as kind and understanding as he remembered, her smile easy, her company pleasant. But something was missing.

With you, there had been a fire—a spark that made every conversation electric, every glance charged with something unspoken. With Beth, it was different. Comfortable but muted.

Still, Aaron told himself it was the right thing to do. Jack liked her, and she was good to him. Maybe this was what he needed—a reminder of what it felt like to let someone in, to have a life outside the walls of the BAU.

But no matter how much he tried, Aaron couldn’t shake the feeling that he was going through the motions. He couldn’t stop himself from comparing every moment with Beth to the moments he’d shared with you.

When Beth laughed, it wasn’t your laugh. When she reached for his hand, it didn’t feel the same as when you had pulled him close in the quiet of your office.

And every time he saw you in the hallways of Quantico or across the table during a case briefing, that ache in his chest flared anew.

Aaron knew he had made his choice. He had chosen to let you go, to protect the work and the team, to do what he thought was right. And now, he was trying to live with that choice, even as it slowly unraveled him from the inside.

But as he sat in his office late one night, the bullpen quiet and empty, Aaron allowed himself a single, fleeting moment of honesty.

He had moved on.

But not really.

Because a part of him—the part he tried to bury beneath duty and responsibility—would always belong to you.

Aaron Hotchner sat at the head of the conference table, scanning the stack of case files in front of him as the team settled into their usual seats. The murmur of conversation drifted around the room—Morgan and Emily debating the odds of another late-night call, Penelope slipping a fresh report to Reid, Rossi sipping a coffee that smelled distinctly stronger than the usual bullpen brew.

You entered last, heels clicking sharply against the tile floor as you carried yourself with the effortless confidence Aaron admired. You placed your tablet on the table and glanced around the room, your polished demeanor demanding attention without a single word.

“Before we get into case updates,” you began, your voice calm but firm, “I wanted to bring something to everyone’s attention.”

Aaron leaned back in his chair, already anticipating the shift in focus. You had a way of setting the room’s tone that even Rossi respected, and your next words proved no different.

“As most of you know,” you continued, your gaze sweeping across the team, “the Bureau’s annual holiday party is coming up. And while I’m well aware that the BAU has a reputation for... skipping it, I feel this year it’s important that we all make an effort to attend.”

That got their attention. Emily’s eyebrows lifted, Morgan tilted his chair back with an incredulous grin, and Penelope froze mid-sip of her elaborately decorated coffee.

“Come on,” Morgan said, his tone half-teasing. “You can’t be serious. You know those parties are all stiff handshakes and bad speeches.”

You smiled faintly, unruffled. “I’m very serious, Morgan. This isn’t about the party itself—it’s about the message it sends.”

Aaron noticed the way you paused, your gaze flickering briefly in his direction before continuing. “After the last few years, it’s important that we show the brass that we’re aligned with their expectations. It demonstrates that we care about appearances and that we’re just as invested in maintaining relationships as they are.”

There it was. A subtle but unmistakable reminder of why things between you and Aaron could never be, woven seamlessly into a broader point that the rest of the team couldn’t grasp fully.

Morgan raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You mean to tell me we’re going to this thing to rub elbows with suits who don’t know what we actually do out here?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,” you replied, your tone calm but edged with authority. “Appearances matter. And it’s our job to ensure those appearances align with the professionalism the BAU stands for.”

Aaron watched as the words settled over the team, their expressions shifting from mild amusement to begrudging understanding. You had a way of cutting through their resistance without belittling them—a skill Aaron had always admired.

“Plus,” you added, a faint smile tugging at your lips, “I’ve been assured the band will be better than last year’s.” You paused. “And an open bar.”

That earned a soft chuckle from Penelope, who set her mug down with a small shrug. “Well, if it’s formal attire and a better band, I suppose I could make an appearance.”

“Attire is black-tie,” you confirmed, your gaze sweeping the room. “And yes, plus-ones are welcome. But I expect every one of you to be there. No exceptions.”

Emily leaned back in her chair, smirking. “Guess that means we all have to dust off our evening wear.”

“I have a tux,” Reid offered quietly, drawing a chuckle from Rossi.

Aaron remained quiet, his focus trained on you. He could feel the weight of your words—not just the direct ones, but the subtext you didn’t need to spell out. He knew why you were pushing for this, why it mattered so much to you. And he hated that he understood.

As the meeting wrapped and the team began to filter out, you lingered behind, gathering your tablet and a small stack of papers. Aaron stood as well, pausing briefly near the door.

“Formal wear suits you,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You glanced up, your expression unreadable but your eyes betraying the smallest flicker of something softer. “I expect to see you there, Hotchner. On time.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, his tone carrying a faint edge of humor.

But as he left the room, his chest tightened with the familiar ache that came every time he was near you. Formal appearances, aligned expectations—he understood all of it.

But that didn’t mean it hurt any less.

The Bureau’s holiday party was exactly what Aaron Hotchner had expected: polished, overly formal, and steeped in thinly veiled networking. The grand ballroom at the hotel downtown was decorated in muted gold and deep red, elegant but impersonal. A string quartet played softly in one corner, their music adding to the ambiance without drowning out the hum of conversation.

Beth stood beside him, dressed in a sleek black gown that flattered her in every way. Her brunette hair was swept into a low chignon, and her smile was warm as she introduced herself to the occasional colleague who passed by. She looked stunning, and Aaron knew that anyone in the room would agree.

But when you walked in, Aaron forgot how to breathe.

You entered the ballroom on the arm of Jeff from Finance, a name that Aaron had come to resent more than he cared to admit. He was wearing a garish plaid tuxedo jacket that screamed “trying too hard,” and his broad grin made Aaron’s jaw tighten. But none of that mattered—because you were radiant.

Your gown was a deep emerald green, the kind of color that made your eyes seem brighter, your skin glow. It hugged your figure perfectly, the fabric shimmering faintly under the chandelier light as you moved. Your hair, styled elegantly but effortlessly, framed your face in a way that made Aaron’s chest ache. You looked... otherworldly.

Aaron had always known you were beautiful. It was an undeniable fact, one that had never gone unnoticed by anyone who crossed your path. But tonight, you were something else entirely. You weren’t just beautiful; you were extraordinary, like a rare phenomenon that people spend their entire lives waiting to glimpse.

When you stepped into the room, it was as though the world tilted slightly, every sound dulling, every light dimming except for the one that seemed to follow you. Aaron’s breath hitched, his chest tightening as a strange, almost childlike awe settled over him. He felt like a boy again, staring up at the stars for the first time and realizing just how vast and infinite the universe could be.

You were that kind of beautiful. The kind that made time seem to pause, as if the room itself was holding its breath just to take you in. You were the kind of beauty that inspired poetry and music—the kind artists yearned to capture and always failed to do justice.

And in that moment, Aaron finally understood why men wrote poetry, painted masterpieces, composed symphonies, and created entire films in honor of women like you. It was all a desperate attempt to grasp something fleeting, something divine, and pin it to the earth long enough to keep.

It wasn’t just your gown, though the deep emerald green shimmered like it had been made for you, highlighting the curve of your shoulders and the elegance of your frame. It wasn’t just the way your hair fell, soft waves framing your face in a way that seemed almost unfair. It was something deeper, something impossible to put into words.

Aaron felt it in his chest, a deep, aching yearning that he’d never experienced before. It was amazement, pure and unfiltered, like seeing magic for the first time and realizing it wasn’t a trick. It was real. You were real. And yet, you didn’t feel like something he could ever touch.

He couldn’t stop staring, and for a brief, dizzying moment, he didn’t care who saw. The logical part of his mind—the one that always kept him grounded—was overruled by something more primal, more human. How was it possible, he wondered, for someone to look like that? To exist in a way that felt so rare and unattainable and yet so deeply, painfully familiar?

He thought of how easily you commanded the room, not by seeking attention but simply by being. It wasn’t forced, and it wasn’t deliberate. It was just you—this singular, dazzling presence that made everyone around you seem to fade into the background.

Aaron had never felt this way before, not even with Haley. Not even with anyone else he’d allowed into his life. This was something else entirely, something more profound and unsettling. It wasn’t just admiration or attraction. It was belief. Belief in something he hadn’t even realized he’d been missing.

And then he saw Jeff beside you, his tacky plaid suit clashing with the elegance of everything you were. The man who didn’t seem to understand how lucky he was, who treated your presence like a status symbol rather than a gift.

Aaron’s stomach churned, his skin crawling as jealousy flared sharp and unrelenting. He hated it—hated the way it burned, the way it clawed at the edges of his composure.

But what he hated more was the knowledge that he had no right to feel it.

You weren’t his. And yet, watching you from across the room, Aaron couldn’t help but think you never truly belonged to anyone. You were too rare for that. Too extraordinary.

And God, how it ached to know he had let you go.

He forced himself to smile at Beth as she laughed at something Rossi said, but his attention kept drifting back to you. He hated the way Jeff hovered near you, his posture possessive and his grin smug. He hated the way Jeff’s gaudy suit jacket clashed with the elegance of your dress, as though he didn’t understand how lucky he was to be standing beside you.

More than anything, Aaron hated the feeling crawling under his skin—the sharp, searing jealousy that he couldn’t shake. It was worse than anything he had felt before, even when Haley had been unfaithful right in front of his face. This was different.

Haley’s betrayal had stung, yes, but it had been rooted in a relationship that had already begun to fracture. What Aaron felt now was raw and consuming, made worse by the knowledge that he had no claim on you. You weren’t his.

You never would be.

Beth touched his arm gently, drawing his focus back to her. “You okay?” she asked, her voice soft.

Aaron nodded quickly, plastering on a polite smile. “Of course. Just thinking about the week ahead.”

Beth gave him a knowing look but didn’t press further. She turned her attention back to Rossi, leaving Aaron with his thoughts.

He glanced toward you again, catching the way you laughed at something Jeff said. It wasn’t the laugh he remembered—the soft, genuine sound that used to fill his office late at night. This one was polite, reserved, a laugh you gave when you were being kind but not necessarily amused.

It was a small comfort but not enough to quiet the jealousy raging in his chest.

When you caught his eye from across the room, Aaron felt his breath hitch. Your gaze lingered for a moment—just long enough for him to see the flicker of something in your expression before you turned away, a polite smile on your lips as you greeted someone else.

He had made his choice. You had made yours. But standing there, watching you with someone like Jeff, Aaron couldn’t help but feel like he had made the wrong one.

And yet, there was nothing he could do but endure it.

So Aaron turned back to Beth, his expression carefully neutral, and let the music and the hum of conversation fade into the background. But the ache in his chest didn’t go away.

It never did.

Aaron Hotchner stood at the bar, waiting for the bartender to return with his order. The room buzzed with conversation and the occasional burst of laughter, the hum of the holiday party continuing around him like static. Beth was across the room, talking animatedly with one of the Bureau’s administrators, her glass of white wine nearly empty.

He had volunteered to get her a refill, partly because he wanted to give her a moment to network uninterrupted, but mostly because he needed a moment to himself. Maybe Beth would sell a painting or two with the amount of stiff suits in the room thought, he thought.

The sight of you with Jeff—laughing politely, your hand resting lightly on his arm—was wearing thin on his composure.

The bartender slid a fresh glass of wine and a scotch across the counter, and just as Aaron reached for them, he heard the unmistakable click of your heels behind him.

You didn’t say anything at first. You simply sidled up beside him, so close that he could feel the faint warmth of your body through the fabric of his suit. The scent of your perfume—something soft and alluring, with notes of jasmine—drifted over him, making his pulse quicken.

Aaron didn’t turn his head, but he felt the air shift between you. His grip on the glass tightened as he fought the urge to look.

Finally, you broke the silence.

“I hate you here with her.”

The words were quiet but sharp, cutting through the hum of the party like a knife. Aaron froze, his breath catching as he turned to look at you.

You weren’t looking at him. Your gaze was fixed on the row of liquor bottles behind the bar, your expression calm but your eyes betraying the storm beneath.

He swallowed hard, his voice low and steady. “And you think I like seeing you here with Jeff?”

You let out a soft, bitter laugh, finally turning to meet his gaze. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The tension between you was palpable, crackling like static electricity in the small space that separated you.

Then you leaned in, so close that Aaron could feel the warmth of your breath against his ear.

“Do you know what I do?” you murmured, your voice almost a whisper. “I imagine it’s your hands on me instead of his. It makes it... easier.”

Aaron’s heart slammed against his ribcage, the weight of your words knocking the air out of him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but stare at you in stunned silence.

You straightened, your expression unreadable but your lips curling into a faint, almost sad smile. “I thought you should know.”

His throat felt dry, his voice caught somewhere between his chest and his mouth. He wanted to say something—anything—but nothing came.

Before he could gather his thoughts, you stepped back, your gaze flickering briefly to his hands, still clutching the glasses. “Your drinks,” you said softly, the faintest hint of something unspoken lingering in your tone.

And just like that, you were gone.

Aaron watched as you crossed the room, your hips swaying, your gown flowing gracefully behind you as you returned to Jeff and the group of section chiefs. You slipped back into the conversation effortlessly, smiling and nodding as though nothing had happened.

But Aaron knew better.

He stood there at the bar, the scotch and wine forgotten in his hands, as the weight of your words settled over him. His pulse still raced, his skin prickling with the memory of your closeness, your voice, your confession.

For a man who had always prided himself on control, Aaron felt anything but. You had shattered the careful walls he’d built around himself, leaving him standing in the middle of a crowded room, completely undone.

Aaron Hotchner sat at the table, his back straight, his hands loosely clasped around the tumbler of scotch in front of him. The room was alive with the sound of music, laughter, and the murmur of conversation, but to him, it all blurred into a distant hum.

Beth was seated beside him, engaged in an animated discussion with Penelope. Her warm laugh punctuated the conversation. Aaron nodded occasionally when prompted, but his focus was elsewhere.

Across the room, you swayed to the slow rhythm of the music, your body close to Jeff’s as he held you gently, one hand on your waist, the other resting lightly on your back. Your head tilted slightly, your cheek brushing the fabric of his shoulder. The two of you moved easily, almost effortlessly, to the soft melody of the band.

And then you looked up.

Your eyes found his across the room, and in that instant, the rest of the world fell away.

Aaron froze, his breath catching in his chest as your gaze locked onto his. There was something in the way you looked at him, something unspoken but deeply familiar, that cut through the noise and the lights and the meaningless chatter around him.

It wasn’t just eye contact. It was a connection—a thread pulled taut between you, invisible to everyone else but impossibly strong.

He couldn’t look away.

Your eyes held his, and in them, he saw everything that words couldn’t convey. Longing. Frustration. A quiet, desperate ache that mirrored his own. It was as though every emotion he’d buried, every feeling he’d suppressed, was reflected back at him in your gaze.

And then there was the tension—the undeniable, magnetic pull that had always existed between you but felt even stronger now. It was intoxicating, overwhelming, the kind of thing that made time seem irrelevant.

Aaron didn’t notice the way his fingers tightened around the glass in his hand or the way his heart began to pound. All he knew was that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from you.

You swayed gently in Jeff’s arms, your movements fluid and graceful, but your gaze never wavered. The music, the people, even Jeff himself—all of it faded into the background. There was only you and him, locked in this moment, this silent conversation that neither of you could end.

It wasn’t just attraction, though, that was there, simmering beneath the surface. It was something deeper, something raw and unspoken. It was the weight of every choice you’d made, every boundary you’d set, and every word you’d left unsaid.

Aaron felt like he couldn’t breathe like the space between you was both infinite and nonexistent. It was a cruel paradox—feeling as though you were so close he could almost reach out and touch you, yet knowing you were untouchable, unreachable.

The ache in his chest wasn’t just pain; it was a deep, hollow yearning that he couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t the sharp sting of a fleeting wound—it was the slow, relentless ache of loss. Of knowing exactly what he was missing and yet being powerless to reclaim it.

He missed you in ways that felt impossible to quantify, in ways that crept into his thoughts when he least expected it. He missed your touch—the way your hand had lingered on his arm during late-night conversations, grounding him in moments when he felt untethered. He missed the warmth of your presence, the quiet reassurance that came with simply having you near.

But it wasn’t just the physical things. It was everything about you, the parts of you that no one else seemed to notice or understand the way he did.

He missed your laugh—the genuine, full-bodied sound that lit up a room and chased away the weight of even the hardest days. It was rare, but when it happened, it was like the world itself paused to listen.

He missed your softness—the way you could be so strong, so unyielding in your convictions, and yet offer a kindness that made even the most jaded person feel seen. You had a way of making people believe they mattered, a way of making him believe he mattered.

And he missed your fierceness—the fire in your eyes when you were fighting for something you believed in, the way you carried yourself with confidence and grace, never backing down from a challenge. You inspired him in ways he didn’t even realize until you weren’t there to do it anymore.

Most of all, he missed your presence. That quiet, steady support that had become such a part of his life he hadn’t realized how much he relied on it until it was gone. You were his equal, his match in every way that mattered. And now, you were just... gone.

The ache in his chest deepened as he sat at the table, staring at the empty doorway where you had disappeared. He didn’t just miss what they had shared—the stolen moments, the quiet confessions. He missed you. The person who had seen him at his worst and still stood by him. The person who had understood him in ways no one else ever could.

And as the weight of that realization settled over him, Aaron knew that no matter how much time passed, no matter what choices either of them made, the space you had left in his life would never be filled.

And then, just as suddenly, you broke the spell.

You blinked, your gaze faltering as you looked away, your expression unreadable. Flustered almost. Aaron watched as you gently stepped back from Jeff, your movements deliberate but hurried.

“Excuse me,” you murmured to him, your voice just audible enough for Aaron to hear over the music.

You crossed the room with purpose, your gown flowing behind you like liquid emerald. Aaron’s eyes followed your every step, his heart sinking as you reached your table and grabbed your clutch.

Jeff, caught off guard, trailed after you, his expression confused but compliant. He said something to you, but you barely acknowledged him, your focus entirely on leaving.

Aaron’s gaze lingered on the empty space you left behind, his chest tightening as he watched the two of you disappear through the ballroom’s double doors.

The world slowly returned—Beth’s voice beside him, the hum of the music, the clinking of glasses—but none of it felt real.

Aaron took a slow sip of his scotch, his gaze fixed on the door as though willing you to return. But he knew you wouldn’t.

Because whatever had just passed between you, whatever that moment had been, was too much for either of you to bear.

The drive to Beth’s apartment had been quiet. Too quiet. She had smiled softly at him when he pulled up in front of her building, the warmth of her expression filled with an affection that he knew he couldn’t return—not the way she deserved.

“Do you want to come up?” she asked, her tone light but hopeful.

Aaron hesitated, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. He forced a smile, one that felt more like a grimace. “Not tonight. It’s been a long day.”

Beth studied him for a moment, her disappointment subtle but evident. “Okay,” she said softly, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Drive safe, Aaron.”

He nodded, waiting until she disappeared into the building before exhaling a shaky breath. He should have gone home. He should have driven straight to his house, poured himself another drink, and buried the night in paperwork or sleep.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Aaron found himself driving through the quiet streets, the sound of the city outside his car muffled by the relentless echo of your words in his mind.

Do you know what I do? I imagine it’s your hands on me instead of his. It makes it... easier.

The words played on a loop, relentless and consuming. He could see the way you had looked at him, the softness in your voice, the sadness and longing that mirrored his own. It unraveled him.

He loosened his tie, tugging at the silk knot with a sharp, frustrated motion as if it were choking him. His chest felt tight, his breath shallow, and he couldn’t shake the image of you from his mind—your gown, the way you moved, the way your eyes had locked with his in a silent confession across the room.

He didn’t even notice his speed, the way the city blurred around him as he drove. All he knew was where he needed to go.

When he pulled up in front of your building, he hesitated only briefly. Jeff could be here. That much was obvious. But Aaron didn’t care—not tonight.

He climbed out of the car, his footsteps quick and determined as he approached your door. His heart pounded in his chest, his pulse roaring in his ears, but his mind was clear.

He knocked, his knuckles rapping firmly against the wood.

The seconds stretched endlessly until the door opened, and there you were.

You were wearing a silk robe, its soft fabric clinging to your frame and catching the light. Your hair was loose, framing your face in soft waves, and your expression shifted from surprise to something unreadable when you saw him.

“Aaron,” you said softly, your voice tentative.

“Is he here?” he asked, his voice low and steady, though his chest felt like it might explode.

You blinked, startled by the question, before shaking your head. “No.”

“Good,” he said, stepping forward and into your space.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t hesitant.

Aaron’s lips crashed against yours, his hands finding your waist and pulling you flush against him as he pushed the door closed behind them with his foot. The kiss was fierce, dominating, raw, filled with all the pent-up tension and longing that had been building for months.

You gasped against his mouth, your hands gripping the lapels of his suit jacket as you stumbled slightly, the force of his kiss pushing you backward. He guided you with purpose, his body pressing yours against the wall just inside the entryway.

His hands moved to your face, his fingers threading into your hair as he deepened the kiss, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the connection. It was raw, desperate, and consuming.

You responded in kind, your hands sliding up to his shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer. The silk of your robe brushed against his suit, the contrast of textures only heightening the sensation.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your chests heaving as you stared at each other.

“Aaron,” you whispered, your voice trembling but laced with something unmistakable—desire, relief, and a trace of vulnerability.

He rested his forehead against yours, his hands still cradling your face as he closed his eyes. “I couldn’t stay away,” he admitted, his voice rough and raw.

You didn’t reply with words. Instead, you pulled him back into another kiss, and Aaron let himself surrender to the moment, the weight of everything else fading away.

For once, nothing else mattered.

Aaron’s breath was ragged as his lips moved against yours, his hands still cradling your face like he was afraid to let go. Every ounce of restraint he’d held onto for so long had snapped the moment you’d opened the door, and now, the thought of stopping felt impossible.

Your fingers curled into the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling him closer, and he responded in kind, his body pressing firmly against yours. The silk of your robe was impossibly soft under his hands as he slid them from your face to your waist, his fingers gripping you like he was trying to anchor himself to the moment.

Aaron knew he shouldn’t be here. Knew this was a line he’d promised himself he wouldn’t cross again. But every logical thought dissolved under the weight of your kiss, the way your lips moved against his with a hunger that matched his own.

“God, we shouldn’t—” you murmured against his mouth, your voice breathless but tinged with something desperate.

“I know,” he whispered back, his hands trailing along your sides, feeling the warmth of your body through the thin fabric of your robe. “But I can’t stop.”

Your eyes met his, the intensity of your gaze nearly undoing him. It wasn’t just lust that burned in your expression—it was longing, the same yearning that had been simmering between you for months, the same ache he’d carried every time he saw you.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands roaming up your back as he felt you relax into him. Your hands found the knot of his tie, tugging it loose with a deliberate pull that sent his pulse racing. The silk slipped free, and you tossed it aside, your fingers moving to the buttons of his shirt with a sense of urgency that mirrored his own.

Aaron let out a soft groan as your hands brushed against his chest, your touch igniting a fire in him that he hadn’t felt in years. His mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck as you tilted your head to give him better access.

“Aaron,” you breathed, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, and the sound of it sent a shiver down his spine.

His hands found the sash of your robe, his fingers hesitating briefly as he looked at you, searching your eyes for any sign of hesitation. But there was none—only want, only need.

“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice rough but tender, his forehead resting lightly against yours.

Your answer was clear in the way you pulled him closer, your lips brushing against his as you whispered, “I’m sure.”

The robe slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, and Aaron’s breath hitched at the sight of you, so beautiful and bare before him. His hands traced the curve of your waist, his touch reverent but firm, as though he was committing every detail to memory.

He kissed you again, deeper and slower this time, savoring the taste of you, the softness of your lips, the way your hands tangled in his hair. The tension between you crackled like electricity, the air heavy with the weight of everything unspoken but understood.

Every touch, every kiss, felt forbidden, a line crossed and recrossed with every passing second. But neither of you pulled away. You couldn’t.

Aaron guided you gently toward the couch, his lips never leaving yours as you moved together. You sank down onto the cushions, pulling him with you, and he let himself get lost in you—the way you smelled, the way your skin felt against his, the way you whispered his name like it was the only thing that mattered.

As his hands roamed over you, exploring, memorizing, Aaron felt a pang of guilt buried beneath the passion. He knew this was dangerous, that there would be consequences. But for now, in this moment, he didn’t care.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, you were his.

And he wasn’t ready to let that go.

Aaron’s mind was a storm as he pressed you against the cushions of the couch, his lips moving with a ferocity he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in so long. The weight of his body pressed into yours, grounding him in a way that made everything else—Beth, Jeff, the consequences of this moment—fade into the background.

Your hands slid under his shirt, your fingers grazing his skin with a touch that sent shivers through him. He growled low in his throat, pulling back just enough to shrug out of his jacket and let it fall to the floor. His shirt followed, buttons undone hastily by your hands, and he barely registered the faint sound of fabric hitting the hardwood before his mouth was back on yours.

This was wrong. He knew it with every rational part of himself. But it didn’t stop the way he kissed you, dominating, claiming like he was trying to erase the memory of anyone else who had touched you. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your thighs, your back—pulling you closer, needing to feel every inch of you against him.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough, almost a growl. His fingers found your bare skin so inviting. “I’ve wanted this… you… for so long.”

You arched into him, your breath hitching as his lips trailed from your mouth to your collarbone, leaving a scorching path in their wake. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and Aaron felt like he might lose his mind at the way you responded to him.

“Do you know how hard it’s been?” he asked, his voice strained as he paused, his forehead pressed against yours. His fingers grazed your bare shoulder, his touch featherlight but filled with intent. “Watching you, wanting you, knowing I couldn’t have you?”

Your eyes locked with his, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The intensity in your gaze was enough to undo him, filled with the same longing, the same desperation he’d been carrying for months.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I’ve felt it too.”

That was all it took for Aaron to give in completely. His lips crashed against yours again, his kiss deep and consuming, leaving no room for second thoughts. He shifted, lifting you slightly as he moved you further onto the couch, his hands gripping your hips with a possessiveness he couldn’t hold back.

You were his. At least in this moment, you were his.

His hands roamed over you with purpose, memorizing every curve, every inch of skin he could reach. His lips continued their relentless exploration of your body. He kissed you like he was starving like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

And maybe you were.

The air between you was thick with tension; each movement laced with the weight of everything unspoken. Aaron’s hands framed your face as he paused to look at you, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice soft but intense. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

You shook your head, your fingers brushing over his jaw as you pulled him back to you. “Stop,” you whispered, your voice trembling but firm. “Don’t say that. Not now.”

Aaron didn’t argue. He couldn’t. The way you looked at him—like he was the only thing in the world that mattered—was enough to silence any doubts. He kissed you again, slower this time, savoring every second, every touch, every sigh that escaped your lips.

It was forbidden. It was reckless. But in that moment, it was everything.

Aaron’s control, the control he prided himself on in every aspect of his life, was slipping through his fingers. His hands gripped your waist as he pulled you impossibly closer, his lips moving against yours with a hunger he hadn’t felt in years—if ever. The feel of your body beneath his was intoxicating, and for once, he allowed himself to surrender to the moment.

But you weren’t passive. No, that wasn’t who you were.

Your hands found their way to his shoulders, your nails raking down his back as you shifted beneath him, a movement so deliberate it nearly undid him. You pressed up against him, your strength and confidence matching his in a way that sent his pulse racing.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his breath heavy as his eyes roamed over you. The sight of you—flushed, lips swollen from his kisses, eyes dark with desire—was enough to make his chest tighten.

“You’re not getting away from me this time,” he said, his voice low and commanding, his hands sliding up your thighs as he leaned in close.

You smirked, your fingers tangling in his hair as you tugged him toward you. “I wasn’t planning on it,” you murmured, your voice teasing but filled with intent.

Aaron’s response was immediate. His lips found your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you gasp. He wanted to mark you, to leave a reminder of this moment, of him, as if to stake a claim neither of you would ever admit aloud.

Your hands moved to his belt, the boldness of your actions sending a jolt through him. He let out a low growl, gripping your wrists gently but firmly to still you.

“Not yet,” he said, his tone a mix of command and amusement.

You raised an eyebrow, your expression challenging. “Afraid you can’t keep up, Hotchner?”

That did it.

Aaron’s lips crashed against yours again, his hands sliding up to cup your face as he deepened the kiss, pouring every ounce of frustration, desire, and possessiveness into it. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, drawing a soft moan from you that went straight to his core.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he said, his voice rough as he broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours.

You smiled, your fingers trailing down his chest with deliberate slowness. “I think I have some idea,” you replied, your voice low and filled with heat.

The push and pull between you was electric, a constant dance of dominance and surrender that neither of you fully gave into. When you shifted, pushing him back with a surprising strength that only made him want you more, he couldn’t help the low chuckle that escaped him.

“Is that how it’s going to be?” he asked, his hands gripping your hips as you straddled him, your robe slipping fully off your shoulders, completely bare to him.

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “You don’t mind a challenge, do you?”

Aaron’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulled you down against him, his voice a growl. “Not at all.”

The heat between you was overwhelming, the air thick with tension and desire as your lips met his again, both of you fighting for control even as you gave into the pull of each other. It was raw, intense, and unrelenting, a collision of two forces that had been held back for far too long.

Every touch, every kiss, every movement spoke volumes, the unspoken words of longing and frustration spilling out in the way you claimed each other, over and over again.

Aaron had always been a man of control, a man who measured his steps and chose his words with precision. But here, with you, that control was unraveling, slipping away with every kiss, every touch. The months of tension, the stolen glances, the unspoken words between you had built to this moment, and now, neither of you seemed capable of holding back.

Your nails dragged along his chest, leaving faint, red lines in their wake as you leaned into him. He hissed at the sensation, his hands gripping your hips with enough force to anchor himself. Aaron couldn’t stop his hands from exploring, feeling the heat of your skin under his touch.

“You drive me insane,” he growled, his voice rough and strained as he tilted his head to capture your lips again. The kiss was fierce, almost punishing, a testament to the months of restraint that had finally snapped.

You didn’t shy away. You met his intensity with your own, your lips moving against his with a hunger that left no doubt about how much you wanted this—wanted him.

“Good,” you murmured against his mouth, your voice breathless but laced with defiance. “Because you’ve been driving me insane for months.”

Aaron chuckled darkly, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, earning a gasp from you that sent a surge of possessiveness through him. His hands slid down to the backs of your thighs, gripping firmly as he lifted you from the couch effortlessly. The action earned a surprised laugh from you, but it was cut short when he pressed you against the wall, his body pinning yours in place.

“This is mine,” he said, his voice low and commanding as his hands roamed your body. He pressed his lips to your shoulder, trailing kisses down your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re mine.”

Your head tilted back against the wall, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer. “Then take me,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of challenge and desire. “If you want me so badly, Aaron, prove it.”

Something snapped in him at your words. His hands tightened on your thighs as his lips found yours again, the kiss rough and consuming, leaving no room for doubt about who you belonged to in this moment. His fingers dug into your skin just enough to leave faint impressions, a silent mark of his claim on you.

Every movement was deliberate, every touch a blend of dominance and reverence. Aaron’s hands slid beneath the loosened fabric of your robe, his fingers exploring every curve, every inch of skin he could reach.

Your body arched against his, your hands gripping his shoulders as you met him with equal fervor. There was nothing soft or gentle about the way you moved together; it was raw, fierce, a collision of passion and pent-up frustration that neither of you could contain.

“Aaron,” you gasped, his name falling from your lips like a plea, and it undid him. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged as he looked into your eyes, his grip on you firm and steady.

“Say it again,” he demanded, his voice a growl as he tightened his hold on you.

Your eyes locked with his, dark with desire and unspoken emotion. “Aaron,” you repeated, your voice softer this time but no less commanding.

His lips crashed against yours again, his hands roaming freely, claiming you in every way he could. There was no hesitation, no room for second thoughts—only the overwhelming need to have you, to show you exactly what you meant to him, even if he couldn’t say the words aloud.

He pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes searching yours for any hesitation. What he saw there—desire, longing, and something deeper, more vulnerable—unraveled him completely.

“I need you,” he murmured, his voice low and hoarse, filled with the weight of months of suppressed emotions. “Tell me you want this.”

Your hands cupped his face, your thumbs brushing lightly over his jawline as you looked at him with a gaze that left him breathless. “I’ve always wanted this,” you whispered, your voice trembling but certain.

That was all he needed.

Aaron’s lips crashed against yours, the kiss hungry and all-consuming as his hands slid up your thighs, securing your legs around his waist. He pressed you harder against the wall, the roughness of the plaster against your back contrasting with the heat of his body against yours.

Every touch, every kiss, every movement was filled with urgency, a desperate need to make up for all the time you’d spent denying yourselves this moment. His hands roamed your body, possessive and reverent as if trying to commit every inch of you to memory.

Your hands tugged at the rest of his clothes, pushing them further off him as your lips moved from his mouth to his jawline, trailing kisses down his neck. The soft, breathy sound you made against his skin sent a jolt of electricity through him, his control slipping further.

“Aaron,” you gasped, your voice breaking as his hands moved to the small of your back, pulling you closer.

He groaned in response, his name on your lips undoing him in a way he hadn’t expected. “You’re mine,” he growled, his voice rough and raw as his lips found yours again. “No one else’s.”

Your response was immediate, your arms tightening around his neck as you kissed him back with equal fervor. The way you moved against him, the way you whispered his name between gasps, left no room for doubt—you were his, and he was yours.

The tension between you reached its breaking point, the air heavy with the weight of everything unspoken but understood. Aaron’s movements became more deliberate, his hands gripping you firmly as he gave in completely to the moment.

It was raw, intense, and unrelenting, a culmination of months of longing and frustration. Every touch, every kiss, every movement was filled with a passion that left you both breathless, the line between control and surrender blurring as you claimed each other fully.

When he reached between you, he found you wet and wanting. Bucking your hips against his hand. He circled his fingers, warming you up--not that you needed it. Savoring the little responses he got from you. His other hand reached for your breast, caressing and cupping it with achingly slow motions.

“Aaron!” It was almost a demand, telling him you needed him now. He understood as you pushed yourself up, wrapping one leg around his waist. His pants and belt pooled at his ankles--it wasn’t the most practical scene, but was anything about this situation?

He entered you swiftly, an open-mouthed kiss with a shared groan between the two of you. Your hands found his hair, tugging on it as your eyes rolled back. His mouth moved to the hollow of your neck, his hands exploring you all at once, but still not enough.

He imagined the angle was physically more demanding for you as he lifted you, holding you up against the wall, bringing him impossibly deeper now. He rocked into you with a rhythm that was unmatched. The sound of his metal belt buckle shifting on the floor with every swift slap of his hips against yours filled the room.

It didn’t take long for you to reach your peak, basically melting in his arms. It was like a domino effect, taking him down with you. He released deep inside of you, his forehead resting against your shoulder as he groaned your name.

Something deep was released inside in this moment, too, more emotionally than any sexual release. He knew in this moment he couldn’t not have you again.

You unwrapped your legs from his hips, the two of you slowly separating with a whimper.

Aaron held you against him, his forehead resting against yours as both of you tried to catch your breath. His hands remained on your waist, his grip firm but gentle, as if he couldn’t bear to let go just yet.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The weight of what you’d just done hung in the air, but so did the undeniable connection that had brought you to this point.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice low and rough as his fingers brushed lightly against your side.

You nodded, your lips curving into a faint, almost bittersweet smile. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m okay.”

Aaron exhaled, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as he closed his eyes. For now, in this moment, everything else could wait. For now, there was only you.

The intensity between you had cooled slightly, replaced now by a quiet tenderness that neither of you knew how to navigate. Reaching down, he pulled his boxers, pants and belt back up, leaving them still undone.

The silence was thick, and as Aaron stepped back, his gaze flicked to the disheveled state of both of you. He ran a hand through his hair, his breathing still uneven as the realization hit him like a jolt.

“We didn’t...” he started, his voice low and gravelly. “We didn’t use protection.”

Your lips parted, and for a moment, you didn’t respond. Then, with a softness that caught him off guard, you said, “I know.”

Aaron frowned, confusion furrowing his brow. “And you’re... with Jeff.”

The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but he forced them out, needing to understand. He watched as you turned away.

“We haven’t had sex,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Aaron froze, the weight of your words sinking in slowly. “What?”

You turned to face him, your expression vulnerable in a way he wasn’t used to seeing. “I couldn’t,” you said, meeting his eyes. “I couldn’t bring myself to... be with him. He’s—” You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “He’s been an accessory. Something to keep people from asking questions.”

Aaron stared at you, his mind racing. Jeff’s smug comments in the locker room, the way he’d hovered near you at the party—it had all been an act, a performance. You hadn’t been with him. You’d been pulling him along to keep up appearances, just like you’d said.

“I thought...” he began, but his words faltered. He took a breath, running a hand down his face. “You’re with him, and I’m with Beth. Or at least I thought I was.”

You studied him, your eyes searching his face. “Have you?” you asked, the question hesitant but pointed.

Aaron shook his head, his voice quieter now. “No. I haven’t been able to.” His lips pressed into a thin line as he met your gaze. “She’s not... she’s not you.”

For a moment, the weight of that truth hung between you, unspoken but undeniable. Neither of you moved, the air between you thick with something that felt too fragile to name.

Eventually, Aaron stepped forward, his hand brushing against yours before gently taking it in his. “Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

You followed him without a word, the quiet between you more comfortable now, though still heavy with everything unsaid. In the dim light of the small bathroom, Aaron found a clean towel, dampening it with warm water before turning back to you.

He worked in silence, his movements careful and deliberate as he wiped away the remnants of your shared passion. His touch was tender, his fingers brushing against your skin with a reverence that made your breath hitch.

When it was your turn, you took another face cloth, your hands steady but your expression unreadable. You dabbed at his face, his neck, his chest, your fingers lingering just a little too long as if memorizing the feel of him.

Neither of you spoke, the quiet filled only with the soft sound of water and the unspoken tension that neither of you knew how to address. Aaron watched you, his chest tightening as he saw the flicker of vulnerability in your eyes, the way your lips pressed into a thin line as you concentrated on your task.

He wanted to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. So he let the moment stretch, allowing the silence to say what neither of you could.

When you were finished, you folded the towel and set it aside, your hands brushing his one last time before you stepped back. Aaron caught your wrist gently, his touch lingering just long enough for you to meet his gaze.

But still, neither of you spoke.

Instead, you turned away, pulling your robe tighter around you as Aaron let his hand fall to his side. The weight of everything you’d shared pressed heavily on both of you and for now, neither of you had the courage to face what came next.

Aaron stood in the quiet of your bedroom, his hands resting on his hips as he tried to gather his scattered thoughts. The events of the night weighed heavily on him—what they meant, what they would lead to—but before he could sink too deeply into his own mind, you reappeared.

Your silk robe was gone, replaced by his button-up shirt, which hung loosely on your frame, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. You looked both effortless and intimate, like you belonged in it.

“I missed this,” you said softly, your voice breaking through his thoughts. You smoothed your hands over the fabric, as though savoring the feel of it. “I missed the smell of you. I missed you. Everything about you.”

The words hit Aaron like a punch to the chest, and he exhaled slowly, his throat tightening. He knew the feeling all too well. He had missed you, too—more than he could admit, more than he had allowed himself to feel until now.

You took his hand, your fingers curling around his as you gently tugged him toward the bed. Aaron followed, the quiet intimacy of the moment grounding him even as his heart raced. Removing his dresspants, folding them, and placing them on a chair nearby.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his body taut with hesitation, but you didn’t let him linger there. You climbed onto the mattress, settling in on your side and motioning for him to join you.

Aaron hesitated for a moment, then slid under the covers, lying on his side to face you. The moonlight spilled through the curtains, bathing the room in a soft, silver glow. It cast delicate shadows across your face, highlighting the vulnerability in your expression as you looked at him.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The quiet stretched between you, filled with the weight of everything unspoken. Aaron’s gaze traced the lines of your face, committing every detail to memory—the curve of your cheek, the softness of your lips, the way your eyes held his with an intensity that made his chest ache.

“Love me,” you whispered suddenly, your voice trembling but insistent. Your fingers brushed lightly against his jaw, your touch hesitant but desperate. “Please, Aaron. Love me.”

The vulnerability in your voice, the way you said the words like they were both a demand and a plea, sent a wave of emotion crashing over him. This was almost uncharacteristic for you. Your presence never demanded attention, yet here you were, asking him to love you. Aaron’s heart twisted painfully, and he reached for your hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“You don’t have to ask me to do that,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I already do.”

Your breath hitched, your eyes searching his as if trying to find the truth in his words. But there was no doubt, no hesitation in his gaze. He loved you—he always had, even when he couldn’t say it, even when it felt impossible.

“But we can’t,” he continued, his voice breaking slightly. “You know that. If we do this, we risk everything—our jobs, the team, the work we’ve both sacrificed so much for.”

“I don’t care,” you said, your voice firm despite the tears shining in your eyes. “I don’t care about any of that, Aaron. I just care about you.”

Aaron closed his eyes, his chest heaving as he struggled to reconcile the conflicting emotions tearing through him. He hated how complicated this was, how the world seemed determined to keep the two of you apart.

“I hate it, too,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I hate how complicated this is, how much we have to give up just to be together. But I can’t lose you. I can’t risk losing everything that makes you... you.”

Your hand cupped his face, your thumb brushing lightly over his cheek as you leaned closer. “Then don’t,” you said, your voice soft but resolute. “Don’t lose me. We’ll figure it out. We have to.”

Aaron exhaled shakily, his forehead pressing against yours as his eyes closed. The thought of giving you up, of walking away from this, was unbearable. And yet, the thought of losing everything you had worked so hard for was just as devastating.

“I’d give it all up,” he murmured, his voice raw with emotion. “The job, the team—all of it. I’d give it up to have you.”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of his words settling over you. He had reached a point where he couldn’t even get to with Haley--ready to put the job and whatever else behind him. Then, slowly, you leaned forward, your lips brushing against his in a kiss so soft it felt like a promise.

Aaron kissed you back, his hands cradling your face as he poured everything he couldn’t say into the connection. And as the two of you lay there in the quiet, the moonlight casting its gentle glow over the room, Aaron realized that, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t afraid of what came next.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room as Aaron woke to the warmth of your body next to his. For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of forgetting everything outside this space. But the weight of reality settled quickly, and he knew there were choices to be made—choices that couldn’t wait.

You stirred beside him, your head turning slightly on the pillow as your eyes fluttered open. When you looked at him, there was a quiet understanding in your gaze, as though you’d already been thinking about what needed to happen next.

The day was spent in quiet, focused conversation. You sat together at the kitchen table, steaming cups of coffee in front of you, as you laid out the possibilities. Aaron admired your methodical approach, the way you analyzed every angle every consequence, even as he felt the heaviness of the discussion pressing down on him.

“What if we went to the team first?” you suggested your voice steady but laced with uncertainty. “If they’re on our side—if they don’t have any reservations—it might give us the leverage we need when we talk to the Director again.”

Aaron considered your words carefully, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. “It’s risky,” he admitted, his gaze meeting yours. “But it might be the only way to prove that this won’t affect the team’s dynamic. If they can support us, it could make a difference.”

You nodded, your hands wrapped around your mug as you leaned back in your chair. “And if the Director still refuses?”

Aaron’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening with determination. “Then we don’t give him a choice. We go in together and tell him it’s either this—or we both walk.”

The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. It was a shared understanding of the enormity of what you were discussing. Neither of you had ever walked away from anything lightly, but the thought of giving each other up again was unbearable.

Later, as the day stretched on, the two of you made the decisions you’d been avoiding for weeks. Beth deserved the truth, as did Jeff, no matter how difficult those conversations would be.

Aaron made the visit to Beth first. She was tinged with confusion at his sudden need to talk. He kept his words measured and respectful, explaining that he couldn’t give her what she deserved—that his heart had always belonged to someone else. Beth was hurt but graceful, her acceptance tinged with sadness.

When he returned to the your house later on after also attending to fatherly duties with Jack, you were finishing your call with Jeff. Your expression was unreadable, but the way you let out a soft sigh as you set your phone down spoke volumes. “He didn’t take it well,” you admitted quietly, your fingers tracing the edge of your mug. “But I couldn’t keep leading him on. It wasn’t fair.”

Aaron placed a hand over yours, his touch grounding and steady. “We did what we had to,” he said, his voice low and resolute. “Now we move forward.”

That evening, as you sat together in the quiet, the weight of the day’s decisions settled over you both. The path ahead was uncertain, filled with potential challenges and risks, but for the first time, there was a glimmer of hope.

The two of you had a plan—a united front—and whatever came next, you knew you’d face it.

The BAU conference room felt smaller than usual as Aaron Hotchner stood to the side, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. You were seated at the head of the table, your posture poised but your hands clasped tightly together—a rare sign of nervousness that only someone who knew you well, like Aaron, would notice.

The team filtered in one by one, their expressions curious but light. Emily had a cup of coffee in hand, Derek was chatting with JJ about some recent Quantico gossip, and Penelope trailed behind with a bright, questioning look. Reid sat toward the middle, already flipping through a notepad, and Rossi took his usual spot near the back, his eyes sharp as they scanned the room.

“Alright, what’s going on?” Derek asked, his grin playful as he pulled out a chair and settled in. “This doesn’t feel like our usual meeting vibe.”

You took a steadying breath, your gaze sweeping across the table before landing briefly on Aaron. He gave you a small nod, his expression calm but supportive.

“Thank you all for coming,” you began, your voice steady despite the undercurrent of tension in the room. “I know this isn’t our usual meeting. Aaron and I asked you here because we need to discuss something important—something personal that affects the team.”

The lighthearted chatter died down instantly, replaced by a palpable curiosity and concern.

You continued, your hands tightening slightly around each other as you spoke. “Over the past few months, Aaron and I have realized that we want to pursue a personal relationship. I know this might come as a surprise—or even a concern—to some of you, given our roles and the nature of our work.”

Aaron watched as the team processed your words, their expressions a mixture of surprise, curiosity, and, in some cases, quiet understanding.

You straightened, your tone firm but earnest. “We’ve thought this through carefully. We understand the gravity of this decision, not just for ourselves but for all of you. This team is a family. It’s been my honor to work with each of you, and I don’t take lightly the idea of doing anything that could disrupt that dynamic.”

Aaron stepped forward then, his voice calm and measured as he added, “That’s why we wanted to be upfront with all of you. We respect your opinions, and we’re here to listen if any of you have reservations or concerns.”

There was a beat of silence before Emily leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms with a thoughtful look. “So let me get this straight,” she said, her voice tinged with dry amusement. “The two of you want to be together, but the higher-ups don’t approve?”

You nodded, your gaze steady. “Correct. The Director has made it clear that our relationship is considered inappropriate given our positions. He gave us two options: end it or find roles outside the team.”

JJ frowned, her concern evident. “And what are you planning to do?”

Aaron glanced at you, and you gave a slight nod before he spoke. “We’ve decided to pursue the relationship despite those orders. But we’re not going into this without a plan. We believe the best course of action is to go to the Director with the support of this team. If we can demonstrate that our relationship won’t compromise our work or the dynamic here, it may give us the leverage we need.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Reid asked quietly, his brow furrowed in thought.

You hesitated, and Aaron stepped in. “If the Director won’t budge, we’re prepared to leave. Together.”

That admission hung heavy in the air, and Aaron could feel the weight of the team’s reactions pressing down on him.

Derek leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he let out a low whistle. “Man, that’s a big gamble. But you’ve always been a risk-taker, Hotch.”

Emily smirked faintly, her tone more teasing than judgmental. “Never would’ve pegged you for a rule-breaker, though.”

Penelope, wide-eyed and fidgeting with her bracelets, finally spoke up. “So… does this mean we’re, like, the deciding vote? Because, no pressure, but this feels like a really big deal!”

You smiled faintly, the tension in your posture easing slightly. “It is a big deal, Penelope. But we trust you. All of you. That’s why we wanted to have this conversation first.”

Rossi, who had been quietly observing, finally leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. “For what it’s worth,” he said, his voice calm but firm, “I’ve seen a lot of things in this job. Relationships, breakups, people falling apart under pressure. But I’ve never doubted the professionalism or dedication of either of you. And I don’t see that changing now.”

Aaron felt a flicker of gratitude as Rossi’s words hung in the air, setting the tone for the rest of the discussion.

One by one, the team voiced their thoughts. JJ expressed some concern about how this might look to the brass but ultimately supported you both, trusting your judgment. Reid, after asking a few logistical questions, nodded thoughtfully and said he believed the two of you could handle it. Penelope gave an impassioned speech about love conquering all, which drew chuckles around the table, and Emily and Derek exchanged a look before both offering their backing with only a bit of playful ribbing.

By the end of the discussion, Aaron felt a weight lift from his chest. The team’s support wasn’t just a relief—it was a validation of the respect and trust you had built with each of them over the years.

You stood, your hands resting lightly on the table as you addressed them one last time. “Thank you. Truly. This means everything to us. And I promise, no matter what happens, the integrity of this team will always come first.”

Aaron stepped beside you, his gaze sweeping over the team with quiet gratitude. “We’ll take this to the Director together. And whatever happens, we’ll figure it out.”

As the team began to disperse, Derek clapped him on the shoulder with a grin. “Never thought I’d see the day, Hotch. You breaking rules for love? Guess there’s hope for all of us.”

Aaron chuckled softly, but as he turned to look at you, his expression softened. This wasn’t just about breaking rules—it was about finally choosing the person who made it all worthwhile.

Aaron Hotchner stood in the hallway outside the Director’s office, his hands in his pockets and his gaze steady. The weight of what they were about to do hung heavily between you, but he felt none of the apprehension he might have expected. Instead, he felt a strange calm bolstered by the resolve that radiated from you as you stood beside him.

You turned to him, your expression set but your eyes soft. You had dressed sharply for the meeting, your tailored suit immaculate, projecting the authority you carried so effortlessly. Still, there was something in the way your fingers brushed against his as you reached for him that made his chest tighten.

“You ready for this?” you asked, your voice low but steady.

Aaron looked at you, taking in the determined set of your jaw and the quiet strength in your posture. “With you? Always.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips, and for a moment, the tension between you softened. You stepped closer, your hand resting lightly on his chest as you leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a kiss that was both grounding and electrifying.

“Let’s do this,” you murmured against his mouth, and he nodded, his hands lingering briefly on your waist before you pulled away.

When you entered the Director’s office together, the atmosphere shifted. The room was large and imposing, the walls lined with awards and photos that told the story of the Bureau’s successes. The Director sat behind his desk, his expression unreadable as he gestured for you to sit.

Aaron stayed standing beside you as you took the lead, your voice calm and authoritative as you began. “Thank you for meeting with us, sir. We wanted to address the situation between Agent Hotchner and myself directly.”

The Director leaned back in his chair, his hands folded neatly in front of him. “I’m listening.”

Aaron watched as you laid out your case with precision and confidence, detailing how the two of you had handled your relationship with professionalism, how you had sought the team’s support, and how they had expressed their trust in your ability to maintain the integrity of the BAU.

“We understand your concerns, and we don’t take this lightly,” you said, your gaze steady on the Director. “But we also know the value we bring to the Bureau, both individually and as a team. We’re here to ask for your trust, just as we’ve earned the trust of the people we lead.”

Aaron stepped in then, his voice steady but firm. “We’ve always put the mission of the BAU first, and that won’t change. But if this is a line you believe we’ve crossed, we’re prepared to accept the consequences. Both of us.”

The Director’s gaze sharpened at that, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you both. “You’re telling me you’re willing to walk away? Both of you?”

“Yes,” you said simply, your tone leaving no room for doubt. “We believe in what we’ve built here, but we won’t compromise our integrity—or the team’s—by pretending this relationship doesn’t exist.”

The room was silent for a long moment, the weight of your words settling heavily in the air. Aaron could feel the tension coiled in his chest, but he didn’t waver. He stood beside you, unflinching, as the Director considered their ultimatum.

Finally, the Director let out a slow breath; his fingers steepled under his chin. “This is highly irregular. You both know that. The Bureau doesn’t operate on personal exceptions.”

You nodded, your posture unyielding. “We understand that, sir. But losing both of us would be a significant blow to the BAU, especially given our track record and the current demands on the unit.”

The Director’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re asking for a lot.”

Aaron stepped forward, his voice quiet but firm. “And we’re offering a solution. Put us on a review period. Watch us closely. If there are any issues—any compromises to the integrity of the BAU—you’ll have our resignations. No questions asked.”

The Director’s gaze flicked between the two of you, his expression inscrutable. After what felt like an eternity, he leaned back in his chair and exhaled sharply. “Fine. A review period. But understand this: you’ll both be under intense scrutiny. Any sign that this relationship is affecting the team or your work, and it ends. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” you said immediately, your voice steady.

Aaron nodded. “Crystal.”

When the two of you left the office, the tension in the hallway was palpable, but it quickly gave way to a quiet sense of victory. You turned to him, your eyes meeting his, and for the first time that day, you allowed yourself a small, relieved smile.

“That went better than expected,” you said, your voice light with a mix of relief and determination.

Aaron chuckled softly, his hand brushing against yours as you walked. “I’d say we make a pretty good team.”

You stopped then, turning to face him fully. The moonlight streaming through the hallway windows cast a soft glow over your face, and Aaron felt his chest tighten at the sight of you—strong, confident, and absolutely unshakable.

“With you?” you said, echoing his earlier words. “We can do anything.”

Aaron smiled, his hand finding yours and giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze. And as the two of you walked away from the Director’s office, united in purpose and resolve, he knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, you would face them together.

Days later, the grand estate was already alive with warmth and light as Aaron Hotchner guided you up the stone steps to Rossi’s front door. The crisp New Year’s Eve air bit at his skin, but it was nothing compared to the warmth he felt when he glanced at you, wrapped in a deep burgundy coat that highlighted the glow in your cheeks.

“Rossi doesn’t do anything halfway,” Aaron remarked quietly, his lips curving into a faint smile as you reached the top step.

“You say that like you’re surprised,” you teased, your eyes sparkling as you met his gaze.

Aaron chuckled softly, his hand finding the small of your back as the door swung open, revealing Rossi himself. Dressed in a sharp suit, his expression was one of genuine delight as he welcomed you both with open arms.

“Ah, my two favorite rule-breakers,” Rossi said with a grin, stepping aside to let you in. “Come in, come in. There’s champagne waiting, and plenty of people to charm.”

The party was every bit as grand as Aaron had expected. Rossi’s expansive living room was filled with colleagues, friends, and family, all dressed in their finest. A jazz quartet played softly in the corner, their music weaving seamlessly through the low hum of conversation.

Aaron scanned the room instinctively, cataloging familiar faces—Emily and JJ chatting near the bar, Penelope gesturing animatedly to Reid, and Derek leaning against a nearby column, his easy grin drawing a small crowd of admirers.

But his focus always returned to you.

You were by his side, your coat now replaced by an elegant black dress that hugged your figure perfectly, the neckline just daring enough to make his chest tighten. You smiled at someone who greeted you, your laugh soft but genuine, and Aaron couldn’t help but marvel at how effortlessly you commanded the room.

“Enjoying yourself?” you asked, tilting your head to look at him as you handed him a glass of champagne.

He took it with a small smile, his fingers brushing yours briefly. “I’d say that depends entirely on you.”

Your lips quirked into a faint smirk, and for a moment, the noise of the room faded, leaving only the quiet connection between the two of you.

As the evening wore on, Aaron found himself drawn to you again and again, his gaze seeking you out even when you were across the room. You had a way of grounding him, even in the chaos of a room full of people, and he felt a quiet thrill every time your eyes met his, a silent understanding passing between you.

When the two of you found yourselves alone on Rossi’s terrace, the night sky stretched out above you, Aaron couldn’t help but steal a moment. The cold air bit at his skin, but the warmth of your presence was enough to chase it away.

“You look stunning tonight,” he said softly, his voice low as he leaned on the railing beside you.

You glanced at him, your smile softening into something more intimate. “You’re not so bad yourself, Agent Hotchner.”

The teasing tone in your voice made him chuckle, but there was an undercurrent of sincerity that made his chest ache in the best way.

The sound of the party spilling onto the terrace broke the moment, and the two of you turned to see Rossi stepping out, his hands raised theatrically.

“Two minutes to midnight, folks!” he called, his grin as wide as ever. “Let’s make it count!”

Aaron glanced at you, his heart pounding as he saw the faint blush on your cheeks. Without a word, he reached for your hand, pulling you gently closer.

“Happy New Year,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm as the first sounds of the countdown began to echo from inside.

“Happy New Year,” you whispered back, your lips curling into a small, private smile as the world around you blurred.

And as the clock struck midnight and the room erupted in cheers, Aaron kissed you, his hand cradling your face as the noise and the cold and everything else faded away. It was just you and him, standing together at the start of something new, something strong.

Together, you could conquer anything.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch

@estragos

@todorokishoe24

@looking1016

@khxna

@rousethemouse

@averyhotchner

@reidfile

@bernelflo

@lover-of-books-and-tea

@frickin-bats

@sleepysongbirdsings

@justyourusualash

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ddejavvu · 2 years ago

Note

remus x animagus!reader where he doesn’t know it’s her yet, and there’s just always this random cat (or other animal) following him around the castle, and cuddling up to him in the hospital wing after full moons

<333

"You shouldn't be in here."

Remus's stern words hardly deter you, especially because by now he's got the strength to push you off of the bed, but he doesn't. Instead he watches warily, neck craned and rolled into miniscule lines of chub that you'd kiss if you were in your human form, as your paws trace a path up towards his head.

"You're some sort of creature," Remus decides, speaking aloud in the deserted hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey only has one other patient now, but they've been quarantined in a separate room due to the infectious nature of their illness. It means that Remus can speak at will, and you're happy to plant yourself over his chest to feel it vibrate at the sound. You're more accustomed to doing so with your human ears, but it's nicer to hear your boyfriend's voice with cat senses.

"You're too smart to be a regular cat," He lifts a shaky hand up to your head, offering you a chance to inspect him as though you haven't already splayed yourself over his chest, "But the castle doesn't allow many magical pets. Which means you're not supposed to be in here at all. Definitely not in the Hospital Wing."

You offer him a soft, plaintive meow, purring when he strokes his knuckles over the space between your ears.

"Maybe you're an omen," He muses suddenly, eyes narrowing, "No one else ever sees you. Are you warning me of some cruel fate?"

You blink at him, slowly, and he decides, "You're not very threatening for an omen."

Remus has professed the exact same observation about your attempts to be threatening in human form as well. Somehow, the tightening of your brows and the downturn of your lips aren't enough to petrify Remus, though it works rather nicely on errant second-years who find themselves confident enough in the castle to misbehave, but too terrified to face the consequences.

You draw back your shoulders and let your fangs glint in the low lights of the hospital wing, mouth open to hiss warningly at Remus.

Your cruel fate is a good night's sleep, you grouse at him, lamenting the fact that he'll never hear the words, you'd rest more if you weren't always dishing out inexhaustible wit.

"Oh, very scary," He chuckles, poking teasingly at your left pointed fang, "I'm not afraid of you, cat, you couldn't hurt me more than I've already hurt myself."

And it's true.

His limbs, long and lanky, bear the scratch marks of his own claws, gnarled nails that lie in wait under the surface to be beckoned by the moon's silvery siren song. There's a tear on his cheek, skin split and blood carefully wiped clean, where he'd fought with himself, with the will of the universe, and tried clinging to his human skin. He's nursing a rolled ankle from thrashing about during his transformation, and a patch of his hair is still reddened with copper no matter how many times Madame Pomfrey had washed it with a wet washcloth. He's barely a boy anymore, more like a string of injuries hanging together with sutures and dittany.

In hopes that companionship works just as well as Pomfrey's healing remedies, you wriggle closer still to his face, draping yourself over his neck and laying your face against his own. It's an awkward position for him, probably more pressure than he's used to on his windpipe, but you keep your weight off of him as much as possible, and purr like the motor of Sirius's bike against his ear.

He's hesitant to accept it at first, which you knew he would be. He needs to be sought out, he needs someone to hold out their hand for five seconds before he decides to take it or not. You wait, one, two, three, four, five, and he exhales, the air hitting your fur.

"Don't be here when they check on me," He murmurs, hand back at his side as your tail curls around his opposite ear, "Thanks, cat."

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin scenario #remus lupin oneshot #remus lupin one-shot #remus lupin one shot #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin dialogue #remus lupin blurb #remus lupin headcanons #remus lupin headcanon #remus lupin hc #remus lupin hcs #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin fanfic #remus lupin fic #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin x y/n #remus lupin x you

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moonlightcycle571 · 5 months ago

Text

Lantern Corps and a 10 year old Child

In a last post, I said the Lantern Corps would love Captain Marvel because he’s omni-lingual (and there’s so many different species so it makes sense that they would feel comfertable around a guy who can speak their mother tongue, no matter how obscure it is).

And then it came to me in a glorious vision, the Cores would LOVE or absolute HATE Billy Batson, be it as a kid it as Captain Marvel.

First on the Love Captain spectrum:

Red Lantern: that’s the corps that’s the most insistent. Man’s fights littéral Wrath and demons alike on a weekly basis. Man’s go to weekly poker night with Satan and other Wardens of Hell. Why? Because he has his own prison dimension in th Rock of Eternity, who also holds the strongest demons.

Yellow Lanterns: as champion of magic, he holds a lot of weight. Especially for magic users. One flick of a wrist and boom, your magic is gone. The whole concept of ‘The Champion’ is enough for most to fear him. That and one does not play poker with The Devil from The Bible and other figures from various religions, and just have a normal presence. He’s terrifying when he wants to be. In his Cap form, he needs to actively tamp down to appear more family friendly, and not the eldricht horror he knows he could easily look like.

Green Lanterns: Homeless Child Superhero dealing with horrors must adults can’t handle. That takes willpower. Even before Captain, I’m pretty sure off willpower alone he could qualify. But what’s the real ringer is his imagination. The Rock of Eternity has access to magical dimensions that no amount of crack could dream up. Man’s had to learn how to use Looney Toones Logic irl and it works. Man’s got a while Disney Dimension with Ballerina Hippos with their Croc partners. Mans has debates about files with littéral walking talking dinosaurs. Billy is hella creative, and who knows what would be made with a ring.

Blue Lanterns: do I … do I need to explain? There are the lantern corps of Hope, I think the rest is pretty self explanatory. I will say though, he was close to accepting when he found out they got a Corgi. Even closer when Dex Starr, the red lanterns cat got a

Orange Lantern: bro fights the physical manifestations of the Seven Deadly Sins , including Greed on a regular basis. By right of conquest, he really should be wearing the ring rn. They be trying to put a ring on it for ages.

Black Lanterns: he once revived Freddy and or Mary by reconnecting them to the rock, and since then is considered a ‘nécromancer’. Also (similar to the Avatar State) he has memories of past champions, including death, so one can argue he’s in a life and death loop.

White lanterns: same reasons as the Black Lanterns. They’ve been trying to get Billy to also out-do said Black Lanterns (who in turn try to recruit him some more). It’s just one vicious snowball effect now.

Now for the Hate Captain spectrum:

Star Sapphire Corps: The thing about Billy is that he’s AroAce. Very Aro and Very Ace. So those who draw power from love and try to flirt are met with the disgusted face of someone who’s famously nice. It was a devastating blow to the whole corps. At some point Hal decided to hide behind Cap to escape another Star Sapphire who fell inlove with him, and they just, lost their power. No longer had the ability to fly and everything. He’s Ace-ness is crippling. And it did bring memes. The Ace community was winning.

Indigo Tribe: he’s too autistic for them. And while being the warden of multiple dangerous beings fits their MO and all, they ain’t touching the bullshit magical logic with a ten foot pole. That, and the first time a ring was sent to him to recruit him to keep the evil ones in line, he roasted their whole system, their ugly ass uniforms (that particular shade of indigo clashed with his Hero Outfit way to much) and ended with a comparison to them with a guy called ‘King Kid’ and the fucking ‘Easter Bunny King’ that somehow did a much better job at Machiavellic while also being uhly. They never sent a second one. The red lanterns sent more.

Ultraviolet lanterns: again, man’s fights the Seven Sins on the regular, is their warden along with other sick evils, lies to the Justice League on the regular and plays poker with Demons (and wins) despite being one of the most honest people there is. That and he’s so dad shaped, it counters their power of daddy issues.

Bonuse:

It’s not uncommon for various JL members to receive lantern rings. They just don’t want to. So the standard procedure is to find your local lantern, and give them rings. At some point all the Corps made a lantern offers chart (and maybe the JL got a bit competitive).

Problem, that screen was using old alien tech that didn’t have colour. So they knew Cap had the most lantern offers, but they didn’t know which colours. Until it got fixed.

J’le looking at the rainbow that’s Captain Marvels Ring List: …

Batman: Captain, why is there so many red ones?

Billy, sweating: …

Hal, not comfy with the amount of yellow: I… I need to make a few phone calls.

John, the one who’s been receiving all of his rings: Uh, don’t remind me. I’ve been getting cramps with the amount of times I had to input the different colours.

Dinah: I don’t think even I’m qualified for the amount of therapy everyone is going to need.

WonderWoman: How to you have Negative Pink Rings??? You can’t get a negative number in a list

Billy, inputing the Zeta Tube: haha, it’s so weird

John: … do I need to add AroAce as a weakness for the Sapphires???

Bonus points if the results are open to the galactic public, and just wonder who tf are and ‘Billy Batson’ and Captain Marvel and why they are dominating the top ranks. What is in the Terra city Fawcette.

Extra Bonus Point if the JL go: Who tf is Billy Batson, and why is he ranked above Captain Marvel.

I’ve been waiting to do this one for a while. But never got the motivation. Let me know if I missed any, and feel free to write fanfic (please tag me if you do, I wanna reeeeead).

Final note, I want to give a certain someone a comment of appreciation.

@wonderjanga you are my favourite person on this app. You are the reason I decided to get out of my procrastination slump. Thank you for you content, it’s always so creative and I deeply enjoy it.

For those who don’t know them, I recommend checking out their content. It’s genuinely inspiration for me to start writing again. I don’t think I’ll be writing on ao3 soon, but maybe one day.

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jetpackgeneratedcat · 5 months ago

Text

It took literal months, but I finished it!!

Top left: linked universe logo

The jojo's lu logo is sooooo detailed. It is one of the things I love about Jojo's asethetic with linked universe. The detail she adds brings so much life and information about the world of Linked Universe. Great example is all the embroidery on the chain's clothing. Let's you know about civilization, that an item may be magical, etc. It is difficult to keep small details in watercolor, but I think I caught most of the main details in the painting.

Middle left: Soulful legend

This was the fourth of the images I did for the painting, and the first image I really started to get into the painting. I think legend is my favorite to paint because he makes composition so easy. The red tunic adds an easy focal point. I did learn from this that I do not like masking fluid and likely won't use it again. It added to many hard edges that I wasn't intending. Very happy with the sky!

Bottom left: Evening snack

In this image, I liked the idea that wind and sky don't know what Ramen is because their worlds don't have enough space to produce wheat. So sky and wind are super excited about this new food, while legend has no idea why they are so hyped for noodles. I also liked the idea that four found a green pepper in the ramen as a topping and is a hater (this is from a note that jojo left somewhere saying that the chain will eat anything but four in the Manga does not like green peppers, idk where this note is to link it though....). I didn't end up drawing the Ramen noodles as it was just getting too small of a scale for me to be comfortable drawing the thin lines for the noodles in.

Bottom right: Testudo

I am very hyped in the future when we see more collaborative fighting with the chain and them working together effectively. I absolutely love the scene in shifting shadows part 3 where lenged and hyrule work together with the beam and hookshot.

Middle: Legends storage

This is a reference to one of jojo's earliest works where the chain goes to legends storage for him to pick up some gear. I love that scene and I tried to put as many references as I could. The one thing I need to figure out is how I want twilight to look. I can't wrap my head around it. Need to sit down and just try out a bunch of different faces for him. My Pinterest inspo for twilight is all over the place. I want twilight to look different from time because when Malon was trying to guess who was the descendent, she did not consider twilight (she looked at wars and wind (so I typically draw time, wind, and wars looking similar). For my own personal headcannon, twilight and time are very similar in their manner (the way the walk, stand, etc) and personality (their stubbornness (as seen in sunset pt3)) but not necessarily in looks.

Middle right: Boat boys

The first image I did. I like how the water turned out, but I will not be using masking fluid for the same reasons I noted earlier. I did trace the boat (i think this is the reference [L240632 Hornet Class. J. Arthur Dixon Ltd. Beken and Son]). I do regret not doing anything creative with the boat, but I just wanted to get into painting and needed some confidence by working directly from a reference. I also forgot that legend might not be so keen to be on a boat again based on a comment jojo left in 2022 or something. I think she mentioned something in a discord event back then about legend not too willing to be on a boat again. But that doesn't really matter, I put that boy in a boat whether he likes it or not lol.

Top right: Winter storm

Second image I did for this painting. I did trace most of the horse because I do not care to learn horse anatomy (ref. [Winter Save By David Stoecklein]) Favorite part about this is the lighting on the rope from the lantern. I think it turn out well.

Top middle: Heavy armour

Third image I did for the painting and the one I realized I need to spend more time painting people in neutral or back lite lighting. But for my first time I think it is good. I really want to see what jojo does with the armour sets! I like the idea that war's armour is clean and pristine while wild's armour is rusted and beaten from the calamity. In this painting I played with adding pink to the golden armour and I liked it. In the middle picture of the collage (legends storage), you can see i added pink to time's armour.

That's everything! ❤️

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moonmunson · 25 days ago

Text

don't you want me

wc: 4.4k

cw: slight angst, discussions surrounding death and the poor aging of some scenes in the breakfast club, plus size!live!reader, still gender neutral!reader

summary: wally tells you about how he died, you watch the breakfast club, and shit is getting a little weird.

don't go breaking my heart: pt 1. - pt 2. - pt. 3 - pt. 4

masterlist

Wally meets you in the library every day during your study hall for the next few weeks.

When it’s quiet, and there aren’t any people around, you spend the whole hour talking. You learn a lot about him, what life was like for him in the 80s, and what his afterlife is like here, as well. He asks questions about your abilities, and though you don’t have many answers to give him, you try your best.

“Have you talked to a lot of ghosts?”

You’re sitting at a table in the corner, notebooks and study guides splayed out to give the impression that you’re actually here to do work. Wally sits across from you, chin cupped in the palm of his hand, elbow leaning on the table top. He has a staring problem, it makes your skin crawl.

“Not really? Not on purpose, anyways,” you shrug, “I mean, it’s not like I’ve had a lot of opportunities to do this.”

“So I’m your first?”

The intention to tease is clear - his tone is light and airy - honey brown eyes boring into yours, smile creeping up on his face. You could look at him for hours. You have looked at him for hours, mapping the freckles on his face like constellations.

“Yeah, Wally. You’re my first,” you giggle, conceding to the bit, “you should feel honored, really.”

“Oh, more than honored,” his eyes twinkle under the fluorescent lights, “and you’re my first, too. What we’ve got going on here is special.”

There’s a beat of silence, genuineness seeping into the joke.

“Yeah,” you whisper, “super special.”

You share a look, and you wish you could reach out and touch him. You wish you could hold his hand, hug him, draw lines from freckle to freckle with your finger. The time you’ve spent with him has been so good - sweet, easy hours spent giggling and blushing.

And then you leave campus, go home, fight the urge to cry into your pillow. It isn’t fucking fair. It’s not fair that he died in the way that he did, it’s not fair that he isn’t fifty something with a wife, watching their kids go to college.

You haven’t talked about it much - the divide between you, or the nature of his death - despite the amount of time you’ve spent together. It’s like you’re stuck in this semi-honeymoon phase, wanting to keep being entertained by the novelty of it, instead of letting the truth of the situation infect that happiness.

It’s so hard, though, when you look at him and think of the life that was stolen from him.

He sees your smile falter, reaches his hand forward to sit next to yours. You feel the displacement of air, the coldness pressing up against the tips of your fingers. It’s enough, for now.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see one of the other ghosts making their way towards Wally. It’s the kid with the jean jacket and the bleached tips - Charley, Wally had told you - and he looks slightly concerned.

You put your head down, moving your hand away from his and feigning focus on the worksheets in front of you. Wally had suggested not letting in any of the other ghosts until you figured out how to tell them, though you had a sneaking suspicion he just wanted to keep this to himself for a little while longer.

Charley plops down in the seat next to Wally, eyes going back and forth between the two of you.

“You missed group again,” he whispers, like he doesn’t want to disturb you from your studying, “are you still following this poor person around? They can’t even see you, it’s getting creepy.”

Your eyes, though directed at the pages on the table, widen slightly - has Wally been watching you the same way you’ve been watching him?

You’ve never noticed him looking at you, and you wouldn’t have, because up until recently you’d been trying your hardest not to get too close. It was futile, you can admit that now.

It almost makes you giggle, knowing that he’d been doing the same thing.

Wally splutters, “I don’t follow them around,” you can feel both of them looking at you, and it’s getting harder not to laugh, “I don’t know why you’d think that, that’s just…”

Charley pats Wally on the shoulder, rubbing it slightly and sighing.

“It’s sweet of you, I think. We’ve all had crushes on living people at some point or another, but this one seems bad. You’re like, obsessed.”

That’s the thing that does you in. Laugh tearing from your throat, hand clasped over your mouth, trying and failing miserably to hide your amusement.

“Sorry, sorry, oh,” your shoulders are still shaking with your laughter, head bowed in apology before you look up to see a pink cheeked Wally and a shocked Charley, “I really tried, I’m so sorry.”

“Nice,” Wally chastises, though he’s smiling, “the idea of me having a crush on you is funny?”

Charley still hasn’t said anything, head whipping back and forth between you and Wally like he’s watching a game of tennis.

“I didn’t say that! I also think it’s sweet,” you turn to Charley, stick your hand out before thinking better of it and pulling it back to your side of the table, “Hi, I’m y/n, yes, I can see you, no I’m not dead.”

“H- hey,” his eyes are still wide, brain working on overdrive to figure out what’s happening, “I’m Charley.”

Wally fills him in on the time you’ve been spending together, retelling in theatrical detail the way in which you’d accidentally made it known you could see him.

Then it was your turn, explaining to Charley how you’d known since you were a kid that you could see dead people, but that you didn’t know why, or what it meant. If it had a purpose, or was just an unexplainable quirk.

To Charley’s credit, he takes it really well.

He doesn’t get upset with Wally for not sharing, he doesn’t get upset at you for not making yourself known to them sooner, though he mentions that when the time comes for you to tell Rhonda, she won’t be nice about it. He’s a sweetheart, just like you thought he’d be.

“Have you guys just been hanging out this whole time? That’s why you’ve been missing group so much?”

Wally goes to answer, but you cut him off.

“What’s group? Do the ghosts here have, like, an afterlife support group?” You find the idea of it really sweet, and amusing, chuckling to yourself until you see that the two boys in front of you aren’t laughing, they’re nodding. “Oh shit, wait, really?”

“Yeah,” Charley confirms, “It’s run by this guy Mr. Martin. He was a science teacher that died in the late 50s, I think,” he looks to Wally for confirmation, turning back to you when Wally agrees, “He’s pretty cool. We have a bunch of traditions, like movie nights and stuff like that.”

“That’s really cool, actually. I didn’t know that you guys did that. I’m sorry I’ve been messing it up, keeping Wally to myself.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Wally says, and he smiles, a sweet, boyish thing, “I’d rather be here with you.”

Charley watches the both of you, and he doesn’t think either of you clock the lovesick puppy looks on your faces. He doesn’t know what it means, how it’ll end, but it’s nice to see his friend so happy for once, breaking the monotonous nature of their days at Split River High.

He leaves eventually, making you promise you’ll hang out with him sometime.

“So,” you ask Wally, “how long have you been watching me?”

“You can’t judge me,” he parrots, “and I could ask you the same question.”

“I didn’t say I was judging, I’m just curious, y’know, since you have a crush on me and all.”

“I do not have a crush on you.”

Wally isn’t the most convincing liar. You can tell, by the way he’s looking everywhere but directly at you, that Charley was telling the truth.

“That’s too bad,” you shrug, glancing at the clock behind him and beginning to gather your things from the table, “I wouldn’t mind it if you did.”

Your nonchalance affects Wally exactly the way you want it to, watching as his cheeks grow pink again and as he trips over words that don’t leave his mouth. He starts to say something, but the overhead chiming cuts him off before he can get any words out.

“Look at that, saved by the bell. Later, Wally.”

On your way out of the library, you look back to see him still at the table in the corner, slouched backwards and head tilted towards the ceiling.

When Wally talks to you about how he died, you’re sitting under your tree overlooking the football field.

He hadn’t had the intention to talk to you about it today, but the football team is training, preparing for next year’s season, and you’d asked about it.

It was nice, talking about football in a casual way at first, explaining things to you in a way you’d understand them, because in your words, you were more of a “music and film nerd,” though you understood the appeal of sweaty men tackling each other.

You’d skirted around asking questions about homecoming, attempting to spare Wally the reminder, but the conversation was always going to end up there eventually.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, leaning against the tree, head tilted in your direction, “I don’t mind talking about it.”

“Are you sure? We don’t have to.”

It’s not pity he sees on your face, but genuine concern. It emboldens him enough to tell you what happened. He goes on autopilot a bit, like he’s told the story so many times that it feels like he’s removed from it - telling a story about someone else, rehashing the grizzly details the way a true crime documentary would.

He tells you about his knee injury, his coach benching him, his mom pushing him to strive for her specific idea of greatness.

He tells you he was running so fast, he didn’t even feel the initial impact, just heard the crunching of his neck when he hit the ground. And then it was lights out. Just like that.

He tells you how he stood up from his own body, watched in confusion and abject horror as his coach and team members ran up to him, trying to wake him, thinking he’d simply been knocked out.

He tells you about the gasps from the crowd, whispers shared amongst the stands as the announcer tried his best to explain what was happening.

It felt like time was standing still, and he’d gotten up so fast that he was confused why everyone was reacting the way they were. He was fine, couldn’t they tell? When his mom rushed onto the field, and the EMT’s loaded him onto the backboard, that’s when he knew.

He watched as everyone left the field, standing solitary with his helmet in his hands.

Mr. Martin and Rhonda found him a few hours later, wandering the halls of the school, tears running down his face.

You don’t mean to cry, you don’t want to take the attention or make him have to comfort you, but the tears fall anyway. Heavy and slow, they build in your eyes before falling over onto your cheeks. You turn your head to the side, wiping them away, trying to hide it. You fail, but Wally just smiles at you - a sad thing, appreciative of your kindness.

“It’s okay, it was a long time ago. I haven’t cried about it in almost… twenty years, I think.”

“I don’t really know what to say,” you face him, collecting the last of your tears with your jacket sleeve, “I’m just really sorry that happened to you. I wish I could change it.”

Wally does what he’s been making a habit of, hovering his hand over yours so you can feel the change in temperature. This time though, and only for a second, there’s a flicker of warmth, a millisecond of feeling a solid palm against yours.

“Did you feel that?”

Your head whips over to see Wally, eyes wide and brow furrowed. He nods, moves his hand away, and tries to do it again, but it falls through yours - cold air seeping into your skin and sending shivers up your spine. You think the latter is more so a credit to Wally himself, not just the cool sensation.

“Why did that happen?” he asks, pulling away from you to fiddle with the gold chain around his neck.

“I have no idea. I didn’t do anything, did you?”

“Not that I know of,” a slight sigh of defeat, “it was nice though, right?”

It makes you want to cry again, how small he sounds at that moment. Hopeful and sad at the same time. You’d give anything to throw yourself at him, hug him, run your hands through his hair.

“Yeah, Wally. It was really nice.”

Time passes, easy silence as the two of you lay in the grass, staring up at the sky through the tree.

“Do you miss it? Being alive?”

He chuckles, shakes his head.

“Not really. I mean,” he rolls over, props his head up with his hand, “It’s been so long that I’ve kinda forgotten what it felt like. There’s lots of shit I missed out on, and for a while I was so upset about being dead that I didn’t even try to catch up. Like, when Charley heard I’ve never seen The Breakfast Club, he flipped out.”

“You’ve never seen Breakfast Club?”

“It came out in ‘85, so…” he trails off, “We had a copy of it in the library for a while, but I mostly stayed away from all the popular 80s movies.”

“I get that,” you sympathize, “but you have to watch it at some point. It’s a classic, I think you’d like it. I could watch it with you, if you wanted.” The question is asked carefully, like you’re still not sure if he wants to keep seeing you. It’s a silly assumption, you know that, especially because his whole demeanor lights up.

“Yeah, okay,” Wally nods to himself, “I’ll watch it with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, dude,” Wally stands from his spot on the lawn, dusting the grass off of himself, and reaching a hand out towards you to help you up. For a second, you forget that you can’t actually grab him, and you both giggle when your hand goes through his, “the film room is basically always empty, but I have other hiding places if you want to come back sometime not during the school day. The security around here sucks, they haven’t updated it since like, my time, so there’s always at least one open door.”

“That didn’t take as much convincing as I thought it would.”

“What can I say?” he shrugs, “I’m a sucker for a pretty face, and you’re very persuasive.”

Sneaking into the school on a Saturday could go really, really badly.

When you’d walked through your kitchen that morning, and your mom had asked where you were off to, you made the attempt to tell her a story as close to the truth as possible.

You were going to hang out with a friend - your mom didn’t need to know that friend was dead, and confined to live within the four walls of your high school.

She didn’t need to know that even though that friend wasn’t capable of touching you, that you’d put ten times the effort into your outfit and hair than you usually would.

It’s late March in Wisconsin, and the last tendrils of a freezing Winter are grasping desperately for recognition against early Spring. In other words, it’s still fucking cold. Out of an abundance of caution, you’d parked your car about a block away from the school, paranoid about a faculty or staff member seeing it and catching you.

It was a good idea, but you spend the five minute walk with your arms wrapped around your body, shivering and teeth chattering.

By the time you make it to the school grounds, you can barely feel your fingertips. Wally is waiting for you by the bus stop, shoulder leaning against the glass, his hands in his jacket pockets and feet crossed over each other.

“Did you walk all the way here?” He pushes off, coming as close as he can to the boundary without being thrown back to the middle of the field. “You look fucking freezing.”

“Not all the way here, no,” You huff out a breath, watching as it dissipates in front of you, “but I didn’t want anyone to see my car in the parking lot.”

“Fair,” he says, “Maybe wear a bigger jacket next time?”

You roll your eyes, and start the trek into the school, Wally leading the both of you around the back and through the gym.

“Sports faculty leave this door open all the time, so they can come in and check equipment, but they were just here last weekend, so the coast should be clear.” He turns around, walking backwards through the gym door and into the hall so he can look at you while he talks. “I don’t want you to make fun of me, but I have a whole thing set up in the film room,” he smiles, ever-present pink flush on his face, “I don’t know if you’ll be able to interact with any of it, but you did kick that football away from you, so I figured it was worth trying.”

He faces forward again, jumping and clicking his heels together. You laugh, shake your head, and follow him the rest of the way to the film room. He holds the door open for you, and when you see the inside, you stand stock still in the doorway.

You have no idea how he did this, where he got all of this from. There are fairy lights lining the room, soft yellow glow illuminating it and shedding light on the massive pile of blankets and pillows on the floor. There are snacks everywhere. Drinks, chips, chocolate bars you can only assume he got from the vending machines in the cafeteria. The projector is on and pointed at the screen on the wall, paused at The Breakfast Club’s opening title sequence.

Your hand goes over your mouth, overwhelmingly endeared by the amount of effort Wally put into your movie day. You walk around the room, looking back and forth between him and the spread in front of you. Thankfully, Wally doesn’t take your silence negatively, instead plopping himself down on the floor and grabbing the remote.

“Well? What do you think? Is it too much?”

He looks up at you from his place on the ground, patting the seat next to him. You’re shaking your head as you sit, still reeling from the feelings rumbling in your chest and stomach.

“Not too much, no,” you settle onto the cushions, wrap a blanket around your arms, glad that you can touch the things around you, phantom though they may be, “Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me.”

“It’s no biggie,” Wally leans back, shrugging his shoulders, “I just thought it would make today more fun.”

“This is so fucking fun, Wally. You did good.”

The Breakfast Club is a classic, but it’s also a product of its time.

It’s profound, with complex characters who have complex home lives and interpersonal relationships, it’s thorough in its exploration of what labels and presumptions can do to a person.

It also has its scenes that have aged incredibly poorly.

For most of the movie, you almost regret making him watch it. In your excitement to spend the day with him - significant hours, not just fragmented moments in between classes throughout the week - you’d forgotten how triggering the movie would be for him. It feels like a neglectful oversight, but Wally seems genuinely invested.

He laughs at some of the lighter moments, winces through a lot of the more ugly parts. Slurs being thrown, general and explicit misogyny, fatphobia.

You don’t need to ask him if the movie is accurate, you can see it on his face.

You can especially see how much Andrew’s character affects him. A jock, who, not so unlike Wally, cannot think for himself - who spends the majority of his time trying his best to appease his father’s wishes. Who refuses to be a loser, refuses to stand up to his parents and tell them how he really feels.

How that tumbles into his decision making - beating up a kid who didn’t do anything wrong, just to prove to his dad that he’s a man. It’s not a one to one ratio, but it’s close enough.

He’s quiet as he watches the kids sit in a circle, eyes glued to the screen as they talk about being terrified that they’ll turn into their parents.

You wonder if he’s thinking about the kind of man he’d turn out to be, if he hadn’t died. If he would’ve been harsher, not nearly as accepting as he seems to be now, lacking the 40 years of growth he’s had.

When the movie ends, freeze framed with John Bender mid-fist pump, you look over to see Wally wiping a few stray tears away. It makes your chest ache, your own eyes watering, throat closing up around the lump in it.

You can’t imagine what it’s like, to watch forty years of high school students enter and leave, while you’re stuck there, just watching. The jocks, the bullies, the tightly-wound rich girls, the freaks.

To see the evolution of youth, to watch the times change right in front of you, to realize how small high school is in the grand scheme of things, but to recognize that for Wally, it literally is his whole world. He has to watch, over and over, and see that times really haven’t changed at all. The tropes are still there, the cliches and cliques are just as bad.

“That was a lot more serious than I remembered,” you laugh lightly, “Are you okay? I wouldn’t have suggested we watch it if I remembered how hard it is.”

Wally lies back on the pallet he built on the floor, landing softened by blanket-covered gym mats and couch cushions he’d stolen from the teacher’s lounge. He’s staring at the ceiling, quiet to the point of concern on your end when he says,

“If I’d seen that movie when it came out, I think it would’ve changed my life.”

“In a good way?”

“In a really good way,” he turns his head towards you, looking up at you from his place on the pillows, “Maybe it would’ve made me brave enough to tell my mom I didn’t even like football. Maybe I would’ve…�� He trails off, voice watery and cracking, “Maybe I would’ve stayed on the bench. Maybe I would’ve lived through that game, and the next one, or I’d have quit and done something I actually enjoyed. You know she still goes to every homecoming game they have at this school?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And for all of them, I go out and join her. I sit next to her, cheer when she cheers, boo when she boos, I talk to her even though I know she can’t hear me. I know it’s stupid -”

“It isn’t stupid,” you interject, “You love her, she’s your mom.”

“It is stupid, though. I told Charley once that I was annoyed I didn’t die in the end zone, instead of the five yard line,” he scoffs, shaking his head at himself, “I was upset I couldn’t get her one last win, y’know? What does it say about me, that I keep going back to the field I died on, to watch the game that killed me, because I think it’ll make my mom happy?”

“That you’re loyal. That you care,” you duck your head, trying to catch his line of sight, “But also, maybe that you care too much. That you put too much stock into what your mom thought of you while you were alive, and now it’s carried over into your afterlife. You wanna know what I think?”

Wally nods, urging you to continue.

“I think you’re one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met. I think you’re kind, and funny, and you care about your friends more than most living people care about theirs. I think it’s really fucking unfair that you’re not alive right now, and, all due respect to your mom, but,” you pause, working up the nerve to say, “she sounds like she fucking sucked. And you don’t have to do what she wants anymore. Caring about what she thinks is natural, she’ll always be your mom, but it weighs you down, I can see it.”

“What do you mean, you can see it?”

“It’s hard to explain, but it’s like,” you wave a hand over his body, “the air around you is heavier, sometimes. Like it hurts for you to be here.”

Wally hums, digesting your revelation, “Damn. That kinda blows. Does it fuck up my figure?”

“No, silly,” you snort, “Your figure is just fine. Trust me.”

You take the change in topic for what it is, trusting that he’ll work through your words on his own time.

“Oh, my figure is just fine? You wanna elaborate on that, or…”

He props himself up on his elbows, draws his chin down to his neck, and bats his eyes.

“Wally, oh my god,” you go to shove at his shoulder, out of habit, mostly, used to shoving at your friends when they say something ridiculous.

It makes contact.

Like the force of it almost knocks him over, you can feel your hand on his shoulder, contact.

You gasp, go to pull away because the shock of it is overwhelming, and lightning fast, Wally brings his hand up to cover yours.

He’s not necessarily warm, not fully solid either, but you’re touching. He pulls your hand down, holds it between the two of you and laces his fingers through yours.

The hum of the projector is the only noise in the room, as you sit in silence and stare, dumbfounded, at your hand in his.

a/n: hiiiii guys! here's pt 2, i hope you enjoy! i have a very clear idea of what i want 3 and 4 to look like, so stick with me. i watched the breakfast club, realized that wally is literally copied and pasted from andrew, and needed to write about it or i'd die

if you liked this, my masterlist is linked at the top! my asks are always open, and don't forget to like and reblog if you feel so inclined.

also, who else is terrified for the season finale tomorrow????

taglist: @preparedfruit , @lov3bug , @whoopsyeahokay

#I loved writing this so much you guys don't even know #wally clark #wally clark x reader #school spirits #wally clark imagine #wally clark x you #wally clark fanfiction #milo manheim #charley school spirits

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the-sweet-hibiscus · 2 months ago

Text

Prequel thought of this bc I need more complex Gaz in my life. Because he was always taught that sharing the pieces of himself was bad. Not in an overt way – he will be the first to tell you that his childhood was fine, thank you very much – but in subtle ways that left him convinced the only way to keep people interested was to take the best traits of those around him and make them his. He was the best of everyone around him, and he always would be.

It starts when he's a child, despite what he says. The first time a teacher tells him that he's asking too many questions about the Roman Empire, and the girl behind him snickered at the admonishment. If you'd asked him at the time he'd say he'd felt hot, molten in his chest like he'd swallowed a spoiled reheated meal. And he learned to take his questions home with him to look up another day.

The first time he says he likes Manchester, while watching the telly with his father, he learns that "in Liverpool, we cheer for Liverpool" and it was not up for debate. So now he owned a hoodie and jogger set that he only wore when he returned to his father's house, and a Manchester hoodie he could wear with his team. (Because Ghost liked Manchester, and if Ghost likes it then Soap will fall in line. And if Ghost and Soap are in line, Captain will give a nod of approval, and no one will know what he's against and what he's for.)

The first time he asks a girl on a date, he awkwardly shuffles toward her, cologne too strong and his stutter stronger – and she laughs at him. He spends the entire year observing, almost falling for tragic advice of negging and peacocking, just to realize what he needed was charm. What he needed was smooth confidence. And he could fake that. He could fake anything. And with enough practice, it wasn't faking, it was real. Confidence was his weapon, and he had enough of it in spades.

He's an adult before he learns to change his approach to each woman he meets, however. Until one night he gets rejected - the hot flame of shame beginning to settle in his chest - before Soap claps him on the shoulder, a tad too jolly, joking about how "a lass like that needs more than you're pretty smile".

That's when he realizes the team has more to them than he realized.

He'd watch as Price clocks girls who prefer a quiet night in to whatever bar they happen to be at. How he'll go outside for a few minutes to let the cigar smoke mute itself on his clothes before coming inside to "happen" to need a drink from the bar at the same time as the girl. Instead of flashing a smile he makes conversation about wishing he was home with the book he's reading - it was always the same book - but it was enough to get the girl to smile at him.

And Gaz would take note. Shift just enough in his routine to draw an eye. A cigarette instead of a cigar. A subtle cologne that gave him an outdoorsy vibe. A dog instead of a book, perfect for pictures and a way to get her phone out.

He'd watch Soap, as brash as the bloak was, he'd often go after girls who seemed like they radiated "do not fuck with me vibes". But he'd find a way to break the ice. First he'd try a compliment. If that didn't work, he'd be honest. "I just wanted you to know I thought you were gorgeous, and if you tell me to fuck off i'll fuck off. But i'd just like to chat." And he'd be in.

Gaz only tried this a few times. Less interested in the work of trying to be interesting and more interested in the conquest. The fuck off girls, rightfully, seemed to only want a real connection - and that was something he could only fake for so long.

Simon was the hardest to pin down. He rarely actively went after a bird, as he called them. They normally came to him. In fact, it took several months of Gaz eyeing the man to realize what was up. Something, or someone, would catch his eye, and he'd sit up a little straighter. Suddenly he was the biggest thing in the room, eyes only occassionally meeting his target as he seemingly scanned around looking for something to interest him.

It was a form of negging, Gaz would realize. Simon would make it seem like their appearance hadn't interested him, and they'd be drawn to it like moths to flame. They'd want to know what could make him interested.

This was the hardest to replicate. The nonchalance, the appearing to not want the chase. There was a certain balancing act to adapting it to his playbook. Only acknowledge once, a curt nod or a raised drink would suffice, pretend to only glance their way when they're glancing at you. But when he got it? He was able to swoop in on every target, until they started partnering off.

First it was John. It only took one canceled outing to know that the Captain would be missing in action for the foreseeable future. And he was. It took five months for the Captain to invite them 'round for a drink at home, a pretty little thing sat on his lap.

Ghost was shockingly next, despite Gaz' assumptions that it'd be Soap. It was on a rare leave, John and Johnny both gone to their respective homes. Gaz's one thought to cure the boredom was his Leftenant. Only to be shocked by a bird, thick as cream and sweet as pie, opening Simon's door in one of the man's training t-shirts. Something the man never acknowledged while they watched the Manchester match.

Soap was leashed by the time that leave was up. Claimed he'd found a "right bonny lass" at a neighborhood potluck. (And seemingly never left her side until it was time to come back to base.) He was almost eager to show a polaroid photo ("she's into photography, that one. But some of these are private, ya know), both smiling ear to ear with matching scarfs. Johnny claiming he'd have her fully moved in at the end of his next leave.

So, in all honesty, Gaz should've seen you coming.

He planned for it, initially. Supposed if the rest of his team was paired off, he needed to be too.

He should've seen the writing on the wall when he was on a rare night out with other soldiers. A popular military bar next to base, crowded and full of people he typically found not worth in imitating. But it was a night to celebrate a successful mission to capture a terrorist in the North Sea. A man who's name he didn't remember, but he'd kiss on the mouth if it meant he'd meet you again.

You were a bartender. Clearly in your element as the room ebbed and flowed in crowd size. Still, he waited til the bar started to get sparce to try anything. First, he attempted Ghost's method. A raised glass as you're scanning the room for anything. You send a waitress over, and it dashes that plan.

He finishes his (new) drink, tossing more than he needed to on the table for the waitress, before relocating to the bar.

It's Johnny's tactic next. A flash smile and a nod to your skills, the compliment rolls off his tongue like honey. You're not impressed. A leveled glare and a shrug as you mosey about cleaning the barback. That's when he decides to remix. A mixture of Soap and Bravado.

"Listen," he says, "I know you're probably tired of all of us soldiers hitting on you – I can't say I blame them. But I'm genuinely impressed. And I just think you deserve to be pampered, is all." It wasn't his smoothest delivery - the drinks and late hour clearly wearing on his charm - but it still was enough for you to pause. Enough that he has you home that night. And he thinks he'll have you every night, if you'd let him.

#call of duty #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #john price #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader

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moonstruckme · 7 months ago

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Hi gorgeous! I love ur writing!! Here's a lil blurb request for either Sirius or Remus! It's not smut but more like the lead up/conversation beforehand. Like May be a super inexperienced reader and she's nervous af bc she knows he has way more experience than her and she's worried about being good enough for him or worried about disappointing him and he's just so sweet and reassuring and is just happy she trusts him

Thank you for requesting my love!

cw: mature themes (and immature jokes), no smut

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 667 words

“You’re not gonna suck, baby.” Sirius is laughing at you, which isn’t really the response you were hoping for. You’re so embarrassed it’s making your palms sweat.

“Or,” he reconsiders, “you could, of course, but there’s no pressure to.”

You blow out a frustrated breath. “Can you please just take me…” you trail off, realizing you’re about to hand your boyfriend another joke. By the gleam in Sirius’ eyes, he realizes it too. “Can we please not joke around for a minute?”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” He smooths his face into something approaching sobriety. “We can.”

You’re not sure how he can be so much more comfortable than you right now. Sirius is sitting across from you on the bed, criss-cross applesauce in only his boxers. You at least have on pajamas, and yet this conversation is making you feel more naked than he is.

He asks in a gentler tone, “What is it that you’re worried about, sweetheart? We don’t have to do anything before you’re ready.”

“It’s not that I don’t feel ready,” you sigh. “I want to, I just…I want you to like it.”

Sirius barks out a laugh. “Well, I don’t think we’re in any danger there.”

“You know what I mean.” You shrink away from him a bit, drawing into yourself. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t want it to be disappointing.”

“Baby. Hey.” Sirius scoots closer to you. He ducks his head, catching your gaze and holding on tight. “It doesn’t matter how much experience you have. It could never be disappointing.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s you,” he says, emphatic, like it’s obvious. “I always love being with you, it doesn’t matter what we’re doing. And I know sex is going to be the same.” He leans in close like he’s going to tell you a secret. “Sweetheart, you could slap my ass and spit on me and I’d just be thrilled you were there.”

You fight to keep a straight face, furrowing your brows. “So…I shouldn’t do those things?”

“I’m actually not sure.” Sirius sits up, shrugging. “I could be into it, I’ve never tried. Point is, you can do whatever you want.”

“I don’t know what I want,” you tell him, though you are, admittedly, a bit less worried now. “I don’t want to just lie there, I don’t think, but I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do.”

“There’s nothing you’re supposed to do, babydoll.” He gives you a little smile and reaches for your hand. When you give it to him, he holds it in his lap, thumbs tracing the lines of your palm soothingly. “It’s okay not to have a plan going into things. That’s how it usually happens, no matter how many times you’ve done it. You just feel it out and go with the flow.”

You chew your lip. Sirius is looking at you so kindly, his expression warm and open and his touch caring as he starts to draw a slow path up the inside of your wrist. You don’t want to keep arguing with him. Maybe that’s why your voice comes out so small.

“But what if I can’t?”

“You can.” There’s no hesitation in Sirius, no uncertainty. “You really don’t need to worry about it. Your body will react if you let it, and whatever happens, I’ll be there to talk you through it, yeah?”

You exhale. “That actually makes me feel a lot better,” you admit.

Sirius smiles. “I’m glad,” he says, lifting your hand to give your finger a teasing nibble. “Hey, we’re not doing this until you decide you feel like it, so don’t stress, okay? I’ll make sure you have a good time when we do.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks. “How’re you gonna do that?”

Your boyfriend’s eyes gleam. “You wanna find out? I can give you a preview, if you like.”

You don’t have to answer before he’s crawling up on top of you, your giggles lost into his mouth.

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therogueflame · 3 months ago

Text

The Diplomat

Hi friends,

Since I'm a Daemon girly through and through and horny as fuck, I imagined what it would be like to have terrible, angry sex with Daemon. None of the fics were hitting the spot, so I wrote one instead. There are two parts to this story, but the second part can be read as a standalone if you squint a little. Here is part one, enjoy!

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Summary: Your marriage to Daemon has been marked by tempers and tempests, but when he proposes setting the Riverlands ablaze, the need for reason has never been more urgent.

WC: 9.4k

Warnings: 18+, just fluff and a lil suggestiveness, no use of y/n, light descriptions of fem!reader, kind of a little jumping around (let me know if i put too many sword dividers in)

Daemon Targaryen x Wife!Reader

MDNI!!!

The small council chamber was thick with unease. Though the warm spring breeze drifted through the high windows, stirring the black banners bearing the sigil of House Targaryen, it did little to lighten the atmosphere. The men gathered around the long oak table wore the weight of the discussion in their stiff shoulders and furrowed brows.

Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, spoke first, his voice measured but edged with authority. “The Blackwoods insist their knight acted in self-defense. He claims the Bracken lord drew steel first and would have struck him down had he not defended himself.”

Across the table, Lord Lyman Beesbury adjusted his spectacles, his aged face lined with worry. “Regardless of intent, a Bracken heir lies dead. His father demands retribution, and he’s mustered men to see it done. This feud risks spilling over into open conflict, my lords.”

“It has always been this way between the Brackens and Blackwoods,” chimed in Lord Tyland Lannister, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. He leaned back in his chair with an air of indifference. “Their hatred for one another is practically tradition. Why should the crown involve itself in their petty quarrels?”

“Because they are sworn to the crown,” Otto replied sharply, his gaze narrowing. “Their lands and titles are held in service to the Iron Throne. If we do not intervene, their conflict will destabilize the Riverlands and undermine royal authority.”

Daemon scoffed loudly, drawing every gaze in the room. He lounged in his chair, though his posture was more calculated than relaxed. His dark eyes glittered with impatience. “Destabilize? Spare me your dramatics, Otto. This is nothing more than two dogs fighting over scraps. Let them tire themselves out.”

“And when those scraps include burnt villages and dead smallfolk?” Otto countered, his tone clipped. “You would have the crown turn a blind eye while the Riverlands descend into chaos?”

Daemon leaned forward then, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “I would have the crown remind them who they answer to. Send riders, summon their lords to kneel before the throne. If they refuse, then you send swords.”

Lord Beesbury sputtered, his hand trembling slightly as he adjusted his quill. “Violence is hardly the answer, my prince. Surely, diplomacy—”

“Diplomacy has done nothing but embolden them,” Daemon snapped, cutting him off. “Every year, it’s the same. Bracken blames Blackwood, Blackwood blames Bracken. It’s a waste of the crown’s time and patience. They need to be reminded that their squabbles end where the Iron Throne begins.”

“You speak of violence as though it’s the only solution,” Tyland interjected smoothly. “The Riverlands are already tense. A heavy hand might unite them—against us.”

Viserys, who had remained silent until now, raised a hand, commanding the room’s attention. His weary expression spoke of a man burdened by the crown he wore. “Enough,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “This matter is not so easily solved. Both houses have their grievances, and both claim to act in the right. I will need time to consider our response.”

Daemon’s chair scraped against the stone floor as he rose, his movements sharp with irritation. “While you consider, brother, they will act. And your indecision will be seen as weakness.”

Viserys’s gaze hardened. “Do not mistake thoughtfulness for weakness, Daemon.”

“Call it what you will,” Daemon muttered, turning on his heel and striding from the chamber, his dark cloak billowing behind him. The remaining lords exchanged wary glances but said nothing, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on.

Viserys sighed heavily, the sound of a man long accustomed to the burdens of the throne. His fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair as he watched the doors swing closed behind Daemon’s retreating figure. For a moment, the chamber was silent, save for the distant cries of gulls from Blackwater Bay and the faint murmur of activity in the Red Keep below.

“This council is concluded,” Viserys said at last, his voice quieter now, the fight drained from it. He rose from his chair, and the lords followed suit, their expressions a mix of relief and unease.

“Your Grace,” Otto began, stepping forward as the rest of the council prepared to file out. His tone was deferential, but the gleam in his eye betrayed his eagerness to press his point. “Might I suggest—”

“Not now, Otto,” Viserys interrupted, waving him off. “I’ve heard enough for today.”

The Hand of the King inclined his head, though the tightening of his lips spoke volumes about his displeasure. One by one, the council members departed, their whispered conversations trailing behind them like smoke.

Viserys lingered for a moment after the chamber was empty. The answers would come, but not today.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

Daemon stormed through the halls of the Red Keep, his boots striking the stone floor with forceful purpose. Servants and courtiers scattered at the sight of him, their eyes darting to the crimson and black of his cloak, the Targaryen sigil embroidered in rich gold on his tunic.

The prince’s mind churned with frustration, the council’s deliberations replaying in his head like a wound he couldn’t stop picking at. Otto’s pompous tone, Tyland’s smug indifference, Viserys’s endless dithering—all of it grated against his pride.

By the time he reached the chambers he shared with you, the heat of his temper had reached its peak. He flung the doors open with enough force to make them shudder against the stone walls.

Inside, the room was a picture of calm. Sunlight filtered through the open windows, casting soft, golden light across the chamber. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the sweet warmth of spring.

You sat near the hearth, cradling your young son in your arms. His small fingers grasped at a strand of your hair, his innocent laughter filling the room as you smiled down at him. The sight was a balm to any who might witness it—anyone but Daemon in his current state.

The nursemaid, standing a few paces away, froze at the sight of the prince’s thunderous expression. Her hands faltered mid-curtsy, and she looked to you for guidance, her face pale.

“Out,” Daemon barked, his voice sharp enough to cut. He didn’t bother looking at her as he strode into the room, his dark eyes locked on you.

The nursemaid hesitated for only a moment before gathering the child in her arms and retreating swiftly, her footsteps nearly silent against the rush of Daemon’s presence.

When the door closed behind her, Daemon’s pacing began, each step a sharp, deliberate motion that mirrored the storm in his mind. His hands flexed at his sides, as though longing to grip the hilt of Dark Sister and channel his anger into something tangible.

“This is what passes for leadership now,” he began, his voice low but vibrating with suppressed rage. “My brother, the king, sitting in that gods-damned chair, twiddling his thumbs while the Riverlands teeter on the edge of chaos!”

You set your book aside, folding your hands in your lap as you watched him. You had seen Daemon in this mood before, his temper a force of nature that could not be stopped but only weathered. It was better to let him speak, to let the storm rage until it spent itself.

“I told them what needed to be done,” he continued, his pacing growing faster. “Ride out, demand their fealty, remind them who they serve. But no—Viserys would rather sit and think.” His lip curled as he spat the word, as though it were a curse.

Daemon’s pacing was relentless, his steps carving invisible lines into the chamber floor. His voice rose as he continued, his words dripping with scorn. “Otto’s solution? Send letters. As if words written on parchment will mend generations of blood feuds! And Tyland—he all but shrugged! ‘Let them fight it out,’ he said, as though it’s his lands that will burn when the fighting starts. Useless, the lot of them.”

He paused, finally turning to you, his dark eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and expectation. “And my brother,” he growled, his hands clenching into fists. “The great Viserys, King of the Seven Kingdoms, paralyzed by his own fear of making the wrong choice. He’ll sit there until it’s too late, as he always does, and then expect me to clean up his mess.”

You met his gaze calmly, though you could feel the weight of his fury pressing against you like a tangible force. “Daemon,” you said gently, your tone an attempt to temper the flames threatening to consume him.

But he wasn’t ready to be calmed. “No,” he snapped, cutting you off before you could say more. “Don’t tell me to let it go. You weren’t there. You didn’t see the way they looked at me—like I was some brash fool for speaking sense. They undermine me at every turn, and Viserys allows it!”

His voice echoed off the walls, and for a moment, the room fell silent. The distant sounds of the Red Keep seemed impossibly far away, muted by the tension that filled the space between you.

You rose from your seat slowly, smoothing the fabric of your gown as you crossed the room to stand before him. He watched you, his chest rising and falling with the force of his anger, his jaw tight.

“I’m not telling you to let it go,” you said softly, placing a hand on his chest. His tunic was warm beneath your palm, the steady thrum of his heartbeat betraying the tempest within. “I’m asking you to save it for when it matters most. You’ll have your chance to be heard again. But not if you burn yourself out now.”

For a moment, Daemon said nothing. His eyes searched yours, his expression still tight with frustration, but the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly. He placed a hand over yours, his fingers curling around it as if anchoring himself.

“They don’t listen,” he muttered, though the edge in his voice had dulled. “Not to me. Not unless I force them to.”

“Then make them listen,” you replied, your tone firm but kind. “But not like this. Not in anger.”

His lips twisted into a smirk, though it lacked its usual sharpness. “You think you know me so well,” he said, his voice softer now, almost teasing.

“I do,” you replied simply, holding his gaze.

Daemon sighed, the last of his anger bleeding away as he pulled you into his arms. His embrace was strong, almost possessive, as if you were the only thing grounding him in that moment.

“You’re too clever for your own good,” he murmured into your hair.

“And you’re too stubborn for yours,” you replied, earning a low chuckle from him.

When he pulled back, his expression was lighter, though the frustration lingered in his eyes. “The feast,” you said gently, steering him toward a different focus. “Rhaenyra’s wedding is in a few days. You should be thinking about that, not letting the council get under your skin.”

Daemon snorted, but there was no heat behind it. “Unity,” he muttered, echoing words he had likely heard too many times already. “A grand spectacle to pretend the realm isn’t fracturing beneath us.”

You arched a brow. “Then let them believe otherwise. Isn’t that the game of thrones you so enjoy?”

He let out a short laugh, the sound both bitter and amused. “You’ve been spending too much time around me.”

You smiled, brushing a hand along his arm. “Perhaps.”

Daemon released a long breath, the tension in his shoulders finally softening as he stepped away, his gaze drifting toward the open window. The warm spring breeze ruffled his silver hair, and for a moment, he looked less like the fearsome rogue prince and more like the restless man you had come to know so intimately.

“The wedding feast,” he said, the words tasting foreign on his tongue. “A spectacle of union for a realm that can’t even decide which house to favor in a petty feud.”

You stepped closer, your tone light yet pointed. “And yet it’s not the realm’s union we’re celebrating, is it? It’s Rhaenyra’s.”

Daemon turned back to you, his expression softening further at the mention of his niece. His lips quirked into a faint smirk, and he tilted his head. “I’ll admit, the girl’s managed to surprise me. Agreeing to wed Laenor Velaryon of all people. I thought she’d have burnt the keep to ashes before conceding.”

You chuckled softly, reaching for his hand. “Perhaps she learned from someone that rebellion isn’t always about fire and blood. Sometimes, it’s about choosing when to bend, so you can strike harder later.”

He raised a brow at that, his smirk deepening. “If you’re insinuating that I’ve taught her anything resembling restraint, I fear you’ve misunderstood me, my lady.”

“Not restraint,” you countered, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “Strategy. She’s clever, your niece. As clever as you are, and just as stubborn.”

Daemon’s gaze softened further, and he let out a quiet laugh. “She’ll need that stubbornness to endure what’s ahead. The Velaryons are not without their pride.”

“And neither are the Targaryens,” you replied with a small smile. “It’s fitting, really—a match to unite two ancient houses and bolster the realm’s strength. A necessary union, no matter how imperfect it may seem.”

He sighed, his free hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “A necessary union,” he echoed. “And yet, Viserys sees it as more than that. He thinks it’ll heal old wounds and inspire loyalty. As if a feast and a wedding can undo years of division.”

“Maybe it can’t,” you admitted, your voice softening. “But it can remind people of what’s worth fighting for—family, unity, the realm’s future. Even if it’s only for a night.”

Daemon looked at you then, his expression unreadable. But there was a warmth in his gaze, one that seemed to melt away the last of his earlier frustration. He pulled you closer, his hands settling on your waist.

“You have a way of making everything seem simpler,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “Even when it’s not.”

“It’s a gift,” you teased, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “Now, will you let me dress you in something appropriate for the feast, or will I have to endure your complaints the entire evening?”

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich. “Oh, you’ll endure them regardless. But yes, my dear, I’ll wear whatever ridiculous finery you deem fit. I wouldn’t want to shame you in front of the court.”

“Nonsense, perish the thought,” you said with a grin, resting your forehead against his.

For now, the storm had truly passed, and in its wake, a fragile peace remained. The feast loomed ahead, a symbol of hope for some and an illusion for others. But in this moment, there was only you and Daemon, and that was enough.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The grand hall of the Red Keep was resplendent, its vaulted ceilings adorned with streaming banners bearing the sigils of the realm’s great houses. Flickering torchlight and the warm glow of chandeliers lit the space, casting dancing shadows over the lavish feast laid upon long trestle tables. The scent of roasted meats, fresh-baked bread, and spiced wine filled the air, mingling with the murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.

Rhaenyra sat at the head table beside her new husband, Laenor Velaryon, her expression poised but faintly distant, as though she carried the weight of the realm’s gaze with practiced indifference. Her silver hair was woven with pearls, and her gown shimmered with dragonfire embroidery, every inch the picture of Targaryen majesty.

The lords and ladies of the realm had gathered in full force, a sea of vibrant colors and glittering jewels, their movements a choreographed dance of subtle rivalries and unspoken alliances. Among them sat the Brackens and Blackwoods, carefully separated and positioned at opposite ends of the hall. Their faces were schooled into neutrality, their hands busy with goblets of wine or trencher bread, but the tension between the two houses was palpable to those who knew where to look.

You were seated at Daemon’s side at a table reserved for the royal family, a position that afforded you a perfect view of the festivities—and the undercurrents of unease beneath them. Daemon was dressed impeccably in dark crimson and black, his usual defiance tempered into a sharp elegance that suited him well. His expression was unreadable as he sipped his wine, but you could see the way his gaze flickered over the room, cataloging every interaction, every veiled slight.

“They’ve managed not to kill each other—for now,” Daemon murmured, his voice low enough for only you to hear. His eyes flicked toward the Brackens and Blackwoods, a glint of amusement mingling with his sharp scrutiny.

“Give them time,” you replied dryly, reaching for your own goblet. “The wine hasn’t yet worked its magic.”

Daemon chuckled, his smirk deepening as he leaned closer. “Or its mischief.”

You arched a brow at him, though you couldn’t help but smile. “You seem far too entertained by the prospect of chaos at your niece’s wedding.”

He shrugged, his gaze shifting back to the hall. “Chaos keeps the night interesting.”

Before you could respond, a herald’s voice rang out, calling for the first dance. All eyes turned to Rhaenyra and Laenor as they rose from their seats, their movements graceful as they stepped onto the polished floor. The music began, a lively tune that seemed to ripple through the hall like a spark catching fire.

The lords and ladies soon followed, filling the floor with a swirl of color and movement. Laughter and applause echoed as couples spun and twirled, their steps weaving together in intricate patterns.

Daemon leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming idly against the table. “Are you going to make me dance, too?” he asked, his tone teasing.

You smirked, leaning closer to him. “I was going to let you off easy tonight. But if you insist…”

He groaned in mock exasperation, earning a soft laugh from you. For a moment, the tension of the evening faded, replaced by the warmth of shared humor.

But even as the festivities unfolded, you couldn’t shake the sense that the peace was fragile, a veneer that could crack at any moment. The Brackens and Blackwoods were not the only ones walking a fine line tonight, and in the shadow of the Iron Throne, every move felt like a gamble.

Daemon’s groan was followed by a mischievous grin, the kind that always made your chest tighten and your resolve weaken. “You’re insufferable,” he said, though there was no heat to his words as he extended a hand toward you.

“And you’re predictable,” you countered, placing your hand in his. His fingers wrapped around yours, firm yet careful, as he guided you from your seat.

The music shifted as you both stepped onto the dance floor, the melody lilting into a slower, more intimate tune. The crowd parted, eyes subtly following your movements as you took your place in the center of the floor with the rogue prince at your side. You could feel the weight of their attention, but you were no stranger to it.

Daemon’s hand rested lightly on your waist, his other holding yours as he began to lead you in the dance. His steps were confident, fluid, each movement purposeful yet unhurried. “They’re watching us,” he murmured, his voice low and for your ears alone.

“They always are,” you replied, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “You’re hard to ignore.”

His smirk deepened, his thumb brushing against your hand. “And you,” he said, his tone softer now, “make it impossible.”

You rolled your eyes at his flattery but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. The dance brought you closer, his hand at your waist pulling you just shy of propriety, but enough to make your heart race.

The world around you seemed to fade, the music and laughter becoming a distant hum as you moved together. Daemon’s presence was magnetic, his intensity grounding yet exhilarating, as though the two of you existed in a world apart from the one where alliances were made and broken over cups of wine.

“You’re rather light on your feet for someone who pretends to loathe courtly things,” you teased, letting him spin you gently before drawing you back into his arms.

“Don’t mistake talent for affection,” he replied, though his smirk betrayed him. “I’d burn this entire hall if it meant avoiding another round of politics.”

“And yet, here you are,” you said, your tone light but pointed. “Dancing at a wedding, pretending to tolerate the people you claim to despise.”

“For you,” he said simply, his voice low and sincere in a way that made your breath hitch. “Always for you.”

For a moment, the tension of the feast melted away, replaced by the warmth of his confession. But it was fleeting, a stolen moment in a night that promised anything but peace.

As the dance came to an end, Daemon held your gaze, his hand lingering at your waist. Applause filled the hall, but you barely heard it, your focus locked on the man before you.

“You’re going to set tongues wagging,” you said softly, stepping back as decorum demanded.

“Let them wag,” he replied, his smirk returning. “They’d do it anyway.”

The spell was broken as the music shifted again, and other couples moved to fill the floor. Daemon led you back to your seat, his hand brushing against yours one last time before he turned his attention back to the feast.

The hall was alive with revelry, yet beneath the surface, you could feel the fragile balance of the evening teetering. The Brackens and Blackwoods had kept to themselves so far, but there was no denying the sharp glances exchanged across the room, nor the tension lingering like a storm on the horizon.

Daemon, of course, noticed it too. He leaned toward you, his voice low and conspiratorial. “How long do you think it’ll take before someone breaks the peace?”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “Hopefully not before dessert.”

His laughter was soft but genuine, a rare moment of levity in a night that felt like a game played on the edge of a knife.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The revelry continued unabated, the music and laughter rising to fill the cavernous hall. Goblets were refilled, plates heaped with delicacies, and the scent of roasted quail and sweet pastries hung heavy in the air. Yet, despite the vibrant atmosphere, an undercurrent of unease persisted—an unspoken tension that seemed to ripple just beneath the surface.

At opposite ends of the hall, the Brackens and Blackwoods remained in their carefully orchestrated positions. Their eyes rarely wandered toward one another, but when they did, it was with the kind of simmering disdain that no amount of protocol could conceal.

Daemon leaned lazily back in his chair, one arm draped over the back of your seat. His eyes roamed the hall, sharp and assessing despite the deceptively casual posture. He sipped his wine, his smirk growing as his gaze lingered on the Bracken table.

“They’re twitching like hounds on a short leash,” he muttered, the words meant only for you.

“You’re not helping,” you replied, though your own gaze flickered toward the Blackwoods, where a young lord’s hand gripped the stem of his goblet just a little too tightly.

The first sign of trouble came in the form of a raised voice—a sharp, mocking laugh from the Bracken side of the hall. Heads turned as Ser Amos Bracken, a stout man with a ruddy complexion, leaned back in his chair, his booming voice carrying over the din.

“Tell me, young Blackwood,” Amos said, his words dripping with condescension, “is it true your family still claims descent from the First Men? Seems a bold thing to boast when all it’s earned you is a table in the corner.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter followed, and for a moment, it seemed as though the insult might go unanswered. But then, a young Blackwood lord—tall, lean, and barely out of boyhood—rose from his seat, his face flushed with anger.

“And yet we’re here,” the Blackwood retorted, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. “Unlike your ancestors, who’d sooner kneel to any conqueror who offered them a scrap of power.”

The hall fell silent.

Daemon’s smirk widened, and he leaned closer to you, his voice a low murmur. “Here we go.”

You shot him a sharp look, but before you could reply, the tension in the hall snapped like a drawn bowstring.

Ser Amos Bracken surged to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. “You’ve got a sharp tongue for a boy who hides behind his mother’s skirts!” he barked, his meaty hand slamming down on the table.

“And you’ve got a lot of nerve for a man whose house clings to its titles like barnacles to a sinking ship!” the Blackwood shot back, stepping forward.

The two were separated by the breadth of the hall, but the air between them was charged, their mutual hatred igniting like dry kindling.

From his place at the head table, Viserys rose, his voice booming over the commotion. “Enough!” he commanded, his face flushed with the effort of asserting authority. “This is a wedding feast, not a battlefield!”

The hall quieted, though the tension lingered like smoke after a fire. The Bracken and Blackwood men glared at one another, their hands twitching near their sword hilts despite the king’s warning.

Beside you, Daemon watched with unveiled amusement, his smirk never faltering. “Viserys will tire of this soon enough,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “And when he does, the real fun begins.”

You sighed, your hand reaching for your goblet. “It’s a wonder we ever manage to call ourselves united,” you muttered.

The feast continued, but the mood had shifted. The Brackens and Blackwoods returned to their seats, though their tempers simmered just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest provocation to boil over.

And in the shadows of the great hall, as wine flowed and music played, you couldn’t help but wonder how long this fragile peace would last.

The feast dragged on long after the first sparks of conflict had settled into the deep, tense silence of uneasy truce. The Brackens and Blackwoods remained seated at opposite ends of the hall, their eyes darting sideways, but never meeting. The music played, but it seemed faint, muted by the hum of strained politeness. The air was thick with the weight of unsaid words and the knowledge that the night was not done with its drama yet.

Daemon’s hand never left your side, though he barely spoke throughout the evening. His gaze, sharp and watchful, moved across the hall with the same intensity he had shown in the small council, as if he were cataloging every movement, every slight. Yet, when he turned to you, the ever-present amusement lingered in his eyes, softened by the flicker of warmth that only you could evoke.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

Finally, the night wore on long enough that the revelers began to tire. The hall was slowly emptied of its guests, many of them still nursing their drinks, their conversations lowered to murmurs. It was only then that you and Daemon rose from the table, both of you feeling the weight of the evening—its many unspoken tensions—and the need to retreat from it all.

As you made your way through the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, your thoughts were heavy, your feet quickening to match the pace of Daemon’s long strides. The air had cooled slightly, but the heat of the feast still lingered in your chest, the pressing weight of what had transpired and what might yet come. You were both silent, the quiet of the corridors filled only with the faint sound of your footfalls.

Upon reaching your chambers, the door was barely shut before Daemon’s mouth found yours in a fierce kiss, a hungry press of lips that spoke more than words could. It was a fire that hadn’t been stoked since the tension of the council, since the weight of the evening’s events, and now, it erupted between you both, a spark turning into a blaze.

His hands were quick, unhurried but firm, as they sought the fastenings of your gown, the fabric brushing over your skin like a whisper. He pulled you closer, his breath warm against your ear, as he murmured words that had no need for meaning—just the undeniable presence of him, the demand of his touch. You responded in kind, your hands threading through his silver hair, pulling him even closer, your own lips demanding, pushing, surrendering.

The world beyond your chambers ceased to exist, only the feel of his body pressed against yours, the heat of your skin mingling in the dim light of the room. The frantic pace, the shared desperation—this was the only way to truly escape the suffocating expectations of the night, of the court, of the world that always surrounded you both.

Time seemed to lose all meaning as you moved together, your bodies in perfect sync, the world beyond the stone walls forgotten. And when it was over, when the storm had finally subsided, you lay together in the coolness of the sheets, breathing heavily, the weight of the night still lingering but now softened, shared between you.

For a moment, there was only quiet, the kind that spoke of an intimacy deeper than any words. But eventually, Daemon’s voice broke the silence, his tone low and thoughtful.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, his fingers trailing lazily down your arm. “I expected you to have more to say about tonight.”

You shifted slightly, propping yourself up on one elbow as you looked at him, his silver eyes darkened by the faint candlelight, the weight of the evening still present but subdued now. “What more is there to say?” you asked, your voice soft, though a trace of the earlier tension remained in it. “It’s all a game, isn’t it? A dance between houses, between power, between… everything we can’t control.”

Daemon’s lips quirked into a faint, almost rueful smile. “Not everything is a game,” he said, his voice low, his hand coming to rest on your waist. “But sometimes it’s the only thing worth playing.”

You let out a small laugh, but it was tinged with weariness. “And we’re all just pawns.”

He turned toward you fully now, his eyes sharp but softer, the edges of his smirk fading into something more sincere. “Not pawns. We’re the ones pulling the strings, whether we admit it or not.”

You met his gaze, searching his face for any sign of doubt or calculation, but found none. For all his cynical remarks, for all his posturing, Daemon was a man who knew the weight of power—and the way it could be wielded.

And yet, there was a part of you that wondered if, beneath it all, he still feared being pulled into the same web of politics, of manipulation, of being a player rather than a kingmaker.

“I suppose we have no choice but to play,” you said after a moment, your voice softer now, more resigned. “And if we can’t win, we make sure no one else does.”

Daemon chuckled, the sound low and dark, and he pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your forehead. “That’s the spirit. And if the night’s mischief didn’t satisfy you, you can always count on me to make things interesting tomorrow.”

You smiled faintly, your fingers idly tracing patterns along his chest. “Let’s sleep first,” you said, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to you. “We can fight the battles tomorrow.”

Daemon’s arms tightened around you as he kissed your hair softly. “Tomorrow, then. But for tonight, let’s leave the world outside.”

And as the flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls, you closed your eyes, the weight of the night finally lifting, knowing that come the dawn, the battles would still await—but for now, you were content to simply rest beside him, the world outside a distant echo. ▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The next morning, the tension that had hung heavy over the wedding feast still clung to the air in the Red Keep. Even the rays of sunlight filtering through the high windows of the small council chamber seemed to carry an oppressive weight, as if the very castle itself was holding its breath. The room, normally filled with the dull murmur of routine affairs, now buzzed with the friction of yesterday’s simmering conflict.

Viserys sat at the head of the table, his usually placid expression marred by a faint crease between his brows. The day after Rhaenyra’s wedding feast, it seemed the wounds were still fresh, not just in the eyes of the Brackens and Blackwoods, but in the silent resentments of the council members who had grown all too accustomed to the tense dance of alliances.

Daemon sat with his usual relaxed posture, though there was no hiding the coldness that lingered in his eyes. He had never been one to mince words or tolerate the games of court, and today, it seemed, his patience was thinner than ever.

The council’s discussion was still focused on the aftermath of the previous evening’s altercation. Some spoke of ways to soothe the ruffled egos of the Brackens and Blackwoods, but it was clear no one quite knew how to do so without further escalating the situation.

Lord Mervyn, a portly noble with the tendency to speak before thinking, suggested, "Perhaps we should offer them gold—some measure of coin to settle their quarrels, a show of goodwill."

The Master of Coin, Lord Ormund, a sharp-eyed man with a wry sense of humor, laughed aloud, his voice cutting through the tension. “Gold?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “And where, pray tell, do you expect to find this coin? We are in a constant state of debt, Mervyn. Should we start selling off the castle to please the Brackens and Blackwoods?”

The room shifted uncomfortably, though Lord Mervyn, his cheeks growing redder by the second, remained silent, his suggestion now hanging in the air like a poorly timed joke.

Daemon rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Perhaps we should all just stop speaking entirely, seeing as it’s become a contest to see who can drone on the longest about the same petty squabbles.” His words were not aimed at anyone in particular, but they struck a chord in the room.

The rest of the council fell into a strained silence. Viserys sighed deeply, rubbing his forehead as if to ward off the growing headache he surely felt. “Enough,” he commanded, his voice quiet but firm. “Let us take a break for now. I will consider all your suggestions and call upon you when I have come to a decision.”

The meeting, like so many before it, ended without resolution. There were no clear answers, no easy solutions to the brewing tensions in the realm. The room emptied slowly, each member of the council filing out, their faces etched with the same frustrations.

Daemon stood quickly, brushing past his fellow lords without a glance, his movements sharp and restless. He had never been one to tolerate idle chatter, least of all in a place that made him feel like a caged animal.

With a grunt, he headed for the exit, intent on blowing off steam in the training yard. It was there that he could find his peace, if only for a moment—away from the endless plotting and bickering of the council.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The council meeting had ended in a tense, uncertain silence. Daemon’s comments had left the room heavy with discomfort, and the usual murmurs among the lords had subsided into a quiet unease. The entire realm could feel the tension as it thickened in the Red Keep, especially with the lords now speaking in hushed tones about Daemon’s latest tantrum. His temper, unchecked and untamed, was becoming too much even for his own family to ignore.

You, however, were no stranger to Daemon’s anger, and as much as it threatened to boil over, you knew something had to be done. The matter was already critical—his pride had endangered everything, and the last thing you could afford was another of his impulsive decisions damaging the realm.

You had not attended the council meeting; there was no need. You knew that the key to solving this issue would lie not in words spoken around the council table, but in private action, taken swiftly and subtly.

When the last of the councilors had left the chamber, you’d already made your way to Viserys’s solar, your mind fixed on a plan. The moment you stepped into the room, you could sense the quiet weight of the king’s exhaustion. His shoulders slumped under the weight of the crown, and there was a weariness in his eyes that had grown familiar over the years.

He turned slowly as you entered, a faint glimmer of recognition in his gaze. “So, it’s done then,” Viserys remarked, his voice low and heavy with the same tension that clung to the walls. He knew. The moment Daemon’s rage had been unleashed, it had been clear that something would need to be done, but you had taken no part in the council’s discussion.

You closed the door softly behind you, moving closer to the king. “Daemon’s actions cannot go unchecked any longer, Your Grace. The Brackens and Blackwoods have made their demands clear, and the council is growing restless. This will escalate if we don’t step in quickly.”

Viserys’s lips tightened in a frown. “And you have a solution?” he asked, though the weariness in his voice suggested he was more than ready to hear one.

You nodded, settling yourself beside him at the table. “I do. I’ve already considered it carefully.”

Viserys raised an eyebrow, his gaze fixed on you with curiosity but no doubt. “Speak plainly, then. What do you propose?”

You hesitated for a moment before diving into the details, your voice steady and measured. “The Brackens are proud. They demand recognition, something that will soothe their wounded egos and quell their desire for vengeance. We offer them a royal boon—a land claim that will satisfy their pride and keep them from seeking bloodshed.”

Viserys listened intently, his gaze not wavering. You knew that he understood the importance of keeping the peace, especially in the wake of Daemon’s volatile temper. “And the Blackwoods?” he asked, his brow furrowing slightly as he sought clarification.

“The Blackwoods are more about justice. They’ll demand the life of the knight who wronged them, but we can’t allow that. Instead, I will offer them exile to the Night’s Watch. It’s a compromise—justice without bloodshed.”

Viserys nodded slowly, considering the weight of your words. “And how do we prevent Daemon from knowing about this?”

You smiled softly, though there was no humor in it. “That’s where you come in, Your Grace. This needs to be seen as your decision—your action. We will stage a public reconciliation ceremony, where both the Brackens and Blackwoods will swear oaths of peace before the Iron Throne. The realm will believe it was your command. Daemon will not suspect a thing.”

Viserys stared at you for a long moment, his expression shifting as he absorbed the intricacies of your plan. You could see the internal conflict on his face—he had always strived to maintain the appearance of unity between himself and his brother, but there was no denying the mounting pressure to act swiftly. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he sighed, his shoulders drooping.

“This will anger Daemon,” he said, the words heavy with the weight of a decision he knew he would have to make. “He will not take kindly to being excluded from such an important matter.”

You nodded in agreement. “I know. But we cannot afford to let his temper ruin everything. We need to act swiftly, before the situation spirals beyond our control. The realm depends on it.”

Viserys stood slowly, walking to the window and staring out over the city below. You could see the exhaustion and the weariness of ruling in his every movement. Finally, he turned back to you, his expression resolute.

“Very well,” he said, his voice carrying the heavy authority of a king. “I will handle it. But you must understand, this may not be the last time we face such a challenge with Daemon.”

“I understand, Your Grace,” you replied quietly, your voice resolute. “But for now, we act. This will prevent any further escalation, and it will protect the realm.”

Viserys gave a small nod, a faint trace of a smile appearing on his lips as he stepped forward, his resolve hardening. “Then we proceed as you’ve outlined. You’ve made it clear that Daemon cannot know, and I’ll ensure that the public sees this as my decision, not his. It will work.”

You bowed your head slightly. “Thank you, Your Grace. This is the only way forward.”

As Viserys turned back to his window, the weight of the crown settling back on his shoulders, you knew that the plan was in motion. The Riverlands would be pacified, the Brackens and Blackwoods would be brought to heel, and Daemon would never suspect that it was you who had orchestrated it all behind his back.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

The quiet hum of the Red Keep was always present in the early morning hours—footsteps echoing down long hallways, servants bustling with preparations, the distant sound of metal clashing as the guards went through their drills. But in the stillness of your chambers, there was no sign of movement save for the careful glide of your quill as it moved across the parchment. The dim light of the hearth flickered, casting shadows across the room, and the quiet whisper of ink meeting paper was the only sound you allowed yourself to hear.

The plan had been set into motion after a whispered discussion in Viserys’s solar. He had agreed, reluctantly, that action needed to be taken—but he had trusted you to carry it out. You had laid out the details of the diplomatic approach, and while it was Viserys’s seal that would adorn the letters, the intricate work, the precise wording, and the careful manipulation were all your doing. The king, though burdened by his crown, knew you were the one with the strength to handle the delicate negotiations.

You’d already sent word to the Brackens, a carefully worded letter crafted with precision. To them, you’d extended an olive branch wrapped in gold. A recognition of a contested land claim, something that would soothe their pride without pushing them too far. You had given them a reason to let go of their anger, without allowing them to feel they’d lost face.

Now, it was time to turn your attention to the Blackwoods.

You dipped your quill in ink once more, the tip gliding across the parchment. This letter was more delicate—more intricate. The Blackwoods had a deep sense of honor, and while they were willing to settle, their thirst for justice could not be ignored. You’d offered them the exile of the offending knight to the Night’s Watch, a compromise that would keep his life intact while still serving a form of justice. It would appease their pride, for their enemy would face punishment, but without the bloodshed that would only fan the flames of rebellion.

Each stroke of the quill was deliberate, forming words that sounded gentle but carried the weight of authority. You wrote as Viserys would, sealing your words in the king’s name, though it was clear to both of you that it was your own hands guiding the outcome. Viserys’s approval had been given with the understanding that the matter would be handled quietly, behind closed doors. The lords wouldn’t question the king’s actions—they would simply follow his lead, as they always did.

The letters were ready, each addressed to their respective families. You carefully rolled them, ensuring no trace of ink stained the edges, before sealing them with the king’s seal. You paused for a moment, looking at the waxen emblem, the sign of Viserys’s rule. It was a symbol of power, but it also carried the weight of everything you were trying to protect.

Ravens were summoned, and you entrusted them with the sealed letters. They would carry your carefully crafted words far from the Red Keep, bearing messages that would shape the future of the realm. And while Viserys would ultimately take credit for the decision, it was you who had orchestrated it all.

With the letters dispatched, you turned your attention to the next step of the plan: ensuring that the public reconciliation ceremony would go smoothly. But for now, you allowed yourself a rare moment of quiet. The ravens were on their way, and there was no turning back.

The small council chamber fell silent as Viserys took his seat at the head of the table, his weary eyes scanning the gathered lords. The air was thick with tension, remnants of Daemon’s outburst still hanging in the room.

“Let us be clear,” Viserys began, his voice steady but firm. “The situation with the Brackens and the Blackwoods has been resolved. There will be no bloodshed, no more open hostilities.”

Daemon, who had been sitting quietly, his expression simmering with frustration, leaned forward slightly, his voice low but sharp. “And you believe you can simply end this, without consulting me?”

Viserys’s gaze met his brother’s, unwavering. “I did not consult you, because this matter required swift and delicate action. It needed to be handled quietly, with the authority of the crown, not driven by emotion or pride.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened, but Viserys continued, his voice cool. “I’ve sent a message to both houses. The Blackwoods will receive the justice they desire, but in a way that preserves peace. The Brackens, meanwhile, will be granted a significant boon—a recognition of their claim to disputed lands. A small price to pay to prevent further bloodshed.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “And what of my role in this, brother? What role do I play in this ‘delicate’ matter?”

Viserys looked at him, unflinching. “Your role, Daemon, is not to interfere. You are the Commander of the City Watch, but this was not a matter for the City Watch. It was a matter of diplomacy. Of keeping the peace.”

He paused, allowing the words to settle in the air. “The reconciliation ceremony will take place before the Iron Throne. Both the Brackens and the Blackwoods will swear oaths of peace, under my direct orders.”

Daemon opened his mouth to speak, but Viserys raised a hand, silencing him. “The matter is settled. There will be no further discussion. The lords of the realm will see this as a wise move—one that ensures peace in the Riverlands.”

Viserys leaned back in his chair, his expression softening as he glanced around the room. “Now, we move on. We have more important matters to discuss. The realm cannot wait.”

The silence in the room was palpable as Daemon, his temper barely contained, stood up abruptly. His chair scraped loudly against the stone floor as he stormed out, leaving a tense stillness behind him.

Viserys turned to the remaining council members, his voice once again calm. “Let us proceed with the agenda.”

And with that, the council resumed, but the air was thick with unspoken words.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

You weren’t expecting to find yourself outside the council chambers today, but the moment you heard raised voices echoing through the halls, you knew something was amiss. You didn’t need to hear the words to understand what was happening—Daemon and Viserys were locked in yet another heated argument.

As you neared the door, you paused, quietly listening to the tension that hung thick in the air between the two brothers. You knew this wasn’t a casual disagreement. No, this was deeper, more volatile than anything that had come before. Daemon’s temper was a fire that could not easily be quenched, and Viserys’s patience had long since reached its breaking point.

“—and you’re willing to let them do this without me?” Daemon’s voice rang out, full of disbelief and fury. “You sit there in your throne and make decisions that should be mine to make!”

Viserys’s voice followed, sharper, colder. “I am the king, Daemon! Not you. And you’re not in charge of the Riverlands. You’ve made it abundantly clear that your temper will only make matters worse, and I will not let you jeopardize everything we’ve worked for.”

You couldn’t help the tightness in your chest as you slowly opened the door. You knew that Viserys had been under pressure, but hearing the raw anger in both of their voices made your heart ache.

Daemon’s eyes snapped to you as you entered, his features momentarily softening when he saw you. But it didn’t last long. His frustration was too much to hide.

“You heard all of that, didn’t you?” he growled, his words aimed not at you but at the air around him. “He undermines me, as always.”

Viserys, still seated at the council table, gave a weary sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s for the good of the realm, Daemon. Your actions, your temper... they’ve made it impossible to move forward.”

Daemon took a step toward him, eyes blazing. “And you think I haven’t sacrificed enough for this family? For you?”

You stepped closer, placing a hand on Daemon’s arm gently, though the weight of the argument still hung between the brothers.

“Daemon,” you said softly, “let’s not do this now.” Your voice was calm, but firm, a gentle anchor amidst the storm. “You can talk about this later, after you've both had time to breathe.”

Daemon’s jaw clenched, his eyes still locked on his brother, but his posture softened ever so slightly as your touch worked its magic. He exhaled deeply, frustration still etched in every line of his face, but he made no further move toward his brother.

Viserys looked between the two of you, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer. There was a faint flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he stood, straightening his robes. “I’m done with this conversation for today,” he said coldly, and Daemon shot him one last, bitter glance before Viserys turned to leave.

As the door closed behind the king, the weight of the room seemed to lift, but Daemon’s anger still simmered beneath the surface. You could see it in his clenched fists, his furrowed brow, and the way his shoulders tensed with each breath.

You didn’t say anything at first. Instead, you gave him a moment to calm himself, knowing all too well that a conversation now would only lead to more frustration. Slowly, Daemon turned to face you, and when his eyes met yours, they were softer, though still clouded with the storm of emotion he was struggling to contain.

“You shouldn’t have heard that,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, the anger in it fading, replaced by a weariness that had settled deep within him. “It’s not for you to hear.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “I know you’re frustrated, Daemon. I don’t like seeing you like this.” You paused, your gaze steady. “But this fight... it’s not one you’re going to win. Not now.”

Daemon was quiet for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, he pulled you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all this,” he admitted, his voice raw and vulnerable. “I don’t know how to make it stop.”

You held him a little tighter, feeling the weight of everything pressing on him. “I know. But we’ll figure it out together. You don’t have to do this alone.”

His arms tightened around you as he buried his face in your hair. For a moment, the tension seemed to lift, and all that remained was the two of you, holding on to each other in the quiet aftermath.

▪──── ⚔ ────▪

A week passed since the resolution of the Bracken and Blackwood dispute, and while Daemon’s anger had simmered down to a quiet brooding, the tension in the Red Keep was palpable. The lords had spoken their piece, the council had concluded their deliberations, and the kingdom, for now, appeared to be at rest. Yet you knew better than to believe in a calm that came too easily. The peace had been achieved—quietly, subtly—without Daemon’s direct knowledge.

It had been your plan, executed with careful precision. The letters sent under the king’s seal, the meetings with the Brackens and the Blackwoods, the subtle maneuvering to avoid bloodshed—all of it was your doing. Daemon remained unaware of your role in it, and you intended to keep it that way. His temper, as volatile as ever, had quieted somewhat since the ceremony in the throne room. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the quiet between you both was fragile, and the whispers of the court only added to the unease.

The public reconciliation between the Brackens and the Blackwoods had been nothing short of a spectacle. The Iron Throne witnessed their sworn oaths of peace, pledging loyalty to the crown under Viserys’s direction. And while the ceremony had been regal and well-executed, the true work—the work done behind the scenes—remained a mystery to most.

But not to you. The weight of the success felt heavy, and you knew it would not stay secret for long. Even as you stood in the shadows of the throne room, observing the lords of the Riverlands make their pledges, you could hear the faint murmurs beginning to stir. First, it was a passing remark. A raised brow. Then, it grew louder, until it was impossible to ignore.

It was Daemon’s wife who had orchestrated it, they said. Not Viserys, not the king—Daemon’s wife. The rumors spread like wildfire. How had she managed to bring two feuding houses to the table? How had she secured the peace when all seemed lost? The whispers spoke not of Daemon’s involvement, but of your quiet influence. It was you who had orchestrated the peace—through your diplomacy, your steady resolve, and your deep understanding of the delicate balance that held the realm together.

At first, the whispers were faint, almost unnoticeable. But the longer the court simmered in its quiet post-celebration lull, the louder they became. A glance here, a sidelong comment there, as courtiers spoke behind their hands, careful not to draw too much attention. You overheard their theories—the reader of the letters, the one who had soothed the lords’ tempers, the one who had convinced the Brackens and the Blackwoods to lay down their swords.

Daemon had been busy in the training yard, his mind focused elsewhere, and so the whispers were a quiet storm that he hadn’t yet noticed. Yet, you knew it was only a matter of time before he pieced it together. For now, you kept to your silence. Your role in the peace had been deliberate. The credit, you were certain, would fall to Viserys. He was the king, after all, and it was his decision in the eyes of the realm. But it didn’t make the whispers any less insistent, nor did it quiet the growing suspicion in your heart that your husband might soon learn the truth.

You didn’t seek attention for your actions; your only goal had been the realm’s safety. But with each passing day, you could feel the weight of what you had done. Viserys had given you the freedom to act, trusting you to handle it, and you had. But now, as the court grew more talkative and the truth became less veiled, you couldn’t help but wonder: When would Daemon learn the full extent of your involvement? And what would his reaction be when he did?

The whispers only grew louder as the days wore on, echoing in the hallways and chambers, but for now, you remained tight-lipped. The peace had been secured. The rest, for the moment, didn’t matter.

part two

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mistercrowbar · 4 days ago

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What advice would you give to someone who wants to start draw comics?

Read comics. Try to absorb the layouts and lettering - there’s so many ways to tackle it! Also even in published comics you’ll see that the art is messy and scrungly and you can take that as permission to be messy and scrungly too.

Comics are about efficiency and Good Enough. If you try to make each panel a masterpiece you’ll be there forever. Reasons why I mostly do simple pencil comics.

Start small. Do a scene or gag comic at a time. Get a feel for the medium and all the steps you have. If there’s a step you hate, find a way to emphasize the steps you love. EG I hate laying down flat colours but love shading, so I make my page form comics painterly greyscale with a gradient map to spruce them up.

Thumbnail!!!!! Figure out your page or panel layout before you start pencils. It can just be chicken scratch and sticken figures but it will help make sure there’s a clean line of action carrying the viewer from panel to panel and that your lettering fits.

don’t skimp on lettering. you can have beautiful artwork but if your dialogue is time new roman on half transparent ellipses or somehow unreadable it’s gonna drag everything else down. Blambot is a great source for free and affordable comic fonts and even has guides from an industry pro.

There are a huge bajillion elements to making comics but once you’ve made like, literally 100 pages you’ll start just intrinsically knowing things like the 180 rule, how to place a speech bubble when the first speaker is on the right, and that you can draw one nice background and then have gradient colour blocks carry you through most of the page/scene. And then you’ll still keep learning. Always learning!

LOTS of example stuff under the cut, mostly for lettering and layouts:

thumbnails vs finished page. The detail is just enough to remind me who goes where. You can see I mostly played with the last part of the scene, going from three panels in one row to making each panel an entire row across three rows. Panels on the same row have less “time” between them as the eyes skips from one to the other faster, whereas there’s a little more gap skipping back to a new row (think resetting a line on a typewriter). Here, the first thumbnail may have fit the artwork more neatly, but I wanted to give Astarion more time to deliberate his decision.

You can also see that I changed the top panel from a close up on Aldiirn to a wider shot showing both. This sets the scene, and the rest of it uses simple/abstract backgrounds until the final panel, which makes a nice bookend while making the overall load easier. One good environment panel will carry you for a while, but don't leave your characters in the void for too long.

Make a script before you start layouts but don’t be shocked if you need to cut things out to have them fit a page. Less is more, generally. This also goes for visual elements - what's most important to the scene? What's just extraneous detail you find fun but is creating clutter?

For the 4-panel comics I don’t put time into thumbnails unless it’s a difficult panel, but I always put the lettering and speech bubbles down first so they have enough room and nothing important gets covered. If you do this much you’re a step ahead imo.

This one I’m working on now and there’s a lot going on with four characters speaking to each other! It’s important to keep a clear line going for the dialogue. Astarion’s first line has the top left corner and clearly starts the conversation. The tail of the bubble carries over to where he whispers to Aldiirn, and we pick up Aldiirn’s lines. The rock wall on the right then draws the eye down to Shadowheart and Gale’s bubble at the bottom. I don’t think the tails on the bottom bubbles are 100% ideal, but it’s Good Enough.

There’s also slightly different points in time going on in this panel, because the art is static but it’s a long convo going on. Gale’s signature finger isn’t in response to Astarion whispering, but to his answer to Aldiirn that comes after. Think of how time works in your panels, especially when you got a big one because size = time.

You can use all sorts of things to direct the eye across a comic page, but I find the strongest things are the bubbles & tails and where characters are looking. Here, Gale’s “stop by” line breaks the panel line to help draw the viewer to him in the last panel, since otherwise the eye was likely to end up at Aldiirn.

I generally like bubbles to be tucked into their panels, either fully inside or up at the edges like “my condolences.” It looks neater than when bubbles are willy nilly over the edges which I see as a sign of poor planning. And! it means when you do break panel lines it can be more meaningful.

the 180 rule is a film/stage thing for composition to avoid confusing the audience, but the simplest way to put it is: if a character is on the left side of the scene, they should stay there until the action or whatever moves them. You can see here that Aldiirn is always on the right facing left, even when the camera is a bit behind him or a bit behind Gale. the 180 line is the front of Aldiirn’s tent, and the camera never crosses it in a way that would put Gale on the right.

I find it distracting when a conversation is happening in comic and a character breaks the 180 for no particular reason, though are times I’ve done it because a panel worked much better that way. The book Framed Ink has some great guides on composition and how to change the 180 line.

You can also see in the above comic that it’s arranged so that Gale’s always the first speaker in the panels he appears so there’s no criss cross bubble tails. Buuuut what if the first speaker is unavoidably on the right?

Stack the speech bubbles. You want the first speech bubble CLEARLY and undeniably the closest to the top left corner and then other speakers can go below.

the middle example above also has some examples of playing with the speech bubbles. Wyll’s “square-y round-y” bubble is the standard, the boxy ellipse. The tail has a slight, lanquid curve. He;s comfortable teasing the poor vampire. Aldiirn’s bubble is pointy! the tail straight! with urgency! And Astarion’s bubble and tail are burbling and grumbling through gritted teeth and pain. Varsh Ko’kuu, even though he’s speaking with a standard shaped bubble, has a sharp point in the tail that speaks to his assertiveness in protecting the egg. And Shadowheart has some hesitation with that wiggly tail.

Either hand drawing or using vector shapes for bubbles is fine, but I recommend staying away from true ellipses because they look static. Square-y round-y is where it’s at. Just make sure there’s enough space between text and edge of the bubble, usually enough to fit a capital H or W, but you can play with that spacing too.

The second panel here breaks the “first bubble goes top-left corner” rule, so it’s ambiguous if Gale or Aldiirn speaks first. However! In this case everyone is giving their responses in a jumble to Rath, so order matters less. I’m pretty sure every rule I’ve mentioned has a time and place to break it, but it’s still important to learn the basics first.

Key thing about comics typefaces: the capital I will have bars and the lower case will not. The barred I is used for I, as in, “I am not inclined to share” where the unbarred is used everywhere else.

When choosing a font, I recommend grabbing one that has Regular, Italic, and Bold/Bold Italic typefaces. I use Milk Moustache for my 4-panel comics because it’s very casual and similar weight to my own handwriting, but it doesn’t have an italic typeface and that drives me nuts sometimes. For the most flexibility, choose a font that has lower case AND uppercase type faces. I stick to upper case 90% of the time but lower case adds more options, like Aldiirn’s “really?” being so small due to his stressed state.

There are some official guides on what should be bold or italic in dialogues but they don’t matter as much unless you’re working for a big publisher with a style standard. Italics for thinking and whispering are common. I go with my gut, like Astarion’s speech is so dramatic I use italics and bold liberally, whereas for most others I may or may not just choose a key word to bold.

I think some programs will let you make text to fit a bubble instead of a square box, but tbh I just spend a lot of time manually making the text fit nicely in that bubble shape.

#comics #tutorial #resource #bg3

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cloudcountry · 14 days ago

Text

SUMMARY: hobbies/habits i think they would pick up when they’re older

COMMENTS: i was thinkin hard about this but ofc rubia helped me on both leo's and haku's (as haku authority ofc ofc <333)

Jin picks up piano to cope with the dread of his younger years. You can often find him tentatively playing through the pieces he loves, worried about getting them right.

Tohma picks up a hobby like auto mechanics. It sounds odd at first until you remember that he was originally in the house full of junk cars...

Luca picks up writing children’s books. If possible, he would read them out to children at the local library, and talk about how he wrote each one for his little brother and you.

Kaito has much more time to bake now that he’s married and settled down with you! He always finds the time in the mornings to bake you a sweet treat before you leave for the day.

Alan starts organizing community service events for your area. He wants to be able to help out the youth and give back to the community at the same time.

Sho would pick up gardening as a way to grow his own herbs, vegetables, and fruits for you and his meals. He takes a lot of pride in his garden.

Leo would most likely pick up freelancing as a way to still go about his usual activities while maintaining the house. He’s mellowed out a lot since marrying you, but he’s still Leo.

Haru starts quilting, making little blankets for the animals (and big ones for you!) He’s definitely a huge animal guy with a bunch of pets in his older years.

Towa picks up gardening for sure, but especially the care of your wildflowers. He treasures each and every dandelion and will occasionally pick some up to eat for your both!

Ren starts steaming his video game playthroughs and even reactions to/recommendations of some horror movies. His followers beg to hear more about you but he always draws a hard line.

Taiga starts going out on the shooting range to remember his high school days. He feels the memories fade more and more with time, and he would like to hold onto the years in which he met you.

Romeo starts making his own jewelry. He’s very meticulous about the whole process and will screech at you if you interrupt him (he still loves you, yes.)

Ritsu starts making coffee every morning to start his day. At first it starts as a way for him to get his daily caffeine fix, but you can tell he’s genuinely interested about how the drink is made.

Subaru starts developing his own tea blends. He starts by buying the ingredients, and then gets advice from Sho on how to grow his own.

Haku would pick up more artsy hobbies to fill up the vacant spaces of his house. He wants, more than anything, to make your shared space a home.

Zenji would pick up cross stitching! You can find him curled up in his armchair when you come home, staring at his linen over the rim of his glasses, carefully sewing little people to life.

Edward starts traveling from place to place and insists you come with him. Oh, you have a job? But my dear, surely you have enough leave to spend some time with your husband...? He doesn’t have forever with you, you know...

Rui, upon finding out that he couldn’t kill plants, picked up anomalous plant caretaking in Darkwick. Now that he’s married to you, he adopts the plants for your world, and does his best to take care of them too.

Lyca starts volunteering in soup kitchens and food banks, putting those customer service skills he learned from Rui to work. Whenever he has free time on the weekends, he goes out and helps as many people as he can.

Yuri starts making soap for the two of you from scratch! You can find him outside working with lye and all of the other ingredients in his mad scientist get up just to keep you clean and healthy <3

Jiro starts knitting. He needs something to do with his hands when he’s not working, and creating blankets and hats for you and your loved ones works well enough for him!

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hirschkuh-traumvoll · 1 month ago

Text

The shadows' dance

the plot is: alastor hates when somebody's too similar to him, and you appear his reflection with only a few differences. but what is more annoying is that his shadow simply can't leave you alone, more precisely, your shadow. but alastor isn't the only one who's tired of the situation. the ever-absence of your dark double just draws you mad... but perhaps there is something more to it? something hidden in the shadows?

words ≈ 6k

warnings: reader has an intelligent (?) shadow like alastor does, romantic interaction with alastor's shadow

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

There was a thin line between making Alastor like you and hate you. He didn't like those who were too similar to him, feeling as if they stole his individuality or perhaps even feeling that he wasn't as unique as he used to believe, but he didn't like either too different people, his antithesis, ones who didn't understand his adherence to traditions, his devotion to the past times. Such people aroused annoyance in him, because he considered them illiterates and cads.

You were not like many others in hell. In addition to you being rather well-bred and calm you also had a good taste similar to Alastor's but unique at the same time. Both of you were suckers for attention. Desiring to ravish anyone who looked at you, win their adoration, you chose the same strategy for this but realised it differently. If he dressed up in a red and old-fashioned suit, drawing the attention of everyone in a room, you preferred to charm with help of elegance and simplicity. A black long dress was perfect for your thin and high frame, for your light grey skin and black silk hair. You didn't remember how you looked on earth, but every time looking in the mirror now you felt as if you were born like this, and this shadow-like appearance was the only one fitting you. Judging by the glances of the ruby eyes on you, which slowly changed into a stare, Alastor seemed to be engaged. But your lingering looks couldn't stay unnoticed to the Radio Demon as well.

Sometimes the residents of the hotel couldn't believe that there could be another as twisted soul as Alastor, but indeed you finished each other's sentences, laughed at the same grim jokes and stupid puns, enjoyed the same music, bemused others with your rich and terrifying experience of your earthly lives… And this was another way to enchant others' hearts. It was no secret how bewitching Alastor's speech was, and not only his voice and timbre, but also the way he juggled with words easily sliding from his lips. You in reverse had a calm and slow manner of speaking as if made for sharing a secret, and in fact your low voice made your listeners believe the story you were telling was spilt especially for them. And neither Alastor nor you could help but feel a pleasant prickle over your skin when you heard each other's voices.

This all was a balance of your character, what made Alastor like you. You were different enough to be prejudiced against each other, but your outlook was so similar that you simply couldn't help but become friends. Extremes don't meet, but identical people get bored with each other; you and Alastor were the perfect tandem.

So what was stopping both of you from being together?

Your powers.

Alastor didn't forgive any encroachment on his power, but right from the start you were obviously too strong to be turned into his puppet. And though he could imagine you in the role of his ideal partner for a crime or for a night drink, the fact you had the same magical powers as him ruined everything. Alastor couldn't stand that you were similar to him in that. He had been training his shadow magic for years and then you waltzed into hell being already able to control your shadow.

In fact, it was the only similarity connected with conjure, and in actual fact it was the only magical ability of yours. And you even didn't consider it as your power, more like your shadow was alive, able to lead its own shadowlife and all you could do is accept it. But nevertheless the independence of your shadow was exactly what crossed the line of Alastor's temper.

But though your very existence in the hotel naturally bothered Alastor (firstly in the way he could call agreeable but then turned into the unbearable feeling), his own shadow seemed to enjoy the situation. It liked swirling around you and your shadow especially, as if it wanted to befriend. And Alastor couldn't deny that at first he liked it, took it as another proof that you fit each other perfectly. Until his shadow began to spend more time with you than with him. And it didn't just leave for a minute to check if you were fine (what the shadow actually asked for at first, and what Alastor happily agreed to), but disappeared for hours, and once even for the whole day. It never returned to him by itself. Every time Alastor found his umbra in the presence of your dark copy, it returned under his control only being ashamed under the owner's strict gaze. But only to escape the next day. It was insufferable.

But in his arrogance Alastor couldn't see how you worried about your own shadow disappearing more and more recently…

* ☽ ･｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

Since you spilt soup in your bed Niffty forbid you to eat in your quarters, so now you had to come down to eat your lunch. You hated it. It was another day when your shadow slipped away somewhere, and you knew who to blame. Catching your dark self twice and thrice with Alastor's dark silhouette near a new-made bedlam, you came to think that your always obedient shadow now turned into a real troublemaker under bad influence of Alastor’s shadow known for its mischievous character. You only didn’t comprehend why that was happening, and whether it was Alastor’s plan by irritating you, or whether it was only his shadow's decision. And as you were stepping down the maroon carpet without black spot under your feet, anger was boiling in you. You hated to show yourself in front of others without your shadow. People underestimated shadows, you felt vulnerable without yours, just too weird and lonely. After all, a shadow is what follows you wherever you go, your devoted companion, and what in hell Alastor thought of himself, depriving you from it? Or why couldn’t he keep his friend in control?

You took a deep breath to collect yourself before entering the dining room, you couldn't let others see your hurt. But to your surprise the room was empty. Almost empty. Alastor was sitting at the table, back to the doors, eating stew which was still steaming in his bowl and spoon. Seemed like he returned from the overlord meeting earlier than expected.

Approaching the table you looked at the floor. Hm, only a grey silhouette of the chair on the boards. Seemed the demon also lost his companion. You crossed the room and took your usual seat in front of Alastor. A portion of the hot meal was already on your plate, the spicy smell tickled your nose. You sighed, taking a spoon and thanked Alastor, who reservedly nodded back. Sometimes you didn't understand how he could be polite and caring at one moment and then turned into an arrogant egoist… You just wondered what side of these were sincere to you. After all, you wanted to know him. You knew how others thought about you and Alastor: you were a hellish couple. Though you were not even friends, the way you both reflected each other could seem to somebody as if you were long connected. Sometimes even you believed you were. Despite all the differences you knew you were the same in core. And to be honest you were attracted to the parts that differed you. These differences, you knew, were based on the reasons that united you, made you two so resembling. And you longed to know them better. And you hoped that every time when Alastor acted kindly to you was a signal he shared your urge of being closer.

You were eating in silence when suddenly you heard a terrible thunder from the stairs and then a furious female scream. You exchanged surprised glances with Alastor. The enraged trampling accompanied with Spanish curses approached the dining room and in the doorframe stood Vaggie. Her fits on the hips, jaws clenched, the only eye sparkled with anger.

“Who’s gonna explain what the hell?!” At your and Alastor's astonished looks she exhaled heavily, “Your shadows. Why none of you hold them on a leash?” Immediately two oblong dark silhouettes flew above her frame and landed to the feet of their owners. She glared at them angrily and looked back at you two. “So? Who will explain?”

You narrowed your eyes at Alastor, but he reacted first,

“My dear, as soon as I got back to the hotel, my shadow had already left me.” He grinned at you as if it was your fault.

“What?” You exclaimed, “What do you mean by that? I didn't do anything to your shadow. Rather, what did you do to mine?”

He tilted his head and arched his brow at you, “Don't you want to say, dear, that it is me who brought all this bedlam?”

“Hah, of course not!” You threw your hands up and evilly laughed, “You're the one who always says ‘my shadow has escaped me’, so how can I blame you? Only your shadow, the very one you can't control, the very one that always escapes you!”

His right eye nervously twitched, but his grin went wider.

“Do you doubt my authority over my own shadow, dear? That’s ridiculous!” He rolled his eyes, yellow fangs reflected the glim of your own demonic glare.

“The only ridiculous thing is how you blame me and my shadow for all the mess, though you know perfectly that it is your shadow that is the cause of everything!”

Harshly Alastor left his seat and made several long and loud steps to tower over you. With a squeak you moved your chair back and stood up, raised your head to face the demon in front of you. None of you noticed how the shoulders of Alastor's shadow slightly rose and fell as if it was chuckling.

"Hmm. Fair enough!” He tilted his head to you too close but you didn't stir, “Perhaps the fault of the havoc is on my shadow indeed. I don't deny, it likes a little chaos, but this always could be avoid because my shadow’s always in my control and never goes against my will and never did, until you came here!”

“So you blame me?! You blame me that you can't control your shadow?”

“I blame your shadow for this, darling. Yours influenced mine and… It's rather worrisome.” Alastor hissed through his fangs.

You laughed again, “So, big bad overlord can't handle a common sinner?” It was almost funny how Alastor replaced the responsibility of his shadow's behaviour on you. But you had enough. It was him who spoiled your shadow.

The pupils of his eyes turned into dials, antlers immediately increased in size, but before things could go too far Vaggie pointed her spear on his chest, standing in front of you. Your shadows, which all this time were nervously swirling at your feet, shifting their gaze from each other to you and Alastor, now froze.

“Enough! Both of you!” She looked darkly at you and Alastor, who had already returned to his usual form although his hair was still slightly disheveled. Vaggie tapped the weapon against the floor as if declaring the end of your fight, “You can blame each other endlessly, I don't care, I just want you to clear up that mess and never repeat it again. And your squabbles you can keep to yourself, I have absolutely no desire of finding out which of you is more to blame for it's-all- your-shadow's-fault bullshit.” As she stated and gave you both another frown she left the room.

The static noise popped in the air, Alastor's red eyes sharply watched you, but you tried to ignore the gaze. Your umbra still kept your feet, and Alastor's one hid behind his shoulder. Their empty eyes watched each other, but you couldn't understand what was hidden in them. Suddenly Alastor's shadow sharply turned its head to you, giving you its wide grin. You shivered and looked away. Hia umbra was even more irritating and frightening than him. Alastor still didn't utter a word, but so did you, knowing that he would shift blame on you again, so you rolled your eyes and left the room. But two pairs of red and hollow eyes never left you.

* ☽ ･｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

You rushed down the stairs into the lobby. Your leather shoes loudly clattered even on the carpeted floor. Your eyes, usually of dim pearly light, now blazed brightly snow-white in fury. You jumped off the last step and screamed out,

“Where is he?!”

He promised it would never happen again. And you said you would do all that was in your power to also keep it under control. You shook your hands that day, while your shadows were forced by you to clear up all the bedlam they had committed. So why then a few minutes ago you witnessed Alastor's shadow emerging out of nowhere in your room, fucking snatching your shadow and waltzing off with it?

“ALASTOR!” You rolled out the last consonant of his name growling. The whole hotel for sure heard you. And a second later a tall silhouette formed in front of you from the darkness. And when you already filled your lungs with air to shout again, his long finger was pressed to your lips. Alastor leaned to you, his sharp teeth just an inch from your face,

“I have rights to bawl and freak out as well, my dear, but I’m not doing this.” He said in low and stood straight again, grasping a cane in his fists behind his back. His posture was tense, smile patently strained, but all in all he conducted himself better than you. You breathed out. Alastor's self-control was the feature you envied.

“Guess, you’re blaming me again in the absence of your shadow.” Alastor pronounced, casting a look under your feet. There was only trampled red pile, and none of you cast your shadows.

“I'm sick of this.” You exhaled. But anger boiled in you again and the next words you shouted at Alastor, “Why does your dumb shadow burst into my room and take my one away?! But! You don't like it too, do you? So why is it happening?!”

But did Alastor only open his mouth to talk, you attacked again. You didn't give him a chance to say a word and that got on his nerves, after all not only you suffered in this situation. The whole thing was outrageous but it had its reasons. And Alastor had been thinking about it a lot at least to suppose the possible causes of this all. And remembering the answer now made his foot nervously tap at the floor.

In the end of your accusation you demanded,

“Answer where’s my shadow. Now!”

Alastor smirked down at you and bent himself to you so close you had to take a step back to avoid bumping into his nose. You felt your cheeks became hotter at that closeness or maybe because of how rudely he invited your personal space.

“Must be hanging around somewhere with your shadow.” He huffed and held for a little too long, bending to you. His gaze roamed over your face until dropped down then he harshly straight himself up, leaving you amusingly staring where he just stood.

“Anyways,” You started slowly after clearing your throat, “I don't know what your shadow's trying to get from mine but it won't get it.” Alastor turned his head to you, and you gave him a sly smile full of white fangs, “Your shadow's just too weak to deal with mine.”

Alastor sniffed. Seemed like you tried to get on his nerves again. A mischievous smile played on his lips as he looked down at you and promised in low,

“You can't imagine what my shadow can do to you, darling.” Alastor growled.

“Ooh, kinky!” You both turned your head to the high voice. Angel was sitting at the bar and smirking at your quarrel. He witnessed all the skirmish, obviously enjoying the show. You headed for him, Alastor followed you.

“Angel? Do you know where is- um.. Where are our shadows?”

Angel raised his brow at you, a smirk was still on his face, then he asked, “How can I?”

“Somebody in this hotel has to know!” You were losing your patience again. “And you seem to be sitting here all the time, so perhaps you've seen something?”

“Eh.” He shrugged his shoulders, rolling his eyes. He shouldn’t comment on your quarrel but just watch where the drama would go. Well now under the piercing gaze of two sharp-toothed demons he couldn't hide anything. “I saw something creeping to the side stairs, but I'm not sure. I could drink too much.”

There were indeed a couple of empty glass bottles on the board. Strangely, there wasn't Husk. Could Alastor send him looking for his shadow? Well, he could.

“Don't drink alone, Angel,” You said and wanted to head to the stairs but bumped into Alastor's chest as you turned around. “Aw!” You lifted your look up. Alastor didn't step aside surprisingly. Must be waiting when you do so, you thought and moved aside.

“Which one you chose, my dear?” He asked, lowering his voice.

“Huh?”

“There are two side stairs: the left and the right one. I suggest we split up, what do you say?”

It made sense. The two stairs seemed darker than usual. They actually had a strange construction, as they were two long corridors with steps leading right to the third floor, passing the second one. You supposed there was some kind of magic behind it, for from the lobby it seemed like the stairs ended on the second floor. You took a closer look at the stairs. They indeed were much darker, but the left side was lit up with flickering scones. You considered it as a sign of Alastor's shadow presence, after all, playing with electricity was his cup of tea.

“Well. Let it be right.” You said.

“Splendid!” Alastor gave you one last glare and made his way to the left hall stairs.

The behaviour of his shadow was describable. He knew it wasn't your fault that his shadow, the incarceration of his desires, acted the way it did. Alastor knew that he… that you attracted him. But was that attraction so powerful that he could barely control these impulses to become closer to you? And interesting was the fact that his shadow almost never interacted directly with you, only with your own shadow… And Alastor wondered if your shadow was the personification of your desires too? Because if it was so it could explain why his shadow preferred the company of your dark copy and not yours directly. His umbra was wild, never worried about consequences and if it wanted to do something it did it. And so was yours in its nature, but you held it on a too short leash. For Alastor it was evidently that your shadow delighted in the chaos his shadow taught it. Alastor never minded his shadow to create a little mess here and there, it was entertaining for him! And your shadow was too quiet, too shy, always swirling somewhere at your feet. His shadow gave yours what it desired — enjoyment of chaos.

But could there be another reason? Of course. And this one seemed to Alastor, despite his disliking to it, more verisimilar. Alastor was attentive to himself and others, so he never ruled out your liking for him. He couldn't say if you really sought its attention, but you never escaped it for sure. Your slight blush when he leaned to you, your eyes always catching his figure first of all when you entered a room, your compliments to him and a bright smile when he complimented back. If this was really your desire, then your shadow wouldn't bound itself if it once learned the reciprocal feelings.

This was precisely the ground of the circumstances that led you both to these dark corridors. Own blindness for feelings and irrepressibility of the subordinates.

The burst of a light bulb interrupted his thoughts. Now the stairs drown in complete darkness, but Alastor's eyes of a predator could still discern. He blinked twice and continued his way up, his steps echoed through the narrow stair. His thoughts returned to you.

Suddenly Alastor perceived something in the darkness. It was a silhouette, slim and darker than the walls around. It was a shadow hiding in the darkness.

“Well, how do the last minutes of your freedom feel, hm? Come here.” At his command the shadow trembled slightly and sank down closer to him, and Alastor realised it had the wrong shape, not his. It was thinner, lighter.

“Oh?” Two round white flames lit up where the eyes could be, and Alastor’s teeth bared in a grin as he understood “Oh! The little one!” Alastor smiled cheerfully. He had never been in private with your shadow before, he wondered where it could lead. But his head was still full of his theories, so when he outstretched his hand to your shadow his palm was slightly sweated.

“Well, at least one of the runaways is caught. Come now, dear, let's get you to your owner.”

The silhouette slowly flew up to him and he was ready to grasp it, when suddenly the darkness pinned him to the wall with strength he could never expect from a tiny thing like this. He gasped, as your shadow put its hands against his shoulder and chest, keeping him firmly.

You stopped and looked at your palms. It felt as if you were touching some fabric, maybe tweed, but your hands were empty. And you felt a little pressure on your fingertips and base of your palms. Your shadow might come across something. The so to say co-feeling between you and your shadow was rather irksome, especially when it hung out with Alastor's umbra, because in that case when the shadow bumped into something you felt everything on your body. And now it was the same ghosting feeling on your palms, as if your double was pressing down on something. But… If it was touching something soft it could not be in this stairs-corridor, for there were nothing but steps and scones…

You dropped your hands, looked up and nearly jumped up — Alastor's hunched shadow was standing five steps higher. Its hollow orbits gazed right into you.

“Hi?” You said.

Alastor huffed as your shadow pinned his arms to the wall, its tail twined around his legs so that he couldn't make a move.

“What are you up to, dear? Does your master know what you are doing, huh? Does she?” He hated that he was nervous but he couldn't help it. This touch was cold as ice even through the fabric, it sent shivers down his spine, and he clenched his teeth in a tight smile when the grasp on his wrists became stronger. Snow white lights of the shadow's eyes moved closer and closer to his face. He knew your shadow couldn't devour unlike his, but nevertheless he tilted his head, escaping whatever your shadow was up to do. But as Alastor tilted his head to the left, your shadow brought its face to the right side of his neck, he felt the chill and then the shadow slowly moved to his other shoulder and, as being hypnotised, he tilted his head to the right, letting your twin to send the cold through his body one more time. It was thrilling. The body of your shadow was velvety, its fingers no longer held him tightly, but placed themselves in his palms, the tail around his legs loosened now caressing his calf.

“Darling, you don't know what you are doing.” He whispered, hoping his voice was trembling because of the cold. But could your shadow hear him? Could you hear him?

The lights disappeared as if the shadow lowered its eyelids. Next moment Alastor felt an icy soft touch on his lips.

As you raised your leg to step over to Alastor's shadow you froze. What was that?

Instinctively you moved your head back, but the true feeling of someone's lips on you didn't leave you. You felt being kissed. And this someone seemed to return the kiss, deepening it, traced their hands to your forearms and put them on your waist.

You never knew it could be. Your shadow..? But who?! Was it..? Could it be..? You looked up. He..? If you had found his shadow, he could find yours. But why was there this feeling? You couldn't mistake it. Definitely you felt the touch of your lips to someone, you stiffened as your shadow did, but then you felt it melt in his arms, and the trace of kiss on your lips was so realistic you struggled the urge to give into nothing that was in front of you. With foggy eyes you glanced up again, Alastor's shadow slowly tilted its head to the side. You parted your lips and made a step back, going one step down. The figure in front of you moved closer, but before you could stop to think about something else but these ghost lips on you, the shadow seized you. You only gasped when Alastor's shadow covered your mouth with its.

He felt. The cold melted, giving place to the gentle warmth on his lips. Apparently you'd found his lost shadow too, and of course now it was doing to you the same thing your shadow was doing to him. He growled as jealousy was growing in him. But most important was that Alastor felt this kiss. And though it was an indirect kiss, though he couldn't feel the taste of you, and the touches he felt wasn't actually yours but his own through the perspective of your both shadows, despite all of this Alastor didn't dare to break the kiss. The first kiss. And evidently you enjoyed this too. As your shadow cupped his face, the chill was immediately replaced with warmth, as your shadow clung to his chest, he felt as if your body pressed to him. You followed the movements of your double which conducted you. You felt the moments, the way your shadow touched him, and you hurried to repeat the gesture — from the master you turned into a shadow obediently reflecting the movements of the one who was guiding you. And now Alastor jeloused not only to his shadow which directly was holding you, but also to your shadow for its power over you. He wanted to lead the process. He wanted to be the one who made you finally surrender to your desire.

Alastor's shadow kept a possessive hold on you, squeezing your shoulders and bringing you closer. You wished it was his hands, real hands. You felt how its tendrils played around your hips, the chill around your legs told you so, and you wished it was him, caressing and slightly pinching your skin. You wished you could feel more than the pressure of your shadow to his face, because that was exactly what you were experiencing now. But you still cherished the thought that It was his shadow who was kissing you, it was him who hadn't run from your shadow, you both surrendered to the plan devised by your sly umbras. And this thought, this knowing that right now Alastor was holding your fragile frame in his hands, leaning closer, feeling the way you were feeling — these all made your heart beat painfully fast in your chest.

You felt a phantom touch on the small of your back as if guiding you closer to the kisser and you wanted to follow the silent command, but your foot missed a step and instead of falling into the arms of your lover's shadow you just fell down on the stairs.

“Ouch!” You opened your eyes as your knees and then hips landed on the hard step and looked around but saw no one and nothing around. There was only you sitting on the red carpet with a bruised hip and arms propped against the prickly pile. It was silent and dim here. Nothing reminded of the love you'd just been sharing.

With a heavy exhale you stood up and leaned against the wall with your legs standing on different steps. Well… How could you meet Alastor now? The shadow kiss felt pretty awkward, especially when you and Alastor hadn’t even had a normal kiss… How would he react? You didn’t even know how you would react when you saw him again.

“My dear, are you there?” Your heart sank deep down and immediately flew high as you heard a familiar static voice from the top of the stairs. Alastor better stop doing these things to your heart. You were sure you could die the second time with such a roller coaster in your chest.

“Y-yeah…” You looked up. The doorframe was empty, but then Alastor slowly came out of the corner, first you saw his head, then shoulders and finally he showed himself. From your position you couldn't see if he had returned his loss.

“Have you found your shadow?” He asked.

“Yes,” You were not sure, it was too dark in the corridor to perceive a shadow, but you hoped it was so. At least if Alastor was here it meant that you had found what you were looking for, right?

“Why wouldn't you then come out of the darkness, darling?” His voice sounded softer than ever and it brought another painful kick in your chest. You got out of your torpor and went upstairs. Alastor's yellow smile lit up as you went up, he outstretched his hand to you which you took with a warm tingle on your fingertips.

As you came out to him, Alastor saw how your pupils constricted and how your irises changed their colour into soft yellowish as the light pouring from the scones around. Alastor noticed long ago that the happier you were, the warmer shine of your eyes became, and now his chest filled with pride and gladness of knowing that it was him who made you feel so. You watched him discreetly as if unsure how to hold yourself in his presence. But your previous boldness hadn't disappeared wholly, your smile was still saucy.

Alastor was still holding your hand, his fingertips slowly drew circles on your knuckles. There was a special kind of silence between you, it was pleasurable and yet nervous and gave birth to the whirlpool of emotions tightening your stomachs and weakening your knees. Alastor's eyes ran over your face, his fingers jittery squeezed your wrist, he definitely wanted to say something but hesitated. Alastor hesitated.

Suddenly your eyes caught the sight of a black spot, flying out from behind Alastor's back and sliding under your feet. Well, your naughty shadow had come back. And now you also noticed a wicked grin of the other shadow behind Alastor's shoulder.

“You know what I've been thinking there.. on the stairs while… uhm...” You muttered, eyeing up at the man whose shadow you kissed two minutes ago. A tad embarrassing, but you'd already started and really wanted to finish your thoughts but Alastor's crimson eyes made every word coming to your lips stop and be swallowed by your fear.

“I wanted…” You started again, but a warm palm on your cheek interrupted you again. You closed your eyes at the touch.

“Well, dear, something tells me that our thoughts were quite… similar.” His thumb slid down, followed the contour of your lower lip, causing shivers over you. “Don't you think so?” The static hum sounded closer to your ear, you felt hot breath fanning over your face. You finally looked at Alastor again, illuminating his slightly pink cheeks with the warm light of your eyes, and murmured “Uh-huh.”

Alastor smirked at your shy answer, his palm cupped your cheek, and you stood on your tiptoes. Your lips met. It was absolutely different from what you'd been sharing on the stairs, but the warmth, the unexpected bitter and spicy taste made you lean back, escaping his lips. You didn't even know what made you do so, but Alastor seemed to be ready for this and immediately caught you again, pressing you closer to himself, kissing you once again. This time you gave in. He felt how you relaxed in his arms and smiled in the kiss. He knew he wouldn't let you rob yourself of pleasure ever again.

You ran your tongue over his lower lip and felt his quiver. It was so much better than with the shadow: now you could taste, breathe in each other's exhales, pull closer and embrace tighter. You moaned into the kiss as Alastor delved his tongue into your mouth and felt his claws sinking into your waist, it was obvious that he was holding himself back from something you would agree to without hesitation if he’d only ask.

Alastor broke the kiss, looked into your eyes. You only caught your breath, when he descended his lips on you again. The knot in your stomach turned into a flamed ball and the hands caressing your body ignited it more. Alastor often broke the kiss, but only to bring several more, and each one was longer than previous, until you felt as if endlessness of love was on your tongues.

Suddenly Vaggie stopped. Her gaze fixed to the carpet before her. More accurately, to the shadows on the carpet. The corners of her lips went down and the only eye opened wide in surprise slowly growing into shock. These shadows… They were acting strangely. At first Vaggie didn't even realise what it waswas: the silhouette wasn't similar to neither you nor Alastor. She tilted her head, looking at the spot and approaching it. She almost passed it by, when her eyes reflexively looked aside, catching some action there, and as soon as her brain realised what she'd just witnessed, she stopped and turned her head in that direction.

There in the end of the narrow corridor stood you and Alastor, illuminated by an old sconce and casting a long eldritch shadow to her feet, a shadow of two kissing sinners. That's why Vaggie couldn't understand whose shadow it was — the shadow didn't belong to one person, there were two in it. With tenderness unusual for the two of you, you held onto each other as if you were crystal and seemed absolutely lost in your kiss. There was vulnerability in you two, which none of you had shown to anyone before, and it was beautiful. The way Alastor gently cupped your face and bent himself over you, and how you stood on your tiptoes, held on his neck and tightly pressed yourself to him, while he put his hand on your back to pull you closer. Yes, it was beauty and tenderness itself. Your palm reached to Alastor's ears pressed to the crown of his head, he visibly quivered at the touch to the red fur and buried his face in the crook of your neck, whispering to you something Vaggie couldn't hear but caused a chuckle from you. All the movements and even your smiles were reflected by the shadows on the floor. Finally they behaved as they should — repeated after their owners.

But Vaggie stood there and stared too long. Alastor's lips attacked your neck, or perhaps it was his teeth, because between your quiet moans she could hear quiet cries and Alastor's low chuckle. And his hands went lower and lower…

Vaggie shook her head and turned away,

“Ew. Disgusting.” She mumbled, heading further down the corridor. She didn't notice how two grinning shadows turned their haeds to the sound of her remark, left their places and followed the fallen angel, rubbing their hands with anticipation.

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

#hirschkuh's work #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel #alastor fanfiction #alastor #alastor x you #alastor x reader #alastor fluff

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heyimkana · 1 month ago

Text

Desiderium - Chapter 1

Series Masterlist | AO3 Link

Pairing: Yuuta Okkotsu X Female Reader X Satoru Gojo

Genre: Reincarnation AU, Marriage AU, Fluff, Smut, Slow Burn

Summary: Set in Tokyo, Japan, you and Yuuta were past lovers separated by the cruel hands of fate. That same fate brought you to him again a century later, but while you hold no memories of him or the beautiful life you had shared with him in the past, Yuuta remembers everything. He's waited forever to see you again, yearning for your love, not knowing that you already belong to someone else.

Word Count: 15K+

Content Warnings: None for this chapter.

Notes: Yuuta, Reader, and Satoru are the same age, all in their late twenties. Satoru has his Hidden Inventory personality here, so he might come off as brash and slightly immature.

Written as a birthday gift for my wife Aleks @princess-okkotsu Art drawn by @alwhmd_ on Twitter (commission)

Yuuta Okkotsu is a mystery, and at this moment, as she meets him for the first time in a room filled with papers and ink and comforting silence, he intrigues her more than any lines in her favorite poetry.

It’s not love at first sight, of that she is sure. She’s experienced that many years ago, or so she believes, with Satoru—the lover with whom she’s shared frantic kisses and burning touches in the last six years. It doesn’t feel the same with Yuuta right now, not quite. It is something more intense, something she cannot yet fathom, something she wishes she understood.

The second their eyes are locked on each other, it’s like she’s electrocuted, her body freezing at the sensation.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, her voice sounding like she hasn’t spoken in years. A tiny red spot begins to form on his pale skin, where his chin made contact with her head earlier. “I was reaching out for a book. I didn’t see you there.”

The man, young enough to be around her age with a gaze softer than most, has an expression of a heartbroken man. He looks at her, pain fleeting across his face.

His eyes… They remind her of the ocean before the storm.

It’s not the color as they resemble more of a sapphire, like the freshly bloomed delphiniums after the rain. No, it’s the feeling, the way they glimmer under the soft evening light, calm and steady, but in a way, it emits sadness. Yearning. Heartbreak. The kind that makes him feel like he had been crushed, trapped inside a hurricane for so long, he was about to fade into the void. But there’s also hope beneath it, as if he was desperately looking for something, and he’s just a moment away from attaining it. Something tugs upon her heartstrings as he peers into her eyes, full of depths and secrets she longs to unveil.

He looks like he’s about to cry, she thinks. There are no tears in sight, no quiver in his lips, and yet, to her…

“Are you… all right?”

The man smiles ever so softly at her question, seemingly too kind to be genuinely coming from the heart, but she believes it. The quiet agony in his eyes has not yet dissipated, but he grows excellent at wearing his mask.

“Yes, I’m fine.” His voice is rich and soft, breathy and tender when he speaks. “Are you?”

“Not my first time accidentally hitting someone from not paying attention to my surroundings, so yes,” she chuckles. Her pretty sounds stun him. The yearning he’s been trying to conceal shows vividly for a split second. It leaves her confused, worried that he got upset by her actions. “Again, sorry.”

“No, please don’t apologize. It was my fault. I should’ve kept my distance.”

She’s sure her eyes have never met him. Her mind doesn’t remember him. Her ears don’t recognize his voice, but she swears she’s seen him before, so much that it feels like he becomes gravity, drawing her to him.

She wants to reach out to him. Wants to know why he looks like he’s seconds away from breaking apart. Wants to ask him whether she’s said too much or too little. But he’s nothing but a stranger, and she doesn’t wish to step out of the line. “Were you also looking for a book?”

“Yes, umm…” He’s tall, taller than she’d expect someone who exudes such awkwardness would be. Compared to other men, he has a youthful look, but she has a hunch that he’s around her age, most likely in his late twenties. He points his finger toward a book on the shelf beside her. “That one.”

She follows his direction, smiling when she reads the title on its spine. “No wonder we bumped heads. I was aiming for the same book.”

“Oh, then, it’s fine,” he hurriedly says, pushing the book back toward her when she tries to hand it over. “You can take it.”

“No, please, go ahead. I’ve read this too many times already.”

“Me too, so—”

“I insist.” She presses the book to his chest, looking up at him.

He looms before her, standing possibly over 180 centimeters tall that she has to tilt her head up to match his line of vision. She catches a whiff of his scent, the smell of soap and aftershave, thinly layered by cologne. Modest, pleasant, just like him as a whole.

Despite the slight dark circles swelling under his eyes, he’s a handsome man with a face framed by strong jawlines, a sharp nose, and thick, silky black hair parted on the side. The ends of his strands were long enough to brush against the collar of his ivory turtle neck sweater. His brown coat compliments his pallid skin perfectly, and she can’t help but wonder whether his shoulders are just as broad underneath it. An argent necklace with a ring as his pendant dangles just a few inches above his heart, glinting in the same way as his silver watch under the fluorescent light of the room. When his lips curve up, his eyes do the opposite, drooping in a way that makes him seem younger, which leaves her confused as he also gives off the feeling that he might be older than he appears.

What a beautiful person, a thought runs through her mind, one that she hastily dismisses before it reaches her tongue. “Take it as a form of my apology for bruising your chin,” she says with a slight grin.

His eyes widen just for a split second before a soft chuckle reverberates from his chest. When he speaks again, it’s almost like a whisper—like a secret never meant to be told, “I can never win against you, can I?”

She barely catches his words. “Sorry, what?”

“Nothing.” He clears his throat, tucking his chin to hide his eyes. “I, uhh… I was about to borrow this and grab some coffee. Would you care to join me? I’d love to talk to you more.” His body language indicates that he’s nervous, which she admits is endearing. There’s a momentary pause where she finds herself too busy marveling over his features, but he misunderstands. “I’m—I’m not a pervert or anything like that, I swear! I won’t do anything bad to you.”

She almost laughs. Who talks like that? “That sounds exactly like what a pervert would say.”

He gapes, face flushed. “No, I—” She loves seeing him struggle, so she lets him take his time, just watching him with amusement. He takes a breath, probably trying his best to slow down his soaring heart. “It’s just—it’s hard to find someone with a similar taste like mine and I, umm… I’d like to know you—I-I mean your taste in books—better.”

Usually, she’s not as gullible as to agree to a stranger’s offer, but meeting him somehow feels like reuniting with an old friend. It’s easier to trust him than to be suspicious of him. She wonders if it’s simply because of how affable he seems despite his awkwardness.

Her heart convulses. She knows how grabbing some coffee together tends to lead to something more, and seeing how shy and flustered he is standing in front of her, she’s sure he wants it to lead to something more. Her boyfriend’s name pops into her head, but her lips betray her before her brain can form a warning. “Sure, why not? Let’s prove my guts wrong,” she answers with a slight curve of her lips. “As long as you can tell me your name, that is.”

“Right, sorry.” She loves the sound he makes when he sheepishly chuckles, and she loves it more when it echoes louder in her ears. He offers his hand, stretching out his lean fingers. “I’m Yuuta.”

She expects it to be soft, just like the way he’s gazing at her, but his palm feels calloused against her own. “Yuuta…?”

“O-Okkotsu,” he finishes awkwardly as if he hadn’t spoken his surname in so long that he’d forgotten it.

“Pleasure to meet you, Yuuta Okkotsu.” When she replies to him with her name, he freezes, his eyes widening, shaking in disbelief.

“Is there something wrong?”

“No,” he answers, his expression melting into something warm, full of nostalgia. “It’s just... Your name sounds familiar to me.” She arches a brow, but he leaves her with no time to speak her curiosity.

Calling her respectfully by her surname, he flashes a smile. “Shall we?” ***

Winter comes with a blush of the autumn time, ready to charm her soul and win her heart all over again, the way it always has since the first time she could remember cotton-like ice crystals falling gently across her window. The days, though shorter, remain clear and dry, as if they were already warmed by a sweet breath of spring even when the year has just begun. To her regret, the snow has yet refused to fall, but the way the city of Tokyo glows at night, with fairy lights wrapped around tree-lined streets, serves as a nice consolation.

Stepping outside the library, she gazes toward the sky, expecting to be greeted by a blue evening sun, as if the rays would somehow be colder in these icy days, but, of course, it stays golden, divinely warm upon her chilled skin.

“Are you cold?” Yuuta questions as he watches puffs of her warm breaths lingering in the air. “Would you like my coat?”

“No, I’m fine.” All thanks to her wooly sweater. “That’s so nice of you, though. Offering a stranger your coat like that.” And honestly weird because who does that on a first meeting? She mulls to herself, though the thought doesn’t bother her as much as it should.

“I just…” Every time the word ’stranger’ comes flowing past her lips, it seems to hurt him somehow. “I thought you might need it.”

He’s being genuine, she can tell. The same way she can see just how red his cheeks are with the breeze biting too deeply into his skin. “I honestly think you need your coat more than me.”

“Ah,” he chuckles timidly. “Yeah, I’m not really good with cold weather.”

The thought of him all bundled up, sniffling from the wintry winds, enters her mind, making him look so adorable in her eyes. “We should hurry and get all warmed up then.”

They walk side by side, exchanging small conversations as they go. “Is winter your favorite season?” he asks.

“It is. I think it’s pretty. And it gives me the excuses I need to spend the whole day just keeping myself warm and cozy at the library, reading my favorite books. What about you? I suppose you hate it, huh?”

“I don’t hate it.”

“You don’t? Even though you look like you’re about to freeze to death?”

He laughs softly to appreciate her jest. “No,” he smiles to himself. “I think I might have disliked it in the past, but my—” He stops, clearing his throat. “A friend of mine used to love it so much, so… I’ve grown to like it since then.”

He said it like it was a secret he tried to repress, someone more meaningful than a friend. Her gaze drifts down to the silver ring hanging over his sweater. That looks like a wedding ring, she thinks, but it would’ve been weird, wouldn’t it? Let’s say he was indeed married; would he flirt with another woman while displaying his ring like this? Maybe he’s divorced? But why is he still wearing it? The thoughts swirl, but she keeps them solely in her mind. ***

Walking from the library to the nearest coffee shop only takes around ten minutes. By then, she’s caught on the little gestures Yuuta makes as he speaks: the way he forces himself to laugh a little when he notices he’s being too straightforward; the way he clears his throat when he feels like his words have more hidden meanings than they let on. She’s become aware of his passion and love for books, so strong that it can only be matched by her own. She’s learned about his dream, a novelist in the making, taking his first baby steps to turn it into reality.

“There’s the one,” she says, pointing a finger to a small yet cozy coffee shop on the corner of the main street, still a few meters ahead. “I don’t drink coffee but often drop by to get matcha lattes before work. They’re amazing.”

“You don’t drink coffee?” Despite his question, he doesn’t appear to be surprised by the fact. It was as if he already guessed it.

“Yeah, umm—” She loosens the collar of her sweater, her body heating up as embarrassment grows. I’d rather die than tell him that coffee upsets my stomach. “You know, the caffeine keeps me awake.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.”

It’s probably just her fear and shame playing tricks on her mind, but she swears she sees a little knowing smile forming on his lips. She refuses to acknowledge it for the sake of her heart.

“Oh, hold on.” Yuuta suddenly quickens, taking a couple of strides ahead of her. He pulls on the doorknob, holding the door open. Any other man would do it to leave a good impression. Yuuta does it because he’s raised to do so, a gentleman to his core.

“Thanks,” her sheepish smile causes joy to bloom like roses on his face.

They step inside the shop, instantly surrounded by wafts of the warm, welcoming blend of coffee beans and caramel. A young female performs a love song on the stage with a pink acoustic guitar perched on her lap, a shade that matches her cotton candy hair. The queue of people desperately needing warm coffees in the chilly evening is longer than she expected. She doesn’t find the heart to change places, however, knowing how Yuuta has been secretly hiding his face behind his scarf, seeking warmth whenever he thought she wasn’t looking (she caught him in the act every time but kept quiet about it for his sake).

Maybe it’s better if we stay. “Do you mind if we wait in line for a bit?”

“Not at all,” he replies.

And so they wait, standing side by side, trading secret glances and diffident smiles.

A staff slides open the display shelf beside her, placing a fresh batch of chocolate pastries and strawberry cakes under the fluorescent light. Saliva pools in her mouth almost immediately. The savory cream, the strawberry fillings in between layers, and—

“You can go ahead and take a seat if you want,” Yuuta offers, swaying her away from her stupor. “I’ll place an order for us.”

“Huh? Oh, no, I can wait here with you. It’s fine.”

“It’s still gonna take a while.” He briefly looks at the six people ahead of them, worried. “You sure?”

She skims through her options quickly. An open spot in the corner would be perfect for them to talk, a safe distance from the live music playing on the stage and the gossiping crowd. “But I’d feel bad,” she speaks her concerns.

“This is nothing,” he assures. “What would you like to have? I know you’re fond of their matcha lattes, but I saw the board, and it says it’s not available right now.”

“What?” She takes a quick view of the handwritten menu on the blackboard. “Oh, you’re right,” she mumbles regretfully, noticing that even a simple matcha tea is crossed out. Great, what should I get? Will I look childish if I ask for hot cocoa with s’mores? Yeah, probably. “What are you getting?”

“Black coffee.”

And, of course, he had to be an adult and choose that, she nearly pouts. Now, I’m definitely going to sound like a kid.

“What about hot chocolate?” he suggests. When she reciprocates with a frown, surprised at how easily he reads her mind, Yuuta quickly adds, “Sorry, it’s just… You look like you have a sweet tooth.”

“Excuse me?”

“I—I saw you staring at the cakes before, so, umm… Sorry if I jumped to conclusions.”

“Oh, wow, that’s embarrassing,” she forces out a faint laugh to mask her shame. “You caught me drooling.”

“No—it’s cute, really!” It’s even more mortifying now that he’s trying to comfort her about it. “I like cakes too. Chocolate ones, mostly. But also the strawberry ones, they’ve been growing on me lately—” he abruptly stops. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. God, I’m sorry.”

She watches him turn flustered, just for a second before she fails to suppress her giggles from escaping. “You caught me drooling, and now you’re panicking about oversharing. We’re a bunch of idiots, aren’t we?”

The string of her adorable peals of laughter causes his gaze to soften, his eyes turning melancholic as if he were witnessing a memory unveiled before him. She notices him staring—adoring, really, like it’s a habit of hers he’s grown to love for years. Such a weird thing for a stranger to do.

“You haven’t changed at all,” he says under his breath, or at least she thinks so. She must have heard it wrong.

“All right,” she says, straightening down her sweater. “I’m going to be useful and find ourselves a table before I further make a fool out of myself. I’ll have a slice of that strawberry cake, please.”

“Noted. And your drink?”

“I’ll have what you have.”

“Coffee? But—”

She strides away before he can finish.

Leaving him standing on the line, she catches him shaking his head from the corner of her eyes, chuckling to himself.

Yuuta arrives at her table a moment later, carrying a tray filled with their orders. “Sorry for making you wait.”

“Sorry for making you wait,” she says, proffering her gratitude with a smile. “Alone.”

“It’s fine,” he mirrors her expression. “Here’s your order.”

“What is this?” She questions as he places down a plate filled with strawberry cake—two slices, with extra frosting and fresh strawberries on top. “Are you trying to make me fat?”

He laughs, his hands busy settling the cups on the wooden table. “I thought you might be hungry after all the waiting.”

“It literally was only fifteen minutes.”

“Well, then, maybe we can share?” he asks, slightly hopeful, before his shyness gets the best of him again. “O-only if you’re comfortable.”

“Please, I’d love to—” She stops, noticing the two cups of hot chocolate—with s’mores—sitting between them. “Wait.”

“Oh, umm,” Yuuta straightens himself on his seat; his posture reminds her of an employee preparing himself to be scolded by the chief. “You said you’ll have what I have, so I got you the same one.”

“Yeah, but didn’t you say you were gonna have black coffee?”

“Did I?” He does it again, emitting that unique laugh of his to hide his discomfort. “Well, uhh, caffeine keeps me awake, so… I changed my mind.”

She squinted her eyes. “You’re actually a lot cheekier than you look, aren’t you?”

He sweats, hastily taking a sip of his drink. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

It’s her turn to shake her head this time, all in amusement. “Well, thank you. For being so considerate.”

With a juvenile glee, he replies, “Don’t mention it.” ***

“Have you thought about what kind of story you plan to write?” She asks as she slides her cup closer to her side. Now that she’s finished tasting some of the s’mores with her spoon, a lovely shade of cocoa shimmers inside, glazed with foam and melted marshmallows. “Is it porn?”

Yuuta chokes on his drink, spilling a bit of chocolate down his chin.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry.” She promptly snatches some tissues for him, almost dabbing his mouth herself as some of it threatens to spill onto his shirt. Thank goodness he managed to wipe it off just in time.

“It’s not porn,” he coughs out, his eyes glassy with tears.

“Yeah, no, of course. I was just kidding.” She checks on him, her forehead creasing with concern. “Are you okay? Did some of it get into your nose?”

“I’m fine,” he sniffles, trying his best to smile without wincing.

“Gosh, I’m so sorry. You’re just so stiff; I thought I’d ease you up with a joke.” She half-grimaces, half-grins at him. “Guess it’s working?”

“Guess it is. A little.” When he chuckles, she feels an inkling of joy. It doesn’t take long before Yuuta’s little laughter becomes one of her favorite sounds in the world. “Sorry for being so jumpy all the time. Old habit.”

“Not used to talking to strangers?”

“Not like this, no. You’re my first.”

Something warm and pleasant grows inside her chest, but she chooses to ignore it. “Well, consider me honored. So,” she sips her drink, “Your story?”

“Oh, uhh… I plan to write a romance novel.”

“Romance? That’s surprising.”

“How so?”

“Hmm, not sure why, but I see you more as someone who writes crime stories. You know, writing from experience, that sort of thing.”

He pouts. It’s adorable. “Because of the way I behave?”

“Because of the way you behave.” She returns to another good-natured chaff. “Also, because you seem… I don’t know, there’s something strange about you.”

Yuuta falls into silence, just for a moment. A reaction she didn’t see coming. “Strange how?”

“Like…” She peers into his eyes, and there it is again. The way he stares at her. The way he tends to express pensive sadness as if he’s been trying to convey something to her—something really important—but she’s not listening. He doesn’t seem suspicious to her, not in the slightest. But he gives her the same feeling she feels when she encounters a mystery in the book, one that she can’t wait to be resolved at the end of the story. Why do you seem so familiar? She ponders before she shakes the thoughts away. “I can’t point my finger at it just yet.”

His shoulders sag. For some reason, her answer disappoints him.

She straightens up on her seat, her lips tilting up on their own to cheer him up. “Perhaps I’ll figure it out once we finish our drinks.”

Yuuta smiles, too, but it lacks the same warmth. There’s something he’s not telling. “I hope so,” he says. If there was a hidden message beneath it, she missed it.

Feeling a tad awkward, she taps her fingers against the sides of her cup. “So, a romance novel, huh? I never would’ve pegged you as a romantic if you didn’t tell me.”

Anything that he wants to say, he swallows it all down to himself. “Well, it’s supposed to be more than just a romance story. It has a supernatural element to it. Borderline fantasy.”

“Like what?”

He takes a few seconds before he responds quietly with a secretive smile. “I guess you’ll just have to read to find out.”

“Cheapskate.” She purses your lips. “Is it going to have a happy ending?”

“Well, they’ll be separated by death in the end—”

“Hey! Spoiler alert!”

He cringes, “Sorry.”

“I can’t believe you said, ’You’ll just have to read to find out,’ and then dropped this bomb on me.”

Yuuta chortles, very light, very charming. “I just wanted to make it sound interesting, I guess. I thought you’d do well with sad stories.”

“Well, yes, angst is my cup of tea. It wasn’t before, but I read this heartwrenching book once, and it’s been growing on me ever since.” She then notices something. “That’s a good guess, though.” She throws a joke, “Were you able to tell because I have this constant miserable look on my face—”

“You’re beautiful.”

She freezes. His line comes out so suddenly, true, but it doesn’t stagger her as much as the way he speaks it. He says it not as a compliment but as the truth. He conveys it so smoothly, but not because he’s used to flirting. His eyes still shake as they stare at her. The slight crack in his voice is one of the tiny proofs of how nervous he is around her. And yet, these words sound so natural in her ears, as if he’d said that to her a thousand times before.

And it feels like she’s heard it. A thousand times before.

“I… Sorry.” He settles himself on his seat, his cheek blossoming in red when he scratches it with his finger. “I didn’t mean to cut you off. It’s just… You don’t look miserable or anything, you’re… You’re gorgeous.” He can’t meet her gaze. She’s the blazing sun, and he’s a man who’s never stepped out during daylight. “Ah, what am I saying,” he mumbles, only for his ears to hear. She can tell he wishes his seat could swallow him whole. He’s embarrassed, terribly so, that he practically has one hand covering his face.

“Umm… Thanks.” That’s all she can say because how else could she answer him when he acts like he just made a love confession? Trying to keep it light, she adds, “You’re giving out that suspicious vibe again.”

He claws against his jean-clad thighs, feeling even smaller. “S-sorry…”

“I’m kidding!” She exclaims, flashing her biggest smile. “I appreciate the compliment, truly. Thank you, Yuuta.”

He stops breathing at the sound of his name escaping her mouth. She realizes it’s the first time she’s said it, and seeing how his shoulders turn tense, she begins to worry. “Sorry, I accidentally called you by your first name. I hope that’s not rude?”

“N-no, it’s all right,” he says, pink flames bursting in his cheeks again. He fiddles with his fingers, bashfully adding, “I… actually prefer you call me that way.”

“Oh…” There’s probably no limit to how adorable he can be. “Well then, you can call me by my first name, too.”

The way joy sparks instantly in his eyes is blatant proof that he’s been waiting for the chance, but he shakes his head, too shy to take it. “No, I… I shouldn’t.”

His choice of words leaves her puzzling over it. Not can’t. Shouldn’t. He’s not shy. He’s refraining himself. But for what? “And if I insist?” She asks.

He nibbles on his lower lip, avoiding her gaze, and maybe he’ll do it, just for her sake, but it won’t feel right, will it?

“Never mind, it’s fine,” she comforts him. “You can call me whatever you want. I don’t mind.”

Yuuta seems relieved, thanking her in silence with little nods.

“So, what happened to them? The lovers in your story.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to spoil it.”

“You can’t just say something like they’re dying and then not tell me about it.”

He awkwardly laughs. “If you insist, I can give you a hint later, but you’ll have to imagine the rest.”

“Then tell you about it? What if you steal my idea?” She raises an eyebrow, smirking. “I happen to have a very creative imagination, you see.”

“I promise you I won’t,” he answers so thoughtfully that she almost feels sorry for teasing him. “I’ve finished writing my version of it. I’ll let you see it after you tell me yours.”

“Huh, interesting.” She pretends she’s rethinking her decision, just to get him a little hopeful and nervous about it. “Deal, why not.”

His eyes are filled with excitement. “Does that mean we’ll see each other again?”

She wants to poke fun at him again by saying ’maybe,’ but Yuuta resembles an overjoyed puppy waiting for a stroll. She doesn’t have the heart to do it. “Well, I do have to go back to the library to return the book, so… Yes.”

His lips parted in the brightest smile, his eyes glimmering in delight. “Then, next week. I’ll see you again next week. Same time?”

Like a disease, his glee is contagious, sending ripples of joy inside her. “All right. But be sure to keep your chin away from my head next time.”

He titters, “I’ll try.”

They exchange stares, sharing sheepish smiles. She breaks away first, bringing her focus back to her drink. It has grown slightly cold over the passing minutes, but the sugary taste has become quite an addiction.

“I’ve never seen you in the library before,” Yuuta mentions. “Was today your first time visiting?”

“No. I’ve been going there almost every day for the last month, but I usually visit in the morning. I just moved to a new company, you see, and my office building is nearby. I walk past the library every day, and since my shift starts late, I often drop by before work to read for an hour or two. My apartment is pretty small, so it feels a bit cramped. That’s why I enjoy spending more time outside.”

“You’re spending your weekends in the library too?” He wonders aloud.

She playfully narrows her eyes at him. “Why does it feel like I’m being judged here?”

“No!” He panics. “I just thought that—that you’d have friends inviting you out or, y-you know.”

“Well, I’m not really one to party,” she chuckles to ease his anxiety. “I don’t do well with crowds. It feels better to have a one-on-one conversation like this. More meaningful.”

He’s a mystery, but in some ways, he’s also an open book. Every time her word delights him, it shows. “Me too.”

She smiles, but it slowly drops as she swirls her spoon, watching the little whirlpool she creates inside the cup. “But it’s also because… Well, I can’t read at home.”

“May I ask why?”

“I have a boyfriend who works from home, so he’s always there with me.”

Yuuta’s fingers stop tapping against the surface of the coffee table but it’s too fast for her to notice before he starts again. “I see,” he replies. The smile on his lips never falters; the one in his eyes does. “Is he a lively person?”

“Very,” she sighs. “And loud. It’s hard to focus on your book when you have a grown man either swearing at his computer screen for probably twelve hours a day or snoring throughout the morning like he wants the whole town to hear it.” She catches herself. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to vent. He’s nice, I care about him a lot, it’s just… I need some time for myself. Somewhere quiet.”

It doesn’t last long, but she senses it, the changes in his expression. It feels like she just said something terribly hurtful to the point that she feels like apologizing for it.

Maybe he notices her noticing, which is why he tries to mask his feelings better with a broader smile that does reach his eyes this time. “And that’s why you chose to visit a library.”

“Yeah. I mean, I could go to a book cafe, but…” She shrugs. “I don’t really like it. Too modern, too… many people just taking selfies instead of actually reading, you know?”

That earns her a chuckle. “But why here, specifically? There are many new ones in town. Bigger ones, too. This place is pretty old and dusty.”

“Can’t argue with that,” she nods, sighing. “This is going to sound dumb, but that library feels nostalgic to me. The first time I stepped inside, I felt like I’d spent all my life there. It was like I had memories there—just sitting on that old couch, reading books, enjoying the silence. It just feels familiar, you know? Even more comforting than being in my room. It’s weird, but I can only feel at ease when I read there.” Yuuta stays so quiet that she has to lift her head and meet his gaze to understand a glimpse of what goes through his head. His face is solemn, undecipherable. “What about you? What’s your reason, Yuuta?”

He drags his eyes away from hers, fixing them on the interlaced fingers around his cup. The light in his eyes slightly dims as he turns pensive.

“It’s just closer to my place.”

***

“Hey, Bunny,” her boyfriend of six years, Satoru Gojo, chirps from the bedroom. It’s not so much of a warm greeting, not anymore, not like how it used to be. The pet name he calls her now feels just like another word. All the fluttering butterflies in her stomach seem to have died, along with his welcome home hugs and I’ve missed you kisses.

Judging from his voice, he must have a cherry lollipop stuck in his mouth, another replacement for his cigarette. He used to be addicted to it back in college, influenced by his best friends—Suguru and Shoko. His room smelled like one whenever she visited it for… well, a ’study date’ he used to call it. She had asked him to stop smoking countless times in the past and nagged about it for two years as she grew worried over his health, but each complaint fell on deaf ears. Satoru only stopped a couple of months ago, breaking the news to her with a grin, saying, “I did this for you, babe. Aren’t you proud of me?” And she smiled at him, she always did, even as she stared at Suguru’s face among the pictures he had on his nightstand, reminded of the truth. Satoru didn’t do it because of her, and he most certainly didn’t do it for her. He just didn’t want to end up collapsing from heart disease like Suguru did. That’s all there is. And that got her thinking.

When was the last time her boyfriend did something for her? Or listened to her? Or noticed something different about her hair or the new dress she wore?

She styled her hair for him. She bought a new toothbrush before he asked for his to be replaced. She decorated her apartment in his favorite color on the day he moved in, eagerly wanting to make him feel comfortable, but every piece of furniture and accessories he bought after always had the same shade. He thought it was her favorite color, too. He never asked, just assumed, which summed up her entire relationship with him.

It never occurred to him that she did everything for his sake, for his pleasure, for his happiness, because he never thought of doing something solely for her sake. Satoru was always about me and us, but never you. “This color is nice, isn’t it, babe?” It wasn’t, but she smiled again, never letting him know that his favorite color was the color she hated the most.

But maybe it’s just her fault.

Maybe she’s put herself in this situation for not being honest, for always keeping her thoughts to herself, for always agreeing with him instead of saying what she wants. It’s just… She’s tired. Tired of fighting over minor differences, tired of worrying that her protest would lead to a bigger fight, one that would drain them emotionally and damage their relationship for good. But she couldn’t help but think how nice it would be if he were, at least, considerate enough to ask.

Back when they first dated, Satoru was everything she could ask for. He knew how to keep her standing on her toes. He was driven by impulse. Exciting. Unforgettable.

Those late-night drives on his motorcycle when she spent hours laughing at his stories with her hands settled deep inside his leather jacket…

Those weekends they spent traveling together to a country where none of them spoke the language, wandering around with no map in their hands, sharing heavy kisses in an abandoned alley, and drunk-dancing to songs sung by strangers…

And those nights when he would have her body speak to him in ways that only he allowed, her head swirling in ecstasy as she succumbed to his naughty smirks and experienced hands. It was fun.

So what changed?

“Lend me one of your earphones. I want to know what song you’re listening to.”

“You’re a bit quiet today. What’s wrong?”

“Let’s watch this movie again. You seemed to enjoy it a lot when we saw it at the cinema.”

“I like it when you wear your hair down like this. It looks nice.”

These words… Did he use to say them to her in the past? She can no longer remember, but she forces herself to believe that, yes, he did, he said them all the time. It’s a terrible way to deceive her mind so her feelings for him remain the same. It’s a pathetic way to convince herself that his feelings for her remain the same.

“Hey,” she replies to his greeting, even when he’s nowhere to be seen.

“You’re late.” Satoru, like always, has his fingers running on his keyboards. His magnetic blue eyes are locked to his computer screen, probably have been for the past few hours. She wonders if he even looked up to see her when he heard her footsteps earlier. Most likely not. “Did you get the puddings I asked you?”

“Yes. I put them in the fridge.”

“Okay, cool.”

No ’thank you’ but what was she expecting anyway?

She removes her coat and unwraps her scarf from her neck before moving toward the living room. She can’t remember what or who initiated it, but it has been almost a year since he started living in her apartment. She remembers how he used to spend just one night at her place on the weekend, then two when he felt a bit needy for her touch. Before she knew it, his personal belongings were scattered all over the place—his hoodie on the couch, his towel hanging on the bathroom door, his toothbrush on her sink. Satoru could be spending the entire week at her place, only taking a short trip back to his apartment once he ran out of comic books to read. The changes just came so naturally that she didn’t notice at first, but by the time she did, it was too late to even bring the topic to the table.

So she decided to turn her apartment into a home, making it official that they’d moved in together, reshaping it into a place where both she and he could be comfortable and adjusting plenty of things to his needs. Satoru didn’t notice the effort, let alone appreciate it. And now she’s starting to count the days when he’ll eventually stop noticing her as well.

Being with Satoru was easy, casual, and he gave her more reasons to laugh over little things than anyone else. During the first two months of living together, they acted like newlyweds, with him peppering kisses on her face whenever she arrived home from work. Unlike her, Satoru is a freelancer who does most of his work at home. He used to be considerate enough to do some chores for her—cooking, cleaning the bathroom, and sometimes even doing her laundry when he felt like he’d been neglecting her. Whenever she arrived late, he’d always have something prepared for her, beaming at her with a infectious grin while chiming, “Oh, finally, you’re here! I’ve been waiting for you for hours, and I’m starving like crazy. Today’s dish is your favorite, so let’s hurry and eat!”

Unlike him, she appreciated his effort. Each and every one of them. It didn’t feel one-sided then, unlike now.

Satoru used to be perfect, more perfect than anyone else, but then she realizes that he was just trying to impress. Impress her, impress his colleagues, impress his teachers. And now, maybe he doesn’t feel the need to impress her any longer. Nor does he want to.

She was happy, but things are bound to change, and happiness doesn’t last forever. It started slow, almost unnoticeable, with him forgetting to kiss her good night before bed and her treating the fact that he no longer paid attention to what she was wearing as normal. Nowadays, he doesn’t have enough affection to greet her with his smile—one that used to shine brighter than the sun. Comforting hugs and welcome kisses are long forgotten.

It’s lonely, but it’s fine. He’s still here. Satoru is still hers as much as she is his.

It’s fine.

As she rests on the couch, her fingers brush against the book she borrowed from the library the other day. Her mind drifts back to the stranger she met, her smile growing so naturally on her lips at the memory.

Satoru walks out of the bedroom with a yawn, one hand rubbing against the back of his head while the other slips underneath his shirt to scratch the itch on his stomach. He’s stopped minding about his appearance in front of her a long time ago, wearing and doing whatever he feels comfortable with, unbothered by what runs through her mind. She never speaks up anyway. With an enervated “hey,” he enters the bathroom, never stopping to ask her about her day, though she doesn’t really expect him to do so.

A brief moment later, he returns with his eyes still bleary despite his attempt to wash his face. Noticing his messy silver hair and the black shirt he’s been wearing since yesterday, she follows him to the bedroom, asking, “Have you taken a shower today?”

“Nope,” he answers, plopping himself back to his gaming chair, his eyes locked on his computer screen. “I was busy. Had a meeting with a client this morning.”

She takes a glance at the digital clock on his desk. “But it’s already eight-thirty.”

“Thought I could shower with you today.” He flaunts his cheeky grin, catching her off guard. She didn’t expect him to say something like that, but then again, now that she noticed, it’s been almost two weeks since they last had sex.

She’s exhausted from work. Her body is aching. “I see. Well, I’m about to take a shower now.”

“Like now now?” He hisses when his character on screen takes damage from his opponent. “I’m still playing. Tomorrow morning, then?”

“Sure,” she says, just for the sake of conversation. She already can tell it won’t happen. She has to leave early for work, and Satoru would rather die than wake up at seven in the morning.

“Hey, umm… I met someone yesterday.” She reaches out to stroke his hair. It’s so soft and fluffy, like a dog’s fur, even when the strands point in every direction. If there was one thing that hadn’t changed, it was how she still found it calming to just card her fingers through them. A habit that she did often in the past as he loved falling asleep with his head on her lap while she indulged herself with her favorite book. The feelings are the same, only his reaction isn’t. He used to lean into her touch as a kitten would. Now, he doesn’t even spare her a glance. “Satoru… Are you listening to me?”

“Yeah, yeah, one sec.” He smashes more buttons before he slides down his headphones, letting them rest on his neck. “What’s up?”

“I met someone yesterday. At the library.”

“O… kay?” He knits his eyebrows, confused. “What’s that gotta do with me? Someone I know?”

Surprise blinks in her chest at first, followed quickly by disappointment and then acceptance. Another piece of her heart still breaks, but she’s grown used to the feeling. “No, I just… I don’t know, I thought you should know.”

He snorts, holding back a laugh. “Honey, I’m not keeping you locked up in here. You’re allowed to meet anyone you want. Don’t need to report everything back to me.”

She refrains herself from chewing on her lip. “You’re right. Sorry for bothering you.”

“Baby, of course you’re not bothering me,” he coos, poking her playfully in her stomach. “I’m just saying that ’cause you made it sound like a big deal.”

“Yeah,” she replies, careful not to sound too cold. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Satoru smiles before he spins on his chair, returning to his game. “Who was it?” He asks, fingers running fast over the keys. “It’s not a man, is it?”

She pauses. “Yes…”

He stops tapping, only for a second. “Is he hot?”

“Well, he’s not ugly.”

“Then don’t get too close to him.”

Satoru is the jealous type. He has always been. He’s far from controlling, but his possessiveness often feels suffocating. Or, at least… It used to be. And that was fine. It made her happy to know someone out there liked her so much he didn’t want to share her with anyone else. She felt wanted. Needed. But not today.

Today, although his words weigh heavily on her, she can tell they weren’t born from his affection for her—if there was even still any of it left. She is his belonging, his possession, and he’s a lion guarding his territory. That’s it.

And that’s… fine, too. At least he still cared.

“I won’t,” she answers, as she should. “I won’t get too close to him.” She repeats it, this time for her own ears, to remind herself.

“Good,” he says, dismantling their tension as easily as a moth shreds its wings. He flashes her a grin with that youthful sparkle in his eyes. “Then we don’t have anything to worry about.” Satoru returns his full attention to the screen, not caring if she’s still standing in the room, waiting for him to care more about her than the man he suspects is eager to snatch her away.

“What will we be having for dinner?” She asks him while he’s busy shouting foul words to his screen.

“Jesus—left, you moron!” He groans loudly into the air before turning around, finally realizing she’s waiting for his answer. “What? Oh.” He pops the lollipop out of his mouth. “I just had some take-outs.”

“You didn’t wait for me?”

“I was dead hungry, but I ordered some for you, too. It’s probably cold now, but you can heat it.”

“Can you do that for me, please? I love it when you add more seasonings to it.”

“Bunny, you know I’d love to do that, but,” he smiles apologetically before his fingers dance across his keyboards again, “I’m in the middle of something here. There’s an event going on, and these assholes literally won’t let me take a break. Listen, I’ll cook for you tomorrow, I promise.”

She has stopped believing in his promises, or at least doesn’t allow herself to believe in them anymore. She’s learned that the best way to avoid disappointment is to not expect anything.

She smiles back, pushing his hair away so she can land a kiss on his temple. She refuses to say a word no matter how much her bottled-up feelings are about to burst.

Because she knows silence is what keeps their relationship alive.

***

That following night, Yuuta appeared in her dream.

Standing on the small row between bookshelves with a small feather duster in hand, she found him entering the door to her library—one that bore an uncanny resemblance to the place she often visited in reality.

He seemed much, much younger than the version she knew, maybe by ten years or so. He had more tan on his skin, his hair a little shorter, color’s a shade darker. He was dressed in an old-fashioned way, like a young English man from the 1940s, with his white buttoned-up shirt, suspenders, and a beige coat that was a couple of sizes bigger than it was supposed to be. Nevertheless, he looked just as breathtakingly handsome as in real life.

Yuuta took off his wool-felt fedora hat, greeting her with a polite bow the moment their eyes met. He was just as timid and awkward; his cobalt eyes never stayed long enough to be locked with hers, but they were honest—the way they shimmered in adoration at the sight of her, painted with both suppressed desire and affection.

He called her with a name—a surname, she assumed, one that she didn’t recognize, but it didn’t feel quite as strange in her ears as it should have been. It was the first time she heard it, and yet, it almost felt like it was her own.

Her body went on autopilot, words flowing from her mouth before she could process the situation. It was like she was residing in someone else’s body, just a bystander. “Good morning to you, too,” she said, bowing her head.“Okkotsu-sama.”

He displayed a mix between a smile and a wince. “Must you refer to me in such a way again?”

“Well, I thought we’d agreed to call each other by our names yesterday,” she heard herself correcting him in a playful manner. “But someone seemed to change his mind.”

He fidgeted a little, his cheeks smeared with scarlet. “I’m… I’m feeling rather embarrassed.”

“If you feel embarrassed calling me, a commoner, by my name, how do you think I feel to be addressing a young nobleman such as yourself without any honorifics as you requested?”

“Well, I…” Unable to compose a retort, Yuuta sighed in defeat, though his amusement was still sketched vividly on his face. “You’re quite stubborn, aren’t you? We’ve only met for a few days, but I already can see myself never winning an argument against you.”

“Well, isn’t it nice to lose sometimes?” She tossed him a smirk, returning half of her attention to continue swabbing the dust off the shelves. “You already have everything you want under your feet, after all. I think it’ll serve as a nice change.”

“Not everything,” he said, staring at her fondly, like a young boy captivated by a lovely dancer on stage. A thousand messages remained unspoken, and yet, with butterflies swirling in her stomach, she could somehow read each one.

“Maybe not yet,” she said, a glimmer of seduction on her lips.

He gulps.

Taking off his coat and letting it hang loosely on one arm, Yuuta shortened the distance between them with nervous steps. They chatted for a bit, feeling grateful that it was still quite early in the morning for other patrons to visit. It was easy to melt the ice between them, but only because she knew how, and watching him loosen up around her filled her with some sort of achievement.

Sometimes, when their conversation died for a few seconds of comforting silence, she’d catch him looking at her with a half-dazed look on his face.

“What is it?” she asked, despite already knowing the answer. “You’re staring again.”

“Oh, umm…” Though mortified, he still used the chance to confess. “I just thought… You look beautiful today.” He sported a soft smile, one that melted her heart the same way his roseate cheeks did. It was also, she realized, the same one that bore the exact look like the one she saw in real life.

“Why, thank you,” she replied, a hint of teasing in her voice. “Hopefully, you’re not implying I didn’tlook beautiful yesterday.”

He blanched. “No, of course not! You’re always beautiful! Ever since I first saw you, you’ve always… been…” At the sight of her covering her smile behind her hand, he exhaled in relief, resting his hat on his chest. “Don’t tease me like that.”

“I’m sorry,” she giggled, putting her duster away before dismantling her apron. “Now, if you’d follow me, Okkotsu-sama, I will show you where—”

He cut her off with a gentle call of her name—her first name—and it staggered her to her feet. Her body might come to a halt because of how lovely her name sounded in his voice—in that sweet tone of his—but her heart froze because it was her name that rolled off his tongue. Her actual name.

That was when she realized: the person who she believed to be a stranger, was herself. And it had occurred all the time in her other dreams, yes, but this one felt… real.

“T-there,” he stammered, flushed. “I called you by your name. Can you please stop addressing me that way now?”

She felt her lips curving upward. Her voice had never sounded as sweet as it was when she said, “Yuuta.”

His blush unfurled from his neck to his cheekbones, like red tulip burgeoning on pure white snow. “Thank—” he stopped to swallow his breath, unable to maintain his gaze. “Thank you.”

Tittering lightly at his behavior, she took him by the hand. “Shall we?”

She guided him further inside the library, introducing one title after another with her fingertips dancing between books. They weren’t as dusty as they were in her reality, the titles far from familiar to her eyes. Weird, she thought, as she was confident that she had memorized most of the books sitting on that particular shelf. Even when she’d visited the library earlier that morning before her shift started, her eyes had roamed along the same section.

“Which book would you like to read today, Yuu?”

He still grew adorably tense every time his name slipped through her lips, especially like that, but he was getting used to it. “I’m—I’m not yet sure. Will you choose one for me?”

“Hmm…” She tapped her chin. “Unfortunately, I have a peculiar taste when it comes to books—”

“I trust you,” Yuuta said, smiling a tad wider than before, perfect teeth peeking behind soft red lips.

“Well then…” She stood on her toes to reach the book she’d been excited to show him all day. “Shall we start with this one?”

The vision ended without her knowing what book it was or the line between her dream and reality. They stood out so vividly—the scenery, his expressions, the lines she’d exchanged with him—that it took her a few good minutes to convince herself that it was just a dream and not a memory.

She couldn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

***

Her dream follows her every step like a shadow, even in her wake.

Saturday comes, and she finds herself in the library again, just as she promised him. Compared to what she’s seen in her dream, this place is indeed old, with walls standing in dire need of being repainted and books collecting more specks of dust than they have readers flipping through their pages. But the faint smell of sandalwood combined with the orange tint of sunlight sneaking through the windows is always calming. Crowds don’t gather much around here—maybe four or five people at most—and the tranquility consoles her. There’s only a soft thrum of acoustic guitar playing through the speakers that keep her company—

“You’re looking for this one?”

—and Yuuta.

“Yes, indeed, my good sir.” She takes the book from his hand. “Thank goodness we didn’t have to bump heads today.”

“Well, I’d promised you not to,” he chuckles. “Though I certainly wouldn’t mind.”

He’s wearing spectacles today, round glasses adding a layer of maturity to his youthful face. Combined with his long brown coat accentuating his height, he looks even more handsome, her stomach tingling whenever his eyes flicker back toward hers. He tilts his head slightly to the side, one eyebrow raised in curiosity as he tries to read her expression. “Is there something wrong? You’re staring at me. I-is it my joke? Was that rude? Please don’t take it the wrong way—”

“No, calm down,” she can’t help but giggle despite being embarrassed for getting caught in the act. “Sorry, I was just staring because of your, umm… height.” It is true, though not completely.

“My height?”

“Yeah. Must be nice being so tall, huh? I had to stand on my tiptoes to reach it, and I still needed your help.”

He blinks, noticeably surprised, though she’s not sure whether it’s her grumbling or her childish pout that bewilders him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says, returning to his gentle smile. “I just… didn’t think you’d say that.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean you specifically. You just remind me of my boyfriend.” He seems surprised, yet again, but instead of restoring his smile, this time he turns quiet. She feels the need to explain. “He’s so tall, you see. Taller than you, even. And he always makes fun of me for my height, like moving my coffee cups to a higher shelf just so he can watch me beg him for help. He’s a bit of a prankster.”

Yuuta chews on the inside of his cheek, tucking his chin. “I wouldn’t have made fun of you,” he says quietly after a moment of confusing silence. “I will never make fun of you.”

The sudden solemnity in his voice feels heavy on her ears. “You don’t think I’m short?”

“I think you’re perfect.” He lifts his face, suddenly blurting out his words like he’s in a debate he desperately tries to win. Staggered by it, she can only stare. He turns flushed. “I—I mean, being short makes you look cute, like a child. N-not saying I’m into kids—I’m not a pedophile, I swear—”

“That sounds exactly like what a pedophile would say.”

His jaw drops. A giggle escapes her. And when she laughs, he does it too, the sound so warm and comforting that it makes her feel like she’s sitting in front of a cozy fireplace.

She returns her gaze to the shelf. “So, Okkotsu-san,” she teases, “which book would you like to read today? Can’t be this one ’cause I got it first,” she grins, lifting the book she held in her arms.

“Which you only got because of my help.”

“True, but the point still stands.”

Her childishness never fails to amuse him. “Hmm, I’m not yet sure. Will you choose one for me?”

She freezes, her heartstrings playing a familiar symphony. She opens her mouth, hesitates, but then decides to say what her memory tells her to do, “Unfortunately, I have a peculiar taste when it comes to books—”

“I trust you.”

From skipping a beat to racing twice as fast, her heart feels foreign in her own chest. “Umm… Okay.”

Yuuta tilts his head, examining her. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine. I just remembered something, uhh, something to do at home. Later. Anyway,” she hastily averts her gaze, her eyebrows tied in a knot as she tries to understand is this what deja vu feels like? She searches for a book, trying to be at ease despite her stomach swirling uneasily. “Shall we start with this one?”

Yuuta’s frown stays for only a second longer before he breaks into another smile. “Sure.”

***

Weekdays are reserved for Satoru, but weekends…

Weekends are the days when her heart can finally dance and smile and live. And every song starts and ends with his name: Yuuta.

Satoru always has plans every weekend, plans that don’t involve her, not anymore. She did this to herself, mostly by declining his offers to mingle with his friends and co-workers until, eventually, he stopped asking. It’s not that she doesn’t want to go; she just no longer has the energy to keep up with hours of his social life when all she does is sit at the corner, doing nothing but sip on her drink and waste her phone battery to pass the time.

Satoru’s friends are nice, but they don’t really resonate with her in the way she would love it to be. Shoko smokes too much. Suguru judges her taste in anything behind his angelic, saccharine smile. Haibara is exceptionally energetic that he tires her simply by looking at him. Mei Mei visits the girls’ bathroom once every twenty minutes to check on her little brother, and Nanami… Well, Nanami is all right. They could spend hours just grousing over how terrible it was being a corporate slave, but he’s not there often, taking away the small chance she has to make herself visible. Satoru would bring her into conversation occasionally, but as soon as he got a nod or two, he’d focus on Suguru, who, for some reason, always knew how to ruffle his feathers.

So, the routine starts. Friday nights are for his co-workers. Saturdays are for his college mates. And Sundays… Well, Sundays are supposed to be filled with breakfast in bed and bodies tangled under the sheets with her, but Satoru has forgotten his promise a long time ago, using them to regain all the sleep hours he’s been missing the days before instead of having some quality time to catch up with his lover. But it’s fine. She’s learned how to make the best of her time, finding companies in books that never make empty promises nor offer her disappointment the way he does. And now she finds an even better option.

She meets Yuuta every weekend when the sun is a couple of hours away from setting. They don’t chat for long as their conversations are always reserved for the little coffee shop gathering (she’s trying to avoid the word ’date’) that always occurs after a few pleasant hours of reading. They begin to grow comfortable with each other, much easier than she thought they would, and very quickly, as if they were old friends reconciling for the time they’ve lost. Maybe even more than old friends—a thought that should scare her.

At the library, she spends most of their hours poring over her chosen book for the day while stealing glances at him. More often than not, she’ll catch him doing the same, but whenever their gazes meet, he’ll look away with his face steaming, busying himself at once by scribbling something incoherent, most likely, down on his paper.

Today is a rare occasion. He’s been keeping his gaze fixated on his own writings; the world seemingly turns obscure around him. His eyebrows taut together as he sinks more profoundly into his thoughts, a habit that she finds beguiling. His raven hair seems a shade lighter as the evening sun casts its light upon his face, basking him with such a warm, beautiful glow.

He really does look like a painting, she admires, stealing glances at him from behind her book. The perfect shape of his nose, his skin as pure as the driven snow, the way he’s so fixated on his story, drowning inside his imagination… It’s easy to be bewitched by his beauty.

She must be careful not to let her endless praise slip through her mouth. “So focused,” she coos, choosing to act mischievously instead, which earns her a little smile. “Writing a new scene? I thought you’d finished your draft.”

He looks up from his paper, meeting her eyes. They linger briefly as if it was hard for him to look away once he’d set his eyes on her. Though it happens all the time, she can never get used to it.

He smiles quietly to himself, a soft blush painting his features. “Just a short one.”

She hums in response. Having trouble refocusing on the passage she just read now that he’s giving her attention, she throws another question at him. “Why aren’t you using a laptop? I mean, it would’ve been a lot easier, right?”

“Not fond of it,” he responds, re-reading the words he just wrote. “I feel more like a writer this way.” When he notices her tittering, he arches his brow. “What?”

“You sound like my father.”

He scrunches his nose. It’s cute. “Then I’m sure your father is a brilliant, tech-savvy man.”

“I’m saying you have an old soul, the way you prefer to do things more traditionally.” She sinks further into her chair, opening a new page, eyes scanning the lines but not reading them. “Well, I guess that makes the two of us since I already have the e-book version of this on my iPad, yet I’m still here reading it in a library. How’s your story going so far?”

“Pretty well. I just came up with a really annoying character.” His smile is a bit different this time, somewhat impish. A new look on him that she instantly adores. “Inspired by someone.”

“You’re not talking about me, are you?”

Yuuta drags his pen over his note. “Character B begins to question whether she’s—”

She playfully slaps her book against his shoulder.

The more time she spends with him, the more she feels like he’s becoming a mystery she can’t solve. She’s closer to him, closer than any of her friends, but she knows there are secrets he tries to bury underneath those tender smiles. To her, Yuuta, with his eyes always seeming like they’re telling a different story—one that nearly drives him to the brink of tears—still appears like an incomplete puzzle. And if time allows her, she’d gladly collect every piece of him to perceive him better.

***

Dreams are supposed to be strange. Nonsensical. Meaningless and easily forgotten. And yet, ever since Yuuta walked into her life, they’ve become anything but. Every detail stood more vividly than the memories of her own childhood, so vibrant with colors that it made it impossible for her to stray away from it even when she was awake. They occur every night, forming a chain of events beginning from the very first day she encountered him by chance in the library.

In her dreams, they spent most of their time there, almost in the same way they did in real life. But while only weeks had passed by in reality, time flowed much faster here. She could tell that the season had changed from the clothes they wore to the coldness that kissed his cheek scarlet. There were never the same books lying between their hands, but she didn’t notice them at first, not as clearly as the changes in the air shared between them.

They grew closer faster than they did in real life, fondness in the glances they covertly tossed to each other. Their voices were glazed more with adoration than mirth every time they laughed, and the smiles they shared were everlasting. Yuuta’s eyes lingered every time he had the chance to marvel at her features for a little while. Sometimes, they were lost in her darker hues. Sometimes, they remained longer than they should have on her lips, watching them move but not registering any words spoken. Sometimes, if she were lucky, she’d have the chance to gaze back into them, and he’d let her have a taste of the depth of the affection he held for her. And they’d let the moment pass just like that for a second or two, forcing time to slow down and their surroundings to reduce into a blur until they were the only two people left in the universe.

In one dream, when the serene evening rain tapped itself against the tall windows of her library, she saw Yuuta braving himself to touch her hand for the first time, just the slightest brush of his quivering fingertips against hers as they read from the same book, a touch so light it rivaled the softness of a zephyr’s kiss upon a baby’s strand. She could feel her face warming at the touch, a new sensation, but she didn’t hate it, not at all. If anything, it left her wanting more. The dream ended with them sharing secret smiles with themselves, innocent hearts kissed by the flame of first love.

Every night, this happens. And it’s like witnessing the beginning of a love story. Her love story. Though most of the time she feels like she’s inhabiting someone else’s body, it’s beginning to feel like…

I’m falling for him, too.

It’s a scary thought, but she puts no effort to stop it. After all, this is just a dream, isn’t it? I’m only falling for this version of him—the version that I, or rather, my mind, created. And that’s why he’s so perfect, right? Because that’s how I want him to be. It sounds like a perfect theory, and so she believes it wholeheartedly.

Only on certain nights when exhaustion took a toll on her body did she manage to sleep without him visiting her mind, but that was simply because she wasn’t dreaming at all. It seems like she only has two options now: enter a dreamless sleep or fall into memory-like sequences that revolve around him and no one else.

Last night was no different.

She entered her dreamland, a burst of sunlight blinding her at once. She threw her stare down to avoid it, seeing her hands going in motion to accompany her moving legs. She could see the end of her plain, dark grey kimono swaying with every step, her feet covered in white socks that were split between her toes, matched by a pair of formal sandals made of rice straws. She was taking a stroll down one of the busiest streets of Tokyo—or at least, that was where she assumed they were.

To say that the city appeared dissimilarly from the one she resided in now is an understatement—they were poles apart. The architectural design of the buildings embraced more of the historic European elements instead of the perfect blend of the traditional Japanese architecture and modernist designs they have now. The Western influence lay thickly in every aspect of life that she managed to identify in the short time she was there. From food, clothing, music, painting—everything was transformed by it. The city looked breathtaking and unsettling at the same time.

She recalled seeing such scenery commemorated in one of the history books she studied in school. She was indeed in Tokyo—a couple of decades before it was bombed to the ground, turning the once beautiful city into nothing but dust and rubbles, drenched in the blood of more than a hundred thousand civilians during the Second World War.

The thought made her blood curdle.

“Are you all right?”

Yuuta, appearing just as young as the first time she saw him in her dream, asked her worriedly. He was dressed in another set of Western clothing, looking exceptionally handsome in his white button-up shirt with his sleeves rolled up, a black tie, and a matching dark vest that highlighted the shape of his broad chest and lean waist. The wind ruffled his hair as he walked beside her, perfecting it by adding a little boyish charm, a perfect company to the blush on his cheeks that emerged from the late spring’s sunlight heat.

The one thing that was missing was his smile, his face twisted in concern as he eyed her closely. “You haven’t said anything in a while… Am I boring you?”

“No, of course not,” she heard herself say, stepping to the side of the road to speak with him in private. He bent his head down to listen to her properly, not wanting her voice to be drowned by the murmurs of the passing crowd. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you. I just… I’m nervous.”

“Nervous?” He repeated, both in disbelief and amusement. “Why is it so hard for me to imagine that?”

“It’s true,” she pouted. “Unlike you with your sweet, extravagant life, I’ve never had the pleasure of being invited to a concert before. I don’t know what to do once I’m there. I don’t know what to say to your friends. I don’t even think I’m dressed correctly for the occasion—Why are you laughing at me?!”

“I’m not.” He clearly was, even when he was trying to swallow every bit of his laughter. “I’m sorry. I know this is a new experience for you, but really, there’s no need for you to feel so anxious. All you have to do is sit down beside me and enjoy the show. You don’t have to say anything to my friends if you don’t want to. We could also just avoid them entirely if you think that could put you at ease.”

“But… I thought you wanted to discuss something with them after the show.”

He hummed as he pretended to cogitate on it, secretly smiling to himself. “Well, I suppose I could meet new business partners every other day, but being with you? When you’re so adorably nervous like this?” His grin was as beguiling to marvel at as the blush that kissed the apples of his cheeks. “That doesn’t happen every day now, does it?”

Speaking of cheeks—she was pinching them. Hard. “We haven’t met in two weeks, and suddenly, you’re a man with words now, are you?” He whimpered in pain, sputtering out his apology until she released him with a sigh. “Am I at least wearing the right clothes?” She spun herself once, giving him the chance to examine the details. Though her long sleeves were up to trend, she couldn’t help but think that the motif and shade of her kimono were a little dull. Most ladies her age wore bright-colored ones with bold, graphic patterns as their ornaments. Their fabrics were always made from silk or satin, unlike hers which was cheaply produced from cotton. She would never have let such trivial things bother her if she didn’t have to stand next to him at such a fancy event. She cared more about his reputation than her own, not wanting him to be judged more than he already was for spending most of his spare time wandering around with a lower-class woman such as herself. “This is the best kimono I have, but I don’t know if it’s enough—”

“You’re perfect,” he answered without waiting for her to complete her line. “You’re always perfect.”

She cast her gaze somewhere else, ignoring the heat rising to her face. “Well, if you say so…” she murmured diffidently. “I just want to look equal to you. You look so handsome with your suit and everything and I don’t…” —her voice turned small— “want my presence to ruin that.”

His shoulders slumped forward as he witnessed her usual confidence waning away. With tenderness in his touch, he took her hand between his own. “We don’t have to go if you don’t feel like it.”

She shook her head. “You’ve paid a high price for my ticket, I couldn’t—”

“I don’t care,” he squeezed her hand. “All I want is to see you having the best time of your life. I thought—since you said you often played classical music on your piano—watching a live orchestra in person would gladden you. But if it only worries you like this, I’d rather just spend another hour with you in the library.” He gave her a smile, as soft as the brush of his thumb over her knuckles. “Let’s do whatever you want today. Wherever you go, I’ll follow.”

He made her heart sing in ways she thought it couldn’t. “No, I want to go,” she confirmed. “I’m sorry, I just… I guess I thought about it too much.”

“It’s fine,” he assured her. “I think you look gorgeous as you are now, but if you’re still concerned about your outfit, why don’t we visit a shop real quick?”

“Huh? What are you—” She was tugged forward before she could finish, forced to hasten her steps to match his excited strides. “Yuuta—wait!” ***

Without taking a second to listen to her, he led her to the nearest gokufuya to find her a set of kimono that, in her opinion, would be better for the occasion. They arrived with sweat coating their skins, their breathing ragged from all the running. “Can you dress her in the prettiest, most expensive kimono you have, please?” Yuuta promptly asked the owner with sparks in his eyes, taking her by surprise.

A beautiful lady, maybe ten years above her age, who was dressed elegantly in a white kimono decorated in floral patterns, smiled understandingly at his request. “Of course. Could you please wait for a moment? I will prepare the changing room for you.”

“Yes, we’ll be waiting,” he replied.

Immediately after she walked away, leaving the two of them alone, she clutched her hand around his arm. “Yuuta, wait,” she warned him under her breath. “We should go. I don’t have any money.” Especially when you unnecessarily asked her for the most expensive one.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll pay.”

“Then, we really need to go,” she insisted, half-glowering at him. “What did I tell you about buying me expensive gifts? I don’t like it. It makes me feel guilty.”

“Well, fortunately for both of us,” he grinned, rather cheekily which was a rare look on his face. “I’m not buying you a gift. I’m renting it—ouch!”

She was pulling on his cheek again. “That’s the same!”

But Yuuta, with his cheek swollen and everything, remained stubborn till the end, refusing to leave the shop until she, at the very least, tried to put one on herself.

The shopkeeper, who introduced herself as Utahime Iori, instructed two young assistants—Miwa and Momo—to accommodate them with their needs. With a polite bow, they led them further into the shop, granting them some privacy from the other visitors. “Let’s just do it for fun,” Yuuta said. “If you don’t find anything that suits your taste, we can go with your old one, I promise.” Not wanting to argue with a nobleman in front of three pairs of curious eyes, she sighed and followed as he said, begrudgingly.

Only just for fun, she muttered inwardly.

And indeed it was. Never in her life had she had the opportunity to try on such luxurious clothing. From silk to satin. Blue, green, and golden. From geometric patterns to feather-like designs—she was trying on everything the two girls asked her to.

Yuuta sat on the little couch provided in the same space, waiting with his suit jacket folded around his arm and his invisible tail wagging behind him, all in anticipation. She could feel his excitement reverberating even from the fitting room she was in.

His eyes matched the brightest stars in the night sky each time she allowed him to take a look, gazing at her with admiration so intense, it lit her skin on fire. She always pulled the curtains closed before he could muster his comment, knowing that it would be the same every time.

You’re so beautiful.

Before she could try on the next piece, Utahime walked inside the fitting room with her own choice of kimono. “Let’s try this one next, shall we?” Her assistants nodded, ready to follow her direction, but the lady stopped them before they began. “I’ll assist her with this one myself,” she said, earning herself a polite bow from the two before they excused themselves out of the room.

Utahime stepped closer, causing her to grow nervous for some reason. The room suddenly felt like it’d shrunk three times smaller with the amount of tension brewing between them. In her eyes, Utahime exuded elegance that only belonged to the nobility. She found herself tense under her scrutinizing stare, her tongue tied inside her mouth.

“Raise your arms for me?” Utahime broke the silence, to which she answered with a nod. The lady began by unraveling the sash, experienced hands moving so swiftly yet refined. “Your partner is very adorable,” Utahime said to her surprise, with a slight giggle that she didn’t expect to flow so airily from her mouth. She disrobed the outer layer of her kimono, preparing her for the new one. “Must be nice to find love at such a young age.”

“W-we’re not lovers.”

“You’re not?”

“No, Ma’am.” Why am I talking about my love life with a stranger? She thought, mortified. She followed Utahime’s guidance, sliding her arms through the long sleeves of the kimono she’d chosen for her. “We’re just, umm… Friends.” And it was true. Yuuta showered her with endless compliments every second he had the chance to, but not once had ever asked her to be his lover. And maybe that’s for the best, she couldn’t help but wonder, crestfallen over her own thoughts. Because at the end of the day…

We never truly belong in the same world, do we?

She expected confusion to settle on the lady’s face, but it never did. It was as if she had known the truth all along. “I don’t think any of you wishes to stay that way for long,” Utahime said softly.

The truth came down as a blessing and torture at the same time. She couldn’t speak for his sake, but she knew exactly why she hadn’t spoken a word about her feelings, even with them growing this close to each other. He was blue blood while hers ran red. When was the last time she heard of a nobleman marrying a lowborn in this country? Never.

So, they could trifle with each other’s heart all they want; they could even own it if they wanted to, but it wouldn’t matter. They would never be together.

“I keep telling myself not to come clean about my feelings for him,” she confessed quietly. “And even if I wanted to tell him, I wouldn’t know how to… put my feelings into words. For once, I’m embarrassed,” she chuckled a little to mask her emotions. “But, most of all, I’m… scared.”

I’m scared that he’ll say the truth. That the difference in our status is indeed something he can’t look past.

She wondered if Utahime could read the conflict she was battling inside, but if she did, she didn’t speak on it. Instead, like a mother would do to her child, she soothed her with gentle words. “Well, sometimes love can be so grand that we find it difficult to put it into words,” Utahime started, her lips curved up in a delicate smile. “But it’s fine, isn’t it? There are many ways to profess our love even without moving our lips. And a thousand more for us to understand the love they bestow upon us.” A faraway gaze manifested in her eyes as if she was reminiscing a past love. “We can feel it in their touch. We can hear it in their tone. We can see it in their gaze. Love is love no matter how we convey it,” the lady finished. “Our job as women, should our hearts beat for them, is to accept it and return it just the same.”

Her gaze turned vacant as she let Utahime wrap her obi around her waist, recalling every little kindness, every little joy Yuuta had granted her in the last few months they had known each other. And with it, she braved herself to wonder.

Even if it was only for a short while, wouldn’t it still be wonderful to be in love with him? To be loved by him? They were still young, so young. It would take another three to five years before he was urged to marry and—

That’s enough, right?

Even if he was forced to leave me afterward… Even if it would only hurt us in the end… Wouldn’t it be better to love a little than to not love at all?

I want to.

I want to love him.

I already am in love with him and I know he feels the same way.

Our job as women, should our hearts beat for them, is to accept it and return it just the same.

I just have to… accept it.

“What if I want to give him more…?” she unconsciously mumbled loud enough for Utahime to catch it. He’d done so much for me, things that I might never be able to repay. And if it’s love he wants from me, if I can give that to him to make him feel as happy as he’s made me, I want him to give him so much more than he asks for. I want to love him harder than the way he loves me.

Smiling to herself, the older woman tied the final string, turning her sash into a beautiful, voluminous bow. Utahime adjusted her body to face the standing mirror before her, lightly squeezing her shoulders as their eyes met in the reflection. “Then he’ll be the luckiest man on earth,” she answered near her ear, letting her take the time to absorb the view.

Out of all the kimonos she’d tried, this one captured her heart the most, enveloping her in such beauty and grace that she could barely recognize herself.

Her body was swaddled by a pretty violet shade that resembled a blooming lilac. The floral patterns embroidered the silk in such an intricate way that once it was worn, it appeared as if her every curve was embraced tightly by an endless string of white roses.

“You know what looks better on me than I do, Iori-san,” she said, still staring at her reflection in disbelief. Before this, Momo had helped her redo her hair to match her outfit, tying it up in a beautiful braid that showcased her neckline and accentuated her facial features. It looked perfect combined with this kimono. Now, she appeared like a different person, elegant from head to toe. “I didn’t think this look would suit me. I’ve never worn this color before, or these patterns.”

“Oh, it was all that gentleman’s idea,” Utahime answered with a polite smile, her fingers curling around the curtain. “Everything was, from the color down to the patterns—especially the patterns.” She pushed the blind open, showcasing her latest masterpiece to the one admirer who had waited so patiently for her. “So, go on and show him how stunning his choices look on you.”

With her heart climbing up her throat, she spun her head around to see Yuuta slowly standing from his seat, his eyes turning rounder at the sight of her. She watched him swallow his breath, searching for words to say as blood pooled quickly on his face.

“You look…” he mumbled out as if he was in a trance. “Breathtaking…”

And quite literally, it seemed, judging from how breathless he was. The two assistants peeking from the corner of the room giggled to themselves, exchanging murmurs behind their fingers.

Utahime approached her from behind, explaining something only for her ears to hear. “These white roses in the kimono you’re wearing hold several meanings,” she said, guiding her straying eyes back to the reflection in the mirror. She hovered her lean fingers above two separate flowers joined to form an ornament below her neckline. “A single white rose like this portrays the beauty of love at first sight. While these two right here”—she glided her hand to her left side, stopping to caress the small two roses printed on the fabric just a little under her shoulder— “symbolize purity. All together, they represent eternal love.”

It was all that gentleman’s idea, she recalled Utahime’s lines. From the color down to the patterns—especially the patterns.

She turned flustered, steam filling her brain, but before she could reply, Utahime excused herself with a bow, disappearing behind the sliding door with a knowing smile written on her lips.

Suddenly, there were only two of them in the world.

She grew self-conscious, fiddling with her fingers. Never in her life had she ever been gazed at so passionately, so romantically by a man before that it left her feeling faint. “I, umm, I think I’m going to take this one, but I promise I’ll pay you back for it,” she said, not knowing how to act honestly even when her heart was filled to the brim with gratitude.

Yuuta was still staring, mesmerized by every detail: the curls of her hair teasing her neck, the way the fabric hugged her curves, how perfect this color looked on her skin—everything.

She raised her hand over her face, hiding behind it. “Stop looking at me like that,” she grew timorous. But instead of doing as she wished, he took the same hand and curled his fingers around them.

There are many ways to profess our love even without moving our lips. And a thousand more for us to understand the love they bestow upon us.

Her eyes widened as he brought her hand closer to him. “Y-Yuuta—”

We can feel it in their touch.

He placed a kiss on her skin, his lips caressing against the bumps of her knuckles. They were warm, warmer than she thought they’d be as his hand was always cold. The kiss was brief, but his lips remained close as he held her hand still, doing everything so softly as if she was made out of porcelain.

We can hear it in their tone.

His voice was an instrument, and with it, he performed endless love songs with her name as his poem.

We can see it in their gaze.

Yuuta blinked his eyes open, and at first, she witnessed his affection, but underneath the tenderness of his gaze and the sweetness of his youthful face, laid the passion of a man, so burned with desire, it left her watching with bated breath.

He wanted her carnally, desired her as much as he loved her.

“I always thought that you’d look gorgeous in this color, and I’m glad I was right,” he said, his hand slowly gliding to her wrist. The simple, innocent act felt so sinful as if he was undressing her, peeling her out of the kimono to satisfy his fantasy. It was so… thrilling. “But even if I had imagined it a thousand times before, nothing could ever come close to the way you look right now.” He drew his hand away, and she was so struck by it, she almost reached out to beg him for more. Yuuta slid his hand into the pocket of his trousers, retrieving the other gift he had prepared for her today. It was a hairpin—a kanzashi, they called it—in the shape of a yellow camellia flower. He placed it upon her hair, the perfect final touch to the perfect lady. He sighed, full of longing, his hand sliding down to her face. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he whispered, his thumb skating over her lips. “The only woman I want to see for the rest of my life.”

She held her breath, her chin trapped between his fingers. He leaned close, or maybe she did, she couldn’t tell, so distracted by the words he spoke and the way he—

“I’m sorry to bother you,” one of the assistants, Miwa, who was sitting politely on her heels, slid the door open without knowing. “Utahime-sama would like to know if—Oh!” She squeaked at the sight of them, her eyes nearly popping out of their sockets as she clamped her mouth with both hands. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt!” She pressed her head to the ground, cold sweat dampening her face. “I was—We wanted to ask whether you’d like to try on something else—oh, Gods, I’m terribly sorry—” she continued to ramble on her own, completely shattering whatever magic laid between them before.

Clearing her throat, she took a step away from him the same way he distanced himself, tossing her gaze anywhere but him.

“W-we’d like to take this one please, thank you,” Yuuta said, face flushed.

“Yes, Okkotsu-sama—understood!” Giving another deep bow, she quickly excused herself, scuttering away while mumbling to herself, “What do I do what do I do what do I do I have no money Utahime-sama is going to send me back to the village what about my brother he’s still so young what are we going to eat what if we get eaten by a bear oh I’m going to die”

“She does not have one positive thought in her brain, does she?” She forced a chuckle out of her despite still finding the air heavy to breathe in.

Yuuta stood soundlessly, still unable to meet her gaze, not even for a second. But that was fine. She wouldn’t have known what to do if he did. After all—

Suddenly, he called out her name, a little bit louder than he’d intended due to his nervousness. “Y-yes, Yuu?”

He took her hand, holding it tightly between his own. He locked their eyes together, causing her to gulp. “After the concert,” he said, his ears flaming red. “C-can we continue—”

Everything suddenly turned blank.

She blinked her eyes open, greeted by the sight of her ceilings.

When she was younger—many, many years ago—her mother used to splash water on her face to rip her apart from her sweetest dream, but it never, never felt this excruciating, this shocking, this infuriating to wake up before. What was he going to ask me? She mused, even when she still felt disoriented after the sudden change of reality.

’Can we continue seeing each other?’

’Can we continue talking somewhere private?’

’Can we continue… where we left off?’

What was it?!

Her heart raced at the thought. God, she hugged her knees to her chest, burying her face in them, this is worse than having my favorite show end in a cliffhanger. She almost groaned loudly out of frustration—she would’ve if Satoru hadn't been sleeping next to her.

Right. Satoru.

She whirled her head to the side, watching her boyfriend sprawling on the sheets, nearly taking most of the bed and hogging the blanket to himself. Next to him, a digital clock sat on the nightstand.

04.32 am.

There’s still time before I have to go to work. If I fall asleep now… will I dream of him again? Will I find out the question he asked me? She immediately shook her head, throwing herself back to the bed. It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t be thinking of him, not like that.

Satoru, she reminded herself as she lay on her side, her eyes slowly turning heavy as she continued to stare vacantly at the wall. I’m with Satoru. Yuuta is just a dream.

“Everything was just…” she mumbled, her lids drawing close like a curtain. “…a dream.”

A dream and nothing more.

***

Next chapter

#yuta okkotsu x reader #okkotsu yuta x reader #jjk x reader #yuta x reader #yuuta x reader #yuta smut #yuta fluff #okkotsu yuuta x reader #yuuta okkotsu x reader #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #i'm soooo sorry i'm late i wanted to post at 00.00 am your time aleks but i had to pick up my kid from school 😭#and when i tried to post it tumblr fucked up the format so i had to redo the whole thing 💀#ONCE AGAIN HAPPY BIRTHDAY WIFEYYYYY!!!!!!!!!#kana.fics #fics.desiderium

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