#that he’s loved and he’ll always have a home

[luveline]

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

When someone hurts you, you and Aaron both need time to get better, and to put things right. fem, 8k

cw canon typical violence, graphic scenes and imagery of assault/battery, recovery, mentions of being sick, issues eating. established relationship, lots of angst and comfort, hotch being vulnerable, jack being sweet 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

You lay backward over the luxurious stretch of the couch and sigh as your spine gives a sharp crick. Your head feels heavy after a long shower, your arms ache from a day at work, but the feeling of soft cotton on your legs deters any moping. 

I hope these are more comfortable, his note read, a white post it note stuck to a boutique bag. You wrap an arm around your waist remembering how Aaron’s message had made you feel: spoiled, and considered. 

You’d mentioned in passing that all your pyjamas are old and rough as a consequence, thought nothing of it, and promptly forgot about the conversation entirely. 

When Aaron finally comes home tonight, you’re going to give him a proper thank you. You can imagine his reaction to such a thing, his smile as he says it’s no problem, his eyes shuttering closed as you press a kiss to his cheek. You hadn’t realised how prevalent affection would become in your life after meeting him, but everything he does inspires love. Awful, soft, marshmallowy love where he looks at you and you want to sit in his lap. 

You slide your phone up your chest lazily and click the button on the side to light the display. Aaron hasn’t claimed to know when he’ll be home tonight. All he’d said was to let yourself in. 

It’s odd but not the worst thing in the world to be alone in his apartment. There’s less and less free space each time you visit as Jack begins to outgrow his and his fathers lodgings, but there’s never a stain or bad smell, the Hotchner apartment feels homey. You’re excited whenever you’re invited to spend the night with them. 

Maybe some time soon he’ll ask you to move in, or better, to marry him. You’re not a hundred percent sure how you feel about marriage, about being someone’s wife, but there’s a great well of pleasure to be found in the idea that Aaron would want to marry you. He makes you feel loved already in a hundred different ways but the ring might be nice, like a symbol to signify how much you mean to him. 

You rest your hand across your eyes. It’s silly to think of. Sillier to want so soon. You’ve been together for just under a year, and you have no false hopes about rushing into the future, but it’s certainly a future you want with him (and with Jack, too). He’s taking things slowly for a hundred different reasons but he loves you, and gifts like your new pyjamas cement that. He really listens to you. 

Your phone rings a moment later. 

You smile at the screen. It’s nice to be in love with someone who loves you too. 

“Hey,” Aaron says when you answer, his voice warm even through the phone, “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“How come?” You sit up with a little start. 

“It’s getting late, honey. I called Jess and Jack was already gone.” He doesn’t say anything further. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I wanted to hear your voice, I think.” 

“Well, where are you?” You struggle to envision him speaking saccharinely like this where his colleagues could hear him. He’s nice to you often, but he’s a reserved man. 

“I’m just,” —a crunching sound of metal, the trunk of his car closing— “about to get in the car. I’ll be home before ten. Can I have you until then?” 

“I don’t see any reason to say no. But do you think you could come home a little faster? I have a crick in my neck.” 

“And you want me to fix that?” 

“You always fix my neck.” 

“How have you done it?” There’s a sound you assume to be the car door closing, but you can’t hear anything beyond that. 

“I have bad posture.” 

“You have perfect posture.” 

“No, it’s quite bad.”

He laughs loudly. It took some time to draw the humour from him but he isn’t as stony as you’d think, and for a while he didn’t have much worth laughing for, anyways. Whenever you hear it, you try to prompt it twice. 

“You don’t have to lie to me, Aaron, it’s just like when you said my weird rash wasn’t weird.” 

He laughs again, to your pleasure. “It wasn’t weird, it was a heat rash, I promise. You act like you’ve never seen heat rash.” 

“One of us goes to hot cities all the time and one of us lives permanently in Virginia.” 

“What are you talking about? Virginia’s far from cold. You’re being argumentative, I can see your smile in my head. I’m never going to fix your crick if you keep acting like that.” 

“No, don’t be like that,” you laugh, tipping back into the cushions. “You’re always such a sore loser.” 

“What did I lose?” 

You can tell from his tone that you’ve promised yourself one of those hugs that borders on a straight jacket tightness, his face tucked into your neck as he asks you to repeat yourself. What did I lose? he’ll ask again, kissing your chin, the line of your jaw. Tell me clearly.  

“It hurts,” you say honestly, “please don’t be mad. I really need one.” 

“I’m not mad… I’m going under the overpass, my signal might cut out.” 

“Okie dokie. Hey, did you eat? I can make you something for when you get home. I got groceries.” 

“I’m not hungry, but you can make yourself hot cocoa, and I’ll drink it when I get there,” he says. 

“Or I could make us both some?” 

“It’s much more fun if I drink yours before you can, honey. You know that—”

You pause in the quiet, then hear a quick beeping. You pull your phone from your ear and find the call disconnected. 

Cruel overpass, you think. 

Sure he’ll call you back, you take your phone into his kitchen and set about finding all the things you’ll need for hot cocoa. One mug, because you should hate when he forces you to share, but you love the feeling of his fingers on yours as he takes it and the thankful kiss he dots on your cheek. 

The kettle is uncomplicated. You toy with the stovetop, set the kettle on the burner, and let the temperature rise. It begins whistling lightly a mere thirty seconds later. 

You click your phone on again. He’ll have passed through the tunnel now and will be calling you back any minute. You stare at the phone, hoping to summon him, slouched over the counter with the tin of cocoa powder by your fingers. The kettle whines with growing heat, but cool air kisses your back. 

Goosebumps rise. Up and down the lengths of your arms, the back of your neck—

A sudden chill. 

The lack of air comes before the hand, the pain a rush, a burst to be away from. Leather on your neck creaking without sympathy as a hand tightens and drags your body back against something hard. 

Not Aaron. Your scream comes strangled under cruel fingers as you fight to move forward again, straight for the burner, the kettle shoved across the burner grate and exploding with scalding water, heat of the burner kissing your chest— you scream, only it’s worse than a scream, sound from the deepest part of you forcing itself past the heat at your neck as you try to fling yourself away from the pain. 

You fall with a hard clout. “Stay still!” comes out enraged against the back of your neck. You drop to your knees, the pain lighting flaring up your chest, your gaze frantic as you search for a flame that isn’t there. You’re not on fire, you’re crawling and then scampering up into a standing position when the heavy weight drops itself on you again and smashes your face into the floor. 

All your fight leaves you. Your ears ring. Your panic wanes but the pain stays alert in your mouth. 

A hand grabs you by the back of the head and drives your face into the ground. It’s like light in your eyes and your nose, the brunt of it, the crack of your bone and the hot trickle of blood that swiftly follows. You gurgle in pain, spluttering and gagging against the linoleum, waiting for Aaron to turn you over and say sorry. It’s an accident.

Blood drains from your nose in spurts to match your racing pulse, so much blood you can see your eyes reflected in the dark stretch of it. Water drips down the front of the stove, your breath aches and begs, and your attacker takes a measured breath. 

He flips you over. You can’t slide away, there’s nothing left in you, your head a second body as he raises something. 

Your phone rings on the counter. 

“Please, don’t,” you plead with a sob.

You pass out as the pain connects. Just as quickly as it started, your body takes the reins. 

—

There’s a strange darkness waiting for you. Like waking before your alarm and stealing those last minutes, body aching, not wanting to get up and face the day. Aaron gets up early every morning, sometimes as early as four AM, and whenever you get up with him your eyes hurt for hours. 

Nothing, nothing, nothing. 

Hey, hey, I think your boyfriend’s coming.

What will he make of my handiwork?

You didn’t stay awake long enough for that one, did you? But you’re waking up now.

The pain is enough to wake you up again, a hot drag down the side of you to your hip and in. You aren’t aware of the sounds you make, but you can hear them. Your panicked squealing as the heat presses further and further in. Your crying, and your whispering, “Stop, stop.” 

“There’s handsome,” the dark voice says. “I’ve gotta go hide somewhere, does he carry after hours? I think I’ll find out.” 

“Oh,” you say, feeling sickly. You attempt to curl into yourself, when did you turn onto your back? “No,” you mumble, lips wet with something hot. 

“Honey?” a voice asks. 

“Honey,” you repeat, woozy again, darkness falling in all over again, where it stays. 

Honey, are you in here?

—

The window behind Aaron’s shoulder is cold. Rain patters fast like floods, thunder occasionally chewing through clouds, and Jack Hotchner cries sluggish tears into his dad’s shoulder. 

Aaron has his eyes closed. They’ve been at this for a while. “Shh, shh shh, buddy,” he says softly, patting the bottom of Jack’s back. He’d sway him back and forth if his arms weren’t about to fall off. 

Jack squirms closer, no room left between them. 

“I know it’s scary,” Aaron says. 

Jack just cries. This approach of quiet support isn’t working; Jack isn’t a baby that needs to be put to sleep, he’s a panicking little kid, and Aaron needs to change gears. He ushers him away from his chest and crosses his arm behind Jack’s back. Careful, he shifts Jack’s weight to free his other arm and brings his fingers up to the silky brown hair dropping onto Jack’s forehead. 

“She’s okay,” Aaron says, stroking Jack’s hair. His little forehead is clammy. “She’s not hurting. I know it looks scary, honey, but… she’s just resting.” 

Jack looks him in the eyes. “Her face.” 

“I know.” He nods emphatically. “It’s hard to see. Blood isn’t nice. You don’t have to see her again today, not if it’s too scary.” 

Jack lifts a hand to Aaron’s face. Clumsy but with clear attempts to be careful, he wipes at the skin under Aaron’s eye. Aaron bites back a smile. 

“I look tired,” he says. 

“Yeah.” Jack brings his hand back to wipe his eyes. He sobs as he does it. Aaron can’t describe the ache it gives him to see it. 

“Buddy, I’ll do it. Let me wipe your face. I can do it.” 

Jack drops his hands. Aaron turns his hand and wipes the smudge of Jack’s tears from hot cheeks, testing the waters with a little smile. 

“I couldn’t see you under all those tears.” 

Jack does a little smile back. “Yes you can.” 

“I couldn’t! But now I’ve wiped all your face I can see you again. You’re handsome, did we know that?” 

Jack giggles. He sniffles, and he presses his palm to Aaron’s neck. “I don’t want her to be sad, dad.” 

“She’s going to be sad, because something scary happened, but it’s okay. I’m gonna take care of her.” 

Aaron would offer to take him home, but they can’t go home. They may not go home for a long time —the team is still trying to work out how someone made it into the apartment without alerting the building’s security or Aaron’s internal system. And then escaped again without Aaron’s notice. Until then, Aaron has to make a decision about a safe house, for himself, Jack, and Jess, though she's extremely unreceptive to the idea. 

Aaron has to look after Jack, and he needs to take care of you. 

“What do you think, bud?” he asks, cupping Jack’s head in his hand. “Do you want to go home?” 

“You said I can give her a hug.” 

“If it’s too scary, we don’t have to. I don’t want you to get upset again.” 

“I’m not scared. I want to give her the hug,” he says. 

Aaron pulls him in for a hug of his own. “Okay, buddy. Just try to think of it like this. She’s where she needs to be to get better. Everybody here is looking after her. She’ll be okay soon.” 

Aaron looks over Jack’s head down the hospital hallway. It’s a quiet ward, and here between the main ward doors and the hallway that leads down to the individual rooms there’s complete silence. Night is approaching quickly again, and with it comes Aaron’s panic. Your head turned into a puddle, your face lax of expression in the dark. He can’t stop finding the women he loves bloody and on their backs. 

“Ready?” he murmurs. “Can you walk with me? My arms are tired.”

“Yeah.” 

Aaron puts Jack down gently onto his feet. He neatens his hair, chucking him under the chin as he goes to see his smile. He’s so pretty, like Haley was, with shiny eyes. He’s a beautiful kid. Aaron takes his hand and together they make their way down the hallway to your room. 

You’re sleeping. 

Aaron herds Jack through the door and to the plastic covered chair by your side, where he lifts him up and sits him down. He stays between you both. Jack isn’t scared of you, just the blood, but he wants to show Jack that he’s going to protect him from anything he needs protecting from. He also desperately wants to touch you, and reassure himself that you’re still breathing. 

He looks for your hand. Your pinky finger is splinted, but he can take it with care, give the palm of it a squeeze. 

The blood matted in your hair has finally been washed away after a turbulent day, as well as the staining that marred your face. Your nose is broken, and looks it, the bruises so fierce your eyes have turned puffy and your top lip has inflamed. There are second degree burns in multiple places but most affectedly on your chest. There’s a stab wound at your hip, allegedly done with a small blade. It nicked your small intestine. The bandages laid over you are a lump under your hospital gown. 

Aaron looks at you, and he feels a passionate disdain for himself. He wishes he could… be someone else. Someone who doesn’t have such a deep connection to a job that hurts the people around him, over and over. Haley used to say he was obsessed with being the hero, but this doesn’t feel heroic. 

“Do you wanna give her your cuddle?” he asks softly. 

Jack stays sitting. 

He’ll have to give it to you himself. Careful, Aaron leans down over your prone body and presses a half kiss to your ear, the only place that won’t hurt. 

You have an IV drip going into your arm, painkillers, an ECG monitor to the left. The room is white but busy, you’re a burst of colour against it all, your cuts and bruises, the evidence of violence he can’t remove. Aaron’s tired. He perches on the gap of bed by your leg and holds your hand, turning to Jack, who watches with a frown. 

“She’s sleeping,” Aaron says. 

“When can she come home?” 

“In a few days.” He feels the pad of your hand, terrified of your broken finger but needing to hold a part of you. 

“Why is she sleeping all day?” 

Traumatic experiences are exhausting. “I think she might want to be alone, so she sleeps.” 

“Should we go?” 

Aaron shakes his head. “I think we should stay. When she wakes up again she’ll be happy to see us, because we’re not strangers.” 

“We’re family,” Jack says. He’d liked that, when the nurse asked you how Aaron was related to you. Family only.

“We’re her family,” Aaron agrees. 

If he somehow miraculously fell out of love with you, you’d still be family to them. You’ve given so much of your heart since you met them. Aaron wants everything you have to give. 

You wake in a slow, slow upheaval. It takes effort on your part, the opening of sore eyes, the dreary decision to face your pain. Your hand jumps in his but relaxes when he shushes you, your slimmer fingers stilling under his rubbing thumb. For a split second, you keep your gaze half-lidded, jaw soft, like you’ve been indulging in a stolen nap. 

Then your breath catches and you screw your eyes tightly. 

“You’re okay,” he says, quietly, and not as lightly as he means to, “you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” in quick succession. 

“Hurts,” you say, and gasp, a whine stuck in your throat. 

He doesn’t know what to do. Jack shouldn’t watch this but he can’t leave you alone. “It’s okay,” he says, holding your wrist to stop it climbing up your bruised face. 

You were worse the first time you woke up. Catatonic, then sobbing. You mumble and whimper now, pain threading goosebumps down your arms. 

“It hurts too much,” you say. A sob falls out of you like you’ve been ripped open. 

Aaron doesn’t think, but an instinct sparks. The pain, to hit you right out of the gate like this, to make you say something like that when you’ve always always made your problems small, must be torture. It must feel new and sudden all over again. 

Aaron checks that Jack is alright and leaves the room. He looks down one hallway and then the other, but there’s no nurse around —he races to the reception desk and begs the two nurses there for help with you, “She’s in intense pain,” he says, grasping the desk. 

The nurse he’s more familiar with clears her throat. “Mr. Hotchner, she’s already had enough motrin for two people at your request, she really shouldn’t need–”

“Pain is just as important to treat as the injury.” 

A second nurse puts her salad down with raised brows. “Do you want to overdose her?” 

“Excuse me?” 

Aaron has always seen himself as a gentleman, but the argument that ensues is tricky to navigate while remaining respectful, and he’s no closer to better treatment for you by the end of it. He gives each nurse a disapproving glower and takes his phone from his pocket, turning on the spot, ready to call whoever it is he needs to call for a second opinion. He’s not gonna listen to you cry when there’s no need. 

He pushes the door open with the phone still clutched in his other hand. Jack’s climbed onto your bed. He cuddles your face, sitting by your pillows and bent over you protectively. 

Aaron lets out a breath. 

“It’s okay,” he says, his arm behind your head and his arm on your shoulder. “W’gonna take care of you.” 

“I know,” you say, crying without sound, shaking under his arms.

His cheek smushes against your forehead. Your eyes are closed and your face braced for contact Jack doesn’t make, careful not to hurt you as he rubs his cheek into your skin. Your blankets are falling off of you from the squirming and your bruises shine with tears in the light, but Jack has calmed you down some. 

Aaron shouldn’t have left Jack with you. He’s been so scatterbrained since he found you when he should be the opposite, but Jack is doing better than Aaron managed alone. 

“I’m sorry for crying,” you say slowly. “I’m hurting, but it’s not bad. I’m okay.” 

“That’s good. You have a big scratch on your face, and bruises.” 

“I know.” 

“Dad says you have a bruise on your tummy too.” 

“I got lots of bruises, but it’s okay. Don’t worry about me.” You bring your hand up injured and uncaring to rub his leg. “You’re being a really brave boy, thank you.” 

A tear rolls down your cheek. 

“It’s teamwork,” Jack says. “I hug you and you hug me.” 

“Is that what you want? You want a hug?” 

“I want to go home,” he says, hugging you harder. 

You grasp his arm loosely where it’s just under your chin. “Jack, can you move your arm?” you whisper. 

Your breath comes quickly, but Jack moves his arm away from your bruised neck and you try to calm yourself down. 

Aaron jolts himself back into action. “Sweetheart,” he says, rushing to sit Jack back and give you more space. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” 

He watches. Not sure what to say. Not sure saying anything is wise. You squint at him through your lashes, eyes opening slowly, your mouth a line pressed hard to stop from crying. 

“I think it's time for Jack to go home,” he suggests gently. 

“Yeah,” you say, eyes swimming with tears. 

“No.” Jack squeezes your head again, to your panic. 

“Jack, buddy, please don’t touch her neck,” Aaron says, grabbing Jack from your pillow. 

He erupts into tears again. Frantic and vying for you, Aaron tries to calm him and he kicks against his chest, tears turning to disgruntled sobs at not getting what he wants. You wince, pressing your face completely into the pillow. 

Aaron carries Jack from your room, phone in hand. 

—

Is she breathing? Can she talk? 

I don’t– I don’t know, I don’t– She’s breathing. Honey, can you hear me? I don’t know what to stop. I don’t know where it’s all coming from. 

Where’s the worst of the blood? 

It’s everywhere. 

Abdominal? Chest? 

I can’t tell. I can’t tell. 

Mr. Hotchner, you can’t panic. Does she have a chest wound?

Yes. Yes, but– 

Is she conscious? How’s her pulse? Be ready to start chest compressions. 

Honey, can you hear me? 

Your name said clearly. 

“Hey, can you hear me?” 

“Yes,” you murmur. 

“If you need a minute, that’s okay.” 

You cover your mouth with your hand. Emily Prentiss has a soft voice like your boyfriend’s when she wants to have it. She’s never spoken to you like this, none of his colleagues have, but since the incident, everybody treats you like you’re made of glass. 

Cognitive interviews are meant to happen immediately after an accident, but you weren’t up for company. Aaron promised this would be on your terms, that Emily is the most practised, and that she’s reaped the most information from them than the rest of the team. So far, it’s worked to drag bad memories to the surface. 

“Maybe we should start from the beginning.” 

There isn’t a beginning. There’s just conversation. Aaron’s hand on your heart and his shaky voice, so unlike him.

“Okay.” 

Emily reaches for your hand. She smiles, and her nice features get nicer. That’s another thing they all share, good looks. “Okay. What did you notice, in the kitchen? It’ll help if you close your eyes,” she reminds you. 

You close your eyes. 

“What stuck out?” 

“Nothing,” you murmur. “I’ve been in there lots of times, and nothing ever changes.” 

“Nothing? Not even the drawings on the fridge?” 

“Jack’s particular about his best work, even if I think they should all be on display.” 

Emily’s voice turns to a shard of itself. “What did you do? Can you take me through it step by step? Make yourself a cup of hot chocolate.” 

“I never got that far.”

“What did you do?” 

“I filled the kettle.” 

“What kettle?” 

You don’t understand the need for specificity, but you answer. “Aaron got it for me, when he… he told me he loved me, and when we got home he’d bought me a kettle and a bunch of stuff to make my being there easier. The kettle, because… he said something about superheated water. How the microwave can be dangerous, and this would be easier than a pan.” 

“Alright. Okay, and what did you do after that?” 

“I put the kettle on the stove.” You lit the burner, and heat kissed your palm, and suddenly the room had felt cold. “I got goosebumps.” 

“When?” 

“The kettle started to whistle, and it was cold.”

“And then–”

“Then he grabbed me.” 

“Yeah,” Emily says softly. 

You touch your nose. “I tried… He didn’t feel like a person. He didn’t feel like someone I was fighting, it was just painful.” 

“Like he was quick on his feet?” 

“He was silent. I didn’t hear him until I made him fall.” 

“How big did he feel?” 

Your stomach churns. Big. He’d felt big. 

Where’s the worst of the blood?

“He said he was going to hide,” you remember. 

“He said that? He said ‘hide’?

“Yeah. And he asked me if Aaron carries after hours.” 

“When was this?” 

It’s a headache. You try to remember more, because that’s what they need right now. If you ever want to go home, if you want Jack to go home, you need to remember more. The BAU are good, but nobody can make a map out of slivers. 

“That was at the end,” you say. 

“After he stabbed you?” 

You wince. “Yes. After.” 

“You’re doing so good,” she praises, “I just want to fill in the gaps.” 

“I can’t remember. I was unconscious.” 

“When Hotch found you?” 

“No, before.”

“Before?” she asks. 

You’re sick of sitting there with your eyes closed. Sick of your hands shaking with nowhere to hide them, and sick of feeling sick, your nausea as present as the stinging pain of your burned wrist against your sleeve each time you move. 

You open your eyes and look around the conference room for something interesting. How nice would it be to think of something else for a few minutes?

“He called it handiwork when he cut me. Asked if I thought Aaron would like it,” you say, bordering monotonous as your gaze fizzles, unfocused, across the room. 

“Okay, Y/N. Okay. I know you’re tired.” She reaches for your hands to squeeze at the same time. “You did really well. Any details at all are details we can use to find him.” 

You’re not in the mood for talking anymore. Tears burn your eyes, waiting for a blink to set them loose. 

“I want to see Aaron,” you confess quietly. 

“I’ll find him for you.” Emily stands but bends, the dark of her hair a contrast to her pale face. She’s lovely, and her hand is gentle on yours. “Are you okay? Can I get you something to eat?” 

So Aaron’s not keeping that to himself. “I want to see him, please.” 

“Yeah. Okay.” 

This is a horrible room. It’s not their fault, but the big white board is tacked with bad photos of grisly cases —currently your own. You stare at a photograph of your blood in the kitchen and don’t know what to do. Should you look away? You hadn’t realised you bled so much. 

You turn your chair toward the door. Emily looks back as she leaves and smiles at you softly, but your eyes are already moving to the smaller dry erase board by the doorway. It’s ‘Hotch’s turn to clean up on Thursdays. How strange that they make the boss clean the conference room. 

You can picture him picking up coffee cups and wiping down the table. You can always picture Aaron. 

You can see him hovering over you, his hand pressed to the bloody mess of your hip to stop the blood. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper to yourself, wanting to break from the memory, following Aaron’s example. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” You repeat it into your hands, head tilting down. You sink until your knuckles touch your knees. 

That’s all he says when you panic. He’ll say it over and over again until you can breathe right. I have you, I have you, you’re okay. 

He’s much quieter this time. You hear his footsteps, his familiar gait, your head pounding too hard to move. Aaron makes a sound between a sigh and a hum, like he’s saying a sorry hello as he kneels in front of you. His hand takes your face, rubs softly over your ear. 

“My head’s just hurting,” you murmur. 

He doesn’t respond. You sit together for some time as your mind races with bad memories, your fear a rush of goosebumps down the lengths of your arms and thighs. It’s hard not to think about what happened, mostly because you’re still a walking bruise, your stitches sting when you move, the blisters on your chest ache, all of it inescapable. But it’s your anxiety that plagues you most. You’re in a constant state of dread. 

You had no idea someone could hurt you as badly as they had until it happened, and now you’re desperate not to be hurt again. 

“You have to look after me,” you say eventually, throat sore with how awful it feels to say. 

“Yes, I do.” 

“Please don’t let me get hurt again.” 

Total silence. You sniffle at his lack of an answer, only slightly comforted by his hands at your wrists now, pulling them from your face. “Let’s sit up,” he says, standing himself. “Come on, let’s sit up. You shouldn’t be putting so much pressure on your abdomen.” 

You lean back and everything aches like a stretch after a long run or a bad night’s sleep. 

Aaron pulls a chair next to yours. When he sits, your knees are pressed in between one another’s thighs, so close he could hug you. You might need one.  He’s given you a ridiculous amount of them each day, some for him and some for you. 

He has with him a takeout box and a bottle of water. 

“Here,” he says, popping the seal of the drink. “Three sips.” 

You feel like crying, but you drink. He opens the takeout box to reveal a normal looking sandwich already cut into two halves, but he takes a plastic knife from his pocket, peels away the wrapping, and cuts the sandwich again into quarters. 

“I’m gonna be sick,” you say. 

“No, you’re not. You won’t be.” He presses the sandwich flat with his hands and holds it to you until you take it. “Please, Y/N. You only have to eat what you can.” 

“I don’t want it.” 

“Please.” 

“Did Emily tell you about my interview?” 

He reaches for your thigh. Mildly unlike him when you aren’t at home. You assume it to be a tether for your sake. “No. Is there something you think I should know?” 

“I don’t want to say it again.” 

“Then you don’t have to. Someone will tell me when I get back.” 

You pinch the fluffy bread in your hands, eyeing wearily at the wet insides. “Can I come with you?” 

“You’re having trouble in the cognitive interviews, you won’t want to hear what we have to say.” 

You split the sandwich in half again, watching as salad and mayonnaise ooze from the bread. 

“If you don’t eat, you won’t get better,” he says, a touch stern. 

“I can’t eat when you won’t let me come with you.” 

“I’m not the only person capable of protecting you. I…” He circles your wrist before you can make a mess. “Can you please eat it?” 

You take a bite to appease him, your stomach roiling, food wet and cold on your tongue. You eat the whole quarter queasily, a lump at the back of your throat begging you to stop. 

Aaron takes an empty hand and rubs it tenderly. “Thank you,” he says, that rubbing turned more forceful, his hand journeying to your elbow and back again. 

It’s sweet how attuned he is to your needing his touch, but mortifying. This entire experience had been embarrassing from start to end. Couldn’t defend yourself, can’t get to grips with it, and can’t keep anything down. Aaron looks at you and your bruises and you wonder if he’s seeing you with blood matted in your hair, or hearing you beg for him to get you something stronger. All you’d wanted was a sedative. 

“I’m far from the only person capable of protecting you,” he says. 

“You saved me,” you say. You mean it in every sense of the world. 

“…This is my fault.” 

“I want to be with you,” you say honestly. “I don’t feel okay by myself right now, I just need you, or I feel so sick I wish that I died.” The anxiety is marrow deep. 

Aaron looks gutted. “Don’t say that.” His hand goes back to yours, back to tenderness. “I know you're scared.” 

“Then why won’t you listen?” you ask weakly. 

“I’m listening to you,” he says, his tone a dulcet, pleasing softness you’ve never ever heard before, “I need you to be safe, and I need Jack to be safe, and I can’t do that while he’s still out there.” His brows pinch together, agonised. “I’m sorry you’re scared. I didn’t protect you. But I won’t let anything happen to you again.

“I love you. Please believe that I’m doing what’s best for you right now.” 

You turn your head away. He cups your cheek regardless. 

“I love you,” he says again. 

“I know.” 

“No, I love you.” 

He’s saying sorry.

“I love you,” you mumble back. 

“How are you feeling? Is anything hurting more? Weeping?” 

Your eyes are heavy at his touch. “You only looked at me a couple of hours ago.” 

“Alright. Can I kiss you? I need to go.” 

You don’t answer. Aaron kisses your chin, your jawline, the type of roving, teasing kisses he’d give as he squeezed your sides, only he doesn’t squeeze you, he can’t without hurting you. His hand hesitates just above your deepest wound. 

His bright kiss works to spark a modicum of life back into you. Not a lot, but enough. It was likely his intention, some quick prodding kisses to remind you of something happy between you both. 

You curl your fingers over his hand and turn your face for a chaste peck. He smiles, the curve of his lips evident and relieving against yours. 

“Someone will take you back to the safe house, okay? Give Jack a kiss for me,” he says. 

You nod. Aaron strokes your cheek. 

—

Your assailant could have killed you while you were vulnerable, but he didn’t. “He assumes he’ll have another chance,” Emily surmises. 

“That’s cocky,” JJ mutters. 

“It’s telling,” Aaron says. “But he won’t.” 

The coaching has been extensive. You, sick, a breath from tears and hurting, your shoulders in his hands and his grip too tight. If someone tells you I’m dead, you wait. If Morgan tells you I’m dead, you ask Rossi. If he says I’m dead, you ask Emily. You can’t believe the first thing someone says. No one is going to move you from this safe house to another without seeing me first. If I do get hurt, you and Jack will be moved separately. You will always get my confirmation before you’re moved. 

I’m not gullible, you’d said, wincing at his sharp tone. 

It’s not about that. People will lie, and they will lie well. They will talk their way into the house if you let them. You can’t let them. 

I won’t. 

He’s racing against a countdown, because no matter what he says, what you know, or how many agents wait outside your house, sometimes it’s a force of will. 

Foyet didn’t need much more than that. 

He admittedly feels on surer footing knowing where you are. The decision to guard you without putting you in WITSEC is aching and scary but better, too. He knows where you are. He can be there in ten minutes. No guessing games, but no hiding for you either. 

Your dread is taking over everything you do. Today’s the first day since you came home almost two weeks ago that you could function without a live-in nurse or Jess there to look after Jack, and already he’s worried, because he’d convinced you total honesty was what’s best for the both of you, and so your texts are candid. 

One an hour for his sake, more if you're up to it.

Threw up my beta blockers. Jack misses you, he wants to make you a Lego boat and fishing rod, but I’m not sure how to do it. Please make sure you eat dinner. 

Your next message makes him smile, thankfully. I’m kidding about the dinner thing. Ha. I had one of those gels you got for me, and Jack wants fries, so I’m making waffle fries. 

He texts back quickly. Eat dinner. Please tell Jack I miss him too, and don’t worry about the boat, he’ll work it out. Then, feeling awful, he adds, I love you

Aaron should go home. He’d feel better if he knew he was there to help you keep your medication down, but if he leaves… He knows his team will give you everything they have, but he has more. He can fix this. 

He can’t fix this, god, his head hurts badly. You’re covered in cuts and bruises and burns and he thinks he can make up for that? You’ve been brutalised. Aaron can’t believe this is happening again. 

He rubs his brow. 

“You okay?” Emily asks. 

When he looks up, JJ is gone. 

“I’m fine.” 

“It’s okay if you’re not.” 

He’s not fine, but he knows what she’s asking. “I’m okay enough to do this,” he says. 

It’s hard not to confuse you with memory, your hurting similar to his own, your situation one that he’s already lived. Haley will haunt him for life. It doesn’t usually feel as punishing as he fears he deserves: he gets to remember the best parts of her everyday. He sees her in Jack all the time. He sees her in you, occasionally —you’ll touch his hair or rub his arm like she would’ve done, and it doesn’t make him miss her any more than he does, he’s not in the business of wishing you weren’t yourself, he loves you, but he remembers her. Aaron remembers how he failed her every day. 

He can’t fail you, too. 

“Is it ever easy?” Emily asks. 

Aaron looks around for a bottle of water. “Is what?” 

“Being in love.” 

He thinks about it. “I must make it look hard.” 

She laughs softly. “Sometimes, yeah.” 

Maybe that’s not fair, then, to you. For him to make it seem difficult to love you. To fail to correct Emily when she asks. 

He chooses his words carefully. “Loving her is the easiest thing in the world. But… I continue to work a job I know makes me hard to love in return.” And that puts you in danger. 

It doesn’t feel wrong to be sincere. Perhaps it’s easier with Emily. She saw so much of him during Foyet, and she’s family, truly. He can tell her how intense it’s felt. 

“Well, it doesn’t seem hard for her,” Emily says. 

He shakes his head. 

She continues regardless, “Even during her cognitive, she mentioned the first time you told her you loved her. When it was over she wanted to see you over anything else.” 

But I put her here, he wants to say. Or doesn’t want to say at all, but instead knows with surety. 

“She can’t eat if I’m not home,” he says. What a thing to do to someone. “It’s my fault.” 

Emily smiles, hair slipping off of her shoulder as her expression turns to playfulness. “I think you’re seeing it all wrong. Something bad happened to her, and you’re so safe to her that you make it better when you’re with her. That’s not fault, Hotch. Just love.” 

He turns his attention back to the board without another word. 

—

When the day comes, when they find the man who hurt you, you’re sitting at home with Jack Hotchner in your lap. You’re laughing at his laughing, cartoon fish on the TV, and Aaron’s got a gun in his hand fifty miles away. You both giggle, nearly in hysterics as the safe house living room glows pink and red, Jack’s favourite character swimming hurriedly across the screen, as Aaron negotiates the arrest. 

Usually capable of mediation, Aaron finds his patience completely unravelled. He offers the UnSub two choices: he surrenders now, immediately, and he keeps his life, or he deliberates and Aaron kills him. 

He has reason to believe the UnSub will try again, of course. Will keep hurting you until it sticks. 

He goes home satisfied.

“Dad’s home!” you say excitedly, your movie long finished, your thighs numb and stitches stinging where Jack has leaned against you. You encourage him off of you as the front door closes, the cold air from outside rushing in. 

“Honey?” Aaron calls. 

“Yeah!” You stumble into a standing position, sure you look about as disgusting as you have since the situation began, promptly sitting back down as head rush hits. 

Jack races for the door, meeting Aaron in the hallway with a whoosh. “Hey!” 

“Hi, junior g-man, what are you doing?” 

“We watched Finding Nemo,” Jack says, “and now I’m hugging you, duh.” 

“Duh. Well, I need to talk to Y/N for five minutes. Can you wash your hands for dinner?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You okay?” he asks. 

“I’m fine.”

You hear the sound of a light kiss, and then Jack rockets across the hallway and up the stairs. Aaron walks into the doorway, tie still knotted but with no suit jacket, and you know what he’s going to say before he says it. He wears a strange expression.

“You got him?” you ask. 

He puts a white bag on the coffee table, looking down at you fondly. “I got him.” 

“How did you find him?” 

He crouches down in front of you. He’s so careful to be harmless to you now, so tentative. “You’re not the only woman he hurt. We dealt with him in the past. From the information you gave Emily during your interview, and the information he left behind, we found him… If you weren’t as brave as you are, I couldn’t have kept you and Jack safe.” He holds your knee. “Thank you.” 

You stare at him. Staring, wondering what he means. “Brave?” 

“Brave.” 

“I’m a coward.” 

He shakes his head. “No. You’re not.” 

All you've done for days is cry and throw up and bleed, literally. You’ve ruined clothes and sheets, thrown up in his lap, terrified and aching. Each time was met with the same gentleness. A kiss on the cheek, or a hand rubbing your back. Is that bravery? You feel like a baby. 

Aaron’s brow is relaxed. He takes your two legs into his hands, and he looks at you with a reverence that leaves you breathless. 

“You’re hurt forever because of me,” he says quietly, you strain to hear him, “because of who I am, and what I choose to be.” 

“How can you say that? It’s not your fault.” 

“It wouldn’t have happened to you if I hadn’t missed his MO the first time.” 

“You’re not putting the knife in anyone’s hand,” you argue. 

“But it keeps happening.” 

His hair shines dark and wet. It must be raining outside, the safe house walls are thick, the windows shuttered permanently, you haven’t heard a peep. You stroke it back from his forehead. 

“Remember… when we first got together, and you told me you were sorry for how hard being with you could be. And I said it was okay, that it wasn’t hard, and you said it would be?” 

“I remember,” he says, practically mouths. 

“I was so afraid when...” You swallow roughly. “I still am. But not– not of you. Not of what you can do. When you told me it was going to be hard, I thought, well, it’s worth it, because I really liked you then and I love you now.” Tears collect in your eyes. Safe. I’m safe. “And you look after me, so– so–” 

You stop as your voice turns to glass, worried you’ll make a fool of yourself and cry in his hands. 

“I didn’t want this for you,” he says. 

“Nobody wants this. Bad things happen to everyone, but who has someone like you to look after them?” 

He breathes out heavily. “Please… don’t cry.” 

You wipe your cheeks, taking a lengthy pause before you say, “I’m okay now.” 

He looks at you in silence. 

“Come and sit with me,” you say, scrubbing your cheeks, hot tears cooling on the backs of your hands. “Your knees.” 

He actually smiles. It changes his entire face. “What about my knees?” 

Aaron sits on the couch next to you atop Jack’s blanket, a bag of pretzels tipping between your leg and his. You attempt to rake his damp hair into submission as his fingers run against your thighs, fishing for pretzels to put back into the bag. 

You’d like for him to grab you and kiss you harshly, give you one of his straight jacket hugs, some roughhousing, but you won’t get that from him until you're better, and even then, it’s up in the air. So much has changed. 

But not everything. 

“I love you,” you murmur, fingertips scratching down behind his ear to the back of his head. 

He turns to you, sagging with relief and exhaustion. “Kiss?” he asks quietly. 

You nod. He holds your cheek, and you close your eyes at the same time for a kiss. It’s not a lot, but you have time. He can give you another one when you’re both better recovered. 

He pulls away. You open your eyes, finding his closed, his face downturned. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

“Was Jack good?” 

“Jack’s always good.” 

“Did the nurse have anything to say about your chest?” 

“She said it’s healing okay. That I need to use, uh, scar patches when they start to scab.” 

“I can get those.” 

“I know, I knew you would.” 

He gathers you up for a hug. For a moment, you think he’ll move on, that the end of your nightmare will kill his remorse, but he breathes in, nose wedged against your cheek. 

“Do you think that tonight, we could pretend it didn’t happen?” You’d like to just sit with him, press your hand to his chest and doze. It’s the first night in a while that you’ll feel completely. 

“Yeah. I can do that.” He hugs you rather tightly. “Do you want to see your present?” he asks, relaxing his grip. 

“My present?” 

He grabs the bag on the coffee table and places it in your lap. “I’m worried it’ll remind you of bad memories, but I wanted you to have nice things then, and I still do.” 

In the bag, there’s a pair of pyjamas. Very different to the ones you’d been wearing when you were attacked, they were girly and sweet, soft in your hands, these are sturdy. Still soft, but thick. The shirt is short-sleeved and the pants cuffed at the ankles, a hoodie tucked underneath them, and a packet of minky socks. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

Thanks for everything, for saving you twice, for taking care of you at your worst, and for wanting you to have something comfortable to wear at the end of it. To have experienced an abjectly cruel battering will leave its marks in your forever, but you meant what you told him. He looks after you, and you love him. 

He kisses your shoulder. “You don't need to say that.” 

He doesn’t add anything else, his nose pressed to your shoulder, his hand on your hip. Whatever goes unsaid can be felt in the other’s touch. 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thank u for reading!! it’s been a long time since I wrote a fic for hotch and it’s hard to write him being vulnerable but I hope this is alright anyways and that you enjoyed :D please consider reblogging if you did enjoy it (cos that way my fics get shown to more people <3) ❤️

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner oneshot #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic

[topguncortez]

matt rempe with angst prompt “they’re lying to you” maybe she’s hughes sister and the boys don’t like her with a ranger player

Loving the Enemy - Matt Rempe

hockey masterlist || g's graduation celebration

synopsis: What was supposed to be an amazing night supporting her boyfriend's first NHL game, turns into a fight amongst siblings which leads to a broken heart. or in which Y/N Hughes is in love with the enemy.

word count: 4.5k

warnings: hockey inaccuracies, language, fighting, mentions of smut, break ups, angst

Being a Hughes sibling wasn’t easy. Being the only girl Hughes sibling was even harder. It wasn’t necessarily that you were a surprise, but your parents didn’t think that they would have a little girl after having three boys in a row. But you were their prized possession, and they would never say it out loud, but you were the favorite child. 

You were close with all your brothers, being the youngest, they had been absolutely enthralled with you when you were born. Quinn had always been more than delighted to be an older sibling, and having a little sister was like getting ice cream before dinner. Jack was a bit indifferent towards you until you were about thirteen and he had accidentally body checked you during a scrimmage. He instantly expected tears, like had happened anytime he accidentally (or purposely) bodychecked you, but instead, you hopped back up and delivered a high stick to him about five minutes later. 

But out of the three Hughes brothers, it was Luke, who you were the closest with. Only 18 months apart, some people believed that you two were twins. Not only did you both get the curly hair, but you both got the height gene that somehow missed Quinn and Jack. The two of you were also the quiet ones of the family, choosing to stick together and out of the spotlight. Luke was the first one you told that you didn’t like hockey, and you were the first one who Luke told he wasn’t going to go to the draft right away. But it wasn’t just the verbal communication that you two had, it was the silent glances and head nods that were understood from across the room. 

And it was because of that bond, that Luke knew there was something you were hiding. He wasn’t sure what it was, but there was something off about you. He could hear you late at night talking and giggling with someone over the phone. You had been coming home late at night, using some excuse that you had been out with a friend or studying at a cafe. He even noticed that you were wearing a shirt he had never known you owned the other day. And right now, he knew that you were hiding away in your bedroom, which was uncharacteristically off for you. Usually you loved sitting on the beanbag, making fun of him, Jack, and Nico for playing NHL. 

“Why is he here?” You whispered, peeking through the crack in your door, which gave you the perfect view of the living room, “I thought they were going to his place. Why are they here!?” 

A low chuckle sounded out from behind you, making you turn your head towards the tall, muscular, still half naked man on your bed, “And this is funny to you? You realize if they see you here, you’re dead.” 

“You don’t think I can’t fight them? Jack is what. . . five nine?”

You rolled your eyes, closing your door softly and walking back to your bed, flopping down next to him, “Five eleven and he’ll get out the measuring tape if you even doubt it.” 

He instantly pulled your body into his, making you rest your hand on his peck, “So, you’re telling me you’ve never had a boy in your room before?” A shit eating grin arose on his cheeks, making heat flood yours, “Are you saying that I took your precious-” 

“Oh shut up, Rempe,” You shook your head with a giggle, “It’s not cause you’re a boy, it’s because you’re a fucking Ranger.” 

It wasn’t like you meant for it to happen. 

You were sworn enemies. Well, supposed to be sworn enemies. The rivalry between the New Jersey Devils and the New York Rangers went farther back than you had been alive. The “cross river rivals”, just 10 miles away from each other. Though you hadn’t been a Devils fan until your brother Jack got drafted in 2019, and even then, you still kept somewhat mutual in your cheering for them. But when Luke got drafted three years later, you had sworn your allegiance to the team (even though you swore you would still put on a blue Canucks jersey to support Quinn. . . and even he knew that would only happen when the Canucks weren’t playing the Devils). 

You met Matt by accident. You had been leaving a coffee shop late after working on a research paper. Jack and Luke had told you over and over again to never go out walking in Jersey City alone at night by yourself. But you had never feared being out by yourself. There were plenty of times at UMich where you would leave the library by yourself and walk across campus to your dorm alone. Never had you felt terrified or in danger. But for some reason that night, you felt a shadow looming over your shoulder. 

You had just gathered your things, ready to step out the door and head for the subway, when a voice in your head told you not to go. Your eyes had darted around the shop, looking for someone who you could sit with or strike up a conversation long enough for you to text one of your brothers to come get you. The shop was basically vacant, and the barista behind the counter looked like she was waiting for you to leave so she could lock up. Taking a deep breath, you grabbed your backpack, placing your keys in between your fingers just in case. You had barely opened the door when someone placed their hand on your elbow. 

“Daphne? Oh my god, I thought it was you! How the hell have you been?” The man said to you. You could see it in his eyes he was begging for you to go along with it and there was something about him, that you knew you could trust him. 

“Kyle! Holy shit, where have you been!? It’s been what. . . four years?!” You said, overly excited. The barista from behind the counter cleared her throat, her eyes fleeting towards the clock behind her, “I was just about to hit up another spot, do you want to come with?” 

“I would love to, we have some catching up to do.” 

You felt a sigh of relief as you walked out of the coffee shop, the looming darkness fading away the further away you got, “Thank you for. . . that,” You muttered to him. 

“No problem,” He said back, “I’m Matt, by the way.” 

“Y/N,” You looked up at him, “I uh. . . I think I’m going to call an uber now or-” 

“I can take you. . . home. . .” He scratched the back of his neck nervously, “God, I just saved you from one creep now you probably think I’m a fucking creep but I promise I just want to make sure you get home safe and I-” 

“It’s okay,” You giggled, cutting off his rambling, “I would like a ride home, if that’s not too much of a struggle. I trust you. . . even if I just met you.” 

You thought he was good looking before, but the smile that arose on his face amplified that by a thousand. His brown eyes were soft as he held his large calloused and slightly bruised hand out towards you, which you took without second thought. The two of you walked down the street towards a black BMW. You slid your backpack off your shoulder, and he gently took it from your hand, opening the door with his other. He jogged around the back of the car after tossing your backpack in the backseat. 

“Sorry if it smells like a gym in here, I usually hit up Blair’s after practice,” He explained, though there was no smell at all, probably due to the air fresheners he had hanging around his rearview mirror. 

“Smells like winter apple,” You said, reading the label, “What sport do you play?” 

Matt placed his hand on the back of your seat as he backed out of the parking space, and you hated how attractive that was, “Hockey.” A cough spluttered out of your lips as you choked on your own spit at his revelation, “What? Not a hockey fan?” He asked with a nervous chuckle. 

“Who do you play for?” You asked, ignoring his question. 

“Hartford Wolf Pack, but I got signed with the Ranges-” 

“Oh god,” You groaned, holding your face in your hands, “Of course, I was standing in Rangers’ territory.” 

Matt’s brown eyes glanced over at you before looking back at the road in front of him, “Well, I’m sorry,” He shifted in his seat, “Are you like an Islanders fan or something?” 

“Even worse,” You mumbled, “My hot knight in shining armor, turns out to be a Ranger, just my luck.” You sighed, “My brothers play for the Devils.” 

“Wait,” Matt stepped on the brakes, “Brothers? Plural? Are you related to the Hugheses?” 

“Those would be the ones.” 

Matt shook his head, a laugh falling from his lips, “Wow, really fucked up here didn’t we?” You couldn’t help but smile, “Well, Miss Hughes,” Matt said as he pulled up in front of the high rise apartment building, “Is it crossing enemy lines if I ask for your number?” 

You bit your bottom lip, trying to hide the blush arising on your cheeks, “It is. . . but I’ve never been one to swear allegiance to just one place.” 

That night was six months ago, but for you it felt like it was just yesterday. There was a certain thrill about sneaking around with Matt, meeting when your brothers were gone or his roommates were out. You hated the rap he had developed in the AHL. He wasn’t the bad boy goonish hockey player with the fiery temper. He was a sweet, gentle giant, who loved to be the little spoon and have his hair played with. He sent you flowers and money to go get food cause he knew you forget to eat when you are in intense study sessions. Matt had become your everything in such a short amount of time, that you hated keeping him and your relationship from your family. 

It wasn’t that you wanted to keep your relationship a secret on purpose, but you both decided it was going to be the best for both sides. Matt was starting his second season with Hartford and then moving up to play for the Rangers in the Stadium Series. For you, Luke was starting his rookie season, and you were doing everything you can to remain lowkey and out of trouble for his sake. Mentioning that you not only had a boyfriend, but that said boyfriend was Matt Rempe. . . the whole house would be flipped on its side. 

“I have something to tell you,” Matt muttered, grabbing your hand and playing with your fingers. You loved the way that one of Matt’s hands could encase both of yours. You looked up into his soft brown eyes, that you swear resembled those of a baby cow, “The Rangers called. . . they want me to play in the Stadium Series.” 

You gasped in shock, climbing on top of Matt’s lap and grabbing his face in your hands, “They want you to play!? Matt! This is amazing!” 

A smile crawled across his lips, “Thank you,” You watched as a shadow of doubt and unease filled his eyes, “I want you there.” 

“I’ll be there,” You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips, “I’ll be the loudest one there.” 

“Oh you better,” Matt said, one of his hands gliding up to rest on your ass, the other one tangling in your hair, “You know I love you, right.” 

“I love you too,” You smiled. Those three words would never fail to put a smile on your face. 

“Good,” Matt smirked, “Cause right now, I need you to be very, very quiet.” 

— — — 

You didn’t really think it through when you told Matt that you would be there for the Stadium Series game. Not only did you have to sneak past your brothers to take the train to MetLife, you had to also sneak past your parents. Being the youngest of three boys, your parents had perfected the craft of knowing when one of their kids was hiding something. 

“You sure you don’t want to come with us?” Luke asked, standing in the doorway of your room. 

“Positive,” You did your best trying to pretend you were sick, “My body just aches and my head hurts. I think I’m getting sick.” You hated lying to your brother. You hated lying to any of your brothers, but especially Luke. 

Luke frowned, “I hate that you’re missing this dinner.” Nico had decided to host a dinner for all the parents, friends and family that came into town to watch them play in yesterday’s stadium game. You also hated that you were missing spending time with your family, but it's Matt’s first game. You weren’t going to miss that for the world. 

“Can you bring me back some fries?” You asked meekly. 

“Of course, ducky,” Luke nodded, using the childhood nickname he gave you, “Text me if you need anything.” 

You waited until the front door closed, before climbing out of bed and getting dressed. You threw on a pair of black jeans and a white Rangers sweatshirt. You finished the outfit with a hat and your coat, hoping to conceal your identity amongst the crowd. The train ride to MetLife was short, and you followed the crowd into the stadium. Matt had done good with getting you a ticket, sitting you a few rows behind the Rangers bench. You had gotten there in time to see them warming up, Matt’s large frame skating around the ice with ease. 

It was as if he could sense that you were there, his brown eyes searching the stands until he found you. He sent you a small wave, which made your heart flutter as you returned the gesture. He looked extremely good in his white Rangers jersey and the eye black on his cheeks. You knew how important this game was to him, not only was it his first game, but it also fell on the anniversary of his dad’s death. You knew that all he wanted in the world was for his dad to see him play the sport they both loved. 

Within minutes of the puck dropping, the Rangers took control. You felt the familiar anxiety that you would get when watching your brothers take the ice, when Matt got off the bench. You clenched your fists tightly as the Rangers moved down the ice, skating flawlessly and making a goal. You stood up and cheered with the crowd as the goal horn went off, high fiving strangers and screaming in joy.

However the giddy feeling quickly went away, as you looked back towards the center, and saw your boyfriend in a fist fight. You knew he was a fighter at Hartford, and it wasn’t your favorite thing about his hockey game. He was a gifted player, with the height and reach other players would die for. You hated that the Wolfpack had set him up to be a goon within his first season there. 

You watched with bated breath as the refs let him and the Islanders player battle it out. Punches delivered from both players, until they finally came to a draw. You shook your head as Matt raised his arms, trying to get the crowd fired up as he skated towards the penalty box. His first NHL game and his first five minute penalty for fighting. 

As Matt sat down, taking the bag of ice from his trainer, he turned to scan the crowd, looking for you. He easily spotted you, standing out amongst the crowd as you gave him a look. 

“You okay?” You mouthed and Matt nodded, holding up his bruised hand. You playfully rolled your eyes, “Pay attention,” and pointed back to the game. Matt smirked, giving you a mock salute before turning back towards his team on the ice. 

When the game ended, in a Rangers victory, you left quickly. You wanted to stay and see Matt and hug him, but you knew that you would be cutting it close to when your brothers and parents would be back. You settled for sending him a text, and telling him you would come over as soon as you could to help celebrate with him. 

The apartment was dark when you arrived back, your siblings still out at the dinner with the team. You let out a sigh of relief, dashing back to your room and changing back into your pajamas. By the time you had settled down and turned on some cheesy romcom, the front door opened and the familiar sounds of your brothers and parents filtered into the apartment. 

“Ducky!” Luke shouted. 

“She’s probably sleeping, asshole,” Jack scolded him. 

“Don’t call your brother an asshole,” Your mom chided. 

“Ducky!” Luke called again, “I got you fries!” 

You giggled, pushing the covers back and going to greet your family. Their smiles were big and comforting as you sat down at the island, opening the to-go container of fries. Jack filled you in on everything you missed at dinner, your mother sitting behind you and playing with the ends of your hair like she used to do when you were younger. It felt like old times, the only person missing was Quinn. You knew he was doing great things out in Vancouver, but you missed having him around. The facetime calls weren’t enough. 

“So what did you do tonight, duck?” Your dad asked. 

“Oh uh,” You cleared your throat, “Just watched some movies and slept.” 

“You missed an exciting hockey game,” He said, “That Rempe kid is going to be a menace.” 

“Yeah,” You tried to hide the blush arising on your cheeks, “I’m gonna go back and lay down, still not feeling the best.” 

“Okay, sweetheart,” Your mom squeezed your shoulder, “We’ll see you in the morning.” 

You nodded your head, “Yeah, maybe we can go to that bakery on the corner-” 

“What the fuck were you doing at MetLife?” Luke’s cut you off. You looked at him, your heart thundering in your chest. 

“I-I wasn’t at M-MetLife,” You cursed your nervous stutter. 

“Bullshit,” Luke cursed, putting his phone on the counter, and clear as day there was a picture of you, in your white Rangers sweatshirt, sitting behind the bench, “I thought you were sick.” 

Tears began to cloud your eyes as you looked at your parents and then your brothers, “I’m sorry.” 

“Why did you lie, Y/N?” Your mom asked. And suddenly you felt like you were a child all over again, being scolded by your parents. You hated getting in trouble, you hated looking at your parents and seeing disappointment in their eyes. The only time you ever really cried was when you were in trouble. 

“I. . .” You huffed, “I went to watch Matt play in his first NHL game.” 

“Matt?” Luke asked, “. . . Matt fucking Rempe?” You nodded your head. You felt your mom shift behind you, her stance going into protective mode, “Why the fuck would you go watch Matt fucking Rempe play-” 

“Language, Luke,” Your mom spoke. 

“Because we are dating.” 

Silence spread across the kitchen for a moment, before laughter sounded out. A cruel sounding laughter as you looked at Luke. It was the fake sounding, teasing laughter that made you feel like a child. 

“No you’re not,” Luke shook his head, “There’s no way.” 

“Why?” You asked softly, “We’ve been together for six months.” 

“No,” Luke chuckled again, “You aren’t dating him. You are not dating a hockey player, let alone one that has more penalty minutes than time on the ice. You aren’t dating him, you might be fucking him-” 

“Luke!” 

“But you aren’t dating him.” 

You shook your head, tears falling down your cheeks, “He loves me.” 

“Yeah and when did he say that? Before or after you fucked-” 

“Enough!” Your mom stood up, her hands on the counter, “Y/N, you shouldn’t have lied to us about going to the game. If you wanted to go to support Matt, that’s all you needed to say,” You nodded, looking down at the counter, “Luke, you do not get to say those things about your sister and her relationship. You do not get to say those things about any woman for that matter. Now, apologize.” 

You looked up at your brother, expecting to see remorse in his eyes, but all you saw was anger. Luke looked at you, before grabbing his phone and going to his room. You closed your eyes, feeling regret and guilt rising in your body. You mom put her hand on your shoulder, as a small sob left your lips. 

— — — 

It had been two weeks since your fight with Luke. Your parents had flown back to Michigan, leaving Jack to play the mediator between the two of you. Your mom had not so secretly texted Quinn to tell him what happened. He had called you the night after they left, which led to another tearful confession about your relationship with Matt. Quinn, being the big brother that he is, said he was upset that you felt like you couldn’t tell him about your relationship, but was nonetheless happy for you as long as you were happy. 

But you weren’t sure if you were happy. Luke had refused to talk to you, or even be near you. If you entered the same room he was in, he would leave. He wouldn’t fix you a plate of food like he usually did, or tell you when he was leaving for the arena for a home game. He wouldn’t even respond in the groupchat when you would ask him a question directly. 

But your strained relationship with Luke wasn’t the only relationship on the rocks. You hadn’t talked to Matt since the night of the stadium series. He had sent you countless text messages and left voicemails. He even went as far as sending flowers daily to the apartment, which Luke would toss out if you weren’t quick enough to grab them.

You were laying in your bed, half watching an episode of Bridgerton, like you had been for the past two weeks. Normally, you would be out in the living room with your brothers, but your bedroom felt like the only safe space in the entire apartment. You could hear the occasional shout or jest from your brothers as they were playing some video game on their night off. Beside you, on your bedside table, your phone buzzed for probably the tenth time this evening, another missed call from the same person. 

You weren’t sure what you were doing. You knew it was hurtful to string Matt along like this, but you also didn’t have the heart to break up with him. These past two weeks had felt like your heart had been ripped out of your chest, and to even think about living a life without him in it hurt too much. 

You let out a slow breath as you closed your eyes, listening as the buzzing of your phone finally stopped. However, the loud sound of knocking pulled you from your moment of peace. 

“Did you order something?” Jack’s muffled voice sounded out. 

“No,” Luke said back. There was shuffling as the front door opened and the knocking ceased, “Oh you’re fucking kidding me. Why the hell are you here?” 

“Where’s Y/N?” Your heart sped up at the sound of the all too familiar voice. You quickly jumped up from your bed, opening your door and running to the living room. There in all his tall glory, stood the man you loved, “Y/N.” 

It felt like the air had been drawn back into your lungs as you looked at him, “Matt.” 

“I uh. . .I just needed to see that you were okay. You haven’t been answering my calls or my texts,” Matt scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, looking at you and then your two brothers, “I’m gonna go now.” 

“Wait,” You said, taking a step forward, “Can I talk to you?” Matt nodded his head, looking like a lost puppy dog. You looked at your two brothers, “Can I talk to him alone?” 

“Yeah, c’mon Moose, we got game film to look at,” Jack said. Luke looked Matt up and down once, before letting him into the apartment and following his older brother down the hall towards the office room. 

You silently walked over to the couch, Matt following behind you. The two of you sat there in silence for a moment, before you broke the ice. 

“Do you love me?” 

Matt’s head snapped towards you, as your eyes looked straight ahead at the tv, “What?” 

“Do you love me?” You looked over at him, “Do you mean it when you say-” 

“Yes,” Matt answered quickly, “Yes, I do love you. I mean it every single time I say it. Why are you asking me this?” 

You shook your head, “Luke said something and I-” 

“He’s lying to you,” Matt moved from the couch to kneel down in front of you. He took your hands in his, “I love you, Y/N Hughes. I know we’ve only been together for six months but it’s been the happiest six months of my life. Not even hockey fills me with the joy as being with you does. So yes, I love you. I love you so fucking much.” 

You sniffled, tears falling from your eyes. Matt quickly wiped his thumb over your cheekbone, “I’m sorry. I. . . It all fell apart so quickly. Luke found out I lied and went to the game, and then he got so mad. I didn’t want to have to choose between-” 

“No, you shouldn’t have to choose,” Matt said, tears brimming his own eyes. He was silent for a moment, warring thoughts in his head as he thought of what to say, “It would absolutely break me to pieces, but I won’t be the reason why you and your siblings don’t talk anymore. I. . . I can’t do that to you.” 

“Are you breaking up with me?” You gasped. 

“I don’t want you and Luke to not talk to each other because of me.” 

“No,” You shook your head, “It will be okay, I promise. He’ll get over it.” 

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” Matt said, tears flowing freely down his cheeks, “I know your family means everything to you, and I can’t stand to be the one who ruins that. I’m so, so sorry,” Matt leaned forward, placing a kiss on your forehead, “I’ll always love you. No matter what. You are it for me.” You closed your eyes, savoring the feeling of his warmth, “Goodbye Y/N.” 

You sat there, unmoving as Matt stood up and walked towards the door. Your eyes fluttered open at the sounds of your brothers' footsteps, moving towards you.

“Are you happy?” You sneered at Luke, “He broke up with me.” 

“Ducky-” Luke sighed. 

“No,” You stood up shaking your head, “The love of my life just walked out the door because he knows that I care too much about you and your opinion. So Luke, are you happy?”

#matt rempe #matt rempe fan fiction #matt rempe fan fic #matt rempe imagine #matt rempe x reader #matt rempe fic #ny rangers #hockey imagine #hockey fan fic #hockey fic

[agentmarcuspike]

dave york x babysitter!f!reader

summary: the kids you babysit have a hot dad. you want him. but he's married... cws: unfaithfulness (dave is married to carol), power imbalance (employer and employee), fainting, thigh grinding, fingering, reader wears a skirt, dad!dave and his kids, nicknames (baby, honey), reader sits in dave's lap, mention of blood, frottage kinda, one (1) shoulder bite word count: 2.7k divider by @thecutestgrotto thank you and shoutout to my cheerleaders on this, liv @5oh5 and han @swiftispunk <3 and my love @joelsversion for helping with the header <3

"Without touching his skin, How can I be guilty as sin?"

You hate being alone with Dave York.

There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s a perfectly pleasant, well-mannered man. His daughters, Molly and Alice, are angels when you look after them (mostly), and nothing Dave has ever said or done has made you uncomfortable. Your interactions are innocent and professional. And that’s exactly the problem. 

There’s nothing wrong with him.

Because when you’re left alone together, in the evenings when his kids are asleep and he offers to drive you home, or in the mornings on the days he doesn’t work  from home and he pours you a cup of coffee in the kitchen while you make the girls breakfast… you can’t stop your mind from wandering.

You’re not entirely sure what Mr. York does for work, but you know he must look good doing it. Prancing around the house in his fitted dress pants that hug his front and back just right. His loose dress shirt hiding the body you suspect is strong and strapping, based on the sounds coming from the garage when he tells you he’ll be working out. And those are just the parts you don’t get to see.

His hands, however, are always on full display. When they curl around that mug he hands you. His palm brushing the small of your back as he opens the door for you when you leave. Fingers tapping, sometimes only one on the steering wheel, when he drives you home. When he’s typing away at the computer in his home office, or brushing the hair out of his girls’ faces before kissing their heads goodnight on the nights that he makes it home in time. Oh, those fingers… and that ring.

The ring he wears as a promise to Carol, his wife, that he’ll always be faithful to her. You should know how much a promise like that means. Someone once promised you the same. To always be there, to never stray. But stray they did. And the pain of that is something you don’t wish on anyone.

So yes, you hate being alone with Dave York. Because he’s so close. You spend more hours in his house than your own, basically raising his kids. And he’s right there… but he’s not for you.

It has been a very long day, and yet the clock on the kitchen stove shows only 11:27. The girls have run through the garden sprinklers all morning, worn out and down for a nap already, a combination of heat and exhaustion making you wish you could do the same. The heat wave has lasted for days now, only alleviated by a few minutes of clouds during the worst hours. 

Your bare thighs cling to the chair as you get up to clean up your lunch. It’s quick work, so you do the rest of the dishes too, even though it’s not your job. Warm soapy water prunes your fingers quickly, the only parts of your body not already damp with sweat. The house is rarely this quiet during the day, only the distant sounds of traffic from the main road blocks away filling the room, joining the splashing of water and clangs from dishes as you put them back into their cabinets. Some mornings you can hear Dave talking in his office, the sound carrying through the house. You can never make out what it is he’s talking about, only the low rumble of his voice sometimes plaited with other voices through computer speakers. He’s quiet today. 

This heat is unbearable, you think, as you wipe your forehead with wet hands. Leaning on the counter, you take a deep breath. For a second your eyesight falters, and lightheadedness washes over you. Have you even had a glass of water today? You can feel your legs start to wobble, vision turning static, and you’ve just started swaying when–

“Hey, hey!” 

A strong hand grabs your arm as you topple over, and you lean into Dave’s solid chest, letting him support your weight as you focus on your breathing. 

“There you go, honey,” he soothes. “Deep breaths.”

His shirt smells crisp and clean, the scent interrupted by whiffs of soap and cologne from his skin underneath it, as you inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

“You okay?” His big hand draws circles on your back, still holding you up with the other.

“Just hot…” you manage, lifting your head up to see a concerned Dave look down at you with furrowed brows. 

“Come lie down in my office for a bit, the AC is better in there.”

He supports you on your unsteady legs with an arm firmly around your waist, guiding you to his work room at the other end of the house. You’ve never really been in there, only stuck your head through the door to let him know you’re leaving at the end of the day.

The room is huge, especially for a home office. Floor to ceiling windows cover the far wall, his desk in the middle of the room, facing the door. Bookcases line the other walls, filled with mostly folders and what looks like heavy encyclopedias. In front of one of them is, of all things, a chaise lounge. What is he, a shrink? You’ve never seen him have anyone else in there, but for all you know he might as well be. He’s got the calm and steady presence you imagine one would need to be any kind of doctor.

“Here,” he says as he guides you over to the chaise, one big hand engulfing yours, the other supporting your neck as you lower yourself down.

“Let me get you some water.” 

As he leaves the office again, you hurriedly smooth your skirt down, suddenly very aware of how much skin you’re showing. If you lift your knees your entire ass would be on display for him when he returns, but you know keeping your feet up will be good for the dizziness. You settle for an in-between, only one leg raised, and the other straight out, just as Dave returns, bottle in hand. He twists the cap open before he hands it to you.

“Thanks,” you breathe as you accept it, gulping down half the contents in one go. You hand the bottle back to him and he chugs the rest. Your eyes are fixed on his plush lips around the bottle opening that was just between your own. You wonder what they would feel like on your warm skin.

As he drinks, a stray droplet escapes from the side of his mouth, trickling down to his chin. It runs down the length of his throat, Adam’s apple bouncing when he swallows, and then the drop disappears underneath his shirt collar. Your mouth waters, yet you feel even thirstier. You’d like to rip his shirt off and lick the droplet off his chest, as if only that could quench your thirst. And you can’t help but feel… No, you can help it. You should. It’s completely inappropriate. He’s your employer, your boss, and he’s… so Goddamn good looking. Shit.

He crumples the empty plastic before throwing it away in the bin next to his desk. Slumping down in his office chair he turns his attention to the computer screen.

Typing away at his keyboard, you watch him. Doctor York? Professor York? You try to imagine him; teaching a class, doing paperwork at an office, running a store, being someone’s strict and authoritarian boss. The latter thought makes your legs clench together involuntarily. 

“What do you do?”

The question escapes you before you can help it, and you cringe slightly at your own sudden bluntness. 

“Sorry?”

“I just realized I don’t know what you do for work.”

He doesn’t look up from the screen when he speaks, but a subtle smile plays on his lips.

“If I told you I’d have to kill you.” You laugh.

“That would suck. Who would look after your kids?”

“I’d be on the run, so not me.”

“Carol, then. All alone. Poor Carol.”

“Yeah. Poor Carol…” he agrees, voice suddenly grave.

A few minutes pass, comfortable yet somehow charged silence surrounding you. When he speaks again, his tone shifts—still dark, but less grave.

"Ever been to Europe?" he asks, breaking the stillness.

The unexpected question leaves you momentarily flustered.

“Uh, yeah, I, uhm… I went backpacking there a million years ago,” you stutter.

His eyes narrow slightly. "Really?"

“Why is that so hard to believe?" you challenge, squinting back at him.

“Just a little surprising, I suppose.” 

He meets your gaze without flinching, a spark of something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes.

“I’m actually planning a trip to Belgium. Come have a look at this.”

He beckons you closer with two fingers, the gesture innocent and yet, paired with your clouded judgment and current state of mind, borderline obscene.

Carefully, you put your two feet down on the floor, taking a moment to test your balance. Once confident you won’t topple over again, you step over to his side of the workspace. You lean over his desk, one hand on the table and one on the armrest of the office chair he’s seated in, squinting at the screen. It’s probably very interesting, pictures and lists of things to do and see abroad, but the only thing you can focus on is the sliver of ass you know is revealed when you bend over in this particular skirt. You’d usually wear something more work appropriate, even just a pair of hot pants underneath. But this weather… This heat…

Dave’s gaze is just as scorching as he awaits your reaction, and you can tell he’s working hard not to let his eyes wander. Just like you do, when from the corner of your eye you spot his hand moving absentmindedly up and down his thigh, resting a little too long at the top, thumb grazing his groin.

“Want me to bring you something back?” he asks, voice low, close to a whisper, as if worried someone could hear him. 

You shift your weight from one leg to the other, giving your feet a little more space between them, making room between your thighs. Suddenly, his fingers graze the insides of your thighs and his hand trails upwards, coming to rest over the wet patch of your underwear, damp from your excitement or from the temperature you’re not sure. An audible sigh escapes you at the contact. He responds with a groan of his own as he starts drawing circles over your clothed clit.

“I’ve heard they have great chocolate,” you stutter in response to his question.

“Yeah? You got a sweet tooth?”

You wish desperately he would touch your skin, and try to angle your hips so he can slip a finger under your panties, but he just follows your movements, touching you through the fabric. You only hum in response.

“God, this isn’t right…” you hear him whisper to himself. You don’t disagree, yet neither of you make a move to stop.

His hands move to rest on your hips, and he slowly turns you to face him. Soft fingers grip you tightly. The insides of his legs brush the bare skin of your own, making you shiver despite the heat. Your eyes flutter shut.

“Look at me,” he says, pleading. So you do. The darkness of his eyes pull you in, and you’re almost taken over by the urge to lean down and kiss him. As you start to bend down, one hand resting on his shoulder, his hands on your hips keep you in place. At a distance.

“Tell me we shouldn’t do this.” His eyes rake over your body, taking you in, short fingernails digging into your skin. “Tell me this is wrong.”

It wouldn’t be a lie. It really is, and you really shouldn’t. So you’re not sure why throw one leg over his and straddle his thigh. A buzz shoots through you as your swollen core meets the tight muscle of his leg. You’re so close to him like this. So close you can feel the warm puffs of his quickened breath fan your skin, with a faint scent of coffee, toothpaste, and something else, indistinct but distinctly Dave.

Details of his complexion you’ve never noticed before become clear. The worry lines between his brows. The sharp curve of his cupid’s bow. The few hairs he’d missed while shaving, probably in a hurry, that morning.

Almost unwillingly your hips start drawing small circles, chasing release. Dave’s hands haven’t moved an inch, still gripping your hips, following your movements. His eyes are fixed at where your legs clasp around his own, soft movements growing erratic as your pleasure pulls you further.

Under his clothes he’s fully hard now, the fabric of his dress pants stretching around his erection. You imagine the weight of him in your hand, how your fingers would barely meet around his shaft when you jerk him off. You shift forward, thrusting, wanting desperately to feel him, but he holds you in place, pulling his own hips away from you.

“Nuh-uh.” One of his hands releases its grip on you and rises to gently cup your face. The tips of his fingers barely brush your skin. “Not like that.”

“What?” you breathe.

“Just…” Dave’s face contorts slightly as he sighs. “Just take what you need. What you want.”

You continue to grind on his thick thigh, drenching his trousers with each movement. Back and forth, clenching around nothing. As your breath quickens, you hunch over more and more, forehead eventually landing on Dave’s shoulder. Your teeth come down on the soft flesh of your cheek, and you chew, molars slicing through the skin until you taste blood. 

“Come on,” he purrs, his voice hoarse and vibrating in your ear. “Come on, baby, give it to me.”

“I’m gonna–

Your mouth falls open in silent moan, and you bite down on his shoulder to keep from making a sound, soaking his already damp cotton shirt in saliva and drops of blood from the inside of your mouth. His grip on your hips is relentless, and he groans through his gritted teeth as you fall over the edge.

“Fucking… come… on.”

And you do.

Your thighs clench around Dave’s, and you can feel him tense up as well, sending new waves of pleasure through your core. The buzzing vibration runs from your middle, through your spine, and sets off another spark at the very top of your skull. Your hairs stand up, goosebumps. The blood pumping in your ears deafens you momentarily. 

With your nose buried in his neck, nuzzled behind his ear, you take a few breaths to restrain yourself. His hands are looser on you now, thumbs drawing small circles on your hip bones. His chest rises and falls underneath you, slowing in time with yours.

And just as you’re about to lift your head from his shoulder, not quite ready to face the reality of what has just happened, what you’ve done, someone else breaks the silence.

“Daddy!”

Molly’s sleepy voice is unmistakable from down the hall. Dave’s hands are off you in a second, and you barely have time to react before he’s on his feet.

“Dave, I’ll take her–”

But he’s already out the door.

Once you’ve flattened your skirt and straightened up in the hallway bathroom, you find them in the kitchen. Molly is blabbering, Alice yawning, while Dave is listening and laughing, arranging their lunch in funny shapes on their plates. Cucumbers for eyes, a slice of bell pepper for a pair of red lips, a piece of mushroom becomes the nose. The children giggle at their Dad’s shenanigans. 

You stand in the doorway, observing. Domestic bliss. They’re not your kids and he’s not your husband, and this moment is not for you. As the kids’ laughter and the clang of kitchenware reverberates through the open kitchen, you catch yourself wondering how Dave will explain the stains you made on his clothes to Carol.

taglist:

@hellfire-state-of-mind @janaispunk @joelscruff @takochansugoi @paanchusblog

@pastelpinkflowerlife @mountainsandmayhem @inept-the-magnificent @bitccchmood @sullyselena

@akjnoris @teanbean521 @joelalorian @lucifurrr @theetherealbloom

@lightdragonrayne @skbeaumont @itsjoelver @fhatbhabiee @peachesandcreams-world

@clownd1ck @alwayscairo @halfpastgrace @clarysthing @mellymbee

@seasonaldelusion @scenaaario @punkshort @frogturtlejr @kt86

@sweetperfectioncloud @hannahkatharine @fandomoniumflurry @emisreadingstuff @knopes-waffles

@your-teeth-glow-in-the-dark @rsquared31 @r3dheadedwitch @alejaa-a @myhappyplaceofstuff

@yodasgreenthumb @dovedewdrop @saradika @clawdee @harrisonispunk

@lostfleurs @always-andromeda @amanitacowboy

#dave york #dave york smut #dave york x reader #dave york fanfiction #dave york x female reader #equalizer 2 #my writing #ahhhhhhhHHHHHHH

[randomdragonfires]

Time Can't Stop Me Quite Like You Did | Chapter 2

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

Chapter 2 | And So, We Begin Again

SUMMARY | She leans on the doorway and watches as Aemond Targaryen takes a lengthy drag out of his cigarette - tiny embers of the burning tip being the only light in all the space around him. He is withdrawn and lost in his own thoughts, always - just as she knows him to be.

It is at this moment that it strikes her.

It's him that she's in love with. It's always been him.

WARNINGS | 18+; SMUT; Angst with a Happy Ending; Grooming; Attempted Rape/Non-Con; Blood and Injury; Violence

WORD COUNT | 10.2k

Check out the lovely artwork my friend @azperja has made for this fic, HERE!

IT'S A LONGSTANDING BIRTHDAY TRADITION OF THEIRS. 

For each of Daeron’s birthdays, she comes in with two drinks in hand. Her choice is a Sunspearino, while his is an Iron Throne Iced Tea. There’s also a box of lemon cakes from the King’s Landing Roastery, a huge chain of cafes co-owned by two of her eight older half-siblings. It's a place they often visit when she craves coffee.

Sometimes, they would sneak whiskey from Viserys’ liquor cabinet, mixing it into their drinks while lounging on his bed. They'd watch the rom-com she selects, spending the afternoon together before Alicent’s planned dinner, a big party she always throws for each of her children's birthdays every year. Initially, their mothers arranged snacks and playdates, but as they grew, it evolved into what it is now. However, this year, on his seventeenth, it would seem that the tradition is at its end.

She has been waiting for him for three hours.

The house staff let her in and inform her that Daeron isn’t home. Despite their recent strain, she was confident he wouldn't forget her and their time on his birthday.

He’ll come, she thinks.

The clock's tick-tock seems never-ending as she hopes for his arrival to drown it out.

He'll walk in right now, and apologize for being late, she thinks.

The posters on his wall appear to mock her, reminding her of the disrupted tradition caused by a girl he's been seeing for less than a month. She wants to cry, to tear the papers to shreds and glue.

Any moment now, she thinks.

Her fingers dig into his mattress, catching her charm bracelet on a loose stray thread. It pricks her wrist as she waits, tears blurring her vision and wetting her skirt. He’s going to come right now, she thinks.

The ice in her Sunspearino, a strong black coffee with three sugars, has completely melted, forming a layer of water on top. The melted ice creates drops on the to-go cup, making her wait evident.

He's on his way, she thinks.

Perhaps she is wrong. With every passing second, her faith in him dwindles.

How did they come to this?

Her heart weighs heavy as she finally gathers the courage to stand up and leave. She takes her drink but leaves his, hoping he'll realize what he forgot when he returns to find her gone. Would he even think of her?

He’s not coming.

She leans out of his window, watching Alicent oversee the garden's decor for the outdoor birthday party. She knows what it’ll look like, having attended many of these before. Fairy lights, candles, good wine, and delicious food - she has fond memories of Daeron’s birthday parties. Last year, he convinced the string quartet to play a song they could dance to, and he spun her around - making her feel like she could fly high, higher and higher still.

The longer she stares, the blurrier her vision becomes. Rubbing her red, puffy eyes, she walks out, each step feeling heavier than the last. Helaena and Aegon will likely arrive later in the night, and her own city-residing siblings may make an appearance. Aemond will be coaxed out of hiding, and they'll all have a good time. She won't join tonight, and as she resolves to stay away, she wonders.

Is he bringing Floris Baratheon tonight?

She closes the doorknob with a flick as she steps out.

Will Floris sit with him as she has for all these years? Held by him, as she has desired for so long?

She clenches the drink tightly, some of the coffee spilling onto her hand as she allows the tears to fall.

Will he kiss Floris and dance with her this year, just as he did with her?

She walks swiftly, hoping to remain unnoticed as she desperately hides her face within her hair, which falls on either side of her shoulders like a dark curtain, allowing in just the right amount of light.

Will he even consider her presence? Will he--

First, she hears the moans, then she notices the slightly open door.

She is not quite in the headspace to make out what’s happening, but she knows this for a fact - she is not meant to see. 

The drink slips down her hand and spills in a puddle, wetting her shoes and the carpet that she has no doubt will be cleaned up by angry staff in the next few hours. She gasps just enough for the woman, in between whose thighs Aemond Targaryen’s unmistakable head is nestled - the longer silver hair, an easy contrast to the haircut of the younger brother that she is very familiar with is a dead giveaway - to hear, and she looks straight at her.

She’s got striking green eyes, jet black hair and a piercing gaze that makes her want to squirm. Alys Rivers is definitely enjoying herself as Aemond continues his ministrations with his tongue between her legs. Her moans, each of which are loud and encouraging to him, come as she maintains steady eye contact with her as her own tear-struck, heavy eyes struggle to make sense of the scene before her.

She is older than his mother, and he’s just eighteen.

She runs. 

Her foot kicks away the discarded coffee cup in her rush, drawing Aemond's attention to the unexpected audience. She hears him swearing faintly as she runs. First, the sound of the door closing, then opening again, but she doesn't stick around to find out what happens next.

What had she walked into?

Alys Rivers - she's seen her at numerous gatherings with her father. Co-owner of Harrenhal Communications with her brothers Larys and Harwin Strong, all children of her school's principal, Lionel. Alys isn't close to Aemond's age, and that worries her. But she can't figure out what to do - her legs are moving faster than her mind can process. She heads to the garden, intending to leave, but Alicent spots her and beckons her over, diverting her escape.

"Your movie time ended early! Come try the cak -” 

"He didn't show," she blurts, noticing Alicent's softening and then hardening expression.

"I'm so sorry, my sweet." Alicent begins.

"It's fine. He was probably busy," she replies, struggling to think clearly. She just wants to leave, but Alicent insists she stay for the party. Overwhelmed, she pleads to go home, and Alicent eventually lets her go.

She's almost out when Aemond catches up and pulls her outside the gate to avoid any messy explanations. He's about to tell her something she's not ready for, she knows. As he grabs her shoulders and gazes into her eyes, she realizes she wasn't prepared for this when she arrived.

“You can’t tell anyone, Wylde.”

His words serve as a vivid reminder of the scene she has just witnessed. Aemond, buried between Alys Rivers' thighs, while Alys locked eyes with her, as if daring her to acknowledge the ecstasy. Startled, she spilled her drink and ran, ran, ran-

"How long?" she manages to ask through the fog in her mind, her grip tightening on her skirt, unable to face him, thoughts swirling in her head.

"A little over six months," he admits.

He turned eighteen six months ago. Apparently, they had been involved since he became legal to make his own decisions. The implications dawn on her - had she pursued him when he was younger? Her breath catches.

"Is she... is this..." she looks up, and Aemond, sweating, grapples with the sudden exposure of his clandestine affair. "Is she... she's old enough to be your mother!"

Silence engulfs them, the kind that’s not comfortable. Aemond's tight grip startles her, and his furious violet eye, contrasting with his brother's, glares at her. "Don't be stupid. Don't tell anyone, and you'll listen to me -" he asserts, the anger palpable.

She suggests, "Is she grooming you? Gods, is it blackmail? Should I tell your mother? Are you afraid? I-"

“Fucking hell,” he seethes. “She’s not fucking grooming me, you’d think that I’m smart enough to not let that happen to me -”

“Aemond, you can tell me.” She struggles with her words.

"You're fucking dumb, Wylde," he retorts sharply, his words spilling faster than he can process. His prosthetic eye appears to take on a life of its own in his rage.

“People usually deny it first. You don’t have to, it’s just me and I want to hel-”

“You’re fucking dumb, Wylde.” The words tumble out of his lips faster than his mind can catch up. She sees the way his jaw tightens and she knows Aemond has always been angry and too quick to react, but she is not prepared for the way his throat bobs as he swallows and prepares to strike at her heart.

“Perhaps if you weren’t such an idiot and jumped to stupid conclusions, Daeron would actually fucking like you back.”

The words are painful, harsh and probably true, and they hit her like whiplash. 

With what she’d seen of Aemond and Alys Rivers, she had momentarily forgotten what she was actually at the house for. But it all comes back to her as she curls into herself as much as she can in his hold, the tears free falling in her embarrassment and sadness. Her head faces down and she refuses to let him see, and it is all becoming a bit much.

She feels her legs become wobbly and she wants to breathe and be let go of so she can run to the comforts of her room like the coward that she is - but she cannot get her body to listen. It refuses to comply and move and she stands there, still held in Aemond’s vice grip as he mutters Valyrian curses under his breath - she’s heard Daeron mutter some of the words before. He smells strongly of coffee and cigarettes and it is too much, too much -

“Shit, fuck, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, I’m so fucking sorr-”

“Let go of me, Aemond.” Her voice is eerily calm and she can see that it momentarily stuns him. He doesn’t let go, however. “I’m sorry, Wylde. Just… you can’t fucking tell. I-”

“Let. Go.” She tries to wrangle out of his hold and he refuses to let her leave until she agrees to keep his secret. Her mind is running a mile a minute as she imagines Aemond being a young lad, being preyed on by an older woman and not knowing a thing. She does not want to keep his dirty secret, she wants to go-

“LET GO OF ME, AEMOND!”

Her louder tone seems to have attracted Criston Cole’s attention, and he’s quick to rush to them and pull Aemond away from her. His black shirt-clad figure moves away from her and she is stunned - so bloody stunned - and not at all prepared for Criston’s low voice. 

"Your mother is looking for you," he tells Aemond, who leaves, imploring her silence with his stoic gaze - one that he does not drop till he’s out of her sight.

"Are you alright?" Criston asks, checking her for injuries. She mumbles apologies and retreats.

“No.” Her voice is cracked and the bodyguard is at a loss for words - he’s not quite used to comforting teenage girls, she can tell. She uses this as her cue to hastily mumble her apologies, and the trusty guardian does nothing as she walks away.

Later that night, she’s locked up in her room, nestled under the covers as she thinks over all that has happened. She’s sure that the party at Maegor’s is in full swing, and that they’re all probably having loads of fun.

Without her. 

Her brother, one that she does not see often, texts her and asks why she isn’t there. He says he'll be staying at Rain House tonight, and she does not respond. Alicent texts her to check if she’s eaten. Helaena texts her and asks if she’s home so she can come over, and Aegon sends her a plain, “Where the fuck are you, Wylde?”

It makes her want to cry.

Aemond does not bother with her at all - and if she's being honest, she’d say she’s glad for the distance he’s put between them in the last few hours. Almost an hour later, when it’s close to midnight, Daeron texts her. 

I’m sorry, can we talk? 

She lets her phone fall away, leaving him to make his own assumptions. She is reminded once again of the hours she spent in his room today, waiting for him to come. She feels pathetic, wondering if he thought so less of her that he’d chosen to forego something that they’d done for years, without so much as a warning. She feels the tears prick at her eyes once more, but she is resolute - she will not spend any more time crying or missing a boy that did not want to give her time of day anymore.

When she looks back, she is thoroughly convinced that this is the day that she finally fell out of love with her best friend, even if she isn’t quite ready to admit to it yet.

OVER THE COMING WEEKS, HER LIFE BLURS into a haze of avoidance, deliberately steering clear of anything related to the Targaryens. At school, she strategically distances herself from Daeron, swiftly darting away when the bell rings, determined not to give him a chance to approach her.

"I don't want to speak to him," she asserts to Elinor Beesbury, her gaze fixed on her untouched food. Daeron’s persistent attempts to reconcile only fuel her resolve to keep her distance. It's a delicate balance between her lingering attachment and the painful recognition that their bond has irreversibly shifted.

Elinor studies her with concern, "You'll have to let go at some point, love."

She nods silently, acknowledging the futility of holding onto resentment. Months of grappling with her feelings have taught her the necessity of moving on. Yet, the wounds still sting fresh, the memories of his repeated indifference are etched into her heart.

"Soon. But not now," she affirms.

"Alright, just so you know, I hear Floris Baratheon's asked him to come with her to her senior prom," Elinor adds, trying to infuse levity into the conversation. But the prospect of Daeron moving on so swiftly brings forth an unsettling wave of emotions, mingling with her lingering frustration.

“Come on, don’t be like that! You're sexy and awesome, and he's a piece of shit! Like, sexy is… in your blood! Wasn’t a great grandmother of yours like, the OG sex guru or something?”

“Great great great great great great grandmother. And she wasn’t a sex guru, she was the first recorded published author of erotic fiction  in Westeros!”

Many in the world know of Coryanne Wylde, with the wild woman being known for having written A Caution For Young Girls - an erotic cult classic that opened the doors for erotic literature in Westeros. History candidates in college end up reading it sometimes for their lessons, and it never fails to surprise her.

“Exactly! You get it from your grandma! And next year, our prom is gonna be so sexy, babe. You mark my words!” She grimaces at the suggestion of involving herself with another boy, her focus fixated on Daeron and what little that remains. Despite her friend's efforts to lighten the mood, the weight of her unresolved emotions lingers - she supposes it will take a bit of time.

Heading to her locker after lunch, her path unexpectedly intersects with Aemond, whose intense presence startles her. The curious gazes of their peers heighten the tension, drawing attention to their rare encounter. Aemond's enigmatic aura, accentuated by his leather jacket and disheveled man bun, exudes an unsettling magnetism, contrasting sharply with Daeron's more approachable charm.

Her mind involuntarily delves into the memories of Alys Rivers, a stark reminder of Aemond's heavily inappropriate relationship that she is now privy to. The betrayal, the hurt, the raw emotions from what he’d said to her later surge within her, and she blurts out, "What do you want?" with an edge of apprehension, unwilling to be drawn into another tumultuous dynamic.

Aemond stands so close that she can feel the warmth of his breath, and she is stunned by how, within days of stepping away from Daeron, she's standing so close to Aemond, especially after having not even properly spoken to him in many years. They both stand in the corner of the corridor with their backs leaned back against the lockers. Aemond surprisingly murmurs to her, asking if she and Daeron are fighting because she wasn't at his birthday party or the Sunday lunch. She grunts at him, her non-response making her emotions clear.

You’re fucking dumb, Wylde.

Perhaps if you weren’t such an idiot and jumped to stupid conclusions, Daeron would actually fucking like you back.

He seems to wrestle with something within himself, his jaw clenching before he finally speaks. "I didn't mean what I said that day, you know. I was angry and it came out all wrong."

She scoffs, her hand shaking as she points a finger at him. "It doesn't matter! You had no right to say those things to me."

Aemond's grip on her wrist startles her, his commanding gaze penetrating her defenses. Despite her efforts to distance herself, she finds herself drawn into a tense exchange, confronting the pain he had caused her at Daeron's birthday.

The conflict within Aemond surfaces, his facade of aloofness crumbling as he attempts to reconcile with her. Her anger flares, yet the sting of his remorse momentarily softens her resolve, only to be replaced by the bitterness of his persistent complications.

Aemond's expression falls, and he reaches out as if to touch her, but hesitates and drops his hand to his side. "I know, I'm sorry, Wylde. But you have to understand, it's not easy for me either."

As hurt as she is by his words, she knows she wants to help him and see him through the mess he’s gotten himself into with Alys Rivers - even if he doesn’t see it that way right now. So she chooses to reach out. Just one more time.

“Then tell me. What's going on? Aemond, I know we haven't been close in a long while, but I want to help.”

Aemond's gaze softens, and he opens his mouth and shuts it close, almost as though he wants to say something but opts not to - but she's had enough. She does not want to be put in a difficult position where she’s navigating relationship dynamics that are probably a lot more problematic than anything she’s ever known - especially not if he doesn’t even want to tell her.

Pushing away from the lockers, she turns to walk away, her steps quickening with each stride. But before she can get far, she feels a surge of frustration and pain erupt within her, and she turns around, her voice raised to a shout. "I don't want to hear from you or him, ever again! You’ve both done enough."

She looks around for just a moment, very conscious of the students that were now noting them by the corner of their eyes. She knows she shouldn’t go on, and that if she did, they’d become gossip fodder - but she cannot help herself.

“You Targaryens have got everyone wrapped around your finger, don't you? Think you can say whatever you want and get away with it," she lashes out, her voice trembling with the weight of her wounded trust.

Aemond winces, the impact of her words evident in his pained expression. "I never wanted to hurt you, Wylde. Things are complicated and I…" he murmurs, gulping as his gaze pleads with hers for understanding. But her resolve remains unyielding, fueled by a well of hurt and resentment.

"I don't care about your complications. You had no right saying those things to me, and now I want you to leave me the fuck alone."

HE'S ALWAYS HAD STRONG FEELINGS ABOUT THE YOUNGEST WYLDE BEING A PART OF THEIR LIVES.

Aemond can't quite discern the exact nature of his emotions. She has been a constant presence in the family ever since her family returned to the Red Keep town all those years ago, after her father secured his place as one of the executive directors on the board of Targaryen Consolidated. Over time, Jasper Wylde had grown to be a reliable work companion to his father, leaving his wife and youngest daughter behind to reside near his boss' family.

When her second pregnancy failed and Jeyne Wylde passed, their young daughter seamlessly fell in with the Hightower-Targaryen fold under the care of his mother. Rain House had become desolate with Jasper's older children from previous marriages moving away, and the young girl was sadly left behind.

Aemond isn't certain what his mother had in mind when she practically ushered the Wylde girl into his and his siblings' lives thereafter. She had never been keen on outsiders stepping into their lives as much as Wylde had. Yet, he couldn't find it within himself to complain.

Through life's ebbs and flows - be it his eye or her mother's passing - she had always been there, gradually weaving herself into their existence. Before he knew it, she had become a daily fixture in their lives - laughing as Aegon spun her around, attempting to flirt with her; accompanying Helaena on her bug expeditions across the estate; reading quietly with him in his father's library during their childhood and transforming into Daeron's shadow in every way. She was always there when he embarked on mischief, a quintessential trait for any youngest child.

Daeron was the prankster, and she, the lookout. Always.

He witnessed their first day of school together, navigating the challenges of being around children other than each other. He observed their struggles with tying uniform ties for weeks until Alicent stepped in to teach them. He's seen her occasional presence at breakfast, sometimes ending up in the car with them on the way to campus.

He listened to their endless chatter, her incessant and somewhat annoying foot tapping during weekend lunch conversations when she felt uneasy or self-conscious, and the way Daeron's friendship with his best friend had grown stronger over the years. He noticed how her gaze upon Daeron had evolved, her friendship gradually transforming into something more, something his younger brother clearly did not appreciate or reciprocate.

He has watched and listened. For years, it's been his means of engagement during times when he preferred not to be directly involved. Perhaps, if others did the same, they might uncover why Wylde hadn't returned to Maegor's since Daeron's birthday.

"I don't know, Mum. I texted her, but she didn't respond," Daeron says.

The chair next to his younger brother remains empty, and curiously enough, the atmosphere during lunch seems quieter than usual. Aemond attributes this to Wylde's absence. Her mindless chatter effortlessly filled the gaps of awkwardness, and now, the Targaryens were left to grapple with a Sunday afternoon meal without the lively girl.

"You should apologize to her in person," his mother advises Daeron, yet her gaze remains fixed on him. His eyes inadvertently shift to Cole, who undoubtedly divulged details about the incident he had with Wylde outside the gates after she had seen him and Alys.

How much do they know?

"She's been avoiding me like the plague, Mum. I'll give her some time to cool off, I suppose."

He's watched, listened, and picked up cues over the years. It comes in handy with his mother, who never lets her emotions overpower her. Any instinctual response she has is always gone in a flash - quicker than you know - and right now is no exception. She wants to get Daeron to see sense - but if there’s one thing that Alicent Hightower has given her children, it’s autonomy.

Given how little he believes she had of it when his grandfather essentially pushed her into his father's arms, Aemond has always appreciated that it's the one thing she'd never take away from her children. He knows she has made peace with watching her children make peculiar choices she wouldn't make, but it's not her burden until they make it clear they need her. Her palpable anger at Daeron's indifference towards his best friend dissipates as swiftly as it emerged.

He knows she's concerned. They all are. Jasper Wylde is rarely present, and Rain House is a hollow residence compelled to seem lively with the presence of staff. It had been a much warmer place long ago, back when Jeyne Wylde was alive. His mother has always considered the youngest Wylde one of her own, and she's cared for her over the years as well.

"She doesn't pick up when I call either," his mother muses, her furrowed brow betraying her stoic nature and making her momentary worry obvious. However, Aemond knows. He watches and listens, always.

Just a few days ago, while atop his motorbike, he heard that Jason Lannister had asked her out on a date.

Lannister had started on the school football team when Wylde's half-brother was captain. While he made his interest in his former captain's little sister known, he knew better than to make it obvious to her brother.

He had never favored the golden-haired fool. Now in the same final year of school as Aemond, the current football team captain is shallow, self-absorbed, and, in a way that puzzles him, still popular among the students. He fails to see the appeal of someone like him - he prefers Tyland, who is much easier to converse with and not easily provoked. He always assumed that Wylde was wise enough not to slip up.

He had assumed wrong.

She was likely out with Jason, learning to replace her Sunday lunch times at his house with something else. Adjusting won't happen swiftly, he knows. It takes a great deal to disrupt an established routine - but he won't hold it against her. It was obvious to him that Daeron started it first.

"You can't be upset with me for having a girlfriend, Mum. Neither can she... It's not fair. Things change," Daeron huffs. “You’re both ruining it for me. Floris has asked me to go to her senior prom with her, and I’m going. I'm sorry that you both will probably hate me for it, but she should get over herself, and so should you!”

His mother does nothing apart from poking at the insides of her cheek with her tongue. Wylde's absence looms over the house whenever awkwardness settles, and this time is no exception. Daeron sighs at his mother's subtle disappointment and storms out, muttering about having dinner with Floris.

It doesn’t escape Aemond's notice that in a better time, he'd actually be grabbing breakfast pancakes for dinner with Wylde instead. Aemond recalled the last time she'd come for lunch. Her foot tapping had bothered him so much that he nearly contemplated plunging his fork into her thigh to make it stop. She seemed highly anxious that day, evident in the relentless tap, tap, tap, tap of her feet.

Not seeing her for a while, the absence of the irritating sound, usually accompanied by the loud jingle of her bracelet on the hand she keeps near her thigh, should bring him a sense of calm. It shouldn't bother him at all.

But it does. It does, it does, it does.

[A MONTH LATER, PROM NIGHT]

STANDING THERE IN HER EXQUISITE PROM DRESS - the fabric shimmers in a delicate blend of blue and gold - she can't shake the feeling of unease gnawing at her insides. It's a dress she painstakingly picked out, hoping it will add a touch of glamour to this otherwise mundane high school memory. But now, amid the flashy lights and pulsating music, it feels like a facade, a flimsy disguise.

Her mind drifts back to those countless mindless hours she's spent with Jason in the past month, now seeming like distant echoes of a hazy past. Going to football games with his jersey on, pretending to blend seamlessly into his world, she often finds herself feeling like an impostor, a misfit amidst his circle of friends. On her way back home from one of the games, she’d caught Aemond's gaze as she passed by their house. He was seated on his motorbike, getting ready to go out somewhere as he lifted his helmet in his hands, his loose messy bun probably about to get messier from the helmet. In that brief moment, she was sure she’d seen an expression of silent disapproval as he raised his eyebrow at the oversized jersey hanging loosely on her frame. It felt like an unspoken judgment, and she couldn't help but feel out of place - an outsider masquerading as a loyal fan in a world that was never truly hers.

She had curled into herself right then and there. She owes him nothing - just as he owes her no explanation about his messy entanglement with Alys Rivers - but it was not enough to make her feel confident in her choice.

As the days go by, she finds herself entangled in a half-hearted routine of a seemingly typical high school relationship with Jason. They often spend their afternoons at the local diner, sipping on milkshakes and sharing fries, engaging in shallow conversation that never quite delved into the depths of her thoughts. On Friday nights, they would go to the movies, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders, the scent of buttered popcorn lingering in the air. And then, they’d usually end up in her bed.

She enjoyed the sex. She wouldn’t deny it. Jason Lannister knew what he was doing. 

But it wasn’t enough.

Despite the outward appearance of bliss, there lingered a persistent emptiness, a hollow void that echoed within her. She had become a fragment of someone else's world, a mere accessory in the narrative of Jason's life, her own desires fading into the background of their mindless high school romance. And as she retraced these moments, each memory served as a silent reminder of the gaping chasm between her facade of contentment and the relentless ache for something more, something she had yet to discover.

Lost. She is lost.

Standing at the prom, she feels suffocated, trapped in a reality where she has pushed away those who cared for her. 

Floris Baratheon's entrance shifts the atmosphere, drawing everyone's attention with her elegance. Beside her is Daeron, exuding a charming confidence that had always captivated her. Her heart sinks as she realizes that he'll never truly belong to her.

Her gaze meets Daeron's, and she senses a detachment that cuts through her. She stands there, feeling the weight of her insignificance in his life, a mere footnote in his story.

As she turns away, her gaze skimming over the flashy arrival of the popular couple, her attention is drawn to Aemond. He stands aloof in the corner, his immaculately pressed shirt forming a stark contrast to the nonchalance with which his jacket lay carelessly slung over the edge of the nearby bench. A small group of girls from his year encircle him, all seemingly tied to his on-and-off fling, Arianne Martell, whom he has an arm draped around.

A familiar pang on condescension accompanies the sight of his disinterested expression, almost as if it were a trademark of his persona. She isn't taken aback; it seemed to be ingrained in Aemond's very being to treat those around him as if they were inconsequential. How many times has she attempted to initiate a conversation with him, only to be met with cold indifference or a curt dismissal? It is a pattern she has grown accustomed to, yet it still stings with a twinge of rejection each time.

Does Arianne know about the woman that he fucks when he’s not with her? Does she know she’s competing with someone like Alys Rivers?

As she climbs back out of her thoughts and becomes cognizant of her surroundings, she finds that his one violet eye is trained on her. And his gaze is nowhere close to normal as he eyed her date, and observed him being an utter fool in his drunkenness.

For some reason, the thought of Aemond being disappointed in her makes her want to scream.

As she glances around the crowded room, the euphoric energy of the dance floor slowly dissipated, replaced by discomfort. She finds herself feeling suffocated, trapped in a reality she couldn't quite escape - she’s pushed away those that wanted her, so what choice did she have anyhow? 

Jason, in an inebriated state, becomes oblivious to her unease, accentuating her sense of alienation. Overwhelmed by her emotions, she excuses herself, seeking solace in the corridors.

What a waste.

She hasn’t been alone for long when Jason catches up to her, his demeanor laced with a restless energy that seems to mirror her own nervousness. He leans in, his voice laced with a casual nonchalance that grated on her raw nerves. "It’s starting to get boring, I think. I'm ready to bolt. You wanna get out of here?"

She musters a weak smile, attempting to downplay the unease that swirls within her. She’s not quite sure when he’d gotten to standing so close to her, but her discomfort is overpowering and apparent as she inhales the scent of his cologne. "I don't know, Jason. I think I might just stick around for a bit longer." Her voice quivers slightly, betraying the weakness that she struggles to hide.

But Jason seems undeterred by her apprehension. His hand slowly slides around her hip through the fabric of her dress, a touch that sends shivers down her spine, though not in the way she usually longs for. He moves closer, his breath warm against her ear as he whispers. "Come on, it'll be fun. Let's get out of here together."

She tries to step back, to free herself from his grasp, but his hold only tightens, encircling her with an intensity that borders on limitless possessiveness. The glint in his eyes, clouded by the effects of the spiked punch, flickers with a hint of something darker, something she refused to acknowledge until now. She looks to the side, trying to see if she could escape, trying to see anything but him. "Don't be like that, babe. You know you want to be with me."

A surge of fear courses through her, freezing her in place as she feels the cold, hard wall against her back. She leans her head back, her breaths coming in short, panicked gasps as she struggles to find her voice. "Jason, please... let me go."

But his grip remains unyielding, his touch branding her skin with an invisible imprint that fills her with a sense of helplessness. His hand grips onto her wrist, pressing the charms of her gold bracelet into her skin - it will bruise later, she knows. His voice takes on a harsh edge, a sharp contrast to the charming facade she has come to know. 

"Come on, you know you want this.”

In that moment, as the weight of his possession bears down on her, she feels a surge of anger rise within her, mingling with the fear that threatens to consume her. She pushes against him, her voice rising in desperation. "Let me go, Jason."

But his fingers only tighten further, his breath hot against her cheek as he leans in, his eyes clouded with a sense of entitlement she had never noticed before. "You don't get to say no, not now." She could feel her heart racing, her mind sprinting for a way out of this suffocating grip. Panic seizes her, and as she struggles against his hold, her eyes brim with tears that threaten to spill over. She could feel a slight wetness where her charm bracelet had dug into her skin - blood, pricking through her skin in small spots of dark red. 

She’s not quite sure how the scene changes, but it does. All she sees is a flash of silver hair zooming past her, taking Jason down with him.

Aemond.

In the dimly lit corridor, the scene transforms - a blur of chaos and violence as Aemond's fists rain down on Jason, each blow punctuated by a guttural grunt. Jason's face is a mess of blood and fury, his attempts to fend off Aemond's relentless assault futile as he claws and thrashes in a desperate bid for escape.

Aemond's voice cuts through the chaos, edged with a raw fury that she has never heard before. “Fucking stay away from her… stay the fuck away.” Each word is punctuated by a wild hit to the football team captain’s face.

Jason's cries of pain mingle with his own enraged shouts - a mix of aggression and retaliation. "You crazy bastard! Get the fuck off me!" Jason's words are punctuated by the sickening thud of Aemond's fists connecting with his flesh. “Targaryen, for Gods’ sake…”

As the violent altercation unfolds before her, she finds herself unable to process the reality of the situation. The air seems to thicken around her, suffocating her with its weight, and she slumps down to the floor, her hands pressing firmly against her ears in a futile attempt to block out the cacophony of pain and anger as she rocks herself back and forth.

Tears stream down her cheeks, her sobs blending seamlessly with the chaos that engulfs her. She feels the slick warmth of her blood from when the charms on her bracelet had dug into her wrist, now dripping down her arm and onto her elbow - a visceral reminder of the brutal consequences that had been averted by Aemond's timely intervention. Her vision blurs with the weight of her own helplessness, the fear of what might have been gripping her with an intensity she had never known before.

Aemond's voice slices through the chaos with a relentless intensity. "Touch her once again and I’ll make you regret your miserable life!" 

Each word carries a seething rage, matching the force of each brutal strike that fell. Jason's desperate cries are swallowed by the unyielding onslaught, his pleas for respite being drowned out by the unrelenting ferocity of Aemond's fury. "Please, just stop! I didn't mean it!" 

But Aemond's resolve remained unyielding, his voice laced with an unwavering determination. "You're not going to touch her again, you hear me? Not ever! You so much as look at her again…"

As the struggle continues, she feels a surge of gratitude mixed with an unshakable terror. Her mind races with the realization of what might have transpired if Aemond hadn't appeared when he did, the thought of her own vulnerability in the face of Jason's aggression sending chills down her spine. She huddles against the cold wall, her entire being trembling with a wave of fear washing over her.

As Principal Lyonel Strong steps in to diffuse the escalating confrontation, he finds himself confronted by Aemond's seething anger, his one working eye ablaze with an intensity that seems to ignite the very air around them.

"Enough, Aemond!" Principal Strong's voice thunders through the corridor, commanding attention even amidst the chaos. "This is not the way to handle things. We will sort this out, but you need to calm down." Aemond's chest heaves with unrestrained emotion, his bloodied fists clenching at his sides as he glares at the teachers who now surround him. "You don't understand! He had his hands on her! He had no right -"

One of the teachers - she can’t quite place who it is in her disturbed haze - steps forward, her expression as careful blend of concern and authority. "We understand, Aemond, but violence is never the answer. You're all students, and I need to ensure everyone's safety here."

Another teacher, his features etched with concern, attempts to reason with Aemond, his voice a measured attempt at diffusing the tension. "This is not the way to go about things, Aemond!” His jaw tightens as she looks, his gaze flitting between the teachers as he struggles to rein in his emotions. "You're not understanding me! He's not going to get away with this. He was touching her, she didn’t want it! Fucking look at her!"

Jason Lannister has gone limp, possibly unconscious from the beating he’d taken. She cannot bring herself to feel sorry for him.

Principal Strong's voice softens slightly, his stern facade giving way to a hint of understanding. "We will handle it, Aemond. But you need to go home for now. We will inform your mother, and we will discuss this further tomorrow."

Aemond's shoulders sag, the weight of the situation finally settling in as he nods, his expression a turbulent mix of frustration and concern. "Fine. But you better make sure he's dealt with. I won't let this slide. Swear to the Gods I…"

“We take allegations like these very seriously, son. But it does not change the fact that you were caught assaulting a fellow student. Remove yourself from the premises, Aemond. We will ensure that appropriate action is taken after a thorough investigation of the matter.”

The teachers come closer to her, trying to see if she is alright or if she needs to be spoken to. Their presence becomes suffocating to her really quickly as she slinks into herself, and Aemond is near her in an instant.

His voice cuts through the tense air like a sharpened blade, his words a fervent demand that brooks no argument. "Give her some fucking space, all of you! Can't you see she's had enough?”

The teachers, caught between maintaining order and understanding the gravity of the situation, exchange uneasy glances as Aemond kneels before her, his intense gaze a stark contrast to the gentleness that now flickers in his eyes. "Hey, it's okay. It’s me. Look at me, it’s me.”

Aemond. Aemond. Aemond.

“We're getting out of here," he murmurs, his voice a calming presence amidst the chaos that threatens to overwhelm her. She feels the warmth of his rough palm against her cheek, a gentle anchor that tethers her to the present, grounding her and making her feel safe. The echoes of chaos from the school corridor gradually fade into the background, replaced by the rhythmic cadence of her own ragged breaths, each one a testament to the fragile balance she now works hard to maintain.

As they walk, Aemond's voice, low and steady, resonates within her mind, a lifeline that guides her through the tumultuous waves of shock. "Breathe. In and out. You're here, with me. You're safe," he whispers, his words a soothing melody that offers solace in the aftermath of the storm.

She nestles closer to him, her body drawn to the reassuring strength that radiates from his very being. The weight of his presence envelops her, shielding her from the lingering tendrils of fear and uncertainty that threaten to consume her. With each step they take, the distance between them and the chaos of the school grows, replaced by the tranquility of the night and the sense of quietude that blankets their surroundings.

Aemond's unwavering gaze is on her as he guides her along, his touch a constant reminder that she is not alone in her struggle. "You're doing great," he murmurs, the tenderness in his voice a stark contrast to the raw intensity that underscores her earlier encounter with Jason.

Aemond's voice, usually reserved and clipped, softens as he speaks, his words a gentle murmur that cuts through the tense silence between them. "You're going to be alright," he reassures, his tone laced with a rare warmth that belies his usual stoicism. "Just take deep breaths. We'll get you out of here. Okay?”

His touch lingers on her jaw, a silent reassurance that transcends the chaos that still echoes within the confines of her mind. "Let's get you cleaned up," he suggests, a quiet and comforting invitation.

With careful precision, he removes the blood-stained bracelet, each movement deliberate and considerate. As the bracelet disappears into his pocket, a fleeting sick sense of nostalgia washes over her, a bittersweet reminder of the memories she seeks to leave behind. Aemond's intense gaze softens, his eyes reflecting a silent empathy that speaks volumes.

"You're safe now," he assures her, the weight of his words offering a sanctuary that she had thought was beyond her reach only a few moments ago.

Aemond's touch, gentle yet resolute, traces a path of solace along her jawline, each stroke a tender caress that seeks to alleviate the lingering remnants of the chaos that still pulse beneath her skin. He leans his head back as he scans her for any other injuries. "You're safe now," he murmurs again and again, his voice a steadfast anchor in the tumultuous sea of emotions that threaten to engulf her.

With a haphazardly crushed pocket square that he brings out from his other pocket (his mother has forced it upon him when he leaves for the dance), he wipes away the traces of drying blood on her arm - his movements deliberate and precise. The night's breeze carries with it the whispers of uncertainty, but in the steady rhythm of Aemond's movements, she finds a sense of fleeting calm that she had thought had eluded her grasp.

Amidst the whirlwind of emotions that still swirl within her, his repeated words of comfort seem to fade into the backdrop of her consciousness. She grasps onto the steady solidity of his presence, finding a fleeting anchor in the warmth of his protective embrace. As he settles the weight of his helmet onto her head, she feels the sturdy reassurance of his world enveloping her, the scent of leather and motor oil intermingling with the rhythm of her own turbulent thoughts. She sits and makes herself as comfortable as she can on the planes of his hard leather bike seat - she has never sat on his bike before, so it is ridiculous how familiar and made-for-her the comfort feels.

His bloodied knuckles hold the handlebars of the motorbike tight, fists turning to get the accelerator going. The silver ring that he wears and the steel bracelet he has on his wrist are coated in Jason's blood.

When had he begun wearing those?

While his hands become redder in his tight grip, and the cold air hits her calves, now exposed from her hiked-up skirts on either side of the seat, she is reminded that she is with him, and nowhere else.

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

She leans into his back, her cheek finding solace in the reassuring cushion of the interiors of his helmet. She calms down to the feeling of the contours of his spine rising and falling as her vision clears up from the dried tears under the hard glass of the pulled-down visor. Her arms wind around his chest, holding onto him for dear life as the rumble of the motorbike becomes louder and louder, the pace of the noise matching her own ragged heartbeat. The chill air of the night hits her as the school becomes but a distant figure in the distance, smoke from the motorcycle exhaust billowing behind them.

This is the closest she has been to Aemond Targaryen in years. Despite them drifting apart, it is as though all the chaos of the world could be kept at bay, at least for a fleeting moment. She doesn't know where they are going, but she finds that she doesn't care - she is at ease with him.

In the faint chill of the night, he smells of coffee, cigarettes, and smoke - a blend of comfort and safety that lingers in a moment suspended in time.

THERE ARE MANY THINGS THAT SHE KNOWS AEMOND TO DO.

He has his room cleaned each week, like clockwork. He washes that motorbike of his with his own hands every weekend, even though he has staff at the house that would do it for him each day of the week if he so wishes. He rearranges his books often when he thinks nobody is looking. Always makes sure that his clothes are pressed and ready, because Gods forbid he be found looking less than perfect. He can be found spending time with the horses at the stable on the grounds of Maegor’s Holdfast - he took to horse riding after he lost his eye, and has become quite good with intense training. He jogs in the night, always right before dinner. He reads in the house library, long after the other inhabitants of the home have gone to sleep.

Beating the living shit out of someone is not one of those things.

That show of violence is not something that she attributes to him. There’s always a resigned calmness to Aemond that she only ever sees in two other members of his family - his mother and Helaena; you never know they’re thinking.

The rest of the family seems to have something that the old, absent patriarch has funnily dubbed ‘the Targaryen fire.’ But it seems like she is wrong in her assessment, for the boy that stands before her is the complete antithesis of all that she has believed him to be.

The wrinkled white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up and bright red splotches of blood that now adorn it, is not something she associates with him. The heavy silver signet ring and Valyrian steel bracelet - an heirloom that she now remembers was given for his eighteenth birthday - are both accessories that he takes great care of. And yet, tonight, they are both doused in blood. His knuckles are bloodied and bruised, nail marks visible from where Jason tries to claw at him to make him stop - the lack of cleanliness on a sharp man like Aemond jars her.

This is a completely different side to him.

She watches as he wipes off his own hand with the pocket square that is now just as dirty as she feels. She watches him remove the hair tie that he keeps his hair looped in to keep the strays away from his face. She watches him as he hangs the helmet that he takes off of her head, and lets it dangle over the rearview mirror.

She watches, keeps her eyes on him like her life depends on it. She has to. If she doesn’t, she won’t have much else to do. If she is left to herself now, she is convinced she’ll fall apart. For her own sanity, she holds onto Aemond.

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

They stand in front of Chataya’s , the all too familiar neon lights buzzing just slightly as she leans on her back against the motorbike. His black leather riding jacket is probably three sizes bigger on her, but she feels warm in it as she pulls it tighter onto her body. The parking lot is almost empty, and the air plays with her hair as it falls haphazardly in multiple directions. The beautiful dress that she wears now feels cheap to her, and she's decided that the jewelry that she wears is now tacky. Everything that she enjoyed about herself tonight is now tainted by what has happened - she can’t bring herself to think too much about it without physically recoiling.

Shame she'll have to burn the dress.

She watches Aemond through the glass, waiting for their coffees as he stands at the cash counter - ramrod straight. His blood-stained shirt is gaining him many dirty looks from the staff, but no one dares to say a word - he is a Targaryen, after all. The Aemond that she knew back when they were younger - long before they drifted apart - wouldn’t have hit someone. He was too gentle and sweet for that.

Now, however, it’s been made clear to her that he’s willing to fight if he has to.

Aemond asks one of the waitresses for something, his hands not moving much but still enough to convey the message. The woman blushes and points him to the washroom, which he emerges out of a while later, looking comparatively cleaner, blood wiped out. He then pays for the hot drinks and walks out, placing his cup on the bike seat and nudging hers into her grip as he presses the back of her hands into either side of the cup. He is so close to her that he is exuding heat, much like a furnace.

She’d almost forgotten how beautiful she thought his mismatched pair of eyes were. She remembers now.

Her eyes remain fixed on where his hands rest over hers, attempting to warm them up with the hot cup he's holding. She can't muster much beyond a sense of comfort at this moment, acknowledging how much safer his touch feels compared to Jason's.

Jason. Jason asked her out and tried to -

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

Her coffee spills out of the to-go cup, scalding her, leaving her gasping at the brown drops on the edges of his jacket sleeves. She recovers swiftly, wiping her fists on her dress and gathering herself as best she can in her hazy state. They drink in silence, gazing ahead, observing the vehicles zooming past.

The silence is soothing, but she needs a distraction. So she speaks.

And so, after years, they begin again.

"You could have killed him," she murmurs, her eyes fixed on the steaming liquid in her cup. From the corner of her eye, she glances at him. He doesn't turn to look at her, but responds in the same tone she used.

"He would have deserved it."

She can't argue with that. "I didn't know you could punch like that."

"Neither did I." A new side to Aemond Targaryen, yet his responses remain true to his character. Direct, yet everything she needs.

They stand in silence once more as she sips her coffee. He's already finished - always a quick eater, a trait she's noticed from the many times he's hurriedly left the table in recent years - and he crushes the cup, walking to the bin to discard it. On his return, he retrieves a cigarette from his pocket and bites the tip, scanning the surroundings with a searching gaze.

Then, he removes it from his mouth, using his index and middle fingers, and looks at her as if they're just casually hanging out for coffee, not as if he just rescued her from an assault and beat up a fellow classmate to almost death in the process.

"Light?" he asks, before realizing a girl with nothing but the prom dress on her back, the jacket he gave her, and the coffee he bought for her probably doesn't have a lighter with her. He raises an eyebrow and shakes his head before heading back into Chataya's - most likely to charm the cash counter staff into lighting his cigarette despite the no-smoking policy. She watches as he does exactly that, striding out with the lit cigarette between his teeth, as if he owns the damn place.

It is a Sunday night. In an ideal world, she’d be grabbing breakfast pancakes with Daeron for dinner. Tonight however, she is outside at the parking lot, looking out of place in her dress and his jacket, with Aemond fucking Targaryen.

The way the tables have turned is not lost on her. Does Daeron even know what had happened? How Jason had -

Aemond. Aemond. Aemond.

"Daeron was there, wasn't he?" Her voice trembles as she chokes out the word, remembering the reason why she stepped away from the dance floor in the first place. "Yes."

Daeron and Floris Baratheon stepping in together -

Aemond. Aemond. Aemond.

If his disheveled appearance and blood-stained clothes rattle her, she is not prepared for the way he seethes as he hears her answer. "Always behind you like a lost pup, how did he let that happen to you?" His anger at his brother's supposed lack of care for her is only set aside by the long puff that he takes out of his cigarette.

She gulps, the overwhelming emotions taking over her entire being as she holds back the tears that threaten to spill. This is perhaps the first time anyone has asked why Daeron isn't with her ever since they begin to drift apart.

She’s heard many things. At least Targaryen isn't keeping you all to himself now, is one. Found himself another girl to fuck, is another.

She is not prepared for someone to see past Daeron and ask about her.

She does not answer. She cannot. The weight of the night’s events have taken away any and all strength she may have to entertain those around her, and she stands in silence as tears pool in her eyes. The sinking feeling takes over her, and she wipes off her eyes before the tears spin out of control.

Aemond seems to understand, and gives her all the time she needs to compose herself. When she’s done, he seems content to simply stand by her with his cigarette as she takes comfort in the silence around them. The only sounds are the distant clanking of plates, the faint buzzing of the neon sign and horns from vehicles zooming past them.

Somehow, it is enough to help her climb back to the surface. She’d drowned in herself for a moment there, but the fog in her mind is clearing slowly as she tells herself over and over.

She’s safe. Safe. Safe.

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

His presence, though quiet, provides a much-needed anchor amidst the storm of emotions threatening to consume her. In the dimly lit parking lot, the city's pulsating rhythm seems to offer a peculiar solace, a reminder that time passes regardless of what happens and that the world does not stop to allow her a moment to catch her breath.

Aemond's eyes flicker with concern, the smoke from his cigarette dissipating into the night air. He doesn't offer empty words of consolation, recognizing that sometimes silence is the most potent balm for a wounded soul. The night sky above, mottled with the city's glow, bears witness to their shared solitude, a fleeting moment of understanding that needs no verbal exchange.

As the minutes pass, the weight on her chest lightens imperceptibly. A sense of resolve, tempered by the raw vulnerability of the evening, settles within her. She knows the road ahead is fraught with uncertainty, yet a newfound resilience kindles within her. Aemond's silent companionship, unobtrusive yet steadfast, keeps her standing.

Eventually, she draws in a deep breath, steadying herself against the unforgiving reality that awaits beyond the sanctity of this secluded safety that he’s brought her into. With a nod of gratitude to Aemond, she straightens her posture, the remnants of tears drying on her cheeks. Determination flickers in her eyes, an unwavering resolve to confront whatever challenges lie ahead, even if the path seems shrouded in shadows.

The message is clear. She’s ready to be taken back home.

In the soft glow of the streetlights, Aemond navigates the bustling city streets with a practiced ease, the hum of the engine merging seamlessly with the rhythm of her heartbeat. She leans into him, seeking solace in the sturdy presence of his frame, a silent reassurance that she isn't alone in this dizzying world. The wind rushes past them, tousling her hair as she holds onto him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his body beneath her grip.

The cityscape unfolds before her in a blur of neon lights and towering skyscrapers. A fleeting sense of serenity washes over her, cocooned in the safety of Aemond's embrace, as if the world beyond their world of warmth and motion is a distant, inconsequential dream.

Yet, as her house looms into view, a sudden pang of reluctance tugs at her, a gnawing apprehension that threatens to unravel the fragile peace she has painstakingly cultivated in the past hour. Stepping off the bike, she reluctantly peels off Aemond's jacket, feeling the sudden chill of the night air seeping into her bones, mirroring the chill that seeps into her heart.

She turns to him, her eyes meeting his in the muted glow of the streetlamp, searching for a semblance of the solace she had found in his silent companionship. Her fingers linger for a moment on the fabric of his jacket, a poignant reminder of the warmth she craves, both physical and emotional. The weight of unspoken words hangs heavy in the air.

Thank you , she wants to say. She can only manage a weak nod, one that she struggles through while looking down at the road, rather than his mismatched pair of eyes.

Aemond's gaze lingers on her, a flicker of concern mingling with a quiet determination. He reaches out, his hand brushing against her cheek. As though he is convinced there's not much else he can do but give her space, he nods.

As Aemond revs the engine, ready to fade into the night, she stands on the threshold of her home, enveloped in the bitter chill of the evening. She watches the tail lights disappear, and with a steadying breath, she steps inside, the echo of the bike's engine fading into the distance, leaving behind a lingering sense of quiet resolve in its wake.

When she finally manages to sleep, her mind is painted with the image of a captivating pair of mismatched eyes, etched into her brain like a welcome dream.

The bracelet that he’d removed from her wrist - still in his pocket - does not cross her mind at all. 

Not once.

SERIES MASTERLIST

NO TAG LIST. Please follow and turn on notifs for @randomdragonfics for my fic updates!

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen smut #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond smut #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen fic #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #prince aemond targaryen #prince aemond #aemond targaryen x ofc #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond fic #pro aemond targaryen #aemond angst #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen fanfiction #modern!aemond x reader #modern aemond #modern!aemond targaryen x reader

[poppybuns]

That Sundress...

Simon “Ghost” Riley X Housewife! Reader Blurb~ When the Ghost is feeling affectionate… Cw: Swearing, Fluff, Slightly suggestive, Female reader, proofread at 2am 665 Words

~~~

That fucking sundress.

That...

Fucking......

Sundress...

Holy shit, you were gonna kill this man.

All the shit he's been through and his wife is gonna be the thing that finally stops his battle-hardened heart. You were leaning over the counter, focused intently on preparing dinner for you and your husband, when Simon got home.

He walked in and gave a short greeting of: “Hey, love..”. He was clearly distracted by the thin, flowery dress you chose for today. 

Your husband did not see the dress on you until now as it was a new purchase, however, you may have had him in the back of your mind when purchasing it. 

You looked up from your work to greet him and soon made your way around the counter to give him a hug. 

“Welcome home, Honey~ How was work?” As you affectionately spoke you wrapped your arms around his midsection, squeezing him and resting your chin on his chest looking up to meet his eyes.

You had to be doing this on purpose.. First the dress and now the cutest, little wifey greeting, right out of an old timey romance film. It's not that you weren't always affectionate with him, it's just… you are just so perfect, too perfect. Ghost can’t help but wonder how in the hell you ended up with him.. What did he do right to end up with beautiful, charming, sweet, you all over him like this??

As you stayed wrapped around his torso he rested his large hands on your hips, squeezing slightly as they landed on your body. It’s like he could just barely feel the warmth of your skin through the dress with how thin the material was. He slowly dragged one large, hand up the small of your back, pulling your body into his more, the other moving down to squeeze the soft flesh of your butt. He didn’t mean anything horny by it, in all honesty, he just needs you closer, as close as he can get you.

He leans down at the same time placing his masked face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in. You let out a small noise at the feeling of his lowkey gropey hands. 

“Mm.. Simon, I’m not complaining at all.. trust me on that but, you just got home, Hun. You don’t wanna eat or wash up first?” You ask him, genuinely.

“Mhmmm..” He simply grumbles and holds you there, pressed against him as close as he can get your soft body. You soon place your arms around his neck and hold him back, just enjoying the warmth of your husband's body. He usually needs a bit more prompting to be the one to initiate affection like this, so you’ll take it!

He breathes in your smell and feels your body’s warmth as you two hold each other. 

Ghost eventually pulls his head back from your neck and makes eye contact with you, soon reaching up and pulling his mask up over his mouth. He doesn't give you time to admire the newly exposed skin before pulling you into a deep kiss. Closing his eyes and savoring your lips like this is the last time he’ll get to kiss you. 

He kisses you as if he doesn’t trust mere words to properly communicate your worth to him; but maybe his actions can?

Your lips meld together sweetly for a bit but soon he pulls away from the kiss and gently holds the side of your face, running his thumb along your cheek as he looks into your eyes. 

For a moment it’s just the two of you.

Simon and his little love.

The two of you melting into each other’s embrace.

~~~ First ‘fic’ I’ve written since middle school so don’t flame me in the comments I’m not a writer just felt affectionate for our babygirl <3

#cod mw2 #cod #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley fluff #first time writing #wish me luuuuck #fluff #popwriting

[dontexpectmuch]

i know how much you guys love this series, so i give you a new part. this one how ever will be;

comments/feedback is highly appreciated! please, im getting desperate :d

Habits Jude Bellingham might develop before you guys get into a relationship!

(a Lost in Madrid drabble!)

it is no secret that jude just loves to talk. he genuinely enjoys it so much to share any and every thought that goes through his mind, no matter how small it might be. he couldn’t tell when it started exactly, but suddenly he found himself on his way to you, a tired student that just wants to finish their work. as soon as he lifts his hand, knocks on your door and enters the room his lips start moving, talking so lively and fast that you need some time to register what is even happening.

“what do you mean ‘m talkin’ your ear off? you literally study literature and shit!” - “it’s more about reading, jude.” you sigh, wishing for any kind of help at this moment.

it is also nothing new for you to receive messages from jude during your quiet evenings when you decide to stay home. jude recently got into sending audio messages, you being his number one victim [forced] friend, whom he shared this new passion with. and most of the times he won’t even say anything important. he’ll just sing a new spanish song he has learned that past week. and he will sing. no matter how terrible it sounds and how much it makes your ears bleed. though, you also always listen to those audios, even though you know what the content will be.

“jude?” opening your door after hearing a desperate knock, you did not think that you would see your [not] friend standing there. he looks tiredly at you, clothes wrinkled and sandals on, “mum wanted me to bring you some cake she baked.” he gives you the tupperware filled with slices of cake, energy low. you feel your shoulders relax as you look up at him, “tell her i love her, please.” he just nods. and even though he always complains to you about how he is not some delivery boy, he can’t help but get excited at the thought of seeing your soft eyes when you receive food his mum made. it makes him feel giddy inside.

he makes you trip purposely whenever you walk in front of him, and then giggles and jogs away to join the others on the field when you send daggers his way with your glare.

he forces you to play two-touch, even though you have told him multiple times already that you cannot play really well. he quite literally forces you to become better, giving you tips while making you pass the ball against the wall back and forth. “i don’t want to do this anymore, jude.” - “well, that’s too damn bad.” his gaze serious as he corrects your form once more. “bitch.” you murmur under your breath, praying for him to just disappear somewhere and leave you alone.

“what?” you ask as you look up from your notes, eyes wide as you watch jude place a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll onto your desk. “i heard that you like sweets, or whatever.” he says, [desperately] wanting to look cool. your heart starts to pick up in speed when you look back and forth between jude and the things he just gave you, warmth spreading through your body. “thanks.”

“watch me.” he smirks at you, who looks quite annoyed tired at him. “i’ll hit this first time.” - “like you did to me on my first day here?” - “dude! i told you not to talk about it anymore, ‘t’s a sensitive topic for me, ‘kay?”

heartfelt conversations between you are not as rare as one might think. whenever jude comes to you to talk your ear off while toi work on your research, you sometimes tell him about your own stuff. that leads to various topics you two discuss, which also results in sharing some intimate thoughts. it makes jude, who usually looks so confident and well put together, look more human, like a 20 year old guy who also learns something new every day.

—————————————

surpriseee! hope you like it!! :)

#jude bellingham #jude bellingham x reader #football x reader #football one shot #x reader #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham one shot #jude bellingham x you #football #jude bellingham fluff #lostinmadrid #relationship

[jrow]

May Prompts (26)

Day 25 here. Start from the beginning here.

Manipulation.

He is master of manipulation.

It comes easily to him. Perhaps too easily. In recent years, he’s made a conscious effort to avoid manipulating those he loves (most of the time), but jerk clients and suspects? That’s still fair game. And a touch fun.

Getting constable moron to run was easy enough. It’s not that a chase is entirely necessary—they could have simply waited for Mycroft’s minions to arrive. That’s what John was likely planning, engaging the moron in meaningless small talk. But, they are doing this his way.

Besides, John loves a chase.

“And now you are spying on John. Worried he’ll remember?” was enough to get the moron running. And it was oh so easy to manipulate him to take off west, down the pavement. No roofs today.

The moron is fast, but not all nimble, knocking into people has he tries to weave between them. John is slower but far more deft on his feet, easily avoiding any barriers, be they human or otherwise.

As for himself, well, he’s both fast and nimble, but right now his focus is divided between ensuring John is okay and trying to manipulate the chase to their advantage.

Run. Run. Weave. Run. Weave. Jump. Force the moron towards the road, no chance to turn down an alley.

John is keeping up but his smile is evolving into a wince. This has gone on far too long.

But there it is. The library, always his saviour. He digs deep and finds a burst of speed, running up between idiot and the road, forcing him into left, through the front door.

“You guard the entrance,” he yells to John. They both know it’s a ruse to allow John to sit down and rest, but they can pretend.

“Right,” John says, hands on thighs panting for breath. “You go!”

And he’s off, manipulating the chase so they move up the stairs and into the stacks. He puts on bursts of speed when needed to push the idiot towards the small meeting rooms. The other patrons and staff keep their distance as they run. The police have surely been called but Mycroft’s team will arrive first.

Finally, they reach the back. He detours quickly to pull the fire alarm and the siren sounds loudly. The three meeting rooms empty, the people rushing to the exits.

The moron has nowhere to go, but continues past the fleeing patrons and into a meeting room. Tries to close the door.

But, he is there, pushing his way in.

“Nice try,” he says. “The police are on their way. It’s over.” He realises he still doesn’t know the constable’s name. He realises he doesn’t really care.”

“Look, I have money,” the moron starts, “if you help me get out of here. Then I’ll be gone—won’t set foot in the city again. Think about it, I have loads of cash and jewelry… would really help out that little girl.”

The mention of Rosie makes him see red. “Don’t you dare,” he spits out. “Don’t you move an inch. You are a lucky man, you know. If John had died or been badly hurt, you would not have got out of this room alive.” He forces himself to stay guarding the door, fighting the urge to rip the moron from limb to limb.

“Please,” the moron pleads, sounding genuinely terrified and looking on the verge of tears. Good.

He stands guard and says nothing, working to keep his rage in check. Mycroft’s team will be here soon and will be appropriately aggressive in their arrest. After a couple of minutes that feel like an eternity, he hears heavy steps running towards them.

“Hands in the air!” someone yells, pushing past him and entering the room.

The moron continues pleading. He turns around and makes his way back downstairs. Back to John.

Five years ago, he’d be desperate to be part of the interrogation. To understand every element of the moron’s crimes. Now, he just wants to get his family and go home.

@keirgreeneyes @raina-at @totallysilvergirl @meetinginsamarra @jolieblack @phoenix27884 @friday411 @calaisreno @lisbeth-kk @safedistancefrombeingsmart @momma2boys @helloliriels @dapetty @quimerasyutopias

#johnlock #wip #may prompts 2024

[casually-eat-my-soul]

Follow me on my delusional rant for a second: we all know that stiles was kinda but not really obsessed with the hale fire yes?? What if he just a tiny bit more obsessed with it and less with Lydia. The sheriff turns a blind eye to this because this was the most lively his son had been since his mother died. The sheriff also can’t figure why this case doesn’t feel right to him, but if anyone can figure it out it’s his son.

He goes on a deep dive about the hales. There comes a point where he can’t access anymore information legally; so he goes to Danny to teach him how to hack. This gets Lydia attention but not enough to get her to help, yet.

So stiles learns and he hacks into the school database, the police, and generally every establishment that the hales have frequented. He finds a pattern of suspiciously missed full moons, high grocery bills the next morning. He finds Paige and Kate. He finds a paper trail to the fire.

He shows it to his dad. With this evidence the sheriff looks into the case. This is what causes Lydia to talk to stiles. She pulls up to his house the very next morning the sheriff reopens the case. She liked Cora and would do anything to get the person who killed her. This cause a deeper dive of obsession. Together they look into the supernatural side of beacon hills. They find Lydia’s grandmother, and Lydia is able to understand what she is before it becomes a problem.

I’m a Stiles and Lydia sibling truther. They become that duo. Just over all becoming the pretty twins of beacon hills.

Lydia gets familiar ties to the stilinskis. Something that she doesn’t get at home. The sheriff loves her, absolutely dotes on her. He’s always wanted a daughter. Stiles becomes far more confident and comfortable in his skin. They have spa days and sleepovers. Stiles lets Lydia practice makeup on him. Lydia has her own room at the Stilinski’s, it becomes a safe haven for her.

They both watch over the sheriffs diet like hawks; fast food places are terrified when the sheriff comes in to order food. “No sheriff, I actually can’t give you a double burger because I’m still traumatized from your kids”. Lydia creates a binder of healthy meals, while stiles cooks them. (Lydia cannot cook)

Stiles comforts her when Jackson is being a dick. Stiles becomes frienimes with Jackson. When Jackson swings by the house the sheriff quietly brings out his gun and cleans it in front of him. Lydia pretends to be embarrassed but she’s absolutely glowing. Jackson also become close with the sheriff, especially after him and Lydia break up. (They were gay and lesbian solidarity)

With the amount of digging Stiles and Lydia did they would have figured out Peter was being poisoned. I also believe that they would have found Cora was still alive. This brings Laura and Derek back to beacon hills, starting the rise of the hale pack.

Like imagine season one Derek meeting confident stiles with lipstick. Your honour it’s over for him.

Derek still becomes an alpha after the alpha pack comes and he kills one of them. (I’m also a Alpha Derek hale truther)

Stiles and Lydia are both “little reds”

Derek and Cora being super fucking cocky that they’re mated to the pretty twins of beacon hills

The sheriff also cleans his gun in front of Derek and Cora. He’ll be damned doesn’t get to pull the protective father for his kids.

Anyway thanks for coming to my Ted talk

#sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #stiles x derek #derek x stiles #stiles and lydia #stiles and Lydia are the best siblings #Lydia x Cora #the stilinski family feels #stiles is major obsessed with Derek #stiles and Lydia act like the fbi for enrichment

[raina-at]

Manipulation

This is a prequel of sorts to this ficlet from last year, but it stands well on its own.

-----

Sherlock is never sure, right to the bitter end, why she does it. Why she holds on to John so desperately. Why she lies, and manipulates, and plays his insecurities like a fiddle, why she clings to him.

He would like to believe that she loves John. That she loves her daughter. That there is a part of her, however deeply buried beneath self-interest, that wants to have a genuine human connection. 

He’s pretty sure it’s not true. At least it’s not what he saw when he looked at her. When she smirked at him on the Tarmac. 

He remembers what Magnussen said. How John is his pressure point, and he is Mycroft’s. He’s pretty sure that whatever game Mary is playing, he’s as much of a pawn in it as John is. She’s holding John’s heart and his daughter hostage for her own safety, and she knows that having a knife at John Watson’s jugular is the same as having one to Sherlock’s, and Mycroft’s. 

Sherlock hates being manipulated. It’s ironic, because he’s so good at it himself, and he used to do it without a second thought. 

But he’s learned the hard way that anything you gain through manipulation—forgiveness, say, to pick a not so random example—isn’t real. 

Mary, however, has no such compunctions. She shot him in the chest, and from the moment John knew she played the victim of circumstance, and Sherlock went along, ensuring that John believed her story, believed her to have acted out of desperation, not cold calculation. He knew, somewhere deep inside, that she would kill them both if they showed any sign of seeing through the mask. 

But what she doesn’t realise, and learns too late, is that two can play this game. Three, in their case.

She sent John hundreds of texts during the time they were separated. One more manipulative than the other.

Interesting how you’re picking a psychopath who abandoned you over your wife and your child.

Do you care about your child at all?

You’re turning into a deadbeat. Just like your dad.

He doesn’t care about you, John. He never did. He’s telling you what you need to hear because he’s missing having a live-in servant. That’s all you are.

He’ll leave you again. And if you think I’ll take your sorry arse back when he does, you’re delusional.

I’ll take your child and disappear. You’ll never find us.

What she doesn’t know, what she will never discover, is that Sherlock learned from his mistakes.

That he sat John down after that evening at Baker Street, and told him everything about her. About how dangerous she is. That they looked at the memory stick, and discovered that it was empty. That Mycroft supplied them with a full dossier. That every time John texted her back, Sherlock was the one composing the text. That every word she exchanged with Mycroft in the background was shared and analysed. 

That Sherlock trusted John. That he told him the truth. That he finally said, “I love you. I need you. Come home. Bring your child. Let’s be a family. Like we were always supposed to be.”

That so many of her texts reached them as they lay entwined on Sherlock’s bed, talking, listening, kissing, touching, trusting each other. 

That every word John said to her on Christmas was a lie, a script he wrote with Sherlock.

It’s astonishing to Sherlock that she believed the Magnussen story. It makes no sense at all. He would never be stupid enough to risk his, John’s and Mycroft’s safety on a gamble that Magnussen would take a laptop. And Sherlock would never be stupid enough to shoot someone in the head in front of witnesses.

But she stays in her corner, the entire time. Magnussen’s death, his sudden departure, the Moriarty ploy, all the moves they made to scare her into getting sloppy, nothing works on her. She remains in her role as the expectant mother, the reformed criminal, the devoted wife just so glad to have her husband back.

She works on John the entire time. She loves him, she needs him, she wants to start over. She wants him to trust her again—she doesn’t know that he never did—she wants to do counselling. She starts a campaign to get John to agree to move. House in the country, better for their daughter. John sends Sherlock a summary every day, and it’s masterful, the way she plays her cards. John never had the serene, peaceful childhood she says she wants for their daughter. She even offers graciously that he can see Sherlock as much as he wants, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the baby’s schedule. 

How generous, Sherlock thinks, to offer me scraps off your table, to offer me to John like a toy, a hobby, an indulgence. 

And he sees now, with every word she says, with every indulgence she offers as a generous, gracious gift, how she managed to pull the wool over their eyes for such a long time. How she positioned herself as the gracious facilitator, how she played on both his and John’s insecurities, their hurts, their broken trust, until it seemed like she was bringing them together, when in reality, she reinforced John’s self-doubt and his distrust of Sherlock. 

In the end, it’s no use. 

In the end, her time runs out. 

The night John’s daughter is born, they come and they take her away. Sherlock doesn’t know where they’re taking her, and he doesn’t care. He hopes they throw her into a hole and lose the key. He hopes they never see her again. He hopes they can forget her. 

But he knows he can never unlearn the lessons she taught him. They won over her lies by being honest, and they won over her manipulations by trusting each other. The second he stopped manipulating and lying to John, he won. And the second he starts again, he’ll lose. 

That night, they take their daughter home. That night, he makes another vow. One he intends to keep.

-----

Tags under the cut as usual, please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged.

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @jrow @peanitbear @jolieblack @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @friday411 @givemesherbet-blog-blog @weeesi @thalialunacy @thegildedbee @dapetty @salmonsown

#johnlock #bbc sherlock #my fic #johnlock fic #may prompts 2024 #manipulation #I hate Mary can you tell ;-)

[aftgficrec]

Favorite Neil/Jean or Neil&Jean fics?

In the aftermath of the publication of The Sunshine Court the relationship between Neil and Jean has been put under the spotlight a little more (no spoilers here though!), but there have always been authors who have shown this combo the attention it deserves. In addition, many fics under our raven!neil tag feature friendships or relationships between Neil and Jean. - S

Previously recommended:

Neil Josten & Jean Moreau:

close friends Neil & Jean here

BFFs Jean & Neil here

Neil/Jean tumblr fics and headcanons here

‘Afterthoughts Chapter 68’, ‘Jean, Neil, and Kevin hanging out’ here (plus some more Neil & Jean under previous recs)

‘not very good at this’ here

Neil Josten/Jean Moreau:

Neil/Jean fics here (you can also find a link to our Neil/Jean tag here)

More Jean/Neil fics here

‘we’ll survive, you and i’, ‘Heart on Your Sleeve, Eyes on the Street (the Heart-Eyes Remix)’, and ‘Doves & Ravens’  here

Some of our favourites from previous posts:

Your humble and silky life by moonix [Rated G, 3582 words, complete, 2019, locked]

Jean’s life these days is quiet, uneventful. His best friend has a hopeless crush on the unattainable Minyard, Jean’s colleague at the botanical garden. Jean has a standing appointment every week with the most beautiful woman in the world, who is happily married to someone else—but that’s okay. There’s still Jeremy the waiter, whose smile is the highlight of Jean’s week.

tw: animal death

Black As Is The Raven, He’ll Get A Partner by nekojita [Rated E, 644156 words, complete, 2018]

When Wymack, Kevin and Andrew came to recruit Neil Josten in Millport, Neil decided to say 'no' instead of 'yes' to joining the Foxes and does what he does best, which is run. Unfortunately, that brings him to the attention of the Moriyamas, who return him to his 'rightful' place. Now Neil has to learn how to survive at the Nest with his only ally another 'asset' long kept under Riko's heel.

tw: violence, tw: rape/noncon, tw: dubcon, tw: blood, tw: panic attacks, tw: drug use, tw: alcohol, tw: minor character death, tw: homophobia, tw: involuntary outing

Apart from Your World (A Part of Mine) by ApprenticedMagician [Rated T, 17647 words, complete, Aftg Big Bang 2018, locked]

David is shipping him off to the Isle of Anglesey and, frankly, Neil could use the time and distance away from an ugly break-up that still hasn't smoothed over. The problem is, if he isn't being reminded of his ex (courtesy of working alongside his identical twin brother), then he's being reminded of the mother who abandoned him (courtesy of their assigned patient who suffers the same affliction she once did). All around, it's shaping up to be anything but the trip he signed up for.

tw: references to past abuse

NB: find art for this fic by @llheji here

So Keep Your Heart On Your Sleeve (And Keep Your Eyes On The Streets) by CasTheButler [Rated T, 4162 words, complete, Aftg Winter Exchange 2018]

Cause it's a God damn long drive fall, Back to normality. Jean starts at a new school on a new soccer team, makes some friends, and spends the whole time falling in love with a punk. Written for the 2018 AFTG Winter Exchange.

tw: panic attacks

And here are some fics we haven’t rec’ed yet:

Neil Josten & Jean Moreau:

Je crois en la chance de rejoindre la mer by Elyant [Rated T, 2007 words, complete, 2021, locked]

Part 4 of The Devil Makes Three

Jean has chosen the café whose tables were closest to the large windows overlooking the tarmac. After spending so many years underground and under the harsh fluorescent light of the Nest, he doesn't think he will ever have enough of the natural warmth of the sun. A duffle bag of clothes that are too new to feel like his, the tin of home-baked cookies Renee thrusted into his hands before he left, and a small package wrapped in kraft paper are his only baggage.  He's waiting for a plane from London to land because of a phone call he received a few nights before. He is therefore purposefully two hours too early for the flight that will take him to South California, to meet the team in crimson and gold that will become his family, even if he doesn't know it yet.

tw: implied/referenced abuse

from rain by ratbandaid [Rated T, 62807 words, complete, 2023]

Over time, Jean grew unsure as to why he'd been so intent on running from the mafia. He barely took care of himself and could hardly call whatever he was doing living. After all, he knew that one day, he'll be caught and dragged back, kicking and screaming, to be killed or worse: put back in the hands of Riko Moriyama. But when a snot-nosed, cocky brat, Neil, stumbles into his life, Jean slowly realizes what he's running for.

tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: violence, tw: nightmares

based on this art by @estavs

NB: This one contains slight spoilers for The Sunshine Court:

epic understatement by LadyTimelessness [Rated T, 335 words, complete, 2024]

he's pissed off that jean had to go through this. they're basically nothing to each other, but damn it, neil wants to crack grayson's skull open that second. faith in the world finally burns out in the fire of disillusionment.

tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced murder

Neil Josten/Jean Moreau:

Skip the Last Dance For Me (the Trojan Horse remix) by justadreamfox [Rated T, 3572 words, complete, Aftg Remix 2020]

Neil and Jean are free of the Nest, and wearing the Trojan red and gold, but they've still got "normal" life to navigate and friendships (past and present) to juggle. Really, sometimes you just want to be alone with your boyfriend.  Ft. Exy, pizza, and Steven Spielberg.

Nothing Mattered Until You by Lostintheuniverseslies [Rated M, 22497 words, complete, 2023]

On the docks in Marseille, Neil fell in love. But his mother ripped him away and for years he never dared hope to see Jean again. He believed that he would die before ever getting the chance. But when recuperating with his uncle after his father is killed, Neil's chance comes. Unfortunately, he isn't the only one who went through some horrible things over the years. Despite their horrible pasts, they decide to try for a future together. Going to college and even making some friends along the way. But Riko has other plans and wants back what he considers his.

tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced domestic violence, tw: stalking, tw: harassment,  tw: dissociation

It's Friday, I'm in love by Greenfallleaves [Rated T, 5834 words, complete, 2023, locked]

The day Neil had found himself pushed into the strong chest of their school’s new student Jean Moreau had been one of his luckiest in hindsight.

Hold my breath in your hands by Greenfallleaves [Rated G, 2154 words, complete, 2023, locked]

Adapting to the world outside the nest hadn’t been easy for either Jean or Neil but now that they had had a few years to get used to it, they got to complain about (i.e. enjoy) spending quality time with their friends.

sleep notes by nanatsuyu [Rated T, 2928 words, complete, 2024, locked]

Neil smokes a joint and discusses the possibility that Kevin is an honest to God vampire.

tw: recreational drug use, tw: implied/referenced abuse

A kiss while someone watches by @stabbyfoxandrew [tumblr, 2024]

Nathaniel never really saw the point of kissing until he was brought to the nest. Or rather, until the first time Jean Moreau backed him up against the wall of their shared dorm during an argument.

Art

Jean & Neil by @ziegenkind094

Raven!neil au - napping by @dawnatlas 

Raven!neil au - partners by @dawnatlas

‘Stitch by stitch, tape and gauze…’ by @dawnatlas

two by @02511213942

Neil and Jean find an empty pool at night by @aminiyard

i believe in jean moreau supremacy by @caraleadraws 

secret santa gift for @nekojitachan by @aminiyard

Hello sunshine court by @estavs

#staff fave #neil josten & jean moreau #neil josten/jean moreau #universe: post canon #universe: canon divergent #au: high school #au: college/university #au: different first meeting #au: raven!neil #au: kid fic #au: no exy #theme: angst with a happy ending #theme: fluff & angst #theme: protectiveness #theme: friendships #theme: found families #theme: healing #theme: domesticity #theme: pining #theme: disabilities #theme: christmas #aftg big bang #aftg exchange #aftg remix #tw: abuse #tw: implied/referenced torture #tw: violence #tw: dissociation #tw: stalking #tw: nightmares

[romanarose]

You'd Love Me If I Was a Worm, Would You Love Me If I Was A Man?

Santiago Garcia x transman!reader

Masterlist : Triple Frontier Masterlist

Made for the Oscar/Pedro Pride Event

Summary: You're Santi's wife or so he thinks, he loves you very, very much... You're scared to ruin it with honesty.

Or

You come out as trans to Santi

Warnings: Pretty mild, Santi is perfect. Gender dysphoria, body dysphoria, mentions of conversion therapy.

AN: This is just based on my feelings right now. IDK exactly how I identify, but doing things like cutting my hair and dressing more masculine has helped me a lot. No one needs to cut their hair short to be a man, trans or otherwise, nor does a trans person NEED surgery or any changes. This is simply based on my experience. People feel this differently.

1k words

“How’s my favorite girl?”

Santi greeted you as he came home, finding you in your bathroom staring at your face and your body in your underwear, cringing at him calling you a girl but trying to hide the visceral reaction. You hated your hair, you hated how feminine it made you look, but you knew Santi loved it, so you kept it long and usually in a ponytail.No matter how hard you tried, no matter the body positivity, no matter how good you objectively looked and how Santiago worshiped it, none of it felt right to you. You’d been considering telling him how you’d been feeling for some time, but it felt selfish. How could you tell him you thought you might be a man when he fell in love with a woman?

He clocked your cringe, as he always did your discomfort. “What’s wrong, bebita?”

You shake your head. “Nothing, just tired.”

“I don’t believe you for a second, c’mon.” taking your hand, Santi pulls you into the bedroom and sits you down with him, his eyes pleading with you for honesty. “You can talk to me, it’s okay.”

Your eyes fill up with tears, stressing out and over thinking it all so much. “It’s not fair to you.” You begin to cry, and it isn’t. This isn't what Santi signed up for when he married you. He married his wife, not whatever was happening to you right now. You should’ve told him, you should’ve been honest with from the start. “I thought this would go away, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I lied to you!”

Horrified at the tears, Santiago pulls you into his arms. “Oh honey… whatever it is, you can tell me, please. Nothing is too much, you’re my wife, and I’m gonna take care of you, always.” 

It couldn’t be hidden anymore. You had to be honest before you wasted more of his time. Pulling back, you look him in the eyes, your own still watering. “I don’t… I don’t think I’m your wife…” You watch his eye widen and you realize your choice of words was poor. “Nonono! Not like that!” You’re quick to reassure him you aren’t leaving him. He’ll probably leave you, however. “I just mean…” Big breath. “I feel… like I’m a man.”

He looked confused for a second before recognition registered on his face.

“Oh… how long have you felt this way?” You couldn’t get a read on his reaction yet, but he still held your hands.

“I really, really long time, Santi. I thought I’d grow out of it…”

He nods. “Since you were a kid?”

“Yeah.” You sniffle. “I tried to tell my parents but… they… They sent me away.”

Santiago’s face hardened at that. “Conversion therapy?”

Memories flooded back to what you suffered there, creating a fresh bout of tears down your face. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I tried to put it away but nothing worked! I know you probably don’t want me any more but please, please I’m gonna try, I can go to therapy again-”

You try to tell him that you can change, to give you a chance and you’ll fix it, trying to walk yourself back into the closet after being out less than 5 minutes, but he cuts you off with a kiss.

“Baby,” He stresses, pain on his face as cups your cheek with his hands, thumbing away a tear. “I’m not leaving you, and you are not going to conversion therapy, you hear me? That is not happening. We’re gonna do whatever we need to do to make you feel comfortable with yourself, okay? If that means transitioning, then we’ll make it happen.”

In shock, you blink. “But… Santi, you’re not gay…”

Santiago chuckles a little. “I don’t really know how this works, to be honest. I didn’t think I was either but… I love you. I’m attracted to you. That’s what I know.” When you didn’t look convinced, he continued. “Remember all the times you asked me if I’d love you if you were a worm?”

You giggle a little at the memory, beginning to feel better. “Yeah, you were confused.”

He nods with a smile. “Yeah, so were most of the guys. But Will told me it’s not about if I’d actually love you if you were a worm, because you’d never actually be a worm. It’s about being reassured that no matter what, I’d still be yours and you’d still be mine. So I told you I’d make you a little garden like Oscar the grouch has for wormy.”

You’re smiling now too. “And read me worm versions of fairy tales before bed.”

“And kiss your little worm head, because I love you. So, if you feel like you are a man, and you want to live life as man and if that makes me gay then yeah. I’m gay. I don’t really care about that. I care about you.”

"And... maybe, maybe its not even that I'm a man... just maybe not fully a woman?"

"Like, one of those in between things?"

You laugh at his wording. He may not have the best terminology, but he tries.

He sighs softly, holding your face. "If you feel like you're non... binary?" He asks questioningly, and you nod so he continues. "Or half and half or non at all... that's okay too. Whatever you are, i's what you are, and you're still you to me. But, baby." He kisses the tip of your nose. "Don't try and lessen it for me, okay? If you want to live and be fully as man, then that's what it is."

Letting his words sink in, your heart fills with love at his unconditional affection. “So… what next? What do I even do now?”

“Well,” Santi considers next steps. “I think we try to get you in with a doctor. I don’t think it goes straight to surgery,” He says with a tease. “But maybe hormones? I don’t know. I can talk to Ben whenever you’re ready for me to, I know he knows more of this than I do.”

“Can we maybe…” Your reach for a tissue, blowing it as you calm down more and more. “Can I maybe start with a haircut.”

This makes Santi laugh, standing up and taking you with him to capture you in a full body hug. “Of course we can! You don’t need my permission to get a haircut, mi cielo!” You notice how he immediately changed to masculine gendered terms of endearment. “Santi peppered kisses all over your face. “Wanna go today?”

You’re so excited at the idea, you readily agree.

An hour later, the kind stylist is chopping off your hair. As she gives you a moment to sit with the cut, Santi comes up behind the chair, wrapping his arms around you. “How do you feel, mi amor.” He says with a kiss to your neck.

You take in this first step, the start of a journey that you knew wouldn’t be easy but you had the best person ever by your side.

“I think… I actually feel like myself.”

shout out to @hee-blee-art for these cute ass dividers that were wierdly specific to this story lol

Most unrealistic thing about this fic is reader saying Santi isn't gay. Did we see the same movie? homosexual activity was hapeing on those mountains

HAPPY PRIDE!!! I can't wait to see what everyone did for this event <3

#santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader #triple frontier #bi santiago garcia #bisexual santiago garcia #pride #OscarPedroPrideEvent2024 #trans reader #trans masc reader #Santiago garcia trans masc reader #triple frontier x reader #santiago garcia fluff #fluff #santiago garcia x you #santiago garcia fanfiction #triple frontier fluff #pride 2024

[dokries]

goldleaf

pairing: hong jisoo (joshua) x gender neutral reader

genre: angst, hanahaki au

word count: 1.1k

warnings: no happy ending, mentions of death + implied main character death…eventually, One mention of swearing, unrequited love, the normal hanahaki au things (blood, throwing up, etc.)

author note: um so guess who found out she can actually write angst! it’s written in joshua’s pov the entire time and reader is just kinda in the background (they’re still important though!) also, if you want a lil more info about how i wrote this, check out my reblog! lots of love ♡

masterlist

when joshua sees you with them, he can’t deny that he feels…more than he wishes he did.

he’s sick and tired of the hollowness in his chest but it’s fine. it’ll all be fine once he sees you happy, right? that's what he says to convince himself before looking up at the sky and seeing you in the shape of the clouds and the way the sun hits them and himself.

fuck, he’s in too deep to continue to believe the sorry excuse he’s made up for himself to feel a little better. it never helps anyway, so why keep using it? he lets it go, imagining it fluttering away on a breeze that reminds him way too much of the person always on his mind.

so when the tingling in his throat comes out as petals the same golden like the colour he imagines your soul to be, he isn’t surprised. as he exits the bathroom, he avoids jeonghan’s gaze, promises that he’ll be fine; after all, it’s just a cold—whatever it takes to keep his best friend from worrying. at least he knows his promises won’t be worth much anyway.

he sees you often, your smile as cheery as the flowers haunting him in his dreams and the ones sticking to his lungs, trapped in his chest. he’s alright, he tells himself. he’ll be fine.

he doesn’t go to the doctor. he’s read and seen enough of what’s happening to him, and he knows the choice he’ll have to make if he goes. he knows that the only solution is to forget, but he would never do that. he can’t let go of wandering around in the wheat fields that one summer you two were in the countryside, or the time you laughed and laughed at a joke that wasn’t funny, or when he lost all hope and you were there, making sure he could get back up again and live. if the price of keeping the memories he holds close is death, he’s okay with it.

joshua doesn’t tell his roommates. he knows that jeonghan and seungcheol would drag him to the emergency room against his will, and force him to take the option he’s already decided against. he wouldn’t let them sway him anyway, but it’s easier if they don’t know. however, time seems to choose to leave the bathroom—even when it seems to be going too fast for joshua’s liking these days—when jeonghan finds him hovering over the sink, bloody tissues in his hand and washed petals placed carefully on the side.

the two of them say nothing.

jeonghan leaves, and joshua turns to the mirror above the sink, taking a good look at himself. he wipes off the dried blood on his top lip, noticing nothing else wrong. he doesn’t realize that after he leaves, jeonghan is horrified by the lack of light in his friend’s eyes, the spark he thought would never go out.

jeonghan hasn’t said anything since, lost in his thoughts every time he’s home. seungcheol is freaked out, not understanding the dead silence in the house. he doesn’t know that he’ll have to pay more for rent in…well, however long it takes for joshua’s lungs to finally fill up with your flowers. joshua knows he’s being cruel, but can’t he be allowed to be selfish in his last moments? is that too much to ask for after everything?

he doesn’t approach jeonghan, and instead writes. he writes journal entries in that notebook you got him a few years back, but he never used it because he was too scared to mess up in something you gave him; letters to those he’ll miss. he revises the one for his mother over and over again, crumpling paper like his lungs.

joshua doesn’t try to hide anything from seungcheol. he knows that his housemate’s blank expression means more than what he says. in fact, there is nothing said; their house is a place to rest and eat and nothing else. it’s as if there’s three ghosts, not just a single potential one. joshua sighs, wheezing out more petals. he grabs them hastily, making sure they don’t fall to the ground or worse, onto your letter. he carries them gently in his bloodied hands to the bathroom sink once again, the only companion he seems to have in the past few weeks.

joshua rinses each souvenir of his love one by one, clearing the dark red off before drying them and taking them back to the pile he’s made ever since this started. at first, they were hidden away in a small box on the corner of his desk, so no one would wander in and see them. now, he puts them on his nightstand haphazardly, the dark wood no longer visible under the various shades of yellow and red.

joshua picks up his pen—the expensive one his mom gifted him when he moved away so long ago; he never used it until now. the ink glides smoothly over the clean paper he had taken out earlier. he writes once again.

the only thing he knows how to say now is sorry. he writes it over and over again, signing each letter with the sounds he can barely make in real life, his voice hoarse from the damage done on his throat, and the lack of use.

maybe it’s time for something different? after all, this is for you, and he wants the news to be broken softly. he racks his head for something, anything that he finds good enough to become something real. he drinks the day-old water from the plastic bottle beside him, the familiar taste of blood accompanying it.

he glances at the clock he’s kept beside him since the start, and counts down two seconds; he has no time to waste.

he puts down the words he’s said so often to you that they’ve become a habit but seem to have changed ever since he started throwing up marigolds—a literal reminder of his unrequited love.

it’ll be a bit hard to be there for you when he’s dead, won’t it? joshua doesn’t mind. he never will.

he chuckles dryly, a whole flower falling out. he gets up and repeats his process for the petals before sitting back down.

joshua looks at his handiwork, pausing and adding a few more words before moving his paper to the side, and starting on another letter for his mother.

he stares blearily at the clock again, the red blinking numbers the only comfort he allows himself. it’s a new day.

joshua hopes it’ll finally be his last.

#dokries works #seventeen #seventeen x reader #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #seventeen angst #hong joshua x reader #hong jisoo x reader #hong jisoo scenarios #hong joshua imagines #hong jisoo imagines #hong joshua scenarios #hong jisoo angst #hong joshua angst #joshua x reader #joshua scenarios #joshua imagines #joshua angst

[withabroken-heart]

I APOLOGIZE IF ITS A LITTLE TOO MUCH, JUST A LITTLE TOO SOON

kirishima x reader

thoughts on how kirishima acts in a relationship

lovey dovey stuff, teenagers suck but love is an experience

a/n: i need 17 more songs that sound and feel exactly like so american ♥️ GUTS i’ll always love u

a/n: falling in love is the best healing feeling and also hell on earth simultaneously

eijiro kirishima, who texts you goodmorning and goodnight religiously. you're the first person he wants to talk to in the morning and the last person he wants to hear from before he drifts off. his face turns almost as red as his hair and eyes whenever his phone lights up with a buzz, seeing that you've replied to him. he saves your contact with a <3 right next to your name. your photo is a picture he snapped of you wearing one of his tank tops, sitting loosely on you. normally his sculptured biceps fill out the fabric to the brim, but he prefers the way you wear it. he wants to stare at you every time he picks up the phone in the morning to text you.

eijiro kirishima, who lets you help him dye his hair after the third time you insist on it. he feels a slight hint of embarrassment, thinking its un-manly to need help with a simple task, but after the first couple of rounds he insists on you doing it. he loves the way your fingers weave delicately through his hair, touching up his roots and treating him like he’s a glass sculpture. and afterwards while he waits for it to set he’ll help you with menial tasks in return- like finishing your algebra (not that he’s any better, but he means well) or making you a quick dinner. he’s an expert when it comes to self-care, and knows that working out and eating well isn’t healthy if its not accompanied by nourishing your happiness. he knows what candy’s to bring to pick up for you while he’s purchasing his dye, what movies to play in the background while he’s letting his hair soak, and exactly how to hug you when it’s all done.

eijiro kirishima, who becomes a sucker for sappy love songs once you get him introduced to it. at first, he hums along to your playlist in the car. then he’s following the artists you like on instagram and keeping up with their recent music. then it’s actively going out of his way to listen to them because each line about love and longing is about you. he makes a playlist titled [y/n] <3 and its all the songs that have made you come up in his head. little do his gym friends know that he’s streaming the tortured poets department while he’s lifting weights DOWN BAD CRYING AT THE GYM ANYONE

eijiro kirishima, who absolutely loves anything you create. muffins, bread, brownies- you’ve suddenly tested his willpower when it comes to his rigid diet. but he can’t help himself- everything tastes better when he knows you’ve put the time and effort into it. with so many eyes watching the young hero, he often forgets to properly feed himself- which is when you come in, always reminding him to eat. when he’s not looking, you’ll slip an extra treat or two in his bag, and come home greeted with a hug and kiss of gratitude for keeping his tummy full.

eijiro kirishima, who comes to you seeking refuge from his insecurities. he has quirk envy badly, sometimes just staring at the heroes he sees around him and wonders how he could ever live up to them. he feels as though he pails in comparison, not knowing how to articulate his worries into words. sometimes he’ll simply hug you, resting his chiseled chin on your shoulder while a huff escapes his lips. he doesn’t need to say anything because you know him. you know how he gets in his head. so you kiss his temples and remind him that he is exactly how he should be. that he’s enough. enough to be strong. enough to be a great hero. enough to be the red riot you love so much. he’s enough for you. and thats what plants are smile on his face as he leans in to kiss you. it’s enough for him too.

eijiro kirishima, who loves showing you off at the gym. mostly to his friends, who comment on how he seemingly never shuts up about you- but a part of him finds pride in the jealous stares others give him. he almost wants to give them a look of ‘i know, right?’ while they admire your beauty, the way you look when sweat ripples down your skin and your cheeks are flushed pink. but he feels sorry for them. sorry that they can’t have you they he’s got you. his eyes sparkle when he sees you pushing yourself, feeling inspired that he now has someone to be so proud of. he’s always proud of you.

eijiro kirishima, who worries he’ll mess it up with you. that it’s all too good to be true- that theres no way he got so lucky so young. he worries you’ll grow bored, tired, or sick of him. he worries you aren’t as in love with him as he is with you. because eijiro kirishima is so, so in love with you. he knows this is love because he sees more than just a high-school fling, he sees the future. he sees someone he will always run to with open arms. and when you kiss him back, arms wrapped around him in a tender embrace, he gets the feeling that you’re so in love with him, too.

#bnha hawks #bnha x reader #bnha dabi #bnha bakugou #bnha fanart #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #mha x reader #mha fanfiction #mha bakugou #mha dabi #mha fanart #mha deku #mha spoilers #kirishima eijirou #kirishima x reader #bnha eijiro kirishima #kirishima eijiro x reader #bnha eijirou #bnha kirishima #mha kirishima #kirishima smut #kirishima x you #bnha manga spoilers #boku no hero acedamia #mha #my hero academy fanfiction #kirishima x y/n #my hero acedamia #my hero x reader

[cheeryknots]

thinking of how Crowley loves his plants so much —and maybe all his plants are to remind him of the garden of Eden since that’s one of the first places he met Aziraphale so now he tries to always make his home feel like he’s back in the garden of Eden, plus it’s the closest he was to sharing a home with aziraphale and maybe he thinks having the plants around him are the closest he’ll ever get to sharing a home with him. so he just keeps them growing as best as he can if only to feel like they’re in that space together just a little bit.

#does this make any sense #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands

[mikedfaist]

Your writing for Mike is so soft like it's the best thing. But we definitely need to talk about the moment he's in love and obsessed with his partner

thank you so much! this made my day <3

He had stayed over one night, and you had left quietly in the morning for work, so when he wakes up and feels that emptiness beside him, that inimitable yearning that hooked its teeth deep and unmoving sent him spiraling. Dramatic, maybe, but he was in love. He loves to leave you flowers for when you get home, alongside a card that reads: “Thinking of you. M”.

He calls you solely to hear your voice, and he shows up on your doorstep randomly in the middle of the day because he was “in the neighborhood” – which is a lie; he just missed you. He feels his heart palpitate when you text him asking if you can come over, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t giddy and pacing around his house awaiting your arrival.

When you come over after work, he always makes you dinner. He demands you rest on the couch while he takes control of the kitchen, handing you the remote to continue where you left off on your show. You even have a favorite blanket, which Mike has reserved specially for you. Austin will cuddle up on the couch with you, if he’s not distracted by the smells from the kitchen.

After dinner, you two walk around the block with Austin, his right hand reserved just for yours. You talk about your day, nothing you find interesting in the least, but Mike loves everything you talk about. Maybe the two of you stop for ice cream on the way back. (Austin getting a pup cup, of course).

It’s Friday, so you don’t work the next day, and Mike is unwilling to let you leave. You two share a shower, and afterwards you dress in a pair of his comfiest sweatpants and t-shirt, slotting yourself on the couch beside him where you’ll watch a movie. He’s aware you will fall asleep within the first 30 minutes, but he’s accepted the fact. If you don’t wake up before the film ends, he will happily carry you up to bed, along with your favorite blanket.

The next morning, he’ll let you sleep in, and then bring you breakfast in bed. (He makes the best smoothies). You two will go to farmers markets, walk around the park, shuffle through bookstores, before finding yourself back in his bed. (He loves you, and he loves to show it).

#mike faist #mike faist imagine #mike faist x reader #mike faist talk

[soaked4mk]

Kung Lao Head Cannons

Sfw 😇

★ Kung Lao adores you. Literally everything you do, he adores.

★ He loves your home made cooking, but also loves to cook for you too. He finds it fun when you take turns on making dinner.

★ He finds it even more fun when you two cook together. The two of you are pretty good in the kitchen, and it’s good quality time with the love of his life.

★ The two of you are the remaining villagers of yappersville. The banter and witty conversation you have with each other is the foundation of your relationship.

★ Even before you two got together, he would always joke around with you—poke fun at you. He loved to tease. his relentless banter and cockiness is what made you fall for him.

★ Like seriously you two are freaking giggling and snickering as if you were schoolgirls. And it doesn’t stop there.

★ Working on the farm together? He’s gonna have some friendly banter or even juicy gossip to share with you—if you don’t for him that is.

★ Hand holding, walking through the gardens while the moon shines your path, having late night conversations are very sentimental to him, and he enjoys every second of it. You’ll share dreams and passions, and Kung Lao will (not so casually) bring up how he can’t wait to have a family with you. “Imagine…a mini you, or even a mini me? We would be fantastic parents.”

★ Kung Lao does everything in his power to make you laugh everyday, every night. The sound of your laughter is fuel to his never ending love.

★ Which isn’t very hard. He’s a really funny guy, he doesn’t have to do much to get you to start cracking up.

★ You two are like best friends who also happen to be in love. Your chemistry is impeccable and you keep him on his toes.

★ Kung Lao loves it when you play with his hair, watching movies in bed, his head in your lap while your fingers rake through his locks.

★ He’s definitely a cuddle bug. And though he’s often the big spoon— by all means, that doesn’t mean he’s against being the little spoon either. It’s just you fit in his arms so perfectly.

★ Though he does find comfort in you holding him and kissing the shell of his ear, whispering sweet affirmations to him while your fingers lazily trace his shoulder.

★ Despite his bravado, only you are able to get his resolve to weaken, to get him to let his walls down. Even in public. And speaking of public, he definitely doesn’t mind some PDA.

★ In fact, it’s his favorite way of showing off that you belong to him. He likes to rub it in people’s faces that only he can hold you by the waist, nuzzle your neck and kiss your soft lips.

★ He feels comfortable enough to cry in your arms if needed, to express the laden of his insecurities and fears.

★ He trusts you completely with his feelings. And he expects you to feel the same whenever you’re in need of a shoulder to cry on.

★ Cupping your face has become a custom for him. He admires your delicate features often. before he leaves for a day of practice, or even while you two are side by side on the field. He’ll take a moment to approach you and cup your face, grazing his thumbs over your adorably soft cheeks. “My little bunny.”

★ You and him partake in friendly sparring. And this is where you keep him on his toes. Your battle strategy never ceases to amaze him. You two sometimes get in trouble for being rowdy. In fact, if you two didn’t spar so well together—you would be separated from being a distraction to the rest during training.

★ Special dates at Madame Bo’s are a given—and let’s be honest, it’s adorable. He loves introducing you to new foods on the menu and literally gets offended if you offer to pay.

★ Kung Lao isn’t controlling by any means. But he does get a little jealous. He can’t help it though—it’s in his competitive spirit.

★ He only gets a little possessive about his favorite person in the whole world. It’s just…you’re his. Plain and simple.

★ You’ll be talking with Johnny, and he usually has a joke up his sleeve for you. And nine times out of ten, the joke lands. Kung Lao over hears your laughter and strides casually over, with a tightened jaw.

★ “What’s the occasion? Sharing jokes without me now?,” he’ll say, his voice strained with forced cheerfulness, his hand subtly finding its way to your waist, a possessive gesture aimed at Johnny.

★ But he knows where you stand at the end of the day. And that’s by him. Even if he has his own personal insecurities—his trust in you is definitely not one of them. Though his trust in others…might be a different matter…

★ Loves to get you sentimental trinkets for you to carry around. To remind you of him of course.

★ You have already obtained three small lotus key chains, a marble frog that fits in your palm, a straw hat badge for your bag, but the most recent he’s gotten you is a rabbits foot keychain. For good luck—duh. But also because of his affectionate nickname for you.

★ “now you have to think about me, whenever I’m off on a mission or vice versa.” He’ll say, feigning a smug tone. Though it’s only true love and affection in his expression.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷

NSFW 💦

★ Alright for starters, this man is a brat tamer—don’t come at me it’s just the facts.

★ Like, he will and does put you in your place.

★ He’ll smack your ass and face, pounding into you relentlessly while whispering dirty little things into your ear.

★ His large hand will grip your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Who said that you were allowed to curse?” “Do that again and see what happens.” “You like that, don’t you?”

★ He loves your stomach, hips and thighs. They’re the most ‘grabable’ in Laos terms.

★ Always smacking your ass, affectionately of course.

★ This might be an obvious one but he’ll eat food off your naked body. Talkin bout chocolate syrup, whip cream, strawberries. Whatever—he’s into it.

★ Sometimes he’ll have you sit right in front of him, playing with yourself while having you whine about how much you need him and love him.

★ “Who makes your legs shake?” He’ll ask while sitting in front of you. “You—Lao~” you whine, circling your clit with your fingers as he pumps himself, watching you with a sharp eye.

★“I’m the only one allowed to see you like this, hmm?” Fingers digging into your plump thigh, impatiently waiting for your response. If you’re not quick enough, he’ll smack your ass harshly. Leaving a mark. “I asked you a question.” “Only you!” You’ll cry out, back arching as you keep probing yourself with your digits.

★ Usually it ends with him cumming into his hand as he coax’s you to reach your own summit. “That’s it beautiful.” “Keep going, come on.” “Cum for me baby.”

★ He praises you of course! “You’re such a good little slut, taking every inch.” “Look at you~ covered in my cum like the good girl you are.” “That’s right baby, keep going…” “god, you’re so good at this.”

★ Hair pulling when he’s giving you back shots.

★ Lao really enjoys marking you as his. He can’t not leave dark hickeys on your neck, chest, stomach, and hips. It’s just, you’re so sweet!

★ He’s not one to turn down your affection either. If you’re wanting to have an upper hand that’s totally fine by him. Even better if you catch him at the right time. he’s an absolute puddle in your hands.

★ You can straddle his lap, lightly kiss his neck, whisper sweet nothings into his ear. Really, you don’t have to do much to get him hard.

★ “please, Y/N, don’t tease me~” “God, you’re driving me mad…” “don’t stop~…” he whimpers, biting his bottom lip, his gaze never leaving yours.

★ Loves oral. Receiving, and giving. He loves the taste of you. And honestly does cunnilingus often as foreplay. He’s really good with his tongue.

★ In fact, I believe this man will—and has gotten pussy drunk. Like he’s lost in the sauce. I’m talking about making you cum twice, three times in a row. Just milking every last drop out of you.

★ “mmhh~ just a little more baby~ please?” “You taste sooo good” “you can go a little longer, right?” He’ll be nose deep, mumbling into your cunt with a Cheshire grin.

★ If you’re giving head, great! Because he’s quite the reward giver when it comes to you and your mouth.

★ He’ll lace his fingers through your hair, lightly bobbing your head onto his shaft, letting you go at your own pace, his head drops back in pleasure.

★ Releasing into your throat, he pats your head, sliding his hand to your cheek, cupping it. “Good girl.” He’ll pant out, pulling you up into his lap, into a searing kiss. He doesn’t care about tasting himself on your lips. It adds to the erotica.

★ Rewards vary from special date ideas—to straight up pushing your face into the pillows while fucking you vigorously. Depends on his mood really. Either way though, you’re getting something good from him.

★ His after care? On par. He understands the classic hot shower, or nice bubble bath, and certainly loves the intimacy that follows. But he prefers a more pampering approach. After all you must be famished from all that railing, right?

★ He’ll fluff the blankets and pillows, turning the tv on to whatever you desire. He’ll cuddle you for a moment, holding you in his strong arms, stroking your hair and kissing the top of your head. “You did so good, bunny.”

★ After a moment he’ll get up to retrieve the necessities for cleaning you up, and after he’ll head to the kitchen, coming back with various items of food and treats. “I just pulled out all your favorites” he shrugs, crawling back into the bed with you.

★“Hope you’re craving everything?” His voice is soft, laced with a tint of playfulness as you nestle back up to him.

#mk1 #mk1 2023 #mortal kombat 1 #mortal kombat fandom #mk fandom #rainyworx #kung lao #kung lao mk1 #kung lao x y/n #kung lao x reader #can you tell Kung Lao is my favorite 😭🫠💀