#somehow it feels better putting it out there

[atlabeth]

dance until we're bones

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem reader

summary: you and hotch both confront a lifetime of things left unsaid when a case forces your past into the light.

a/n: so i started this. two years ago. got 1k in and left it, came back now for some reason, wrote like a freak until it was done. lol. this is quite heavy and different than most things i usually write and it is SO much longer than expected but im very proud of it 🫶 i didn't really pay attention to the canon timeline so just know that reader and hotch were in their early and late 20s in law school (90s) and early and late 30s in present day (early 2000s). title from i lied by lord huron and allison ponthier

wc: 17.1k

warning(s): a lot of angst. typical bau case stuff, murder (familicide), implied/referenced past child abuse, reader and hotch go at it basically the whole time, character death, kidnapping, slight mention of drugging, injuries, mentions of blood. i wouldn’t say a happy ending but a hopeful one

Hotch can barely stay awake. 

He got the call thirty minutes to 4 a.m, and if he hadn’t already been up, he would likely be in a much worse mood. He can only hope that the rest of the team has gotten used to rude awakenings at this point. 

It’s poor planning on his part—he already got out late due to extra paperwork, and once he got home, he found himself staring at the wall, and then staring at the ceiling. If he’s lucky, he’ll get to sleep on the jet. If things go the way they usually do, he won’t be out until their first night in a hotel. 

He started making calls to the team on his way to the office, but to no one’s surprise, he was the first one there. He had time to wash down a shitty office coffee and get started on a second one by the time everyone’s there. 

Morgan, Prentiss, and JJ all have coffees—JJ comes prepared with her own thermos, but Morgan and Prentiss fall victim to the BAU’s supply—Reid is fighting back yawns as he tries to fix a hastily made tie, Garcia is slightly less energetic than normal as she passes out files, and somehow Rossi looks the same as always. 

Hotch just hopes he’s put together enough to make the team feel better about being here at an ungodly hour. 

“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” Garcia greets, setting down the last folder in front of Reid before taking her spot next to Hotch at the front. “As lovely as it is to see all of you this morning, I’m afraid that we’ve got a grisly one on our hands, hence the hour.” 

“Great,” Prentiss mutters. “How bad is it?” 

“Three married couples have been murdered in St. Louis, Missouri in the past two months, with the most recent one happening yesterday,” Hotch says, and Garcia grimaces as she clicks onto the pictures. “Mom and dad are killed, but the children are spared.”

“Awful lot of similarities between the parents,” Morgan says dryly as he flips through the folder. “Looks like our killer has some family issues.” 

Reid nods. “The unsub likely stalks these families once they see the similarities. I’m guessing he was abused as a child, seeing as they kill the parents but keep the children alive.”

“Probably has a grudge against his father,” Prentiss remarks. “They make it out the worst every time.”

“There’s no method to the torture,” Morgan says. “It looks like he’s just trying to make it hurt as much as possible.” 

“Our guy probably isn’t trained in anything, then,” Rossi says. 

Reid flips to another page in the file. “Serial killers like to see their victims suffer. If he’s not torturing the mom physically, then he’s likely making her watch.”

“He doesn’t kill children, though,” JJ notes. 

“Maybe he thinks he’s doing them a favor,” Reid says. 

“The unsub sees himself in the kids?” Morgan suggests. “He’s doing what he didn’t get the chance to do.” 

“Whatever it is, we have to keep a tight hold on this,” JJ says. “The press eats this stuff up, and the last thing we need is a terrified city making it harder to do our jobs.”

“Especially with families being killed,” Morgan murmurs. 

JJ sighs. “I’ll draft something on the jet and make some calls when we land.” 

Hotch nods and he closes his file. “Wheels up in thirty. I hope you’re all ready for a long day.” 

-

The jet is silent the entire way to Missouri, full of sleeping agents trying to delay the inevitable—save for JJ scribbling down notes on a legal pad for the first thirty minutes, but even she knocks out sooner rather than later. Thankfully, Hotch manages to fit an hour in himself, though it doesn’t do very much for him. He spends the rest of the time reading through the case file. 

The team settles in quickly at the city’s precinct, and Hotch takes charge as usual. The uniforms are just as tired as they are, but he makes it work. Soon enough, JJ is off to work with the local liaison to craft a narrative, Reid has situated himself in an empty conference room to get to work analyzing maps with Garcia, and Hotch and the rest go to check out the crime scene. 

It’s brutal—much too brutal for this early, but Hotch forces the emotions out of it and gets to work questioning the present officers. Morgan follows suit, with Prentiss and Rossi going to investigate the rest of the house. 

They don’t learn much from the officers that they don’t already know. This is the most recent crime scene—George and Marsha Springfield, undeserving of such a grisly fate. Their two kids, 8 and 9, were off visiting their grandparents in Nebraska when it happened, and though they avoided the same fate, they’re going to deal with a lifetime of guilt. 

It’s all Hotch can think about as he examines the first body. The six children left to deal with the carnage, about their past and future marred against their control. 

All he can think about is Jack, and the dreary fate that awaits him if his father falls in the field.  

Hotch swallows his doubt and his guilt all in one and forces every thought out of his mind. He has to be unshakable for the team, for what’s left of these families, for a city on the brink of hysterics. 

They’ll find whoever did this. That’s what gets him through it. 

They spent early morning at the crime scene, collecting evidence and gathering information from the officers and trying to make sense of the killer’s motive. Progress is slow, partially because of the hour, but they make enough that Hotch feels comfortable moving onto the next job.

Their four a.m. start time was too early to go knock on doors and get interviews, but now it’s a more normal 10 in the morning. After a quick stop back at the station to share information with Reid, Garcia, and JJ and down a few cups of coffee, they get right back on the road.  

Hotch and Prentiss take one van and Morgan and Rossi take the other, splitting up to get what they can from interviews. It’s difficult working with kids, especially with such recent trauma, so they hold off on it for now, allowing the local uniforms that have been with them for a bit longer to set things up before the BAU tries anything. 

First they go to a neighbor’s house, then an alleged eye witness. They don’t get much other than personality reads, but it at least gives them the beginnings of a profile. The third place they hit is their earliest idea of a suspect. 

“Lucas Hartford,” Prentiss reads off the file one of the local officers had put together. “Thirty-nine, born and raised in St. Charles, Missouri. High school degree, but never got to college because he was in and out of jail.” 

“What has he been charged for?” 

“Booked a few times for public intoxication and convicted three times for assault. Once was for third-degree assault, Missouri’s version of aggravated assault,” she says. “He got out of jail four years ago, and it looks like he’s been living in St. Louis for some of that.”

“Assault and drinking is a far cry from serial killing, even aggravated,” Hotch says. “What makes him a suspect?”

“Both parents are dead,” she says. “And from the looks of it, it was not a happy home while they were around. He’s got a sister, so it fits the initial theory of trying to replicate his family.”

Hotch lets out a loose breath and nods. “We’ll start there. Try and get a story from this guy, build a profile, see if it matches the one Morgan and Rossi have made for their guy.”

“And hope we pin something down before more bodies show up,” Prentiss murmurs. 

They’re at their destination soon enough, and Hotch parks in an open spot on the other side of the road. His eyes dart around as they walk up to the front door, filing things away in the back of his mind. 

The house number and last name—1432, Hartford—on the mailbox plagued with rotting wood. What there is of a yard is poorly cut, and a small garden of wilted flowers has their own corner, victims of the winter weather. One car is parked slightly crooked in a small driveway—there’s no garage, so at least he’s probably home. Two potted plants sit on either side of the door, thankfully alive. 

“Remember,” Prentiss says as they come to a stop together, “be nice.” 

“I’m plenty nice,” he murmurs, and she huffs the slightest laugh. 

Hotch knocks on the door as Prentiss fishes around for her ID, and thankfully, they don’t wait long. The door cracks open after a few seconds to reveal a woman—certainly not their unsub, but something a whole lot more surprising. 

You.

Your brows furrow at the sight of him, and Hotch has to hold back his shock. 

You don’t live in St. Louis. And your last name certainly isn’t Hartford. 

“Aaron?” you ask in disbelief, and he doesn’t even have to look at Prentiss to know the questions he’s going to get later.

He says your name, able to control his surprise with only the slightest crease of his brows giving it away, then corrects himself just as quickly. “Miss Hartford. My name is SSA Aaron Hotchner, and this is SSA Emily Prentiss. We’re here with the FBI.” 

Your frown deepens as they show their IDs, and you actually take it from Hotch, skeptical eyes scanning over it for much too long. You glance back at him as you hand it back over. “What is the FBI doing here?” 

Emily clears her throat as she puts her credentials away. “We’re here investigating the latest murders in St. Louis. Can we come in?”

“The murders?” you ask with exasperation. “What— what murders? And what do I have to do with them?” 

Aaron notices the way your grip tightens on the door just the slightest bit, and a shred of sympathy strikes him before he speaks up.

“We’ll be able to explain everything if you let us in,” he says. 

You swallow thickly in your throat, your gaze darting back to Aaron before you finally nod. “Okay. Sure. Why not?”

You move and Hotch and Prentiss walk inside, gesturing with a hand towards your living room as you shut and lock the door behind them. “Take a seat. Uh— do you guys need anything? Water, or coffee, or…” 

You trail off, and Prentiss shakes her head. “Thank you, but that’s not needed.” She takes a seat on the sofa, but Hotch can’t stop himself from looking around the house. 

It’s a small place, one story—likely rented, seeing how paintings sit on countertops and mantels rather than hanging on the wall. It has a certain charm to it, but something is off about it all. 

Two styles clash—decorative pillows at odds with a filled and painted-over hole in the wall, an attempt at neutral tones ruined by dark articles of clothing scattered around, one person’s mess barely being held back by another’s cleaning efforts. You lived with someone else. Likely Lucas Hartford, possibly their unsub. 

“Are you gonna sit down, Aaron?” you ask, snapping him out of his profiling haze. “Or do you want to look around some more?” 

“I’m sorry,” he says, clearing his throat as he walks over and sits down in an open chair near Prentiss. “Just curious.” 

“That makes two of us,” you say, and you cross your arms as you look at him. He notices that you don’t sit down yourself, and there’s still a coldness in your eyes. “You’re FBI now?” 

He nods. “I had a change of heart.” 

You huff a laugh. “Thought at least one of us would be a lawyer by now. I guess not.” 

Hotch frowns, but Prentiss takes over before he can continue on that particular thread. “Miss Hartford—”

You interrupt by saying your first name, and it spurns something strange in his chest. It’s been over a decade since he’s heard your voice. “You can skip the formalities.” 

Prentiss nods and repeats your name. “As you know, we’re investigating the murders that have been occuring in the St. Charles area.” 

“And you think I have something to do with it?” you ask, the accusatory edge to your voice not lost on him. 

“Not you,” Hotch says. “Do you know a Lucas Hartford?”

“He’s my brother,” you say, and your frown deepens. “You’re not saying—”

“No,” Prentiss interrupts, “we’re not saying anything. We’re just asking.”

And just like that, your entire stance, your visage, it all changes. Hotch can sense the walls slamming up around you, and he immediately realizes two things: 

Getting information out of you is going to be much harder than planned, and you’re not anywhere near the same person you used to be. 

Hotch doesn’t know what he expects, really. He graduated with the intent to prosecute for at least a decade—now, he’s with the BAU. It’s not fair to assume you’re that same girl he met in law school. 

“My brother is not a murderer,” you state clearly.

“And we aren’t accusing him or you of anything—” she starts. 

“Me?” you interrupt, and you let out a harsh laugh. “I’m a suspect too?”

“If you would allow Agent Prentiss to finish her sentences, you would be less upset,” Hotch says. 

You glower at him, but you stay silent. 

“We aren’t accusing either of you of anything,” Prentiss finishes. “We’re just trying to gather information with what little we know.” 

“I know my rights,” you say, unflinching gaze still meeting Hotch’s. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Prentiss looks at him as well, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “That’s unfortunate to hear, Miss Hartford.”

“You know my name, Aaron. Use it.”

He does, and the letters feel strange on his tongue after so long. “This is a serious matter. This isn’t an accusation—we’re in the early days of this case and we need all the information we can get.” 

“Ask away,” you say. “Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.” 

“Lucas Hartford,” Prentiss starts. “He’s your brother?” 

You nod. “He lives with me.” 

He lives with me, not we live together. Makes him think that you pay for the place, he came knocking, and you didn’t have the heart to turn him away. 

“Why is that?” Hotch asks. 

You look at him, those scrutinizing eyes attempting to peer into his soul the same way they did all those years ago. But Hotch has changed since law school, and he’s much better at guarding his emotions. It seems you are, too. 

“He’s a student,” you finally say. “He goes to community college. I’m giving him a place to live while he gets his associate’s.”  

“Community college and living with his younger sister at 39?” Prentiss is trying to get information out of you, even if it isn’t in the kindest way. Your jaw clenches, and he knows her words have some effect. You’ve probably heard it more than once, the way things are going. 

“He’s getting his life back on track,” you say defensively. “I’m the only one left that can help him, so I am.” 

“What about your parents?” she asks. “Surely they’re a better option than this.” 

“Both dead,” you answer. “And no one else cares enough to help him. Are you here to do anything other than dig up my past?” 

Hotch feels Prentiss’s eyes on him, likely because it’s a step in the right direction for a really shitty reason, but he can’t look away from you. 

“Really?” 

He knows your parents are dead—it was in your brother’s profile, and by extension it applies to you—but it still hits him. 

He met your mother, had countless lunches and dinners with her. Helped her move out of her old house. Spent two Thanksgivings and a Christmas with her. 

And he didn’t even know when she died. 

You shrug and wrap your arms around yourself, and for the first time you look something other than defensive or standoffish. You look— well… sad. 

“Mom went a few years after you graduated,” you say, looking at Hotch. “Dad went five years ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Prentiss says. 

You nod your thanks, the notion a bit numb. 

“You never told me,” Hotch says with a slight frown.

“We haven’t talked in ten years,” you say. “Sorry that I didn’t know you still wanted updates.” 

Hotch tries to think of something to say in response, but Prentiss starts getting a call and she stands up. “Excuse me.” 

His jaw clenches for a moment as Prentiss ducks into a nearby bedroom, but he’s recovered by the time you look at him again. Your arms are crossed, but your expression is even. 

“I take it this was as much of a surprise for you as it is for me.” 

Hotch nods. “We came here looking for your brother.” 

“Does your team know about our history?” you ask simply.

“No.” 

“Do you want them to?” 

“...No.” 

You huff a laugh, your eyes narrowing a bit. “‘Course not. Probably counts as conflict of interest.” 

You wait another beat, then ask another question. “How’s Haley?”

“Good, last I heard,” he says, and then he hesitates. “We’re… divorced.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

He nods. “This job isn’t easy for anyone.”

You look like you want to say more, but once again, Hotch is saved by Prentiss as she walks back in. Her phone is closed in her hand and she looks at him. “Morgan and Rossi have a lead. The chief wants everyone back at the precinct to go over everything we’ve found.” 

Hotch nods again and stands up. Prentiss takes her card out of her pocket and holds it out to you. 

“Thank you for your time, Miss Hartford. If you find out any information, or want to tell us anything else, please give me a call.” 

“Pass that along to your brother, too,” Hotch says. 

You reluctantly take the card, but you don’t look at it. “You can see yourselves out.” 

Prentiss nods. “Thank you again. Have a good day, and stay safe.” 

She leads the way, and Hotch follows after her. He fights the urge to look back before he shuts the door. 

Prentiss looks at him as they walk back to the car, and he can only imagine what is going through her mind. But eventually she just shrugs and pulls out her phone again. 

“Garcia?” Prentiss asks after she picks up. 

“You’ve reached the office of all that is holy.” Penelope’s voice comes out through the speaker, and Hotch can’t help the smallest twitch of his lips. “What’s up?” 

“Dig up everything you can find on Lucas Hartford,” Emily says, and her glance at Hotch does not go unnoticed. “And throw in his sister, too. He’s one of our only suspects, and we need to know if she’s in on it.” 

“On it,” Garcia says. “I’ll call you back when I’m done.” 

“You’re the best,” she says, and then she hangs up. They get back to the car, and it only takes Prentiss all of five seconds after they get in for her to start drilling him.

“Alright,” she says, buckling her seatbelt with a click before she sets her attention on him. “What was that back there? You two know each other?”

Hotch busies himself with his own seatbelt and starting the car, answering as casually as possible as the engine revs to life. “We were friends in law school.”

“Sure,” Prentiss nods. “The way you were around her, that’s not just ‘law school friend’ stuff.”

Hotch is once again reminded of how, sometimes, it was a downfall to constantly be around profilers. It was nearly impossible to keep anything a secret. 

“It’s nothing,” he says as he pulls back onto the road. “We knew each other, we fell apart, we’re here now.”

Emily hums. “Is it too far to ask if you were together?”

“Yes,” he says sternly, maybe a bit too hasty. “It is.”

“Fine,” she says breezily, and she looks out the window. “But that tension was thick.” 

Hotch knows what she’s thinking. Hasn’t he been with Haley since high school, what kind of history did you and him have, were you together, would he be okay to work this case— 

He doesn’t really want to answer any of them. You were a part of his past he hadn’t expected to resurface any time soon—if Hotch is being honest, he didn’t know if he would ever see you again once he graduated. Not after the way he broke things off.  

You’ve changed a lot. So has he. 

And now your brother is a murder suspect, and you could be covering up for him. 

That’s the only thing that should be on his mind. 

-

“For the last time,” you huff as you storm down the stairs, “I don’t want to deal with this.” 

“Because you know that Mia is a lying bitch!” Cleo exclaims, following after you. “I’m sick of you stealing my clothes!”

“I’m not stealing your clothes,” Mia scoffs in your wake, just behind Cleo. “They’re too ugly for me to want anyways. I bet I wouldn’t even fit into them.”

“You are! And you’re stealing my fucking jewelry, too!” she yells. “All of my shit is going missing, and I know it’s not Little Miss Law School, so it’s got to be you!” 

Mia draws out a mirthless laugh. “You are not accusing me of this.” 

“I don’t have anyone else to accuse!” Cleo shouts. 

They both look at you, and Mia says your name. “You have to settle this before I kill her.”

“Oh, I’ll kill you first!” she hisses. “At least I’ll get all my stuff back!”

You clench your jaw as your nails dig into your palms, and you’re about to bite back when the doorbell rings. You don’t even try to hide your sigh of relief. 

“That’s Aaron,” you say as you grab your coat and your bag from the table. “I’m leaving. If you kill each other, don’t get blood on the furniture.”

You don’t give them a chance to say anything before you rush to the door, open it, and shut it behind you. 

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” you breathe. 

“What’s going on in there?” Aaron asks, amused. 

“My roommates are fighting again.” You roll your eyes. “It doesn’t matter. You’re much more interesting.”

“You know this is a study date,” he says wryly, and you cut him off with a kiss. 

“Still a date,” you murmur against his lips. “And something seriously needed.”

Aaron chuckles as he wraps an arm around you, pulling you into his side, and the two of you walk to his car. “You’ve gotta get out of this house, honey.”

“I know,” you grumble. “But I can’t afford a place on my own.”

“Doesn’t have to be on your own,” he says as he opens the door for you. “It just has to be away from the girls that are making you miserable.”

“The lease ends at the end of the semester,” you sigh. “Just have to make it until then.”

“You know,” Aaron boxes you in against the car when you lean against the side of it, smiling softly at you, “I do live alone.”

“Oh yeah?” You ruffle his hair with your fingers and grin. “What are you proposing?”

He shrugs, letting his hands linger on your waist. “Just that you hate your roommates, and you don’t hate me. You could spend your time somewhere else.” 

“Careful,” you warn. “You keep saying things like that and we might not make it to the library.” 

“You keep saying things like that, and I might not mind,” Aaron muses. 

You grin as he leans in and kisses you again, once, twice, three times as your back hits the side of his car and you card your hands through his hair. Mia and Cleo are probably killing each other inside, but you don’t really care at this point. They’ve made your life hell for a semester and a half—they can bother each other for once. 

“Aaron,” you whisper against his lips, and he gets one more in between words, “I’ve got a test on Tuesday.”

“And today’s Sunday.” He nips at your neck and you laugh, your eyes falling shut as you lean your head back. “You’ll be fine, honey.”

“You have one on Monday,” you remind him, and he sighs. You feel his hot breath against your neck. 

“Ruining our fun in the name of schoolwork,” he says. “No wonder all your professors love you.”

“Everyone loves me,” you correct. “Including you.”

You steal one more kiss before you open your door yourself and get in, and Aaron lets out a breathy laugh.

“You’ve got that right.”

He closes your door then gets in the other side, and you’re already rifling through the glove box full of cassettes. You pull out the mixtape you made for him for your six month anniversary and pop it into the player, and Aaron smiles as the first few notes of Stairway to Heaven come on. 

“You’re a threat to my grades, y’know.”

“Maybe it’s all part of my plan,” you say. “Distract you with kisses to make sure I’m a shoe-in for this fellowship.”

“A dastardly plan,” he says with mock austerity. 

“I’ve been told I have to be more of a shark,” you muse. “Consider this me taking down my competition.”

Aaron laughs, and you find yourself smiling just at the sound of it. You love the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, how they soften just so, how he acts like himself around you, and not some perfected or stoic image that he thinks he needs. 

Falling in love with Aaron Hotchner has been the easiest thing in the world. 

“Don’t let anyone know,” he says, and he reaches over to intertwine your fingers together. “But I’ll happily fall to you every time.”

“As long as you don’t tell everyone how whipped I am for you,” you tease.

“Looks like we’ve both got reputations to keep up.”

“Looks like it.”

You share a smile, yours just on the edge of a grin as you try to bite it back. You hold hands the rest of the way, just soaking in each other’s presence with songs from bands you introduced to each other floating through the air. 

(It is a goddamn struggle to get any work done at the library with that face across from you the whole time.)

- 

You had sky-high aspirations when you were younger. 

Ones that would make your teachers offer a smile and tell you to shoot a little lower, that would make your friends’ eyes widen, that your father would scoff at and your mother would humor you on just to get you to move past it. 

You didn’t listen. You’ve wanted to be a lawyer since you went on a class field trip to a courthouse in elementary school and saw all the attorneys hustling about, dressed to the nines, making last-minute deals outside the courtroom.  

They were just… so confident. So smart, so stoic, always knowing the answer to everything. The good ones had money, sure, but more importantly they had the power to change lives for the better. And as a kid that had to cover up bruises before the school day, nothing sounded more appealing. 

All you’ve ever wanted to do is help people. 

And as you sit in a cold, empty interrogation room, you can’t help but wonder where the hell you went wrong. 

You don’t want to be here, obviously. But you know the FBI won’t stop bugging you until you give them answers—you know Aaron Hotchner won’t stop bugging you. 

Because god— what are the odds? 

What are the fucking odds of your ex-boyfriend from a decade ago showing up at your door with a badge and an attempted case against your brother? 

It’s ridiculous, and it’s such bad luck that you think it could only happen to you. You’ve thought about Aaron Hotchner more than you’d like to admit over the years, especially when you found your old GW crewnecks, and the box of school supplies you used for a decade, and those photo albums from what should’ve been your golden years. 

It’s not like any of it matters, though. You only agreed to come in and talk because you want them off your back and you don’t want them poking around your house. You saw it in Aaron’s eyes—he was profiling you and your place the entire time. 

If the cops want to invade your privacy even further, they can get a goddamn warrant. 

Your thoughts are interrupted when the door opens, and you hold back a mirthless laugh, because of course it’s Aaron. He greets you with your name, and he has a file in his hands. You wonder if it’s on you or your brother. “Thank you for taking the time out of your day to come in and talk with us.”

“Well, you seem to think my brother is a murderer.” You cross your arms as you sit back. “I’m not really gonna let that stand.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked for a lawyer,” he says as he sits down across from you. 

“I don’t plan to be here for very long,” you respond tartly. “But don’t worry—that can always change. I know my rights.” 

“I’m the last person you need to tell that to.” Hotch sets the file down and looks right at you. Though he’s obviously older—more grizzled, more hardened; harsher, sharper lines that define his face; lips set in a taut, unflinching line—you still see that young man from law school. The passion, the care he puts into everything, the penchant for striped ties. 

You wonder what he sees when he looks at you. 

“Your last name wasn’t Hartford when I met you,” he says. “Why is it now?” 

“Not one for small talk,” you remark. 

“I never have been.” 

“I remember.” You hold his gaze. “It’s my mom’s maiden name. I changed it to put some distance between me and everything else.” 

You can practically see the gears of his brain working, neural pathways branching off with every word you say to make sense of it and reason a thousand different meanings from it. Aaron’s always been like that, but it’s tenfold now. 

You suppose one has to be like that, to try and get anywhere with the types of criminals they face. 

“How long have you been living in St. Louis?”

“Seven years. I’ve had that house for three.” 

“Rent or own?”

“Rent,” you scoff. “I don’t make enough for a down payment, and I don’t want a place tying me down.”

“What inspired the move?”

“Close enough to home to be familiar, far enough to not be.” 

“And home is?” 

“St. Charles,” you say, and you purse your lips. “Shouldn’t you already know all this?” You nod at the file in front of him. “It’s either on me or my brother, and we share a lot of the same info.” 

“We prefer to get our information from the source,” he says. 

“Sources can lie.” 

Aaron doesn’t waver. “And we can charge you with obstruction if it harms our investigation.” 

Your lips twitch for a moment, not entirely without heart. “Ask your questions, Aaron.” 

He opens the folder and slides the first picture over to you—your brother’s first mugshot, taken when he was only twenty-one. You still remember riding your bike to the station in the sweltering August heat to drop off his bail and pick him up. 

You had to catch the bus home together, you had to pay his fare, and his bail drained everything you’d been saving from your waitress job. But your dad refused to pay it, and you refused to be alone in that house any longer than you already had. 

You swallow the memory. It still tastes as sour as the day it happened. 

“Lucas Hartford is our main suspect,” he says. “He matches our initial profile—in and out of jail since his twenties, his parents are dead and he has an unstable home life, and he’s got a sister.”   

“None of those sound like questions,” you say. 

“Where is your brother?” he asks firmly. He’s given you a bit of leniency, but you can tell he’s getting tired of you. Some things never change, you think to yourself bitterly. 

“I don’t know,” you admit. 

“You don’t know,” he repeats. 

“I let him stay with me, and my only requirement is that he goes to his community college classes and stays out of jail,” you say. “He’s done both, so I don’t ask questions.” 

“And you’re telling me you haven’t questioned it.” 

“I called him the other day after you left,” you say. “He didn’t pick up, and I didn’t get a call back until the next night.” 

Aaron’s eyes sharpen. “What did you say to him?” 

“I called to see where he was,” you say evenly. “I think you all are wrong, but I wanted to make sure he was okay.” 

“You didn’t tell him—” 

“No,” you interrupt, “I didn’t tell him about your investigation. If I think you’re wrong, why would I need to let him know?” 

He still has that look in his eyes, and you know you’re getting on his nerves with the constant interrupting, the constant backtalk. But he probably deals with much, much worse. 

“Good,” he nods. “You could be putting lives in danger if you do—including yours.” 

“Please,” you scoff. “He won’t hurt me. He never has.” 

“Why do you let him stay with you?” Aaron asks. “You’re straight-edge, he’s a borderline alcoholic that’s been in and out of jail for years. You’ve got a law degree, he never made it past high school. You’ve got your life together, his is falling apart.” 

“That’s why I do it,” you say. “Our parents are dead. I’m all he has left, and he’s all I have left. I want him to get better, so I’m trying my best to help him get there. How can Luke put his life back together if he’s got no support?” 

“That’s an awful lot of faith to put in someone who hasn’t earned it.” 

“I’ve gotten good at that over the years,” you reply. 

Aaron stares at you, and you stare back. You let the moment linger. You hope it stings, even fleetingly. 

“And you’re wrong, by the way.” 

“About what?” he asks. Again, unshaken. 

“I don’t have a law degree,” you say. “I dropped out.” 

And for some reason, that is what gets him. He frowns, and you wonder what it means that this is the most unexpected thing he’s gotten out of you. 

“Why? You were only a year out. You had stellar grades.” 

“My mom got cancer,” you say. “Luke was serving his second stint, Dad fucked off to some corner of the country to drink himself to death a couple months before. I was the only one left to take care of her, and I couldn’t do that from DC.” 

“I had no idea.” This is the first time he looks taken aback since you’ve met him again. “And she’s—”

“Dead,” you supply without waiting for an answer. “Went a couple months after I was meant to graduate.” 

“...I’m sorry for your loss,” he says. He’s just repeating what his agent said at your house, but it feels genuine, at least. 

“It’s been a decade,” you say. “I’m just sorry it was her instead of my dad.” 

Aaron’s brows knit together again, and less work goes into covering it up this time. “You seem to have something against your father.” 

You huff a mirthless laugh. “Excellent profiling.” 

“Child abuse is common for serial killers,” Aaron says. “We find it’s typically the root of their problems later in life, or plays a part in their MO.” 

You stare at him again. This isn’t just an interrogation with Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner—it’s revealing parts of your past that you never told your ex-boyfriend Aaron. 

“Yeah,” you finally say. “Our dad beat us. Is that what you wanted to hear?” 

“You know th—” 

Aaron cuts himself off before he can finish whatever he wants to say, and he lets out a short sigh with a nod. “It’s valuable information for the profile.” 

The room feels a lot colder all of a sudden. “Sure.” 

He still looks like he wants to say more, but he bites his tongue as he takes the picture back and closes the file. 

“I’ll be back,” he says. “Would you like anything? Water?”

You shake your head and remain silent. He takes the folder and stands up, and you watch him the entire way to the door. Just before he can open it, you find words escaping without you thinking. 

“Look, Aaron,” you blurt out. He pauses, and he turns to look at you. “I know this is your thing, and this is your investigation, but I’m telling you—my brother and I don’t play any part in it.” 

“The profile—” 

“I don’t care what your profile says,” you interrupt. “He didn’t do it. He couldn’t have done it.” 

“He’s rough around the edges, I know. In and out of jail isn’t good for anyone.” You hold onto the edge of the table as you continue rambling, needing something to do with your hands. “But he’s working to get better, and he is not the kind of person to do something like this. If you believe anything I say, believe that.” 

“I suppose we’ll find out,” he says evenly. 

He leaves the room, and your hands fall into your lap as your nails dig into your palms. You don’t mean to be desperate, but you feel it. You’ve been defending Lucas at every chance, but you’re terrified of being wrong. You’re terrified that Aaron might be right—that he might be behind all of this. 

For his sake—and your sake, honestly, because you think you deserve to be selfish when he’s all you have left—you hope you’re right. 

You have to be right. 

The room feels even colder. 

Your stare drifts to the one-way mirror, where you know his team is watching. You saw the way Agent Prentiss watched Aaron when they came to your house—he said he doesn’t want them to know, but you think they already do. 

You wonder the kind of things they’ve come up with about you and him. 

-

Morgan whistles when Hotch walks out of the interrogation room. 

“She does not like you.” 

“Did you gather anything else?” he asks placidly. He sets your brother’s file down so he can fix his tie. 

“Abusive dad, dead parents, criminal background,” he says. “Lucas is looking like a stronger suspect. Oh— and she really doesn’t like you.” 

“If you don’t want to go back to building a file on your suspect, move on,” Hotch demands. 

Morgan shrugs, clearly unfazed, but he keeps his mouth shut. Reid, meanwhile, is still staring through the glass at you. You haven’t exactly relaxed, but you’re not as tense as you were while talking to Hotch. You pick at a loose strand of thread on your sweater, and when you pull it out, you let it fall to the floor. 

“Her brother feels like a prime suspect,” Reid murmurs. “I feel like I could just figure it all out if I could talk to him.” 

“I told Penelope to keep an eye on him,” Prentiss contributes. “She’s tracking his cards, the car registered in his name, even called the person in charge of the AA meetings he goes to to keep an eye out—everything. We’ll know if she gets anything.”

“Serial killers want to see the damage they’ve done,” Reid says. “Things are falling apart here—the whole city is terrified. He’s gotta be in St. Louis still.” 

“You’re sure that he’s still in the running.” Hotch glances back at you, and he knows he has to at least ask, for your sake. He doesn’t want to put you through anything more than he has to—not after what you’ve told him. 

And Hotch knows your past is your business—he just can’t believe you never told him. 

He’s turned over your relationship in his head just as many times in these past few days as he did the months after he ended things. 

“I’m sure, sir,” Reid says. “I’ve read over both their files, and Lucas matches with our preliminary profile. His stressor could have been his father dying.”

Morgan frowns. “Explain.”

“Family annihilators typically go after their own family for a myriad of reasons,” he says. “Paranoia, to cover up their lies, to free themselves from what they see as oppression, sometimes just pure jealousy.”

“He’s killing the parents but leaving the children alive,” Hotch says. “Sounds like a liberator to me.”

“That’s what I think,” Reid nods. “If Lucas has been banking on killing his father for that attempt at freedom, and then lost the chance?” He shrugs. “That could be why he started going for other families.” 

“Other fathers to take his place,” Morgan realizes, and he nods again. 

“You should talk to her, Spence,” Prentiss says. “You’ve got a handle on the profile, and you’re pretty good at conveying info. She seems like a reasonable person—just can’t accept her brother doing something like this.” 

“It’s typical for someone to deny their family member’s involvement,” Reid says. “No one wants to think their sibling is a murderer.” 

“If you lay it all out for her like that, with facts and the profile, I think she’ll listen.” Prentiss looks at Hotch. “She’s too closed off with you.”

“That’s how she is,” Hotch claims.

“Maybe,” she shrugs, “but it’s much easier to hate you than it is to hate Reid.” 

Hotch glares at her, and Reid clears his throat to insert himself back into the conversation. 

“I’d be happy to talk to her,” he says. “I know what it’s like to be in this kind of position—I can put her at ease, sympathize with her.” 

They all look at Hotch, and he wants to say no. He wants to be the one to get this out of you—some part of him wants as much time with you as possible. But he decides to swallow his ego. 

“Fine.” He nods, and he hands the folder to Reid. “I trust you to handle it.” 

Reid nods too, far too many times, and he takes the file. “Thank you. Uh— sir. I appreciate your trust.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, but it has no bite to it, and Reid walks inside. 

He says your name and sits down across from you. “I’m Spencer Reid. I know we’ve already said it, but thank you for talking to us. It may not seem like it, but it goes a long way towards figuring out this case.”

You nod. You already seem more at ease than you were with him, and it makes Hotch… 

Not jealous, because that would be insane. But it makes him upset that he doesn’t understand you the way he used to—that he doesn’t hold that key to you anymore. God, it feels like he doesn’t know you anymore. 

Hotch doesn’t get why a side of his brain still thinks this way about you. 

“They sent a new one in,” you say. 

“You looked like you needed a break from Hotch,” Reid says. “Don’t worry. We all do sometimes.”

You huff a slight laugh and your posture eases, your expression softens just so. Reid was right, as usual. 

“I can imagine.”

He starts talking to you about the case, laying out all the facts, and though you don’t look happy, you don’t cut him off like you cut Hotch off. 

“She’s pretty,” Morgan offers, glancing at Hotch. “And stubborn. I see why you like her.” 

“Shut up, Morgan,” Hotch mutters.

He chuckles and holds his hands up, and focuses back on the interrogation. 

The rest of it passes in silence, save for the occasional input from Prentiss or Morgan to elaborate on a point. You talk much more with Reid than you did with Hotch, and you don’t stare daggers at him the entire time. 

Time doesn’t always heal all wounds, he thinks. 

When Reid is finishing up inside with you, Morgan glances back at Hotch. “You think she’s part of this?”

He shakes his head. “No. She has no reason to kill, nothing to gain. She talks about her past too plainly—it hurt her, obviously, but it hasn’t taken over her life.”

“What about her brother?” Prentiss asks. 

“The more we learn, the more I suspect him,” Morgan says. 

She nods in agreement. “We just have to find him.”

Hotch isn’t sure yet. 

But for your sake, he hopes his gut feeling is wrong. 

-

Spring has finally sprung in DC, and you couldn’t be happier. 

It’s hard to feel down on your walks to class when the birds are singing and the sun is beaming down on you, when you see students sitting on blankets reading and talking and actually enjoying life for once. 

You’re two years into law school, and it feels like you’ve spent 90% of your time studying in either the library or your room. A bit of a sad existence, but it’s made better with Aaron. 

You’re laying down on a blanket—one you crocheted yourself in undergrad—resting your head on Aaron’s head as he reads a book, the spring sun shining down on you. It feels like the first moment of relaxation either of you have had since classes started, and you chose to spend it together in the University Yard. 

You should probably be studying or doing some kind of homework, but you don’t care. It has been too damn long since you’ve gotten to just sit around and exist with Aaron, and you’ve got at least a couple days until your next quiz. That’s far enough away for you. 

It’s been a rough semester for both of you, between classes and endless homework, between your internship and your endless family issues—Luke is two years in, and his parole was denied, and your dad still insists on being the reason you stay on campus year-round. 

You don’t think you’re pushing it when you say Aaron’s support has been the only reason you’ve gotten through it, your grades—and your mental state—relatively unscathed. 

Aaron says your name, and you hum. 

“Are you listening?” he asks. 

“Of course,” you say. 

“Your eyes are closed.” 

“I don’t need my eyes to listen,” you say wryly. “What’s up?” 

You feel him tense for a moment, feel him adjust his position slightly. 

“I got a call from Haley,” he says carefully. 

Your eyes open and you frown. 

You know the name, but only in the way that you talked a bit about your past relationships while you were still getting to know each other. She was his high school girlfriend, and it was a big deal then, but they broke up before college because they both wanted different things.

It shouldn’t be a big deal now. But he’s treating it like one, and that makes you hesitate. 

“Yeah? What’d she want?”

“…She’s in DC for the weekend,” he says. “Some conference for school. She asked if we could grab a coffee or something and catch up.”

You finally sit up, his hands falling from where he’d been playing with your hair, and you look at him.

“Your high school girlfriend wants to catch up.”

“An old friend wants to catch up,” he corrects. “I haven’t really talked to her since we graduated high school.” 

“...Okay,” you say slowly. “Do you want to see her?” 

He shrugs. “I thought it would be nice.”

“Do you think she thinks it’ll be more than nice?” you ask. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t even know how she got my landline. I think my mom might have given it to her.” 

Your eyebrows rise. “Your mom gave your ex-girlfriend your number?” 

“It’s the only way I can think of her getting it,” Aaron shrugs. “Like I said, I haven’t talked to her since graduation.” 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying to think as you look at Aaron. 

You’ve met his mom a dozen times. You’re insistent that she doesn’t like you, despite Aaron’s assertions towards the opposite—it wouldn’t surprise you if she gave this girl his new number in an effort to push him in a new direction. 

But that train of thought feels a little crazy. You’re confident in your relationship with Aaron—you love him, and he loves you. God, he made an off-handed comment about marriage the other day. You’re not threatened by a girl from his past wanting to catch up. 

“Go for it,” you finally say. 

He frowns, like he was expecting the worst. “Really?” 

“I trust you, Aaron,” you say. “You say she’s just a friend, I believe it.” 

You lean forward to kiss him, your eyes fluttering shut, and it lasts much longer than it should. When you pull away, Aaron’s smiling softly at you. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

“‘Course,” you say, tipping a shoulder. “I’m known to be rational from time to time.” 

He chuckles, and you smile as you lay back down on his chest. Soon after, you feel the weight of his hand on your shoulder. 

“I love you,” he says. It feels more like a reminder than anything. 

You entangle your fingers together and press a kiss to the back of his hand. 

Sometimes you need reminders. 

“I love you too.” 

-

“Four more bodies,” Prentiss mutters. “God.” 

“You can say that again,” Morgan murmurs. 

Hotch is silent as he examines the father’s body. They’ve been so busy the past few days trying to nail down the profile, both on their unsub and geographically, that this happening again hadn’t been at the top of their list. There was a month between the first two, and two weeks between the second and third. 

No one expected this to happen so soon. 

The entire family was killed this time, and once again, the parents look similar to the other victims. It’s the work of their unsub, no doubt. 

Hotch and the team had already been at the precinct for an hour going over all the information they’d found when they got the call at 8 in the morning, the bodies discovered by the family’s maid when she arrived for work. 

An entire family, parents and children, senselessly slaughtered for one man’s deranged quest for liberation. 

Hotch has been in this business for a long time, seen things that most people only imagine in nightmares, and he still has to take a step back when children are involved. 

He sees Jack in every single one. He can’t help it. 

Hotch took Prentiss and Morgan with him to the crime scene—JJ has a kid, Rossi had a kid, and he just didn’t want Reid to see it. They’ll all be more valuable working together back there anyways, and it’s imperative that JJ controls the narrative before this can break to the press. 

Again, Prentiss talks to the officers at the scene and Morgan helps him examine the bodies. After all, there are double the amount. 

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Morgan says as he stands back up. “Our guy is killing surrogate parents to get back at his own, fine. Dad was tortured again, mom was killed with a bullet. But bringing the kids into it isn’t his thing.” 

He uses a gloved hand to gingerly lift the father’s arm away from his body so he can examine the underarm. “Look at this. He’s been stabbed at least ten times, and his arm’s nearly severed from his body.”

“And his neck,” Morgan mutters. “He’s half decapitated.” 

Hotch sets the arm back down. “The unsub always wants the father to suffer, but this is a new level.” He looks up at Morgan. “I don’t think he has a reason for killing the children. I think he’s getting sloppy—he’s getting overwhelmed by his anger.” 

“You think he’s devolving,” he says, catching on. 

“Something tells me we’re coming to the end of the line,” Hotch says. “Whatever he does next, he’s going out with a bang.” 

-

The mood in the precinct has fallen dramatically since the last hit. The uniforms aren’t happy that they’re working around the clock, the chief isn’t happy that the BAU hasn’t figured everything out yet, and the city isn’t happy that ten murders have been committed with what they think is no end in sight. 

JJ and Rossi have gone out to bring in the suspect that he and Morgan found together for the sake of covering their bases—they still haven’t been able to find Lucas, despite Reid calling you every day to check in and upping police presence around the city. 

The rest of the team sits around a conference table, over a dozen coffees between them, going over everything and racking their brains for information. 

“This just isn’t matching up,” Reid complains. “Lucas has just been at home for the first two, but for the third and the fourth he’s got alibis.” 

“What are they?” Hotch asks. 

“He was on the road all night when the third happened,” Reid says. 

“And how do we know?” Prentiss asks. 

“Garcia picked up his debit card being used a couple times from Des Moines back to St. Louis when the third set of murders happened,” Morgan contributes. “Must’ve been a road trip, because there are stops at a gas station, a restaurant, and a rest stop.” 

“The last one happened during an AA meeting he was supposed to attend,” Prentiss says. “I called the leader and she said he was there.”

“Do we have footage from any of those places?” Hotch asks. “We need to make sure.” 

Reid nods. “I asked her to check it all this morning, including the AA meeting. She must still be going through it—I can’t imagine it’s easy to get all that access.” 

“What about a second unsub?” Morgan suggests. 

Hotch shakes his head. “These are all meant to be personal for liberation—catharsis. Involving someone else would take away from the feeling.” 

“What about your suspect?” Prentiss asks, looking at Morgan. “Could he be the unsub?” 

“Patrick Fenton,” Morgan says, and he shrugs. “He fits it—dead parents, jail time, child of abuse. But he’s got two sisters, and his parents died when he was in his twenties from a car accident. I don’t see why he would start killing almost twenty years later.” 

“Maybe we’ll figure something out in questioning,” Reid says hopefully. 

Morgan’s phone suddenly goes off, and he hits the button to answer. “You’re on speaker, babygirl.” 

“I found the security footage from those three places, the ones that Lucas was at on his supposed road trip when the third family was hit,” Garcia says, voice slightly tinny through the phone.  

“And?” Hotch asks. 

“I was getting there,” she says. “Lucas wasn’t there. He wasn’t on any of the footage—his sister was.” 

Hotch frowns. You? 

“You’re sure?” he asks. 

“I’m always sure,” Garcia responds. “And I don’t know if Spencer is there, but he also wasn’t there at the AA meeting—I combed through the whole meeting, and he didn’t show up at any point. Just another guy that looked like him.” 

“And you’re sure about that, too?” Hotch asks again. 

“What is with this questioning of my abilities?” she asks, offended. “Yes. I’ve stared at so many pictures of Lucas Hartford over these past few days that I’ve got him burned into my brain.” 

“Thanks, babygirl,” Morgan says. “We’ll call back if we need anything.” 

“And you’re always welcome in this house of miracles,” she muses. Morgan chuckles before he hangs up. 

“Lucas gave her his card,” Reid realizes. “It’s an easy alibi, but it falls apart when you look into it even a little bit.” 

“Probably seemed solid to him at the time,” Morgan says. “He doesn’t seem like a detail oriented guy.” 

Prentiss frowns. “That means he’s back on the chopping block. We can put him at the scene of every murder.” 

Hotch leans over the table and grabs Lucas’s file, and he pulls out the page compiling his family. “His father died five years ago from liver failure. Hartford got out of jail last year.” 

“If he’s been plotting some elaborate murder of his father for years, just to get out of jail and find out he drank himself to death?” Morgan shakes his head. “He’d snap. It doesn’t feel like justice.” 

“He thinks he’s saving the kids of these parents that he kills,” Reid says. “He sees himself in them—he can’t look past his own childhood, and he assumes those kids must want their parents dead too.” 

“He’s trying to get back at his dad,” Prentiss says. “We know that.” 

“But that’s not his main goal,” Reid insists. “If his dad died when he was a kid, the abuse would have stopped. His mom wouldn’t be the battered wife anymore, and he wouldn’t be the battered kid.” 

“His goal has always been protection,” Hotch realizes. “Yes, he’s getting his revenge by killing his father over and over, but ultimately, he’s trying to save himself.” 

“But he didn’t anticipate the kids being home this time,” Prentiss says. “He had to kill them too.” 

“If he‘s seeing himself in these children, recreating what he never got to do, then that means that he effectively died in this scenario,” Reid says. 

“He didn’t get what he wanted,” Morgan says. “That’s gonna take a toll on him.”

“He’s coming to the end of the line,” Prentiss nods. 

Hotch’s brain is working overtime as they work information off of each other. They’re so damn close—they just need the last piece of the puzzle. If they find Lucas’s next victim, they find him. 

“His next crime will probably be his last before he goes out himself,” Reid says. 

“You think it’ll be a murder-suicide?” Morgan asks. 

“It’s common with family annihilators,” Reid says. “Hell, it’s common with anyone who sees no future beyond their murders. It’s their way out.” 

And then the answer hits Hotch like a ton of bricks. Reid is still rambling next to him. 

“If his dad was still alive, I’d say he would be the target. But the only one left—”

“—is his sister,” Hotch grits out, and he’s dashing out of the conference room before anyone can stop him. 

“Hotch!” Morgan yells, and he turns to Prentiss with wild eyes. “Where the hell is he going?” 

“The last victim,” she says as she starts following him. “The one person he never managed to save.” 

“Goddammit,” Morgan curses, and he grabs his phone from the table, dialing Garcia as fast as she can while he runs. Reid is close behind him.  

“What’s up, sugar?” she asks. “Got anymore leads?” 

He laughs dryly. “We’ve got a big one, babygirl. Lucas has finally reached the end of the road — he’s going for his sister. I need you to call JJ and Rossi and—” 

“Send them the Hartford address and fill them in on everything?” she interrupted, and he could hear her fingers flying across the keyboard. “Already on it.” 

“What would I do without you?” he asks. 

“Be half the man and twice as sad,” she says. “I’ve got to call JJ. Be safe, my love.” 

“Always,” he responds, and he hangs up. 

Hotch distantly registers Prentiss stopping by the chief to alert him of what’s going on, because he’s in the fog of a rampage. He’s in the driver’s seat before he knows it, starting the car, and he sees Prentiss, Morgan, and Reid running out after him. 

Prentiss takes shotgun and Morgan and Reid file into the back, and they’ve all got Kevlar vests in their hands. He didn’t really think of that through his haze. 

“We’ve got an extra one for you,” Reid says, reading his mind. 

“Thank you. I— I know what you’re all thinking—” Hotch starts, but Prentiss shakes her head.

“Just drive.” Her lips set themselves in a taut line. “We’ve got a murder to stop.”  

And he does. 

-

You sit on the curb, surrounded on either side by a box of your things. Packing up everything made you realize how little you had at his place. You thought you’d integrated yourself into his life fully, but it really just took an afternoon while he was in a lecture to disappear. 

Summer has fully turned to winter, and you’re as morose as the weather. This side of town looks so depressing without the warmer months to pick it up—the sidewalks are lined with dead trees, the grass is shriveled up and yellowing, and you feel like you’re living in grayscale. 

A shiver runs through you, the weather only partly to blame. 

Amy is supposed to pick you up, but as usual, she’s running late. You don’t know if it’s a personal issue or DC traffic has just struck again, but it doesn’t really matter. Either way, you’re stuck here, and your bad luck seems intent on making it worse, because you watch a familiar car pull around the corner. 

It parks a distance away—there’s no space in front of the complex, and he always complained that they didn’t do assigned spots—and you have to hold back a scornful scoff. 

Of course you have to deal with this now. 

Aaron picks up his pace when he gets out of the car, surprise—and what you think is shame—painted on his face. He says your name when he slows down. 

“You’re already packed.” 

You shrug. “I’m nothing if not efficient.” 

“I could’ve helped you with all this,” Aaron says, frowning. 

“Why do you think it’s done already?” you ask. 

His throat bobs and he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Let me save you the pain of chivalry,” you say. “I’ve got a friend coming to pick me up. I’ve already found a place. I called your property manager the other day and argued my way out of the lease, but I still paid my next month. You’re welcome.” 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says. 

“You know what they say about a clean break,” you intone.  

“I’m sorry,” Aaron tries again. To his credit, he looks like he means it. Against his credit, it’s about the fiftieth time you’ve heard it from him in the past two weeks. 

“I shouldn’t have let you get that coffee,” you say with a grim smile, “should I?” 

His lips pull into a taut line. “I didn’t cheat on you.” 

“I know,” you say. It’s the one thing you do believe. “I just don’t think you ever fell out of love with her.” 

Mercifully, you see Amy’s car pulling up in the distance. She’s your only friend with an SUV, so at least your boxes will fit. 

“My ride’s here,” you say as you stand up, and you pick up one of your boxes. Amy throws on her hazards and she gets out to open her trunk. 

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she breathes. “Traffic was awful, and Jake has been so annoying—” 

“Don’t worry about it,” you say with a slight smile as you put your box in the back. “You’re already doing me a huge favor.”  

“I want us to still be friends,” Aaron calls. When you turn back, he has your other box in his hands, his expression shamelessly desperate. Amy glares daggers at him. 

“Why?” you ask innocently. “So I can go without talking to you for ten years, ask you for a coffee when I’m in town, and then get you to leave Haley?” 

“That’s not what happened,” he says, but you’re already shaking your head. 

You take the box from him and smile thinly. 

“Have a good rest of your life, Aaron. I hope it doesn’t involve me ever again.”

-

You let out a noise of frustration as you struggle to get the key into the lock, gritting your teeth as you try to fit it in. It’s always been finicky, but you just don’t have the energy to deal with this tonight. Thankfully, just when you start getting annoyed, you get it open. 

You get a few steps in before your eyebrows rise, the sight of your brother at the kitchen table a surprise. He’s got his head in his hands, and your surprise turns to concern.

“Lucas,” you say with a slight smile, shutting the door behind you, “I didn’t know you were gonna be home tonight.”

His attention shoots to you immediately as he says your name, and he looks slightly out of it. “I was wondering when you were gonna get back.”

“Stole the words right out of my mouth,” you say wryly, and you ruffle his hair with your free hand as you walk past him. He swats your hand away in brotherly protest, and you snort. “This place has been quiet without you. Well— except for the cops. They were pretty loud.” 

“They haven’t been back, have they?” 

You look back at him and notice his leg is bobbing up and down insanely fast, and he keeps scratching at the soft wood of your table with his nail. 

Your smile fades. “Don’t tell me you’ve been drinking.”

“Of course I haven’t,” he insists, but you turn on the kitchen light, then move closer to peer into his eyes against his protests. 

“At least you’re not high,” you murmur, taking one last look before you pull away. “And stop ruining the table. I need it to last for the next ten years.” 

He huffs, and you can practically hear him roll his eyes, but he stops. 

“Did you go to class today?”

“You don’t have to act like Mom,” Lucas says, crossing his arms again with another huff. 

“And you don’t have to act like a child.” You roll your eyes as you set your tote bag on the countertop and begin unpacking the groceries you bought. “I’m asking you about your day—that’s definitely not acting like Mom.”

“Yes,” he mocks. “I went to class.”

“Good.” You glance back at him. “I’m proud of you, Luke. You’ve been making progress.” 

His smile is a bit thin, but he nods. “Thanks. How was work?”

You scoff and shake your head as you put a couple things in the pantry. “Don’t even get me started. I swear, Marie’s going to get me fired someday if she keeps her bullshit up.”

“She’s still on it?” Luke asks, and you can’t help but smile a bit. 

“Don’t act like you know what I’m talking about,” you say. “Just agree with me.” 

“I agree with you,” he says. 

“That’s it,” you muse. 

Your eyes fall back on your bag, and you’re reminded of what you meant to do next time your brother showed up. 

“Oh—” You go back over to the kitchen table for your bag and pull out your wallet. You slide a debit card out and hold it out to your brother. “Thanks for letting me use it while I was up in Des Moines. I finally got my bank to get rid of the freeze on my card.” 

“...Of course,” he says, and he takes it back. “Glad I could help.” 

“I’ll pay you back, obviously,” you say as you get back to your groceries. “I just have to wait to get paid again.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “And uh— you never answered me. Did the cops come by again?” 

You huff a mirthless laugh and shake your head. “You have nothing to worry about, Luke. I think they finally realized they were barking up the wrong tree.”

“…Good,” he says. “I can tell they’ve stressing you out.”

“Like that looks any different than my normal state,” you say wryly. “Besides, it wasn’t that bad.” 

You recall the shock you felt when you opened the door to Aaron, and how nervous you were on the drive to the precinct. It’s almost been a decade, and yet he still has an effect on you that he has no right to. 

“You remember that guy I dated when I was still in law school? Aaron Hotchner?”

“I think? I was in jail, so.” 

You roll your eyes. “I know I told you about him when I visited you while we were together.” 

“I remember you telling me how he broke your heart,” Luke says. 

“That’s not what I’m saying.” 

“Then what are you saying?” 

“That he’s with the FBI now. The BAU,” you enunciate, and you huff. “He’s one of the guys on this case, coincidence that it is. They came here—they even brought me in for an interview.”

He frowns. “What’d you say?”

“The truth.” You pull your cutting board and a knife out of a drawer and get to work washing your vegetables. “That I didn’t know anything, and neither of us are involved in either way.” You shake your head with a sigh. “They must believe it, because they haven’t come back.” 

“What have they said about me?” he asks. 

“I’m not supposed to say.” You roll your eyes. “I think you’re innocent, but I could get charged with obstruction, and I really don’t feel like dealing with that…” 

You trail off into a sigh as you finish washing the peppers and set them on a towel. “I hope they find whoever’s doing it, though. It is freaking me out that there’s a murderer out there.” 

You pick up your knife and start cutting them up—they’re not the freshest, but it’s all Kroger had after work—and you glance back at Luke. “You really shouldn’t be going out so often with this going on, y’know. I don’t want you getting hurt.” 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m careful.” 

“I doubt that,” you say wryly. “Still, though. I worry about you.” 

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” he asks. “I’m your older brother.” 

“I worry about everything,” you say. “It’s my thing.” 

You hear him huff a laugh and you smile a bit to yourself. You get through your first pepper before you remember what’s been nagging at you your whole ride home. 

“Oh— can you get the TV?” you ask. “Channel 8, I think. Marcy is getting interviewed for something with her nonprofit, and I told her I’d record it for her.”

Lucas doesn’t respond, though you hear the scrape of the chair as he gets up. 

“Thank you,” you say. “I think they have a fundraiser coming up or something…” you trail off and shake your head as you scrape the cut peppers onto a plate. “God. I need to start paying attention in the break room.”

Another few seconds pass, and you don’t hear the television switch on. You huff and turn your head slightly. “Luke, I’m making dinner tonight. This is the least you could do.” 

“I’m sorry.”

The words come out as a murmur, but you can tell he’s much closer than he was before. 

You don’t even get the chance to turn around before something crashes against your head and your vision goes dark. You feel yourself fall to the ground, and your head hits the floor hard. 

Then, there’s nothing. 

-

Hotch has been breaking every speeding law there is. 

The station isn’t too far from your house, but it’s still too far. All he can see is your body, crippled and lifeless just like every other victim they’ve had to look at. 

It should never have gotten to this point. Lucas has been a suspect for the first day, but they looked to other suspects, got caught up in statements from neighbors and the kids of the victims. 

If Hotch just found him and booked him on the first day, this wouldn’t be happening. Your life wouldn’t be in danger. 

His hands tighten on the steering wheel. 

“I seriously think we’re looking at a murder-suicide if this gets to play out,” Reid speaks up from the backseat. “This is his way of ending this for both of them—the ultimate protection of his sister.”

“No one can hurt her if she’s dead,” Morgan mutters. 

“Hotch,” Prentiss starts, treading carefully, “are you sure you’re okay to lead this?”

“Yes,” he says, though he wants to say what kind of question is that?

You were together a lifetime ago in law school, yes, and he might still have feelings for you that he didn’t even realize were there, yes—but he’s an agent and a professional before all of that. 

It doesn’t matter that you have history. It doesn’t matter that you likely hate him. 

It doesn’t matter that he thought he was going to marry you one day, and then was watching you drive out of his life after he got back with his high school girlfriend another day.  

Aaron Hotchner is not going to let you die. It’s as simple as that. 

Hotch���s phone rings and he picks it up and flips it open immediately. “Talk to me, Garcia.”

“JJ and Rossi are on their way,” she says. “Are you headed to their place?” 

“Yes,” he says, and he puts it on speaker. “I’ve got Prentiss, Morgan, and Reid with me still.” 

“Do you think there’s anywhere else he could be?” Morgan asks. “If he’s going to kill her, he might not want to do it in this house.” 

“Already a step ahead of you, my love,” she says, and he can hear mouse clicks through the phone. “They grew up in a house in St. Charles—it’s abandoned, from the looks of it, some place on the outskirts. Never got another buyer after the past owners moved out. I’m sending the address to Emily right now.”

Prentiss gets a buzz on her phone and she nods in confirmation after flipping it open. Hotch immediately switches lanes and makes a U-turn, his jaw clenching. 

“Tell me how to get there, Prentiss,” he says. “He’s there.”

“You need to get on I-70,” she says, and then her brow furrows. “How do you know?”

“He’s killed everyone else in their homes because he sees it as the source of it all. His sister’s rented place isn’t personal enough.” Hotch shakes his head. “Why wouldn’t he want to go back to theirs to end it all?”

“Hotch.” Penelope’s voice rings out in the car, and he doesn’t even realize he forgot to hang up. 

“What?”

“Be careful,” she says, and he rushes to turn it off speaker and press it to his ear. “I… I know how important this is to you.”

Hotch’s throat bobs and his eyes burn with the beginnings of tears. He blinks them away—he can’t be weak now. He can’t let his team see him be weak now. “Dare I ask how?”

“I found an article about GW’s mock trial team,” she says. “Kind of went down a rabbit hole from there.”

Somehow, he huffs the slightest laugh. It feels like a lifetime ago—it honestly is, at this point. Before he saw carnage and gore on a daily basis and tried to solve it, when he thought the DA’s office was the endpoint, when he came home to your smiling face every night. 

And now… 

Hotch’s spine somehow stiffens, and he knows the other three in the car are watching him. He can’t decide whether he cares or not. 

“Thank you, Garcia.”

“No problem,” she says, and he can almost hear her blink in the pause. “Uh— for what, exactly?” 

For the memory, he wants to say. But he doesn’t. He can’t, not right now, so he tries his best to snap out of it. 

“Keep a watch on the patrol cars,” he says instead. “Update JJ and Rossi on our plan, but tell them to stay on their path. I’m sure I’m right, but we need to cover our bases.” 

“Of course, sir.” He hears her fingers flying across the keys. “I’ve got yours and the squad cars’ locations up—I’ll call them now.” 

“Thank you,” he says. 

“Good luck, Hotch,” Garcia says softly. 

Hotch hangs up before he gets too emotional. Penelope has a way of bringing that side out of him. 

“We’ll get him,” Prentiss assures. She’s been watching him this whole time, he can feel it—she’s been attuned far too keenly on this entire part of the case involving you and him. “And we’ll save her.” 

His knuckles go white around the steering wheel, and for once, Hotch can’t find the words. 

-

It feels like your head is slowly being cranked in a vice when you eventually wake up, a dull but insistent pain. Your arm stings too, but you don’t know why. 

You blink a few times as you try to figure out where you are, a low groan slipping out as you fully come back into consciousness, and you move to rub the grogginess out of your eyes. 

Your arms don’t move. You try again, panic spiking your heart for a moment, and that’s when you realize you’re in a chair—tied to a chair, your wrists bound together behind you and your ankles bound to the chair legs. 

Now the panic fully sets in. There’s a murderer in St. Louis, but you don’t fit the victimology from what you’ve seen, but does any of that fucking matter when you’re stuck in something out of a horror movie?

Lucas was the only one there with you. So either he’s in the same situation, or he—

“You’re finally awake,” a voice murmurs. When he comes into view and sits down across from you, your heart stops. 

For a moment, all you can do is stare at your brother with wide eyes. You see the gun in his hand through your peripherals, but you don’t look away from his gaze. 

“I was worried I was too rough,” he says softly. “But you’ve always been resilient.” 

“Lucas,” you breathe. “What the fuck is this?”

“It’s finally going to be over,” he says, ignoring your panic. “We’ve been hurting our whole lives because of that bastard of a father, and I can finally make it all stop.” 

Your brother is fucking crazy. He’s fucking crazy, and he’s going to kill you.

You’ve spent two weeks telling Aaron he was crazy and your brother was innocent, and now he’s going to be proven right when he finds your dead body. 

You try to tamp down on your panic. You don’t have a law degree, sure, and you never officially practiced, but you’ve been a good speaker, a persuasive one, all your life. 

And if there’s ever been a fucking time to be persuasive, it’s now. 

“You don’t have to do this,” you whisper. “We— we can talk if you want to talk.” You tug at your ankle restraints. “This is unnecessary.” 

He shakes his head. “I know you. You’d run.” 

“Come on.” You manage as much of a smile as you can. “I’ve always been there for you, Luke. Why would this be any different?” 

“...You’ve always been too nice,” he says, and he sets the gun down on his leg. At least he doesn’t have his finger on the trigger. “Anyone rational would’ve kicked me to the curb when I asked you for help.” 

“You’re my brother,” you whisper. “I— I love you, Lucas. I’d never do that to you.” 

“Family’s supposed to be everything, right?” He shakes his head. “You were the only one of us that understood that. You were there to pick me up every time my sentence was up.” 

“I’ve always believed in you,” you say. 

He huffs a monotone laugh as he stares at the ground. “You’re definitely the only one.”

You shake your head. “That’s not true.” 

“Mom didn’t care enough to stop anything,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “And Dad wished I was dead every goddamn day. He didn’t have the guts to do it himself, but he definitely tried.” 

You can’t defend your parents. Your dad’s a piece of shit, and your mom didn’t stop anything he did—but you could never find it in yourself to fully hate her because he hurt her too, with more than just bruises. 

“I’ve dreamt of killing our dad every day for twenty years,” Lucas says. “And that old bastard had to fuck me over one last time and die while I was in jail.”

You remember when you got the news. You were next of kin—your mother had divorced him by then, and your brother was incarcerated—so you got the call from the hospital. You deliberated for hours before you bought a plane ticket to Montana—apparently that was where he fucked off to drink himself to death—and you don’t know if you’ve ever felt more numb than when you were sitting in some lawyer’s office, listening to him drone on about his will and how his estate would be divided. 

“So you killed all of those people?” you asked. “Because you didn’t get to kill our dad first?” 

“I was saving those kids!” Luke yells, and you shrink in on yourself. “Saving them before their parents could fuck them up like ours did to us!” 

“You don’t have to do this,” you repeat. “You’re just letting Dad win. Proving every shitty thing he said about you.” 

“And that’s the zinger, isn’t it? Luke laughs and shakes his head. “He was right. We’re a whole family of fuck-ups. An alcoholic abuser, a battered wife, a nonstop jailbird, and you…” He shakes his head with a sigh. “You should be out there prosecuting people like me.”

“He ruined us,” Luke murmurs. “And I’m finally going to fix it.” 

All you can do is stare at your brother, wide and teary eyed. You can’t find the words, but you don’t have to. 

Police sirens begin to filter through the air as they get closer, and Luke huffs. “Of course.” He eyes you. “Don’t go anywhere.” 

“I wouldn’t dare,” you say weakly. 

When he leaves to peer out the front door, you take a second to look at your surroundings. It takes a second because they’re so decrepit, but you could never forget. 

Luke brought you back to your childhood home—the place in St. Charles, rotten down to its bones. It’s abandoned by now, but the atmosphere is nothing less than oppressive. There’s a reason you graduated high school a year early, why you never came back once you got to college—except with Aaron, to help your mom move her things out. 

You refuse to die here. Even if you have to claw back through the gates of Hell inch by inch—you will not die here. 

You hear footsteps, and when Lucas comes back in, he has a crazed glint in his eye. He shakes his head as his finger returns back to the trigger, and you can’t help but flinch. He won’t. Not now. 

“Looks like your friends the FBI are here,” he drawls. “You said you didn’t tell them anything.” 

“I didn’t,” you insist. “They’re profilers—they figure things out.” 

He shakes his head. “They don’t realize that I have to do this.” Luke kneels down in front of you and takes your chin in an iron grip. “This is the only way to end our pain.” 

He lets go of you then stands up, moving behind you—you want to protest, but you don’t get the chance. He presses his gun to your temple and then the door is broken down. Four agents rush in, guns at the ready. Aaron leads them, and he’s got fire blazing in his eyes.

“FBI,” he barks. “Hands up.”

Lucas doesn’t seem fazed, his breathing staying the same. You stare right at Aaron, unfiltered fear in your eyes, and you feel torn bare. He’s going to watch your brother put a bullet in your head. 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he says smoothly. “This is a family matter.” 

“Put the gun down, Lucas,” Aaron says. 

“You know my name,” he says. “I know yours too, Aaron Hotchner. My sister told me you were with the feds. She also told me you broke her heart.”

“Put the gun down,” he repeats. 

“I don’t think I will,” Luke says. “You see, I don’t go around just kidnapping people for fun. I have a purpose here.” He tilts his head to the side. “But you know that, don’t you? You’re all profilers.” 

“You’ve been targeting families that look like your own,” he says. “You think that killing them will end the pain inside you, and protect those kids in a way that you never got.” 

“I don’t think it,” he bites, “I know it. If my dad had been shot thirty years ago, we wouldn’t be here right now.” 

“This isn’t going to bring you peace,” Aaron says. “Your sister has been the only person to stay by your side through every part of your life. Do you really want to lose that?” 

“Trust me,” Luke says. “I’m not losing her.” 

He flicks the safety off and you flinch. He’s going to kill you. 

“Put the gun down,” another agent warns. 

“If you all don’t leave right now, I’ll shoot her.” Your whole body stiffens as he presses the gun harder into the side of your head, your breathing going off kilter. “Except you, Aaron Hotchner. You can stay.”

“We’re not doing that,” the woman says. Agent Prentiss, you think. 

“Really?” Luke chuckles. “You think you hold the cards here?” 

“It’s okay,” Aaron says. “Go.” 

Agent Prentiss frowns, and the other two men look different levels of puzzled. They obviously doubt the decision, but they don’t doubt Aaron, because one by one, they leave. 

“Wow,” Luke muses. “They really trust you.” 

“Because I know you don’t want to hurt her,” Aaron says. “Deep down, you know you’re not protecting her. Not by hurting her.” 

“I’m not hurting her,” he says. “She’s always been the one to keep me safe over the years—I’m finally paying the favor back. I’m finally taking her pain away.”

“You were abused as children. Both of you.” Aaron looks at your brother. “Your sister always tried to protect you, but it never worked. It just made it worse for her, and it made you feel worthless. You’re her older brother. You’re the one that was supposed to protect her.”

“My sister said you’re profilers,” he says, and though his tone is lazy, you know your brother. You can tell it’s starting to get to him. “Is that what you’re doing right now? Profiling me?” 

“You would never be good enough for your father, and your mother would never do anything to stop it,” Aaron continues. “All you had was your sister, and even that wasn’t good enough—you hurt her just as much as your dad did. At least your dad didn’t think he was a good person.” 

Luke growls, and he puts a hand on your shoulder to pull you closer to him. “Shut up.” 

“Your sister has told me you can be more than this,” he says. “And I think she’s right. You’re better than this—better than living between the margins and jail.” 

“I’ve had a hole in my chest since I was born,” Luke mutters. “And I’ve tried to stop it, but it’s just grown and grown and grown. This— this aching pit of pain, and he caused it. You’ve got it too— I know it.” 

“I— I do,” you say. And you’re not lying. You’ve had a pit of despair in you for as long as you can remember. The only difference is that you’ve fought every goddamn day of your life to keep it from consuming you. “And it hurts, Luke. Trust me, I know. It took me so long to even be able to deal with it, but I know how to. I can help you—we can both walk out of here.” 

“No,” he whispers. “No—we can’t.”  

“Yes, we can,” you plead. “I love you, Luke. I’ll spend every day of the rest of my life helping you if that’s what it takes to get rid of that hole.” 

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. For a moment, you think you’ve gotten through to him. Aaron never takes his eyes away from you. 

“I’ve never been able to protect her,” Luke murmurs. “Not from our dad, not from the world, not even from you, Aaron Hotchner.” He presses the gun harder than ever into your head, like he wants to bury the metal in your skull along with the bullet. “But that all ends now.” 

You screw your eyes shut. You don’t want to see Aaron’s face when your brother kills you. 

And then it happens so quickly you barely process it. 

There’s two gunshots, almost at the same time. You scream, first because of the gunshots, then because of the sudden roaring pain in your side. There’s a thud next to you, your eyes shoot open, and you see your brother’s lifeless body fall to the ground. 

You scream again—you can’t even control it, it just rips out of you at the sight of the hole in his head and the blood pooling beneath it—and Aaron drops his gun to rush forward. The rest of his team thunders in after him, all in guns and bulletproof vests, and they’re talking, but you can’t focus on a single goddamn thing because your brother’s dead body is right next to you. 

Aaron pulls out a pocket knife and begins to cut through your restraints, and the instant he finishes you collapse. He catches you without a second thought, and you immediately wrap your arms around him. 

Torrential sobs wrack your entire body as you bury your face in the crook of his shoulder, every part of you shaking as the reality of it all hits with full force. 

Your brother is a serial killer. He killed ten people, he tried to kill you. And now he’s dead. 

The only part you had left of your family—gone, just like that, with four other families ruined in his wake. 

Aaron’s soft voice in your ear is the only thing bringing you back from the edge of hyperventilation, his own hold on you the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs and he shrugs off his windbreaker to wrap it around your arms. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

“He’s gone,” you choke out, voice muffled as you speak into his chest. “He’s gone, and he tried to—”

A fresh round of emotions hit you, unable to get the words out, and you fully break down in Aaron’s arms. 

“I know.”

Aaron’s fingers linger on your side and you feel some dull pain, but you feel his breath still for a moment. 

“You were shot,” he says with your name. “We have to get you to a hospital.” 

You don’t even feel it. God, you don’t feel anything. There’s a distant ringing in your ears, an insistent pain in your skull, and you finally realize Aaron is right when you pull away and see the blood on his fingers. 

But black spots start to fill your vision. You may not feel it, but your body holds the score. The pain intensifies in your side as your adrenaline starts to slow down, and you collapse against Aaron. 

“Get an EMT in here!” he yells, keeping an arm wrapped around you. “We’ve got a GSW— she’s losing blood fast!” 

You can feel Aaron’s rapid heartbeat, can feel his steady arms as he keeps you propped up. You feel the warmth of his body, feel the warmth draining out of yours. 

“Aaron,” you whisper, your strength fading. You don’t think he hears you.

He helps you up and you’re suddenly hoisted onto a stretcher, and he’s beside you as the EMTs run you out of your childhood home. The night is a blurry canvas of red and blue lights, and your eyelids feel like they’re made of concrete. 

“Aaron,” you try again, and you have enough left in you to grasp his cheek. “Thank you.” 

And as the world goes black around you for the second time, you see his lips form your name. 

It’s not a bad thing, you think before darkness overtakes you, for Aaron Hotchner to be the last thing you see before you die. 

-

You wake up in the hospital alone.  

You don’t know what you expect. You have few acquaintances, fewer friends, and the last part of your family is dead after he tried to kill you. 

The real surprise is that you wake up at all. 

Lucas is dead. 

He tried to kill you. You thought he succeeded. 

You let out a slow, even breath, accompanied only by the sounds of beeping machines. It still doesn’t exactly feel real. 

You’ve spent the last two weeks defending your brother against every accusation, and you ended it in the hospital—well and truly alone for the first time in your life. 

You look at the television. Some muted soccer game is playing, and you’re thankful. You were worried that you and your brother would be the topic of the day. 

Who are you kidding? You’re going to be the topic of the year. He killed ten people. He tried to kill you, and you think he nearly did. He shot you, after all. 

You let your head fall back against the pillow. All of your limbs feel insurmountably heavy, your side aches like hell, and you’ve got the worst headache of your life. 

And you can’t stop playing it all over in your mind. 

He was going to kill you. 

Your own brother, your flesh and blood, the only person you had left, tried to kill you and would have killed you had it not been for the BAU. 

Had it not been for Aaron Hotchner. 

The door opens and someone walks through, your eyes following the movement, and when he sees it, he pauses. And so do you—apparently the devil appears even when you think of him. 

“You’re awake,” Aaron says after a moment. It’s the third time he’s sounded surprised since you’ve met him again. Seeing you, finding out your mom is dead, seeing you. 

But there’s relief there, too.

He has a coffee in his hand and his tie is undone, the sleeves of his white undershirt rolled up to his forearms. It makes you realize his suit jacket has been slung over the back of the chair near your bedside. 

“How long have you been here?” you ask, your brows furrowing ever so slightly. 

Aaron closes the door and sets his coffee on the table before he answers you. “Three days.” 

“And how long have I been here?” 

“Three days,” he says. “You suffered head trauma, they discovered drugs in your system, and… you were shot. You had to go into emergency surgery.” 

You frown, and he answers before you can ask any of them. “…Your brother. After he knocked you out, he used something to… keep you out. And after I shot him, he still got one off—thankfully, as he was falling. The bullet hit you in the side instead of the head.”

“How bad was it?” you ask. 

Aaron glances away. “You died on the table. They managed to bring you back, but…” 

“I guess Luke did succeed,” you say absentmindedly. Aaron doesn’t laugh, and you glance away too. “Sorry. Bad time for jokes.” 

He shakes his head. “If anyone’s allowed to joke about this, it’s you.” 

Your lips twitch for a moment, but then you look back at him as he takes a seat at your bedside again. He looks— god, he just looks tired. Tired and ragged and downtrod, and you can’t imagine you look much better.  

“You were out for two days after,” he explains. “This is the first time you’ve woken up.”

“Why are you here, Aaron?” you ask quietly. “Why have you been here?” 

Aaron frowns. “Where else would I be?”

Your throat feels like it’s closing up, and you feel the telltale pinpricks of tears. You blink them away before they can start. 

“My brother was a serial killer, Aaron.” Your hands clench into fists as you stare at the wall. “He killed ten people while he was living with me and I— and I didn’t even fucking notice.” Your gaze moves back to him. “I went against all of you because I thought I knew him, and look where it got me.” 

“It’s not a crime to want to see the best in people,” he says. “Especially your family.” 

“It’s a crime to fucking murder people,” you huff, and it’s only slightly unhinged. “I— I thought I knew him, and I didn’t. And if I did, maybe none of these people would’ve had to die.”

“Don’t blame this on yourself,” Aaron demands. “Lucas was lost. Mentally ill. He was on a path for revenge, for his deranged idea of protection—nothing you could have said or done would have stopped him.” 

You shake your head. “It might be easy for you to say that, Aaron, but I— I can’t. He’s my brother. I gave him a place to live, I gave him easy access to families— god, I fought with you all for two weeks about his innocence, all while he was planning his next fucking murder!” 

“It is not your fault,” he repeats, slower and enunciating the words. “He was the only member left of your family, and you loved him. You were just stubborn, and that’s nothing new.” 

“I just don’t know what to do.” You’ve had these walls up for so long, especially this past week, and now that everything’s come to a head and you’re in the hospital and your fucking brother is dead, the floodgates have opened. “I have to plan a funeral because I’m the only one left to plan one, but— but does he even deserve one? He’s a serial killer, and he tried to kill me for god’s sake, but he’s my brother and even though he’s gone he’s still all I have left and—” 

You break off as you suck in a huge breath of air, the notion shaky as you clench your hands into fists to keep the rest of your body from doing the same. 

“And I just don’t know what to do,” you repeat, barely a whisper. 

You meet Aaron’s eyes, almost desperately. You feel like you’ll shatter into a million different pieces if you even breathe wrong and he might be the only solid thing in your life. 

“Whatever you do,” he says, “you don’t have to do it alone. Not if you don’t want to.” 

“Aaron,” you start shakily, but he continues. 

“I know what you think, and that’s not what I’m suggesting.” Aaron pauses for a moment, and it’s obvious how carefully he’s crafting his words. “I’ve… always regretted how we left things. And I regret losing touch with you. This isn’t the way I would’ve liked to meet you again. But I’m thankful I have.”

He pulls a card out of his shirt pocket and holds it out to you. You realize it’s his business card, and it’s got his number. 

“I’m sorry for the formality,” he says dryly, “but I don’t exactly go around prepared to give out my number for purposes other than work.” 

You take it without giving yourself the chance to think about it. You run your finger around the sharp edge of the cardstock, pressing the pad of your thumb against the corner. 

“Years ago, you wished me a good life, and that you didn’t want to be involved in it,” he says, still treading carefully. You can’t believe he remembers the last thing you said to him. “But— but a lot has changed since then, and I hope that has as well.” 

“I’d like you to be a part of my life again,” Aaron finally says, “if you want to be a part of mine.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. Two and a half years of law school flash behind your eyes—coffee shop dates and endless hours spent studying at the library. Movie nights cuddled on his couch, hauling boxes out of your house at an ungodly hour to get away from your roommates. An unhealthy amount of all-nighters immediately followed by going out to celebrate a miracle of an A on an exam. Getting through every soul-sucking part of earning a J.D. together, falling apart before either of you could make it to the other side, and somehow…

Somehow, you’ve ended up on a completely different side together. 

“My life isn’t going to be easy,” you say faintly. “Especially… moving through this.” 

“My life isn’t easy either,” he says. “I’m divorced with a kid and I try to solve murders every day.” 

“It’s not a contest.” An attempt at a joke, but it falls flat for you. Aaron’s lips still quirk at the edges the slightest bit. 

“Getting through this certainly won’t be easy,” he agrees. “But I have more experience than most in these sorts of things. So if you ever need anything, call. Please.” 

“I imagine you’re pretty busy,” you murmur. “Unit chief and all.” 

Aaron shrugs. “I make time for the things I care about.” 

Thankfully, you don’t have to figure out how to respond to that, because there’s a knock on the door, and a nurse walks in after you call a come in.

“It’s good to finally see you awake, sweetheart,” the nurse says with a smile. It warms you from the inside out. 

“It’s nice to be awake,” you say. Her smile widens and she moves over to the computer in the side of the room—to add some things before she makes her checkup, you assume. 

“I’ll give you some time alone,” Aaron says.

Before he can stand up, you grab his hand. It’s fully on instinct, and he looks just as surprised as you feel.  

“Don’t go,” you plead, and it’s almost a whisper. “I— just— please.” 

Aaron stares at you for a moment, that shock glinting in his eyes before it transforms into something a lot warmer. He nods and sits down. 

“Okay.” 

And he stays. 

This time, he stays.

#i was truly possessed while writing this i can't understand it #i wrote 15k words in 5 days #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner imagine #sadie writes

[nadvs]

imperfect strangers (one-shot)

pairing zach maclaren x female reader

rating explicit 18+

summary after a painful break-up, you and zach go no contact, agreeing it’s best to cut yourselves out of each other’s lives. when he cracks and texts you a month later that he’ll be at your college for a game, you lie to yourself that seeing him can’t be that bad of an idea.

» masterlist

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Zach has been dreading tomorrow’s game. And it’s only because it’s at your college.

He keeps going back and forth on if he should break the promise he made to you and himself that he wouldn’t contact you.

He blames the fatigue from a strenuous practice. It’s what muddles his mind and makes him give in.

You two agreed that cutting all ties was best. But he’s just reaching out to an old friend that he might run into. That’s what he tells himself.

You’re sitting in a lecture when Zach’s name flashes on your phone. Your heart leaps at the notification and you hate that it does that.

You were supposed to delete his number, but it felt wrong. He wasn’t just your boyfriend. He was your best friend.

Removing him from your life wrecked you, so little things like keeping his contact information and the promise ring he gave you the day of your high school graduation feel like acts of rebellion against the hardest decision you’ve ever made.

Zach: Hey. How are you? I’m playing at your school tomorrow. Just wondering if you’ll be watching :)

You reread his text a few times. You know he has a game here tomorrow. You’ve been following his soccer season even though you know you shouldn’t.

On the screen, you see the last messages you exchanged, a little over a month ago.

Zach: Wish you nothing but the best. You deserve it.

You replied: you, too.

The night of your break-up was agony. Your video call lasted three hours.

Zach’s eyes were glossy, matching yours. His dark honey hair was tousled and sticking in every direction after he raked his hand through it over and over in frustration.

Your dorm rooms slowly got darker as night fell, neither of you bothering to turn on a light. It was a cruel reminder that you’re not even a timezone apart. Your schools have only four hours between them and you couldn’t manage to make a one-year relationship work over the distance.

Hurtful words were exchanged. You accused him of neglecting your relationship. He told you his extra efforts in school and soccer didn’t mean you weren’t a priority. He said you were giving up on him. You retaliated that you were working harder to stay together than he was.

Somehow, things still ended civilly. You agreed that the distance was too much of a big, ugly, unavoidable wedge driving you apart.

You’re convinced that ending on good terms hurts more than ending on bad terms. It would be easier to hate him.

Your fingers hover over your screen, wondering what you should say. If you should say anything. You realize this means he didn’t delete your number, either. Maybe he’s been holding onto hope, too.

You decide to reply, trying to act casual and in good spirits.

You: I’ll try to make it! Just don’t be mad that I’m cheering for the home team :)

He’s grateful you texted back. He misses you so much that it hurts.

Getting better has been a slow climb for Zach. You two lasted a couple of months of long distance before calls slowly shortened and texts became infrequent. It was too hard juggling everything.

Now, he’s putting his all into school and soccer. It’s all he has left.

When dark clouds roll in on the day of the game, you think about how Zach never liked the rain and you hate that you’re doomed to remember these insignificant things about someone you’re not supposed to be in love with anymore.

You decide not to go to the game. It’ll be too hard watching him play like you used to.

But eventually, you lie to yourself that it’ll be fine and your feet are dragging you to the stadium on campus, your umbrella blocking the raindrops. You join the roaring crowd, sitting in the bleachers.

You always sat behind the opponents’ net. At every one of his matches. Zach is a striker and whenever he’d score a goal, he’d be right in your eyeline.

He would find you in the crowd when he scored, beaming at you before his team swallowed him in a group hug.

But that’s where you sat when Zach was your boyfriend. And he’s not anymore. So you find an empty seat on the side, close to the middle of the field.

You spot him immediately. He’s running down the field, his cheeks flushed.

The same boy who nervously asked you out the second day of senior year. The same boy you gave your first kiss to. The same boy who called you the moment he found out he was granted a full-ride scholarship. Now slowly becoming a stranger.

This is too hard. You need to leave.

But then you watch Zach gain possession of the ball and he’s running fast and suddenly, he collides with a player on the opposing team, sliding in one of the mud puddles scattered across the field.

The crowd erupts in a mournful whine, reacting to what was surely a painful impact.

You’re on your feet, rigid, heart racing as you watch him in the distance. He’s not getting up. Why isn’t he getting up?

You wedge your way out of the aisle and rush to the bottom of the bleachers, hands gripping the cold, wet barricade at the same level as the field.

A medic runs out onto the pitch but when he reaches Zach, he’s slowly standing up on his own. But then he leans over, hands on his knees, shaking his head.

The medic beckons Zach to put an arm around his shoulders and leads him off the field while the referee holds up a yellow card against the other player.

Zach’s hamstring is throbbing in pain as he limps through the wet grass, his cleats heavy, but when he sees you standing at the front of the stands, everything feels better.

He thought you wouldn’t attend. His lips quirk up in a smile. Your stomach twists.

Zach’s coach is trying to get his attention once he reaches the sideline, but he mumbles something to him and disconnects from the medic and closes the distance between you two, his steps short and quick.

“You came,” he says, blue eyes travelling over your face. It’s only been a month but he swears, it feels like it’s been years since he’s seen you.

The bright stadium lights are emphasizing every plane and feature of his handsome face. His hair is soaked and plastered to his skin, his uniform muddy.

“You okay?” you ask over the loud chattering crowd surrounding you.

No. He’s far from okay.

“Survived worse,” he says with that smirk that is so typically Zach.

“MacLaren!” his coach calls.

“I’ll find you later?” he asks. Your eyebrows lower in confusion. You know he typically goes straight back to his school after a game with his team. But you just meekly nod.

The game ends in a tie. Zach texts you that he’ll meet you outside in front and takes a rushed, hot shower in the locker room.

You’re standing under a streetlamp outside of the stadium, spectators pooling out of wide doors. The rain is simply spitting now, your umbrella closed in your hand.

When you watch Zach pace towards you, all cleaned up after a shower, a big duffel bag over his shoulder, you’re so happy you came. Even though it hurts, it also feels so good to see him.

“You’re walking totally fine,” you say when he approaches you. “Did you fake it?”

He loves how you make a joke right away because that’s what you would do when you were together and it’s nice to feel like you are.

Zach laughs and pulls you in for a hug and you hate how the smell of his shampoo makes an uncomfortable nostalgia rush through you.

But this is who Zach is. He’s always been warm and affectionate and cheerful.

He notices how tense you are in his arms and pulls back quickly. Maybe giving into the impulse to hold you was a bad idea.

“A yellow was ridiculous, right?” he asks. “That deserved a red.”

You gaze up at him now that he’s so close to you and try not to get enamored.

“How bad is it?” you say, glancing down at his leg. The concern in your eyes makes his whole body feel like it’s been wrung out.

“Just a sprain,” he says. “Didn’t pull anything.”

“Good,” you say, nodding. “How long are you out for?”

This feels like a conversation you’d have when you were together. Next, you’d ask if he needs a massage and that would always lead to making love, but that’s not happening this time.

“Next game isn’t until Wednesday, so I might be fine,” Zach answers. You know all about his team’s schedule, even their standings, but you don’t tell him.

A tense silence settles between you now that the small talk has been used up.

“So, this is no contact?” you ask.

Now that the break-up has been acknowledged out loud, Zach is disappointed. He liked having his head in the clouds and pretending like you’re still his.

“You texted back,” he teases, his eyes glinting in their usual playful way.

“Back,” you emphasize, pointing to him, finally cracking a smile. “You started it.”

“We can be friends, right?” Zach says. “It’s weird not talking to you.”

Being friends hurts. You both agreed to that. But he’s here already and things feel so good with him, so you ignore your instincts.

“Sure,” you simply say. Your short response throws him off.

“Nice campus,” he says.

“Yeah,” you agree. “I was gonna give you a tour when...” When he visited as your boyfriend. You never made it that far.

It was unlike Zach, the way he started to flake on promises to visit or call. You gave him grace, but you eventually reached your limit.

“You can give me a tour now,” he says, pushing the conversation into easier territory. He always had a knack for that.

“You sure you can walk?” you ask. He misses that tone of voice of yours. When you’re worried about him.

“Come on,” he says with an exaggerated scoff. “You’re acting like I’m some kind of baby.”

In reality, he always loved being babied by you.

“When are you guys heading back?” you ask. You already noticed the massive branded bus you assume he arrived on parked in the stadium lot.

“I drove up by myself, actually,” he tells you. “I’m gonna go see my family later.”

Your college is only half an hour away from your shared hometown. You nod and turn, silently beckoning him to walk with you.

“How are they?” you ask.

Zach shrugs, looking down. He’s always been close to his family and they always loved you, so telling them you broke up was almost as hard as the break-up itself.

“Mad at me,” he admits. “I told them it was mutual, but…”

“Yeah, your mom texted me,” you say.

“She did? What’d she say?” He sounds surprised.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you if she didn’t tell you herself.”

His mom’s message went into just how perfectly you fit into their lives, how upsetting it is that Zach let you go, how happy you make her son. You didn’t have the heart to tell her you don’t make him happy anymore.

You remember so clearly how she ended the message. I hope this is just a temporary bump in the road.

“Come on, tell me,” he urges with a joking tone.

“Zach,” you say quietly. “I’m sorry - I, um - we shouldn’t get into this, right?”

His smile fades. With a deep breath, he nods and looks at the ground again.

“Right,” he says.

Like always, Zach gently complies. You naturally took on a more dominant role in your relationship, leading while he happily followed, even during intimacy. It’s what you bring out in each other and falling back into your roles feels effortless.

“How much time do you have?” you ask, checking your phone to see that it’s merely minutes past six.

“Couple of hours,” he tells you. “You hungry?”

You know if you tell him you’re not, he’ll feel bad dragging you to a restaurant.

“There’s a place I think you’d like,” you say.

You’re soon sitting across from each other at an on-campus eatery, talking to each other like friends, covering safe topics like classes and dorm life.

It’s not exactly easy, but you were together for so long that holding a conversation with Zach is second nature.

“Aren’t you going to eat that?” he finally asks, pointing to your plastic-wrapped sandwich. He’s almost done with his food, while you haven’t taken a bite.

“Later. I’m not hungry.”

“What?” Zach watches you from his side of the table, heart thrumming at the adorable way you shrug.

“You wouldn’t have gotten food if you knew I wasn’t going to eat.”

“Oh, my God,” he laughs.

“You know I’m right.”

“You didn’t have to do that, babe.”

You both awkwardly straighten in your seats, bodies firming as far apart as possible. Your knees pull together. He rubs the back of his neck.

“Sorry.” Zach’s voice is low, eyes focused on the table. The term of endearment he used to always use for you just slipped out.

You feel stupid for thinking this would be okay. It’s way too hard to pretend like you don’t love him. You collect your bag and umbrella off the table.

“I should go. It was good to see you,” you mumble.

“You’re leaving?” Zach asks, a slight whine to his tone.

“This was a bad idea,” you say, avoiding eye contact, words quiet and rushed. “You should go see your family.”

You rush out of the building into the dark evening, the cold air pressing against your skin, hot tears welling in your eyes.

Zach’s leg is aching as he jogs behind you, but he’d do anything for you just talk to him, at least look at him one more time.

“Wait,” you hear. “Please.” The desperation in his voice is what gets you to slow down, letting him close the rest of the distance.

You’re standing on a pathway between a building and a courtyard, chewing on your lip, grateful nobody else seems to be around.

When Zach catches up to you, his chin dips as he studies your face, raising his hands inches away from your cheeks just to promptly lower them.

Your eyes are just as wet as they were the night you broke up.

“What?” you mutter.

“I’m sorry I called you that,” he says, breaths shallow. “Old habit.”

“We said no contact,” you tell him. You swallow hard. “We should have stuck to it.”

“Are you mad at me for texting you?” His stare is deep and so painfully sorry.

You’ve been on the receiving end of this look so many times. He was always on the sensitive side, needing reassurance that you weren’t upset with him.

Despite everything, you’re not mad. Your heart is broken, but you’re not mad.

“No,“ you say, “But we can’t be friends, okay? After what we… I just can’t.”

“So, nothing?” he says. “We’re just nothing now?”

“It’s what we agreed on,” you respond resolutely. “Just because this is easy for you doesn’t mean it is for me.”

“You think this is easy for me?” Zach puts a hand over his heart. You scoff at this, looking down, gently wiping under your bottom lashes. “It’s not.”

He puts his hands on his hips, grimacing.

“Why’d we break up?” he asks, voice thin.

“Zach,” you breathe. Just like that, the wound you’ve been working on patching up splits open again.

“I love you,” he says, hot tears building in the corners of his eyes.

“You can’t do this,” you say. The fact that you don’t say you love him back breaks him. “Do you not remember how bad it was?”

“We made each other so happy,” he retaliates.

“We weren’t even a couple by the end,” you say. “You got too busy for me, remember?”

“Don’t,” Zach mumbles. “I wasn’t too busy for you. You stopped trying.”

“We’ll just talk in circles,” you sigh, frustration bubbling inside you. You had this talk so many times. “I don’t have another three-hour conversation in me.”

He still has bad dreams about that night.

“See?” he says with a frustrated shrug. “You gave up.”

“You used to act lucky that you had me,” you say, your temper flaring. “Then I became a chore. Would you fight for me if I made you feel like a chore?”

“I’d fight for you no matter what,” he says.

“You’re not listening to me.” At this point, he’s being selfish by talking this to death. It’ll end the same way.

“As soon as it got hard, you left,” he says.

“As soon as it got hard? I tried for two months, Zach. You were so busy and got so distant and-”

“That didn’t mean I wasn’t thinking about you,” he counters. “There’s so much pressure on me with soccer and my scholarship.”

“I know and I tried to be there for you but I only added to that pressure,” you say. “Keeping up a relationship was too much work.”

“No, babe, I-” He winces. “Sorry. Just… Don’t you remember how good we used to be? How the summer was?”

You try not to think about it. The summer before college was perfect. You spent all your time together. You gave each other your virginities. You were sure you’d be together forever.

“I remember saying we’d find time for each other no matter what,” you mutter.

Guilt floods him.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Zach says.

“I know you are.”

He apologized so many times and nothing changed. He said he’d drive up to visit you. He never did. He told you he’d call you. Then he bailed more than half the time. That wasn’t the man you knew. You could feel him falling out of love with you.

“I thought we could get through the hard times,” he says. There’s that unrealistic idealism of his. You shake your head.

“My best wasn’t enough for us, Zach,” you say.

“Yeah, neither was mine, apparently.”

You nod, throat aching from your tears.

“Go see your family. They miss you. And don’t tell them we saw each other,” you suggest. “It’ll just give them false hope.”

Zach both loves and hates that the last thing you say before you walk away is something protective and considerate about his family. But your kindness is one of the many things he fell in love with you for, so it’s no surprise.

An hour later, you’re curled up on your bed, watching a comfort show with the lights off when you hear a knock on your door.

Zach’s heart is pounding in his ears. He still has your address from when he sent you flowers as a sorry for flaking on a video call you two had planned back when you were still together.

All he did since you left him standing by the courtyard is sit in his car and think and cry. He feels like an idiot for ever making you feel like a chore.

When you pause your show, turn on the lights and swing open the door, your body goes cold. His eyes are red and puffy from crying.

“Did you stop loving me?” he asks. “I need to know.”

You take his hand, the first contact you’ve had in months, and pull him into your room so that your neighbors don’t hear your private heartbreak.

The door shuts behind you and you stand across from him, trying to let go of his hand, but he doesn’t let you, his cool palm pressed against your fingers.

“Did you?” Zach urges.

You glare up at him, cheeks burning from how many tears you wiped away.

“No,” you admit.

“Then why aren’t we together?” he pleads. “You just have to remember why you love me.”

You let him continue to hold your hand. The contact feels so good.

“I never forgot,” you say.

“Then tell me,” he urges. “Tell me why.”

“I…” You look down.

“You want me to go first?” he says. “I love you because you bring out the best in me. I love how when we joke around, we annoy the people around us and you never care.”

You huff a chuckle. Too many times to count, you’d send each other into a fit of laughter, leaving your friends or families confused over what was so funny.

“You went to every single one of my home games in high school,” he continues, “even though I know you hated it.”

“I liked it,” you counter. He smirks. You always had such a big heart.

“Try for me. Please,” he says. “We’ll make it this time.”

You’re silent and it scares him. You could be seconds away from telling him to leave.

“This is why I love you,” you say. “You’re so optimistic that it’s irritating.”

Zach laughs, still holding onto your hand.

“What else?” he asks lowly.

“You’re funny and sweet and…” you say through tears. “When you care about someone, you care so hard. That’s why…”

You loosen your hand out of his grip. His heart feels like it’s been wrung out.

“That’s why it hurt so much when you didn’t make time for us. It felt like you stopped caring. Like you stopped loving me and you didn’t know how to tell me.”

“I never stopped loving you, babe, I swear,” he says. “I just didn’t know how to deal with everything.”

Zach didn’t anticipate how hard keeping up with classes and practices and games would be, especially with the weight of his scholarship looming over him. He failed making you a priority. He knows that.

“It was hard and it only got harder when we broke up,” he says a little quieter.

You frown and Zach cups your face with his hands. His thumbs slowly rub over your cheeks as his gaze penetrates you.

“I’m not saying that to make you feel bad,” he says, words rushed. “I just want you to know you were never a chore. You were the best thing in my life. I messed up.”

The way your lashes flutter as you blink away tears makes what’s left of his heart crumble.

“What’ll it take?” he asks. “I’ll drive up here every weekend. We’ll talk on the phone every night. I’ll text you all day and I promise I won’t flake.”

“That’s crazy,” you say with a soft laugh.

Although he’s the more passive of you two, he’s determined that he’ll make it with you. He can’t picture a world where you’re not his and he’s not yours.

“I’ll do it.” You meet Zach’s eyes and you can tell that he wholly, sincerely means it.

“That’s not what I need,” you tell him with a small smile. The love in your gaze is exactly why you always felt like home to him. “I just need the you who kept promises and made time for me. When we were together, you were present. Like this.”

“Anything you need,” he says eagerly, head bobbing with quick nods, making you giggle. “Can I kiss you? Please?”

You revel in how his long thumbs drag over your skin, gazing at you through desperate eyes. Being so close to him causes a gentle heat to trickle through your body.

“You can do more than that,” you reply. He smiles and exhales sharply in excitement, leaning down to kiss you passionately.

Zach’s stomach tightens the second he feels the softness of your lips and the taste of your tongue. He slowly dips to kiss your neck, breathing in the sweet scent of you that he has smelled so many times.

His hands trail down your waist and over the curve of your hips, pulling you as close to him as possible, gripping just tight enough not to hurt you.

You always loved this about him. He makes you feel so cherished.

Your hands are in Zach’s hair as his hot mouth smacks on your skin. His body curves against yours perfectly, a piece completing the puzzle you missed being a part of for so long.

You can feel him growing hard against you and you lower a hand to rub him over his jeans, making him groan against your neck.

“Already?” you tease in a whisper. He chuckles, missing your touch and your voice and how hot it is when you taunt him.

“Fuck, I missed you,” Zach groans. You smile. He hardly ever swears, usually reserving it just for moments like these.

His fingers dip below the hem of your shirt, his skin warm against yours. He feels you nod, granting him permission.

As soon as he pulls your top off of you, he groans in delight when he sees that you’re braless. As he leans down to kiss you again, you push his jacket down his shoulders. He promptly and impatiently tugs it off, followed by his shirt, earning a laugh from you for his enthusiasm.

You gently push him backwards, straggling to your bed together. Zach lies down, desperately reaching for you as he watches you lean down over him.

You straddle him, kissing him deeply, his arms wrapping around you tightly as your bare chests press together.

His love for you consumes him, driving him to pull back and kiss you all over, puckering his lips over your cheeks and your nose and your forehead.

“Babe,” you laugh.

“I’m so sorry I made you so sad,” Zach says between kisses. “I’m so sorry I let you walk away.”

“I’m sorry, too,” you say as he continues to pepper soft kisses over your skin. “We’re never fighting again, okay?”

“Never.” You always say this after a fight. It never sticks, but you both love pretending it will.

You thought you were destined to experience these shared quirks through memories only. But now Zach’s here in your dorm room, panting beneath you, holding you like he might die if you pull away.

You feel him buck his hips forward, his hands squeezing your waist. You press your forehead against his, biting your lip.

“You want me, hmm?” you purr, the power you have over him filling you with excitement.

“I need you,” he whines. His breath is warm against your cheek. “So bad.”

“What do you want to do?” you ask, rolling your hips. The sensation of you grinding on him is so perfect. He couldn’t ever feel another girl like this and he wouldn’t want to.

“I wanna taste you,” Zach says. “I wanna make you feel good.”

“Take my pants off.” You shift to kiss him, smiling against his lips as he pushes your bottoms and panties down with eager hands.

You kick off your clothes and shuffle to hover over his face, your naked core inches away from his mouth.

Zach’s hands hook around your thighs, beckoning you to lower your hips, hungry for you. You inhale sharply once you feel his hot tongue press against your folds.

He knows you well, knows where to lick and suck to earn moans from you. You look down at him, his eyes closed as he laps at you, fingers dug into your flesh.

“That’s so good,” you say. “You’re so good with your mouth.” The praise makes him suck even harder. You tremble as you slowly roll your hips on his face.

“I love how you taste,” Zach says, muffled. “I can’t live without you.”

You throw your head back, pleasure flooding your body at the sensations and his words. You put a hand in his hair, lightly tugging as he works his mouth with slow, hard movements.

You start to breathe harder, tension coiling in your stomach.

“Can we…” he asks. He’s starving to feel you from the inside. You look down to meet his striking, needy eyes. You know exactly what he wants.

“You wanna be inside me?”

“Please, yes, yes.”

“You’re so cute when you’re desperate,” you coo. He nearly rolls his eyes from the pleasure of hearing you talk like this again.

You put him out of his misery when you pull his pants and briefs off of him. You sit on your knees above him, taking his length in your hand and earning a groan from him.

“Where’d you hurt your leg today?” you ask, stroking him up and down. “Want me to massage it?”

“I just want you to ride me, babe, please,” Zach shudders.

“Don’t you want me to take care of you?” Your eyes are locked on his as you caress him, rolling your wrist.

“You are,” he says, whimpering at this point. “Please let me feel you. I miss you.”

Your body remembers Zach’s perfectly. As you sink onto him, sitting up, every muscle in your body loosens. He dips his head back, lips parting, jaw sharp.

“Shit,” he groans as you squeeze him in your soft heat. “You’re perfect.” His hands run over your thighs, your hips, your waist. He pulls you down so he can kiss you again.

“So big,” you whisper, noses nudging together as you rock slowly.

“I’m always going to be yours,” he says, his voice gently shaking. “Even if you don’t want me.”

“Zach,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. He’s crying again. “I’ll always want you.”

You drag a thumb under his eye, cleaning away a warm tear. He nods, looking at you with a sorrowful gaze.

“Do you promise?” he asks.

“I promise,” you say. “My sweet boy.” He trembles at your words. You kiss him again, your pace starting to quicken, the pressure of him inside you so nice.

Zach swallows hard, forcing himself to believe you. Breaking up shattered him. He can’t go through it again.

“Hey,” he says against your lips.

“Hmm?”

“I’m gonna marry you one day.” You’ve loosely talked about the future before, but he has never said these words to you out loud. Your heart numbs.

“Do you promise?” you whisper with a smile. The coil in your core tightens again, making your breath shake.

“I promise.” Zach feels you clenching around him and he can’t stop himself. His muscles tense and he tightens his jaw as he feels himself reach his peak.

“There you go,” you praise as he shudders beneath you. The drunk look on his face is what makes you climax, joining him in his euphoria.

He’s heaving beneath you, your skin taut and warm and sticking together. You shift to rest your head on his shoulder and he finds your hand immediately, bringing it up to his mouth to kiss your fingertips.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” you say, your heart burning.

Zach holds your hand inches away from his face, a finger tracing down one of yours.

“Do you still have it?” he asks, afraid of your answer. You look at your ring finger, where you used to wear his promise ring.

“I couldn’t get rid of it if I wanted to,” you say. He shifts to meet your gaze, his eyes still glossy. “It’s in my dresser.”

“Will you wear it again?”

“Of course,” you say. “And I’ll get one for you, too.”

The thought of having a constant reminder of your love for him on his hand makes his stomach flip. His dimples cave into his cheeks as he beams at you.

“How’d I play today?” he murmurs. Zach would always ask your opinion on how he did after a game. Tonight’s no different.

“Amazing,” you say. “I… I’ve actually been following your team. I know we said no contact, but…”

Zach’s elated that you cared enough to follow his progress.

“I’ve been checking every social media account you have every day,” he admits.

You giggle and he hugs you tightly, burrowing his nose into your hair. Suddenly, the memory of your argument outside rushes back into your mind.

“Wait, did you go home?” you ask.

“No, I just… sat in my car,” he tells you.

“What? Zach,” you say, voice heavy. “Aren’t you going to see your family?”

“I never told them I’d be in town,” he confesses. You shift to look at him again. “I knew that when we saw each other, we’d… realize we should be together. And I knew I’d only want to spend the night with you. I’m sorry - I only didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to feel pressured.”

Zach’s undying faith in your relationship melts you. Even after a messy break-up and a month apart, he believed in you two making it.

You nod, pinching his cheek, making him smile again.

“We could go now, if you want,” you offer. “They’d be so happy to see that we’re back together.”

Hearing you confirm it out loud makes Zach’s heart leap.

“Next time,” he says, squeezing you tight. “Right now, it’s just you and me. And eventually, we’ll be sleeping in the same bed every night and there won’t be any distance at all.”

You can’t wait. Neither can he.

author’s note: i started this blog with the intention to write for rafe only but my friend showed me the zach maclaren light and for that @juniebugg i owe you my life 🫡

#zach is subby and you can’t convince me otherwise! #zach maclaren x y/n #zach maclaren x reader #zach maclaren x you #zach maclaren #zach maclaren and reader #zach maclaren and y/n #zach maclaren and you

[magics-neptunes-things]

Feelings (5)

Hi guys!

New chapter for this Serie, I hope you'll like it too :) Don't be shy about telling what you think about it, or asking if you want to have something special in it. I had a request from here for this one, so I hope it will be ok like this :)

Please enjoy ♥

TW : Suggestive, sex talk (?)

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

Saying goodbye to Alessia was hard, but you didn’t have the choice. You knew since the start of all this that it would happen, but that doesn’t mean it was making things easier.

You find your apartment like you left it, your friend Sofia came several times to ventilate it and take care of your olive tree. That you renamed Olivio, with all the imagination that is yours. The only thing that changed, is that there is no Alma laying on your couch like she was used to do when you were away. You always hided your keys under your doormat for her to come, but you asked Sofia to take it away for now. You still have things belonging to Alma in here though.

You send them to her by the post before going to your first training session. Your Spanish teammates look at you with friendly compassion when your arrived and you realize that you almost forgot that you lost a finale several days before. Alessia made you forget.

You find your habits really quickly, even if Laia Codina or Jenni are not part of the team anymore. But Ona being one to replace them, you’re pretty sure that Lucy isn’t too mad. You still have to talk to her about Alessia though, you knew that she went on holidays with Ona and didn’t want to bother her. And you teased her so much about Ona that you’re sure she won’t miss to tease you back for now.

Cata Coll is one of your closest friends here and it’s with her that you appear for the first time back on Fc Barcelona Feminin’s Instagram. The training was lighter the first days, but you soon go back to the real session.

“So. You and Less?” asks Lucy one afternoon where you are at her flat after the training.

“Yes?” you answer innocently.

You were playing against each other at Fifa on Playstation, Lucy’s actually crushing you with Manchester City. You’re still trying to figure how she can be good at everything.

“How did you get together?”

“What tell you that we are together?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh I don’t know. Maybe because you were making out in the plane when I came back to ask if I can borrow your earphones?”

Sitting on the other couch while scrolling on her phone, Ona can’t help but snort. You don’t mind her being here while you’re talking about your love life. You like her and she’s your mate’s girlfriend. You better get along and for now it’s working great. You smile too, to be fair, even if you blush lightly.

“We didn’t put a label on it, so I don’t know if I can call her my girlfriend” you answer, frowning softly.

It was the truth, even if you both said that you won’t go for someone else. You really hope that no one will catch Alessia’s eyes at Arsenal or even London. She’s starting again in a new environment; she doesn’t know everyone for now. You trust her obviously, but that doesn’t mean that she can’t lose interest in you.

“We did that at first too” Lucy answers. “Long-distance was hard, but really worth it if you’re meant to be.”

You hum, missing the complicit smile between Ona and Lucy. You sigh when Lucy scores another goal just before the end of the game. With a disgusted air, you let the controller fall on the couch.

“I’ve never been in a long-distance relationship before. It’s strange, to be honest, not being able to take the girl you like on date or something.”

“It is” Lucy smiles, patting your knee softly. “If you need advice or only talking, you can come to me. Or Mariona, she’s dealing with it for longer that I was.”

You nod. You somehow forgot that Mariona is dating Alessia’s teammate. Maybe you can take planes together sometimes, you think with irony.

“And Alma?” Lucy asks.

“Never heard from her again. I send her the things she left in my apartment and that’s all.”

********

You took the habits to call Alessia every night. She’s usually cooking her diner and put her phone against one of her kitchen walls to be able to cook while talking to you. You can really look at her for hours doing it. You only regret not being able to stick against her while she cuts some vegetables.

“What do you like to eat?” Alessia asks you that night.

You were silently observing her, lost in your contemplation.

“Oh uh… It depends” you shrug. “I’m not really difficult, I mean I think?”

Alessia laughs softly.

“I cooked for Leah two days ago, it was entertaining” the blonde says.

You smirk, knowing exactly what it could have been. You never met anyone as picky as Leah when it comes from food. You can guess her choice when you go to restaurant with her, it’s always the simplest dish.

“Why do you ask anyway?” you ask Alessia.

She looks genuinely surprise by your question, stopping to cut her carrots to look at you better.

“Don’t you come next week to London?”

“Yes?”

“Well I want to cook for you, obviously. We chose to get delivered almost at every meal we share when we stayed at home, but I really want to cook for you.”

“Ok” you smile softy. “Only if you let me take you on a proper date.”

“Is that even a deal?” Alessia smiles at you.

You feel your heart beating faster and God, how did you survive when she smiled at you that way in front of you?

Several days later, you were leaving training in hurry. You have two hours to go to the airport after your session and you came with your suitcase to go for it straight after your shower.

“Why are you in such hurry?” Jana asks from her cubby.

“She’s going to her girlfrieeeend” Cata sings from her spot.

“Girlfriend?”

Keira’s voice came from the other side of the room, and you flinch. Right, you didn’t talk to Keira about your new relationship. For your defense, you were thinking that Leah would. You grimace to Cata, grabs your suitcase and go for the exit.

“Say Alessia I say hi” Lucy shouts before getting hit by Ona on her arm.

“Alessia?”

You giggle when you hear the surprise in Keira’s voice but don’t take the time to answer, too scared to miss your plane. You jump in the taxi waiting for you and went for the airport.

It’s only when your luggage are taking care by the company that you take your phone off of your pocket. You wanted at first to write to Alessia to let her know that you were on your way, but you have some messages from Keira too.

Keira 🥠 Alessia??? Like in Alessia Russo? You better answer me right now, Kid.

You Who’s Alessia Russo?

Keira 🥠 You little shit. Bring back some Scones.

During the two hours and twenty-one minutes of the trip, you slept. You went to bed late this week, not being able to hang up with Alessia, even if you knew that you would see her today.

You are alert when you arrive in London, by dint of traveling from this airport, you know it by heart. There is an hour of time difference with Spain, so you feel like you have only left Spain for an hour and a half. The sandwich you snacked while waiting for your suitcase will allow you to wait until you arrive at Alessia’s, who promised to cook for you tonight. You know that you have at least one hour to go to Alessia’s house, London traffic jam being awful.

You were taping on your phone for an Uber when a voice next to you make you jump out of your skin.

“Hi stranger!”

You jump, turning around only to be face with the mischievous face of your gi… Alessia. She was supposed to be at London, not at the airport. You might look stupid when you look at her with wide eyes and your mouth slightly open. It made Alessia giggles, and you feel your stomach make a jump at the sound.

“Lessi? What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I have a great visitor coming to mine this weekend, so I decided to come to take her home.”

“No, I mean…”

“I know what you mean” Alessia laughs before kissing your cheek. “I changed my media hours with Kyra to be here at the right time.”

“Oh.”

You blush and let Alessia takes your suitcase. You then follow her to the parking lot, slaloming between people. You want to take Alessia’s hand in yours, but you don’t want to make her uneasy. There are a lot of people here.

You are happy to be sitting on the passenger’s seat of her car, who is definitely more comfortable than your seat on the plane. You can’t stop to look at her and just because she’s just next to you right now, you softly stroke her cheek before taking her hand in yours.

“I missed you” you mumble when she looks at you.

She is driving and you should have taken the opportunity to kiss her before you left the parking, but you maybe will have plenty of time to do it at her home.

“I missed you too” Alessia smiles.

She asks about your trip; you ask her about her day and finally the journey for her house isn’t so long. Even if there are a lot of people on the road at this time of the day.

“Leah wants to meet you during your stay” Alessia said at one time during the trip. “I told her not today because you will be tired, but maybe tomorrow morning? She can come to have a brunch or something before the game?”

“It sounds nice” you smile, not mentioning that only seeing her is enough for you.

Alessia had a game tomorrow afternoon, but it let you all tonight, all day after the game and all the next day too. You will leave on Monday morning very early to be at training in the morning. And you are determined to enjoy it the most possible.

You are happy to find Alessia’s house too, looking around you, you notice that some things as changed since you came the last time. She added some decorations. Alessia showed you during one of your FaceTime, but it’s different like this. You just have the time to look at the picture she took in Australia during the World Cup, before you feel her arms around you.

“I didn’t have my hello kiss.”

You smile, putting your hand on her arms.

“That’s a shame. It needs to be fixed.”

“It does.”

You turn around in her arms, passing both of yours around her neck. You take the time to look at her properly, her eyes, her freckles, and her smile, before leaning in to kiss her. You can’t explain how much you missed that feeling. Alessia sighs against you and you get even closer to her, melting in her embrace.

“That’s better” Alessia smiles after the kiss.

She then kisses your nose, your forehead, both of your cheeks and finish on your lips again.

“Are you tired? Do you want to take a nap while I’m cooking?”

“Like I’m going to sleep instead of being with you.” you snort.

Alessia rolls her eyes but takes you by your hand anyway. She made you sit on a stool at the central island of her kitchen with a mug of tea. You listen to her, Alessia making almost all the conversation, but it’s always like this between you. You love to hear her talking, trying to remember every little thing she says to you.

Your eyes are going sometimes on her bum, you have to admit. But if she notices, she doesn’t say anything. You proposed to help her two times, but she refused, saying that you can help tomorrow. You will.

Her lasagna is amazing.

“It’s my Nona’s recipe” Alessia smiles when you compliment her.

You made the dishes for her, ignoring her protests, and end up cuddle with her on her couch in front of some film she chooses. But you don’t even try to look at it, you are way more interested about your girlfriend than Blake Lively fighting for her life. You try hard not to bother her too much, but you can’t stop yourself from kissing her cheek, her hair or playing with her fingers.

But Alessia doesn’t seem to mind, actually she has a small smile on her face every time you look at her.

“I missed your smell” Alessia mumbles after another kiss.

You smile, because you said yourself the same things a lot of time during the time you were at Barcelona. And you promised yourself that you will take one of her hoodies when you will leave.

You stroke the skin of her neck with your nose before kissing it several times. But then she softly bites your ear, and you feel your body being swept by electric currents. The sensations are hard to ignore.

They are so hard to ignore that you found yourself with your girlfriend, both naked, some hours later, laying in her bed. Alessia is laying on her back while you are on her belly. One of her hands is playing with your hair and you are trying hard not to fall asleep already.

“Can I ask you something?” Alessia whispers “But you have to promise not to mock me.”

“Of course you can Sweetheart. I won’t make fun of you, promise.”

You turn your head on her to have a better look at her and even if the light of her bedside lamp isn’t strong, you can see that she had blush. You watch her bite her lip and fight the want to bite at it, too. You need to stay focused; you are curious about what is in her mind.

“So… As you know, you are my first girl experiment” she begins waiting for you to hum before talking again. “Well to know how to do things right, I made some research and…”

“You made research?” you ask with a smile.

But Alessia frowns, slapping you softly on your arm.

“Babe, you promised!”

“I’m not making fun of you” you swear, still smiling. “I find it cute.”

Alessia groans and you giggle softly, moving a little on her to be able to kiss her cheek. She’s hot under your lips, attesting of your girlfriend’s blush. She smiles though and clear her throat nervously before talking again.

“So, like I was saying, I made some research and I saw that there is a lot of things to use when two women are, you know, having sex?”

“Yes?” you only say, not wanting to interrupt her again.

“It made me wonder if maybe you like to use them? And if what we’re making is annoying for you. And then I thought that maybe I should buy some of them, but I didn’t know which one you like, or you want?”

She stops talking, a little out of breath. She talked quickly though and that might explain that. She seems nervous so you take her hand in yours to try to sooth her a little bit.

“Ok, first, what kind of things did you see?”

Alessia blushes violently and you can’t help but smile again.

“Alessia Russo, did you watch porn?” you laugh.

“No!” she shouts, sitting up in the bed. “I went to website selling toys, I didn’t watch adult’s movies.”

You roll your eyes, asking yourself how a girl you just have sex with can be so shy about something like that. But that’s the innocent part of Alessia talking maybe. And you love it as much as you love every other part of her. You sat too when she sat up and you take support on her knees to lean on her and kiss her.

“Ok first of all, what we are doing is absolutely perfect to me. It’s special because it’s you and I love every second of it, every time even more.”

You are close to admit how much she affects you, but it’s not exactly admitting that you are in love with her for years. You want to reassure her anyway; you had your first time with someone before and you don’t want Alessia to feel insecure. Or worst, not enough.

It seems to work because she is smiling again, and you can’t resist to the want to kiss her again.

“But if you want to try some things together, we can do it too. Or if you miss something –“

“No” she cuts you, shaking her head. “I don’t miss anything I swear.”

She’s blushing again but you feel like she’s telling you the truth. When she talks again, she’s mumbling, looking at her fingers.

“It’s just that I never felt that way before and I want you to feel as good as I am.”

You could literally melt right now. You take a big breath, drawing her attention on you again.

“Lessi, you have no idea how good you make me feel. Really.”

She seems skeptical though, looking at you attentively. That girl will be the death of you.

“But I’m not experimented like the other girls you slept with” she points, frowning. “How can it be as good as you say?”

“I told you. Because it’s you.”

She looks at you for several seconds before smiling shyly, and you are smiling back. You are touched that she had this process and how much your well-being count for her. You sometimes struggle to realize that after all those years you are Alessia Russo’s… things. You really had to talk about it at some point, but the talk you’re having tonight is maybe enough for now.

“Do you want to buy some things though?” Alessia asks. “You didn’t answer about you having anything, but I don’t really want to use something you already… Well, you know.”

“I understand” you smile softly. “We’ll look together, ok?”

Laying down on the bed again, you take her in your arms this time, kissing her softly. She seems to be relaxed now and you let yourself go against Alessia’s mattress. You love sleeping here. Everything smells Alessia.

“By the way, please don’t tell Leah what we’ve done tonight. We’re not supposed to do something physically tiring the night before games.” Alessia smirks several minutes after, making you laugh.

********

You need a little bit of conviction to get up from the bed and your girlfriend embrace the day after. You are still a bit tired and it’s only the idea of Leah coming to find you both in bed because you are late that makes you get up.

“You are late” Leah grumble when you arrive with Alessia.

“Sorry, sleepyhead here had trouble getting up” Alessia smirks.

“I’m on the Spanish schedule, it’s not my fault” you yawn.

Leah don’t have time to grumble one more time, because the waitress came soon after to give you the menu to chose what to eat. You study it with seriousness, your stomach feeling a little bit empty.

“The usual Less?” the waitress asks to Alessia.

You frown, looking at your girlfriend who nod and give her menu back. Leah passes her command after her and you have to fight the strange feeling you have to ask what you want too. Leah seems to have forget about your delay when the waitress left, but you still have that mix of jealousy and discomfort. Alessia never hide what she does during her day, and she told you several time that she went to brunch or eat breakfast with some of her teammates, but you never imagined that there will be a pretty brunette who seems to know your girlfriend’s order by heart.

“I’m talking to you, Sleepy” Leah says, kicking you under the table.

“Wow, way to hurt your opponent?” you grumble while Leah rolls her eyes. “What was it again?”

“Keira. She asks me to remember to bring her Scones.”

“Oh” you smirk softly, remembering what happened in the locker room yesterday. “She told you that she knows about Alessia and I?”

You explain to Alessia yesterday what happened, and she’s smiling too. She didn’t look sad or hurt that you kind of forgot to talk about it to Keira.

“She told me she discovered because your teammates can’t keep their mouths shut” Leah smirk.

“It was Lucy to be fair.”

Leah rolls her eyes one more time while Alessia laughs, but your smile is quickly faded when the waitress is back. She once again turns in Alessia’s direction with a big smile at first, before giving Leah’s plate then yours. You don’t like the way she looks at your girlfriend or even how she smiles at her.

Your eyebrows are still frown when you look at your plate and suddenly the bacon in it doesn’t seems as yummy as it should. Being already concerned by your changing mood, Alessia discreetly take your hand in hers while Leah is concentrated in her plate.

“What’s up?” Alessia whispers.

“Nothing” you say, forcing a smile.

But that doesn’t work. Alessia frowns, looking deeply into your eyes.

“Communication, remember?”

You sigh softly. She’s right, you promised each other to always talk to the other is something is wrong. But you don’t want to do it here.

“Later, ok?”

Alessia nods, but she doesn’t let go of your hand and relax only when you start to eat. The food is delicious to be honest and you understand why Alessia keep coming here. You don’t know what you will say to her about your feelings, you feel bad at the idea of depriving her from this menu.

When you’re finish, you went right to the stadium. You follow Leah in the parking lot and then follow Alessia who introduces you to the different places and people who punctuate her training sessions. You meet almost all of her teammates too, even if you know some of them already. Like Laia Codina, who you know because she was at Barcelona and that you are happy to see again or Beth Mead with who you play for England.

You already know Lia or Jen because of Leah and you are kind of relax around the team. When they need to get training, Alessia goes with you to the friend and family section, holding your hand.

“So, what happened during the breakfast?” Alessia asks.

You sigh softly. You have forgotten that you were supposed to talk to your girlfriend about this. You look at her and she’s already looking at you, concern in her soft baby blue eyes.

“It’s nothing, it’s just… that girl from the Café? The waitress?” Alessia nods, so you continue. “She was looking at you like you are the most beautiful thing in the world and she’s right because you are, but it makes me realize that she can see you every morning if she wants to and I can’t. And that made me miss you, which is probably stupid because you were sitting right next to me, but…”

You shrug, not knowing how to end your sentence. But Alessia nods once again, seeming to understand what you were meaning. Which is already relieving at your eyes. She squeezes your hand softly before answering.

“It’s not stupid at all, I understand the feeling. I miss to have you next to me in the morning and falling asleep against you at night. I miss you almost every second of the day. But we chose to give us a chance and we knew what it would be. I’m sure it’s worth it.”

You feel your heart fluttered once again and you look around you to be sure that no one is near you, before taking her tight in your arms. She holds you as tight as you are doing, and it help you to feel better.

“I have nothing to worry about, right?” you whisper with your chin on her shoulder.

“Nothing.”

She backs her head to have a look at you and she’s smiling softly. You trust her, of course you do. She’s like the sweetest and the gentlest human being. And then she kisses you, not long but softly.

When Alessia left you in the family and friend section, you go to look for your seat, but you are soon spotted by Amanda, Leah’s mom. She waves at you and makes sign for you to come to her, which you do because no one can refuse anything to Leah’s mum.

“Hi darling!” she says happily when you are at her level. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Oh, uh…” you mumble while she hugs you.

“Leah told me why you’re here, but don’t worry your secret is safe with me.”

She smiles at you, taping your cheek in a motherly way before making you sit next to her. You recognize next to her Leah’s nan, who you salute too. Amanda looks at your shirt, raising an eyebrow.

“Not wearing an Arsenal jersey?”

“Alexia would probably kill me if I do something like this” you laugh. “Maybe she would make an exception for Alessia’s, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Why that? Everyone seems to think that Less and you are good friends.”

Amanda seems to know what happened in the social media, with the video of you going to recomfort Alessia after the finale in Australia. Everyone said how much you are a good friend, choosing to make your friend’s feelings better rather than being focused on yours.

“I’ll think about it for the next time” you promise.

“Great. In the meantime, wear this.”

Without letting you the time to look at what it exactly was, Amanda put one Arsenal scarf on your shoulders. Leah’s face is print on it, and if you don’t see at least one twitt or one TikTok editing you with your friend, it would be a miracle.

#woso imagine #woso x reader #woso fanfics #alessia russo imagine #alessia russo x reader #alessia russo

[cripplecharacters]

Do you have any tips (or previous posts) about how to write a young person who’s first-time cane user? This one is for a character who escapes a lifetime of being experimented on, and learns in the aftermath of being rescued that this rather compromised her ability to walk well again. I’ve written characters with other mobility devices for getting around. But never canes. I myself am physically disabled but have never needed anything like these before. I’m always eager to learn.

Hi!

If your character is a first time cane user, here's some things that could happen:

She will need to learn how to walk with the cane first. When you're starting, it's easy to mess up (though it could be my dyspraxia speaking) and overfocus on how you should walk because you're just getting used to it. She could randomly stop and correct her gait, or look down a lot to check if she's still doing the motion (left arm and right leg forward, or the other way around).

She's probably gonna drop that thing a lot. Especially if she has a weaker grip in the cane hand - now, I don't have this problem (the opposite, rather) - but the overall thing is a really common occurrence for most of us. Walking and hit the smallest pebble imaginable? Cane on the ground, somehow. Tried putting it against the wall or table? It's on the ground. And then you need to reach for it... it's a struggle sometimes.

If she's not helped in picking the cane, she will spend some time figuring out what grip and height are comfortable for her. (Grip depends on personal preference, no one's preference has ever been the doorknob handle, height is generally to the person's wrist from the ground up.) I think that this could be an interesting opportunity to talk about disabled communities - maybe she's frustrated with the process and goes to an older (more experienced) cane user to help her?

If it's during the winter, her hand is gonna be freezing - and the opposite in the summer - and she might not be prepared for it. The handle can get HOT and it can be an issue. Depending on what her actual disability is, she might try switching which hand to hold it in. If she's able to do that, another character could warm up her cold hand :)

The first couple of times walking with a cane are an Experience. You feel way better, but also everyone is suddenly staring. Some people care about that, some don't. But it can be somewhat overwhelming either way.

Spatial awareness is gonna suck at first. She will bump into what feels like everything with the cane. Especially doorframes. It's always doorframes for some reason. Or mess up and have her cane slip down because she hasn't realized how close to the curb she was.

She will hit her shin. It will hurt.

She's probably going to be speedy with that thing! Getting a cane is like getting a speed boost. Without it, I have episodes where I'm extremely slow (my highest, extreme-pain speed would be slower than a person walking very casually) and with it, I'm faster than a lot of able-bodied people! It's fun and she would have fun with it.

She will not know what to do with the cane when she doesn't need it. For me, using backpacks always cause issues because I don't know how to hold it without dropping it, but I also need to swap hands, something gets stuck on the handle... it's a whole process that takes a comical amount of time at first. Same when going to the public bathroom, where are you putting it when you aren't using it...? It's a lot of trial and error and a lot of "eww, my cane just touched the dirtiest surface humanly imaginable".

In the real world, people are (overly) interested in young cane user's business and tend to stare a lot. Now, it doesn't have to be like this in your story, but it's often just an annoying part of life. Your character might feel awkward and feel like she needs to explain herself, but this goes away after some time. You just get desensitized after a while.

In the real world, people are sometimes interested and nice about it! For example, a lot of older people can be insecure about using a cane, exactly like younger people. I've heard stories about older people asking younger users where they got their cane from, how are they so confident with it, etc. Another opportunity for a disabled community moment!

I hope that my suggestions were helpful, it's been a while since I was a first-time cane user so I wrote down what I still remember, haha.

Mod Sasza

Hi!

I agree with Sasza on pretty much every point and wanted to add some things from my own experience.

It's really, really hard to hold both a cane and an umbrella at the same time. Sometimes I'll give up and get wet. Sometimes I'll give up and store the cane. She might do either of those, depending on what she hates more: being wet or walking without the cane. Or she could get a raincoat if that works for her.

Speaking of umbrellas, sometimes you need your umbrella and you need your cane and you also need a free hand. This Sucks. What I do for this sometimes (and maybe she or other people have better, smarter, more useful solutions than this) is shove my umbrella into my shirt or backpack strap or something, so the umbrella is Held Up by it. This is not very effective, and will not last long. But if I need to look up a map on my phone or adjust something on my clothes or get my keys, it can work. Sort of.

Just like mod Sasza said, people will take interest in your cane, younger and older alike. I've had people of all ages compliment my cane (it has flowers) as well as people of all ages tell me I'm too young to need a cane or ask what's wrong with me. An older woman once asked me where I got my cane as she had been wanting a 'pretty' one, and that was a nice moment.

She might develop a new awareness of mobility aid users. When you're new at using one and trying to figure it out, you're probably going to be frustrated, because it's a new skill like any other. But it might make her (like it made me) notice more people using canes. It's not that I never saw them before, but that they were more common than I ever thought, and I never would have noticed how common it was if I hadn't had to slow down and practice my skill.

Cane tips get dirty, and cane tips wear out. These both depend on where your character is using her cane (outdoors vs indoors, scratchy asphalt vs smooth wood) as well as how often. A cane with a worn-out rubber tip really sucks and is more unstable and if the cane is made of aluminum and the tip is worn out and you hit the cane the wrong way, you can damage the cane. Ask me how I know.

That's all I can think of right now that I had to learn to deal with when I started! As you can see I still don't have a solution to the rain thing and it's been like two and a half years...

- mod Sparrow

#mod sasza #maybe-its-beyond-words #canes #mod Sparrow #mobility aids

[wuffgang-ameowdeus-moozart]

shallan and kaladin are like two sides of the same coin

> both take responsibility for things that were outside of their control in order to create the illusion that they had some measure of influence over horrific things that happened to them (because the alternative is too unbearable)

> both have hardcore main character syndrome - which is just reaffirmed by the narrative again and again lol (like, it is true that they do happen to be main characters in a book series. but even if they weren't they would still feel like that imo)

> both feel the need to take care of others and hate being the one that is taken care of (but despite how uncomfortable it is for them they still somewhat crave it)

> both have a very strong sense of justice (even if their ideas of what is right and wrong don't exactly align)

> both have put a lot of time and effort into one specific skill that they then use to define their entire sense of self-worth

> both try to view who they are on bad days and who they are normally as two separate people (i just say "the wretch")

> on that note: so much mental illness lol

> both absolutely abhorr failure

> connected to the above: both are willing to do slightly insane things in order for things to go according to their will

the main difference is that everyone views Kaladin as somewhat above them ("Stormblessed") even though he genuinely just wants to be one of the guys. He is just like everyone else! By the Almighty please stop worshipping him or seeing him as somehow better than the average soldier !! 😭

while Shallan is viewed as meek and somewhat weak and all around not something all too special (cue kaladin's absolute shock when she tells him her backstory) even though she really really really needs to be seen as something special. she knows in the end effect it benefits her if she doesn't stand out too much or if people underestimate her (their looks of wonder when she surprises them is always great) but damn it she went through hell and pulled through - pulled her brothers through, that are older than her - and still people can never properly appreciate her 😔

#furthering my shallan has covert npd agenda #also both are basically canonically trans in my mind #shallan davar #shallan kholin #kaladin stormblessed #stormlight archive #cosmere #brandon sanderson

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

It's such a cruel thing to be afraid of yourself.

Even though Ed is realistically one of the least violent characters in a show about violent pirates, and we're beaten over the head with that over and over again, he's horrified by his capacity for violence at the same time as he often feels he's defined by it. He's getting so much better by the end of season 2, but he's internalized a view of himself as a hyper-violent monster to the point where that's just not going to be going away overnight.

I imagine Ed measuring their strides as he and Stede walk down to the market, trying to reassure himself that Stede could outrun him if he needed to. He tells Stede that he's hiding their old stock of weapons under the bed just in case of an emergency and puts them all under Stede's side so Stede would reach them first. Having those bad moods that all people have and worrying that he should hide himself away or try to restrain himself somehow, because obviously he'd never ever want to hurt Stede, but he's been told over and over again that he's insane and erratic, so he can't trust how he feels. Keeps his meals light because it'll be safer for everyone if he's weak.

And I imagine all those fears and that self-hatred slowly getting chipped away. Stede asks him to give him a tattoo, when Ed waffles about how it might hurt a bit Stede laughs and says "you'd never hurt me." Bringing home a tiny scrap of a kitten he found shivering out in the rain, looking at that tiny thing in his hands and realizing it's not afraid of him and it has no reason to be. Having a stupid domestic spat and realizing that neither of them even really raised their voices at each other, just got a bit bitchy for twenty minutes and then apologized.

Just...getting to see that he's a gentle man and not a monster.

#ofmd #our flag means death #i've got a couple fics that play with this #(“everything that rises must converge” and “a little fall of rain”) #and it never gets old

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

My central thesis has always been that the Harkles wanted everything the Wales have and more. I know I remember reading that she cried after hearing William was made Prince of Wales. Right from the get go, her PR was all "Meghan is way better suited to be royal". Then there were all the Commonwealth flowers on her bridal veil and their insistence that they move into Windsor Castle. Now I don't believe everthing Neil Sean says, but his latest video mentions that Megxit was an ultimatum to get Windsor. As that is the traditional home of the Monarch, I feel as though they were attempting a coup.

Then there is the thought that Harry believes that the Dutchy of Cornwall should be split and he should eventually be made co-King or King of the Commonwealth. Let the Wales have that tiny island while they are jetted and feted around the world.

Here's my question for you. Did Meghan and Sparry REALLY believe they could leapfrog over the Wales??? I know her jealousy and envy of Catherine is bunny boiler level and he absolutely eviscerated his brother in Waagh. Has this been their plan all along?? Death by a thousand cuts for the Wales to force them to resign their place in the LOS or that they could somehow convince Charles to make Harry the heir??

I'd like to know where you think the delusions stem from. It wouldn't be the first time in history that younger brother has attempted to remove old brother from the throne.

Sincerely appreciate your blog and all the work you put into it. I'm always learning something new.

I'm pretty sure that was exactly their plan: they wanted to use their popularity to force The Queen to name them as her successors. I don't remember where I read this or when, but allegedly Harry sent "documentation" to someone - to whom specifically I can't recall, but options are The Queen, Charles, William, and/or grey suits - providing evidence for claims that he and Meghan were more popular than any of the others and deserved more than what they were getting.

And if they couldn't get the actual crown, they were going to do their damnedest to try and get a co-kingship with William. That's where Meghan's obsession with the Commonwealth came from; she had been told (again, I don't know by whom - all signs point to Harry exaggerating to keep her interested or maybe Charles spitballing ideas during his 'Magnificent Six' planning circa 2012) that William would rule Britannia and Harry would rule the Commonwealth.

I think that's why Meghan went all in on 'racist Kate.' Not only did she want to knock Kate out of the spotlight, she wanted to do enough damage that Commonwealth/realm nations would threaten to quit and The Queen would capitulate by offering to install Harry and Meghan as new leaders. This actually had a chance of working; it's been said quite often during her last years and since her passing that The Queen saw the Commonwealth as her greatest legacy and there was speculation that she would have done anything she could have to keep it in tact. And had Meghan played her cards right, she and Harry probably could have ended up becoming the main ambassadors of and for the Commonwealth, like a Commonwealth version of the UN Secretary-General.

But where the plan failed, obviously, was that it required blaming Kate for problems and issues that don't exist. Because remember, in 2021 when Meghan was making these claims, we'd just gone through the huge global reckoning that was Black Lives Matter and the agreement during/after BLM was "call racist people out on their BS. Put them on blast. Don't let them get away with it anymore." So not only would Meghan have been perfectly justified to name names, cite events, bring receipits, air the real dirty laundry and everyone would've been so much more supportive of it. But she didn't. Instead she played coy and said something like "I'm protecting them even though they don't deserve it."

Girl, please. That was Meghan's one chance to go justifiably scorched earth and air out all the dirty laundry and she fumbled hard.

Anyway. Let's get this train back on track. Where do the delusions come from? Traumatic childhoods courtesy of Mommies Dearest.

We all know Harry's story with Diana. She was a young, fun, free spirited loving mom larger than life with a neediness that she depended on her children to fill, rather than her own husband or other adults her age, so Harry grew to find satisfaction in supporting and providing her what she needed. He probably saw, and understood, the way Diana received what she wanted by exaggerating what she needed and following it up with excluding or isolating herself until whoever came chasing after her to give her what she wanted. And ultimately this led her (and Harry) down a path that ended up killing her; she exaggerated the relationship with Dodi to get attention from Hasnat or the BRF, then isolated herself in France to force whoever (Hasnat? Charles Wales? Charles Spencer?) to come chase after her. We know how that ends.

That's where Harry's delusions, IMO, come from. He saw how it well it worked (mostly) for Diana - exaggerate her needs/wants, then run and hide until she gets it - so he does it too. He probably started doing it right after she died, when no one knew what to do or how to handle him so they kept indulging in everything he wanted, so those wants kept manifesting bigger and bigger. And I think the way we see the BRF treating Harry is what would have happened to Diana had she lived; eventually the public would sour on her (this was already happening, by the way), which would then enable the BRF to grey rock her, devenomizing her in effect, and move on without Diana having too much of an influence on their day-to-day.

It's sort of similar for Meghan. We don't know specifically what happened (the way we do with Harry and Diana), but we know that Doria was a young, fun, free-spirited mother herself married to an older husband who had other priorities (eg kids from his first marriage). Unlike Diana, Doria probably didn't want the responsibilities of motherhood (which is the vibe Meghan and Thomas have given about Doria during Meghan's childhood) and left. And like the BRF, Thomas may have also overcompensated Doria's absence in Meghan's life by giving her everything she asked for, which made her asks get bigger and bigger and when Thomas couldn't deliver, she threatened to leave him...like Doria did and Thomas, erstwhile girldad he was, just kept throwing more and more at Meghan to keep her happy. Her delusions come from preying on other individuals' trauma to ensure she gets what she wants. The bigger her wants (ie the more grandiose her delusions), the harder she manipulates other people's trauma to make sure she gets what she wants. Which is kinda the opposite of Harry and Diana; they create the trauma to get people to do what they want, whereas Meghan exploits it to get people to do what she wants. Both are skills they learned after being abandoned (metaphorically and literally) by their mothers.

And all of Meghan's PR about "young mother," I think it's more insidious than that. Yes, it's a very overt evocation of Diana's narrative. Yes, it's a judgement against Kate. But it is also digs at Doria. "See? Motherhood is hard but I'm prioritizing my kid. How dare you to have left me" kind of spiteful digs meant to shame her for whatever happened that caused her to disappear. Meghan is the kind of person who must always have the last word, so I wouldn't be surprised if she's been targeting or belitting Doria about not knowing certain things about Archie/Lili because she wasn't around when Meghan was that age.

So...yeah.

I've realized now that this is the third or fourth Wednesday in a row that I write these super long analytical/in this essay I will posts. I guess Wednesdays are my thinking days...

#ask #sussexes #theories #brf

[aziraphales-library]

Hello amazing mod team! I was wondering if you know of any fics involving Crowley taking care of an injured/sick/Fallen Aziraphale, or vice versa? The fluffier the better. I also typically don't read AUs. Thank you all so much for what you do here. Much love!

Hi! You can check our #sick fic, #hurt aziraphale, #hurt crowley, and #fallen angel aziraphale tags for more fics like this. Here are more fluffy hurt and sick Aziraphale fics to add...

Unsteady Breaths by Elijahsworld (NR)

Happily unboxing his new collection of books, the thought that anything he would receive could be harmful to his angelic being never crossed his mind. Or Aziraphale falls ill but Crowley's there to comfort him through these rough times.

Made it out of our cages, never made it back home by ethewinter (NR)

"We were a team," said Crowley. "And a damn good one at that. I never... Out of all of the people who could've betrayed me, angel, I never would have thought it would be you. Not in a thousand lifetimes. You want to know why I'm still hurt?" Crowley straightened and looked directly into Aziraphale's eyes. His yellow eyes were filled with tears. "I never would've done this to you. Never. I don't fucking care what you think, we're an us. We've always been an us. You running off to play archangel doesn't make that different." - Aziraphale's promotion to supreme archangel doesn't work out. Crowley's left to pick up the pieces.

so I’ll take care of you (and honey, you’ll take care of me too) by sugardustedtulips (T)

“Angels don’t sneeze,” Crowley began, letting a few seconds of silence fill the atmosphere. “Wait, do they?” “I don’t know, dear. But, not to worry, I’ll be all tickety-boo in no time. It’s just the weather, you see, icy all around,” Aziraphale remarked, his tone a smidge too polite and formal for the situation. “My corporation’s merely responding to the changes-“ He had begun, before another sneeze so rudely punctuated his sentence. The muffled mucus-filled sniffles were loud enough to be transmitted to the other end of the phone, the worry in the demon’s chest rising, pounding on his ribs. “‘m coming over,” Crowley said matter-of-factly, hoping Aziraphale couldn’t somehow sense that both his legs are anxiously bouncing at breakneck speed.

Unwilling to waste miracles on himself, Aziraphale can’t miracle himself better after catching a cold. Luckily, a certain lovesick demon is there to take care of him. A sickening amount of fluff ensues (and many feelings are realised).

at the edge of the water by viperinz (G)

“Hello, dearest. Do you mind miracling a cold pack for me? I’m afraid I can’t focus enough to do it.” Crowley swallows, his eyes wide. He does what he’s asked to do, because of course he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind at all. He walks to the side Aziraphale is facing, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He hands the cold pack to Aziraphale, who gratefully takes it. “Thank you,” he whispers, and Crowley watches as he puts the pack on his right thigh. Aziraphale sighs in relief, but his face still conveys how much pain he still feels. And, Crowley gets it now. The pain that needed a cold pack, the way that Aziraphale was limping. It was an injury, wasn’t it?

Crowley notices that there's something going on with Aziraphale's leg. He realizes the pain lies deeper than he first thought it would.

Eye for an Eye by Greenathena (T)

A year before the Apocalypse, Aziraphale is suddenly struck blind, losing both his corporeal and ethereal vision. To make matters worse, he's just discovered that Heaven may have some new technology to hasten the end of the world.

so grey the face of every mortal by philadelea (T)

"Now, some 6,000 years, several historical rescues, and one half-Apocalypse later, that promise tasted like ash in Crowley’s mouth. " It's been six months since Armaggeddidn't. Aziraphale has been in Hell for the last three weeks. Crowley is there to pick up the pieces.

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #hurt aziraphale #sick fic #mod d

[trappedinafantasy37]

There are two manipulators in camp, and the more successful one isn't Astarion. It's Shadowheart. I'm not saying that Shadow is a better manipulator necessarily, but that she uses more successful tactics than Astarion.

Astarion does not care about your relationship or affinity with the other companions. He only cares about your relationship and affinity with him. He may call everyone "darling" but he flirts with you. He gets in your ear and says sweet and nice things... to you. He compliments... you. He plays around... with you. He wants you to feel good about yourself which will make you feel good about him. Most of his manipulation moments happen in one on one scenarios, where it is just you and him. He is a very different man when he's with you because he's manipulating you. He acts very differently with people around you or in group settings. If anything, the person he is in group settings is closer to the real man he is cause he's not trying to manipulate everyone.

He puts on this overly flirtatious mask cause he is using you to guarantee his survival (at least at first). But, because he puts this mask on in one on one scenarios, it only takes just one second to you to see through it to fail. And if you happen to catch on to him, you can see very easily through the mask. The manipulation instantly fails and he is forced to be himself to try to maintain your approval. But if you don't see his mask early on, he could convince you to do just about anything, even the most heinous of actions. And then when he willingly lets his mask fall or feels he no longer needs it and you see the real him, it's too late. You've already fallen in love with him. Now, he can do no wrong in your eyes.

Shadow uses nearly the exact opposite approach. She does care about your relationship and affinity for others. To be precise, she wants you to have a slightly unfavorable opinion of the others so that she comes out as the favored by default. Lae'zel is a particular target of this. She avoids one on one scenarios and pushes you away every time you try to get close. Yes, it is that inner Sharran of hers in regards to keeping secrets. But also the fact that she's super easy to see through if you get close to her, so she wants to keep you away for the sole purpose that you don't see that she's manipulating you. But, even if you do, she still has the benefit of the doubt on her side.

Her manipulation mostly takes place in group scenarios. She takes advantage of things as they happen and she says very precise words to sway your opinion in the way she wants. Unfortunately, Lae'zel is a perfect example of how successful this manipulation tactic can be. Shadow doesn't not need to tell you Lae'zel is dangerous, she just reminds you that she is while Lae'zel is actively doing dangerous things. Shadow will even openly admit to this tactic and it will fly over your head that that's exactly what she's doing because she has made herself appear as someone who wouldn't do it to you. Or, admitting to it can make you doubt that she ever would as you may think, "a real manipulator wouldn't admit to manipulating me, right?" Her manipulation is all about planting just the slightest bit of doubt, and you do the rest and manipulate yourself for her. And she does it so marvelously. She makes sure that the only person you don't doubt is her.

Astarion's manipulation requires that you never see through his bullshit at any given point in time. If you do, the manipulation fails. Shadow's manipulation can survive you seeing through her bullshit because everyone, somehow, keeps proving her right anyway.

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion #shadowheart #lae'zel #manipulation #masks

[harkonnin]

* The heart is not meant to rule *

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Atreides!Reader

Slow burn, knife kink, blood kink, strangers to lovers, softer!Feyd-Rautha, CONSENT, 18+, arranged marriage, assassination, poison, murder, etc

Previous Chapter - Resurrection Current Chapter - Never lose me

***

It had been a few days after Feyd left to go back to Giedi Prime, wedding preparations he said. He didn’t leave you much time to bond after the kiss, nor did he have need for a conversation about feelings. You attribute it to his upbringing, assuming Harkonnen don’t talk about their feelings at all. So, you stow away yours for now.

*

Feyd wanted to make haste, he wanted nothing more than to stay on Caladan and ravish you before the wedding, but he also respected his duty and the rules involved with an arranged marriage. Should he break those rules, he wouldn’t be able to marry you. Intercourse before marriage wasn’t frowned upon, it was downright illegal. He had to put a distance between the both of you before his feelings could settle in the pit of his stomach and he lost all control.

*

A few weeks pass while Feyd is busy sorting out all the legal business, talking to servants to import certain items from Caladan, and even requesting an answer from you concerning your wedding dress and the sort. You receive the message during a sparring match with Duncan, who has been training you extra hard upon hearing the news that you were going through with the marriage.

He sees your face contort after a member of the staff gives you the message and asks what you want to respond with. It felt so, indifferent and impersonal, a message as black and white coming from Feyd, no love to be found, no greetings, just a demand. You frown as you respond to the messenger and turn back to Duncan, sighing.

He stays silent for a few moments, until the messenger leaves.

“I know it is not my place Lady, but do you mind if I give you any advice?” he sounded sincere and worried.

You nod at him, curious.

“Please don’t marry Feyd. I know it might seem like a good idea, if we’re speaking about bloodlines and dukes and barons, but… you should be with someone who loves and respects you.”

He got closer to you as he spoke those last words, his hair partially stuck to his face because of the sweat of battle. He extended his hand for you to take, and you did. Feeling anything at all was better than the dryness that got stuck in your throat when you received Feyd’s ‘demand’.

“Duncan, I-…” you trailed off.

You didn’t want to admit that you liked Feyd, it wasn’t love yet, but there was a certain attraction between the both of you. You wanted to explore this, even if it meant being married for a different cause. You just felt insecure after he left so fast, seemingly taking all the sweetness away from the moment you shared before.

Duncan pulled you into a hug, somehow knowing exactly what would help at this point. You felt his heart beat fast, faster than usual. He gave you a kiss on the forehead and continued to talk.

“Feyd has no idea how lucky he is. Should he ever try to hurt you again, I will intervene.”

He lets you out of the hug and takes your hands in his and goes onto one knee.

“If you ever feel doubt know that I’ll be here for you. I love you, Lady Atreides.”

He says as he kisses your hand. The confession feels heavy but sincere. You had no idea Duncan felt like this, you had always just assumed he was a man with his heart on his sleeve, loving all the Atreides family, because he had just always been there for you all. But a proposal?

“Oh, Duncan, I-“ you say as you feel a tear starting to roll over your cheek.

He comes back up and cups your face in his hands, wipes away your tears and kisses your forehead, and returns to hugging you. You softly sob as the heat of the older man gives you the comfort that you needed.

“I know.”

*

Feyd is struggling to get everything sorted, there’s a lot more shouting and killing of servants going on right now. He wants the wedding to be utter perfection, no place for errors, this includes everything you should bring or prepare. He shouts at a servant to ask about your wedding dress, and to make it quick. This explains why the message sounded so cold and demanding when you received it. The Harkonnen were anything but subtle with words.

He had been in and out of meetings concerning the festivities and he was about one more question away of killing another servant. He hated this, hated that he had to do everything, make all the choices, he should’ve just asked you to come along, but rules forbid. Curse the rules, he thought.

For an arranged marriage the people involved wouldn’t be allowed to see each other for a month before the marriage, this is to allow both families to prepare everything and make sure that the couple still wanted to get married. Also to get all the political things in order, most of all.

Feyd had 5 minutes of peace before he had a meeting with yet another person involved with the wedding. He was staring out at the arena and somehow missed simpler times like that. His momentarily peace got disrupted, however. A servant asked for his attention, it was Tula. Feyd knew how fond you were of her, so he promised himself that he wouldn’t hurt her. She was however, testing his patience at the moment.

“My Lord Na-Baron, I have a message for you, from Lady Atreides,” she spoke quietly.

Feyd shot up and took the message out of her hands, read it and a frown came over his face. Your reply was very formal, much the same as his question, or demand, felt to you. Yet he didn’t expect it to be so… dry. He looked up at Tula for a second, almost questioning her why your message didn’t sound nicer. He thought he knew you a bit more than that at least.

“My lord? Are you ok?” Tula questioned, seeing his face contort in several ways. “Fine,” his voice all gravely, he even sounded tired.

Tula started to walk away but then suddenly came to a stop. She considered the sentence she had on the tip of her tongue before finally saying it. As she turned back, Feyd looked up at her.

“My lord, … I have also received more information about Lady Atreides.” Her eyes trailed off, suddenly aware of the stare Feyd was giving her. “Speak.” He spit out. “… it appears that Lady Atreides has received a counteroffer for marriage, from Duncan Idaho.”

Feyd’s eyes narrowed into slits. Unaware of his next action, Tula wanted to make sure she would live after giving him the bad news, so she continued.

“Lady Atreides has declined his offer however,” she had no proof, but she also felt like you wouldn’t just bail on everything that had happened between you and Feyd.

She assumed you would say no to Duncan, considering the position you were in. A wild bet, to save her own life.

“Is that so…” he trailed off, started to stalk around Tula.

He took out his dagger and started to play with it, she feared for her life.

“It seems like I will have to teach Duncan some manners in the future.” He looked at Tula and then his dagger.

He reminded himself that the time would come where he got his revenge on Duncan and sheathed his dagger again. Tula almost sighed in relief.

“Send a message to Lady Atreides, tell her I look forward to making her mine soon.”

The implications where there, both innuendo and not, and Tula made sure she left as soon as she could.

*

When you receive the message, you’ve just finished bathing and are in a comfortable robe, hanging out on your bed. The staff member leaves the message in your hands and lets you be for the night. As you start to read the message you realise it’s from Tula. She tells you Feyd found out about the proposal from Duncan and wasn’t happy about it. She also conveys his own personal message to you.

“Make me his? Who does he think he is!”, you talk to yourself.

The way he talks to you ever since he left was very different from how he was on Caladan. No softness anymore, the Harkonnen in him had returned. You were sure that planet had something to do with it, Caladan was far more relaxed than Giedi Prime was. You decide not to answer him, it was only a few more days before you travelled to the planet yourself, so a response could wait.

You wonder if Duncan’s proposal had something to do with how cold he sounded in the message. You assumed it did, you didn’t see Feyd as an insecure person, but knowing how close you and Duncan were, anything could happen. You just hope Feyd doesn’t go ham on him and kill him. You fear that will be the only outcome, however.

You didn’t want to admit it, but you missed Feyd. It made you insecure to not have him around you. What was he doing right now? Did he also miss you? All these questions came floating to the surface as you kept thinking about him, and his hands, and his lips. And how strong he felt when he was holding you close, how his hands moved to your lower back and your legs, how his hot breath felt on you in the damp wet grass.

You instinctively open your robe thinking about him and start to touch yourself. You wanted nothing more but to feel him all over you, feel his hot mouth on your entrance. You imagine that your hands, are his, as you circle your clit. You insert two fingers and start to pump, cupping your breast in the other hand. You felt his erection as you sat on top of him, panting, and you think about how big he was, how he would stretch you, how he would make you his.

His cold words from the message now circle in your head, as you imagine him saying them out loud, whispering them in your ear from behind you, as he’s taking you. You come hard, thinking about him enveloping you, not stopping until you’re completely ripped at the seams. You imagine him holding you after, kissing you and whispering sweet nothings in your ear, as you drift to sleep.

*

Feyd is having another night, however. His insecurity takes hold of him the night before your arrival. You hadn’t replied to his last message from a few days ago and he imagines you might just give up on the entire wedding, and so, give up on him. He keeps thinking about how he can convince you to marry him, what he would do to Duncan should he ever see the man again, and his anger boils inside of him.

He has thrashed his room already, broke a few chairs and killed a few servants, but nothing seems to help. A servant reminds him of the box they took with them from Caladan and he remembers the rose oil he took from his chambers. The servants draw a bath for him, with water, and put the rose oil in it. As soon as he enters the bathing area he relaxes. It feels like you are in there with him, soothing his fears and feelings, and calming him down.

He's not one to let his guard fall, but he drifts off into a soft sleep while he lay there. He dreams of you, in the damp grass, on top of him, under him, in any way he wants because it’s his imagination. He reassures himself that all will be fine once you’re here. He wakes and gets himself cleaned off. Before he goes to bed, he sprinkles some oil on his bed sheets, so that he would at least feel as if you were with him that night.

*

You travel to Giedi Prime on the day before your wedding. The rest of house Atreides would arrive later today. As you arrive you are greeted by a few servants, and you react with glee once you see Tula. You hug her and forget the differences in culture for a while before letting her go and straightening yourself. She has a soft smile on her face, however.

“Let me show you to your chambers, Lady Atreides.”

She walks in front of you as the other servants with your bags follow suit. As she ushers you into the room and your bags are in it, she closes the door and turns herself to you.

“My Lady Atreides, I fear I have a confession to make.” She looks strained.

You take her hands in yours, and you ushed her to sit down on the bed. “What is it, Tula?”

She shifts her eyes up at you, guilty for some reason.

“I was the one who told Feyd about the proposal from Duncan. I wanted him to hear from me, because I was afraid he might hurt you, should you have told him. I’d rather he hurt me, than you.”

You’re somewhat shocked but not for the reason Tula might think. She risked her life for you, knowing Feyd, he probably did end up hurting her.

“Did he hurt you?” you look at her, worried. “N-No, he did not actually. He only mentioned that he would have to punish Duncan, that’s it.”

You sigh, happy. But you’re also surprised he didn’t lash out at her. A mere servant in his eyes, what would be one more or less. Maybe Feyd was more perceptive than you thought.

“Tula, you did nothing wrong. You were loyal to your Na-Baron. I understand. I think Feyd will notice that I declined the offer if he sees me in a wedding dress tomorrow, we’ll be fine.”

You notice she had some tears forming in her eyes, so you decide to hug her, and she lets it all out.

“I hope he deserves you, Lady Atreides.” She tells you in between sobs.

It was the sweetest thing any servant had ever told you. You hope he still wants you as something more than a political pawn. Insecurity creeps back in as you prepare to go to bed before the big day. You wonder if he has any interest in you anymore as you drift off to sleep, worried and anxious.

#feyd #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd x you #feyd x reader #feyd rautha #feyd smut #house harkonnen #dune #dune fanfiction #dune part 2 #dune 2 #dune part two #dune movie #the heart is not meant to rule

[sl0t4matt]

l. yamal bf! headcanons (requested)

i didn’t know what to write abt this one he’s so younggg, but for the person requesting, i hope i did okay :))

❀bf! lamine, that has loved you ever since you were little.

❀bf! lamine, that would talk shit with you about the referee’s and rival players, complaining as to why they would play so unfairly and the refs that have obviously been bought.

❀bf! lamine, that you were so proud of when he got his debut for the first team since it always has been his dream to become one of the barcelona legends.

❀bf! lamine, that you can completely be yourself with because he always matches your energy.

❀bf! lamine, that always puts you in his tiktok dumps wether it being a cute picture of you or one of the both of you. he always wants to show you off.

❀bf! lamine, that is a big romantic and takes you to cute but also thoughtful dates, like the picnic you both did.

❀bf! lamine, that loves to annoy the shit out of you, it being his way of flirting.

❀bf! lamine, who (when at schoo) would yap with to you about literally anything instead of doing his work, mostly talking about the most ridiculous topics like how he thinks that “people who squint are cringey af”. but you’re not exactly better. people would call the two of you the yapping duo, as dumb as it sounds, it was true. the both of you never seem to shut up, getting glares from anyone that would listen to you.

❀bf! lamine that would send you pictures of messi and his wife writing next to them: “us”.

❀bf! lamine that only reply’s to haters comments when it’s about you. he’s fine if someone has something against him but when it’s about you that crosses the line. he would hate to see worrying about dumb, jealous people. “she doesn’t even look that good.” “stfu.”

❀bf! lamine, who gets yelled at by xavi because he keeps texting you.

❀bf! lamine, that sends you pictures of the sunset because you love of them so much.

❀bf! lamine, that complaints about how you always take his hoodies, but secretly loves it because when you give them back they smell like you.

❀bf! lamine, that hates it when you call him bro (you do it on purpose to provoke him)

❀bf! lamine, that remembers everything about you. “i remember you said you liked this, so i got it for you”

❀bf! lamine, that can’t help but blush when you do such simple things like complimenting him. “you look so cute in that pink hoodie.” “stop, oh my god.”

❀bf! lamine, that won’t let you pay whenever you’re with him. “why did you even bring your wallet, i’m gonna pay anyways.”

❀bf! lamine, that calls you whenever he’s in another country because of a game.

❀bf! lamine, who’s comments are down baddd whenever you post something. “you look so good, can you tell me to kms🙏🏼” “bro i want you so bad, what do you want me to do, i will do anything for you.” “someone take my phone away🫣” sometimes you can’t even tell wether he’s joking or not.

❀bf! lamine, that is soo clingy with you, always feeling the need to hold your hand, somehow wanting to show his love for you.

❀bf! lamine, that secretly loves the edits you send of him. they do make him look good, you got to admit.

#barca #fc barcelona #pablo gavi #joao felix #lamine yamal #hector fort #marc guiu #la masia

[kakuchari]

-> They find something in the other’s trouser pockets/etc. right before putting it into the washing machine. (x) | 891 words. notes: gn!reader, established relationship, reader drinks coffee with creamer. reader and kakucho are both employed. kakucho calls reader "love", "darling".

Adult life was really beginning to seem like an endless supply of dirty laundry.

You awaken from your slumber to an empty bed; Kakucho has been awake for hours already, being an early riser. The glow of the lamp downstairs glows faintly, the lamp on the lowest setting so he didn't wake you. You spot the laundry basket next to the stairwell, overflowing, while also catching the clothes strewn about on the floor. Guess it's laundry day.

Rolling out of bed, you ignore the need for clothes as the chilly air hits your bare thighs and instead search for body heat, following the warm light down the wooden, creaky stairs and into the kitchen. His head lifts, red and white eyes meeting your own with a soft smile as he takes a sip from his coffee. A book is in his lap, something philosophical, but you don't have a mind to pay attention to it as you shuffle over to the coffee pot, pouring yourself a glass.

"Sleep well?"

You shrug. "Better if you stayed in bed."

He murmurs a sorry, love as he stands, the floorboards creaking under his footfalls as he approaches you, grabbing the creamer from the fridge on his way and handing it to you. It's your favorite; pumpkin spice, reminding you of one of your favorite seasons.

You can feel Kakucho's broad chest against your back as you stir the sugar and additives into your coffee, watching the spiral clouds of creamer turn the dark roast into a lighter brown. His arms wrap around your middle, a kiss pressed against your temple. You hum, leaning back against him as you take a sip from the coffee, your eyes sliding shut as the warmth floods through your system.

You get to chatting, as you always do; the morning debrief, Kakucho likes to call it. You lean back against the counter, sipping your sugary concoction as he talks about how long he'll be at work today, what he's doing, about the happy hour later that he wants to take you to so you can meet his coworkers—

And before you know it, he's dressed, packed up, and pressing a kiss to your lips as he ventures out the door, telling you he won't be home late tonight. He'll make sure of it.

You laugh as the door shuts behind him, knowing he's a liar. Kakucho was never one to come home on time; and it was nice, having the house to yourself the few days during the week he went into the office. Working from home together was lovely, but having your space was even better.

Nevertheless, the first thing to tackle was the giant pile of overflowing laundry you'd wandered past in your search for caffeine.

Placing your coffee down, you venture upstairs, grabbing the basket first and, before throwing the clothes into the washer, you check all the pockets. You'd run into this issue before, where Kakucho had failed to remove his earbuds from his pants once, and they somehow managed to survive a washer and dryer cycle.

Unfortunately, it happened again, and they weren't so lucky. Your face had been bright red with shame as you'd gone upstairs to his office, handing him the broken earbuds worthlessly as he let out a whistle, taking them from you. There was no anger in his eyes, only surprise as he placed them on his desk, reaching up and pressing a kiss to your cheek. Not your fault, I can get another pair.

Still, you didn't want to make that mistake again as you rifle through the pockets of his sweatpants that had been discarded on the ground last night.

There is something in his pocket, but it's not his earbuds.

It looks like a note.

You unfold it, and in his messy handwriting, it begins with a cute i love you <3 on the paper. There's more, talking about how amazing you are and how you always keep the house clean and how he's so proud of you for being who you are; how you work so hard and someone will notice, he swears it, and if they don't then they're clearly blind. It's a sweet gesture, not out of character, but the tenderness in the chicken scratch writing has your eyes going glassy with tears.

He knew you'd had a hard few weeks. You'd ranted and raved to him about your job, about how you're not happy but no one else seems to be hiring so you're stuck. How you're getting more work than you should be handling due to your role, how frustrating it is that you're doing managerial-level work without the title because they can't be bothered to pay you more.

Seeing the person you love most include a note, possibly on purpose, in his pants he knew you'd pick up on laundry day to rifle through before cleaning so he knew you'd see it...it made your chest feel light.

You do text him about it, later. Did you write that note in your pants last night so I'd see it? you ask him, straight to the point. He texts back almost immediately with several crying laughing emotes, and then says of course, darling. needed ya to know i love ya even if no one else does <3

It's the little things, you know?

divider credit: benkeibear for the gradient divider!

networks: @thehoneypotserver @enchantedforest-network

disclaimer: DO NOT copy or repost my works for any reason. translations are acceptable, but please ask for permission first!

© kakuchari 2023-2024

#kakucho hitto x reader #hitto kakucho x reader #kakucho x reader #tokyo revengers x reader #📝 ari's autographs

[delopsia]

Icing | Bob x Reader x Rhett

Word Count: 5,300 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, improper use of icing, food is mentioned several times, blow jobs, grinding, hand jobs, overstimulation, planning for a wedding 💐 it's porn with a very vague plot Brief Summary: This icing, in particular, is not going on the cake, but you don't mind so long as it's on Bob Floyd. 

"Are you sure this is how we're supposed to do it?" 

"What makes you ask that?" Bobby chirps, barely audible over the hum of the hand mixer. His eyes flick down to the cake pan held between your hands. "Seems perfectly fine to me." 

The beater bumps into the edge of the bowl. Icing splatters across the countertop. 

You think that might be the whisper of a swear, crossing the room. 

"I don't know, it just...feels weird," but you're pulling open the door to the oven, anyhow. A plume of heat washes across your face, like the blaze of a campfire, threatening to roast you alive.

But fortunately, the only thing being baked is this tiny pan of cake batter. Locked away to its doom of inhumane temperatures until it rises to perfection. 

"Honey, there are only so many ways you can bake a cake," Bob's entirely unaware of the blue icing staining his cheek as he reaches for a damp cloth. Now that you give it a squint, you reckon it might be up in his hair, too. 

"Well, last I checked," reaching out to swipe at his face with your thumb, raising it to your lips. Different color. Same taste as before. "Most folks don't have to bake their own wedding cake samples."

His head turns back to the thin list of instructions, scanning over where he left off, and—oh, well, he's got blue in his hair, too. 

"Hey, get a load of this," Rhett's voice echoes from the living room, socked feet thumping across the hardwood. "They're sellin' that ol' rodeo property in town." 

You're not entirely sure what woke him; if it was the clatter of skillets as you clumsily withdrew them from the oven, or if it was the bickering over why Bobby continues to use the appliance as a storage unit. It had to have been something you two did; fifteen minutes is astronomically short for a Rhett nap.

Maybe he never went to sleep to begin with because he's got a newspaper in hand. Today's date sits proudly in the corner, next to his thumb; he must have picked it up from the gas station on his drive home. 

"We should buy it," waggling the paper in his hand, like it'll somehow convince you and Bobby to scrounge up ninety-five grand for an arena that has been abandoned for the better half of two decades.

"Sure thing, sweetheart," Bob's mixer kicks back on, an obnoxious noise sounding through the kitchen. Surely, there have to be quieter models out there. "We'll put an offer in next week."

"Ha. Ha," Rhett's eyes roll, the newspaper falling onto the recently cleared counter, right where Bobby was saving space for the blue icing. "Funny." 

His mouth opens like he's got more to say, but nothing slips past those thin lips. Soft blue eyes flicker across the counter, scanning across your rainbow assortment of icings, the sample baggies of sprinkles and candles, and the portfolio of decorative figures. Not one of the premade couples comes with a third partner, but you're not entirely sure if you want to go that route to begin with.

Rhett's nose wrinkles; lost. You've got nothing more than a shrug to offer.

"All I'm sayin' is," picking back up on the hanging conversation, he reaches out to poke his finger into an open dish of sprinkles. The ones made to look like pearls. There were more, but half got lost when you accidentally ripped the package open. "You'll have a lotta time on your hands when ya leave the Navy."

The mixer shuts off. 

"Who said I was leaving the Navy?" 

Rhett's lifting a pearl to his mouth, obnoxious tongue poking out to catch it. "You, last night." 

"And the night before that." You add, with a nudge of your shoulder.

And the night before that one. Sometime five mornings ago. Again, last week. After the most recent deployment and the one before that. Before the engagement and way before the house was bought...actually, when has he not talked about this?

The pearl cracks so loud that you almost wonder if it chipped Rhett's tooth. His brows furrow, shifting the hunk of sugar around in his mouth. "The hell are you two doin'...?" 

"We're baking our wedding cake samples," and even with Bob saying it so matter of factly, it doesn't sound right. Nothing about this picture is correct.

Rhett's head tilts to the side. Even the dark hair cascading into his face can't hide those questioning eyes. 

"See?" Throwing your hand out as if Bobby hasn't noticed the puppy-dog of a man standing on the other side of the island. "Even he's confused by this."

Nobody bakes their own wedding cake samples. This is your sign to find a better bakery! Before the stakes grow even higher! 

Careful, Bob pulls the mixer from the bowl, turning around to drop the beaters into the sink. "He's always confused."

"Hey!" Rhett squawks. "Ya jus' gonna say that 'n turn your back to me?" 

Not a word leaves Bob's mouth, deliberately keeping his back to you and Rhett as if to drive home his unspoken point. He's doing his best to remain firm, but even so, you can see the way the corner of his lip rises with every passing second. Must be able to hear the way Rhett's rounding the corner, big hands reaching out to grab hold of bony hips. 

It's a little too easy for him to force Bob to turn. 

"What, can't say it to my face?" Any venom in Rhett's tone is lost in the midst of his chuckle. Amused. 

Still, Bobby remains quiet, defiantly folding his arms across his chest, like that will somehow stop the smile from bursting onto his pale face. It's a losing game. Rhett knows it. You know it. He knows it. The whole world knows it.

Rhett's tilting his head, leaning close. "Say." Kiss. "It." Kiss. Bob's hand reaches out toward the counter. "To."  Kiss. "My." Kiss. His finger dips into blue icing. "Face." Kiss. "Pal."  Kiss.

One blink, and you nearly miss it. The swift drag of Bobby's fingertip, smearing the artificially dyed sweetness onto Rhett's thin lips. Leaves just a big enough mess for him to lean in and press his mouth to Rhett's, that soft pink tongue darting out to lick it off. It ends as quickly as it started, with Bobby turning back to the counter, already beginning to pour another pack of sprinkles into an empty container.

Rhett's wide eyes meet with yours. Bewildered.

...huh.

"What do we think of lemon?" Bobby's speaking as if nothing ever happened. Acting it, too. 

You're not entirely sure what he means by that. "I'm sorry?" 

"Cake flavors," holding up a non-descript packet of mix. "There's lemon in here." 

Rhett's nose wrinkles, and you can't help but wonder if he's recalling the sourness of the lemon pie you two tried to put together for Bobby. Worst damn welcome home present you've ever made. 

"Is there a difference to the icin'?" Rhett asks, poking at one of the bowls. 

"They're all the same." Bob's head shakes, sprinkles audibly pouring out of the packet and into yet another bowl. Who's gonna wash all these dishes, anyhow? 

Rhett's eyes meet with yours. Brows furrowing, like this is the most absurd thing he's ever heard. If the initial confusion hadn't already worn off, you reckon you'd be feeling the same damn thing. Who does this, and why are you just letting it happen? Is your life so devoid of joy that this is what you've allowed yourself to resort to?

Or is Bob Floyd just very, very good at convincing you to blindly follow his lead?

Idle, Rhett's hand dips into some of the icing. Slow. Flying just below the radar of Bobby's peripheral. "So why'd ya make every color?" 

And your poor WSO hasn't the slightest damn clue, reaching for yet another container of sprinkles. "To see what—" 

Rhett's big hand presses into Bob's pale cheek, vibrant orange icing splattering against his skin. Dragging down, down, down his neck and onto the little bit of chest peeking out from the low collar of his shirt. 

You know what's going to happen before it even starts. Bobby's fingers dive into a pool of pale yellow. Smacking it into Rhett's broad chest, gets the base of his neck and all. And Rhett's reaching for the pink, dragging it across an unwitting forearm. Bob's going for green. Reaching for Rhett's scruffy jaw. Giggles bubble through the air. 

Blue splatters across the kitchen floor and across your shirt. 

Your white shirt. "Hey!"

"He started it!" Bob squeaks. But he's stumbling backward, bumping into you as he reaches for another bowl—ammunition for the next attack. 

All Rhett can do is grin. "Did I?" 

Insufferable. 

Your hand darts out from your side, venturing to the counter. 

Purple splatters across Bobby's clothed belly. The only spot you could reach. 

"Both of you?" Bobby's squawking. Twisting. Turning until he's got his back to the sink and not you or Rhett, his vibrantly colored hands held toward the ceiling. Surrender, or preparing his next move? You're not sure yet. 

God, he's a mess. Splatters of orange, pink, blue, and plain white, stretching from his nose to his belly; you think there might be a little bit of purple lurking beneath his chin. Rhett's not doing much better, green clinging to his jaw, chest decorated with a vibrant smear of yellow. 

"What else are we s'pposed t' do with all this icin'?" He asks, lifting his fingers to his lips, short pink tongue darting out to lap up the sweetness clinging to his skin. 

Bob's eyes roll. You wonder if he's noticed the drop of green on his lens. "Well, wearing it shouldn't even make the list!" But it's nothing compared to the icing on his neck, sickly sweet and spread thin over the thick vein that bulges from beneath his skin. 

"I can think of a few ideas," muttering, entranced. 

Out of his peripheral, Rhett meets your eye. The corner of his lip twitches up, fingers slipping out of his mouth with a wet 'pop' so loud that it echoes through the kitchen. 

"What..." Bob swallows. Adam's apple rising and falling. Soft blues flicker between you and Rhett; must be able to read the thoughts filtering through your head. "Would that entail, exactly?"

You don't know who steps forward first. But one way or another, your sticky hands are finding their way to Bobby's chest, bracing yourself as you lean in. Rhett's so close that his hair tickles your cheek; he had a longer distance to cross than you did, and yet he's already beating you to the point. Licking a fat, wet stripe up the side of Bob's neck. 

And you're in hot pursuit. Licking up the other side, trailing across that thick vein, multicolored icing greeting your taste buds. But that sugary sweetness is nearly dulled in comparison to the soft mewl that rolls out of Bobby's mouth, his head rolling backward. 

"Okay..." he breathes, "that's..."

The flavor of this icing is far from your favorite; it isn't even close to the one you had in mind when contacting the bakery, but you can hardly pay it any attention. Nothing but a mild annoyance when you've got this to preoccupy your mind with. Bob's hand, working its way up your side. Rhett's soft hum, downright delighted with this predicament. 

Careful, your lips press to a soft patch of skin beneath his ear, sucking lightly. Not enough to bruise his terribly sensitive skin, but still managing to leave behind a faint redness in your wake. One tiny little mark after another, spots blending amongst the vivid orange that you've yet to lick up.

This icing, in particular, is not going on the cake, but you don't mind so long as it's on Bob Floyd. Him and his sticky, heaving chest, squirming as you work lower, lower, lower. Teeth grazing across his collar, tugging on the flesh stretched thin over the bone there. 

Rhett's shoulder knocks into your side, a little too broad to be squeezing himself in next to you. His hands venture to the hem of Bob's horribly stained t-shirt, yanking upward.

"The cake," Bob's panted protest is hardly one at all, "you can't...it'll burn." And yet he's obediently lifting his arms, letting Rhett pull the shirt over his head. Maybe letting it fall to the floor isn't the best idea, but you're in no position to raise even the slightest objection.

"We have time," you murmur. Lie. You don't even know if you set the timer. 

Frankly, you don't care. It's just too damn easy to forget about. Letting your mouth find its way down Bob's pale chest, a thin trail of saliva marking your path as if you could possibly become lost in this familiar terrain. 

But even though you've had a head start, Rhett still manages to beat you to the checkpoint, his lips wrapping around a delicate nipple. So sudden that Bob jerks beneath you, his feet stumbling. Two can play this game, though, and Rhett can only pay attention to one thing at a time. 

Without the slightest warning, you sink down. Knees thunking heavily against the cold kitchen tile. They'll ache when you ultimately climb back to your feet, but that's for the future version of you to worry about. Right now, your bold hand is soothing over the heavy bulge in these sweats, feeling how Bobby twitches from the simplest touch. 

"Can't believe you're already hard, Robby," teasing, your thumb swipes right beneath his tip. The wet spot forming in the thin gray material is like a reward.

"You're..." his head rolls, fingers tugging at Rhett's hair, "surprised?" 

Not in the slightest. 

It's Rhett who reaches for the thick elastic of Bob's waistband. Watching through thick lashes as you help pull it downso swiftly that his cock brushes your cheek as it springs up to smack against his belly. Flushed a bright ruby, a small bead of precum running down the underside of him.

"Shit," Rhett swears; it's so quiet that you can hear the way his knees creak as he settles down next to you. 

And now both of you are down here, caught up in some kind of perfect synchrony, leaning forward to run your tongues up the sides of Bob's cock. Relishing in that shuddered gasp as you and Rhett meet at his head, lips brushing in what was meant to be a sloppy kiss, but it's more of a clash of tongues than anything. Broken apart by Bob's soft cock head, caught perfectly in the middle.

"You...." Bob's hand bumps into your cheek, thumb stroking the skin there, "fuck, you two are..." 

Rhett's chuckle is all it takes to have Bob's sharp hips bucking forward, pushing himself right past your parted lips. Wasn't exactly next up on your itinerary, but you're rolling with it as if it was. Sucking gently, tongue swiping back and forth beneath it. Teasing while you still can. 

Not a single beat is missed. With the delicate hollow of your cheeks and the lazy way Rhett mouths at the side of him, it's almost hard to believe that this wasn't choreographed earlier in the day. As if anyone could have predicted that Bob was serious about this whole 'baking cake samples' thing.

"Y' likin' that, Bobby?" Rhett hums, pausing to graze his teeth against delicate skin. "Watchin' both of us on our knees for ya?" 

You're leaning back, and Rhett's moving in to take over for you. Doesn't need to use his hands, as he sucks that leaking tip into his mouth.

Bob sucks in a breath. His other hand dives into Rhett's hair, tangling in the mess of it. "How could I—mhm, not?" 

All of a sudden, Rhett's sliding further down, eyes scrunching shut as Bob knocks into the back of his throat, but that's never been enough to deter him. It's a wonder he's got a gag reflex at all. You can't help but twist yourself around, a hand coming to rest on his lower back, bracing yourself as you find your way to the underside of his jaw. Air audibly puffs through his nose. Always has been sensitive here. 

Sweet, too, with all of this icing to be licked up. There simply isn't another person cut out for this sort of job. The artificial flavor is far from your favorite, but you can't be inclined to share. Not when he tries to lean into it, a muffled grunt rumbling out of him. 

Above you, Bob can't close his mouth. "That's...oh, that's—"

A shrill beep tears through the air. Once. Twice. Thrice. 

So you did set the timer. Lucky him.

And Rhett laughs. Barely able to pull away before he chokes, swollen lips glistening as they meld with the shape of his smile. "Guess ya gotta check that, flyboy."

This is the first and likely the last time you'll see Bob Floyd check an oven with his sweats pooling around his thighs, heavy cock bouncing as he leans down to see what he's doing. Is the cake done? Or burnt? You haven't the slightest clue because Rhett's kissing at the side of your neck, and any self-control you had left dissolves in an instant.

"Shame y' didn't get more of this on ya," he's speaking into your skin, vibrating right up into your head and rattling all your thoughts off their metaphorical shelves. 

The stain on your brand-new shirt is speaking otherwise. "This stuff doesn't even taste that great."

"'s good when it's on one of you," he does, unfortunately, make a really good point. The kind that lets him get away with pushing your pants down your legs,  underwear and all, right here in the damn kitchen. So much for trying to break the habit of kitchen shenanigans. 

You wonder if this memory will wander back into your mind the next time you invite guests over and eat in this kitchen. 

Rhett's hands settle on the sides of your waist, pulling you into him as he leans backward. Knocking the back of his head against the tile can't feel good, but he doesn't react in the slightest. Too busy pulling you on top of him, your legs straddling his wide hips. They hitch upward, so strong that they push you along with it, as he shoves his shorts down his legs, cock audibly smacking against his belly, swiping against your thigh as it drifts past.

"Are you doing what I think you're doing?" Your hands brace against his chest, chasing the illusion of stability.

"Mhm," is the best he's got to offer, and he's hardly got to guide you any further. You're already beating him to the punch, grinding down against his length, letting him slip between your parted lips. 

Fuck, it's been a while since you last felt his weeping cock head drag against your clit. You wonder if he can feel the way you involuntarily clench around nothing, sent into a mindless spasm from that alone.

Bobby's knees audibly knock against the floor, and you're not entirely sure where his sweats went. "You two move too damn fast."

"Maybe you're just slow," there's nothing but playfulness in your tone, albeit the slightest bit breathless. You can't help it. Not when you've got this going on between your legs. Rhett and his big cock rolling up into you, chasing the feeling of your pussy against him. Beads of precum slicken the glide, every motion punctuated by a sickly wet little noise.

"'n ya say I'm the one always givin' ya trouble," Rhett's not doing much to help his own case, but then again, you don't think that was his goal. 

It's an awkward angle, with Bob sitting on his knees and Rhett laying against the floor, but he's craning his head up, tongue greeting the underside of Bob's cock. A fleeting sort of thing that only lasts a moment or three.

"You're gonna upset your shoulder if you keep doing that," Bobby hums, not making any move to stop Rhett from trying at it again, lips stubbornly wrapping around his mushroom tip. 

There's a spin in your head that wasn't there before. Lightheaded over the sight before you and the sweet throb of your cunt, sliding against Rhett's shaft like you're aiming to win a first-place trophy. Hands flat against his heaving chest, trembling arms hardly keeping your body upright as your hips roll. 

"Can feel ya gettin' wetter round me," Rhett's eyelashes are fluttering, and it's all he can do to keep himself from knocking his skull against the tile again. "Fuck." 

"As if you're not dripping like a damn faucet," your words hitching on a gasp, the embers of a whine building in the back of your throat. Getting off to this wasn't on your list of plans, but with every soft massage of his plush tip, you're growing closer to writing it at the very top. 

Rhett's back arches off the ground, legs kicking beneath you, like he can feel the heat that's flooding your lower belly. Makes it so damn hard for you to keep moving your body back and forth, hopelessly grinding back and forth, obsessed with the way he kisses your clit on every pass. 

"God, you two should see yourselves," Bobby says it like he's caught up in a trance; you don't think you've seen him blink since he knelt down here.

"Enjoying the show?" Speaking through a gasp. Fuck, fuck, fuck, your eyes are rolling backward, and Rhett's twitching against you, and it's so, so much. 

His hands settle on your aching thighs. Blunt nails digging into the meat of them. Does nothing to ward off the shiver that's settled into the muscle there. But his hips are rising up off the floor, and he's rutting himself into you properly now, rubbing against your poor clit over and over and over. 

"Rhett—" whimpering high in your throat. Head tilting back. You're...he's...

"C'mon," in that raspy tone of his, wavering with the motion of his body, "cum on my cock."

Bob's cool hand glides up the side of your neck, and that is it. 

A choked noise echoes through the kitchen and into the living room. Spasming, cumming to the drag of him against your clit alone.  Clenching helplessly around nothing but air, a ripple running up your spine. Your arms crumple out from under you. Stars sparkle behind your eyelids like the night sky. Falling into a messy heap on Rhett's chest, helpless as his cock keeps rubbing against your dripping cunt. 

"Ah—Rhett!" Jolting. Oversensitive. And it's all you can do to slide off of him, letting gravity drag you down to his side instead, a leg lazily sprawled overtop his thigh. You don't know if he's laughing or if you're hearing the hammer of your heart beating away in your ears. 

"Awful quick," Bob's eyes flick to you, hardly able to conceal the playful glint in them.  

You ought to give him trouble for such a comment, but your head is still spinning like it's about to float up into the clouds. The best you can do is to swipe out with your hand, smacking against his belly. "Like you're any better." 

Rhett's chest rumbles with a chuckle. You're not entirely sure when he got his arm around you, but it's carefully squeezing you into him. Keeping you snug against his chest as Bobby moves to settle between his legs. 

And this...this is a hell of an angle to be observing from. You don't have to move your eyes or tilt your head at all, comfortably gazing at the sight of Rhett's plush thighs caging Bob's waist. On its own, your hand darts out, grabbing a handful of one. There's so much more to squeeze compared to when you first met; he's exchanged that wiry frame for something thicker, stronger, too. 

Bob's reaching for his own cock, still wet with saliva, as he leans forward, fingers darting out to wrap around Rhett, too. 

One stroke and Rhett's hips lift off the floor. "Shit." 

He's so damn wet, with what mess you've made of him and the precum spilling out of his inflamed tip like a dripping faucet. Bob's thumb swipes out, collecting the clear fluid and spreading it onto himself, but before he's done there's already another bead of it forming. 

"Good lord, Rhett," Bob mutters, and you're not entirely sure where he got that packet of lube from, tearing it open with his teeth, already beginning to pour the sticky substance onto their cocks.

So much for trying to break Rhett of that habit.

If he'd give Rhett a few minutes, you think he'd spill out enough to warrant forgoing lube altogether, but Bobby can only stretch his patience so far. Never has been able to hold out for very long when it comes to you and Rhett. That big hand of his gives an experimental stroke, a wet squelch sounding through the delicate air; you don't know who groans louder.

What you do know is that the sight before you is downright obscene. Rhett's legs squeezing around Bobby like he'll disappear if he doesn't, their heavy cocks twitching into one another. How Rhett's tip has a darker shade of red as compared to Bob's pale pink. They look so similar until they're right next to each other like this; it's the only way to tell that Bob's a fraction longer but not quite as thick as Rhett is. 

Bob jerks forward, pressing impossibly closer. "Does that feel good?" As if he's not speaking around his own strangled breath. 

You have to lift your head to get a better look at Rhett's face. Eyes scrunched shut, teeth worrying his thin bottom lip, cheeks flushed with a newfound redness. "Uhuh." His head shakes with what you think is a nod.

Maybe that's an answer Bob was looking for, but you want to hear more. "Use your words, cowboy." 

"It feels—" Swallowing hard. A microscopic mewl breaks past his lips. "Feels good!"

He's already dissolving into a mess of squirms, wriggling back and forth, the swift stroke of Bob's hand too much for him to handle. Bucking upward, only to try and draw away, unshaven jaw shivering like a leaf in the wind. 

Your fingers drift upward, nails dragging across the soft meet of his inner thigh, knuckles brushing against his balls as you drift past. Lightly rolling them in your palm would draw the prettiest sounds out of him, but today, you've got a slightly different plan in mind. Fingertips wander into the soft expanse of skin behind them, rubbing in loose circles. 

A pitchy cry rings in your ears. Rhett's hand flies up. Tugging at his own hair. Desperate to grab hold of something. "Fuck! 'm gonna..." His head thrashes, pretty neck barred to the world. "I'm, I'm—"

"You fixin' to cum for us, sweet thing?" Bobby's voice sounds akin to thunder, a little twang in his tone. His thumb darts out, rapidly swiping back and forth across Rhett's plush cock head.

Curls bounce with Rhett's nod. Hardly able to close his mouth and stifle his moan. Yet, it's so loud that you can hear it anyway. Your fingers keep spiraling, pressing the slightest bit harder. You're almost certain that you can feel the sporadic twitch of muscle as his back arches, cumming with a wail. 

A rope of white paints across his belly. The next one caught by Bobby's still moving hand. Disappearing into the squelching mix of lube and precum and your own juices, some kind of lewd recipe for disaster. Rhett's hips jerk. Yanks a grunt out of him. 

But Bobby's not stopping. Still pumping their cocks together as if nothing ever happened. If anything, you think he's going faster, and it's got Rhett jumping around like a wounded animal. Mouth wide open. Brows knit together. 

"Too much, too much, that's not—ah!"  He squeals. Panting hard. Frantically pawing at Bob's hand, but it's doing nothing to end his torment. 

"Hang on for me," Bob's eyes scrunch shut. Hissing through his teeth. Close. "You can do it."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, you can't, that—haah!" Rhett's twitching. Wailing. Legs kicking in the air.Still smacking at Bob's rapidly jerking fist as if that can possibly save him, but he's not uttering a single note of his safe word. Merely dissolving into a frenzied babble of, "Bobby, Bobby, Bobby!"

That's all it takes for Bob's pale blue eyes to roll into the back of his head with a soft, deepened groan. Set off by the babbled cry of a helpless cowboy, trembling like a leaf beneath him. Rope after rope of cum, splattering against Rhett's lower belly and all over his softening cock. A visible shiver rakes its way up Bob's spine, and for a moment you think his glasses are about to fall off.

 Finally, finally, the motion of that big hand is beginning to slow, loosening until Rhett's length slips from his grip entirely, smacking against his skin. Between the wateriness of Rhett's eyes and the redness in Bob's cheeks, you're not entirely sure where to look. Each are tempting in their own right, but not enough time to focus on both. 

You suppose your distraction is why it takes a moment to realize that Bob's actually moving. Leaning down at a snail's pace, his lips pressing to your forehead, lingering for a moment or three before moving on to Rhett's, pressing a kiss to him, too. "Maybe we should call a different bakery," he murmurs, half-lidded gaze flickering to you. 

If this is all it took, then next time, you'll skip the arguing and jump right into kissing down his neck. "You think?" There's a hoarseness to your voice that wasn't there before; you blame the icing. 

Whether or not he caught the sarcasm in your tone, you have no idea. 

"Yeah..." Bobby pauses as Rhett leans in to steal a proper kiss on the lips. "Now we've gotta do something with all these ingredients."

Rhett hums. Sounds akin to a cat purring. "I have a few ideas." You wonder if those ideas include smearing each other with icing again or offhandedly snacking on sprinkles for the next several months.

"I'll hear you out on those ideas," yawning, a strangled little noise escaping you, "when we're in bed."

A valid request, but Bobby's wrinkling his nose at it. "How about a bath, then bed."

"Y' act like we were just rollin' in mud," Rhett's fingers tap at your shoulder, gently squeezing. 

"I love you two, but I draw the line at sticky sheets." Well, if Bob wants you to take a bath so damn bad, then he's gonna have to help you find the strength to get off this floor. Your hand reaches out, opening and closing in a grabbing motion. 

It takes a couple seconds of looking at it for him to realize what you're asking, but after a moment, he slips his hand into yours, holding it as he rises to his feet. Something in your knee audibly pops as he pulls you up, an ache blooming in the bone from digging into the floor earlier. Your feet stumble, knocking into Rhett and nearly taking him back down with you.

"You're a mess, sweetheart," Bob laughs, pulling on your hand as if you're still due to fall at any moment. You're not entirely sure when you acquired the purple icing on your thigh or the smear of green running down your leg; you refuse to acknowledge the array of colors on the floor until after you've had a nap. 

"So are you," not an ounce of venom in your tone, despite the attempt at mustering some kind of sarcastic bite. Behind you, Rhett hums his agreement. Someone started this, and it certainly was not you or Rhett. 

"No, I'm not," Bob's beaming, almost proud of himself. "You two licked me clean, remember?" 

It'll take the rest of the day for him to notice the icing on his glasses. 

#bob floyd #robert bob floyd #rhett abbott #bob floyd x reader x rhett abbott #hawtho #hawthorn au #oneshot #tw food

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for.... losing my rival his job? Feeding a homeless person? Inadvertently hiring a hitman? I don't even know anymore.

So a little while ago I started up a pizza shop. Typical, I know, but I just really believe in the wonder of pizza and what it can do for people. There was a rival pizza shop across the street, which made things a bit difficult, but I could get by.

Anyway, a few nights in, this guy comes in right before closing time. He's looking pretty bedraggled, obviously he hasn't got much to his name, and he asks me if I have anything left over from the day I wouldn't mind giving him. I didn't, but I'd had a pretty profitable day, so I made him a pizza and gave it to him for free. He thanked me profusely and left, and I thought that was the end of it.

The guy came back a few times. Not incredibly often, but it was a semi-regular occurrence. Every time, he'd ask me if I had anything for him, and I was continuing to get incredible profits, so every time I would say yes and go make him a pizza. Good pizza, too, not just like, cheese. I was putting mushrooms and sausage and stuff on it, I wanted him to have some substance.

For a while, nothing really notable happened. The guy kept coming in sometimes, and I kept giving him pizza. After a while, he seemed to feel we were buddies, which I figured was fair, seeing as I was repeatedly feeding him for free without asking me anything in return.

But then he starts acting a bit weird. More confident, I suppose. A bit less like a hungry guy just looking for food to make it through the day. But I kept giving him pizza, even though there was a broadcast on the news that someone had tried to feed pizza to the bears at the zoo and I (only briefly, at the time) suspected it was him, because I wasn't about to just let some guy go hungry because I thought he was acting kinda funny.

Then one day, he comes in acting REALLY odd. I was rather off-put, but I made him a pizza anyway, figuring it to be an isolated incident. Honestly, I thought he was just getting to be in a financially better place, but didn't want to stop getting the free pizza. I resolved that if he came in acting like that again, I would cut him off. But I make him a pizza, and I give it to him, but instead of thanking me like he's been doing he tells me I won't regret it. Which strikes me as weird, but he's already out the door, so I can't really do anything about it.

The next morning, I go to work, clock in, and look out the window at my rival's pizza shop. Remember that guy? Yeah. His entire pizza place was swarming with bears.

I had no idea how to process this, but before I could, my rival comes in and tells me that he doesn't know how I did it, but I win, and then he just leaves. And THEN the homeless guy I've been feeding comes in and says he made it so my pizza shop was the best on the block. And then he leaves. So I'm at least 99% sure that guy somehow released a bunch of bears into my rival's pizza shop because he wanted to repay me for giving him food.

I don't even know what to do in this situation. I feel kinda bad for my rival. I mean, don't get me wrong, he was a bit of a jerk, but he was kinda just a guy, y'know? I genuinely did not expect for anyone to release BEARS into his shop because they perceived me as a friend.

He ended up signing the shop over to the bears, who are now friends with the guy I was giving free pizza, who gave me a cut of the profits, and I think they made a pizza cult in the old building or something? I don't know. I didn't expect any of this to happen. Am I at fault for it, seeing as I ignored all those warning flags?

#aita #am i the asshole #unreality #cult mention

[tgmsunmontue]

More than movie magic... 18/?

Hangster AU. Explicit (eventually). Jake is a Hollywood actor and Bradley is a stunt coordinator. Jake's about to make a few self-discoveries. So is Bradley.

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FOURTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN

Chapter 16 is pretty much the only explicit chapter (so far), so you can skip it if you like, but it's not explicit by my standards, and it's very soft/tender.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

                “Well hey there…” Jake says, and now that he knows Bradley likes his Texan accent he makes no effort to temper it, but Bradley looks annoyed instead of amused or aroused and Jake hopes the annoyance isn’t directed at him. Not already.

                “Hi. Can I talk to you real quick?”

                “Uh, yeah, of course…”

                Of course there are catcalls and Jake rolls his eyes, but his heart is beating fast, thundering in his ears, terrified that this is somehow going to be his shortest lived relationship ever. He doesn’t know what he’s projecting exactly, but Bradley’s reaching for him, lacing their fingers together and pulling him to the side, just out of the way and out of earshot from most people although he notes pretty much every eye in the room is turned their way.

                “Hey. Hey calm down. We’re fine. You’re fine…”

                Bradley has shifted, putting his back to the room, as if he’s protecting Jake from everyone, eyes flicking over his face and his expression is concerned. Fuck.

                “Jake… you with me?”

                “Yeah, sorry. Just… heard those words before and it’s generally not the start of a good conversation.”

                “Sorry. Shit. I’m so sorry. I just need to tell you something, and I feel like I’m going to be apologizing a lot today. Nothing either of us did though, okay?”

                “The photos?”

                “Yeah. Mav’s seen them.”

                “Mav?”

                “Sorry. Pete. He’s on his way here because he called me from the air and he’s incapable of believing I can make my own life decisions.”

                “Okay. That’s okay. I’ve met Pete before.”

                “Yeah. You met professional-Pete, not parent-Pete. Different beast unfortunately. Just… if I could have kept him from meeting your mom until after we were married or something that’s how I would have played it, but, uh…”

                “You’ve thought about us getting married?” Jake blurts out, surprised.

                “Uh. No? Well. Not in detail exactly.”

                All his feelings around Bradley second guessing his decision to be with him have just dissolved, and he knows he had no reason to doubt it, but also knows his brain isn’t a rational place sometimes. Instead he’s watching Bradley blush and look awkward and he’s definitely falling in love with him.

                “I generally don’t start relationships with people I can’t imagine myself spending the rest of my life with? I’m thirty-five, I have a better idea of what I’m looking for. And I can imagine a future with you, so… here we are.”

                “Oh. So why would Pete be worried about that?”

                “God. This is not the place for that conversation. Just. I’ll tell you, but we have fifteen minutes before we’re meant to be on set and I need to tell you something else… He’s bringing Tom. His partner. Um.”

                Jake has to admit he’s confused. Pete having a male partner doesn’t really explain why Bradley seems as worked up as he is.

                “Okay. So it’s a man. You seriously don’t think I’d have a problem with that do you?” Jake asks, staring at him and gesturing between the two of them. Bradley is shaking his head though, like there’s more and Jake waits.

                “Tom as in Tom Kazansky.”

                “What?”

                Okay then. That’s a name and a half. Jake knows who that is of course, but he never met the man, Kazansky being pretty much a recluse since his health scare a decade previous when Jake had only just started making a name for himself. Jake isn’t even sure he’d recognize the man, the photo used in any media one from over twenty years ago.

                “Yeah. They’re… shit.  Thought I’d have time to tell you and prepare you for how weird they are. They have… a complicated relationship. They’re both incredibly stubborn and agree that they love each other, but they also… well. Tom got cancer, so he called it all off, said Pete could find someone better, and that started a whole other fight, but it was the most ridiculous thing, arguing over who loved each other more. They’re both hopeless, but neither of them can see it.”

                “Oookay…” Jake says slowly, his mind racing, because quite frankly he doesn’t care about Pete or Tom, he just wants Bradley to stop freaking out. “Bradley. They aren’t going to scare me off anymore than my family has scared you off.”

                As he’d hoped that makes Bradley laugh and he can’t help his answering grin.

                “I like your family.”

                “Well, that’s good. God. We’ve got to get to set. Marcia is going to have my head.”

                “I need to talk to her too, give her a heads up about Pete,” Bradley says, and he’s glancing over his shoulder then, eyes scanning the room and Jake reaches for his face and gets his attention before kissing him.

                “Go. I’ll see you in the arena shortly. Hope you appreciate that I don’t have to do makeup today!”      

…            …            …

                He’s distracted as he watches Jake walk away, but only a little, because he needs to find Marcia and Arnold, let them know that Pete is coming, but only to visit him and not to be an ass and tread on another turf, despite that totally being Mav’s MO. He knows Mav is getting on and mutters about retiring, but whenever he’s not working Bradley has to deal with more of his bullshit than usual.

                “Bradley, you haven’t eaten anything!” Aunty Kaye calls out, and he startles a little, turning toward her, because she’s not wrong, but he is going to be late to set.

                “Uh, no, haven’t really had time yet. I did grab a protein bar. Thank you for that by the way,” Bradley says, and he hopes he isn’t blushing too badly.

                “Hmm. That’s not proper food.”

                “No, I know. I just had a phone call. My dad is coming to visit. Both of them I guess. They’ll probably be here for lunch actually. Assuming they don’t get lost…”

                “Well I look forward to meeting them. Hmm. Do you know why I like you Bradley?”

                “Um. I thought maybe you liked most people?” Bradley asks, suddenly feeling like he’s smack bang in the center of a minefield with no idea how he got there. And of course he can’t be rude and just run away, he’d much rather incur Marcia’s wrath than Aunty Kaye’s at the end of the day.

                “Oh, I do dear. But I liked you before I’d even met you.”

                “Oh.”

                Now he’s confused.

                “You stand up to him, you wouldn’t let him try anything risky or dangerous and he complained about it bitterly,” she says, laughing. “But you know what I thought?”

                “What?”

                “That that sounded like someone who would keep Jake safe and unharmed. I’m his mom, of course I want him safe. He gets into enough trouble without thinking he can do risky stunts.”

                “Yeah. Of course.”

                “You don’t let him railroad you into things, I admire that too.”

                “Thanks?”

                “Here, on his own turf, watching him do something he was born with in his blood? You trust him to know his limits. He needs that too.”

                Bradley just nods, not sure if he’s even allowed to speak.

                “So. I like you. However if I ever find out you’ve deliberately hurt him, either emotionally,  physically or mentally I want you to know that you won’t see me coming. I will find you. Now, I can’t really threaten you with bodily harm, however I can threaten you with my disappointing looks, which my children assure me are the worst thing they’ve ever experienced. Of course, if Jake screws this up he’ll also be on the receiving end of one of such looks. However, I feel like you’re a man who doesn’t give up easily. Some days you’re going to have to dig-deep, because my baby can get in his own head and think the worst of everything and everyone, but I think if he were easy you wouldn’t be as interested as you seem to be.”

                Bradley gapes like a fish, mouth opening and closing and he has no idea what to even say, where to start with everything she’s just said. All it’s highlighting is that he and Jake really need to have a proper talk. Not just about their relationship, but maybe about potential baggage that they have, because he thought maybe he was the only one. He should have known that wasn’t going to be the case.

                “I’ve already told Jake that I think he’s worth it.”

                “Good. Maybe he’ll believe you.”

#Hangster #Sereshaw #more than movie magic #Top Gun Maverick

[nunalastor]

Slow/dark/non con/ dub con Trans Alastor Fic Idea

I’m sending this in because I am going to try and actually write this instead of letting it die in my WIP folder.

Vox finds a grievously injured Al

treats his wounds.

When he opens up his shirt to check on the wound he sees that Alastor has what Vox would consider the most perfect pair of breasts.

Vox is going to heal him as gently as possible, but Alastor passes out from the pain. Alastor was fighting him and it is better this way.

Vox takes him to recuperate to a house that Vox had bought back when they were friends and he was hoping to be more than that.

The house is at the outer edge of Pentagram city. It cost him a considerable amount of money to buy the scant piece of land that has any trees in Hell but he hoped that Alastor would have appreciated it.

Even after Alastor turned Vox down he never sold the property. Now with this knowledge Vox is convinced that they are meant to be, he just has to play his cards right and not fumble this opportunity.

That is where Alastor wakes up, he is wondering whose house it is.

“It is the house that should have been our home,” Vox thinks

“I own it, don’t worry about it,”

“Didn’t think you had any taste, I’m surprised” Alastor says suspiciously. As Alastor goes through the house he notices that Vox somehow got a lot of his old belongings from before alastor left for seven years.

(Valentino told Vox to get rid of it when they built the tower. Vox did not get rid of it. If everything keeps going the way it is Vox has no problem getting rid of Valentino)

“Did you put your hands on me, while I was unconscious?”

“Yes,”

Alastor is waiting for Vox to ridicule him.

“Do you think it matters to me? I care about you, not that? Do you think I am going to lose the only worthy adversary I have? Where’s the fun in that?”

Very slow truce, because Alastor is too weak to leave and his powers are diminished (may or may not be something Vox is putting in the food).

Vox had studied male deer demons behavior to court Alastor and now he goes back to figure out what he should do to make Alastor less resistant to Vox.

“Go back to fighting me. Treat me like your enemy,” Alastor is going to demand when he starts feeling off around Vox

“Not sporting to fight an injured man. I'm trying to help you get better so we can do that” Vox lies, they will never be separated again.

Alastor feels a little better that Vox refers to him as a man.

Vox figures out that Al is using magic to suppress deer instincts. (Heat/rut) But his magic has shifted away from non necessary uses as he heals.

Panicked Alastor trying to throw Vox out when he realizes what he is feeling.

Vox is going to be patient and calculating. He is going to stay nearby and ensure that Alastor has no choice but to call him for help. Make sure Alastor begs for everything that Vox does.

“Let me love you

I thought it was impossible don’t you see that we can be together

Out there, you will always be the Radio Demon, but here with me, you are mine"

👀

#hazbin hotel #nunalastor asks #alastor #chill lute fuck #trans alastor