#Comes in sachets

[starmocha]

"You once had that spontaneous idea about trying different dumpling fillings. A child made that dream come true today." — Zayne, "Sweet Sachet"

[calebwittebane]

i was in the kitchen making dinnerbreakfast and saw an empty box in the trash of generic brand venlafaxine 37,5 mg and was genuinely about to use it as a conversation starter with my flatmate like 'hey girl i saw that venla in the trash... starting dose eh? ive been on venla for more than two years nowww hope youre not getting those bad side effects, i managed to avoid them' until i stopped myself as i realized that wouldve been a deranged thing to do

[it-may-be-dull-but-im-determined]

Regular reminder that things like calcium and tannins actively interfere with iron absorption when you take supplements (aka don't drink tea or dairy or calcium tablets when you take them), and taking it with vitamin C actively helps iron be absorbed.

There was a TikTok post about an advertisement for “blood-making pills for weak women” someone found in a newspaper from the 1890s and everybody seemed to think it was just an example of the weird misogyny of the day and age but no. Anemia was a massive public health concern. It always has been through history but part of the reason we have this idea of old timey women thought history being physical weak, chronically cold and pale and fainting is because they often they were. Anemia was also a massive problem for men in that day but even now it disproportionally affects people who menstruate. So tonics full of stimulants and “healthful vitamins” were marketed at young women in pages upon pages of advertisements in every newspaper. People generally felt like shit all the time back then.

[fieriframes]

[Water, we add a Vietnamese soup-base mix, our sachet goes in. What's the sachet filled with? Cinnamon, cardamom pods, coriander, star anise. Next? Jalapeños, onions.]

[hollowporcelain]

Forgot how much i love caramel lattes...

[erinaceina]

I managed to get a jar of good quality furikake from the Asian supermarket and the main question is how often I’m going to have to go back to stock up, because damn this is good.

[luveline]

angsty request coming!!! hotch taking care of an overworked reader who hasn’t been sleeping!! maybe the team notices r has been a bit scattered or feverish and hotch steps in!!!

thank you for requesting! fem, 1k Hotch knows, technically, that what he’s doing tonight is out of bounds. He just doesn’t care —can’t find it in himself to regret his actions as he shepherds you from the office and into his car. Doesn’t give your wide-eyed surprise any notice, doesn’t offer explanation as he takes you into the department store between the office and his apartment and tells you to choose. 

“I don’t understand.” 

He nods toward the lines of pointelle camisoles and shorts, gestures to the longer silken trousers, “Choose something to wear.” 

You blink hotly. He’s flustered you, but that’s easy lately. “Do they have anything warmer?” you ask. 

He takes your arm gently into his hand and turns you an inch, where the jersey material pajamas hang from the wall. There’s a nice brown coordinating set right in front of you. He guesses your size (he knows it from practice), pulling a hanger from up high to offer you. “Yes?” he asks. 

“Why?” 

“You’ll need them.” 

You rub your face. “Okay, yeah. I like those ones.” 

He folds them over his arm. He can feel you gaze on the side of his face as he takes you to the register and pays without giving the total any mind. Hotch doesn’t care how much anything costs, he only wants it to be soft. If it weren’t crossing a line, he would’ve found you new underwear, too. 

He accepts the bag from the cashier and guides you out again. “Is there anything else you need?” he asks you. 

“For what?” 

“You aren’t going home.” 

“I’m not?” 

He shakes his head gently. He isn’t being intimidating, only straight forward. Hotch obviously isn’t in the business of kidnapping women, especially coworkers, friends, he just knows now that this won’t be solved without some tough love. “You’re staying with me, if you don’t mind.” 

“Why would I mind?” 

Lethargic, you follow him to the car and get back in the front seat. He turns the heated seats on and watches you sink into the leather, clearly pleased, tired eyes slipping closed every now and then in the ensuing silence. 

Regretfully, you startle as he parks, roused from whatever hooks that had finally managed to hold you. Heat, he thinks, is key here. 

“I’m making oatmeal and cocoa,” he says as he opens the door, waiting for you to follow suit before he continues, “and you can go and get changed. You know where my room is?”

“Sure.” 

“Alright, good. You can make yourself comfortable there.” 

“In your room?” 

He sends you a loving and agitated look over the door. Really? it says. You and Hotch have been trapped in an excitable will-they won’t-they situation for months, and he’d think by now the obvious answer to it all is we most certainly will. “Honey, yes. Unless you’d be more comfortable in Jack’s?” 

“Does he still have the race car bed?” 

“Afraid so.” 

You hum, and lead the way to the house. Hotch hands you his keys, something in his chest tightly squeezed to see you turn the house key in the lock, to let yourself in, and to hold out your hand expectantly for the department bag. You head to his room like you do it everyday. Hotch resists the urge to call you back and kiss you with your jaw held in his hand —it’s not the point. 

He gets a strange pang a few minutes later, stirring the pot of easy-sachet oatmeal, a rare pang of regret. Perhaps he’s being too headstrong, letting his worry guide him like this, pushing you to come home with him and to sleep in his bed. You might be at the same level as he is, but it still feels a little like pulling Spencer home with him and demanding he dress and eat as Hotch likes. 

I’ll apologise, he thinks, setting your oatmeal and cocoa on a tray, conscious of the sun setting outside, night swiftly falling. If he really is going to say sorry and have you go home, you’ll be disrupted again. There’s a possibility Hotch has made this ten times worse. 

He climbs the stairs and finds you laying on his side of the bed with your nose turned into his pillow, a damp sheen to your skin. You’ve washed your face, and changed into the new pajamas, just a little too big for you where you’ve curled around your hands. 

“Honey?” he asks softly. 

“Sorry,” you say, twice as quietly as he had, “just, it smells so nice in here.” 

“That’s okay.” 

“I’ll move.”

“Just sit up,” he says, thinking of you in the office with your jittering and your glass-eyed stare. “I’ve brought you something.” 

You nod heavily and do as he’s asked, again. He sets the tray on your lap and you look up at him. It’s the look that does it, really. The half circles under your eyes are nothing to him beyond proof that you aren’t sleeping, the bloodshot in your sclera, it’s all inconsequential. What floors him is the unquestioning trust to be found when you look at him. He doesn't kid himself when he thinks that this could lend itself to love. 

“You know why I’ve asked you to come home with me?” he asks carefully. 

“I worried you.”

He puts the tray in your waiting lap, gracing your chin with a quick stroke underneath, feather-light. “I haven’t abused my power?” 

“Buying me new clothes and making me dinner?” you ask softly, evident delight on your face as you notice the squares of chocolate that have begun to melt into your oatmeal. 

“Forcing you home with me and sequestering you in my bedroom.” 

“It’s not how I thought it would happen,” you confess, gathering a heaping mountain of oatmeal onto your spoon, “not the first time, at least. I guess I should worry you more often.” 

“No,” he says, holding your chin between his fingers until you meet his serious gaze. “You shouldn’t.” 

Your eyebrows do something he can’t name, but there’s a word for what it inspires in his chest. “I won’t,” you promise. 

[tfshouldidohere]

one thing i realized when i moved to the city is that u truly dont know that u were home until u leave it

[takeshitakyuuto]

Didn’t get to see the Aurora borealis in Canada (homophobic) but I did find a coffee sized bag of loose leaf Yorkshire gold tea (love wins)

[yasministration]

Everybody knows that I'm a good girl, Officer - Jim Hopper

summary: Eddie and gf!reader get busted by Hopper. Hopper "drives" reader home... warnings: age gap, cheating, smut, perv hopper wc: 2.1k+

The image of Eddie Munson with a blunt between his fingers had become an almost regular occurrence for Hopper, their usual game of cat and mouse, however the chief of police hadn't been expecting this sight when he flashed his light through the window of Munson's old van. Perched on Eddie's lap in the driver's seat, skirt ridden up high enough to show your bare ass underneath, lips tangled in a messy kiss with Eddie's hand disappearing under your skirt, his other holding the flaming joint. Hopper's perfect little neighbour who lived with her parents in the house just across from his. Smiling politely with the sweetest "Good morning Chief Hopper!" every goddamn morning as you left the house for university.

Eddie's lips quickly separated from yours when the beam of light from Hopper's flashlight entered his field of vision, the smile leaving his features when he saw the older man looking right at him. The moment your lips detached from your boyfriend's, you threw your head back, mouth opening in a loud moan as he curled his fingers inside you just right. You didn't realise that you'd been loud enough to alert the Hawking chief of police about the activities taking place in the driver's seat.

"Fuck! Shit!" Your head snapped back towards Eddie when his fingers quickly slipped out of your wet entrance, gaze fixed on the older man on the other side of the window. You didn't have time to question Eddie before he was putting out the joint and shoving it in the compartment on his door. You scanned your surroundings, mouth falling agape at the sight of the police officer, embarrassingly tugging your denim skirt down the swell of your ass, and closing your spread legs as best you could in the position you were in. Two knocks on the car window had Eddie rolling down the window with a nervous smile, saying "Hey Hop!" The officer didn't play along, eyebrows furrowing as he barked out the order "Get out of the car."

Gulping nervously, you let Eddie open the door, quickly scrambling off him, high heels wobbling on the crunchy autumn leaves, your boyfriend immediately following. You stared with wide eyes as Hopper's eyes examined the scene. His nostrils flared, inhaling the scent of weed, hand diving into the side compartment without hesitation to pull out the joint. "You carrying any more on you Munson?" Eddie shook his head hurriedly from next to you and you winced at the obvious lie. When Hopper's eyes landed on you, you knew your face had said too much. His intimidating stare had you instantly looking down at your feet, avoiding eye-contact. "Your girlfriend's face says otherwise, arms out for me."

"Fuck." Eddie whispered from next to you, obeying Hopper's order to let the man pat him down. "What's in this pocket?" The policeman interrogated, pulling out the sachet of weed and rolling paper from Eddie's pocket. "Please don't arrest me Hop, you know me man!" Eddie begged, throwing his hands up in surrender. Hopper huffed, hand coming up to rub his forehead in thought. "This is your last warning Munson. I catch you one more time and I'll be cuffing you, okay?" Eddie nodded eagerly, feet glued in place. "This is the only time I'm letting you off. Now get in the car and drive off." Eddie grinned widely and you bit back a smile, beginning to walk around to the passenger's side.

"You stay right here y/n, I'm driving you home." Your face dropped completely, spinning around on your heels to face the chief as Eddie stopped in his tracks. "I know your parents pretty well. You think they'll be happy with this?" It was now your turn to shake your head, putting on your best doe eyes for him as you begged "No, you can't tell them, please Chief!" "They know about your good for nothing boyfriend?" Shaking your head once more, you frowned at the man's scoff. "Get going kid." He said once more, turning his attention back to your boyfriend. Eddie hesitated, looking back and forth between Hopper and your smaller figure, glancing at the man in worry before scurrying into his van, starting the engine, and sparing you one last glimpse before driving away.

When the sound of Eddie's van was out of earshot, you took two steps towards Hopper, clasping your two hands around his forearm. "Please Hopper, don't tell my parents!" He hummed, gazing intensely down at you. "You know, I'm surprised. I always thought you were a good girl." Unconsciously, your thighs squeezed tightly at the familiar words, and you suddenly remembered what you'd been doing before Hopper interrupted you. Fuck, you wish you'd gotten off before he did. If you focused hard enough, you could probably still feel Eddie's thumb rubbing circles on your clit.

When you looked back up at Hopper, it was clear that he had caught the movement, eyebrows raising in mock surprise. You gulped, seeing the look in Hopper's eyes change, and bit your lip to stop yourself from grinning as you formed a plan in your head. Your fingers moved against his forearm, caressing him softly, and you made show to squeeze your thighs once more, putting on the most desperate tone in your voice when you said "Please, I can't go home to my parents like this. What if... What if they hear me?"

Hopper's eyes shot wide open, imagining you in your bedroom after bringing you home, not bothering to take off your skirt before hiding under the covers and sliding your fingers down your body, finishing what your boyfriend had started. He can picture your flexible back arching, eyes shutting as you bite your lip trying to hide your moans, his name accidentally slipping out of your mouth instead of your boyfriend's when you finally finish all over your fingers. And suddenly, Hopper can feel his trousers beginning to tighten, but he cannot let you know you've won him over so quickly. You need to think he's the one in charge.

"Bad girls deserve to be humiliated, whether that be in front of their parents of not. Whose fault is it you snuck out here to have sex with a boy who couldn't make you finish fast enough?" Hopper knew he was crossing a line, knew that if he'd shown up probably a minute late he'd have found you with your orgasm covering Eddie's long fingers. But he hadn't, and he planned on using that to his advantage. You felt your face heating up in degradation at his comment, licking your lips as one of your hands moved to trail up the Chief's chest. "But here I am now with a man who could make me finish. Or, I'm assuming he could." When Hopper didn't answer you, you decided to push just a little further, adding "Could you, Mr. Hopper?"

Your heart was beating adamantly fast at Hopper's silence. He lowered his head closer to yours with a scowl on his face, whispering "That's Chief Hopper to you." His hands tightly gripped your hips, walking forward until your back hit the cold steel of his car. "Now get naked." He spat. You felt the blood drain from your face. Yes, you were getting what you wanted, but you'd expected the chief of Hawkins to have the decency of taking you in the back of his fancy police car, not in the open forest. You gulped as you pulled your skirt down your legs, kicking it off your ankles. Eddie would probably find your panties in his van at some point, you assumed. Pulling the cozy jumper above your head, you shivered at the cool breeze, undoing your bra as your nipples hardened from the cold.

Hands began roaming your body, landing on your hips to quickly spin you around, and pushing you forward so you bent over the hood of the shiny police car. Hopper's hands trailed upwards, sneaking around your torso to find your tits, groping them and tugging harshly at your sensitive nipples. You moaned softly, legs spreading on instinct before a calloused hand was spanking the soft flesh of your ass. Crying out in surprise, you looked over your shoulder to look at Hopper's face, watching at he observed your head-to-toe reactions. "Please Chief" You whimpered, pushing your ass back into his hips, glancing as his eyes shut, thrusting his hips into you as a response. "Want you cock. Please." You begged again, hand roaming behind you to hook onto his belt hoops, pulling him closer to you.

"How fucking needy. This is what happens when you get with someone your own age. Doesn't fucking satisfy you enough, so you end up a slut, begging to be fucked by the Chief of Police." His words were enough to make you moan, but not enough to make you forget about being completely naked in the woods. You sighed impatiently, finally turning back around to face Hopper and throwing yourself onto him, arms wrapping over his shoulders to pull him into your, slamming your lips against his in a desperate kiss. Hopper gasped, arms immediately wrapping around your waist in return, pulling your body impossibly closer to his as he forced his tongue in your mouth, pushing your body back against his car.

Using the support of the car behind you, you hooked a leg over his hip, pushing your hips out to grind against Hopper's boner desperately. "Fuck." He whispered between kisses, tilting his head to the side to deepen the kiss, pressing his tongue against yours. Both his hands moved down to your thighs, pushing his body against yours as he lifted you up without warning, prompting you to wrap your legs against his torso, giving you perfect friction against the tent in his trousers. The rough fabric of his pants had you whining into the kiss, rutting your hips harder against him as you began craving your orgasm.

Pulling away from the kiss, Hopper put a hand on your bare hip, pushing your pelvis away from his as he cursed loudly. "Calm down, let me - fuck." He pressed you harder against the car, balancing you with one arm as his other hand made work to free his dick from his trousers. Eagerly, you helped, taking over and pushing his boxers down to take his heavy cock in your hands. "Fuck, put it in, put it in." You mumbled, allowing Hopper to lift you up higher as you manoeuvred his cock between your folds and into your tight hole. "Oh my god!" You cried, arms wrapping around Hopper's shoulder's once more as he began bouncing you up and down his cock, humping upwards into you to meet your movements.

Digging you face into the crook of the older man's neck, you began leaving kisses there, switching between sucking and nibbling on the sensitive skin to distract you from coming too early. Indeed, Eddie had nearly driven you to your orgasm, but Hopper's giant cock was bringing you there much quicker. You clit rubbed against the pubic hair near Hopper's balls, adding just the little bit of friction you needed. Failing to hold back any longer, you bucked your hips forward, grinding down on Hopper's cock as your legs tightened around his torso, screaming out a moan as your orgasm over took you, body shaking in Hopper's arms.

Cunt clamping down on Hopper's cock, you heard him beginning to curse, thrusts becoming more rapid and inconsistent as he lost his rhythm, his cock burying itself so deep inside you, you could practically feel him grazing your cervix. With a loud grunt, Hopper's movements completely stilled, emptying his thick load inside you. You breathed heavily, running a hand through Hopper's hair, pressing soft kisses on his cheek and jaw before the man pulled away from you, one hand reaching up to squeeze your face, his lips meeting yours in a wet kiss. "Shit." Hopper mumbled as he pulled out of you. You cringed, feeling your thighs get sticky as his cum dripped out of your entrance, legs untangling to stand up properly.

You waited as Hopper gathered your clothes, helping you put your jumper on before diving into his car in search of tissues to wipe his mess off you. He pulled your skirt up your hips, patting your butt a couple of times when he finally turned opened the passenger's door for you. Hopping into the driver's seat, he turned on the engine, beginning the drive home. "Um, Hopper, this isn't the way to my house." You peered at the man, whose hand was searching in his pocket for his wallet before finally tossing it at you.

"I'm driving you to a pharmacy. How much does plan B cost?"

[lazysoulwriter]

you always remember. - pedro pascal ── .✦

requested! thank you. ♡ content: Pedro x wife!reader, domestic love, reader taking care of Pedro during his busiest season, birthday surprise, emotional gratitude, soft husband energy, fluff with a few happy tears.

---

He was running on empty.

Late shoots. Press days. Flights back to back to back. Pedro barely had time to sleep, let alone eat a decent meal or remember where he left his laundry basket.

But you were there. Always.

Folding his clothes while you waited for him to get home. Leaving sticky notes on the fridge reminding him to take his vitamins. Packing his overnight bags with clean socks, travel snacks, a tiny lavender sachet tucked inside his jacket pocket.

When he did come home, he’d find the lights dimmed, the kettle on, your arms waiting like a place he could fall into without fear.

“God, I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he murmured one night, slumped on the couch while you massaged his shoulders. “I think I’d just rot.”

You laughed. “You’d survive.”

“No,” he insisted, turning to kiss your hand. “I’d crumble. You hold me together.”

---

Your birthday crept up quietly. You didn’t even notice the date.

Too busy keeping up with his filming schedule, prepping meals for his next trip, making sure he had his favorite hoodie clean and ready. You weren’t even mad about it — you loved him. You loved being there for him.

But Pedro noticed.

Of course he did.

---

The morning of your birthday, you woke up to silence. No alarms. No meetings. No bags to pack.

Just a kitchen filled with soft music and the smell of cinnamon and coffee.

You blinked into the hallway, confused. “Pedro?”

“In here, birthday girl,” he called.

You stepped into the kitchen to find him in an apron (the one that says Kiss the Cook) surrounded by pancakes, flowers, and a gift-wrapped box the size of a small suitcase.

He looked up and grinned. “Surprise.”

You blinked. “Oh my god. I forgot it was today.”

He crossed the room and cupped your face gently. “I didn’t.”

You smiled, already teary. “Pedro—”

“You’ve been holding me up for weeks,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “The least I can do is give you a day where you feel seen. Celebrated. Loved.”

“I already feel all that,” you said softly.

He kissed you. “Then let me show you even more.”

That day was yours.

Breakfast in bed. A handwritten letter. A new pair of earrings you’d pointed out months ago and forgotten about — but he hadn’t.

And when the sun started to set, Pedro pulled you into his lap, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing soft patterns into your skin.

“I hope you know,” he murmured, “I see everything you do. Even the quiet stuff. Especially the quiet stuff.”

You looked up at him, heart full.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said. “And I’ll never stop showing you just how much I love you back.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @kellyxo1 @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk

[littlelamy]

     you felt so refreshed; you’d just had your nice long bath. the kind where your fingers pruned and your cheeks flushed, while the steam clung to you like a silk robe. lavender milk and vanilla salt, two bath bombs fizzing into pearly haze until your whole body smelled like sugar and sleep.

you'd tied your hair up in a fluffy white towel, wrapped another one around yourself tight—tighter than usual, because rose had warned you the upstairs wing was off-limits this week and you didn't want to scandalize the house staff—but the hallway was empty, so you tiptoed out barefoot, slippery and squeaky-clean and humming the tune from your bath playlist.

you turned the corner and slammed chest-first into a brick wall; except it wasn't a wall, and it grunted. you stumbled, towel sliding. fingers scrambling to keep it clutched around your cleavage. and before your brain caught up, instinct kicked in—one that had been drilled into you at exactly one sorority safety seminar before you dozed off during the glitter glue portion.

“ahhh! stranger danger!!” you yell out, then ran, all four limbs flailing like a cartoon rabbit in a horror movie. you ducked into the nearest door, slammed it shut, heart hammering like a kettle drum in your chest.

you froze, taking note of the room, linen closet. stood there surrounded by sheets and lavender sachets, clutching the towel like it was body armor, with a face flushed and lips parted.

it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. said man mutters a “what the fuck...?”

you stayed in the closet for six whole minutes.

at minute two, you debated calling rose to tell her the estate had been invaded by a very handsome burglar. at minute four, you considered crawling through the laundry chute. at minute six, you realized the closet didn’t have a laundry chute, and you were just going to have to come out and face death.

so you cracked the door peeked out like a bunny from her burrow and there he was.

leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, eyebrows arched like he was trying to decide whether you'd lost your mind or just come from another planet. he was tall, about 6'2, with his shirt half-tucked, a nice chest broad, tousled blond hair and those icy, lazy blue eyes that blinked slow, like he was either incredibly calm or incredibly high.

you whimpered seeing his smirking face, “you done?” he chuckles.

you stepped out, cheeks glowing, arms full of spare pillowcases you'd grabbed in your panic.

“i’m not supposed to talk to handsome strangers in the hall…” you mumbled. he blinked at your words. “are you…” you tilted your head. “a delivery man?”

his face twitched as you hugged the pillowcases tighter. “did rose order something? she likes those candles from that one shop—wait, no, they don’t deliver on thursdays…”

he pushed off the wall and walked slowly toward you; making you squeak, backing up.

“you live here?” he asked, tone teasing but curious, eyes trailing over your towel, your bare legs, your little "juicy" headband still looped around your forehead like a crown.

you blinked, “umm.. i think so?”

he laughed, like he couldn’t help himself; the sound seemed foreign coming out of his mouth.

“you think so?”

you squinted. “why do you keep asking me questions, mister delivery?”

“because i also live here.”

you two, stared at each other for a couple seconds. you broke the silence by whispering, “no you don’t, i've never seen you before.”

he stepped closer, and you could smell him so much better now. mhm, cologne and leather. your thighs pressed together, making your small towel slip another inch.

he smirked again, “i’m rafe.”

you frowned, “…rafe what?”

“rafe cameron.”

your knees almost gave out, “like…like rafe tannyhill cameron?”

“that’s the one.”

you gasped, hands flying up, pillowcases tumbling down in a cotton waterfall. “you’re rose’s son?!”

he shook his head with a lazy smile. “not that bitch's son, but i am rafe. who did you think i was?”

“i dunno! a burglar! a model! a very confident exterminator—!”

he chuckled at your sillyness.

you slapped a hand over your mouth, “oh my god. i called you stranger danger.”

“you screamed it.”

“i ran into the linen closet!”

“like it was gonna save you.”

you squealed, “oh my god.. i’m so sorry!”

he stepped even closer, making your back hit the wall and sucking in a breath. he was big. not just tall, he was very sharp too, smiling like he could see through your towel and knew exactly how much you shaved.

you tugged the towel higher, while he watched your hands.

“so,” he said, voice lower now, “what’s your name, house fairy?”

“i’m the house manager.”

“uh-huh, and how long have you been streaking through the halls like that?”

you flushed, “i wasn’t streaking! i bathed, in the tub. rose told me i could use when no one’s home! because you weren’t supposed to be home!”

he tilted his head, “you got a schedule for my arrivals?”

“rose said you’d be back saturday!”

“yeah, i came early.” you glared yet he grinned wider. “you always tiptoe around in just a towel?”

you gasped again already, “i live here!”

he laughs under his breath, glancing at his buzzing phone. “well, princess, you’re a hell of a conversationalist—real captivating—but i gotta jet. barry’s waiting.”

he brushes past you with a wink, eyes flicking down to catch your flustered face. his palm slapping your ass as he walks off.

“i’ll talk to you later,” he tosses over his shoulder.

❤︎ tags below

@rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @bevstofu @wintercrows @emluvsuxo @rafestoothbrush @cadhlabear @st8rkey

[softtdaisy]

the one that got away / Aaron Hotchner

summary. you were Aaron's best friend. sometimes you were more but most of the time you were the one that got away until you weren't

words count. 6 900

what to expect. Haley is present so mention of her death, smoking (if some of you don't like it) I changed some of the show timeline to fit the story 18+ MDNI oral female & male receiving (but honestly blink and I'll miss it)

a/n. i have such deep feelings for this story I even have a playlist in my head that fits their story, I could write so much more but I had to stop lol

Aaron Hotchner series masterlist | criminal minds masterlist | F1 masterlist | general masterlist | request

Aaron Hotchner had a best friend.

This single idea was new to him. Aaron had friends—see the lack of “best” in front of the name? He had school friends, good friends, and close friends. But never a best friend, someone he knew would stick by his side no matter what. 

Maybe it was the remains of his childhood and the consequences of growing up in a household where love was something to be deserved, not natural. He never imagined he could be appreciated enough to be considered someone’s favorite person.

More than that, if he had to imagine having a best friend, Aaron thought it would be a guy. Some buddy from school, a classmate he got along with, someone he went on some extracurricular activities with. But not a female best friend.

Yet, there he was. 

Or actually, there you were.

“What do you think?” He heard you say it when you walked in the living room.

Aaron was sitting on your couch—like most of his days—rolling his cigarette. He kept saying he was going to quit. Anytime the tobacco sachet was almost over, he would say it was the last one. Then someone would ask if he could share some, and Aaron wouldn’t have enough, so he’d go to buy one. And the circle begins again.

A part of him also loved the control he had over this. He relished the power of precisely measuring the right amount of tobacco. The relaxation of rolling the paper with his fingers, taking the time to make it thin and just like he wanted it to be. The two seconds spent licking it, finishing his own product. And finally, the relief of the first puff—he still hadn’t found anything comparable. Or actually, he did. But it was easier to smoke than to get an orgasm these days.

His tongue was still on the paper when he looked up to you.

“You look…” pretty, gorgeous, amazing. “Very nice.”

The words got stuck in his throat and lost in his mind when he saw you. Not only were you and Aaron sharing the same course and sitting next to each other in most classes, but you were also living in the same building. It didn’t take you long to become friends—that, he knew how to deal with. 

But there was something more than that, a deep connection between the two of you that he couldn’t explain. A small part of him was convinced that he stayed by your sides mostly to understand the reason he felt so linked to you. 

But the loudest voice in his head knew that Aaron simply appreciated feeling important in someone’s life and, for once, knowing what it felt like to have a best friend.

You had convinced him, again, to follow you to a party tonight. You dealt with his introverted side better than anyone he knew. Or maybe he simply couldn’t say no to you. Not when you gave him this look: Bambi eyes and a soft smile that said you could never be mad at him, no matter his answer. Giving him the feeling it wouldn’t be fair to refuse.

Because Aaron knew there would be two solutions. Either you wouldn’t go at all if he wasn’t coming. Or you would and might find someone to replace him. 

He couldn’t handle being the reason you didn’t enjoy your night. The second possibility, however, wasn’t fair. At all. And he knew that.

“Ok, I’ll take very nice.” You laughed, extending your hand to him. 

With your hand in his, Aaron considered changing his answer. Admitting that you looked more than nice. That the dress you chose to wear seemed to be made for you. If he was honest, he would say that you looked like some goddess that made him regret not following some mythological classes.

But Aaron couldn’t be honest. Again, the remains of his childhood were echoing in his head like a distant memory—or haunting voice. His dad, claiming that he had to make boy friends. His mom, asking if the classmate he was working with—whose name he would mistakenly give—was his girlfriend. His brother never had girl friends, only girlfriends. 

Aaron refused to acknowledge the attraction he had for you, fearing he would ruin your friendship. The most precious thing in his life at the moment.

And so he also ignored your hand on his chest, smoothing his white shirt. And focused on the cigarette in his mouth. Reassurance, he needed reassurance. 

“You’re very nice yourself, Aaron,” you added, stealing his cigarette with your fingertips. Brushing his lips with them. 

He couldn’t stop looking at you, putting your mouth right where his own used to be. Smoking from the tube he made himself. Taking something from him. Wishing you could take more from him.

The last thought didn’t last long. Not when you joked about something else right after giving him his cig back. Not when you dragged him by the hand outside to the party you were dying to go to. 

You kept talking the whole journey to your classmate's house. Invading his thoughts so his own wouldn’t take too much place, wouldn’t speak louder than your own ideas. 

“Are you going home for the holiday?” 

This was more than a genuine question. You had talked about it, late and drunk at night, sharing his bed when your apartment seemed too far, when loneliness seemed like the worst disease. He didn’t want to go. He felt like he had to. You offered to come. But he never replied.

Little did you know that Aaron had put a plan on your back.

When he opened his mouth to answer, still unsure which words to use, he got cut off by someone calling him. Him. Aaron Hotchner, the boy you barely saw with someone other than you, being called by a girl.

A blonde student that you remembered seeing from afar more than once this week. Good-looking and with a nice attitude. Or at least that was what you could tell from the smile she was offering your friend, your Aaron. 

“That’s…Haley. We work on a project together for the theater club.” You made a bet at the beginning of the year to sign the other up for an activity where you wouldn’t see them. You selfishly chose the theater for Aaron, particularly with the idea of making him practice. You never imagined he would love it. 

You never imagined it would take him away from you. 

“She is nice. Very nice.” Aaron didn’t realize his mistake until he noticed the very small step back you took. He then grabbed your hand, trying to keep you close. Holding you here physically and mentally. “She said she would go out tonight, but I didn’t realize it would be at the same party.”

It wasn’t the first time you saw the conflict in his eyes. That man was in a perpetual fight with himself. Unable to choose the right option in case the other one was better. Too scared of making a mistake every second.

Staying up late or sleeping early. Going to every class or skipping the optional ones. You or Haley. 

And sometimes, you had to make the choice for him. Leaving his apartment so he could go to sleep. Going to the optional class you planned on missing just because you knew he would feel guilty.

Letting go of his hand tonight. “Go,” you simply said. “We’ll meet later.” 

“You’re sure?”

A part of him wanted to go. To see that girl, to taste her lips, to feel loved on another level, and to get something he refused to ask you. Another part wished he could stay with you, spending another night safe by your sides. 

You put on a cheeky smile and used your free hand to push him forward. “She won’t wait forever, Aaron,” you laughed. Trying hard not to let him know that you, you would wait for forever.

He gave you one last look. Looking for any sign in your eyes that you didn’t mean it. But you were a good liar. And Aaron wasn’t a profiler. So he nodded with a genuine smile and put a kiss on your forehead, one that lasted longer than it should have, longer than it would have if it wasn’t you. 

So you watched as he walked to Haley. She greeted him with a hug, and even from where you were standing, you could see her smile. So bright. This was the effect this man had on people, and he couldn’t see it. You heard him laugh at something she said. 

And before they entered the house, his arm around her shoulder, Aaron turned his head to look at you. Again. Just to be sure, he said. 

The worst part was that you knew that he would come back, right here and right now, if you asked him. That he would let down everything for you. Even the girl he seemed to have a crush on. All he needed was one sign, one word, one thing. 

But you couldn’t do that. Instead, you waved your hands goodbye. Encouraging him to leave. Ignoring the pieces of your broken heart falling on the floor.

It wasn’t your place to be jealous of her. Aaron Hotchner was your best friend and nothing more.

Aaron Hotchner was getting married.

Or was he?

His life took a turn he couldn’t imagine, not even in his wildest dream—maybe because most of his dreams used to be different back then. 

He had been dating Haley for years now. And nothing could explain his relationship with her better than just it making sense. Seeing her every morning, kissing her any occasion he got, and making love to her in the bed they bought together. This was the concept of a couple that he had always pictured. And Aaron was happy. 

The only black spot in his life was you. Not you. But the fact that you weren’t living in the same city anymore. If he was still in Washington, you moved to New York after you graduated. From seeing each other every single day during college, you barely saw each other more than twice a year because of your jobs. You called from time to time, but nothing would ever be the same as being your neighbors and coming to your place on any occasion he had. 

Worse than that, you never saw each other without Haley around. Aaron hated to think that. He hated that the thought kept coming back anytime he remembered your moments together these past years. Especially since the two of you got along and you clearly didn’t seem to mind hanging around his girlfriend. There was even a picture of the two of you on the fridge at some Halloween party the couple threw. 

Haley loved this picture. She said it was a nice reminder of how important you were in Aaron’s life—and hers too, technically. How much she cared about her friendship with you. And how she didn’t want him to feel pressured to choose one day between you and her. Sadly, she had no idea that he didn’t need anyone to pressure him. Because any time he looked at this picture, the green-eyed monster had the pleasure of reminding him that you left the party with someone else. 

He almost found it funny how you, too, were stuck in front of this picture, looking at it. Or maybe it was the fact you borrowed one of his sweaters after the weather dropped last night that made the situation even funnier.

Or maybe it was the fact that he and Haley got into a fight last week, making her leave to her sister’s place for a few days to clear her mind. 

“She is very special, Aaron.” 

He knew that tone. The one you used when you said something sincere—because you truly thought Haley was a very special girl, you appreciated her as much as she liked you. But that you also used when you were trying to bury something else at the same time. 

Of course she was special. Of course you wanted your best friend to be happy, and it would be the biggest lie of your life to say he wasn’t cheerful with her. 

But of course there was still a small voice in your head reminding you that you wished it was you. Creating memories with him in this apartment. Having pictures of you on the walls, choosing the sofa together, and having dinner on this counter with the tableware you bought together.

You focused on the aching of your heart for a second, not the steps Aaron was making behind you. It wasn’t until his chest was against your back that you noticed his presence. That you felt the heat of his body invading yours. Your eyes followed the movement of his arm when he stretched it next to your waist to put his hand on the counter in front of you. Trapping you in an embrace. 

“Yes, she is,” he whispered, making you realize how close his mouth was to your ear. You could feel his breath on your skin, making you shiver at the thought you hadn’t been this close with Aaron in years. 

Long was the time when you would share a bed at college, when you would wake up with one of his arms against your chest in an unconscious protective behavior.

Your heart could actually explode at the memory of looking at this man in the morning. How the sun was reflecting on his still sweet and young face. How his sleepy breathing and his heartbreaking were lulling you. How the hair on his arms was usually tickling you in the softest way. How you wished there was a secret spelling to stay like this forever.

But there wasn’t, and Aaron had never been yours. Not then, especially not now.

So you turned around to face him, closing the distance. Your face is closer to his, your noses almost bumping when he takes a step forward. 

“You love her.” 

It was a desperate cry. An unfair, desperate cry. 

Aaron wasn’t a liar; he never was. He couldn’t imagine denying his love for Haley, even with his lips so close to yours; he didn’t have much to do to finally kiss you. And you weren’t even asking him to do so. You needed him to be honest. With you. With him.

You could tell it was hurting him to face his indecision when it came to the two of you. His breath got stuck, and he looked up in a desperate way to find an answer. But there was none. None other than the one he knew was the right one, the fair one. The one he shouldn’t even hesitate about.

When he laid his eyes on you, Aaron could see how hard it was for you too to be trapped in some kind of messed-up love triangle that wasn’t even one to begin with. You never confessed any feelings—except for the casual and friendly I love you. You were free to go. He had to free you from this.

You looked at Adam's apple, how this single thing seemed like the symbol of Aaron’s swallowing his feelings for you. You just had the time to reach his eyes again before he said,. “You’re right. I do.” 

For a few seconds, you stayed there. With your face so close, you could memorize every single detail that had changed in each other's past years. With your lips so close, you could do the undefendable. With both of your hearts beating so fast, like they were fighting to gather. With the reality of something you couldn’t get right in front of you.

“We should go,” you said in a voice that sounded more broken than intended. “I don’t want to miss the beginning of the movie.”

You patted Aaron’s shoulder before walking to the bedroom to change. Letting his sweat on the bed, right where it belonged. And he watched you leave the room and pretended that everything was fine. 

Aaron never told you about the ring waiting on his bedside table. He never told you how one single word could have changed everything—not that he needed to; you could understand that yourself.

You simply learned, a few weeks later, that your best friend was engaged to the woman he loved. And this woman wasn’t you. 

Aaron Hotchner got divorced.

At this point in his life, he felt like he wasn’t someone worth fighting for. Which was a selfish thought. Everything pointed to him being the one responsible for his separation from Haley. And Aaron knew it was true. 

Aaron should have fought harder for his marriage and done everything to prove to her that he loved her. That his family was all that mattered. The worst part was that all of this was true; he simply didn’t have the tools to show it better. 

After joining the BAU, even though he had found a new family to rely on, Aaron felt like he had lost all the important people in his life. He had lost his wife, and his wedding ring felt more like a deadly trap around his finger now than a love promise.

But he had lost you too, or at least that was how he felt. 

He has been seeing you less and less. The cases were taking much of his time, and when he was home, he was spending time with Jack. Trying to be a better dad than his father was. And weeks went by, and he had a hard time freeing just a couple of hours for you. Even for talking. Just talking.

This was the excuse he used to explain why he used his day off to fly to New York and come to your place. It was your third apartment in the city. Something broke inside him when he realized that he helped you move into the first one, but he had no idea what the second even looked like. Where it was, how many rooms you had, and how you decorated it. Who lived there with you when he couldn’t free a single day for his best friend.

Or maybe that was the thought that broke him the hardest. Having no idea he was still your best friend or if he was the only one keeping the fire alive. Aaron wouldn’t blame you if it was the case. Even his wife extinguished the fire between them.

Aaron had imagined the whole scene. Ringing at your door, you would open it and hug him like you always did. Making him feel like he was in his twenties again and not a divorced single dad in his forties. 

He should have known that nothing ever happened like he imagined it when it came to you.

“Aaron Hotchner, you swore that you had quit smoking the last time I saw you.”

He turned around, indeed with a cigarette consuming in between his fingers. A bad habit that had come back when he had to sign the papers that changed his life. 

You could see the confusion all over his face when he finally laid his eyes on you. You found it funny, though, considering he was surprised to see you in front of your own building where you lived. 

And a laugh finally escaped your lips when he whispered, “You’re here.” Aaron didn’t take the time to finish his cigarette—he couldn’t care less about it anymore—before rushing to you and taking you in his arms. As the years went by, he was less tactile with others. But you. He could never get tired of your embrace.

Aaron never felt more alive than today, with your body pressed against his and his nose buried in your hair that still smells like the good old days. With his large hands covering your back and your little laugh in his ear.

“I’m the one who should say that,” you laughed again, hugging him harder. Too scared that he might disappear the moment you let him go. 

You both took a step back at the same time to look at each other and acknowledge that, yes. You were reunited again. 

You couldn’t believe Aaron was back in your life. And soon he was back in your place, sitting on your sofa, drinking wine from your own glasses. Like the years hadn’t gone by.

“So here I am.” 

He drank the last drop of his wine after finishing his story. The least to say was that you were lost for words after hearing your best friend almost die more than once. There was a time when he would have called you to tell you about this. It hurt to know you were so far from him now. 

It was hard to realize you weren’t a starring role in his life anymore. 

But instead of crying about it—you were at fault too by keeping Aaron away to protect your heart—you laughed, pretending this was nothing. Yeah, nothing seemed to be what you were, too.

“More wine,” you said, hitting your thighs with your palms. “We need more wine.”

You got up too fast and lost your balance immediately. Aaron was quick at bringing his hands on your waist to catch your fall. Instead of putting you back on the sofa, he stabilized you on his lap. 

Bringing you back to a time when you were two students, two best friends stupidly and blindly in love, too young to realize that sitting on his lap meant more than just sitting. That this was your favorite place in the entire world. It still was. 

Now closer than ever to Aaron, you brought your hands to his face to look at him. Sure, the years had done some damage to him. You could see the dark circles under his eyes, so prominent they probably won’t ever go away. And the wrinkles here and there, reminding you that he was getting older too. 

But mostly, you could still see the man you loved. The beauty marks on his cheeks you memorized through your sleepless nights. The little and almost invisible scar on his chin when you bet you could shave his beard. The pink of his lips you had too many dreams about kissing. 

Dreams Aaron had too. 

This time, it didn’t have to stay a dream.

He was the one to close the gap. The one to put one of his hands on your neck to bring your face closer. Soon, his lips were on yours. In a kiss that lit up the fireworks in both of your hearts. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck while your hips were rocking against his lips, trying to make one with him. His resting hand on your back went under your shirt, meeting your skin again. You could feel the roughness of his fingertips, imagining how it must have felt between your legs. 

“I need more, Aaron,” you moaned against his lips, pleading for him to finally offer you what you’ve been dreaming of for two decades now.

You let out a small scream when he laid you down on your sofa, still above you. “You do?” he asked. At the same time, teasing you about your desire but also to get the confirmation he needed that you wanted it just as much as he did.

As an answer, you grabbed the tie still around his neck to bring his face closer to yours. “I’ve always wanted it,” you hissed before giving a last kiss. Not that you meant for it to be the last. But after hearing you, Aaron was quick to let his lips explore your body.

Your neck that he had been dying to kiss you from the first day he met you, with your silly necklaces shining against your delicate skin. 

Your collarbone made him feel like some teenager seeing a woman’s body for the very first time.

Your chest so perfect to him, from the size of it to the color of your nipples, which was so perfect he couldn't resist taking them in his mouth. And the moans that came out of your mouth were a good indicator that he wasn’t the only one who thought about this before.

He created a path of kisses from under your chest to the bottom of your stomach. And soon, after undressing you with his eyes, you were naked under your best friend’s body. 

“I’ve been dying to do this, sweetheart.” Aaron said, unsure if he said it for him or for you. It didn’t matter actually because he didn’t give you the time to answer before he finally got to taste you. And except for the moment you grabbed his hair, making sure he was going to leave until you came—which wasn’t his plan and wouldn’t take long anyway—you couldn’t remember the timeline of the event.

All you knew was how great his tongue felt against your lips. How his fingers went into you so easily and the little comment he made about how he didn't know how he survived without doing it before. How he kept looking up to you, looking for the pleasure in your eyes, and his smile you felt against your lips when he saw it.

He was working fast yet so precisely in you, building your orgasm to a point of no return.

He didn’t do it once. He did it so many times that night you actually lost count. Even when it was your mouth on him, he managed to make you cum with his words. And the way he asked you to take care of yourself at the same time. “I don’t want to stop pleasuring you, not even now,” he said. Which was easily the hottest thing you’ve ever heard.

It was three am when his phone rang. Penelope. A new case. And Aaron had to be Hotch again.

One look at you, and he could tell you were still peacefully sleeping. On your stomach, your naked back offering him a path of kisses he wanted to create. He brought a single finger to touch your skin. One reminder that this was real. That for one night, you were his. 

He didn’t have the time to think about his life choices, how maybe in another life this was the view he could have gotten every single day. How there might be a version of him somewhere who wasn’t drowning in the regrets of not confessing his love for you. 

But then life called him to order when his phone lit up again and he saw his lock lockscreen. Jack. Aaron had no right having regrets about his life when it gave him the most important gift. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, hoping that you could hear him in your dream. Or maybe not. You looked so innocently happy, having no idea that he was leaving you again. 

And like a thief, Aaron left in the middle of the night. Going back to a life where there was still a missing piece. His best friend that he kept pushing away.

Aaron Hotchner was risking his life again.

He felt like a horrible person when he said that, but if it weren’t for Jack, he wouldn’t have anything worth living for anymore. And sometimes, the voice in his head was even louder than his father's responsibility. Not often, hopefully.

But it happened. Like today, when he put himself in front of the unsub to protect Penelope—something he had no regret doing at all. What he should have done, however, was check the situation more precisely before turning himself into the perfect target. 

Derek could shoot him from where he was.

Emily could shoot him from where she was.

Even he could have probably been able to shoot him where he was.

But the only thought in his mind was that if someone had to get hurt today on his team, it would be him.

The unsub was quick to understand his state of mind and shot him in the neck.

The next thing Aaron knew, he was waking up—again—in a hospital room by himself. Quite the story of his life, he had to admit. Alone and hurt.

Except this time, Aaron wasn’t all alone. 

He didn’t realize he had fallen back to sleep until another sound was added to the hospital melody: quiet but the bip of the machine next to him and the nurses’ distant conversations. There was a breath, close to him, and then a laugh when he inadvertently frowned his brows. A laugh he could recognize in a room full of people. 

“What are you doing here?” His voice still sounded groggy from the operation and the hours of sleep he got. He didn’t even need to open his eyes to know it was you.

“You’re the one I should ask that,” you laughed, which brought a smile to his face. You laughed intentionally in a room where he was. For a second, he settled for this. For the sweet sound of your laugh, it was one of his favorite melodies. To know there was a world where you could still be happy together.

And when he finally opened his eyes, Aaron turned his head to look at you. His view was a little blurry, and the sun behind you made it even harder. Or maybe you truly were an angel. 

To be honest, the idea of having you here quite sounded like a divine appearance.

“From what the lovely Penelope told me,” you explained, taking a step closer to his bed. “When you got shot, you asked your team to call me.” 

Aaron had no memories from that. Well, he had no memories from the scene at all, so it wasn’t a surprise that his brain also erased his moment of weakness when his heart spoke for him. 

Because what he remembered, actually, was seeing your face when he lost consciousness. In a desperate way to see his best friend before passing out and—who knew?—maybe dying.

He had to push away the thought that, of all the people that mattered one day in his life, you were the one that came to his mind in the worst moment. Maybe Aaron had to accept that you meant more than what he had been trying to pretend all this time.

“And I’m glad you did,” you whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. “If something had happened, at least I could have said goodbye to you.”

This was the first thought you had when you got the call. When Aaron started working at the BAU, you feared hearing from Haley. Telling you he hadn’t come home and wouldn’t ever. As the years went by, your fear lowered—but never disappeared. But after his divorce, you knew that if Aaron wasn’t calling you, you had no chance to learn about an accident. Or worse, his own death.

You had reached a point in your relationship where you weren’t even sure you would be called for your best friend's funeral. So to be able to see him today, maybe for what could be the last time, was an opportunity you wouldn’t miss.

Even now, you knew there was a high possibility you could never forget the image of Aaron lying on this hospital bed. His skin was so pale it was in competition with the sheet for the whitest thing in the room. With this huge bandage on his neck and the numerous machines keeping him alive.

You were glad to be there. And so was Aaron. Thinking that everything was good between the two of you again after his runaway.

It wasn’t until Aaron reached for your hand that he noticed it. 

“You’re engaged?”

This was a stupid question. Of course you were. That ring on your finger probably cost thousands of dollars—and still didn’t equal your worth in his eyes. It wasn’t there the last time. But the last time was such a long time ago. Aaron lost his wife for good; you had time to find a partner.

“To whom? Do I know him?” 

Is he good to you? Does he treat you right? Do you love him?

So many questions were running in his head and were close to escaping his mouth. How unfair it was that he needed answers he never gave you.

“Don’t.” You sighed. “Don’t do that, Aaron.”

You freed your hand from his fingers, letting go of a touch you’ve craved for so long. His touch that used to be a symbol of saving for you was burning you right now. You even brought your other hand to massage your skin, like it physically hurt you.

“You have no right to my sentimental life, and you know that. Not after getting married yourself. Not after leaving me in the middle of the night with no explanation.”

You never talked about that night in New York. 

You slept in that morning. You could never have imagined that you would wake up to an empty space after falling asleep next to the man that had been haunting your dreams for so long. Yet, Aaron was not there and didn’t leave a single message. He didn’t even text you until a week later with a simple “Sorry for leaving” that you left on read.

For the very first time in your life, you hated Aaron Hotchner. And it took you weeks to let go of that feeling. To associate his name with the many good memories you had with him. And to put aside the wound not only he caused through the years—something your therapist helped you realize—but made deeper with his last action. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I know,” you replied with a sad smile. 

You couldn’t resist bringing a hand to his face, the one without the ring—you still loved him enough to not cause him any more pain. He cuddled against your palm while you brushed his skin softly.

“Are we still friends?”

His question hit you right in the heart. Because even at the worst time, you never doubted that.

“You’re my best friend, Aaron.”

You stayed for a few more minutes, until he got a text saying Jack was coming over with Haley’s sister. 

Watching you leave, Aaron realized one thing.

He had messed up many things in his life until now. But there were two things he was going to fight for.

Being the amazing dad Jack deserved.

Saving his relationship with you.

Aaron Hotchner was happy.

The happiest he had been in many years.

After his trip to the hospital, he realized that the passion he felt for his job and the gratitude he had for his found family were important. But not as important as taking care of him and his son. Aaron made the promise, the day he left that hospital room, to be a better person in his personal life.

It started with Jack, of course, and spending more time with him. In everyday life it was simply sharing breakfast in the morning and dining with him every single time he was in town. When he was away for a case, he would make sure to chat with him on the phone every night. Doing more activities, taking more days off, and leaving the city so it would be just the two of them. It didn’t know if he was doing a perfect job, but Aaron could tell his relationship with Jack was doing better.

“I’m ready, Daddy!” the boy said, running to Aaron in the sand with his Knicks cap on. That stupid cap that he refused to take away because it was a gift and “we don’t throw gifts away.” At least Derek and David didn’t know his son was supporting another team than theirs.

Aaron brought a hand to Jack’s back to pat him nicely. “Did you see her inside?”

“She said to tell you she’ll be there in two minutes.” Jack replied, showing three fingers—perfectly coping with the thing he saw inside.

Aaron remembered how you were already doing this at college, trying to mess with his head by saying something but showing another. Knowing damn well he would have waited all his life for you.

That’s what he did.

Because the other change he made in his life after you came to see him at the hospital was to save his relationship with you. 

It started with daily messages about life and silly things. Aaron was glad to see you still loved to chat about the simplest things: the show you were watching, the market you loved to go to, and your neighbor’s cat who came to cuddle you every morning. 

Weekly calls were added to the equation. He cherished them so much, no matter if they happened when he was at home making dinner or when he was away and needed a shoulder to cry on. 

Jack met you like that the first time. He came to say hi while his dad was talking with you on speaker, preparing a meal you loved to make for him when you were a student. That same night, Jack asked many questions about you. It was the first time Aaron talked about another woman other than Haley to him.

It was also the first time in years he saw the pictures of you and her that were on his fridge back then. 

“She is your best friend?” Jack asked when he went to bed, still into the conversation after hours.

And Aaron thought about it. All the things you went through and how this friendship almost died. Yet, the feelings never changed in his heart. The answer was obvious to him.

“Yes, buddy, she is.”

The first time you came to see them in Quantico, the first thing Aaron noticed…well, the second, the first being how beautiful you always were. So the second thing Aaron noticed was that nothing was shining on your hand anymore. No more rings. No more engagement. 

It wasn’t until late at night, when you lay next to each other on his bed, that he finally pointed it out. “Should I consider he’s gone?” 

His back was against the headboard, but you were already lying on your side, your hand carefully traveling on his chest. 

You looked up to him with a small smile, almost looking shy. You never were shy with him. “He’s gone,” you first replied before clearing your throat. “He actually has been since I saw you.” 

You watched his expression change from the seriousness of his first question to the confusion of your answer. And then to some surprise but mostly to softness at the idea you chose him. Again. 

If you could see the weight disappearing from his heart, you could easily guess it happened from the smile on his face. 

Aaron leaned in, a hand falling on your cheek softly. “I want to kiss you,” he whispered.

“Kiss me then,” you whispered back. Delighted to feel his lips on yours again after so many years. But mostly, to feel so connected to Aaron on a level you had never reached before. 

You spend your first night together like this, simply kissing and cuddling until you fall asleep with your head on his chest. To the sound of his heart peacefully beating and the feeling that something finally felt right in your life. For both of us.

You saw each other often, here in Quantico or at your place in New York. Just the two of you, or with Jack sometimes. Jack, who immediately fell for you and was always so excited to spend a day with you.

“I’m here!” Aaron finally heard you say, rushing to meet them. He turned around to watch you—he couldn’t imagine not looking at you any moment he got. Not when you looked so pretty in your summer dress, not when you looked so happy with your big smile on your life -not when he knew the red marks were still on your chest from last night. 

Not when, once you reached them, you kneeled to kiss Jack on the hair. Before leaning to give Aaron a kiss on the lips. “I said I would be quick,” you smiled against his lips.

He brought a hand to your back, keeping you against him longer than you intended. “Happy anniversary,” he whispered, like it was a secret between the two of you. One even Jack couldn’t hear—not that he seemed to bother, looking for shells in the sand.

More than two decades ago, you and Aaron met in a shared class and became friends. When things got serious between you two, you offered him to take some days off and spend them at your beach house—one you bought but he never got to see. You weren’t sure he would get the message.

But it was Aaron. He knew everything about you.

“Thank you for being my best friend,” he added before giving you another kiss. 

And when you reached for his hand, you knew what it meant. 

You were Aaron Hotchner’s best friend. And he was deeply in love with you. 

Tag List  @kiwriteswords @monzabee @raysmayhem-72 @kajjaka @pastelpinkflowerlife @winyourheartemma  📬 FILL THE FORM TO BE ADDED

[cranberrymoons]

so they've been out hiking and they're just finished climbing some weird dirt scrabble thing and squeezing through branches and doing like honestly the tiiiiniest bit of rock climbing, like barely even any eddie, it's fine. ugh. and they made it to the overlook and buck has dirt on his hands and a couple scratches on his cheeks and he's all sweaty and flushed and he's smiling so so big at eddie. and they're totally alone out here, it's just some birds and the trees and the rocks and the hot California sun and the yuca plants on the mountains in the distance. and the ocean stretching out in front of them. and buck starts pulling picnic things out of his giant backpack that he's been carrying this whole time and he gives eddie his water bottle and eddie says thanks but then he also says Hey Buck. cmere. and buck says 🤭 okay 🥰 and eddie gets him up against a big giant boulder or something. and makes him keep his shirt on so his back won't get all scraped up. and he's kind of teasing him making fun of how overprepared buck is for this objectively not that long hiking trip (they're only like 2 miles away from their car right now) and is like eddie voice hm bet you didn't come prepared for this? (said against his neck snuffly laughing) and buck is like eddieeee 😊 well ☝️ actually i think you'll find if you look in the side pocket of my backpack. and eddie is like wait dude are you serious lmfao. and yes buck is buck voice of course i'm serious, there is a little travel size sachet of lube in there. go get it. and eddie goes and gets it and buck wraps his legs around eddie's waist and they fuck against a rock that is sun warmed and beautiful. and the breeze ruffles their hair and the birds chirp and eddie calls him Boy Scout for the whole rest of the week.

[myladybelle]

𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓���� 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍? | chapter five

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: art donaldson x female!reader x patrick zweig 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’ve always been content being second place to your best friend tashi duncan, waiting for the day you can quit tennis. your world is upended when you meet art and patrick, and you’re forced to embrace a life in the sport you’ve been too afraid to claim for yourself. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6.1k 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): challengers content warnings, swearing, kissing, use of y/n 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: last chapter was for the patrick girlies, this one’s for the art girlies xx 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐙-𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐓𝐎𝐍. 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄, 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊 – 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟗, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗. 𝟎𝟖:𝟏𝟑𝐏𝐌.

You walked with Tashi to her hotel room, each step feeling as familiar as it did daunting. The last time you felt this unsure walking through a hotel with her was when you visited Art and Patrick before their final at the Junior US Open. Except that unsureness was surpassed by an excitement to see them again.

That night was, in many ways, the beginning of the end.

Tashi used her keycard to open the door and let you in first. You hesitated, glancing between the doorway and your ex-best friend as you thought of what you might see in Art and Tashi’s room. 

With your heart racing and palms sweating, you mustered the courage to enter. Your eyes landed on the familiar skincare products on the bedside table, the ones Tashi had sworn by for years. Your gaze then shifted to the old leather-bound notebook on the desk, a gift you had given Art for Christmas the first year you dated, now a relic of your shared past. The mingling scents of their perfumes hit you next, a blend both comforting and foreign, causing a wave of nostalgia to crash over you.

When you finally had your fill of investigating the room like a detective for clues, you turned to see Tashi looking at you expectantly.

You blinked twice, refocusing. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked if you wanted green or chamomile,” she explained, holding up two unopened sachets of tea for you to choose from.

“Whichever you don’t want,” you decided, shrugging. The bed was perfectly made, and you supposed you could have chosen somewhere else to sit, but you felt like you might faint unless you found a seat. Awkwardly, you motioned to the bed, asking for permission.

“Of course, sit,” Tashi granted frantically, almost as flustered as you. 

She expected having you in her room would be strange, but didn’t realise she would be so nervous. Suddenly, she wanted you to think highly of her, even though she had given up on that long ago after that fateful fight that ended your friendship. Even the way Patrick glared at her downstairs rattled her a little. He had so much loyalty and respect for you, which he no longer had for her since she broke your heart.

Maybe that was the real reason he came to see her in Atlanta all those years ago, to get you to cut ties with him for good.

As Tashi poured the hot water into two teacups, you sat on the bed and tried not to let the weight of it all hit you. Sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, you felt an unsettling intimacy and alienation as you nervously traced patterns on the unfamiliar quilt. Despite the lingering personal touches, the impersonal sterility of the hotel room offered you no real insight into the life Art and Tashi now shared. You were left grasping at fragments of the past, and it made you feel sad and hopeless. 

At least when you were with Patrick, you had the comfort of not being alone. Seeing a glimpse of Art and Tashi’s life together made you painfully aware of how long you had been alone. 

No best friend, no boyfriend, no husband, and no daughter. 

You allowed yourself to ask one question about Art. It was the polite thing to do, and then you wouldn’t have to awkwardly avoid the elephant in the room. After all, he was Tashi’s husband – and player – and was bound to come up in conversation.

“How’s Art doing?” you questioned, trying to keep your voice neutral. “I heard on the news he had surgery less than a year ago.”

“His recovery was almost miraculous,” Tashi replied, sitting beside you and passing you a plain white hotel teacup and saucer. “So he’s managed to adjust to his new routine really well despite everything that happened. His body hasn’t given up on him, but he isn’t quite there mentally yet. That’s the major obstacle for him.” 

You wanted to comment – typical Art, always stuck in his head – but said nothing. Instead, you wondered, “He isn’t quite where yet?” After saying it, you silently cursed yourself. That was two questions about Art. You were only going to let yourself have one. 

Tashi quirked an eyebrow as if she couldn’t believe you had to ask. “Where he needs to be to complete his career grand slam,” she reiterated. 

“Oh, right,” you said. The disappointment that everything led back to tennis sank in. You felt your shoulders slump and breath hitch, a subtle shift that went unnoticed by Tashi, who had forgotten many of your nonverbal cues. “Of course. Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out before the Open.”

“That’s actually why I asked you here,” Tashi revealed.

She carefully smoothed her expression, hiding the turmoil behind a calm facade as she placed her cup of tea on the saucer with deliberate care. Despite her efforts to look neutral, you could read the telltale signs of her preparing herself to say something shocking. Your observant nature picked up on the subtle tension, and you communicated silently for the first time in years when your eyes met hers. 

In a warning tone, you said, “Tashi,” putting your teacup on the floor. “What’s going on?” 

The air between you was thick with unspoken questions, and you were nervous. Suddenly, everything was starting to worry you. Why had Tashi reached out after so many years? Why had you immediately raced to her side, even though you didn’t owe her anything? Why was it so hard to let go of Art and Patrick when you spent more of your life without them than with them? Your instincts prickled with suspicion. Each beat of silence between you felt like walking on a knife’s edge.

“Art hasn’t been the same since the injury,” Tashi explained after a moment of hesitation. “It’s like he was expecting it to put him out of the game forever, and when it didn’t, he realised that everyone was expecting him to come back. So he did, and I thought he’d be fine, but he’s unfocused and unhappy, and it shows in his playing.”

“Tashi, stop,” you pleaded, gazing at her with huge eyes. “I already told you I don’t want to talk about Art.” 

“You asked about him!”

You scoffed at her weak rebuttal. “I was being polite, Tashi! I’m sitting on his bed with his wife, I thought I might as well acknowledge his existence so we can move on,” you retorted. 

“Art’s never going to achieve his career grand slam without you in his life,” Tashi declared. You froze. Nothing could have prepared you to hear those words leave her mouth. A palpable silence lingered between you as you gaped at your ex-best friend like a fish. Tashi took a deep breath. “That’s why I texted you to meet me. You’re the only one who can reignite his passion for tennis. He never played as well as he did when you were together, and he never played the same when you broke up. The only time he ever played with real fire was when he was playing to impress you, Y/I.” Her old nickname for you slipped out so seamlessly that you didn’t notice it. “I need your help.”

You shut your eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered.

She stared at you, trying to read your expression. “I never joke about tennis, Y/N. You know that,” Tashi replied.

“I’m leaving,” you declared in a monotonous voice. “God, I’m such a fucking idiot, I should never have come. I should have known this was just going to be about you coaching Art or something just as vapid.”

“You know I’m right,” Tashi insisted, trying to keep her voice steady despite the whirlwind inside her. Your stomach knotted at the sure tone in her words. “Ever since you broke up, he lost his love for it. He’s seconds from quitting, I feel it every time he looks at me. He’s tired, Y/N. More mentally than physically. But I think you can convince him to keep going.”

Your brows furrowed. “Even if what you’re saying made any sense and I agreed to do it – which I’m not – why would he listen to me?” you wondered, shaking your head. “Why would he care what I have to say? I haven’t spoken to Art in years, he has no reason to let me influence his decisions.”

Tashi leaned closer, her eyes intense. “Because he’s in love with you. He always has been. From the moment you walked out onto the court he’s been hooked and it never went away.”

“That’s not true,” you argued with her. “That was a lifetime ago! We were eighteen, he fell in love at first sight, and then we grew up.”

“Do you honestly believe that?” Tashi demanded, incredulous. “I know my husband well enough to know he would do anything you asked. If you told him to leave me and never see Lily again he’d do it in a heartbeat.”

Your heart sank at her words, hurt painting your expression. “That’s a horrible thing to say, Tashi,” you whispered, glancing down at your lap. “You have to know that’s not true. I may not know Art anymore but he would never do that to either of you, especially your daughter.”

“He’ll listen to you because he admires you, Y/N. Your opinion is his gospel, you know that.”

“No, it’s not. We’re not eighteen anymore. He doesn’t follow me around Stanford with bouquets of lilies, and he certainly isn’t making me friendship bracelets–” you threw your hands in the air, trying to think of other examples– “or leaving me romantic notes in my dorm. He married you, he loves you!”

Tashi shook her head, a sad smile playing on her lips. “I know he loves me, Y/N. But he longs for you every day of his life,” she admitted, voice wavering. “Like a compass always pointing north, his heart unfailingly gravitates towards you. And now that you aren’t in his life anymore he doesn’t know what the right way is,” Tashi explained. “He’s lost.” You felt your throat tighten, your heartbeat pounding at her confession. “He’ll do anything you say. If you ask him to keep playing, he will.”

“Even if that’s true, he can’t play for anyone other than himself,” you pointed out. “We know what it takes to make it in tennis, it’s going to take everything he has. If you say his heart isn’t in it then he’s going to quit regardless of what anyone tells him to do.”

“His heart is too busy searching for you to know what he wants,” Tashi retorted. “He’s lost his way and only you can help him find it again.” Her stare bore into yours, unwavering. “If you tell him to push through, he’ll find the strength to do it. I know you care about him, that’s why I’m asking you. Please, just talk to him. See if there’s anything left in him that wants to fight,” she begged.

Your mind swirled with memories of adolescence and the bond you once shared with Tashi. You felt a pang of sorrow, realising how far apart you had drifted. Perhaps all those things she used to say about your friendship were true. It’s like she’s the mirror reflecting the best parts of me back at myself, she had said in the hotel that night. Without her, I’m not sure I’d recognise the person staring back at me.

You certainly didn’t recognise the woman before you as Tashi, your former best friend.

“This is awful, Tashi,” you told her, thoroughly disappointed with her. “You just want him to push through to win one last grand slam? I won’t be responsible for–”

“I’m not asking you to be responsible for anything. I’m asking you to remind him why he loves the game. Just talk to him. You have a way of getting through to people, especially him,” Tashi insisted. She didn’t seem to grasp your concern, making you feel more distant from her than ever before. “You’re the strongest person I know. And I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t believe you could do it.” She reached out, placing a hand on yours. You felt the beads of her friendship bracelet on your fingers and flinched. “Please, Y/I. He needs you, we both do.”

You clenched your fists, trying to keep your emotions in check. Your heart was heavy, and it hurt for Art. The fact that he was so unhappy in his career was concerning, especially when you had so many fond memories of him playing at Stanford and expressing how much he loved the sport. The weight of Tashi’s request settled over you like a dense fog. You weren’t sure how to navigate the murky waters of this situation.

You inhaled shakily. “Tashi, listen to me,” you said in a low tone, showing her that you weren’t messing around. “If Art is done, then he’s done.”

Tashi shook her head frantically. “No, wait–”

“He shouldn’t sacrifice his well-being for someone else’s expectations. Not yours, not the fans’, and certainly not mine.” Your eyes glistened with unshed tears, voice breaking slightly, “Even if everything you say is true, I would never force him to do something he doesn’t want for himself. You of all people should know why I won’t ever make someone play tennis when they’re finished with it.”

“This is different from what your mom did to you,” Tashi defended herself.

“It’s all the same when you’re living for someone else’s expectations and desires,” you replied. With shaking hands, you pushed Tashi away. “You don’t know what that’s like. It’s– it’s like swimming against a riptide and struggling to keep your head above water–” You exhaled shakily, the panic from those years returning momentarily– “And the water just keeps getting faster and pulling you under, but it doesn’t matter how much you fight because you’ve already lost yourself.” As the dam of your emotions finally broke, you felt the warmth of tears tracing down your cheeks. Your bottom lip trembled as you stood, staring down at Tashi. “I could never do that to anyone, especially not Art.”

“Y/N, wait! Just let me explain–”

You ignored Tashi, storming out of her hotel room. Your heart pounded with a mix of anger and pain from Tashi’s outrageous request, footsteps echoing down the living room as you let the door to the bedroom slam behind you. Each stride was fueled by the need to escape Tashi, and you wiped your face as you wrenched open the front door. Instead of looking out into the empty hallway, you immediately collided with a solid figure.

“Woah! Is everything– Y/N?” Art’s deep, familiar voice made you stare at him with wide eyes. He halted when he recognised you, and the typical expression of adoration kissed his face. Deep blue eyes wide and breath hitched, Art scanned your features like he couldn’t believe you were real.

The sight of him and everything Tashi had just told you brought a flood of overwhelming emotions crashing over you. When Art pulled you in for a hug, you didn’t fight it, letting him wrap his sturdy arms around you with a familiarity that almost mended the shattered pieces of your heart. Crying into his chest, the warmth and security of his embrace felt like a balm, soothing your raw emotions and momentarily making you feel whole again.

His familiar scent enveloped you, stirring a wave of nostalgia that made your chest tighten with comfort and longing. The warmth of his strong embrace felt like coming home, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, just like it always was. His whispered reassurances, soft and sincere, made the world outside fade into nothingness.

He was just Art, pure and unadulterated warmth.

As it turned out, Tashi was right. Now that he had seen you and held you, he didn’t want to let go of you again.

𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐃𝐀, 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐘 – 𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟏𝟗, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟔. 𝟑:𝟒𝟗𝐏𝐌.

“This is so much nicer than my dorm,” Art complained, falling onto your bed the second you led him into your room. You laughed at the ungraceful way he kicked off his sneakers and burrowed himself into your lilac-coloured bedding, relishing in the fresh, earthy, warm scent he now associated with you. 

“That’s because some of us are into this new thing that makes places pretty and cosy so you don’t feel like you’re living in an empty shoebox,” you explained sarcastically, locking the door behind you and placing your backpack on the floor by your desk. “It’s called decorating.” 

Art hummed, too busy admiring you sleepily from where he had buried his face in your pillows to banter with you. He watched you sit at your desk, your fingers deftly fixing your hair so you were more comfortable before you meticulously arranged your pens and notes. Smiling, Art marvelled at your concentration. Even though you had just returned from your shared Philosophy class, you were ready to prepare for the paper that was just assigned. Every detail – from how you furrowed your brow in thought to the pleased curve of your lips – made his heart swell with admiration. He loved that you loved studying. Seeing your passion and discipline ignited a warmth in his chest and a flutter in his stomach that he could never shake.

You could feel his gaze on you, a comforting presence that had become an integral part of your Thursday study routine, and it made you smile as you highlighted your assignment instructions. Art’s deep blue eyes, a steady and reassuring anchor, were woven into your day. They were a warmth you missed when he wasn’t around, and you tried not to let that terrifying realisation ruin your friendship. At this moment, with the peaceful quiet of the dorm and the shared warmth between you, you felt perfectly content, appreciating how your bond had grown into something so beautifully close over the last few weeks.

This had become your Thursday routine. You went to class together, grabbed a coffee or smoothie to reward Art for attending class, and then returned to your dorm, where you studied for an hour as he watched you. It had been nearly four weeks since the quarter started, and you and Art were tethered more closely than you and Tashi these days. 

You and Tashi were assigned the same residence house when you arrived on campus at the end of September. Both of you were sure it was because Rinconada was a mere ten-minute walk from the tennis centre, which was convenient. After all, you had practice three times a week and team workouts on top of that. Even though it sounded like a lot, the off-season practice schedule at Stanford was far less rigorous than what your mother and coaches made you do in high school. 

In fact, playing tennis at Stanford was far sweeter than you had pictured.

Being on the tennis team gave you a built-in community of other women your age and kept you close to Tashi at all times. Your room was just down the hall from her, and now you got to train with her almost every day. At times, your life at Stanford felt like it was orbiting tennis, but even that feeling disappeared after the first two weeks of classes. Without the pressure of your perfectionistic mother, you were actually enjoying tennis.

It allowed you to fall in love with the sport based on fun and community rather than competition. 

Bumping into Art all over campus was inevitable.

He lived in the same residence hall as you – though not the same building – which meant you constantly saw him in the dining hall or during tennis team workouts. After a couple days of dodging him, you realised that Art was unavoidable and indulged in your desire to see him again. Once you discovered you shared your introduction to Philosophy class, you knew it would be better to be friends than avoid him.

Your classes were academically rigorous and thought-provoking, and Tashi and Art thought you fit right in. While the two of them were lucky if their attention spans let them take detailed notes for one class, you volunteered opinions and debated other students without holding back. The first time you responded to another student in your shared Philosophy class with Art, he couldn’t stop grinning at you. Somehow, you just belonged at Stanford. Your classmates and professors liked you, but not as much as the blond who sat beside you.

In just a month, Art had become a vital part of your college experience and daily routine, his presence seamlessly integrating into your life. Every time your eyes met, you saw his face light up, and a warm flush spread through you, making you feel cherished. Even after he said goodnight after dinner, his deep blue-eyed stare lingered in your mind.

While the sunny weather and friendly people at Stanford made the experience enjoyable, nothing compared to the comfort and contentment you felt with Art. His company grounded you in this new chapter of your life.

Most importantly, your conversations with Art didn’t all revolve around tennis. As much as you loved Tashi, she had become even more engrossed in tennis, and it was slowly the only thing she wanted to talk about. Art, on the other hand, wanted to talk about what you learned in class and had questions about how you grew up and your interests outside of tennis. It was refreshing to get to know someone so quickly, scratching below the surface and really understanding the depths of his personality. 

“Do you ever get bored just lying there, staring at me?” you asked Art, glancing up from your notes to meet his irises. You felt a flutter in your stomach as you did, studying the glazed-over way he expressed his feelings. Somehow, you could tell simply by looking at Art that he was falling for you. You could see it on his face and in his body language. It made you terribly afraid, but you had nowhere to run when your lives at Stanford were so interlaced. 

His lips curved into a charming smile that worsened the rapid beat of your heart. “How could I ever get bored when I’m with you?” Art argued, looking at you with nothing but utter devotion. “I’ll just tag along with you for the rest of our time at Stanford. By then, you’ll be so used to me that you won’t even question when I keep doing it afterwards.”

“You can’t just say things like that,” you whispered, avoiding his stare when it all became too much for you. “You’re betraying our unspoken agreement that we’re just going to forget the night in the hotel and be friends.”

Art chuckled, sitting up and letting your duvet fall, revealing his red Stanford tennis t-shirt. “We never agreed on that,” he pointed out.

“Hence the unspoken nature of the agreement,” you emphasised.

Art watched you closely, noting how your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your t-shirt and how you kept biting your lower lip. Sometimes, when Art found himself getting a little too honest for your taste, your eyes would dart away from him, a dead giveaway of your inner turmoil. Knowing your tendency to avoid your feelings, Art felt a pang of frustration and longing. He really liked you and wished you would confront your emotions.

To make you smile, Art resorted to your usual way of escaping awkward situations: humour. “Would it help if I dyed my hair brown and started speaking in a Spanish accent?” he asked, referring to your favourite tennis player.

You scoffed, “Very funny, Arthur.” 

Getting up from your desk, you approached your bed and playfully pushed Art’s chest. He caught your wrist and held it, smiling up at you with those devoted blue eyes of his. Slowly, Art let his fingers slide down your wrist to your palm, making you shiver as he intertwined your hands. A surge of warmth travelled up your arm. The gentle pressure of his fingers interlacing with yours felt both electrifying and soothing. Like a silent promise whispered through his touch.

“I made you something,” Art told you, his voice so soft and tender that you could only nod. 

He rifled through the pocket of his jeans and held a friendship bracelet in his free palm. You let out a gleeful laugh as you picked it up, admiring the way Art had perfected the pattern necessary to make the beads on the bracelet look like a vine interlinked with pink flowers. In white beaded letters, he spelt the words DATE FRIDAY AT 7?

As Art waited for your reaction, his heart pounded with anticipation and dread, hoping you would appreciate the effort he put into making the bracelet. His hand trembled in yours, betraying the facade of calmness he tried to maintain as you inspected the delicate bracelet. Memories of the countless failed attempts flashed through his mind, each lost bead and snapped elastic a testament to his determination to create something special for you. Despite the hours spent perfecting the technique, doubt crept into his mind, questioning whether his creation would meet your expectations. 

Yet, as you lifted your eyes and smiled at him, the weight of uncertainty lifted.

“Did you really make this for me?” you asked, bewildered that someone had taken the time to sit down and create something from scratch just for you.

Art nodded, heart warming when he saw tears of joy forming in your waterline. “Do you like it?” he wondered, trying not to let the insecurity he felt crawl its way into his voice. 

You pulled your hand out of his and slipped the bracelet on, cupping his face and pulling him in for a desperate kiss that rivalled your first one. At that moment, all the pent-up emotions of the past month flooded to the surface, mingling with the warmth of your kiss. Art held you close, pulling you into his lap and holding your waist, relieved that you were finally allowing yourselves to express your feelings for each other. It was a kiss born of longing and desperation, imbued with the relief that one of you had finally decided to cross the line between friends and more than friends.

Dragging your fingers through his blond hair, you accidentally knocked the red Stanford tennis hat, which he wore backwards, from his head. You felt the vibration of his groan against your lips when you gently tugged on his curls and smiled, satisfied that you had elicited a reaction from him. He tilted your face and met your lips in an ardent kiss that left you shivering. You kissed Art over and over again, and it never felt like enough, no matter how many times you did it. He was everywhere. Touching your hips below your t-shirt, brushing your face gently with the pads of his thumbs, pulling you closer with a fervour you had never felt before. Art only broke for air to kiss down the expanse of your neck and across your collarbones as you sighed happily. 

He pecked your lips once before leaning back and grinning. You almost wanted to cry seeing Art like this. His blond curls were windswept, and his lips were red and perfect, and it hurt that he was so beautiful. Pink dusted his cheekbones and chest, and his hands lightly ran up your thighs like in the hotel that night. 

“I love it,” you answered Art’s question, indulging in a sweet kiss to emphasise your point. “Thank you, Art. Nobody’s ever…” You cleared your throat.

“I know,” Art admitted. He held your hand, brushing his thumb across the beads he had arranged and smiling. “You told me the night we met, at the party. I stand by what I said, they’re all idiots. You deserve the world, Y/N.”

Admittedly, the bracelet felt like a sign.

It gleamed in the sunlight, a delicate web of beads woven together with care and precision by Art’s hands, a tangible testament to his thoughtfulness and effort. As you admired it, a warmth spread through your body. It wasn’t just about the bracelet, but what it represented – the culmination of your shared moments and his genuine understanding of your passions. 

Looking into his eyes, you felt a sense of belonging you had only known with Tashi in the past. With each glance at the bracelet adorning your wrist, you couldn’t help but smile, knowing that it symbolised the beginning of something beautiful between you. It was as if all the puzzle pieces had finally clicked into place. In Art’s gesture, you found the courage to lower your defences. It didn’t feel necessary to run away now that he had been vulnerable with you.

It wasn’t just about the friendship bracelet but the unspoken promise of it. You truly believed that Art would cherish your heart as tenderly as he had crafted the beads on your wrist. 

“So…” Art trailed off, laughing nervously. “I was supposed to give you that bracelet a few days ago, giving you more time to think about going on a date with me, but I lost my nerve so many times and now I’ve only given you 24 hours notice and I don’t want you to feel rushed, so–”

“Pick me up tomorrow at seven,” you interjected. “I’ll be waiting.”

𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐊 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

From: pzweig88@gmail.com To: ynln@stanford.edu Date: October 25, 2006 Subject: Hello from the road

Y/N,

When little Artie told me that he had a girlfriend, I knew I had to find a loophole in our agreement and ask you what the hell you see in that guy. I mean, I know he’s good-looking, amazing at tennis, rich, and an overall decent guy, but I just don’t think he’s good enough for you. (Tone is hard to convey over email, I hope you know I’m kidding. I’m happy for the both of you, you’re one handsome couple) Since I asked Tashi for her number and therefore forfeited all rights to yours, I hope you don’t mind that I managed to swindle your email out of your boyfriend. 

How are you? I bet you’re loving Stanford. You must walk into any room and have no shortage of admirers.

I would know. I was one of them.

Patrick

From: ynln@stanford.edu To: pzweig88@gmail.com Date: October 26, 2006 Subject: RE: Hello from the road

Dear Patrick,

It’s so great to hear from you! Tashi told me a little about your matches so far. Good to know you’re still kicking ass, even once you’ve gone pro. (Not that I expected anything less of THE Patrick Zweig.) 

Technically, I’m not Art’s girlfriend. We’ve just been on a couple dates (which have, of course, been amazing) so we haven’t made anything official yet. Maybe once we hit the one-month mark, I’ll ask you for some advice? After all, you managed to bag Tashi Duncan, so you must be doing something right.

No admirers so far, although I wonder how many of them would dare to speak up when I’m usually flanked by Tashi and Art. Not the most welcoming sight, but they’re great. I love having them here. It makes everything feel more like home.

You’re right. I love it here. My English classes are amazing, and the professors are incredible. Everything is even better than I imagined. I’m taking a legal studies class that’s kicking my ass, but it’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever studied. I know it’s only one class, but it’s really making me consider attending law school after all this. There’s just something about memorising all the cases and analysing the arguments that challenge me in a way I’ve never been challenged before.

This must all sound terribly boring to a literal pro tennis player. How are you doing? Are you getting along with the other guys on tour? Do you miss Tashi a lot? I bet you do. What city are you in? What city has been the worst so far?

Tell me everything!

Love, Y/N

From: pzweig88@gmail.com To: ynln@stanford.edu Date: October 28, 2006 Subject: RE: Hello from the road

Dear Y/N,

I think you’d make a brilliant lawyer. After all, you do have a comeback for everything.

I’m good, the tour isn’t exactly what I thought it would be, but it’s not bad. The other guys are okay. They’re no Art Donaldson, but they’ll have to be good enough for now. I do miss Tashi. I miss all of you. Right now, I’m in Nottingham, but I’m catching a flight to Louisville in a few hours. There’s a Challenger there in a couple days. On to Nashville after that. Every city’s been great so far, actually. No complaints from me. 

I can just imagine Art and Tashi glaring at everyone who wants to approach you like they’re your bodyguards.

So much for not being your boyfriend, I heard otherwise! And you didn’t go on a couple dates, you’ve been on six dates. In two weeks. Sounds like Stanford’s nowhere near as hard as they say it is if you’ve got all this time for tennis and dating. (Again, hope you can tell that I’m joking) 

To be honest, the constant travel and competition makes me feel a little lonely sometimes. I call Tashi whenever I can, but it’s not the same as being there with her in person. I’m constantly surrounded by people, but it’s all very disconnected, like I’m on the outside looking in. I feel like my life’s going by, and I’m watching it like a movie instead of doing things. Is that crazy? It sounds crazy. Without Art, the matches feel harder, and the victories don’t mean as much.

I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, you must be busy with practice and school. And I know you don’t want to talk about tennis.

I knew you would love Stanford. You’ve got that whole quiet contemplative thing about you that people at college really love. I could use some of that these days.

Patrick

From: ynln@stanford.edu To: pzweig88@gmail.com Date: October 28, 2006 Subject: RE: Hello from the road

Dear Patrick,

I know exactly how you feel. To be honest, that’s one of the reasons I’m so glad my mom let me quit playing tournaments while I’m in college. She doesn’t know that I’m quitting tennis after Stanford (and I can’t wait for that trainwreck of a conversation) but I used to feel so isolated and disconnected at those tournaments. People aren’t usually looking for friends, and all the constant competition made me feel more lonely than victorious.

I’m sorry you haven’t found your footing on tour yet. But you aren’t crazy, Patrick. You’re a great player and an even better guy, so I hope things start working out for you soon. 

Just know that you’re more than your victories and losses. That’s what my dad used to tell me when I got too wrapped up in everything. Behind the tennis player, there’s a person.

Take some time off, go sightseeing, and ask the nicest person on tour to get coffee with you. And call Tashi and Art more because I know they love hearing from you. Maybe they’ll make you feel closer to home too, just like they do for me. 

You may be right about me and Art. I guess I don’t want to be too hasty because I keep thinking I’m in some sort of dream, but then I look at him and he’s just… Art. Pure and unadulterated warmth.

Oh yeah, Stanford’s a cakewalk. All that stuff about it being hard and time-consuming is total bullshit. Once you’re here, professors just give you an A for showing up. (Can you tell that I’m joking? I’m in the library procrastinating an eight-page paper on a concept I barely understand. Send help!)

Art and Tashi are exactly like bodyguards! That’s the perfect way to say it!! They just have those faces that look so serious if they’re not smiling, and I guess that can be intimidating if you haven’t seen them so drunk off their asses that they cried when they found out that beavers mate for life, as I have.

Also, drunk Art really knows how to throw it back. Who knew he had all that cake on him?

Let me know if I can help in any way. As it turns out, tennis is a cruel lover but I keep coming back to it. The breakup with tennis is more of an on-again-off-again situationship. Too complicated to explain. But we don’t have to talk about tennis. I’m always around if you need to talk about anything.

Good luck in Louisville!! I hope you make some friends soon.

Love, Y/N

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: reader and art are so clearly so high school by taylor swift, especially “no one’s ever had me, not like you” and “you know how to ball, i know aristotle” ugh i love them 😭

[guiltyandashamed]

hi! can i req the brothers with a gift giver mc? like really thoughtful, crafty handmade gifts. love your writing btw ^_^

headcannons: hand-crafted gifts from MC

Lucifer

At first, Lucifer is mildly surprised when you hand him a sleek, hand-cut card with gold ink, congratulating him on another successful quarter at RAD. He accepts it with a raised brow but keeps it. Then comes a small box with individually labeled tea sachets, each one with a handwritten tag “For when the paperwork’s unbearable” or “Take a break, you deserve it.”

It starts to accumulate. Quietly. In his desk drawer is a little section now, a handful of thoughtful things from you. One day, he finds a ceramic paperweight shaped like a wing with a note: “So you don’t have to carry everything at once.” He doesn’t show much emotion, but that stays right on his desk. Every time he sees it, he sighs a little less.

Mammon

You made Mammon a little keychain, a chibi version of him, colored and sealed in a handmade resin charm. You give it to him with a little note “To protect your keys like you protect me.” He turns red, says you didn't have to, but he keeps it attached to his D.D.D. at all times.

Thing is, you do this often. A tiny scratch-off card with “Best Demon Ever” under the heart. A little origami crow taped to his mirror. A duct tape coin pouch you stitched on a whim. Mammon doesn’t just keep them, he brags about them. He’s made a box for your stuff and adds to it religiously, even if he pretends he’s “just organizing.” When he’s alone, he takes it out and goes through each piece like it’s treasure.

Leviathan

You drew him a birthday card styled like the cover of his favorite anime, logo mimicked, your characters stylized like the cast. Inside was a friendship meter like a dating sim, maxed out with his name. Levi short-circuits. You handed it to him shyly, and now he’s pink to his ears, holding it like it’s a sacred collector’s item.

He tries to play it cool, but your habit of crafting him things,bookmarks with tiny tentacle tassels, quote cards from anime you watch together, stickers of you as an in-game character, completely ruins him. He has an entire display shelf just for your creations, right next to his rarest figures. He calls it his MC Loot.

Satan

Satan is given a recycled book spine bookmark with etched cat ears at the top and your initials burned into the back. “So you don’t lose your place,” you wrote. Satan accepts it like someone receiving a priceless relic. His fingers trace every imperfection like it’s proof of sincerity.

He keeps every card you make: a thank-you card with tiny paw prints, a birthday note referencing his favorite literary quotes, a hand-bound pocket notebook. One day, you hand him a small canvas with a painted library cat in Devildom green, and he actually stops mid-sentence. “You remembered I mentioned that… months ago.” He’s not just collecting them, he’s preserving them, cataloging them in a little drawer beside his best books.

Asmodeus

You made Asmo a hand mirror, glittering frame, embedded with tiny stones, and a message in your scrawl on the handle: “You're already perfect.” He gasps like you handed him a crown. “This is the sweetest thing I’ve ever been given!”

It’s not a one-time thing. You gift him bath salts you mixed yourself, sachets with stitched heart tags, little “confidence cards” with compliments for him to pull on bad days. He lines them up along his vanity, perfectly arranged, and even rotates them by mood. “I don’t care what anyone says, darling,” he hums, “nothing looks better on me than something you made.”

Beelzebub

You hand Beel a stitched snack pouch made from durable RAD uniform scraps, reinforced with little patches that resemble food logos. “To keep your snacks safe,” you say. He beams and hugs you carefully, because he doesn’t want to crush you or the pouch.

You’re always slipping him handmade granola bars with heart-shaped notes, or tiny hand-painted boxes filled with his favorite flavors. He keeps every wrapper that has your handwriting on it. One time, you gave him a crude crocheted plush of a hamburger. Surprisingly, he's never tried to eat it because the idea of losing something you made frightens him. It never fails to make him smile to be reminded that you make things for him.

Belphegor

You make Belphie a handmade constellation map, sewn with gold thread, into a soft pillow cover. “I charted stars of the night you first took me to the planetarium” you say. He tucks it under his arm immediately. “This is… seriously amazing.”

He acts nonchalant, but his room is full of your things. A dream journal you hand-bound and scrawled sleepy messages in. A cloud-shaped stress ball he squeezes when he can’t drift off. You keep making things for him, and without ever asking, he starts making space on his bed just for your gifts.