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kitten4sannie · 7 months ago

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𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏: 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝟏 - 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐞

pairing: mafia! ot8 x undercover officer! reader (fem)

genre: mafia/organized crime au, drama, angst

w.c: 3.3k

ch. summary: after countless months of preparation and ensuing anxiety, you finally revisit the infamous Black Pirates, but from the other side of the law, and it’s almost as if you’ve never left.

ch. warnings: not too many….uhhh very light depictions of violence, a bit of blood, a bit of manhandling (not the sexy kind), mingi is unhinged (?) and has a gun lmao, no smut this time but just you waittttt

a/n: hi thereeeee i cannot tell you how excited i am to share this with you all 🥹 this is my first mini series and i’ve never tackled anything this big before so please be patient with me when it comes to updates~~ (also this chapter will be the shortest of them all given it’s the intro hehe) but aaaaaaa i’m so happy we can go on this journey together >w< now sit back, relax, and enjoy ~ and if you like, please pleasee share your thoughts and feedback with me <33

song rec: scene 1 - value ~ ateez, concrete jungle ~ bad omens

fic masterlist

“Are you ready for this?”

All you could hear was your heart thumping inside your ears, unable to focus on your Commander in Chief’s loaded question, tuning into the sounds of keyboard tapping and faceless chattering about the current crimes and cases that were plugging up the figurative drain of your local prescient, rather than what he was saying to you. Were you ready to infiltrate one of the most prevalent crime families your law enforcement agency has come to know and loathe over the better part of the year? Not as their friend, but this time, as an enemy? They had half your city in the palm of their hands and were itching to take it over, pushing the drug and gun trade into overdrive, washing countless loads of dirty dollar bills, and in turn, leaving you and your agency to clean up the mess they left behind — and what a mess they always made. Bullets, bodies, and broken dreams. Crime and punishment. Officers, regulations, and yellow tape. An endless game of chess that nobody ever seemed to win. The perpetrators of this game, their faces never left your mind, etching their likeness inside the grooves of your memory even after being away from them all for so long, at least, until now — if you stopped being such a goddamn pussy and answered your boss.

“Y/N…? You can back out if you need to…” He gave you an apologetic smile. “Given your history, I know it might be a lot on you. We can always put somebody else in instead.”

“No..!” you suddenly protested, bringing a closed fist near your mouth as you forcefully cleared your throat. “With all due respect, sir, I’ve been preparing myself for this since you helped me…change course and join the academy.” Realizing you were digging your nails into your palms, you relaxed your grip, leaving red idents behind. “And, of course, when we realized what the Kim Estate was actually doing behind closed doors.”

“It certainly wasn’t tennis,” the seasoned man chuckled softly, leaning back slightly inside his fraying office chair, rubbing at his eyes from underneath his reading glasses, not aware of how prominent his eye bags were becoming. He let out a small sigh. “Y/N, I have a lot of trust in you. Going back into that world as an undercover operative is not a walk in the park under any circumstances, but this…they have proven to be unpredictable. I’ll ask you once more. Are you sure you can handle this case?”

In all honesty, you were never too sure what you could handle, both in your professional and personal life, but the uncertainty never stopped you from diving in headfirst. And this, this case, being one of the dominos that would knock them all down, well…it was simply too delicious to pass up.

You stood up, bowing your head to your superior, before giving him a knowing nod. “I’m ready, sir.”

Your closest friend back in your police academy days and fellow undercover partner, Yeonjun, was the first person you spotted upon exiting your boss’ office, well, specifically his bright red hair, slowly navigating past the maze of desks and whispering coworkers to make it over to him, privy to the looks some of them gave you as you slipped past them — though it didn’t phase you anymore. Your past did not define you. At least, that’s what your therapist had been telling you the past few years.

“Hey, partner,” Yeonjun greeted you with a smile, reaching out to hand you a paper cup full of freshly steeped coffee, leaning back to sit down on the crowded surface of his desk. “Tomorrow’s the big day. You ready?”

You took the steaming cup, your jaw tensing as the bitter liquid hit your tastebuds. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, Choi.” You always thought of someone else when you uttered that surname. He was the complete opposite of your partner here: calm and collected, soulless when he wanted to be and full of love the very next moment, erratically ticking between the two like a malfunctioning metronome. You hated him for it.

“Hey, it’s just Yeon, now. Come tomorrow, I won’t be my normal sexy self.” He pulled his freshly printed fake ID out of his t-shirt pocket and held it up to your face, replicating the toothy smile he had inside the picture. “Well, still sexy, yeah?”

Chuckling, you leaned in, studying the fake ID, impressed by how real it looked. “Very sexy, Yeon, but remind me why you dyed your hair red? Is it the quarter life crisis settling in?”

Yeonjun rolled his eyes, tucking his ID back into his pocket. “Ha-ha, funny. I just thought I should look the part if I’m going in as some renowned hacker.”

You pushed a few files out of the way to lean against Yeonjun’s desk beside him. “Have you been studying up on your skills then?”

“Of course, I have. I know I joke around a lot, but I’ve dedicated my life to this, Y/N…”

You looked down at Yeonjun’s hand, the one that rested on the desk in between you, his fingers drumming against the surface. “Good, because they don’t play around…”

The drumming stopped. Yeonjun turned his head to look at you, a flicker of light inside his brown eyes, like he was trying to understand you. “Do you…ever think about your life before the academy? Before this? Do you wish you could go back?”

You bit into your lip, gazing past Yeonjun’s hand at one of the files that contained information about the very people you would be betraying. “I…just want to be good. Do what’s right…That’s why I left all of that. It’s why I’m here now.”

He leaned over slightly until his shoulder pressed into yours, using his pinky to nudge at yours. “Not many would do what you’ve done, y’know. Giving up their way of life for something like this.”

You nudged back, staring into the half empty cup of coffee you were still holding onto. “Not many people are this stupid.”

“Not stupid.” Yeonjun pretended to clink his empty paper cup against yours, giving you a soft smile. “Brave. You’re the key component of this entire operation, Y/N. That’s huge. You’ll make a difference. Isn’t that what this is all about?”

“Maybe…you’re right,” you replied softly, once again distracted by the folder from before, the one that was slightly open just enough to reveal the image of a man with slick back hair, dressed in quaint Victorian style clothes, with a big bow wrapped around his neck. Kim Hongjoong, owner of the Kim Estate and leader of the Black Pirate Organization. You knew him all too well, and all his closest cohorts. Would they recognize you? You hadn’t seen them since you were a young girl, forgotten by most and lost inside a system that didn’t care about you, except for the ambitious young man that swore he would one day be sat atop his ivory tower with those that followed his path. And now there he was, living the high life inside his big shiny mansion, sipping on fine wine, while you were still forcing down bitter instant coffee day after day, surrounded by people that looked at you, but never really saw you for what you were, whatever that was. Maybe Hongjoong knew.

“Y/N…? You’re staring off into space again…” Yeonjun whispered near you, getting up from the desk once you came back to Earth. “Anyways, it’s late, and we have a lot to do tomorrow. We should get going.”

“You’re right, we need as much rest as we can get.” You stretched out your legs before standing back up, just now noticing that you were the only two left inside the workspace, the light from your Chief’s office still peeking out past the dusty blinds. Maybe your Chief knew.

Packing up your briefcase, you smiled at Yeonjun. “Should I dye my hair too?”

Yeonjun pouted, resting his own briefcase against his hip. “That’s my thing.”

Particles of dust and dirt filled your lungs, joining the blood that you began to choke on. It hurt to breathe, but your body carried on supplying oxygen to your lungs, not giving you a choice in the matter. You rolled over onto your back to face the night sky, your teary eyes focusing on the twinkling stars and the bright blue moon that loomed over the town, storm clouds rolling past until they blocked out the pretty view. Heavy rain began to pour down, soaking you to the bone. Even though you were losing the will to live, you still held onto the silver pair of scissors that you used to prove a point, even though it might’ve cost you your life. That was still something. However, your dear mentor still stood over you, his neck being clutched tightly by his trembling fingers, crimson slowly slipping past them.

“See what happens when you bite the hand that feeds you? Ungrateful brat,” he choked out in between shallow breaths. Frustrated, he let out a gurgled growl, tossing his bloodied shank onto the dirt road beside his feet. You could’ve sworn you saw tears slip down his flushed cheeks, but then again, it was raining. “I didn’t want to do this…but you gave me no choice.”

His closest companion took a step forward to securely grasp his upper arm, urging him, “Sir, we need to get you to the nearest hideout. I won’t let you bleed out like this.”

The disheveled man’s other trusted subordinate placed a gloved hand on one of his shoulders, squeezing into it with urgency. He surveyed you past his foggy glasses, pushing them up the slope of his nose. His eyes were once filled with a sense of endearment when he looked at you, but now, they held contempt. “She made her decision, sir.”

The struggling leader turned his head to look back and forth between his dear followers, then at his men who all waited behind them, their rain-streaked faces contorted with conflicted apprehension. They stood perfectly still like statues, until the all too familiar sound of sirens rang out in the distance. That’s when they all scattered, like rats, escaping from the flashing lights and disappearing into the dark of the night.

Your soon to be killer was the last one to leave, looming over you as though he was Death himself, beads of rain, sweat, and blood dripping from his chin and down onto your face below. “Just one question, darling…” He held his neck tighter than before, growing dizzier from all the blood loss. “Why?”

A small, self-satisfied laugh painfully bellowed from your chest, causing you to grab at your stomach where it had been sliced into. “The blade cuts both ways, sir. I was just following your lead…” You weakly lifted your hand up in the air, as though you wanted to reach him, but simply couldn’t. “Why aren’t you proud of the monster you created?”

The man began to beam at you, but the corner of his lips stretched to an unfathomable degree, as though he had carved a smile into his own face. He lifted his chin up just enough to rid himself of the shadow that was cast over him, his brown eyes now void of anything, simply black. Soulless. “Oh, darling…the monster was always there. I simply dug it up.”

You suddenly woke up and sat upright in your bed, your entire body covered in a layer of sweat, leading you to desperately kick off the comforter that had trapped you inside the sweltering heat. Upon realizing you were no longer caught inside a warped memory from your adolescence, you looked down at your stomach, lifting up the edge of your shirt to see if your scar was still there, sighing softly when you saw the jagged patch of skin.

Your past doesn't define you. He doesn't define you — none of them do. And, now, you had the opportunity to create your own definition, and get a little revenge while you were at it.

“Do we ring the doorbell…?” Yeonjun asked from beside you, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot, getting a bit dizzy from trying to take in all of the glory of the Kim Estate.

You were too busy studying the faded stains of blood left on the stone floor below to notice how out of character Yeonjun was already behaving, not that you could blame him. A similar prick of anxiety was already embedding itself into your mind, but you waved it away as soon as it made itself present. “We may be entering a lion’s den, but we won’t behave like them. I’ll knock.”

Yeonjun nodded swiftly, clutching the handle of his messenger bag tightly inside his sweaty hand. “Hopefully they don’t eat us alive.”

You gently pushed a few strands of hair behind your ear, making sure you didn’t disturb the positioning of the micro earpiece that was sitting just behind your tragus. “They won’t, as long as we prove our worth.”

You grabbed onto the obnoxious ivory door knocker, and just as you were about to make your presence known, you found yourself being yanked into the mansion by someone much bigger than you, Yeonjun’s squeaks of protest becoming background noise as soon as the man slammed you against the nearest wall. What felt to be the cold barrel of a compact handgun pressed up into the bottom of your chin with a click, your assailant’s focused, deep-set eyes boring into your own. “Is this how you welcome all your guests?”

“Not all of them…some I leave dead on the doorstep before they can even get a chance to beg on their knees,” the man muttered in a distinctly gravelly voice, a small chuckle bubbling out of his throat. Usually, the people he dealt with would be pissing themselves at this point, but it just seemed to be another day for this strangely familiar visitor.

You could almost see your partner out of the corner of your eye, already on his own knees, his distinctively red hair being held onto by a nameless man in a 3-hole knit balaclava. It was then that you angled your head up slightly to get a good look at your old friend, feeling the barrel push harder into your skin. “Every guard dog has to have their fun, right? And, if you blew my head off now, well, where’s the fun in that?”

“You’re right, doll.” The tall man’s plump lips quirked up into a smirk, slowly dragging his gun past your chin, down your neck, and along the softest parts of your body, poking and prodding at you in an attempt to humiliate you. “Should I see how many new holes I can give you? Fill them all with hot lead?”

“At least buy me a drink first,” you said through gritted teeth, trying not to show any discomfort when he pushed the loaded gun roughly into your abdomen, directly into your scar, not that he could’ve known it was there.

He seemed to enjoy your pained response, leaning his head back to let out a sudden laugh, one that was short and abrupt like a bark. “You’re one crazy bitch…” The man licked over his plump lips. “I like that.”

It was just then that somebody else entered the foyer, their presence so distinctly powerful, the lot of you couldn’t help but notice before he even stepped foot in the room. “Is that any way to treat a valued guest, Mingi? I thought I trained you better than that.”

Mingi immediately de-cocked the gun and brought it behind his back, tucking it away inside the waistline of his tailored pants. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Seonghwa patted Mingi’s shoulder with a gloved hand, giving him a small nod of understanding, before turning his attention to you and Yeonjun, the both of you cautiously standing with your backs against the paneled wall. “I do apologize for my guard dog. We try to keep him on a tight leash, but sometimes…he gets loose.” His shifting eyes formed half crescents. “You understand.”

Yeonjun glanced over at you for guidance, and you responded with a small smile, before nodding your head obediently at Seonghwa’s words, Yeonjun following your lead. “It’s not a problem.”

Seonghwa clasped his hands together, shaking his head slightly, a strand or two of raven hair falling past his forehead from where the rest of it sat perfectly still. He couldn’t seem to understand why he was experiencing a bout of deja vu. “Where are my manners?” He pressed his palm into his chest, and gave a small bow. “I’m Park Seonghwa, the second in command, if you will, here at the Kim Estate.”

Yeonjun bowed back instantly, pushing his dyed hair behind his ears as he stood up straight. “My name’s Yeon. That’s what I go by online.”

Seonghwa’s eyebrows raised up slightly. “Ah, I know you.” He chuckled to himself, glad that he was able to pinpoint the air of familiarity, but still annoyed that something wasn’t quite right. “You’re that hacker that’s going around and fucking with the local government, aren’t you?”

Yeonjun was glad he didn’t eat too much that morning, otherwise he would’ve already thrown it up by now. He brought a peace sign up to his face and smiled. “That’s me, professional shit-stirrer at your service.”

As more men began to trickle into the foyer to see what all the commotion was about, Seonghwa slowly turned his attention back to you, the true object of his frustration. It’s like he had seen you many times before, in a dream, perhaps? In the casino they ran behind closed doors? Or maybe you were one of the many playthings that were brought in to appease the voracious appetites of his degenerate cohorts. Either way, Seonghwa both loved and loathed the way you were already inside his mind, like you had already lived there, and your existence had simply been unearthed by the sands of time.

“And, you are…?” he asked in a slow, calculated manner, his head tilting to the side.

“I’m a diamond expert,” you explained vaguely, motioning to the large suitcase of supplies you were holding. “I can see the value of most things from a mile away, much like your dear leader.”

Hongjoong was already aware of your arrival. You could feel it in your bones.

Seonghwa brought a closed fist to his chin, nodding at your words, still not completely sure why he felt so uncomfortable. “But, who are you?”

Your bubbling amusement was starting to rush to the surface, unable to keep yourself from smiling. And, just like that, you reunited with your dear mentor, except on opposite sides of the chess board. You were delighted everyone was there to witness the beginnings of your awaited rematch. “Why don’t you ask him? I think he’ll have an idea of who I am,” you replied giddily, prompting you to motion your head to the man that stood above the rest of you.

You felt something stir within the men that looked at you, as though what had been hidden for so long had finally come to light. You weren’t a ghost, much to their surprise — well, at least, not yet. You were, of course, taking a gamble with your life, and your partner’s as well, but risks were meant to be taken, rules were meant to be broken, and strings were meant to be cut.

As though right on time, Hongjoong dug his nails into the mahogany railing of the expansive landing, his free hand unconsciously adjusting the bow that was wrapped securely around his neck. He understood the most out of all them. Value. You looked up to him, moving your fingers as though you were using a pair of scissors.

“Remember now?”

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reidmarieprentiss · 11 months ago

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i love you

Summary: Spencer falls in love with a famous singer, Spencer also has a hard time controlling his jealousy.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x pop star! fem!reader

Category: fluff, angst

Warnings/Includes: insecurity, cheating accusations, arguing, lack of trust, regrets, being famous, paparazzi, bestie Billie Eilish

Word count: 13k

a/n: helloooo hehe sorry about the angst again butttt i have ideas for a happier story line if y'all want a part 2 !!!!

update! part two is here!!!

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February, 2006

In the heart of New York City, where towering skyscrapers meet the pulse of creativity, you find yourself stepping into the sleek, modern office of a prestigious publishing house. Today’s interview isn’t just any ordinary sit-down; it’s being conducted by the chief editor themselves—a rare honor reserved for only the most influential figures. As one of the world’s most celebrated pop stars, the stakes are high, and they’ve rolled out the red carpet for you, eager to delve into the stories behind your meteoric rise and iconic career.

You had barely wrapped up your latest thought, answering a question about the creative process behind your new album, when a soft knock interrupted the flow of your interview. The chief editor, who had been so focused on your words, paused, a small frown creasing their brow as the door cracked open.

The person who had greeted you and your team at the front desk earlier poked their head into the room, eyes wide with apology and urgency. “Hi! I’m so sorry, but we have two agents here from the FBI. They say they are working on a case that could involve some of our publications. What should I tell them?”

The editor’s eyes flicked back to you, concern knitting their features together. “Y/N, I am so so sorry. Do you mind if I step out for one second?”

You offered them a reassuring smile, waving a hand dismissively. “No! Not at all! Take care of whatever you need.”

“Thank you, thank you,” the editor breathed, clearly relieved as they stood and followed the receptionist out of the room, leaving you alone for the moment.

After a few minutes, they returned, apologizing profusely for the interruption, but you could see the tension still etched on their face, the slight edge of distraction in their voice. The rest of the interview passed without incident, but once it wrapped up, you couldn’t shake the curiosity bubbling inside you.

As you gathered your things, you politely declined their offer to show you to the bathroom. "Thank you, but I think I can manage," you said with a smile, wanting to stretch your legs a bit and maybe take a peek at the source of the earlier interruption.

After wandering down the corridor for a minute or two, it became clear that you had no idea where you were going. The building was far larger than you anticipated, with identical doors lining each hallway. You turned a corner, hoping you were heading in the right direction when you noticed a room with an open door.

Inside, two men stood by a large table filled with neatly organized files and documents. Their presence was commanding, unmistakably official, and more than a little bit attractive. One was tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair, his expression serious as he sifted through a stack of papers. The other, slightly younger, had sharp, intelligent eyes behind a pair of glasses, his movements precise as he carefully handled what appeared to be an older document.

You hesitated for a moment, not wanting to intrude on whatever important work they were doing, but your need to find the bathroom was becoming more pressing by the second.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped into the doorway and cleared your throat softly. “Hi! I’m sorry to bother you, but do you happen to know where the bathroom is?”

Both men looked up, their attention snapping to you as if they had been pulled out of deep concentration. Aaron Hotchner blinked in surprise, his composed demeanor faltering just slightly before he offered a polite, practiced smile. “No bother at all. I don’t believe I know where the bathroom is. Reid?”

Spencer Reid barely looked up from his work, his attention already drifting back to the papers in front of him. “Out the door to the left, down the hall, last door on the right,” he mumbled, his voice soft and almost distracted.

You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. Oh, he was pretty—and not immediately bowled over by your presence? You liked a challenge. “Oh! Thank you!” you chirped, your tone a bit more enthusiastic than you intended, but it wasn’t every day you met someone who didn’t immediately fall into the rhythm of your world.

After finding the bathroom, you couldn’t shake the thought of that cute, nerdy man with the sharp intellect and distracted charm. You quickly texted your assistant, Dylan—who was also your brother—asking him to pick up two coffees and some pastries, and to meet you on the floor where you were currently stationed.

When the delivery arrived, you approached the room where the men were working once again. You knocked lightly on the doorframe to announce your presence. “Hi! Thanks again for helping me out earlier. I thought maybe you two could use a little pick-me-up,” you said, holding out the goods with a bright smile.

Aaron looked at the offering with a hint of suspicion, his eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed your motives. “Wow. That’s very kind of you, thank you,” he said, his voice polite but guarded.

You quickly picked up on the hesitation and offered an explanation. “Sorry, I know it’s a little odd to get gifts from strangers. I just like paying it forward. You helped me, so I do something kind for you, and maybe you’ll do something kind for someone else later.”

Aaron’s expression softened at your explanation, a hint of warmth creeping into his eyes. “I like that. Thank you again,” he said, this time with more sincerity.

Meanwhile, Spencer still hadn’t fully reacted, offering only a tight-lipped smile and a nod of acknowledgment. You handed the coffee and pastry to Aaron before turning your attention to Spencer, who was already drifting back into his work. “Here,” you said, holding out the coffee to him.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, glancing up briefly. “Any sugar?”

“Uh, no, just black. I’m sure there’s some in the break room…?” you offered, tilting your head slightly in question.

He nodded again, his attention already starting to slip back to the papers in front of him. “Alright… I’ll just put this here,” you said, placing his pastry on top of what appeared to be his satchel, casually slipping a note underneath the paper bag. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself—maybe he’d notice, or maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, you’d planted a seed of curiosity in that brilliant mind of his, and that was enough for now.

—

Spencer's eyes lingered on the note, the neat, playful handwriting contrasting sharply with the serious documents scattered across his desk. He blinked a few times, trying to piece together the brief interaction he had with you earlier, but the details were frustratingly fuzzy. He’d been so engrossed in his work that he barely registered your presence, let alone your face. The only thing he could recall was the faint scent of coffee and the sound of your cheerful voice, but nothing more.

Across the room, Hotch was watching the scene unfold with a faint smile, his amusement barely concealed. He hadn’t known who you were either, but he found the situation oddly endearing. Spencer, brilliant and socially awkward as he was, seemed utterly baffled by the note in his hand. Hotch couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking his head at his younger colleague’s bewilderment.

“Staring at it won’t help,” Hotch advised, his tone light. “Maybe you should call?”

“I don’t know her,” Spencer replied, his brow furrowing as he continued to scrutinize the note as if it held some hidden meaning he was missing.

Hotch leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest with a knowing look. “You could get to know her,” he suggested, the amusement in his voice evident. “She obviously went out of her way to reach out to you. It’s not every day someone leaves their number like that.”

Spencer hesitated, his mind racing through all the possible outcomes of making that call. On one hand, he was intensely curious about you—who you were, why you’d left the note, and what you’d seen in him that made you interested. On the other hand, the idea of reaching out to someone he didn’t know, especially in such a personal way, was daunting.

But Hotch had a point. He always did.

Spencer glanced down at the note again, reading the words over and over as if they would change with each pass.

Give me a call when you’re not so busy? Promise I’m more interesting than some old prints <3 Xxx xxx xxxx.

There was a lightness to your words, a promise of something different, something outside the usual routine that consumed him. Maybe, just maybe, it was worth the risk to find out what that was. Taking a deep breath, Spencer carefully folded the note and slipped it into his pocket, the decision made, even if he didn’t fully understand it yet.

Hotch’s smile widened just a fraction as he watched Spencer’s resolve take shape. “Good choice,” he said simply, returning his attention to his own work, leaving Spencer to contemplate when—and how—he’d make that call.

—

March, 2006

Life as a pop star was nothing short of chaotic, especially when you were barely 24 and on the brink of releasing yet another album. Your days were a whirlwind of recording studios, press conferences, interviews, and the constant need to stay relevant on social media. It was a lot to handle, but having your brother, Dylan, by your side made it all feel a little more manageable. He was your rock, keeping things running smoothly even when the demands of fame threatened to overwhelm you.

Currently, you found yourself back in LA, swept up in a relentless schedule that Dylan had meticulously organized. The days blurred together—back-to-back interviews, recording sessions that stretched into the early hours of the morning, and brief moments snatched away for obligatory social media posts. In the midst of all this, the memory of the mystery man you’d given your number to in New York had faded into the background. It was easier not to dwell on it, to keep your expectations low. After all, not everyone was going to reciprocate your interest, and you’d learned early on in life not to take things personally.

Weeks passed, and your mind was consumed by the demands of your career. The mystery man became just that—a mystery you tucked away, almost forgotten amidst the chaos. That is, until one quiet evening in your LA apartment, when you were finally able to unwind, your phone buzzed with a call from an unknown number.

You stared at the screen, your instincts urging you not to answer. In your line of work, you never knew when or if your number might get leaked, and you weren’t about to take any chances. But as soon as the call ended, curiosity got the better of you. Who could it have been? You needed to know.

With a quick text, you reached out to your tech-savvy friend, Kade. Their enthusiasm for solving puzzles like this made them the perfect person to track down the owner of that mysterious number. Within minutes, Kade had the information—and a picture too. When the image popped up on your screen, your heart skipped a beat.

It was him. The mystery man from New York. The one you’d thought might never call.

Without a second thought, you hit the call button, your nerves tingling with anticipation as you listened to the line ring. Finally, after weeks of wondering, you were about to hear his voice again.

—

Spencer stared at his phone, the dial tone echoing in his ear before it abruptly ended, signaling that the call had gone unanswered. He felt a pang of disappointment, a weight settling in his chest that he couldn’t quite shake. He’d taken the leap, albeit a few weeks late, and now it seemed like it might have been for nothing. Maybe you’d forgotten him, moved on with your life.

He let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping as he placed the phone back on the table. It had taken him so long to muster the courage to call you, to push past his own reservations and insecurities. He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling, trying to convince himself that it was just a phone call, just a moment in time that didn’t have to mean anything.

But deep down, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss, like he’d let something slip through his fingers before it even had a chance to begin. Spencer was no stranger to disappointment, but this time, it felt different. It felt like an opportunity he might never get back.

Spencer sat there, lost in his thoughts, the weight of his insecurities pressing down on him. His mind wandered through all the reasons why you might not have answered—maybe you really had forgotten him, maybe you had better things to do, or maybe he was just one of a hundred people you’d encountered that day. The more he thought about it, the more his doubts began to take root, spreading through him like a slow, creeping fog.

Then, breaking through the haze of his thoughts, his phone began to ring on the table in front of him. The sudden sound jolted him from his reverie, and for a moment, he just stared at the screen, as if unsure whether it was real. The number flashing across the screen was the same unknown one he’d dialed just moments ago.

His heart raced, a mix of hope and disbelief surging through him. Could it be you? Had you actually called him back? He hesitated, his fingers hovering over the phone, almost afraid to answer. But the ringing continued, insistent and almost impatient, pulling him back into the present.

With a deep breath, he swiped to answer, bringing the phone to his ear. “Hello?” he said, his voice a little shaky, betraying the nervousness he felt.

“Hi! Is this Spencer?” Your voice came through the line, bright and unmistakably warm, instantly cutting through the tension that had been building within him.

For a moment, Spencer was too stunned to respond, his mind scrambling to catch up with the fact that you were actually on the other end of the line. “Yes, it’s Spencer,” he finally managed to say, his voice steadier now, though his heart was still pounding.

“I’m so sorry I missed your call earlier!” you continued, your tone light and genuine. “I didn’t recognize the number when I saw it. But I’m really glad you called. I’ve been hoping to hear from you!”

Spencer’s doubts began to melt away, replaced by a growing sense of relief and excitement. You hadn’t forgotten him, after all. You were as curious about him as he was about you. “No, no, it’s fine,” he replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”

“Of course I remember you! How could I forget the cute, smart guy who helped me find the bathroom?” you teased lightly, your laughter filling the space between you and putting Spencer at ease.

Spencer couldn’t help but laugh along with you, the tension in his chest finally easing. “Well, I’m glad I could help,” he said, the smile now fully blossoming on his face. “So… what’s up?”

“I was wondering if you’d be free sometime soon? I’d love to actually get to know you better, maybe over coffee or something? I should be back in New York in a few weeks!” Your invitation was casual, but the sincerity in your voice was something Spencer couldn’t ignore.

“I would like that,” Spencer began, hesitating slightly before continuing. “Um, I actually live in Virginia…”

“Oh! That’s no problem, I can come to Virginia,” you replied without missing a beat, your tone so effortlessly confident and reassuring that it caught Spencer off guard.

He blinked, momentarily confused. What kind of life did you lead that allowed you such flexibility, such willingness to drop everything for a spontaneous trip? “Are you sure? It’s a three-hour train ride,” he said, the logical part of his brain struggling to grasp the ease with which you offered.

“No problem! I’m in Los Angeles right now, but I should have a bit of freedom in, say, two weeks? Would that work for you?” Your words were filled with a casualness that suggested this kind of thing was just another day in your life.

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” Spencer responded, still wrapping his mind around the idea that you were so eager to see him, despite the distance and the logistics involved.

“Amazing! Are weekends better for you?” you asked, the excitement in your voice making it clear how much you were looking forward to this.

“Yes, weekends are good,” Spencer confirmed, feeling a mixture of excitement and nervousness bubbling up inside him.

“Okay, Spencer,” you said, and he could practically hear the smile in your voice. “How about you pick a time and a café in Virginia for Saturday two weeks from now, and I’ll meet you there?”

“Uh, sure, I can do that,” Spencer replied, a bit overwhelmed but in the best way possible. He couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

“Great! I can’t wait,” you said, your enthusiasm palpable even over the phone. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

As you ended the call with a cheerful goodbye, Spencer found himself staring at his phone again, but this time, the feeling of defeat was replaced with something entirely different—a sense of anticipation, of possibility. He had two weeks to figure out the perfect place to meet, and the thought of seeing you again made his heart race in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

—

Two weeks flew by, and soon you were landing in New York, excitement and nerves swirling inside you. Instead of flying to Virginia, you chose the train, savoring the slower pace after the constant rush of airports in your career.

As the train glided smoothly along, a calm settled over you, the rhythmic sound of the tracks providing a rare moment of peace. You were anxious about meeting someone new, but also excited—Spencer seemed down-to-earth and refreshingly different from the usual whirlwind of fame. And he was undeniably attractive, with a quiet, intelligent charm that had caught your attention.

Though your security detail accompanied you, the ride was peaceful. Most passengers didn’t mind having a pop star in their car; a few asked for autographs and pictures, which you happily provided. For the most part, you were left alone to chat with your security and enjoy the journey.

—

Arriving at the café was agonizing for Spencer. His nerves had been on edge the entire day, and he’d debated countless times whether he should even show up. The closer he got, the more his anxiety spiked. What if you didn’t show up? What if you were a soon-to-be unsub? His mind raced through every worst-case scenario, each one more unsettling than the last.

As he approached the café, he felt a knot tighten in his stomach. What if you just wanted to hurt him? What if you had forgotten about him entirely? The uncertainty gnawed at him, making each step feel heavier than the last. It took every ounce of his willpower to push through the doubt and walk through the door, hoping—desperately—that this wasn’t all a mistake.

But to his surprise, when Spencer finally entered the café, he saw you already there, seated at a small table near the window. You were early, a black coffee in front of you, with a canister full of sugar beside it, waiting to be poured. The sight of you, so relaxed and genuinely present, eased some of his lingering fears.

You had arrived first, intentionally choosing a slightly hidden booth and quietly informing the staff of your presence to avoid any unnecessary attention. It wasn’t about having a big head, but rather wanting to keep the date as normal as possible, just in case someone recognized you and caused a scene.

“Spencer! Hi!” you greeted him warmly, your smile lighting up the room as you waved him over.

“Hello,” he responded, raising a hand in a shy wave as he walked toward you, feeling a mix of relief and nervousness.

“It’s so good to see you!” you exclaimed, your enthusiasm evident. “Can I hug you?”

“Um,” Spencer hesitated for a split second, caught off guard by your openness. He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the nerves. “Yes, sure.”

You stood up and gently wrapped your arms around him, your embrace warm and welcoming. Spencer felt the tension in his shoulders start to melt away, the simple act reminding him that maybe, just maybe, this could turn out better than he’d feared as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

“So, I hope you don’t mind, but I went ahead and got you a coffee,” you said, gesturing to the cup in front of him. “I wasn’t sure how sweet you like it, so I just asked for a whole thing of sugar.”

Spencer couldn’t believe how thoughtful you were, the small gesture meaning more to him than you might realize. “Oh, thank you so much,” he replied, his voice soft with gratitude. “That’s perfect.”

He felt a warmth in his chest, a sense of comfort in knowing that you had already taken the time to consider his preferences. It was a simple act, but to Spencer, it spoke volumes about the kind of person you were.

Spencer took a seat across from you, feeling the warmth from your earlier hug still lingering. You watched as he carefully added just the right amount of sugar to his coffee, stirring it with a quiet focus that made you smile.

"So," you began, breaking the silence with a gentle tone, "how have you been? I hope your day wasn't too stressful."

Spencer looked up, meeting your eyes with a small, appreciative smile. "It’s been… a bit nerve-wracking, to be honest. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I’m really glad I came."

You leaned in slightly, your expression softening. "I’m glad you did too. I’ve been looking forward to this."

He felt a flutter in his chest at your words, the sincerity in your voice easing some of the anxiety that had been gnawing at him. “I’ve been looking forward to it too, though I was worried I might say something awkward.”

You laughed softly, the sound warm and reassuring. “Don’t worry about that. I like awkward—it’s honest. Besides, I’m probably just as nervous as you are.”

Spencer looked at you with surprise. “Really? You seem so confident.”

You shrugged, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “I guess I’ve had a lot of practice pretending to be. But trust me, I get nervous too, especially when I’m meeting someone new.”

There was a pause as your words sank in, making Spencer feel a bit more at ease. “Well, if it helps, you’re doing a great job of making me feel comfortable.”

Your smile widened, your eyes sparkling with warmth. “Good, that’s exactly what I was hoping for. I just want us to enjoy this, no pressure, just two people getting to know each other.”

Spencer nodded, feeling the last of his nerves start to fade away. “That sounds nice. I think we’re off to a pretty good start.”

You raised your coffee cup in a mock toast, your grin contagious. “Here’s to a good start, then.”

Spencer clinked his cup against yours, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “To a good start.”

After you both took a sip of your coffee, the conversation started to flow more naturally. Eventually, Spencer asked, “What do you do for work?”

It was at that moment you realized that Spencer genuinely didn’t know who you were—he wasn’t just pretending for your sake. “Oh! Um, I sing,” you replied, trying to keep your tone casual.

“You sing? That’s so great! What kind of music?” Spencer’s enthusiasm was genuine, and it warmed your heart.

“Mostly pop, but I’ve been called indie pop before too,” you explained, trying not to let your nerves show.

Spencer nodded thoughtfully. “I don’t listen to much pop, but I would love to come to one of your shows sometime. Where do you perform?”

You laughed nervously, not sure how to break it to him. “Ha ha, well, a little bit of everywhere? I could invite you next time I perform close by!”

“That would be great,” Spencer said with a dopey smile, clearly pleased with the idea.

“So, what do you do, Spencer?” you asked, eager to shift the focus.

“I work for the FBI,” he replied, almost bashfully.

Your eyes widened in surprise. “That is so much cooler!”

“Oh, well, thank you,” Spencer said, blushing slightly at the compliment.

“Do you take down bad guys?” you asked, leaning in with genuine curiosity.

Spencer chuckled softly. “Yeah, something like that. I’m a profiler, so I help catch criminals by understanding how they think.”

You couldn’t help but be impressed. “Wow, that’s amazing! You’re like a real-life Sherlock Holmes.”

Spencer’s eyes lit up at your words, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “I think that’s the best compliment I have ever gotten,” he said, clearly touched by the comparison.

You smiled back, pleased to see how much the compliment meant to him. “Well, it’s true. It sounds like you have a pretty incredible job.”

Spencer’s smile softened, a hint of shyness returning. “Thank you. It’s not always easy, but it’s rewarding.”

You could see the passion he had for his work, and it only made you more curious to learn about the man behind the profiler. “I have a feeling you’re really good at what you do,” you added, feeling more drawn to him with each passing moment.

As the conversation continued, you felt a growing connection with Spencer, charmed by his sincerity and humility. It was refreshing to talk to someone who saw you as just a person, rather than the pop star you usually were.

—

The date was, in a word, phenomenal. You and Spencer clicked in a way that felt effortless, the conversation flowing naturally, and the time slipping by unnoticed. By the end of it, you both agreed to meet again the next time you were close by. Spencer left the café feeling lighter, with a genuine smile on his face. From what he gathered, you traveled often for work but mostly lived in New York, which suited him just fine. The idea of seeing you again was something he looked forward to.

Monday morning came around, and as Spencer walked into the office, he barely had time to settle in before Derek Morgan sauntered over, a teasing grin on his face. “So, pretty boy,” Derek started, leaning against Spencer’s desk, “heard from Hotch you had a hot date this weekend.”

Spencer felt a blush creep up his neck, trying to play it cool as he adjusted his tie. “It wasn’t… I mean, yeah, I had a date,” he admitted, though he couldn’t suppress the small smile that tugged at his lips.

Derek raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this. “And? How’d it go? Are we gonna see wedding bells soon, or what?”

Spencer chuckled, shaking his head. “It went well, really well. We’re planning to meet again soon.”

Derek gave him a playful nudge. “Look at you, Pretty Boy, out here dating like a pro. So, what’s she like?”

Spencer hesitated, his mind racing back to the date. “She’s… incredible. Smart, funny, down-to-earth. I really enjoyed spending time with her.”

Derek nodded approvingly. “Sounds like a keeper. Just make sure you bring her around sometime so the rest of us can vet her properly.”

Spencer laughed, rolling his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As Derek walked away, Spencer found himself thinking back to the date, the smile still lingering on his face. He had no idea what the future held, but for now, he was more than happy with the way things were unfolding.

—

May, 2006

Even though your schedule was packed, you managed to carve out moments in your day to text Spencer. It became a little ritual—finding those brief pauses between studio sessions, interviews, or flights to send him a quick message. Sometimes it was a simple Good morning! or Hope your day’s going well! Other times, you’d share something funny or interesting that happened, enjoying the way his replies always seemed to brighten your day.

Spencer, in turn, did his best to keep up with the texts, even when his work took him deep into intense cases. He found himself looking forward to your messages, the small glimpses into your life offering a welcome distraction from the often grim realities of his job.

A month after your first date, the stars finally aligned again, and you both found yourselves free at the same time. Spencer had been looking forward to seeing you, but as luck would have it, the BAU team had already planned a bar night for that weekend. There was no way he could bow out without raising suspicions, so instead, he decided to invite you along.

He texted you with a mix of excitement and nerves.

Hey, I know we’ve been planning to meet up again, and I was wondering if you’d like to come out with me and my team this weekend? We’re having a bar night, and I’d really like for you to meet everyone.

That sounds like so much fun! I’d love to meet your team. Just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.

Spencer smiled as he read your reply, feeling a sense of relief and excitement all at once. It wasn’t what he’d originally planned, but he realized that introducing you to his team felt like a natural next step. Plus, he was curious to see how you’d fit in with the people who had become like family to him.

As the weekend approached, Spencer found himself growing more and more eager to see you again. This time, he wasn’t just looking forward to spending time with you—he was excited to see how you’d interact with the people who meant so much to him.

—

You decided to meet Spencer at his apartment before heading to the bar, a decision that filled you with both excitement and nerves. The idea of seeing him again, of spending time with him in a more casual, intimate setting, was thrilling, but it also made your heart race with anticipation. You stood outside his door, taking a deep breath to steady yourself before finally mustering the courage to knock.

Meanwhile, your security team was stationed discreetly at the base of the building, sitting in their cars to avoid drawing attention. You didn’t want to alarm Spencer with an obvious security presence, especially since he didn’t know the full extent of your fame. They had already done a thorough sweep of the bar, learning all the exits and identifying the best spots to keep watch over you without intruding on your evening.

As you waited for Spencer to answer the door, you couldn’t help but feel a flutter of nerves in your stomach. This was a big step—meeting his team, blending your two worlds, and trying to keep the balance between your public life and the private connection you were building with him. But as the door opened and you saw Spencer’s familiar, warm smile, those nerves began to ease.

“Hey,” he greeted you, his voice soft and welcoming.

“Hey,” you replied, returning his smile, feeling a wave of relief wash over you. Being here with him, seeing that look in his eyes, reminded you why you were doing this. The rest of the world could wait; tonight was about the two of you.

Spencer stepped aside to let you in, his apartment cozy and inviting. “You look great,” he said, his tone slightly shy as he took in your appearance.

“Thanks,” you replied, feeling your cheeks warm. “You do too.”

There was a brief pause, the two of you just standing there, enjoying the moment. Then, Spencer gestured towards the door. “Ready to go? The team’s probably already at the bar.”

“Yeah, let’s do this,” you said, feeling a surge of confidence as you linked your arm with his.

—

As you and Spencer arrived at the bar, your nerves returned with full force. You had been feeling confident earlier, but now, faced with meeting his entire team, the reality of blending your world with his hit you hard. Spencer seemed to sense your hesitation, offering you a reassuring smile as he led you inside.

“Hey, guys, this is Y/N,” Spencer said, introducing you to his team with a hint of pride in his voice. “Y/N, this is my team.”

Before anyone else could say a word, Penelope Garcia practically barreled through the group, her eyes wide with excitement. “Oh. My. God. Y/N Y/L? I love your music! How did you two meet?”

You couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm, though it made you a little self-conscious. “Um, we met at a publishing house in New York,” you said, trying to keep things casual.

Spencer looked adorably confused as he turned to Penelope. “How do you know Y/N’s music?”

Penelope’s face lit up even more. “I’ve been a fan for years!”

You felt a warm blush creeping up your neck. “Thank you so much,” you said kindly, appreciating her support. But you were also eager to shift the focus away from your celebrity status. “But, uh, let’s not focus on me. I want to get to know all of you.”

The team exchanged glances, a mixture of curiosity and amusement playing on their faces. It was clear that they were intrigued by the dynamic between you and Spencer, but they respected your wish to keep the conversation light and inclusive.

“Fair enough,” Derek said with a grin, extending his hand to you. “I’m Derek. It’s nice to meet you.”

You shook his hand, relieved that the introductions were moving forward. “Nice to meet you too, Derek.”

As each member of the team introduced themselves, you felt the initial wave of nerves begin to subside. They were a friendly, welcoming group, and their easy going nature made it easier for you to relax. Spencer stayed close by your side, his presence comforting as you navigated this new and somewhat intimidating social landscape.

Unfortunately, as pleasant as the evening had been, things took a sharp turn when it was time for you and Spencer to leave the bar. The moment you stepped outside, you were met with the overwhelming sight of a large crowd waiting by the entrance, their faces eager, some shouting your name. The flashes of cameras lit up the night as paparazzi swarmed, snapping photos in a chaotic frenzy.

“Y/N, come with us,” your head security guard, Emerson, called out firmly, their voice carrying over the noise. They were already moving to shield you from the crowd, their team efficiently surrounding both you and Spencer.

Spencer was beyond confused, his eyes wide as he took in the scene. The crowd, the screaming, the relentless camera flashes—it was all a world he had never experienced before. One moment, the two of you were having a quiet night out with his team, and the next, you were being hustled into a black SUV by your security detail.

As the vehicle sped away, leaving the chaos behind, Spencer finally found his voice. “Y/N, what the hell was that?” he asked, his tone filled with concern and bewilderment.

You let out a sigh, knowing this was something you’d have to explain sooner or later. “I’m so sorry, Spencer,” you began, turning to him with an apologetic look. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. Someone must have recognized me and tipped off the paparazzi.”

Spencer frowned, still trying to piece everything together. “Recognized you? But why would…?” He trailed off, the reality slowly dawning on him. “Wait… Are you famous?”

You nodded, feeling a mix of guilt and apprehension. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. That’s why there was a crowd outside—they wanted pictures and autographs, that sort of thing.”

Spencer sat back in his seat, processing what you had just told him. “I had no idea,” he said softly, a hint of shock still in his voice.

“I know,” you admitted, your voice tinged with regret. “I didn’t want it to be a big deal between us. I just wanted you to get to know me for who I am, not because of my career.”

He looked at you, his expression a mix of understanding and concern. “Y/N, I don’t care about any of that. I just… I wasn’t prepared for this.”

“I understand,” you said, reaching out to gently take his hand. “I should have been more upfront with you. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

Spencer squeezed your hand, his gaze softening. “It’s okay. I just need a little time to process everything.”

You nodded, grateful for his understanding. “Of course. We can talk more about it when you’re ready. I don’t want this to change anything between us.”

Spencer gave you a small smile, the initial shock beginning to fade. “It won’t,” he assured you. “I still want to get to know you, the real you. We’ll figure this out together.”

His words brought you a sense of relief, and as the car continued to drive away from the chaotic scene, you felt a renewed sense of hope for what lay ahead.

—

The security team swiftly brought you and Spencer to a hotel with a private parking garage, ensuring that you wouldn’t be followed or harassed any further. It was a relief to be away from the chaos, but you couldn’t help feeling bad for dragging Spencer into your world so abruptly.

“I’m sorry, Spencer,” you said softly as you both exited the car. “Do you mind hanging out here for a bit until everything dies down? Or I can have Emerson take you home.”

“No, no, I want to stay with you,” he quickly replied, his sincerity evident.

You smiled, grateful for his support. “Okay.”

The two of you were guided up to the room where you’d be staying for the weekend. Your security team stood guard outside, some doing security sweeps to ensure the area was safe. Inside the room, the atmosphere was much calmer, but you could sense Spencer’s curiosity lingering.

“Alright, so tell me about it. How famous are you?” Spencer asked, his tone light but clearly curious.

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to answer, but because you hated that question. Measuring your fame felt strange and impersonal. You valued your fans and appreciated the love they showed you, but fame was such a nebulous concept. “Uhhh…”

Spencer quickly backtracked, noticing your discomfort. “Sorry, that was a weird question.”

“No, it’s okay,” you reassured him. “I, uh, guess I have quite the fan base.”

Spencer nodded thoughtfully, sensing there was more to your reluctance. “Would it bother you if I looked you up when I get home?”

You couldn’t help but smile at his thoughtfulness. “That’s fine, Spencer. Just… don’t judge me too harshly.”

He looked at you with that soft, earnest expression that always seemed to put you at ease. “I would never.”

“I know, I know,” you said, letting out a small sigh. “It’s just—there’s a lot of nasty rumors, and bad things people say about me. Just, keep an open mind?”

Spencer’s gaze was steady as he reached out to take your hand. “Y/N, I like you. I don’t care what some idiot says about you on the internet, okay?”

His words were like a balm to your nerves, and you felt a warmth spread through you. “Okay. I like you too,” you admitted, feeling a surge of affection for the man sitting beside you.

Spencer’s eyes softened even further, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, his voice low and full of hope.

“Please,” you whispered, your heart racing.

Spencer leaned in, his hand gently cradling your cheek as he pressed his lips to yours in a tender, heartfelt kiss. The world outside faded away, leaving just the two of you in that quiet, perfect moment. It was a kiss that spoke of understanding, of acceptance, and of something that had the potential to grow into something truly special.

And so began the beautiful relationship between you and Spencer. Every chance you got was spent together, each moment building the foundation for something truly special.

—

June, 2006

As you and Spencer strolled hand in hand through the grand halls of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the world around you seemed to blur into the background. The marble floors echoed softly with your footsteps, and the air was filled with the quiet hum of visitors lost in their own reverence for the art surrounding them. But for you, the real masterpiece was right beside you, his voice animated as he guided you through the exhibits.

“And here,” Spencer said, his eyes lighting up as he gestured toward a stunning Greek statue, “we have a marble sculpture of Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty. What’s fascinating is that this particular piece is from the Hellenistic period, where artists began to explore more dynamic poses and emotions in their work.”

You looked up at the statue, trying to see it through Spencer’s eyes. “It’s incredible,” you murmured, squeezing his hand lightly. “You make it all sound so alive, like we’re stepping back in time.”

Spencer smiled, a soft blush coloring his cheeks. “I’ve always loved how art can connect us to the past. It’s like a conversation across centuries, where every brushstroke or chisel mark tells a story.”

You could hear the passion in his voice, and it made your heart swell with affection. “You know, I’ve been here before, but it’s never felt this… magical,” you admitted, looking up at him.

Spencer’s eyes softened as he gazed back at you. “It’s not just the art,” he said quietly. “It’s who you’re experiencing it with.”

You felt a warm blush rise to your cheeks, his words sending a flutter through your heart. “You’re amazing, you know that?” you said with a smile.

He chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “I’m just a guy who likes art history,” he replied modestly.

“And I’m just a girl who’s falling for that guy who likes art history,” you teased, leaning in to rest your head on his shoulder as you continued your walk.

Spencer’s smile grew as he squeezed your hand a little tighter. “Then I’d say we’re both pretty lucky.”

—

August, 2006

The weekend in Los Angeles felt like a breath of fresh air, a pause from the relentless pace of your lives. The sun was warm against your skin as you and Spencer strolled along the beach, the Pacific Ocean stretching out endlessly before you. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore provided a soothing backdrop to the easy conversation that flowed between you.

“I never imagined LA would be so…relaxed,” Spencer remarked, his gaze drifting out over the water. “I always thought of it as this fast-paced, high-energy place.”

You smiled, nudging him playfully with your shoulder. “It can be, but there’s a whole other side to it too. It’s not all about Hollywood and traffic. Sometimes, it’s just about finding those quiet corners where you can breathe.”

Spencer nodded, looking thoughtful. “I can see why you like it here. It’s like the city has this dual nature—busy and vibrant, but also peaceful when you know where to look.”

“Exactly,” you agreed, your hand slipping into his. “I wanted to show you that part of my life, the part that isn’t all about work and appearances. Just… the real me.”

He turned to you, his expression softening. “I like the real you. I mean, I liked you before, but getting to see this side of you…it makes me feel closer to you.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you squeezed his hand gently. “I feel the same way. It’s nice to just…be with you, without any distractions.”

The two of you continued walking, the sand shifting beneath your feet as the conversation turned to lighter topics. You talked about everything from your favorite movies to childhood memories, finding joy in the simplicity of sharing these little pieces of your lives.

Later, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, you found a cozy spot at one of your favorite hidden restaurants, tucked away from the bustling streets. The atmosphere was intimate, the kind of place where you could lose yourself in conversation without worrying about being recognized. The soft candlelight flickered between you, casting a warm glow over the table.

“This place is amazing,” Spencer said as he looked around, taking in the rustic charm of the restaurant. “It’s like a little secret.”

You grinned, pleased that he liked it. “It’s one of my favorites. The food is great, but it’s the atmosphere that keeps me coming back. It’s like a little escape from everything.”

As the evening wore on, you both savored the delicious food and each other’s company, the rest of the world fading into the background. The conversation flowed easily, and you found yourself laughing more than you had in a long time, Spencer’s wit and intelligence making every moment more enjoyable.

By the time you made your way back to the beach for a final stroll under the stars, you felt a deep sense of contentment. The city’s vibrant energy had melted into the tranquility of the night, and it was just the two of you, walking hand in hand along the shore.

“I could get used to this,” Spencer said softly, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

“Me too,” you replied, leaning into him as you walked. “I wish we could stay here forever.”

Spencer smiled, a serene look on his face as he glanced down at you. “We can always come back. Maybe this could be our little escape.”

You looked up at him, your heart fluttering at the thought. “I’d like that.”

—

September, 2006

Spencer stood in the audience, his heart swelling with pride as he watched you perform, captivated by the way you commanded the stage. The lights bathed you in a warm glow, and your powerful, confident presence mesmerized the entire crowd. To Spencer, it was like seeing a new side of you, one that was awe-inspiring yet deeply connected to the person he knew so well—the one who shared quiet moments and deep conversations with him.

As the final notes rang out and the audience erupted in applause, Spencer clapped with fervor, pride evident in his eyes. After the show, you headed backstage, your adrenaline still high, but the moment you saw Spencer waiting for you, all the excitement of the stage melted away. His eyes shone with admiration, and in that instant, nothing else mattered but you.

Without a word, he pulled you into a tight hug, holding you close as if he never wanted to let go. “You were incredible,” he whispered in your ear, his voice full of emotion.

You smiled against his shoulder, the warmth of his embrace grounding you after the high of the performance. “Thank you,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. “I’m so glad you were here.”

Spencer’s gaze was intense, filled with a mixture of awe and love. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Seeing you up there, it was… it was something else. I’m so proud of you.”

Your heart swelled at his words, the sincerity in his voice making you feel even closer to him. “It means everything to me that you’re proud,” you replied, your hand resting against his chest.

He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I am. More than you know.”

—

November, 2006

Visiting Diana Reid in Las Vegas was a deeply personal step for both you and Spencer, a gesture that spoke volumes about how much you meant to him. The significance of the visit wasn't lost on you, and as you arrived at the care facility where Diana lived, you could feel the weight of the moment settling in.

Spencer’s hand held yours tightly as he led you inside, nervousness and pride evident in his eyes. You knew how important his mother was to him, and the fact that he was introducing you to her was a clear sign of the depth of his feelings. As you walked through the halls, you felt the butterflies in your stomach, but the steady pressure of Spencer’s hand in yours reassured you.

When you finally reached Diana’s room, Spencer paused, taking a deep breath before gently knocking on the door. “Mom, it’s Spencer,” he called softly, his voice filled with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

The door opened, and there she was—Diana Reid, with a warm smile that instantly made you feel at ease. “Spencer, my sweet boy,” she greeted, her eyes lighting up as she saw him. Then her gaze shifted to you, curiosity and kindness mingling in her expression. “And you must be Y/N. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Spencer squeezed your hand, his nerves clearly still present, but his voice was steady as he spoke. “Mom, this is Y/N. I wanted you to meet her.”

You stepped forward, offering a genuine smile. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Diana.”

Diana’s smile widened as she reached out to take your hand in hers. “The pleasure is mine, dear. Spencer speaks so highly of you.”

Diana welcomed you with warmth, her kindness evident in every word. It was clear how much Spencer loved her, reflected in the way he cared for her.

As the three of you chatted, you found it easy to connect with Diana—her sharp wit and stories filled the room with laughter. Spencer listened intently, his eyes often on his mother, revealing the deep bond they shared.

At one point, as Diana shared a funny childhood story about Spencer, you glanced at him and saw the soft, affectionate smile on his face. It made your heart swell with love for both him and the woman who raised him.

Throughout the visit, Spencer's hand never left yours, a silent sign of pride in introducing you to his mother. The connection you built with Diana added another layer to the bond you and Spencer were creating, one that grew stronger with each moment.

As the visit came to an end, Diana hugged you warmly, whispering in your ear, “Take care of him, won’t you?”

You hugged her back, your voice soft but sincere. “I will, Diana. I promise.”

When you and Spencer left the care facility, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. Meeting Diana had been a significant step, one that solidified the love and trust you and Spencer shared. And as you walked together under the bright Las Vegas sky, you knew that your relationship had grown even stronger, rooted in the love and connections you were building together.

—

December, 2006

The final piece fell into place when Spencer met your family in New York. Both of you had been a little nervous, knowing how important this moment was, but those nerves quickly dissolved as your family welcomed him with open arms. They were eager to meet the man who had captured your heart, and Spencer, with his quiet charm and genuine kindness, fit in seamlessly.

You watched with a smile as he effortlessly engaged in conversation with your parents, his gentle demeanor putting them at ease. He listened intently to your father’s stories and shared thoughtful insights that sparked lively discussions. Your mother was instantly taken with his manners and the way he looked at you with such clear affection.

It was your brother, though, who really put Spencer to the test, teasing him playfully and cracking jokes that had the room roaring with laughter. Spencer, to your delight, not only kept up but even managed to throw in a few quips of his own, earning him a slap on the back and a hearty laugh from your brother.

As you observed them all interacting, a warm feeling settled over you. Seeing Spencer so naturally integrated into your family, like he had always been a part of it, made your heart swell with happiness. You knew then, without a doubt, that he had become an irreplaceable part of your life.

Later that evening, as you walked hand in hand through the quiet streets of your old neighborhood, you turned to him with a smile. “I think they love you,” you said softly, leaning into his side.

Spencer glanced down at you, his eyes full of warmth. “I was more nervous about meeting them than I was about joining the FBI,” he admitted with a small chuckle. “But your family is wonderful. I feel really lucky.”

You stopped walking, turning to face him fully. “I’m the lucky one,” you said, your voice filled with emotion. “You mean so much to me, Spencer, and seeing you get along with my family… it just makes everything feel even more right.”

He pulled you into a gentle hug, his arms wrapping around you protectively. “I feel the same way,” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. “This—us—feels right.”

—

June, 2007

It wasn’t until you and Spencer had been together for a year that the first crack in the armor began to form. A year ago, Spencer had kept his promise and looked you up online. But what he didn’t tell you was how much he hated what he found. The dating rumors, the fan crushes, the obsession from your fans—he saw it all, and it gnawed at him. The jealousy simmered beneath the surface, his insecurities festering as he watched the world fawn over you.

At first, Spencer’s comments seemed harmless enough—slight jabs and subtle jokes about the rumors and fan pages. You thought he was just teasing, playing along with the absurdity of it all. But over time, the tone changed. The jokes became sharper, more pointed, until you couldn’t ignore the underlying resentment.

The breaking point came when you and Billie Eilish, a close friend since the beginning of your career, collaborated on a song for her new album. The promo involved interviews, social media posts, and what Spencer hated the most—a chicken shop date. The chemistry between you and Billie was undeniable, something that couldn’t be faked. Watching the video, Spencer felt his stomach churn with jealousy, convinced there was something more between you two.

Unable to keep his feelings in check, Spencer picked a fight over it. The tension that had been building for months finally erupted, his words laced with bitterness. “You and Billie looked like more than just friends in that video,” he snapped, unable to hide the hurt in his voice.

You stared at him, stunned. “Spencer, we’re just friends. You know that.”

He shook his head, frustration clear in his eyes. “It didn’t look like that to me. Everyone sees the way you two are together, and I can’t stand it.”

The pain in his voice cut deep, and you realized how much he had been holding back. “Spencer, there’s nothing between us but friendship. You have to believe me.”

But the damage was done. The fight opened up the insecurities Spencer had tried so hard to suppress, and the trust that had always been the foundation of your relationship began to waver. As the argument continued, it became clear that this wasn’t just about Billie—it was about everything Spencer had been silently battling for months. The dating rumors, the fans, the world’s obsession with you—it had all taken its toll, and now it was threatening to tear you apart.

—

August, 2007

You and Spencer were lost in a heated makeout session, the tension that had been building between you two finally dissolving as you straddled his lap on your couch in New York. It had been too long since you’d had a moment like this—no schedules, no distractions, just the two of you reconnecting in the way that always felt the most natural. Spencer’s hands roamed over your body, and you could feel the urgency in his touch, the desire to be close to you after so much time apart.

Just as things were beginning to escalate, your phone started ringing. You ignored it, too wrapped up in the moment to care who might be calling. After all, the most important person in your life was right here with you. But the ringing didn’t stop. It kept going, over and over, cutting through the haze of your desire and pulling you back to reality.

Spencer pulled back, clearly annoyed by the persistent interruption. His breath was ragged, his frustration evident as he grabbed your phone from the coffee table. He glanced at the screen, and his expression quickly shifted from irritation to something darker—anger mixed with jealousy.

“Seriously?” he said, his voice dripping with venom as he flipped the phone to show you the screen.

You looked at the image and felt your stomach drop. It was a picture of you and Billie, taken during a trip when the two of you had gone swimming under a waterfall, wearing little more than bathing suits. Spencer had once liked looking at that picture, a reminder of the carefree times you’d shared. But now, that same image seemed to fuel his insecurities, the sight of you and Billie together igniting a seething jealousy within him.

“Spencer…” you began, but he cut you off, his eyes blazing with anger.

“Why is she calling you? Now, of all times?” he demanded, the hurt in his voice unmistakable.

“She’s just a friend, Spencer,” you said softly, reaching out to touch his arm, but he pulled away slightly, the distance between you suddenly feeling like a chasm.

“Is she, though?” he shot back, his tone laced with bitterness. “Because it sure doesn’t feel that way. Not when she’s always there, in your life, interrupting us even now.”

You could see the pain behind his words, the way his jealousy had been festering for far too long. “Spencer, you’re the one I’m here with. You’re the one I love,” you tried to reassure him, but it was clear that the tension between you two wasn’t going to dissolve as easily as it had built up.

The moment that had been so full of passion just minutes ago now felt heavy with unresolved emotions. The weight of Spencer’s jealousy and your own guilt for not addressing it sooner pressed down on you both, leaving you to wonder how you could mend the growing rift between you.

—

October, 2007

The article was nothing more than a piece of sensationalized gossip, a tabloid’s attempt to stir the pot with baseless claims. It wasn’t even on your radar as you prepared for your upcoming tour of the Americas, your mind focused on rehearsals, logistics, and the excitement of performing for your fans. But Spencer had seen it. And instead of brushing it off as the ridiculous fabrication it was, he believed it.

His rational mind—the one you had always admired—had been overwhelmed by months of festering insecurities and jealousy. The TMZ article, with its blurry, barely discernible photo of two women who vaguely resembled you and Billie, was the final straw. In his mind, it was proof that his worst fears were true.

Spencer’s heart raced as he stared at the article, his eyes blurring with tears. The image, though unclear, fed into his paranoia. He could barely think straight, his emotions a chaotic storm of anger, hurt, and betrayal. He grabbed his phone, his hands trembling as he dialed your number. You were in Brazil, preparing for the first leg of your tour, oblivious to the storm brewing back home.

When you answered, you were met with a voice you hardly recognized—sharp, cold, and filled with rage. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Spencer had never sworn at you before. In fact, you weren’t even sure you’d ever heard him use the word “fuck” at all. The venom in his tone made your stomach drop, a cold dread seeping into your veins.

“What happened, baby?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, but the unease was already gnawing at you.

“Don’t ‘baby’ me!” he snapped, his voice breaking with emotion. “You made out with Billie in public, and you got caught. I have photo evidence that you’re cheating on me now. I’ve known for months! Months! How could you lie to my face?”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. You could hear the pain and betrayal in his voice, but all you felt was a profound sense of disbelief and heartache. “Spencer, what are you talking about? That’s not true. I would never—”

“Stop lying!” he interrupted, his voice thick with tears. “I saw the picture! How could you do this to me? To us?”

Your heart broke at the sound of his despair, but the accusation, the deep mistrust, cut even deeper. “Spencer, I didn’t do anything. There isn’t a picture because I’m not cheating on you,” you pleaded, your voice cracking under the weight of your own emotions.

But Spencer was too far gone, his mind too clouded by jealousy and doubt. “I can’t believe anything you say anymore,” he whispered, his voice filled with resignation. “I thought we had something real, but now… I don’t even know who you are.”

The fight that followed was explosive, both of you hurling words that only deepened the wounds already festering between you. Every attempt you made to explain, to reassure him, was met with anger and disbelief. Spencer’s trust in you had been shattered, and no amount of reasoning could bring him back from the edge.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. The constant jealousy, the mistrust, the way he had let a baseless article destroy the bond you had worked so hard to build—it was too much. “I can’t do this, Spencer,” you said, your voice trembling with emotion. “I love you, but I can’t live like this. I can’t be in a relationship where I’m constantly accused and doubted. It’s tearing me apart.”

There was a long, painful silence on the other end of the line, and then, in a voice that was barely above a whisper, Spencer said, “Maybe we both deserve better than this.”

Tears streamed down your face as you realized what had just happened. “Goodbye, Spencer,” you choked out, hanging up before he could say anything else.

As you stood there, staring at the phone in your hand, the enormity of what you had just done hit you like a tidal wave. You had ended things with the man you still loved deeply, because the relationship had become a minefield of jealousy and mistrust. It was the hardest decision you’d ever made, and the pain of it felt unbearable.

You were heartbroken, knowing that despite everything, your feelings for Spencer hadn’t changed. But the relationship had become toxic, and you couldn’t continue down that path. As you tried to pull yourself together, preparing to go on stage and perform as if your world hadn’t just crumbled, you couldn’t help but wonder if either of you would ever truly heal from this.

—

Spencer sat in the silence of his apartment, feeling like a shell of the person he once was. The shock of what had just happened left him numb, his mind struggling to grasp the reality of it all. You were gone, and it was his fault.

—

In the months that followed, Spencer couldn’t escape the crushing weight of what he had done. He replayed every argument, every moment of doubt, and came to a painful realization: he was the bad guy in this story.

He watched as your tour progressed, each new headline a reminder of what he had lost. The press coverage was relentless, but what struck him most was how your relationship with Billie remained the same—close, supportive, but nothing more. There was no secret romance, no hidden agenda. Just the friendship that had always been there, and that he had been too blinded by jealousy to see for what it was.

Then, the truth about the photo came out. It wasn’t you. It wasn’t even Billie. It was a completely different couple—Phoebe Bridgers and her girlfriend. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He had destroyed everything over a lie, over a distorted perception fueled by his own insecurities.

Spencer spiraled into self-loathing, he knew he had been an asshole—an irrational, emotional, accusatory, jealous, ignorant asshole. And now, he had to live with the consequences of his actions, knowing that he had let the best thing in his life slip through his fingers.

—

June, 2008

“So, Y/N… you just finished the first leg of your tour, how does it feel?” the interviewer asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity.

You couldn’t help but smile, the emotions from the tour still fresh in your mind. “Oh, it feels amazing! The energy from the crowds, the love and support—it was incredible. I miss them all so much already. Honestly, I wish I could go back and say thank you again to every single person who showed up for me and made this possible. They’re the reason I get to do what I love, and I’m so grateful for that.”

“Isn’t she great?” the interviewer exclaimed, prompting cheers from the live audience. After the applause died down, the interviewer leaned in with a mischievous grin. “I have to know, if you’re comfortable, what happened to that sexy string bean you used to have on your arm?”

Spencer, who had been half-listening to your interview as usual, suddenly found himself on high alert. His heart pounded in his chest as he waited for your response.

You shifted slightly in your seat, a small, wistful smile on your face. “Oh… um, we separated. But I still care for him deeply and hope he’s doing well.”

The interviewer nodded sympathetically before pressing on, “Are you seeing anyone new?”

Spencer held his breath, not sure if he wanted to hear your answer.

You shook your head, your smile more focused now. “No, I’m not. Just focusing on the tour right now! It’s hard work!”

The interviewer grinned. “I bet it is! Keeping busy with something you love is the best way to go.”

Spencer released a breath he’d been holding, a mixture of relief and lingering regret washing over him. He hadn’t moved on either.

—

July, 2008

(we pretend this is our song for the sake of the plot <3)

You released a few new songs before the second leg of your tour started, wanting to keep things fresh and exciting for your fans. Among the tracks was a deep cut, a raw and emotional song about your love for Spencer. It was a piece of your heart, a reflection of the pain, regret, and lingering love that still existed despite everything that had happened.

Spencer, however, had stopped listening to your music after the breakup. Every song felt like a reminder of what he had lost, especially the love songs that once brought him joy. The melodies that used to connect you two now only deepened his regret, making him avoid your music altogether.

But when Garcia heard your new song, she knew immediately that Spencer needed to hear it. Without hesitation, she sent it directly to him, attaching a message that read: You need to listen to this. Trust me.

Spencer hesitated when he saw the message. He knew it would hurt, but something made him press play. As the song played, the lyrics washed over him, each word piercing through the wall he had tried to build around his emotions. It was as if you were speaking directly to him, baring your soul in a way that was both beautiful and heartbreaking.

As the song ended, Spencer sat in silence, the weight of your words pressing down on him. He realized that despite everything, the love you had shared was still there, buried beneath the pain and mistakes. The song was a painful reminder of the depth of your connection, and it left him wondering if there was any way to mend what had been broken.

But as much as he wanted to reach out, he knew that no apology or explanation could undo the hurt he had caused. Spencer felt lost, grappling with the knowledge that he had loved you—and still did—yet had let his own insecurities destroy the best thing in his life.

—

Spencer had endured just about everything in his time at the FBI—being hit, kicked, shot, drugged, kidnapped—but never, in all those years, had anyone flicked him on the forehead. Until now. Derek Morgan’s fingers connected with a sharp flick, jolting Spencer out of his thoughts.

“We all know, Reid. Garcia sent the song to all of us,” Derek said, his voice laced with both sympathy and frustration. “I don’t know what you did, but I’m sure a flick doesn’t cover it.”

Spencer shook his head, the weight of guilt heavy on his shoulders. “It doesn’t,” he admitted, the truth settling like a stone in his stomach.

That night, Spencer decided he couldn’t ignore it any longer. Swallowing the last remnants of his pride, he picked up his phone and dialed your number. But when the automated message informed him that the line was no longer in service, his heart sank. You had changed your number. Still, the adrenaline coursing through his veins wouldn’t let him stop. He dialed the next number he knew by heart.

“Hello?” came the familiar voice on the other end.

“Dylan?” Spencer’s voice trembled slightly, betraying his nerves.

“Who is this?” Dylan’s tone was cold, guarded.

“Spencer Reid. Please, don’t hang up.”

“What do you want, asshole?”

Spencer flinched at the anger in Dylan’s voice, but he knew he deserved it. “I deserve that.”

“Damn right, you piece of shit. I watched my sister cry for months over you. And she didn’t do anything wrong—it was all you.”

“I know,” Spencer replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

“So let me repeat myself, what do you want?”

“I want to talk to her,” Spencer said, desperation creeping into his tone.

“No fucking way.”

“Please, I need to apologize.”

“She’s moved on, she doesn’t want to hear from you,” Dylan shot back, his words cutting through Spencer like a knife.

“She moved on?” Spencer’s voice wavered, the reality of those words hitting him hard.

“Yeah, most people would by now.”

Spencer felt a painful twist in his chest, but he pressed on. “I still… I still want to apologize.”

Dylan’s voice was ice-cold. “If you actually cared about her, you’d let her go.”

“Dylan—” Spencer tried to plead, but the line went dead, the dial tone echoing in his ear.

Spencer stared at the phone in his hand, the finality of it all crashing down on him. He had lost you, not just because of his mistakes but because he hadn’t been able to see what was in front of him until it was too late.

—

“He called today.”

“What?” you asked, looking up in surprise.

“He called me.”

“Who?” But even as you asked, you felt a knot forming in your stomach, dreading the answer.

“Spencer.”

You froze. That name hadn’t been spoken around you in what felt like forever. Hearing it now sent a wave of emotions crashing over you, emotions you’d worked so hard to bury.

“Why?” you managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Jackass said he wanted to apologize to you,” Dylan replied, his tone laced with disdain.

“After all this time?” The disbelief in your voice was evident, and you could hardly process what you were hearing.

“Mhm,” Dylan confirmed, watching your reaction carefully.

“What did you tell him?” you asked, already fearing the answer.

“That you’d moved on, that he should too,” Dylan said, his voice firm and protective.

“Oh.” The single word hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken thoughts and lingering feelings.

Dylan’s voice softened, sensing your turmoil. “Y/N… he’s not worth it. He doesn’t deserve you.”

“I know,” you replied, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Thanks, Dylan. I’m going to bed. Goodnight. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Dylan said, his concern palpable even through the phone.

That night, as you lay in bed, you couldn’t help but wish your number hadn’t been leaked. You knew Spencer would have called you directly if he could have. And if you had answered? You might have at least heard him out, given him the chance to say the things he had left unsaid for so long.

But now, as you stared up at the ceiling, the what-ifs swirled in your mind, keeping you awake long into the night. You had moved on, or at least you told yourself you had. But the unresolved feelings, the remnants of a love that once meant everything, were still there, lurking just beneath the surface. And as much as you wanted to push them away, tonight they were impossible to ignore.

—

Hey Kade – think you can find a number for me? And not tell Dylan…

For sure, just give me a name and a city

God bless Kade. They didn't ask any questions, just worked their magic. Within minutes, Kade had sent you Spencer's number. You stared at it for a long moment, the screen glowing in the dim light of your room. Your thumb hovered over the call button, knowing that if you didn’t do it now, you’d lose your nerve.

With a deep breath, you tapped the number and pressed the phone to your ear. The ringing felt endless, each second adding to your nerves. But then, the line clicked, and his familiar voice came through.

“Spencer Reid.”

“Spencer Reid’s ex-girlfriend,” you said, your tone shy yet teasing, trying to mask the anxiety bubbling inside you.

There was a brief pause, then his voice, softer now, almost incredulous. “Y/N?”

“The one and only,” you replied, your heart racing as you tried to steady your voice.

There was another pause, this one filled with emotions that neither of you knew how to express just yet.

“You called Dylan,” you said, your voice a mix of curiosity and caution.

“I know, your old number didn’t work,” Spencer replied, his tone tinged with regret.

“Someone leaked it…” you explained softly, the memory of that chaotic time flashing through your mind. But you quickly refocused, your heart pounding as you asked the question that had been weighing on you since you heard he’d tried to reach out. “Why were you calling, Spencer?”

“I love you,” he blurted out, the words raw and desperate.

“What?” The sudden confession caught you off guard, your heart skipping a beat as you tried to process what he had just said.

“Your song, i love you. Did you mean it? Do you still love me?” His voice cracked with vulnerability, and you could hear the pleading in his words, the desperation of a man who had realized too late what he had lost.

“Spencer…” You hesitated, the pain and love intertwined so tightly within you that it was hard to speak.

“I’m begging you, Y/N. Do you love me?” The vulnerability in his voice was palpable, and you could almost see him, his heart in his hands, waiting for your response.

“Of course I do,” you finally admitted, the truth spilling out before you could stop it.

“Are you in New York?” Spencer asked, his voice filled with hope.

“Yes,” you replied, your heart racing as the conversation took a turn you hadn’t expected.

“Can I come see you?” His question hung in the air, the possibility of seeing him again making your pulse quicken.

“Right now?” you asked, still trying to catch up with the sudden shift in your emotions.

“Right now, I can be there by 4 pm,” he responded, the determination in his voice unmistakable.

“Okay,” you said, the word slipping out before you could second-guess yourself.

“Okay? Really?” Spencer’s voice was filled with a mix of surprise and relief.

“Yeah,” you confirmed, a small smile forming on your lips. “You remember where I live?”

“By heart,” he replied, and you could hear the warmth in his voice.

“See you soon, Spence,” you said softly, the familiar nickname bringing a wave of nostalgia and comfort.

“See you soon,” he echoed, and with that, the call ended, leaving you with a whirlwind of emotions and the realization that in just a few hours, Spencer would be standing at your door.

—

Spencer spent the entire train ride to New York mentally rehearsing what he would say to you. He went over every possible scenario, trying to find the right words to express everything he felt—the regret, the love, the longing. But as the train pulled into the station and he made his way to your apartment, his mind went blank. By the time he was standing at your door, all his carefully planned words had vanished.

His hand, seemingly moving on its own, raised to knock. The sound echoed in the quiet hallway, and within moments, the door swung open.

When you appeared in the doorway, his breath caught in his throat. You looked even more beautiful than he remembered, if that was even possible.

“Hey,” you said softly, your eyes searching his, filled with emotions.

“Hey,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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kiwriteswords · 5 months ago

Note

congrats on your 2k 🎉

for missing scene Monday, could we get bearded Hotch's new gf he met on his secret assignment in Pakistan?? I'll leave it to you if you want to extend it back to the US and the BAU team!!

Just begging for anything with bearded Hotch and yes this was inspired by your 2k celebration gif choices ❤️ love ya!

Let It Be [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Ki2k Masterlist||Main Masterlist (not updated, sorry!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 8k|| AN: Thank you so much for sending this request so early for day one! I was able to get a head start on this last week, and I really love how it turned out!

Tags/Warnings: female reader, canon-divergent, beard!hotch, canon-typical themes, hurt/comfort, banter, Hotch in Pakistan, non!BAU reader, kinda left tbc?

Summary: Hotch meets you on assignment in Pakistan, and you're exactly what he was looking for...someone who's just there without pushing.

The sun was relentless, bearing down on the barren expanse surrounding the base. Sweat collected under your tactical gear, but you barely noticed. It was the kind of heat that stripped away all distractions, leaving you focused on the mission ahead--or at least trying to be.

You adjusted the strap of your duffel bag and glanced around the bustling camp. This wasn’t your first special operations assignment, but the tension in the air felt different here. Heavier.

It could have just been you dragging the weight of unresolved emotions halfway across the world, or it could have been the stakes of the mission--a dangerous operation involving an international terrorist cell that required precision, discretion, and teamwork between agencies not known for always getting along.

“Agent Y/L/N?”

The voice was deep, cutting through the camp noise. You turned and found yourself face to face with a tall man, his sharp features etched into a permanent state of seriousness. His gaze was steady, and his presence commanded attention without effort.

“That’s me,” you replied, clipped but polite.

He stepped closer, extending a hand. “Aaron Hotchner, unit chief for the BAU.”

The name was familiar. You had read the reports and heard the stories--his work on high-profile cases, his leadership, and his reputation for being unflinchingly methodical. You shook his hand, noting the firm grip and how it matched the intensity in his dark eyes.

“Special Agent Y/L/N, CIA Directorate of Operations,” you said, introducing yourself with the same straightforward efficiency. “Behavioral analyst and covert operations specialist.”

His brow shifted slightly, just enough for you to notice. He nodded, acknowledging your credentials with a quiet respect.

“Briefing starts in five,” he said, his tone all business. Then he turned and walked away, leaving you with the distinct impression that there was more to him than the stoic exterior he projected. You had worked with people like him before--people who carried their burdens in silence--but something about the weight in his eyes made you wonder if he had brought his own ghosts to this mission, much like you had.

….

The first few days were a blur of briefings, strategy sessions, and late nights poring over intel. You didn’t interact much with Hotch beyond the occasional exchange of information, but you caught yourself noticing him. The way he carried himself--calm and composed, but with an edge of tension that never seemed to leave him. You recognized it because you felt it, too.

As you reviewed reports in the command tent one night, he walked in, filling the space. He set a folder on the table and glanced at you.

“You’ve been here for hours,” he said, not a question but an observation.

You shrugged, keeping your focus on the documents in front of you. “So have you.”

“I’m used to it,” he replied, his tone neutral.

“So am I.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, he pulled out a chair and sat across from you, his gaze steady.

“It’s easier to keep busy,” he said quietly as if he was sharing a truth he rarely voiced.

You glanced up, meeting his eyes. There was something there--something raw and unspoken. You wanted to ask what he was running from, but you didn’t. You weren’t ready to share your own truths, so you didn’t ask for his.

….

The nights were the hardest. The quiet gave your mind too much room to wander, dredging up memories you’d rather forget. One evening, you found yourself outside, staring at the vast expanse of desert under a blanket of stars. You didn’t expect company, but the sound of footsteps behind you made you turn.

It was Hotch.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

He shook his head, stepping closer until he was standing beside you.

“Me neither,” you admitted.

For a while, you just stood there, the silence between you feeling strangely comfortable.

“I read your file,” he said eventually, his tone careful.

You glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Did you now?”

“You’ve handled some difficult assignments. Made a name for yourself.”

There was no arrogance in his words; it was just observation.

“Guess you could say I have a knack for throwing myself into the fire,” you replied. Something flashed across his face like he was going to respond with something, but he didn’t.

Neither of you spoke for a while, but his presence was steady, almost calming.

“Why are you really here?” you asked, breaking the quiet. Nobody in their right mind would have volunteered for this unless they either A) had nobody to go home to at night, or B) were trying to forget about something else. You could tell by the small photo Hotch carried around of, presumably, his son it wasn’t option A.

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was low, almost reluctant. “Because it’s easier than being back home.”

You nodded, understanding more than you cared to admit. “Yeah. Same.”

He glanced at you, something unreadable in his expression. “What are you running from?”

You hesitated, the question hitting too close to home. “A mistake. One I don’t want to repeat.”

He didn’t press for details, and you were grateful. Instead, he said, “Sometimes running is the only way to keep moving.”

You nodded, even though you weren’t sure if you agreed.

……

As the mission dragged on, the weight of it started to press down on both of you. You began to notice how Hotch avoided certain topics, not that personal topics frequently came up. You noticed how his eyes darkened when the name "Prentiss" came up from the communication specialist on the special ops team.

You didn’t ask--he didn’t offer--but the pieces slowly started to come together. You had to be living under a rock in this field not to have heard about the major loss the BAU took this past year.

One night, after another tense meeting, you found yourselves in the makeshift kitchen, both reaching for the last cup of coffee.

“You take it,” you said, stepping back.

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“I insist. I’ve had worse days.”

Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of understanding. “I doubt that.”

You smirked, the slightest crack in your guarded exterior. “Careful, Hotchner. That almost sounded like empathy.”

His lips twitched--the closest thing to a smile you’d seen from him. “Don’t get used to it.”

….

A sudden sandstorm sent the entire team scrambling for cover. The wind howled outside the command tent, shaking the canvas walls as you huddled with Hotch and two other agents.

“Typical,” you muttered, brushing sand off your gear. “Mission’s hard enough without Mother Nature making it worse.”

Hotch sat across from you, his expression unreadable as he tightened the straps on his vest. He was scruffier than he was when you first arrived. It wasn’t a bad look, but you brushed down that thought.

“You’ve been through worse,” he said matter-of-factly, not a question but a statement.

You let out a short laugh. “Don’t give me too much credit, Hotchner. I’m not invincible.”

“No one is,” he replied, his tone softer than you expected. “But you’re resilient. I can see that.”

The compliment, if you could call it that, caught you off guard. You didn’t reply, unsure how to. Instead, you focused on the storm outside, the roar of the wind drowning out everything else.

But later, when the storm passed, and you stepped out into the eerily quiet desert, you found yourself glancing at Hotch. He met your gaze for a moment, and something unspoken passed between you--a mutual respect, a shared understanding.

….

It was late, and the compound was finally quiet. You were seated at a makeshift table, cleaning your sidearm, when Hotch approached with two cups of coffee.

“You’re a lifesaver,” you said as he set one down in front of you.

“I doubt that,” he replied, but there was a hint of amusement in his tone.

You took a sip, wincing at the bitter taste. “God, this is terrible.”

“It’s coffee,” he said with a small shrug as if that explained everything.

You glanced at him, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Do you ever lighten up, Hotchner?”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “On occasion.”

“Define ‘occasion.’”

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze drifting to the weapon in your hands. “When it’s earned,” he said finally.

It was a cryptic response, but it made you smile anyway. “Well, I’ll consider this progress.”

He sat with you in silence, but it was comfortable. The company was more needed than either of you realized.

….

The day had been relentless, the kind that left your muscles aching and your mind frayed at the edges. You had lost count of how many hours you’d been awake--thirty, maybe forty. Every bone in your body screamed for rest, but the tension from the mission had settled into your chest, making sleep impossible.

You found yourself outside the command tent, slumping onto an old crate with a half-empty water bottle in your hand. The distant hum of generators buzzed like a white noise machine, masking the desert’s eerie quiet.

Hotch appeared a few minutes later, wordlessly lowering himself onto the crate beside you. His presence, steady as always, should have been comforting, but tonight it only made the lump in your throat harder to ignore.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You told yourself you liked the silence, but the truth was, it gave your thoughts too much room to spiral. Your chest felt tight, and despite the coolness of the night, your face burned with exhaustion-fueled frustration.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you blurted out, the words tumbling from your mouth before you could stop them.

Hotch turned his head toward you, his face unreadable but his attention sharp. “Why do you say that?”

You let out a shaky breath, staring out into the endless darkness of the desert. “Because I’m running. I didn’t know what else to do.” You hesitated, feeling the weight of your own admission. “I thought putting space between me and...everything would help, but maybe it just makes it worse.”

The words sat heavy in the air, and you instantly regretted saying them. You felt exposed, as though admitting it aloud would make it all the more real. Your hands fidgeted with the bottle, and you kept your gaze fixed ahead, unwilling to meet his.

You thought about the way your life had pretty much unraveled around you back at home. If it wasn’t for work, you’re not sure you’d still be standing on your two feet. Here you could be the strong, independent person you aspired to be. At home, you were heartbroken without an end in sight.

The silence stretched long enough that you thought he wouldn’t respond. But then, in that low, even voice of his, he said, “It doesn’t make it worse. It just makes it...quieter. And sometimes quiet is all you can handle.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the quiet vulnerability in his tone. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, distant and heavy with something you couldn’t name.

“Is that why you’re here?” you asked softly, the rawness in your voice betraying how fragile you felt.

He nodded, barely perceptible, his gaze never leaving the horizon. “I thought being here might help me make sense of things. But some things…” He trailed off, his brow furrowing. “Some things don’t have answers.”

There was something about the way he said it--not defensive, not self-pitying, just honest. It broke through the dam inside you, and for a fleeting moment, you thought you might cry.

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat tightening. The weight of his answer settled between you, tangible and heavy, yet somehow reassuring.

For the first time, the silence felt like a shared space rather than an empty one. You didn’t push for more. You couldn’t, not with your emotions already threatening to overflow. But as the desert night pressed in around you, you realized you didn’t need to.

Whatever walls you both had built were starting to crumble, and neither of you seemed inclined to stop it.

…..

The air in the abandoned warehouse was stifling, thick with the smell of rust and dust. You moved carefully, your weapon drawn and your eyes scanning every shadow. Hotch was just behind you, silent but steady, his presence grounding you in the tense atmosphere.

The intel had been solid: a potential threat against the local embassy was being planned here, and your team had been tasked with gathering evidence. But now, as you crept deeper into the maze of crates and machinery, something felt off. The place was too quiet.

A faint creak made you freeze. You glanced back at Hotch, and he gave a subtle nod, his dark eyes sharp with focus. He gestured for you to take the left while he veered right. You obeyed without question, trusting his instincts as much as your own.

You edged around a stack of crates, your pulse quickening. The sound came again--a faint shuffle, followed by a whisper of movement. You tightened your grip on your weapon, adrenaline flooding your system.

Then everything exploded at once.

A figure lunged from the shadows, slamming into you with enough force to knock you off balance. Your weapon clattered to the floor as you struggled against the assailant, their grip bruising as they tried to pin you down.

“Agent Y/L/N!” Hotch’s voice cut through the chaos like a lifeline.

You twisted, freeing one arm, and drove your elbow into the attacker’s side. They grunted, loosening their grip just enough for you to push them off. But before you could retrieve your weapon, another figure appeared, this one heading straight for Hotch.

“Behind you!” you shouted, scrambling to your feet.

Hotch spun just in time, deflecting the attacker’s blow and delivering a calculated strike that sent them stumbling. But the odds were quickly stacking against you--more figures emerged from the shadows, their movements coordinated and purposeful.

“Fall back!” Hotch ordered, his voice calm but commanding.

You grabbed your weapon and fell into step beside him as the two of you retreated toward the exit. The sound of footsteps echoed behind you, growing louder with each passing second.

“We’re not going to make it out clean,” you said, your voice tight as you scanned for cover.

Hotch’s jaw clenched. “We don’t have to. We just need to slow them down.”

He pointed to a stack of crates near the exit, and you understood immediately. You fired a few shots, not aiming to hit but to force your pursuers to take cover. Then, together, you pushed the nearest crate, toppling it over and creating a barricade that bought you a few precious seconds.

“Go!” Hotch barked, motioning for you to move ahead.

“No way,” you snapped, falling into position beside him. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

His gaze flicked to you, something unspoken passing between you. It wasn’t the time for arguments, so he didn’t push it.

The two of you moved as one, covering each other as you navigated the narrow corridors toward the exit. Your heart pounded in your ears, but you didn’t let it distract you. Hotch’s steady presence was all you focused on, his calm precision a stark contrast to the chaos around you.

Finally, you burst into the open air, the sounds of shouting and gunfire fading behind you. You didn’t stop running until you reached the safety of the extraction point, where reinforcements were waiting.

You doubled over, hands on your knees as you caught your breath. Hotch was beside you, his breathing heavy but controlled.

“You good?” he asked, his voice low but steady.

You nodded, straightening up. “Yeah. You?”

“I’ve been worse,” he replied, a faint flicker of dry humor in his tone.

You couldn’t help but let out a shaky laugh, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. “That’s one way to bond, I guess.”

Hotch glanced at you, and for the first time since the mission began, you saw something close to a smile on his face. It was brief, but it was real.

“Good work out there,” he said simply.

“Right back at you,” you replied, meeting his gaze.

In that moment, you realized just how much you trusted him--not just as a colleague, but as someone who had your back, no matter what. And from the way he looked at you, you had the feeling he felt the same.

….

The day had been unusually quiet. The base hummed with its usual activity, but the weight in the air seemed heavier that day. You had noticed it the moment you walked into the briefing room. Hotch had been there, as he always was, but there was something off.

His usual sharp focus felt dulled, his replies curt even for his standards. He spent more time staring at his tablet than actually reading it, and the lines etched into his face seemed deeper somehow.

You weren’t a profiler, but you didn’t need to be to know something was wrong.

Now, hours later, you found him alone in the makeshift command tent, the harsh glow of a desk lamp illuminating the strain on his features. He was seated, elbows on the table and his hands clasped in front of him, staring at a map as if willing it to make sense.

“You’re still at it?” you asked gently, stepping inside.

His head lifted slightly, but he didn’t look at you. “There’s a lot to prepare for.”

“There always is,” you replied, pulling up a chair across from him. “But it’s late. You should take a break.”

“I can’t afford to.”

The edge in his voice wasn’t aimed at you, but it still made you hesitate. You considered leaving him to his work, but something kept you there.

“Hotch,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the tense quiet. “What’s going on?”

He finally looked up, his dark eyes shadowed by something heavy. For a moment, you thought he might tell you, but then his expression hardened, his walls slamming back into place.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he said, his tone measured but distant.

You didn’t believe him, not for a second. But you also knew better than to push.

Instead, you leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “You’re allowed to have off days, you know. Even you.”

His lips twitched, almost a humorless smile. “I don’t have the time for that.”

“You’re human,” you countered, your tone steady but not pressing. “It’s not a luxury. It’s just...life.”

He didn’t respond, his gaze dropping back to the table. But his hands, usually so still, were fidgeting now--his fingers twisting the edge of the map absentmindedly.

You let the silence settle between you, giving him space. After a few minutes, you stood and moved toward the coffee pot in the corner of the tent. You poured two cups, setting one down in front of him without a word before returning to your seat.

Hotch stared at the cup for a moment before picking it up, cradling it in his hands like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“It’s fine,” he said abruptly, almost as if he was telling it to himself, though his tone betrayed him. “I just--” He stopped, shaking his head as if to dismiss whatever he’d been about to say.

“You don’t have to explain,” you said quietly, your voice steady. “We all have those days.”

He let out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “This one feels heavier.”

You didn’t know what he was carrying--something about him always felt impenetrable, as though he kept the world at arm’s length. But you didn’t need to know the specifics to recognize the weight he was under.

“You’re allowed to let it feel heavy,” you said after a moment, watching his reaction carefully.

Hotch’s hand tightened around the coffee cup, the faintest flicker of vulnerability flashing across his face before his walls went back up. “I shouldn’t let it distract me,” he muttered.

You leaned forward, resting your arms on the table. “Maybe letting yourself feel it for five minutes wouldn’t be a distraction. Maybe it’d just be human.”

He didn’t respond, but his jaw shifted as though he was grinding his teeth. His silence didn’t bother you--it was enough to just sit there, letting him know he wasn’t alone.

After a while, he spoke, his voice quiet but firm. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not digging,” he said, finally looking at you. His gaze softened just enough to make your chest ache. “For just...being here.”

You offered a small smile, reaching across the table and resting your hand lightly over his. It wasn’t much, but the way his shoulders relaxed told you it was enough.

“I’ve got your back,” you said simply. “Whatever it is, you’re not alone.”

Hotch nodded, his grip tightening briefly on the cup before setting it down. He didn’t say anything else, but the tension in the room felt lighter somehow.

The two of you sat there in silence, the night pressing in around you. And while the weight of whatever he was carrying didn’t disappear, you could tell it didn’t feel quite so unbearable anymore.

…

The sun blazed mercilessly overhead, reflecting off the shallow, winding river that cut through the barren terrain. You adjusted your gear, sweat dripping down your temple as you followed Hotch’s lead. The mission had gone sideways--nothing catastrophic, but the extraction point was now miles further than planned, and the only route was straight through the rocky riverbed.

“Watch your step,” Hotch warned as he leaped from one jagged boulder to another. His movements were precise, practiced, but you could tell the exhaustion of the day was catching up with him.

“I was planning to fall flat on my face,” you replied, the edge of sarcasm in your voice lighthearted enough to soften the tension.

His lips twitched, that almost-smile you’d grown accustomed to. “Let’s avoid that.”

The river wasn’t deep, but the current was deceptively strong. The rocks were uneven; some were slick with moss, and others were barely stable. The whole setup was a sprained ankle--or worse--waiting to happen.

You made it halfway across before your boot slipped on a loose stone, your footing completely giving out beneath you. You stumbled, and the weight of your gear made it impossible to regain your balance.

Before you could hit the water, a substantial hand shot out, grabbing your arm and pulling you upright. The force of it brought you chest-to-chest with Hotch, his grip firm and steady.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low and close, his breath warm against your temple.

“Yeah,” you managed, your own breath catching as you looked up at him. His face was inches from yours, and for a moment, the world shrank to just the two of you.

His dark eyes searched yours, something unreadable flickering in them--concern, maybe, or something deeper. He didn’t let go right away, his hand lingering on your arm as though he needed to make sure you were truly steady.

“I told you to watch your step,” he said finally, his tone softer than usual. His words did not match the gentleness in his tone.

“And I told you I was planning to fall,” you shot back, the corner of your mouth quirking up into a wry smile.

His lips twitched again, but this time, it felt closer to a real smile. His hand slipped away reluctantly, the warmth of his touch lingering long after he stepped back.

“Let’s keep moving,” he said, his voice all business again, though you caught the slight shift in his expression--something unguarded, fleeting, but unmistakably there.

…

The day’s trek had left you both bone-weary, but the setting sun brought with it a chill that seeped into your skin. The fire crackled low between you as you sat on overturned crates, the glow casting flickering shadows over the rocky outcrop that served as your makeshift camp for the night.

You had stripped down to your undershirt, your jacket drying on a nearby rock after the river crossing. Hotch sat across from you, rolling his stiff shoulders and rubbing his neck, his usual stoicism slightly cracked by the day’s exhaustion.

“You’re going to be sore tomorrow,” you commented, watching him massage the tension from his muscles.

“So will you,” he replied, his eyes flicking to your bruised forearm from the earlier stumble.

“I bounce back quickly,” you said lightly. “You, on the other hand, might want to consider a hot bath.”

His lips quirked, and he shook his head. “I’ll add that to the list of luxuries I’m missing out on.”

“Right after edible food,” you added, holding up the protein bar you’d been gnawing on. “This is basically punishment.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rare, and it made your chest tighten unexpectedly. You leaned back slightly, letting the warmth of the fire and the rare ease of the moment settle over you.

“You’re not always so serious, are you?” you asked, half-teasing but genuinely curious.

Hotch glanced at you, something unreadable in his expression. “Depends on the company.”

The weight of his words hung between you, and for a moment, you couldn’t look away. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the lines of exhaustion and something deeper--something you couldn’t quite name but felt pulled toward.

“Well,” you said finally, breaking the tension with a small smirk. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He didn’t respond right away, his gaze lingering on you before he nodded slightly. “You should.”

The fire had long since burned down to embers, but neither of you had moved. The quiet was comfortable now, a shared understanding that didn’t need words.

“You’re different,” Hotch said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence. His tone was thoughtful, not heavy, but it made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t expect.

“Different how?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You don’t push,” he said simply. “Most people do. They want something, even if they don’t say it.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening at the vulnerability in his words. “Maybe I just know what it’s like to need space.”

Hotch nodded, his gaze dropping to the glowing embers. “It’s rare,” he said quietly. “And...appreciated.”

The weight of his words settled over you, and you realized with a startling clarity that you didn’t want this moment to end. The mission, the chaos, the fleeting moments of quiet connection--they’d all built to this, and you weren’t ready to let it go.

You didn’t say anything, but you shifted closer, just enough that your knee brushed against his. He didn’t move away, and the warmth of his presence felt like an anchor in the cool desert night.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. But when he finally looked at you, the guarded distance in his eyes had softened, replaced by something you couldn’t name but felt deeply.

“Get some rest,” he said eventually, his voice low but gentle. “Tomorrow will come too soon.”

You nodded, standing and brushing the dust from your pants. But as you turned to leave, you paused, glancing back at him. “Good night, Hotch.”

“Good night,” he replied, his gaze following you as you walked away.

And for the first time since this mission began, you felt a flicker of something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long time--something you weren’t sure you could name but couldn’t deny was there.

…..

The air in the base felt heavier than usual. The usual hum of activity buzzed in the background, but your focus was locked on the figure in front of you--Aaron Hotchner, standing by the transport vehicle, his duffel slung over his shoulder. A stark contrast to how he had shown up so long ago. Now, slimmer and with a face full of facial hair.

You hadn’t expected the mission to end like this--not with him leaving before it was over. The news had come down hours ago: he had been called back stateside. No explanation, no warning. Just orders.

“Something urgent?” you asked, keeping your tone steady even as you struggled to meet his eyes.

He nodded, his expression unreadable but his jaw tight, a tell you’d come to recognize. “I have to return to Quantico. The team needs me.”

Of course, they do, you thought. You had known from the beginning that this wasn’t his world. His world was back home, leading the BAU, carrying burdens most people couldn’t fathom. Still, the abruptness of his departure left a hollow ache in your chest that you hadn’t prepared for.

You stepped closer, your arms crossed, not out of defiance but to keep yourself grounded. “We’ll manage here,” you said, the words feeling both true and hollow.

Hotch’s gaze flicked to you, his dark eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “You will,” he said, his voice low. “You’re good at this.”

A faint, humorless laugh escaped you. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It was,” he replied, a faint ghost of a smile on his lips before it disappeared.

The silence between you was heavy, filled with all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t. You weren’t naive. Whatever had brought him here was bigger than the mission, bigger than you. But that didn’t make it any easier to watch him leave.

“Will you be back?” you asked finally, your voice quieter than you’d intended.

Hotch hesitated, his gaze shifting to the ground for a moment before meeting yours again. “I don’t know.”

The honesty in his answer hit harder than you expected.

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat and nodded. “Well, in case you don’t…you know, good luck, Hotch.”

He studied you for a moment, as if committing your face to memory. Then, to your surprise, he stepped closer. His hand reached out, resting lightly on your arm.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “For everything.”

The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through you, but you didn’t pull away. “For what?”

“For being here. For making this easier,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You searched his eyes, the words catching in your throat. Instead of speaking, you reached up and squeezed his hand where it rested on your arm, the small gesture saying more than words could.

His hand lingered for a moment before he pulled back, his professional mask sliding into place once more.

“They’re waiting for me,” he said, his voice steady but distant.

You nodded, forcing a small smile. “Go. They need you more than we do.”

He hesitated again, his eyes flicking to yours one last time. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too,” you replied, your voice barely audible.

And then he turned and climbed into the vehicle. You stood there, watching as it pulled away, the ache in your chest growing heavier with each passing second.

When the dust finally settled, and the vehicle disappeared from sight, you let out a shaky breath, the reality of his absence sinking in.

You hadn’t expected this assignment to change anything. But now, as you stood alone under the relentless desert sun, you realized just how much it had--and how much he had.

You weren’t sure how you’d get over missing him the way you felt the minute he left your side.

…

The harsh glow of the tent's fluorescent light was a poor substitute for the sun. You rubbed your temples, trying to chase away the dull ache that had settled behind your eyes after hours of pouring over intel. The mission dragged on, one step forward and two steps back, and you were beginning to feel the weight of it pressing down on you.

The faint crackle of the comm system startled you, drawing your attention to the communications officer stationed at the other end of the tent. His head tilted, listening intently before he turned and called out, “Y/L/N, secure line for you. Priority channel.”

You blinked, confusion flashing across your face. Secure lines weren’t uncommon, but they were usually pre-arranged. Rising from your chair, you crossed the tent, curiosity buzzing in the back of your mind.

When you picked up the headset, the officer handed you a notepad with a string of verification codes scrawled across it. “Verify the code,” he instructed.

You input the code into the secure terminal, and after a moment, the line cleared. “This is Y/L/N,” you said cautiously.

There was a beat of silence, then a familiar voice. “It’s Hotch.”

Back in Quantico, Hotch leaned back in his chair, his fingers gripping the phone tighter than necessary. The bullpen below his office was dim and quiet--most of the team had left for the night, but the stillness did little to ease the weight pressing on him.

The fallout from the Ian Doyle case was still reverberating through the BAU. Emily’s return had blindsided the team, and though he had tried to justify the deception, the cracks in their trust were impossible to ignore. Strauss’s scrutiny had sharpened, and his every decision seemed to be under a magnifying glass.

He hadn’t called to talk about any of that. He couldn’t.

But the familiar tension in his chest--the suffocating combination of guilt, stress, and isolation--had driven him to dial the secure line. He wasn’t even sure you’d pick up, but when your voice filtered through the line, steady and sure, it was like a knot in his chest loosened.

You straightened instinctively, surprise rippling through you. “Hotch,” you repeated, unable to keep the astonishment from your tone. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he replied, his voice steady but laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

“You’re not…no,” you assured him, leaning against the edge of the table. “What’s going on?”

There was a pause, the kind that stretched just long enough for you to sense the weight behind it. “I just wanted to check-in. See how things are going on your end.”

You frowned slightly, his words not matching the tension you could hear in his voice. “Things are...as expected. Slow, frustrating, and complicated. But manageable.”

“Good,” he said, the word clipped, almost distracted.

You weren’t a profiler, but the exhaustion in his tone was unmistakable. He sounded like a man carrying too many burdens, with no room to set them down.

“You sound tired,” you said gently, knowing better than to pry.

He let out a soft exhale, the kind that felt heavier than it should. “It’s been a long few weeks,” he admitted, though his words felt like an understatement.

Hotch closed his eyes for a moment, your voice cutting through the static in his mind. He could still see the look on Morgan’s face when Emily had walked into the room, the betrayal simmering under the surface. He could hear the edge in Strauss’s tone as she grilled him about his decision to keep the team in the dark.

But here, with you, there was no judgment. No interrogation.

“You’re taking care of yourself, right?” you asked, keeping your tone light but genuine.

A soft scoff met your ears. “I’m trying,” he replied, the words carrying a note of dry humor.

You smiled faintly, leaning back against the table. “That doesn’t sound convincing.”

His silence stretched again, but this time it felt less heavy. You knew he wasn’t the type to reach out without a reason, but you also knew he wouldn’t say more than he wanted to. And you weren’t going to push.

“Thank you,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet but firm.

You blinked. “For what?”

“For picking up,” he said simply. “For not asking.”

Your chest tightened slightly at the honesty in his tone. “Of course,” you replied softly. “You don’t have to explain anything, Hotch. You know that.”

For a fleeting moment, Hotch considered telling you. About Emily. About the team’s trust--or lack of it. But the words felt too heavy…too complicated to put into the space between you. He didn’t want to drag you into the mess, especially not when you had your own mission to worry about.

And yet, knowing you were there, steady and unwavering, brought him a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in weeks.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the faint hum of the secure line filling the silence. Despite the distance between you, the connection felt tangible--grounding.

“I should let you get back to work,” he said finally, although his voice sounded reluctant.

“Yeah,” you agreed, even though you didn’t want the call to end. “But Hotch...don’t wait so long to call next time, okay?”

There was a pause, then a quiet, almost imperceptible, “Okay.”

And then the line disconnected, leaving you standing there with the headset in hand and a heaviness in your chest you hadn’t felt in weeks.

Across the ocean, Hotch set the phone down, his hand lingering on the receiver. For the first time in days, the storm inside him felt a little less suffocating. And though he couldn’t explain why, he knew that calling you had been the right choice.

….

Throughout the remainder of your mission in Pakistan, Hotch’s calls came sporadically, never announced, and always brief. Each time the secure line connected, his voice carried a steadiness that seemed to ease the tension that surrounded you. The conversations were simple--updates on the mission, quiet exchanges about the weather, or mutual remarks about the relentless grind of your respective work.

Yet, beneath the surface, those calls meant more.

They weren’t about the words exchanged but the connection that had grown between you. Somehow, through the static of secure lines and the distance of continents, you felt you knew him intimately.

Not in the way of shared stories or confessions, but in the quiet understanding of someone who had seen the same kind of pain.

Hotch never spoke about what weighed on him, and you never pressed. He didn’t need to. The heaviness in his tone, the pauses that lingered too long--they told you everything you needed to know. And you, in turn, found comfort in the silence he offered, in the unspoken acknowledgment of your own burdens.

It was a strange closeness, one that felt both fragile and unbreakable. You knew so much about each other, and yet nothing at all. He never asked about what had driven you to this mission, and you never asked about the strain you could hear in his voice. Yet, you understood each other in a way that words couldn’t capture.

In those stolen moments on the phone, it didn’t matter that the world outside was relentless. It didn’t matter that neither of you could put your pain into words. What mattered was that, for a few fleeting minutes, you weren’t alone. And somehow, that was enough.

It was those moments that patched up the pain in your chest, almost making you forget about the heartbreak you left at home. The failed relationships, the loneliness…you wondered how it would continue on--or if it would continue on once you were back home. You hoped.

…..

The bullpen at the BAU was its usual hive of activity, with agents moving between desks, typing up reports, and chatting quietly between tasks. But today, there was an undercurrent of curiosity rippling through the team--one that centered on Hotch.

Seated at her desk, Garcia spun her chair toward Morgan, a playful smirk on her lips. “Alright, Derek, spill. What’s with the boss man and those secretive phone calls he’s been making?”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “What makes you think I know anything, Baby Girl?”

Garcia raised a skeptical brow, gesturing dramatically toward Hotch’s office. “Because every time he steps in there and picks up that phone, he looks...different. Like, not his usual stressed-out-because-the-world-is-burning look. It’s something else.”

JJ, passing by with a file, paused to join the conversation. “You’re not wrong,” she said thoughtfully. “I noticed it, too. He’s been...quieter lately. More introspective. Not that Hotch is ever exactly chatty, but it’s different.”

Rossi appeared from behind them, holding his ever-present coffee mug. “And you’re all assuming that a few phone calls mean he’s seeing someone?” His tone was teasing, but there was genuine curiosity behind it.

“I mean, it wouldn’t be the craziest thing,” Morgan replied with a shrug. “The man deserves a little happiness. Maybe he finally found someone who gets him.”

Reid, seated nearby with his tablet, looked up. “It could be related to the fallout from the Doyle case. He might be reaching out to someone for professional advice or support.”

Garcia shook her head dramatically. “Oh, boy-wonder, that’s far too clinical. This is Hotch we’re talking about. If he’s calling someone regularly, it’s personal.”

JJ frowned slightly, leaning against her desk. “Whoever it is, I just hope they’re good for him. After everything with Haley, and now the strain with the team...he needs someone who can be there for him.”

Rossi took a sip of his coffee, his gaze flicking toward Hotch’s closed office door. “Maybe it’s not about what they say. Sometimes, it’s just about having someone who listens. God knows that man doesn’t let anyone in easily.”

The group fell into a contemplative silence, their gazes drifting toward the office where Hotch was currently on a call. Inside, his expression was characteristically composed, but the slight relaxation of his shoulders and the faintest twitch of a smile betrayed something softer.

Morgan broke the silence first, smirking. “Well, whoever this mystery caller is, they’ve got our fearless leader smiling. I say we let him have this one.”

Garcia gasped dramatically, clasping her hands together. “Smiling? You saw him smile? Oh, this is bigger than I thought.”

JJ and Rossi exchanged amused glances, and even Reid couldn’t suppress a small smile at Garcia’s theatrics. But beneath the playful banter, the team shared a collective hope--that whoever was on the other end of those calls was helping their stoic leader carry at least some of the weight on his shoulders.

….

Hotch sat in his office, the low hum of activity in the bullpen barely reaching his ears. His personal phone buzzed on the desk beside him, an unfamiliar number flashing across the screen. He frowned, picking it up cautiously. It wasn’t often he got calls from unlisted numbers on this line.

“Aaron Hotchner,” he answered, his tone brisk.

“Well, that’s formal. Do you always answer like you’re being interrogated?”

His breath caught, the familiar voice pulling a genuine, if fleeting, smile to his face. “Agent Y/L/N. I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” you teased. “Just because I’m not in Pakistan doesn’t mean I’ve vanished. I still exist, contrary to popular belief.”

“Good to know,” he replied, leaning back slightly in his chair. “I heard you finished the mission. Back stateside?”

“For now,” you said, your tone carrying the same measured ease he remembered. “It’s just a pit stop, though. The CIA doesn’t let its covert operatives sit idle for too long.”

“Sounds familiar,” he said, the faintest trace of humor in his voice. “How’s it feel to be back?”

“Strange,” you admitted. “Like I’m not entirely here, you know? You get that, don’t you?”

He did. More than he cared to admit.

“I do,” he said simply, his voice low.

“And you?” you asked, your voice softening. “How’s the BAU treating you?”

He hesitated, the weight of recent weeks pressing heavily on his chest. The fallout from the Doyle case, Emily’s return, the team’s shaken trust--it all simmered just beneath the surface. But he wasn’t ready to unpack that. Not now.

“Still busy,” he said instead, his voice even. “But you know how it is. Work doesn’t stop.”

“I do,” you replied, a knowing edge to your tone. “Sounds like you’re carrying more than just case files, though.”

He stayed silent for a moment, his grip tightening slightly on the phone. “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” he said finally.

“You always say that,” you said, a note of fond exasperation in your voice. “I’m starting to think it’s your catchphrase.”

“I don’t have catchphrases,” he replied, his lips twitching in the faintest of smiles.

“Sure you don’t,” you shot back. “Next, you’ll tell me you don’t ever crack a smile.”

“That’s a rare occurrence,” he said, his tone lighter.

“Well, I must be one of the lucky few then because I swear I’ve seen it.”

The warmth in your voice caught him off guard, but he didn’t mind it. Not one bit. “You’re in a unique position.”

“Unique, huh?” you teased. “You make it sound so exclusive.”

“It is,” he admitted, his voice softening. “Not many people see past the job.”

Your tone matched his now, the playfulness giving way to something more sincere. “That’s because the job is easier to focus on. It’s harder to look past it.”

He let out a quiet sigh, nodding even though you couldn’t see him. “You’re not wrong.”

The call buzzed with a quiet warmth neither of you acknowledged outright, but both felt. Hotch leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment before letting out a breath. He stared at the phone in his hand, debating whether to say what had been sitting in the back of his mind.

"So, this call," he said, his voice measured but holding a thread of something lighter. "Official business, or are you just checking up on me?"

"Can't it be both?" you asked, your teasing tone doing exactly what you intended--it made him relax, even if just a little.

He let out a soft laugh, surprising himself. "I suppose it can."

"I don’t know," you said, your voice playful. "Can it?"

He hesitated just a moment before admitting, “I actually thought about calling you too; I wanted to see how you were doing. And…I guess I needed to hear a familiar voice.”

The silence between you settled softly, comfortable, and filled with an understanding neither of you needed to articulate.

“Well, I’m doing okay,” you said finally, your tone calm. “Work’s the same. Chaos, classified details, long hours. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” he replied, the weight of shared experience clear in his voice. “Too familiar.”

“And you?” you asked gently, your tone softening. “How are you, Hotch? Really?”

He hesitated again, the instinct to protect himself battling against the trust he felt when speaking to you. “I’m…I’m managing,” he said at last, quieter than before. “But it’s...been a lot.”

You didn’t push. You never did. That was one of the things he appreciated most.

“Well,” you said, the warmth returning to your voice, “if you ever feel like you need to step away from saving the world, give me a call. I’ve got plenty of experience in chaos management.”

He let out another rare, quiet laugh. “I might take you up on that.”

“Good,” you said lightly. “Don’t be a stranger, Hotch.”

He let the words settle, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He wasn’t sure what prompted him, but before the conversation could end, he spoke again.

“Actually,” he started, his voice betraying a hint of nerves that even he couldn’t suppress, “have you ever thought about meeting up?” The question lingered, and he immediately wondered if he had overstepped. “I mean, if your schedule allows it,” he added, his tone faltering slightly. “I know how demanding your work is.”

You paused, clearly caught off guard. “Meeting up?” you repeated, a smile audible in your tone. “You mean in person?”

“Yes,” he said quickly before he could second-guess himself. “I just thought…you’ve been a consistent voice through everything, and…” He trailed off, realizing he didn’t know how to explain it without giving too much away. “It would be nice to catch up.”

“I think that sounds...great,” you said after a moment, your voice softer now. “Though I should warn you, Hotchner, I’m still terrible at small talk.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” he replied, his lips twitching into a smile.

“Well,” you teased, “I don’t know if I should be flattered or worried.”

“Flattered,” he said, surprising himself again with the sincerity in his tone.

The brief pause that followed carried an unspoken weight, a quiet understanding of the connection that had been building between you since the mission in Pakistan. Neither of you said it outright, but it was there, tangible in the way you lingered on the call longer than necessary.

“I’ll check my schedule,” you said lightly, breaking the silence. “But don’t think I won’t hold you to this.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he replied, his voice steadier now.

When the call ended, Hotch sat back, his thoughts circling the conversation. He realized that while he still didn’t know the full scope of your personal life or if there was someone waiting for you back home, he felt compelled to try--to find out, to see where this connection might lead. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself the thought of something beyond the weight he carried every day.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016 @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @superlegend216

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makeitmingi · 6 months ago

Text

When Flowers Bloom In The Dark [Chapter 9]

Genre: Romance, Mafia!AU, Violence, Angst, Slow burn

Pairing: Hongjoong x Reader (y/n)

Characters: Florist!Reader, Mafioso!Hongjoong, Mafioso!Seonghwa, Mafioso!Yunho, Mafioso!Yeosang, Mafioso!San, Mafioso!Mingi, Mafioso!Wooyoung, Mafioso!Jongho

Summary: When you appeared and wept at his mother's funeral, Hongjoong found himself wanting to find out more about you. A regular girl, who owns a flower shop in his territory and has a relationship with the mother that he hasn't spoken to in years, why hasn't he ever noticed you before?

[Warning(s): 18+ for violence, use of weapons, smoking, alcohol consumption, slight gore, gang affiliation, tattoos and character deaths. Minors DNI. This is a work of fiction and does not represent the Ateez members in real life.]

Word count: 3.2K

Chapter warning(s): Mentions of corruption, bounty-assassination .

Yunho had a satisfied, albeit evil, smile on his face as he hung up, putting his phone back on the desk.

"What are you smiling about?" Jongho raised an eyebrow, noticing the taller from the corner of his eye. Yunho shook his head with a playful shrug before continuing his work.

"If you get in trouble, don't make me complicit." Jongho warned with a chuckle.

"I won't. Don't worry, dear maknae." Yunho giggled. Jongho sighed, Yunho was always mischievous and messing around but got away with it because of his charming smile. Seeing how he had pulled up Hongjoong's phone location, he didn't want to know what he did to manipulate the captain.

"I'm done with my tasks for the day. I need a breather." Jongho yawned and stood up, stretching his limbs.

"Go ahead." Yunho hummed as Jongho grabbed what he needed and exited their computer cave.

"San hyung, I finished vetting all the potential investors for the casino. Here are their profiles." Jongho handed San the stack of folders with all the background checks of the investors.

"Thanks, Jongho ah." San took the first file off the top and skimmed through the contents.

"I'll take 5 and give the rest of Wooyoung." San snickered.

"He'll chew your head off if he finds out." Jongho shook his head. San shrugged, he has worked with Wooyoung long enough to know how to handle his tantrums.

"Hongjoong said there was an issue with the gardener?" Seonghwa walked in, eyes trained on his phone.

"Yeah, he was sketchy, taking photos and stuff. We suspect he's a spy so we fired him but Yunho hyung said he can handle it so I left him to it." Jongho explained. Seonghwa nodded, it was just hiring a new gardener, not a big deal that he needed to get involved in.

"Where did you go dressed up so fancily, hyung?" San asked, turning his body slightly to face the second in command. Seonghwa looked up from his phone.

"Meeting with the chief police commissioner. I needed some updates on the ground sensing." He blinked.

"Is it true that the smaller gangs are joining forces?" Mingi and Yeosang came in, having just finished their workout downstairs.

"It's too early to say for sure but they have noted a decrease in gang disputes in certain areas. There could a peace treaty or truce somewhere." Seonghwa informed.

"We should find out. I'll get my men on the ground." Jongho said.

"Thanks." Seonghwa cracked a small smile, heading up to go to his office to continue working.

"The chief police commissioner's gonna have to retire soon. We should get our hooks into the new potential candidate before he's elected in." Yeosang said.

"Hongjoong hyung's already working on that. But the current chief's influence sways the vote so we still have to maintain good graces with him. If they decide to elect someone else, like one of those upstanding justice types, it'll be tougher to get a foot in." Mingi crossed his arms.

"I'm hungry. I want a sandwich." San stood up from the couch and headed to towards the kitchen.

"Me too!" Mingi raised his hand

"Make that 3! After my shower." Yeosang chimed in.

"4!" Jongho added with a snicker. San spun around to scowl at the 3 before marching towards the kitchen to get the staff to make them all sandwiches.

"Okay, time to shower." Yeosang groaned and went upstairs. Mingi nodded in agreement and went to take his shower too.

"I'm home~!" Wooyoung declared as he entered the mansion, doing a spin and flipping the end of his jacket.

"I got a new suit." He smirked and spun around to show his outfit. The glittery on his jacket was subtle and sparkled the moment he stepped into the light, it complimented his figure well.

"How many black suits do you have?" Yeosang asked as he chewed on his sandwich. The others nodded in agreement, making Wooyoung's face fall.

"This is special. New silk lining." Wooyoung lifted one his of his jacket to show them the silver silk lining. San reached out to try and touch it but seeing his dirty fingers, Wooyoung scoffed and slapped his hand away. San yelped like a reprimanded puppy.

"Dirty hands!" Wooyoung scolded, making San glare at him.

"Mr Song, there is a visitor for you. Shall I let him through the gate?" The butler came in. MIngi frowned in confusion and checked his phone.

"Oh yeah... Okay, let him in. Have him wait in the living room area. I'll go get changed." Mingi waved.

"What visitor is this?" Jongho asked.

"The jewellery and accessories for the gala are here so I need to check them through." Mingi finished his sandwich and wiped his mouth, standing up to leave.

"Someone help me call Joong hyung to let him know." Mingi yelled to one of the remaining boys before running upstairs.

"Let me know what?" As if on cue, Hongjoong walked in.

"Mingi says his jewel guy is here with the accessories for the gala. Wanted you to check it out with him." Yeosang informed. Hongjoong nodded and left the dining room.

"Sir." The male stood up and bowed when he saw Hongjoong, knowing he was the head of the group. Hongjoong gave a curt nod and sat down. The staff came with a tray of hot coffee for Hongjoong, already prepared the moment he entered. Mingi came down in proper clothing.

"Hey. You're here, hyung." Mingi smiled to Hongjoong and sat beside him, giving an acknowledgement nod.

"Following Mr Song's request for white gold accessories to match dark, royal purple. These are what I have procured for your family." He took out trays from the box.

"Very nice." Hongjoong scanned through the tray and nodded in approval.

"This is yours, Mr Kim." The jeweller took out a velvet box and opened it, showing the necklace that Hongjoong requested.

"Asscher cut diamond with white gold, as per requested." The male said proudly. Mingi whistled while Hongjoong lifted it up, looking at the diamond right in the middle, surround by smaller diamonds.

"Nice, very well done." Hongjoong smirked.

"Wooyoung will like his new earrings." Mingi said to Hongjoong, showing him the diamond earrings.

"He's like Seonghwa, both like princess cut diamonds." Hongjoong scoffed and checked the diamonds, using the loupe from the jeweller to check the diamonds. Mingi, who usually had the keener eye for jewellery, took over to look at it.

"Damn." The other boys all came, seeing all the sparkly pieces laid out on the coffee table. Hongjoong gave out each piece to the designated owner, as per his plan.

"Nice." Yeosang smiled happily as he wore the white gold cuff on his wrist, stacking with a tennis bracelet.

"What do you think?" Wooyoung held up the collar chain in front of his shirt, showing the two diamonds at the end.

"Mmm, looks good. It'll match well." San gave a thumbs up, admiring his best friend. Seonghwa held his hand out in front of him, admiring his new ring.

"I'm glad you like it, sirs." The jeweller stood up to bow to them. Mingi smirked with confidence.

"Told you I only get good stuff." He scoffed.

"Yeah, yeah." Yunho slapped Mingi's shoulder. Once everything was settled, the jeweller packed up and took his leave.

"So, Yunho said he updated you about the gardener issue? Turns out he was being suspicious, worried that he's a spy for someone." Seonghwa asked Hongjoong as they were about to head upstairs to their offices. Hongjoong nodded his head in confirmation while Yunho snickered secretly.

"I settled it already, don't worry about it." Hongjoong replied, checking his phone. He and Seonghwa didn't hear Yunho's snickers, too caught up in their own conversations.

"You didn't have to busy yourself with that. We can survive without a gardener for a bit." Seonghwa pointed out.

"It's fine. Easily settled." Hongjoong shrugged, smiling gratefully to his best friend.

"Okay. Do you need Jongho or Yunho to vet the person?" Seonghwa asked. Hongjoong shook his head, walking alongside Seonghwa to return to their offices.

"What are you laughing about?" Mingi blinked in confusion.

"Nothing~" Yunho sang, stacking his jewellery boxes and bringing it up to his room.

"Dude, sometimes you're so weird, it's scary." Mingi said to his best friend as they walked together. Yunho turned to his best friend with a raised eyebrow.

"Coming from you?" Yunho taunted with a scoff. Mingi shrugged and turned to return to his room. It was purely coincidental that Yunho called Hongjoong about the gardner while he was at your shop. He totally didn't hope that you would overhear their conversation.

Meanwhile, Hongjoong was working at his desk, going over the number from the businesses that Ateez oversaw as a group, making sure everything was in order and there were no discrepencies.

Before he left, he had slipped his business card onto your work table, just in case you needed his number.

"Real smooth, Hongjoong." He scoffed at his actions. Would you even see the card?

*KNOCK KNOCK*

"Come in." Hongjoong looked up from his computer to see Jongho at his door. Jongho came in with a small, displeased frown on his face. He didn't say anything, merely sliding Hongjoong a piece of paper.

"What's wrong?" Hongjoong was confused but took the paper, unfolding it and reading the contents.

"What? Is this real?" He looked at the youngest in disbelief.

"Yeah, I was getting my informants on the ground to check for the change in gang related activities when this information came in. It's reliable, San hyung confirmed it on the network." Jongho explained, nodding over to the paper. Hongjoong let out a curse, standing up, he went over to Seonghwa's office.

"Thanks, Jong." Hongjoong said as he entered Seonghwa's office. Seonghwa knew it would be the leader, he was the only one that would enter without knocking.

"What's wrong, Joong?" Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. With the same piece of paper, he slid it to Seonghwa.

"You're kidding..." Seonghwa frowned as he read the paper's contents.

"No, I'm not. Jongho came to me after his informants got that, confirmed it with San too. He saw it on the network." Hongjoong crossed his arms.

"Sh*t. I was just there." Seonghwa cursed.

"We can't ask San to take the job, it's too obvious. It'll raise suspicion and be worse for us." Hongjoong said.

"Let's call the others." Seonghwa sighed, taking his phone and sending a text to the other Ateez members. Luckily everyone was home and they quickly gathered in Seonghwa's office.

"So, to let everyone know, Jongho's informants got new information. And San confirmed it on the network. There's a bounty on the current police commissioner's head." Hongjoong informed. The others all nodded, not saying anything yet.

"The bounty's payer is anonymous, according to the network. And you know the network will never give out the info." San said, leaning against the wall.

The network, a place where information and bounties were exchanged amongst all the underground organisations.

"Seonghwa hyung, you were just there. Anything?" Mingi asked. Seonghwa shook his head.

"I doubt he knows, he was too relaxed if he knew. This bounty is fresh, Jongho just gave Hongjoong to information." Seonghwa replied. Jongho nodded in confirmation.

"Can we ask him to hide then? Come back when the new commissioner needs to be elected." Yeosang raised his hand.

"No. We can't ask San to take the bounty too, it's too obvious of our involvement. It'll not end well." Hongjoong said.

"What can we do then? We need his vote for the new commissioner election. If that anti-corruption guy gets elected, it'll be harder for our businesses." Yunho sighed.

"For now, we need more info, get all your informants out on the ground. Any update, alert us immediately. I want to know where this bounty came from. Wooyoung, we'll need you to stake out the poker games. Any piece of information is useful. We'll contact our guys in the police to keep an eye out." Hongjoong decided.

"Yes, captain." All 7 replied.

"I'll go call my guy to get me a buy in for the next poker game." Wooyoung said, excusing himself to make the call.

Wooyoung was one of those that went to high stake poker games for high profile people. All kinds of people were there and all kinds of information was exchanged there.

"San, keep an ear out in the network. That's the best way to keep track of the bounty status." Seonghwa added.

"Yes, hyung." San saluted and walked out.

"We cannot alert the commissioner yet. But Jongho and Yunho, I want surveillance." Hongjoong looked at the two. They nodded and left the room.

"Would it be ironic if the anti corruption, "clean up the city" dude was the one that initiated the bounty?" Yeosang chuckled.

"I wouldn't put it past him, the whole thing with no more corruption and no more gangs is all a front. If he was the one that posted that bounty, I want proof that he did and we'll use that to sink him." Hongjoong said.

"Should I let Hyunmin know about this?" Hongjoong asked the remaining men in the room. Hyunmin was the candidate that was most likely going to be the current commissioner's successor.

"He's a blabbermouth, can we trust that he won't tell the current commissioner?" Mingi asked.

"I can't believe I'm saying this but Mingi's right." Seonghwa said with a small smile on his face. Mingi rolled his eyes at that comment.

"I'll keep it on the DL for now then. I have a lunch with him in two days. I really hope this issue gets sorted quickly." Hongjoong sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"Thanks." He waved and left Seonghwa's office with Mingi and Yeosang in tow.

"San? I don't want to alert the network that we are investigating who posted the bounty, okay?" Hongjoong said to the male who had emerged from his room, dressed in gym clothes.

"I know. Don't worry, hyung. I'll be careful. I won't ask them anything directly or raise any warning flags." San smiled, knowing exactly what Hongjoong expected of him. Patting the captain on the shoulder, San walked towards the exit of the mansion to go to his fight club to work out and work.

"Captain, I got something extra for you." Mingi entered Hongjoong's office. The shorter male turned around, blinking at the taller.

"This is for you. From us." Mingi grinned, taking a velvet box out of his inner suit pocket and handing it to Hongjoong. Hongjoong took with confusion on his face.

"Oh, wow." He was speechless. There was a ring with his captain crest, studded in diamonds, on it.

"For the head of the family, the captain." Mingi explained.

"This is amazing. Thank you, Mingi ah." Hongjoong smiled softly, wearing the slightly heavy ring on his finger immediately.

"No problem, hyung. We're all here thanks to you." Mingi grinned and waved before leaving the office. Hongjoong sat at his desk, looking at how the diamonds sparkled under the sunlight.

This was his mark, a sign of Ateez's power and his own power. Hongjoong had a tattoo of this crest on the back of his left shoulder and always had a captain's band on his arm, clipped onto the sleeve of his jacket, but this ring meant something so much more.

"We're all here thanks to you."

Hongjoong and Seonghwa formed Ateez from nothing. It took the effort from all the boys, their determination and strengths coming together to get to where they are today.

Although everyone says Hongjoong is the prince of darkness, his past was the reason for that. He wasn't always like this.

"I see you got your present." Seonghwa's voice interrupted his train of thought.

"Yeah... I love it. Thanks, Hwa. I know it must have been your idea." Hongjoong gratefully smiled at his best friend. Seonghwa shrugged it off but mirrored a similar smile.

"I forgot to give these to you earlier when you were in my office. You need to sign off on these." Seonghwa put the stack of files down.

"Ugh. Can't you do them?" Hongjoong whined.

"That was our deal remember? I handle illegal signings and you handle legal signings. You need to check the property acquisition contracts." Seonghwa raised his eyebrow. Hongjoong nodded with a sigh and Seonghwa took his leave. Taking the first file off the stack, Hongjoong looked at the contents.

"Hyung, I got my buy in." Wooyoung came into Hongjoong's office. Hongjoong looked up at Wooyoung and nodded.

"Do you need to brush up on your poker skills?" Hongjoong raised an eyebrow with a chuckle.

"No! I run casinos, that's an insult." Wooyoung scoffed. He plopped himself down on the chair opposite Hongjoong and took one of the files off the pile, flipping through it.

"We're really buying that vineyard Jongho wanted?" He laughed.

"Birthday present for him. It's the only thing he wants." Hongjoong sighed. He felt like a dad buying his kids expensive presents.

"So if I want horses and stables on the property, I can ask for them for my birthday?" Wooyoung asked with bright eyes. Hongjoong shot him a flat look.

"A vineyard is a good investment. I'm not sure how horses are a good investment for us." Hongjoong said.

"Boo, you're no fun, dad." Wooyoung stuck his tongue out at the captain. But seeing how Hongjoong was alone with so much paperwork, he stuck around to keep him company, chatting with him and weighing in on certain issues.

"Want one?" Wooyoung held up the crystal glass, helping himself to Hongjoong's bar cart. Hongjoong nodded and Wooyoung poured whiskey into two glasses.

"Thanks." Hongjoong took a sip, leaning back in his chair tiredly.

"These words and papers are making my head hurt." Wooyoung groaned and Hongjoong grunted in agreement.

"I should tell Hwa to give out some of these to the rest of you to do some too. Then both of us won't be stuck with moutains of files." Hongjoong said.

"No way, please. I'm already up to here with all the account books for the casinos." Wooyoung held his hand above his head.

"Remind me what's the charity we're donating to this quarter?" Hongjoong asked.

"Children's heart foundation." Wooyoung replied, sipping the remainder of the whiskey in his glass. Hongjoong hummed and signed off on the cheque that they will be cashing, putting it in an envelope. He looked at the huge pile that was still there, it never seems to get smaller.

"Ah! Hyung, let's take a break! We've been here for so long and the sun is setting already!" Wooyoung suddenly exclaimed, making Hongjoong jump.

"Your idea of a break means leaving the work entirely." Hongjoong pointed out.

"Exactly! Let's go." Wooyoung tugged Hongjoong out of his chair.

"Where are we going?" Hongjoong asked as Wooyoung pushed him out into the hallway, turning off the lights in his office and closing the door so Hongjoong wouldn't re-enter.

"Anywhere but here." Wooyoung laughed. He sent a text to everyone that they'll go out for dinner tonight.

"If Seonghwa gets mad that I didn't finish the work, I'm blaming you." Hongjoong threatened but of course, Wooyoung didn't care.

"I already texted the others. Go get changed, we're going for dinner and drinks." Wooyoung left Hongjoong in the hallway and ran to his own room to change.

"Yah! Jung Wooyoung!" Hongjoong yelled.

Series masterlist

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stjohnstarling · 3 months ago

Text

Officials in the Trump administration somehow accidentally added the editor-in-chief of the Atlantic to a Signal group chat where they discussed bombings carried out that afternoon. I can barely comprehend the scope of how crazy that is.

At 11:44 a.m., the account labeled “Pete Hegseth” posted in Signal a “TEAM UPDATE.” I will not quote from this update, or from certain other subsequent texts. The information contained in them, if they had been read by an adversary of the United States, could conceivably have been used to harm American military and intelligence personnel, particularly in the broader Middle East, Central Command’s area of responsibility. What I will say, in order to illustrate the shocking recklessness of this Signal conversation, is that the Hegseth post contained operational details of forthcoming strikes on Yemen, including information about targets, weapons the U.S. would be deploying, and attack sequencing. The only person to reply to the update from Hegseth was the person identified as the vice president. “I will say a prayer for victory,” Vance wrote. (Two other users subsequently added prayer emoji.)

#original post

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twistedheartsclub · 2 months ago

Text

Ink-Stained Promises Dark Levi X Female Reader PT1

This might be Rubbish ...

Levi Ackerman was 38 years old. He didn’t look it—not in the traditional sense. There were fine lines at the corners of his eyes, a tension in his shoulders that never left, and a weariness in his voice that made people listen closely when he spoke. He was a man carved from silence and survival, built lean and muscular from years of street fights, sleepless nights, and a steady hand that now etched art into skin instead of slashing it.

The tattoos spoke when he didn’t. Each one a ghost of someone, somewhere. His shop, TITAN INK, sat tucked between a boarded-up bookstore and a greasy spoon diner. It had no sign, just a frosted black door and a dull buzz of fluorescent lighting bleeding through the cracks. People found him when they were supposed to.

He liked it that way.

Erwin Smith was 45. Tall, blonde, built like a soldier because he had been one. A decorated officer who now wore a badge, not out of pride but responsibility. Police Chief of a city that was slowly rotting from the inside, Erwin had a presence that commanded attention. Not through intimidation, but principle.

And Levi? He was the one man Erwin trusted without a badge or a title. They met nearly twenty years ago—both young and angry in ways they didn’t talk about now.

Back then, Erwin was fresh out of the academy, full of impossible ideals and tighter fists. Levi was just off the streets, scrapping for cash, doing odd jobs, and occasionally running blades for a gang that didn’t know how sharp he really was.

Their friendship began in blood.

It was a rainy night. A scuffle outside a club. Erwin had tried to break it up. Levi had already ended it. A broken nose, two fractured ribs, and a muttered, “You done, hero?” Erwin should’ve arrested him. Instead, he bought him a drink.

They’d been brothers ever since.

Erwin helped Levi clean up. Got him out of the underground work, helped him find an apprenticeship under an old, legendary tattoo artist. Levi never forgot that. And Levi? He saved Erwin more times than he could count. Both in the field—and when the nightmares came back.

Now, Levi ran his studio with the same precision he once used to survive. Quiet. Private. Controlled. He didn’t let people close. Except Erwin.

“You still carrying a gun to a tattoo shop?” Levi muttered one afternoon, lazily sweeping the floors as Erwin leaned against the counter in his civilian clothes, badge clipped to his belt.

“You still judging me for having a conscience?” Erwin replied with a low chuckle.

They didn’t talk sentiment. Didn’t talk about the days Levi stitched up wounds in basements or the times Erwin called at three in the morning needing to talk someone off a ledge. But it was there, in the silence. In the way Levi always had Erwin’s favorite coffee waiting. In the way Erwin never knocked when he entered the shop—he didn’t need to.

Then came the phone call.

“Y/N’s coming home for the summer,” Erwin said casually, not knowing that Levi had gone still.

Y/N. The little girl he used to babysit when Erwin got held up at work. The kid who used to sit in the corner of Levi’s shop, scribbling hearts and flowers in her sketchbook while humming off-key to old punk records. The girl with wide eyes and scraped knees who once asked Levi if tattoos hurt—and promised him she’d get one when she was “big.”

Levi hadn’t seen her in three years.

She was 20 now.

Studying art at a private college out of state. Erwin had sent him updates. A photo here and there—Levi never looked too long.

But he remembered her smile. And now, she was coming home.

The bell above the shop door jingled, soft and hesitant—nothing like the heavy footsteps Levi expected that afternoon.

He didn’t look up at first, crouched over his work table, wiping down his machines with clinical precision. It was instinct to ignore noise unless it was a threat. But then Erwin’s familiar voice carried through the space like it always did—low, steady, wrapped in authority.

“Levi. Got someone I want you to see.”

And then he looked up.

She stepped in just behind Erwin, half-hiding in his shadow—Y/N.

Levi stared.

She was... older, of course. But not hard. Not jaded like so many he’d seen come and go. She had a softness to her. A kind of nervous grace that made her seem younger and older at the same time. Her dress brushed the tops of her knees—white cotton with little blue flowers. Innocent. Her hands clutched the strap of her purse, and she smiled politely as Erwin gestured around the shop like he was giving a tour.

“You remember Levi, right?”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, cheeks flushing. “Of course I do. Hi, Levi.”

Her voice was softer than he remembered. Like sugar dissolving in tea. He nodded. “You got taller.”

She smiled at that, looking down briefly, then met his eyes again. No makeup. No attitude. Just sweet. Real.

Erwin chuckled, patting her on the back. “She just got back last night. I figured I’d show her around, let her say hello. She’s got a summer break before fall semester kicks in.”

Levi’s eyes flicked from Erwin back to Y/N. “Art major, right?”

She lit up a little, nodding. “Yeah. Still drawing all the time. I’m taking a printmaking class next term.”

Levi gave a rare half-smile, subtle but real. “You still have that sketchbook? The pink one with the torn corner?”

She blinked in surprise, visibly touched. “You remember that?”

Of course I do.

Erwin’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he sighed. “Speak of the devil—it’s her mother. Give me a sec, I’ll take it outside.”

And just like that, the door closed behind him, and they were alone.

Y/N lingered near the flash wall, tracing the framed sketches with her eyes. She didn’t touch, just looked—always polite. Levi watched her hands. Small. Careful. He remembered those hands sticky with candy once. Now they were delicate, elegant. Womanly.

She turned to him after a pause, voice small. “Your work’s gotten... even better.”

Levi leaned back in his stool, arms crossed. His tattoos peeked out from the sleeves of his black shirt, creeping down his wrists like ivy. “Yours too, I bet.”

She smiled shyly. “Maybe. I still can’t get lines as clean as I want.”

“You’ll get there,” he said simply. And he meant it.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Not with tension—but something unspoken.

He watched as she pushed her hair behind her ear again, chewing the inside of her cheek. She glanced toward the back room, the walls of ink and paper, the chair. Her gaze was curious.

“Do you…” She hesitated. “Do you think you’d ever give me a tattoo?”

Levi’s expression didn’t change. But something shifted in his chest. A tightening.

He stood slowly, walked over, stopping just close enough that she tilted her head up to look at him. The height difference felt bigger now than it did when she was ten and tugging on his hoodie.

“You think your dad would let me?”

Her lips parted slightly, surprised by the question. Then she smiled. “Only if you promise not to let me faint.”

Levi’s eyes darkened, jaw ticking. Don’t say yes. Don’t touch her.

But then he heard Erwin’s muffled voice outside. He had time.

So he nodded. “Come back tomorrow. Bring your sketchbook.”

And when she lit up—soft and sweet, eyes wide with trust—Levi realized the truth: He was already in trouble.

The studio door opened with a gentle chime.

Levi didn’t look up right away—he knew it was her. Light steps. Soft humming. Vanilla and shampoo.

“Morning!” Y/N chirped, stepping inside with a kind of energy that felt out of place in his dark little world.

She wore light denim shorts—high-waisted and frayed at the edges—and a pale pink tank top that hugged her softly. Her skin glowed under the studio lights, sun-kissed and smooth, and she carried a sketchbook pressed to her chest like it held treasure.

“I parked around the corner—my mom let me borrow her car.” She grinned. “She doesn’t know I’m here though. I told her I was going to the bookstore.”

Levi set down the tattoo gun he was cleaning and wiped his hands on a towel, nodding slightly. “That’s a first,” he murmured.

She tilted her head, confused. “What is?”

“You lying.”

Y/N laughed softly, a little flustered. “Well… it’s not really lying. Just… not the full story.”

Levi said nothing. His eyes trailed briefly down her legs before he caught himself. Fuck. He turned toward the back, nodding his head. “Come on. Let’s see your work.”

She followed eagerly, her sandals clicking against the floor, her ponytail swaying. Levi sat down in his usual chair, the leather groaning under his weight, and she plopped down across from him on the cushioned bench like she belonged there.

She opened her sketchbook and held it out, flipping through page by page. Her art had changed—sharper, bolder. More confident. Some pieces were delicate, soft and floral. Others showed emotion—frustration, loneliness, euphoria.

“You’ve been working hard,” he said, thumbing through a few of the pages with rare approval.

“I try,” she said, blushing under his praise. “It helps me think. I guess that’s why I love it so much.”

He nodded. “It shows.”

She hugged her knees slightly to her chest, chin on top. “I like being back home. It’s quieter. But I miss my friends sometimes. Especially my roommate. She’s crazy but fun.”

Levi leaned back, trying to look uninterested as he cleaned a pair of gloves. “Yeah?”

She nodded, her voice softening. “Yeah… she made me go on this awful date before finals week.”

That got his attention.

He didn’t react visibly, but his eyes flicked up, sharp and alert. “Date?”

Y/N giggled at his tone. “It wasn’t serious. I mean, it was just coffee. Some guy in my painting class. He was nice, but…”

“But?”

She hesitated, chewing her lip. “He just… wanted more than I did, I think. He tried to kiss me after class one day and I kind of dodged him. I haven’t really told my dad.”

Levi’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped. “Probably for the best.”

She gave a nervous laugh. “Yeah. He’d kill him.”

So would I. Levi didn’t say it out loud. But the thought was visceral.

She flipped through a few pages of his old sketchbooks then, reaching for one of the binders on the desk. “Can I look?”

He didn’t stop her. Just nodded once.

She opened it carefully. Inside were Levi’s own early tattoo sketches—back pieces, ribcage lines, blooming peonies turning into screaming mouths. Dragons and daggers and grief etched in black ink.

Her fingers brushed one—a design of a spine made of blooming roses and shattered glass. “God… you’re so good. Did you draw this for someone?”

He looked over her shoulder.

“No,” he said flatly. “Didn’t have anyone in mind.”

She looked up at him. “Would you ever design one for me?”

Levi paused. His voice came low, almost a whisper.

“I’d mark you perfect.”

Y/N didn’t catch the shift in his tone. Or maybe she did, but didn’t know what it meant. She just smiled—innocent, sweet.

And Levi stood before he did something stupid, pulling a clean notepad from the drawer and tossing it on the table.

“Show me what you had in mind.”

Y/N pulled her knees up into the chair, legs tucked under her as she carefully sketched something small in the center of the notepad Levi had given her.

He watched in silence, arms crossed over his chest, standing just a little too close behind her. Not close enough to touch—but enough to smell the faint sweetness of her lotion.

“Okay,” she said after a minute, chewing the end of the pencil. “It’s kind of dumb.”

She turned the notepad around.

It was a small design—delicate, almost like a secret: a sprig of lavender intertwined with a tiny crescent moon. Simple, elegant. Feminine.

“Where?” Levi asked, his voice low.

She flushed slightly and stood. “Um… I was thinking here.”

She turned to the side and lifted the hem of her tank top slightly, pointing just above her ribs. The curve of her waist peeked out—soft skin, untouched. Levi’s throat went dry.

“I wanted it somewhere I could hide it… at least for now,” she added, eyes flicking up to his. “My dad would freak.”

He didn’t respond.

Instead, he stepped forward—slowly. His fingers twitched at his sides, gloved hands not yet moving. He shouldn’t. He should stop this. Tell her to come back with Erwin. Or recommend another artist. Someone with less darkness under his skin.

But then she smiled at him.

That same smile she used to give him when she’d climb onto the shop stool and ask to play with his pens. That sweet, safe trust.

She had no idea.

He crouched beside her, letting his eyes trace the spot she’d chosen. He reached out—slowly, gently—and pressed two fingers to her side, brushing back the fabric just enough to see how it would sit against her skin.

Her breath caught.

Not because of discomfort—just the sensation. His touch was cool through the gloves, precise.

“Here?” he asked, his voice deeper than she was used to.

She nodded, eyes flicking down to watch him. “Yeah. Right there.”

He let his fingers linger a second longer than necessary. The soft dip of her waist. The give of her flesh under his touch. And for the first time in a long, long while—Levi felt something bloom behind his ribs. Hunger. Longing. Danger.

He pulled away, clearing his throat. “We’ll stencil it. Sit tight.”

Y/N flopped back onto the chair with a grin. “Thanks, Levi. This means a lot to me. You were always, like, the cool uncle growing up. I’m glad it’s you.”

He froze for a half-second at the word. Uncle.

If only she knew what he wanted to do to her now.

“You talk too much,” he muttered, turning away to prep the stencil. But behind the gruff tone was a smirk—small, involuntary.

And behind his eyes, a war.

He should’ve told her no. Instead, he let himself touch her.

And soon, he’d mark her.

She was lying on the chair now, tank top pulled up just enough to expose the skin along her ribs—smooth, pale, untouched. Her shorts had ridden slightly higher when she shifted, her legs crossing at the ankles, oblivious to the way she looked.

She smiled up at him, nervous but excited. “I’ve never gotten a tattoo before.”

Levi didn’t answer at first.

He was focused on wiping down the spot with antiseptic, his gloved hand firm against the curve of her side. She twitched from the cold, and he glanced at her, quiet amusement flickering in his eyes.

“Don’t squirm,” he murmured. “You’ll mess it up.”

“Sorry,” she whispered, breathless, cheeks warm.

She was nervous. Not just about the tattoo—about being here. About being this close to him, exposed in a way she didn’t fully realize.

He pressed the stencil into place, slow and methodical. His thumb dragged along her skin to smooth it out. His hand lingered just a little too long at her waist.

She didn’t notice.

Or maybe she did—but mistook it for comfort.

God, she trusted him.

She didn’t know what it meant to lie half-naked under a man’s hand. Didn’t know what it meant to bare your skin to someone with this kind of power.

“You really never had anyone else do this?” he asked casually, voice low as he prepped the machine.

She blinked. “Nope. First tattoo. First time for a lot of things, honestly.”

He stilled.

Her tone was so casual. So sweetly unaware.

The gun in his hand buzzed once before he shut it off again. He turned back to her, expression unreadable.

“What kind of things?” he asked, voice deceptively even.

She laughed lightly. “Oh—nothing crazy. Just… I didn’t go out a lot before college. My parents were strict. So I’m a little late to everything.”

Levi’s mouth was dry.

He looked down at her—how young her face still looked, how fresh and trusting her eyes were as she gazed up at him, unaware that he was thinking things no man should think about a girl like her.

What else was she late to?

Had she ever been kissed right?

Had anyone ever touched her and made her feel it?

He didn’t want anyone else to be the first. Not some clumsy boy fumbling through her shirt in a dorm room. Not some idiot who didn’t know how to worship a girl like her.

What if he became her first? The first to kiss her properly. The first to feel her melt beneath him. The first to slide between her thighs and ruin her for anyone else.

He could make her cry with pleasure and call it love.

She’d never know the difference.

His hand trembled—barely.

He snapped the gun on again and leaned over her, the buzz filling the air. His eyes locked on hers, the needle hovering just above skin.

“This part’ll sting,” he warned. “Don’t move.”

She bit her lip and nodded, looking up at him like she was bracing for pain—but trusting him to deliver it right.

Of course she did.

And then—contact.

The first prick of the needle into her ribs made her suck in a breath and grip the edge of the chair.

“Shit—sorry,” she whimpered, eyes fluttering.

Levi exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tight. Her voice. That soft curse. Her hips shifted just enough that he had to stop for a second.

“You okay?” he asked, steady, his hand never leaving her skin.

She nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Just… sensitive, I guess.”

You have no idea.

He continued—each slow line carved with practiced precision, every stroke pulling more from him than he wanted to admit. Her chest rose and fell. Her lashes fluttered. She whimpered once more, and his body reacted before he could stop it.

The low, aching pull in his gut. The throb. The heat. He shifted in his chair, adjusting himself subtly, jaw clenched hard.

He couldn’t want her like this. But he did.

Worse—he was starting to wonder if maybe… maybe she wanted him too.

Not consciously. Not fully. But she came here alone. She asked him to mark her. She let his hands touch her in places no man had before.

She smiled when he made her laugh.

And God, that felt better than anything had in years.

It was done.

The small tattoo sat just beneath the curve of her ribs—clean, crisp, still flushed red from the irritation. A lavender sprig curled with a delicate moon, subtle and sweet.

Just like her.

Y/N exhaled slowly. Her skin glistened with a fine sheen of sweat, and her cheeks were pink with the warmth of her body and the faint buzz of adrenaline.

“That’s it?” she asked softly, her voice almost shy.

Levi nodded. His gloves crinkled faintly as he leaned over her again, holding a square of paper towel soaked in sterile wash. His eyes flicked to hers once—serious, unreadable.

“Try not to move.”

She went still, obedient again. Letting him touch her.

His fingers brushed her side—cleaning carefully. Gently. He could’ve rushed this. Could’ve wiped it down and slapped on the bandage.

But he didn’t.

He lingered.

Every glide of the towel over her skin was slower than necessary. His touch memorized her—the slope of her hip, the fragile dip of her waist, the softness beneath his palm.

Y/N bit her lip, holding still, trusting him like she always had. Too much.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice gravel and smoke.

She smiled, eyes fluttering open. “Yeah. I think I kinda liked it.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

He reached for the ointment next. His gloved fingers dipped into the tiny tub before sliding across her skin—slow, methodical, rubbing it into the inked flesh with short, circular motions.

Her breath hitched.

“You’re good at this,” she whispered.

You have no idea.

When he was done, he peeled off his gloves, then gently laid the protective wrap over the tattoo, smoothing the edges of the bandage like she was something delicate.

She pulled her tank top back down and sat up, tugging it into place with a soft little sigh.

Then—she smiled at him. Bright. Happy.

“Thanks, Levi. Really.”

He didn’t smile back.

He just nodded, eyes on her mouth.

“You need anything… you let me know.”

She tilted her head. “Like what?”

He held her gaze. “Anything.”

She blushed and laughed it off, reaching for her sketchbook. “I’ll text you when it heals!”

And then she was gone.

Later That Night | A Bar on the Edge of Town

The bourbon tasted like nothing.

Levi sat alone in a booth in a dive bar two neighborhoods over, jaw clenched, thumb pressed into the rim of his glass like he was trying to snap it in half.

Her laughter still rang in his ears.

The image of her lying back, baring her ribs to him, her soft skin under his hands—it haunted him. He could still smell her. Feel her.

She didn’t know. Didn’t understand what she gave him. How easy it would’ve been to lean down, whisper something, slide a hand beneath her waistband.

She would’ve gasped. Maybe said no. Maybe not.

He ground his teeth, looking for a fight with himself.

And then she approached.

A brunette with long legs and a loose mouth. Something in her eyes said she wanted to be used. Good. He didn’t want conversation.

He barely looked at her. Just nodded toward the exit.

The Motel.

She was louder than he liked. Clingy, too. Tried to kiss him slow and sweet, and Levi shoved her back on the bed.

“You don’t talk,” he muttered.

Her eyes widened—but she nodded.

He stripped with brutal economy, pulling his belt off, yanking his shirt over his head, not bothering to unlace his boots. He climbed over her like something feral.

She was warm. Willing. But not Y/N.

He didn’t close his eyes this time.

He watched her face as he entered her—hard and fast, no warning—and every time she cried out, every time she moaned, it only made him angrier.

Angry that it wasn’t her.

That Y/N would’ve trembled. Whispered his name. Cried from the stretch, not the pleasure.

That she would’ve gripped his shoulders and gasped Levi, I don’t know what I’m doing—

And he would’ve said, I do. Just trust me.

He came with a growl, hips snapping hard, hand pressed over the woman’s mouth to silence her squeals. It was rough. Thoughtless.

It wasn’t enough.

He pulled out, wiped himself off, stood up.

The woman touched her throat, lips red and swollen. “Jesus, you’re intense.”

Levi didn’t answer. He was already pulling on his shirt.

He left cash on the table without a glance back.

The only face in his head was hers.

The smell of grilled meat and charcoal hung thick in the warm summer air.

Erwin’s backyard was wide and well-kept, enclosed by a fence wrapped in vines and white lights strung up along the patio. Folding tables lined with food, pitchers of lemonade and beer bottles in coolers. Kids ran barefoot in the grass while older relatives gathered in clusters, laughing over old stories.

Levi stood near the edge of the porch, a cold bottle of water in his hand, sunglasses pushed up on the bridge of his nose.

He hated crowds.

Hated noise.

But he came anyway.

Because Erwin asked. And because she would be here.

“Levi!” A voice called out from the house.

He looked up—and there she was.

Y/N.

She came down the back steps with a bounce in her step, wearing a short navy romper with little white buttons and thin straps. Her hair was curled in soft waves that kissed her shoulders, her skin glowing in the late afternoon sun. She wore no shoes. Her bare legs gleamed.

She smiled when she saw him—really smiled. Like she was happy to see him. Like he was just Levi, her dad’s best friend. Safe. Familiar.

She had no idea.

“Hey!” she said, walking up to him, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Glad you came. You always sneak out of these early.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” Levi muttered, eyes trailing down her legs before dragging themselves back up. “Food’s decent.”

She laughed, soft and bright. “You’re so full of it. You don’t even eat at these.”

He took a slow sip from the bottle to distract himself. “Still better than watching Hange try to play volleyball.”

That earned a giggle.

Hange was across the yard, nearly breaking a lawn chair as she dove to catch a plastic ball. Mike stood nearby, shaking his head, sipping a beer. Petra and Nanaba were seated under the patio umbrella chatting with Y/N’s aunt. Armin manned the grill while Jean and Connie threw chips at each other like feral children.

Levi didn’t see any of them. Not really. Not when she was this close.

Y/N swayed gently on her feet, her romper hugging her waist every time she shifted. She glanced down at her hand, then up at him again.

“Do you want to see it?”

He blinked. “See what?”

She lifted the edge of her romper just slightly at her side, exposing the clear wrap still lightly taped over her healing tattoo.

“It’s scabbing a little but… I love it. Like, really love it. You made it perfect.”

She was so close. He could smell her shampoo, something floral and light. Her fingers were stained faintly with charcoal from the sketchbook she’d been using earlier. And the curve of her hip under that wrap—Levi had to look away.

“Looks good,” he muttered.

But his throat was dry.

He remembered exactly how her skin felt under his hand. How her voice trembled when the needle first touched her. How she smiled afterward—sweet and grateful, like she’d been given something.

She had no idea how much he’d taken.

Later.

The sun began to dip lower in the sky. A warm golden haze settled over the yard as people sat down to eat. Someone popped open another case of drinks. Y/N had wandered over to the drink cooler with a few of the older cousins.

She pulled out a cold beer, grinning as she twisted the cap off. It hissed.

Levi watched her raise it to her lips—just a sip.

And then—

“Y/N.”

Her father’s voice—calm but firm.

She blinked, already mid-sip. “What?”

Erwin walked over, took the bottle gently from her hand. “Not today.”

She frowned. “Dad, I’m twenty—”

“You’re not drinking at my cookout,” he said plainly.

Y/N pouted. “Seriously?”

Her mother, from across the yard, called out with a dry tone. “Erwin, she’s not twelve anymore!”

“She’s still my daughter.”

“Then let her act like a grown one.”

Y/N laughed awkwardly, cheeks a little pink. She took a water bottle instead and wandered off toward the fence, quietly sipping it while others turned back to their food.

Levi watched it all.

Watched her lips on the bottle. Watched her frustration. Watched her parents bicker over her like she was still a child.

But she wasn’t.

Not anymore.

Dusk.

The sky turned rose-gold, and the first cicadas began to hum. The party thinned slightly, groups retreating to corners. Levi drifted toward the edge of the yard, watching her.

Y/N sat on the wooden steps near the back fence, far from the rest of the noise. Her sketchbook in her lap, legs folded under her. Her curls were messy now, a strand stuck to her cheek with sweat. Her romper had slipped slightly on one side, exposing the smooth slope of her shoulder.

She looked soft. Quiet. Lonely.

He didn’t ask permission. Just walked over and sat beside her.

She looked up, surprised—then smiled.

“Hey, Levi.”

“Hey.”

He lit a cigarette, the match flaring between them, casting a glow on her face.

She scrunched her nose. “That stuff’s gonna kill you.”

He smirked faintly. “I’ve heard.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment. Comfortable. Familiar.

Then she whispered, “Sometimes I hate being the only kid.”

He glanced at her.

She was still looking down. “Like, I know I’m grown now, technically, but… I’m still treated like this little doll that has to be protected from everything. I’m not dumb.”

He exhaled a slow stream of smoke. “No. You’re not.”

She looked up. “Do you ever think people only see what they want to see?”

“All the time,” he said.

Her voice lowered. “You don’t treat me like a kid.”

Levi froze.

She smiled. “You never did. Even when I was younger, you let me draw and sit in your shop and just… exist.”

You have no idea how I see you now. You have no idea what I think about when you smile.

“You’re easy to be around,” he said simply.

She nudged him gently. “You’re not.”

He laughed under his breath.

And then, she looked at him—longer. Her eyes softer. Curious.

“I like being around you,” she said.

Levi swallowed. Hard.

She was looking at him with eyes that didn’t know what they were doing. A soft smile. A warmth that could be mistaken for affection.

She didn’t know what she was stirring. Didn’t know that his hand ached to touch her again. That every inch of her skin was imprinted in his mind.

He leaned slightly closer—just enough to smell the sweetness of her skin again. His fingers brushed hers on the step between them, light. Barely there.

She didn’t pull away.

And fuck, that was almost worse.

In his head, he was already taking her. In a bathroom. Against a wall. In the backseat of her mom’s car. Pulling that romper off inch by inch and hearing her whisper his name like she meant it.

But he didn’t move.

Not yet.

Instead, he said, “You should go inside. It’s getting cold.”

She looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded.

She stood slowly. Her hand brushed his knee for balance. He caught her waist, steadying her.

Too close.

She smiled. “Thanks.”

And then she walked off. Barefoot. Skin glowing. Leaving the scent of lavender and innocence in her wake.

Levi watched her go.

And in his head, he whispered:

Soon.

The bell above the shop door jingled—bright, sharp, cheerful.

Levi looked up from his sketch table, brows furrowed, already irritated by the sound.

But then he saw her.

Y/N.

She stepped in with another girl—tall, dark-haired, a little louder than Y/N, laughing as she pointed toward one of the flash walls covered in snake and dagger designs.

“God, some of these are hot,” the friend said, giggling. “I could never get one, though. My mom would die.”

Y/N gave a soft, sheepish laugh. “I think they’re amazing. I like the ones that look like woodcuts.”

Levi said nothing.

He watched from behind the counter as she moved through his space like sunlight. Her curls were a little frizzed from the humidity. She wore a cropped tank top and soft knit shorts that showed far too much of her thighs. A small silver chain glittered around her ankle. Her nails were painted baby blue.

She looked like summer. Like temptation wrapped in innocence.

And she brought another girl. Another pair of eyes. Another witness.

Levi didn’t like it.

Y/N noticed him and brightened instantly. “Levi!”

He nodded once. “Thought you weren’t coming back until Friday.”

She smiled and walked up to the counter. “I wasn’t, but then I thought—why wait?”

Her friend hovered a few feet behind, still giggling at something on the wall. Levi ignored her completely.

Y/N leaned her elbows on the counter, eyes wide. “I was wondering… do you need help? Like—part-time?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Help?”

“I mean, not with, like, tattooing obviously—but cleanup, front desk, sketch sorting, customer check-ins. You said it yourself: I’m easy to be around.” She gave him that sweet smile again, clearly proud of herself. “And I want to learn.”

Her friend chimed in, “Y/N, are you seriously trying to work here? You’ll go back to school with ink in your blood.”

Y/N grinned at her, then turned back to Levi. “I just want to get better. You said I’m improving, and I figured, who better to learn from?”

She looked up at him like he hung the stars.

Levi was silent for a moment, jaw tight.

Letting her be here—regularly—was a bad idea.

A dangerous one.

She’d be alone with him. Around the ink. The chair. His hands. Every second she spent in this place would wear his self-control thinner.

But then she smiled again. Hopeful. She wanted to be close to him. Even if she didn’t understand the gravity of it.

He sighed. “Three days a week. Noon to five. You don’t touch the machines.”

Y/N gasped, delighted. “Seriously?”

Her eyes sparkled. And before he could step back, she moved around the counter.

And then—

She hugged him.

Her arms wrapped around his torso, soft and warm, her curls brushing his chest. She was still smiling, pressed against him in innocent gratitude.

And her breasts— Full. Soft. Pressed tight against his ribs.

Levi froze.

His hands hovered near her shoulders, unsure whether to hold her or shove her off. He could feel the outline of her bra through her tank, the slight arch of her back as she stood on tiptoe to hug him properly. Her skin was warm. Her scent was all vanilla and sunlight.

It was too much.

His body reacted. Immediately. Shamefully.

And she didn’t even notice.

She pulled back, still beaming. “Thank you, Levi. Seriously.”

His voice came out a little rougher than he wanted. “Yeah. Don’t be late.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “I won’t!”

Her friend wandered back over, raising an eyebrow at the closeness. “Guess we’ll be seeing more of you.”

Y/N grabbed her hand. “Let’s go, I’ll text you when I get home.”

She gave Levi one last sweet wave before disappearing out the door, the bell chiming behind her.

The shop fell silent again.

Levi stood behind the counter, jaw locked, fists clenched.

He could still feel the shape of her against him.

She had no idea what she was doing.

And he—

He was starting to wonder what it would feel like if he stopped pretending. If he held her tighter. Pressed her hips to his. Whispered something filthy into her ear and watched her innocence fracture.

You wanted this, didn’t you?

You came back. Again. And again.

And now you’re mine for the summer.

She was five minutes early.

The bell chimed as Y/N stepped inside, smiling like she was walking into a dream.

Her hair was pulled up messily, little tendrils falling along her cheeks. She wore a fitted white tee tucked into loose linen shorts, her sketchbook tucked under one arm and a coffee in the other.

Levi was already behind the counter, sorting sterilized gear. He didn’t look up when she entered.

But he knew it was her.

He always knew.

“Morning!” she chirped, walking up and setting her things down beside him like she belonged there.

“You’re early.”

She gave him a mock pout. “Should’ve known being on time wouldn’t impress you.”

He grunted. “Start by wiping the counter and checking the appointment list.”

She saluted him with two fingers and turned on her heel. He watched the sway of her hips as she walked—casual, unbothered. Her thighs peeked out every time she bent slightly to grab a wipe or glance at the client book.

She talked while she worked. A lot.

“I was thinking about this dream I had last night—it was weird. You were in it, but not like, weird-weird. I think you were drawing on my arm, and it turned into this giant tree, and the leaves were shaped like—wait, what’s this guy’s name again?” She pointed to the first appointment.

Levi didn’t answer right away.

He was watching her fingers trail down the page.

Everything she did was soft. Feminine. Oblivious.

“Marco,” he finally said. “Tattooing his forearm. Half-sleeve continuation.”

She nodded and started prepping the station.

By the time Marco arrived, Y/N was seated quietly in the corner, sketchbook open in her lap, legs crossed, head tilted as she watched Levi begin the setup. She stayed quiet for a while—entranced.

Then: “Can I ask something without bothering you?”

“You’re already bothering me,” he muttered.

She smiled. “But you let me.”

He didn’t answer. Just let the buzz of the tattoo gun cover whatever curse was under his breath.

She asked questions anyway. About technique. Ink flow. Skin texture. Design balance.

Marco didn’t seem to mind—if anything, he was more amused than distracted. Levi didn’t even look at him. Didn’t need to. His focus was split between the linework and the feeling of her watching him.

She studied him. His hands. His arms. His voice. His control.

At one point she got up to grab something, and as she leaned past him to reach the ink caps, her chest brushed his shoulder again.

Barely. But enough.

Enough for Levi to pause a half-second longer than necessary before pulling the next line.

By the end of the day, she had filled four pages of her sketchbook, giggled twice with a walk-in client, and nearly spilled a bottle of ointment on herself—but she glowed when he handed her a twenty-dollar bill folded with a note.

“Payment,” he said flatly.

She opened the note.

In his rigid, clean handwriting:

You’ve got potential. Don’t waste it on college boys.

She blinked. Blushed.

Then folded it slowly and pressed it to her chest. “Best boss ever.”

Don’t say that, Levi wanted to growl.

Because he wanted to do things to his employee that no boss should ever want to do.

That Night – 2:34 AM | Levi’s Apartment

The silence was oppressive.

Levi sat on the edge of his bed, shirtless, damp from the shower. The air was hot. Still. The only sound was the quiet hum of the ceiling fan, rotating above him like it could cleanse his thoughts.

It couldn’t.

He still smelled her.

Her perfume clung to his hands, faint but there. That warm, innocent mix of summer and sugar and skin.

He leaned back on the bed, exhaling slow.

Then slid his hand lower.

He hadn’t touched himself in weeks. He didn’t need to. Discipline. That’s what he lived by.

But tonight?

Tonight, all he could think of was her voice.

“Best boss ever.” Sweet. Naïve. Like she didn’t know what he was becoming.

He closed his eyes and let his hand drift lower—imagining.

Her laugh, breathless under him. Her mouth, parted in surprise as he slid her shorts down. Her thighs, trembling as he whispered, Don’t be scared, sweetheart. Let me teach you.

Would she cry? Would she beg? Or would she moan his name?

His fist tightened. His breath came faster.

He imagined her hands bracing against his shoulders, tears sliding down her cheek as he stretched her open, slow and deliberate, her voice breaking with every thrust.

“Levi, it hurts—”

“You’ll get used to it.”

He groaned low in his throat as he came, hips twitching, hot release spilling over his stomach. For a second, he saw her face—smiling, trusting, grateful.

Fuck.

He lay back, panting, hand sticky, chest rising and falling.

This had to stop.

But it wouldn’t.

Because she was coming back tomorrow.

And she still didn’t know she was his.

It was past eight.

The sun had already dipped behind the horizon, and Titan Ink was dim except for the soft overhead light above Levi’s workstation and the desk lamp where Y/N sat, sketching like she’d forgotten what time was.

Levi stood in the back room, organizing ink trays with the door cracked just enough to see her.

She’d stayed all day.

Said nothing when the clock hit five.

Said nothing when the last client left at six.

And still said nothing now—just hummed softly under her breath, pencil smudges across her fingers, her hair in a messy half-bun that let loose strands fall around her face.

She looked like she belonged here.

And that scared the hell out of him.

She didn’t know how dangerous that was.

Earlier, she’d arrived on foot—lightly out of breath, clutching a bus pass and iced coffee.

“Hey!” she called out, cheerful despite the heat. “Sorry—my mom needed her car, so I had to take the bus. Hope that’s okay.”

Levi didn’t answer. Just unlocked the door and let her in.

He watched her all day. Quietly. Subtly. Every time she leaned too far forward. Every time her shorts rode up the back of her thighs when she knelt to grab something. Every time she talked too much.

She observed everything—his process, his hands, his technique.

Her questions were constant.

“Why do you set your linework needles in threes?”

“Do people ever cry during ribs?”

“Was that guy flirting with you or was he just weird?”

She giggled, grinned, praised his work like it was magic.

And Levi just tried not to snap.

8:23 PM

She finally blinked up from her sketchbook. “What time is it?”

Levi looked at the clock. “Late.”

“Shit,” she mumbled. “I didn’t even realize.”

She stood, stretching, the hem of her t-shirt lifting just slightly to reveal her lower back and the waistband of soft cotton shorts.

“Is it okay if I, um… get a ride home?” she asked sheepishly. “The buses stop running soon and I don’t wanna get stranded.”

He nodded once. “Get your stuff.”

The Drive

His car was silent except for the hum of the road and the occasional click of the turn signal. Y/N sat curled in the passenger seat, legs pulled up, her arms hugging her sketchbook to her chest.

She looked sleepy. Soft. Her voice was quieter now.

“Thanks for today,” she murmured. “I think I learned more just watching you than I did in an entire semester of studio.”

He glanced at her briefly.

“You talk too much.”

She smiled. “You like it.”

He said nothing.

They stopped at a red light. She looked out the window, voice soft again.

“I always feel better around you.”

Levi tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

“I know I’m probably annoying sometimes. Too excited. Too talky. But I really mean it—I feel… safe. Like I’m learning who I am.”

Stop.

She didn’t.

“Like, I’m not a kid anymore, you know? But I still feel like one when I’m at home. And then I’m here and… you just treat me like I matter. Like I’m not fragile.”

He didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

Because he wanted to break her more than anything.

Outside Her House

He parked two houses down—her request. “Dad’s nosy,” she explained with a smile.

The street was quiet. The porch light glowed faintly in the distance. The hum of summer cicadas filled the silence between them.

She didn’t get out right away.

Instead, she turned toward him in the dark cabin of the car, her face lit only by the dashboard.

“I think this is the most I’ve talked in months,” she said softly. “I usually feel like I have to be… small. Not take up space.”

Levi looked at her.

Really looked.

Her knees were tucked under her chin. Her lips were pink and chapped from nervous chewing. Her eyes were tired but warm.

She didn’t know.

Didn’t know how often he thought about her at night.

Didn’t know how many lines he wanted to cross.

Didn’t know how many he already had.

“You should go in,” he said, voice rough.

She smiled—sleepy, sincere. “Yeah. Probably.”

She reached for the door handle—paused.

Then turned back to him.

“You’re a good person, Levi.”

He stared at her.

Don’t say that.

But he didn’t speak.

She leaned forward slightly—just enough that her breath kissed his cheek.

“See you tomorrow,” she whispered.

And then she was gone.

Up the walk. Onto the porch. The door clicked shut behind her.

Levi sat in the car for ten full minutes, staring straight ahead, fists white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

He was going to lose control.

And when he did—it would be her fault.

The smell of eggs and butter drifted from the kitchen as Y/N padded down the stairs in a soft tank top and sleep shorts, her hair still messy from bed, her phone clutched loosely in her hand.

Her mother stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with precise, quiet movements. Her father sat at the table in his uniform undershirt, reading the paper with a steaming mug in hand.

“Morning,” Y/N mumbled, yawning as she sank into a chair.

Her mom glanced at her. “You’re not working again today, are you?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“The tattoo place,” her mom said, setting a plate in front of her. “You’ve been there almost every day this week.”

Y/N shrugged. “It’s kind of like… research. I mean, it’s not just tattoos—it’s design work, line study, observing technique. I’m learning a lot.”

Her dad raised an eyebrow, peering over the rim of his coffee mug. “You’re researching tattoos?”

Y/N gave an innocent little smile. “For class. And Levi’s cool about letting me watch.”

Her mom frowned faintly. “Just don’t stay too late again. It’s not safe waiting for rides at night, even if it’s Levi. I know he’s like family, but still.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, picking at her pancake. “It’s fine. Levi’s practically my uncle.”

Her father made a low grunt in his throat but didn’t comment further.

Late Morning | Her Friend’s House

Y/N sat cross-legged on the living room floor, sipping iced tea and scrolling through Instagram while her best friend, Madeline, rifled through old photos from their high school art club.

“Oh my God,” Mads groaned. “Why did we think gouache was a personality trait?”

Y/N laughed. “Because we were pretentious and broke.”

“Still are.”

They both cracked up. A beat of silence passed before Mads flopped back onto the carpet with a dramatic sigh.

“So… you’ve been spending a lot of time at that tattoo shop lately.”

Y/N glanced up. “Yeah. It’s been really good, actually. I’ve learned more just watching Levi than in my last two design labs.”

Madeline smirked. “Bet he’s fun to watch.”

Y/N blinked. “Huh?”

Mads sat up on her elbows. “You know. The arms. The jaw. That whole grumpy-hot, older guy thing. It’s giving ‘Sir, yes sir.’”

Y/N made a face. “Ew, stop. He’s basically my uncle.”

“Okay, but he’s not.”

“Yeah, but like—he is. I've known him since I was a kid. He used to braid my hair when I begged him. He let me play with his pens. He used to babysit me when my dad worked overtime.”

Madeline raised an eyebrow. “All I’m hearing is he knows you well and has great hand control.”

Y/N gagged dramatically and threw a pillow at her. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m disgusting? Girl, if I worked around that man every day, I’d be faking back tattoos just to get his hands on me.”

“STOP!”

They both burst into laughter again, but something lingered in Y/N’s chest.

Not desire. Just… a flicker of something. Something unsettled.

Because yes—Levi was serious. Stoic. Quiet. Cool. But he was safe. Familiar. She couldn’t even imagine him seeing her that way.

Could she?

She shook the thought away, laughing again as Madeline started scrolling through hot tattoo artists on Instagram.

Meanwhile…

At Titan Ink, Levi was sharpening needles. His jaw tight. His hands tighter.

And he didn’t know why he suddenly couldn’t breathe right.

Y/N’s laughter from earlier still clung to her skin as she pushed open the door to Titan Ink, a breeze following behind her.

The bell jingled.

“Hi, Levi,” she said softly, stepping in and brushing hair from her cheeks.

She wore a black tank top and a plaid skirt that flared when she walked, a little too short, a little too light. Her shoes were still dusty from her walk over. She looked like she didn’t belong in a place like this—like ink and blood and smoke would stain her.

But she smiled like she always did. Soft. Innocent. Like the world was still kind.

Levi was at the back counter, wiping down tools. His shoulders were stiff. His head didn’t turn.

She hesitated. “Everything okay?”

His voice was flat. Cold. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

She blinked, thrown. “I… don’t know. Just felt tense in here.”

“Maybe you’re imagining things,” he muttered.

She stepped inside, the door shutting behind her. “I brought some new sketches. I thought you might want to—”

“I saw your little video.”

She froze. “What?”

“Your story.”

He finally looked at her.

His eyes were sharp. Cold steel. Hungry.

“You and that friend of yours. Laughing. Talking about me like I’m some dumb pretty boy with a tattoo gun and a big dick.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Levi—I didn’t—”

“‘Basically my uncle,’ huh?”

Her cheeks flushed, mortified. “It was a joke. Mads was being gross, and I—I wasn’t saying—”

“You weren’t saying what?” His voice was low. “That I’m old? Off-limits? Or just not hot enough to end up on one of your little thirst posts?”

Her throat closed.

She’d never seen him like this. Never heard him like this.

“Levi,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean it like that. It was stupid. Please don’t be mad.”

He stepped closer. Controlled. Quiet. Dangerous.

“I’m not mad,” he said coolly. “I’m just realizing something.”

She backed up slightly, her breath catching.

He followed.

“You like being here because I make you feel grown, right? But when it’s convenient, I’m just the old man with inked hands and a soft spot for you.”

“That’s not true—”

“Isn’t it?”

He stopped just in front of her, close enough that her back bumped the edge of the desk. She looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted—unsure, but not afraid. Not yet.

“Tell me, Y/N,” he murmured, voice like velvet-wrapped knives. “Do the little college boys you hang around touch you the way I do?”

Her breath hitched. “Y-You don’t touch me.”

He smirked. “Not yet.”

She stared at him, stunned into silence.

And then—softly, “Why are you being like this?”

He leaned in, voice dark and full of heat. “Because I saw the way you looked at me yesterday. I felt your body against mine when you hugged me. I watched you bend over for my tools, and you didn’t even think about what you were doing to me.”

Her lips trembled. “I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—”

“But you did.”

He braced his hand on the desk beside her hip, trapping her there.

“You want to play adult, sweetheart? Wear short skirts, stay late with a man twice your age, talk about how ‘safe’ you feel?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Then act like a fucking adult and admit what you’re doing.”

Tears shimmered in her lashes now, her voice shaky. “Levi…”

He stared down at her, breathing hard. Wanting to do something stupid.

To kiss her. To touch her. To wreck her.

Instead, he straightened slowly, stepping back.

Her chest rose and fell like she’d just surfaced from underwater.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. Quiet. Flat. Controlled again.

She blinked. “What?”

He looked away. “We’ve got three clients booked. Don’t be late.”

She stood there, stunned, lips parted, heart pounding.

And Levi?

Levi turned his back to her.

Because if he didn’t, he would’ve done something he couldn’t take back.

Yet.

Y/N stormed out of the shop the moment Levi turned his back. She didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t even look over her shoulder.

Her face was flushed. Her eyes stung.

What the hell was that?

She didn’t stop until she reached the corner, nearly missing the crosswalk light, heart pounding as she pulled out her phone.

She opened her story.

There it was. That video from earlier—Madeline panning the camera across their messy sketchbooks and iced teas, giggling in the background. And just loud enough:

“Bet he’s fun to watch.”

Y/N (off-screen, laughing): “Ew, stop! He’s basically my uncle.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

It was on Madeline’s page too.

Her full name. Her face. Her voice.

She cursed under her breath, deleting the repost instantly, then swiping over to her messages.

Y/N:

What the hell Mads Why would you post that?? He SAW it. He’s acting so weird. I think I messed everything up.

Madeline (typing…)

Babe chill??? I didn’t think he’d like… watch your stories?? I already deleted it

Y/N:

I feel sick He looked at me like I was dirt I’ve never seen him that angry

Madeline:

He’s probably just embarrassed Or maybe you hit a nerve 👀 Want me to come over?

Y/N:

Can I just come to yours? I don’t want to be home

Madeline:

Duh. Get over here.

Y/N paused long enough to text her mom:

Hey, Mads and I are having a girl’s night. I’m staying at hers. Love you.

She didn’t wait for a reply.

She didn’t want to see the way her hands were shaking.

Madeline’s Apartment | An Hour Later

Y/N dropped her bag on the couch and groaned, burying her face in a throw pillow.

Madeline flopped down next to her, wine cooler in hand, already in a black crop top and ripped jeans. “Okay. Emergency protocol. Step one: dress like heartbreak never touched you.”

Y/N lifted her head. “I don’t want to go out.”

“You don’t have to want it, babe. You just have to not cry on me while we’re at the bar.”

Y/N cracked a laugh. Weak. But it was something.

Madeline stood, dragging her toward the bedroom. “Come on. I’m picking your outfit.”

They dressed in front of the mirror, the air filled with music and cheap perfume.

Y/N let her friend pick the clothes—high-waisted skirt, black halter top, soft shimmer on her eyes. Her hair was brushed out into waves, lip gloss shining.

She looked like someone who hadn’t just been humiliated by a man twice her age. Someone who wasn’t unraveling inside.

Madeline leaned over her shoulder, smirking. “You know, if Levi was looking at you… maybe it’s because he noticed you’re not a kid anymore.”

Y/N turned, her voice sharp. “Stop.”

Madeline blinked. “I’m just saying—”

“I said stop.” Y/N stared at her reflection, quieter now. “It’s not like that.”

Madeline raised an eyebrow but didn’t push.

Y/N didn’t say anything else. She just applied her gloss again. Slower this time.

But she was lying.

She wanted it not to be like that. She wanted to forget the way Levi had looked at her. Like he hated her. Like he wanted her.

And she hated that somewhere deep in her chest—

She wanted to know what he’d do if she pushed him again.

The bass vibrated through the floorboards. Lights flickered overhead, turning the dancefloor into a sea of blurred faces and swaying bodies.

Y/N stumbled slightly as she returned to their booth, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to her neck from the heat. She slid into the seat beside Madeline, giggling as her friend handed her another drink—pink and sparkling with a lime wedge.

“Drink it,” Mads urged. “I swear it’ll make you forget every man who ever looked at you like a problem.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but took a sip anyway.

Her phone buzzed in her skirt pocket. She ignored it.

Tonight was about forgetting. Forgetting the look in Levi’s eyes. The way he leaned in too close. The way his words had cut.

“Okay,” Madeline slurred slightly, leaning over. “You want real closure?”

Y/N blinked. “Closure?”

Madeline grinned. “You should text him.”

Y/N nearly dropped her drink. “Are you crazy?”

Madeline snatched her phone and started typing. “Just something simple. Something that says, ‘You don’t get to mess with my head and act like nothing happened.’”

Y/N tried to reach for it, but she was too slow.

Madeline cackled as she hit send.

Y/N: Why were you such a jerk today?

Y/N’s heart dropped. “Mads—give it back—”

Too late.

Somewhere across town, Levi’s phone buzzed on the workbench.

He’d stayed late.

Alone.

The shop was dark except for the underglow of his desk lamp. His shirt was off, a cigarette hung from his mouth, and he was sketching something he knew he shouldn’t be.

But when he saw her name light up the screen?

Everything stopped.

He stared at the message. Once. Twice.

Why were you such a jerk today?

A smirk twitched at his mouth.

Then he dialed.

Y/N’s phone rang in her hand. Blocked number.

Her breath caught.

“You didn’t.”

Madeline blinked. “What?”

Y/N answered.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end was quiet. Dangerous.

“You must be drunk.”

She froze. “Levi…”

“Texting me? Now? After the way you looked running out of that shop?”

She stood from the booth, heart pounding. “I didn’t mean to—it was just a dumb thing. Madeline took my phone—”

“You think I care about Madeline?”

His voice was colder now. She stepped away from the music, toward the corner by the bathrooms.

“You think I didn’t hear the music? The crowd?” His tone shifted, lower now. Sharp. “Where are you?”

Her throat closed. “I’m out. That’s all.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She bristled. “You don’t get to know everything about me.”

Silence.

Then:

“No?” he asked, voice smooth as silk. “Because I could tell your father where you are right now. Should I?”

Y/N went ice-cold.

“You wouldn’t,” she whispered.

“I would,” he said simply. “If you don’t want that, sweetheart, then you’re going to tell me where you are. Right now.”

Her stomach twisted. “Levi…”

“You texted me first,” he said, calm and cruel. “Now I’m giving you two choices. One—tell me where you are. Two—I call Erwin. Tell him his daughter’s dressed like a whore, drinking God knows what with God knows who in a bar across town.”

She felt sick.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I don’t like being toyed with,” he said, voice low and mean. “You want to play with me, baby? You better be ready to play my way.”

Tears stung her eyes.

“I’m at Roxley’s,” she whispered. “Off ninth.”

Silence.

Then—

“Good girl.”

Click.

Y/N stood by the wall, heart hammering in her chest. Her ears rang louder than the bass in the club. She stared at her phone screen, at the words still burned into her mind:

“Good girl.”

The call had ended, but she still felt Levi's voice inside her—low, cruel, curling around her throat like a fist.

She should’ve gone home. She should’ve never texted him.

Madeline came stumbling out of the bathroom, still laughing with a guy she’d met at the bar.

“Why do you look like you saw a ghost?” she asked.

“I—I think Levi’s coming here.”

Madeline blinked, confused. “Wait… what?”

“I texted him,” Y/N whispered, voice shaking. “You posted that video earlier and—he called me. He said if I didn’t tell him where I was, he’d call my dad.”

Madeline laughed like it was a joke.

But then—

The front doors slammed open.

And there he was.

Levi.

Wearing black. Cold eyes scanning the room.

He looked like violence wrapped in calm. Like something wrong in a place full of laughter and light.

Y/N felt her stomach drop. Her knees went weak.

He moved through the crowd like a knife through silk—shoulders tense, jaw locked. People stepped out of his way instinctively. No one stopped him.

His eyes found her.

And they didn’t leave her face once.

“Levi—” she started, stepping toward him, hands up like she could explain it away.

But he didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t speak.

He reached her in three strides, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her toward the door without a single word.

“Hey—what the hell?” Madeline shouted, reaching out.

Levi turned once. One look.

It was enough.

Madeline stopped cold, hand halfway up, her face going pale.

Y/N didn’t protest. She couldn’t. Her legs moved on their own. Her wrist burned under his grip, firm but not painful—yet.

The bar lights faded behind her. The street hit her like cold water.

His car was already parked at the curb, engine running.

He opened the passenger door and looked at her.

"Get in."

She stared up at him. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer.

She should’ve refused. Demanded answers.

But instead—

She got in.

The silence was unbearable.

Y/N sat stiffly in the passenger seat, hands folded in her lap, knees pressed together. Her skirt had ridden up from the way he’d dragged her, and she kept tugging it down.

Levi drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift. His knuckles were pale. His jaw clenched.

She glanced at him—once.

His profile was shadowed in the glow of the dashboard. He looked furious. But worse—he looked focused. Like he already knew exactly where this was going.

She found her voice.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

His tone didn’t waver. “Didn’t I?”

She swallowed. “You embarrassed me. Madeline’s probably freaking out.”

“Good,” he muttered.

Y/N frowned. “She didn’t do anything wrong—”

“She posted a video of you calling me your uncle while your tits were bouncing in a crop top, giggling like a drunk sorority brat.”

Her face flushed. “That’s not fair—”

“No?” His voice dropped. “Because I watched you dance. Watched you smile like you hadn’t done a damn thing wrong. You think you get to talk to me like I’m nothing and then come crawling back when it’s convenient?”

“I wasn’t—” Her voice broke. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

That made him laugh—a short, bitter sound.

“You can’t hurt me,” he said. “But you can make me angry. And baby, you really don’t want to see what I do when I’m angry.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed.

This wasn’t the Levi she knew.

This wasn’t her dad’s best friend. This wasn’t the quiet, grumpy man who handed her sketchbooks and coffee.

This was something else. Something darker. Something hungry.

“Where are we going?” she asked again, quieter now.

He didn’t answer.

Not until they passed the exit to her neighborhood.

Y/N turned sharply. “Levi—this isn’t the way to my house—”

“I’m not taking you home,” he said simply.

Panic bubbled in her throat. “My parents—they think I’m at Madeline’s—”

“I know,” he said, calm. “And if you don’t want that to change, I suggest you stay quiet.”

She went still.

The car was silent again.

Except now, she could feel everything. The way his eyes cut toward her at red lights. The heat in his hands. The weight in the air.

She whispered, “Are you going to hurt me?”

His voice was soft. Too soft.

“No.”

Then a pause.

“Not unless you ask me to.”

The car stopped with a jolt.

Y/N’s head snapped forward slightly, her chest heaving with panic and heat as she looked around.

This wasn’t her street.

It wasn’t anywhere she recognized.

The apartment complex was older, half-shrouded in trees and shadows, the parking lot empty except for two cars. The air was humid. Still. Wrong.

Levi turned the ignition off and opened his door without a word.

“Levi—” she tried.

He rounded the car, yanked open her door, and stared down at her with eyes like cold steel.

“Get out.”

She hesitated.

His hand reached for her wrist.

“Now.”

Y/N scrambled out, unsteady in her shoes, the rush of alcohol still swirling in her veins. Her thighs brushed together, her skirt too short, her heart too loud.

He didn’t let go of her wrist as he dragged her toward the stairs. His grip was tight—not painful, but firm. Final. Her heels clicked loudly against the steps, her free hand clutching the railing.

“Please,” she whispered. “Can we just talk? I—I don’t understand why you’re so mad—”

“You don’t get to understand,” he snapped over his shoulder. “Not tonight.”

His apartment door slammed open.

Then shut.

Then locked.

She stood in the middle of his living room, eyes wide. The space was clean, cold, lived-in. Gray walls, leather couch, the faint smell of smoke and antiseptic.

Levi dropped his keys on the table. Turned. Looked at her like she wasn’t real.

“You wore that,” he growled, stepping closer, “for other men.”

“I didn’t—”

His hand grabbed her waist, dragging her flush against him.

“You let them look at you.”

Her hands braced on his chest. “I didn’t mean—Levi, I didn’t even think—”

“No,” he spat. “You never think.”

His hand slid down to the hem of her skirt, fingers curling in the fabric.

“You go out in this little fucking skirt, drunk and swaying like a tease. You let boys stare at your legs—at your ass. Laugh like they have a chance.”

Tears filled her eyes. “It wasn’t like that—”

“You think they see you?” he hissed. “They don’t see you. They see a body. A drunk, dumb girl who doesn’t know how she looks.”

“I didn’t know you’d be so upset,” she cried.

Levi’s hand slid up her side—rough. Possessive. Claiming.

“You don’t get it,” he whispered, his breath hot against her cheek. “You don’t belong to them.”

“I don’t belong to anyone,” she whispered.

His hand stilled.

Then—his voice, low and dangerous: “Yes. You do.”

Y/N stood frozen in the center of his living room.

Her breath came in shallow waves. Her lips were trembling, her skirt twisted from where his hand had gripped it. The alcohol in her blood made everything feel hazy—slow. But the fear was sharp.

Levi stood in front of her, chest rising and falling, hands clenched into fists.

"You don’t belong to anyone," she had said.

He’d heard that lie before.

But not from her.

His hand reached for her again. Slower this time. Not dragging—but claiming.

He cupped her cheek, thumb smearing the tears that had begun to fall.

“Don’t say stupid things like that,” he whispered. “You know better.”

She shook her head, blinking up at him. “Please—Levi—I don’t understand why you’re doing this—”

“You don’t have to understand,” he murmured. “You just have to listen.”

His hand slid down her neck, trailing over the soft dip of her collarbone. Her skin was warm. Flushed. Her breathing unsteady.

"You let them stare at you," he said. "You wore this little outfit knowing exactly what it would do. You danced like you wanted attention."

Her voice broke. “I didn’t—I swear—”

“You did,” he snapped, fingers digging into her hips. “You wanted to feel grown. Powerful. Wanted to show me you don’t need me.”

Her legs buckled slightly under his grip. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just—”

“You wanted to play,” Levi growled, leaning in, breath hot against her ear. “Now I’m going to teach you what happens when you play with men like me.”

He pushed her back gently but firmly until the backs of her knees hit the couch. She stumbled, landing in a seated position, blinking up at him—tears on her cheeks, her hands trembling in her lap.

Levi looked down at her—this pretty little thing in a too-short skirt and tear-glossed eyes.

“You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me?” he murmured. “The way you blush when I touch you?”

“I—I didn’t—”

“Liar.”

He knelt in front of her, hands on her knees, spreading her legs slowly, deliberately.

She gasped.

His hands slid up her bare thighs, rough palms dragging over soft skin. She tried to close her legs again, but he held her open.

“Don’t fight me,” he warned. “You don’t want me angry again.”

She sobbed softly, “I’m scared.”

His mouth brushed her inner thigh. Good.

“You should be.”

He kissed higher.

And higher.

Until she was trembling.

Until she gasped his name like a prayer—confused, ashamed, wet.

He slid her panties aside.

She whimpered.

And Levi smiled—dark and slow.

“You wanted to know why I was angry?”

His breath ghosted against her most sensitive place.

“Because this—” He licked. “Wasn’t meant for anyone else.”

Y/N gasped when Levi spread her thighs, her body frozen between panic and confusion. Her mind screamed to move, to run, to say no—but her body had forgotten how to breathe, let alone fight.

She trembled as his eyes drank her in like something forbidden. Reverent and cruel.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he muttered, voice wrecked with restraint.

Her breath hitched. “Please… Levi, just—talk to me—”

“I am talking to you,” he said, sliding his hands up her thighs, rough fingertips dragging over soft skin. “You just don’t want to listen.”

His mouth was on her before she could protest—on her throat, then her chest, then lower, lower, until her skirt was pushed up and he was whispering into her skin:

“This was never theirs to see.”

Y/N let out a choked whimper, her fists curling in the fabric of his shirt. Her entire body felt overheated, her thoughts blurring. She didn’t recognize this version of Levi—possessive, furious, starved.

And yet… he didn’t stop touching her.

Didn’t stop tasting her.

He wanted to punish her, yes—but deeper than that, he wanted to mark her. Ruin her for anyone else. Erase every memory she had of those college boys, of the friends who thought she could go out and play grown-up.

She was his now. And he was going to make sure she never forgot it.

She sobbed his name once.

And that was all it took.

His mouth crashed against hers—hot, demanding, consuming. One of his hands wrapped around the back of her neck, pulling her closer. The other slid between her thighs again, forcing her legs open as he ground against her.

“You wanted to feel like a woman?” he growled into her mouth. “Then take it. Take all of me.”

She cried out softly, trembling under him, her breath caught somewhere between fear and something darker.

His voice was a rasp against her ear:

“You’re mine now.”

And then—

Everything disappeared.

Clothes were peeled away. Hands tangled. Breathless sobs. A gasp. A push.

And the last thing Y/N remembered as he pushed her down onto the couch—looming over her like a storm—was the look in his eyes.

Not kind.

Not safe.

But hungry.

And absolutely, irrevocably hers.

Y/N woke slowly.

Her head throbbed. Her mouth was dry. Her limbs felt too heavy, like she was floating just below the surface of her own body. Sunlight spilled through the half-open blinds, slicing across the unfamiliar room in golden lines.

It wasn’t her bed.

The sheets were dark. The room was too cold. The mattress was too firm.

She shifted—and winced.

A dull ache pulsed between her thighs. Her hips were sore. Her throat, too.

Panic stirred in her chest.

Where am I?

And then the memories came in fragments.

Levi’s voice. The bar. The car. His hand on her waist. His mouth at her throat. Her skirt pushed up.

“You’re mine now.”

Her stomach turned.

She sat up slowly, the sheets slipping from her chest. She was wearing one of his shirts—oversized, thin, and wrong. Her underwear was gone.

Her arms wrapped around herself, breathing shallow.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

She flinched.

Levi was in the doorway, dressed in a black t-shirt, coffee mug in hand. His hair was still messy from sleep, but his eyes were bright.

He looked... happy.

Y/N blinked at him. “What... what happened?”

His smile deepened. “You don’t remember?”

She swallowed. “I remember... some of it.”

“Then you remember enough,” he said smoothly, walking toward her. “You were perfect. All soft and warm and mine.”

She stiffened. “Levi, I—”

“You wanted it,” he said gently, sitting at the edge of the bed, one hand brushing her hair behind her ear. “You just didn’t know it yet. But your body did.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“I was drunk.”

He nodded. “I know. That’s why I took care of you. That’s what last night was, sweetheart. Me taking care of you.”

She shook her head. “But I said I was scared.”

“You were.” His voice didn’t change. “And I was patient. I didn’t hurt you. I didn’t force you. I just... showed you what you needed.”

Y/N pulled the blanket tighter around herself, her throat thick. “I don’t know what to think.”

Levi tilted his head.

“You don’t need to think. That’s the problem. Everyone’s always told you to be small. Quiet. Controlled. And now... you’re mine. You don’t have to figure it out. I already did that for you.”

She stared at him, silent.

Then whispered, “I want to go home.”

His smile didn’t fade. But his eyes did harden.

“Later,” he said. “You’re still tired. And I want to make you breakfast.”

“Levi—”

He stood, placing a kiss on the top of her head before she could finish.

“You did so well for me,” he murmured. “And I’m not letting you run from it now.”

He left the room, and she stared at the door.

Wrapped in his sheets. Wearing his clothes. Her body aching with the memory of what he’d done.

And for the first time, she realized—

She wasn’t going home on her terms.

Part Two will be here

#yandere #fantasy #x reader #tw noncon #dark fantasy #sfw noncom #dark romance #power dynamics #age g4p #breeding k1nk #dubc0n #levi ackerman #erwin smith #twistedheartsclub

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mhaikkun · 4 months ago

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Do you think you could drop some lore on your crimecity ocs? I'm literally OBSESSED with your art! (I love Falk's design so much!)

oh my god I would love NOTHINGGGG more than to talk about the crime city cast, thank you so much for loving falk bc I am a biased creator and he is for sure my favorite of them all

THE PLOT

orthrus is the utopian city of the country of atlas, as close to paradise as one can get on earth. but it harbors a dark secret: at sundown, the civilians retreat into their homes and the villains come out to play. every night, this two-faced city is ruled by unlawfuls, members of the criminal underworld.

WINTER (he/him, 25) "The Raven"

the shot caller, the most feared of all the unlawfuls. he works as a florist during the day and moonlights as a debt-collector, someone who blackmails and threatens his victims in exchange for a price, or else offers his aid to those who ask for it in exchange for a favor. he hates rain and doesn't drink. his surname is lost forever.

FALK NACHT (he/him, 29) "The Bloodhound"

a watchmaker by trade. he served as a high-ranking officer in the military but was honorably discharged after sustaining an injury from an altercation with a commanding officer that rendered him almost completely blind. he can now only detect light with what sight he has left, and he has sinced honed his other senses to make up for this loss. with his eerily keen sense of smell, he eventually became a tracker for the underworld. he hates tardiness and thinks dogs are annoying and difficult. as such, he does not appreciate the irony of being nicknamed after them.

BRENDOLINE BARBARA (she/her, 22) "The Madame"

the daughter of the mayor. her mother was killed as part of the corrupt city councilors' intimidation tactics against her father, magna barbara, whom she loathes for his weakness. frustrated with her powerlessness and the facade of her father's position, she becomes a vigilante.

GIOVANNI MERCURO (he/him, 28) "The Ante"

a croupier who runs the snake eyes gambling house and moonlights as an informant and thief. believing it to be the height of carelessness to be complacent and predictable in a city crawling with vermin, he refuses to be consistent: he never wears the same hairstyle twice, never plays the same game twice, and never sleeps with the same person twice.

ASHCROFT GUILLAUME (he/him, 37) "The Peregrine"

a hitman for hire with the air of someone who used to be noble. rarely getting jobs due to his exorbitant prices, when he's out of money and out of work, he plays the saxophone on street corners and in bars for loose change. as far as assassins go, he's about as resourceful as one can get: his saxophone assembles into a sniper rifle.

JACQUELINE SARTRE (she/her, 38) "The Witch"

proprietor of "the witch's brew" pub, and notorious drug lord and toxicologist by night. she may be sweet and slow to anger, but it's best not to test the limits of her legendary temper. money is her greatest motivator. canonically, she is in a common law marriage with ashcroft, whom she saved from the mortal wounds he had sustained many years ago (but for the purposes of the visual novel, she and ashcroft are both single).

HAYWOOD THATCHER (he/him, 43) "The Hunter"

a coffee connoisseur who gets only four hours of sleep a night and likes all his belongings to be arranged at right angles. in the city of orthrus, its mayor and its law enforcement are essentially decorative. as the chief inspector of police, he is worthless once the sun has set. still, he hunts for the ultimate prey: orthrus' most dangerous criminal, and his old friend.

NOBODY (they/them, ?) "The Gunrunner"

the enigmatic blacksmith turned nighttime weapons dealer, a complete mystery whose voice no one has ever heard. apparently, they like cake and cherries.

there are still two unreleased love interests for the game, but I'm working on their designs!!!! also there's a twitter and an official tumblr (but I haven't updated the latter in a while lol). if you want to support the game, I have a ko-fi too!

#crime city #crime city visual novel #crime city vn #indie game #visual novel #mhai art #winter crime city #falk nacht #brendoline barbara #giovanni mercuro #ashcroft guillaume #jacqueline sartre #haywood thatcher #nobody #PLEASEEEE I COULD TALK ABOUT THEM ALL DAY LONG

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niqhtlord01 · 2 years ago

Text

Humans are weird: Know thy enemy

“Enemy fleet exiting jump now.” The tactical officer called out.

Admiral Haru nodded at the confirmation and switched the holographic projection to a live feed.

Bright pinpricks of light flickered in and out showcasing the enemy ships exiting their jump points. On the side of the screen the tracking software updated itself with each new ship, tracking and marking their current locations. The current count was at one hundred ships and increasing steadily.

“I recommend a withdrawal.”

Haru turned from the display to see his alien counterpart fleet master Wrang standing next to him. The translator unit was doing its best to interpret his species speech patterns, but it couldn’t fully remove the high pitched screeching.

“I assure you that we are in no danger of losing this engagement.” Haru replied even as the number of enemy ships continued rising.

“They outnumber us three to one.” Wrang pointed out. “We can not form a battle line against such numbers.”

It was true that the tracking software was not up to three hundred ships but thankfully the lights from jump exits were dwindling more and more. Haru wagered the majority of the enemy had arrived and any stragglers would be petering out soon.

As if to confirm his sentiments the enemy fleet began dispersing itself, morphing from a rough sphere of ships to a well-organized battle line. The heavier battleships and cruisers taking up position behind a screen of frigate and destroyer class vessels. Their sleek polished hulls reflecting a mixture of greens and oranges, with the crest of the Vulzon Theocracy proudly painted on the front of each ship.

“Numbers are not always the key to victory.” Haru remarked as the communication officer called out to the admiral.

“We have an incoming communication from the Vulzon flagship.”

“Begin a trace on the link and pass along their location to the gun batteries for targeting.” Haru said as he sat down on his command throne. He straightened his uniform and smoothed over several creases before nodding to the waiting communication officer.

The holographic projection flickered for a moment before switching from a view of the enemy fleet to a view of the Vulzon command bridge. There, standing in front of his command throne with one hand resting on his viper blade and the other behind his back, stood Haru’s adversary.

Tatiman; war chief of the eternal rage.

“We meet again,” Tatiman spoke through sharpened teeth,” little human.”

Haru said nothing and so the war chief continued.

“I must admit, I am surprised you stayed to fight.” Tatiman chuckled. “I had expected your kind to run and h-“

Haru motioned a hand across his throat and the communication officer cut the communication.

“Why did you do that?” Wrang asked; both deeply confused and troubled by the human’s actions.

It was true his government had relinquished control of their fleet to human control for the duration of the crisis, but he was also instructed to rescind that order and regain control of their forces. Humans were still unknown in the galaxy, making them an unknown and potential risk. A risk Haru seemed to be confirming right now.

“He’ll call back.” Haru remarked as he rested his hand on his chin and smiled.

No sooner had the words left his mouth did the communication officer speak up again.

“From their command ship again, Admiral.”

Haru listened to the chiming noise to indicate an incoming transmission but sat passively in his throne. A minute passed and the communications officer was about to ask again when Haru waved him to open the link.

Once again Tatiman was on screen aboard his command bridge, though looking substantially angrier than before.

“I am trying to be diplomatic,” Tatiman said through clenched teeth, “and you dare insult my-“

Again Haru swiped his hand across his throat and the communication was terminated.

“Do you have a death wish?” Wrang asked as he began to sweat.

“Hardly,” Haru grinned, “there’s a new episode of battle base five airing in two days and I will be damned if I will be killed before finding out which cyborg gave birth to Maria.”

At a loss for words at the entirety of the admiral’s statement Wrang just stood there with his mouth hanging open as yet another communication chime came in.

This time Haru answered it immediately rather than waiting and the link was established again.

Tatiman was now far beyond anger. Behind him one of the arms of his command throne was sparking erratically and Wrang imagined that the war chief had struck it after the second transmission was terminated.

“I will rip the eyes from your sockets, and make you watch as I strangle the life from your frail body!” Tatiman shouted. The loud shout startled several of the human crew but Wrang saw nothing of the same on the admiral’s face who yawned loudly.

“Listen, taint,” Haru began as he lazily slouched in his throne, “as much as I love your boastings I am with a friendly delegate and my time is short; so would you be a dear and surrender already?”

Wrang couldn’t describe the colors Tatiman went through as he stuttered words of rage. His eyes were wide and focused with a killers gaze while Haru yawned again and made the swipe motion to terminate the transmission.

“I hope you have a plan,” Wrang began as the entire Vulzon fleet appeared to power their engines and begin rushing towards them, “as you may have just killed us all.”

“Fleet wide transmission, now.” Haru ordered crisply and the communication officer complied without question.

“This is Admiral Haru to all ships, activate targeting scramblers and launch full spread of chaff.”

Wrang watched as the holographic screen flickered for a moment as the scramblers activated while a barrage of chaff missiles were launched. The first Vulzon energy lances began hammering the ships shields as the chaff missiles exploded. The space between the two fleets suddenly was filled with a thick cloud of white particles as if a bell had just been dropped in a dusty foundry.

“That tactic will only delay them.” Wrang remarked as the energy lances suddenly lost accuracy. Energy lances passed their ships harmlessly as the chaff interfered with the Vulzon targeting locks. “Even with scramblers and chaff it won’t be enough; they will be switching to visual targeting now.”

“I’m counting on it.” Was all Haru replied as the energy lances began finding their marks again. “By now every gunner and commander in their fleet is looking out a window or view screen to watch us.”

A shudder through the ship made Wrang wobble on his feet for a heartbeat before he regained his footing. Warning icons were flashing now across the view screen as energy spikes from the shields were beginning to ravage the human flagship.

“Why are we not returning fire!?” Wrang demanded as another shudder sent him to his knees.

“I’m waiting.” Haru remarked as he watched the view screen. The enemy icons had cross half the distance between the fleets and had now entered within the chaff cloud.

“For what!?”

“For this moment.” Haru said with a smile.

“All ships, all ships; fire Cheshire rounds now.”

Before Wrang could ask what a Cheshire round was the view screen lit up as every cannon amongst their fleet fired at the same time.

Wrang watched the Vulzon ships to see how many would explode, but was surprised when a second cloud of bright purple appeared.

“This was your secret weapon?” Wrang shouted. “You launch colored dust while they slaughter us?!”

Haru held up a finger to silence Wrang and said nothing else. So infuriated was the fleet master he was on the verge of ordering his people’s ships to retreat when he noticed something.

The ship had stopped shuddering.

Turning back to the view screen Wrang was astonished to see that every ship in the Vulzon fleet had ceased firing. They were still hurtling towards them but otherwise their guns had fallen silent.

“Admiral to fleet, disperse formation to avoid incoming vessels and prepare full barrage as they pass by.” Haru sounded off.

The fleet began to spread apart just in time as the first Vulzon ships began flying through their line. Some Vulzon ships passing close enough an engineer could reach out and scrape the Vulzon paintwork with a wrench but thankfully no collisions were reported.

“Fleet maneuver completed and all ships confirm they are ready to fire.” The tactical officer sounded off.

“Open fire.” Haru spoke as he watched the Vulzon flagship pass by before being hammered by a full broadside of energy batteries.

The shields flickered then collapsed in an instant under such a close bombardment. Wrang watched as the delicate paint work was burnt away as hull punctures riddled the entire ship from stem to stern.

All along the entire line human vessels were firing at near point blank range causing horrific damage to the Vulzon fleet which was still passing by without retaliating.

“What did you do?” Wrang asked softly. He had never seen a Vulzon fleet be destroyed so utterly and in such a manner that it defied all reason.

Haru rested his chin on his hand again and watched as the Vulzon flagship detonated under the latest salvo.

“Did you know that the Vulzon have very unique eyes?” he asked the fleet master. When Wrang shook his head he continued.

“They can see spectrums of light and energy well beyond what our human eyes can see, but that also makes them incredibly sensitive to certain things; things that can trigger violent and sometimes fatal physical bodily reactions.”

Haru looked at Wrang, but when he saw the fleet master still struggling to put the pieces together he decided to spell out his plan entirely.

“The color purple,” Haru stated as he pointed to the dissipating cloud of the color, “has been known to trigger a form of cardiac arrest if observed during moments of intense stress for Vulzon’s.”

“So,” Wrang began as he puzzled together Haru’s plan, “when you fired those Cheshire rounds you gave them…”

“-a form of mass seizure.” Haru finished.

He stood up from his command throne and walked over to the tactical display. “Vulzon are a dedicated military race with a strong sense of loyalty to their commander.” Haru began. “But this means that they also emulate their commander in all things. Dress code, discipline, mental state, etc.”

“So when you made Tatiman angry, they all emulated him and became angry as well.” Wrang put together.

“Exactly.” Haru nodded. “So when they saw the purple color they were all in a state of pure rage and anger, making the cardiac arrest they would normally experience that much more effective.”

“But they would know of their weakness.” Wrang countered. “Their sensors and displays would be programmed to remove the color from their screens to prevent that.”

“Unless they were scrambled and the Vulzon were forced to rely on visual confirmation.”

Suddenly the scramblers and chaff made sense. The human admiral had not deployed them to hamper the Vulzon weapon locks, but to force them into a situation that would expose them to their weakness without them even knowing.

“The benefit of making an enemy mad is that they tend to fail at thinking beyond the current moment.” Haru finished as he flicked a speck of dust off his uniform. “They don’t see the knife until it’s embedded in their chest.”

He pointed to the last of the Vulzon ships to pass between their fleet still steaming ahead with no regard for their own safety. A few had suddenly began to maneuver in different directions and Haru pointed them out specifically.

“Inform the fleet to focus on any ship not moving in a straight line first before others, regardless of class.”

The communication officer nodded and relayed the message. When he turned and saw Wrang looking confused.

“I imagine that by now someone must have gotten to the bridge to find their captain is dead along with most of their command staff and tried to steer the ship to safety.”

“I applaud you for your thoroughness.” Wrang bowed. “You are much wiser in the ways of war than I had expected.”

Haru smiled and returned the bow. “There’s an old terran saying that has defined my career.”

“To defeat your enemy, you must know your enemy.

#humans are insane #humans are space oddities #humans are space orcs #humans are weird #scifi #story #writing #original writing #niqhtlord01 #action #space battle

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vodika-vibes · 12 days ago

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Workplace Relationship

Summary: When an already long deployment gets even longer due to ship damage and an excessive amount of injuries, any chance of Bly having a good day plummets to 0. Luckily, he works with someone who can make things better.

Pairing: Commander Bly x F!Reader

Word Count: 1448

Warnings: Mentions of kidnapping

A/N: I had an idea so I decided to write it instead of any of my requests. I hope you all like it! This story is brought to you by the fact that I watch way too many crime dramas when I don't feel good. Like Criminal Minds.

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A muscle works in Bly’s jaw as he scans the reports on the amount of damage his ship has suffered in the most recent attack. A moment later, when a report comes through from his Chief Medical Officer listing the names of all of the injured vod from the most recent attack, Bly clenches his jaw so tightly that pain shoots up to his temple.

He tries to relax, the last thing his brothers need is him in the infirmary due to a broken jaw, but as more and more information comes across his datapad, his already foul mood plummets even lower and the amount of tension shooting through is body shoots up.

When another report slides across his datapad, reporting damage to the ship’s hyperdrive and life support systems, Bly just drops the device and pushes to his feet.

Sitting here and obsessing isn’t helping. He needs to do something.

His first thought? Go and check on the infirmary and make sure that they have everything they need.

But, as he heads towards the medical bay, he hears the familiar sound of his CMO yelling at someone, and decides that he doesn’t want to deal with that right now.

His next thought is to go and check on the General. But when he reaches the Bridge he catches General Secura in deep talks with the Jedi Council, likely reporting on the damage to the ship. She clearly doesn’t need any help.

So he makes his way down to the lower most level of the ship, where the ship mechanics and engineers are doing everything they can to repair the ship with what they have on hand.

Bly keeps to the side as he watches his brothers dart this way and that, different voices shout information to each other from different places around the large room. The Civilian contractors, mechanics and engineers, work with the clone engineers with the ease of long familiarity.

It’d be nice to look at, if there wasn’t the undercurrent of barely concealed panic filling the room.

“Commander?” A familiar voice drags his attention from the organized chaos he’s watching, and Bly glances to his side. “Everything alright?” She looks up at him, concern crossing her face.

This woman came to his ship by sheer happenstance. After the war started, she quit her high paying job as an engineer at one of the most well respected ship designing companies in the galaxy, and got hired by the GAR.

Having her on his ship has been a boon many times over.

The fact that she’s also his girlfriend is an added benefit.

“Just checking on things,” Bly allows his gaze to linger on the bandage against the left side of her face, the white material already stained with red, and then his gaze flickers to her arm, which is wrapped in a split, “You’re hurt.”

Her smile is a little wry, “Well, when someone targets engineering, it is usually the engineers who get hurt.” She reaches out and lightly touches his elbow, “Walk with me?”

“Of course,” Bly would walk through fire if she asked, never mind the fact that their relationship is meant to be a secret. “How are things down here, really?”

“Have you not been getting our updates?” She asks as she steps over a fallen pipe and then raises a hand to indicate that someone needs to handle this now.

“I was getting them,” Bly steps back as three of his brothers and a natborn rush over to them and wrestle the massive pipe to the side, and then he steps closer to her again, “I didn’t understand what I was reading, though.”

She laughs, “Well, cliff note’s version, we’re not as bad off as we could be.”

“I would love a little more detail than that, princess.”

She tosses him a grin, “The hyperdrive is fucked. It needs to be rebuilt from the ground up. And life support will be up and running within the hour.”

“What about the main engines?”

“Eh,” She wobbles her hand between them, “Engines 1 and 4 are untouched, engine three is fucked, and engine 2 needs some work.”

“So the attack targeted engine three?”

“It’s where I would have put a bomb, personally.”

“...sorry, bomb?”

“Yeah, it looks like someone rigged a shit-ton of explosives to engine three. Which allowed them to damage the hyperdrive and life support systems.” She leads him down a less busy path, “As soon as I figured out that it was an act of sabotage, I had the explosive experts start a full sweep of the ship.”

“I haven’t gotten a notification about that, yet.” Bly says, a frown pulling down his lips.

She clicks her tongue and reaches out to smooth her thumb across the lines on his brow, “They probably haven’t finished yet, Bly. It’s a big ship.”

“We should evacuate the ship until they finish—”

“No.”

Bly pauses and shoots her a bemused look, “No?”

She stares at him for a moment, “Okay, look. Before I went to school for engineering, I went to school to become a criminal profiler.”

“...uh, weird conversation segue, but go on.”

“One of the things that I learned in my profiling classes, is the thought process of a terrorist.” She motions towards the back of the ship where the bombs were set off, “All things considered, this wasn’t a bad attack.”

“Three people are dead, and another two dozen need medical attention. Yourself included.”

“With bombs placed in the right places, the death toll could have included everyone on the ship.” She says flatly, and Bly pauses. Because she’s right. “I think the bombs were placed like this to make the ship helpless.”

“Why? What’s the point?”

“Well.” She pauses, “Force sensitive female twi’leks will get someone a lot of credits on the right markets. Not as much if she was untrained, but still a lot of credits.”

Bly stares at her, and then he shakes his head, “No way. She’s a Jedi Knight.”

“And you know as well as I do that Jedi aren’t infallible. Or invincible.” She pauses in thought, “If I had to guess, I’d say that General Secura probably came to a very similar conclusion.”

Bly sighs and runs his hand over his head, “Okay. So now I have something else to worry about.”

“Let General Secura worry about herself, Bly. You have so many other things you need to focus on.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and then he lightly sets his hands on her hips and draws her to him, so he’s able to lean in and press his forehead against hers, “I’m ready for this deployment to be over.” Bly admits, his voice hushed so only she can hear him.

Something softens in her gaze, “We’ll be out of here as soon as we can.” Her hands come up to cradle his face, “Promise.”

“You just said the hyperdrive is fucked, princess.”

“Yeah. But I’m very good at what I do.”

Bly laughs, “And you’re so very modest too.”

“Modesty is for people who aren’t as good at they think they are.” She tilts her head, just enough, to brush her lips against his, “Sorry. I know I shouldn’t—”

“You know, I suddenly can’t remember why hiding our relationship was so important to me.” Bly mumbles against her lips.

“Because you didn’t want Cody to bitch at you.” She replies lightly.

“Fuck Cody.” To be completely honest, in spite of the situation, or maybe because of it, Bly is drunk on her. Her lips and her scent and she’s not nearly close enough.

“Mm, hard pass.” Her fingers glide across his tattoos, “I have you and that’s all I need.”

“I’m a lucky man.” Bly says, right before he catches her lips in a deep, passionate kiss. And he only pulls away when something sparks a little to the left of him.

“You are a lucky man,” She agrees, her eyes soft and dewy in a way that makes him want to lock her in his room for the next couple of hours, “But I have work to do, Commander.”

“Come see me tonight?”

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.” She kisses the corner of his lips, “Love you.”

“Love you more.” Bly steals one more kiss, and then he releases her so she’s able to vanish deeper into the engine room, and he releases one love-sick sigh, the only thing he allows himself, and then he puts his Commander boots back on and he stalks out of engineering.

If this is an attempted kidnapping, he needs to get information from the General. Maybe she won’t lie about it this time.

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#star wars #tcw #commander bly x reader #bly x reader #star wars fanfiction #x reader fanfiction #f!reader fic

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 3 months ago

Text

Matt Davies

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

March 24, 2025

Heather Cox Richardson

Mar 25, 2025

Today the editor-in-chief of The Atlantic, Jeffrey Goldberg, dropped the story that senior members of the Trump administration planned the March 15 U.S. attack on the Houthis in Yemen over Signal, a widely available encrypted app that is most decidedly not part of the United States national security system. The decision to steer around government systems was possibly an attempt to hide conversations, since the app was set to erase some messages after a week and others after four weeks. By law, government communications must be archived.

According to Goldberg, the use of Signal may also have violated the Espionage Act, which establishes how officials must handle information about the national defense. The app is not approved for national security use, and officials are supposed either to discuss military activity in a sensitive compartmented information facility, or SCIF, or to use approved government equipment.

The use of Signal to plan a military attack on Yemen was itself an astonishingly dangerous breach, but what comes next is simply mind-boggling: the reason Goldberg could report on the conversation is that the person setting it up included Goldberg—a reporter without security clearance—in it.

Goldberg reports that on March 11 he received a connection request from someone named Michael Waltz, although he did not believe the actual Michael Waltz, who is Trump’s national security advisor, would be writing to him. He thought it was likely someone trying to entrap him, although he thought perhaps it could be the real Waltz with some information. Two days later, he was included in the “Houthi PC small group,” along with a message that the chat would be for “a principles [sic] group for coordination on Houthis.”

As Goldberg reports, a “principals committee generally refers to a group of the senior-most national-security officials, including the secretaries of defense, state, and the treasury, as well as the director of the CIA. It should go without saying—but I’ll say it anyway—that I have never been invited to a White House principals-committee meeting, and that, in my many years of reporting on national-security matters, I had never heard of one being convened over a commercial messaging app.”

The other names on the app were those of Secretary of State Marco Rubio, Vice President J.D. Vance, Director of National Intelligence Tulsi Gabbard, Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent, Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth, Brian McCormack from the National Security Council, Central Intelligence Director John Ratcliffe, Trump’s Middle East and Ukraine negotiator Steve Witkoff, White House chief of staff Suzy Wiles, perhaps White House deputy chief of staff Stephen Miller, and Trump’s nominee for head of the National Counterterrorism Center, Joe Kent.

Goldberg assumed the chat was fake, some sort of disinformation campaign, although he was concerned when Ratcliffe provided the full name of a CIA operative in this unsecure channel. But on March 14, as Vance, for example, took a strong stand against Europe—“I just hate bailing Europe out again”—and as Hegseth emphasized that their messaging must be that “Biden failed,” Goldberg started to think the chat might be real. Those in the chat talked of finding a way to make Europe pay the costs for the U.S. attack, and of “minimiz[ing] risk to Saudi oil facilities.”

And then, on March 15, the messages told of the forthcoming attack. “I will not quote from this update, or from certain other subsequent texts,” Goldberg writes. “The information contained in them, if they had been read by an adversary of the United States, could conceivably have been used to harm American military and intelligence personnel, particularly in the broader Middle East, Central Command’s area of responsibility. What I will say, in order to illustrate the shocking recklessness of this Signal conversation, is that the Hegseth post contained operational details of forthcoming strikes on Yemen, including information about targets, weapons the U.S. would be deploying, and attack sequencing.”

On the chat, reactions to the military strikes were emojis of a fist, an American flag, fire, praying hands, a flexed bicep, and “Good Job Pete and your team!!,” “Kudos to all…. Really great. God Bless,” and “Great work and effects!”

In the messages, with a reporter on the line, Hegseth promised his colleagues he would “do all we can to enforce 100% OPSEC,” or operations security. In a message to the team outlining the forthcoming attack, Hegseth wrote: “We are currently clean on OPSEC.”

Two hours after Goldberg wrote to the officials on the chat and alerted them to his presence on it by asking questions about it, National Security Council spokesperson Brian Hughes responded: “The thread is a demonstration of the deep and thoughtful policy coordination between senior officials.”

When asked about the breach, Trump responded: “I don't know anything about it. I'm not a big fan of The Atlantic. To me, it's a magazine that's going out of business. I think it’s not much of a magazine. But I know nothing about it. You're saying that they had what?” There is nothing that the administration could say to make the situation better, but this made it worse. As national security specialist Tom Nichols noted: “If the President is telling the truth and no one’s briefed him about this yet, that’s another story in itself. In any other administration, [the chief of staff] would have been in the Oval [Office] within nanoseconds of learning about something like this.”

Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth is evidently going to try to bully his way out of this disaster. When asked about it, he began to yell at a reporter that Goldberg is a “deceitful and highly discredited so-called journalist who’s made a profession of peddling hoaxes time and time again.” Hegseth looked directly at the camera and said: “Nobody was texting war plans.” But Goldberg has receipts. The chat had “the specific time of a future attack. Specific targets, including human targets…weapons systems…precise detail…a long section on sequencing…. He can say that it wasn’t a war plan, but it was a minute-by-minute accounting of what was about to happen.”

Zachary B. Wolf of CNN noted that “Trump intentionally hired amateurs for top jobs. This is their most dramatic blunder.” Senator Jon Ossoff (D-GA) told Brian Tyler Cohen: “My first reaction... was 'what absolute clowns.' Total amateur hour, reckless, dangerous…. [T]his is what happens when you have basically Fox News personalities cosplaying as government officials.” Foreign policy scholar Timothy Snyder posted: “These guys inherited one of the most functional state apparatus in the history of the world and they are inhabiting it like a crack house.”

Many observers have noted that all of these national security officials knew that using Signal in this way was against the law, and their comfort with jumping onto the commercial app to plan a military strike suggests they are using Signal more generally. “How many Signal chats with sensitive information about military operations are ongoing within the Pentagon right now?” Senator Adam Schiff (D-CA) posted. “Where else are war plans being shared with such abject disregard for our national security? We need answers. Right now.”

National security journalists and officials are aghast. Former commanding general of United States Army Europe and the Seventh Army Mark Hertling called the story “staggering.” Former CIA officer Matt Castelli posted: “This is more than ‘loose lips sink ships’, this is a criminally negligent breach of classified information and war planning involving VP, SecDef, D[irector of the] CIA, National Security Advisor—all putting troops at risk. America is not safe.” Former transportation secretary Pete Buttigieg, who spent seven years as an intelligence officer in the Navy Reserve, posted: “From an operational security perspective, this is the highest level of f**kup imaginable. These people cannot keep America safe.”

Rhode Island senator Jack Reed, the top Democrat on the Armed Services Committee, said: "If true, this story represents one of the most egregious failures of operational security and common sense I have ever seen. The carelessness shown by President Trump's cabinet is stunning and dangerous. I will be seeking answers from the Administration immediately." Armed Services Committee member Don Bacon (R-NE), a former Air Force brigadier general, told Axios that “sending this info over non-secure networks” was “unconscionable.” “Russia and China are surely monitoring his unclassified phone.”

That the most senior members of Trump’s administration were sharing national security secrets on unsecure channels is especially galling since the people on the call have used alleged breaches of national security to hammer Democrats. Sarah Longwell and J.V. Last of The Bulwark compiled a series of video clips of Marco Rubio, Stephen Miller, Tulsi Gabbard, John Ratcliffe, and especially Pete Hegseth talking about the seriousness of handling secret information and the need for accountability for those who mishandle it. When they were accusing then–secretary of state Hillary Clinton of such a breach, they called for firings, accountability, and perhaps criminal charges. Indeed, Trump rose to power in 2016 with the charge that Clinton should be sent to prison for using a private email server. “Lock her up!” became the chant at his rallies.

Today, for her part, Clinton posted a link to the story along with an eyes emoji and wrote: “You have got to be kidding me.”

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

#Letters From An American #Heather Cox Richardson #Foreign policy #epic screwups #incompetence #malice #unqualified #Dept of Defense #non-secure networks #American History #Matt Davies #The Atlanta #Jeffrey Goldberg

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lieut-john-irving · 2 months ago

Text

Exam results (Royal Naval College)

For this, I am not 100% sure if it is our John. Only because some dates don’t line up exactly: with Bell's book (1881) saying that John entered the naval college in Portsmouth on the 25th June 1828. If John graduated in 685 days as written below, then that would have made his enrolment date the 6th August 1828. However, I realise this excludes weekends, holidays, and perhaps some time to settle etc. So it’s a little messy to establish concrete confirmation with the given dates! But the timeframe is reliable, the high results — especially in maths — are consistent with what we know about his academic career (high midshipman’s scores and gained full numbers in maths!), the college title and location is consistent, and as far as I know there was not another John Irving who was the same age and in the same school. So it could simply be a date mix up due to the lack of detail.

Here’s my transcription regardless, because if it is him it’s so cool! And if solid information is found I will be sure to provide updates.

Source: RUSI/NM/243 Greenwich National Maritime Museum (& much appreciation to @cdr-edwardlittle for finding the entry 🫶!!)

"Royal Naval College, 22nd June 1830.

Mr. John Irving

Finished his Mathematical Education at the Royal Naval College in 685 days; being 45 days less than the Two Years; and made the following Progress,—730 being the full numbers.

[Days at College; or, Numbers expected in that Time], [Numbers gained], [Remarks = N/A for all].

- Mathematics = 685; 730

- English and Classics = 685; 690

- History and Geography = 685; 600

- French = 685; 600

- Drawing = 685; 630

Gained the following numbers at the Midshipmen‘s Examination.

[Value of full Answer a], [Value given a], [Remarks], [Value of full Answer b], [Value given b].

1. 10. 10 —- Geometry. 40. 35

2. 10. 10 Course & Distance. —-

3. 10. 10 Parallel Sailing. Arithmetic, & [S] —-

4. 10. 10 Current. —-

5. 30. 28 Days Work. Algebra. 50. 47 1/2

6. 10. 10 Time of *s on Merid: —-

7. 10. 10 O's Merid: Alt. Trigonometry. 50. 46

8. 10. 10 [symbol]‘s Merid: Alt. —-

9. 10. 10 *'s Merid: Alt. Astronomy. 50. 40 1/2

10. 10. 10 * under Pole. —-

11. 10. 10 Pole *. Navigation. 280. 278

12. 40. 40 Double Alt: —-

13. 30. 30 Chronometer. Instruments, —-

14. 40. 40 Lunar. —-

15. 10. 10 Amplitude. Mercator‘s Chart, —-

16. 20. 20 Azimuth —-

17. 10. 10 Tide. & Surveying. 40. 34 1/2

18-21. —- Gunnery & Fortification. 50. 35

Total = 280 / Total = 278

Total = 560 / Total = 516 1/2

Examined on the 22nd June 1830, and allowed Two Years Time of Service at Sea, being found Qualified to be Discharged into His Majesty‘s Navy.

Thomas Foley - Admiral and Commander in Chief.

[Michael Seymour?] - Commissioner.

Wentworth Loring - Lieut. Gov. Royal Naval College."

Context =

Source: Lieut. John Irving, R.N. of H.M.S. “Terror,” in Sir John Franklin’s Last Expedition to the Arctic Regions: A Memorial Sketch with Letters. Edited by Benjamin Bell, F.R.C.S.E. (1881): https://ia801404.us.archive.org/31/items/cihm_29830/cihm_29830.pdf

#john irving #the terror #franklin expedition #If I misunderstood anything feel free to correct me #unlike john i‘m bad with numbers

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kiwriteswords · 5 months ago

Text

Cosmic Rollercoaster [Aaron Hotchner x Mystical!Reader]

Masterlist (not updated, sorry!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 2k|| AN: This is so incredibly self-indulgent, but I thought this could be a fun one to write. I have a few others written/started/planned for Mystical!Reader, so I hope you guys like it!

Tags/Warnings: female reader, mention of clairvoyance, reader is spiritual (crystals, sage, intuition, etc.), established relationship. banter, Hotch and Reader fight like an old married couple, team dynamics, skeptic Hotch

Summary: Your intuition is never wrong, but when you decide to bring it up in front of the local PD on a case, Hotch is not too happy with you.

Aaron Hotchner never thought he'd find himself in a relationship that could only be described as a cosmic rollercoaster.The world he inhabited was black and white, full of procedure and protocol, whereas you lived in a vivid spectrum of colors, thriving on intuition and the energy of the universe.

In the quiet hum of the local police department’s briefing room, Hotch stood at the head of the table, his expression unreadable as he briefed the officers on the latest serial case.

You, draped in a flowy, ethereal dress that seemed more suited to a forest nymph than an FBI agent, leaned back in your chair, your fingers tapping rhythmically against the table. He’d seen your closet first-hand. A stark contrast to the greys and blues he hung in his own. Textured furs, lace, and embroidered fabrics hung in your closet.

"Based on the evidence we've gathered," Hotch began, his voice steady and commanding, "the unsub is likely to strike again within the next 48 hours."

You tilted your head, your eyes narrowing slightly as you felt a pull in your gut--a whisper of intuition that often guided your insights. "I think he's going to move faster than that," you interjected softly, yet firmly. "The energy around this case...it's urgent, like a storm coming."

A murmur of curiosity rose from the local officers, their attention shifting between the stoic Unit Chief and the whimsical agent who often solved cases with a blend of hard evidence and gut feelings.

Hotch's jaw clenched momentarily at your words. Dealing with your unorthodox methods publicly was always a delicate dance of frustration and admiration. While deep down he knew this was a part of you--a part of you he loved and admired--there was another part of him that wondered how heavily you relied on this so-called intuition over black-and-white facts.

"While we appreciate Agent Y/L/N's...unique insights," he said, his tone strained with the effort of diplomacy, "our strategies must be rooted in tangible evidence."

"But isn’t it tangible if it leads to the right conclusions?" you countered, just for him to hear, your voice lilting as if challenging him was a type of playful dance you both performed too often.

The team watched, the corners of their mouths twitching in amusement. Rossi leaned over to Morgan, whispering loud enough for nearby ears, "Ten bucks says they'll be arguing about this all the way back to the hotel."

Morgan laughed, “It’s like Denver all over again,” he reminisced about a previous case where you were feeling more than inclined to share your bewitched musings.

Hotch’s feelings were a tumultuous mix of professional irritation and deep, unwavering affection. Each time you spoke, your voice pulled at something within him--a desire to loosen the reins of control he so tightly held. Your free-spirited nature both challenged and complemented his by-the-book demeanor. It was an ongoing battle between logic and feeling, one that neither of you could ever truly win.

He wanted to snap, he wanted to tell you there was a time and place for this sort of…nonsense, he wanted to call it, but his mind flashed back to all of the times you made the hairs stick on the back of his neck with your certain mystical charm.

Hotch's eyes flickered with a mixture of annoyance and adoration as he addressed the room. "Let's continue to focus on the behavioral analysis.” Hotch looked to you, then toward the door, “Agent Y/L/N, a word outside, please."

As you followed him out, the smirks on your teammates' faces were clear. "Mom and Dad are fighting again," Prentiss teased, earning a chuckle from the others.

Outside, with the door firmly closed behind them, Hotch turned to you, his expression firm, every inch the Unit Chief that he was.

"You can't base case predictions on 'energy,'" he admonished, his voice low to keep the conversation private. He was always conscious of maintaining the professional integrity of the team, and your unorthodox methods, though effective, often pushed the boundaries of his comfort zone.

You stepped closer, your presence unyielding yet somehow soothing--a contradiction that Hotch found both infuriating and comforting. "Aaron, when have my instincts not aided our cases? You know I integrate the evidence thoroughly before I speak. My intuition has always been an asset. I’m not claiming to ignore the facts or think I can see the future in some crystal ball. You think I would have graduated the academy if I didn’t use the logical side of my brain?"

Hotch's gaze softened slightly, though his stance remained as rigid as ever. There was no denying the effectiveness of your methods on paper, but the ongoing challenge was reconciling them with his ingrained need for hard, tangible evidence.

"It’s not about doubting you--I’m not doubting you…" he said, struggling to convey the dual tides of professional concern and personal admiration he felt. "It's about how it’s perceived. We need the locals to trust our methods, conventional or not."

Your hand reached out, brushing against his--a touch that threatened to dismantle the barriers he worked so hard to maintain in public.

"I know, Aaron. I do. But trust me too, okay? My 'woo-woo' hasn’t failed us yet."

Hotch looked at your hand on his, the simple contact sending a jolt through him that he wasn’t fully prepared to analyze in the moment. He took a deep breath, the ever-present conflict between his role as a leader and his feelings for you sharper in that instance than many others. “I do trust you,” he finally said, his voice a mixture of concession and caution. “More than you might realize. It’s just...hard. Balancing that trust with the need to lead a team in a way that everyone respects, including those who might not understand your...unique approach.”

Aaron Hotchner couldn't deny the spark of mischief in your eyes, a clear signal that you were about to challenge his all-too-serious world yet again. "Maybe you need a bit of my 'woo-woo' to rub off on you," you suggested playfully, your voice light but edged with a challenge that intrigued and exasperated him in equal measure.

The corner of Hotch's mouth twitched into a small, genuine smile--an admission of your effect on him that he rarely allowed others to see. "Maybe," he conceded, his tone laced with amusement and a touch of irony. "Just don’t expect me to start wearing crystals or chanting at dawn."

Your laughter, bright and unguarded, cut through the crisp air, momentarily lightening the weight of his responsibilities. It was these moments--your laughter, your relentless optimism--that reminded him of the stark contrasts between you. Here he was, a man who lived by the rules, and there you were, turning every rule on its head with a wink and a nudge.

Watching you laugh, Hotch acknowledged internally that your presence, though sometimes a whirlwind of unpredictability, brought a vital balance to his life. It wasn't just about solving cases; it was about understanding the interplay of different perspectives. Yours was a perspective that danced around the edges of intuition and energy, often leading to surprising yet effective conclusions.

As you both walked back inside, your side-by-side steps became a silent testament to your evolving partnership. It was a partnership that stretched beyond the confines of FBI protocols, reaching into the realms of personal growth and mutual respect.

As the evening wore on and the team dispersed to follow up on leads, you pulled out maps and spread them across the table, your fingers tracing the possible routes the unsub might take. "He’s feeling cornered, anxious. It’s like a high-pitched sound only I can hear," you murmured to JJ, who watched you with a mixture of skepticism and intrigue.

Hotch, overhearing this as he approached, folded his arms and leaned against the table, his gaze intent on you. "And you're sure it's not just the coffee talking?" he quipped, a rare tease that drew a small, delighted smile from you.

"It’s never just the coffee, Hotch," you replied, your voice light but your eyes serious. "He’s moving fast. Faster than we thought."

Despite his reservations, Hotch nodded, signaling to the team to prepare for a possible early engagement. "Alright, let’s tighten the timeline. Everyone, let’s move," he commanded, the team jumping into action with practiced urgency.

Hours later, as darkness bled into the early shades of dawn, your intuition was vindicated spectacularly. The unsub was apprehended at a location you had insisted be surveilled, far ahead of the projected timeline. Hotch watched the operation unfold, a mixture of disbelief and reluctant admiration simmering within him. As the team regrouped, tired but exhilarated by the swift capture, Hotch found his gaze seeking yours across the room, his eyes heavy with a silent acknowledgment of your contribution.

"You were right," Hotch admitted as he approached you, his voice low, intimate even amidst the lingering chaos of their successful operation. "About the unsub’s timing."

You shrugged, your expression a blend of satisfaction and mischief. "I usually am. But don’t worry, I won’t let it go to my head."

A rare grin flickered across Hotch's face, softening the hard lines that duty and responsibility had etched there. "Maybe just this once, you can gloat. You earned it," he conceded, his voice carrying an undertone of warmth that belied his usual reserve.

Laughing softly, you nudged him with your shoulder, your proximity a reminder of the chemistry that often sparked between you, igniting a blend of professional respect and personal tension. "So, does this mean you’ll start carrying a crystal in your pocket?"

Hotch chuckled--a sound so rare and disarming that it amplified the flush of victory on your face. "Let’s not push it," he teased back, the crinkles by his eyes betraying his amusement. Yet, there was an edge to his voice, a hint of challenge that suggested the battle of wits between you was far from over.

As you stood there, the adrenaline of the capture mingling with the electric charge between you, Hotch couldn't help but think how infuriatingly unpredictable you were--and how much he secretly relished it.

The way you challenged him, pushed him, it didn't just spark frustration; it stirred something deeper, more primal. In another place, another time, he might have acted on the impulse to pull you close and explore the tension that danced like sparks between you.

Instead, he offered you a final, pointed look--a silent truce mixed with a promise of more battles to come. "Maybe one day I'll surprise you, and you’ll find sage in my desk drawer," he suggested, his tone playful yet laden with an undercurrent of something more, something neither of you was quite ready to define yet.

As you both turned to join the others, the shared smile between you was more than just triumph over a case well closed--it was a recognition of the complex, dynamic connection that continued to evolve, challenging both your limits and your desires.

On the jet back to the BAU, the atmosphere was a mix of exhaustion and relief, the gentle hum of the engines a backdrop to the team’s low conversations. You were sprawled across a couple of seats, your colorful scarf serving as a makeshift blanket, while Hotch was seated across the aisle, paperwork spread meticulously before him.

Morgan, sitting nearby, nudged Rossi with a grin. "Watch this," he whispered, loud enough for you and Hotch to hear. "Hey Hotch, Y/N was spot on today, huh? We should have her do all the profiling with her energy readings."

Hotch looked up from his files, his eyes narrowing playfully at Morgan before shifting to you. "Let’s not give her any more ideas," he teased, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk.

You sat up, folding your legs beneath you. "Oh, come on, Aaron, admit it. You love that I keep things interesting. You’d be bored without me," you retorted, your tone light but pointed, the familiar dance of your banter drawing smiles from around the cabin.

Hotch’s eyes softened, and he set his paperwork aside, giving you his full attention—a rarity that didn’t go unnoticed by the team. "That, I can’t deny," he conceded. "Though 'interesting' is a mild way of putting it."

Prentiss, joining in from a seat behind you, chimed in with a laugh. "You mean terrifying and effective? Because that was some wild guesswork today, Y/N. Even if it was right."

"It’s not guesswork," you protested, feigning indignation. "It’s a highly refined skill set."

Rossi raised his eyebrows, joining the conversation. "Refined, huh? So, what does the energy tell you about Hotch here?" he asked, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

You glanced at Hotch, who was watching you with an expression of amused curiosity. "Oh, his energy? Perpetually exasperated...but there’s a lot of love there too. Mostly for me, of course," you said, winking at Hotch.

Hotch shook his head, a genuine smile breaking through his usual reserve. "You’re impossible," he murmured, though the affection in his voice was clear.

The team erupted in light laughter, the ease between you and Hotch evident to all. Morgan leaned back, his smile wide. "Seriously, you guys are like an old married couple. All you need is to start finishing each other’s sentences."

"And sentences should be finished with proper grammar and punctuation," Hotch added, playing into Morgan’s joke, his gaze still locked with yours in a silent conversation that spoke volumes about the depth of your relationship.

As the laughter died down, you moved to sit closer to Hotch, your presence by his side natural and fitting. "How about we finish this case report together?" you suggested, your voice softer now, away from the team’s ears.

Hotch nodded, his hand briefly touching yours under the cover of the table. "Together sounds perfect," he agreed, his voice low.

The rest of the flight passed with the team gently ribbing each other, the camaraderie a testament to the long hours and shared dangers. But amidst it all, you and Hotch shared quiet moments of connection.

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