#I absolutely cannot wait for these to arrive ...

[dippindaz]

Can you please make a Dom!Smoke smut fic pls?

Absolutely!!!! Thanks for requesting for Smoke!! I had SO much fun writing this one, I added a little aftercare scene at the end cause you cannot convince me that Smoke wouldn't bean aftercare king 😤

MDNI

3.5k words

Warnings: Dom!Smoke, dom/sub dynamics, AFAB reader, praise, thigh riding, multiple orgasm, oral(f receiving), overstimulation, orgasm denial, belt restraint(wrists), thigh & ass spanking, begging, you address him as 'Sir' most of the time, fingering, dirty talk, I think that's it

You heard the front door before you saw him—no knock, no warning. Just the sharp sound of the deadbolt turning and then the heavy step of his boots across your entryway floor. Smoke never asked if he could come over. He simply arrived. Like a shift in weather. Unstoppable. Unspoken.

You glanced up from the couch, book forgotten in your lap. He was already in the doorway of your living room, black coat damp from the night air, leather gloves on his hands, eyes tracking every inch of you like he was deciding whether or not to speak.

“Long day?” you asked softly, unsure if this was one of his silent moods or one of his watchful ones.

He didn’t answer right away—just stepped in, slow and precise, then let his jacket slide from his shoulders onto your armchair like he owned the room. Because in a way, he did. Smoke didn’t take space. He became it.

“Come here.”

Your body responded before your brain did. You rose from the couch, bare feet padding across the hardwood. You could feel how heavy his stare was on your thighs, your nightdress barely coming to the middle of them. A hum escaped his throat—low, satisfied, like he was cataloging you again, making sure nothing had changed since the last time.

When you reached him, Smoke cupped your chin, his fingers cold against your jaw.

“Was feelin’ you’d wait up.”

Your lips parted to answer, but he kissed you first. Not deep—controlled. Like a statement, not a question. His thumb stroked once over your bottom lip as he pulled back. His thumb lingered at your lip like he was waiting for you to speak—or maybe hoping you wouldn’t.

You didn’t. You didn’t need to.

He looked at you like he already had the answer. Like your silence told him more than your words ever could.

"Bedroom," he said quietly. "Now."

Your heart skipped a beat—not from surprise, but from how effortlessly the command settled into your bones. You nodded once, subtle, and turned without waiting for another word.

He didn't follow right away, but you could hear the thud of his boots hitting your floor. Only twice. You didn't look back though, just continued to the bedroom.

Then, you felt him behind you. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to pull at the air around you—the weight of his presence brushing your skin like a shadow. Your nightdress fluttered at the backs of your thighs with every step, and you knew he was watching. Cataloging. Letting the anticipation bloom in your belly before he ever laid a hand on you.

By the time you reached the bedroom, the silence between you had thickened into something more intimate than words. You paused at the foot of the bed—waiting.

Smoke stepped in behind you, deliberate as ever. The soft sound of leather being pulled from his hands echoed louder than it should have. He tossed them onto the dresser without looking. Then, wordlessly, he sat on the edge of the bed beside you, spreading his legs just wide enough.

You felt the heat of his gaze pass over every inch of you. Without a word, he reached out. His hand brushed over your thigh and then he tapped twice.

“Up.”

You knew what he meant.

Your breath hitched as you swung one leg over, straddling his thigh, settling into the muscle beneath you. His hands didn’t guide you. They didn’t need to. You moved instinctively, slowly grinding down with a soft exhale, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders.

“There she is,” he murmured, one hand splayed low on your back, the other rising to curl around the back of your neck. “I come through that door an’ there you are, sittin’ all quiet like… You think I ain't know what you want?”

Your hips stuttered at the tone. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just cold truth, delivered like a gift.

“I—”

“You what?” His thumb tilted your chin upward. “You gonna sit there an’ pretend you don’t soak through the sheets when I don’t touch you right away? Like that little nightgown ain’t a damn invitation?”

You whined. His thigh tensed under you.

“Mhm. That’s what I thought.”

He let you grind. Let you build that slick pressure against him while his hands controlled just enough. He didn’t move his leg, didn’t push up, just let you work for it. Slow, maddening friction.

“Good girl,” he breathed, eyes half-lidded, lips barely parted. “Already makin' a mess.”

The words sank into you like heat, low and curling, coiling tight in your core. Smoke’s voice was low, reverent in a way that didn’t soften him, rather sharpened him. Like approval was another form of possession.

His hands briefly left their spots, toying with the hem of your nightdress before tugging it up. it the floor without a sound. Then, he gripped your hips.

You moaned softly—involuntarily. His thigh was so firm, so unforgiving, and you could feel every tremor of tension in it, every breath he held back just to watch. You moved a little faster, needing more, and one of his hands shifted lower. It settled right at the crook of your hip and thigh, pressing you down a harder.

"Greedy," he murmured, and you felt his mouth brush your temple. “Love how you try. All eager. All messy. Just look at you.”

Your nails dug slightly into his shoulders, not for control, but to ground yourself—because his words cut straight through you, sent sparks up your spine.

“I c-can’t—”

"Can’t?" His tone cooled immediately, sharp as glass. His hand stilled your hips mid-grind, just a small press to stop you in place. “You gon' come just like this, baby. Nice an’ slow. Just how I say," he paused. "You wanna give it to me, baby?”

You nodded too fast, too desperate. His brow twitched—barely approval, barely restraint.

“Words.”

"Yes—yes, Sir."

“That’s my girl.”

He let you move again. Barely. Just enough to find your rhythm again, to work against the ridged line of muscle beneath you as he stayed perfectly still—your body doing the work, his control framing the edges. The sound of you was getting louder now—breath hitching, your panties rubbing against his slacks, soft and needy moans. You knew he was listening. You knew he wanted to hear.

“Don’t hold back,” he said, hands tightening slightly around your hips. “Wanna hear just how bad you need it.”

You moaned, pitched and aching. You were so close. Every pass of your clit over his thigh shooting pleasure straight through your stomach, tight and overwhelming and helpless.

It hit like a wave—soaking through your panties and dampening your thighs. You cried out, hips stuttering uncontrollably as you clung to him, trembling, thighs tightening around his. He didn’t move. Just held you there, watched you come apart, the faintest smile pulling at the edge of his lips.

You slumped forward slightly, still gasping, body pressed against his. But he wasn’t done. Not even close.

Smoke’s hands slid under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he stood, carrying you toward the center of the bed like you weighed nothing. He laid you down with calculated care—like he was already planning what came next.

Your legs were still trembling when he stood at the edge of the bed, peeling off his shirt with slow precision. His eyes never left yours.

“Y'think I’m done with you already?” he asked, voice low, steady.

“No,” you breathed. The corner of his lips tugged up as his fingers went to his belt.

You watched, breath hitching—not just from the anticipation, but from the way he looked at you while he did it. Calm. Focused. Not undressing. Preparing.

“Hands up,” he said softly as the belt slid free.

Instinctively, your arms lifted. He guided your wrists together above your head and secured the belt around them. Snug but not painful, pulling the leather tight with practiced precision. You exhaled quietly at the feel of it—the cool, worn leather against your skin, his fingers brushing your pulse.

You didn’t ask why. You didn’t have to. He liked you like this—open, restrained, at his mercy but trusting. And he’d earned that trust.

“Don’t move 'em,” he said, and kissed the inside of your wrist, right above the buckle. “You move 'em, I stop.”

The threat wasn’t cruel. It was worse. It was true.

You nodded, breath catching in your throat. “Yes, sir.”

That earned you another small smirk—not playful, but approving.

Then he knelt on the bed again, between your legs. His palms smoothed up your thighs like he was memorizing them again for the hundredth time. His eyes were half-lidded, dark and heavy as they traced every inch of skin he touched. Reverent and possessive.

“Oughta make you ride it again,” he murmured, thumbs digging softly into the flesh at the top of your thighs. “Looked so damn pretty on my leg… ruined my slacks.”

You whimpered—not in protest, but in response. The way he talked about you... Like you were his craft. His vice. His home.

His hands slid upward, fingers spreading across the curve of your thighs, kneading them gently. Then firmer. You arched a little under the pressure, hips shifting. He smiled. Quiet. Knowing.

Slowly, he leaned down and kissed the inside of one thigh. Just above the knee. Then again, higher. And again. And again. His bread scratched against your skin and his breath fanned just under your cunt.

“You feel that heat, baby? All that for me?” he asked, dragging his nose up the inside of your thigh before biting at the meat of it. You gasped, thighs twitching around his head. He grinned against your skin, then his hand came down on your inner thigh. Not cruel, but deliberate. Enough to make you cry out and jolt.

“Stay open.”

You swallowed, legs trembling as you forced them wider again. You loved this—the feeling of being laid bare for him, vulnerable under his mouth, his hands. And he knew it. He loved that you obeyed even when you were shaking.

He kissed and licked the spot he slapped.

“Good girl.” He pulled back just enough to hook his fingers into the elastic of your panties and pull them off you.

He quietly groaned back in his throat at the sight of you before settling back down. His tongue slid through your folds like he was savoring a reward. Slow at first. Too slow. You let out a helpless moan, hips rising—but he pinned them down, strong hands anchoring you to the mattress.

You were gone the second his mouth latched on to your clit—not teasing now, not gentle. He ate like a man with purpose. Groaning into you, licking with hard, flat strokes that had you writhing within seconds.

One of his hands left your hips, and you only missed it for a second before smack—it came down on the outer side of your thigh. You cried out, half from shock, half from the rush that rolled straight through your cunt. Your wrists instinctively pulled against the belt, but you kept them above your head.

Your head fell back as you felt two fingers replace his tongue. He wasted no time sliding them inside you, curling them to hit that sweet spot. Then his mouth latched around your clit once more.

You were already close again. You didn’t know how. You didn’t care. His grip, his mouth, the ache still buzzing through your thighs—it was all too much, too good.

“Elijah—!”

The second orgasm ripped through you harder than the first. You bucked under him, sobbing his name, and your nails digging into your palms. He pulled out his fingers and held you still. His mouth never left you, licking you through the aftershocks like it was his right.

And when your hips finally sagged, spent and shaking, you thought maybe—maybe—that was it.

But then he looked up.

Eyes dark, chin wet, mouth curved in a knowing smirk.

He sat back between your legs, his fingers gliding along your inner thighs again—deceptively gentle. Like he was admiring the canvas before ruining it. His eyes flicked to your face, then down again, noting the way your chest heaved, your thighs glistening.

His fingers dipped between your folds, slow and purposeful, sliding through the mess he’d made of you. You whimpered, arching, and his palm came down—sharp and sudden—against your thigh again.

You gasped, hips jolting, the area throbbing. The contrast—the wet heat of his fingers and the sharp kiss of his hand—had your nerves on fire. Your hands flexed helplessly.

"Hold still."

You whined and nodded your head.

Smoke rewarded you with two fingers, pressing into your pussy with slow, unrelenting pressure. His knuckles pushed deep, curling expertly as your back arched and your legs quivered.

“So wet for me,” he breathed, voice dark with satisfaction. “You’d let me do anythin’, wouldn’t ya?”

“Y-yes,” you choked out. “Anything—”

Smack.

You cried out and ground helplessly into his hand. The slap landed where your thigh and hip met, right by your ass cheek.

“That’s what I thought.” His voice was like gravel now. Controlled, but dark. “You take what I give ya. Nothin’ more.”

His fingers fucked into you deeper, slow and steady, curling just enough to drag against that perfect spot inside you. Your thighs began to shake again, heat coiling hard in your belly. You tried to squeeze around him, to chase that edge—

But then he stopped.

You nearly sobbed, hips jerking forward in search of friction. “No—please—!”

Smoke clicked his tongue, withdrawing his fingers slowly, deliberately.

“Mmm. You was close again."

You nodded, breathless. “Please—just a little—”

Smack.

Your thigh jerked. Your hands lifted off the bed before falling right back down. It burned so good.

“Beg prettier.”

You swallowed. “Please, sir. Please touch me again, I’ll be good—I'll stay still, I just—I need—”

He leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other slipping back between your legs with no warning. His fingers dragged through your folds again.

“I know you need it,” he whispered, lips ghosting yours. “That’s why I ain’t givin’ it to you yet.”

You groaned in frustration.

He kissed you then—deep and claiming, like he was sealing a promise against your mouth. His fingers slid back inside, slow and cruel, curling just enough to make you gasp but never fast enough to let you fall over the edge.

He built you up, again and again. Tightened the pressure. Spanked your thighs, your ass. Praised you for not pulling against the belt. Laughed quietly when you whined as his fingers pulled out of you.

But still… no release.

By the time he finally stopped, leaving you clenching around nothing, you were trembling, soaked, panting.

He looked down at your slick thighs, your tied wrists, your blown-out eyes.

Then he kissed your knee.

“Don’tchu worry, baby,” he murmured, unbuckling his belt from your wrists, “I’ll let ya come…”

Your wrists fell limp to the sheets as the belt slipped away, skin warm and tingling from where the leather had held you down. You barely had the strength to lift them, but you didn’t need to. Smoke had already moved.

He stood at the edge of the bed, pulling off the last of his clothes with the same measured control he used in everything. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just inevitable.

Your eyes locked on the thick line of his cock as he wrapped a hand around it. Slowly, almost lazily, he pumped it once, twice as he looked at you with dark amusement.

“Fucked out already, an’ I ain’t even been in you yet.” He murmured, stroking himself as he took you in.

You whimpered, thighs twitching where they lay open for him.

He climbed over you, crawling between your legs, hands bracing on either side of your body. His cock brushed your slick folds, dragging up and down with maddening pressure, but not yet pushing in.

“You want it?” he asked, voice quiet, deadly calm.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please.”

He paused, lowering his head so his mouth hovered over yours. “You gon' take all of me, sweetheart? Even after what I just did t’you?”

“Yes—”

“You gon’ keep ‘em open f’me while I fuck you dumb?”

“Yes, sir.”

That earned a low sound from his throat, something between a growl and a hum. Then he sank into you.

Your mouth fell open, eyes fluttering back. He filled you completely, bottoming out with his hips flush against yours. He just held you there. Made you feel it.

“Takin’ me like you were fuckin’ made for it.” He muttered, one hand slippin’ under your thigh to hitch it higher on his waist.

Your nails scraped down his back, moaning as he began to move—slow at first, rolling his hips with devastating precision. Each thrust dragged along your walls, deep and deliberate, hitting all the right places and none of them by accident.

You clenched around him, already dizzy with the need to come, but you didn’t dare rush it.

Smoke wouldn’t let you.

“Easy,” he breathed, nipping your jaw as his pace increased just slightly. “You ain't comin' yet.”

“Please—”

“No.” His palm came down hard on your thigh again, right near the bruises he’d made earlier. You cried out, body jumping—and he fucked into you harder.

“Gotta earn it,” he growled, pulling back enough to look at you. “Take it. Be good.”

And you did. You let him use you. Let him fill you, fuck you, break you open with every thrust. His praise burned through your veins—rough, filthy, reverent:

“Look at you—drippin’ f’me.”

"Sound so fuckin’ pretty when you get close, baby.”

“Made f’this cock, huh? Knew you were.”

You nodded, moaned, begged—and he still held you back. Until finally, finally, he shifted his angle—hips grinding in deeper, one hand sliding down to press firmly against your clit.

You gasped, eyes wide, knowing you couldn’t take much more.

Smoke leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Now.”

There was only time for two more thrusts from him before the orgasm tore through you like a live wire—your whole body arched, convulsing under him, your fingers digging into his arms. You sobbed his name, legs trembling, walls clenching so tight he cursed under his breath.

But he didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, deeper, rougher, chasing his own high now.

And when he came, it was with a groan ripped straight from his chest. He buried himself to the hilt, filling you with heat, his grip iron-tight on your hips as he ground out the last few thrusts.

The room went quiet except for your shared breathing—ragged, heavy.

He collapsed beside you, your pulse still pounding in your ears. Every inch of you ached—your thighs, your wrists, your throat from crying out his name. You couldn’t move. Didn’t want to.

Smoke lay beside you, still catching his breath, one arm slung across your waist like a claim he had no intention of letting go.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He just looked at you—not possessive now, not calculating. Just present. Watching the way your chest rose and fell, the dazed look in your eyes, the flush still blooming on your skin.

Then, without a word, he shifted.

He pushed himself up slowly and reached down, sliding a hand along your thigh to check where the welts were forming from the slaps. His touch was gentler now, fingertips dragging slow across your skin like he was memorizing each bruise. You whimpered softly at the contact, not from pain—from how careful he was.

“Y'alright?” he asked, voice low and gravel-warm.

You nodded, too floaty to answer right away. He hummed—deep and satisfied—and leaned in to kiss your temple. Then he moved down down to kiss your thigh, right where his handprint was darkening beneath the skin. Then again. And again. Reverent. Worshipful in a way that made your throat close a little.

Smoke wasn’t the kind of man to say thank you. But this? This was his thank you.

“Lemme take care o’ you.” He murmured, sliding off the bed and heading to the bathroom. You heard the water run, the sound of him moving around.

When he returned, he brought a warm, damp cloth and a bottle of water. You let him ease your legs apart again, and he cleaned you carefully—no teasing now, no sharp edge. Just quiet, intimate care. His touch still firm, but with no agenda behind it. Just… you. Just the after.

He pressed the bottle of water into your hands when he was done and then lay down beside you again. His arm came around your waist, dragging you gently to his chest.

“You did real good tonight,” he said against your hair.

You melted into him, legs tangled with his, letting the rhythm of his breathing ground you.

“You feel alright, baby?” He added, quieter now.

“Mhm. Perfect,” you said. “You always take care of me.”

You felt his hand tighten just slightly against your hip at that. And then, softer:

“Damn right I do.”

[throughpatchesofviolet]

I found the perfect stickers for my planner!! They're so cute ... I only ordered two sheets, since I want to make sure my idea works ...

[giaantisopod]

end of an era soon 💔💔

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Prima Nocta

Marcus Acacius x Virgin!F!Reader oneshot

{ Main Masterlist }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: Tomorrow, you will marry your husband-to-be. But tonight - it belongs to his father.

Word count: 6k

Warnings: DUB CON only due to nature of prima nocta, both parties enthusiastically consent, twist on prima nocta, unspecified age gap, loss of virginity, dirty talk, oral sex (F receiving), fingering, dry humping, unprotected sex, unrealistic descriptions of first sexual experience, all manners of historical inaccuracies and linguistic anachronisms sorry not sorry, ignores the events of the movie so you can consider this an AU, Marcus is widowed and has a son, shall we call this bfd: Ancient Rome version lmao

Notes: I'm a bit rusty for sure, but I had the absolute best time writing this oneshot. It's a departure from my usual themes to say the least, but once this idea took hold of me it never let go. I know prima nocta is meant to be invoked on the wedding night, but I like the idea of it being the night before so I made it so 🤷🏻‍♀️ Gorgeous dividers by @firefly-graphics as always.

He thought he had gotten away with it. Having lived more than fifty winters in the capital and outlasting eight emperors, he regrets to confess that he is still none the wiser. 

It would have been such a clever manoeuvre. Palming off a generous but very much unwanted gift from the emperors, and marrying off his son in one fell swoop. 

He should have been suspicious of their swift assent to his proposal. In his eagerness to bow out of their audience, it had been convenient to dismiss the flash of malice in their eyes.

And in the snake pits of Roman court, no misstep goes unexploited.

He is not proud that he is caught off guard by the emperor’s closest advisor who intercepts his walk home from the armoury, even less so of his ineloquent response to the missive handed to him.

‘What is this?’

‘Urgent word from the emperors, sir.’

Cold sweat prickles the back of his neck as he stares unseeingly at what is scrawled on the parchment.

��I cannot,’ he blurts out, indignance rising fast and hot in his chest. ‘I will not.’

‘You think it wise to twice refuse the emperors’ generosity, general?’

General. To him, the culmination of a lifetime of service and sacrifice. To them, an instrument of bloodshed in war, a plaything in peacetime.

Desperate, he tries a different tact. ‘The right of the first night belongs to the emperors. I dare not commit sacrilege.’

‘It is not sacrilege if it is freely bequeathed upon you, general.’

There is no mistaking the warning lilt in the last word, and he has no answer.

‘The hour grows late. You had better not keep the bride waiting,’ says the advisor with an air of finality before retreating into the shadows.

Marcus shudders at the cold that settles into the empty space, fingers stained with ink from the now crumpled dispatch. 

He remembers nothing of the remainder of his short journey to his quarters. As the front door swings open, he realises there is something in the night air that is out of place.

Sea salt.

You are here. 

Would you be demure? Frightened? You are of royal lineage, a lady of the small but proud coastal kingdom strong-armed by Rome into an unequal treaty for its profitable trading posts, in return for the mercy of not being razed to its fertile grounds.

And now, you are lowered to marry a general’s son. 

Worse, lowered to have your virginity taken by his father.

Candlelight spills from the crack underneath the door to his bedchamber. Marcus takes a deep breath, and pushes it open.

You hear him. The swish of fabric, the slide of leather soles on marble.

The general is here.

Your hand in marriage is part of the terms of the treaty, and the missive that sent for you announced your match as the widowed hero general. You had him cast on the wretched journey from your home as one of the domineering, brutish soldiers now garrisoned at your family’s kingdom - only to be told on your arrival that you will be marrying his son instead.

Relief at the news that your future husband would not be decades older than you is instantly snatched away by furtive whispers of prima nocta.

Your future father-in-law will take you first.

The humiliation is bitter on your tongue. You are Rome’s to marry off, hers to give to whomever she pleases -

But she won’t break you.

The door creaks. You stand tall and hold your ground.

He sweeps into the room with an air of well-worn authority, the cloak on his back dark as the shadows that nip at his heels.

The candles flicker when he sheds the heavy robes with a smooth sweep of his arm.

You stare, in a manner that would have had your lady-in-waiting tutting. But you are alone, very much so, with this man not ten paces from you.

General Marcus Acacius. 

He is older, certainly old enough to have a son your age. But you had not imagined him so - strong, for the lack of a more imaginative word. His shoulders are broad under his wine red tunic, and you can see the muscles in his arms flex as he clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. From where you stand, you can hardly see any silver in his dark curls.

Marcus unflinchingly assesses you right back. 

No, you are decidedly not demure. Or frightened. Far from it. 

You are defiant, even as you observe him with evident curiosity. Your head held high, a telltale sign of your noble breeding, mouth set in a stern line while your eyes burn bright with a proud fire. 

Judging the silence has gone on long enough, he breaks it with a formal, ‘My lady.’

‘General,’ you answer steadily.

The door slams shut belatedly behind him, and you flinch - the first glimpse of weakness you concede. 

Marcus breathes in, delivering his next sentence with as much composure as he can muster. ‘I expect you have been informed of the - formalities that we are to perform tonight.’

You grind your teeth so hard you are astonished that your jaw doesn’t crack.

Your virtue is just a formality.

Refusing to dignify his question with an answer, you nod once. 

He watches you wordlessly, and you meet his gaze. You thought you would find something else there, not the regret that you see.

Turning away from you, he reaches for the amphora on the table. 

‘Wine?’

‘Yes, please.’

The wine is drunk in silence and moderation. Him at his desk, you perched on the end of the bed.

As you sip, pacing yourself, you observe the general discreetly from across the small distance between you. 

To say that you are disconcerted by his behaviour would be an understatement.

You assumed that he asked for this - for the perverse pursuit of deflowering his son’s bride-to-be while eschewing the unwanted responsibility of a wife. 

Yet, watching him stare pensively into his goblet, lips pursed in a pout that is almost sullen, you are not so certain anymore. 

When you bring your drink to your mouth to find it empty, you clear your throat. ‘I have to wake up early tomorrow morning - for the wedding.’

The general starts before collecting himself, drawing himself up to his full height as he sets down his cup with a heavy clunk. ‘Understandably, my lady.’

Then he moves, charting a course across the room, licking his thumb and index finger to douse the candles dotted around the space.

The thought comes to you unbidden - he has thick fingers. And big hands. 

Your cheeks tingle with heat.

Soon the chamber is cloaked in darkness, save for the candles next to the bed, the warm light pooling in the most inviting manner on the soft surface despite your trepidation. You long to rest your aching feet. 

He comes to a standstill on the other side of the bed, as if waiting for you to take the lead. You cannot decide whether you are thankful for him not imposing on you, or frustrated at him for not taking the lead in what is very much unfamiliar territory.

In the end, the desire to get off your feet wins out, and you gesture at the bed. ‘Shall we…?’

‘Certainly.’ He bends down, you assume to take off his sandals. You do the same, toeing off the soft leather slides the maids had you change into when they dressed you.

Once barefoot, you climb in with as much grace as you can summon, acutely aware that you have an audience. Your knees sink into the mattress, and you’re relieved that it is stuffed with feathers, luxuriously giving under your weight. Shifting primly, you find your back against the headboard, cushioned by equally soft pillows.

The general follows suit, the frame creaking as he eases onto the suddenly too small bed, strong shoulders brushing yours as he settles next to you.

You stare hard at the back of your hands, the only way to stop your gaze from wandering to the span of his fingers splayed wide on sturdy thighs, or lower to the bony ridge of his knees - gods, you must be unwell, since when have you been drawn to knees?

You are still questioning the state of your sanity when the general, who has been nothing but unperturbed and composed since he stepped into the room, stumbles over his words in a manner that is neither, as if he had held the question behind his teeth for too long.

‘Are you - are you absolutely certain - in no doubt - that you are… untouched?’

His question stings like salt in a festering wound. Indignant doesn’t even begin to describe the retort you spit at him. ‘Yes, I am. Are you?’

Peering at you sideways, his eyes widen at your outburst, and fear briefly flits across your heart that you have overstepped.

 But then, he surprises you with a smile. ‘You bite, don’t you?’ 

You let your shoulders sag, too far gone to hold onto your facade. 

‘It’s been a long day, sir,’ you admit. ‘To be frank, I just want to get this over with and forget it ever happened.’

He pauses at your confession, as if weighing his options. Then he shifts, and says, ‘The reason I ask if you were untouched is because, if you were not - we could have just pretended we did this.’

You frown. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I did not invoke prima nocta, it was imposed upon me. The emperors are displeased that I turned down the betrothal, this is their way of punishing me for my ungratefulness.’ 

Oh.

As much as you didn’t want this either, your pride suffers to hear him describe it as a punishment.

‘I know…’ you stumble, halting to steel yourself. ‘I know I am nothing like the women here in Rome. I spend too much time in the sun, and my hands are rough from working with horses -’

‘Why do you say that?’ he interrupts you.

You look away. ‘That is why you do not wish to marry me, is it not? And why you do not want this - why you do not want me.’

The general sits up, palms on the mattress to support his weight, the lines on his forehead deepening with a frown. ‘No, that is not the reason. You are young, you deserve a husband who can build a life with you in the years to come. Not a washed-up widower.’

The bitterness in his voice turns your head. 

‘You’re not washed up, from what I hear.’ Somehow, you find the courage to add boldly, ‘Or from what I see.’

Letting your eyes trail unabashedly over his broad frame, a thrill chases through your blood when you notice his Adam’s apple bob with a tight swallow. He’s so close that you know you’re not imagining the heat seeping into your bones.

Silence stretches between you, charged with a consciousness that creeps in and spreads. Two souls from different worlds and stations put in a situation in which neither of you had a hand. This may not be how you imagined giving away your virtue - far from it - yet your stomach twists in anticipation.

You glance upwards, only to find him already watching you.

Something has shifted when you so bravely reached out and tipped the balance with your words. He can tell that you are not one for flippant flattery, and it takes him a moment to collect himself, harder said than done with the blood roaring in his ears.

When he speaks, it comes out in a much lower register than he intends, so much so it sounds like a secret. 

‘You say you just want to get this over with. But I can - I can make it good for you. It doesn’t have to be something you want to forget.’

Your eyes widen and your lips part, and heat blooms almost uncomfortably in his chest. ‘You would do that for me?’

‘I will serve you in whatever way you ask of me tonight, my lady.’

Never have mere words, albeit delivered in such a delicious baritone, moved you so. You came in expecting to have your virtue stripped from you, the same way Rome callously stole you away. Where you thought humiliation and dishonour awaited, this man is offering deliverance and devotion - if only for one night.

Your throat tight with emotion, you nod in lieu of a spoken answer.

Marcus is deliberately slow in his movements, wanting you to feel safe in his presence. ‘How much do you know? So I know what I need to teach you.’

Despite yourself, shyness rears its head and you mumble, ‘I’ve - I’ve heard stories. I know what… happens… between a man and a woman in the bed chamber.’

He nods reassuringly, making you feel less of a fool for the juvenile answer you gave. ‘And has anyone touched you before?’

There’s no mistaking the lurch in your stomach as your heart hammers violently. ‘No. No one. Never.’

The protector in him stirs, summoned to duty, warring with the desire that seethes under his skin like the unholy flames of Vesuvius. He fears it is a quickly losing battle. 

Reading the desire in your endearingly open face, Marcus reaches over you to settle one hand on your hip as he leans close, his breath warm on your cheek.

‘Have you ever kissed a man?’ he rasps. 

You shake your head, eyes fixated on his mouth, framed by a tidy moustache. He is so close that you can see his beard is flecked with silver.

You swear the general is leaning into you, and every inch of you is on tenterhooks, enraptured by his proximity -

‘You should save it for your husband.’

You barely forestall the whine of protest that teeters on the tip of your tongue, pinching your lips together, but his lopsided smile tells you that he knows. 

‘I can kiss you elsewhere though.’

‘Oh,’ you inhale shakily when he dips to mouth at the side of your neck, landing on your pulse point in a suckle. Your whole body arches off the bed, hands gripping the sheets, head spinning at all the sensations that are new to you - the burn of his stubble, the cool trail his lips leave behind -

Then the palm on your hip pulls you into him, sprawling you against the wide cage of his body, your breasts pressed against his broad chest. The dress they put you in is thin, and the fabric rubs against your pebbling nipples as his kisses travel daringly low.

‘Am I going too fast?’ he pauses, voice strained.

Breathlessly, you shake your head.

‘If you want me to stop, or wait, you say the word. Understood?’

‘Yes, general.’

Two words he hears daily from his men, and yet from your lips, they unleash a dangerously feral side of him.

More. Is the only coherent thought that remains. 

Impatient hands reposition you so that you are astride him, and he groans when you slot flush in his lap. He watches your eyes widen at what you feel between your legs. Your dress rides up, and his blood rushes south at the bare expanse of your inner thighs on his skin. 

‘I want to see you,’ he speaks plainly, palms squeezing the dip of your waist. ‘May I undress you? Please?’

All decorum flees you, and you might have chanted yes, yes, yes to his question.

Dropping your chin, you watch his thick fingers nimbly undo the knot holding the front of your dress together. The silk capitulates like water, tumbling down in delicate drapes around your waist, baring you to his heated gaze.

‘You are beautiful,’ he declares with a solemnity that steals your breath.

And it is easy to believe him, the way his dazed eyes trail over your breasts, before his hands follow. Calloused palms, which you are sure have held many a sword in triumph, now cup your tender flesh in reverence. 

Your head lolls to the side as he teases you, but when he rolls his hips upwards, your eyes snap to the pained expression on his face. You’ve heard ladies in court whispering over wine about length and girth, but nothing could prepare you for the thrill of feeling a man’s undeniable desire for you.

Instinct guides you, moving your hips so that you are grinding against his length, seeking relief from what is building deep within you.

‘Do what feels good,’ the general murmurs encouragingly, palms on the small of your back to let you take control.

And just like that, you are thrown back to one summer’s day in your youth. You were bathing in a rock pool, under the spray of a waterfall in perfect solitude when you accidentally slipped forwards on the smooth stone surface. The unexpected sensation between your legs ripped through you like lightning on a clear day. And you chased that feeling, hips undulating until you shuddered and cried out. Knees trembling in the aftermath, you never dared to seek it out again, but neither did you forget.

And now, years later, you finally know what had transpired. Pleasure. And this time, under the general’s hooded gaze, you pursue it with single-minded determination.

Marcus wishes you knew how beautiful you are in this very moment. Breasts swaying in tandem while you rock back and forth on his clothed length, eyes glazed, every whimper from your swollen lips making him throb harder for you.

‘Good girl,’ he rasps, throat tight. ‘Take your pleasure. Take what you need.’

And when he sucks your nipple into his mouth, you wail, tipping forward at an angle that unexpectedly takes you apart.

The waves that wash over you are more intense than you remember, and you are sure that has to do with the man holding your hips to his as you buck, and the warm swirl of his tongue against your breasts, sucking and nipping as you come down from your high.

‘That was not your first time,’ he states as a matter of fact when the white noise in your ears finally fades.

‘It happened once, a long time ago, and I didn’t understand then -’

‘And now you do.’

‘Yes, general.’

This time, he lets loose a moan at your words. ‘I can feel your wetness through your dress.’

Confused, you look down, and your cheeks burn when you spot the dark patch on the delicate fabric. ‘Oh, I -’

‘It’s natural,’ he assures you. ‘The wetness makes it easier for -’

It dawns on you when you feel his hardness twitch under you. Oh. 

‘It - you feel -’ you stutter, struggling to comprehend how the girth of what you are sitting on could possibly fit inside you.

Taking your hand, Marcus presses a chaste kiss to your palm, eyes warm and open. 

‘We will take it slow. I will use my fingers first, to prepare you for me,’ he explains patiently. ‘I promised I would make it good for you, did I not?’

‘You did.’ 

And you have complete faith in him.

Your knees knock into each other hopelessly when he slides you off his lap, and he has to bodily prop you up against the pillows. Sinking into the soft feathers, you watch him kneel between your parted legs, and you feel so safe even as he towers over you. 

‘May I disrobe you?’

You bite your bottom lip, and nod. 

Except it’s not a disrobing, it’s nothing near as civil as that. The general rips the rest of your dress clean down the middle, rendering you completely bare beneath him.

Marcus knows should be ashamed of his brash behaviour. But how could he when you react so viscerally, jaw slack as your chest heaves in unmitigated desire? 

His gaze shamelessly trail over every curve and dimple, from the breasts he has tasted to where your knees are demurely closed, and knowing that he is the first - the only - to have laid eyes on you makes him impossibly hard. 

It matters not that you are not his to keep. This will always be his. 

‘You are exquisite,’ he professes, voice tight. 

You duck your head, more shy of his compliments than being nude before him. ‘You don’t have to.’

Sliding a finger under your chin and tilting your head until you meet his gaze, he assures you, ‘I mean every word.’

Then he moves down the bed until he can rest his weight on his elbows, and you startle when rough palms glide over the outside of your thighs, stopping at your knees. 

He pauses to give you time. ‘Are you certain you wish to continue?’

Your answer is a confident yes.

Then, as if opening the shell of Venus, he delicately pries your knees apart, and his breath hitches as you are revealed to him.

He is aware that he’s staring like an imbecile, words failing him. As the silence stretches on, you become self-conscious.

‘General,’ you demur, moving to cover yourself.

Shaking his head, he finally says, ‘Forgive me, but you are perfect.’

Then he looks up at you with such intensity that has you struggling to catch your breath, and without breaking eye contact, he bows his head - 

And closes his lips over you there. 

You are wholly unprepared - no one has ever gossiped about this in court. Your hips buck violently off the bed, but Marcus holds you down with reassuring hands, suckling on the pearl between your thighs with gentle laps of his tongue.

‘Oh, oh, oh,’ you stuttter, torn between watching the man wreak the most devastating pleasure on you and averting your gaze.

You’ve only ever known worship to be pious, and yet, this most vulgar adulation is the closest you’ve been to the gods.

His beautiful curls brush the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, catching the candle light as he moves, and the crook of his nose - so proud even with the scar on its bridge - draws patterns on your skin as he stakes his claim where no one has ever touched you. 

You quickly realise that what you felt just now in the general’s lap was insignificant and thin in comparison. This pleasure is all-consuming, something divine that has you weak and trembling all over. All you hear are slick, wet sounds of tongues and lips, and your own whimpers between garbled groans.

Marcus feasts on you, unapologetically. Flattening his tongue, he tastes you in broad sweeps, moaning into your sweet cunt as you writhe above him, your needy mewls driving him to the edge of madness. You taste like fig - the earthiness of the purple peel, ripe sweetness of the pink flesh.

Then your hands wind into his hair, pulling him closer, ankles hooking over his shoulders. He groans harder, the sound rattling in his ribs as you soak his beard. Surrendering any last vestiges of shyness, you rock against his tongue, nails scratching his scalp as you whine louder into the night air. 

Moans that will echo long after you’re gone.

The thought alone hardens his resolve to mark you unequivocally. You’re close, your pliant body quivering and breaths coming in shallow gasps now. He peers up at you, but your eyes are sealed shut and upturned at the gods, your breasts heaving.

Gently, he eases one finger inside you, and he grunts at how easily he slides in. You barely react, and so he pushes back in with two, coaxing a cry from you. Your cunt clenches as he gently thrusts his digits in and out, stretching your tight walls. 

‘Oh gods. Oh gods,’ you pant violently.

You’re close, so close. He wants to warn you of what is to come, but it feels like sacrilege to tarnish the moment with words. When he feels you begin to quiver, he laves at your clit harder, burying his fingers inside you to the knuckle, until he feels you crest and break. 

‘Gods, oh gods - Marcus!’

The cry of his name catches him off guard. He nearly loses control right there and then, as you ride out your high on his fingers, but by some miracle he holds out through gritted teeth. He devotes his attention to kissing his way up your body, from the slick inside of your thighs, to the side of your hip, making you jump when he sucks on your sensitive breasts.

You stare at his mouth with wild, dark eyes, and him at yours, but he vowed to leave your first kiss to your husband. Girding his self-restraint, he asks, ‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes, Marcus.’

His cock twitches at the sound of his name on your lips. He wants to hear you say it in all manners of ways - whisper it, gasp it, scream it. And by the cheekiness in your smile, it’s clear that you know what he’s thinking.

Your eyes drop to where his hardness is pressed against you. ‘Will you teach me how to please you, general?’

He swallows a groan, the animal in him rattling the bars of its cage. He replies diplomatically, ‘I will teach you how to teach your husband.’

In one smooth tug, he shucks off his tunic, then his loincloth, and he tries not to be self-conscious under your watchful gaze. Pulling you against him, skin on naked skin, he smears kisses along the side of your neck, smiling at your answering shudder. In return, you run your lips and scrape your teeth over his collarbone. 

Taking your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm, he slides it all the way down his chest and wraps your fingers firmly around his throbbing cock, his pained moan in your ear.

Eyes wide, you marvel at the size of him in your grip. ‘You are so big.’

Marcus curses through clenched teeth. ‘You are an insolent girl.’

With a wicked glint in your eyes, you correct yourself, ‘You are so big, general.’

If he wasn’t so aroused, he would have chuckled at your cheek. Instead, he growls, ‘Such insubordination.’

Tilting your head to one side, you grin. ‘And how would you discipline me, sir?’

He lets the silence linger for a beat, allowing anticipation to build as one big hand splays over your ass, hot lips brushing the shell of your ear. ‘I would deny you my cock, my lady. Let your sweet cunt weep for me, empty, not knowing how good it would feel to have me deep inside you.’

You are unsure if you are more shocked at the explicitness of his words, or at the gush of wetness that has you pressing your thighs together. If you had to wager a guess, he is just as affected as you by the way his length pulses in your grasp.

Marcus smiles as he takes in the way your body reacts to him. ‘But how can I deny such a lovely, desperate creature such as yourself?’

A sob escapes you. ‘Please, Marcus - I’m yours to take.’

With that, all self-restraint abandons him, and his lips crash into yours. At the back of his mind, he knows you deserve a better first kiss, something gentle and sweet. But to your credit, you seem to take it in stride, winding your arms around his neck with a deep groan as he deepens the kiss. Opening up your mouth, he sweeps his tongue against yours, making sure you taste yourself and the pleasure that he had wrung from you.

When he reluctantly pulls back for air, you hum, ‘I thought you said I should save that for my husband.’

He all but snarls, ‘Damn your husband.’

The possessiveness in his tone sends you reeling, and his resolve wears even thinner when your cunt brushes against him, so wet and soft, begging for him. 

‘I cannot wait any longer,’ he declares.

You bite your lip beseechingly. ‘Please, Marcus, I cannot either.’

He braces himself above you on strong arms, until all you can see is him, backlit by the soft candlelight. Beholding his beauty - the wisps of gray at his temples, the scar lining his cheekbone - your breath catches at the tenderness in his eyes as he stares down at you.

Holding the base of his cock, Marcus notches himself at the entrance of your cunt, trembling as he holds himself back. 

‘I will go slow,’ he assures you. ‘If it hurts, you tell me to stop. Understood?’

Your mouth dry, you can only nod. 

Holding your gaze, Marcus rolls his hips ever so slowly, jaw slack when he breaches you, inch by tortuous inch.

He is barely inside you and you already feel so unfathomably full.

‘Marcus,’ you gasp when it gets impossibly tight, nails digging into his broad shoulders.

He stops, and whispers encouragingly, ‘You are doing so well for me, taking me so beautifully. Just breathe.’

In between his patient, languid kisses, you unfurl, and Marcus gently pulls back, before pushing into you, deeper this time.

When you cry out, he shushes you, brushing the wet corners of your eyes with his lips. ‘Does it hurt?’

You shake your head. ‘No, it’s just - so much.’ 

‘I know, I can feel how tight you are gripping me,’ he mumbles into your neck, throbbing inside you while he holds himself still as you adjust. ‘Brave, sweet girl.’

When you find your voice again, you give him cheek. ‘I am a woman now, general.’

He smiles at you - a warm curl that crinkles the corners of his eyes endearingly - and claims your lips again. Feeling the tension seep out of your body, he thrusts shallowly so you can learn the movement of his hips. When he hits a spot that makes your jaw drop and your hips buck, he pulls all the way back, and drives himself to the hilt in one smooth motion.

And with that, you become a part of his soul, and his yours. His chest swells with the fiercest possessiveness and the greatest honour all at once, despite knowing that the circumstances that brought you together will inevitably tear you asunder at the break of dawn.

‘Marcus!’ you choke on a sob, throwing your head back, your walls clutching his cock in a merciless grip.

‘There she is,’ he grunts, mouth scraping the shell of your ear. ‘Say my name like that.’

And you do, over and over again, as he fucks into you. His pants land harshly in the crook of your neck with every thrust, hands greedily squeezing all the skin he can find - the curve of your ass, the dimple in your waist, your thigh to hitch it over his hip.

Looking down at you, eyes drunk and unfocused as you stare back at him, each squeeze of your wet cunt around him, every breath from your lips feels sacred.

He is seized by a sudden need to know. ‘How does it feel?’

Your eyes soften, and he shudders when you cup the side of his face to bring his nose to yours. ‘Divine.’

Marcus loses himself in you, in the wet squelch of your cunt around his length, the way your tightness takes every thrust. Words of praise that he doesn’t even hear tumble from his lips and onto every inch of skin he can reach as you cling to him, scraping your nails down his back and digging into the meat of his ass.

Pitching forward to press a hard kiss to you, he says, ‘I want you to fall apart for me again.’

‘Please, Marcus, please.’

Pushing himself up to his knees, still buried deep inside you, he spreads your thighs obscenely wide over his hips, and he moans at the sight of your cunt so full of him. With hooded eyes, he sucks on two of his thick fingers and brings them between your legs, carefully drawing circles on your clit, knowing that you are already sensitive from cumming twice for him before.

Your face twists in agony as he builds you towards another climax, patiently weaving the web of pleasure that wounds you tighter and tighter until your spine feels like it will snap in two. ‘Marcus, oh - don’t stop, don’t stop, oh gods -’

He bares his teeth as he feels you start to clench around him. ‘That’s it, that’s it. Cum on my cock, let me feel you, give it to me.’ 

Your peak crashes into you relentlessly, and as you are swept away, you can only wail and thrash, while Marcus curses and stutters unintelligibly above you as he spins out of control.

He had every intention to pull out, but it is as if some higher power is determined to foil his plans. With a guttural roar, his hips snap flush against yours, big palms grasp you so hard by the waist that you squeal, and he spills into you in hot gushes, once - twice - and again until he is spent.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

He doesn’t know if he said that aloud or if it was a trick of the mind. All he knows is that he eventually collapses bonelessly onto you, skin fused together with sweat and cum as your breaths become one in the crisp night air.

It is him who breaks the stillness, his old bones creaking when he stirs to relieve an ache in his back. His softened cock slides out of you, prompting you to whine in protest. He grunts when he looks down to see his cum dribble out of your cunt, leaving a pearly trail on the inside of your thighs.

When he meets your eyes, there is no awkwardness in the silence. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to spill my seed inside you. That was reckless.’

Your heart skips a beat at his admission, and you can’t hide the pride in your voice. ‘Do I make you reckless, general?’

He tries and fails to be stern in his answer, the tenderness with which he brushes his nose on your cheek giving him away. ‘I know better than to encourage your insolence with an answer.’

You are far from discouraged though, quite the opposite. Knowing you have this man - who commands armies of thousands - at your mercy is a siren’s call.

Peering at him from under your eyelashes, you curl one leg around his waist. ‘Do you want to be reckless again?’

He huffs, but a smile breaks through. ‘Have you ever been told that you are a cocktease?’

You hum teasingly. ‘I have never heard that word before, but I like it.’

‘You do?’ he breathes against your lips. ‘You like being my cocktease?’

‘Yours, general.’

Marcus is astounded when he feels himself harden again, and he moans as you press open-mouthed kisses down his neck. ‘What spell have you cast on this old man, my little cocktease?’

You grin, letting him ease you onto your back so he can settle between your thighs again. ‘The kind that lasts until dawn.’

Eventually, morning must break, sure as the moon turns and the sun rises. In the golden rays of day, you will wed his son in ironic, virginal white, showered in rose petals. He will look on from the side in his finest ceremonial robes of red, as you walk away from him and into your new life as someone else’s wife.

But in the velvety folds of this night and many more to come, safely ensconced in the deepest corners of his memories, in lands far away, in war and in peace, there he keeps you - where you are not.

More notes: Thank you for reading! As usual, comments/reblogs/asks would be very much appreciated 🥰 I hope you enjoyed this fic as much as I loved writing it!

[astars-things]

bubble wrap

Lando Norris x reader

warning- broken ankle

Lando was half-asleep on the couch when his phone rang, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet apartment. He frowned at the screen, his heart skipping a beat when he saw Y/N’s mom’s name flashing across it. Calls this late were never good news.

“Hello?” He answered quickly, already sitting up straight.

“Lando, sweetheart,” her voice was gentle, but there was something cautious about it. “I don’t want you to panic, but we’re at the hospital with Y/N.”

His heart dropped. “The hospital? What happened? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine, just… well, you know how she is.” There was a small laugh, but Lando wasn’t amused. “She tripped over a curb outside the restaurant and broke her ankle.”

Lando sighed, rubbing his forehead. Of course she did. “I swear, we need to wrap her in bubble wrap. She cannot go one month without getting injured.”

“That’s exactly what I said,” her mom chuckled. “She’s a little embarrassed, but she’s okay. I thought you’d want to come.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

When he arrived at the hospital, Y/N was sitting in a wheelchair in the waiting room, her leg propped up with a bright pink cast. The second she saw him, she groaned, covering her face with her hands.

“Before you say anything—”

“I’m wrapping you in bubble wrap,” he interrupted, crouching in front of her with a fond shake of his head. “This is, what, the third time this year?”

Her cheeks burned. “It’s only the second! And last time was just a sprain.”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “You fell up the stairs, Y/N.”

Her lips pressed into a pout. “It happens.”

He couldn’t help but smile. God, he loved her. Even when she was a walking disaster.

Y/N’s mom patted her shoulder, amused. “She’s all yours now, Lando. Good luck.”

Lando didn’t even give her a chance to argue when he scooped her up in his arms outside the hospital.

“I can use the crutches,” she insisted, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.

“Not happening.” He held her easily, carrying her toward the car like she weighed nothing. “You’d probably trip again and break your other ankle.”

She gasped, lightly smacking his chest. “I am not that bad!”

He glanced down at her with an amused smile. “Really? Because last week, you tripped over absolutely nothing.”

She huffed, but he could see the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Well, if I’m stuck being carried everywhere, I hope you know that means you’re officially my personal servant.”

Lando chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I already am.”

By the time they got home, Lando had completely banned the use of crutches. Y/N tried to argue, but she didn’t exactly mind the way he carried her inside, holding her like she was the most precious thing in the world.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” she mumbled against his shoulder as he carried her straight to the couch.

“Maybe,” he admitted, carefully setting her down and tucking a blanket around her. He adjusted the pillows beneath her injured leg, making sure she was comfortable before sitting beside her.

She watched him with soft eyes, heart swelling at the care in his every movement. “You’re too good to me.”

He smiled, reaching over to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “I just love you too much to risk you getting hurt again.”

Lando had planned to stream with Max that night, but he refused to leave Y/N alone. So instead of letting her stay on the couch, he brought a giant bean bag into his streaming room and set her up with blankets, snacks, and her phone.

“You know I can just stay in the living room, right?” she teased as he fluffed up the pillows behind her.

“Nope.” He grinned, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “You stay where I can see you.”

“I feel like a child,” she giggled, watching him settle into his gaming chair.

“A very clumsy child,” he corrected, glancing at her with fond eyes.

Y/N just shook her head with a smile, pulling the blanket tighter around herself.

Halfway through the stream, Max noticed her in the background.

“Mate, why is Y/N in a bean bag?” Max asked, laughing through the headset.

Lando smirked. “She broke her ankle last night.”

Max burst out laughing. “Of course she did! How?”

“Tripped over a curb.”

“Classic Y/N,” Max chuckled. “You really do need to wrap her in bubble wrap.”

“That’s the plan,” Lando said, shooting her a playful look.

Y/N glanced up from her phone. “I will throw my crutch at you.”

Max cackled. “I’d pay to see that.”

Lando just grinned, knowing full well she wasn’t really mad.

After the stream, he turned off his PC and glanced over at Y/N. She had dozed off, curled up in the bean bag with her head resting against a pillow. His heart softened at the sight.

Quietly, he crouched down beside her, brushing a few strands of hair from her face. She stirred slightly, blinking up at him with sleepy eyes.

“Done streaming?” she mumbled.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Ready for bed?”

She nodded, but before she could even think about using the crutches, Lando had already lifted her into his arms again.

“You’re really never letting me use them, huh?” she murmured, resting her head against his chest.

“Nope.” He kissed her temple. “You’re stuck with me carrying you everywhere.”

She sighed, smiling against his shirt. “I guess I can live with that.”

And as he carried her to bed, holding her close like she was the most precious thing in the world, Lando decided he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[niwaart]

HIII HIII!! Sorry if this is bad it’s my first time requesting something but I absolutely LOVE the Batman angst could we (as in me) have more please? ALSO YOUR WRITING IS AMAZINGGG

Thank you so much! I wrote that for you and I hope you like it, maybe I can make it a series if you guys want.

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

The Forgotten Twin

°Part 1

Y/N al Ghul had always been the disappointment.

From the moment he and Damian were born, their grandfather, Ra’s al Ghul, had seen the potential in Damian—the ruthless precision, the killer instinct, the perfect heir to the Demon’s Head. But Y/N? He was soft. Gentle. He couldn’t bring himself to hurt anyone, not even in training.

"Pathetic," Ra’s had sneered, gripping Y/N’s chin with bruising force. "If you cannot wield a blade, then you will serve the one who can."

And so, Y/N became Damian’s shadow—his silent attendant, his slave.

When Talia brought them to Gotham to live with their father, Bruce Wayne, Y/N had hoped foolishly that things would be different. But nothing changed.

Bruce chose Damian as Robin.

Of course he did.

Damian was strong. Skilled. A warrior.

Y/N? He was nothing.

The Manor was vast, but Y/N had never felt more suffocated.

Dick Grayson the first Robin, the golden child spent every waking moment training Damian, teaching him restraint, laughing with him. When Y/N passed by, Dick would offer a polite "Hey" or "Good morning," but his eyes never lingered. His smiles were reserved for Damian.

Jason Todd was worse. The Red Hood was a storm of anger and gunfire, always clashing with Bruce. Y/N avoided him entirely. The few times Jason had glanced his way, Y/N had frozen, heart pounding, waiting for the inevitable "What are you looking at?"

Tim Drake… hated him.

Y/N didn’t even know why. Maybe it was because Damian had attacked Tim when they first met. Maybe it was because Tim saw Y/N as just another al Ghul—a threat. Whatever the reason, Tim’s glare was like ice. He refused to sit near Y/N at meals, always choosing the farthest seat.

And Bruce?

Y/N’s father was a ghost.

Every time Y/N mustered the courage to speak to him, Bruce would cut him off with a distracted "Not now" or "Later, Y/N."

So Y/N stopped trying.

The twins’ birthday arrived.

The dining hall was decorated, a mountain of gifts piled in front of Damian’s chair. Alfred had baked a cake—Damian’s favorite flavor.

Y/N’s seat was empty. No presents. No acknowledgment.

"This is childish," Damian scoffed, arms crossed. But Dick was grinning, ruffling his hair. "Come on, Dami, lighten up!"

Y/N forced a smile. "Happy birthday, Damian." He placed a small, wrapped box beside his twin—a book on ancient art, something Damian had once mentioned liking.

Damian didn’t even look at it.

"Movie night!" Dick announced, slinging an arm around Damian’s shoulders. "You in, Little D?"

Damian rolled his eyes but followed.

Y/N stood there, heart aching. He wanted to join them. To laugh with them. To be seen.

But he didn’t move.

What if they didn’t want him there?

What if they told him to leave?

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Y/N turned and walked upstairs—alone.

Y/N lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

This was his routine.

School. Homework. Dinner. Silence.

He liked school, at least. The other students didn’t know he was a Wayne. They talked to him like he was normal. Like he mattered.

But here? In this house?

He was nothing.

A weakling. A failure.

Maybe if I were stronger… Maybe if I could fight like Damian…

But he couldn’t. And he wouldn’t.

Because no matter how much it hurt, Y/N refused to become what Ra’s al Ghul wanted.

Even if it meant being forgotten.

Even if it meant being unloved.

That night, as muffled laughter echoed from the TV room below, Y/N pressed his palms against his eyes.

Why doesn’t anyone want me?

A tear slipped free.

Then another.

And another.

And for the first time, Y/N wondered…

Would anyone even notice if I disappeared?

[criminalyapping]

due for trouble | stay the night

the pitt masterlist main masterlist

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

a/n: here i am back for part 2. this is shameless, filthy smut - enjoy!

my ancient laptop sometimes types multiples of letters when i hit it once which is so annoying, but if you notice any repeated letters or spaces please let me know; i do my best to take them out but there's a lot so they'll slip through the cracks

warnings: SMUUUUUT (mdni!!), age gap (reader is implied mid-20's, jack late 40's early 50's), language, unplanned pregnancy

<< part 1 | part 3 >>

You cannot believe it. Absolutely not, nope, not in a million years.

You're a big girl, with a big girl job and big girl sensibilities and there is no way that this is happening.

Forget about the fact that your period tracking app is lit up in red text and that suddenly the smell of your bathroom sink (and every sink you've encountered for the last couple of days) leaves you gagging.

You've been doing a stand-up job at denial.

You're in denial as you leave the grocery store, arms laden with your next weeks' worth of food; if a pregnancy test somehow found its way into your basket and through the self-check, it wasn't your doing. You're in denial as unpack the groceries, leaving the test on your bathroom counter and drinking a big glass of water. You're in denial as you wash your hands and set a timer on your phone for three minutes. You're in denial as you send a text to the hot doctor you've been casually seeing (re: sleeping with) as the seconds tick lower.

Not bringing this up to him, absolutely not. You're paranoid, you're overreacting, and you tell him that you're putting away your groceries with absolutely nothing else interesting going on.

The denial starts to fade as you reenter your bathroom and see two lines staring you in the face like they haven't just changed your life.

You stomp your foot childishly, glaring at your face staring back at you in the mirror.

"Idiot," you spit, pointing at your reflection.

About two months ago, you had been out with friends, drinking and dancing as you try to do with them at least twice a year.

"More?" you ask the group, holding up your empty glass. The happy, glazed eyes around you widen and nod.

"My turn, be right back!" you smile. As you approach the bar, you set your empty glass down and lean against your arm to wait for a bartender.

You glance to behind you, to the man sitting at the bar. He's playing block blast on his phone, not paying attention to the goings on around him. Not one to ever bite your tongue, you have to say something.

"Why come to a bar to sit and play on your phone?" you ask, voice loud over the music.

The man, who is noticably older but muscled to high heaven and very attractive, jerks his head up as you interrput. His eyes skim over your face, then back down at his phone, which he locks and places face down on the bar. He turns his body, now fully facing you.

"Why've you gotta question a man who justs wants to play some phone games in peace?" he asks teasingly.

"Peace? You call this peaceful?" you quip, waving your hand around the bar.

The corners of his lips curl up into a smirk.

"Well, when you work in an emergency room, this," he says, returning your gesture, "sure seems peaceful."

"Hmmm, an adrenaline junkie, then." you state.

"You said it, not me." he smiles.

"Wouldn't, I don't know, your own house be a bit more peaceful?" you ask teasingly.

"Well, I wouldn't get opportunities like this if I was at home, would I?"

This man is matching your energy so well, and it's thrilling.

You're opening your mouth, about to respond, when the bartender arrives asking for your order.

You turn, giving your full attention and remember your friends' drinks.

"Can I please have a vodka diet, a tequila lemonade, an espresso martini, and a vodka soda with lime, and well is good for all of them." you request, holding out your card.

The bartender nods, turning away to begin making them.

"Those all for you, sweetheart?" the man asks, your attention being pulled back to him.

Fuck yes, he's flirting with you.

"Yeah," you joke. "I hold two in each hand and take turns on them."

He laughs, a deep chuckle coming from his chest that is so sexy you're melting.

"They're for my friends," you clarify with a smile.

"I figured," he laughs.

"So, Mr. Hot Doctor," you flirt back, "do you really just sit here after work playing on your phone and waiting for people to chat you up?" you ask.

He grins, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, which inevitably draws your eyes to his bicep. He definitely picks up on it, his face quickly morphing into a prideful look.

"It's Jack," he says, "and yes, really."

"Craz-y," you sing-song, "most days it's about all I can do to crawl home and into bed after work."

"And what is it that you do?" he asks. The bartender returns with your drinks and the card, which you slip into your purse. You gather up the drinks, two in each hand, and send Jack a wink.

"Nothing as interesting as you, that's for sure."

You turn around and walk back towards your friends, weaving between bar-goers.

"And who the fuck is that?!" your friends chorus as you return, handing off drinks carefully.

"His name is Jack," you smile.

"And you just left him there?!" Jiya asks, taking a gulp of her vodka soda.

"I'll go back," you assure, "I'm just leaving him wanting more," you giggle.

And go back you do, as you see him standing up from his stool, throwing a look across the bar as he throws down some cash. Looking for you, if you do say so yourself.

You meet his eye, holding up a finger as you place your drink in your friends hand and walk towards him.

"Leaving so soon?" you say with a pout on your lips as you stand in front of him.

"I'm an old man, honey," he smirks, "I need my rest." he jokes.

"Well," you start, pulling out your phone, "here's what you're gonna do. You put your number in my phone, and I'll text you. You let me know when you get home, and when me and my friends call it a night, I'll text you. If you're still awake, old man, you can invite me over and there's a good chance I'll come."

A surprised expression slides across Jack's face before it's replaced with a heated stare. He wordlessly takes the phone from your outstretched hand and types in his number.

He still has your phone in his hand as he takes a step closer, crowding into your space, and wraps a burly arm around your waist, your phone pressing into the small of your back.

"I'm old enough to be your father," he murmurs.

"Ew, don't talk about my father!" you gripe, grasping the firm bicep of the arm around your waist.

"But I-" Jack starts, only to be interrputed.

"I really don't give a shit," you roll your eyes, "do you?" you ask the man in front of you.

Jack looks down at you in his arms. The big eyes looking up at him, the expanse of skin of your legs shown below the hem of your shorts. Smooth and inviting; Jack is desperate to get his hands on you.

"No," he smirks, "no, I really don't."

"Good," you tell grasping the back of his neck and pulling him forward into a hot, messy kiss. He returns the kiss with enthusiasm, his tongue running along your lower lip before plunging into your mouth, muffling the noise of surprise you make.

He peels himself away from your mouth with a groan, licking his lips. He slides your phone into your back pocket, leaving his hand there.

"I'll see you later," he promises.

"Yeah, you will," you smile.

And so, about two hours later, you're in an unfamiliar apartment that you ubered to after leaving the bar.

"Fuck, baby," Jack groans, his words muffled from his position between your thighs. His hot tongue resumes it's mission, licking over you as your legs shake. He moves the hand that was bracing itself on his bed to behind your knee, pushing it up and away from him and opening you up to his ministrations even more.

You're a moaning, quivering mess with your hands grasping at his sheets by your head. You're completely undressed, with your clothes leaving a trail from his front door to his bedroom, and this man still has all of his clothes on. You hazard a look down, where his eyes stare into yours. As his tongue moves up, you're surprised by the stretch of two fingers entering you, causing your mouth to drop open in a moan as you fling your head back.

He pulls his face out from between your legs, raising up to be seated on his heels as his fingers continue pumping in and out of you. He leans over top of you, moving slowly and staring at your slack-jawed expression.

"Yeah, that feels good, huh?" he teases, his hand moving faster.

"Uh huh," you agree breathily, looking at him on top of you.

"Now," he starts, "you're going to come, and then I'll go find a condom so I can fuck you just like you want, honey," he promises, his voice dripping with want.

He drops his head into your space, running his stubble across your cheek and down your neck as he plants wet, open mouthed kisses there.

"You want that, huh?" he teasingly asks, "It's all yours, sweet thing, just come for me," he promises.

With his voice in your ear, and his hand working double time between your legs, you fall headfirst into the most intense orgasm you've had in a while.

You whine out breathy pants as your whole body tenses, and Jack swallows them up as he presses his open mouth to yours.

"Yeah," he coos around your bottom lip, "just like that," he praises.

His fingers slow as the aftershocks set in, your legs twitching. He pulls his fingers out of your sopping core and puts them straight in his mouth.

He shifts, sitting up and patting the outside of your thigh, his fingers leaving a wet trail wherever they go.

"You stay just like this," he instructs, "and I'll be right back."

Jack stands up and walks out of his bedroom, and you get to work on catching your breath.

"Shit," you whisper to yourself. You think about how you should have been going for older guys, if this is what they're capable of.

Jack returns, shirtless, and tosses a wrapped condom onto your bare stomach. He gets back on the bed, in between your still spread legs, and leans down to kiss you. Your hands find their home running across his chest and back, pulling him down slightly to press against you. He resists though, and you find yourself thrilled at just how strong this man is. He pulls back from the kiss and starts talking again.

"So, I have a prosthetic leg that you're about to see, I didn't want you to be surprised." he says.

"Okay," you smile up at him dreamily.

"Okay, sweetheart," he whispers, loving the swift turnaround from the confident, assertive girl he met to this. Guard down, completely at his mercy, and appearing to revel in every second of it.

You watch as stands, looking down at you as he unzips and lowers his jeans. They get caught for a second on his prosthetic, but your wide, dreamy eyes never leave his face. His boxers follow and he hisses as he wraps a hand around himself and strokes a few times. Your eyes do leave his face then, and comically widen as you take him in.

He crawls back onto the bed, and finally presses the length of his body to yours, pressing you down into the mattress as he catches your mouth with his.

You feel him, hard and insistent, against your stomach as he returns to licking and sucking at the soft skin of your neck.

You whine, wanting more of him.

He chuckles, pulling back slightly, enough to grab the condom that was trapped between you.

"You're alright, baby," he coos, ripping open the package and rolling it on. "Just a second," he assures.

His arm comes down, bracing himself right over your head so that your faces are millimeters apart. He takes himself in his other hand and runs his tip over you. He gently smacks it on your clit, causing you to give a full body twitch and a whine.

"Hey, look at me, open your eyes," he urges. You open your eyes, not even realizing you had closed them.

You can feel him lining himself up and starting to push himself in. Your eyes grow even wider, and your mouth opens in a silent gasp. You're staring up at him, starry eyes glued to his as he slips all the way in, his pelvis pressing up against yours.

He starts moving slowly, pulling out and pressing back in in measured, gentle thrusts.

Your breathing picks up, choppy and uneven breaths leaving your mouth.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he murmurs as the hand bracing him slides down and under your head, grasping the back of your neck firmly.

As his hips start to speed up, he becomes firmer in his thrusts which you can now feel in the deepest parts of you, pummelling your insides in a way that feels so indescribably good. He pulls his head away from you laying one hand on your lower stomach and pressing down slightly, the other hoisting your leg up and out, opening you up to him.

"I've got you, baby," he smirks through his labored breathing, looking down at you writhing under him. Your hands clench and unclench repeatedly, your body and brain overwhelmed with the feel of him moving inside you.

All at once, he slows down and pulls himself out of you, causing you to let out a whine of displeasure.

He chuckles, grabbing your hips and twisting gently as a suggestion.

"Turn over for me," he requests. You throw yourself onto your front, desperate to do exactly as he says. Your knees come up, propping yourself open for him, your neck turned to the side and face pressed into his pillow.

He shoves himself back in roughly and sets a fast, relentless pace.

"Fuck!" you squeal, hands grappling for stability.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you squeeze out as he pounds into you.

Jack's hands are tight around your hips, squeezing hard and reveling in the feel of you. Graphic slapping sounds resonate through the room as his hips meet yours.

"Oh, fuck," Jack murmurs, one of the hands on your hips slipping down in between your legs. His fingers swirl through the wetness there before settling on your clit and runninng fast circles over it.

You jerk away from the sudden onslaught of sensations, but his firm hands follow every twitch of your hips, not letting up for a second. You're mindlessly babbling and a line of drool has pooled on the pillow underneath your head.

"Why don't you come for me, baby, I know you want it," Jack spews from his filthy mouth, "I want it too, I want it so bad, honey, I want to feel you," he urges.

You would have made it there without his prompting, but his low tone and demanding voice get you there even faster. You're a moaning, incomprehensible mess as every muscle in your body tenses, your orgasm running through you like you just drank boiling water. Your hearing gets muffled as you choke out one final long, drawn out sound.

Three more thrusts and Jack is pressing into you even deeper, which you didn't think was possible, choking on his own sounds and grasping at your body harder than you think he means to.

You both still, breathing hard and chests pounding. You speak first, into the humidity of his bedroom.

"Jesus, that was good," you laugh.

"Took the words right out of my mouth." Jack agrees.

You hiss as Jack slowly pulls himself out of you. You move your aching hips to lay on your front, still catching your breath. After a moment, Jack rubs across your back soothingly, laying down next to you.

"I don't wanna move," you whine pitifully, not looking forward to putting your clothes back on and an awkward uber ride home.

"I'm taking that as a compliment." Jack says. You can't see his face from this angle but you know there's a self-satisfied grin on his face. You flip him off behind your back.

"There's my spitfire," Jack chuckles fondly.

To distract yourself from the flaming red of your cheeks at his statement, you haul youself up from his bed and walk to his bathroom, shutting the door behind you. A few moments later, you open the door halfway and call out to him.

"Can you bring me my clothes, please?" you request.

"You really want to put those back on?" he calls back to you. "You looked amazing, but they don't look particularly comfortable."

"They're all I have, jackass." you remind him.

"I've got ya," he says, quietly, followed by the sounds of him rummaging around. He opens the bathroom door further, holding out a handful of clothes to you.

"Thank you," you say, quickly putting on the shirt and boxers he's handed you.

This is your least favorite part, the awkward shuffle around picking up your things as you try to leave as fast as you can, lest the awkwardness set in. You exit the bathroom and see Jack reclined on his bed, looking at his phone. You step towards the door, but Jack calls out to you.

"Come here," he pleads. You pad over to the side of his bed. Jack grasps your hand and pulls you down, so that you're laying on top of him.

"Where are you heading off to, huh?" he asks into your hair.

"I was gonna get my stuff and get an uber home." you explain.

Jack hums, tightening his arms around you.

"You can do that," he agrees, "or you can get in bed, whatever you want." he says earnestly.

You consider his warm arms around you, his soothing tone, and how cold you would be if you got up.

"I want to get in bed," you murmur, slightly embarrased.

"Alright," he agrees, arms coming around you as he stands, holding you up under the butt as he throws back his blankets.

He sets you back down and crawls in next to you.

"I'll even take the wet spot," he says with a grin.

You groan in embarrasment into his pillow as his arms circle around you, pulling you into him.

[lunadove]

Honestly, I am cannot wait for when High Potential does a "My partner got kidnapped!" episode, because it is going to be an absolutely insane time.

If Morgan is Kidnapped:

Level-headed Karadec losing every last bit of calm and control as he becomes desperate to find her.

Morgan being called Karadec's "weakness"/Karadec being told caring for Morgan makes him "vulnerable".

Karadec immediately developing the world's largest guilt complex bc protecting Morgan is HIS responsibility. Bonus if the kidnapper is someone from Karadec's past seeking revenge, who purposefully targeted Morgan to hurt him.

If Karadec is Kidnapped:

Oh, you thought Morgan was chaotic BEFORE? Now she's essentially a hurricane compressed into a laser, pointed at one thing only - getting Karadec back. She is going to hit you harder than anything you ever thought possible (figuratively and literally).

Soto sending Morgan home (with police protection) bc she doesn't want Morgan to get kidnapped too. so Morgan privately investigates Karadec's disappearance, without the police knowing.

Morgan figuring out where Karadec is, arriving first on the scene, and refusing to wait for back-up before running in to try and save Karadec.

Bonus Tropes for Either Scenario:

Being used as bait to lure in the other. And the other knowing they're walking into a trap but doing it anyway.

Kidnapper massively underestimating Morgan, whether she's the hostage or the rescuer. The kidnapper thinks she's just Karadec's pretty partner that occasionally makes observations or spouts facts, rather than seeing the fully intelligent, cunning, and tough as nails person she is.

The person kidnapped being certain their partner will find them.

Soto's blood pressure spiking through the roof.

[ipushhimback]

this… is a french braid

pairing: max verstappen x leclerc!reader warnings: none words: 850?

summary: who could have known that a braid can cause so much drama

It was the morning of the Dutch Grand Prix. You were standing in front of your daughter’s suitcase as you showed her the outfits you packed, none of which Emily agreed to wear.

“But look, chérie, this is such a pretty dress”, you said hoping that your daughter would finally agree to wear something.

“No. It is not. I want the one Uncle Charles gave me!”, your daughter pouted.

Sadly you knew that Em was stubborn. She wouldn’t just agree to wear something she didn’t want to.

“I don’t have Charles dress here… Please. Just wear one of these dresses… Or do you want to wear a jeans? With one of the shirts Papa got for you?”, you asked again, praying Emily would agree to the tiny Red Bull shirts Max got her just a few days ago.

The five-year-old scrunched her nose as she thought about it before agreeing.

“Ok. But I want pretty hair”, she said as she looked up at you.

“A braid?”, you asked as you pulled out the little jeans and Red Bull shirt for your daughter.

Emily nodded. “The pretty braid you always do. The not-just-on-the-bottom-braid.”

“You mean a French Braid?”, you asked while helping your daughter in the shirt.

“Yes. The magic braid that doesn’t look ugly after I run very fast.”

You just nodded as you grabbed the comb from the suitcase and tried to gently detangle your daughter’s curls. Methodically, you parted her hair and placed one strand over another while you listened to Emily rambling about how Uncle Charles promised her that Alex would bring Leo with her and Uncle Arthur had promised her to bring her chocolate to the track.

“And Uncle Charlie said he will give me an own car so I can drive around alone-“

“Charles said what?”, you asked shocked. “A car?”

“Yes, a car. A red one. Like his car”, Emily said dead serious.  

You just stared at her through the mirror, deciding that you’ll have to talk to Charles about that… car for your five year old daughter.

You finished the braid by wrapping a small elastic around the hair.

“Such a pretty girl”, you said smiling which made Emily giggle.

“You are pretty, too, Maman”, Em said and you had to admit, not even a compliment of Max could compare to your daughter complimenting you.

“Thank you, chérie. Now, let’s go. Papa is probably already waiting for us.”

“YES! Can I show him my hair then?!”, Emily said excitedly.

“Of course you can. Can we leave now? Is your outfit good? Braids don’t hurt?”, you asked praying that everything would be good so they could finally leave.

Emily thought for a moment but nodded eventually, making you sigh in relief.

“Amazing. Then get your backpack, chérie.”

—-

Only half an hour later they arrived at the paddock and as soon as Em saw Max she started running towards him.

“PAPA! Look at my pretty hair. Maman did a braid! The magic braid!” The five-year-old turned her head so Max could look at her hair.

“Wow! Such a pretty braid, Em!”, Max exclaimed before he looked closer.

“Liefje, this”, he looked at you while pointing at the braid, “is a French Braid…”

You looked absolutely confused. “Yes? It is the one your daughter requested after not wanting to wear anything…? Is there a problem?”

Max now looked like he might start crying. Seriously, it was the exactly same face, as Emily’s before she throws a tantrum.

“We are at the Dutch Grand Prix! She… she cannot have a French Braid! We… we are Dutch! My baby girl is Dutch!”

You looked up in the sky, pinching the bridge of your nose, while telling yourself it wouldn’t be worth it to start yelling now. After the drama with Emily not wanting to wear anything, your nerves were already used up.

“Mon cœur. I really really love you. But a damn French Braid does not mean she isn’t Dutch anymore…”

Max pouted. “But-“

“No!”, you exclaimed before you could stop yourself. “Max. Next time I will gladly let you braid her hair but today, please just accept that she has a French Braid. Ok?”

Max still looked sad but nodded. “I guess your Maman chose France over the Netherlands”, he whispered in Emily’s ear.

“But Maman is from Monaco”, his daughter said confused.

“Close enough”, Max sighed. “Tomorrow, when it is race day, I will braid your hair, ok? And we will choose a pretty dress.”

—-

The next morning you had the time of your life. You were sitting on the balcony of your hotel room while Max was in the room, trying to get Emily to wear a dress.

“Baby girl, please! This is so pretty! I beg you! Please just wear it. I am sure Uncle Charles will love it!”

You have been hearing Max beg for around half an hour now, even considered going inside to help him. But honestly, you were enjoying the sun and your coffee way too much. Max will handle it…

a/n: this was an idea i had in the middle of the night… i hope it is good hahah

taglist: @strawberryy-kiwii / @a-distantdreamer / @requiemforthepoets / @martygraciesversion381 / @l-vroom4 / @comicalivy / @sid-is-gr8 / @picklesbuddy93 / @sadiemack9 / @f1fantasys / @cloud-55 / @sunny44 / @widow-cevans / @gigicisneros / @mbioooo0000 / @sinfully-yoursss / @bravo-delta-eccho / @rue-t / @mayax2o07 / @alexanderachillesisgay / @maviesamour / @suhchenjun / @pippyth3hippy / @sweate-r-weathe-r / @joannaln4 / @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy / @aleatorio1234 

[sakurocha]

All bachelors asking you to dance with them during the Flower Festival!

hello hello!! i am so sorry this is late, it took some fine tuning—hopefully i got it right :) thank you so much for the ask, as always~

bachelors asking you to dance at the flower dance !

featuring all bachelors ♡

⊹₊⟡ sam

struggling through the Allergies™️

but he fights through it to get to you!! because he absolutely MUST ask the cute farmer out this year. this year is the YEAR

he's impressed that you can dance, too, as he watches you practice your twirls and glides with abigail

shoots abigail a significant look as she ~conveniently~ decides to go pester her dad at his stall

and all of a sudden, you and sam are side-by-side, while he casts nervous sidelong glances at you

"hey, you look really nice today..."

you simply respond with a smile and a compliment of your own, innocently unaware of his intentions

hoo boy, you are unknowingly making it VERY HARD for him

"want to... dance with me this year?" he manages to squeak out, face flushing before he even finishes his sentence

you're more than happy to accept, clasping his hand and dragging him into the center of the clearing, your carefree laughs and hollers carrying through the forest~

⊹₊⟡ sebastian

cannot believe that he is seriously considering asking someone to the flower dance

but, he figures, any time spent with you is worth much more than any embarrassment he might feel

so he just bites the bullet, finding you amongst the crowd, pulling you discreetly aside, and asks you, matter-of-factly

"dance with me?” he asks, holding out his hand

you're honestly surprised by his forwardness, but nonetheless overjoyed to accept

he didn't think he could ever enjoy dancing so much, especially in a stuffy suit of all things

but seeing the happy smile on your face has him... gasp! blushing?!?!

he’s able to overcome his initial anxiety when he has you comfortably in his arms, slowly swaying to the music

he could get used to this… ;)

⊹₊⟡ alex

tries to play it cool but he is seriously STRUGGLING

he had never had a problem with talking to you, so why was it so hard for him to muster up the courage to ask you?? >:(

pretends to be all casual, voice all light and airy when he approaches you, hands in his pockets

“you clean up real nice,” he says, tamping down the fear in his throat

but then when you look at him with your pretty doll eyes, he suddenly feels his macho return

“you’d look better next to me, though. whaddya say we dance together?” he asks, a smirk on his perfect lips

if he wasn’t so damn charming you’d be rolling your eyes

but alas, alex mullner is alex mullner, and in the blink of an eye, he has his hands planted possessively on your waist, the other guiding you in a surprisingly elegant dance as the two of you twirl together in the spring breeze~

⊹₊⟡ harvey

get this poor man a doctor of his own because his heart is RACING

seriously reconsidering his original plan, especially when he sees you so dolled up, excitedly flouncing over to greet him with a chaste peck on his cheek

and the poor man’s face burns a million degrees hotter

starts with some small talk, to check in on how you’re doing

but also to try and calm his nerves!! >_<

he finally finds the courage to ask you when you look up at him with expectant eyes, as if wordlessly encouraging him to say the words you've been waiting for all year

"would you... care to dance with me?" he asks softly

and BOOM, he's swept up in a whirlwind of your movements as you pull him over to the dance, giggling all the while

"took you long enough to ask me, doctor!~"

⊹₊⟡ elliott

has a grand proposal planned out just for you

with a blooming bouquet of delicate flowers he had picked that day, during a morning stroll before the festival

he doesn't even ask you at the dance, he arrives at the doorstep to your farmhouse bright and early

just before you open the door though, he's a flustered mess

smoothing out his hair and the lapels of his jacket

he has never felt!! so nervous before!!

but before he can even fully gather his thoughts, you're suddenly standing in front of him, a delighted look on your face

"elliott! what's the meaning of this?"

he clears his throat, finding the courage to (metaphorically) sweep you off your feet with his honeyed words

"would you care to accompany me to the flower dance, my rose?"

you squeal with joy as you throw your arms around him, letting him lift you off the ground in a fairytale-like embrace <3

⊹₊⟡ shane

off in a quieter corner of the field, sipping on a soda

he was secretly waiting for you to show up, but he acts all bothered when you run over to him, all cheery and smiley

you lovee bothering him <3

behind closed doors, you were hoping for him to ask you to dance, but you knew there was no chance of that happening

so his next words caught you completely off guard, spoken so quietly you almost missed them

“… wanted t’try dancing this year, ‘n i figured you would be the most helpful, seein’ how you’re so good at it…” he mutters just barely under his breath

you just yank him by the arm to the center of the dance, much to his surprise

“if you wanna dance with me, just say that!” you laugh, twirling around him at a dizzying speed

he was in for a RIDE, but he was more than amused to oblige <3

thank you so much for reading! requests are always open~

[aventurineswife]

This isn't really a request to make anything more just a rant!

I'm just imagining SAHSRAU somehow managing to pull reader into the game and when they arrive they are just the God Emperor from 40k. Like, decked out in gold armor, long flowing hair, 14ft tall (GE is tall as hell), a Perpetual so they can't really stay dead, and some serious psychic capabilities.

It has me giggling just thinking about how some of the characters would react, especially the more devout ones. Maybe the Amphoreus npcs have an actual existential crisis seeing someone so godly compared to the titans, characters like Sunday and Argenti literally kissing the ground reader treads while others like Ruan Mei and Herta are have a singular focus on figuring out all of the readers ins and outs (more so than before).

This is an idea I've been playing with for a while now ever since I found out about this kind of AU and it's finally gotten to the point where I just want to rant on and on about it lol

No, but this is hilarious to think about. Like, imagine you get sucked into HSR, expecting to just be you, and instead, you show up looking like you walked straight out of Warhammer 40K fanfiction. Gold-plated, towering over everyone, radiating sheer divine energy—an actual god, not just a theoretical one.

The believers would either be weeping in joy or having the worst identity crisis of their lives. The Amphoreus people, who already revere the Titans, would take one look at you and just—malfunction. Like, 'oh. Oh no. We were wrong. We were SO wrong.' You’d probably get a mix of panicked bowing, desperate prayers, and people straight-up running because what does this mean for their entire worldview??

Sunday and Argenti? Absolutely losing it. Sunday would be preaching your name before you even say a word, while Argenti—this guy is already ridiculously devout—would be trying to single-handedly knight you with his banner. Probably vowing to crusade in your name while you’re just like, "Dude, chill, I just got here."

And then there’s the scholars. Ruan Mei, Herta, maybe even Screwllum—they’d take one look at you and go, "Science has failed me. I need to know EVERYTHING." You’d be subjected to so many tests, not out of doubt, but because they literally cannot fathom how you exist. Ruan Mei would be poking at your energy like "Okay but why does your aura feel like an eldritch horror and a divine miracle at the same time?"

Also, the Vidyadhara might just spontaneously combust from the sheer scale of your existence. They already believe in reincarnation and divine cycles—imagine how Dan Heng would feel if he realized you’re a Perpetual. "Wait. You don’t die? Like, at all? You just come back??" Meanwhile, Jing Yuan would be sipping his tea like, "Well. That’s new."

I also love the idea that even the Aeons don’t know what to do with you. Nanook, who is literally trying to destroy all gods, might take one look at you and just… pause. Like, "Huh. That’s not supposed to exist." Meanwhile, Xipe, the one obsessed with worship, is probably LOSING IT because they finally have something worthy of praise.

This concept is gold (literally). Keep ranting, because I love this! 🤭💖

[sun-snatcher]

Your take of Círdan being an old man who enjoys pestering people is my absolute fave bc yeah if I was the oldest elf alive I'd be a little shit half the time too for funzies

( credits to the lovely @peregrintook for this beautiful gifset ! )

✵ — WATER-DAMAGED!

summ.  Elrond arrives at Círdan’s workshop. He finds his heart instead. or:  The Herald and the Artisan fall in love. pairing.  elrond peredhel / f!reader  w.count.  1.2k (a lil baby!) a/n.  set in s2e1, friends-to-lovers kinda , fluff galore , mutual pining , Círdan being a thirdwheel (but highkey enjoying it because he’s a little shit like that)

       YOU’RE QUICK TO attempt to bundle Elrond up like a child when he’d arrived. 

Frantic, almost, at the sight of Lindon’s renowned Herald— drenched to the bone, head-to-toe, and dripping river water from his mess of curls, leaving puddles and a wet track wherever he went on the stone of the workshop.

“He’s not here yet,” is what you’d said, when he’d urged you for Master Círdan. The shipwright had gone off to appraise proper timber for the frames of the vessels prepared for Valinor, now that High King Gil-Galad has decreed preparations to set sail. 

“But he should return by nightfall, latest. So will you please sit down, Elr—”

“I cannot,” he overrides, wholly unconvincing through the chatter of his teeth. “You’ll be at risk if I stay.”

You blink. “…From who?”

“I—”

In the distance, a horse whinnies. 

Elrond tenses instantly.

“…Are you— hiding?” you realise, as he springs to his feet to make headway for the sidedoors. “Elrond, wait!”

“Thank you, truly, for your kindness, but I cannot allow the King’s Guard—”

“That was just Silef,” you say incredulously, muscling the door back shut and stubbornly standing in his way. “My mare, remember? From the stables just uphill?” 

A pause. 

He listens with pricked ears: gates of a stable door squeaking; hooves clopping from paddock ground onto pasture grass; the sound of grain and feed being chewed on, after a moment's pass. A notable absence of marching Elven armour and feet stamping its way downhill towards him. 

Just Silef. You’re right. He’d been paranoid. 

“Á quildessë, Elrond,” comes your quiet voice, gentler now as you chase to meet his anxious gaze. “I will make sure no one comes into this workshop, unless it’s Master Círdan himself,” you assure, resting your hands on his forearms. “Just please, sit down. You’re shaking.” 

…He is. He hadn’t even realised. 

It might have been adrenaline, or the bite of the cold from wind and water— but he’s trembling, nonetheless, like a leaf. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, much, much later, when you’d stoked the coals of the workshop hearth to life, and set him upon a wooden seat beside it.

From the open foyer of the atelier, the sea-reflected hues of the setting sun does little to hide the tentative worry in your features. Your voice is as gentle as the lap of tidewater. “There’s nothing to apologise for.”

“I shouldn’t have… barged in.” 

I shouldn’t have involved you in the first place, and put you at risk for treason for harboring a dissenter.

The firelight paints your face in soft, flickering licks of ochre as you tenderly dry off the dampness in his hair, the water trickling down his face. “You were afraid,” you reason generously.

(You don’t tell him that he looks adorably… pitiful. With eyes like that of a kicked puppy, almost. Even worse that he looks half-drowned.)

Elrond doesn’t argue. You’ve always been a kind friend to him. So, so kind. Ever-ready and steadfast to extend an olive branch, impervious to tactlessness, or even offence, from the sheer tenacity of your patience. Elrond has always admired you for it. Elrond has always—

Liked you. Cared. Loved.

(Too much to allow himself to let you get caught in this tangle he’s been forced into.)

He lays a hand over yours, and you pause mid-wipe of a droplet down his lined jaw. His eyes are shut briefly, as if falling into the comfort of your touch— candid indulgence. It makes your heart stutter.

That you’re allowed a quiet moment to admire him this close, so much so you can see the rings of sundering blue in his eyes; or to touch him this affectionately, so much so you could feel the very change of temperature on his skin— 

You think you’ve been blessed with a handsome vision by the Valar themselves.

“You must be curious,” he says, voice a low murmur. His palm swallows yours entirely. His fingers are warm by now. (You shouldn’t notice such details— but you do. You’re an artisan, after all. Or perhaps hopeless romantic is a better suited term?) “But this is beyond even me.”

He slides your hand down, much to your dismay, and uncurls the pouch he’s been clutching onto since he arrived. Now that it’s infront of you, there’s a pull to it you can’t quite understand.

You reach, almost too keenly— 

—but you close his fingers around it instead.

If Elrond had shown any surprise, you didn’t notice. 

“Must be why you’ve sought out Master Círdan,” you muse, looking up at him. “If it’s beyond you, it’s most certainly beyond me, a mere shipwright’s apprentice.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Elrond adds quickly, realising how he must have come across. 

“I know,” you laugh, before he can take off into a tangent. (It’s bright and musical to Elrond’s ears— thinks if he could drown in its sound, he would have done so willingly.) “You forget I know you.”

Not entirely, he doesn’t say. You don’t know how much my heart sings to be near you. How much your presence— or the very thought of you, even— have always brought comfort to me. 

You don’t know how much I’ve been resisting the urge to kiss you since you first sat me down by the fire.

He feels a little smile coming, the kind he couldn’t help, that would light his whole face whenever he cast his gaze on you. “You do, don’t you?” he whispers, voice sinking into something almost— nostalgic, at the sudden unravelling of old memories shared with you throughout the age.

“Well, when it comes to Kingdom politicians…” you shrug teasingly. “As much as I’m allowed to be privy to.”

He barely laughs, too busy looking at you with rapt, reverent attention. It curls a timidness in your heart. “You are allowed all of me. Always.”

Something takes wing in your chest. Butterflies, maybe. Doves taking flight in your ribcage. 

As are you, to me.

At least, that's what you would’ve said, had your ears not caught the distant clop of hooves headed downwind towards the river edge. “Master Círdan is here,” you say instead, diverted. You recognise the huff of his steed anywhere.

You watch Elrond perk up and tune into the approach: the rustle of saddle and stirrups, the shuffle of robes and footsteps. When the doors squeak open and shut, the Kingdom’s shipwright finds the Kingdom’s herald standing in the heart of his own workshop.

“Elrond,” he says, by way of greeting. There’s naught a hint of surprise in his voice— Círdan had felt a call louder than the sea long before he’d arrived, and now he can understand it’s carried in the herald’s charge. “Have you come to seek a certain apprentice of mine?” he asks, regardless.

It’s playful. Knowing.

“He seeks you, Master Círdan,” you answer politely, rounding from the corner where you’d grabbed your spare pelerine cloak to pass to Elrond. “Here, to keep warm.”

“Thank you.”

You bow your head to them both. “I shall be at the lighthouse just across.”

Your fingertips brush against Elrond’s hand as you leave. It tarries; merely a millisecond— enough, however, for Círdan’s keen eyes to catch— before he watches you depart through the sidedoors to give them the privacy they needed. 

Elrond's hand flexes reflexively. Longingly.

A beat passes.

“…Are you sure it is still me you seek?” Círdan muses, brows shot to his hairline.

The tips of Elrond’s ears burn. 

[puckinghischier]

i’m having soft quinn thoughts today and i have to shout them from the rooftops so everyone else can suffer with me.

but i absolutely cannot stop thinking about how quinn would always want to spend time with you, but feel guilty for how occupied he is during the season. every second of downtime he has is spent watching game film in your living room, studying tactics and plays. not that you ever complain. you’re content simply being in the same room as him, not taking for granted any amount of time you can be in his presence.

quinn’s attention is always half on you, no matter how hard he tries to focus. he steals more glances at you than he cares to admit, worried that one day you’ll get sick of sitting in silence while hockey occupies the space between you. but you never do. you keep yourself busy scrolling through your phone or reading the most recent book he bought you, never uttering a complaint. he’s tuned in to every fidget or movement you make, not wanting you to remove your always cold feet from under his warm legs to occupy yourself with something—or rather someone—better.

it surprises him that you never do. you never utter a word, not wanting to disrupt his work. every so often he’ll catch you looking back at him during one of his ‘quick’ glances, absorbing the warm smile you give him. sometimes you’ll quietly ask him if he wants anything from the kitchen when you stand to go fill up your water cup, but seem content to simply sit there with him as he mumbles to himself, jotting down notes as he watches.

tonight, he can’t help but notice—during his million and one glances at you—that your eyes are glued to the tv. your phone is laying, locked, in your lap, eyes following the puck as it’s shuffled across both screens from player to player. your body’s subtle reactions to the game aren’t lost on him either. the twitch of your foot anytime someone shoots the puck, the raise of your brow when a player on either team scores, the hitch in your breath anytime the two teams start to fight.

you can feel his eyes on you more than usual tonight, his (not so) subtle glances lingering longer than normal. you turn your head to meet his gaze, brows furrowed and a puzzled look on his face.

“what?” you whisper, flitting your eyes between his own and the tv, not wanting to miss any important moments.

“are you watching the game?” he looks at you like you have three heads.

you giggle in response, amused at his expression and surprised tone of his voice. “yeah, kinda. don’t really know what’s happening, though, if i’m honest.”

there was never a home game of quinn’s you missed. you went to support him every time you could, and loved seeing him in his element. but you can’t even pretend to understand the sport past each player wanting to get the puck into the opposing net. you didn’t understand the positions, the penalties, or anything surrounding the ins and outs of professional hockey. you never watched it growing up, and probably still wouldn’t watch it if you weren’t dating the captain of your new city’s team.

you had moved to vancouver for work, and knew nothing of the prominent hockey culture before you arrived. the sports presence buzzed all around you as you figured out the ins and outs of your new home, but it had no place in your daily routine. that is, until you hit it off with this insanely attractive stranger that seemed to frequent the same coffee shop as you. you accidentally cut him in line one day, offering to pay for his coffee to make up for it, but he paid for yours instead. a ‘pay it forward’ war was started between the two of you until he was stood waiting at the door with your usual order one morning, requesting more than just a name and the fact you drank a large, vanilla iced coffee with chocolate syrup lining the cup every morning.

when he realized you were likely the only person in the city he now calls home that doesn’t know who he is, it only piqued his interest in the pretty coffee shop stranger further. the morning meetings at the shop turned into an exchange of numbers, which developed into him meeting you for lunch on your break when he was in town, that then escalated into dinner dates and spontaneous outings, and now it’s found its permanence in you moving in with him a few months ago.

you were…indifferent, when he revealed to you who he was and what all his career entailed, uttering out a simple “oh! that’s cool! makes sense why you’re always at the gym, now” later explaining that you thought he was just really into fitness and maybe worked as a personal trainer or some equivalent. when he first invited you to games he tried to tell you a little bit about the rules, but assumed you’d catch on as you watched (hopefully) more and more of his sport. you always told him how much you enjoyed watching him in his element, but never asked many questions past if the other team was supposed to be good or not. he assumed you understood enough to keep up, knowing how intelligent and observant you are, but he tried to refrain from talking about work too much with you. when he’s with you, he wants to be present with you, not hockey.

which is why he feels so guilty at times like this, watching film while you’re sitting next to him. it feels like you’re two people who happen to be in the same room, completely in your own worlds. until tonight.

“you…never watch the games with me. you always have a book or something,” he reaches over to pause the game, still a little shocked.

you shrug at him. “didn’t feel like reading tonight. not really anything new on my socials, either. so i figured i’d just watch with you for once.”

“and you weren’t gonna say anything?”

this earns a real laugh out of you, not understanding why this is such a big shock for him. it’s not like you’ve ever told him you don’t like hockey. you just have never really cared to watch it if isn’t the one playing. but you’ve been wanting to learn more about it recently, tired of not being able to participate in the games like the other women do when they’re watching their husband or boyfriend play.

“why would i? you’re trying to work, i’m just trying to learn a little bit,” you reply, the hint of a laugh on each word as you say it.

quinn just blinks at you, trying not to get his hopes up at your expression, not knowing just how far you want to go with your quest for knowledge.

“since when do you want to learn about hockey? why now?” he questions, trying not to sound accusatory or snarky, but genuinely curious as to what you’ll answer.

“i’ve always wanted to learn, ever since that first game i went to, but you don’t seem to like to talk about it outside of the rink, so i don’t really ask much. me and google have become very good friends as of late,” you shrug out another answer for him. “plus, when you’re watching games at night like this, i don’t want to keep talking and asking a million questions while you’re trying to work, so i force myself not to watch to keep from distracting you.”

quinn sits a little straighter, now worried he’s made it seem like hockey is this forbidden subject between the two of you.

“sweetheart, i don’t like talking about hockey outside of the rink because i don’t ever want you to think that’s all we ever talk about, not because we can’t talk about it,” he tries to defend himself, even though there’s no accusation. “if you want to learn about the game, please, ask me questions. i- god, i’d love nothing more than to teach you about it. i hate sitting here in silence every night i’m home, worried you’re going to eventually get pissed at me because all i do during the season is watch old games.”

you grin at his slight panic, endeared by how worried he was about your feelings this whole time, appreciating his intention with the unspoken rule.

“q, i never asked about it because i didn’t want you to be upset because i kept bringing up work when you’re away from it all,” your smile only grows at the fact you were both worried about upsetting the other for no reason at all.

the slight tension in his shoulders fades at your words, relieved that you’re not upset or feel like he made it seem like you had no place in that part of his life.

“alright, well, fire away, then,” he gives you the floor, pressing play so the players on the tv screens move once again, now glancing at you every few seconds to catch any looks of confusion or interest in any particular play or action.

the rest of the night is spent playing and pausing the game over and over again, question after question flying out of your mouth. anything from why the faceoff is from a certain spot on the ice to what a particular penalty looks like is spoken the second the thought enters your brain. quinn takes his time explaining every answer to you, even rewinding and pulling up other examples to make sure you understand what he’s telling you.

at the end of the night he realizes just how much more he caught of the game while answering your questions. there’s several times you picked up on things he never has before. like why one player seems to always place his stick so close to another player’s skates while he’s chasing him. or why a certain goalie seems to lean left everytime instead of right, no matter where the puck is coming from.

he’s been able to add several tells about players in his notes, ready to take them to practice the next morning and change his game to accommodate his opponents habits. and when they win their game a few days later, thanks to your observations during the impromptu hockey 101 class in your living room, he revels in the fact that even though you know so little about his sport and his job, you ended up being one of the biggest parts of their success.

from then on, the nights of sitting in silence while he studies film are nonexistent. every time he brings work home with him, you’re right there next to him, enthralled in whatever opponent’s game they’re facing that week. he loves that you’re so observant, paying attention to the smallest of details someone who’s been playing for years becomes blind to. and he really loves turning you into a bottomless pit of hockey information, seeing how you absorb each ‘lesson’ from day to day.

when they break through their slump, a big part of that accredited to your nights spent questioning quinn, and he sees you start really participating in his games, he can’t help but fall that much deeper in love with you. watching you scream and complain about bad calls with the rest of the fans in rogers arena, and reading your texts to him about your thoughts on his away games you watch on tv, swells his heart in a way he never thought to be possible.

plus, he always knew it was only a matter of time before you fell victim to the hockey atmosphere of the city. no one can really resist the pull of vancouver hockey, especially not when it’s captain has anything to do with it.

[mrs-weasley-reid]

TEN'S A GOOD NUMBER

Aaron Hotchner x psychiatrist!reader

Synopsis: After Aaron's traumatizing encounter with Peter Lewis, he's sent to you, but who knew a profiler is the worst patient you'll ever have? Warning: enemies to lovers— ish(?) angst. a dash of fluff. light mentions of death and trauma. a few curses. went ballistic— it's lengthy, so pace yourself. A/N: loosely follows Mr. Scratch timeline for three seasons.

Monday, May 4, 8:34 AM

Aaron Hotchner sits across from you.

He studies you in every detail like he's about to take an exam, and you're the topic.

The weight of your scribbles—light, almost featherlike. Ink leaves a soft trail of words, a map of your thoughts, your perception of him.

The speed of your hand. Swift and elegant. Each movement portrays a scene in a movie. As if they're telling a quiet story, your story he is yet to unravel.

The way you deprive him of eye contact.

What are you hiding?

Why can't you look him in the eye?

The occasional nod to remind him that you're listening—not like anything's coming out from his end.

In conclusion, just about everything you do, really.

To Aaron, you're a cheat sheet. His way back to the field, to work—the part of his life that cannot be halted despite the need for a break.

"Your hand is heavier," Aaron vaguely goads.

You silently stare at him, waiting for the rest of his thoughts to spill out of his mouth.

"Usually, you write like you're afraid to puncture the paper, but just right now, your strikes are deeper. Your grip on your pen is also tighter. Am I annoying you?"

Creative.

You think to yourself as he rakes his eyes down the canvas of your face, blank and land of nothing but mirroring eyes.

Although you prefer Aaron's comment about your new lipstick and how it makes your skin glow—something about your prospect of finding a lover—fifteen minutes into your session. You didn't peg him as a man who knows his lipstick shades, but you stand corrected as he says coral with the utmost confidence for a man who wears his tie like a choker.

Aaron does it all the time. Every five minutes, he says one thing he's noticed about you and then proceeds to zip his mouth, denying you details about him like you're some hired criminal paid to torture the King's hidden fortune out of him.

And as per your entertainment, you'd do something out of your character to throw him off. If you can laugh at his gullibility, you would.

His goal is to intimidate you. Pressure you. Make you tick like every other serial killer he's encountered. Because he'd really rather be across an unsub than you. Aaron would rather be the one to ask questions and not you. In his eyes, you're no better than a small-town detective ignorantly interrogating a serial killer for a cheap gas station robbery, unaware of the skeletons in his closet.

At this moment, Aaron ponders why he agreed to meet with you once a week only to sit in almost absolute silence for about an hour, then go about his day like he hadn't just wasted minutes of his—and your—life.

It's always the same.

He arrives, flaunts his profiling skills for an accumulated total of twelve minutes, and then sits across you like a rock for the remaining forty minutes.

Aaron could've talked more, but...

He despises you.

Well, not you, per se. He despises the profession, and you just happen to choose it as your career. Nonetheless, Aaron generalizes and includes you on his list.

He finds it unnecessary and a waste of one's valuable time. Presenting a series of well-thought-out facts that he's sure Spencer Reid will enjoy. A list of reasons why talking to a psychiatrist isn't as helpful as people perceive it to be.

Aaron spits the words 'family' and 'friends' for the sake of ease and comfort as if he doesn't flinch at the words 'your father' and his face hasn't been frozen into a permanent stern. Because why talk to someone who doesn't know you when there are people who know you best? He lies through his teeth. He lies to himself.

Then, there's you.

You don't know him enough to trust his lies.

"Profiling me won't get you cleared," you state out of the blue. "This is our seventh session, and you haven't said anything." You add, finally lifting your gaze.

Aaron feels taken aback. He'd never encountered a shrink with such pride at their job—they managed to infuriate him. You infuriate him.

Now that you've granted him the wish—your eyes meeting his—it's having an effect on him instead. One that he wishes he didn't feel creep under his skin, stimulating the anxiety he's worked hard to ignore.

Still, Aaron squares his shoulder, "Nothing is wrong with me," He claims like he's not feeling the pit of his stomach churn with every word. "I'm only here for the formalities." He says.

"Ahh," You deadpan, pulling your eyes down on your clipboard. Hushed scribbles echo in the room. "Is that what you told, Dr. Briar? Or Dr. McCormick? Stiles doesn't seem to remember you at all—"

"They deemed me fit to go back to work, which you don't seem to realize." Aaron cuts you off. He doesn't notice the slight lilt of his voice. How a vein peeked on his forehead as he furrows his brows.

You have an effect on him, and Aaron's in strong denial.

"How?" You lean a bit, propping against your lap. It's the first time he's ever let himself tear out of his 'I don't break' shell. You consider it a crumb of a breakthrough and a laughable stain on your pride.

Challenging his stability—you raise your brows—makes him tick.

A faux frown draws on your face—patronizing, "Did you play a staring contest, and they lost against you?" You notice the little twitch of his eye masked as a blink.

It's a little unprofessional to provoke your patient, but you do, anyway.

This one's been particularly adamant about manipulating you into permitting him back to work like you were born yesterday. You think it hilarious how smug he's been for the past six sessions. It is as if you didn't spend almost half of your life devoted to the study of behavior. Like you hadn't figured out his plans from the get-go.

Profilers. They catch a criminal out of idea of sorts, and they think they can read everyone. It makes you want to laugh while pointing at him.

Aaron stares at you with his usual stoic expression, intimidating eyes filled with unforeseen horrors, and a straight mouth that's no use in your four walls.

He decides then that he hates you with a passion.

You feel a vibration on your wrist, "Would you look at that? Your time's up, Hotchner." You withdraw, straightening your back as you scribble yet another word Aaron is curious to know.

If he only knew you're not really writing anything new about the nature of his mental state or anything legible at all, you imagine Aaron exploding like a stack of case files blown by harsh wind.

But can he blame you when he's given you nothing to write?

"Agent Hotchner," He corrects with gritted teeth. Aaron's jaw clenches as he pierces his gaze through you. His hands intertwined with each other as if he's preventing himself from clawing at you.

You smile at him, "In this room, you're just Aaron Hotchner. A patient. A case." You know the specific word will piss him off, much less the motherly tone you paired it with.

A tactic. Unlike him, you don't need a team of agents to get a rise out of a culprit. The bare idea of you, a stranger who has access to his life on a piece of paper, is enough a stimuli to get an individual aiming at your neck.

"So, between you and me, I think you should start talking if you ever want to fly to wherever city your team wanders in. The longer you take, the less progress we make, and the less progress you make, the more possible that the bureau will assign a new psychiatrist for you." You say nonchalantly, letting his anger lead him right into your trap.

The words float like small fire specks of dust, both dazzling and dangerous to the eyes. Getting assigned to a new psychiatrist is like getting an easy case directly handed to Aaron. However, it also means he'll have to restart his psych evaluation process, and he knows firsthand how time-consuming that is.

"But, then again, who knows? Maybe the next fella will let you slide like the others did. Or you'll have to attend a series of sessions again for a lengthy psych evaluation. I've got friends too, you know? They might do me a favor and make your life more… difficult." You're bluffing. In no way, shape, or form will you jeopardize his health, even if Aaron's the most stubborn patient you have ever met in your lifetime.

His nose flares as he stands up. You know that he's done and murdered you in his mind at the way he's glaring at you with invisible daggers, but you play it well and act blameless.

Aaron marches out of your office with blazing hatred. You watch as he dulls every vicinity he's stepped into like death taking a stroll. A part of you is apologetic to his colleagues. They'll be having one hell of a day.

Retreating back inside your office, you plop on your chair behind your desk as a heavy sigh escapes your lips.

You stare at Aaron Hotchner's patient chart.

"What am I going to do with you?" You ask rhetorically in the air.

Aaron Hotchner is—for you at least—a special case. A case so intricate you had to be careful how you'd tread the water, wary of its fragile ripples.

When Aaron's chart landed on your desk, you immediately knew that he'd be toilsome. He'd make it his goal to skip the talk and jump back onto another case. The same routine he did with his old therapists and psychologist, anyone that was able to write a note and say he's fine when he's really not—never have been for a long time.

You already had enough patients on your plate, but you just couldn't say no to your favorite Italian patient; you only had one. You're the best bureau-mandated psychiatrist. His words, not yours.

Then, again, you never fail to mentally brag about how easily you read Aaron just from his chart, his image, and the first step he took to get inside your office. You read him like an open toddler's book, a piece of cake.

During the first session, you learn how badly Aaron's last case had affected him. The intonation of his voice. The way he'd shake his hand, your hand. His scorn. His fiddling fingers.

It's amazing how he's managed to divert his anger towards you instead of the man who traumatized him.

Melodic ringing snaps you out of your trance.

Aaron Hotchner might just get what he wants.

Sunday, May 10, 11:51 PM

A sniffle tickles your nose as you lay flat on the carpet floor of your apartment.

Your face stings from tear stains, and you muse how horrid you must look after your makeup runs dry. Your chunky heels were still on. In a minute or two, you expect one of your feet to cramp.

The day has been hostile towards you.

The mind, which used to be an oasis of positive thoughts, has gone draught. Sleep begins to blur your vision, and you don't hesitate to let it take over.

Until a bombarding knock jolts you up.

"I'm here! I'm here! Calm down!" You shout as you swing the door open. A familiar man stands in front of you with a dour face. Your eyebrows narrow tightly, "Mr. Hotchner—"

"What did you write?!" Aaron badgers as he storms inside your apartment like he owns the place. He pivots on the balls of his feet once he's reached your living room, glowering at you with scalding fury. "I was relieved to know that you released me from your care and looked forward to my clearance. So, tell me why a random therapist called me this morning to confirm an appointment I didn't even know I had. What did you write on my report that I have to go through this again for the second time? Is dealing with your sick games not enough? I'm fine. I know I'm fine. I'm straight in the head to go back in the field. I aced the psych evaluation questions. Your sessions are the problem. You're the problem." His ears, face, and neck are burning red. If he's a cartoon character, you imagine he'd be steaming with smoke by now.

Quite surprised; you're standing speechless. You're watching Aaron like he's a crazy old hag yapping about the Revolutionary War and how she hates not having the power to shoot every redcoat for the sake of rage.

You head towards your sofa, taking a seat.

Aaron examines you in confusion, furrowing his brows.

After a moment, you look at him expectantly. "Don't be shy, Mr. Hotchner. By any means—" you nod towards the armchair across you, glancing back and forth between him and the empty space "—continue with your thoughts. You already started. Might as well let it all out."

He only clenches his hands inside his pockets as he bores holes into your head.

What a sad little man.

You scoff in your mind.

You lean against the back of the sofa, tilting your head to meet dagger-like brown eyes aiming at you. "No? Suit yourself, then." You shrug, feeling the soft cushions under your palms.

"Let me remind you that I'm a federal agent, and I can make your life a living hell if I want to." He threatens, glaring at you as if the twitch of his eye is enough to make you combust into thin air.

But all you see is a child on a tantrum, deprived of getting what he wants.

"Answer my question. What. Did. You. Write?" He growls.

Silence coats the two of you.

His heavy breathing fills the deafening air. Your nonchalance fuels his hatred more than ever and the sentiment is beginning to emit from both ends. It takes a lot out of you to think of multiple ways to sprinkle some salty sense onto him without stinging his wounds.

One thing you learned well enough in time is how good Aaron is when pushing someone's buttons. A perk of his prosecutor days and seasoned by his bureau career.

He's just troubled.

He's just in denial of his own pain.

You chant the words in your head—uncertain of its purpose. Detachment ironically detaches from your senses like old velcro.

"You're not the first agent in my office, Mr. Hotchner. And frankly, you should be thanking me for taking you in. Unlike your old therapists, I actually read through your chart and took the time to understand you to the best of my ability. I cared—" Shocked as he is, your eyes subtly widen.

Before you can continue Aaron speaks over you, "I do not care about your pity. What I wanted was for you to do your damn job and clear me back to work. But that's just little to no pay for a shrink, isn't it? You need messed up people to stay messed up so they can continue knocking on your door." A clear hint of a demeaning smirk flashes across his face.

The sheer irreverence makes you dizzy. The calm snaps, banishing kindness and composure out the window. And rage knocks on your door.

"That's the problem. You don't care. You don't care about yourself." Your tone is sharp—stern.

You knew. You knew from the moment his file thudded on your wooden desk. The moment SSA David Rossi charmed his way to get your favor. You know that Aaron Hotchner does what he believes is right. Not because the unit chief title has gotten in his head. No. Not the slightest. But because he only cares about his values and people.

And you're neither.

It's not you to hold grudges. So, you had it down and set before you accepted Rossi's request. You had it tattooed in your mind that no matter how sharp-tongued and insensitive the man before you might be, he's still just a man under the weight of the world's greatest horrors.

You cannot break. You're not allowed to break.

Pieces of you shatter at the realization that some patients under your care inevitably slip away from your fingers. How your promised oath to do no harm did nothing—not enough to stop the monsters that haunt the world. Not enough to stop you, Aaron's psychiatrist, from dumping your own frustration onto him the same way he's currently doing to you.

But you're not Aaron's psychiatrist today. You're not anything today. You're not on the clock. And no one except Aaron—to your demise—will ever witness such an ugly sight. If ever he shuts up about his dilemma, that is.

"I did my job exactly as I should." You declare, licking the bottom of your lips. Damned the Hippocratic Oath. You wonder if the healing gods will forgive you.

You really shouldn't say the words that are about to leave your mouth, but you've been taking whatever hostility he's got for the last two months; the capacity has reached its limit. A little bit of harshness wouldn't hurt, would it?

"When are you going to admit that the reason you can't sleep at night is not because of all the serial killers you claim I prevent you from catching?" You finally stand. You are a few inches shorter, yet you have never felt taller than you do right now.

You grit your teeth as you move closer to Aaron, almost a breath away, tiptoeing. "When will you admit that the mighty SSA Aaron Hotchner, unit chief, doesn't blink, not once, because he's afraid he'd become the very thing he promised to put away." You raise your brows, challenging him.

Aaron's face morphs into bewilderment and perturbation. His brows are sewn shut. His jawline pops out as he grinds his teeth.

Resentment. Fury. Vexation. Chagrin.

All Aaron felt was anger.

Antagonized.

A walking tower of pure acrimony, finger-pointing towards the innocent.

"Don't you dare compare me to those— I'm anything but." He towers over you, losing his words through the stream of lividity flooding all over his senses.

"Do you really believe that?"

Aaron studies your face. It's different. It's raw and maimed. A squeeze of guilt whispers, but he shoves it quickly.

"What did you write?" He asks once more, earning a scoff out of you.

You step back, staring straight into his glare. Crossed arms tight against your chest. Brows rest over your deadpan eyes.

"While SSA Aaron Hotchner is proficient at his skills and rather placid in physically and mentally challenging situations, I strongly recommend further evaluation in psychotherapy as his emotional capacity is at its limits. The stress accumulated from the job itself has given him little to no time to allow himself the indulgence to properly process certain impacts of the stimulus he encounters on the job. Will update after further observation. Is what I wrote… so far."

You pause.

"Aaron Hotchner is an insufferable, pompous idiot who's afraid of nothing but himself. He is incapable of stepping off his pedestal and refuses to cooperate while complaining about the consequences he himself caused. He has been through enormous trauma. It will be torture to try and help him cope properly. I do not want him in my care as he is a danger to his own progress, and I don't want any part of it. Is what I wanted to write."

Silence.

For him to reflect.

For you to breathe.

Aaron's frozen before you. A pale statue bleached under the moon's harsh reality. Words that used to be superficial insecurities float in the wind of truth, forming into a cage he's sentenced for life.

Your fuse still runs—a long time coming from two months of his deliberate disrespect. The silence annoys you, so you break it. "Excuse my hostility. No one's invaded my privacy and barged into my household at such an unreasonable hour before." The impassive smile on your lips can haunt anyone.

Maybe you've gone too far.

Maybe it's evil to say such blunt things to someone fragile.

But Aaron started the countdown. He lit the fuse. Now, you're exploding right before his eyes, reaping what he sowed. And he's forced to eat up all the debris.

His eyes twitch, scanning your face for any sign of bluff, any sign of fallacy. Any sign that he successfully pissed you off and your words were nothing but overwhelmed impulse.

"I—" he closes his mouth, then agape. Any sign. Aaron will take anything besides the forthright expression on your face. He inhales, "I'm sorry." The sound dies before it can roll off his tongue.

It's like watching a bully shrink into the tiniest man who's ever lived.

Okay, maybe you were a little bit brutal.

You gulp as guilt creeps along your veins, wishing that someone out there would just do you both a favor and snipe you out before the embarrassment settles.

Drawing in a gentle breath, you take another step back from Aaron with a delicate voice, "You're not starting a new evaluation, but you're not done either. I transferred you under someone else's care because of personal reasons. My life doesn't revolve around you, Mr. Hotchner. So, if you have nothing else to say, go home." Your eyes drift to the vast selection of objects in your living room to diffuse the growing pity you can't help but harbor.

Only then does Aaron discern his impulsivity. Internally arguing with himself as he allows himself to look at you. One thing he's never done since the moment he met you with screwed brows and unwavering bias. His gaze instantly softens like a thick fog around him finally dissipates. Like he's achieved a clearer vision.

The first thing he notices is the state of your face. The dry mascara that drew faded stripes down your cheeks. Your puffy eyes are now faint pink, but he recalls them being red when he arrived.

Then Aaron brings his attention to your black dress. It's a simple formal, mesh midi dress, but he admits how it elegantly fits you. But he doesn't say it aloud because there's only one reason why you'd wear such an article of depressing clothing.

As if your words and his own realizations aren't enough, he gets a glimpse of the clock on your wall that reads 12:03 AM.

His blood suddenly stops flowing—skin clammy and pale. Aaron's lightheaded from guilt and penitence.

Without another word, you lead him towards the door, swinging it open. The past 24 hours already drained you, and Aaron just about made it fifty times worse. All you wanted was to get a shuteye.

Aaron swallows the shame and makes his way out. Before he leaves, though, he turns to face you once more. Genuine curiosity pinches his brows.

"Why didn't you just clear me out like the others did if I was such a difficult case?" The word tastes bitter in his mouth. What used to be a desired flavor turned rotten on his palette.

He asks with utter softness, leaving you skeptical to respond.

"Same reason why you kept attending my sessions even though you clearly hated it." You slightly close the door, only leaving enough space for the two of you to see each other.

He looks at you like the answer's all over your face but written in some foreign language he's not familiar with. Aaron barely opens his mouth when you answer the question in his mind.

"You needed a place where you can just be."

The door shuts.

Friday, June 19, 11:02 PM

"I didn't know where to go."

You pore at Aaron Hotchner with nothing but a flimsy robe to prevent his imagination from going rampant—and dirty.

It's eleven in the evening. It's been one month since you last saw him. It's been a month since he barged into your apartment like an entitled brat. It's been a month since you let your emotions take over. It's been a month since the two of you revealed parts of yourselves either of you don't dare think of.

A month and no contact.

You didn't wonder; just hoped and prayed that Aaron finally finds it in him to let go of the emotional turmoil that's torturing the soul out of his body.

Sighing, you step aside and let him in, closing the door behind you like it's normal to stop by one's ex-psychiatrist's apartment in the middle of the night without prior notice and, most importantly, without meter to run the minutes he's inconveniencing you.

Aaron walks in, and the heavy humidity of arousal immediately hits him.

Oh.

Well...

If he had something to say, Aaron kept his mouth shut. He is at fault for driving straight to your place like he's your bestest friend. So, he doesn't mention it, ignoring the fact that you're barely clothed.

Besides, after your last interaction with him, Aaron's certain he didn't have any prerogative in how you'd like to spend your Friday evening.

"Take a seat. I'll be with you in a minute." Your steps are light behind him—feet nimbly grazing the wooden floor.

He turns to face you but quickly averts his gaze to avoid the glistening sight of your thighs. "Thank you..." He does his best to sound normal, choking in between syllables.

Aaron begins to regret his decision. Though, not enough to leave your place.

You disappear in the corner of the hallway. Allowing Aaron to finally release the breath he didn't know he was holding.

With you out of sight, his mind deliberately wanders...

What were you doing?

Aaron shakes his head vigorously like a worm under a storm of salt. The thought is undiscovered—untouched territory, forbidden to be exact. Should he form such thoughts, he'll do it somewhere else or rather about someone else.

Just as he caters to the sudden dizziness caused by his action, a man, half-dressed, walks past him, cursing under his breath and buttoning his shirt. Aaron's eyes widen a little, keeping his stoic face.

Oh, that's what you were doing.

Ick—as Aaron would like to call your visitor—had brown and curly, unruly hair. He was tall and definitely had a face, which, Aaron assumes, is nothing like the one he envisioned you're attracted to.

Somehow not a pleasant discovery compared to what he attempted to imagine—you, alone.

Ick looks at Aaron with a scoff echoing out of his throat, "Oh, what a surprise! She's a slut." He states smugly.

"Or she just wants someone better." The words spill out without hesitation, fired on sight. Aaron doesn't know where the boldness came from as he leans against the seat with a cocky smirk on his face. Definitely no more perplexed than the uncertainty of anger boiling inside of him. He glares at the man either way.

The man scoffs again before leaving with a couple more insults that Aaron thinks he's lucky to whisper, or your visitor would've left your apartment in an ambulance.

Ick slams the door, shaking the vase on the accent chest by the entrance.

Where did that come from?

He's questionably not as big of a hater as he was before, but Aaron can't determine the motivation that made him act the way he just did with a person who has business with you, which he should have no interest in.

Moments later, you come back, fully clothed, in an oversized hoodie and a pair of wide-leg linen pants. Comfy and a 180 contrast on how you dress at work, plus the garments you had on minutes ago.

You make a beeline to your kitchen, "Water or scotch?" You holler out, opening cabinets with a creek on their hinges.

The question is rhetorical. You place a glass with brown liquid glinting under the warm ambient light on the coffee table in front of Aaron, then plop on the armchair across from him, catering your own glass.

He stares between you and the glass while you kiss yours, never breaking your gaze. You hum in delight, making a popping sound with your lips.

Aaron opens his mouth and then closes it, falling into a cycle like a fish underwater. How should he explain himself? How does one explain why they're bothering their ex-psychiatrist past working hours? After making a scene a month ago? He swallows the thick void in his throat.

"Don't talk, just drink. Sit here for an hour. Then, go home." You say, opening up a book that's been sitting on the table since he arrived.

Aaron feels a surge of relief. He reaches for the drink and lets the smoky taste trail down his throat without hesitation. He wouldn't have guessed you as a fan of scotch—or anything not clear or fruity. This is the first he's seen you without some sort of filter he can't read through, and the observation prints you under a new light.

The silence comforts him. The occasional scrape of paper against paper with each flip of a page provides him reassurance. The company he finds within your presence gives him solace.

You let him be. Asked no questions, reading in peace like he was just any other friend who needed company.

He does as you said. Indulging in the hour of tranquility and stillness. His nerves tame. And he forgets why he went to you in the first place.

Why did he go to you?

Of all people. Of all the friends he brags about. The family he cherishes. His feet dragged—drove him to you.

The onerous unit chief chose to wander to your front door, sipping scotch as he enjoyed the silence and absence of others' guilting worry and constant craving to make him feel better when all he wanted was peace and letting the ache pass in gradual acceptance.

By the end of the hour, you call him a cab with the instructions for him to pick up his car the next day.

Aaron slept effortlessly that night.

Saturday, October 24, 9:24 PM

Aaron expected some sort of rejection or for you to slam the door close, or worse, ignore him as soon as you see his face through the peephole.

One can only tolerate a couple of unannounced visits from an insufferable ex-patient, right? He's surprised you haven't called the cops on him.

He skims your face for any sign of irritation or annoyance as soon as you reveal yourself behind your door, standing next to it to give him way. Aaron saw nothing but impatience.

You knit your brows, slightly tilting your head at his frozen build outside the frame of your door. "Well? Are you stuck or something? Get in, Hotchner—" You turn before you can even finish talking, disappearing down the small entryway.

He turns deaf for a moment. Your voice rings in his ears as if a bomb had just popped the only working drum he had left.

Hotchner.

Agent.

Mister—

Just Hotchner.

One simple change, and the light above your head suddenly looks brighter.

Like he's found something good. Something he can say he knows. Something he can trust(?)

"Don't forget to take your shoes off and shut the door!" You holler from the living room—unfazed.

Aaron flinches, snapping out of his trance. He wonders where you'd gone to, furrowing his brows, and yet enters your apartment with the permission you'd given him. He closes the door, pivoting on the soles of his dress shoes as he tentatively takes them off per your instructions.

He emerges back in your peripheral while you stare at the screen on your laptop, blue-filtered glasses back on. Your fingers hammer on the keys, soft sighs slipping past your lips every once in a while.

You glance at Aaron when his figure stays at the corner of your eye, cupping a coffee mug between your hands. "There's fresh coffee if you'd like. Are you hungry? I don't usually eat dinner, so I have nothing ready to eat, but I can whip something up." You blow over the surface of caffeine, and steam wafts on the tip of your nose.

"No—" He shakes his head, scoffing in confusion, "I'm sorry—"

"Apology accepted," You muffle into the mug.

Aaron's brows connect tighter, and his forehead creases. He looks at you like he's under an illusion, a hypnotic dream he can't quite distinguish.

"Hold on," He hoists his hand up as if to pause a scene in the movie. "I'm very confused. What is going on? Why are you being… casual and nice?"

"You say it like I'm incapable of human decency." Your back makes contact with the cushion of your sofa, pulling your legs close to your chest while one hand holds the handle of your mug. You roll your eyes when Aaron only stares at you, "Are you uncomfortable? Do you want to leave?"

Aaron shakes his head.

"Problem solved, then?" Confusion is still fresh on his blank face. You mentally smack your forehead. "There are patients who lack temporal sense, but turning them away when they clearly need immediate tending to would be a form of negligence on my part. So, feel at home." You theatrically stretch your arms, offering every corner of your space as his own.

"But I'm not your patient anymore. I've been back on duty for weeks." Aaron informs. Although he finds a place for his go bag on your floor.

If you didn't know any better, you'd assume he's about to stay for a sleepover—coming to your apartment late at night.

You wrinkle your nose, "Okay?" You look around as if someone else is in the room with you two. "Is that why you went here? You wanted to brag?"

Three months.

Aaron's been back to his usual routine for the past three months. And it's been four since he drank scotch on the very couch you're comfortably in.

A chuckle.

The sound tickles your ears, filling you with unexpected pride.

"No," Aaron shakes his head as the chuckle resonates through his chest. "I… I don't really know why I came here, if I'm being honest." He swallows air.

You nod, setting your laptop back on your lap. "Like I said, you're free to feel at home. Scotch is in the third cupboard. Coffee's in the pot. I've got some stuff to take care of, so help yourself." Your eyes are already fixed on the screen, hands jumping from one key to the other.

With your permission, Aaron ventures into your kitchen. Neat. Clean. Cozy. He somehow imagines you cooking as a hobby.

He settles for coffee. Asking you from the kitchen island if you'd like a refill—which you took without a thought, hoisting your cup up—and taking out a couple of his files to get a head start on his paperwork. He wasn't allowed to bring them outside the bureau's building, but it didn't matter at the moment.

Your apartment becomes a haven.

Aaron, for the first time in years, feels comfortable to slouch. He had no collection of when and how, but turns out he'd changed into a quarter-zip and one of his pajamas tucked in his go bag through the hours.

The two of you silently took care of your own thing until 1 AM strikes, and a yawn pulls you back into the earth.

You turn your head towards the kitchen to find Aaron scribbling over your kitchen island. He's sipping coffee—a fresh batch he made not long ago.

Stretching, you make your way past him. After placing the mug into the sink, you lean against it, crossing your arms as you stare at him. "Ten."

"What's that?" Aaron halts on his seat, lifting his head to look at you.

"I'm granting you ten visits," You announce.

"And that means?.."

Your face deadpans, and he does well at stifling a smile. "You can come here whenever you want—need, but only for ten free visits. It doesn't matter if it's late, too early, or unreasonable. I'm allowing you to knock on my door whenever you need. Any more than that, you have to attend my sessions in my office, where I get paid."

"What's the catch?" Aaron entwines his eyebrows, straightening his back as he props on the edge of the counter.

"No catch. Just one condition," You shift your weight on your other leg, "Don't come empty-handed. Food, drink, things, a person, anything. Bring something." Your brows hang on your forehead, anticipating any type of response.

Aaron weighs his choices. Calculated every possible outcome and benefit. He meets your eyes again. Index and thumb rubbing the growing stubble on his chin.

"Ten's a good number," He says as he nods.

Wednesday, March 2, 7:31 PM

Eleven months pass by in the blink of an eye.

It's the seventh time Aaron showed up without warning, and by this point in whatever acquaintance you two had, you aren't fazed or surprised anymore.

The fourth time he knocked on your door, he was carrying a hefty price of whiskey. An odd reason for a psychiatrist and a former patient to bond with, but you had no qualms about sipping neat whiskey that night.

At first, he stayed for an hour. Then, an hour turned into three. One time, a case hit too deep, and three became seven, but that only happened once—all you remember was a Wednesday night.

"Are you okay?"

Gentle sighs escape shivering lips. Tears pooling deep inside sockets.

One sharp sniff breaks it all.

You sob under Aaron's worried eyes as your grip on the knob almost snaps it off the door.

His brows twists and he reflexively yanks you by the back of your head into his chest, bringing you out of your apartment and into the complex's hallway.

"What happened?" He carefully inquires while he rests his chin atop your head.

You're a mess in his arms. Uncontrollable whimpers muffled in his soaked chest.

Aaron suggested that you two step inside for more privacy and heat, but he didn't complain when you two stayed frozen in the end of winter evening.

When it stops. The suffocating ache. You lightly push yourself off him, wiping the leftover tears off your cheeks—half of it already dampened his shirt.

Fifty-three minutes and seventeen seconds.

You cried to the point of dehydration.

"Sorry," you mutter, eyes down. "We should go inside if we don't want to catch hypothermia." You sniffle.

"Oh, we don't want that," Aaron attempts to joke, closely observing whether you'd react to it.

You didn't.

He closes the door behind him, following your figure as you practically drag yourself to your unofficial designated spot on the sofa.

"I know I'm the last person you'd want to hear this from, but would you like to talk about it?" He bites his inner cheek.

Nothing.

You only mold yourself into a ball.

Aaron hesitates whether to stay or leave you alone. It's true that you said he's welcome anytime, but you're definitely in no condition to entertain his own problems when you can't even look him in the eye the way you would, no matter how insufferable he is.

But he can't just leave you by yourself either. Nothing is stopping him, but he's not cold-blooded enough.

"It's not easy," Aaron fractures out of his trance at the sound of your small voice. You look at him with a tight-lipped smile. "This job, I mean."

You inhale a sharp breath, tucking your lower lip between your teeth. "I can be hopeful, positive, supportive… Everything to prove that a better life is possible, but at the end of the day, it's not my choice." You wryly chuckle. "It's the patient's. It's your decision to want to feel better. To want to change. To want to live—" You choke, and the tears flow once more.

"It's not about me, but I can't help feeling like a failure." Sobs spill off your lips, gasping for air. "I was supposed to make everything better. I was supposed to heal everyone and save everyone from whatever monster was hurting them. She said she's never felt so much better. She said it's the first time she felt so peaceful for years, Hotchner. She said she was looking forward to our next session. But she just… I didn't—" You gulp—struggling. "I didn't catch it. I didn't catch her lie. And hours later, I get a call from her mother telling me she— she died." Your hands shakily clasp your mouth to push the sobs back, but you fail.

Aaron doesn't know what to say.

But he knows what to feel.

He knows it well.

The guilt. The shame of never living up to your own promise. The pain of losing someone you swore to keep safe.

Then, it hits him like a wrecking ball.

How difficult of a patient was he before?

Has he ever made you cry before?

It's a stretch that you'd ever shed a tear over his stubbornness, but Aaron hopes you never did.

Because he's never seen anyone care so much despite getting all the hate. Despite taking all the blame. You stood your ground and became other people's foundation. You became their comfort.

You became the only thing that gave him serenity.

With the little time he's known you—a total of 43 genuine friendly hours—Aaron can testify in heaven that they had mistakenly dropped you into the earth. And he's never felt blessed to have someone like you. Never felt lucky enough to find someone with who he could feel broken as much as he could but never needed to save face.

So, he's heartbroken for you. And guilty that more than half of the time you'd known him, he made your passion a miserable experience.

And also guilty of developing feelings for you.

Saturday, August 13, 4:16 PM

"I'm not playing favorites, but your tech analyst definitely deserves better than being cooped up in the bureau's building." You say, plopping on the sofa with a soft bounce and a squeak from the coil spring.

Aaron hands you a glass of bourbon while sipping his own. Eyes fixated on the board on your coffee table. "I have no other choice. It's the only way to keep her safe. Unless you're willing to adopt her, I don't want to hear it." He chuckles, connecting his brows at the sight of your winning streak.

You two are playing Scrabble. It was Monopoly twenty minutes ago, but along the lines, you learned how butt-hurt a six-foot and two-inch man can get. Not an enlightening experience. It would have been two stars if you had to rate it.

So, you switched to Scrabble.

And Aaron is losing again.

Boy, were you so entertained.

He just came back from a fairly short case from Los Angeles. The case is not heavy or mentally draining—according to Aaron, but Jack's at a two-day sleepover, and Aaron has no idea how to spend the rest of his day—turning down Derek Morgan's and David Rossi's invitation to grab a drink at O'Keefe's with you in mind.

Aaron leans on the back of his seat. You don't know when your reclining armchair became his designated seat, but you noticed how lax he is in it and didn't question it further.

Months and months of relaxing stillness in your home—only ever full of bizarre surprises and irresistible joy whenever Aaron knocks at your door. With no means of communication or ever seeing each other at either workplace, Aaron's visits are welcomed but never fully anticipated. Thrilling.

Spelling the word 'loser' on the board with triple points, you bite the tissue inside your lower lip. "Maybe you can play Scrabble with her. Who knows, maybe you'll get lucky and win." You grin smugly at him.

Aaron gapes at you with a mixture of disbelief and merriment. He looks down on the flat entertainment, then back to you as he blinks. "You're cheating." He declares, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

A hearty laugh Aaron's never heard before roars out of you, and it's melodic to his ears. The meringue light spills through the forgotten open blinds of your window, painting your face with a dreamy filter. Aaron feels dizzy at the sight.

Your smile is contagious, and out of nowhere, his heart starts to pick up as if he'd caught whatever illness your radiant lips had by only staring at it. The loose hair over your forehead frames your face differently—different good. Like you'd been glowing, and the watts in your core mysteriously increased, so you're as bright as the sun and as warm as its light.

"You're just a sore loser. Suck it up, Hotchner." You shake with mirth, casually running dainty fingers along the curve of your ear.

"Aaron," He blurts too fast, too soon—too late to take back.

With a nonchalant shrug, you rephrase, "Suck. It. Up. Aaron." Much more emphasis and friskiness.

You tease him more about his lack of greatness in board games compared to his undeniable talent in every case the BAU encountered. But Aaron's already dazed by your lips calling his name.

Without either of you realizing it, 4 PM became AM.

Talk about abusing one's privileges. Aaron's moderately good at that. You conclude he's simply a strutting opportunist.

After the longest winning streak you've ever had in your life, you and Aaron decided to take a much-needed break and fell into silent reading—or, in your case, grooming your schedule for the next five months.

Midnight strikes along the grumble of Aaron's stomach. You two were too quiet. It echoed all over your apartment. Both of you fell into an obstreperous fit of laughter for another hour, stopping for a minute in between only to laugh some more as soon as you met each other's eyes.

Now, it's four in the morning. You're busy munching on Chinese takeout from a 24-hour restaurant Aaron called in. He claims he has handsome privilege courtesy of the owner, which you mockingly laughed at, to his dismay.

"I'm still terrified." He blurts.

The case must've been very difficult, then. He lied yesterday. However, at this point in your friendship, you expect him to do so, even if it's obvious.

You'd long given up on coaxing Aaron to talk about the case that brought him to your office. Or any other cases that got him knocking on your door at the most unreasonable hour. You thought that the best you could offer him was the comfort that no matter how beaten up he looked, you'd ask no questions and let him sort his boggled mind until he was ready to talk about it.

Looks like tonight's the moment. It only took more than a year, so it is not a big deal—to either of you, at least.

He looks at you when you remain quiet, silently asking for your permission. You nod, and he continues, "What Peter Lewis did to me was terrorizing. I always wonder whether I'm making the right decision or sending my agents straight to their deaths. I second guess. I'm scared that a part of him is still in my head, driving me to make a fatal mistake." Aaron starts playing with his food, poking an orange chicken with his chopsticks.

The memory brings a tangy taste to his tongue, and Aaron can't help but cringe. It's the first time he's ever talked about Peter Lewis. Granted, Aaron spoke about the event numerous times but never about how it made him feel. Never how it broke him.

Is it weird to say you're a little proud of Aaron?

Of course, you don't tell him that. Not out loud. You know he knows you're proud of him. And that's enough said.

With a few audible chews—caused by a carrot bit stuck between your teeth—that somehow doesn't piss Aaron off, you swallow the food and draw your lips into a thin line. You place the chopsticks on the side, wiping the rim of your mouth.

You know he's watching you. Anticipatingly waiting for a response for anything other than the silence he's accustomed to.

"Breathe," You gently instruct, clear enough for him to hear but not too loud for Aaron to jump in shock.

And he does.

His shoulder blades rise and fall into a soft rhythm. Aaron was holding his breath, and you knew. Of course, you knew.

"Do you know the purpose of defense mechanisms?" You quiz him, earning a nod from Aaron, and yet no following answer. "You were already mad at me even before we met. And for what? Nothing concrete, I'm sure."

Aaron was about to object, but you raised your hand to stop him, "I'm not trying to attack you. All I'm saying is that rather than being in denial, you displaced your frustration on someone else less threatening—me."

Silence.

"I'm sorry—"

"I'm not done, shush!" You close your fist to mute him, cutting him off.

Aaron subtly rolls his eyes. He started doing so on his fifth visit when Aaron brought Jack and a few video games.

He told you that Jack's heard about your interest in a couple of games and wanted to play with you, but you know damn well Aaron bought the game for himself. Nonetheless, you entertained them by teaming up with Jack and obliterating Aaron. He vowed never to play against you ever again, at least not to your face.

"I would never know the pain and suffering that you went through. And somehow, even with that fact, a part of your life was in the palm of my hand. You had no control, but I did. So, instead of understanding the why, you hated the wrong who. And it's okay."

You take a sip from your straw, and a bubbly sensation fills you. Your tongue glides over your lips as you lean against the counter. "In short, for a man who's been through a lot, you know how to cope." A shrug ends your sentence, grabbing another bite of chow mein on your plate.

"Yeah, right," Aaron scoffs. The sincerity in your voice sparks something in him. It's giddy and tempting. But he can't possibly show the smile that's itching to spread his lips.

But his nonchalance may have triggered something in you because Aaron doesn't expect your next move. His neck felt like a snapped glow stick after you manually turned his head to face you—grabbing him by the space between his neck and chin. Aaron widens his eyes in the process.

"Listen here, you stubborn poopy head." You start, forehead creasing.

Aaron badly wanted to poke fun at your poor, intimidating skills, but he realized you didn't need any pointers just by the glare in your eyes.

"Peter Lewis got to your head, but that doesn't mean you were weak to let him. Yes, you fought through the influence of the drug heroically. Yes, you saved your agents and, most importantly, yourself. But it's still okay to be scared. It's okay that you feel broken. Who says broken things aren't great?"

It might be the sleep deprivation that's hitting Aaron, but he's very much enjoying your little fuse. How your words meant nothing like how you sound.

"That silver watch of yours—" you glance at his wrist "—has been broken for years, but I bet if you pawn it, it'll be more valuable than me. Antiques are expensive because they have unique histories. They survived beaten up, scratched, damaged, but still as beautiful as ever."

You're rambling, explaining more than you need to. Felt obligated to drill in his mind that despite the bad things, Aaron remains good. You're uncertain—clueless—as to why you felt the need to prove his praiseworthy, almost as if you're trying to convince yourself rather than him.

"From my observation, you're a sharper profiler despite all the things you went through. A part of you suffered and died in that house and many houses before. Of course, you'll be broken. You're a human being, Aaron. Act like one for Pete's sake!"

"I don't know whether you're being nice or mean." He chuckles with a mischievous grin, marveling at the way your eyes narrow as you look at him.

"I liked you better when you didn't talk." You tut, rolling your eyes.

For a moment, your senses heighten, and the simple brush of his hand against the skin over your wrist, as he takes your hold off him, sends billions of electricity throughout your body.

Aaron smiles—genuinely. "Thank you," He says softly, clearing his throat. His hand is still tight around your wrist. "You simply could've slammed the door the first time I knocked, but you always let me in. I appreciate you tolerating me."

You laugh, retracting your hands off his skin before you melt in his grasp. "I did not let you in the first time. You barged in like I'm some fugitive." You fix your posture on the stool beneath you, looking away.

His chuckle wakes the butterflies in your stomach, and you shove them right back down by stuffing your mouth with food.

Your eyes catch a glimpse of the time, "Y-you better go home and change before your son wonders why his father smells like Chinese food for Sunday brunch. Jack's a big fan of good 'ole syrupy pancakes, there's a good one by the bureau's building. Better hurry up and pick him up." It's amazing how much you almost choked and stuttered as you spoke, hoping that Aaron wouldn't question the way your demeanor changed.

Aaron takes one last bite before towering next to you, "Let me clean up. It's the least I can do for imposing half of your weekend." He insists, swiping the styrofoam off your hands.

"Glad you got manners," You nod approvingly, earning another chuckle from him, making sure you gave him enough space to move around without brushing any part of your body, or you wouldn't know what the brewing feeling in your chest would make you do.

You mindlessly peer at Aaron's broad shoulders and dark hair that looks so soft you wonder if it'll melt with your touch. You blink, catching yourself mid-swoon.

After a few minutes, Aaron bids you goodbye and you wish him well, asking to relay a short message to Jack.

"I think you're only nice to me because of Jack," He jokes, pivoting on the heel of his shoes to get one last glimpse of you.

You give him a tight smile, raising your brows as you shrug.

One visit left.

Thursday, May 5, 12:51 PM

The news said Mr. Scratch escaped prison. Peter Lewis is out and about, no doubt, planning serious harm against Aaron. You turn the TV off. The image shrinks into a small diamond spark 'til it leaves a dark screen.

Ninety-eight beats per minute are your normal, but you surmise it's about a hundred and twelve at the moment as your mind anxiously ruminates your not-so-favorite-unofficial patient's well-being.

You glance at your phone, debating whether to give him a call, but even if you gain the guts to do so, you don't have his number. Who knew that refusing personal contacts would backfire? Aaron can knock anytime, you said. It doesn't matter whether he texts or calls before, you said.

Now, you have no means of contacting him, and you refuse to resort to his ways—going through his file like he went through yours.

It's a shitty feeling.

You keep your fingers as far away from your mouth as possible, afraid you'll bite your nails to its quick. If Aaron was with you, he'd say something annoyingly witty about how your anxiety's too easy to read, and you'd be bantering back a remark about his tells that not many notice but sure slightly pisses him off that you know him like the back of your hand.

Eyes dart in the direction of your entryway, waiting for any distinctive sound only Aaron makes whenever he closes the door like a teenager coming home past curfew.

"This is driving me crazy!" You ruffle your own hair, rubbing your face in frustration.

Tempted to wait outside your door for Aaron to arrive, in need of a company. A once-in-a-lifetime bone-crushing hug, given by yours truly. Or open up the 1997 Old Forester bourbon on top of your shelf that Aaron's been eyeing for a year.

You need to know if he's okay. You need to see that he's okay. Physically, mentally, and emotionally okay.

No one ever knocked.

Friday, November 18, 2:33 PM

"Aren't you curious?"

You look at Rossi, "About?" Your eyebrows pinch together. You backtrack the entire session in your mind, trying to remember if there is anything you are supposed to be curious about.

There's none.

Rossi turns to face you, a hand emerging out of his pocket. "You're not curious where he's been? I've known him for years, and I've never been more curious about his whereabouts 'til now." The hand waves around as each syllable flows, and slices the air every emphasis he makes like a conductor of his emotions.

He usually talks with his hand whenever he's emotionally troubled, attempting to make a point to himself, justifying that his feelings are reasonable.

David Rossi has been your patient for years; you can write any and everything about him into a best-selling book.

"You said it yourself, Dave," You shrugged with your arms. "You've known him for years. He and I saw each other a couple of times during our physician-patient interaction. Any interaction we had after is just the two of us drowning in silence."

Aaron never knocked that day.

He hasn't redeemed his last visit for the past five months. While it isn't the longest time he's never stopped by, you're bitter about it.

You couldn't sleep for a week after Peter Lewis escaped prison. You were afraid that Aaron's name would flash across any type of screen or mark a headline on every article and newspaper. You had to take anxiety medication to stop your body from trembling whenever the thought of him crossed your mind.

It was hell.

The utter hopelessness and lack of courage teared you apart. The strangeness. The nonexistence. You don't reckon a conversation with Aaron that involves you and him. Only you or him or whatever depressing topic comes up. You're not even sure if you had actual conversations. Always wallowing in silence while sipping either scotch or coffee.

But you two had a deal. No catch. Not even feelings. Developing one for Aaron did not cross your mind when you granted him the power to bother you at any running time.

All of it is to say you wish you had known Aaron's last visit was, in fact, the last.

Rossi squints, "You're telling me the quietness you shared didn't matter? That his company didn't benefit you the same way it did for him?" He stands tall, pleased with his words.

It did.

Of course, it did.

And you loved every second of it.

Even if you realize it too late.

But you won't say that to Rossi. Or to anyone ever.

A sigh drops your shoulders. You give him a blank stare, letting his question hover for a moment. "What do you want me to say?" You continue packing up your things on your desk, breaking eye contact.

If you knew David Rossi like the back of your hand, David Rossi knew you like every family of the victims he managed to save.

Worried.

Heartbroken.

Hurt.

Aaron never told Rossi about any interactions with you after he was released from your care. It's information Rossi's only ever heard a confirmation from you. But he knew it from the moment Aaron came to work after his first session with you and couldn't seem to get the specific idea of you out of his head.

"We're doing everything we can to catch Peter Lewis. Aaron will be back, I promise."

Pause.

You fight your every single sense to remain composed. Hearing Aaron's name instantly made you crumble. The sound of it hitting your chest with such force you had to bite the tissue behind your closed lip. You badly wanted—needed to cry and throw a tantrum.

The inner ends of your brows lift up as you nod, "Good for you... and for him. I'll see you in two weeks, Dave." You dismiss, walking around your desk to push him out of your office.

"Wait, wait! Just listen!" You retract your hands off his back and let him face you. "He's okay. He and Jack are safe somewhere I, unfortunately, don't know." He tries to meet your gaze—successful. "But! But that's a good thing. Not knowing where he is while in protective custody is good. Safe. I just thought you'd want to know."

You nod, "Certainly a good information, Dave. But not really necessary." Your tongue subtly swipes the bottom of your lips. "Aa—Agent Hotchner was a patient. Anything outside of that is not my business." Liar.

Rossi tucks his mouth into a thin line, nodding. "See you in two weeks, kid."

Tuesday, March 27, 6:12 PM

It's a nice Spring.

Your hair dances like the breeze is music as you trudge back to your apartment against the rush hour sidewalk traffic.

A year and a half.

You moved to a different place since then.

Moved on— from something that never existed, but really, your old complex just ran out of business.

You couldn't possibly move on, even if you wanted to.

"Good evening, Mrs. Willows," You smile at the old lady as she steps on the base of the stairs.

Mrs. Willows was old, close to ninety. And she's the best landlady you've ever met.

She smiles back, "Oh, just in time!" She waddles towards you, scraping the soles of her flats against the creaky floorboards.

"Did you need anything, Mrs—"

The old lady doesn't let you finish when she yanks you back up the stairs. Confusion fills you, but if you are being honest, you're more amazed by her speed. You didn't know it was possible for her to have that much energy.

"There's this handsome boy knocking at your door earlier. So, I let him in."

You dig your feet on one of the steps, halting her. "Mrs. Willows, you let a stranger in my house?" Your brows knit.

She looks at you, "Well, I figured it's one of your patients." She shrugs.

"I wasn't expecting any home visit today." You announce, peeking at the top of the stairs. "And I would've been home if there was…"

You excuse yourself, cautiously walking towards your door. The floor plan is different from your old apartment. But everything still felt the same.

The anxiety of a random stranger going through your place left you rushing to the living room. You don't exactly let any random patient inside your home. It's usually the profilers that seem to have a liking to you that lucked the privilege to visit your home at any given time.

"I'm sorry, but you're gonna have to set an appointment at the clinic—" you abruptly stop, blinking.

Aaron Hotchner.

He's sat on the armchair, only lifting his gaze after he'd closed the book you were reading before you decided to step out to run some errands.

He is wearing a navy blue quarter zip sweater and a white shirt, peeking from under. It's paired with loose-fitting gray casual pants. Like his closet had an upset stomach and threw up all over him.

The bags under his eyes are almost invisible. It used to be a tint of greenish purple. A proof of his late nights and stressful days. He's caught up with sleep for a while now.

His hair, a little longer than you're accustomed to, somehow made him look young and boyish. Probably why Mrs. Willows referred to him as a boy.

It's quite an image. Not one you'd expect to see upon opening your front door, but you mentally admit liking it.

He looks refreshing and well-rested.

"I heard you started your own practice?" He didn't mean to form it as a question, tongue-tied by nervousness. He flashes an awkward, subtle smile, dipping his hands into his pockets.

Your lashes flutter like butterflies gliding through the soft wind of Spring, except you're struggling to go against the breeze, winded by the city pollution.

"H-have you eaten?" You ask, snapping out of your trance as you head to the kitchen. Great. A question for a question. You're as nervous as he is, and you don't feel the need to hide it, though you aren't inclined to admit it.

He chuckles, and it still makes you melt after a year of trying to remember how it sounds, "That's your first question? Not 'What are you doing here?' or 'How did you find me?'" He follows you to the kitchen, it's a lot smaller than the one at your old place but you had a dinner table now, which still feels like an upgrade.

You turn and face him, leaning against the counter, "I'll just charge the entire team on their next visit. But I have a feeling David's the culprit." You blurt, earning raised brows from Aaron. "Oh? They didn't tell you? Your team unofficially designated me as their psychiatrist. I guess they also kept an important information from you." You twist on your feet to focus on the produce you carefully picked in hopes someone would join you for dinner.

But you didn't expect Aaron to be that person.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No!" You almost stumble as you spin back to face him. "I'm in no position to be mad. If a patient doesn't need my services, then I have no say." You lick the lower of your lip, biting it as soon as your tongue glides past. Heat pooling in the back of your eyes.

Aaron steps closer, "I didn't mean to—"

"I told you I'm not mad."

"You're really going to lie to an FBI profiler?"

"Former," You correct him, sniffing as you fight the tears from rolling down your cheeks. Your head's tilted up, almost facing the ceiling. Anger and frustration hammer into your chest.

He rolls his eyes, trying to catch yours. "Former, right." He parrots with a little more sarcasm. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you anything... I needed to make sure Jack's safe." He softly speaks, making sure you understand every syllable.

It's your turn to roll your eyes, blinking and letting a tear fall in the process. "You don't have to apologize for protecting your son. I'm not evil, Hotchner. I'll do the same thing for my family. I'm completely indifferent about your disappearance, and i-it's allergy season. I'm fine." You wipe the tear stain off your face.

"I missed hearing you say my name like it's a foul word." Aaron smiles so brightly you thought you were dead and some divine was just using his image to guide you across.

"Seriously? That's what you took from it?" You shake your head, turning your back to him once more. "I feel bad for Jack now that you're a full-time father."

Aaron laughs, and by definition. "Oh, he's had enough of me." His eyebrows jump on his forehead, drifting his eyes aside as if he's replaying every instance Jack's complained to him.

You laugh, too. A full hearty laugh that seems to source from the casualty between the two of you despite the irritation you felt.

It's still the same. The ease. The effortless flow and connection despite anxious nerves. It felt like talking to an old friend you've known longer than you are alive.

You nibble on your lips, "So? You're off protective custody, or do I have to call you Brad?" You quiz airily, back still facing him to hide any form of amusement that's forming on your facial features.

"Brad?" He scoffs, crossing his arms and knitting his brows. He sounds about offended as if you'd disrespected his entire bloodline.

"Yeah, you look like a Brad to me." You remember a story from the women in the BAU. One that they happily shared one evening at Rossi's before they all begged to be added to your list of patients once you start your private practice.

Aaron lets out another scoff. "No, I'm just Aaron. Aaron to everyone. Aaron to you." He grumbles something under his breath that you don't hear, but a clear indication of his disapproval regarding the name.

You stifle a giggle, "Well, just Aaron. Consider yourself lucky that I got a free slot. I would've been with a patient by now." You state.

"Am I really just a patient to you?" Aaron inquires from behind you. He attentively observes for any subtle movement or expression in your voice. There's a longing look in his eyes that you aren't aware of. A frown drops his lips as he adds, "I at least thought we were friends."

"Mm," You hum a chuckle, "More like my stalker. But sure, we'll go with yours... friends—"

He spins you by the waist, and you're not sure if your initial thought of dreaming is ending anytime soon as your body tenses under his hold.

A small yelp squeaks out of you, hands flying behind you on the counter as if to hold yourself up from your wobbly feet. And you're certain both of you can hear the loud pulse on your carotid.

"Hotchner, what the hell?!" You chastise, pulling back, but to no avail. Caged and pinned by his strength, and you're too baffled to react accordingly.

"I'd like to redeem my tenth visit." Aaron smiles from ear to ear. You never thought it possible for a stern-faced man to ever grin this wide. To ever be this bright and bubbly.

Aaron keeps the two of you that way for a few minutes. His face is a few inches from yours. You can hear him calculating in his head.

Only the busy street outside and one of your neighbor's loud TV fills the silence.

"Your pupils are dilated." Aaron grins mischievously. He further scans your face, the same way he did when he used to be your patient, reading you like it's his job to know every micro-movement and expression you make.

Your eyes widen, "Stop—" Your voice barely comes out, breath hitching halfway through your throat. "—profiling me." The space between you and his body feels suffocatingly good. It's making you dizzy.

"Usually, you're composed, but you can barely look me in the eyes." His hands remain on your hips, and every twitch of it makes you stiff like a statue. "Am I making you nervous?" He quips wittily.

Like a switch, your heart rate steadies, and his image becomes clear.

It's Aaron Hotchner.

Just Aaron, he said.

Warmth surges through your veins. You stare at the grin on his face.

Your head tilts, and you blink excruciatingly slow. "Are you trying to ask me out, Hotchner?" You mirror the trail of his eyes like a map.

Aaron beams like he'd won the lottery. Sending you impulsive thoughts such as kissing the smile off his face.

It's tempting and nauseating.

And if he doesn't stop, you just might.

"Ten."

Your eyebrows merge in confusion, "What?"

"Ten dates," He breathes as he looks you in the eye. "Let me take you out on ten dates. Then you can decide if I'm just one of your many stubborn patients or if I can be more. Let me make it up to you in ten dates. Please." He implores, hopeful, or rather knowing that you'd say yes.

And he'd be right.

All you want at that moment is to say yes.

But teasing him won't hurt, at least not you.

"And what's in it for me?" You try your best not to smile as you taunt him.

Aaron rolls his eyes, but his grin tugs the corner of his lips up. "You get unlimited access to me?"

"Wow, that's... very compelling." And you burst out laughing, folding on your stomach as you lean against his chest. You inhale, "Sorry, I expected better negotiation. Uh, any catch?" You say between chuckles.

He shakes his head, "Just one condition," He's chuckling now, too. Not immune from your contagious giggles. "I spend most of my days with you. Even if it's just sitting in silence. I want it to be with you." He lets go of one of your hips and tucks a strand behind your ear.

The giggles die down a bit, gazing at him with reverie. You nod after a few seconds, squeezing his arms. You lift yourself, tiptoeing, closing the gap.

You leave a quick, soft peck on his lips, smiling as you get back on your feet.

Aaron smiles, and you're as ecstatic as he is.

Another nod fills your chest with utter joy as you breathe in euphoria.

"Ten's a good number."

[blacknailsandheartbreak]

Part 2 to how the group cannot fathom how you and Zuko are so close with your angel of a self and Zuko being... well, Zuko

AN: OKAY! Look at me go, coming out with a part two. I think I might do a part two to some previous pieces of mine but we will see.

SO this is a part two, so you can read the first one here, it will give some context clues into this second part of the story (but can probably be read solo) : Part 1

Any who, ~2300 word count, enjoy :)

KIDDIE FREE ZONE

Good Friends

That's all you guys were. Good Friends. Zuko kept telling himself he had no reason to be so bothered by that statement, but he was. He didn't want to be just good friends, but you had given a better answer then he would have in your position. But now the Gaang has been flying for the past couple days and has given him lots of time for thinking. Especially having you for the majority of the time sitting with him leaning against his arm, grazing legs, as you were not shy to the general touch. You always seemed to start up the conversations with him, your way of speech held him in interest, but as already known, he never said much back, but always was happy to listen.

But ever since that last night of camp a few days ago he cannot let the thought go. Good Friends. He knew that the talks you two have, the moments you both cherish, and the secrets you two shared was enough of a connection to be more than just good friends, or at least in his mind it was. You two were absolutely glued to the hip, and seemed to be together, just without the title. Zuko was fine with no title, he would rather the group didn't know but for you two to have that clarity is what he was craving. He knew there were other things that were more important at the moment but it couldn't calm down in his mind. He had to know, he wanted to be together. Even if that became another secret you both shared he would gladly add it to the pile.

As the afternoon began to fall fast on the fourth day of travel, the Gaang was running low on rations and decided to hit the next market in the upcoming town. Upon arrival, Aang and Sokka grabbed Zuko to tackle their list as Katara and Toph grabbed you to get the remaining items. Zuko was hoping to buddy up with you but it would have to wait. As the group divided and conquered, Sokka was getting very nosy with Zuko about a certain someone. Zuko ignored all of his questions or what felt like more accusations. Meanwhile the girls had finished with their tasks and Toph had somehow gotten into a gambling match with the remaining money they had and won every time. You stood back leaning against a nearby wall smiling, not wanting anything to do with the situation but you weren't going to interfere either. You feel a brush against your shoulder and look up to see Zuko, you smile and greet Aang and Sokka. You ask how their huntings went and they all agreed it had gone well. Zuko looked at you and asked if Toph and Katara were seriously gambling the little money they had left. You laughed and were about to answer but before you could Toph came over with a large bag and tossed it at Zuko. He caught it effortlessly, and it jingled heavily. All of the boys eyes widened, and Toph said "We will be sleeping well tonight thanks to yours truly."

The Gaang walked around the town as the night grew darker and the many street lamps glowed near and far, Zuko's mind still buzzing with the taunting thought of good friends. Maybe he was over thinking it and there was already an unspoken agreement you two were together? Or was he being weird and obsessive? Or maybe you had a completely different view on all of it? Or maybe-

His thoughts were cut off by you linking your arm through his and pointing out the beautiful lights, from the shops, to concessions, to the fountains, to the groups of lively people. He looked down at you and for the first time, he wasn't really listening to you. He just looked at you, looked at your smile as if you knew this moment was made just for you. He would forever be in awe at how effortlessly you spoke as if you had already rehearsed it one hundred times. He feels your genuine happiness and spirit in your eyes as you look up at him and he wonders how you hold such grace through everything. All his thoughts left his mind as he looked at you and thought, yeah, that is my girl.

Once the Gaang decided to call it a night, you all looked for an Inn to stay at for the night. There was not much of an option in the small town, so you all entered the closest place and the lady at the front desk greeted you all with a warm smile. Aang went to talk with the lady and brought back a handful of keys. Everyone was confused as he handed everyone their own key and explained that they only had single rooms left for the night. Nobody really complained as everyone seemed they could use some time to themselves. Everyone shuffled into their rooms with quick goodnights, but before Zuko walked through his door, he looked over his shoulder at your direction, and there you were. Walking into your room and almost as if you felt his eyes you looked over your shoulder and stopped for a moment, you smiled at Zuko and gave a small wave of goodnight before stepping into your room and closing the door. Zuko's eyes stayed on your room for a moment longer, before a small tap on his shoulder made him spin around. It was Katara. Zuko was lost for words. Katara smiled and whispered "I won't tell, not that is isn't already so obvious, but you should really talk to her." Before Zuko could respond to her she waved goodnight and walked into her room. He stood in the hallway like a man who was shot and was too afraid to move. He looked back at your door, he felt the longing in every part of his being to just go and knock on your door and say everything he has been thinking just like you do. How you so effortlessly say exactly what you're thinking, that is what he wanted to do. He wanted to tell you what it meant to him to have someone like you become so close to someone like him. He wanted to tell you that the secrets you both shared with each other meant the world to him and he would take them to his very grave if you wished so. He wanted to tell you that every time you smiled it felt like it was for him and him only. But he didn't. He walked back into his room and shut the door.

Zuko got ready for bed and laid down for a few minutes, he tossed and turned and his chest felt so heavy. He let out a sigh as he laid on his back and placed a hand on his chest with the other one behind his head. He stared up at the ceiling. Zuko let out a small grunt of frustration when he got up, deciding to go get some water. He grabbed the bucket from the small table in the room and walked towards the door. Zuko grabbed the bridge of his nose in exasperation and pulled his hand down his face, he went and opened the door and to his complete shock, there you stood. You looked almost as surprised as he did. You both stood in silence for a moment, and for the first time, Zuko spoke first. He asked if you were alright, because the last thing he expected was for you to be standing at his door in the middle of the night. You replied softly, saying you were ok, just had a lot on your mind. You noticed Zuko holding the bucket for water and offered to go with him to fetch some, he agreed. This time you both walked in silence to retrieve the water and walked in silence back to the rooms. You both came to stand outside Zuko's room and he asked if you were sure you were ok, and you replied that you were, probably just over tired. Zuko looked at you and asked you if you wanted to come into his room. You smiled softly and insisted you didn't want to intrude. He didn't respond and just motioned you inside, you accepted and walked in, Zuko shut the door behind you.

Zuko grabbed the ladle and poured you some water while you sat on the bed, he handed you the cup. You smiled and thanked him as you grabbed the cup and took a sip. Zuko sits next to you and rests his elbows on his thighs and looks down between his knees to the floor, he's not sure how he wants to go about tonight. He has no idea where to start, no idea how to talk or truly express his thoughts. He worries about sounding like a bumbling fool compared to your angelic soft spoken way of words. But before he could think further, the bed shifted and you were now directly beside Zuko with your head leaning on his shoulder. He looked up and he knew he wanted this, he wanted to be the one to call you his. He wanted to be by your side every step of the way and watch you regain the pride of being a fire bender. He wanted to have you by his side helping him with the path of change after the comet, and he didn't want to do it as good friends, he wanted to do it together. Zuko took in a deep breath, and asked "Do you really think we are just good friends?" and without a breath missed you replied "I knew your ears were on fire that night." you sat up with that comment, Zuko smirked and chuckled, you two were very close now, mere inches from each other's faces. "But no..." you replied, "I don't think we are just good friends, do you?" Zuko looked into your eyes, they seemed to shimmer the most beautiful shade of amber even with the liminal lighting in the room. "I don't think so either." He replied. Zuko saw your eyes dart to his lips and back to his eyes but the second your gaze connected back with his, he was already pulling you into a kiss. He put his hand just under your ear, along your jaw, pulling you in gently, as if giving you an option to back out. But you didn't, you leaned in and placed your hand on his arm and you kissed deep. Zuko lavished in this moment and if there was any way he could pull you in even closer he would. You pulled away first and looked at Zuko, he looked at you with so many emotions, "We are together." he stated. You smiled so wide and nodded, for the first time you were speechless and practically tackled Zuko to the bed, kissing him so deeply while he gladly reciprocated with the same action. You were straddling Zuko as he effortlessly flipped you over on the bed so he was now on top, you placed both your hands on his jaw and leaned up to give him a small kiss and then laid back down. "Would you stay with me tonight?" Zuko asked, you smiled, "Of course I will, I thought you'd never ask." Zuko rolls his eyes and leans down for a kiss but you halt his actions by asking, "What about the others, they will see me leaving your-" Zuko cuts you off with a soft kiss and after responds "I don't care, they can make their own assumptions." You smile so happily and nod your head, "But, they are going to ask questions-" you started but again Zuko cut you off before you can overthink, "So answer them however you want to, however you feel is right." He leans down and kisses you so romantically, and moves to your cheek, and down to your jaw, and making his way to your neck, you let out the smallest gasp. You could feel tingles all throughout your body, from your fingertips to your toes. This was the moment you were both waiting for, Zuko knew this is what he wanted, he wanted you now, tomorrow, the day after that, the months that follow and the years to come. You were his as much he was yours. He gave himself to you that night as you gave yourself to him. Both vulnerable to one another, savouring each movement, each touch, every breath you both shared. The night was exactly what you both wanted, it was what you both needed.

The next morning Zuko woke up with you laying on his chest and his arms wrapped around you. Both of you spent the morning getting ready and just smiling at each other, no lingering feeling or questions of what ifs. You could both just be together.

It was time to check out and continue the journey, so you both gathered all your belongings and walked to the door. You both stopped and you looked at Zuko, "They are going to ask." you stated, and Zuko looked right back at you, "Then answer." he replied. He opened the door and the Gaang was waiting in the hall. Katara was the first to see you both exit and she tried to hide her smile with a polite hand, the others turned to look and were caught a blank. Zuko shut the door with you standing by his side. You greeted everyone and you both walked towards the group, "What are you all staring at, let's head out." Zuko said so nonchalantly, everyone stood in silence for a second longer and proceeded on like nothing happened.

[cherrymakun]

yippie!!!

anyway I would love to just give sanji affection :3 maybe like he's feeling a bit touch starved and reader just goes over to him to kiss and hug him

(you can add other characters if you wanna!)

I'm already kicking my feet and giggling

-🪷

I loved your idea!! I hope it was what you're waiting for, even if it got a little longer than I expected lol. Writing for Sanji is so fun. I hope you enjoy~~ <3 <3

Touch starved Sanji 

☆ Characters: Sanji

☆ GN!Reader

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊₊‧

Sanji always have been such a needy starved boy when it comes to you.

The man is always trying to get your attention in any way he could. He absolutely loves spending his time with you, more than with anyone else. You can’t remember how it started, but you notice that even for trivial everyday occasions, like doing the dishes or sharing a cup of tea, Sanji always finds his way to you.

But he has as a rule to never touch you first. He doesn't want to make you uncomfortable.

But you, oblivious of this, and with all his affection directed to you, you have no choice but to delightfully accept your destiny.

By now, anyone with eyes could see that you two get along a little too well. You love spending time with the blond boy, just as much as he seems to do with you. Although you cannot exactly pinpoint when it started, it seems to be going just fine. For every small act of affection you offer him, tons of his love awaits back to you.

With time, you got used to it. Even if you've never noticed this norm of him, everything was just fine by you. For you, everything is as normal as the sun.

But today, something feels.. off. 

It was early morning when you first noticed your favorite boy was acting weird. Typically you eat breakfast alone, since Sanji is too busy preparing the food for the ones who haven't woken up yet. But this morning when you arrived he had already finished everything earlier, just waiting for you to come.

Once you take a seat, Sanji takes no time to sit next to you. When asked why, he just said he wants more time with you than usual, while taking a place almost clued to you. You wouldn't complain, of course, but he never has done something like this before. 

As the day went on, you noticed that Sanji was getting closer and closer to you, to the point of your hair smelling like smoke due to his cigarette. Even so, he is still not touching you. Sometimes, you could swear he wanted to say or do something to you, but he never finished the action. It 's getting weird.

When evening came, Sanji had spent the entire day with you. 

“Sanji,” you’re at the aquarium room with the blond boy, who is sitting next -but not too much- to you “Is everything ok?”

“Of course it was, my love. Why wouldn't it be?” There’s nothing strange in his voice, but still...

“I dunno, you’ve acting weird today. You stayed by my side every minute. More than usual, I mean”

A mischievous smile took place on his face.

“ I just wanna be with you, mon amour. There is no better company I could reach for.”

You looked down and realized he had placed his hand millimeters away from yours, to the point where your fingers were almost touching… Almost.

No touching, you realize.

You finally got it.

“Sanji,” His attention is all yours now “Why you never touch me?” 

He got so disconcerted he dropped his cigarette on the floor.

“P-pardon?” 

“ Not in that way!” Your cheeks get red “What I'm saying is.. You're always saying the sweetest things to me, and always doing things you know I appreciate. It's almost like you enjoy making me blush” You got a little embarrassed “But you never dare touch me, never. Even when it seems you want to… Why?”

You messed with the young boy's head. 

He felt his heart skip a beat and his hands began to shake. You're supposed to never realize that. His plan was to leave things as they were, so he would never deal with how he really felt around you. So he could never be rejected by you.

Sanji had to gather all the courage in his being to say:

“We don't touch the masterpieces, mon cher. Even if we want more than anything.”

The French accent took over your ears like music, and messed with your soul like a dance. You can’t take this anymore.

This time you were the one who approached him. You cupped his face with your hand while lovingly caressing his cheeks.You look at him with tenderness, as you can feel the boy melting on your touch.

“I’m touching one right now” 

“Mon amour…” He gently took your hand and brought it towards his mouth, leaving a small kiss. He looked at you with eyes filled with a fever you’d never seen before. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Anything”

“May you let me… hug you?”

It would be a sin to deny this.

Sanji embraces you like a starved man, so tight you can barely breath. He puts your head on his shoulder, and you feel his warmth emanating. Suddenly, the outside world seems to disappear. All that comes to your mind is how needy of you the blonde was, and how much time he must hide it.

“I've dreamt to do this for an eternity” Sanji whispered in your ear. “I can't let you go, I don't want to”

“But is your turn now” You gently pulled away from him, which made Sanji miss the closeness instantly “Come here, let me repay the love you’ve gimme me”

You didn’t have to ask twice. Sanji fell into your arms like it was his place on earth. You spread kisses on the top of his head, while laying it on your lap. When lying down, you gently stroke Sanji's hair, like you’re playing with it. The pretty boy seems like he's enjoying every second of this.

“If I died now I would die as a happy man” 

You laughed a little at his sentence.

“Next time just ask me, silly. I would never say no to you”

You could feel Sanji writhe with happiness on your lap. A smile 

Secretly, you couldn't wait for him to ask again. A little smile show up on your face. Secretly, you couldn't wait for him to ask again.

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊₊‧

hehehe such a needy boy remembering that requests are still open! 💜💙🩵