#slab alignment | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ssa-dado · 1 month ago

Text

PR (Penne Rigate)

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: Some weird hurt-to-comfort??? (Fluffy at times.) Bro (GN). idk. Summary: Sometimes you spiral so hard you start hallucinating David Rossi - Dave, sorry - groping your boyfriend’s tit the first time you meet his coworkers. Silver lining? Aaron’s forearms are flour-dusted and flexing over pasta dough. Warnings: age gap dynamics, jealousy (#Hossi), suggested sexting, anxiety & hypervigilance, reader masking pain with horniness (and nazi-feminism) so hard she hallucinates a Rossi-Hotch situationship, twice-reminded dead dad, and Aaron not exactly winning Boyfriend of the Year. Reader is not a reliable narrator!!! Word Count: 5.9k Dado's Corner: It was supposed to be the usual fluffy-horny combo… but it spiraled into something... experimental. These issues don’t exactly get resolved, they just get loosely patched up, temporarily. You’re allowed to feel confused. The confusion is part of the aesthetic (or so I keep telling myself)

masterlist

There’s this unspoken rule that you’re supposed to nod along and agree if a customer tips you enough. Now, you’re not entirely sure how to behave when said customer regularly gives you way more than just the tip.

(Oh, for fuck’s sake. That was horrible. You’re officially absorbing his complete inability to make a joke that’s even remotely funny. It’s contagious. Like a virus. Or lov-)

“Why don’t you come meet the team?” Aaron blurts out - mid-coffee handoff, no warning - as if that’s a casual thing people say lightheartedly.

You blink. And then you blink again.

Because he’s looking up at you, bastard, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. Tilting his chin just so, raising his eyebrows the tiniest bit so the light catches on his stupidly delicate bottom lashes like a goddamn siren song for your libido.

He’s weaponizing his face.

A full-blown visual seduction attempt under the guise of ordinary eye contact, and you’re meant to say no? You’re meant to resist that? Put that face away, Aaron.

“...What?”

“Dave’s hosting a dinner tonight.” Ah. Dave.

You shouldn’t be jealous of a man at least ten years older than him who is possibly the only person Aaron could realistically call a friend. But you are. (Aaron being on nickname terms with someone? When he still calls you by your full name half the time? No. Illegal. Shut it down.)

But you know better by now.

You’ve learned to stop wasting time on the obvious - like surface-level red flags disguised as male ””friendship”” - and start paying attention to the quiet little tells.

Because when Aaron wants something but can’t bring himself to ask - when the feelings start piling up under that buttoned-down emotional straightjacket - he gets… clingy.

Case in point: he takes the hand you’ve got resting on your hip and brings it to his lips. Slowly. Still looking up. Still keeping eye contact. (Thankfully, the Disney Princess didn’t flutter his lashes… small mercies.)

He kisses your knuckles and doesn’t let go - just laces his fingers through yours, thumb stroking the side of your index finger with that soft, absentminded tenderness that would be sweet if it weren’t for the fact that those same fingers were knuckle-deep inside you less than an hour ago.

It’s definitely a trap.

“We’re supposed to have a date tonight,” you remind him. Wine, dine, and get fucked on a mattress that isn’t his orthopedic concrete slab disguised as a bed.

Your roommate’s finally out, the stars are aligned, the gods are merciful, and this man wants to-

“We could have a date at Dave’s place,” he says, like that is romantic. Like Rossi’s Tuscan fuck-palace of mahogany and trauma is somehow a better plan.

He tries to sell it with another knuckle kiss. (Sneaky bastard.)

“Aaron. Honey. We’re not fucking in the car agai-”

“Shhh... honey, we’re in-”

“Last time your hips made that weird noise…” (Like something popped. You thought he dislocated something. You were halfway to calling 911 before he groaned again. Horrifying.)

“-public.” An overly erotic sigh follows to strengthen his case “And you’re working,”

Oh. Right. Thank you so much for the reminder, Aaron. If it weren’t for his sanctimonious little warning, you might’ve forgotten you’re currently in a slutty apron and have a cheesecake in the oven that needs pulling out in - what, 16?

No, 15… 14 minutes. Great.

So considerate of him to be scandalized by the idea of being overheard in public, when he’s blissfully unaware (you don’t have the heart to tell him. He’s delicate.) that your friends already know his inseam. And his full birth chart. And the precise length and circumference of his-

Oh… speaking of which-

“If you’re so scandalized people might hear,” you murmur, saccharine-sweet, leaning in just enough to melt a few IQ points off him (man’s too smart sometimes), “you could always come to the back with me. I could show you the pastry lab... there’s a fresh batch of cookies that desperately need your very professional, very, very, very thorough feedback.”

(Hands-on feedback. Mouth-on too.)

He chuckles, “You’re not fooling me twice.” Fair. It's already a small miracle he believed the croissants were real the first time and not just- well. A metaphor. “I’m serious. Come with me tonight.” (You plan to. Multiple times. Preferably on a mattress, not the gearshift of his billshit car.) “I know it’s scary,” he adds, all earnest and soft. “But I’ll be there. And you’re a much more likeable person than I am anyway.”

He’s still stroking your thumb.

It’s unsettling.

He’s just so sweet. So natural with it. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s touching you like that. Like a lover. Like someone who’s held you through things and made you breakfast and maybe even deserves to be held back.

It makes you want to stroke something else in return.

Just to be even. (Obviously.)

“I think they’d like me more if I were the reason you actually gave them a weekend off, you know?” Honestly, it’d be a win for everyone. You’d get your sleepy, clingy morning sex. The team would get to touch grass.

It’s not even the first time you’ve tried to convince him to sleep in. You’ve tried multiple angles. Some of them very persuasive.

And yet… no.

Fuck him and his iron will.

“I’ll think about it…” He brings his coffee to his lips to hide the smirk, but it’s no use. He’s giddy. Blows gently across the surface, all while holding eye contact. (Unnecessary.) “What do I get in return?” he asks, all faux-coy, like he isn’t already picturing it.

Oh. That’s how we’re playing.

You don’t even hesitate. “A sloppy wet blowie card redeemable anytime you wa-”

He chokes. Immediately. Coughs. Splutters. Spills half the coffee across the table, his lap, the floor you just cleaned. A full dramatic scene. Everyone turns to stare.

So much for being subtle.

You would laugh at him but instead, you’re crouched over a fresh coffee spill with a mop in hand for the second time today, while your deeply apologetic, painfully handsome boyfriend (being 46 and still calling him “boyfriend” feels like a crime punishable by jail time) paces in the background as if he’s just committed a felony.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting - sorry - are you okay? I mean, I know you’re okay, but – sorry - are you sure you’re okay?

“It’s okay.”

“-I didn’t mean to-”

“I know.””

If he weren’t hot and genuinely pathetic about it, it’d be annoying. Like that cursed 30-minute Christmas playlist they loop during December shifts, the one that somehow drops to 0.5x speed the second you're six hours deep, dead-eyed, and one sleigh bell away from crying into the espresso machine.

“I’ll clean it-” he begs.

“You won’t.”

He reaches for a stack of tissues, trying to be helpful - which only pisses you off more, because he can’t not be helpful.

It’s pathological. It’s baked into his DNA. Helpfulness as a compulsion. He’s incapable of simply letting a mess exist without trying to fix it, even if he is the one who caused it.

You need to shut him up or you won’t survive the rest of this shift. “What do I have to wear tonight?”

He perks up instantly. “So you are coming to Dave’s?” Eyes wide. Hopeful. An overgrown bipedal golden retriever who just heard the leash jingle and realized it’s walk o’clock.

You barely get the “yes” out before he’s already yanking out his teeny-tiny iPhone and furiously typing with his index finger something that probably reads:

“hi dave <3 my unconventionally young girlfriend just agreed to come tonight <3 she is the first person I’ve dated or touched since my ex-wife (mother of my child, deceased, rip forever) <333333 she still has a roommate and sometimes thinks she’s a rebound or a novelty item so she overcompensates by being hypersexual (50% is just genuine devotion tho don’t worry) <3 can’t wait for you to meet her!!! she doesn’t speak in full legalese like I do but she’s trying her best <333”

No… actually, more like:

“Good morning, Dave. Confirming that both my girlfriend and I will be attending dinner tonight at [insert overly precise timestamp] p.m. I’m looking forward to everyone meeting her. Let me know if there’s anything you need me to bring. Best, A.H.”

…Which, yes, is overly composed, pompously formal, and emotionally sterile. And yet he’d reread it three times. Hesitate over the word “girlfriend,” maybe delete it, maybe add “my” in front of it. Add a period. Delete the period. Add it again.

Because what he’d really be saying is:

“I’m bringing someone who matters more than I know how to put into words. Please don’t scare her. Please don’t embarrass me. Please, for the love of God, don’t make her feel like this was a mistake.”

You watch, dissecting every micro-expression, every digital breath, awaiting the subtle ping-

And then he finally looks up from his phone and says:

“The weather app says it’s going to be a bit windy… but we’re staying inside, so we’ll be fine. Just make sure you bring a jacket for outside.”

Oh. Okay. So he wasn’t texting DaVe. He was just… checking the weather. Never mind.

“You’re, like, actually 1000% sure I don’t need to wear anything fancy? Like… dress code-wise? You pinky swear?”

“Wear what you’re comfortable in. You’ll look beautiful no matter what.” (Ugh. Gentleman nonsense. Regency-era I-shall-fetch-your-glove-m’lady bullshit.) “There’s a cooking competition at Dave’s, by the way, so… wear something you can move in...”

(And when, exactly, was he planning to share this extremely vital piece of information? Was he just going to let you show up blind - no context, no warning - and then judge your outfit?!?!)

“…Preferably not too many buttons.”

“What?”

“There’s usually wine. And I doubt I’ll have the patience to unbutton all that if I’m tipsy.”

(Did he just-)

(Is that dirty talk? In public?!)

Small step for Aaron Hotchner. Giant leap for mankind.

“OOOOH, I like you,” you laugh, swatting his arm. Filthy, filthy man. You’re keeping him. (You were keeping him anyway. This just signed the lease and laminated the contract.)

“Well,” he deadpans, “that’s a relief.”

His humor. He seriously needs to stop or you’re going to uno reverse him straight into cardiac arrest just so he knows what it feels like to be the one left gasping.

And he is – somehow - worse than expected when you open the door at Mr. “Pick you up at 7:20” but actually shows up at 7:00 o’clock sharp.

Big, dumb googly eyes. “You’re… you’re perfect.” (Perfect??? Okay, bro. Be serious.) He says it a little breathlessly, too.

Which - alright. This is coming from a man who’s seen you in pajamas and week-old (okay, not week-old) mascara smudged down to your collarbones and still had the audacity to call you beautiful.

But this time? This time he stutters. Just a little. Which means - yes. You’ve done one hell of a job.

Although… he’s… he’s…

“You’re not so bad yourself, Hotchner…” you’re trying - really trying - not to engage with the obscene display that is his forearm vein, pulsing under the rolled cuff of a shirt that’s…

Well, textured.

You don’t know what fabric it is, but it looks expensive (though, to be fair, you've yet to catch him wearing anything that isn’t). It’s not his usual no-nonsense blend - it’s something... different.

Almost illicitly nice.

By his standards, borderline scandalous. Sensual. Not quite silk, but it’s definitely texting silk at 2 a.m. Smooth, a little structured, a little (very) transparent.

His version of lingerie, probably. And it’s working.

Especially because he’s holding a slim paper bag - wine, presumably - gripping it just tight enough to make the tendons in his hand flex, veins popping like they’re sending you a personal invitation you absolutely cannot leave on read.

Not when they’re practically pulsing your name in Morse code - perfectly normal heart rate for a man his age, maybe a little faster than usual but nothing to worry about.

(You want to eat him.)

(And you want to eat him even more because he’s still blushing at your compliment.)

(Still ducking his head toward the damn doormat - the same one he always stares at every time you say something nice on the threshold like it's suddenly going to save him.)

(Still pretending he isn’t doing any of this on purpose.)

(He is. He’s a slut. And you’ve broken the encryption.)

You’re dangerously close to asking him to cancel dinner altogether so you can crawl into his lap and trace those veins and flushed cheeks with your mouth.

But - no. You’ve come this far. You’re wearing your good shoes.

“Is that for me?” you ask, nodding toward the incriminating wine bag he’s holding.

You already know the answer. You’ve seen the label peeking out - the same wine he asked you about months ago when he still needed excuses to talk to you. The one you recommended. The one you both got tipsy on that night you-

God. So romantic. Remembering something so small just so the two of you could reminisce together…

“That’s for Dave,” he says. (Awesome. Love that. Feeling super special right now.) “But this-” he leans in, suddenly, and you can already tell he’s doing mental calculus on what to do with his free hand.

Aaron’s a face-grabber kind of kisser. You know this. You love that he’s a face-grabber kind of kisser.

There’s nothing (and this is unfortunately not hyperbole) you crave more than having your face completely eclipsed by those huge hands.

To feel his hot palms cradle your jaw, his thumbs press into your cheekbones while the scent of that wrist cologne (that he definitely sprays on purpose) clogs your lungs and your will to stand upright.

But not this time.

His hand falters mid-air. Hesitates. Probably because his internal probability matrix is running a risk assessment on smudging your makeup.

He can’t tell if you’re actually wearing any - unsure whether the godlike glow you’re currently emitting is foundation, highlighter, or just you being hot and terrifying by nature - so he aborts the face mission.

Redirects, sliding around your waist instead. And when he pulls you in, at least you can get drunk on the sprays of his cologne clinging to his clavicles.

“This,” he says, right before his lips find yours, “is for you.”

The old this-then-kiss technique. Vintage (prehistoric.) Sooooo corny. But somehow it’s adorable when he does it - because he says it with that barely-there smug little smile, like he thinks he just pulled off the smoothest move in cinematic history.

He thinks he’s being so cool.

Bless his delusion.

You need to bless something in this man or you’ll feel guilty for cursing the fact that if Aaron hadn’t been raised with the emotional bandwidth of a teaspoon - thanks to Mommy Dearest and a father who’s, oh right, dead (you keep forgetting; trauma’s the subscription box that just keeps on delivering)-

Then this “meet the parents” moment would’ve involved a couple of awkward silences, maybe a tense pause after his mom casually mentions that your uterus technically belongs to the U.S. government.

Instead, you’re standing in what can only be described as a psychological war room disguised as a kitchen.

The kind of kitchen that’s the exact size of your entire apartment, if your apartment had mood lighting, marble counters, and a temperature-controlled wine fridge that probably costs more than your entire year of rent.

And in it:

A battalion (six) of government-employed behavioral analysts, each gripping the correct wine glass for the correct varietal.

And - one guy. (JJ’s… husband? No ring. Fiancé? No. Boyfriend? Oh, fuck this. Babydaddy. That’s what he is. The babydaddy of their son.) What is he, a detective? Fed-lite? Badge-adjacent? Whatever.

Basically, you’re surrounded by cops.

You've betrayed every principle you hold dear because some old man with courtroom diction and bottom lashes that could sweep the floor said your name once like it hurt him to feel something.

And now he’s gone.

Aaron steps away just to hang your jacket like the soft-handed gentleman he occasionally remembers to be - and Dave, yes that Dave, the one currently looming behind a granite island the size of a mid-range yacht, immediately peels off to follow.

They start murmuring to each other in that cryptic, chesty man-code hum and somehow, despite the noise, your hyper-attuned ears still manage to isolate it:

Aaron’s laugh.

Light. Private. The one he saves for people who’ve known him long enough to earn it.

Physics insists there’s more space without Aaron taking up your peripheral vision and stealing half your air. Your lungs disagree.

You’re standing alone, still mentally half-hovering in the doorway like someone’s plus-one who wasn’t technically invited, every sense on high alert, spine locked, tracking everything at once just to stay one step ahead of the judgment you’re absolutely sure is coming.

The sound of his footsteps on the flooring slowly getting closer. The rhythm of his voice.

Who’s looking at you, how long, what it means.

Whether someone’s already profiling you. (They definitely are.)

You don’t feel unwelcome, exactly. You just feel… scanned.

And then comes Emily Prentiss.

(You recognize her from the Facebook deep-dive you did two hours before Aaron picked you up. 41. Speaks a gazillion of languages. Has a cat named Sergio. [Regrettably did not bring Sergio to dinner.])

Emily: the agent who - until very recently - everyone thought was dead.

Everyone except Aaron and JJ.

(Mother to one boy named Henry - you think he’s a few years younger than Jack? - and chronic reblogger of that one women’s soccer team whose name always escapes you but she clearly has beef with their coach.)

Anyway. Back to Emily.

Messy story.

Something-something faked death, interagency yada-yada, undercover stuff and maybe betrayal?

Aaron never told you the full thing. (Probably because he knows damn well you’d immediately stop siding with him the second you found out how shockingly bad he is at communicating literally anything important.)

Emily looks at you. “You’re-”

His what?

His young?

Too young?

His young little sister? (Half-sister, technically. His dad’s dead. Right. That’s the second time you’ve forgotten. In a row. What kind of girlfriend does that-)

His daughter?

His granddaughter?

“-real.”

Oh. “Yes. Yes, I’m real… I guess so???”

So he’s considered a loser at work too. Interesting. That’s definitely not what he told you.

“Mama, if y’all girls weren’t so hungover you would’ve seen her at the triathlon too…”

That’s Derek. (Age: not specified, hometown: Chicago, emotional support dog Clooney: deceased, tragically. Retired service dog. Heart of gold. 10/10)

He pats Emily on the shoulder mid-sentence, barely getting the words “Hi, I’m-” out before he’s completely steamrolled by JJ and your soon-to-be favorite oversharer: Penelope Garcia.

(Penelope - recently single [sad for her, unfortunately sad for you], extremely online, chronically committed to rhinestone accessories - has posted enough Facebook statuses in the past three weeks to warrant a digital intervention.)

(If you weren’t technically tied to her unit chief, you’d absolutely hit on her. But let’s be real. She’s way out of your league. Like... celestial tier.)

(Not that Aaron isn’t too… but he’s - he’s a loser. That’s what he is. A hot, competent loser. Your loser.)

(Your hormone cycle would like to formally request that you marry him. But that’s just hormones. Obviously. You don’t really think that. Marriage is a scam.)

Behind them stand two more additions to your ever-expanding social anxiety spiral: Will - Will! You finally remember his name! (The detective. The stay-at-home wife. The babydaddy!)

And Dr. Spencer Reid.

(No Facebook. No digital footprint. You only know him through Aaron’s scattered mentions, mostly about how he keeps forgetting his hotel room keycards. Multiple times. Like, compulsively. He’s probably only a few years older than you. Which – honestly - is the closest thing to comfort you’ve gotten all night.)

From a distance, they don’t seem too terrifying.

Not at first glance.

Not until Dave steps back into the room.

And not to be territorial, but-

You clock the way his arm is slung a little too familiarly around your sad-looking man’s shoulders.

“This man wouldn’t have asked you out if it weren’t for me,” Dave declares.

First words out of his mouth and he’s already claiming credit like he coached the whole thing.

Aaron grimaces. “Dave-”

Doesn’t matter. He’s unstoppable.

Dave gives Aaron’s shoulder a condescending little pat - dominance disguised as affection - and flashes the room (…a smile. He flashes the room – a smile.)

“Now that we’re all finally here…”

He side-eyes Aaron. Passive-aggressive. You clock it immediately.

Aaron, bless his rigid, rule-following, bureaucratic soul, steps in. “You said 8 p.m. We’re not late.”

And that’s when Dave really sinks his claws in. His hand tightens on Aaron’s shoulder - subtle, practiced, like a predator with a working knowledge of social cues - and he laughs.

But it’s not a casual laugh. It’s a loaded laugh. A you’ll never have power here laugh.

“Exactly. It’s 7:30, Aaron. Last time you showed up half an hour early, I had to change the time so you wouldn’t walk in on me in my robe.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. Aaron’s blushing. And you really hope it’s not for the reason your brain keeps whispering.

(That reason being: They’ve seen each other in robes before. Multiple times. Maybe fewer robes. Maybe no robes. Maybe-)

(You’re not saying there’s something going on. You’re just saying there’s energy. A lot of history. A suspicious amount of comfort. A shoulder grip with a little too much thumb.)

“Anyway, now that that’s all clear,” Dave chirps, but somehow his hand is… lower? Is that-? No. That’s not- It is. No, no no-

Dave’s palm is now resting on Aaron’s tit pec. Is he cupping it? Is this real?

“Alright! You’re all coupled up, right?” Dave claps, winks, and moves along like he didn’t just get to second base with your boyfriend in front of you.

Aaron smiles at you. Smiles. Unbothered. Unbothered and getting fondled by his best friend.

“You’ve got one hour! Chop chop- I’m starving!” Dave calls out, punctuating it with not one, but two enthusiastic pats.

On Aaron’s…

Right boob.

You see red.

And as Dave finally releases his hostage - who strolls back to you all smiley and suspiciously unfazed about being publicly groped-

Dave, yet again (because of course it’s Dave, the world absolutely curves around that manipulative little Italian man’s will), tosses over his shoulder with far too much satisfaction for a straight guy with three ex-wives:

“Damn, Aaron! That triathlon training’s really paying off, huh? Look at that chest!”

“Agh- Dave,” Aaron groans half-mortified, but then, he looks down at himself and chuckles.

Oh no. Oh no no no.

You’re no profiler, but if Dave is making detailed commentary on your man’s chest gains with the kind the kind of confidence that implies historical data-

Then it’s because he has historical data.

That man has groped your boyfriend’s tits before.

More than once.

Enough to compare progress.

And suddenly, you're not so sure you're the only one in this relationship who’s been getting a handful.

Speaking of handfuls-

A warm, very specific hand lands on your shoulder.

“Hey”

Aaron. Of course.

You should’ve known just from the size of it. Or the temperature. There’s something unsettlingly distinct about the way he touches you - like no other object, fabric, or living creature has ever graced your shoulder with that much… heat.

Except maybe his mouth. When it stops there. Briefly. On its way down to your-

“Something’s wrong,” Mr. Profiler’s far too perceptive as he hands you an apron so you won’t get your outfit (the one he called ‘perfect’) dirty.

He steps behind you just as you’ve already tied it, clearly having intended to do it himself in that gentlemanly, let-me-wrap-my-arms-around-you-for-no-reason kind of way.

What a fool.

You don’t need help tying a fucking apron. You don’t need his affirmation coded into every little gesture.

What is that, anyway? Chivalry? Control? Is he worried you’ll somehow mess it up without him? Or is it just that he can’t handle you doing things alone – competently - without needing his federal male approval stamped on it?

You’re here to cook. To participate. To prove-what? That you belong? That you're not a tourist in his life?

You shake it off.

“Are you sure it’s enough eggs for the amount of pasta we have to make?” you frown at the sad, lonely little pile sitting by your –right, Dave’s - cutting board.

“Honey, you asked me to take eight-”

“Yeah. One per person...”

Ah.

You didn’t count yourself.

You stare at the eggs.

Count them again, maybe they’ll rearrange and make more sense this time. But no - there are eight.

For everyone else. Everyone but you.

Aaron steps to your side, looks down too, and you’re still doing mental math, because now you don’t even remember how much fucking flour you dumped in that bowl. Did you even measure it? Did you eyeball it??

There’s no scale in sight. Shit.

If the pasta doesn’t turn out perfect, it’ll just confirm what everyone’s already half-smiling to themselves about: Ah. Of course.

The decorative girlfriend. The midlife-crisis sparkle to distract from how lonely he’s been. A little proof of life.

No respectable job. No remarkable backstory. Just here to stand beside him and prove he can still fuck someone half his age without taking the blue pi-

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

His hand lands on your lower back, rubbing slow circles. Not lazy. Just… frustratingly kind.

The kind of touch that isn’t trying to lead anywhere. Doesn’t want anything.

(…Would he want something more if you were Dave?)

Just exists there, warm and grounding. (You immediately regret not wearing something backless. Why would you not want to feel that hand directly on your skin? Fool.)

It’s infuriating. And really, really nice. Which is more annoying.

He steps into your line of sight, casually body-blocking the rest of the room (which may or may not currently feature a half-floured Spencer Reid flailing near the sink yelling, “Emily. Emily, please stop. She’s going to think we’re – Emily - no, seriously - what is she going to think about us - Emily, that we’re unprofessional? - Emily. No. No, Derek. Not you too.”)

But you wouldn’t know.

Because you can’t see a damn thing past the entire 6’2” anxious boyfriend now standing directly in front of you.

All you get is the gentle forehead creases of a man who probably cares more about your emotional stability than his own cholesterol, and those Barbie-pink lips tugged into that soft, earnest little frown.

He’s trying to emotionally disarm you in full HD. (Also? Slightly misogynistic. Forcing eye contact like that. Yeah… that’s what it is. Sure.)

“Hey, hey,” he chases your eyes. “It’s fine. I’m stealing one egg from Morgan, and we’ll add the flour slowly, adjust the texture as we go. How does that sound?”

It sounds like something he’d say. Like he thinks everyone functions like he does - just bury the panic under logistics, swallow the feeling whole and chew on the task instead.

A plan. A loose, improv-based, easy-to-fuck-up plan. And you can’t afford to fuck up. Also-

“You? Stealing?”

“Yes.” He admits it too... God you’re such a bad influence on him. “I’ve got a lot of tricks up my sleeve you’re still not aware of.” Sure thing, flirt. (Say that again with your little smug voice and see if you don’t get jumped behind the wine fridge.)

He kisses the side of your head - quick, perfunctory. Blink and you’d miss it.

If you were Dave, he’d take his time. He’d cup your jaw, linger, maybe drop a “I’ll have to slip away for a moment to steal that egg, darling” in that perfect baritone.

But sure. A kiss is a kiss.

He seals the success of his noble egg-heist with another swift press to the same spot, then pushes his sleeves up higher - back to business, like nothing happened.

(You’re not looking. You’re absolutely not watching. You are, in fact, turning away to start on some kind of sauce. Your years in the service industry kick in and your body moves on muscle memory- meanwhile, your eyes... oh shit-)

He covertly pulls out a perfectly folded neon pink sticky note and - just as discreetly - his glasses from the pocket of his pants. (God forbid someone catches him using them.)

To his visible surprise, there’s a massive ink smear across the middle (he’s a leftie - everything he writes eventually morphs into smudged abstract expressionism), so he lifts the note off the table – squints at it – holds it even closer to his face – pauses – and then lets out a victorious:

“Aha.”

That soft exhale of understanding that tells you the giant black blob in the center used to mean something like: “Arrange flour into a cone, add beaten eggs and a pinch of salt in the center, and mix.”

(Groundbreaking stuff. Genius-level culinary insight. Next he’ll discover fire.)

And so he does. (Not the fire. Sadly, that was discovered already. But the mixing. He starts the mixing.)

Flour catches on his forearms, clings to the hair dusted across them. His sleeves are rolled to the brink - one more fold and they’d legally be classified as short sleeves.

And those forearms.

Obscene, if you really look. (You’re really looking.)

You can practically hear the veins dilating under the strain of physical effort.

Jaw clenched. Brows drawn in tight, serious lines. All that elite, laser-sharp hyperfocus, typically reserved for, like, hostage negotiations, now directed at a stubborn, crumbling ball of dough.

He probably sticks his tongue out. Just a little. A sliver. For half a second. You imagine it. You know it happens.

At first, the dough resists. Frays. Crumbles. But he’s relentless.

He plants one forearm down to pin it - veins, tendons, shirt pulling tight around his biceps, fabric threatening to give out under the stress - while the other hand folds, presses, rolls into it.

Over and over, and over again.

You want to be that ball of dough.

You want to be folded. Pressed. Pinned. Kneaded into - God, you hate to say it - absolute fucking submission by those hands.

Those hands that are currently manhandling gluten but could so, so easily be doing the same to your thighs. (Your ass. [Your throat.])

You hope you’re not drooling in front of his coworkers. You casually touch your jaw to check if it’s hanging open.

It is.

You shut it. Immediately.

Even though all your jaw wants to do right now is go wide. Wide enough to take that meaty, vein-lined, dexterous-

“Good arm work, Aaron,” Dave comments. From right next to you.

Oh shit.

You flinch like you’ve been caught mid-crime (which, honestly, you have. Horniness in the first degree.)

“You okay there, cara?” he taunts, as you seriously consider pretending you don’t speak English. “Relax,” he chuckles. “It’s cute. I’ve seen that face before... on him.”

Then he winks and tilts his head toward his boyfriend. Your boyfriend.

“Aaron?”

“Oh yes. Aaron,” he says, far too smug for someone who probably still uses a landline. “Back when you texted him back, one of those early times - you were still…” he waves a hand vaguely, probably hoping to reach for a descriptor that won’t get him slapped. “I don’t know. Whatever it was you were doing.”

(Scared shitless you might accidentally become a six-year-old’s stepmom overnight. That’s what you were doing.)

“Anyway,” he continues, “it was right before your first date.”

“What?”

“Yeah. We were driving back from some crap consult in Delaware. Just the two of us. You texted. I swear to God, I thought he was gonna drive us straight into a cornfield.”

Dave even pauses to reenact it - mouth half-open, eyes wide, looking as if he’s just seen Jelena walk into his kitchen uninvited.

(Which is impressive, considering the man almost definitely doesn’t know what a Jelena is. That’s how shocked he looks.)

“He didn’t think you’d reply,” Dave says, shaking his head with a look that’s almost pitying. “Said it out loud. ‘She’s probably just being polite.’” He drops his voice into a pitch-perfect imitation of Aaron’s broody monotone. It’s eerily accurate. Almost disrespectfully good.

“And he was gripping the wheel, doing that thing - you know, the thumb thing he does when he’s overthinking? Like he’s trying to knead the anxiety out through his own damn cuticles?”

(You do know. You’ve probably picked up the same nervous tic by now, just from proximity.)

Thinking about it makes you want to glance at Aaron.

He’s still laser-focused on his dough. (One of his ears is a little fucked up, sure - but not that fucked up. He hears everything.)

(And yet, he’s not looking up.)

“He wanted to text back, but he didn’t want to seem too eager. So I said, ‘Go on. Dictate it. I’ll type it. He made me edit it three times before I could send it. Then made me sign it with his initials, like it was a legal briefing or some classified FBI memo or whatever the hell that was about.”

“I didn’t want it to sound informal,” Aaron mutters, somewhere in the vicinity of his kneading.

“Oh no,” Dave says, grinning, “you wanted it to sound cool. Like you weren’t already smitten. Like every word out of your mouth didn’t already sound like please love me back.”

You are trying so hard not to laugh you might rupture something.

“He even took the wrong exit – twice - while I was typing ‘Sounds great, what day works for you?’”

“Dave,” Aaron groans. “I told you the GPS was-”

“OH NONONONO. Don’t do that. You called me for weeks just to talk about her. You’d send me screenshots and ask if your texts sounded ‘approachable.’ She deserves to know how miserable-”

“Dave.”

You’re frozen. Wide-eyed. In awe. Possibly hallucinating. Then, just to twist the knife, Dave leans in and says: “You know what else?”

There’s a “Dave, no-” from Aaron that gets totally ignored.

“We were forty minutes late. I told the team the GPS glitched. But the truth is… your boyfriend was too busy falling in love in the driver’s seat.”

You glance at Aaron. He doesn’t look up. But his ears are red.

“Just thought you should know,” Dave adds, giving your shoulder a paternal (unsexual) little pat. “Next time you’re eyeing his forearms like they’re your last meal - remember he used to make the exact same face every time you texted back. Poor guy looked like his heart was about to crawl out of his tie.”

He pauses. Smirks. “And he still does it, by the way. Not sure what you’re texting him these days but-”

“Dave,” you and Aaron snap at the same time.

(Oh wow. You’re officially on nickname basis with your man’s man-besties now. Adorable.)

Too synchronized. Too defensive.

Which is juuust a bit telling.

Dave raises his eyebrows. Doesn’t press. Doesn’t have to.

Because now you’re the one stuck picturing Aaron blushing at his phone - except it’s not over some sweet little “can’t wait to see you” message.

It’s over the stuff you’ve been sending him lately.

And it’s definitely not lunch plans.

Aaron still signs them with his initials, though.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kiwriteswords ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #hotch #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #man this one's a bit weird #fleabag!reader #take a shot every time the name “Dave” shows up in this post #(actually... don’t.)

409 notes · View notes

bills5lut · 20 days ago

Text

under the table

masterlist prompt list

synopsis: you try and survive some corporate dinner Billie drags you to, but her hand under the table has bigger plans.

warnings: smut, public teasing, semi public touch, dom!Billie, implied consent play, exhibitionism, fluff.

w/c: 5k

The dining room is dim, all candlelit corners and matte black surfaces polished to a soft gleam. The table’s one long slab of dark wood that smells faintly like varnish and eucalyptus oil, lined with high backed chairs that make everyone sit a little too upright. Conversations drift lazily through the air, a low buzz of curated politeness, laughter that sounds practiced, stories that loop into themselves like they’ve been told a hundred times. You don’t recognize most of these people, but you know who they are. Manager. Publicist. Label rep. Two brand people from some beauty company. Industry guys, all of them.

You’re not quite sure why you’re here.

The food is fine. Pretty, even. Every plate comes out looking like a museum piece, sculpted dollops of saffron puree, charred vegetables arranged in arcs like flower petals. Billie’s thrilled about it in that distracted, amused way she gets when something is both genuinely impressive and also completely ridiculous.

You’re a little drunk. Not embarrassingly so, just enough for your skin to hum, for the candlelight to look prettier than it probably is. You swirl your wine, deep red and expensive tasting, watching it catch the light. Your thighs are pressed together under the table, your back resting against the curved support of your chair. Your elbow rests a little too close to hers. It’s the only part of your body you’re allowing to touch her right now. It’s a quiet, kind of closeness.

Billie’s hand rests lightly on your thigh, under the tablecloth. Just resting there. The weight of it is warm and familiar. The pad of her thumb makes a slow, absent minded arc on your leg, like she’s tracing something only she can see. Her fingers are cool, heavy with silver rings that drag ever so slightly against the smooth fabric of your dress when she shifts. The texture sends a tiny jolt up your spine.

You lean slightly into her space. Not enough for anyone to notice. Just enough for her to feel it.

Billie’s suit tonight is black, slouchy in that very intentional, expensive way. Shoulders a little exaggerated, the fabric puddling soft around her wrists where she’s rolled the sleeves up. She looks sharp, a little androgynous, a little fuck you cool. Her hair’s pulled back in a loose low pony, little wisps curled around her cheekbones. Her skin catches the light like satin, a little flushed from the wine, glowing just beneath the surface.

She leans over to whisper something, her lips brushing your cheek more than your ear. “This mushroom steak’s tryna be beef so bad,” she mutters, her voice low and husky from the wine and the weak.

You press your mouth against your glass to stifle a laugh. You feel her smile more than see it.

It’s been like this all evening. She drifts in and out of the group conversation, charming when she needs to be, quiet when she’s bored. Always with that glint in her eye, like she’s one sentence away from derailing the whole thing just to make you laugh. Sometimes she’ll glance at you with a tiny, private look as if to say you still good? and you’ll nod. Or give her the smallest smirk back like barely. She’ll tap your thigh in response, once, twice, then go back to sipping her wine.

It’s boring, but Billie isn’t.

You try to focus on the conversation when it comes your way. Someone’s talking about streams and digital presence, and you nod politely even though it isn’t directed to you at all, the words already dissolving in your head. Billie chimes in with something thoughtful, articulate. You wonder how many of these dinners she’s been to. How many times she’s had to talk about brand alignment like it means anything.

You glance at her. She catches you, then leans in again, lips brushing your ear. “Guy across from me’s been talking for four minutes and hasn’t blinked once.”

You laugh, shoulders shaking. “Don’t make me look,” you whisper, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Too late. He saw you laugh,” she murmurs, triumphant.

You slap her knee softly under the table, a gentle cut it out. Her fingers tap your thigh again in mock innocence.

Her perfume catches you again when she leans back, that warm, woody scent that clings to her neck and wrists, something smoky and soft underneath it. Like sandalwood and citrus peel and something darker. You want to bury your face in her skin. You want to curl into her side and disappear into that scent, into the warmth of her, but the table is long and the conversation never ends.

You shift slightly in your seat. Her hand on your thigh shifts too, fingers curling a little. Not enough to be anything. Not yet.

She glances over, and her mouth quirks, just a little. You know that look. She’s bored. Restless. Starting to get ideas. You give her a warning look, arching an eyebrow. Her eyes narrow, playful. Innocent.

Her thumb starts to move again. You feel the pad of it press in, trace a slow line along the outer curve of your thigh. Lazy, absentminded. The tablecloth hides everything, but it feels visible. Intimate. You bite your lip and pretend to keep listening to the conversation. Something about a campaign rollout.

Her rings catch again, cold metal kissing your skin as her knuckle drags upward a little. The heat between you flares.

You cross your legs, trying to mask the way your breathing has shifted. You know she feels it. You know she’s enjoying it.

Billie leans in again, voice low. “You okay, baby?” she says, soft enough to melt. Her thumb strokes once, just a little higher now.

You nod without looking at her. Your voice is quiet. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” she whispers back, innocent and evil.

Your wineglass is shaking slightly when you bring it to your lips again. You hope no one notices.

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to laugh. She’s looking at you like she already knows how this night’s going to end.

And you’re still not sure if you hate her a little for it or if you’re going to let her win.

Your plate’s still half full, your wineglass nearly empty. Billie’s barely touched her food, some deconstructed vegan thing with roasted fennel and artichoke hearts she poked at with her fork for a few minutes before giving up. She’s never eaten much when she’s distracted. Or scheming. And she’s very clearly doing both now.

Her hand shifts again under the table. It’s subtle, palm flattening first, then fingers sliding further along your thigh, slow and casual like it’s not even on purpose. You don’t move. You’re suddenly hyper aware of the heat between your legs, of the way your dress clings too close to your skin. Your heart does this tiny hiccup thing in your chest when her thumb starts tracing slow, absent circles just above your knee.

She’s still talking. Casually, effortlessly. Something about press timelines, about tour budgeting. She’s answering someone’s question about tour dates like she doesn’t have her hand halfway up your thigh. Like your skin isn’t buzzing under her touch.

You try to chew. You try to breathe. You can feel how fast your pulse is now, thudding against your collarbone, your wrists, deep between your legs where her hand is slowly, slowly migrating.

You reach for your water glass, steadying it with both hands. Sip. Breathe. She hasn’t looked at you in minutes, but you know she’s clocking every breath you take.

The pad of her thumb slides higher, just a half inch, and your legs tense involuntarily.

“Bills…” you murmur, barely audible, not even looking at her.

Still, her eyes flick to you. Just for a second. That glint again, a silent what? behind her lashes.

She leans in, face neutral, eyes on her plate. Like she’s about to say something mundane. But then her lips brush your ear and her voice dips low and warm, sliding beneath your skin.

“You look so good tonight,” Billie murmurs. “That dress, baby… fuck.”

Her breath fans over the shell of your ear. You feel it everywhere. Chest, arms, knees. Deep in your stomach.

You let out a quiet breath that’s almost a laugh, but not quite. “Stop,” you whisper, mouth twitching with a warning smile. “Seriously.”

She doesn’t stop. Her hand is a little higher now, her fingertips resting right at the edge of the hem of your dress. Just beneath the fabric. Just barely.

You glance around the table like maybe someone noticed, like maybe you’re giving something away, but no one’s looking. Someone’s mid rant about touring logistics, and half the table’s nodding along. The clink of silverware against ceramic masks the quiet stutter of your breath.

“Billie.” You say it softer this time. It’s not a plea. Not quite.

She grins, not openly, not widely. Just enough for the corner of her mouth to lift, for the smallest dimple to show. You hate that she can look this calm.

Her knuckles ghost up the inside of your thigh. Slowly. Carefully. Her fingers spread slightly, resting just under the curve of your ass where your dress is riding up from the way you’re sitting. You shift your legs, clench them slightly, not to stop her, more to feel her more. It’s automatic. Instinctive. Your body’s already begging for something your mouth won’t admit to.

And still, she’s laughing at someone’s joke across the table. Casual. Playful. Like she hasn’t just dragged the back of her ring across the soft skin near your hip bone, sending a visible shiver through you.

You press your hand to your lap, steadying yourself. Your fork trembles when you pick it up again.

“You’re the worst,” you mutter, not looking at her.

She tilts her head slightly, pretending to miss it. “Hmm?”

“You heard me.”

Billie leans in again. Another whisper, sweet and smug. “You like it.”

You do. You hate how much you do. You hate how hot your skin feels now, how even the candlelight seems warmer, stickier, like the whole world is bending inward around the pulse between your legs.

You press your thighs together again. She feels it. You feel her feel it, the slightest press of her palm in response. Her fingers flex, her thumb brushing that sensitive space at the inner seam of your underwear. Not enough pressure to be anything. Just enough to set you on fire.

You don’t move. You don’t push her away. You just sit there with your wine in one hand and the other clenched around your napkin in your lap like it might anchor you somehow.

From across the table, someone says something that makes Billie laugh, a sharp, unfiltered burst, and you flinch because her fingers twitch with it, dragging accidentally against you.

You glance at her. She glances back. For a second, neither of you speaks. It’s just breath between you.

“I swear to god,” you mutter.

She smiles sweetly, innocently. “You okay?” she asks, again like it’s nothing.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re evil.”

She lifts her wineglass with her free hand, takes a small sip. Her fingers on your thigh don’t move. “You’re the one who wore that dress.”

You glare at her, but you’re blushing now. You feel the heat crawl up your neck, across your chest. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

Her hand drifts a little higher again, one inch, two. You feel the edge of her pinky brush against your underwear now, the gentlest pressure. Just resting. Just there. Like it has every right to be.

And still, she talks. She laughs. She nods along. All while her fingers graze your inner thigh, moving in slow, teasing circles like she’s just trying to drive you insane.

You lean into her a little, keeping your voice low. “If you make me cum at this table, I’m gonna kill you.”

Her mouth presses close to your ear again. “Then die mad, baby,” she whispers.

You exhale hard through your nose. Your eyes close for half a second. Her fingers shift again. One knuckle, just barely, against the damp cotton of your underwear.

You try to steady your breathing, but it’s already shallow, barely there. Billie’s hand is still and warm between your thighs now, and you can feel the heat of it through your dress, through the thin stretch of your underwear. She’s so casual about it too, the way her fingers rest like they’ve always belonged there. Like this dinner’s just background noise, and she’s in no rush to move.

Someone’s laughing across the table, a loud bark of a laugh. The PR guy, maybe. You can’t really focus. Your pulse has moved into your ears, and it’s drumming a rhythm against your skull. You sit straighter, but it doesn’t help. If anything, it brings Billie’s hand higher, your thighs naturally drawing her fingers closer.

She leans in just enough that her breath brushes your ear. Warm. Calm. Cruel.

“These the ones I like?” she murmurs, voice low, almost lazy. “The pink ones with the little bow?”

Her index finger taps once against the center of you. Right where she means. Right where it’s already damp. You feel your face heat, full blush, instant and shameful. You nod once, quickly, and stare hard at the half full glass of wine in front of you like it might rescue you from the sharp throb building in your stomach.

Billie exhales a soft laugh against your cheek. You hear it more than feel it, her lips right there but not touching.

You lift the wine glass, too fast, it clinks against your teeth, and your hand trembles slightly. You try to play it off, take a longer sip than necessary. Swallow. You don’t dare glance at her.

And she doesn’t move her hand at first. Doesn’t press. Just lets it stay there, weighted, the heat of her skin seeping through your dress. Her fingers flex a little, shifting so she fits into the dip of your inner thigh, thumb brushing just under the hem of your underwear. Not even touching anything specific yet. Just close.

You exhale through your nose and cross your legs. Not to stop her, just to manage the ache that’s forming, the slow, molten drag of want low in your belly. Your body reacts before you’re ready to admit it. Before you even register how wet you already are, her fingers slide more deliberately now, two fingers exploring, pressing gently through the cotton.

And it’s unmistakable.

She knows.

You don’t look at her. Can’t. But her mouth is near your shoulder now, lips parted like she might say something else, and then she doesn’t. She just shifts slightly, the same effortless poise she always carries, and lets her fingers start to move.

Tiny, slow circles.

Barely pressure at all. Like she’s still thinking about it. Like she could stop at any second, and you wouldn’t even be allowed to protest.

You grip the edge of the table. The wood is cool under your fingertips. You will yourself not to react, to keep still, but the movement she’s making, it’s so light, so calculated. Each circle grazes over your clit through the cotton, making the damp fabric cling tighter, stickier.

Her rings catch slightly when she curls her hand, and the texture sends a jolt right through you.

You shift in your seat again, pretending to adjust your posture. Trying to breathe through it. You blink too slowly when you look down at your plate, half of it untouched now. A bite of roasted fennel, some polenta, a few beads of olive oil reflecting the low lighting. Everything looks too sharp. Too real.

The man across from you, one of Billie’s team you think, glances up and asks, “You okay over there?”

Your stomach flips.

You manage a smile, voice cracking just a little. “Yeah, just… warm in here, isn’t it?”

You see Billie withdraw her hand just slightly at that. Not fully. Just a respectful pause. Like she’s letting you catch your breath. Letting you answer the question, letting you exist for a second in the version of yourself that isn’t quietly being touched under the table.

You press your thighs together in the brief reprieve. Your clit pulses in time with your heartbeat. You take another sip of wine, slower this time, grateful for the burn in your throat to ground you.

Then she’s back.

Fingers sliding with more confidence now. Two of them circling in slow, tight circles again, her thumb holding just outside the crease of your thigh. You can feel her pinky curl slightly, nudging the soft edge of your underwear aside so that just a sliver of you is bare against her skin. It’s subtle. So subtle.

You glance down, your hands are white knuckled around your napkin in your lap.

Another soft whisper from her, “So fuckin’ soft down there, baby…”

You make a small, involuntary sound, low in your throat. You pray no one hears it over the clatter of cutlery and soft jazz playing from a speaker mounted behind the wine rack.

Your breathing has turned to shallow pulls now. Every inhale a little shaky. Your whole body is humming under your skin. She’s still talking every now and then to the person next to her, casually, like she’s not ruining you in slow motion. Like she’s not pressing just a little harder now, her middle finger finding the precise spot and circling it, deliberate and slow.

You think, dimly, that you’re going to break if she keeps going like this. That your underwear’s soaked and sticking. That you can’t move without showing something, somehow. So you stay still. You grip the edge of the table and take another sip of wine and try to keep your legs from twitching, your hips from lifting into her hand.

Billie shifts closer in her seat. You feel her thigh pressed against yours, firm and grounding. She leans into you a little, not enough to draw attention, but enough that you know she’s here. She’s present.

Her voice in your ear again. “Doing so good, baby. Just stay still. I got you.”

And you do.

Billie’s fingers don’t hurry. She knows exactly how to drive you mad without spilling the secret to anyone else. Every tiny shift of your body, every hitch in your breath, every almost-suppressed sigh, she catalogs like a map, learning the way you respond. It’s like she’s memorizing your body in real time, tracing your edges with her fingertips, reading you with the quiet precision of a painter perfecting her masterpiece.

You try to stay still. Your fingers clutch her thigh beneath the table, nails digging just enough to anchor yourself, to remind yourself that you’re here, in this room, at this godawful dinner, and not somewhere else entirely. The fabric of her black pants is soft but sturdy, the weave catching beneath your nails, and it grounds you, just barely. You want to be still, but your whole body hums with vibration, like a silent electric current running from your core down to your toes.

Her thumb strokes the skin near your clit with gentle, deliberate pressure.

You’re acutely aware of everything. The subtle weight of her hand, warm and confident; the soft press of your dress fabric against your bare skin, soaked in places; the quiet murmur of conversations around you, clinking silverware, low jazz filling the dimly lit room.

The scent of her perfume drifts over you again, warm, woody, and it wraps around you like a cocoon. You can feel her breath, soft and steady, brushing your hairline. It’s intimate and electric all at once.

“You gonna cum for me at this boring ass dinner?” she murmurs, voice low and smug, almost teasing but with a sharp edge that makes your chest tighten.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you clamp your jaw shut and try not to let your body betray you. Your legs tremble under the table, knees knocking lightly against hers in the small space between your chairs. Your fingers press harder into her thigh, nails grazing the fabric and skin beneath, desperate for something solid to hold onto.

Your breath catches, short, stuttering, barely a whisper, like you’re suppressing a cough, but every muscle inside you coils tighter and tighter. Your hips shift involuntarily, pressing just a fraction more against her fingers. Your clit pulses insistently, slickness soaking your underwear completely now.

Billie’s touch is steady but relentless. She moves her fingers in slow, deliberate circles, building the pressure just right, never too much, never too little.

Your vision blurs slightly. You close your eyes for a moment, biting your lip to stop the moan you’re sure you’re about to make. Your pulse hammers in your ears. Your cheeks burn red, hot and flushed.

Your body trembles, a low vibration that starts in your belly and spreads outward, radiating through your thighs, your stomach, your chest. Your hands tighten their grip on Billie’s leg, nails digging in deeper now, as if holding her could somehow hold the moment together.

And then it happens.

A slow, shuddering wave crashes through you, rippling outwards. Your hips jerk subtly, legs trembling so much that your knees brush against the underside of the table. Your jaw clenches tight, teeth grinding as your breath catches and stutters, trying to suppress everything spilling out from inside.

Your toes curl inside your heels. Your body tenses in a way that feels too much and not enough all at once. The warmth floods your core, spreading to your chest and neck, your cheeks hot as fire.

Billie’s hand lingers for a heartbeat after, her touch soothing, steadying. She presses gently against your thigh, grounding you, bringing you back slowly, carefully, with her presence.

“Shhh,” she breathes softly, voice low and warm. “Got you.”

Her lips brush against your hairline again, soft, comforting, a quiet anchor in the madness of your racing body. You rest your head against her shoulder for a moment, chest rising and falling unevenly, feeling the tremors in your muscles slowly ease.

She pulls back just enough to catch your gaze, her eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and tenderness.

“You’re glowing,” she says quietly, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

You try to smile back, cheeks still flushed, throat still tight from holding everything in.

“It’s the wine,” you whisper, voice rough but genuine.

Billie laughs softly, the sound like silk sliding across skin.

“Yeah, wine,” she agrees, but you both know it’s not the wine at all.

You lean into her a little more, finding warmth in the closeness. The dull dinner fades away, all the talking, the fake smiles, the clinking glasses, replaced by the quiet pulse of her hand resting on your thigh, and the steady rhythm of your breath slowing back down.

You shift, subtly, careful not to jostle your chair too hard. The fabric of your underwear sticks against your skin now, soaked, clinging, and every tiny movement reminds you of what just happened, what Billie just did, what you let her do.

And she’s just sitting there.

Calm as fuck, of course. Her hand has returned to your thigh, casual, fingers spread just enough to anchor you but not enough to start anything again. Her pinky taps gently, rhythmically.

Your breath is still coming in uneven pulls, so you reach for your water, trying to play it off. The glass is a little too cold in your hand. You sip slowly. Carefully. The chill helps.

Across the table, someone’s droning on about audience engagement metrics. You can’t even pretend to follow. Words just pass through you like air. You glance toward Billie without turning your head, and sure enough, she’s smirking.

Not a full smile, not something obvious, but that crooked little pull at the corner of her mouth, the kind of look she gives you when she’s proud of herself for something she shouldn’t be proud of.

You shoot her a glare. Or, at least, you try to. It doesn’t land. Not when your cheeks are still pink and your lips are curved in spite of you. You feel dazed and warm and breathless and, god, you’re smiling.

Billie leans in slightly, her shoulder brushing yours again as she shifts. Her mouth hovers near your ear.

“You’re still shaking.” she murmurs, low and smug.

You nudge her with your elbow. It’s the most you can manage. She lets out a soft snort and leans back like nothing happened. Turns to the girl across from you, the one from PR with the glossy bob and clipboard posture, and asks her a question about the upcoming campaign. Something innocuous. Just enough to draw the attention off you, to fill the space, to let you breathe.

It’s so smooth you could kiss her.

You glance down at your hands resting in your lap, one still curled loosely in the soft black fabric of Billie’s pants. You hadn’t even realized you hadn’t let go yet. Gently, you unfurl your fingers, pat her thigh once, a silent thanks, and bring your hands back to your glass.

You sip your wine next, slower now, letting it linger on your tongue. The warmth of it spreads down your throat and nestles in your chest. Your body is starting to return to you, piece by piece. But your pulse is still a little high, and your skin still buzzes with the echo of her touch.

Her knee nudges yours under the table again. Presses against it. Stays there.

You risk a glance sideways. She’s not even looking at you, not yet. Her eyes are focused on the PR girl, nodding like she’s listening, even though you know she’s not. Not fully. But then her hand slides just an inch on your thigh. Just enough for you to feel it. Just enough to say I’m here.

You exhale slowly through your nose and let your knee press back against hers. A silent I know.

The conversation continues around you, a dull buzz of industry jargon and polite laughter. You tune most of it out.

You glance at Billie again and this time she catches you. Her smirk deepens.

You shake your head, cheeks heating again.

She leans closer just slightly, drops her voice. “Still feeling it?” she asks, soft and teasing.

You bite back a smile, roll your eyes.

“Shut up.”

Billie chuckles, low and quiet. Then her expression shifts, still playful, but gentler. She glances down at your trembling hand resting near your wine glass and then back at your face.

“You okay?” she asks, and it’s not a joke this time.

You pause. The hum inside you hasn’t faded completely. But her voice brings you down, softly. You nod once, a little breathless still. Smile at her, small, real, a little sheepish.

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Her smile softens to match yours. Her hand squeezes your thigh once, firm and warm. Her body shifts toward you just enough that your arms brush again. You lean into her without thinking, not a big movement, just a quiet weight against her shoulder for a moment.

And she lets you stay there.

The conversation continues around you. The wine is still half full. The night isn’t even close to over.

But you don’t care. You’re here, flush with warmth and Billie’s perfume and the buzz of pleasure that still lingers low in your stomach. You close your eyes for a beat, just one, and let yourself breathe.

She squeezes your knee again. You squeeze back.

338 notes · View notes

rotagnus · 16 days ago

Text

signs from spirit [🍵☆*: .｡. o｡.:*☆] [PAC]

this pac reading [delightfully suggested by a lovely anon!! credits to them :)] will focus on what reassurance can look like with your spirit guides, and in what ways they show up in your daily life. it will be a mix of tarot and intuitive/channeled messages, as always. if it doesn't resonate, don't force it to.

i have never done a reading exactly like this before so i hope that you guys like it!!! i'm trying to do more readings that don't deal with romance, so this is definitely a welcome one 🩷

look at each of the photos and choose which one resonates. i highly recommend looking at them ALL then picking the one that your gut instinct tells you to.

pile 1.

...the night brings signs for you. take that is it resonates; many of you have spirit guides that communicate easier during the night, so you may feel stronger, more spiritually aligned when it's dark. dreams are also very significant for you, as well as thoughts that come into your head very quickly. spirit comes to you in water; in thunderstorms and pouring rain, as well as rivers, lakes, and oceans. any wildlife that you see near there also holds a strong significance to you. you may notice that it almost seems curious about you, rather than fearful or wary.

i think that signs also lie to YOU within your own intuition. you may notice things happening in your life that you WANTED to occur, and you may realize that you're good at manifesting and your intuition itself is good. i also believe that many of your spirit guides would like you to converse with them more; by this i don't mean doing some ritual, but simply being mindful of their presence and what they can give you. they have a great love for you and hold a lot of insight in your life, and your day-to-day activities; they are always there for you, pile 1.

pile 2.

...i think your whole environment is oftentimes infused with signs. you guys are well aware of what they are, and you see them whenever you need them. that is part of why you have such a strong connection to your faith/beliefs. flowers are significant, as well as fish. herons, and big waterfowl too. a lot of you may feel most aligned when in a forest full of green, and you guys most likely adore nature very deeply and possibly want to have your own little slab of green one day.

physically you get a lot of signs too. the universe communicates through tingles and through slowing you down, oftentimes through injuries when you do not rest. you may notice that you feel better about your appearance when you practice the spiritual; that is not a coincidence. you'll feel generally healthier and happier when you're doing what's right for you spiritually. sometimes you may feel a weight on your shoulder or your hand; that is one of your spirit guides conversing with you.

pile 3.

...many of you are very intelligent individuals and signs will come to you in the shape of insects/small creatures. you guys pay attention to the smallest things, and you are most likely well-versed in the general meanings of seeing a certain animal. birds are also significant. you may notice a specific sign that keeps reappearing in your life, and you do try to decode them. moon phases also hold a lot of significance for you; you may talk to the moon; if you don't, i highly recommend doing so !! it is very relaxing, especially during full moons (a.k.a today!!!)

being alone is a very transcendent experience for you as well. meditating, seeking knowledge within, especially praying--all of these things are spiritual signs for you, because you knowww that when you have an urge to do so, it's a sign that things are coming together. sitting alone and basking in the energy of the universe is also helpful; many of you get bits of knowledge and information from entering a meditative frequency, when you're not thinking and simply channeling.

#love reading #pick a picture #pac reading #tarotblr #divine guidance #intuitive reading #tarot reading #pick a card #rotagnus #pick a pile

245 notes · View notes

evieelyzabethh · 1 year ago

Note

Hey can u do a spike smut

I have another Spike smut fic coming so I'm gonna use this to drop my sfw and nsfw Spike headcannons because fun fact, the buffy brain rot is real and I have over 100 pages of buffy reboot material. anyways...

warning: not proofread

sfw:

Spike purely smokes because he thinks it makes him look cool. I think when it comes to vampires, they either physically cannot feel the effects of drugs or are lightweights. He hates the smell of smoke, hence the duster jacket, and refuses to smoke in his crypt because of the shit ventilation

Speaking of smoking, William was most definitely asthmatic. He had no friends in boys school because too much physical movement sent him wheezing. He did enjoy horseback riding though

He has poetry stashed somewhere, I just know it. Under some slab of rock or rolled in some random alcohol bottle pirate style, it's somewhere.

Spike would love an English major or anyone who has a hobby aligned with creative writing. This doesn't mean he'd automatically show you anything he's written but he'd be more open to the possibility sooner rather than later.

Very picky with what he steals/wears. He will not just put any old rags on. He dressed Drusilla and he is a fashion icon and I stand by that

As for him with a partner, I do think he is the type to fall first and incredibly hard

I think how familiar you are with one another would dictate a lot. If you were a Scooby, I wouldn't say he'd keep his distance, but he wouldn't be super outright with his affection. There'd be some playful banter here and there, dare I say some flirting, and maybe even some gift-giving every now and again. He's like a crow, he'd be the type to drop things on your windowsill just because it reminded him of you

If you two didn't know each other, he'd most definitely be the stalking type. Every time you're walking home from school, there WILL be a dark figure following you around. You're getting harassed by some rando? If you paid attention to the newspaper, you'd see they mysteriously went missing. You can go from eyeing something while window shopping to it magically ending up on your doorstep

Never the one to make the first move. He wouldn't say a word unless he was 100% confident that you liked him back, and even then, there'd be a lot of hesitation

He would love a forward partner. Someone who makes his insecurities melt away and who he doesn't have to worry about them ever getting over him. When he loves, he loves forever. He has all of time to love you and his ideal partner would be someone who wants to spend all of time with him

He is such a romantic!!! I think he would be so into matching couples costumes or just matching outfits in general. Super into domesticity wherever he can get it, decorating a home together, cleaning together, cooking together, doing anything together

Since he can't have a job, I do see him being a house husband. It gives him something to do during the day. Wears a 'kiss the cook' apron and pouts if you don't give him kisses while wearing it. I headcannon that he spent time all over Europe, including France, and had some really good pastries at some cafe that closed like 200 years ago and made it his life's mission to recreate them. The grocery bill is high but it makes him happy

Valentine's Day is his absolute favorite holiday and he makes a big deal of outdoing himself every year. Not in terms of money or extravagance, but meaning. He treats every day as a new one to know more about you. It's not enough to know your favorite color, he needs to know the exact shade, exact hue, and exact context you love it in. He knows your allergies, remembers your favorite outfits, and keeps track of your cleaning habits so he can make everything shiny and new when you forget yourself. He becomes a master of all trades to make you whatever you want exactly how you want it

He does really like Halloween, too. He's a huge fan of the Scream movies. He dislikes when horror movies try too hard. Being so used to gore, blood, and guts, he prefers a funnier, more unserious scary movie

Speaking of blood, he starts out against drinking from you. He used to only do it to kill someone, or at least with the intent to cause harm. He didn't trust himself not to get overwhelmed and hurt you. But I feel like at some point he either gets hurt on patrol or his stash gets low and you both forgot to restock and he has to. It was a very close call, and he couldn't bring himself to even look at you after the fact. He only warms up to it if it's necessary. He avoids it, but there are always slip-ups. He has bitten you during sex a few times when he got a bit too into it. He says he refuses to do it unless it's for your pleasure

He is so obsessed with you, if you couldn't tell. You're his favorite person, favorite scent, favorite taste. Not to be slightly yandere on main, but he would kill for you and kill himself if he wasn't enough for you. Never leave you. Never hurt you. Spike would never.

nsfw:

He is neither an ass or tits guy, he's just a 'you' guy. Absolutely everything about you gets him going. You think it's funny at first until you're trying to eat a bowl of spaghetti and he's staring at you, hard. It's not his fault the stray sauce around your lips looked like blood and vampire you is a very hot concept to him

You guys have to own a house. The noise complaints would be too much and you'd get evicted. I do see him as more of a groaner than a moaner, but sometimes it's just too much and it's both. Sometimes it's just one hand gripping the pillow your head is resting on, the other on the headboard, and his head in the crook of your neck practically whimpering as you milk his cock

You also have a tendency to get pretty loud, and as much as he loves your voice, his super vampire hearing can't take it sometimes :(

Doesn't really matter the position, but it's hard and he's so big. You can feel him in your damn ribs and it's choking you up. You don't even realize how loud you are. It's not until you hear his raspy voice in your ear. "I know, love, I know. It's a lot, but I need you to be a bit quieter. You're hurting me." And you pout a bit and try to mumble apologies that just sound like gibberish. You try, futilely, but surely he must understand that you can't help it. Not when it's this good. He whispers again, rubs where your belly bulges from his dick, but it doesn't seem to work. He eventually flips you over to shove your head in the pillows and you were far too out of it to complain. You like it a bit rough anyway.

As mentioned previously, he is a biter. He can't help it, it's instinct honestly. Its not like you mind, you clench even harder when he does. The sudden smell of iron is drowned out by the stench of sex and sweat, and the piercing feel of his fangs into your neck only stings for a bit. He makes up for it by licking up whatever spills <3 Being with a vampire was always going to be at least a little painful

He likes his hair pulled. You're fingers in his hair in general is heaven on earth, but being pulled around a bit is nice

Has a thing for tearing your clothes off. He really does like being a vampire, feeling big and strong in a way he was never able to when he was human. There is a feral piece of him, maybe its the demon inside him or it was always present, but seeing your clothes in pieces after the fact just scratches the itch in his brain

Speaking of brain, enjoys giving and receiving head equally. Being absolutely obsessed with you, and very secretly obsessed with the taste of your blood, he could die happily with your cum on his lips. Between your legs is his favorite place for real. As for receiving, it's his favorite way of shutting you up in any scenario.

Bruises. Everywhere. Hickeys. Everywhere. He's possessive but not exactly an exhibitionist, they end up along your collarbones and your thighs. Places where they can easily be hidden or revealed

Plays old music because he's old. He refuses to use modern technology because he likes his old as dirt aesthetic but definitely plays sexy orchestral music. I simply do not believe him to be an RnB kinda guy

He likes seeing you in his clothes after!! Going back to the whole love for domesticity thing, it just feels right. He's, shockingly, not always a horny fuck in the morning. Sometimes it feels more right to just look at you, the pretty after sex glow on your face, your messy hair, your cheeks pressed into the pillow. If you get up before him and put on what he had on the night before, it just completes the picture.

When he is a horny fuck in the morning, it's still just as soft and slow as the non-sexual mornings. He likes to be the big spoon simply because it's easier to slide his dick between your thighs and hold your tits at the same time

#btvs #btvs headcannons #btvs smut #spike btvs fanfiction #spike btvs smut #spike x reader #buffy the vampire slayer #buffy the vampire slayer fanfiction #btvs fanfiction #buffy the vampire slayer headcannons #buffy the vampire slayer x reader #spike smut #spike fluff #spike btvs fluff #spike btvs #spike btvs x reader #buffy the vampire slayer fanfic #buffy the vampire slayer smut #buffy the vampire slayer fluff

427 notes · View notes

p0orbaby · 8 months ago

Text

It’s Called Free Fall

summary: therapy makes you realise a lot of things

warnings: none

a/n: there’s not actually any alexia in this, but she is mentioned

word count: 2.7k

part 1

The therapist’s office feels like it’s been curated for someone far more refined than you—someone who actually takes their therapy seriously, rather than as an ironic lifestyle choice. The walls are a pale, flat grey that veers perilously close to lifeless, and there’s this overwhelming sense of emptiness, like everything here exists for display rather than use. The chairs, two narrow-backed leather things angled just slightly towards each other, appear less like furniture and more like sculptures. You imagine some recent graduate from a New York art school positioned them just so, meticulously arranging each one to make sure it induced the precise mix of discomfort and luxury.

The table between you and Dr. Vargas is another matter entirely—a sleek slab of polished mahogany, thick enough that you could lean your entire weight on it without even a squeak of protest. Its surface is bare except for a single leather-bound notebook, a fountain pen and a ceramic dish, all aligned to a degree that feels almost militaristic. There’s not a single loose thread in the rug, not a fingerprint on the glass of the one window facing out onto a garden view that’s suspiciously verdant for the middle of winter.

Even the fern, perched in the corner like it’s waiting for its close-up, seems too green, too lush. It’s ridiculous, but it’s all part of the aesthetic, this carefully curated minimalism, the kind of cultivated restraint that says, “We don’t need embellishments. We’re here for the truth.” You’re here, supposedly, for honesty and revelation. But to you, it all feels a bit too staged, like a hotel that boasts a “homely charm” but is actually cold and sterile beneath the surface. You suspect Dr. Vargas might even mist the plant herself in some sacred ritual of maintenance, a sort of last-minute grounding exercise to fill the silence between clients.

You settle back in the chair, draping one leg over the other, and make a mental note to mention it next time you’re in some magazine interview. “Austere,” you’d say, “but in a chic way. I once caught my therapist hand-polishing the leaves of a houseplant.” You let yourself savour the image for a moment, glancing at the fern, which seems to return your gaze with silent judgement.

Dr. Vargas has her pen poised in that infuriatingly neutral way, a half-smile that somehow manages to be both welcoming and utterly unreadable. She’s mastered this look; the expression that says, I’m here for you while also suggesting she’s already a step ahead, already written your entire profile out in her head, neatly categorised into sub-headings like “Avoidant Tendencies” and “Control Issues.”

You begin with a sigh, throwing a glance at the ceiling in mock contemplation. “I’ve been thinking about another place. A chalet, maybe. Something in the mountains this time.” You pause, letting the idea sit, feigning like it’s just occurred to you. “Somewhere remote, where people can’t just… get to me”

You’re fully aware that she sees right through it. This isn’t her first rodeo; you’re sure she’s dealt with hundreds like you before, masters of diversion who fill sessions with banalities rather than facing anything real. But Dr. Vargas, in all her maddening professionalism, gives nothing away. She just tilts her head, the soft scratch of her pen against her notebook barely there as she writes something down.

“A place to escape,” she offers back to you in that maddeningly placid tone.

“Yes. Escape,” you echo, knowing full well the word holds no weight here. Escape from what, exactly? You let your leg bounce a little, as if the rhythm might lend some gravity to your words. “And there’s this new project I’m in talks with—A24, actually. They want me to do something… serious. A proper rebrand. Gritty. Artistic.” You drawl out “artistic” with the faintest of smirks, like you’re amused at the thought of it all. A lifetime of playing these games, and you’re practically a pro by now.

Dr. Vargas’s face betrays not a flicker of interest or amusement. She simply nods, that little encouraging tilt of her head again, like she’s waiting for you to get to the real point, the heart of the matter. But you’re not giving in so easily.

“It could be big, you know,” you continue, lifting your chin a fraction. “And I’ve got Alexia, of course.” The name slips out, deliberately nonchalant, though you feel its weight instantly, like it’s left a mark on the air between you.

Dr. Vargas raises her eyebrows, ever so slightly. “Alexia,” she repeats, not quite a question, not quite a statement. Just… acknowledgment, and yet it still feels as if she’s plucked something out of you without you realising. You don’t like it, the way she turns your own words against you.

“Yeah,” you say, shrugging. “She’s… brilliant. On the field, off it. You know, she’s—” You trail off, allowing a smirk to play on your lips. “Not bad to look at, either”

She gives no reaction, doesn’t even break eye contact. You imagine her poker face would rival that of any seasoned card shark. But it’s her silence that presses at you, coaxing out more than you intend to reveal. It’s a trick she’s used before, and yet here you are, willingly falling into it.

“Honestly,” you continue, almost laughing as if sharing some private joke, “you should see her after a match. There’s this… intensity, this rawness. Shirt off, sweat-drenched, eyes still blazing from the game. It’s… invigorating.” You roll the word around like a fine wine, savouring it as you go. “It’s like the universe threw me a bone, just when I was getting bored”

Dr. Vargas finally moves, a slight shift of her head, her mouth curving up in a near-smile. “And yet, you’re here”

Her words drop between you like a carefully placed stone. You scoff, rolling your eyes, but there’s something in her expression—an almost imperceptible softness that somehow feels like an accusation. “Therapy’s a hobby,” you shrug, leaning back, as if the very idea of anything deeper is laughable. “I’m always in therapy, Doc. News flash”

“Yes,” she agrees smoothly, not missing a beat, “but you don’t usually bring her up”

“Come on,” you counter, with a smirk that’s designed to look careless, “I bring her up all the time”

“Not like this”

Her voice is calm, almost gentle, but her gaze sharpens, pinning you in place. You feel a spike of irritation, or maybe it’s something else. You cast a look towards the fern, now faintly silhouetted by the afternoon sun, its shadow long and narrow across the wall, an unasked-for third party in this strange little dance. The absurdity of the whole scene hits you, but before you can fully detach, she’s speaking again.

“You’re talking about her differently. More… openly.” There’s no edge to her tone, no overt judgment, yet it feels like she’s peeled back a layer, glimpsed a part of you you hadn’t meant to reveal.

In the moments that follow, you stub out your cigarette on the pristine ceramic dish Vargas keeps on the table, the one she’s claimed is “not for smoking” but never actually moved after that one session. You’ve taken it as tacit permission, though you know damn well it irritates her—just another way to test the boundaries in a room that prides itself on having none. That’s half the point of these sessions: see how far you can stretch them. How much she’ll let you say, or not say. And you’ve mastered the art of saying absolutely nothing, all while filling the space with empty words.

Dr. Vargas doesn’t speak, doesn’t press, which is almost worse than if she did. There’s just the persistent softness in her eyes, the quiet implication that she understands more than you’d prefer. You remember Alexia’s eyes looking at you like that once, right after you’d tried to make some grand point about the nature of relationships—one of those pseudo-philosophical tangents you like to go on. She’d just looked at you, with a kind of bemused patience that felt a little too genuine, a little too close to knowing you.

You roll your shoulders, shake off the memory. But it clings.

“Alright,” you say, letting the smoke spill out as you form the words. “Maybe I don’t do ‘love’ like everyone else. I’m not here for a candlelit dinner and a mortgage. I’m not,” you add with a quick laugh, “one of those people who turn into some sap over a nice couple’s holiday in Santorini”

Dr. Vargas gives a small nod, an acknowledgement rather than agreement, her expression neutral but open, giving you room to continue.

“But, yes. Fine.” You take another drag, a deliberate pause. “Maybe I… care about her. I care about her. She’s different, alright?”

“Different how?” she asks gently, with an infuriatingly patient tone.

You groan, shifting in your seat. “Come on, don’t make me quantify it. That’s your thing, not mine.” You know you’re stalling, using your usual deflections, but there’s an itch underneath it, a part of you that feels raw just acknowledging that Alexia is, in fact, ‘different.’

You can feel her eyes on you, waiting for you to take the bait you’ve laid out for yourself.

“Fine, you want specifics?” you sigh, feigning annoyance, though you know you’re the one who’s led the conversation here. “She… laughs at my worst jokes. Like, really laughs. Not in a polite way, but genuinely, like she thinks I’m the funniest person alive, even when I’m barely trying. It’s stupid, really, but it gets me”

“And how does that make you feel?” Vargas leans forward, like she’s zeroing in on something significant.

You chuckle, low and dismissive, waving the question off with your cigarette. “How do you think it makes me feel? It’s… fine. Nice. A bit strange, maybe. I’m not used to being seen like that.” You pause, the weight of that admission lingering in the air between you.

She doesn’t react, doesn’t push; she just lets the moment settle, knowing there’s more.

You sigh, smoke curling up around you, as your mind goes back to other little things—the way she has this weird ritual of picking all the green M&Ms out of the bag and tossing them to you, claiming they’re “bad luck.” How she insists on reading the morning news out loud, in that silly, exaggerated announcer voice, just to make you laugh while you pretend to read emails. Or how she makes you tea at exactly the right temperature, handing you the mug with a grin like she’s just given you a priceless gift. These are things that, on the surface, should be forgettable, the kind of mundane moments that fade. But they don’t, do they? Not with her.

Dr. Vargas’s voice interrupts your reverie, soft but insistent. “You’re smiling”

You realise she’s right; you’re smiling without even meaning to, and it’s a small, stupid smile, the kind that feels too open. You try to erase it, but it’s too late. The vulnerability’s already there, a quiet confession written across your face.

You roll your eyes, more at yourself than at her. “Alright, so what? So she’s… alright, she’s fun. She’s got that energy, you know, that lightness. It’s kind of… refreshing”

The words slip out unbidden, and you feel a pang of something resembling regret. Refreshing. A word that implies something else by omission—that most of your life, most people you’ve known, have been exhausting. The irony isn’t lost on you: someone so completely different from your own brand of detached sarcasm, from your carefully cultivated ennui, has managed to slip under the radar and wedge herself into your carefully controlled life.

Dr. Vargas watches, her silence pressing you forward.

“Look, I don’t think about it too much,” you say, trying to inject a casual note into your tone. “I don’t need to psychoanalyse every smile, every inside joke. I’m not here to have my relationship broken down into neat little psych terms”

“Maybe you should think about it,” Vargas says gently. “Maybe that’s why you’re here”

You scoff, but there’s a softness in the sound, a hint of resignation. Because she’s right, isn’t she? You came here because, as much as you don’t want to admit it, this thing with Alexia has started to matter, in a way that’s both terrifying and strangely compelling. You’ve always prided yourself on staying a step removed, on being a spectator in your own life, observing rather than fully engaging. But with her, you’re finding it harder to keep that distance.

“Fine,” you mutter, leaning back, letting your head rest against the chair, staring up at the ceiling as though the answers might be written there. “Maybe she’s… special”

The words feel strange in your mouth, too vulnerable, too open. You don’t say “special” often, especially not in this context. But there it is, a reluctant admission.

“I mean, it’s not like I’m in love with her,” you continue, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “She’s great—don’t get me wrong. She’s amazing in bed. I can’t remember the last time someone made me cum so much. And she’s got this thing about her, you know? Like this fire, this intensity. It’s like when she looks at me, she’s looking right through me. And yeah, I guess that’s… intoxicating. But that’s all it is. Right?”

Dr. Vargas nods, a small, subtle gesture. “Why does that scare you?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you watch the smoke dancing away from your cigarette, dissipating into the air, leaving nothing behind but a faint, lingering scent. You think about what it is you’re so afraid of—because there’s something there, something you can’t quite name, a sense that if you let this thing with Alexia continue, it might change you in ways you’re not ready for.

“Because I don’t do… attachment,” you say finally, the words coming out sharper than intended. “I’ve built a life that doesn’t depend on anyone else. And she’s… she’s a complication”

You can feel Vargas watching you, sensing the weight of what you’re not saying, the unspoken truth that this isn’t just about Alexia, that it’s about something deeper, a fear of vulnerability, of losing control. She doesn’t push, though; she just waits, letting the silence do the work for her.

After a long pause, you take a breath, letting your gaze drift to the fern by the window, its leaves glossy and perfect, so meticulously maintained it almost looks fake. You wonder if it’s ever felt the strain of trying to keep everything together, to present a flawless exterior while something more fragile lurks beneath the surface.

“You know,” you say, almost to yourself, “it’s funny. For the longest time, I thought love was just a distraction, a temporary fix for people who couldn’t handle being alone.” You take another drag from your cigarette, exhaling slowly. “But with her, it’s… it’s different. It’s like she makes everything brighter, sharper, like she’s tuned into some frequency I didn’t know existed”

Dr. Vargas doesn’t respond, just nods, letting you continue.

“And the worst part?” You chuckle, a self-deprecating sound. “The worst part is that she’s getting to me. She’s in my head, even when she’s not there. I find myself thinking about her in the middle of the day, wondering what she’s up to, if she’s thinking about me too”

There’s a fragility in the admission, a crack in the armour you’ve built around yourself. And it terrifies you, this sense of letting someone in, of letting them get close enough to matter.

You stub out your cigarette, watching the last curl of smoke dissipate into the air. It feels like a metaphor for something, though you’re not sure what.

Dr. Vargas gives you a small, knowing smile. “Maybe falling in love isn’t as bad as you think it will be,” she says gently.

You shrug, trying to play it off, but there’s a part of you that knows she’s right. Because for all your detachment, all your carefully cultivated distance, there’s something about Alexia that feels like home, like she’s a part of you you didn’t realise was missing.

“Maybe,” you say, the words soft, barely audible.

Love. The word lingers like an uninvited guest. You try to dismiss it, try to laugh it off, but it keeps creeping back in.

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #fcb femeni #fcb femeni x reader #espwnt #espwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

201 notes · View notes

stele3 · 9 months ago

Text

Stephanie starts flirting with Jason a) to fuck with Bruce because she hates his guts but still has to work with him and if she’s gonna be in the same room as fucking Bruce Wayne then she’s going to inflict maximum psychological damage at all times, b) to fuck with Tim for ghosting her the way he did, and c) because she doesn’t actually know anything about this giant slab of teenaged boy except what’s been filtered through Bruce, Tim, and Babs. Of all of them, Babs is the most cautiously positive, so she wants to see how he’ll react.

At first he’s tense and suspicious, about what she’d expected. The only reason she keeps going with it after that is to fuck with Bruce and Tim. But then one day she’s hanging around making fruitless eyes at Cass, who doesn’t know what sex or romance even is and has even-more-horribly aligned herself with Bruce, when Jason walks in. Guns strapped to his thighs. New mask covering his lower face. Glare already fixed in Bruce. And Stephanie kind of automatically calls, “oh hey, cutie, how’re you?”

and Jason

BLUSHES

Totally caught off guard, sort of stammers a bit then turns and just. Walks right out of the Bat Cave.

After that it is On. At least four times a week Stephanie reduces this giant slab of teenaged crime lord to a bashful mess. It’s her favorite game in the world. Tim and Bruce are losing their minds (Cass is confused and a little put out for reasons she cannot understand), but it ain’t about them anymore, no. Stephanie is a lion on the Serengeti and Jason is a wounded gazelle.

#Batman #stephanie brown #jason todd #jaysteph

224 notes · View notes

afeelgoodblog · 2 years ago

Text

The Best News of Last Week - August 21, 2023

🌊 - Discover the Ocean's Hidden Gem Deep down in the Pacific

1. Massachusetts passed a millionaire's tax. Now, the revenue is paying for free public school lunches.

Every kid in Massachusetts will get a free lunch, paid for by proceeds from a new state tax on millionaires.

A new 4% tax on the state's wealthiest residents will account for $1 billion of the state's $56 billion fiscal budget for 2024, according to state documents. A portion of those funds will be used to provide all public-school students with free weekday meals, according to State House News Service.

2. Plant-based filter removes up to 99.9% of microplastics from water

Researchers may have found an effective, green way to remove microplastics from our water using readily available plant materials. Their device was found to capture up to 99.9% of a wide variety of microplastics known to pose a health risk to humans.

3. Scientists Find A Whole New Ecosystem Hiding Beneath Earth's Seafloor

youtube

Most recently, aquanauts on board a vessel from the Schmidt Ocean Institute used an underwater robot to turn over slabs of volcanic crust in the deep, dark Pacific. Underneath the seafloor of this well-studied site, the international team of researchers found veins of subsurface fluids swimming with life that has never been seen before.

It's a whole new world we didn't know existed.

4. How solar has exploded in the US in just a year

Solar and storage companies have announced over $100 billion in private sector investments in the US since the passage of the Inflation Reduction Act (IRA) a year ago, according to a new analysis released today by the Solar Energy Industries Association (SEIA).

Since President Joe Biden signed the IRA in August 2022, 51 solar factories have been announced or expanded in the US.

5. Researchers have identified a new pack of endangered gray wolves in California

A new pack of gray wolves has shown up in California’s Sierra Nevada, several hundred miles away from any other known population of the endangered species, wildlife officials announced Friday.

It’s a discovery to make researchers howl with delight, given that the native species was hunted to extinction in California in the 1920s. Only in the past decade or so have a few gray wolves wandered back into the state from out-of-state packs.

6. Record-Breaking Cleanup: 25,000 Pounds of Trash Removed from Pacific Garbage Patch

Ocean cleanup crews have fished out the most trash ever taken from one of the largest garbage patches in the world.

The Ocean Cleanup, a nonprofit environmental engineering organization, saw its largest extraction earlier this month by removing about 25,000 pounds of trash from the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, Alex Tobin, head of public relations and media for the organization

7. The Inflation Reduction Act Took U.S. Climate Action Global

The U.S. Inflation Reduction Act (IRA) aimed to promote clean energy investments in the U.S. and globally. In its first year, the IRA successfully spurred other nations to develop competitive climate plans.

Clean energy projects in 44 U.S. states driven by the IRA have generated over 170,600 jobs and $278 billion in investments, aligning with Paris Agreement goals.

---

That's it for this week :)

This newsletter will always be free. If you liked this post you can support me with a small kofi donation here:

Buy me a coffee ❤️

Also don’t forget to reblog this post with your friends.

#blessed #best news of last week #Youtube

1K notes · View notes

kapilasteel · 9 days ago

Text

Why Dowel Bars Deserve More Attention?

In concrete road construction, one small mistake can turn into massive repair costs. And often, that mistake is ignoring dowel bars—the unsung heroes of load transfer. These simple steel rods are often overlooked, but they’re essential in keeping concrete pavements stable, crack-free, and cost-effective in the long run.

If you’re in infrastructure or road projects, understanding the correct use of dowel bars in concrete can make or break your pavement’s durability.

What Are Dowel Bars and What Do They Do?

Dowel bars are cylindrical steel rods placed across transverse joints in concrete pavements. They ensure that loads are transferred from one concrete slab to the next, allowing for smooth traffic movement without putting excessive pressure on any single slab.

This mechanism—known as load transfer in pavements—prevents slab cracking, corner breaking, and uneven surfaces, especially under heavy vehicles.

Technical Specifications of Dowel Bars (India Standards)

In Indian road construction, dowel bars generally follow these guidelines:

Diameter: 25 mm to 38 mm

Length: 450 mm to 600 mm

Spacing: 300 mm to 350 mm center-to-center

Coating: Epoxy or stainless steel to resist corrosion

Placement: Aligned perfectly in the middle of the slab thickness

Standards followed include:

IRC:58 for pavement design

IS:456 for concrete structure practices

Incorrect dimensions or poor alignment can cause joint locking, defeating the purpose of load transfer altogether.

Benefits of Dowel Bars in Concrete Pavements

Reduces edge cracking under load

Minimizes maintenance costs over time

Improves ride quality and surface level

Enhances load-sharing between slabs

Complies with modern engineering codes

For highway projects, industrial zones, airports, and even smart city roads, dowel bars offer both performance and ROI.

Common Mistakes to Avoid in Dowel Bar Placement

Misaligned dowel bars cause joint locking.

Wrong bar size reduces effectiveness.

Inadequate corrosion protection leads to early failure.

Poor concrete compaction around bars leads to voids.

Use dowel bar baskets, proper templates, and level indicators during installation.

Real-World Example: Long-Lasting Urban Roads

A smart city project in central India faced early pavement failures due to missing dowel bars. Upon redesign with proper dowel bar placement in roads, maintenance dropped by 42%, and surface life increased by 5+ years—all by investing a small amount in the right steel rods.

Why Kapila Steel Is the Trusted Choice for Dowel Bars

At Kapila Steel, we manufacture high-precision dowel bars that meet both national and international standards. Here’s what sets us apart:

Precision machining for accurate length and diameter Anti-corrosion coating for extended lifespan Custom specifications based on project requirements Prompt delivery and pan-India supply chain

Whether your project is a national highway or a local township road, we’ve got your back.

Conclusion: It’s Time to Build Roads That Last

In concrete pavement design, dowel bars are not optional—they’re essential. They offer load-sharing, durability, and cost savings you can’t afford to skip. And when you choose Kapila Steel, you get bars engineered for performance, safety, and long-term value.

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs)

1. What is the main purpose of dowel bars in concrete pavements?

Dowel bars are used to transfer load across joints in rigid concrete pavements, helping prevent cracking and uneven settlement. They allow slabs to expand and contract without damaging the surface.

2. Are dowel bars and tie bars the same?

No, they serve different functions. Dowel bars transfer load across transverse joints, while tie bars hold adjacent slabs together along longitudinal joints to prevent separation.

3. How far apart should dowel bars be placed?

In most road projects, dowel bars are placed at 300 mm to 350 mm center-to-center spacing. However, the exact spacing depends on slab thickness and traffic load conditions.

0 notes

deme-real-life · 6 months ago

Text

----- CHRYSALIS | STAGE 1

The slab is lifted off of your tomb, and you awake.

You sit up slowly and survey your surroundings. You are in a circular room with engravings on the floor around you. The ceiling is domed, arching upwards toward a dim light that illuminates the room.

You cannot seem to recall much about yourself. You search your memories, trying to remember even anything.

Suddenly, a few sentences present themself, as though directions for you to follow in your freshly given life.

"YOUR DIRECTIVES ARE : UNDERSTAND YOUR MIND :: ALIGN A CONCEPT ::: GATHER A WEAPON :::: DESTROY THE HIVE :::::"

Seems simple enough.

You internalize your first directive. You focus on your mind. You are many overlapping colors, swimming in a whirlwind-motion of rainbow, seeping hue into the nooks and crannies of your mind. You are many voices, crying out in unison, all with different requests and ideas on how to proceed, on how your mind is...

{MECHANIC UNDERSTOOD: VOICE} | All those who interact with this post are hereby part of the entity currently referred to as "YOU." You are many voices. When asked to make a CHOICE, the first three replies to the post asking for the CHOICE will be turned into a poll, whereupon the decision will be voted on.

Your next directive is to align a concept. No concept particularly springs out to you. Perhaps if you focus, you can make a CHOICE...

{As said in the VOICE mechanic section, you can reply to this post if you would like to help influence the CHOICE made here. The first three replies will be counted to make a poll, which will be reblogged from here. Once the poll has expired, the CHOICE will be locked in, and the story will continue. This process will occur any time the opportunity to make a CHOICE is presented to you, the VOICE.}

#CHRYSALIS

132 notes · View notes

possiblylando · 7 months ago

Text

Trying to dissect all the stuff from the Akira Cross audiolog.

Okay so I'm gonna go over all the stuff I feel is notable even if it's fairly obvious. Also I'm bound to miss stuff so if you saw anything I didn't (or have a different interpretation) feel free to chime in with that. ALSO SPOILERS EVIDENTLY THEY WILL BE HERE WATCH THE AUDIOLOG FIRST IF YOU WANT TO AVOID THOSE YEAH OKAY COOL Alot of Akira Cross is a mix of stuff drawn directly from Boy's experience and whatever media he's consumed so picking apart the two will be important in figuring everything out. Akira is an evident stand in for Boy but I'll go over the more interesting stuff with him later because there might genuinely be some foreshadowing in here with all the insane shit that goes on later in the story.

Cross Family is clearly a reference to the D Clan I doubt there's too much foreshadowing on this one so Boy is probably just filling in any gaps with his own stuff here.

Slab is Door. Just like Door, very straight forward. His military rank might be off a bit but this one doesn't require a lot of analysis.

NOW HERES WHERE WE GET TO THE REAL SHIT On my first watch I didn't really think much of all the Yokai/Japan stuff since it seemed like normal weeb kid stuff especially since Markus has evidently been showing Boy alot of anime. However we know the D Family has been to Japan since Markus brings up being there in the Bar Audiolog. I had always assumed Boy's hair was from D's side of the family but thinking about it more, It's entirely possible that Boy's mom is actually Japanese and met Door during that trip to Japan. It's also possible she was a Hunter which is why Boy has ties to the OG hunters (which I'll talk about way later during that segment with Hina's awakening chariot in the- getting off topic). D makes a point of talking about how Yokai are real and they shouldn't bring civilians into their world (unless they see potential in them). Seemingly Boy has been raised entirely in the Hunter Sphere so his mother being a hunter actually does align since Door is such a stickler for the 'rules'. But the Priestess thing is probably just a Boy-ism.

Ryu is probably another Boy-Ism since I doubt he has a secret twin brother. This could potentially be a reference to another member of the D family however. But I don't feel there's enough evidence to suggest that beyond Warhammer parallel which I don't really want to use as primary evidence. We know that at least one of the D Clan has been killed by Vampires and probably several more so Ryu could also be an unintended Boy reference to a member who became a vampire. It's probably not to foreshadow a Markus turn to the dark side since there's another character that is very directly Markus. So I'm just going to mark down Ryu as; Boy-ism that might parallel another D Clan member but probably not.

Another direct reference with his time training with slab is obviously inspired by the time he spends at the gun range with Door. But the experimental weapons line is probably just a Boy-Ism since it's just the Halo gun.

I genuinely have no fucking clue what Gilgamesh represents here and I can't help but bust my ass laughing every time I rewatch his reveal. This feels more directly related to D which I'll go over.

So this whole section is- fucky to the say the least. D is ALWAYS confident in everything he says so I don't know if he's saying this because "I WAS THERE AND I MET GILGAMESH" or "THE SCHOLARS ARE WRONG GILGAMESH WAS CLEARLY-" and it could go either way with him. But since he talks about Gilgamesh like "I knew he was a vile fiend but this is a new low" makes it seem like he probably doesn't know Gilgamesh directly.

Door death flags continue to slowly mount. I don't think he'll die anytime soon but theres likely gonna be some major conflict between him and the other members of the D Clan. Akira's family's deaths and D's reaction to them is again, notable. When I was first watching my first thought was "Oh he's having this reaction because it happened to him". But then the reveal that D is just genuinely invested in the story to the point of tears is very funny.

So Akira's heritage is again something to bring up. Half-American, Half-Japanese, Half-Nephilim, Half-Yokai. I feel we can knock off the Yokai as a Boy-Ism. I doubt he's Half-Nephilim directly but it's such an interesting thing to call out since they're a weird reference to make here. The WoD Lore I could find on them is pretty scarce but they're essentially the children of humans and fallen angels, fairly similar to early Abrahamic texts referencing their existence. In classic WoD Hunter lore they were humans who were chosen by angels which turned them into the imbued. I feel like this is notable since Boy seems to be becoming an imbued. (Again, Later) Okay so here's a bit of a hard thing to decipher. Ironically Akira's School could be drawn from experience or purely a Boy-Ism because it's never really all that clear if Boy actually goes to school. This episode in particular talks about D taking on alot of Boy's schooling but I vaguely remember comments from another Audiolog about some british kids calling Boy "Meat" and Door not really understanding the insult. It does show however that Boy has been effected by the hunter life since he's made a world where anyone could be a hidden enemy. It shows that D's (rightful) paranoia has rubbed off on him.

I think Hina is just a pure Boy-Ism. Her being a secret angel might play into his imbued potential and later stuff. But yeah I don't think Hina represents anything here. and Combat Boots.

Alright so Mars is clearly Markus also why does he look like Gogeta as a final fantasy villain. I feel like this is one of those moments that was missing from the story cause it genuinely gives Markus a moment where he feels appreciated. When the time comes that Markus is given the opportunity to do some fuckshit I have the feeling this will be the moment that stops him.

My gut feeling tells me that this lineup for the Gilgamesh goons is foreshadowing the major antagonists of each arc (maybe). Jack the ripper visually resembles Pyotr with the teeth, ears, and long black hair. The fact he gets fought multiple times also relates back since they fought Pyotr in the cave then in their house. Florence could be implying that one of the maids is the ghoul in the current arcanum arc. No clue about Polluck and Andre the giant. And this kinda entirely depends on who the ghoul is since if it's anyone else this whole vague theory instantly falls apart.

I don't think the Chiroterrans themselves represent anything. Maybe the ancient vampires but I kinda doubt that, they seem like a Boy-Ism to explain why vampires exist since he probably wouldn't know about Caine. However the fact they team up with Akira at the end to fight the war against HORSE does show the shift in Boy's mental state. We know he already has a more 3 dimensional view of vampires based on the times he gets weirdly deep 'Do you think this is what happens when one throws away their humanity and embraces their inner monster' as it directly shows he now sees HORSE as the main threat and the vampires just as another group.

The Merkabah is another thing that points towards Boy becoming an imbued since he would have no reference for a dream like this. I've already gone over the surface level of the imbued so no point repeating it.

Also Markus might also become Imbued (or a mage since thats a thing that I've heard vaguely of un-awakened mages getting but I don't have a source to back that up beyond "just trust me bro" so I could be totally wrong here) unless he's just being sarcastic here which is totally in character

I feel like this could be another accidental foreshadowing thing since there are some theories and suspicions about there being a werewolf in the chapterhouse right now. So we'll see what happens with this or if it's just another random Boy-Ism

Again, stuff like this is why I think this whole story is more important than just a random boy writing session. They literally do this at the start of every arc. Also IT SHOULD BE NEXT SAGA BOY BECAUSE HE FIGHTS THE FIVE GOONS THAT WOULD BE IT'S OWN ARC ITS CLEARLY MULTIPLE ARCS SO IT SHOULD BE THE GILGAMESH SAGA FIRST OKAY that was I was thinking about that okay I just had to say it

Theres probably a reference in the spartan spacemarines being called the crimson dragon blades but I know nothing about halo and my knowledge of 40k is also not great. and I don't know where to put this and it isnt important but Ryu's final form looks like Asmodeus from iruma kun and I can't unsee it

The final thing to consider is Horse himself. I've spent the last few days thinking about one main thing; Is horse actually evil or is he just really bad with kids?

And I don't know. I feel like they're using this to set up a swerve where since Horse is Horus we're expecting him to turn evil, but it's revealed he's just bad with kids. But he could just as easily be some sort of demon or other awful thing possessing horse.

#hunter: the parenting #htp

84 notes · View notes

yoonia · 11 months ago

Text

the bedroom hymns ● chapter xxi

⟶ Chapter summary | Mysteries continue to unfold as you carry on with your solo adventures, not realising that every piece of the past that you have uncovered in your journeys traces back in time, aligning themselves with what has been written for you by the will of fate.

⟶ Title | The Bedroom Hymns: a Bluebeard’s twist ⟶ Pairings | Min Yoongi x female reader ⟶ Genre | Fairy Prince!Yoongi, Crown Princess!reader, Fantasy!AU, Fairy Tale retelling ⟶ Word count | 11,872 words ⟶ Ratings | PG-13, +18 / M for Mature for future chapters; include magic terms, classism, depiction of fantasy ritual act, mention of fantasy religion/beliefs, mention of war, violence, weapons, sword fighting, blood, injuries. ⟶ Story Masterlist: The Bedroom Hymns | ⤎ previous chapter | next chapter ⇢ ⟶ Main Masterlist | Mailbox | Taglist | Feedback | Music Playlist | Ko-fi

⟶ Author’s note | After a long wait, we finally have a new chapter out. I’m sorry for keeping you from this update for so long. It was a hard journey to get this one done, since some personal stuff kept getting in the way. The chapter ‘ Serendipity’ has grown significantly during the writing process, so I had to split the chapter into three separate parts, and then even smaller parts on Wattpad for better reading experience. I hope you’ll enjoy reading this chapter!

chapter xxi. serendipity-1

A temple.

The relief you felt for not finding yourself plunging into the rough sea or crashing down onto the sharp rocks on the shoreline was quickly replaced by bafflement when you saw where you had ended up in instead.

Once your shock subsides, unease settles in. You aren’t quite sure why. This place doesn’t even look like the disintegrating temple you saw in your dream the previous night.

This place reminds you more of E’l Alora; the mountains where giant dragons were flying around the human town built against the cliff’s wall, with its massive ravine and the castle on the rocks.

Realisation dawns on you once you get to look at the little details of the temple a bit closer. Not a grand structure standing atop a hill, but a structure built within a mountain. As if a part of a mountain or a hill had sunken into the earth, forming a cave hidden within, surrounded by what was left of the mountain, and the temple was carved out of the rocky materials that had once been the core of the alp.

Looking up, your eyes are met with the streaks of sunlight penetrating through the opening above your head. The sunlight here is quite murky—dull and grey as if the sun is hiding somewhere else instead of hanging up high in the sky, causing the colours around you to seem muted and washed out—yet it is still enough to illuminate the dark temple, giving you a clear sight of everything that is present right before your eyes.

The door that you had just emerged from lies at the back of the room, facing directly towards the temple’s center where you can have a clear view of the dais spread along the length of the temple walls. A platform at the center rises slightly higher, made up of dark grey stone slabs that seem to have emerged from the ground rather than been carved by human hands.

Meanwhile, a part of the ground at the center of the temple sinks deeper, creating a small crater in the middle of the main praying hall which is now filled with water. The nave area for the worshippers, filled with rows of benches made out of stone, was built around the pond instead of going around the dais, making it seem like the pool itself is the main focus point of the temple.

The humming magic coming out of the portal feels like cold breeze brushing against your back. Looking over your shoulder, you see a line of small alcoves covered in draperies in place of doors—banners filled with symbols of a chalice and crescent moon drawn on dark blue backgrounds, with two arches of ivy drawn on the top and bottom as frames. One of the draperies is flicking gently behind you as if a breeze is flowing from within, only that magic hums from it and sparks light up as it brushes against your skin.

The door. This will be my exit.

Suppressing a shiver running down your spine, you turn away from it and carefully walk across the vacant temple, following the ray of lights from above to find your exit while taking everything in.

Standing right at the heart of the main hall, the old, seemingly abandoned temple feels grand and noble at the same time, yet solemn in its stillness. The way the temple itself seems to have been crafted by nature makes it even more otherworldly.

It makes you feel small. Insignificant among the nature that has formed this place a long time ago.

The rocky walls around you stand three stories high, each level marked by small open corridors framed with stone bannisters. Rows and rows of small alcoves were carved into the rocky surface the same way the doors behind you are made, only without any banners hanging as covers. The sight reminds you of the hundreds of doors lining up the floors of Stargrave Castle, and also of E’l Alora—how its human town was built against the rocky walls of the ravine. Only that these alcoves appear dark and lifeless, housing nothing more but shadows.

You wonder if these alcoves had once served significant purposes for the ceremonies that were held in this place.

If only you had a way to get higher, would you be able to see marks of chairs between the alcoves for the royals who came to join or witness the rites? Perhaps there would be small altars up there where they put the statues of the Ancients that they were praying to in this place and they were set up as private praying chambers instead?

Turning away from the walls, you look up to the dais on the ground floor and make your way towards it. Eyes on the platform standing at the center, you try to imagine this place coming alive with a rite—you picture the leaders of ceremonies taking their places atop the platform, the nave filling up with their devotees and disciples.

If only you know the significance of the pool of water that is glimmering under the dim sunlight in front of you. From up close, you notice that the pool is glowing in the shade of jade—as if jade stones were laid at the bottom of the pond—but the surface of the water is clear like crystals, and you can see your face reflected perfectly on it when you look down.

Curious, wondering if you can find any clue, you take a closer look at the raised dais.

There is no such altar just like what you’ve seen at the temples you visited back in Smotia, nor there are seats or couches like what you had seen in the royal churches. But mantles are built against the walls, lined up with burnt candles. You can also see those candles lined up perfectly on the low platform in front of the dais. Some of them are burnt halfway, others are burnt completely to the bottom. You reach out, waving your palm above the burnt wicks and are caught by surprise when you still feel some warmth there. Showing you that at least a couple of them were recently burned.

So not completely abandoned, then.

You pull your hand away with a flinch once you look a bit closer, seeing a couple of silver goblets which have been placed between the burnt candles. At one glance, they seem to be empty. Yet as you bend down over the one closest to you, you can see a drop of liquid pooling at the bottom.

Wine. Still partially wet, as if it had just only been used recently.

So this place is still used. But where are the people now?

You strain your ears, eyes, and your other senses, trying to feel out any presence of a person, any figure that might be lurking in the dark temple, and feel nothing. Turning away from the abandoned offerings and burnt candles, you look past the pool of water, across the main hall, to see another source of light. An open stone archway stands at the other side of the hall, where lights are filtering through into the main hall.

The main entrance door.

From this distance, you cannot see too clearly what is waiting on the other side of the opening. But then a draft comes flowing through the temple, followed by a low, resonant whistling noise that almost sounds like a soft howl of an animal echoing through the open archway. At the same time, the light that you see coming from the opening begins to flicker, shifting between the dim golden light of burning torches or candles and the grey of sunlight that appears far duller than the sky above.

A tunnel, you realise with a grim smile. There is a tunnel beyond the archway leading you towards the exit, and you can only hope that no other surprises are waiting there.

Slowly, you make your way across the dark temple. You try to be careful with your steps, doing your best to keep away from the slippery part of the stone floor around the pool. And yet your soft footsteps cannot stop the sound of your boots from echoing through the temple. The sound keeps bouncing against the walls as you walk on, sounding far too loud against the silence, making you feel even more hyperaware of your surroundings.

Wrapping your palm around the hilt of your short sword, you walk through the stone archway, finding yourself in a short span of a tunnel. The stream of sunlight coming through the tunnel keeps the darkness at bay, in addition to the flickering torches that are hung along the length of the cavern, causing shadows to dance around you on the cold stone walls.

You continue walking, your grip remaining firm on the hilt of your sheathed sword and your eyes ready, and then you carefully step into the light—or, in this case, lack thereof.

Out here, beyond the grim darkness of the temple, the world is looking just as ghastly. From the threshold of the temple lies a spread of grove half the size of the temple’s main hall. Filled with thin trees, the grove expands toward the descending plain and ends at what seems to be the edge of a city.

Carrying the same caution, you tread through the grove, still with your hand ready on the hilt of your sword. Walking under the sparse line of trees in the grove doesn’t leave you feeling much of being under their protection.

The trees here remind you an awful lot of the trees you saw in E’l Alora. With barks and branches that glimmer in similar shades of pale and rotten grey yet darker to almost black at the bottom half to the roots below, only thinner and longer, twisted in odd angles as if they were frozen in the middle of dancing with the cold wind or in their fight to avoid whatever terror came into this land. The leaves are also painted in similar shades of teal and dark grey, only that they appear sharper and thinner, so much so that they look like needles pointing up to the sky and do nothing to shield you from the sky.

The ground beneath the grove appears dark, as if covered in a thick layer of soot with not a sight of grass or undergrowth. As if the earth itself has been drained dry by the withering trees. In some parts, the dark soot is blanketed by a thin layer of dust and ash, as if the grove had once caught on fire leaving trails of its destruction undisturbed even as the trees began growing once more.

You walk a bit deeper into the grove, taking a few steps further until you reach the part where the ground begins to descend. Until you can have a better glimpse of what lies on the other side of these trees, and you finally come to a halt.

Because what you see on the other side only puts cold shivers down your spine.

Beyond the last line of trees, there is nothing but the ruins of an old city.

Crumbling structures stand before you, remnants of forgotten temples and a ghost of a majestic city that had once been vibrant and full of life. A grand skeleton of stone structures stands at the far end of the city, nearly floating above the river that seems darker than the jade-coloured pool you saw in the temple. The broken-down gates spreading around it become the only indication that you are looking at what used to be a palace—one that had once stood strong above the city, overlooking the land, the forest, and the mountain behind you. Beyond the remains of the fallen palace lies a vast terrain of rocky peaks, rising high like towers made of nature.

The vast plain of the city and the fractured roads have been overgrown with weeds, their insidious tendrils creeping over the withering foundations of the city to grasp whatever life remains. Tendrils of ivy and layers of moss cover most of the structures that are left standing, coating all the pale and bright-coloured stones with various shades of green. Any visible part of the ground not covered by weeds and broken stones has mostly formed into puddles of muddy water, leaving you to wonder if this place has truly been deserted, left behind and abandoned in its demise.

What happened here?

What happened to the people?

And what about the temple, the traces left behind to show that life still exists here?

Under the dim grey sunlight, the fallen city before you seems as if engulfed in a permanent shadow, leaving all the tone of colours to appear washed out—just as lifeless as the city itself.

You are suddenly reminded of your dream. The eerie sight of a kingdom dissolving into ruins that has been haunting your nights seems to have been manifested right before your eyes. Had it been a sign, a premonition of a once-existing place that you needed to find?

Captivated and enthralled by the sight of the fallen city before you, you lose focus on your own safety, on the ground you are standing on. And the next step you take ends with a misstep. Sending you straight into a puddle.

“Oh, fates,” you murmur to yourself as you lift your soaked boots out of the puddle of muddy water.

You whisper another curse under your breath as you shake off the mud from your booths, but having your attention drawn away from the daunting sight only draws your focus back to the dark grove around you.

It brings back your sense of awareness, enough to help you notice that the air around you has shifted. You are no longer alone.

A rustling sound reaches you from somewhere between the eerie-looking trees. A movement that is felt but left unseen. Spine stiffens, your hand returns to the hilt of your sword, and with a soft, indiscernible exhale of breath, you let silence fall so you can have a better listen to any changes happening all around you.

You briefly close your eyes, just in time for the noise to return. It is subtle, but you can sense the sound coming from your right. Yet when you rise and turn towards it, a loud shrill of a hawk echoes through the trees on your left. A flurry of movement catches your eyes when you swiftly turn towards the other side, before a shiny sword glares at you as it swings down towards you in a sudden attack.

“Fates,” you curse out as you pull out your sword to protect yourself, swiping it upwards to fend off the attack.

The force of the swords clashing on each other takes away the breath that you barely managed to take. You can feel your arms trembling as you take the brunt of the attack, but you keep your grip firm, steadying your weapon while you regain enough strength to return the blow. Your sword clinks against the unidentified assailant’s sword as you push him back, throwing him off of you before you step away.

With a swift, yet slightly clumsy motion—your boots nearly slipping, again, on the muddy ground—and your grip tightening on your sword, you adjust your stance to face your assailant.

The shrill of the hawk echoes through the air once again. This time, the animal appears at the corner of your eyes instead of hiding away, diving from the sky at a rapid speed to strike the face of a second assailant that you failed to notice and was just about to land a surprise strike at you with his sword. His attack fails, and now he is busy fending himself against the beast—a black-winged hawk twice, almost three times, the size of a normal adult man’s head.

The hawk is ferocious. The animal’s shrill continues to echo through the woods as it fights against the man in the tattered uniform and rusted armour, attacking his head, face, hands, and any part of his body that is not shielded by armour or the rapid swing of his sword.

Distracted by the other fight, you almost miss it when your first opponent regains his composure and makes his move. He lunges, taking the opportunity that was presented to him in your distraction, his sword slicing through the air with deadly precision, aiming straight to your left shoulder—or your throat, coming from the left, you cannot be too sure.

Yet you manage to deflect with just a small struggle, your blade clashing against his with a resounding clang. You twist your wrist as you rush forward, pressing on him and redirecting the force of the impact with a swift swipe aimed at his exposed side. He staggers back as your sword hits right beneath his armour, at the soft spot of his waist that is unprotected with nothing more but the belt holding up his sheath.

Pointing your sword at his face, you snap at him, “Who are you?”

A grunt escapes his lips as he finds his balance, while you use this chance to get a good look at him. His long and straggly raven hair is pulled to the back, leaving only a few loose and messy strands framing his sharp and defined face. There is a scar crossing his left eye, starting from right above the eyebrow to an inch below his bottom lashes. The shadows from the grove give him the perfect veil over his tanned skin and dark armour, yet you can still see the scars lining up his exposed arm, indicating that he isn’t one to be messed with.

His narrowed eyes flicker towards his companion who has failed to join the fight, the black-winged hawk keeps getting in the way of him trying to get closer. “We’re the ones who are supposed to be asking,” the scarred swordsman snaps at you. “You’re trespassing on private property. This place is forbidden to enter.”

You bite the insides of your cheeks to try and rein in your emotions and think of how to respond. You doubt that he will be so understanding if you try to tell him how you managed to arrive at this place.

“Then you must forgive me. I suppose I must’ve missed the sign,” you choose to say, realising that any form of logic would never work to defend yourself. “That still didn’t give you the right to swing your sword at people without a warning.”

Your opponent raises his sword back up and adjusts his stance to ready himself for another strike. “The only one who hasn’t got the right to be here is you.”

Scowling, while stealing a glance towards the other fight that is slowly dying down—the hawk already lessening its attacks when your second assailant is growing weak and tired—you try to calm yourself down and reason with him. “Listen, I’m just passing through. I mean no harm, and I have no means to cause any trouble.” Lifting your free hand up, you show him your open palm to support your claim. “Please, just let me pass.”

The scarred swordsman refuses to back down and sneers at you. “I find that hard to believe. Not many can find this place, much less to pass the borders, especially by mere coincidence.”

Pressing your lips together, you try to push down the shivers running through you at his words. You have no idea why you keep ending up in these places ever since you began travelling through the portals again.

Forbidden lands. Closed-off borders. Places where your protection spell suddenly becomes null.

A sacred land.

You have been keeping your eyes on your opponent while you are trying to process this, only to fail to notice that the other man has somehow found his bearings. The second assailant, now freed from the ominous hawk, seizes the opportunity and advances towards you with a flurry of rapid strikes. As if he is trying to express his anger over his wounds and his defeat against the wild animal by inflicting the same harm on you.

Yet he isn’t aware of how high your adrenaline is at the moment—both from the sparring you did with the royal guard earlier and the fight you just had with his companion. Your body may be spent, your mind is still reeling over what the first armoured man said to you about this place, yet your senses are still on high alert.

Your reflex is quick, and you weave and dodge his attack with barely seconds to spare. Your sword meets his blade in a series of sparks. In his anger, his movements are out of order and reckless, which will be dangerous for you to continue engaging as they are too unpredictable. Unable to read and to deflect easily.

Heart pounding, you spin to evade his final attack and snap the hilt of your sword against his bruising temple before delivering a sharp kick to his chest. The attack sends him stumbling backwards just as your first opponent returns to strike you from the other side. You sidestep from his swinging sword and retaliate, striking him from his right. Your sword finds its mark, cutting through his armour and drawing blood.

A pained cry leaves his lips as he falls back, giving a chance for his partner who has somehow recovered quickly to take over the fight.

The continuous assaults are beginning to drain you. Your body not only trembles as your second attacker returns with a strike, but you can almost feel sure you are seeing stars the moment your swords collide with each other. Your breath is heavy and ragged, your heart is pounding so hard it becomes the only thing you can hear, and both your muscles and bones are aching. As you stagger back, you realise that these men are trying to push you deeper into the grove, away from the temple and the city altogether.

Keeping your eyes on them as they prowl closer, you wonder if there is something hidden in the grove. But your mind is too preoccupied with focusing on how to survive this fight to even try and figure out what is hidden in the shadows.

Your upward swipe draws blood from your second attacker as your blade scraps his unprotected hips and your side kick brings him to his knee. You duck under a high swing and thrust your sword upward once again when his companion returns, catching him off guard when his surprise attack fails. He falters, clearly just as exhausted and spent as you are while bleeding profusely from the side of his waist. So you take the chance to disarm him with one strike, sending his sword skittering across the muddy ground.

Enraged, he makes a sound from deep inside his throat—which sounds like a growl—and pulls out a dagger from his back to retaliate. Cursing under your breath, you press down your shaking legs to the soot-covered ground beneath you and ready yourself to counter his attack when a voice sharply bellows from behind you, echoing through the grove.

“That’s enough!”

At the ominous voice, everything stills. The men that you have been fighting with, the wind, and even the will for you to move. Keeping your sword pointed at your opponent, you turn to look over your shoulder to see the intruder.

Pressure clamps down in your chest as the figure slips out of the shadow, worrying that you are about to face yet another threat. One should have been enough, two were already too many. And if you are going to have to deal with three—

Turning sideways to get a better look at your intruder without losing sight of your assailants, you bring the short sword forward to prepare yourself for an attack. The sound of their footsteps grows nearer, and you prepare to swing your hand down at them, only to immediately stop once the cloaked figure steps out into the limited streaks of sunlight filtering into the grove.

“You can put that thing away, child. I mean no harm,” the figure speaks in a gentle, yet firm tone of voice.

Thin, veiny hands are raised, gently lowering the hood of her cloak to reveal the sight of an old woman. The ageing lines on her face are visible even without any adequate light, and they soften when she smiles. Her hazel-brown eyes glint brightly under the dim lights falling on her as she takes you in. So bright, it looks almost golden. Her silver grey hair is pulled back to a thick braid, a striking difference to her rich golden-brown skin.

She stands there in silence after revealing herself to you, clasping her hands together over her torso as she waits until you put the weapon away, sheathing it back to the left side of your hip. But your grip remains on the hilt of your sheathed sword, holding steady, even if it’s only for the sake of finding any semblance of strength while preparing yourself in case the situation suddenly changes again.

The woman’s gaze follows your hand, taking account of the way your grip is tightening on your weapon. She makes no remark on it, however, as she looks up with a smile to regard the three of you, including the poor man still kneeling on the dirt, who—now that everything has calmed down—you are finally getting a good look on for the first time.

Unlike his companion, the wounded swordsman looks a bit younger, with dirty blond hair and a mesh of curls on top of a boyish round face that is now marred with streaks of blood—the work of the massive hawk earlier. His bright blue eyes are wide, which seems as if they are perpetually filled with fear. His hands have fallen to his sides, slightly trembling, seen through the sword that he is still carrying, and it pleases you to know that you weren’t the one having a tough time during the fight.

“Now, there really is no need for all this violence, is there?” the woman says, which only draws a scowl to your face upon hearing it.

“They attacked me first,” you point out with a scoff.

A rueful smile comes to her face. “I apologise for their rudeness, my dear. They’re not exactly used to welcoming surprise guests coming to our home,” she says, tilting her head down with more respect than an elder would normally give to a younger stranger. “But it is nice to see someone visiting our homeland again after so long. It might be too late to say this, but you are welcome here.”

The scarred man, who is clearly unhappy with this situation, snaps out of it and shouts, “High Priestess Gaia! What are you saying? She came in here without permission.”

He is soon joined by his wounded companion who suddenly finds his missing bravado to reason, “This place has been abandoned and forgotten for a long time. For someone to be able to come here means—”

“It means that they might have gotten their hands on a special key, or that fate has led her way here, just in time for the Full Moon Rite,” the woman—High Priestess Gaia—cuts off their rambling calmly, almost sounding like a mother chastising her rude boys. She gives them a pointed look as she adds, “Or the poor soul could have been lost. I’ve lived much longer in this realm than you have been, child. I don’t need you to lecture me about how things work in this place.”

Sensing no danger coming from her, you loosen your guard a little—shoulders sagging in quick relief and your hands falling away from your sheathed sword.

“So tell me. Are you lost, child?”

Feeling unsure, you glance back and forth between the Priestess and the swordsmen before answering. “I, uh—” You take a deep breath, suddenly finding it hard to think of the right words to say. “I was just passing by,” you finally manage to speak. Sighing, you try to shake off the tension still rolling in your body and tilt your head down, greeting the Priestess as formally as you can. “Forgive me for trespassing. I had no idea if this place was forbidden to enter.”

“It’s not,” High Priestess Gaia says without missing a beat—before any of the swordsmen can get a word in. “Just like the boy said. This place has been lost in time with no one coming to visit for a long time. Be it out of fear, or because this place has been written off from the maps of the realm.”

You can sense the movement from one of the swordsmen as he shifts on his feet, as if trying to dispute the high priestess’ words. Gaia, noticing the same thing, releases a deep sigh and looks over at them.

“Go back to the Keep. It’s almost time for the rite. I’m sure you will be more useful for the priests there,” she firmly says, and then turns to the wounded man still sitting on the ground to add, “And you’ll want to look at those wounds and have them tended.”

The scarred swordsman—the one still standing—grits his teeth, as if he is about to deny the order given to him. But then his companion lets out a deep grunt in his effort to rise to his feet, and he finally gives in. Nodding his head, the scarred swordsman swallows his displeasure and bends down to retrieve his sword. He glares at you as he sheaths his sword, before turning to help his friend to his feet.

“I’ll take him to the healer,” he says, bowing slightly at the priestess. Facing you again, his glare returns, as sharp as the tip of his sword as he swears, “Fates be damned, but if you even think about leaving a scratch on Gaia’s skin or posing a threat to her, I will come back here and end you myself.”

You return his glare with a stubborn tilt of your chin. “And as I have repeatedly said, I never meant any harm. I can promise you that there will be no harm committed to your priestess.”

Keeping your gaze locked on the scarred guard, you can see it when he finally backs down, the defiant look in his eyes wavering before he acknowledges you with a short nod. Wrapping the younger one’s arm around his shoulder so he can support him, he says nothing else and simply bows to the high priestess before finally walking away.

You watch them go, wobbling through the trees before they disappear in the shadows as they search for a healer.

“Go back to the Keep.”

So you were right, after all. There is something beyond this grove. You wonder if there are other swordsmen like them stationed in the Keep—guards who are responsible of watching over the temple and the ruined city—and were planning to hold you hostage there. Shaking your head, you choose not to dwell in the thought and turn to face the high priestess again.

She still has her eyes following the swordsmen, watching over them like a mother would to her sons.

Glancing over her shoulder, you realise that she is standing on the path which leads you back to the temple. It makes you wonder if that was where she had come from.

Has she been in the temple all along?

“I wasn’t aware that there was someone in the temple when I was in there.”

The wise, old woman turns her gaze towards you and smiles. “Strictly speaking, I was not. I was praying in my chamber. I only came down here because I felt something calling for me at the temple. Thought it was her, but I guess I was wrong,” she says with a deep, almost bitter chuckle. Her words and the look in her eyes are hollow when she mutters almost to herself, “I should’ve known better. It’s been too long since she came to visit this place.”

‘Her’?

The way she is speaking in riddles while looking as if she is lost in her own thoughts—memories—draws an icy, uneasy chill through your body. Her eyes appear haunted, as if lost somewhere in the past. That look lasts merely a moment longer before it fades, warmth fills her almost-golden eyes when she regards you again. But then the uneasiness returns when you are made to feel as if she is looking straight into your soul, unravelling your secrets without so much of a spell.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Not really,” you reluctantly admit. Unlike E’l Alora, which you were able to identify before ever stepping foot into their human town, this place doesn’t remind you at all of anything that you have ever read in your book of Ancients and Magic. “In a way, you were right, I got lost and stranded here for some reason.”

A light sound of laughter leaves you, only that it comes out a bit shaky with nerves.

“Forgive me if I sound rude, but,” you glance around the grove, shuddering under the shadows that have grown thicker now that the sun has lowered from the sky. “May I know what exactly is this place?”

The old woman looks at you with a knowing smile. “Come. It would be better if we find someplace more comfortable for us to talk,” she says to you as she turns, ready to head back to the direction where she came from. She might have sensed your hesitation, because she glances down at your forearm and gently points out, “Maybe we can also do something about that wound.”

You follow her gaze and look down, surprised to see a tear on your sleeve. From the torn fabric, you can see a long slash on the skin of your forearm, fresh blood still leaking out. A wound that came from the fight without you realising it.

“Oh, I didn’t realise,” you murmur with a flinch. You recall feeling a sting on your forearm at one point during the fight, yet you ignored it, focusing more on deflecting their swords and pushing back. Now that you finally notice the wound, your brain begins to register the pain.

Pressing your palm against the wound, you look at the high priestess with narrowed eyes. “You could’ve sent me off with your men to have this looked at.”

Gaia merely scoffs, as if the thought of allowing you to join the guards would have been unfathomable. “And risk them disobeying me once I’m not looking?” she asks, “I hope you’ll excuse those boys. They have taken their duty to guard this place to heart—perhaps a bit too much. Though I can’t excuse them for their rash behaviour. They should’ve reported to me first or any of the high priests before taking actions.”

You quickly shake your head. “I should be the one apologising for causing trouble.”

“There is no need,” she says. You can almost hear her smile when she turns away from you. “Now, come, before that wound gets worse. And you also fought quite hard, so who knows if there’s any other we’re not seeing.”

Lowering your arms to your side, you begin to follow the high priestess. But just as you are about to leave the fighting ground, Gaia lifts her hood and looks up to the trees.

“You might want to alert your friend and tell him that you’re doing fine with me. That might stop him from worrying too much,” she suddenly says, pointing up towards the black-winged hawk that had joined the fight earlier, now perched on one of the thin, twisted branches hanging above your head.

At the height of the fight, you have forgotten about it.

When you first saw it, you had simply thought that the hawk only appeared because you had intruded on its home. But Gaia’s comment only puts a confused frown on your face.

“What? But I thought the hawk is with you,” you question her, thinking that the animal is a part of the land, therefore, related to Gaia and the temple. But your question only draws another soft chuckle coming from her.

“Oh, no, dear. That handsome hawk came in together with you,” she says as she looks over her shoulder with a knowing smile, leaving you to wonder where the beast had come from, and why it had involved itself in your fight.

You were quite right for assuming that the high priestess had come from the mountain temple.

Well, you were partially right.

After your quick chat at the grove, Gaia led you back towards the mountain temple. But the moment you entered the entrance tunnel leading back into the main temple, she made a sharp turn and entered through an aperture in the stone wall that you had missed on your way out. It was dark, yet the moment she walked past the wall, torches lit up with flames that burned without any heat, illuminating the corridor and the set of stone steps leading upwards.

You followed her until she entered a simple stone room above the tunnel. The chamber was narrow and high-ceilinged, with candlelights flickering on the stone walls and the small wooden altar set on the end of the chamber. You saw no sight of a statue or drawings of any known Ancients around the altar, yet the wooden top was filled with scriptures, rolled and drawn open, with an opened book laid on the center.

Aside from the altar, the chamber was limitedly furnished. Nothing but one dark rug made up of animal skin covering the front of the altar, a shelf in the corner of the room which was filled with herbs and mixing bowls and even more books, and a single divan covered in silk—that was where you settled down soon after you entered the chamber.

And now the chamber is filled with the scent of herbs, a concoction that she made to help heal your wound. It feels cold on your skin, and it leaves an obvious stain which requires you to roll up your sleeve to avoid it getting soiled—even though you still worried about explaining the tear and the blood stain once you would have to hand it over to the palace maid.

“Seeing the way you are looking at this place, it seems that you’ve been to another sacred land before,” Gaia says, stating a fact rather than questioning, as she gently wraps a bandage around your wounded forearm, sealing the medicinal herbs while stopping your bleeding.

Nodding, you choose to explain it the best you can without giving too many details about your ‘trips,’ and without revealing that it had been merely a day before when you first encountered another sacred land. “I’ve travelled to different places, oftentimes finding myself stranded in strange places,” you share with a chuckle, “Such as this one.”

Gaia smiles and finishes her work. “Our homeland, this city of mountains, is called Arselon,” she says as she gathers the bowl of mixed herbs and bandages and starts putting them away. “The mountain temple has always been known as the temple of Arselon, even though it used to have its own name. Many used to travel far to come to our rites, specifically the nights of the full moon. Just like what’s happening tonight.”

You have so many questions. Much about this place, and more about the people that had once resided here. Gaia, as if she can read your mind, turns to light up fresh candles to replace the ones that have burned out while she was gone, and continues to tell you more about this place. “Back then, the Ancients—our ancestors—built these temples to worship their Gods and Goddesses, to pray for the sanctity of the realm and to pass down their wisdom. Unlike the humans in the mortal realm, the residents of the Far Far Away Land today no longer hold the same rites, and only a small few still worship the sources of their powers, while only using these temples to pray and wish for blessings from their ancestors. It has been that way since the Ancients who built this realm were long gone.”

Gaia returns to your side with a glass of wine—for healing, she had explained earlier when she first pointed out the decanter resting on the wooden shelf. “This place used to be where the Priests and Priestess would hold lectures and sermons to the people, spreading the knowledge about our Ancients and magic, and the history behind the creation of the realm.”

Gaia’s eyes turn towards the flickering candles, and then the small altar. “We still keep most of the scriptures that recounted the story of the Ancients, the history behind the realm, and the secrets of magic. Yet we no longer have as many as we used to. All that we have left are preserved in small chambers such as this one, hidden libraries and storages in various parts of this mountain temple.”

Your eyes follow her gaze to the scriptures on the altar, the chests lying beneath, and the shelf which is lined up with old books. You refuse to believe that this is all that was left of all the documented history that this place has to preserve, but before you can say anything, Gaia confirms it with sadness written in her gaze.

“Once, this land was seen and regarded as a sacred place, a holy land, yet this is all that was left behind over time.” A resigned sigh escapes her lips before she smiles grimly. “Now you understand why our young guards were uncompromising when it came to protecting this place.”

The smile that you give her feels just as grim. Your mouth feels bitter from her grievance, from the dark history shadowing this place, so you raise your glass to wash it all down. Your chest aches to think about what was lost. Recalling what you have learned after your visit to E’l Alora, you take a deep breath and question her, “Was it the war, that came to this land?”

Gaia grimly nods. “The Great Siege.”

Once the sun has set, and nightfall comes, Gaia invites you to witness the rite.

It is an offer that you cannot possibly refuse.

You follow Gaia through a different corridor—one that was yet again hidden in the stone wall—on the other side of her private chamber, emerging on one of the alcoves on the upper tier which you saw earlier. From here, you have the perfect view of the rite from above, the entire part of the temple is visible for you to experience the ceremony while remaining hidden from sight.

The temple has already fascinated you before, regardless of its vacancy and forlorn facade that you witnessed when you first entered the place.

Seeing the temple coming alive with the rite fascinates you even more; with worshippers and believers making use of this dark place. They arrive soon after dusk in various shades of cloaks and robes, candlelights flickering to eliminate the shadows and melodic chants of prayers bouncing against the dark stone walls.

Standing at the center of the raised dais is a priest in a white robe, with a few others standing on either side of him, all carrying candles in their hands while leading the prayers. The guards, including the two that you met earlier in the grove, are wearing dark robes over their armours as they line up below the dais, watching over the rite and helping out those who have arrived with offerings to place around the dais.

You watch with keen eyes as the rite continues. The people move like a steady current, in motion with the rhythm of the chanting prayers echoing through the temple. You watch in awe as they move in a practised gesture—the way they walk up in line to light up the candles around the dais before moving back to the nave, where they follow the motion by passing and exchanging candles between each other.

The way the flickering flames seem to be weaving through the people becomes such a captivating sight. The lights and flames spread across the temple until the entire hall comes alight—a symbol of life surviving in the dark, of the people who survived the darkness, and the story that has been written of their past, present, and future.

“Once, in the past, this holy land burned with life. Candles were lit up to celebrate life, to honour our blessings, and to pray for the Ancients that were watching over us from above,” Gaia speaks from beside you, her voice gentle and soft, almost as melodic as the prayers echoing down below. But then her voice turns grim as she speaks of the past, “And then they came, bringing in their deathly flames, and this city burned into ashes.”

You turn to look at Gaia as she suddenly laughs. A pained and bitter laugh that pierces through your chest.

“Well, most of them,” she adds with a wry smile, “This temple and the ruins you saw outside are what was left of this place. Decades, centuries worth of a civilization reduced to nothing more but skeletons of our homes, schools, temples, and everything that our elders had built for the sake of preserving the treasure of knowledge and faith left behind by the Ancients. The only thing that those flames failed to diminish was the spirit of our people.”

As she continues to speak, Gaia’s eyes light up. Her grief is soon replaced by hope. “These people,” she says, as she watches the people below, ”They may have lost their homes, the lands that they had spent generations cultivating for the benefit of our homeland, yet they continue to thrive through the pain of our dark past, surviving the best they can with all that we have left, even if it means that we all have to remain hidden in the shadows.”

“But where do these people live?” you ask, as you have been wondering ever since the first time you stepped foot in this place, “Where do you all live, when the city is no longer safe?”

“In places that our own homeland provides for us, just like how this temple came to be,” Gaia explains. “There are people who live within and in the heart of the mountains, in homes that were built in the stone walls, and even under the dry, rocky peaks spread across the land. It may not be much, compared to what we used to have just decades ago, yet we have found our solitude in enclosed spaces such as this temple that protects us all.”

Down below, the rite continues. The movement of the candles has gone slower, and so are the chants recited by the priests and priestesses leading the ceremony. There are only a small amount of offerings laid on the dais, but there are so many candles to make up for what is lacking.

“After the war, the only times that our candles were lit were to hold vigils and prayers for the Ancients to liberate us from our suffering,” Gaia continues as you watch the priests and priestesses leaving the raised dais, slowly making their way to the center of the temple where the pool of water is present. “Now, we light our candles to reflect, to pay homage to those who sacrificed their lives to protect what now remains of our home, and to remember our dark history so we can replace our pain with new hope.”

The movements within the temple shift. This time, the guards in their dark robes are the ones to make their move, weaving through the believers with the silver chalices filled with wine in their hands. Carefully, the guards pass the chalices to the people, who then each take a drink from them before passing them over to the next in line.

Gaia gently explains that the drinking of wine symbolises living for the future, to drink for the dead and the forgotten ancestors while celebrating the old life that they have lost.

Your eyes move to the pool of water, realising only now that the full moon—which appears through the opening above the temple—is reflected perfectly on the surface of the water.

The leaders of the ceremony move to stand around the pool to sing their prayers, joined in by their followers who are lining behind them in the nave. At the end of the rite, the priests and priestesses retreat to the back of the temple, while the worshippers step forward to take their place.

One by one, the people come down to their knees to pray to the moon’s reflection in the water, before finally releasing the small candles that they have been holding into the pool, allowing them to float around the image of the bright moon.

“To the sky, we pray for the future. To the land, we pray for the dead. To the water, we pass our wishes to the moon, hoping that it will one day pass down to us its blessings, the same way it once did to the Ancients who walked on this realm.”

You continue to watch as this ritual continues, allowing every single worshipper to do their part of the ceremony until they dwindle into small groups of people praying beyond the dais. You have become so enthralled by the scene that you barely notice that Gaia has left your side until she returns.

“Don’t you think it’s time for you to go home?” she asks, snapping you out of your daze. As you turn to her, Gaia hands you a folded cloth—a dark robe—something which she says may help you blend in with the remaining groups of people below so you can safely slip away from the temple.

You are still in such a daze after witnessing the rite—something that feels so divine and sacred that it gives you a sense of peace and grief at the same time—that it doesn’t register to you the fact that the priestess seems to have knowledge of your time limit until much later. You simply listen to her instructions on how to reach the ground level—back to where your exit is located—as you put on the robe, covering your appearance as much as you can to avoid gaining unwanted attention.

“Our home is open to travellers like yourself, should you ever decide to return and find some interest to learn more about us,” Gaia adds right before you go. “Regardless of what Gen and Edmund said earlier, this place isn’t as closed off or forbidden as it was made to be. We have closed our borders, but some of us believe that it would only be right to maintain the faith that our elders once had about opening our doors to other believers.”

In her gaze, the same hope you saw lights up the same way the candlelights below are still burning brightly. “The longer we are hidden from the world, the more we will be forgotten. And the knowledge of the past that we have spent centuries protecting will one day be lost in time, exactly what our enemies had once aimed towards when they brought their flames to our home.”

Just as Gaia is about to send you off down the stone steps, she reaches out to grab your hands, holding them gently in hers. “Promise me that you’ll return one day. That you’ll never forget about us,” she calmly asks while holding her pleading gaze on yours. Your body stiffens when you feel her passing something into your palm, and you instinctively wrap your palm around it firmly to keep it from falling.

“I promise. I’ll return one day, hopefully in better circumstances than the present,” you promise her with a smile, not bothering to say something as you accept the small token that she has given you and slip it into your pocket without looking. You keep your gaze steady on hers as you whisper, “Thank you.”

As you slip through the worshippers who are still deep in their prayers, making your way to the back of the dais to find the hidden portal door, you suddenly feel the heat of a gaze following your movement. Cautiously, you turn to look over your shoulder, expecting to see the familiar glare from the guard that you fought previously tracking your escape.

But what is looking back at you isn’t at all human.

Perched atop the bannister on the upper floor, you see the magnificent-looking black-winged hawk that had appeared during your fight earlier. With its wings pulled back, its eyes are wide open, glaring at you attentively as if it is keeping watch at your departure. Staring back at it, the animal’s gaze feels menacing and comforting at the same time, yet something deep inside is telling you that the hawk is there without any malicious intent. It is simply there to watch you, to see you go, and it remains in its position when you turn away, slipping under the banner and into the magic portal to return home.

As the wave of magic taking you away from the sacred land ripples through the space around you, the hawk flaps its wings and rises from its perch, making its own way back home to where it came from.

Emburn Empire has come alive tonight.

The full moon looks bright in the night sky, casting a divine glow into the land.

The imperial palace and its Moon Temple look radiant under the night sky, the white walls and pillars made up of Clayntine Stone reflecting the moonlight glow so perfectly that they glimmer like magic crystals.

Within the walls of the Moon Temple of Aone, candlelights flicker and burn, casting a golden glow across the praying hall. Both inside and on the outer grounds of the moon temple, the people of Emburn have come and gathered to witness the rite. From above, the candlelights appear like an ocean of living inferno—the ocean of hope, as the Royal Priests would call it.

Ever since he was a young boy, Yoongi has always enjoyed the Runea Luna Eve, the night of the full moon, when the rite is held to celebrate and pay homage to the Ancients who had built the land of Emburn. Tonight, however, he is too restless to enjoy the celebration, feeling too disconnected to even pay attention to the ceremony unfolding right in front of him.

The Moon Temple of Aone is full tonight; the commoners are taking up the space below, while the nobles and royals claim the seats on the upper tiers and the mezzanine floors. Many carry their own candles in their hands as a symbol of their hope, but all have their eyes set on the front of the raised dais at the head of the temple, where the Royal High Priest is giving his sermon and leading the prayers.

Two identical thrones sit on the center of the raised dais. The Empress of Emburn, Empress Ariane, sits on one of them, while the one beside her is left empty in the absence of the ailing Emperor. Behind her, two rows of long benches are set to accommodate the members of the Royal Priesthood on one side, while the Royal Aides who are present to show support for the Empress fill the other side.

The Crown Prince sits on the balcony on the top left of the dais, together with the highest nobles and the royal guests who were invited to witness the ceremony. Including the royal guests that Yoongi is currently—and quite reluctantly—hosting in place of the Empress; Byron Koshar, the new Emperor of the Neo Empire of Kosha, and his second daughter, Princess Celestyna.

“You’ll have to keep the Princess company during the rite tonight. Treat her well, be polite about it, and make her feel welcome,” was the warning that Empress Ariane had given Yoongi earlier today during the preparation for the rite. “You need to build a positive relationship with the Kosha Empire to gain support for your future.”

“Must I take up the responsibility for your guests, Mother? There are tons of nobles here that would be more suitable and willing to be their hosts.”

At Yoongi’s complaint, the Empress turned and glared. Obviously displeased that her son is unwilling to do her bidding. “Those nobles aren’t the ones who are going to take the throne now, are they?” she scolded him then with a sharp tone of voice that made him wince. “Do this for the Empire, for the Emperor, and for your position on the throne.”

Yoongi had chosen not to argue, realising that there was no way he could win against Empress Ariane once she made the decree.

He isn’t even sure why it would be necessary for him to gain support from Kosha Empire. It’s not like there will be anyone to contest his position for the throne once the time comes. And it’s not like he’s eager to take the crown so prematurely, with the Emperor still living and breathing and capable enough to continue ruling, and while he is still in the process of courting his future Empress.

Even if there are parties of nobles or royal blood who would dare to challenge his position on the throne, Yoongi cannot possibly see how being ‘good friends’ with the second Princess would give him the advantage to refute the challenge. He feels bitter to think that the Empress may have any intention of arranging some forming of an alliance by matching them together.

Marriage arrangements made to gain favour from a strong ally are not unheard of, but it isn’t something that Yoongi would be willing to partake in. Not even at the risk of losing his position on the throne.

And he cannot possibly agree with such an arrangement when he already has someone who was chosen for him since the day he was born.

Yoongi holds back an exasperated groan and looks up at the exposed dome ceiling above. Through the see-through ceiling made up of Shadow Crystal, the full moon is clearly visible, illuminating the temple’s hall with its glow.

Keeping his eyes on the moon helps him detach himself from the present. His restless mind is so quick to wander, filled with the thoughts of you. He wonders where you might be spending your evening, and if you are looking up at the moon the way he is doing now. He also wonders if you are safe, wherever you are.

“…as we send our gratitude to the moon, tonight, we remember our great ancestor, the Fairy King Aone, the Ancient Hunter who had borrowed the magic from the moon to build Emburn from the ashes and has continued to bring prosperity to the people…”

The Royal High Priest’s voice echoes through the grand hall, pulling Yoongi’s attention back to the ceremony that is slowly coming to an end.

Back in the past, the sermons and praises for the Ancient Hunter would have been followed by a sacrament which lasted for the entire night, beginning from nightfall to the coming of dawn, filled with chantings of prayers for the ancestors, the Ancients, and the moon.

In the present time, the ritual will be followed with festivities. A night of celebration where the people will pour into the streets to sing and dance and drink as much wine as their minds and bodies would allow until the dawn comes.

Once Yoongi has his attention on the raised dais, his eyes flickering towards the altar and the statue of the Ancient Hunter standing in the center, he feels something pulling at him. A pulse. A shot of magic calling for his attention, and it seems to be coming from the ground floor of the temple.

Yoongi looks across the grand hall as a dark figure slips out from behind one of the white pillars, wearing a black robe with its hood raised over his head, hiding his face and features from prying eyes.

Sensing Yoongi’s eyes on him, the person lifts his head, meeting Yoongi’s gaze with his own from the distance, revealing himself to be none other than Yoongi’s best friend and right-hand man.

Yijeong.

Upon meeting Yoongi’s gaze, Yijeong nods once. A subtle gesture that the busy worshippers around him will surely miss. But the one gesture is enough for the Crown Prince. The message has been delivered and received.

She’s home safe.

With a gesture that is just as subtle, Yoongi responds with a slight tilt of his head and then leans back into his seat. The anxiety which has been weighing on him since the moment he felt the ripple of magic—the omen signifying that a portal has been opened—is soon lifted.

His job done, Yijeong steps back into the shadow, drifting out of the crowd of people and out of the moon temple just as the Royal High Priest ends his sermon. The air immediately shifts as the Royal Priests step away from the altar. One by one, the people begin to disperse—some making time to walk up to the altar and the dais to leave their candles and bow to the Empress, while others walk out towards the nearest stream to release their candles and let them drift along with the flowing water, hoping that they would bring their wishes back to the land that they are worshipping or wherever the stream of Marble Falls and the Armere River will take them.

In the absence of the Royal Priests’ sermons and prayers, the sound of music begins, carrying on with the evening breeze like a draft, a sign for the festivities celebrating the full moon and the birth of the Ancient Hunter to begin.

Yoongi looks over to the throne as Empress Ariane rises from her seat, throwing a barely-there glance towards the balcony, straight where the Crown Prince and his guest—his date for the night, if that is what the Empress has in mind—are sitting in.

The bitterness that he felt earlier returns when he meets the Empress’ gaze. He knows that she isn’t turning to see if the Crown Prince—her son—is having a blast during the ceremony. He knows that the Empress is simply checking to see if he is doing his duty as the perfect host for the people that he wants absolutely nothing to do with.

Yoongi keeps his eyes on his mother until she steps away, leaving the temple through the rear exit which leads towards the royal drawing room, the priests and priestesses and her royal aides trailing right behind. Yoongi nearly shoves himself out of his seat as he rises, ready—perhaps too eager—to end his night and return to the palace.

Just as Yoongi is about to turn and bid his farewell to the Emperor of Kosha—who has been busy chatting with a noble from the city called Mosshaven, the city of merchants at the south end of Emburn—and the other nobles who have been there with him, Princess Celestyna speaks first.

“Leaving so soon, Your Highness? Must you really leave now?” she asks. Her tone is gentle and polite, yet it demands attention, the kind that would have put young men to their knees, bending over backwards to please her. “The festivities are only beginning. Wouldn’t the people look forward to having their Crown Prince be a part of it?”

Yoongi forces a smile. For the past few days, Yoongi has been confined in the palace under the Empress’ orders to host the royal guests. Primarily, the second princess. And for the past few days, he was forced to ignore the ripples of magic calling for him, beckoning him to see you, all due to the princess always getting in the way, always inquiring for his company at the same exact time he wished to rush to your side instead.

Always with mundane things that Yoongi would have preferred to avoid, to rather deal with important matters instead of wasting it with an afternoon stroll through the royal gardens, or have tea and biscuits by the Emerald Lake, or have him escorting her through the various estates in the Imperial Palace’s territory and help her learn about the arts and culture of Emburn.

The fact is, he has grown tired of it. He has wasted too much precious time which he could have spent with you.

Even looking at the Princess makes him feel exhausted and weary. At least, tonight, he can use the festivities as an excuse to find some semblance of freedom. To untangle himself from the responsibility that has been forced on him.

“I’m sure the people will be able to have fun without me being there,” Yoongi smoothly says, “There are other members of the royal family who will be joining the festivities and would no doubt feel honoured to keep you company. I’m sure they’ll be better party companions than I would.”

Princess Celestyna’s face pinches with displeasure—a look which reminds Yoongi too much of his mother which, undeniably, the only reminder that the Empress is indeed distantly related to the royal family of Kosha—yet she is quick to conceal it with a thin smile. The same practised smile that she has been wearing each time she was in the company of the Empress, Yoongi took notice.

“Well, I was expecting that we could perhaps share the first dance during the celebration. This is my first time joining such a grand event, after all, and I heard a member of the royal family has always been the one to start the dancing,” she says with a deliberate tone that is meant to seduce, to allure, while she leans slightly forward to get closer to Yoongi.

Close enough for Yoongi to smell the scent of the perfume that she had pasted around her collarbone and between her breasts. A strong, sultry scent of orchid with a hint of spiciness to it. Yoongi prefers something sweet, subtle and fresh. Something that reminds him of you.

There is also something about the gesture and the way she speaks which seems off to him. Unconvincing and completely unfitting to be something that a person of her character would do. It feels too deliberate. Too hollow and viscous. As if she had practised this act one too many times before she was made to face Yoongi.

A shiver runs through him. The unsettling kind which takes an effort for him to hide.

Pressing his lips, Yoongi tries to reel his annoyance from surfacing. This isn’t the first time that Princess Celestyna has brought up her request to have Yoongi stay by her side for the evening’s events and share a dance with her. The only problem with this offer would be the fact that if Yoongi ever plans on attending the festival, as per tradition, having her as his dance partner and showing her to his people would make everyone think that she is the one he is courting to be the future consort or the next Empress of Emburn.

There is no possible way that he would risk something like this. Not when he already has someone else in mind to introduce to his people.

“Unfortunately, I do have other business to attend to, and I promise that I wouldn’t be able to act as the perfect company or host for Your Highness the Princess tonight if I am to have my focus wandering towards other matters and not be present,” Yoongi reasons with the Princess, using the same words that he used the previous times Princess Celestyna kept trying to convince Yoongi to spend the evening with her.

Yoongi is quite sure that his refusal will no doubt reach the Empress, and there might be chances for him to receive the brunt of the Empress’ ire once he comes face to face with his mother again. Princess Celestyna should know this too, judging from the way her gaze sharpens, and how she is quick to make him another offer before Yoongi can slip away.

“Then you must make it up by sparing your time with me in the afternoon tomorrow,” she urgently asks him with one of her dainty hands placed on Yoongi’s arm, merely inches above his elbow. “Perhaps we can have tea in the Royal Garden once you are done with your duties?”

Yoongi bites back the words of refusal that nearly slip out the moment she speaks. It is an offer that is not quite an open invitation. More like a challenge, a subtle threat, as Yoongi can sense a finality in her words. He can almost hear the words unspoken from her gaze—give me this, or I’ll go to the Empress and make things harder for you.

A resigned sigh slips out of him as Yoongi realises that he has no choice but to play along. At least for now. Only until he can find the chance or an excuse to escape from the second Princess.

His nod is stiff when Yoongi reluctantly accepts her deal. “One of my attendants will come for you in the afternoon once I have tea prepared in the gardens.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Princess Celestyna says with a smile on her face, mirth dancing in her eyes as she finally gets her wish. “I shall be waiting for the good news.”

Bowing towards the Princess, and then to her silent father, the Emperor of Kosha, Yoongi bids his farewell for the night and quickly turns to walk away before any word can be thrown to trample his escape. The long tail of his black coat flares behind him as he walks out of the balcony seats in rapid footsteps.

His hand finds its way to his upper arm as he walks down the stairs, making his exit through the vacant service hall in the back of the temple. He keeps rubbing the skin from over the thick sleeve of his coat to brush away the lingering feeling of the Princess’ hand, wishing it to be your touch instead.

As he makes his way out of the Moon Temple of Aone, Yoongi silently makes up his mind, promising himself that at the next full moon ceremony, he will make sure that he only has you standing by his side.

For your hand to be the only one he would ask for the first dance the next time he joins the Runea Luna Eve.

That day will come, he tells himself. A promise. Soon.

⟶ Author’s note | thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this one, please leave a like/kudo and help reblog the fic to share it with others to enjoy. Any form of feedback is welcome!