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obislut · 1 month

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Never had a thing

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

I have no clue how this works the thought process was like: since I'm stuck in the worst writing block of my life why don't I start crossposting on Tumblr so it kind of feels like I've accomplished something while the truth is that I haven't been able to complete a WIP in two months? 🫠 I never posted on Tumblr. Is this okay? Anyways, Simon Riley brain rot. That's it. That's the post. Also, you can find this on AO3. 18+

Word count: 10k CW: smutty!!! jealous Simon Riley BECAUSE I honestly crave that. Soft Simon Riley because I crave that as well.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon had groaned like a battered dog when Price gave him the news that he needed to lie low. “Someone in Konni’s got your name” he’d said. “We don’t wanna take any risks. Just for a few weeks.”

He was sure those few weeks would turn into a few bloody months if he didn’t get a move on. For that, he’d hastily packed his things from the poor excuse of a flat the army had granted him, and started looking for a place to stay that wasn’t in Manchester.

Initially, Simon almost fantasized about buying his own flat. Maybe a piece of land and fulfill the wishes of the outcast that he was – living away from people, giving them the same treatment they’ve always given him.

Too bad he was legally dead. He had nothing to his name if not a grave that didn’t even exist, all his possessions were cursed memories and metaphorical things – a rank he didn’t hold, a flat that wasn’t his. Even his name barely pertained to him anymore.

The SAS wasn’t offering any accommodation, the tightwads. He couldn't buy a house, or rent one. He couldn't lean on any of his teammates, or he'd put them in danger – he wouldn't do it, not to them. Taint their lives with his name and the death it inevitably brings.

Price had helped him settle in a glorified motorway hotel. But he wasn’t picky – after all, he only had to stay for a few weeks.

A few days into his exile, he’d entered a Tesco with his head bowed and his hood on, a surgical mask on his face. A pack of Marlboro was all he wanted since the dodgy motel he was staying at (hiding) didn’t care if he smoked within the room. Plus, he reckoned that the smell of nicotine and combustion was a much better alternative to the rancid stench of mold.

However, as he plucked ten quid from his wallet, his eyes absently fell on a bulletin board behind the store clerk. There were tons of leaflets there: missing cats or dogs, people looking for a job or offering one. And then, a bright yellow paper caught his eye. Whoever printed it lacked taste but sure as hell knew how to catch one’s attention. He’d stopped in his tracks, a tenner between two fingers.

DESPERATE!!! PhD STUDENT LOOKING FOR A FLATMATE. NO SPECIFIC GENDER OR AGE AS LONG AS YOU CAN PAY RENT ON TIME. Two-bedroom flat, third floor, no elevator. If interested, please contact this number.

At the end of the flyer, the paper was cut into tear-off strips, so that interested individuals could rip the section with the phone number.

He liked that first word: desperate. He wondered if this person was as desperate as he was. Would they accept a man who wore a balaclava and looked proper sketchy? How desperate were they, really, if he asked to rent on verbal agreement – no contracts, no signatures whatsoever?

He decided he wanted to test that before he died of mold poisoning.

Nevertheless, when he dialed the number on his burner phone a few hours later, he wasn’t expecting the voice coming through the line. A shriek. A goddamn banshee. Chirpy and cheery, sounding like those damn advertisements on the telly for children’s toys. Whoever was on the other side of the phone was trying to sell.

The obnoxiously happy voice he’d heard through the receiver surely did match the person he found at the door of the flat a few days later - and the apartment itself.

It was a splash of colors Simon wasn’t even sure matched, from oranges and greens in the living room to yellows and blues in the kitchen. Walls of the same room were painted differently, and a brown leather couch lay on a round and fluffy turquoise carpet. A glass coffee table stood in the middle of it, hosting a clay vase with orange tulips.

You were a splash of colors yourself. Bright clothes, vibrant smile, and matching eyes.

Notwithstanding the loud energy that came with your presence, he could see you were tense as you guided him through the apartment. Simon didn’t blame you – he wasn’t the most trustworthy-looking lad. While he’d ditched the balaclava and had decided to go for a surgical mask, even hewould walk on eggshells around himself.

“Only a few weeks.” He’d said, deciding that he could withstand the eyesore that was the decor of that flat. “I’ll cover the rent while you find someone more permanent.”

And to his utter surprise, you’d accepted. He thought it was much too naïve of you, to let him rent without a lease. Without a document, without anything to prove that he'd pay as he'd promised in that listless fashion of his. Maybe you were as desperate as your tasteless leaflet said, in that dive of a Tesco.

He moved in in the span of a few days. You helped him with the boxes, although it was clear he didn't need a hand – especially not from a tiny thing like you. Not that you were small, he was just built like a brick house and you – well, you were made of wood, like in those cautionary tales mums tell their children. Pigs and wolves and shite.

You didn’t question why he wore the balaclava, nor why he never left his room, but sometimes you’d knock on his door to ask if he wanted pizza too, since you were ordering. He’d eat it (and any of his other meals really) in the cramped space he'd managed to rent, hosting only a bed, a poor excuse of a closet, and a desk.

Until one day he heard booming noises coming from the telly in the living room, so he peeked from the door he’d left ajar only to be greeted by Tom Cruise’s mug – Top Gun.

Silently, he joined you on the sofa and he started correcting the way Maverick held the gun or grunting about how an aircraft couldn't make that maneuver. You never asked how he knew, but it had been a few weeks since he’d moved in and he’d already gathered how brilliant you were. You didn’t need to ask questions to connect the dots.

Simon wasn't keen on giving you his phone number, even the one on his burner phone. The paranoid that he was, and with a bit of experience to back it up, he didn't want to leave you with anything that could connect you to him.

So, you started leaving post-it notes on the fridge.

Dinner leftovers on the second rack. He’d tick off the sentence to let you know he’d read it, whether he ate them or not. Simon had this inborn ability to ghost people even without the use of phones.

Tried a new recipe. Tupperware with the blue lid. He’d write a score out of ten on the corner of the note.

I used your milk for breakfast!!! Sorry!!! He had huffed and grumbled when he’d headed out for groceries afterwards, but ever since that day, he started buying two cartons instead of one.

And he'd leave post-it notes for you, too.

Out for a few days. That’s how he would vaguely tell you he was being deployed. You would always draw a sad emoji next to it.

Watered your plants. Bloody things were more dead than alive. You’d mark down a very happy emoji, going as far as to add two poorly drawn thumbs up.

He barely noticed when his meals started happening on the kitchen table instead of his desk. Similarly, he couldn’t recall when he’d stopped taking pains to ensure your mealtimes wouldn’t coincide.

Friday night pizzas were always shared; it was a silent house rule you’d both agreed on. The both of you on the settee with the carton boxes on your thighs, two cold beers on the glass coffee table, and the telly playing a movie.

Your cheeky arse often chose a war film, and Simon had to refrain from rolling his eyes at how obvious you were being – trying to get to know him.

Zero Dark Thirty.

“Is it true you use callsigns?”

“Yes.”

“You have one?”

“Yes.”

“What is it, then?”

“Classified.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“Negative.”

The hurt locker.

“You ever defused a bomb?”

“Yes.”

“No shit – oh my God. How was it?”

“Dangerous.”

“Why thank you for the chat.”

“No problem.”

“When did it happen? Like, what was the situa-”

“Classified.”

You made a face and mocked his accent. “Classified.”

Apocalypse now.

“You are a bit like Kurtz.”

He gave you a look. “Mental?”

You huffed. “No. I meant the things he says, not the whole insanity bit.”

Simon scoffed but otherwise stayed silent. The film rolled in the background.

He murmured, then. “The horror, the horror.”

And you laughed.

He found it inexplicably easy to strip down for you, until he stood metaphorically naked in front of your eyes. Until he told you his full name and gave you his personal phone number. Until he showed his face.

Until he noticed you'd stopped looking for a flatmate, and his weeks of rent turned into months like he’d initially foreseen, but for another reason entirely. Months turned into years, but he could’ve never predicted anything in his life to last this long.

Until two summers later, while sporting a mundane black surgical mask and casual clothing, he took a photo with you in your doctoral gown, in front of your Uni. The same picture that now hung next to the entryway of your flat.

Until two years became three, and then four.

Until he just kind of… stayed.

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon’s day has worn him to the bone. The only thing he wants now is to go home, down a beer in two gulps, and knock himself out on any flat surface available.

He’s risked his fair share of speeding fines on the motorway, parked the car in the building's garage, and trudged up the three flights of stairs that led to his apartment. When he unlocks the door, he finds a sight that melts his frustration into a puddle at his feet.

You’re lying on the sofa, absolutely unbothered, looking lovely and homely. A lousy romcom plays on the telly. One hand is hiding in the crinkling shell of a packet of Walkers, and your other one is curled around the neck of a Stella Artois. Simon gathers that your workday must've finished a little earlier than normal because you’re already in your loungewear: a pair of loose sleeping shorts and a t-shirt he knows all too well.

All too well, because it’s his.

And he could give you the benefit of the doubt; after all, you often wear oversized clothes. It could’ve been a laundry mishap; you could’ve absently taken it out of the dryer without a second glance, thinking it was yours. But the blatant British Army patch on the sleeve and his surname written in white block letters on the back give him very little to work with to excuse you. He doesn’t even remember he still owned that tee, probably because, factually, he doesn’t anymore.

It's clearly yours, now.

He drops the house keys in the tray lying on the floating shelf next to the doorway, before closing the door behind him. The sound must’ve alerted you, because your head drops backwards, rolling against the armrest of the sofa.

"Evenin'." You beam, looking at his downward image. Your head lolls and your mouth looks busy chewing on a handful of crisps.

Ever the vigilant bastard, he wants to flick your forehead and remind you that chewing upside down could lead to choking, but you aren’t a child. Although, with the crumbs of what smells like salt and vinegar crisps littering the corners of your lips and the baffling, chaotic way your hair is tied in a bun, you sort of look like one.

You curl your legs to leave a free spot for him, patting your foot on the sofa’s cushions. "Wanna join me?"

Simon hums quietly; his eyes flicker over to the TV for just a glance. He isn’t in the mood for a romcom, not at all. But he does want company. He sighs and shrugs off his jacket before toeing off his boots. His balaclava is snatched off by a tired hand, and dropped somewhere he doesn’t care to check. Only two wide steps with his annoyingly long legs and he’s already by the sofa, flopping onto it like a wet rag slapped on the leather cushions.

He eyes the bag of crisps in your hand and raises a questioning eyebrow.

You’ve learned how silent communication works with him because most of the time (especially after particularly hellish days or long deployments) he wanders around the flat like a haunting specter more than a living being.

You mockingly raise your own questioning brow, but alas, you hand him the pack of crisps he’d wordlessly asked for. And just because you can, and because he’s never said anything when you did it, you stretch your legs to rest over his thighs.

That earns you a grumpy side-eye that softens just as quickly when he spots the checkered pink and green socks he gifted you for your graduation.

Simon doesn’t know much about things like that. He isn’t daft, he knows how big it is to earn a PhD. But presents aren’t his thing, nor are the pleasantries built around big achievements.

At the time, he was just tired of seeing you walk barefoot around the flat and thought you needed those more than anything since, apparently, slippers weren’t all the rage in your book. Surely, before his life-changing present, Simon was used to you asking if he’d seen your other slipper while you stumbled about the flat only wearing one on your feet. He’d find them everywhere: under the sofa when vacuuming the carpet, hidden in a groove between the floor and the kitchen counter, forgotten on the washing machine or in the washing machine.

He’d figured that the only way to ensure you’d avoid knocking your pinky toe on the corner of some furniture was to make sure you couldn’t simply drop the footwear. Socks were it, apparently.

He remembers how your eyes had shone like the bleeding sun when he’d given them to you, how you’d clutched them to your chest as if he’d just gifted you a pot of gold. It had been a lovely sight, one he carefully keeps tucked in the almost empty corner of his mind, the one reserved for happy memories.

Nevertheless, Simon has rarely minded your habit of lounging with your calves across his thighs. The opposite, actually. Your friendly sentiments make him feel like, for once, he isn’t about to get stabbed in the back. Moreover, the fact that he is letting you invade his personal space like that, when he never allows anyone else to so much as touch him, truly is a testament to the monumental trust he’s placed in you.

You take a sip from your beer. "Alright?"

“Peachy.” He grumbles dryly.

Your lips purse to conceal a smirk, but hell is it hard. His dry humor never fails to rob a halfhearted smile from you. He has subconsciously started using it more often than socially acceptable just because of that.

You wiggle your toes against his abdomen, trying to steal a smile of his own from him – even if those tend to appear once in a blue moon.

What you are given, however, is only a slap on the ankle.

Catching on his mood, you down one last sip from your Stella and then you wiggle the bottle at him.

"There," you offer. "Seems like you need it more than I do."

He tosses the bag of crisps on the coffee table and accepts the beer from you, taking a rather large gulp from it. He isn’t a light drinker by any means. In his defense, it takes a whole lot of alcohol to knock him out. He has the metabolism of a properly trained soldier and his liver has processed much worse things than a bloody Stella Artois.

“Why are you being particularly friendly today?” He asks with thinly veiled sarcasm.

He isn’t complaining, per se. But he is a pessimist, one who can’t seem to grasp the notion that people can act accommodating without asking anything in return. Even if that has been your only behavior for the past four years.

Therefore, Simon understands why you narrow your eyes at his question, all offended and a tiny bit sour, as if he’s just asked something outrageous. However, he also knows you’ll brush off his comment because it is true, what he said.

You are particularly cheery.

"I'm back in the game." You state, sounding as if you've achieved some great thing. "I have a date next Friday."

That.

That is what Simon needs to hear in order to give you a genuine reaction.

He raises a single blond eyebrow and glances away from the TV to look at you with that signature hooded gaze of his – the kind that could cut through steel.

“A date?” He grumbles. “Who’s the bloke?”

In response, you squirm a little on the couch to lazily reach for your phone on the coffee table. One of your legs swings to keep your balance, and if Simon didn’t have the reflexes of a sniper, you’d have heeled his face. He automatically grabs your ankle to both prevent your fall and save the integrity of his nose, releasing a sigh – bloody used to it.

You're absolutely unaffected by whatever's happening at the other end of you, awfully concentrated on your task at hand. Fingertips graze the phone enough to slide it closer until you finally manage to have it in your grasp. It’s painfully clear how you can’t be bothered to stand.

You lie back down on the sofa with a sigh, as if that has been an exhausting endeavor.

Simon scoffs.

Your legs return to his lap with apt nonchalance. Then, you swipe through your screen. Simon can only see the phone covering your face from that angle, how the screen light illuminates your features – brows furrowed and the tip of your tongue peeking between your teeth, all focused on finding something on it.

After painstakingly long seconds, you turn your phone to him. Simon squints at the screen and then focuses on the picture you’re showing.

The man is… somewhat handsome, he has to admit. Brown hair, blue eyes, charming smile with possibly fake teeth. Definitely older. Probably a boring, pretentious tosser. Probably wouldn’t appreciate your carefree nature. He wouldn’t return your lost slippers at your door. He wouldn’t buy you socks so you’d stop whining about being on the verge of breaking your toes. He definitely wouldn’t let you paint only one wall of the living room orange, because, in your opinion, having all four would be “too flashy” - as if one on its own isn’t obnoxious enough.

He has to admit, however, that you look beyond excited, and maybe a little enamored. It’s an adorable view, really, and he hates himself for being unable to rejoice about it with you.

"Adam." You tell him his name, even if he never asked. "Thirty-nine. Associate professor of Linguistics at the Uni where I graduated. Found him on Bumble.”

Simon has to physically stop himself from giving a scoff in response to that.

“Looks like a knob.” He takes yet another large gulp of beer, finishing the last drop. You frown, and before you can interject, he adds. “Looks old. Tory, probably.”

You roll your eyes and nudge his thigh with the tips of your toes.

"He ain't a Tory." You scoff. That little frown still lingers on your features, carving a small line between your brows, as if he'd personally offended you.

His comment prompts you to turn your phone to yourself and look at the picture of this Adam lad you found on Bumble of all places.

You look back at Simon and his deadpan stare. Then back at Adam and his million-dollar smile.

Your eyes swivel back to Simon again, and you tentatively ask, "You think he's a Tory?"

Simon places the empty beer bottle on the glass coffee table. The sound somehow makes you take a metaphorical step back. "Nah. He can't be."

You purse your lips, concentrated and slightly, just slightly amused.

Eyes back to Adam. Then to Simon. "Right?"

Simon looks that ounce of smug enough to be considered annoying once he notices how you’re about to go cross-eyed in changing your focus, all hesitant and that bit concerned. He already knows how you have zero faith in your own judgment of character even if you refuse to make peace with it.

A little too naïve for this world. A tad too innocent. When the topic would come up, you’d get all riled up and primitive in your frustration, muttering indiscernible words and expletives that sound like grunts. Brows all furrowed and pretty lips scowling. He'd remind you how you let him in your flat without a single proof that he wasn't a serial killing sociopath, and your mouth would lock in place.

His hand lands on the curve of your foot, smoothing down towards your ankle; the warmth of his palm bleeds through the fuzzy fabric of your socks. He sighs, a little overdramatic as if he were about to tell you some sad, sad news. "Definitely a Tory.”

You want to reprimand his lack of faith in your choice of men. But his hand on your ankle feels so nice and you’re a sucker for physical contact. Begrudgingly, you settle that your bruised ego and your wounded pride are worth the gentle giant’s warmth.

However, the lingering touch does nothing to discourage your fire, so you glower. The least believable thing he's ever seen.

It takes much more to upset a special forces operator with a series of achievements as long as Simon Riley’s. A doctor with a mop of hair lazily tied in a bun, checkered socks in his lap, and residues of crisps around her lips surely isn’t it.

"Well." You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'll ask him on Friday when we’ll have dinner."

He scoffs.

“You’re gonna bring up politics at dinner on a first date, yeah?” A condescending pat on your ankle. “Sounds really romantic.”

His dry humor again. It wins in its intent to steal a chuckle from you.

The fight leaves as quickly as it entered your bloodstream, and you flop on the couch with a sigh, your phone falling somewhere on the turquoise carpet.

"Gotta make sure I ain't dating a conservative." You quip.

Simon watches you clasp your hands over your belly as it ripples with the first waves of a breathy laugh. You crane your neck forwards, eyes squinting in mirth clocking his own.

"He looks like he’d vote Tory." You concede with a laugh and pinch the air in front of your face. "A tiny bit - just a tiny bit."

“A tiny bit?” He snorts. “Lad probably has a framed photo of Margaret Thatcher in his bedroom.”

You laugh again, rubbing an idle hand over your eyes as you shake your head, utterly defeated. He can see in the way your shoulders sag that he’s shattered the careful castle of hopes and dreams you'd built brick by brick around the man.

"God no." Equally as exasperated as entertained, you sigh. "Can't imagine shagging him with the ol' Iron Lady staring at my tits."

He scoffs again at the mental image you have just provided him with. He doubts he’ll ever forget the picture, to his dismay. “Christ. Didn’t need that in my mind.”

In the afterglow of that belly laugh, you don’t notice how he’s somewhat tightened his grip around your ankle. Simon knows you aren’t one to pay attention to those subtleties. Too focused on other people's well-being to realize when yours is being put first. He can already imagine how your heart is unraveling with the knowledge that you’ve managed to make him quirk a smile, however small, even if his day had been a proper shitshow.

The selfless angel that you are.

You turn your eyes to the ceiling, looking for something that clearly isn’t written on the colorful paint of the walls.

"All jokes aside," you murmur. "I hope it goes well."

Your eyes touch his. There’s a melancholy in yours you only allowed him to see. Thinly veiled vulnerability, heart bare just for his eyes.

"Really need a confidence boost," you say with a wistful smile. "And some love on the side."

He mutters under his breath. “Right.”

Simon tries not to wince at your words and what they imply. He thinks you’re too good to rely on other people (men, above anything) to boost your confidence. As if what he thinks are mouthwatering looks, a striking sense of humor and a brilliant mind aren’t enough to make you feel a peg above everyone else.

He hates that you don’t seem to understand it. Hates that you require other people’s approval even when you have a brain that could put most to shame and a series of achievements to boot.

He hates that despite how sharp you are, you’re slow when it comes to emotional intelligence. And it’s Simon fucking Riley who’s saying it, the most emotionally unavailable man he himself knows. It isn’t that you can’t discern signs and tells, you aren’t stupid by any means, but it’s painfully obvious how you just can’t fathom why people would be attracted to you that way. Thus, you’d always dismiss compliments and advances with annoying levity.

In four years, Simon has witnessed all your relationships wither because your lack of self-confidence made you question everything.

Seemingly aware of the tense air your comment has caused, your cheeky grin makes a comeback just to lift his spirits. You wriggle your foot under his grip to get his attention. "You think he'll like my socks?"

Simon has to admit (finally, at least true to himself) that your tireless search for reassurance about your date isn’t exactly doing wonders for his heart or his sanity.

“He’ll love them, you muppet.” He deadpans.

You chuckle at the comment, and then you relax, thinking the conversation over. Comfortable with your eyes on the telly and your hands clasped over your stomach, that gentle feeling of home and familiarity lulls you into a soft rest.

Simon on the other hand, is anything but relaxed. His jaw clenches involuntarily as if he despises even the mere idea of another man getting to see you like this: lying down, all soft and sweet and sleepy in the fuzzy socks he’s bought you. With his surname plastered on your back, of all things.

His eyes flick to the hand on your ankle. He wants to keep holding on tighter and stop you from leaving altogether. Keep you tethered to that couch without ever needing to stand up.

He could tell you to drop it. He could.

But you’re a grown woman, in her prime, with her doctorate and her big girl job that gives her enough money to start a war of her own but for some reason has never decided to pick up her things and leave that shabby flat she shares with him.

And he is poor with words. Communication is a skill he’s never learned, unless it involves extracting precious intel from skin-trading bastards or bloodthirsty pricks. He surely isn’t going to communicate with you that way, even if it's the only one he knows. The realization makes his lips dip into a scowl of self-hatred for being seemingly unable to keep you.

Simon’s eyes rake over your body – your silhouette concealed by his shirt, softly draped over you like finely carved marble. With natural flow, his hand follows the path traced by his pupils, and very deliberately slides up your leg, towards your knee.

Initially, the movement only prompts you to steal a glance from him. But when your eyes land on that frown, as if he were deep in thought, it feels natural, instinctive, to give him your undivided attention again.

Softly, you ask for the second time that day, "Alright?"

He nearly lets out a huff of laughter. Such a simple question yet so goddamn loaded he’s on the verge of blowing a gasket – his patience wearing thin.

He locks his eyes with yours, only to snark once more. “Peachy.”

His humor this time isn’t successful in the effort of stealing a smile. In Simon’s defense, he hasn’t used it to make you crack one at all.

You frown, a tiny fracture between your brows. A little confused, mostly concerned. He can see it in your doe eyes, how you’re already miles away – overthinking every minute detail you might have missed during the conversation. You always thought so much Simon had joked, once or twice, that your skull was too small to host all that.

Your eyes shift from his face to his hand. Simon dares to be bolder and slides his palm a little higher. His fingers curl around the plush of your thigh.

"Peachy, eh?" You inquire, clearly suspicious of his antics. "You look far from peachy.”

A low scoff slips past his lips.

He is anything but peachy, he’d give you that. He is anything but sweet, far from it. Bitter, would fit better. Jealous, would fit best. He is downright pissed, but not at you. Never at you. He wishes he were a gifted conversationalist, so he could put into words what the idea of you shoving your tits in the face of some twat is making his hackles rise. He barely entertains the thought of you talking and laughing with him, never mind brushing with the concept of you riding the life out of that bastard. God forbid you brought him over and did all that in your flat – his flat.

He swallows in a piss poor attempt at juggling his feelings. His eyes shift to the TV to further conceal them.

“Just thinkin’ about work is all.” He mutters. Simon can almost hear Soap’s Scottish lilt calling him a “pining sod.”

Oh, but you’re an insistent little thing, aren’t you? Simon can hear the sheer doubt in your tone when you hum in response. The slight changes in the vibration against your frowning lips, the curves in the intonation of that simple, but so very telling sound. He catches each and every one of those details like the guard dog that he is.

In his peripherals, he sees the shifting of your eyes, from his hand to his profile. He sees you take in the crook of his nose, broken a few times (a tough job and a harsh childhood did that to him). His furrowing brows, light honey, like his hair – all ruffled and staticky from removing his balaclava when he got home.

"Work." You deadpan, but it comes out softer than intended.

His fingers aren’t as sneaky as before when they slide further up your thigh. Simon knows you feel that same electric spark because your quadriceps stiffen under his palm.

“Work,” he affirms, his jaw tight as his hand journeys farther to reach the hem of your shorts. His thumb rubs from side to side over the skin at the edge of the fabric, and Christ, he’s fighting the growing itch to just pull them down.

While the two of you have watched plenty of films on this same sofa, in this same position, Simon has never touched you.

As in, touched you, touched you.

He’s averse to that, to anything that isn’t a noncommittal gesture. This one, however, obviously isn’t.

His hand is so big against your thigh, that plush skin underneath his callouses almost makes him feel guilty. The hardened palm used to disperse death shouldn’t touch such soft things. He feels the peachy fuzz brush against the pads of his fingers, he sees how they leave divots in the meat.

It makes his heart beat a little faster, blood pumping in all the wrong places but his head.

His expression is blank, dull eyes staring straight at the television. However, his mind is not as quelled as he portrays. It’s leading him to a very unholy place, where he wonders if your skin is as soft on your belly as it is on your thigh. Whether you’d whimper or groan if he were to flick his tongue over your breasts. If your eyes would roll back, were he to plunge his fingers deep into your core.

So many ifs he wants to put to the test.

He gently skims where your thigh meets your hip, and Simon swears he hears you gulp. He can tell you’re absolutely blindsided. You've been living with him as your flatmate for four years. Four fucking years, and if he ever tried to give you anything more than his usual snark, he might have been a little too subtle about it.

Simon glances at you, before returning his focus to the telly. One look is all he needs to hear your thoughts as if they were his own – the self-deprecation, the anxiety, that tormenting feeling of not being enough.

How torn you look. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards, fighting an invisible enemy. Let him do what he wants, let his hand slide up your shorts, and find the cotton lace of your panties. Or, pull away and retreat into your safe bubble, where no one can hurt you.

As if he’d ever lay an ill hand on you. All you have to say is “Stop” and he’ll take back his arm – cut it off for good measure.

Your eyes are hooded as they turn to look back at the malleable flesh of your thigh in his hold. His fingers disappear under your shorts until the first knuckle. He brushes along the hem of nice lace undies, feeling the rough fabric under the pads of his fingers.

Your voice is deliciously breathy. "Wha' about work, then?"

Avoidance. Normally, he'd let you. If it were any other situation, he'd brush it off with you. He'd keep up with the chat, coddling you in that safe place you seem too keen on spending time in.

Not now.

His head turns back to you; hungry eyes fixed on the way your mouth parts to yield that soft whisper. It makes his eye twitch, a splinter in his veneer.

“Reckon work can wait,” he rasps.

Simon is hyper-aware of how close he is to your core – a knuckle away from the throbbing heat between your legs. He sees your bowed head, eyes lidded with that primal desire he is instilling in you.

You look as if your brain has turned into soup; the ingredients a mix of shared memories and touches – even the most indifferent, neutral ones. To his utter joy, for the first time in your life, it almost looks like you’ve finally turned off your thoughts.

Your jaw clenches in a desperate attempt to get a grip on yourself. He knows you’re confused; he is too. Because it’s wrong to indulge in intimacy when more than just a friendship is at stake. Money's involved, a roof over your heads, a bed to kip, and food in your bellies – four years of shared everything is involved.

But you agree. You nod your head a little dumbly, and suddenly work can wait. To Simon, the fucking world can.

Your voice is a mumble. "Yeah, guess it can."

“Mhm.”

His gaze flicks up to your eyes, depriving your lips of the attention they were given, and he is delighted to see that you’re just as affected as he is.

Simon's fingers get squished between your thighs when you clench them together. He squeezes, feeling how the flesh rolls between his fingers, how it folds where the stretch marks crinkle.

“Lift your leg up for me,” he rasps.

Breath is stuck in your throat in utter anticipation. Simon knows it's been a long time since you've been touched in any way, shape, or form. You could've gone out and found a man willing to have a shag, it wouldn't have been hard to find someone who needed it too – someone as desperate as you look right now.

After all, that single word is the one that led him to you in the first place.

Yet you never did it. Simon has never seen you bring a man, or a woman, back to the flat. Sometimes you’d disappear with a text, saying you’d be sleeping out, but you never brought anyone home. And he never asked why – mostly, because he thought it wasn’t his business. Another part of him, however, was afraid that if he did, you’d take it as an invitation to do so. Obviously, he wasn’t too keen on the idea.

After giving it little thought, you part your thighs for him. One still rests in his lap while the other dangles off the sofa.

There's very little resolve left in you, Simon can tell by the way your eyes are so focused on his disappearing hand, and by the way you shatter when he experimentally glides one finger over the damp line on your panties.

“Fuck.” You hiss, tilting your head back.

You must want him dead, he thinks, as he gawks at the way your throat curves.

“Christ.” He mutters under his breath. He pushes the pad of his thumb down the cotton, feeling how it sticks to your slit. “Barely touched you.”

He wants to take his sweet time. He does. Wants to take it slow, reduce you to a mess of please and more before he finally gives you what you want. But he’s just as desperate as you are, isn’t he? He’s craving, clawing at the walls, to feel you clamp around him. Feel you drip down his hand until his callouses are coated, slick flowing down the crevices of his palm.

He’s no better than you are, currently.

So, his fingers slip under your panties just enough to touch your folds.

You can't help but tilt your head forwards again, only to look down at the bulge under your shorts created by his hand.

But when your eyes flit back to his, he stops.

Maybe he’s gone too far, he thinks. Maybe you’re realizing this is one hell of a mistake that can only end with you going your separate ways, something he will never forgive himself for.

However, it’s then, that you nod. That worry line between your brows, ever-present, seems gone. Smooth skin between your beautiful, beautiful eyes. And Simon feels whole again, feels wanted. The battered hound dog that he is, only useful for one thing and one thing only – sowing the seeds of death, and reaping them afterwards – is wanted.

Not tolerated. Not required. Wanted. Needed.

He knows your brain is turning its cogs, fighting against the fog of a kind of hunger that can’t be extinguished, one that only wants to be sated – by him, and him only.

Why is he doing this.

What does it mean.

Is it because of the date you should have the next Friday.

Is it because he's frustrated at work and you’re simply there, lying on a silver platter.

So many fucking questions it irritates him that, somehow, while his middle finger is tracing lazy patterns to part your folds, you’re still thinking.

He doesn’t allow a single one to leave your lips, because he plunges one finger inside your cunt.

His first if is answered, then. Your eyes don’t roll back like he’d expected.

Your brows flutter to your forehead, and your mouth parts to form a pretty oval. Your chest swells as if you've just taken the first breath in your entire life. Your eyes, hazy and blurred, hold his own. And somehow, that is the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Your leg on his lap is taut and stiff, toes curling under those loud socks you’re wearing.

Simon takes in the sight of you – all flushed and panting. The only sound in the air is the quiet drone of the telly in the background and your sharp inhales.

He can only describe himself in that moment as wrecked. Maybe even more so than you are right now, all rigid in anticipation of his first movements.

“Keep your eyes on me," he growls out, and when you nod, he curls his pad inside of you.

Your fingers seem to mimic his own, but they grip the edge of the sofa’s cushions instead. Your nails scratch at the leather with such voracity they leave beige lines against the dark brown.

He struggles against the double layer of fabric entrapping his hand to your cunt – the lace scratches the knuckle on his thumb, the cotton of your shorts is a manacle on his wrist. But fuck if he cares about all that when your hips twitch to encourage his movements.

You look ruined. And he loves that – the effect he has on you, the fact that he’s the one to have you like this.

He moves his finger in slow, long strokes. He doesn’t do it to torture you, no. He observes, because for once his constant vigilance is not only useful to quell his paranoia, but also to feed your desires. He tests movements, tries different spots, looking for that one within your walls that will make you scream.

And he finds it, then – to his utmost delight. Here you are: your breathy moans, soft and honeyed, turn into a stuttering and almost pained "Oh." And he knows he has you under his thumb, all perfect and yearning, unraveling with just one of his fingers. He’s looking straight at your face, not wanting to miss a single twitch of an eyebrow. Your pretty lips are all slick with your spit and they part to release the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard.

His strokes intensify, drawing back as much as he can with the limited movements he has, only to push in and hit ever so slightly that rougher patch of nerves he’s located. He doesn’t want to make you squirm, but he has something tickling his brain – questions. Or better, one question.

He places his thumb over your pearl, unsheathing it from the fleshy hood with a glide. He drinks the way it makes your breath hitch and stutter in sudden hypersensitivity. He rolls his pad tentatively, only to see you grit your teeth and groan – muscles and sinews all tensed up in your neck. It's like molten lava in your belly. It's syrupy hot and gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his finger, down to the knuckle.

“D’you think you’ll need to go on that date on Friday?” he rasps and rolls his thumb again.

His question doesn't seem to make you falter; your hips are unrelenting in their chase for release, as you push against his hand, grinding like your life depends on it. However, he can tell that it irked you. That blissed-out look pinches in frustration.

You're breathless, on a feverish hunt for that taste of heaven his finger’s promising, and Simon has the gall to bring up another man? One he's been mocking for the past half hour? He's surprised by himself as well.

You whine. "Does this look like the bloody time?"

“No,” he concedes, sounding a little patronizing.

He has the upper hand, quite literally, and to give you a friendly reminder of the power he holds, he slides another finger in.

You're absolute putty in his hands now. Your fingers grip at the sofa, your cheeks all flushed and warm. Your back arches, and he knows he just gave you that fullness you've been chasing. The sensation that causes the right amount of pleasure and pain of the stretch. He’s knuckle deep inside of you, his fingers trapped by your velvety walls as he strokes harder, lingering a little longer where you like it, but not faster. He keeps that steady pace that takes your breath away, not forgetting to lavish your clit with attention, and leaves you with just enough air for you to free those clipped and breathless moans.

He’s shameless as his other hand clamps your shin on his lap and pushes it down onto the painful tent on his jeans. He shifts his hip upwards to grind against your calf and hisses when it causes the zipper to graze his cock.

“Gonna cancel it, then?”

It’s bliss. You look like an angel.

"Yeah," you breathe out, a little incoherent. "Cancel it, 'course."

Your voice is more of an unintelligible mumble than anything else – two fingers in and his thumb on your nub drawing idle circles. Perfect pressure. Perfect fit.

He’s never seen you look this beautiful, all abandoned and relaxed, with your big brain he loves so much shut off completely. Synapses only working to generate a wish for release, so sweet and simple, and nothing else. And who is he to deny such a plain request, you sweet thing.

Simon would give you the moon if you asked.

He’s powerless in your presence, undecided if to focus on your face, or to stare at your hardened nipples. They brush against the black training t-shirt he once owned – right below the two crossing swords painted under the royal crown. It should be blasphemous. Should be bloody illegal to sully the name of the monarchy that way.

That is, if he gave a fuck about it. And even if he did, he’d see no wrong in it – because what can you taint when you’re the purest thing he’s ever touched.

Your hips move in tandem with his fingers, your face scrunched in that desperate look of someone who has a piece of heaven just out of reach. He watches you as you fall apart under his fingers and keeps your leg down so he can grind against it. If the situation were different, he’d feel like a wild animal in that regard, but there isn’t a spot on you he doesn’t wish to worship.

Especially now, when you look like this. With your hair sticking to your forehead and loose locks escaping your low bun.

He can’t take his eyes away from you – you have him absolutely entranced.

“s too much.” He hears you whine amongst the mist in his brain

“It ain’t.” He manages to grunt as if it's an order.

And you’re a little insubordinate, because you try and squirm away. But your shorts are his shackles as much as they’re yours – they fasten his hand to your cunt, while locking you against his unwavering fingers.

“Simon,” your voice is so wrecked when you beg. “Please - fuck.”

And how he finds the strength to snark is beyond him. His voice is thick and heavy. “’m tryin’.”

He drags his fingers deep down where yours can’t reach, where he’s found that patch of nerves that reduces you into a puddle of yourself. His thumb on your clit is steadfast, rubbing just above the hood where you’re not as sensitive, only to drag down again and make you see stars.

And the way that string of “Yes” leaves your lips, in that euphoric wheeze that tugs at the corners of your lips, makes his cock ache to be anywhere but in the confines of his jeans.

Your eyes are all glossy when you prop yourself on your elbows to fuel his resolve. Petal lips red and shiny, catching your teeth in an attempt to muffle your moans – bone-deep ingrained insecurity you can’t seem to get rid of. He doesn’t force you, though – he wants to hear you, sure, but most of all he wants to see you crumble to shreds. And if hiding your voice is what you need, then feel free to be his bloody guest.

Your hips stutter and your belly ripples under his large tee draped over it, and he’d recognize those signs anywhere.

“Cum f’ me,” he orders. “C’mon, love. Give it to me.”

It takes a few more pumps of his fingers, and Simon feels it before he sees it. You clench around his fingers in rippling waves, thrumming rhythmically. Your cunt deliciously threatens to cut them off just above the knuckle.

And fuck, aren’t you a goddamn sight.

Simon thinks it's almost cathartic to simply watch you. How your head tilts back to hit the armrest of the sofa, the way your toes curl in his lap and your foot on the floor rigidly lifts. The sway of your hips as they undulate to meet his thrusts and the liberating groan that leaves your lips, touching the sky with your fingers.

He unconsciously guides you through it, but truthfully, he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself – not with you looking straight out of one of his most unhinged dreams. His fingers slow down but keep moving relentlessly.

However, it would be a lie for him to say he knows what he’s doing.

You come down from it and your eyes are blinky and unfocused, staring at the ceiling. Your body deflates on the couch, limp and sated. Syrupy and warm. With your chest free to move now that the heavy weight on it has finally been lifted. He allows you this moment of privacy as you recollect yourself, although he truly wants you to look back at him again. He doesn’t want to miss a beat of this, yet he sort of understands.

Your breath comes out in puffs. He’s not faring any better on that note.

"Simon," you breathe, his name exquisite from your lips. "Christ."

He’s gawking. Watching your face for a moment more, he meets your eyes as they flick back to him down the slope of your nose.

Thumb still on your clit, the movements are gentler and featherlight. His voice is hoarse and rough as he speaks. “Alrigh’?”

You chuckle, breathless and a little nervous now that the appetite has been sated – much more self-aware than before.

His fingers are still inside of you and you’re already overthinking this. He knows it. He just hopes, deep down, that you’re not regretting it – because he sure as hell isn’t.

"Peachy.” Is your reply.

Oh, how the tables have turned. Joke’s on him, he’s fed you enough sarcasm for you to start throwing it back at him. Simon feels too weak to even smirk. However, his eyes do narrow, in a similar manner to how yours would at his snarky comebacks.

He gently slides his fingers out of you, mindful of your current sensitivity. He brings the hand up, seeing the gleam of your slick shamelessly coating their lengths down to the knuckles.

“Fuckin’ look at that.” He murmurs, unable to discern whether he’s talking to you or to himself, “Messy girl.”

He thumbs his middle finger and rolls the juice between the pads, thinking; tongue out to lick his lips like the voracious beast he is.

Simon reaches over and brings his hand towards your mouth. A jerky nod of his jaw, “Open.”

He knows he’s already crossed a line the two of you never even dared to toe before. And if he’s going to lose you after this, if you’re going to turn your back on him and leave the flat (leave his life) then he’s going to make the most of it.

Your brows are pinched in sudden uncertainty. A contradicting spectacle, if mixed with the way your chest is still heaving and how your cunt is still wet.

But tonight, you seem eager to catch him off guard, because you oblige. Your lips part and you offer your tongue, never breaking eye contact.

Each time he thinks you can’t look more beautiful you prove him fucking wrong.

He hums lowly in approval, and there’s something dark in that sound. He gently runs his fingers across your tongue, coating it with your taste. Fingertips slide and follow its curve. He stares at you with such an intensity, like he could consume you if he had a mind to. You devour him first, wrapping your lips around his knuckles.

When your tongue delves around his fore and middle fingers, he has to close his eyes. He has to roll his head, releasing the tension in his jaw. He has to, or he’ll cum in his goddamn jeans. The sharp inhale he takes almost burns his nostrils; his sigh heavy and anguished when his lips surrender to it.

“How d’you taste, dove?” he asks, blinking his eyes open.

The way his voice rasps out that pet name, rough like sandpaper, makes a shiver run down your neck. He sees it, the tremor of your shoulders, the goosebumps on your arms.

Simon reluctantly pulls his fingers away only so you can answer. His wasn’t a rhetorical question, and by that blush on your cheeks and the embarrassed hint of a smile on your face, you’ve guessed it already.

"Not as sweet as I thought."

His lips twitch.

“No?” he asks, his voice much too broken for his liking. He brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks, tasting your spit and your cum. A low rumble of a chuckle escapes him – must be a blue moon tonight. “I think you taste pretty sweet.”

This can go two ways: a fairy tale ending, like those romcoms you like to watch, or an absolutely dreadful one – in which you leave. And truly, Simon doesn’t believe in a higher power; God has abandoned him more times than he cares to count. However, he hopes that whoever’s up there realizes that he's owed big time for all the crap he’s been put through.

And he asks for nothing, but you.

His face is hot, and he gathers his cheeks might be a little pink. The rare sight must give you some comfort, the fact that he’s just as overwhelmed as you are, because he feels your leg relax in his lap.

You purse your lips to hide a bashful smile - as if you have any right to be coy right now. "Flatterer."

He hums, seemingly wanting to bite back at you but unable to find the spirit for it. His eyes rake over your body, from your flushed face to your chest covered by his tee, until they land on your quivering thighs, still splayed open for him.

For him.

His hand travels up your leg, following the same route that has led to this. When his palm finally cups your hip, his fingers curl at the waistband of your shorts and tug.

“C’mere.”

You do.

He sees you bend your knees and shift on the sofa so you can crawl to him on shaky legs. As the gentleman he never thought he’d be, he helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap with your knees on either side of his hips.

Afraid you might say something hinting at regret, he selfishly grabs your jaw and pulls you down, finally tasting you the way he’s always wanted. His lips mold with yours, and they’re so soft he has no business claiming them as his own. His fingers tilt your head so he can deepen the kiss, and only when he sees your eyes flutter closed through the slit of his eyelids, he allows himself to surrender to you.

Your lips peck the thin scar on his cupid’s bow, but before you can run away from him (as you should), he captures you once more. He never wants to let you go, so his tongue slides across the seam of your mouth, and you, so pliantly, oblige him.

Your hands are resting on his shoulders when the kiss starts tentatively, while his slender fingers follow the curve of your waist.

But then your nails dig at the fabric of his t-shirt, as if eager to rip it, and his palms journey to your rear. He grips at the flesh through your shorts, before shoving out of the way their distressed hem and directly groping the plump meat of your ass.

The two of you never part. If anything, everything gets more heated.

He doesn’t recall when it is exactly that you start grinding your hips, nor does he remember when his shirt was removed – whether you did it, or if he’s taken the matter into his own hands.

However, he does snap out of it when he feels your palms leave his shoulders to grasp at the hem of your tee. While he wants to feel his skin on yours as much as you do, what’s separating your chest from his is not a mere layer of cotton.

He pulls away and – to his pleasure – he sees you lean in to have more. His hand lands on yours, stopping you.

“No.”

He sees you blink, dazed. A myriad of emotions travel through that pinched expression you wear, thinking like usual that you’ve done something wrong.

He quells your fears in seconds, when his other palm skims over your arm. It journeys unhurriedly, leaving gooseflesh in its wake, until it lands at the base of your throat. His thumb brushes over its column, forcing your neck to tilt backwards and your back to arch, presenting your chest.

Simon models you like clay under his warm fingers, and he takes his time to drink you in and sculpt you as he wishes. Because you seem so docile now that his intents are less covert, clearer.

He brings his mouth to your throat, and his nose scrunches when he presses it against your neck, keeping you still with one thick arm around your waist. With sluggish movements, he tastes the salt of your skin and the tang left by your perfume.

Simon pulls back only to run his tongue from the hollow between your collarbones up to your jaw, feeling right under the muscle how your throat bobs when your breath lodges in between. He curves his head and digs his teeth into the plumper flesh on the side of your neck, enough to get a taste but not enough (never enough) to cause pain.

“Keep the shirt on.” He breathes against your skin, “I wanna fuck my name into you.”

And he does just that.

It’s effortless how he lifts you in his arms, guiding your ankles to lock at his tailbone. Clothes, both yours and his, freckle the floors in a trail that leads to his bedroom. He’s famished; there isn’t a single surface along the path he follows where he hasn’t placed you – if only to savor every piece of you for a little longer.

Until he has you on that bed, the one he should’ve gotten only for a few weeks and instead became his own alcove.

You look wonderful on it.

But you’re even more gorgeous when he sits at the edge of the mattress, facing the full-length mirror in his room, and places you on his thighs to straddle his lap – your back facing the reflection.

He runs his hands over your chest, riding up the t-shirt to your neck only so he can feast on your tits. Grabbing greedy handfuls of fat and muttering unintelligible praises when his mouth all but devours every inch – sucking on your puffy nipples and grazing his teeth around each peak.

Another if is answered by the whimper that escapes your kiss-bitten lips.

You look like an angel, when your soft hand goes to grab the base of his cock and, without much ceremony, you guide it inside of you – sinking on it easy and slow.

You feel like heaven, too, impaled on him. Perfect fit, always made for him, and him only.

Simon’s not sure what he did to deserve you, now riding his cock like you’d been deprived of it your whole life. Unbridled, free. You moan and groan without a care in the world, the hesitation he saw before vanished into thin air – and oh, he couldn’t be more grateful for it.

His hands curl at the hem of your (his, his, his) shirt, lifting it up slightly at your waist, only so he can see in the reflection how your ass slaps against his thighs each time you drop. Or, how your glutes clench when instead of trying to pleasure him, you please yourself – rolling your hips to grind your clit against his happy trail.

Simon’s hands leave the shirt only to grab more of you, kneading at your hips to guide your cunt down his cock until he has you filled to the brim. Your eyes roll back, breath stuck in that pretty throat of yours. He bites at it - laps at the skin like a starved dog.

Simon shattered his chains the moment you came undone on his fingers, and now he knows no restraint – not when he has you like this.

“Look at you,” he growls, slapping your ass only to watch how the fat ripples in recoil in your mirror image.

He grabs the back of your neck and tilts your head downwards. Your foreheads touch as he guides your eyes to look at where your bodies join. The foamy ring at the base of his cock, how the folds of your vulva hug around his shaft and tip at your unhooded clit, all puffy and red.

He tugs at your mound with his thumb, stretching the flesh to expose more. With a deliberate roll of his hips, he makes a show of how effortlessly his cock slides into you, how your cunt greedily stretches to welcome him whole.

“Look at that.” His voice is equally as raspy as it’s enraptured. “Perfect.”

Using his hand on your nape, he angles your face to kiss you again. He thrusts into you only to have you part your lips in a stuttering moan, and he drinks it dry.

When you resume grinding your hips, he whispers in your open mouth, “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Simon sees how your thighs quiver under the strain of the effort, hamstrings taut and probably burning in the attempt to wrap around his hips. He won’t keep you like that for long, don’t worry. He’ll take good care of you, like he always has.

But now, he indulges in a selfish moment.

Spare seconds in which he watches your reflection bounce on him, and you’re too lost in the feeling to notice how his hooded eyes take in the view.

The profile of your face in the mirror (his little cherub), with your mouth parted and brushing against his temple as he nuzzles your shoulder through the fabric of the shirt. One hand ecloses his nape and your other palm is on his cheek, keeping his head close to your breathless lips. Your eyes are closed in bliss – lashes shy against your flushed cheekbones.

In the scantly lit room, the reflection in the mirror of you two is as dark as everything else, but the stark white writing on the back of your tee has never looked brighter. Your hair sways with your movements, and that RILEY that peeks through your locks has him impossibly enamored of you.

And you’re so smart, he thinks. So clever, because you know, even when your senses are clouded by euphoria and your eyes are closed. You know he’s never had a thing. You know that whatever he’s held, no matter for how long, has always slipped through his fingers before he could even get a taste of it.

“I’m yours,” you whisper in his ear.

And so, Simon surrenders. He’s at your mercy, you have his trust and whatever’s left of his heart – and he knows you won’t break either.

He helps you out of his t-shirt only to hold you bare against his chest. He brings you down with him, lavishes your skin with his palms and his lips. Nose buried in your hair, Simon breathes you in. The smell of sex and the smell of you and how it has him drunk when it whirlpools with his own – a new fragrance, one that burns itself into his brain with the threat (sweet promise) of never letting go.

Because he’s never had a thing, his name barely pertains to him anymore. But the moment he saw it on you, he finally realized where Simon Riley belongs.

607 notes · View notes

obislut · 1 month

Text

a/n: enemies to lovers with simon lmao. full of angst 🤍

continued from this drabble

forget me not

"note to all teams the target is incredibly dangerous. once located do not engage and call for backup"

the message was loud, clear over the comms but you couldn't hear over the thundering of your heartbeat. you couldn't focus on much, the crushing weight on your chest squeezing your heart made it that much more difficult to focus on the task at hand. dread filled your veins at the thought of staying in the car longer than you had to, looking for any suspicious activity outside. his smell invaded your space as you resist to try and hold onto it. since the attack and the kidnap, he hadn't been the same. he usually was reserved when it came to you but this time it almost seemed like he hated the very ground you walked on

regardless you don't think you've ever been in the middle of such an awkward and tense situation before

he was seated in the passenger seat beside you. completely stoic, face and body covered in his usual gear with just the whites of his eyes peeking out from his balaclava as he sat stiff, his hands locked on the binoculars while his trained eyes focused on the house. you could practically feel the tension vibrate from his muscles around the car as you sigh softly. your hands on the wheels looking back at the scene silently cursing price for pairing the both of you together, it was too soon

you knew simon wasn't used to sitting around. he was the first to go guns ablazing into the fight. actions first, words later. you knew it was taking everything in him to sit patiently, to even be next to you in a cramped car. but alejandro and rudy called you all in, needing the extra pair of hands to handle the target delicately as they planned the best way to take them down. you'd only been back for a month and been involved in an attack, a kidnapping, several missions all within a few weeks.

sitting next to him like this, you almost feel the same fear and nerves you had done when you first met him. you glance back at him, eyes slightly narrowed as the frustration bubbled inside you. the contast feeling of being in edge, of waiting him to bite was enough. he was still hurt, rightfully so. but it felt like judgement day the way he kept you waiting deeming just how severe your punishment should be.

simon riley was a big burly man, standing tall at 6'4 and a wall of pure strength and muscle. he was unbeaten in his work, he was powerful in his skills but you had been the one thing that made him crumble to his knees. and god how he hated it.

the rage practically rolled off from him in waves, his hand gripped firmly around the hilt of his gun until the knuckles whitened fighting the urge to make any irrational decisions. and all you could do was just sit there, sinking into your seat and observing the camera footage. you didn't even know what to say now ironic because you could never stop talking when you were around the others

but now not a word could pass your lips

"three years" his deep voice snaps you out of your trance, the familiar voice blowing through you as you caught your breath. the low baritone of his tone caressed your senses, it was just as beautiful as you had remembered. and then the coldness in his voice cuts deep through you like the dagger coiled with pain

this wasn't the simon that you knew. this was the ghost that they feared.

"three years of being your friend, your lieutenant, someone who i cared for so goddamn deeply. three years and you cut me off, cut us all off, so easily as if it never meant anything at all. you didn't even have the decency to tell me to my face" the scoff was harsh, he could've laughed in pure bitterness at the thought of it.

simon wasn't one to open his heart so easily, god knows how difficult it had been for you in the beginning of joining the taskforce. he kept to himself mostly, only ever interacting with you for the sake of the mission at hand.

but overtime you had managed to weasel yourself in his heart, you were everywhere you shouldn't have been. in books, in songs, in random conversations, in alcohol, in his dreams. in his veins. all these places you shouldn't have been. and the sheer irony of you still lingering even though you were gone, a paradox indeed

there was nothing that you could've said to defended yourself, a resigned sigh leaning your lips as you leaned back in your seat. almost two years ago you had requested price to move you to another team across the sas. the only reason you had offered him was that it had been personal and he nodded, pressing a hand to your shoulder before he filed the paperwork.

everyone else seemed aware of it, you had begged the rest of the 141 not to say anything to simon. figuring you'd tell him in your own time, with the correct words. but the time never came, you had to go and the memory of your departure only served to haunt him further.

it had been friday, the usual movie night as he readied himself. he could never forget the feeling of his heart dropping at the small note in your empty barracks, stomach lurching at the popcorn he had bought specially for you. heart pounding as he hoped and prayed it was all some kind of sick joke.

it took him a while to forgive the rest of them but you hadn't been extended that same courtesy. so seeing you there tied up beside him brought up the same feelings and emotions he had tried to bury back then but they were potent, penetrative, stronger than he had anticipated them to be. it was too soon to see you. too soon to come to grips with the fact that his hurt had ran too deep for him to move on

"i'm here now" your voice had dropped slightly, a hint of a plea for him to understand but he rolled his eyes in your response his hand clenched tightly around the gun resting on his knee

"oh congrats. you're here now. until you find something else and you're running off again" he spoke harshly, shaking his head as he looked out the window to calm his heart and his thoughts.

he should've listened to his own advice, it was always the ones closest that caused the most pain. he expected to be hurt, he expected the pain but from anyone else. not from you, never from someone he had spilled his deepest darkest secrets to. never from someone who he held in such a high regard, from someone who he cherished so incredibly hard. and your heart hurt the more he spoke, the voice you had missed terribly for years was now echoing in your head but it was the most painful thing to listen to.

"you know it was the best thing to do-" you started but he snapped, glancing at you for the first time full of pure anger. "for you. best thing for you. don't act like i had any say in that decision you made for the both of us" he cut you off harshly, his hands thumping against his thighs in frustration as if the small space of the car was suffocating him and he couldn't get out in time. this time he allowed some of the hurt to trickle in his words, the words he had suppressed for so many years were now cracking, spilling out from his scarred lips.

simon shifted to face you, his face was still, unreadable, observing every little detail and every expression. he could feel his own heart thump heavily with how much he realised he had missed you, how much he had yearned for you. he dreamed for the moment where he would see you again in the flesh again, to smell and touch you like he used to.

every part of his being ached when he took a good glance at you. you'd change so much and yet you still looked the exact same. he wondered if your preferences had changed, whether you still slept in the same pair of pajamas that had been his favourite, whether your food preferences were different now.

you see in his eyes the sea in his eyes churning beneath. the waters ready to drag you from the surface, plunging you in the darkness that lay just below. his gaze lingers briefly upon your lips, slowly following the arch of your mouth, grazing your cheekbones before they finally meet yours. it makes your heart squeeze that much harder, restricting your breathing when your eyes meet. the pain was so heavy, you could've reached out and touched it.

everything you had ever missed came rushing to light, you had to hold back your hands back from wanting to touch his face. to feel the skin you had been restricted from touching for so many months. even when simon was in front of you, even when he was here in the physical, you still missed him.

"bloody hell, you were my whole world. you fuckin knew that. i waited for you every night, sat by your door every damn day just hoping you'd come back" his voice cracked the slightest at the end of his sentence, coughing to rid the tremble but you had heard it all. he didn't think he could sink any lower but you proved him wrong, you shattered his whole world and he was left to pick up the pieces again

"simon i-" "lieutenant. it's lieutenant to you. rookies refer to superiors with their rank" his snarl was biting, a tone he usually reserved for enemies. just as it had come, he was back to being the ghost again. it makes you want to cry, makes you wish the ground could swallow you whole just seeing the amount of pain in his eyes. how they used to twinkle and sparkle under the lights whenever he spoke to you, irises dilated ever so slightly only now they were dull and flat. impassive and empty

the walls that you had broken with great care and gentleness were now standing strong as ever, all because of you. the heart that once craved to be next to yours, the heart that was once placed in the palm of your hand had been snatched away and hardened until it was stone. impenetrable and inaccessible.

you were back in the 141 like you had desperately wanted to be, he didn't know anything more. he thought you had been a willing participant throughout it all. the lump only seemed to grow as you look at him helplessly, he doesn't seem to want to listen anymore and you could only wish that he could understand your reasoning behind it all. that you were in pain by the departure just as much as he was.

i loved you, i loved you, i love-

the camera beeped, indicating activity inside the warehouse. the pure relief for a moment on focusing on something else other than the burning relation between you both was a welcome respite.

though in typical simon riley fashion, he watched the camera carefully before he reached over for his gun and the bullets barely even giving you a glance

"stop we need back up, please. you'll get hurt" your voice was soft, heavy as you try to reach for his arm but he pulled away. the tips of your fingers just barely grazing his tatted arm, heart caught in your throat at just how much you missed his skin. how much you missed his scent, his comfort, his love.

how you'd lost it all in a heartbeat

"i don't know how they taught you to fight back there. but this is my operation, i know what the hell i'm doing. just leave, you're good at doing that" his command was sharp before he left the car, the door slamming behind him as he stormed off to the target. you watched with the tears shining in your eyes, wondering just how horrible everything had gone.

one wrong move and your past would've blown up in your face, one wrong move and everything you had tried to keep hidden away would reveal itself. only this time you didn't have the luxury of having simon in your corner this time around. your rank back there meant nothing now to him or to the 141, you were just a recruit in his eyes. an annoyance, a burden. it makes the pain deepen as you suck in a soft breath and steady yourself before you head inside the house.

you broke him and in response, he watched you break.

127 notes · View notes

obislut · 1 month

Text

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): crime scene clean-up, swearing, grief & difficult conversations, discussions around canon-typical violence, smoking, brief suggestive themes, brief drinking, angst

Word Count: 5k

A/N: Part Twenty-Three of Ink & Needle

Price and Simon make a pact. Simon talks to Evie and Amelia. Walsh dispenses a clue.

Chapter Twenty-Two // Chapter Twenty-Four

ao3 // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Come and find her. – KW.

Come and find her.

Come. And find her.

Find her.

Simon stares at the little piece of paper in his hands. It’s so small. Confetti in his palm. Something that could be easily overlooked like trash that collects near a storm drain.

But it’s not trash.

It’s a taunt. A warning.

And it’s all for Simon.

Instinct tells him to crumple the note in his fist—to dismantle by destroying. Burn it. Maybe. Shred it into even smaller pieces until it truly resembles confetti.

But what party would he throw to sprinkle the remains? There will be no cake or gifts. No sunshine or clear skies. It will be a funeral, and the shredded paper is the dirt tossed by the mourners.

Dust, really. Like the soul. Smaller than dust. Insignificant.

“You need to go home, Simon.”

Captain Price’s voice used to be a balm to Simon—a place of safety. The words from Price’s mouth do nothing but drag Simon back to reality even as Simon attempts to claw back to the darkness that are his thoughts.

“Go home and do what?” replies Simon, not looking in Price’s direction.

Come and find her.

“It’s not healthy to stay here,” sighs Price.

Simon snorts. “What part of my life as ever been healthy.”

Price flinches, and Simon immediately regrets his words. Captain knows every horrific detail, every open hand and closed fist, of the fangs and masks and gore and screams that are Simon’s history.

It is ugly and foul.

Price used to fuss over it, trying to drive Simon to talk to someone about it all. He did—once. More than once, but it didn’t do much but reaffirm everything Simon already knew.

That life can be cruel, and we are only defined by our choices.

And Simon has always chosen to be different.

“Staring at that note won’t help things. It won’t help us find her faster,” says Price, his voice low and soothing like it always is when he’s trying to be gentle.

Simon takes a deep inhalation, calming the raging desperation thudding around in his chest.

It’s a torrent. A downpour.

“I want to help,” is all Simon says in reply.

Price takes a step closer, and leans in a bit, lowering his voice. “I know you do, Simon. And I value that help. But trying to figure shit out here isn’t the place.”

Simon stares into Price’s face, frowning. He lingers there a moment before glancing over Price’s shoulder.

There are new people in the room. Price called them up after Johnny found the note and presented it to Simon. They move about the space like phantoms, their eyes cast downward, minds geared toward the task of cleaning up the mess that is Evie’s home.

Evie, who came to Simon’s door rain-drenched and desperate. Simon is glad she didn’t try to seek out the authorities. What the fuck are police going to do about this? Nothing. That’s what.

But Price will do something. And so will Johnny and Kyle.

They have his back. They fucking care about you because they care about Simon. He has people in his corner.

“Excuse me.”

Simon and Price glance toward the man addressing the two of them. He’s a little younger than Simon. In his hands are a broom and dustpan. Beside him stands another man holding a trash bag. Simon scowls and the man blanches slightly.

“The glass,” he mutters, nodding at Simon’s feet.

The glass. The broken patio door. Blood.

Simon clears his throat and steps back, glass crunching under his boots even as he and Price move to a different part of the room. The two men start sweeping it up while two others lift and deposit the bodies of the estate agent and her assistant into body bags.

All the color from their faces have melted away, leaving behind a grayness that only comes when there is nothing left to salvage. While neither of the women currently being placed in body bags are you, Simon is grateful that you’re not one of them. That is enough to hope even if everything inside him doubts.

Positivity isn’t Simon’s thing. But the fact that you’re not here could only mean that Walsh wants you elsewhere. He wants Simon to come seeking. He wants Simon to have hope, and for that reason alone, Simon still clings to the idea that you’re not gone.

But maybe you are.

Time is crucial. It is scare and fleeting and slipping away as the seconds tick by.

“This is my fault.”

“Simon,” chides Price, ready to defend him.

“I don’t want to hear it,” growls Simon. “Walsh is after me, and I know that. I kept—” Simon stops, his unoccupied hand forming a fist.

Price frowns. “You kept what?”

Instead of shutting down, Simon trudges forward. “I kept seeing him. Or thought I did.” He glances down at the note and then at the darkening pool of drying blood. “Should have trusted my gut.”

“You can’t linger in the past, Simon. It happened. You made choices. Walsh made choices. That control is gone. We can only move forward.”

Simon remains silent. Price is right, even if Simon doesn’t want to admit it out loud. Shit happens. Plans go wrong. You can’t always predict what the enemy will do or how they might deviate from the information you have. You have to go in with the knowledge that things might change at the last second.

Adjustment is crucial.

Adjust and survive or stay stagnant and die.

“By moving forward, that means I go home,” says Simon slowly.

Price inclines his head. “It is.”

Simon shakes his head. “I don’t accept it.”

“And what will you do, Simon? Search every building in the country? And what will you do after? Head for the continent?”

“I’d destroy everything and everyone if that means I get her back safely.”

Price’s jaw twitches. “Or you might just get her killed.”

Simon’s head snaps in Price’s direction, venom on his tongue, but it’s Price’s glare that stays his harshness. Even though he’s no longer under Price’s command, the training doesn’t leave. Instead of lashing out, Simon takes a calming breath, but it does little except settle the sharpness that wants to emerge from his lips.

“I’m helping with this. I won’t budge,” affirms Simon.

Price nods. “I know, Simon. Didn’t say you wouldn’t be.”

Simon turns toward him fully, lowering his voice. “You told me to go home.”

“For now,” corrects Price. “We need to clean up here, and then we can talk. This isn’t the place.” Price shrugs. “Not like I have all the information in front of me.”

True, but Simon isn’t happy. His body desires movement. It desires action. The storm inside him wants to be released, and its target is Walsh.

“I have to talk to Evie,” murmurs Simon, almost absently.

Price clasps Simon’s shoulder. “Want someone to go with you?”

“I can.” Simon and Price glance up as Johnny comes to a stop in front of them. “I’ll go with you, Lt.”

Simon nods as Kyle approaches with a couple of binders. “She might want this. It’s all paperwork.”

Kyle holds the stack out to Simon but Price reaches for it. “We should make copies. Take a look just in case.”

“I’ll do that now,” nods Kyle. He turns toward Simon and lightly punches his arm. “We’ll find her. Bring her home.”

Kyle departs with a brief nod toward Johnny.

Price clears his throat. “Go home. Take Soap with you. I’ll call when we’re ready to meet.”

“You got it, Captain,” says Johnny, all confidence.

Simon appreciates it. He does, but his heart is close to exploding—a volcano in his chest that he isn’t sure is heartburn or an incoming heart attack.

Price says goodbye by giving Simon’s shoulder another squeeze before walking away to chat quietly with the woman supervising the cleanup.

“Come on, Lt.”

Simon used to correct Johnny after retirement, but he no longer has the heart to. It almost feels normal—like Simon is back in the field and not a tattoo artist with awards and accolades. It is a strange sensation, and Simon is surprised by how his mind and body are at odds with the feeling.

They step around shattered glass and overturned furniture. They walk around the darkening blood that’s starting to congeal. Simon doesn’t even glance at the hammer or the gloved hand that lifts it from the floor.

And it’s not Simon who drives. All the control he likes to have his gone, and it is Johnny that takes the wheel, guiding them back to London as if they’re just two mates on a weekend holiday.

It’s not until Simon is stepping into his flat and Bravo greets him that reality comes crashing into him like a hollow point on impact.

Johnny sighs heavily and drops onto the sofa. Bravo doesn’t go to jump into Johnny’s lap or to seek belly rubs. The German Shepard takes up post next to Simon. He sits rigidly, one paw tapping at Simon’s thigh as the dog tries to get his attention.

“I’m ace, Bravo,” he murmurs, reaching out to scratch between Bravo’s ears.

The dog whines softly but he drops his paw, accepting the scratches before padding over to Johnny. He jumps onto the couch and starts stomping all over Soap until Johnny is laughing and aggressively rubbing Bravo’s belly.

As Bravo settles, Johnny turns his attention to Simon. “You good, Lt?”

Simon shifts in Soap’s direction. He glances around, realizing that he hasn’t moved away from the door. He lingers like a ghost who can see everyone but no one sees them.

“Yeah. I’m good,” coughs Simon, his legs moving mechanically. He plops down onto the sofa next to Johnny and then sighs heavily. “I need a smoke.”

“Have some sitting around?” asks Johnny.

“Nope.”

Soap nods. Keeps nodding. “I’ll go grab some. There a shop around here?”

“On the corner,” answers Simon, eyes closed as his head tips back to rest against the top of the sofa.

“Up for a walk, Bravo?” asks Johnny.

Bravo barks and then jumps out of Soap’s lap, padding over to his leash.

When Johnny returns, the two of them sit on Simon’s balcony facing the back street between the buildings. Bravo is below them, sniffing the little stretch of grass there. He’s a dark spot amongst the green, moving back and forth as if he smells something interesting.

Johnny bought enough packs to give them both lung cancer. Soap isn’t one for smoking, but he joins Simon in it anyway. The two of them sit in the cold silence, the chilly air unable to penetrate the inferno that burns within Simon.

“When do you want to talk to the friend?” asks Johnny, taking a drag on his cigarette.

“Tomorrow,” sighs Simon.

He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s going to say to Evie. Looking her in the face is going to be difficult enough, but explain? No. Fucking no. That shit is a mess.

Johnny’s foot taps absently like he’s listening to a song in his head. “You want me to talk? Or you want to do it?”

“I’ll do it,” replies Simon immediately.

This is his mess. You are his woman. And you are Evie’s friend. This has to come from Simon or no one at all.

Johnny inclines his head and takes another drag on his cigarette. He grimaces. “These are fucking nasty, Lt. How do you do it?”

“Rage,” replies Simon dryly.

Johnny cocks an eyebrow and then bursts out laughing, falling onto his back as he clutches his stomach. The corner of Simon’s mouth twitches with amusement.

Coughing, Johnny turns on his side in Simon’s direction. Bravo comes to a stop in the grass, his noise pushed into the dirt like he’s stumbled upon a scent.

“What is it, Johnny?” asks Simon as Soap stares at him but doesn’t speak.

“She cute?”

Simon blinks. “Who?”

“The friend.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

“I’m only asking,” replies Johnny, all innocence.

Simon shakes his head, this time smiling naturally. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You know I like a pretty face,” says Johnny, ashing his cigarette.

“Don’t make me blush, Johnny,” teases Simon.

The fire beneath his skin dims from an inferno to a small campfire. This banter is comforting to him—a reminder that there are people out there who care for Simon as more than just a previous coworker. Johnny cares. Kyle cares. And fuck—Price cares to the point that sometimes Simon thinks he has a loving father.

“Oh, aye, Lt. Been lusting after you for ages.” Simon glances at Johnny before snatching his cigarette from his fingers. “I’m smoking that!”

“You hate cigarettes, Johnny,” chides Simon, taking a long drag and finishing it off. “And you’ll have it off with anything that moves.”

“Not anything,” mutters Soap, sitting up fully.

Simon puts out the cigarette and takes another from the pack. “When did you last get your dick wet?”

Johnny’s lips purse, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Johnny,” says Simon, almost sing-song.

Soap mutters something and Simon punches him in the arm.

“Fuck, Lt. Yesterday.”

Simon shrugs. “Knew it.”

“If you’re gonna fucking ask about it, you’ll listen.”

“I’m good, Johnny,” replies Simon, holding up a hand for silence as he goes to light the new cigarette.

“Kyle and I were—”

“Not interested.”

“This beautiful blonde cornered me and I couldn’t say no. Lips like that—”

“Shut up, Johnny.”

“She pushed me up against the wall. Dropped to her knees—”

“Johnny—”

“Never finished so fast in my—fucking hell Simon!”

Johnny clutches the back of his head where Simon lightly swatted him. “Said I didn’t want to know.”

“Then why’d you bloody ask!” exclaims Johnny, this time grabbing Simon’s cigarette from his fingers. He tries to puff on it but promptly grimaces, offering it right back to Simon.

“Absolute wanker,” mutters Simon.

“Favorite wanker, Lt.”

Simon snorts and reaches behind him, grabbing the whiskey bottle and setting it down between them. There are no glasses, but it’s not necessary. Johnny grabs the bottle and removes the screw lid, taking a swig directly from the bottle before holding it out to Simon. He takes the offered whiskey and Simon gulps down more than he should in one go.

He offers it back to Johnny. “Don’t fucking flirt with the friend, Johnny.”

Soap inclines his head and raises the bottle in salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Simon.”

The two of them sit on the balcony until the whiskey is gone and the sun has long since dipped below the horizon. Bravo stays in the living room, curling up on the sofa with Johnny.

Simon stares at his empty bed. It’s still unmade from when he hastily got out and answered the door.

Sighing, Simon heads into the bathroom, turning on the shower. He cranks it until it’s scalding. The heat is a nice distraction, and for a while, Simon pretends that you’re not gone. That you’re with him underneath the spray.

From memory, Simon plucks out his favorite moments, lingering in your sweetness. It’s not just the physical Simon smolders in. Everything about you is like a drop of lifeblood. Simon lingers on your smile, and on the calmness you bring him when you’re nearby. He dreams of your touch and the way you wrap your arms around him. The scent of your shampoo fills his nostrils.

That only leads to lustier thoughts, and Simon has to pull back before he goes too far.

When the water grows cold, and your hands are not there to warm his skin, that is when Simon breaks.

Everything is a flood. Everything fractures.

What are dying stars but beautiful confetti. Dust. Specks bursting outward to settle in forgotten places.

Simon is dust.

No—less than dust.

Atoms.

But lesser than that.

Nothing.

Infinite nothing.

His tears become one with the cold water. His shaking becomes one with the icy chill that makes his skin shiver. Simon’s nails dig into his skin. Blood blossoms in the moons. Drip onto the tile.

Simon sits on the floor of the shower until every tear is down the drain.

He doesn’t recall falling into bed. Or when he drifts to sleep.

It isn’t until Simon wakes that he’s realized he slept at all.

There were no dreams. Just blackness. Hardness.

But he hears Johnny, and Bravo’s nails against the wood floor.

It is reluctant duty that drags Simon from bed.

“Made breakfast. And tea. And coffee,” shrugs Johnny, offering a greasy piece of bacon to Bravo.

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see that,” sighs Simon, loading his plate with a little bit of everything.

Johnny ignores Simon and talks to Bravo like the dog is human baby. Bravo eats it up like it’s the best thing that has ever happened to him.

Simon drops into a chair. His stomach grumbles and then he’s eating. The eggs are still warm, and the coffee is still hot. He zones out, grabbing seconds and then thirds.

“Have appointments today?” asks Johnny.

Simon shakes his head. “I rescheduled everything back a week. Wasn’t sure how long I’d be gone.”

Usually, Simon hates leaving his shop and moving bookings around, but it can’t be helped.

Johnny nods and inspects the empty skillet that held scrambled eggs. “Still planning on chatting with the friend today?”

Simon swallows down a half-chewed piece of toast. “That’s what I said.”

“Just checking, Lt.”

Simon’s fork pauses. His tone was harsh. “You still coming with me?” asks Simon, softening his tone this time.

“Aye. I’ve got your back.”

Simon clears his plate and finishes off the last of the coffee before he and Johnny head over to Amelia’s. They decide to walk, bringing Bravo with them. Simon fiddles with a cigarette the entire way but never lights it.

“You still want to do this today?” asks Johnny, lingering at Amelia’s door.

No. He’d rather turn tail. Be a coward in this.

Instead of answering Johnny’s question verbally, Simon knocks three times on the door. It’s mid-morning, and Evie’s daughter should hopefully be up by now.

For a moment, there is no sound on the other side, but then Simon hears footsteps—then the turning of a deadbolt.

The door opens, and Simon’s heart falls into his stomach.

Evie stands there, Lillian in her arms. When she sees Simon, her expression changes from neutrality to hopefulness. Her gaze lingers on Simon before shifting to Johnny. That brightness—that joy—fades as time passes.

She is looking for you. And you are not there.

The whites of Evie’s eyes redden, and Simon knows what comes next. As if sensing her mother’s changing mood, Lillian begins to squirm, her own tiny face bunching with a coming tantrum.

“Oh shit,” mutters Johnny, reaching for the baby just as fat tears begin to slide down Evie’s face.

Evie surrenders Lillian to Soap immediately as if all the wind has been knocked from her lungs. She deflates, one hand grasping the doorframe like she’s about to faint. The baby starts to whine, and Johnny panics, holding the infant out before him like he’s never held one before.

“Fucking hell, Johnny. Support the head,” mutters Simon as Evie takes a step back, her other hand pressing to her chest.

“Evie?”

It’s Amelia. She comes rushing forward, grasping the woman’s shoulders. She glances at Simon. Then Johnny. Then little Lillian.

“Give her here,” instructs Amelia, reaching for the infant.

Johnny passes Lillian off and sighs with relief. Amelia cradles the child in one arm and uses the other to support Evie.

Evie is gasping for breath. Chest heaving. Nearing a panic attack.

“Is she…” but Amelia trails off.

Simon understands.

“We don’t know,” replies Simon, because it’s true. And the truth is best, even if it cuts deep like sharpened steel.

Evie chokes and Simon continues on, wanting to crush the rising panic on Evie’s face. “She wasn’t there. Which means that she’s probably still alive.”

Evie is shaking her head. Amelia’s face reveals nothing.

“Go on,” prompts Amelia.

Lillian still wiggles and whines but she’s not nearly so loud now.

“Your estate agent and her assistant are dead. Nothing appears stolen.”

Except you.

“But she’s gone?” asks Evie. Her voice is so strained Simon is surprised the woman can talk at all.

Yes, is what Simon wants to say. It’s what he should say. But all of his words are stuck in his throat.

“Yes,” answers Johnny for him, and Simon could sigh with relief on not having to say the words out loud. “But we’re looking for her.”

“She’s alive?” asks Amelia. She places a hand on Evie’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.

“Until we know otherwise,” replies Johnny. “Yes.”

Amelia and Evie both relax even if the tears remain. Johnny was always better at talking to people than him. It’s why Simon rarely did it. He was either too blunt or didn’t know how to comfort. Johnny knew how. He always has.

“We should tell them,” murmurs Amelia to Evie.

“Tell us what?” asks Simon, curious.

Evie shakes her head. “I can’t.”

“Then I will.” Amelia steps back and gestures for them to come inside.

Bravo stays next to Evie’s side all the way to the couch. When the woman sinks down on it, Bravo rests his head on her knee. Soap remains standing, as does Simon.

“British Intelligence came,” begins Amelia, and Soap’s eyes widen.

Simon doesn’t look at Johnny, but from his peripheral, he notices the slight turn of Johnny’s head as his friend glances at him. Price has to know by now. Simon didn’t tell him, but he’s likely putting all the pieces together once he looks at the documents Kyle is making copies of. Archie’s name is probably all over them.

There isn’t any hiding now.

Amelia sighs. “They were asking about Archibald. The circumstances around his death.”

“When did they arrive?” asks Simon.

Johnny remains quiet, his gaze still darting between Simon and Amelia.

“Yesterday,” answers Amelia.

Evie slouches forward, dropping her head into her hands.

“Is that it?” asks Simon, cautiously.

Amelia glances at Evie, her mouth turned downward into a frown. It’s not one of disappoint. It’s stress that’s creeping into her features. With a sigh, Amelia places Lillian into a rocker. Amelia grabs the edge and lightly presses down, the contraption moving in a slow bounce that quickly soothes Lillian’s irritation.

“Asked about potential enemies.” This time, Amelia’s sigh is much deeper. “It’s a strange question. Archie is incredibly kind. There isn’t anyone I know of that holds any ill will toward him. Everyone liked him. Everyone admired him.”

She chews on her lip. “I don’t understand.”

Evie sniffles. Rubs her hands over her face. Glances up. “Why her?” she rasps. “What did she ever do to anyone?”

She didn’t. It’s all me.

The muscles in Simon’s shoulder tense. Walsh likely killed Archie because it suited his goals. If anything, Walsh executed him and moved on without another thought to the bloke. Walsh might have no idea that you are Evie’s friend or that Evie is Archie’s widow. The connection might not be there for Walsh at all.

The only person Walsh cares about is himself. The man has goals, and he fulfills them to whatever ends necessary. If that means taking out one or many, Walsh will do it without thinking twice. Evie might not even be on his radar.

But you?

You are.

All because of Simon. Not because of Archie and his connection to Evie. Walsh wants revenge. He wants Simon to suffer.

It is Simon that betrayed Walsh. Because of Simon’s actions—because of everything he did to take the man down—Walsh only wants you to for the simple goal of getting back at Simon.

When Johnny says nothing, and Simon remains silent, fresh tears fall from Evie’s eyes. “Maybe we should call the police, Amelia. We can’t handle this.”

“The police—” interjects Johnny but Evie continues on like he didn’t say anything at all.

“Thank you, Simon. Thank you for going. But we need to get the authorities involved.” Her hands are shaking even though she tries to hide it.

“No,” says Johnny sharply, one hand slightly raised.

Amelia and Evie both jump, turning toward him.

Johnny closes his eyes and sighs, dropping his hand. When he opens them again, his tone is softer. “Simon called the right people to handle this. Local police can’t do anything.”

Both women frown, but Johnny continues.

“Simon,” begins Johnny, lingering for a moment before continuing, “used to be military.”

Amelia nods. “I’m aware. Known for years.”

Johnny frowns. “Do you know what he did?”

Amelia blinks. Shrugs. “A bit.”

She doesn’t know much. In fact, Amelia knows very little. What she does know is that Simon sustained a bad enough injury for them to force his retirement. Amelia doesn’t know why or how.

“Johnny here used to be on the same team as me. We were sent all over the world on international missions. Our targets weren’t grunts on the ground. We went after those who wanted to do terrible things to a lot of people in the worst ways possible.”

Simon doesn’t elaborate. Amelia and Evie don’t ask for clarification.

“I’m no longer in, but Johnny is. I called our captain, and he’s the one handling this.”

“Why?” asks Evie. “Why would you need to call someone like that for this?”

“Does this have to do with Archibald?” asks Amelia.

“No,” says Simon sharply before Johnny can answer.

He has to put this right. He needs to speak the truth even if it pains him. “It’s someone from my past. Someone I made an enemy of.” And then, quietly, “I’m sorry.”

An apology is all Simon can offer. He has no comforting words for them because he has none for himself.

Evie glances away, her hand a fist that she presses against her mouth. There are no words spoken after that. She places her head on Amelia’s shoulder and the four of them lapse into silence.

It is Johnny that eventually wanders into the kitchen. He makes tea—poorly—but Simon accepts it anyway. He sits in an armchair, staring out the window as Bravo comforts Evie.

The two women don’t ask or tell Simon and Johnny to leave. Simon doesn’t know if Evie blames him. He wouldn’t mind. It’s deserved. But Amelia? That might hurt. Simon is loath to ask so he stays quiet.

Johnny carries the conversation. He speaks quietly to Evie and Amelia, asking them all sorts of questions that he’ll take back to Captain Price. Simon wants to suck it all in, to absorb the questions and trauma and hold it in his stomach to digest.

He’s seen worse. Done worse.

It is late by the time Simon and Johnny depart. It’s not true night but the sun is lowering, the sky awash with a reddish-purply glow. The walk back is utterly silent. Johnny and Simon linger with the sounds of passing cars and the occasional bark of a nearby dog.

Simon’s thoughts are elsewhere. Everywhere but his own head. His mind is there—processing, but there are no connections. It’s spinning static.

But Johnny is present. He is a solid presence beside Simon.

And it is Johnny that grabs Simon’s upper arm, bringing him to a halt before they reach the exterior door to Simon’s building.

Frowning, Simon glances up, scanning the street, muscles poised for action. He expects someone to fall from the sky or for Walsh to appear with weapon in hand. Simon will take that if it means getting you back.

“Stay here, Lt,” murmurs Johnny from the corner of his mouth.

The crease in Simon’s brow deepens but Johnny is already moving, leaving Simon on the pavement as he approaches the door. Simon’s gaze follows every step, and when Johnny reaches out to grab something white off the door, Simon doesn’t know he’s moving until Johnny turns toward him, a bit startled.

“I told you to stay,” snaps Johnny but there’s no venom in it. Only concern. Pity. And Simon hates that.

Simon’s response is not to speak but to snatch the thing out of Soap’s fist.

It’s another envelope. White like the last one. No postage like the last one. And there on the front in handwritten scrawl is Simon’s full name.

It’s exactly the same. A twin from the one found at Evie’s home.

Was Walsh here? Has he been watching Simon all this time? Is he here even now, lingering in a nearby building to watch Simon’s reaction to whatever is inside?

“Simon,” warns Johnny, but he’s not listening.

He needs to know—to fucking know.

Simon tears open the envelope and withdraws the small piece of paper.

It is thin. Wispy. Almost translucent.

The words are even thinner—as if the paper was kissed by smoke.

There are seeds that cannot sprout unless they are burned first. A friend told me that.

Simon told Walsh that—when Walsh thought Simon was an ally and not an enemy. When Simon was a plant and gaining information that would turn Walsh’s entire operation upside down.

I think of it often. I think of you. Isn’t it interesting that some living things must first burn before they can grow? What a gift that friend gave me. What a garden you and I are.

“Simon,” comes Johnny’s voice, but he’s not listening.

Everything is narrowing down to a point. He is fracturing all over again.

It rained that night. I burned like the seed. The sky watered my skin. I germinated. I flowered. I grew. What a gift. We are gardens now. The two of us.

“Call Price,” whispers Simon.

“Lt?”

“Call Price, Johnny.”

Simon knows.

He knows.

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@kylies-love-letter @saoirse06 @ferns-fics @lialacleaf @unhinged-reader-36

@miss-mistinguett @ravenpoe67 @tulipsun-flower @creamwhxre @sageyxbabey

@mudisgranapat @ninman82 @lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @theshrikeandcanary

@yawning-grave81 @knight4xmas @jupiternighties @corvusmorte @darling006

@azkza @nishim @carma-fanficaddict @haven-1307 @voids-universe

@itsberrydreemurstuff @i-feel-violated @cod-z @mileyraes @littlemisscriesherselftosleep

@mileyraes @umno-yeah @randomgurl2326 @blackhawkfanatic @talooolaaloolla

@sadlonelybagel @aykxz98 @kadeeesworld @xxkay15xx @iloveslasher

@sammysinger04 @dakotakazansky @suhmie @cinnabeanz @rogerrhqpsody

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obislut · 2 months

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Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

A night out in London to celebrate your friend’s upcoming marriage ends with a quick hook-up in a club’s green room. You don’t expect to see your masked man ever again, and you leave it as a one-time thing. Three years later, you’re back in England, and find yourself facing the man you walked away from at that club. He’s running a tattoo parlor just down the street from where you’re staying. Over time, your paths cross and cross again until the two of you are tangled up in a messy web. Will it last? Or will one of you walk away?

Content & Warnings (overall): canon-typical violence, PTSD, canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes, possessive / jealous / obsessive behavior, second chances, grief / mourning, strangers to lovers (graphic chapters will be marked with ** which indicates a Community Label)

Chapters: (ongoing) One // Two ** // Three // Four ** // Five // Six // Seven // Eight ** // Nine // Ten // Eleven ** // Twelve // Thirteen // Fourteen ** // Fifteen ** // Sixteen // Seventeen ** // Eighteen ** // Nineteen // Twenty // Twenty-One // Twenty-Two // Twenty-Three // Twenty-Four // Twenty-Five // Twenty-Six // Twenty-Seven // Twenty-Eight // Twenty-Nine // Thirty

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @coffeecaketornado

title banner: created with Canva

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obislut · 2 months

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Welcome to my blog!

Minors DNI – The content on this blog is for adults (18+). By following or engaging with this content, you are agreeing that you are 18 or older. (I will block users not respecting this boundary.)

Safe Space – Feel free to drop into my ask box, DM me, leave me comments…I am very friendly and love to chat!

Requests – open (all fandoms)

Taglist – If you want to follow my work and be there right when it goes live, please consider joining my taglist. (You are responsible for making sure I can “@“ you when I tag a post; blank, empty, and ageless blogs will not be accepted)

Community Labels - This blog is Community Label compliant. All content that is graphic in nature will be put behind a Community Label. If you wish to view mature content, please adjust your settings.

Platforms – I am only on Ao3 & Tumblr. If you see my work on other platforms, please contact me.

Who am I? – Poppy. she/they. 31. bisexual trash gremlin w/ a caffeine addiction.

ao3 // taglist // personal tumblr

Missed Hints (Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader)

Misunderstanding (Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader)

Mint & Stone (Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader) ... coming soon

Rainy Reunion (Aragorn x Female Reader)

Burnt Bread (Éomer x Female Reader)

Gentle Dark (Haldir x Female Reader)

A Sudden Spark (Éomer x Female Reader)

We Won’t Be Missed (Legolas x Female Elf Reader)

An Unexpected Catch (Boromir x Female Reader)

Untitled Captain Rex ... coming soon

Untitled Din Djarin ... coming soon

Untitled Hunter (Bad Batch) ... coming soon

Dark Knowledge Masterlist (Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Reader)

Ink & Needle Masterlist (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader)

Dangerous Pursuit Masterlist (Captain John Price x Female Reader)

Imagines & What If Main Masterlist (Task Force 141)

Locker Room: Part One // Part Two // Simon's POV (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader)

Second Act Masterlist (Task Force 141 Masked Metal Band AU)

Thinking Of Series: (Summer) Olympics // (Winter) Olympics // Regency // PornStar // Gladiator // BlueCollar // Bodyguard // RockStar // MMAFighter

Untitled Simon "Ghost" Riley Post-Apocalyptic AU ... coming soon

Winter 2023 Collection Masterlist

Fluffuarry 2024 Masterlist (Star Wars Edition)

Spring 2024 Collection Masterlist

Summer 2024 Collection Masterlist

1k Follower Event Masterlist

masterlist banners: created using Canva profile picture: taken & edited by gloomwitchwrites profile banner: taken & edited by gloomwitchwrites (oracle cards from Threads of Fate)

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obislut · 2 months

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for the fear of falling apart - masterlist

you've always had a picturesque idea of how your life would turn out. finding out that your sister is in love with your boyfriend wasn't part of that picture.

re: a rewrite of the jeid plotline from season 15 of criminal minds, featuring spencer reid x jareau!reader, goes from 14x15 "truth or dare" through 15x10 "and in the end"

part one

↳ after hearing her gunpoint confession, your sister pressures you into airing your grievances at Rossi's wedding

part two

↳ returning to Everett Lynch's case, you try to redefine normalcy with Spencer and JJ, but Grace Lynch has other plans for you

part three

↳ when it seems like a return to normalcy is impossible, you decide that something has to give, but will it bend or will it break?

part four

part five

epilogue

taglist: i've had a lot of people ask to be tagged and i'm trying my best to keep up with it, but if you'd like to be tagged, you can comment/reblog this post or my inbox and messages are open! please note that this is just a taglist for this series and not an all encompassing jareau!reader taglist.

a/n: okay so here it is, my goal is to have one part up each week. additionally, i'm telling you all right now that the canon timeline does not exist in this series.

all parts and yap sessions relating to this series are tagged with #ffofa on this blog

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obislut · 2 months

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obislut · 2 months

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hey man what’s wrong with you

the usual

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obislut · 2 months

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the Lovers

Pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader Warnings: angst, fluff, no happy ending (yet), canon typical violence, description of domestic abuse, reader AND Haley are not good people i swear, tarot reading inaccuracies and u.s. gov inaccuracies don't come at me i'm sorry

no use of Y/N or gendered pronouns, but reader wears skirts, dresses, was a cheerleader, has hair long enough to "tuck behind the ears". part 1 of 2

forgot to say this two-parter is based on Slut! by Taylor Swift

main masterlist

summary: “The Lovers card is generally associated with relationships, vulnerability, and, um, major choices you have to make. Reversed means–” you swallowed. “You should, um, take time to reflect about who you are and what you stand for. It can also mean that you are faced with the consequences of previous choices you have made. So, whatever the dilemma is, you should make a decision despite your fear.”

1998, FBI Academy Quantico, VA

You wouldn’t say that you were one of the founding members of the BAU. No, you were a little young for that. Well, younger anyway.

David Rossi would say that you were a building block of ViCAP and singlehandedly revolutionized the field of profiling (you didn’t). Your proposed PhD research thesis on violent crimes committed by women awarded you a grant from Justice on the count that the FBI has you at their disposal. A culmination of years of research, interviewing women in federal prisons landed you guaranteed employment at the Bureau, apparently.

They first brought you in as a consultant, and they gave you access to their case files. You helped with the rapid development of ViCAP, cataloging crimes into distinct profiles, and rebuilding the BAU’s founding members' work. Then, they recruited you as a clinical psychologist for their agents, consulting day in and day out on their mental well-being, all the while you conducted further research and tenure at Georgetown.

Jason Gideon had a different idea where you could use your expertise, though.

“Have you ever thought about becoming an agent?” Jason Gideon asked at one point when he took you to dinner after he closed a case.

You narrowed your eyes. “I should've known that steak and milkshake isn't on the menu for a social dinner.”

“You get to be out there, with us, in the field,” he explained. “Instead of working off of case reports. You can teach at the Academy, instead of just guest lecturing.”

“You want me to leave my tenured position at Georgetown to become a fed?”

“I want you to take a sabbatical from your tenured position at Georgetown to learn.”

Coincidentally, a year before, Gideon just approved the transfer of a profiler from the Seattle Field Office to the BAU. Coincidentally, you went to high school with the guy. It was an evil manipulation on Gideon’s part, really, the old man just couldn’t take his claws off of his agents, that Aaron Hotchner would be your mentor as a Special Agent–the highest (lowest, really) rank the Bureau could give you after twenty-weeks training (with a lot of exceptions).

It had been raining that Monday morning, putting a damp in your already-damp mood. Being a field agent meant you had to give up your flowy blouses and flowy skirts for sensible shirts and pantsuits. The boots could stay, promised Gideon, and your colorful bandanas. You took it off anyway since you got rained on during your commute.

“I know–I know you said nine,” you started spewing apologies the moment you walked into the sixth-floor conference room. “I got rained on and I dropped my coffee–”

“Angel?” A voice interrupted. You didn’t need to look up and face the room to recognize that voice.

You thought about this moment a million times, about what would happen when you see him again, what you'd say. You thought it'd be more dramatic, more screaming on your part (where were you?) and shaking on his (where did you go?). But under the watchful eyes of Jason Gideon, you knew you didn't have that luxury.

“Hotch,” you greeted with a respectful nod. Something twitched in his expression, and you knew then he was also unsure of where this might go.

“Agent Hotchner, this is our new team member,” Gideon introduced, glasses barely hanging on the bridge of his nose. “Though it seems that I don’t need to do introductions.”

Aaron Hotchner cleared his throat, eyes not leaving you. “You didn’t mention it’d be, uh–”

“Angel?” Gideon finished, eyes bouncing between the two of you as if watching a tennis match. He stood up, taking a stack of files with him. “It must’ve slipped my mind.”

“Gideon–” you started, because that day, you also hadn’t been informed as to who you would be shadowing until they trusted you with solo cases.

The conniving man handed you a manila folder, cutting you off. “Sorry, I have to run. Cases, you understand, and here is your first one. Agent Hotch will talk you through everything.”

Then just like that, he left you alone with the first man you had ever loved.

1982, Stanley Academy Boarding School, VA

“I don't think he's a good idea,” you told your best friend as she took out her chemistry books from her locker. “His initials are literally A.H. for asshole. If that's not a red flag, I don't know what is!”

Haley just smiled at you, amusedly. “I think you're being overly dramatic.”

“He just wants to get into your pants!”

“Relax, I'm not going to let him,” Haley reassured. “I'm not going to give up anything until I find The One, you know that.”

Between the two of you, an unlikely pair of polar opposites, Haley was the virtuous one. She was a good Christian girl, she was pretty without being offensive. She was the kind of girl who didn't have to wear any make-up to get a guy to notice her.

Haley Brooks was perfect in every way, but high school boys weren't looking for a wife: they were looking for someone fun. Someone like you: smart, but didn't flaunt it, hot enough to make his friends jealous, cheerleader, but not a captain.

Apparently, Aaron Hotchner wasn't a regular high school boy.

“Aaron!” Haley greeted with a dazzling smile. The man of the hour walked up to the both of you, and you leaned against the locker with an annoyed sigh.

“Hey,” he greeted Haley, then turned his attention to you. “L/N.”

“Hotchner,” you said with a tight smile. “Congratulations on landing the Fourth Pirate role. I’m carving your name under the Worst Fourth Pirate Ever award.”

The guy rolled his eyes, the proud smile on his face was all sarcastic. “Well, thank you, aren't you an angel?”

“Kids, play nice,” Haley warned in a sing-a-song voice. She started walking towards the physics lab, and you followed her. To your dismay, Aaron did too. “Are you walking us to class today?”

“Well,” he said, glancing pointedly at you. “How about just you?”

“Fuck off, Hotch,” you said.

Haley and Aaron turned to you, and each one had their eyebrow raised, “Hotch?”

“I don't want to put more effort into saying your name.”

“Or you can just call me Aaron, like a normal person.”

“That's two syllables,” you shrugged. “Hotch only has one and frankly, that’s the extent of my effort for you.”

2000, FBI Academy Quantico, VA

Gideon would say that putting you and Hotch together was the best decision he had ever made. He would argue that the hostage negotiation textbooks you both co-wrote were mandated reading for law enforcement. He would never take credit for your success, of course, but sometimes, he’d look over to the bullpen from his office and see the two of you hunched over the communal desk with takeout boxes and open files, and feel a little proud.

He wouldn’t admit that to your face, of course.

Your partnership solved a lot more cases than either one of you could do individually.

“I have my firearm requalification tomorrow,” Aaron said, slurping his coke from the styrofoam cup.

You snorted, “So? Are you worried?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I was wondering if you want to take yours with me.”

“Not a chance in hell,” you started to pack away the empty takeout containers, putting them in the same plastic bag they came in.

“Why not? We are chasing down increasingly dangerous criminals. It’s for your own protection!”

“Why would I need to protect myself if I have you around?” You teased, batting your eyes at your partner. Aaron rolled his eyes, but you didn’t miss the subtle pink on his cheeks. “If you get a perfect score, drinks will be on me.”

There was a small tug of his lips as he looked at you. Aaron put his styrofoam cup back down, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk. You mirrored his pose, challenging. “Like a date?”

It was then your turn to have blood rushing to your cheeks. You bit your lip, nodding, “Like a date.”

1983, Brooks Residence, VA

It wasn't until Haley's birthday party that you realized you liked Aaron. Actually, it might just be that you have already fallen a little in love with him then, too.

The Brooks household was the closest to campus, and each of the attendees had enough money in their name that the school wouldn't blink when they went off campus on the weekend.

You weren't in the celebratory mood. Your adoptive parents were most likely to get a divorce and you'd get the burnt of it. You were still seventeen, still a junior, still a whole year ahead before you would age out of the foster system, or appeal for emancipation.

You could swing the latter, you thought. You already had early acceptance from Stanford with the promise of a full ride. A sob story about watching your parents die because of a drunk driver and growing up in the foster care system went a long way, but you were still worried that everything you worked for might just unravel if they sent you back to the system.

Aaron approached you in the kitchen, and even then you couldn't deny how annoying his hotness was. You gave Haley a lot of shit for letting him charm his way on the first days you three started hanging out, but you were a hypocrite. The way his body filled that unbuttoned shirt made you roll your eyes. Also maybe you were a little tipsy.

“Something on your mind?” He asked, handing you a red solo cup filled with Vodka and cranberry juice.

You didn't have the mental capacity for a comeback, so you took a big swig off the cup.

This only spurred him on. “No smart quips?”

“Shut up, Hotchner.”

“My full name?” He gasped overdramatically. Aaron put the back of his palm against your forehead as if to check your temperature. “Are you sick?”

You swatted his hand away. “Sick of your bullshit.”

Aaron pretended to be wounded, hand to his heart. However, he opted to lean against Haley's kitchen island, eyes studying you. Even then, he was awfully perceptive. You averted your eyes from his gaze because you were sure he'd read into you if you presented even a slight difference in your behavior.

To his credit, he didn't push. Instead, Aaron extended his hand.

“Come on,” he urged. “Let's dance.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you having a stroke?”

“Nope,” he grinned. As if on cue, ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! started playing throughout the house.

After a cheer from the partying crowd, Aaron took your hand and dragged you with him.

“Hotch, I'm not really–” you started to protest, in the middle of the living room, you were ready to leave him hanging there. Until–until you noticed the smallest falter on his smile. You followed his land of sight towards Haley who was making out against the wall with some guy from your gym class.

Downing your remaining drink in one go, you crunched up the cup in front of his face, getting his attention back.

“If you want to dance, we have to dance,” you said, emphasizing the last ‘dance’. Aaron furrowed his eyebrows, but before he could question it, you grabbed his hand, extended it, and twirled yourself underneath it.

Amused, Aaron complied with you, spinning you out before catching you in his arms, again and again.

You had never felt more alive than in that moment.

You paid for that little stunt when the party was over and everyone had gone home, including Aaron. You lay next to Haley on her bed, fulfilling the promise of a sleepover after you had held her hair back as she emptied her stomach content to the toilet bowl.

“I saw you, you know,” she whispered conspiratorially. “With Aaron.”

You prayed that she didn’t see you embarrassed. “And? We were just dancing around. Everyone was.”

“I thought you hate him, but you don't, you slut!” Haley giggled in glee. “You like him!”

“Shut up, Hales!” you groaned. “He’s all yours, promise.”

Haley sat up on her bed, looking down at you with excitement in her eyes. “Where’s the fun in that?”

2001, Baltimore, MA – Washington DC

“I’m literally going to throw myself off a roof,” you complained, putting your phone away after you got off a phone call with Gracie.

“No,” Gideon and Aaron said in unison. The former didn’t lift his eyes off the evidence board in front of him, but added, “At least not until the case is over.”

“What’s wrong?” Aaron asked, watching you take a seat next to him.

“Gracie is throwing an engagement party,” You informed, sighing. “And I’m happy for her, I am, but, um, remember Jackson Whitefield from boarding school?”

“Yeah, he spilled a beer on you at my graduation party,” Aaron said nonchalantly.

You paused, head whipping to look at him instead of crime scene photos. He remembered? “And you were also the lead prosecutor on his dad’s case.”

“I guess.”

“So, um, it’s his mother Gracie got engaged to. You know, since they can’t legally get married, engagement is good enough.”

It was Aaron’s turn to look at you. “Wow.”

You nodded. “I’m just dreading it, you know? I hated those people back then and I doubt I’ll like them now.”

“I’ll go with you,” he said, shrugging. It caught you off guard that even Gideon turned away from the board to look at him. Then, a chime came from his PDA. “Oh, look, former Mrs. Whitefield just sent me a personal invitation for putting her former husband in prison.”

Before you and Gideon could process that information, an officer came into the conference room. “This is the additional lab results you asked for.”

It had been one of the hardest cases you had ever worked on. The unsub was a former marine, killing parents, and taking their children. It took you, Aaron, and Gideon working on the case together, going back and forth, brainstorming and arguing, to even catch a break. Not to mention that you had to strongarm the assigned technical analyst to find useful information.

You had been following the lead from the new lab results, paired off with Aaron, while Gideon held down the fort at the station. Gideon seemed to be the obvious choice since he had a gun (and you still didn’t), but he tore his ACL jumping off a roof last week.

“Put on your vest,” Aaron told you as he parked in front of an old abandoned factory. “I have a bad feeling.”

“I thought we were just checking out a possible hideaway?” You asked but complied anyway.

Aaron walked in front of you, gun drawn, you followed behind him, armed with a flashlight. Then, he stopped two steps from the car before crouching down. You realized that he had taken his backup weapon from its ankle holster, handing it to you.

You shook your head. “No. No way.”

“Come on,” he insisted. “It’s a big factory. It’s for your protection.”

“I’m a psychologist! I don’t use guns! I don’t know how to use guns!”

“Angel,” Aaron took your hand, fitting the handle of the gun in it. He looked into your eyes, and you saw the fear and concern in them. “Please, just this once. Just front sight, trigger press, and follow through.”

“I don't know what that means!” you argued, but relented because of the look on his face. “Fine! I'll figure it out!”

It had been a good thing you did because it went so south, so fast. You had split up to cover more grounds and it wasn’t a minute later that you heard a struggle. You ran as fast as you could to the other side of the factory, and sure enough, Aaron was struggling to fight the unsub.

“Aaron!”

“Get the children out!”

You turned your head and found a room with four children trapped inside, huddled in the far corner of the room. There was a padlock with no sign of the keys. There was only one way.

“Hey, we're with the police. Everything's going to be okay, just turn away and face the wall for a moment,” you instructed the kids and they did what you asked.

You aimed Aaron’s gun, pointed it at the padlock, and shot. Before you could pry the broken padlock open, you were pushed down to the floor. The unsub was on top of you and Aaron’s gun was knocked out of your hand.

Your throat felt tight. You struggled to breathe and you knew that, for a moment, this was it. Your end.

All you could think about was Aaron, if he had survived or lay weak on the floor. Then, you remembered the kids, trapped and scared. Then, you thought of Gracie. You didn’t want her to change her engagement party to a funeral.

Then, gunshots. Two of them, before the pressure around your throat lessened, replaced by the dead weight of the unsub on top of you. Your lungs tried to get in as much air as possible, sending you into a fit of cough, trying to alleviate the burning sensation.

Your head was pounding, barely processing when Aaron radioed for backup.

It was his voice you heard before everything went dark.

On the Saturday after that incident, you chose a turtleneck and a skirt for Gracie’s garden-themed engagement party. The bruises on your neck hadn’t disappeared, and you didn’t want to ruin the pictures and the mood by showing up battered. You also hadn’t seen Aaron since the three of you got back to Quantico, with Gideon ordering a mandated recovery day off.

“You look beautiful,” a voice said behind you. It was none other than Aaron Hotchner.

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Thank you. For the compliment, and for saving my life.”

“I can think of one way to thank me,” he said, holding his hand out to you. “Dance with me.”

The music playing was soft and slow. Valentina Whitefield had managed to strip her former husband of his wealth, including his son. Jackson Whitefield was the one playing the violin, actually, and you had been so surprised when Gracie re-introduced you both earlier.

You let Aaron lead you to the dance floor on the manicured lawn of the Whitefield residence, where some of the guests were paired off.

The class divide, when you were growing up or even now, sometimes would suffocate you. Most times, you'd want to scream that these snotty entitled brats didn't deserve anything they had. Other times, it sucked that they had everything at their fingertips while you felt like you had to justify your existence somehow.

Junior year was the worst, and every time you saw these faces, it felt like your skin would burn off. You didn't have to be a profiler to notice the side glances and the whispers shared amongst the Whitefield guests and your former classmates.

But you were all dressed up anyway. They might as well be looking at you.

“How are you feeling?” Aaron asked, holding you closer as if he knew you got in your own head. You had your arms wrapped around his shoulders, his arms around your waist.

“Better,” you said, trying to smile. “I’m sorry I haven’t been returning your calls. I was a little shaken up by the whole thing. I mean, I know the risks, I have been doing this with you for years, but I never thought that I’d–you know.”

“I understand,” you felt his fingers squeeze you tighter. “It took me weeks to come to terms the first time I got shot.”

You knew the story; you saw the scar once, on his left shoulder, and had asked him about it.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” Aaron confessed, head falling to rest on its own, foreheads touching, voice brittle.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” you joked.

“Why would I want to?”

Aaron raised his finger to touch the dangling stars of your earring. (Yes, an earring, because you lost the other half of the pair years ago). He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear in the process, and you leaned into his touch.

Last year, when you promised him a date if he scored a perfect one in his re-qualification didn’t end up happening, with him only scoring a 95, five points away from the grand prize. You teased him about it and took him out to get drinks anyway, but insisted that it wasn’t a date.

“Angel,” he whispered, then he whispered your name.

Your heart constricted because you fell in love with him in high school and you fell in love with him all over again in the BAU. Then, your loyalty to Haley ate you from the inside out. Then, she shoved their closeness in your face as if to flaunt what you couldn't have. Maybe this time, you had a chance.

“Aaron,” you echoed, and he closed his eyes as if to savor the sound of your voice saying his name.

Then, he moved one hand to hold yours, stepped back, and twirled you around. Your laugh echoed through the party, until–until you saw her. Blonde hair pinned up perfectly.

“Haley?”

1983, Hotchner Residence, VA

Surprisingly, you were invited to Aaron's graduation party. You wouldn't admit it, but there was an effort to impress him in the way you dressed that day. The flared sleeves of your white shirt, tied around your stomach, were longer than your corduroy shorts.

“Who are you whoring out for?” Haley had asked when she saw your outfit. There wasn't any malice in it, you knew, but you couldn't help but roll your eyes as she put on a skirt.

“It's June,” you defended, putting on lipstick and a pair of dangling earrings shaped like droplets of stars. Your adoptive mother had given it to you as a ‘welcome to the family’ gift when they picked you up from your foster home.

She was into the mystic and magic, your mother. She taught you how to do tarot before she taught you how to do ninth-grade algebra. Gracie, you called her. And she'd call you a different name of a star as she pleased.

“I think I'm going to tell him I love him,” Haley said suddenly, and you felt your heart plummet. “I mean, I should probably do it earlier, before–you know. But it's his last day and–”

And you tuned her out. You might feel guilty after this but you couldn't bear to hear more of her plan with Aaron. You were supposed to be her friend, her best friend, and yet–you fell for a guy who had been pining over her since sophomore year, whom she was obviously head over heels for.

“I didn't think you'd actually come,” was the first thing Aaron Hotchner said as you made yourself home at his hundred-thousand-bucks family kitchen.

You filled the cup halfway with vodka, and Aaron wordlessly reached into his fridge and cracked open a fresh bottle of cran.

“I'm celebrating the start of something new here, Hotch,” you told him, letting him fill your cup. “It’s the last day I'd ever have to go to school and see your face.”

“You'd miss me too much,” he said, leaning on his arms on the counter, looking up at you. Aaron reached up and touched his finger to one dangling earring, making you shiver. “Admit it, Angel.”

You turned to face him, your glossed-up lips pulled into a smile. “Over my dead fucking body.”

Because as much as you hated to admit it, you would miss him. You'd miss messing up his hair and teasing him over the smallest thing. You'd miss him offering you and Haley a ride after school. You'd miss him teasing you back, miss the way he'd tug at your stray hair and steal your cookies at lunch. But you'd rather die than admit that to him first, so for now, you'd send him smirks and half smiles.

Haley found the both of you quickly, launching herself to Aaron's side, a questioning look on her face. You didn't dignify her with an attempted explanation.

“Howard is having a drunk foosball tournament,” she told him, leaning up against his ear.

“Oh, let's go,” Aaron said enthusiastically, arm around Haley's waist. He paused to turn to you. “You coming, Angel?”

You rather didn't, you thought. You didn't want to see them cuddling up together all night, because as much as Aaron liked to keep you around, you knew he'd rather entertain Haley.

Even though you knew that Aaron was after Haley since The Pirate of Penzance, you couldn't help but let your heart experience all the hurt that came with falling for him. You were masochistic that way, and you knew from the beginning that you'd get out of Virginia. Not even a guy with a killer smile and sparkling eyes could change that.

You didn't have to answer, though, as some guy was calling your name from the beer pong table.

“Guess not,” you said, leaving them in the kitchen.

Both Aaron and Haley came from money. At least, more than you have ever seen. The Hotchner household, especially, with all that lawyer money. Hell, the only reason you had been able to attend the same boarding school as Aaron and Haley was because of a scholarship that Gracie had dragged you to apply to.

You tried not to be bitter, really, but the fact of the matter was, rich kids were absolute assholes. Case in point was some guy who had drunkenly tripped over a fallen throw pillow and spilled her beer all over your top without the slightest bit of regret.

Haley was your ride, but you really didn't want to deal with her pouting after you made her leave the party early. You had enough money for a taxi back, you just had to take a couple extra shifts at the library this summer to make up for it.

“Hey,” you approached her at the foosball table. Aaron was playing, and by the looks of it, it was a pretty intense match.

“Hey, you okay?” Haley asked as she saw the state of your clothes.

“Yeah, fine. Some bitch spilled some beer,” you answered. “I'm going to grab a taxi home.”

Haley frowned. “Surely not at this hour? What if something happens? What if there's a Bundy-type out there?”

“Bundy's arrested,” you said. “In Washington, the state.”

“Haley's right,” Aaron interjected, his attention fully turned to you. His foosball opponent had his arms crossed expectantly, impatient. “Come on, I'll get you something to change and put yours in the dryer.”

You sighed, eyes bouncing between Haley and Aaron. “Do I have a choice?”

Aaron Hotchner had an ensuite. He had given you a GWU sweatshirt to change into, and you had thrown your shirt out of his bathroom.

His room was surprisingly neat for a teenage boy filled with both comic books and novels. You saw pre-law textbooks and authors like Kafka, Hemingway, and Camus. You took note of the collection of the Beatles vinyl, a record sat on the player.

“Are you snooping around?” Aaron's voice made you jump in surprise.

You rolled your eyes at him, taking a seat on his cushioned windowsill. You gestured towards the record player, “Let me guess, the White Album?”

“How did you know?”

“You seem like the type,” you shrugged, just to be vague.

Aaron took a seat on his bed, across from you. “The type?”

“Yeah,” you said, crossing your legs. “Explorative, curious, and somehow still a little contained. You go after what you want and you look beyond the first impression, relentlessly.”

Aaron was taken aback. “Really? You got that from songs that I like?”

“No,” you shook your head, laughing. “I just know you, Hotch.”

Something shifted in his face then, like he wanted to say something. There was tension in his shoulders, fingers playing with each other. After a moment of indecision, he looked up at you and said, “You really do.”

This might be the last time you ever saw him, you thought. And as much as you had resigned to the idea that you would let him go, you wanted to give him something to remember you by. What do you give someone who could have anything they wanted?

“Would you grab my purse?” You asked instead, gesturing to the black leather purse you thrifted last week. He complied, and you took out a stack of tarot cards bound with a rubber band.

“Are you serious?” Aaron asked, smiling in disbelief.

“Yes, I am,” you said, then gestured to the spot next to you. “Come here.”

Aaron moved next to you, and you turned your body so you were face to face on the small windowsill. Your hands shuffled the cards effortlessly, spreading them face down on the cushioned seat. You extended your hand for no other purpose than to feel his touch.

He put his hand in yours and your heart soared.

You forced yourself to let go. “Pick three cards.”

“Any cards?”

“Anything that calls out to you.”

“How would I know if it calls out to me?”

“God dammit, just pick three, Hotchner!”

There wasn't much thought to his selection, you noticed. He picked them to get the process over with. Once he was done, you stacked the remaining cards back into the deck, then turned his chosen cards over one by one.

Upright The Fool. And, as you feared, Reversed The Lovers. Upright Three of Swords.

You cleared your throat, clearly not expecting the outcome to scream so loud. Half your mind wanted to call it off, tell a joke to distract him so he didn't have to hear you interpret it with the little knowledge you had.

But he was looking at you challengingly, expectantly, like he knew you were going to back out. You didn't want to give him that.

“The Fool, fitting for someone who just graduated high school,” you prefaced, your tone teasing. “Tells you to embrace new beginnings, to let your intuition guide you towards new adventures. You should have an open mind, and let your adventurous spirit out.”

“This is ridiculous, you do realize that, right?” He said with a smile.

“Shut up. The Lovers card is generally associated with relationships, vulnerability, and, um, major choices you have to make. Reversed means–” you swallowed. “You should, um, take time to reflect about who you are and what you stand for. It can also mean that you are faced with the consequences of previous choices you have made. So, whatever the dilemma is, you should make a decision despite your fear.”

You looked up to him, waiting for a comment. Aaron didn't say anything, just staring out his window at the party goers outside.

You continued. “Upright Three of Swords is devastating. It is grief and sorrow. You may lose someone due to–due to death or just a breakup in every sense–platonic or romantic.”

Aaron averted his gaze. Once to his bed, until it finally settled on you. You didn't make it a habit of reading too much into the cards and the crystals Gracie put in the house, but the weight of his choices suffocated you anyway.

You tried to hide the shake in your hands. You didn't dare hope that he'd choose you, but your poor heart couldn't help it. Especially not with the way he was looking at you.

“Well, I wouldn't put too much thought into the cards,” you started to put the cards back into the deck, working the rubber band. “There isn't really any science–”

“Angel,” he called, hand gripping your free one. Then he said your name.

You took a deep breath to brace for impact, and by the time you met his eyes, he was already impossibly close. Aaron's other hand reached out and nudged one of your earrings. His fingers followed the line of your jaw until your chin rested on them.

“Hotch–” you started, your own fingers around his arm, deck of cards forgotten. A subtle flinch, pressing a little too hard as he closed his eyes. “Aaron.”

He opened his eyes again, and you knew then you gave him what he was looking for, even if you weren't sure what it was. His head moved closer, and you couldn't help but glance at his parted lips.

Aaron moved tentatively as if asking for permission. When you didn't move, he closed his eyes and–

Three sharp knocks, followed by Haley's voice. “Hey, Angel, your shirt's dry.”

That jolted you back to reality, literally. You jumped from your seat at the windowsill as if you had touched fire. (By the way your cheeks were warm, you might as well have). You didn't look at Aaron–you couldn't, not without feeling embarrassed and guilty.

She was going to tell him she loved him.

You opened the door to Haley holding out your freshly dried shirt. It still had a stain and the faintest smell of cheap beer, but you took it anyway.

“You gonna let me change or do you want to watch, Hotch?” You said, voice surprisingly level, but still not looking at him.

“Right–right, yeah,” even as much as you hated him, Aaron was still a gentleman at heart. He stepped around you to join Haley outside. “I'll just–yeah.”

Once the door clicked, you took off his sweatshirt and put on your shirt, buttoned and tucked properly this time. Then, you realized one of your earrings was gone. You crouched down to look inside the sweatshirt, to no avail, then, something glinted under the bed. Your hand reached deeper, but it wasn't metal you felt.

It was a soft cashmere. A cardigan, your school’s uniform, to be exact, with H.B. monogrammed on the chest.

Like ice water on a hot summer day.

(I'm not going to give up anything until I find The One, you know that.) (I should probably do it earlier, before–you know.)

The Lovers. Of course. You made the choice for him.

You left three things in his room that day: one-half of your pair of star earrings, a deck of tarot cards, and your heart.

2003, Fairfax – FBI Academy Quantico, VA

Last year, Jason Gideon took you to his favorite diner.

“I have been considering,” he began. “That we should work as a team instead of sending lone agents or partners.”

You hummed in consideration. “It would solve cases a whole lot quicker if profilers are authorized to lead tac and media. We would be able to avoid the SWAT fiasco in New York and the media circus of Los Angeles last month.”

“Exactly,” Gideon agreed. “Every member has their own expertise.”

“I'm guessing you already have some people in mind?” You asked, but you didn't need him to answer that. “And that includes me?”

The senior agent pulled out two folders and slid them across the diner table. Two names, one written across each manila folder: Derek Morgan, former Chicago PD turned ATF turned Bureau agent, and– Aaron Hotchner, obviously.

You could feel Gideon's eyes watching your every move, every micro expression.

“What do you think?” He pressed.

If he wanted a reaction, you didn't give him one.

You ran your eyes over the first pages of the folders, then lifted them up at his expecting face. “You want me to get two alpha males into working on a team together?”

Gideon only shrugged, cutting into his medium rare ribeye, not giving a straight answer, or any answer for that matter. “There are other teams, and if their results by the end of the year are good enough, we'll run this one by the next quarter.”

You chewed in contemplation before saying, “They're all men.”

A slow smile reached his face, eyes still studying you. He shrugged, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “We have you, don't we?”

By the time the team started running, Gideon had taken Dr. Spencer Reid, a kid genius still in the academy, under his wing.

Ever since that first encounter after years apart at Gracie’s engagement party, Haley went back to being a constant in your life. You loved her, you truly do, but you hated yourself because it felt like high school all over again: with Aaron pining over her and you were pining over him, and Haley was just, Haley.

Apparently she moved back from New York, taking a job teaching at an elementary school. It fit her, really, doing something as nurturing as being a teacher for kids, compared to you, who could only get through trainees and postdoc students.

You didn’t even remember the fight you had with her that night. Maybe it was because you still refuse to carry a gun.

“I just don’t understand why you won’t try to protect yourself!”

“Profilers aren’t required to carry,” you had told her. “And I’m a psychologist first and foremost, Haley. I’m not killing anyone, I don’t care who they are.”

“You are putting not only yourself but also Aaron in danger. You might get him killed because you refused to shoot a psychopath.”

“Not all of them are psychopaths! A lot of them are actually just people who need healthcare.”

“That doesn’t matter when they’re trying to kill you!”

You wouldn't admit it, but she got into your head. So much, in fact, that you were on edge ever since, that even Derek Morgan cornered you during one case and flat-out asked if you were okay.

And it happened. It actually happened.

The team had just started, just trying to find its footing while working together. Derek Morgan was used to doing things solo and you might just stab yourself if you hear another misogynistic joke; Dr. Spencer Reid was sweet, but his insensitivity towards the victim's family made you work twice as much in damage control; and Gideon was, well, Gideon.

Last month, you got an offer to lead another chapter of ViCAP research based out of Houston.

Last night, the team got a case in Fairfax. It all happened so fast.

You knew that you couldn’t reason with the unsub because he was so overtaken by both his compulsions and delusions, but you tried anyway because it was ingrained in you; it was your nature. The team had been stretched thin, leaving you and Reid to go to the M.E. office–it wasn’t ideal since neither of you were carrying weapons, but Gideon’s risk assessment said it was probably fine.

Probably. Fine. That was, until the unsub cut the power and came in with a semi-automatic, shooting the M.E., and forced Reid to cut into the latest victim’s intestinal tract to find some kind of talisman. The problem was, there was nothing in there whatsoever. It just so happened that Gideon sent Aaron to check on you both.

It was a knee-jerk reaction on the unsub’s part. It was a blindside on Aaron's part. It was entirely a mistake on your part.

All you remembered was blood, Aaron’s blood, on the floor, on your hands. Then a crash when Reid pushed the medical cart toward the unsub. Then a gunshot as you took Aaron’s backup weapon and shot the unsub who was staggering to get up. It was Reid who called for medics. It was you who stuffed a bundled-up sheet under Aaron's stomach while keeping the pressure on the entry wound.

You think you were crying. Reid said you were mumbling some gibberish. Reid also said Aaron tried to talk but he was losing so much blood.

You called Haley once he was out of surgery. You let her yell at you in the waiting room, his blood still on your clothes.

“I told you so. It’s all your fault. A coward. A liability. You nearly killed him!”

You didn’t fight her. You didn’t say anything. You held her as she cried. You threw up next to an ambulance and also in the hospital's bathroom and in the BAU's bathroom. You thanked Reid for saving your life. You submitted your transfer request to ViCAP.

“I’m not cut out for this, Jason,” you told Gideon. “I can’t bring myself to hold a weapon and it nearly cost me Aaron’s life. I took a life and for what? I’m supposed to help people, not kill them.”

“You make it sound like you’re one of them. Like you took his life for your pleasure and not for safety and survival.”

“He was already incapacitated. Reid crushed his ribs with the cart, you knew that. I didn’t have to shoot him.”

“He would’ve shot Reid.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Don’t I?” Gideon adjusted his glasses. “What does the profile say?”

The profile could fuck off, respectfully.

You transferred as quietly as you could that only Gideon and Strauss knew about it. Morgan generally agreed that yeah, you should have been carrying a weapon because you had been a profiler for years. Reid didn’t show how much the event affected him, but you knew it was his first life-or-death situation and it would fuck him up a little.

“You're leaving, aren't you?” Spencer Reid said from the doorway of Gideon's office after the Unit Chief left you to collect your thoughts. “Is it because of me?”

His voice was so small and unsure that you almost stayed because of it. He was so young, so eager, and you might just have ruined this job for him. You pat the sofa next to you and he complied. “Do you know why I chose psychology, Spencer?”

The boy shook his head.

“There's this pattern, right, that a lot of the time, you end up becoming someone who you wished was there when nobody else was,” you explained. “I was thirteen, and my biological mother picked me up from a cheer tryout. My father was in the passenger seat, passed out and I could smell alcohol on him. I knew then he'd been beating her. Long story short, she crashed the car against a tree. They both died on impact and I was put into the foster care system.”

Reid furrowed his eyebrow. “You used to do cheerleading?”

You laughed. “That's not the point! The point was, I couldn't understand all those feelings, you know? So to process them, I intellectualized them. Then, David Rossi gave a guest lecture at my class back in Stanford, and I realized a lot of these unsubs are like me: messed up family, traumatic childhood, disadvantaged upbringing, the works. I could've ended up like them if it wasn't for Gracie and Hotch.”

“Is that why you don't want to use weapons on these unsubs?”

“They just need a chance,” you told him. “I'll tell you this, Spencer. You don't need a gun to kill people, and you certainly don't need one to help them. People underestimate you a lot, don't they? That's your weapon. Use that.”

You had left your card for him, promising that he could talk to you any time without worry.

It had certainly been your choice to ignore Aaron’s calls and texts when he found out what you did. You knew, though, you were the one who walked away from him this time. That’s two to one.

357 notes · View notes

obislut · 2 months

Text

the Tower

GIF by marauder-exe

Pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader Warnings: angst, fluff, happy ending, canon typical violence, mention of sexual assault, kinda Gideon slander sorry, tarot reading inaccuracies and u.s. gov inaccuracies. this took too long to write, and will also be VERY long. apologies

no use of Y/N or gendered pronouns, but reader wears skirts, dresses, was a cheerleader, got slut-shamed. not proofread or beta'd we die like disposable characters. part 2 of the Lovers

main masterlist

summary: “Upright the Tower, wow. This is for radical, fundamental change. Aaron, I know you’re scared, but you don’t have to be. Sometimes, change is good, especially now you have a newfound understanding of love.”

2009, Funeral Home, VA

A million things can happen in a lifetime, and you know.

One day you were a new student at a public high school in Virginia, sat next to the sunshine of a person named Haley Brooks in AP Chemistry; the next, you were staring at her freshly covered grave. There wasn't even a headstone yet.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” you whispered, ignoring the footsteps you heard approaching. “I'm so sorry, Haley.”

Aaron Hotchner stood next to where you sat on your knees. Your legs were starting to tingle, but you stayed there, fighting so hard to not look at him.

This was about Haley.

But it tore your heart open like it had always been. And when Aaron Hotchner wrapped his jacket over your shoulders, you wanted to kick him in the face.

His hand lingered on your back as if he was unsure how to approach you. You didn't blame him. After everything, you were unsure how you felt about seeing him again either.

“Angel–” he started, calling you by your old nickname. You shuddered involuntarily, and if he noticed, he didn't say it. “I–It was my fault.”

“Yes it was,” you agreed, looking up at him. Aaron's dark eyes were filled with sadness and regret, and your mouth tasted bitter immediately. “And it's mine too. I should've pushed you harder, I should’ve been there.”

When the Boston Reaper case came back under the Bureau's radar, Strauss had notified you. Even though you hadn't been a field agent, the Section Chief knew that that case was the one you had dissected over and over in the profiling classes you then taught at the Academy.

You had begged Aaron for the files, but he turned you down with no explanation. It was then you found out that Aaron had to put Haley and Jack into witness protection, ripping away your chance of any sort of reconciliation. Then, when you tried to pry your way into the case, Strauss cast you out, saying you shouldn’t be caught in the crossfire.

“What crossfire?” You had asked once. She didn’t reply, and now that it had unfolded, you knew what was coming: the scrutiny that would fall on Aaron Hotchner’s shoulders if he didn’t choose early retirement.

“I wouldn't have let you,” Aaron admitted. “I had to put Haley and Jack into witsec. I don't want to drag you into it too.”

“But I could've told you,” you argued. “I could've just consulted–I–I…”

“I'm sorry,” Aaron said when you couldn't find the words.

You felt your tears streaming down your face. You wished you had made peace with Haley before that, before Aaron put her into witsec because you knew that you loved Haley like a sister, once. And you loved her more than you could ever hated Aaron.

With a deep breath, you tried to climb up to stand, but it was a challenge with the way your legs were a little numb and the extra four-inch heeled boots you had on.

Aaron caught your arm as you stumbled, and you let him help you up.

After a last look at her grave, you looked at the man who you loved all those years ago. Though sadder, his eyes stayed the same, those eyes broke your heart twice.

“Me too,” you sighed. “For everything.”

1992, Georgetown, Washington DC

You weren’t supposed to be there. At least, not really.

Your first choice was Yale, but when the FBI brass wanted to keep you close to the center of ViCAP, you complied. After all, you went where the money was. It was on you, really, to be so fascinated about violent criminals after David Rossi gave a presentation at Stanford that you chose that as your PhD thesis focus. The downside of a government grant was you couldn’t exactly choose where they wanted you.

The first time you saw Aaron Hotchner after six years was during a class. Specifically, a class on applied psychology. Specifically, you were talking about precedence and its relation to criminal profiling. You showed tapes of your research interviews and compared them with ViCAP interviews from the Bureau.

He had come up to you afterward. “Maybe I should enroll in this class.”

“Thinking of making the jump from law to psychology, Hotchner?”

“If that’s what it takes to see you again.”

You snorted a laugh, finally finished packing up your bag, and gave him your full attention. He looked good, like really good. Time was his friend and you couldn’t help but get pulled into his eyes. Damn him.

“How about you come and find me during office hours?”

“How about we get drinks right now?” Aaron countered, leaning against the podium.

You gave him an exaggerated gasp. “Aaron Hotchner, are you asking me out?”

“Only if you say yes.”

To say that you didn’t miss being around him would be a lie. To say that you were immune to his charm would also be a lie. But you were you and you weren’t some dumb sophomore who had a crush on him anymore.

You walked around the desk and the podium, stopping in front of him. Your fingers reached the undone tie around his neck and you took your time to straighten it. “You’re a prosecutor at the DA office, right?”

“Uh-uh,” he said, gulping, eyes not leaving your hands.

“And you’re the lead on the Bernadette Finch case?”

His free hand was ghosting over your waist now and in his dazed look, his eyebrows furrowed. “How–how did you know?”

You smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket before taking a step back. “Because your boss has asked me to be their expert witness.”

That sobered him up. Aaron looked at you in surprise. “Are you serious?”

“Email just came in before class started,” you confirmed, turning away to grab your bag. “Don’t look so surprised, Hotch. My expertise is in female violent offenders.”

“No, I know, but–” Aaron sighed. “Does that mean I can’t see you until after the verdict?”

“Not in any personal capacity whatsoever.”

The trial dragged on for far too long, in both of your opinions, but the moment Bernadette Finch’s fate was decided (twenty years with parole and court-mandated therapy), Aaron Hotchner showed up in front of your door with six-pack beers and pizza.

He was still in his courtroom attire, and you were in your pajamas.

The night passes over shared conversation and stories, under the yellow light of your first DC apartment, Jeff Buckley playing from your record player.

“This is my last case in the DA office,” he blurted out after his second bottle of beer.

You turned to him, shocked. “What?”

Aaron took a deep breath before putting his almost-empty beer bottle on your coffee table. “Have you ever felt like maybe you're not doing enough? What you’re doing–what I’m doing right now, is it too little too late?”

“You feel that way?”

“I want to do good,” he explained. “But I can’t help feeling like every time those cases, like Finch, or Jackson Whitefield, come across my desk, it’s already too late, you know? There were already too many victims, too many people that got hurt and I wish I could’ve done more to help stop people like them.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I got the results of my Phase II yesterday,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “As in, FBI?”

Aaron nodded. “I start training in a couple of weeks.”

You would be lying if you said you weren’t disappointed. You just got him back after years and years, finally just him, without having to fight for his attention and affection, and now he was going to go train to be a fucking federal agent? Who knew where he’d end up being assigned? You wanted to be selfish, to ask him to stay (you think he would, if you just asked), but hey, you survived all these years without him.

So you’d be okay, you think.

“That’s great, Hotch,” you told him, genuinely proud and happy for him, pushing away the ugliness clawing up your throat. “Any specific divisions you're shooting for?”

“The BAU,” he answered without missing a beat. There was a small smile on his face that reminded you when he asked you to dance at his graduation party.

“Ah, David Rossi, I'm familiar,” you chuckled. You knew Rossi, of course, and you knew what he was like. You knew what the job took from him.

There was an ache in your heart–that small, unexplainable weight on your chest. But you knew, even then, that you'd be apart again. That was it. Reversed the Lovers. What did he stand for?

This: duty, justice. You only dread the consequences.

“Promise me something, Hotch,” you said.

“Anything.”

You reached out and curled your fingers around his, and instinctively, he tightened it. “That, whatever happens, you'll never let it consume you. That, you'll always come back to who you are.”

“I'll be fine,” he promised. “You know me. Besides, I'll call you to remind me.”

You hugged him goodbye at the airport, heading to his first assignment in the Seattle Field Office, and you returned to your position at Georgetown.

1982, Stanley Academy Boarding School, VA – Bethesda, MA

Aaron heard from Haley.

She had come to their (yours, hers, and his) spot at the corner of the library upset. He noticed that she had been crying.

“It's her,” was all that she could muster.

“Angel?” He asked. Haley nodded. “What's wrong?”

“Aaron, she's been suspended,” Haley whispered.

Aaron felt his blood run cold, and he swore his heart and his breathing stopped for a minute because his head started spinning.

“What do you mean?”

Haley explained through hiccups. “Apparently she got into a fight with some football guy after cheer practice. I heard they’re talking about suspending her.”

Aaron understood, without having Haley to voice it, where her head went. It was a place his head found in the last three minutes.

Lately, he hadn't seen you around as much, and as much as it pained him to admit it, he noticed. Nobody called him Hotch other than you, nobody called him out on his self-righteous rich boy bullshit (your words) during lunch whenever you went on your socialist rants (Haley's words).

He almost missed the way you flicked his forehead whenever he got too annoying.

“There's no excuse, is there?” He had said once about one of his teammates in the Debate Club who had run out before a speech. “You knew what you were getting into when you signed up.”

Haley had been sympathetic. You had reached across the cafeteria table and delivered a flick to his forehead. It hadn't hurt, just startling him, but he whined nonetheless.

“Give him a fucking break, Hotch,” you scolded. “Not everyone enjoys a power trip from giving condescending speeches playing devil's advocate.”

“It's the Debate Club,” Aaron argued. “Everything is about condescending speeches playing devil's advocate.”

You reached out and flicked him again. “Have you ever had a panic attack?”

“No.”

You rolled your eyes, and he hated that a part of him found it hot. When you reached out to flick him again, he grabbed your wrist midair before you could.

“I hope you never do,” you said, shrugging. Taking your hand away from his grip, you added, “It'll do you some good to stop being a stuck up prick, you know.”

“Can we talk about something else?” Haley sighed. “I have two tickets to see Cats on tour this Saturday, will you come with me?”

Nobody answered. You were back focusing on your meal and Aaron was focused on you.

You looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. “She's talking to you, Hotch?”

Surprised, Aaron turned to Haley. “You want to take me?”

Haley nodded, smiling. Aaron's heart had skipped a beat, knowing that he finally was slowly but surely stepping out of the friendzone. He grinned at the blonde, “Okay.”

That was the last that he sat with you during lunch because for the next three days leading up to Haley crying in his arms, you'd been gone.

Aaron consoled Haley as his mind was racing. Then, after he dropped her off at the girl's dorm building, he was set to find you.

The girl's locker room was empty when he got there, but Aaron knew you more than he let on. He didn’t want to admit it, but he had been as observant of you as he did with Haley. You had been a new constant of his life that he didn’t realize just how deep you were in his mind. He made a beeline for the bleachers, where you were laying down with a book and a walkman.

“Hey!” You protested when he took your headphones off of your ears.

“Is it true?” He asked, face hovering over yours.

“Is what true?” You tried to deflect.

“Don't bullshit me, Angel.”

You huffed, putting the book between your faces as a barrier. “Get out of my face, Hotch.”

He snatched the book away from your grasp.

“Give it back!”

“Tell me the truth and I'll give it back.”

You pushed yourself off your back, standing up to look him in the eyes. You were angry and frustrated, he could tell by the tension on your body and the look of your eyes.

“What the fuck do you care?” And your tone. Definitely sold by your tone.

“Because!” He said, not really knowing why. His mind raced as he tried to come up with justifications. “This is bad! You can’t just go around punching people!”

“Again, Hotchner, that's my business.”

“How did this happen?”

He watched as you clammed up, eyes downcast and watery. You took a deep breath, looking away like you were ashamed of the details. “Doesn’t matter.”

“What are you going to do, huh?” He challenged.

“Look,” you sat back down on the white rows of the bleachers, head in your hands. “They offered a choice: either I serve detention and get Gracie to apologize formally or I get suspended for three days.”

Aaron paused. It took him three seconds of silence before saying, “I’ll say that it was me.”

“What?” You said, head turning to look at him. Aaron didn’t want to admit it, but what he was saying surprised him too. He’d get a handful from his dad, but weighing out the consequences, it’d be a small price to pay compared to you having a detention or worse, suspension in your record.

He shrugged, taking a seat next to you. “I’ll say that I punched Francis. It’ll be believable, anyway, guy’s a jackass.”

“Shut up!” You said, forceful. “Oh my god, you can't help it can you? You just have to come in and save the day. Look at me, I'm Aaron Hotchner, I'm sacrificing all my wealth and riches to save my girlfriend’s poor best friend! God, so fucking full of yourself!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He had grabbed your shoulders, turning your body to look at him. “I'm trying to help you!”

You broke away. “I don’t need your help, Aaron!”

Aaron’s offer shocked you to your core and it was affecting you more than you’d admit. As much as you’d like to entertain the idea, you knew you couldn’t. You had dreams and ambitions and you weren’t going to let anyone and anything come between that. You thought of Gracie, who picked you from a less-than-ideal foster home and you thought of your mother, who had you when she was eighteen. Detention would look better in your record than a suspension, all you had to do was apologize to Francis Wahlberg and his parents for punching him. That was it.

What surprised you the most was when you left campus on Saturday morning, fully prepared to take the bus to go home, Aaron was waiting for you, leaning against his blue Jeep. He didn’t say a word, just opened his passenger side door when he spotted you.

You wanted to deck him in the face and you wanted to kiss him at the same time.

His face was annoying. Even more annoying that he handed you a paper bag with a warm bagel inside.

You wanted to ask what he was doing, when he was supposed to go with Haley, but you didn’t because deep down, you didn’t want to drive him away. Deep down, you wanted to cry. When did you ever receive unconditional support like this? When have you ever had someone, anyone, who cared about you this way?

Aaron shifted next to you. “Can I ask you a question?”

You scoffed. “You just did.”

“Why don’t you just tell everyone what happened?”

“You’re kidding, right?” You snorted. “It’s his word against mine.”

“So what?”

“What do I say? Yeah, the star football player tried to take advantage of me after practice so I broke his nose,” you mocked. “Thank you for suspending him instead of the poor scholarship girl, congratulations for losing thousands of dollars in tuition and good luck in the next games!”

Gracie’s house–your home, was a small one, painted in bright yellow and green with crystals and sun catchers hung from the porch. There were two outdoor seats with quilted covers, an ashtray filled with cigarette buts between them.

You led Aaron (who, surprisingly, had followed you out his car) in the cramped living room that smelled like burnt sage and incense. He hit his head on the crystal curtains, opting to stay in the corner where nothing was hanging from the ceiling.

Gracie had big hair, and you used to joke that she dressed like Stevie Nicks. She’d say that Stevie Nicks was the one copying her style. She brought out an herbal tea mix along with lavender flavored cookies.

“I’m not doing that,” she scoffed after you explained what was going on. “You can ask me to do anything, but that. I’ll make a hex bag just for that boy!”

You groaned, “Gracie!”

“Rigel, love, we can just withdraw you from the school,” Gracie said, squeezing your hand in hers. “We can have you go to Eastview, anything would be better than this.”

“It’s just a formal apology, Gracie, it won’t even take five minutes!”

“It’s a lie, that’s what it is. We may have nothing else but our heart and integrity, and we’d still have more than those rich brats,” she insisted. Then, she added, turning to Aaron. “No offense.”

She was right, of course. The thought of having to apologize to that bastard made your skin crawl. But you had to be pragmatic, didn’t you? That graduating from Stanley would give you better chances in getting into a good university. You had given your classes and extracurricular activities your all to pad up your resume, you couldn’t let one small incident get in the way of that.

But then you had to ask, how many compromises would you make for success?

You understood then Gracie’s success was defined by her happiness, that as long as she had you, as long as she could still connect with her tarot and crystals and palm reading, she was happy.

What about you?

Aaron raised his hands. “None taken, ma’am.”

You noticed the double take Gracie did as she saw his palm, watched as her lips quirked up and head cocked.

Gracie insisted that you both stayed for lunch, and you did. It was a little jarring to see The Aaron Hotchner stuffing his face full of Gracie’s hearty chicken soup with rice noodles. It was more jarring that he asked Gracie about her stuff and actually listened to her explaining it all away. You had never seen him so at ease and comfortable.

“I like him,” she said as she hugged you goodbye. “You should bring him around more often.”

“Shut up, Gracie,�� you chuckled. “He’s practically taken.”

“There isn’t anything wrong with loving someone, my dear. Love does not need to possess.”

You heard from Haley.

Aaron got into a fight before lunch period. He punched a guy. He was facing suspension. You saw him and his mother stepping away from the Headmaster’s office as you walked in the administrator’s space, prepared to tell the Headmaster you and Gracie’s joint decision to withdraw from the school.

It wasn’t hard to figure out why he punched Francis. You knew it was about you. What was difficult to figure out was why he punched Francis. Aaron was graduating in a year, aiming for GWU, and he just risked his application by assaulting the son of a department store chain owner.

It also wasn’t hard to find him in empty bleachers.

“Why?” You asked, handing him the coldest can of Diet Coke you managed to score from the lunch lady.

Aaron took it gladly, pressing the cold metal to his steadily bruising jaw. “His dad is a client at my dad’s firm. It wasn’t hard to find a lot of incriminating stuff about him.”

“What did the Headmaster say?”

“That they’ll forget about everything and lift your punishment.”

“I meant for you,” you clarified. “What did your mom say?”

“She’s on my side, as always. I had to tell her, though. She also made a hefty donation to get me out of trouble.”

You rolled your eyes, but found relief and amusement at the ordeal nonetheless. “Of course she did.”

Aaron sighed, “You were really going to withdraw, weren’t you?”

You leaned on your elbows, facing up the cloudy sky. “My, uh, my biological dad, he would drink and he’d hit my mom and me. The car crash was her way of setting me free, in her own twisted way. I bounced around foster homes until Gracie took me in. My mom and Gracie gave me a chance. I owe it to them and to myself to give me a chance. Gracie was right, you know. I didn’t survive all this shit just to kneel at a white guy’s feet.”

There was a silence as Aaron contemplated your answer. You could feel his eyes on you, studying, searching for something. After a minute, he stood up. “Come on, we’re going to be late for the next period.”

You grabbed his uniform blazer, haphazardly thrown to the row behind you, and followed suit. Side by side, you both walked in silence back towards the campus.

Your textbook said you were in a dissociative state, a protection mechanism your brain engaged in through trauma. It was understandable, and you somewhat agreed that maybe you weren't as torn by the events, but should you be?

Mostly you felt relieved.

While yeah, you might hate most waking moments having to socialize with Virginia’s elites, your teachers were nice. You loved the elective classes at Georgetown they let you take. You loved the cheer team and their collective camaraderie that they’d take turns in paying whatever trips and camps you couldn’t afford. You loved being friends with Haley and sometimes, Aaron.

Because walking side by side with him, in silence and in jest, there were flowers blooming in your chest.

But he was Haley's, have always been, so you didn't say anything.

When you arrived in the building, you knew you had to take a diverging path. The thought saddened you unexpectedly.

“Listen,” you started, turning to him. Your hand stretched out to hand him his jacket back. “Thank you, for everything.”

Aaron smiled with his teeth, taking his jacket back from you. “Does that mean you'll be nicer to me from now on?”

You shook your head. “Not a chance.”

Then, in a moment of bravery, you stepped up and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. Aaron tensed under your touch, and you didn't give him a chance to reciprocate before pulling away.

The surprised smile on his face was so cute and adorable that you couldn't help yourself. You planted a kiss on his cheek, smiling in satisfaction as your gloss shined on his now pink-tinted skin.

“See you around, Hotchner.”

You turned around, failing to stop the slight skip on your step as you walked away.

1983, Stanley Academy Boarding School, VA

“Hey!” Haley caught up with you after you got out of, what you assumed, was Mr. Hotchner's office. You had snuck in to call yourself a cab. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” you answered, mostly because you didn't want her and Aaron to try and find you.

“Why?” You didn't answer her this time, just continued making a beeline for the front door. The cold night air bit on your exposed skin and you tried to conceal your shiver. You made it to the driveway until Haley took your shoulder and turned you around. “Hey, stop. Talk to me!”

“I can't, Hales!”

“Why not?”

“Because!” You sighed in frustration, hands running over your face. “Because you love him and he–” you struggled to find the words. Did he love you? Like you at least? He did try to kiss you. “–he shouldn't have to choose.”

Haley shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

“Aaron!” You said. “He likes you and you like him–love him–and there is no space for me in whatever that is.”

“That's ridiculous–”

“Did you sleep with him?” You asked.

Haley paused, hesitating. It should be an answer enough for you, but you wanted to hear it from her.

“Did you?”

“Why does that matter?” she said. “You slept with half the boys in our year. Why does it matter that I sleep with him?”

She was right, of course. But you were still a teenager dealing with her first love.

“Because these past few months have been hell, Haley,” you told her. “Ever since your birthday party, ever since you knew that I have feelings for him, you have been rubbing it on my face! That picture you sent–the New York trip–Jesus.”

That was last month. A senior trip to New York that Haley had decidedly tagged along, accompanied by some of the other guy's girlfriends. You couldn't go, not only because you weren't invited but you couldn't ask Gracie for more money. She sent you a polaroid with him in Times Square, his hands around her shoulders, both smiling widely. He was looking at the camera, she was staring at him.

“You did it first,” she argued. “He left me waiting at the theater that day for you.”

“This is stupid,” you declared, chest heaving like you couldn’t get enough air. You were crying, you think, but Haley definitely was. “He shouldn’t matter this much.”

“I wanted you to fight me,” she confessed, shoulder shagging in relief of finally letting the secret out. “I wanted you to fight me for him. I wanted you to realize that you're allowed to want things and go after them.”

You stood there, shell shocked by the weight of her confession. She wanted you to fight a losing battle? She wanted you to throw away three years of friendship just to teach you a lesson?

“You're insane,” you said, shaking your head. “You don't want to teach me about self worth, you're just feeding your own ego. You knew I'd lose. Is that why you're friends with me Haley? So you know you'll win every time? So you don't have to compete with anyone?”

Haley didn't answer, just stood there looking at you, at the ground, and back to the house. You followed her gaze to see Aaron standing on the porch.

A horn cut through the night. It was your cab.

“Have a nice life, Hales,” you sighed. “I really do hope you're happy.”

2007, Houston, TX – Arlington, VA – FBI Academy Quantico, VA

You were a terrible person. Terrible, terrible person.

If a person you had been dating for two years asked you to marry them, your first reaction shouldn’t be calling your old place of employment to help you solve three seemingly unconnected murder cases. If a person you had been dating for two years asked you to marry them, you shouldn’t have knowingly reached out to one Jennifer Jareau, the communication liaison you knew Aaron Hotchner hired after the Boston Bombing fiasco.

Of course you kept up with them as much as you could, mostly because of the nature of your job. Mostly, also, because you missed them.

Houston was never home, just a place where you had run away to when the pressure of expectation from Gideon and the pain of watching your adult self revert back to high school menial rivalry with Haley and the knowledge that you almost killed the man you loved became too much to bear. You were looking for reasons to go back.

It was an unfortunate incident that the guy Georgetown hired after your resignation died of a heart attack two weeks earlier and they wanted you back to take over his position and classes for the next semester. You had to see for yourself that if you came back to DC, would they welcome you with open arms or would you be an outsider?

So when Fuller asked you for help for a series of murder in the Third Ward, you told him you’d bring the cavalry.

Someone calling you by your last name and title shouldn't have stopped you in your tracks but you froze anyway. You had set up shop, facing the case board after putting up pictures and the map of the area. “My name is Jennifer Jareau, we spoke on the phone.”

“Thank you, but you can call me–”

“Doctor Angel?” A familiar voice called. Only one person in the whole wide world would call you that. Sure enough, Spencer Reid entered the conference room, followed by a woman with dark hair.

“What did I say about that nickname, Doctor Reid?” You said, trying to insert humor in your sentence, testing the waters.

“Either call you by your title or your nickname, never both,” he recited, attention immediately taken by the map behind you. “Is that the Fifth Ward map?”

You furrowed your eyebrows, noting the inherent coldness in his attitude. Not that you didn't expect the hostility, but Reid was the one you hoped would be civil. After all, you kept in touch if only through research papers and academic discussion.

“Yeah, knock yourself out,” you said. You wanted to dig deeper, but the man you were both dreading and excited to see strolled into the room and you couldn't help but stare at him. It was good to see him alive and kicking. It wasn't great that his face was clouded with coldness and stoicism. “Hotch.”

The man didn't falter, but you didn't miss the slight backwards step of his left foot.

Okay. You turned your attention back towards the other two agents, extending your hand. “You must be Emily Prentiss.”

“Looking forward to working with you, ma'am,” Agent Prentiss said, taking your hand.

“Please don't call me that,” you grimaced. “And I'm afraid this is the extent of my involvement in the case. Detective Fuller was a friend, when he came to me about the murders, I knew the BAU should take the lead.”

You handed a file of your preliminary findings, making it a point to talk to Agent Jareau and Prentiss, leaving Reid to his own devices and Hotch, well, standing there like a statue.

“Tell Gideon and Morgan I said–”

“You should stay.”

It was Aaron, and by the way Jareau’s and Prentiss’ heads whipped towards their Unit Chief, it was surprising for them, too.

Aaron faltered, clearing his throat. He shifted to stand a little taller, eyes cocking to the side to mask his true reaction. ��Stay and work the case with us. We can use your expertise.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, lips quirking to show your confusion. “You have twice as many people in this team than when we first started. I don't think it's necessary.”

“Actually it's one point seven five times,” corrected Reid, though his focus was still on the map.

Aaron took the file from Prentiss’ hands, holding out in front of you like a bait, a challenge, his eyes never leaving yours. When he spoke, his voice was a taunt, luring you in. This was the familiar Hotch who would butt heads with you in boarding school. That could mean one of two things.

“You should present this to Gideon yourself, don't you think?”

You noticed three things about Aaron then: the fire in his eyes, the ring on his finger, and the lack of distance between you. This was it, you think, the day Aaron Hotchner would finally end you. Not because he was angry, or pissed at you for leaving, but because he was finally married to Haley and you knew he'd use that against you.

But you took the file and you stayed anyway.

There was a sense of familiarity as you worked with the team, even with Prentiss and JJ. Gideon had seen you and gave you a handshake, didn't push you or corner you. You gave him the same grace by not bringing up the Boston bomber case.

The team noticed, though, past the coldness, the challenge you and Aaron gave each other. Though there were snide comments, no one ever questioned each other’s judgment and abilities. There was a seamlessness, a kind of intimacy as you both worked. You gave him the good coffee, he gave you fresh copies of files because he knew you liked how warm they were. He opened the passenger car doors for you, you took the pickles off of his lunch.

If Spencer Reid wasn't so high out of his mind, he would've seen it too. If he wasn't so mean, you wouldn't have seen it too.

You cornered him in the breakroom as he chugged his third cup of coffee. “Reid, are you okay?”

He had jumped at your voice, scoffing. “No offense, Doctor, but if I needed a shrink I would have made an appointment.”

His reaction didn’t faze you. After working in disadvantaged communities with different vulnerable communities, you had an inkling of what was going on. It wasn’t hard to miss the irritability, agitation, his inattention to everyone and everything around him, so much so that he missed the construction work around him. “So why haven’t you?”

Spencer paused, setting his cup on the counter as he turned to you. “You think I’m being difficult? Acting crazy? Uncharacteristic?”

“I wouldn’t use those words,” you snorted. “But yes, actually.”

“Maybe I changed four years ago, you know, when you left?” He bit. “Respectfully, you lost your privilege to my utmost inner thoughts that day in Gideon’s office.”

“Fine,” you conceded. You stepped closer to him, reaching out to touch his elbow. It wouldn’t mean much to anyone else watching, but you knew he understood. “Whatever happened to you, Spencer, I’m sorry you have to go through it alone. When you’re ready, give me a call.”

He yanked his arm out of your grip, and you raised your hands in surrender before leaving. Spencer didn’t talk to you again after that, opting to ignore you under the pretense of focusing on the case. In the ‘tolerating you’ scale, he was way down there with Aaron.

“You’re not going in the field with them?” JJ asked when she found you in the women’s restrooms.

The case was falling into place with the unsub identified, Dana Woodridge sat in the conference room, eyes hollow and scared. Spencer and Prentiss monitored the coms, waiting for news.

You shook your head. “No, I don’t go out in the field anymore.”

“Why not?” She questioned, and your surprised face must have caused her to backtrack. “I just meant, you were a legend in the Bureau. I studied your case reports, you basically wrote the guidelines I use to triage cases.”

Tilting your head curiously, you prompted: “Did Gideon or Hotch ever talk about me?”

“No,” she said. “Spencer and Derek mentioned you in passing.”

You nodded your head, expecting nothing more. “I don’t like guns. Ironic, I know, but I just can’t watch when they inevitably gun him down.”

“You think Gideon’s incapable of talking him down?”

There was a bitter scoff coming from you, mind thinking back to the last time you ever went to the field during an active case. “I think there are a lot of variables in the field. Even someone as good as Gideon won’t be able to control those.”

You had been right, of course, but there was no pleasure in the knowledge.

It was Derek Morgan who visited you at the Houston field office first. You were wrapping up with a patient (a senior agent going through a divorce) when he poked his head in front of the see-through window of your office.

“What can I do for you, Agent Morgan?” You asked, letting him in as you let your patient out. You fought the urge to yawn, the days in the field catching up to you. Morgan didn’t take the seat you offered, standing there in your small office.

He changed, you gave him that. No more trying to fit in with the bureaucratic nature of Hotch, or the controlled chaos of Gideon. Gone was the suit, replaced by raglan tees and a pair of sunglasses hanging from his collar. You were glad, really, the more he was comfortable with himself, the better of a profiler he was.

There was also an implicit declaration of trust to his teammates, something you didn’t see when you did his evaluation back then.

“You remember when I was just starting out and I came to you about nightmares?”

He had come to you in your office in Georgetown, struggling to talk and get the words out. You had taken him back home to help you paint your newly renovated spare bedroom. It wasn’t hard to get him to talk after that.

You paused, “Have they been happening again?”

“No, nothing like that,” he admitted. “I'm just saying that between Gideon and Hotch, I can say that you are greatly missed.”

“Did Gideon put you up to this?” You asked, eyes narrowed.

Morgan laughed. “No, no. It’s just that lately, with things that are happening in the team, I sometimes wish I can talk to you about it, I know you’ll know what to do.”

“Are you talking about Reid?”

A sardonic laugh. “Amongst other things.”

“Derek.” you said gently. “Whenever you need to talk, you can reach me anytime.”

“I know,” he said, giving you a quick hug goodbye. “Thanks.”

The second one who visited you was Gideon. You were waiting for another appointment, another agent who just went through a personal loss, when Gideon came barging in.

“Hope you don’t mind that I told the other guy to reschedule,” He said, not waiting for your permission to enter.

You groaned. “I do, actually. I do mind.”

“I’m not here to ask you to come back.”

“Of course you won’t.”

“Just—” your former unit chief tilted his head, questioning. “Why did you run?”

You stared up at him from the chair behind your desk, heels clicking on the floor to ground you with its repetitive motion. “Does it matter? You have a new protege.”

Gideon just stared at you, eyes studying you like he would look at suspects from behind the two-way mirror before coming in to interrogate them. He tilted his head, then you saw it. He wasn’t watching you like he would a suspect. He was watching you like he would a bird.

It was you who broke the silence. “I guess I’m not strong enough for the job and its consequences. I just don’t have what it takes.”

“How do you figure?” He asked. You narrowed your eyes.

“Are you asking for you, or for Reid?” when he didn’t answer, you said, “Just because I stopped searching for your approval, doesn’t mean he will. Look at Aaron, he hasn’t stopped. Look where it got him. It’s not on you, Jason. Well, maybe a little bit, but ultimately, it is his choice, my choice.”

You saw it when you first got into the team during your two semester sabbatical Gideon wanted you to get. You saw it in Aaron because you recognize it yourself: the way tear himself apart to not disappoint Gideon was the same way you almost disintegrated trying to keep Haley happy during high school. And at that party, you decided enough was enough.

But it was easy to slip back to old habits. Your training was what saved you, you think, from devoting your life to the BAU and to Gideon. When you were there, you tried your best to keep Aaron away from working more than he needed to by taking him to parks and the movies when you could. You could only do so much, though, with dividing between your time consulting for the BAU and your teachings in Georgetown.

You could only do so much to work against his ambition. You could only imagine how he got after you left.

Gideon left shortly after that, promising a steak dinner when you were in DC. The reopening of old wounds overwhelmed you, however, so that when the third person to visit you came knocking, you were hiding under your desk to deprive your senses for a little bit.

“Listen, there is this thing called making an appointment—”

“I won’t be here long enough for that.”

The voice made you jump, causing you to bump your head on the edge of your desk as you tried to get up. Your hand was rubbing the point of impact on your scalp as you climbed out. Sure enough, the guy who saw you in your moment of humiliation was Aaron Hotchner.

“I might start charging you guys for this drop-by therapy session,” you huffed, busying yourself with rearranging your desk to avoid looking at him.

Aaron didn’t respond to your attempt at humor. He walked further into your office, standing close to your desk. His face was stern, unimpressed.

You gestured your hand up to his face. “See, I’ve been meaning to ask about this whole thing. Since when did you become such a grump?”

“I don’t know,” he said, still in a deadpan tone. “Maybe because my best friend left without saying goodbye when I was in a hospital recovering from two gunshot wounds.”

You rolled your eyes, you couldn’t help it, it was the muscle memory for every stupid thing he had said, even back then. You still wouldn’t look at him, you busy your hand by toying with your computer instead of reaching up and flicking his forehead.

When it was too long of a pause for an answer, his composure cracked. Aaron scoffed, hand running through his hair in frustration. In a swift motion, his hands gripped the edge of your desk as he leaned over you. As you looked up, you came onto his face, inches away from yours, eyes blazing, nostrils flaring.

You sighed, as a sign of relenting and a way to calm your beating heart. So maybe you had compared everyone you met to him. So maybe you were waiting for the other shoe to drop anyway. Maybe the someone you needed was him all this time. But you caught the glint of sunlight on his gold wedding band and you gave yourself a hard slap back to reality.

“Because of me,” you whispered.

He faltered. “What?”

“You got shot because of me,” you said. “Because I can’t protect myself.”

“What?” He scoffed. “That’s the most ridiculous thing—”

“You almost got suspended because of me, too,” you whispered. “And Haley told me what happened after, with your dad.”

Aaron laughed in disbelief. “Is this what it’s about? Some sick, twisted version of your insecurity that you hurt everyone who cares about you?”

“Do you actually care or is it because you just have to be a hero?” you asked. It was a low blow, you knew, but you just wanted him out of your space.

“Don’t give me that.”

You looked away for a second, swallowing. “It’s not just you, you know. I can’t keep up with Gideon’s expectations, unlike you. I can’t turn my emotions off or have that sense of duty. It was poisoning me from the inside, throwing people’s vulnerabilities to attack them instead of helping them.”

Aaron sighed, and with a breath came, the tension was released. His knuckles lessened their grip, understanding filled his eyes. “You could’ve said goodbye.”

“Would you have let me go?” You asked, looking into his eyes now. “I stayed as long as I did because of you, Aaron, and if you asked me to stay, I would have. If I had gotten you killed, I—I wouldn’t know what I’d do.”

It was a miracle that Rowan walked in when they did because you didn’t know what you’d have done in that moment, either. Not without Aaron looking at you like that, the same way he did when you sat on his windowsill during his graduation party. The same way he did in Gracie’s engagement party.

You have always wondered what it would be like to kiss Aaron Hotchner, but you knew you would never find out. It took you years to grieve the life you wanted with him. It took you more to grieve the love you have to bury for him.

“Is this a bad time?” Rowan called from the gap in your office door.

Rowan, your long term boyfriend (ex-boyfriend?) who asked you to marry him just three days ago. Rowan, whose heart you broke by saying you’d think about it. Rowan, who hadn’t called or texted in three days and had asked to go to dinner that night to talk things through.

Rowan, who saved you from being a homewrecker and Aaron from being a cheater.

“No,” you told him. You turned to Aaron, “You have a flight to catch.”

“I do,” he said, voice hoarse.

“I’ll call you.”

“Okay.”

It wouldn’t be until August that you saw Aaron again.

After Gideon took a sabbatical from teaching to focus on his cases, you filled in his position in the Academy. It was an inevitability that you’d run into each other. (You started hanging out with Spencer way earlier than that) (You had put him in an observation room as he went through withdrawal and set him up with a colleague to keep him off dilaudid) (You never mentioned it to anyone). Since then, you’d often get roped in nights out with the team, and eventually, Haley.

It was jarring that she had pulled you into a hug and apologized for her outburst at that hospital in Baltimore. You couldn’t really do anything but patted her back and apologized for not making it to the wedding.

You might not be best friends with her anymore, but you understood. There was no use in holding against old wounds.

You knew your place in their relationship, you promised. You limited any interactions with either of them outside of a group setting, outside of the office. So, it was alarming that you had shown up at their house in Arlington during Aaron’s suspension.

“Strauss wants me to be acting unit chief of the BAU,” you blurted out the moment he opened his front door.

“Hello to you too, Angel,” Haley greeted, poking her head from behind Aaron’s body.

You sighed. “Sorry, I can’t reach Gideon. I don’t know who else to go to about this.”

“Come in,” he said, opening the door wider for you. He sat down on an armchair, gesturing you to sit on the couch in front of him, but you shook your head.

“Look, I won’t stay long, I just need to tell you—where’s Jack?” you asked, distracted by the lack of babbling from the toddler.

Haley sat on the arms of the chair Aaron was sitting on. You pretended not to notice the possessive arm on his shoulder. “The park, with Jess.”

“Right,” you said, taking a deep breath. “I don’t appreciate being used as a pawn in a political game. I like my post now, I like teaching. If I become unit chief, I’ll have to leave Georgetown again and I’d rather claw my fucking eyes out.”

Aaron averted his eyes to the hardwood floor, finger fiddling with his wedding band. “It’s out of my hands.”

“No, it’s not,” you protested, starting to pace around their living room. “We know what happened in Flagstaff was Gideon’s fault. The team will back you up, let him take the fall for once and then you can come back and I can go back to the academy—”

“I can’t do that,” he said, eyes still not meeting yours.

You stopped pacing and turned to him. Haley’s grip on his shoulder tightened, she also wouldn’t look at you. “What?”

“I’m not going to throw Jason under the bus for this,” Aaron clarified. Not only that it surprised you, you could tell it disappointed Haley, too. Her face fell as she rubbed her own arms.

“Hales?” You called out as she walked out of the living room, into the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

Aaron ignored your question. “I can’t let Gideon take the fall because it’ll end his career, especially after Boston, you know that.”

“So you’re going to lose everything you’ve worked for, for him?”

“Not just for him,” he confessed, fingers playing with his wedding band again. “It’s not just for Gideon.”

You understood, then, the tension between them that you picked up sometimes. It wasn’t your place to question it, so you didn’t. You thought it was because of you, partially, but apparently it was because of his absence. His ambition, his need for the job that trumps his love for Haley even if he didn’t want to admit it.

Haley wanted a white-picket fence life with her true love. Aaron wanted the thrill, the chase, and the sense of accomplishment that catching killers gave him.

Of course. Reversed the Lovers.

“Good luck with that,” you snorted before you could stop yourself.

His eyes lifted up to you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I know you, Hotch,” you said. “I know you try to separate this role of husband, father, and agent. I know you try and give your all in those roles. The only problem is, you’re burning on every end until there’s nothing left.”

What do you stand for, Aaron Hotchner?

With that, you left his house and went straight to Quantico. You passed by Emily Prentiss, straight to Strauss’ office. You told her what you said to Aaron, and you told her to fuck off.

This, you thought. Duty, protection, hero.

Haley came to your office when the team was still in Milwaukee.

JJ had notified you about the case, asking for help since they were down three members. You wanted to, you swore, but you knew that if you filled in, your promotion to Unit Chief would basically be a done deal. It would be a confirmation that you were the only choice for now, until you could train Derek more so he could replace you.

That would mean losing at the very least two years of your academic career.

“You just have to be so selfish, don’t you?” Her voice made you jump. “You won’t even do this for us?”

“Haley–”

“He left,” she continued, sniffling. “Just go ahead, say it. Say that you told me so.”

Well. That pissed you off. It was always her blaming you for his choices, like you were pulling his strings. Like he didn’t make the conscious act to choose.

“Okay,” you gave in. “I fucking told you so.”

Haley’s face crumpled, she collapsed to one side of the sofa you kept for your patients.

“Does that help?” You sighed, rubbing your eyes with your thumb and index fingers. When he didn’t reply, you crossed the room, from your desk to the sofa where she sat. Wrapping your arms around her, you murmured. “I’m sorry, Hales. I’m so sorry, everything is going to be okay.”

Little did you know, it would be the last time you ever saw and talked to her.

2011, Alexandria, VA

The second week after Haley filed for divorce, he had come to your office in the Academy armed with whiskey. You sighed when you saw him, pulling out two paper cups meant for the communal water dispenser and two granola bars.

“Do you think if I just made the right choices, I would be able to salvage this?” Aaron asked after his second glass of liquor.

You threw back the last bit of the liquid in your glass. “I'm not answering that. If you want a therapy session, you should've booked an appointment without alcohol.”

“Yeah but,” the man in front of you sighed, running a hand on his face. “As my friend, as Haley's friend, what do you think?”

You hesitated. “And you want the truth?”

“Yeah.”

“You won't tell Haley I said this?”

His eyes narrowed at you. “No.”

“Haley's stupid for believing she can change you,” you said. “And you're stupid for promising her that, expecting Haley to do all the domestic labor while you go off galavanting with your cavalry.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

His tone irked you, so you reached out and flicked his forehead. He barely reacted. “People need different things. They fulfill these needs by being in relationships, but it's unrealistic to expect one person to fulfill all your needs. You look for what Haley can't give you in the job, in the team. But Haley doesn't have that luxury.”

You took the empty glass from his hand, throwing it in the bin next to your desk. Aaron just sat there, contemplating, so you continued.

“What she needs is a husband and the father to her kid who'd put them first,” you told him. “And you? You can't do all three because you're already so fucking burnt out trying.”

You called him and yourself separate cabs to get home. The next morning, an apology fruit basket perched on your desk.

You didn’t take pleasure in their misery, if anything, you feel sorry for both of them, but especially Jack. In times like whenever Aaron would come to your office, you couldn’t help but recall a conversation you had with Haley back in 2002.

“Why don’t you let him take you out?” she asked when you both were getting coffee together.

“What?”

“He said he asked you out multiple times but you said no,” she elaborated. “You don’t think he’s still in love with me, do you?”

You snorted, shaking your head. “He goes to a different place, when he works. He’s there but he’s so single minded. It’s a place neither of us are allowed to. He’s just getting started, Hales. I know I’ll come second to the job, even if he doesn’t mean to.”

Haley had laughed then, and you knew what that laugh meant. That laugh meant that she was different, that if Aaron was with her, she’d be his number one priority forever no matter what. That laugh meant she’d do better than you, be better in every way.

You still thought about her sometimes, especially whenever you went to the park with Aaron and Jack because you were back to being friends.

After JJ left for State, you took it upon yourself to train Penelope Garcia to triage cases, even helped her train the algorithm she used to make everything more seamless. She used it to assign consultation cases to different agents, and you couldn’t hide how impressed you were with her genius.

That meant you were working closely with the BAU again, but you knew it wouldn’t last. As much as you loved bringing Aaron coffee in the morning, taking away half his pile of paperwork, and being the emotional sounding board for the entire team (they would drop by your office some days) (and complain about the most menial things to the most sickening, horrifying trauma a human being can endure) (they’d walk away feeling lighter with a lollipop in their hand) you knew you were meant to do something else.

“I think this is going to be my last year at the Bureau,” you told Aaron one Saturday morning. “This initiative that a couple of colleagues are starting, it’s a free clinic and resource center for victims of gender-based violence. I can’t do that and be at the FBI at the same time.”

Aaron watched as Jack climbed on the monkey bars, and you were ready to repeat yourself, thinking that he hadn’t heard you. But he took a deep breath, eyes on his shoes before turning to look at you. “I can’t even be mad at you for that.”

(Little did you know that the team didn’t stop talking to you, only now dropping by Georgetown in groups, taking turns.)

You snorted, reaching your arm to flick his forehead. “You can’t be mad at me for anything!”

“I know,” he smiled. God, you missed that smile, the smile that you had rarely seen lately so you collect it like a dragon collecting gold coins every time it comes out. “Doesn’t mean I'm not going to miss you.”

“Don't worry, between the team and Jack, you won't have time to,” you laughed.

“That's ridiculous,” he said. “I've missed you for almost thirty years, Angel, I think I'm getting the hang of it by now.”

Aaron said it like a throwaway line, so nonchalantly, like it didn't shift your whole world.

You'd tell him, you think, before you leave. You wondered if it'd kill him. You knew it'd kill you. But then you remembered the whole reason he sought you out in the first place.

The whole ‘I met someone and I don't know how to introduce her to Jack’.

You didn’t let your heartbreak show. The one time you didn't come with him to train for the triathlon, he met someone. But the feeling wasn't unfamiliar, so you embraced it like an old friend.

2013, Baltimore, MA – Quantico, VA

Gracie's funeral was held in the Whitefield Residence in Baltimore.

As per her request, it was a tree planting procession, her ashes were spread over the ground where Jackson and his mother planted a Camellia tree on.

Aaron was there, as he had been when Gracie was still undergoing chemotherapy. As he had been when she decided to stop. As he had been when her health quickly deteriorated. You made peace with it a long time ago, but it didn't mean you would stop grieving any time soon.

When Valentina asked you to give an eulogy, you told her you couldn't do it, but Jackson convinced you anyway.

So there you were, in a black dress and puffy eyes, one dangling star earring as your only accessories.

“Gracie said that our meeting was written in the stars,” you started, hand subconsciously touching the dangling stars from your ears. “She gave me this when she picked me up from that foster home. She called me different names of stars, Rigel was her favorite. And I–I–” a sob cut through your speech, and you forced yourself to take a deep breath. “Oh God, sorry, I can't see what I've written because it’s so blurry.”

Valentina chuckled next to you, she reached out and held your hand, grounding you through it.

Your eyes cleared just enough to see Aaron across from you, an encouraging smile on his face, and you found your footing again. But you discarded what you wrote on that piece of paper, and instead, let a memory play out in your head.

“Gracie told me once that love isn't selfish,” you continued, eyes not breaking away from Aaron. “That love doesn't need to possess,” you looked away from Aaron towards the newly planted tree. “To live a life rooted in compassion and kindness, to give love freely without demands, that's her. That's what she taught me. So Gracie, even if I don't have you here with me, I have my love for you, and that's enough.”

Three days later, Aaron greeted you at his apartment in a navy quarter zip, smiling softly as he let you in. You didn't question his weird choice of wardrobe, considering it was in the middle of July.

You were holding a box of Gracie's things that Valentina had given you and you couldn't bring yourself to go through it alone. You had called Aaron immediately, and he told you he'd be home.

“Jess has Jack for a bit, they're going to the zoo,” he explained, answering your silent questioning of the unusually silent apartment.

You sat on the floor of his living room, back leaning against the sofa, the cardboard box in front of you. Aaron came back from the kitchen with two bottles of beer.

“I thought something familiar might be comforting,” he said, handing you a bottle.

You smiled, grateful. “Thanks.”

And, as you took a swig, knees crossed under you, his brain screamed that he loved you. Aaron Hotchner had realized he loved you more times than he could count.

The first time was when he went to a football game Stanley was playing against Eastview in junior year. It would be two months after he met Haley and consequently, started to get to know you. He first thought you were Haley's annoying little sidekick who constantly cockblocked him, that was until he saw you on that field

Haley had ditched him to have dinner with her theater friends instead, leaving him stuck with his classmates, bored out of his mind. Then, he saw you get thrown into the air and it felt like he couldn't breathe, not until your friends caught you, then sprung you back up to stand on someone's shoulder.

He didn't dare repeat the things his classmates said about you, but he did replayed the moment your eyes caught him. You smiled at him in acknowledgement, one pom-pom in the air and just before you fell back, you gave him a wink.

His heart fluttered as he watched your every move in awe. The boys sitting around him thought that little stunt was for them, but Aaron knew. Though, he was still sixteen going on seventeen, so he chalked it up to teenage hormones.

The second time was the first time you flicked his forehead for saying something stupid. He didn't even remember what he had said to warrant your annoyance (knowing you then, it could just be something along the lines of ‘my brother's stupid’), but he remembered being stunned when he felt you touch him for the first time.

A flick on the forehead. It wasn't even affectionate but he was hooked from the start. He'd say stupid shit to get a reaction out of you, especially that reaction.

When he found out you might withdraw from Stanley, he thought his world was ending.

He ditched Haley to drive you to Gracie's house in Bethesda because he was making sure you'd still be around. When Gracie brought up withdrawing, he felt like he could pass out, maybe throw a tantrum. It was an easy decision to slam Francis’ face to the boys lockers after P.E.

Then you kissed him. You kissed him on the cheek and he was never the same.

Aaron loved Haley, he truly did, but sometimes he couldn't help but wonder if he had kissed you that night in his room. He was so bound with his commitment to Haley, dead set on proving his dad wrong about her, and trying to do the right thing. Haley was the right thing.

But you? You were always out of reach.

Then it was every day whenever he’d see you in the BAU, working side by side with him, having his back whenever, taking him to the Smithsonian during the weekends. You let him take you out for drinks, sending him home just after he got a little too touchy, always with a smile and a teasing remark.

And he was a terrible person, he knew that, because he went on four dates with Beth and realized he was still in love with you.

Aaron was still on his way back from the case in Atlanta the day before his scheduled triathlon, and Jess was out of town for a job, so in desperation, he called you to take care of Jack when he was away. Both you and Jack were enthusiastic, and he didn’t realize just how much until he received a video on his phone of you and Jack.

Of you, playing KISS’ “I Was Made For Lovin’ You” in Guitar Hero as Jack held his water bottle in front of him like a mic. You gave Jack a sunglasses and a boa as you kneel on the floor in front of him, playing the plastic guitar like you were doing a stadium tour.

He chose the song, I swear was the caption you wrote when you sent it to him.

“It’s sickening how in love you are,” Dave said, noticing the smile on Aaron’s face as the video looped. The older man raised his hand in surrender as Aaron gave him a sharp glance. “I know, I’m just saying, Aaron, you’ve been making heart eyes at them back in ‘98. It’s not fair for Beth to compete with that.”

“I tried, Dave,” Aaron confessed. “For four years I tried to get them to go on a date with me and they always said no.”

“That was ten, twelve years ago!”

“They always said, maybe when you’re where you want to be,” he recalled. “I didn’t understand it then, but I know now it was about the job.”

“The job doesn’t change,” David said. “You did.”

He wasn’t proud of how he ended things with Beth–through a phone call when he landed–but he knew it was the right thing to do.

Aaron found you cuddled up with Jack on the kid’s bed, wearing his old GWU sweatshirt. And he knew. He spent two years proving that his relationship with the job had changed for the better, for you.

You pulled out a small box of Gracie’s tarot desk, showing it up to him. “Oh, I haven’t touched one of these in decades!”

Aaron did, however, touch Gracie’s deck a year before she died. You had been with Valentina, talking to the doctors when Gracie patted the spot on the foot of her hospital bed, her deck of tarot cards in her hands.

“Come on, Aaron,” she beckoned. “Indulge the wish of a dying woman.”

He had mirrored her laugh, complying with her request. She laid out all the cards in front of her with expert accuracy, not one was out of place, compared to your clumsy spread thirty years ago. Absent-mindedly, with a little bit of flair to indulge Gracie, he picked three cards.

“Come on, what’s the diagnosis, madame?”

Gracie reached and opened one of them. “Upright the Tower, wow. This is for radical, fundamental change. Aaron, I know you’re scared, but you don’t have to be. Sometimes, change is good, especially now you have a newfound understanding of love.”

Aaron looked away, focusing his gaze on the dripping fluids from the IV bottle. He had been scared, fearing that he might not make it out alive after Haley’s death. But change was what he welcomed the most, and he wouldn’t have been if you weren’t at his side this whole time.

“Ten of cups, upright, too,” Gracie said. “Congratulations, Aaron, you will find what you’re searching for. Contentment, peace, happiness–the stars have spoken, my dear. All the pain you’ve been through, you’ll find a reprieve. And lastly–” Gracie turned the last one. “Reversed three of swords.”

Aaron held his breath.

Gracie chuckled at his expression. “Don’t worry, my dear, it’s not as scary as it looks. I envy you, Aaron, that you’ll move on and finally grow from the pain, that you’ll either earn forgiveness or you’ll learn it.”

You came in three minutes after Gracie gave him a hug, crying tears of relief that he’d finally taste his own happiness.

“Why?” He asked you, out of curiosity.

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Because I lost mine. I don’t remember how, but Gracie believes that you can only have one deck for life, you know? That the bond between a witch and her cards is sacred, and that no two decks are the same.”

“So you never picked up a new one?”

“No,” you shook your head. “I thought me and this just weren’t meant to be.”

Aaron bit his lip, contemplating, suddenly nervous about your reaction. In a split second, he decided, he’d lay it out for you, and give the ball back to your court.

He got up from his position next to you and went to his room. You looked at him quizzically as he did, even more so when he came back with an old storage box.

“What’s that, Hotch?” you asked.

Aaron put the box down and took off the lid. Inside, you could see an old tarot deck kept together by a rubber band and a velvet jewelry box.

“No way,” you laughed in disbelief, taking the deck from the box. “You have this all these time?”

“Yeah,” he said. He took the jewelry box, handing it to you with a slight shake of his hand. “And this.”

Inside was the other half of your dangling stars earring, one that you thought you lost a long time ago. Your memory came back to you, then, about the party, the cards, and Haley. “Hotch–”

“Finders keepers,” he joked, trying to mask the crack in his voice.

“Did it happen?” You asked, then. “The tarots you pulled ten years ago.”

“Oh, man, oh man. I–” Aaron smiled, then shook his head. He looked down, debating the answer to your question. “Yeah, it did.”

“Oh,” you said, noticing the light and airy feel of nostalgia evaporating from the room. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I’m sorry–”

“I pivoted my career from a prosecutor to the FBI, that’s the fool, right?” he answered. “Then, it was my dad. He died of lung cancer, third year of law school. You know, the three of swords. It’s funny, because I thought at first it was you I lost.”

You reached out and held his hand, letting him squeeze it for comfort.

“And I think–” he gulped. “I think you know the rest.”

You knew he thought of Haley, the consequences of his choices, his commitments. You couldn’t help but notice how close the two of you were sitting. Sides pressed up against each other, backs on your couch as you both made yourselves comfortable on your living room floor.

What do you stand for, Aaron Hotchner?

Aaron took the earring in one hand, fingers running along the small chains, the stars hanging off them. “Remember what you told me, when you found me in the bleachers after I punched Francis? You said, your mom and Gracie–”

“–gave me a chance. I owe it to them and to myself to give me a chance,” you recited. “Is that why you became a prosecutor instead of working at your dad’s firm?”

Aaron nodded, sighing. He leaned his head back, turning it to the side so he could look at you. His lips stretched into a smile, his features soft. “That’s what I stand for. You–you gave me so much more than you realized.”

When you looked at him, you thought about how it'd feel to kiss him. There was always this love you held for him that you didn’t think you had a big enough heart to store it all up. You dated other people, fell in love with other people, but never like this. Nothing compares to the feeling of loving Aaron Hotchner. It consumed you back then, feelings boiling up, bubbling over the surface.

It was a simmer for a while now, expanding bigger and further. For his team, for his son.

He was better, wasn’t he? The weight on his shoulders were the same but he carried it better. You think you’d love to take some of that weight off for him.

“You have to stop looking at me like that,” he said, voice soft and bashful.

“Like what, Hotch?”

His face moved closer, eyes dragging you down to him. “Please, Angel.”

“Please, what?”

“Please.”

Your hand reached up, stroking his cheek. You watched as he took a deep breath, his own hand held yours in place. “Aaron.”

His relief was visible: his shoulders dropped, and so did his head. His fingers gripped your wrist tighter, his lips kissed your palm.

Aaron's eyes found yours, then your lips.

“Let me do this right,” he said. “Just give me one date, Angel.”

You wanted to. God, you truly wanted to. You’d give every part of you for him, you think. But there was a piece of you still scared, still unsure. What proof was there that Aaron Hotchner wanted you the same way you wanted him?

“Let me have you pull a card,” you bargained. “If the upright the Lovers come out, I’ll do it.”

“I can’t do that,” he confessed.

“Why not?”

“Because that particular card is in my office, top drawer.”

The admission shocked you. Your lips parted in surprise, “What?”

“Angel,” he called. “You read criminals like a book and you can read me like a magazine. Surely you know how I feel about you? That everything I did, I did it for you? It’s the one thing I allow myself to–”

You closed the gap. Your hand gripped his jaw firmer and you pulled him into you, lips crashing with his.

It was like the rush of water when the flood gates opened. The dam broke and the band snapped into two. There was nothing that could stop it.

So this is what it feels like, you thought, to kiss Aaron Hotchner.

All-consuming, all-igniting.

You never wanted to kiss anyone else ever again. Why would you, when you knew it would never feel like this? It wouldn't even get close to feeling like this?

You didn’t know–was this how it felt like to be brought to life? To breathe on the surface for the first time? To see constellations behind your eyelids, to experience a supernova in your heart? Gracie might call you with the names of different stars, but this, this is the big bang.

Aaron pulled you closer, hands cradling your head now, and you let him move you onto his lap, straddling him. He pressed to you closer, like he couldn’t get enough.

“Slow down,” you laughed.

“I can’t,” he confessed breathily, lips finding you again. “I can’t let go now that I know how your lips tasted.”

So you didn’t stop him. You let him kiss you on his couch and make love to you on his bed. You let him love you and you let yourself love him.

For the first time, you were truly free. For the first time, you knew, neither of you were going anywhere.

“I love you, Angel,” he said, holding you close. You had your head on his chest, his lips on your hairline. “I never got to say it before but I will say it every day.”

“I’ve been in love with you for thirty years, Aaron,” you told him. “I’ll say it every day for the next three hundred.”

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obislut · 2 months

Text

yeah yeah yeah 1600s au where john price's wife is your dutiful queen, and you are the doting, shy lady-in-waiting, but, today, something isn't right. (dark!ghost x fem!reader, 18+)

cw: reader described as curvier/plus-sized, mentions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, ghost is obsessed with your tits

it is not a secret that you are afraid of the king's men. there is a reason that they have a reputation of cruelty. ravagers, conquerors, unruly and untamed--they train like dogs, and they live like them, too. by accident, you have wandered to where their barracks are, and if it wasn't for the happenstance of your king hearing your screams, they would've taken your virtue that night.

that one belongs to my wife, he had said, gripping you by the scruff of your neck. spoil it, and i'll have your fuckin' heads. his queen had been much kinder when he returned you back inside, cradling your head in her lap and promising to have something fashioned for you to wear so none of his men would ever touch you again.

and they haven't. they do not bow to you, but they open the doors for you, move out of your way, try to keep their eyes off of the softness of your cleavage and the curve of your skirt. but there is one that does not, there is one that refuses, and this one you avoid the most.

you don't know him by any other name other than ghost. the right hand of the king, his most trusted advisor and his most brutal of men. there are times when he barges into the throne room, his sword dragging along the stone floor and trailing blood in its path, and he tosses the head of the king's enemy onto the floor. you clutch onto the skirt of your queen's dress, tears welling up in your eyes, and when you look up, he is staring at you, heaving in the metal of his armor, and you look away as his men yell out proudly as they crowd the room.

his eyes are always on you when you are in his presence. they track you as you move behind your queen, follow you as you eat and drink and tend to her majesty's needs. he wanders the halls, and he observes you as if you are his next meal. and maybe you are--if he suddenly decided you would be his next conquest, you don't think a refusal is in order. maybe that's the mercy he gives you; just the aggressiveness of his stare and his stare only, and not the strength of his hand or the cruelness of his demeanor.

there is always a party. always a celebration for this brute. he is praised by politicians and priests alike, because he must be the hand of god, delivering whatever the king asks for when it is asked of him. he does not lose, all he comes back with is chests full of gold and new slashes to add to the growing collection on his skin. sometimes you wonder if he puts them on himself. you wonder if he drags his dagger in a crooked line down the length of his arm, as if he is tallying his win, counting up to a number that already puts the men that came before him to shame.

he seems like the kind of man to do so--like the kind of man to do it even with the blood of his adversary still warm on the sharp edge of the blade, the kind to lick it clean when he's finished just to solidify the unease and the terror of the next man to have the unfortunate fate of ending up at the wrong end of his adrenaline.

he has no face. he has no name. and if he is coming for you, it's already too late; your fate has been sealed, and you should say your last rites. the only mercy he ever gives is that death is always quick. his sword is too sharp, and his hand is too heavy.

it is late in the evening when you hear it. there's screaming in the courtyard, yells and howls and cheers. you put down your hairbrush, getting up and padding to the window to look outside. the king's men are there, hundreds of them milling about and walking around. they share mead and wine, crusty bread in their muddy hands. they are bloody and bruised, but they are happy. they sing and chant, hold each other and crowd around fires. they left weeks ago, and they are back now, and you suspect it must be victory on account of their demeanor.

you are not surprised by this. they aren't kind, but it makes them good soldiers. they aren't afraid to die; it's a common idea in your culture that for a man to die in battle is the only way to true salvation, to actual ascension. you have always hated this idea. boys become cruel, and men become unforgiving, and it is why you are so grateful to be her majesty's lady-in-waiting because it means she is your only duty and nothing more.

you are surprised by the knock on your door. you think about ignoring it, but then there is another knock, and then a familiar, low voice mutters, "are you awake, my lady?"

you tie your robe and scurry. when you open up the door, you curtsy low and graceful, your eyes drawn to the floor as you tremble a little in the king's presence. you've never really spoken to him before, not without his queen at your side.

"y-yes, your majesty? i'm sorry for my appearance, i--"

"it's quite late," he says gently. "you don't have to apologize. is it alright if i come in?"

you stand from your curtsy, blinking up at him. you think for a few moments before you nod, widening the door. he settles himself at the seat by the window, looking down into the courtyard. he has a hint of a smirk on his face as he looks down at his men, still singing.

"i have a request of you," he says finally. you take a seat at the edge of your bed, wringing your hands nervously in your lap. whatever his request is, you don't know why he's putting it this way. you're not exactly allowed to refuse. "it is time for my most decorated men to receive their titles. they deserve it, after what they have done for me these past few years."

you swallow, "yes, of course. you have such a fine army, your majesty. you must be...v-very proud."

he turns to face you, and he nods.

"these titles come with land. money. responsibility. and it comes with other things they might request," he explains. "one of these things can be a bride."

"they are most fortunate," you say softly, trying to smile. he stands, turning back to look down into the courtyard.

"you are to be wed tomorrow," he tells you. "i know you gave up much to accept your role at my wife's side, and for that, i have arranged for a sizable dowry on your behalf. congratulations, my lady." he turns to smile at you. "by sunset, you are to be a duchess."

you're shaking when he goes. you clutch the sheets, sinking to your knees, and you cry. you cry because you know who asked for your hand. you know who wants you, you know who it is, because every time he comes back from war, he cannot take his eyes off of you. he eats you with his gaze, he violates you and has never even touched you, he takes from you, and you've never spoken to him, but you know it's him, you know it, you know it--

your queen is ecstatic. she lends you diamonds to wear, and she fusses over the embroidered silk and cotton dress they've sewn for you overnight. she tells you she's so proud, that you will make such a beautiful bride and a beautiful duchess, and it takes all of your strength not to cry, to choke back your sobs. your innocence will be gone by the next morning, you know this, and yet here she beams about colored fabric and your new, unwanted title and all of the duties you have never, ever wanted for yourself.

marriage will be your prison, and you will never be free. you'll be hidden behind closed doors and forced to carry loud, chubby babies.

you are not the only bride that afternoon, but you feel like the most important. your veil is the longest, your dress is the most intricate, and you are wearing the queen's diamonds. not to mention, you are to become a duchess, and the rest will be lords and ladies, nothing more. you have always hated the hierarchy that society fits themselves into, but you've never despised it more than this moment.

he is waiting for you when you make it to the throne room. he wears his armor, polished and without blood, his face covered and his hood up to shadow his dark eyes. he wears his telltale insignia with pride, the skull motif of his belt gleaming and the paint of his mask fresh. he stands tall and menacing, a reaper in human skin, and you are so close to tears as you make your way to him. your eyes find his, and he holds out his hand for you to take. you slip a delicate hand into his gloved one, letting the rough fabric warm you as he brings you to stand in front of him. he purrs, you think, a low rumble as his eyes look you up and down.

you are a prize. a trophy. nothing more. a gift given for cutting the heads off of your king's foes, and that is all.

the ring on your finger is gold, and the ring you slip over his is silver. and then he gives you his first gift as your husband--a tiara, made of emerald and gold, and he slips your veil off to tuck it between the strands of your hair. the intricate pattern on the tiara matches the patterns along the iron of his armor, and you want to think of this as a gesture of good will, but you know it is given with possessive intent, a brand of ownership.

because that is what this is. not a ceremony of love, but an exchange, a transaction. you've been bought with blood, and there is nothing you can do about it.

but one day he will grow bored of me, and maybe then, i'll feel myself again.

he narrows his eyes, glares, and your lips part, trembling, you are terrified. his response is to growl with delight, his eyes falling to stare at the laces that hold in your cleavage. you observe this fact--the fact that you have things that other ladies do not. you are not tiny like them, not thin nor delicate. you are warm, soft, and the squeeze of your breasts in your dress draw him in.

you are a prisoner, now. but perhaps, if you play this game correctly, you can be in your ward's good graces. this is the hand you've been dealt; perhaps there is still a way to win if you steel your bluff.

the party is lively. there is music, gold coins tossed haphazardly on tables, so much dancing and enough food to stuff yourself for days. there is endless wine, and there are brides seated in laps, hungry new couples kissing and whispering soft nothings into each other's ears. the king blessed you all, told you to enjoy your new lives, your new titles, to make your country proud and raise pretty, fat babies.

you sit aways from him. you don't speak, just stare at your dinner plate, sipping wine absentmindedly as you think about the rest of your life and how miserable you will be. you think about the control you have never had, the choices you have never been given, and you wish so badly that you were a man.

men simply ask for, and then they receive. women simply hope that their eyes don't meet a flame too hot to handle.

his eyes bore into your head. when you catch his gaze every once in a while, all he does is tilt his head to the side and observe you. the beauty that you are, the woman that no one can have, the supple tits that belong to him, and the perfect cunt he knows that you have under the multitude of skirts you hide it under. your skin glows, your hair is healthy, you will give him everything that he needs, that he craves.

you'll look so beautiful carrying his heir. you'll look so perfect when you begin to wear the dresses he will buy you, when you sleep in the bed in the house that he gives you, when you stand in the kitchen that he builds for you. although, a woman like you deserves to do nothing but relax, be pampered, to lay down on a bed of furs as he eats your sweetness and fucks you stupid.

when the morning is early, you sneak out. you scurry to your bedroom, closing the door behind you for a moment of peace. you take a seat on your bed, the bed you aren't sure you will have for much longer, and you sit there and stare at your feet until the door opens.

you know who it is right away. coming in unannounced, because now he is allowed to, because everything in this room now belongs to him, from the thread holding your dress together to the very breaths you take.

you sit up straight, turning your head. ghost slips through, taking up the space by the door as it shuts behind him. you watch him as he stands poised just like the soldier he is, looking at you illuminated by nothing but candlelight. his gloved hands rest at his sides, but he squeezes them in and out of fists, clicking his tongue. you hear the leather of them move.

you have never spoken to him before. you've never heard him speak. you wonder if he really knows how to; you wonder if he has a voice or if he's been whittled down to nothing but the sounds that a loyal mutt makes. you know why he's here, you know why he's come. you can't tell him no, you don't think, but he doesn't move from his place, so you aren't completely sure of what he wants.

but you have an idea.

"y'abhor me," he says finally. he speaks. you swallow. at least he isn't stupid. it's rare that you see a brute with brains. although, with all the battles he has won, you know he doesn't lack intelligence. he is seasoned, worldly, knows how to convince the politicians and to rile up the uneducated men that kill for him. he must have a quick tongue and a strong vocabulary. a leader bred for killing, a man taught to know his audience and how to deliver a persuasive message.

but has he been taught to tame a cat? how to please a woman? how to love her, how to have her?

love. what a silly dream.

"not as much as i fear you," you admit. he hums, his eyes crinkling a little, as if he's smiling. you watch him carefully as he finally moves, rounding the bed before he stands in front of you.

"wot is it y'r afraid of?" he asks. his voice comes low, from the bottom of his chest. you tilt your head up to look at him.

"that you'll hurt me," you whisper. he shrugs, shaking his head.

"a beaten wife is no good t'me," he tells you, very matter-of-fact. "need strong heirs. which means i need y'fed and happy."

"i'll never be happy."

he grips your chin, shutting you up. a part of you wishes he would be meaner. that he would be the angry, possessive ghost that he truly is and show the kingdom that there is no part of him redeemable or salvageable. you want to sport his bruises and tell the queen he is an animal, but his touch is firm and nothing more. if anything, he's gentler than you expected him to be.

"we'll see about tha'."

your eyes water, and you stiffen at his touch.

"i know who you are," your voice cracks. "i know what you do. you're a pillager. you take women, and you kill men."

he tilts his head to the side, smoothing his thumb along your bottom lip. you aren't wrong. since he was small, most of what he has known has been the smell of blood in the air and the sound of screams when he shows up at their doors. he's never been particularly gentle when he ravages. he takes, takes, takes--it tastes good and strengthens his bones. it puts medals on his chest and pretty, thick women in his bed.

but you are no village in an unfortunate land. you are the gift that his king has given him. the forbidden treasure that he had his eye on since he saw you standing there beside his queen. poised, elegant, graceful, timid, untouched, perfectly soft. ghost has never known this kind of thing, and if you had been any other lady, he would have married you long ago, but he had to wait. he had to be patient, win and kill enough that his king could not refuse his request--no, his demand--to have you.

he did not do the king's bidding for the glory or for the honor. he did it so he could bite into you, so that even if you screamed, you belonged, and no one would care.

"just a matter of war, dear wife. they matter little," ghost mutters. "let me look at ya..." he tilts your head side to side, observing you. he guides his hand down your throat, arching you back so he could trace his fingers along the swell of your breasts. he hums with approval, reaching lower and squeezing the fat of one breast with one big hand. his eyes flash, and he fondles the other.

you are surprised by the sensation. no one has ever touched you this way before. it feels...good. his hands are warm, even under all of that leather, and you find yourself feeling rather sensitive. you lean back a little on the palms of your hands, looking down. you watch as he traces a finger around your nipple, and you bite your lip when it pebbles under his touch. he uses both hands now, cupping both of them, growling. ohhh--it feels so nice.

"gonna be so nice when they're full," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "all for our babe."

you don't know what comes over you. you don't know why you do it, but you do. you lift your hand, gripping the edge of the laces that tie the front of your dress closed, and you pull. the weight of your breasts unravel the ribbons, and ghost groans audibly when they spill out of your corset. there is a tickle that you feel, some sort of sick satisfaction, knowing that you've pleased him in some way.

"tha'sit...my beautiful bride..." he smacks his lips together under his mask, as if he's hungry, "tits of a fuckin' angel."

you squeeze your legs together. you know what it is to feel aroused, but this is different. you feel wet, so wet, as if it's wetting the skirt of your dress. you've never felt it this strong. you whimper a little, and he chuckles, so mean.

"y'like tha', my bride?" he asks. he reaches up and cups your cheek, bringing your soft eyes to his. the praise, it itches you nicely. "y'r m'prize, swee'eart. i killed over a thousand men, and y'are what m'reward is, did y'know tha'?" he hisses. "cut the heart out of a man's chest, like a fuckin' pig, just to 'ave this cunt."

why does it feel so good? why are you getting wetter and wetter, why are you whining, why are you giving into it? why do you want it so bad, why do you ache?

it hurts, it hurts--

"'s olright," he coos, so condescending. "shhhh..." he puts a palm on your chest and pushes, making you lay back. you swallow, letting him put a finger between the laces of your corset and tug. it barely budges, fastened so carefully, and you gasp sharply when he uses two big hands and grunts, ripping your corset apart. you hear the crack of the whale bone give away under the strength of him, and it's a reminder of just how dangerous he is, how strong, and you know when he looks between your thighs, he'll find you wet and needy and captivated.

the corset comes loose, and he tugs, taking your skirts with it until you're naked underneath him. you want to feel shame, but you can't. you're so desperate, for whatever he will give you, and instead of covering yourself, you let your knees fall open. the groan he lets out makes you leak even more, and he watches with awe as your puffy hole pulses. he moves to shove his trousers down, but you stop him, putting a hand on the chest of his leather armor.

"wait--" you meet his eyes. your eyes flutter. "b-but...but i want..."

he eyes you curiously, narrowing them.

"want wot?"

you swallow.

"i-i..." you reach down and slip your fingers gently through your folds. the squelch makes his eyes widen, and he's mesmerized by what he sees. "i want...your mouth..."

he snickers, "y'think a man will eat it so easy?" he raises a brow. "doesn't work tha' way. besides..." he shrugs. "i don't reveal m'face."

you sit up, blinking, smoothing your hands down his chest and tracing them along the hem of his trousers. his dark eyes follow you, and you realize he doesn't really say no. you need to remind him that you are not one of his men. you need to be kept happy, and he needs to give in, even if it hurts his fucking ego.

"please?" you whisper, taking his hand and putting it back on your face, kissing the palm of his glove. killed a thousand men to have me, so show me--show me, show me, show me. you nuzzle into it, giving him those eyes, and he stares for a long few moments. "please..."

he sinks to his knees almost immediately. his armor stretches a little, the leather and metal moving rigidly with him. your eyes widen a little at the position--the thing that he is knelt down in front of his wife, an act of submission.

"turn around," he snaps. "on y'r knees."

you do as he says. you turn on the bed, your face squished against the cushions, and he yanks you back by your hips. you fist the sheets, sucking in a shaky breath, and your eyes squeeze shut when he puts two hands on your ass and spreads you wide. he plants a kiss on your folds from over the mask, and then you hear the shuffle of fabric before his warm tongue prods at your entrance.

he eats slow at first. just drags his tongue through the slick there. he's exploring you, learning you. but then he is all-consuming. he hisses, gripping you by the thighs and suckling at your clit before tracing his name into the folds of your cunt. you can't help how wet you are--drooling, wetting his mask, crying so soft as he bobs his head and eats you, starving. he did not expect you to be so sweet, so soft. every part of you is soft, and he associates the taste of you with the sound of your pleasure, and it's like a trigger. his brain ticks just the right way when he hears you moan for the first time. not even battle quiets the tinnitus, but the ringing is nearly gone now.

he wonders if you're sent from heaven, even though he doesn't believe in it. but something had to have sent you, something had to have given you to him, because it's too much, it's too good, it's too real.

what he wants is in his hands, cumming on his tongue, crying because of his touch. too real, too real, too real.

he pulls away. he smacks his lips gently, smirking, and then he pulls his mask back down. he stands up straight, watching you, still on your knees, squirming. he tuts, turning you onto your back easily. you're languid and a little breathless, and you giggle a little when you realize how easy it is for him to manhandle you, for him to move you. you've never felt very small, but he doesn't even strain, not even a little.

he's so scary, it makes you sick, but you can make this your own--you could make him love you, couldn't you? someone this twisted, someone this insane, you could make him obsessed, you could drive him crazy, you could have the loyal dog you have always been yourself.

killed a thousand men to have me, so i'll put you on your fucking knees.

it's what you're owed. for all the years of serving, for all the years of submission and pain and kneeling and curtsying, you're allowed to have something, you can have something, even if it's this monster of a man. he may have paid for you, but you won't let a thousand men die for nothing.

you will make him love you. you will make him love you. you will make him love you.

you sit up, a bit dazed. you're swimming in your own head, a little insane from the orgasm. you know what a man like him wants. you have doted on men like him all your life. you know what it is that arrogant people crave, what it is they desire, the things that keep them up at night, you know because you've soothed those fears all your life.

you just need to know how to make him purr. you need to know what clears the thoughts in his head.

"my husband," you whisper, meeting his eyes, and there's a little twitch in his eyes. he likes that title. "i--"

"did y'like that, my bride?" he murmurs. "your husband's mouth on y'r cunt, 'n now y'r singin' for me, eh?"

you bat your lashes, sliding your hands up his forearms. you drag your fingers over the sleeves of his armor, whimpering. the smell of leather is overwhelming, but you suppose you must get used to it. you have a feeling you'll be polishing it for the rest of your life.

"i've always been...terrified of you," you whisper. "the way you come into court...the way you fight...seeing you in all those places, you have always scared me..." he hums, his eyes intrigued. he smooths his hands up your thighs, gripping onto your waist as he tugs you closer to him. "but, i..." you reach for his shoulders, pulling on him until he bends, leans over you, crowds your space and shadows you like the eclipse he truly is. "i-i want more..."

he chuckles, "i know y'do," he echos. "could see it in y'r eyes, darling girl," he sighs. "a pretty face like this one...wasted on her majesty."

"i don't think we're allowed to say that."

"i deliver entire countries at john's feet, i'll say wot i bloody please," he snaps. you just blink up at him, before smiling a little.

this disgusting, murderous, possessive, immoral, treacherous piece of shit that is your husband is really the most beautiful man you've ever set your eyes on. strong, resilient, unable to be killed, adored by his king and his men alike. he is everything a man is supposed to be, but nothing like how a gentleman should behave. he is built for war, built to take, so how can you get this nasty thing to love you?

ghost does not seem the kind of man to bend to the desires of ordinary men. he may want to fuck you, but he has self-control. he may enjoy the praise of his men, but he doesn't require it. he may ache for the soft press of a woman, but he is self-sufficient and easily deterred.

so you do what servant women do best. you appease, because at the end of the day, ghost is still a man, and men are all the same.

"a baby..." you whisper, holding onto the backs of his hands firmly. you dig your nails into the skin there, arching your back to get closer to him. he growls under the mask, metal biting into your soft skin as he grips you even tighter. "want a baby..."

he cackles, so mean, and he leans down to kiss along your ear, down your throat, biting at the supple skin through the mask. he's still got all of his armor on, he hasn't shed one lick of his gear, but you cling to it like a parasite. he is one with it, and you realize this now, his second skin made of durable steel and patent animal skin, singed at the edges. he's such a fine soldier, too strong for his own good, too rough around all his edges to be anything but a masochist, but he's yours. he belongs to you as much as you belong to him, and it isn't until he slides the warmth of his length through your folds that you realize this, too.

you reach up with trembling hands, high enough to cup his masked face. he flinches, nearly throwing you off, but you shush him gently, cooing softly as you nuzzle your nose against his.

"i'm sorry," you whisper there. it's so intimate, this position, and you know that he has never let anyone touch him this way by the feeling of his body under your hands, stiff and unable to move. you roll your hips gently, up against his, and you let out a soft keen at the squelch of your slick against his cock. "it's...it's everything i didn't know i wanted..."

he grunts, metal creaking as his nostrils flare.

"i don't understand," he murmurs. affection, it's so unfamiliar that it startles him. that someone can be kind to him, something other than a hard hand and an impossible order, it's not something he knows, and he's not sure how he feels about it. his instinct tells him to distance himself, but his cock guides him closer.

"you," you whine. "so big--" you reach down between your bodies, pumping his cock gently. your fingers barely meet around his girth, a true testament to his size, he lacks this largeness nowhere. "--there's nothing to be afraid of, is there?"

ghost snarls a little, gripping your thighs tight and securing them around his waist. you lock your ankles around his hips, pulling, and he hums as the head of his cock sinks into you easily.

"naughty lil' girl," he laughs, standing straight as his thighs meet your ass. you whine, your back bowing like a taut string, and he slides his tongue over his teeth with a menacing click. "not a virgin, are ya?"

"i-i am," you gasp, clawing at his forearms, and he hisses when you clench.

"mm. not a stranger t'this feelin' then, aye?"

you shake your head, and he nods, hoisting your legs up and over his shoulders as he gives you a firm thrust.

"good," he mutters. "don't much feel like pettin' ya."

and he doesn't. he's a menace. he snarls like a beast under his armor, his gloves squeezing your plush thighs as he pounds into you with no words to soften the blow. he isn't gentle by any means--he gives, and he expects you to take, and your legs shake as you try and crawl away from him. he doesn't let you--his fingers spread around your waist and he tugs, spearing you back onto his cock before he leans over you and starts putting his back into it.

despite the roughness, he looks down at you, eyes focused on yours, and he doesn't look away. your arms flail a little until you reach up and wrap them around his neck for stability, but it only draws his face close to yours. your hand falls to grip his jaw, and he leans into it just enough that you know you have him.

"you'll make such a good little babe," he grunts, groaning when you tighten just that much. he's securing his place, making room inside of you so you can take even more. "cunt was made to bear m'children, m'lady..."

"that so?" you squeak, and he smiles under the mask--you're falling apart on his cock, a good girl, just for him, just like you always are. "have to finish what you started for that to happen, don't you?"

"fuckin' brat--" ghost snaps, but he presses his face to yours, needing to be closer, needing to have you, needing to make you his from the inside-out. a ring is not enough, no, he has to bind you to him forever by making you bear his kin. he will give you many, he's going to keep you fat and beautiful and pregnant, and his children will know that their father hungered for their mother so much that he destroyed a generation of men to covet one of his own.

ghost has known since the first moment he laid his eyes on you that you would be it. you had to be his wife, no one else would suffice, because no one else could bear the weight of his name the way you would be able to. no one else would be able to carry his babies without dying, no one else could make the sun fall and the moon rise and the fire wane just long enough for him to feel human again, no one.

you start to think the same. you've never felt this way, so out of your body and so aware of it all at once. you're floating--you're somewhere else, you think. there's a pleasure so searing, that you can barely breathe. his cock is deep, touching places inside of you your fingers could never dream to reach, and there's a place that he touches sometimes that makes your eyes blur and your mouth make the most pathetic whining sound. you're crying, begging, asking him for more, please--! nnghh--please!

he's never had a woman so wet. he has always had them for his own pleasure. he has never paid attention to what they feel or tried to make it nice for anyone but himself, but he knows he will never want it the same ever again. there's something so satisfying about the heavy plat, plat, plat that his cock makes every time his hips meet yours. he can feel his trousers sticking to his thick thighs, knows that there must be some thick, creamy slick coating his length and sticking to your skin that he suddenly wants to scoop up with his tongue and savor the tang of his bride, his wife, his pretty, pretty girl--tha's it, just right, like tha'--

"i...i-i--!" it's more intense than you've ever felt it. a crescendo of pleasure that is starting to grow in your belly, an unwavering warmth that he keeps flooding you with, so good that you can't stop crying for it. you're sputtering, drooling, clawing at the hood around his back because it's so fucking close, it's right there, it's mine, you're mine, mine, mine--

"fuckin' hell--" ghost groans, cradling your head against his chest as he stills his hips against yours and fills you nice and warm. you go cross-eyed, you think, shaking as you latch your mouth onto his masked jaw and suck. you need to put your mouth around something, need to fill it with the taste of him. he doesn't move, body heavy and suffocating over you, but you don't tell him to move and make no effort to push him off.

you think you want this. you think you want him to keep you here, just like this, underneath him, full of him, drooling from more than just your mouth from a fucking too good and the promise of something more.

he moves to take a seat on the bed, and you chase after him. you keep your arms around his neck, shuffle into his lap, and he chuckles under his breath as he wraps one big arm around you and tugs you close to him.

maybe it isn't so bad to be bound to someone like this. maybe it isn't so bad to belong, maybe it isn't so bad to be wanted this way, maybe it isn't the most unfortunate thing to not have the autonomy of yourself anymore in favor of being this thing's wife.

you slide your hand down his chest before smoothing it over one masked cheek. his eyes close for a moment, and he leans into it for just long enough that you recognize the gesture as one of need. ghost aches, too--maybe not for the same thing you ache for, but he aches, and maybe it's for this.

something gentle. something soft. something to bury himself into because the flames have burnt too hot for too long, and the voices in his head give him no reprieve. his hands are too dirty, too unclean, and you think maybe that's why he doesn't take his gloves off anymore--there is no cleaning agent enough for the blood caked under his fingernails.

he's more human this way. less beast, more man, but you see that flicker of humanity disappear entirely when he sees the trickle of his cum slipping onto the fine sheets of your bed.

what a waste. what a loss. he has to fuck you again.

he will never be bored of me, i don't think. ghost will want me forever--even when we are dead, because he cannot die, because he's already rotting inside.

you don't seem to mind your new position. no kneeling, no curtsying--your duty is on your back and on your side and on your stomach, presented for your husband, just for his pleasure, just for your own.

in all your life, you have never wanted this. you endured the burden of serving because you were at least needed this way. marriage to you looked akin to death; when the veils fell over girl's faces, you never saw them again. they would be confined to their houses, made to spread their legs, forced to carry children they didn't want and die the slow death of giving their husbands everything they wanted while their dreams were buried alongside them.

your dream is freedom. it always has been. your dream is to do as you please, to go where you want to go, to say the things you want to say. there is an understanding here that you have, an opportunity that you could not see before. before you had ghost, you saw him as the thing in your way. he was the quicksand that would pull you under, the tide that sunk the earth, the dog that guarded his bone. but you know now, you understand, that ghost doesn't have to be the wall in your way.

he is more animal than man, and in that fact alone, you feel power in your toes and something hungry knocking at the bone of your ribs, just waiting to come out.

ghost will hold the sword. and you will hold the leash.

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obislut · 2 months

Text

The Guilty Plea

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 x FEM!READER

Traitors Among Us (Part 1) and Innocents Among You (Part 2)

Summary: As you're discharged from the infirmary, under watchful eye, you head to Laswell to talk on the rest of your now ruined military career. Of course, you're forced to confront your team as it happens, the last people on earth you'd like to see.

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

---

Running your fingers along the raised, pink scar across you cheek, the feeling of it...it really looked terrible. A part of you thought it would disappear, hoped it would, but it didn't. It just became severely more noticeable. Looking at this, you knew you'd always have to think of it. You'd sport this reminder for the rest of your life.

Looking away from it, you find your own tired eyes in the mirror, you haven't been sleeping well. Or at all. You can't remember the last time you got 4 hours, let alone 8. Dark circles still surrounded them but at least the bruising and the swelling had gone down.

You couldn't recognize yourself. Not really.

This woman looked so exhausted, so frail and so goddamn angry. It was accurate, it was how you felt. All of it. So, you supposed that the mirror's reflection was the truth, this was you indeed.

"If you need another day or two, no one will ask questions."

You glance over towards your psychologist, your fucking therapist, a nice little 'gift' sent over by the bureau to check in on your mental state after your ordeal. Glaring at him through the reflection of your mirror, he sighs, putting down his pen that slaps against his notepad, "I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

"I'm going to Laswell." Ignoring his statement, you speak. "I'm ready. I'll pack up. Get back to base. Vera had me discharged from the infirmary. I can start ov--"

"Vera?"

"My nurse. You met her," you continued, annoyance spiking at the interruption. Your wrist brace squeaking quietly under the pressure of your fist tightening beneath the table.

"Right..."

"Do you listen to a word I say outside of...my 'trauma'?" You wonder, bluntly.

Your psychologist blinks, surprised, before clearing his throat, appalled. "If you feel I can be more attentive to your state of well-being throughout our process, than by all means--"

"Oh, so 'no'?" you lean back into your seat, a strained laugh leaving you. His lips press together and you continue before he can find the words. "Because whenever I mention leaving this fucking team, you either adjust our schedule for another two weeks or suggest hypnotic therapy, as if I need anyone else digging around to fuck up my mental state."

"I never meant to imply--"

"Oh, you implied it," you interrupted, gritting your teeth. "I know what I want. And I want off Task Force 141."

He taps at the leather of his notebook. "Scars heal, just remember that, Ms. (L/n). The reminders of your experience shouldn't have to haunt you."

"It's not the scars, I've had my share way before this," you admitted, rising to your feet. You exhale deeply that tells to the effort of it, the steel gear hinges along your leg braces shift with your change of position. Still getting use to them. "It's the person."

"Has she changed, you think?" the psychologist begins to write, getting somewhere.

"She doesn't exist anymore."

Finally, placing the mirror down and onto the side table, you pushed off of the table, rolling your IV pole along with you. Passing the chair your psychologist sits on, he closes his notebook with a frustrated huff, looking over his shoulder. "Session over for you already, Ms. (L/n)?" he sighs. "We've still got the hour."

"I'm done," you take the knob in your hand. Turning.

In more ways than one.

"You understand that, informing your captain on your leave is required of you. Have you spoken to any of them, in the last few weeks?" he spoke up, quickly. "I'm sure giving them a space to open up, share from their view--"

"Why should I care--"

"--will give you better understanding, better clarity of the situation they were in--

Appalled. "What the fuck?" Jamming the door closed with a loud, shuttering thud, you whip around. "IT'S NOT ABOUT THEM!" you could just rip your hair out. "Who--who says that to someone?!"

Your psychologist sits there, eyes wide in confusion. "What--"

"Christ, can you hear me? Can you--can you see me? I've got metal plates in my spine, braces holding my knees in place and nerve damage that'll never heal! Who gives a fuck about them!" your skin feels red hot, your face twisted in rage. "I gave my life! My life to this! And then I'm tortured, I'm threatened, drugged and beaten by my own team, my f--my family for eight fucking years..."

You continue with a heavy chest. "And I'm supposed to invite them for dinner to talk and listen them bitch and moan about why they thought it was necessary to beat me to death for two weeks?! Fuck you!" you spat. "I don't owe them anything!"

"That's not what I was trying to say, Ms. (L/N). I apologize, I overstepped. Come sit down--"

"Of course you meant it," you interrupted, mock humor. "Don't be a pussy, own up to it. Revel in your truth. Be tter yet--" you snatch a journal from the cabinet. Tossing it his way. "Make a note of it."

Turning the knob, you leave the room with a slam of the metal door.

---

You were officially famous. On the base, you were now a legend.

A story that would be mentioned and told at lunch for months. Probably years.

First, you were a rat. Next, you were innocent. This was the most gossip any of those in service had ever seen in their years of service.

An interesting reminder to those in service that you weren't safe off duty either.

You learned a few days ago that there was an update put into the interrogational unit, something about how to properly go about dissecting evidence and being on the lookout for enemy spies in the militia.

You guessed you had been told about it in an effort to be appeased by the thought that the head of control paid attention to anything beyond their own noses for once. But, you had little to no faith in a system that's nearly killed you on and off the field by now, so it didn't matter.

You doubted the new rules would be followed though, there was a plethora of things they'd done to you in that cell that were both illegal and unsanctioned. Most of all, that were expected towards an enemy, a prisoner of war at best, and not a fellow marine.

You arrive at the housing quarters, swiping your key card, pulling the handle and entering the wing. Immediately, you're greeted by a dozen eyes, conversations stopping short and clothes ruffling to silence, suddenly whispers fill the space and eyes turn away.

"Oh, god, it's her..." says one man in the far corner.

"Shut the fuck up, man!" came a harsh whisper back.

"I didn't know it was that bad..."

All those eyes on you, makes you pause in your step, looking around at all of your fellow soldiers, the men and women you've served with for years. Many you recognized, ate with, fought beside that turned their backs to you now. Out of respect? Out of distaste, morale, nerves, pity, it all didn't matter. It all felt the same.

The wheels attached to your IV pole suddenly sounded much too loud on the polished flooring, as you walked down the hall as fast as you were able to.

Breathing out deeply, you get to an elevator, pushing on the button, once, twice, three times, just open goddamn it.

With a ding, the metal doors open, and suddenly you're aware that people could be in the elevator, they could be in this elevator, he could be in this elevator. Your eyes flicker down to the floor, your grip on the pole of your iv tightens, your shoulders stiffen, waiting for a blow that will never come.

You stand there as the doors open up, the small space empty, the metal walls reflect only her and a streak of lighting from the ceiling.

Looking up slowly, finally taking a breath, before sliding the iv up and onto the elevator, following it as you press your floor number along the way.

The ride up is fast, a little rumble as it stops, and then the doors open. Faster than you were prepared for.

Peeking out down the hallway, luckily no one to bump into, which you were thankful for. But, it didn't make this hall any less haunting. You'd been cornered in this same hall, you could recall being hauled out of the room after the solid handle of a knife hits your temple.

You don't go down fast enough, whipping around as you stumble to take the wrist of your attacker, mostly for balance, it's Price. In shock, you're unprepared as Johnny's arm encircle your neck, locking you into position as you both stumble backwards onto the floor. He blocks your airways, hushing you harshly as you struggle, feet kicking out and your vision blurring as your team surrounds you. Your family.

That was quite the headache to wakeup with afterwards.

You hadn't quite remembered until now. Being back served as a hell of a kickstart to your memory.

Just a few more reasons to get the fuck off of 141.

Getting off the elevators, the metal doors sliding closed behind you, you make your way down the hall. The polished flooring creates a subtle squeak through the wheels of your iv pole, your hand absently running over the fading stitches along your side.

Passing the shadows of your tortured memory, the doorway of the office was closed, locked.

You pass Kyle's room.

Johnny's.

Finally, you rush up to the next room on the left, grabbing the handle, before beginning to twist, but then you're yanking your hand back as if the metal had burned you. Your back ramming into the back wall, catching yourself, this wasn't your room.

It was Simon's.

You'd spent hours, days, in that room. More than your own.

Why wouldn't you? You were about to get married to the man. You had more in this room than you had in yours.

Sharp breaths leave you, shivering in your effort to keep yourself together, your head goes back into the wall, swallowing down the ache in your chest.

You wait, muscles tensed and your body pressing back into the wall, hoping it'd absorb you if that door opens. Listening for every sound, any pin drop, even an exhale from beyond that doorway. Luckily, Simon seemed to be out for the day.

Hurriedly, nearly running, you steady yourself against the wall as you rush down to the corner of the hallway, finally finding your room.

Turning the handle, it's not locked, it's broken. It opens with ease.

Entering the room slowly, pushing the doorway aside, the crackle of glass beneath your boots as you step forwards, clothes and picture frames laying scattered.

The mattress flipped and ripped open, springs and cotton cut from it. Your wall of metals and certificates, from acts of bravery and mementos of valor, discarded, later you'd find them in the trash, one with a bullet lodged into the gold.

Sniffling as you leaned down, picking a specific frame off the ground, the only one that hadn't been broken. Laying along the ruined rug, with no care for the glass digging through your jeans, you stare at the still shot of your family.

The only family you had outside of Task Force 141, your father and his sister, military brats themselves, until their retirement. Your mother had passed, or just up and left, days after your 5th birthday, you weren't completely sure, the story kept changing every year. But, these two were the only family you've ever known, ever had, until you joined the military, following in their footsteps.

They'd been so proud when you arrived back after your first assignment, in truth you were heavily traumatized, but seeing them, you just had to smile. Having a family that understood the harsh toll on the line of a trooper, now a lieutenant, it was always easier to bring your troubles to them. But, they were also military nuts so "suck it up" was also a quick go to answer from your aunt, while your father was the smoother talker.

They had met Simon, loved him, his rank, his love for you, his seriousness. They trusted him completely with your heart.

So, when he called them, after the evidence leaked...

They believed him.

"What're you talking about?" You took the handle of the chair in your grip, easing you down into it as your legs do weak at what you were hearing. "I didn't...I didn't do it, Dad."

"Do you know how humiliating and disappointing--how it felt to hear him say that to me, hm?" he says, static crackles on the reciever. "My daughter...my own flesh and blood...working with terrorists--"

"I'm not working with anyone! Are you-" you huff out a breath of disbelief. "Are you even listening to me? I've never betrayed the code. How can you think that way of me?"

For a moment, he's silent. "Alright, then," he began. "Than, what'd you do? huh?"

"What--what..."

"Oh, come on, (Y/n)!" your father yells. "What did you do?! What could they possibly have had on you that made you the most likely target? You had to have had done something, been somewhere, were with somebody you weren't supposed to be with! They didn't just get that information from anywhere."

"What the fuck--" Your expression twists with frustration and misery, running your hand through your hair, pulling at it. "I've sacrificed every part of myself for this job, for this team, what do I have to gain from throwing that all away? They send me everywhere, places you've never heard of, places you'll never hear about and people you'll never have to meet, because of me! Why would you just believe Simon? Why couldn't you just wait to talk to me?!"

Hearing your father scoff at your words was painful. "What reason do I have not to believe him? He knows you, maybe even better than any of us. Besides, he was going to be my son in law--"

"I'm your daughter! Fuck Simon, what about me? You'd believe him instead?"

He sighs. "Listen, you're upsetting Cass. We didn't expect your call. I gotta make this brief..."

"You're upset?" pulling at your hair, sucking in sharply. "I'm the one who's permanently fucking altered here. What do either of you have to be upset about?!"

"Watch your fucking mouth!" he seethes. The anger in his voice isn't new, but the way he spits it at you is. "You did this to yourself, I didn't. Maybe that's what your nightmares were about, am I right? Your guilt?"

Wiping the streaks of tears that had fallen down your face, lips quivering and chest aching with sobs you frustratedly shoved down. "Why don't you believe me?"

"I don't deserve the disgrace that will come with you as my kin, I've lived my part of this war. No daughter of mine should even be in this fucking position," your father spat, disgusted into the receiver. Suddenly, he was the cruel, bitter old man your mother had always known him to be, you wished she had stayed to at least remind you of that. Maybe it wouldn't have hurt as much. "You should be ashamed of yourself, but at least you got yourself out it. The least you could do for us."

"Well--what does that mean?" you spoke, quietly.

"Don't call again..."

"Dad, no--" you break this time, a sob escaping you.

"Me and your Aunt Cass..."

"Daddy please, don't do this--"

"..We've decided to cut ties. We're not taking any heat from this, you're on your own," he finishes, clearing his throat, waiting a moment, listening to the pleads and cries of his only daughter, his once pride. "You take care of yourself. Goodbye, kid."

"Why can't you just believe me? Why?!" you cried.

"Don't come to the house."

"No, no,--" the line goes dead. And staring down at your phone, his caller id going blank and the call disconnecting.

Your phone all of a sudden feels heavy, the device and your hand falling down to your thigh, before the phone slips out of your grip and onto the floor. You sit there silently, until your tears drop up and even after.

Staring at the photo now was haunting in its own way, it was just another painful reminder.

Using the bed frame to stand to your feet, your grip on the frame is painful as you squeeze it, the glass cracks audibly.

"Bonnie..."

Whipping around at the sound of John MacTavish's voice, you back up a few steps at the sight of him, your back hitting the edge of your desk.

He reaches out as you stumble, before his fingers curl back into his palm as you find your balance, his hands receding back to his sides. He doesn't enter the room, just lingering just beyond the doorway, his eyes flickering around the room, guiltily.

"I didn't know--we didn't know you were out," he speaks quietly, as opposed prideful personality that translated into his voice usually.

You say nothing.

In the dark, your eyes are wide and your shoulders are tensed up, he can see the glint of your leg braces, the iv pole at the side, the scar beneath your eye. You looked terrified to see him.

"We were coming back to clean up today, just got back from...from a mission..." he stutters on his words, shifting his feet.

"It's been a week."

His lips press together hearing your voice. "I know..." Johnny glances around at the room he'd let those officers destroy, it hadn't been them, but they might as well had done it. "I know...we just...didn't know it was so bad."

"Really?" your voice is mockingly sweet, drawing out the word. "You didn't know? Well look..." you hold up your family photo, the light in the hallway catching on the glass. "You missed one."

Your hand dropping, the heavy frame comes down just as fast, ramming into the ground, the glass practically exploding on impact.

Johnny flinches, the photo of your family...He looks back to you, surprised. "Bonnie..."

Snatching the next closest thing from your desk, a ceramic cup. "Oh, wow, can't believe you guys missed this one," you chuck it into the wall. It breaks on impact, the remains scatter along the flipped mattress and onto the floor. "That used to be my favorite mug by the way."

The Scotsman worriedly steps forwards, 'Lass, I'm sorry--"

"FUCK YOU!" you spat, coming into the light. You're sure you look deranged, and you didn't care. You could've wrapped your hands around his throat, killed him right on the floor and you wouldn't have blinked. "It doesn't mean anything! 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry', over and over and over again! As if you shouldn't be! Your apologies mean fuck all."

"I know...I know," he breathes. "But, I've gotta say it anyway, bonnie. I should've believed you, there was no reason not to. I know that now. I just--"

"Believe me!" you cut him off with a yell. "Trust me! Fucking 'HELP ME'!" you screamed with the same fever as your days in the interrogation room, that terrible cell, the cold, the burn and pain. "I cried it all to you, to all of you, and nobody came. Nobody came for me," you breathe in sharply. "It doesn't matter what you should've done. You didn't do it!"

Johnny's eyes are red, he opens his mouth, closes it and then swallows down whatever chokes him up as he looks at you. "I should've came for you. I wish I did. I wanted to, Bonnie..." he steps forwards, and you recede back away from him, your eyes narrowed with violence. "I'll never forgive myself for not listening to you. For not coming to help you. For laying a hand on you. I'm so sorry, (Y/n). I'm sorry..."

I'll never forgive myself... "That makes two of us," you assured.

Johnny's eyes widen, before they close, his guilt ever consuming. He can't help but understand, to respect your decision, to know things can never be ok again. "(Y/n)...."

Grabbing hold of the nearest thing, a pencil cup, you hurl it at Johnny. He doesn't put his hands up, flinching as it hits him, the metal clinking against his kevlar, eyes closing then opening, he stands still. "I don't forgive. I don't accept your apology. I don't fucking care about it!" with each sentence you throw something else his way, a broken frame, the trash bin, a pillow, the CD player.

His hand has to come up for the knife you unsheathe, a memento from one of your missions, it's rusted, ancient probably. But, you hadn't given it up to a museum or to pawn, you had nearly died on this mission, saving Johnny ironically. You had to keep it.

Seeing the weapon, his defensive position is instinctive but his hands drop just as fast, he understands, you need this. You deserve this. "If you need to..." he speaks. Your eyes flicker up to him, away from the knife. "If you need to, I get it..."

And you need to. You really fucking do.

Your grip on the knife is dangerously hard, it hurts.

Looking at Johnny, he'd been your brother in more than a few ways on and off the field, he had been your comfort, your friend, your family. You had bled with him, held onto him as he carried you from the battlefield, joked, laughed, screamed and cried. You've loved him for years.

He'd had a rough few nights you could see that. He was quieter, reserved. Almost as terrified to see you, as you had been of him.

And you could kill him right now and never bat an eye.

And so, throwing that knife was so fucking easy.

Johnny's eyes close as you do just that, fists clenching and teeth biting down on his tongue to prepare for the pain.

The ancient weapon whiz's through the air, the sound is sharp and he knows it will cut through him like butter.

The thud rings in the room, and Johnny's eyes blow open wide, holding his breath as he collapses to his knees, before turning to you.

You dig into the pile of clothes that had been cast aside, a pair of sneakers and a new shirt. You don't look at him a single time as you take it all, stuffing them in a bag, and leaving the room, passing him completely, a limp in your step.

Johnny releases a pained breath, tears finally leaving him as he looks up, the knife lodged into the frame of the doorway, just barely missing him. The sleeve of his uniform ripped open.

He sits there in the quiet, destroyed room. A testimony to the relationship he's destroyed between you.

Part 4 coming soon!

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