rowancries

[rowancries]

of storm and snow - jon snow

ONE LEG UP

see this post for basically an outline of what these oneshots are about! they'll cover a few points each and are in chronological order

baratheon!reader

MASTERLIST

word count: 4.2k

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

you were given a room separate to jon's, but you went to his anyways, the maids bringing your supper to his chambers after instruction.

"and your bath, my lady?" the one asked.

"the king and i can share," was your short answer, offering her a quick smile before closing the door and locking it tightly.

you turned to jon, who was already eating the roast and potatoes hungrily and couldn't help but smile.

"my lady," you echoed as you walked further into the room. "i used to want nothing more than to just be a lady. and now the sound of it makes my blood boil."

he set his fork down before smiling, reaching out a hand to pull you to sit next to him. he pressed a kiss to the side of your head. he remembered the times when you were young and you lamented to him and robb and sansa about the troubles of being royal, which sansa never understood. you hated being princess of the seven kingdoms, and you looked forward to being the lady of winterfell. and now, here you were, a queen. "princess, lady, or queen, i don't care. as long as you're mine."

you settled into his side with a content sigh, holding onto his arm comfortably. "i am, forever. don't ever doubt that."

"i don't," he hummed, squeezing your hand before returning to his dinner. "you need to eat too."

"i'm not hungry," you answered with a frown. "honestly the thought of food makes me sick. i'm still swaying from the feel of the ship."

he chuckled. "alright. i will see you eat by the end of the night, though."

"i will," you promised, offering him a smile. "but, i'm going to bathe before."

"i'm inclined to join you."

"oh, please do," you hummed, pressing a kiss to the side of his head before standing and crossing to the steaming bath in the side room. his eyes followed you, and he was soon finished with his meal.

you undid the braid in your hair, combing your fingers through it with a happy sigh. jon came up behind you, arms around your waist and head resting on your shoulder. you leaned back in his arms, head falling back onto his shoulder as your arms fell over his.

"today was a mess," you breathed out. "my uncle... why do you think he kept my identity from her?"

"not sure," he answered. "but, i'm glad he did. i don't think she would take you being the true heir to the iron throne very well, whether you want it or not. don't think it would've gone half as well as it did."

you hummed. "fair point."

he hesitated for a few moments and then he wondered, "would you mind my asking why you do not want it?"

you, yourself, didn't exactly know the answer. but, you'd never wanted the iron throne. all you knew was that, "i love the north in a way i've never loved the rest of the seven kingdoms. the north wants to be independent, and they deserve to be. so, in choosing between the rest of the kingdoms and the north, i choose the north."

he hummed in response, his beard scratching against your neck as he shifted behind you. "and the north chooses you."

you smiled. "that helps too."

you pulled his arms off of you for just long enough to turn around and face him.

you both undressed rather quickly, jon all too happy to finally undo the lacing at the front of your dress, before finally stepping into the bath. you sat against him, his hands rubbing soap into your hair and rinsing it out, and then rubbing your skin with the appropriate soap. you let your eyes shut, sighing comfortably.

"this is the first time we've truly been alone since the wedding."

"it is," you agreed quietly. you couldn't help but smile. "i quite enjoyed the wedding. didn't you?"

he laughed. "it was ten minutes long, with only us, sansa, davos, and tormund. and the maester, of course."

"so, yes?"

"my dream wedding," he answered, smiling as he pressed a kiss to your neck, his beard tickling the skin there. "private. small."

"quick," you hummed, laughing as he tried to turn you around in his arms, hands squeezing your sides.

"quick?" he asked as you settled in his lap again, arms coming around his neck. "you liked that it was quick?"

"yes, so then the night could be long," you answered, tilting your head as you let out a small laugh at the roll of his eyes.

"you know, love, i used to think you were this small, innocent girl who, if i ever got the chance, i would have to be slow and gentle with. and yet, here you are, practically throwing yourself at me every night," he teased, grinning as you shook your head.

"like you don't enjoy it," you told him. "you're just as eager to get things going too. i think you ripped my wedding dress to be honest."

he shrugged, smile remaining. "i could've. don't really remember."

"well, i do," you answered. "it was wildly attractive."

he chuckled. "it was exciting. i'm glad you appreciated it."

"i did. and, you know, it made me kind of appreciate your little honor code," you told him, pulling at his curls absentmindedly. "made the night all the more exciting."

"well, you had an honor code too once," he reminded. "you never did anything before you married robb. i wanted us to be the same."

you rested your forehead against his. "that's not the real reasoning, though, and that's okay. and you still did things to me robb never did before we were married."

he breathed out a gruff laugh. "i guess i could only restrain myself so much."

"i didn't mind," you hummed, letting your eyes shut as you leaned to press a slow kiss to his lips. you didn't move far once you pulled back, eyes still closed. "thank you for handling things today. you did well."

"so did you."

"i think you were calmer than i. my baratheon temper was hard to keep in check."

he chuckled, pushing your hair from your face as he nudged your nose with his. "next time, i'd be interested to see it let out."

"you don't want to see that," you laughed. "we'd never get the dragonglass we need."

"yes, but i enjoyed watching you put her in her place," he answered as you pulled away to meet his eyes. "when she mentioned the oaths of my ancestors... how can she ask us to forget what her father did to my family and then to remember the oaths we once made to hers? it's absurd."

"especially when her family has no semblance of a claim anymore," you agreed. "when it comes down to it, she's an orphan girl from essos. i admire the things she's done, the people she's saved, how far she's climbed in the way of the world, but she has no claim here anymore. westeros is not her land, and its people are not her people. it's ridiculous that she thinks otherwise."

"she should have stayed in essos," jon muttered. "we have enough problems here."

"one of which is that we're stuck here," you sighed, head falling against his shoulder. "i guess lord manderly was right. and sansa."

"don't tell them that, though."

"wasn't planning on it." you raised your head, meeting his eyes and managing a small smile. "at least we're together. i'm glad you're here with me."

he smiled back at you. "me too, love."

you weren't sure who kissed who, but you ended up out of the tub and in the bed awfully quickly. his hands were expert at where you liked to be touched, and you were way too excited to be able to touch him too.

he didn't know why he was surprised when you ended up on top, hands gripping his and holding them against the mattress as you kissed him, but he found it simultaneously attractive and infuriating. you didn't stay there for long, the man flipping you onto your back and continuing his own way.

and, forever the optimist, even though you were sure you were now prisoners on this island, you were grateful that at the least you were given your own room. and an awfully comfortable bed.

tyrion found you in shireen's old room, still covered in her things, her books, her clothes, her drawings. he watched you trace along the little pictures of does and stags, everything and nothing on your mind as you did.

finally, he cleared his throat, and you didn't even turn. "i'm sorry for your loss. from what i remember of her, she was a kind girl."

"i killed the woman who killed her," you answered. "the red priestess. cut off her head like ned stark had shown me. it was a mercy she didn't deserve."

"i doubt you're capable of giving her what she did deserve," tyrion said, watching you carefully. "even in war, you didn't like death. i heard of the way your husband treated murderers amongst your ranks."

you smiled thinly. "the starks are a people of justice, and honor. we don't tolerate violations of that."

"no, it seems you don't," he hummed as you finally turned to face him. "and do you feel that queen daenerys returning to the iron throne is just? it is her family's ancestral seat after all."

you frowned. "ancestral or not, it doesn't belong to her. my father won it, and if we follow the line of succession, it's mine."

"but, you don't want it."

"that doesn't mean that she should have it."

"who, then?" and that question stumped you. he stepped closer to you. "do you know why i kept your identity hidden from daenerys? why varys went along with my idea?"

"i haven't a clue why you and the spider do anything, to be honest, uncle," you said.

he sighed. "we hope for a better westeros. i believe that it comes with daenerys targaryen. she is a good queen with a great love for her people. ask any of the people here who followed her across the narrow sea, and you'll know that."

you waited, watching him for any clue of how you being incognito would help that.

"the white walkers are real," he said, holding your eyes. "i believe you and jon snow are telling the truth. and i also know that you need help. daenerys will not help you if you seem a threat to her in the slightest. if she knew that you are robert's child, westeros is doomed."

"you follow a queen whose pride is so intense that she would sacrifice her own people in order to keep a title?"

"i follow a queen who has worked very hard for what she has and will do what it takes to keep it," he answered. "as i expect you will."

"not at the price of my people," you told him. "jon and i have sacrificed everything for the north. i would do anything for the north."

"like give up the iron throne?" he watched you carefully, gauging your response. "why? they would follow you, if you took it. you could have it all. and you know that too."

it was opposite of what you'd told jon only nights before, but you did.

the north, however independent they were, would follow you into battle for the throne should you ask. you knew that because you had asked. years ago with robb they acknowledged their lack of care for the kings battling for the throne. but, they knew you, and they knew robb, and they wanted you and robb.

hence, the king and queen in the north.

and they've declared you queen again. why not queen of the seven kingdoms?

"because i don't want it," you told your uncle with a solemn shake of your head. "all that iron chair does is corrupt people. i've no interest in fighting for a throne."

"but, would you take it if it was given to you?"

"why are you asking? you have a queen, tyrion," you said sternly.

he sighed heavily, glancing down at his feet before looking back to you. "you're right. i do. only because i'm not a northman."

you held his eyes for several long moments, wondering what, exactly, he meant by that.

"if you do not want it, why should daenerys not have it?" he asked, which earned a long thought and a deep sigh from you.

"you asked about justice," you finally said. "her ancestors took this land thousands of years ago, and ruled it ever since. their wars ruined this country, and their kings defiled it. is it not just for it to never fall into their hands again?"

"that was long ago," he said. "do you really wish westeros to go back to the way it was thousands of years ago?"

"no. i, like you, wish for a better westeros," you answered. "and it doesn't begin with a dragon."

"does it begin with a stag? or a lion?" he asked, raising his brows to you. "or do you believe it begins with a wolf?"

you sighed. "you know the answer to that, uncle."

"i do."

you turned, setting shireen's drawings back on the desk and stepping towards the door, finished with this wildly unproductive conversation.

"do you love him?"

you stopped, heart pounding in your chest. "who?"

he smiled, though you couldn't see it. "jon. do you love him?"

your breaths were shaky as they left your lips, and you turned back to tyrion. "you can tell?"

"i haven't seen you in years, my girl, but i know you well enough to tell that you're in love with that man," he answered. "you look at him the way you looked at his brother. and he looks at you like he has all his life."

you tensed at the mention of robb, and then you wondered, "what do you know of jon's whole life? you've met him once."

"i spent several weeks with him up at the wall, and there were many times we only spoke of you," he hummed. "and the times i saw you both together his eyes rarely left you. when you rode off to king's landing with ned stark, he could barely keep riding his head was so turned around to watch you go. benjen could hardly believe it, wanted to smack the boy in the back of the head."

you laughed at that. "i believe it. benjen was always a realist."

"as was his nephew," tyrion agreed. he smiled gently then. "does he know you love him?"

"yes," you answered.

"and i'm sure you're aware he's in love with you?"

"i am."

"i'm glad," he said softly. "i know what it's like to lose someone you love. in a different way, i know, but still. you deserve to love again."

"it's just ironic that it has to be his brother, isn't it?" you sighed.

tyrion laughed. "it's okay to have a type. and i highly doubt this is the first time you've loved him anyways. you were raised with the both of them, i'm sure you had to have had feelings for him at some point."

"about up until robb and i were betrothed," you admitted with a soft laugh. "it felt natural coming back to him, even though i felt guilty."

"don't," he insisted. "it's alright to be with him. hell, it's perfectly right for you to marry the man. i'm sure he'd be overjoyed."

you smiled then, looking away for a few moments as you tried to phrase your next sentence right.

but, tyrion was already shaking his head, a light laugh slipping from his lips. "you're already married, aren't you?"

"you can't tell," you told him. "i'm not sure how the north would react, me marrying robb's brother after he was killed."

"they'll understand," tyrion said. "but, yes, i suppose i can keep your little secret. i'm sorry i didn't send a wedding gift."

"well, you can always let us off the island, or convince your queen to spare a dragon or two to burn the wights?" you suggested with a keen smile.

he laughed. "you have expensive taste, niece."

you shrugged. "like it or not, i am half lannister."

that earned a smile from him. "i'll see what i can do."

"i spoke to your uncle."

you looked up from your place on the bed, brows raised as jon shut the door securely behind him. you placed your book on your lap, watching as he tugged his cloak off and set it on the back of the desk chair. "you did?"

"aye. he believes us," he told you, kicking off his boots and walking to sit at the edge of the bed beside you, hand instantly reaching for yours.

"i know," you hummed with a small smile. "he told me yesterday. it seems he's been making his rounds."

"apparently," he said, glancing away with a shake of his head. "the dragon queen found me this afternoon. he's convinced her already."

"of what?" you asked, leaning forward a bit as you searched his eyes.

"the dragonglass," he answered. he gave you a small smile. "she doesn't believe us, but she's letting us mine. giving us the resources needed." you didn't answer for a few long moments and he squeezed your hand. "and? what do you think of it?"

"i think she's giving us something by giving us nothing," you said simply. "she didn't know the glass was here. it doesn't hurt her to give it up. but, now we'll have better relations. now we owe her something." you sighed. "what do you think of it."

"i agree with you. and i just... i wonder when they'll let us off this bloody island."

"it's only been two days."

"it's been two days lost. we should be sailing north, returning to our people. sansa's on her own out there. alone with petyr baelish."

you grimaced. "i forgot about him."

"i haven't," he huffed. "he's a sorry excuse for a man, and he's too attached to sansa. i'd like him gone."

"it'll be the first thing we do when we get home," you promised. "i've never liked him, either."

he nodded, falling back into thought. several long moments passed before you threw out, "tyrion knows we're married."

he looked at you with raised brows. "how?"

"he guessed," you answered with a small smile. "apparently we're too obvious. at least to him."

"i didn't even touch you in that room."

"no, but apparently all it takes is looks," you said, letting out a soft chuckle. "he told me about when we left to king's landing and you left to the wall. said you nearly fell off your horse trying to watch me leave."

he huffed, but smiled a bit. "i did not nearly fall off my horse. i was just... distracted."

"benjen couldn't believe it."

"oh no, they both told me to get a grip and be done with you," he laughed. he squeezed your hand, smiling down at you. "see how well that turned out."

you returned his smile. "well, he promised not to tell. though, i'm sure others can tell too. it's not common for there to be a king and a queen and them not be married."

"we couldn't help but follow tradition," he hummed, laughing as you did.

a knock sounded at the door. you furrowed your brows and jon let out a deep sigh, squeezing your hand and standing.

"i'll get it."

when he pulled the door open, he was faced with ser davos. it was a happy sight. "what is it?"

"your grace, i hate to intrude, but we've begun preparing the caves for extraction, and i thought you'd like to see it done," his advisor answered.

jon nodded. "yes, alright then."

you stood from the bed, walking across the room to grab your cloak. you looked over jon's shoulder, offering ser davos a smile. "good afternoon, ser davos."

"my queen," he answered with a returned smile. "will you be accompanying us to the caves?"

"anything to not be alone in this damn castle," you answered with a short laugh. you grabbed jon's cloak from off the desk chair and offered it to him. "shall we go?"

"we shall," he hummed, clasping his cloak onto his shoulders and letting you out the door first. he shut the door behind you as you both fell into step with ser davos, heading out the back doors towards the beach where the caves lied.

the walk was quiet, jon and davos making lame conversation as you walked. your eyes caught on the cliffs, admiring the way the grass collided with the rock, how the water washed over the sand, how the sand bled into the caves you were making your way down to enter.

ser davos led you down, and jon held your hand as you reached the bottom, pulling you along with him towards where you could see firelight flickering through the cave. davos grabbed a torch, and so did jon, and you took the first few steps into the caves you'd once visited as a girl.

"this sends me back," you said with a small smile, looking around at the shining rocks you were set to mine. you ran your fingers over the translucent blue glass, getting excited over the thought of your armies having the weapons they needed to defeat the night king.

"have the men began working?" jon asked ser davos.

"not yet. we were waiting for you, your grace," he said. he set fire to a small pit at the center of the cave, illuminating the space beyond just the torches the two men held.

you continued walking through the cavern, and then your eyes caught on something spiraling on the wall.

and you were struck with a memory.

"jon!"

he came up behind you, brows furrowed as he rested a secure hand on your waist. "what is it?"

you breathed out an incredulous laugh, walking forward and slipping from his grasp. "you're going to want to see this. i found something as a child that i'd forgotten until now."

"what?" he asked again, following you further into the cave.

you grinned as you faced a large, flat wall, with bits of dragonglass embedded into it and covered in small, white carvings. "this." jon stopped next to you, eyes wide.

there were carvings everywhere.

small spirals and sketches of people, large and small, images of stars and magic and water and wolves. dragons and fire and snow. a great lightning bolt sat in the middle of them all, and off to the side were two sets of three bodies, one set small and the other large.

"the children of the forest," jon breathed out.

"and the first men," you finished with a sure smile.

"how did you just forget about all of this?" he asked you, tracing a finger over the lines of one of the first men.

you followed him, walking along the wall of etchings. "i told my father and he didn't care. i was going to tell yours, but i guess i just forgot on my journey south." you passed him, taking it all in again, and then your heart stopped. "jon."

there, on the wall, was a drawing of what he'd described to you.

large and white, with defined muscles and sharp features, pointed ears and wrinkled skin, piercing blue eyes and wispy white hair.

"the wights," jon said.

"what was it old nan used to say?" you asked, turning to him with furrowed brows. "that the children and the first men fought together to defeat the wights?"

"that's what they're doing," he said, pointing from the children of the forest and first men to the white walkers. "they're together. they're fighting together. just as we need to do."

you sighed. "if only she'd believe us. she's too worried about her iron chair to even think about the welfare of the north."

"she should see this," jon told you. "perhaps it'll convince her."

"she can never be convinced-"

"we have to try," he said firmly, meeting your eyes with a sharp look in them. and then he softened, letting out a breath. "think about how many of our people can be saved if we only had one dragon. we have to try."

you watched him for several moments. "and if she isn't convinced?"

he offered you a slight smile. "i thought you were the optimistic one."

you looked away from him, thinking for several moments before letting out a sigh that morphed into an ironic laugh.

"i guess you're right," you murmured. "if she can't be convinced at least we have the dragonglass. that's one leg up we didn't have before."

he smiled and pressed a kiss to the side of your head. "and we can keep fighting for more."

he stepped out into the corridor of rock the cavern led to, looking out to where ser davos was speaking with several of daenerys' men who'd been given to help mine.

"ser davos," he called. "summon the queen. there's something she needs to see."

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TAGLIST:

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[rowancries]

of storm and snow - jon snow

ANOTHER QUEEN

see this post for basically an outline of what these oneshots are about! they'll cover a few points each and are in chronological order

baratheon!reader

MASTERLIST

word count: 4.9k

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

sansa objected to the both of you leaving winterfell, but your uncle's letter had been clear: the dragon queen insisted on seeing the king and the queen.

"we'll be back soon," you promised her, squeezing the girl's hand before heading off with jon to white harbor.

the bannermen weren't fans of the idea either.

"stark men don't fair well in the south," lord manderly reminded you gently.

"i was born in the south," you told him. "my uncle, the only one i've ever trusted, is the one who called on us. you can try to convince the king to stay, but i have a strong feeling we need to know what this dragon queen is about. perhaps they can be of help in this war."

"how?" he asked, brows knitted. "she'll burn us right along with the white walkers."

you smiled halfway. "dragonglass."

it was a long ride on horse and on ship, but you were excited to see the ocean. jon sat beside you as you watched the water roll, all grins and smiles as the creatures of the sea jumped and glided through the waves.

dragonstone was as you remembered it.

large and green, with rocky beaches and rolling hills.

what was different were the dragons in the sky. large, dark clouds that watched over the castle and guarded the island. they seemed to watch you as you came ashore, and you frowned.

"they're beautiful," one of the seamen said, tone filled with wonder as he looked up at them.

"they're supposed to be dead," was your answer, hand settling on the hilt of your sword as you followed jon up the beach to where the dragon queen's men were waiting for you.

a smile pulled at your lips as you spotted your uncle, a fresh scar across his face and a well-trimmed beard around his mouth. he looked well, and you were glad to see it. you were unsurprised to note the silver hand pin secured on his breast - it seemed that being hand of the king, or queen in this case, ran in your family.

"the bastard of winterfell," you heard him say as jon approached him.

"the dwarf of casterly rock." jon's voice was not unkind, and you imagine he, too, was glad to see your uncle.

tyrion smiled. "i believe the last time we saw each other was atop the wall."

"aye. if i remember correctly, you were pissing off the edge of it," jon said.

you laughed as you came to his side, catching tyrion's eyes as you offered him a warm smile. "sounds like you. you've picked up some scars along the road?"

he nodded, returning your smile. "it's been a long road. but, we're all still here."

for a few moments, the three of you thought back to the people who weren't still here, all too aware of the loss and fight that had happened between the times you'd been together at winterfell.

tyrion looked past you, stepping forward and offering a hand. "i'm tyrion lannister."

ser davos stepped forward and shook his hand with a polite smile. "davos seaworth."

"ah, the onion knight," tyrion said as he stepped back to where the dothraki were standing guard, gazes hard as they looked on you and your men. your eyes caught on the woman by your uncle's side, a gorgeous girl with tight curls and bronze coloring. essosi, you guessed. she wore black, with the targaryen symbol a silver pin at her shoulder. "we fought on opposite sides at the battle of blackwater bay."

"unluckily for me," ser davos answered.

tyrion then glanced to the essosi girl, offering her a one handed gesture before looking back to you. "missandei is the queen's most trusted advisor."

she smiled at the three of you. she seemed kind enough.

"welcome to dragonstone," missandei said. "our queen knows it is a hard journey. she appreciates the efforts you have made on her behalf." she hesitated, glancing down at your hip and then jon's, meeting the king's eyes. "if you wouldn't mind handing over your weapons."

jon met your eyes, both of you pausing for a moment before you let out a breath through your nose and mustered a diplomatic smile. "of course."

he and the rest of your band followed your action of unhooking your belt that held your sword, grimacing a bit as the dothraki took them from you. you held the eyes of the one who took stormbringer, jon eying the one who took longclaw, both of whom seemed all too glad to be relieving you of your swords.

jon turned to watch the rest of your men hand over their own swords as you looked to your uncle, who was smiling awkwardly at the encounter.

"i see you still have your father's sword," he said, nodding at the dothraki man who was taking the antlered steel away.

"it's been an effort to keep it at my side, but yes," you answered. "it's come in handy these last years."

"i imagine so."

"please," missandei said as the dothraki began pulling your boat more fully onto the sand. "this way."

ser davos stepped ahead, and you couldn't quite make out the conversation he started with the girl as you all followed them up towards the line of stairs.

after a few moments, he fell back to yours and jon's side. "this place has changed."

you scanned the island as you walked, eyes catching on the caves dug into the sides.

"there," you murmured to him, brushing his hand with yours as you lifted it in the direction of the caves filled with the dragonglass you needed.

jon held your waist as you climbed the last few steps to the less vertical bridge that led to the castle, the lot of you pausing to breathe. it reminded you of the eyrie, with how many steps there were to get to the castle.

you looked up at the massive structure, recalling the times you'd spent here as a young child. you'd visited twice with your father, only to see the birth of your cousin shireen, and again to mourn one of stannis' many lost sons. it was a magnificent place, fitted for the targaryens of old, with dragons etched into every stone and crook. you could see the old dragonpit from where you stood, in better shape than the one at king's landing by far, and leading down into the various caverns of the island.

"and sansa?" tyrion asked, making conversation with you and jon as you went. "i hear she's alive and well."

"she is," jon answered shortly.

"does she miss me terribly?" the question didn't impress the king, as evident in the stare he gave the dwarf. tyrion looked away. "a sham marriage. and unconsummated."

"i didn't ask."

"well, it was. wasn't."

"this is a pleasant conversation," you sighed, letting out a short laugh as tyrion took a stride ahead. he glanced over his shoulder with a small smile. "from what she's told me, you were the most pleasant of her husbands. i thank you for that."

"well, good. she's a great girl, and smarter than she lets on," he answered.

"don't worry," you laughed. "she's starting to let on. i think she thinks she's one of our advisors now."

"and what exactly does she advise you to do?"

you stared ahead, eyes on the large castle. "i think you can guess."

you didn't speak again for a couple minutes, focused on climbing the steps. jon took your hand at some point, ensuring you stepped before him and keeping you in front. tyrion noticed, his eyes flicking down to where his one hand clutched yours and the other hovered over your hip. you let go of jon's hand to come to your uncle's side, noticing the way missandei readily distanced herself from the rest of you.

"at some point, i'd like to know how you managed to become hand to daenerys targaryen," you hummed.

"and i'd like to know how you managed to become queen in the north," he answered. and then he dropped his tone, eyes on the queen's advisor ahead of him as he whispered, "twice."

you smiled slightly. "i think jon's tale is more interesting."

"yes, a man sworn to the night's watch and now the king in the north," he mused, glancing back at the stark man. "i'd like to hear that story."

"be honest with me, uncle," you said, and again his eyes shot to missandei, who didn't turn or pause. you furrowed your brow, but continued. "is an alliance even possible here?"

he let out a heavy sigh, fixing you with a curious look. "i'm not your advisor, sweet girl. but, if you're anything like how i remember you, and you are set on keeping the north independent... i fear your travels won't have been worth it."

the dothraki that filled the inner corridors of dragonstone looked entirely out of place, with great scythes like you'd never seen in westeros, their light leathers stained with blood and dirt, their hair long and braided, and gorgeous as it was looked wrong in the dark, cobblestone halls.

you kept your head held high and resisted the urge to take jon's hand in your own.

he looked regal in a warrior sort of way, dressed in dark black and brown leathers and a chestplate with two mirrored direwolves on the steel. he abandoned his furs for once, given the heat of the place, but the end of his tunic was longer as to give the same effect a great cloak would have.

you'd pulled his hair back for him before you left the ship, combing it back with your fingers so it would stay out of his face. he claimed it made him feel more put together, even though you insisted that you enjoyed the natural fall of his curls. but, you did as he asked, smiling at the way his eyes fluttered shut when your nails scratched gently at his scalp.

now, with his clothing and his hair and the stoic look upon his face, the way he held his shoulders high and how he walked with purpose, it was obvious to all that jon snow was a fit man. you felt a great deal of pride as you watched him walk down the hall beside you. he'd grown so much since your time as children in winterfell. he was now a king, and that much was evident even in just once look upon him.

little did you know that jon was thinking the same of you.

he helped you braid the top of your hair down after you'd pulled his back, remembering how you'd taught him when you were just children. it was a bit messy because it had been years since he'd last practiced, but the stray bits of hair around your face and ears suited you, jon thought. it made you look every bit the kind of queen you were - one of action, and not of sloth. you didn't simply sit and have things done for you, you did it yourself.

the clothing you chose told the same story. a leather tunic that pulled at your waist in a way that made jon's mouth water, and the same sort of lacing at the front that just begged to be torn open by a king. the overskirt was a black as well, open to reveal the brown leather leggings normally used for riding that you'd begun to prefer to regular skirts. you had a silver direwolf emblem at the black belt on your waist, thick and tight and matching that of your necklace that spilled over your collarbone.

the colors and pieces you'd chosen were to match jon's, and he had to resist the urge to smile at the knowledge. you looked cohesive and strong together, both simultaneously dressed for polite meeting and also battle.

you caught his stare and couldn't help but smile sheepishly at his look.

"what is it?" you asked him quietly, ser davos looking over his shoulder at the both of you as you neared the throne room.

"nothing," he whispered back, returning your smile.

"jon?"

"i'll tell you later."

you smiled as you turned to face forward again.

missandei and tyrion led you into the room, and there, sitting on the stone throne that you'd never once heard of your uncle stannis taking use of, was daenerys targaryen. the mother of dragons.

she was decked out in black, her silvery white hair perfectly curled and braided half behind her head in a similar, but more precise manner than yours. her violet eyes were piercing from where you stood even then, and missandei began introducing her from her place at her side.

"you stand in the presence of daenerys stormborn of house targaryen, rightful heir to the iron throne-" you caught ser davos' eyes flick to you, but you moved not. "rightful queen of the andals and the first men, protector of the seven kingdoms, the mother of dragons, the khaleesi of the great grass sea, the unburnt, the breaker of chains."

the khaleesi looked too proud as she smirked down at you, jon, and ser davos, and you were filled with a sudden anger that reminded you of your born house words.

you gave ser davos a look, and he cleared his throat.

"this is jon snow," he told the room, nodding to the stark man. "he's king in the north."

you met the eyes of your uncle, who seemed almost slightly embarrassed as he looked away from you and instead at the ground ahead of him, the smallest smile on his lips.

"and the lady?"

your gaze snapped up, and both you and ser davos frowned.

"this is y/n stark," the man said, eyes sharp as he looked upon the dragon girl's right hand woman. "and she is not a lady. she is the queen in the north."

daenerys seemed to ignore this, her eyes on jon instead. "thank you for traveling so far, my lord." you tensed at her ignorance. "i hope the seas weren't too rough."

"the winds were kind, your grace," jon answered, ever the diplomat though you could tell by the crinkle at his eye that her terms bothered him as well.

the man most bothered, though, was the ever faithful ser davos, who quickly interjected. "apologies, your grace, i have a flea bottom accent i know, but he is king in the north. he is not a lord."

"forgive me," daenerys said with a small smile, but she was soon cut off by your uncle.

"your grace, this is ser davos seaworth," he said, holding your eyes as you watched him carefully.

"forgive me, ser davos, i never did receive a formal education," she said with that same, slightly arrogant smile. "but i could have sworn i read that the last king in the north was torrhen stark, who bent the knee to my ancestor aegon targaryen. in exchange for his life and the lives of the northmen, torrhen stark swore fealty to house targaryen in perpetuity." she knitted her brows just slightly, though the cockiness didn't ease. "or do i have my facts wrong?"

"i wasn't there, your grace," was ser davos' answer.

"of course not," she said, her smile returning. "but, still, an oath is an oath. and perpetuity means - what does perpetuity mean, lord tyrion?"

you held your uncle's eyes, a baratheon sort of fury bubbling in your chest at her tone and treatment of you, jon, and tyrion himself.

"forever," he said, staring straight ahead.

she smiled, turning back to the lot of you. her eyes rested on jon. "forever." she opened her mouth to continue, but you couldn't keep your thoughts in any longer.

"perhaps it is your lack of a formal education, or maybe it's that you've only just arrived in westeros," you said, earning her gaze and a drop of that smile. "but, the last king in the north was not torrhen stark. it was robb stark, the young wolf, who knelt to no man, and knew none but his own kin, especially not the same targaryens his own father fought to dethrone."

from the corner of your eye you saw jon shift, but you weren't sure in what way.

"and in doing so broke faith with house targaryen."

"broke faith?" jon asked, brows knitted. "your father burned my grandfather alive, burned my uncle alive. he would've burned the seven kingdoms-"

"my father was an evil man," daenerys said with a frown. "on behalf of house targaryen, i ask your forgiveness for the crimes committed against your family, and i ask you not to judge a daughter by the sins of her father. our two houses were allies for centuries, and those were the best centuries the seven kingdoms has ever known."

"again, your grace, i believe you're wrong."

she froze, her eyes snapping to yours as you clasped your hands in front of you.

the moment reminded you of your days in court, standing at your father's side, discussing politics and laws of interest with the small council, and later doing the same next to ned stark as hand. you heard lady catelyn's voice in your mind as you moved to speak more, telling you to be calm, diplomatic, and sure of yourself.

and to not allow that baratheon fury to go untamed.

"there were only three targaryen kings who were called good by the common people," you told the dragon girl. "jaehaerys the conciliator. viserys the peacemaker. and daeron the good. every other king caused starvation, trial, and war amongst the seven kingdoms. your family warred over that throne for decades, and the common people suffered for it. but, in the north, when the starks were kings and the wall was guarded religiously, there was peace. your family ruined that."

"and what of the rest of the seven kingdoms? what did the starks do for them then?" she asked you with a tilt of her head. "my concern is not simply with the north, but with the south as well."

"the south was cared for by my family," you answered. "the southern kings of old."

the room filled with a steely silence, her pupils blowing wide and then thin again, reminiscent of a dragon's. her gaze shot to your uncle, who again refused to look her way.

"and who are you, exactly?" she asked, brows knitted. "ser davos introduced you as a stark, you stand queen beside jon snow, and now you claim southern roots."

tyrion was tense, staring straight ahead at you with intense eyes, jaw clenched as he awaited your answer.

you glanced at jon for a moment before squaring your shoulders and returning to the targaryen. "i am who i said i am. i'm the queen in the north. and we're here because we need your help, and you need ours."

she frowned. "did you see the three dragons flying overhead when you arrived?"

"we did."

"and did you see the dothraki, all of whom have sworn to kill for me?"

"they're hard to miss."

"but, still, i need your help?"

"not to defeat cersei," ser davos said. "you could storm king's landing tomorrow and the city would fall. hell, we almost took it and we didn't even have dragons."

"almost," tyrion said slowly, earning a roll of your eyes as he stared down ser davos.

"but you haven't stormed king's landing," jon interjected, the rest of the hall falling still as you watched him. "and why not? the only reason i can see is that you don't want to kill thousands of people. it's the fastest way to win the war, but you won't do it. which means, at the very least, you're better than cersei."

you watched jon closely, wondering exactly what his trajectory was.

"still, that doesn't explain why i need your help," daenerys said, interested, it seemed, in where he was going with this too.

jon's lips thinned, his shoulders squaring as he glanced from you to daenerys. "because you, and cersei, and y/n and i are all children playing at a game and screaming that the rules are not fair."

"you told me you liked this man," she said to tyrion.

"i do," was his stalwart answer.

"in the time since he's met me he's refused to call me queen, he's refused to bow, and now he's calling me a child," she said angrily.

"it is a figure of speech, your grace, no need to be distressed. and honestly, you've refused to let any of us finish a sentence, so how about you hear the king out?" you asked, raising your brows.

"your grace, everyone you love will die if we do not defeat the enemy to the north," jon said, becoming frustrated with the dragon girl.

"as far as i can see, you are the enemy to the north."

"i am not your enemy," he answered. "the dead are the enemy."

"the dead?" she turned her eyes to you, brows raised. "is that another figure of speech."

"i wish," you said, shaking your head before glancing to jon. "unfortunately, not."

"the army of the dead is on the march," the king said.

"the army of the dead?" tyrion asked, entirely unbelieving.

"you don't know me well, my lord, but do you believe me to be a liar? or a madman?" you could help but smile at jon's insistence, and the glare that was starting to form in the furrow between his brows. "do you believe my queen to be one as well?"

tyrion sighed. "i don't believe either one of you to be either one of those things."

"the white walkers are real, the night king is real. i've seen them," jon said firmly. "if they get past the wall and we're squabbling amongst ourselves, we're finished."

silence filled the hall again and all eyes were on daenerys - except for yours. you watched jon carefully, smile gone but eyes intense as you held yourself back from taking his hand in yours. your heart was pounding, your chest filled with annoyance, but you were glad jon was handling it all so well.

and you hoped everyone in that room could see him for the king he was.

"i was born at dragonstone." daenerys pushed herself off the stone-made throne and began descending the steps, her eyes on jon intensely. "not that i remember it. we fled before robert's assassins could find us. robert was your father's best friend, no?"

again, tyrion's eyes found yours, and you found yourself knitting your brows. he hadn't told her as much as he should've, you realized.

he didn't tell her who you were.

"i wonder if your father knew his best friend sent assassins to murder a baby girl in her crib," she hummed. "not that it matters now. i spent my life in foreign lands. so many men have tried to kill me, i don't remember all their names. i have been sold like a broodmare. i have been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled. do you know what kept me standing all those years in exile?" she didn't look at you once, but your heart pounded as you found similarities in her treatment to your own. "faith. not in any gods. not in myths or legends. in myself. in daenerys targaryen. the world hadn't seen a dragon in centuries until my children were born." she walked to stand in front of jon, still paying you no mind. "the dothraki hadn't crossed the sea, any sea. they did for me. i was born to rule the seven kingdoms, and i will."

jon held her eyes, and you held your breath. and then he glanced at you, and so did she, before he met her eyes again. "maybe. maybe not. if you do, you'll be ruling over a graveyard if we don't defeat the night king."

"the war against my sister has already begun," tyrion said as he stepped to you all. "you can't expect us to halt hostilities to fight... whatever it was you saw beyond the wall."

and then ser davos entered the picture again. and oh, how you loved it when he did.

"you don't believe him," he said, earning the attention of the lot of you. "i understand. it sounds like nonsense. but, if destiny has brought daenerys targaryen to our shores, it has also made jon snow king in the north." he looked at you. "it has made y/n stark queen in the north, and should she agree, more." daenerys looked at tyrion and then at you, but ser davos continued before she could ask.

"you were the first to bring dothraki to westeros? he is the first to make allies of wildlings and northmen. she is the first to make allies of riverlords, eastmen, and the north. she was named queen in the north despite not being of the north, not once, but twice. he was named lord commander of the night's watch, he was named king in the north. not because of his birthright, he has no birthright, he's a damned bastard. all those hard sons of bitches chose them as their leaders because they believe in them.

"those things that you went through, your grace? you'll find a kinship with our queen here too. she's been betrayed more times than can be counted by men who swore their lives to her. she watched her husband be butchered, had a child stolen from her womb, had her entire family die in a war her own mother started." daenerys looked at tyrion, and jon looked at you, eyes soft and comforting and asking. "she was defiled. she was chained, and tortured, used and abused beyond what any of us can know. and she's here. standing beside jon snow and believing in him as much as we believe in her.

"all those things you don't believe in? jon snow faced those things. he fought those things for the good of his people. he risked his life for his people. he took a knife in the heart for his people-" both you and jon exchanged a look. "he gave his own-"

with one look from jon, ser davos halted. after a few moments, he continued with a sigh.

"if we don't put aside our enmities and band together we will die. and then it doesn't matter whose skeleton sits on the iron throne," he said firmly.

"if it doesn't matter, then you might as well kneel," tyrion tried, which had you rolling your eyes and jon shaking his head. "swear allegiance to queen daenerys, help her defeat my sister, and together our armies will protect the north."

jon glared. "there's no time for that, there's no time for any of this! while we sit here debating-"

"it take no time to bend the knee," tyrion said. "pledge your sword to her cause."

"and why would i do that?" jon asked angrily. tyrion faltered and jon looked to daenerys. "i mean no offense, your grace, but i don't know you. as far as i can tell, your claim to the throne rests entirely on your father's name, and my own father fought to overthrow the mad king." he let out a sharp breath. "the north placed their trust in me to lead them, and i will continue to do so as well as i can."

"that's fair," daenerys said, voice level as she eyed him. "it's also fair to point out that i am the rightful queen of the seven kingdoms, and by declaring yourself king of the northernmost kingdom, you are in open rebellion."

"another point in which we disagree," jon said. he met her eyes, brows slightly furrowed. "your father lost westeros. the baratheons hold claim to the throne now. your name has no power here anymore."

"the baratheons are gone," she said, lips pulled back in a sneer at the thought of the stag house. "my family has held it for thousands of years-"

"you didn't tell her?"

her eyes flicked up to yours, but you weren't looking at her. instead, you were smiling down, heavily amused, at your nervous uncle. she tensed and looked at her hand. "my lord?"

"there is another daughter, yes," he said, shooting you a sideways glance. "robert baratheon's trueborn heir."

"and why have i only been told this now by someone not my advisor?" you were confused now as to why tyrion was covering up his lie. you were standing in front of her, and he still continues. "why have you and lord varys kept this from me?"

"because she's of no influence," tyrion answered. "she has no desire for the iron throne. the girl stays where she's comfortable."

"and where is that, exactly?" daenerys asked.

silence passed over the hall, and then the spider just mentioned entered the room, coming to her side and whispering in her ear. once he stepped away, she returned to you.

"you must forgive my manners," she said. "the three of you must be tired from your journey. we'll have baths drawn for you and supper sent to your rooms."

jon eyed tyrion as she spoke dothraki to her head guard. as she walked the steps back up to her stone seat, he asked, "are we your prisoners?"

she paused. "not yet."

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

TAGLIST:

@xreader1989

lmk if you wanna be added!!

[rowancries]

conrad fisher, you deserve better.

[rowancries]

summer storm - conrad fisher

summary: a summer storm forces everyone to stay inside the house and you and Conrad end up cooking something for the group

english isn’t my first language (words: 3,8k)

The rain lashed against the beach house windows, a relentless drumming that seemed intent on drowning the very essence of summer. The sky, a leaden gray, had swallowed the afternoon sun, and thunder rumbled in the distance like an echo of the things no one dared say aloud. Inside the house, the air smelled of old wood, sea salt slipping through the cracks, and something less tangible: the weight of memories lingering in every corner. The Fisher house, with its walls lined with faded photos and cushions worn from years of summers, was no longer the same without Susannah. Her absence was like a cold current weaving through everyone, though no one spoke of it.

You were in the kitchen, stirring a pancake batter you’d thrown together from whatever was in the pantry. You weren’t exactly a chef, but someone had to do something to lift the mood. In the living room, Jeremiah was playing a pop playlist that tried, with little success, to brighten the atmosphere. Steven was sprawled on the couch, tossing pillows at Jeremiah whenever he turned up the volume. And then there was Belly, sitting in an armchair by the window, legs crossed, eyes glued to her phone. She didn’t look at you, didn’t look at anyone, but her body language screamed that something was wrong. Jeremiah, sitting beside her, was talking softly, and though you couldn’t hear the words, the way she nodded without enthusiasm told you everything you needed to know.

And then there was Conrad. Always Conrad.

He stood by the dining room window, a few steps from the kitchen, hands in the pockets of his worn jeans, staring out at the storm. His hair fell messily over his forehead, and the gray t-shirt he wore was slightly wrinkled, as if he didn’t care enough to iron it. He didn’t need to; Conrad Fisher had that knack for looking good even when everything around him was falling apart. But there was something in his posture, the way his shoulders were tense, that told you he wasn’t just watching the rain. He was searching for something, or maybe trying to escape something. Maybe Belly. Maybe himself.

The house creaked with every gust of wind, and you felt the weight of this different summer, the first without Susannah. Past summers had been filled with laughter, beach nights, and Susannah’s warm voice planning barbecues or insisting everyone play Uno until midnight. Now, everything felt more fragile, as if the storm could carry away not just the roof but the remnants of what this place used to be.

You shook your head, trying to push those thoughts away, and stirred the batter harder than necessary. That’s when you decided to break the silence.

“Are you going to stand there contemplating the end of the world, or are you going to help me with these pancakes, Fisher?” you said, raising your voice just enough to cut through the sound of the rain.

He turned his head slowly, as if your words had pulled him from a dream. For a second, his blue eyes, the color of the ocean on a clear day, met yours. A small smile, barely a flicker, crossed his face. It was so fleeting you almost thought you’d imagined it, but something in your chest stirred all the same.

“Didn’t know you were a chef,” he said, his voice low but laced with a hint of amusement you hadn’t heard all day. He walked over to the counter, moving with that mix of confidence and weariness that was so distinctly his, and leaned against the edge, watching you.

“I’m not,” you replied, shrugging as you poured some batter into the pan. The sizzle filled the air, and the smell of melting butter began to mingle with the storm’s saltiness. “But someone’s got to save us from starvation, and I don’t trust Jeremiah to cook anything that isn’t cereal.”

Conrad let out a short laugh, almost a snort, and for a moment, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. “Good point,” he said, crossing his arms. “Jere would burn the house down trying to boil water.”

You smiled, pleased to have made him laugh, even a little. There was something about Conrad that had always intrigued you. You weren’t part of the Fishers’ inner circle like Belly or Steven, but you’d spent enough time with them to notice the currents that bound and separated them. You knew about Conrad and Belly: that he’d always loved her, that she was his sun, his entire summer. But you’d also noticed how he looked at you sometimes, like he was trying to figure you out, like you were a piece that didn’t quite fit in the puzzle of his life.

From the living room, Jeremiah’s voice rose, singing an exaggerated rendition of a vaguely familiar song. Belly laughed, but it was a muted laugh, like she was doing it out of obligation. Conrad turned his head toward the sound, and his expression shifted, growing heavier, more guarded. It was just a moment, but you saw it: the way his eyes sought Belly, the way his jaw tightened. Then he looked back at you, and something in his gaze was different. Softer, maybe. Or more lost.

“What?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you tried to flip a pancake without breaking it. “Don’t tell me you’re already regretting helping me.”

“It’s not that,” he said, his voice so low it almost got lost in the storm’s noise. He took a step closer, close enough that you could smell the faint ocean scent that always seemed to cling to him, like the beach had seeped into his skin. “It’s just… I don’t know. This summer’s weird.”

You didn’t say anything but nodded, giving him space to talk. Conrad wasn’t one to open up easily, and you knew any words from him were like a wave that had taken years to reach the shore.

You glanced at the pan, focusing on the pancake starting to brown, but your attention was on him, on the way his fingers tapped nervously against the counter, the way his breathing seemed to hold a thousand unspoken things.

“Without your mom here…” you started, but stopped, unsure if you’d crossed a line. Susannah’s death was a topic everyone avoided, as if saying her name might bring the house crashing down.

Conrad didn’t respond right away. His eyes landed on an old photo on the wall, one of Susannah laughing in a straw hat, and for a moment, it seemed like he might shut down completely. But then he said, quietly, “Yeah. Everything feels… empty. Like summer doesn’t have the right to go on without her.”

Your heart tightened, and before you could stop yourself, you placed a hand on his arm, just a light touch. “I’m sorry, Conrad,” you murmured. “I know it’s not the same, but… we’re here. All of us.”

He looked at you then, and there was something in his eyes you couldn’t quite decipher. It wasn’t just sadness, though that was there, raw and sharp. It was something else, something that made your pulse race for no reason. “You always know what to say, don’t you?” he said, and though he tried to make it sound like a joke, there was a sincerity that caught you off guard.

“Well, someone’s got to balance out your tortured poet vibe,” you replied, winking to lighten the moment. He laughed again, and this time it was a warmer sound, like you’d sparked a light in the middle of the storm.

From the living room, the music shifted to something slower, a ballad that felt too fitting for the mood. Belly got up from the armchair, muttering something to Jeremiah, and walked out into the hallway. Conrad followed her with his eyes, and that shadow crossed his face again. But then, as if making a conscious choice, he turned to you and said, “So? How do we keep these pancakes from turning into charcoal?”

You smiled, grateful for the change of topic, and handed him a spatula. “First, don’t leave them on the pan until the actual end of the world comes. Come on, Fisher, show me you’re not completely useless in the kitchen.”

Conrad was at your side, holding the spatula with exaggerated focus, as if flipping a pancake was a life-or-death mission. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight: Conrad Fisher, the boy who seemed to carry the weight of the world, battling a circle of batter like his pride depended on it.

“You know this isn’t a competition, right?” you said, leaning against the counter and raising an eyebrow. You’d decided your mission that afternoon was to pull him out of his personal storm cloud, even if just for a moment. “If you burn that pancake, they’re not going to give you a medal.”

He shot you a sideways glance, and that spark of amusement you’d seen earlier returned to his eyes. “I’m serious, don’t distract me,” he replied, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “This requires precision.”

“Precision? Fisher, you’re holding the spatula like it’s a sword,” you shot back, and before you could stop yourself, you gave him a playful tap on the arm. He laughed, a low, genuine sound.

But then, as if reality couldn’t stay at bay for long, a thunderclap echoed, and from the living room came the sound of Jeremiah’s laughter, followed by Belly’s softer voice saying something you couldn’t make out. Conrad tensed, just slightly, but you noticed. You always noticed.

His eyes flicked toward the door separating the kitchen from the living room, and for a moment, it seemed his mind was elsewhere, with her.

You tried to ignore the pang in your chest. You weren’t naive; you knew what Belly meant to him. You’d seen it in the way he looked at her when he thought no one noticed, the way his fists clenched whenever Jeremiah and she got too close. But you’d also seen how he looked at you sometimes, like you were a puzzle he didn’t know how to solve. And that, though you wouldn’t admit it out loud, was enough to keep you in the kitchen, joking with him, even if part of you knew you were walking a tightrope.

“Hey, pancake hero, you’re going to burn it!” you exclaimed, pointing at the pan where the pancake’s edge was getting too dark. Conrad muttered a curse under his breath and hurried to flip it, only for half of it to fold into a sticky mess. You burst out laughing, covering your mouth with one hand as he stared at the disaster with a mix of frustration and amusement.

“This is your fault,” he said, pointing the spatula at you like a weapon. “You’re a terrible copilot.”

“Me? You’re the one trying to cook like it’s surgery!” you retorted, still laughing. On impulse, you grabbed a handful of flour from the counter and tossed it lightly at him, leaving a white cloud on his gray t-shirt. He blinked, surprised, then narrowed his eyes with a look that was half indignation, half challenge.

“Oh, we’re playing like that?” he said, and before you could react, he grabbed some flour and threw it back at you. The kitchen turned into momentary chaos, filled with laughter and clouds of flour floating in the air. For a moment, it felt like summer was back to what it used to be: light, carefree, full of possibilities. But then, your hands brushed as you both reached for the batter bowl, and the world stopped.

His fingers, warm and slightly sticky from the batter, grazed yours, and neither of you moved. The laughter faded, replaced by a silence that weighed more than the storm outside. You were so close you could see the lighter flecks in his blue eyes, like fragments of sky trapped in the ocean. His breathing was slow, almost held, and for a second, you thought he might say something important, something that would change everything.

“Why do you do this?” he murmured, his voice so low it almost drowned in the sizzle of the pan. He didn’t look away, and there was something raw in his expression, something that made you feel exposed, like he could see through all your defenses.

“Do what? Ruin your pancakes or save the day?” you replied, trying to keep the tone light, but your voice came out softer than intended. Your heart was pounding, and you knew he could sense it, even if he didn’t say so.

Conrad shook his head, barely a movement. “You make everything… easier,” he said, and there was a note of confusion in his voice, like he didn’t understand why he felt that way. “It shouldn’t be this easy to be with you. Not when…” He stopped, and his eyes flicked toward the living room door, where Belly’s presence lingered like an invisible shadow.

“Not when you’re still thinking about her,” you finished for him, the words slipping out before you could stop them. It wasn’t an accusation, just a truth you both knew. But it hurt, more than you wanted to admit.

He looked at you then, and for a moment, it seemed like he might deny it. But Conrad wasn’t one to lie, not with words. Instead, he dropped his gaze to your hands, still too close, and said, “I don’t know what I’m doing. Belly is… she’s always been everything. Since we were kids. But this summer, with you here, I don’t know. Everything feels different.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you squeezed his hand lightly, just for a moment, before letting go and turning back to the pan as if nothing had happened. “Well, if you don’t know what to do, at least don’t let any more pancakes burn,” you said, forcing a smile.

But inside, your mind was a whirlwind. What did that mean? Was it possible that Conrad Fisher, the boy who had always belonged to Belly, was starting to see you?

From the living room, the music shifted to something softer, a song about lost summers and loves that never came to be. Jeremiah shouted something about playing cards, and Belly replied with a laugh that sounded more genuine this time. The kitchen had become its own world, a refuge where the storm outside was just a distant murmur. The sizzle of pancakes and the scent of melted butter filled the air, but it was the warmth of Conrad’s closeness that truly occupied your senses.

You’d managed to pull him out of his shell, if only for a moment, with laughter and a flour-fueled mess that left white streaks on his shirt and in your hair. But now, after his half-confession, the air between you was charged with something new, something that made it feel heavier, more electric.

You were stirring the last batch of batter, trying to keep things light, but your heart was racing with an intensity you couldn’t ignore. Conrad was beside you, wiping down the counter with a rag, but his movements were slow, almost distracted, like his mind was elsewhere. Every so often, his eyes slid to you, and there was an intensity in them that made you feel exposed, like he could see every thought you were trying to hide. It didn’t help that the music from the living room had turned softer, a ballad about impossible loves and fading summers. It was the kind of song Susannah would have loved, and the thought tightened something in your chest, reminding you how fragile everything was in this house.

“Do you think these pancakes are going to save the summer?” you asked, breaking the silence before it became unbearable. You wanted to lighten the moment, but your voice came out softer than intended, almost like an invitation.

Conrad set the rag down and turned to you, leaning against the edge of the island. He was closer now, close enough that you could see the shadows under his eyes, the exhaustion he’d carried since Susannah was gone. “I don’t know if anything can save this summer,” he said, his voice low and rough, like the words took effort. “But this…” He gestured vaguely to the pan, to you, to the flour-streaked chaos around you. “This isn’t bad.”

You smiled, though your heart flipped. “Wow, Conrad Fisher giving me a compliment. I should mark it on the calendar.” You tried to make it sound like a joke, but there was a thread of truth in your words. Every small moment with him felt like a victory, like you were stealing pieces of a heart that had always belonged to someone else.

He didn’t respond right away, just looked at you, and the silence between you grew so thick you could almost touch it. A thunderclap shook the windows, and the sound seemed to pull you even closer. Without realizing it, you’d set the batter bowl aside, and now you were facing him, the counter at your back and his eyes locked on yours. There was a smudge of flour on his cheek, a white streak against his sun-tanned skin. Without thinking, you reached up to wipe it away, your fingers brushing his skin with a gentleness you hadn’t planned.

Conrad went still, his breath hitching for a moment. Your fingers lingered on his cheek, and the world seemed to shrink to that point of contact. You could feel the warmth of his skin, the slight roughness of his jaw against your hand, and suddenly, the kitchen felt too small, too warm. He tilted his head, just a fraction, and for a moment, you thought he might close the distance between you. His lips were so close you could imagine how they’d feel, soft and hesitant, like he was fighting against what he wanted. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he murmured, but he didn’t pull away. His voice was a whisper, laced with something that sounded like desire and regret at once. His eyes searched yours, and there was a storm in them, a mix of confusion and longing that made you want to lean in even closer.

“Do what?” you asked, though you knew exactly what he meant. Your hand was still on his cheek, and you couldn’t bring yourself to move it, not when he was looking at you like that, like you were rewriting everything he thought he knew.

“This,” he said, and his hand rose to cover yours, his warm fingers wrapping around yours with a gentleness that contrasted with the tension in his face. For a second, it seemed like he might lean into you, that he might let the moment carry you both where you knew you wanted to go. But then his eyes flicked to the living room door, and reality hit him like a cold wave. “It’s not fair,” he said, more to himself than to you. “It’s not fair to you. Not when I keep thinking about her.”

Belly’s name didn’t need to be spoken. It was there, in the space between you, in the way his jaw tightened and his fingers squeezed yours before letting go. You pulled back, dropping your hand, and the cold air filled the space where you’d been so close. “It’s okay, Conrad,” you said, though the words hurt more than you wanted to admit. “You don’t have to decide anything today.” You forced a smile, trying to keep things light, but inside, it felt like you’d lost something you never even had.

He looked at you, and for a moment, it seemed like he might say something else, something that could have changed everything. But then the living room door opened, and Jeremiah’s voice burst into the kitchen. “Hey, chefs, I hope those pancakes are worth the wait!” he shouted, striding in with a smile that felt too bright for the mood. Belly followed, arms crossed and an expression you couldn’t quite read. Her eyes met Conrad’s for a moment, and the tension in the room became almost palpable.

“They’re ready,” you replied, turning to the pan to hide the turmoil in your chest. Conrad stayed silent, but you felt his gaze on you, even as you stacked the pancakes on a plate and carried them to the dining table.

The storm began to fade, the rain’s patter against the windows softening to a whisper. Everyone gathered around the table, with Jeremiah cracking bad jokes and Steven complaining that the pancakes were “too crispy” on the edges. Belly sat next to Jeremiah, laughing, but her eyes flicked to Conrad every few minutes, like she was searching for something she couldn’t name. Conrad, for his part, was quieter than usual, cutting his food with a precision that seemed more about keeping busy than eating.

You were across the table, trying to focus on the conversation, but every so often, your eyes met Conrad’s. When dinner was over, you offered to clear the plates, looking for an excuse to escape the weight of their glances. Conrad stood to help, ignoring Steven’s protests that “chefs don’t clean.”

In the kitchen, as you stacked dishes in the sink, he broke the silence. “Thanks,” he said, his voice low, barely audible over the sound of running water. “For today. For… everything.” He didn’t look at you, but the way his fingers brushed yours as he handed you a plate was enough to make your heart skip.

“It’s nothing,” you replied, shrugging, though you knew it wasn’t true. There was something between you, something fragile and unnamed, that neither of you was ready to face. “Just don’t burn the house down next time you try to cook.”

He laughed, a soft sound that seemed reserved just for you, and for a moment, the kitchen felt like a refuge again. Outside, the sky was clearing, and the first stars peeked through the clouds, like promises yet to be fulfilled. As you washed the dishes in silence, you felt his eyes on you, and though he didn’t say anything more, you knew something had shifted. Maybe not this summer, maybe not tonight, but someday, Conrad Fisher would have to decide what he really wanted. And a small part of you, the part that still dared to dream of impossible summers, hoped he’d choose you.

[rowancries]

ઇ ࣪˖ Brush fire

Conrad Fisher x Fem!reader. masterlist.

summary: You and Conrad have been best friends for almost four years. When his brother’s wedding arrived, he asked you to go with him as his date, which you gladly accepted.

warnings: Je**miah Fisher. Fluff. Use of y/l/n. The summer I turned pretty season 3 spoilers (exactly from ep 7). English it’s not my first language.

Author note: Hi! So I didn’t really know what to do with this, so i’m thinking about maybe writing a part 2 of this. Also, this is me praying for my baby connie to find something better and be happy forever.

To say your friendship with Conrad Fisher was boring would be an abomination—completely impossible to understand or accept.

You met him about three years ago—through Agnes—at a small get-together with mutual friends. From that moment on, it was as if a spark of electricity had ignited between you two, and neither of you ever looked back.

As the years passed, you got to know Conrad more deeply, and he got to know you. One night on the beach, under a sky scattered with stars, a glowing full moon, and the crashing rhythm of the waves, you opened up about the pain you’d endured with your ex. Not long after, he shared everything about his past in Cousins Beach.

It wasn’t long before you convinced the brown-haired boy that maybe what you both truly needed was therapy. And to your surprise, Conrad agreed that very day.

Maybe he realized it was the best option.

Or maybe, feeling your support, he knew it was finally the right time.

But it couldn’t have been both… right?

Month by month, your friendship became the kind others envied. The laughter was effortless, the touches became second nature, and the tension in your lingering eye contact grew undeniable. But you were just friends, so all of that was normal… right?

Conrad stared nervously at the floor, scratching the back of his neck. “I need your help.”

You smiled faintly, still typing on your laptop. You’d known he had something to say the moment he walked through your apartment door with two coffees and a waffle—your favorites, of course. He always remembered.

“Tell me, Connie.” you replied, eyes still on the screen.

“You know how I told you a few days ago about the wedding…”

You nodded before he could finish. “Jeremiah and Belly. Yeah.”

Finally, he stopped pacing around the couches and sat down across from you. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked you straight in the eyes with a kind of quiet determination.

“I wanted to ask if you’d come with me… as my… date? Or, I mean, just as my plus-one?” He shrugged, tracing slow circles on his knee with his index finger. “If you’re busy, or you don’t want to go, or you already have plans, I totally get it. No pressure.”

“Con…” you began, but he cut you off.

“I think you mentioned something about work this week, something important. I just remembered. Sorry. I really understand if you can’t…”

His gaze dropped again, just as nervous as when he first walked in.

“Conrad!” you exclaimed, shutting your laptop and walking over to him.

Standing in front of him, you leaned down gently, placing your hands on his knees. He looked up, surprised by your sudden closeness, and his eyes met yours—nervous, hopeful, searching.

“I’d love to go with you to your brother’s wedding, Con.” you said softly, your voice warm and steady, like a secret meant only for the two of you.

His expression shifted instantly. The tension in his shoulders melted away, and for the first time in weeks, he seemed to breathe freely. A shy smile tugged at his lips—the kind he only gave when he felt truly seen.

“Really?” he murmured, as if he needed to hear it again to believe it.

“I’d go anywhere with you.” you replied, letting your fingers trace a small circle on his knee, mirroring the gesture he’d made moments earlier. “And if that means standing beside you on such an important day, then there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Conrad let out a quiet laugh, the kind only you could decode. It wasn’t nervous or sarcastic—it was grateful. It was tender.

“Thank you.” he whispered, like the words weren’t enough to hold everything he felt.

And in that moment, with the soft glow of sunset spilling through the window and the scent of coffee still lingering in the air, you knew something had shifted between you.

The salty breeze hit you the moment you stepped out of the car, carrying with it the scent of ocean air and sun-warmed sand. The house at Cousins Beach stood just as Conrad had described—weathered in the most charming way, with its pale blue shutters and wraparound porch that seemed to hold a thousand summer memories.

Conrad lingered beside you for a moment, his gaze fixed on the house. You could tell he was somewhere between nostalgia and resolve. He took a deep breath, then turned to you with a soft smile.

“You ready?” he asked, voice low. “They can be a lot to take sometimes.”

You nodded laughing softly, and together you walked up the porch steps. The door creaked open before you could knock. Jeremiah stood there, barefoot, wearing a linen shirt and that familiar easy grin—though it faltered slightly when his eyes landed on Conrad.

“Hey, man.” Conrad said, his tone calm, almost rehearsed.

“Hey, Connie.” Jeremiah replied, with a giant smile that could almost look fake to you. “It’s been a while.”

There was a pause. Not cold, either warm, just a pause that held a lot of history.

Then a brunette girl appeared, you guessed that it was Belly. She was behind Jeremiah, her expression unreadable. Her eyes flicked to Conrad, then to you, then back to Conrad again.

“Hi.” she said, offering a small smile.

“Hi.” Conrad echoed, then stepped aside, gesturing toward you. “This is—well, you know her name. She’s the one I told you about.”

Jeremiah’s eyebrows lifted, and a slow grin spread across his face. “Ah… so she’s the one you wouldn’t shut up about.”

You laughed nervously, but Conrad didn’t flinch. He just smiled, eyes still on you. His left hand was soft on your back, and you could swear that you felt him caressing it slowly.

“I didn’t talk that much.” he muttered, trying to hide the soft pink coming to his cheeks.

Jeremiah chuckled. “You did. You really did.”

Belly’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, then she stepped forward. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said with her polite tone.

“Nice to meet you too.” you replied, offering a hand she gladly took.

The silence that followed was brief but heavy. Then Jeremiah clapped his hands together. “Well, come in. We’ve got drinks, snacks, and a playlist that’s stuck in 2016.”

Conrad gave you a look—half amused, half grateful—and you followed them inside.

The house was filled with echoes of summers past. Photos lined the walls, laughter drifted from the kitchen, and the sound of waves crashing just beyond the porch reminded you that this place had seen love, heartbreak, and everything in between.

But as Conrad leaned in slightly and whispered, “If it gets to much for you, and you need to take a break just tell me, okay?”

A half smile appeared in your face. “Will do.”

The house was completely charming—just as you’d imagined it after hearing Conrad talk about it. The walls were decorated with family photos, soft blue tones that matched the beachy, nostalgic vibe of the home, and the backyard was stunning, opening up to a breathtaking view of the ocean.

Now you understood why Conrad loved this place so much.

You held a picture frame in your hands, one that had been sitting on the living room table. It showed Conrad and his mom, Susannah, sitting in the sand with the house in the background. They were hugging, both of them wearing huge smiles that made you smile without even realizing it.

“I didn’t know you liked snooping,” said a very familiar voice from the living room.

You quickly placed the frame back where it belonged, feeling like a kid caught doing something mischievous.

“Sorry,” you said, biting your lip and hiding your hands behind your back.

Conrad laughed, watching your reaction. “I’m messing with you. I don’t mind.” He walked over and glanced at the photo you’d just been holding. “You can keep snooping. Pretend I’m not here.”

You smiled when you noticed the shift in his expression as he looked at the picture with his mom. You knew he missed her more with each passing day, but it comforted you to know you’d always be present for him when he needed it—just like he was for you.

“You look just like her,” you said, resting your head on his shoulder.

Physical affection between you two wasn’t constant, but when it happened, it was natural. It didn’t happen every day, only in certain moments—but it never failed to send butterflies through both of you.

“I miss her. More in days like this. Being here.” He tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. “I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know what I’d do with all of them on my own.”

You both laughed, glancing out the window toward the backyard. Everyone was singing and jumping into the pool, enjoying the day far more than anyone had expected.

“We should go out there, don’t you think?” you said, raising an eyebrow as Redbird dropped his pants and flashed Jeremiah. “Or maybe not. I don’t think they care.”

You managed to ignore them for a few minutes, but eventually it became impossible. You knew Conrad didn’t always feel comfortable in big social settings, but this was his brother’s day. Deep down, he’d regret not being part of it. So after talking it through, you both decided to head out to the pool.

“Finally! The lovebirds stopped making out!” Jeremiah shouted, raising both hands—each holding a beer.

“We’re not—” Conrad stammered, flustered.

“Sure,” Steven rolled his eyes, then winked at him.

Hours passed as Conrad laughed and shared stories with his brother, Steven, and their friends. Meanwhile, Taylor pulled you into a conversation with Belly and Anika. You got to know them a little, and couldn’t help but genuinely like them.

“Hey, y/l/n!” a familiar voice called from the corner of the pool.

Conrad.

You turned your head. He was pointing to the spot beside him, clearly wanting you to come join him.

When you got to his side, he asked you. “Everything okay?” He couldn’t help but worry about how you were like always.

“Everything is more than fine. In fact they are quite nice.”

Steven interrupted the little conversation, throwing himself into the pool taking a turn in the air, which only made water fall everywhere. You laughed from where you stood near the edge, watching the chaos unfold.

“Classic Steven” he said, laughing at the girl’s reactions. “He’s been doing that since he was ten.” Then he gave you his beer for you to drink a little.

You took a sip, the cold beer being a relief against the heat. “You ever cannonball?”

Conrad smirked. “Once. Broke a pool float and got banned from Belly’s birthday party for an thirty five minutes.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Thirty five? That’s oddly specific.”

“Steven was the judge. He’s always been dramatic.”

You both laughed, and then Conrad looked at you with a funny face. He was floating lazily, arms stretched out, eyes half closed.

“So” he said, cracking one eye open. “I think it’s your turn to tell me things. What’s your most embarrassing summer story?”

You groaned. “That’s a trap.”

“Absolutely.”

You thought for a moment. “Okay. I once tried to impress a guy by pretending I knew how to surf. Got on the board, immediately wiped out, and the board hit me in the face. I had a black eye for a week.”

Conrad burst out laughing. “That’s… honestly impressive. You committed.”

“I committed to the lie. Not the sport.”

He grinned. “I once tried to serenade a girl at a bonfire. Guitar, candles, the whole thing.”

You blinked. “That sounds romantic.”

“It would’ve been, if I hadn’t forgotten the lyrics halfway through and accidentally started singing a Taylor Swift song instead of the one I wrote.”

You snorted. “Which song?”

He looked sheepish. “You Belong With Me.”

You doubled over in laughter, nearly splashing water. “That’s iconic.”

“She didn’t think so. She thought I was making fun of her.”

“Did you get the girl?”

“Nope. But I got a viral video out of it. Steven posted it.”

You floated closer, the water gently lapping between you. The distance was shrinking, but not quite gone. There was something in the way he looked at you—like he was trying to memorize the moment without saying it out loud.

“You’re different here.” you said quietly.

He turned to you, his expression softening. “Different how?”

“Lighter. Like you’re not carrying the whole world on your shoulders.”

Conrad looked away for a second, then back at you. “Maybe I’m just carrying less of the past.”

You nodded, letting the silence stretch. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full of things unsaid. And for some reason, you even started overthinking about it. About the two of you, about everything that has happened all this years.

“Do…”

Jeremiah called out, interrupting you without knowing “Anyone want some burgers?”

Conrad smiled. “We should go before Steven eats all of it.”

You lingered a moment longer in the water, the tension between you like a thread—pulled taut, but not snapped.

As you climbed out of the pool, Conrad offered you his towel, his fingers brushing yours just briefly.

It wasn’t like any other spark.

It felt like a burn that would stay forever marked.

[rowancries]

outing my lurker account just to show off the jonbubu he is most wretched, enjoy sire

Why is he in some sort of bunny suit? At least he's got his sword, I suppose

[rowancries]

seeing my man with his canonical love interest 💔💔💔💔

[rowancries]

The 3 demons living rent-free in my head: Dissociation, Existential Dread, and Compulsive Yapping

[rowancries]

Wishful Thinking

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader, Derek Morgan x reader Summary: When power struggles in New York sprout, you feel trapped. If only you weren't so used to the feeling. Warnings: assistant!reader, layered angst, cm-level violence, jealousy, pining, complicated relationships, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unrequited love, musical reference to "if i ruled the world" by nas and lauryn hill, implied that r is shorter than hotch, jemily agenda, money!hotch, bureaucracy inaccuracies Eps incl: S3E20 (lo-fi) Words: 6.9K

Series Masterlist | CM Masterlist | Navigation

a/n: woah now, off into the deep end we go (parallels to every part so far? i think so)

You were accustomed to walking into Hotch's office without knocking. It was an old habit, drilled into you after spending long days at the DA's office and since fortified by long days at Quantico.

Typically, though, you weren't met with him raising a hand to silence you. Your brows lifted, but he was too busy writing something down to notice. He kept speaking into the phone as you placed your files down on his desk.

You caught the tail-end of the conversation. "Yes, my team will be right there. I'll see you soon, Kate." Kate?

Your brows uncontrollably raised even higher, but you schooled your expression by the time he hung up the phone. "Do we have a case?" you asked.

Hotch replied quickly, "Yes. Please go tell the rest of the team to meet at the roundtable."

You nodded slowly at his clipped tone and the way he didn't even look at you, leaving the room to do as he said.

You tried to shake off any ill-feelings as you made you way to JJ's office. Not personal.

"Jayje." You lightly knocked on the door, nodding toward the hall. "We've got a case."

Her eyes met yours confusedly. Normally, it was her telling you things like that. "Nothing's come across my desk."

You shrugged. "It went straight to Hotch," you said. "I'll get the rest of the team."

You understood her confusion. You were the two administrative powerhouses of the BAU: everything came through one of you first.

This case was different.

❧❧

You were on the plane before Hotch could say wheels up. He made it clear to all of you that time was running out. All you knew was that someone was making random kills in New York, striking in the middle of the day.

You took your seat next to Hotch as Rossi asked, "The victims?"

"Each killed in a completely different neighbourhood," Hotch answered. "Hell's Kitchen, Murray Hill, Lower East Side, Chinatown, East Harlem."

"That's a wide range of places," you commented, glancing at him. He briefly glanced back at you.

Across from you, Reid translated what you said to fit profiler-language. "Yeah, that's a large comfort zone. It doesn't make any sense. There's no common victimology. No sexual component, no robbery, no geographical connection." He paused. "I mean, do the police have any leads?"

The look on Hotch's face told you No, they don't have any leads. "He's killing roughly every 2 days. The press is having a field day, and it sounds like the mood on the street's getting pretty edgy."

Rossi raised a brow. "It's a joint FBI-NYPD task force?"

Hotch nodded. "Kate Joyner heads up the New York field office. She's running point on the case and called me directly." Kate. So that's who he was on the phone with. He looked to JJ, sitting closest to the cockpit, and asked her to tell the pilot you were ready to take off before continuing, "Kate's starting to to butt heads with the lead detectives and wanted a fresh set of eyes."

You couldn't help but note Hotch's continued use of Kate, meanwhile Derek said, "Joyner. I know her. She's a Brit, right?"

"No, dual citizenship," Hotch replied. "Her father's British, her mother's American. She was a... big deal at Scotland Yard before coming to the Bureau."

Your hands twitched. That was a lot of information to know about another unit chief in another state.

"I heard she can be a little bit of a pain in the ass."

You all looked to Morgan after his remark, your brows going up slightly. That was happening a lot today. 

"I didn't think so," Hotch said.

Finally, you spoke your mind. "You know her?"

Again, he briefly glanced at you, but he directed his response to the entire team. "We liaised when she was still at Scotland Yard."

You knew Hotch was often particular about his word choice. You wondered if he noticed the words he was choosing to describe Kate.

Rossi glanced at you before looking back to Hotch. "And she's good?"

"I think we're lucky to have her." That was quick.

This time, you felt both Morgan and Emily glance your way, but you ignored it. You could remember sitting in a bar with Derek not that long ago, him asking if you were okay, you asking why you wouldn't be. There was no reason then, and there was no reason now. There was no reason for anyone to be glancing at you.

As the pilot announced take-off, you thought of what he said to you that night. 

You've gotta take care of yourself, Y/N.

You were trying.

You buckled your seatbelt, opening a file and deciding to go over it, pretending not to notice Morgan still glancing at you. Because you were okay. 

There was no reason not to be.

❧❧

You got off the elevator, walking straight into the FBI field office with Hotch ahead of the rest of you. A blonde woman in black walked in your direction, her lips lifting higher as she got closer to you. She looked just like— 

JJ leaned toward Garcia, whispering just loud enough that you still heard it. "Is it just me, or does she look exactly like Haley?"

She did. You swore she could've been Haley's sister.

Hotch greeted her, "Kate."

"Aaron." You blinked. JJ and Garcia exchanged a glance in front of you. "How have you been?"

"Well, thank you. This is my team." He angled his body to face the rest of you. "Kate Joyner, this is David Rossi, Emily Prentiss, Jennifer Jareau, Penelope Garcia, Derek Morgan, Spencer Reid, and Y/N L/N."

You put on a smile to be polite, nodding your head at her when Hotch introduced you. 

"Thanks for being here. Anything you need, just tell me. Please don't stand on protocol."

Garcia stood a little taller at the back, asking, "What can you tell us about the city's surveillance system?" 

"It's run by the NYPD. It's still in the infant stages. It's been rather controversial." Kate turned to the woman next to her, muttering, "American privacy laws." She shook her head. "Um, but they've had some success."

"And I'll have complete access?"

"They're already expecting you," she confirmed. Again, she turned to the woman beside her, beckoning, "Shelly?"

Oh. As Shelly led Garcia away, you realized she was likely Joyner's assistant. You tried not to let it rub you the wrong way that she hadn't introduced her at all, but it was already leaving an impression.

"I'd like to get a map of the borough," Reid requested, just as two men were walking up to you. "I want to do a comprehensive geographical profile of the area in order to ascertain the unsub's mental map before it's clouded by our own linkage blindness." 

One of the men gave Spencer a side glance. "I see you've brought your own computer."

Kate gestured to them, displeasure painting her face. "Detectives Brustin and Cooper. I'll let you do the introductions."

"You caught the first shooting?" Rossi asked.

"Uh, they've all been in different precincts," Cooper responded. "It wasn't until the third murder that anyone even made the connection."

Next to him, Brustin sarcastically spoke, "I guess this is where we play nice and ask you what you need."

Kate chuckled, like this was something she was used to. "I'll let you all figure out what that is. I just ask that you run everything back through me. It's been my experience that having one butt on the line is enough."

Brustin scoffed. "Yes, ma'am."  

Kate ignored him, stepping closer to Hotch. "Can I have a word with you in private?"

This time, you returned Morgan's glance, sharing his surprise. There was nothing she should have to talk to him about that didn't include the rest of the team. You tried to tell yourself that was the only reason why you were surprised, not because of the way she said it.

Hotch was none the wiser. "Sure. Excuse me." He brushed past you, letting her lead the way to his office.

Behind you, Emily filled in the gaps for JJ, emphasizing the same word your brain had already highlighted and annotated to death. "They, um, liaised when she was at Scotland Yard." 

You hated the sound that left JJ, like she was realizing something irrefutable. "Of course."

Morgan kept glancing at you from the corner of his eye, like he still had a reason to glance at you. Like he was worried about something. You didn't want to see it.

You turned away, preparing to ask someone to bring you up to speed on the admin work when he called out to you.

"Pretty girl." He placed a light hand on your shoulder. 

You closed your eyes before turning around to face him. "Yes?" You fixed the same smile on your face from earlier, hoping he wouldn't pull any profiler tricks out of his hat and notice.

He didn't need them.

His eyes softened. "You okay?"

You didn't let the smile waver. "Why wouldn't I be?" Memories of yourselves sitting in a bar and denying the obvious came running through your head. Because the obvious didn't exist. It couldn't.

Derek knew that. So he just nodded. "Okay." 

You nodded back. "Okay." 

You turned back around, already erasing the conversations from memory.

❧❧

You did exactly what you set out to do: your job. You faxed files, got a headstart on typing up the team's preliminary profile to send to Strauss, and cut through any red tape that'd get in the way of the team doing their job. 

In that entire time, you hadn't seen Hotch once. It was highly unusual—you were his assistant—but you weren't ungrateful. It gave you space to do your job and breathe without thinking about things you'd rather not think about.

Still, you couldn't avoid everything.

You sought out Kate as she was coming off the elevator. "Agent Joyner."

She barely glanced at you. "What is it?"

You didn't let her tone deter you. "I need some records of your correspondence with the NYC commissioner—"

She abruptly turned around, fully facing you for the first time since you'd entered the building. Her lips curved into a smile less friendly than before, more on edge, more political. "And why would you need that?"

Your brows knitted together. "It's protocol. For a task force, we have to collect files on interagency communications—"

She cut you off, "I'm sorry, who are you again?"

Your smile was tight. You hoped it was a smile. "Y/N L/N, I'm Hotch's assistant."

A look crossed her face, a mix between realization and gratifcation. "Ah, that's right. Aaron's... assistant." The word left her lips like it didn't quite belong in her mouth. Like Aaron came easy but assistant didn't. Like you didn't quite belong there. Her smile became a little more cutting. "Well, if you're his assistant, don't you have other things to worry about?"

You inhaled lightly, reminding yourself that this was the New York Unit Chief you were talking to. Hotch's friend. The one he liaised with. You'd dealt with a lot of people who didn't believe you belonged where you were, but never had you met one who was so immediately hellbent on disliking you.

Just as you opened your mouth to say something, Hotch suddenly appeared at your side, coming between the two of you. His grim eyes made you stand straighter and turn your attention to him, but he was fully focused on Joyner.

"There's been another murder."

❧❧

Hotch didn't ask you to come to the crime scene with him, but that's what was customary. You avoided Joyner as much as possible from the backseat of the SUV, and nobody tried to strike up conversation with you, anyway.

It felt childish to care about something like being put in the backseat, but it sure felt like you were being sidelined. Doesn't matter. Not personal, you reminded yourself.

As you got out of the car, all of that ceased to be important.

"Uniforms are rounding up witnesses," Cooper informed, walking up with Brustin at the same as you. "Doesn't seem like anyone got a clean look."

Morgan was staring up at the camera above the traffic light before turning to the rest of you. "It's over in a flash. He's probably gone before anyone even realizes what's happening."

Kate asked, "Is this what it felt like during the Son of Sam?" 

You felt a chill travel up your spine at the name. Brustin responded, "First, we realized that, if the violence was truly random, there was almost no way of stopping it. Seems like these people have figured that out."

Morgan pointed to the camera he was staring at. "From the placement of that camera, odds are the only view they're going to get is the back of his head."

Kate barely waited until the words had finished leaving his mouth, countering, "Let's not be too quick to decide what we do or don't have."

Your eyes widened, looking to Hotch immediately, but his eyes were trained on the ground. What— 

Kate walked off, cueing Brustin to say, "The Duchess of Work has spoken." He and Cooper both went in the opposite direction from Joyner, leaving just the three of you.

You scoffed, shaking your head while Morgan turned to Hotch. "You mind telling me why I'm catching attitude from her?"

Hotch looked like he didn't want to answer the question at all. His wet his lips before replying, "FBI brass has made it clear to her that if she doesn't bring this case home, she's gonna be reassigned." Derek opened his mouth, but Hotch continued, "And you are at the top of the list to replace her."

So that's why she didn't was so bothered by you asking for files. You couldn't help but scoff a second time. Hotch glanced over at you with furrowed brows, but aimed his gaze back to Morgan.

"You're kidding me."

"Why should you be surprised? You're good at your job." Hotch tilted his head slightly. "People notice that."

Derek glanced backward, where Kate was. "What happened to the Bureau patting itself on the back for stealing her away from Scotland Yard?"

"I don't know. Politics here are different," Hotch said, shrugging his shoulders like the answer was beyond him. "And you can see she doesn't pull punches." He re-directed quickly, nodding further away. "Y/N, come with me."

He didn't wait for you to follow him, placing a hand on your back and guiding you to wherever it was he wanted to go. You sharply inhaled, feeling the weight of his hand more than you should've. 

If Hotch noticed your discomfort, he didn't say anything. Only when you were far away enough from everyone else did he remove the hand on your back, and you felt like you could breathe again.

His stared down at you with a piercing gaze. "Is something wrong?" The way he said it told you he wasn't asking you; he said it like he was an interrogator and already knew the answers to the questions he was asking.

You didn't know why he was asking in the first place. Even more so, you didn't know why it bothered you that he was asking. 

You stared up at him, opting to look at his forehead instead of in his eyes. Wind whipped at his hair, knocking the carefully styled locks out of place. He shouldn't have had to ask. 

He knew you better than anyone. He should've already known.

Finally, you met his eyes. Because you had to. Because you were his assistant, not anything else. You opened your mouth. "I—"

"Aaron." You looked away as the blonde approached the two of you, not acknowledging you. "I need you over here."

Hotch glanced at you one last time before he was following Kate. You shook your head.

Mentally, you repeated, Doesn't matter, not personal.

And you followed them, too. Because you were his assistant. And that was your job.

❧❧

By nightfall, the team was making their way into the hotel, planning to give the profile the next day. You'd already typed up their preliminary thoughts, and the unsub struck midday, so there was nothing more you could do.

"Look at this." Emily picked up a newspaper on a side table. "The late edition doesn't miss a beat."

The headline read, EXECUTION STYLE with a picture of the latest murder. The rest of the front page was filled with appendages about the downfall of New York City. You gave JJ a sorry glance; she gave you a tired smile in return. It'd be her job to remedy all this in the morning.

Spencer took her attention. "JJ." He nodded ahead of you guys to a man sitting on a chair, waiting for someone. 

JJ started walking over immediately. "Will."

Will stood up, meeting you all in the middle, looking nervous. "Hey, I took a shot and flew to DC, but when it didn't work, I figured a train ride to New York was only a few more hours."

Hotch extended a hand to him. "Detective." You heard the skeptic undertone, and so did Will. 

"Look, I'm sorry for showing up like this. I know you're working. But, um," he looked back at JJ, "I can't stand you being on this case and me not being near." JJ started shaking her head, but he added, "Not with what's going on."

Hotch looked between the couple. "Is there a problem?"

For a beat, neither of them answered. JJ let out a breath, turning to face you again and confessing, "I'm pregnant."

No one said a thing, stuck processing what she said. You were the first to break the silence, smiling a real smile for the first time since you landed in New York. "Jayje, that's amazing." You pulled her in for a hug. "Congratulations!"

Emily was the next person to engulf her. You caught Hotch shaking Will's hand as the latter said, "I've asked JJ to marry me."

She promptly turned around. "Will." 

"Well, we're working out some kinks." 

You chuckled at him, feeling your chest warm. An idea hit you of how to kill two birds with one stone. "Oh, well, Em, since Will's here, I'll just room with you."

Emily nodded, agreeing, but you felt Hotch glancing at you. You knew he caught your attempts at avoiding him, but he didn't say anything about it. When you didn't meet his eyes, he looked to JJ and Will again, telling them, "We'll, uh, give you both some privacy."

He walked away alone with JJ soon on his tail. You didn't look in their direction. You knew Hotch was probably hurt by JJ not telling him, but you didn't want to think about him being hurt right now. Not when your first instinct was always to help him.

You turned to Emily, suggesting you head upstairs. You gave her a smile like you weren't thinking about Hotch at all.

You walked to the elevator with her and willed yourself not to think about how off it felt to be doing this without him.

❧❧

Emily sprawled across her bed when you got out of the shower, drying your hair. "Hey, what if we raid the minibar?"

You snorted, sitting down on the bed across from her. "We're on a case, Prentiss."

She groaned, getting up to face you. She rubbed at her forehead. "God, if I could just forget this entire day."

You raised a brow at her. She was dressed in her pyjamas now, an old FBI t-shirt and some shorts, but she looked the least bit relaxed. Her shoulders were stiff, filled with tension that you were sure a case couldn't have given her. This was bad, but it wasn't so bad to the point that it'd bring her to this point.

You kept scanning her for a few seconds before speaking your mind. "Emily, what's wrong?" Concern laced through your voice, worried for your friend who never talked too much about herself.

There was a pause as she just looked at you before she dryly retorted, "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

You tensed, but you knew her bite was nothing more than a distraction. You replied, "I asked you first."

Her head dipped low. She looked like was contemplating it, battling whether or not to tell you or keep it to herself. The way you all did at the BAU. 

This time, it was too much for her to keep in.

When she looked back up at you, you were surprised to see water welling in her eyes. She sniffled. "A pregnancy?" She chuckled, wiping at her eyes. "Marriage?"

Suddenly, you understood what this was about. 

You understood better than anyone.

"I mean, she's building a whole life with him, Y/N." She laughed again. "And I'm just... left behind. Didn't—" A tear fell down her cheek that she didn't wipe away in time. "I thought it meant something."

Tears built in your eyes against your will. "Oh, Emily." You got up and sat down next to her on her bed, wrapping your arms around her. She accepted your embrace and her tears fell steadily, hitting your shoulder.

You tried not to cry with her, knowing exactly how she felt. You watched the man you were in love with get married and have a beautiful baby boy. You said yes when his wife asked you to be the baby's godmother. Now, you worked with him everyday, pretending that it didn't all tear you apart inside.

You don't know how long you held Emily, how long she allowed herself to be held. But eventually, she pulled away. 

She met your eyes, half-curious, half-pleading. Then, she whispered, "How do you do it?"

You didn't have to ask what she meant. You knew. She was asking you about the one thing you didn't talk about. Even when Derek asked you, you didn't talk about it. 

It was easier to pretend it didn't exist than to admit. It was easier to pretend you were just his loyal assistant than to admit you upended your life for him. 

But Emily was going through the exact same thing as you. You didn't know how deep it ran, but she was you. She was you 15 years ago.

So you told the truth.

"I do the work. And I try to be his... friend."

You could tell she wasn't fully satisfied with your answer. "Do you think it'll ever change?"

You wanted to tell her what she wanted to hear. You wanted to tell her that it was possible. But you knew that was unnecessary hope and it'd only make it worse.

So you told the truth again.

"No."

❧❧

7:00AM came too soon. You were down in the lobby before everyone else. It was a habit from rooming with Hotch. You either woke up earlier than him or waited for him to wake you up.

So, it was 6:30AM, and you were at the counter of the the hotel café, ordering for everyone. 

"Two black coffees, one americano, one caramel macchiato, a regular latte, one black three sugars, and—"

"One latte with two shots of espresso and a pump of vanilla." You didn't have to turn around to know who was behind you. If it weren't for his voice, then it was the confident recitation of your coffee order. 

Hotch.

You forced your lips to upturn for the barista's sake, confirming, "What he said."

"Alright, ma'am. And how would you like to pay today?"

You didn't get to answer. Hotch stepped forward, holding a black card. "Amex."

The barista nodded, walking off to go make the order while Hotch paid. Once he was done and the two of you were walking to the side, you scoffed.

He raised a brow at you, subtle amusement in his expression that you'd learned how to read ages ago. "What?" he asked.

You shook your head, your lips quirking upward. "You just love to wave that thing around, don't you?"

He feigned ignorance. "I don't know what you're talking about." You chuckled, and his lips twitched into that almost-smile he sometimes had. Then his lips downturned again. Not a frown, but not an almost-smile anymore. "I thought we could finish our conversation from yesterday," he said.

You sighed. He could've just forgotten about it, but he had to bring it up. "You mean from before Joyner cut us off?"

Now, his lips became a full frown. "Y/N, what's wrong?"

Another sigh left you as you looked away from him. You don't know what it was that made you so bold. Maybe it was your conversation with Emily. Or maybe it was just the constant view of the woman who looked like his ex-wife. "You know, Hotchner, for a profiler, you sure can be dense sometimes."

He recoiled, like you'd slapped him. "Excuse me?"

You closed your eyes. "You heard me—"

He cut you off brusquely, "Don't do that."

You opened your eyes, pure exasperation filling them. But when you met his eyes, you couldn't read them. "Don't do what?"

"You don't call me Hotchner," he said. Suddenly, the emotion in his eyes started to read a lot like hurt. "I'm Hotch. I've always been Hotch to you."

You sharply took in a deep breath. When you blinked, the memories flashed behind your eyelids like a movie. When you met Aaron and accidentally cemented him as Hotch forever. When things were less complicated but still so tangled at the same time.

You maintained eye contact with him, asking, "Do you actually care?"

He almost looked offended that you'd even ask. "Yes. It's important to me that we're okay."

You always wished he wouldn't say things like that. Those wishes never came true.

You caved, "Fine, Hotch. Nothing's wrong."

He gave you that look. The look he gave Jack when he was caught in a lie. Pursed lips and stern eyes. Flatly, he said, "You knew I wouldn't believe that."

You laughed. Of course, you did. He knew you. You weren't always sure if he deserved to know you to the levels that he did, but he did. "Yeah, I did," you admitted. You paused as your laughter died down. You debated whether you'd say it or not. Then you decided you would. "It's Kate."

Hotch's brows drew together. "What about her?"

You tilted your head at him as if to say, You know. "She doesn't like me." He opened his mouth to say something, but you added, "She's made it clear that she doesn't like me— or respect me. And she doesn't like Morgan either."

Hotch sighed. "She's just... she's under a lot of stress. I'm sure she didn't mean to take it out on you." You weren't convinced, and he could see it on your face. "Listen, even with what's happening to her personally, she wouldn't let it affect her professional judgement."

He sounded like he genuinely believed that. So, without even putting up much of a fight, you already let up. "Okay. I trust you."

His lips tugged up again into the almost-smile. You reciprocated just as the barista called out, "Two black coffees, one americano, one caramel macchiato, one regular latte, one black three sugars, and one latte with a pump of a vanilla."

You gave the barista a smile, walking up to the counter where your drinks were waiting on trays. "Thank you."

"Ooh, is that coffee I'm seeing?"

You turned your head, seeing Derek walk up to you guys. Your smile got wider, pulling a cup from the tray and holding it out to him. "Yes, it is. One black coffee for one Derek Morgan."

He grinned at you, a stark contrast to his expression for the majority of yesterday, taking the cup from your hand. "Pretty girl, you are incredible."

You hummed, easily replying, "Don't I know it?"

He pointed a finger at you. "You better."

You laughed as more of the team started trickling out of the elevators. And for a few moments, eveything felt okay.

❧❧

You sat in the field office's bullpen, sending e-mails left and right. The team just gave the profile, so you were summarizing it and sending it back to Quantico. 

Two unsubs (one of which has a stable job), likely fit a dominant-submissive profile; organized, use countersurveillance, left behind a Death tarot card similar to the DC Sniper— 

Suddenly, the sound of a phone ringing caused your hands to pause on the keyboard. Hotch strode over in seconds, picking up the phone immediately. "Hotchner." 

You stood up as his face became dour, walking over from the side at the same time as Kate came out of her office and Morgan and Rossi were getting out of the elevator. 

"Does it look like it could be one of our guys?"

Morgan questioned, "What's going on?"

Hotch hung up the phone, responding, "We've got eyes on one of them. He's on the subway platform at 59th and Lex."

"59th—" Morgan's voice was filled with incredulity, confusing you. "We could have been right there." He looked to both Hotch and Kate with fire in his eyes; neither of them looked back. 

You glanced between Hotch and Derek, wondering what the hell he was talking about. On another line, Garcia informed you, "He's got a gun." Not even a second later— "He shot her."

Kate paced back and forth. "Where the hell are the police?" She picked up another telephone. "This is Kate Joyner with the FBI. We have a murder suspect, subway platform. 59th and Lex."

Garcia's shaky voice sounded. "He's getting away."

Your jaw tensed as you asked, "Garcia, what about above ground?"

"He's heading west on 59th Street."

Kate looked to the rest of you, defeat already written on her face. "If he makes it to the park, we've lost him."

Someone else on the line spoke, "We've lost the visual."

Rossi asked, "Are the police on the scene?" 

Typing could be heard on the other end before Garcia said, "Negative."

You exhaled. You had him before he even shot anyone, and now he was gone. 

Morgan shook his head, seething, "We could've had that guy."

Kate looked up at the ceiling. "Even if we were on that platform, odds are he would have moved onto someone isolated."

Derek didn't let up, stepping forward. "Maybe, but it was worth a shot."

"I had every available man on the street," she defended, but she no longer had the same passion in her arguments as before. Her voice was weak, like she knew she was losing.

Derek took another step forward. "And I suggested to you that use this team."

Realization dawned on you as a silent gasp left your mouth. That's what you were missing. Kate turned down his idea when you could've actually helped that woman, but now she was dead.

Hotch's words from earlier echoed through your head. She wouldn't let it affect her professional judgement.

That was a lie.

You turned to Hotch, waiting for him to say something, to defend Derek like the leader you were used to, but instead he reprimanded, "Morgan, second-guessing doesn't do us any good right now."

You jaw would've dropped if you hadn't clenched it so tightly. You kept your eyes on him, but his gaze was trained on the ground.

Morgan retaliated, "Hotch, how am I supposed to look these cops in the eye and tell them that we're actually here to help them?"

Hotch finally looked up, turning to face Morgan completely. "We're here to present a profile. That's what we need to do." He turned away, as if he saying the conversation was over.

Derek didn't stop. "I said to put us at express stops. 14th, 42nd, 59th, and that's exactly where they hit."

Hotch turned back around and raised his voice just enough that it was noticeable. "It's not your place to have this discussion."

You scoffed. Across from you, Rossi gave a warning glance, but you ignored it. "My place?" Morgan echoed.

Hotch no longer looked like the man you were talking to just a few hours ago. The boss you'd known for years was replaced by a cold unit chief you didn't recognize. Sharply, he told him, "You need to back off."

Derek's brows furrowed in anger. Like he was trying to convince Hotch to do the right thing, he reasoned, "We've got 7 bodies, man."

Hotch snapped, "Which is exactly why we need to stay focused."

Derek's eyes widened. "Focused?" He took a step closer to Hotch, looking him dead in the eye before delivering his final blow. "From where I'm standing, all your focus is on her." 

You weren't expecting it to feel like such a stab, but it did.

You looked to Kate, who was bowing her head down. You shook your head, resisting the urge to say anything stupid.

Hotch didn't respond to what Morgan said. He just ordered, "Take a walk. Now." 

Derek stared at him for a few seconds before he spun around and walked away. You didn't even think before following after him.

A hand grabbing onto your wrist stopped you in your tracks. The point where his skin made contact with yours burned, but at that moment, your entire body felt like it was burning with rage.

"Y/N—"

You ripped your wrist from his grasp, sending him a scathing look. "Don't, Hotchner."

You barely caught the look on his face before you were making your way out of the bullpen. All the while, his words still played through your head.

It's important to me that we're okay.

The two of you were okay that morning. 

You weren't okay now.

❧❧

You and Derek ended up in one of the SUVs. Not driving, just sitting there. You hooked your phone up to the aux and gave it to him. Soon after, he was playing his playlist from your phone, and Lauryn Hill filled the car.

If I ruled the world.

Imagine that.

You sat in silence like that for a while, the same way you always did when things got like this. You were extending to him the same courtesy he'd always given to you, the courtesy of not having to talk about it, even though not talking about it served you all the same. 

After 3 songs had played through in their entirety, he spoke up. "I know. I was out of line." He lowered the volume of the music, turning to you. His eyes were much softer than earlier. "I'm sorry."

You tilted your head. "What do you have to say sorry to me for?" You wondered, what did he have to say sorry to anyone for?

Derek just stared at you, pursing his lips, but he didn't elaborate. He just shook his head. "I didn't mean to go off like that."

"I know you didn't," you said. You couldn't even blame him for it. You lightly tapped your finger against the wheel. "You just... you care. A lot."

"I'm just sick of feeling like nothing helps." He glanced down before looking back at you, a mix of anger, sadness, and defeat filling his eyes. "I'm sick and tired of feeling helpless, Y/N."

You hated seeing him like this. Derek Morgan, the protector. Arguably the strongest man you'd ever met. You hated the idea of someone so courageous feeling helpless, and you being helpless to do anything about it.

You kept tapping your finger against the wheel as a thought suddenly popped into your head. You opened your mouth, then closed it, scared to find answers to your questions. 

Derek noticed. He always noticed. "What is it?"

Your fingers stopped tapping as he called you out; instead, they wrapped around the wheel. "The... job," you said. Your eyes darted everywhere else before you looked at him again. "If they offered it to you, would you take it?"

Derek paused, like he hadn't thought about it before. He answered honestly, "I don't know." He shook his head. "It might be nice to finally be the one making the calls."

Your shoulders fell. "Oh."

Derek was looking out the windshield as he said, "The BAU... it wears people out. Look at Gideon." He looked back at you, conviction strong in his eyes. "That man was the best, and in the end, he simply ran away. I mean, Hotch hasn't even thought about cracking a smile in over a year. You see him, Y/N."

Your gaze dropped to your lap. You could compare the almost-smiles to the smiles from before. They weren't the same. Not since Haley left and took Jack, because of this job. Because Hotch couldn't let it go.

"That man has to take a personal day just so he can have a conversation with own kid." He paused, his voice softening, "And what about you?"

You inhaled, looking back up at him. "What about me?"

"When's the last time you had any time to yourself?" he asked. But he knew the answer. 

You were at Hotch's beck and call. Hotch never left the BAU. So you didn't, either. 

You didn't want to think about yourself anymore. You'd done enough thinking about that in the past 2 days. You switched the subject expertly, redirecting the focus to Morgan. "Look, Derek, I get it. This job takes a lot. But that's why we go through it together." 

You reached out and grabbed one of his hands. He looked surprised, but you didn't stop and question it. "You've never not had my back," you said. "And I'll always have yours."

Derek looked at you with a note of something in his eyes that you couldn't discern, but it was gone before you could bother analyzing it. He just gave you a faint smile.

"Deal."

❧❧

By the time you got back to the federal building, the day was already over. Morgan, Rossi, and Hotch all had a talk in Joyner's office. Normally, you would've been there, but you didn't exactly feel like being around either of them—Hotch or Kate—if you didn't have to.

As soon as Derek was done, you planned on catching a ride with him back to the hotel. 

Just as he exited Agent Joyner's office, you were standing up, bag in hand, ready to go. Until Hotch came out behind him. 

His eyes locked on yours. Don't—

"Y/N," he called your name from across the bullpen, catching the attention of other agents. "May I speak with you?"

Derek glanced at you. You held back a sigh. You couldn't say no to your boss when he was asking you to do something in front of multiple people, and he knew it. You nodded to Derek. "It's okay," you whispered. "Go on without me."

He didn't look too keen on listening to you, but he reluctantly nodded back at you, anyway, shrugging on his leather jacket and leaving. 

You walked over to Hotch, letting him lead you to an empty office. He held the door open for you and then closed it as soon as you were inside.

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. "Sir, it's late—"

Hotch sighed loudly. "Come on, Y/N, I thought we talked about this."

You dropped your hands from your eyes, letting him see the exhaustion on your face. He didn't look any better. If it were any other time, you'd make a comment about frown lines. 

This wasn't any other time.

You huffed a breath through your nose. "Yeah, I thought we did talk about it." You looked up to the ceiling, shaking your head. "God, what was it that you said? That it wouldn't cloud her judgement, her professional judgement?"

Hotch took a step closer to you. "Kate is doing what Morgan suggested. She's putting the team on the streets tomorrow."

"Yeah, after the fact," you scoffed. "And after you already lied about it this morning."

"Y/N, I'm sorry." He grabbed your shoulders, startling you. His eyes bored into yours, standing closer to you than he'd stood in you-didn't-know how long. Too close. "But you can't honestly tell me that this just about what happened earlier."

You inhaled. Deep down, there was a part of you that was mad for another reason. Reasons you didn't have the right to be mad about. So you stuck to the surface level reasons. They were all you had.

You told him, "Hotch, you have sidelined me. It's like we, the team, we haven't existed to you since we got here."

Most people wouldn't know where to look to read Aaron Hotchner, but you saw the moment hurt filled his eyes. He protested, "That's not true—"

You cut him off, "I know. You would never put yourself above the team. That's not what I'm saying." I would never say that travelled unsaid. "What I'm saying is, you've seen how Joyner treated Morgan. How she disregards me. And you haven't done anything but stand by her side."

Hotch looked down. When he looked back up, you saw genuine remorse in his eyes. "I'm sorry. If I've made you feel disregarded or unappreciated, or like your input doesn't matter, since we've been here, I'm sorry," he apologized. 

You sighed, closing your eyes. "Thank you."

His hands fell from your shoulders, travelling down your arms. "I'll speak to Kate first thing tomorrow. I'll tell her she has to cooperate with you."

You opened your eyes. "Thank you."

Another almost-smile graced his face. You rarely ever saw them if you weren't alone. Finally, he fully dropped his hands, and you embraced the cold you felt afterward.

"I can't have my right hand thinking she's unappreciated," he said. You sent him a smile that hurt to form. You wished he'd stop saying things like that.

But your wishes never came true.

taglist: @saturnscomedown @percysley @c-losur3 @todorokishoe24 @lons-story-blog @pastaparker @ssa-danhotchner @rethasavedlives @alexxavicry @vivs30 @gael2020 @person-005 @mrsxyz480 @chasinghxran @hiireadstuff @tatumemma2021 @geniusalpaca

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additional commentary: AHHH this is my second time writing for lo-fi. never gets old. i love the dynamics in this one! it's reader and hotch, reader and derek! and, on top of that, there's reader and emily, and reader and jj (who r hasn't been close with in other parts). like, jj and reader were much closer until she left. i kinda js wrote this for the aches, but i might do a part 2 to show mayhem. lastly, food for thought, but this was my thought process for the team's coffee orders: hotch (black three sugars), reader (latte w vanilla), emily (black), spencer (latte), derek (black), jj (no coffee bc preggo), rossi (americano), penelope (caramel macchiato).

[rowancries]

how i feel reading a “x reader angst” fanfiction and the reader forgives them immediately instead of making them grovel for a long ass time:

(LIKE??? IM PETTY)

[rowancries]

may all your favorite fanfic writers never lose their hyperfixation and love for your blorbos so they keep writing fanfics about your blorbos forever

[rowancries]

Little Wolf || Jon Snow ||

A/n: AU where all the Stark are still alive cause I can't handle Robb, Ned or Rickon being dead. Idc it's my fic and I do what I want.

The snowstorm outside his home howled against the stone, but within Jon Snow’s chambers, the world had gone impossibly still.

He sat frozen at your side, his sword calloused hands trembling as they hovered awkwardly, uselessly, not knowing whether to touch you or the impossibly small bundle nestled against your chest.

You, exhausted but glowing, lifted your eyes to him and smiled.

That soft smile he loved oh so much.

“Jon,” you whispered, your voice a soft breath against the chaos of his heart. “Would you like to hold him?”

Him.

He had a son.

Jon stared, as if the word was foreign, unreal. A son. His son.

His throat tightened, his chest aching with a pressure he couldn’t put words to. For so long he believed he would never have this , never allowed himself to dream it. He was a Snow, a bastard, a mistake by birth. He was a sword in the dark, a man meant for duty, not softness. Not love.

And yet, there you were — his light, his impossible dream — smiling through your exhaustion, holding out everything he never thought he deserved.

With a slow, reverent motion, Jon slid his arms under the tiny, squirming form. The moment the babe settled against him, so impossibly small and warm, Jon let out a shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He forced himself to not cry but a few tears slipped down his cheeks as he let out a shaky breath.

The baby’s tiny fist flailed weakly, brushing against Jon’s chestplate, and instinctively, Jon shifted, cradling him closer. Protectively.

The weight of him — the reality — shattered something inside Jon. All the walls he had built around his heart crumbled.

He lowered his head, resting his forehead gently atop his son’s, closing his eyes.

“I never thought…” he whispered, voice breaking. “I never thought I’d have this.”

You reached out, your fingers curling over Jon’s wrist, grounding him in that moment.

“You deserve it,” you murmured. “You deserve all of it, Jon.”

He shook his head once, as if denying it, but he couldn’t deny the fierce, bone-deep love thundering through him — terrifying in its strength, and yet the surest thing he’d ever known.

He kissed the downy hair atop the baby’s head, closing his eyes.

“My son,” he breathed. “My boy.”

When he looked at you again, there were tears in his grey eyes — but he was smiling. Not the small, reserved smiles you were used to. No, this one was wide, boyish, free.

It was the smile of a man who had been given a future he never dared hope for.

A future that had a name, a face, and now… a son.

Jon sat beside you on the narrow bed, his large form curled protectively around you both, as if daring the world to try and take either of you from him.

And as the storm raged outside the little home, Jon Snow —former Lord Commander, warrior, once a lonely boy at Winterfell — knew with absolute certainty

The raven had been sent days ago, carrying the simple but extraordinary message: He is here. He is healthy. He is ours.

When the doors finally opened to the blinding storm, it was not enemies that poured through — it was family.

Jon stood in the courtyard, the tiny bundle wrapped snug against his chest, protected by his cloak. The snow whipped through the air, but Jon hardly felt it. His heart was hammering for an entirely different reason.

He watched them ride in — his family — strong and real and alive.

Ned dismounted first, his movements still as sure and steady as Jon remembered from childhood. The sword at his hip, the solemn set of his jaw — but when Ned’s eyes landed on Jon, on the small figure cradled against him, something broke in the man’s expression. The sternness melted into something raw, something tender.

Behind him, Arya leapt off her horse with reckless energy, nearly tripping over her boots as she ran through the snow. Sansa followed more gracefully but no less eagerly, her cheeks pink with excitement. Rickon bounded after them, gangly and wild, and Robb — Robb, who had once tussled Jon’s hair and called him brother without hesitation — grinned wide enough to split his face. Bran, bundled up tightly, leaned heavily on Hodor, but his eyes were bright with wonder.

Jon swallowed hard against the lump in his throat as they closed around him.

“Is that—?” Arya gasped, her eyes wide and shining. She reached out a gloved hand but stopped herself, hovering uncertainly.

Jon shifted his cloak carefully aside, revealing his son’s sleepy face.

A collective, awed gasp filled the courtyard.

“Seven hells, Jon,” Robb said, breathless with a smile. “He’s perfect.”

Sansa’s hands pressed to her mouth, tears welling in her blue eyes. “He’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Rickon edged closer, craning his neck. “He’s so small,” he marveled. “Is he supposed to be that small?”

“Babies start small, Rickon,” Bran said with a soft laugh.

Ned stepped forward last, slow, measured — as if approaching a sacred thing. His grey eyes, so like Jon’s, were locked on the baby with something deeper than pride, something almost reverent.

Jon adjusted his hold and, with careful hands, passed his son to Ned.

Ned took the bundle with a gentleness that belied his battle-worn hands. He stared down at the tiny boy for a long moment, his lips pressing tightly together as he fought whatever storm raged in his chest.

“You have given this boy something priceless,” Ned said quietly. “A name. A home. A family.”

He looked up, meeting Jon’s eyes — and Jon felt himself stand a little taller under the weight of his father’s gaze.

“You will be a better father than you ever knew,” Ned said.

Jon’s throat tightened painfully. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words stuck. Instead, he nodded once, fiercely.

The baby let out a soft, sleepy sigh, one tiny fist clenching in the folds of Ned’s cloak.

Ned smiled — truly smiled — and Jon felt the warmth of it like the breaking of dawn through the endless snow.

“You’ll have to teach him to use a sword,” Robb said, clapping Jon on the shoulder. “And ride. And hunt.”

“I’ll teach him to fight better than you, Robb,” Arya cut in with a cheeky grin, her dark hair whipping around her face.

“Perhaps I’ll teach him to read first,” Sansa said primly, though her eyes were shining with laughter.

Rickon puffed up proudly. “I’ll teach him to climb trees.”

Bran laughed. “Only if Jon teaches him how to get down again, too.”

Jon stood there, in the midst of it all — the laughter, the teasing, the love. His son, so small and new, was already cradled by more warmth than Jon had ever dared hope for in his loneliest nights.

You came to Jon’s side then, slipping your hand into his, your eyes full of pride and quiet happiness.

Jon squeezed your fingers gently and with a kiss to your loves cheek you followed the others had gone inside, voices echoing with laughter and warmth through the stone halls of his home.

Only she remained, standing at the edge of the courtyard.

Catelyn Stark.

Jon stiffened the moment he saw her.

The memories were too old and too deep. He remembered the way her eyes, so kind for her trueborn children, had always cooled when they landed on him. A boy she had never asked for. A boy who wore her husband’s blood like a scar.

He had braced himself all his life for her coldness.

Now, as he shifted his son protectively against his chest, that old instinct flared — the need to shield, to defend.

But Catelyn didn’t speak at first.

She simply stood there, the wind teasing her auburn hair free from its careful braids, her hands clenched at her sides as if uncertain what to do with them.

Slowly, Jon turned to face her fully.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

“You named him,” Catelyn said at last, her voice low and unreadable.

Jon nodded. His mouth felt dry. “Yes.”

Her eyes flickered — not to him, but to the child in his arms. Jon saw it then — the tiniest crack in her composure. Not hatred. Not anger.

Hesitation.

Grief.

A longing so raw it startled him.

“May I…?” she began, but the words faltered, as if she herself couldn’t believe she was speaking them.

Jon hesitated — just a heartbeat — before carefully, slowly, lowering the edge of the blanket so she could see.

The babe stirred, his little nose wrinkling at the cold, but he didn’t cry. His tiny hand flailed briefly in the air, seeking warmth.

Catelyn stepped closer, one tentative step at a time.

Her blue eyes softened, and Jon realized with a quiet, gut-wrenching shock that she wasn’t looking at him anymore — she was looking at the baby. Just the baby.

Something shifted in her face. Her lips parted, trembling slightly.

“He’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Jon swallowed hard. “He’s… he’s my son.”

She nodded, still staring at the tiny boy as if seeing something precious and fragile and entirely separate from the bitterness that had once lived between them.

“I have hated you for so long,” Catelyn said quietly, and Jon stiffened again — but she shook her head. “It was never your fault. You were just a boy.”

The admission hit harder than a blade.

Jon said nothing. He couldn’t. The words clanged against the iron shield he’d built inside himself, loosening things he had never dared name.

And for the first time in a lifetime of hardship and heartbreak, Jon Snow let himself believe — truly believe — that he was home.

[rowancries]

— 𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄

SERIES

HEART OF THE DRAGON

During a trip to Dragonstone, you suddenly find yourself in the era of the Game of Thrones. As all eyes fall onto you, the mysterious person that seemed to appear out of no where, what do you do? Do you try to find a way back to your time or do you gamble it all and play the Game of Thrones? (game of thrones x modern!reader)

[rowancries]

smosh funko pops when.

[rowancries]

Wakatoshi didn’t understand enough social cues to be a jealous man, but if that opposing setter said one more time that you, his wife, were obviously interested in him because you were kind enough to roll a ball back in his direction he might just throw a bench at him. Or at least send a spike right into his smug face.

“Wakatoshi, let’s do drill runs. - Oi, Wakatoshi. - Oi! Ushijima!”

Hoshiumi had gotten increasingly impatient and at last yelled his name, making the ace look up - or… well, down - at this teammate.

“What are you glaring at?”

With an increasingly tense jaw, Wakatoshi only nodded curtly towards the guy who didn’t seem to get the hint.

What? Was the Ushijima jersey not enough for that guy to back off? Or the kiss that you had blown to him, your husband, earlier? Or your wedding ring? He felt his hand ball into a fist as he saw you politely nodding along while the guy openly ogled your pudgy curves with a hungry grin. Wakatoshi knew you could handle yourself. But he really really really wished you’d let him step in for you.

“What are we talking about?” Hinata joined his teammates at the net, turning readily in the direction the other two were already facing.

“I dunno.”, Hoshiumi shrugged, following the line of sight of his fellow ace to land on the rival setter who did not seem to No for an answer. When he put two and two together he let out a quiet “Ew.”

“Come on, Shoyo, let’s warm up. - Huh?” Atsumu halted next to Hinata, then crossed his arms and joined the staring at the other side of the court when no one reacted, quietly trying to figure out if they were collectively having a stroke or were posing for a picture. Just in case of the latter, he popped his hip.

Bokuto bounded over, Sakusa in tow. “Hey! Coach says we should be moving!”, Bokuto called while Sakusa took one look at Wakatoshi, another across the net, and understood why his friend seemed so tense. Utilizing his years of experience in judging people he began to scowl at the setter’s back.

One after the other, the national team joined the wall of players at the net, some more for the vibes than for solidarity, and before long the power of their stares prompted the setter to turn around, finally taking his attention off you.

Confused at their intensity he looked left and then right, subtly checking who they were zeroing in on so hard, but with a cold shudder he had to realize the team was staring at him.

Hoshiumi took it upon himself to fix this very solvable problem, as the other guy apparently didn’t understand what was happening.

“That’s his wife!”, he yelled, voice twice as big as his body, as he pointed a thumb over his shoulder at Wakatoshi.

As if touching a hot plate the setter sprang back, bowed several times in apology to both you and the other team and scrammed.

Hoshiumi looked up at Wakatoshi. “Can we warm up now?”

a/n: Kageyama would take it as the greatest personal offense that it was the setter of all people.

Massive thank you to @haikyu-mp4 for brainstorming this one so hard and coming up with the ending for it.

[rowancries]

“I asked chatgpt-” yeah well I asked special agent aaron hotchner and he said the unsub is a straight white male in his 30s

[rowancries]

possibly the greatest asoiaf moment ever is when jon gets the letter about bran waking up and mormont expects him to grieve because “sorry kid :( it’s actually bad news :( he’s never going to walk again :(” but jon is all like “my brother is going to live !!!” and then he races out of the room and tells everyone he passes that “my brother is going to live !!!” and he gets back to the common hall and picks tyrion up and spins him around and makes him read the letter too because “my brother is going to live !!!” and he’s so giddy that he befriends grenn and tells thorne to go fuck himself and then everybody laughs and jon is just so happy because “my brother is going to live !!!”

meanwhile bran is back in winterfell listening to robb’s bannermen whisper about how death is a kinder fate than his, how they should’ve just let him die, how he’s too broken to be alive—with no idea that his big brother is out there celebrating because bran is going to LIVE !!!