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softshuji · 17 hours

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𝟏:𝟑𝟖𝐀𝐌 | 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐌𝐀 𝐒𝐇𝐔𝐉𝐈

Title: Mrs and Mrs Hanma

Summary: Just a lil smn about all the ways shuji loves and knows you. Happy fathers day to daddy.

cw: fem!reader, reader has stretch marks and is a little insecure, hanma's really in love i'm ngl and they're married, loads of pet names (pretty girl, sweetheart, princess) some suggestive content, reader's pregnant, some mentions of violence, this is so soft and self indulgent I would eat the sun for him. Reblogs appreciated!

Hanma Shuji knows you in his sleep. He knows you instinctively, every ridge and crevice of your body, the faint thunderstorm of zigzagging stretch marks on the underside of your breasts, your thighs, the cuts and grazes that have faded to a muted pink on knees and elbows and palms, scratches and freckles and other things you take great pains to hide. It amazes you sometimes, the subtle frown and turn of his perfect eyebrows as he presses his lips to every one of them, muttering a faint word of praise that comes too easily to him as he moves down your body.

Hanma Shuji knows you in every waking moment, by your breath, by the click of your patent shoes on the marble floor, the edge of your skirt swished around a corner, the underlying scent of your honeyed perfume, the single breath before you speak.

He wonders if you know, that he knows every one of the habits you try so hard to hide. The scrunch of your eyebrows in thought, the twitch of your smile when you’re mad and he’ll giggle because he thinks he likes you just like that.

Mad and happy and alive and with him, tucked into his side where he can see and feel you best, your arm around the small of his back and your warm breath fanning the exposed juncture of his neck.

He’s in love with you, this many years later, when the novelty of both dating and marriage is no longer new, and the love he feels for you is just as strong as it always has been and it knocks the air from his lungs when he rolls over to find you sleeping with a hand supporting your head, and the other reaching for him and meeting the soft bronzed swell of his shoulders, flexing and tensing under your soft touch, a sigh of contentment spilling past your lips when your cheek finds the cushion of his chest.

There are nights when sleep is further away, and no amount of alcohol, drugs or any other narcotics can make his eyelids heavy enough to slip into slumber and it aggravates him to toss and turn and groan under his breath at the ache pulsing behind his eyelids, the intense thrum of pain lashing against his temples. He likes to watch you on those days, your hair fanned and spread across the pillow, obscuring your face and lifting with your warm breath. He’ll smooth it back and his hand will linger on your cheek for a slim second, and it burns how fiercely he loves you in those moments, how the bump in his throat will slip and slide and his tongue will come out to lick his dry lips and press a soft kiss to your bottom lip and your chin.

He hopes this never changes, the thrill of having you, novelty and newness, the intense lust and desire that devours him entirely when you press your body to his, skin hot to the touch, a wondrous love that makes him dizzy.

Hanma Shuji could know you blind, by the lemon scented soap you use, the lingering press of it into the pillows, into his collars that you fix in the mornings before he leaves, biting the corner of your mouth in concentration as you smooth and trail your hands along the broad swell of his chest, desire and love tightening your stomach in need on instinct. Because it comes so easily to you with him, because you think he was made to fit you entirely, just yours and your mouth was made to be on his, and his on yours and it makes your heart crash against your ribs even after so long, when you know him so well and have seen both the worst and best of him, and he you.

‘See something you like, Pretty Girl?’ he says when your hands linger for a touch too long on the fading marks on his neck, a blooming garden of pinks and purples that he’s never failed to wear with a passionate pride. You’d call him perverted but you know he likes that too, the insatiability of you, eager to drink him entirely, as much as he is you.

‘Shut up,’ you grumble, leaning up to press a kiss to the corner of his smirking mouth, your hands now firmly on his chest as he flexes it under your touch, as responsive to you as you are to him.

‘If you like me, you can just say that, it’s flattering Sweetheart.’ He catches your wrist in his palms, the same he’ll use later to beat a man black and blue, his blood crusted under his fingernails, coating his knuckles, the ridges of his fingers. He touches you with such a softness, such a precision, his inked hands pressing into the veins in your wrist, stroking over them achingly slow, and it has your throat drying in anticipation and you almost feel embarrassed at how quickly he coaxes it from you, the heat that flies straight to your cheeks.

‘I literally hate you,’ you say and roll your eyes, biting your lip and suppressing the same smile that you are always so eager to give him, pouting and frowning and he has the sudden urge to kiss you breathless, drink the air in your lungs, have you quivering beneath him again and again, put his hands around your throat and suck every starved breath from your pretty mouth.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says. ‘Seen the way you look at me, can’t get enough of me can you?’

‘You think very highly of yourself don’t you?’

‘Only because you’re so obvious. Nothing to be ashamed about if you find me so sexy.’

‘I do, what are you going to do about it?’ You quirk an eyebrow and tilt your head, grinning outright at him now, standing so tall and proud in your shared living room, with the weight of your love sitting as an audience with you as he bends to kiss you again and curl his arm around your back. When his lips find yours, and his nose nudges against the slope of your neck, your hands resting on his shoulders shifting under the fine linen shirt, pressed and wrinkle-free, you wonder if you will ever not marvel at the fit of him against you. Big and beautiful and proud beyond belief and belonging entirely to you, his skin a canvas for your eager and waiting mouth.

You like this, the flirtatious nature of the both of you, the cat and mouse game, the tit-for-tat, the excitement that remains even now, five months pregnant and feeling the weight of it, years after having met, experiencing the highs and lows of your lives.

You know there were women before you, he knows there were men before him, you’ve never shied away from the kind of embarrassments and secrets you might have had to had you been anyone else. Maybe that’s what love is, maybe he is easy to love to you, so arrogant and cocky and grinning and boyish and it aches somewhere when you think of anyone having him but you, and you’re glad for the both of you being selfish enough to grasp at each other, for him holding you every time and tucking you safe into his side, as if he could mould you to him how he sees fit.

‘Not sure, guess you’ll have to find out when I come back won’t you?’ he says and pinches your side. ‘Right after I punish you for giving me attitude Princess.’

Your breath holds in your throat, the crash in your chest so dizzying, exciting and thrilling and you hold a little tighter onto his curls when your hand snakes into his hair in anticipation.

There have been times neither of you have spoken about again, times when he’s come close enough to death that it haunts you to even think about, nights left by the phone for the phone call that never came, the red right hand that he was so quick to deal others that you were sure it was coming eventually for him, the reaper that had run out of luck. Times in which he’d stumbled through the door with wounds so deep, delirious and hazy with pain that it had his skin tinged blue, cold and clammy to the touch, golden eyes dimmed and unresponsive and you taste it for the slimmest of moments, the concept of being without him, that terrifying world where you’re adrift and alone and bare.

Other times when you’re alone and he holds you together wordlessly, a little fearful in fact when you sag against his chest and he can only rub your back in response. A common occurrence now that you’re pregnant and he’s used to the idea of holding your hair back as you wretch over the toilet.

So when you say, ‘be safe, come home okay?’, he knows it’s with the memory of all of those unspoken moments on your sofa, bleeding out and holding a towel between his teeth, groaning and keening in pain, muttering your name and holding it on his tongue as he slips between here and there, his curls flattened and matted with sweat on his forehead, nails crusted with blood that you can’t be sure isn’t his.

‘Mhm.’ And he bends down on one knee, holding your stomach between his hands before pressing a kiss to the swell of it, the baby bump that’s only just beginning to show. ‘Be good for Mama.’

It never fails to fill him with a lightness, a pride even, when he sees the roundness of your tummy, or puts his cheek to it to hear your baby kick and he thinks every single injury, every dance and brush with death has been worth it to get him here, to get him to hear the soft thud of his baby’s small foot moving inside your stomach, the both of you alive and healthy and his.

You kiss him again at the door, holding onto his tie, and it’s cliche when you pull him back against you for more, smiling against his mouth, your hands cradling the sharp descent of his jaw, the honeyed bronze of his eyes soaking you up, devouring you, as if you could sustain him alone.

'Go on now Daddy, you'll be late otherwise,' you say, lightly tapping his cheek, your wrist now encircled in his palm- a wide grin curling at his lips.

'Daddy huh? We'll see if you push your luck this much later Pretty Girl.' A final kiss to your soft lips before he turns and leaves. And maybe the others make fun of him for it, for how much he’s softened in the last few years, singular moments that happen frequently, in which he catches himself daydreaming of you, finds his hands fidgeting, reaching for a cigarette and his phone to bother you, annoy you, hear you grumble about distractions, your lilting laughter that makes his head swim.

He doesn’t remember, and you’ve never spoken about it, the things he lets slip during those moments when he’s wading between life and death. He says sorry, murmuring your name with the towel between his grinding teeth, his abs and chest flexing and spasming under your touch as you thread the needle through the punctured and torn flaps of skin, your hands shaking and his blood under your nails, the smell of it so pungent, metallic, coating your teeth and tongue.

The nausea of it makes you wretch once he’s sleeping, a hand over your mouth in your bathroom, the other on your stomach, tears lost in soft cotton of his old shirts that hang on your shoulders. You never want him to feel like he has anything to be sorry for, or any apology to give when you’d have him in all his arrogance, all his confidence, all his boldness, then not at all. You look at him, with his legs too long for the sofa, a blanket that only reaches his chest, his arm touching the floor and his mouth partially open, ragged and shallow breaths pulled between his dry lips. You want to hold him so fiercely it crushes you, his head on your chest, his curls wound tight between your fingers, as if you could protect him, could ward off the hurt and the pain that is only ever a moment away from him.

He knows, everyone knows.

Maybe you make him feel a little more than he is. A little more than just the Reaper, a little more than a God of Death. He likes that, likes that you make him more, want more, crave more, feel more.

He likes that he bears the tell-tale signs of your presence at all times. A hair, or many, caught in the woven threads of his suits, tangled within his own curls, the marks fresh on his neck and collarbones for the others to see and leer at, as if he’s parading you on his arm at the same time, his prized possession. Post-it notes, trinkets, sweets left in his pockets that keep him closer to you, the kiss of you in your absence against his clothes, in his heart, a reminder of the vastness of your love that he holds in the palms of his calloused hands.

And to you, he is so big, so him, unapologetically, proudly cocky and arrogant and handsome and it would make you angry if you loved him any less, if he did not crawl into into your embrace and cradle your face in his big hands and kiss you with a hunger and softness that has your heart beating against your ribs.

Hanma Shuji knows you by the way you breathe in your sleep, the slightly stuffy short shallow breaths that tell him you’re getting sick, the tight scrunch of your eyes as you roll over onto his chest and find a much needed solace in the safety of his warm neck, your arms coming around him to hold you there, as if he is your beacon, as if he could save you from wading out to shore.

‘You’re getting sick?’ he’ll say when you wake, and press a kiss to your temple as you burrow further against him, your warm breath tickling the fine hairs that curl around his ears, matted and sticking to the nape of his neck. You think he looks best like this right here, marooned and safe behind the brocade curtains, the thin silken drapes of your bed, on the sheets that you’ve made love on for a part of the night, with you cushioned on the broad swell of his chest and it makes you ache inside with a desire for him that’s never-ending when you think of being the only one who gets to enjoy him in this way, and he you.

‘I think so, why?’

‘I can tell.' And he puts a hand to your forehead, unceremoniously and yet genuinely at once and his brows crease behind the soft curl of blond-brown hair that frames the honeyed gold of his eyes now catching the sunlight that leaks through the gap in the curtain. 'Is it the baby?' And his hand finds itself over your tummy, a slow and deliberate circle smoothed against the shirt pressed over the swell of it.

‘No, not the baby. Just, a little off. You're going to look after me?’

‘Obviously.’ And he holds you tighter still, swallows you in his big frame. ‘You’re staying here, Doctor’s orders.’

‘Oh, you’re a Doctor now?’

‘Yes, let me take care of my good girl.’

‘Yours?’

‘Mine. All fuckin’ mine.’ And he can’t help it, he pulls you onto his lap and latches his lips to your skin and your fingers pull at his hair, scratch at his scalp in the way you know he likes as he pulls you apart and puts you together again as the sun drips past the curtains.

You think you’ve moulded him to you and you to him in turn like that, made him yours, even though he’s certain you don’t need him in any way that matters. He’s wrong, he’s always been wrong about that.

And maybe he’s used to it, the quick thrill that comes from causing storms and leaving, the ache that comes from being used and using others and maybe before you it hadn’t mattered, hadn’t meant anything.

‘You don’t need me, you’re a big girl, My Princess, you’re doing just fine,’ he says, between bouts of pain and delirious with the blood loss, slipping here and there in those moments on the sofa, holding onto the edge of your shirt as his stomach flexes under your touch.

It’s true and he’s never been under any illusions about his own place in your life, that you could have anyone you wanted and have chosen him, with all the danger he comes with and all the grief he knows he brings and is bound to extend to you, the chaos he knows he’ll bring to your door unwillingly one day.

‘No, no I do, you’re my Shuji, my hero, you have to stay with me,’ you say, through tears, with your lips to his cheek, his dry lips, his forehead, the inked backs of his hands, as if you can pull the pain from him, swallow it whole and spit it at his feet to tread on and crush like you want him to.

And so when you tell him you need him, it is with that in mind. Whether you’re rocking against his hips with your arms around his neck, whining his name or clutching at the sheets as you come undone beneath him, or hearing the lilting baritone of his rich velvety voice on the other end of the line while he’s away. You have always wanted him to know your heart is in the palms of his tattooed hands.

Safe and content, where it belongs.

a/n: I need to give him kids i am so srs, I think i'm gonna die if I don't. happy father's day to my fav daddy, my heart and soul <333

taglist: @reiners-milkbiddies @prettyiolanthe @sugusshi @snakegentleman @haitaniapologist @lonnie19 @nafarsiti @bejeweled-night-33 @ranscutedoll @the-travelling-witch @orchid3a @qiiuusoup-xo @hoetani @sinfulseashell @welcome-to-the-internet-it-sucks @obitohno @burnishedcrown @nikokopuffs @mitsuwuyaa @haruwuchiyoo @mochimiyaas @theaonlax @blackfire2013 @wotakuhime @severellamahottub @anxious-chick

#tokyo revengers #tokyo rev #tokyorev x reader #hanma x reader #hanma shuji

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ikamigami · 3 days

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This is one long post about latest sams, laes and mgafs episodes full of theories and analysises.

So, first things first, Moon.

I'm leaning more towards that Moon is infected with Ruin's virus. And I think that he injected it into himself after he told Sun he'd do that. And I think that Ruin's virus works similarly to kill code. And previously Old Moon's kill code was activating slowly before it fully activated. Now the virus was also activating slowly. We could see that Moon was more aggressive but in a way that he immediately wanted to kill someone. He wasn't just simply more snapish or anything he just immediately wanted to kill. We could see that with Molten Freddy.

I think that the stress from grief and constant work to find a way to bring Solar back and lack of sleep helped with accelaration of the process of activation of virus. I know that when kill code was activating it caused Old Moon burning pain but I wouldn't be surprised if Moon didn't notice that because he was tired and depressed. He could possibly think that his head hurts because of these things. And tbh if I remember correctly Moon said something about his head hurting before he went insane (correct me if I'm wrong though).

Ruin's virus makes someone more violent and murderous. And it definitely makes someone less sympathetic from what we've seen. Which definitely wouldn't mix well with Moon's personality because he's pretty self-centered. And the way Moon acts as of recent it's more than likely that he's infected with Ruin's virus. He doesn't have any empathy, sympathy and remorse. He's more violent and murderous. He's impulsive which is also caused by a virus because it makes someone act on impulses from what we've seen.

I just strongly doubt that Moon would completely stopped caring if even in the worst Old Moon still cared about Sun. Hence why I think that Moon is infected with Ruin's virus. The only other option is that creator did what he said he'll do. He said that he'll come at some point to "fix" kill code's issue which probably means that he'd give it to Moon once again. Also I don't think that Dark Sun did anything to Moon because we saw that even if he hates Moons he still helped our Moon probably for Sun's sake. Because to me it seems that Dark Sun cares about Sun in his own way. Hence why I doubt that he'd cause Moon to become "insane".

Second thing, Ruin.

Ruin seems to want to help. Though I'm still not sure if he's doing it to atone or he's just simply scared of Dark Sun and needs alliance in order to be protected and potentially team up with others to defeat Dark Sun. After all, it's hard to believe a liar especially as good as Ruin. If Ruin didn't have a minor slip ups I think that no one would be able to say that he was lying. His lies were very believable. He truly is an actor. Though if Ruin will continue being trustworthy and keep helping, I think that I may give him a chance. But I still think that he should be punished for the atrocious crime he did cause after all, he killed trillions of innocent lives. At least now Ruin is on our side and he'll try to help stopping Dark Sun.

Third thing, Dark Sun.

Even if I said that Dark Sun cares about our Sun, I doubt that he's a good guy unless he's actually trying to stop someone else who may turn out to be a so called bad guy. But about that later. So Dark Sun is a genius. He definitely is pulling the strings behind the scenes. But for now we don't know why he's doing this. For now we can only say that Dark Sun isn't wrong for trying to stop Moon from sacrificing someone to bring Solar back. After all, we know that it'd be a bad thing for whole universe. I think that Dark Sun will visit Moon and he'll probably laugh at him and tell him that he should've take his advice on how to get rid of his enemies. After all, he offered Moon these informations but Moon being Moon just couldn't accept anyone's help. I have a feeling that Dark Sun won't be happy with Moon. I was thinking about it a lot and I came to conclusion that even if normally he'd enjoy seeing Moon losing his mind, I think that he won't this time because he seems to care about our Sun.

Fourth thing, Earth.

Earth definitely won't be okay after this. She not only tried to kill Bloodmoon to defend herself and Monty but she almost died killed by Moon, her own brother. It's a lot to process. Earth will definitely need a break and time for herself. Maybe she'll move in with Monty to their new house. Anyway, who knows what with Eclipse and if Eclipse will disappear Earth will be in even worse state. And what about Ruin? What if he'll continue helping them? Earth will have to deal with it despite still missing Solar who died because of Ruin's actions. Things don't look good for Earth.

Fifth thing, Eclipse.

Eclipse is dying. I don't want him to sacrifice himself for Solar but it seems highly likely to happen. But first he needs to figure out and rather quickly how to get rid of that thing Dark Sun put in him. He'll definitely be pissed at Moon for what he did to Earth and for almost killing her. I'm glad to see Eclipse trying to help as much as he can with this situation.

Sixth thing, Bloodmoon.

Even if Bloodmoon's death isn't surprising at all and his redemption was highly unlikely to happen the way he was handled was very harsh cold and cruel. Because Bloodmoon still seemed very affected by death of his twin. The way he was talking about his killings sounded like he was coping after death of his twin. After all, what Bloodmoon described with how he kills these families sounded exactly like what happened to him and his twin. He also sounded empty. He didn't seem to enjoy these killings. For me it seemed as if he was doing this because this is what he was always doing together with his twin. Also what's more devastating is the fact that Bloodmoon basically begged to be killed. Probably because the only person who cared about him is dead. No one gave two shits about Bloodmoon - beside Sun but it's not surprising that Bloodmoon didn't take Sun's offer of help. And also maybe Jack cause they seemed to have a good time together. They could've been friends. I can't count Foxy because for me his decision to not wanting to kill Bloodmoon seemed like a choice made on the whim.

Seventh thing, Foxy.

Foxy frustrates me a bit. He doesn't seem to care about the outcome of his decisions. Doesn't matter good or bad, he seems to not give a damn about it. I'm starting to think that Foxy is doing things to please Puppet because he seems to like her more than a friend. Hope that karma will get to him.

Eighth thing, Monty.

Even if Monty got what they deserved I still feel a bit bad for them. I just really have a like/hate relationship with them. Monty needs to rest and process a lot of things. Especially with what Moon did. It'd be better if Monty will take care of Earth and themselves. They need a good break.

Ninth thing, Lunar.

Poor Lunar. He not only has to deal with Astral Bodies and Taurus who wants them dead will be on Earth really soon but he'll also be devastated upon hearing what Moon did to Earth. He wanted to talk to Moon to understand him but now he'll be pissed, really pissed. I have a feeling that Taurus may order Lunar to kill Moon but I think that Moon may kidnap them and trade them to creator for Solar. This seems like a possible scenario. Though it'll depend on what Dark Sun will do with Moon and what Taurus has in store for Lunar. If things will go downhill I hope that Gemini will protect Lunar.

Tenth thing, Puppet.

I don't trust Puppet. Even more than Ruin. Why, you may ask. That's because Puppet seems to know more than others because she sees everything and she seems pretty powerful. And yet she didn't see that if she'll push Moon to bring Solar back it won't end up well. Unless she knew. And also why she waited so long to stop Moon? To make sure he hurt Earth in order to makes Sun's decision to kill Moon a lot easier? Cause to me it seems like that. Especially considering how much Puppet wants to kill Moon. I just find it suspicious. And I was wondering, what if Dark Sun tries to stop Puppet's plans? What if Puppet is actually a bad "guy" in all of this? I know that we can't trust Dark Sun's words fully but what he said about Puppet being a Joker of this universe doesn't sound good at all. And I can't help it but to notice the Puppet's resamblance to Stitchwraith.

Eleventh thing, Sun.

Sun will be devastated by the news that Moon not only used star's power to kill Bloodmoon but he also didn't care that it'd kill Earth and even if Puppet stopped Moon Earth was still harmed by the blast. Sun will definitely be angry but I still doubt that he'll let others kill Moon. I think that Sun may try to talk to Moon once again. I mean I think that they'll meet again sooner or later. I'm pretty sure that Sun will be in even worse mental state. Considering the things that are about to happen with Lunar and Dazzle. I think that Sun will die. Though I'm not exactly sure what will happen but I think that Dark Sun was telling the truth when he told Moon that Sun won't survive the aftermath of events. After all, we're still in aftermath of Solar's death. And I think that Sun's death will be a result of Moon's actions. But I think that Moon still cares about Sun. Same for Sun. He still cares about Moon. I just honestly don't think and can't even imagine that our Sun and Moon would stop caring and loving each other. Anyway, Sun will have a mental breakdown or another psychotic episode or both sooner or later. It's inevitable at this point.

And at last. Solar.

I think that Solar will come back. And I think that he'll be back as himself. But I think that he'll be retraumatised because of the circumstances sorrounding his return. I don't know when he'll be back though. But everything will be a mess, that's for sure.

I think that's all I wanted to say about the recent lore. You can add things that you think I forgot about or if you want to point out some errors in my theories and such.

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groovyjellyfishtriumph-blog · 1 day

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I... I need Sun to get loose, man. I need Sun snap. I just can't take it anymore, seeing Sun just like that.

Right now, I hate Monty, Puppet and Foxy very much. Sun is right, who gave them the right to decide what they can do with moon?

Illusion of choice, they keep asking Sun but don't like the answer Sun gives.

Giving permission to my ass, like if Sun said no, bet they are still doing it.

So righteous, it feels sick. I hope Sun would never forgive them and cut ties with them. I hope Sun cuts ties with everyone else and starts a new beginning, even Moon.(earth and lunar have flaws, and they are really going in a thin ice right now, but still, they just think more for themselves and honestly, good for them...)

Because from the beginning until now, Sun was stuck, and kept being stuck.

Getting orders around by Moon, Monty, Puppet, Eclipse.... Forcing him making choices so obviously they still do it their ways, that Even Sun wants to save NM, no one would do that for him. And they only ask Sun, like just because what...? Suddenly they care for Sun's feelings? Heck no, they only do it so after that, Sun will stop crying and hating them because it is Sun's choice, it's Sun who decides to kill Moon, not Monty and Puppet.

To be honest, Sun and Eclipse are really alike, they are both getting trapped, if not the hand of others, so the hand of fate.

Sun getting pushed around like a joke, a trash can, by these people supposed to care about him.

And now some people, keep saying it is Ooc and Sun should forgive Moon and try more to change him?

Well I am sorry but I'd rather die than get back to my abuser, if they are not changing for the better. They are just like Moon, promise, promise, promise and then just do it worse, do the opposite.

And some people say New Moon is no longer abused like Old Moon, why did he get treated that way. Because back then, only Sun and Moon, and their co-dependents were never good, old Moon was not supposed to take everything on Sun, and Sun was not supposed to forgive Old Moon for every time Moon was doing something bad for him. Their relationship, was strained at best and toxic at the worst. Sun almost gets killed by Moon several times, and still keeps blaming himself, blaming everyone when it happens, because in Sun mind, it's not Moon fault, it's KC, it's Eclipse.

Sun is tired now. He is no longer trying to fix things himself, no longer letting people on his nerves anymore. (He tries his best okay)

And what does it connects to New Moon?

We have seen so many episodes recently, the way Sun keeps threatening people. Sun has threatened...? to kill Cat nap, Papyrus, creator, eclipse....? What does it mean?

It means Sun has gone tired, he finally learned that from Earth, because it turned out after Several therapy with Earth, Moon is not a good person and Sun was forced to be happy to keep Moon sane. And he shouldn't feel bad for thinking more for himself and some people would never change, not until they are seeing it themselves.

And it makes me sick in my stomach when people keep defending Moon, and say, think more for yourself is narcissistic behaviours, because you are supposed to forgive family no matter what they do. I am so angry at this mindset because as a person who grow out of it, it feels so hurt to be the one who tries to keep the relationship together while guess what... Nobody cares and just abused it. They never see it. For example my family, they never see how much their lashing out hurting me, just only about them, them, and them. And I always have to be the one to say it is not their fault, it's me, or someone else, again and again.

Growing up like that messes people up a lot. I have to numb myself, I don't even know what I feel anymore because I am not supposed to feel sad, I suppose to always be happy. Because I am happy making them happy.

And the breaking point happened when I went to college, when I get away from them. It hurts to think back, when I don't even have the nerve to think bad about them, not even in my thoughts.

I see Sun in me so much. Because of that, Tired of one person crap and then never take it from anyone anymore? Go girl!!!

Putting some boundaries for yourself is good, and if someone refuses to acknowledge it, well, good for them.

#tsams #sun and moon show #the sun and moon show #sams #tsams sun #sams sun

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socksandbuttons · 7 months

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In the "a day in the life of eclipse" it wasn't the first time Solar's Moon treated him badly. Remember when Lunar first showed up in Solar's dimension, Solar told Moon that there's a dimensional traveler and he'll deal with it. And his Moon responded with "good because I don't care!" it looks like his Moon has been aggressive/treated him badly to him from the start. Sorry, I just didn't understand what you meant by you ignoring the lore from a day in the life of eclipse because it is part of the lore now

You're new on my blog which i frequently ignore things in my headcanons from time to time. And that canon changes from how its interpreted. Anyway, stems from Solar's explaining his moons situation. The lore SLIGHTLY changed. In terms of Moon, being slightly Glitched due to killcodes removal/memory loss. He never mentioned Moon being mean before that (at least not on the terms before he left his dimension). Not unlike things to be slightly aggressive from Moon tho, just it wasnt PERCIEVED moon was a jerk to Solar UNTIL Solar reveals this later on (after Lunars death). They didn't really develop his story until later a little more. So I'm sticking to my previous headcanon of Moon having a glitch, which is canon to s degree? SOLAR himself has mentioned he wanted to fix his MOON AND SUN. Which was forgotten/changed and turned into just sun then into Solar leaving forever.

#like when i say they changed things they turned solars moon into the worst jerk instead of someone needing some help #due to in part of getting Solar in the channel more without running into other montys or moons or worrying about sun. plus a nice eclipse #im sure it wasnt that deep before and suppose to be vague but theyve developed it more #to which is more like a closure to solars tragedy of leaving all that #vs the tragedy of having KNOWN both of them before. and seeing them shells of their former selves #and u technically have both in the former since hes obviously still handling all that #HOWEVER. as much as i like solar being around.#theyve left things in the story that they never really go back on thats normal #so i take what i want really #CANON DIVERGENT WAS THE TERM I WAS LOOKING FOR VFDJKS #sometimes the canon.... i dont want it #i wont put this in the tags #also 'it wasnt the first he treated him badly' that. actually #isnt something u can consder 'treating solar badly' either #considering later u find out moon spent most his time trying to fix sun #anyway im rambling in tags once again

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jahiera · 8 months

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I kind of want to just restart emrys so I can play her again more perfectly this time... kill even MORE fiends and such. but also I speedran grymforge a bit & the thing is that. emrys rolls up to moonrise towers already have a deep-seated and intense paladin-specific beef with ketheric. babygirl heard that he was 1. an evil paladin 2. broke his paladin vow to TWO gods prior 3. was like That and decided Actually, I'm going to project All of my own personal issues and insecurities onto you. And then I'm going to kill you. and then she still offered to spare him. so I need the buildup to that from grymforge. you see.

#you understand.#one thing that emrys will do is have extremeeeely specific problems in regards to needing to be the Best Paladin In The Room #<- she is abnormal. she has a lot of problems.#Ketheric is such a ... dark twisted mirror / I can see myself in you / I do not /want/ to see myself in you.#of course she resents his crimes but more than that she resents what she Sees in him that she feels is also in her self #there's something ugly in you thats also in me etc etc #so. this beef NEEDS BUILDUP.#(alternatively: she latched onto Dame Aylin almost immediately as a figure of holy righteousness and divinity that she craves for herself)#(if Ketheric is close to what she COULD be at her worst; Dame Aylin is suuch a. Being You Could Fix Me. moment for her)#(also objectively not normal but very funny. ah yes I know what will make me a better object and sword for Tyr. if I was nothing but a #channel for divine righteousness greater than myself. not even a person just a violent weapon made to STRIKE.)#(and she can never be so close to the divine + never be such a weapon but she sure does TRY.)#(OF WHICH dame aylin is not either; but she IS a blinding light in the dark & Ough. the complexes that inspires.)#Anyways.... the NPCs we latch onto as the narrative parallel / reference for our Tav PC huh. Yeah!#act 2 is just... it gave me SOOOO much for her. Shadowheart/Ketheric/Aylin in different measures for different reasons #Orin. she's weird about but for different reasons. In that orin's fanaticism and madness kind of #tickles a part of her that wants. very desperately. to smite down the most obvious of evils in 1v1 combat #which is a violence that once again! comes uncomfortably close to the fanaticism of Ketheric + Orin + their own propensity for god-driven #violence & horror. as it is and such.

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chilapis · 2 months

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loving is too vague of a word and yearning too soft. I hunger for this man. i need to open him up and crawl inside.

#I want to see this man at his weakest. I need to see this man at his weakest.#I wish to take my time to peel apart his mental layers with similar precision and care that one would use with a pomegranate.#and it’ll be messy and it’ll stain me but I want to be stained I wish to be stained I crave it.#I want to know him at his very core. just hold him gently while he cries into me #my dirtiest fantasy? having a guy bawl his eyes out into my clothes while I comfort him. (jest)#i can fix him but i need to see him at his worst for it first. you know?#✧.*🌹

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sysig · 1 year

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Silly goofy StanNarrator (Patreon)

#Doodles #The Stanley Parable #TSP #Silly mode leftover doodles from my alt notebook #I wasn't as concerned with making these finished or pretty but they did turn out cute >:3c #Since I've established that Sinister thinks in images the next logical step is imagining the Narrator - and he hates that ✨#He is not made to be perceived! He is an imageless entity! A total enigma! Lol #If we as an audience can imagine what a Narrator might look like - to the best of our abilities - I don't see why Stanley wouldn't #Even if he's not Exact - personally I don't think it matters lol the Narrator isn't /meant/ to have a fixed form imo - it's still flustering #You give him so much material to work with Narra! To imagine what face you might make or your body language #Or worst yet when he plays with the mental projection like a doll - much like what the Narrator does to Stanley hehehe #How does it feel to be ''made'' to do things that wouldn't reflect you! It's an interesting role reversal that works within their confines #Also makes me wonder how much Narra would play into it haha - if Stanley ''flipped him upside down'' would he get dizzy? Even a little?#To what degree is he real! To what degree is Stanley real if he's not being interacted with!! The themes!!!! <3 #Anyway lol ♪ Silly Stanley noise chart for funsies #There are a lot of sounds humans can make with their mouths even discounting vocal cords - I could definitely see him doing verbal stims #Who me projecting again? Psh no anyway (lol)#And then some kisses! This is my first time drawing my versions kissing!!! Which actually solidified a new headcanon for the Narrator haha #Because he (ostensibly) needs his mouth to narrate he doesn't like kisses on the mouth :) He weak to it!#Doesn't stop Sin from enjoying kissing him lol - it's a good way to shut up him In Case of Power Play #But sometimes♪ he'll try to respect his wishes - not all the time tho haha

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bardicbeetle · 2 months

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…

#i want a break please. today sucked.#so my mother leaves tomorrow to head down to her parents. where she will be staying indefinitely #translation: until grandpa dies.#my brother is taking his dog. our dog. the dog we’ve had since he was 9. to get a final vet appt before they decide #on the date to put her to sleep #and i am. i’m so tired. i hate seeing my little brother cry and i can’t DO ANYTHING FOR HIM #i can’t fix this i can’t make it easier its always going to be the worst thing #i can count on one hand the number of times i’ve seen him cry. today was AWFUL #i want to curl up and do nothing.#but i have to put a portfolio together. i have to get my shit together.#im so fucking tired. can the universe chill. 2024 needs to chill. please. this is enough down ramp. thanks.#the magician cries

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todayisafridaynight · 1 year

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arasawa 'but are they You Know' can be so funny check this out. literally any scenario involving ichiban being nosy

#snap chats #in the funniest and most ironic way i can say it its like when someones kids really wants their parent to be happy for once #yk what i mean there's like two ways a kid meeting a stepparent can go Abject Horror and Joy #i dont have to say who the first one is. i will though masato wants to scream Why Is Everyone But Me Happy #no listen if you've been reading the essays being posted here the past week i don think ichiban hates jo #and on TOP of that i think ichi thinks jo would be happy if he and arakawa could have One Nice Night and ergo he wont be so MEAN #just no worrying about the clan ichi and everyone else has it covered you can totally rely on them <- no you cant #its like when your parents go on vacation and you comedically wreck the house by accident while theyre gone #but then you SOMEHOW get it all fixed up right before they get home. cat in the hat kind of bullshit #i just think they should have their brooklyn 99 moment. you know the one #'RESPECTFULLY captain you and the boss need alone time'#jo doesnt even get what hes trying to say until he looks at mitsu who looks about ready to jump out the window yk #like 'aniki PLEAAASE shut the fuck up you're gonna get us hit'#and its BECAUSE they arent together Like That that its especially like Put A Cork In It You're Insane #in the alternate timeline/scenario where jo Does like arakawa like that i think ichi should be annoying about it too #listen if arakawa is the only thing that prevents them from maiming each other then it'll be fine #ichiban please be the worst wingman imaginable while jo tells you to leave him alone #hes going to bottle his emotions and store it in his chest and it'll just sit and ferment there until he dies #like are we seeing the potential here. its awful i cant open any new canvases or word docs EW #maybe if i finished my fuckin SHIT..

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faebriel · 1 year

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my most controversial star wars opinion is that i think lux bonteri is not a horrible concept per se but perhaps underutilised

#by underutilised i mean not pointed in the right direction. 2 episodes and 1 4-ep arc is enough for him i think #yes ik hes annoying but it is so fucking funny to me for ahsoka to have that one random friend who definitely went to a prep school #or something and also was literally a separatist until he decided hes going to go rogue now and make the worst choices ever #like either kill the will they wont they early OR cut it entirely and they can be so funny. we are in HOT SPACE what are you DOING HERE #you are going to DIE and the guys like yes thats the plan ^-^ you see ive fallen into business with a very powerful man ahsoka you might #have heard of him. goes by the name of /hondo/. and ahsoka does the biggest fucking sigh ever #cut the kiss cut the bullshit keep the funny. and ahsoka needs more friends her age anyway #anyway i think im just soft on him bc his entry into the show meant a fucking respite from Other Ships I Really Didn't Like In TCW FFNet #(femslash was there but not as big of a presence yet unfortunately)#i dont blame ppl who hate him bc a friend in need is his problematic arc but truly hand me a spanner i can fix him #lesbian and her momentary comp het bestie......she crashed on his couch at least once post order 66 #oh and UNFRIDGE STEELA she should have been head of onderon or something. so bullshit #as he is in canon he feels like wasted space for ahsokas character. theres no point in giving her any love interest while shes in the order #and barriss riyo and the s7 gals are all better choices anyway #and you cant pull the 'well some separatists are just normal' card after s3 bc he also wants to kill dooku like. at least be funny!#or try to set up whatever the hell ahsoka does between s7 and rebels! idk man

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karmanticmoved · 2 years

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ok but like. Well. y'see. It's about. Regret and guilt and being so close that you can't ignore it and the. Combined comfort and concern in finding someone with issues akin to your own, yet different enough that it's hard not to help each other. And. Becoming comfortable despite the guilt and regret and pain and knowing that despite it all, you've found forgiveness and fondness.

There is comfort in finding someone to call out your bullshit in the same breath they use to state their care and worry for you.

There is comfort in finding someone so shockingly alike to yourself, while still so blindingly different, that you fall in sync, understanding and accepting the worst parts of you before they even look you in the eyes.

There is comfort in knowing that they have seen the worst you have to offer, and still, they stayed. And you, too, have seen the darkest emotions, hidden behind thousands of mental walls, and you no longer shy away.

You have every reason to pull away, to let the distance grow, and even so, you've yet to let go. You continue to cling to one another, and there is comfort in knowing that you will see it through to the end, no matter where that may be.

#.txt #i need . TO SLEEP........#sorrrrrryyyyy<33 #i love thinking abt rei.chi. angst is good. them slowly becoming friends and falling in love makes me insane. um #to be honest. i think. rei would forgive him. even before eichi would like actually break down enough to share the insaane amnts of regret #and guilt. i think rei would suspect that eichi feels that way and would see it in the way he acts. even jf its subtle #they bicker in a way that helps them. most of the time. even if its just letting out their frustration or. just having someone #who can keep up in that manner. i think eichi would be in desperate need of some way to let out his frustration #because he has 2 be so well put together and repressed All the time. also them genuinely arguing would be how they fix. issues methinks #and well. they just sort of adopt aira. hashtag girl.#um. ummm.#i think them 2gether is good because. well. theyve been through the everything already.#which makes it easier to heal together. if you already know that theyve seen ur worst shit and still decided. somehow.#that they want to offer you a hand back up

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hedgehog-moss · 1 month

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The lower rung of the ladder in my kitchen broke last month and I stuck a little Post-it note on the wall to remind myself to step over the missing rung so I wouldn't break my leg every time I go up or downstairs—but then my mum came to visit and she saw me hopping over the gap in the ladder with practised ease and her face was the definition of "you live like this?" And she went to get a screwdriver to unscrew the ladder from the wall so we could carry it outside and repair it.

Some people see a broken ladder and immediately open a toolbox to fix the problem; some people see a broken ladder and stick a Post-it note to the wall to train themselves to step over the problem forever. (I admit my response is inferior.)

I think I felt daunted at the thought of tinkering with this ladder because it's been here in the same place for over a century and I pictured the whole thing crumbling into dust if we tried to move it—but no, it's still solid, except the lower rung. Which wasn't damaged by time, but by Pandolf. (And some insects. But mostly Pandolf.)

When he was a baby, for a week or so after I took him home, he was extremely upset about having to spend the night in his dog bed in the kitchen while I went upstairs to my bedroom, he would cry and cry and one night in a fit of despair and rage he attacked the ladder. The next morning I found the lower rung (the only one he could reach) looking like it had been attacked by a termite colony, but it was Pandolf's pointy little puppy teeth. By the look of it he'd spent half the night furiously gnawing on it until he dropped from exhaustion—his reasoning was clearly that if he destroyed the ladder, I wouldn't be able to go upstairs anymore and would be forced to spend the night on the floor of the kitchen with him.

It's really hard to be mad at baby Pandolf, though. Go on, try.

Eventually he got used to sleeping in his dog bed and he abandoned his ladder destruction project, but the lower rung has been fragile ever since, and it finally broke last month.

My mum is extremely efficient; she sent me to the barn to find some kind of thick board (you can find anything in the barn if you have a torch and aren't afraid of bats or century-old spiderwebs) and when I came back she had prepared all the tools and taken all the measurements.

The worst part was tapering the sides so the rung would fit in the notches, because if one side was a little bit thinner than the other then it was wobbly—

—plus I used a file at first and it took forever (Pandolf was so bored), but then I remembered I own a sanding machine and it went a lot faster. So much so that my mum said I should make a second rung while I was at it—she was motivated to replace all of them, but then it started raining and we decided the rest of the ladder is solid enough and we'll replace the rungs two at a time.

I always forget that it feels satisfying to fix things! There's this little spark of pride from then on when you look at the repaired thing because you helped make it. I tend to procrastinate because I assume it'll take ages or I'm worried I'll do it wrong, until someone who's more confident with their hands than me goes like "no come on, we just need a saw, a file, a hammer, it'll take an hour tops" and we do it and it's never as difficult as I feared. (My mum: "We gave you a toy toolbox when you were little, to smash sexist stereotypes, and you're afraid of fixing things :( ...") (I cheered her up by reminding her that my brother smashes sexist stereotypes by being also afraid of fixing things.)

But yeah I spent half an hour sanding down the sides of these two lower rungs and now I look at my ladder and remember the delightful feeling of getting the tapering just right and inserting them into their slots effortlessly like a VHS tape into a VCR. I have a whole new affection for my kitchen ladder now.

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luveline · 20 days

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𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

When someone hurts you, you and Aaron both need time to get better, and to put things right. fem, 8k

cw canon typical violence, graphic scenes and imagery of assault/battery, recovery, mentions of being sick, issues eating. established relationship, lots of angst and comfort, hotch being vulnerable, jack being sweet

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

You lay backward over the luxurious stretch of the couch and sigh as your spine gives a sharp crick. Your head feels heavy after a long shower, your arms ache from a day at work, but the feeling of soft cotton on your legs deters any moping.

I hope these are more comfortable, his note read, a white post it note stuck to a boutique bag. You wrap an arm around your waist remembering how Aaron’s message had made you feel: spoiled, and considered.

You’d mentioned in passing that all your pyjamas are old and rough as a consequence, thought nothing of it, and promptly forgot about the conversation entirely.

When Aaron finally comes home tonight, you’re going to give him a proper thank you. You can imagine his reaction to such a thing, his smile as he says it’s no problem, his eyes shuttering closed as you press a kiss to his cheek. You hadn’t realised how prevalent affection would become in your life after meeting him, but everything he does inspires love. Awful, soft, marshmallowy love where he looks at you and you want to sit in his lap.

You slide your phone up your chest lazily and click the button on the side to light the display. Aaron hasn’t claimed to know when he’ll be home tonight. All he’d said was to let yourself in.

It’s odd but not the worst thing in the world to be alone in his apartment. There’s less and less free space each time you visit as Jack begins to outgrow his and his fathers lodgings, but there’s never a stain or bad smell, the Hotchner apartment feels homey. You’re excited whenever you’re invited to spend the night with them.

Maybe some time soon he’ll ask you to move in, or better, to marry him. You’re not a hundred percent sure how you feel about marriage, about being someone’s wife, but there’s a great well of pleasure to be found in the idea that Aaron would want to marry you. He makes you feel loved already in a hundred different ways but the ring might be nice, like a symbol to signify how much you mean to him.

You rest your hand across your eyes. It’s silly to think of. Sillier to want so soon. You’ve been together for just under a year, and you have no false hopes about rushing into the future, but it’s certainly a future you want with him (and with Jack, too). He’s taking things slowly for a hundred different reasons but he loves you, and gifts like your new pyjamas cement that. He really listens to you.

Your phone rings a moment later.

You smile at the screen. It’s nice to be in love with someone who loves you too.

“Hey,” Aaron says when you answer, his voice warm even through the phone, “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“How come?” You sit up with a little start.

“It’s getting late, honey. I called Jess and Jack was already gone.” He doesn’t say anything further.

“Are you okay?”

“I wanted to hear your voice, I think.”

“Well, where are you?” You struggle to envision him speaking saccharinely like this where his colleagues could hear him. He’s nice to you often, but he’s a reserved man.

“I’m just,” —a crunching sound of metal, the trunk of his car closing— “about to get in the car. I’ll be home before ten. Can I have you until then?”

“I don’t see any reason to say no. But do you think you could come home a little faster? I have a crick in my neck.”

“And you want me to fix that?”

“You always fix my neck.”

“How have you done it?” There’s a sound you assume to be the car door closing, but you can’t hear anything beyond that.

“I have bad posture.”

“You have perfect posture.”

“No, it’s quite bad.”

He laughs loudly. It took some time to draw the humour from him but he isn’t as stony as you’d think, and for a while he didn’t have much worth laughing for, anyways. Whenever you hear it, you try to prompt it twice.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Aaron, it’s just like when you said my weird rash wasn’t weird.”

He laughs again, to your pleasure. “It wasn’t weird, it was a heat rash, I promise. You act like you’ve never seen heat rash.”

“One of us goes to hot cities all the time and one of us lives permanently in Virginia.”

“What are you talking about? Virginia’s far from cold. You’re being argumentative, I can see your smile in my head. I’m never going to fix your crick if you keep acting like that.”

“No, don’t be like that,” you laugh, tipping back into the cushions. “You’re always such a sore loser.”

“What did I lose?”

You can tell from his tone that you’ve promised yourself one of those hugs that borders on a straight jacket tightness, his face tucked into your neck as he asks you to repeat yourself. What did I lose? he’ll ask again, kissing your chin, the line of your jaw. Tell me clearly.

“It hurts,” you say honestly, “please don’t be mad. I really need one.”

“I’m not mad… I’m going under the overpass, my signal might cut out.”

“Okie dokie. Hey, did you eat? I can make you something for when you get home. I got groceries.”

“I’m not hungry, but you can make yourself hot cocoa, and I’ll drink it when I get there,” he says.

“Or I could make us both some?”

“It’s much more fun if I drink yours before you can, honey. You know that—”

You pause in the quiet, then hear a quick beeping. You pull your phone from your ear and find the call disconnected.

Cruel overpass, you think.

Sure he’ll call you back, you take your phone into his kitchen and set about finding all the things you’ll need for hot cocoa. One mug, because you should hate when he forces you to share, but you love the feeling of his fingers on yours as he takes it and the thankful kiss he dots on your cheek.

The kettle is uncomplicated. You toy with the stovetop, set the kettle on the burner, and let the temperature rise. It begins whistling lightly a mere thirty seconds later.

You click your phone on again. He’ll have passed through the tunnel now and will be calling you back any minute. You stare at the phone, hoping to summon him, slouched over the counter with the tin of cocoa powder by your fingers. The kettle whines with growing heat, but cool air kisses your back.

Goosebumps rise. Up and down the lengths of your arms, the back of your neck—

A sudden chill.

The lack of air comes before the hand, the pain a rush, a burst to be away from. Leather on your neck creaking without sympathy as a hand tightens and drags your body back against something hard.

Not Aaron. Your scream comes strangled under cruel fingers as you fight to move forward again, straight for the burner, the kettle shoved across the burner grate and exploding with scalding water, heat of the burner kissing your chest— you scream, only it’s worse than a scream, sound from the deepest part of you forcing itself past the heat at your neck as you try to fling yourself away from the pain.

You fall with a hard clout. “Stay still!” comes out enraged against the back of your neck. You drop to your knees, the pain lighting flaring up your chest, your gaze frantic as you search for a flame that isn’t there. You’re not on fire, you’re crawling and then scampering up into a standing position when the heavy weight drops itself on you again and smashes your face into the floor.

All your fight leaves you. Your ears ring. Your panic wanes but the pain stays alert in your mouth.

A hand grabs you by the back of the head and drives your face into the ground. It’s like light in your eyes and your nose, the brunt of it, the crack of your bone and the hot trickle of blood that swiftly follows. You gurgle in pain, spluttering and gagging against the linoleum, waiting for Aaron to turn you over and say sorry. It’s an accident.

Blood drains from your nose in spurts to match your racing pulse, so much blood you can see your eyes reflected in the dark stretch of it. Water drips down the front of the stove, your breath aches and begs, and your attacker takes a measured breath.

He flips you over. You can’t slide away, there’s nothing left in you, your head a second body as he raises something.

Your phone rings on the counter.

“Please, don’t,” you plead with a sob.

You pass out as the pain connects. Just as quickly as it started, your body takes the reins.

—

There’s a strange darkness waiting for you. Like waking before your alarm and stealing those last minutes, body aching, not wanting to get up and face the day. Aaron gets up early every morning, sometimes as early as four AM, and whenever you get up with him your eyes hurt for hours.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Hey, hey, I think your boyfriend’s coming.

What will he make of my handiwork?

You didn’t stay awake long enough for that one, did you? But you’re waking up now.

The pain is enough to wake you up again, a hot drag down the side of you to your hip and in. You aren’t aware of the sounds you make, but you can hear them. Your panicked squealing as the heat presses further and further in. Your crying, and your whispering, “Stop, stop.”

“There’s handsome,” the dark voice says. “I’ve gotta go hide somewhere, does he carry after hours? I think I’ll find out.”

“Oh,” you say, feeling sickly. You attempt to curl into yourself, when did you turn onto your back? “No,” you mumble, lips wet with something hot.

“Honey?” a voice asks.

“Honey,” you repeat, woozy again, darkness falling in all over again, where it stays.

Honey, are you in here?

—

The window behind Aaron’s shoulder is cold. Rain patters fast like floods, thunder occasionally chewing through clouds, and Jack Hotchner cries sluggish tears into his dad’s shoulder.

Aaron has his eyes closed. They’ve been at this for a while. “Shh, shh shh, buddy,” he says softly, patting the bottom of Jack’s back. He’d sway him back and forth if his arms weren’t about to fall off.

Jack squirms closer, no room left between them.

“I know it’s scary,” Aaron says.

Jack just cries. This approach of quiet support isn’t working; Jack isn’t a baby that needs to be put to sleep, he’s a panicking little kid, and Aaron needs to change gears. He ushers him away from his chest and crosses his arm behind Jack’s back. Careful, he shifts Jack’s weight to free his other arm and brings his fingers up to the silky brown hair dropping onto Jack’s forehead.

“She’s okay,” Aaron says, stroking Jack’s hair. His little forehead is clammy. “She’s not hurting. I know it looks scary, honey, but… she’s just resting.”

Jack looks him in the eyes. “Her face.”

“I know.” He nods emphatically. “It’s hard to see. Blood isn’t nice. You don’t have to see her again today, not if it’s too scary.”

Jack lifts a hand to Aaron’s face. Clumsy but with clear attempts to be careful, he wipes at the skin under Aaron’s eye. Aaron bites back a smile.

“I look tired,” he says.

“Yeah.” Jack brings his hand back to wipe his eyes. He sobs as he does it. Aaron can’t describe the ache it gives him to see it.

“Buddy, I’ll do it. Let me wipe your face. I can do it.”

Jack drops his hands. Aaron turns his hand and wipes the smudge of Jack’s tears from hot cheeks, testing the waters with a little smile.

“I couldn’t see you under all those tears.”

Jack does a little smile back. “Yes you can.”

“I couldn’t! But now I’ve wiped all your face I can see you again. You’re handsome, did we know that?”

Jack giggles. He sniffles, and he presses his palm to Aaron’s neck. “I don’t want her to be sad, dad.”

“She’s going to be sad, because something scary happened, but it’s okay. I’m gonna take care of her.”

Aaron would offer to take him home, but they can’t go home. They may not go home for a long time —the team is still trying to work out how someone made it into the apartment without alerting the building’s security or Aaron’s internal system. And then escaped again without Aaron’s notice. Until then, Aaron has to make a decision about a safe house, for himself, Jack, and Jess, though she's extremely unreceptive to the idea.

Aaron has to look after Jack, and he needs to take care of you.

“What do you think, bud?” he asks, cupping Jack’s head in his hand. “Do you want to go home?”

“You said I can give her a hug.”

“If it’s too scary, we don’t have to. I don’t want you to get upset again.”

“I’m not scared. I want to give her the hug,” he says.

Aaron pulls him in for a hug of his own. “Okay, buddy. Just try to think of it like this. She’s where she needs to be to get better. Everybody here is looking after her. She’ll be okay soon.”

Aaron looks over Jack’s head down the hospital hallway. It’s a quiet ward, and here between the main ward doors and the hallway that leads down to the individual rooms there’s complete silence. Night is approaching quickly again, and with it comes Aaron’s panic. Your head turned into a puddle, your face lax of expression in the dark. He can’t stop finding the women he loves bloody and on their backs.

“Ready?” he murmurs. “Can you walk with me? My arms are tired.”

“Yeah.”

Aaron puts Jack down gently onto his feet. He neatens his hair, chucking him under the chin as he goes to see his smile. He’s so pretty, like Haley was, with shiny eyes. He’s a beautiful kid. Aaron takes his hand and together they make their way down the hallway to your room.

You’re sleeping.

Aaron herds Jack through the door and to the plastic covered chair by your side, where he lifts him up and sits him down. He stays between you both. Jack isn’t scared of you, just the blood, but he wants to show Jack that he’s going to protect him from anything he needs protecting from. He also desperately wants to touch you, and reassure himself that you’re still breathing.

He looks for your hand. Your pinky finger is splinted, but he can take it with care, give the palm of it a squeeze.

The blood matted in your hair has finally been washed away after a turbulent day, as well as the staining that marred your face. Your nose is broken, and looks it, the bruises so fierce your eyes have turned puffy and your top lip has inflamed. There are second degree burns in multiple places but most affectedly on your chest. There’s a stab wound at your hip, allegedly done with a small blade. It nicked your small intestine. The bandages laid over you are a lump under your hospital gown.

Aaron looks at you, and he feels a passionate disdain for himself. He wishes he could… be someone else. Someone who doesn’t have such a deep connection to a job that hurts the people around him, over and over. Haley used to say he was obsessed with being the hero, but this doesn’t feel heroic.

“Do you wanna give her your cuddle?” he asks softly.

Jack stays sitting.

He’ll have to give it to you himself. Careful, Aaron leans down over your prone body and presses a half kiss to your ear, the only place that won’t hurt.

You have an IV drip going into your arm, painkillers, an ECG monitor to the left. The room is white but busy, you’re a burst of colour against it all, your cuts and bruises, the evidence of violence he can’t remove. Aaron’s tired. He perches on the gap of bed by your leg and holds your hand, turning to Jack, who watches with a frown.

“She’s sleeping,” Aaron says.

“When can she come home?”

“In a few days.” He feels the pad of your hand, terrified of your broken finger but needing to hold a part of you.

“Why is she sleeping all day?”

Traumatic experiences are exhausting. “I think she might want to be alone, so she sleeps.”

“Should we go?”

Aaron shakes his head. “I think we should stay. When she wakes up again she’ll be happy to see us, because we’re not strangers.”

“We’re family,” Jack says. He’d liked that, when the nurse asked you how Aaron was related to you. Family only.

“We’re her family,” Aaron agrees.

If he somehow miraculously fell out of love with you, you’d still be family to them. You’ve given so much of your heart since you met them. Aaron wants everything you have to give.

You wake in a slow, slow upheaval. It takes effort on your part, the opening of sore eyes, the dreary decision to face your pain. Your hand jumps in his but relaxes when he shushes you, your slimmer fingers stilling under his rubbing thumb. For a split second, you keep your gaze half-lidded, jaw soft, like you’ve been indulging in a stolen nap.

Then your breath catches and you screw your eyes tightly.

“You’re okay,” he says, quietly, and not as lightly as he means to, “you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” in quick succession.

“Hurts,” you say, and gasp, a whine stuck in your throat.

He doesn’t know what to do. Jack shouldn’t watch this but he can’t leave you alone. “It’s okay,” he says, holding your wrist to stop it climbing up your bruised face.

You were worse the first time you woke up. Catatonic, then sobbing. You mumble and whimper now, pain threading goosebumps down your arms.

“It hurts too much,” you say. A sob falls out of you like you’ve been ripped open.

Aaron doesn’t think, but an instinct sparks. The pain, to hit you right out of the gate like this, to make you say something like that when you’ve always always made your problems small, must be torture. It must feel new and sudden all over again.

Aaron checks that Jack is alright and leaves the room. He looks down one hallway and then the other, but there’s no nurse around —he races to the reception desk and begs the two nurses there for help with you, “She’s in intense pain,” he says, grasping the desk.

The nurse he’s more familiar with clears her throat. “Mr. Hotchner, she’s already had enough motrin for two people at your request, she really shouldn’t need–”

“Pain is just as important to treat as the injury.”

A second nurse puts her salad down with raised brows. “Do you want to overdose her?”

“Excuse me?”

Aaron has always seen himself as a gentleman, but the argument that ensues is tricky to navigate while remaining respectful, and he’s no closer to better treatment for you by the end of it. He gives each nurse a disapproving glower and takes his phone from his pocket, turning on the spot, ready to call whoever it is he needs to call for a second opinion. He’s not gonna listen to you cry when there’s no need.

He pushes the door open with the phone still clutched in his other hand. Jack’s climbed onto your bed. He cuddles your face, sitting by your pillows and bent over you protectively.

Aaron lets out a breath.

“It’s okay,” he says, his arm behind your head and his arm on your shoulder. “W’gonna take care of you.”

“I know,” you say, crying without sound, shaking under his arms.

His cheek smushes against your forehead. Your eyes are closed and your face braced for contact Jack doesn’t make, careful not to hurt you as he rubs his cheek into your skin. Your blankets are falling off of you from the squirming and your bruises shine with tears in the light, but Jack has calmed you down some.

Aaron shouldn’t have left Jack with you. He’s been so scatterbrained since he found you when he should be the opposite, but Jack is doing better than Aaron managed alone.

“I’m sorry for crying,” you say slowly. “I’m hurting, but it’s not bad. I’m okay.”

“That’s good. You have a big scratch on your face, and bruises.”

“I know.”

“Dad says you have a bruise on your tummy too.”

“I got lots of bruises, but it’s okay. Don’t worry about me.” You bring your hand up injured and uncaring to rub his leg. “You’re being a really brave boy, thank you.”

A tear rolls down your cheek.

“It’s teamwork,” Jack says. “I hug you and you hug me.”

“Is that what you want? You want a hug?”

“I want to go home,” he says, hugging you harder.

You grasp his arm loosely where it’s just under your chin. “Jack, can you move your arm?” you whisper.

Your breath comes quickly, but Jack moves his arm away from your bruised neck and you try to calm yourself down.

Aaron jolts himself back into action. “Sweetheart,” he says, rushing to sit Jack back and give you more space. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He watches. Not sure what to say. Not sure saying anything is wise. You squint at him through your lashes, eyes opening slowly, your mouth a line pressed hard to stop from crying.

“I think it's time for Jack to go home,” he suggests gently.

“Yeah,” you say, eyes swimming with tears.

“No.” Jack squeezes your head again, to your panic.

“Jack, buddy, please don’t touch her neck,” Aaron says, grabbing Jack from your pillow.

He erupts into tears again. Frantic and vying for you, Aaron tries to calm him and he kicks against his chest, tears turning to disgruntled sobs at not getting what he wants. You wince, pressing your face completely into the pillow.

Aaron carries Jack from your room, phone in hand.

—

Is she breathing? Can she talk?

I don’t– I don’t know, I don’t– She’s breathing. Honey, can you hear me? I don’t know what to stop. I don’t know where it’s all coming from.

Where’s the worst of the blood?

It’s everywhere.

Abdominal? Chest?

I can’t tell. I can’t tell.

Mr. Hotchner, you can’t panic. Does she have a chest wound?

Yes. Yes, but–

Is she conscious? How’s her pulse? Be ready to start chest compressions.

Honey, can you hear me?

Your name said clearly.

“Hey, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” you murmur.

“If you need a minute, that’s okay.”

You cover your mouth with your hand. Emily Prentiss has a soft voice like your boyfriend’s when she wants to have it. She’s never spoken to you like this, none of his colleagues have, but since the incident, everybody treats you like you’re made of glass.

Cognitive interviews are meant to happen immediately after an accident, but you weren’t up for company. Aaron promised this would be on your terms, that Emily is the most practised, and that she’s reaped the most information from them than the rest of the team. So far, it’s worked to drag bad memories to the surface.

“Maybe we should start from the beginning.”

There isn’t a beginning. There’s just conversation. Aaron’s hand on your heart and his shaky voice, so unlike him.

“Okay.”

Emily reaches for your hand. She smiles, and her nice features get nicer. That’s another thing they all share, good looks. “Okay. What did you notice, in the kitchen? It’ll help if you close your eyes,” she reminds you.

You close your eyes.

“What stuck out?”

“Nothing,” you murmur. “I’ve been in there lots of times, and nothing ever changes.”

“Nothing? Not even the drawings on the fridge?”

“Jack’s particular about his best work, even if I think they should all be on display.”

Emily’s voice turns to a shard of itself. “What did you do? Can you take me through it step by step? Make yourself a cup of hot chocolate.”

“I never got that far.”

“What did you do?”

“I filled the kettle.”

“What kettle?”

You don’t understand the need for specificity, but you answer. “Aaron got it for me, when he… he told me he loved me, and when we got home he’d bought me a kettle and a bunch of stuff to make my being there easier. The kettle, because… he said something about superheated water. How the microwave can be dangerous, and this would be easier than a pan.”

“Alright. Okay, and what did you do after that?”

“I put the kettle on the stove.” You lit the burner, and heat kissed your palm, and suddenly the room had felt cold. “I got goosebumps.”

“When?”

“The kettle started to whistle, and it was cold.”

“And then–”

“Then he grabbed me.”

“Yeah,” Emily says softly.

You touch your nose. “I tried… He didn’t feel like a person. He didn’t feel like someone I was fighting, it was just painful.”

“Like he was quick on his feet?”

“He was silent. I didn’t hear him until I made him fall.”

“How big did he feel?”

Your stomach churns. Big. He’d felt big.

Where’s the worst of the blood?

“He said he was going to hide,” you remember.

“He said that? He said ‘hide’?

“Yeah. And he asked me if Aaron carries after hours.”

“When was this?”

It’s a headache. You try to remember more, because that’s what they need right now. If you ever want to go home, if you want Jack to go home, you need to remember more. The BAU are good, but nobody can make a map out of slivers.

“That was at the end,” you say.

“After he stabbed you?”

You wince. “Yes. After.”

“You’re doing so good,” she praises, “I just want to fill in the gaps.”

“I can’t remember. I was unconscious.”

“When Hotch found you?”

“No, before.”

“Before?” she asks.

You’re sick of sitting there with your eyes closed. Sick of your hands shaking with nowhere to hide them, and sick of feeling sick, your nausea as present as the stinging pain of your burned wrist against your sleeve each time you move.

You open your eyes and look around the conference room for something interesting. How nice would it be to think of something else for a few minutes?

“He called it handiwork when he cut me. Asked if I thought Aaron would like it,” you say, bordering monotonous as your gaze fizzles, unfocused, across the room.

“Okay, Y/N. Okay. I know you’re tired.” She reaches for your hands to squeeze at the same time. “You did really well. Any details at all are details we can use to find him.”

You’re not in the mood for talking anymore. Tears burn your eyes, waiting for a blink to set them loose.

“I want to see Aaron,” you confess quietly.

“I’ll find him for you.” Emily stands but bends, the dark of her hair a contrast to her pale face. She’s lovely, and her hand is gentle on yours. “Are you okay? Can I get you something to eat?”

So Aaron’s not keeping that to himself. “I want to see him, please.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

This is a horrible room. It’s not their fault, but the big white board is tacked with bad photos of grisly cases —currently your own. You stare at a photograph of your blood in the kitchen and don’t know what to do. Should you look away? You hadn’t realised you bled so much.

You turn your chair toward the door. Emily looks back as she leaves and smiles at you softly, but your eyes are already moving to the smaller dry erase board by the doorway. It’s ‘Hotch’s turn to clean up on Thursdays. How strange that they make the boss clean the conference room.

You can picture him picking up coffee cups and wiping down the table. You can always picture Aaron.

You can see him hovering over you, his hand pressed to the bloody mess of your hip to stop the blood.

“It’s okay,” you whisper to yourself, wanting to break from the memory, following Aaron’s example. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” You repeat it into your hands, head tilting down. You sink until your knuckles touch your knees.

That’s all he says when you panic. He’ll say it over and over again until you can breathe right. I have you, I have you, you’re okay.

He’s much quieter this time. You hear his footsteps, his familiar gait, your head pounding too hard to move. Aaron makes a sound between a sigh and a hum, like he’s saying a sorry hello as he kneels in front of you. His hand takes your face, rubs softly over your ear.

“My head’s just hurting,” you murmur.

He doesn’t respond. You sit together for some time as your mind races with bad memories, your fear a rush of goosebumps down the lengths of your arms and thighs. It’s hard not to think about what happened, mostly because you’re still a walking bruise, your stitches sting when you move, the blisters on your chest ache, all of it inescapable. But it’s your anxiety that plagues you most. You’re in a constant state of dread.

You had no idea someone could hurt you as badly as they had until it happened, and now you’re desperate not to be hurt again.

“You have to look after me,” you say eventually, throat sore with how awful it feels to say.

“Yes, I do.”

“Please don’t let me get hurt again.”

Total silence. You sniffle at his lack of an answer, only slightly comforted by his hands at your wrists now, pulling them from your face. “Let’s sit up,” he says, standing himself. “Come on, let’s sit up. You shouldn’t be putting so much pressure on your abdomen.”

You lean back and everything aches like a stretch after a long run or a bad night’s sleep.

Aaron pulls a chair next to yours. When he sits, your knees are pressed in between one another’s thighs, so close he could hug you. You might need one. He’s given you a ridiculous amount of them each day, some for him and some for you.

He has with him a takeout box and a bottle of water.

“Here,” he says, popping the seal of the drink. “Three sips.”

You feel like crying, but you drink. He opens the takeout box to reveal a normal looking sandwich already cut into two halves, but he takes a plastic knife from his pocket, peels away the wrapping, and cuts the sandwich again into quarters.

“I’m gonna be sick,” you say.

“No, you’re not. You won’t be.” He presses the sandwich flat with his hands and holds it to you until you take it. “Please, Y/N. You only have to eat what you can.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Please.”

“Did Emily tell you about my interview?”

He reaches for your thigh. Mildly unlike him when you aren’t at home. You assume it to be a tether for your sake. “No. Is there something you think I should know?”

“I don’t want to say it again.”

“Then you don’t have to. Someone will tell me when I get back.”

You pinch the fluffy bread in your hands, eyeing wearily at the wet insides. “Can I come with you?”

“You’re having trouble in the cognitive interviews, you won’t want to hear what we have to say.”

You split the sandwich in half again, watching as salad and mayonnaise ooze from the bread.

“If you don’t eat, you won’t get better,” he says, a touch stern.

“I can’t eat when you won’t let me come with you.”

“I’m not the only person capable of protecting you. I…” He circles your wrist before you can make a mess. “Can you please eat it?”

You take a bite to appease him, your stomach roiling, food wet and cold on your tongue. You eat the whole quarter queasily, a lump at the back of your throat begging you to stop.

Aaron takes an empty hand and rubs it tenderly. “Thank you,” he says, that rubbing turned more forceful, his hand journeying to your elbow and back again.

It’s sweet how attuned he is to your needing his touch, but mortifying. This entire experience had been embarrassing from start to end. Couldn’t defend yourself, can’t get to grips with it, and can’t keep anything down. Aaron looks at you and your bruises and you wonder if he’s seeing you with blood matted in your hair, or hearing you beg for him to get you something stronger. All you’d wanted was a sedative.

“I’m far from the only person capable of protecting you,” he says.

“You saved me,” you say. You mean it in every sense of the world.

“…This is my fault.”

“I want to be with you,” you say honestly. “I don’t feel okay by myself right now, I just need you, or I feel so sick I wish that I died.” The anxiety is marrow deep.

Aaron looks gutted. “Don’t say that.” His hand goes back to yours, back to tenderness. “I know you're scared.”

“Then why won’t you listen?” you ask weakly.

“I’m listening to you,” he says, his tone a dulcet, pleasing softness you’ve never ever heard before, “I need you to be safe, and I need Jack to be safe, and I can’t do that while he’s still out there.” His brows pinch together, agonised. “I’m sorry you’re scared. I didn’t protect you. But I won’t let anything happen to you again.

“I love you. Please believe that I’m doing what’s best for you right now.”

You turn your head away. He cups your cheek regardless.

“I love you,” he says again.

“I know.”

“No, I love you.”

He’s saying sorry.

“I love you,” you mumble back.

“How are you feeling? Is anything hurting more? Weeping?”

Your eyes are heavy at his touch. “You only looked at me a couple of hours ago.”

“Alright. Can I kiss you? I need to go.”

You don’t answer. Aaron kisses your chin, your jawline, the type of roving, teasing kisses he’d give as he squeezed your sides, only he doesn’t squeeze you, he can’t without hurting you. His hand hesitates just above your deepest wound.

His bright kiss works to spark a modicum of life back into you. Not a lot, but enough. It was likely his intention, some quick prodding kisses to remind you of something happy between you both.

You curl your fingers over his hand and turn your face for a chaste peck. He smiles, the curve of his lips evident and relieving against yours.

“Someone will take you back to the safe house, okay? Give Jack a kiss for me,” he says.

You nod. Aaron strokes your cheek.

—

Your assailant could have killed you while you were vulnerable, but he didn’t. “He assumes he’ll have another chance,” Emily surmises.

“That’s cocky,” JJ mutters.

“It’s telling,” Aaron says. “But he won’t.”

The coaching has been extensive. You, sick, a breath from tears and hurting, your shoulders in his hands and his grip too tight. If someone tells you I’m dead, you wait. If Morgan tells you I’m dead, you ask Rossi. If he says I’m dead, you ask Emily. You can’t believe the first thing someone says. No one is going to move you from this safe house to another without seeing me first. If I do get hurt, you and Jack will be moved separately. You will always get my confirmation before you’re moved.

I’m not gullible, you’d said, wincing at his sharp tone.

It’s not about that. People will lie, and they will lie well. They will talk their way into the house if you let them. You can’t let them.

I won’t.

He’s racing against a countdown, because no matter what he says, what you know, or how many agents wait outside your house, sometimes it’s a force of will.

Foyet didn’t need much more than that.

He admittedly feels on surer footing knowing where you are. The decision to guard you without putting you in WITSEC is aching and scary but better, too. He knows where you are. He can be there in ten minutes. No guessing games, but no hiding for you either.

Your dread is taking over everything you do. Today’s the first day since you came home almost two weeks ago that you could function without a live-in nurse or Jess there to look after Jack, and already he’s worried, because he’d convinced you total honesty was what’s best for the both of you, and so your texts are candid.

One an hour for his sake, more if you're up to it.

Threw up my beta blockers. Jack misses you, he wants to make you a Lego boat and fishing rod, but I’m not sure how to do it. Please make sure you eat dinner.

Your next message makes him smile, thankfully. I’m kidding about the dinner thing. Ha. I had one of those gels you got for me, and Jack wants fries, so I’m making waffle fries.

He texts back quickly. Eat dinner. Please tell Jack I miss him too, and don’t worry about the boat, he’ll work it out. Then, feeling awful, he adds, I love you

Aaron should go home. He’d feel better if he knew he was there to help you keep your medication down, but if he leaves… He knows his team will give you everything they have, but he has more. He can fix this.

He can’t fix this, god, his head hurts badly. You’re covered in cuts and bruises and burns and he thinks he can make up for that? You’ve been brutalised. Aaron can’t believe this is happening again.

He rubs his brow.

“You okay?” Emily asks.

When he looks up, JJ is gone.

“I’m fine.”

“It’s okay if you’re not.”

He’s not fine, but he knows what she’s asking. “I’m okay enough to do this,” he says.

It’s hard not to confuse you with memory, your hurting similar to his own, your situation one that he’s already lived. Haley will haunt him for life. It doesn’t usually feel as punishing as he fears he deserves: he gets to remember the best parts of her everyday. He sees her in Jack all the time. He sees her in you, occasionally —you’ll touch his hair or rub his arm like she would’ve done, and it doesn’t make him miss her any more than he does, he’s not in the business of wishing you weren’t yourself, he loves you, but he remembers her. Aaron remembers how he failed her every day.

He can’t fail you, too.

“Is it ever easy?” Emily asks.

Aaron looks around for a bottle of water. “Is what?”

“Being in love.”

He thinks about it. “I must make it look hard.”

She laughs softly. “Sometimes, yeah.”

Maybe that’s not fair, then, to you. For him to make it seem difficult to love you. To fail to correct Emily when she asks.

He chooses his words carefully. “Loving her is the easiest thing in the world. But… I continue to work a job I know makes me hard to love in return.” And that puts you in danger.

It doesn’t feel wrong to be sincere. Perhaps it’s easier with Emily. She saw so much of him during Foyet, and she’s family, truly. He can tell her how intense it’s felt.

“Well, it doesn’t seem hard for her,” Emily says.

He shakes his head.

She continues regardless, “Even during her cognitive, she mentioned the first time you told her you loved her. When it was over she wanted to see you over anything else.”

But I put her here, he wants to say. Or doesn’t want to say at all, but instead knows with surety.

“She can’t eat if I’m not home,” he says. What a thing to do to someone. “It’s my fault.”

Emily smiles, hair slipping off of her shoulder as her expression turns to playfulness. “I think you’re seeing it all wrong. Something bad happened to her, and you’re so safe to her that you make it better when you’re with her. That’s not fault, Hotch. Just love.”

He turns his attention back to the board without another word.

—

When the day comes, when they find the man who hurt you, you’re sitting at home with Jack Hotchner in your lap. You’re laughing at his laughing, cartoon fish on the TV, and Aaron’s got a gun in his hand fifty miles away. You both giggle, nearly in hysterics as the safe house living room glows pink and red, Jack’s favourite character swimming hurriedly across the screen, as Aaron negotiates the arrest.

Usually capable of mediation, Aaron finds his patience completely unravelled. He offers the UnSub two choices: he surrenders now, immediately, and he keeps his life, or he deliberates and Aaron kills him.

He has reason to believe the UnSub will try again, of course. Will keep hurting you until it sticks.

He goes home satisfied.

“Dad’s home!” you say excitedly, your movie long finished, your thighs numb and stitches stinging where Jack has leaned against you. You encourage him off of you as the front door closes, the cold air from outside rushing in.

“Honey?” Aaron calls.

“Yeah!” You stumble into a standing position, sure you look about as disgusting as you have since the situation began, promptly sitting back down as head rush hits.

Jack races for the door, meeting Aaron in the hallway with a whoosh. “Hey!”

“Hi, junior g-man, what are you doing?”

“We watched Finding Nemo,” Jack says, “and now I’m hugging you, duh.”

“Duh. Well, I need to talk to Y/N for five minutes. Can you wash your hands for dinner?”

“Yeah.”

“You okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine.”

You hear the sound of a light kiss, and then Jack rockets across the hallway and up the stairs. Aaron walks into the doorway, tie still knotted but with no suit jacket, and you know what he’s going to say before he says it. He wears a strange expression.

“You got him?” you ask.

He puts a white bag on the coffee table, looking down at you fondly. “I got him.”

“How did you find him?”

He crouches down in front of you. He’s so careful to be harmless to you now, so tentative. “You’re not the only woman he hurt. We dealt with him in the past. From the information you gave Emily during your interview, and the information he left behind, we found him… If you weren’t as brave as you are, I couldn’t have kept you and Jack safe.” He holds your knee. “Thank you.”

You stare at him. Staring, wondering what he means. “Brave?”

“Brave.”

“I’m a coward.”

He shakes his head. “No. You’re not.”

All you've done for days is cry and throw up and bleed, literally. You’ve ruined clothes and sheets, thrown up in his lap, terrified and aching. Each time was met with the same gentleness. A kiss on the cheek, or a hand rubbing your back. Is that bravery? You feel like a baby.

Aaron’s brow is relaxed. He takes your two legs into his hands, and he looks at you with a reverence that leaves you breathless.

“You’re hurt forever because of me,” he says quietly, you strain to hear him, “because of who I am, and what I choose to be.”

“How can you say that? It’s not your fault.”

“It wouldn’t have happened to you if I hadn’t missed his MO the first time.”

“You’re not putting the knife in anyone’s hand,” you argue.

“But it keeps happening.”

His hair shines dark and wet. It must be raining outside, the safe house walls are thick, the windows shuttered permanently, you haven’t heard a peep. You stroke it back from his forehead.

“Remember… when we first got together, and you told me you were sorry for how hard being with you could be. And I said it was okay, that it wasn’t hard, and you said it would be?”

“I remember,” he says, practically mouths.

“I was so afraid when...” You swallow roughly. “I still am. But not– not of you. Not of what you can do. When you told me it was going to be hard, I thought, well, it’s worth it, because I really liked you then and I love you now.” Tears collect in your eyes. Safe. I’m safe. “And you look after me, so– so–”

You stop as your voice turns to glass, worried you’ll make a fool of yourself and cry in his hands.

“I didn’t want this for you,” he says.

“Nobody wants this. Bad things happen to everyone, but who has someone like you to look after them?”

He breathes out heavily. “Please… don’t cry.”

You wipe your cheeks, taking a lengthy pause before you say, “I’m okay now.”

He looks at you in silence.

“Come and sit with me,” you say, scrubbing your cheeks, hot tears cooling on the backs of your hands. “Your knees.”

He actually smiles. It changes his entire face. “What about my knees?”

Aaron sits on the couch next to you atop Jack’s blanket, a bag of pretzels tipping between your leg and his. You attempt to rake his damp hair into submission as his fingers run against your thighs, fishing for pretzels to put back into the bag.

You’d like for him to grab you and kiss you harshly, give you one of his straight jacket hugs, some roughhousing, but you won’t get that from him until you're better, and even then, it’s up in the air. So much has changed.

But not everything.

“I love you,” you murmur, fingertips scratching down behind his ear to the back of his head.

He turns to you, sagging with relief and exhaustion. “Kiss?” he asks quietly.

You nod. He holds your cheek, and you close your eyes at the same time for a kiss. It’s not a lot, but you have time. He can give you another one when you’re both better recovered.

He pulls away. You open your eyes, finding his closed, his face downturned. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Was Jack good?”

“Jack’s always good.”

“Did the nurse have anything to say about your chest?”

“She said it’s healing okay. That I need to use, uh, scar patches when they start to scab.”

“I can get those.”

“I know, I knew you would.”

He gathers you up for a hug. For a moment, you think he’ll move on, that the end of your nightmare will kill his remorse, but he breathes in, nose wedged against your cheek.

“Do you think that tonight, we could pretend it didn’t happen?” You’d like to just sit with him, press your hand to his chest and doze. It’s the first night in a while that you’ll feel completely.

“Yeah. I can do that.” He hugs you rather tightly. “Do you want to see your present?” he asks, relaxing his grip.

“My present?”

He grabs the bag on the coffee table and places it in your lap. “I’m worried it’ll remind you of bad memories, but I wanted you to have nice things then, and I still do.”

In the bag, there’s a pair of pyjamas. Very different to the ones you’d been wearing when you were attacked, they were girly and sweet, soft in your hands, these are sturdy. Still soft, but thick. The shirt is short-sleeved and the pants cuffed at the ankles, a hoodie tucked underneath them, and a packet of minky socks.

“Thank you,” you say.

Thanks for everything, for saving you twice, for taking care of you at your worst, and for wanting you to have something comfortable to wear at the end of it. To have experienced an abjectly cruel battering will leave its marks in your forever, but you meant what you told him. He looks after you, and you love him.

He kisses your shoulder. “You don't need to say that.”

He doesn’t add anything else, his nose pressed to your shoulder, his hand on your hip. Whatever goes unsaid can be felt in the other’s touch.

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thank u for reading!! it’s been a long time since I wrote a fic for hotch and it’s hard to write him being vulnerable but I hope this is alright anyways and that you enjoyed :D please consider reblogging if you did enjoy it (cos that way my fics get shown to more people <3) ❤️

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner oneshot #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic

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nereidprinc3ss · 24 days

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do you believe me now? | 6

in which spencer reid and inexperienced!fem reader are finally honest with each other. complete with tears and more than a few make-up kisses.

series masterlist

this series is 18+ warnings/tags: angst but mostly fluff, i think this qualifies as hurt/comfort, HHEHHEHHEH, lots of kissing, so cheesy, you jokingly imply he's a slut, i need him expeditiously a/n: thank you guys for being patient with me!! ilysm!! i edited this until i hated it but i hope it's satisfactory for YOU guys..... as always please please let me know what you think!! and i already started the next part hehehe

The car ride is the worst of your life.

Neither of you speak.

And you find yourself wishing, pleading to god that one of you will say something to fix this—but each minute ticks by and the streets get familiar and a quiet song ends and you realize you were silly to ever think a twenty minute car ride would change anything.

Spencer was the luckiest you’d ever been and your relationship is floating away like a balloon you forgot to hold on to—nothing more than a red dot lost to the vast blue.

Maybe for him it’s easier. You’re pretty sure it is, as you risk one or two glances at his unreadable profile that turn into lingering, obsessive looks because you’re panicking and realizing you’ll maybe never see him this close again. It’s funny and terrible how quickly you’re remembering what it was like to see him at the coffee shop for the first time—how he was nothing but a beautiful stranger, completely unknown to you and worlds away. Now you’ve had him, sort of, and you’re turning into the girl who could never have him all over again.

When he turns onto your street reality begins to sink in. Your heart is a short fuse inside your chest as he pulls into a spot and parks the car. The rumble of the engine cuts. The headlights stay on.

For a moment, everything is quiet. You wish you could insert your own reality into the silence—one where you’re simply enjoying each other’s company and there’s no sense of impending doom to take your breath away.

“Do you want to talk?” Spencer asks, looking pointedly ahead where the lights shine off the back of some other person’s car. A wayward moth dips and swirls into the high beams. You watch Spencer track it with his eyes.

“I’m not sure what to say,” you admit quietly. The weight of everything you’d like to say sits in your stomach like lead, too heavy to divulge. It’s only been a few weeks of having to carry the truth around with you and your muscles are already fatiguing. The idea of carrying it around indefinitely makes your eyes sting. You’re already exhausted.

Maybe a stronger person would find that last bit of energy to make a final push, to save the relationship just before it falls apart.

But you never claimed to be strong.

Deep down, you must’ve known you weren’t ready for a real relationship. You can’t handle all of this pretending to be okay with things that hurt. Even if that's the grown-up thing to do.

“I tried. I really did, I’m sorry—I’m—”

Before you can get the words out your throat tightens around them and you bury your face in your hands.

The sound of his seatbelt unlocking and whirring back surprises you—but you’re even more surprised when he undoes yours. Still, you move your arm so it can snap back into place and then he’s pulling you into him.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, one hand on the back of your head as you lean over the small gap between the seats, unable to stop yourself from shedding more tears. “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry.”

He’s sorry.

For not loving you?

If it’s not your fault he doesn’t love you back—then whose fault is it? Who’ll take the fall?

But still, he’s holding you so carefully, like you’re made of porcelain. Something to be protected. Or at the very least, something to be mourned even after it’s in pieces.

As you lean against him, lulled by the slow in and out of his breath, the inverse of yours, and the way he slips his thumb over the back of your hair in silence for a few minutes—you wonder what’s missing. Why he’s not satisfied.

“I don’t understand you.”

The words come out flat, muffled by his coat, garbled with leftover tears.

“What was that?” Spencer asks gently, still playing with your hair. You sniffle, adjusting your head so your cheek is to his shoulder and your lips are no longer smushed.

“I just… I want you to explain it to me.”

“Explain what?”

You sit up just enough to meet his eyes. The movement seems to take him by surprise, but he keeps his hands on you—one slipping to your cheek and the other still loyal to your back. He brushes his fingers over the delicate skin beneath your eye and you cover them with your own in an effort to get him to stop treating you so kindly. But even now, when you’re mad at him for being so gentle in the way that he hurts you, you can’t help but seek the familiar callus on the side of his trigger finger. It’s an odd thing to anticipate missing, but you’ll miss all of him. You can’t imagine holding a hand without that familiar anomaly—a cairn to show you where he’s been and who you’re holding.

He curls his warm hand around yours and you hold your joined fist out for him in emphasis, speaking louder than either of you were prepared for.

“This! You! I understand that we don’t feel the same way about each other and maybe I can’t change that. But then you do this and I don’t understand why. I don’t understand why this isn’t enough for you, because it’s enough for me, and I just—I don’t know what else I can give you. I don’t know what else there is. I don’t understand why I’m not... enough.” The tears are back and flowing freely, but you forge breathlessly ahead, because you’ve finally found a way to be honest and you’re not going to stop now. Spencer is frowning, lips parted and clearly confused or shocked or something, but you continue your confessional before he has the chance to interrupt. “I want to be enough, but you didn’t even give me the chance, and I don’t think it’s fair that we’re breaking up when you didn’t let me try. Maybe if you just told me, if you explained what’s missing I could fix it and you could love me back, and—please. I just want to try. Please, Spencer.”

A car engine revs somewhere far away, echoing down the street. It reverberates for several seconds, unimpeded by any other noise. Any word, any breath.

His voice is thin when he responds a moment later, still studying your face with a kind of scrutiny that is so indecipherable you don’t know how you expect him to respond.

“Love you back?”

You blink.

Your stomach drops.

For all that you’d revealed, for all that you’d willingly humiliated yourself with your pathetic supplication—you’d meant to keep that four letter word to yourself.

What a way to make an exit from your relationship.

Spencer is still looking at you, keeping you pinned to your seat, and as much as you wish it wasn’t the case he’s not going to let you off the hook this time. He’s going to demand an answer, and you have a 0% chance of bursting into mist before you have to provide an explanation, so you have no choice but to say something.

What, exactly, you’re going to say—you don’t know.

“I didn’t…”

“You didn’t mean it.”

The response comes so quickly, sharp as a slap, that you jump back slightly, a deep frown twisting your brow. Spencer makes no effort to keep his hand in yours as you slip from his grasp.

“That’s not what I was—”

“Just say what you mean.” Silence. “Tell me.”

It’s like he’s got an ice pick to your chest. It’s like he wants you to humiliate yourself even further, to punish you for your messy indiscretions.

“Spencer…”

It’s a warning. You’re giving him a chance to stop this before he hurts you sadistically. Before he becomes unrecognizable.

He swallows.

“Please.” And then, a second later, when you’re still trying to process the quiet pain in his voice and suddenly faced with the unexpected question of who is hurting who, “please, just… tell me if you meant it.”

For the first time tonight, you notice how exhausted he looks. Slightly gaunt, even paler than usual. Shadows pool deeper in the hollows of his face. His eyes look glossy, dark crescents below awaiting to catch tears you realize you’ve never seen fall. The tonal shift has you so disoriented, so out of your body like you’re seeing yourself in his own injuries—the truth becomes the only humane answer. Even if it hurts you.

“Yes. I meant it. You know I mean it.”

“I don’t know that,” he says on a shaky exhale. “How would I know that?”

And he’s got the ice pick back at your sternum. It’s tipped in poison. The mallet trembles in the air. So does your voice.

“You told me you didn’t feel the same. You said it was new for me and different and I was going to make things complicated and you treated me like I was a stupid kid, and—and it doesn’t even matter. This was dumb. I’m sorry I said anything, I don’t… I don’t know what I’m doing. I just.. I can’t do this.”

You’re about to open the door, every muscle tense as you wonder what the hell is wrong with you. What reduced you to the weepy, pathetic girl, begging a boy to love her despite knowing it doesn’t work like that—the same girl you’ve looked down your nose at in every film and TV show and in every high school and college hallway since you learned what self-superiority meant. Before you knew exactly what it felt like to be her.

“Wait.”

He says your name.

And of course you pause.

You want a reason to stay. If you had more self-respect, you wouldn’t. But you know you’ll give him as many chances to give you an excuse as he’s willing to take. You knew that before your fingers met the metal of the door handle.

“Just—hold on a second. Can you look at me?”

You sniffle and wipe your eyes with the heel of your palm before turning around to face him once more. You wonder if anyone will ever have the kind of power he has over you ever again.

The despair leaves only wisps of itself on his face—mostly he looks like he’s thinking hard about something. It’s jarring.

“You’re talking about our phone call on Sunday, right?”

You nod petulantly with a quick teary eye-roll because obviously that’s what you’re talking about.

Something lights in his own dark eyes as he inhales, parts his lips as if to speak, and stops himself again. Like he’s got news that he’s not sure how to break.

“The things I said, on that call… I wasn’t talking… about you.”

Your insides feel like tangled yarn as you stare at him uncomprehendingly.

“I mean, I was. I was talking about us. But not in the way you think, it was—” he stops, rubbing his eyes and taking a frazzled breath. “I know what it’s like to be the one who cares more. I have to assume that I’m the one who cares more because when I don’t, I ruin things. And with you, I felt like—the stakes were so high, and I thought it’d be safer for me to not say anything until I knew you felt the same. But I know that’s not fair to you so I tried to tell you over the phone that if you didn’t feel the same way it was okay. And now I’m—I’m realizing the way I phrased it was incredibly unclear and misleading, and somehow I fucked it up in a completely new way. But I wasn’t referring to you. I just didn’t want you to feel stuck with someone who can’t give you casual when you have so much ahead of you. I had no idea you felt that way about me. And I am so, so sorry that I hurt you. I never meant for that to happen.”

You blink.

And for some reason, begin sobbing.

Spencer freezes for a moment, then tells you to stay there and you barely have the capacity to wonder what he means as you hear his own door opening then slamming shut again. A moment later he’s on the passenger side, opening your door and leaning in.

“Hey,” he whispers, gently pulling your hands from your face and making you turn your head to look at him. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. But that’s good news, right? Why all the tears, lovely? What’s wrong? Please talk to me.”

You take a shuddering breath.

“This is all my fault, I ruined everything because I was too scared to tell you before and now—and now—”

Stroking your cheeks to wipe away the tears is a futile effort because they just keep coming, but Spencer does it anyway, and he speaks so kindly, so evenly it somehow hurts deeper.

You were terrible to him. And he had been prepared to accept that. He thought you didn’t love him, and he was still willing to be the subject of all your cryptic frostiness and inexplicable cruelty.

“It is not your fault. You didn’t ruin anything. I’m still right here. We’re okay.”

“But we’re breaking up, and—and I was so mean to you. That’s not okay, Spencer.”

You finally look at him. He’s close, eyes warm and wide as he looks directly into your own teary gaze, shaking his head earnestly.

“You were confused, honey. So was I. It was just a misunderstanding. But… I know I was unkind to you. I cannot express how sorry I am for that, and the last thing I want is for us to break up, but if you think that’s what’s best, I’ll… I’ll understand.”

His voice is dangerously thin by the end, strained with impending tears of his own. But he’s eternally kind—backlit by the streetlamps and beautiful like an angel. Whatever you want, he’ll give you. Even if it’s this.

“I don’t want that. I don’t.” You sigh, closing your eyes briefly against the world as you realize the impending breakup had been a delusion all along. That you were going to let your insecurities and some sick pride end the relationship for you. All that despair had been for nothing. Or—maybe not nothing. You realize he still hasn’t said it back. But you won’t be a coward. It’s not worth losing him. You open your eyes. “I just—I want us to be on the same page. And if you don’t love me yet or if you don’t wanna say it, or if you can’t, I get it—it’s okay, but if you don’t could you maybe just tell me? So that I’ll know—”

Before you can process it Spencer is leaning in, head angled to accommodate you, pressing his lips to yours so softly your breath catches and your stomach flips. Maybe softer than he ever has before, and it’s like taking a deep breath after holding it through a dark tunnel. You exhale a tentatively soft sigh against him, releasing air you don't have along with the fraught tension in most of your body. All too quickly he’s pulling away, hands still cupping your cheeks and thumbs stroking over your skin. When he speaks it’s not quite a whisper, but secret-soft.

“How could I not be so in love with you?”

Suddenly you can feel the world turning underneath you. Or maybe you’re just dizzy from lack of oxygen. Either way it feels good. A drop of warmth makes a splash in your stomach and slowly spreads through every vein and capillary until you’re sure you’re glowing gold.

“Really?”

“Of course really. I’m—” he takes a breath of his own, and you realize how difficult this must be after what happened the last time he professed his love for a girl. Your chest aches for him. His voice is low and solicitous, but it wavers slightly. “I should have told you sooner. I wanted to, but I was worried—I was worried the way I felt for you was… too much. I am so in love with you it scares me. I still don’t know what to say or how to act around you. When I’m gone, sometimes I imagine quitting my job, just so I can come home and see you sooner. When I have a gun in my hands, I start thinking about all the things I would do to keep you safe, or—or just because you asked me to. And if what you wanted was for me to leave you alone, I would have done that. If you wanted me to drop everything and everyone to be with you I would have done that. And I know you’d never ask those things of me. But any of them, I’d do in a heartbeat. Which is… it’s a little scary, huh?”

The final sentence is a nervous self-effacing chuckle, which you can match in sound only—one breathy attempt at a laugh from your slackened jaw.

When that’s the only response you can manage, he clears his throat.

“Too honest?”

You shake your head as if in a fog.

“No. Not too honest. But I’m just… I’m trying not to cry again.”

He smooths over your hair fondly. His own eyes are shiny and full of wonder as he studies you for a short while, like you're doing something much more awe-inspiring than sniffling in the passenger seat of his car. Then one hand is dropped to your shoulder and the other braced against your seat back. Finally, he pulls back to a more reasonable distance with a shaky sigh. It’s a sound of relief. You want to hug him, and all the past hims who have ever been hurt by anyone.

“You, um—you need to rehydrate. Do you have anything that will rebalance your electrolytes? If you don’t I can go to the store—”

“You don’t need to do that,” you assure him with a small, watery laugh, loosely grabbing the wrist that brushes your shoulder.

“But you need to take care of yourself. And I know you haven’t been drinking enough water because you never do.”

There’s a lingering overwrought shakiness to his voice, but it’s still the most relaxed he’s sounded since he came home, and you realize that the worst is behind you. The storm that you’d been so sure you couldn’t weather is somehow clearing up.

“I can’t believe we almost just broke up.”

He hangs his head, dropping it to the curve of your neck and groaning.

“Don’t say that. Let’s not think about that right now. Just—” when he raises his head again, and shakes it slightly to get his hair out of his eyes, they’ve cleared, like he’s on a mission to change the subject. “Let’s go upstairs. Will you let me take care of you?”

You give him an exaggerated nod, still sniffing, and the smile that grows on his face is like seeing the sun rise above the ocean. You love his smile. You love him.

Spencer kisses you on the cheek.

“Okay. Let me lock the car and then we can go up.”

As soon as you get into your apartment and turn on the light Spencer goes to the kitchen. It’s a small unit, but antique and nice enough, though you prefer Spencer’s. There’s still some tension as you observe him filling a glass with water, kicking your boots off by the door—but not necessarily the bad kind. You’re not sure exactly what it is.

“Where are you going?” He asks as you pass the kitchen area to turn on a standing lamp in the opposite corner of the room.

“I don’t like the big light.” A warm glow emanates through stained glass as you flick it on.

“I know that. I just didn’t realize it was a higher priority than your wellbeing.” His tone is sardonic but he’s already switching off the overhead lighting for you. You give him a wry smirk as you finally approach and take the proffered glass from his waiting hand.

“Ambience over everything, baby.”

His brows pinch at the cavalier sentiment—you never call him baby, so you're sure he knows it’s a joke—and he shakes his head with a humorous little huff of air through his nose, watching as you drink deeply. Your hand is shaking. Spencer notices and covers it with both of his, taking the half empty glass with one and grabbing your hand with the other.

“Adrenaline,” he murmurs, kissing your knuckles. “It’ll go away soon. Did you get enough?”

You nod, smiling small but genuinely. Emotionally exhausted or not, you’re happy.

Spencer strays, not far, to set the glass on the counter. Then he turns to face you, bracing his palms on the ledge and just watching you for a moment with the kind of smile that makes you nervous in the best way.

He beckons you to him with nothing more than a quick tilt of his head, and you shuffle across the floor in your socks til you’re toe to toe. Without your shoes on, he feels much taller. Still he just watches you for a moment—not that you mind. Your view isn’t half-bad. The faint warm glow from the lamp casts shadows over his face, highlighting all the perfect angles, deep brown eyes framed by dark lashes, and lips that still make you feel like a girl with a crush when you look at him. His hair is getting long. You’re unreasonably glad you still get to look at him like this.

“Hi,” you whisper—something about the intimate dark of the room feels like a place for secrets.

“Hi, pretty.” Spencer tucks hair behind your ear, eyes soft wherever they focus on your face like if he even looks at you too sharply you might break. “Have I told you how much I missed you while I was gone?”

He knows he hasn’t.

“Even when I was being a heinous bitch?”

Spencer laughs and it makes you smile too. The way his smile changes the landscape of his whole face will never feel any less like observing a natural phenomenon. It’s unfair how beautiful he is, and how you’re keeping him all to yourself in the dark on the fourth floor of an apartment building in DC.

“Even then. Not sure that’s the wording I would have used.”

“I missed you too,” you admit softly.

He maps your face with wandering eyes like he’s done a hundred times. Vaguely you wonder if he sees the same kind of beauty in you that you see in him. If he sees landmarks in your flaws and stars beyond the observable universe in your eyes.

Spencer sweeps your hair over your shoulder, fingertips grazing your neck.

“Can I kiss you?” He murmurs.

Butterflies fill your stomach and you nod shyly, unsure of what would come out if you tried to speak.

His free hand settles on your lower back and brings you into him until you’re chest to chest. With his other on your jaw, he bows his head, and you angle yours up, allowing your eyes to flutter shut.

Spencer kisses you so gently it aches in your chest, still cupping your face and stroking your cheek. You can’t help wrapping your arms around his middle—before he’s pulling away far too soon.

And he’s laughing.

“What were you drinking?”

You frown, flustered and trying to remember a time before his lips were on yours.

“Water.”

“Before that, baby. At the bar.”

You think back even further, head muddled even more by the endearment so that it takes you a moment to recall.

“A Shirley Temple. Derek brought it to me. Why? Is that bad?”

“No,” he says, still smiling as his lips brush yours. “You’re perfect. You taste like candy. It’s cute.”

Oh. You feel warm as he presses another kiss to your lips—and this time you insist on him staying awhile. He’s happy to oblige.

Spencer kisses you soft and careful at first, and then deeper, but still so slow, until you can’t help the way you’re bunching the fabric of his shirt between your fingers and rising on your toes to try and get impossibly closer. He kisses you the way you’ve been needing him to since he left, long and unhurried and sweet—and takes everything you give him, siphoning away all your leftover turmoil and angst until you’re weightless. You’re deprived of oxygen, you’re dizzy, and you don’t care at all.

“I love you,” you breathe against him before he captures your lips again with a hum that flips your stomach, his hand rubbing over your hip.

“Say it again,” he mutters against your mouth a second later, brushing hair away from your face.

It comes out a little mumbled this time between kisses, but it comes out all the same.

“Love you.”

He sighs into you—relief that mirrors your own.

“I love you.”

It seems like the kind of thing that will never stop sounding perfect from his lips.

A final deep kiss shortens into a series of smaller ones, and then he’s pulling away slowly, brushing the corner of your mouth affectionately.

Both of you require a few deep breaths—a moment to let your sparkling eyes wildly chart each familiar curve and convex and shade and shadow of the other’s face—before either of you can speak. Spencer breaks the silence first.

“I’m sorry.”

You frown, stirred from your brainless bliss by his unexpected apology.

“For what?”

The fiery glow in his eyes dampens slightly.

“For what I said at the bar.”

Oh.

That.

It feels like a lifetime away—memories seen through someone else’s eyes. Words like blows from a less familiar mouth.

You look away. For a while, you’d forgotten about that. Ideally he wouldn’t have reminded you.

At least he doesn’t make you look at him. He just strokes your hair, watching you examine the tiled counter. His voice is soft and soothing, like he’s appealing to a scared rabbit. Or maybe something angrier and with more teeth.

“You’re not immature, or badly behaved, or thoughtless. I was having an emotional reaction, I got defensive, and I lashed out. It was unfair and unkind of me to throw those things back in your face when I know how much trust it takes for you to be vulnerable with me. There’s nothing I can say or do that will adequately make up for that, but I want you to understand that I didn’t say any of it because it was the truth. I said it because I didn’t understand how you were feeling and I was hurt. I was insecure and I acted juvenile. I am so, so sorry, honey. You don’t have to forgive me, but you do need to know that none of it is true.”

Once you bite your lip long enough to be sure you won’t cry again, you speak.

“It’s okay,” you insist with a cheerfulness as natural as hard plastic, something in your chest twinging. “I was mean too. Like you said, we were both confused.”

“It is not. I made you cry.”

Sometimes you forget that he’s not like other people. He’ll never accept anything less than the barest truth. So you look back up at him and speak with a level of honesty that you hope satisfies him.

“I forgive you. You didn’t mean it. And I have insurance because Derek said he and Emily would kick your ass if you’re mean to me again.”

You hear the sad humor in his voice. His hand runs up and down your back.

“If I’m ever mean to you again, I personally invite you to kick my ass. And then let Derek and Emily have their turn.” He thumbs at your cheek, studying you in silence for a moment. “I can’t tell you how much I wish I could take it back.”

You stand up a little straighter. Spencer tracks you with his eyes, noting the way you smile slightly.

“You’ll find a way to make it up to me.”

“I’ll do anything for you,” he admits, barely a whisper and the truth of it so heavy you can feel it too.

But for tonight you can’t contend with more weight.

“You know what you could do right now?”

The mischief in your tone is obvious, and he hesitates, like he’s not sure he wants to let you move on from this so quickly. But eventually he plays along, pressing his thumb into the dip of your back and speaks lowly, just as you’d hoped he would.

“What’s that?”

You smile slyly.

“You could kiss me again.”

“Hm… I don’t know, three times in one night? Sounds a little excessive.”

“Do you want to be forgiven or not?” You huff. He smiles lazily, already dipping his head to press his lips to yours.

“I thought I was already forgiven.”

“Apologies can be retracted.”

“Ah.” His next words are mumbled as his lips ghost yours. “Well we wouldn’t want that.”

Spencer puts you out of your misery, not bothering to warm you up to it before he’s kissing you with a deep need. It’s still languid, and not hungry, exactly—it’s more like an aching, mind-numbing thirst. It’s all-consuming, overwhelming to have all of his burning focus pinpointed on you like this. Both hands come to cup your face and you wonder if he wants you in ways that he doesn’t entirely understand, just as you want him. You wonder if anything could possibly sate this desire to possess him completely and for him to possess you, to trade corporeal forms—or if it’s just something you’ll have to live with like a metaphysical itch you can’t scratch. As he forces you to tip your head back for him, using his height to his advantage, breathing deeply against you and attempting to push himself impossibly closer, you begin to think he understands exactly how you feel.

As soon as you’d sensed he wanted it, your lips had parted for him. He knows he could have any part of you. He knows how eager you are to give yourself to him. You’ve done everything to prove it, and yet you’ve never needed him quite like you do ask he pushes off the counter and slowly backs you against the wall, protecting your head with a hand as the paintings rattle ever so slightly. You gasp into his mouth and he kisses you greedier still, but his hands don’t stray from your cheeks.

Not until, that is, you hook your right leg around his left, and he catches it, fingers wrapping under the bend of your knee.

Never in your life have you regretted picking jeans rather than a skirt more than you do right now.

But to your disappointment, Spencer slows down to a halt—pulling his lips from yours like they’d been stuck by molasses until he’s far enough away to study you wildly, panting just as you are. His hair hangs over his smoldering eyes. He’s disheveled. It’s sexy.

“What?” You whisper, voice surprisingly hoarse.

He looses a dry, abashed laugh. The flush he’s sporting is incredibly charming.

“I’m supposed to be playing nice with you.”

Spencer says it like it’s a mild hindrance. Something frissons in your core. You smile a little wider as you continue to catch your breath, which seems to please him.

“Playing nice?”

“Being gentle. I’m not supposed to push my favorite things against walls when they’re delicate.”

Your face heats at the way he speaks of you—if it weren’t Spencer, if you didn’t know he really doesn’t think of you as an object, you’d be pissed. But instead all you can think about is how good it feels when he calls you his.

“According to who?”

His eyes dart between yours and then down to your lips several times before he averts them to the wall beside you with an intensity that could burn holes through the plaster. Is that how he looks at you?

“According to me. I think… god, you're going to hate me for this. But I think I need you to kick me out.”

You drop your leg at the same time as you do your heart.

“What?”

“I know,” he says, over-apologetically, “I know, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let that escalate. But we can’t… do anything tonight.” Before you can protest, he rushes to explain himself. “It’s just that it’s been a long day. It’s been a long week, actually, and I doubt either of us have slept very much, and I think you’re really drained, and probably not thinking super clearly. I don’t think you’re in the best place for decision making.”

You look pointedly down to where he still has you pressed to the wall.

“I think I’m in a great place.”

At that he steps back, but lets his hands find yours and pulls you away from the wall—just not quite as close as before. His nose bumps against yours as he speaks low and sweet.

“I understand that you want me to stay right now. But it’s not a good idea to associate fighting with physical pleasure. That can set some really dangerous patterns.”

“We’re not fighting,” you plead, matching his tone as you look up at him with big eyes. His fingers lace with yours.

“You’re right. Maybe fighting was the wrong word. But we had some pretty intense conversations today, didn’t we?”

Reluctantly you nod.

“Right,” he agrees. “Same premise. We need to be able to have those conversations without getting distracted.”

In a last ditch attempt to get him to change his mind, you give him your best approximation of the imploring, wide-eyed gaze he sometimes uses on you. Something not entirely smile and not entirely smirk twists the corners of his mouth. When he ducks down to kiss you quickly, you reciprocate, but you lack the enthusiasm of earlier.

“Hey.”

“Hm,” you respond, dejectedly.

“Don’t get all grumpy because I don’t put out.”

That puts a disgruntled little smile on your face as he probably knew it would.

“I guess you just gave it up easy to all those other women.”

He grabs your chin and gives you a final peck.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never been with other women.”

“Mhm,” you grumble good-naturedly, pushing away from him and going to the door to undo the deadbolt. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

“Wow. I really must have overstayed my welcome if that’s the goodbye I get.”

You turn back around, brows raised.

“Oh, I was prepared to be very welcoming. This is your doing.”

“Uh-huh. Come here.”

Happily you skitter back across the few feet of wooden flooring and wrap your arms tightly around him one more time, pressing your cheek to his chest. He’s ready, winding his arms over yours and rubbing your back. It’s eerily similar, you realize as he presses his face into the concave of your shoulder, to when he’d left on that most recent case.

But at the same time—everything’s different.

And you won’t make the same mistake twice.

“Hey,” you smile, resting your head on his shoulder. Spencer pulls back to look at you, a similar grin on his face.

“Hey what?”

“I remembered what I was gonna say.”

The grin widens. He knows exactly what you’re talking about.

“Tell me.”

“I was going to tell you that I love you. And—I hope you’re not one of those people who’s uncomfortable being told that often. Because if that’s the case I’m really going to annoy you.”

“I’m not that kind of person,” he assures. “Tell me as often as you can.”

“But you should say it back. It’s more polite that way.”

“I love you,” he murmurs, in a voice more serious than your teasing tones had been but still soft and sweet around the edges. “You know, people talk about love as if it’s completely irrational and illogical. But with you… I think the world actually makes more sense than it used to. I understand things I never did before. You’ve taught me a lot.”

It’s like a lightshow in your stomach. You wonder if he has any idea the effect his casual musings have on you.

“You already knew everything.”

“Not everything,” Spencer whispers. “Not about the things that matter.”

And you’re fresh out of teases. All you can do is look up at him with big eyes again, in awe of the fact that you get to keep him after all.

“Will you text me when you get home?” You request, voice reverent in the wake of an admission you could never hope to top.

“I will. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

You nod, because it doesn’t even matter if you had other plans tomorrow. They’re as good as cancelled.

Spencer kisses your cheek, and you get the sense that things are still being left unfinished. There’s an unresolved tension that you can’t shake, even after all the apologies and kisses and sweet words. Still, he made a point with his talk about not mixing argument with pleasure, and you’d like to respect those wishes because you respect him—even if every atom of your being shakes with desire to keep him locked in your bedroom, hidden away from the world together, for as long as you can possibly manage.

Eventually, you loosen your hold, and you let him go. He lingers at the door, hands in his pockets, just watching you and mirroring your small smile as you hold onto the counter with an iron grip to keep yourself in check. After he finally peels his gaze away from yours and silently closes the door behind him, you stand there, staring at the wood for at least a minute.

Once you manage to shake yourself from your revery with a deep breath, you grab your glass from earlier and stand in front of the sink, watching it fill with a white jet of water. It’d be a shame to admit it to him, but maybe Spencer is right. Maybe you do need time to emotionally digest today. After all—that was technically your first argument. It seems to have left you sort of wound up. Not in a bad way, per se—maybe you just need to take a shower, let the hot water roll over your shoulders and wash away the frenetic energy that clings to you.

Still, something tells you that you won’t be getting much sleep tonight, even if you do take the world’s longest shower. You’re simply too high-strung. You wonder if having Spencer here would fix that or make it worse. But ultimately, he’d made the call that it was a bad idea for him to stay, and you’re generally inclined to trust his judgement.

The thought makes you laugh into your cup as you drink. Even after the debacle that was the past week, you trust him to know what he’s doing. Maybe you need to rethink that, at least temporarily, until he’s had a chance to redeem himself.

Just then, your front door is opening with absolutely zero warning and slamming shut again before you can finish whipping around. Your heart threatens to choke you and you almost drop your glass, clutching your chest.

“Jesus, you—”

But the words die in your throat as Spencer storms toward you, shrugging his coat off with a white-hot chill in his eyes. It’s enough to freeze you in place, heart drumming against the confines of your ribs.

“You really need to start locking that door,” he breathes, tossing his jacket on the counter before grabbing your face and crashing his lips into yours, palms pressed to your jaw and fingers pushing into your hair. You stand there, hands hovering in air before you gain the wherewithal to blindly set the glass down behind you. Your heart is pounding as you immediately submit to the kiss, whining softly against his lips and cautiously seeking stability in the fabric of his shirt. Spencer pulls away only briefly, allowing you to gasp for much-needed air. His brown eyes are like molten gold on you, pupils blown wide and wild as he scans your face, taking heavy breaths of his own. “Anyone could just walk in.”

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