#they’re like 20 minutes away by bus. THIS ONE! IS! OVER AN HOUR

[kissmefriendly]

I really look forward to my support group meetings but by god I don’t want to go to the support group. Ya know?

[daisynik7]

Rush

Chapter 3: After Party

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x f!reader

Rating: Explicit

cw: underaged drinking, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, blowjob, daddy kink, cum eating, corruption kink

Summary: Alpha Tau and Sigma Nu Kappa volunteer together at the Trost District Food Bank. After the event, the brothers invite the sisters back to Mike’s house for a kickback, where you revisit a familiar room.

Notes: Chapter title inspired by “After Party” by Don Toliver

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Rush Series Masterlist

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A week after the first exchange of the semester, Alpha Tau hosts a volunteer event at the charity of their choice: the Trost District Food Bank. That Saturday morning, the sisters of Sigma Nu Kappa meet them at the front of their fraternity house, waiting for the charter bus to arrive. 

Eren has tried all week not to think about what happened the night of the exchange. It was all just a casual hookup. Nothing major, no big deal. He even told her it would be a one-time kind of thing. He isn’t trying to get tied down by one girl, especially not one in Sigma Nu Kappa.

He won’t admit it out loud, but he cares to some degree about his reputation. Why would he hook up with a Sigma Nu Kappa when he could get an Eta Iota girl? Or a Delta Mu? They are the hottest girls on campus. Perfect for him to play around with and live out his frat boy dream.  

He has caught himself a few times this week, jerking off in the shower, thinking about the way his fingers slid in and out of her pussy. The way she sucked him in and clenched around him, so tight and wet. How she fucked herself onto his fingers without him even telling her to. How she took his whole cock into her mouth, swallowing his load without complaint. For an innocent virgin, she sure acted like a freak. And that intrigues him. But he’s sure he’ll find another girl in the other sororities that is as eager and willing to indulge in his depraved fantasies. 

No one else knows about what they did that night. Mikasa didn’t even bother searching for him or her roommate after getting caught up in a riveting game of beer pong against Hange. It seems like they both had a mutual understanding to keep their little rendezvous a secret. 

Still, it’s in his mind to try and avoid her at today’s event. Just to save themselves from any awkwardness. Knowing how embarrassed she got over a simple Truth or Dare game, he assumes she’ll be extra fragile if she were to see him today. 

Eren hangs out in the back of the crowd, next to Jean and Marco. Armin stands next to Erwin in the front, volunteering to help organize everyone into groups. Subconsciously, he gets on his tip toes to look at the SNK sisters, huddling together in their matching sorority letters. He spots her, standing beside Mikasa, arms linked together like two best friends. He wonders if she told Mikasa what happened between them, how his best friend would react knowing he’s corrupted her precious little roommate. 

Remembering not to think about her, he shakes away his current thoughts and tries to engage in conversation with Jean and Marco to distract himself. They all start loading into the bus, sisters first. He’s the last passenger and takes the open seat at the very front, next to Hange, unfortunately. 

It’s a 20-minute ride to the food bank, which feels like an hour to Eren as he desperately tries to avoid Hange’s invasive questions. “What’s your blood type?” “What’s your workout regimen?” “Have you ever broken any bones?”

When they’re finally there, they all exit the bus and gather in a warehouse, surrounded by pallets full of canned goods and prepackaged foods. The food bank coordinators greet them and explain their tasks for the day. When they’re done, Erwin and Armin go around, assigning each person to a group. 

“Eren, you’ll be in the corner over there, where Reiner is,” Armin informs him. 

He goes towards Reiner, who is already joined by Mike and eventually Erwin. They wait as the sisters of Sigma Nu Kappa get themselves organized. A few minutes later, three sisters walk towards them. Eren immediately recognizes Annie and Petra. When they get closer, he sees who their third member is.

It’s her. Mikasa’s roommate. The virgin. 

Fuck.

~~~

You decide not to tell Mikasa about your little sex-capade with her childhood best friend. Not because you think she would react in some type of way, but because you feel embarrassed for even having that experience to begin with. 

The whole week, you try your best not to think about Eren. You succeed at this, for the most part. His harsh words and blank expression are always at the forefront of your mind. But the memory of him fucking you with his fingers and calling you a good girl sneaks its way in and makes your pussy throb. Makes you want him, despite his asshole behavior.

Naturally, you feel nervous to see him at this volunteer event. No matter how much you remind yourself that Eren Jaeger is a dick, you still don’t trust yourself enough to keep your cool around him. At least you’ll be able to avoid him today. It’s just a volunteering event, there’s no way you’ll need mingle with him.

That’s what you think. Until you’re assigned to the same group.

You, Annie, and Petra are directed by Hange to join a group at one corner of the warehouse, sorting through some of the canned goods. As you make your way over, you see Eren, man bun and all, wearing the same type of joggers he wore a week ago. The same ones you shoved down his legs to suck his thick cock. 

Pull it together, you think to yourself. He probably hasn’t thought about you since. He probably doesn’t even remember your name. 

You hide behind your sisters, wanting to avoid seeing him as much as possible. Petra is her bubbly self as usual, introducing herself to a tall, blond brother who you didn’t see at last week’s party. His name is Reiner, and he wears a bored expression on his face the whole time as Petra talks animatedly to him. 

When mingling time is done, you stick close to Annie, who has since apologized to you for what she did at the Truth or Dare game. There are three different pallets, each one holding a huge box filled with canned goods. Your task is to go through each one, check the expiration dates, and separate the vegetables from the fruits. After a few minutes of sorting through cans, chatting casually with Annie, Petra comes over to your side. “You two should mingle with the Alpha Tau brothers,” she suggests.

“How can we ‘mingle’ when we’re too busy sorting through these cans,” Annie says, sarcastically.

“Well, you two are chatting away with each other just fine, I expect you to do the same with the Alpha Tau brothers! That’s the whole point of this collab!”

With a roll of her eyes, Annie relents. “Fine. Who do you want me to talk to?”

“Well, that Reiner guys seems –”

“Not him. Anyone else, besides him.”

That’s right; you remember Annie mentioning her dislike for Reiner a few weeks ago.

“Then go talk to Mike. He’s nice.”

Annie takes her time walking to another box, leaving you with Petra. She looks at you with a kind smile. “So, think you can take two guys at once?”

“Huh?” 

“Oops, didn’t mean to make that sound so dirty, ha ha! I mean, I’m going to have two of the brothers help you on this side. Eren and Reiner.” Before you can protest, Petra waves over in the distance, calling for them. You pretend to focus on two different cans of corn as they approach her.

“Okay, Eren and Reiner. This is my sorority sister.” Petra introduces you, then she skips away to join Erwin at his box. “Have fun, you three!”

You drop the cans to look at them. They both have blank expressions on their face. Eren crosses his arms over his chest, gaze on the ground. Holding your hand out to the blond, you greet, “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, sure,” he responds, giving you a half-assed handshake. 

“Nice to see you again, Eren.” 

He turns his head to you and nods. “Yeah, sure.”

Great. There’s two of them. 

You scoot to one side of the box, trying your best focus on the task. Eren and Reiner stand beside each other, the blond closer to you, as they start sorting through the cans. It’s silent at first, until Reiner starts talking to his brother. You eavesdrop on their conversation.

“There’s another Eta Iota party tonight. Hopefully you can make it this time.”

“Yeah, I should be able to,” Eren replies.

“Dude, those chicks are wild. Hooked up with two girls last week. You’re fresh meat, so they’ll fucking love you.”

It takes all your willpower not to roll your eyes at what this creep is saying. 

“Erwin is so fucking lame. He told me and Bertolt off for not attending the exchange last week. Fucking prick. Why should I attend a party with absolutely zero girls I’d like to fuck in there?”

Either he’s totally forgotten you exist, or he really doesn’t give a shit. Either way, you keep to yourself, wishing you had brought your headphones to drown out the bullshit. From the corner of your eye, you see Eren glance at you as his brother continues to berate your sorority. “The most boring, ugliest chicks on campus, and we’re the sad fuckers paired with them. What a fucking joke.”

“Reiner,” Eren starts, but before he can get a word in, you snap.

“Well, fuck you too, Reiner. I hope for your own sake, and for the sake of those poor girls that had to fuck you last week, you at least have a big cock to compensate for your shitty personality.”

He turns to you with a cocky smirk. “Maybe I do have a big cock. Bet you’d like to see it.”

“Only if I need to induce vomiting,” you retort. 

“You wouldn’t even know what to do with it anyways. Everyone knows SNK girls are all prudes. Right, Eren?” 

He focuses on the food in the box. Without looking up, he mutters, “Yeah.” 

You should have expected this from him based on what he said to you last week. But you still can’t help yourself from feeling disappointed in his response. At least this will make it easier to forget about him and move on. 

Unsure how to react, you turn your attention back to the canned goods, hoping you can block out Reiner and Eren for the next hour. You’re tempted to ask Petra to switch to a different group, but you don’t want to give Reiner the satisfaction of thinking he got under your skin, which he did. So, you just sort through the vegetables and fruits in silence.

A couple of minutes pass, then you hear Reiner say, “I gotta take a shit. I’ll be back.” He leaves toward the bathroom, leaving you and Eren alone. 

~~~

When Reiner is out of earshot, Eren clears his throat. “Hey. Are you okay?”

She sorts through the cans, pretending not to hear him. Eren moves a little closer and repeats, “Are you okay?”

Without looking up, she responds, “Yeah, sure.”

He maintains his neutral expression, but inside, he can’t help but chuckle at her repeating the same “cool guy” response he gave to her earlier. He finds it amusing.  

“Sorry about Reiner. He’s a dick.”

She scoffs but doesn’t say anything else. Taking the hint, he decides to stop talking about his big bro and ask, “So, how have you been?”

“Do you really care?” 

He’s surprised by the venom in her voice. “Hey, I’m just trying to keep things cordial between us. Keep the peace,” he offers.

Finally, she looks up at him and says, “Well, I can’t just stand back and listen to some asshole talk shit about people I care about.”

“Yeah, I get it. I’m the same way.”

They stare at each other for a couple seconds, not speaking. Studying one another. Eren wishes he was a mind reader so he can tell what she’s thinking.

He makes small talk, asking her about her major and her hometown. He finds out she’s from Krolva District and majors in bioengineering. He reveals that he’s from Shinganshina and is doing philosophy. 

“What do you want to do with your philosophy major?” she asks.

“I’m trying to get into law school, actually. I want to be a lawyer.” 

“Oh nice. I can see you doing that.”

He smirks. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I can totally see you using some Jedi mind tricks to manipulate someone into doing something, like confessing.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“I guess it depends. You can use it to get whatever you want from people.”

For some reason, at those words, his mind goes back to last week.

Let me make you feel good.

Fuck yourself on my fingers. Just like that.

Suddenly, he blurts out, “Last week was fun, by the way.” Shit. He wasn’t planning to mention it, but he does. He rubs the back of his neck, a bit flustered by his admission.

She breaks eye contact and looks down at the ground. “Yeah, it was.”

Maybe we can do it again, he’s tempted to say. There he goes again, thinking with his dick and not his brain. He can’t help it. His mind is filled with the memory of her on top of him, a moaning mess, rubbing herself against his hand. His fingers covered in her shiny cum, so tantalizing he almost stuck it in his mouth to taste. 

Why is his mind so occupied by this girl? He barely knows her. She’s not even his type. What about her is pulling him in? And how can he stop it?

With perfect timing, Reiner returns, taking the same spot in between them. “Damn, we’ve still got a whole hour left of this shit,” he grunts.

Eren glances over and sees her focus back on the canned goods. He wonders if she’s thinking about him the same way he’s thinking about her. Probably not. Even he can admit that he acted like a dick after their encounter. 

As Reiner babbles on about stupid shit, Eren tries to avoid looking at her for the remainder of the time. Tonight, he’ll find a hot Eta Iota girl to fuck and forget about her. That’s what he needs to do to move on from the girl that has taken over his thoughts the past week. Simple and easy as that.

When the event is done, everyone gets into the bus to head back to campus. When it pulls into the front of the fraternity house, Levi stands up to speak.

“Alpha Tau brothers and Sigma Nu Kappa sisters. Thank for a successful volunteer event at the Trost District Food Bank. The coordinators are very pleased with our work and extend their gratitude. Also, Mike has another announcement he’d like to make. 

Mike gets up and announces, “I’d like to invite you all over to my place again for a little kickback tonight. BYOB. I’ll order some pizzas and we can just chill.”

Mostly everyone is excited for that news, except Reiner and Bertolt, who maintain their stoic expressions. Eren tries to match their energy, knowing he’s going to be out partying with them tonight. 

When they all exit the bus, Eren catches up with Mikasa and Armin, who he’s barely spoken to all day. 

“Eren! How did it go with your group?” Armin asks. 

“It was alright, I guess.”

Mikasa sighs. “I wish I was in either of your groups. I was stuck with Jean, and he kept trying to flirt with me.” 

Armin laughs. “That’s Jean for you. Anyways, will you be going to Mike’s tonight, Mikasa?”

“Probably. We’ll ask Petra to buy some alcohol for us so we can bring something. You guys are gonna be there, right?”

“Yeah, of course!” Armin exclaims. 

Eren doesn’t say anything until they both look at him, waiting for an answer. 

“What?” he asks, playing dumb.

“You’re going to be at Mike’s tonight, right Eren?”

Nope, not this time. Armin and Mikasa will not guilt him again. “I’m going to an Eta Iota party with Reiner.”

“Eta Iota?!”

“Reiner?!”

“Look, I just want to check it out, okay? It’s not a big deal,” he explains. 

His two friends stare at him for a few seconds. Mikasa’s eyebrows are furrowed, and a prominent frown is apparent on her face. Armin looks nervous and concerned. 

Eren shrugs. “Seriously, it’s one party. I just want to meet some of the other people.” 

After they exchange a few more concerned looks at each other, Armin relents. “Okay. Well, have fun.”

Mikasa remains silent and looks down at the ground. 

It’s not like he needs the permission of his friends to do what he wants. But he’d rather be honest with them instead of sneaking around and lying about it. Soon enough, they’ll figure out that nothing will stop him from getting what he wants. And tonight, no one will stop him from going to this party.

“Hey, Mikasa. Ready for lunch?” Mikasa’s roommate walks towards them with a smile. Eren notices how she avoids his gaze. 

“Yeah, I’m starving. Armin, want to come with us? We’re just going to the dining hall.”

“Sure.”

Eren, a little peeved, jokes, “Thanks for the invite.”

With narrowed eyes, Mikasa responds, “I thought you would be getting lunch with your big bro, Reiner.” 

“It doesn’t suit you to be childish, Mikasa,” he responds. 

“Whatever. Have fun at your Eta Iota party, I guess.”

“Maybe I’ll come by before to pre-game. We can hang out for a bit.” He looks at Mikasa’s roommate when he says this, trying to gauge her reaction. She just gazes down at the ground, avoiding eye contact. 

Mikasa links arms with her and states, “Fine. We’re going to lunch now.” They start walking away towards the dining hall. 

Before following the girls, Armin sticks around to warn, “Be careful, Eren. With Reiner.” His tone is serious.

“You worry too much. He’s my big bro. He’s cool.”

“I know you think that. But Annie has told me some stuff about him. You’re not like him, Eren. You shouldn’t try to be like him.”

“I don’t know what I’m like yet, Armin. That’s what I’m trying to figure it out. And you and Mikasa need to let me find that out on my own.” Why is everyone on his case? Why can’t they just let him be?

With one more concerned look, Armin waves goodbye and catches up with the girls, leaving Eren alone in front of the frat house.

~~~

After lunch, you and Mikasa head back to your dorm room to study and relax. Mike’s party isn’t till later in the night, so you take a much needed nap while Mikasa heads to the gym to work out. 

You take a shower and get ready, opting to wear more comfortable clothes since it’s supposed to be a more low-key party compared to last week’s exchange. As you sit at the edge of your bed, waiting for Mikasa to change into her stylish athletic wear, she brings up Eren.

“I think Reiner is a bad influence on Eren.”

Mikasa hasn’t brought him up all week. The last she spoke of him was after the exchange, when the two of you were situated in your beds, recounting the night. She teased you for thinking he was the hottest guy in the room. She even apologized on his behalf for refusing to kiss you during the game, still completely unaware of what he did to you right after. So, the sudden mention of his name startles you.

You didn’t tell her what happened earlier today at the volunteer event. How Reiner said awful things about the sorority, how Eren blindly agreed with his big brother. It doesn’t seem important enough to report to her or to anyone else. A small part of you also doesn’t want to rat out Eren for his behavior. But it seems it’s already obvious to his closest friends.

Feigning ignorance, you ask, “What do you mean?”

“Annie said Reiner is a typical frat boy. I’m nervous that Eren is going to try to be like that.”

Mikasa also doesn’t know what Eren told you, only minutes after meeting you for the first time:

Guys join frats to party and fuck, and that’s what I intend to do.

She continues. “I know Eren isn’t like that. But today, he told me and Armin he’s going to an Eta Iota party with Reiner, and I just can’t help but worry.”

“What are you worried about?” 

“That he’s going to make some bad decisions tonight, under the guidance of his big brother.” 

What can you even say to Mikasa right now? Do you agree with her, knowing fully well that Eren is on a mission to be the biggest fuck boy on campus? It’s only going to make her worry more. Trying to calm her nerves, you reassure her. “You know Eren better than anyone. If you say he isn’t like that, then I’m sure you’re right. Besides, he’s a big boy. He can make his own decisions. It’s not your responsibility to look after him.”

Before she can respond, you add, “You’ve got to live your life too. You can’t spend every waking moment worrying about your friend.”

She frowns, still anxious but contemplating your advice. Eventually, she agrees, “Yeah, you’re right.” It’s unconvincing, but it seems enough to appease her for the time being. 

Once you’re both ready, the two of you walk to the Sigma Nu Kappa house to meet the rest of your pledge class and Petra, who has kindly offered to provide the alcohol tonight for the underaged sisters. You all walk together to Mike’s off-campus house, carrying White Claws inconspicuously in tote bags. 

When Petra knocks on the door, you’re all greeted happily by Mike, who ushers you in. “Welcome, ladies. Pizzas already here, so help yourselves.”

Most of the senior sisters are already here, including Hange and Nanabe. There are several Alpha Tau brothers in attendance, like Erwin and Levi, who currently stand in the kitchen conversing with each other. All the new brothers are in attendance, except for Eren. They are gathered on the couch, playing Mario Kart on the big screen. Overall, it’s less crowded than the exchange last week, but still lively. 

You grab a box of pizza to bring to the couch and crack open a White Claw, watching Jean, Connie, Armin, and Marco race each other. Mikasa and Sasha sit beside you, grabbing a piece of pizza and sipping on their own hard seltzer. When one of the races is finished, Jean reaches over to grab a slice and say, “So, I heard Jaeger is going to an Eta Iota party tonight.”

“Who told you?” Mikasa questions.

“Armin mentioned it when I asked if he’s coming.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Jealous? I’d much rather be here with you.” He directs his smile at Mikasa, who blushes. You try to hide a grin behind your White Claw. 

Sasha adds, “Annie’s roommate is in Eta Iota. Hitch Dreyse.”

“Is she hot?” Connie asks, joining in their conversation.

“Yeah, she’s cute. She was in my group during recruitment. Want me to introduce you to her?” 

As Sasha slides next to Connie on the other side of the couch to inspect Hitch’s Instagram page, Armin takes the now empty spot next to you. “Hey Mikasa, have you heard anything from Eren? He did say he might come here to pre-game.”

In a quiet voice, Mikasa responds, “I haven’t heard anything.”

“Maybe I should text him. See where he is right now.”

In a more assertive voice, Mikasa says, “Armin, stop. We can’t keep worrying about Eren. Just…let him be.”

A few seconds pass before Armin sighs and agrees. “Yeah. Okay.”

Sensing the need to change the mood, you pat both of their hands and exclaim, “You know what will get your minds off Eren? A drinking game! Let’s go!”

You pull on their hands until they reluctantly get up, following you into the living room. A group of people, mostly the seniors, sit on the ground surrounding a ring of playing cards face down with a large beer mug in the middle.

“My little babies!” Hange exclaims. “We’re about to start King’s Cup! Come join us!”

After a brief explanation of the rules, the game starts. The oldest in the circle is elected to go first. Erwin draws a card and reveals a four of hearts. “Alright, ladies. Drink.”

“Wait, why? What does a four mean again?”

“C’mon, Erwin. You have to say it properly. Four is for whores. All you ladies drink.”

Erwin furrows his thick eyebrows. “I’m not going to say that about these lovely women.”

“It’s just for the game, idiot. Everyone knows we don’t mean it,” Levi clarifies, as he goes next. “Ahhh, a six. Drink up, dicks.” 

Copious amounts of alcohol are consumed as more cards are drawn. Mikasa pulls out an ace, meaning everyone must drink until she stops. She ends up chugging her newly opened White Claw, making everyone else finish whatever alcohol they had in hand. Armin draws an eight, prompting him to choose you as his “mate”; you have to drink every time he does. Hange has to “bust a jive” when she reveals a five, to which she performs a sad attempt at twerking, resulting in Levi throwing a few ones at her from his pockets. When Mike draws another eight a few turns later, he strategically chooses Armin as his buddy, a naughty expression on his face. Feeling a little tipsy already, you groan, “So now every time Mike drinks, I also have to drink? What the fuck!” 

Throughout the next hour, more asses are shaken, four different rounds of Never Have I Ever is played, three people pour a large amount of their liquor into the beer mug after drawing a king. And unfortunately for you, the chain of drinking buddies expands to Erwin and Levi, so whenever either of them drink, you have to as well. 

A very drunk Armin pulls the last king from the cards. His name is chanted as he guzzles down the nasty looking beer mug like a champ, ending the game. Everyone gets up to disperse, either to get more alcohol in the kitchen or to walk off the drunkenness. As they pass, the Alpha Tau brothers pat Armin’s back as he gives them a goofy grin, eyes glazed over with intoxication. 

On your way towards the kitchen, Mike walks besides you, giving you a playful nudge. “You were a trooper, having to deal with all your drinking mates.”

You poke your finger at his chest. “You’re the one who started it! I blame you for this.” 

He smirks as he brushes a few hairs away from your forehead. “Don’t worry. You’re still cute when you’re drunk.”

Is he hitting on you? A senior? The Mike Zacharias? 

For some reason, you think about Eren. What’s he doing right now? He’s probably flirting with some Eta Iota girl, maybe even fucking her at this very moment. Doing exactly what he wants to do. What’s stopping you from doing the same? Why can’t you flirt a little with someone else? It’s not like you and Eren are dating. You’re not even friends. Barely even acquaintances. 

Why can’t you shake this lingering feeling of guilt?

You give Mike a polite smile and mutter a shy, “Thank you.” 

“Do you have a boyfriend, princess?”

Your heart skips a beat when he calls you that. It’s sweet hearing him use a pet name like this. But something possesses you in this moment to lie. Not because you want to reject his advances. The reason has to do with Eren.

Eren, with his lazy man bun and bad boy attitude. Eren, who acts likes he doesn’t give a shit to impress his big brother Reiner. Eren, whose fingers have christened your body, making you feel pleasure you’ve never felt before in your life. Making you crave more of his touch. Making you wonder what other obscene things he can do to your virginal body.

There’s a twisted part of you that wants him to be the first to defile you. To ruin you.

So, you lie. “Yeah. I do,” you tell Mike.

He reacts kindly, putting his hands up in surrender with a grin. “Got it. I’m sorry.”

“I’m flattered. Really. You’re sweet.”

He keeps smiling at you when he says, “He’s a lucky guy. I hope he tells you how beautiful you are every day. I know I would.” He heads into the other room, leaving you alone in your thoughts.

God. It’s almost physically painful to watch him walk away. What the hell are you doing? Here’s this guy, older, mature, sweet, and you turn him away? Because of someone who doesn’t even try to pretend to give a shit about you. He’s already told you it was a one-time thing. You’re not interesting enough for him. Why are you still holding out hope? Where’s your self-respect?

Again, there’s that twisted part of your brain that makes excuses for him. Today at the volunteer event, when it was just the two of you, he made it a point to mention, Last week was fun, by the way. Why would he bring it up if it didn’t mean something? 

You make your way to Mikasa, who leans on the counter in the kitchen chatting with Levi. Drunk and dizzy, you rest your head on her shoulder, face hot and breathing shallow. 

“Is she okay?” You hear Levi ask her. 

“She’s drunk. Here, drink some water,” she tells you, shoving a cup to your lips. You tip it into your mouth sloppily, dribbling on yourself.

“She should rest in the guest room upstairs,” Levi advises. 

Taking his recommendation, Mikasa leads you upstairs into the bathroom to do your business and splash cold water onto your face. The two of you walk past Mike’s room and slip into the one you hid in last week. You flop onto the bed, still dizzy and antsy as she forces you to hydrate more.

She brushes a few hairs away to feel your face. “Geez, your cheeks are burning up. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, think I just need to take a quick nap.”

“You sure you’ll be okay in here? We’ll just be watching a movie a downstairs.”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” you assure her. “Just come get me when you’re ready to leave.”

“Okay. Call me if you need anything. And finish the rest of that water.” 

She gives you a small smile before closing the door behind her, leaving you in the dark. Moonlight shines dimly through the window. The bed feels cool against your burning skin. You sit up to drink more water, trying your best to sober up. You can already feel the effects of the alcohol wearing off as you continue to hydrate. Resting your head on the pillow, you close your eyes for a several minutes, using the distant sound of the party below as white noise. You can’t sleep, but the least you could do is try to rest. 

After a while, you open your eyes again, suddenly aware of your current location. Being in this room makes you think about Eren. You can’t help it. This is where you had your first kiss. Your first sexual experience. You feel a sensation growing between your legs as you remember the dirty details of last week. His fingers disappearing in you, this thumb caressing your clit tenderly, his cock sliding in and out of your wet mouth, his cum shooting into the back of your throat. 

Fuck. It’s too much. Too good. You reach down, fingers past the hem of your leggings and into your panties, where you feel yourself already wet from your arousal. With your middle finger, you gather up your slick and rub small circles around your clit. You let the pleasure build up before you start moaning louder, tapping away at your swelling bud. With your free hand, you slide your leggings and panties past your ass, leaving your pussy bare as you keep touching yourself.

You don’t think about getting caught in the act until you hear the bedroom door shut and a familiar silhouette walking towards you. 

~~~

Eren arrives at the Eta Iota party already tipsy. Him, Reiner, and Bertolt pre-gamed in the Alpha Tau house before arriving to the off-campus party. When Reiner knocks on the door, a girl named Sandra greets them. “Hey Reiner, glad you could make it.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t miss it. I brought my little bro, Eren.” 

“I should introduce him to Hitch. She’ll be excited to meet him.”

She leads them through the packed house. There are men from other fraternities gathered there, mingling with the other Eta Iota sisters. Eren doesn’t recognize anybody, making him feel out of place. They get a few curt looks from strangers as they pass by.

He’s surprised and confused to finally see a familiar face in the kitchen. Annie stands against the countertop next to girl with a light brown bob, both sipping on jungle juice. When Annie sees Eren, her eyes narrow. “What are you doing here, Jaeger?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Annie.”

“My roommate Hitch here forced me to go to this party, so I had no choice. I’m a bit disappointed to see you here with them.” She glares at Reiner and Bertolt, who are socializing with some men from another fraternity. 

Eren shrugs. “They invited me, so I didn’t really have a choice either.”

Hitch introduces herself, then says, “I heard Alpha Tau is partnered with Sigma Nu Kappa this semester. How’s that going?”

Another shrug. “It’s alright, I guess.”

“I know most of the new girls in there. We all went through recruitment together. I almost joined SNK because of how much I got along with them.”

“But you didn’t.”

Embarrassed, she looks down at her side. “No, I didn’t.”

Annie continues to study Eren carefully. “Why does it seem like you have something against Sigma Nu Kappa? Are you letting that idiot convince you that we’re not cool enough?”

“I don’t let other people influence how I think or feel,” Eren states. He clenches his fist, feeling agitated that she would even suggest something like that.

“So, what is it then?”

“Maybe I just want to meet some new people. Explore my options.”

She laughs sarcastically. “You sound like a typical fuck boy.”

Having enough of whatever this is, Eren pours liquor into a cup and hangs out on the couch. He scans the room, observing the girls of Eta Iota. He doesn’t particularly feel drawn to any of them. And no one really approaches him all night, except for a few guys who try to start conversation. He’s been told that he comes off a little intense, maybe even intimidating. But he didn’t expect to be ignored by the Eta Iotas. That’s not what was promised to him by Reiner. 

By midnight, he decides to leave. Reiner and Bertolt have been busy all night, playing beer pong and flirting with girls that don’t want anything to do with him. He doesn’t bother letting them know he’s heading out; they won’t care. 

As he makes his way back on campus, he checks his phone. No texts from either Armin or Mikasa. It’s out of character for his friends. It must have finally gotten through to them to not bother him anymore. Still, he doesn’t mind hanging out, especially after a disappointing night. 

He turns around and starts walking towards Mike’s house, where he knows they’ll be. When he knocks on the door, Connie answers, eyes bloodshot with a lazy smile plastered across his face. “Fucking finally.” He looks over his shoulder to yell out, “Eren’s here y’all!”

Stepping foot into the house, Eren sees a crowd of Alpha Tau brothers and SNK sisters gathered around the couch and floor, watching a movie. The lights are dimmed, pizza boxes stacked on one of the tables, and everyone has a drink in hand.

“Eren! You’re here!” Armin exclaims, currently cushioned between Jean and Mikasa on the couch.

“Look who decided to join us,” Mikasa remarks, with a slight smile. 

“How was the Eta Iota party?” Jean asks.

Eren shrugs and answers, “It was okay.”

Levi yells out, “Jaeger, pull up a chair. We’re watching Twilight. Every time someone does something cringey, we drink.”

“Which is apparently every two minutes,” Petra adds. 

“Yeah, sure. Let me use the bathroom first.”

Mikasa asks, “Since you’ll be up there, can you check on my roommate? She’s just upstairs in the spare bedroom, taking a nap.”

His ears perk up at this. So that’s where she is. 

He agrees and walks upstairs, heading to the bathroom first. After he washes his hands, he studies his reflection in the mirror for a good minute, fixing any loose strands from his bun and swiping away any stray baby hairs from his forehead. Satisfied with his appearance, he steps quietly across the hall and presses his ear up to the guest bedroom door, listening for any sign that she’s still sleeping. There’s soft moaning coming from the other side of the door. It’s her moaning; there’s no mistaking it. He turns the handle slowly and creaks the door open just enough to peek inside. 

Through the darkness, he sees her figure on the bed, on her back with thighs spread wide, bucking her hips against her fingers.

He doesn’t think. His body just moves. He enters the room and shuts the door behind him, sauntering towards her like a predator stalking its prey. When she finally notices him, he expects her to jump and retract her hand from her arousal, but she doesn’t. Instead, she stares at him, eyes locked on his as she continues to caress her clit. 

“Eren.”

The way she moans out his name drives him crazy. He stands at the end of the bed, watching her, feeling incredibly aroused. Her pants aren’t even pulled all the way down. As if she couldn’t waste a second to start touching herself.

He strips her leggings and panties off her body then kneels on the bed, right in front of the show she’s putting on for him. In a low voice, he demands, “Show me how you fuck yourself.”

Obeying, she slips her middle finger inside her slit, pussy squelching with each thrust. With her wet finger, she starts massaging her clit. Filthy moans pour out of her lips as she continues to pleasure herself in front of him. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, palming his erection through his pants. He watches as her finger glistens with her own slick. Unable to deny it any longer, he grabs at her wrist and sticks it into his mouth, swirling his tongue over every inch skin. Finally tasting the alluring nectar that’s been on his mind all week. He savors how luscious it feels on his tongue. It’s immaculate. Chaste. Only for him.

Is it the alcohol? He didn’t even drink that much. He’s pretty much sober now. But he feels absolutely feral, giving in to every wicked desire he has in his fucked-up head. The one thing he wants more than anything is to dive in and devour her. To drink her up until this unbelievable thirst is quenched. He wants it. He needs it.

Positioning his face between her thighs, he teases her with the tip of his tongue. She jolts at the sensation, crying out, “Fuck!”

Smirking at her reaction, he leans in closer and coos, “Can I eat this pretty pussy out? It looks so fucking scrumptious. It’s making my mouth water.”

“Fuck, Eren. You’re so fucking nasty,” she whines.

“Yeah, I am. And so are you.” He rubs his middle finger up and down her folds, pressing against her clit each time he reaches it. “Finger fucking yourself like that in front of me. Shoving your cum coated fingers down my throat. Fucking nasty slut.” 

She squirms above him, his face dangerously close to her arousal, spraying his saliva over her pussy with every filthy word he spits out to her. “You act all innocent and shy, but when you’re with me, you’re just a dirty, little slut, huh? Tell me you want my tongue on you. I need to hear you say it.” 

“Fuck, Eren. Put your tongue on me. Eat me out.”

“That’s a good fucking girl,” he growls. He latches his lips around her clit and starts rubbing his tongue on it, side to side. Her little bud sticks out perfectly for him, puffy and swollen from stimulation as he gobbles her up. He slips his middle and index fingers into her slick entrance and fucks her, relishing the lewd sounds that she makes. She’s just as tight as she was a week ago. Still a pristine virgin for him. His cock twitches thinking about how he’ll ruin her. Not tonight. But soon.

He goes completely wild, slobbering all over her, making the nastiest noises. Her moans become whimpers as she loses herself in the intense pleasure. He reaches his free hand down to his stiff cock but uses all his strength to stop himself. If he jerks off right now, he knows he’ll come. He’s so fucking turned on from eating her out, he almost feels like he can come untouched.

He goes at it for several more minutes, not stopping even when her orgasm is palpable on his glistening fingers. He slides them out to slurp the cum flowing out of her. “Look at this. All for me,” he hums, alternating between licking her slit and sucking her clit with his wet lips. 

“Fuck, Eren. Feels so fucking good,” she moans, overstimulated and spent from her climax.  

“You’re such a good girl, just taking it like this. Coming all over my fucking mouth,” he praises.

“Fuck, daddy.”

Daddy. His fucking weakness. 

He runs his tongue over her folds one last time before he releases her, getting off the bed to quickly slide out of his pants and underwear. His hard cock springs up against his abdomen as he stands, waiting. 

“Come here. Let daddy fuck that filthy mouth of yours.” 

She gets down on her knees in front of him, spreading her legs apart on the floor. She opens up wide, so fucking eager to receive his big cock. He guides it slowly past her lips and down her mouth until it hits the back of her throat, causing her to gag. He chuckles and he pulls back a bit. “Too big for you, huh? Don’t worry, we’ll practice. You’ll be able to take it without gagging soon enough.” 

Mouth too full of his dick, she just nods obediently as he starts thrusting into her. He has both hands on the sides of her head, gently bobbing it onto his dick. Her hand reaches down between her legs, rubbing her clit as he fucks her. 

“Fuck. You like getting used like this, don’t you?” he spits out.

She responds with another nod as she starts fingering herself again, still taking his cock like a good girl. Eren’s never been so turned on. He can’t think of anything more pornographic than the sight in front of him.

“Daddy’s ready to come,” he says, pulling her off.

Wiping the drool from her chin, she pleads, “Come in my mouth, daddy. Fill me up.” She sticks her tongue out for him, staring up at him with a fucked-out look on her face.

“Fuck,” he moans as he slaps the tip of his cock onto her tongue, a bead of precum sticking to her bottom lip, creating a salacious string between the space. It’s obscene. The way she kneels in front of him, thighs spread wide on the floor as she rubs her clit. Her tongue on full display, ready to receive his load. 

Any efforts to try to forget and move on from her are washed away. He’ll never forget this. He doesn’t want to forget.

His stomach clenches as he comes for her, shooting his seed all over her tongue. He strokes himself until nothing else comes out, knees giving in slightly from his intense orgasm. 

He hears her swallow before she lays back down on the bed, probably just as drained as he is. 

Ignoring the temptation to cuddle up next to her, he puts his pants back on, remembering that his friends are waiting for him downstairs. They’re probably already wondering why he hasn’t come back yet.

She doesn’t say anything as she gets comfortable on the pillows, a blissful smile on her face. Before he makes his exit, he leans in close to her, brushing a few strands of hair away from her forehead. She opens her eyes to look at him.

“Next time we see each other, I’m going to fuck you. Gonna turn my sweet, little virgin into a slut.” He presses his lips against her ear and whispers, “You’ll be the nastiest slut on campus after I’m through with you.”

With a sloppy kiss, Eren gets up and leaves the room with a satisfied smirk on his face.

[altarflame]

My Day in the Life of Children, Now

It’s Saturday. I slept in late, got up gradually. When I went to pee, Elise (15) was ready to intercept me with childlike eagerness, about the construction paper ghosts they (non-binary pronouns) were adding to the fall leaves hanging from the dining room ceiling. I praised the careful placement. They are also full of stories about being on their high school’s parade float in the big parade, yesterday.

I offered Jake (16) a fried egg on toast as I made some for me, Sterling, and Elise, but he’d just made himself spaghetti and was getting ready to head off on his bike, to his girlfriend’s.  

Aaron (21) had still not texted since leaving the state two weeks ago by plane, but today was to be his return flight, and Grant and I both know he was expecting a ride home, even though that airport is 4.5 hours from us roundtrip. My driving foot is acting up and my right calf feels tight all the time - I drove over 200 miles for work yesterday! I certainly don’t want to do this. Grant swears he told him he had to arrange return transport because we weren’t doing it. Aaron wouldn’t reply to texts. Sterling saw that bus tickets home from the airport were only $35 - less than the gas it would cost us. I sent Aaron this info, he was like “But I don’t want to ride the bus.” I feel frustrated but glad he’s communicating. Sigh. He is willing to just bus it, admits he’s had a good time and actually gives me a couple of sentences.

Elise was excited to be going to a birthday party that MIGHT be a sleepover, this afternoon - depending on whether they had a good time in the first part, liked the house/family enough, etc. They put bats up with the other autumn things in the dining room, too - with googly eyes. I dropped them off, just a few minutes away. 

Isaac (18) and I sat at the dining table talking about  the Aaron Conundrum. Isaac is afraid Aaron is fragile right now, which is something I am also basically always afraid of. Isaac is leaving for 2 weeks soon, to go visit friends in South Florida. He’s a much more conscientious planner (they’re both using their own money from their own jobs for these trips, which I just get notified of - which is fine when middle of the night road trips aren’t expected from me). Isaac is gonna pay for a driver’s ed course when he gets home, because he thinks it will make up his confidence gap with driving.

I went out on a great bike ride with Sterling, who was on skates. We passed Isaac biking away somewhere on a trail, while we were out.

After we returned, Jake got home from his girlfriend’s house, very upset by her complicated home and family dynamics. We talked about it one on one in his room for 15 or 20 minutes while I gathered up Elise’s sleepover things (the two of them share a room, and Elise decided they do want to stay at their friend’s and messaged me a requested list). It’s difficult to know how to have boundaries - Jake or me - with his gf’s people, because we don’t want to jeopardize his ability to see her, but also, this shit is ridiculous and neither of us exactly approve...

I knocked on Ananda’s (22) door and asked if she’d like to come with me to take Elise their things. She did. We talked about her shift at work and her degree program’s foreign language requirement. Elise’s friend’s mom seemed really nice, and Elise was super grateful I’d brought her the bag. I reinforced my “call or text at any hour and I’ll pick you up” guideline, and then Ananda and I ran to Publix for coconut milk to come home and make cacao with. 

I was in the kitchen with the blender for that, while Ananda waited to show me a movie trailer she’s pissed about, when Wolfgang (nephew on Grant’s side) started texting me about his various sadness. Multiple deaths in the past few months, it’s big stuff. We talked off and on via messenger for the next hour. It kinda reminded me to message his twin, Patrice, about her pregnancy and her moving options and her baby shower. 

I have decided to write my sister’s kids letters. I’ve done postcards and birthday/holiday packages, but they don’t feel behooved to reply to those things, and I think they would with letters. I might even send return envelopes and stamps. I kinda suspect my sister is trying to limit their ability to communicate with anyone, not explicitly me but I’m not important enough to get them on messaging platforms or what have you, if that makes sense, and it kinda hurts my feelings because honestly wtf. I text her things to show them but like. Sigh. 

I just asked Elise for a 1am status update if she’s awake (she’s never stayed at these people’s house and it would be fine if she WAS sleeping, but I doubt that); she immediately replied that she’s having a blast. Nice contrast to how Aaron is miserable that the bus station sucks, the bus will suck, paying for this has sucked for him, and also everything sucks :p 

I’ve been listening to a podcast while playing Tetris, as I half watch my phone, and considering writing projects, and how to get Patrice’s baby’s blanket crocheted by her baby shower, and how I need to finish this quilt I’m half done with for Ananda, first. It’s good to have weekends but I’m really glad I’ll be off for 9 days straight later this month. I contemplate things I’d like to accomplish with my plants tomorrow, and how to have a block of time for sex, and how glad I am to be less bloated than I have been these past days, from UTI antbiotics that were seriously kicking my ass. Jake’s birthday is Tuesday and we’ll take him to Moe’s and bake him a carrot cake, but mostly he’s having his party next weekend.

That about covers it :p

[allovertheworldblog]

The bus to Haparanda leaves early

So, I was up at the top of Sweden and had to decide where to go next, west to Norway or east to Finland.

In the end I decided on neither and went back down through Sweden.

When I was leaving Kiruna though it looked like I was going to Finland, that was the plan anyway. 

I decided on going to Haparanda (what a great name) which is on the border with Finland.

Only trouble was the bus leaves, the only bus to Haparanda, leaves at 07.10.

I get to the bus station 20 minutes before the bus leaves.

I’m the only passenger that does the full trip.

We have three different drivers over the 6 hour trip through snow filled Sweden.

The only reindeer we see over the course of the trip are in a sort of farm.

We get to Haparanda after 13.00 and I walk to the hostel through the ice and slush covered paths.

The city has a strange feel to it, a sort of half a city feel to it.

And in a way it is. 

Next door in Finland is Tornio, the original settlement in the area. Then when Sweden lost Finland to Russia they needed a base for trade in that region, on their land as it were, so they built up Haparanda.  

Today there’s no border control as Sweden and Finland are both members of the European Union.

The two cities have banded together and created a joint city in effect, a Eurocity.

The hostel has a sign up saying that the reception is only open from 16.00 to 19.00, I knew about this in advance but turn up anyway.

I ring the ‘out of hours’ number on their sign.

A lady opens the door and asks if it was me that was ringing, she’s not happy for whatever reason.

I ask if they’re open.

She agrees to 'sort of open’.

She checks me in and again with the sheets.

She wants to charge me 50 Swedish Krona for sheet 'rental’. That's Euro5.60 or $7.40.

I have my own sheets but thanks anyway.

She has a certificate for helpfulness on the wall behind her, NOT!

I put my stuff away and walk to the nearby IKEA, their most northerly store in the world.

I have a not very pleasant meal composed of some kind of meat.

It’s mostly Finns that are shopping there, they pay in Euro at the food counter.

The Finnish language sounds strange after hearing nothing but Swedish for the past week and a half.

My Swedish is non-existent but I’d become used to hearing it and used to the Swedish way of things, their bread, their ubiquitous cinnamon buns, kanelbulle.

They even go as far as to dedicate a day a year to their buns, 04 October is Kanelbullens dag or Cinnamon bun day. http://scandinavianfood.about.com/od/coffeecakessweetbreads/r/cinnamonrolls.htm

The Finns suddenly looked quite different from the Swedes, not as stylish, more brusque. 

The shopping centre is quite new but about a third of the units haven’t opened.

There are a couple of fast food restaurants and few cheap clothes and a few over priced ones, a couple of mobile phone shops and that’s about it.

If this was Sweden there’d be people around every corner in little cafés drinking coffee and every third shop would be a flower shop. 

The prices in the Finnish supermarket, on the Finnish side of the river, made me wonder about how travelling in Finland would compare to Sweden.

Sweden is considered to be one of the more expensive countries in Europe but from what I could see Finland was giving them a fair run for their money and in many cases coming in ahead of them.

The next morning I walk to the Finnish side of the river and search out the bus station.

It’s a Saturday morning so the bus station is closed, don’t bus stations the world over close on Saturdays?

The signs in Finnish that different bus companies have up in the window of the station do mention a Saturday service.

I’m annoyed and frustrated though, so I don’t give it time to work on my Finnish to figure out which column is Saturday and to figure out if the right destination I want is served by the individual companies.

So I decide I won’t be going to Rovaniemi after all.

Two Australian girls in the hostel in Kiruna had recommended the place for seeing the Northern Lights and for visiting Santa Claus in the year round Santa World close by.

I walk back across to Sweden and find that their bus station too is closed but they have a waiting room open and their electronic signs list all departures and arrivals for that day.

I felt relieved to be back where I know the set up.

Umea, half way down Sweden, is where I’m headed.

It might even be possible to catch a ferry across the Gulf of Bothnia from near there to Finland.

During the trip from Haparanda to Umea there’s enough time to watch a couple of movies.

Only trouble is they’re the same movies.

The attendant on the bus mustn’t have a very big movie collection as we’re shown 'One Day’, which we just catch the end of, then 'I Don’t Know How She Does It’ with Sarah Jessica Parker.

Then 'One Day’ again, then the Sarah Jessica Parker movie again.

Umea looks interesting and I might spend a couple of nights there. Of course it wasn’t to be.

In Umea I walk to the hostel. It's just before 20.00 at this stage.

A guest who's smoking outside lets me in.

The locked reception has a sign on it:

     'Good Morning guests…. the reception will be open from 06.00 to 07.00.  The Emergency Out of Hours number is …… (it cannot be used for making reservations).

Tomorrow reception will be open from 19.00-20.00’.

I walk back to the bus station, get some food and wait for the night bus to Stockholm. The bus gets me to Stockholm at 05.30.

I hang around the bus station for a couple of hours.

I go back to the hostel that I’d left a week previously before I went to the north of the country, it’s like coming home.

[aching-tummies]

Broth-filled Belly

So Monday is a "holiday" where I live. For me, this mostly just means that buses run less frequently.

I got off work and made it to the bus stop in record time, intending on going home. I checked the bus times and the next bus wasn't scheduled for another hour and thirty minutes.

I was craving pho and I didn't feel like sitting at the stop for over an hour, so off I went. I was starting to feel hungry anyway as breakfast had been about 7 hours ago (made myself a sandwich at home). the restaurant was about a 10 minute walk from the bus stop I'd have otherwise been waiting at so I'd still have an hour and 10 minutes (factoring in the walk back to the bus stop)--plenty of time to have a sit-down meal and make it for the next bus.

I got to one of the many Vietnamese restaurants in the area (there's about 4 in this area alone) and I went ahead and ordered. I originally intended to just get a bowl of pho...but I can never resist the fried spring rolls...so I got those too.

I finished the spring rolls before the pho made it out of the kitchen...which was fine.

This particular restaurant is very proud of their broth--and it's well deserved. Their broth is rich--the cloudy kind where you can tell bone and tendon and whatever else had been simmering away for hours. I started to feel full about 60% of the way through the bowl. My stomach was just over comfortably filled. This kind of broth is the kind that would be a sin to waste. You don't waste good broth and this was heavenly broth--not a drop to waste. I powered through my meal and had about 20 minutes left before the next bus was set to arrive. 10 minutes to get to the stop and then 10 to sit and wait.

Walking back to the bus stop was an ordeal. I'm glad I had a full 20 minutes to get there.

My stomach felt like an over-filled waterballoon. I was so, so full. I felt like my entire stomach organ was filled to the brim. I could feel a warm pressure right up against the base of my esophagus. I could feel the thick liquid contents of my belly swirling with every step. I felt that warm warmth all over my abdomen. Not a single gas-pocket anywhere at all. I couldn't help but palm at my tummy as I walked, basically cradling it and trying to stop the jostling from each step I took. The warm swirling feeling was alright...but every step caused the warm pressure at my esophagus to intensify. I felt the warmth rise up my chest and tickle at my throat from time-to-time--signalling to me that my stomach was completely filled.

Moments like this are what remind me that I'm not cut out to be a feedee. One bowl of pho on the smaller end of things as far as pho goes...and a couple of spring rolls. That's all that fit in my belly--I was hungry after work, my stomach was already growling at me at the stop which is why I shifted gears and went to hunt down food! A small bowl of pho and a couple of spring rolls--and that's all it took for it to feel like the broth was rising up my throat like the liquid in a thermometer with each step. No drinks left unaccounted for--I really don't know how people manage those massive lists with multiple items even when they're intentionally stuffing themselves. It. Just. Does. Not. Fit. I swear, I was fighting the rising contents of my stomach the whole way to the bus stop. I still am 2 and a half hours from when I finished my meal!

It;s been over two hours since I finished my meal and my belly still feels bloated and warm. I can't eat anything else. There's too much broth in me taking up room...and because it's liquid, it won't burst...but I legit feel like if I eat anything more I am going to vomit. I'm so full! Like...my mouth is dry. I really, really, really want to drink some water...but I'm worried absolutely everything will come gushing right back up the second I relax my esophagus enough to swallow.

Honestly, when I think about it...the bowl of pho in its entirety is in my stomach. A fist-sized amount of noodles and an equivalent amount of meat (when you consider rolling all of that matter into a dense ball), and about a litre of hot broth. All of that went inside of me in about 40 minutes.

This is more of a log of belly stuff for me...but I'd love, love, love it if anyone wants to use this as an RP-starter and write a scenario springing off from this. What would you do to this warm, broth-filled belly?

[kkusuka]

3rd year hinata, beefy, 5’8 hot af volleyball, ace of karasuno and he’s just walking around like he normally is, he has no idea why so many girls blush when he talks to them be just assumes they all are overheating. He doesn’t understand why you gasp or get all flustered when he brushes up against you or when puts his hand on your waist when he needs to get by or when he lays his hand on your thigh causally cause he noticed your friend doing it so he thought it was okay and normal for him to copy. He also doesn’t understand why he wants to kiss you so bad when he has you pinned against the bus wall cause it’s crowded on the way home ((like he accidentally pins you to the wall cause the bus gets crowded)) ✨Puppy🤩

hinata can be my fluffy almost boyfriend for as long as he wants.

cw: none

synopsis: a series of small events make you realize how wonderful hinata is.

—

if you asked hinata if he thought he was attractive, he would stare at you. known from the sheer amount of times you’ve tried to ask him that, many, many times. (apparently he’s also extremely dense)

though his looks have evolved, his intelligence hasn’t improved all that significantly. test grades still bordering the 40’s, can remember vocabulary only if his life depended on it, and

“y/n! help, help! they’re trying to kill me!” pissing of kageyama and tsukishima to no end.

before you could even see him coming. you could feel is hands resting on your hips, pulling your body to his in a sad attempt to hide from the two, much taller, boys. of course after the two boys failed to arrive within five minutes, his arms wrapping around your waist, head falling onto your shoulder.

“that was close, sho, what’d you do this time?” your face was almost and inch away from his, you didn’t know when but he must have turned his head to your neck. “i told sucky-shima that kageyama was interested in his dinosaurs, he didn’t like it very much though.” accompanied with his explanation, the ginger shooting you one of his sunny smiles.

his valence shifted, using you as support to start swaying like the two of you were dancing. you could feels his thumbs twirling around the hem of your uniform skirt. before you could think on his movement all that much, the bell rang, signaling the beginning of class.

••

“hinata-kun! come sit with us please?”

lunch was...per the usual. apparently going to nationals three years in a row, garners more than attention from the female population.

but dense-less doesn’t even cover what hinata is, if he were the sliver smarter he would know why they got so excited when he smiled at them and how blushy they got when he rolled his sleeves up and leaned on their table.

but without fail everyday the readhead plops down next to you, inquiring what his favorite manager has for lunch. though today you decided to sit at one of the tables outside the volleyball gym to watch kageyama berate hinata for about 20 minutes before hunger overruled their passion.

bouncing over to you, hinata dropped his body onto the bench, shoving his face into the fabric covering your stomach throwing his tired arms around your waist. you didn’t really care until his hands moved under the cloth of your shirt and moved to the skin of your back.

“what- what are you doing!”

“huh? what- oh! i saw hari and matsuko doing it! and you look so comfy!” he smiled up from your lap.

‘because they’re dating’ goes unsaid.

••

you were in a predicament.

this math assignment had to be uploaded to your teacher my midnight and it was now 11:15. that in itself was not the problem, the problem was your hot best friend was napping in your lap. he’d actually been asleep since 10:40 and you’d spent more than an embarrassing amount of time looking at him.

did you realize how long his hair had gotten? or how but his hand, that so happened to be resting on your thigh, was compared to yours. and how pink and plush his lips looked— or how generally angelic he was as he slept.

that it self was a problem, he was your best friend, but the real issue was how you were going to somehow lean over his sleeping form to get your assignment done. well you didn’t really have a choice, you aren’t going to wake him up know big how early he was up for practice and you can’t just not hand it in, hopefully he won’t suffocate.

hinata awoke to a soft pressure on his face. opening his eyes he didn’t see anything other then your shirt and a small sliver of dim light spilling through the cracks of your body. he could feel that you were asleep, not really knowing how long or the time, ignoring his moral compass, he nuzzled himself back into the comfort of your lap.

••

the metro has always been a huge pain in your ass. specifically on friday’s after hinata s practice, that he so gentlemanly walks you home from. but today you decided a detour would be in place, to an out of town ramen shop that he begged you to try with him.

but 6pm on a friday is rush hour, which means all the people getting off work are on the same train you and your favorite ginger were squeezed on.

you were lock in a heavy conversation about kageyamas idea for a new quick when a rush of people crowded your train car, forcing hinata off his balance pushing him strait into your body. your eyes shut in preparation for impact while an arm aligned around your waist and you were met with a chest.

cracking your eyes open you saw brown irises staring back into yours. you could feel his breath on your lips as his hands tightened around you waist.

“you-“

“i’m-“

the two of you burst into a synchronized laughed drawing attention from a few people surrounding you.

“you have very pretty eyes y/n”

“as do you sir hinata! onward to the ramen!”

tags: @bakugos-cumsock

[pigeonflavouredcake]

I'm an adult now take my advice

(or don't i'm not your dad)

Idk how old my followers are overall but i want to make this post in case any of you are actually teens... I am Officially 20 now. I am no longer a teenager so here are some things I learned as a poor teenager that helped me as a poor adult. Some are witchy, some are just about life, most are food related. Buckle up this will get pretty long.

Write as much down as you can bc puberty can really fuck with your memory.

Staying up late because you simply can't sleep is not something to be worried about unless you want to change that. It's pretty much all your natural body clock.

Get a big folder. Like a massive accordion folder and put all your personal documents in, birth/adoption certificates, bank statements, prescription receipts, diplomas, etc. So if you're ever in a dangerous situation at home you can make your escape a lot easier.

Now is a good time to learn new things that aren't school related. Practice cooking your favourite meals, learn how to properly clean a bathroom, if cleaning is overwhelming there are methods online that can help with that. Like playing a spot the difference game.

NO, tarot is not a closed practice, tarot is a tool for everyone and NO, tarot decks do not have to be gifted to you, you can buy one for yourself. I don't even know where that came from but it's complete bs.

Save the little gift baggies you get when you buy jewellery and use them as spell bags.

Stay away from any woman who calls her vag a yoni. it's weird.

You may want to be seen as smart and mature because it's better than being treated like a kid but you are still a kid. Your safety matters more than how mature and responsible you are. An older person should NOT be talking to you in a romantic/flirtatious setting and if they say it's because you're mature for your age or they can't wait until you're legal fucking bully the living shit out of them then block them and warn your friends. that attitude is creepy as hell bc they want someone they have power over. Same with any friends that brag about their partner being 15/16/17 when they're 18. BULLY THEM THEY'RE GROSS AND THEY DESERVE IT.

If you're in a country with the NHS USE IT NOW WHILE IT'S FREE. The first 6-8 weeks of therapy is free from the NHS. Eye tests and dentist check ups and medication are free untill you're 19 GET THEM NOW.

You can make your own oat milk by blending up oats and water. You don't need to cook with oil, there's enough of it in processed food and fresh veg have enough water in them to cook straight in a pan. You don't need the seasoning packet in ramen you can make your own. Tamari sauce has less sodium than soy sauce. Food always tastes better when it's in season. Try to find space for two food wastes, one for processed/cooked food one for raw. The raw food can be composted and given back to the earth

Best healthiest dinner option I can think of is steamed veggies. Here's my recipe: Heat up a pan on high, pour a bit of water in and then your veggies, stir frequently until all the water is gone. Turn heat down to low. Coat with something like balsamic vinegar and add any seasoning you like. Cover and steam for 10 minutes ish and you're good. You can serve that with a grain or some noodles.

Locally sourced meat and fish is WAY better for the environment than supermarket because there's less preservatives and they're more resourceful with their products.

A standard pie dough is one of the easiest things you can make and the trick is in the amount. Half the flour equals the fat, half the fat equals the sugar. so if you have 200g of flour you need 100g of fat and 50g of sugar. Just throw them in a bowl and mix together and add some cold water to bind together into a dough. It should be solid and little sticky, if it's crumbling add more water, if it's not holding it's shape add more flour. then just fridge it for a few hours to set and you're good.

You made your own soup/stew/pot thingy and you got left overs for the next day? Put it back on the cooker and bring to the boil on high, once it's bubbling take the heat down to low and simmer for 10 minutes (keep stirring if it keeps bubbling). This will help kill any bacteria that developed overnight that might make you sick.

Foraging is good but wear gloves, don't take all from one place and don't eat anything you pick until it's been thoroughly washed. Don't be afraid to go hog wild on things like blackberries, dandelions, or nettles. those things are an invasive species.

Deer are bigger than you think they are.

Air drying takes longer but it will help your clothes last. You can also hand wash with a bowl of hot water and about a teaspoon of washing up powder. Air drying also goes for your hair too.

Stock up on your favourite scented candles any size is ok and use them for spells and rituals.

You got a ghost in your house? Leave them be they're usually just passing through.

If you can't focus on work without music but it needs to be specifically wordless and needs to be easy to fill your brain so you don't focus on every noise other people make listen to animal crossing music that shit got me through two years worth of academic reading.

Bus is late or can't find your keys? Stop looking and start complaining. They'll turn up as soon as you give up.

Piercings are a medical procedure and are safer when they're done with a needle because they're hollow, so they're carving out the skin and cartilage instead of just pushing jewellery through like a gun does. Go to a tattoo parlour that also does piercings bc they're likely to be a lot stricter with rules and customer care.

Life is gonna kick us all in the but so we gotta be there to help eachother out however we can. It definitely feels like it's everyone for themselves but it doesn't have to be.

[nevertheless-moving]

Star Wars AU #20: MacenJar AU

Inspired by this meme and with permission from @simpskywalker

This au is dedicated to everyone who told me that this concept ‘gave them a headache’ or ‘psychic damage’. Especially that special someone who begged me to ‘please stop’ because ‘i hate this, i hate this so much’ and told me ‘please don’t say more words about this.’

Crack Lies Ahead, enough to consume a man. I have spoken.

“Ani. Ani. Anakin Skywalker.”

“Hmm?” The dulcet sounds of Padme calling his name dragged Anakin from sleep against his will. 

“Anakin, you have to get up.”

He groaned, rolling over. “...here’s my face...I’ll...be awake in a second...just sit down...I’m awake...”

“No, Anakin you have to leave, remember. You have a 5 AM take-off scheduled, and you made me promise I would get you up early this time, come on.”

She cruelly yanked the covers away. He gasped in betrayal. 

“My own wife...how could you.”

“Anakin if you’re not out of bed in the next 30 seconds the next time you beg to stay the night because ‘you can get up early, you swear’ I am kicking you out before anyone sits anywhere near anyone’s face, do you understand.”

He sat bolt upright and stumbled out of bed. “Ok, Ok, I’m up I- Padme!”

“Yes?” She asked sweetly, brushing her hair at the vanity. 

“It’s 3 AM!”

“Yes I know, you were going to stop at that bakery I recommended, remember?”

“You woke me up an hour and half early so I could stop at a bakery,” he asked, disbelieving.

“Yes, Anakin, it was your idea. It was going to be your cover, in case anyone wondered what you were doing in the building.”

“That is-” before he could call it the stupidest idea he had ever heard, the memory of promising Padme that staying the night was a good idea because it would facilitate his cunning ruse (he was distracted, ok? Padme was wearing a lot of layers) came rushing back.

“-right,” he finished lamely.

Padme just hummed and began braiding in her cosmetic forcefields. 

Anakin managed to stretch, complete his morning refresher run, and arrange his robes in a suitably decorous fashion by the time Padme had established the base layer of her hairstyle for the day.

A quick kiss- no goodbye, it hurt too much to say goodbyes in war - and Anakin was out the door. 

He idly scratched his chin, vacantly looking out the lift and vaguely considering growing a beard. The pre-dawn view was quickly replaced by metal walls as the ride dropped below the skyline.

The transparisteel pod began to slow scarcely one third of the way down. Anakin suppressed a groan and tried to arrange his expression in Jedi-stoic manner, hoping that whoever got in the lift with him would be too intimidated by seeing a Jedi close-up to think about what they were doing in a Senatorial Apartment building at 3:15 in the morning. If they ask, I’m visiting the famous Bebbisun Bakery. Bennison? BELLASAN. I’m visiting the Bellasan Bakery.

Actually, anyone getting into the elevator this early was probably also doing the walk of shame so it’s probably fi-KRIFFING SITH SPIT THAT’S

“Master Windu!” Anakin cleared his throat, trying to lower his voice an octave. “Good- Good Morning!”

Windu’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “Ah. Knight Skywalker. Good morning to you as well,” he replied, stepping in the elevator, doors closing behind.

The lift descended as Anakin’s heart rate skyrocketed. This was it. Windu had to be here for Anakin. What other possible explanation could there be? WHY WASN’T HE SAYING ANYTHING?

Wait.

What other possible explanation...could...why wasn’t he saying ANYTHING?

Anakin scrutinized Master Windu out of the corner of his eye. Were those...the same robes he was wearing yesterday? They looked like the same robes but then again...pretty much all robes looked the same so this was probably a stupid way to figure things out. Fuck, it was too early for this.

Unsurprisingly, he couldn’t get a sense of the Master’s surface emotions. But his underlying aura seemed...happy? Typically Windu's serene presence had a tinge of righteous fury (something that had frightened him back when he was a child). But now that ever present vaapad edge was... softened? Anakin wracked his tired brain for a more reasonable explanation than- than the obvious but obviously impossible. He had to projecting. Right? Then again...couplings weren’t forbidden (even if Anakin couldn’t quite understand how people enjoyed just- having sex without any attachment).

The corners of Anakin’s lips twitched. The Master of the Order. Getting laid. Master Windu. In the Senatorial apartments. Mace Windu. What level had he gotten on? Above aides...diplomats probably. Should he ask? Force, this was too good- he couldn’t not ask.

Windu stared at him cooly and the knight instantly sobered. What was he thinking? Windu was obviously trying to trick him! If he said anything, Windu would turn it against him! Well, he wouldn’t be fooled so easily. Anakin spent the next several levels of descent staring forward, determined not to be the one to break the silence. 

He was so focused that he didn’t notice the lift slowing prematurely again until the doors opened; an elderly Rodian hobbled in. The two Jedi moved even further apart to allow the man some space.  The lift closed and newcomer glanced at the humans curiously. 

“Aren’t you Jedi? What are two Jedi doing here so early?”

“Bakery,” Mace and Anakin responded in unison, heads snapping to stare at the other in surprise.

The Rodian chuckled. “Oh, that Bellasan place, right?”

“Yes,” Windu replied smoothly. “They have a famously unique caf blend.”

“And you can’t get Sweesonberry rolls anywhere else,” Anakin added quickly, not letting the opportunity to firm up his cover go to waste.

“You mammals and your carbohydrates,” The elderly reptilian clucked, bemused.

Knight Skywalker and Master Windu exchanged wary looks. The door pinged open on level 4848. 

“Enjoy!” the overly entertained Rodian called out as they stepped out from the closing doors.

Anakin cleared his throat. “After you, Master Windu,” he said politely. CHECKMATE FUCKER.

But Windu just nodded serenely, striding confidently ahead, past the checkpoints and into the attached upper-crust market. After a very short walk, Anakin found himself in line behind Mace Windu at a pastry shop in the basement of his wife’s apartment building.

Anakin blearily thought that sentence through again, then subtly pinched the inside of his arm.

Nope, he was awake.

Every second that passed Anakin had to fight the steadily increasing urge to blurt out something stupid, and possibly incriminating, if not both. Just say something bland! Nothing about why they’re both here so early. Nothing about coming here before. Something casual.

“Smells good,” Anakin said.

Nailed it!

“Indeed,” Mace replied.

I’m a genius! He actually thinks I’m here for the bakery! He’s never going to suspect a thing! He was probably here for some boring pre-dawn meeting, and now I’ve got the perfect excuse to come visit Padme whenever! I can probably start sneaking off more often, I’ve just got to remember to bring back a pasty or something. And he can’t even say shit about un-Jedi like consumption!

“Skywalker-”

Oh no. Please be about the bakery. Pleasebeaboutthe

“Believe me when I tell you that I’d rather not ask-”

Oh NO. THIS ISN’T GOING TO BE ABOUT THE BAKERY. I’M AN IDIOT.

“-But did you fly here in a temple speeder?”

Cold sweat started to trickle down Anakin’s back as they shuffled forward automatically in the surprisingly long queue. Guess that’s why Padme woke me up so early.

“Knight Skywalker? Did you hear me?”

“Yes, Master Windu, sorry- I was, uh, distracted by the specials board. I, um, have my own hoverbike. Built it myself. No temple resources involved.”

“Sounds...distinctive.” Windu’s tone seemed neutral, but the way he pinched the bridge of his nose was obviously irritated. They stepped forward again. Why are so many people at this bakery so early? Guess we’re far enough down that day/night cycles don’t matter so much. Oh kriff, he’s massaging his temples now. Why is he mad about the bike? Is he going to ask where I landed it? Fuck.

Anakin swallowed the lump in his throat. “I- I thought it would be better to take personal property. Since this isn’t exactly order business.”

“That’s very responsible of you. Such...separation of personal from professional is an important skill for a Jedi.” 

The trickle of sweat down his spine increased. The Chosen One discretely wiped his sweaty palms on the inside of his sleeves and prayed that his outer robe was hiding any growing pit stains. 

Are we...actually talking about this? Is he going to admit to having an affair? Is he going to tell me to keep this quiet? I CAN BARELY KEEP MY OWN RELATIONSHIP SECRET! Does he know about Padme? Does he know we’re married? Is this conversation still about the bakery visit? Is HE married?

“However...such a vehicle might not be the most discrete. And discretion is also an important skill.”

Is he giving me permission to use the temple landspeeders to visit padme? Is he telling me to take the bus? WAIT! IS THIS A METAPHOR? Is he telling me to come here less? Is this still about the bakery? Did I actually check that I wasn’t still asleep or did I just dream that I checked?

“Do you understand, Knight Skywalker”

“I- uhh. I mean- well, ummm- OH look, it’s your turn to order!”

Master Windu stepped up to the counter. 

“Hello, again! Same as last time?”

OH FORCE GODS HE’S A REGULAR. THIS IS IT. I’M NEVER GOING TO GET TO SEE OBI-WAN OR ASHOKA AGAIN AND PADME’S CAREER IS GOING TO BE RUINED AND

“The same blend please, but please add on one of your Sweesonberry rolls- a friend recommended them.”

...Did Mace Windu just call me his friend?

“Excellent choice! Your friend has good taste!”

Mace Windu stepped to the side and Anakin Skywalker stepped up. “...I’ll have what he had.” 

A minute or two later, they were walking back to the lift, matching disposamugs and flimsibags in hand. 

To try and delay the inevitable, the pale and now very sweaty young Jedi took a sip of caf. He raised both brows involuntary. “This is...really good. Holy kriff. I don’t usually drink caf for the flavor but...wow.”

“Worth the trip?” Windu asked. Anakin choked a little but successfully managed to swallow. He took another sip to avoid answering. 

Windu took a bite of his roll, making a small noise of appreciation, “The pastry is also excellent. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth but this is remarkably smooth...I can’t say I’ve ever had anything quite like it.”

“Floral, right?” Anakin said, grinning into his cup. 

“Yes, that’s a good description.” Ha! I told Padme I was paying attention.

They drank companionably as the lift indicator dinged closer. 

“Skywalker...you’re parked on 4970, right?”

The knight nodded, too afraid to speak. The force seemed to swirl at the precipice of something. 

The Master sighed. “Look- I’ve got an unregistered van- this one time only, stow the speeder, and I’ll give you a ride back. If you’re visiting the bakery in the future- please take something with a closed cab. Last thing we need is the tabloids wondering where you’re going...”

Anakin nodded again, more eagerly again. He was practically being given permission to visit Padme! That was totally worth an excruciatingly awkward flight back to the temple! He just had to chew slowly so he couldn’t blurt out anything marriage related! He was a genius!

The lift opened.

“Jar-Jar!” Anakin said, surprised and pleased. “Wow, are you also here for the bakery? This place really is popular!”

“Ani! Little Ani! Wassa you doin here?” Jar-Jar looked around wildly, then stumbled out, foot catching at the gap. Windu darted forward and effortlessly saved the Gungan before he hit the floor, while Anakin stuck his arm forward to catch the closing door.

“Bakery, Jar Jar!” he said as he stepped inside. “I’d love to talk, but we’ve actually got to get back to the temple!”

Windu struggled to untangle himself from Jar-Jar, who was being particularly unhelpful about it, even for him. Wow he’s even clingier than usual this early in the morning. It’s nice how patient Master Windu is being; I feel like even Obi-Wan can be too hard on Jar-Jar sometimes.

“Actually Skywalker, why don’t you go on ahead and stow the bike- I just remembered I meant to pick something up for Council; I won’t take long.”

“Uh. Alright,” Anakin said, catching the keys. I guess I can’t really be late if I arrive with Master Windu.

“Ossa no!” Jar-Jar exclaimed sadly. “I was justa saying to Macey lassa night thatsa I missed talkin wit little Ani!”

Anakin smiled reassuringly as the lift began to close. “Don’t worry Jar-Jar! We’ll- catch uh-HOLD ON did you say LAST NIGHT?!”

Mace’s eyes closed in resignation as the door shut on the pair, Jar-Jar still tangled around the Jedi.

AND MACE WASN’T EVEN TRYING TO PUT HIM BACK UPRIGHT ANYMORE HOLY KRIFF JUST PUT THAT TOGETHER.

Anakin stared blankly at the metal walls as they rushed past. The lone Jedi Knight took a long sip of caff, then carefully placed the pastry bag and drink on the floor. He systematically wadded up the sleeve of his robe and shoved in his mouth. He then spent the next few minutes squealing with unholy glee while literally bouncing off the walls in a manner only accessible to a force sensitive in an elevator. He was still panting slightly when the lift opened on the primary parking level.

We can double date! Padme and I can host! I can help Mace and Jar-Jar plan their wedding! We can reform the order to allow for romantic love! I can be Jar-Jar’s best man! Padme and I can have another ceremony and Obi-Wan can give me away while Mace officiates and  and then we’ll all have sweesonbury cake and Jar-Jar can help teach our kids how to swim! 

With those dreamy thoughts running through his mind, it was child’s work to follow the the force to the unremarkable hovervan. He was humming to himself when Master Windu opened the door. 

He beamed at the older Jedi. Windu scowled in reply. Anakin smiled wider, unintimidated. He genuinely liked the Gungan, but anyone who could spend hours with Jar-Jar had to have a soft side.

“You know, Jar-Jar is a long time friend of Senator-”

“No.” Windu cut the eager words brusquely. 

Anakin shrank back, a little hurt.

(Maybe a lot hurt.)

Mace glanced over at the obviously crestfallen young General and sighed before amending his words.

“Not- Not right now, alright? Maybe if you’re miraculously more discrete about this than you are about your affection for Senator Amidala, then we can talk, understood?”

Anakin nodded with absolute determination, glimmering images of fairytale weddings visible once more. Distant, perhaps- but the chance was worth any amount of tongue biting. Now that there was a real, possible future where he could have it all, now that he knew Windu had a heart somewhere under his robes- he could be patient. 

He could be very patient.

Anakin calmed his grin down to a smaller, more Jedi-like smile, taking a sip of the cool but still really good caf. He channeled Obi-Wan’s most neutral diplomatic grace.

“Thank you for the ride, Master Windu. I appreciate it.”

Windu gave him an approving glance. “You’re more than welcome, Knight Skywalker.”

Feeling bold, he continued on with his best non-mocking impression of Obi-Wan.

"Have you had a chance to read the latest report on helmet redesigns? I think they might really improve peripheral vision without compromising concussive resistance.”

Mace hummed thoughtfully. “I have. I’m somewhat concerned about deploying such a radical change mid-campaign. Even better gear requires an adjustment period, and I’d rather minimize needless deaths while the troops readjust to hud flow.”

“Yes, that’s a reasonable concern, I was talking to Captain Rex-”

They spent the remainder of the flight chatting comfortably about troop safety and absentmindedly eating (or possibly stress eating in response to the prolonged absence of interpersonal conflict) the box of pastries Mace had picked up. When they arrived at the temple, they divvied up the remainder between them, quietly agreeing that there weren’t enough to share anyway. 

They continued their conversation, Master Windu accompanying him to the orbital loading bay. 

Obi-Wan rushed over in alarm at the sight of them approaching. “Anakin, there you are- I was starting to wonder if you’d make it. Terribly sorry Master Windu- I hope he wasn’t too much of a bother-”

“He’s not your padawan anymore, you don’t have to apologize for him. Though I do appreciate the reflex.”

“I suppose the concern isn’t completely baseless.” Anakin said, tone deliberately mildly. Mace chuckled slightly and Obi-Wan took a step back, slightly frightened by the sudden camaraderie. Anakin pretended to take a sip from his now empty disposamug to avoid fist pumping the air or cheering.

“I- Yes well- the important thing is you’re here in time for departure. What- what is that in the bag.”

Moment of Truth. Don’t freak out. Focus. Prove you can be discrete, THEN double dates, THEN Jedi Wedding Ceremony.

“Sweesonbury Roll,” Anakin answered placidly. He pretended to take another sip of caf. “Master Windu was kind enough to give me a ride from the bakery.”

“That’s- I’m sorry, what?” Anakin bit the inside of cheek to keep himself from reacting to Obi-Wan’s palpable bewilderment.

“I had to double back and get more, but we came straight here after,” Mace added helpfully, with zero hint of intentional mischief. “Oh and Skywalker- you can call me Mace if we’re not discussing temple business.”

Anakin SCREAMED (internally, of course). Outwardly, he simply bowed politely. “And you’re welcome to call me Anakin, of course.”

He deliberately avoided looking directly at Obi-Wan, his former Master’s bug-eyed reaction already pushing him to the edge, even just visible as it was out of the corner of his eye.

Windu nodded in return. “Safe travels you two. May the force with you.”

“And with you.” Anakin replied.

“May the force be with you,” Obi-Wan rushed to say, after a short delay.

Master Windu turned and exited the cargo bay doors. Anakin threw out the mug in a nearby bin, pulling out a roll and biting into it before turning to face Obi-Wan. They made eye-contact, each waiting for the other to break first. Usually that would be Anakin, but he had goals now. The Knight chewed. His Master’s eyes narrowed. The older man (who may have aged significantly in the last 5 minutes) finally broke.

“Who are you?”

Anakin just sighed, maintaining the Kenobi impression. “Come on Master, we don’t want to keep the troops waiting.” With that, he walked forward, hiding his smile as Obi-Wan followed closely at his heels. 

“Since when does my apprentice visit bakeries with Mace Windu?” Obi-Wan asked, almost desperately.

“You’re making it sound like a bigger deal than it is.” 

Master Kenobi sputtered as the pair opened the airlock for the short-range shuttle. 

Anakin mustered up an earnest smile. “Master? Would you mind flying- I’m still eating and-”

Obi-Wan made an incoherent noise of horrified outrage before fumbling for his communicator. 

“What are you doing?”

“NOTHING IS MAKING SENSE RIGHT NOW. EITHER YOU AND MACE NEED TO GO TO THE HEALING HALLS OR I DO!”

Anakin burst out laughing. “Relax Obi-Wan, I’m messing with you, holy shit. Obviously I’m flying.”

Obi-Wan slumped into the co-pilot seat, rubbing at his eyes. “Don’t do that Anakin! My nerves are stretched thin enough by the war as it is-”

“Sorry, Sorry!”

They strapped in and took off, Anakin still chuckling occasionally, Obi-Wan scowling in irritation each time. 

They ascended above the towering skyline alongside the first rays of sunlight.

“So you didn’t go to a bakery with Master Windu this morning?”

“Uhh-”

[robinrunsfiction]

CAN I GET A FRANK X READER FIC WHERE THE BAND GOES OUT FOR LUNCH AND Y/N STAYS AT THE BUS AND SLEEPS IN FRANKS BUNK AND THEY GET BACK AND FRANK SEES HER AND JUST GETS INTO BED WITH HER AHD HOLDS HER AND ITS ALL FLUFFY

Hold You Here

Pairing: Frank Iero x Female Reader Rating: General Requested By: Anons Word Count: 2,000 Author’s Note: I’m combining this with another similar request, which resulted in a longer story! I hope everyone enjoys! TW for a brief mention of Gerard’s addiction struggles in 2004

To be in a band meant that your bandmates were your most intimate friends. Hours, days, weeks spent cramped together in small confined spaces meant that everyone saw each other at their best, worst, and everything in between. Platonic physical affection wasn’t an unusual occurrence and neither was sharing beds so that the fewest number of hotel rooms could be reserved to save money, curling up under a blanket together while watching a movie on the bus, not to mention all the on-stage antics, it was all taken in stride. 

It also helped that everyone looked out for each other, but it seemed as if Frank looked out for you more than the others. When things became hectic, or when you were suffering from one of your migraines, he’d always be the one checking up on you to make sure you were okay. Spending hours up late at night talking with him was one of your favorite ways to pass time on the bus. You’d developed quite the soft spot for the chaotic guitarist.

The band had been touring what felt like non-stop for ages, but especially now that Three Cheers was out. It had been a very long, hot summer full of meeting fans, rocking out, and if you were being honest with yourself, way too much partying on everyone’s part. You were feeling pretty burnt out, but the success of the band made it worth it.

Now it was the last week of Warped Tour 2004 and you could tell summer was ending by how quickly the nights were cooling down. As usual when the tour was stopped over for a couple nights, both a bonfire, and most of the bands, were lit. You were standing as close to the fire as you could without melting the rubber on your chucks trying to keep warm.

“Hey,” Frank said, walking over to stand next to you.

“Hey, how’s it goin?” You asked

“Good. Cold?”

“Yea,” you rolled your eyes. “I decided to dress cute, and now I’m freezing my ass off.”

“Who were you dressing up for?” Frank asked, unzipping his hoodie.

“No one really,” you replied, watching as he took off the sweatshirt. “What are you doing?”

“Keeping you warm,” he replied.

“You don’t have to,” you started as he put it over your shoulders.

“Too late,” he replied with a smirk that faded into a soft smile.

You looked up at him, in the dim light of the bonfire and you felt your heart skip, like a switch had been flipped. That soft spot you held in your heart for him suddenly felt overwhelmed, like the quiet feelings were now screaming in your ears.

“I bet it’s warmer on the bus,” you suggested, deciding to lean into the moment. You just hoped you were gauging the situation correctly.

His eyebrows went up in surprise, but he nodded. “I bet you’re right, wanna go back?”

“Yea.”

The walk across the parking lot was silent, as your hands brushed against each other’s, shoulders bumping occasionally. Climbing into the bus, you wandered to the back and confirmed no one else was around, and when you turned back to Frank he seemed a little nervous.

“Ya know you do look really cute. Like not just tonight, like all the time,” he said.

“Thanks,” you replied, tucking your hair behind your ear nervously. You were in your 20s, why were you suddenly feeling like a middle schooler talking to their crush?

“Wanna watch a movie or something?” He offered after an awkward silence hung between you.

“Sure. Nothing scary though, I’m tired of horror.”

“How can you be tired of horror?” Frank asked with feigned shock.

“Because that’s all we watch and we’ve watched almost every movie we have 100 times over.”

Frank started flipping through the stack of DVDs that the band had accumulated through countless tours. “What about ‘10 Things I Hate About You’?” he asked. 

“Yes,” you nodded eagerly, plopping down on the couch and pulling off your shoes.

Frank put the movie in the DVD player and turned off the lights, sitting next to you. You glanced over, trying to gauge what he was thinking. He glanced back and you snapped your eyes back to the tv. As the movie progressed, Frank casually put his arm over the back of the couch and you settled into his side. 

“I wanna go play paintball, like real paintball, some time,” you said, watching Kat and Patrick’s date on the screen.

“We should go then,” Frank replied.

“Just us? Or,” you trailed off.

“Yea, I mean unless you wanna invite other people.”

You looked up at him, and he was looking back down at you. "No, just us," you said softly.

"Cool," he said with a goofy smile.

You had to bite your lip to keep from giggling, but in that moment, the energy between you shifted. Frank started to lean in and you closed your eyes as his lips met yours. At first the kiss was soft and tender, almost tentative. But then his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer and your hand ran through his hair as he deepened the kiss. 

When you finally came up for air, you couldn't help the smile on your face when you saw how happy Frank looked. "That was fun," you laughed.

"I've been wanting to do that forever," he said, running a hand through his hair, smoothing it down.

"Well we should do it again sometime," you replied.

Just then, loud, drunken voices could be heard outside the door to the bus and you both jumped apart.

"They're in here makin' out or something," Ray shouted over his shoulder with a giggle. You knew there was no way they could have seen you two just minutes before, but the joke still rattled you.

"No they weren't," Mikey said disbelievingly, as he and Gerard followed.

You glanced at Frank who was shaking his head at your bandmates before he changed the subject to something totally random. Things had literally just started with him, and it felt fragile. The last thing you wanted was to have it all fall apart like nothing happened, and be left wondering forever what could have been.

The next day, nothing about the prior night was discussed between you and Frank, but it had been a busy day of press, playing, and meeting fans. When you were climbing back into your bunk, completely exhausted, you spotted a folded up piece of paper on your pillow. You closed the curtain behind you and turned on the small light above your bed. When you unfolded the note, you immediately recognized Frank's scrawling handwriting. 

(YN), all I've been able to think about today is how your lips felt on mine and wondering when I can feel it again. I can't remember anything that was said to me because I was thinking about how I'd rather just be talking to you. I hope sometime before the end of this tour we can hang out alone together again.

XO, frnk

You bit your lip to keep from squealing with delight.

~

The last few days of Warped Tour were just as much of a blur, and when that tour was over, you were quickly shipped off to another one. Gerard was struggling and the whole band was impacted. Everyone dealt with it in their own way, and luckily you had Frank to brush away the worried tears when your brain wouldn't quiet enough to let you sleep at night. 

Soon after, Gerard got the help he needed and when he rejoined the band, you were immediately sent back out on the road. Everything felt a little brighter that fall.

You and Frank were as good as ever, but still keeping your relationship quiet. His hand would find yours when no one else was around. You'd each sneak into each other's bunks and spend the nights cuddled together. Then there was the series of excuses as to why you two should share hotel rooms, which included Mikey texting too much, Ray talking too much, and Gerard keeping the light on all night drawing, among others.

So when you were blindsided with a migraine one morning, you were not at all pleased. The pain throbbed through your head as nausea rolled through your stomach. You groaned as you slid out of your bunk and stumbled to the front of the bus, which was obnoxiously bright, to the cabinet holding the medicine. 

"There's sleeping beauty," you heard Ray laugh, but you just grunted in response. You grabbed the bottle of Excedrin and silently prayed they'd do their job quickly as you took a dose.

"You ok?" Frank asked as you slumped down on the couch.

"No, migraine."

Your bandmates groaned, knowing how much of a pain, literally and figuratively, they were for you.

"So you don't wanna go grab lunch?" Mikey asked.

"Please don't make me think about food or I might get sick."

"Do you want me to stay back with you?" Frank offered. It didn't even register how much concern he was showing toward you.

"No, I just wanna sleep and hope it goes away before we have to play tonight."

"Ok, we'll leave you alone. Come on guys," Gerard said, shooing the guys out. You glanced up and saw Frank giving you a sympathetic look before leaving the bus.

You dragged yourself back to the bunks, closing the door to the main room behind you and looked at your bunk. There was no way in hell you were climbing back up into it. Instead climbed into Frank's. 

You pulled his blanket over you as you curled up in a ball facing the wall. His pillow smelled faintly of his shampoo, but not enough to make you feel sick, or maybe the medication was finally kicking in.

It felt like no sooner you'd fallen asleep that you heard voices in the front of the bus. You wondered how long you’d been out, but didn’t care enough to check the time. Before you could drift off again you heard the door opening and closing softly. Shuffling steps stopped behind you and then you felt someone climb in the bunk behind you.

"Hey," Frank said softly, his arm wrapping around your side.

"Hi," you answered, a smile forming on your face for the first time all day, not that he could see it.

"Feeling better?"

"A bit. Not 100% yet, but better than earlier."

"Mind if I nap with you?"

"Please do," you replied.

Frank drew the curtain shut and settled in behind you. He brushed aside your hair and placed a soft kiss on the side of your neck before giving you another quick squeeze.

You drifted back to sleep for a while, and when you woke up again, your headache was mostly gone you were relieved that you'd be able to play that night without feeling awful. As you stretched your legs out, Frank shifted, pulling you tighter against him.

"Better yet?" He murmured sleepily.

"Yea," you said, not moving more, afraid of disturbing the comfortable cocoon you two were in.

“So at lunch the guys were talking,” Frank started.

“‘Bout what?” You asked, rolling over.

“Us.”

“Oh?” Your heart rate going up.

“We went to this café for lunch and I got you a cupcake, it’s in the fridge by the way. And they were just wondering if there’s something going on between us.”

“What’d you say?”

“I just brushed it off, they were just giving me shit.”

“Oh,” you said, suddenly feeling a little dejected.

“Do you still wanna keep us a secret?” He asked.

“I dunno," you mumbled. "Do you?”

Frank intertwined his fingers with yours. "It's been kinda fun this way. But I also kinda wanna tell everyone I know that I'm the luckiest dude in the world BECAUSE I'm with you."

“Let's decide later,” you replied. “For right this moment, let’s just enjoy this.”

"Good idea," he replied with a soft smile before leaning in and kissing you lovingly.

[yup-thats-me]

Christmas Carols - Tom Hiddleston X Reader

a/n: Merry Christmas!!! Enjoy :)

pairing: Tom Hiddleston X sensitive!reader

summary: Tom sings carols to see a smile on your lips

warnings: Christmas carols, sensitive reader, crying, kissing, and fluff!

“I can’t believe I’m doing this. Anyway, lets start”, Tom said to himself as he stood in front of the full-length mirror.

It was at least a month before Christmas. You weren’t home at the moment. You’d been out for a couple of hours with your best friend and a couple of others to simply hang out. Giving Tom the opportunity to start working on his carols.

Let’s face it, Tom was never the type to sing Christmas carols. Sure, he loves Christmases especially if they’re spent with you cuddling close to his chest or, having a cup of hot chocolate at hands, or even slow dancing to old Christmas songs. Whatsoever the way it might be. He waited the whole year for that very moment, to spend it with you.

“Silent night, holy night” the words fell from his mouth in a much-stiffed tone than he had originally intended to.

What was he doing? He was practicing Christmas carols. He knew how much you cherished Christmas carols. For you, you had spent your entire childhood, with your siblings, with a bunch of other kids, singing Christmas carols.

It meant a lot to you. Whenever you would hear Christmas carols, even in the faintest form, it was bound to bring tears to your eyes. You had no idea why. The carols were so close to your heart, and you didn’t even know why. The only reasonable cause you can give is that you’re sensitive. Very sensitive for that matter, what else? It really touched your heart.

So, this year, Tom decided to give you an extra gift just to make you a touch happier on the occasion. He was planning to wake you up midnight of the 24th, take you to the roof of your house and sing you the carol.

He made sure that every night for the following week, he’d be up before you and go to the farthest room from where you’ll be asleep and practice there, in order not to wake or even disturb you. He’d been planning this for the last month. He’d hate if you found out beforehand.

~on 24th of December~

The clock was 20 minutes away from striking 12 o’clock, marking the day of Christmas. Tom and you were up. He was nestled in your lap, reading you one of Shakespeare’s play. Was it Romeo and Juliet? Much ado About Nothing? You weren’t sure. You were so captivated by his angelic voice; it didn’t matter to you which or what he was reading even. All that mattered to you was, he was by your side, with you in his strong arms and you were caressing his hair. This was your whole world, and you wouldn’t trade this for anything in the whole world.

You both had finished up decorating for the party that was about to take place the next day, with all of his friends and some of yours, along with both of your parents and siblings. All that was left to be done, was to relax so that you’ll wake up with the much-needed energy. And what better way to relax than Tom reading out to you.

“Are you already sleepy, my Darling?” Tom asked with a smile. You softly shook your head, “No. Babe. Why? Do you want me to make something to eat, Tommy?” you spoke to him.

He slowly got up from your lap, closing the book. He took your hand and kissed it gently. “Come with me”, he stated in a hushed tone. You nodded and got up as well. “Are we going outside? Do I need to wear something very warm?” you questioned him. In reply, he gave you one of his oversized-sweater that smelled just like him. You quicky threw it over your head, Tom also wearing a sweatshirt that seems warm enough.

After you both were done changing into something warm, he again and made his way through the room. He stopped in one of the rooms where your Bluetooth speaker was settled. He took both the devices and, once more went on with his way to who knows where.

By the time you both were in front of the staircase, you figured maybe he was taking you to the terrace, but why it was yet to be discovered.

Stepping into the cold and empty roof, he switched on the lights, luminatting the whole area. He placed both the Bluetooth devices on a coffee table, that was settled at a corner.

He turned them on and connected to his phone. You were still looking confused as to what he was doing.

He then glanced at you with a hearty smile, his eyes shinning with adoration. Then, the familiar melody of the carol caught your attention, adding to your confusion.

“Silent night, holy night

All is calm, all is bright”

He began to sing. Tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, blurring the beautiful vision of him singing to you, just for you.

“Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child

Holy infant so tender and mild”

His accent perfectly matching the music. Coming forward to him, you placed your own arms on his shoulders, his coming to rest at your waist.

As the carol played, you joined him. Both joining in to create perfect harmony.

” Sleep in heavenly peace

Sleep in heavenly peace

Glories stream from heaven afar

Heavenly hosts sing Hallelujah”

You both sang, your back pressed against his chest, chin resting at your shoulder.

“Christ the Savior is born

Christ the Savior is born”,

The carol ended. By now, you were absolutely crying your heart out. The carols as always, didn’t failed to make you cry, but the addition that Tom, YOUR TOM, was singing for you, made your heart swell.

“Merry Christmas, Y/n, my Love”, he announced in a whisper, not wanting to break the most graceful atmosphere.

“Merry Christmas, my Dear” you exclaimed, turning around to kiss him deeply.

Now This, was a perfect Christmas for you.

[jackrrabbit]

it will come back [pt. 1] /// Yandere Shigaraki x f!Reader

Summary: You have a bad habit of picking up strays, and the half-dead villain you find bleeding out in a dumpster is no exception. [Part 2] [Part 3]

A/N: Low budget yandere for my greasy king. This concept has definitely been done before, but I couldn’t resist. This is my first non-smut on this acct and I’ll be so sad if it bombs 😭

Title from the Hozier song: “don’t let it in with no intention to keep it / jesus christ, don’t be kind to it / oh honey don’t feed it / it will come back.”

Tags/warnings: light yandere, minor injury, angst, Shiggy likes you, reader needs a friend and a good night’s sleep. [In later parts but not in this one: violence, sex, more yandere, 18+]

You’ve always had a soft spot for strays. Maybe that’s why you became an ER nurse—from the first abandoned puppy you brought home as a kid to the patients you refuse to give up on even when it looks hopeless, you’ve never been able to turn a blind eye when something needs your help. Sometimes (times like this) you wish you knew better. It’s hard enough to take care of yourself these days.

Today’s shift was…what, 16 hours? 17? The 20-minute walk from the bus stop to your apartment building feels like it takes twice that long in the rain. God, you need a shower. And a decent night’s sleep, preferably for at least 12 hours. Tomorrow’s your day off, and you’re ready to take advantage of it the best way you know how: Netflix, soju, and your favorite vibrator. But tonight? As soon as you’re clean, you’re going to pig out on leftovers and collapse into the bed that’s the only halfway nice piece of furniture in your shithole apartment. You really do deserve a break; you’ve earned it.

Unfortunately, as usual, the universe has other plans.

You hear him before you see him: wheezing, choked breaths, like someone’s trying to breathe with an anvil on their chest. You’re not quite out of nurse mode so your mind starts trying to diagnose the issue before you even register what you’re hearing. Fluid in the lungs, possibly blood. That hacking isn’t good. Broken ribs? Definitely bruised. But probably not a puncture…

The breathing is coming from down an alley next to your building. It’s dark enough that you can’t see from the street what’s making the noise. And you’re not a fool, you know it’s a bad idea to walk down pitch-black alleys late at night, especially in this area—a neighborhood you’re living in by necessity, because it’s the only place cheap enough for you to get by. But the coughing…it just sounds so awful. It sounds like it hurts.

Your phone’s already in your hand with 119 dialed and ready to call (standard practice when you’re walking home by yourself), but you turn the flashlight on and shine it down the alleyway. “Hello? Anyone there?”

Nothing responds, but you can still hear the breathing. You step in a little deeper, swinging your light from side to side and looking over the heaps of trash bags overflowing from the dumpster. The raindrops make clicking sounds as they hit the plastic, and you can hear gurgling from a rain spout down the side of the building, but the wheezing doesn’t stop.

One more step. And then one more. You wish there was something you could do to make the splash of your rain boots in the puddles a little less loud. Something about this situation—the rain, the dark, the flat grey light from your cellphone, and that horrible hacking breath—it makes you feel like you’re walking into a horror movie. But you don’t stop walking.

The hacking is coming from a man propped up on the wall between a few XL bags of trash. The black outfit he’s wearing almost blends into the bags, but a mop of grey-blue hair gives him away. His head is slumped onto his chest, and if he’s conscious he doesn’t show it. “Hello?” you ask again, even less confident that you’re going to get a response.

No answer.

The smell of garbage is…ugh…hard to ignore, but on top of it is an oppressive stench of copper coming from the man passed out in the trash. You kneel down to get a better look and yep, he’s covered in blood. It’s hard to make out in the low light, but there’s a trio of long gashes in the man’s abdomen, cutting apart the skin and flesh so deep you can see traces of a slim layer of yellow fat between all the inky clotted blood. It looks like he was attacked by an animal. Or someone with an animal quirk. There are a lot of villains in this neighborhood.

And the coughing...definitely internal injuries. Whoever this guy is, he needs treatment. You hold up your phone to hit the call button on your pre-dialed 119—

“Don’t.” The voice is a growl, low and surprisingly firm despite the scratchiness. You jerk back and clutch your phone to your chest, caught off guard not just by the interruption but by the intensity of the face glaring up at yours.

His eyes are red. “You need an ambulance,” you tell him in your calmest nurse voice.

“If you try to call the police, I’ll—kill you,” the man says, but the threat is a little less threatening when he has to stop in the middle to retch blood onto his own chin.

You glare back at him but don’t call the emergency number. There are a lot of of reasons why he wouldn’t want to go to the hospital, but the most obvious one is probably true. “You’re a criminal. A villain?”

He doesn’t respond, choosing instead to keep glaring at you like you’ve committed some mortal sin against his ancestors by having the nerve to check on him and try to help him. Somehow it pisses you off. When you were getting your ADN, you once took a temp job doing health screenings at a local middle school and you would always get so annoyed at the kids. Didn’t they see you were just doing your job? Why is it so hard to understand that what you’re doing is for their own good?

Stupid kids. Stupid villain. “You’d rather bleed out and die?”

The man bares his teeth at you, and it’s a pretty disturbing scene considering how they’re covered in scarlet. “You think they’re going to save me? Think I’ll go to the hospital and get all my HP restored?”

He’s mocking you now. You only have a second to move out of the way before he spits off to the side. “I mean…that’s how a hospital works.”

“If you think I would—make it out of that ambulance alive, you’re—dumber than you look.” His voice is interspersed with coughs.

“Well, you’re not going to live if I leave you here.” You hold up your phone, ready to call the ambulance, but in a shocking display of agility the man lunges forward and grabs it out of your hand. “Hey, wait! Give that…back…”

Your voice trails off as your phone crumbles—literally crumbles to dust in the man’s fingers. Once he’s satisfied that there’s no way for you to call the cops, he slumps back onto the trash bags and closes his eyes, apparently exhausted from the effort.

Goddamnit…! For a second, you can only stare blankly at the pile of dust that used to be your $300 smartphone. And then you’re seized by something, maybe not hatred but an annoyance so strong you can feel it in your throat, and you decide right then and there that this villain is not going to die. You’re going to save him. Out of spite.

You’re not sure how you manage to half-carry him from the alley to your apartment, but you do. You’re lucky it’s ass-o-clock at night and no one’s in the lobby or the elevator, or you’d definitely be getting some looks trying to lug a maimed body around. What would you say if someone did call the cops? Don’t worry, don’t worry about it officer, it’s just my friend drank a little too much, oh those wounds? We were at a costume party, haha…

But no one sees you, and no one calls the cops. The man is unconscious the whole time you’re carrying him, and by the time you have him laid out on a shower curtain on your living room floor his breathing is a little bit shallower than it was before. You’ve got your tools—nothing fancy, just some gauze and closures and antiseptic from your personal first aid kit. It’s not much, but it’ll have to be enough.

“Let’s get to work, asshole,” you tell the unconscious body in front of you, and you crack your knuckles.

///

The day after you pick the villain out of the garbage, your body decides that it’s not going to let you sleep in no matter how much you need it. You can tell because the huge windows in your bedroom—the only saving grace of this apartment, honestly—are depositing golden-pink sunrise light over everything you see when you open your eyes, including the villain’s face. Which is about six inches away from yours.

“You smell like death,” you tell him sleepily. He doesn’t move.

He’s…probably in his early twenties, you think, but it’s hard to tell because of all the wrinkles. His hair is on the longer side, and it’s striped with rusty brown smears from his blood. Again, you notice how red his irises are. Have you ever seen someone with eyes that color before? You’re pretty sure you haven’t.

“You slept for a long time,” the villain says, finally moving back so he’s not breathing into your mouth.

“Yeah, I was tired. From saving your life.” You sit up and rub your temples. “I’m thirsty…”

Before you can finish your complaint, the villain is holding a glass of water out to you in an awkward 4-fingered grip.

“Um, thanks, I guess.” You suck down the water and immediately feel better, enough that you realize how wrong it is that he’s up and moving around and probably undoing all your hard work. “You should be lying down.”

“The floor hurt, and I was bored.”

“Lie on the couch then. You can watch TV. But first—“ He’s sitting on the edge of your bed next to you, and you make him lie down flat so you can look at the injuries. They’re not nearly as bad as they looked last night—no walk in the park, but at least you won’t have a corpse in your apartment in a few hours.

When you’re done inspecting him, he sits up and asks you for a shirt. You had to cut his off, not that it was any great loss. The thing was shredded. Him pointing it out is the only thing that makes you really realize he’s shirtless, so you give him an oversized pajama shirt of yours. It has the name and motto of your old high school on it, and the villain reads it out in a half-mocking tone when you hand it to him.

“Beggars shouldn’t be choosers,” you snap. “You should be grateful.”

“I am grateful,” he says, putting the shirt on. “But I don’t understand.”

“I mean, you need a shirt, right? It’s cold—“

“No. Not that.” He’s staring at you again, and you find it difficult to maintain eye contact. “Why you didn’t leave me where you found me last night.”

There’s a lot you could tell him, all of it a little bit true. You were curious. You believed him when he said he wouldn’t make it out of the hospital alive. You couldn’t leave him alone the same way you can’t leave abandoned puppies alone. You wanted to prove to him that you were right, and that being stubborn wouldn’t get him what he wanted. But you don’t say that. “You killed my phone, so you owe me a new one. And I can’t get that back if you bleed out.”

He’s looking at you like he doesn’t believe you, and you fidget under his gaze until he sighs and says, “Whatever.”

You have to let him lean on your shoulder when he walks back to the living room to lie down on your couch. How the hell did he even get to your bedroom by himself? You really didn’t think this through—what are you supposed to do with an infirm possible villain who can barely walk unsupported without opening his injuries back up?

But that’s a problem for tomorrow you to deal with. Today, you’re content to set your laptop up on the coffee table so the two of you can watch TV in…oddly companionable (if you’re not imagining it) silence. It’s almost the lazy day off you were daydreaming about before you got yourself into this mess, and the atmosphere is so relaxed that before you can really decide whether to force the man to go to the hospital or turn him out on the street (or…?) you’re dozing off on your couch like there isn’t a potentially dangerous stranger lying beside you with his head just a few inches from your lap.

When you wake up, your problem is solved for you. He’s gone, and it’s like he was never there—except you’re down a cellphone and a pajama shirt, and your shower curtain is drenched with blood. You wrap it up with the rest of the soiled medical supplies and toss all of it in a dumpster a mile away from your building without knowing exactly why.

///

It’s not the last you see of him, but somehow you had a feeling that was going to be the case.

He scares the shit out of you the first time he visits (over time, that’s how you’ll start to think of his little unannounced drop-ins: visits. Like you’re being visited by a ghost or something). You’re coming back from another grueling shift in the ER, so tired you think you might be sleepwalking, and what do you find when you come in your apartment but a strange white-haired man sitting on your couch eating dry cereal out of the box and flipping through one of your books?

You nearly piss yourself.

He doesn’t seem surprised, which makes sense, considering he’s a villain and he’s probably used to pulling this dramatic entrance thing on people. He certainly doesn’t seem the least bit threatened when you brandish the mini canister of pepper spray on your keychain and demand that he tell you how he got in if he wants to retain the power of eyesight.

“It was unlocked,” he says.

“It was not unlocked,” you reply, rolling your eyes. You may be sleep deprived, but you’re not careless. Never careless.

“Whatever. Calm down. You’re not going to use that on me.”

He’s right, but you don’t want to admit it. If he wanted to do something to hurt you, he could’ve done it that first night. And you’re too tired to really put up a fight, so you just put the cap back on the pepper spray and flop down next to him on the couch. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He looks at you curiously from between his shaggy bangs, like you’re the one intruding in his home and not the other way around, then reaches out to hand something to you. “Here, payback.”

It’s a cell phone—not a smartphone like the one he destroyed, but a flip phone circa the 2000s, the kind that forces you to press “9” four times to get the letter “F”. You stare at it for a second, then look back at the villain. “Are you kidding? Did you get this from a museum?”

“Take it or leave it.” His feet are propped up on your coffee table, but you can’t make yourself care. Actually, it looks nice…him stretched out with an odd look of comfort on his lanky form.

You lean back on the couch and kick up your feet next to his. “Fine. Thanks, I guess.”

He shrugs.

“How are your wounds healing?” Why are you trying to make conversation with this guy? He’s…a villain, right? Not that you’ve ever received affirmative confirmation of that fact, but the hesitance to call the police and the breaking and entering are pretty good tells. But…it might be weird, but since you picked him up that day, you’ve felt a kind of kinship with him.

Alone. Abandoned. No place to go. No one to save him. It’s not a pretty comparison, but you can’t deny it rings true.

Maybe that’s why you pick up strays.

“They’re fine,” he tells you after so long a pause that you’ve almost forgotten your question. “Doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

You take a long look at him, at his posture—he’s relaxed, but his abdomen is crunched a little bit, curled in on himself so subtly that even you wouldn’t have noticed it if you weren’t looking. It’s not your problem. He’s an adult, and you’re sure he could be seeking real medical attention if he really needed it. You’re in no way obligated to perform some kind of checkup on this arrogant dick who literally broke into your apartment to give you a shitty phone and eat your cereal. The sensible thing to do is to tell him to forget that you live here and hopefully never see him again.

His head tips back to rest on the top of the couch, and he holds your book up to read. At this angle his long hair is out of the way of his face, and you notice among the deep-set creases in his skin a pair of wide scars across his right eye and on the corner of his lips. They’re pale and faded—old, then—but they look off to you, and after a while of snatching glances at his face you realize it’s because they’re healed badly, extraordinarily badly, the kind of healing that you don’t see very often because it only occurs when a stubborn patient tries to let a particularly nasty injury heal on its own. The part of you that isn’t sensible wonders how old he was when he got those scars.

Has he learned his lesson?

You doubt it.

“Lie down,” you sigh. “Let me see the cuts.”

Which is how you find yourself examining this annoying villain again, checking on his injuries and giving him recommendations for care like you’re his personal nurse or something. It’s not a role you enjoy playing, but at least he takes it without complaint, and you start to wonder if maybe this is why he broke into your apartment in the first place. If anything, he looks calmer when you’ve flipped up his shirt and prodded at his wounds, his eyes closing slowly and freeing you of that scarlet-red gaze.

He’s like a cat, you think, and then you shake your head and remind yourself that it’s a terrible idea to think of this man—this grown man who is probably a great danger to you and others—as a wild animal you’re trying to domesticate.

When he finally leaves (only after you drop a couple dozen unsubtle hints about how long you’ve been at work and how exhausted you are), you take a moment before you sink into bed to look at the flip phone. It’s no nicer than your original impression, but as you scroll through the screens you notice that it’s factory-new, except for one thing: there’s a contact programmed in, a phone number with an area code you don’t recognize listed under “T”. And you don’t want to be curious…

…but you are. Shocking.

Down the rabbit hole it is, you decide. So you text him.

///

[You: 12:03 AM] > Hey it’s (Y/N) > (the girl whose apartment you broke into) > What does T stand for? [T: 12:07 AM] > What do u think [You: 12:09 AM] > ?? [T: 12:09 AM] > My name > Dont you know who i am [You: 12:10 AM] > Are you famous? [T: 12:10 AM] > You dont watch the news do u [You: 12:11 AM] > Not really > What’s your name then [T: 12:12 AM] > … > Didnt u say u had to sleep [You: 12:15 AM] > Oh yeah > Whatever I guess > Good night

[T: 2:34 AM] > Its Tomura > Dont look it up

[You: 8:02 AM] > Ok > I won’t > Tomura

➠ [Part 2]

[honeymoononvenus]

THE SOCIAL BUTTERFLIES

“ I’m starting to think the music is dead.” 

A bold proclamation that followed a series of substandard nights out on arrival into London. I wasn't quite sure what I was expecting, but I knew it wasn't this; this being a mixture of bars that themed themselves ‘metal’ or ‘punk’, full to the brim of poseurs and rich kids desperately trying to pass themselves off as poor kids to fit the motif. 

Even though it was early days for me, I’d been dreaming of this mythical place where the musical focus was always more about what you were saying than how much you were selling, a movement established by true pioneers who had had enough of the way they were being treated in society and chose rhythm as a way to kick back. A movement that was inclusive of all people, totally radical and ahead of its time, that sanctioned even just for an hour or two a space that you could come and be yourself, entirely free of the shackles of public humiliation. I was desperately in search of something, ANYTHING that could act as a glimmer of hope that this had not been completely saturated or lost in time. 

My passage took me down Denmark street in Soho, otherwise known as ‘Tin Pan Alley’. A once epicenter of music. A road where the likes of the Sex Pistols and David Bowie called home. On any given day you could find artists such as Bob Marley, the Kinks, The Stones, Hendrix, Jeff Beck, Stevie Wonder and even the bloody Beatles recording demos, or just frequenting the place where it all happened. While it would obviously be naive of me to expect too much from this lost paradise in 2022, it did feel like quite a slap in the face to be welcomed into the street by a mammoth TK Maxx, an ironic representation of the battle lost. A giant flag of victory stuck into the guts of music by our old pal commercialism. Fuck this. 

I got on the bus and this was where I made my sad decree, maybe music as we knew it is over. The man won. 

Then entered … The Social Butterflies… 

Now; for context, I had first heard about this band months ago from a photographer I met in Thailand. I sat at the table of a hostel, scrolling through some brilliant flicks by this young talent, and queried about the band I was looking at. 

“They’re the best band in Brighton and some of the best people I know”. 

I can't quite tell what it was exactly, but something about them caught my eye. Something about them burned into my brain and gave me hope that maybe the scene wasn't dead, I was just looking in the wrong places. I could see the phenomenon through the screen.

As fate would have it yet again, their final show aligned with a trip to Brighton I was taking with a  friend from home. Armed with nothing but a google map pin location and a bottle of Jack, we made the trek in. Partly to find the answer to my decree, but after two weeks of dud nights in London, we were mostly just seeking a good time. 

And oh boy did we. After hiking through woodlands and encountering numerous foxes ( a rare treat for two Australian girls), we were welcomed into a clearing in the woods by a group of young people, dressed in all different styles. How fantastic for there to not be a single word to sum up this motley crew. 

My friend and I sank into a makeshift hammock and watched as the frontman , Emile, frantically ran around the clearing, imploring whoever was closest to him to help hang signs or lights, or to find out where their bassist was since it was already 20 minutes past start time. We looked at eachother, knowing that this was it. This was what we were searching for. Our very own pot of musical gold. 

As the sun made its final descent over the horizon, and all three members were present, the band picked up their swords and made an announcement ; 

“Ok. Two announcements. Number one, don’t stand on the fucking leads. Ok? Great. Number two, the petrol generator over there, will blow us all up. Stay away from it. Especially you smokers, which is all of you. Im serious, stop fucking laughing.”

He then pulled out a thin piece of cardboard, and the bass and drums began to beat. The crowd all stood up and moved closer in as Emile read out a sort of slam poem, everyone rhythmically swaying as they rolled their cigarettes. Not near the generator, of course. 

The crowd began to stir. Their smiles grew wider, as did their pupils. Bodies drew closer and closer as the crowd and their fierce leaders slowly became one entity. Their ‘stage’ was without barrier, the only thing weaving in between being the photographer, who at one point you could find meters up a tree attempting to capture this moment, this movement. 

I spoke to him after, about his time with the band, and how this was the last gig. They affectionately had labeled him the fourth social butterfly, a spin off of the interchangeable role of the fifth beatle. He said it was bittersweet that it was all over, the reason being the boys all going off to different unis at the end of the month, but that he was happy to be a part of this. Without him, there wouldn't even be any tangible evidence that this moment existed, and what a beautiful concept that is. 

But back to the band. 

If this were a stage play, the characters would have been meticulously meditated on, each serving completely different purposes while simultaneously and unanimously propelling the storyline forward. 

As lead, we have Emile, genius mastermind and mad showman of the forest. Costumed in a tattered black suit, baby blue button down and a skinny tie. His raven hair ran slick and thin across his forehead as it built up with sweat from his feral dance moves ; but boy how he moved! As if he were possessed by some force greater than himself, he could twist and thrash and shake his boney body in a way only comparable to that of some sort of sadistic love child between a birthday party era Nick Cave and John Lydon. 

It was as if he were under a spell… a spell conjured by our supporting actor , and bassist, Henry. 

The sexy saboteur to Emiles unnerving, adorned in an unassuming brown suede jacket and trousers, his mousy brown hair cut up in the style of Keith Richards. Henry wore his bass low as he effortlessly swayed around the stage and through the crowd, all the while puffing on a seemingly endless cigarette that he would secretly reset between every song. 

They were polar opposite, yet equally as undomesticated. Their saving grace? 

The real man of the hour; Felix.

Tame and humble hiding in the back sat the glue that held this otherwise loose hinge together, both energetically and rhythmically. 

Two show ponies and their rock. 

The absolute essence of a fantastic trio. 

In between songs the crowd were given a chance to find their footing again before being launched back into it as the next started. During these intervals, Emile could be found having a swig of whatever alcohol he could seem to get his hands on, while the other two were gesturing for a lighter, or having general chat with the crowd.

You could tell that they didnt give a fuck what people thought of their music - nor their looks, or attitude, or blatent substance use. They had something to say, something to share, and created a space for the people to come and do the same. A mutual reclaim of self expression through music and movement, just as humans have been doing since the dawn of time. They didn't try to sell CDs or merchandise afterwards - in fact, the only way to get a rare Tee was for them to pick you as a good audience member - although the honor of the tshirt holder went to the photographer, well deserved. 

Once they finished the live show, the party really kicked off. Someone plugged their phone into the now blown amp, and a series of songs continued to lead the highly intoxicated yet highly ecstatic crowd late into the night. Everything goes in a place like this. Slow dancing to disco, making out with strangers, conversations about God and death and everything in between  - our own little world  right there in the middle of the woods. 

Thank you social butterflies for giving this little Australian the push to continue on my quest. You are the firework up my ass that will propel me into the UK music scene in a way that I’d always dreamed of. I can't wait to see where your personal endeavors take you next.

PHOTOS: @choosethislater

LISTEN: 

https://open.spotify.com/artist/0q2qVW2XpWAdHrJqXJkrMA?si=ULabfaMlQiWen3mk1vI3

[prettyboyjackhughes]

-Boy Best Friends- [J. Hughes & T.Smith]

Literally no one asked for this but Kelly @prettyboycozens and I were talking about how much we love Jack and Ty's friendship, especially after the interview of Jack where Ty comes in and then came up with this idea and I had to write it so here we are! Hope you enjoy!

Jack and I had been close since we were little. We started out next door neighbors then he was the weird boy who I waited at the bus stop with, then he became the boy I had every class with in middle school. Around 6th grade is when we finally clicked and became best friends. He calls me ‘Ranch’ even though my name is Rachel, all because one time his phone autocorrected ‘Rach’ to ‘Ranch’ and he thinks it’s the funniest thing ever. He even changed my contact name to ‘Ranch’.

It’s been an interesting 8 years being friends with him and watching him grow up. The funny thing is, I’m pretty sure we’ve only spent a full year together one time during our whole friendship. He’s always been off doing all his hockey stuff while I’ve been home in Michigan. But then college rolled around. He got drafted the summer after my senior year, managing to watch me walk across the stage at graduation before flying up to Vancouver for his draft 2 days later. I watched him get drafted on TV and remember the thrill of hearing New Jersey picked him because coincidentally, the college I was planning on attending, Seton Hall, was about 20 minutes away from the arena he would be playing in. Knowing I would be getting to spend, hopefully, the next 4 years with my best friend within a short car ride’s distance away for the first time in 8 years was some of the best news I had gotten in a long time.  The first year was rough but I managed to survive, mainly because of Jack. It took a while to figure out the dynamic of our friendship but we settled into a routine and a comfortable cycle. We went back to Michigan for the summer, spending it with our families. He trained most of the summer while I worked. But almost every evening was spent together. Then it came time for us to head back to Jersey and back to the chaos that waited for us.

“Why are you living in the dorm again next year? When Ty and I have a perfectly good room for you to stay in?” Jack asked, his face way too close to his phone. We had been on FaceTime for at least the last 2 hours, him distracting me as I attempted to do homework.

“Because I can? Why would I wanna live with you and Ty?” I shot back, smirking as he looked offended.

“Well that one hurts. Hey, I was just offering so you didn’t have to worry about getting stuck with a bad roommate, like freshman year.” I grimaced at the thought of my freshman year roommate. I had spent more time camped out in Jack’s apartment than at my own dorm.

“That is a good point. But who said you and Ty are good roommates? I know for one, you never pick up anything, your room was always a disaster when we were little and Ty sings in the shower so there’s two cons.” Jack rolls his eyes.

“My singing is lovely! You’re just jealous you can’t sing as well as me!” Ty yells from across the room as Jack turns the camera to show him.

“We’ll work on the singing. And I’ve gotten much better at cleaning up after myself. I even know how to do laundry now!” Jack says, excitedly. I laugh and put my pen down.

“This really isn’t convincing me to move in with you two. Just saying.”  Jack rolls his eyes.

“Just give us a chance. It’ll be fun.” I shrug.

“Okay fine. But you do know that means Brady will be around the apartment, right?” Jack’s face screws up a little and I roll my eyes. Brady is my boyfriend that I met midway through my freshman year. He was a sophomore, majoring in business and just happened to be at the very first party I went to. He was older, in a fraternity and sweet-talked me. I fell head over heels for him almost instantly. But the issue was that Jack and Ty weren’t huge fans.

“Jack, he's not that bad.” This time it’s Jack’s turn to scoff.

“Yeah because having to go and pick your drunk boyfriend up from a party every 2 nights doesn’t make him that bad.” Ty appears next to him and starts talking.

“Rach, we’re just looking out for you. We don’t exactly love the guy.”

“Well that’s what’s gonna happen so get used to the idea.” Jack looks over at Ty.

“I think we can be civil. So you’re moving in?” I nod and Jack cheers. I roll my eyes and start to think about what I have to pack.

The next two weeks are a whirlwind of chaotic packing and moving. The boys were sweet enough to give me the biggest bedroom in the apartment, even though I had the least amount of stuff out of the 3 of us. Once I had moved in, the boys and I settled into a routine of me cooking, then cleaning up, them doing laundry and me folding; really just a lot of splitting up the housework and jobs around the house to get them done. Brady was around a lot, but Jack and Ty were civil and not complete jerks. I was proud of them. But then one night, while Jack, Ty and I were watching some movie Ty had been wanting to watch, I got yet another call from Brady asking me to come pick him up.

“Baby…I…need you to come get me…I-“ Brady’s drunk voice is drowned out by the yelling and music in the background and I can’t hear him anymore.

“Brady, where are you? I’ll come get you.” He mumbles something back but I can’t understand it so I just end the call.

“I have to go get Brady. He’s drunk at a party again.” I say, sighing as I get up off the couch. Jack and Ty exchange a look and then Jack gets up too.

“I’ll drive you. You’ll have to make sure he doesn’t puke in my car though.” I nod as Ty stands up too.

“Might as well come along for the ride.” I slip my shoes on and follow Jack out the door of the apartment, Ty closing the door behind us.

“Let me check his location and I’ll tell you where we’re going.” After enough times of being left sitting somewhere and having no idea where Brady was, he ended up agreeing to share his location with me. In times like these, it was his saving grace.

“He’s about half an hour away. The party must be somewhere in New York.” Jack doesn’t say anything, just starts driving. The ride there is silent, for the first time. Usually Jack and Ty won’t shut up when we’re in the car, constantly fighting about what music to listen to, whose turn it is to drive; everything under the sun is up for discussion when we’re in the car. I usually sit back and listen, occasionally injecting myself into the conversation when I feel necessary. I’ll also play mediator when they’re fighting over something stupid. But the fact that it was silent in the car right now, made everything so much worse. It feels like we’re driving to the end of the world.

“There’s the house.” I say, almost 45 minutes later. Jack manages to get the car parked and turns around to look at me.

“You want us to come with you to find him?” I shake my head, sliding out of the car and shutting the door behind me. This would be the 5th time I’ve had to pick Brady’s drunk ass up from a party in the last 2 weeks. I was getting pretty tired of it. But his explanation was that it was because he was in a fraternity. He said that it was apart of his “brotherhood” or something stupid like that. I didn’t buy any of it but I loved him so I let it go. And as I waded my way through ridiculously sweaty bodies all dancing to way too loud music, I remembered how much I didn’t like partying.

“Hey you’re Brady’s girlfriend right?” A girl asks, grabbing my arm and yelling over the music. I turn to her and nod, an eyebrow raised.

“I just saw him go into a room with some other girl. Top of the stairs on the left.” I gulped, hoping she was wrong.

“Thanks!” I yell back, hurrying over to the stairs and taking them two at a time. I wind through people going up and down the stairs and manage to get to the door. As my hand finds the handle, I take a deep breath, hoping and praying that the sight behind this door isn’t going to be what I think it is. I finally bite back the fear and push the door open. Sure enough, sprawled out across the bed with some girl’s hands all over his bare chest is my boyfriend.

“Baby? Hey I-“ He says, starting to sit up.

“Fuck you. Hope she’s worth it.” I spit out, glaring at him before turning around to rush out of the room. I stumbled down the stairs, bumping into people and blindly apologizing as I pushed through the crowd. Somehow I managed to make it out of the house and into the back seat of Jack’s car.

“Hey hey hey are you okay? Where’s Brady?” Jack asked, a concerned look plastered across his face.

“He-he cheated on me. Wi-with some girl at the p-party.” I stuttered, fighting the tears pressing against my eyes. He and Ty exchange a look and then both look at me.

“Just drive Jacky. Please.” I whisper as the tears finally start to slow a little. It’s silent again for most of the car ride. My phone kept buzzing with texts and calls from Brady but finally, after what seemed like the thousandth call, I put it on do not disturb and tossed onto the seat next to me.

“Well, I mean, there’s always the option of kicking his ass.” Ty says from the front seat, looking up into the rearview mirror at me.

“What do you say, Jacky boy?” I bury my face in my hands and finally let the tears fall.

“Shit Ty, she’s crying! You broke her!” Jack says, hitting Ty’s arm as he looks back at me.

“I didn’t break her! How is it my fault!” They continue to argue back and forth the rest of the ride home, which would usually make me smile and roll my eyes but not today. Not after what just happened.

As soon as we get back to the apartment, I rush inside and to my room, closing the door behind me. I heard Jack and Ty come in not long after me and whisper about something for a while. I hear the front door open and close again and then Jack tapping lightly on my door.

“Hey Ranch, you okay?” He asks, getting a tiny smile from me because of the nickname.

“I should’ve listened to you and Ty. You said he wasn’t good for me but I didn’t listen. I-I thought he loved me.” This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve cried to Jack about boys. I’ve had my share of boyfriends through the years and every single break up was cried out, usually over the phone with Jack.

“Ty went to go get you ice cream and I remembered how much you like bubble baths so I got one ready for you if you want…” He says, awkwardly picking at his thumb and looking at me.

“Seriously, how did I get so lucky to have you as my best friend? You and Ty?” He smiles a little as I sit up and walk over to where he’s standing in the doorway.

“You both are going to make some very lucky girls happy someday, you know that right?” He smiles and nods as I hug him.

“Now aren’t you glad you moved in here?” I smile and nod, looking up at him.

“Yeah. Yeah I am.”

[puppetsoftomorrow]

the avalance news reader au

hey who said peer pressure doesn't work. anyway i made this post and y'all seemed to like it so here we go!! might post to ao3 later on idk...

It had been a truly terrible day.

Ava considered, in the moment that her coffee machine spluttered coughed up coffee grounds over her last clean shirt, that maybe she'd just had a truly terrible year. All her dreams about finally moving to television after being stuck in the doldrums of local news media for six years had been slashed when she'd been placed on the graveyard shift - sure, Ava was finally reading the news, but her shift was from 1AM until 4AM, so her only audience was long-distance truck drivers and new parents.

Still, she persevered, with the slightly foolish belief that if she worked hard enough, she could be promoted to a primetime slot. Or at least a slot that didn't require her to be making coffee at 10:45PM.

Her day had started off badly - she'd barely slept, as the sound from the construction work three blocks away rattled her windows, and she’d woken to find that her cat, Merlin, had kicked his litter halfway across the house in a fit of pique. Ava couldn't even have her normal oatmeal, as she was out of oat milk, and now she was having to drink her coffee black.

After changing her shirt to a dark dress and grimacing as she choked down the coffee, there was a knock on the door, and Ava groaned as she realised she was running late.

"Hey, Sara." She sighed.

Sara stood in the doorway, hair wavy over her shoulders, hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie - the same grey hoodie she wore every day, branded with their news station's logo.

"Woah, a dress?" Sara said, eyebrows raised appreciatively, as Ava grabbed her coat and bag and they moved to go down the stairs.

"Don't mention it." Ava grumbled, pulling the coat around her shoulders.

"It looks good on you." Sara said, and Ava shot her a look. Sara mimed zipping her lips. "Do we have to time for Starbucks? I had to have black coffee; my mouth tastes like something died in it." Ava muttered, and Sara shrugged.

"I mean, we've arrived half an hour early for every shift for the past year -"

"Do you want to go back to taking the bus?" Ava said, looking over at her as they reached the lobby. They'd discovered they lived in the same building almost accidentally in Ava's first week, awkwardly meeting across the hall in the early morning, until Sara had realised that Ava had a car and they'd started riding in together.

"Fine, if you're happy with having bad angles." Sara said, holding the door open for her, and Ava rolled her eyes.

"Are you saying I have bad angles?"

"Oh, I'll find one." Sara muttered, and Ava snorted with laughter and unlocked the car. One of the benefits to giving her camera operator a ride every day was always having excellent angles.

After a stop at Starbucks, Ava rolled along the dark, quiet roads, sighing deeply.

"What's up?" Sara asked, sipping her drink - black coffee, which she somehow enjoyed.

"Nothing." Ava muttered, but it only took one look at Sara for her to come out with the story of her crappy day. Sara laughed.

"So that's why you're wearing the dress."

"That's what you're focusing on?" Ava said, focusing on the road with a small smile on her face. "I have to go back to my apartment at 5AM and clean up kitty litter and coffee grounds."

"Not to mention getting coffee out of your shirt." Sara snorted, and Ava groaned, loud and over the top.

///

They always split when they got to the studio, Ava marching off to make-up to get ready, and Sara taking the elevator to the studio floor to set up her camera. The studio was always dead past midnight, just a skeleton crew left, which Sara found she enjoyed - it was easier to know everyone that way. She waved at Nate, distracting him from where he was running through the weather, muttering under his breath and checking his perfectly coiffed hair in the camera. He waved back, a bright smile on his face.

Careful not to trip over any of the wires on the floor, Sara made her way up to the box above the studio, the cramped room filled from head to toe with blinking lights and buttons, with a large window so they could look down on the studio. The techs – Behrad and Charlie - were sat with headphones on, running through sound checks, so Sara just waved to them as she found who she was looking for.

Zari, the studio runner, was running through her clipboard, muttering under her breath. When she saw Sara coming, she rolled her eyes. "Back again?"

"What have you got for her today?" Sara asked, keeping her voice nonchalant.

"The usual. Some city councilor has been embezzling funds, Star City is readying to bid for the 2028 Olympics, and former mayor Queen is opening a patisserie down-town. It's been a quiet week."

"Exactly." Sara said, her grin widening. "You've got to add the cat one."

Ray, their head writer, had found a story a week ago about a fat cat attending the Star City pet spa to lose weight, and Sara had been tracking down clips of the poor thing, bribing the editor, Nora, to pull them together. She'd even written a script. Zari looked at her with an eyebrow raised.

"Seriously?"

"Yes! I have a bet going with Mick - if I can get Ava to break on camera by the end of the month, he's got to give me $50." Sara said. It was ridiculous, she'd started the bet - truthfully, she found it endearing how Ava read the news with the same abject sternness whether she was covering a political scandal or a dog who'd learnt to surf in Star City Bay. She'd only broken her composure once - a smile creeping on her face when reporting on the 5th birthday of a crocodile at Star City Zoo named Snaps. From that day on, Sara had vowed to make her laugh, properly, live on air.

"I don't have any time to make up." Zari said, and Sara sighed.

"Yeah, but you know Ava reads quick enough. Please? For me?"

Zari seemed immune to the puppy eyes, so Sara sighed. "And I'll give you $20."

Zari snorted. "Do you have $20?"

"I'll have $50 when I win the bet." Sara countered, and Zari sighed.

"Fine. I'll see what I can do."

"Z, you're the best." Sara said with a grin, and turned to return to the studio floor.

///

The program went smoothly, like always. Sara liked her job, the focus of filming and the pride she got when she saw her own work on TV, but she liked it better when she was filming Ava, who had pretty much insisted from day one that Sara be her primary operator.

Ava looked especially pretty today, someone in make-up evidently having convinced her that she didn't need the bun today, and instead curled her hair over both shoulders, which didn't completely cover Ava's defined arms, visible in her sleeveless dress.

The night ran the same as most others, Ava transitioning smoothly between topics and engaging in light, courteous banter with Nate before he presented the weather. Sara looked at Ava during these moments, the five minutes she was off camera, where she looked down at her notes, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

Okay, so maybe Sara wanted to make Ava laugh because she looked so pretty doing it. Sue her.

They were coming near the end, and Sara was losing hope that the story would be included, until she heard the segue.

"Now, in lighter news," Ava started, her eyebrows suddenly shooting up as she read the prompter. Sara grinned; Zari had obviously left this out of Ava's notes to inspire more of a reaction.

"Cats," Ava blurted out, steadying herself before continuing, "they're not normally known for their love of swimming, but one feline in Star City is hitting the water instead of the gym in a bid to lose weight. Mr. Snuggles -" Ava bit her lip as the pictures played on the monitor - a black and white cat in a life vest, looking absolutely terrified, and Sara grinned. "Mr. Snuggles is a thirteen-year-old cat who - dislikes the outdoors and other physical activities."

Sara's grin widened as Ava lost it, barely making it through her lines through her giggles. Her face was flushing pink and she bit her lip to try and compose herself. "But with encouragement from his owner -" Ava pressed on, trying to hold herself together, "Mr. Snuggles had lost one pound in six months."

That was the final straw, as Ava descended into a full-on laugh, barely making it through her sign off. Sara was so distracted by the sound she nearly missed Zari's voice in her ear. "Camera 1 to Camera 3 in 3, 2, 1 -"

Sara switched off, but not before Ava snorted, flushing even deeper and covering her face with her hands at the sound, not disguised by the jingle from the lottery numbers playing across the screen.

///

Ava had bolted from the set, and Sara packed up her equipment as quickly as possible, ducking out just in time to catch Ava as she walked down the corridor to the lobby. Her face was now free of make-up, her hair tied up in a messy bun, but she was still in the dress that left Sara's mouth a little dry. She looked at Sara, blushing again.

"I can't believe you did that." She groaned, and Sara put on her most innocent face on.

"Did what?"

"Bribed Zari to put the cat story in! John in make-up said that Charlie had told him that you'd bribed Zari."

"To win $50!" Sara said, grinning. "And you have a really cute laugh."

Ava looked up; eyebrow furrowed. "Really?"

"Yep." Sara said, trying to play it cool. "Look, do you want half? I feel bad now."

Ava sighed. "No, it's okay."

"I could buy you dinner." Sara said, almost blurting it out, and Ava looked at her. "To make up for it."

Ava's mouth quirked up in a smile. "Uh - yeah, okay. I can do dinner."

~the end~

okay so this was fun to write and i kind of want to write more so uhh send me where u think this story should go. or ideas for a part 2 maybe. thanks for reading!!

[221bsunsettowers]

First Line of Your Last 20 Stories!

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

Thank you to @acejuddryder and @buddie-buddie for the tag! I went with finished and posted stories for this.

1) Like You’d Get Your Knuckles Bloody for Me (9-1-1 Lone Star, Tarlos)

TK had always known Carlos would come for him.

2) I Shake and I Shiver Just to Feel You Breathe (9-1-1 Lone Star, Tarlos)

It definitely wasn't a secret to Carlos' coworkers he was in a serious committed relationship with a firefighter from the 126.

3) Swear to Be Over-Dramatic and True to My Lover (9-1-1, Buddie)

Sighing, Eddie walked up the fire station stairs.

4) In Which Eddie Finds Out About the Flaming Car Driven By a Dog, and the 126 Find Out About Buck and Eddie (9-1-1/9-1-1 Lone Star Crossover, Buddie plus firefams)

"I already have a boyfriend and it's pretty serious," TK says, making sure he smiles at Buck to take what (he thinks is) the sting out of the words.

5) I Would Give My Life Before I Break My Promise to You (9-1-1, Buddie)

"The person who called it in thought he might have had a heart attack," Bobby said, gesturing towards the telephone pole.

6) Found Forever on a Field Trip (9-1-1 Lone Star, Tarlos AU, Preschool Teacher Tarlos and Firefighter TK)

The school bus pulled up to Fire Safety Squad, and the twenty preschool students on the bus squealed and screamed in excitement, only their old school seat length seat belts keeping them from hurling their bodies up and into the aisle.

7) Fill Up Your Lungs (9-1-1 Lone Star, Tarlos)

Carlos feels the world turn upside down.

8) Please Don’t Go Where I Can’t Follow (9-1-1 Lone Star, Tarlos)

It had taken three hours and fourteen minutes to find Carlos.

9) Keep My Head Above Water (9-1-1, Buddie)

"Eds, do you have the list?" Buck asked, perched on the couch at the fire station, cell phone to his ear.

10) You Had a Speech, You’re Speechless (9-1-1 Lone Star, Tarlos)

"Mmm, baby, you were right, that was exactly what I needed," TK sighs happily, laying his fork down on his now empty plate.

11) I’m Going Back to the Start (9-1-1, Buddie)

"Eds, what in the world are we doing here?" Buck glances around the darkness, the nearest streetlight unable to pierce the blackness.

12) Drop Out Under Our Feet (9-1-1, Buddie)

"Remind me why we're doing this again?" Eddie asked, as he fell once again onto the ice, Buck landing not far behind him.

13) What Happens When You See My Face Again (The Witcher, Geralt/Jaskier)

"I've been telling you since you locked me in this filthy excuse for a cage," Jaskier sighed, leaning back against the bars.

14) Put My Name at the Top of Your List (9-1-1, Buddie)

Eddie and Buck were waiting in their usual spots in front of Eddie's truck when Christopher came out of school, watching him wave goodbye to his teacher before he spotted them and his whole face lit up.

15) Let That Lonely Feeling Wash Away (9-1-1, Buddie)

Buck watched the team run out of the grocery store and into the parking lot, watched them start to handle whatever road rage incident was currently occurring.

16)  The Musketeers (BBC): Hostage Situation 

D'Artagnan may not have taken pride in the fact that he had been captured, but he did take pride in the fact that it had taken six Red Guards to take him down, and even then, he had landed a hit on every single one before being knocked out from behind.

17)  "I know you can't talk, but I just want you to know I'm not going anywhere." (9-1-1, Buddie)

“It was a paralytic agent, Buck, they’re trying to figure out what exactly now.

18) Hold My Hand (9-1-1, Buddie)

It happened, Eddie would swear later, in a literal blink of an eye.

19)  "Hey, don't listen to them." (Shadowhunters, Magnus/Alec)

Magnus was used to this, he really was.

20) All These Thoughts I’ve Been Saving (The Witcher, Geralt/Jaskier, plus friend Yennifer)

Geralt wouldn’t trade the pain in his neck right now for anything.

For patterns, I definitely use first names in first lines more than I realized, and I use a lot more dialogue in first lines than I realized either. 

I’m tagging @morganaspendragonss @bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher @thecomfortofoldstorries @moviegeek03 @officereyes @i-had-bucky @tabbytabbytabby @bellakitse @a-beautiful-struggle-of-life @marjansmarwani 

Please feel free to ignore if you’ve already done this one :)

[mdawritings]

Wanna Be Yours: Ch. 12

II.I

Masterlist

Warnings: References to violence, canon-typical descriptions of violence, crime scenes, and death.

Song(s): "Bruises" by Lewis Capaldi and "I Almost Do" by Taylor Swift

It’s almost eight years until you hear the name Aaron Hotchner again.

You’re anxiously awaiting the call about your reassignment within the FBI. You had completed your year of mandated leave, gone through the required psych evaluations, gone through the training protocols. You’re ready to get back into the action, or, at least, you’re ready enough to get back to work. That’s when you receive the final message.

Your reinstatement was to be within the Quantico headquarters. This way, the brass could keep a close eye on you, while still utilizing your skills in the best possible way. So you flew into Quantico late Saturday night, moving into the cheapest apartment you could find. It was in a terrible area but being out of work for a year leaves you without much spare cash to live lavishly. Without your government-issued weapon, you check the deadlock every time you turn your back to the door for too long.

You have hardly any furniture in the apartment, most of the decor being the piles and piles of boxes in the center of your living room. You’re exhausted, in every possible way, so you settle for a fast shower, during which you’re entirely paranoid someone is going to break into your apartment. You collapse onto your bed, barely having the energy to even put the sheets on the bed to make it. The call comes through your phone shortly after you fall asleep, which means you don’t check your messages until early Sunday.

“This is Erin Strauss of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m calling to inform you that the council has processed your psych evaluation and administered a new gun registration and badge for you. You will now be working under me as a profiler within the BAU. It is my understanding that you’ve taken quite a few profiling classes in your training as a negotiator and you’re well equipped for this job. There will be a slight adjustment period but nothing that I do not believe you are capable of handling. You will start in your new position on Monday. Meet me at my office and I can brief you about the basics and then Agent Aaron Hotchner, BAU Unit Chief, will take it from there.”

You practically drop the phone. Your hands shake slightly, as you click off the phone and place it back onto your bedside table. You write Strauss an email in response, apologizing for missing her call, accepting the position, thanking her for the opportunity, and expressing your immense gratitude for such an esteemed position with such a great team. But that’s a lie. For a split second, you believe it's possible that this Aaron Hotchner is a completely different one than your Aaron Hotchner. You’ve never been a believer in fate or destiny. But for this to be a coincidence is simply unbelievable. Isn’t he supposed to be tormenting more students, torturing more girls, breaking more hearts? How did he end up as the BAU Unit Chief within the FBI?

You’re in shock, Strauss only leaving you about 24 hours to process it all and prepare for a new job. There’s no way you could request reassignment to a different unit. You’ve already been given your second chance. It’s now or never to get back into the FBI.

You’ve been out of work for a year. For a year, you’ve been struggling to cope with the loss of coworkers and innocent people. A loss that’s completely on your shoulders. Blood that’s on your hands. It was enough of an adjustment to get back to normal. Well as close to normal as can be. Your government-issued therapist, as you like to call her, attempted to dismantle this idea. She tried her best to remove the guilt from your mind, but after the government aid for the sessions ran out, you abandoned all hope of restoring yourself to the mental state you were in before. Everything in your life now is the after. You can’t live in the before. It’s too painful.

But now? Now it feels like all the work you’ve done to heal, to move on, to continue your life is rapidly unraveling in front of you. How would you adjust to seeing Aaron Hotchner once again? You hope that by now, he won’t have as much of an impact on you. You’ve experienced so much life, so much living, so much loss since then.

You’ve had other relationships, loved other people, slept with other people, but the impact that Hotch had on your life is permanent. When you think about it too long it feels ridiculous, the fact that a silly little fling in your early 20s has managed to change you so much. So much so, that now, at 29, you can still sense remnants of his impact on your life. They’re small moments, in which you realize that your behavior has changed so drastically over the years because of him. Your tongue is sharper. You stand up for yourself more often, and you never ever let anyone walk all over you the way he did.

You spend the day worrying yourself sick about the new position. You can’t turn it down. This job is your last chance.

Monday morning, your alarm rings wildly next to you in bed, but your eyes are already open. You’ve been staring at the ceiling for the past hour unable to sleep. You’ve been tossing and turning restlessly, unable to focus on anything else but the last few memories you have of Aaron Hotchner. Your mind first goes to that last day of classes, thinking about the way he smiled at you from across his desk. The way that damn leather-bound book felt in your hands. The way that he kissed you. He made you feel so special. Your mind then travels to the rest of that weekend, one in which he managed to rip your heart out of your chest and tear it into a million little pieces.

You think of the last thing you heard from him. Those same words he had spoken to you once before, but spoken to someone else. At that moment, you realized that you were nothing special. You were just another girl Professor Hotchner used for sex.

You’re hopeful that you will be able to move forward with professionalism. There’s a second where you consider the possibility of becoming friends with Aaron Hotchner, but you know that’s impossible. You can’t look at him and ignore all the hurt he caused you. You can, however, be professional. You know you can work with him. It might just tear you up inside, but you can do it. You have to.

However, you wonder what kind of person he’s become in the past eight years. You know you’ve changed dramatically, but what has happened to him? How has his life gone? How did he end up in the FBI?

You wonder if he’s learned to love. The man that you knew was one who was seemingly incapable of ever loving anyone. It’s clear to you that back then he was too selfish, too wrapped up in his own head to dedicate anything real to anyone else. And if he ever did feel anything real for you, he was too emotionally damaged to handle it, work through it, or to tell you about it.

Your alarm rings again. You snooze it again. What will you say to him? What do you want your first words to be to him? Will you tell him off? Should you even acknowledge the past? Or should you just put on your best air of professionalism and approach this as you would any new job? It seems impossible to push aside the past and treat him as a new person. Because he’s not a new person. He’s a man who has shaped every decision you’ve made in your life since knowing him.

You eventually convince yourself to get out of bed, reminding yourself that it’s pointless to fight inevitables. You dig through the moving boxes, pulling out your coffee maker and a thermos, filling it up to the top, already expecting the Quantico office coffee to be bad. You haven’t worked in a year, but you do remember always having to make your own coffee before work.

While the coffee brews, you pack a go-bag, an item that Strauss heavily emphasized the importance of for this job. You would be traveling a lot for each case, and you have to be ready to leave at any moment. You’re not sure why your reassignment is with the BAU. Your therapist emphasized a lifestyle of structure and predictability. If there’s one thing you’ve heard about the life of these profilers, it’s that the hours are irregular.

You get dressed, slipping on a clean pressed, black pair of slacks and a white button-down blouse. You slide on a comfortable pair of boots, ones that look nice and professional but don’t hinder your movement in the event that you get called away on a case.

One benefit of the irregular hours is that your personal time is limited. If you can occupy your mind with work, you can avoid getting sucked up into your own head. Like right now. You grip your bag as it jostles against your side on the bus. You drink your coffee a little too fast, which doesn’t ease the unnatural level of fear coursing through you.

This shouldn’t scare you so much. But the old wounds that you fought so hard to turn to scar tissue are reopening and they hurt just as much as the day Hotch inflicted them upon you.

You get to the Quantico headquarters a few minutes early, giving you enough time to get your new ID from the front desk. You get into the elevator, rocking back and forth on your toes anxiously. He’s here. He could be anywhere. Every time the elevator doors open to a different floor, you fear that you’ll come face to face with him. You’re sure that he’s probably on the sixth floor. The BAU floor. He’s probably in his office waiting to welcome the new agent. Does he know that you’re the new agent? Does he know who you are? Does he know what’s happened to you this past year?

You were assured that most of the details of your ‘leave’ were kept confidential. All that was publicized was a tragic bombing. The bomber sacrificed himself for the cause. Only a few people were able to escape, but all with severe injuries. The FBI didn’t want to admit their involvement. Their failure to save those people. Your failure to save those people.

You get to Strauss’s office, struggling to pay attention as she walks you through the basics, hands you your new badge, and a new gun. You holster the weapon, pulling your go-bag onto your shoulder, fiddling with the straps nervously.

Strauss finishes her introductory speech and takes a moment to look you over, “Agent, are you sure you’re ready to get back to work?” It doesn’t take a profiler to notice your nerves. Ever since the start of your leave, nerves and anxiety aren’t an uncommon occurrence, but this is more than usual. Your body is practically vibrating.

Despite the sick feeling in your stomach, you manage a nod, “I’m sorry.” You apologize for appearing distracted, “Yes ma’am. I’m ready.”

You can tell she’s unconvinced. Strauss leads you through the relatively crowded bullpen. You spot an empty desk across from a woman with long black hair, who is too busy laughing with the blonde sitting on top of her desk to notice that the tall skinny one across from them has just spilled coffee all over himself and his paperwork. You assume that the empty one is to be your desk. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest as you glance up at the two offices on the catwalk. One of them has the blinds tightly drawn and through the other, you can just barely see an older gentleman working on his laptop. David Rossi. You know him. You read just about every single one of his books on Sunday in preparation for this new job.

Your profiling skills are mediocre at best. Strauss argues that out of all possible candidates you had the most office experience and field experience. You’re really not sure how that helps. How could a traumatized and failed crisis negotiator who hasn’t been in the field in nearly a year provide anything helpful for the BAU?

Old habits resurfaced and you buried yourself in published literature and textbooks and research. You weren’t about to walk into a new job feeling unprepared, especially not one in which Aaron Hotchner would be your new boss. Now, at this moment, trailing behind Straus, as your body seems detached from your mind, dreading the moment that she opens that door to Aaron’s office, no amount of studying or preparation seems sufficient.

Rossi steps out of his office just as you and Strauss reach the top of the stairs. You lock eyes with him and despite not even knowing who you are, he gives you a reassuring nod. Damn profilers. Your body language is probably a dead giveaway. Strauss knocks on the door.

“Come in.” That voice. You could never forget it. Strauss reaches for the handle and you’re tempted to run away. Turn around and walk away. At least then you could leave with your sanity semi-intact. However, your curiosity has been piqued at this point. You have to know. You have to see him. You step through the doorway into the office and finally get a good look at the man.

He's hunched over, body turned slightly away from the desk. He has a phone pressed to his ear and he’s speaking in a gentle, hushed tone, "Yeah I know buddy." He glances over at you and Strauss. As if out of a movie, he does a double-take. It’s almost as if it takes a second for his eyes to really process what he’s really seeing. And what he’s really seeing is you. The look on his face tells you that he barely recognizes you, now eight years older, in professional clothes, and a face that’s just a little more weathered from all that you’ve been through.

Your memories of him are not faint as your eyes stay locked with his. They’re not just faded remnants of your moments together. Staring at him, eyes drinking in every inch of him, it all comes back more vivid than ever. You can practically feel his fluffy hair tangled in your fingers. From your position, you can just faintly smell his cologne. That’s a scent that hasn’t changed. The sensory memories are overwhelming. The passion, the secrecy, the pleasure. But that quickly changes, making the sick feeling in the pit of your stomach grow at an all-consuming rate. That night. That night he grabbed you by the front of your shirt, the way he snapped at you, the completely ice-cold manner in which you spoke those last few words to him, I’m done.

That Aaron Hotchner is not the man sitting in front of you. You barely recognize him. His hair is shorter, more strictly gelled in place. His white shirt is buttoned all the way up. He has a suit jacket on. His tie is done up perfectly. You can’t help but take note of the bags under his eyes, the increase of lines on his face. Obviously, he’s aged, but the way his face has changed, it’s not just age. You can see his eyes are dull, glossed over. For as neatly put together he is from the neck down, his face looks tired.

Hotch seems to forget he was just on the phone, entirely taken aback by the fact that you’re actually there, standing in front of him. "I’m sorry I can’t be with you right now but get a lot of rest and I’ll be home before you know it. I have to go. I love you too." He hangs up and you try to hide the shock on your face as those words come out of his mouth. Words you dreamt of him saying. Words that haunted you for months nearly a decade ago.

"Agent Hotchner, this is the crisis negotiation transfer I was discussing with you," Strauss nods at you, and Hotch stands up, smoothing out his tie, placing his hands flat on the desk. "This is Agent—"

"Y/N." His voice is firm. Hearing his name fall from your lips is enough to send you running in the opposite direction. Fear and anxiety overcome you, your legs going weak as he sticks out a hand to shake yours, but you can’t seem to get yourself to move forward to touch his hand, "I’m sorry, Agent Y/L/N." He corrects his mistake.

His hand hovers in the air for a moment, waiting for you to reach forward to shake it. Your shoes drag across the carpet, as you reach forward to shake his hand. His warm, rough hand envelops yours. At one point in your life, just the touch of his skin against yours would send sparks up and down your arm. Just that handshake would’ve been enough to ignite your skin and make you feel alive.

You feel nothing. Just a simple handshake. Your heart is attempting to jump out of your throat, beating rapidly and pounding against your ribcage so hard you think your chest visibly moves. However, his touch no longer thrills you. Maybe you are finally over Aaron Hotchner.

"You two know each other?” Strauss gestures between the two of you.

"No," You reply without missing a beat. You shake your head, finally able to get words out. You have to force your eyes off of Hotch and look at Strauss, "Well, yes. Agent Hotchner lectured at my law school a few times. When he was a federal prosecutor.”

Strauss gives a small nod of acknowledgment, “Agent Hotchner can show you the ropes from here. I expect updates from the field,” Her eyes shoot over to you. Updates about you, she means. In case you manage to fuck up again.

You watch as Strauss leaves the office not turning your eyes to Hotch at the desk in front of you. You look out the window, gesturing to the agents in the bullpen you passed, “I’m assuming the extra desk in the bullpen is mine?”

Hotch tilts his head down, letting out a small breath, “Yes. Agent Y/L/N—”

“And everyone in the bullpen, is that the whole team? I know Agent Rossi’s office is next to yours and I only saw three agents in the bullpen but I assume there are more?”

“Yes. We have a technical analyst and another member of the team. You’ll be introduced to them shortly, however–” that’s not what he really wants to talk to you about. Its clear that there’s so much he wants to say, but you don’t give him a chance to speak. You keep your mind focused on the important questions on there about the job. You know that a conversation with him about anything else just might break you.

“And in terms of training, you can see I passed my gun qualifications again. Are there any other evaluations or training protocols? Or will my time from the academy be sufficient preparation for this position?” You rattle off your questions. His face is a mixture of shock and frustration. He has his arms crossed against his chest. He tucks his bottom lip in, biting at it lightly.

“Y/N,” He places his hands firmly down on the desk. This time he doesn’t answer your questions. He’s tired of your avoidance, “What are you doing here?”

You take a pause at the sound of your first name, swallowing slowly, “I’m here on reassignment from crisis negotiation. I’m supposed to be working as a profiler on your team in the BAU.”

“You know what I mean,” Hotch presses the issue a little further.

“With all due respect, I’m not sure what you are searching for from me but if the implication is that I am here for anything other than the job then you are sorely mistaken,” You huff out and cross your arms against your chest, mirroring his closed-off body language. “Sir.”

“That’s not what I was implying,” Hotch places a hand on his forehead, rubbing roughly, trying to ease his frustration. You’re not quite sure where he gets off being so short and snippy with you. “I’m just… The last time I saw you, you were on track to be a lawyer and now you’re standing in front of me, in my office, joining my team. It just all seems very—”

“Sir?” You turn and see a different blonde standing in the doorway. She has a bright pink floral dress on, two large flowers in her hair, a file in her hands, and a pink fuzzy pen tucked behind her ear. “Sorry to interrupt,” She steps forward, stumbling a little in her high heels, sticking her hand out to shake yours, “Penelope Garcia, technical analyst, computer geek, and all-around wizard of the keyboard.”

You smile at her and stick your hand out to introduce yourself, “It’s great to meet you.”

“Sir, you remember that the Indiana PD contacted us about a possible serial?” She lets out a shaky breath, squinting her eyes and looking away as she opens the file, holding it out to Hotch, “Another body.”

Hotch has to reach past you to take the file and you audibly suck in your breath as his arm glides past your torso. “Same signature?” He looks over the photos.

Garcia lets out a small shudder, “Yeah the victim’s hands… the unsub he… don’t make me say it, sir.” She squeaks out.

“Gather the team,” He gives a nod before finally looking back at you, “You think you’re ready to get back to work?”

“Yes Sir,” You sigh, pull your go-bag further up your shoulder. You start to follow him out the door but he stops short in front of you.

“We’ll talk later,” He stumbles over his words a little. You’re making him nervous. You see his hand at his side. His fingers rubbing against one another. There’s one thing that hasn’t changed in years. He still has the same nervous behaviors.

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about,” You mumble under your breath as you follow him to the conference room. You speak quietly but from the way he tilts his head, stretches his neck, and takes a deep breath, you know your comment was loud enough for him to hear.

You take a seat at the roundtable, watching as the three agents from earlier are now joined by a tall, muscular black man who ruffles the top of the skinny kid’s head, messing up his hair, “I’m just teasing kid, I like the haircut. Makes you look young.”

“Yeah like I need anything to make me look younger. Everyone already thinks I’m a teenager,” The skinny one tries to smooth his hair back into place, but it doesn’t really help, leaving small strands sticking up in the air.

“Everyone this is Agent Y/L/N, she’s joining us from Crisis Negotiation,” Hotch pulls out his chair, right next to yours. You feel your whole body tense up, as the close proximity really allows you to smell his familiar cologne. Eight years and he still hasn’t bought a new one. Great.

“Joining us?” The muscular one stands just a bit behind you, making himself a cup of coffee but turns and walks to take a seat, giving you a slow once over. It’s not a flirtatious one, but a wary scan of your body. You’re becoming acutely aware of how exposed you feel in a room full of professional profilers.

“Strauss thinks we need the extra help, especially with the recent increase in requests for BAU help, and I don’t disagree with her,” Hotch looks around the table at his coworkers before looking to you, “Agents Prentiss, Morgan, Jareau, Rossi, and Dr. Reid.” Hotch points out each member, who all give you small nods and waves of acknowledgment as he introduces them.

“Crisis negotiation, huh?” Morgan continues to push the subject. You can tell he’s not really happy about a new addition to the team. You’re guessing it’s coming from a place of protectiveness of his team. You understand his hesitance. The team probably works well together, a new person is a whole new dynamic. If you could pick any other position you would, you have no specific interest in the BAU, but it’s a second chance and you’re not going to screw it up, no matter how much you wish that anyone else in the world besides Hotch was unit chief.

“I think the job took a small amount of profiling,” You shrug and give Agent Morgan a smile, hoping to get in his good graces soon, “Obviously not as much as this but it did take a level of interpretation of the behavior of criminals who take hostages in addition to a complex understanding of intergroup dynamics and how that might impact a situation.”

“There’ll be time to play nice and get to know each other later,” Hotch cuts the introductions short. “Garcia, the case?”

“Right,” She clicks on the monitor at the front while Hotch slides a tablet over to you. You take it from him, your fingertips just brushing against his. Everything about the interaction feels like eight years ago. He manages to keep his best poker face, all the while you feel the small sparks shoot across your skin. Those damn sparks. Except you’re very quickly realizing that the Hotch in front of you is nothing like eight years ago.

There’s something deeply broken about his eyes. You could never forget those eyes. When you first met him you thought they were deep brown. Then you spent enough time watching him, studying every detail of his face and learned that they were a beautiful light brown. Small golden flecks in his eyes become more pronounced in the sun. His eyes are different now. First of all, the deep undereye bags that frame them make him look years older than his actual age. His brow seems permanently set in that furrowed position. It’s a familiar expression of his. You had the joy of seeing that brow lift when the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile. Smiling seems to be the last thing this current Aaron Hotchner wants to do.

You realize you’re staring a little bit too long and tune back into Garcia’s case briefing, “All three victims were undergraduate students. Indiana’s campus hosts both undergrad and grad students from the law school and med school.”

“Which means a huge suspect pool.” Hotch points out.

“How are we sure that the unsub is from inside the community?” You look around the table. You can see the way that Morgan’s brows raise at the question. How else are you going to learn without asking questions?

Rossi, however, swoops in to save you from embarrassment, “The first victim had mace in her backpack, however, she never used it. The second victim had no defensive wounds on her body. The third victim—”

“Was killed in an office meeting room. To gain access to that building you need a school ID,” You nod, filling in the gaps. “I forget that technology and security have dramatically improved since I was in school.”

“Come on, kid, at least you had cell phones in college,” Rossi gives a small smile, nudging your arm.

“And how do we know these are all connected?” Morgan gestures to his tablet in front of him.

You scoff slightly and look up at Morgan, “I’m sorry, I know it’s important to find common victimology, MO, or signature before connecting the crimes but how many violent crimes occur on college campuses in this short of a time? They have to be connected.”

“Statistically, some of the most dangerous and violent college campuses report that nearly 10 students for every 1000 will be a victim of violent crime. However, that statistic seems to include any form of violent crime meaning murder, negligent manslaughter, aggravated assault, robbery, but most prevalent on most college campuses is rape as a form of violent crime. In terms of how frequent—” The tall skinny one, Reid, rattles off a series of facts at you and you can’t help but smile. He’s cute. He looks about your age, “That was more of a rhetorical question, wasn’t it?”

You fight a smile at Reid’s confused face and nod. “All the victims had the same cuts on their hands,” Prentiss points up at the monitor.

“Weird,” You mumble under your breath.

“What?” JJ turns to you.

“Oh. Nothing it’s just… hands are a weird thing to mutilate. Damage to the face shows high levels of rage and a deep hatred for the victim, removal of eyes or ears or damage to the mouth could symbolize the removal of a sense in order to punish the victims for some misuse of those senses. But hands… hands are different.” You tip your pen back to your mouth, placing the end on your bottom lip, pulling it down slightly as you think. You can feel Hotch’s focus on you. If you turn, you’re sure you’ll just catch him as he looks away.

He’s profiling you. You don’t need to look at him to know that. He was always good at reading you, not that you did much to hide your feelings back then. You felt everything so openly. You were so full of passion, so determined to be the best at everything you set your mind to. Hotch made you realize that feeling everything so deeply, so freely, opens you up to a world of hurt. You put on your best poker face, keeping your body language neutral while you still feel his eyes on you.

“Hands are not inherently symbolic of one thing.” Reid agrees with you.

“So we have to try and decipher why this mutilation is a compulsion for the unsub,” Hotch nods, “Wheels up in 30.” Everyone tucks all their belongings away. Hotch is quick to stand up from his seat at the table, storm down the catwalk back to his office, closing the door loudly. You try to ignore the weird looks from the team as you introduce yourself to all of them.

You watch as Morgan is one of the first to leave the conference room, walking after him, “Hey, Agent Morgan!” You run to catch him at the top of the stairs, “Look I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come off so rude in there.” You shake your head.

“No problem,” He states simply, intending to walk down the stairs.

“I get it, I’m new, I’m throwing off the team dynamic and you don’t seem like the type to trust me immediately.” You stick out a hand to shake his, “But I’m committed to this team and I want to earn your respect in time.”

He nods, giving you one of those judgmental once overs again, “From what I can tell, Hotch doesn’t seem too pleased about you being here. Now just because he’s my boss, doesn’t mean I have to always agree with him, but if he’s wary, then I’m wary.” He avoids shaking your hand. Your suspicions about Morgan seem to be proven before your eyes. He doesn’t trust easily. He’s been burned by someone he trusted in the past. You can relate to that. You’re not a very open or trustworthy person anymore either.

“Agent Hotchner and I knew each other a really long time ago. A lifetime ago. Way before his time at the BAU. I’m sure he’s just not thrilled about his past colliding with his present,” You nod taking a few steps back to let Morgan continue down the stairs, “I just hope… I hope you can learn to trust me, and I, you.” You smile softly. Morgan seems stuck in his place. You can’t tell whether or not he’s surprised by your manners, or if you’ve just driven further the wedge between you two.

“See you on the jet,” He speaks up as he walks down the stairs, scooping his go-bag from under his desk and disappearing around a corner down the hallway.

When you turn to walk back to the conference room, you catch Agent Hotchner’s eyeline through the blinds of his office. He’s watching you, studying you, trying to read you. However, he definitely does not get access to you anymore.

You’re determined to keep your animosity towards Hotch private. No reason for the team to detect that anything is wrong. But throughout the case, there are moments it slips. First, it was on the jet...

You step onto the jet, looking around, taking the entire environment in. You were never blessed with a private jet in your time in crisis negotiation, just stuck with driving from place to place. Morgan reaches across you, taking your bag and stowing it away in the back for you. It’s a simple gesture, but from the look in his eye as he does it, you can tell Morgan is already reevaluating his judgment of you.

You’re one of the last on the jet and you see everyone settled around the table and surrounding seats. The only available seat is the one next to Hotch by the window. You’d have to ask him to get up… or squeeze past him. You try to cover it up but nearly everyone notices the way that you eye the seat before deciding against it. You end up leaning against the arm of the sofa that JJ is sitting on. Once again, Hotch’s gaze lingers on you as you do. He’s taking note of the way you’re actively avoiding him, and he’s right. You’re actively avoiding any alone time with him. Minimize the alone time, minimize the pain.

You run through the facts of the case again, Reid rambling on about the significance of hands throughout different cultures, the importance of sensory neurons on the skin of your hands, and how hand size is an indicator for a lot of things. You share a small smirk with Morgan, who is clearly warming up to you because you both know the one thing that hand size is rumored to correlate with.

Morgan shoots you a small smirk before saying what you were both thinking, “That’s interesting and all kid, but any knowledge in that big brain of yours about whether hand size is related to—”

Hotch cuts off Morgan, “Focus, please.” He gestures with his hand to stop the conversation and you have to hide your smile. It’s nice to smile. You weren’t expecting to feel anything but pain today. Hotch puts a fast end to that feeling of happiness.

“When we land, JJ and Rossi head to the local police and talk to the families of the victims. Prentiss and Morgan, you’ll head to the ME, get a better evaluation of the state of the body,” Hotch pauses for a second. He takes in a slow breath as if preparing himself for what he’s about to say. Once he says what’s coming next, it’s all official. You start your first case. He’s your boss, you’re his subordinate. You’re in each other's lives again whether you like it or not. “Y/L/N, Reid, and I will go to the most recent crime scene,” Hotch nods and you feel the blood drain from your face, that sick and twisty knot growing in the pit of your stomach. You knew you’d have to work with him, that’s part of the job, but he’s already keeping you close to him. Maybe he doesn’t trust you.

From the way he spoke to you in his office, it’s clear he thinks you’re here as some sort of revenge. Some convoluted vindictive scheme to ruin his life.

“You look terrified,” Prentiss tries to tease you.

You look around at the team and shake your head, “College campuses,” You scrunch up your face in disgust and shake your head, “Undergrad sucked because I was younger than everyone, so I missed out on all the fun.”

“Damn, we got another kid genius on our hands, don’t we?” Morgan reaches out a hand to high-five you. “Like our own female Einstein.” Your eyes immediately flick to Hotch. That nickname. No one’s called you any form of that nickname since him. “Watch out Reid, you’ve got competition.”

“I was 14 when I was in college,” Reid states in an attempt to one-up you, but it’s clear that he’s just joking. He knows he’s smart but he doesn’t seem like the cocky type, at least what you can tell so far.

“Don’t worry, brainiac,” You laugh at him, “You are the only genius on this team.”

“And grad school?” JJ pipes up, catching onto the way you dropped the sentence.

“I dropped out of law school after my first year,” You clear your throat uncomfortably, “Wasn’t for me I guess.” The air seems suffocating. Your face is burning hot. You feign extreme interest in the crime scene photos on your tablet, knowing that if you look up, your face will give you away to Hotch. The last thing you want is for him to know how much he affected you.

He said it himself: So in 10 years from now, when you're at the top of your career, know that it's all because of me. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Everything that has happened for the past eight years happened because of his impact on your life.

You remind yourself yet again to try and keep the conversations focused on the case. The team wants to get to know you, but every personal conversation seems to lead back to Hotch.

The second slip-up comes when you arrive at the crime scene...

“She told her roommate she was coming here to study, that she had booked the meeting room just for herself.” Reid lifts up the crime scene tape, holding it up for you to slip under. You give a small smile at the gesture.

“But she told her friends she was meeting with her professor here for extra help.” Hotch shakes his head, pulling on a pair of gloves. You glance over at Reid as he does the same.

He looks at you for a second before he raises his brows in realization, letting out a small ‘oh.’ He digs into his pocket and hands you a pair of gloves. “I usually grab them from the crime scene team,” He nods.

You take them from him, “Thank you.” You like Reid. He’s kind and smart and polite. He’s your age, but you can see that he’s worlds ahead of you in terms of knowledge. You wonder just how much is going on inside that brain of his. When you look at him you can see the gears constantly turning, he’s always working over something in his brain, forming theories, or running through facts.

“She was stabbed in the back and the back of the head, correct?” You glance over at Hotch for confirmation.

“Yes.” He plays with the fingertips of his gloves, paying more attention to you rather than the scene. Without the body, there’s not much to go on, it’s your average office space. You see a log on the wall with the names of who has scheduled the room. They haven’t wiped away the victim’s work from the whiteboard. It looks like some form of math.

“Linear algebra,” Reid speaks up as he sorts through some of the papers left on the table in the center of the room.

You nod and smile, “Math never was my strong suit in school. I was definitely more entranced by a book rather than formulas and numbers.”

Reid’s face lights up with joy, “If you ever want any book recommendations, please do ask. I just finished an absolutely amazing biography about Albert Einstein. It’s not that long of a read. It’s only about 1200 pages. You know I’m sure that I have a copy…” He catches sight of Hotch’s stern expression, stopping himself mid-sentence.

You both go silent as you skim through the pages of work scattered on the floor. You then analyze the writing on the whiteboard, leaning in close. Hotch speaks up again tilting his head to the side, narrowing his eyes in confusion at your behavior, “What are you thinking?”

“It wasn’t random. This was planned out. The unsub specifically sought out her.”

“How do you figure that?” Hotch questions you, but not in the hostile accusatory way you’re expecting.

You hesitate, losing your train of thought the longer you look at Hotch, so you look back to the whiteboard, “When you’re waiting to meet someone, you expect someone to come in, right? So if she had her back turned, writing up equations on this whiteboard, she wouldn’t think twice of the door opening. If you’re not expecting someone and you hear the door open.” You point at the whiteboard.

“You would turn around to see who it is,” Hotch finishes your sentence.

“That’s why all her wounds were to the back,” You fall into a rhythm with Hotch. He’s following your train of thought.

“So the unsub had to know she would be here ahead of time,” Hotch sighs and digs in his pocket for his phone, “Garcia, I need your help.” He clicks his phone onto the speaker and places it down on the table.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Her chipper voice comes through the phone. You can picture her office probably matches her appearance. Probably bright, full of color. For a technical analyst, she probably still has a hefty collection of colorful and funky pens. You remember the octopus mug she was holding when she walked into Hotch’s office this morning.

“This building has a key card access system. Can you access the log of everyone who swiped into this building on the day and around the time of the third murder?”

“Sir, it’s not a matter of can or can’t. You know I can,” Her voice is laced with a smile.

“Check that list for the professor that she claimed she was meeting with,” Hotch adds.

“He…” She trails and you hear the ambient sounds of her rapid typing and clicking. There’s a pause. Her voice grows small, “He accessed the building around the time of her death.”

“He’s our prime suspect. We need to bring him in,” Hotch concludes, “Garcia, you’re the best.”

“Aw I know,” She giggles softly, “PG out!”

“Imagine that,” You chuckle bitterly, “She comes in here to meet her professor, someone she trusts, and she gets stabbed in the back.” You shake your head, the words slipping out before you even realize the weight of what you’ve implied.

Reid doesn’t catch on to the look that you and Hotch exchange. Hotch looks as if he’s seen a ghost. He’s not shocked by what you’ve said, but by the fact that you even said anything. It’s the first sign of hostility towards him. The first crumb or clue into how you feel about him after all these years. The answer is betrayed. You still feel betrayed.

“We should deliver the profile.” Hotch leaves the crime scene at a brisk pace, leaving Reid clueless, and you and that damned twisting knot of anxiety in your stomach.

The rest of your interactions with Hotch are limited for most of the case, restricted to only group discussions that are entirely professional. No more slip-ups, no more sideways glances. What all your interactions were rife in, was that intrusive look of his eyes. Every few minutes you can feel his eyes on you, scanning your posture, your facial expressions, searching for any idea of what you might be thinking or feeling.

You try your best to avoid it, opting to go check out every lead, just for the opportunity to get some space from him. You feel smothered and suffocated. You’re so on edge, you’ve torn your nail beds to shreds. He is seemingly unfazed by your presence. That is if you don’t consider how often you catch him rubbing his fingers at his side or up by his face or biting his bottom lip. Every time you catch him, however, he stops.

You’re having a difficult time reading how he feels about you being here. You just want to know how he feels about you after all these years. Does he still harbor feelings for you? Does he still care about you? The sleep deprivation from working so hard and the excess caffeine you’ve consumed don’t help to slow down your thoughts which seem to be moving at a million miles a minute. At least while you’re working you can put all your energy into solving the case, helping the team, and parsing through evidence.

It gets worse at night when you’re alone in the hotel room. You try to bring the case file back into the room, working on it in bed until you can barely keep your eyes open, but you find that you don’t get any work done, your brain a continuous stream of questions.

You’ve been able to profile every member of the team pretty efficiently. You have a good understanding of how Reid’s brain works. The comfort that he has with numbers and facts. He uses his intelligence to cover up for his social insecurities. Morgan puts on a tough exterior, but really he’s hesitant to let people in and trust them. Prentiss, similar to Morgan, seems to keep everyone at arm's length, preferring to be the confidant rather than the one doing the confiding in someone else. JJ struggles to separate her emotions from the work, a quality that is not in and of itself a flaw, but you can tell it weighs on her heavily. Rossi has the most experience and constantly feels inclined to be a figure, a leader while trying to balance cooperation rather than individualism. He’s used to being a lone wolf, doing the job on his own.

This new Aaron Hotchner is a mystery. He’s closed off. He is entirely business. Even when Garcia cracks a joke or embarrasses herself. You all laugh and smirk at her, but his face never changes. When you all get off track, he sternly reminds you of the importance of the case at hand. That’s his job, but there’s something more to it that you can’t quite figure out. There’s a sense of urgency, as there usually is with these cases, but almost this feeling that he’s constantly running out of time.

Even his office provided you with very little to profile. You remember a few photos from Hotch’s office. One of him and a small boy. A son, possibly? There was another of him and a blonde woman hugging the little boy. Your first guess is wife, but you don’t remember him wearing a ring.

You can’t profile him. He’s closed himself off to that. Yet you find yourself coming back to the same question over and over again, does he still care about you? You get a glimpse at the answer as you and the team track down the location of your unsub, three days into the case.

You lean forward from the backseat of the SUV, looking between Morgan and Hotch in the front, “What does the profile say about this kind of unsub’s behavior once faced with police and authority like us?”

The two men exchange knowing looks. You have your suspicions but you really just want them to vocalize what you’re thinking, “He won’t let us take him in without a fight.”

“Suicide by cop,” You mutter frustratedly, “Great.”

“It’s likely, but that doesn’t mean we don’t try to talk him out of it.” Hotch clarifies, gesturing with an outstretched palm that he takes off the wheel temporarily. He pulls up to the small house, sirens off. “A big show will just scare him into making sudden moves to get us to shoot to kill. Morgan, you head around the back. Y/L/N and I will take the front.”

You nod, knowing the rest of the team isn’t far behind you all, but they’ve all been instructed to try and appear as discreetly as possible. You get out of the SUV, watching as Morgan runs around back. Both you and Hotch approach the door. Hotch kicks the door down. The unsub sits casually in an armchair, holding a gun that he twirls in his fingers. He knew you were coming.

Then Hotch does something that complicates your questions about him. It’s subtle but you notice it immediately. He instinctively moves a little in front of you. He doesn’t block your line of fire, but he blocks the unsubs. He’s shielding you with his body.

Your profile is right, the unsub doesn’t want to be taken in peacefully, resulting in Morgan putting two bullets in him from behind when he raises his gun to you and Hotch. AT first, you think Hotch put his body in front of yours by accident.

It wasn’t an accident. He gave a small look over his shoulder at your location before taking a few steps right, to block you. Then you assume it was purely because of his status as team leader. He doesn’t want the members of his team to get hurt. That also doesn’t seem to make sense to you. No matter how much he wants the team to be protected he wouldn’t do that. He would trust Morgan to get the shot if you two couldn’t.

So why would he shield you?

Almost everyone but you, Rossi, and Hotch are sleeping on the jet home. You have a book out in front of you, but you’re barely reading, just attempting to look deeply enchanted by the novel to avoid any awkward eye contact or conversation with Hotch. The only sounds in the plane are the whirring of the engines, the wind outside, and Hotch’s typing on his computer as he finishes up the report for the case.

Rossi sits down across from you on the jet, placing down a small glass of some amber liquid, which you assume is whiskey, in front of you.

“Trying to get me drunk, Agent Rossi?” You tease him, tearing your eyes away from the book you weren’t reading.

He laughs heartily, taking a sip from his own glass, “I thought I’d welcome you with something from my own personal stash.”

“Where do you keep it hidden in here? You know… just in case I’m curious,” You smirk and reach for the glass. It’s nice of Rossi to sit with you and talk to you.

Rossi just smiles, shaking his head a little, “You did well out there, kid,” He puts the glass down, to roll his ring around his finger. You’ve noticed he does it a lot when he’s thinking. “You can read all the books in the world, but profiling in the field, thinking on your feet, analyzing a crime scene, it’s all much different than the words on a page.”

“I’m realizing that,” You trail your finger around the rim of the glass, “My previous position incorporated a lot of what you guys do here.”

“I’m sure that makes this job a lot harder. You probably want to put the past behind you.” Your head snaps up to look at him. No one told the team where you came from. Even Hotch doesn’t know. “I remember hearing about the incident.”

“The FBI tried to bury their involvement,” You sigh and finish off the glass, noting how smooth the alcohol goes down. You’ve learned how to handle alcohol really well this past year. “They keep all the details top secret. However, that didn’t stop them from throwing me under the bus.”

“What happened in New York was not your fault.” Rossi’s voice drops in volume as he leans closer, keeping your conversation more private, “The brass has a habit of blaming agents instead of criminals. You couldn’t have stopped it. You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”

You exhale loudly, air rushing over your teeth as you give a little shake of your head in disagreement, “Agent Rossi, I’m sure you’re experienced enough to know this, but as reassuring and comforting it is to hear you say those words it doesn’t necessarily—”

“It doesn’t change how you feel. I know. I understand,” He pauses, “Don’t let it consume you. All of us have been where you are right now. Some of us are currently where you are right now, constantly consumed by guilt over something that wasn’t even our fault.” You get the sense that he isn’t talking about himself. You don't need to reply. The both of you sit in silence for a while.

You start up a conversation again, this time about Virginia and DC, where you’re living, when you moved, what you studied in school, where you grew up. Rossi loves to tease you and every few sentences he’ll simply reply, ‘I already knew that’ acting as if he could profile every fact about you.

You like him a lot. You like everyone a lot. Just as the jet lands and you’re all packing up your desks back at Quantico, Rossi offers to drive you home.

“Let me just check in with Agent Hotchner before I leave,” You glance up at the office. You know you have to check in with him, it’s your first case finished, you’re new, he’s your new boss, but so far, you’ve managed to avoid being alone with him and you’d like to keep it that way as long as possible.

You knock lightly on the open door, to which Hotch responds, “Come in.”

“I just wanted to check-in, you know, with it being my first case and everything,” You nod, taking just a few steps into the office, leaving as much distance between you and Hotch. He stands at his desk, focusing intently on your face. You know he’s trying to read your intentions. He’s searching for the hidden meaning behind your words. And for once, in the past few days, you don’t have any meaning behind your words. You have had enough small slip-ups and double meanings. This time, you truly just mean to check-in.

“You did really good work out there, Agent. You’re a fast learner, you pay attention to details, you work well with the team,” He rattles off a series of compliments, “Strauss is going to request a formal evaluation with me and I’ll be sure to report how quickly you’ve adapted.”

“Thank you, sir,” You try your best to function with the utmost composure.

“Hotch,” He corrects you.

You ignore the correction, “Is that all, sir?”

“If you need anything… I mean I’ve read through your psych evaluations and I know the details are classified but–“ Hotch is struggling with his words. You know what he’s trying to say. He wants to tell you he’s here for you. Funny. Really, it is. Funny that he doesn’t realize the one thing that might send you spiraling is being around him. “I just mean if it all gets to be too much, it’s okay to take a step back. I… I understand.”

“You do?” Your words come out more bitter than intended. You promised yourself you wouldn’t do this. You had gone this whole case without snapping. It’s childish and immature. You can be professional. But right now, you can only see one thing: boiling hot rage at Hotch. How could he possibly understand how you feel? You pause to take a breath, “Thank you, but I’m okay. Goodnight, sir.” You walk to the door, wanting to get away from him as fast as possible.

“Y/N—” Hotch calls out, his voice softer, less firm, less professional. “Please,” You beg, finally breaking. Your voice is raw with emotion. You’ve been holding all the pain in for the past three days and your plea comes out sounding more broken than you intend to. You don’t turn around but place a hand on the doorframe. “Please… don’t make this harder than it already is.” You wait for a moment, hoping, praying, that he doesn’t try to talk to you anymore. A moment of silence serves as confirmation that he isn’t going to keep pushing you to talk.

You get down the stairs, meeting Rossi at the elevators. “Thank you… for driving me home.” You try and hide your face from him, hoping he doesn't see the sheen in your eyes as you fight away the tears that have been fighting their way out for the past three days.

“Anytime,” He nods, holding an arm over the elevator doors for you as they open. You think he can sense something is wrong. He’s probably been able to sense something is wrong between you and Hotch since the minute you made eye contact with him your first morning. If he does, however, he also knows not to ask or press the issue.

You flick the lights on in your apartment. You look over the boxes, still left unpacked. Not much of a home yet. You have no place of safety, of comfort yet. You feel like a guest in your own place. However, the thought of unpacking all the boxes right now is way too intimidating.

Deep steady breath in. Shaky breath out. You bite at your lip harshly. You haven’t cried over Aaron Hotchner in years. You drop your bag by the door, kicking your shoes off. You turn to close the door and everything starts to bubble up inside you. The anger, frustration, sadness, heartbreak. It’s all too much. You’ve been through so much these past eight years. This shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. But fuck. It hurts.

You let out a frustrated yell. It’s a scream that feels good to let out but ends up scratching your throat. You slam your fist against the door, ignoring the way it sears your knuckles. You pace your apartment, trying to steady your breathing.

You’ve been suffocating the past three days. Three long days of close quarters with Aaron Hotchner. Even after all these years, he manages to suck all the oxygen out of the room, leaving you breathless. In another life, you remember thinking how much you loved suffocating around him, but now, it tears you up inside. Your chest burns and aches, your head is fuzzy, and his presence is dizzying. It’s not exhilarating. It’s not exciting. It’s not all-consuming in the way you remember. You’re just trying to keep your head above water, but the current is strong and the rapids are relentless. You’re sinking under the surface quickly and you don’t know how to pull yourself up out of it.

You walk over to the stack of boxes, pushing them aside until you find the exact one you’re looking for. You rip open the top, tearing the tape off. The box is full of books, one of many that you brought with you. It’s organized perfectly so that when you unpack it you can set up your personal library just the way you had it back home in New York. So it doesn’t take you long to find that book. That damned book. The cover is faded. The dark brown leather is weathered and much lighter. The spine has lost all structure and the pages have changed color.

You sit down exactly where you stand, cross-legged on the floor, you open to that first page. You look at the all-too-familiar note. You were tempted, over the years, to burn the book, tear that first page out, cross out every one of his notes. But you never could do it. Deep down, no matter how bad he had hurt you, the book seemed to remain separate from that.

Maybe it’s because it’s a constant reminder that you weren’t some naive, foolish, young child. You hadn’t deluded yourself into thinking Hotch cared for you. He did. There was some sense of care and attention to detail. The book is evidence of that. However, it forces you to hold on to an image of Hotch that clearly is not the prevailing personality. Looking at the book reminds you of the bashful, almost embarrassed, man who handed it to you in his office so long ago. The careful way he traced your jawline, the way he tangled his fingers in your hair, pushing it out of the way to really get a good look at your face. That image of him sometimes wins out when you think of Aaron Hotchner. You want to remember him that way, but that only seems to prolong your pain. It makes you want him back.

You lay down on the floor pressing the book close to your heart. You could simply pick up the phone. You could just call him, tell him you want to start all over. But you can’t start all over. Being with Aaron Hotchner was a lifetime ago. That doesn’t change how vividly you can remember being with him. For the first few years, you hated him with every fiber of your being. You thought about what would happen if you ever saw him again. You would scream at him. Tell him off, curse him out. But as the years passed, you stopped hating him. There’s a fine line between love and hate. And as you know, Aaron Hotchner has always been good at keeping lines blurry.

Everything in you is screaming at you to pick up the phone. You’ve dreamed of hearing his voice tell you, “Let’s try again... please.” But you fight the urge. You close your eyes, the cold floor of your apartment sending a chill through you, enough to keep your wits about you.

——

Hotch runs a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes forcing himself to stay awake, forcing his attention back to the case report. His attempts to work fail, his mind always traveling back to you. He knew you would be a different person. It’s been eight years. He’s a different person. What he didn’t expect was how much of you is still the same.

That bright look in your eyes while discussing the case was one he had seen so many times while you poured over a novel in his office. You still talk with your hands, punctuating every sentence with a little shake or gesture of your fingers. You crack your knuckles when you’re thinking.

The differences are clear to him too. You don’t hold your tongue. You’re blunt. Brutally honest, almost to a fault. You seem to have pushed aside any attempt at politeness, or social niceties. You no longer feel so openly. He finds it much harder to read your face and body language. Your thoughts are not as clear to him as they used to be. He used to know exactly what you were thinking. He can tell you’ve practiced your poker face. He tried his best the past three days to get a read on how you feel about him. He doesn’t want to dwell on the past. All of that was before Haley. And indulging in thoughts of before is just simply too painful for him.

He walks to the window, looking out at the city. He wonders where you are tonight. Are you thinking about him? Are you hurting? Or has it been so long that he’s unimportant to you? Is someone holding you close to them, pressing soft kisses to your lips, whispering comforting words?

He could just pick up the phone and call you. He could profusely apologize. Not that his apology would mean anything, but it’s a speech he’s been rehearsing for years. He loved Haley with his whole heart. She was his whole world, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t regret how he treated you. Haley showed him a world of love, yet he managed to ruin that as well. He prioritized the job over her. Look where that got him.

Hotch knows you will never forgive him. He has never forgiven himself, but he can’t help but think about what would happen if he showed up on your doorstep. Would you immediately turn him away? Or would you let him in? Would you hear him out?

He shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from the lights of DC. He walks to the kitchen, pouring a fresh mug of coffee. He can’t call you. Too much has happened. He thinks about the sleeping little boy upstairs. Every night he’s tormented by memories. He can still remember what it felt like to hold Haley’s lifeless body in his arms. When he does get sleep, visions of Haley’s dead eyes, his bloodied clothes, Foyet’s knife, invade his dreams. He frequently wakes up coated in sweat, the scars on his chest and stomach stinging with the same intensity as the day Foyet inflicted the stab wounds.

Which is why he feels immense guilt over the fact that three days ago, he shook your hand to welcome you to the team, and it ignited every nerve in his body. Everything has changed, but your hand in his made him feel alive.

Chapter 13: II.II →