rated teen, hurt/comfort (but more comfort than hurt), gn!reader, established relationship, minor season 5 spoilers, tw smoking, wc: 0.7k
Jim breathes in the cold autumn air, his jeans unbuttoned and his undershirt the only layer he’s wearing. Like always, like the routine that he oh-so craves these days.
He holds a pack of Camel in his hand, the lid opened showing that he only has three cigarettes left before he can get another from Murray. Secretly of course, because he can already hear the nagging that will surely come from you once you see it written down on the weekly “grocery” list.
“I see what you’re holding, Jim,” you mumble, still sleepy even though the sun’s been up for more than an hour now. Warm arms circle around his waist and your chest presses against his back. He can feel vibrations as you hum. “How are you gonna keep up with El with all that smoking you’re doing, hmm?”
“I’ve been smoking for so long, won’t make a difference to stop now,” he says gruffly. He puts one cigarette in his mouth, leaving the two for before and after the crawl tonight. He doesn’t light it yet, not when you’re around.
“Come on, Jim,” you turn him around, the ends of your fingers a warm balm on his frigid skin. “What about coffee and contemplations?”
“I’m contemplating alright,” he murmurs. It’s the 35th crawl tonight and he’s found nothing. The last one he almost got caught when he was getting into one of their trucks, and the three before that he got injured by getting snagged on a thorny branch and had to take a few days off. He had you taking care of him the whole time, which was both embarrassing and disgustingly lovely at the same time.
You peck him on the edge of his lips, an easy brush of skin, taking him out of his thoughts.
You’ve still got some flakes at the corners of your eyes and your hair’s still slightly dishevelled from sleep, but he can’t help but stare at you. You with your eyes that bear into his soul and your face that he wants to see every morning. This crawl’s gotta be fruitful, for you. For El. For his family.
Jim takes the cigarette that he’s still holding between his teeth, puts it back into the box, cups your cheek, and kisses you proper. You sigh into the kiss, your hands tightening at his waist and your chest pressing into him. He can feel your rapid, ragged breaths, like you’re starving for his love. Not that he’s ever starved you of it, he doesn’t think, but simply because you can’t seem to get enough of him.
He bites and he uses his tongue and he groans and he explores your body with his hands and you receive it all so wonderfully. Anything, absolutely anything for this family, he’ll do.
One of the doorknobs inside the cabin turns and Jim pulls away from your lips, resting his forehead on yours and his hands now on your stomach. Your eyes are still closed and he relishes in the knowledge that of all people, he can and gets to do that to you anytime he wants. The power he holds is exhilerating, a much better rush than those cigarettes can give him.
“You already had coffee before asking me if I wanted some,” he teases into the small space between the two of you, licking his lips and tasting the remnants of cheap instant coffee brought to town every month. You chuckle, opening your eyes and showing him how much love you hold for him from your gaze alone. His heart stutters a bit.
“Well, you were being broody and I didn’t wanna disturb.”
Almost instantly he says, “you’ll never disturb,” because you’re the farthest from a disturbance. Not these days, and not ever in his life.
“Alright, then, Chief. Let’s get some coffee into you and some waffles for the kid,” you chirp, giving him one last peck, right on his lips this time, as you enter the cabin and say good morning to El.
content: rated teen, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, gn!reader, insomnia, panic attacks, guilt, not a lot of dialogue, very slight mention of haley (she’s alive but they’re divorced), mutual pining
word count: 1.7k
you and aaron are set to room together and, thankfully, the room has two double beds. you didn’t think you would be able to take a crisis involving both potential romance and an extremely elaborate case tonight.
it’s the bau’s third day at maryland and, unfortunately, all the progress that the team had accumulated since getting there is now for naught as your main suspect, a man who fit your preliminary profile, had a concrete alibi to the most recent killing. as usual when profiling doesn’t get immediate results, the tension between the team and the local police heightens as they, yet again, question the credibility of your work.
you feel the tiredness seeping deep into your body, especially your aching muscles and sore neck as you stumble inside the room, your go bag hanging haphazardly on your arm. you feel even more tired thinking about the insufficient sleep that you’re most likely going to get again tonight — the team has only been given an ample amount of time to speedily wash up and get ready for the night to get, at most, five hours of rest.
with a slight pounding behind your eyes and your back begging for rest, you flop down on the bed closest to you, which will now be deemed your own for the duration of your time in the state, and bring an arm to rest on your eyes. you vaguely register aaron asking if you wanted to use the bathroom first, but you simply wave him away. you really just want to sleep right now.
aaron washes up first, at your half-hearted insistence, and as you walk out of the bathroom after your sluggish and admittedly not very clean wash, you see the steady rise and fall of his chest, allowing you to think that you feel the same way — so exhausted that you’ll immediately fall asleep.
only this was not the case.
you’ve been lying on your bed, tossing and turning, trying very hard to fall asleep, but to no avail. your lack of sleep drives you to focus on the case at hand, much to your frustration.
having to seemingly start again while being extremely sleep-deprived, not knowing how long you’ll have until the next victim turns up — it’s sending you into a spiral. you feel guilt thinking about your irritation of not being able to sleep when there are others out there getting murdered.
after thinking about all the people you’ve failed to save and your competency — or lack thereof — for your job, you feel a heavy weight settle in your chest, followed by a lump in your throat. your breathing turns unstable and you know that you’re on the verge of a breakdown.
you try to calm yourself, of course. first, you try to count down from 120, sounding out the words precisely in your head. that does not work out and you feel anger again, huffing as you lean against the headboard and into a sitting position. you feel a gathering of tears in your eyes as you become more aware of the weight in your chest increasing. a quiet sigh escapes you and you position your arms crossed over yourself, your hands placed on either side of your shoulder. you begin patting yourself in a simple pattern — one, two on your left shoulder; one, two on your right. one, two. one, two.
a few minutes pass and you think you’ve calmed down enough to stop your ministrations. closing your eyes, you start taking deep breaths.
when you open your eyes, however, you think you see a dark figure in front of you and it prompts a loud gasp and a speeding of your heart rate that you just managed to slow down. you’re about to grab the gun on your night stand when you realise that the figure was simply aaron’s jacket draped over a chair containing either of your go bags.
you keep staring at the spot. tears silently running down your cheek. you’re surprised by how quiet your breathing is as you again feel the heavy weight, now both in your chest and in your stomach, almost swallowing you.
you close your eyes, breathe deeply, and look to your side. aaron’s chest is still rising steadily and you let that be your comfort for a few seconds.
it’s not enough, though. you’re so addled by your stress that you don’t care of the implications of what you might do. you need comfort and you need it now. you tell yourself that you'd be as receptive as you hope aaron will be if anyone else was rooming with you, and that eases your brain, even for a little.
you take your blanket off your lap, feeling the wet patch caused by your distress against your hand in the process. the sensation makes you grimace inwardly. slightly disoriented, you sway slightly to aaron’s bed. his back is towards you, so you simply burrow your head on his back while twining your arms around his blanket-covered waist, inhaling his scent as well as attempting to muffle your sobs.
you feel him stir.
aaron, with the amount of nights he laid with haley before their divorce and the number of times jack slid into his bed for an excuse to be held by his dad, knew instinctively what to do when a person puts their arm around his waist and attaches themselves onto him.
it takes him a few beats, however, to register that, no, it’s not his ex-wife (of course) or his son that’s wetting the back of his shirt with tears and holding the front so tightly, crumpling the clothing, that he feels the hands tremble. it’s you.
you, who dave has been teasing him about ever since the first meeting with the team, telling aaron that you’re just his type. you, who is the reason morgan’s been sending him cheeky smiles whenever you do something particularly adorable or, in some rather uncomfortable circumstances, sensual.
you, who bring him pastries from his favourite café whenever he doesn’t get the chance to stop by. you, who stay near him instead of taking up conversation with the others or partaking in your own quiet activity, simply offering your presence, when he does paperwork on the plane.
you, who is now in an extremely vulnerable position, giving your entire heart to aaron, and he feels devastated that the first time you’re doing so with him is through a panic attack.
he lifts your cold fisted hands from his abdomen and turns over gingerly, careful as to not crush you or send you away. he needs not worry about that, though. you fold your arms across your chest, grasping at your own sleep shirt like you’re desperate for air. and despite that, you only nestle further into aaron.
you’re now encircled in his arms, sobbing more openly as he pries your face away from his chest and takes it in his hands, caressing at your cheeks. he needs to see you, and he feels that you need to see him too.
you quiet when there’s no surface to block out the sound of your sobs, and he feels an ache as he sees your face scrunch up in embarrassment.
“hey, it’s ok,” he reassures, hoping that his voice isn’t as raspy as it usually is when he wakes up. he tries for a more gentle murmur this time, “i just want to know how to make you feel better. alright, sweetheart?”
you don’t startle at the pet name while he internally flinches. he prays that you don’t think he’s flirting with you, taking advantage of your fragile state. he’s really only trying to quell your sadness. you hum in response and burrow your face against the crook of his neck, your cheeks still wet and your breaths warm.
the two of you stay like that for a few minutes, chest to chest, his hands patting you lightly on your back in a pattern that he hopes you’re latching onto. he feels the racing thump of your heartbeat from earlier fall into a slower, steadier whisper.
he thinks you’ve fallen asleep when you mumble against his skin, still teary and sounding like you’ve had a cold for days, but evidently calmer than you were fifteen minutes ago. “i was so tired, but i couldn’t sleep. so i got mad.” aaron rubs your back in return. he thinks a response other than that would be unwarranted or be taken as pity, and he doesn’t want to see your face crumple up like before.
“i felt myself having a panic attack.. so i tried to stop it, you know, how we teach other people to stop theirs,” you chuckle, but nothing from it sounds of humour, only deprecation. he wants you to know that there’s nothing wrong with that, but he’s afraid if he says anything of the sort you’ll only see it as a well-meaning lecture. and he knows you don’t have the patience nor the energy for such a conversation right now.
aaron holds you tighter and barely suppresses the urge to place a light kiss on the crown of your head. he rests his cheek there instead.
“i calmed down, but then i saw that chair in front of my bed and got scared again. and i couldn’t calm down after that, so...” you finish with a whisper as you lose your words. he knows it’s because both of your actions tonight imply something that cannot be addressed at the moment; ignoring the actuality but relishing in the comfort.
he hums in agreement anyway. no discussions about that tonight either.
“i’m sorry for leaving my jacket,” aaron says instead. something safe, but also something he feels quite bad about. “i should’ve thought before putting it there. i know jack doesn’t like things hanging on his door. he always thinks it's a slenderman from that game he likes to play.”
you’re silent. he’s glad that you don’t rebuttal his apology, only squeezing at his hip to know that you’ve heard it and, hopefully, that he’s forgiven.
nothing is said after that. only gentle touches and soft sighs, until aaron finally concludes that you’ve fallen asleep after minutes of not hearing your quiet sniffles. he takes a moment to look down at you, here in his arms, your cheek against his chest and your hands on either side of him. seeking comfort in him.
he smiles faintly, finally kissing the top of your head, and hopes that your three hours in his hold would be restful enough to get you through tomorrow.
NOTHING CAN BREAK THIS TIE | CHRISTINA “CHRIS” ALONSO
content: rated teen, fluff, fem!reader, childhood friends to strangers to lovers, canon-typical violence, alcoholism (not in chris or reader), reader has minor injuries
word count: 1.4k
“you said there were two other witnesses?” hondo asks the security guard, his brows furrowed. he looks menacing, frowning with his back hunched, pronouncing his large build all the more. chris surveys the scene, two paramedic trucks, three patrol cars, and, of course, black betty.
“apart from me, yeah. they were inside when the bastard started shootin’ the place down,” the guard says. he’s fidgeting, fingers hooking, unhooking, then flicking at his belt loop and failing to meet hondo’s eye. this guy’s hiding something — only question is whether it’s relevant to their case.
“did you get a good look at the guy when he came out the store?” hondo ducks his head to meet the guard’s eyes, hunching even more. chris leans forward too, almost subconsciously until she makes herself stop to avoid any more combative body language. the guard’s breath smells like booze and hondo’s already making him feel like bolting. no need for chris to add to that.
“nah, ran away pretty fast. girl at the counter might’ve, though. heard her voice before the guns came. maybe she was tryna talk him down or somethin’.” his fingers are still tapping away but it seems hondo has deemed the drinking on the job part low priority at the moment. good luck to the guard later, though.
he turns to chris, “chris, you talk to the girl. i’m gonna see if luca’s had some luck with the cctvs.”
chris nods and starts walking towards the paramedics. “guard looks flighty,” street raises a brow at her, accompanying her to the witness. “drank on the job. i’d be flighty too if that happened and i got hondo hounding me,” she replies.
“you sure he’s not saying anything because it’s the truth or because he really doesn’t wanna get in trouble?”
“sounds like the truth to me. said something about a girl, though. she probably has more to say ab—”
she almost couldn’t suppress her gasp when she sees you. you’re injured, your forehead has scratches and the emt has your hand in hers, picking at the glass shards that must have embedded themselves into your skin. you don’t look too perturbed by what happened, bringing relief to chris.
you haven’t noticed her yet, your attention taken by the procedure being done with your palms. you don’t look too bad. injury-wise, that is. you look absolutely gorgeous, considering… everything else. chris has kept tabs on you after the move, even if she didn’t particularly have the courage to actually reach out over the years.
“chris?” she hears street say. you lift your head up at that and let out an audible gasp.
“chris?” she hears you say. your eyes are questioning, as if you don’t remember much about her anymore. as if you can’t recall how she looked in the summer before fourth grade when the two of you played at your neighbour’s backyard almost daily, their labrador wagging its tail while you took turns with the frisbee. you look at her as if you forgot the chaste kiss you both shared at the homecoming dance in sixth grade, with your hands on her cheeks and hers on your waist.
“hi,” she breathes in reply. god, hearing her name uttered from your lips again—
first love dies hard, indeed.
“you okay?” she asks, because you’re a witness and she’s a swat officer and she still has a job to do here. she wants to touch you, somehow, in any way you’d let her. hold the hand you so freely gave to the emt, maybe. let her give you a hug or ten. but she simply lingers close to you, hands firmly in her pockets so she’s not even more tempted to wipe the smear of blood off your chin.
you smile at her, not one of your beaming ones. a small one, tired but genuine. “yeah, fine,” you say. “you look good.” your eyes widen at your own words and she gives a small chuckle. you are possibly the cutest thing in the world and she’s absolutely distracted right now and street’s looking at her like he’ll tell the whole team as soon as he gets the chance. snitch.
“fuck, sorry. i just— you look good. like, you look nice— you look like you’re at a really good place. in life, i mean. please stop me before this gets even more embarrassing,” you sigh, putting your attention back on the emt tending to your injured hand. the technician is wearing a smile of her own, although it probably can’t contend with the one on chris’s.
you groan, pouting at your hand. “thanks. you look good too, by the way. and i’m not just saying that because you said it first.” you raise your head again at that, meeting her eyes.
“we, uh,” street starts, darting his eyes between you and chris before continuing, “we gotta ask you a few things about the guy that shot up the place?”
“oh, yes! of course. sorry about that,” you say, shaking your head as if you’re dispelling all thoughts of chris and your shared childhood at the moment. chris lets out a small s’alright and you give her a grateful smile before turning back to street.
if it were anybody else she would’ve been offended that you’re talking mainly to the male officer but she knows it’s because you’re too flustered to relay the story to her. she certainly would’ve been.
“the guy was in line for a while ‘cause there was no cashier available. i was behind him,” you say. “he was really fidgety. he was… leaning on the counter and was tapping really loudly on it. and then he got in a fight with the cashier and started monologuing about alcoholism and how the government likes to say they’re tackling it but that nothing’s really being done about the crisis. i tried to get him to calm down ‘cause the cashier looked really scared and, i mean, he looked like he was about to cry. looked like a student, too, although i don’t know why a liquor store would hire someone who just got out of high school.”
street was nodding and chris strayed her eyes away from you and towards the boy in the other paramedic truck. he did look like a scared college freshman, shaking and eyes downward.
“did you notice anything else about him? anything unusual or any physical descriptions?” street’s using his ‘scared witness beware’ voice and chris can’t help but appreciate he’s being gentler with you. it really is different when a cop’s got someone they love involved in the case.
“uhm. he was white, skinny but tall. had a brownish, greyish beanie so i couldn’t really see his hair. looked brunet, though. jeans, and a red and black plaid shirt. his tapping was really aggressive,” you bite at your lip.
“is there anything else?” chris asks softly. you look at your hands for a few seconds before glancing up at her.
“it was like he was playing a piano piece? like joe used to do?”
joe. joseph rodriguez, fifth grade, seat 18. “yeah, i remember. thanks for this, y/n. you’ve been a great help.” she can’t help but put a hand on your shoulder then, lightly squeezing. this is a good, completely platonic comforting touch. this is fine.
you smile, affectionate eyes gazing directly at her. “yeah, no problem, chris.” this is not fine.
“you have your phone on you?” there is absolutely no way that she’ll let you go without even trying this time around.
“oh! yeah, i do.” you dig through the jacket you set aside, forgetting all about the emt who has been trying very hard to ignore the obvious pining between the two of you. she doesn’t seem to mind. from the look she’s sharing with street, it actually kind of looks like she’ll tell her friends about it after. chris isn’t even at all bothered about that right now.
“here you go,” you hand her your phone and if chris made sure your fingers touched, that’s nobody’s business but hers (and yours).
“i’ll call you,” she promises.
“yeah. i’ll be waiting,” you beam at her. now you look at her like you’ve never stopped thinking about her, like it’s a dream that you’re seeing her again, like you’re excited for the future. it’s the complete opposite from when you first said her name just minutes ago and she feels a little giddy thinking about having a future that has you in it.
chris is entirely sure that she’s mirroring your expression right now, all soft and eager, and it’s taking all of her willpower to not plant one on your lips. she doesn’t think your next kiss will be as chaste as your last. she can’t wait.
rated teen, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, gn!reader, secret relationship, reader is a lil insecure, wc: 0.9k
“c’mon, pick up, pick up,” you mutter to yourself as you pace your work washroom. you probably look like a right lunatic with your head bowed and your feet digging into the tiles, but there’s not a lot of people working tonight.
oh, and deacon may be dead. so, there are definitely more important things to worry about.
what the hell, you think, tapping the dial button again and trying to keep the stinging from your eyes. the footage on the news was too fast and too blurry, but you're sure it was deacon and even if deacon's always wearing his vest, getting shot is getting shot. nothing is guaranteed.
your breath is erratic, from your constant movement or the panic you’re currently feeling, you’re really not quite sure.
the phone keeps going to voicemail. hey, you’ve reached deacon. leave a message after the beep. you usually smile at his short but welcoming message, but now you simply abhor the thought that the only time you’ll hear his voice again is through those two sentences, intended for all who have his number. not the morning greetings he gives you at the crack of dawn when he chuckles at your grumpiness, or the fond sighs of exasperation when you steal fries off his plate.
you’re probably on your eighteenth call and would’ve started going down to your car to head to s.w.a.t. headquarters if it went to voicemail again when the phone finally, finally, picks up.
“hey, baby,” he sighs into the pet name, and you yourself sigh in relief.
“what the hell, deac?” you try to spit out, anger and all, but what comes out is a sob that you were trying to hold in the whole time you were cooped up in the suffocating room.
you hear shuffling and the rest of the team’s voices until deacon’s takes over, quiet and worried. “hey, what's wrong? are you okay?”
“what’s wrong? am i okay? deacon, i didn’t know if you were alive or dead! how the hell was i supposed to be okay?” you know you’re being unfair, blaming him for not calling you when you probably don’t have the right to. after all, you’ve only been dating for a few months and no one knows about the relationship except for the two of you.
deacon sighs again, not a glad one this time. “i’m so sorry, honey. i didn’t realise you were working tonight,” you hear a quiet scratching and you can so clearly picture the fingers dragging along his forehead, frown creasing. “i would’ve called if i knew, you know that, right?”
you take a breath. yeah, that too. you should’ve also told him you’re working tonight. god, you’re acting like such an ass right now. “yeah. yeah, i know. i'm sorry for being so combative, i was just really worried.”
“i know, hun.”
“are you okay, then?” you ask, voice small and breaths still shallow.
“of course. just a coupl’a bruises, nothing too painful. already saw the medics here and they said i’ll be good as new in a few days,” he reassures. you know that if you were talking in person he would’ve been rubbing your back or something as sappy; you miss him already.
“that’s good.”
there’s a lull in the conversation where all the both of you can hear is each other’s inhales and exhales. it brings comfort to you to hear that he’s alive and well, and deacon’s steady breathing helps steady your own, so you let the silence be.
“you really have to send me your schedule now,” deacon mutters, low and lovingly, like he wasn’t frustrated in the slightest that you’ve called to yell at him after a long case. he probably wasn’t and it makes your heart ache that someone like him can feel so much for someone like you.
you smile despite your thoughts. “yeah, i’m always forgetting to send it to you. sorry about that.”
“it’s alright, honey. no biggie,” he says. “i just got out of the shower, luca told me my phone was blowing up.”
“now they know you’ve got a thing going on,” you hum in reply. you don’t mean it as a suggestion, but deacon must’ve sensed your discomfort either way. it was distressing not having another contact that could tell you that deacon was okay, that he was alive, and of course he caught on to that quickly.
“i’ve been meaning to tell them, actually,” deacon’s voice is soft, sure. your breath hitches. “tell them i met this incredible person and that they should watch out because they care for me very much and may blow up phones if they can’t reach me.”
you chuckle and hear his relieved laugh in return. “yeah, you tell them that,” you say. you didn’t expect a conversation about telling the rest of s.w.a.t. about your relationship to be this anticlimactic, but you shouldn’t have thought different from deacon. deacon, who is so kind and considerate and caring and the best person you've ever met.
“see you at home then?” deacon asks. he’s not doubting your being there when he comes home — the question simply cements the fact that the two of you are building a life together, that he wants this as much as you do, and you appreciate that so much.
“see you at home,” you agree. i love you, you refrain from telling him then. you feel like he’ll appreciate it more when it’s in person, perhaps even more when it’s paired with a kiss.
rated mature, angst, hopeful ending, fem!reader, soulmate!au, s2e6: the old gods and the new (mob scene), tw attempted rape, tw vomit, a gift for @artbypurplegorilla, wc: 0.8k
sansa is face down, the scratchy texture of the hay only a secondary thought as dirty calloused hands roam her figure. she can feel the slithery limbs through her thin dress as she inwardly curses the warm weathers of king’s landing. she feels disgusting.
there are stinging in her eyes, and she’s screaming, she knows she is, but they aren’t listening, these unnamed men. they smell of the dung that was flung at joffrey, their breaths a repulsive warmth on sansa’s skin. she hears their low chuckles but does not recognise any semblance of sense in their words. her mind is simply on escaping but no one is coming to help.
there is a large hand squeezing the inside of her thigh now, others on her upper back pushing her down and fingers around her ankles to keep her from fleeing. she feels bile coming up her throat and the collecting of saliva in her mouth. she retches but the hands are completely unrelenting.
there is screaming from the mob, from sansa herself, but there is a shout that’s getting closer. she hopes that it’s someone to help, prays to the gods old and new that someone will end this torture, with the death of the men or sansa, either will do.
footsteps grow closer, the shouting accompanying it. then someone runs past sansa and her rapists, and sansa shrieks and wails and begs for the person to come back, please. help me. they don’t.
sansa is still crying, tears streaming freely down her face, adding to the muck that’s already on her skin. she wipes at her cheeks, hiccuping and breathing heavily when she realises that she can wipe at her cheek.
she immediately stands up, putting her hands in front of her and turning back to see men on the floor and you standing, triumphant and wielding a metal rod dripping with viscous scarlet.
“my lady, are you alright?” you cross the distance and sansa whimpers. this may be a ruse. she knows there are people who want to kill her, either for being eddard-stark-the-traitor’s daughter or for simply being born into one of the noble houses.
sansa takes cautious steps in the direction away from you until her back is touching the rough wall. no one behind and only you in front of her.
“s-state your business,” she says, her voice trembling.
you drop your weapon and it clangs loudly, making her flinch. “i was only trying to help, my lady. no one deserves to go through what they were trying to do with you.” you don’t attempt to go closer and sansa is grateful.
“i am but a mere commoner, an apprentice smith at one of the shops,” you offer. you look and sound like a girl, but then again arya is also a girl and she’s obsessed with weapons and sparring and riding.
“and your name?” she asks. you tell her your full name and it relieves her more, how willing you are to give such vulnerable information. you don’t look like you’re lying and her gut — her mother used to say winterfell wolves trust their instincts — says you could be trusted, that you should be trusted because there is no one in king’s landing at the moment that sansa can fully rely on.
she doesn’t say anything for a while, simply staring at you, but there is no one that is trying to enter the cranny and you are nonplussed by her heedfulness. the noise outside is dwindling and she thinks the royal family has been escorted out of the mob already. that is, without sansa, the king’s betrothed.
“my lady?” you ask. “you are shaking.”
you quickly offer the tunic you’re wearing, leaving yourself in only a thin undershirt and trousers. she looks down at her tattered dress, filthy and stained, and lets out a sob that surprises even her, her breaths quaking and miserable noises emitting. you don’t move to comfort, appeasing her need for space at the moment. she steps forward to take the piece of clothing from your outstretched hand, putting it over herself.
“come with me, my lady,” you say, your face befuddingly pleading. it doesn't sound like i'll help get you to safety, but more like let's run away from here.
sansa considers you for more than a moment. you saved her from immediate danger, in the face of men much stronger than either of you, but you are also a stranger. a stranger that sansa feels compelled to be with.
“what’s in it for you?” she asks, straightening her back and willing the quiver in her voice away. her cheeks are still wet.
“a new life?” you shrug. sansa fails to notice how your eyes flit briefly to the side of her upper right leg, just below the line of her hip, where her once-exposed pointed spear tattoo lies.
“lead the way.” she strides to meet you, yearning for the same.
aaron walks out of your bathroom drying his face while you’re sitting on your side of the bed, blanket already draped half on your person. you wonder when the last time the three of you successfully checked off all of the tasks on your bedtime routine was, and the productivity of the day makes you too cheerful for bedtime.
“you look like you had a good day,” aaron muses. he sits on the bed, not yet tucking himself in. he looks handsome in this setting, freshly showered and looking tenderly at you.
“i did,” you giggle. you hold his gaze and you think that if you see yourself right now, you’d see the hearts coming out of your eyes. “jack had a good day at school, talking away right when i picked him up. i think the goodness of his day rubbed off on mine.”
aaron takes your hand then, gently rubbing at your knuckles, “mine too, i believe.”
you take the hand and plant a soft kiss on it, eliciting a small laugh from him. “your smile brings me so much joy. thanks for making my day even better, love,” you say. you don’t think you’ll say this so freely in any other setting, but you’re high on endorphins so you don’t mind. besides, his slowly reddening face makes it all worth it, causing a grin to blossom on your own.
aaron mutters a small you’re welcome and climbs fully on the bed, burrowing the two of you in blankets.
one arm nudges at your head, and you lift it, letting aaron cradle you. the other grabs you at your waist and pulls your body even closer to him. you inhale his fresh musk, smiling against his neck. “you make me so happy,” you hear aaron whisper above you. the statement was so simple, the words so ordinary, that sometimes it amazes you that your aaron, the one so eloquently spoken with his highly advanced and professional vocabulary, is the one who says them. and you’re the one who receives them.
you pull back from his hold, only to look him in the eyes. you don’t need to say it back — he can clearly tell from the smile in your eyes that you hold him to the same regard. you give him a peck on the lips instead. “goodnight, aaron. i love you.”
the two of you drift off with limbs tangled and faces full of content.
tyrion registers the warmth first. these days it’s much more common to have his bed cold, both before and after he wakes. the only exception might be when he forgets to draw the drapes of his window, but the warmth he feels now is so unlike the gentle beams of the morning sun. this warmth is vicinal and suffocating. it’s a leg tangled with the blankets pooling at the foot of the bed, an arm heavy on his waist, and slow breathing tickling his arm.
it’s you, sound asleep and making tyrion feel a terrible amount of butterflies first thing in the morning. it’s both so much better and so much worse than a hangover and he lets out a quiet groan.
you’ve known each other for a long time and yet this is the first time you’ve shared a bed. it’s astounding and, frankly, quite honourable on his part, but considering the thoughts he’s had about you he wouldn’t be so proud of waiting for the nonce.
you stir, perhaps sensing his overwhelm. he became possibly stiff after waking and he’s sure you’ve felt the erratic breaths that’s coming from his panic.
“tyrion?” and isn’t that a stunner. you were so adamant to call him lord lannister or my lord hand but now he’s simply tyrion, said so sweetly with your soft breaths and rumpled hair and droopy eyes and—
“are you alright?” you sit up, your elbow forming a dip on the bed. tyrion’s eyes close as he turns his head upwards, looking irritated but feeling the very opposite. he would feel horrid that he looks like the face of an inconsiderate bed fellow if he wasn’t feeling so unbearably giddy. “tyrion?”
“quite fine. feels like i battled the hound—” he stops himself from saying anything worse. seven hells, he’s gotten terrible at this. he needs wine.
instead of being cross, however, you simply giggle. switching your position from leaning on your elbow to being completely prone, your stomach on the bed and your head laying on your arms, your feet up in the air kicking like tyrion is a tall handsome knight with striking scars and a body full of muscles. you’re smiling softly at him.
“are you comparing me to the hound, my lord?” you say, your eyes twinkling. a small twitch of his lips betrays his assumed composure. “i apologise, my lady. i—” he roves his gaze on your beautiful face, his heart beating as if he actually did battle the hound, before caressing your cheek. you lean into the touch.
gods, he’s so gone for you. feelings are not something he actively speaks about; in fact, it’s a topic he actively avoids, and yet.
“i am not quite used to this,” he mutters. you don’t express your disbelief as he is known to be promiscuous, or instigate any teasing that usually accompanies his comments regarding any romantic entanglement (not by you, though. never by you).
you simply take the hand that’s still on your cheek and place your lips on the inside of his palm, pressing travelling kisses from there to his pulse point, right at his wrist. he stares at you while you do so, and you do it so surely, so carefully. he feels a stinging behind his eyes and a heaviness in his heart not akin to anything he’s felt in his life because for the very first time, it feels good and untainted.
“that’s alright,” you say, still with an air of affection as you twine your fingers with his. “i’ll draw us to the same level soon enough,” you hum. “or at a later time. regardless, we’ll get there, tyrion.”
content: rated teen, fluff, gn!reader, pre-relationship, mutual pining, reader is in their mid 20s, reader is a healthcare worker (but it’s barely there), karen is slightly taller than reader, byler if you squint really hard, mike being a brat, food
word count: 1.2k
you crouch down and inspect the abomination that consists of empty candy wrappers, half-eaten cheese sandwiches, and several cans of unfinished soda with the carbonation long gone. at least the boys didn’t raid karen’s wine stash, you scoff.
“wake up,” you slap each of the boys’ arms. they stir with will, lovely will, raising his head up and giving you a sleepy grin before burying his head back into mike’s back. you don’t understand how any of them were able to sleep when they were all contorted to some of the most uncomfortable sleeping positions you have ever witnessed. “michael, for god’s sake. your mom’s gonna come back in an hour,” you hiss at the limp noodle that is mike wheeler.
the limp noodle uncooks itself and sits straight up the couch. will groans as he face-plants into the dent mike made throughout the night. “ugh, you could’ve said that earlier,” mike mumbles as he wakes the other boys up.
karen went out of town to pay a visit to her parents with holly and ted. with them out of town and nancy at college, mike called for a long-awaited boys-only sleepover (max rolled her eyes when he announced this and decided to have her own with el). karen, rightfully worried that the boys may trash the house or perhaps get caught in yet another life-threatening situation, asked you to check up on them, please, if possible. and being that the woman needs to relax on her well-deserved trip, you readily said yes despite your exhausting night shifts at the hospital.
certainly not because you’re head over heels for her. nope, not at all.
you go to the kitchen as the boys sort out the basement, wanting to make them a breakfast that consists of more nutrients than the stale cheese sandwiches and pure sugar they overloaded on the night before. after making scrambled eggs, banana pancakes and bacon (the typical breakfast that, while not very healthy, is much healthier than the junk you found earlier in the morning), you call on the boys once again to finally get some real food down their stomach.
“you didn’t really have to check on us, you know. we’re not children to be babysat anymore,” mike says while chewing on his banana pancake with way too much syrup.
“uh, yes i do. if i didn’t karen would’ve yelled at you again, possibly grounding you,” you point your fork at him as he rolls his eyes. you really don’t know how karen puts up with this kid’s attitude everyday. “and would you want that? no. so you know, i think you should be thanking me right now, michael.” you take another bite of your eggs as dustin grins and lucas echoes you, “yeah, michael.”
“you woke up so early, though. thanks for making sure we don’t get our asses whooped, y/n,” will smiles at you.
“nah, i came from work, actually, so i didn’t really have to force myself to wake up. all good,” you grin. will gives you a grateful nod and goes back to eating his meal. you hope the circles under your eyes go unnoticed by the boys.
breakfast passes by amicably with the boys recalling the movies they watched the night before, dustin and mike playfully debating the logic behind the action scenes. you hear a car parking as you clean the table.
“michael!” karen walks to hug him, pressing a kiss on his forehead. “i missed you,” she mumbles as mike tries to pry himself away from her, the ungrateful brat. karen doesn’t look fazed at all; she seems to have a more vibrant air around her even after such a short vacation. you smile to yourself. good. she needed it.
she ushers the boys to finish drying the dishes by themselves and asks ted to bring their bags up to their room, bringing holly with him. “thanks for checking in on the boys, honey. i know how much you care for them,” she smiles as she takes your hand. she’s taller than you with her heels on, so it’s like she’s smiling down at you. you can almost see every flicker of her eyes, and with her warm, softly manicured hands caressing yours, you can’t help but feel a flutter in your stomach.
“yeah. it’s no problem,” you breathe. you don’t have the courage to say that you did it more for her sake than theirs, how awful that may sound. you wish you were the one to take her away next time, though — away from all her observed responsibilities — and help her erase the façade she has to uphold. lord knows how long she’s been keeping that up, and you know how much it’s draining her.
“uhm,” you let out another breath whilst smiling. you always feel a slight suffocation, one with keenness, when you’re in close proximity with karen.
her perfume today is pungent, floral with a hint of musk, and breathing it in feels heavy and expensive. everything is overwhelming when in the presence of karen wheeler, but you relish in it either way.
she’s still holding your hand, thoughtlessly playing with your fingertips and it makes you feel like a teenager. the gesture tickles, small as it is, but it makes your heart so very full.
god, you’re fucked.
“i think i should go now. let you rest, must’ve been a long car ride,” you finally let out, disappointed at your own words. you should really tone down the pining.
the both of you are tired, you reason with yourself. and with that comes the rabbit hole of the image of resting together. you suddenly picture yourself cuddling on the bed with your arms around karen and playing with her hair and lightly rubbing her scalp to ease the tension of the car ride, her hairstyle, and all her problems combined as she make soft humming noises and—
you mentally shake your head. yearning is for later.
“oh, are you sure? you don’t want to stay for a little morning coffee? i have some cookies that mom baked for us,” she looks at you expectantly, her hands squeezing yours lightly. and you see, you’re usually immune to the pretty-please eyes. you even endured mews’s purring when she sat on your foot the whole thanksgiving meal two years prior, waiting for you to give her a piece of turkey. but to say no to karen, after she thanked you so tenderly and asked for your company so softly? impossible.
of course, there is also the fact that you’re madly in love with her and would like to be in her presence every minute of every day. but let’s just say it’s karen’s fault. her and her unfairly beautiful eyes.
“sure. i’d like that,” you faintly chuckle. she grabs your whole hand then, palm to palm, as she leads you to the kitchen, excitedly rambling about her time at her parents’. her eyes twinkle as she relays her stories — your hands still intertwined, sipping coffee and eating cookies. you would sacrifice any amount of sleep to experience this everyday, you think. and you don’t mind at all.
rated teen, fluff, gn!reader, new rome university!au, wc: 0.5k
“you have to put more water on it,” you whisper.
hazel nods stiffly, dipping her hand in the water before dabbing it on the clay. her sculpture’s supposed to resemble a house, but the pot is unfortunately looking more and more like a sad rectangle than one of those architectural wonders around campus that annabeth has been talking about. she glances at yours and, unsurprisingly, it looks eerily like an eye—just like how you intended it to be.
she sighs. she’s an artist, and she chose this class as one of her open electives, but why is it that she’s failing it?
you put down your brush, letting out an appreciative sound she hears so clearly from beside her as you sit upright and stretch your neck. “are you finished?” hazel asks.
“hmm? oh, no.” you smile at her, eyes glistening and all. the room the class is in has big windows to let in ventilation, but at the moment its only purpose is to let in the afternoon sun that is doing absolutely everything for you, making you look ethereal. hazel tries to steady her breath.
“my back hurts so i can’t really do any of the details right now,” you continue. “i’m taking a five minute break, i think. you?”
“uh, yeah. i’ll take a break,” she concedes, straightening her back as well. you get up and she gets a whiff of clay, clean laundry, and a sweet scent that she only associates with you and the combination gives her a terrible lurch in the stomach. she sighs deeply and hopes to the gods that you don’t take it as something pejorative.
“hey, hazel?” you beckon her over to where you’re leaning on one of the back benches. she obliges, even as you twine your arms together and pull her to your space.
“uhm, i have this illustration i have to do for my alchemy class and i was wondering…” you’re not meeting her eyes as you fidget with her rolled up sleeves and hazel doesn’t think that anything could be more adorable than this. she doesn’t fight the smile that’s brewing on her face. “i don’t need you to do it for me or anything like that! i just have no idea where to start, you know? and i thought you could help me?”
she does successfully resist the urge to grab you by the chin to look at her (and maybe place a peck on your lips in the process), so she just grabs the hand that’s still playing with her flannel, gaining your attention.
“of course i’ll help you,” she says earnestly. it must have translated quite nicely because you beam at her, face open and expressive, and so very beautiful.
“aw, thank you! are you free after this class?” you ask, now clutching at her hand with both of yours. she doesn’t think you’ve realised, so she leaves it, relishing in the touch. she’ll take anything you’ll give her.
rated teen, fluff, slightly suggestive, gn!reader, slight mention of the war, wc: 0.9k
ginny’s arms around you provide almost all the comfort that she needs that morning.
she can see a bit of blinding white behind the heavy curtains of her dorm room and hopes that the two of you will stay cuddled up. the cold will be seeping in anytime soon and she would rather have her own personal warmer to ease the winter chill.
“i wish we could stay in bed all day,” she mumbles into your hair. your back is against her chest and her hands are snaked around your waist. she breathes your scent in, treasuring your calm breaths. she knows it will be different when you wake up. thinking about it, ginny is also relieved that there isn’t a grimace on your face or that you aren’t shaking while sleeping. the war took a toll on everyone, but especially the younger students who stayed at hogwarts on that fateful night in may and fought in the battle.
everybody from ginny’s group of friends returned to hogwarts for their seventh or eighth year. despite the horrible memories and, oftentimes, the chips in the foundation and rogue dark magic in some corridors serving as a reminder of the death and carnage that occurred in the castle, the students are making the most of their last year in the school. regardless of everything, to the older students, hogwarts is home.
it’s a sunday and the castle grounds are buried in snow. ginny is glad to have convinced you to spend nights with her in her shared dorm. on the note that it settles down both your minds and lessens the possibility of having nightmares, you agreed readily. now though, ginny is simply thankful for it because she doesn’t think a blanket charmed to be warm and heavy would have the same effect of having you there with her on a snow day.
she closes her eyes again, attempting to get an hour more of sleep. you stir, however, groaning a bit before turning and burrowing your face into ginny’s neck. “morning, love,” she places a light kiss on the top of your head. “morning, gin.” your breath tickles her neck and the domesticity prompts her to wrap her arms around you tighter.
the two of you lie like so in the next few minutes, before you pull away from her and stretch a full-body stretch. ginny observes your figure as you put your hands above your head, elongating your body like a cat. she grins as you let out a questionably loud moan.
“you’re asking for a stay in bed all day, darling,” she drawls. “you’re ridiculous, ginevra,” you snicker as you poke her on the forehead lightly.
“ugh, you know i love it when you call me that,” she pulls you in by the waist again and places a kiss on the nape of your neck. “sounds very commanding.”
you laugh, turning once again just so you could peck at her lips. you start to pull away when ginny presses on, deepening the kiss. ginny’s aware the both of you still have morning breaths but she feels heady enough with affection to remain kissing once she feels you return it. her hands squeeze you at the hips, dangerously close to your arse, and she feels you grin into the kiss, turning the kiss into quite a teethy mess.
you cup her at the neck and place one last hard kiss on her lips, pulling away once again.
“as much as i do want to continue this make-out session, we should really get going, my love,” you say as you cast a tempus charm. the morning is going to turn into afternoon in an hour and some, and you tell ginny that although it’s a weekend, that shouldn’t stop the two of you from being productive.
“well, i very much think that kissing you and getting those happy hormones hermione keeps talking about is a productive way to spend the day.”
“hermione also keeps talking about n.e.w.t.s, so i will be preparing for those today,” you respond. ginny huffs at that and sprawls on her bed, like a starfish. she watches as you walk to the bathroom and thinks that maybe she’ll just ask you to study with her. she quickly shuts this idea down because she really doesn’t want to partake in any studying on a sunday, even if it’s with you. she’ll just stare at you while you’re studying then, one of her favourite pastimes.
ginny closes her eyes once again, not hoping for a shut-eye but simply because keeping them open seems too much of a task at the moment. she hears you coming out of the bathroom and feels the mattress dipping, and then there are fingers carding through her hair. she turns to her side to face you, one arm under her head. “going to breakfast then?”
“more like lunch,” you smile. “we can cuddle again after dinner, yeah? i’ll sleep here again if that’s okay with your dormmates.”
“that’ll be nice. i don’t think anyone will mind,” she tells you. “as long as we draw my curtains, that is,” she adds as she comes up to kiss you again. you let her, but you also stop her at one, much to her chagrin.
“let’s get lunch together. i’ll wait for you,” you pat her twice on the cheek and ginny stands up to go to the bathroom.
