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Just a place for anything and everything that inspires me or makes me happy

[willowskindaobsessed]

Heartbreak High does what most media is scared to do.

Make everyone do absolutely FUCKED UP shit while keeping them human.

Then have the characters realistically end up sticking together despite the hurt.

Not ending the story with the characters having “matured” to grow out of their issues. They don’t end good people, nor bad ones.

[maeverrrb]

Resist - George Weasley x Slytherin!Reader

A/N: This one is such a sweet request and I was planning on making it longer but I kind of decided to cut it short, think it turned out cuter that way!! Anyways, thank you to this sweetheart for requesting!! Smooches <3

Warning(s): Fluff, George angst if you squint, Gryffindors being stereotypical to Slytherins, Reader is an absolute sweetheart and George is struggling.

Word count: 3.1k

Dividers by @strangergraphics!! ,

Hogwarts was filled with the usual hum of students scampering off to their morning classes—the chatter and easy breeze of the school at 9 am. George was in no hurry whatsoever, leaning against the wall outside the great hall with Fred. It was the usual easy conversation, mindlessly flowing between the twins. 

“Oh. Eugh.” Fred groaned, looking down the now emptier hall.  At first, George thought he was talking about Draco and his little posse of bullies cornering two Gryffindor first-year girls. It wasn’t surprising. Fred usually ignored it because it was never surprising. 

“Bloody prefects think they’re so perfect.” Fred continued, making George’s attention snap to the figure walking up the hallway. You. Uniform so perfect it looked like it was taken straight off a mannequin, Hair proper, prefect badge sharp and glimmering on your robes. 

Neither of the boys thought you’d do anything about the bullying. No Slytherin prefect ever did, not when it came to Draco and his little boyband. “Exhausting, isn’t it? The same people with them. Why do they even bother making Slytherin’s prefect?” George mumbled back to his brother.

But when you grabbed the back of Draco’s robes and yanked, both of them looked like they’d been electrocuted. 

“Malfoy! Merlin’s sake, really?! This again? Do I need to write to your mother about your severe lack of manners?” You hissed, glaring down at the startled boy. The rest of his group stilled, looking at eachother in pure bewilderment; no one really stopped them. Usually, they’d be disregarded by everyone because Draco was a Malfoy.

Draco gaped, “Hey– You can’t– Don’t touch me!” He hissed, cheeks flushing red in humiliation. The two Gryffindor girls stood there like deer in headlights, unsure of whether to run or stay. “Draconis Lucius Malfoy, I will go straight to Snape and write to your mother representing Slytherin House as head of the house—”

“Okay!” He huffed, completely red with humiliation now, his friends staring at him like he’d grown a second head. “What—whatever.” He sputtered, pulling away and storming off. George and Fred looked gobsmacked. No one stood up to Malfoy—barely any teachers either. It was clear the boy wasn’t used to it either, with the way he practically tripped over his own tail rushing out.

You leaned closer to the two girls, who immediately rushed over to cling to your robes and bury their faces in your belly. You smiled, heart fluttering in pure adoration, placing your hands on their hair. “You two okay? He’s all bark, I promise.” You mumbled, coaxing the girls into telling you their names.

George was practically choking on air, Fred still like he’d been turned to stone. It was a majorly confusing encounter. “It’s unnatural.” He breathed, making Fred nod quickly. “This may be a moment in Slytherin history. They’re learning compassion.” The other mumbled back, crossing his arms. “Probably some stupid ploy to get people’s guards down.”

George nodded, but his mind was slowly drifting away to the way you took each girl’s hands in your own, guiding them to their, letting them chat your ear off. It was odd—unusual for a Slytherin to be so.. nice. He didn’t really pay attention to Slytherins at all, really, but actually seeing one be nice felt like catching your brother having sex; it was seeing something he didn’t want to see cause it changed the way you thought about them.

“What’s the point of being a prefect if you don’t give me the password for the special bathroom?!” Gilderoy scoffed, scowling. He sat on the floor of your dorm as you cut his long hair into the boyish hairstyle he wanted. 

“For the last time, no. I’m not going to risk my position cause you want to take a bubblebath, Roy.” You grumbled, grabbing your wand to dispose of the scattered hair strands on your floor—gesturing for him to check out his new hairstyle. He grinned wider as he checked himself out, mumbling something about fake friends.

You sighed, getting up and nudging him on the back. “C’mon. Get dressed. I’ll go find Cedric to borrow a pair of his pants, leave your skirt on my bed.” You grumbled, slipping on your slippers. It was really early in the morning, all prefects were meant to get up early to give night round reports to the heads of their houses. 

The massive common room was cold and silent, the only sound was the distant rush of the black lake above the ceilings of the dungeons. The air got crisper upon leaving the dungeons and entering the main hallway network of the school, the newfound warmth highly welcome in the early morning. You kept walking till you hit the Hufflepuff kitchens, awkwardly standing infront of the entrance to the common room before knocking on the wooden door. “Diggory?” You called out, shoving your hands in your pockets as you waited for the guy who, barely five seconds later, swung open the door and shoved the pants in your hands. “Yeah, yeah, here–one sec. I have a situation with these two bloody fourth years–”

The door slammed in your face, you rolled your eyes.

The walk back to the dungeons was more peaceful, quieter. You took the long route; you had the time anyway. You decided to report to Snape early, moving to his office—there’s a chance he wouldn’t be there, but that just meant you could quickly jot down a written report and not have to go through the trouble of actually talking to the man.  

You passed his potions closet before stilling at a shuffle inside. You frowned. Turned. 

“Professor Snape?” You said softly, the shuffling ceased completely.

Okay. Not Snape.

You frowned, reaching for the handle. “If this is a student, I’d recommend exiting the closet before I start deducting points in the hundreds.”

An empty threat, you’d never really do that. You didn’t like getting people in trouble for small stuff like curfews or restricted areas; they were harmless offences. It wasn’t worth the trouble, put it was a good threat to whatever third or fourth year you thought snuck in there on a dare.

So when a tall, ginger bloke slipped out with the most sheepish grin on his face, wearing striped pyjamas, stood infront of you, you stilled for a second. Frowned. Tilted your head.

“George.” You said plainly, surprising him. 

“How come not Fred, hm?” He huffed, making you shrug. “Your nose. A bit crooked. Longer.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes, slipped a small jar into his pocket. “Well, go ahead. Strip me of my points.” He muttered dryly, already expecting her to remove a ridiculous amount of points from his house. All Slytherin prefects did—almost like they had a personal vendetta against the Gryffidnors. This snake is no different.

“I’ll give you a warning; if I catch you again, it’s fifty points off.” You sighed, narrowing your eyes at the boy. “Please return to Gryffindor Tower.”

George stilled, frowning down at her, before grinning. He got away scott-free?

“And give me what you just put in your pocket.”

Okay, that’s unfair.

“It’s–it’s guy stuff.”

“It’s Leech juice.”

“No it’s Fluxweed.”

“So you did take something.”

Fuck.

You grinned, hands on your hips now. “C’mon, Weasley, hand it over now. I won’t make a big deal of this.” You mused, and George deflated, his guard slowly lowering at your easy demeanour. “Yeah, whatever..”

You took the jar from him, stepping into Snape’s ingredient closet to put the Fluxweed back before stepping out. “Steal when no one will find you.” You teased, making him scoff and cross his arms. “No one was supposed to! It’s bloody five and a half in the morning, prefects aren’t to wake until six!”

“Memorizing the schedule’s dedication. There was an update. We have to wake an hour early now because they’ll be imposing morning rounds.” You said softly, smiling up at him. It was clear he didn’t expect it, frowning at you in return, squirmy. 

“Okay. I–I– Stop. Okay.” He muttered, looking away and scratching the back of his neck. You grinned wider, leaning forward. “You okay, Weasley? Your ears are going red.” He scowled, looking away before scoffing. “Oh, you wish, don’t you? Find it fun? Making me uneasy?” 

“Uneasy? I haven’t done anything.”

“You’re– You smiled!”

“My smile unsettled you? That’s just offensive, my smile’s lovely!”

“Oh, how humble, o mighty prefect.”

“Oh, nice one, are we not talking about how nice I was to not take away points even though I caught you stealing?!”

George huffed, pouted and leaned closer. “Borrowing! I’d replace it. I’m not evil, am I? Not like you and your unsettling smile.” You rolled your eyes, frowning. “Oh, is it? Is my smile unsettling? Scary? Spooky?”

You flashed him another smile purely out of spite, and he sputtered, covering his eyes. “God, it’s like staring at Medusa! You’ll turn me to stone, you gargoyle!” “Gar–Gargoyle?!” You huffed, eyes wide as you swatted his shoulder. “I am a lady!”

He stuck out his tongue, swatting you back. “Stony, lumpy gargoyle–” You gasped again, smacking him harder. “Well– Well, you’re a troll! A big, bad troll! Stupid, lousy troll!”

He gave you a light, playful push, a smile growing on his lips. “A troll, now? Not very prefect-like, is it? Insulting a student? I should report that y’know.” He mused, making you snicker softly, tilting your head up at him. “Oh, try me, ginger.”

He lazily saluted before turning away and throwing up a hand as if to bid you adieu. 

“Yeah, yeah. Bye, snakey.”

You could only giggle in response, waving despite the fact that he couldn’t see. “Bye, ginger!”

You didn’t think much about the interaction; you’re used to being nice to people, easily talking to people.

George, on the other hand, collapsed as soon as he turned the corner and practically began choking on his own spit as his face grew more and more red. It was all so unexpected. He was caught so off guard—that wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with you. He couldn’t let you make him like this, all flustered and unsteady. Slytherins were untrustworthy snakes. Sneaky, tricky, lying snakes. 

He trudged his way back to his tower before dropping himself on Fred to tell him everything. His twin offered no solace, just groaned and reinforced his worst worries: snakes aren’t to be trusted, she’s playing with you, she’s evil, don’t fall for it.

George knew, he knew. But it felt too natural with you—he didn’t even realise you and him were borderline flirting till he walked away. So easy. Why was it easy? He wasn’t the suave one. Girls rushed to Fred more than they rushed to him. Of course,  everyone usually felt the twins were interchangeable, and thus, it was the reason neither of them really dated. In fear of their girlfriend having a thing for their twin brother. 

He refused to let himself get hurt, agreeing with Fred before slipping back into bed to sleep until class really started.

Willing himself not to think of you.

Today has been a busy day. You weren’t mad about it, though.

You’d put all your effort upon becoming a prefect to become a safe person for everyone, older or younger. It worked a little bit too well.

Every free minute you had was taken from you. Fifth years rushing to you after procrastinating a potions assignment, fourth years asking for help in charms, third years asking about rumours and gossip, second year boys asking you to end arguments and second year girls running to you in hysterics when they get their periods, first years running to you in tears after feeling homesick.

It was fulfilling; you took pride in it. Always helping people, always being constant.

People noticed; you shocked everyone. It was so un-Slytherin of you, to help more than what was required of you as a prefect. More than what was required of even the Head girl or boy.  

George found it absolutely devastating—because just seeing you exist and act in a way that was seemingly normal made you plague his every thought. He couldn’t get you out of his head, his thoughts, his very being. He avoided you like the plague, but he still watched you from afar. It was like torturing himself, driving himself crazy.

It didn’t help that the entirety of Gryffindor House has an immense distaste for you; all the older kids brushed you off, regarding you as some Slytherin who finally learnt how to pretend to be likeable. George could only smile and mindlessly agree to a point. Then it became word vomit. A headache. Something he didn’t agree with to the point of physical recoil.

It didn’t help when you kept finding ways to bump into him. It wasn’t even intentional; you were just always everywhere. You were bound to spot him. Sweetheart that you were, you always tried to strike up a conversation as well. Always tried to talk to him.

Meanwhile, he’d be backing away like a feral animal with its leg caught in a trap. Not because he was worried people were right—but because they might be wrong. But they won’t accept that. George is smart enough to see through these things, to see stereotypes run deeper. They won;t accept that you’re a good person, not because they have proof otherwise, but because you’re a Slytherin. To them, it’s proof enough.

He didn’t want to go through the effort of having to hopelessly defend his totally not hopeless crush on you to everyone. It didn’t seem worth it, doing that over a girl he barely even knew. It begged the question: why did you enamour him so?

Maybe it was because you knew who he was from your very first interaction. Maybe it was because you didn’t bring up his twin whenever you two spoke—you spoke to him. Treated him like he’s his own person and not just someone’s twin. It seemed odd, feeling like the add-on twin, but he couldn’t help it. It wasn’t malice towards his brother; it was silent insecurity he refused to acknowledge. There were subtle differences in the twins that people subconsciously accepted. Fred was the name on everyone’s tongues. George was called Fred much more than Fred was called George. 

Maybe that’s why he liked you. You didn’t mistake him for Fred, nor did you try to bring up Fred in any way. Not like you were actively avoiding it, but more so that you didn’t see the point in bringing up his brother when talking to him. It was something he hadn’t come across often. Someone who spoke to him. Not the twin part of him, but the individual part.

The way it made him feel lingered, affected him enough that your face was the first he searched for in every room. 

So now, as he watched you crouch down and embrace some first-year Hufflepuff crying about missing his poodle back at home, his heart ached. Not for the boy, though it should, but because you felt like a dream he refused to let come true. Because that complicated things. 

He lingered at the end of the hall, watched your seraphic form wipe the child’s tears and assured him his poodle could indeed read the letters he sent home, before taking him by the hand and walking him to his common room. He shuddered when you disappeared from view, slumped against the wall and dragged a hand down his face.

He was screwed, he knew it. You plagued his mind like no other, and even after relentlessly watching you for days and maybe even weeks to try and prove his housemates right, that you were evil. That this was just some mask—he couldn’t. It was simply who you were. It drew him in effortlessly.

Maybe it was the definitive understanding that everyone was wrong about you that helped him grow a backbone, or maybe the thoughts of you have finally bled from his mind to his physical actions. You were sitting at the edge of the black lake, under a sweater and the dim, moody glow of the late evening. It was Saturday, one of the only days you really got to spend on your own. You savoured it.

His feet had brought him here, mainly on their own. Of course, he knew this was your Saturday spot to hang out; he’d seen you whenever he and Lee wandered about on their own. He approached you like he would a frightened animal, slowly—hesitant. 

You heard him before you saw him, turning your head before your lips curved into an easy, warm smile. “Ginger! Hi! Didn’t think you were the type to come out here.” You said with a soft tinge in your face, making his stomach flutter. He smiled, he couldn’t help but. “Hey, snakey. Mind if I sit?”

You quickly scooched to the side on your picnic basket, letting the taller boy move to your side, knees bumping into each other. You kept looking at him with that same sunshine-y grin, it nearly made him nauseous. 

You didn’t talk, didn’t try and start a conversation. Mainly because it seemed like you were trying to let him soak in the peace around you, let him feel it, enter his bones. He let it, heard the swoosh of the wind and the rush of air around them, let it ground him. Calm his erratically racing heart.

“So,” he finally began, voice breaking embarrassingly on the word. “You—You have a boyfriend?” 

You blinked at him, not expecting that question out of everything. “Uhm, no.” You murmured, making him nod his head quickly. You studied his face, looking intently enough to see the furrow of his brows and the slight downturn of his lips. 

“Would you.. Like to go to Hogsmeade with me some time—any time.” He said hastily, but you caught it anyway. The smile that grew on your lips was immediate; you leaned forward to get a better look at his face. “Are you.. Asking me on a date, George?”

He couldn’t look at you—couldn’t respond, currently in a life-or-death staring contest with the picnic blanket. His ears were completely red, and his cheeks were flushed. His hands gripped the blanket beneath him. You found it hopelessly endearing. 

Easily, you leaned over and placed a hand over his clenched one, and gave him a smile when he shot his head up in surprise. “When can we go out on that date, then?” You said softly, eliciting a small smile from him now. He scoffed, shaking his head.

This was probably a bad idea—his housemates, his own brother, his siblings and his friends. They’d all have something to say; bitter things. Defending you’d be exhausting repetition; he’d be so judged throughout it all. 

But right now? Looking at that impossibly soft look on your face that never really seemed to quite leave? He couldn’t care less if people stared.  All he could think about is that damn date, and there’s no way he’s giving up a chance to have you for himself.

© maeverrrb— don’t copy, repost, or translate without my permission. do not use/feed my works to AI.

[preeewrites]

Not going anywhere

Summary: A bright, stubborn Hufflepuff refuses to stay away from the cold, guarded Mattheo Riddle.

Slow burn. Tension. Hidden softness.

9.9k words sheesh I don’t know when to stop :’)

—————————————————————————

The Great Hall buzzed with the usual morning chaos, owls swooping low over tables, the clatter of silverware, and the low hum of gossip that never quite died down at Hogwarts.

Sunlight filtered through the enchanted ceiling, casting a soft golden glow over the Hufflepuff table where you sat, though your eyes were already drifting toward the Slytherin side.

Mattheo Riddle was there, as always, lounging in his seat like the hall belonged to him.

Dark curls slightly tousled, uniform tie loose in that deliberate way that screamed I don’t give a fuck, and an expression that could freeze fire.

He hadn’t looked your way once. He never did, not really.

You didn’t care.

Grabbing a fresh apple from the bowl, you wove through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who had done this a hundred times.

A few Hufflepuffs shot you curious glances, saying “again?” but you just smiled brightly and kept going. You weren’t afraid of him. Never had been. There was something beneath that cold exterior, something sharp and broken and real.

“Morning, Mattheo,” you said cheerfully, sliding into the empty seat beside him without waiting for an invitation. You placed the apple in front of him, perfectly polished. “They had the good ones today. Thought you might want it before Theo hogs them all.”

Mattheo didn’t even glance up from his plate. “Didn’t ask for it, Hufflepuff.”

His voice was low, edged with that familiar bite. Sharp tongued as ever.

Around you, his friends, Draco, Blaise, Theo, and Pansy exchanged looks. Theo smirked into his pumpkin juice.

You shrugged, undeterred, and reached for some toast. “You didn’t have to. You skipped dinner yesterday. Figured you might be hungry.”

He finally looked at you then, dark eyes narrowing. “Stalking my eating habits now? Cute.” The sarcasm dripped like venom, but you just beamed at him, biting into your own toast.

Across the table, Pansy snorted. “Merlin, she’s at it again. Give it a rest, sweetheart. He’s not going to suddenly turn into Prince Charming because you bring him fruit.”

“I’m not expecting charming,” you replied lightly, defending yourself with a small laugh. “Just making sure he doesn’t starve while plotting world domination or whatever it is you lot do before Potions.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, amused despite himself. “Bold for a Puff. Most of your house would’ve run by now.”

You met his gaze steadily. “Most of my house doesn’t see the point in running from someone who hasn’t actually done anything to them.” Your eyes flicked back to Mattheo. “Besides, I like sitting here.”

Mattheo’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He took the apple though after a long pause and bit into it with more force than necessary.

You counted that as a win.

This had become routine. Weeks, maybe months now, of you orbiting him like a persistent moon.

Good mornings in the corridors, even when he responded with nothing but a grunt or a cutting remark about your “annoying cheerfulness.”

Little things: fixing the strap on his bag when it broke during Transfiguration, saving him a seat in the library (which he ignored and sat somewhere else, only for you to move anyway), defending him when some Gryffindor idiot muttered “Death Eater spawn” loud enough for the hall to hear.

His friends had started teasing you mercilessly at first.

“Another lap around the Riddle fan club?” Blaise had drawled one evening in the Slytherin common room after you’d somehow ended up there (Theo had dragged you along, claiming you were “funny” and “harmless”).

“Careful, love,” Pansy had added with a wicked grin. “He bites.”

You’d just shrugged and settled onto the couch like you belonged. “I’m not scared of teeth.”

Over time, the teasing softened. You laughed at their jokes, bantered back, helped Theo with Charms homework, and even managed to get Draco to admit your taste in Quidditch teams wasn’t completely abysmal.

You became part of the group, almost by accident. They got used to your presence. Mattheo… tolerated it.

Or at least, that’s what he showed.

Lunch was more of the same. You slipped into the seat beside him again, ignoring the way Lorenzo Berkshire raised his eyebrows across the table.

“Saved you the last treacle tart,” you whispered, sliding the plate over. “I know they’re your favorite.”

Mattheo exhaled sharply through his nose. “You keeping a bloody list or something?”

“Maybe.” You grinned, unbothered. “Someone has to notice these things.”

Theo kicked Mattheo under the table. “Mate, she’s literally handing you desserts on a silver platter and you’re acting like she hexed you.”

“Shut it, Nott.” Mattheo’s tone was flat, dangerous. But his hand closed around the fork anyway.

You chatted easily with the others, Pansy about the latest fashion disaster in the common room, Blaise about the upcoming match, Draco about some pureblood nonsense you mostly tuned out.

Every so often you’d glance at Mattheo, offering a comment or a small smile. He rarely responded with more than a grunt or a sarcastic jab.

He never spoke to you nicely. Not once.

Yet you kept showing up. After classes, in the corridors “How was Arithmancy?” even when he brushed past you with a muttered “Don’t you have badgers to hug?”

You sat with the Slytherins at dinner, laughing when they roasted each other, fitting in like a bright patch on dark fabric.

His friends noticed.

One evening in the Slytherin dungeons, after you’d left (having fixed a rip in Mattheo’s robes with a quick charm and a cheerful “See you tomorrow!”), Theo finally snapped.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Riddle.”

Mattheo leaned back in his chair by the fire, nursing a glass of firewhisky. “Problem?”

Blaise chuckled. “She does more for you in a day than half the girls throwing themselves at you ever have. Brings you food, defends your sorry arse, actually listens when you’re in one of your moods”

“I don’t have moods,” Mattheo cut in coldly.

Mattheo’s eyes darkened. “She’s just another girl hovering. They all do it eventually. Looking for the thrill of the ‘dark’ prince or whatever bollocks they tell themselves.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “She’s not looking for thrill, you dense git. She likes you. Properly. And she’s not scared off by your award winning personality.”

“She’s a Hufflepuff,” Mattheo said dismissively, though his grip on the glass tightened. “Too soft. Too… good. She’ll get tired of it.”

Theo laughed. “She’s been at it for months. Sat through your worst days. Defended you to McGonagall when you got detention for that stunt with the Gryffindors. And you still treat her like dirt.”

He was possessive by nature, territorial. But admitting she mattered? That was weakness. And Mattheo Riddle didn’t do weakness.

“She’s nothing,” he said finally, voice low and sharp. “Just background noise.”

His friends exchanged glances. They knew better. They saw the way his eyes followed her when she left the room, the subtle shift when she sat beside him. The hidden softness he buried under sarcasm and ice.

You, meanwhile, walked back toward the Hufflepuff basement with a small, satisfied smile. He’d eaten the tart. He’d let you sit there. Progress, in your book.

You weren’t naive. You knew he was cold, conflicted, carrying shadows most people couldn’t imagine. But you saw the good, buried, fighting to surface. You weren’t afraid. And you weren’t going anywhere.

Mattheo could pretend to tolerate you all he wanted.

You’d keep showing up until he couldn’t pretend anymore.

———

It was a rainy Thursday when things shifted, just a little.

You were waiting outside the Potions dungeon after class, two umbrellas tucked under your arm (one borrowed from the Hufflepuff common room because you knew he’d “forgotten” his again).

Students streamed past, giving you odd looks. A group of Ravenclaws whispered behind their hands.

Mattheo emerged last, collar up, expression stormy. His eyes landed on you and narrowed.

“Don’t,” he said before you could speak, brushing past.

You fell into step beside him anyway, unfurling one umbrella and holding it over both of you. “It’s pouring. You’ll catch a cold and then complain about it for a week.”

“I don’t complain.” His voice was clipped. “And I don’t need a bloody babysitter.”

“Too bad. I’m self appointed.” You smiled up at him, rain pattering loudly against the fabric. He didn’t take the umbrella from you, but he also didn’t speed up to leave you behind. Small victories.

Theo and Blaise caught up, grinning like idiots.

“Look at that,” Theo drawled. “Domestic already. Riddle, you gonna let her carry your books next?”

Mattheo shot him a withering glare. “Fuck off.”

You laughed softly. “I already did his Arithmancy notes last week when he was… occupied.” You didn’t mention the detention he’d earned for hexing a seventh year who’d called him a monster in the corridor. You’d simply copied the notes in your neatest handwriting and left them on his usual spot in the library.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “See? She’s useful. Unlike you when you’re brooding.”

Mattheo’s jaw flexed. He said nothing the rest of the walk.

Dinner that evening brought new company.

A tall Gryffindor boy, Cedric’s old friend, Marcus something, had wandered over to the Slytherin table, apparently on some inter house project nonsense. He stopped right beside you, flashing a bright, easy smile.

“Hey, I’ve seen you around. You’re the Hufflepuff who talks to this lot without running. Impressive.” His eyes lingered. “We’re having a study group in the library tomorrow. Potions theory. You seem like you know your stuff. Want to join?”

You felt Mattheo stiffen beside you before you even answered.

“That’s sweet,” you said politely, “but I usually study with these guys. Thanks though.”

Marcus didn’t take the hint immediately. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Less… intense.” He glanced at Mattheo meaningfully.

You opened your mouth to respond, but Mattheo beat you to it.

“She said no.” His voice was low, dangerous, laced with that dark charisma that made people listen. He didn’t even look up from his plate, but the temperature around the table seemed to drop. “Run along, Gryffindor.”

Marcus hesitated, then shrugged with a nervous laugh. “Alright, Riddle. Didn’t mean to step on toes.” He left.

Silence fell for half a second before Pansy cackled. “Territorial much?”

“I’m eating,” Mattheo muttered. “Don’t need distractions.”

You turned to him, heart doing a small flip at the possessiveness he’d just shown, even if it was wrapped in irritation. “You didn’t have to do that. I could’ve handled it.”

“Clearly.” His sarcasm was sharp. “You were about to agree.”

“I wasn’t.” You poked his arm lightly. He didn’t pull away. “I like sitting with you lot. Even when you’re grumpy.”

Draco snorted into his goblet. “Grumpy. That’s one word for it.”

The real crack appeared two days later.

It was late evening in the Slytherin common room. You’d been dragged there again, this time by Pansy, who wanted your opinion on a dress for the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend.

You ended up staying, curled up on the couch with a book while the boys played a lazy game of Exploding Snap nearby.

Mattheo was in one of his moods. Silent, sharp edged, staring into the fire like it had personally offended him. You knew the signs by now something from his past, or a letter from home, or just the weight of his own name pressing down.

You stood up quietly and disappeared toward the dorms corridor (Pansy had shown you where the spare blankets were kept weeks ago). When you returned, you draped a slightly warmer one over his shoulders without a word.

He tensed. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“You looked cold.” You sat back down beside him, closer than usual. “And you always steal the good blanket when we’re down here.”

“I don’t steal…..” He stopped, exhaling through his nose. For once, he didn’t shrug the blanket off. His fingers curled into the fabric anyway.

Theo watched the exchange with open amusement. Later, when you stepped away to grab drinks for everyone, he leaned toward Mattheo.

“You know she’s in love with you, right? Properly. Not the silly crush shit.”

Mattheo’s eyes flicked toward your retreating figure. “She’s delusional.”

“Or you’re blind,” Blaise added quietly. “She defends you to teachers, to randoms in the hall, even to her own housemates who think she’s lost her mind. Brings you food, fixes your shit, sits with you even when you’re a complete bastard to her. And you still act like she’s nothing.”

“Because she is nothing,” Mattheo snapped, voice low and venomous. But his eyes betrayed him,they followed you as you laughed at something Pansy said across the room.

“She’ll wise up eventually. Get tired of playing saint to the villain.”

Draco shook his head. “You keep telling yourself that, mate. But the way you nearly hexed that Gryffindor for just talking to her? That wasn’t nothing.”

Mattheo didn’t reply. Inside, the conflict raged. You made things easier, yes. Mornings were less bleak with your stupid cheerful “good morning” and perfectly ripe apples. His robes didn’t fall apart. He hadn’t missed meals. And the way you looked at him… like he was worth saving… it terrified him. Because if he let you in, if he admitted how much he’d come to expect your presence, then you became leverage.

A weakness.

And people like him didn’t get to keep soft, bright things without breaking them.

He was possessive. The thought of you smiling at someone else like you smiled at him made magic crackle at his fingertips. Territorial. He wanted you close but he refused to give you anything back. It wasn’t fair. He knew that. He just didn’t care.

Or so he told himself.

The next morning you were there again, sliding into your usual seat with a bright, “Good morning, Mattheo,” and placing a small vial beside his plate.

“Pepperup Potion,” you explained before he could sneer. “Just in case. You sounded a bit off last night.”

He stared at the vial, then at you. Something in his chest twisted uncomfortably, warm, annoying.

“You’re exhausting,” he said flatly. But he took the vial. Tucked it into his robe pocket like it was nothing.

You just grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Across the table, his friends shared knowing looks. They were done watching him self destruct in slow motion.

One of these days, Mattheo Riddle was going to have to face the fact that the persistent Hufflepuff had already wormed her way past every wall he’d built.

And when that happened… well. Even he wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore.

———

Slytherin party,

The common room pulsed with music and low green light, the party in full swing after Slytherin’s narrow win over Ravenclaw.

Music thrummed from enchanted speakers, firewhisky flowed freely, and clusters of students laughed too loudly, danced too close, and forgot for one night about OWLs, NEWTs, and the shadows hanging over the wizarding world.

You’d shown up with Pansy, who had insisted on you wearing a simple but flattering black dress she’d “borrowed” from somewhere.

“Blend in for once, Puff,” she’d teased. You’d laughed and gone along with it. By now, no one batted an eye when you appeared in Slytherin territory. You were one of them. Sort of.

Mattheo sat in his usual spot on the large leather couch near the fireplace, legs spread, one arm draped lazily over the backrest.

A glass of firewhisky dangled from his fingers. His expression was the same half bored, half dangerous mask he wore most days.

You had claimed the spot beside him earlier, but the crowd had shifted. Now a Slytherin girl, sixth year, long dark hair, sharp cheekbones and sharper ambition had taken your place.

Literally. She was practically in his lap, one hand trailing down his chest, laughing breathily at something he hadn’t even said.

“Mattheo,” she purred, loud enough for you to hear over the music, “you really are the most interesting one here. All that mystery… I bet I could make you smile if you let me try.”

She leaned in closer, lips brushing his ear.

Mattheo didn’t push her away. He also didn’t pull her closer. He simply took a slow sip of his drink, eyes distant, like she was background noise. No smirk, no flirtation, no interest. Just cold tolerance.

You stood a few feet away, watching for a moment. A small sigh escaped you, not dramatic, not heartbroken, just… tired.

You knew this game. Girls threw themselves at him constantly. The dark aura, the dangerous reputation, the undeniable charisma, he attracted them like moths to a cursed flame. And he usually let them hover until they got bored.

You turned away and spotted Theo leaning against a stone pillar, nursing his own drink and watching the scene with clear amusement.

“Hey, Theo,” you said brightly, walking over and bumping his shoulder. “Think we’ll see another Exploding Snap disaster tonight, or has Lorenzo learned his lesson?”

Theo grinned down at you, glad for the distraction. “Doubt it. He’s already three drinks in and eyeing that pack of cards like an idiot. You good?” His eyes flicked meaningfully toward the couch.

You shrugged, leaning beside him. “I’m fine. She’s bold, I’ll give her that. Think she’ll last longer than the last one who tried?”

Theo chuckled. “Nah. He’s not even pretending tonight. Look at his face, pure ice. Poor girl doesn’t realize she’s talking to a statue.”

You laughed softly, genuine and light. Talking with Theo was easy. He had become a real friend over the past weeks, someone who actually listened when you rambled about Herbology or the latest book you’d read.

“I was going to ask Mattheo if he wanted to dance later, but… maybe not. He looks like he’d rather hex the music.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, studying you. “You’re really not bothered by that?” He nodded toward the girl, who was now tracing patterns on Mattheo’s arm while he stared into the fire.

You took a sip of your butterbeer. “Bothered? A little. But I’m not going to compete by climbing all over him. That’s not me.” Your voice stayed calm, sweet but honest. “He knows I’m here. If he wants me to leave, he can say it. He never does.”

Theo shook his head, half laughing. “You’re something else, you know that? Most girls would be over there hexing her by now. Or crying in the corner.”

You smiled, eyes drifting back to Mattheo despite yourself. “I’m not scared of him, or of this.” You gestured vaguely at the party. “Besides, I like talking to you lot. Even when he’s being… himself.”

Mattheo’s gaze had found you.

Even from across the room, even while the dark-haired girl whispered something in his ear, his eyes locked onto you and Theo. His jaw tightened. The girl’s hand slid higher on his thigh and he shifted away just slightly but didn’t stop her. His fingers flexed around his glass until his knuckles paled.

He didn’t like it.

Not the girl. Her touch felt like nothing, irrelevant, annoying. But you standing there, laughing with Theo, looking perfectly at ease in his common room, in his world… that twisted something ugly and possessive in his chest.

You were supposed to be orbiting him. Not chatting and smiling at Nott like it was the most natural thing.

Yet he said nothing. Did nothing. Just watched, brooding.

Later, the girl finally gave up with a dramatic huff and stalked off to find easier prey. Mattheo didn’t even watch her leave.

You eventually wandered back, sliding onto the couch beside him now that the seat was free. Your shoulder brushed his.

“Enjoying the party?” you asked lightly, offering him a fresh drink you’d grabbed on the way.

Mattheo took it without thanks, setting his empty one aside. “It’s loud,” he said flatly. His eyes flicked to you, scanning your face like he was searching for cracks. “You and Nott seemed cozy.”

There it was the sharp edge. Not quite jealousy admitted, but close.

You tilted your head, smiling softly. “Theo’s funny. We were just talking about how terrible Lorenzo is at cards.” You paused, then added, “You could’ve joined us. Or told that girl to give you space if she was bothering you.”

He scoffed, leaning back. “Didn’t need to. Not interested.” His voice dropped, sarcastic and low. “Unlike some people, I don’t need constant attention to feel important, Hufflepuff.”

You didn’t flinch. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on giving her any competition.” You reached over and straightened his already loose tie with gentle fingers, a small habitual gesture.

“You looked bored. Thought maybe you’d want actual company instead of… whatever that was.”

Mattheo stared at your hands on his tie, then at your face. The conflict raged behind his eyes, wanting to snap at you, push you away, and simultaneously wanting to pull you closer so no one else could even look at you the wrong way. He settled for his usual defense.

“You’re too much,” he muttered, but he didn’t move away from your touch.

———

Weekend ends, and the new week already started badly for Mattheo.

A letter from his father’s old circle had arrived that morning cryptic, demanding, laced with expectations he wanted nothing to do with but couldn’t fully escape. Combined with a brutal detention from Snape and losing a Quidditch strategy argument to Draco, his mood was blacker than the dungeons.

The kind of day where the shadows around him felt heavier, and everyone with sense stayed out of his way.

Everyone except you.

You had noticed immediately during breakfast. His shoulders were tense, jaw locked, eyes darker than usual.

Still, you slid into your usual seat beside him with a gentle smile, placing a steaming cup of his favorite black coffee (extra strong) in front of him.

“Morning, Mattheo,” you said softly. “Rough night? I brought you….”

“Enough.”

His voice cracked like a whip. Louder and sharper than he’d ever been with you. The entire Slytherin table went quiet.

You blinked, hand still hovering near the cup. “I just thought….”

Mattheo turned to you fully, eyes blazing with barely contained fury and exhaustion. “You thought what? That your pathetic little acts of kindness would fix anything? That I want you here every single fucking day breathing down my neck like some lovesick puppy?”

The words cut deep. His friends froze.

“Mattheo…” Theo started quietly.

“No.” Mattheo didn’t even look at him. His gaze stayed locked on you, cold and unrelenting.

“I’m done with this. Done with you hovering, done with the apples and the notes and the stupid blankets and the defending me like I’m some broken charity case. Leave me and my group alone. Go back to your Hufflepuff flowers and mind your own business for once.”

The silence was suffocating.

You stared at him for a long second, heart twisting painfully in your chest. Your eyes stung, but you refused to cry in front of them. Not here. Instead, you swallowed hard and stood up slowly.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, voice small but steady. “I’ll leave.”

You turned and walked away without another word, head high even as your hands trembled at your sides. The Great Hall felt endless. A few people whispered, but you didn’t look back.

Mattheo didn’t watch you go. He gripped his fork until it bent, then shoved his plate away and stormed out. His friends exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing to him. Not yet.

Three days passed.

You kept your word. No more good mornings in the corridor. No more saving seats. No more sitting at the Slytherin table.

You ate with your housemates, smiled politely when people asked what happened, and threw yourself into Herbology and helping in the kitchens, anything to stay busy.

You missed them. You missed him. But you respected his wishes. If he wanted space, you’d give it to him, even if it hurt.

The Slytherin group felt the absence immediately.

Lunch on day one was too quiet. No one to laugh at Lorenzo’s terrible jokes or argue Quidditch with Draco. No soft voice reminding them about upcoming assignments.

By day two, Pansy was scowling at everything. “This is ridiculous. The table feels empty.”

Theo kept glancing toward the Hufflepuff table where you sat, surrounded by your housemates but somehow looking… dimmer. Less bright.

Day three, Blaise finally said it out loud in the common room: “She’s makes this lot tolerable. Can we bring her back”

Mattheo was there, slouched in his usual chair by the fire, pretending not to listen.

He hadn’t spoken much in three days. His mood hadn’t improved, in fact, it had soured further. The little things you used to handle were piling up. His bag strap had broken again. He’d missed dinner once because no one reminded him. The common room felt colder without your occasional presence.

He told himself it was better this way. Cleaner. No weaknesses.

His friends disagreed.

On the evening of the fourth day, the group made their move.

Pansy and Theo cornered you after Charms class, blocking your path to the Hufflepuff basement with determined expressions.

“You’re coming with us,” Pansy declared, linking her arm through yours.

You blinked in surprise. “Pansy, I can’t. He said…”

“He’s an idiot,” Theo cut in. “A miserable idiot. The common room has been dead without you. Draco’s even more unbearable. Lorenzo keeps losing at cards because no one’s betting against him properly. Come on. Just for a bit.”

You hesitated, biting your lip. “I don’t want to make things worse.”

Blaise appeared behind them, smirking. “Too late for that. Mattheo’s been brooding like the Dark Lord himself since you left. We miss you, love. Properly.”

After a few more minutes of gentle insistence (and Pansy threatening to drag you), you gave in. You let them lead you down to the Slytherin dungeons, heart hammering the entire way.

And there, in his usual spot by the fireplace, sat Mattheo.

He looked up when the portrait hole opened. His eyes landed on you immediately, widening for half a second before the guarded mask slammed back into place. He said nothing.

The others moved casually, like this was normal. Pansy pulled you toward the couch. Theo dropped into the seat across from Mattheo with a pointed look.

“Look who we found,” Theo announced lightly. “Our favorite Hufflepuff.”

You stood awkwardly for a moment, offering a small, uncertain smile to the group. “Hi.”

Draco nodded at you, almost relieved. “About time. The silence was getting pathetic.”

You sat down carefully, not beside Mattheo this time, but on the opposite end of the large couch, giving him the space he’d demanded. Your hands twisted in your lap. You didn’t look directly at him, but you could feel his stare burning into the side of your face.

The conversation started slowly, Pansy complaining about homework, Blaise teasing Lorenzo, but it gradually warmed up. You laughed softly at one of Theo’s jokes, the sound familiar and bright again. For the first time in days, the common room felt alive.

Mattheo remained silent, watching you from the shadows of his seat. His jaw was tight, fingers drumming restlessly on the armrest. The conflict was clear in his eyes, the same storm you’d always seen, only sharper now. He’d told you to leave. You had. And now that you were back (because of them), the relief mixing with his anger and possessiveness was making his chest feel too tight.

He still didn’t speak to you.

Laughter echoed off the stone walls as Lorenzo dramatically retold his latest failed attempt at asking out a Ravenclaw, complete with sound effects.

Pansy was curled up beside you on the couch, showing you fabric swatches for some upcoming event, while Theo kept sliding in clever quips that made everyone groan or laugh.

You smiled and participated. You really did. You complimented Pansy’s choices, teased Lorenzo right back, and even debated Quidditch tactics with Draco when he dragged you into it. It felt good to be back among them.

They had become real friends, and their obvious relief at having you there eased some of the ache in your chest.

But with Mattheo… it was different now.

You stayed on the far end of the couch. You didn’t slide closer like you used to. You didn’t offer him the fresh drink Blaise had passed around. You didn’t reach over to fix the cuff of his sleeve when it rode up.

Every time your eyes accidentally met his, you gave a small, polite nod and looked away again. Careful. Guarded. Not cold, you couldn’t quite manage that but no longer shining that bright, effortless warmth directly at him.

Mattheo noticed.

He sat in his usual chair, legs stretched out, nursing the same glass of firewhisky he’d barely touched. His dark eyes followed your every movement. The way you laughed freely with Theo. The way you leaned into Pansy’s side comfortably. The way you existed in his space without orbiting him like before.

It irritated him more than he wanted to admit.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Pansy murmured to you at one point, low enough that only you could hear. Her eyes flicked toward Mattheo. “Still sore about what the idiot said?”

You shrugged lightly, tracing a pattern on the couch leather with your finger. “I’m here for you guys. Not… not to push anything. He made it pretty clear he doesn’t want the extra stuff from me. I’m respecting that.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “He’s a dramatic prick. He didn’t mean half of it.”

“Maybe.” You offered her a small smile. “But I’m not risking it again. Not right now.”

Mattheo’s grip tightened on his glass. He’d heard enough.

When Theo stood up to grab more drinks and you naturally followed to help him carry them back, Mattheo’s voice cut through the air sharp, sarcastic, aimed straight at you.

“Careful, Hufflepuff. Wouldn’t want you overexerting yourself playing servant again.”

You paused, holding two glasses steadily. The group quieted a little. You met his gaze evenly this time, no flinch, but no smile either.

“I’m just helping a friend, Mattheo,” you said softly. Calm. Not defensive. “No big gestures. No hovering.”

You set the drinks down and returned to your spot without another word. No apple. No blanket. No gentle check in about his clearly still terrible mood.

The silence stretched for a beat too long.

Theo cleared his throat. “Smooth, mate. Really winning her back with that one.”

“Shut up, Nott.” Mattheo’s tone was flat, but his eyes stayed on you. That possessive streak was flaring hot under his skin. You were here, in his common room, surrounded by his friends, yet you were keeping him at arm’s length. It felt wrong.

The next few days followed the same careful pattern.

You sat with the group at meals again, but not directly beside Mattheo. You chose seats between Pansy and Blaise, or across from Theo.

You still defended the group when outsiders made snide comments, your Hufflepuff loyalty ran deep but you no longer singled Mattheo out.

No more personal good mornings whispered just to him. No more saving his favorite desserts. You were warm with everyone else, bright and kind like always.

With him, you were… polite.

“Pass the salt, please?” you’d asked at dinner the next evening, voice neutral when your eyes met his.

He’d slid it over without a word, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Later in the common room, when you’d laughed at one of Draco’s rare jokes and bumped knees with Theo accidentally, Mattheo had snapped at Lorenzo over nothing, magic crackling faintly at his fingertips.

His friends saw it all.

“You’re an absolute bellend,” Blaise told him bluntly one night after you’d left for curfew (earlier than usual, another new habit). “She’s giving you exactly what you asked for and you look like you want to burn the castle down.”

Mattheo leaned back, staring at the dying fire. “She’s acting like I’m a stranger.”

Draco snorted. “You told her to leave you alone. Loudly. In front of the entire hall. What did you expect? Eternal devotion on command?”

“I expected….” Mattheo stopped himself, running a hand through his messy curls.

He didn’t know what he expected. He’d wanted space, wanted the annoying persistence gone. But now the absence of her specific light left everything feeling flat. The little comforts he’d pretended not to notice were glaringly missing. And worse, seeing her still smiling, still caring, but redirecting all of it away from him… it stirred something ugly and jealous and needy he refused to name.

He was emotionally conflicted on the best of days. This was torture.

A few nights later, the group was studying (or pretending to) in the common room. You were helping Pansy with her Transfiguration essay, heads bent together, your neat handwriting filling the page. Mattheo sat nearby, book open but unread.

You felt his stare again. Heavy. Burning.

When Pansy got up to fetch another book, leaving the two of you momentarily semi-alone, you glanced up. His eyes didn’t waver.

You offered a small, cautious smile. “Need help with anything? The essay’s brutal this week.”

Mattheo’s response was instinct sharp-tongued and defensive. “Don’t start that again.”

You closed your ink bottle slowly, expression softening but staying reserved. “I’m not starting anything. Just offering as a friend. Like I do for the others.”

The distinction stung more than he cared to admit.

He wanted to snap again. Push harder. But the words caught in his throat when he saw the careful walls behind your eyes the way you were protecting yourself now, even while sitting in his world.

You waited a beat longer, then turned back to your own work when he stayed silent.

Mattheo Riddle watched you, the same storm raging behind his guarded expression. He was possessive. Territorial. And right now, the girl who had always chosen him was choosing distance, even while staying close to everyone else.

It was driving him mad.

The common room was quieter tonight, the fire crackling softly as most students had retreated to dorms or the library for last minute revisions. Only the core group remained scattered across the couches and armchairs, Pansy flipping through a magazine, Theo and Blaise arguing over chess moves, Draco reading with a bored expression, and Lorenzo half asleep.

You had been sitting with Pansy again, but something had shifted in you. You’d watched Mattheo. Really watched him. The way his eyes tracked you when he thought no one noticed.

The tighter set of his jaw whenever you laughed with the others. The restless tapping of his fingers. He was regretting it. You could see it, the conflict, the stubborn pride warring with whatever softer thing lived under all that armor. He wanted you close again. He just didn’t know how to say it.

Time to test the theory.

You stood up casually, stretching, and moved across the room. Instead of your careful distance, you dropped down on the couch right beside Mattheo, close enough that your thigh pressed lightly against his. The same spot you used to claim every night before the blow up.

Mattheo tensed instantly, dark eyes snapping to you.

You didn’t look at him right away. You simply leaned forward, grabbing a spare quill from the low table and twirling it between your fingers like nothing had changed. “Theo, pass me that book on curses? I want to check something for Pansy’s essay.”

Theo raised an eyebrow but tossed it over with a knowing smirk.

As you settled back, your shoulder brushed Mattheo’s. You felt the sharp inhale he tried to hide.

He lasted maybe thirty seconds.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The words came out harsher than he probably intended, laced with that unwilling venom. “Decided to test how much shit I’ll take before I snap again, Hufflepuff?”

You turned your head slowly, meeting his gaze. There was no flinch in your eyes, only quiet understanding.

You saw it: the regret flickering behind the ice, the way his hand twitched like he wanted to reach out but refused to let himself.

“I’m just sitting here,” you said softly, voice even and sweet. “Like I used to. You haven’t told me to move.”

Mattheo’s jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jump. He tried again, the meanness spilling out despite himself, like a defense mechanism he couldn’t turn off.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have to. Thought I made it clear you’re exhausting. Always there, always fixing things no one asked you to fix. Find someone else to play hero for.”

The words stung, but you saw straight through them. His eyes betrayed him, lingering on the way your hair fell over your shoulder, on your hand resting near his leg. He wasn’t pushing you away physically. He wasn’t standing up.

He was just… lashing out, the same way a wounded animal snaps at the hand trying to help.

You smiled. Small. Knowing. “You don’t mean that.”

He scoffed, looking away into the fire. “Don’t tell me what I mean.”

But he still didn’t move.

Emboldened, you shifted even closer, tucking your legs under you so your knee rested against his thigh. You reached over and gently tugged the loose thread on his sleeve that had been bothering you for days, something you would’ve fixed without thinking weeks ago. He froze under your touch but didn’t pull back.

“Mattheo,” you murmured, low enough that the others pretended not to hear, “you can keep saying mean things if it makes you feel better. I’m not leaving this time unless you really want me to. And I don’t think you do.”

His breathing hitched. For a moment, the guarded mask cracked completely. Something raw and conflicted flashed across his face, possessiveness, relief, anger at himself, that hidden softness he buried so deep.

His hand lifted halfway, like he might touch your arm, then dropped back down.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. Then louder, sharper, still failing at kindness “You’re going to regret sticking around when I inevitably ruin whatever this is.”

You leaned your head lightly against his shoulder for just a second, testing, pushing, offering. “Maybe. But I’m still here.”

He didn’t shrug you off. Didn’t stand up. Didn’t tell the group to kick you out.

Instead, after a long, heavy silence, his body relaxed, just a fraction, against yours. His arm stayed draped along the back of the couch, fingers inches from your shoulder. Territorial. Close. Accepting.

Pansy caught your eye across the room and hid a triumphant grin behind her magazine. Theo didn’t even bother hiding his smirk as he moved a chess piece.

Mattheo still hadn’t spoken to you nicely. Not really.

But he wasn’t pushing you away anymore.

Your theory had been right. He regretted it. He wanted you back in his orbit closer than before, even if his sharp tongue hadn’t caught up to that truth yet.

You’d rest your head against his shoulder for a moment here, brush his hand while passing a drink there. He tolerated it all with his usual gruff silence and occasional sharp remark, but the tension rolling off him was palpable.

His friends had had enough.

Pansy caught Theo’s eye across the room and gave the tiniest nod. The plan they made that morning was in motion.

“Truth or Dare,” Pansy announced suddenly, clapping her hands. “I’m bored out of my mind and someone needs to entertain me.”

Lorenzo perked up immediately. Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t protest. Blaise smirked like he already knew where this was going.

Mattheo narrowed his eyes but said nothing, he rarely backed down from a challenge, even a stupid one.

You smiled softly. “I’m in.”

The game started innocently enough. Lorenzo admitted to stealing Pansy’s favourite lipstick.

Draco chose dare and had to charm his eyebrows pink for the next ten minutes.

Theo got asked about his latest failed hookup and laughed it off.

Then Pansy turned her sharp gaze on you.

“Truth or Dare, darling?”

You felt the shift in the air. Mattheo’s posture stiffened beside you.

“Dare,” you said, because backing down in front of this group had never been your style.

Pansy’s smile turned wicked. “I dare you to kiss Theo. Proper kiss. Ten seconds.”

The room went still.

Theo raised an eyebrow, clearly in on it, but kept his expression playful. “Only if she wants to. I’m not above being used for a good cause.”

You glanced sideways at Mattheo. His hand had curled into a fist on the armrest, knuckles white. His jaw was locked so tightly it looked painful. Dark eyes burned holes into Theo, then flicked to you, possessive, stormy, conflicted.

Your theory had been right. He was cracking.

You leaned forward slowly, giving Mattheo every chance to say something. He didn’t. He just watched, breathing shallow.

You turned to Theo, cupped his cheek lightly, and pressed your lips to his. It was soft, brief, exactly ten seconds. Theo kissed back gently, more performative than anything, and pulled away with a dramatic sigh.

“Not bad, Puff,” he teased, winking.

You sat back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, heart racing for an entirely different reason. You didn’t look at Mattheo immediately.

The crack appeared.

Mattheo let out a low, dangerous sound, almost a growl. Magic crackled faintly around him, making the fire flare for a second.

“Enough,” he said sharply, voice dripping with venom. “This game is fucking stupid.”

Pansy feigned innocence. “Jealous, Riddle?”

“I’m not jealous of Nott getting pity kisses,” he snapped, the words unwilling and too quick.

His eyes finally met yours raw, territorial, and something deeper. “She can kiss whoever the hell she wants.”

But he looked like he wanted to hex Theo into next week.

You saw the tiny fracture in his restraint. The way his hand twitched like he wanted to pull you into his lap and erase what just happened. The hidden softness bleeding through the anger. He cared. Deeply. He just wouldn’t admit it yet.

The game continued awkwardly for a few more rounds before dying out.

As people started heading to bed or pretending to study, the group quietly regrouped near the fireplace once you’d stepped away to grab water.

“Close,” Theo muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Did you see his face? He nearly lost it.”

“Not enough,” Draco said. “He’s still too stubborn. One little kiss isn’t cracking that reinforced concrete he calls emotional walls.”

Pansy crossed her arms. “New plan then. We need to push harder. Something that forces him to choose publicly. Maybe Hogsmeade this weekend. We get her to ‘casually’ flirt with someone else. Or we set up a situation where she has to be alone with one of us and see how long it takes before he drags her back.”

Blaise chuckled darkly. “Or we make him think she’s actually moving on. He’s possessive as hell. If he believes he might lose her for real…”

Theo glanced over at Mattheo, who was now staring into the fire like it had personally betrayed him. “He’s already regretting everything. We just need one more push and that restraint of his is dead.”

They all looked toward you as you walked back, none the wiser to their scheming.

Mattheo’s eyes followed you the entire way, dark and intense. The crack was there. Now they just had to widen it until he had no choice but to admit what everyone else already knew.

———

The Hogsmeade weekend arrived under a crisp, clear sky the first proper snow dusting the rooftops like powdered sugar.

Students poured out of the castle gates in excited clusters, scarves wrapped high and pockets jingling with allowance money.

The Slytherin group had claimed their usual spot near the Shrieking Shack path for pre butterbeer strategy, but today their energy was sharper, purposeful.

The new plan was simple and ruthless : push Mattheo until his restraint shattered completely.

Pansy had looped her arm through yours as you all walked down the snowy path. “Stick close to me at first,” she whispered, lips barely moving. “Then ‘accidentally’ wander off with Theo or Blaise when we reach the village. We’ll make it look natural.”

You glanced at her, then at Mattheo walking a few steps ahead, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable. “You’re really doing this?”

Theo fell into step beside you, grinning. “He needs it. The kiss barely made him twitch. Time to light a proper fire under his arse.”

You exhaled, a mix of nerves and reluctant amusement fluttering in your chest.

Part of you still felt the sting from his harsh words days ago, but another part, the one that saw every hidden crack in his armor, wanted him to finally admit what was so obvious to everyone else.

“Just… don’t go too far. I don’t actually want to hurt him.”

“Too late for that,” Blaise murmured from behind. “He’s been hurting himself plenty.”

Mattheo slowed slightly, eyes flicking back toward you. You offered him a small, neutral smile the same careful one you’d been giving him since returning to the group. He didn’t return it, but his gaze lingered.

The village was bustling. Honeydukes was packed, Zonko’s even louder. The group moved as one at first, weaving through the crowd.

You stayed near Mattheo out of habit, your shoulder occasionally brushing his in the narrow street. He didn’t pull away.

Inside the Three Broomsticks, you all claimed a large corner booth. Firewhisky for the boys, butterbeers for everyone. Conversation flowed easily until Pansy executed the first move.

“I need to check out that new robe shop,” she announced, standing up. “Come with me, Draco? I want a second opinion.”

Draco sighed but followed, shooting the rest of you a knowing look. Lorenzo tagged along “for snacks.” That left you, Mattheo, Theo, and Blaise.

You took a slow sip of butterbeer, then turned to Theo with a bright, deliberate smile. “Theo, didn’t you say there’s a new shipment of cursed artifacts at Dervish and Banges? I’ve been wanting to see that silver dagger you mentioned last week.”

Theo’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Absolutely. Let’s go before the good stuff disappears.” He stood and offered you his hand.

You took it without hesitation, letting him help you out of the booth. Your fingers lingered in his just a second longer than necessary. “Mattheo, Blaise, we’ll be back soon,” you said casually, like it was nothing.

Mattheo’s entire body went rigid. His glass hit the table harder than needed. “Since when do you give a fuck about cursed artifacts?”

You shrugged, still holding Theo’s hand. “Since Theo told me they’re fascinating. You know I like shiny, dangerous things.” Your tone was light, playful the same sweetness you used to direct only at him.

Theo tugged you gently toward the door. “We won’t be long, mate.”

Blaise stayed behind, nursing his drink and watching Mattheo like a hawk.

The snow crunched under your boots as you and Theo walked down the high street.

You didn’t go straight to Dervish and Banges. Instead, Theo led you on a slow, meandering route stopping at a stall selling enchanted jewelry, laughing loudly at your jokes, standing a little too close when showing you a necklace with a tiny snake charm.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you muttered, cheeks pink from the cold and the performance.

Theo grinned down at you. “It’s for the greater good. Look behind us, don’t turn too obviously.”

You risked a glance. Mattheo was stalking after you both, coat flapping open, expression thunderous. Blaise was a few paces behind him, failing to hide his amusement.

Your heart skipped. The plan was working.

Theo leaned in closer, pretending to examine the necklace around your neck, his fingers brushing your collarbone. “Smile at me like you mean it,” he whispered.

You did, soft, warm, the kind of smile that used to be reserved for Mattheo’s rare good moments. Theo laughed like you’d said something brilliant.

That was when Mattheo snapped.

“Having fun?” His voice cut through the snowy street like a blade. He stopped right beside you, eyes locked on where Theo’s hand still rested near your shoulder. The possessiveness rolled off him in waves, dark and electric. “Didn’t realize you two were suddenly so fucking cozy.”

Theo raised an innocent eyebrow. “Just showing her the artifacts, like she asked. Problem?”

Mattheo’s jaw worked. He looked at you, really looked.

There was that storm again : jealousy burning hot, restraint fraying at the edges, the unwilling mean streak fighting against something deeper.

“You’re really doing this?” he said to you, voice low and sharp. “Parading around with Nott after everything? Thought you were supposed to be the one who saw ‘good’ in people. Not throwing yourself at the first idiot who smiles at you.”

The words stung, but you saw right through them again. His hands were clenched. He was one breath away from dragging you away from Theo. The crack from the truth or dare game had widened significantly.

You stepped just a little closer to Theo, testing. “I’m not throwing myself at anyone, Mattheo. I’m just… spending time with friends. Like you told me to do. Remember? Stop hovering. Stop fixing things for you.”

Mattheo’s eyes darkened dangerously. For a second you thought he might actually hex Theo. Instead, he grabbed your wrist not painfully, but firm enough to feel possessive.

“We’re going back to the group,” he growled. “Now.”

Theo smirked. “Whatever you say, Riddle.”

You let Mattheo pull you along, his grip staying locked around your wrist the entire walk back to the Three Broomsticks.

He didn’t let go even when you reached the booth. He sat down and tugged you into the seat directly beside him closer than you’d been in weeks. His thigh pressed against yours. His arm draped along the back of the booth, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder like a silent claim.

He was still being an arse, muttering sarcastic comments under his breath and shooting Theo lethal glares, but he wasn’t pushing you away.

The plan had started. And it was already cracking him open.

Pansy and the others returned shortly after, taking in the scene with barely concealed triumph. Mattheo didn’t speak to you nicely. Not yet.

But the territorial hold on your wrist, the way his body angled toward yours like a shield, and the raw, conflicted heat in his eyes said more than his sharp tongue ever could.

The restraint was dying.

The rest of the Hogsmeade afternoon passed in a charged haze.

Mattheo didn’t release your wrist for a long time. Even after you all returned to the Three Broomsticks, his arm stayed slung possessively behind you on the booth, fingers occasionally brushing the back of your neck like a silent warning to everyone else.

He was still sharp tongued, snapping at Lorenzo for talking too loud, throwing barbed comments at Theo, but he kept you glued to his side.

The group wasn’t done yet.

As the sun began to dip and snow started falling heavier, they all gathered outside, Pansy with a calculated sigh “It’s getting late. We should head back, but some of us still need to pick up things from Honeydukes. Theo, you mentioned wanting more of that fizzing whizzbees?”

Theo caught on instantly. “Yeah, and I could use help carrying stuff.” He looked straight at you. “Come with me? You’ve got better taste in sweets than these lot.”

You felt Mattheo’s body coil like a spring beside you.

Before you could answer, you turned to him with that same soft, testing smile you’d been using. “Do you mind? I’ll be quick.”

His dark eyes flashed. The crack was widening dangerously. “Yes, I fucking mind,” he bit out, the words escaping before he could stop them. “You’re not going anywhere with him.”

They went quiet. Even Draco raised an eyebrow.

You tilted your head, pushing just a little more. “Why not? You’ve made it very clear I’m exhausting. That I should stop hovering around you. I’m just hanging out with friends, Mattheo. Like you wanted.”

That struck hard. Mattheo’s hand slid from the to your waist, gripping firmly. Territorial. Needy in a way he’d never allowed himself to show.

“You know that’s not ” He stopped, jaw clenching. The internal war was visible, the mean, guarded part of him fighting the part that had grown addicted to your presence, your care, your unwavering light.

Theo slowly, offering his hand again with an exaggerated grin. “Ready when you are, love.”

Pushing further Theo says “It’s just sweets, mate. Unless you’ve got a problem with that?”

Mattheo’s eyes darkened. He pulled you flush against him in one sharp movement, right there on the snowy street in front of everyone. No grand speech. No soft vulnerability. Just raw, irritated truth wrapped in his usual barbed tone.

“Yeah. I’ve got a fucking problem with it.” He glared at Theo, then looked down at you, jaw tight. “You win, alright? Happy now?”

You tilted your head, staying close but testing him one last time. “Win what?”

Mattheo let out a sharp, sarcastic breath, his breath visible in the cold air.

“This. You. The constant hovering and fixing and defending my sorry arse like I’m worth the effort.” His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it became more territorial.

“I told you to fuck off because it was easier. Because you make shit… simpler. And I hate how much I’ve gotten used to it.”

He glanced at the group, who were all watching with barely hidden smirks, then back at you. His next words came out gruff, almost annoyed at himself for saying them.

“I don’t want you orbiting anyone else. Not Theo. Not some Gryffindor prick. No one. You’re annoying as hell and far too soft for someone like me, but I want you next to me. Where you’ve been. Stop with the careful polite bullshit you’ve been doing since I snapped at you. Just… be there again. Like before.”

It wasn’t flowery. It wasn’t sweet. It was Mattheo, reluctant, possessive, laced with sarcasm and that dark charisma.

He leaned in closer, voice dropping so only you could hear the rest. “And if Nott tries to hold your hand again, I’ll break his fingers. Clear enough for you, Hufflepuff?”

You smiled softly, reaching up to fix the collar of his coat like you used to. He didn’t stop you.

“Crystal clear,” you murmured.

Mattheo huffed, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he slung his arm firmly over your shoulders and started walking back toward the castle, keeping you tucked tightly against his side. The others fell in behind you, Pansy looking victorious and Theo chuckling quietly.

“Fucking finally,” Blaise muttered.

Mattheo shot them all a sharp look. “Say another word and I’ll hex every single one of you.”

But his hand stayed on your shoulder the entire walk back. No more pushing you away. No more pretending he didn’t care. He still wasn’t nice, not really, but the walls had come down in the only way Mattheo Riddle knew how.

And you were right where he wanted you.

———

The castle was quiet by the time you slipped through the Slytherin dungeons, heart hammering against your ribs.

It had been a long evening after Hogsmeade. Mattheo had kept you close the entire way back, but he hadn’t said much more after his gruff admission. The weight of everything still felt new and fragile.

You were nervous. Actually nervous, for the first time in months around him. Your fingers tightened around the rolled up essay you’d finished copying for him (Arithmancy, due tomorrow).

It was a small thing, an old habit, but it gave you an excuse to see him before bed.

You knocked softly on the door to his dorm. Theo and the others were still downstairs, giving the two of you space.

Mattheo opened it in a loose black shirt and trousers, hair messy like he’d already been running his hands through it. His dark eyes softened a fraction when they landed on you.

“Essay,” you mumbled, holding it out. “I know you hate this topic, so I made notes on the side.”

He took it without a word, stepping back to let you in.

The room smelled faintly of him, smoke, cedar, and that sharp edge of magic that always clung to him.

You lingered for half a second too long, then leaned in quickly, pressing a soft, shy kiss to his cheek before immediately turning to leave.

“Sorry, goodnight,” you whispered, cheeks burning as you tried to rush back out.

A flick of his wrist and the door slammed shut, locking with a sharp click.

You froze, back to him. “Mattheo, I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to push, I just”

He was on you in two strides.

His hands came up on either side of your head, caging you against the door with his body. The wood was cool behind your back; he was burning hot in front.

That stern, smug look was fixed on his face, dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction, one corner of his mouth curved in that dangerous half smirk.

“Do it again,” he ordered, voice low and rough.

You blinked up at him, still flustered. “I… what?”

“Kiss me again,” he repeated, leaning closer until his breath brushed your lips. “Properly this time. Don’t run.”

Your heart stuttered. The nervousness melted under the intensity of his gaze. You rose onto your toes and kissed his cheek once more, slower this time.

Then, gathering your courage, you turned your head and brushed your lips softly against his.

Mattheo made a low sound in his throat, half satisfaction, half relief. One hand left the door to slide into your hair, tilting your head as he deepened the kiss, claiming your mouth like he’d been waiting weeks to do it. Possessive. Hungry. But there was something almost gentle underneath the fire.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. The smug look had softened into something warmer, more private.

“You’re still an idiot for thinking I’d let you run after that,” he muttered, sharp tongued as ever, but his thumb stroked your cheek. “Told you earlier, you’re mine. That means you don’t get to kiss me and bolt, Hufflepuff.”

You laughed breathlessly, the last of the nerves dissolving. “I was scared you’d regret it tomorrow morning.”

Mattheo huffed, pulling you away from the door and toward his bed. He sat down and tugged you into his lap, arms wrapping around you like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

“I regret a lot of things,” he admitted gruffly. “But not this. Not you.” He pressed another kiss to your temple, almost absentmindedly. “You make my life easier. Better. Even when I’m a moody bastard. So stay.”

You nestled into his chest, tracing lazy patterns on his shirt. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.” His voice dropped, that dark charisma curling around the words. “Because I’m territorial as hell, and I’ve decided you’re stuck with me now.”

From outside the door, you both heard Theo’s muffled voice “Finally! Can we come in yet or are you two still snogging?”

Mattheo didn’t even look up. “Fuck off, Nott!” he called back, but there was no real heat in it.

You giggled against his neck. He squeezed you tighter, a rare, quiet chuckle rumbling through his chest.

For the first time in a long time, Mattheo Riddle looked… content.

Still guarded, still sarcastic, still carrying shadows, but with you curled in his arms, the weight seemed lighter.

You had seen the good in him from the start. Now he was finally letting himself believe it too.

And as the two of you stayed wrapped up together long into the night, talking in low voices between kisses, everything felt exactly right.

[crowdedimagines]

Relative Attraction

Aaron Hotchner x reader

summary: Sean Hotchner was your high school ‘sweetheart’, however his older brother Aaron always insisted you were too smart for him. Years later you find yourself landing at the BAU, it doesn’t take long for you to realize maybe you had the wrong Hotchner all along…

word Count: 10.3K warnings: BAU cases and the violence and creepiness that comes with them. squint when looking at Aaron’s career timeline in this lol

-

The BAU was not known for being welcoming. It wasn’t always intentional, but it came with the skillset required for the job. They spent their days studying monsters, chasing killers, and delivering bad news. Which is why when everyone was called to the conference room first thing this morning, they were preparing for the worst. 

Aaron waits until everyone sits down, he remains standing at the end of the table with a file in hand. 

“We have a new agent joining the team.” 

“Really?” Morgan asks, leaning back in his chair. 

“A transfer.” Hotch confirms. 

Prentiss looks up from her coffee, “A good transfer or a political transfer?”

“Good transfer.” 

Hotch’s immediate and positive answer got everyone’s attention. He was the last person to willingly alter the team dynamic by throwing someone new in the mix. Hotch wasn’t one for compliments either. If he said someone was good, they were good. 

“Who is it?” Reid asks. 

Hotch opens a file and sets it down on the table. The room skimmed the highlights. Top of your class at Quantico, fluent in three languages, multiple commendations and a highly decorated agent. You’ve spent recent years a part of the counterterrorism task force and hostage negotiation before that.

Morgan whistles, “Okay.”

“She’s twenty-eight?” JJ asks. 

“That’s annoying.” Emily sighs. 

Rossi smirks, “She’s making the rest of you look lazy.” 

The conference room opens and before anyone can continue, or hide the evidence of your career on the table, you walk in. Everyone glances up and Aaron forgets to breathe for a second. He simply stares. The woman in front of him looked different than the teenager he still had in his mind. 

You looked more confident and polished. It looks dangerous. But your smile is exactly the same. It is still warm, bright, and familiar. 

“Aaron!” 

The entire room stills, hardly anyone called him Aaron. Morgan looks between the two of you and his jaw actually drops when Hotch smiles. An honest to God smile that the team hadn’t seen from him in months. Maybe years. 

“Y/n.” 

You break into a grin of your own. 

“Aaron Hotchner!” 

Hotch stands tall still, somehow the smile got bigger. 

“I think the last time I saw you was your high school graduation.” Aaron admits quietly.

You roll your eyes and nod, you step forward and he gives you a careful hug. You turn back to face the team and two of them look like they could fall out of their chair.

“Wait,” Morgan holds up his hands, “you didn’t know he was gonna be here?”

“You know, they said it was his team but I didn’t really believe them.” You tease, 

Aaron rolls his eyes, but he’s still looking at you fondly. 

“Hold on,” Rossi points at Hotch, “you know how to smile?” 

He shoots him a look, immediately dropping the grin which causes you to laugh. 

“Oh, so that hasn’t changed?” You bite. 

He does a poor job of trying to keep his smile to a minimum. 

“Does he still do that thing where he stares at you until you feel guilty?” You ask. 

“Every day.” Prentiss answers quickly. 

Hotch sighs and the room erupts into laughter. 

“You haven’t changed much.” Aaron comments, a lie.

“That’s rude.” 

“You still talk too much.” 

“Definitely rude, I’m so contacting HR.” 

“Shut up.” 

The teasing came naturally, it was effortless. The team watches it with way too much joy for nine in the morning. They had never seen Hotch interact with anyone like this. Ever. 

Even Rossi looked surprised. 

“So,” Rossi breaks in, “one of you explain.” 

“I dated Sean in high school.” 

“Sean Hotchner?” JJ clarifies and you nod. 

“Little Hotch?” Garcia shrieks. 

“All throughout high school.” Aaron shakes his head, a teasing smile still creasing his face. 

“Aaron thought I was too smart for Sean.” You roll your eyes.

“Well, you did end up here.” 

“Aaron!’ You scold, the big brother side coming out on rare display, “He was the scary one-”

“I wasn’t scary-” He defends. 

“Oh, the stories I could tell-”

“Y/n.” He warns and your smile grows even wider. 

It had been years, but you practically lived at the Hotchner house. You and Sean dated for years on and off in high school, it was never great but he was your first real boyfriend. Aaron was ten years older than the two of you so he wasn’t always around. You remember him studying for law school and then eventually bringing home case files but somehow he still had the time to help you with your college applications. 

Back then he always seemed so impossibly grown up. Catching killers during the day, but still finding a way to come back home for a weekend every month to see his brother. But now you’re standing in the same room and you’re older than he was then. It feels familiar in a way you can’t place. 

“You did well, Y/n.” 

His words are simple but they mean a lot. You knew Aaron did not give out praise easily and you feel your smile soften. 

“So did you.” 

“So, are you going to introduce the rest of us?” Morgan asks, gesturing to the entire team at the table. 

Everyone laughed and with burning red ears Aaron introduced the rest of the team. Everyone explained their current case load and the ones they are monitoring, everyone is on standby for a case if a call comes in. 

Judging by the way the team kept staring at Aaron’s rare smile, you learned something very important. No one on the team knew the version of Aaron Hotchner you knew long ago. The one that laughed and teased. Somehow that made joining the BAU feel a little less intimidating. 

-

Eventually everyone broke out into the bullpen, settling in at their desks and you follow Aaron to his office to finish up the last of the transfer paperwork. 

You glance around his office while he gets everything in order. It’s exactly what you could’ve expected. Minimalist. Organized. Awards and accommodations lining his shelves as well as pictures of Jack. There’s still one picture of Jack and Haley, she’s wrapping him up in a tight hug. You step closer, your finger dancing over the edge of the frame. Aaron clears his throat behind you and you turn to face him. 

You glance back at the picture frame briefly before focusing back on him, “I’m so sorry to hear about Haley.” 

His expression remains calm, years have passed. Jack was older now and life had moved forward but it was clear that the pain would never disappear completely. 

“I appreciate that.” 

You open your mouth to speak and his expression shifts. 

“How’s your father?” He changes the subject, handing you paperwork and turning back toward his desk. You groan and sit down in one of the chairs facing him. 

“There he is.” 

“What?” 

“The classic Hotchner deflection.” 

His mouth twitches. Barely, but you catch it clearly. Changing the subject to avoid being vulnerable was something both him and Sean were masters at. 

“My dad is good.” You eventually offer, “Retired, but still finding a way to complain about everything.” 

“That’s reassuring.” He smiles. 

“He’s proud.” 

“He should be.” 

You smile, “Look at you giving out the compliments today.”

He rolls his eyes, focusing back on the paperwork in front of him. 

“It was one compliment.” 

“Two.”

“It was one-”

“Defintley two-”

“Red alert!” Garcia walks right into the office, teetering on her heels. She freezes looking between you and Hotch. 

“Oh, were you guys having a moment?” She grins, her eyes shooting higher than the frames of her lime green glasses. 

“No.” Aaron answers immediately. 

“Absolutely.” You answer at the same time, saying anything to get Aaron riled up. 

“Don’t get Garcia started, she’ll never drop it.” Aaron warning, pointing an accusatory finger at you. 

You hold up your hands in mock defence, “Noted.” 

Aaron can tell you don’t mean it one bit. 

She squints her eyes looking between the two of you, “I knew it.” 

“Garcia.” Hotch warns. 

“Right. Horrible murder.” 

The mood in the office shifted instantly. Aaron stands from his desk and reaches out to take the file from her hands. 

“Montana.” 

Aaron starts looking through the case file and images, everyone else in the bullpen looking in their direction catching the news. 

“Three victims in twelve days. Rural county, the closest neighboring town is forty miles away.” 

Aaron continues to scan the report, “Victimology?”

“Different ages and occupations without any obvious connection. They actually called us in because every four days someone goes missing, and that same day the previous missing person is found.” 

Aaron closes the file, “Wheels up in thirty. Tell the rest of the team.” 

Garcia nods rapidly and leaves the room as hurriedly as she had burst in. 

“You’ve got a go bag?” He glances at you. 

You give him an offended look, “Do you really need to ask?” 

Thirty minutes later the team settles onto the jet. Garcia is coming with too, looking deeply unhappy to be there. 

“I don’t belong in nature.” She huffs, crossing her arms and looking out the plane window. 

“You’ll survive.” Morgan nudges her shoulder. 

“Will I?”

The case photos appear on the screen, everyone has the file in front of them with the details. 

“Let’s start.” Aaron announces. It’s weird having him as your superior and seeing him manage a team, but you know it’s what he was best at. He was bossing around Sean as soon as he could walk, you witnessed it first hand for years. 

“Remote location suggests he’s comfortable with the area.” Rossi offers. 

“Local hunter?” Morgan raises his brows. 

“Maybe.” 

“Most serial offenders operate within a comfort zone. Rural offenders generally hunt closer to home.” Reid vocalizes. 

You study the map and something bothers your gut. Screaming at you to correct it. 

“What if we’re looking at this backwards?”

Several heads turn toward you, Aaron watches silently. 

“The bodies were recovered here,” You point out each spot on the map.

“So?” Morgan questions. 

“What if that’s not where he hunts?”

Reid frowns, “The distance would be inefficient.” 

“Unless efficiency isn’t the point,” The jet cabin goes quiet while you continue, “Everybody assumes remote offenders want privacy-”

“Which is statistically true.” Reid interrupts. 

“Usually.” 

You put a little more emphasis on the word when you say it and it makes him pause. 

“What if he’s moving them intentionally?”

“Why?”

“Control.” Rossi answers, immediately catching onto what you’re theorizing. 

“Exactly.” You smile, “These sites aren’t random.”

Aaron notices it, his eyes narrow. 

“Water.” 

Every body had been found near a water source. Streams, creeks, even a small river. 

Reid leans forward, “Interesting.” 

“Thank you.” You smirk. 

“I’m not agreeing with you.” Reid argues. 

“You will.” 

Aaron hides a smile and Reid continues on unphased now. Aaron can remember you trying to debate him while you were in mock trial and he was a practicing prosecutor. You somehow held your own back then and it would appear that hasn’t changed now.

“If water is important to our unsub it could represent cleansing.”

“Or disposal.” Emily adds. 

“Or symbolism.” JJ jumps in. 

“Or all three.” You shrug. The debate continued back and forth between everyone for the rest of the flight. You held your ground every step of the way, but easily meshed with the group's ideas. It was exactly the way a group of experienced profilers should operate. 

“She’s fitting in fast.” Rossi leans in toward Aaron to say it quietly. It goes unnoticed by everyone else, still exchanging ideas. 

“Mhm.” Aaron doesn’t look up at the older man. 

Aaron wasn’t surprised with your intelligence. You said it yourself, he knew you were too smart for Sean and he made that known back when the two of you were dating. He was still a little surprised with how well you were slipping into a rhythm with everyone. The challenge and the willingness to defend a theory without taking disagreement personally. 

Outside the jet windows the vast Montana wilderness stretches below. Somewhere out there was someone dangerous, the case would be difficult but you felt certain of one thing. You were exactly where you were supposed to be. 

-

Five days. 

Five days in rural Montana and the team was no closer to catching the unsub than when you had first arrived. Everyone was exhausted, small town cases were surprisingly difficult. The sheriff’s office had become a second home to everyone, coffee cups littered every open spot on the table. 

Morgan doesn’t hesitate in giving you a hard time, making you feel more welcomed than it should by annoying you. Prentiss demands embarrassing stories about Hotch and has invited you out for drinks whenever the team gets back. JJ seems genuinely relieved to have another woman in the field. Garcia adores you and wants details about everything early twenties Hotch. Reid was somehow fascinated by the fact that this was your third FBI specialty before thirty and enjoyed debating with you. Rossi found you entertaining, loving the new side of Aaron that you seem to bring out. 

Dozens of interviews and countless hours in the field had turned up nothing. The unsub was still out there, and as of two days ago the fourth victim was found and he had someone new. Eighteen year old Madison Cooper was taken from a gas station, her car still waiting at the pump. Victim photos stare back at you from the board ahead, your brain replaying the past few days over and over. 

The newest body was discovered mutilated by a shallow creek twenty miles from where she had disappeared. She was clean, no traces of DNA or anything else left behind. The pattern continued and no one could kick your water theory from the table. 

“I’ve searched every registered hunter, fisherman, trapper, and landowner in a fifty mile radius.” Garcia reminds, still typing away rapidly at her keyboard. 

Morgan sighs and runs a hand over his face. 

“And?”

“Nothing.”

You continue to pace in front of the boards, unable to sit still any longer. 

“Every fishing license and criminal record known in Montana state.” Garcia continues, “I’ve reached the stage where more people look suspicious than not.” 

You turn away from the boards to face the team again. 

Reid squints, “You’re smiling.” 

“You’re about to disagree with me.” 

“I am?”

“Don’t worry, it’ll be fun.” You grin. 

He shakes his head. 

Emily leans in closer to JJ, “She fits in way too well.”

“Yeah, she’s already annoying.” Morgan jokes, turning in his chair back and forth. His eyes jump over to you with mischief. 

“Annoyed that I’m already right more often than you?” You smirk, “Get used to it.” 

Hotch chuckles at the far end of the table and everyone notices. You look back to study the map again, thinking about all of the disappearances and the amount of time he’s with them. 

You grab a marker, “The water.”

Morgan sighs, “You’ve been talking about the water for five days.” 

You circle all of the locations where bodies have been recovered. 

“Look.”

Everyone turns their attention onto you and the board. 

“We’ve been assuming these were disposal sites-”

“They are.” Reid interrupts. 

“Not just that.” You argue and the certainty in your voice makes the room go quiet, “I think these are the closest locations he can get to.”

Aaron frowns, “Explain.”

“What if he isn’t bringing them there because of convenience? It’s a necessity to him.”

Rossi picks up on what you’re saying before anyone else, “He needs the water?” 

“Exactly, the bodies were cleaned and for whatever reason he doesn’t have access to do that privately.” You nod.

The room froze. 

JJ blinks and crosses her arms, “Cleaned?”

“The forensic reports mention minimal trace evidence every time but we don’t have any idea what he used.” 

Reid’s eyes widen, “He washed them in the water.” 

The pieces start to click together for everyone. 

“The water isn’t of the fantasy,” Emily discusses, “It’s part of the disposal.” 

“Garcia, instead of looking for properties can you look for RV titles?” You ask. 

“Oh yes I can!” She begins tying more rapidly, talking to herself as she filters out her search, “Oh my god. Joseph Dixon has an RV for his primary address and has lived in the area for the past thirty years. His wife drowned at the beginning of the year,” Garcia frowns, “He lost the house a few months after and has been in the RV ever since.”

Ten minutes later FBI SUVs tear down a dirt road with lights flashing. Garcia had found all of the RV campsites in town and eliminated the previously occupied locations, narrowing it down to one stream. 

It was a remote site, surrounded by tall trees that creak and sway with the evening wind. You get out of the car and Aaron circles everyone together before approaching.

“Remember, Madison is likely still alive if he is still following his timeline.” Aaron looks between everyone with sharp focused eyes. 

Everyone acknowledges him and moves to surround the RV with weapons drawn. Morgan breaches the front door and half the team floods inside behind him. The smell hits your nose immediately, strong with bleach and moisture. 

Joseph is standing toward the back of the RV with Madison barely standing in his arms. He holds her up as a shield with a knife held to her throat. 

“FBI!” Aaron shouts, “Drop the knife.” 

The man looks wild and desperate which is never what you want to talk down. 

“You don’t understand.” Joseph shouts back, tears starting to stream down his cheeks. 

You could see the grief and obsession all over his face. The loss of his wife and then his house has created this delusion. 

“They have to be clean.” He whispers, the room going still, “They have to be clean.” 

You keep your voice calm, “Let her go.” 

He shakes his head, “She isn’t ready.” 

You step forward carefully, making sure not to block anyone’s line of fire. 

“You couldn’t save her.” Your voice is soft, and more tears flood his vision, “And you think you’re saving them now, but you’re not.” 

His expression breaks, just enough to lessen his hold. He closes his eyes briefly to wipe at the tears and Morgan moves instantly. The takedown happened in seconds and you have Madison before she can reach the ground. She was safe, and now the unsub was in custody. 

A nightmare was finally over. 

You help Madison over to the back of an ambulance and return to the team once EMTs start checking her out. Morgan puts Joseph in the back of the sheriff's car. 

“Not bad.” Rossi calls out as you approach. 

You smile tiredly, “High praise from the founder of the BAU.” 

“You called the water on day one.” Reid has a confused look on his face. 

“Of course I did.” You smirk, some energy returning to your eyes, “You guys are going to have to get used to it.” 

Emily groans, “Oh god.” 

Aaron just smiles, shaking his head and following you and everyone back to the SUVs. For the first time in nearly a week the entire team looked relieved. The case was closed and the victim was alive. 

He finds himself watching you without being able to help it. You were a new agent to the team, but you were still a familiar face. You walked into the BAU less than a week ago and somehow it felt like you had been there for years. You look back and catch his eyes, when your eyes meet you smile. He smiles back and this time, no one on the team seemed surprised by it. 

-

Four short months, and several cases later, you finally had become one of them. Not the new agent. Not the transfer. Not the girl who knew Hotch. You were just one of the team members of the BAU and it was impressive considering how difficult it was to truly earn your spot with them. 

Aaron was impressed with it as well, but he wasn’t surprised. It was part of your skill. You were smart enough to challenge Reid without being intimidated. Confident enough to stand your ground with Rossi. Capable enough in the field that Morgan trusted you at his back without hesitation. 

You make people laugh, and that was surprisingly valuable in a unit that spent most days facing humanity’s worst moments. You brought energy into rooms. Life. A little chaos. It was the kind that reminded everyone that there was still good in the world. Even Aaron. Especially Aaron. 

Which is why everyone was becoming increasingly suspicious. 

“Tell me I’m not crazy!” Morgan holds up his hands, looking around at everyone sat at their desks in the bullpen. 

JJ doesn’t even look up from her paperwork. 

“You’re going to need to be more specific.” 

Emily leans against her desk, glancing back to where you and Aaron are standing in the conference room still talking after the morning meeting. 

“The way Hotch looks at Y/n.”

JJ finally looks up and peeks back to where Emily is still looking. 

“Oh.”

“Right?” Morgan claps. 

“Definitely.” JJ nods. 

Aaron was smiling as he was standing in front of you. Again. Not a full smile. Not the rare surprised laugh they occasionally managed to pull from him. Just a little crinkle around his eyes that wasn’t there before. 

“I’ve been saying it for weeks.” Derek shakes his head. 

Emily points at him dramatically, “Thank you!” 

Reid finally looks up from his book, “I don’t understand.” 

He looks up between everyone and they stare back at him. 

“You don’t see it, Spence?” JJ asks. 

He simply purses his lips and shrugs, Morgan looks horrified. 

“Kid.” 

“What?”

“They’ve got chemistry.” 

“Who’s got chemistry?” Rossi asks, stepping out of his office and down the stairs to lean against the edge of Spencer’s desk. Derek points up in the direction of the conference room. 

Reid shakes his head, “They’re just discussing victimology.”

“Exactly.” Emily nods, “When has Hotch ever looked that happy to do that?” 

Reid studies him for a long moment before letting out a “Ohhh”. 

Inside the conference room you and Aaron are surprisingly unaware of the curious eyes behind you. At least mostly unaware. You were aware of one thing. 

Aaron. 

It was becoming a problem that you didn’t know what to do about. Logistically it was ridiculous. Aaron was older. Significantly older. And he’s your boss. The Unit Chief. The man you have known since you were fifteen years old. The man whose younger brother you dated on and off for years. Every reason possible told you this was a terrible idea. 

Somewhere between Montana and now you started to look forward to seeing him most days. You noticed little things about him you didn’t pay attention to or have the privilege of knowing before now. 

The way he loosens his tie when he is tired. The way he pinches the bridge of his nose when he’s frustrated. The rare smile that appeared when Jack came up in conversation. The new smile that appeared when you were involved. This is dangerous territory. 

So naturally, you’re ignoring it as much as possible, which is becoming harder and harder to do. 

Aaron wasn’t doing any better. He knew every practical reason that told him no. Every professional instinct told him no. Every ethical concern told him no. And yet every time you walk into a room, it is getting harder and harder for him to hide. 

You make him laugh and challenge him. You understand him in a way that very few people do. It wasn’t because you’re a profiler, it was because you knew him before. Before he was in the BAU. Before Haley died. Before Foyet. Before the walls. 

You knew the version of Aaron Hotchner that existed before the grief and you somehow have a habit of bringing pieces of that man back. 

“Sir.” 

He looks over to see a panicked Garcia standing in the doorway with a tablet in hand. 

“What is it?” His brows instantly drop together.

“Florida.” She simply answers, making a face. 

“That’s bad.” You sigh. 

He nods immediately, taking the tablet from her and looking through the case. He steps out of the conference room and stops at the rail. 

“Everyone cancel your weekend plans,” He looks out over everyone in the bullpen, “Wheels up in thirty.”

A chorus of groans pass around the room. It was a Friday and everyone had looked forward to spending the weekend doing various things. It didn't take long for everyone to round up and grab their things. By the time the team reached the jet, it was already fueled and ready to go. 

“Three women missing over the last month.” Garcia explains over the monitor, “All of them taken from touristy parts of Miami.” 

Aaron skims the report in front of him, “Abductions?”

“Likely.”

“No bodies?” Reid questions, looking up toward the screen. 

“Not yet.”

Nobody liked that answer. 

“What about victimology?” You ask. 

“Different ages, backgrounds, and occupations.” Garcia sighs, “I’m looking for other connections.” 

You frown. No bodies and no obvious connections was a rough start. You look out toward the window where sunlight is streaming in. After a minute Aaron’s foot bumps yours and you look back over at the table and then up at him. 

He nods back to the monitor and you roll your eyes before focusing on the case again. Somewhere in Florida an unsub was waiting for all of you. 

-

The second the jet door opens, you are regretting today’s outfit choice. 

“Oh, absolutely not.” You groan. 

Morgan laughs, following you down the jet stairs, “You’ve been here for three seconds.” 

The humidity hit like a physical force the second the air hit your face. You push your sunglasses onto your head to keep your hair away from your face. 

“Who lives like this?” 

“People who live in Florida.” Reid answers and you roll your eyes dramatically. 

“Where are the cars?” Aaron asks, looking out over the tarmac where SUVs would typically be waiting. 

“Oh god,” Morgan sighs, “She’s gonna melt.” 

You bump his shoulder, but regret the physical contact. He practically sticks to you for a second. You unbutton the top button of your dress shirt and fan at your neck. 

Aaron’s eyes automatically follow your hands, watching you pull at the collar of your blouse. The heat was already turning your cheeks a rosy shade of pink. A few loose strands of hair were blowing around, a sheen of sweat gathering from the humidity. 

His gaze lingered, and for a second too long. You look over and catch him, immediately smirking. 

“Hotch, you staring?” Morgan asks, it would seem he caught the moment as well. 

He blinks, looking over at him. 

“What?”

Morgan bursts out laughing and you shake your head, “That wasn’t even remotely convincing.” 

Aaron adjusts his bag on his shoulder, “The heat seems to be affecting your judgment.” 

“Interesting.” You nod, “It would seem I’m not the only one.” 

Emily has to use her hand to cover her mouth in an attempt to hide her laugh. Morgan’s grin was outright dangerous. Aaron shoots everyone a look, landing on you last.

“Good talk.” You walk ahead, noticing the SUVs finally pulling up. 

Twenty minutes later everyone arrives at the Miami police department. The local task force that had requested the BAU was already waiting. The case board covered an entire wall. Three women from three different tourist-heavy areas. No witnesses and no bodies.

You step closer to the board to get a better look at the pictures. The youngest victim was twenty-two, here on a college break. The oldest was thirty-four and was there as a travel blogger. It looked like the unsub was selecting his victims based on opportunity. 

The conference room door opens, a detective walks in carrying a stack of files and copies for everyone. You look up and the detective looks to forget what he was doing. Aaron noticed the sudden falter in his steps. Detective Gabriel Martinez was in his mid-thirties, former military with a good record and a strong reputation. And apparently he was incapable of hiding his attention. 

“Sorry,” He walks toward you, “Didn’t realize we'd be getting reinforcements.” 

Morgan physically bit his lip and watches you smile politely at the detective. 

“Agent Y/FN Y/LN.” 

His smile widens, “A pleasure.” 

Aaron suddenly found him significantly more annoying than he had thirty seconds ago. 

You accept the file from him, “Catch us up?”

Martinez moved happily beside you, Aaron watched the entire interaction closely. The detective points out spots on the map and you nod thoughtfully. The two of you laugh about something and Aaron actually frowns. 

Morgan glances over and sees it instantly. It was very entertaining, for nearly an hour. Everyone was still reviewing evidence and trying to get a baseline for the unsub. You spent the hour exchanging theories with Detective Martinez and trying to get a locals perspective, everything was purely professional. 

“Hey, there’s a coffee cart downstairs...” The detective clears his throat. The team exchanges glances, darting between you and Hotch.

You look up from the file, “What?” 

“Coffee?” 

“Actually,” Hotch interrupts, “The briefing is in ten minutes, we need to prepare.” 

You raise your brows at Hotch, surprised at him interjecting at this. He’s never opposed a quick coffee run on a case before. 

The detective clears his throat again, “Right, I’ll just go. Would you like one?”

You eventually pull your eyes from Hotch to look back at Martinez, “I’d love one.” 

The detective laughs before walking out of the room. You look back at Hotch, who is avoiding your gaze. You shake your head before turning back to the file in front of you. The entire team was watching Aaron and he was pretending not to notice. It was a poor strategy considering it was a team of profilers. 

“Hey, Y/n,” Rossi asks, “Can you call Garcia and give her an update?”

You roll your eyes but stand up anyway, “Even though we’re only ten minutes away from the next briefing?” 

You snatch your phone from the table and walk out of the room to call Garcia. The second you disappear out the door, Morgan strikes. 

“You’re jealous!”

Aaron doesn’t even look up, “No.” 

Rossi laughs loudly, “Aaron.” 

“I’m not.” 

Emily sighs, “Oh, you absolutely are.” 

He finally sets down his file and looks up at everyone. 

“Can you explain why you’ve spent the past hour glaring at him?” Rossi questions.

“I haven’t.”

Emily and JJ laugh, and even Reid looks skeptical. Aaron looks around the room and has no allies, none of them believe him for a second. 

“Let’s review,” Morgan leans back in his chair, “You’ve been glaring, and you interrupted him twice.” 

“Case-related.” He defends. 

Derek shakes his head, “You corrected his profile.” 

“He was wrong.” 

Rossi’s smile widens, “Not entirely.” 

Aaron sighs and now everyone else’s smile gets bigger. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, somehow making it even funnier. 

You walk back into the room and everyone immediately becomes professional again. You stop in your tracks and narrow your eyes. Aaron snaps up to look at you and your eyes scan everyone else. 

“What happened?” 

“Nothing.” JJ shrugs. 

“Nothing?” You question. 

Derek nods enthusiastically, “Absolutely nothing.” 

You look at Aaron, and then Rossi, and then back to Aaron. 

“Why do I feel like I just walked into something?”

Aaron immediately stands, “Let’s get back to work.” 

“Right,” You straighten, “Can’t be late.”

-

The briefing wasn’t great, there still wasn’t a lot of information to go off of. By seven that evening, the case had officially worsened. A fourth woman had gone missing. Twenty-four years old and taken near the boardwalk in broad daylight. 

The good news? Garcia was briefly able to ping her phone before it was ditched, it wasn’t enough to locate her but it was enough to paint a better picture of the unsub’s hunting ground. The bad news? That was all they got and the clock was ticking. 

The conference room buzzes with tension, Garcia remains on speakerphone but she’s uncharacteristically quiet. Reid and JJ are comparing timelines between victims. Morgan and Prentiss just got back from getting witness statements. Detective Martinez is back at your side again while you review the maps. Aaron notices immediately, of course he does. 

At this point, noticing you had become second nature to him. 

“You know,” Martinez leans against the table casually, his eyes drinking you over, “I’ve been thinking.” 

You don’t even look up, “Dangerous.” 

He laughs. 

“I’m serious.” 

“That’s even more concerning.” 

Martinez smiles, god he thought you were flirting. Everyone could see the reality, except for Martinez. You continue reviewing your work, not even paying him any attention. A missing woman had you very focused on the case at hand. 

“We should compare notes after this.” He pauses, “Maybe over dinner.” 

That finally caught your attention, you look up and he’s smiling confidently at you. 

“A real dinner.” 

There it was, any poor attempt at subtlety was gone. His offer was not professional or ambiguous and that made you sigh internally. 

“That’s kind of you,” You say politely, “But no.” 

A beat passes and Martinez blinks a few times. 

“What?”

Your smile remains the same, “No, thank you.” 

“Oh, are you seeing someone?” He questions, relief briefly settling on his face. You won’t let it last. 

“No.”

Somewhere at the table behind you Hotch snorts and coughs in an attempt to cover it in the quiet conference room. Silence fills up the room after that and for a moment you thought that was the end of it. Then his expression changes, and it was the kind that women noticed immediately. 

Martinez laughs, a short dismissive sound, “Seriously?”

Your smile instantly disappears. 

“Seriously.” You say it slowly and nod as you do so. 

The heads of your team members turned, now openly watching instead of pretending they weren’t watching this all unfold. 

“Wow.” He shakes his head. 

Your eyes narrow, “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” He smiles bitterly, showing how hurt he really is and shakes his head again. It was clear it meant something, “I just figured all the smiling meant you were interested.” 

The room freezes. 

“Detective-”

“No, it’s fine.” His tone was far from fine, “Should’ve known.” 

Aaron’s head snaps over and the temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. You recognize the look on his face instantly and know it’s not a good one. 

Martinez wasn’t finished, “You BAU people come in acting like you’re better than everybody else anyway.” 

Your jaw tightens, now you are genuinely annoyed. 

“Maybe don’t act interested next time, save a guy some effort.” 

The words had barely left his mouth when Aaron stood. The entire room felt the danger in the shift and Martinez’s confidence vanished instantly. He crosses the room toward him in quick strides, every profiler in the room gives up on working for the next few minutes. 

“She said no.” Aaron stops directly in front of Martinez and he towers over him. His voice wasn’t raised, yet. 

The detective swallows, “I wasn’t-”

“She said no.” Aaron repeats for emphasis, he remains calm and cold and it’s terrifying. Martinez glances around the room looking for support but doesn’t find sympathy in anyone. 

Aaron takes a step closer, “If an FBI agent politely declines your invitation and your response is to insult her professionalism, that’s a reflection of you.” 

Nobody moved a muscle. Garcia didn’t even utter a squeak. 

Martinez’s face reddens, “I didn’t mean-” 

“No, you did.” Aaron’s voice booms, “You implied she led you on because she treated you with basic professionalism courtesy.” 

The detective looked like he wanted to disappear. You honestly weren’t sure you’ve ever seen someone fold so quickly and Aaron wasn’t done. 

“You are a detective working an active investigation,” The conference room feels even smaller, “And if your ability to work with female colleagues depends on whether or not they agree to date you, you are in the wrong profession.” 

Complete silence. This is Aaron Hotchner angry, which was a rare occurrence. It took a lot to actually make him mad.

“I apologize.” Martinez finally mutters. 

“To her.”

The detective looks in your direction now, “I’m sorry.”

Aaron stares, “I think it’s a good idea for you to find a new case to work on.” 

He nods and actually escapes the room, the door closes loudly behind him. Nobody spoke, took a breath, or even moved a muscle. Finally Aaron breaks his staredown with the door to look over at you, letting out a pant of adrenaline. Your arms are crossed over your chest and it’s clear that you’re still mad. 

You look up at him and point toward the door, “Outside.”

“What?”

“Now.”

You walk out the door and know he follows, the gaze of every pair of eyes in the room watches the two of you go. You walk downstairs and right out the front door of the building to get some fresh air. The sound of downtown traffic breaks up the silence and the heat from the day is lessened now that the sun is down. The look on your face tells Aaron that this isn’t going to be fun. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.” 

His jaw tightens, “He was out of line.” 

“He was.” You nod. 

He looks confused, “Then why-”

“I can handle myself.” You interrupt with the real issue. 

He sighs running a tired hand over his face, “I know.” 

“Do you?”

“Y/n.” 

“No.” You gesture upstairs toward the building behind you, “You didn’t even give me the chance back there.” 

He looks away from you, dodging your eyes which told you everything. Your eyes narrow, reading him better than anyone else. 

“Oh my god.” 

“What?” He questions suddenly looking back and you laugh once in disbelief. 

You take a step closer to him, “So that’s what that was?”

His expression becomes cautious but he lets you continue. 

“So was that protective ‘older brother’ Aaron back there?”

He winces as the words leave your mouth. 

“Or was that Unit Chief Hotch, defending my honor?” 

You pause.  

“Or was that the man who has been staring at me for months and pretending not to back in there?” You raise your brows to show how serious you’re being. 

“Y/n.” He warns. 

“You were jealous earlier.” You cross your arms over your chest again.

The air felt like it disappeared, his expression doesn’t change. You hold his gaze, waiting for him to admit what he knows you can see on his face. 

“Y/n.” 

“Aaron.” 

“Y/n.” He repeated himself but now his tone is a warning, telling you to shut up and pretend this conversation never happened. Pleading with you. Neither of you can look away, you feel drawn closer somehow. Like two magnets fighting the inevitable. Eventually Aaron sighs and it’s a slow surrender, he’s tired of pretending. He relaxes, his head tilting slightly to the side as he melts a little.

“You’re right.” 

Your heart skips a beat. Aaron looks down briefly before meeting your eyes again. 

“I was jealous.” 

The words land and you don’t even crack a joke. 

“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.” He continues quietly. 

Your pulse quickens, “He wasn’t the first.” 

“I know.” 

“Then why now?” 

Aaron laughs softly without any humor because he knew exactly why. This time he cared, far more than he should. 

“You know why.”

Your breath catches and he notices. 

“Say it.” You dare.

Aaron rubs a hand across his jaw, his eyes studying you openly. He knows once he puts it out there, he can’t take it back. 

“I don’t know what to do about this.” 

Your heart softens at the admission. The honesty surprised both of you 

“Aaron…” 

His eyes dart between yours, and he wishes he could hear you saying his name like that on a loop. For the first time since you joined the BAU, he didn’t have any walls up and he takes a step closer to you.

“I know every reason this is a bad idea,” He sighs, “My brother,”

You nod. 

“I’m your supervisor.” 

“True.” 

“The age difference.”

“Yep.”

He sighs again, “And yet… I cannot bring myself to stop wanting you.”

You smile at him softly, “Will you just kiss me?” 

Shock flashes across his face and now it’s his turn for his breath to catch, “That was your takeaway after all of that?” 

Neither of you move to step away from each other. 

“Is that a no?” You smirk, “Because if you-”

He doesn’t let you finish the sentence, cutting you off with his lips. His hand cups the side of your face and you let him deepen the kiss. You melt against his touch and welcome his tongue to explore your mouth. After a few seconds you hum, pulling back while remembering exactly where you are. Directly outside of the Miami PD with your entire team close by. 

“I want you too.” You admit, you hadn’t really confirmed that earlier other than by asking for a kiss. 

“Can we try and figure this out sometime after we get back from this case?” He asks, his hand still holding your face. 

You nod immediately, leaning back in to steal another kiss and a quick peck. You take a step back from his hold, the two of you need to straighten back up again. Just in time too as Morgan bursts out the doors and jogs over to join you guys, “If the sexual tension is gone, we have a serial killer to catch.”

You roll your eyes, but you and Aaron follow him back into the police department anyway. Neither of you miss the smiles on each other’s faces before heading back inside. For the first time, neither of you was pretending anymore. 

-

It's been a couple months since Miami and everything has changed. The team noticed it immediately, of course they did. They were profilers and noticing things was literally the job. You and Aaron were taking things slowly. Kind of. 

It was a few dates after returning on the rare nights that the two of you got out of the office at a decent hour. The team tried to trip the two of you up, placing bets on who would crack first. Neither you nor Aaron had any idea one of Jack’s soccer games would destroy any last denials from the two of you. 

Garcia and Morgan wanted to surprise Jack on their Saturday off, and it paid off tenfold when they saw you sitting on the bench passing out orange slices. Garcia nearly passed out when Aaron lean down to press a kiss to your cheek. 

Things were going really well, even now that the team had been clued in on it for a week now. You would wait in his office after everyone left, it felt comfortable and steady. Aaron would tempt you into coming home with him rather than back to your apartment. It was becoming more frequent for the two of you, and you were loving every second.

“We’ve got a case.” Garcia walks into the bullpen, carrying on all the way into the conference room without stopping. Aaron walks out of his office and you automatically look up and catch him staring. You smirk and he immediately looks away, Morgan catches the entire exchange. 

Everyone settles around the round table and Garcia connects her tablet to the bigger screen to display the crime scene photos. 

“What do we know?” Aaron asks. 

“New York City.” She clicks through the images and you wince instantly, “It’s bad.”

Bad was an understatement because the crime scene photos were brutal. Young women in their early twenties with extensive injuries completely mutilated and found in abandoned warehouses. The killer was deliberate, organized, and angry. 

Emily frowns, “That’s overkill.” 

“Extreme overkill.” Reid agrees. 

Garcia swallows, “It gets worse.” 

Nobody liked the sound of that. 

“All of these have occurred in the last nine days.” 

Six different victims were in the file, meaning there was rapid escalation. This unsub has no intention of slowing down. 

-

The jet had just reached an altitude high enough to cruise, everyone is buried in the case file at this point. You sit next to Aaron, Reid and Rossi taking the spots across the table from the two of you.

“It feels personal, he’s got a serious hatred for women.” You comment. 

“It does.” Reid agrees. 

Morgan leans forward from the couch, “These women have to remind him of someone specific.”

“All of the victims had dark hair.” Emily notices. 

The team continues to work, it isn’t a long flight. Rossi looks up from the file between you and Hotch. 

“Hey,” Rossi starts, “Doesn’t Sean live in New York?”

Without thinking the answer came quickly from you, “Yeah, he does.”

Morgan smirks and leans in even closer, “The brother?”

You roll your eyes and nod before turning your focus on Aaron, “We should call him?”

Aaron looks up at you, a second of panic flashing across his face. 

“See when he’s off work?”

He doesn’t say anything and the smile fades from your face. 

“Aaron?”

He hesitates, “It’s been a few years since I’ve spoken to Sean.” 

You stare at him, completely surprised and convinced you had misheard him. You knew they weren’t as close as they used to be, but you had no idea it was this severe. 

“Years?”

The team exchanged looks and it was clear that everyone else was aware of this fact. Aaron hates how genuinely shocked you look. 

You lean back angling yourself toward him, “You seriously haven’t talked?”

He remains silent. 

“What happened?”

Everyone sits back quietly because this clearly has become more interesting than the case for the time being. The Hotchners had always been close. That was how you knew Aaron so well, he came back so frequently to see his brother even when he was busy with school and work. The two of them were close because of how distant they were with their parents, Aaron’s dad has never been someone they could look up to. 

“He hasn’t seen Jack since he was three.” Aaron sighs, “I haven’t talked to him since he didn’t come to Haley’s funeral.” 

“Oh.” 

Silence envelops the entire jet. 

Rossi breaks it, “Does he know?”

“Know what?” Aaron plays along obliviously. 

Derek gives him a look, “Hotch.” 

“No.” You answer simply, “We haven’t told him.” 

Morgan grins and your eyes narrow. 

“He doesn’t know?” Emily almost jumps up from her seat. 

Aaron pinches the bridge of his nose briefly and you close your eyes for a few seconds. 

“We haven’t-”

You can’t finish the sentence. There is absolutely no good way to finish that. 

Morgan still looks delighted, “You haven’t told him.”

You look at Aaron. Aaron looks at you. 

“That’s going to be a fun call.” Rossi leans back in his chair. 

You cover your face, “This is going to be terrible. This is worse than I thought it would be.” 

You and Aaron always knew this was something that would have to be addressed, but both of you had written it off as a future issue. You knew it wasn’t going to be an easy conversation, but you didn’t know he and Sean weren’t even in communication. 

“You could always do it later.” JJ offers. 

“Yeah,” Derek claps, loving this way too much, “He could always find out on the Christmas card.” 

You roll your eyes, “Such an ass.” 

“Merry Christmas. Also, I’m dating your brother.” 

The team breaks out in laughter, but it slows when Aaron’s glare levels the room. You knew it was something deeper that would keep them apart for so long. Something unresolved and painful, the teasing around the room faced away. 

You hold his gaze, everyone else focuses on themselves again. 

“We should call him.” 

He looks at you, his face void of annoyance or defensiveness now. After a moment he nods and reaches out under the table to grab your hand and give it a squeeze. 

“Together?” His expression is warming. 

“Together.” You nod. 

Unfortunately the heartfelt moment lasted about three seconds. Then Morgan spoke. 

“Oh, this is serious serious.” 

It wasn’t long before the New York skyline slowly appeared out the windows. You were confident that Derek’s rapid texting was updating Garcia back home on the recent revelations. Everyone now had a new mystery to obsess over. 

-

The case has gone one for two more days after the team lands in the city. Three more bodies have been found, the unsub was still escalating. The profile had narrowed, the suspect pool was shrinking. 

You called Sean the minute you landed, you forced Aaron to stand next to you on the tarmac so he couldn’t back out of it. The call itself was relatively easy, you and Sean have been in contact for years. 

“Hey stranger.” He answered. 

The conversation picked up like no time had passed, like it always did. By the end of the call, he agreed to dinner with the two of you without hesitation. The only problem was that he couldn’t get away from work for the next two nights. 

Which gave Aaron days to dread the conversation that was to come. 

Now the dreaded evening has arrived. 

“Don’t forget your date.” Rossi chuckles, looking between you and Aaron. 

Aaron doesn’t even look up from the evidence board, “Not a date.” 

“Family dinner night.” Morgan corrects with a wicked grin.

“God, that’s even worse.” You groan. 

Derek cuts you a look, “Coming from the girl dating brothers.” 

“Shut up!” You smack his shoulder. 

“I’ve been waiting for this all week!” Garcia cheers from the laptop. 

You step closer to where Aaron is standing. 

“If you say something about how long his hair is, you’ll sound just like your dad.” You threaten, knowing that will stop him more than anything else you could possibly say. 

“Jesus.” He mutters under his breath. 

“Sorry,” You look back at him and offer a small smile, “we just don’t need to start this off on the wrong foot.”

Aaron knows you’re right, this isn’t going to be an easy conversation. Sean was meeting the two of you at the precinct, you guys didn’t really have time to stray far in case anything developed in the case. 

“Hello, hello!” Sean knocks on the open door and walks into the conference room. 

A smile appears before you can stop it. He looks older than the last time you saw him, a little more tired, but unmistakably Sean. 

“Y/n!’ 

He wraps you up in a big hug, the kind that’s reserved for people who you have known for a long time. 

“Look at you!” 

You laugh and Sean steps back. 

“I can’t believe you’re on Aaron’s team, what are the odds?” 

“What are the odds indeed.” Morgan says quietly enough for most of the room to miss it. 

He shakes his eyes and his eyes finally land on his older brother. The smile on his face fades slightly, but not completely. Aaron steps forward and offers him a hand. 

“Sean.” 

The younger of the two nods and meets his firm handshake, “Aaron.” 

The exchange was civil but definitely awkward. Apparently neither Hotchner knew how to communicate in the presence of the other. Sean starts to notice the group, the famous BAU he had seen briefly a couple times over the years. 

“Morgan, right?” Sean reaches out to shake his hand. 

“Yeah man, good to see you again.” 

He exchanges polite conversation with everyone, making the rounds. You stand at Aaron’s side by the door, his eyes rake over your figure and you can tell he’s nervous. A rare side of Aaron. You give a reassuring nod and small smile to try and offer some comfort. 

Sean clears his throat, the two of you snap up in his direction. His expression slowly changes the longer he stares at the two of you. 

You straighten, “Ready?”

He doesn’t move, blinking a few times. The slow painful realization was becoming clear on his face as he looks between the two of you. 

“No way.” He says weakly. 

Prentiss covers her mouth to hide her reaction and JJ has to turn away. Aaron closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

“Sean-” You try. 

“No.” 

He walks right past the two of you, straight out of the precinct. You and Aaron both follow behind all the way out onto the sidewalk. 

“Sean.” Aaron calls after him several times. 

He keeps walking. 

“Are you kidding me?” He tosses over his shoulder, not slowing his stride. 

“Sean, please.” You call, his steps falter for a second before he stops and turns around to face the two of you. 

Twenty minutes later the three of you are sitting in a small Italian restaurant. The shock had not worn off at all and the table was quiet. Aaron looks exhausted and Sean looks like he would rather be anywhere else on the planet. 

“This is unbelievable.” Sean shakes his head, breaking the silence that had been sitting with them since the waiter left, “Aaron, you’re dating my ex girlfriend?”

“From high school.” Aaron reminds defensively. 

Sean points in his face, “Still.”

“It was over a decade ago.” 

Morgan would’ve loved this. Aaron pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a sigh. 

“How long?”

You decide to answer, “A couple months now.”

“Since you joined the team?” His brows raise and you shake your head. 

“Not right away.” 

“Huh.” He reaches forward and takes a piece of bread that had been sitting in the center of the table the entire time. “And you’re both happy?”

You tilt your head, “That’s it?” 

He shrugs, “What do you want me to say?”

“Aren’t you mad?” 

Sean laughs, “Y/n.”

His expression softens and you and Aaron look at each other unsure and confused. 

“We broke up a decade ago.” Hotch holds up his hands at Sean’s words, but he continues anyway, “We’ve been friends ever since. It’s a little weird, but I’m not mad.”

Aaron looks completely surprised. 

“Aaron did tell you for years that you were too smart for me.” Sean reminds.

You snort loudly.

“I do, however, reserve the right to make fun of the two of you about this.” 

“That’s fair.” Aaron cracks a small smile. 

“Extensively.” 

Aaron sighs, “There it is.” 

For the first time all evening, the tension eased. The conversation shifted to lighter topics. Old stories and family memories dominated the meal. Work was part of it, but it didn’t last long since you had to step on Aaron’s foot to drop the judgement over his career path. Some time after the table was cleared and leftovers boxed up, Aaron and Sean started talking. Really talking. 

Years of distance could never just disappear overnight, but it was a start. You noticed the way the two of them had both relaxed. They would never admit it to the other, but they missed each other. 

Eventually Sean points at you, “You know she’s the one responsible for this?” 

Sean is staring closely at his brother. Aaron would admit that this conversation wouldn’t be possible without you. After the years had passed, Sean missing core moments of Jack’s life, he never thought they could get back to this place. 

Aaron nods, “I know.” 

For a moment the younger Hotchner looks genuinely happy. It wasn’t about the relationship, or even the weirdness of it, but just being happy to see his brother smile again. He knew things had been rough, he wouldn’t deny either of you the happiness you clearly bring each other.

Sean raises a glass, “To questionable life choices.” 

You laugh and Aaron groans. 

For the first time in years, both Hotchner brothers laughed together. 

-

You and Aaron take your time walking back to the hotel. The team let you both know that everyone was heading back to the hotel for the night, hoping fresh eyes tomorrow would help. For a few hours the two of you weren’t behavioral profilers. The warmth of the dinner had almost felt surreal considering how it had started. 

It was a brother reconnecting with his family and two friends reuniting.

The elevator ride up was quiet in a comfortable way. You lean against his side as he watches the floor number flash as you climb higher. 

“Tired?” You ask, looking up at him. 

He huffs a laugh that even sounds tired, “Very.” 

“Emotionally?” You tease. 

He glances down, “Mostly.” 

You smile and the elevator doors open. The two of you were only a few doors apart, standard BAU procedure. Separate rooms and separate spaces were the professional way. The two of you stop outside your door. Neither of you are eager to separate. 

“Goodnight, Aaron.” 

His expression softens, “Goodnight.” 

He waits for you to get into the room and for the door to lock before walking down to his room. You immediately move toward the bathroom to take a shower and wash off the day. After the fact you reach into your bag and pull out one of Aaron’s old law school hoodies. It was something you were quick to claim the first time you came over to his place. 

It was faded and comfortable. You saw him wear it a dozen times all those years ago. 

You’re brushing your teeth when your phone lights up on the bathroom counter. 

Aaron. 

You smile instantly and answer the phone and put it on speaker. 

“Miss me already?” 

He pauses and it’s long enough you look down at the phone to see if the line is still connected. 

“Yes.” 

You freeze, toothbrush halfway to the sink. 

“What?”

He sighs and you can practically see him rubbing a hand over his face. 

“I’m aware how that sounds.” 

You laugh, “Aaron.” 

Another pause. 

“I do. Miss you.” 

Your smile was impossible to wipe off now. This was not the composed Unit Chief most people knew, this was the one you have been seeing for months. This is your boyfriend being the needy man he is. You move to your bed, taking your phone with you and sliding under the covers. 

“I’m right down the hall.” 

“Yes.”

“LIke twenty feet away.” 

“I’m aware.” He passed out everyone’s keys, of course he’s aware.

You’re smiling so wide it’s starting to pull on your cheeks, “You know, you’re quite needy.”

He lets out a surprised laugh. 

“You’re to blame for that.” 

You laugh loudly, not expecting that. 

“Sneak in then.” 

The line goes quiet for a few seconds. You can practically see him debating it. It’s late enough now, few people on the team would even be up at this point. The two of you have not done this once since the relationship started. 

“They’ll notice.” He eventually says. 

“Not if you’re careful.” 

He takes a few more seconds to debate. 

“You make terrible suggestions.” 

“Hey, you’re the one who called me all breathy saying ‘miss you’.” 

He laughs suddenly and the sound brings another smile to your face. 

“Twenty seconds.” He hangs up and the line goes dead. 

Less than twenty seconds pass and there’s a quiet knock at the door. You chuckle to yourself and walk over to open the door. 

“Aaron.” You smile. 

He walks straight in, his arms wrapping around your waist. His lips find yours, pressing hard as he backs you up closer to the bed. He pulls back after a few more seconds pass, pressing a couple quick pecks after. 

You smile and run a hand through his hair. You can see the weight of the last few days lessening. 

“Hi.” He smiles. 

His smiles weren’t rare anymore, they happened all the time now. You still appreciate seeing them every time. The two of you move to get under the covers, he doesn’t miss the hoodie you’ve managed to get ahold of. He’s confident this isn’t the only one you’ve got.

Aaron pulls you in against his chest and reaches out to turn off the lamp. The room goes dark, but you can still faintly see his outline in the moonlight. 

He lets out a deep sigh after a few moments pass, holding you a little tighter. 

“Rough day?” You ask, sensing the tension leaving. You trace your hands up and down his arms that are wrapped around you.

“Long day.” He pauses, “A good day.”

Your expression softens because you know exactly what he meant. The conversation and the relief afterward had been a lot to worry about. You could see that he was carrying it for days. Everything you had been worried about somehow worked out.

“You okay?” 

“Better than okay.” He leans in closer to press a kiss behind your ear, “I was worried.” 

“About Sean?” 

You feel him nod behind you and squeeze his hand. 

“He loves you.” 

“I’m glad tonight happened.” He quietly admits. 

“Me too.” 

“I’m so glad you’re here.” 

The words were simple but they meant everything. 

“Me too.”

For the first time that Aaron could remember he felt completely at peace. Even if it was only for one night and the two of you would likely have to face another crime scene tomorrow. Tonight was all he needed. He has you in his arms and that’s enough.

-

an// a little one shot turned LONG one shot just as a mini break from the Hotch series i’ve been working on! so fun, i love dating brothers even tho it’s so so wrong lmao. the beauty of fiction, my loves! please let me know your thoughts, i’m dying to talk about this!

also

HAPPY JUNETEENTH!!! I love you all

[geminiwritten]

── profiled ; aaron hotchner

summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detached—while quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.

notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchner—so here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!

warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (i’m so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.

word count: 19001

MONDAY 9:25AM

Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.

Not because your colleagues are nosy—no, they’re just… perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesn’t work on all of them—you glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a book—at least it works on most of them.

At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.

Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.

Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. “You’re wearing a skirt.”

You cross your legs and lean back. “Excellent observation, Reid.”

“It’s impractical,” he says simply. “Especially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. You’re significantly more likely to trip while running.”

You roll your eyes. “Good thing I’m not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.”

“Ignore boy genius, baby girl,” Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. “You look good.”

You flash him a grin. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”

Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”

Your stomach flips. “Spence.”

He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”

You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.

“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”

The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.

“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”

Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”

“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”

“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.

She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”

“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”

Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”

You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”

Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”

“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”

“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”

He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.

You perform.

You scroll through dating profiles, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.

He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:

Hotch is the secret you’re trying so hard to hide.

Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.

Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”

Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.

“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”

His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.

“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.

Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”

Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”

“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”

Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”

Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”

“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”

Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”

“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.

Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”

You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.

Not the team. You.

Your stomach twists.

That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.

Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.

“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”

He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.

His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—

“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.

You blink hard. “What?”

He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”

You frown. “I’m not—”

He gives you a look.

“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”

You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.

Everyone else is already settled at their desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – Hotch.

You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.

Reid snorts. “You know most people throw those away, right?”

You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”

He hums. “Sure.”

“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”

He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.

“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”

He nods. “Good.”

You frown.

“I’m attempting corrective behavioural conditioning.”

Your eyes narrow. “By being annoying?”

“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.

You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for what’s shaping up to be a very boring Monday.

The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.

In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.

To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.

Only there isn’t enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.

You sigh. “Reid.”

“Hm?”

“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”

Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.

“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.

You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.

“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”

Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.

“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”

You frown slightly.

“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”

Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”

Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”

“What’s she right about?”

You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.

“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”

He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.

He’s close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.

“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”

Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then flips the page.

Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.

“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”

Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”

You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”

“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”

Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.

“Good girl,” he says absently.

Your entire nervous system short-circuits.

“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.

You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”

You finally blink. “What?”

“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”

You frown. “What are you—”

“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”

Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”

“You have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.”

“Reid.”

“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”

You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”

“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”

He pauses, tilting his head.

“Very obviously your type.”

You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.

Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.

Your gaze cuts back to Reid. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”

Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”

“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”

Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.

“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”

Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.

You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.

“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”

“Great,” you mutter, dropping into your chair.

Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.

You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.

Your stomach flips.

God. That’s pathetic.

You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.

The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.

Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.

“You coming?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.

You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.

“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”

Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”

You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”

“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”

You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”

“You’d have to explain the context,” he calls over his shoulder.

You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.

With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.

You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotch’s note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.

And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.

Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologne—enough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.

You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.

There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.

It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.

You adjust the files until they’re perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.

It doesn’t take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.

Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll start to feel guilty.

You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.

No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.

One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.

Hotch hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d known he was listening.

That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.

The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.

Twelve notifications.

You click on the ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.

After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.

But one of the messages catches your eye.

DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.

You snort, then type out a reply.

You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.

Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.

“Hey, sassy girl,” you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.

Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.

You roll your eyes. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”

You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.

Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.

DCRunner00: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given. DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s more interesting than hobbies.

That answer comes a little too easily.

You: Workaholic. You? DCRunner00: I get bored easily. DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment. You: Sounds like a public safety issue. DCRunner00: Depends who you ask. DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. It’s late.

You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.

You shake your head, typing quickly.

You: Yeah, I should. You: Night, Running Man.

Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.

TUESDAY 9:50AM

“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”

He’s wearing a grey suit today.

You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.

Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”

Hotch ignores him completely.

“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”

He glances once around the table.

“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”

Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.

The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.

Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.

“You should probably blink.”

Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”

He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.

Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app they’re both obsessed with.

You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you hear your name.

You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.

Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotch’s office.

You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”

“How late were you here last night?” he asks.

You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”

His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”

“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”

“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”

You blink. “Oh.”

His gaze holds yours for a second too long.

“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”

Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”

He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.

“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”

Your breath catches softly in your throat.

“Anytime, sir,” you manage.

He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.

You don’t need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it helps him focus.

By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.

You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.

Two new messages from DCRunner00.

DCRunner00: Running Man? DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.

You can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.

You: Better than ‘Workaholic’. You: You read Stephen King?

“Hey, you busy?”

You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”

He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”

“I could be working.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”

You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”

“I could use your help.”

“Fine,” you mutter, setting your phone down.

He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.

“Where do you want to start?”

“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”

You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”

Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?

“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.

Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”

You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”

“Well, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”

He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”

You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.

“No, listen to me carefully.”

Both you and Reid glance up automatically.

Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.

“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”

He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.

“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”

He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.

“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”

Your stomach flips.

This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.

“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”

Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.

You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “Do you think he talks you through it?”

“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”

You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.

“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”

Your face heats.

“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.”

Oh my God.

“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking he’d—”

He stops.

Then slowly turns toward you.

“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”

You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”

He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.

You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now you’re hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throat—

Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.

You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. It’s a thousand times better than break room coffee.

When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. You’re not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.

DCRunner00: I’ve read a few. DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?

You type your reply as you step out of the building.

You: Work, mostly. You: And sleep.

By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.

“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.

You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”

Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.

DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like? DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person. You: Nah. That’s my boss. You: My schedule is chaos, though.

“Thanks,” Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.

You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.

He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”

“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”

He straightens, brows drawing tighter.

“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”

You set the cup down in front of him.

“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.

“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”

Your face heats instantly.

“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.

You spend the rest of the day at Reid’s desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.

Which is also when you finally check your messages again.

DCRunner00: Chaos how?

You type a quick reply while you wait for your car’s AC to warm up.

You: Long hours. You: Weird hours. You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.

Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.

Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.

You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.

DCRunner00: Ah. So you’re one of those people. You: Rude.

He replies almost immediately.

DCRunner00: Accurate, though? You: Unfortunately.

You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.

Ping!

DCRunner00: What do you actually do?

You hesitate. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s dangerous.

You: Mostly admin. You: Governmental stuff.

You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.

You’re not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.

DCRunner00: Sounds boring. DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?

You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.

You: Sort of. You: But if my boss calls, I answer.

He replies instantly again.

DCRunner00: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked. You: I think I’d get bored otherwise.

You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.

DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy. You: Probably. What about you? What do you do?

You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.

He’s already replied by the time you log in.

DCRunner00: Run. DCRunner00: Read. DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally. You: That sounds made up.

You open your protein bar.

DCRunner00: It mostly is. DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?

You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.

You type out a vague response.

You: Sometimes. You: Occupational hazard, I guess. DCRunner00: And you always answer? You: Pretty much. You: He’d only call if it mattered.

His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.

DCRunner00: Hm. DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.

You almost choke on your tea.

That’s... weird.

Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in more ways than you care to admit.

You: Jealous already, Running Man? DCRunner00: Should I be?

You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.

You: I think you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online. DCRunner00: Maybe. DCRunner00: You still replied, though.

“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”

You: I’m going to sleep. You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.

His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.

DCRunner00: No promises.

WEDNESDAY 8:10AM

“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.

You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.

“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”

You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.

“Is Garcia in yet?”

He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”

You pull your laptop out of your bag.

“I just—I need her.”

You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—

“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”

His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.

You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”

His brows pull together slightly.

“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”

You nod slowly, already stepping around him.

“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”

You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.

It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.

She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”

“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”

“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”

You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.

“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”

She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”

You grimace. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”

You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.

“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”

She nods.

“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”

You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.

“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”

You wince.

“So now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I don’t know.”

You hesitate.

“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”

She squints at the screen.

DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.

“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”

You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”

She starts scrolling back through the messages.

“Have you told Hotch?”

“Nope.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”

“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.

“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”

You groan, dragging both hands over your face.

“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”

Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”

Garcia gives you a long look.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”

“Garcia.”

“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”

You point at the screen. “Focus.”

“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”

Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.

“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”

You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”

“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”

You frown. “In English?”

She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”

“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”

“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”

Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.

You: I thought I told you not to spiral.

He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.

DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke. DCRunner00: Mostly.

She stares at the screen. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”

You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”

Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”

“No.”

She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”

You nod.

“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”

You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.

“You’re the best, Pen.”

“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”

By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.

Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.

“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.

His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”

You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”

Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.

You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.

“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.

You glance at him. “Why?”

“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”

You roll your eyes. “Spence—”

“Something must be seriously wrong.”

You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.

“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”

His brows shoot up. “A guy—”

“Online,” you add quickly.

He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”

You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”

“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”

You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”

“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”

“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”

His forehead creases. “Have you told—”

“No.”

“Maybe you should—”

“I said no.”

“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”

You narrow your eyes at him.

“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”

You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.

“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.”

You stare at him.

“In cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.”

He pauses, frowning faintly.

“That was supposed to be reassuring.”

“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”

When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.

You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.

You: You’re weird.

He replies just as fast as usual.

DCRunner00: You disappear a lot. You: Workaholic, remember. You: I told you my schedule was chaos.

You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.

Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.

You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.

You: Trust me, that’s not the reason. Garcia: So there IS a reason? You: Shh. I’m working. Garcia: Boo!

You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.

It doesn’t work.

Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.

You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?

It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re pulling away.

If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.

An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesn’t feel right—which keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, you’ve got three notifications.

One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.

DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me? DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.

Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”

You immediately call Garcia back.

She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”

“You saw me this morning.”

“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”

You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”

“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”

“No.”

“Are you insane?”

“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”

Garcia goes quiet for a second.

“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”

“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”

“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”

You press your free hand against your forehead.

“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

Garcia scoffs loudly.

“Seriously,” you insist. “It could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.”

The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.

“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”

“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”

She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”

Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”

“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”

You nearly choke. “What?”

“Non-negotiable.”

“Penelope, that’s insane.”

“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”

“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.

“Mm-hm.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”

You frown. “…Morally complicit?”

“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”

You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”

She hums, satisfied.

“I need to reply to him again.”

“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”

“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”

“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”

“Absolutely not.”

You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”

“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”

You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.

You: Lucky guess.

The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.

At about three o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s voice through the wall.

When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.

By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.

At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”

You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”

You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.

“See who soon?” Reid asks.

You glance at him. “Garcia.”

He tilts his head.

“She’s staying over tonight.”

His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”

“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”

His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”

You scoff. “About me? Never.”

You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.

“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”

You pause mid-motion.

“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”

“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”

He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—

“Agent.”

You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.

You force a small smile. “Sir.”

His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”

You nod once. “Of course.”

He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”

Your breath catches.

He’s close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.

“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.

You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”

Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.

You don’t move immediately. You can’t. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.

“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”

You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”

You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then—

“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”

You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”

“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”

You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then it’s only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.

And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until they’ve pulled it apart completely.

The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.

“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”

Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.

Once she’s satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.

“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.

You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”

She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.

DCRunner00: Maybe. DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.

You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.

You: Or maybe I’m just not trying so hard to be mysterious.

Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.

“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”

You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”

“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”

Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”

You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.

DCRunner00: Refreshing DCRunner00: Most people hide too much. You: Depends what they’re trying to hide. DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide? You: Besides the fact that I’m exhausted? Nothing. DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight. You: Long day. DCRunner00: I noticed. You: How was yours?

You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.

Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.

“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”

“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”

You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.

THURSDAY 6:45AM

You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.

Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.

The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.

Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.

“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”

You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”

Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”

Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”

“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”

Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”

“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”

Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”

Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.

“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”

“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”

You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”

“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”

Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”

“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”

Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”

Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—

Someone clears their throat behind you.

Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.

“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”

Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.

Very slowly, you turn in your chair.

Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.

“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.

Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.

You want to die.

The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.

“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.

Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.

“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.

You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.

Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.

It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.

“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”

Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.

But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.

“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.

You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”

He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”

You glance up at him hopefully.

“Morgan definitely is, though.”

You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.

The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.

It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.

From: Aaron Hotchner Subject: Wallace Interview You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.

Your stomach flips.

“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”

You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”

“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”

You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.

“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.

You turn back to him, frowning.

He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”

You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.

You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.

Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.

You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.

DCRunner00: [Image attachment] DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?

The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.

Ice floods your bloodstream.

You stop breathing.

“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.

You don’t answer him. You can’t.

The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.

Until—

“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”

She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.

Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”

Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”

“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”

You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.

Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.

“What’s going on?”

His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.

“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.

Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.

Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.

Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.

“Who sent this?”

Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.

It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.

Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.

“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”

Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.

Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.

“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”

You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”

“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”

Could this day get any worse?

Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.

“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”

“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”

You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”

There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.

“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”

Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”

You grimace. “Fantastic.”

“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”

“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”

You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”

The room goes still for half a second.

“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”

Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.

“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”

“Or angry,” Morgan adds.

“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”

You sink lower in your chair.

“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”

“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.

You elbow him immediately.

“Ow.”

Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”

Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”

Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.

“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”

“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”

Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.

“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”

Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”

“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”

Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.

“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”

Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.

“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”

“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

You open your mouth to argue.

“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.

“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.

“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”

Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.

“I’m taking her home.”

The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.

Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.

Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.

“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.

You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.

“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.

Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.

Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.

“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.

He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.

He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.

“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”

The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.

Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”

You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”

He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.

Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.

Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.

“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”

Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.

Your eyes go wide.

Traitor.

Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.

Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?

He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.

You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.

The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.

Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.

If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.

Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.

But this?

This feels dangerously close to being found out.

The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.

Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.

Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.

And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.

By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.

“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.

Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.

“I’m fine.”

You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”

He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”

You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.

“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”

His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.

“You think this is nothing?”

His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.

“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”

Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.

Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.

He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.

That’s all.

You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”

He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”

“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”

His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.

Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.

You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.

If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.

“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”

He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.

“Alright. Keep me updated.”

He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.

“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”

Your stomach tightens.

“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”

The name hits you immediately.

“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.

Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”

You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.

“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”

“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”

Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”

“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”

He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.

He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”

The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.

“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”

The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.

Except this time Hotch does pause.

“Why do you do that?”

You frown. “Do what?”

“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”

You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”

“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”

Your pulse stutters.

“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”

“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”

But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.

“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”

Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.

“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”

“Leave Leia out of this.”

“She doesn’t like strangers.”

“She likes you.”

The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.

“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”

Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.

“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”

Oh God.

“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”

He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.

“You track me.”

The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.

“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”

Your breath stutters.

And Hotch notices immediately.

His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.

“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.

He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.

“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”

Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.

“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”

His eyes lock onto yours.

“You redirect.”

You can barely breathe now.

He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.

And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.

You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.

“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.

He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.

The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.

His throat shifts slightly.

And then—

His phone rings.

He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.

“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.

You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.

Because holy fuck.

Holy fuck.

What the hell just happened?

“They got him.”

Your head snaps up. “They what?”

Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.

“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”

“Oh.”

“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”

A cold shiver slips down your spine.

“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”

He pauses, then looks at you.

“But they got him.”

“Good,” you say quietly.

Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.

“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”

You nod. “Okay.”

Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.

“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”

“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”

Hotch stills.

Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.

“Babysitting?” he repeats.

“You know what I mean.”

He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”

“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”

He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.

“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”

His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.

“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.

But you can’t.

All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.

You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.

Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.

His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.

But the restraint doesn’t last long.

Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.

Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.

His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.

Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.

Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.

“Aaron—”

“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”

FRIDAY 6:15AM

Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—

Oh God.

The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.

Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.

Your stomach swoops.

You slept with your boss last night.

With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.

You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.

“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”

Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.

“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.

Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.

“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”

He hums, breath warm against your skin.

“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”

“Oh, he notices.”

Your stomach flips. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”

Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”

“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”

“Oh my God.”

You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.

“And the red bra,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”

You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.

“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Mm, sure.”

You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.

“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”

You feel his lips curve.

“Good thing I’m the boss.”

10:35AM

You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.

The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.

That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.

Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.

“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”

You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.

“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”

Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”

You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”

Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”

“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”

Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.

“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.

“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.

You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”

Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.

You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.

“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.

You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”

“I was.”

Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.

“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”

You frown. “Hotch, I—”

“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”

Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.

“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”

Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.

“…Huh.”

You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.

He tilts his head.

Then—

“Oh my God.”

You close your eyes. “Spencer… don’t.”

© 2026 geminiwritten

[marshallowpuff]

Admiring from afar (Oneshot)

Pairing: Fred Weasley x hufflepuff!reader

Summary: When you thought your longtime crush, Fred, had feelings for another girl, but all along the girl was you

Warning: no use of y/n

Cw: you fell first, he fell harder

Wc: 3k+

You could remember everything about him, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the precise shade of brown in his eyes, the easy way he moved through the corridors like he owned them.

He was one of those boys who just stood out. Red hair, bright smile, the kind of person who made people laugh without even trying. He and his twin brother George were always getting into trouble, always laughing about something. They were the kind of boys that everyone had a crush on. You read books, baked pastries, and spent your free time in the library or the Hufflepuff kitchens. You read books in the corner and didn't really talk to anyone.

Except then you developed feelings for Fred Weasley, and suddenly nothing felt safe anymore.

It started small. A glance across the Great Hall. Noticing when he walked into a room. Looking at him across the Great Hall when you thought nobody was watching. The way your heart did a stupid flip whenever he laughed. The way he smiled when George said something stupid, and your best friends Lily and Maya knew about your small crush.

Your friends didn't understand.

"You have to tell him," Lily said for the hundredth time, stirring a cup of tea in the common room. It was a Saturday afternoon, and you were supposed to be studying for Potions, but instead you were listening to Lily and Maya stage an intervention about your love life.

"I'm not telling him anything," you said firmly, not looking up from your Potions textbook. The words swam in front of your eyes, refusing to make sense.

"Why not?" Maya demanded. She was sprawled across the armchair next to you, legs dangling over one arm. "Worst case scenario, he says no and you move on. Best case scenario—"

"There is no best case scenario," you interrupted. "There's only the scenario where I humiliate myself in front of a boy I barely know."

"You do know him," Lily insisted. "You sit next to him in Herbology."

"I sit near him," you corrected. "I don't know him."

Maya asked from the armchair,"Come on, what's the worst that could happen?".

"He could laugh at me. Or worse, he could be nice about it, which is somehow worse than laughing. Or he could tell everyone and suddenly everyone knows I have a crush on Fred Weasley." You felt your face get hot just thinking about it. "I'm not doing it."

"You already had one conversation with him," Lily pointed out. "In Transfiguration. You're not complete strangers."

That conversation. You tried not to think about that conversation, but apparently you'd have to.

It was early in the year, third week of classes. You'd been paired together for a project on transformation. Fred had actually talked to you. Not just about the homework, but actually talked to you. He'd asked your opinion on things. He'd mentioned his dreams about opening a joke shop with George. And you'd managed to say like four sentences before getting so nervous you had to excuse yourself.

It was so embarrassing that you'd been avoiding him ever since.

"You're being a coward," Maya said now, and she wasn't even being mean about it.

You didn't respond because she was right, and you hated when she was right. You were being a coward. But admitting feelings to someone required a level of vulnerability you weren't sure you possessed. What if he laughed? What if he was kind about it, which somehow felt worse than laughing? What if he told everyone, and suddenly your quiet existence was disrupted by pity and awkwardness?

No. It was safer to admire from a distance and imagine scenarios that would never happen. It was safer to pretend you didn't spend an embarrassing amount of time wondering what Fred Weasley was doing, who he was thinking about, whether he'd ever notice someone like you.

"I'm not having this conversation anymore," you announced, standing up. "I'm going to the kitchens. I promised the house elves I'd help with tonight's dessert."

"Of course you did," Lily muttered as you left.

~~~

The kitchens were your sanctuary. The house elves—Tippy, Mop, and Bert—welcomed you like you were one of them, which was almost true. You'd been spending time here since your second year, learning recipes, perfecting techniques, creating new desserts. It was one of the few places in Hogwarts where you felt completely like yourself.

Tonight you were making chocolate eclairs, your specialty. There was something meditative about baking. Your brain quieted. The anxiety that usually accompanied you through the castle, faded away.

"Smells incredible," Tippy said, peering over your shoulder.

"Thanks," you said, carefully piping cream into the shells. "How many do you think we'll need?"

"For house elves, maybe fifty," Mop joked. "For students, maybe a hundred."

You smiled, concentrating on getting the piping consistent. This was what you understood. Measurements and temperatures and the way ingredients transformed under your hands. Not feelings. Never feelings. Feelings were messy and uncertain and unpredictable.

You were so focused on your work that you almost didn't notice George and Fred entering the kitchens.

Almost.

"Bert said you'd be here," George announced, making himself comfortable on one of the high stools. Fred was behind him, and your stomach performed an awkward flip that you tried very hard to ignore.

"We need sustenance," Fred said, his eyes going straight to your eclairs. "Please tell me those are for us."

"They're for dessert tonight," you said, keeping your eyes on your work. Your cheeks were definitely warm. Why were they here? Fred had never come to the kitchens when you were working before.

"Dessert is hours away," George pointed out. "Surely you could spare one or two for the hardworking students of Gryffindor House."

"You're not hardworking," you said, surprising yourself with your own boldness. "You skipped Divination yesterday."

"We were testing our new Puking Pastilles," Fred said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "Much more valuable than predicting the future with tea leaves."

Despite yourself, you almost smiled.

"We'll leave you alone," George said eventually, though they didn't actually leave. Instead, they sat at the counter, talking to the house elves and occasionally commenting on your work. You could feel Fred watching you as you worked, and it made your hands slightly shaky, making your piping less perfect, which made you frustrated.

"You're really good at that," Fred said at one point, and you felt your entire face go red.

"Thanks," you said, not looking at him.

Then, they left. George had something to do with Quidditch practice, and Fred went along. You exhaled a breath you didn't know you'd been holding.

"That boy likes you," Mop said knowingly.

"He does not," you said firmly. "He was just being nice."

"House elf knows these things," Tippy insisted. "He looks at you like you're an eclair."

"That's possibly the worst compliment I've ever received," you said, but your heart wasn't really in it. You were too busy trying to convince yourself that Fred Weasley didn't like you, because if he did, that meant you had to do something about it, and you absolutely would not.

Three weeks later, you were walking back from the library with a stack of books when you heard Fred's voice coming from an empty classroom. You should have kept walking. But you didn't.

"—she's so pretty," Fred was saying. "Like, she has this look where she's thinking really hard about something, and it's just... she's beautiful,"

Your stomach dropped. He was talking about a girl. Of course he was.

"And she's funny," he continued. "Not like, trying to be funny. She just says these things that make me laugh. And she's really smart, but she doesn't like, brag about it or anything."

"So basically you're completely in love," George said, and you could hear him laughing.

Fred continues on,"She's not even trying to be impressive, but somehow everything she does is impressive. The way she concentrates on things. The way she makes these little focused expressions when she's thinking. And she's so shy, but not in an annoying way, you know? It's like..."

"Mate, you're absolutely smitten," George said,"Are you going to tell her?"

"I don't even know how to start," Fred said, sounding frustrated. "She barely talks to me. That one time in Transfiguration she looked like I was going to murder her."

That's when you stepped back and accidentally kicked a suit of armor. The noise echoed through the hallway and your heart literally stopped.

You didn't wait to see if they came out. You just started walking really fast, then almost running, back to the Hufflepuff common room.

By the time you got there, your eyes were burning and your chest felt tight. Angelina. He liked Angelina. Of course he did. Everyone liked Angelina.

Lily found you sitting alone in the corner of the common room.

"You look sad," she said, sitting down next to you.

"Fred likes someone," you said, and your voice cracked a little. "I heard him talking to George. He's in love with her. Or getting there. And it's not me."

"How do you know it's not you?" Lily asked carefully.

"Because he said she was pretty and funny and smart, and that's... that's not me. That's Angelina." You felt tears start to come and you hated it. "And that's fine. That's good. Now I can stop thinking about him and just move on."

You hated how bitter you sounded. "So. Disaster averted. I never have to tell him anything because he's already interested in someone else."

"That doesn't sound like a disaster averted," Lily said carefully. "That sounds like a disaster."

"It's fine," you insisted, even though it really, truly wasn't.

Over the next week, you managed to avoid Fred completely. You sat on the opposite side of Herbology class, changed your route to the kitchens, and even skipped a Hogsmeade weekend because you were afraid of running into him. It was exhausting and ridiculous and you hated yourself for it, but you couldn't seem to help it.

~~~

The worst part was that you started noticing Fred with Angelina. The way they talked in the hallways. The way he looked at her. And it hurt in a way that was almost physical.

So you did what you always did when you were sad or nervous,you baked.

You were in the kitchens on Friday evening, making chocolate croissants, when Tippy approached you with an unusual expression.

"You have a visitor," the house elf said.

"I'm not expecting anyone," you said, not looking up from your dough.

"He's waiting by the entrance," Tippy said meaningfully.

Your hands froze. "He?"

But Tippy had already disappeared, and you had a pretty good idea who the "he" was. You considered ignoring it, just staying in the kitchens until he went away. But that was cowardly, and you were tired of being a coward.

Fred was leaning against the wall near the kitchens entrance, looking nervous in a way you'd never seen him look before. He had his hands shoved in his pockets and his hair was messy, like he'd been running his hands through it.

"Hi," he said when he saw you.

"Hi," you replied carefully.

"I've been trying to catch you all week," he said. "You're very good at disappearing."

"I've been busy," you said, which was a lie, and you were pretty sure he knew it was a lie.

"Look, I'm just going to say this because if I don't say it now I never will," Fred said, running a hand through his hair again. "I like you. Like, actually like you. And I know we've barely talked, and I know this is probably sudden and weird, but I heard you at the Transfiguration Project that one time, and you were so thoughtful about everything, and then I kept seeing you in the kitchens, and you're so focused and careful and you make these little expressions when you're concentrating, and—"

He stopped abruptly.

Your brain had stopped working somewhere around "I like you."

"The girl you were describing to George," you said slowly.

Fred's face went red. "How did you—oh no. Did you hear that? You heard that. You heard me talking to George. That's why you've been avoiding me."

"I thought you were describing Angelina," you said, which sounded incredibly stupid even as you said it.

"Angelina?" Fred looked genuinely confused. "Why would I be describing Angelina? I don't even know Angelina that well."

"You assumed I had a crush on Angelina, so you've been avoiding me all week?"

"I didn't know she wasn't the girl!" you said defensively. "I just knew I wasn't going to be any competition for her, so I figured I might as well accept it and move on."

Fred took a step closer to you. "You're completely insane if you think I'd pick Angelina over you."

"You don't even know me," you said, but your heart wasn't in it anymore.

"I want to," Fred said earnestly. "I've wanted to for months. I tried in Transfiguration, but you looked like I was going to murder you, so I figured I'd give you space. But I like you. And I know you're shy and quiet and you'd probably rather be literally anywhere else right now, but I had to tell you."

You stood there, dripping dough on your hands, looking at Fred Weasley, and realized that he was right. You were shy. You were quiet. And you would have preferred to be literally anywhere else. But at the same time, there was nowhere else you wanted to be.

"I like you too," you said quietly.

Fred's face broke into a smile that was so bright and genuine that you felt your chest constrict. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirmed. "For like... months, apparently."

"So you'll go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend?" he asked. "And maybe I can finally have a real conversation with you that doesn't involve you looking like you're contemplating my possible murder?"

"I can try," you said, and you almost smiled.

He grinned. "I'll take it."

~~~

After that first date, things moved pretty fast. Fred would wait for you after classes. You'd sit together at meals. He started coming to the kitchens more often, and instead of just watching you work, he'd steal kisses and tell you jokes and generally distract you.

But the best part was the easy way Fred accepted you. Your quietness. Your love of baking. Your need for silence and solitude. He never pushed you to be more outgoing or extroverted. He just fit himself into your life, and you fit yourself into his, and somehow it worked.

One afternoon in late, you were in the kitchens working on a batch of cinnamon rolls when Fred appeared.

"These smell incredible," he said, kissing the top of your head.

"They're for tomorrow's breakfast," you said, smiling. "But I might have made extras."

"You're the best," he declared, stealing one off the cooling rack. He bit into it and made a sound of pure contentment. "Mate, these are dangerous. I'm going to marry you just for the baking."

Your heart did a flip at the casual mention of marriage, even though you knew he was joking. Mostly joking. Maybe joking.

"You can't marry someone just for their baking," you said, trying to sound normal even though your entire nervous system was currently malfunctioning.

"Sure I can," Fred said, eating another roll. "It's a perfectly valid reason. Much more practical than the whole 'love' thing everyone talks about."

"You're ridiculous," you said, shaking your head.

"You love it though," he said, and he was right. You did. You loved his ridiculous jokes and his terrible puns and the way he made you laugh at things you'd normally be too shy to find funny.

~~~

You were trying really hard to focus on your assignment—something with dragon's blood and powdered moonstone, you thought. Professor Snape had paired you with Fred, which was either the best or worst thing that could happen depending on how you looked at it.

The problem was that Fred didn't seem interested in focusing on the potion at all.

"You're really pretty when you're concentrating," he said softly, leaning close to you.

Your face went hot immediately. You could feel the blush creeping up your neck, spreading across your cheeks. Around you, other students were working quietly, and you were very aware that Fred was being deliberately distracting.

"Focus on the potion," you said, trying to sound stern but probably just sounding flustered.

"I am focused," he said, his voice all warm and teasing. "I'm focused on you."

"Fred," you said, a warning in your voice, but you were smiling despite yourself.

"What?" he said innocently. "I'm just saying you look cute. Is that a crime?"

Your nervous system went into overdrive. He was looking at you with those warm eyes, that playful smile, and you could feel your heart doing backflips in your chest. Your hands were shaking a little as you stirred the potion.

"You're being distracting," you said, which was maybe the understatement of the century.

"Good," he said, and he reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "I like distracting you. You get all flustered and it's adorable."

That was it. Your brain short-circuited. Your nervous system took over. Without really thinking about it, you pushed his shoulder—just a little push, just enough to get him to back off and give you some space to breathe.

Except you pushed a little harder than you meant to.

Fred's chair, which he'd been leaning back in, tipped backward. His eyes went wide for just a second before he crashed to the ground with a loud BANG that echoed through the entire classroom.

The whole room went silent.

Everyone turned to stare. Professor Snape looked up from his desk with an expression of pure disdain.

Your face went so red you thought you might actually combust.

"Mr. Weasley," Snape said coldly, his voice dripping with disappointment. "Perhaps you could pay attention to your work instead of flirting with your partner."

"Yes, sir," Fred said, getting up and brushing himself off. He was grinning though, like falling off his chair was the funniest thing that had ever happened to him. "Won't happen again, sir."

You were walking quickly, trying to escape the embarrassment, when Fred caught up with you and grabbed your hand.

"I'm so sorry," you said immediately, your words tumbling over each other. "I didn't mean to push you that hard. I just got nervous and flustered and my body just reacted and—"

"Hey," Fred said, pulling you into a quiet corner near the stairs. "It was hilarious."

"It was mortifying," you said, covering your face with your hands.

"It was both," he said, gently pulling your hands away so he could see your face.

"This isn't funny," you said, but you were already smiling a little.

"It's the funniest thing that's happened to me all week," Fred said seriously. "You pushed me off a chair because I was flirting with you. That's the cutest thing I've ever seen."

"Stop saying adorable," you said, but you were laughing now too.

You hit his shoulder, and he caught your hand and kissed it before pulling you into a hug.

"I love you," he said into your hair.

~~~

Fred would jokingly flirt, just to see you get nervous and push him out of habit.He'd just laugh about it. Once you pushed him into a wall or when you accidentally elbowed him in the ribs.

"You're violent," he'd tease.

"You're distracting," you'd shoot back.

But you were smiling when you said it, and so was he.

[jenyluv]

MR & MRS—

Having worked together for years, you and Jungkook know exactly how to play your roles, going undercover as a married couple. But that’s until the act stops feeling like one.

PAIRING: detective!jk x detective!reader

GENRE: smut with a lot of plot

WORD COUNT: 8k

WARNINGS: some undercover crime solving, sexy&intelligent gone wrong, idrk what’s going on tbh, jk’s secretly a yearner, alcohol, elites being illegal like always, brief mentions of money laundering, gambling&blackmailing, they’re at an underground club, smut wise: exhibitionism (it just…keeps happening), dirty talk, oral (f recieving), hair pulling, he bends her over ofc, some more probably

NOTES: surprise! 2.0’s mv randomly inspired me to write this and it was supposed to be posted by friday but uh mark happened. this turned out to have so much more plot than i planned but it kinda just flowed that way. also lmk if you’d like a part 2!! enjoy <3

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Rain settles over London as if it’s seeking ownership.

Because in theory, rain does own the city of London, in its own, inscrutable way. It clings onto everything. From the glass windows of the club that are covered in a way that screams guilty, the stone railing that’s a little too romantic for a place like this, to your collarbones that stay exposed through the thick fabric of your coat— everything is decorated with small droplets of rain, creating a measured disorder that’s still stubborn enough not to leave no matter how hard you try to shake it off.

By the time the car pulls to a stop, it paints a black, sleek shadow beneath the streetlights. The street already looks polished; like it’s somewhere you don’t find yourself in unless it’s absolutely intentional, unless you’re assigned to be here, unless you have a purpose.

You watch it through the window for a little more than necessary, because every detail matters. You take notes of the grand spacing between the arrivals, the lack of hesitation at the entrance, the high chins and dark eyes of the men and women that are too powerful to face any consequences; every single one of these people belong here.

The driver opens the door of the backseat before you have time to even reach for the handle, blinking twice before stepping out to force confidence into your body. You move with ease, like you’ve practiced this a hundred times before, because you have. Because every ounce of authority in you is backed with years of practice.

Jungkook follows you a breath later, taking two large steps to claim his place right next to you, offering out an arm for you to hold onto. As he adjusts the black coat on his body, you slip your hand into the crook of his arm, fingers wrapping around his bicep.

The rain immediately catches in your hair, then the fabric on your shoulders, and then the exposed line of your collarbones. Jungkook opens the umbrella in his free hand before your blowout has time to budge out of place, holding it over your head without asking.

“Don’t scan too hard.” Jungkook says slowly, voice low enough to disappear beneath the crowd.

“Don’t teach me my job.” You mutter under your breath, eyes focused on the street instead of him.

Jungkook huffs out something between a breath and a laugh. “I’m not.” He says, adjusting the umbrella slightly, angling it so that it shields you more than himself. “I’m reminding you of it.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t forget what role you’re playing.”

He scoffs, but the corners of his mouth tilt despite himself. His posture shifts subtly, just enough to close the little space left between your bodies, like he’d been waiting for the cue.

“Please.” He huffs out, arm slipping out of yours to find your waist. His hand settles exactly where your waist curves inwards, wrapping around like it’s muscle memory. You straighten your posture at his touch, your shoulder brushing against his chest with each step you take.

Right ahead of you, the gravity around the entrance is so heavy it’s already pulling you in, before you can even acknowledge the warm coloured light painting the corners of the front door.

Jungkook leans into you, mouth grazing over your ear lightly, yet enough to let chills trail down your spine. “Camera over the left column.” He murmurs without looking, eyes flicking above the door so quickly even you almost don’t catch it. “Wide angle.” He continues.

“Mhm.’ You hum in response, a sweet yet calculated smile playing on your lips despite yourself. You place your right hand on top of his, intertwining your fingers where they sit on your waist. You pull him just a little closer to adjust your pace, slowing him down enough to fall in line with the queue of people ahead.

Up close, everything feels even more premeditated. The lighting frames the edges around the doorway instead of spilling naturally, catching in the marble in a golden hue. Two men are standing at the entrance, eyes scanning through until there isn’t an inch that’s not tainted by their gaze. They’re both in sleek black suits, dressed exactly the same as the white button-up underneath their jackets pick up the light in a way that’s too bright for a night like this.

“Good evening.” One of the men says when the two of you approach further. You don’t slow down, reaching the threshold arm in arm.

“Names?” He asks, eyes flicking between you and the list in his hand.

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate before speaking, filling in the silence half a second later. “Charles and Clara Beaumont.”

The man’s eyes linger on you for a second longer this time, scanning through the list as he matches and confirms whatever he has to.

“Of course.” He says after a beat, moving to the side just enough to offer you space to step inside. Jungkook’s hand finds the small of your back, settling in a way that grounds you, sending warmth through your body, even over the fabric of your coat.

You don’t react outwardly, not in a way that lets him know, but you do feel his touch. The inch of contact, every degree of pressure, the way it anchors you just enough to look real— feel real.

“Stay close.” He murmurs, and the door opens.

You think you’ve never entered a place more unwelcoming than whatever this is.

“Let’s not waste time.” Director Kang had said, leaning onto the table that’s placed in the middle of the meeting room as he pressed a few buttons on the control in his hand until the screen flickered to life.

A face appeared; a man with a controlled smile, a sharp navy suit, and the kind of confidence that’s effortless without needing any practice, because it had been perfected years ago.

Hugo Vane.

You already knew the name, Jungkook already knew the name, but knowing from afar and seeing are different things.

“Publicly,” Kang started, the pacing of his words measured yet nowhere near slow. “One of the most successful private investors across Europe. Real estate, insurance, hospitality. He’s in it all, has been called ‘transformational’ way too many times.”

Jungkook let out a quiet breath through his nose, tongue poking the inside of his cheek. “Of course.”

“Over the last ten years, he’s built a network of high end venues across Europe– almost half in England– that function as fronts for illegal gambling, money laundering, controlled blackmail; all of it tied to names you would never expect” He breathed.

“What’s crucial is, everything is recorded. Debts, favors, leverage; we can get our hands on everything. This opening in London isn’t a random celebration, it’s a consolidation point. Real transactions will happen in the private rooms, so the main floor is useless. Your objective is simple, get inside one of those rooms, doesn’t matter which for now. We need confirmation of what happens in there. But most importantly, we need access, we need to track every breath they take.” Kang paused, exhaling through his nose.

“This man might have blood on his hands.”

After letting the words settle in the room, Jungkook tilted his head, swinging left and right in his chair. “And we’re just walking into that?” He asked.

Kang inhaled. “You’re not just walking into it.” He said, eyes flicking between the two of you before switching onto the next slide.

Two photos of a couple flashed across the screen, attractive and well dressed in the same old way people with generational wealth are.

“Charles and Clara Beaumont,” Kang explained. “Married for six years, currently in Nice, unlikely to make it.”

Jungkook’s mouth curved into a lazy grin. “So we’re them.”

“You are.”

“Six years?” You added a beat later, head tilting slightly.

Jungkook leaned back in his chair, arm resting along the backrest. “Won’t take much time to look convincing.” He said, a small smirk on his face as his gaze flicked over to you.

“Gotta play your part well, Jeon.” You said, tone disinterested as your eyes still focused on the picture on the screen like it would tell you something if you stared hard enough.

A small smirk played out on his lips, cocky in a way that grew you eager to slap it off his face. “Oh, I won't be playing.’

You rolled your eyes, huffing out a short scoff. You didn’t respond to him further as your grip tightened around your pen, squinting your eyes at the man on the screen. “Backgrounds? Anything we shouldn’t look past?” You asked.

Kang nodded slowly. “Everything will be provided by tomorrow morning, study them before you fly out.”

He stepped away from the table, standing right in the middle of the two of you, hands on both your shoulders like he’s warning you. “You will not draw attention, and you will not break cover. Find the confirmation we need and leave before anyone suspects anything. Play safe this time, we’ll see what comes next when you fly back.”

“What if we get access to the recordings?” Jungkook asked.

“Great, but don’t compromise the mission for it. Like I said, play safe for now.” Kang said, Jungkook nodded once in response.

You crossed your arms over your chest, biting the corner of your lips. “What about surveillance?”

“Everywhere. Which means whatever you do,” Kang answered until Jungkook cut him off, leaning forward, settling his elbows on the table. “We have to sell it.”

Kang lookwd at him. “Yes.”

“--Champagne?” The server asks, cutting through the memory with a sharp edge. You blink once, letting the room fold back into place with no more than a subtle shiver. So subtle that even Jungkook almost misses it despite being so close to you, to the point where you can feel each other’s pulses thudding under your skin. 

Your body retakes everything all at once; the gold light, murmur of voices that let out no more than a few low chuckles, the weight of Jungkook’s hand still resting around your waist like it never left.

Something almost flutters in your chest. 

You reach for the tray, taking a glass without any hesitation. “Thank you.” 

Jungkook takes one a second later, body moving slower than yours. Because his attention is already completely elsewhere, eyes scanning through the crowd until they settle, digging silent holes into the nape of a certain someone’s neck. 

“Right side.” Jungkook murmurs when the server disappears, eyes still stuck on the said man. 

But you don’t turn around, now having years of experience in the job. Your hands reach for your purse, grabbing a hold of lipstick and a mirror. You drop the cap of the lipstick into your purse before opening the mirror with one hand, reapplying your lipstick as your eyes scan around the whole venue through the small mirror. 

You take half a step to your left before he comes into your sight. Dark eyes, sharp jawline, navy suit tailored to fit his body without a single crease, exactly like Hugo Vane.

But younger. 

“Hugo’s son.” You answer quietly, eyes on the mirror as you pat the lipstick lightly onto your lips. Jungkook’s eyes flick towards you for a beat, towards your lips. It lasts shorter than a second, maybe less than half a second, but it does happen. And you notice. 

Jungkook hums, grip tightening on your waist. “Thought so.” 

The man moves through the room without stopping, like he doesn’t need to, because it’s being cleared for him before he can have the time to complain. It’s not obvious, there is no dramatic space as he steps through, but there is a quiet shift in people’s demeanour. The way conversations pause just enough, the way bodies angle themselves just slightly, the way the room bends and molds around him and not the way around. 

You try not to drown in the space he leaves behind, because it doesn’t settle, it knocks your breath out in a way you don’t know how to explain. You don’t get anxious often– no, you never get anxious. But something about the way he silently grabbed the room and bent it without anyone noticing causes something unsettling to form somewhere in your stomach. 

How he moves is enough to tell you he’s not just wandering, he’s leading something. You don’t follow him immediately, letting the time stretch and the distance breathe. But Jungkook does still for a second, hand dropping from your waist until it wraps somewhere between your wrist and hand. 

Your eyes briefly flick over to the hall he disappears behind, watching the way the door swings back and forth ever so subtly. Of course, Jungkook notices your stare, eyes following the direction of your gaze. 

“That’s our way in.” He says, his hand holding yours properly now. 

“That’s not a way in.” You mutter through your teeth. “That’s access we don’t have.” 

He shifts his body slightly, adjusting you along with him so that you’re angled the opposite way. “That’s access we will have.” 

He pulls you fully now, your face almost crashing into his back as he moves without a warning. Jungkook walks fast as you trail behind, taking steps that are short, yet as swift as the height of your heels allow.

When you’re halfway through the corridor, Jungkook pulls you closer into him. But it’s different to the closeness you’ve been maintaining so far. This time, you feel his cologne filling up your nostrils every time he shifts, the way his chest rises and falls whenever he breathes. This time, he pulls you so close that turning your head means something you don’t want to say out loud. 

So you don’t. 

“Someone’s watching.” He says into your ear, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know.” You reply, back pressed into his. Of course you know, because someone has been watching. Someone has been watching you for so long that the feeling of it transitions into a pattern, the kind you notice even when you try not to. Here, people don’t scan, neither do they hold your gaze; but they do reappear. You swear you see the same people all at the same places at the same times; like they’re circling around certain spots ith purpose rather than simply attending an opening.

“Good.” Jungkook says before turning you around, thumb pressing lightly against your wrist. Maybe it’s a cue, maybe it’s a warning, you have no idea which. Because there’s no time for you to figure it out, because Jungkook leans in when you expect it the least.

He’s so much closer than necessary, closer than professional, and the way your body reacts is just as– maybe even more– unprofessional. 

His voice drops by an octave, words escaping his lips before they disappears somewhere on your skin. “Then let’s give them something to look at.” 

He pulls your body closer into his by your hands, hooking them around his neck before he lets his hands drop down to your waist. You take notice of how slow they move, because they don’t really drop down, they slide.

It feels intentional, like he’s actually caressing your body with care instead of putting on a show. Your breath catches before you can stop yourself. And even though

you get it together quickly, Jungkook notices. 

“Relax.” He says, forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot against your skin. 

“I am relaxed, but you’re overdoing it.” You say, hands settling where he put them. 

“No, you’re underdoing it.” Your jaw tightens at the words, and you almost roll your eyes. Almost, because right now, you definitely have way too much attention on you to slip even a little. 

So despite your words, your hands move. They scratch the nape of his neck before disappearing in his hair, fingers curling lightly until they’re tangled inside. 

“Your left,” You whisper against his mouth. “Same man, still watching.” 

“Mhm.” He hums. “Let him.” But his eyes are already closed, body leaning even more into yours as if there is any space left. Your hands drop from his hair to his shoulders, and before you know it, Jungkook’s lips are on yours. 

It takes you a second to shake yourself out of the shock, letting yourself melt into the kiss as his soft lips move on yours with ease, like they belong there, like this is normal for you to do. Your eyes flutter shut, hands roaming all around his shoulders. You flinch when he gives your ass a squeeze, sending a tingle through your legs. 

One of his hands raises up until it reaches your face, cupping your cheek as his thumb trails softly along your jaw. He forces your mouth open with his thumb, pulling down your bottom lip slowly, and you grant him access without thinking. 

A small moan escapes your lips when his tongue slides into your mouth, and Jungkook swears his pants are going to rip right on spot if you keep sounding like that. He feels something fluttering in his chest, something he knows he has been suppressing for a long time now. So he just pulls you closer, and lets his mind drift away from anything and everything for just second, focusing on you only. 

Until someone clears their throat. 

“Mr. and Mrs–” 

Your whole body stills, unable to move even an inch. But that’s fine, because couples like this don’t break apart for interruptions. Jungkook lets his teeth pull onto your bottom lip for one last time before breaking apart, slow enough so that you can gather yourself. 

He does pull away, but his hand doesn’t leave your waist. And for a split second, he doesn’t even turn his head. 

“--Beaumont.” The staff continues. 

Both of you shift your gazes towards him, acting completely calm and unbothered. “Yes?” Jungkook asks politely, brows raised only slightly. 

The man gives you a measured smile. “Mr. Vane is a man of discretion.” 

Touché

“If you would like somewhere more private,” He continues, gesturing subtly towards a door somewhere along the corridor. “We can accommodate you.” 

There it is. 

Though, you don’t answer immediately, letting the question rest for a second or two in order to make it feel real. Not eager, not hesitant, but rather like it’s something you’re used to. 

Jungkook glances down at you, offering a look that’s not really asking, because he already knows the answer. Just something that’s checking, something that lets him know everything is fine. You tilt your head slightly, the corner of your mouth lifting just enough so that Jungkook notices, yet the man doesn’t. 

He turns his head towards the man. “Of course.” 

The man steps aside, letting the corridor fall open and twist into something darker. Jungkook’s hand shifts at your waist, guiding you through the hall. And this time, you just let yourself melt into the comfort of his presence. Because resistance doesn’t really mean anything anymore. Because you know that somewhere along your performance, something slipped. The control, the acting– whatever you call it. What’s important is that neither of you really acknowledged it. 

The door closes behind you softly, a sound that’s too little for a door this heavy. It doesn’t really echo, doesn’t physically linger either. But still, for a second, you can’t find it in yourself to move. You don’t have to look at Jungkook to know he hasn’t either, you can feel it in the way the air shifts around him. His legs don’t carry him anywhere when the door clicks shut, eyes roaming around the room as the rest of his body stays still.

The room is quieter than you expect it to be. It’s not empty, not silent; there’s music humming faintly from somewhere behind, walls filtering out the bass until it nearly doesn’t even reach your ears. But somehow, you still feel it thudding under your ribs, hard and heavy until it stings somewhere you can’t quite reach. 

But everything feels more uncomfortable than you imagined, because even in a room as private as this one, there is intention behind every little detail. The deep brown of the leather couch, the two untouched glasses on the table already filled with whiskey too bitter for your taste, the light that’s even dimmer, even warmer compared to the outside– everything is arranged like they expect you to sit, to drink, to stay.

To forget. 

When you take a step forward, heels sinking into the carpet, Jungkook’s hand doesn’t leave your waist. 

If anything, it settles deeper. 

Jungkook shifts his weight from one leg to the other, his chest pressing closer into your back as he leans in slightly, just enough for his mouth to brush your ear. “Two cameras.” He whispers. “One above the mirror, one across the wall.” 

You don’t look, because you never do, because you never have to when it’s Jungkook who warns you. Instead, your hand moves to your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear as your gaze drifts lazily across the room, a little relieved that you’re finally where you’re supposed to be, doing what you’re supposed to do. 

Your fingers graze the edges of the mirror on the wall, mentally taking a note on how something is off about it, in a way you can’t exactly point a finger on. The frame feels too smooth on your skin, too flat for something that’s embroidered romantically. 

Your reflection stares back at you the same way it always does. Hair perfect, posture straight, lipstick faintly smudged because of the kiss you just shared; it’s completely untouched. 

But something is still off. The angle is wrong, your frame is slightly delayed, the glass is too clean that it’s suspicious. And finally, as your fingers keep grazing around the edges in hopes of finding something worth pocketing, something red winks at you. 

“They’re recording.” You say, voice breathy, almost distracted. 

Jungkook hums lowly behind you, eyes focused elsewhere. “Of course they are.” 

His hand leaves your waist for the first time since you walked in, stepping aside to take everything in properly. His absence hits you immediately, skin turning cold beneath the fabric on your body without the warmth of his touch. You try to ignore the feeling, you really do, but it lingers somewhere between the light chill of the room, and your pulse that’s now a little loud. Too loud that you feel it thud in your ears. 

But suddenly, something louder than the hard pulsing of rhythms fly in from behind. It doesn’t come from the hallway– no, it’s deeper than that. The voices are muffled, the words are whispered discreetly and are chosen with care; private enough to pull a tight knot in your stomach. 

You still without realizing, eyes widening only slightly as your hands rub themselves onto the sides of your coat. Jungkook notices it immediately, eyes shifting onto you before he lets his hand find yours. His fingers slip between yours, gliding with ease as if this is the most natural thing for you to do. His hold grounds you. You have no idea how or why, but it does, and your grip tightens around his beneath awareness. 

Jungkook had never been easy to read. 

You’ve shared way too many long flights, way too many late night debriefs. Yes, he was a little too flirty sometimes. And yes, you were aware of his attraction towards you. But you never thought it was anything near serious. At the end of the day, you were just coworkers who, in reality, couldn’t even properly get along.

Despite his cocky and flirty persona, Jungkook isn't a careless man. He never lets something slip before weighing it over and over again, never lets something mean too much.

You always thought it meant nothing to him, that he was just acting a certain way to get on your nerves, that this was just the kind of person he is.

Oh boy were you wrong. 

“Wall behind the couch.” You say, gesturing towards where the voices are coming from. Jungkook turns slightly, angling his body just enough to follow the line of your sight without making it obvious. 

There’s a panel there, a seamless way that leans into another room, almost invisible even to you despite how carefully you’re looking for it. Somewhere between a breath and a flick of your eyes, Jungkook moves. His body works around yours swiftly, turning you before you can process it, pressing your back into the wall you had just been gesturing at. 

Your breath catches, more from the sudden closure than anything else, your hands instinctively finding his chest as he closes the distance between you. The room, the air, even voices; everything feels smaller like this. Like it’s just the two of you and no one else who are existing in this space. 

“What are you doing?” You ask under your breath, but it doesn’t land the way it usually does. Because he’s already closer than what’s professional, closer than what’s safe. 

Jungkook lifts his index finger, placing it on top for your lips. “Shh.” He shushes you, brows raised slightly. 

A voice filters in, dark and hoarse. “...this wasn’t part of what we shook hands on.” 

Something shifts on the other side of the wall, distorted in a way that doesn’t allow you to hear everything properly. “We can make a few adjustments.” Another man answers, his tone noticeably calmer. 

“Hugo’s son.” Jungkook whispers, his eyes staring right into yours. 

You grab his hand, pushing it off your face with a huff. “What even is his name?” You ask, face scrunched in confusion at the sudden realization. 

Jungkook shrugs, letting the voices of the two men fill in the room. “That’s not how your father cooperates.”

“My father isn’t here tonight.” 

Your breath stills, wide eyes lifting up to catch Jungkook’s, filled with unease. 

How the fuck is Hugo not here? 

That throws everything off. Because Hugo Vane not being here doesn’t feel like an absence, it makes you feel his presence even more, settling under your bones with an ache you don’t like. Because if Hugo isn’t here, because if he didn’t even bother getting out of his way to come here, this isn’t just an opening that covers a few illegal exchanges. It’s something else entirely, something that has been in motion for a lot longer than you knew of. 

And whatever you walked into tonight is bigger than the room you’re standing in. 

The other man starts. “If anything goes wrong–” 

“It won’t.” Hugo’s son cuts him off, voice steady like it’s forcing everything into exactly where he wants.. There’s a pause, a beat filled with silence before he continues. “Everything is already in place.”

The words sound like a trap. 

When your eyes flick back to Jungkook, you realize he’s already looking at you, eyes a little too empty to your liking. He looks like he’s thinking about nothing and everything at the same time. So you lift your hand, shoving his chest lightly to recollect his attention. 

“Jungkook, focus.” You murmur through your teeth. 

But he doesn’t react immediately, not properly at least, because his hand is still holding yours, his arm is still around your waist. And instead of loosening his hold or giving you space to breathe, his grip tightens, fingers curling around you like he’s trying to ground the two of you at the same time.

Then, his hand moves. Not away, of course not. It shifts from your waist, sliding down to your hips. Though the movement is slow, like he’s giving himself time to stop, to pull back into whatever control he has been holding onto all night. 

And you can’t find it in you to move. 

“They’re watching.” He says quietly, thumb grazing circles on your hip. 

There’s no fucking way he’s doing that as performance. 

“I know.” You respond, eyes stuck on his like they’ll bleed into blindness if you tear them away. Your voice is softer now, breathy in a way that makes Jungkook lose his mind, not that he’d ever tell you. 

But right now, you too know that something shifted, that this doesn’t feel like just a show anymore. 

Jungkook exhales through his nose, slow and rough, closing his eyes along with the breath he lets out. “I’ve been trying not to do this.” He starts, taking a step closer as if it’s possible. “But you’re making it so fucking hard.” 

For a second, you consider pretending to not understand what he means, almost tilting your head with oblivious eyes. But halfway, you decide against it, sharply inhaling the breath he just exhaled. 

But the space between you is too little– no, it doesn’t even exist anymore. The room feels smaller, the air feels thicker, and the muffled voices of the two men disappear completely behind the wall when he lets his body lean a little more into yours. 

At your lack of response, Jungkook lifts the hem of your coat, giving your ass a squeeze above the thin fabric of your dress. You moan involuntarily, head falling back until it hits the hard wall behind you, a little harsher than you would’ve guessed. 

“Tell me to stop now.” He says, voice low in a way that’s barely above a whisper. “Because I won’t.” 

You crash your lips into his. 

Maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s the walls, or maybe the fact that you’re being watched and still choosing this anyway. 

Or maybe, it’s just him. 

You don’t know, you can’t even think straight right now. Because the second your lips meet his, everything else collapses into a haze, way too easily. You lose your last remaining hold on everything you’ve been trying to build since even before you stepped out of the car tonight. The mission, Hugo, his son, anything and everything that’s currently going on behind the wall, even the cameras you’re fully aware of– they all blur into something distant. 

You’ll deal with those later. 

A swift feeling of surprise takes over Jungkook when it’s you who breaks the tension first, but he melts into the kiss without giving you time to recalibrate your actions. Your hands settle on his shoulders, fiddling with the thick fabric of his coat before slipping it down his shoulders, letting it fall onto the floor. Once it’s off, your hands move quickly on his dress shirt, unbuttoning it eagerly. 

Jungkook lets out a groan at your touch, because he feels what’s underneath it immediately. The way you stop hesitating and start pulling him instead, the way your hands grip his shirt like you mean it, like you’re not just letting this happen.

You’re choosing this.

That’s what knocks the air out of his lungs more than anything else tonight. Because just hours ago, he was ready for resistance, he was ready for control, he has been doing it for years. Acting like you’re nothing more than occasional partners who don’t even get along for

the most part. He was ready for you to push him away if he went too far with the role, if he played it a little too well. He was ready to stop if you wanted to. 

But he wasn’t ready for this. 

He wasn’t ready for you, for your lips to meet, rid of any ounce of hesitation, like you’ve been wanting this too. 

He squeezes your ass again, with both hands this time, needing to feel every inch of your body. His eyes flutter uncontrollably when you let out another dreamy moan, something that sounds like an angelic melody to his ears. He pulls you closer by the hips, then thrusts his own to meet you halfway, biting his lip harshly at the contact. 

“Please, Jungkook.” You cry out, thrusting your hips into his once again, by yourself this time, desperate for a touch, an ounce of friction– anything.

“Please what, baby?” Jungkook responds with a question, his hot breath hitting the exposed skin of your neck, trailing all the way down to your collarbones. “Use your words, I know you can.” 

Your hands continue moving on his shoulder, sliding off his shirt once you’re done with the buttons. You find yourself needing to take a moment at the sight of his bare chest, because it’s better than any you’ve seen before. Soft, toned– maybe even a little too toned– so bare and so pretty, all for you to touch. 

Your hands roam around his chest, tracing lines along his abs. Jungkook has to bite his cheek to suppress any unplanned sounds that he realizes are way more likely to slip than he thought now that he actually feels your touch on his body.  

“Not gonna fucking beg for this.” You squeeze his shoulders, nails digging deeply into his bare skin, letting your back lean even more into the wall. 

Fuck.

Jungkook has thought about this.

In quieter moments, in between meetings and conversations when you were standing a little too close, in places where he shouldn’t have; he’s thought about it all. The way your voice would drop by and octave when you were focused, the way your skirt would ride up your thigh when you leaned in just a little lower, the way your hand would brush his like it meant nothing.

It never meant nothing to him.

He’d always pushed it down. Because this was work, because you were his partner, because he knew you better than to ruin something that functioned this well.

But now, your hands are all over his body, moving and pulling him in instead of stopping. Your lips are so fucking soft against his, making his chest tighter and head emptier until there isn’t a single coherent thought left inside. 

“Fucking tease.” Jungkook says before lifting your dress up, letting it pool around your waist. Your lips curl up in victory when he pulls your panties to the side, flicking the lips of your pussy with two fingers, feeling your slick coat his fingers. 

He plays with your clit, rubbing circles with his thumb as his two other fingers slide in and out of your wet, aching hole. Your eyes immediately fall shut at the contact, inhaling sharply when he curls his fingers at an angle he knows will make you see stars. 

Then he falls to his knees. 

Your eyes flutter open the moment you hear the way his knees hit the hard floor, lips parting as you’re taken aback by whatever he’s doing. You look down to him, brows furrowed in

confusion in a way that asks. But Jungkook doesn’t respond, he only gives you a smirk after looking up, then flicks his gaze back down again. 

His fingers wrap around the lace fabric of your black panties, pulling them down in a way that’s painfully slow considering the waterfall between your thighs right now. When the thin piece of fabric pools down on the floor, you lift your foot, kicking it to the side with your heels. 

“Jungkook,” You gasp loudly when he lifts one of your legs, hooking it over his shoulder. He starts by trailing kisses up your thighs, one hand wrapped around the soft flesh in order to steady your body. Your hands fly onto his hair before you can think, fisting and pulling at it as he gets closer and closer to your core. 

“Oh my god,” You moan, looking down at him as his tongue laps against your swollen pussy. His fingers flick your lips open, easing it up for him to work his tongue. Jungkook groans as you tug onto his hair harder, licking your pussy as if he’s savoring the taste of every flavour on his tongue. 

Your thighs clam around his head, closing with a shake you have no idea how to control. Your nails dig into your own palms by how hard you’re holding onto him, stinging in a way that’s almost painful. 

“Shit, ‘m so close.” You whimper as heat pools low in your stomach, twisting and curling so hard that you feel your legs giving out. 

“Sweetest pussy ever.” Jungkook pulls away for a split second before connecting his mouth back onto your throbbing pussy, his tongue flattening right at the part where it pulses the heaviest. 

“Jungkook, fuck.” You cum hard with a scream of his name, your head falling back onto the wall so fast it almost hurts. Jungkook licks you through your orgasm, his fingers that were once separating your lips now rubbing circles on your clit until you’re fully out of your high. 

Your breath doesn’t settle when he stands again, coming back up to his feet so fast, as if being away from you for even a second feels unbearable. You hold onto his arms to regain

your balance, and no more than a second passes before Jungkook’s lips find yours again. 

“Gonna bend you over and take you right fucking here.” Jungkook says, grunting as he pulls back. He turns you around, then pushes you over the backrest of the leather couch until your ass is perfectly aligned and in sight. Jungkook palms the soft flesh of your skin, gripping and squeezing as he tries unzipping his pants with his free hand. 

His dick springs out once his boxer is down his thighs, slapping against his abs immediately. He gives his already hardened length a few strokes before lining it up your entrance, flicking your folds with his tip, all red and angry, eager to fuck you into oblivion until your eyes roll back so hard it hurts to not see his face through the darkness. 

You whimper loudly when Jungkook enters you with a hard slam, back arching into the air instinctively. His hand settles on your waist, gripping firmly as the other doesn’t leave your waist. Your pussy feels so tight and warm around his cock, and Jungkook thinks he’s going to burst out. 

“Can’t believe you’ve been hiding yourself from me for years.” Jungkook says, words coming out shaky due to how hard he’s pounding into you. “Played so hard to get when you’re really just a slut.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” You spit back through grithed teeth, trying to suppress your moans by burying your head into the couch. Jungkook lets out a cocky chuckle that twists your nerves even more, but the annoyance is quickly swollen up by how good he’s pounding into you. 

He reaches for your dress, pulling down the fabric on your chest until the swell of your boobs spill out through your bra. Jungkook pulls down your bra next, your tits coming full on display

with a bounce. He moans when his palms settle on your soft boobs, fingers flicking and pinching your nipples until your pussy aches even harder with the sensation. 

“Right there, oh my god, right fucking there.” You choke out with the little energy you have left, feeling your orgasm closer than ever. Jungkook fists your hair when you least expect it, yanking you up so that your back arches further and his bare chest grazes over your body. 

You moan out shaky curses, not even aware of what you’re saying anymore as he keeps pounding into you from behind. Tears prickle up at the corners of your eyes, Jungkook’s grip getting tighter and tighter in your hair as he nears his high. 

“Shit,” Jungkook whimpers, dick twitching inside your walls. “Where do you want me?” He asks, voice so low and breathy that it sends you over the edge. 

“Fuck, want it inside. Don’t you dare pull out.” You say, feeling your orgasm build as his thrusts transition into something messy and sloppy.

“Oh yeah?” He breathes, pushing your body back onto the couch, his grip on your waist tightening. 

Jungkook cums hard with a loud groan, emptying all of himself into you. You push yourself back on his dick a few times before your orgasm also rips through, crying out at both how hard you’re cumming, and how good he’s filling you up. 

There’s a beat where he doesn’t pull out, cock softening inside you as his forehead presses between your shoulderblades, his unsteady breath feeling hot on your skin. Your breath also doesn’t settle instantly, chest rising unevenly as the weight of him suddenly feels too heavy on your skin. Everything falls back into place one by one, your vision drifting back as you come down from your high. The warmth of the dim lights, the closed door that’s hiding way too much behind, the quiet hum of voices that are muffled together behind the walls– it all returns all at once, like you’re being forced back into reality after being somewhere else entirely. 

Jungkook’s hand is still on your waist, grip still firm as if he hasn’t realized he has to let you go– or maybe he just doesn’t want to let you go. 

When Jungkook slides out of you, you push yourself up slightly, your body still slower than your head. “Jungkook,” You start, voice rough.

You feel his body still above you, a shift that’s so subtle yet still enough for you to feel. The realization hits him the same moment it hits you, his hand loosening on your waist.

“Cameras.” You finish, voice soft and quiet despite the weight of your words. 

That’s all it takes for Jungkook to blink back into reality, pulling back fast as if distance has the power to fix everything just like that. But surprise surprise, it won’t. 

That’s when a sound cuts through the walls, something so faint that for a second, you think that even you might have missed it. But you don’t, because you never do. You flinch regardless, fingers tightening slightly where they rest against him. 

Jungkook feels it instantly, head snapping towards the door before he flicks his gaze back to you, leaning down just a little. “What?” He murmurs in your ear, voice low in a way that’s barely above a whisper.

You don’t answer, you can’t bring yourself to answer, because nothing that’s going through your head sounds coherent as words. Your head turns slightly when another muffled voice comes through somewhere behind the right wall, tilting enough to catch the direction without making it obvious. Jungkook follows without looking, shifting and leaning closer by just half an inch, instinctively hovering his body above yours. 

His chest rises and falls harder than his usual breathing, eyes flicking around the room, reevaluating everything you’ve terribly miscalculated. “Fuck.” He mutters under his breath.

“You’re overreacting.” Someone says, voice calm and controlled, so much that it makes your stomach twist. 

“I’m not overreacting, they went into one of the rooms.” Another voice replies, but it’s sharper this time. Dressed in a worry that doesn’t even try to rival how composed the previous man was. 

Jungkook’s hand tightens around the backrest of the couch, leaning his body weight onto his hands above you. Your breath gets caught in your throat, stomach dropping in a way that’s almost unprofessional. 

“Which room?” The calmer man asks. 

There’s a pause after that, maybe a flick over the keyboard, maybe a shift of screening, you don’t know which. But the soft clicking that’s somehow heard even from where you are is enough for you to freeze beneath the warmth of Jungkook’s body. 

“Doesn’t matter, we’re flagging everything.” 

Fuck.

Jungkook’s grip stills on you completely, his wide eyes staring wordlessly into the wall as yours are stuck on his chest. Unable to move, unable to speak. 

“Do we know who they are?”

“Not yet.” 

With that, you exhale slowly, letting out the breath that has been stuck in you ever since the first subtle shift behind the walls. You know this doesn’t give you much time, hell, it would probably be criminal to call whatever this is some time. But right now, you’ll take anything you can. Because everything feels so fucking unavoidable. 

“Run it through the system.” The second voice requests. “Faces, behavior, track everything.” 

“They won’t make it out without us knowing,” The first voice finishes. You hear the faint scraping of the chairs, footsteps that are closer and closer as time passes by, movement that’s too animatic to be real, it all hits your ear in a hue. Suddenly, the door clicks, and they’re gone just like that. 

For a second, it feels like they’re still right behind the wall, their presence burning holes through your body without even catching sight of your eyes. Like they’re still listening, still watching, waiting.

But then, somewhere between the third and fourth breath you exhale, the sound starts fading and fading until they’re finally out of your reach. 

But you don’t know if that’s a good thing or not, because it’s still not quiet enough. The constellation of Jungkook’s uneven breaths mixed with yours rip through the air until it feels unbearable to exist in the same space anymore. 

Because now, your fingers curl tighter against Jungkook’s shirt for a different reason entirely. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes filled with something that indicates he understood everything at exactly the same time as you. And it’s nowhere near controlled. 

“They flagged the room.” You whisper, wide eyes looking up at him in a way that causes Jungkook to curse at himself for thinking with his dick in a situation like this. 

His jaw tightens. “Yeah.” 

Your mind races, trying to recollect everything until they stick together again. “And the system-” 

He cuts you off. “It’s already running.” 

Your voice drops as you start blinking so fast it hurts. “Shit, Jungkook, what do we do? They fucking saw us.”

You hate how he doesn’t deny it, how he doesn’t even try to soften it. Because it’s there, everything already happened in a way that’s way too ugly to be repairable, way too real to be covered with a lie. 

Jungkook calls your name, slow and calculated. “They’re looking for us.” 

The way those words land is so much worse than whatever you had registered previously, leading your chest to tighten until it leaves no space for your breath to exist in your lungs. Everything you just did, everything you just heard– You’re not ahead anymore, you’re inside it, you’re caught right in the middle of everything you were told to stay away from. 

You make a mental note of torturing yourself for the way your chest flutters when Jungkook’s hand finds yours, grip firm like he’s scared to let you go, like he’s scared something might happen to you. 

“We need to move.” He says, eyes scanning around the room for anything that’s even the smallest thread. But when it comes to actually moving, neither of you really act on it. 

Because you both know the mission isn’t the only thing at risk anymore.

would love to hear what you think <3

[magicalmatcha]

— all mine

❝we had our downs but we had way more ups,let's make love❞

pairing — firelord zuko! x fem!earthbender!reader

synopsis — who was surprised when you and zuko were the first in the gaang to get pregnant?

content — fem!reader, mature content (17+), suggestive themes, mention of sex, no actual plot really, indulgent fic, takes place seven years before the legend of aang (which takes placed 12 years after ATLA) so Zuko is 22 and Reader is 21, no use of yn, not proofread

author's note — I didn't watch the leaks yet just clips and if I do I'll still be watching the movie to support the animators

The Princess of the Fire Nation, though she often felt that, as the wife of the Fire Lord, she deserved a far grander title, sat before her vanity, studying her reflection. One by one, she had dismissed her maids, choosing instead to prepare for bed on her own. In truth, the new trending fragrance they all insisted on wearing had begun to make her nauseous.

Though, lately, everything seemed to make her sick.

“Aang sent a letter.”

She hadn’t even heard him enter.

Slowly, she turned to face her husband, a faint crease forming between her brows. “My love, you spend all day in council, and the first thing you do after not seeing me for hours is talk more about the council?” she teased lightly, though there was a hint of tiredness beneath it. She turned back to the mirror, picking up her hairbrush and dragging it gently through her hair.

“Well, love, this isn’t about the council. Technically,” he replied, stepping further into the room. “It’s about Aang. He needs our help.”

“Our help?” She turned again, confusion softening her features as she rose from the vanity. Her green satin nightgown draped elegantly over her figure, the gold stitching catching the candlelight with every movement. The most prominent change, however, was the gentle, undeniable curve of her stomach.

“You knocked me up, dummy,” she teased, a small smile tugging at her lips as she approached him. Her hands slid to his shoulders, then to the ties of his robes, beginning to loosen them with practiced ease. “Or did you forget already?”

He laughed softly, the sound low and fond, allowing her to help him out of his robes as the fabric slipped from his shoulders.

“How could I forget?” he murmured, turning toward her.

His gaze drifted over her slowly, appreciatively, before settling on the curve of her stomach. His hands followed, almost instinctively, coming to rest there, warm, steady, protective. His thumbs brushed gentle circles over the satin, as if he could feel something deeper beneath it.

“When you carry the future of the Fire Nation inside you?” he said quietly, his voice softening. “A little piece of me…”

His eyes lifted to meet hers, something tender and unguarded flickering there.

“And all of you.”

She hummed softly, rising onto her tiptoes as her arms slipped around his neck, drawing him down to her. Her lips met his in a gentle, fleeting kiss, soft, familiar, almost teasing.

But when she tried to pull away, he didn’t let her.

His hand tightened at her waist, the other still resting protectively against her stomach as he followed her retreat, capturing her lips again before the distance could grow. Even as her heels lowered back to the floor, he bent with her, closing the space she had tried to create.

This time the kiss deepened, slower, warmer, lingering in a way that stole the breath from her lungs. It wasn’t hurried, but it wasn’t soft either; it carried weight, intention, something unspoken between them.

His thumb brushed lightly against her side as he tilted his head, pressing closer, as if memorizing her. The world beyond them seemed to fade, the council, the letter, everything, leaving only the quiet crackle of candlelight and the steady rhythm of shared breath.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far, just enough for their foreheads to rest together, his lips still ghosting over hers, reluctant to let her go.

“I can’t get you pregnant again, can I? Double pregnant,” he teased, a grin tugging at his lips.

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head at him. “Oh, you’ve certainly tried,” she replied, her voice laced with amusement. Her hand lingered briefly against his chest before she stepped back, just enough to create space between them. “But don’t try again, I need this thing out of me first.” "I don't know if I love you referring to our child as a thing."

She separated from him fully then, turning slightly as if to busy herself, though she didn’t miss the way his shoulders subtly slumped at the loss of contact. The warmth between them lingered in the space she left behind, unspoken but felt.

Her fingers adjusted the sleeve of her gown absentmindedly, her expression softening for just a moment before she glanced back at him over her shoulder. There was still a hint of her earlier smile there, though now tempered with curiosity.

“Now,” she said, more gently this time, “tell me what Aang wants.”

"That can wait for the morning." He mumbled, his eyes never leaving her lips as he pulled her back into another kiss.

“A village?”

Zuko sighed, steadying Appa’s harness as he helped his wife climb aboard. “Why would he possibly want us to go to a random village?” And why would he say pack a coat? We're going to a mountain aren't we?" she huffed, gripping the edge before finally pulling herself over with a bit more effort than she liked. "I hate mountains."

He lingered below for a moment, looking up at her, concern etched into his features. “Are you sure it’s a good idea for you to go? You can stay—I’ll be back in a couple days.”

She leaned over the edge slightly, brows knitting. “Aang needs the second-best earthbender with him, Zuko. I’m not disabled—”

She winced mid-sentence, her hand instinctively going to her stomach before she turned toward Toph. “Sorry.”

Toph shrugged easily. “Hey, I’m just glad you finally admitted I’m the better earthbender.”

“I give you your flowers when they’re due,” she shot back with a small smile.

Toph grinned, but it slowly faltered, her head tilting slightly as if listening to something no one else could hear. "Your heart must be beating really fast." "Is it?" The princess quirked her head confused. "Why else am I hearing two heartbeats coming from you?”

Katara gasped, her hands flying together in delight. “Oh my gosh, you’re pregnant! I thought your coat was just oddly bulky but you're pregnant! Oh my Gosh!" she exclaimed, immediately rushing forward to wrap the Fire Princess in a tight hug. “I thought they were just rumors, because surely you and Zuko would’ve told us!”

The princess blinked, caught off guard, before her gaze slid over to her husband, who was just now hauling himself rather ungracefully into Appa’s saddle.

“Zuko,” she said slowly, one brow arching, “I thought you told them.”

Zuko froze mid-step, staring back at her blankly. “I thought you did.”

There was a beat.

“Oh my gosh.”

“I mean, it was only a matter of time,” Katara chimed in, smiling knowingly. “You two have never exactly been subtle. And Zuko practically insisted on marrying you the moment he could.”

Toph snorted, crossing her arms. “Yeah, honestly? I’m surprised it took this long. Thought for sure you’d have a whole lineup of heirs by now if Zuko could keep his hands to himself for more than, what? two minutes?”

Zuko nearly choked, his face flushing a deep, unmistakable red. “That’s— I—” He cleared his throat, straightening awkwardly as he avoided everyone’s eyes. “That’s not— we’re not—”

The princess, however, looked entirely unbothered.

In fact, she looked amused.

“Well,” she said lightly, smoothing a hand over her stomach as she glanced at him, “he does have a bit of a… lack of restraint.”

Zuko snapped his head toward her. “You’re not helping.”

Katara laughed, covering her mouth. “I mean, you can’t blame them. You’ve both been—” she hesitated, searching for a polite word before giving up, “—like that since the beginning.”

Toph grinned wider. “Please. ‘Like that’ is putting it nicely.”

“Toph,” Katara warned, though she was still smiling.

“What?” Toph shrugged. “I’m just saying—half the time, I didn’t even need my feet to know when they were in the same room. The tension alone was loud enough.”

The princess let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You’re all incredibly annoying.”

Zuko groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Can we please focus on the actual reason we’re here?”

“Oh, no, no,” Toph continued, clearly enjoying herself. “You deserve this. All those nights you two kept everyone awake—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” the princess cut in quickly, though a smile tugged at her lips. She glanced at Zuko, amused. “He can’t get any redder. He’s about to turn into a tomato.”

Zuko let out a quiet, embarrassed huff, but didn’t argue, instead shifting closer and settling against her side, seeking some sense of refuge.

She softened slightly at that, her expression gentler as she let him.

“Let’s just go get Sokka,” he muttered, still avoiding everyone’s gaze.

The princess had shrugged off her coat minutes into the trip. They weren’t even close to Aang yet, and the extra weight had her uncomfortably warm, a light sheen of sweat clinging to her skin. The shifting air currents around Appa did little to help.

Katara, however, had not left her alone once.

The questions came one after another, gentle but relentless, curiosity shining in her eyes.

“How far along are you?”

“Five months,” she answered, offering a tired but polite smile.

“What’s the gender?”

“No clue.”

“Any baby names lined up?”

“We’re trying for something that blends earth and fire,” she said, glancing briefly at Zuko, “but nothing’s stuck yet.”

Katara brightened. “That’s so sweet—”

“Are you going to have more?”

The princess didn’t even hesitate. “Have you met my husband?”

Katara blinked, then laughed, covering her mouth.

Zuko, meanwhile, coughed into his fist, his ears burning all over again.

Through it all, his hand never left her, resting protectively over her stomach, thumb brushing slow, absent circles as if grounding himself in her presence. Every so often, his grip would tighten slightly whenever Appa shifted, like he could somehow steady both her and the child at once.

“Careful,” he murmured under his breath at one point, guiding her subtly as the saddle dipped.

“I’m fine,” she replied, though she didn’t pull away from him.

By the time the icy waters and familiar structures of the Southern Water Tribe came into view, the air had grown colder, sharper against their skin. Snow dusted the ground below, and the distant figures of Water Tribe members began to gather, pointing up at Appa’s descending form.

They didn’t have to search long.

Sokka was already striding across the snow toward them, boots crunching loudly with each step, his grin widening the second he took them in.

“Well, well,” he called, arms spreading like he was welcoming honored guests. “Look who finally decided to show up. Took you two long enough.”

His gaze flicked between them, lingering, calculating, before it dropped.

Then paused.

“…Whoa.”

Zuko stiffened immediately. “Don’t.”

But Sokka was already circling them, slow and deliberate, like he was inspecting something fascinating. “No way. No way. You’re serious?”

The princess raised a brow, unimpressed. “Very.”

Sokka let out a low whistle, dragging a hand down his face before pointing straight at Zuko. “I mean, I knew you two had issues with personal space, but I didn’t think you’d go and make it this… I don't even know the word for it. You two are freaks."

Zuko groaned, already regretting coming. “Sokka.”

“What?” Sokka shrugged, smirk growing. “You expect me to ignore this? This isn't even groundbreaking it's just expected from you both knowing you. This is, this is what happens when you two get even five minutes alone, isn’t it?”

Toph let out a quiet snort.

Sokka leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make it worse. “Actually, scratch that. Five minutes is probably generous.”

Zuko made a strangled noise. “Okay.”

Katara slapped a hand over her face. “Sokka—”

“No, no, I’m just connecting the dots,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself. “All those times you disappeared during meetings, all those ‘private discussions’ yeah, makes a lot more sense now.”

The princess tilted her head, completely unbothered. “You’re being very bold for someone standing this close to me.”

Sokka grinned. “I’m just impressed, honestly. You two had so much tension it was practically a natural disaster, and now—” he gestured vaguely toward her stomach, “—this is the aftermath. Surprised it took you this long."

Toph laughed outright at that.

Zuko looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

Sokka wasn’t done.

“I mean seriously,” he added, folding his arms, “if this is what happens when the Fire Lord gets a little too… distracted, I’m shocked there’s not a second one already on the way.”

Zuko choked. “That’s enough.”

“Hey, I’m congratulating you!” Sokka shot back. “Just saying, next time, maybe let people know before you two go off and—”

“Sokka.”

“—expand the royal family.”

Katara shoved him lightly. “You’re unbelievable.”

“But not wrong,” he corrected smoothly.

The princess let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Unfortunately, he’s not entirely wrong.”

Zuko turned to her, betrayed. “You’re encouraging him.”

“We've been married for eleven months and I've been pregnant for five of them, you lack restraint Zuko” she stated bluntly, though her smile gave her away. He shook his head leaning close so only he could hear her. "Who suggested riding me in the throne ro-" "Okay hush now."

Sokka clapped his hands together once, satisfied. “Great. Now that we’ve established the Fire Lord has absolutely no self-control—”

“Sokka.”

“—can someone please tell me why Aang is dragging us to some random village?"

The teasing was warranted, deserved, even.

The Fire Nation had taken your father, your brother. Zuko’s redemption didn’t erase that. Not to you. He had hunted you, cornered you, forced you into survival more times than you could count. While the others learned to trust him, to laugh with him, to move on… you hadn’t. Not so easily.

So yeah, there had been tension.

A lot of it.

It just… hadn’t been resolved in a way anyone else approved of.

His lips brushed slowly along the inside of her thigh, unhurried, deliberate, testing, teasing. The touch alone was enough to pull a quiet, unwilling sound from her, her breath catching despite herself.

“Just do it already,” she muttered, more breath than voice, her fingers tightening against the sheets.

Zuko clicked his tongue softly, unfazed. Another kiss followed, closer this time, but still not quite where she wanted, where she needed.

“Not until you say please.”

Her head tipped back in frustration. “Why would I have to say please?” she shot back weakly. “You said you were atoning for everything your nation did. Consider this part of your apology.”

A quiet huff of amusement left him, warm against her skin. “I’ve been atoning for two months now,” he murmured, his voice low, almost thoughtful.

Another slow press of his lips, lingering.

“And yet,” he added, “every morning I wake up and you’ve already taken my portion of breakfast because, apparently, ‘murderers don’t deserve to eat.’”

She exhaled sharply, somewhere between a scoff and something softer. “Well, when the Fire Nation killed my family, I couldn’t afford breakfast—”

“I know.” His tone shifted immediately, the teasing giving way to something heavier, sincere. His hand stilled, grounding. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

There was a pause, the air between them tightening, thick with everything unsaid.

“I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it,” he continued quietly. “For what I did… for what I stood for.”

His placed a long kiss to her core, a soft moan (against her will) escaped her lips.

“Let me try,” he said, voice gentler now. “Even if it’s not enough.”

“I’m glad you all could make it, this village needs our help with—” Aang began, pulling back from Katara mid-sentence.

His eyes flicked across the group.

Paused.

Then widened.

“…Are—did—?”

He leaned toward Katara, lowering his voice into what he clearly thought was a whisper. “Am I allowed to ask people if they’ve gained weight?”

Katara’s eyes widened. “No, Aang. We’ve been over this.”

Aang nodded quickly. “Right, right. No asking.”

“…They’re pregnant,” she added quietly.

Aang blinked.

Then looked back at them.

Then back at Katara.

“…Zuko’s pregnant too?”

Toph snorted.

Sokka immediately burst out laughing. “Yeah, yeah, Fire Lord had a lot to do with it actually.”

Zuko’s face flushed instantly. “That’s not—”

“I’m pregnant, Aang,” the princess cut in, voice flat.

“Oh!” Aang straightened immediately, relief flooding his face. “Oh, that makes way more sense.”

There was a beat.

“…Congratulations!” he added, a little too late but entirely sincere.

Then his expression shifted, concern creeping in.

“Wait, are you sure you should be here?” he asked, glancing between her and Zuko. “I mean, with everything going on… I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Zuko immediately nodded. “Exactly.”

She sighed.

“I’m pregnant, not made of glass,” she said, crossing her arms lightly. “I can still help.”

Toph smirked. “Told you.”

Katara smiled gently. “We’ll keep an eye on you. Just in case.”

Sokka grinned. “Yeah, someone has to make sure Zuko doesn’t give himself an aneurysm trying to watch after the princess.”

Zuko shot him a glare.

Aang hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. I trust you. Just… be careful, alright?”

She gave a small, confident nod.

“Always.”

Aang clapped his hands together once, refocusing. “Right, so. The village has been dealing with a spirit. It’s been acting aggressively, and I think it’s tied to something in the mountain.”

The princess exhaled slowly. “…So you did drag us out here for a mountain.”

Aang winced. “Technically… yes.”

Zuko sighed. “Of course.”

Toph cracked her knuckles. “Good. I was getting bored.”

Sokka looked between them, grin already returning. “Alright, angry spirit, pregnant Fire-Earth Princess, and Zuko on edge. This should go great.”

She leaned slightly into Zuko’s side, her hand brushing his.

“Next time,” she murmured, “we ignore the letter and go to Ember Island."

He huffed softly. “…Agreed.”

love speaks! rushed and indulgent sorry i wish this was better but if i draft it it'll never get done. divider by @/cafekitsune

[corvidkusnos]

This was where my mind was the whole time soz gang

Not to mention Zuko calling a man attractive and Sokka saying Zuko has a beautiful face

Zukka gang how we feelin

Putting this here instead of keeping in tags but edit: Reminder that Paramount donates to lsrael [x x] and while it is genuinely awful for the artists, maybe think twice before defending giving money to a company that actively funds genocide.

[amortoru-deactivated20260523]

`ঔঌ. if there’s something you regret about volunteering to teach at the academy, it’s telling your students about your crush on firelord!zuko

well… you didn’t outright tell them. they simply figured.

as a part of the advising staff at the palace and someone with skill in bending, you volunteered to help out and teach at the academy. however, due to your affiliation with the palace and simply because the academy helped with the military, it was only natural for the fire lord to occasionally pay a visit while the others were set to recess.

and when he would pay said visits, of course he would chat with you… for a decent period of time that would make eyebrows raise from people passing by.

the girls you helped train knew you grew up alongside the fire lord since your father was an advisor, so naturally they came to their own assumption. you’d also—on occasion—mention things of your childhood, and how you and zuko would help each other out with firebending, to encourage teamwork.

turns out the only thing that encouraged, was more questioning over your relationship to the fire lord.

“you have a new brooch, instructor… quite nice.” a student remarked, examining the back of your head where the brooch a certain fire lord have gifted you, held your hair together.

“thank you… it was a gift from a close friend of mine.”

“so the fire lord… he gives you quite the amount of gifts, instructor.”

you laughed awkwardly. “i guess so…”

and it was true, and something that has been bothering you. well—not bothering, so to speak, rather something that’s been on your mind.

zuko has been much more… clingy? attached to you? sure, you worked alongside your father in advising, but recently he’s been more generous with giving you things. he’s gotten you over 20 pieces of jewelry and has treated you out to dinner 10 times in the past month.

usually, you’d feel grateful and think nothing of it… except for the fact that the council is currently working on getting zuko a betrothed. a partner to be alongside him.

they want zuko to get married… and here he is, buying you things and treating you out… almost like he’s courting you?

and of course with no other girl friends to tell (since they’re all busy), you’ve accidentally let it slip to the girls you teach… with an alias. lee.

so not only would you mention how you grew up with the fire lord, but you’d also talk about lee. and how both of them give you gifts! (it was beginning to be such a mess, you didn’t even know how to differentiate your white lie).

and of course you’ve talked all about how lee is so handsome. how yeah, he’s a bit of a hothead (no pun intended) and dramatic sometimes, but how he’s so kind. how he’s so pretty too… and how you sorta, maybe, kinda wished he’d look your way.

“so are you two datinggg?” one chirped out, drawing out ‘dating’ to elicit a reaction from you.

your eyebrows furrowed; you were in the middle of teaching the girls when they began with their questions.

“dating who?” “the fire lord, silly!”

and that’s when your expression dropped. “what?”

“or are you two engaged?” “is this a unrequited love?” “are you two childhood sweethearts?” “what’s lee gonna say about this? ouuuu!”

“unless… lee’s the fire lord!” oh good god…

one of them tilted their head to the side, looking behind you. “yeah, i can see why he drives you crazy. he’s quite cute in person.”

“who drives who crazy?” you felt your body freeze and turned slowly, to see zuko. there he was in all his glory, towering behind you with his arms crossed and an amused and surprised inkling of a smile on his face.

“o-oh! my lord! what brings you here so early?”

“hello, instructor. i just wanted to pass by as i was on my way to speak to the headmaster… how’s training today? is that what’s driving you crazy?”

and before you could even turn around to probably scold your students, they left running and giggling.

“they’re… uh— proficient.”

he hummed. “proficient… i see. well, i suppose you’ll have to tell me more about this during dinner, y/n. unless you do not want to join me. i’d be quite sad if you didn’t.”

you blinked. “oh! of course!”

he smiled teasingly. “you have to tell me more about this… person who drives you crazy.”

seriously… if there’s anything you regret about volunteering to teach at the academy, it’s insinuating to your students about your crush on the fire lord.

.

.

.

request made here !!

as you can tell, i love writing y/n as the daughter of an advising staff of the fire nation nyeheheh

[magicalmatcha]

— jealous type

❝baby, i can't hurt you, sure, but I'm the jealous type❞

pairing — firelord zuko! x fem!firebender!reader

synopsis — zuko does not get jealous, in fact he doesn't even know what jealousy means. he just wants sokka to back up a little.

content — fem!reader, mature content (18+), minors dni, alcohol consumption, long fic, very light angst based off the zuko edit, ooc! zuko, not proofread, reader is stated to have three brothers (but doesn't seem to like them), reader is described to be shorter than Zuko, kinda mean!reader, tease!reader, light smut, Zuko and reader are implied to have been dating before even joining the gaang. Takes place 5 years after Atla so Zuko is 22 and Reader is 21

author's note — I have not watched the leaks and if I chose to I'll still watch it when it releases to support the animators

The beach is a place she loved dearly. She loved the way the sun kissed her skin, hearing the crash of the waves, the sound of the breeze, seeing her boyfriend shirtless, the way the sand warmed her feet as it shifted beneath her, looking at Zuko’s biceps, and picnics. God she loved picnics, Katara made a mean candied jackfruit pie.

Yes, Ember Island was her favourite way to unwind from saving the world. This had to be one of the best places she’d ever been out of everywhere she’d traveled. It’d just be a lot better if Zuko took his shirt off.

She sat up slightly from where she was laying on the blanket, propping herself up on her elbows, pushing her gold sunshades up onto her head. He was standing near the shoreline with Sokka, chatting solemnly, in his shirt.

Spirits she wished he would take it off.

“Zuko!” she called across the beach. He turned to face her, his expression as stoic as ever. She waved him over and, without hesitation, he started toward her, Sokka trailing behind him.

He stopped in front of her, hands settling on his hips. “Can I help you, love?”

“Well, you can help me by moving to the side first. You’re both blocking my sun.”

He and Sokka sighed in unison, stepping aside as she gave a satisfied nod. “Thank you. Now, can you do me another favour?”

Zuko glanced down at her. “Yes?”

“Relax, dummy. It’s a vacation, and I can see the tension in your shoulders from here. That can't be good for you.”

Zuko exhaled, already shaking his head. “I can’t afford to relax. I shouldn’t even be here. I have a nation to run, remember?”

“Oh, I remember,” she said, pushing herself up slightly. “The same nation that’s kept us from taking a vacation for the last five years?”

“That’s the one.” He nodded.

She rolled her eyes.

“And yet we’ve been gone for four hours, and I’m pretty sure it’s still up and running.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“Of course I do. I have Miyuki bringing me updates every hour.”

“No, you do not.”

“…No, I do not.”

Sokka laughed at that, loud and immediate, while Zuko let out a quiet groan, dragging a hand down his face.

“Please just relax, for me?” she purred, batting her lashes at him.

Zuko made a strangled noise, clearly pained by the attempt. “…Fine,” he gave in. “Sokka and I are going to go swimming.”

She clapped her hands together in glee, watching them both start toward the water.

“Oh, and Zuko?” she called.

He glanced back.

“Don’t you think it’s too hot for a shirt?”

“I don’t get hot.”

She tilted her head. “But wouldn’t you be more comfortable without one?”

Sokka snorted, crossing his arms. “Is this your very unsubtle way of trying to see him without a shirt?”

“Well, I wasn’t going for subtlety,” she grumbled, pushing her sunglasses back down her nose.

Sokka laughed again as they kept walking, and for a moment, she thought that was the end of it. Defeated she sighed.

It wasn’t.

She heard footsteps in the sand before she saw him again.

Zuko stopped in front of her, already tugging his shirt over his head, movements a little sharper than usual. The fabric lifted, revealing the slow pull of muscle, his abs tightening as he dragged it off, shoulders flexing, biceps shifting with the motion before he tossed it aside.

He didn’t say anything at first, just held it out toward her.

She blinked, then took it slowly, her gaze lingering, dragging over him without shame.

“So needy,” he muttered, but there was a small, betraying smile tugging at his lips.

She leaned back on her hands, entirely pleased with herself, eyes still tracing the lines of his torso.

“Only for you,” she said lightly.

She leaned back against her hands, watching him wade into the water, completely unashamed. The sunlight caught on his skin, glinting off the water as it moved around him, dragging her attention lower, over his shoulders, his biceps, the way his abs tensed when a wave hit him.

Her gaze lingered, slow and deliberate, following every movement like she had nowhere else to be.

“Could you be any less subtle?”

She tipped her head back toward the voice. Katara, Toph, and Aang stood above her, smirking, a ball tucked under Aang’s arm.

“I mean, seriously,” Katara continued, crossing her arms, “stare any harder and your eyes are going to fall out.”

“What part of ‘subtlety isn’t my strong suit’ do you people not understand?” she rolled her eyes, leaning forward again to look back at the very important view in front of her.

Zuko moved deeper into the water, pushing his hair back, muscles shifting easily with the motion, completely unaware.

Spirits, she just wanted to take a bite out of—

“I found a ball and a clear court if we all want to play!” Aang beamed, the three of them stepping right into her line of sight.

Again.

“Why do you people insist on blocking my sun?” she whined, leaning to the side to try and see around them.

Toph snorted, crossing her arms. “As if the sun is what you’re worried about us blocking.”

She didn’t even bother denying it, just leaned further to the side, trying to catch another glimpse past them. “Move.”

“No,” Katara said immediately, grabbing her wrist and pulling her up before she could protest. “You’re coming with us.”

She groaned, letting herself be dragged to her feet. “Katara—”

“You’ve been laying here doing nothing.”

“I have been appreciating the view,” she corrected, glancing back toward the water.

Toph laughed. “Yeah, we noticed.”

Aang bounced slightly on his heels, already halfway turned toward the makeshift court. “Come on! It’ll be fun!”

She let out a dramatic sigh but didn’t fight them, brushing sand off her legs as they started walking. “If I lose my spot, I’m blaming all of you.”

“But don't you want a closer look?,” Katara said, amused. "At the view of course."

“Fair point.”

“Mm.”

They didn’t stop until they reached the edge of the water.

Aang cupped his hands around his mouth. “Sokka! Zuko! We’re playing volleyball!”

Sokka turned immediately, already grinning. “Finally, something interesting!”

Zuko glanced over a second later, eyes landing on her first before anything else.

She crossed her arms, expression unimpressed.

“Get out of the water,” Katara called. “Now.”

Sokka splashed his way toward shore without hesitation. “I call first serve!”

Zuko lingered for a moment longer, then followed, water trailing down his skin as he stepped back onto the sand.

Her gaze flicked over him once, quick but intentional, before she looked away like she hadn’t.

About time,” she muttered.

Sokka shook out his arms, already hyped. “Alright, you," he pointed at the fire bending girl as she examined her nail beds "and Toph on my team.”

“Your team?” Katara complained, crossing her arms. “Why do you get first dibs?”

Sokka raised a brow. “Raise your hand if you’re a bender.”

Everyone’s hand went up.

Slowly, dramatically, he gestured to himself. “Exactly.”

She rolled her eyes.

Aang beamed, tossing the ball lightly in his hands.

The first serve went up fast.

Aang launched it high, a quick burst of air sending the ball spinning toward Sokka’s side. Toph barely moved, just tilted her head before stomping lightly, shifting the sand beneath her feet to steady herself as she bumped it up.

“Mine!” Sokka shouted, immediately spiking it—

—or attempting to.

Katara caught it midair with a smooth arc of water, redirecting it effortlessly back over the net.

“Oh, come on!” Sokka groaned.

The fire nation girl laughed, already moving, heat blooming at her fingertips. A quick flick of her wrist and a controlled burst of fire snapped upward, nudging the ball just enough to send it flying toward Zuko.

Zuko didn’t even hesitate.

A sharp, precise motion, fire curled around his hand as he struck it, sending the ball back harder this time.

It hit the sand near Toph’s feet.

“In!” Aang cheered.

“Barely,” Toph muttered, kicking sand in Zuko’s direction.

“Point for us!” Katara called, smirking.

The fire bender narrowed her eyes slightly, a grin pulling at her lips. “Oh, it’s like that?”

Sokka pointed at her. “That’s what I’m saying!”

The next round started quicker.

Toph set the ball perfectly this time, using a subtle lift of earth beneath it. Sokka actually managed to hit it clean, sending it over with a triumphant yell.

“Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!”

Zuko stepped in, fire flashing briefly as he redirected it.

She moved before it even crossed the net, jumping slightly, a controlled burst of flame at her palm giving her just enough lift to meet it midair.

and spike it down.

Hard.

There was a beat of silence.

“Oh, that was clean,” Sokka said, impressed.

She landed, brushing her hands off like it was nothing. “Obviously.”

Zuko’s eyes lingered on her for a second longer than necessary. The game picked up after that.

Air swirled, water snapped and curved, fire flared in controlled bursts, and even Sokka, somehow, kept up, diving dramatically into the sand every chance he got.

“Watch it!” Katara called as Aang sent another spinning serve.

“I got it!” Sokka yelled—

—and immediately tripped.

Toph caught the ball anyway, launching it back up with a smirk. “You’re useless.”

“I’m an asset,” he shot back.

The fire bender laughed, already moving again, heat flickering at her fingertips as she sent the ball flying toward Katara.

Katara deflected.

Zuko returned it.

Toph set it.

Sokka, miraculously, spiked it.

It hit the line.

Aang groaned. “No way!”

“That’s game!” Sokka shouted, throwing his arms up. “Winners!”

She blinked once, then broke into a grin.

“We won?”

“We won!” Sokka grabbed her wrist, spinning her once before she laughed and, without thinking, jumped straight into his arms.

He caught her easily, lifting her slightly off the ground as she laughed, breathless.

“Did you see that?!” he said, equally hyped.

“Yes!” she laughed, clinging to his shoulders for a second before dropping back down.

Toph smirked. “Carried the team, obviously.”

“Excuse me?” Sokka said, offended.

“Please,” Toph shrugged.

She just smiled, still riding the high of it, brushing sand off her legs as the others groaned and argued.

Sokka was still talking, loud, animated, reliving the last point like it had been a war victory.

“Did you see that spike? I mean—perfect form—”

“You tripped twice,” Katara cut in.

“Yes, that was my strategy.”

Toph snorted.

She laughed, reaching out to shove Sokka’s shoulder lightly. “You almost took me down with you.”

“Worth it,” he shot back immediately.

“Obviously.”

Aang stretched his arms over his head. “I’m done. That was fun.”

“Finally,” Katara said, already walking back toward the blankets. “I need water.” Toph followed, kicking sand as she went. “You all play too slow anyway.”

Sokka groaned. “Excuse me? I carried that entire game.”

“No you didn’t,” Katara called over her shoulder.

“Yes I did!”

The group started to break apart, the noise fading into smaller conversations as everyone drifted back toward the shore.

She lingered a second longer, still smiling, turning back to Sokka. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Sounds like something a loser would say,” he said, grinning. She laughed. Zuko didn’t.

He stood a few feet away, quiet now, brushing the last bits of sand from his hands. His gaze flicked up—just once—landing on the two of them.

Sokka still grinning. Her still facing him. Too close. It wasn’t anything.

It didn’t look like anything.

Zuko’s jaw tightened, just slightly. He looked away first. By the time she turned, he was already moving, heading back toward the blankets without a word, shoulders a little too stiff again, like the game hadn’t done anything to loosen him at all.

She blinked, the smile on her face fading just a little. “…Zuko?” she called.

He didn’t answer. Just kept walking. She hated to see him leave, but she loved to watch him go.

She sighed, brushing sand from her legs as she followed after him, only to be stopped a few steps later.

“I just had to stop and tell you, I adore your nail colour.”

She turned, blinking slightly.

A girl with short black hair stood in front of her, practically glowing with excitement, a small group trailing behind her.

The fire bender pushed her sunglasses up onto her head, wiggling her fingers with a small smile. “Ba Sing Se exclusive.”

The girl’s eyes lit up. “I knew it! I’m Kya, by the way.”

She gestured behind her. “This is Lian, Haru, and Ren.”

They all gave small waves or nods, except Ren, who didn’t bother hiding the way his eyes lingered on her a second too long before he looked away.

Ew.

“Nice to meet you,” she said easily.

Kya leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. “We’re throwing a party tonight. Nothing huge, just people from around the island, but?you should come.”

She raised a brow. “A party?”

“Mhm, bonfire,” Kya nodded eagerly. “Music, drinks, the whole thing. You look like you’d fit right in.”

She glanced back briefly toward the beach, toward where her group was, before looking back at Kya.

“I don’t go anywhere without my friends,” she said simply. Kya grinned. “Bring them.”

“All of them.”

“Even better.”

There was a pause.Then she smiled. "Alright,” she said. “We’ll be there.”

Kya clapped her hands together. “Perfect. It’s by the east shore, just follow the lights.”

Ren spoke up this time, voice a little too smooth. “We’ll be looking forward to it. Her gaze flicked to him briefly, flat, uninterested,before returning to Kya.

“See you tonight.”

With that, she turned, not waiting for anything else, already heading back toward her group. Sand shifted beneath her feet as she approached, spotting them easily.

“Guess what,” she called, dropping back onto the blanket like nothing had happened.

Katara looked up. “What?”

She adjusted her sunglasses, a slight smile playing at her lips.

“We’ve been invited to a party tonight.”

When you spend half your teens dedicated to a dictatorship waging a disruptive war, and the other half trying to help end it,and then whatever time you had left helping rebuild everything that war broke, you don’t really get time to try normal teen stuff.

Dating? Sure, she flirted. She liked how easy it was to get attention, how simple it was to get any attention she wanted , but Zuko was her first. And her only.

Parties? From time to time. But when your father is a general, the need to maintain appearances is always there, lingering over your shoulder.

Drinking? Once. And that was more than enough to know she couldn’t handle it.

The party was already alive by the time they arrived.

A bonfire burned bright against the dark shoreline, flames crackling high as music drifted through the air, something rhythmic, easy, carried by laughter and the low hum of voices. Strings of lanterns were hung between trees and driftwood posts, casting warm, flickering light over clusters of people dancing, talking, leaning too close.

It was loud. Messy. Unstructured. Very unlike anything she was used to. She didn’t hate it.

The gaang drew attention the moment they stepped into the light, Aang’s curiosity already pulling him toward the music, Sokka immediately scanning for food, Katara taking everything in with a careful eye, Toph grinning saying something about finally getting to have fun.

Zuko stayed close.

His hand settled at her waist almost immediately, instinctive. Warm against her side as he guided her forward through the crowd.

She glanced at him briefly. He was already looking around, shoulders a little tense again, eyes tracking movement, exits, people, always assessing.

She nudged him lightly with her hip. “Relax.”"I am relaxed,” he said automatically.

She gave him a look. His hand tightened just slightly at her waist.

“…I’ll try,” he amended.

“That’s better.”

They moved closer to the fire, the heat brushing against her skin as laughter swelled around them. Someone passed by with drinks, someone else pulled a friend toward the makeshift dance area, the music picking up just enough to make the ground feel like it was humming.

It was chaotic. Alive. Her gaze flicked across the crowd and landed on something familiar.

Kya.

She was across the fire, already waving the moment she spotted them, dragging her friends along behind her.

“Told you we’d show,” she murmured under her breath.

Zuko’s hand didn’t leave her waist as they approached.

Kya reached them first, all bright energy and easy smiles. “You actually came!”

“Told you we would,” she said lightly.

Kya’s eyes flicked between all of them, clearly trying to take in everything at once. “Hi—okay—so—this is—”

“Katara,” Katara said politely, offering a small smile. "Aang,” he added with a wave. "The Avatar." Haru gasped.

“Sokka,” he said, already reaching for something off a passing tray. "Toph,” she grinned.

Kya nodded quickly, a little overwhelmed but still smiling. “Right—yeah—hi—um—this is Lian, Haru, and—”

“Ren,” he finished, stepping forward slightly.

His confidence from earlier lasted about half a second. Because that was when she shifted just slightly, leaning into Zuko’s side, his hand still firm at her waist.

“Oh,” she said, almost casually. “And this is my boyfriend.”

There was a brief pause.

“Fire Lord Zuko.”

It hit like a wave.

Lian straightened immediately, almost stiff. Haru’s eyes widened, posture snapping into something far more formal. Kya’s smile faltered completely this time before she quickly composed herself, bowing her head just slightly.

Ren—

Ren went rigid.

His gaze dropped instantly, shoulders pulling back as if he’d just been called to attention, every bit of earlier ease gone.

“Your—your Majesty,” he corrected quickly, voice tight.

Zuko didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t need to. He simply inclined his head in acknowledgment, expression calm, unreadable, yet unmistakably authoritative. His hand remained at her waist, steady, grounding, like it belonged there just as much as his title did.

“Forgive us,” Kya added quickly, lowering her head again. “We didn’t realize—”

“It’s fine,” Zuko said evenly. Short enough to make it clear the conversation didn’t need to turn into a ceremony. Still, none of them relaxed.

Ren kept his eyes lowered, shifting his weight back half a step, putting a more respectful distance between himself and both of them.

“An honor, Fire Lord,” Haru said quietly. “Truly,” Lian echoed. Zuko gave a small nod, nothing more.

“Nice to meet you,” Katara said smoothly, easing the tension.

“Yeah,” Sokka added, completely unfazed, still eating. “Nice party.”

Kya let out a small, nervous laugh. “Th-thank you. We didn’t expect—um—this.”

Ren nodded again, quick and careful. “Of course, your Majesty.” Zuko’s expression didn’t change. "Tonight, I’m just Zuko,” he said.

But the way they stood, straight-backed, careful, measured, made it very clear they didn’t believe that for a second.

Kya cleared her throat softly, clearly trying to recover. “Um,can I get you something to drink?”

She perked up slightly. “You know what? Yeah.”

Katara glanced at her. “Maybe—”

“I’ll be fine,” she waved her off, already turning back to Kya with a small smile. “Surprise me.”

Kya nodded quickly, almost relieved to have something normal to do. “Right, yeah, of course.”

She disappeared into the crowd, her friends following after her, though Ren kept a noticeably wider distance this time.

Zuko’s hand was still at her waist.

She leaned slightly into him, glancing up. “Relax. You’re scaring them.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Thats the problem,” she said lightly.

He didn’t respond, but his grip didn’t loosen either.

She had lost count of how many drinks she’d had.

The bonfire blurred a little at the edges, the music louder now, warmer, the laughter around her blending into something soft and constant. The sand felt unsteady under her feet, the air just a little too light.

She laughed at something, she didn’t even remember what, and turned, spotting him.

“Zuko!” she called, already making her way toward him.

He turned immediately, expression sharpening the moment he saw her. “How much have you—”

“That’s not important,” she cut him off, grabbing his hand without hesitation. “Dance with me.”

“I’m not dancing.”

“Zuko.”

“I’m the Fire Lord,” he said, firmer now. “I shouldn’t even be at a party like this.”

She blinked at him, disbelief creeping in. “You’re already at a party like this.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” she shot back, swaying slightly as she stepped closer. “That you get to stand here and watch me instead of actually being with me?”

His brows pulled together. “I am with you.”

“No, you’re not,” she said immediately. “You’re here, but you’re not with me.”

A pause.

“You’ve barely looked at me all night,” she continued, voice slurred. “You’ve been watching everyone else. Thinking. Planning. Doing whatever it is you always do.”

“I’m making sure everything is—”

“Fine?” she cut in, a sharp laugh slipping out. “It’s always about making sure everything is fine. What about me?”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “That’s not fair.”

“It is,” she insisted, tugging his hand again, not as playful this time. “We barely see each other anymore. You’re always working, always busy, always needed somewhere else, and now we finally have time and you still won’t even give me one dance?”

“You think it’s that simple?” he asked, voice low.

“Yes,” she snapped. “For one night? Yes, it is.”

“I can’t just stop being who I am.”

“I’m not asking you to,” she said, softer, but it hit harder. “I’m asking you to choose me for five minutes.”

Silence.

The fire crackled behind them, music swelling, people laughing and neither of them moved.

Zuko looked at her, something conflicted flickering across his face, before it shut down.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he said.Her expression dropped.

“That’s your answer?” she asked quietly. “That I’m drunk?”

“I’m saying you’re not thinking clearly.”

“I’m thinking perfectly clearly,” she said, voice rising again. “You just don’t like what I’m saying.”

Another pause. Then she let out a breath, shaking her head.

“Forget it,” she muttered. “Go be the Fire Lord. Just do it away from me.” She stepped back.

This time, Zuko didn’t reach for her.

He just stood there for a second, jaw tight, like he was holding something back—

then he turned.

And walked away. No argument. No apology. No looking back. Just gone.

She stared after him, the music suddenly too loud, the warmth of the fire not reaching her the same way.

Her chest felt tight.

So she did the only thing she could think to do.

“Sokka!”

He looked up from where he was, also clearly drunk, sand clinging to him in places it definitely shouldn’t be. “Yeah?!”

“Dance with me.”

“Absolutely.”

He was already moving before she finished speaking, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the center of the crowd.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” he cheered.

She laughed, louder than she felt, letting him spin her, letting herself get pulled into the movement, into the noise, into anything that drowned out the way her chest still felt too tight.

Sokka danced like an idiot.

It helped.

She threw herself into it, matching his energy, spinning, laughing, letting it all blur together, even if, every once in a while, her eyes still flicked back to where he’d walked away.

The music blurred into something distant. Laughter, movement, heat, none of it quite reached him the same way anymore.

Zuko hadn’t meant to come back.

He told himself he was going to leave her to it, let her have her night but something in his chest told him to come back.

And then he saw her. In the center of it all. Laughing. Spinning.

With Sokka.

Her head tipped back, hair catching the firelight, hands in his as he spun her again, too easily, too comfortably. Sokka’s hands landed at her waist to steady her, and for a second he didn’t move them.

Zuko went still.

His jaw tightened, something sharp and immediate cutting through him before he could stop it. His gaze lingered there, on Sokka’s hands, on the way she leaned into it without thinking, laughing like nothing else in the world mattered.

Too close. Too familiar. It wasn’t anything. Zuko’s hand curled at his side.

He moved before he could think about it. Straight through the crowd, not slowing.

“Hey!” Sokka started, still grinning. Zuko didn’t even look at him.

His hand closed around her wrist, firm this time, and then slid to her waist, pulling her just slightly out of Sokka’s reach as she stumbled into him.

“We’re leaving.”

She blinked up at him, dazed. “Zuko?”

“We’re going back,” he said, already turning her away from the center of the crowd. Sokka frowned. “Hey, she’s—”

Zuko’s gaze snapped to him then.

Sokka shut up immediately, hands raising. “Okay—okay—”

Zuko didn’t wait for anything else.

She stumbled again and that was enough. In one smooth motion, his hand shifted, gripping firmly at her thigh as he lifted her up, settling her against his side. Her weight rested on his arm, legs loosely around his waist, her arm instinctively draping over his shoulder for balance.

She let out a soft laugh. “Zuko—”

“Stop moving,” he muttered, adjusting his hold without any real effort. His arm stayed locked beneath her, steady, like he wasn’t planning on putting her down anytime soon.

And he didn’t. He just walked. Carrying her straight out of the crowd.

The walk back was quieter.

Her head dipped toward his shoulder, breath warm against his neck as she leaned into him fully now, no space left between them.

“You’re holding me hostage,” she mumbled.

“I’m helping you.”

“I was fine.”

“You weren’t.”

She hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t argue, fingers idly curling into the fabric at his shoulder as he walked.

His grip didn’t loosen once.

By the time they reached where they were staying, she was barely conscious. Zuko pushed the door open with his shoulder, carrying her inside before kicking it shut behind him. “Sit,” he said, lowering her carefully onto the edge of the bed, one hand still steady at her waist until he was sure she wouldn’t tip over.

She blinked up at him, unfocused. “You’re… bossy.”

“And you’re drunk.”

He moved quickly, grabbing water, coming back and pressing it into her hands.

“Drink.”

She took a sip, grimacing. “I don’t like it.”

“Drink it anyway.”

She did—slowly. But he stayed right there, watching, making sure she didn’t spill it, didn’t drop it, didn’t disappear on him.

When she’d had enough, he took it from her, setting it aside before crouching in front of her. His hands were steady as he slipped off her shoes first, brushing sand from her ankles.

Then, more carefully he reached for her wrists, unclasping her bracelets one by one, setting them aside neatly. He hesitated for a second at the edge of her dress before helping her out of it in the most practical, careful way possible, making sure she stayed balanced, that she didn’t tip or protest too much.

She barely did. Just a quiet hum, leaning into him without thinking.

He grabbed one of her sleep shirts, guiding it over her head, adjusting it down her arms, smoothing it out without even realizing he was doing it. He put on a pair of shorts for her.

“You left,” she said softly.

Zuko paused. Then continued, gentler now.

“So did you.”

“That’s not the same.”

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s not.”

He guided her back onto the bed, adjusting the pillows behind her, pulling the blanket over her with more care than anything else he’d done that night.

Her eyes stayed on him.

“You’re mad,” she murmured.

“Go to sleep.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting tonight.”

She frowned, but she was already fading. His hand brushed her hair back from her face.

“…You were happier,” he said quietly.

She barely responded. “Mhm…”

“With him.”

Nothing. Just slow, even breathing. Zuko exhaled, something tight still sitting in his chest, unresolved.

His fingers curled slightly against the blanket before he forced himself to step back. He watched her for a moment longer. Making sure she was okay. Making sure she wasn’t going anywhere.

Morning came slowly.Too bright.

Her head throbbed faintly as she shifted under the covers, groaning softly as she buried her face further into the pillow.

Spirits. Never again.

She blinked her eyes open, squinting at the light filtering through the curtains before she forced herself to sit up slightly and froze.

Her hands moved instinctively, brushing over soft fabric. Not what she had been wearing. She looked down. Sleep shirt. Clean. Comfortable. Definitely not what she’d left the party in.

Her brows furrowed. “…Zuko?” There was a quiet rustle beside her.

She turned her head. And there he was.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, back straight, already dressed, a scroll in his hands like nothing about last night had been chaotic at all. Reading.

Of course he was reading.

She stared at him for a second. “You changed me,” she said flatly. Zuko didn’t look up. “You’re welcome.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, though there was no real bite behind it. “That wasn’t a thank you.” "You were drunk,” he said simply, turning a page. “You would’ve been uncomfortable.”

She watched him for a moment longer, then shifted, leaning back against the pillows. “…Did you sleep?” she asked.“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”He didn’t answer. She sighed softly, rubbing her temple. “My head hurts.”

“There’s water,” he said, nodding toward the bedside table without looking up. She reached for it, taking a slow sip, eyes still on him over the rim.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

“We left early,” she said after a moment. "You needed to leave.”

“I didn’t ask to leave.” "You weren’t in a state to make that decision.” She lowered the cup slightly. “I was dancing.”

“You were drunk.” She gave him a look. “I can do both.” Zuko exhaled, finally setting the scroll aside. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” she asked, tilting her head. A pause. His gaze flicked to her briefly, measured.

“You were drawing attention,” he said. She blinked. “It’s a party.” "You’re not just anyone at a party.” She let out a small laugh. “Oh, here we go.”

“I’m serious,” he said, tone tightening. “People watch you. They notice who you’re with. How you act.” She frowned slightly now. “So I’m not allowed to have fun?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It sounds like what you said.”

Zuko’s jaw set as he stood. “The future princess of the Fire Nation shouldn’t be dancing with just anyone.”

She stared at him. “…Excuse me?” He didn’t backtrack. “It reflects on—”

“It’s not just anyone, Zuko,” she cut in, sitting up straighter despite the dull ache in her head. “It’s Sokka.”

The room went quiet. Zuko huffed. "Sokka."

He didn't say more. He didn't need to. Because something clicked. Her expression shifted, slowly, pieces falling into place.

“…Wait,” she said, voice changing.

His gaze flicked away.

“You weren’t worried about appearances,” she went on, watching him now, closer. “You were watching him.”

“That’s not—”

“You didn’t like it,” she interrupted, softer now, but certain. “You didn’t like me dancing with him.” Zuko’s shoulders tensed slightly.

“I was making sure you were—”

“Zuko.” He stopped. She leaned forward just a little, studying him.

“You were jealous.”

Silence. His jaw tightened.

“I wasn’t.”

She smiled, slow, knowing.

“Oh,” she murmured. “You so were."

“I wasn’t,” Zuko said immediately, a little too quickly.

Her smile widened.

“Mhm.”

“I wasn’t jealous,” he repeated, more controlled this time, reaching for the scroll again like that would somehow end the conversation.

It didn’t.

She shifted closer instead.

The mattress dipped under her weight as she slid toward him, ignoring the dull ache in her head, propping herself up on one elbow.

“Then what was it?” she asked lightly, voice soft, teasing. “Because you looked very pissed for someone who was just ‘concerned.’”

“I was concerned.”

“Concerned,” she echoed, dragging the word out as her fingers reached for the edge of his sleeve, idly toying with the fabric. “That I was laughing? Or that Sokka was the one making me laugh?”

Zuko’s hand stilled on the scroll.

“That’s not what I said.”

“You didn’t have to,” she said sweetly.

He exhaled through his nose, already irritated. “You’re twisting it.”

“Am I?” she tilted her head, eyes flicking up to his face. “Because from where I was standing, well, dancing, you didn’t look very concerned Fire Lord’ You looked…”

She leaned in just slightly closer.

“…possessive.”

Zuko’s grip on the scroll tightened.

“I’m not possessive.”

“No?” she hummed, letting her fingers slide from his sleeve to his wrist, tracing lightly, deliberately. “Then why did you pull me away from him like that?”

“You could barely stand.”

“And yet,” she smiled, eyes glinting, “I was standing just fine when you saw his hands on me.”

His jaw clenched. She noticed.

Of course she did.

“Oh my gods,” she laughed softly, leaning back just enough to look at him properly now. “You hated that.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” she cut in, delighted now. “You hated that he was touching me.”

Zuko looked away.

Which was answer enough.

Her smile turned sharper.

“That’s kind of embarrassing for you,” she teased, nudging his knee lightly with hers. “Getting all worked up over Sokka.”

“I wasn’t ‘worked up,’” he muttered.

“You were,” she insisted, leaning in again, voice dropping just a little. “I see it now you were jealous when I hugged him and you were jealous when I danced with him. You, are a jealous little baby.”

“That’s not—”

“Zuko,” she said softly.

He stopped again.

She was closer now. Close enough that he had to look at her.

“Were you jealous of Sokka? Answer honestly you're not a very good liar.” she asked, quiet but pointed.

A pause.

Zuko didn’t answer.

Her brows lifted slightly, the corners of her lips curving.

“Thought so.”

She let the silence stretch just long enough, then smiled again, softer this time, but no less teasing.

“You know,” she murmured, fingers brushing lightly against his wrist, “if you wanted me all to yourself…” Her gaze flicked up through her lashes.

“…you could’ve just asked.”

Zuko went very still.

“But you have nothing to worry about,” she added, voice gentler now. “Sokka and I are just friends.”

“You and Aang are just friends,” Zuko muttered. “I don’t see him all over you.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “Just because you didn’t see it doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.”

“What—”

“Zuko,” she cut him off softly.

She shifted forward, crawling across the bed until he had no choice but to lean down toward her. She sat back on her knees, hands coming up to cup his face, holding him there.

“Look at me.” He did. Immediately.

Her thumbs brushed lightly along his jaw, her expression softer now, but steady.

“You don’t need to be jealous,” she said quietly. “All I want is you. You’re all I’ve wanted for six years.” His eyes flickered, just slightly.

“Sokka and Aang are just like the stupid, annoying brothers I never had—”

“Darling,” he cut in dryly, “you have three brothers.” She blinked at him, deadpan. “Point to em.” That got a quiet laugh out of him. A real one.

His head dipped just slightly, nuzzling into her hands for a brief second before his hands found her waist again, settling there like they belonged.

“I don’t like having to share you with the world,” he admitted, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. Her lips curved.

“I want you all to myself,” he added, almost like a grumble. “Is that so wrong?”

“Jealous and possessive,” she purred, leaning closer, her forehead brushing his. “This is a good look on you.”

“Oh yeah?” he murmured.

“Mhm,” she nodded slightly, gaze dropping to his lips before returning to his eyes. “Very sexy.”

His grip at her waist tightened. "Now that we're on it I didn't like how those guys we met were looking at you." "Zuko, I can't help it if I'm hot that's not my fault you can't penalize me." "Sure fine, but jumping into Sokka's arms?" He quirked his eyebrow as she shrugged. "Heat of the moment." Her usual teasing grin spread across her lips.

“Careful,” he said quietly.

“Or what?” she teased.

His eyes darkened slightly, but there was something softer underneath it now, less tense than before.

“Or I might start thinking you did that on purpose,” he said. She smiled. "Maybe I did.” That earned her a look. A real one this time. And instead of pulling away, she leaned in just a little closer.

“Now,” she murmured, voice light again, but deliberate, “are you going to keep brooding…”

Her fingers traced lightly along his collar.

“…or are you finally going to spend some time with me?”

The touch on his collar snaps the last thread of his restraint. Zuko grabs her hips, pulling her down onto the bed and rolling over her in one fluid motion. He kisses her, not gently, but with the hungry urgency of a man reclaiming territory.

His teeth graze her lower lip, demanding a response, and she opens for him instantly, her nails digging into his shoulders. He grinds his hips against hers, letting her feel the hard, heavy weight of his desire, a physical reminder of exactly who she belongs to. Soft moonscape her lips and he swallows them. He breaks the kiss only to drag his lips down her neck, biting and sucking marks into the soft skin there, branding her.

He doesn't stop at her neck. Zuko hooks his fingers into the waistband of her sleep shorts, teasing her slightly. "Are you my girl?" "Well, you don't own me Zuko I'm my own-". He tugs them down taking her panties with them.

He spreads her thighs with his shoulders, settling himself between her legs. The scent of her arousal is potent, mixing with the lingering smell of the ocean. He looks up at her, his eyes dark and intense, before lowering his head. He licks a slow, deliberate stripe up her center, tasting the wetness that has gathered there. She gasps, her back arching off the mattress, her hands tangling in his hair. "Are you my girl?" He asks again, removing his mouth.

"Zuko…" "Do you wanna answer?" She shook her head, and Zuko sighed moving from her thighs. "No, please." She whined. "Are-" he places a kiss on the inner part of her thigh. "You-" he inches closer. "I'm your girl fuck please." She whines.

She gasps, her back arching off the mattress, her hands tangling in his hair. He eats her out with focused devotion, his tongue circling her clit before sucking it firmly, his hands pinning her hips to the bed so she cannot escape the pleasure. He laps at her, greedy and loud, driven by the need to erase every touch Sokka left on her body and replace it with the memory of his mouth.

“Did anyone even hear from them after Zuko dragged her out of the party?” Katara questioned as she, Sokka, Aang, and Toph walked through the halls of their vacation property.

“Shhh,” Toph hissed, pressing her fingers to her temple. “My head still hurts. I can practically hear the sun.”

Katara rolled her eyes. “I’m just worried they’re not okay. Sokka, did they seem fine when they left?”

Sokka shrugged. “I’m gonna be honest with you, I have no memory of last night.”

Katara groaned, and Aang placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “They’re probably fine. Let’s just go knock and check on them.”

As the four of them approached the couple’s room, they were stopped in their tracks.

Muffled sounds filtered through the door, heavy breathing, the occasional soft groan, and Aang’s eyes widened.

“You don’t think they’re in danger, do you?” he whispered.

Toph went still for a second, then slowly turned her head toward the door.

“…No,” she said after a beat. “Definitely not in danger.”

Katara’s face went red almost instantly. “Oh—oh my—”

Sokka blinked. “Wait, what—”

Toph held up a hand. “Give it a second, genius.”

"Fuck Zuko, faster please." "Not until you say it." "I'm yours! I'm yours fuck! Harder."

Katara quickly grabbed Aang’s arm, already backing up. “We are not barging in on them.”

Aang nodded rapidly. “Right—right, okay—yes—good plan.”

Sokka frowned, still trying to piece it together. “I don’t—what are we—”

Toph groaned. “Just stand there and observe quietly for a second.”

Sokka opened his mouth,t hen paused.

“Oh.”

A beat.

“…Oh.”

love speaks! I've never written smut before and lwk this was longer than I intended everyone say thank you to my cherry pie indica pen. dividers by @/cafekitsune

🏷️: @amortoru @fluffysatoru @haihoneys @whatamidoing89 @nittyg

[marcespeaks]

synopsis | in which your little sister, toph, is trying so hard to make you and firelord!zuko get along despite your obvious differences (for the sake of the gaang, of course, because toph has never had ulterior motives). and toph will do anything to get her way, absolutely anything.

content | angst? (it's so buzzy), little sister!toph, evil little shit!toph, simp!zuko on the low, brief bone manipulation, small miscommunication trope

word count | 2.6k

PART ONE

You and your sister lean lazily against one of the less crowded walls of the bustling great hall, the two of you "people-watching" as she funnily calls it, listening to other people's conversations through her sharp hearing and your stilled breathing. A few stare back at the both of you, whispering in your own little world, all inside jokes and complaints about the stuck-up air of the room.

Sometime in the midst of your joking and complaining, Toph had made some off-handed comment about a very particular man across the room, a close friend of hers, though Toph had never been very good at making friends. This one, you knew of, and of course he was here, it was his home you'd been invited to, his great hall which hosted the Fire Nation's very first party of the new scorching summer.

Toph's mentioning of him blanketed something else sinister, hid something teasing.

"You know, he's not so bad once you get to know him."

Your sister, Toph, had always proved rather convincing when it came to you---like everyone else, she had you wrapped around her strong little finger from the day she was born and all the days after. Her word was your Bible most times, you both put your trust in each other so completely, and there was rarely ever a doubt in your mind that Toph didn't know exactly what she was doing. But here, you couldn't help rolling your eyes.

She'd felt it somehow, your unimpressed expression, thumping at your shoulder quickly and laughing under her breath when you'd visibly winced.

"And he's attractive, too!"

You gave her a short look, brows raised in question. "Like you'd know, Toffee." She was always saying strange things like that, being able to feel when someone was interesting, or cute, or muscular. And you supposed that's what the Firelord Zuko was as you look around the room and allow your eyes to land on him.

Interesting in the way he spoke gruffly even when he was trying to be kind. The way he dragged men over to the group he was speaking to, just to have them agree with him on whatever he'd been arguing. Interesting in the way he let his hair fall over his scarred eye in public, not ashamed, you'd gathered, but not wanting to entertain the questions that came with it.

Cute in the way a bear was cute, something broad and grizzly, eyes squinting when he laughed and teased the Avatar and the Waterbending Master's brother.

Muscular like a sea of mountains, ripples of them across his body, pushing through the fabric of his formal garments. Muscular in the way his hands flexed out when he'd caught you staring at him, the way—oh, fuck, he'd caught you staring at him.

You swiftly turn back to a grinning Toph, her eyes shining white and mischievous. You thump her shoulder back, feeling the floor rumble beneath your feet, and it's not quite so obvious who's doing it but you think it's best not to find out. There are eyes boring into your side as you try and listen to the babbling woman in front of you—something about the food from tonight, or had she asked what food you wanted for tomorrow? You didn't know and you almost didn't really care, the way you'd spot him in your peripheral still glancing your way, only ever leaving his distraction when someone grabbed his shoulder or asked him something serious.

"I need some fresh air."

"Fresh?" Toph's face scrunches in a strange disgust, arms folding over her chest. Her smirk expands over her face as she stares right through you. "It's humid everywhere, you know. It's the Fire Nation—"

"Yes, yes, thank you for the tidbit."

With a kiss of her warm cheek, you hurry away from her before she can make some crude joke about the burning in your cheeks, and just before you escape into the main corridor, the Firelord catches your eye again.

And he is so disgustingly beautiful.

You scurry through the almost empty hallway, nothing but servants carrying piles of dirty bowls and cups and royal advisors gliding back to the hall to discuss important business with the still fresh lord, his duties seemingly never-ending. You slip and sneak behind one wall, and then another, left and right and left again, the passageways seemingly endless too. Once you let your mind settle, you finally register that you've stopped hearing the bustle that once filtered out of the great hall, met with the silent whirring on wind and dry humidity that made you sweat underneath your silky green dinner gown. All of sudden, you realize you're nowhere near the outdoor garden you were aiming for, and if you hadn't been so stubborn, you would've maybe admitted that you were lost. You make a few turns here and there that you think are leading you back in the direction of the hall, but you're not entirely sure, cursing yourself for being so equally, stubbornly distracted. Too absent-minded, Toph would often tease, never paying attention to your surroundings like you ought to.

You didn't care. You didn't need to pay attention like normal people did.

With a frustrated huff, cursing under your breath in a way that's still attempting to be lady-like, you slip off your nice shoes with a swift hand, letting your cold toes hit the stone floor.

You hum out, closing your eyes and listening for those busy vibrations you and Toph had been so attentive to before in the great hall. You mind wandered and search for her familiar cadence of footsteps against the bare ground—she had a habit of tapping her foot when she wanted to drown out noise, and you loved being the only one to hear it. You stepped carefully towards the tremor sounds in the earth, inching just closer to them to guide yourself back, feeling the jittery drunk conversation bouncing off of some walls in the distance. To your left, you'd concluded, not too many corridors way. You smile when you feel Katara's laugh somewhere far-off, mixing with the low rumble of Toph's chuckle. You wonder if she can hear your heartbeat, but the idea is quickly drowned out by another sound.

You tilt your head to pay attention to both, careful not to lose the guidance of your sister and her friend, but oh-so-curious as to who might be approaching.

Your smile drops and you resist opening your eyes for a moment. You know those heavy footsteps, that soft breathing reverberating in the air and in your ears.

You let your eyes flutter, a deep sigh leaving your lips without your permission.

And he smiles as he comes closer, something simple and boyish. "Good evening." He bows his head to you politely, and you return the favor, keeping your head down as he speaks. "Sorry to disturb you." You lift your head up when he takes a step closer, your hand reaching out instinctively. He stands still, as if at attention like a solider. "I'm Zuko."

You laugh and you can practically hear his heart flutter. "What are you doing, we know each other."

"Yes, I thought perhaps you'd forgotten." He adjusts his posture, his back and shoulders broadening. He's quick with his words, tumbling out of his lips like they've betrayed him. Still, he stands firm, head held high. "Since you'd failed to say hello."

Your breath hitched at that accusatory tone and you looked away to save face, knuckles crackling. "Yes, they sat us a way's away—"

"You failed to say hello the whole night."

He takes a careful step closer once again and this time you know well enough to step back, to keep this distance between you. And still, with your feet against the warm floor, you can feel his heartbeat quicken despite its normally calm pace. His hand looks like it might reach out for you but he knows well enough too.

"You know perfectly well why it seemed inappropriate."

Now, what's the story on you and the gruff Firelord?

Perhaps it starts when Toph had first introduced you to the jumbled and unlikely Avatar group a year ago, another hot summer that you can only remember when you dream.

Scorching days at Ember Island with your sister’s traumatized buddies from the war, sweat dripping from your body in vulgar sorts of ways when one distinct friend eyed you for longer than necessary. He had this way about him, something gorgeous and mesmerizing in a way that was unfair. When the summer heat got almost entirely unbearable, you'd all spent your time in the Water Tribe, basking in whatever cool air you could find. Your room had been just next to his, in a far wing of the palace, and you'd sneak away together when sleep refused to take you, or bundled up on the floor of your visiting chambers and tell stories upon stories. His voice like honey in your ears.

So, perhaps the starts instead during that same summer, in a now humid bedroom, with his hand up your skirt, and his lips against your jaw, and your name being mumbled repeatedly from his soft lips like a prayer. It's not quite so clear how you'd gotten to this point—whether it had been the drinks he'd snuck into room to rid you of the nighttime boredom, or the way your eyes couldn't stop flickering to his slender fingers brushing against yours—but sooner or later, you're on his lap, another hand in is your hair, and all decorum has been tossed right out of the window.

And the story ends that same evening, when there's a creak in the floorboard behind the bedroom door, and a quick glance between the two of you that says this can't possibly happen again. Sure, you hadn't been caught this time, but there was something messy about mixing things up with your baby sister's friends, something filthy about meeting in secret with the new Firelord in all his broken honor and his faltering prestige. He'd been worshiping you on that bedroom floor, but it could never happen twice, you two had reputations to uphold, kingdoms and communities to lead.

So, Zuko should know why you didn't speak to him at this party, why you hadn't spoken to him in almost exactly a year (of course, you both had been counting), and why you'd really only agreed to come in the first place because of Toph. Because she'd begged like she knew why you wouldn't want to, and you knew that seeing him from a safe distance was better than not seeing him at all.

But, you see, that's why he'd invited you too. It wouldn't be suspicious, because the whole group would come, and you both could speak because the whole group would be speaking, and he would promise not to let his hand drift towards your thigh like he wanted, he'd promise. And instead, you stayed on the complete other side of the hall the whole time, laughing at what other people were saying to entertain you, talking to everyone except for him, waltzing around in that dress and that color that drove him absolutely insane. He'd been so hopeful when he finally caught your eye across the table. When you'd left almost immediately after, avoiding his gaze—he had been almost absolutely sure that it was an invitation.

However, the way you were looking at him now said differently.

You looked around carefully. No one close by, no one peeking. Still, you wouldn't relax your shoulders just yet, lest the two of you grow too comfortable. You lowered your voice and stripped that unlikeable tone out of it. "You should get back to the hall and I can follow behind. Surely people are awaiting you—“

"I can excuse myself in my home."

"You can also speak to your guests properly in—”

“Is that what you are—a guest?”

“As opposed to what?” There’s a heaviness in your breath that hadn’t been there before, and you suddenly realize how close you’ve let him come, how near his breath and heart rest sound against the arch of your feet. “My lord.” Your scowl deepens as you flick your wrist and quicker than you’d meant it to happen, Zuko stumbles back with a hand on his chest. Your lips almost fix themselves to ask it he’s okay, but you’d hate to give him fuel.

He lets out a huff of a laugh, arms lunging to grab your hands. He’s trapped you, walking you back further and further away from the party, from Toph’s clever tone, from the clinking of lingering drinks and glasses—it alls starts to fade as you struggle against him.

“You’re not supposed to be able to control the human body,” he notes breathlessly, gaze traveling and skittering all over you, like he was imagining you use those same skills for all the wrong reasons, for nefarious purposes. “What was it you said, the calcium and phosphorus in my bones?”

“Who cares what I said, we shouldn’t be here—!”

Thump, thump, thumping upon the stone floor and your sister’s voice is whispering to you three halls down, asking where you’ve run off to. But she knows exactly where you are, exactly who you’re with, she’s always been so much better at that seismic sensing than you.

You find yourself wondering why she really begged you to come to this party, why she’d insisted on mentioning Zuko in every single conversation since you’d arrived.

Toph rarely played stupid, but when she did?

Something was up her sleeve.

You rip one arm from Zuko’s slowly loosening grip and slap your hand against his lips, and you swear you hear him groan against you, leaning closer into your touch. But you know silencing him won’t matter. Toph knows. You can practically feel her smile spreading across her lips like butter. And then you hear her laugh—that evil one she does, when she’s mocked you for just long enough, when she’s won in some game, when all goes her way in the easiest way possible. She’s laughing, but she stops walking—abruptly, so it seems, and—

The ground rumbles.

“Shit.”

“Hmm?”

Before you know it, you’re dragging Zuko away from Toph’s line of fire—she’s clumsy when she’s giggling—and just then, the ground cracks before you both, the dirt and rock from beneath emerging from the opening and creating a blockage between you and every other living being in the palace.

You and Zuko. Alone.

Toph would be dead by morning, you’d make sure of it.

“Aw,” Zuko coos against your palm before you slip it away. “You trapped us together, how sweet.”

You shove at his chest with no real weight, allowing him to drift just slightly closer. “Don’t get your hopes up, it was that brat—this is your home, you know, you’ll have to clean this all up.”

“No, I owe Toph, I think this’ll do.” His hand crept closer to your face, thumb running over your jaw as soft as kisses, as light as feathers, and you burned with the feeling. But you let him. Not just let him, you wanted him to, you'd hoped he'd touch you, just like this, the whole night, knowing that you shouldn't. He smiles sweetly, dipping his head to nose the crook of your neck, the bridge running just behind your ear and down so he could take in the scent he'd been waiting for---a whole year he'd been waiting. "Please. Tell me you've thought of me."

You let in a sharp breath, straightening your figure at even the thought of your answer. How were you supposed to lie?

"Even once would be enough."

His other hand dips to your waist, pulling your hips closer to his own in this new comfortable silence, smiling gently against your skin.

"I can show you how enough it would be."

guys I'm working on part two THIS VERY SECOND I SWEAR please don't hurt me

hope you guys enjoy and let it be nourishing to our bodies

love, your pretty princess!

© marcespeaks. all rights reserved.

[halahxze]

⤿ঌ... 𝑰𝑵𝑪𝑨𝑵𝑫𝑬𝑺𝑪𝑬𝑵𝑻

⤿ Pairing: Zuko x Fem!Reader

⤿ঌ 𝑰𝑵𝑪𝑨𝑵𝑫𝑬𝑺𝑪𝑬𝑵𝑻 — someone who glows with intense passion, brilliance, or joy, or conversely, someone burning with extreme rage.

⤿Content : Plot & build up. Pregnancy. Nudity. Wounds & bruises. Kissing. Suggestive. Intimacy. Heavily Implied sex. Fluff. Drizzle of angst. Scene inspired by Pursuit of Jade. The most self-indulgent a self-indulgent fic can get.

⤿Word count: 7.7k

⤿ Authors note: Sokka is vital to the plot of every fic! Zuko loose hair and back muscles when they're flexed *drools*. Last last thing, I suck at content/warning tags sorry ://

Once again... balance has been restored to the world, peace revived to the united republicans, and a dawn on the horizon to mark it's arrival.

But the suns awakening did not remove the cinder from the air nor the scorch of the city from below—a new day had not meant a forgotten yesterday—the damage was done and much was to be rebuilt.

Birdsong returned to the skies. And a memory stirred of all the mornings he had spent on the terrace overlooking the flourishing expanse of his nation, a whiff of cider musk breathing from his silk robes.

Zuko set aside much of his concerns for the time being and embraced the kindred fire of first light as they braved the clouds. He had not wanted to—he felt he did not deserve to—yet was unable to stop himself from succumbing to relief, for what a long arduous battle it had been.

"This marks another win for team Avatar!" Sokka exclaimed breathlessly as he landed unceremoniously beside Zuko. He threw his arm over the railed edge of Appa’s saddle and deflated from the aftershock of nearly free-falling to his death.

"And what exactly did you contribute?" Toph queried.

"O you know, brains and brawn. Saved yalls butts twice! Not forgetting how my spectacular no bending invention single-handedly restored peace and balance to the world"

"You think you could use that no bending skills to save me from the wrath of my wife?”

Silence.

Sokka's head whipped toward Zuko whose face had shifted in an instant from calm serenity to petrified realization.

“I didn’t tell her I was leaving,” he muttered under his breath, staring into the sun as if it might offer him mercy.

Toph chortled, “Goodluck with that”

Sokka furiously shook his head. “Don’t drag me into this”

Aang, perched atop Appa’s head, looked back, glad he had not been in Sokka’s—or, worse yet, Zuko’s—stead because he, like the rest, had known your fiery temperament and had been subjected to its terrifying nature before, close enough to understand it wasn’t just talk or a joke passed over lightly.

Even Katara who could silence a room with a glance had never made him feel quite like this: that uneasy awareness of having already chosen the wrong side of a coming conversation.

He swallowed, suddenly very aware of his torn clothes, and looked away from Zuko. He was taken back to that one time during a stealth mission when Sokka and Zuko’s simple bantering had turned a quiet mission into near disaster.

It was a few years after Firelord Ozai’s defeat, when the plans for Republic City were still ink on paper and the world was trying to stitch itself back together.

They ran on exhaustion more than certainty, moving between rebuilding efforts, negotiations, and the precarious work of keeping the nations—set in their ways of war—from tearing at each other again.

The group had split in two. Probably not the smartest of plans. Aang was to take Sokka and Zuko, stake out a camp, trace patrol patterns, count soldiers, gather whatever intel they could, and await the signal.

But with three hours gone and still no sign of movement, Zuko, who wasn’t even supposed to be there in the first place, shifted from stillness into irritation. And with Zuko, irritation never stayed small for long.

Sokka noticed, of course. And Sokka—well, Sokka had never met a tense situation he couldn’t make worse on purpose.

“We’ll age out here before we see a single soldier. Look, Zuko’s already balding,” Sokka said, poking at a branch at Zuko’s feet with his boomerang.

“If you would stop talking, we might actually hear something useful.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sokka shot back, louder, “I didn’t realize Fire lord grumpy here was conducting a listening ceremony.”

The air tightened.

Aang had glanced between them, already sensing the shift before either of them fully committed to it. “Guys... maybe—”

And just like that, their bickering grew harsher, loud enough to have alerted an unseen passing patrol. “It’s the Avatar!!”

“You guys did it again!” Aang snatched up his staff in one motion. Air lifted him upward as he rose above the bushes, frustration flashing across his face. “Every time you argue, someone shows up and I'm always the first one noticed!”

Troops had plunged from the canopy of trees, emerging one after the other from the dark crevices of the forest with no end in sight.

Aang landed to help Zuko and Sokka.

But they were steadily driven back into a position where the enemy had gained the upper hand.

Like fury incarnate, earth had suddenly surged up in twin walls from the ground, folding the attackers in and cutting off every escape, and then water followed—an erosion, swift and precise washed through the space, locking every step in place as it hardened around their feet.

Every threat was flattened in a single, controlled strike.

The chaos gone as quickly as it had escalated.

You stood there afterward with a flat, unreadable expression, sweat clad and breathing heavier from the strain of such coordinated yet strenuous bending, your disappointment settling over them like stone.

Aang visibly shivered, his body reacting as the memory surfaced.

He could still feel it: the pressure of your words pinning them in place more effectively than any Earth Kingdom soldier ever had.

Since then, he had avoided anything even remotely reckless within your orbit. If something looked like it might spiral, he was already halfway out of it.

If Sokka started arguing, Aang found air.

If Zuko started pacing, Aang found distance.

If a plan felt even slightly like it might become “that kind of situation again,” Aang was suddenly, urgently needed somewhere else. Anywhere else.

He let out a small breath, rubbing the back of his neck as if it could ease the memory away.

“Yeah,” he muttered to himself, glancing off toward the horizon. “Not doing that again.”

Katara had heard the whole thing.

She didn’t feel sorry for them. Not really. They made their choices, and choices had consequences, therefore they should own up to it. Simple as that. Still, there was something faintly amusing about the way they spoke of you, like your presence alone had rewritten the rules of survival.

Katara had seen real fury before. Water crashing, storms breaking, emotions spilling over in waves.

And you…you were rational. That was all.

You were control. And control when it turned toward them felt like standing still in deep water as the current decided where one would go.

You were calm, collected, even when you reprimanded them. Somehow, that was exactly what made it worse. Because you didn’t raise your voice. Like every situation wasn’t an emotional mess to be shouted through—but a problem to be solved, with consequences carefully considered.

She sighed, shaking her. “Deserved.”

Toph nodded in agreement. Boys were stupid. Brainless. Rash. They had tendency to ruin most of what they touched… and didn’t touch.

Sokka spoke first, very carefully. “She once looked at me like I had personally offended the concept of intelligence.”

“You did,” Toph and Zuko replied in unison.

Sokka glared.

“You’re all ridiculous.” Then, almost absently, Katara added, “She doesn’t scare me.”

“And me,” Toph raised her hand.

Aang blinked. “Really?”

Katara rested against Appa. “She’ll be angry—and it's within her right to be. You left without telling her.”

Zuko looked toward the horizon, where messengers and rumours always seemed to travel faster than wind.

“And after what just happened,” she added, quieter now, “news of the scale of the wreckage will reach her soon.”

Sokka patted Zuko’s shoulder with forced sympathy. “You're going to have to deal with this one yourself buddy”

Zuko’s expression didn’t change. “You’re coming with me.”

“Nope.” Sokka's leg hooked lazily over the other, letting the slight breeze catch him as if he had already emotionally checked out. “This is a royal problem. Fire Nation business. Husband wife stuff.”

Toph snorted, pointedly removed from the conversation in the exact way Sokka had hoped to be.

“Sokka”

“What Katara? I value my life.”

Aang shifted uncomfortably as Appa readied to land. “In her… condition. I don’t think she’s going to just—focus on one person.”

Zuko’s eye twitched. He clearly caught the implication, but swallowed it down with visible effort. “…You’re all coming,” he said flatly.

Sokka pointed at him. “That’s not how protection works!”

Appa touched down near the city center with a thud that rippled through the streets below.

“It's been a while. We could do with a visit” She smoothed a hand over Appa’s fur, a smile written across the corners of her mouth.

“Sweet.” Toph shrugged, entirely unbothered. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

With Katara and Toph in agreement, the decision was already made.

Zuko would be returning home regardless, so his vote counted for nothing.

As for Aang and Sokka…they weren’t given a choice.

With much still to be done in the wake of the destruction left behind, Sokka suggested they remain in Republic City for the day, where they would clean up, rest, and handle a few lingering matters before setting out for the Fire Nation the following morning.

This time, his opinion had been heard and agreed upon.

Zuko was grateful, albeit hesitant. He told himself it was better to return home fully rested and composed than to arrive in torn clothes, injuries half-healed, and every weakness laid bare for scrutiny.

•.‿︵˖⤿🐦‍🔥 ঌ˖︵‿.•

Steam curled lazily along the stone walls.

Zuko submerged himself under the hot water longer than necessary. When he resurfaced, it ran over his shoulders, down his arms and chest as if it could rinse out more than just soot and sweat.

The day replayed itself in fragments. Then went further back to when his hope for redemption sparked and brought him to this point. Then even further back—deeper into the memories of his childhood when he'd been taught the history of his Nation, their climb to dominance and success…to the demise of the Air Nomad. Aang's people.

He exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the tub, his arms resting along its curved edges.

His chest rose with the steam, then eased back down—steady as the flicker of candlelight in a still room.

“What troubles you, My Lord?”

A ghost of a touch brushed his shoulder where a deep incision had been healed to a dark bruise. Another sensation had followed shortly, a softer collision against his shoulder.

“Why? Do you plan on kissing my troubles away?”

He had found himself smiling.

“Oh, I can do a lot more than that…” you replied, voice warm with that familiar spark—the kind that didn’t burn outwards so much as it simply refused to go dim.

His hand had rested on your hip, fingers idly tugging at the absurd amount of layers in your dress as if grounding himself in something real.

“Thank you…”

“I haven’t even done anything yet,” you mused, tilting your head to capture his lips in a simple kiss before tucking his hair behind his ears.

But Zuko had meant it in all honesty. “For being here”

“Even when it got hard. Even when everything changed… when it was an upheaval and adjustment for you.”

You had become his calm, the push and pull of water, steadying him when everything else felt uncertain.

And yet, despite the water that flowed through your veins, making you strong, composed, and grounding, there was a fire breathed beneath it.

It was obvious in the way you moved through the world—quick to flare, quick to speak, quick to challenge anything that stirred too comfortably around you.

“Those eyes look as if they could do no wrong,” your finger traced the slope of his nose, slow and unhurried, like you had all the time in the world to map him out, to revitalize the memory of him.

It lingered there for just a moment too long—enough to blur the line between thought and touch—before drifting down, over the heat of his cheek, across his jaw to pinch his chin.

His breath caught, subtle but sharp.

He didn’t move at all, caught between the instinct to step back and the more dangerous urge to stay exactly where he was.

“But it’s not enough to get you out of trouble,”

His body jolted upright.

The bathwater around him swayed at the suddenness. The illusion broken instantly, like heat breaking through glass.

He dragged a hand down his face. Once. Firm.

Exhaustion. That was all it was. A tired mind pulling shapes out of absence just to fill the missing and overexertion and the hunger.

Nothing more.

He pushed up through the water, muscles tightening as cold air met damp skin. Heavy droplets clung to him, sliding slowly down his shoulders and legs, tracing paths to corners touched by your heat.

For a moment, he stood there letting the realization settle back into something he could control. Then he stepped out of the tub.

The towel came around his waist in practiced motion. Water hit tile in uneven rhythms behind him as he dried his hair, wringing it out before clipping it back and walking into the room he'd been given.

Soft bedding, muted light, walls too clean to feel familiar. Comfortable, but not home. Not anything that could anchor the feeling he’d just shaken off. He crossed it anyway.

He dressed in silence, awkwardly folding each movement into the next like he'd long forgotten how to do it himself.

By the time he lay down in bed, at last, the room was dark except for the faint spill of city light through the window.

Sleep didn’t come quickly, and so he stared at the ceiling, listening to the distant ensemble of Republic City—too alive to feel entirely restful. His mind drifted anyway: plans, routes, conversations yet to happen, versions of tomorrow that all ended in the same place.

Zuko closed his eyes. And eventually, after a long stretch of misery—sleep finally took him.

•.‿︵˖⤿🐦‍🔥 ঌ˖︵‿.•

The sun wasn’t even up yet. Sokka stared into oblivion with a bag slung under his arm, blinking slowly like sleep itself was personally refusing him entry.

Toph flicked a pebble at him. It struck him square in the forehead.

“OW—hey!” Sokka yelped, stumbling sideways and nearly taking himself out on a crate. “What was that for?!”

“Keeping you awake,” Toph said. “You were starting to look peaceful. It was disturbing.”

Zuko stepped past them, passing Aang the last of the supplies before climbing up onto Appa with the efficiency of someone ready to get back home.

“I feel like I should’ve been consulted on this,” Sokka muttered, rubbing his eyes.

Katara didn’t even turn around. “You were.”

“I would remember being consulted.”

“You were informed,” she corrected. “Then you complained.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It is exactly the same thing.”

Toph lifted herself onto Appa, joining Zuko and Katara. “You’re coming. Stop whining.”

“I am not whining—this is strategic concern for my continued existence.”

Katara was unimpressed.

“I hate when the group consensus is ‘we suffer together.’”

“Oh, don’t be such a dramatic shrimp fry. You’re the only one acting like this is a funeral march.” Toph laid down and pulled a blanket over herself and lay down.

With the long journey ahead, she might as well catch up on sleep

“I’m not being dra—” he yawned mid-word, staggering slightly, “matic.”

“Sure.”

Aang tightened his cloak against the early morning chill. “Everyone ready?”

Zuko nodded. “Let’s go.”

“Appa, yip yip”

Appa shifted beneath them with a low rumble, then launched into the air.

︵ঌ︵

The flight home filled with an anticipation Zuko had yet to process.

It was not the first time he'd been away from you this long.

Between diplomatic missions, routine territory checks, and military assessments, distance had become a familiar part of his life. But this time was different.

This was the only time he had left without telling you where he was going. And that sat with him miserably.

There was much to think about—beyond the worry for you and his children. It was what lingered beneath that, something he had long claimed to have moved past. And yet, still kept him awake.

Years had passed. He had healed. He had… He had tempered those stubborn irrational flames that drove him. Gained loyal allies, true friendship, married the love of his life, named his first born through strength and legacy.

Why couldn’t he forget the years shaped by hate and obsession?

He had once believed capturing the Avatar would prove his worth. That it would earn back his father’s love, his respect. But somewhere along that path, his ambition had twisted—and the that which he hunted had turned, and hunted him in back.

His honour had never known the golden glory of which existed so strongly today, at the same time, his heart sunk unbearably beneath the guilt such honour carried.

As a full day passed since they left Republic City, Appa flew as though time itself were pressing forward.

Aang could feel the anticipation build in the air surrounding Zuko, he and his bison shared the same understanding—faster was better. The sooner they arrived, the sooner everything could finally settle.

With the second sunrise creeping over the horizon, Sokka and Toph snored their way through the early hours in complete disregard for dignity or altitude.

Katara and Aang sat closer together, speaking in low voices, their conversation soft enough to fade into the wind. Zuko remained near the edge of Appa’s saddle. He looked away from them.

He traced the familiar shapes of mountains and rivers as they passed beneath him, each landmark drawing him closer to home—closer to you, and he counted the minutes.

Quite literally.

Though how accurate he was, he couldn't tell. Only that home was getting closer.

When they crossed into Fire Nation territory, the land was scarred by craters of old destruction, softened now by layers of green grass and scattered wildflowers.

Time had not erased them—only made them appear less frightening.

Sokka stirred at last.

He sat up, squinting at the light. He took in his surroundings, let out a long yawn, then moved closer to Zuko who watched as shapes began to form in the distance.

The roads grew more ordered. The settlements more structured. A different world unfolding as they neared the capital.

“Amazing,” Sokka breathed, genuine admiration softening his voice.

Things had changed since he was last there.

Zuko felt pride swell in his chest. It had taken all of them… but most of all, it had taken you. The Fire Nation was no longer something to fear. It was thriving.

By the time they arrived at the palace, the sun was high overhead, drawn near its peak.

They were all momentarily pulled from their grievances, awestruck by the bright banners stretched across the streets below, and the sound of voices rising in organized waves—chants, cheers, a welcome that rolled through the capital.

Their arrival had been expected, it seemed. Likely your doing.

They offered their waves in return, Sokka a little more enthusiastic once he realized this wasn’t a public execution.

Toph tilted her head. “What’s happening?”

“They’re cheering,” Aang said.

“Yeah, I got that. What does it look like?” she shot back dryly.

“Cheerful… alive,” Katara answered, an understatement to the welcome they received.

Appa stuck his landing with heavy force, wind rushing outward with a strong gust that sent he robes and banners snapping.

The members of court straightened immediately, then bowed in unison as their Fire lord stood to his full height.

And there he saw you. At the forefront, fury that rivalled his flames—no smile, no softness, nothing but your gaze focused squarely on him.

Zuko descended from Appa, his feet meeting cold concrete, his shoulders poised.

He approached.

Even with a scowl firm upon your face, you were—without question—the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"My love" his voice lowered, tone of command gone, replaced with reverence of worship.

Behind him, Katara felt her chest tighten just slightly, warmth blooming as she watched it unfold—this quiet, undeniable proof of how far he had come from the boy who once burned too quickly for his own good.

But all good things must meet reality eventually—or in this case, a wife reminding her husband he was still in trouble, and no victory or sweet tone would get him out of it.

“Welcome home, Fire lord Zuko”

His breath hitched for the smallest fraction of a second, not enough for anyone to call it out. Composure followed a half-beat late.

Behind you, his Advisor and Chamberlain stood rigid, guilt practically written into every wrinkle on their faces.

The court, usually so accustomed to political tension, held a bated breath for an entirely different reason now.

It wasn’t fear of their Fire Lord that alerted them, it was the controlled fury of their Lady that unleashed when she saw her husband.

"Do you care to explain yourself, or shall I have the divorce papers drafted?"

Zuko’s collar suddenly felt tighter than it had any right to be. The fabric pressed against his throat like it had shrunk in the heat of the moment. His posture stayed upright out of habit, but something in him had clearly faltered.

“Aang needed my help,”

The courtyard seemed to forget how to breathe.

The attendants stiffened altogether; one advisor’s scroll slipped slightly in his grip before he caught it too late, the rustle sounding far too loud.

Katara’s stifled her amusement while Sokka made a small, strangled noise like he was deciding whether to laugh or pray.

Toph smirked faintly, head tilted as if listening to the emotional damage in real time.

Even Aang, somewhere in the group, looked personally betrayed by his own name being used as justification.

And at the centre of it all, the air between you and Zuko sweltered.

"Is that an excuse I hear?”

“No—”

“Someone’s in trouble.” Sokka said with a grin that suggested he was enjoying this far too much.

It lasted exactly until Katara struck him lightly on the back of the head, silencing him mid-smirk.

“I was going to tell you—”

You side-stepped your husband mid-sentence. No hesitation.

They had all frozen, the Fire lord reduced not by battle, but by the displeasure of his wife.

“Katara”

Your voice noticeably changed first. The warmth returned like nothing had happened. Like it had all been folded away in an instant and replaced.

Katara didn’t hesitate as she crossed the space and pulled you into a tight embrace. Sisters through water, war, and everything that came after it.

Sokka, who had been raving in fear of your reaction was pulled into a hug too, which surprised him.

“Wow. Pregnancy has changed you" he said before he could stop himself.

Katara immediately pinched him.

“Battle wounds? No. More like survival wounds from you violent people.”

Sokka barely had time to finish before Katara pinched him again, harder this time.

“OW—okay, okay!” he yelped, recoiling and rubbing his arm. “I’m kidding! Mostly kidding!”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “It’s fine. Pregnancy has been messing with me, but I’m in a good mood.”

“You're lying” Toph chuckled.

“I'm trying to be in a good mood,” you corrected. “I haven't seen you guys in a while… A visit must've fell from your list of priorities”

Toph gestured to Appa. “Not all of us have a flying bison or a fleet of airships, you know.”

“Mhm.” You looked sideways. “Zuko won't have an airship for a while either.”

That earned a quiet exhale from him.

He stepped closer toward you, but you moved away anyway.

A beat passed. Then Aang stepped forward last, a smile that hadn't truly reached his eyes.

You embraced him tightly.

“You look worse for wear" you said.

“Getting better” he breathed out.

That seemed to ease something in you.

You stepped back, one hand resting over your stomach as your eyes moved across them—taking in all of them at once.

The whole mess. The whole family. Back in one place, even if briefly.

Above you, Momo suddenly darted in a tight circle, chittering excitedly around your head.

“Hello to you too, Momo,” you said, amused. “And Appa as well.”

You motioned once, and your lady servants quietly withdrew. “I've had someone prepare your rooms. I'm sure you'll want to rest. The kitchen has prepared a light meal—we can meet for dinner tonight”

Zuko exhaled halfway then stopped when you turned to him, and the breath he’d started to release stalled completely in his chest.

“And you…”

“The Avatar needed my help. I didn't know things would—”

“You had the whole court lie for you!”

A beat.

The officials shifted first. Then the attendants. Then the guards.

Zuko raised a hand.

The courtyard moved. Footsteps scattered and scrambled. Armor clinked. Doors shut too quickly.

“He lets them run but tells me to face my death with honour.” Sokka whispered to Toph.

“That makes you less of a coward.”

Katara didn’t hesitate when she grabbed Sokka by the ear and Toph by the forearm.

“Aang!” she called sharply.

Aang blinked then hurriedly followed, leaving you and your husband alone in the courtyard.

“Are you really mad?” He asked softly, catching your face and tilting so your eyes met his.

“Oh rest assured, Honourable Fire Lord—” you swat his hand away, “I am furious!”

You walked first. And he shadowed your every step.

No argument. No pride. Just footsteps behind you, matching your pace through the palace halls, through archway and past carved pillars.

When you finally reached the bedroom, the door shut behind him with a firm click.

You pulled the headpiece from your hair—the one he had given you—and set it down onto the vanity harder than necessary.

“I am not some weak women who can't handle knowing her husband is needed for some greater purpose,” you said. “I do not need constant coddling for every matter you think might cause even the slightest negative reaction. I will not fall apart and I will not beg you to stay when Aang needs you…

But I am your wife!”

His arm came around you carefully, folding over your swollen stomach first, grounding himself there as if that was the most honest place to start. His hold was warm, steady, deliberate.

"You are..." he affirmed with pride—with certainty, submission and subservience that wasn’t defeat but devotion.

He leaned his forehead briefly against your shoulder. “You are my wife. And I know that.”

You slapped his hand. It stung, but he just refolded then into place again.

“Let go”

“No”

You looked one sentence away from losing patience entirely. For a brief second, you even looked like you might hit him again.

Zuko, infuriatingly calm, smiled like he could read the thought forming. Then he pressed a light kiss to your shoulder, unbothered.

“I’ll let go if you stop being angry.”

“Not a chance”

You elbowed him in the gut, easily manoeuvring out of his hold, slower but no less familiar with the way your body had been trained to move.

“Feisty woman,” he rasped, hunched over.

He said your name. No answer. Repeated it again.

You slammed your hands down on the table. “What were you thinking!?”

“I'm sorry”

“You hear that, little one? That’s what we call a half-hearted apology. A lie. Your father pulled that one straight from his ass.”

He was sincere—not just because he knew he’d upset you, or because you deserved an apology, but because he knew better. He knew better… and still doubted himself.

“I am sorry… but I—”

“Left. You left. With lies. With people keeping me in the dark because you thought it was best.

Where is your honour in that, Zuko?”

Your voice cracked.

The baby, as if sensing your distress, delivered a series of sharp kicks to your abdomen. You pressed your palm over your stomach, trying to soothe the movement, but the ache lingered.

“What if you died? You would’ve left without a proper goodbye. I would’ve known nothing. Nothing.”

Zuko finally moved—like he was forcing himself not to recoil from the hurt in your voice. “…I didn’t think further than what had happened last time”

The memory surfaced, uninvited. A civil war breaking out across the Nation. Smoke on the horizon. Orders lost in the collision. And you—pregnant, close to term, already carrying more weight than anyone should have had to.

There had been a complication then. One that had nearly forced him into a choice that still didn’t feel real even years later—he was on the ground mid-battle when they told him. A decision he had never forgiven the world for making him consider.

So when Aang’s summons came—impossible to ignore—he had hesitated.

He had told himself he was protecting you by not telling you. By leaving quickly. By avoiding panic, avoiding stress, avoiding anything that might tilt the balance again.

But standing there now, watching your hands press into the table, watching the anger that came from love rather than distance, he understood what he had actually done.

He hadn’t protected you.

He had repeated the mistake in a different way.

His throat tightened.

“I thought—” he started, then stopped. Because there was no version of that sentence that didn’t fall apart halfway through.

“…I was wrong,” he said instead. “I should have told you. I should have trusted you with it.”

A pause.

“It was foolish to leave. It was even more foolish to think I could have the entire court lie to you… keep you in the dark until things blew over… I was foolish.”

"You were."

"I was…"

No deflection. No attempt to soften it.

You hated him. But you couldn't deny him. He had tried, but he was still only human. Human in his mistakes, human in the way he carried them, and human in the way he sometimes let fear speak louder than trust.

Neither of you moved. But then you stepped forward.

Zuko raised his arm, and you walked into his embrace, your forehead pressing into his chest as your breath caught like you’d been holding it in for too long.

“I’m here,” he murmured, meant only for you.

His hand brushed along your jaw as he leaned in—slow enough to give you time, to let you pull away if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

Your breath met his first. Then your lips.

Zuko left soft, lingering pecks along your bottom lip, unhurried, testing, like he was relearning something he had no right to rush.

Then, slowly, he deepened the kiss.

His hands came up to cradle your neck, warm. Always warm.

You swore he ran hotter than any fire bender alive. Not just heat, but presence.

Something constant, something that pressed into you without burning—unless you let it.

He was warmth in every sense of it. Like the thick summer air that clung to your skin, heavy and inescapable…

And like a fire in the dead of winter, steady, consuming, offering comfort the moment you stepped too close to the cold.

He stroked your earlobe while his other hand found the inner corner of your robe, easing it from your shoulder.

Zuko hummed, pleased by the way you inclined toward his touch.

But you sooner pulled away, telling him to go ahead to the bath chamber.

When you joined him, towel set aside, your fingers found his belt, undoing the knot with practiced ease.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

His eyes traced your every move while you carefully avoided his gaze.

You pushed his robes from his shoulders, letting the fabric fall away and onto your forearm.

Zuko he stepped back to remove his boots then the rest of his clothing, until nothing remained between him and you.

“Could you…” you gestured toward the water.

“Of course,” he mused.

Zuko lifted his hand, and with an effortless breath, flame sparked to life in his palm. The water responded instantly, steam rising in soft curls with a gentle hiss, the surface rippling before it settled.

You sat on the low stone slated edge of the bath as he lowered himself into the water.

“…You’re not joining me?” he asked.

“Waters too hot for me," you replied, reaching for a cloth.

You dipped it, then dragged it gently over his chest, over the bruises no water could heal.

Zuko had eased almost instantly under your care, the tension in his neck and shoulders unwinding as he rested his head against the stone.

His eyes closed, letting you take care of him.

︵ঌ︵

His face sank into the plush mattress, inhaling the faint trace of your scent that lingered in every crease of the sheets.

A low groan escaped him as his body finally registered how tired it was. His arms stretched out loosely, then went still, like even moving felt optional now.

“Where’s Atsumi?”

“Asleep. She’s been running a terrible fever.”

Half-lidded eyes shot open. Halfway through getting up, you pressed a hand firmly to his chest and pushed him back down.

Zuko's breath hitched.

“She hasn't slept well in two days. She needs rest…”

“Then I should—”

You didn’t let him.

“Carry on,” you said flatly.

Zuko exhaled through his nose, tension easing in reluctant stages. His shoulders sank back into the mattress, the fight draining out of him.

“She’s going to hate that I didn’t check on her immediately,” he muttered.

“I spent two nights consoling her cries all while dealing with this little Firestarter in my stomach kicking and acting up. You’re not going to wake her.”

He cupped your thigh as you came to straddle him, thumb rubbing circles.

“I should’ve been here,” he said quietly.

“You are here now.”

“That’s not the same.”

“No,” you agreed. “It’s not. But because of you, we're still here”

“…Is she really alright?”

“As alright as any child with your temperament could be” you said.

That earned the smallest, tired curve at the corner of his mouth.

“She’s more like you…”

She was. But she looked exactly like him.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” you replied softly, running your fingers through his hair… a little insecure of it.

Zuko kissed your clothed inner-thigh before he smoothly flipped your positions.

He lifted your leg to wrap around his waist, lowering you into the position he was just in. Then, like he couldn't help himself, he face invaded your personal space—no such thing existed between you.

A kiss to your cheek, your forehead, then the bridge of your nose. His hand found yours, fingers threading tightly with yours against the sheets before he raised them above your head.

“You have nothing to fear,” he whispered.

“Beside my husband sneaking off on suicide missions.”

“Aside from that…”

Zuko caressed the back of your hand, his touch slow and deliberate, before lifting your joined hands to his mouth.

Your leg tightened around his waist. He made a low sound in the back of his throat, half a grunt and half pleading. He looked at your through his eyelashes—in worship… with unveiled devotion.

You skimmed your fingers up the column of his throat—over the thick pulsing vein—pausing at his scar.

He went still as you kissed it.

The heat flourished in his cheeks, not just embarrassment or shyness, but something far more vulnerable—enough to bring him to tears.

He kissed you before they ever fell—before he could retreat into his pain instead of his heart.

•.‿︵˖⤿🐦‍🔥 ঌ˖︵‿.•

The last remnants of the day had begun to flee when you, flushed and exhausted, pulled yourself out from beneath the blanket and sank back onto your pillow. Zuko's insatiable hunger followed instinctively—too close, too heated.

You pushed at his shoulder before he could hover over you completely.

He laid a kiss onto you stomach, the gesture reverent. The baby kicked which warmed his heart.

Lowering himself until his ear rested against it, nuzzling his nose against the stretched skin.

Endearments whispered his love—the ache in your bones a testimony to it.

“We should get ready for dinner…” you mumbled weakly.

“Not obliged to attend,” Zuko replied, unmoving, still half-lounged against you like he had no intention of letting go.

“Courtesy…” You sat up.

He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath before sitting up properly, dragging a hand through his hair to reset himself into something resembling a Fire Lord again.

But the softness didn’t fully leave his face. Not when he stared at you.

You rolled your shoulder with a wince, working out the tension still lingering there.

Without a word, he crossed the space between you.

His silk robe draped over your shoulders, adjusted it gently, fingertips brushing briefly as he made sure it covered well.

“As you wish.”

And so he did.

From the bath to the cloth, from lifting you in and out and carrying you about, from laying out your dress and seeing you fit for the hall—Zuko had done it all.

By the time you entered the dining hall, the others were already seated.

Zuko led you in with your hand set light upon his forearm. His hair bound up neat and proud, the Fire Nation emblem set through it, gold catching the lamp-light and casting a warm gleam over the room’s high beams and carved stone.

You took the first step in. Then, just as you had almost reached the table, a small blur sprang from Aang’s lap and darted across the room in a flash of light and laughter.

Zuko dropped at once to one knee, swift as a striking hawk, and caught the child with ease before she could collide with his legs.

“Papa!” she cried, laughing so hard it came out like a squeal.

At the sound, Zuko’s heart was pried open with joy.

His arms closed around her small body without hesitation, his entire composure shifted in an instant to her father.

Katara’s face softened at once, and Aang watched her with a look that held both warmth and wonder. You saw it.

And you smiled just slightly as you took your seat.

Sokka, already halfway through pouring a drink, slid a glass toward you with exaggerated seriousness.

“For the Lady of the Fire Nation,” he said, trying—and failing—not to look smug about the chaos he was witnessing.

Zuko lifted her with ease as she tugged at his collar and pointed at nothing in particular with the absolute certainty of a child who believed everything belonged to her.

“I found him,” she announced proudly to no one and everyone.

“You always do,” Zuko said, almost amused, pressing a brief kiss to her hair.

Zuko sat beside you, his daughter in his lap. But she stayed no longer than a minute before she was up and dangling onto Sokka's shoulder.

With everyone seated and settled, though “settled” was a generous word for it. You began to eat.

Your daughter—who by all means should have been limp and fever stricken—had decided otherwise.

She clung to Sokka’s shoulder one moment, nearly toppling over into his plate of food the next. He yelped, simultaneously catching her and his plate.

“Hey, hey… tiny tyrant, sit down!”

But she had slipped from him like water, already darting after Momo, who chittered in alarm and delight as he took flight just out of her reach.

Aang winced. “Momo, don’t encourage her—!”

Too late.

She spun again, quick as a spark, and made her way to Toph’s side. A small hand reached. A piece of food vanished.

Toph didn’t even move.

“You’re lucky I like you,” she said, chewing slowly, though the faintest smirk tugged at her mouth.

“I got it,” your daughter declared proudly, already halfway gone again.

Zuko watched her with a mix of disbelief and quiet awe, like he couldn’t quite decide whether to intervene or admire the sheer force of her will.

“She was sick?” he murmured under his breath.

You shrugged.

Atsumi, after several laps around the dining table, finally slowed and squeezed her way between Katara and Aang, picking up the little bison stuffed toy she had left in their care earlier.

Conversation had found its rhythm. Old friends catching up. Distant family telling tales.

You listened. You replied. You added where needed.

But eventually, almost without noticing, the conversation had deepened.

“…And the damage?” you asked.

Zuko’s hand stilled slightly beside yours.

Aang glanced up. Katara’s posture straightened just enough to be noticed. Even Sokka quieted, though he tried to hide it behind a bite of food.

“Later then,” you glanced at Zuko.

Sokka, ever the first to recover, leaned back on his hands. “Great. ‘Later.’”

Toph snorted. “You act like you’re the one in trouble.”

“I am in trouble,” Sokka shot back. “I was there. I participated. I enabled—”

“If anyone’s in trouble… it’s Zuko,”

Zuko shot her a look of warning immediately—but there was no real bite to it.

He was just grateful you were currently occupied with redirecting your daughter away from Momo’s tail before she discovered yet another way to test the limits of her mothers patience.

“…She shouldn’t have this much energy.”

You huffed, sitting down with her.

Aang smiled faintly at that. “I remember someone else who didn’t know when to stop.”

“…You chased me across the world.”

Zuko pursed his lips.

Sokka pointed between them. “Everyone here has a history of making questionable decisions but I’m always the liability?”

“You are the liability,” Toph said flatly.

“I am the glue of this group.”

“You’re the gum that gets stuck under my barefoot,” she shot back.

You and Katara shared a laugh.

“So what will happen now?” you asked, looking over your daughters head as she climbed into your lap without permission and then dove into her fathers lap when he sat.

He was breathing heavy.

Atsumi had made him chase her around the room, laughter echoing between the tables until even the guards had started pretending not to watch.

You argued it was dinner and he had already eaten half of his meal, but Zuko didn’t know how to say no to her—especially not when she looked at him like that.

Aang set his bowl down before answering, his tone thoughtful, already a step ahead in planning. “We’ll head back to Republic City. There’s still work to be done”

Sokka groaned softly. “Ah yes, more work. My favourite.”

“You don’t do the work,” Katara said.

“I supervise the work.”

“You eat during the work.”

“I fuel morale.”

Toph flicked a raisin at him.

Ignoring them, Aang concluded. “After that… I’ll be taking the new Acolytes to the place Sonan mentioned.”

Zuko glanced between them before speaking. “I can have airships prepared by morning, if you'd need it.”

Aang nodded in quiet appreciation. “That would help.”

Katara glanced at him. “You’re sure about this?”

“It’s time,” Aang said simply.

Zuko considered that. “Let me know what you need. Supplies. Support. Anything.”

Aang met his gaze and nodded once.

“I will.”

Eventually, you had the table cleared and replaced with light desserts and tea because no one seemed ready to head to bed yet. The atmosphere was warm. Unrushed. The company welcomed.

And in that small pocket of noise, you leaned slightly toward Zuko.

Your voice dropped—low enough that it belonged only to him.

“You should go with them.”

He stilled.

“You want me to leave again?” he asked quietly.

You smiled, faint yet certain. “I want you to see there’s still hope.”

Your words sunk in—finding places within his soul that had learned to never complain again. The past was not something he spoke of often, but it lived in him all the same.

The Fire Nation had taken everything from Aang’s… and even now, it still kept him up at night—haunting thoughts that never went away no matter how much time had passed or how much he had tried to make right what could be made right.

It was part of the reason he had moved so quickly when Aang’s message arrived.

And though he had not been the one to begin it, he had once chased its ending for all the wrong reasons.

That guilt had never quite left.

Your hand brushed lightly against his beneath the table.

“That isn’t yours to carry alone, nor is it his” you added, looking across the table.

Aang laughed boisterously at something Sokka had said.

“You think I can help with that?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I know you can.”

Zuko’s eyes flicked toward him.

Toward the future being built in small, stubborn pieces.

“Uhm… guys— just letting you know… she's really hot," Sokka said, wide-eyed as she clung to him with alarming determination.

“Atsumi” Zuko called.

Her fever must be returning.

At once, she looked up. And just as quickly—faster than she ever listened to anyone else, faster than when you called—she broke away from Sokka and returned to her fathers side.

No hesitation. No protest.

“I’ll take her to get her medicine”

Zuko stood for the hundredth time that night.

He bent down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. There was still too much left unspoken behind his eyes, too many thoughts he hadn’t yet sorted into words.

He lifted your daughter carefully into his arms as if she were the most natural extension of himself.

Then he turned—already halfway gone in his mind. Tethered only by habit, by love, by everything he had built and still didn’t quite believe he deserved.

And you watched him go.

Your incandescent.

⥁Copyright © 2026 by halahxze — I claim no ownership of any referenced materials beyond my original writing and ideas. No part of this publication may be reproduced, republished, translated, or transmitted into Ai nor onto any other platform.

[fawnindawn]

scale of attraction.

summary: zuko's straight-forwardness in appreciating the attractive qualities of the lone stranger saved by aang has you curious on whether you could get him to spill on what he thinks of you. (no major movie spoilers)

pairing: firelord! zuko x reader

content: fluff, idiot zuko my love, mutual pining, firelord zuko 😞🙏

"He's very attractive." Zuko admits, eyes unblinking as he stares at the unconscious stranger.

The entire team whips their heads to stare at Zuko in unconcealed shock.

"What?" Zuko mutters, gaze lingering on the surprised expressions casted onto him, before eventually landing on yours. "He is. It's all in the bone structure."

You blink, unable to process his straight-forward words that landed on you like a gut punch. You've never considered it, the fact that Zuko also found others attractive.

It seems like a completely, silly notion now that the thought has verbalised itself in your mind. Of course Zuko would notice if others were considered attractive. Maybe it just never occurred to you in all your years of knowing him—of also finding him—

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to look away from his prying gaze, confusion alight in his eyes from your taken-aback expression.

If he's unconsciously considered the attractiveness of this stranger... has he ever—no, this should not be your priority. It doesn't matter what he thinks of you, it's not like it would change a thing. He's practically admitted it non-verbally through that monotonous admission of his, that a person's looks is assessed by him in a completely, impersonal standpoint.

Bone structure? You shouldn't be curious. Knowing Zuko, he might accidentally insult your structure if you asked.

The curiosity does not disappear. In fact, it digs deeper and deeper into the crevices of your mind—subconsciously affecting your attitude around Zuko.

It doesn't help that it's painfully obvious that he's noticed your strange behaviour ever since his comment. Once, when his hand had come up to your shoulder to alert you that everyone was boarding the ship—and your entire body jumped in response. Again, when you completely blanked out when he asked if you would like some firecracker buns.

It's not like you wanted to hyper-focus on his observation on purpose. It's just that after years of knowing him and pushing down that sub-concious attraction—of not allowing yourself to even see him as anything more than the Zuko you know, the rebound impact of all your resurfacing emotions combined with his lingering presence is far too much.

Zuko isn't the type to beat around the bush either, one of the rare habits his uncle hasn't passed onto him. In a moment of needed reprieve, your attempt at regaining your composure fails spectacularly when you find yourself in a stand-still, cornered in the back of the ship—one firecracker bun in his hand as an offering.

"Have I said something to make you uncomfortable?"

Zuko's gaze is akin to a puppy's, wide-eyed and brows furrowed. Afraid that he's done something wrong, overlooked the choice of his words once again and destroyed the atmosphere without realising.

Straight to the point as ever, you'd appreciate it more if he had given you a few more minutes to come up with a reasonable excuse. Something more plausible than 'Do you find me attractive?', a lingering question that should've remained buried in the soil that you departed from nearly an hour ago.

"Not exactly." Taking the firecracker bun from his hand, the crumbs coat your fingers. You needed something to muffle your words, anything to distract you. It's easier to focus on the lingering spice that melts into your tongue, rather than his unblinking stare.

"So—I did say something." His mouth parts, a slight tilt downward in the corner of his lip. "Or I've made you uncomfortable."

There was no winning with him. Swallowing your last bite, you brush the crumbs against your sleeve, the slouch of your posture a key sign of surrender, your invisible white flag waving at the sight of his increasingly dubious expression.

"The first one." You admit with a sigh. "Earlier—"

He leans in subtly, a habit he does when he's listening attentively, and the luscious wave of his bangs brushes against your knuckles. His amber eyes pierce through you, and the words practically die off your tongue.

Why is he looking at you like that?

It isn't fair that he has such an effect on you. You still remember the old days, when he had a worser temper instead of the softened expression that lingers warmly on you. Plus, that horrible haircut, a singular ponytail with the rest of his hair shaved off forever engrained in your mind. Even recalling the image doesn't help calm your thundering heartbeat when the Zuko in front of you is so—overwhelming.

"You were saying?" He prods gently.

You swallow, averting your gaze. "When you mentioned... about attractiveness. Was that like—a spur of the moment kind of thing, or do you have a first impression for everyone you meet?"

His brows furrow for a moment, before recognition lights his golden gaze. "Ah—that."

"Right, that." You feel the seat warming beneath you in your embarrassment, a hallucination of senses in your sudden need to escape his assessing gaze. He barely even remembers his comment, and here you are, still obsessively prying over it.

"I was only answering Toph's question." He states. "No one was stating the obvious."

"The obvious." You muse. "Do you assess the attractiveness of everyone you meet?"

"I suppose it depends." He mutters, hand rubbing over his chin in consideration. "If it was during a battle, I wouldn't be prioritising on considering the opponent's appearance. As compared to someone knocked out on the ground, it gives me plenty of time."

You barely resist a snort. Only he could treat a topic like a person's attractiveness like one of his battle strategies. "I suppose you didn't have time during our first meeting then."

As soon as the words leave your mouth, both you and Zuko freeze. Your lips clamp shut, an immediate wince shuddering through your frame. Cat's out of the bag, you suppose.

"Never mind." You wave it off, your own laugh echoing much too loudly through your ears. "It wasn't like I was wondering—well, maybe I was. You just sprung it out of nowhere earlier, and I got... curious. You don't have to answer—"

"I did." He cuts you off unceremoniously.

You blink, his vague words echoing in the thin distance between the two of you. "What?"

He swallows, and for once, he's the one flustered in this conversation. "I did notice, during our first meeting."

No way. Your first meeting with Zuko was anything but pretty. You remember being covered in sweat, grime, and ashes coating your clothes as he shot flames at you from his palms. The twisted grimace on his face when you had him writhing under your grip, as he loudly declared his revenge on you, rupturing your eardrums with all his yelling.

"You mean—" You barely resist a grin stretching on your lips. "—when I pinned you down on your airship, and you were spitting death threats into my ear."

"Yes, that." His long locks cover his ears now, but you can bet the rims are reddened from the reminder. "You were formidable."

Formidable. No, that wasn't enough. His sudden focus on the floorboards of his ship made it obvious that he was simplifying his observation.

"I was gaining the winning hand." You state out-right, disbelief coating your tone. "And you had time to notice?"

A restrained sigh escapes Zuko's gritted teeth, already regretting his slip of tongue.

"What of the angle? Does the Fire Lord recall my bone structure during our first battle too, when I pinned you to the floor?" You tease.

He scoffs in a light-hearted manner, shoulder lightly bumping into yours. "It was the first time anyone had pinned me down. I wasn't exactly given another view to look at."

"Was the view bad then?" You prod.

"Not at all." He answers absentmindedly—quickly without hesitation.

Your lips part, speechless. Zuko immediately separates his shoulder from yours, a bashful expression overtaking his features.

"Objectively." He states hurriedly, waving his arms. "I was expecting to find the Avatar at the time, not... you."

The way he says it, the almost breathless note that leaves his lips. You devour it hungrily, now being the one to lean in, prying.

"And how did you find me, Zuko?" You ask earnestly.

He huffs in defeat. His softened gaze finally meets yours again, his eyes roaming over your features, ones that he's familiarised with for years, and yet... it still takes the breath out of him. "...You were the most beautiful person I've ever sparred with."

Oh... wow. You didn't expect that.

"You were threatening to kill me." You recall in disbelief.

"I was multi-tasking." He mutters, ashamed.

Your intended snort escalates into a cackle, unable to contain yourself. "I would have never guessed that from the way you glared at me. So full of shame—and destroyed pride."

"What about you?" He asks in a hurry, though his tone drops towards the end in hesitation—hinting his regret in the wrong change in topic. He grimaces, gaze dropping to his tightened fists over his lap. "...Did you find my scar hideous?"

Surprise colours your features.

Immediately shaking your head, you're at a loss for words on how to convey just how off-course he was on his guess. How could you ever find Zuko hideous? Your heart barely survived your visits to the Fire Nation, not when their own Fire Lord always insisted on attending to your presence personally, even when it arose suspicion of your shared bond with him, to have him so easily distracted when you arrived on his lands.

Even now, he's overwhelming your vision. Healthy muscles that are barely hidden under his clothes, or the hair he's refused to cut ever since his youth that now flows lusciously down his broad back. His amber eyes that glint golden when the sun reflects his irises, and even the conjured image of the way his arms move when he's fire-bending.

He's— "Beautiful."

By the time you realise your second slip of the tongue, Zuko has already blinked once, caught off-guard.

You purse your lips, finding this conversation to be as riveting as it is a weaponised self-attack. "Objectively speaking. You're attractive, Zuko."

"Objectively." He repeats slowly, amused that you're using his own deflecting choice of words.

"Fine, like really attractive." You deadpan. "It's annoying, because I'm supposed to be focused on the mission, and you're just... standing there."

It was the truth. You couldn't be the only one who noticed it. His subtle change in demeanour over the years, how he carried himself into a room now instead of randomly announcing his arrival at the worst timings. Even Sokka noticed.

He snorts, and the sound deflates the tension in your chest. "Funny, I should be saying that about you."

You gasp, expression aghast. "You're joking."

"It is not honourable to lie." He shrugs. "You've always been the most magnetic in my eyes. I can never find myself looking away from you."

You grow quiet, the genuine sincerity in his words leaving you defenseless. Have you been blind all along? Is that why he always sent letters—asking you to visit his nation for purposes other than meetings? Or why he sought for your company constantly during this entire trip, despite it being the first time the entire set of Team Avatar being together in months?

You had been too focused on what was comfortable and familiar, to teasing and prodding, that you never considered this.

"For the record." You whisper, leaning in to truly look at him. "I never found your scar hideous. You were always beautiful to me, Zuko."

He swallows, something intense flickering in his gaze—but too fleeting for you to catch onto it. Maybe it had always been there, when his eyes linger on your form when he accompanied you in his palace gardens, or even back then, when he was a banished prince who sought for you, even with a grimace on his face.

"That haircut when we first met, though?" Your smile breaks out into a toothy grin. "Absolutely hideous."

The softness in his gaze falters, before a groan rumbles past his throat. "Will you ever let that one go?"

"Never."

He lets out a low breath, drained of his energy. "I admitted to finding you attractive, and this is my repayment?"

"Who's finding who attractive?"

Sokka's voice strikes a jump in your shoulders, and Zuko's in an impressive halt, frozen completely after being caught red-handed.

"Ah, between the two of you—" Sokka whistles. "I was wondering who was going to break first. Congrats, love-birds!"

"We're not—" Your voice clashes with Zuko's. "This isn't—"

You sneak a glance to Zuko, and his hand is already covering half of his face, his embarrassment shielded by the shadow of his large palm.

Sokka's confused gaze switches between the two of you, blinking slowly.

"Ah, couple years too early?" Sokka shrugs, before clicking his tongue. "That's rough. I'll check back in with you guys in another time." Making his way back towards the front, he shouts once more to prove his point. "Just don't let me catch you guys making out or anything, I'll need to poke out my eyes for that one!"

"...We better restrain him before he starts blasting it as news to everyone." You groan.

"Agreed." He mutters.

Right as you made your move to leave, Zuko's hand grips yours—stopping you.

You lift your head, meeting his gaze. "Yeah?"

His Adam's apple bobs up and down, consideration clear in his expression before he decisively leans in. His voice is a warm hush, soft and intimate when he whispers. "For the record." Your own words echo back to your ears in the low hush of his voice. "I wasn't only referring to our first meeting when I said that you're beautiful."

His smile quirks up into something tender, a secret expression reserved only for you. ...At this rate, your curiousity was really going to be the death of you.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

a/n: i need to write more firelord zuko stat. he looks so good and still so awkward my childhood crush has been reignited.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

messy

✦Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: You know Steve doesn't see you like that. You know because you asked him, and he said no. So it's not really fair, that he'd reject you and keep making you love him after, is it. ✦

✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, modern!au, no use of y/n, pining, rejection (at the start, off page, and steve's a liar about it), no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dry humping, teasing, making steve lose control, fingering, light spanking, praise kink, manhandling, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦

✦wc: 10.9k✦

✦Author's Note: this one hit ME too hard bc i based it on real life too much. oops. all the better for the horny ig. Enjoy!✦

You’re not looking for him in the crowd. And if anyone says you are, they’re a big, fat liar.

Active scanning is not looking. It’s a part of the job, to see who’s here. What kind of interviews you’re going to be able to get, who’s already closing in on who, who’s snuggled up and gossiping and might not notice you eavesdropping. If you’re smart about this—and you always are—you’re going to walk away from tonight with a comment from Secretary Ross, Pepper Potts, or even an Avenger themselves.

But not him.

You have no interest in walking away with a comment from him.

“They’re here.” Your coworker Stacy bumps your shoulders, her eyes wide and fixed across the room. “Holy shit, they’re actually here-“

“It’s their fundraiser.” You mutter, keeping your attention on a senator bumbling about near the drinks. “It would be crazy if they weren’t here.”

“Yeah, but- It’s all of them. I’ve never seen all of them-“

“Yes, you have.”

Stacy glares at you. “Well, not so close.”

You glance over, pointedly only looking at their feet. “They’re not that close.”

“I could touch one.” Stacy breathes, and you snort.

“You should go try that.”

That earns you another glare, and a smack on the arm. And you deserve it, but you just laugh and look back to your target. The tipsy, red-eyed senator who’s going to have a few more drinks, and tells you all about that bill congress is trying to pass about the Enhanced. You’ve read it three times, and it’s a disgusting invasion of privacy, but those documents were off the record. If you can get a Senator, talking about how he wants to force all superheroes to either be sterilized or record their sex lives-

Stacy pinches your arm, and you squeak so loudly it echoes off the domed, ballroom ceiling. Some attention darts in your direction, but everyone quickly loses interest when they realize it’s nothing all that interesting. Your face is burning as you smooth your dress, and it doesn’t stop burning. It feels like someone is tending to the hot embarrassment, fluttering in your tummy and restless in your fingers. Like someone is looking right through you, monitoring you, watching you-

“He’s looking at you.” Stacy hisses in your ear, buzzing with so much excitement you’re sure she’s about to turn into glitter and explode like fireworks, and you’re going to throttle her.

“He is now, because you,” you shove her shoulder. It doesn’t do anything to stamp out her thrill at your worst nightmare. “Fucking made him notice-“

“No, he was looking before-“

“No, he wasn’t-“

“Yes, he was-“

“No, he wasn’t-“

“Who wasn’t what.”

You freeze, and Stacy looks over your head with a fawning, dazed expression. You’re going to kill her. You’re going to cut her up into tiny pieces and burn them all in separate furnaces, and then you’re going to steal her dog and make it forget all about her, and marry her husband and make her cute little kid your Cinderella as bloodline punishment-

“Hi, Mr. Captain Sir.” She giggles, looking back down to you with a wide-eyed it’s him expression.

I’m going to kill you. You mouth. She doesn’t seem all that bothered by the threat.

“Uh- Hi. You don’t have to-“ You hear him shift on his feet behind you. “Steve is alright.”

You can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, trying to look smaller. More humble and approachable, when he’s a modern walking Hercules. A better version, who doesn’t kill his wife and kids. Who gets you drinks and tries to be your friend and is so stupidly polite and kind and you hate him, you hate him so much-

He says your name. You plaster on the widest, most plastic and sickly sweet smile you can manage. You want him to feel like you’re a bit of plastic that’s stuck between his teeth. To give up talking to you, because it’s not fair.

Steve’s just as handsome as the last time you saw him. And the time before that. And the time before that. If anything, he’s more handsome. You don’t know how he does it, changing absolutely nothing about his appearance and looking hotter every time you get eyes on him. His hair is styled the same as always, but it looks so soft. You could run your fingers through it and it would probably feel like a cloud. His stupid, sharp jawline is slack as you glare up at him, and he’s so tall it makes you dizzy, and he’s fixing you with that puppy look that makes you feel like you’re important to him.

And you’re not. You know you’re not.

You went down that road once. You tried to be important to him, and he said no. And he’s Steve, so he was sweet and perfectly kind about it, and still wanted to be your friend, and you’d thought you were already over it so you’d said yes.

You thought you could just be his friend. He hadn’t made anything weird. Neither of you had ever even brought up your failed attempt to ask him out again. And at the time, you’d thought you were over it.

But Steve is Steve. And he’s got some titanic hold over your heart that’s left finger marks dug in through the landscape. There’s a depression over the cavity of your chest, and your ribs have molded to fit it, and now it’s far too late to go back. You only know how to have feelings for him. You’ve tried to get over it. To ignore it. To forcibly re-mold your love into something platonic, or clawed your way through some relationships in the hope they’d help you move on.

They don’t. They won’t. Nothing can.

The big stupid boy-scout standing over you owns you completely, and you can’t even tell him without making it a problem.

Your new strategy had been to ignore him. Stacy ruined that.

She thinks he secretly has feelings for you. You tune her out every time she starts to crow and preach about it, because you know your heart is going to take it as gospel and not parody, and you can’t afford false faith. All you have is what’s grounded between your fingers.

Steve’s right here. He’s smiling at you, all pretty and nice, and you have to smile back or else it will make him feel bad. He’s got a drink in his massive hand for you. You’ve had a million wet dreams about that hand around your throat or cupping your pussy.

You’re aching thinking about it. In an ideal world, this would be the part where you ran without looking back.

In an ideal world, you’d be standing on his arm right now, instead of all stiff and weird in front of him.

You need to get a fucking grip.

“Hi.” You say, and it’s sounds lame and idiotic and pathetic-

Steve’s face splits into a big, happy smile. “Hi. How’s the night going for you, do you have your victim picked out?”

You scowl. “It’s not- They’re not victims-“

“You treat them like they’re victims.” His grin widens. “Sometimes I feel like I should be saving them.”

“They’re all fine. It’s not like I’m drugging them or something.”

Steve’s brows raise. “That makes me think you are drugging them.”

“Nuh uh.” You stick out your tongue, and he laughs under his breath.

“One day you’re gonna say something that actually gets you in trouble, you know.” He holds out the drink he brought you.

It’s your favorite. It’s always your favorite.

You told him what your favorite drink was, the very first time you attended one of these parties. He’s never forgotten since, and it makes you love and hate him all the more.

“I don’t think I will.” You mumble, both trying and desperately failing not to brush his fingers. His skin is warm. He’s warm. He’s like a walking furnace, and you’d like to just bury your face in his pecs and breathe him in and-

“Kid, you already have.”

Steve looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. His eyes are sparkling, and in the background you think Natasha Romanoff is circling like a shark, trying to get his attention, but if he notices he pretends he doesn’t. He just looks at you and calls you kid, and the word plummets like a cold stone into your gut.

Kid. That’s all you are to him. Kid.

“But if I got in trouble, you’d save me.” You take a long sip of your drink, and you like to torture yourself.

With his presence. His closeness.

How fast he nods. How certainly he answers.

“’Course I would. Already saving you by pretending I don’t see you getting all those Senators drunk.”

You laugh softly, but the sound hurts. When you look over your shoulder, Stacy’s abandoned you for the food table. You catch her eye, and she shoots you an excited thumbs up. She probably thinks this is going great.

“Are you feeling alright?” Steve says suddenly, and he sounds like he really, really cares. “You been looking kind of sick- Not that you look bad- You look good, uh- Really good, but-“

“I’m fine.” You turn back to Steve, and you wonder if he can see it.

The pain, leaking down like a toxin from your eyes. Everything kind of blurry. You’d throw up, if you didn’t think he’d take care of you after.

“Everything’s fine.”

Steve’s lips twitch. You’re not sure he believes you.

But it doesn’t really matter anyway. You’re not his to get an answer out of. He decided that.

And you’re just doing exactly what Steve wants, all the time.

“You do look nice.” He mumbles, taking a sip of his own drink, as if it could even do anything to him.

You smile, and there it is again. The shameful, unrelenting heat in your stomach. “Thanks.”

I dressed up for you.

“I think he’s in looove with you.” Stacy says, spinning around in her chair. You flip her off, not looking up from your computer.

“Is the printer out of paper still?”

“I don’t know, you print everything for me.” She pokes your chair with her foot. “Pay attention to me, I said Steve’s in love with you-“

“No, he’s not.”

“Yes, he is.”

“No, he’s not-“

“Yes, he is-“

“Is this the same thing you were fighting about last time?” Steve’s voice comes from over your shoulder, and you freeze. “Or is that just… How you two talk.”

Stacy looks awfully fucking pleased with herself for a dead woman. “It’s the same fight as last time.”

“Oh.” He pauses. You can hear his concern, and it makes you want to vomit. “Is everything okay?”

“Mhm.” Stacy beams. “Hi, Steve.”

You glance up, and Steve looks properly bemused and adorable about her whole demeanor. It makes you want to hold his face and kiss the tiny, pouting frown off his lips. You smack yourself internally. Get it together.

“Hi, Stacy.”

She almost glows. “You remember my name?”

“Yeah.” He glances down at you. “I try to remember most people’s names.”

Stacy swoons. “Of course you do.”

Steve blinks, and you clear your throat.

“What are you doing here?”

“Uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small smile. “Lunch, remember? We planned it last week.”

Oh. You did do that. “I told you to wait outside, my boss is going to try to interview you-“

“Oh, she already did.” He laughs. “But I’m here for you, not a front page.”

You flush, and Stacy giggles like she’s watching TV.

“So…” Steve shrugs. “Lunch?”

Right. Lunch.

“How’d you even get in the building.” You grumble, grabbing your jacket as you stand. He shrugs sheepishly.

“I took a photo with the guards.”

“Steve, I told you to stop doing that-“

“It made them really happy, okay? And I went through all the metal detectors, same as everyone else-“

“I know, but you hate taking the photos, you can tell them no.”

Steve frowns. “It’s not that big an inconvenience for me-“

“But you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it-“

“Steven Rogers.”

You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. Steve sighs, slumping like a scolded child.

“I don’t love them.” He mumbles, and you nod.

“Next time, tell them no.”

“But then I can’t come upstairs.”

You shrug, starting at the door, your shoulder bumping against his. “You can text me. Like you’re supposed to-“

“Or I can just do the photos-“

“No-“

“Bye, guys.” Stacy calls from behind you, and you look her with wide eyes. You’d forgotten she was there.

“Um… Bye.” You wave awkwardly, and she grins.

He’s here for you. She mouths, and you roll your eyes.

No hope. It just makes everything else harder.

If Steve wanted you, he’d say something. And you’re a big girl. You can handle just being his friend, because he won’t leave you alone long enough for you to properly avoid him. You can handle it.

His hand finds your lower back, when he opens the door for you. You almost trip over your feet from the dizzying touch.

You can’t handle this at all.

The most annoying part about having undying feelings for Steve Rogers is that it’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Golden Boy Number One. Mr. Perfect Specimen.

You’re in love with the little blond boy with abs and a dopey smile and sweet blue eyes. You’re obsessed with Mr. Muscles. You lose sleep over the guy who looks like he could crush you in a headlock then kiss you to sleep after.

Incredibly original. Groundbreaking, even. The love of your life is the masculine celebrity who’s respectful and kind. Never before heard of stuff. You’re really shattering glass ceilings with that one.

You want to shoot yourself in the face.

It’s impossible to avoid even thinking about him, when he’s everywhere. You go out to the corner store, and he’s on the little TV mounted in the corner. Avengers brand yogurts line the grocery store, and you glare at Strawberries and Cream and Justice until your head hurts. He told you about that. He was pretty proud of how all the proceeds were going to charities.

“It’s a stupid name, though.” You’d said, and he’d shrugged.

“Tony says the name doesn’t matter, as long as it’s got our faces on it. Apparently that’s what people are buying for.”

He’d frowned at that, and you’d given him an affectionate smile. He hates the glory of all of this. You know he does, and you’d told him gently you’re sure people will also buy for charity.

You’d been lying through your teeth, though. When you grab the yogurt and shamefully shove it into your basket, it’s not for cancer research or orphans or to save the bees. It’s because Steve’s face is smiling at you from the plastic, and you’re no better than the fangirls who get all doe-eyed over his every breath.

Not that you’re much better about that, either.

“I could give you an interview.” Steve offers on day, when you’d been complaining to him about slow news. “It can be about whatever you want-“

“I don’t want your pity journalism, Steven.”

He frowns. “It’s not pity. I’m trying to help you.”

You shrug, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “Well, I can’t accept your help.”

“Why not-“

“It’s unethical.”

“I… don’t think that’s true-“

“Well, I didn’t earn it.”

“You don’t have to earn it.” He says, all earnest and sweet and kind, and you want to die. “You work hard, I know you work hard, and if this can help you- Here, we can do it right now-“

“I don’t have questions ready.” You cut in quickly. Flatly.

Steve just shrugs. “Make some up. I know you can.”

You wish he’d stop believing in you. It makes your heart flutter.

“I have nothing I want to ask you.” You mumble hopelessly, and he frowns.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you always have something to ask me. To ask anyone.”

You flush, turning to the side to avoid his gaze. “Maybe I just know everything about you,” you mutter, and he snorts.

“No. You don’t.”

That gets your attention. You snap your head in his direction, and he smiles at you. Like he already knows he won.

“There she is-“

“Shut up.” You lean across the table, and his smile widens. “What don’t I know about you.”

“A lot.”

“Like what-“

“You have to ask me to find out.”

You narrow your eyes. He keeps fucking smiling.

“You suck.” You grumble.

He shrugs. “I know you think that.”

You’re both leaning across the table. If you reached up, just an inch, you’d be able to trace the line of his nose. He’s so handsome. It’s unfair, and you can feel a smile tugging at your lips in response to his.

“I’m going to punch you in the face-“

“I’d like to see you try, kid.”

Kid.

You lean back, ice water feeling like it was poured through your veins. Steve notices the shift. He frowns, but you don’t give him the chance to question it. You just push on.

“I need a napkin.” You mutter., leaning back into your seat. “To write questions.”

“Yeah. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll go get that for you.”

Of course he will.

And when he’s talking to the waitress—paper and a pen in his hand—she twirls her hair and giggles. Same as you would, if you got to know him where he didn’t know you. Where he might just find you pretty, and give you a chance, because you were friends first and you think that’s where you all went wrong.

This all might’ve been easier, if he really was just a celebrity crush. If you loved him because he was Captain America and not Steve. Your Steve. Who brings you back two pens in case you don’t like the first, and shares his food with you while you gloss through the interview—feeling little detached from your own body, like he’s a million miles away—and touches your lower back again when you finally leave lunch.

You might’ve gotten to touch him more, if he didn’t mean something to you.

But you wouldn’t trade knowing him for the world.

And that just makes it all hurt even more.

Steve’s been trying to get you out with his team for years. You’ve said no, over and over and over. You don’t need to feel even more mortal than you already are. Don’t need the reminder that he probably rejected you because you’re not even a quarter of what he and his friends are.

Not that you think Steve would think you’re any less because you’re not enhanced. You know he wouldn’t.

Consciously. 

But that doesn’t change the reality of it. He wouldn’t want you, when he’s surrounded by other Gods, like he himself, far more worthy of his attention. You can be mean and sharp, but you don’t have the cool, collected, deadly beauty of Black Window. And you’ve heard the rumors about them.

You’ve heard all the rumors. About Steve with everyone, because people like to talk. There isn’t a pair of people on the Avengers that the public hasn’t theorized about secretly dating.

And you know none of it’s true. Steve’s told you himself.

But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, when you think about him with someone else more worthy. Someone he wants.

Which is why you didn’t want to do this. And Steve had always respected that—because he’s perfect, and he respects everything—so you’d thought you’d never have to. He asks. You say no. He doesn’t push it, or demand to know why. He waits months before asking again, and you know he only does that because he thinks you’re just too busy to go out the other times. That you’re saying no because you simply don’t have the energy, and not because the idea makes you feel itchy. And you don’t want to tell him. You like that he asks you. It makes you feel important.

But you still kept saying no.

Until Stacy overheard him ask you, and said yes for you. And Steve beamed, and you couldn’t stand to burst the delicate little bubble of his joy, and now you’re here.

Huddled in the corner of a bar with the fucking Avengers all around you. Hawkeye and Thor are throwing darts in the corner. Hulk, Black Widow, and Falcon are playing pool. The Vision is eating onion rings, and everything feels like a very, very bizarre dream.

Steve hasn’t left your side since you got here. It’s been the only anchor you have. You’d been able to hide in his shadow and duck under his arm, avoiding pressing questions and conversations you don’t really want to have. It’s not too weird for him to bring a civilian friend, at least. None of them have commented on it, besides throwing you passing looks. Steve mentioned that they all do it, from time to time.

But you’re the only one here right now. And if you could, you’d sew your hand into Steve’s so he couldn’t leave you alone.

And that’s always a little true. You want that all the time.

More than usual right now. But all the time.

“I’m going to get drinks.” He mutters, and you grab his bicep like a scared child.

“Wait- I’ll come with you-“

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He grins down at you, patting your head like you’re a dog or something. “You don’t have to stand up.”

You want to shout at him that this isn’t about him being a gentleman, it’s about him not leaving your sight. But you’re weak. And pathetic. So you just nod, and Steve smiles at you before walking away.

You try to hide in the shadows, avoiding any attention. It doesn’t work.

“You’re the journalist.” A cool, lazy voice cuts through the air, and you look up to find Tony Stark standing over your table.

“I’m a journalist-“

“No. You’re Roger’s journalist.” Stark drawls, sliding into the booth. You stiffen, but don’t dare to move away.

That’ll make it seem even more obvious, when Steve comes back and you don’t inch away from him.

“I understand what he’s been going on about.” Stark continues, looking you up and down slowly. “Didn’t know they made them like you anymore.”

Your eyes narrow. “Like me?”

“Mhm.” Stark smirks, and you raise your chin.

“What am I like, Mr. Stark?”

He chuckles, leaning back. “Little spitfire, aren’t you-“

“Only to people who deserve it.”

That makes him laugh louder. Everything feels more and more like a fever dream by the second.

You look out to the bar, trying to find Steve. Internally begging him to come back. He’s by the bar, your drink already in his hand. It’s the same one you always get. He’s holding it close to his chest, like it’s something priceless.

There’s a woman standing next to him. Just another random girl, in a tiny dress with some pretty good makeup, giggling and batting her lashes at him.

And Steve’s entertaining her. smiling at her.

The same way he smiles at you.

You don’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be here. You don’t want to see how it’s not even the Avengers that he’d want more than you, it’s everyone else. She’s getting the same attention you try to drown yourself in, but you’re not the one who might go home with him. His grin is a little tighter with her, because he’s probably restrained and trying to play his cards right. She looks like she’s talking sweet, and he’d probably want that more than you, poking and mocking him all the time. He’s a God. He’ll say he’s not but he is, and what kind of god would want to be worshipped by someone who shows love with insults and eye rolls.

There’s a tight feeling, around your throat like rope. Your eyes are burning, and the world is blurring, and you don’t want to see this. You can’t see this.

You tried to be his friend. You really tried.

But you can’t.

“What’s wrong with you?” Stark asks, and you look over to find him watching with a strange expression.

“Nothing.” You clear your throat, fumbling for your bag. “I just- Remembered something. That I have to go do.”

You glance over to Steve again. He’s laughing at something she’s saying without shaking his head and tipping his head back, without looking away from her. Like he does with you.

“Right now.” You mumble. “I have to go do it right now.”

Stark hums, tapping his fingers on the table. “Right now, huh.”

“Yep.” You stand up, and he gives you an almost amused look.

“What is it? If it’s so urgent.”

“Stuff.” You snip.

Stark chuckles, shaking his head. “Jesus, he’s batting in a whole other sport with you.”

“What the fuck does that mean-“

“Nothing.” Stark smirks again. Like he knows something. “Go on. I’ll tell Cap you had stuff.”

You scan over his relaxed features, and he just keeps grinning, lazy and unworried. You could get an answer out of him, if you tried.

But you look up, back to Steve. And he’s grabbing his own drink from the bar. Still chatting with the girl. If he brings her back to the table, you’re going to vomit.

You have to go now.

“Thanks.” You mutter, giving Stark a tight grin. “Have a good night.”

And Stark laughs, as you turn away.

“Oh. I’m sure I will.”

You avoid Steve for a week.

Properly avoid him.

He calls ten times, just the night you leave the bar. He texts almost every hour for the days after that, and you mute him. If you look at the messages, you’re going to respond to them. If you respond to them, he’ll convincing you to talk to him. If you talk to him, or see him, or even stand near him, you’re never going to get over him.

You’re going cold turkey on him, like he’s a drug.

To you, he is. And you need to get clean. You need to move on.

Steve doesn’t come into the building to steal you for lunch, but he calls you every day. Your fingers fidget, still trying to pick up the phone.

You don’t know how you manage not to, but you do. When you ask the guards downstairs, they say he’s walked through the door and walked back out five times. You force yourself not to think about it, and somehow manage to do that too. And you’re going to be able to do this. You’re finally going to move on.

Moving on means moving. Not staying in the same little pit, waiting for his sun to change its path and shine on you. You have to climb out, and find a new place to be. Someone new to want.

You’ve done this part before. The whole dance of downloading the apps and going on the dates and telling yourself you want them, even though they aren’t Steve. But this time is going to be different. If you tell yourself that enough, it will feel more and more true.

There’s a guy you’ve been chatting with all week, and he seems sweet. He compliments you, and he was polite when you met for coffee, and he’s far from bad to look at. And it’s not like you’re going to marry him. You just need someone to be close to you that isn’t Steve.

And maybe this guy—you can’t really remember his name, but you’ll learn it—is blond haired and blue eyes and broadly built. Maybe you swiped through photo after photo, looking for a phantom of him, but that’s nobody business expect yours, and your pillow’s. It knows better than anyone that there’s only one way you can fake it.

Which is exactly what this game is. Faking it until you make it. Until you’re over Steve, and there’s never any temptation to look back.

You dress up, telling your brain you’re going on a date with Steve himself so you put in all the effort. Another thing that’s nobody’s business. You’re doing what you need to, and it’s going to get you over him. You’ve got lashes and glossy lips and heels that are going to hurt in the morning, and this guy doesn’t seem strong enough to carry you like Steve would, but that’s where you need to shut your brain up. There’s not going to be anyone who’s like Steve. This guy looks like him enough to get you out the door, but it’s not him, and that’s okay. That’s good. It’s going to help you move on. You’ve got your jacket, and your purse, and you’re going to do this and move on-

You yank the door open, and freeze.

Steve stares at you, hands his pockets, mouth hanging open.

This is usually the part where one of you says hi, but you can’t remember how to speak. He’s here. Why is he here. He’s been giving you space, because he’s amazing and polite, and it had been so much easier to pretend it was just because he didn’t care when he wasn’t right in front of you. Looking like you’d just punched him in the face, all pale with sagging shoulders and sad, dull eyes. As if he’s lost sleep.

He scans over you. Over your revealing outfit and makeover. His throat bobs, and you could swear he slouches further. When he meets your gaze, he doesn’t smile. It makes you want to cry.

“Steve-“

“You’ve been avoiding me.” He mutters, the words thick and low. “And- I’m not here to fight about it. I didn’t think you were going to open the door, I didn’t- I wasn’t going to bother you. Just- Never mind.”

 You blink. “I- What are you-“

“You got a date?” He nods to your outfit, and something in his pockets shift. He’s fisting his hands.

“Um-“ You glance to his pockets again, then back to his weighted gaze. “Yeah. I do.”

“With whom.”

Shit. You still can’t remember. “Someone I met on an app. Steve, what are you-“

“On an app.” He echoes, the words sounding hollow. He chuckles under his breath. “You know, Stark made me try those once.”

You swallow. You don’t want to hear about his dating life. “How did that go.”

“Bad. And I tried, I just…” He trails off, shaking his head, and you think you can feel his stare burrowing into your heart, shaping it even further in his name. 

This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. Seeing him makes you love him more, think about him more, need him more. He’s got a gravity over you, and he doesn’t know it, and why is he here.

“Is he nice.”

Steve’s voice is low. Pained. You don’t understand the question.

“Who?”

“Your date.” He grunts. “Is he nice to you.”

“Oh.” You forgot about that part. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

Neither of you speak for a second. Steve stares at you so hard our head spins, and you can’t look him in the eyes.

“What did I do?”

His voice breaks suddenly, and you feel the crack in your ribs. It yanks your gaze up, and you’ve never seen him so sad. Frustrated and annoyed, sure. Tense, all the time. But never just… Sad. Defeated. Like even he isn’t sure what to do. It feels wrong. Like the world is bleeding together and caving over itself.

“You didn’t do anything-“

“I must have.” He scans over your features, his own so openly aching. “You’ve never been mad at me before, and- Now you’re-“

He waves to your outfit, and you frown.

“It’s just a date-“

“Just a date.” He mutters under his breath, and your mouth falls open.

“I’m allowed to date, Steven-“

“I know you are!” His voice raises for a second, but he quickly pushes it back down. “I- I know, but that’s not- Why are you avoiding me?”

He’s pleading. It’s almost bleeding out of his voice, staining all over you, and you wrap an arm around your stomach like you can stop yourself from bleeding back. This isn’t fair. Steve’s not stupid. He can’t have just forgotten your mistake of expressing your feelings, he’s not nearly oblivious to be unable to put two and two together, and he certainly can’t be dense enough to not tie together that you’re avoiding him, and going on a date. You don’t go on dates. You’re usually too busy trying to steal some love from his shadow.

Yet here he is. Looking at you like he really doesn’t understand. Being so nice about it, when it’s clearly been bothering him. No demanding to understand. No shouting about how hurt he was. Just pleading.

Because he’s golden and perfect. All respectful, like you’re just another lady to him.

Like you’re not worth enough for him to fight a little dirtier for.

A lump is pressing up your throat. It’s a battle to hold his gaze.

“Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” Steve rubs his face, working his jaw. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what I did-“

“Steve-“

“And I’ll fix it, whatever I did, I’ll fix it-“

“You can’t fix it!” You shout.

He stumbles back like you slapped him, and tears burn at your eyes.

“You- You can’t fix it, Steve.” You whisper, staring down at his shoes. “Just- Stop.”

“Stop what?” He rasps. “I- I know I messed something up, but-“

“Stop being so nice to me.”

He’s silent for a moment. You don’t even know how to justify that one. It sounds pathetic to your ears.

“I... I’d rather not.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“Then please leave me alone.” The words hurt, but you push them out like an apple lodged in your throat. “I- I tried, okay? I really tried, but I can’t.”

“Can’t-“

“Can’t be your friend.” You whisper. The tears burn on your cheeks. “I can’t be your friend, Steve, it’s too hard. I- I-“

You sniff, and Steve rasps your name. You have to shake your head. He can’t talk right now. It’s already too hard.

“I love you.” You say, barely a breath. It doesn’t matter. He’ll hear anyway. “I love you too much, and- It’s not your fault that you don’t- That it’s not the same. But please.” You shift on your feet, hugging yourself tight. “I- I need space.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything he could say to make it better, not anymore. But something in you still fractures, when he just steps to the side. Giving you a path out.

Letting you go.

You think it’s hope. The hope that one day he might feel the same, the dream that you’d tried so hard not to feed, but tended to bloom on its own. That one day he’d look at you and realize he made a mistake.

But he steps to the side. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.

A dream.

You bow your head and shuffle past him, face burning and skin crawling with shame. You’re going to go on this date and pretend like everything is fine, if you can even make it out of the hallway without breaking down. Your knees are wobbly and tears are coming faster than you can wipe away, but you just need to get out. Out of this hallway with its suffocating air.

Away from Steve, and your heart, broken at his feet.

You’ll get over it. You’ll get over it. It’s hard to breathe right now but you’ll get over it-

“God- Screw it.”

A strong hand wraps around your wrist. It takes you by such surprise you don’t even think to fight.

Steve spins your around, grabbing your jaw and picking you up in a single movement. You gasp as his lips slam over yours, sudden and demanding. He kisses you like he doesn’t know he’s already got a claim on you. Like he’s trying to brand your lips with a bruising, hungry desire. All you can do is breathlessly kiss him back, scraping at his shoulders and trying to keep up with what’s happening. Steve tastes a little like honey and salt, and you’re sure he ate something earlier but you don’t really care what. His hair is just as soft as you thought, and you’re being crushed under the force of him but it’s intoxicating and exhilarating and you feel like you’re being remade-

It’s over. Just as fast as it started. Steve stumbles back, fumbling with his hands like they’re still trying to reach you against his will. He braces them on his hips, staring at you with wide eyes.

You gape at him, trying to catch your breath. You reach up to brush your own lips, trying to make sure the tingly feeling there is real. Maybe press it deeper in, until you can feel it forever.

Steve clears his throat. You blink at him through the slowly drying tears, not really sure what’s happening.

Neither of you dare to speak. Or move. You’re breathing shallowly, like anything too big is going to tip the whole world over, and it will all slip through your fingers.

He takes an uncertain step forward, and you should take one back.

But you’ve never been all that good at moving away from him before. You have no interest in learning that skill now.

This time, you grab him at the same time he grabs you. You stumble into each other, uncoordinated and desperate, unbothered by bumping noses and smushed limbs. You just need to be close to him. To feel him as much as possible, as fast as possible.

He’s never been a drug. You’d been getting a secondary high, but this-

This is a hit.

And you need to have more.

You grab at his collar, pressing up to meet his every kiss, and you’re quickly making out with teeth and tongue in the middle of the hallway. Steve’s arm wraps around your ass, lifting you effortlessly off your feet, and you moan into his mouth.

He trips as he walks back into the apartment, and you end up pressed against the wall at least three more times before you make it through the door. Every time Steve slams you back, devoting all his attention to kissing you until you’re drooling and sloppy and just trying to push further into his open mouth. At one point he slots his knee between your thighs, and you start to shamelessly grind down as he sucks your lower lip between his teeth.

You giggle, dazed and sore with overflowing need for him. He kicks the door closed behind you, and you think you’re going to end up riding his thigh against the wall, but he starts down the hall. To your bedroom.

He makes it about five steps before you rake your nail through his hair and start kissing over his jaw. Steve moans into your ear, lagging a little sideways, and you shriek as you both topple down onto the couch.

It takes you a second to catch your breath, and that’s all Steve needs to get the upper hand. He grabs your jaw, tipping your head back as he starts to suck and nip at your neck. You squeak, grabbing his head, and he moans against your skin. His knee pushes back between your thighs, and this angle is even better than before. You can’t help the roll of your hips, down onto the muscle of his thick leg.

“St- Steve-“ You voice is high, and he hums, licking up your throat before making out with a soft spot under your jaw. “Jesus fucking- God-“

“I know.” He mutters, dragging his hand down your thigh and grabbing under your knee. He squeezes gently, hiking it up to your chest, pushing his knee down even harder than before.

“Fuck- You-“ You gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing as your clit gets rubbed through his jeans, through your panties.

At this angle, you’re almost exposed to him. Your dress pooling around your tummy, the wet spot on your underwear growing bigger and bigger. You grasp at the skirt, trying to tug it down a little. It’s one thing to be riding his knee, another for him to see you.

Steve grabs your wrist, pushing the fabric further down than it had been before. Your eyes almost cross when he starts to rub his knee back and forth, the pressure overwhelming and perfect. You didn’t think you could cum like this, but there’s a familiar pressure building up in your stomach, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a wanton moan from escaping your lips.

He sits up to look at you, and you’re sure it’s a shameful, lewd sight. Your makeup smudged, your hair ruined, a picture of depravity and sin as you chase pleasure on his leg. This isn’t the kind of thing you thought he’d be into. He’s too perfect, too good, and maybe you’ve wanted to be put in a headlock and manhandled and used, but Steve’s all about honor. You’d been so sure that, even if you got to have him, it would be lovely, vanilla sex that was filled with such emotion it would make up for the simpleness.

But that’s not what you see in Steve’s eyes. They’re hooded and black with lust. His jaw is clenched as he watches you, and he pushes your leg further up with a gentle squeeze.

“Oh-“ You gasp, trying to reach up to grab him.

Steve grabs your second wrist without letting go of the first. Holds him in one hand, and leans over you as he pins them both over your head. Your mouth falls open, breathing fast and needy. 

His own chest is heaving. He looks down to his knee against your core, and a deep sound rumbles from his chest. You’re wound so tight you’re certain you could snap, sudden and fast like a rubber band. You strain against Steve’s hold, and his attention snaps back up.

“You’re good, doll.” He coos. “Relax for me.”

You blink at him, shaking your head. You can’t stop grinding against him, but you need him close. Need to be under the pressure of his body, to feel like there’s nothing else in the world.

Steve picks up the speed of his knee, almost drilling it down into your cunt without touching you at all. You gape, head lolling to the side, and he grunts.

“Look at me.”

His voice is deep. Not a suggestion. An order.

You blink up at him, almost drooling, and he leans down until his lips are ghosting over yours.  

“I don’t want space.” He mutters. “I want you.”

You swallow, still rubbing your pussy up into his knee. “You- You can’t just-“

“Shh.” He pushes further down, until it feels like he’s almost inside of you. You snap your mouth shut. “Is that all I did?”

“Wha- Oh-“

He drags his knee in slow circles, and you make an incoherent, starved sound. Steve doesn’t even break a sweat.

“You and me.” He mutters, studying your every expression. “That’s it. That’s what was gonna make me lose you.”

“You- You didn’t lose me-“

“Almost did.” He squeezes your knee. “You walked.”

You glare up at him. “You let me-“

“No, I didn’t.” 

Steve’s lips slam back over yours, and you can’t really argue with that. Your eyes flutter as you give into the kiss, your body sparking with a million, delighted nerves. Steve groans against your lips, fucking his knee against your core, and he’s hitting your clit just right, the fabric soaked and filled with rough friction.

Your back arches off the couch as you cum, and Steve lets go of your wrists. You grab his face, trying to pull his lips closer, and he wraps around your back, holding you up. Your toes curl, body shaking as the pressure becomes sensitive, your pussy gushing and clenching around nothing.

Steve rubs your spine, kissing along your shoulder, up your neck, over your cheeks. You hum softly, floating down and tucked into his arms. He leans back against the couch, taking you with him. You slump over his chest, burying your face in his neck as his hand slips under your dress. Thick, calloused finger pads gently graze your hips and waist, and you squirm. 

“I- I didn’t want to ruin something.” He murmurs in your ear, and you pause.

“Ruin…”

“Us.” Steve’s face presses into the curve of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin. “You were my friend, we work in a lotta the same places, and I just- I didn’t want to risk that.”

You swallow, leaning back and waiting until he meets your glossy, sad gaze. You take his face between your hands, and he covers them with his own.

“I was willing to risk it.” You whisper, and he sighs.

“I know. But-“ He looks away, words choked and low. “I thought it was a crush. That you’d get over.”

You laugh weakly. “Well, it wasn’t.”

“I know.” He sighs. “Mine wasn’t either.”

You lips part with a sharp breath, and Steve looks back to you with nervous, hopeful eyes.

“I love you.” He squeezes both your hands, guiding them to his lips. “It is the same. So- Tell me that fixes it. Please.”

It does.

Just as fast as they’d shattered, your dreams weave themselves back together. They’re clearer than before. More colorful. It’s no longer like looking through a mist, or watching a reflection in the water. When you touch Steve, he doesn’t ripple away. And that’s more than enough.

You lean down and kiss him. It’s slower than the other kisses. Steve grabs your hips, but lets you press his head down. You wrap your arms around his neck, tracing his lips with your tongue, and he hums in content. Drags you further forward in his lap.

Something thick and hard presses right against you, and you almost go limp. Like your body is already trying to get ready to take it. To take Steve’s cock that can’t be as large as it feels, straining against his jeans and twitching when you drag yourself slowly back and forth.

“Hey.” Steve grunts, grabbing your hips firmly. You hope he’s holding tight enough to leave a bruise. “Easy.”

You snort, leaning back to give him a pointed look. “Easy?”

“Yeah, that’s what I-“

“I just came on your knee.”

His ears turn a little pink, and he coughs. “I, uh- Fair.”

“Mhm.” You hum, smiling smugly, and you take all the strength in your jelly legs and grind right now onto his clothed cock.

Steve hisses, his fingers digging into your soft skin. “Jesus- Baby-“

You brace your arms on either side of his head, dragging back and forth as slow as you can. Steve’s eyes flutter, his tongue darting over his lips as he watches you move on him. His muscles flex with the effort not to grab you.

You’d very much like to see him give up.

“Does that feel good?” You whisper, making your voice sweet and innocent.

Steve grunts. You’re going to have handprints on your body in the morning. The thought just makes you move faster.

“I don’t want to go slow, Stevie.” You purr, and his chest heaves under you. “I want you to fuck me. Pleeease.”

You whine dramatically, thrusting forward, and Steve’s face drops against your chest.

“Jesus, woman.” He lips graze over your breast, and you moan. “Come on, ‘s not playing fair-“

“Don’t wanna play fair.” You hum, slowly reaching between your bodies. “Wasn’t fair how you turned me down.”

“’M sorry about that-“

“You should be.” You kiss under his ear. “Hurt my feelings.”

“Thought-“ He grunts as you palm his balls through his jeans. “Thought I was helping-“

“You weren’t.”

“I got that now-“

“But you know what would make it better?” You lean back up, holding Steve’s gaze with a lazy smile.

He nods quickly, and you giggle, wiggling down onto his bulge.

“Fucking me.”

Steve looks down, and a rumble echoes through his chest when he sees it.

You’d peeled off your ruined underwear without him noticing. Leaving your bare, sweet and soaked pussy pressed against him. You moan, watching him as you grind down, and he’s so close to snapping. You can see it in the tension of his jaw, feel how his fingers keep twitching on your hips. You smile at him, licking your lips, and that dark look flashes over his features. The same one from earlier, that had him overtaking you like a storm.

Steve’s a good boy. A sweet boy.

He also doesn’t like things that he can’t account for. Used to pick fights in alleys as a kid, always wanted to be the person everyone looked to for help.

You’re sure that, between the two of you, you can let him have a little fun without compromising his moral compass.

He has to, if you’re begging him for it. Not very chivalrous, to ignore a lady in need.

“Pleaseee.” You whine again, ghosting your lips over his. “Fuck me, Stevie, fuck me until I can’t walk-“

He mutters your name under his breath, and you just pout at him.

“Make me yours, make me cry, fuck-“ You throw your head back, the teasing him going straight to your own core. “God, fucking- Please, Steve-“

That does it. The explicit, wet cry of his name seems to snap something in Steve’s resolve, and he’s on you in a blur of hands and lips. Grabbing a fistful of your ass before hauling you up his chest, kissing you breathless as he stands. He keeps carrying like you weigh nothing, and you want to be trapped in his arms forever.

“Steve- Shit-“ Your jaw drops he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Fuck, slow down-“

“You said you didn’t want to slow down.” He reminds you in a deceptively soothing voice, big hands rubbing on the back of your thighs. “Said you didn’t wanna play fair.”

“I- Um- Ooooh-“

You drop your head against Steve’s shoulder, biting at his shirt as thick, strong fingers tease the lips of your pussy.

“Wet fuckin’ pussy.” He muses, spreading you open so the cold air hits your cunt. “Knew you got soaked for me, princess. Didn’t know it was this bad.”

“You- You-“ He needs to stop humiliating you and touching you at the same time. It makes you feel like you’re burning alive in the best way possible. “You knew?” You squeak, and Steve chuckles.

“Always knew. Told you, thought it was a crush.”

You try to twist and glare at him. “And you didn’t tell me-“

“Like you would’ve wanted me to tell you I could smell how badly you wanted my cock.” Steve smacks your ass with a scoff, and you flop right back over his shoulder.

“Fuck-“ You whimper. He’s right. You can barely even stand that right now. “Steve, please- Please-“

You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. Mercy, maybe. More mocking attention. Anything he can fucking give you, because you feel like you’re about to explode.

Steve spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and you moan.

“’Course you like that.” He mutters. “Dirty girl, testing me every fucking day.”

He drags his thumb through the mess between your legs, and your pussy clenches, trying to drag him in. He laughs, pushing down for half a second before dragging down to your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circle. You gasp, pushing uselessly at his back, already overstimulated and still needing more.

“Felt that.” Steve flicks your clit, and your whole body shakes. “Greedy, princess. You’ve been waitin’ this long, you can hold it a little longer.”

“Ca- Can’t-“ You gasp, pressing your cheek against the broad muscle of his back. “Can’t, Steve- Can’t wait-“

“Yeah, you can.” He grunts. “Christ, you’re dripping all over my hand. Going to take me no problem, aren’t you, baby.”

He’s playing with your clit like it’s just a little button for his whims, and you have to bite your inner cheek to stop yourself from falling apart all over his hand.

“Steve- I- I’m going to- Oh my god-“

Steve slaps right over your pussy, the wet sound echoing in your ears as he shoves those two fingers right into your pussy. He finds your G-spot in a second, crooking his fingers and dragging them over your sensitive walls. You cum with a cry of his name, sudden and harsh. White dancing at your vision, your body seizing up as Steve dumps you down onto the soft mattress.

He presses his wrist further, folding your body up. You grab his neck for an anchor, and he kisses your wrist as he slides a third finger into your dripping mess of a pussy.

“Getting you ready.” He mutters, wiping some hair from your face. “It’s okay, babydoll, you’re doin’ real good.”

You whimper, the orgasm still shaking through you. You’re struggling to breathe when Steve finally pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you whimper.

Steve laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you all sweet and loving, like you haven’t been turned to a puddle under his hands.

“Breathe.” He murmurs, squeezing your breast gently, and you take a loud, stuttering gasp. Steve kisses your nose, smiling like he’s being offered ice cream, and you watch him in a starry-eyed daze.

You hear the click of his belt, and as much as you’d like to reach down and feel him, you can barely manage to hold onto his shoulders right now. Steve pulls slowly up with one last chaste kiss on your lips, and your breath hitches in your throat.

He’s massive. That’s the kind of dick you’ve only seen in cartoons, because even the porn industry can’t replicate it. You’re not sure how he gets around so easily in his tight suit, with that fucking horse cock acting like a third leg. Thick and veined, already beading with pre-cum as he strokes it slowly in his hand, a sheepish expression on his face.

“I was… Endowed.” He mumbles, ears red. “Before the serum. Then…”

He nods to his cock, and you laugh breathlessly.

“Jesus, Steve-“

“It won’t hurt you.” He says quickly. “I know there are those rumors ‘bout be being a virgin, but-“ He sighs, pouting slightly. “God forbid a man tell Tony Stark he doesn’t want to talk about his sex life, suddenly he’s never even touched a boob-“

“Dude.” You smile up at him, and he cuts himself off. “Look me in the eyes and tell me if I still think you’re a virgin after that.”

You tilt your head to the hallway, but Steve just frowns.

“Dude?”

“Um-“

“Don’t call me dude when I’m about to fuck you.” He grumbles, and you’d laugh at him if that didn’t make your heart skip. e

“Sorry, sir.”

You say it half to mock him, half to test something.

Steve’s jaw ticks, and his already rock-hard cock twitches in his hands. You giggle as his eyes narrow, and you’re still laughing as he prowls over you, that dark, hungry look back on his face.

“You think something’s funny?” He grunts, and you shake your head.

“No, sir.”

Steve groans, dropping his face between your breasts.

“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters under his breath, and you’re still laughing softly.

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

You laugh again, because you’re really not. It’s hilarious, and he’s adorable, and this is going to yield some fantastic results.

Steve assesses you like you’re a mission to be accomplished. And you know him.

He never does anything halfway.

“Alright, princess.” He mutters, tapping the head of his cock on your clit. “Open.”

You squeak, still giggling, and spread your legs slowly.

The last laugh is pushed from your chest as Steve slowly starts to sink himself into your heat. Your mouth falls uselessly open as you bow off the bed, your body almost unable to rationalize how full you are. 

Steve splits you open, his cock slowly driving through you and hitting spots you didn’t even know you had. He grinds slowly down into your pussy, bullying you further open, and you think he’s found a button inside you that just makes you a limp, sensitive fuck-doll, because you whine out his name but it takes everything you have.

“I know.” He grunts, the tip of his cock pressing into your cervix. “You’re taking it, baby, there you go.”

“Steveee-“

“Feels good, doesn’t it.” He presses at sweet kiss to your lips as he bottoms out. His fingers lace slowly through yours, and you nod.

You’ve never had so many pleasure points being hit at once. Steve’s still got a hand on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as you try to breath around him. He’s patient. You don’t want him to be.

“More.” You push out, and he raises his brows.

“Sweetheart-“

“More.” You roll up into him, moaning loudly as he hits even deeper. “Fuck me, Steve- Mmm-“

He kisses you, passionate and messy, and you almost scream in satisfaction as he starts to move.

He’s unrushed. Completely in control of you, and aware of it. His dick pulls almost all the way out before slowly pushing back in, the torturous pace making you feel like a live wire.

“Yeah, that’s it.” He coos, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “Pretty girl, you like being stuffed up with my cock, don’t you.”

“Ye- Yes-“ You tip your head back into the pillows, your free hand grasping at the sheets. “Yes- Oh my god, yes-“

Steve’s started to grind against your g-spot whenever he hits it, letting his thickness press and drag over the sensitive, gooey spot until you’re moaning and writhing around him.

“Feel that, don’t you.” He mutters, pushing in a little harder than last time. “Feel my dick inside you, baby, feels so good, doesn’t-“

“So good.” You babble, but who can blame you. “So good, Steve, you’re so-“

Your words turn into a broken moan as Steve drives back into you, and he’s going harder and harder every time. Still pulling almost fully out slowly, letting your arousal gather and drip down your thighs and ass, but then slamming back into you so hard it makes you think the world is shaking.

A breathy sound escapes your lips, maybe a plea, and Steve moves your tangled hands between your bodies, pressing you down into the mattress as he rises up for a better angle.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet.” He growls, pounding into your cunt like he owns it. “If I’d know you wanted me this bad I woulda had you all over this city.”

You whine, squeezing around him. Steve chuckles.

“Oh, you like that. Like the idea of being my good little cockslut, letting me play with you wherever I want.” 

Big, steady hands press your knees up, letting Steve hit even deeper than before. A strange, tight feeling is building in your gut, but it feels good. All of this feels so good. You’re spent and cockdrunk, but you feel used in the best possible way. The filth Steve is drawling in your ears makes your brain go all quiet. You’re just a happy, humming bundle of pleasure, Steve’s massive body draped over yours, and you’d probably do anything he wanted, if he just fucked you like this after.

“You were made for me.” He groans, lips wandering all over your face as his cock drills into you. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby, swear it, just sing for me, come on-“

You moan, long and loud. Steve grins, kissing under your ear.

“Good girl.” He coos. “There you go, just like that. Come on, doll, I know you’re getting close.”

You are. You’ve been close the whole time, but this feels more and more different by the second. There are wet, sinful sounds filling the room as your skin slaps together, and Steve’s breath is hot in your ear as he starts to lose a little control of himself.

He moans when you start mindlessly humping up to meet him, forcing his cock into the tightest spot into you that makes everything all colorful and hazy. You gasp softly, chasing up from a little more, and Steve wraps and arm around your back.

“Fuck- Fuck- You feel so good,” he groans your name in your ear. “So good, it’s- Christ-“

That strange pressure in your tummy is going to burst. It feels like Steve is driving right against it, daring it come undone.

“Steve.” You breathe out. “Steve- I- I’m gonna-“

He growls, deep in his chest and rolling through you.  Steve grabs you and wrestles you down into the mattress, pushing your legs up to your chest and fucking you fast and brutal.

It’s a sight above you. Steve, panting and moaning as your pussy sucks him in, glistening arousal shining all over his cock when he pulls out and smearing on your tummy. Your tight walls are starting to contract, and he doubles over, groaning your name as his thrust become shallow and unmeasured.

Tears start to stream down your face. Steve looks at you like you’re an angel, fucking you like you’re just a toy, and you can’t even remember how to tell him how good it feels.

“Steve…” You wiggle below him, crying out as he just fucks you hard. “Steve- Ooooooh-“

Your eyes roll back, the tears burning on your cheeks from the impossible to handle pleasure. Steve leans down and kisses them off your cheeks, the softness in such contrast with how he’s turning you into a bundle of nerves and tears.

“My pretty girl.” He mutters, kissing your lips sweetly. “Close. We’re so close. You can make it. Make it for me.”

You nod, almost hypnotized into agreeing. And Steve’s abusing that spot inside of you. Sensitive and overwhelming, making your toes curl and eyes cross.

“Steve- I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” Not a suggestion. Steve’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing it back and forth as he ruts into you. “Come for me, now.”

The command rolls through you, and that pressure bursts. Heat washes over you, making you bow off the bed as a funny, wet feeling gushes out between your thighs. Steve groans, slamming his mouth back over yours, groaning your name as you start to milk his cock.

“Fuck,” he groans, and you wrap your arms tight around his neck. Tight enough to strangle him, if he was a normal man. But Steve just splays his hand possessively over your back and moans against your lips, driving home into your cunt as his release rippling through him.

It’s almost as good as your own orgasm. You’re tucked into a shaking, flexing heat of muscle, his deep voice moaning your name in your ear, his cock still thrusting and twitching inside you. Over, and over, and over-

You can barely breathe in the best way. You’ve never had a man cum so much. It starts just hot and sticky, then it’s drooling out, down your ass and onto the sheets. You can feel it in your throat, almost taste it, and even after Steve pulls out it’s everywhere. Painting your pussy creamy and white, branding your abdomen, your tits, your thighs.

Steve stares down at you with a gaping mouth as you both come down from the high. You laugh, hoarse and breathy.

“Woah.”

“Shit.” Steve mutters, grabbing at the remainder of the clean sheets and wiping them over your body. “I- I didn’t- I usually pull out, you just-“

“Steve-“

“We need to get you in the shower, it’s everywhere-“

“Steve-“

“I’m so sorry-“

“Steven.” You smack his shoulder, and he stops dead.

You’re already bridal style in his arms, naked and covered in his cum, some of it dripping all over the floor. You’re going to need to hire a cleaner. Or invest in really, really big buckets that you’ll keep next to the bed.

“Does that happen every time?”

He swallows, and nods.

“Uh- Not that much.” He mumbles. “But yeah.”

Pride glows in your chest. You get the most of him. “Okay.”

Steve blinks. “Okay?”

You nod, and he shakes his head.

“I ruined your room-“

“I liked it.”

He stares. You smile.

Steve rolls his eyes, and presses a kiss to your brow.

“You’re impossible.” He mutters, and you giggle.

“Yeah, but you love me. And you can’t take it back now, you already said it-“

He grabs your chin, turning it so he can fully capture your lips.

“I do love you.” He mutters against your lips. “And no one could make me take it back if they tried.”

You smile. You have no plans to do that.

Steve is somehow more than you ever dreamed. And there’s no way you’re letting him go now.

✦End note: this was so fun for me to write i love a puppy dog man. i hope you enjoyed it!✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[underoospeterparker]

you're an idiot, steve harrington

Steve harrington x fem!reader, 2k words

Summary — When you say you and Steve need to talk, Steve misinterprets it as you wanting to break up with him. In reality, you want to move in with him.

Steve never quite believes he deserves to love you.

He tries to believe it, he really does. He shows up, he listens, he remembers the little things. He tells you you're beautiful when your hair's a mess and you're pretty when you're sick and he loves you when you're being impossible. He gives you everything he has.

But in the back of his mind, there's always this voice. This quiet, ugly little voice that whispers she's too good for you and this can't last and eventually she'll figure it out.

He's gotten good at ignoring it. Most days, he can. But today is not most days.

You're on his couch, legs tucked under you, some movie playing in the background that neither of you is watching. You're talking about your week, about work, about nothing important. And then you say it.

"Steve, I think we should talk about something."

Steve's stomach drops. Those words. Those three words that never, ever lead anywhere good. We should talk. His stomach twists.

He's heard them before. From Nancy. From his dad. From every person who's ever looked at him and decided he wasn't enough.

He doesn't want you to think he's not enough, too.

"Yeah?" He tries to keep his voice steady. Tries to ignore the way his heart has started pounding. "What's up, sweetheart?" The endearment slips out automatically, because that's who he is with you. Even scared, even spiralling, he can't talk to you without softness.

You're quiet for a second, looking down at your hands, and that silence is worse than anything. He watches you bite your lip, watches you gather your words, and every second feels like an hour. You're nervous.

"I've been thinking a lot lately," you say slowly. "About us. About where we're going."

Steve can't breathe. You're breaking up with him.

And I... I just — I don't know if this is—" You pause, shaking your head. "I'm not saying this right."

He doesn't hear the rest. He can't. Because all he hears is I've been thinking about us and I don't know if this is and his brain fills in the blanks with the worst possible words.

Working. What I want anymore. Worth it.

He stands up so fast you startle.

"Steve?"

He looks at you — at your confused, beautiful face — and even now, even with his heart cracking open in his chest, all he feels is overwhelming tenderness. He can't be mad at you, not even when you're breaking his heart.

"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is soft, so soft, because he can't ever be anything else with you. "I'm sorry, angel, I just — I need a minute. Okay? I just need a minute."

He's moving before he knows it, grabbing his keys, heading for the door. He hears you call his name, hears the confusion in your voice, but he can't stop. He can't stay in that room one more second or he'll fall apart right in front of you.

But even as he leaves, even as he's running, he closes the door gently. Because it's your door. Because you're on the other side. Because he'd never do anything to hurt you, even accidentally, even now.

He makes it to his car. Sits there, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring at nothing.

His chest hurts.

It actually hurts, like someone's reached inside him and is squeezing his heart in their fist. He can't breathe right. His lungs won't work. He tries to take a deep breath and it gets stuck halfway, a horrible stuttering inhale that does nothing to help.

You're leaving. You don't want him anymore.

The thought circles in his head like a song stuck on repeat. He knew this would happen. He knew it. People always leave. They always figure out that he's not worth the trouble. He presses the heel of his hand against his sternum, like he can physically push the pain away.

He should drive away. He should go somewhere, anywhere, and deal with this alone. But he can't make himself start the car. He just sits there, hurting, waiting for something he doesn't understand.

Then there's a knock on his window.

He looks up, and you're there. Standing in the driveway wearing your house slippers, your face worried and confused and... and not cold. Not distant. Not looking at him like he's something you're about to throw away.

"Steve." Your voice is muffled through the glass. "What's going on? Baby, please open the door."

He looks at you — shivering a little, eyes so concerned — and even through the fog of his own pain, all he feels is you're going to get cold. So he reaches over and unlocks the door.

You open it immediately, crouching down to his level. Your eyes scan his face, and whatever you see there makes your expression crumble.

"Steve. Honey. What happened?"

He laughs. It's not a nice sound. "You know what happened. You said—" His voice cracks. He has to stop, swallow, try again. "You said we needed to talk. About us. About whether this is—" He can't even say it.

But even saying that, even voicing his worst fear, he reaches out and touches your face. Just lightly, his fingers brushing your cheek, because you're right there and he can't not touch you.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry I'm making this harder. You're trying to do this gently and I'm — I'm making it worse. You don't have to explain, sweetheart. I understand."

You stare at him for a long moment, looking entirely confused. "Steve. I was trying to ask if you wanted to move in together."

He blinks. "What?" What?

"I've been thinking about us," you say slowly, carefully. "About where we're going. And I wanted to ask if you'd consider — if you'd want to—" You take a breath. "I want to live with you. That's what I was trying to say. I just didn't know how to ask without sounding desperate."

Steve stares at you. His hand is still on your face. He doesn't move it.

"You want to move in with me."

"Yes."

"With me. Me, living together. With you?"

"Yes, Steve."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "I thought you were breaking up with me."

Your face crumples with realisation. "Oh, baby. Oh, no."

"I'm sorry," he says immediately, because you look upset and he hates that, he hates that he made you look like that. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn't have run. I shouldn't have — you were trying to talk to me and I just—"

"Stop." You cup his face in your hands, mirroring him. "Stop apologising. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I thought I was losing you." The words tumble out, raw and honest. "And I couldn't — I couldn't breathe. I still can't breathe." His voice breaks. "I love you so much. I couldn't even be mad. I just wanted you to be happy. Even if it wasn't with me."

You make a sound, something between a sob and a laugh, and then you're climbing into the car, into his lap, wrapping yourself around him.

"You idiot," you whisper against his neck, but you're crying, and you're holding him so tight. "You're an idiot, Steve Harrington. I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying. I'm right here."

Your arms lock around his neck, your face presses into the warm space where his shoulder meets his throat, and you hold him like he's the only thing keeping you upright.

He feels your breath against his skin, feels the dampness of your tears soaking into his collar. You're crying. For him. Because he's hurting.

"I'm here," you whisper against his neck, your voice thick but steady. "I'm right here, Steve. I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."

His arms come up automatically, wrapping around you, pulling you closer. His hands spread across your back, one cradling the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. "Angel," he breathes, and it's barely a sound. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I ran."

You shake your head against his neck, holding him tighter. If you could, you'd crawl inside his chest and curl up next to his heart. You'd wrap yourself around every bruised, broken part of him and never let go.

"Don't be sorry," you murmur. "Just let me hold you. Okay? Just let me hold you."

He nods against you, and you feel his arms tighten around your waist. His shaking is subsiding.

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands coming up to frame his face. Your thumbs trace his cheekbones, brush away the tears tracking down his skin.

"I love you," you tell him, slow and deliberate, because he needs to hear it, because he needs to understand. "I love you, Steve. You hear me?"

He laughs, watery and weak. "I hear you."

"Good." You press your forehead to his. "Because I need you to know it. I need you to believe it."

His hands come up to cover yours where they rest on his face. He turns his head, just slightly, and presses a kiss to your palm. "I'm trying," he whispers. "I'm trying to believe it. It's just hard when—" He stops, swallows. "When no one ever has. Stayed, I mean."

"I know." You kiss the corner of his mouth, soft and lingering. "I know, baby. But I'm not them. I'm me. And I'm staying."

He looks at you — really looks at you — and for the first time since you said those terrible, wonderful, misunderstood words, some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

"You're cold," he murmurs, because you are, because you're shivering in your house slippers and thin pyjama shirt.

"I don't care about cold."

"I care." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Let's go inside, angel. Please."

You nod, but you don't move. You just keep looking at him, your hands still on his face, your eyes soft and warm.

"I'm okay," he tells you quietly. "I'm okay now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He smiles, small and shaky but real. "You're kind of magic, you know that?"

You shake your head. "I just love you. That's all."

He shifts you carefully in his lap, getting situated, and then he's opening the car door and climbing out with you still in his arms. You don't protest — just tighten your hold on his neck and let him carry you.

He kicks the door closed and starts toward the house, cradling you against his chest like you're the most precious thing in the world.

"You're so warm," you murmur against his neck.

"You're freezing." He adjusts his hold, pulling you closer.

He carries you up the steps to the porch, careful and steady, then nudges the front door open with his hip. He carries you over to the couch and sits down carefully, settling you in his lap. You curl into him immediately, your head on his chest, your hand over his heart.

He pulls the blanket from the back of the couch and wraps it around both of you, tucking it around your shoulders.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. Then, "I love you," he whispers into the quiet.

You tilt your head up and kiss his jaw. "I love you too. So much."

He looks down at you, at your face soft and open and full of love for him, and something in his chest finally settles.

"So," you say, your eyes bright. "About that moving in conversation..."

He laughs, real and full, and thinks that you are the most perfect thing he's ever had.

[anxietyproblem]