MrTellMeAFuckingSecret

BLACK LIVES MATTER 🍉🇵🇸 SHE/HER

[xoxo-mylove]

MASTERLIST

Batmom!reader

more coming soon……..

Al Ghul!Reader more coming soon.......

[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 swipe through dating apps, 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

[longlostx11]

Before We Knew Better | Andrew 'Pope' Cody Masterlist

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Summary: When Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody was taken into care Smurf pulled some strings and got him put in a place close to Oceanside.  That place was with you and your parents.  Something Smurf would later regret when she realised that the bond you and Andrew forged in the month he was there was never going away. The years went by and the older boy became your best friend. Your protector. Your person.   Fast forward and when Andrew gets out of prison he finds out Smurf’s hatred for you has gone to a whole other level. 

Pairing: Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody x reader 

Overall Warnings: Smut, violence, overprotective Pope, sub!Pope if you squint, angry pope, piv sex, oral sex, established relationship.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine... In Progress

[lostchildofthenewworld]

Metamorphosis Series Masterlist

Moving from Texas to California, the tides of the Pacific Ocean may wash away the grief that came from your father’s death, but it also leaves love behind on its shores.

warnings: romance, fluff/comfort, unprotected sex, piv sex, angst, smurf (derogatory), baz (derogatory), reader is a composer, canon divergence - alternate universe, protective!pope, reader is protective of pope, no use of y/n for reader

Cross-posted on Ao3 (must have a registered account to read on ao3)

writing masterlist

ao3 "metamorphosis" series collection (must have a registered account)

Timeline - fics will be sorted in chronological order

Anchor (fluff, comfort, sfw) - 4.1k

Andrew finds an anchor, who does not flinch from his gaze.

Growing Pains (fluff, comfort, nsfw) - 13.7k

Andrew celebrates another birthday with a party thrown by his family. But over the course of a year that you've known him, you have watched the dynamics of the Cody family and you are not pleased.

Next To You (fluff, comfort, sfw) - 3.0k

A hiatus is only meant to be temporary. Your relationship with Andrew has reintroduced you to why you fell in love with composing in the first - being able to tell a story without words. The invitation Pope received from you for his birthday leads him to stand outside a concert hall, eyes reading the marquee.

Engraved In Stone (angst, comfort, sfw) - WIP

There was once a time where Pope's birthday wasn't just his alone. While Smurf may act as though she never had a daughter, Julia's absence is felt keenly by her twin and son.

[xoxo-mylove]

Holy shit this entire series is so amazing!! I binged all three chapters and they were written so beautifully💞can’t wait for more!!

[crowdedimagines]

Home Front

Aaron Hotchner x reader

Summary: You have been Aaron Hotchner's nanny, taking care of Jack, for over a year when someone looking for revenge breaks into the house while Aaron is away on a case. 5.3 K nanny!reader Warnings: break in, attack, stalking, blood, violence

-

Most days being Aaron Hotchner’s nanny were simple. Get Jack to school, using the occasional cereal bribery. Make sure all of his homework was done and in his backpack. Keep the house from looking like Aaron wasn’t actually gone half the month for cases. Answer the occasional late night call while he’s away so he can hear about his son’s day. 

You had taken over the guest room, half of your apartment has made its way over at this point. Any time Aaron was pulled away on a case you would stay at the house. It helped Jack have as normal of a routine as possible. Aaron would deny it if anyone asked, but he liked seeing your things around the house. 

You’ve been with them for just over a year now. It only took a few months for it to feel a lot less like work and dangerously close to home. The two Hotchner men had quickly taken over your world and you wouldn’t change a thing. 

Jack liked you right away. Somewhere between the dramatic lightsaber battle and the joke about transformers and he was sold. 

Aaron, on the other hand, had taken longer. He was always polite and respectful, but he was also rigid. He moved like he was always bracing for impact. He trusted carefully in measured doses, and time and time again you proved yourself. 

“You’re still awake.” His voice comes through right after you hit answer. 

You smile and bite back the yawn you’ve been fighting. 

“So are you.” You comment, “That’s not good.” 

“No, it isn’t.” 

“You’re profiling a serial killer, and I’m trying to profile whether Jack actually brushed his teeth or not.” 

He lets out an exhale that is as close to a laugh as you can get while he’s on a case. You know there’s a small smile with it too. 

“Something like that.” 

“Jack informed me when you get back he needs you to know dinosaurs would definitely beat sharks in a fight.” 

He hums, “So he came to a conclusion?”

“He said sharks lose because they can’t climb stairs.” 

“Solid logic.” 

You snort out a laugh. 

“Thank you.” He says softly after your laughter has slowed. 

“For what?” You ask. 

“For this. For being there.” 

Your chest tightens in the way it always did when Aaron let the walls slip a little. 

“You don’t have to thank me, Aaron.” 

A pause. 

“I know.” 

You hear a soft unmistakable click of the back door in the kitchen. You straighten instantly, sucking in a breath of air. Aaron notices the change immediately. 

“What is it?” 

You slowly stand from the couch and take quiet steps back towards the stairs. 

“I-I think someone’s in the house.” You whisper. 

Silence. 

Aaron breaks it with no trace of softness left. 

“Y/n, get to Jack and lock yourselves in his room. Right now.” 

You grip the phone tighter in your hand, your heart racing. Your instincts are screaming at you, but part of you wonders if you really heard it. Did your mind make it up? The house has been silent ever since. 

“I-” You hesitate. 

“No,” His voice turning sharp before you can hear him shout to someone close by, “Garcia get the police to my house immediately. Someone’s in the house and Y/n and Jack are there.”

Your eyes are laser focused on the kitchen, taking a half step back toward the stairs. Then a shadow moves and your stomach drops. 

“Aaron-” 

A man lunges forward and you race for the stairs. You make it up the first three before his hand catches your shoulder. It sends the phone clattering against the hardwood floor. 

Aaron is hundreds of miles away, forced to listen. The sound of the phone hitting the floor echoes like a gunshot. 

“Y/n!” Aaron shouts your name, pacing the conference room of the Tennessee police department. Against his true desires, he puts it on speaker so the rest of the team can hear this and understand what’s going on. 

His voice tears through the line, but it’s useless and frantic. He could hear everything. Furniture scraping violently against the hardwood. Your cries and sharp gasps. The sickening sound of someone being thrown down on the stairs. Aaron’s entire body went cold. 

“Garcia, how far away is the unit?” Aaron asks, clutching the table in front of him. The sounds just continue to go on. 

“I’m on it, I’m on it!” She stutters, clearly distracted by the other phone on the line, “The closest patrol is three minutes away.” 

Might as well be three hours away. 

Aaron could still hear you fighting. 

“Get the hell off of me!” You shout, the unsub snarls something the phone doesn’t quite pick up. 

Then suddenly footsteps running upstairs. 

“No!” You shout. 

Because Jack is upstairs. You knew it and he knew it too. Everyone can hear the pure desperation in the way you shout. There’s more crashing, following by the awful sound of bodies colliding. You manage to throw yourself at him, taking both of you down to the bottom of the stairs. 

Aaron’s grip on the table grows so tight his knuckles start to burn. He could hear the sharp cry when the unsub yanked you back down to the floor hard enough to make JJ physically flinch. But you’re fighting like hell, kicking and scratching, anything purely for survival at this point. 

A small voice from far away calls out. 

“Y/n?” 

Everything stopped. 

You look up to the top of the stairs and see Jack standing there in his pajamas. He has one hand on the bannister, but his eyes widen with fear when he sees the reality of what’s going on. 

“Jack!” You cry, “Hide! Run!”

Your voice is clear and cuts through the chaos like a whip. 

“Now!” 

Aaron could hear the shift. The moment you started to fight harder, you could feel it too. The fear was gone, now you’re running off of protective fury. A sharp kick connects hard enough for the unsub to curse loudly and roll over onto his side on the floor. 

You pull yourself toward the stairs, managing to stand after using the railing for leverage. The unsub groans, slowly rising from the floor. You try to move faster, but he drags you back down again. You scream again but never stop fighting. 

Sudden sirens take over the neighborhood. Loud and close, the bright red and blue lights shining in the living room windows. The unsub freezes. He shoves you back again, hard, before taking off for the kitchen and you hear the back door again.

You crawl up the stairs to where Jack is hiding somewhere. 

“Jack?” You call, “It’s okay! He’s gone, the police are here.” 

Your voice is shaking now, pain starting to catch up to the adrenaline. Small footsteps bound down the hall, you sit on the top step unable to move any closer. You hold your arms open for him and he collapses into you instantly. 

“It’s okay, I’m here.” You sigh, running your hand over the back of his head, “We’re okay.” 

You repeat it over and over until the police break down the front door.

“They’re safe, Hotch.” Morgan places a cautious hand on his shoulder. 

Aaron can’t answer. He can’t answer because you’re hundreds of miles away, helpless and terrified, and all he could do was listen. Again. 

-

The jet was silent. It was heavy in a way that only happened when something was personal. This was a direct attack in Aaron’s home against you and his son. 

“Garcia said the officers think the unsub knew the house layout.” 

Hotch stares straight ahead. 

“He did.”

He didn’t need the officer's report to know that. 

“He knew where the backdoor was and he moved like he had been there before. He went upstairs.”

Toward Jack. No one said it, no one had to. 

Rossi leans closer, “We’ll find him.”

Hotch gives him one short nod, but his expression remains the same. 

The unsub isn’t the only thing weighing on his mind, he can’t get over the guilt pulling at this throat. Heavy and sharp. He heard it all happen, he listened to you fight for his son while he was useless. And you had nearly been killed because of it. 

The jet landed just after dawn and no one bothered with going home, they just went straight to the hospital. Garcia had already texted that she was in the waiting room and would stay until they got there. 

She jumps up from her chair when she sees them walking together down the hall and walks straight up to Hotch. 

“She has a dislocated shoulder, bruised ribs, stitches along her hairline, and enough bruising to make everyone working this floor visibly wince when they leave her room.” Penelope spits the words out quickly, Aaron’s face remaining the same. 

They slow as they approach your room, through the open door they can all see you. You’re asleep and carefully propped against white pillows. Bruises in ugly shades of purple and blue litter you, with one arm secured in a sling. The other arm is wrapped around Jack and resting on his back. He’s tucked against your side, out cold. 

Morgan swore quietly under his breath and JJ had to look away. Rossi, who has seen enough violence for ten lifetimes, stood there without speaking.

It was undeniable and written all over your body that you had but yourself between danger and Jack without hesitation and fought like hell. Aaron stood in the doorway like the air had been knocked out of him. 

Rossi gives him one firm nod before stepping back, “We’ve got the rest. Go be here.”

Aaron stepped into the room alone, shutting the door halfway. For a long moment he just stood there and watched the two of you taking steady breaths. He pulls a chair close to your bedside, sitting carefully like a sudden moment would have you both jump. Maybe it would. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes where he just enjoys the consistent sound of your breathing. Long enough that he notices the second it changes and you shift a little. Your eyes open slowly, heavy with pain medication and exhaustion. 

“Aaron?” Your voice comes out rough. 

He nods first because it takes him a second to trust his own voice. 

“Hi.” 

A small smile curls on the edge of your mouth. 

“You look terrible.”

A surprised laugh escapes him. 

“It's okay, I look terrible too. I think my face scared Jack earlier. But he’s used to having you around, so he managed.”

You try to lighten the mood, anything to ease the deep frown and heaviness all over his face. You’ve seen him after some terrible cases, but you’ve never seen him like this. He looks defeated. 

Silence settles between the two of you. You glance down at Jack, sleeping soundly against your side. 

“He finally crashed a little bit ago. He refused to leave.” 

Aaron looks over his son, then back to you. 

“He stayed because he knew you were safe.”

You swallow.

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes widen with surprise, “For what?”

“For not stopping it sooner, for scaring Jack-”

“Y/n.” He interrupts, his voice cracking. That actually makes you stop. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped tight like he had to physically hold himself together. 

“You have absolutely nothing to apologize for.” He shakes his head, “You protected my son.” 

The next words were lower and less steady. 

“You put yourself between him and a man you knew could kill you, and you're apologizing?”

Tears flood your vision, but you still can’t pull your gaze from Aaron’s. 

“I couldn’t let him get to Jack.” 

“I know.” 

His voice was softer now. 

“I heard it. I heard it all.”

He heard it all. You had forgotten he was on the phone when the stranger broke in, which is likely what saved you. He got police to you within minutes. Everything could have been so different if you hadn’t stayed up waiting for his call. But he had heard it all. The fight. The fear. Jack. 

You lift your hand carefully from Jack’s back and reach out for Aaron to take. He looks at it for a second before using both of his hands to completely envelope yours. He stares at them for a minute while he gathers his thoughts. 

“I was on the other end of that phone listening to someone hurt you, and I couldn’t do anything about it.” 

“Aaron” You start. 

“I’ve only felt that helpless once before, and I never wanted to feel like this again.” 

His hands tighten around yours. 

“Aaron.” Your voice calm, pulling his focus back on you, “You got the police to us in minutes, Jack is okay, and I’m okay. You don’t get to carry blame or guilt over a man choosing to do something horrible.” 

He wants to look away, but he knows he won’t get away with that. Jack shifts, mumbling something in his sleep and both of you instinctively look down at him. The room stays quiet like that for a few minutes before Aaron looks back again. 

There’s something in his expression now that had been there for months but neither of them had dared to touch. It was also part of why you waited for your late night call. They had started as a way for him to say goodnight to his son, but had evolved to at least twenty minutes with you each night. 

“I don’t know what I would do without you.” He admits and your breath catches. 

Aaron Hotchner does not say things he doesn’t mean. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

-

By late afternoon, the hospital had reluctantly signed discharge papers. Aaron was given strict instructions to follow for three different pain medications and that you can’t lift anything heavier than a pillow. Hotch nodded along like he was taking an oath. 

You borrowed extra sweats from Aaron’s emergency overnight bag, and were entirely unimpressed with the mandatory wheelchair escort all the way to the car. The car ride to the house was quiet, Jack hardly making a peep as they got closer to the house. 

Aaron parks in the driveway and from here you can see the caution tape over the door. The wood is splintered where they kicked down the front door to get to you. You don’t make a move to get out of the car and neither does Jack. Aaron turns from the driver’s seat to face you. 

“The two of you wait in the car. I’m gonna run in and get our stuff, we’re not staying here.’

You blink, “We’re not?”

“It’s not safe to stay here until we know who we’re looking for. We’re going to go in to Quantico.”

“The BAU?”

“It’s secure. Garcia’s there and JJ is bringing enough snacks for Jack to qualify as a federal offence. Until we know who did this, I’m not leaving either of you alone. I’m sorry.”

You frown, “Don’t apologize for that.” 

He looks back at Jack and he gives him a thumbs up. Aaron gets out quickly and races inside, it doesn’t take him long to pack go bags for all three of you. 

“I get to see Uncle Reid!” Jack says excitedly. 

“Agent Reid.” Hotch corrects. 

“No,” Jack shakes his head, “Uncle Reid.” 

Aaron sighs, “Apparently I’ve lost control of professional boundaries.” 

You dare a smirk. 

“Long ago.”

For the first time since the attack you see the ghost of a real smile from him. 

The team was waiting when you arrived, Garcia launching herself at you before remembering your injuries. She settles for a cautious hug that you hide a wince for. 

“Oh my god, look at your face!” 

“I’m okay.” You laugh softly. 

Rossi leans in next to press a careful kiss on your cheek, “He’s gonna give you a really good raise after this.”

You laugh and look back at Aaron. You missed it, but Rossi gives Aaron a look behind your back that says ‘you’re in love with your nanny and everyone knows it’. Aaron ignores him with practiced precision. 

They set you up in the conference room with ice packs and coffee, Garcia is watching Jack in Aaron’s office. Everyone is sitting around the table, far from their typical victim interview but this was far from a typical case. 

This was personal. 

The hospital did pull DNA from under your fingernails, but whoever the unsub was, he wasn't in the system so it turned up nothing.

“Start from the beginning. Anything you remember matters, even if it’s small.” Hotch manages to keep his voice steady, staring directly at you. 

You nod slowly, setting down your coffee down on the table. 

“The back door first. The house was quiet, but I heard the click. He knew how to get in without making much noise.” 

Reid starts taking notes. 

“How tall was he?” Morgan asks.

“At least a head taller than me. Strong. He knew exactly where he was going, he didn’t hesitate.” 

You swallow. 

“He never looked around, he moved like he already knew the house.” 

The room fell to a still. Reid’s pen stopped moving and everyone looked up. 

“He was there for Jack.” Aaron states. 

You nod, agreeing with the theory. 

“And for you.” Rossi nods toward you. 

You look at him, “What?”

“People who target families like this aren’t improvising. It’s personal. They want fear, and they want the message to last.” 

“He could’ve killed me if he really wanted to.” You shake your head, “He kept trying for the stairs for Jack-”

“He probably wanted you to be scared.” Morgan clears his throat, “He was getting off on your fear.” 

The stuns you into silence.

Emily sets down her pen, “Did he say anything to you?”

You frown again, “He said…’He should know what it feels like’.” 

Aaron’s jaw tightens instantly because that isn’t random at all. That sounds like revenge, which confirms his biggest fear. Yet again his job is putting the people he cares most about in harm's way. 

-

The team had scattered to run more leads, but you stayed in the conference room. You find yourself standing in front of the evidence board for the case. Crime scene shots, the staircase, the broken bannister. Your blood on the hardwood. The photographs from the hospital that are so clinical and detached you don’t even recognize yourself. 

The woman in the picture looks like someone else. 

“You really shouldn’t do that.” 

You turn and see JJ in the doorway. 

“I know.”

She steps into the room and stands next to you, turning her attention to the same photographs. For a solid minute neither of you speak. Finally, you exhale. 

“It just feels like if I stop trying to remember something that’ll actually help… like he’s winning somehow.” 

JJ nods, “I get that.” 

“I hate that I’m scared of his house. That his house is crime scene photos again.” 

You know that this isn’t the same house he had with Haley, but it’s still been his home with Jack for years now. 

“Y/n, you were attacked. Being scared doesn’t make you weak.” JJ insists. 

“It feels like it does.” 

“No,” Her voice firm now, “what you did was beyond brave. You kept Jack safe and saved yourself.” 

You blink, “I was terrified.” 

“Exactly.” She finally smiles, “And you still did it. Bravery typically looks like that.” 

That hits you harder than you had expected. JJ softens even more when she realizes none of this has done anything to ease your concern. 

“For what it’s worth, Aaron is barely functioning.” She smiles knowingly, “He’s trying very hard to look like Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, but the rest of us have eyes.” 

You let out a warm laugh. 

“He cares about you. A lot, honestly. I think he’s been trying not to for months.” 

Her words make you go completely still, eyes darting to his office on the other side of the room. JJ simply shrugs. 

“We all see the way he looks for you first when he walks in, and the way Jack talks about you. Hotch hasn’t been the same since you came into his life, and I mean that as a good thing.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” You look back at her finally. 

“Because I don’t like wasting time. Or seeing people I care about hurt without each other.” She reaches out a hand carefully for your shoulder before leaving the room. 

Maybe JJ is right. Maybe everyone already knew. 

-

You softly knock on the doorframe before letting yourself into Aaron’s office. He looks up from his desk instantly. You're wearing a spare FBI hoodie, but you're still wearing his sweats that are too long. You look as cozy as you can while wearing an arm sling. 

Jack peeks his eyes open, he had been faking sleep over on the couch for nearly a half an hour. 

“There you are!” He sits up. 

You smile at Hotch before making your way over to him. You sit on the edge of the couch and smooth a hand over his hair, gentle and automatic. Jack shifted so you had more room and he could tuck himself against your side. Within minutes, his breathing slowed. Sleep finally won. 

“He couldn’t sleep without you.” Aaron says softly, unable to take his eyes off the two of you. 

Eventually you look up, daring to meet his gaze. The bullpen is still a blur, but it’s warm and quiet here in the office. Safe. 

“He’s scared you’ll leave again.” 

His eyes dart down to his son. 

“I know.” 

“He doesn’t blame you,” You continue, “he is so proud of what you do. He just knows something bad happened when you were gone.” 

“Again.” He answers, “Something bad happened when I was gone, again. I’m supposed to be the person who keeps him safe.” 

You frown, “You are.”

“I wasn’t there.” 

The guilt is still there. How could he not still feel guilty? Here you are trapped at the FBI for your safety, covered in bruises, and he’s sure you still can’t take a full breath with your ribs.

“You got the police to us immediately and came home.” You offer a teary smile, “He knows you love him so much.” 

“Sometimes that doesn’t feel like enough.” 

You shake your head. 

“It's enough.” You disagree, “And you can’t blame yourself for something some lunatic decided to do.” 

He leans back in his chair, you can finally see the exhaustion that JJ was talking about. He looks tired in a way that sleep can’t even fix. 

“I can’t get it out of my head.” You shake your head, mostly saying it to yourself but Aaron is hanging on every word, “Who is capable of doing that to a family?”

Aaron’s eyes flash with recognition. 

“What?” You question, seeing the idea that just hit him. 

He steps out to the bullpen where the team is still there. You ease yourself carefully off the couch not to wake Jack and lean against the door frame. You watch him go down the steps toward the desks. 

“Garcia, look into Karl Arnold’s recent activity. I want to know everything that has gone on at his prison, any of his visitors, and all of his mail.” 

Morgan’s head snaps up, “The Fox?”

“On it, sir!” She begins rapidly typing on her laptop and you’re just as puzzled as you were thirty seconds ago. 

“Who is Karl Arnold?” You ask, pulling all eyes on you. Everyone hesitates in their answer, save for the youngest member of the team. 

“Karl Arnold killed entire families-”

“Reid.” Emily warns, effectively cutting him off. 

“He fixated on me during the case.” Aaron explains, “Personal resentment and control issues. He blamed law enforcement for his capture.”

“You think it’s connected?” Rossi asks. 

Aaron nods, “The one and only time I’ve seen him since then he was passing along a message for Foyet.” 

Garcia starts typing even faster at this realization. 

“Okay, digging into everyone’s favorite horrifying family annihilator. Prison records, visitor logs, and communications, give me… uh oh.” 

“What?” Aaron stops in his tracks. 

“Karl Arnold has had the same visitor for the past three months. Every Tuesday, his younger brother Daniel Arnold.”

Morgan crosses his arms, and Garcia connects her laptop with the big screen. A large picture of a white man in his mid-forties pops up. Your grip in the doorframe tightens to steady yourself. The second you see the picture, all of the color drains from your face. 

“That’s him.” 

No one moved right away. 

“He wasn’t just sending a message, he was trying to continue the work.” Morgan’s voice is low and careful.

You’re unable to pull your gaze from the screen. The same dark eyes from last night staring right back at you through the screen. 

“If he’s following Karl’s methodology, he was watching the house for weeks.” 

That makes you sick to your stomach, you slowly turn back into Aaron’s office and settle carefully back onto the couch with Jack. You don’t want to hear the rest. 

The bullpen was still moving fast, Garcia discovered Daniel has a storage unit in the area and a rental car that has been reported missing for nearly five weeks. 

“Okay, Mr. Creepy Brother also has a very concerning purchase history including lock picks and burner phones, because apparently subtlety is dead.” Garcia’s typing doesn’t falter for a second. 

Morgan checks his weapon, the rest of the team gearing up. 

“Got an address, mama?” Morgan looks at her. 

“There’s an apartment in Arlington.”

“Split up.” Aaron instructs, “Morgan, JJ, and Reid go to the storage unit. Prentiss and Rossi go to the apartment. Bring Anderson too.” 

He looks over the team one more time. 

“I’m not going.” 

“What?” Garcia blinks. 

Morgan looks up too, surprised. Rossi simply nods and pats his shoulder before walking toward the elevator. Rossi understood first, but the rest were not far behind. Family first. 

"We've got this." Emily nods, following the rest of them out.

The bullpen felt quieter immediately with the team gone and Garcia returning to the lair. You flinch when Aaron opens his office door, not expecting anyone to be here. 

“You’re not going?” You ask softly, glancing down at Jack once more before looking up at Aaron. He doesn’t move back toward his desk, he just takes slow heavy steps and lands in the chair right next to the couch. 

“No.” he sighs, “You were right.”

You frown, “About what?”

He looks down at Jack before coming back to you. 

“You said he’s scared I’ll leave again.” 

“Aaron…”

“I spend so much time trying to protect him by doing that job that sometimes I forget he also needs me to stay.” 

The honesty makes your chest ache. 

“I need to be here when he wakes up.” 

A beat passes while he studies you. You hate that. The advantage he has to every conversation and moment. You’ve gotten good at reading him over the past year, but it was nowhere near his capabilities. 

“You don’t need to be out there with your team?” You question carefully. 

“Everything I need is right there.” He reaches out to take your hand in his. It’s warm. 

“Really?” You smile. 

“Mhm.” He barely cracks a grin. 

“You know, for a profiler, you’re being surprisingly unclear.” 

That actually earned you a quiet laugh. 

“Probably because I’m very aware I’m saying this to the woman who was attacked in my house while protecting my son twenty-four hours ago.” 

You squeeze his hand. 

“Yeah, probably not your smoothest timing.” 

“Definitely not.” 

You look down at Jack again for a second, then back up. 

“I care about him.” 

Aaron nods once. 

“I know.”

“And I care about you.”

It was out there. No taking it back. 

You bite back a nervous smile, “See? Very brave of me. Your turn.”

His thumb starts to stroke back and forth on the back of your hand. You can tell he’s being extremely careful, like it all truly mattered to him. 

“I care about you too,” He swallows, “More than I should have let myself.”

Your breath catches. 

“But I did anyway, and I don’t regret it.” 

“Good.” You whisper. 

“Good.” He agrees. 

You sit up, letting him pull you closer to him. His kiss is soft, still careful but it still feels like relief for both of you. Like coming home. 

A mischievous giggle escapes from behind you on the couch. You both pull away and turn to Jack. He has one eye squinting shut, like he could still be asleep. 

“Hey!” You tease, turning on him to tickle at his sides. 

His giggles start instantly and Aaron is quick to jump up and join in. Jack’s laughs only get louder. 

“Okay! Okay!” Jack sits up, out of breath from his laughter. Aaron sits in the space it opens, all three of you squeezing together.

You’re confident neither of you wanted him to know about this quite yet. Maybe a trial run before letting the eight year old know that they liked each other. 

“I saw you kiss Y/n.” Jack grins. 

“I did.” Aaron admits, eyes checking in on you for a second before focusing back on his son, “What do you think about that?”

“Would you be home more?” Jack turns to look at you. 

You nod, “Yeah, it would be more time with your dad and I both at home. At the same time.” 

He nods eagerly, causing both of you to chuckle. Aaron’s phone rings on his desk, causing all three of you to look at it. He gets up to answer it, pausing for a second before saying ‘Hotchner’. 

He looks up after a few seconds, his eyes narrowing on you. He replies with ‘okay’ several times before ending the call with a ‘Good work. Thanks, Morgan’ and sets the phone back down. He turns to face the two of you. 

“Morgan has Daniel in custody.” 

You let out a breath of relief and it’s visible in your shoulders. You close your eyes briefly, it’s finally over. Aaron comes back to the couch, pulling the two of you closer to him. Jack sits on his lap, and you lean against his side. 

For the first time in days, the danger was gone and there was a new future ahead for each of you. It finally feels like everything really could be okay. 

-

an// ok kind of cheesy ending but you guys why did i lowkey scare myself while writing this LMAO?! I should’ve waited for my roommates to get home… it was 11pm when I was setting up the break in and it had me shaking in my own boots! But seriously I loved writing nanny!reader so I might have to do that again. Please let me know your thoughts!!

[queensinxs]

his wife ── michael robinavitch michael 'robby' robinavitch x wife!reader.

summary: robby doesnt advertise his marriage. so when his wife shows up at ED to discuss their son, safe to say the residents were shocked. now they wonder how the two of you met. this throws him back to when he was a ms3.

content warnings: reader and robby w/ 2 year age gap. thought to be 22 and robby 24 when met, around when he'd be a MS3. fluff. med school robby. lightly flirty young robby. lil mention of mature content so pls mdni 18+. reader is clinical psychologist/completeting masters to be one. lowkey implied fem reader shorter than robby. im short im sorry. he adores his wife like hard. two kids.

authors notes: lowkey med school au and robby who isn't as emotuonally consipated in the show. lowkey wanna do a few bits here and there about their life but not sure lol. inspired by this meme.

word count: 4079

Everyone was aware of the chain that hung around Robby’s neck. It peeked from under his scrubs sometimes. Though, no one knew what might be on the chain. There might be nothing or there could be something. Either way, it was always tucked under his shirt.

Nobody questioned it, never really thought to. He’s a private person. Residents don’t ask about his personal life. But they get curious when he steps out to the ambulance bay sometimes, phone to ear. 

Santos thinks that maybe he’s faking to take a break. Whitaker thinks he might be talking to a relative, parent or sibling. Javadi thinks … Well, she isn’t quite sure what to think. But she doesn’t think its what Santos or Whitaker’s thinking.

So when a gorgeous woman strolled into the department, beelining towards the charge nurse with a smile, they were confused to say the least. You seemed to be friendly and familiar with Dana, greeting each other like old friends. 

The med student and two residents share subtle looks, watching the interaction. 

“Is my husband around?” You asked Dana, glancing around to see if he was nearby. It was never predictable where he might be. It’s not uncommon for him to not answer his phone when he works and you don’t blame him. It’s understandable. But it’s rare for you to show up at the department, that usually means it’s important.

The three watching noticed your eyes wandering, quickly busying themselves. Santos and Javadi looked at the same computer, as if they were reading results together. While Whitaker fumbled with the chart he’d picked up. The two women look at him in disbelief and annoyance. Smooth. 

“Trauma one. He’s in a mood.” Dana pre warned you, giving you a knowing look. You weren’t surprised by the fact, very aware how moody Robby can be when he’s stressed. 

“Not surprising.” You huffed out a dry laugh. “When isn’t he?”

“True that.” The charge nurse hiffs, knowing you'd understand more than anyone. But you’re able to diffuse him unlike anyone else. 

“Alright if I hang around?” You asked, knowing the answer but much preferring to be sure instead of assuming. 

“Of course.” Dana assured you, well aware you don’t like to presume but instead hear directly. Everyday is different in the ED. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just Levi.” You explained, not details but enough for her to understand that something had happened. Your son could get into his own mess these days, he’s 22 and at college, figuring out his life. Didn’t mean he didn’t avoid doing dumb shit. 

Before Dana could respond, her mouth hanging open before shutting as a painstakingly familiar voice rang out. 

“What’re you doing here?” You heard your husband’s gruff voice, head turning as he wandered up beside you. He pressed a kiss to your head before his eyes returned to your face. Concern was etched across his features, worried that something was wrong. You didn’t show up here without a reason. 

Javadi tried to not look invested but she was, Robby was married? Santos and Whitaker thinking the same thing. And this woman is his wife? No way. That can’t be right. 

“Your son decided that getting drunk and running around campus was a good idea.” You informed him dryly. This is the second time you've talked about this. Not that you were angry but more annoyed. You had to leave work, because Robby couldn’t, to go and get him from the police station by his campus. “Naked.”

“Why is he always my son when he does something stupid?” Robby inquired in disbelief before shaking his head immediately. It was too early for this, barely 8:30am.  “Actually, don’t answer that.”

He knew that if either of you had passed the doing something dumb gene, it was him. He had never done something quite like that but he was the more reckless between the two of you. He didn’t need to have his workplace hear about some of the dumb things he’s done in his 20s. 

Levi isn't a bad kid. Just tends to do dumb things.

Javadi, Whitaker and Santos all shared glances in utter shock. This man has a son? A kid? No way. They don't believe they’d heard this correctly. 

“Anyways. He’s alright. But he called Jack who called me.”

“Fuck.” Your husband signed, hanging his head low before looking back at you. “You going to get him?”

He gave you a look that said you gonna go or… not to rush you out but instead to figure out why you were hanging around with your shared son behind local station bars. 

“Yeah.” You nodded, pausing before you explained absentmindedly. “Letting him sweat a bit.”

“You’re evil.” He commented dryly. 

“It’s why you married me.” You grinned. 

He huffed a soft yet dry laugh. He won’t even deny it. Your nature was one of the many reasons he’d fallen inlove with you in the first place. He knows how incredible of a mother you are. He’s cherished raising children with you. He’d never seen you so soft and loving. He sometimes still found it hard to believe you had married and had kids with him. 

But he was aware that you weren’t going to let this stint slide. 

“That’s why you’re here?” He quizzed, almost a little amused, though pissed that his son had done something so stupid. This would be something you two would discuss with him later. 

“Partially. But thought I'd tell you before Jack blabs at shiftchange.” You answered, not going to have spoken to him later about this. It was too important. And you knew Jack would’ve let him know this evening. Better if it comes from you. 

Jack has been a staple in your kids' lives since he’d met Robby years ago. When Robby had started working at PTMC as an attending, you’d been pregnant with your second child. When Jack had joined a few years later, your kids were 8 and 6 at the time. He’d immediately grown attached, loving them like they were his own. They adored him, not having a day without him since (minus when he’d been in the army and deployed). 

As much as he loves them, he made it clear he wouldn’t keep things from you and Robby. Especially when it’s important. He loved them. But he loves you both too. All of you are like his family. He wasn’t going to lie. 

“Good thinking.” He nodded, appreciative you’d told him instead of letting him be blindsited later. 

“I’ll head out.” You said, wanting to get this whole thing sorted and just get back home. Not like you’d go back to the office. Thankfully your appointments were all via zoom today, it helped. “Hopefully won’t take too long but i’ll let you know.”

“Alright, thanks.” Robby replied, pressing a kiss to your forehead. It was something he always did when you’d separate for the day. “See you after work.”

“I love you.” You said softly, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips.

“I love you, honey.”

You waved goodbye to him and Dana, turning back around and heading back to your car. 

“You’re married?” Santos blurted in disbelief, unable to keep it in. Whitaker nudged her with his elbow in panic, she should not have said that. 

He looks over at her, pulling the chain out from under his undershirt. The chain dangled with a gold band hanging from it. His wedding ring. “26 years.” 

He doesn’t hide he’s married. He just doesn’t find himself needing to share that information unwarranted. He loves his wife and kids but he prefers to keep his family outside of the workplace. So if he’s not prompted, he doesn't talk about them. 

“How… when … what?” Santos stammered, in disbelief he’s been married. To you. For 26 years. 

“You didn’t know?” Langdon quizzed the three as he wandered to the desk, amused at their shocked expressions.

“Don’t act like you didn’t react the same way when you found out.” Dana mused, shooting Langdon a knowing look. 

He can’t even deny it. When he discovered his attending’s long-lasting marriage, he was shocked. The man didn’t seem emotionally capable. But must've been wrong. He’s grown to know that over the last few years when he’d seen you two interact. 

Robby is a man inlove. 

“How’d you meet?” Javadi mustered up the courage to ask, curious to hear how you’d met. Especially since you’d been married for so long. 

Robby huffed a laugh at the memory, recalling the evening you’d met. It was forever seared into his memory.

1995.

Robby was out with a couple of his med school classmates for a rare night out between rotations. Being a MS3 was intense, going from classroom to real direct-contact work with patients. 

The four of them were mostly sharing how their recent rotation had been. They’d all been put into different specialties. Paediatrics, orthopaedics, cardiology and gastroenterology. 

He was mid laugh when his eyes glanced over the room, eyes locking on you. It felt like his breath had been pulled from his lungs. 

You were out with friends for a monthly catch up. Since you’d both graduated and begun your career’s, you rarely get to spend time together. The two of you made it a point to organise a once a month where you’re both free to catch up in person. Talking on the phone can only do so much for a friendship sometimes. 

The two of you were chatting, discussing recent events in your lives. She was halfway through telling you about an incident at her new job. 

“God, can you believe it?” She said in disbelieving scoff. “I mean, who in their right mind thinks that it’s okay to show up drunk and deny the whole thing, it's just dumb to try and gaslight your boss.”

“That’s so fucked. Please tell me he was fired. Or at least suspended.” You said in disgust, already hating whoever this guy was.

“I wish.” Your friend shook her head in annoyance. She went to take a sip of her drink, to realise it was empty. “But I will say that I need another drink.”

“I’ll get some.” You said as you stood up with a chuckle, grabbing your wallet. Though you gave her a playfully pointed look. “Don’t venture anywhere.”

“No promises.” she teased, though not really planning to go anywhere. She was the type to just wander away without prompt. But honestly, so are you. She’s just worse than you, especially when intoxicated. 

You chuckled and rolled your eyes at the tease, but accepted it. It's normal for the two of you, the teasing. But you do hope she won’t venture far if she decides to. 

You made your way to the bar, sliding up between a tall man and a woman, there being a gap. They weren’t interacting so you took it as a safe spot to choose. It didn’t take long for the bartender to make it to you, barely 30 seconds.

“What can I get for ya?” He asked, leaning forward slightly to make sure he could hear you. It wasn’t too loud but to be safe. 

“Vodka lemonade and a vodka coke please.” You asked kindly, always making sure to be nice to staff. He nodded and got to making the drinks.

Robby glanced down at you when he heard the honeyed voice. Oh shit. It’s you. He made an effort not to stare at you from a distance when he’d noticed you earlier. He’s not shy but he respects you’d been with a friend and he’d been with his. He barely noticed the bartender he’s spoken to before, placing the beers he’d asked for in front of him. 

“Thanks.” He said to the guy but he made no effort to move. He glanced down at you again, at the same time your eyes had flickered up to him. You gave him a smile before looking back ahead of you, eyes seemingly glancing around behind the bar. 

Robby’s attention went back to the bartender as he dug out a few bills and handed them over. He gestured with his head towards you besides him. “Her’s too.”

The bartender nodded, not really having much of a thought as he put the money through, conversing with the other bartender for what you’d asked for to figure out the total cost. 

Your head had snapped up towards him, eyebrows slightly furrowed. You’ve had guys offer to buy you drinks, your friend too. Though never had been quite as forward as this. 

“That’s awfully nice of you.” You commented dryly, looking up at him. You were a little suspicious. But you can't help but think of how gorgeous he is. It’s not actually fair. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch.” He said honestly, offering you a grin that made your heart skip a beat. Fuck this guy. 

“But it got you talking to me.” He added a beat later, that breathtaking grin widening a smidge. 

“Ah, so that was your plan, huh?”

“No, kinda just happened in the moment.” He said with a shrug, grin not faltering. It wasn't a total lie. He had been thinking about ways he could start a conversation with you. He normally can do without ease. But you’d made him throw away the idea of using shitty pickup lines. 

“In the moment.” You chuckled, a grin of your own forming. Somehow you could tell it wasn’t a complete lie, but he wasn’t telling the whole truth. For not, you wouldn’t question it. As gorgeous as he is, you didn’t plan on hanging around long. You had your friend to get back to. 

“That hard to believe?” He teased, having noted you seemed to be somewhat amused. 

“Nope, but you can’t tell me you don’t already have a list of pick-up lines ready to go.” You joked, but half-meaning it. He was unfairly attractive and you’re sure he knew it. No doubt he could easily get a girl’s attention. 

The bartender placed your drinks in front of you. Thanking him, you turned back to the man you’d been interacting with. 

“You got me.” He chuckled, not going to deny it. “But they don’t seem like something you’d be interested in”

“Now that's a line.” You laughed, grin turning into a genuine smile. 

That smile? That nearly stopped his heart. 

“Maybe it is.” He said with a light laugh, not denying but not having intended on it being that way. But really, anything to make sure you kept smiling like that. He leant his head slightly forward towards you, speaking in a conspiratorial murmur. “Did it work?”

“I’m not at liberty to answer that.” You chuckled, unwilling to admit that maybe it was. It might just be his pretty face. But you weren’t immune. 

“Besides, I have my friend to get back to.” You added, gesturing over to your friend. When your eyes landed on her, she seemed to be occupied with a guy. The two close together as they seemed in deep conversation. Good for her.

“Ah, that's one of mine.” he chuckled, eyes having followed where you’d directed and seeing it was one of his friends with your friend. He hadn’t quite anticipated his friend chatting with yours. But it certainly seemed to work in his favour here so he won’t complain. 

“Yeah?” You quizzed but weren’t completely convinced he hadn’t coordinated that. 

“Not my doing. Promise." He chuckled, raising his hands in faux-defence, sensing you thought it may have been. He meant it, genuinely not having a single thing to do with the situation. But he thought of it as good luck. 

Your eyes drifted back to him, eyebrows raised. You looked at him for a few beats before grabbing your friend's drink and one of his beers. “Don’t move.”

He didn’t say anything as you left him, and your own drink. Not a smart move but it hadn’t even occurred to you in the moment. You made your way back to the table your friend was at, placing the drinks down in front of her and her guest. You subtly winked at her before you turned back and headed towards the drink and man you’d left.

As you slid back besides him, he felt elated. He hadn’t felt this excited to just talk to a woman in well … ever. 

“Gonna tell me your name or am i gonna have to guess?”

“Michael. But you can call me Robby.”

“I don’t see how that correlates.” You mused, raising an eyebrow at him. You don't exactly see how those names worked together. Robby? You think Robert. 

“Robinavitch.” he explained with a chuckle, eyes dazzling. 

“Ah, gotcha.” You nodded with another light chuckle. Last name. You told him your name in return. 

He repeated your name, letting it roll off of his tongue. He liked it. It was your name after all. 

The two of you converesed. You discussed your lives, work, study, friends, hobbies. You discovered he was a third year med student, just completing a rotation in cardiology. He mentioned he liked the idea of emergency, wanting to help people at the hardest point of their lives. You respected it, understood it even. You were hanging onto every word he spoke, enjoying the words rolling off his lips and interested in what he was saying. That hasn’t happened in a long time.

He discovered you had graduated with a bachelor of psychology last year, now practising as such as you worked on completing your masters of clinical psychology. You explained how you want to conduct cognitive clinical assessments for patients who think they might have ADHD, autism and anything else that might support patients understand what is going on inside their brains. You didn’t go into details but you had admitted you’d had your own struggles with mental health. That being a huge part of wanting to support others with theirs. You wanted to work in a few areas of psychology, he had gathered. 

You two spoke for hours. Literally hours. About everything and nothing at the same time. You joked, had serious topics at hand and discussed absolutely anything either of you could think of. 

You checked the time on the wall with a glance, realising it was nearing 12am. God, you’d been talking to him since about 9, knowing you’d been here since at least 8 when you and your friend had arrived. Neither of you even touched your drinks, both just sitting there useless. 

“Not to cut this short…” You said with a light huff as you got up from the seat you’d been on. Eventually the two of you had drifted to an empty table, finding it more comfortable to be seated as you chatted. But he would’ve happily stood there in discomfort if he got to hear your voice. Not that he’d admit that. “...but I should go, it's nearly 12.”

He looked at the clock as you spoke, eyes widening in surprise. It had been 3 hours? That’s how long he’d been talking to you. It felt like it had been 30 minutes. His eyes drifted back to you, not going to argue. He should probably find out if his friends are still here or not. You’d both noticed yours and his friend leaving earlier, so you didn’t need to worry about her being alone. 

“Yeah, it was great talking to you.” He said with a soft smile. He was disappointed you were leaving but he understood. And he wasn’t going to make assumptions. Not with you. Other women he may have made some sort of line, getting them to go home with him or vice versa to never see them again the next day. But he didn’t want to do that with you. 

“You too.” You replied with a smile of your own. “Bye, Michael.”

“Bye.” He smiled, his lips tugging wider at the use of his first name. Not his nickname. But his name. He watched as you waved and made your exit, eyes trailing you as you walking out the front door. He let out a small sigh, disappointed you were gone. He realised a moment later that he hadn’t even asked for your number. The thought slipped. Likely to avoid the anxiety. He;d never been anxious to ask a girl for her number before. 

Meanwhile, the cold air was a welcomed slap to the face from the heat of inside the bar. It was soothing. But you couldn’t help the disappointment you felt. You had really begun to like him. You’d spoken for hours. Not like you’d spilled your entire life story. But still, you thought something was there. Something you hadn’t felt before. Not with your exes. 

You became annoyed. Had he not felt that? Or did he? Either way, he didn’t ask for any form of contact details for you. 

With a huff, you turned back inside and marched towards him. 

Robby was shocked when he saw your figure storming towards him. He had just stood up to go in search for his friends. 

“Okay. We have something. There’s this … this… I don't know … spark. It's there.” You ranted, eyes wide as you looked up at him. You wished you could blame it on the alcohol because this was not something you did. But you couldn’t help but blurt this at him. You can be embarrassed later. “We’ve been talking for hours. Literal hours. And you don’t ask for my number? Seriously? What the fuck?!”

His eyes were wide in shock as you spoke before softening. He hadn't exactly anticipated you running back to tell him off. It was hot. A soft grin tugged at his lips at each word you said. 

“What?” You asked him in annoyance, arms now crossed over your chest. 

“Is it too late to ask for your number?” He questioned, a hint of tease mixed in the hope in his voice. He had wanted to ask but had been caught off guard by you leaving. He was nervous at the prospect. What if you’d said no? That’d have just about broken his heart. 

“You’re asking now?” You asked dryly. “Because I yelled at you?”

“First, you didn't yell. You firmly stated your annoyance.” He corrected genuinely but firmly  “second, i wanted to but i got nervous.”

“Nervous?” you quizzed, not quite believing that. He hadn’t been nervous the entire time you’d spoken to him. Not openly anyways. 

“Yeah. Nervous.” He admitted without shame. “Beautiful girl I've been talking to all night rejects me? That's nerve-wrecking.”

“Enough with the lines.” You responded dryly. He hadn’t really given you lines but that didn’t automatically exclude him from going to use them. 

“Not a line. I'm serious.” Robby said, sincerity seeping through his voice. His eyes didn’t leave yours. He wanted you to know he wasn’t trying to be smooth. Just honest. 

You stared at him for a few moments, debating if you could trust it. He sounded painfully sincere. You don’t think you can fake this kind of honestly. 

“Still want my number?”

Present. 

“I love her.” Javadi rushed out immediately, then flushing with embarrassment as she realised she said that outloud. Her hand covered her mouth in shock at her own words. 

Robby just chuckled, which surprised her and the two residents. 

“She’s incredible.” He commented fondly. His mind reeled with thoughts of you. Both from recent years and the early times of your relationship. 

“Careful, you’re sounding human.” Dana joked, though she had grown fond of the dynamic between you and the attending. He was practically a different person with you. Your kids too. 

“Don’t let my daughter hear that, she’ll use it against me.” He joked back, having broken out of his thoughts and preferring the humour based dynamic in the workplace. He didn’t need to be vulnerable here. Not about his family.

Before anyone could respond, he headed off. Intending to see a patient, check in to see how his residents are doing. But he’d instead slowed his moments and pulled out his phone, pulling up your text chain.  

Husband <3: if he claims he was dared, you’re going to let me eat you out Wife: if he says that he’s made a mistake and won’t do it again, you’ll eat me out Husband <3: deal

“I’m sorry … DAUGHTER?!” 

He heard the disbelief of his resident, ignoring the question and instead pocketing his phone continuing on his day. He’s the chief attending here. At home? He’s just a man who’s obsessed with his wife.

© queensinxs 2026.

[itsaintmebabe]

jack abbot x teenage daughter! reader ! ౨ৎ

fourth of july, two, there ( end )

importance, two ( end )

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ more to be added & requests are also welcome!

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[andrewmiinyard]

— fate. (preview)

pope cody x fem!reader

summary: the three times you flirted with pope cody and the one time he did something about it.

no warnings for this one, just a quick preview of what's to come hopefully soon :) it will probably change cause rn it's unedited but here is the draft. the full piece will include smut so you may not enjoy the full piece if you are not interested in that

—

The first time Andrew met you, it was in his bedroom.

Throughout Andrew’s life, many people have come and gone through the doors of Smurf’s house. It would take another lifetime just to count them all. 

The parties started when he was young and never ended. The faces blurred together for Andrew now, not that he could really bring himself to care all that much in the first place. Just like Craig’s girlfriends or Smurf’s boyfriends, nobody was ever really a permanent fixture in Andrew’s life. Not if they weren’t family.

He knows that everyone thinks that he’s different. That he’s weird. He notices their looks when he lingers around the pool, in the kitchen, when he’s just sitting on the couch. His own brothers even, a lot of the time. Everyone eyes him like a ticking time bomb, just waiting for him to go off.

Andrew doesn’t really mind, though. Or, if he did, he'd become numb to the feeling a long time ago. In fact, he’s probably become numb to a lot of feelings. But Andrew doesn’t know any other way to be. He’s just Pope and he has been for a very long time.

This party in the Cody household wasn’t different from any other. Booze, drugs, and a big mess Andrew would definitely have to clean up later. The music is loud, bass turned up too high, and Craig is attempting to jump off the roof into the pool again. Amidst the cheers, Andrew thinks about the rest of his brothers and wonders for a moment where exactly it went so differently for him, or if he was just simply born that way.

His brothers seem okay with being in the spotlight. Even his nephew seemed to fare better than him, assimilating perfectly into every situation that arose, especially when people were involved. Andrew was never like that.

J must have gotten it from Julia.

Andrew was never a people person. He was always out of place, like the Cody that just didn’t quite belong, all jagged edges. The parties always send him into the corners of his mind that he didn’t really like venturing into.

The pounding of the bass is getting to him.

He pulls open the door to his bedroom hoping for a moment of silence, when he’s greeted with a pair of bare feet hanging off the edge of his bed. The figure doesn’t stir when he enters, so he creeps in further and shuts the door quietly. He turns his head, scanning now that he has a better view of who exactly is in his room.

You’re laid on his bed, eyes shut, hugging your phone to your chest like a stuffed animal. You’ve clearly come to escape the crowds of the party, same as him. Andrew can’t help as his eyes drag up your legs all the way up to where your short dress shows just a little too much of your thighs. He notices your heels as well, placed nice and neat beside the bed.

“Who are you?” It comes out a bit more gruff than Andrew anticipated and your eyes finally flutter open. It takes you a minute to notice him but when you do you’re shooting up to your feet, spine rigid. It’s cute, he thinks, the way you panic. You startle like a small puppy.

“Oh my god,” You squeak, clearly embarrassed. Your hands fall to adjust the hem of your short dress, much to Andrew’s disappointment. He gives you a once over; it’s half assessing what exactly you’re doing in his room and half just taking you and your skimpy outfit. “I’m so sorry. Is this your room?”

Andrew gives a small nod and you wring your hands nervously. You’re taking him in now, a Cody brother here in front of you, live and in the flesh.

“So which one are you?” You ask, head cocked. Now that you know this is his room, he notices you assessing him in a different light. People always do —it didn’t bother Andrew much anymore but with you he feels a twinge of shame in his stomach. “Deran? Or, um…”

Andrew knows that you’re searching for his name. His nickname. It had to be since there was a short list of people who called him by his real name. Pope Cody is known by everyone in Oceanside. Andrew Cody, on the other hand, is not.

“Andrew.” He supplies, voice softer than before. Now you’ve been added to that very exclusive list. You repeat his name back to him, voice a little warm, no doubt from one of the many drinks that the Cody’s provided. Then you introduce yourself and Andrew attempts to burn your name into his memory.

“Okay, Andrew. Are you hiding too?” Now that he hasn’t kicked you out, you take a seat on the edge of his bed. He notices the compression of where your body laid just a few minutes before on his neatly made and pressed sheets but doesn’t say anything. He likes the sound of your voice too much to interrupt you. “Or just making sure nobody is defiling your room.”

“I’m not hiding,” He replies, crossing his arm over his chest. The strap of your dress falls and Andrew tries not to get distracted. “This is my house. I’m free to go where I please.”

“Fair enough. I’m hiding.” You shrug. A beat of silence passes and you pat the spot next to you, inviting him to sit on his own bed. Andrew is curious enough to oblige, sitting on the other end of the bed, putting distance between you. He doesn’t miss how your shoulders drop slightly in disappointment. “My friend is here with Craig and they’ve conveniently disappeared... I don’t even want to know what they’re doing.”

“I have a few guesses.”  Another one of Craig’s girlfriends. The giggle of a girl coming from Craig’s room that Andrew had heard when he was walking by suddenly made a lot more sense. 

He wills himself not to flinch when you scoot closer to him, closing the distance he deliberately put between the two of you. Andrew was interested, too interested, and that worried him.

Pope Cody wasn’t allowed to want.

“Is it okay if I stay here with you?” You ask, and Andrew’s heart flips. He clears his throat, hoping that you don’t see the blush that’s creeping it’s way up his neck. “I’m just not really sure how long it’s going to take and I would much rather be in here.”

With you, hangs unspoken in the air.

“Sure.” Andrew likes the way you smile when he answers, a small flash of teeth. You scoot even closer and tuck your bare feet under you. You’re so close now that your knee is nudging his thigh. He can smell your perfume from here and it’s heavenly compared to the sweat and chlorine laced air outside. “I don’t really want to be out there either.”

“So, Andrew,” His name sounds like honey when it’s falling from your lips and he wonders how often he can make you say it. The feeling that settles in his chest when you say it is too addicting for him to live without it now. “Not really a party person?”

“No. But my brothers are.” He gestures vaguely to the door, the music pounding on the other side of the wall and then his hands retreat back to his lap. He can feel your eyes on him, but not in the usual way he always tends to notice. You scan him with a kind of curiosity that he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“I’m not really a party person either,” You agree, glancing at the door he had just gestured towards. You look a little sad, even. It makes Andrew’s fingers twitch.“My friend said she needed some moral support coming to meet this guy. So I came, and then she ditched me like an hour ago.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a shitty friend.” Andrew says plainly and he’s caught off guard when you let out a laugh. 

“Yeah, I guess,” You shrug, shoulders still shaking with remnants of laughter. Andrew has turned his head fully now to look at you but he doesn’t really understand why you’re laughing. “But maybe it’s like fate, or something.”

“Fate?” Andrew echoes, even more confused than before. You lock eyes with him and he has to resist the urge to break it, enthralled enough by your gaze to ignore the awkward feeling settling in his chest.

“Yeah. Like maybe it’s fate that she left? Because then I wouldn’t have hidden in a cute guy’s room and got to talk to him.” He can tell that your mind is elsewhere, but his eyes are still on you. There’s a dreamy look painted on your face and he’s so distracted he almost misses the fact that you called him cute. Almost.

He opens his mouth to respond but your phone beats him to it, the shrill sound of your ringer filling the empty room. You look at him sheepishly and turn your head to answer as if that would give you the privacy you were looking for. It doesn’t work because as soon as you hit accept, he can hear what he assumes is your friend’s voice on the other side of the line. 

You get up and he watches you nod along to the conversation. You’re not doing a lot of talking, but your friend definitely is; he can tell by the murmur of her drunken chatter and the sound of the music pulsing on the other side of the line. You’re kind enough to let her continue on for a bit longer before you let her know that you’re coming, don’t move! 

Then you’ve turned back to Andrew, tapping your phone on your palm as you try to find the right words to say. You look genuinely apologetic -for what, Andrew doesn’t know. The silence stretches long, and Andrew is the first one to break it.

“You don’t have to stay.” He says plainly. You don’t really owe him anything, although the look on your face makes him feel otherwise. You take a step closer, poised like you want to take a seat next to him again. Andrew wants you to, but he won’t admit that part out loud.

“I know. I want to-” You start, but your phone starts buzzing like it’s possessed, cutting you off. A quick glance is all it gets; you’re quickly scanning the messages before returning your attention to him. Your phone doesn’t stop vibrating. “It’s hard to leave when you’re looking at me like a lost puppy.”

Andrew chooses to ignore that comment, instead turning to grab your shoes from the side of the bed next to him. He offers your heels to you, arms outstretched, closing the distance between you just like you had before. You give him a small smile as you take them from him, fingers brushing his just a beat too long. The way it sets his nerves alight is also something that he chooses to ignore.

“Thank you,” You say, slipping your strappy heels back on. Andrew looks everywhere but you as you bend down to tie them up, feeling the blush creeping up once again. Once you’re straightened up he gives you a small smile in return, watching as you pull your phone back out again. “Sorry for messing up your bed. I’ll make it up to you next time.”

You say it so definitively, like you somehow know there will be a next time. Before he can reply, you’re giving him a shy wave goodbye, sliding out the door. The music leaks in for a moment when you open it, blending in with the cheers of partygoers outside. When you close it he’s back to the silence of his room, alone. He had come in there looking for a moment to himself but now that you’re gone, he can’t help but want the opposite.

Andrew really hopes that there will be.

[soulareclypse]

jigsaw falling into place; a. cody

Andrew Cody x Reader

Part 2 to The Sweet Escape

Summary: Andrew has a way of reappearing into your life at the worst possible moments.

Word count: 14k

CW: domestic abuse (not from andrew), manipulation & emotional abuse, victim self-blaming, murder implied, trauma, freaky nasty (18+ mdni)

a.n: So this is officially the longest thing i've ever written and i may or may not have partook in some legal subtances to get the creative juices flowing and then this happened, so enjoy? editing is hard lol. feedback is super welcome (however please be kind!) I also made this playlist that i listened to while writing if you feel like giving it a listen :) This is also the first time i've written smut, so no clue how that's gonna come out lol.

a jigsaw falling into place

so there is nothing to explain

you eye each other as you pass

she looks back and you look back

not just once, not just twice

—

Andrew Cody was gone. You knew that. But no matter how many years passed since he left you alone in that shitty little apartment after your high school graduation, it was like he lingered in your life—permanently burned into your mind. Never fully in focus, too far and too blurry, and yet you swore that your eyes would catch his auburn curls in a crowded campus bar or his familiar scent during a late-night convenience store run. But whenever you’d whip around, eyes trying to track the mirage you’d seen, he was nowhere to be seen.

You remembered the day of your university graduation like it was yesterday. Your parents were in the crowd, giant grins on their faces as they sat on foldable plastic chairs to see their daughter cross the stage in the black gown and light blue sash draped across your neck. Your little brother was next to them, handheld console in his lap as played his boredom away. Like you had told Andrew when the plotting of the sweet escape was fresh, your parents had eventually forgiven you for leaving them. It had taken some time for them to get over the anger and the fear they had experienced, but at the end of the day, they only cared that you were safe and happy. 

The ceremony felt like it was taking forever, which it was. Row by row, like little ducklings, groups of students were called in alphabetical order to line up for their moment to shine. An hour into the event, your row was finally summoned. 

You knew you were so cherished, and that your family would shower in your well-deserved flowers, yet something still felt wrong. It didn’t make sense that on one of the best days of your life, your bachelor’s degree in English literature was finally behind you, and you felt like there was something missing. 

You had tried lying to yourself, but that painstakingly long hour of waiting for your turn had forced you in some deep introspection. Your only friends were sitting in different rows, which left you next to complete strangers you had no intention to speak to. You wished Andrew was there, that he would show up with a bouquet of white. Calla lilies and an apology in hand and sweep you off your feet and tell you how proud he was. You knew it was stupid, but what was a girl to do but hope? Nothing good came out of lying to yourself. 

Your friends had called you crazy when you had mentioned thinking that you had seen Andrew here and there. You had been imagining it because you still missed him, is what they had said. That was the only logical explanation. In reality, Andrew hadn’t just broken your heart—he'd taken the beating and bloody organ straight out of your chest cavity, held it in those hands of his that had been oh so gentle with you, and crushed it. You didn’t think you could ever fully get over him; how could anyone? Yet here you were, praying that the one person you should wish would never show his face again would be hiding somewhere in the sea of people, watching you from afar. 

It wouldn’t be so far-fetched in all honesty. Andrew had known when your finals were around, because your rent was fully paid for during that time. You had even found an envelope filled with extra cash in your mailbox once the exam period was finally over—and your parents were definitely not the ones who put it there. 

When the lanky guy ahead of you in line finally stepped on stage, you shook your head, as if to shake off any thoughts of Andrew, like a dog coming in from a rainy walk. You took a deep breath, pulled back your shoulders, and straightened your spine as if an invisible string were pulling you up to the ceiling. Enough of that, you thought to yourself. 

The moment you touched the carpeted stage, everything blacked out. The clapping and cheering were drowned out by the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. It’s as if someone turned on autopilot and your consciousness simply took the backseat. Your legs moved on their own, guiding you across the floor and luckily avoiding the piece of carpet many students had gotten stuck on until you reached the dean for him to toss over the tassel of your graduation cap. All your hard work culminating in this moment that felt much too insignificant. 

You turned to face the crowd, a polite smile gracing your features for the photographer, your eyes bounced around the crowd, while playing Where's Waldo with your family members. Your eyes moved on around the room quickly, taking in the vast sea of individuals that made your stomach drop for a second. There were so many people in the room, the seats all filled out, that people had to stand around all the way to the doors of the auditorium that the ceremony was held in. 

That’s when you saw him. Clear as day this time, there was no denying it this time. Andrew Cody– in the flesh, alive and breathing. Your smile faltered, mouth opening in confusion, brows furrowing for a split second, but the moment was over before it began as the dean gently placed his hand on your elbow to usher your forward– the next student was already walking onto the stage and your time was over. It was like time had stopped, you couldn’t hear anything that the blood pounding in your ears and the saliva you had forced yourself to swallow going down your throat. How was it possible that your mouth had gotten so dry so quickly?

You blinked to bring yourself back to your body and craned your neck one last time to see him, but by the time your eyes reached the door, he was gone and replaced by a middle-aged woman in a nauseatingly-patterned sundress and big round glasses. 

Your prayers had been answered, but at what cost? You forced yourself to put on a happy face and to not get too irritated when your mother asked for just one more picture, but all you wanted to do was go back home and sit in silence. You couldn’t get your mind off of the boy, who’d turned into a man since you’d last seen him, leaning against the door frame of the auditorium. 

You had looked around when you had walked outside, hoping to see him again, to talk to him. Maybe slap him too for what he’d done. But you’d only ever do that after being able to hold him in your arms again. 

It was pathetic, that was for sure, but you knew deep down that if the only way you could see Andrew again was in your memories, you’d cherish every image of him that came into your mind like it was the last time you’d remember his features.

—

You met Elliott four and a half months after that day. 

The October wind nipped at the tip of your nose and cheeks as you stood outside, waiting for the bus to pick you up from and bring you back to your apartment. You had scored an internship at a publishing house that would put you in the running for the editorial assistant position that had just opened up. Truth be told, it was much less glamorous than you thought it would have been, but that felt like that was the reality for anybody that worked anywhere near the entertainment business. All that aside, it solidified the fact that you were heading in the right direction, and it lit your passion for literature like a well-fed bonfire. 

Elliott had arrived a few minutes after you did at the bus halt, and he took the seat on the bench right next to you. You had peered up at him from the book you were reading, finding a handsome and chiseled face with striking blue eyes, before they went back down to the page you were currently on. 

“You’ve got good taste.” Called your attention back to the stranger on your left. Your eyebrow rose in question, wondering where this could possibly be going, but you were already unimpressed. “The Lover.” He said matter-of-factly, with a chin jerk to clarify that he was talking about the Marguerite Duras book held in your hands. 

“Oh.” Well now you just felt like a bit of an asshole. Your initial apprehension didn’t seem to offend him, it seemed to slide off his back to be left forgotten behind the both of you. 

“I read it last year.” Elliott explained, a dashing all-straight teeth smile appearing on his face when you gave him your attention. “Is it your first time reading it?”

“No,” you looked down at the book that was still in good condition despite the multiple times you had read it. The more you experienced in life, the more you enjoyed returning to old books to see what was highlighted or underlined, to see what had felt meaningful to you at the time, and to see how that could have possibly shifted with time. “It’s on my yearly reading list.” 

After that, Elliott and you fell into a steady conversation, going back and forth about must-read literature and heated discussions over why this book was overrated but this one was an underdog for sure. When your bus pulled up at the curbside before you, Elliott had looked at you, a curious look in his eyes. 

“I think I might just catch the next bus…” He trailed off, an unspoken question hanging between the two of you. Elliott’s gaze jumped from you to the bus, its doors open and ready for you to run off into. 

It was honestly messed up how your brain decided that was the appropriate moment to think of that night in your bedroom with Andrew, the first time he had kissed you. No. Enough of that. You had spent enough time pining after the boy that thought it was okay to haunt you when it felt convenient for him. Clearly he didn’t care enough to actually man up and come say something to you. He was a coward who watched from a distance and ran away from you a second time. You were done. 

“That sounds like a great idea.” The voice that came out of your mouth didn’t sound like you. Didn’t feel like you either, because there was no version of you that could ever accept leaving Andrew behind like he’d done you. But your mind was made up, and you felt a weight lift off your shoulders and be carried away with the bus that drove off a moment later when you forced yourself to linger with the handsome stranger.

After a few months of casually dating, Elliott had asked you to be his girlfriend, and you could safely say that Andrew Cody had been wrapped up into a cardboard box and tossed in the furthest backroom of your mind with a giant ‘DO NOT OPEN’ scrawled onto the side in thick black letters.

Elliott felt great. He took you out on dates and charmed your parents; even most of your friends liked the guy. He was six foot two of lean muscle, sandy blonde hair, and a jaw you’d only seen on Marlon Brando. It seemed like everyone was pulled into him, like his entire being was a magnet. They leaned into his stories, hanging on his every word like it was the first time they could hear properly. You’d called him charismatic and lovely. He had this way of convincing people to view things from his perspective that you had never seen before; it must have been the reason he was so good in his business deals he worked late hours completing. 

Your best friend, Eileen, disagreed. She’d called him borderline narcissistic, to which you’d called her dramatic with an exaggerated eye-roll and said that "you just need to spend more time with him—he's great!” 

Eileen had been your best friend since grade two. You had met in the sandpit of your neighborhood park where you were crying by yourself, knees cradled to your chest as if you could disappear into yourself.

“What happened?” A voice that felt much too stern to belong to a child had spoken, sounding as if it came from right above you. You sniffled, fist rubbing against your runny nose as your spine uncurled. You didn’t recognize her. A scrawny, too tall for her own good, black-haired girl was indeed standing right in front of you, your toes almost touching. 

The little voice that left your body, words wobbling as they tumbled out for your mouth, explained that Timothy Henderson had stolen the basketball you were playing with earlier and tossed it onto the roof of the school.

Eileen only gave a curt nod and crossed her arms over her chest, head swiveling around the courtyard to spot your bully. You could tell she had found him when her eyes squinted, zeroing in on him—punching in the nuclear codes in her head. With that, the girl who looked like a less clumsy baby giraffe, all legs and neck, marched her way over to the red and blue jungle gym. You watched with a curious gaze as Eileen pulled herself up the bars until she loomed over Timothy’s back. He never even had the time to see her before she pushed him down the slide. 

That moment had set the tone of your friendship with Eileen. Over the years, she had been the sharp sword to your diplomatic words. You balanced each other and always had each other’s backs no matter what. You’d thrown your first, and last, punch for her because some drunk senior had tried to grope her while she walked past him at a house party in your junior year. 

Eileen had liked Andrew. She knew he was fucked up; there was no denying that, but she could tell he loved you like nothing else. It was a young love, but it held all the intensity in the world. She’d been pissed when he left you that night. Threatened to run him over with the car she got after graduating, and it took until she had the keys in the ignition for you to be able to convince her that it wasn’t worth it. 

Eileen had told you point blank that she had a weird gut feeling about Elliott. Her intuition had served her right when, a year and a half into your relationship, you went out for drinks one night after work. She caught you wincing after bumping into you teasingly after a funny story was recounted and had stopped in her tracks—looking at you the same as she had that day in the sandpit. 

You tried to hide it, but Eileen always won these types of altercations. She pulled up your sleeve and saw the angry purple and blue finger prints wrapping around your forearm. Her mouth opened to say something, but you beat her to the punch. 

“It wasn’t on purpose,” You gently pulled back your arm from her grasp and pushed the sleeve back down to avoid the curious stares of the people walking by you. “We got into a fight and he didn’t want me to walk away.” It made sense to you—you had been rude for trying to exit the conversation without his consent. You’d heard Elliott out when he guided you back to the kitchen, and you understood that you had been in the wrong there. 

Eileen tried to argue with you some more, but she ultimately understood that it was pointless at the time. She’d let it go, but she had never forgotten it. Things had seemed to smooth over, but the pit she felt in her stomach never left. 

Six months after that incident, Eileen started getting worried when you seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth. She knew that you were busy at work; you had gotten a promotion with a permanent position at the editorial house you’d been dreaming of, but this was out of the ordinary. 

Text messages went unanswered. Phone calls too. No sign of life—not even a telepathic thought that made her phone ring. So she decided to do the next best thing and showed up at your doorstep. 

“What are you doing here?” Eileen could make out through your front door. She had knocked on it at the arrival, knuckles sore for a few seconds from the hammering, and then stood there—arms crossed against her chest, weight on one hip as her other foot stepped forward, tapping in impatience. 

“Open the door" was the only response you got. 

After a few beats of silence, Eileen heard the familiar click and sliding metal of your front door lock coming undone. Her head was already moving, trying to catch the first glance at you in the sliver of the door. 

“What the actual fuck?” Was the thing you were trying to avoid by not opening the door. 

Eileen’s jaw dropped, and so did the oversized suede purse she was holding in her hand. Covering the right side of your face, from the tip of your cheekbone to the inner part of your eyelid, blotches of brown, yellow, and some nauseating green were painted on your skin. The swelling had clearly gone down a lot, but looking at you straight on, she could tell the right side of your face was still slightly swollen. Eileen felt vomit rushing up from the pit of her stomach as her eyes ran over you, her mind rushing to try to find other bruises Elliott could have left on you that were hellbent on hiding from her. She’d kill that blonde devil if it were the last thing she ever did on this earth. 

“It looks worse than it is—I swear, Eileen.” Your hands were put out in front of you to try to calm her down before she blew a gasket. Your best friend had always been prone to eruptive bursts of anger, and you desperately did not want to deal with the consequences of that at the moment. “He had a really good deal go down the drain, and" – Eileen didn’t need you to say who he was; she knew from the second she set eyes on you. “I-I pissed him off, and it just escalated. It’s the first time he does this.” 

You tried really hard to convince her. Elliott had been so sweet after it happened; god, the look in his eyes once he’d realized what he had done had basically shattered you. He had already been on the teetering edge, and you just had to ask him about doing the dishes like he had promised—you should’ve known better at this point. 

He had cradled your face, peppering kisses on the angry skin, whispering, “I’m so sorry, baby," as you cried. Elliott had promised this wouldn’t happen again; he was just so overwhelmed, and you were just in the path of his destruction.

Eileen had heard enough. She stayed quiet for the remainder of her visit to your house—on the edge of her seat to get the hell out of there as fast as possible, because she genuinely didn’t know how much longer she could hold her tongue.

She didn’t understand how you could go on like nothing had happened. A bright smile graced your face as you walked into your kitchen, putting a kettle on the stove to pour yourself some tea. You were telling her about the project you had been put on at work, hands waving around enthusiastically as you recounted the meeting you had just had—and this whole thing just seemed way too ordinary for you.

Your childhood friend pushed back the tears that had crept up in her eyes when you had hugged her goodbye. Eileen couldn’t let you see how much your battered face truly affected her—for fear that you’d fall deeper into Elliott’s web if she made this into a bigger deal than you were capable of handling at the moment. Your arms had wrapped around her so gently, fingers interlocking behind her, and you’d held on for an extra second when she had started pulling back from you. 

“Love you,” you’d mumbled into her sweater before letting her leave, shutting the door with that same smile you wore the entire time as she walked away. 

—

The second Eileen had slammed the door of her navy Toyota 4Runner, her body had turned on autopilot and started driving to a popular bar in Oceanside before her brain could compute what was happening. Unlike her usual drives filled with blaring music and finger drum solos on the steering wheel, this one was marked by the heavy silence she drove in. A quick twenty minutes later, Eileen had arrived at her destination, reversed into a parking spot, and got out of her car. 

She spotted him the second she pushed open the grimy front door of The Sand Bucket. There Andrew was, broad shoulders hunched over at the bar, that same curly mop of auburn hair on his head, with a beer cradled in his hand. Andrew was surrounded by his loud brothers, Baz, Craig, and Deran, who were knocking back shots next to him. Seeing Andrew made Eileen’s blood boil like natural instinct, but today, there were more important matters at hand. 

“We need to talk.” Were the words that made the group of ruffians finally quiet down. You had to have balls of steel to pull up to the Cody’s like that, or you had to be pretty fucking stupid. When Andrew turned around slowly and saw Eileen standing there, he knew it was the first option. Since he had left you all those years ago, Eileen had basically tried to physically assault him every time she ran into him around Oceanside. She’d thrown a punch at him once, and he’d just stood there and taken it without retaliating—he knew he deserved it for what he’d done to you. 

Andrew didn’t speak; his eyebrows simply furrowed in confusion as to why in the world she would be speaking to him without calling him every colorful word she could think of. He got off of his stool and nodded towards the front door so they could go speak privately. 

“Is she okay?” Were the first words that Andrew spoke to Eileen once they stood under the flickering lamp by the entrance of the bar. The air was cold, raising goosebumps all over his bare arms—but he couldn’t be quite sure if those were from the temperature or from the thought of you. There were a few people smoking cigarettes outside, but when they saw Andrew walk out, they dispersed like a school of fish sensing the arrival of a great white shark. 

Andrew wasn’t stupid—maybe emotionally stunted, but definitely not stupid. The only reason Eileen would come to him for literally anything had to be about you, especially if she was coming in without the intention of dangling him by his balls off a street lamp. 

“She’s been dating this guy—Elliott," Eileen started, her face twisting into a grimace as the name came out of her mouth, like his name tasted rotten on her tongue. “I had a weird feeling about the guy, but it seemed normal for a while.” Andrew stood in front of her like it was his first day being human. His entire body was so tense she figured she could poke him in the chest and he’d just fall over backwards like a cardboard cutout version of himself. “I caught some bruises on her a few months ago, and she just… brushed it off like it was nothing. I tried pushing, but she wouldn’t open up.” Her head shook the image of that encounter away, words straining, and Andrew could see that she blamed herself for not being able to get you out of that situation. 

“This past week or so,” Eileen continued with a hard exhale, “she basically fell off the face of the earth. Wasn’t answering any of my calls or texts. Even missed our yoga and margarita night—which is, like, sacred.” Andrew was breathing heavier at this point. Eileen could visibly see his chest pumping, his eyes becoming glazed over like a switch had been flipped in his brain and he was dissociating from the interaction. “I went to her place today, and she wouldn’t even open the door in the beginning, but when she finally did. Andrew… She had this massive bruise on her cheek.” Her words hung in the air between them. She paused for a moment, like she was scared Andrew would implode in his shoes. “There’s no way this is the first time this happens; she was apologizing for it for fuck's sake!” 

Andrew didn’t need to hear anything more. He was going to kill this Elliott douchebag for touching a single hair on your perfect head, and he was going to make him suffer. 

“I’ll take care of it.” Andrew managed to spit out before he knocked back the rest of his beer and tossed it into the trash can that was a few steps away. He gripped his car keys in a white-knuckled fist and stomped over to the Bronco parked a few cars down from Eileen’s.

That night, Andrew started gathering information on the piece of shit you called your boyfriend. Little did you know that his so-called business deal that had gone bad was actually an underground poker tournament that had sunken him twenty thousand dollars further into debt with a particularly nasty loan shark. 

It hadn’t taken him long to find out everything there was to know about Elliott. Where he worked, where he lived, where the girl he was cheating on you with lived. The plan was put into place before Andrew could really realize what he was doing. 

Just as quickly as Elliott had flipped from charming gentleman to abusive asshole, Andrew had snuffed out his life force. And he’d done it with a smile. 

You had been confused when all of a sudden Elliott stopped answering your phone calls. You two had patched things up after the fight, and everything was back to normal. He was supposed to come over for a few days at your place, and you’d make him supper for a date night in, but he never showed up that night, and he didn’t the next either. 

It wasn’t until the police came knocking at your door two weeks later, to let you know that his body had been found dumped in a junkyard, that you finally knew why he’d evaporated into thin air. From what they had found in their preliminary examinations, there had been clear signs that it was retribution from a well-known mobster in Oceanside. They had explained that the signs of torture on his body painted the portrait that your seemingly perfect boyfriend had, in fact, owed a large sum of money, and he’d finally found out what happened if you thought you could simply get away without paying your debts. 

Your mind couldn’t help but think of Andrew for a brief second when you’d heard all of this. Of course you didn’t expect him to have committed the crime, but you couldn’t help but wish he could be here to protect you in case the loan shark decided the next best thing to get paid for Elliott’s debt was to come knocking at your door. 

You hadn’t seen him since your graduation, but during the two weeks of Elliott’s now confirmed disappearance, you had moments where you felt that familiar shift of gravity that would only happen when Andrew entered your orbit. It was odd—you hadn’t let your mind drift to Andrew much since you’d met Elliott. It was only during those cold nights after Elliott had gone from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde that you’d let yourself close your eyes and imagine that this was all a nightmare and that you’d wake up to Andrew lying next to you, awake and staring at you like usual while he brushed his fingers through your hair. 

Eileen had seemed less shocked than you would have expected when you called her after the police had left your apartment. You had attributed her lack of reaction to the fact that she despised the guy and hadn’t questioned it further. You were sad; you’d cried in her arms as she brushed your hair back and told you it would all be okay eventually, but you couldn’t help but feel a slight bit of relief at the thought of Elliott not being around anymore. 

—

It had taken you two years of therapy with the loveliest human being, Erin, to fully wrap your head around everything that had happened to you. Eileen was the one who had recommended her to you, having heard of her work as a DBT therapist through her colleagues at the Oceanside Women’s Shelter, where your friend worked as a social worker. 

You could honestly say that Erin had changed your life. It had become a joke between you and Eileen that you would ‘cheers’ to your respective therapists on a night out. You still saw her once every three months at this point, just for a quick booster session and to discuss anything that had come up during that time period. Your appointment was scheduled for Wednesdays at one pm, which was perfect for your work schedule. You had gotten another promotion and now had the added flexibility of working from home when it was convenient for you, which meant that you could take a late lunch, head to the bank to grab the cash for the session, and go see Erin before finishing the rest of your workday. 

Today, it was a rainy day, and everyone seemed to be hiding inside rather than running around the streets of Oceanside like usual. The air still felt hot, making everything sticky and uncomfortable, which led you to put on a light blue sundress that landed at mid-thigh with the white cardigan your mom had crocheted for you back when you had started your internship. 

As you neared your first stop, you slowed down considerably while turning your cream Beetle into the parking lot of the bank, but it didn’t stop the inescapable thunk of your car hitting that stupid pothole the city seemed so opposed to fixing. 

"Sorry, girl,” you winced as you gave a gentle pat to the dash of your car. She was the first car you’d purchased, an old, slightly beat-up Volkswagen Beetle with brown leather seats, but she meant the world to you. It had been your dream car since you were a kid, and now she was all yours, and you’d be damned if you didn’t treat her like a sentient being. She took care of you, and in return you gave her all the love she deserved—well, the love you could afford, that is. 

Your polka dot umbrella was opened before you stepped out of the car, trying to shield yourself from the hot rain coming down on Oceanside as you walked up to the big glass doors of the bank. 

The bank was pretty quiet that day, not surprising considering how unappealing it was to leave one’s house to do anything with the weather. You walked in and got in line behind a short elderly couple, an internal awe sounding out in your head as you noted how the woman had her hands wrapped around her partner’s arm, like he was her anchor. Your eyes bounced around the room, trying to find something to capture your attention while you waited for your time with the teller—but just like the weather outside, everything felt dull. 

That thought convinced you that there was clearly someone or something listening in to your thoughts out there because not even a second later, the doors barged open and in strutted four masked individuals holding guns that definitely did not look like your little brother’s paintball guns. 

“Everybody get down!” The tallest one yelled out, his voice booming across the bank as everyone looked around at each other like they were getting pranked. “Now!” He shouted again, clearly unimpressed at how slowly people seemed to realize what was going on. 

The tall one pointed his gun around the room at people to make sure they were getting down and weren’t trying to be heroes while another one split from the pack to go to the teller. You couldn’t hear what the one at the counter was saying as you sat down on the floor, crossing your legs to the side to avoid giving the robbers a look at anything that could pull their attention to you. 

“Put your stuff in the bag.” A gruff voice echoed through the room and shocked you like a lightning bolt. You knew that voice—you'd know it anywhere, and no amount of time could erase the soft shiver it sent down your spine. Your head turned around to find the origin of the voice, and that’s when you saw him. You couldn’t know for sure, on account of his face being completely covered by a black knit ski mask, but your gut knew it. It was Andrew. God, he really appeared in your life in the worst possible ways, didn’t he? 

He didn’t have the same awkwardly bulky adolescent frame anymore—although that was to be expected considering he was almost thirty years old by now. You couldn’t help but let your eyes catch on the way the muscles of his arms flexed through the navy material of his mechanic’s coveralls they were all wearing. The breath in your chest felt heavier by the minute as you couldn’t bring yourself to snap out of the hypnosis Andrew seemed to put you under just by existing. Even his legs looked thick—the polyester of the suit tightening around his thighs as he marched around grabbing everyone’s personal belongings out of their hands if they weren’t quick enough for his liking. 

You snapped out of your inappropriate daydream when you noticed that those legs you were staring at had pivoted and were now heading in your direction. Your head dropped to your hands in your lap to try to avoid their gazes as you heard Andrew’s voice get closer to you. 

The old woman next to him was already holding out her purse to him when he arrived. “My husband,” she began in a shaky voice. “He needs his medicine that’s in the bag." Andrew had taken the purse and dumped its contents into the duffle bag, but after she had said that, he’d fished through the contents and tossed the container of white and blue pills back to the elderly woman without a word.

“You too" came from above you. "Put—" Andrew’s voice trailed off as you raised your head to meet his eyes. Yep, it was definitely him. Your heart started beating so fast you felt like there was a little hummingbird in your chest buzzing around and trying to escape the cage you formed around it. You’d recognize those eyes anywhere. Even if the ones looking at you now had clearly been hardened by the years, no one could ever erase those eyes from your memory. 

Although Andrew was very well versed in remaining composed no matter the situation, you knew him too well to miss the way his jaw flickered to the left, the nonverbal cue that he was caught off guard as he realized he was standing in front of you. “Come on.” He choked out, his voice coming out wrong like his throat had tightened and he’d lost all his bravado when he met your eyes, but he had to get it together. 

You quite literally could not do anything else other than comply with his demands, putting your wallet and the locket you wore every single day into the black duffle bag he carried. 

Ironically, it was the locket you’d found in an envelope in your mailbox on your birthday the year you graduated from university—no note attached to it. Just the pretty golden hearth with delicate engravings. When you held it in your hand, its weight noticeable enough to convince you that this was real gold, your heart had whispered 'Andrew,' to which your brain had yelled back 'Shut up’ faster than you could put the locket back into the letter. You couldn’t bear to throw it out; it was a beautiful piece of jewelry, so you had kept it on your nightstand for some time. Eventually, you came to be okay with wearing it; the association of the mystery gifter was no longer relevant, and now it was a piece of jewelry you could hardly leave the house without.

“We won’t hurt you if you don’t cause any trouble.” Andrew’s soft yet firm voice reminded the hostages, who you could only assume were his brothers, while they most likely collected all the cash they could grab from the bank. Although Andrew was speaking to the group of civilians who were definitely having one of the worst days of their lives, his eyes were fixated on you. 

Fifteen minutes later, they had collected everything they wanted and were wishing everyone a lovely rest of their day on the way out. By the time the police pulled into the scene, Andrew was gone, just like every other time you’d seen him since that fateful day he’d left you behind in the dust. They had been incredibly efficient and executed the heist like a well-learned dance. 

You had known that the Codys didn’t have a straight type of lifestyle, but you had never really wanted to question it any further than that. You were just content with having Andrew in your life, no matter in what capacity. Today had cleared out all of the fog that had covered Andrew’s home life all those years ago, and you weren’t exactly sure how you felt about it now. The injuries that didn’t make sense, even in the context of an abusive stepfather being in the house, were slowly clicking into place. He’d most likely gotten injured while pulling these kinds of jobs… for his mother. God, she really was as horrible as she’d seemed all those years ago.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions, Miss.” Detective Carmichael had introduced himself after approaching you. They had looked over the security tapes showing the entire event and had been going around from witness to witness to see if they could get any information to help them in the apprehension of the robbers. 

“Of course." You had smiled politely, shaken the hand he had held out to you, and followed him to the seating area at the front of the bank lobby. The detective had started by asking you to relay the events that had transpired, to which you told him how quickly it all happened, and within ten minutes of you arriving at the bank no less. 

If there was one time in your life you could finally get revenge on someone, this was the moment. Andrew had abandoned you, left you behind like an old toy, never bothering to reach out ever again. Sure, he’d helped pay your rent, but you knew Andrew had this borderline twisted sense of loyalty that convinced you that he most likely hadn’t done those nice deeds because he cared about you. 

“We noticed that one of the perpetrators stopped in front of you for a moment longer than the other victims,” Detective Carmichael started. You had to admit that he was charming, with sandy blonde hair and a crooked smile that probably charmed witnesses into giving extra details they didn’t know were helpful. “Did you recognize him? Did something stand out that could help us identify him?”

There it was. The opportunity of a lifetime. To hurt Andrew back for everything he’d done, tear his whole family down with him, and put him behind bars and away from you figuratively and literally. 

“N-No. At least, I don’t think so.” Came out of your mouth hesitantly before you could really think about it any longer. “He just had really pretty eyes, as bad as that sounds.” You felt your cheeks get hot as you murmured out the last part, ashamed that you would notice something like that, but convincing enough that maybe this would throw the bloodhounds off Andrew’s trail. 

Detective Carmichael looked considerably unimpressed at your response. Another pretty girl liking the bad boys over the heroes. Typical. 

“What color were they?” The detective asked, pen ready to jot down anything you could possibly give him. 

“Light blue.” You answered, the lie rolling off your tongue easily as Andrew’s hazel eyes flickered in the back of your mind.

"Alright..." He trailed off, the subtle flirtatious tone now completely evaporated from his speech. “Well, if you think of anything else, please give us a call.” Detective Carmichael gave you his card, not knowing that you threw it into the trash the second you got home. 

—

That evening, your body still felt tense from the overwhelming adrenaline rush you’d experienced during the bank robbery. Even though you had realized it was Andrew, so many things could have gone wrong, and that had been a terrifying thought in itself. You had tried to fall asleep, but every time you closed your eyes, your mind would flash images of Andrew in your mind. You couldn’t escape him no matter how hard you tried; he always seemed to outrun you. 

With a frustrated huff, you swung yourself up into a sitting position in your bed, legs dangling off the side of your bedframe. You would go take a shower. Those always seemed to help with your mantras of washing away all the bad thoughts when you rinsed the shampoo out of your hair and scrubbing the bad energy off your body with a loofah. It had seemed silly at first, but it had ended up being something that could completely reset your psyche when you were faced with a particularly intense episode of anxiety. 

Your feet pattered across the wooden floors of your apartment, with no sound in the apartment other than the wind outside and the creaking of the floorboards under your body weight. Your bathroom was charming with the vintage pink tiles on the walls and white floors; it was part of the reason you had picked this apartment out when you left the apartment you were supposed to share with Andrew. You liked that the owners hadn’t gutted out the remains of previous lifetimes of style. It gave the apartment life when so many other rentals had absolutely no spirit just to fit the trends of the current times. 

The shower turned on with a loud whoosh as the hot water sputtered out before flowing out in a constant beating stream. You pulled the oversized white cotton t-shirt and tossed it aside before bending down to push the soft and lacey underwear you had been lounging around in. 

The hot water burned your skin in a cleansing way. The pain was comforting and made you feel like you were real, like what you’d experienced earlier that day hadn’t been some delusion formed in the mind of a poor woman who would seemingly be condemned to live with a broken heart for the rest of her desperate life. You fingered the cleansing shampoo into your hair, massaging your scalp with a constant pressure that brought a semblance of relief. A sigh left your mouth as you put pressure on your temples, trying to rub out the remnants of the headache that’d been pounding away since you sat down with Detective Carmichael. God, what a day. 

After taking what was a borderline obnoxiously long shower, and once you had judged that your shoulders weren’t tensed up to your ears anymore, you stepped out and dried yourself off with the towel. Once your body was dried enough, you stepped back into the black lace underwear and pulled the oversized shirt over your head—small patches of the white material turning translucent as it made contact with leftover water on your skin. As you walked out of the bathroom, fog covering the mirror from the heat of your shower, your stomach let out a low rumble. That was when you realized that with all the chaos that happened during the day, you’d forgotten to eat supper. 

You pitter-pattered to the kitchen, trying to remember what leftovers you had in the fridge. Maybe the pho you had ordered last night from your favorite mom-and-pop restaurant a ten-minute walk away? Or maybe you could make a grilled cheese sandwich. Ooooo, a grilled cheese would sound really goo—

Your thoughts, just like your entire body, froze from one second to the next when you saw the outline of a man standing square in your kitchen, backlit by the small night light in the back corner of your counter. 

Your jaw dropped, a horrified scream about to leap out of you, but your sounds were stopped as the man ran up to you and muffled you with his large palm. His hand covered the entirety of the lower half of your face, leaving only your wide eyes and the bridge of your nose exposed to him. 

It took a few seconds for your eyes to adjust in the darkness, and then you recognized the deeply furrowed brows, the auburn curls cropped short to his skull, and his pursed lips. Your eyes softened enough for him to be convinced that you wouldn’t scream out anymore, and then he slowly removed his hand from your face. As if he weren't quite sure if he could trust you and he had to be ready to shut you up again. 

“They sent me here to make sure you didn’t rat us out.” Was all he said, like, that was an acceptable enough explanation for why he was standing here in your kitchen at eleven o’clock at night. Like those words were totally normal to be the first you say to the person you abandoned with no explanation and then proceeded to pop in and out of their life without actually even speaking to them. 

In the few minutes that you had shared with Andrew in the small space of your kitchen, you proceeded to go through a loop-de-loop roller coaster of emotions. Your fear transformed into shock rather quickly that then faded out into relief at seeing the love of your life so close, to feel his hand touch you. You had never felt unsafe with Andrew, and it seemed like despite the situation and how long it’d been, relaxing around him was still second nature. 

Your brain seemed to kick in a moment after your body, and the tension you had worked so hard to flush out stormed right back into your muscles as you realized that this asshole was seriously here, and god, now you were angry. 

“And. What. If. I. Did.” You spat out each word like they were covered in venom or tiny knives that would pierce Andrew’s flesh when they reached him. 

Andrew’s eyes closed for a second, his jaw clenching as he bit back words because he knew you had every right to be angry at him. He was honestly expecting your first reaction to seeing him to be a stinging handprint left on his cheek. 

“Did you?” He had to ask, even though Andrew genuinely didn’t think you had. At least he really hoped you hadn’t—he couldn’t bring himself to think of having to snuff out the life in your eyes; it made him sick to picture it, but Smurf would do it herself if it came to it. Besides, Andrew had not spent a moment without thinking of you since the day he chose to protect you from Smurf and leave you behind, but he hadn’t been able to keep knowing you like he once had. For all he knew, the hate he imagined you felt for him had festered into something unsalvageable, and you had taken the perfect opportunity to wreck his whole life, like he’d done yours at the time. 

“Part of me wishes I did,” you began. Lying to Andrew was not something you had ever done since the day you met him, and it felt wrong to start now. “But no, I didn’t.” Your shoulders dropped slightly at that. Like you were disappointed in yourself—a failure because you still held a flame for Andrew and you couldn’t bring yourself to betray him. 

He didn’t answer, mouth sewn shut as he just nodded at your answer. Andrew believed you. It was hard for him to meet your gaze, intense with emotions he couldn’t handle at the moment, so his eyes dropped to your lips. They had been so soft on his skin once upon a time: on his eyelids when he couldn’t sleep, on his fingertips and palm after he came up with bruised fists, and on his bare shoulder when you could tell he was lost so far in space he needed to be tethered to the earth before he floated away forever. 

“I-uh," Andrew finally spoke up, clearing his throat as the words came out coated in an emotion he couldn’t quite place. His face remained in the frown that contorted his face in a way that pulled at your heartstrings. “I also wanted to bring these back to you.” His hand slipped into the back pocket of the dark jeans he was wearing, and he pulled out your wallet and the golden locket you’d tossed into the duffel bag earlier. 

That was weirdly sweet. 

“You gave this to me, didn’t you?” You nodded at the necklace that looked so small and dainty in his large, rouged-up hands. You tossed your wallet onto the kitchen table and picked the necklace out of his grasp, the tips of your fingers like matches against his palm—lighting his skin on fire with the barely noticeable contact. 

He swallowed again and nodded solemnly. Andrew’s hazel eyes flickered back up to yours quickly, like he was trying to figure out what you were feeling because he couldn’t decipher it from your tone. “Yeah, I remember you saying you had always wanted a locket, and it felt fitting for your graduation.” 

A big sigh escaped you as tears started flooding your eyes. You nodded repeatedly, your eyes squeezing shut for a moment, as if you could convince yourself to be okay with this entire thing as long as your body kept going.

“Can you put it back on, please? I always struggle with the clasp.” You whispered as you held out your hand for him to pick up the necklace again. “That’s why I never really took it off once I put it on.” Liar. You kept it on because it made you think of Andrew when your fingers stroked the cold surface. 

You heard Andrew suck in a breath as you turned in front of him, pushing your hair up to expose your neck to him. He could smell you clearly for the first time in years, and somehow the baseline of your scent hadn’t changed. Burying his nose into the crook of your neck and taking deep breaths of you could calm any hurricane that brewed in him, no matter how destructive it promised to be. 

Andrew faltered for a moment but quickly regained composure as he latched the locket back into its place. Before you had the chance to drop your hair from your hand, it was like Andrew got possessed. His body moved before he could react, and his lips leaned down onto the spot he had loved to nibble on all those years ago. The gasp that left you at the sudden contact made him jump back before he knew what had even happened. 

“Andrew…” You whispered, your chest suddenly feeling like the weight of the entire world was sitting on it. You turned around to face him again and watched as his eyes unwillingly dropped down to your chest where the print of your nipples and the piercings that adorned them poked out against the white cotton. It's been practically a decade since you’d seen him, and a single touch from him affected you this intensely. Ugh, how pathetic. 

“I'm sorry." He mumbled sheepishly, his gaze dropping to his feet as his cheeks flushed a color that could rival his hair if it kept going in this direction. “I don’t know what came over me. Shouldn’t have done that.” He swallowed, hard, and his hands tightened into fists. You could practically see the mental punishments he was putting himself through in his head. 

“You’re right, you shouldn’t have.” Your anger flickered back to life as you watched him. You felt bipolar, emotions jumping from one to the next so quickly you couldn’t settle into a feeling before it shoved you onto the next one. But now, you were angry, and you were holding onto that. You needed to—deserved to, in fact. 

“You just left me!” You yelled out at him, Andrew flinching because of you for the first time since the day you’d met him. “You just fucked off because what? You were scared? Your mommy threatened you?” Your head was bobbing around in anger, like a snake hissing at him and trying to gauge an open window to reach out and bite him. “And then, you had the audacity to linger around and check on me and send me your pity money like that would solve anything. You don’t get to come back after all this time and just accuse me of snitching, because God knows if I did, you all would have had it coming.” 

You ranted on without ever stopping to take a breath. You hadn’t ever even been able to hold your breath for that long underwater when you would go surfing with Andrew—but this? This was a new record for you. 

Somewhere in the middle of it, you had stepped closer into Andrew. The locket burned against your chest—your skin too hot, too tight. Your fists thumped against his solid chest, again and again, and Andrew just stood there taking it. His head hung low, like a puppy who’d been caught after making a mess, and he just nodded along with every insult you hurled at him. His heavy silence seemed to snuff the wind blowing in your sails, and you started losing your momentum—fists slowing down until they stopped hitting completely.

“I know.” Was all that Andrew whispered out. His hazel eyes flickered up to you, trying to gauge if you were done or if you needed to keep going. He’d take whatever you had to give him, and he wouldn’t complain—whether it was spiteful insults or forgiveness. 

“It’s not okay. I-I don’t know how to make it okay.” Your hand reached out to touch the side of his handsome face. It was impossibly hard to stop your body from moving around him—touching each other was innate for the two of you, and it seemed like your nervous systems had no care for the emotional turmoil that needed to be unpacked for this to be even remotely healthy. “I don’t know what I’m feeling right now—it's all just too much, Andrew.” You whispered with your eyes shut, tears threatening to flow again.

“I know.” 

Of course that was all he had to say—all he could say. 

"Smurf—" He tried and then cut himself off as if that simple nickname was enough explanation for everything that had been derailed in your lives. 

“She got in my head.” Andrew said, voice rougher than it was before. “She convinced me to leave Julia. She convinced me to leave you.” He choked out, his jaw tight. “I thought… I thought I was protecting you.” 

He looked at you then, the touch of your hand against his cheek grounding him back down to earth. Andrew’s mouth fell open out of that frown you wanted to wipe off his face permanently, and it looked like he was about to say something but stopped himself for a minute. 

You didn’t say anything, just stood there, thumb stroking the top of your bruised cheekbone, and looked at him with this look in your eyes, a mix of pain, love, and somehow forgiveness, that Andrew was convinced you never deserved for a day in his life. 

“I can—should go.” Andrew sputtered out, still as dazed as you were that this was happening but knowing he had definitely crossed a big line by doing this. For some reason, you were sure Erin would have an absolute field day unpacking this with you in one of your therapy sessions, but you finally had him in front of you, and there was no way in hell you would let him run away again. 

Andrew pulled away from you, and you just stood there for a second. Feet frozen and unable to move. “Please don’t.” You stepped a bit closer to him, finally overriding the fear you felt. You reached out, looking intently as Andrew’s eyes widened slightly at your request. “Please don’t leave me again. I don’t think I could recover from that one more time.” 

That seemed to break whatever resolve he had left in him. It was as if you’d just cut off his legs the way he crumbled into you. Andrew’s tongue darted out of his mouth quickly before he reached up with those big hands of his to cup your face. He was holding you like the most precious piece of porcelain Smurf had ever let him touch. 

He leaned into you, a weight in his movement. He moved slowly, scared that you’d spook and change your mind if he were too sudden. Like you were still in a daze and didn’t fully grasp what was actually going on.

Knowing Andrew would hover above you for eternity if you demanded that of him, you pulled the trigger and pulled him down to you. Your lips met, and it felt like you had been injected with pure ecstasy. How fucked up was it that this man who had been walking along the sidelines of your life for the last decade, haunting you like a spirit you didn’t want to exorcize, could show up and you’d just fold right back into him like he’d never been the one to dismantle your person in the first place. 

Andrew pulled away after a minute, as if to give you an out and an opportunity to whack him if you regretted his actions—he'd understand if you did, and he would never judge you for it. Instead, you grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him back into you. 

The kiss escalated too quickly for you to really realize it, but before you knew it Andrew’s hands were caressing the skin underneath your shirt. His right hand came to lay against your bare back, index finger running down the line of your spine, and his left hand found its way to your hip, fingers digging into the flesh as you moaned into his mouth. 

You could feel his heart threatening to beat itself out of his chest through your hands. His chest had become rock solid over the years; there was no doubt the slightly pudgy but athletic young boy you had once known had turned into a mess of sharp edges and everything, man. 

“Oh Andrew.” You sighed as your lips parted from each other, your head lolling backwards as he found his sweet spot on your neck. Mapping the lines of your skin with kisses until X marked the spot. His teeth nipped at you gently, testing the boundaries, tongue licking out to soothe afterwards. “Don’t stop.” You encouraged him when you felt him hesitate for a moment. 

Andrew’s hands didn’t seem to want to be still as they traveled to every inch of skin he could possibly touch. He needed to feel everything to know exactly what had changed—if that scar on your knee, which you’d gotten from falling on a bike when you were twelve, had healed or if it remained on your skin. He needed to see if his thumbs still slotted themselves perfectly into the dimples on your lower back. He needed to taste every inch of you, commit your entire body to his memory, and beg for forgiveness at your altar even if that meant suffocating between your thighs. 

You gasped again as Andrew's hands dropped to your ass and locked onto the back of your thighs as he bent his knees and hoisted you up into his arms. Your legs locked around his waist like second nature as he started walking you to your bedroom. You didn’t question how he knew exactly where to go—it was Andrew, after all. Nothing surprised you about him at this rate. 

As he closes the distance to your bed, covered in a white plush duvet cover with pink pillows at the top, you can feel the hardening of his cock through his jeans. It had intimidated you when you were younger; having someone that size be your first was seriously daunting, and it appeared that it had not been any less intimidating all these years later. Your core reached a temperature that could be comparable to the water from your shower earlier. You felt yourself burning from the outside in as the cold wind brushed against the wetness of your panties. 

Andrew captured your lips in his one more time, a hunger having been awakened in him, before he tossed you back onto your bed. 

He looked at you, and he could swear he had actually died and gone to heaven after the heist, because there was no way you were real. Your legs had fallen apart when he had thrown you, and you hadn’t bothered to close your legs back together as you leaned backwards on your elbows, eyelashes fluttering up at him. He felt like Orpheus in that moment, temptation right in front of him, and god, he wasn’t able to resist the temptation. Andrew’s piercing gaze trailed over you from the tip of your nose to the peaks of your hardened nipples through your shirt to the goosebumps that covered your bare legs. 

Your right hand trailing down your body to make its way to the wetness between your legs gave him the confidence he needed as he ripped the shirt off and tossed it aside. As much as he’d love to sit there and just watch you get yourself off for his own personal show, he wouldn’t let you touch yourself when he had so much to make up for. He crawled onto the bed, his bulge aching at the friction, and moved your hand to the side so he could take up the room between your legs. He placed a big hand on your thigh, his fingers clawing into the meat of your thigh, and leaned down to press a soft kiss on the inside of your knee. Then another one further up your thigh, and another where your hip hinged, and a last one right above the edge of your underwear. He paused there, eyes cloudy in a lustful haze as he searched for yours, and you could feel his breath fanning your leaking pussy. He hadn’t even touched you there yet, and somehow you think this was the wettest you’d ever been before. You bit onto your lip and gave him a quick nod, your hand reaching to pull up your shirt so you could knead your breast in your hand. 

Andrew licked his lips before leaning down into his oasis and pressed a soft kiss; right, he knew your clit was hiding behind the black lace he wanted to rip off of you. He was planning on taking his time, teasing you and worshiping you until you couldn’t remember him ever breaking your heart in the first place, but the breathy moan that left your perfect mouth tossed all those plans out the window. 

He pushed the crotch of your panties to the side, too impatient to wait until you pulled your underwear down your legs completely, and he licked a stripe up your dripping pussy, tongue firm and flat to cover every inch he could possibly reach. Andrew moaned out at the taste of you hitting him, his eyes closing shut as he let out a big breath through his nose. Like he’d finally returned home after a never-ending journey. He lapped at your sex, slowly and gently, before his lips circled around your clit to suck on it. His right hand squeezed around your thigh as your moans resonated in his ears; they were the sounds he’d expect to hear as heaven’s gates opened if he ever made it there. 

“God, you taste so fucking good, baby.” Andrew cooed, pulling away from your clit to blow cold air onto your wet pussy. A little chuckle coming out of his shiny mouth covered in your juices when he saw the muscles in your stomach twitch at the cold contact. 

“Andrew, fuck!” You’d managed to snap at him when he blew on you again, feeling how the cold brought you a step closer to the edge. “Stop teasing me, asshole.” You sounded so exasperated, but deep down, the both of you knew you were both exactly where you wanted to be. 

Like the good boy he was, always eager to please, Andrew went back to licking his way into you. It was almost gross how wet you were, the squelching sounds you made as Andrew pushed in two fingers into your welcoming hole mixed with your cries and his muffled moans. It was filthy, and you felt absolutely no remorse as Andrew pulled you to the edge. 

“Ah!” You came, your back lifted off the mattress as the muscles in your body convulsed in ecstasy. Not once had Andrew made you come so intensely that you couldn’t utter a single word out. If you thought Andrew would show mercy for your first time together in a decade, you would be very wrong. His mouth never pulled away from you as you rode the waves of your orgasm. His tongue kept swirling around your clit while his fingers moved inside of you, caressing the walls of your pussy in a soft come-hither movement. 

“Fuck Andrew, I need you inside of me.” You managed to speak out, having to physically grab him by the hair to pull his tortuous mouth away from your center. “Please.” You sounded like you were in pain at how good he felt, and he had promised himself he would never hurt you again, so he obliged. 

Andrew had almost cum in his jeans when he was carrying you through the earth-shattering orgasm you just had. You had flooded his mouth with all your juices, and he was like a dehydrated man who had finally found water after being stranded in a desert. Your taste rejuvenated him.

While he stood up to pull off his stained jeans and boxers, you pushed off your dripping underwear and pulled off the white t-shirt you had on. For a moment, once you were both completely bare, Andrew and you examined each other’s bodies. Taking a moment to appreciate the differences that the years had brought. 

His freckles almost looked like they had gotten darker with time, and he’d grown spots of auburn curls on his chest, and oh god—he had this trail of dark hair that started close to his belly button and trailed down to his thick cock that jumped when your eyes landed on it. Your eyes widened at the sight of it, and it was like it had hypnotized you as you got on your hands and knees and crawled to the edge of the bed where he stood. 

“You don’t have to—" Andrew spoke softly as you reached forward and wrapped your hand around his warm length. Your lip was caught in your teeth as you ignored him with a shake of your head, eyes not even bothering to look at him as you ran your fingers along his rock-hard cock for a second. It was huge. Bigger than you remembered. 

You leaned forward and pressed a wet kiss to the leaking tip, tongue darting out to collect his pre-cum in your mouth, before lifting his cock upwards so you could lay your tongue flat onto the vein that ran up the underside and lick your way back up to where you started. He groaned as his head fell backwards when you wrapped your lips around his tip, having filled your mouth with spit and letting it dribble down to where your hand was wrapped around his cock, lubricating him with your wetness. Your head started bobbing up and down slowly while your hand worked the bottom part of his shaft. You couldn’t possibly imagine being able to fit the entire member into your mouth, but you would definitely try. 

The slurping sounds you made as you moved up and down his cock were pornographic, and, once again, Andrew was tethering on the edge of cumming right then and there. When you leaned as far as you could, your nose almost reaching the tip of his pubis, and gagged at the contact of the tip of his cock reaching the back of your mouth, Andrew knew it was time to stop this, because if he was going to come, it was going to be inside of you. 

“Okay, okay–” He choked out, pulling you off his throbbing cock. It was all red and hot and angry, and it needed to be sheathed as far inside of you as he could humanely go. “That’s enough.” 

With that, he pushed you back onto the bed and crawled over to you, slotting himself right in between your legs. He could see how your pussy was opening for him like a flower, your wetness causing the entire thing to shine so pretty for him. Andrew almost came when the tip of his cock made contact with your entrance, and for a moment he could hear his brothers making fun of him for that, but now was not time to think about that. He sucked in a breath, like he was diving into the deep end of a pool, and pushed in gently. 

“Oh my god.” You gasped out as you felt him splitting you open, the stretch of his thick cock entering you like nothing you had ever felt before. Your back arched into him as he came down to press a kiss onto your forehead, one hand propping himself up over you and the other caressing your check. “Keep going, please.”

With that, he pushed further and further until he was completely inside of you, and wow, you were taking him so well. Your eyebrows were scrunched up together at how good the hurt felt, and your mouth was open in that soft little ‘o’ you did when you wanted to moan out, but no sounds could physically come out of you. You were the picture of pure bliss as Andrew pulled back out until half of him was out and then bottomed out all over again. 

Once you were more accustomed to his size, he started moving slightly more frantically. His hips snapped into yours with a loud slap, slap, slap, and the tightening of your pussy around him every time he pushed forward was bringing him dangerously close to the edge. How was he supposed to make this last when you were so fucking wet and hot for him? 

“Fuck baby, you feel too good for me.” He murmured with a kiss on your shoulder as he pulled out. The immediate pout that appeared on your face as you looked confused at the loss of fullness made him chuckle. He shifted so he would be sitting, his dick standing up like a lighthouse begging for you to come ride it, and nodded you over. “I want to watch you.”

It didn’t take much more convincing on his end for you to sit up, hand reaching down between your legs to feel the river of slick coating the inside of your thighs. As you brought your hand back up, moving towards Andrew on your knees, he pulled the fingers you’d touched yourself with up to his mouth, before you could wipe them off on your blanket, and placed them into his mouth to lick them clean. He was feral for you and everything that came from you. 

Your legs straddled his thick thighs with a struggle because of how big and muscular his legs were, and you placed your hands on his broad shoulders to balance yourself so you could line yourself up. Ever the gentleman, Andrew fisted the base of his cock and moved the tip so it could line itself up perfectly with your entrance. The same sigh of relief left the both of you as you sunk down onto him, feeling like you had both reached a state of nirvana as you started rolling your hips, filled to the brim with his length and soon his cum. 

Andrew pawed at your breasts, fingers rolling the hardened nubs around as he played around the piercings carefully, not wanting to hurt you. Those were new. He couldn’t help but wonder when you got them. He could picture you begging the piercer to just do it without warning you because you hated needles. His lips met yours in a sloppy open-mouthed kiss where your tongues molded into each other, taking turns taking tastes of each other. You could feel his breathing get harder, his chest puffing out further each time, as his dick twitched inside of you—his tell that he was about to cum and couldn’t control it anymore.

“You want to come, sweetheart?” You said with a mean but sickeningly sweet tone as you kept moving your hips even though he tried to halt your movements with his big hand. At the state he was in, he was too weak to put up a real fight against you and the pussy that would swallow his entire soul at this point. “Are you going to cum inside me and fill me up like a good boy?” Seeing him so weak had lit a fire in you that only came out with Andrew like this. Your right hand reached up and grabbed his face between your fingers, squishing his face so he couldn’t actually speak, and the only sounds that came out of him were frustrated and almost painful moans. You kissed him on his squished lips, then on his nose because he was all red and so cute like this, and then licked the tear that had slipped out of the inner corner of his eye.

“Oh no,” you said mockingly when you saw how badly he was struggling to not cum before you told him he could. Andrew would hold it in even if it gave him a heart attack and he’d only cum exactly where you told him you could. “You want to cum Andrew?” You asked as your hand reached back and captured his balls softly. He nodded eagerly, still incapable of speaking as he tried to hold it together. “Okay.” You finally gave in, planting one last kiss on his mouth as you fondled his sack. “I want you to cum so deep in me. Please give me your cum, baby.” 

Andrew all but exploded inside of you, a groan so loud you figured your neighbors had heard escaping him when you let go of his face to focus on fucking him through his own orgasm. He hadn’t been gentle when you were cuming, preferring to see you break down in front of him than let you breathe for a second, and you would give him the exact same treatment you knew he loved. 

“I love you.” Andrew whispers out after the final twitch of his dick inside your cum-filled pussy. “I never got to tell you, but I loved you. I still do, and I never stopped loving you. Don't think I ever could.” His eyes are closed, his forehead leaning against your collarbone as he wraps his big strong arms around your back. He holds you close as you feel his cock start to soften inside of you, the mix of his cum and your wetness an absolute mess on both of your lower bodies. He finally pulls his head back to look at you, a gentle hand coming up to caress your face as that sad look appears on his face again, eyebrows furrowing like he’s already anticipating the rejection he thinks he’ll get.

“I love you too, Andrew.” All the teasing and torture from earlier is completely vacant in your tone. All that’s left is pure love and hope. You lean forward and kiss those worried lines on his forehead, hoping that this can deter them from coming back onto Andrew’s beautiful face for a while. 

After a few more minutes of heart-to-heart and holding the other in your arms, Andrew gently pushes you off of him, letting his softened cock drop with a flop onto him.

“Stay right here; I’ll be right back.” He whispers to you as he sees your eyes already fluttering closed when you lie back down with your head on your pillow. You hear some rummaging in your bathroom and the water from the tap running before his feet pitter-patter their way back to your side. Andrew opens your legs softly, knowing you’re sore from the previous activities, and cleans you up gently with a warm towel. He kisses each of your knees before going to toss the towel in your laundry basket.

“You better not leave me again because I will let Eileen run you over with her car this time.” You threaten him, eyes still closed as you feel him slot himself behind you, arms pulling you tight into his chest. You feel Andrew’s chest vibrate as he laughs. 

“I knew that was her!” He says like it all makes sense now and that one time someone tried to run him over is no longer a mystery. That would be a discussion for tomorrow; you didn’t have the energy to unpack that story or to think of what you would even tell Eileen in the first place. 

—

It had only taken a few minutes of being wrapped in Andrew’s arms to fall asleep. It had been so long since you’d slept that heavily—sleep filled with peaceful dreams for once rather than short bursts of unconsciousness that kept you awake throughout most of the night. 

Before you knew it, the sun was peaking through your blinds, pulling you out of the deep haze you had found yourself in. Waking up from that kind of sleep felt like breaching out of the ocean after being held under a heavy wave. A groan left your mouth, face contorting and eyes shut, as you stretched slowly. It took you a minute to remember the events of yesterday as you felt a warm spot next to you. As your mind realized that you had fallen asleep wrapped in Andrew, your hand patted around your bed in search of his familiar presence.

Your heart sank when you fully woke up and saw that he was nowhere to be found.

“Andrew?” You called out, praying that you’d hear his gruff morning echoing from somewhere in your apartment—but you heard no response. 

Sitting up in bed, you rubbed your hand down your face before looking around on your nightstand, trying to see if there was a note—something, anything—that he’d left behind to explain his latest disappearance. But there was nothing in your room besides the absolute pit of despair that was sinking at the bottom of your stomach. 

You couldn’t help the tears that started flooding your eyes as you stood up and pulled a discarded shirt on. Your mouth clamped shut as you breathed hard through your nose, in and out and in and out. With a hard swallow, your feet led you to the kitchen to turn on the coffee machine.

God, Andrew had probably felt you wake up and had taken that as his moment to get the hell out of dodge. You didn’t even know why you were surprised; you should have known this whole thing would end with him disappearing like a magician’s act again. He’d clearly shown you that he couldn’t, or didn’t want to, stick around. And you had been stupid enough to fall for it. To believe the words of a cumming man. Typical. You had thought that you had learnt your lesson, but here you were trusting a man all over again and getting burnt for it quicker than you’d expected.

The sadness you felt mixed itself with anger as you tugged on the door of your fridge and saw that you didn’t even have any milk left for your coffee. For fuck’s sake. That had done it. The lack of a good coffee in the morning was what dropped the final anvil on you and just absolutely crushed you.

As the tears started streaming down your cheeks, you heard the sound of your front door clicking open—eyes snapping up as you watched Andrew come through the door. 

“W-what’s going on, angel?” Andrew spoke out, closing the door with his foot, a brown paper bag sitting in his arms. He toed his boots off and kicked them by the door, which he would never usually do, but the state of distress he had found you in called for desperate measures. He took long strides and placed the paper bag onto the counter before coming to stand in front of you, thumbs wiping away at the tears on your cheeks.

“I thought you left me again..." You whispered, struggling to look him in the eyes. Part of you felt guilty for not trusting him, for expecting the worst of him, but also, who could blame you? He didn’t have an excellent track record with you at this point.

“I went to go get groceries so I could make you breakfast.” He says matter-of-factly, hands moving down to your shoulders. “I was hoping you’d still be asleep by the time I got back so I could surprise you.” He nodded backwards to the bag he’d brought in and took a step away from you when he judged you wouldn’t crumble into a pile anymore. “Your fridge was empty.” And at that you started crying again, because that moment felt like the sweet Andrew you’d fallen in love with all those years ago was still alive and well and standing in front of you. 

“I'm sorry,” Andrew mumbled, coming close to you again and pressing a soft kiss onto your forehead. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I told you I’m not ever leaving you again.” He leaned into you, pressing his forehead against yours. “I was a coward, I know that, and I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Now, sit down so I can start making it up to you with breakfast.” That brought a smile onto your face as he kissed you one more time, fingers holding your chin up to him, before he patted you on the butt in the direction of the stools. 

You could get used to this again, the domesticity of falling asleep next to Andrew in bed and waking up to him in your kitchen in the morning making you breakfast.

[foolishleclerc]

jealous type - zuko

pairing: age-up zuko x fem!reader summary: he’s the fire lord. he’s faced war, loss and destiny itself. but nothing, nothing, tests his patience like the man who thinks he still has a chance with his fiancée. warnings: age-up characters (the legend of aang: the last airbender characters), established relationship, jealousy, relationship insecurity, no use of Y/N, third person narration. english is not my first language, i apologize if there are any spelling or grammatical errors. explicit sexual content: oral sex (fem and male receiving) fingering, biting, scratching and marking, p in v sex, unprotected sex, possessive sex, possessive behaviour, let me know if I forgot anything. word count: 8.2k a/n: of course i saw that edit and of course i had to write something about it. it's embarrassing how many times i've listen to "jealous type" this week, oh my god, i'm so in love with zuko. i have many more ideas, but not that much time, so i'll see what i come up with next. besides, first i have to do valarr and aerion's parts in the f1 au and a few other things.

The Earth Kingdom always felt different, something Zuko had noticed the times he had accompanied her to visit her family or because he had to make political trips, and he clearly enjoyed those trips where they visited her family much more, knowing that they received him as one of their own. He didn't say it out loud, but it was a feeling that settled in his chest, warm, comforting, as if he were arriving at a second home.

And he clearly wasn't the only one who felt that way, because he could see the effect that returning had on her. She seemed much taller the moment her feet touched the ground on the earth leading to her old home where her family still lived, her shoulders completely relaxing and her gaze softening in the same way it did when she looked at him, filled with affection, love and peace.

Zuko knew she considered the palace home, that he had managed to make it comfortable for her, a place where she wanted to live with him, thrive, and one day start a family while they led the nation together. But there was no place like home, the one that had seen her born, take her first steps, and grow up before joining him and the rest of the group to help Aang years ago. And that was precisely why he tried to make it possible for them to travel there as often as they could amidst their responsibilities, that was why they had postponed all their commitments to attend her father's celebration.

He watched her with a gentle smile, noticing how she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, tilting her face slightly upwards so that the sunlight would hit her fully, illuminating her face with its warm light that made her look ethereal to Zuko, as if she were a deity, a goddess to be worshipped, his goddess.

He took advantage of the moment to observe her clothes once again, she wore deep green silks today, the traditional Earth Kingdom cut, but every hem and cuff was edged with subtle gold threading that caught the light like living flame, his colors, deliberately woven into hers. A small fire lily emblem was embroidered over her heart, a quiet declaration that she belonged to both worlds now.

Her hand slipped into his without looking, fingers lacing tight.

“I missed this,” she murmured, voice soft with memory.

Zuko tightened his grip, thumb brushing her knuckles gently. “I can tell,” he murmured, moving closer to her to place a soft kiss on her cheek that made her smile. “It looks good on you to come back, darling.”

She smiled up at him, soft, warm, entirely his, and for one perfect heartbeat everything felt right.

Until it wasn’t.

The celebration for her father's birthday was going to last for three days, filled with music that spread throughout the place, tables full of food with delicious aromas, and children running and shouting all over the grounds.

Her father, a tall, broad-shouldered man who years before had helped the Avatar and his friends with supplies and a roof over their heads, and who had allowed his daughter to join them to help Aang with earthbending alongside Toph, greeted them as if they were heroes returning from a hard-fought battle. He slapped Zuko's shoulder with a force capable of denting armor and trapped him and his own daughter in a tight hug, lifting them off the ground and causing Zuko to laugh as she whimpered, begging him to please put them down.

"My daughter and my future son-in-law," he said when he had released them from the embrace, gazing affectionately at them both, especially his daughter, before pulling her back into a much gentler hug and placing a kiss on the top of her head. "I was afraid you wouldn't be able to come. I know how busy you are, especially you, Zuko," he said, smiling proudly. "The whole group gathered under my roof once again, and my little girl with her future husband, I couldn't ask for a better birthday present."

Because in that place he wasn't the Fire Lord, the heir, the one who carried the great burden of leading the Fire Nation on his shoulders. He was simply Zuko, the boy she had met a decade ago, the one who over the years had become her friend along with the rest of the group, until officially becoming her partner three years ago, and finally her fiancée months ago.

And if Zuko was honest, he much preferred being referred to as her future husband or fiancée than as the Fire Lord. Because there he could simply be himself, a man in love with the most incredible woman he had ever known.

"We already told you in the letter that we were coming, Dad," she said, smiling as she greeted her mother.

"Nothing is more important than family," Zuko added, receiving a smile from her father, approving of his words, and even after so much time it comforted him that her family received him in that way.

"The rest of your friends are already here, you can go and get them. Leave your things here and I'll have someone put them away in your old room, honey."

The two nodded and headed to the backyard holding hands, from where the laughter and shouts were coming.

Aang was already being mobbed by a crowd of kids demanding airbending tricks, running all over the place with Momo. Her grandmother and aunts had dragged Katara into the kitchens, sleeves rolled up and giggling. Toph was nowhere to be seen, but judging by the sounds of punches, mounds of dirt tumbling down, and cheers in the distance, she'd clearly gone to the training yard and was tearing some of the attendees apart. And then there was Sokka, who, predictably, had claimed an entire tray of moon peach cakes and was hogging the limelight near the food stalls.

Zuko stayed by her side, not because he was embarrassed or nervous, but simply because he wanted to be near her. He loved watching the way she interacted with her family, with old friends, and how she drew him into the conversation, introducing him as her fiancée to those who hadn't yet met him and striking up conversations with those they had seen before. He liked seeing the way they looked at her with pride, some in awe, others even captivated.

He could handle the stares, they didn't bother him at all. He was used to them. She was a beautiful woman, anyone could see that, and not only was she beautiful, but she also had a heart of gold. Countless times he had noticed the looks they both received when they attended events or even when they simply left the palace to explore the city, the market, and the areas surrounding the palace.

Yeah, he could handle the stares.

What he couldn’t handle was the way one particular guest kept finding reasons to step into their orbit.

Ryuun. That was his name.

Zuko learned it within the first hour and immediately wished he could forget it.

Ryuun was everything that made Zuko's scar itch, broad-shouldered, tanned, and boisterous with that Earth Kingdom naturalness that filled the space without inhibition. He moved from side to side as if he owned the ground beneath his feet and as if he still held a piece of her past, as if he still had some right to approach her like that, as if the bond had never been severed.

The greeting took place right after the formal welcome. Ryuun approached with a confident stride, a wide smile, a smile too familiar for Zuko's liking, his arms open as if he expected her to walk right into them, as if he had expected her to come running to him like two lovers separated by time.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite runaway," he said, his voice echoing across the courtyard. "Have you come back for good, finally changed your mind, or are you just showing off your fancy Fire Nation trophy?"

She watched him with a forced smile that never reached her eyes, trying to be cordial. Zuko recognized that it was the same smile she wore in council meetings when one of the other members tried to dismiss one of her ideas. “Don’t start, Ryuun.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he replied lightly, but his gaze slid to Zuko and sharpened. “Though I didn’t expect you to bring… company.”

Zuko felt the temperature in his veins rise slightly. He kept his expression neutral, Fire Lord mask firmly in place. “Zuko,” he murmured, introducing himself, cordial but distant.

Their handshake was brief, firm, and entirely too long. Ryuu tightened his grip even further, testing Zuko's hold, and he answered without problem, giving him a small, victorious smile seeing how Ryuun huffed.

"Yeah, that’s what I heard," he replied dismissively, as if trying to belittle Zuko. "I thought you were coming alone. I assumed the Fire Lord would have more important matters to attend to. I thought we'd be able to make up for lost time."

It was then that she positioned herself next to Zuko, gently intertwining her arm with his, breaking the grip between the two men and preventing the moment from lasting too long as she noticed the tension in her fiancée's shoulders, a tension that lessened at her touch.

She didn’t even glance at Ryuun when she answered. “Zuko cleared his schedule to be here,” she said, her voice calm, steady. “He knows what this means to me and to my family.” There was no room for interpretation in her tone, no apology, no hesitation, just certainty. Then she turned to Zuko, her expression softening instantly, the tension melting into something warm, familiar. “Come on,” she murmured, giving his arm a gentle tug. “My nephews have been waiting all morning. They’re convinced the Avatar and their future uncle the amazing Fire Lord, their words not mine, are going to put on a show for them.”

Future uncle.

Zuko couldn’t help it, a small, fleeting smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it, something lighter breaking through the rigid control he’d been holding onto. It lasted barely a second because then he remembered. Ryuun was still there. The smile faded into something more restrained, more composed. He didn’t bother looking back, just gave a short polite nod in his direction, the kind reserved for people who didn’t matter enough to deserve more, and then he turned away with her. Her fingers slid down from his arm to lace with his hand, fitting perfectly, like they always did. The tension in his shoulders eased almost immediately at the contact, something unspoken settling between both of them.

Behind him, he caught the low murmur of Ryuun’s voice, something under his breath, sharp and unimpressed. Zuko ignored it, completely, because in that moment her thumb was tracing slow, absent circles over the back of his hand, grounding and distracting him at the same time.

“And they’ve been practicing all week,” she was saying, her voice soft with amusement. “You should’ve seen them, they keep arguing over who gets to be you when they play.”

That earned you the faintest huff of a laugh from him. “Is that so?”

“Mhm. Though I think the one pretending to be you keeps trying to cheat by declaring himself the winner before the fight even starts.”

Zuko glanced down at her, something warmer settling in his gaze. “Sounds familiar,” he muttered.

She nudged him lightly with her shoulder, smiling radiantly. And just like that, Ryuun’s voice, his presence, the tension, all of it faded into the background.

At least for the time being.

The first day had been relatively tolerable, mainly because she had made it so.

She kept her hand intertwined with Zuko's, leaning against his side during the long banquet, listening to anecdotes about her father and uncles, chatting with the rest of the group about what they'd been up to lately, and agreeing to embark on another adventure together before the wedding. When Ryuun tried to chime in with another story about ‘that time she and I climbed the western ridge and I had to catch her before she fell,’ she interrupted him with a frown as she poured herself some more salad, ‘I didn't fall. I remember that moment quite differently. And it was over seven years ago, ancient history.’

For Zuko, who knew her perfectly, who knew every tone of her voice, every glance, and every gesture, it was quite obvious that she didn't enjoy the way Ryuun tried to assert himself. He didn't want to be childish, after all he was a mature man in his late twenties, but the satisfaction he derived from seeing how she dismissed each of Ryuun's advances was immense. God, how he loved her.

He couldn't help but smile foolishly when she turned to him instead, her eyes sparkling and her voice warm. “Remember when we faced down those spirit wolves in the Foggy Swamp? You were the one who kept me from falling that night.”

Zuko’s smirk was small but real. “You kept me from burning the whole swamp down, darling.”

He knew he shouldn't worry, that it wasn't worth wasting energy on, but God, the urge he had to pulverize him every time he saw him trying to get her attention, talking louder when she was around, trying to drag her into the conversation even when she had nothing to do with it. It was utterly infuriating.

Later, when the girls—she, Katara, and Toph—marched off to the market stalls to rescue Katara from another round of pairing attempts by the aunts, the boys ended up in the training yard. Aang and Zuko lazily swapped fire and air forms while Sokka leaned against a barrel, munching on a skewer he'd taken from the kitchen.

“You’re doing it again,” Sokka said around a mouthful of grilled meat. “You're looking at him again as if you want to fry him.”

“I am not,” Zuko barked in frustration, then added under his breath, "Although I certainly want to."

“You absolutely are,” Sokka replied cheerfully. “That guy’s been orbiting her like a persistent satellite all day. I’m really impressed you haven’t set his eyebrows on fire yet.”

Zuko crossed his arms, jaw tight. “He’s insufferable.”

Aang landed lightly beside them, staff spinning once before he tucked it away. “He seems… nice? He helped carry all those heavy supply crates for the feast earlier, and the kids like him.”

Zuko turned on him, incredulous. “Nice?”

Aang blinked, ever the peacemaker. “Well, yeah. He’s good with the little ones and he was telling stories about the old days when we were all still kids…”

“He’s trying to impress her,” Zuko cut in, voice low and edged. “On purpose.”

Sokka snorted. “Obviously. Guy’s got the subtlety of a rampaging badgermole.”

Zuko’s glare could have melted steel. “That’s not funny.”

“Oh, it’s a little funny,” Sokka said, grinning. “You’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous.”

“Zuko…” Aang started gently.

"No, it's not like that, I'm not jealous," he hissed, running a hand in frustration over his face and pushing back the strands of hair that had come loose from his updo. "I just find him unbearable, detestable. I trust her completely," he sighed deeply, his gaze shifting to Ryuun in the distance talking to another guest. "It's him I don't trust at all."

Sokka leaned back, smirking like he’d won a bet. “Sure. That’s definitely not jealousy talking.”

Zuko didn't respond, at least not with words, smiling as he heard Sokka scream when the skewer in his hand was completely charred. "Oh, I'm so sorry, the wind blew that one," he shrugged, smiling with amusement.

"That was on purpose!" Sokka complained.

But Zuko ignored him, getting back into fighting stance with Aang. At least it would keep his mind occupied until she returned.

Zuko had a small hope that the situation would improve, but it didn't. It was worse the next day.

Ryuun appeared everywhere. During the morning archery contest he “just happened” to station himself beside her, offering tips on her form even though she outshot him twice. Later, when she and Zuko were learning to make baskets with her aunts, while they were asking them how everything was going at the palace and the council, he would make comments that tried to downplay the importance of it or try to glorify the things he had done during the time she had been away from home. At lunch he regaled the table with tales of their shared childhood adventures, how he’d once carried her three miles after she twisted her ankle, how they’d snuck out to watch the solstice fireworks together. And Zuko wanted to tear off his ears, his head, anything that would help him stop hearing it.

“You remember that night?” Ryuun asked, leaning in a little too close. “We stayed out till dawn. Best night of my life.”

Her smile was polite steel. “I remember being exhausted the next day and my father grounding me for a month.” She reached for Zuko’s hand under the table and squeezed. “Besides, I’ve had better nights since.”

Zuko felt the knot in his chest loosen a fraction in response to those words.

When the younger cousins begged for a bending demonstration that afternoon, she didn’t hesitate. She tugged Zuko toward the training circle, eyes sparkling with mischief and a carefree smile on her lips, lips that Zuko really wanted to kiss, as a kind of reward for everything he had been putting up with from that guy, but he knew it wasn't appropriate in front of the children so he held back, simply leaving a kiss on the top of her head. They would have time for that when they returned.

"We have to show them," she began, tying her hair into a high ponytail. "They've been dying to see the two of us fight, they want to see if you can beat me."

Zuko raised an eyebrow at that. "If I could beat you?"

She giggled. "Hmm, they know I'm the best, they want to see if you're on my level, love."

"Clever of them," he commented, making her smile. "Shall we put on a show?"

"Give me everything you have!" she said, giving him a quick kiss on the lips before running to her position, seeing that all the kids were already seated in their places, waiting expectantly.

Shaking his head, amused by her, Zuko ignited his fist, hearing the excited shouts of the children who screamed again when she stomped hard, shaking the ground as if a small earthquake had hit the training yard.

They sparred together, controlled, beautiful, flames meeting stone in perfect balance. Her earthbending was steady and powerful, and Zuko’s fire danced around it like a promise, while the children cheered wildly.

At that moment, all he could think about was her, her gaze, her laughter, the way she moved, and how she analyzed his every move, waiting for his next attack. The way they coordinated, how they complemented each other, how when she advanced, he retreated and vice versa, as if they were dancing to the same melody that only the two of them were able to hear in their hearts. With each movement they made, Zuko could feel his muscles relax and the tension in his chest lessen, that annoying feeling, which he still couldn't quite define but which he disliked intensely, beginning to fade away.

Until he looked up and saw Ryuun watching from the edge of the circle, arms crossed, expression sour.

He was testing his patience, and yes, Zuko had learned to be patient over the years, but everyone has a breaking point. And he found his that night.

It wasn't just one thing, but an accumulation of several. Like tiny grains of sand that eventually became a mountain that buried him completely.

The way Ryuun leaned in when he spoke to her excessively invading her space even when she walked away, the way he laughed like he still had a claim, the way he looked at her as if he still had the right to do so, the way he touched her shoulder or even her hair and the way he said her name like it belonged to him.

But the final crack came after she had already drawn the line, after she asked him to stop it.

Zuko had stepped away briefly to speak with her father about trade routes between their nations. When he returned, he rounded the corner of the storage tents just in time to hear Ryuun’s voice, low but loud enough to carry on the night breeze.

“She’ll come around,” Ryuun was saying to two of his friends, confidence dripping from every word. “She deserves better than some Fire Nation prince with a scar and a stupid crown. Someone who understands this land, someone from here. Not an outsider who…”

Zuko stepped into view before the man could finish. But Ryuun didn’t even flinch. “Fire Lord,” he said, voice mock-polite. “Eavesdropping now?”

Zuko’s hands curled at his sides. Heat surged up his arms, flame licked at his fingertips for half a second before he forced it down. Not here, not in her childhood home. Not in front of her family who had welcomed him with open arms. He couldn't do that to her, but God, how he wanted to tear him to pieces.

“Careful,” he said, voice dangerously calm. “You’re speaking about my fiancée.”

Ryuun stifled a laugh, as if it were unimportant, as if he didn't care about crossing certain boundaries. “I’m speaking the truth.”

"All I hear coming out of your mouth is pure bullshit,” he scoffed, tilting his head slightly. “I think we have different concepts of truth."

And before he could answer him, Zuko turned to leave, knowing that if he stayed, he might do something he would deeply regret, noticing his fingertips beginning to steam.

She noticed his absence almost immediately.

She had told Ryuun off twenty minutes earlier, quiet, firm and final, while Zuko was still talking with her father. “That's enough, Ryuun. I don't understand what the hell you're trying to achieve with this, but it's not going to work and it's not funny. I'm in love with Zuko, I have been for a long time, and that's not going to change just because I see an old friend again. I'm going to marry him and expand our family. Stop embarrassing yourself like this and stop ruining the atmosphere for everyone, it's fucking awful.”

Now she scanned the crowded courtyard, heart tightening when she didn’t see his combined robes. She knew exactly where he would go when he needed space.

Her old bedroom in the east wing hadn’t changed much. The same low wooden bed, the same woven rugs, the same window overlooking the orchard. Moonlight spilled across the floor. Zuko stood near the sill, back rigid, fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white.

“Hey,” she said gently, closing the door behind her.

He didn’t turn right away. “You shouldn’t be here. I’m not… good company right now.”

She crossed the room anyway, boots soft on the rugs. “That’s exactly why I came,” she murmured, standing next to him, noticing how clouded his gaze was, as if a storm had broken out within it. "We don't have to talk if you don't want to, but I'm not going to leave you here alone, I don't want to be out there alone without you."

Silence stretched between them, thick with everything unsaid.

Finally, Zuko exhaled sharply, trying to calm down, trying to dissipate the tension in his muscles. “He said you deserved better, someone from your own nation. Not me, someone with a scar and a stupid crown.”

She blinked. Then she laughed, soft, genuine, disbelieving.

Zuko turned, eyes burning with something deeper than fire. “You think that’s funny?”

She clicked her tongue before speaking. “I think he’s an idiot, love,” she said plainly. “I already told him that. Twenty minutes ago, while you were with my father. I said I’m in love with you and that I’m marrying you. End of discussion.”

Zuko’s shoulders loosened a fraction, but the storm still lingered in his gaze. “Well, it doesn't seem to have bothered him too much, it seems he has no intention of stopping.”

“I don’t care if he stops Zuko,” she replied softly, stepping closer. “I’ve already chosen. Years ago, when I confessed that I was in love with you, and every day since.”

His golden eyes searched hers, hunting for any flicker of doubt and finding none. “I know you have.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

He hesitated, jaw working, not knowing exactly how to say what he felt. “I don’t like the way he looks at you, like you’re still his to win back. Like I’m just… temporary.”

She cupped his face with both hands, thumbs brushing the edge of his scar the way she always did when she wanted to remind him he was hers. “Zuko. Look at me.”

He did.

“I don’t want someone from my nation,” she whispered, her eyes filled with emotion. “I want the man who stood by me against his own father, the same man who chose peace over power, who chose to do good even when it wasn’t the easiest option. The man who makes me feel like the whole world is steady beneath my feet even when everything is burning, the one who gives meaning to my days. You are the love of my life, and nothing and no one can change that.” She let out, almost as a prayer, love overflowing in each of her words. “I couldn't care less what he thinks or wants, the only thing that matters to me is you, us, together.”

His breath hitched. That ugly feeling, which he refused to name, was still there, raw and honest, but something else, relief, devotion and hunger, flooded in behind it.

"I trust you," he said softly. "Completely, I swear I do. It's him I don't trust."

"You don't have to worry about him," she murmured, smiling slightly. "Because I'm here with you. And I'm not going anywhere. There's no need to get jealous, love.”

Zuko’s hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him. “I’m not jealous,” he insisted, even as his voice dropped into that rough timbre that always made her knees weak.

Her laugh was warm against his lips. “You absolutely are. And it’s fucking adorable.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” She rose onto her toes, brushing her mouth over his once, twice, teasing. “And it’s okay,” her fingers slid up from his chest to his collar, curling there, holding him in place just enough to make him feel it. “Because I’m yours,” she whispered, her voice soft but unwavering, her lips barely brushing his as she spoke. “And you’re mine.”

That finally broke him.

Whatever restraint Zuko had been clinging to all evening finally snapped. He kissed her like he’d been starving for it, deep, desperate, claiming. His fingers tightened on her hips, backing her toward the wall until her shoulders met cool stone. Laughter spilled between them for a heartbeat before it melted into heat. She tasted like spiced wine and home, and he drank her in like he needed her to breathe.

“I hate him,” he muttered against her mouth, nipping her lower lip.

“I know,” she breathed, hands sliding up his chest slowly.

“I really hate him.”

“I gathered,” she gasped as she felt him press himself against her.

The kiss wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t careful. It was heat and frustration and relief all tangled into one, years of discipline cracking under the weight of how much he wanted her, how much he needed to feel that she was right there, with him, choosing him.

Her breath caught against his mouth, but she didn’t pull away, if anything, she leaned into him, meeting him with equal intensity, her hands gripping his collar, pulling him closer as if there was still too much space between them.

Zuko exhaled sharply through his nose, his forehead pressing briefly against hers before he kissed her again, deeper this time, slower but no less desperate, like he was trying to memorize the feeling. Like he was trying to erase everything else.

Every word Ryuun had said. Every look. Every doubt he refused to admit he’d felt.

All of it burned away under the simple, undeniable truth of her lips against his.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered against her mouth, voice low and rough, completely unguarded now.

Her answering smile brushed his lips. “Good.”

That almost made him laugh, almost. Instead, he kissed her again.

Her fingers worked the ties loose of his formal robes, pushing the heavy fabric off his shoulders. Beneath it he wore a simple green tunic, Earth Kingdom cut, chosen that night as a gesture of respect, but still embroidered with tiny golden flames along the seams. Her colors on him. His colors on her. The sight made something primal uncoil low in his belly.

Her own gown, green silk with fire-lily embroidery, slipped from her shoulders with a whisper of fabric. Moonlight painted her skin silver and gold.

Outside, the celebration roared on, drums, laughter and the distant crackle of fireworks. No one would miss them for a while. It could just be the two of them, lost in each other.

Her back met the edge of the low wooden bed with a soft thud, the familiar quilt bunching beneath her as Zuko followed her down. His mouth claimed hers instantly, hot and urgent, no longer holding back the storm that had been building since the moment Ryuun had opened his mouth. Their kiss was deep and messy, tongues sliding together, teeth grazing lips, the kind of kiss that tasted like relief and raw possession all at once. His hands roamed greedily over the green silk still clinging to her hips, shoving the fabric higher until his palms found the bare warmth of her thighs. He squeezed, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint imprints she would feel tomorrow, a silent claim only he would see.

“Say it again,” he breathed against her mouth, the words breaking slightly, rough with need and something far more fragile beneath it. “Please… just say it again, please darling,” he practically begged.

She didn’t hesitate this time. She felt it, the flicker of doubt still lingering in his golden eyes, the jealousy he tried so hard to bury but that now lay bare between them. And beneath it all… the quiet fear.

Her hands rose to cradle his face, holding him there, steady, like he was something precious and breakable all at once. Her thumbs traced his jaw, then softened as they brushed over the familiar ridge of his scar, lingering there with a tenderness that said more than words ever could.

“I love you,” she whispered, her voice low and warm, each syllable slow, deliberate… meant to be felt, not just heard. “Zuko… I love you.” She leaned closer, her forehead resting against his, her breath mingling with his. “There’s no one else,” she murmured, softer now, but somehow even more certain. “There never was and there never will be. It’s you, it’s always been you.” Her fingers curled slightly against his skin, grounding him. “You’re the one I chose,” she continued, her voice deepening with emotion. “The one I’ll keep choosing. Every day, every lifetime if I have them,” a faint, breathless smile ghosted over her lips. “My love… my future husband,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his again, slower this time, lingering. “The man I belong to… and who belongs to me.” She pulled back just enough for him to see it, every ounce of truth in her eyes. “Completely,” she finished softly. “Only you.”

A low, unsteady groan slipped from his throat, the sound raw, almost helpless. Her words ignited something in him, quick and consuming, like sparks catching on dry tinder.

He didn’t trust himself to speak. Instead, he buried his face in the curve of her neck, breath warm against her skin as his lips found the frantic rhythm of her pulse. He lingered there for a second, feeling it, claiming the moment, before pressing a slow and deliberate kiss just below her ear.

Then another.

And another.

Until it turned into something deeper, his mouth tightening just enough to leave a mark, dark and fleeting, something that would hide beneath her hair come morning, but that he would know was there.

His.

Her breath hitched sharply, fingers tightening against him. Zuko’s teeth grazed the sensitive spot, barely there at first and then a little firmer, enough to draw a soft gasp from her lips, her body arching instinctively into his, closing whatever space remained between them. He exhaled against her skin, low and heated, as if even that small reaction had unraveled what little control he had left.

“Again,” he murmured, voice muffled against her skin, already moving lower. Another bite followed, this one on the soft swell of her breast where only he would ever see it, followed by a soothing lick that made her shiver. “Tell me you are mine.”

Her breath trembled as his words sank into her, sending a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cool air and everything to do with him. Her fingers found his neck, holding him there, anchoring him, even as she struggled to steady her voice.

“I’m yours,” she whispered, soft at first and then firmer, more certain, like she needed him to feel it. “Zuko… I’m yours.”

He stilled for half a second, just enough to let it settle. Then his grip on her tightened, a quiet, reverent kind of intensity replacing the restless edge from before. His forehead pressed briefly against her, breath uneven, like those words had done something deeper than either of them expected.

“And you’re mine,” she added, quieter now, her thumb brushing along his cheek, grounding, tender in contrast to the heat building between them. Her hands traveled to his hair, her fingers threading into the neat topknot at the crown of his head. She tugged the leather tie free in one smooth pull, letting his thick black hair spill down around his shoulders in a dark curtain. The moment it came loose she fisted it tight and yanked, guiding his mouth exactly where she wanted it. “My love…” she breathed, the words slipping out against his lips like something claimed rather than said.

Her grip tightened in his hair, keeping him right where she wanted him, not letting him pull away even a fraction. “My future husband,” she continued, softer but deeper, heavier, like each word carried weight. Meaning.

Her forehead brushed his for the briefest second before she tilted her head, her voice dropping into something almost reverent, and dangerously certain. “No one else gets this,” she murmured, her lips ghosting over his as she spoke. “No one else gets to have me like this… to feel me, to know me…” Her fingers flexed, anchoring him there. “Like you do. No one else get me, Zuko.”

Zuko moaned, loud, wrecked, the sound vibrating hot against her throat as he kissed and sucked and marked her collarbone, the sensitive dip beneath her breast, the curve of her ribs. The sharp pull on his hair sent a fresh bolt of heat straight down his spine, he pressed harder against her thigh, already aching and straining against the last layers of fabric between them.

Clothes vanished in a frantic tangle of silk and linen. Her gown pooled on the floor beside his green Earth Kingdom tunic, the golden flame embroidery catching the moonlight like a secret promise. Bare skin met bare skin, warm and urgent and perfect. His hands were everywhere, cupping the weight of her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they tightened into hard peaks under his touch, sliding down the dip of her waist, gripping her hips hard enough to leave faint fingerprints she would trace later with a secret smile.

She pushed him onto his back, straddling his thighs with a wicked little smile. She leaned down, her hair falling like a curtain around them, and kissed him slow and filthy, rolling her hips just to feel him twitch and throb beneath her. Then she slid lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses down the center of his chest, over the old scar that crossed his torso, until she reached the sharp cut of his hips. She took her time, licking and nipping at the taut skin there, savoring the way his stomach clenched under her mouth.

Zuko’s head fell back against the pillow the instant she wrapped her lips around him.

“Spirits…” the words dissolved into a broken groan as her tongue swirled around the flushed head, slow and teasing, before she hollowed her cheeks and took him deeper. One of her hands stroked what she couldn’t fit, firm and steady, while the other pressed flat against his lower stomach, pinning him down. He was a complete mess within seconds, hips jerking up despite her hold, fingers twisting desperately in the sheets, incoherent sounds spilling from his lips in a language that wasn’t quite words. Growls, whimpers, half-formed curses and praises all melted together until nothing came out except raw, desperate noises. “Please… fuck yes.”

She hummed around him, the vibration shooting straight through his body and making his thighs tremble violently. Every time she pulled back to lick a long, wet stripe up the underside, dragging her tongue over the sensitive vein there, he lost another thread of control. His chest heaved, hair sticking to his damp forehead, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure overloaded every sense. She was his weakness, always had been and in that moment, she was wrecking him on purpose, sucking harder, taking him deeper, letting her teeth graze just enough to make him see stars.

He couldn’t finish a single coherent thought. His voice cracked on every syllable, reduced to grunts and moans and broken gasps that only grew louder when she sped up, her hand twisting in time with her mouth. He was right on the edge, hips stuttering, when she finally eased off with a wet pop, lips shiny and swollen, eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Still not jealous?” she teased softly, pressing a lingering kiss to the inside of his thigh.

Zuko let out a shaky and breathless laugh that turned into another moan when she sucked him back down for one last teasing swirl.

“I’m not jealous,” he managed again, though his voice came out rough and uneven, completely betraying him.

Her soft laugh brushed against his skin, unconvinced, already forming a reply. But she never got to say it.

In one swift movement, Zuko caught her off guard. His hands were on her in an instant, firm and certain, as he pulled her up and shifted their positions with a controlled, fluid motion. The world seemed to tilt for a second before her back met the mattress, breath catching sharply as he hovered above her. For a moment, all she could do was stare up at him. At the way his hair fell loose around his face now, framing those golden eyes, darker than before, burning with something far more dangerous than jealousy.

Possession. Certainty. Hunger.

“You were saying?” he murmured, voice low, edged with something that made her pulse jump.

Her lips parted but no words came out this time. Because now… He was the one in control.

Zuko didn’t give her a chance to catch her breath. He slid down her body with predatory grace, strong hands parting her thighs wide and hooking them over his shoulders in one smooth motion. The first drag of his tongue over her was slow, deliberate and filthy, broad and wet from entrance to clit, savoring the taste of her like he was starving. A low, guttural groan rumbled out of his chest, vibrating straight through her core, and then the hunger took over completely.

He devoured her.

There was nothing restrained about it. Zuko ate her like a man possessed, messy and desperate, tongue lapping at her with long, greedy strokes that left her slick and shining on his chin. He sealed his lips around her clit and sucked hard, cheeks hollowing, the wet obscene sounds filling the quiet room alongside her sharp gasps. Two thick fingers pushed inside her without warning, curling deep and thrusting in time with every flick of his tongue. He added a third almost immediately, stretching her open, scissoring them while his mouth worked her relentlessly, sucking, licking, devouring like he couldn’t get enough.

Her back arched clean off the bed, hands flying to his hair, fisting the loose black strands and yanking hard. The pull only made him groan louder against her, the vibration sending sparks shooting up her spine. He was a wreck between her thighs with hair wild, face flushed and glistening, eyes half-lidded in pure bliss as he buried himself deeper, nose pressed against her, tongue swirling and lapping without rhythm, just raw need.

He pulled back just enough to look up at her, lips shiny, breath hot against her soaked folds. “Say it,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Say it again while I taste you.”

Her thighs trembled around his head. “I love you,” she gasped, hips rolling helplessly against his mouth. “I love you, Zuko. I’m yours, just yours,” she stammered, head thrown back, fingers yanking his hair hard enough to sting. “Only you, always you, my future husband. I’m yours, Zuko, I’m yours…”

The words snapped something in him. He dove back in with a desperate sound, tongue working faster, messier, three fingers pumping deep and hard while his lips sucked her clit in tight, rhythmic pulls. His free hand gripped her hip bruisingly, holding her open for him as he feasted, chin dripping, tongue thrusting inside her alongside his fingers, then dragging back up to circle her clit again in sloppy, hungry strokes. The wet, filthy sounds grew louder, slick and obscene, as he ate her like he was trying to drown in her, desperate and messy and utterly devoted.

She came with a broken cry, thighs clamping around his head, back bowing as pleasure tore through her in crashing waves. But he didn’t stop, he kept licking and sucking and fingering her through it, relentlessly, drawing out every last tremor until she was twitching, oversensitive, and tugging desperately at his hair.

Only then did he crawl back up her body, kissing a wet trail up her stomach, between her breasts, along her throat. His mouth found hers in a deep, filthy kiss so she could taste herself on his tongue. He settled between her thighs, the heavy length of him sliding against her soaked folds, teasing for one heartbeat.

"God, how I love you,” he whispered against her lips, voice hoarse with need as he notched himself at her entrance.

Her answer was a soft, breathless sound, half moan and half plea, as she wrapped her legs tighter around his waist and pulled him in. Zuko thrust forward in one smooth, deep stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch, the heat, the perfect fit of her around him drew a low, guttural groan from his chest that vibrated against her mouth. For a heartbeat they stayed like that, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling hot and ragged, simply feeling each other.

Then he began to move.

Slow at first, deliberate, rolling rolls of his hips that dragged every thick inch along her walls, grinding deep so she felt him everywhere. His hands pinned hers above her head, fingers laced tight, while his body covered hers completely, skin slick with sweat sliding together. Each thrust was controlled power, passionate and possessive, the old wooden bed creaking softly beneath them in rhythm with the distant drums outside.

Her head tipped back, lips parted on a silent gasp, and Zuko chased the sound with his mouth, kissing her deep and slow, tongues sliding lazily, tasting the remnants of her pleasure still on his lips. He released her hands only to slide one arm beneath her lower back, arching her up to meet every thrust, the new angle making her tremble and clench around him. His other hand cupped the back of her neck, thumb stroking the marks he’d left earlier, holding her close as if he could fuse them together.

No more words. Just the wet slide of skin, the soft slap of hips meeting, the shared, shaky breaths. Zuko’s mouth never left her, trailing hot, open kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat, sucking gently at the pulse point beneath her ear before moving lower to lick at the dark bruise blooming on the swell of her breast. He bit down lightly, just enough to make her arch harder into him, then soothed it with his tongue while his hips snapped forward a little sharper, a little deeper.

Her nails dragged down his back, leaving red lines he would wear like badges tomorrow. Her heels dug into the small of his back, urging him on, and Zuko answered with a low growl, picking up the pace. His thrusts turned powerful and relentless, long dragging strokes that hit that perfect spot inside her every single time, grinding on the end of each one so her clit rubbed against his pelvis. Sweat beaded on his brow and dripped onto her collarbone, he licked it away without breaking rhythm, golden eyes locked on hers the entire time, dark and burning with everything he couldn’t say out loud.

The room filled with the sounds of them, soft desperate gasps, the slick rhythm of their bodies, the occasional broken moan when he hit just right and her walls fluttered around him. Zuko shifted again, hooking one of her legs higher over his hip, opening her wider, driving even deeper. The new angle made her cry out, nails digging harder into his shoulders, and he swallowed the sound with another fierce kiss, tongue stroking hers in time with his thrusts. He could feel her tightening, trembling, right on the edge. One hand slipped between them, thumb circling her clit in tight, slick strokes while he kept pounding into her, deep, passionate and relentless. Her back bowed, mouth falling open against his, and she came hard around him, clenching and pulsing, pulling him even deeper as pleasure ripped through her in long, shuddering waves.

Zuko followed right after, hips stuttering, burying himself as deep as he could go with a broken, guttural moan of her name. He spilled inside her in hot, pulsing bursts, forehead pressed to hers, arms locked around her like she was the only solid thing in the world. They stayed locked together through every aftershock, bodies trembling, breaths syncing, hearts hammering against each other.

Only when the last tremor faded did he ease down, careful not to crush her, rolling slightly so she lay draped half across his chest. His arms stayed wrapped around her, one hand stroking slow, soothing lines up and down her spine while the other tangled gently in her sweat-damp hair. Soft, reverent kisses pressed to her temple, her closed eyelids, the corner of her mouth, silent promises in every touch.

For a while, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

Her breathing slowly evened out against him, her fingers lazily tracing patterns over his chest, absent and content. Zuko rested his cheek against the crown of her head, eyes half-lidded, the earlier tension long gone, burned away into something quieter, something steadier, something theirs.

“You’re quiet,” she murmured after a moment, her voice soft, a little drowsy but unmistakably amused.

Zuko huffed faintly. “So are you.”

“Mhm… I’m recovering,” she replied, shifting slightly so she could tilt her head up and look at him, a teasing glint already forming in her eyes. “You, on the other hand… look suspiciously at peace.”

“I am,” he said simply, a pleased smile on his lips.

She studied him for a second longer, then her lips curved. “Still not jealous?”

“No.”

She raised a brow. “Not even a little?” she pressed, clearly enjoying this.

He met her gaze, calm, steady… and entirely unconvincing. “No.”

She let out a soft laugh, dropping her head back against his chest. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m right.”

“You’re the jealous type,” she corrected, nudging him lightly.

Zuko frowned slightly at that, like he was considering arguing, but then his arms tightened around her instead, pulling her closer in a quiet, possessive sort of way that completely gave him away. She didn’t miss it.

“Oh, definitely the jealous type,” she added, satisfied.

He exhaled through his nose, something almost like a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “…Only when it comes to you.”

That softened her instantly. Her fingers curled against his chest, her voice quieter now, warmer.

“Good,” she murmured.

Outside, the celebration still roared faintly in the distance, laughter, music and the echo of a party that hadn’t slowed for a second.

Inside that room, though, it was quiet, steady, safe.

And as she shifted closer, fitting perfectly against him, Zuko pressed one last kiss to her hair, eyes closing briefly.

Jealous or not, she was his and that was enough.

[coligraven]

𝐍𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐁𝐎𝐑

the pitt x reader | dr jack abbott x black! fem! reader

on the 10th anniversary of his wife's death, jack believes he can't get any lower. he takes a walk in hopes of clearing his head and his heart from the pain, but what he finds instead is a woman beating the shit out of her mugger. who would have guessed she'd be his new R3 and the solution to all his problems?

cw - wc: 4k, fluff, angst in the beginning but it gets better, jack is very sad, jack needs some love, reader is a bad bitch, reader is very confident, bad medical jargon, takes place about 3 years before the events of the first season, reader is in her early 30s, this will be split into multiple parts.

If Jack knew he'd have to spend the first hour of his shift coding a woman with the exact same physical trauma as his wife on the anniversary of her death... he would've just taken the day off and stayed home.

Which is funny because he actually did have the day off, thanks to Robby—who called in every favor imaginable, even sweet-talked Gloria, to make sure he did.

And he actually did plan to stay home, and he actually did do so for the majority of the day. 

He woke up painfully early—translation: he didn't sleep at all—flew through in an extended session of sunrise-nudist yoga, ate a protein bar and black coffee breakfast.

He picked up a few things at the grocery store, got lunch from his favorite Chinese food cart, straightened up a bit around his apartment—translation: cleaned every single microscopic speck of dust from an already pristine home.

He even treated himself by buying a pint of Ben & Jerry's—translation: he ate two scoops and will never touch it again until it's time to throw it out in a week.

But it was right when he was about to go to sleep, right as he laid his head down on the pillow—at seven-thirty, no less, since his body was on the verge of physical collapse from exhaustion—that he came to the realization:

He was totally alone.

This was the longest time in years he's had without SWAT or the ED to occupy his mind.

No adrenaline rush to distract him into forgetting, no maimed patients to make his problems feel insignificant.

Not even sound.

He spent the entire day in complete silence—he had no one to talk to and dislikes talking to himself.

The man was wide awake, sprawled out on this mile-wide, freezing cold bed as he stared up at the ceiling, unsure of what to do with himself.

Until he was...

In five minutes, he was in his scrubs and out his apartment.

In ten minutes, he was walking into Chairs just in time for hand-off.

Naturally, Robby was furious and, naturally, Jack didn't give a shit.

The two managed have about a minute of whisper-bickering before a patient was rushed into Trauma One that required both their attention.

Thirty-two year-old female in a high-velocity motor vehicle collision with a concrete median—the exact same age and mechanism of his wife's death.

Both of her legs were crushed by the dash and non-salvagable—devastating open-femur tib-fib fractures, near complete tissue avulsion, catastrophic blood loss.

Three of the ribs on her left side were broken when she collided with the steering wheel—her airbag had malfunctioned and failed to deploy—which punctured her lung and caused a tension pneumothorax.

They gave her etomidate and succinylcholine for the respiratory failure, intubated to give her some air, thoracostomy with chest tube for the pneumothorax, three units of blood with TXA and tourniquets for her legs, but she'd already lost too much blood.

Her crushed legs were cutting off her blood supply and sending her into hemorrhagic shock, and her punctured lung was preventing oxygen from getting into her blood.

It didn't take long for her to go into cardiac arrest, and Jack took on the compressions damn near instantly, barking out orders to check if anyone fucked up something along the way so they could fix it and fix her.

But the chest tube was perfect.

The blood was being pushed as fast as it could.

There was no tamponade.

And she still had no pulse.

But Jack remained steadfast, performing a whopping forty-five minutes of premium CPR before Robby called time of death. 

And even after her dead body had been carted off, Jack remained rooted in his spot, the events playing in a violent loop in his head over and over and over again.

He wasn't there when his wife died, or when they pronounced her dead, so the distance allowed him to make it perfect in his head.

There was no pain, no blood, no suffering, it wasn't real.

Out of sight out of mind, right?

But he was here for this... this was real.

This was bloody and painful and agonizing and tragic... and this was her... on her day.

Safe to say, Robby sent him home almost immediately, and for the first time ever, Jack didn't fight it.

Which brought him here, on the dark streets of Pittsburgh, walking home to his lonely, empty apartment in complete and utter silence.

At least... until he saw you.

Or rather, the guy sneaking up behind you.

The sound of fast-scuffling feet on concrete snapped him out of his thoughts, turning his attention to the other side of the street where—sure enough—a man was running up after an unsuspecting woman.

"Hey... Hey! HEY!" Jack shouted, voice hoarse and brows furrowed, hoping to get your attention.

But you must've had earbuds or Airpods or something in your ears, because you didn't even flinch until the man's fist came down on the back of your head.

The instant you let out a scream, Jack was moving, sprinting—with a faint limp due to his prosthetic—right into oncoming traffic and toward your attacker as he grabbed you by the hair, dragging you into a nearby alley despite your intense struggle.

Tires screeched.

Cars honked.

Belligerent drivers stuck their heads out their windows to shout profanities.

Jack didn't care.

He didn't hear them, anyway—and even if he did, they wouldn't have registered.

Nothing would've.

In that very moment, the only thing that existed in the universe was you.

There would be no more death today—no more blood, no more pain, no more suffering.

He was going to save you... or die trying.

After what felt like eternity, he finally made it to the other side of the street, the sound of wet thuds and punches connecting and bounding off the surrounding walls of the alley.

Without hesitation, he drew a ten-blade from a secret flap in his pocket, not breaking stride as he jumped the curb and discarded the sterile packaging.

"GET THE FUCK OFF—her?"

Taken aback, Jack practically skid to a stop, eyes wide with genuine shock as they settled on the scene before him.

You were straddling your attacker—completely oblivious to Jack's presence—both knees on either side of his hips while your hand roughly fisted the front of his hoodie, holding him up while your free hand turned his nose into ground beef.

"Fucking!" Punch. "Asshole!" Punch. 

"M'jus'!" Punch. "Trying!" Punch. "To walk home!" Punch.

Jack winced, each thud getting seemingly more crunchy and squishy at the same time.

He wasn't one to gag easy, but the way that man looked, one would think someone had taken a meat cleaver to his face rather than a fist.

With a final, powerful blow, your punch made his head slam back against the pavement, forcing his body to go limp and effectively signalling that enough was enough.

You dropped him with an unceremonious huff, letting the man go like a bag in a trash can as you rose to your feet, shaking out your punching fist, which was stained red with a mix of both his blood and yours—yours being from your split knuckles.

"Goddamn it..." you winced, flexing and extending your fingers, your glare returning to the unconscious man at your feet. "I have to work tomorrow, you dick!"

In a bout of frustration, you sent a swift kick to his side, the man letting out a weak and pathetic groan in response.

"I think you got him," Jack remarked, the words seeming to fly out his mouth before he could stop them.

Sure, he wanted to see that asshole pay as much as the next guy, but after what you'd just been through, he doubted having a death on your hands would be helpful in the long run.

Snapping back to reality, you realized someone was now standing right behind you, and at the sound of his voice, you flinched, eyes crazed as you turned around, fists ready to defend yourself.

Sensing your fear, Jack dropped his ten-blade, raising his hands in surrender.

"Hey, hey, hey, easy," he assured, voice soft and calm as he took a step back, not taking his gaze off you. "I come in peace."

Finally having the chance to get a good look at him, you took in his appearance.

With his broad chest and camo backpack, you'd he'd be on the cover of Sexy Vets weekly, arms and legs thick with soft but firm muscle from what you could see through his scrubs.

Your eyes met in an instant, an electric buzz shooting up your spine at his features.

From what you could see through the darkness, they were rounded, but strong and handsome in their own rugged way.

His lips pulled in a taut line as he stared back, brows furrowing while his eyes flicked around you, almost like he was trying to gauge your reaction.

"You with him?" you asked, tone sharp and clipped as you nodded to the unconscious man behind you.

"No," he shook his head, "Saw him grab you from across the street. Ran over to help."

Suspicious, you scoffed, "And why should I believe that? You look military... but for all I know, you could be his partner or somethin'."

"'Cause if I was, I would've knocked you out while you were busy killing him," Jack answered, not missing a beat. "Or just slashed your throat with my blade."

You paused a moment, gaze flicking from his oddly sincere face, to the knife at his feet.

Accurate? Yes.

Graphic? Also yes.

"Kick it away,"you ordered, fists still firmly locked in front of your face.

He did so without question, kicking it so deep into the alley that even if he did make a break for it, you would have more than enough time to escape.

It was surprising, but only further eased the tension in the air.

"Thank you," you exhaled, shoulders sinking as you allowed your arms to fall to your sides, relief finally soaking into your bones. "I'm sorry. I thought I heard someone else shouting, but things moved so fast and that guy just caught me by surprise and I was just trying to get home—"

"Don't apologize," Jack quickly shut down, lowering his hands and instead shoving them in his pockets as he slowly approached, making a point to move extra slow as not to spook you. "That was intense and you just..."

His gaze drifted back to the man, who was still unconscious.

"Wow..."

"What?" you smirked, amused by his surprise. "You expected a damsel-in-distress type situation?"

He nodded, "Honestly? Yeah."

The sincerity of his response made you chuckle, but also respect him for his candor.

"Sorry to disappoint," you shrugged, sauntering over to your attacker and crouching beside him. "Growing up, my house had no room for damsels."

Reaching out, you pressed two fingers against his carotid, checking his pulse.

"He still with us?" Jack asked, cocking a brow.

"Sadly," you sighed, annoyed. "Pulse is strong. About seventy-three, if I had to guess. Face is already clotting."

Leaning down, you pressed your ear against his chest, listening closely.

"Good breath sounds bilaterally. He'll be fine. A few ice packs and a nasal fixation and he'll be back to assaulting in a month or so."

At your vocabulary, Jack stopped for a moment, brows furrowing.

Clotting?

Breath sounds bilaterally?

Nasal fixation?

Were you... were you a doctor?

"Hey, you wouldn't happen to have a roll of gauze in that bag of yours, would you?" you asked, slowly approaching him as you carefully examined your knuckles.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he nodded, fishing one out of the side pocket and tossing it over. "Catch."

"Thanks."

He nodded, falling in step as the two of you exited the alley, "And don't worry about that guy. I got a friend on the force I can call who can take him in."

"Actually?" you asked, eyes on your hand as you wrapped it like a boxer, hoping to give your fingers a little more mobility.

"Yup."

You glanced up from your work, a small smile curling on your lips.

"That's actually... really nice," you glanced up from your work, a small smile curling on your lips. "Thank you."

"You shouldn't thank me for having common decency," he remarked, amused.

"Well, between that guy and the asshole that cut me at the Pizza Hut today, I'd say there's a pretty low standard around here," you scoffed.

And, for the first time on this day in ten years, Jack chuckled.

Really, truly, and genuinely chuckled.

The sky was falling.

"You just moved here?" he asked, raising a brow.

You scoffed once again, tickled that he thought you would answer, "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Well, judging by the fact that you're a woman walking home alone with loud music in an area like this... I'm gonna go out on a limb and say yeah."

Damn.

He saw right through you.

"Alright, fine, I moved in a little over a week ago," you caved with a huff.

"Figured as much," he nodded. "New job? Doctor?"

"How the hell did you—?"

"A normal person doesn't say good breath sounds bilaterally when checking to see if someone is breathing. Not unless you're one of us."

"There's an us?"

"NPs, physicians, surgeons, residents, med students. Take your pick."

"I think I'd like to keep at least one part of my life a secret from you, Captain Analyze."

"Captain Analyze?" he smirked, brows rising to his hairline.

"Seemed fitting since I don't even know your name and you're already trying to figure out what I do for a living," you shrugged, gaze pointed as you turned away from your bandaged hand.

"Jack Abbott."

Once again, the words came before he could even think of them, his mouth answering at a speed that would've been embarrassing were he not so exhausted and distracted.

Your brows raised, lips unable to fight the curve of a smile at his quick answer.

"A full name, eh? Lucky me," you teased, plastering on a suspicious look as your eyes scanned over him. "You'll have to settle for (y/n) for now. Can't be too careful."

"Fair," he nodded, unable to bite back much of his grin either. "Though, now that we're acquainted, I was hoping you'd let me walk you home... make sure you get in safe."

Your brow arched, "After all that, you don't think I can take care of myself?"

"Oh, I don't doubt it," he shook his head. "But by get in safe, I mean get in without cuffs. This is strictly for the safety of the rest of the neighborhood."

Oh, God, was he flirting?

With you?

Today?

Jesus Christ...

He needed to get the fuck home before he did something he'd regret.

Despite all odds, you laughed at his joke, the sound a relief when he fully expected you to rip him a new one—you were a hard read, and he hadn't had a... whatever this is, since his wife passed.

"You promise you're not some psycho killer?" you asked, playfully, with a hint of severity in your tone.

"If I was smart, I would've done it already," he answered earnestly.

"Very true..." you nodded along, finally giving up. "Alright then, you can stick around. But we're gonna have to turn around 'cause we walked past my place about two blocks ago."

"Me, too," he agreed, turning on his heel as you started back the way you came.

And—of course—it turned out that the both of you lived in the exact same apartment building.

And not only in the exact same apartment building, but on the exact same floor.

And not only on the exact same floor, but in the units right across each other.

Somehow, for an entire week and a half, neither of you had noticed each other until now.

You were totally confused—as you knew Jack was nowhere near the realm of forgettable—but Jack knew that between SWAT and the Pitt, he was barely home, anyway.

Regardless, the two of you said your good nights, wished each other luck in your respective endeavors, and went on your merry way.

Completely none the wiser as to how intertwined your futures would be from this point on.

.

.

.

Day 1

"Don't you think it's odd? Transferring to another hospital in your third year of residency?"

"I think it's none of our business... And I think you should be more concerned with getting a head start on your charting."

"My charting'll get done when it gets done," John waved her off, flippant, as he took an obnoxious sip of his iced coffee—which had long since been empty. "Don't act like you're not curious."

He sat lazily on the swivel chair next to Parker's work station, leg mindlessly swinging while he swirled the leftover ice in his plastic cup, using the vibrant orange straw to shift it around in search of the last few drops of caffeinated goodness.

"Insubordination... malpractice... affair with the attending... the possibilities are endless."

"How 'bout the possibility of you leaving me alone?" Parker groaned, throwing her head back with annoyance as she sharply turned to him, "You been talkin' my ear off about this for the past thirty minutes and, last I checked, you've got a kidney stone in Central 10."

"Still waiting for her labs. Day shift had a car pile-up that delayed a bunch of staff upstairs," John answered, plainly, as he slurped his empty cup once again.

The familiar buzz of daytime nurses, NPs, and MAs shuffling their way out filled the relatively quie—er... calm space, save for John's insufferable thirst.

"Then hit up Triage," she deadpanned, turning her attention back to her screen. "Chairs is winding out the door. Could use the extra hands."

The man scoffed, an amused smile stretching across his lips as he let out a genuine, incredulous chuckle, "You're kidding, right? You trying to get me killed? I heard most of them have been out there since six a.m."

"All the more reason to go."

"Yeah, sure. If you're so eager, why don't you do it?"

"Cause I'm in the middle of something."

"Oh, please, you were done with that chart ten minutes ago. You don't wanna go out there as bad as I do."

"Call me old fashioned..." Lena chimed, glasses hanging low on the bridge of her nose as she flipped through leftover paperwork on her side of the nurse's station, "...but shouldn't it be the man takin' on the possibly hazardous work?"

"Thank you," Parker grinned, vindicated, as she tossed a thankful nod over her shoulder.

"Don't even go there. You honestly think I can defend myself better than Ellis can?" John quickly rebutted, brow arching to the sky. "Really?"

Lena paused a moment, thinking it over.

"Touché."

"Hey!" Parker scoffed, snapping her head over to the older woman. "Traitor..."

"Glad to see my med students have time to chit-chat," Jack remarked, sarcastically, as he strode over, plopping a patient file on one of the flat surface of the hub and clicking his pen. "Especially when they're packed like sardines over in Chairs."

John swirled his chair around to face him, an easy smile curling on his lips, "Just talking about how great our attending is."

"Already told you, Shen, kissin' my ass'll get you nowhere," Jack muttered, eyes trained on the paperwork in front of him as he scribbled down a few notes.

"Always worth a shot."

"Just finished the chart for Collins's amaurosis patient," Parker reported, signing out of the computer and rising to her feet. "Gonna do one more vision test before I discharge him."

"Sounds good," Jack nodded, not taking his gaze off his task.

"Say... weren't we supposed to be getting a new R3 today?" John asked, eyes narrowing dramatically as he made a show of lifting his wrist to check his watch. "It's almost an hour into the shift and they still haven't arrived."

"First day. She probably overslept."

John instantly sat at full attention.

"She's a she?"

"I guess," Jack shrugged. "All I've been told is we're getting a female R3 named Dr. (l/n)."

"Keep it in your pants, man," Parker shook her head with at Shen with a smirk, amused.

"Hey! Happily married over here. I'm just curious."

"She's probably stuck in traffic downtown," Lena chimed. "Heard they're still sortin' things out after that pile-up."

"Well, it's not like she's missing anything. It's been quiet so far."

Instantly, all three heads snapped up and jerked toward John, very clearly displeased.

"Dude!" Parker hissed, smacking him in the shoulder.

"Ow! What?!" John winced, brows furrowed as he flinched. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you guys believe that stupid superstition."

Jack chuckled, tongue in cheek as he dragged his gaze back to his papers, shaking his head.

Kids today...

3...

"Tack on about twenty more years of experience and get back to me," Lena smirked, turning to pick up a phone call.

2...

"It's just a myth. One word can't make emergencies appear out of thin air," John rolled his eyes. "This is the ED not Candyman."

1...

"See? We're fi—"

Suddenly, the ambulance bay doors slammed open hard enough to rattle the crash cart parked by he wall.

"GSW, peds arrest! Move!"

Jack froze.

He knew that voice...

Whipping around, he watched as rainwater hissed off the stretcher wheels while two EMTs barreled through PTMC's entrance, scaring the shit out of Logan—the night security officer—who was stationed near the door.

The child on the gurney couldn't have been more than seven—small, pale, soaked in blood from the chest down, tiny Spider-Man pajamas cut open in calculated strips.

And kneeling on top of the moving gurney itself, one knee braced beside the boy's hip, was you.

Last night you.

Nearly killed a man you.

Gave him butterflies for the first time in ten years you.

And you were standing—sitting—right in front of him, in the flesh, as what looked to be his new R3.

Fuck.

Your black scrub top was darkened with blood at the hem, your palms locked over the boy's sternum, elbows straight, compressions clean and steady.

Behind the stretcher, the mother stumbled after—barefoot—mascara and tears streaking down her face, clutching a crying toddler to her chest.

"I locked it! I swear I locked it! Oh, my God, my baby! I'm so sorry—!"

Jack snapped himself out of it at the sound of her cries, expression going from pale to laser-focused in a heartbeat.

"Trauma One! Now!"

Beside him, Parker was already moving, tugging on a pair of gloves.

John followed with his usual calm speed, making a point to ignore Parker's sharp glare.

"Looks like Candyman to me..."

You didn't even look up as the team fell into step around you.

"Accidental GSW. Low-velocity handgun, 9 mil. Shot by younger brother at close range," you barked, voice rapid, clipped, and perfectly controlled despite being in the middle of compressions. "Single anterior abdominal entry, no identified exit wound."

Jack's eyes flicked over you—scrubs, hospital badge clipped haphazardly at your breast-pocket, movements sharp and precise like you'd done this a million times before.

He should've known.

Of course you were a doctor—and of course you were his new resident.

Life had a funny way of making things happen.

"Fancy seeing you here," he dryly remarked, jogging alongside the gurney.

You shifted seamlessly to allow him more room—and to keep your ass out of his face, "Likewise."

Parker cocked a brow, "You two know each other?"

"Not important,"you bothanswered in unison.

As the other two approached, now close enough to get a good look at you, Parker's eyes partly widened, John blinking once, taken aback.

The harsh fluorescent wash of the ED caught your face in flashes between the ceiling lights—caramel skin that glowed warm even under hospital pallor, dark brown eyes fixed and unshaking, full two-toned lips shaping pointed, detailed medical information.

For one dangerous half-second, both of them stared.

Parker recovered first, muttering under her breath, "Damn..."

You kept going.

"Single penetrating wound two centimeters left of midline, upper abdomen. Massive intraperitoneal hemorrhage suspected. Initial pulse weak and thready on scene, then lost en route. Decreased breath sounds absent—no evidence thoracic penetration. No obvious head trauma, no secondary injuries."

The EMT swapped in, "Switch compressions."

"Switching."

You slid off the mattress just as she jumped up, resuming your work while you landed beside the moving gurney, keeping stride.

"Found initially GCS 6, then rapidly deteriorated to 3. Pulse 168 sinus tach before arrest, BP 62 over 43. One round of epi given at 0.01 milligrams per kilo IV."

The eight of you practically flew into Trauma One, the doors already shoved open by nursing.

The mothers cries echoed off the tile and steel.

"I though the safe was locked! I just looked away for a minute! I thought they were playing! Please save him! Please!"

You pushed through the threshold with the team.

"Pressure dressing improvised on scene with folded towel and duct tape to staunch the bleed."

Jack's head snapped toward you as Parker, John, and the EMTs transferred the boy to the trauma bed.

"You did the dressing?"

You were already snapping gloves on.

"I was heading out for my shift when I heard a gunshot from my neighbor's apartment. I went in, secured the scene, packed the wound with clean dish towels, cinched pressure with duct tape, elevated his legs, and called 911," you rattled off as if it was nothing. "Duct tape and cloth's as good as any hemostatic bandage in a pinch."

Jack stared a beat, impressed despite the chaos—this seemed very on brand for you.

"You ran toward gunshots?" John scoffed, disbelieving.

You shrugged, "She made me a tray of cookies when I moved in."

Jack nodded, focusing back on the patient, "That pressure bought him time. Let's not waste it."

Then, his voice cracked like a whip.

"Ellis, airway setup. Shen, ultrasound and second access. You—" his gaze locked on you "—you're with me on circulation."

"You got it."

In an instant, the room detonated into controlled violence.

"Pulse check."

"Still PEA."

"Resume compressions."

"Ellis, Miller 2 blade. Prep for RSI but hold meds 'til we have a pulse. John, I want a femoral line tray open in case the IO infiltrates. Ultrasound now."

"On it."

John passed the probe over the child's abdomen.

Your eyes cut to the screen, "Free fluid in the Morrison's pouch. Pelvis, too. It's filling the belly."

"Gimme three units!" Jack ordered. "Peds ratio pack!"

"Nurse, activate MTP, 1:1:1 modified pediatric dosing," you added. "Warm blood only. Get calcium chloride ready after first unit."

The first cooler hit the room.

"Why warm blood?" Jack asked, wanting to test your knowledge.

You spiked the blood yourself, hands sure.

"Warm blood prevents hemolysis. Cold blood can sometimes break down healthy cells or initiate a state of hypothermia in the patient," you answered, not missing a beat. "Ellis, squeeze this in. Shen, once tube's in, bag him and confirm with bilateral rise."

"Tube passing."

"Hold compressions."

The cuffed ET tube slid through tiny cords.

"Resume."

"Color change?"

"Yellow end-tidal," Parker said. "CO2 up to 24."

Better.

Jack was already scanning the wound with his eyes, "We need temporary hemorrhage control."

You nodded once, already there mentally, "We can try REBOA."

Parker's head whipped toward you, "For a kid?"

"Seven-year-old, borderline size but feasible," you said, already palpating the femoral region. "Better than letting him exsanguinate before OR."

Jack's mouth twitched—the closest thing he had to a grin.

"Do it."

You guided John's shaking hand to the ultrasound probe.

"See the common femoral? Freeze there. Needle at forty-five degrees. Gentle."

He followed your instructions.

"Flash."

"Wire."

"Wire advancing."

"Good. Parker, balloon catheter."

The room seemed to tighten around the moment.

You advanced the sheath, then the catheter, eyes flicking between estimated insertion depth and monitor.

"Zone I depth... inflate."

The syringe depressed.

Seconds later—

"Pulse check."

The nurse's fingers found the carotid.

Her eyes widened.

"I have a pulse."

The whole room exhaled.

Parker let out a disbelieving laugh, "No way."

Jack was already moving again. "Call Walsh. OR now. Exploratory laparotomy for penetrating abdominal trauma with temporary REBOA control."

You leaned over the boy, checking pupils and securing the ET tube ties.

"Pressure 84 over 50 and climbing," John reported.

"Good. Keep him permissively low till surgery has clamps on the source."

The doors burst again as trauma surgery arrived with transport.

As the bed rolled out, the mother caught sight of her son's color—less gray now, monitor alive.

Her knees nearly buckled.

"Is he—?"

"He'll live," Jack nodded, his gaze shifted to you. "Thanks to MacGyver over here."

But now, suddenly, the adrenaline began to ebb just enough for your details to land all at once—for the second time in about twenty-four hours.

The loose curl stuck to your temple.

The soft fullness of your lips as you finally let yourself breathe.

The heavy rise and fall of your chest as you came down from your own high.

Jesus Christ...

Distracted, his feet stuttered over the threshold of the trauma bay, but he managed to smoothly and discreetly play it off without anyone noticing before awkwardly correcting his posture, eyes partly wide and chest tight.

When Gloria told him he'd be attending a new, female resident, she failed to mention the resident would be you—he knew the woman had no idea you two knew each other, but she could've at least given him a name.

I mean, Jesus, he'd just met you yesterday—after a mugging, no less—and all he could think about was the way your hair framed your face as you pulled it out of its original confines.

The way your dark, stained scrub bottoms still faintly displayed the curve of your figure.

The way your eyes practically glowed with a warmth unique to a doctor who'd just saved a life.

He honestly had half a mind to think you were some sort of prank, a test to throw him off his game or do God knows what.

Yet, realizing that he was probably entering creepy old man territory with the way he was silently staring, Jack cleared his throat, forcibly neutralizing his face back to its usual steel.

"Creative wound packing, early hemorrhage control, seamless hand-off, and REBOA under pressure on your first shift," he folded his arms, clearing his throat. "You saved a boy that should've been dead twenty minutes ago."

He nodded.

"Solid work."

For the first time all evening, you smiled.

Small.

Tired.

Stunning.

You arched a brow at his impersonal tone, especially after the events of last night.

"How formal..." you teased, folding your hands behind your back. "This the part where I say Thank you, Dr. Abbott and ramble about how glad I am to be here?"

"You knew I was your attending when I told you my name yesterday," he stated, eyes narrowed as the pieces all came together. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Stranger danger," you shrugged, plainly. "Attending or not, you were a random man on the street, and I'd just been attacked."

You cocked a brow.

"You expect me to reveal the details of my employment just because you walked me home?"

"I—"

But before he could get a word in, Parker immediately stepped between you two with a grin.

"Okay, no, hold on—that was badass."

"No kidding. Where'd you learn to REBOA like that?" John laughed, joining in.

You tugged off your gloves, playing off the praise with a shrug, "See a few things, pick up a few tricks. It's the Wild West over in Newark."

"Oh, wait 'til you spend a week here."

With your attention elsewhere, Jack seized the opportunity to disappear in the incoming crowd of nurses and patients and MAs, his grey-auburn curls growing more distant by the second as you glanced past Shen to watch him go—totally not because he had no real response to your question.

Outside Trauma One, the mother's sobs had shifted—still broken, but now threaded with hope.

Somewhere upstairs, surgery would crack open the boy's abdomen, find the bleeding vessel, retrieve the bullet, repair the damage.

And he would live.

Because a woman, who'd fought like hell to keep herself safe a few hours ago, had heard one gunshot through an apartment wall—

—and ran toward it.

.

.

.

let me know what you guys think. this didn't turn out as good as i hoped. i had a hard time writing for jack and i think i lost some steam at the end.

and plz give me more ideas. i have concepts of where i wanna go with this but suggestions would be greatly appreciated.

(i am open to writing for the pitt (brendon park and jack abbott only)

[xoxo-mylove]

Omg I neeeedddd part two immediately!! This is soo good

[pellucid-constellations]

Speaking In Plurals

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader

Summary: When Jack met you, his world shifted. He began to speak in plurals, in groups of three. It was him, and then it was you, and then it was Penny. He’d do anything for his girls, and he wanted to make that clear. Official. Concrete with titles and questions and the ring he kept mulling over. And then life happened. 

Word count: 5.1k

Warnings: Angst!, injury, inaccurate medical happenings, accident/crash

a/n: GIRL DAD JACK 🗣️ This was fun to write let me know if you'd like something without so much angst for this little family 😌 but you all voted angst in my last poll so this is the outcome. Heheheh anyways love you bye <3

More in this universe here :)

Masterlist

~~

Jack Abbot had stopped assuming children were in the cards for him. In another lifetime, another decade, he had considered the possibility—him as a father, his wife a mother. But life changed, time passed, and Jack Abbot had given up on that notion. Instead, he lived vicariously through his coworkers and told himself that he liked the freedom of a childfree life. He volunteered his time to dangerous proclivities in the name of the greater good and sat in the silent hum of his apartment.

And then he met you. 

And he met what came along with you. 

You had been dodgy about your daughter at first, sharing the information as if it were a combination of landmines and wincing as if he were already edging up from the table to run. It made sense that he didn’t know about her. He had met you in a coffee shop after a fourteen-hour shift and still thanked whatever higher power was responsible for the delirium-infused confidence that led him to you, but he didn’t know much. He just knew you were beautiful and you were in front of him and you stared up at him with eyes that made him blink faster, so he asked you out. 

You told him about her on the third date, and Jack couldn’t stand the way you flinched, so he held your hand across the table, rubbed his thumb along your knuckles, and said, “Whenever you’d let me, I’d love to meet her.” 

“Are you serious?” had tumbled out of your mouth directly after, and Jack couldn’t take that either, knowing that so many people had missed out on you and told you that that reaction was warranted. So he pressed your fingers to his lips and quirked his mouth into a smile despite his uncovered frustration. 

“Of course I’m serious. I’m always serious.” 

Jack Abbot fell in love with Penny almost as fast as he fell in love with you. Middle-of-the-night illnesses frequently tainted his exposure to children, so Jack had almost forgotten how energetic and full of life a four-year-old could be. Penny was shy, bashful in ways like her mother, but she was also intelligent and loved squids (you said it was a phase) and asked Jack questions about bones because you told her he was a doctor and she had just learned about bones in preschool. 

“Have you ever seen a bone?” 

“I’ve seen lots of bones,” Jack had whispered back to her, eyes flashing wide for emphasis. 

“That’s literally crazy,” Penny had gasped, looking over her shoulder at you as you paid for a snack at the farmer’s market stall. “My mommy says that if I ever see one of my bones, I need to tell her right away.” 

Jack knelt beside Penny on the grass. “Your mommy’s right. You want to see something cool? I don’t have a bone in my leg.” 

“What!” 

It hadn’t taken long for Penny to become accustomed to Jack’s presence. She asked about him when he wasn’t around. She joined calls when you checked in early during his shifts. She saved a book full of stickers to show him when he came over for dinner, which he did often. Said stickers also somehow appeared on his prosthetic, something your daughter still had a hard time believing to be real. 

And Jack hadn’t been expecting it, but he had begun to think of children again—thinking of his life in squid stickers and irrational questions and a weight on his lap as he sat on your couch and watched an animated dog teach him a life lesson. 

He had begun to enjoy getting out of work. He got to bring bagels to your place early in the morning and kiss you against your kitchen counters and fix Penny’s wild hair as she tumbled into the living room. His hobbies had changed; adrenaline was replaced with soccer games and sticky fingers and lying in bed with you right up until he had to throw his scrubs on. 

Everything had become simple in Jack’s life. There was work, there was you, and there was Penny. And in a few weeks, he would ask you to make his life even simpler. 

~~

A gratefully unfamiliar dread pulsed through Jack’s chest as he turned the corner of the Pitt and saw you. He took inventory instantly, cataloging the tone of your skin, each of your limbs, the small smile on your face as you spoke casually to Mateo. You were fine, you looked to be fine, but Jack still picked up the pace because you were in the emergency department, and you never came to visit without Penny. 

Jack’s eyes shot to your legs, and more panic filled him at the empty space.

“Hey,” Jack breathed, his mouth twitching into a smile that did not reach his searching eyes. He placed a hand on your cheek and tried not to furrow his brows. “You okay? Where’s Penny?” 

Your smile was much warmer. You gripped his wrist, and Jack felt the almost imperceptible way you leaned your face into his touch. “I’m fine, and Penny’s fine. I did late pickup so I could see you before we take the train upstate.”

Upstate. Upstate—right. Jack had primed his brain to work a double, so that often meant blocking the shifts with tasks. He was just about finished with the day shift, and your trip to see your family was a night shift event. Your train was leaving at 7:30 pm—an in-between-shift event, then.

“You coulda brought her by, too,” Jack quietly replied, brushing his thumb along your cheek as Mateo swiveled his stool to the other side of the nurse’s hub. Relief was slowly trickling through the shock of seeing you unannounced.

“Oh, I see. If I don’t bring Penny, I shouldn’t come at all?” you teased. 

Jack moved his hand down to fix your scarf, tucking it closer to your neck. “Didn’t say that,” he argued. “I just wanted to say goodbye to both my girls.” 

Your face heated furiously, an outcome Jack had been hoping for. He loved to get you flustered, and that was the quickest way to do it. Never failed. 

“We would’ve missed our train if I brought her.” You poked Jack’s chest. “You two always get into it, and then I have to drag her away because she gets too upset to leave you.” 

“Can’t help it. I’m just so much fun to be around.” 

“Yeah, well, you’ll have to be fun over FaceTime for the next few days, Dr. Abbot.”

Jack tsked, looking off to the side to tamp down his disappointment. You’d had this visit planned for a few months now, but it didn’t make watching you go any easier. He had wanted to go with you, eager to meet your family, but the Pitt needed an attending on doubles, and Jack was the only one available. You’d assured him several times that it was fine, and there would be more opportunities to come. He knew it was fine. What wasn’t fine was watching his family leave and feeling incomplete. 

He needed to ask you that question. 

“You sure you can’t wait until tomorrow so I can drive you up?” Jack tried. He moved his fixing touch to the zipper on your jacket, tugging it up to keep in the warmth. “No train that way.” 

You brushed his hand off and stepped closer, raising your brows. “Right. Have you drive that far after working a double? Just for you to drive back home, sleep for 45 minutes, and then work again? Not happening, Jack. The train is fine. We’re fine.” 

“You keep saying that,” he murmured under his breath. He placed his hands along your jaw, holding you again, even though he knew several eyes watched on. “Call me when you get on the train. And have Penny bring that spray hand sanitizer she made me spend ten dollars on. It’s flu season. And—” 

“Jack,” you gently interrupted. “I love you. So much. But when I say we’re fine, I mean it. And stop buying her everything she sees in Sephora. She doesn’t even need to be in Sephora. She’s five.” 

“I love you more,” was how Jack decided to respond. He tilted his head back and looked at you fully, his hands moving your face to one side and then the other. 

“Memorizing me?” you teased. 

“Something like that.” 

Continuing his shift was difficult. Jack had already felt the weight of the double being exacerbated by your departure, but then you FaceTimed him on the train, and the night got heavier. Penny held up her hand sanitizer with a mouthful of marshmallow muffling her words, and Jack just wished he could be sitting beside you on that stupid train. He’d paid more for the two of you to have a private compartment, and it was nice knowing you were cared for, but he had become the one taking care of you. 

He felt his back stiffen as the night went on. 

“You gotta loosen up, Dr. Abbot,” Mateo called out after five minutes of Jack scrolling through his camera roll. He’d stopped on a picture of you and Penny on the hood of his truck. “You knew they were leaving all day. We still got nine hours before you can go home and make scrapbooks.” 

Jack hooked his chin over his shoulder, placing his phone face down on the charting station. “Mind your business.” 

Mateo put his hands up in surrender. “They’re coming back in three days. You work all three of those days. It’ll be quick.” The younger man patted Jack’s shoulder. “Then maybe you can finally fish that ring out of your locker.” 

“What do you know about that, huh?” Jack accused, crossing his arms in a show of intimidation that didn’t match his almost-smile. 

“Nothing you didn’t just confirm,” Mateo quipped back. “I’ve babysat at her place enough times to catch a vibe.” 

“Catch a vibe?” 

“Yeah. It’s emanating from you.” 

Dr. Shen passed by the pair, settling into a stool and logging into the computer. “What’s emanating from him?” 

“My vibe, apparently,” Jack spoke to the ceiling. 

Mateo cut in, resting his arms on the counter. “That he’s gonna propose.” 

“I did not say that,” Jack shot back. 

“You don’t have to say anything if it’s a vibe,” Shen informed him, gaze focused on his notes. He took a casual sip of watered-down coffee. “Can you do it within the next three months, though? I want to win the pool to pay off my car.” 

Mateo let out a hiss, resting his head on his elbows. “Dude. He wasn’t supposed to know about the betting pool. Now he’s gonna be weird about it.” 

“He’s not going to—” 

“Okay, what?” Jack almost sighed, head jolting back. “There’s a betting pool? Since when?” 

“Since you started wearing that little bracelet with the sea creatures on it. It got bigger after y/n came by that one time with lunch and you practically ran down the hallway.” 

Jack stared at Shen as he recounted the betrayal happening under his nose. “Alright. Who’s in it?” 

“Who isn’t—”

 “Got incoming traumas. The T Line crashed. Unidentified number of casualties, but we’re getting at least a dozen wounded.” 

It took a moment for the humor to dissipate from Jack’s body. He heard the charge nurse’s calls to clear the trauma bays and could recognize the movement in the room. Mateo was staring at the side of Jack’s face and Shen had shot up from the charting computer to do… something, but Jack was swimming in a state of thick confusion.

He did some math in his head. 

It might not have been your train. You FaceTimed him thirty minutes ago, and the train hadn’t left yet. You were just sitting with Penny. You had said there was a small delay, but you both were settled into the “stupidly-priced private seats,” and Penny was eager to watch Bluey during the wait. You were wearing an old college sweater he’d left at your apartment. 

But that was thirty minutes ago. 

It could have been your train. 

“Dr. Abbot?” Mateo’s call was a jumbled haze. “Dr. Abbot, what can I—” 

“My girls are on the train,” Jack muttered to himself. 

“What?”

“My girls are on the train,” he said again, clearer this time. His gaze shot to the board as if he’d see your name, a pinpoint focus washing over him. If he were calm enough, nothing could happen.

Mateo said something else, maybe a reassurance or a passing encouragement, but Jack couldn’t register it. He took his shaking hands and donned the PPE needed for a disaster of this magnitude, drowning out the orders ringing through the ED. Shen had taken over as head, and Jack couldn’t remember if he’d told him to do that. He probably hadn’t. 

The first patient wasn’t you. Neither was the second. Or the third. At some point near the beginning, Jack had texted you—a quick text, asking if you were okay, even though that was a ridiculous question. But if you weren’t a patient, and if you didn’t answer him, then the unidentified number of casualties Lena announced was a harrowing reality. 

But it couldn’t be you. 

Jack was doing everything right. He was calm and working doubles and he had paid for you to have better seats. Penny wouldn’t get the flu and he was going to have the lattice on your balcony fixed before you got home. 

You couldn’t be an unidentified casualty. 

“Hey, you good?” Dr. Ellis barked at Jack as he blinked hard in a trauma bay. The man lying in the bed had his arm in the wrong direction, bruises already covering the left side of his body. 

Every moment he wasn’t checking the incoming patients was a moment he couldn’t be sure of you. A moment Penny could be wheeled by. 

Jack cleared his throat harshly. “I’m good. Roll him on three.” 

You weren’t the fourth patient he saw, either. 

But you were the fifth. 

He had prepared himself for it, but nothing would have been enough, he soon realized. No amount of grounding or breathing exercises or visualization would have made it easier. Your eyes were open, but they couldn’t focus on him, not even as he stuttered out a breath and shot to the side of the gurney, his feet quick beside you. 

He said your name, repeated it, but your eyes kept flashing past the overhead lights. An EMT was shouting out your vitals and Jack heard them, but his waterline was burning and the collar of your sweatshirt was rimmed red with blood. His sweatshirt. He’d left it at your place a few days ago. 

Crush injury. Fully conscious but lacks verbal response. Jane Doe—you weren’t Jane Doe. You were his. 

As they landed you in trauma one, Jack began to assess. He ignored that his hands had begun to shake again. “I need you to hear me, baby,” Jack called as he moved meticulously through his assessment. “I just need to know that you can. Can you do that for me? Let me know if you can hear me?” 

A nurse was untangling an ultrasound machine as Jack moved to palpate your abdomen. You flinched. He felt himself unravel. 

“I needed that yesterday!” he shouted, ripping the machine from the older woman’s hands. It wasn’t her fault. Jack would apologize later if he could ever form words again. “Why isn’t anyone giving me info?” 

Dr. Ellis entered the trauma bay, confusion laced with apprehension at the sound of Jack’s anger. All the confusion was wiped clear when she saw who was on the bed. When she saw the blood sticking to the cracks in Jack’s hands and the sheen of sweat on his forehead. 

“You need me to take this?” Dr. Ellis asked, but it was hardly a question. She was direct when she needed to be, even towards an attending, but Jack was not in the mind to be overpowered by reason and level-headedness. 

“No,” he simply replied, eyes glued to the grainy screen of the ultrasound. 

“Are you sure you should—” 

“Free fluid in the abdomen. I need—” 

Jack stopped cold when a sound escaped you. It was breathy, barely even there to make out, but he felt his gaze drop to your face before his mind could even register it. Someone took the Doppler from his hands and the room erupted in movement and calls and beeps from machines, but Jack had his hands on your face as he had just a few hours ago, begging your eyes to focus on him. 

“What was that?” he breathed back, eyes racing over every inch of your face. He cataloged four bruises before you finally found his eyes. “There you are. There’s my girl. You’re doing so good, and we got you, okay?” 

“P-Penny,” you uttered. Your hand twitched up to grasp Jack’s arm, and he silently thanked god that you could move it. “Penny.” 

Jack had been thinking about Penny since you entered the Pitt. He had hoped, in some unreasonable way, that she would be with you. That you both would be fine, maybe with minor injuries, and he would sweep you away into the break room while he managed the crisis. But you were the crisis, and Penny wasn’t here. He had no idea where she was. 

“I know, baby. I know. I’m gonna find Penny. She’ll be just fine. Both my girls will, okay? Promise. Promise on everything.” 

He was speaking so low, his hand on the top of your head and his face close. He felt the dread pool in his gut at the lies he was telling. Jack had no way of finding Penny. He couldn’t leave you and search the wreck for a little girl. They probably wouldn’t let him past the police tape. 

“F-find. Her. Jack, please,” you pleaded. Your nails dug into his arm and Jack had to move his jaw to stop from crying. Your face was becoming pallid and someone was calling surgery. 

“I’ll find her,” he smiled. A sad smile. A waning one. “You don’t worry about a thing. I’ll find her and bring her right to you.” 

“Jack.” 

It was Robby’s voice that tore Jack’s face from yours. He had to have ridden fast to get there. His hair was swept back and he still had his jacket on and Robby was supposed to be out on vacation for another few days, but he was there. He was there, and he shook his head when Jack turned to find him. 

“Let them take her. You gotta back up.” 

They must have been asking for a while. Jack hadn’t registered a single request for him to move; he had been too caught up in tracking each minuscule twitch of your face—in remembering you before life changed, because it still felt the same, just more urgent, more scary. If he stopped looking at you, if you were taken away, there was the chance that you wouldn’t come back. That he would look up and find that Penny was gone. 

He hadn’t been ready for the after. 

Robby forced it, anyway. 

Jack felt like he was going to throw up as they wheeled you away, Dr. Walsh sending worried looks to each person in the trauma bay who wouldn’t meet her eye. Your blood was on the floor in free-flowing streaks that Jack couldn’t look away from, and he felt like he was going to throw up. The bay felt stagnant. The walls moved when he did not. His back hit a hard surface, and Jack let it hold him as he sank to the floor. 

He went to press his face in his hands, but stopped when he saw your blood filling the lines in his palms. 

He hadn’t told you he loved you. He let them take you, and he hadn’t reminded you. 

Robby crouched in front of Jack, hands flexing between his knees. “She’s gonna be okay.” 

Jack felt his head roll against the wall as his jaw trembled. “What’re you doing here?” he croaked out. 

“Mateo called me. Said your girl was in the crash. I was already home, so I came as fast as I could.” Robby paused, scratching his jaw. “Is Penny—” 

“I don’t know where Penny is.” 

“Okay. Okay, we wait then. We wait and see, and we fix what we can—” 

“I can’t just fucking wait, Robby,” Jack finally sobbed, the adrenaline from keeping you awake and talking wearing off in a hard crash. “I can’t wait to hear that she didn’t make it. Or that y/n doesn’t get out of that surgery. I can’t—I have to do something, and there’s nothing—there’s nothing I can do.” 

Jack's hands were raised in a helpless motion, his eyes fixed on the back wall of the trauma bay. He couldn’t see much through the tears, couldn’t feel much past the all-consuming fear, but he would try for you. For Penny. If the two of you were gone, he wasn’t sure if he could. 

“They’re all I got,” Jack nodded to himself, hands hanging over his tented knees. “And if I have to walk out there into a world where I’m alone again?” Jack pointed towards the door, finally meeting Robby’s pinched expression. “Not sure what I’d be doing it for.” 

“Don’t say that,” Robby cut through. “You don’t know that they won’t make it. You don’t. Stop giving up before you have to.”

“I don’t even know where my little girl is.” 

“So we find out. But we can’t do that from in here. We can’t do that when you’ve given up already.” 

So, Robby hauled Jack up from the floor of trauma one, and Jack followed him to the nurse’s hub. He washed his hands, he cracked his neck, and he let the central heating dry the stickiness of his tears as he stared up at the news reports of the crash. He wouldn’t be able to work; that was why Robby came in, but he could make calls. Jack knew people who knew people, and those people were in law enforcement. Those people would know more than he did. 

Jack was glued to the red phone in the Pitt for fifteen minutes, asking about a little girl that no one could find. Lena had sent him a concerned look one too many times and had yet to scold him for using the emergency line, but Jack hardly noticed. Robby was popping in and out of rooms in the role he was supposed to fill, but Jack hardly noticed. 

“Sorry, Abbot. Haven’t gotten the list yet. I’ll send you the info as soon as I get it.” 

Jack squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the growing ache above his nose. He shot out a quick thank you that didn’t sound genuine, and jumped out of his skin when a hand met his shoulder. 

“Anything I can do?” Lena asked. 

Jack only shook his head and went through his contact list in his head once more. It was all looking bleak. Jack’s world was looking bleak. And then the ambulance bay doors burst open, a bed being shoved down the hall, and Jack dropped the phone onto the counter. And then he was sprinting.

“Straggler from the crash. Says she’s five and asking for her mom, but mom couldn’t be found on scene. No obvious signs of trauma other than some cuts and bruises, but—” 

“Oh, fuck. Penny,” Jack gasped out, reaching for her on the bed that was far too big.

To her credit, it was only then that Penny started crying. She had been strong-faced when she got in, fear a shadow on her innocent face, but the moment she saw Jack, that was gone. Penny threw her arms around Jack’s neck and let out a wail he hoped never to hear again. She was trembling against him, retelling events no one could make out, and Jack pressed his nose to her temple as he rocked her where he stood. 

“I know, baby,” he shushed, words so similar to the ones he had spoken to you. “But you were so brave, you hear me? So brave. Your mom’s gonna be so proud of you.” 

Through hiccuping breaths, Penny asked, “Where is mommy?” 

Jack’s chest caved. “She’s getting fixed up upstairs. Mommy got hurt, but they’re fixing it.” 

“I didn’t get hurt because mommy was holding me.” 

“What was that, baby?” Jack asked, tucking Penny’s hair back from her face as he continued to sway. 

Penny looked up at him with big, watery eyes. “When the train started making noises, mommy grabbed me and held me really tight. I didn’t get hurt, but she did.” 

And of course you did. Of course that was why Penny was safe in his arms, and you were fighting for your life upstairs. Jack couldn’t imagine a world where that wasn’t the outcome. You would do anything for her. You were always going to do anything for her. 

Jack looked for you in Penny’s face as he offered the best smile he could muster. “She’s gonna be alright. She was protecting you, Penny. Mommy always protects you.” 

“Like how she used to check for monsters?” 

“Just like that. But I check for the monsters now. Safer that way.” 

“I wish you were with us on the train,” Penny choked out, clutching Jack’s scrubs in her tiny fists. “To make mommy safe, too.” 

Jack’s chest hurt. He pressed his forehead back to Penny’s temple, collected himself with a tight scrunch of his eyes, and grounded. “C’mon, sweetheart. I gotta check you over, okay? Make sure nothing’s wrong.” 

Jack cared for Penny in the same meticulous way he did you. He cleaned her scrapes and assessed her bruises, relishing the small giggle she let out when he prodded around to make sure nothing was happening internally. He felt the weight of the day in a lopsided, confusing uneasiness, one part of his life complete, the other in the balance. He would start to think of you, start to feel the dread, but then Penny would lay her head on his chest as he held her in the break room, and he had to snap back. 

You would want your daughter to feel safe. 

He needed to be a safe place. 

So Jack held Penny, bumping his knee to help her sleep, and he considered what he would have done a year ago. If he had been inundated with a tragedy, he would have thrown himself into work as a distraction. He would have thrown caution to the wind and taken case after case until his leg ached too much to continue. They would have had to tell him to stop, forced him to go home, and Jack would have done so only when he knew he would fall dead asleep the second he hit the mattress. 

Because that was what his life used to be. 

Today, no one had had to beg Jack to slow down. No one pulled him from patient rooms and gave him a stern talking to. They had called Robby as soon as they knew you were involved. They had expected him to slow down for you—for his family. 

Jack pressed a kiss to Penny’s head and enjoyed the difference. 

It was another hour before any news of you came. Penny had finally dozed off, and Jack’s left arm was dead from the weight of her head, but he was alert when Dr. Shen poked into the dim room and smiled softly. 

“She’s out. Asleep, but in recovery. They said she can have visitors, but I don’t know if—” 

Jack gazed down at Penny, still knocked out on top of him. “Can you get Mateo?” 

The pass-off was seamless, Jack running a hand over Penny’s head as Mateo nodded to the older man and promised to take care of things. It would be better for her to wake up with someone she knew, and Jack wasn’t going to leave her with anyone he didn’t trust. He trusted the entire staff, but Mateo was different. Mateo loved Penny. 

Jack cleared his mind on the elevator ride up, and then cleared it again as he walked through the maze of the ICU to find your room. He would bring Penny up when you were more stable, when he had a better idea of the state you were in. You hadn’t looked scary, but you were her mom. You were her mom, and Jack was—

“Jack?” 

He hadn’t been expecting your voice; Jack felt the breath knock from his lungs at the sound of it. His tears were fresh as he rounded your bed, checking vitals in a quick sweep before putting his hands anywhere they could reach. Your eyes were hazy as he leaned over you, but you had said his name, and something in him righted. 

“Hey,” he practically cooed, brushing your hair back as his eyes traced the shape of your face. “Didn’t think you’d be awake.” 

“Penny—” 

“Penny’s okay. She’s not hurt, sweetheart. Mateo’s got her.” 

Jack wasn’t sure he’d ever spoken so low before, so soft amidst beeping machines and the footsteps of nurses in the hall. You let out a breath, and your lashes fluttered shut, and it was clear to Jack that you shouldn’t be awake. That you had fought through exhaustion just to make sure your daughter was okay. 

Pride swelled in his chest, the first emotion to override the fear. “I’m so damn proud of you,” he softly stated. He fixed the blanket around your shoulders and felt his mouth twitch. “Protecting our girl like that. Making it through.” 

In response, Jack saw your own lips form a tired smile, hoarse voice asking, “Our girl?” 

“Yeah, our girl.” Jack kissed your forehead, then your cheek, and then checked the vitals again. “I’ll make it official soon,” he said, almost under his breath. 

“What—does that mean?” 

You were losing the fight to sleep, relief palpable in the room and lulling you off. Jack swung a chair by your bed, clicked his phone ringer on low for any texts about Penny, and waited for you to sleep. Waited to be there when you woke up. 

“You’ll see,” he affirmed, ignoring the wetness still on his cheeks. “I love you. Sleep. I got you.”

More in this universe here :)

[xoxo-mylove]

Oh my gosh that was so cute I loved it

[pope-codys]

could i request ¹⁶⁾ fingers scratching at a scalp FOR ANDREW CODY PLS OMG. he deserves it bro 🙏 also i love ur writing so so much

he DOES deserve it! thank you for this prompt anon, i didn’t realize how much i miss writing andrew

summary: andrew realizes how much you and your daughter mean to him and what he'd do for you both

pairing: andrew 'pope' cody x single mom!reader

words: 2.6k

tags: FLUFF, soft!andrew cody, girl dad!andrew cody, andrew is not a step father - he's the father who stepped up

Andrew arrived home late, much later than he'd wanted.

The job that he'd pulled off with his brothers and nephew had gone on longer than he'd planned. After completing the job, debriefing with Smurf and splitting the cash, Andrew was stepping through your front door hours after he'd intended to be home. When he'd left in the afternoon and you asked about dinner, he told you to leave his plate in the fridge for him and he'd told your daughter he'd be home tonight.

Now it was almost midnight and Andrew felt like a liar. Yes, he was home tonight, but he'd missed dinner, and bedtime, and that sat like a lead weight in his stomach. He wasn't your daughters father but he liked being someone she could depend on. He didn't want to be like Baz, always snapping at Lena and brushing her off. He wanted your daughter to like him, to want to have him around, to be happy when he was there. And telling her he'd be back tonight and returning after she'd gone to bed made Andrew feel bad, like he was letting her down.

He'd thought about it every moment he was at Smurf's, his eyes watching the clock and seeing the seconds pass painfully slow before he was free to return to your house. He'd thought about you the whole drive over and how you'd also gone to bed without him. He imagined you sleeping alone in the big bed without him there, how you told him you always slept better when he was by your side and that Andrew wasn't there right now. He chastised himself the whole drive and let the horrible feeling twist in his chest until he was inside the house and had his eyes on you.

Except you weren't in your bedroom, you were asleep on the couch with your daughter asleep on top of you.

There was a small lamp on in the corner, filling the living room with a soft yellow glow and long stretches of shadow. There was a blanket haphazardly covering you both and the four year old girl was sprawled over you, her cheek smushed against your chest and her limbs in all directions. She was sleeping deeply, her mouth open and her breathing audible, but not quite a snore. Andrew approached as quietly as he could, setting his bag next to the coffee table and moving to stand over you. He noticed that the TV was on, the volume so low it was almost muted.

Andrew had been completely silent where he stood but you woke regardless, blinking awake like you could sense his presence. Your eyes shifted upwards to take notice of the man standing before you and you inhaled, quickly and audibly in shock before your brain registered that it was Andrew and not a threat.

"Hi." You whispered, mindful of the sleeping girl on top of you.

"Why are you out here?" Andrew replied, skipping over formalities and jumping to his burning question. You smiled softly at his bluntness.

"She wanted to wait up for you." You said as you rubbed your hand lovingly over her back. "You said you'd be back tonight and she didn't want to go to bed without saying goodnight to you. We fell asleep here." You watched your daughters sleeping form as you answered Andrews question, so it took you a moment to notice something was wrong with him.

At his silence you looked back up at Andrew and your heart sank into your stomach at the devastated look on his face. You saw the crease between his eyebrows, the downturn of his soft lips pressed into a wobbly line, and the stomach turning woe in his eyes. You reached out to him immediately with your free hand, taking his in your clumsy grasp.

"Andrew, stop it. Everything's fine-"

"I made a promise and I broke it." He hissed back, his voice low and angry. You knew the anger was directed at himself, it always was. Every negative emotion was always turned inward.

"You can make it up to her now." You suggested calmly, your hand squeezing his. "She'll be so happy you're here." Andrew hesitated, his breaths in and out his nose forced and harsh as he thought over his options. "It's better if you put her to bed than for her to wake up tomorrow morning to find you came home without waking her up."

Andrew nodded slowly at your reasoning as he thought it through. He ended up reaching out with a tentative hand to gently shake your daughter awake. She woke with a groan, having been pulled from a dream and only opened one of her eyes to see what was happening.

When she realized it was Andrew in front of her, the reaction was instantaneous. Her whole face lit up in excitement, her eyes wide and mouth open in a big smile that stretched her cheeks.

"Andrew!" She exclaimed, much more awake now, although still groggy. She pushed herself up using her hands and knees, much to your painful protest, and reached out to him. Andrew collected your daughter into his arms, hers going tightly around his neck as she hugged him close.

"You're home!" She said, her happy words muffled against his shoulder. You watched Andrew hold her close, one arm tucked under her and the other wrapped across her back. He pressed his face into her tangle of hair and closed his eyes for just a moment. You watched as the tension and worry melted off of Andrew once he had your little girl in his arms. His shoulders dropped down and his face relaxed into a momentary expression of relief.

"How about Andrew reads you a story and tucks you in Peanut?" You suggested as you moved to stand up.

"Yay, story," Your daughter exclaimed weakly, exhaustion doing its best to pull her back in. The warmth of Andrews hug was lulling her back to sleep and you knew there were only a few precious moments before she'd be asleep again.

"I'll be in bed when you're done." You said to Andrew as the two of you parted at your daughters bedroom door. Andrew pulled back the covers and set her down carefully into the bed, making sure to grab her favourite stuffed animal from the pile so she could hold it as she slept. Andrew picked a random book from the pile on the floor next to her bed and sat down next to your daughter to start reading.

Your daughter scooted over and pressed herself against Andrews side, making sure she was as close as possible with her head resting on his thigh. Andrew took a second to stare at the little girl, still taken aback that she wanted to be close to him at all times, even though your daughter did this any time Andrew was around. You liked to joke that you were both made of magnets and whenever Andrew was around, your daughter would be stuck to his side.

Andrew began reading, telling a tale of a hippopotamus who was not included in the fun activities the other animals were doing. It was a short story, but Andrew noticed quickly that your little girls eyes had fallen shut. Andrew paused, watching her to see if she'd already fallen asleep when she spoke up quietly, her eyes still closed.

"Keep reading Daddy."

Andrew stopped breathing.

He stared down at the top of your daughters head, his eyes wide and his heart beating erratically in his chest. Daddy. She called him Daddy. It slipped off her tongue easily like she wasn't sending a wreaking ball of emotion into Andrews chest.

She saw him as a father, a figure of stability and safety. She felt safe enough to fall asleep next to him, to reach out to him for comfort, to be excited by his presence. She saw him as another parent, another person in her life who could take care of her and make her happy, and as a suitable partner for you. One word and Andrew felt like she was asking him to be a part of your family.

All the blood and violence and death Andrew had inflicted in his life, he thought he was unworthy of love, of wonderful, happy things. But this small girl laid her head in his lap and clung to him as she slept and showed Andrew so much love and kindness like it was as easy as breathing. Like mother, like daughter.

Andrew felt loved - actually, truly loved - with no strings attached.

Andrew finished the story like your daughter asked but she was completely asleep by the end. Andrew didn't want to risk waking her by moving so he stayed sitting up on the tiny child sized bed instead. He wasn't going to sleep tonight anyways, he had a lot to think about.

You woke up around 4am to an empty bed. You'd fallen asleep without Andrew and now woke up without him as well. You pulled yourself out of bed, wrapped yourself up in a large sweater and shuffled down the hall in search of your boyfriend. You found him in your daughters room, sitting on the bed with your little girl tucked up against him. She was fast asleep and drooling on his pant leg.

Andrew had been staring at the wall in front of him, lost in his head, but you standing in the doorway broke his concentration. His blank expression turned to a soft one of recognition as he locked eyes with you. You smiled at him and gestured towards the living room with your head. Andrew responded by looking down at where your daughter slept on him and back up at you.

'She's fine' you mouthed to him and pointed to the living room again before leaving him to follow you. You got settled on the couch and Andrew arrived a minute later after he carefully extracted himself from your daughters hold. Andrew joined you on the couch and laid down with his head in your lap without having to ask. Seven months of dating and Andrew was finally getting more comfortable in your space and with initiating contact without asking. At the start of your relationship he always thought his touch was unwanted and you worked very hard to show him that wasn't the case.

Andrew relaxed into the couch, lying on his side facing away from you. You ran your fingers through his hair, your fingertips scratching his scalp comfortingly as your other hand rested on his shoulder. Andrew reached up and took hold of your hand, pulling it from his shoulder to hold close. He nuzzled his face against the pillow you'd put in your lap and sighed contently as you continued to massage his head.

"I don't want to do any more jobs." Andrew said suddenly. Your fingers paused in his auburn curls as you were completely caught off guard by his statement.

"Really?" You asked, trying to not get too excited. You'd silently wanted Andrew to stop doing jobs since you met him a year ago. You didn't judge him for his crimes but rather the danger made you scared and sick with worry for him. You knew what happened to Baz and you were worried that could happen to Andrew. Any time he walked out the front door could be his last.

"She called me Daddy." Andrew said quietly, his voice breaking on the last word. That got your attention even more than him wanting to stop doing jobs. You leaned over him to make eye contact the best you could.

"What? When? When you were reading to her?" You didn't even try to hide your joy. You knew how much your daughter loved Andrew and this was proof that she wanted him around and saw him as a fixture in her life.

"Yeah, when I was reading to her."

"Andrew!" You exclaimed quietly, mindful of the sleeping girl down the hall. You gave Andrew a little shake of excitement. "That's wonderful! Is that why you want to stop doing jobs?"

"I got thinking about how much she means to me, how much you mean to me," Andrew rolled over onto his back so he could look up at you. "I don't want to do anything to risk this." Andrew squeezed your hand as his words sunk in. He wanted to stop completely and walk away from a life of crime. But to do that he'd have to walk away from a lot.

"Smurf would never let you just leave. You'd have to walk away completely." You asked carefully. It was a lot for Andrew to leave his family but it would be the only way to make a clean break. Smurf was relentless, she'd never pull her claws from Andrew willingly.

Andrew stared firmly at you, making sure he had your attention before he nodded solemnly. Your heart skipped a beat in your chest.

"You'd do that? Leave behind your family? What about your brothers?"

"They did fine without me when I was in prison. They're adults, if they want to break away from Smurf, they just need to find something worth leaving for." Andrew said, his gaze unbroken.

"We'd have to leave Oceanside, Smurf would never let you go that easily." You said, still testing the waters to see if Andrew was sure about his suggestion.

"We'd have to leave California." Andrew replied back, clearly having thought this through completely. He'd spent the last four hours sitting in your daughters room and making a plan in his head.

"I have a friend from college who comes from a family of Relators, they could find us a place in almost any state. We could start over wherever we wanted." You were starting to let yourself feel excited about the prospect of running away with Andrew and starting a new life away from the source of his baggage and trauma.

"We'll make a plan, get everything set up and leave."

"I-" You started, your thoughts going back to his brothers, the one thing in his life that he cared enough about to keep him here. "And you'd do that? Pack up and leave in the middle of the night with no warning? Cut all contact with your brothers? Leave them behind?"

"Of course. I'll write them each a letter and leave it for them here to find. I need to go no contact to keep Smurf away. I need us to be safe." Us. He needed us to be safe. It was finally sinking in that Andrew really meant it, he was going to leave Oceanside. Andrew was choosing a life of happiness and comfort. He was putting himself and his wants first for the first time in his life.

Andrew was choosing you.

"Mommy there's a swing!" Your daughter let go of your hand and ran across the yard to the large tree that sat outside your new home. There was a singular swing attached to a tree branch and it had stolen her attention. Andrew was still unloading boxes from the truck and you slid up next to him.

"That swing wasn't here when we toured the property." You said, a knowing glint in your eye. Andrew looked from you to where your daughter was seated on the swing and attempting to pump her legs enough to build momentum. Andrew shrugged and stood a little taller.

"I had some time last night after I got the keys. Thought the tree could use a swing." You smiled brightly at him and reached up to slide your hands through his hair, your nails scratching the back of his head. Andrew slipped his index fingers in the belt loops of your jeans and pulled you in close.

"I love you." You sighed against his mouth before kissing him soundly. Andrew kissed back, his lips molding perfectly with yours before pulling back to reply.

"I love you too." He leaned in for another kiss but got interrupted by a happy young voice that needed him for a very important task.

"Daddy, Daddy! Come push me!"

dividers by @ cursed-carmine

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[getaw4ycar]

I love my pro abortion and body positive bf mark grayson

[persephore]

consummate — fire-lord zuko ⤥

synopsis it’s been years since life had been rebuilt after ozai’s reign of tyranny. the fire nation — the entire world — is walking the fragile line of peace. to the council, it’s the perfect time for the firelord to marry a commoner woman of the water tribe. to zuko, its an even better time to get the gaang back together.

pairing firelord zuko x reader - insert

cw 3.5k, arranged marriage, implied kataang, aang is written as a wise ray of sunshine, sokka is a sarcastic womanizer, toph beifong is herself, katara is slightly stubborn, canon universe, wedding night, falling in love, fluff and smut, subtle angst, porn with feelings and plot, cunnilingus, married sex, throne sex, penis in vagina sex, no use of y/n for afab!reader, accidental branding, briefly mentioned breeding kink, creampie, short and sweet

link available on ao3

a/n haven’t seen the full movie yet so this is based off the many clips i’ve seen. im ngl, i know the whole storyline from tiktok so at this point i basically have seen the whole movie. anyway, happy reading!

To Aang, Toph, Katara, and Sokka

Becoming the Fire-Lord has normalized stress and many restless nights. Despite it all, I cannot forget the joy we shared. Before we parted ways there was a promise that if we ever needed each other we would come calling. This is my call. I’m getting married tomorrow night. Two months ago, the council decided the responsibility of ruling would be made a bit lighter with a wife by my side to care for. I haven’t met her yet. Never spoken to her. I kept putting it off, thinking they would cancel the ordeal on their own judgment, but now there’s only one more sunrise before the big day. I wish for advice as I also wish to see you all again even more. I missed you.

- signed, Fire-Lord Zuko

Zuko’s fingers brushed the makeup barely concealing his scar.

“What if she thinks my face is hideous?”

“Oh, please,” Toph scoffed, seated on the floor of his private chamber, “As if any woman on earth has ever called you ugly before.”

“I never thought you’d still be capable of seeming so insecure,” Katara chuckled lightly, “Being nervous is a good sign at the start of a relationship.”

“They’re both right.” Aang offered a smile and two thumbs up of encouragement. One of his arms was loosely wrapped around Katara’s waist. “You’re overthinking this, Zuko. The woman’s most likely scared of being in an arranged marriage too. Worried it will forcefully tie her to some mean, arrogant tyrant.”

Sokka leaned against the doorframe. “In that case she would hate the old you. Unless she likes mean, arrogant tyrants. Then you’re screwed regardless.”

Three other individuals in the room glared at Sokka while Zuko swallowed hard and glanced at his reflection in the mirror one last time.

Royal robes had been neatly cleaned and pressed in preparation for the wedding. Recently, long dark hair had grown even longer. Excluding the scar his skin was unblemished. Fire-Lord Zuko looked far healthier now that stress wasn’t too much of a constant in his life anymore. The Fire Nation was at peace, other elemental civilizations equally so. This timing was perfect to prove he wouldn’t be as aggressive as his predecessor. To marry a bender provided by the water tribe and birth a heir.

All according to the council, of course.

Still, he buried his face in his hands.

“At the end of the night I’m expected to consummate the marriage…”

Sokka fanned his hand with mock nonchalance. “That should be the easiest part. I mean, we’re all adults. We already know what part goes in where —“

Both Aang and Katara coughed, faces flushed bright red.

“What if she doesn’t want to?” Zuko groaned. His forehead collided with wood. “What if the idea scares her off or makes her think I’m some kind of sick bastard? A royal marriage remains unconfirmed unless the wedding night is spent together.”

“Here’s some real advice, lie to the council. Pretend like something happened even if it didn’t. Old geezers who haven’t gotten their rocks off in years wouldn’t be able to decipher a lie like that.”

Toph’s words made Zuko inhale deeply, exhaling twice as hard in an effort to calm his nerves. The woman was right. Besides, there wouldn’t be any worry of witnesses accusing him of deceit.

“Or are you just nervous because you haven’t been with a woman in a while?”

Zuko’s teeth gritted at Sokka’s teasing. “It hasn’t been that long.”

Toph snorted a laugh. “Oh yeah? How long has it been?”

No answer was given, not when Zuko came to the realization that it had been a while. It wasn’t intentional, nor something he knowingly kept track of.

“Told ya.” Sokka gloated at the silence. “It’s expected for a Fire-Lord to be pent-up — you know, ruling his kingdom and all…”

Katara rolled her eyes. “As if you’re drowning in women.”

Sokka smirked. “Duh, I am. That’s my specialty.”

“Anyway,” Aang recentered the conversation, “Everything will be fine. When we first met, all of us had our own negative perceptions. Now we’re all here to support you because you proved us wrong. If you did it once it could definitely be done again.”

“Correctamundo,” Sokka firmly nodded, placing a hand on his hip. “Right now your biggest worry should be if your bride is actually super gross-looking.”

“That shouldn’t matter, Sokka.” Katara sighed. “I doubt it. Water tribe women are always beautiful.”

Aang hadn’t taken his gaze off Katara as he mumbled, sheepishly massaging his neck.

“Agreed.”

“Appearance hasn’t crossed my mind. Who am I to judge something like that?” Zuko stood from his seat at the vanity. Heated hands straightened his black and red garments before his eyes settled on each of his childhood friends. His tense expression softened. “I appreciate you all finding time to be here. Truly.”

Katara gave a gentle smile. “Whenever you need us we’ll find time for you. Always.”

Two servants entered the room with their heads bowed low, announcing synchronously once permission was granted.

“Fire-Lord Zuko, your bride has arrived from the Northern Water Tribe.”

Fireworks exploded under a vast starry sky. The festival of steam had commenced, joining water and fire.

The entire time, Zuko hadn’t realized he was staring.

Dancers, music, lights… all were a blur. None could captivate him as his wife had. Feeling him watch you, you glanced in his direction. The small motion made Zuko mend his posture and offer an awkward closed-lipped smile, but his gaze refused to depart from the soft looking skin of your lips, your eyes glowing above a trail of embers. A word hadn’t even uttered through your lips intended for him yet.

Man, how long has he been this pent-up without realizing?

Perhaps Sokka was right.

Zuko made a silent oath to never utter those words out loud.

The wedding ceremony had went smoothly.

There was no doubt it would since there was no need for the husband and bride to interact with each other beforehand. Besides making eye contact a few times, each remained within respective palanquins while a highly-ranked councilman announced the newfound duties of an emerging royal family.

Much later into the night both you and Zuko were still seated separately, only allowing him to admire you from afar. The robes on your body were elegant, silver and blue fabrics complimenting the power coursing through your veins. A corset squeezed ribs so much Zuko could see your small gasps for breath. Each time you shimmered in firelight when a dancer passed made the Fire-Lord even more mesmerized.

There was a new ring on your finger, a fire nation crown on your head…

A weight heavy on your skull.

All of this — the dress, the jewels, the endless fuss — it wasn’t intended for the pleasure of love. Today was dedicated to the survivors traumatized by a meaningless war, worried that a minor incident would tip the scale. To the mothers and fathers fearing their children will be kidnapped and forced to fight again, losing their lives for a selfish tyrant. That stripped this marriage of any emotional meaning and instead provided a logical one. And you — since childhood you had wanted to escape the Northern Water Tribe and its society favored toward men.

Now, what should have been an opportunity at freedom felt more like a cage.

Your fingers clenched the fabric of your dress. You leaned over to a fire nation servant, whispering words Zuko couldn’t hear.

Then, you climbed off the palanquin held on the shoulders of water tribe maidservants.

Zuko watched you saunter into the palace before quickly hustling to follow you, ignoring a councilman who had asked where he could be running off to.

Through long corridors, you stepped onto a balcony, leaned against a railing as you gazed up at the moon. A source begging to be used. It couldn’t be. Not when all that surround you was aggressively overpowering fire.

Zuko stepped onto the balcony behind you, quietly offering his first words in hours.

“May I ask what’s on your mind?”

A response came just as gentle.

“Needed some air. The steam was too much to handle. Too forceful.”

Zuko knew you meant that more in a figurative sense than literal.

“I assume the centuries of war imposed by the fire nation has made you reluctant of this marriage…”

“Reluctant isn’t quite the term I would use.” For a water tribe commoner, your tone was surprisingly warm and steady. “I prefer to drift with the flow of life. If it has brought me to be with you, I will accept it.”

Zuko leaned his forearms on the railing of the balcony; gazed down at the people still singing, dancing, drinking. A mix of water-benders and fire-benders lingered in the crowd, fewer earth-benders cheering along. All interacting with one another.

“My mother was forced to marry my father. She lived a facade of contentment, but cracks always showed the truth,” he buried reemerging thoughts of resentment to instead whisper, “I refuse to become like him.”

The Fire-Lord hesitantly pulled a small box into the night air. One that had been hidden within his robes the entire evening as he struggled to hide the slight tremble of his fingertips. Zuko watched you open it with awe, your eyes brimming with gratitude at the sight of a traditional betrothal choker inside. Instead of being water tribe colors, the collar was black while the pendant itself was blue with fiery red detailings.

“This is beautiful,“ you whispered with honesty, “Unique.”

“It was inspired by one I had seen before. May I put it on you?”

As soon as you nodded Zuko shifted behind you.

Gentle hands slowly tugged blue attire lower. A chilly breeze licked the base of your neck. You could feel him close. Even through clothes his body was warm, strong. His presence created a heat of its own. The adornment raised to wrap tight around your neck.

When Zuko spoke, his sultry breath caressed your ear like silk.

“I was scarred due to my father’s relentless greed for power. The fire nation has hurt me too. I’ve worked tirelessly to fix the consequences.”

“Then I suppose a mark like this isn’t new to you?” A silver sleeve was pulled back to display a burn on the otherwise smooth skin of your arm. “What happened to all the fire nation soldiers arrogant enough to burn children for fun? Do they still live their lives worry free? Is the Fire-Lord so forgiving?”

Zuko tenderly raised your arm to his lips where he placed a soft kiss on the scar.

“I assure you that they’ve been dealt with. A long time ago. Thoroughly.”

“Well the trauma still remains.” Your back turned to him. “I apologize for my insolence, my lord.”

Strong hands held your waist with a benign yet commanding strength, stopping you from drifting away. “There’s no need to call me that. You’re my wife. It sounds a little —“ he cleared his throat, faint redness creeping up his cheeks “— suggestive when my title comes from your lips.”

Your head tilted to the side. A teasing grin crawled onto your face. “Is that how you prefer it, my lord?”

“When a voice such as yours says it, yes.”

You stiffened upon the realization that his flirting had managed to draw a smile from you. After a moment of hesitation, you turned back around to face him. His eyes meet yours under the moonlight, a fountain of fire on the balcony making them glow golden.

“We can make this work,” you conceded with a sigh. “I just want freedom, is all. To feel like my own person, not some random water-bending commoner forced to marry the ruler of the fire nation.”

“Everything you want will be yours. I promise.”

There was a glossy look in his eyes, wet and wanting. A hunger that had been restrained. He inched closer, providing all the time you would need to pull away.

But, you didn’t.

As soon as his lips met yours, his body relaxed for the first time of the night, stress melting beneath your hands braced his chest. All the while, his touch never stopped wandering. Your neck. Your arms. Dragging along your spine until your back subconsciously arched.

A breathless laugh escaped you. “Why are you so eager? We have all night.”

“You’re comfortable spending the night with me? You’re not scared or disgusted or…”

He trailed off at the feeling of your fingertips grazing slowly down his body, ceasing dangerously low on the fabric concealing his v-line.

“We still have a marriage to consummate.”

“You knew about that…?”

“I was discomforted at the thought of sleeping with a man the same night I’d meet him. But…” your words became even quieter, but they were certain, “I think… now that I’m aware of the honor you prioritize… I’m okay with this. More than okay.”

Zuko no longer held onto restraint as he fumbled to steer you toward his private chamber. When your bodies stumbled into the corridor, Toph, Sokka, Aang, and Katara were straining to hear if things were going smoothly with the newlyweds who had disappeared from their celebration. You halted at the sight of a peculiar man — Sokka — straightening when he realized he’d been caught with his ear against the door.

A long heated kiss was planted to your cheek while you spoke with a smile. “I was informed by some servants earlier that my husband’s friends will all spend the next three days here. That he treasured you all above anything else. I hope we’ll become equally as close during that time.”

“Are you trying to suck her face off? That’s not how you’re supposed to kiss —“

Katara slammed a hand over her brother’s mouth to muffle the heckling. “I’m sure we will. Enjoy your night. Looks like he already is.”

Zuko paused long enough to toss your weight onto his shoulder like a sack of rice. You let out a small noise of surprise while he nodded firmly to his group of friends.

“If you need anything do not hesitate to call for a servant. We will see all of you at breakfast.”

Without waiting for a response, Zuko carried you towards the entryway of the throne room, hurriedly stating that it was closest. Aang laughed when the threshold shut with a loud slam.

“Looks like he was worried for nothing.”

“Who’s next to get married in the group? Never would’ve expected him to be first.” Toph sighed, “I haven’t met anyone strong enough to outmatch me yet.”

Sokka shrugged. “Meh, I’m having to much fun playing around.”

Both Toph and Sokka swiveled to face Aang and Katara who both nervously twitched. Heavy stares were desperately avoided.

In the grand room, Zuko murmured against your mouth. His muscled chest cornered yours against his throne. You had already pulled his clothing from him down to just his underwear, delighting in the way firelight from candles outlined his blatant strength. “Tomorrow, I will dedicate my time to learning more of you. Ways a devoted husband should.” His hands caressed along your sides, fiddled with buttons.

There was a teasing look on your face when you pulled the pin that declared him Fire-Lord off his head, long hair releasing from its hold.

You grabbed him close. Soft lips grazed his earlobe.

“I’m aware of another way a husband and a wife should get to know each other.”

Zuko seated you on his throne then lowered to his knees, inching the fabric of your dress from your thighs as amber-colored eyes gazed up into yours.

“Of course, my love.”

Wet. It was all so wet.

Zuko’s saliva drooled over your entrance, tongue sliding over the sensitive bundle of nerves.

His mouth latched onto your pussy hot and drenched. Amber eyes looked lost, unfocused, as if the intoxicating passion drawing whines from you was drowning him along with. The sight of the Fire-Lord quivering, kneeled in front of his throne while he serviced you between your thighs… The man was famished. His painfully hard cock stood upright through a tight confinement of fabric.

Closed eyes, furrowed brows, the sweet juices leaking from your cunt glossed his lips.

Messy, so unbelievably maddening.

You whimpered as legs clenched against his head.

“My lord…”

Frantically, your clothes were torn away with a loud rip. Broad fingers slid your panties to the side as boxers were haphazardly shoved down his thighs.

“Give your first order as queen, my love.” His hands softly caressed the flesh of your hips while he kissed your collarbone. “Declare what you desire of me.”

“I … I order you to make love to me.”

"From this moment forward, whatever you wish is my command.”

The delicate moan that echoed the throne room nearly made him cum on the spot when the head breached. Barely. Deliciously tight was the hole that anchored him within.

"I’m yours, my lady, all of me," In an attempt to soothe you, warming fingers massaged your waist in circles. There was a possessed look in his eyes when you watched the pleasure shown on his face. Parted lips, groans scraping from the depths of his throat. A thumb circled your quivering clit. "That’s it…”

Surprised, a broken-sounding moan left your lips when he began to thrust hard without him being fully inside yet.

Zuko was never a patient man.

Immensely infatuated with you? Yes.

Careful to remain merciful when necessary? Yes.

But patient wasn't a descriptor even his childhood friends would use for him.

Raw, like an untamed animal, each thrust shoved him deeper until your pussy was stretched to the fullest, his balls slapping your ass.

Zuko’s jerky movements melted your thoughts when his mouth attached to your neck and began to suck and bite, strong hands holding your knees over his shoulders. He wasn’t too vocal — small groans and whines doing more than enough to turn you on even more — but you were. How could you stay quiet when his cock bulled through your walls with the heat of a madman, the thumb once at your thigh returning to your clit as needy moans shifted an octave higher?

Uncontrolled, filthy taunts were whispered against your ear.

“Look at you taking me so well…”

“I can still taste your pussy on my tongue…”

“You’re squeezing me, my love, my wife… so wet…”

And when you clamped on him with a sweet cry, he groaned, forcing his length with a squelch.

"So good..." his voice fractured when your pussy squeezed tighter. "Ready to let go for me? I can feel it."

It was true. You were close, oh so close. Any sense of control slipped through your grasp. Your legs jolted with every driving thrust, wetness leaking onto the seat beneath you.

“I — I can’t…”

"Yes you can. Bless me with the expression my queen makes when she loses control. I — I’m here. I’m right here with you."

Zuko talked through your moment of pure bliss, guiding with soft whispers of worship for your body, your beauty. He begged you to cum as if it would be the last time he ever got the chance to feel you. His heat enticed. His weight cemented you to his throne. In a matter of seconds the coil snapped free. A wave of pleasure washed over you — brutal, making your head tilt back.

Your hands moved in a hurry to stifle your loud moans. They were immediately yanked away, pinned to his heaving chest.

“Don’t hide. Everyone in the palace will know you’re mine.”

His sudden possessiveness was one that couldn’t be controlled.

It strengthened at the feeling of his cock beginning to throb. The urge to stuff you filled his mind till he was nearly delirious.

“Oh god …”

One final slam lodged him deep with a low groan. Burning hands fisted the armrests of his throne, then grasped you tight when his dick pulsed, trembles shivering through his thighs.

A kiss poured longing into you until you were aching, yearning. His cock swelled and erupted, filling your already sloppy hole with a mess of cum. The entire time, Zuko whined and shook, feeling your pussy convulse to beckon more and more of his load. Your desperate mewls of his name only made him feel even dizzier, his eyes shutting tight. Curses rolled from him like a mantra. A small whisper mentioned how much he craved to see your stomach full with his child.

Scratches trailed down his chest red-stained like claw marks.

By time Zuko regained his senses the realization of how heated his body had become dawned.

Smoke wafted from the hand placed on your hip. The scorch caused you to flinch at the burn accidentally left behind as the Fire-Lord hurriedly flung himself to the ground. Zuko tensed. The scar was shaped like a disfigured handprint. If anyone saw it the first rightful assumption would be he branded you intentionally or assaulted you out of anger.

Fingertips mindlessly grazed his own scar. Breaths came faster out of panic.

“Sorry, I — sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I usually have better control —“

“I like it,” you murmured tiredly, caressing the mark, “If the council ever questions our marriage, I will show them this with pride.”

The genuine contentment on your face was everything needed to quell his racing heart.

[iamaya03]

𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 dried blood on skin, dusty pink, cold silent mornings, feather-light footsteps...

𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 boxer!pope cody & ballerina!reader 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 pope finds serenity in the early hours of the morning at the gym. when he notices a change in the run-down dance studio across from him, he goes in to meet you, the new owner who also happens to be the most beautiful woman he's ever met. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 2.2k 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 i'm such a sucker for the boxer x ballerina trope and i'm now on season two of animal kingdom so likeeee...also, maybe part two to this?? perhaps?? maybe???? no promises, i have a habit of saying these things and never following through. finally, we're gonna ignore the plethora of plot holes and the fact that this isn't entirely proofread, hoorayyy!! :D

pope isn’t sure why no one takes advantage of places that advertise being open for twenty-four hours. his visits to the gym between three and six in the morning was probably the only place in his life where he felt what the world would call ‘normal’. no one else knew about it, it was the one thing he had for himself. for others, this habit would be maniacal, but it’s not like pope got much sleep anyway. he found that his brain stopped buzzing when it ended up just being him, and the collide of his gloves hitting the punching bag.

he developed a consistent routine of showing up to the gym three, maybe four times a week—whenever he could, really. but it was hard to stay consistent if he happened to take a rough hit in whatever match he would have to recover from. other than that, the routine was comfortable.

things changed when he noticed you.

the gym pope goes to resides nearby a lower class neighbourhood, along a street of run-down buildings that somehow still remain in business; a couple of mechanic shops that rival against each other, a liquor store that gets stolen from at least once a week, the recycling centre that produces constant noise from its heavy machinery, and a pawn shop that pope is pretty sure sells drugs under the radar.

however, tucked away behind a mattress store that’s been rotting since it shut down has a little two-story dance studio that you call home. it’s right next door to the gym, pope can see it from the crusty window when he goes to put his things in his locker of choice.

he paid no mind to it at first, not until he noticed a grey car parked outside at around five thirty that usually wasn’t there. if he looked close enough, he could see a fluffy steering wheel cover and floral air freshener keeping the interior company. huh.

when pope finished up, he couldn’t help himself and took the few steps across the way to check it out. the door was open and the lights were on when pope reached the empty reception area, so he kept walking.

the sloppy white paint job was peeling and chipped at the walls, and the floors were nothing but creaks and dust. there were certain elements set in place that attempted to make the place look more welcoming; two armchairs here, a garland of fake flowers there. pope was about to walk up the old stairs to the second story, but he caught sight of a figure in one of the two downstairs studios. his feet quietly dragged him there before he could think about doing it himself.

you were absolutely enchanting.

your hair was messily done up with a few strands hanging loosely on either sides of your face, framing your features perfectly. every movement of yours was calculated, yet so delicate, and with each twirl your pastel wrap skirt fluttered with the grace of a swan. pope had never seen anything like it before.

you only caught sight of him through the large mirror that lined one of the walls in the middle of your combo. you stumbled with a frightened gasp, clutching a hand over your racing heart. pope didn’t react, just waited for you to recover with his gym bag slung over his rigid posture.

your gasp quickly turned into a chuckle of relief, your palm going to your forehead as your other hand settled on your hip. pope still didn’t say anything.

“hi,” you laughed while approaching him. he glanced down at the ballet slippers on your feet, then looked back up.

“hi.”

an awkward silence lingered between you two for a beat. “can i…help you with something?” you crossed your arms, tilting your head. one of those strands of hair fell in front of your eyes, and pope found himself wanting to brush it away for you before you did it yourself.

“no. i um, go to the gym over there,” he pointed in the building's direction, “i just finished up. saw this place wasn’t empty like it usually is and got curious.”

you nodded with a polite smile, “oh yeah, for sure. i’m the new owner of this place, so you’ll be seeing me around a lot from now on. it's nice to meet you,” you stick your hand out and tell him your name.

pope stared for a little too long before gently taking your hand as if he was trying not to break it. "pope," he replied. your hands were criminally soft, shaking his with the same delicacy he admired when you were dancing.

pope was too distracted by the way your lips moved around your words to process what you were saying to him. when he still wouldn’t budge, you broke the silence again with a chuckle as you stepped back, next to the barre.

“so are you one of those guys who makes the gym their whole personality?" you teased, resting one hand on the barre to practice some slow tendus, "if you just finished up you would’ve had to have been here at like, five in the morning.”

pope's gaze trailed down your body to watch your legs.

“three, actually," he murmured, practically drooling.

“what?” you stopped. he quickly forced his eyes back to your face.

“nothing.”

another little titter left your throat, genuine this time. pope’s head got fuzzy. he wanted to keep talking to you and hear you laugh some more.

in the silence, you returned the favour and took a second to check him out. he had a few bruises all over, but your eyes ultimately fixated on his hands that seemed to have the worst of it, the bruises accompanied by little cuts. you cock your head to the side ever so slightly. it reminds pope of a curious and unbelievably adorable puppy.

"what happened to your hands? if you don't mind me asking," you hummed.

pope was confused before he glanced down at his knuckles, scabbed and bruised. he'd grown so used to it he didn't even realise it was a noticeable problem. he looked back up at you, flexing his right hand before sliding it into the pocket of his shorts. "i'm a boxer," he explained.

"ohhhhh," you say. after a beat, "aren't you like...meant to take care of your hands?" you pointed out. he just shrugged.

with that, you left the barre and moved past him to rummage around your pink duffle bag where you carry all your ballet gear. he couldn't help himself and watched you bend over.

you came back with a roll of general-use athletic tape and held it out to him.

"here. wrap this around your knuckles whenever you train. it'll do you some good if you add a layer of gauze over this too."

pope gave you a look. you nudged the tape a little closer to him.

"i have plenty at home if that's what you're worried about," you insisted. finally, he took it, turning the roll in his hand. he glanced up at you almost shyly, "thank you."

you smiled, and pope decided he would accept a thousand rolls of tape from you if it meant he got to see it again.

after that single interaction, pope came to the gym a lot more often just to see if your car would pull in. some days you'd carry in boxes full of decor, others you'd just have your pink ballet bag over your shoulder.

he made a habit of wrapping his knuckles now, and when he did, pope reminisced over your smile, your perfume, and how quickly you were able to connect with him. it took about a week to go over and talk to you again, though it was more of a forced interaction after he had seen you struggling to get a coffee table into the reception area. you had to pretend you weren't staring at the bulge in his biceps when he pushed the thing into place.

eventually, pope learned that you left a well-respected dance company in the city and have plans of fixing up this place to run it as a ballet studio. he didn't ask why you'd choose to settle in a shit hole like this, not when you talked so fondly of the future; how you would be teaching classes of little boys and girls from the neighbourhood and running yearly christmas shows in the town hall. your goal is to make this industry accessible to everyone, god knows it wasn’t for you.

today, pope finished up at the gym at six as usual, and walking over to yours had become wedged into his routine. sometimes he’d help with some handy work, sometimes he’d just watch you dance. whatever it was, there'd be quiet games of eye tag, a brush of the hand, and an intimate conversation that revealed something about yourself to him. pope loves it all, he wants it all.

pope saunters into your building again. the reception area is far more lively and clean now, same goes for the hallways in between rooms.

when he sees that you're not in either of the downstairs studios, he climbs the narrow staircase to the second level. it's small, but you explained to him that this would be where the dancers hang out before and in between classes. you want to install a few curtains for changing rooms and get a couple of couches too.

there's another little room right next to the staircase where you're setting up your office. that's where pope spots you hanging up a row of framed photos on the wall, and he knocks on the door frame to get your attention. you turn your head, and he melts when you smile.

“hey andrew,” you chirp as he enters. oh yeah, that's a new thing too.

pope was helping you with a broken step on the staircase a week or two ago, and you learned that his real name is andrew in the midst of a conversation about family. why he goes by pope, you're not sure, but you've been making an effort to call him by his real name ever since.

he stays standing a step or two away from your desk in black gym shorts and a baggy dark grey muscle tank top, some sweat drying at the collar. delicious, you think.

pope gives the most subtle smile back and steps closer to where you are, eyes grazing over the photos you're straightening up. there are three of them in a row, evenly space out. each one is of a little girl in different contexts, all to do with ballet.

the first one that starts on the left has the girl on a lit stage amongst a group of other ballerinas her age, all in a line with big performative smiles on their faces. the photo in the middle has the same girl, just a little bit older with a medal draped around her neck, smiling again for the camera with both of her front teeth missing. the last photo looks like it was taken professionally—the same girl once again, but as a teenager and in an elegant costume, settled into a flawless first arabesque pose.

he was going to ask if you need any help, but ultimately lets his curiosity get the best of him. "is that you?" he asks.

you gaze over the photos and let out a soft laugh. "does it make me seem like a narcissist to have these in my office?"

you mean it as a jest, but pope is too fascinated by the pictures to pick that up. he shakes his head, then turns to you.

"no," he decides, "they're nice."

for pope, that's his way of saying: you're a phenomenon, and i want to have the privilege of falling in love you.

sparks fizz between you both in the silence. something like this has happened more than once in the past few weeks, but neither of you have been brave enough to do anything about it.

pope steps even closer and gently touches your hand, towering over you. your breaths mingle, heat flushes through your body, and you meet him halfway in lacing your fingers together. everything is slow, he leans in closer.

"andrew..." you breathe.

and that's enough to get him to kiss you.

his right hand doesn't let go of your left, but his left one lifts up to cup the side of your face. you melt into him and rest your own free hand on his waist.

one kiss isn't enough, so you go again, much more sure of yourselves this time.

instinctively, you rise up and as close to en pointe as you can get in your socks to reach him better, and wrap your arms around his neck, wrists crossing over each other behind him.

his hands settle on your waist as you pull back, gazing up at him with beaming and radiant eyes. you giggle and let your head fall onto his shoulder shyly. he smiles, really smiles, and tugs you in tightly, murmuring into your hair, "you have no idea how long i've wanted to do that."

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭  @cloudedhouse @angelryex @loonylups @bluberrychampagne @stargral @alphabetically-deranged @patrickzweigsdefender @charmedntruer @severe-mental-illness @aemondsbbgx @challengers4ev 𝐛𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

[soulareclypse]

the sweet escape ; a. cody

Andrew Cody x Reader

Summary: A book report brings you and Andrew closer than you could have ever expected. Close enough to imagine the sweet escape.

Word count: 4.9k

a.n: Got in a vibe after starting Animal Kingdom again bc I am done Southland and here we are. Angsty for sure, sorry not sorry.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

If I could escape And recreate a place that's my own world. And I could be your favorite girl, perfectly together. And tell me, boy, now wouldn't that be sweet?

—

Andrew Cody had been known around school as the troubled boy who came in with bruised fists and a permanent scowl tattooed onto his face.

That’s what you had thought about him too until you were paired up for an English project. You had to pick a book that you could analyze through the lens of the found family, a theme that had ended up feeling so ironic in hindsight.

In the beginning, after choosing The Outsiders as the focus of your project, you dominated most of the discussions about the book. Andrew would simply hum in a higher-pitched tone when he agreed and in a lower-pitched tone when he didn’t. It surprised you how easy it was to communicate with him, even though he was practically mute.

At a third of the book, Andrew would participate when you set the stage for him. It started slowly, just a short sentence here and there, demonstrating that he was indeed paying attention and that he had diligently read the pages you had assigned. Over the next few chapters, you found that Andrew responded well to gentle coaxing and soft praises.

“There you go.” Would fall through the cracks of your small smile, hair falling in front of your face as you tilted your head to look at him approvingly. He always tensed for a millisecond, as if he were expecting the compliment to land with a hit rather than a caress. Andrew seemed to get used to the praise after a few work sessions, but that moment where he seemed to hold his breath never fully left him.

By the end of the book report, Andrew demonstrated a similar kind of confidence to speaking up about an idea as he did to heading into a schoolyard scrap.

You had found an unlikely friend in the brutish boy. During lunch periods, he would come find you where you sat under the lonesome California sycamore at the far edge of your school’s territory. You were reading a book that always changed before he could grasp the full storyline, and he sported a never-ending bruise that changed locations before the previous one could ever fully heal.

It seemed like your teacher had noticed the work Andrew had put into your project. She was impressed to see the teenager made of teeth and despair finally find something he wanted to put effort into. Because of this, you weren’t exactly shocked when she paired you up with Andrew for the following project. You were the child that teachers loved to put next to the rowdy beasts in hope that your calm and quiet nature would manage to rub off on them based on proximity alone.

That was how it started between the two of you. You were thrown into his path like his very own proof of Newton’s first law of motion. His body would remain in motion until the external force of your presence finally managed to halt him in his place. The constant rattle of his sixth sense finally dulled enough that he could shift his focus off of surviving for a minute and simply enjoy the sight of your smile and eyes that believed in him a bit too much.

—

Your first kiss had been so clumsy. You hadn’t expected his attention to remain pointed at you once summer break after your junior year rolled around, but yet here he was standing in front of you in your bedroom in the middle of the night.

The first time Andrew snuck into your room, located on the second story of your quaint family home, had quite frankly scared the shit out of you. It had been radio silence on his end, and this wouldn’t usually worry you because Andrew disappeared without trace all the time, but this time you felt a pit at the bottom of your stomach. You didn’t know what was going on, but something was off.

After pressing a kiss goodnight on your mother and father’s temples while they watched their late-night talk-show, you had climbed the flight of stairs and gone to get ready for bed. Your bed welcomed you with open arms as you turned on the bedside table lamp and took hold of the book you were currently reading. Before you knew it, the moon shone through your open bedroom window, and you were sixty pages further in your book.

He placed his right hand on the side of her face, her cheek fitting into his palm perfectly. Their eyes flitted across each other as the air grew heavier around them. It seemed like they had managed to create their own gravity as they were slowly pulled into each other. Oliver’s chin twitched forward slightly, his own hesitation being the only thing stopping him from crashing his lips onto hers. Penny found a flicker of bravery and started closing the ga-

A quiet clearing of a throat snapped you right back to reality, your book being tossed aside in a panic. Your wide eyes turned into slits when you saw Andrew sheepishly sitting on the edge of your window, half of his body still hanging outside the window like he didn’t dare cross the threshold without your approval.

“What the hell are you doing here, Andrew?” You managed a whisper-shout, not wanting to alert your parents of his presence. A huff came out of your mouth as you got out of bed and started walking around to see where you had tossed your book.

“I-” He began, his voice straining like he was trying to soothe a hissing cat. He stopped himself short when his eyes caught on your bare legs, the top half of your thighs, and your upper body covered by an oversized t-shirt. Andrew averted his eyes to the dirty sneakers he was wearing before he continued. “I couldn’t really go home, and you were the first person I thought of.”

Your heart tightened for a moment, your gaze softening for a second. He looked so ashamed it made you forget that you had never told Andrew where you lived in the first place.

“Come in.” Was all he needed to hear to completely hoist himself through the window. It almost felt wrong for him to be standing in your room—like he was going to taint the space just by existing in it.

There was a picture of you with your parents when you were a baby, sitting on the potty with a wide, tooth-missing grin, clearly very proud of your accomplishment. Your parents were crouched next to you and looked like they had just won a million bucks, all bright smiles and love for their little girl and her milestones.

There was another where you sat on a fat white pony, which he later found out was called Sugarcube and was absolutely evil. You had begged your parents to let you take riding lessons after the pony ride at Tammy Walsh’s seventh birthday party, and somehow it had worked. Sugarcube had absolutely snuffed that passion out faster than your butt could hit the sand after he bucked you off.

“You made me lose my page in the book, Andrew.” You sentenced him for his crimes against literature with that look in your eyes. Pure betrayal at his actions.

“'m sorry," he mumbled meekly, his freckled cheeks blushing a deep raspberry shade in the dim light of your bedroom. That seemed to kickstart him into gear. He landed on the other side of your twin-sized bed and bent over to aid in the search and rescue of your beloved book. The breath he was holding in finally escaped when he found your book at the corner of your bedside table and the leg of the bed. “What page were you on?”

“Two-hundred-and-fifteen.” Came out quicker than you could hold it. Andrew wasn’t surprised by it, though. He had discovered that if there was one thing you wouldn’t forget, it was what page you were on. The combination of your clumsiness and your reading while doing everything and anything was deadly for all those surrounding you—except for your progress in reading a book.

“So what happened?” You questioned, curious about what could have happened for him to end up here. The new bruises gracing his handsome face clued you in to what most likely happened; you had heard about his mom’s boyfriends, but you didn’t want to assume.

Andrew gave a negative hum, the same sound he made when he disagreed with what you had just said or wanted to avoid giving an answer. Instead of responding, he kept his gaze on your book as he rolled his back up to stand straight and thumbed the pages of the book until he reached the page he so rudely interrupted. Your eyes widened again as you saw his scan the page, trying to see what you had been so locked into.

“Give that back—" You threw yourself around the bed, careful to do so on your tiptoes so the creaky wooden floors wouldn’t alert your household of your nocturnal activities. Andrew’s face twisted in a crooked shit-eating grin as he simply lifted the book out of your reach, still held in a way that he could keep reading it while you tried to yank the book away.

“Oliver’s chin twitched forward slightly, his own hesitation being the only thing stopping him from crashing his lips onto hers. Penny found a flicker of bravery and started closing the gap between them.” Andrew articulated, his eyes flicking to meet yours for a second that gave away how shocked he was to find your reading material. “Before they knew it, they collapsed into each other like the violent end of a black hole. Their hands grabbed at every inch of skin they could find, tongues meeting for the first time like a well-rehearsed dance.”

“Andrew!” His name came out like a pathetic whine and that stopped him in his tracks. His hand dropped for a second, and you took your chance to jump and pull the book out of his bruised hand. “Don’t try to change the topic.” You whacked your hand onto his stiff chest as punctuation.

You saw his jaw clench as his mind seemed to drift back to whatever caused him to show up here. “Smurf’s boyfriend.” He uttered, short as always, like that was the entire reason in itself and didn’t require any further explanations. “He was being a creep towards Julia—and I—I just lost it.” His hands flexed out, knuckles cracking under the movements. Your eyes followed the movement, and you realized just how damaged the skin on his knuckles was. “Smurf wouldn’t listen, and she told me to get out.” And then quieter, “and to not come back for a while…”

You couldn’t understand how casual he was in how he recounted the events. Like his own mother tossing him out into the streets was an acceptable time-out for a seventeen-year-old boy. Like this was as regular an occurrence as the weekly bonfires the drunk college kids held on the beach.

“Oh.” You weren’t sure what else to say. You knew he’d probably toss himself headfirst out of the window if you said you were sorry. He had the same reaction to receiving pity as a dog realizing there was a pill stuffed in the totally inconspicuous slice of turkey its owner had given him. “I guess you can stay here, but you have to leave before my parents wake up.” It had been that easy. A few seconds of thinking and your conclusion was that he was welcome in your space. You wanted him in your orbit. “Can I take a look at your hands?”

Andrew didn’t answer. Just took a step closer to you, his hands outstretching to meet yours. His fingertips were cold from being outside for god knows how long. You closed your hands around his fingers, holding them close to your chest to warm them up. You made the mistake of tilting your head up to take a peek at him, to try to decode that tangle of emotions you could spot on his face. His eyes were already examining you, like he finally had you under his microscope. Andrew’s gaze jumped down to your lips for a split second, his face all serious all of a sudden, and that caused you to swallow. Your hands squeezed his for a second, a nonverbal green light to do what you thought, what you hoped, he would do.

His lips, like him, were softer than you were expecting. You’d seen him full of thunder and fists; no soft edges on him when he fought a classmate that had picked on his little brother at the beach. You’d seen him like a rainy cloud, feet dragging behind him as he walked to his mother’s car like a man who knew death was the only outcome of the next mission. You’d never seen him light like the wind, suddenly warm like the sun on a perfect, breezy summer day. This was new, and you hoped this side would become as familiar to you as the scent of his warm skin.

—

Andrew kept sneaking into your room late at night well into your senior year. You didn’t have as many classes together, so the eldest Cody boy made up for lost time by lingering in your space any moment he could.

Your parents had started giving you a hard time about your relationship with Andrew. Although he was quiet, your father couldn’t help but look at your boyfriend's damaged knuckles with distrust. Your mother had met Janine Cody and had felt the viper lying ready to strike, hidden under her thousand-watt smile.

They had made up their minds about him—that this would be a teenage fling and it would come to an end by the time graduation rolled around. In the meantime, they could try their damndest to snuff out whatever sparks they could see fly off you and Andrew when you were together.

Andrew simply took that as a fact that he would simply need to fulfill his need for you outside of regular hours. Away from both of your families.

You had taken on a part-time job at Lacey’s Diner during the summer before your senior year of high school. You were planning on getting your driver's license this year, and your parents had told you that if you wanted a car, they would be willing to pay half of it if you got a job and started saving up. They had offered this as a way to ideally keep you busy and thus spend less time with Andrew Cody.

Little did they know that, every single shift you had, Andrew pulled up to the back corner booth at the diner and read whatever book you had recommended to him. He never really bothered you; he was just there.

You would fill up his coffee every few hours, during which he’d ask you a quick question about the book or simply check in on you. He always ordered food, and he always tipped well.

Andrew knew that your boss, a greasy-haired man with a potbelly called Peter, didn’t like the fact that he was always around when you worked—claiming you kept getting distracted by Andrew. His opinion changed fast when Andrew had stopped a petty thief trying to hold up Angie, the other waitress working the night shift with you, for all the cash in the register. Your boyfriend had all but tossed him out of the front door like a bowling ball, and Peter couldn’t deny that incidents like these were happening more and more– he supposed there was nothing wrong with a bit of muscle around on the late shifts…

“So,” Andrew started when you approached his table, a pot of steaming coffee in your right hand. “When he was flexing his hand, it meant that he was into her?” He grabbed the beat-up copy of Pride and Prejudice that you had lent him and read the line you had highlighted.

You laughed at him as he looked up at you, his left eyebrow raised in clear confusion. Andrew was not really the sharpest when it came to social signals. He could sniff out a sketchy stranger like a bloodhound, but ask him to see the romantic subtext in one of your favourite novels—good luck!

“Yeah. Kind of like when you’d catch me staring at you all the time.” You had been shocked that he hadn’t caught on to your helpless crush on him.

Andrew was more subtle in everything he did. From his facial expressions to the way he seemed to try to fold himself in while standing in a group of people to how he spoke. You had told him you loved him, and he had simply hummed a flat tone. Not good, not bad. It just was. It hadn’t hurt your feelings like Cassidy, your best friend, would have

expected it to. You understand Andrew’s comfort zone and what he was able to show. He made you feel loved in the way he started reading the book you had just finished to understand you more, to have things to talk about, and to see your face twist from awe and happiness as you gushed about your book.

“How are you feeling?” Your teasing tone from before was gone. You were all furrowed eyebrows and shifting weight from one foot to the other as your eyes locked into the dried blood by his lower lip and the reddened tooth that had appeared when he smiled at you.

He shrugged. Nothing worse than usual.

“You know, Andrew…" You trailed off as you looked over your shoulder to see if Peter was in his office so you could linger by your boyfriend for longer than usual. “We could leave together. We could do it.”

You were so tired of seeing a new pattern of bruises, like nebulas clouding the constellations of his freckled skin.

Andrew didn’t look at you—his shoulders rounded in like a roly-poly as he seemed to find his black coffee incredibly interesting.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Peter shouting your name snapped you right out of your trance as you threw a quick ‘sorry!’ to Andrew and scurried back to the kitchen to put the pot of coffee back on its warmer.

—

By the month before your graduation, you had managed to convince Andrew of the sweet escape, as you had called it.

You would take the money you had saved up for your car and use it to pay the deposit on the small one-bedroom apartment close to the diner that Andrew and you had visited. You knew his family didn’t make their money from regular jobs, so you assumed that Andrew would keep doing his thing to help cover the rent while you kept working at the diner. You weren’t sure what you wanted to do after high school yet, so you would take this time to enjoy life with Andrew. You knew that he would stick by your side and support you in whatever decision you made in the end, and that was comfort enough.

“What about your parents?” Andrew had asked one night, the bright red 2:17 AM from your alarm clock glaring at him through the darkness of your bedroom from its place on your dresser.

He had snuck in through the window, a daily occurrence at this point, and had pulled aside your duvet to crawl into your bed. Once he had removed his clothes, safe for his boxers, you had snapped to his side like a magnet and remained with your head on his chest.

“I’m not worried about my parents.” Your eyes rolled as you tilted your chin upwards to catch his eyes. “They’ll be pissed and disappointed, and then they’ll find something new to be upset about, and they’ll move on.” It was so simple that he almost had trouble understanding how anyone’s parents would be able to let it go and mean it. How a parent could leave a situation rather than dissect it to see what could be pocketed for later, what could be learned, and what could be used.

“Besides,” a teasing smirk had pulled itself onto your lips. “They always forgive their little girl.” Knowing very well that the only reason Andrew had never been caught in your room all those times you had cut it way too close was because you would bat your eyelashes at your parents and blame the noises they had heard during the night on your kid brother staying up to play with his toys.

Your hand reached up to the nape of Andrew’s neck, a gentle tug following to guide his lips to yours in your favorite kind of 'hello, you.'

—

Andrew hadn’t shown up to the graduation ceremony—no matter how much you had begged him.

“'m sorry." He’d mumbled when you looked at him with that disappointing face after he called the whole ceremony stupid and useless. Besides, Smurf had booked him in for a job that couldn’t wait—what better way to congratulate your son on graduating from high school than to get him involved in a robbery?

You weren’t surprised that he hadn’t been there, but you couldn’t help but be disappointed—you wanted to share this important moment with your person. Your parents, on the other hand, were secretly thrilled that the delinquent you’d fallen head over heels for wasn’t there to stain their memories of this wonderful day. Little did they know that your lease on the small one-bedroom had started the week before, and you had been secretly moving in the items you could take with you from your parents' home into your new home with said delinquent.

Once your graduation celebration supper was finally over, you kissed your parents on the temple while they watched their regular nighttime show and marched up to your bedroom. You grabbed the last duffle bag you had stuffed with the last of your clothes, pushed in an extra book and that picture of you with Sugarcube, and pushed open your window. You had snuck out through the window more times than you could count since meeting Andrew Cody, but you had to admit that it was more a struggle than usual with the added weight of your personal belongings on your back.

You took the bus all the way to your new home, the house keys burning in your pocket as you itched to hold them in your hands—to turn the key on your new life. The climb up to the third floor had felt so effortless, like you were carried by a gust of summer wind to reach the front door that much quicker. Andrew had promised you that he would come after the job and the two of you would celebrate graduating together—You couldn’t lie; you had looked forward to celebrating this achievement with your found family much more than with your biological one.

Before you knew it, you walked into a bare living room, furnished only with a small TV that was turned off, psychedelic-patterned pillows that you had been using as a couch while you saved up for a real one, and a crappy glass table with two plastic foldable chairs. It wasn’t much, but it belonged to no one other than Andrew and you, and that was enough for you. You were pretty sure that as long as you had Andrew, you would never really need anything else.

“Andrew?” You called out, dufflebag forgotten by the front door the minute you stepped across the threshold of your apartment. “I’m home, sweet boy!” That usually did it—the nickname could snap Andrew out of any trance he could fall into.

This time, it didn’t.

You peaked into the bedroom, expecting to have found the lights on and your boyfriend asleep in bed, too exhausted to stay awake after the draining job you imagined he had done. Your eyebrows furrowed as you stood in almost complete darkness, safe for the light in the hallway that spotlit the mattress on the floor and the neatly made bed, nowhere near the state of disarray that you had left it in the last time you were here. You took a few steps into the room, fingers finding the light switch and making the room bright again with the dull ‘click’ of the mechanism. Your eyes immediately snagged on the periwinkle blue vase and the bouquet of white. Calla Lilies that filled it. Your favorite flowers.

You noticed the folded-up piece of paper only once you had gotten close enough to the bouquet to smell its subtle floral scent. Time seemed to slow down as you started to unfold the ripped notebook page and made out Andrew’s scrawl.

I’m sorry. I love you. - Andrew

Your eyebrows furrowed so hard it gave you a headache. Your throat closed like you had swallowed a fist. For once, you were the one who couldn’t understand what you were reading. Where was Andrew to explain it to you? What had he meant? What could you possibly have been missing here?

All the sadness drained from your body and was replaced with a hot, burning anger when your mind placed the last piece of the puzzle in its rightful spot. A flash of bright blonde hair, perfectly white teeth, a smile that masked the wrath in her eyes—Smurf. It was the only thing that could make sense.

You had seen it yourself. She wasn’t a mother like yours had been to you. Smurf saw herself as more of a handler than anything. She had her sons trained to stay at her heel like the words of God would tumble out of her lips at any moment.

Smurf had hated you the second she saw how Andrew looked at you. 'Pope.' She had called her son the same nickname Baz had given him that he hated with a passion. It was the first you saw him be yanked back into his position by the invisible leash Andrew’s mother had soldered onto his neck.

The same way your parents had done their best to sabotage your relationship with Andrew, Janine Cody had been digging her claws deeper and deeper into her son’s psyche. Although Pope had been straying further and further for months, Smurf had never feared that he would straggle away from the flock to the point he’d forever be lost.

‘The sweet escape’ were the words tossed around between giggles in both of your voices that made Janine decide she needed to amputate before the infection spread too far. Pope was hers—and she wasn’t done with him yet.

—

You hadn’t slept a wink that night. Sat cross-legged on the mattress, your body facing the door so you would see it the second it opened. Andrew was going to show up—he had to.

He didn’t.

When you tried calling his phone, it said the number was disconnected. Julia’s phone did the same. The Cody's home phone just rang and rang and rang, never to be answered when you called.

A week later, you had mustered the courage to show up at the gate of the Cody residence. You would speak some sense into him, make him realize he was being stupid, and make him know how much you loved him, and you would forgive him for this—you just wanted him by your side.

The buzzer rang for what felt like an eternity. Then it was quiet—only the vague sound of someone breathing into the microphone coming across the line.

A shuffle and muttering you couldn’t quite make out later, Janine’s sickeningly sweet voice could be heard. “He’s not here, sweetheart. Go home.” and then static that indicated the matriarch had hung up.

—

You stopped trying after a few weeks, but you could never fully let go of the hope that he’d use the key and come home.

No matter how many years you had stayed in that apartment, you never changed the lock because on the first of the month, the landlord would come knocking at your door to collect the rent, and every single month, no matter how long went by, the landlord only ever asked you for half of the rent owed. When you had enrolled in college, your landlord had told you it was only a quarter of the rent paid.

During midterms and finals, when you had to cut all of your shifts at Lacey’s so you could focus on your studies, the landlord wouldn’t show up at all. Fearing you had missed the rent collections due to drowning in your endless class notes, you called your landlord, and he would simply tell you that the rent had been paid and that you were good.

You never asked, and you knew the landlord would never tell anyway; the Cody’s had a reputation, and if someone was smart, they would do as they were told, but you knew that it was Andrew.

It didn’t ease the pain of losing your sweet escape with the boy you loved, but it did warm your heart and quell the tears to know he was still out there, keeping an eye on you, thinking of you.