Wish Things Were Different (Part Three)

Wish Things Were Different (Part Three)

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Masterlist

Summary: You know your mate loves you, but as he and Elain get closer, you begin to wonder if he wishes things had turned out differently.

Pairing: Azriel x Reader (She/Her)

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: angst, mentions of cheating

A/N: This is the final part planned for this series. Thank you for all the support! 

⊱ —————— ❈ —————— ⊰

You woke with a raging headache, your tears, fitful sleep, and missed dinner all catching up to you. The other side of the bed was cold and a brief pulse of your magic told you that you were alone in the house. Azriel had stayed away. The thought of him made your heart ache, your instincts screaming at you to seek him out and soothe the pain in your soul. But as much as you wished you could let things go, the hurt he had caused was far too deep. Before the fight, you had thought this was simply a bump in the road you needed to work through, but now, as you woke to an empty house and an aching heart, you wondered if things would ever be the same between you. 

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identity crisis | yang jeongin

pairing: yang jeongin (I.N) x gender neutral reader genre: college au / university au, roommate au, friends to lovers more tags: humour, fluff, a whole lotta dumbass  wc: 9.4k warnings: college-age drinking & alcohol, swearing, do-not-try-this-at-home energy

this is my entry for the february fic event by districtninewriters, dear skz, with love. click here to view the event masterlist! 

summary: a first letter from a secret admirer turns into a scavenger hunt across campus for the other four, with your roommate Jeongin (somewhat reluctantly) in tow.

You blink into the inky darkness of the room. “Why do you think this guy is sending me letters?” 

“Maybe it’s more for his sake,” Jeongin mumbles in reply. You crane your head to look up at him, but his face is angled away from you. “You know, like counting down before jumping off a cliff.” 

“You’re saying confessing to me is like throwing yourself off a cliff?” 

You can just see the corner of Jeongin’s smile in the dark. “Just as scary.”

You can’t remember the last time you received a real, sent-by-post letter that wasn’t either from your bank or your grandma. You turn over the envelope, and dig your thumb under the seal until it tears open lopsidedly. 

The card inside is as unassuming as its casing, except for the small scribbled number one in the corner. Curious, you open it.

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Crawling Back to You - Cassian x Reader SMUT

Hiiii. A lil bit of Cassian smut. This isn't very good but a couple of people have requested Cassian smut now and I was in the mood for it so here ya go!

Warnings: SMUUUUUUT.

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You were so very, very late. And Cassian wasn’t going to let you forget it. 

Usually you were the first to turn up at the training sessions — and not just because of the Illyrian General that made your heart flutter every time you looked at him. You enjoyed working your stresses out through the various manoeuvres you’d been taught, and seeing the progress you made from week to week. 

Today, you’d just…overslept. Perhaps you shouldn’t have stayed up so late reading.

“Thanks for flying me up.” You clapped Rhys on the shoulder, jumping from his arms. It’d been lucky that he just so happened to be going up to the House of Wind himself; no way were you ready to attempt the stairs. 

“Not a problem.” Rhys said—-and smirked. “Good luck.”

Gods, you were going to need it. Cassian seemed to go harder on you than anyone else. He seemed to have an affinity for pushing you to near breaking point. 

You were starting to think he didn’t like you. Or, at the very least, that your not-so-subtle attraction towards him irritated him.

You tore your way up the stairs to the roof, bursting through the door to find training very much already in session. Cassian was barking commands across the training ring, his hair slicked back and his muscles poking through his shirt. 

You probably would have been able to slip in unnoticed if you hadn’t stopped to gawk at him. 

As if he could merely sense your arrival, he whipped his head in your direction, narrowing his eyes. Great. That ferocious look usually meant a bad mood. 

“Have a nice lie-in, Y/N?” He snapped, striding over to you. “How kind of you to join us.”

“Sorry.” You mumbled, brushing past him. “Had a late night.”

“I’m not interested in who you fucked last night. Either take the training seriously or don’t bother.”

You raised an eyebrow, but kept your mouth tightly shut as you began your stretches. You’d learned that when Cassian got into moods like this, there was no winning with him. It was best if you just kept your head down.

But once you’d warmed up and got stuck in to your usual exercises, you found you actually missed his usual bite that accompanied your training sessions. He’d ordinarily bark at you to do ten extra push-ups or criticise the strength behind your one-twos. 

Today, he barely glanced at you. 

Something must have really gotten under his skin. 

You tried to ignore it; it wasn’t your business. Cassian was hardly your friend — although he seemed to be a friend to the other females you trained with, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t sting a bit that you appeared to be the only one he didn’t have much time for. But you also couldn’t deny the concern rising in you. 

It was when you stopped to take a drink of water, your heart thudding, that Cassian walked past you. And you found yourself blurting out, “Is something wrong?”

He stopped, angling his body towards you — and narrowed his eyes, like you were crossing a line just by asking that. “Other than the fact that I bust my ass coming up here to train you and you don’t bother to show up on time?”

“Mother above, Cassian, I said I was sorry—”

“Great—but I don’t want apologies. I want to train people who want to be trained, and who don’t just come up here to check me out when I take my shirt off.”

Your mouth fell open, your cheeks burning. You didn’t know whether to throw your water at him and storm off, or run and hide in pure humiliation. 

So he had noticed your attraction to him. And it did get on his nerves. 

His eyes shuttered as if even he realised his low blow — but you turned before he could say anything else. You slammed your cup down on the small table, storming past your group of friends. 

“Y/N?” Nesta frowned, but you were already striding off.

Fine. This was fine. If Cassian didn’t want you looking at him, you wouldn’t even fucking acknowledge him. You’d get on with your training and stay out of his way. 

Whatever. Fine. Totally fine.

*

Later that week, you found yourself at Rita’s with Mor, sinking drinks and trying to pretend that you hadn’t been thinking of Cassian for the last four days.

You didn’t know why it hurt you so much. Maybe because he was so charismatic and personable when it came to absolutely anybody but you. Maybe because he gave them dazzling smiles and bothered to stop and chat with them, to joke with them. 

He’d never, ever bothered to do those things with you since Nesta had invited you to train with her, four months after you’d first met in a bookshop. And yet it still hurt that he’d be so gods-damn rude. 

“You’re putting them away tonight.” Mor raised her eyebrows at you, gesturing to your drink. “Got sorrows to drown?”

“Something like that.” You slid the empty glass away from you, grabbing her arm. “Come on. I wanna dance.” 

She followed you with a trilling laugh, always up for a chance to throw her blonde hair back and let her body sway to the music. But as you stepped onto the dance floor, the approaching figures in your periphery had you faltering, tripping over your own feet. 

Rhys, Feyre, Azriel — Cassian. 

“There you are.” Mor grinned. You hadn’t even known she’d invited them. “Grab some drinks and come dance with us.” 

You could feel his gaze on you – Cassian’s. And try as you might to avoid it, your eyes flickered to his, your entire body going hot. It seemed almost as if he was trying to catch your eye, to communicate something without speaking. 

But you ripped your gaze away and allowed Mor to pull you onto the dance floor. 

It was easy to get lost in the chaos of the dance floor. To become one with the other swaying bodies, the music, and to enjoy the feeling of hands all over you, even when you didn’t know whose they were. You were relentless, never tiring, your body continuing to move as one song rolled into another. Mor had somehow ended up at the other side of the floor, dancing with a friend you didn’t know – leaving you alone. Open. 

The male that approached you had been watching you for a while. Tall, dark and ruggedly handsome, he smirked at you as he approached, his eyes flicking down your body and back up. 

“Dance with me,” He shouted over the music, his hands brushing your hips. 

“In a minute.” You grinned teasingly, sliding out of his light grasp. “I’m getting another drink.”

You were hot all over, tingling gloriously and feeling like you were floating. This was exactly what you’d wanted to achieve tonight; to forget how hurt you truly were by Cassian’s scolding, to forget that you had feelings for him. To feel something besides the sting of rejection. 

You sauntered back over to the bar, ordering another of the fruity cocktails you’d been enjoying all evening. You leaned your body against it as you watched your drink being prepared – and were so entranced by the different coloured liquids mixing together in the glass that you didn’t notice the huge presence suddenly beside you. 

“There you are.” Cassian said, leaning down so you could hear him over the music. “I was looking for you.” 

You paid the bartender with a quick thanks, barely giving the Illyrian male a glance. “Why?” 

“I wanted to talk to you—to apologise.” 

“Forget it.” Sipping your drink, you eased yourself past him. “I’m gonna dance. Enjoy your night.” 

“Y/N…”

His voice was swallowed amongst the music as you pushed your way back through the crowd, a slight feeling of triumph stirring inside you. 

If he didn’t want you to stare at him, to show attraction for him – fine. 

There were plenty of other males around here. 

*

You danced and danced with the handsome male until the movements were sloppy, sensual, more akin to fucking with your clothes on than actually dancing. 

“We should get out of here.” He breathed into your ear. “We can go back to mine.” 

Perfect. He was clearly interested, and why shouldn’t you be, too? You shot him a smile over your shoulder and nodded. 

“Just using the bathroom.” He smirked. “Wait for me outside.” 

As he disappeared in the other direction, you wended your way through the still-dancing bodies, finding the entrance and stumbling out onto the street. The air was a pleasant, icy blast, cooling your too-hot body and calming your thundering heart. You allowed yourself to slump against the wall, tipping your head back and smiling up at the sky. 

“His name is Ryckard, and you’re not going home with him.” 

“Shit.” You damn near jumped out of your skin, straightening yourself out and blinking up at the male standing in front of you. “What are you doing, Cassian?” 

“Stopping you from making a stupid mistake.” He grabbed your hand suddenly, tugging you round to the dark alley that dipped down the side of Rita’s. “Every time I see him, he’s leering at females. Which is even more disgusting considering he has a wife.”

“What–”

“Don’t believe me? Ask him. He’s married to one of the musicians that performs in The Rainbow.” 

You grimaced, rubbing your arms. All lust you’d felt mere seconds ago had disappeared, leaving you with nothing but disgust – and annoyance. Why did every male you came into contact with have to be such a dick?

“You’ll regret it if you go with him.” Cassian said, his voice softer. 

“Then I’ll just…go home.” You pushed past him – maybe a bit too hard. Your tone was clipped as you ground out, “Thank you for telling me.” 

But you’d barely made a step towards the mouth of the alley before he grabbed your hand again, yanking you back.

“Look, I’m sorry for the other day.” He stared down at you. “I’d been to Windhaven that morning and Devlon got under my skin. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“No.” You ripped your hand away. “You shouldn’t have. But then, you’re always a complete prick to me, so I don’t know why I’m surprised.” 

“What–”

“Don’t concern yourself, Cassian.” You stepped away again. “I won’t be checking you out anymore.” 

It was so sudden, you barely registered what happened. So quickly, your back was pressed against the cold brick of the wall — and Cassian’s body was pressed against yours. 

“I didn’t mean what I said.” He growled. “I try to put distance between us so that I keep things professional with training. But I like the way you look at me. I don’t want you to stop.” 

You scoffed. “I’m sure you do like it. A nice ego boost, huh?” 

“A beautiful female staring at me every chance she gets? Course it is.” 

“Prick.” 

“Maybe.” He breathed, leaning down until his lips brushed your neck. “But I’d rather be your prick.”

Before you could muster a sharp response, those lips of his pressed against your neck, and your whole body tensed. He smiled against you, trailing small, quick kisses down to your collarbones. Down, down to the plunging neckline of your dress.

“Cassian…” You murmured, not even sure what you planned to say. 

But then he pulled his lips away.

And sank to his knees on the cold, hard ground. 

“What are you doing?” You breathed, your heart picking up as you watched him. 

“Apologising.” He hummed, his large, warm hands moving round to clasp the backs of your legs. “Making up for being a prick.” 

“...Oh.”

His answering laugh was wicked, and his eyes shot up to yours, a smirk playing on his lips. “Unless you want me to stop.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” 

Grinning, he leaned in, his nose nudging your leg as he so, so slowly dragged his hands up your legs. They stilled as they brushed the hem of your dress, and his fingers teased the material, daring to slip under.

“You’ve wanted this for a long time.” He mused darkly, peeling your dress up just an inch. “...And you want it now. I can smell it.” 

A staggered breath fell from your lips. “Get on with it then, you prick.” 

With a laugh so dark, so delicious, you felt it in your core, he met your eyes again – and then pulled the hem of your dress up. Exposed your bottom half to the cold night air. 

“No underwear.” His head fell into a tilt. “You beautiful, naughty female.” 

“Yeah. Well.” You swallowed, watching as he nudged your legs apart. “I knew someone would be getting between my thighs tonight.” 

He answered with a growl – and then surged forward, placing his mouth on your centre with one long, licked stripe. 

“Shit.” You gasped at the sudden sensation, the warmth of his tongue against you, your body jerking. 

“Let me make something very clear.” He grunted onto you, moving a hand to slip through your folds. “No one’s getting between your thighs but me. Agreed?”

You couldn’t speak – not as you watched his long, callused finger trail right down your centre, slicking up with your wetness. His breath was fanning against your clit, causing the nerves to tingle, to come alive–

“Agreed?” He repeated, poising that finger at your entrance. He teased your clit with just the tip of his tongue – a barely-there touch. You wanted, needed, more.

“Yes,” You bit down on your lip. “Agreed.” 

He smirked. “So you do know how to follow rules.”

Gods, he was annoying. So sarcastic and witty and cocky. You wanted to slap his face and then ride it – but he was one step ahead of you. He attached his lips to your clit, swirling his tongue around the nub. And he pushed his finger into you.

“Oh gods.” You groaned, your head falling back. 

Cassian’s mouth smirked against you, his tongue working utter magic as he began to pump his finger. “Like that?” 

“Yes—shit—yes.” 

Your fingers threaded within the long strands of his hair and tugged. He seemed to enjoy the slight pain, releasing a grunt against you. The sound – the feel of it – was consuming. You gasped another breath as he slid a second finger into you. Cassian laughed wickedly as you choked on a moan. 

“Are you always this wet for me?” He grazed his teeth against your clit, causing you to jerk. “When you’re training up on the roof – when you seem to be lost in concentration – is this what you’re really thinking of? My fingers inside you?”

Gods. You felt yourself clench around him. “Your fingers—amongst other things.” 

“Fuck.” The pace of his fingers picked up, pumping faster, faster, until you could hear nothing but the sound of his hand fucking you, his mouth drinking every drop of you and your shuddering, gasping moans. 

“I’m so close.” You gripped onto his hair – pushed his face further against you until you were pretty much riding it, your hips undulating. 

Cassian’s free hand shot up to grab your hip – to encourage your movement as he growled. “Fuck–just like that.” 

Words were beginning to fail you – and your body. Your movements were becoming sloppy languid, as he continued to pump into you, to lick you as you ground your centre against his face, and pleasure overpowered you. With a strangled shout, your hips stilled. Release barreled through you. 

“Gods–fuck.” You gasped, your legs trembling. If Cassian wasn’t still holding you up, still licking you through your orgasm, you would have crumpled straight to the floor. 

And he drank every last drop of you. Like he may never get another chance. 

You were still clenching around his fingers, still shaking, as he pulled them from you. Rose them to his mouth and sucked your essence from them. The sight of him on his knees before you, his mouth slick as he licked the remnants of your arousal–it sent you feral. 

You needed him. On you. Inside you. All over you. You needed to feel the hard, long length of him slowly pushing into you. 

“Well.” He smirked, rising to his feet. He glanced down, smelling the arousal that was already building back up at your centre. “As apologies go, that was one of my better ones.” 

You reached for him – reached for his belt, and the length of him that was pushing through his trousers. 

But he merely placed a chaste kiss against your lips. Tugged your dress down for you. Stepped away. 

“Be on time for training on Monday.” He allowed his fingers to brush your legs as he moved away. “Or you’ll have to show me how you apologise.” 

He was a picture of pure, male smugness as he tucked his wings in and swept past you, heading towards the mouth of the alley.

“Enjoy the rest of your night.” He called, not looking back.

You stared after him, gawking. Trembling. Heart still thudding.

Prick.

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𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

You worry your boyfriend is ashamed of you. This is very much not the case. Or, 5 times Hotch hid your relationship (+1 time he didn’t).

7k words, new-ish established relationship, lots of fluff between angst, hurt/comfort, fem!reader, civilian!reader, reader calls him aaron mostly

༺༻

The security for Aaron's building is weird. Weird as in extensive, intimidating, and extremely intricate. 

You'd really wanted to minimise his stress — the whole reason you're here is to bring him a forgotten sheet of paper that must've slipped out at your kitchen table from one of his case files because you don't want him to have to make up a new copy — but you're too scared to go in. 

You pull your phone out reluctantly and dial in his number, eager to hear his voice even if the security detail a few feet away are freaking you out. 

"Hotchner." 

"Hi, handsome," you say softly. 

There's a small pause. For a split-second a nightmare situation runs through your head, his low voice asking, Who is this?

"Hi, honey." 

You beam so wide it aches, forcing a pleased little breath from your mouth. 

"What do you need?" he asks. 

"I'm outside of your building but I'm too afraid to come in. I'm not sure they'll let me. I need a badge, right?" 

"You're outside." 

You pick at the hem of your sweater, a loose thread marring your otherwise pretty outfit. You'll admit to dressing up unnecessarily to see him. Nice clothes, your most subtle perfume. 

"I found something confidential this morning, a piece of paper. I didn't read it, I promise."

"You really shouldn't be here," he says. 

Your smile abruptly drops. You press the phone closer to your face and wait, hoping he's not talking to you. When it's clear that he is you cringe, the silence pervasive and the most awkward it's ever been with him. 

"Sorry." Your apology is quick, quiet. "I thought it would be easier for you. I didn't mean to… overstep." 

"It's not that. It's busy. Would you hang on to it for me? Maybe I can come and get it tonight, bring dinner." 

You love how he says it. It's not a question, not an assumption. And it's a relief. If he wants to see you on a night where you hadn't planned to get together, he can't be mad at you for being here. 

"Yeah, please. If you want to." 

"I want to. Okay?"

Not for confirmation, it's shorthand. You okay? 

"Yeah. Okay. Have a good rest of your day, handsome." 

"Bye." 

You like to think you can hear the sound of his phone clicking shut, imagining him at his desk in one of his neat suits with a case file open in front of him. You're not sure on the specifics of his job but you know he looks good doing it, and you also know he's very, very busy. You don't take his clipped goodbye as anything but efficiency. 

Maybe you should. 

—

The next time Aaron inadvertently hurts your feelings is in person. 

Compared to him, you wouldn't say you're an incredibly exciting character. Your day job is tame, your hobbies are invaried. You like to watch TV, see movies, you enjoy people-watching. When you hold that stuff up to his job, his profiling, and his hobbies (seriously, who likes triathlon?) you feel rather immature. 

You know deep down that hobbies are hobbies and that your job doesn't define how special you are, but when you're with someone like Aaron who lives and breathes his profession it can play with your head. 

"Is there something interesting about my shirt?" he asks, a murmur under the sound of the TV. 

You look up from the hem of his nice button down and smile, a half-smile. You want it to be more genuine than it is. "Don't you already know?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"You can tell I'm…" You frown, dropping the starched material of his shirt from between your fingers. "I've given myself up, haven't I?" 

"A little," he concedes sympathetically. 

You huff your defeat and let your cheek fall into his chest. Nice to seek comfort from him, nicer for him to give it to you, his arm rising from behind your shoulders to hook around your neck. 

"I'm not profiling you," he says, voice close to the top of your head, "I'm wondering what you're thinking."

You relax under his touch, his big hand settling in the curve of your neck. A semi-hug. It doesn't take long for you to melt into his front completely, your unhappy thoughts dissolving with any tension and leaving only a want to kiss his stupidly nice neck.

"It doesn't matter," you say. 

"You sure?" 

You lift your head from his chest. He has to lean back to meet your eyes and he does it unflinchingly, a bemused smile playing on his lips. 

"I'm good. Better, if you would…" 

"Yeah?" he asks quietly, leaning down, down. 

You can't withstand his charms. He knows exactly how to get you, his smile and his eyes, his lashes kissing in the corners as they close. 

He's imposing in the best way, a heavy presence that overwhelms you. All you can think about is the way he nudges his nose with yours to encourage your head back and the heat of his lips as they touch your own. His arm tightens behind your head.

You try to rise onto your knees, hands vying for his neck and his pitch dark hair. You're doubly pleased when you feel his mouth turning up into a smile, a mirror of your own. 

"Slow down," he chides gently. 

You're about to say something unlike yourself, something loud and brash. Speed up, Hotchner. You're hopped up on the giddiness that comes with being close to him. You're just about to say it when his phone rings. 

He gives you a short, hard kiss. 

"Hotchner." 

You sit back in his lap, his hand sliding to the small of your back to keep you close as his face clouds with confusion. You attempt to climb off of him because you're not a sack of sugar — you're probably giving him numb thighs — but he won't let you.

"Garcia," he says eventually, "is this an emergency?" His tone makes it clear to you that whatever it is Garcia is saying, it's far from an emergency. 

His hand climbs up, over your shoulder. You shudder as he tugs your earlobe, a mild and thoughtless gesture. You're so busy shivering you almost miss his playful eye roll. 

"I haven't changed my mind. Yeah. Thanks for the invitation, but I'm perfectly happy where I am tonight." 

Whatever Garcia says makes him laugh. If you weren't sitting as close to him as you are you wouldn't have heard it. 

"Have fun. Bye," he says succinctly. He snaps his phone closed in one hand, the other dropping from your ear to your shoulder. It's heavy with a remorse you can't allow. "Sorry."

"Doesn't matter," you assure, tilting your head toward his hand and pretending to size him up. You don't know how to profile, but you're a good guess. 

"You're not telling me something." 

"No?" He blinks in surprise.

"No. You've been invited somewhere with your work friends, and you usually go. Why not tonight?" 

"I think that's obvious." 

"You don't have to flake on your friends for me, Aaron." 

He smiles as you say his name. "Like I told Garcia, I am perfectly happy where I am." 

You hide your face in his neck lest he see your doped up smile. "You have nice friends," you murmur, working your hands under the hem of his shirt. 

"I think you'd love Garcia after the infinitial terror." 

"I think I would too. She's good to you, after all. Makes me like her… Maybe one day we can all go out for drinks." 

You don't have to be a profiler to feel the way he tenses. 

"Yeah," he says. It sounds very much like Probably not. 

That's a strumming hurt. Aaron is so nice, so so nice, and he treats you like you're gold dust. He does all the movie boyfriend stuff like flowers, silver earrings on your birthday (with tiny diamonds!), dinner reservations at dauntingly fancy restaurants. And he does stuff you didn't know men did, like calling you near every night to make sure you had a good day, and praising even your smallest achievements, and leaving notes in places he knows you'll find them on hard days. You don't know how he knows when days are hard, he just does. 

You'd figured all of this stuff meant he must really like you, might even love you though he's yet to say it, and that's why his lack of enthusiasm stings. 

Why doesn't he want you to meet his friends? He's obviously very proud of what they do at the BAU. They're not the issue. 

It's you. 

You cuddle him as a pit forms in your chest. 

"You're tired?" he asks.

Funny how it's his comfort you crave when he's the one who's hurt your feelings. You're a little lopsided being upset with him, and you know if you tell him how you feel he'll try to make it up to you, but you're too afraid of the other alternative — a fight. Right now his arms are a sanctity you wouldn't trade for anything. You hope he feels the same. 

You're not sure anymore. 

"Yeah," you say roughly. 

Your eyes burn as he pats your back. "Let's go to bed, honey." 

You'll just… have to prove you're someone worth showing off. 

—

Your plan, loosely titled 'Get Aaron Hotchner to Show Me Off,' is going about as well as you'd thought it would. 

If Aaron doesn't want me to meet his friends there must be a reason. You've been thinking about it and it can't be a coincidence that he hadn't wanted you to return his paperwork a few weeks ago. That must've been something significant. 

But what? 

You start with your hair. Aaron has expressed a lovely and heaping handful of times that he thinks you have pretty hair. He plays with it often, usually when he's limp and tired from a long day. You've always taken care of it. Now you're going to the extreme — hair masks, hair appointments you can't afford, anything to make it look perfect. 

It doesn't work toward the plan, though your boyfriend certainly notices. 

"Your hair," is the very first thing he says when he sees you, stopping only in his smiling assessment to kiss your cheek in greeting. 

"Is it okay?" you ask, turning your face to one side. 

"More than okay. Do you want to go in?" 

So it's kind of a bust. But that's okay, you weren't expecting to get a haircut and magically be invited to team dinners. You persevere, and eventually you forget the plan for the night when Aaron promises to show you how much he likes your new look with a hand at the small of your back. 

Phase two, your clothes. 

You dress as nicely as you can but you're no fashion guru and you can't afford an entirely new wardrobe. You get a bunch of magazines and look for fall staples. What's in this year, and how do you style it? You buy a couple of pieces that fit your budget and try to work around them. 

Aaron's favourite are the new corduroy pants. They aren't a great fit. 

"They're too tight," you lament, pulling the fabric from your thighs where they hug snugly. They're a desaturated sort of burgundy, not bright by any means but a good 'pop of colour'. 

"I know," he says. 

You gawp at him, and when he gets his fingers on the buttons afterward, you break. 

"You like them?" you ask worriedly. 

"What makes you think I don't?" 

"Besides how eager you are to get them off of me?" 

He hooks two fingers in your belt loops and holds your gaze as he tugs them down. "I like them." 

A good time, but still no dice. You suppose a new look, besides looking smarter, doesn't actually prove your merit as a girlfriend. Maybe he wants something a little more concrete before he introduces you to people. Maybe things aren't as good for him as they are for you, and he doesn't see the point. 

That particular thought sparks a wave of panicked tears. 

The next time you see him, it's like he can tell. You wonder if he has x-ray vision, some sixth sense for tear stains that he has yet to tell you about. He's been gone for a few days in St. Louis, and when he'd come back he'd spent the weekend with Jack, so it's a whole seven days since the last time you saw him and your worries have festered. Not even his doting phone calls had kept the thought at bay. 

Maybe I'm not a good girlfriend. 

You open your door and there he is in a quarter zip with an overnight bag, matte suit cover draped over one arm. 

"Hi," you say, unsure. 

"Did I get uglier while I was away?" he asks seriously. 

You startle. "No, of course not." 

He smiles and meets you in the doorway, your head dipping back to accommodate. "I think I've had it too good," he says lightly, bringing a tentative hand to your cheek. "Are you okay?" 

You're trying to work out what he means, and when you do your heart skips. "Handsome!" you say urgently. "Hi, handsome. No, you didn't get uglier, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking, and-" 

He kisses you. It's malaligned because of your parted lips, but it's good. You'd really missed him. 

"You're definitely still handsome," you murmur. 

"Doesn't count. I begged for it-" 

"No!" you deny, lifting on tiptoes to give him another kiss and stop his slander. "It does count because you're always handsome, I promise. I think I slept too much and miswired my brain when I woke up." 

"I don't mind that you didn't call me handsome," he says firmly, "now let me in. We have dinner to make." 

"Right, sorry."

Aaron frowns at you, then. It's weird. He frowns at his phone, at the TV, at nothing, but he doesn't frown at you. 

"Is something wrong?" he asks as you traverse down the hall. You hold your hands out for his suit and bag to take to your room and hang up, ignoring his question. He doesn't give them to you. "Is there?" 

"No." You smile as you say it. 

You're an awful liar, especially with him. He makes you more nervous than anyone because he's your boyfriend and because he's a literal human lie detector. 

"You didn't even try." 

You cover your face with both hands and groan dramatically, spinning around and away from him. You don't want him to see how flustered you are. 

"Don't make fun," you beg. 

"You're embarrassed." 

"Teach you that at the Bureau, do they?"  

You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, distracted by your own racing thoughts when suddenly there are two long arms needling around your waist and pulling you backward. You gasp a laugh and squirm uselessly to escape. 

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. 

You tip your head back, hands falling from your face in surprise. "What for, handsome?" 

His laugh fans out over your face but when he speaks again there's no humour there, only sincerity, "For being gone so long." 

"Well don't be. You can't exactly help it, Agent Hotchner," you hum. 

"Oh, don't." 

"Going out and saving the world takes time. I knew that when I met you, 'n I know it now. You don't have to say sorry." 

"I'm not apologising for my work. I'm apologising that we've," — his nose presses into the highest point of your cheek — "been apart." 

"I did miss you," you relent. 

He presses his lips to your cheek. "I missed you too." 

It's a nice distraction. You'd missed one another, and now you're together. You forget for a while what you'd worried, and only when he leaves again do you remember. 

Maybe I'm not a good girlfriend. 

You're not stupid enough to think Hotch is using you for anything, or that he's insincere. You're level-headed, though. His affection for you isn't necessarily permanent no matter how genuine. 

You don't want to be overbearing. The offers start slow. 

I can wash that for you. Of course I'm sure, I'm great with whites. 

Maybe I could make you lunch tomorrow. You can take it in, spare yourself the federal cafeteria. 

Yeah, I got them shined for you. They were looking a little dull at the toes. 

"Do you want me to press these?" you ask. 

Aaron looks up from where he's sitting in bed. You'd been out on a foray to the bathroom and have come to a stop by his bedroom door where a pair of black slacks hang in wait for the morning. 

He pushes a darling pair of reading glasses up the bridge of his nose. "No." 

"Are you sure? It won't take five minutes." 

"I'll do it in the morning." 

"I can do it for you, then. Just wake me up," you say, pushing back the sheets on the empty side of his bed. Your socked foot bumps his thigh as you pull up your legs. "What are you reading?" 

He puts his book on the nightstand, takes off his glasses. It's too bad. He really suits them.

"I want to talk to you about something." 

You laugh and slide down onto the flat of your back. 

"What?" he asks, confused, the tiniest hint of amusement in his eyes. 

"It's unlike you to start that way. You always cut around the fat." You bring his bed sheets up to your nose and squint at him. "'M I in trouble?" 

"Depends." 

"On what?" 

"You know I care about you." 

Your heart somersaults. That feels very much like a break-up opener, and he must see your anxiety on your face. He wrangles your hand from under the sheets and leans over you, his face in your eyeline, his fingers massaging yours until they ache in the good way. 

"Do you know how much?" he asks. 

"Is that a trick?" 

"No." 

You wait in case there's something he's going to add. When there's nothing, you pull the sheets to your chin and tamp down your perplexed pouting. 

"Yeah, I know how much." 

"I'd like to tell you how much." He pulls your joined hands toward his jaw. "I know I'm not always here, but I'm always thinking of you. In roundabout ways." 

"What ways?" you ask. Self-indulgence.

Aaron Hotchner indulges you. 

"I see," — he kisses your hand — "trees. I've seen a thousand trees, but when I see the bigger ones I wish you could see them too." 

It's a dropping sensation, near uncomfortable, that's how gutted his confession makes you feel. "You do?" 

"Sometimes women walk past me and I swear that it's you because they smell like your perfume. Flowers growing through cracks in the sidewalk. Lights through the jet window." It's the kind of stuff you like to point out to him when you're together. 

He stares at you, a long, reassuring look. 

He deserves a better reply, but all you can say is, "I think of you all the time, too." 

"I love that you want to take care of me, but you don't need to wear yourself out." 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. So that's what this is about. Aaron has profiled you, and now he's being the gentleman that he is and assuaging your fears. 

"I'm not," you say quickly. 

He understands that you're saying I'm not wearing myself out rather than I'm not taking care of you. You are taking care of him, the best that you can, the best that he'll allow. 

"I can press my own pants," he says, leaning down for a kiss. "I can shine my own shoes." He kisses you again. You screw your eyes closed as the warmth of his breath heats your cupid's bow. "I can do my own laundry." He pulls back, dropping your hand in favour of your neck. His thumb pushes against your windpipe gently, palm hot over your skin. "I'll accept the lunches, if you're sure you don't mind making them." 

You feel as excited as you did the very first time he touched you, chest full of a dizzying pleasure, heart bump-bump-bumping a racing rhythm. His thumb strokes a lazy quarter circle into your neck. He can probably feel your pulse, see the way your eyes have blown. 

"I love making them," you say, breathless in earnest.

"The team think I'm spoiled." 

"You aren't spoiled." You're adored, you want to say. You cup his cheek instead. "You'd be spoiled if I brought them by everyday." 

Aaron doesn't stay with you and you don't stay with him enough to make him lunch everyday. He might get one or two a week, and that's when he's home. 

"Wouldn't that be nice," he mutters, his fingers pushing between your neck and the pillow underneath. 

You hike up on to your elbows slowly to avoid headbutting him. "Well, I could." 

His easy, loving smile flattens. "No." 

"I wouldn't mind. My lunch break is super long and it only takes me ten minutes to get there. We could have lunch together." 

"That's not going to work." 

"Okay." You wish you could take it as calmly as he says it. You sound choked up. You are choked up. 

"Sweetheart, the office is a war zone. Half the time I'm not there." 

"I get it," you say, dropping flat onto your back again. 

"Sweetheart." 

"Handsome," you mirror, putting on your best unaffected smile. 

You can't hold it very long, his concerned brows too much to deal with. You turn your head to the left and turn off the lamp on the nightstand, throwing at least half of your expression into darkness. 

Aaron doesn't give up. Does he ever? He cups your cheek and pulls you back to face him. 

"I can't promise any lunch dates. But I was thinking we'd go out for dinner next week, Friday," he begins hopefully, "somewhere nice." 

It feels like an apology and you're desperate to take it. 

"I don't need somewhere nice, s'long as you're there 'n not in Kansas, or Colorado, or Idaho, or New Jersey-" 

He hums and drops his head until his nose lies against your own. "Gonna go through all fifty?" 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Hotchner?" 

"I love your voice," he says agreeably. 

Disarmed, you let him charm you, and you let him push it all out of your mind. Plan foiled, your fears fall on the backburner for a third time. 

—

His fourth rejection is the first that feels entirely intentional, though you won't know until later. 

Mostly because Aaron pushes you. 

Far from cruel, the two of you are actually out walking in the city when he forces you into an alleyway, your fancy drink sloshing down the front of your sweater. 

You laugh in surprise and almost roll your ankle, hands clinging to his coat to stop an unfortunate fall. 

"Holy shit, Hotchner, learn to be a gentleman," you say as he presses up against you. "What are you doing? I'm soaked, you're gonna ruin your sleeves." 

He kisses you hard. It's a surprise, your head jumping back against the wall to find his hand already there to protect it. 

It's worth noting that Aaron is a sweetheart in practically every aspect of life. He once apologised after having walked in on you changing, which is ridiculous because most of the nights where you're together he insists on getting you some sort of undressed (even if it's just to help you into your pyjamas).

Needless to say, he's never kissed you like this. Your emotions spike so suddenly you laugh into his mouth, a girlish peel of giggles that you'll regret afterward but can't stop for the life of you. 

He shushes you. "Sorry," he whispers, as ill-composed as you've ever heard him. "Sorry, just-" He cuts you both off with another bruising kiss. 

Your laughter fades into sighs and little gasps for air. Somewhere near the alleyway opening a group of people pass by, a jovial series of cheers and friendly laughter trailing behind them. Aaron presses you further into the wall behind, and slowly, slowly winds down. Weirdly, you think his last couple of pecks feel sorry, softer and sweeter. 

Your lips buzz. 

"Why'd you buy me that fancy drink if you were gonna tip it all over me?" you ask good-naturedly when he finally pulls back. 

"You looked too nice today." His deadpan voice wars with the smile on his face. "I'm sorry. We'll go find you something to change into." 

"Was it really that important that you kiss me right then?" you ask, feigning disdain. 

He looks out toward the main street again. "Yes. Where do you want to go? There's a Nordstrom." 

You take a sip of your drink, unsurprised when he takes your hand and starts to lead you toward the department stores. "Have you ever been inside of a Nordstrom?" 

"I'm sure I'll figure it out."

— 

The fifth time is the straw that breaks the camel's back. Or the brick. It feels heavier than a strand of straw. It's technically already come to pass, so it's an invisible brick. 

You're out for coffee by yourself which really means you're out for something sweet, bundled up in a coat and scarf to fight the night-time chill. 

"Thank you," you tell the barista, accepting your drink and receipt with a smile. 

You turn around and almost walk straight into a pretty dark-haired woman with really nice hair. You make a note to tell Aaron about it when you see him next, not because he'll care but because he likes to hear what you've been thinking about. And right now, all you can think about is her feathered bangs. 

I want nice bangs, you think offhandedly. 

"I'm sorry," you say, trying to move around her. 

She steps into your path. 

"Sorry," you say again. 

She's squinting at you, thin eyebrows peeking out from behind her hair. "Sorry, have we met?" she asks. 

You try not to be too hasty, but you're not sure you've ever seen her. You stare at her as she stares at you, and you get a tiny inkling of familiarity, but it's gone as quick as it comes. 

"I'm really sorry, I don't think so," you murmur, tilting your head to one side. 

She bites her lip, let's it go. "Oh!" she says excitedly, voice bright with triumph. "Oh oh oh! I know who you are, you're Hotch's mysterious girlfriend!" 

Your smile turns quizzical. You know nearly everybody calls Aaron 'Hotch'. Whenever you try it he either gives you the silent treatment or covers your mouth with his hand. 

"I'm Emily Prentiss, I work in the BAU," she explains rapidly, shoving her purse under her hand to offer it for a handshake. 

You do the same and shake her hand. Introducing yourself feels awkward. She knows you. You don't have a clue who she is. Only- 

"Oh, I know who you are now, I'm sorry I didn't recognise you before!" you say contritely. "I've seen photos of you and the team together. It's really nice to meet you." 

She nods. "It's nice to meet you too. I have to say, we've been dying to meet you. We even have a betting pool on what you're like, because Hotch barely says a thing about you." 

You try not to look as devastated as you feel, re-wrapping your fingers around your cup. "No?" 

"We didn't even know what you looked like until we saw you the other day. We came looking to say hi and you'd disappeared." 

You lick your dry lips. "The other day?" 

"Yeah, last Friday. We were out for impromptu drinks, celebrating a case. You know, you should come with sometime. It would be fun." 

Emily talks each word with an undertone of good humour. She's stunning, bubbly, and her hair flows around her face with every movement. 

"He really doesn't talk about me?" 

Emily drops into girl code niceties, backtracking. "I mean, not too often. We catch him smiling at his phone and hear your voice sometimes when you call. He seems happy. Well, happy as Hotch can seem." She swallows. "He's a private creature."

He doesn't talk about me. 

You pretend to check your watch. 

"It was really good to meet you," you say, voice airy with a feigned nonchalance. 

"Yeah, of course. Super nice," Emily says. 

You smile at her. It's more like a grimace. By the time you're outside of the coffee shop you're too upset to care, a humiliated shock of tears brewing behind your achy eyes. 

You hold your cup to your chest and unzip your purse to tuck the receipt inside, trying to maintain some control. There's a folded note inside, thick cardstock quartered. 

You take it out. Your fingers tremble with offended adrenaline. 

You're beautiful. 

Short, sweet, extremely Aaron Hotchner. Too bad you can't believe it. 

Emily Prentiss being out and about means the BAU are done for the night, though whether your workaholic boyfriend got the memo is anyone's best guess. You're not sure if it's better or worse if he's in work when you call. You're so upset that you can't help yourself. 

"Hi, honey." 

"Do you really think I'm beautiful?" you ask, staving off tears with all your willpower. 

"I wouldn't write it if I didn't mean it. That one took you a while to find, I was-" 

"Are you sure?" 

"...Are you okay?" 

You glare up at the dark sky rather than answer, blinking hard to force down your tears. You really don't wanna cry, but it's been a bad day and meeting Emily has made it worse. No matter how hard you try to think otherwise, all signs point to Aaron being ashamed of you. Embarrassed to be with you. He's hiding your relationship from everybody. 

"Am I- Is it my clothes? My job?" 

"What's wrong with your clothes?" 

"You tell me, detective." 

You're getting angry. He's- he's lying, or he's messing with you. He's making fun of you. At least that's how it feels. 

"Where are you right now?" he asks. You can picture him shrugging on his suit jacket, putting his files in order to come and meet you. 

You don't want to see him. "I'm at the coffee shop by your apartment. I actually ran into somebody, and I'm feeling very well-informed." A first tear bumps down your cheek. You ignore it. 

"I don't understand." 

"I don't understand! What am I doing wrong?" You bite your tongue in last ditch efforts to remain intact, but the tears won't hold off any longer. You swallow a sob. "What's wrong with me?" 

"Nothing. Nothing, honey, nothing is wrong with you." 

You wipe your wet face with mean hands. 

"Stay where you are. I'll come and meet you." 

"No. I don't wanna see you." 

"Honey-" 

"Leave me alone, Aaron." 

You hang up. You walk for a while, feeling as though steam is rising off of your flushed skin with every clumsy step. It had been a short phone call and already you can't remember what you said, all you can feel is angry, and then that runs out and all you can do is cry. 

You've never felt incredibly attractive. Aaron makes you feel better than that — he has the uncanny ability to inspire self-confidence with a loaded look alone. He can smile at you and your skin feels like it's glowing. 

So why doesn't that translate? If he thinks you're so pretty, why does he insist on hiding you away?

Because that day, he'd seen his friends. He could've introduced you but he took you down the alley and kissed you so you wouldn't be seen. That's not too busy: That's secretive. 

That kiss. You fooled yourself into thinking you must've looked irresistible. Fuck. You went home that night thinking you were the best thing since sliced bread. 

"I'm so stupid," you mutter, sniffling. 

Your self deprecation is muffled by the sound of a slowing car. You don't look up. There are two possibilities for who it is, and you don't want to deal with either. 

The car parks and then you do look up. Despite how mad you are you're not suicidal, and Aaron's given you extensive coaching on sex trafficking. 

It's him. Shocker. 

You're half-expecting him to reprimand you. You didn't look up until I parked. You know it takes five seconds to snatch and incapacitate someone? 

He looks haphazardly put together. Suit jacket on but tie loosened, he rounds the hood of his car and joins you on the sidewalk. You don't want to play games with him. He really doesn't need it, he didn't sign up for it, and drama isn't your style, but you're sick of this. 

"You want to tell me what you're thinking?" he asks, standing an amicable two feet away, hands at his hips.

"I'm really mad." 

"What else?" 

"I'm thinking," you say, looking down at your cold hands, "that you… That you're…" You rub your cheek into your shoulder to hide a fresh tear. "I don't know, Aaron. I'm thinking lots of things." 

"Do you want to think about them in the car?" he asks. 

Do you want to talk about it?

You don't want to talk about it. You don't like crying in front of him on a good day. 

You're pretty sure he'll combust on the spot if he knows you're walking home alone in the dark and distracted. 

You get in the car. He has the good sense not to touch your shoulders like he normally would. 

You buckle as soon as you've closed the passenger side door. "I'm sorry," you mumble, looking down at your knees. 

"Let's forget that, for now." He turns the key but doesn't pull out. "Tell me what's upset you and I'll explain." 

"I met Emily Prentiss." 

He looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

"She told me that you don't talk about me. Ever. That they didn't even know what I looked like." 

You know he's listening but he keeps his eyes on the road, and you chance a look at the side of his face. He doesn't seem mad. 

"I don't talk about you often," he says. "But that doesn't mean never… It's true that they didn't know what you look like." 

"Until last week, when they saw us together and you pulled me into an alley so they couldn't see me." 

"Yes." 

Your lower lip trembles. "Do you see why that would upset me?" You're asking genuinely. 

"Yeah, honey." 

Your head jolts up. He's diverting his gaze from the road to you intermittently, offering up a regretful grimace. The oncoming headlights splash over his work worn face. 

"Then why are you doing this? What's so wrong with me that you won't even admit we're together?" 

"Nothing is wrong with you. I'm not ashamed of you," he says firmly, volume rising. 

"Then why?" 

His eyebrows pull together. "You're the best person I've ever met that isn't my son, and I selfishly don't want to share you yet. I also don't want to scare you off." 

You pull your sleeves over your hands and turn in your seat, wiping your damp cheeks as he continues. 

"My job is hard, and it's dangerous. It has jeopardised the safety and wellbeing of people I love before. So no, I'm not eager to introduce you to my world. The more intertwined with my life that you become, the more danger I put you in, and…" The car slows down again. He turns to look at you. "And I like that I'm the only one who knows you like this.

"I have been hiding you. I have. But it was a," — his tone turns wry — "misguided attempt at keeping you all to myself. Safe, and to myself." 

You're finding it difficult to be mad with him. 

He's finding it difficult to maintain his poker face. A fat tear rolls down your cheek and you're not sure what it's made of, fatigue or relief or plain hurt, whatever it is he doesn't like it. He pulls over. 

You hold still as he pinches the tear off of your chin. 

"How long have you felt like this?" 

"Like what?" you ask wetly. 

"Like this." He opens his hand against your cheek. It encompasses your face; you lean in, hungry for reassurance. 

"I don't know." 

"This is why you changed your hair. Your clothes. And started making my lunch." 

You cover his hand with your own. "I actually really like making your lunches." 

You stare at each other until suddenly you're laughing, sniffly, short of breath. Aaron joins in soon after. He always sounds so surprised to be laughing.

"I'm glad," he says when your laughter has abated, pinky and ring finger caressing down the slope of your cheek. "I really like having them. Rossi can't hide how jealous he is." 

"They know about the lunches?" 

His mindless petting pauses. "They know about the lunches. You're not a secret. I'm… selfish with the details. I'm selfish." Aaron takes back his hand. "I'm sorry." 

You take as deep a breath as you can. "Okay." 

"Yeah?" 

"Mm. Can we go home?" 

His eyebrows jump and swiftly smooth again. "Yeah, we can go home." He chucks your chin and gets the car moving again. 

You watch him drive. 

When you get home, he doesn't mind reassuring you some more. Actually, it's like he needs to do it. You'd love to say that it's overkill and that his low murmurings of praise are unnecessary, but you can't. 

"You're lovely," he says seriously across two plates of pasta. Again through the mirror when you're brushing your teeth, and again when you've curled into his chest for the night. You're lovely. Nothing that needs hiding. 

You hear him on the phone early in the morning, half asleep. 

"Hey, Dave. Yeah. Okay. Uh… No, that's fine." He laughs under his breath. "Yeah, if she was awake I'd ask her to make you one. I think she would… Okay. See you in forty." 

You bury your tired face into his pillows and beam. 

—

+1 

Aaron's office is terrifyingly hectic. You can see already that the bullpen is full to bursting with agents, including but not limited to his special team of profilers. There's the distinct smell of coffee, sharp and burning, and then the underlay of printer ink, new paper. 

You can't believe you're here. 

You're not brave enough to introduce yourself to his team, and half aren't at their desks anyways. You hover in the doorway until somebody needs to get past you, taking a reluctant step inside.

You shouldn't wait for Aaron. You should be brave. You're a grown up, and you're bringing your grown up partner his very grown up lunch. You'd wanted desperately to do this. The least that you can do is do it by yourself. 

You've scrapped most of the fall staples but kept the burgundy pants Aaron likes so much at his request. They feel insanely tight on your thighs, as does your collar. In fact, the room has definitely shrunk since you got here. 

Like an idiot, Aaron says your name loud and clear, standing with a hand on the railings at the top of the instep. You hadn't even noticed him emerging from his office.

His voice demands — commands — attention. People turn in their seats, first toward him, and then toward you. 

All eyes on me. 

You don't run but you don't walk either, weaving through desk chairs and people looking a mix of busy and curious.

"You're being cruel," you say as you approach him, a brown paper bag held close to your abdomen. 

"Hi, honey," he says. He wears a knowing smile, all dark and tall and handsome as he starts down the stairs to meet you. 

"Don't punish me." 

"Is that what you'd call this?" he asks, hand quick to clasp your shoulder, glueing you in place so he can kiss your forehead.

And yes, this is what you'd wanted. The doting boyfriend not just at home but at work, too.

That doesn't mean it isn't really, really embarrassing. 

"Is everyone looking at me?" you murmur. 

He slips his arm behind your shoulders to walk you up the stairs. "Yes." His voice drops lower. "At one place specifically, I imagine." 

"What part is that, Agent?" 

He laughs and opens his office door to beckon you inside. "Don't start." 

༺༻

my first hotch fic omg. i did a big character study beforehand but i doubt it's entirely in character, hotch is a difficult character to write for! (and im only at season 4). but this was so fun and he's hot so it's worth it. if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging! i promise it makes a difference to me (and also i love seeing what people thought). thank you for reading!! ♥

---

Azriel’s Shadows love you as much as he does - Azriel x female!reader

Type - Imagine

Character(s) - Azriel

Warning(s)- Fluffy

Masterlist    Request Rules 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ever since Azriel can remember he has been self conscious about his abilities. His situation in the Illyrian camp did not do much to make him feel better about his gift. He always tried to keep them out of sight and away. This was easy most of the time, the only time they ever seem to get the best of him was when you were around.

No matter how hard he tries, the shadows demand your attention. They love you. Every time that you come around Azriel they seem to glow brighter, as if they were trying to get your attention.

 Not to mention when you came within touching range. Every time you came close to him they would jet out from their places and towards you. This frustrated him to no extent. He was so good with controlling them but every time you came around he seemed to lose any grasp he had on them.

Keep reading

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bridgerton s2: Do you think there is a corner of this Earth that you could travel to far away enough to free me from this torment? I am a gentleman. My father raised me to act with honor, but that honor is hanging by a thread that grows more precarious with every moment I spend in your presence. You are the bane of my existence. And the object of all my desires. Night and day, I dream of you.