#Divine Necessity | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

prythiansprincess · 30 days ago

Text

— a taste of the divine.

NAVIGATION // inbox. tags. writing. library. moodboard.

pairing: mattheo riddle x reader.

song inspiration: the summoning by sleep token.

author’s note: vampire! mattheo has been on my mind for ages and now i've finally written something so hedonistic and self-indulgent solely inspired by the fact that the man looks good drenched in blood. sink your teeth in.

Everything in the world is about sex — except sex. Sex is about power.

At an early age, you learned how to wield your sexuality like a weapon. After working as a courtesan for as long as you have, you quickly realized that men were truly only capable of categorizing women in one of two ways: the Virgin: an embodiment of purity, innocence, and virtue or the Whore: an incarnation of seduction, manipulation, and promiscuity.

To be desirable, you were expected to walk a fine line and maintain a perfect balance between the two. Lean too close to the right and you’re classified a prude. Swing too far to the left and you’re labeled a slut. The difference lies in whether or not you know how to play the game.

Given your line of work, it was in your best interest to become a top player. According to the Madam, you had a gift when it came to enticing clients. In reality, you were merely observant. The ability to accurately read people was a necessity in the game of seduction.

To seduce someone, you need to know their dreams, their hopes, and most importantly, their desires. Most clients were motivated by a fantasy. It was your job to become that fantasy and you were quite good at your job.

Ironically enough, the Madam always said that there were only two types of clients. The majority sought after instant gratification; a quick fuck, a one night stand, a memory to get himself off to while he lies next to his wife longing for the glory days of when his cock still worked. They were easier to please. The latter, on the other hand, proved to be a little more difficult. The naive ones that believed in silly fairy tales like making love, sighing dreamily about romance and intimacy and connection while inevitably setting themselves up for disappointment.

You were more realistic. For you, sex has always been tit-for-tat. You never offered more than you received. Until Lord Riddle.

You should have known Mattheo was trouble from the moment you laid eyes on him.

The first thing that you noticed about the young lord is that he preferred his own company. Every time you came across him in the Underworld, he was always alone. Mattheo never interacted with the other clients. Not out of shame like most of the first timers at the club, but out of observance. He was gauging his surroundings, judging the others around him in stoic silence, and filing them away in neat little categories in his mind. In other words, Lord Riddle was a predator sizing up his prey. Just like you.

Usually, it only took a single interaction for you to figure out what type of person someone was. You could easily tell which clients possessed great wealth, political advantage, or secrets so terrible that you could easily exploit for your own advantage. Needless to say, this special skill of yours made you the most infamous courtesan in all of London and subsequently, the Madam’s favorite.

But as you observed the mysterious stranger from across the room, you were surprised to come across something that you haven’t encountered for a very long time — a challenge.

“Great choice,” the Madam praised from over your shoulder. “Would you like to be introduced?”

“No,” you answered as you lazily sipped on a glass of champagne. “Lord Riddle will make his move when the time is right.”

Three nights passed before Lord Riddle made his approach. The Underworld was filled to the brim with gyrating bodies, their sticky and sweaty limbs pressed against one another as they danced to the seductive crooning of the singer on stage. The red spotlight bathed the crowd in a hazy light as smoke curled through the dancefloor.

“Not a fan of the crowd, I take it?” Lord Riddle drawled as he smoothly sidled up to your side.

“I prefer to watch,” you replied nonchalantly as you sipped champagne. “Clearly, I’m not alone in that, my lord.”

Lord Riddle smirked seductively, drawing you in like a predator toying with his prey. As you firmly held his gaze, you finally allowed yourself to truly take him in. Looking at Mattheo was like looking at a masterpiece — the dark and seductive eyes, the sharp cheekbones, the angular jaw, and the tall and lean body that towered over your own were all pieces of a work of art that deserved to be immortalized in a museum. Suffice to say that he was the most beautiful man you had ever seen.

Still, there was more to Lord Riddle than just an aesthetically pleasing appearance. There was a presence about him, a certain magnetism that pulled you into his orbit. You felt drawn to him in a way that you had never felt with anyone else before.

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” His voice was husky — smoky almost and it sounded like silk to your ears. Lord Riddle held out a gloved hand and flashed his charming smile. “My name is Mattheo. Mattheo Riddle.”

You shook his covered hand, noting the ancient heirloom ring sitting snugly on his right ring finger. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord. My name is Y/N.”

Mattheo extended your hand up to his mouth and placed a chaste kiss on the back of your palm. The coolness of his lips against your skin sent shivers up your spine. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Y/N,” he purred. “And please, call me Mattheo.”

With a sly smile, you swiped a glass of champagne from a passing tray and handed it to your newfound companion. Mattheo took a graceful sip, his intense gaze drinking you in.

“What brings you up here tonight, Mattheo?” You gestured to the lower level of the club where the atmosphere shifted into a hedonistic maelstrom. “Surely you would much rather partake in the revelries happening down there.”

Mattheo leaned closer and the strong scent of cinnamon and tobacco enveloped you from all sides. “Something tells me that the main event is right here,” he whispered as he caged you against the banister until all you could see, feel, and hear was him. “With you.”

Unperturbed, you flashed him a seductive grin. “Smart and handsome,” you quipped as you smoothed the lapels of his velvet suit jacket. Mattheo trailed your touch with that intense gaze, his eyes following a path down the hard plane of his chest, which was exposed beneath an unbuttoned black dress shirt. The silver cross chain around his neck glimmered underneath the dim club lights. “Perhaps I’ve found the cure to my perpetual boredom.”

“If you’re bored, then you’re more than welcome to play with me.”

You raised a perfectly manicured brow. “Is that a proposition, my lord?”

Mattheo was the perfect picture of sensuality as he closed the gap between you. “Not the type that you think,” he murmured softly. “After all, I am a gentleman so I intend to do this properly with you.”

You raised your chin defiantly. “I can be proper.”

His dark chuckle caressed your skin. “Somehow I doubt that,” Mattheo gibed. “Be that as it may, my offer is quite simple. I request your company for dinner tomorrow evening at my estate.”

“For what purpose?”

“I would like to get to know you,” Mattheo explained. “Preferably without the smoke and mirrors of this place. You’ll find that I’m a simple man with simple taste. I do not require such pageantry. What I want is the pleasure of your company over dinner and drinks.”

“A date?” You reiterated with intrigue. “That’s not the way we do things around here.”

Mattheo smiled. “I have a feeling you’ll make an exception for me, love.”

“What makes you so sure of that?”

“I intrigue you,” he simply stated. “I am a complete mystery to you. A puzzle of sorts. You like to solve puzzles. All you have to do to find the missing piece is accept.”

“If I do,” you proposed in a neutral tone, your gaze flickering up to this magnanimous man. “Will I finally have the full picture of who you are, Lord Riddle?”

Mattheo bowed and kissed your hand once more. “Come and find out, love.”

The wrought iron gates creaked as the carriage rounded the Riddle Estate. The ancestral home was imposing, its pointed arches and towering spires looming ominously against the backdrop of the full moon. The lawn was meticulously maintained, every hedge trimmed and shaped to perfection.

The carriage came to a stop in front of an ornately carved wooden door. You thanked the coachman and climbed the steps one by one, careful not to step on your scarlet silk dress. As if on cue, the doors opened of its own accord. A servant awaited you inside, his stern expression fixed as he welcomed you into the home.

“Welcome, Miss Y/N,” he rasped out. “Lord Riddle awaits you on the terrace. Follow me, please.”

“Thank you for having me,” you said graciously as he led you through the luxurious home. You took a moment to appreciate the intricate artwork that lined the walls. “The estate is quite beautiful. From what I understand, this place holds a lot of history. Everything has been preserved from when the Prince resided here. Is that correct?”

The man’s expression transformed from indifference to delight. “Before it became the Riddle Estate, this ancestral home was called Carfax. To honor its history, the Riddles have maintained the furnishings in its original state from when the Prince first purchased the property in the nineteenth century.”

“Lord Riddle is quite right to do so,” you said in admiration. “There’s a certain melancholy to this place that I find quite charming.” The man nodded in appreciation. “Haunting, even.”

“The only thing that haunts these four walls now are me,” Mattheo said when you reached the terrace. His dimpled smile was as charming and haunting as his home. “Thank you for guiding Miss Y/N, Nigel. That’ll be all for the night.”

You curtsied as the man called Nigel bowed. “Have a lovely evening, Miss Y/N,” Nigel said in parting. “Perhaps I may give you a tour of this grand home and discuss its historic importance when my lord allows it.”

“That would be lovely,” you accepted with a smile. “Thank you, Nigel.”

Mattheo watched in amusement, his brows quirking as he watched the man depart. “I’m impressed,” he said with a chuckle. “You’ve managed to charm Nigel. I haven’t seen him smile in decades.”

“I’ve been told I have a certain appeal.”

“Speaking of,” Mattheo drawled as he surveyed you. His gaze snagged on where the silk accentuated your curves. “You look quite ravishing tonight.”

You allowed a demure smile as you discretely scrutinized him. “I could say the same of you.”

In all honesty, ravishing might be an understatement when it came to Mattheo. The silk button down he donned tonight was as dark as sin. At first, you thought it was black until the candlelight flickered through the fabric. Then you realized that it was a crimson so dark it appeared onyx like dried blood. His trousers were black and neatly pressed and on his feet were expensive leather shoes. The same cross chain dangled from his neck, disappearing underneath his shirt. You desperately wanted to trace it with your tongue.

Mattheo rested his gloved hand on your lower back, guiding you gently to your seat. “You’re just in time,” he said in a pleased tone. “Dinner is ready.”

As you settled into your seat, you had to admit that this wasn’t at all what you expected. You envisioned a grand and ostentatious six course meal served by servants while you and Mattheo were seated on opposite ends of an expensive mahogany table. In comparison, this was intimate and cozy. You were surprised to find that you preferred this much more.

Dinner was a delicious serving of filet mignon, asparagus, and parmesan crusted potatoes that Mattheo served you himself. It was better than any meal you had ever had. To top it off, the wine he paired with the food was a rich vintage that was probably older than both of you combined.

The conversation flowed easily between you. Mattheo was curious about you and asked questions at any given opportunity. He wanted to know your hobbies, your friends, your aspirations. It was more than anyone had ever inquired about you in a long time.

“How did you come to work for the club?”

You tensed at the question, but smoothly brushed over the reaction with a sip of wine. “My father was an alcoholic and a gambler. The drunker he got, the higher he bet. Unfortunately, luck never seemed to be on his side. One day, he lost a bet against a very powerful man. My father was given three days to repay his debt. Failure to do so would mean forfeiting his life. When I was eight, he sold me to the Madam and the rest is history.”

Mattheo listened intently, captivated by your story. There wasn’t a hint of pity in his eyes, which you appreciated. You hated when people treated you like some broken little bird. The story wasn’t meant to elicit sympathy. It was a shitty thing, yes. But shitty things happened all the time.

Even to little girls who didn’t deserve it.

The fact of the matter was that you were the most influential courtesan in London while your father had drank himself into an early grave. You had accomplished more than he ever did in his sorry life. Because of him, you learned to read men with pinpoint accuracy so you would never be at one’s mercy again.

“Did your father ever show remorse for what he had done?” Mattheo asked curiously.

You snorted. “That would require him to have a conscience. Besides, I neither want nor need his remorse. He died the way that he lived — drowning in liquor and debt.”

“And the powerful man?”

“Six feet under,” you declared nonchalantly. The governor was the first in a long line of men that met their demise by your hand. “May his soul burn in hell."

Dark eyes sparked with understanding. In the light, they almost looked crimson. “Who would be so bold to execute such a powerful man?”

“A little girl with a grudge.”

Pleased, Mattheo kissed your knuckles. He cleared the plates away and beckoned you to follow him. “Come, love. I want to show you something.”

You followed Mattheo back into his home and walked through a maze of floors and hallways before you reached the west wing of the estate. He pushed open a heavy wooden door and led you into what looked like an office. Despite the extravagance of the rest of the house, the office was simple yet elegant.

Crimson curtains reflected the moonlight, a breeze rippling through them like a phantom wind. Artifacts and artwork littered every corner of the room, including the mahogany desk positioned against the back wall. Important documents were arranged in organized stacks, but beside them were sketches and drawings of varying shape and color.

“Everything there is to know about me is in this room,” Mattheo explained. “You said you wanted a full picture of me, so I’m giving you what I promised.”

The part of you that harbored mistrust was alarmed by his openness. “Why?”

“To show you that I am true to my word. I will always be true to my word,” he emphasized. “Especially when it comes to you.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Your madam told me about a special talent of yours.”

“I wouldn’t call it a talent. I’m just terribly observant. If you know where to look, most people are an open book.”

Mattheo fixed his gaze on you. “Read me then, love.”

“Most men can’t handle the truth.”

“I’m not like most men.”

Between the lines, the true meaning of his statement revealed itself. This room was the very core of who he was and now he was inviting you in. Mattheo was putting himself wholly and utterly at your mercy. To scrutinize, to inspect, to judge. He knew how important it was for you to have the upper hand and he was willingly offering it to you.

In silent acceptance, you surveyed the room with unveiled scrutiny. Your gaze snagged on a few interesting things. The family crest stamped on official documents. The trinkets and tokens originating from all around the world. The stoic portrait sitting above the mantelpiece. The picture of a dark haired boy that bore a great resemblance to the man before you peeking out from a discarded album.

They all contained a piece of the puzzle that was Mattheo Riddle.

“You’re wealthy, but not in the same sense that the rest of the club’s clientele are. You hail from old money, the type of generational wealth that most likely traces back to nobility. You’re well traveled and highly intellectual. You pick up interests left and right and you’ve probably studied at a handful of prestigious universities around the world, but you can never stick to just one topic. You have an older sibling that you have a very complicated relationship with. You’re guarded and extremely selective about the people you let in because you’re afraid of showing them the man beneath the mask. You don’t want control. You need it. Probably because you’ve felt out of control your whole life.”

“That’s a clever trick,” Mattheo drawled as he appeared in front of you in the blink of an eye. You sucked in a breath as he pressed you against the wooden desk, resting his hands above your waist. “Is that all your instincts tell you about me?”

“You say that you aren��t like most men, because you aren’t a man at all. You’re something else entirely. Something dark. Something dangerous.”

Red eyes glimmered underneath the moonlight. “What am I?” Mattheo rasped as he pressed his hips against yours. “Tell me, love.”

You held your chin high and looked him in the eyes. “You’re a vampire.”

The mask slipped as Mattheo transformed before you. His eyes were as red as blood, dark veins forming on his pale skin. You gasped when his canines elongated, sharp and lethal and deadly. He could probably drain you of life and you wouldn’t even know it until it was too late.

“How did you figure it out?”

“You wear gloves because your skin is as cold as ice, your eyes are crimson in certain lights, and you speak like you’ve lived a thousand different lives. Plus, you’ve been staring at my neck all night like you’re just waiting for the chance to sink your teeth in.”

“Are you scared?”

“No.”

“You should be,” Mattheo drawled. “I have lived for five hundred years and never once have I experienced bloodlust like this in all of my existence. Your blood calls to me. I knew it from the first night I laid my eyes on you.”

The admission should have frightened you, but instead in some strange way you understood. On any other occasion, you never would have allowed yourself to be alone in a strange home with a strange man, but for some reason, you felt compelled to accept. Whether by fate or kismet or destiny, you knew that you were meant to be here tonight.

Mattheo caressed your throat and buried his nose in the crook of your neck to inhale the heavenly scent. “Tell me love,” he rasped, his voice rough and gravelly. “What do you desire most in life?”

There was no hesitation in your voice when you spoke. “Power.”

“I could give that to you,” Mattheo promised. “I could give you power beyond what you could ever imagine. All you have to do is say yes.”

“What are you asking for in exchange?”

“You,” Mattheo said simply. “I want you. Bind yourself to me and you will never feel powerless again. I will worship you like the goddess that you are. I will devote myself to you for eternity. I will be yours and you will be mine.”

“You want me to be your consort?”

Dark eyes flickered with desire. “No, darling,” he purred smoothly. “I want you to be my equal. Equal in wealth, equal in beauty, equal in power.”

The idea thrilled you. Being an influential courtesan was one thing, but becoming an immortal vampire with immense riches and power would provide security that not even the Madam could offer. You thought about the little girl that you were — scared and helpless as your father ripped you away from the only life you’d ever known. If you accepted Mattheo’s offer, you would never have to feel that way again. You would be untouchable.

"Why me?"

"Because you are beautiful and bloodthirsty. Because you are clever and cunning. Because you clawed your way into a better future despite the pull of the past," Mattheo declared with certainty. "Because in all my existence, I have never met anyone quite like you."

“You feel it too, don’t you?” Sharp fangs caressed your neck as Mattheo dragged his canines against your skin. “The pull between us. I never believed in the concept of mates, but even I could not deny the call of the bond. I have searched for you for centuries and I was not even aware of it until I finally found you.”

“Is that what it is?” Since that first night at the club, you had felt inexplicably drawn to Mattheo. Even then you knew it was more than attraction. It was like every fiber of your being yearned for him. “You’re my mate?”

Mattheo nodded. “Only if you accept the bond.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, I accept.”

“I will have to turn you,” Mattheo explained carefully. “The ritual will be painful. I will drink of your blood and you will drink of mine. Once the venom courses through your veins, the pain will be excruciating, but I will be with you every step of the way.” He caressed your cheek, his expression softening. “Do you trust me, love?”

Strangely enough, you did. You knew that Mattheo would stay true to his word.

With a nod, the ritual began. Mattheo fisted your hair between his fingers and tilted your head back. He hummed against your skin, leaving a trail of kisses up the column of your throat before settling on a spot at the junction of your collarbone. His dark eyes flicked up to yours as his fangs elongated. Mattheo watched for signs of hesitation, but found none.

You gasped as he sank his teeth into your flesh, eyes fluttering shut as the sting of the bite took hold. Mattheo moaned as he drank your blood. The venom spread like wildfire in your veins, scorching your entire being from head to toe. It felt like your blood was boiling. You screamed as tremors rocked your body, phantom hands taking hold of your bones and breaking them over and over again. You screamed as the pain spread, but Mattheo stayed focused and retrieved a dagger from his desk drawer.

In one swift move, he cut his palm open and held it over your mouth. “Drink, my love,” Mattheo instructed. “It will ease the pain.”

Desperate, you lapped up Mattheo’s blood with urgency. The metallic taste filled your mouth, but you couldn’t help but drink deeper as it turned sweet and heady, tasting like wine on your tongue. The more you drank, the better you felt. It was almost as though his blood was the antidote to the pain.

“That’s it,” Mattheo murmured. “You’re doing so well, my love. Just a little more.” You sucked on his palm shamelessly, blood dripping down the front of your dress. “That’s a good girl.”

Mattheo wiped his blood from the corner of your mouth before crashing his lips against yours. You groaned as he pressed you against the desk, his hands gripping your waist while you kissed him back with equal fervor. Passion sparked between you as Mattheo scrambled to taste as much of you as he could.

His soft pants echoed in your ears as he desperately chased after your kisses, blood staining both of your mouths. A euphoric feeling washed over you like a wave, chasing the pain away and replacing it with a surge of pleasure. Every touch felt heightened, your senses shifting into overdrive as Mattheo pulled away.

You whined at the loss, which made him grin apologetically. “The ritual isn’t complete yet, my love.”

Mattheo flipped the dagger in his hand and beckoned you over to the middle of the room. He pulled out the expensive rug and carelessly tossed it aside before kneeling on the wooden floorboards. You mirrored the gesture and watched as Mattheo pulled you against him, placing the dagger in your hand. He produced a grimoire and skimmed through the pages until he found the right one.

“We must draw the ancient bonding runes,” Mattheo explained as he pointed at the carvings illustrated on the grimoire. “They will signify our eternal union. Once we carve them, there’s no going back.”

You gripped the dagger tightly. “Together?”

Mattheo smiled. “Together, my love.”

Carefully, the two of you carved the runes into the floor. The carvings glowed as mist and fog rose up from the wooden floorboards. You shivered as the temperature dropped, an eerie wind blowing through the crimson curtains. As you finished the last rune, you and Mattheo turned to face each other.

Blood stained his hand as he reached up to caress your cheek, his eyes black with desire. You could feel the ritual sinking into your bones, changing the very core of your being. The bond physically took hold as the connection stretched taut between the two of you. The scarlet string glowed and the end of your thread reached towards Mattheo.

“What do we do now?”

Mattheo’s fiery gaze flickered up to you. “Now we consummate the union.”

Your breathing slowed as Mattheo drew you close, his face mere inches away from yours. Desire burned through you like a living flame. At that moment, nothing existed but him.

“I want you, Mattheo,” you breathed. “My mate.”

You groaned as Mattheo kissed you deeply, his hands finding refuge in your hips. The taste of him was intoxicating, sweeter than any wine you had ever consumed. You groaned as he parted your lips with his tongue and placed you over his lap. The kisses grew desperate, like you couldn’t get enough of one another. Mattheo pulled down the straps of your dress, kissing every inch of skin he had access to.

“Let me worship you like you deserve,” he murmured in reverence.

His eyes remained fixated on you as he laid you atop the runes, its glow bathing both of you in scarlet light. Mattheo took his time lavishing your body with kisses, marking every inch of you with his mouth. You moaned as his dark head disappeared between your legs, his sharp canines tickling the inside of your thighs. He took your lace panties off with his teeth and hooked your legs over his shoulders.

The anticipation was almost too much to bear until Mattheo finally put his mouth on you. He eagerly feasted, his hunger evident in the way he buried his tongue in your cunt. You tugged at his curls as he licked and sucked, lapping up your arousal with unbroken focus. When his tongue flicked over your clit, you bucked against his mouth and shamelessly moaned his name.

“You’re a fucking goddess, Y/N,” Mattheo declared.

The sight of him between your thighs, his mouth dripping with blood and cum while his eyes burned with carnal passion was enough to send you over the edge, but you didn’t want to come without him. You wanted to do this right. You wanted to do this together.

“I need you,” you pleaded as you tugged at his belt. “Please, Mattheo.”

“You never have to beg,” Mattheo answered as he undressed. “I’m yours, Y/N.”

With bated breath, you watched in anticipation as Mattheo crawled over you, his gaze wild and hungry. He groaned when you tugged him down by his curls, his mouth meeting yours in a heated frenzy. His hard length pressed against your center as you parted your legs for him, greedily wrapping them around his waist while you grinded deliciously against his cock.

The friction was divine, but you needed more. So much more. Mattheo growled into your mouth as he guided your hand towards his impressive length, chuckling softly when your eyes widened at his size. Crimson bled into soft chocolate eyes as Mattheo lined himself up at your entrance.

“You’re fucking exquisite,” he whispered in reverence as he traced your jaw. “I have waited for you for centuries and it was worth every second.”

You whimpered as he eased into you, his cock stretching your walls as you adjusted to his length. Praises flowed from Mattheo’s mouth as he pushed inside, giving you inch after inch until he was fully sheathed in your pussy. The pressure was painful at first, but it soon gave way to pleasure.

“I feel so full,” you groaned as Mattheo kissed your neck. “So full of you, Mattheo.”

“Is it as heavenly for you as it is for me, love?”

In response, you secured your legs around his waist and pushed him in further, making the both of you moan in satisfaction.

“Does that answer your question?”

A cheeky grin appeared on Mattheo’s handsome face. “You’re absolutely sinful, but don’t get too cocky. I’m going to ruin you for every other man.”

“You already have,” you responded as Mattheo moved slowly, dragging his cock in and out of you until you actually whined from the absence. “No man could ever measure up. There is no one like you, Mattheo.”

The declaration seemed to unleash something inside of Mattheo. His movements, once slow and calculated, turned frenzied and frantic. His hands were all over your body, his fangs dragging up the column of your throat while his form enveloped you whole until you couldn’t tell where you began and where he ended.

You matched his rhythm, rocking your hips to the frenetic pace. Mattheo hissed as you clawed at his back and slammed harder into you, seeming to know exactly what you needed without you speaking it into existence. The ancient runes glowed and your blood hummed in agreement, accepting the final binding of the ritual.

“Do you feel that, love?” Mattheo grunted, his sweat matted curls plastered to his forehead. “That’s my power flowing into you. With it, you will be unstoppable.”

Your back arched against the floor as energy surged through your veins, electrifying every cell in your body. The scarlet thread between you and Mattheo twined itself into an unbreakable connection, connecting your mind, body, and soul together.

A shiver skittered down your spine as you looked into a pair of crimson eyes. “We will be unstoppable. My mate, my love, my Y/N.”

The pleasure was overwhelming. You tugged Mattheo down to you, panting into his mouth as you kissed him. “So close,” you breathed. “I’m so close.”

Your gums ached as fangs began to elongate from your mouth. Mattheo watched proudly, his handsome face bathed in awe at the transformation.

“Surrender to it,” he whispered softly. “Bite me, my love.”

The words gave you pause, but as soon as he spoke them, hunger and bloodlust seemed to awaken in your veins.

“Drink from my blood,” Mattheo encouraged. “Mark me. Claim me. Devour me.”

Without hesitation, you sank your teeth into the side of his neck. The thirst was unquenchable and you drank deeply, greedy for the taste of his blood. Mattheo’s hips stuttered as he moaned erotically, his release close.

“That’s it, Y/N.” Mattheo encouraged as blood dribbled down his neck. His fingers swiped over your clit, rubbing stimulating circles and making you feel untethered. “Surrender yourself to me completely. Come for me, my love.”

A whip of lightning lashed at your body, searing you from head to toe as you toppled over the edge. The orgasm was white and blinding, seizing your very being with pleasure. Mattheo kissed you through the comedown, letting you ride it out as you clawed at his back and arms.

“Look at me,” he commanded. “Watch the way you undo me.”

Mattheo was a man ruined. As soon as your gazes met, he threw his head back and roared in pleasure. The way he looked when he came, perfect curls mussed and sex tousled, abs straining as he emptied himself inside of you, and mouth open as your name left his lips, was something that would be ingrained into your mind for the rest of time.

The bond settled between you then, signaling the completion of the ritual. You were now connected to Mattheo in every way possible. The courtesan who once vowed never to give herself to a man now found herself bonded.

Mattheo embraced you in his arms, holding you close. You pressed your cheek against his solid chest and found comfort in his touch.

“What happens now?”

“I devour you again and again,” Mattheo responded cheekily. “And once more before the sun rises."

You chuckled softly. “After that?”

“You decide, my love.” He declared with no qualms. “You are in control of your story now.”

“And if I said the little girl with the grudge wanted to burn the whole world down?”

Crimson eyes met yours. “Then I’ll help her light the match.”

Mattheo meant it. You knew it in your very bones. With a smile, you settled into his arms. Feeling safe. Feeling loved. Feeling like you could rule the world. He gave you that. Your mate.

As your eyes fluttered close, one thought flashed through your once cynical mind.

Perhaps sex wasn’t always about power.

Perhaps, on rare occasions, sex was about so much more.

#I will definitely be writing about vampire mattheo more he was made for this #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo x you

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katerinaaqu · 2 months ago

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i'm in despair (this is about antinous)

WHAT?! Okay seriously I have had enough at this point with this bullshit and the misinformation out there just because some people twist away the Odyssey and become famous to the point of people not being able to tell reality from fanfiction and of people who just won't do research or read the most crappy "translations" in the world! So because I have had enough here's ALL the lines Antinous speaks in the Odyssey to clear this up once and for all!

(Be warned this will be long but please share this as much as you can guys! Forgive me in advance if some of my translations are a bit sloppy or not as accurate I am willing to redo some passages if you guys want in comments or reblogs in the future.)

Please spread this because honestly I have had enough and this EXACTLY why I cannot take anymore of these "retellings" and whatever the hell the names are and the changes they make for no reason to characters for "creative liberties" because honestly people cannot even read the sources properly and they just make claims taking advantage of popularity of media!

ANTINOUS'S LINES IN THE ODYSSEY:

And then Antinous the son of Eupeithes answered him:

"Telemachus, no doubt the gods themselves are teaching you well since you became such a boaster and speak with so much insolence! May son of Cronus make sure that you shall never reign Ithaca of the two seas, which is your ancestral right!"

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 1 (383-387): Antinous to Telemachus in irony when Telemachus has seen Athena in disguise off.

Telemachus, you high-and-mighty, uncontrollable in your insolence, what kind have you said is my shame: you wish to shift the blame! But I tell ya it is not the fault of the Achaean suitors but of your beloved mother's, who knows very well how to gain from others. For this is the third year, nearly entering the fourth, that she plays with the feelings within the chests of the Achaeans. For she has given promises to each and every one of us all and sends us messages but in her head and she has made a big ploy; and after she set a large loom in the palace and began to weave in a thin and complicated way and then she said to us:

"Young men, my suitors, since divine Odysseus is dead, please be patient since you are in a hurry for my marriage, but allow me fulfill this one pledge, for I do not want this weaving of mine be for nothing, let me make a shroud for the heroic Laertes for when his fate strikes and is taken by the death who brings so many woes, so that I will not gain resent from the Achaean women, oh, if the man who gained so much were to lie without a shroud"

So she spoke to us and our heroic hearts were persuaded and so in there by day she was looming at her great web and by night she was destroying it under the light of the torches she had beside her. And so she gained herself 3 years with her deceit that persuaded the Achaeans, now entering the forth and time has passed and we were informed on this by one of the women who clearly saw what had happened and so we caught her red-handed unraveling the great web. And so she was forced out of necessity to finish it. And so to you the suitors are replying to you so you shall know it deep in your heart and for all the other Achaeans to know; send back your mother to her father and command her to choose which one of us she pleases to marry. For, truly, Athena has blessed her with knowledge and craftsmanship and understanding heart; such wiles Penelope knows above other beautifully-haired Achaean women, even than the ones known by the old ones; and Tyro and Alcmene and beautifully-wreathed Mycene but her last wile was not right and so we shall continue to eat here from your inheritance, for despite the fact that the gods placed such mind more than many inside her and she brings great name upon herself, but you shall regret your insolence. We shall not move back to our homes or to any other place until she marries which of us Achaeans she desires!

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 2 (86-128): Antinous to Telemachus about Penelope's scheme when Telemachus accused the suitors for their staying at his palace. Penelope is being accused for her game upon them and simoultaneously praised for her mind and craftsmanship but also Telemachus being pressured to send her back to her father to start preparing for her upcoming marriage.

And Antinous immediately laughed and rushed to Telemachus and grabbing one of his arms he mocked him:

"Telemachus, you high-and-mighty, uncontrollable in your insolence do not have other evil word or action you in your mind for us, but I say come and eat and drink with me like before, I am sure all these you want the Achaeans shall provide and ships and outstanding oarsmen so that quickly you shall reach holy Pylos and hear news of your noble father!"

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 2 (301-308): Antinous to Telemachus mockingly after the end of the gathering. Basically Antinous mocks Telemachus and tells him to forget the meeting ever happened and then mocks him with the notion he had to reach Pylos for news of his father.

And then Antinous, the son of Eupeithes replied:

"Tell me the truth! Where did he go and who were the men that followed him? Were they chosen Ithacan youth or heirlooms and slaves that belonged to him? Definitely I think he is capable even for that! And tell me this as well and answer truthfully for I shall know, whether by force and without your will he acquired the black ship or whether you gave it to him willingly, agreeing with his words!"

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 4 (641-647): Antinous to Noemon son of Phronius. The man possessed the ship which Telemachus got and now Antinous is interrogating the man on whether he did so with his free will or by force. The man of course replies that he had no reason to refuse Telemachus thus gaining the reaction by Antinous:

Furiously, then replied to him Antinous the son of Eupeithes; with great anger filling his black heart, both his eyes shining like fires:

"Damn! What a bold insolence Telemachus has put in action, this journey, even if we were saying he would never see it through! The way he has managed to launch a ship and even pick the best youth of the people and take them with him! He shall be our doom soon the way it goes! But hopefully Zeus's strength shall destroy him before he reaches the maturity of youth but go on now and give me a fast ship and twenty men so I shall wait for him and set an ambush to the narrow path between Ithaca and rugged Same and so his voyage to find his father shall have a sad end!"

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 4 (660-672): Antinous to himself and the other suitors. Basically here he speaks on the ambush he wants to set on Telemachus in his anger that Telemachus left for the trip after all plus how he fears that Telemachus will be their doom somehow.

Gentlemen, all of us, let us stop spewing arrogant words for someone might as well report your words in this house. But let us speak in low voice and make our words action, for this has pleased all our hearts.

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 4 (774-777): Antinous to the other suitors. In plotting in silence how they would proceed with the murder of Telemachus while Penelope is up in her rooms praying to Athena for the saving of her son.

Damn! Look how the gods have saved this man from misfortune! Even if we had guards waiting at the windy tops day after day, one after the other. And when the sun fell down we didn't stay on shore but we sailed on the fast ships in the sea till the divine Eos (Dawn) waiting and lurking for Telemachus to take hold of him and destroy him: some god undoubtedly has brought him home! But let us here plan the sorrowful doom of Telemachus so that he won't escape us; for I know that as long as he lives our plans will not be fulfilled. He has persuaded the council and the people do not agree with us anymore. But let's go before he gathers the assembly of the Achaeans because I think he won't be wise to act slow but he would rush in full wrath and he would choose to rise everyone up by saying that we contrived against him murder but didn't catch him and they will not like it when they hear our evil deeds. Mark my words, he will drive us all out of our lands and we shall move to stranger lands! Come on! Let us seize him at the countryside, outside of the city or on the way and let us seize all his possessions and lands and divide them among ourselves equally but the house we shall give to his mother and to whomever marries her. But if you are displeased by these words and you believe he should live and keep his inheritance then let us stop devouring his goods and leave the house and each one of us from his own palace shall continue showering her with gifts till she will have as husband the one who offers the most.

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 16 (364-392): Antinous to himself and the other suitors. His fury that Telemachus escaped their ambush and he repeats the plan on killing him or establishes even more options for the suitors. In here he also suggests to keep pressuring Penelope to marry.

And so spoke Antinous scolding the swineherd

"Notorious swineherd what did you bring him to the city for? Don't we have enough vagabonds and other annoying beggars to ruin our dinner? Aren't they enough people to eat the king's wealth here that you invited this one too?"

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 17 (374-379): Antinous to Eumeus on Odysseus. Eumeus had brought Odysseus-Beggar to the palace and Melanthius, the goat-herder had pointed out that he saw Eumeus leading him there so Antinous once more barges in and complaints (that is the first time Antinous speaks in the presence of Odysseus)

Telemachus you high-and-mighty and uncontrollable in your insolence what did you say! If all the other suitors were to give him as much then he wouldn't need to come back for the next three months!

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 17 (406-408): Antinous to Telemachus. Telemachus mocks Antinous on his mocking on Odysseus/Beggar and so had Eumeus before him so now Antinous just mocks them back

Which god has brought this creature to destroy our feast? He stood there in apart from our tables and claims he comes from bitter Egypt or Cyprus: He insolently and so rudely asks for food from all who are here: and they give it so recklessly for no one is more generous in giving than the one who gives something that belongs to someone else for they have much each!

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 17 (446-452): Antinous to himself and Odysseus. Odysseus goes to Antinous in particular to beg for food and tells him once more his "sad story" on how he fell from grace. Antinous does not like the whining and he retaliates. Ironically he also says something correct here; that they are all generous to the food they give to Odysseus because that food is not theirs in the first place.

So he spoke and Antinous got even more furious and looking down upon him he replied with winged words:

"Now you shall no longer stay in this palace, back off since you speak words of accusation!"

(Tranlation by me)

Rhapsody 17 (458-461): Antinous to Odysseus. Odysseus insists upon Antinous give him some food and Antinous retaliates sending him away and in the next scene he throws the stool at him

And to him replied Antinous the son of Eupithes:

"Sit there and eat, stranger or go elsewhere or else you shall be thrown out being carried away by your arms and legs and be skinned whole!"

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 17 (477-480): Antinous to Odysseus. Basically Odysseus complained to the entire assembly that Antinous has just striken him because he is hungry. Antinous doesn't like it and threatens that Odysseus will be carried out by force and be skinned alive if he goes on. He is heard by Penelope upstairs and she is filled in the details by Euryclaea.

Mighty Antinous heard them two talking and breaking in merry laughter he addressed the suitors:

"Friends how fortunate that such a thing happened, that the gods brought such entertainment to our doors! Irus and the stranger fighting and wishing to hit each other! Quickly! Let's set them up!"

So he spoke and everyone broke down laughing and gathered together the two beggars and again Antinous son of Eupithes addressed them:

"Listen, heroic suitors, what I am about to say. These goat stomachs here that is roasting on the fire and we had set them here to make dinner after we have filled them with fat and blood but now I say the one who wins and comes out on top let him choose which one he wants to have for himself and what's more he shall dine with us and we shall suffer no more a beggar begging among us!"

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 18 (34-49): Antinous to the rest of the suitors. Irus has arrived to the palace and he picks up a fight with Odysseus/Beggar and Antinous loving the idea of watching them two fight and suggests the contest.

Now, don't whine, you bully and it might have been better if you never born if you are to be afraid and trembling of this fellow, a man old and beaten down by misery. I tell ya and it's done: he has won against you and is stronger, I shall throw you in a black ship and exile you to the mainland to the king Echetus, the baneful of men, and he shall have your nose and ears cut off with ruthless bronze and shall throw your privates to the dogs to devour!

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 18 (79-87): Antinous to Irus. Basically he threatens and mocks Irus for being afraid of losing to "an old man". Irus was taken over by fear when Odysseus revealed his shoulders and legs realizing that he is not just a common old man. Antinous is "guilt tripping" and threatening Irus so that the two of them would fight.

And Antinous son of Eupeithes replied to her:

"Daughter of Icarius, wise Penelope, the gifts you want the Achaeans shall bring you here, for you to accept them, for it is no good not to accept them, but we shall not leave this place and go elsewhere till you choose to marry the best of us Achaeans!"

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 18 (284-289): Antinous to Penelope. Penelope demands wedding gifts (as a manipulation for the suitors to bring items to pay back what they have eaten and possibly more than that). She probably hoped to manipulate the suitors out of her house. Antinous responds to her by accepting her request but also expresses the decision all the suitors made, not to leave the house till she has chosen a husband (in the next lyrics it is revealed that Antinous's gift was a beautiful embroidered robe with 12 golden brooches)

I verily think is hard, Achaeans, to accept the word of Telemachus who has so much spoken threateningly against us. Truly the son of Cronus Zeus wouldn't have tolerated this but he would already have silenced him in this palace, the way he clearly speaks!

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 20 (271-274): Antinous to the rest of the suitors. Telemachus placed his father (dressed as beggar) sit among the suitors and has showingly given him good portion of food and golden cup and he told him boldly to sit and eat and drink with the rest of the people for it is not a public house here but the house of Odysseus that treats his guests! (I also find it a nice cheeky move by Telemachus here!) Antinous didn't like it and he speaks up

You foolish boors who only care for today! Cowards why are you crying now and you are troubling the heart of this woman? Now that she has learnt she has lost her dear husband! Be silent and sit down or if you have to weep go elsewhere and leave this bow behind so it will be a the contest of decision for the suitors. For I believe it will be no easy task to chord this bow. For there is no such a man among us like the one Odysseus was! And I myself have seen him and I remember him even if I was but an infant child then!

Rhapsody 21 (86-96): Antinous to Eumeus. Eumeus was ordered to bring up the bow from the armory. Eumeus held the bow in his hands and he actually cried in emotion as he held his master's favorite bow. Antinous retaliates and calls him names because as he says "he is troubling Penelope" with his cries and he speaks on how he remembers Odysseus when he was a child. And ironically or not so much he speaks very positively on Odysseus and the kind of man he remembers him to be, maybe because he thinks he is safe now and believes Odysseus to be dead.

And Antinous, the son of Eupeithes, said to them:

"Rise in your turn from the right, all my friends, we start with the order the wine is being poured"

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 21 (140-142): Antinous to the rest of the suitors. He basically suggest the order with which everyone will try and string the bow (with the order that the jug holder has poured them wine) from right to left)

But Antinous reproved his words and he called out:

"Leodes! What words have escaped the barrier of your teeth?! This is both painful and dreadful words indeed that I feel resentment by just hearing you! If this is the bow that shall judge who is the best in heart and soul no wonder you cannot string it. Your noble mother hasn't birthed you to be a strong archer or shoot arrows. Let the other noble suitors string it!"

So he spoke and then he ordered Melanthius, the goat herder:

"Melanthius, go and light a fire in the hall and place a great chair by it covered in fleece and bring a large block of fat when you come back so that we shall smear the bow with it and soften it over the flames before we execute our contest"

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 21 (167-180): Antinous to Leodes and immediately after Antinous to Melanthius. Leodes expressed the impossible of stringing the bow and then he claimed that he'd rather die than suffer the loss there for Penelope's hand and Antinous does not like the defeatist attitude. He takes over and orders to Melanthius to bring the tools to care for the bow and make sure it is usable after so long staying in storage. This passage also shows the knowledge Antinous has on weaponry in general and possibly hunting in particular.

Eurymachus, this won't work; you know it yourself, because now it is a public celebration for a god. Who then would string the bow?I say set it aside for now. Newvertheless we shall leave the axes here where they are, for I believe no one shall enter to the palace of Odysseus the son of Laertes, to take them! But let's go, let the cup bearer pour the liberations in our goblets as we make our offerings and let's set aside the curved bows! By the morning we shall order Melanthus the goat herder shall bring the best out of the goats he is tending and herding and so we shall sacrifice their thighs to Apollo of the beautiful bow and we shall try one more time to execute the challenge of this bow.

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 21 (257-268): Antinous to Eurymachus when none of them could string the bow he suggests that it is because it is a public celebration that they should make their own offerings to the gods and call it a day and try another day because he assumed it is possible that the reason they couldn't string it could possibly be that it was because of the celebration. So he suggests to call it a day and offer a sacrifice to Apollo the next day before they try again.

Ah bloody stranger! You have absolutely no trace of wit! You are not satisfied enough that you arrogantly sit and dine with us and you are in no want of food but you also pry in our conversations and overhear our words! No other beggar or stranger ever overheard our words! Undoubtedly the sweet wine has gotten to your head and you know the wine is bad for others too, if greedily take gulps and drink without measure. The wine made even the centaurs and the noble Eurytion act foolishly when they were to the palace of great-hearted Pirithus, when he went to the Lapithes: and because his mind was consumed by wine, his frenzy caused great evil upon the house of Pirithus. And so great sorrow fell upon the heroes for he was dragged out of the doors and thrown out and his ears and nose were cut wit merciless bronze and so he bore the punishment for the madness of his mind. And so it commenced the fight between the Centaurs and the humans. They were the first to see the evil of heavy drinking. And you who speak big words I warn you if you manage to bend the bow you shall not be met with kindness and we shall throw you to a black ship and exile you to the mainland to the king Echeton, the baneful of men, there nothing will save you! Sit still and drink and don't aim to compete against much younger men than you!

(Translation by me)

Rhapsody 21 (288-310): Antinous to Odysseus. Odysseus/Beggar has just slowly approached Eurymachus and Antinous and he has asked for the right to try the bow himself. Antinous got furious that Odysseus overheard them and that he suggested to take part to the challenge and then he assumes that Odysseus is drunk and he even brings up the myth of the centaurs and the Lapithes to say how wine makes people say and do stupid things. Ironically he is most likely self-projecting since he does seem to be the intoxicated one (at least how I read his passages). And those were the last words spoken by Antinous and the last ones addressed to Odysseus.

In the next passages is the death of Antinous (he doesn't get the chance to even react given how Odysseus kills him when he is about to take a drink with an arrow through his throat) and his name is mentioned a few times by Eurymachus and some more mentions by name.

As you see there is absolutely no mention whatsoever not even to the murder of Telemachus to none of the scenes where Odysseus is present (mind you neither to the scenes where Penelope is either! Penelope was informed on their scheme by a servant that overheard them and she went down to confront Antinous!)

Also Antinous makes no mention whasoever in any rape! He mentions the myth of the centaurs and Lapithes and NOT EVEN THEN does he mention the attempt of rape of the women by the drunk centaurs yet alone to Penelope! The only things he speaks about is how to keep pressuring Penelope choose a husband and he mentions wedding gifts.

If anything it is ODYSSEUS the one that gets threatened all the time by Antinous and mistreated by him. Antinous even speaks positively about Penelope like 99% of the time with the exception when he calls her devious for her trick that had them all waiting.

Absolutely they want to increase pressure to Penelope and they want to kill her son but that rape thing should be enough at this point! Honestly THIS is where a certain someone SHOULD come out and say that these came out of his head and NOT the Odyssey! Like sure it is your imagination and do whatever with it but damn!

Sorry I am really upset with these smartasses on the internet at this point! Once again forgive me if any of my interpretations is sloppy or even if I have forgotten something. I have double checked but just in case.

#katerinaaqu answers #greek mythology #tagamemnon #odysseus #the odyssey #homeric poems #odyssey #antinous #the suitors #telemachus #penelope #homer's odyssey #homer odyssey #THE SUITORS WERE ALREADY WRENCHED ENOUGH! WE DO NOT NEED MORE OF THESE!

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oddyseye · 2 months ago

Text

Let’s talk about translations of the Odyssey for a second, because, honestly, I’m over here sobbing over how ridiculous some of these choices are.

Every time I pick up a new translation, I hope it’ll finally capture the true grit and messiness of Odysseus, but nope, every one of them polishes him up too much, turning him into either a tragic hero or a charming rogue. Where’s the Odysseus who lies as easily as he breathes, who manipulates his way through every encounter, and who leaves a trail of ruin wherever he goes? I want the man whose brilliance is as sharp as his selfishness, whose cleverness cuts both ways — not just a hero, but a survivor who’s as flawed as he is formidable.

Anyway, I’m gonna break down the biggest mistranslations that really make me want to pull my hair out and remind everyone how different the original Greek actually is. Prepare yourselves.

Let’s start with the absolute disaster that is Telemachus and Peisistratus’ bond. Homer used the word ὁμοφροσύνη to describe their relationship, a term that’s about fucking soulmates, alright? But what do these translators do? They water it down to “just good friends” or “nice companions.” It’s about a relationship where minds and hearts are aligned — telepathic level shit, not just a handshake between two dudes. Yet these translators just gloss over the whole thing, so you get this milquetoast version of their relationship when it’s actually so much more.

Homer says: "ὁμοφροσύνησιν ἐνὶ καρδίᾳ ἐνθα καὶ ἄλλων οὐδὲν ἐπέλθομεν" ("In like-mindedness of heart, where no other man could compare.") So, Telemachus sees Peisistratus as someone he’s totally aligned with, in a way that’s almost romantic in its depth. ὁμοφροσύνη is usually used for romantic couples most often.

Then, we’ve got Odysseus and Calypso, which — oh my god, don’t even get me started on this absolute trainwreck of a translation. The term ἀνάγκῃ is used when Homer talks about Odysseus’ “relationship” with Calypso, but translators somehow miss the force behind the word. It doesn’t just mean “necessity” like they’d have you think. It means force, violence, and distress. When Odysseus is on Calypso’s island, stuck there with her, it’s not this peaceful love story where Odysseus is some willing lover. It’s a prison. There’s no choice, and no one’s riding off into the sunset together. But translations just gloss over this desperation and make it sound so much more peaceful and comfortable than it ever was. It’s forced captivity, and the use of ἀνάγκῃ screams that: “ἔνθα μὲν ἀμφ᾽ ἀνάγκῃ, τῇ δὲ θεὰ ἐρῶσά μιν ἔσχε.” (“There he stayed out of necessity, for the goddess, in her love, held him there.”).

Homer uses the same word when Odysseus describes his time with Circe: “ἀλλ᾽ ἔμεν᾽ ἐν σπέσσι λαῶν ἀνάγκῃ.” (“But I stayed in her halls by necessity.”). Again, ἀνάγκῃ shows that Odysseus's relationship with Circe is dictated by forces beyond his control. His connection to her isn’t out of love or desire, but out of a divine obligation, a situation where choice is completely stripped away. It’s not love; it’s divine manipulation. So much for romantic freedom!

And let’s not forget how Homer actually portrays the suitors and their reaction to Antinous’ violence. After Antinous, in his full rage, decides to throw a chair at disguised Odysseus, other suitors chime in, disapproving of his actions. They say things like “ἀργὸς εἶναι,” which roughly translates to “you’re acting cowardly,” and “ἀτασθαλία,” meaning “reckless.” They’re still on the same side, sure, but they can’t quite get behind the utter savagery of his actions, and it’s maddening how this detail is often glossed over in some translations. They make it sound like they were all in on the violence, but in the original text, these suitors are not all cut from the same brutal cloth, no matter how much some translators want to make them seem like one big mob.

Homer uses the word οἰκέτες to refer to the people in Odysseus' house. "οἰκέτες" means slaves, people who are literally owned by the household. But oh, what happens in the translations? We get “maids” and “servants,” as if these slaves were just there because they wanted to be, doing chores like it was a normal job. But no, they’re not “maids,” and they sure as hell aren't "servants" in the modern sense. These people have no freedom — they belong to Odysseus. The translation of οἰκέτες as "maids" completely erases the brutality of the system that Homer is talking about.

Interestingly, Telemachus, who is often portrayed as rude or immature, calls these individuals “servants” or "maids" in a more respectful manner. This is the same guy who can barely get his act together most of the time, but here he is, calling the οἰκέτες — slaves, remember — not just slaves but “ἄνδρες ἰκέτες,” which translates to "men-servants" or “butlers.” Like, hello, Telemachus! For once, he’s actually treating them like people instead of just the property that they are in Homer’s original telling. Respectful? Who knew?

And lastly, let’s talk about Penelope. Odysseus, when he finally speaks to her, he says: "ἀλλὰ μὴ ἐπεὶ καὶ σὺ μὲν ἔμπεδος ἐν οἴκῳ, ἔτλησαν δ’ ἐμαὶ ἄλγεα." ("But you, steadfast in your home, endured my sorrows."). Odysseus sees Penelope as the rock, the one who has suffered patiently in his absence. Unlike the goddesses, she’s his equal in suffering, not a forced relationship due to divine will. He longs for her, and her presence stands in stark contrast to the chaotic, imposed relationships he’s had with Circe and Calypso. Penelope is the constant, the one Odysseus has chosen — no divine manipulation, just pure, enduring love.

Anyway, all of this goes to show that translations can twist what Homer was actually trying to say — especially when it comes to the relationships in the story. It’s frustrating to see these critical, subtle moments get flattened into bland, palatable phrases. Maybe if they spent less time trying to make everything sound "noble" and more time actually getting at the grit of what Homer wrote, we wouldn’t have to deal with these watered-down, emotionless versions of The Odyssey that everyone is so obsessed with.

#the odyssey #greek mythology #odysseus #calypso #circe #telemachus #i love the odyssey #but i hate mistranslations

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ssa-dado · 22 days ago

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24 - Logos

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, hurt/comfort, SMUT Summary: A few weeks ago, Aaron had read a passage from Plato's Symposium - "And when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of himself... the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and one will not be out of the other's sight, even for a moment." He hadn’t fully understood it. Not until he found himself sitting on your couch at 3 a.m. Warnings: + 18 MINORS DNI (I will ground you) alcohol consumption, some cuss words here and there, VERY GRAPHIC AND DESCRIPTIVE SEX because I'm a weirdo, it's basically porn with philosophy (not in the middle of it - of course - I'm not that weird), dirty talk, unprotected sex, piv, oral sex and a lot of pining. Hotch is a whore. Word Count: 18.9k Dado's Corner: I don’t know, I’m both proud and deeply insecure about posting this. It’s my first time writing smut. Ever. I have no idea if it’s good. No idea if it’s too much or too little - if I over-explained things or if I didn’t explain enough. It’s their first time actually sober, and they’re supposed to be a little cringe - uncertain, hesitant, not entirely sure what to do with each other or where they fit and that’s deliberate. I wanted it to feel real - flawed, messy, something that isn’t just perfect and seamless, but human. There’s good and bad, there’s laughter and uncertainty, there are tears of joy and tears of fear. And I just hope it feels like something.

masterlist ; mandatory first part because if you skip this, you'll be utterly lost and it's not my fault

In Stoic philosophy, logos represents the rational principle that governs the universe, uniting logic, physics, and ethics into a cohesive worldview. It is the divine reason permeating all existence, structuring nature according to order and necessity.

In Stoic logic, logos manifests as the foundation of rational thought, guiding human reasoning toward clarity and truth. Mastery of logic enables individuals to distinguish between valid judgments and deceptive impressions, ensuring alignment with reality.

In physics, logos is the active, organizing force (pneuma) that sustains and directs the cosmos. Everything unfolds according to its rational design, making the universe an interconnected, purposeful whole rather than a realm of randomness.

In ethics, living in accordance with logos means harmonizing one’s will with nature’s rational order. By cultivating wisdom, self-discipline, and virtue, individuals align their actions with universal reason, achieving tranquility and moral integrity in a world shaped by necessity and change.

Happiness is a complex concept - or at least, it became one once thinkers like Aristotle started overanalyzing it.

He distinguished between fleeting pleasure (hedonia) and deeper fulfillment (eudaimonia), and ever since, that debate has been stitched into the fabric of western culture.

Now, most people unknowingly follow this hierarchical model of happiness, never realizing it originated from a handful of bored, existentially troubled men desperately trying to intellectualize their own misery.

Maybe that’s why it’s considered completely normal to ask if someone is really happy - because centuries of philosophy decided that happiness alone isn’t enough – it had to be the right kind of happiness.

And yet, even you weren’t immune to that trap. Because standing there, dancing with Aaron, you admitted to yourself that you were, in fact, truly happy.

Not just for yourself, but for him - for the man who, for the first time since signing his divorce papers a few months ago finally looked light. Not weighed down. Not lost in some invisible battle in his mind. Just… happy.

And the moment felt so sweet, a microcosm where locking eyes with each other was ordinary conduct in such close proximity, where neither of you felt the need to temper that undeniable - if slightly terrifying - undercurrent of chemistry.

Just the understanding that this was safe, that this was allowed.

And somehow, that made it even sweeter.

Not just the warmth of it, not just the effortless way you fit into this tight space together, but the inescapable fact that your probably borderline-manipulative plan to drag him out of his self-imposed exile - had actually worked.

"Now you have to tell me how you managed to get not only Rossi but Hotch to join us tonight, sweet Teach - what kind of sorcery did you pull?" Penelope beamed, not even giving you a second to breathe after you’d opened the door to your apartment.

Ever since she got shot and still struggled with being alone in her house, the two of you had built this little ritual - getting ready together, spending a few hours just the two of you in your apartment before a night out.

A win-win, really, considering you also took your time settling into this place, figuring out how to make it feel like home. Penelope had even been the one to help you unpack your very last box, and now this little tradition had taken root.

She brought the wine, you experimented with vegan appetizers - some more successful than others - and the two of you would rant, gossip, and talk about everything and nothing. But, most importantly, Penelope took on the herculean mission of wrangling your ridiculously high-maintenance team into one place for a night out.

It was a diplomatic nightmare. The venue had to be quiet enough for Spencer but still have music good enough for Derek, serve whatever mocktail JJ was obsessed with that month, and somehow accommodate Emily’s inevitable last-minute curveballs - which, incidentally, was how Spencer found himself at a drag show for the first time.

Shockingly, he’d been asking to go back to that bar ever since.

You, meanwhile, were more like Penelope’s unpaid secretary. She desperately needed one, given the sheer level of effort it took to coordinate this mess.

"You asked, and I delivered," you said, shrugging. "Told Rossi that Hotch was coming, told Aaron that Rossi was coming too - he actually turned out to be much easier to persuade."

"I wonder why… oh, right," Penelope sing-songed, eyes gleaming. "Big Bossman has a soft spot for you, smiley little thing."

You rolled your eyes. "The fact that we’re friends doesn’t change that he is infuriatingly stubborn once he makes up his mind. So annoying."

"Nine years of ‘friendship��" Penelope quipped, stretching the word out suspiciously.

"Actually, it’s ten," you corrected, sipping your wine as you settled onto your kitchen stool.

Penelope gasped - full dramatic hand-to-chest gasp. "Oh my STARS and MOONS! Ten years?! And you didn’t tell me?! What did you do? What did he do? Just the two of you , alone somewhere private, existing in your natural secretive habitats like the little pretty, reserved, woodland creatures you two are… especially now that he’s divor-"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down, Pen!" you cut her off before she could run that train straight off the rails. "How many times have I told you we're-"

But no. She didn’t let you finish.

"Oh, Teach!" she grinned, eyes sparkling enough to concern you. "I was just suggesting you two do something to celebrate… something you two love to do. You know, stay up all night bonding over files… bending over files…"

You choked.

Actually choked.

Wine went straight up your nose, burned your throat, and splattered all over you, going everywhere.

Your counter.

Your floor.

Your poor, innocent, pristine white pants.

Penelope screamed - but not in horror, in absolute, unhinged delight.

"OH MY GOD," she cackled, slapping a hand against your back like that would somehow help you breathe again. "I HAVE NEVER BROKEN YOU SO FAST."

You wheezed, still coughing. "Penelope-"

She wiped a fake tear from her eye, grinning. "Oh no, sweet pea. You absolutely just got - wait." She paused mid-celebration, tilting her head as if she had just made a discovery.

Then, in a tone far too calm for the amount of damage she was about to inflict - "Much like I imagine Aaron Hotchner could do."

A horrible, inhuman noise clawed its way out of your throat - your last dying breath, probably.

Penelope lost it. Full-body laughter, already snatching a towel but making zero effort to hide the criminal glint in her eyes.

"I’m just saying," she went on, barely containing herself, "you and Mr. Tall, Dark, and Emotionally Repressed have this whole agonizingly slow-burn, will-they-won’t-they, tragic yearning thing going on, and you know I’m right."

You groaned, dabbing furiously at the stain. "There is nothing slow-burn about a decade-long friendship."

"Aha! So you admit it’s a burn!" Penelope beamed, pointing at you like she had just cracked a conspiracy wide open.

The more you dabbed, the worse it got - just like this conversation, apparently. "Oh, no, I never-”

"All I’m saying is," she steamrolled over you, completely unfazed, "the energy you two radiate is so thick I could slather it on a bagel. Toasted chemistry. Smothered in slow-burn spread. One time I saw him look at you like you personally hand-crafted happiness from scratch just for him. Like you reached into the fabric of the universe and said, ‘Here you go, Hotchner, a reason to believe in joy again.’"

You paused, glaring at her. "That is insane."

She ignored you, fully in the zone now. "And don’t even get me started on the way you look at him when he isn’t paying attention."

You looked at him completely normally. Totally neutral. A textbook, regulation-approved gaze.

Even Anderson looked at him with more fervor than you ever did - and as far as you knew, he wasn’t even into men.

You scoffed, crossing your arms. "And how exactly do I look at him, Penelope? Enlighten me."

She grinned - dangerously - and leaned in like she was about to drop the biggest bombshell of your life. "Like you already know what he looks like naked and are trying very, very hard not to think about it."

You froze.

For exactly half a second - which, unfortunately, was half a second too long.

Penelope’s entire face dropped. Eyes huge. Mouth hanging open. A moment of stunned silence. And then-

"OH. MY. GOD."

Your stomach plummeted. "Penelope, don’t-"

"OH MY GOD. YOU DID."

"Penelope," you tried again, desperately attempting to rein in the chaos - but, to your credit, you did at least try to keep your voice level.

"JESUS, MARY, AND EMILY PRENTISS, YOU TOTALLY DID THE HORIZONTAL TANGO WITH AARON HOTCHNER. YOU SNEAKY LITTLE MINX. HOW DARE YOU HIDE THIS FROM ME?!"

"Penelope, for the love of-" you started, but of course she chimed in again.

"WHEN?! WHERE?! HOW?! DETAILS, WOMAN!"

You exhaled through your nose, dragging a hand down your face because there was no getting out of this.

"Once," you muttered. "Nine years ago."

Silence.

Then, with the most scandalized expression you've ever witnessed on her face, she shrieked, "ONLY ONCE?!"

You threw your hands up. "Yes, only once! And never again."

"WHY ONLY ONCE?!" she shrieked, as if you had just admitted to committing the single greatest injustice known to mankind.

You exhaled, bracing yourself, hoping that a little honesty might finally get her to calm down. "Because, at the time… I might have had a bit of a crush on him. And we were coworkers. And it wasn’t exactly… ethic-"

"FUCK THE ETHICAL!" she screamed, thrilled by the sheer scandal of it all.

You should have seen that coming."Penelope!"

She flailed her arms so violently she nearly knocked over her wine glass, eyes wide "You had a crush on him?! ON HOTCH?! AND YOU ONLY DID IT ONCE?! Oh, I cannot with you right now. You are so infuriating sometimes! You have the emotional restraint of a saint, and I do not mean that as a compliment."

"We were both drunk, and it was a mistake. It happened, we moved on, and that was the end of it. We’re friends, and that’s all it’s ever going to be." you said, unwavering. " Honestly, I don’t even think about it anymore - sometimes, I even laugh about it."

Penelope squinted, gears visibly turning in that devious head of hers, already cooking up something absolutely unhinged. "Mmm-hmm. Okay. Fine. Sure. Let’s pretend I accept that. But-"

Oh no.

"-if it were to happen again, hypothetically speaking, do you think it would be even better now that he’s aged like a fine, expensive, top-shelf wine? And, and, anddd - follow-up question - on a purely objective, scientific level - how would you rate him? You know, visually?"

"Penelope!" you groaned, but unfortunately, your traitorous brain had already started answering the question.

Yes.

And no comment.

"Okay, okay, fine, no ratings," she huffed dramatically, rolling her eyes so hard you were surprised she didn't sprain something. "But-"

This was it. Your moment. Time to end this madness with a good old, firm, satisfying -"No."

But, of course, that would have been too good to be true.

She continued "-would you say he's more on the impressively sized side or-"

"Penelope, please." You were already suffering.

She waved you off like your dignity was a minor inconvenience to her scientific research. "Listen, I’m just saying," she went on, tone now fully deranged, "the man carries himself like he’s got something to be confident about. Big hands, big energy, big…"

You froze. "Do not finish that sentence."

"BIG, HUGE D-"

Time to draw the line.

You shot up so fast your chair went flying, rattling against the floor as you grabbed your phone.

Penelope screeched. "Wait - what are you doing?!"

You scrolled, thumb unwavering, and hit call. "Giving you a direct source."

Her soul left her body. "NO. NO, YOU WOULD NOT-"

You absolutely would.

And you did.

"Come on," you said, completely deadpan, as the dial tone rang. "It’s just Aaron."

Penelope malfunctioned. She glitched like a corrupted file. She stared at you, horrified, mouth moving but no sound coming out.

"He’s just 'Aaron' to you?" she whispered, her hands flailed before slamming onto the table as if physically stabilizing herself. "No last name? No title? Just oh, you know, my casual little ex-lover, Aaron? Just ‘hello, this is a man I have been biblically familiar with, Aaron?’ Just ‘we had sex nine years ago, and now he’s simply Aaron, like we’re old college roommates and not two people who have seen each other naked’"

…Hmm. Well. Yes?

To be fair, you’d never really thought about it before. It just… happened. One day, he was Hotch, then - sometime after that night - he was Aaron. And after that, you never really stopped.

No big discussion, no conscious decision - just a shift so seamless that you hadn’t even registered it until right now, in this very moment, with Penelope practically having a full-body breakdown in your kitchen.

Not important. Moving on.

Because, frankly, you had bigger concerns - like how you were about to experience instant, irreversible consequences for your actions, since the call, after one, two, three rings-

Connected.

"Hello?" His voice came through the line - slightly huffed, a little breathless, like he’d just moved across the room.

"You took a while to pick up," you said casually - a joke, a throwaway comment.

There was a pause. A beat.

And then, in that deadly flat, unbothered tone of his, he answered, "I was still in the shower."

You froze.

Penelope froze.

Somewhere, on the opposite side of your living room wall, your elderly neighbor Mrs. Lee - who had been subtly not subtly eavesdropping through the thin drywall of your apartment - probably froze.

You could feel Penelope vibrating beside you, gripping your arm so tightly she was cutting off circulation, meanwhile, your brain was running in circles, slamming against metaphorical walls, and screaming into the void because-

Aaron in the shower.

Aaron, freshly out of the shower.

Aaron, picking up the phone, standing there, probably half-naked, hair wet-

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

You leaned back against the counter, schooling your expression into something completely unfazed. "Well, now I feel bad for interrupting."

"I doubt that," he said dryly. "Is something wrong?"

"Not at all. It’s just that Penelope had something very important to ask you," you said, glancing over at her with the most innocent, borderline sadistic smile you could muster.

"I - what - no, I don’t-" she sputtered, frantically shaking her head and waving her hands.

Aaron, still completely unaware of the impending disaster, said, "What is it, Penelope?"

Dead silence.

Garcia looked like she had been struck by divine retribution.

"Go on," you mouthed, biting back a grin. "Ask him."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Nothing.

Just the sound of sheer existential regret.

"Garcia?" Aaron prompted, his tone patient, if slightly concerned.

"I - um - hi, sir Sir," she finally managed, voice several octaves higher than usual. "I - I just - well, you know - um. How was your shower?"

You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from screaming.

Aaron, completely unfazed, just answered like this was a normal human interaction,"It was fine."

"Good! That’s great!" Garcia blurted, nodding furiously at no one in particular. "Love a good shower! Love hygiene! So important! Huge fan of cleanliness! Showering - what a concept! Water? Incredible. Soap? Revolutionary. Scrubbing? Life-changing. Anyway, I have to go bye!"

And then she hung up so fast it was a miracle she didn’t break the phone.

You just stared at her.

She just stared back.

Then, in perfect sync -

You both screamed, laughing.

"You traitor!" Penelope wheezed, still half-laughing, half-mortified.

"You were the one who wanted answers!" you gasped, nearly crying from laughter.

"Not from him directly!" she shrieked, burying her face in her hands like that could somehow reverse time - but she was laughing anyway, because this was, undeniably, the funniest and most horrifying thing that had ever happened.

"Well, I just saved you the effort," you teased.

She ripped her hands away from her face, wild-eyed. "You made me ask our boss about his shower."

"You made me listen to your entire dissertation on whether or not he’s impressively sized - I feel like we’re even."

You still somehow winced thinking back about it.

She groaned, collapsing against the counter. "I will never recover from this."

"Oh, I’m sure you absolutely will," you said, reaching for the wine bottle. "Do you want more wine?"

She lifted her head just enough to nod. Begrudgingly.

You poured, sliding her glass across the counter. Then, with the kind of magnanimous generosity only wine-fueled chaos could inspire, you added, "And - because I am a good friend - I will allow you one question about that night. One. With a detail."

Penelope snapped upright faster than the speed of light, gasping. "Oh, this is the best day of my life."

You chuckled, shaking your head, sipping from your own glass too. "Make it count."

She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and then, she leaned in and whispered- "Was it at least good enough that you'd do it sober?"

You nearly choked, again. "Penelope!"

She lifted a hand. "No, no, no, this is a very fair, very respectable question."

Sure, a question that required another sip of wine to be answered, especially because at this point you literally had nothing more to lose. "Penelope, I would do it sober, wide awake, fully caffeinated, after eight hours of sleep, in a well-lit room, with a legally binding contract ensuring I’d remember every single second."

Penelope screamed.

"OH MY GOD," she wailed, collapsing onto the counter. "THIS IS MY NEW FAVORITE NIGHT."

You took another sip, completely unfazed, as she flailed so hard she nearly launched herself off the stool.

"I NEED TO LIE DOWN," she gasped, gripping onto the counter for support. "I NEED TO CALL EMILY. JJ – OH SWEET LITTLE JJ – SHE’S IN NEW ORLEANS SHE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW”

"You need to calm down," you deadpanned.

She pointed at you, accusatory, still half-breathless from screaming. "You were gonna take this to the grave. You were gonna let me die not knowing this. ME. PENELOPE GARCIA. The person who has kept all of your secrets and asked for nothing in return except unfiltered chaos."

"I was absolutely going to take this to the grave," you confirmed, refilling your wine.

She let out a dramatic gasp. "YOU MONSTER."

You shrugged. "You survived."

She slammed a hand on the table. "You know who wouldn’t have survived?"

You tilted your head. "Who?"

She leaned in, eyes glinting. "Aaron Hotchner."

You made a low, strangled noise in the back of your throat.

"Oh, he absolutely wouldn’t have survived if he knew this just came out of your mouth," she continued, giddy, thriving off the absolute chaos she had unleashed. Then, dead serious - "Text him right now and tell him."

You slammed your wine down. "I am definetely not texting him that."

"Why not?!" she howled.

"Because I told you - I’m never doing that. Ever. I’m serious. If I could go back in time and relive that sober? Sure. But not. Now."

She narrowed her eyes, assessing, calculating.

"Okay, okay, alright then - next question." she said too fast, taking a sip like she was preparing for battle. "Do you think he’d do it sober?"

You opened your mouth - but nothing came out. Because you hadn’t actually thought about that before.

Penelope gasped so loudly that you were surprised the walls didn’t shake. "OH MY GOD, YOU DON’T KNOW."

"I-"

"OH MY GOD, WHAT IF HE THINKS ABOUT IT, WHAT IF HE REGRETS NOT DOING IT AGAIN."

"Penelope," you said slowly, carefully, " you know what? I have reached my limit. This conversation is getting put away. We are going to the bathroom, I am curling your hair, and we are talking about something else."

"You know, Teach," she mused, stretching luxuriously as she grabbed her wine glass. "You have a really weird way of showing love."

You took a slow sip of wine, watching her over the rim of your glass. “I agree - it’s because I hate you just as much as I love you, PG. Opposites aren’t really opposites, you know? They kind of fold into each other - love, hate… same fire, same burn. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.”

You were actually proud of this philosophical pearl of wisdom. Penelope? Not so much.

She cut you off immediately. "Oh my GOD, this explains so much. This is exactly why you and Hotch looked like you were about to fuck in the middle of the bullpen yesterday."

"PENELOPE."

She pointed at you, completely unbothered. "OH NO NO NO - I was sitting there, minding my own business, when suddenly you two were arguing about the profile like you were in some kind of battle for dominance, standing way too close, talking way too low, making way too much direct eye contact."

"We were disagreeing about the profile."

"YOU WERE HAVING A MENTAL THREESOME WITH THE PROFILE BETWEEN YOU."

You let your head drop onto the counter.

She kept going. "It was totally foreplay - and then, mid-argument, he even took you to his office."

You lifted your head just enough to glare at her. "We went to his office to continue the discussion in private."

"Sure..." she grinned, skipping toward the bathroom. "Fine, fine. But just so you know," she threw a look over her shoulder, "if Hotch ever does take you to his office for anything other than work, I expect a full report."

Oh fucking hell.

"I hope your curls come out uneven," you muttered, grabbing the curling iron.

"I hope you get stuck in an elevator with him," she shot back.

You narrowed your eyes. "I hope you trip in your heels tonight."

She grinned wider. "I hope Hotch sits across from you at the bar and just stares at your lips the whole time."

You scoffed. "I hope your mascara smudges so bad you look like a raccoon by the end of the night."

She perked up. "I hope you two sneak away to the bathrooms at the bar, and you have to keep quiet while he-"

"PENELOPE."

She continued, undeterred, "I hope he backs you up against the bar, leans down all serious like he’s about to tell you something important - and then just whispers the filthiest thing you’ve ever heard."

"I hope you break a heel on the way there and have to borrow one of Morgan’s sneakers."

"I hope he offers you his jacket and you realize it still smells like his cologne and suddenly you’re thinking about it again."

"I hope you stub your toe so hard you rethink everything."

"I hope he says your name in that low voice of his, and for a split second, you remember exactly what he sounded like nine years ago-"

"I hope you spill something on your dress and have to go home early."

She cackled, victorious. "I hope you wake up in his bed and don't regret a single thing."

And maybe, exactly because the two of you had this conversation, you shouldn’t have agreed to go to the bar together in a single car – hers.

You should have seen this coming.

Indeed, as you and Aaron made your way back to the bar, drinks in hand, you spotted Derek and Penelope approaching with a very specific look on their faces.

Derek clapped a hand on your shoulder and said, "Teach - Babygirl had too many drinks to drive, I’m bringing her back home, can-"

Aaron didn’t even let him finish.

"I’ll give the professor a ride," he said immediately, smooth, confident, like he had already made up his mind before Derek even spoke. "You go, Morgan. See you tomorrow morning."

You barely had time to process how utterly inevitable this was - how there was no escaping the tension that had been building up all night until the very moment you stepped out of his car and reached your apartment door.

And then - Penelope smirked.

The smuggest, most self-satisfied, most evil little smirk in existence. You hoped, deeply and sincerely, that this wasn’t her plan all along - but judging by the way she waved so innocently as Derek dragged her away, eyes twinkling like the devil himself-

Yeah. You were doomed.

You were doomed the second you and Aaron stepped out of the bar and, with zero effort, he pushed open the massive, heavy wooden door like it weighed nothing at all. Casual. Effortless. Like he hadn’t even thought about it.

Just naturally stepped aside, one hand braced firmly on the doorframe, the other resting lightly against the door, waiting – watching - as you walked past him.

You were even more doomed when you reached his car and - of course - he opened the passenger seat for you too.

Didn’t even let you reach for it yourself.

Just beat you to it with ease, pulling it open - but instead of walking away immediately, he lingered for half a second longer, his hand still resting on the handle, holding it just firmly enough so he could be the one to shut you in himself.

Like this wasn’t already a lost art. Like this was just how things were supposed to be.

To top it all off, he got in, and as he backed out of the parking spot, his arm reached behind your headrest, fingers resting exactly there, his body leaning in just slightly closer as he turned to glance over his shoulder.

You had never wanted to fight for your life more.

Not because of the closeness.

Not because of the way his short-sleeved polo shifted, muscles tensing subtly, biceps flexing just enough as he turned the wheel -

No.

It was because he chose this exact moment to mutter, in that low, distracted, completely serious voice, something about the structural failures of public infrastructure.

"Parking lots aren’t properly illuminated," he murmured, half to himself, half to you, as he pulled out of the space - leaning in just enough for you to be wrapped in the warmth of his woody cologne. "Streetlamps are too far apart - against regulation. Visibility’s compromised."

You blinked.

It was so incredibly Hotchner of him to be thinking about streetlamp regulations at a time like this that you nearly lost your mind.

But you couldn’t even react, because then he turned on the car radio. And instead of some normal, pre-set station, it booted right into his most recent activity.

Which meant - of course - it immediately picked up in the middle of whatever custom CD he had been listening to on the way to the bar.

You had exactly one second to register the unfamiliar tune before it clicked - this was from whatever Broadway musical he was currently obsessed with.

Oh, he was such a loser.

You turned your head toward him, but Aaron - unfazed, unbothered - simply reached forward and turned the volume down to a casual, background level.

Like this was all perfectly normal.

Like you hadn’t just caught him.

"Aaron." You bit back a smirk.

He kept his eyes firmly on the road, expression unreadable. "Hmm?"

"Which one is this?" you asked, already knowing the answer but needing him to say it out loud.

"Wicked," he muttered. Then, quickly -"I can change it."

"Oh no, no, don’t you dare, Hotchner." You chuckled, settling in. "Always wondered what your music taste sounds like."

He exhaled deeply. "It is not only this-" he started, trying, truly trying to make you understand the complexity of his other music tastes, to defend his honor, but – they just started singing. And he knew.

He knew.

You were never going to let him live this down. Better off saving his breath.

Hilarious, and the best part? He didn’t even know he was.

Halfway through, you tilted your head, listening. "So this whole song is about two girls absolutely hating each other because they’re complete opposites, but they’re forced to be roommates?"

"Pretty much, yes." His answer a little too quiet, and - though he tried to hide it - deeply embarrassed.

You grinned. "It kinda sounds like they have a crush on each other," you commented, trying your best not to notice how his fingers tapped the wheel, completely in rhythm with the song, while his face remained perfectly composed - extremely normal about something he so clearly wasn't at all.

"That’s the whole point," he said, deadpan, keeping it short.

"Oh “ You blinked. “Do they get together at the end?"

"Unfortunately not." He sounded so genuinely bitter about it that you nearly laughed. "They become best friends, though."

Though, judging by the way his gaze flicked toward you for half a second, he wasn’t entirely sure if you were still talking about the musical - or something else entirely.

Especially when you simply hummed, turning to look out the window. "Best friends."

"Yes. Best friends." His fingers tightened on the wheel.

And damn if you didn’t let the silence linger just a beat too long.

"They don’t get together because they’re completely different, so they’re not compatible?" you asked, your voice just a little too earnest.

"Not because of that," he started. "It’s because one of them becomes a political fugitive and is declared a national threat, while the other is essentially forced into being the corrupt government’s PR puppet."

Ah. Okay.

There was no possible way to explain it in a way that didn’t completely kill the mood - impossible, really. But he tried anyway.

"Although," he added, keeping his voice even, measured, like this was not something he had many thoughts on, "they do have a really dramatic goodbye, where they sing about how much they changed each other’s lives and how they’ll never be the same again."

He felt you turn toward him, and though he kept his eyes on the road, he felt it - that shift in your attention, God knows on what, though.

"Best friends," you repeated.

He gripped the wheel just a little too tight. "Best friends," he confirmed, again.

A beat. A pause. Too long.

"And you think it would have been better if they had been together?" Your question landed way too heavy, like you knew exactly how much weight it carried.

Like you knew exactly how his mind worked, how he had spent far too long thinking about this, not just in the context of some musical, but in general.

He exhaled, keeping his eyes fixed ahead, but his grip tightened again.

And then-

"Fuck yes," the words left his mouth way too fast.

So fast that he heard you laugh before he even saw you smile from the rereview mirror of the car.

And God - that laugh.

It wrecked him.

Not because it was loud or sudden, but because it was yours. Because it was real. Unguarded. Effortless. Because it was him that pulled it from you - and it was then, in that moment, that he knew.

He was so, so fucked.

Because this wasn’t new. This wasn’t some sudden realization, some reckless thought that had just wormed its way into his mind out of nowhere.

It had been there. For a long time. Ten whole years.

He had just never let himself look at it too closely.

Because if he did - if he let himself really think about it, about how he felt like he was burning alive every time you looked at him like that - it would be too much.

It would consume him.

And he could not, would not, risk this unless he was absolutely sure.

Unless he knew you wanted him too.

Unless he knew you burned for him the same way he was combusting for you in real time in this car.

And that terrified him, because he was not sure.

Because you laughed like it was just funny.

Because you smiled like this was just a conversation.

Because you did not look wrecked.

Not like he felt.

So instead, he cleared his throat, steadied his grip, and forced his voice into something casual, distant - yet still, somehow, not completely backing down. "You think they should have ended up together too, then?"

Not ‘do you think I’m wrong’.

Not ‘do you disagree’.

But - you think so too.

Like some small, cowardly, pathetic part of him needed to hear you say it.

There was a pause - not a long one, not anything noticeable if he wasn’t paying attention. But he was.

He was paying attention to everything.

To the way your breath hitched just slightly, to the way your fingers twisted at the hem of your sleeve, to the way you turned your head to look at him.

“Obviously.” You gestured toward the radio. “You don’t harmonize so effortlessly with someone you’re just calling a ‘friend.’ That’s literally just denial with extra steps.”

He almost told you that harmonizing perfectly was the entire point of musical theater. That it was scripted, practiced, designed to fit together.

That it didn’t mean anything.

But he didn’t, because he knew what you meant. “So you believe in that?” he asked, voice steady, casual, like this was just another discussion.

You raised an eyebrow. “In what?”

His fingers tapped against the wheel, once, twice – thoughtful - before he finally spoke. "That some people are just... deluding themselves."

The shift was small, but he felt it. Your smile didn’t falter. Your posture didn’t change. But something in your expression - in your eyes specifically - shifted.

It was dangerous, talking to you like this.

Because you noticed too much. Because you understood more than most. Because you saw through things - through people - with a clarity that was often unnerving.

Especially when it came to him.

Especially when he wasn’t sure he was ready to be understood like that.

It was your job, afterall.

"Oh, absolutely," you said easily, your tone way too light for his liking. "People are the most oblivious to themselves. We exist in a perpetual state of contradiction - endlessly chasing clarity while fiercely protecting the illusions that comfort us. We reshape our own realities, bending them to fit the narratives we can live with, refusing to confront the truths that feel too heavy - even when they’re staring right at us."

And didn’t he know - hadn’t he always known - how precise you could be with words in moments like this? The moments where he wasn’t, the only moments where he wasn’t precise at all.

How effortlessly you could thread meaning into silence, weaving it into something he could either acknowledge or ignore.

How your gaze lingered just a fraction too long, like you were offering him a choice.

And he didn’t know whether to turn away from it - or step straight into it.

Because for once, he couldn’t read you and that terrified him.

He had spent his entire life seeing through people, understanding them before they even understood themselves.

Yet here he was, in the quiet of his car, in the space between you, not entirely sure who you were talking about.

And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

So he did what he had always done.

He lived with it.

With the sound of his heart thundering louder than the music - louder than your occasional singing along when something familiar played, or the rhythm of your voice alternating with his as you both filled the car with conversation about everything and nothing.

Each block closer to your apartment building felt like a loss, something slipping through his fingers before he even had the chance to hold onto it. He was already mourning the night before it was over.

And neither of you seemed to want it to end, given how relentlessly the talking continued, stretching time as far as it would allow.

It wasn’t until half an hour later that it even occurred to either of you that you were standing outside in the cold, leaning against the driver’s side door, your arms wrapped around yourself in a futile attempt to keep warm. He was still in the car, window rolled down, engine still running, caught between staying and leaving.

It made him ache, interrupting you mid-sentence to point it out. “You’re shivering,” he said quietly, apologetic, as though he were to blame for the biting chill in the air.

It made him ache even more when, instead of brushing it off or saying goodnight, you invited him upstairs, at how his jacket was discarded somewhere along the short path to your building’s entrance, now draped over your shoulders along with his arm, pulling you closer.

It was ridiculous how, even with two jackets on, the only thing keeping you from freezing was his arm.

What was even more ridiculous - hideous, really - was how he should have been the one freezing, left in nothing but short sleeves, yet somehow, standing there with you wrapped up in him, he’d never felt warmer in his life.

So warm that he didn’t even notice the chill of the night.

So warm, in fact, that he didn’t even need the blanket you handed him when you both settled into your living room, waiting for the heating to kick in. He let it drape over his lap out of politeness more than necessity, as if pretending to care about staying warm.

Now, you sat on opposite ends of your couch, shoes abandoned by the door, both of you leaning on the armrest closest to the other, legs angled toward one another, the space between you steadily narrowing. Distance itself felt like an insult, your arms resting along the back of the couch so you could still face each other, still hold onto the moment that neither of you wanted to let slip away.

And he didn’t dare lose sight of your eyes.

It was in that exact moment that a memory surfaced—some weeks ago, sitting alone in his living room, reading Symposium, a book he only picked up because he had seen you so engrossed in it on the jet. Because he had wanted to understand what had captured your mind so entirely.

And everything that followed - a whole night of texting, deep conversations neither of you ever brought up again, like always.

His eyes had analyzed the book twice, dissected its structure, its meaning. And yet, only now, in the absence of it but in your presence, did he finally understand that one passage.

"And when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of himself… the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and one will not be out of the other's sight, even for a moment."

He understood.

Because he couldn’t look away from you - not now, not ever.

The world outside was so quiet that every word exchanged between you felt magnified, as though the universe itself had leaned in to listen. And when even your whispers felt too loud, you shifted closer, scooching toward him on the couch.

Just a few inches at first.

And then he did the same.

You moved again. Then so did he.

And suddenly, your crossed leg was draped over his, the fabric of your tights brushing against his jeans as naturally as if it had always been there. His left hand settled somewhere near your knee - hesitant, not gripping, but resting. Shy.

The ticking clock on the wall was the only tether to the concept of time, because what he’d assumed to be ten, maybe fifteen minutes revealed itself to be a full hour.

3 A.M. And neither of you seemed to care.

By then, his hand had already found the courage to rest between your thighs, still safely on your knee. Though it didn’t take long before his thumb began moving on its own, tracing slow, idle patterns over the thin fabric of your tights.

He didn’t say anything about the way your foot brushed his calf, or how his name on your lips sounded softer in the early hours. Or at how all of this mutual care betrayed his mind, cracking open a small window to what it could have been.

Yet somehow, it felt far more like a glimpse of what it could be.

“Aaron,” your said, soft enough that it sounded more like a thought than a spoken word.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a statement. It was just his name. Him.

And somehow, that made it all the more devastating.

You hesitated, your eyes dropping to where his hand rested on your knee. He followed your gaze, and in that moment, even though he’d memorized every fleck of color in your irises, their absence felt like a loss.

So dull that his thumb stilled its movements across your knee under your inspection, as if the simple acknowledgment of the two of you now might shatter everything.

He braced himself for a shift - for the game you always played, where lines were drawn, and walls went back up. Where the closeness between you was something fleeting, fleeting enough to pretend it never existed.

But then, you looked back up.

And instead of retreat, instead of scolding or teasing or anything he expected, there was something else entirely. “I really don’t want this night to end.”

He wasn’t sure he’d heard you right, but the look in your eyes left no room for doubt. You weren’t just talking about the night… and neither was he.

But he didn’t know how to give you the honesty you deserved without completely unraveling, not until his thumb resumed its gentle movements on your knee - more to selfishly steady himself than anything else.

“Neither do I,” he admitted finally, even if each second was daring him to say more, to close the space between you entirely. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not yet.

It was you who moved first.

Plato said that ‘At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.”

Maybe he was right, because as your hand slid down his arm, it felt like a verse being written. The way your fingertips barely grazed the surface of his skin, tracing the map of his veins with a tenderness you hadn’t realized you possessed, pretending the warmth under your fingertips didn’t make your stomach tremble, until finally, your touch lingered on his knuckles.

A pause, hesitant. Then, almost instinctively, you laced your fingers with his. It felt... inevitable. Natural in a way that terrified you.

“Didn’t expect you to be this warm,” you murmured, your voice light, almost teasing, though you couldn’t hide the way it trembled.

You finally found the courage to meet his eyes. Hazel. Searching. Devastating.

And you weren’t afraid of what you saw, you already knew. What terrified you was that, with one touch, you might have unraveled something too fragile to survive.

His gaze fell to your joined hands, his thumb gliding softly over the back of yours, speaking in the ineffable language of touch.

“I didn’t expect to feel this… right,” he said, the words so quiet they felt more like a confession than a statement.

The smallest smile tugged at your lips, and you leaned in just a little more. “Aaron…”

And that was it.

Whatever restraint he’d been holding onto slipped away entirely. Before he could overthink it, his hand came to rest against your cheek, his calloused palm cradling the softness of your face.

Gentle. Steady. Tender.

The contrast was almost startling, culminating in the soft whimper that escaped your lips as the cold metal of his watch grazed your neck. And so, apologetically, his thumb began to move, tracing gentle patterns along your cheek, as though committing every curve, every subtle shift, to memory.

You didn’t pull away.

Instead, your hand slid to his wrist, holding him there, your thumb tracing the same delicate patterns along his inner wrist, matching his movements with the same ease that echoed in the way you ordinarily mirrored each other’s posture, each other’s language.

His gaze flickered to your lips. “You have no idea how hard it is to stop myself here,” he just said, now without a hint of regret, not when your eyes searched his with the same intensity he felt pulling at his chest.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered, the words so soft they barely reached him, but he heard them as clearly as if you’d shouted.

His breath came shallow now, his gaze searching yours, as though looking for any sign of hesitation.

But there was none. Only the quiet, unspoken truth reflected back at him.

And so his other hand found your waist, pulling you closer - so close that, without thinking, you moved to straddle him, your knees settled on either side of his hips.

“I-” he stammered, as he looked at you wide-eyed tilting his head back slightly, before shaking his head, a breathless chuckle escaping him.

“Sorry,” you blurted, heat rushing to your face as you realized just how intimate the position you’d claimed truly was – the cruelty of not having even thought about it once before moving, how it was the only way to still communicate with his eyes.

“No,” he said quickly, almost shy, but the way his thumbs brushed your sides betrayed how much he didn’t want you to move. “Don’t apologize. I just wasn’t expecting it...” he trailed off, though you didn’t miss how his gaze flickered to your lips more than once.

“…Are you comfortable?” he asked softly, his eyes wandering across your face.

It wasn’t just a question; it was a moment stretched taut, as if he was buying himself time, wanting to keep this moment balanced on the edge of the razor for just a little longer.

On this space of tenderness, where care outweighed desire, where everything still hung in the balance, where there was still time to hold back, to savor the precipice, waiting for one of you to risk it.

You nodded. “Very.”

The smallest, warmest smile flickered across his lips. “I’m happy you are,” he murmured.

How could he be even so sweet? How could he, in the middle of this - when your body was pressed so close to his - still be so considerate, so cautious, so Aaron?

How could his hands, now steady on your waist, have only settled there after he’d murmured a careful, overly-polite, “May I?”, the formality of it, juxtaposed with the intensity of his touch, was enough to make you giggle.

“Please don’t smile at me like that when you’re this close,” he said, his voice dropping to a low rasp, his gaze fixed on your lips.

You couldn’t help but grin wider. “Why not?” your fingers brushing lightly against his jaw.

“Because,” he began, his lips twitching up, “it makes me forget how to think.”

Crazy, really. The idea that Aaron Hotchner, the most precise and methodical man you’d ever met, could forget how to think. Thinking was practically the core of his being, wasn’t it?

Cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I am.

Because if forgetting how to think meant losing himself, then you were the cause. You had undone him.

Shaken the core of a man who had carved his entire existence around reason – or at least, tried to fool everyone into thinking so. And now, here he was - disarmed by nothing more than a smile, a touch, and the mere proximity of your lips.

If existence is rooted in thought, and Aaron’s thoughts were consumed entirely by you, did that mean his existence was yours to hold? Did that mean, right now, he existed only because you allowed him to? Couldn’t be that.

Still, how dizzying it was to consider how quickly you’d become his undoing – yet, perhaps what was even more terrifying was the way he seemed to welcome it.

“You’re not wrong,” he murmured, his voice quiet but steady, like a confession meant just for you. His dark eyes searched yours, their intensity almost overwhelming. “You do undo me.”

Your breath caught. “How did you even manage-”

But he didn’t let you finish. His forehead pressed softly against yours, his nose brushing yours in the faintest of touches.

And so your eyes closed together, as if the nearness alone was too much to bear, especially when his lips hovered so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath.

How paradoxical it was that you both desperately craved each other’s mouths, yet now, in this unbearable closeness, neither of you could summon the courage to take the last step.

How you continued lingering in the tension, your breaths mingling, your bodies pressed so close that those strong hands of his, still firmly on your waist, urged you even further onto him.

Neither of you wanted to bear the responsibility of what came next. What was about to happen. What was meant to happen. It wasn’t a game anymore. You were done waiting.

You wanted him. Now.

You were ready - to let it all go.

“Aaron,” you whispered, looking into him.

And as always, he seemed to be the only one who understood you, he began to trail kisses across your face, soft, slowly, taking his time.

Your temple.

The side of your right eye.

The curve of your cheek.

Down to your jawline.

Then, he traced his way back up, planting one final kiss at the very edge of your mouth.

When he pulled back, intoxicated, his eyes found yours - wet, shining, unguarded, just like his.

“Please, ask me to stop,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his eyes already glistening with unshed tears.

“Aaron, I can’t,” you murmured, the words trembling on your lips as your breath mingled with his, the space between you growing thinner with every passing second.

The moment.

How do you measure a moment like this?

One tick of the clock. Two tears slipping free from both of you. Three uneven heartbeats, each louder than the last.

And then, finally, he closed the distance.

You should have probably expected that your first kiss would taste like salt, the tears trailing down your faces mingling somewhere in between and masking the real sweetness of it. How the flavor of each other’s mouths was obscured, just as you’d both hidden your true feelings for so long.

It was so cruel in its irony, yet somehow, it fit so perfectly that neither of you could bring yourselves to care.

Because his lips were too soft against yours for your own good, the gentleness of his hand gripping the nape of your neck pulling you closer, while the other rested against your tear-streaked cheek, damp from both the lingering press of his lips moments before and your tears.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t to retreat - it was to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling, even as his own streamed freely, unchecked.

And as much as you wanted to keep going, to lose yourself in the solace of his mouth, something greater pulled you both in.

Without hesitation, you collapsed into each other’s arms, clutching tightly as though the world around you was slipping away, tears soaking into the other’s shoulders.

Was it penance? For realizing too late how simple this could have been? For all the wasted years, the missed chances, and the pain endured in silence?

Or was it just acceptance -that only now were you both ready to bear the weight of this, to hold each other completely, to disappear into one another?

Maybe that was the point.

Because in that embrace, unplanned and unbidden, came a feeling so familiar it ached.

That same resonance in your chest, the same connection of that first time you ever held him like this, nine years ago in your old apartment, when his walls cracked just enough to let you in.

And so the memory bleeds into the present, and it’s almost unbearable how much has stayed the same, and yet, how utterly everything has changed.

That stupid Hegel wasn’t wrong: the synthesis always becomes a new thesis, a cycle repeating itself. The moment was reborn, again and again, every time.

But damn, how it changed with every turn.

The same, yet entirely different.

The weight of then. The depth of now.

It was all there, in that fleeting, aching embrace. Not just holding on to each other, but to every version of yourselves that had come before - and every one still waiting in the future.

Even as the moment began to fade, as you pulled back - both drawn by the undeniable hunger to find each other’s mouths again - the synthesis was already shifting, reshaping into something new.

Another storm, another struggle, another antithesis loomed ahead, but always, always, the cycle reached for a new synthesis. And Hegel, damn him, was right again.

The cycle never ends.

But neither, it seemed, did you.

Competing with each other, as always.

Neither of you willing to back down, both so eager to claim the other that it became impossible to tell who started the second kiss, it just… happened.

This time, there was no softness, no hesitation - just urgency. Your hands tangled in the back of his hair, pulling him closer, keeping him right where you wanted him, while his hands gripped your lower back.

The moment your lips parted, offering him the faintest invitation, he deepened the kiss without even thinking it twice. His tongue slid against yours with so much hunger you were intoxicated, only for you to interrupt with a sharp bite to his bottom lip.

He growled at the challenge, he had to one-up you, returning the favor by sinking his teeth into your jawline, as if to stake his claim all over again, a sound so low and primal it seemed to vibrate straight into your skin, making you gasp and tighten your hold on him even more, eager to hear it again.

Damn him and his competitiveness.

You couldn’t help but meet it head-on, your hands roaming over the taut muscles of his back, feeling every shift, every flex as he moved against you.

He broke away briefly, not to stop, but to catch his breath as his lips found new territory. From your mouth to your jaw, and then down to your neck, your head tilting back reflexively, granting him even more access.

He smiled against your skin, insufferable even now, and when his lips returned to yours, that grin only widened. You kissed him again and again, but since his stupid smile kept getting in the way, you ended up kissing his teeth more than once.

Damn him.

And yet, you found yourself smiling like a fool, because how could you not? There was no way you could be making him feel this way, yet here you were - both of you lost in it, pushing and pulling, both refusing to surrender.

The more you had of each other, the more you wanted, never satisfied, never close enough, as though the only way to end this ache was to somehow crawl into each other’s skin.

And so, blame the position.

Blame the dress you’d chosen tonight, skimming your thighs, leaving so little to the imagination as it rode up with every shift against him.

Blame the way your kisses had shifted, growing hungrier, messier, more tongue than lips, more heavy breathing than words.

Or blame his new-found obsession to place wet kisses on the spot just behind your ear just to hear you gasp, while he had the audacity to hum into your neck, utterly satisfied with himself, like he was savoring your every reaction to the exquisite work of his mouth.

Blame his body, the way he pressed against you, his hands sliding from your waist to your hips, then lower, settling on your ass with a grip that didn’t make the things any easier.

Blame the way his growing bulge rubbed against you through the rough fabric of his jeans, the friction hitting exactly where the ache was blooming, pulling shudders from deep inside you.

Blame all of it - the kisses, the position, the maddening press of his body against yours - because it only made you more desperate.

The carnal realization of just how badly you wanted him, left you unable to stop. Your hips moved instinctively, grinding against his hardness, the rhythm of your kisses syncing with the desperate roll of your bodies.

Thank God his jeans were dark, because you were sure by now your arousal was leaving its mark on him, soaking into the fabric, leaving evidence of just how far gone you were – and if he noticed, if he felt it, the way his grip tightened on your waist told you he didn’t care.

If anything, it spurred him on, pulling you closer, holding you tighter, neither of you could stop moving.

The worst part? You didn’t want to. Not even a little.

What was even worse than this? The fact that Aaron, ever the master of timing, felt the need to comment on the obvious.

“You know what you’re doing, don’t you?” he asked breathless, lips flushed and slightly swollen from yours.

No shit, Sherlock.

You didn’t hesitate. “Aaron, do I look like I don’t know exactly what I’m doing?”

That even managed to earn a chuckle from him – speaking of victories - “Just… wanted to make sure you’re alright with this pace. We’re not exactly taking it slow, you know?!” he rasped, as his hands slid up and down the sides of your hips.

No shit, Sherlock, part two.

Was he worrying about you or himself?

You tilted your head, searching his face, the faint crease in his brow, the way his eyes softened as soon as they were met with yours. “Aaron,” you cupped his cheek. “Do you want to take it slow instead?”

Shit. What if you’d misread him? What if this hesitation wasn’t about concern for you but second thoughts about the entire thing? You hated yourself. How could you even think that-

“Not really,” he admitted, his lips curving into the most kissable smile. “I just… don’t want you to regret this. I’d wait forever if you asked me to, but right now…” His words faltered, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Right now, I don’t think I can. But only if you want it too.”

Oh God, how considerate he was.

Oh God, how much you never trusted anyone as him, how safe did he make you feel, how it almost brought tears to your eyes because you’d forgotten what it felt like to be looked at, cared for, wanted like this.

Oh God, how much you didn’t want to respond with words, to just take his hand, guide it between your legs, and let him feel exactly how much you needed him.

But words it was, then.

“I do, Aaron,” you said, taking his hands in yours. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure of anything. I want this. I want you. But…” Your lips curled up. “Not on my couch. Could we maybe hold out until the bedroom?”

Ah, yes. Turning 30 had officially made you someone who prioritized the longevity of their furniture over their sex life.

How responsible.

How tragic.

And yet, neither of you moved. It took a second - or two, or three - for both of you to gather the energy to even try standing after spending what felt like an eternity tangled up on your poor, overworked second-hand couch…

…a poor overworked second-hand. Hm. Now there was a pattern.

You hated yourself a little for how evil the thought was. Poor couch, poor him.

Not that it wasn’t true. But still - evil.

Still nearly as evil as the absolute disaster you’d made of his hair with your hands while you were making out. A fitting match for the flush on his face and the state of his half-untucked polo, which you’d been yanking at so fervently it was a miracle it hadn’t come off entirely.

Speaking of things you couldn’t stop noticing, the sight before you now was definitely a huge… huge walk with him to your bedroom. Because surely your hallway hadn’t been this long before.

Or maybe he was thinking the same thing, because just as you reached the doorway to your bedroom, he turned you, your back pressing against the wall before you even had time to push the door open.

You didn’t expect him to be this passionate – and desperate, when his mouth was back on yours, claiming you in a kiss so hot and wet it that the wetness surely wasn’t exactly isolated to your mouth at all.

You gasped, caught completely off guard, and that was apparently all the invitation he needed to slip his tongue deeper into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, and it was so good that you barely managed to catch your breath, let alone remember the damn bedroom door.

“Aaron-” you managed between breathless kisses, barely stringing the words together.

As if you could talk.

As if you could pretend to hold any moral high ground here when your leg was already wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. And oh, he was there - all of him. Thick, hard, and pressing against you.

He groaned into your mouth as his hands slid lower, gripping a handful of your ass, “I know,” he muttered, his voice rasping against your skin. “I know. The door.”

Oh, but why did his voice have to sound like that - so low, so wrecked… so unfair.

Anyway, the door.

Not that it mattered, apparently, because he didn’t move. His lips found your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin there, as his hands kneaded the flesh of your ass like he couldn’t get enough.

“You’re not exactly working on it,” you managed to gasp, and oh, you were so proud of yourself for having the strength to bicker with him even now, even like this.

Of course, Aaron, being Aaron, couldn’t resist biting back.

You felt the curve of his lips against your neck, he chuckled as his teeth grazed the hollow of your throat. “Well,” he murmured, returning to nip at your earlobe. “What about you?”

The man was infuriating. And hot. And so completely overwhelming you could barely think straight.

“I’m very busy right now,” you managed to counter, though what you really meant was that your back was far too occupied arching into him, practically begging for more.

At least he somehow found the self-control to pull back after what you could most graciously describe as an obscene amount of very enthusiastic dry humping. You were both so doomed. His hands steadied you just long enough for him to fumble for the doorknob.

And then the second you crossed the threshold, all bets were off.

His lips - no, his mouth - were on yours again, the kiss so heated it was more teeth and tongue than finesse. Probably because it hit you both at the same time - the realization of just how painfully simple it would be to strip the other bare.

His polo? A quick tug away from being tossed aside. Your dress? One little zipper stood between it and the floor. No barriers. No obstacles. That was all it would take.

And it was as if he read your mind because without a word, his hands found your waist and spun you around, pulling you back against him.

You barely had time to gasp before his head dipped to your neck, as his fingers found the zipper of your dress way too easily without even having to look. Just before he moved it, he paused. “I might’ve left a mark.”

Oh no, what a pity…

“Make it two,” you whispered, your voice trembling as your hand slid into his hair, pressing his head right where you wanted it.

And because Aaron apparently took instructions very well when they suited him, he bit down, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver, the sharpness of it immediately soothed by the warm drag of his tongue.

The sound you made was embarrassing - breathless and high-pitched – that only seemed to spur him on, since in less than a second, the dress was pooling at your feet, leaving you bare save for your tights and underwear.

Mismatched underwear.

A good lace bra - at least there was that - with the most comfortable white cotton grandma pants you could have pulled from the depths of a multipack that were, by how the things have been going now, almost certainly transparent. Perfect.

Not that any of this was supposed to happen, of course.

You hadn’t exactly planned on getting laid by your… what even was he? Your best friend? Your boss?

An objectively gorgeous man with dark eyes that burned into you, whose voice could make your knees completely weak? The person you’d been quietly, stubbornly, and stupidly in sexual tension hell with for a decade?

He was all of that. He was none of that. He was Aaron, and whatever Aaron Hotchner was to you, you hadn’t planned on getting laid tonight. Or this morning. Or whatever ungodly hour it was now.

But plans didn’t seem to matter anymore.

Not when his hands were sliding over your body like you were something he’d wanted for so long that touching you now felt like the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

Not when his lips found yours again, claiming them in a way that made you wonder how either of you had ever survived without tasting each other.

And certainly not when the moment your back hit the mattress of your bed, his full weight pressing into you fully, how your legs opened instinctively, welcoming him, pulling him closer, your body arching into him like it was chasing something only he could soothe.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, scanning your face like he was trying to memorize every detail. “God, you’re so beautiful,” he said softly, his voice rough but sincere.

“God, you’re so clothed,” you shot back without thinking, your quick wit betraying you yet again, unsure whether to curse yourself for ruining the moment or to thank your sarcasm for always wanting to keep things… balanced.

But instead of appreciating your humor or giving you the satisfaction of stripping him, the insufferable man had the audacity to bypass your comment entirely.

With a swift motion, his hand reached behind you, unclasped your bra, and tossed it somewhere into the abyss of the room without so much as a second glance.

You blinked, momentarily stunned, a flush creeping up your neck at the brazenness of it. “I was referring to you, Hotchner.”

“Eventually,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours before capturing them again in a kiss that effectively cut off any protest you might’ve had. Clever man.

And so he started his descent, a study in patience, still hopelessly romantic about it, as if the situation weren’t already infuriating. Because even though you knew for sure he could feel the way your nipples had hardened against him, he still took his time.

Kissing his way down your throat, spending far too long mapping out the curve of your collarbone with his mouth, fingers just hovering - like he wasn’t already touching you everywhere.

And then, finally, his hands moved. Possessively. His palms covered your breasts, kneading them in a way that sent sparks ricocheting through you, his lips pressing a single, scorching kiss right in the middle of your sternum.

That did it. That had your thighs clenching on instinct, a desperate attempt to manage the growing fire low in your belly.

But you refused to let a sound escape.

Oh no. You weren’t about to give him that satisfaction. Especially not when he got to enjoy the full view of you laid out beneath him while you were left with only the delicious flex of his biceps.

Biceps, which, while spectacular, were not the bare expanse of his back. Not the firm ridges of muscle you knew were under that godforsaken polo, the one thing keeping things uneven between you.

He seemed to catch on to the game you were playing, though, because without warning, his mouth closed over one of your nipples, his tongue swirling over the sensitive peak so perfectly that it had your breath catching in your throat.

At the same time, his fingers found the other, pinching, rolling, teasing - the combination so damn lethal when paired with the languid flicks of his tongue, sending shocks straight to your clit.

Still, you bit your lip, stubbornly holding back the sounds he so clearly wanted to pull from you, even if the ache between your thighs was unbearable now - a dull, insistent throb that begged, no, pleaded for attention.

Attention that the insufferable man was withholding.

Or, unlike you, he simply didn’t want to rush… damn him. He was making it impossible to keep up the charade.

Because every flick of that damned talented mouth of his - now moving onto your other breast - every brush of his fingers, every sound he made against your skin that revealed just how hungry he was of your flesh, was undoubtedly designed to unravel you, piece by piece.

Every piece, that is, except for your poor, neglected, throbbing clit.

And of course, he was enjoying every second of it. Smug bastard.

“You know,” he murmured against your skin, his lips still grazing your nipple, “sounds are appreciated.” …Oh, fuck him.

“So is nudity,” you managed to snap, though your voice trembled, betraying just how close you were to falling apart.

He stilled. Lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze. And then he smirked.

Ah. That smirk. Never a good sign.

Especially not when paired with the way his hands started working your tights down - so slowit was almost unbearable. Always careful, always considerate Aaron. But God, right now, you wanted him ripping them off you.

His gaze swept over you, his eyes instantly darkened as they dettled on the on the damp patch at the center of your underwear.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, rougher, as his thumb grazed over the edge of the fabric.

Before you could process how pleased he was with himself, he spread your legs further, settling himself between them. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, pinning you down, and he started trailing kisses along your inner thigh.

From the knee.

Oh, come on.

Still, you hissed at the contact, at the way his mouth devoured your thighs like he was savoring every inch of them.

Like this, this was what he lived for. Worshipping you.

And the way his lips moved, how drunk he looked as he worked his way upward, kissing, sucking, biting - just enough to make you twitch, the way his breath shook when he exhaled against your thigh - it only made it worse.

The closer he got, the more impossible it became to hold back the sounds slipping from your lips.

And then - one last kiss, right there, where your thigh met your core.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he murmured, and before you could even think about responding, his tongue flicked out, tasting the arousal that had trailed up to where his mouth lingered.

Oh. What a whore.

“You’re such a who-” you began, but the words barely escaped before he bit down lightly on your clothed clit, sharp enough to send a jolt through your entire body and rip a strangled cry from your throat.

Your reaction must have been exactly what he wanted, because his fingers replaced his teeth immediately, pressing against you through the thin, damp fabric.

“Oh, there you are,” he murmured, dragging his fingers down the length of your slit. “For a second, I thought I wasn’t doing it right.”

You scoffed, or at least you tried to. The sound barely made it past your lips before breaking into another sharp, breathless cry as his fingers rode back up, pressing against your clit in slow circles, the cotton barrier dulling the sensation just enough to drive you insane.

One, two, three strokes - then you stopped counting, too caught up in the feeling of him until he finally tossed the fabric aside, making you feel the cool air against the wet heat of your core, but he didn’t move.

Didn’t touch.

Just -

"You're a goddess."

He stared for so long that you started to wonder if he was waiting for you to say please, some kind of power play.

Your lips curled slightly as you lifted your chin. "If you think I’m going to beg you now, Hotchner, I’m absolutely not.

Apparently, you had never been more wrong in your life.

Because his head snapped up so fast it was almost comical - except for the way his entire face flushed. Not just with arousal - well, yes, definitely with arousal - but with something else.

The way his mouth parted slightly before he swallowed, his throat bobbing, his gaze flicking away for half a second like he had to collect himself, undoubtedly made you think-

"I was actually…" he cleared his throat, "asking for permission."

Oh. Oh. Apparently, someone couldn’t hide being a bottom for more than a few minutes.

Aaron ‘Attitude’ Hotchner? Gone. Reduced to sheepish glances and waiting for permission like a damn Victorian gentleman the second he actually looked at your cunt.

Hilarious.

"You have it," you murmured.

That was delicious.

And because he was so whipped, he didn’t just dive in immediately. No. Of course not. He had to come all the way back up first, had to kiss you before anything else.

And then he was gone. Gone from your mouth, gone from your chest, gone from anywhere but exactly where you wanted him most.

The very first swipe of his tongue across your folds obliterated any coherent thought, reduced your world to this - to the wet heat of his mouth, to the steady press of his hands holding you open, to the obscene sounds of him devouring you.

There was nothing but him, the way his tongue curled against you, the way his lips closed around your clit with just the right amount of pressure, the way his name tumbled from your lips and melted into the deep, guttural moan he let out as he first tasted you.

And honestly, you couldn’t decide what was hotter - the way his sounds came in perfect harmony with your own cries, or the fact that he was so vocal while eating you out, like it brought him just as much pleasure as it did you.

And it probably did.

Because he lapped at your dripping cunt like a man starved, frantic, desperate, moving with such a hunger that made your fingers dig into his hair, gripping tight like you could somehow hold on to reality through him.

But he didn’t want space. Didn’t need it. If anything, he leaned in further, groaning low against your soaked, swollen cunt, letting you drip down his chin as if he loved the way your arousal was entirely coating his flushed face.

Loved being drenched in you. Loved ruining himself on you.

“Aaron-” your voice broke, your hips jerking up into him, needy. “God, your tongue is unreal.”

And oh, he heard you, loud and clear.

Because his immediate response? Teeth. A quick, sharp graze of his teeth against your clit, followed by a suction so deep, so overwhelming, it ripped a scream straight from your throat.

Fuck him.

“Your-your mouth is unreal,” you stammered, correcting yourself, because apparently, he wasn’t letting you off the hook without acknowledging his full range of talents.

Smiling against your skin - as if it wasn’t blatantly obvious that he had a praise kink, too.

“Sorry,” he said with a kiss to your inner thigh as his thumb kept working on your clit. “I just thought you were a thorough one, Professor.”

What a whore.

“Oh, fuck you for calling me ‘Professor’ like it doesn’t turn you on just to say it,” you shot back.

“Oh, it does,” he admitted with no shame whatsoever. “I just wish you could feel how much.” His gaze flicked down, daring you to follow it - to the thick, aching bulge straining against his pants, so hard it had to hurt, so obvious it made you clench around nothing.

How cruel of him.

“Keep talking to me like that, Aaron, and I’ll crush your head with my thighs,” you warned, voice shaking, hands fisting into the sheets because he was still teasing, still circling with his thumb instead of putting his damn mouth back where you needed it most.

“Please do,” he said.

And then he gave you exactly what you wanted. His tongue plunged into you, pushing past the unbearable emptiness, giving you something to clench around, something to grind against, something to drown in.

And because he was, apparently, crafted to be the most infuriatingly perfect thing to ever exist - his nose pressed against your clit with every movement, sending white-hot jolts of pleasure through you so intense your legs tried to snap shut around his head.

He was faster. Stronger. Hands tightening against your thighs, keeping them spread as he pressed you further, pinning you down so he could devour you properly. And when your thighs twitched again, reflexive, desperate-

"Stay open for me."

That awful, awful sound. That little flick of his tongue against his teeth, a wordless tsk of disapproval - he did it every time, every single time, and it should have pissed you off but instead, shot straight through you, coiling low in your belly, leaving you breathless, made you arch into his mouth, made you-

"Still, please," he growled, more desperate now, fingers tightening like the control freak he so obviously was. Apparently, the man simply could not function if his so-called work space wasn’t perfectly in order.

Some things never changed.

“You’re such a hypocrite, it was-” Your breath caught on another roll of his tongue, hips jerking up against his face. “It was you who begged me to-”

"Mm," he hummed against you like he was thinking about it, his mouth hot and slick as he pressed deeper, let his tongue flatten. "And?"

…And then his lips closed around you, sucking just right, and you broke. You felt it coiling, tighter, tighter, low deep in your stomach.

"Aaron, I'm so close."

"I got you," he murmured, suddenly warm, suddenly gentle - because despite all the arrogance, the smug little smirks, he was nothing but a softie. All bark, no bite. Well… except for the other kinds of bites. "Don’t worry. Let go."

Then his tongue flicked - once, twice… and you were gone.

Shattered apart, trembling beneath his mouth, your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking, desperate. The pleasure hit sharp and fast, so intense it almost hurt, your muscles locking up as wave after wave crashed through you.

But he didn’t stop. Not until you’d come on his face just one more time.

So his tongue was back on you before you could even recover, dragging you higher, keeping you there, refusing to let you go. His mouth was relentless, but his fingers - God, his fingers.

How many times had you daydreamed about them? How many nights had you imagined the way they’d feel sinking inside you, stretching you open, fucking you deep and slow until you couldn’t think?

A reasonable number of times. That’s what you told yourself.

So it only made sense that you were impatient now, desperate to feel them inside you instead of just ghosting along your soaked folds, teasing, tracing, dipping in just enough to have you thinking, finally -

Only for him to pull away again, just as fast.

“Need some help finding it, Hotchner?” you bit out breathlessly, your voice dripping with sarcasm despite the whimper it ended on. “Don’t be embarrassed. I can guide you if-”

Before you could finish, one thick finger thrust deep inside you, cutting off your words with a strangled moan.

“I think I’ve got it,” he said smugly… oh, he definitely did.

The stretch of just one finger had you reeling, but then he added a second without hesitation, the fullness making you gasp. Two of his fingers felt like three of yours, stretching you perfectly, pressing against spots you didn’t even know existed.

“Fuck, Aaron,” you moaned, gripping the sheets as he started to move faster, stroking that perfect spot again and again until your vision blurred.

“You like that?” he asked, his voice so low and rough that made your toes curl, unable to respond if not with a whimper.

“Yeah, you do,” he murmured, his lips brushing your thigh as his fingers curled deeper, pressed just right, dragging a broken moan from your lips, his own voice dark with approval. "God, you’re so wet."

Your cheeks burned because well, wasn’t he right?!

The evidence of it was everywhere - slicking his fingers, his hand, his face, and the way he said it, so casually, like he was just stating a fact, only made the heat in your belly coil tighter.

"Damn, you’re so fucking good," you gasped between shattered breaths.

“Mm, so is this cunt,” he shot back between licks, groaning as he felt you flutter around his fingers.

What a dirty, dirty mouth. And damn, if he did he put it to use.

It didn’t take long. Barely a few more thrusts of his fingers into your slick, throbbing cunt, barely a few more drags of his tongue against your clit - before he had you unraveling completely.

Your body seized, back arching clean off the bed, a sharp, helpless cry ripping from your throat as you came so hard you almost sobbed.

He didn’t stop.

His fingers kept fucking into you, curling just right, stroking deep, drawing out every last shudder, every last desperate moan. His tongue never left your clit, flicking, sucking, keeping you there, forcing you to take every wave, every aftershock, dragging you through it until your thighs trembled around his head, until you were whimpering, pleading, too overstimulated to handle another second.

Only then did he finally pull away, lips gliding up your body, dragging sticky, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, your ribs, your breasts, until his weight was pressing you into the mattress again, until you were surrounded by him, the scent of sex thick in the air, his mouth still hot and wet against your skin.

"God, you’re a fucking vision when you come," he murmured, voice husky, lips brushing over your jaw as his hand slid up to cradle your face.

And then he kissed you.

Deep, filthy, his tongue sweeping into your mouth without hesitation, letting you taste yourself on him, letting you feel the slick mess he’d made of you, the evidence of how thoroughly he had devoured you.

Romanticism truly was dead.

“Still too clothed,” you whispered, voice low, teasing, as your fingers trailed from his jaw down to his chest, nails scratching lightly over the fabric of his polo, feeling the heat of him beneath it. Annoyingly in the way.

“You’re very welcome to change that now,” he huffed, smirking, giving you another quick, teasing kiss, the barest brush of his lips over yours.

Who were you to refuse?

Your hands moved swiftly, gripping the hem of his shirt and tugging it up, over his head, before tossing it somewhere behind you - who cared where? That would be his problem in a few hours anyways.

And oh damn-

If you thought the polo highlighted his frame, without it he looked absolutely massive. His chest, his shoulders, the way his muscles shifted beneath his skin - it was almost unfair how goodlooking he was.

You leaned in to kiss him, letting your fingers roam all over him - probably lingering a little too long on those broad, perfect shoulders. Honestly, you were doing your best not to bite them.

Mostly. A little nip didn’t count, right? Surely it was allowed. To test. It wasn’t your fault they looked like they could carry the weight of the world - and you - without breaking a sweat. But of course, he couldn’t know that. He couldn’t know that his shoulders alone were making you go feral.

So you distracted him the best way you knew how - your lips pressing against his neck, soft at first, teasing, before nipping lightly at his pulse point, teeth scraping just enough to earn you a sharp inhale.

Still, even as your lips worked to keep him occupied, your thoughts betrayed you.

You were sure you’d implode the moment you saw his back - the way those muscles would shift and flex. Just the thought of it had your pulse racing. Thankfully, he was still facing you, so you had a little more time to live. But not much, considering the way your mind still found a way to betray you.

Because now all you could picture was his weight on top of you, pressing you into the mattress, pinning you down with no way out. Now all you could feel was the phantom stretch of him, the way he’d fill-

Right. His jeans. Still in the way. Still ruining your life.

You swallowed hard, forcing your hands to move lower, fumbling with his belt and zipper. If your hands trembled, you’d blame it on how hard you were trying not to stare at the thick bulge beneath the denim. Trying being the keyword, because at this point - you weren’t better than a man.

His jeans hit the floor, leaving him in just his boxers, making it quite difficult to ignore the outline of him anymore - thick, hard, already straining against the fabric, the damp spot at the tip teasing at just how ready he was.

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you glanced up, silently asking if you could take things further. He gave a small nod, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, and that was all the encouragement you needed.

Your hands turned momentarily shy as you hooked your fingers into the band, slowly tugging them down. He sprang free, thick and hard, flushed at the tip, already glistening with slick arousal, and God, you swore your mouth went dry and then wet all in the span of a heartbeat.

You couldn’t stop yourself from murmuring, “God,” as your fingers wrapped around him, thumb brushing over the swollen, leaking head, smearing the wetness there, spreading it over the burning skin.

The reaction was immediate.

His head tipped back, his grip on your hips tightening, trying hard not to just rut into your fist like some desperate, touch-starved needy thing. But he was trembling , his self-control fraying one slow stroke at a time as you worked him over, your fingers squeezing around the slick head before dragging back down his length.

"Fuck," he muttered, the sound wrecking you, shooting straight between your legs.

“You’re so-” you started, but the words failed you. What could you even say? You were too distracted by the weight of him in your hand, the way he twitched against your palm and the way the thick vein along his shaft throbbed with every stroke of your hand.

All you knew was that you wanted him in your mouth. Wanted to drag your tongue along that vein, wanted to feel the heavy weight of him on your tongue, wanted to take him down until tears pricked the corners of your eyes. The need burned in your gut, tight and relentless, but still, it wasn’t enough. Because as much as your mouth ached for him, the fire between your thighs was worse. So much worse.

“Aaron,” you breathed, voice shaking as you looked up at him, your fingers still wrapped around his cock, still stroking him, enjoying the way his chest rose and fell with every movement of your hand.

His eyes - dark, heavy-lidded - met yours, his breath coming uneven, jagged, as he rasped, desperate, "Take whatever you want."

“I want you.”

Aaron groaned, his lips twitching into something that might have been a smile if he wasn’t so wrecked with desire. “Come here,” he murmured, as he leaned down and kissed you. And God, what a kiss.

Before you knew it, he had you back on the bed, his body hovering over yours, his broad shoulders framing your view of him. He settled himself between your legs, his mouth moving to your jaw, then down to your neck, at the point there was no doubt in a few hours you’d wear a turtleneck to work.

Still, he paused, hovering just above you, his lips brushing against yours as he asked one more time, “Are you sure?”

At this point, if you weren’t aching for him, you might’ve had the patience to be sarcastic. Something like, No, actually, I’m not sure. Let’s both get dressed again and see if that helps.

“Aaron, I’m literally begging you,” you said, exasperated, though you didn’t miss the glint in his eyes – if he just wanted you to beg him he could have simply asked. You would have never said it out loud but at least he could have tried…

“Just making sure,” he said so softly his voice seemed even deeper than it already was, but his hand slid between your legs, fingers gliding through your folds, and the way he groaned when he felt how wet you were made you shudder.

“God, you’re soaked,” he muttered, almost to himself, as if confirming what he already knew.

You didn’t think it was possible to be more turned on, but apparently, Aaron Hotchner could always prove you wrong.

And ever the hopeless romantic - because apparently, he was so much of a kisser - he kissed you again. It wasn’t fair, honestly, how good he was at this, how much intention he poured into every press of his lips , every flick of his tongue, every sharp little pull at your bottom lip that had your hips rolling up against him. It was infuriating.

"I’m on the pill," you gasped between kisses, cutting straight to the point because at this rate, you were about two seconds away from losing your mind.

"Good," he murmured, his lips ghosting over yours again. "That’s good."

Of course it’s good, Aaron. As if you were trying to create another insufferable Hotchner. One man who could argue his way out of anything was already more than enough for the world.

He shifted, aligning himself at your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against you, dragging through your slick folds with just the slightest roll of his hips. The stretch, even in just the promise of it, had you gasping into his mouth.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he rasped, his forehead pressing against yours, still searching for any sign of hesitation. Classic Aaron.

And because he was Aaron, of course he kissed you again, stealing what little breath you had left as he began to push inside.

Holy fucking-

Your nails dug into his shoulders as he filling you inch by inch, his cock sinking in with a slow, thick glide that made your head tilt back into the pillow, your mouth falling open as sounds escaped your lips - a moan, then a gasp, and a whimper.

When he bottomed out, buried to the hilt, so deep you swore you could feel him in your stomach, you swore you might break, and you loved every second of it. How the hell did he even feel this good?

"Jesus Christ," he gritted out, breath hot against your jaw.

He paused, his cock throbbing inside you as he let you adjust, his lips ghosting over your jawline with kisses so soft they felt almost reverent, as though the slight ache of the stretch was something he needed to apologize for.

“God, you’re so tight.”

You involuntarily clenched down around him in response, "Fucking Christ," he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours for a moment. “You’re going to kill me.”

And fuck, if the second he started moving you weren’t utterly determined to hear every name of every deity from his long-lost religion tumble from his lips, as long as it meant he kept thrusting so deep inside you – making your breath catch from the mere drag of him pulling his entire length out before pushing it back in.

“Fuck Aaron, you feel so good,” you gasped, your hands tightening on his biceps.

And damn him, because he loved it - loved your praise so much that a low chuckle rumbled in his chest, even as his breath came uneven, ragged. “Fuck, you look so beautiful from here,”

He leaned in, his hips still moving, his lips brushing against yours just enough for you to feel the heat of his breath, to taste the promise of his kiss. “You’re perfect,” he whispered, making your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him deeper.

The shift in angle made his next thrust hit you in a way that tore a cry from your lips. He must’ve felt it - the way your body tightened around him, the way your nails sank into the strong muscles of his back, leaving red lines in their wake - because his pace quickened, each thrust better than the last.

And damn it if he didn’t fuck you so good.

“Right there,” you gasped, arching your back as the head of his cock hit that spot “Oh, Aaron-”

“God, I love how you say my name,” he rasped, his forehead dropping to yours as he planted a kiss on your temple between thrusts.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, dampening the dark, thick strands of his hair that clung to his face, his brows furrowed all concentrated, his cheeks flushed, jaw tight, and God, if he wasn’t the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

How stupid, how utterly reckless, it was to feel yourself falling for him all over again. And not just falling - but plummeting, freefalling into the abyss of him. Exactly now, exactly like this - when he was buried so deep inside you that it felt like he was carving himself into your soul.

How shallow, how ridiculous, to let your pupils blow wide with hunger, to let your chest ache with something too tender, too raw, while your body burned for him like this.

Because it wasn’t just the way his hips buckled into yours, wasn’t just the rhythm of his thrusts, wasn’t just the stretch and fullness that made you gasp. No, it was the way his name tumbled from your lips like it was the only word you knew, and the way he rasped your name back, hoarse and desperate, like it was his prayer.

The wet slap of his hips meeting yours, the creak of the bed beneath you - it was way too loud for the early hours, you knew that. Too wild, too shameless, probably waking every neighbor you had, giving them the privilege of hearing his name tumble from your lips and yours from his.

But how could you care? How could you even think about anything beyond him, especially when he shifted suddenly, leaning back and lifting your legs over his shoulders?

“Like this,” he muttered, his voice rough and breathless. His hands gripped your thighs, steady, holding you in place as he adjusted himself, his cock driving deeper - God, how was it even possible to feel this full?

His next thrust stole the breath from your lungs, and the one after that made your vision blur, leaving you gripping the sheets, then the bedframe, his arms - anything you could reach.

“I got you,” he rasped, his tone softer now, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was absolutely wrecking you, you might’ve laughed at how he said it. So casual, so reassuring, like he wasn’t currently fucking you out of your mind.

And then, just to make sure you were well and truly destroyed, Aaron leaned down and pressed a kiss to your trembling leg. A kiss. Soft and lingering, like he wasn’t simultaneously driving into you with enough force to make you think about it for days. A true gentleman, really. Absolutely chivalrous.

“Oh, fuck you,” you managed to gasp, your voice shaking as your nails dug into his arms.

He smirked, his hips snapping forward harder, making your back arch off the bed.

“I believe I already am,” he shot back smoothly, and damn him - despite the situation, or maybe because of it - you laughed.

The sound made him pause for a fraction of a second, his brow quirking as his lips twitched into something softer, something that could almost be called tender if he wasn’t currently wrecking you.

He leaned in, clearly intending to kiss you - except you were still laughing, leaving him kissing your teeth instead of your lips.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered against your mouth, his voice filled with faux exasperation, as if it weren’t entirely his fault. But the way he looked at you, his eyes soft and sweet despite the hunger blazing behind them, made it clear he wasn’t serious at all.

“I really hate you,” you managed to say, still laughing, the words breathless and shaky.

“Liar,” he countered smoothly, his lips curving into a grin of his own before he kissed you properly this time, slow and deep, stealing the air from your lungs. “You’ve never hated me at all.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the next thrust silenced you, sending a bolt of pleasure straight to your core, leaving you gasping instead of speaking.

“Yeah,” he rasped, his voice thick, his eyes locked on yours as he watched you fall apart beneath him. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

Bastard. Oh, how he’d pay for this. Just… not now. Not when the heat in your stomach was building too quickly, you could already feel your toes curling, your legs trembling where they rested on his shoulders.

“Aaron-” His name spilled from your lips in a broken cry, your hands clutching at him desperately, your body trembling beneath him.

“I know,” he rasped, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot and uneven as it fanned over your lips. “You’re close. I can feel it. Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight.”

And then, just to destroy you completely, he spat on his fingers. The sound alone sent a shiver through you, but watching him, seeing the way he reached down and slid his slick finger to your clit, circling it, left you utterly wrecked.

That alone was so unfairly hot you were surprised you didn’t come on the spot just from seeing it.

“God,” he groaned, his hips keeping the same rhythm as his fingers worked you over, the combination of his cock driving into you and his fingers basically breaking you apart. “I’m close too. Come for me. I want to feel it - I need to feel you.”

And there was no stopping it. The pressure snapped all at once, a tidal wave of pleasure crashing over you, leaving you shaking and gasping for air. Your body clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality, your nails digging into his back as your orgasm ripped through you.

“Aaron,” you cried out, his name falling from your lips in a broken, desperate plea as your cunt clenched around him so tightly that it pulled a guttural groan from his chest.

His movements stuttered, his rhythm faltering as he buried himself deep one last time, his head tipping back, lips shaping into your name.

You felt him spill inside you, the hot rush of him filling you, the heat prolonging the throbbing waves of your own climax, as your body convulsed with the lingering echoes of pleasure. It was too much. Too raw. Too perfect. The kind of climax that left you completely destroyed, your mouth falling open as you tried and failed to even catch your breath.

Your limbs felt boneless, your heart was about to burst out of your chest, a haze in your head. Wow.

Aaron’s thrusts slowed, his movements becoming languid as he guided you both through the final waves of pleasure, his hips rocking into you softly.

When he finally stilled, he stayed inside you, his body collapsing onto yours, every muscle undone, spent, his breath hot against your neck. His skin was slick with sweat, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and fuck, you never wanted him to move.

A slow, lazy kiss landed on your shoulder, his lips lingering there for a second before he murmured, "Are you okay?"

Really?

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it, as your fingers threaded through his beautiful damp hair. “Okay?” you echoed, still struggling to breathe, still feeling the aftershocks of him inside you. “Aaron, I think you might’ve just killed me.”

He huffed out something that could’ve been a laugh if he had the energy, and just because he was perfectly positioned - completely wrecked, head buried against your shoulder, practically melting into you - you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

It felt almost paternalistic, sure, the kind of kiss that came with the smug satisfaction of having him completely undone over you, like he might fall apart if he even tried to move. The salt of his sweat clung to your lips, a stark contrast to the bitter taste of the tears you’d swallowed earlier. It felt better - so much better.

Aaron sighed against your skin, lips twitching like he wanted to smile but was too exhausted to bother, he pulled out, leaving you wincing at the sudden emptiness.

He sat back on his heels, his gaze dropping to the mess he’d made of you, and for a moment, you swore he looked almost proud. But, of course, because Aaron fucking Hotchner couldn’t let you have five uninterrupted minutes of post-orgasmic bliss without switching into Mr. Practical, he tilted his head and said, “You should probably clean yourself up.”

You blinked at him, deadpan. “Wow. Romance is truly alive and well.”

He grinned just enough to make you want to hit him and kiss him at the same time. “Where do you keep your towels?” he asked.

“Wow,” you muttered, flopping back onto the bed. “Absolutely fantastic. I give you my soul, and in return, you turn into a housekeeper.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple before standing and stretching.

And, of course, because the universe hated you, he looked absurdly good doing it. Broad shoulders, sweat-slicked skin, and the faint red lines your nails had left down his back. God, his back. Huge. Muscular. You really wanted to-

“Dramatic?” you scoffed, snapping yourself out of the borderline feral train of thought. “I just had the best orgasm of my life, and now you’re asking me about towels. What’s next, changing my bedsheets?”

He shot you a look over his shoulder, that infuriating smirk still tugging at his lips. “Best?” he echoed, his tone dripping with mock surprise. “Did I hear you correctly?”

You groaned, “God, you’re unbearable.”

“No, no,” he continued, turning back toward you, his smirk widening into something dangerously close to smug. “Say it again. Best orgasm of your life? Because I recall giving you three - you might need to pluralize that.”

Oh, how cocky he was. You grabbed the nearest pillow and chucked it at him, unfortunately the man also had perfect reflects. “So, where are these towels?”

“In the bathroom,” you muttered, gesturing vaguely in its direction. “Third drawer on the left. Please, by all means, go do your very important post-coital housekeeping.”

He chuckled as he made his way to the bathroom, and you watched him go, biting your lip as your gaze drifted lower. Because of course you looked. How could you not? The way his muscles moved as he walked, the strong lines of his back leading down to that quite flat yet perfectly sculpted-

“Stop staring,” he called over his shoulder without even looking back.

You scowled, sitting up and grabbing the other pillow to hurl at the bathroom doorway. “I wasn’t staring!”

He was no fun.

“You know,” you called after him, unable to help yourself, “it’s a shame you’re so good in bed, because you are the single most annoying person I’ve ever met.”

“Funny,” he shot back from the bathroom, his voice echoing slightly. “You didn’t seem too annoyed about it five minutes ago.”

Not that you had been even a little annoyed when you woke up right into his arms - despite the fact that you distinctly remembered falling asleep holding him.

“How much time do we have?” you murmured, your words muffled as your head stayed nestled against his chest.

“You’ve got 1 hour... I got half” he chuckled, then continued “I need to head home and get changed.”

But his arms instinctively tightened around you, like he wasn’t quite ready to let you go just yet. Like he could pretend, just for a little longer, that there was still time.

“How amazing would Agent Hotchner be if he just called to say we had the weekend off?” you said, tracing patterns of his flexed bicep tighetened around you.

He chuckled softly, the vibration of it rumbling beneath your cheek. “I doubt Agent Hotchner even has the strength to get up and take his phone from his jacket.”

“Well, since I’m feeling so generous, I could go and hand it to him,” you offered with faux magnanimity, but before you could move, his hand slid to the back of your head, pressing you back into him, while the other hand gripped your waist.

“Stay,” he said too softly for your own good.

You smiled against him. “I could stay longer if we didn’t have to go to work, you know...”

He chuckled again, this time shaking his head in amusement. “Nice try, sweetheart.”

Your head lifted slightly, an eyebrow raised. “Sweetheart?”

And there it was.

Fuck.

Was this the time to tell you? That if he’d been smitten before, now he was utterly undone? That despite making a living solving puzzles, he couldn’t think of a single scenario in which he wasn’t yours?

It was logic, wasn’t it? A proposition is true if it’s reflected in reality.

And this was his truth: he was yours. Irrevocably, undeniably yours.

There wouldn’t be a more evident fact - not until the marks you’d left on his neck and chest faded away. But even then? He would still belong to you.

Damn the stoics for being right.

“Sorry,” he said, as though the endearment had slipped past his guard.

Before he could say more, you tilted your head up and kissed him, catching him completely off guard. His startled expression was so genuine that you couldn’t help yourself - you kissed him again, determined to wipe it off his face.

His lips curled into a smile against yours, and when you finally pulled back true to form, he couldn’t resist deflecting. “If you’re trying to charm me into giving the day off, I’ll save you the trouble - it’s not going to work. Even if you keep kissing me.”

You laughed and leaned up to give him another kiss. But this time, you didn’t stop there. You moved down, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw. “I just want to make sure you understand the opportunity you’re blowing here,” you murmured into his skin, your lips ghosting over his pulse.

“The reports aren’t going to fill themselves,” he replied, though his voice lacked conviction.

Oh, neither was your cu-

“You sure about that?” you teased, nibbling gently at his collarbone as your hand trailed lower, brushing over where something was definetely starting to grow in between his boxers, making him hiss.

“What’s the matter?” you asked innocently, your hand now resting over his hardening cock, feeling the heat of him through the thin fabric.

“Maybe it’s the fact that you’re devouring my neck at seven in the morning,” he managed.

“Devouring? Not yet.” Your lips descended again, this time grazing over his collarbones, the faint scrape of your teeth dragging along his skin. When you bit lightly at his chest, his sharp inhale was all the reward you needed. “But don’t worry, I plan to.”

His mouth opened like he was about to fire back, but before he could, your hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers.

You stroked him slowly, dragging your thumb over the slick head, smearing the precum as if you had all the time in the world. “So,” you started lightly, as he cussed at your touch, “what are you going to do with the hour we have left?”

He tried to respond, he really did.

“I-” His breath hitched when your tongue darted out to trace just above his lower stomach.

“Well?” you pressed, lifting your head to look at him, your grin so sweet it could’ve killed him. “Breakfast? A shower? Or, you know, something else?”

“Breakfast sounds…” He barely managed to get the words out before his voice broke entirely, his body jerking slightly when your tongue flicked out to tease the tip of his cock.

“…like a good idea,” he finished weakly, though you weren’t convinced he even knew what he was saying at this point… better like this anyways.

“Good,” you hummed, dragging wet kisses along his length, while your hand kept moving, stroking him slowly, savoring the way his cock twitched in your hand. “So, Aaron, what do you feel like having for breakfast?”

His head fell back against the pillow, a low groan escaping him as his fingers tangled in your hair. “God,” he rasped, the word dragged out of him so pitifully it was almost tragic.

You grinned against his skin, looking up at him. “I’m pretty sure that’s not in my fridge,” you replied deadpan.

“Sweetheart…” He was absolutely desperate as your kisses moved lower, your tongue tracing a path along the underside of his cock.

“Hmm?” you hummed innocently, as if you didn’t notice the way his grip tightened in your hair or the slight tremble in his thighs.

He didn’t answer - but his phone did instead.

The sharp buzzing from the pocket of his discarded jacket in the living room shattered the moment.

Both of you jerked back, adrenaline ripping through the haze, already halfway off the bed before you even thought about it.

It was clumsy, both of you scrambling, bumping into each other as you stumbled toward the sound, breathless for entirely different reasons now.

Aaron got to it first, answering with the efficiency of a man who had switched back to work mode in an instant.

The call clicked on, and a voice - male, urgent - filled the room. "…The two bodies. The man died from a gunshot to the head, though he was stabbed multiple times post-mortem. The woman died from stab wounds."

You stilled.

Aaron’s face hardened. Rocher’s victims.

The ones he had been taunting you with.

"Agent Hotchner, there’s one thing…" the agent on the other end hesitated.

Aaron’s eyes sharpened. "What?"

"These bodies were killed exactly fifteen days ago," he said.

Aaron froze, you felt it at the same time he did - fifteen days ago.

You and Aaron had been interrogating Rocher exactly fifteen days ago.

He hadn’t killed them himself. He couldn’t have.

You were both there.

Your eyes met his, and for a split second, neither of you spoke.

“He had a partner,” Aaron said, his arm sliding around you instinctively, pulling you closer before you even realized you were starting to breathe too fast.

“Did you manage to identify the victims?” he asked.

“Yes - the man’s name is Michael Fowler, 34, a lawyer, junior associate at Madison & Green. The woman is Renee Hudson, 22, student at Columbia University, enrolled in the faculty of…”

You didn’t even know why you tensed so much.

The answer was obvious before he even said it.

“…philosophy.”

The call ended, but the silence left behind was louder than the voice on the line had been.

And in that silence, you could hear everything - the inevitability of it, tangled with the sound of the tears slipping down both of your faces.

And when your gaze flicked to Aaron, when his arm instinctively pulled you closer, you knew - without a word, without a glance – you’ve been both staring at the exact same spot on the wall.

Because it wasn’t just the age gap.

It wasn’t just the coincidence of numbers.

It was what made it undeniable.

A lawyer.

And a philosopher.

And the way your broken voices found each other in the quiet, harmonizing each other’s names in perfect, unintentional sync, just a few rushed heartbeats later.

Almost like in the musicals.

Almost sweet.

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I sincerely apologize - but the cockblocking was absolutely necessary. Otherwise, they'd never keep their hands to themselves. Honestly, with a job like this, interruptions are basically a given. If I had a nickel for every time these two got cockblocked by a phone call, I’d have two nickels - which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happeend twice.

Ahem... so, uh, let me know what you think... of this. All of this. I need your feedback because I am currently gnawing at the edges of my enclosure

#aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner x reader smut #hotch x reader #criminal minds

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