#I hope basic idea is understood

[hanakihan]

Vienna/Salieri related Singularity below because I needed to share my brainrot full of nerd arcane knowledge from my music classes in 5th grade so expect nerd arcane knowledge with added references, delusions, bad life choices and inaccuracies (also since its a delulu setting watch me screw entirety of FGO canon) ANYWAY FUCK IT WE BALL THAT’S MY SINGULARITY

Vienna: Revolution and The Little Tragedy of a Kapellmeister

- Events take place in 1825, in Vienna at time of ruling of Francis I when Holy Roman Empire fell and Austrian Empire was established. More specifically it takes place after May of 1825, and significant story divergence takes place after Francis I have died 10 years earlier than he was supposed to in 1935. This event is supposedly connected to a group of people that desire the return of HRE to its former glory and reestablishment of an absolute monarchy.

- Upon arrival in singularity, it’s pretty clear that entire thing was successful and countries that were established after HRE’s fall exist no more. Results of HRE’s fall and French Revolution were also annulated. this in itself threatens human foundation because as a result it shows futility of revolution and results in social and law stagnation.

- When collecting an information about current situation and facing an aggressive response from imperial army, Guda and Mash were aided by Camille Desmoulins (Archer, because as witness accounts state ‘… Desmoulins [was] among them arming himself with a bayonet rifle and two pistols, and embarked upon the Storming of the Bastille’) and Maximilien Robespierre (Berserker, because Robespierre faced growing disillusionment among others due in part to the politically motivated violence advocated by the Montagnards), who are also hunted by imperial forces due to being two among many famous figures who instigated French Revolution that ultimately led to fall of monarchy not only in France but later in Europe as a whole. These two are reluctant to work together and constantly exchange acidic comments, mostly Desmoulins, because he’s angry at his ex-friend for betraying their goal of freeing the country of an absolute monarchy and Robespierre being a supporter of Terror policy and resulting in their ultimate executions. These two agree to set aside their bitterness and work together with Guda to set human history back on track, because they were the ones to start French Revolution, even if it didn’t turn exactly the way they wanted it, it was still a big moment in humanity’s history.

- Further information gathering put things to more clarity: current ruler of New HRE is Joseph II who by this time is supposed to be dead. Main crew does get a chance to encounter him but ultimately is unable to defeat him as he’s now - he’s clearly in possession of a Holy Grail but appears to be in clear enough mind to be negotiated with. Furthermore, Joseph II is clearly aware that his existence contradicts proper flow of human history, he acknowledges that his actions ultimately will bring destruction to foundation of humanity, and he’s genuinely sad he has to do it, but he also wants to do it because everyone he held dear were destroyed by humans with excessive cruelty. At that moment Avenger Marie Antoinette appears and upon seeing Robespierre and Desmoulins initiates battle out of anger towards people who started her downfall which resulted in beheading. Clearly being overpowered, Guda and company retreat. After that Joseph and Marie decide to pay a visit to Salieri.

- While being pursued by imperial soldiers, they are aided by Marianna Auenbrugger (Caster) and Joseph Haydn (Caster) who escort them to a hideout where other various musicians and composers are hiding. It’s pretty much a company of Casters and a Berserker (Beethoven) who are puzzled at such turn of events - if Joseph II has issues with Revolution and downfall of monarchy as a whole, then why all of them - musicians and composers - were summoned as well, at the same time. Furthermore, they all are also being actively hunted by imperial soldiers.

- Back in Palace Marie is happily chatting with barely conscious Salieri. After she leaves, small shadow materializes and approaches Salieri promising him a soon arriving salvation. At the same time, Joseph has a conversation with Napoleon, but it’s not going that great. Joseph understands Napoleon’s desire to become an Emperor once again but he’s also not allowing him to take rule over country again, not after such spectacular failure. Multiple monarchs do not mix well. Aside from desire to reclaim his position, Napoleon also wants a rematch for that shameful result of Battle of Borodino.

- In middle of discussion among Guda and others arrives Pyotr Bagration (Rider, since in Battle of Borodino he was injured while riding a horse) and informs others that apparently they need to move or else they’ll be found and none of them are in proper state to fight back. In middle of moving they meet Andrei Bolkonsky (Saber) who gladly agrees to join and discusses with Bagration their real and fictional experiences at Battle of Borodino. Bolkonsky also mentions that he saw Pushkin wandering streets of Vienna until he was chased down by soldiers. Bolkonsky himself was ignored by soldiers despite being a man who participated in war, yet a writer and poet is chased aggressively.

- Just as they move, they stumble upon Pushkin being cornered. After helping him out, Pushkin (Archer, he himself is puzzled at being summoned not as Caster but as Archer due to his last duel) provides information that hunt after him was a specific priority order from Joseph II. Eventually it was deducted that the reason for specific hunt after Pushkin and other musicians is because of Salieri, whose role in this Singularity is unknown. More accurately to say it’s because of Pushkin’s ‘The Little Tragedies’ cycle, specifically ’Mozart and Salieri’ that was one of the reasons for Salieri’s false fame as a jealous murderer. At the same time palace if full of masterful piano play. In his chambers Salieri patiently listens to a child playing a piano. Salieri, still tired and barely conscious, praises said child before falling asleep. Child goes out and stumbles upon Joseph. ‘Keep going and you’ll forever erase my existence from his. That’s what we both want, aren’t we?’

- After circle of soldiers becoming smaller and smaller it was agreed to launch an assault on Joseph’s residence and claim grail from him, especially now that they know the reason for his actions. At entrance they’re greeted by Napoleon who refuses to let them pass. Bagration isn’t happy to see familiar face, just as Bolkonsky. Fight ensues and in middle of it appears Dantès to aid a little because apparently he’s not a fan of Napoleon and remembering whole thing that was the reason for him imprisonment he can’t deny himself the chance for a little revenge. In the end, Bagration, Bolkonsky, Dantès stay to deal with Napoleon. Before separation Pushkin jokes about meeting Dantès but not the one who shot him (d'Anthès) /a play of phonetics because in Russian both d'Anthès and Dantès sound the same/

- Further in Palace they encounter Marie Antoinette. She does mention how it’s ironic how she and them (Desmoulins and Robespierre) were beheaded for sake and as a result of Revolution. She asks them if ending like they did was worth it. They in return ask if beautiful and compassionate queen that held her head high at her own execution and loved her people would bitterly destroy bright future of her people and country over bitterness and anger. Marie desires to behead them herself just to see how it feels to be on other side of guillotine.

- Guda and Mash with others encounter Joseph and ask him why exactly he’s doing that. Joseph doesn’t really answer, but does mention that it’s not only about anger and frustration, it’s also about love and compassion. He does mention that humanity is plagued with idiocy and lack of thinking, and thus it has no right to exist. Joseph also mentions that he doesn’t care about restoring monarchy, it was about his closest people he cared the most about, but seeing Napoleon being summoned it did paint a clear picture of natural power struggle. As of seeing Pushkin, he becomes clearly obsessed with targeting him. ‘After all you’re one of the reasons he ended up like that. Unforgivable, absolutely unforgivable. It’s a shame Mozart wasn’t summoned, I would’ve liked to put my sword through his neck.’

- After Joseph’s defeat appears a little boy and takes Holy Grail. Disappearing Joseph calls him ‘Salieri’ before bitterly correcting himself and calling little boy ‘A cursed abomination’. Supposedly ‘Salieri’ stabs him with Blade of Wildlife saying that Joseph himself did an awfully bad job at granting Salieri’s wish and by analogy getting rid of ‘him’. After that ‘Salieri’ addresses Pushkin as ‘one of his creators’ and uses Grail to fully transform and don Wailing Facade. After near defeat he, barely holding himself together, runs away. Guda and others chase him only to find a little ‘Salieri’ with damaged spirit origin protectively covering a man on bed whom Beethoven recognizes as Antonio Salieri. Both boy and man are Servants and have awfully unstable yet almost identical Spirit Origin.

- Actual Antonio Salieri comforts little ‘him’ and thanks him for granting his actual wish of seeing people he loved once again. ‘Salieri’ retorts that his true wish was desire to get rid of ‘Salieri who murdered Mozart’ and humanity as whole, that was the thought of dying Salieri. Salieri explains that it was a momentary hate and bitterness that colored his last moments in life he ultimately never regretted. Just as he embraces ‘Salieri’, he says, that despite everything he does not regret ‘Salieri’ or ‘Gray Man’ existence, because despite their weird and unstable situation he’s the one keeping Salieri’s Spirit Origin somewhat whole and allowing Salieri to manifest at all, since myth is much more famous than actual person.

- After Salieri’s death, his bitterness and rumors along with fake accusation merged into ‘Salieri’ who shared feelings and memories of real Salieri. Gaining his own sentience as ‘Salieri who murdered Mozart’, this ‘Salieri’ was angry at humanity for doing this to a simple man who was too nice to be treated like that at end of his life and decided to carry out his last wish with Grail that was given to him. To maintain proper existence he used grail to summon Salieri. Then Joseph, but Joseph despises ‘Salieri’ for being a product that ruined actual Salieri he cares about. ‘Salieri’ proposes a deal: Joseph can’t kill ‘Salieri’ for it will send both him and Salieri back to Throne or even worse completely damages their Spirit Origin so they’ll never be summoned again. Instead, Joseph can take this as a chance to destroy the world that executed his precious little sister and completely twisted his beloved kapellmeister. By doing that Joseph will erase future where Salieri is known as ‘Salieri who murdered Mozart’, which means Salieri won’t have to suffer anymore.

- In the end Salieri apologizes for all the trouble. Salieri says that he doesn’t regret ‘Salieri’ being a part of him and asks ‘Salieri’ to give Grail to Guda. After it’s done, Singularity starts to fix itself, Salieri disappears first as a summon of Grail and ‘Salieri’ follows. Salieri wishes that next time they’ll meet it will be a willing peaceful summon for them both as whole, much stable existence.

- After that in Chaldea before Salieri is summoned, Joseph is summoned first because he needs to keep an eye on both his sister and beloved kapellmeister. After that Salieri is summoned as a Double class - Antonio Salieri (Ruler) and ‘Antonio Salieri’ (Avenger) /aka local tired man keeps check and adopts a shy but feral child who occasionally wants to stab Mozart, Pushkin and Joseph II with different states of success/.

[claitea]

ok sorry i just really loved the thought of n arguing with this little thing i wanted to draw it

Do you ever think about how almost all of N’s Pokémon throughout the first games were one offs he released after he battled you, how he cared about them all deeply enough that he thought it would be selfish to have them battle more than necessary. And do you ever think about how this is the case with all his Pokémon EXCEPT his Klinklang in the final battle at the league, where the second to last battle he had a Klink and this Klinklang is very likely that same Pokémon? Do you think this was a visual representation of his mindset wavering from a fixed point? How that Klink refused to leave him right away and he couldn’t bring himself to force them to leave because his mind is in so many different directions? He can keep them around just a little longer until he becomes champion, it won’t be long, he can bend things some so long as he doesn’t fully stray from his path…right?

Or is that just me am I the only one willing to be insane about Klinklang of all Pokémon

[dynaboomboom]

fwb! katsuki visiting your dorm after class only to find you crying your ass out.

PURE FLUFF

you were having a really bad day and you really needed a distraction from all the shitty things that happened. so, of course, you texted katsuki in hopes that he would take your mind off of things.

your thoughts were interrupted as you heard a knock on the door, indicating that katsuki has arrived.

you never understood why he always knocks when you already gave him the keys to your dorm. the knock was followed by the sound of the locks turning. low and behold, katsuki stood by the door in his black tank top, biceps and chest already distracting you.

“hey” katsuki greeted but froze when he saw you. He thought that tonight would be just like any other hook up but when he saw your puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks, he knew something was up.

“alright, lets get to it.” you said in a monotone voice as you held the hem of your shirt, ready to take it off in one sweep motion.

“stop” katsuki said calmly as he made his way closer to you. he grabbed your wrist as he analyzed your face.

“what’s up? who did this to you?” although you were used to his seriousness, his tone was serious in a different way. almost as if he was concerned about you.

this only made you even more emotional and tears started rolling down your face again. you weren’t able to get any words out of your mouth, only a few sniffs as you tried holding back.

today, you found out that you failed one of your major classes which causes you to be delayed for another year.

you also found out that your so called friends have actually been talking shit behind your back, spreading rumors that you only pass your other classes because you sleep with your professors.

on top of that, your received a call from your mom the moment you step foot into your dorm informing you that your dog has passed away.

you felt like it should be illegal to have these many bad things happen to you in one day.

at this point, you couldn’t help but full on cry in front of katsuki. you expected him to to be disgusted and cuss you off for crying in front of him for being so weak.

instead, katsuki gave you a hug as he rubbed your back. you could smell his cologne and feel his warmth which was unexpectedly comforting.

“hey, i have an idea.” he said calmly as he pulled away from the hug to look you in the eyes. his usually aggressive red gaze suddenly felt reassuring and gentle.

“how about, we order in some chicken wings and watch a movie.” he suggested with a soft smile.

“maybe tangled or white chicks?” he continued. you only gave him a nod, too exhausted to speak.

it surprised you how much he knows about you. although many of your “friends” know how much you love chicken wings. only a few know about your favorite comforting movies.

he set up the movie on the tv before grabbing some blankets in your room. when he came back to the couch, he handed you a glass of water.

“drink. you’ll get dehydrated from all the crying.”

once everything was all set up and the chicken arrived. katsuki sat beside you resting his arm on the back rest if the couch. he looked at you and raised his eyebrow in confusion.

“what?”

with his other hand, he gestured you to come closer. his expression basically speaking “you should know this already”

you scooched closer which only made katsuki sigh in frustration.

“come here you dumbbass” he said as he grabbed your waist, pulling you to lay on his chest.

“if you wanted to cuddle, you could’ve just said so” you said as you tilted your head back to look at him.

“oh so now your talking.”

you let out a small laugh as you brought your attention back to the screen. as the movie continued, you felt the exhaustion get to you.

katsuki felt your body relax indicating that you’ve fallen asleep. he gave your forehead a quick kiss before tucking a few strands of stray hair behind your ear.

“god your special to me” he whispered, careful not to wake you up. you heard him. despite not using the word, you knew what he meant.

fwb who kiss each other on the forehead huh 🤨 anw, hope u guys like this one. btw, requests are open!! u guys can ask for other mha characters too 🤗

[crushmeeren]

heyy idk if this is where we put requests but by any chance could you do the mha boys reacting to you putting on the pheromone perfume and you smelling hella good possibly resulting in something freaky ( denki, shinsou or bakugo) or anyone is fine🙏🏾

⋆⋅ I love this idea! I did twist this a bit, it’s basically the love potion “amortentia,” from Harry Potter but as a perfume. Why the fuck it’s so hard for me to shorten things down when I write, I have no damn idea. So here, have this. (.づ◡﹏���)づ.

All characters aged up/18+. ❲ ̽ ⋆ FEM READER ̽ ⋆❳

⋆⋅ Between the ⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆ symbols are memories of reader and whichever character!

Thank you @pastelbakugou for helping me figure what to write for Shinsou. ( ˘ ³˘(◡‿◡˶)

⋆ ft. kaminari, shinsou, bakugou, todoroki ⋆

..⃗. master list link

The sickly sweet scent of vanilla ice cream infused with honey is what overwhelms Katsuki’s senses first when he leans in and hugs you in greeting. You squeeze him back just as affectionately and he’s in the middle of nosing at your throat when he’s hurtled back in time through his memories.

⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Katsuki mutters hotly. He’s trying, key word trying, to wipe the sweat covering his phone screen onto his tank top but it fails miserably, seeing as how his shirt is soaked fucking through. He’s more or less just smearing it around and he’s debating on just obliterating the useless piece of shit phone.

He curses whoever the fuck is up there and uses sheer willpower not to tear his hair out from the roots because of this scorching heat wave.

Finally, he’s able to read his latest message from you. It tells him to meet you at the ice cream stand nearby his patrol route on his next break.

Katsuki wipes the back of his forehead with a glove free hand, but it slides right across his sticky skin and then sweat drips into his other eye with a harsh sting and goddammit, he’s royally fucking pissed off now.

For your sake, he swallows his swelling rage and makes his way to you swiftly. The two of you have tried to make it a habit to meet a couple times a week when Katsuki has time during his shifts, he gets so busy that sometimes it gets hard to see each other as often as you’d like.

As always, his heart stutters when he lands a few feet from you. The tension drains from his shoulders even as he witnesses drops of sweat being flung off his jaw from the impact of landing and coloring the light gray pavement darker.

You look so, so pretty in your sundress and Katsuki’s stomach swoops when a sweet smile lights up your features. You reach out a cup of ice cream for him to try, teasing him for looking like he’s just taken a shower but he sticks his tongue out at you in retaliation and takes a bite of the treat. Katsuki practically moans when cool cream melts on his tongue. He feels infinitely better.

The sun beats down harshly on you both, but it brightens your eyes and the playful way you blow a coy kiss at him when you part ways leaves him with fingers crunching the empty cup and pants that fit a bit too snug. God, he’s disgustingly in love with you.

⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆

“Kat?” Your concerned tone brings him back to the present. Katsuki can’t stand another minute with your clothes on and hauls you up with a rough grip to the backs of your thighs. You yelp in surprise and scramble to hold onto his shoulders as he strides towards your bedroom.

“I don’t know what the hell you did to smell this way, but you’re gonna keep your eyes on me and I’m fuckin’ you until you pass out. Understood?”

How could you ever hope to say no?

When you’re both naked and tangled in the sheets, Katsuki pushes one of your legs to your chest, curls his fingers around your throat, and pushes his forehead against yours as he stretches your tight pussy out completely with his thick cock. He stays true to his word, hand gripping your jaw and forcing your eyes to stay locked with his own ferocious stare when you grit your teeth and cum.

Then he kisses your forehead afterwards when you’re fast asleep.

Muscle memory tilts Shouto’s head to the side as he leans closer to sniff you curiously, an adorable habit that he’s never been able to break when he wants answers to something.

“What is that?”

“What is what, Sho?”

“You smell like the end of a campfire. Why?”

You raise an eyebrow and saunter closer to where he sits at his desk, his office quiet with most heroes currently out of the building. You step around the corner of his desk and hop up on the edge to sit next him, feet kicking gently.

“That’s important to you? A campfire? Huh I would’ve thought you’d smell something like soba,” you comment with a shrug, half smile tugging at your lips.

Now Shouto’s thoroughly confused.

“I don’t understand. Why would you smell of soba? Are you alright?” Shouto sounds as deadpan as usual, if not slightly concerned. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair, staring at you as if he could find the answer by checking out your body. It makes you laugh.

Animatedly, you explain to him about the new “perfume,” Mina let you try. Apparently, whoever wears it prompts the object of their affections to smell whatever scent is important/attractive to them. And suddenly Shouto gets it

“Oh, I see,” he says with an understanding nod. He can narrow it down specifically as to why you smell of a campfire on a cold night.

⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆

“Sho, are you sure we can’t just use your quirk to roast these marshmallows? It’s so much faster!” You protest halfheartedly, but you’re already stabbing one of the fluffy sweets with a stick, assembling a second one for Shouto.

“No. This will be more fun, I promise. I watched Touya-nii and the others do this once, it seemed as if they were very happy afterwards.” Shouto flicks his hand and fire shoots towards the pile of sticks, engulfing them until a decent fire roars.

This sobers you considerably, and Shouto sits down next to you, accepting the offering of marshmallow on a stick happily and oblivious to the depressing sentiment he just offered.

So, you roast marshmallows. You tease each other and laugh as you assemble the s’mores and then lean into Shouto’s left side to fend off the chill of the autumn night afterwards. The stars are brighter away from the city and Shouto has always enjoyed the quiet of the countryside. His heart is close to bursting from his chest every time you laugh and he blurts what’s on his mind.

“I love you.”

It comes out of nowhere and Shouto only feels nervous for a few seconds before you return his feelings. Shouto’s dragging you into the tent before you can blink.

⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆

In hindsight, at least to Shouto, he understands exactly why you smell like a campfire. With slightly rosy cheeks and a matter of fact tone, he recounts the memory for you and he’s sure his hair’s about to catch fire from the way you’re looking at him.

Without caring to lock the door, the two of you end up reliving part of that memory.

Shouto pushes you until you’re flat on your back on his desk, sliding your pants off and making sure your ass is on the edge of it. He drops to his knees and eats your pussy until your thighs squeeze his head.

And when you beg him to fuck you, he bends you over the desk and presses his cock inside you roughly. The snaps of his hips are frantic, and when there’s a knock at the door, all Shouto does is cover your mouth with one hand and keep going until you’re seeing stars.

“Denki!”

Said blonde whips around at the muffled call of his name. Denki feels his smile aching in the apples of his cheeks as he watches you weave through the crowd of people on the dance floor to get to him. You grin in return and wave warmly, which makes his pulse run overtime.

“Baby!” Denki almost squeals, yanking you in for a crushing hug when you get close enough. “You made it! I thought you got lost,” he says teasingly against your ear and you lean back to laugh and punch him in the arm. You crowd into his space once again so he can hear you but an overpowering and delicious scent of coffee and rain pushes up Denki’s nose.

He startles, head jerking back and brows shooting up. Your expression turns questioning but Denki cuts you off before you can speak.

“Holy shit baby, you smell super good. Like, fucking amazing! What are you wearing? It makes me want to rip your clothes off,” He says enthusiastically, tangling your hands together in the process.

“Oh! It’s this new perfume. Well, technically it’s not a perfume but honestly I didn’t think it would work! I assumed it was a scam.” You give him a run down of how it’s supposed to work and he suddenly comes to the realization of why you smell like coffee and rain of all things that could be important to him.

⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆

“Oww,” Denki whines, sticking his tongue out and fanning it quickly.

“Did you burn your tongue?” You bump his shoulder playfully, taking care not to spill your own coffee. “I told you it would be hot, it’s a latte Denki,” you scold him good naturedly, trying not to laugh. He pouts at you, blowing into the lid in hopes to cool it off.

“Well I didn’t expect it to be the surface temperature of the sun!” Denki protests, gingerly taking another sip and humming in contentment when he finds it’s cooled off enough to be drinkable. You laugh again, but then Denki almost runs into your back when you stop abruptly in front of the glass door exit.

“It’s raining! Shit, I didn’t bring an umbrella. How are we supposed to make it back to the station?”

Denki studies the way it’s pouring cats and dogs, before making a noise of triumph and pointing to a bench under an awning not too far away.

“We can go wait for a bus over there!”

You side eye him. “Fine, but if I spill my coffee, you’re buying me a new one.”

The two of you take off, and in true Denki fashion, he trips and spills his coffee everywhere. By the time you both make it to the awning, you’re both soaked to the bone and breathless from laughing.

“Here,” you offer Denki your coffee with a grin, water dripping from the ends of your hair.

“You don’t have to share baby, I’m fine.”

“Yeah, yeah I do. I love you, Denki.”

Your boyfriend short circuits.

“Dammit Denki! Those were the only two lampposts on this street, now I can’t see anything!”

⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆

Denki blinks the memory away and spins you, pulling your back flush to his chest. His body is a long, lean line of muscle as he moves your bodies to the beat and murmurs in your ear.

“Let me take you home and show you just how well this perfume works on me, my dick is hard as a fucking rock baby,” Denki giggles, squeezing your hips when you shove your ass back into his pelvis.

The two of you abandon your friends quick enough to race home, stripping carelessly in your living room until Denki can bend you over the armrest of the couch. He guides his cock inside you unhurriedly, pushing until his pelvis is nestled snug to your ass.

A breathy moan escapes him, and then he’s fucking your pussy as if he could never get enough.

He never will.

Hitoshi’s exhausted when he gets home from work late that night. Being an underground hero is rewarding, but it certainly comes with its downfalls.

He closes the front door delicately and toes off his shoes by the door. It doesn’t take long for him to make his way down the hall and into your bedroom, a tiny half smile worming its way into his expression despite his bone aching weariness when he spots you sound asleep in bed. He pauses to stare at you for a moment.

Hitoshi then showers as fast as humanly possible before crawling under the blankets and curling an arm around your waist, tugging you close until he can nose at the back of your neck. You sigh in your sleep and smuggle closer into his embrace.

Hitoshi trails his nose down the side of your neck and he freezes once he gets to your shoulder. You smell….good. Insanely fucking good, and he can’t quite pinpoint the specific scent but it’s soft and warm and maybe even a little musky. It sends warm blood rushing south and his cock twitches with interest.

He wracks his brain and the only thing he can associate with the scent is your cat, Kiko, when she was a kitten and you first brought her home.

⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆

Hitoshi’s in the middle of playing a game when you return home that day, calling out for him to come to the living room for a second.

“Why?” He yells back. He’s just about to finish this round.

“Just come out here you dick!”

Hitoshi rolls his eyes, but is amused nonetheless by your slightly frustrated tone. He pauses his game and makes his way to where you wait, but stops in his tracks, lips parting in shock and eyes going wide when he sees what you’re holding.

You’re cradling an itty bitty, all black, fluff ball of a kitten in your arms. You grin delightedly at his shocked expression and hold her out almost as if you’re offering her to him.

“You wanted a kitten right? An all black one, like the one you had as a kid at Aizawa’s.”

Hitoshi manages to close his mouth and nod, cautiously reaching out to take the small creature and cradle her to his chest.

He…can’t believe you remembered. You remembered how much his cat had meant to him and went out of your way to find this kitten.

“Thank you,” he says softly, petting the purring kitten’s head with one finger. You step closer and do the same, scratching under her chin until she meows.

“What should we name her?”

“Kiko,” Hitoshi responds with no hesitation, glancing at you for approval and you smile back at him.

“I love it.”

⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆

Hitoshi blinks back to the present, the fond memory lingering at the edges of his mind. He remembers how his heart squeezed against his rib cage in the best kind of way that day and how he knew then he wanted to marry you.

“Baby,” Hitoshi whispers lowly as he kisses your cheek. You stir enough to lazily flip over and hum in question. “I love you, so much.”

“Mm, love you too Hitoshi,” you mumble, sleepy rasp coloring your voice.

Hitoshi bends down to kiss you sweetly, encouraging you to throw a leg over his hips and straddle his waist. He settles you on top of him and wiggles a hand between you to shove his briefs down, cock stiff since he first smelled you, and slides your panties to the side.

Your limbs are still laced heavy with sleep when Hitoshi helps you sink down on his cock. You melt into his chest, face buried in his throat and arms locked around his neck.

He bends his knees and grips your ass to help you sensually ride him, rocking up into you at a leisurely pace until the warmth finally bubbles over the edge and you cum with a shiver and he follows right behind you.

When he asks you about it the next day, it all clicks into place when you give him the watered down version of how the “perfume” works.

He hums noncommittally before asking you to wear it again.

[cetoddle-archive]

i feel like no one would ever understand my writing and not in an ugh i’m just too ~next level~ and big brained kind of way or even in a tragically troubled kind of way i just. feel like no one would ever truly understand the meaning of the things i write u know

[colorfulrook]

I have an idea:

Basically, it would be Reader and Jinwoo who have known each other for a long time. They're best friends, and Reader was always super affectionate with him when he was an E-rank. She treated his wounds, cooked him food, etc., and flirted with him directly, but Jinwoo ignored her advances every time (for him, it was just affection between friends), but Reader always continued even though it wasn't reciprocal.

When he became an S-rank, he got closer to the other hunters, especially Cha Hae In, and Hae In did the same thing Reader did for him (taking care of him), except that he reacted to her advances. Reader, seeing this, understood that she had to let it go and was happy for him despite the heartbreak. Everything she did for him, she did with the other hunters in the guild (brought back cookies, put bandages on Baek, while complimenting him on his muscles, etc.). Jinwoo seeing Reader being affectionate with everyone except him gives him a pang in his heart realizing that he hates it when Reader is with people other than him and begins to regret all the times when he didn't reciprocate and ignore her advances. One day when Reader is injured he goes to heal her and tries to do what Reader did for him hoping to be able to get closer to her again

Thank you so much for trusting me with your idea! I hope you will enjoy reading it and tell me if you liked it! I value quite much every opinion you throw ahaha, love you all - Rook

Ps: I proofread it a bit quickly so eventual grammar errors will be dealt it later!

Where the heart awaits [S.JW x F!Reader]

Pairings: Sung Jinwoo x F!Reader Word count: 1.5K Theme: Fluff, angst (Injury ahead!)

Being an A-Rank healer was tough, but it had its perks. You met all kinds of people—arrogant hotshots, quiet tanks, mages who thought they were gods, hell even S ranks—but none of them managed to leave you an impression like Jinwoo. Gentle, caring Jinwoo who, no matter the hardships of being an E-Rank, never backed down on a job.

You met him during one of your first dungeon after you awakening, despite having already some offers for all kinds of guilds, you politely declined, saying that you would like to lend a hand to the guildless people before committing to one.

That’s how you ended up in a cramped, damp D-Rank dungeon with a group of nervous, under-equipped hunters… and him.

He hadn’t said much at first—kept his head down, focused. You watched as he silently took more hits than he should have, trying to protect the others even though he was clearly exhausted. By the end, he was bloodied and limping, but smiling when he handed the core to a trembling C-rank who looked like he might burst into tears. You had walked up to him, healing magic already warm in your palms, and asked with piqued interest.

“Do you always try to be a martyr, or was today special?”

He blinked at you. Then he smiled. “Habit, I guess.” Feeling refreshed as you healed him, warm magic tickled his skin.

That was the start of your friendship.

From then on, things moved fast. Days turned into month that eventually turned into one year.

You started teaming up more often. Dungeons with Jinwoo became your favorite—how you waited eagerly every time there was a new dungeon, a smile forming everytime you read Jinwoo's name on the list. You could already feel your heart warming.

You began to see him after and before the raids, sometimes even cooking for him and his sister after a particularly gruesome outing. He walked you home after late-night cleanups. You learned how he liked his coffee, how he couldn’t handle spicy food, and that he always, always made sure everyone else was safe before thinking about himself.

You started to look forward to the way his eyes would light up when you brought snacks. To the little, tired smiles he’d give you at the end of a run. You flirted with him—openly, shamelessly—sometimes just to see him flustered. But he never responded to it. At first, you told yourself it was just because he was shy.

But you were wrong, he wasn't shy, he just thought you were very friendly.

It hit you one night when the two of you went out to eat in one of those small restaurant full of people and laughs. You'd teased him again—something flirty, casual, something about how you liked guys who were quietly heroic and kind to their teammates. Jinwoo had just laughed. Not nervous. Not awkward. Just… amused.

The thought of you referring to him went completely over his head.

"Don't worry (Y/n), you are an amazing person and hunter, I'm sure you will find someone you love soon enough!"

And that’s when it sunk in. You could feel your smile dropping a bit before regaining your composure.

To him, your kindness was just that—kindness. The way you patched him up, brought him home-cooked meals, dragged him out for breaks, gifted him silly little trinkets to cheer him up—he’d seen all of it as the affection of a good friend. And maybe, in his mind, he didn’t deserve more than that anyway.

So you smiled and kept going, because even if your heart ached sometimes, his presence was worth it. Being by his side was better than not being there at all.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

When Jinwoo came back from his double dungeon, you felt everything change, as if someone pulled a rug from under your feet and disrupted your carefully built balance.

He was stronger. Colder. More focused. You watched as he built his new life—his new guild—and got closer with hunters you barely knew. He spent more time with Cha Haein, and even though she didn’t speak much, she didn’t need to. The way she looked at him said enough. And worse, the way he looked back at her…

You decided to let him go.

You still talked frequently but you decided that it was time to do something with yourself, Jinwoo was happy with Haein, it was time to reach your happiness as well.

You decided to join Baek Yoonho's guild, feeling ready to lend your powers to a bigger group of people—it was time for a "fresh start" as you called it.

You loved it there, truly, you began to grow fond of every member of your usual dungeon party. Thus you decided to spread your affection to them.

You began to take extra care while healing everyone, especially Guildmaster Baek, handed cookies to the office staff, even embracing one of the rookies— "Gukkie" you called him with the affection of a big sister—in a warm hug for nailing one of the raids in a dungeon.

You didn’t mean it as payback. It was just you being you.

But Jinwoo slowly began to notice it.

And for the first time in a long time, he was the one watching you from the sidelines.

Jinwoo didn’t realize when it started—the way his eyes always followed you, shadows always at the ready to protect you.

Maybe it was the moment you tucked a blanket around Baek Yoonho’s shoulders after a gruesome raid and told him to get some rest, your voice warm with that same gentle tone you used to use just for Jinwoo.

"Master Baek, I know you are toning your body everyday but you must take care and rest after a dungeon!" you'd say pouting.

Or when you ruffled that one hunter's hair after he brought you a smoothie and said, “You’re getting sweeter by the day,” and Jinwoo had to stop himself from yanking your hand away, starved of your usual caring touch.

It didn’t hit him all at once. It crept up slowly, a quiet cold wave that nipped at his ankles. A sharp tug in his chest every time you smiled at someone else. And a heavy, sinking feeling when he realized that you haven't smiled like that at him for weeks.

You were still kind and affectionate during the now rare times you saw each others. But you didn’t linger anymore. You didn’t tease. No more late-night texts, no more lingering touches. You didn’t call him “handsome” with a laugh or sneak his favorite candy into his coat pocket before a raid.

And it was his fault.

Thinking back to before he went in that double dungeon left him with a bitter taste on his tongue.

He’d thought it was just how you were. That your softness belonged to everyone. He hadn’t realized—until it wasn’t his anymore—how much of it you had given only to him.

Now it was too late. Or maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t know.

Not until the day of an abnormal red gate dungeon.

When Jinwoo felt the pulse of the gate from across the city so stronge that even Igris twitched.

And then your name came through the emergency report from the White Tiger Guild.

A red gate. An unexpected ambush. An A-Rank healer, critically injured. You.

Jinwoo didn’t remember giving the order to teleport. He just moved. Shadows exploded from the ground like a tidal wave, launching him towards your position.

The first thing he noticed was how small and frail you seemed in Baek Yoonho's arms, whom looked at him with wide eyes.

"We closed the dungeon but we need to help her fast if we want her to live"

You were unconscious, blood seeping from your uniform, your breathing was shallow, and your mana flickered like a dying candle. Someone had tried to patch you up, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t you.

Jinwoo’s hands trembled as he touched your cheek. For a moment, all he could do was stare.

You were always the one healing. Always smiling through exhaustion, patching wounds, giving warmth without asking for anything back. Now you lay still, quiet and cold.

Something cracked deep inside him.

“Why didn’t I see it?” he whispered, almost angrily. “Why did I let you go?”

Beru stood silently nearby, his gaze lowered. Even his shadows stayed quiet, watching their king kneel beside the one person he could never bring himself to face until it was too late.

Jinwoo’s heart raced as his hands trembled, pouring every ounce of mana into you with a desperate kind of reverence, trying to heal the wound he had failed to stop. His shadows clung to you like a protective cocoon, dimly glowing with the magic he so freely gave, trying to mend what had been broken both in your body and in his soul.

"Please," he whispered again, his voice trembling with a vulnerability he had never shown before. "I can’t lose you. Not like this."

His forehead touched yours, and for a fleeting moment, the world faded into the background. The overwhelming pulse of his heart, the suffocating grief, the quiet dread of losing you—all of it seemed to blur as he focused entirely on you.

His breath came out in ragged gasps as he choked on the words he had kept buried for far too long.

“Wake up…” His voice cracked, the words barely audible. “Please. I still haven’t said it. I haven’t told you…”

But then he felt it—a soft pressure on his hand.

“Jinwoo…” Your voice was weak, your hand reaching up to gently touch his face. “I’m here…”

He leaned down, cheek pressed against yours as relief washed over him like a tidal wave. The fear, the doubt, the hopelessness that had gripped him melted away.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured softly, his hands brushing away the sweat on your forehead. “I'm sorry you had to wait for so long”

You smiled weakly as you felt the warmt of his words settle in your chest, maybe there was still hope after all.

[cutielando]

insomnia is a bitch | rafe cameron

synopsis: in which Rafe notices how little sleep you're really getting

a/n: based on this request!

pairing: rafe cameron x girlfriend!reader

my masterlist

You sighed, your patience already running out.

Glancing at the clock, you closed your eyes and damned the late hour.

3:47 am

Giving up on the idea of sleeping, you threw the covers off your legs and made your way to your kitchen, hoping to find some more milk in the fridge to soothe you.

Ever since you were a teenager, you had struggled with insomnia, and although things had got better since then, you still had some nights where sleep just seemed to elude you, no matter how exhausted and tired you were.

But milk always helped, funnily enough. After only one glass, you would return to bed and fall asleep within minutes.

However, you doubted it would work tonight.

You had ran out of your melatonin and forgot to pick up another prescription earlier that day, so the milk was your one and only hope of catching some shut-eye tonight.

Opening the fridge, you were faced with the disappointing reality that the milk cartoon was empty.

Returning disappointedly to your bed, you grabbed your phone and texted Rafe.

you awake?

You waited patiently for a reply, but nothing came. You sighed, knowing he was probably deeply asleep. He was working so much, leaving early before you’d wake up and coming home late.

You understood why he was not awake.

But it didn’t help your frustration.

You knew what the problem was, though. Deep down, you had realized very early on why you had trouble sleeping some nights.

Ever since you and Rafe got together, you spent a lot of time at his house, basically sleeping there almost every single night.

But tonight, your parents had had some family over for dinner and you didn’t want to drive all the way to Rafe’s house so late at night, instead opting to sleep in your own bedroom.

And yet sleep didn’t come.

You had got so used to Rafe holding you while you slept, hugging you close to his body and burying your face in his chest, that you weren’t able to sleep without him anymore.

Every time one of you wouldn’t be home, you couldn’t get any sleep. Even when you were sleeping at his place, when he had late nights and would come home late, you wouldn’t be able to fall asleep before he got home, no matter how late it would get.

You couldn’t sleep without Rafe anymore.

Looking at the clock again, you let out another sigh.

4:13 am

You ultimately decided to just lay in bed and hope that you would succumb to your exhaustion at one point during the night.

♡♡♡♡♡

You felt like everything was going wrong today.

You hadn’t caught a blink of sleep the entire night, then you were late for work, your car broke down before you could leave, you spilt drinks on your shirt and completely forgot to pack a change.

Everything was upside down the entire time.

The only good thing to come out of the day was Rafe, your sweet boyfriend who had managed to leave work earlier and come pick you up from your shift.

Seeing his truck pull up in the front driveway of the country club felt like God himself had landed in front of you.

You were quick in getting inside the truck and relaxing against the seat, making Rafe chuckle and eye you.

“Hey baby” he greeted you, leaning over the console and giving you a quick kiss.

“Hey” you replied, albeit not enthusiastically.

He noticed the mood in your tone, something he was already very familiar with.

“Do I want to ask?” he said, reversing out of the parking lot to begin the journey back to his house.

And that’s the cue you had been waiting for, going on a rant about everything that had gone wrong since you got up from bed that morning.

Rafe listened with curiosity, tuning out the parts he thought weren’t as important.

But when you had got to the part about not getting any sleep again, you got his attention completely.

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” he asked, sneaking glances at you every once in a while.

Now that you had mentioned it, he did notice the bags under your eyes had got even bigger than they usually were, you looked completely worn and exhausted and you weren’t as cheerful as he was used to.

You shrugged at his question, not wanting to reveal the actual reason why you didn't fall asleep the entire night.

"I don't know. I kept tossing and turning the entire night and at one point I just gave up trying to sleep" you explained, resting your head against the headrest.

Rafe hummed and nodded, but his mind wasn't at ease. He didn't like it when you didn't take care of yourself, even when it was something you couldn't really control.

As he continued to drive towards his house and listen to you yapping about your day, he was making mental notes about the things he was going to do when you got home to make sure you're relaxed and will be able to fall asleep later in the evening.

After all, he had to take care of his favorite girl.

♡♡♡♡♡

A delicious dinner and a warm bath later, you and Rafe were cuddled up under the soft covers adorning his bed, your body pulled completely over Rafe's.

Your head was resting against his chest, his steady heartbeat filling your ears.

"Are you sleepy yet?" Rafe asked, his voice soft as he ran his hands through your hair soothingly.

"Yeah, it's slowly catching up with me" you mumbled, not bothering to lift your head from his chest.

You were far too comfortable and too exhausted to even move a muscle.

Rafe kept twirling your soft hair around his fingers, his mind occupied with worry. How had he not seen how exhausted you had been for days? He was beating himself up for not even realizing his girlfriend was sleep-deprived and completely exhausted.

"I can hear you thinking" you mumbled, chuckling at the end.

Rafe chuckled softly, his heart warming. You knew him better than he cared to admit sometimes.

"Yeah, I was just thinking about you" he said, making your eyes open slightly.

"What about me?" you asked, settling back down.

He sighed, his hand dropping to hold your waist.

"I didn't even realize how tired you were" he whispered, his tone worried and sad.

You bit your lip, contemplating whether to expose yourself in order to calm down his nerves or just shut up.

In the end, you decided to just come clean about it.

"It's okay, Rafe. I've been spending most of my nights here, that's why you didn't notice anything. I can sleep just fine when we sleep in the same bed, I just have trouble falling asleep when we're apart" you said, glad that the room was dark and he couldn't see the blush that rose to your cheeks upon admitting that.

"Really?" he asked, his voice a little shocked.

You nodded, too sleepy to say anything else.

Rafe's heart warmed at the thought that he provided you with so much security and love that you only felt safe enough to sleep next to him.

What more could a man possibly want in life?

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[star-anise]

Currently getting my socks clean blown off by Rethinking Narcissism, by Dr. Craig Malkin. Which I found, in a roundabout way, from this video on Midsommar, grief, and narcissism.

Tonight I woke up from a nap and accidentally took my morning meds, so I'm going to be up for a few hours because of the meth. In place of sleep, I'll try to roughly sum up some basic ideas proposed by the research the book is based on:

That traits of "narcissism" like entitlement, grandiosity, and feeling special are not inherently toxic. There are times and places they are appropriate and beneficial. If you show up at a hospital with a gunshot wound to the chest, you should not sit and wait to be seen after people with earaches and coughs. (Actually, medical systems are designed to prioritize people with more urgent needs, and you qualify under that system. You are special and are deserving of different treatment than those others, which is why making your needs known, even insisting on it if you're not listened to appropriately the first time, is an extremely good idea. It keeps you from bleeding to death on the floor, and keeps the hospital from getting its pants sued off by your heirs.)

It is more useful to view "narcissism" not as an inherent immutable personality trait, but as a cluster of coping mechanisms. As previously stated, there are times they are exactly the right coping mechanism for the job. However, people we call "narcissists" tend to cling to these ones even when they become detrimental to themselves and others, often because they lack other ways of regulating their emotions and getting their needs met. And that is something they can change, if a person is willing to put in sincere and difficult work. It is not usually fast change; it's a matter of years, not weeks. But a skillbuilding approach turned Borderline Personality Disorder from an immutable curse to a fully treatable (though not quickly treatable) condition, and there's a lot of hope that it can do the same for Narcissistic Personality Disorder.

Meanwhile, there's an opposite end to the narcissism spectrum, and it is also pathological and destructive to hang out there all the time. It's an aversion, or even a resistance, to expecting yourself or other people to treat your own feelings, thoughts, ideas, needs, or preferences as important. For Greek mythology reasons, its proposed name is Echoism.

Unfortunately, because most of the damage echoism does is, by its very nature, localized to its sufferer and their own personal relationships, its downsides aren't often talked about. In fact, it's often seen as an ideal moral state, a kind of altruism or saintliness everyone should strive for. As a pathological coping mechanism a person is trapped in, though, it's often more a fear-based reflex than a conscious and deliberate attempt to achieve some real and specific good. It's not actually as beneficial as being able to recognize your needs, desires, positive aspects, and areas of competence or excellence, and bring them forward in your relationships with other people and yourself.

To me this has all been a cross between a gut-punch and a cool, sweet drink of water. There have been other ways to describe echoism over the years, but this feels like the most concise and useful one I've seen in ages.

It specifically puts its pin down in the middle of the moral debate a lot of people struggle with—"What right do I have to put myself forward? What hope do I have of being seen and accepted? Isn't it better not to burden anybody else?"—and says that the problem is not feeling in touch with either side of the equation, but specifically, the inability to move from one part of the spectrum to another when it's merited by circumstances.

When I was a child, I thought Echoism was the answer. It was my ideal. I thought it was what would get me the love and acceptance I wanted, and would keep me safe from the pain of rejection or not being understood. I had no idea it would actually, in fact, be the primary cause of alienation and loneliness for the rest of my life.

Now I'm so deeply thankful I couldn't fully achieve it, in practical terms. As hard as I tried to erase myself, there were always things I loved too much to suppress. I still found ways to express and discover myself in the books I read, the stories I wrote, the intellectual work of school and the experience of pursuing hobbies I loved, my ambitions to be helpful even when they demanded I stop being selfless, and the relationships where I felt safe enough to experience love and acceptance even if I didn't think I deserved them.

There's this question I found a while back that echoed in my bones: Who am I allowed to be around you? Because that's what I felt like, as a child. If I wanted to engage with other people and minimize my risk of harm, it was my job to bend into a pretzel and fit the shape they wanted. And thank god, thank god, thank god, I couldn't fully do it. Despite everything, there were parts of me too strong and bright to lop off completely to get my arms and legs inside the carriage. I was able to take care of myself and let them grow in secret until I found social places I could let them out again. Despite myself, I found ways to grow and thrive, well beyond the trauma that said I shouldn't have.

[kyra45]

Tips to spotting scams based around Palestine fundraisers

With the latest round of scams being based around Palestine fundraisers, this guide is meant to help you get the idea on what to look out for if you share posts about it often. This post is not to say all fundraising posts for it are scams! It should be understood that there are verified sources to donate to support Palestine and also legitimate methods to giving aid as well that can be found if you search around. It’s just unfortunate there are now accounts here that have chosen to rapidly take advantage of users who don’t know about their scamming.

Here are some basic information about these scams and the accounts themselves:

- The accounts pinned post is usually only a few hours old or a few days old. It starts off with “urgent help needed” and then bullet points of the story. This story is real, but it’s been edited and stolen off a real fundraiser as copying/pasting it into your preferred search engine should show where it’s from.

- They may have a linktree link that says it’s their GoFundMe link but it’s not and it goes directly to a PayPal account that has a name they’ve likely stolen off someone else. It may be one that’s been listed as a known fake name used across multiple accounts

- All the images used are likely from the same fundraiser they’re stealing images from. The story is usually edited to sound very vague because they removed most of its details.

- The ask they send you is usually the same thing as their post and may have a stray pair of quotation marks showing it’s from something they found and wasn’t typed by themselves.

- Often sends asks after you’ve shared a post about Palestine or more. This is a targeted ask and searching it should reveal if it’s been sent by other blogs who used the same pfp as the sender.

- They share a few Palestine posts but never anything else.

- Known to send hateful asks to you if you call them out too much. They’ll also block and hide comments that point out the scam.

- Will comment on mutual aid posts to spread their scam if asks don’t work easily.

I know this isn’t much of a guide, but I hope it helps.

[ssa-dado]

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.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

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

[pathologicalreid]

heyyyy how ruu

english is not my first language so i hope you can understand this u.u

this idea has been consuming my brain for days, sooo basically i was thinking about bau fem reader and reid doing undercover work (idk) and when they see the unsub, reader's first thought is to kiss reid so the unsub can't recognize them (and he wouldnt waste time in 2 ppl kissing???), then when reader sees the unsub going towards the exit even though she doesnt want to she breaks the kiss and everything is awkward but in a cute way??? yea idk if this makes sense feel free to change anything or to not do it at all :]

in plain sight | S.R.

your quick thinking (in an attempt to protect him) leads to a thankful spencer

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: reader is explicitly referred to as a woman. general cm violence. making out (for the plot). haphazardly proofread. word count: 1.19k a/n: no worries anon, i understood this perfectly! thank you so much for requesting!

Your firearm was digging into your hip as you leaned up against the wall of the bar. You were on high alert as you looked around the building, scanning the faces of people who walked by.

“L/N, Reid, anything?” Hotch called into the radios. The team was across the street in a surveillance van.

Quickly, your eyes met Spencer’s, “No sign of the suspect.” Silently, you hoped that Hotch would pull you from the bar and let you go back to the hotel for the night, but you knew that wasn’t the way your unit chief played the game.

You were more or less trapped inside a college bar, your shoes were sticking to the old wooden floor, and because you and Spencer were the youngest members of the team, you were voluntold to go undercover.

Reid had never looked more out of place, but he was twelve when he started college, so you supposed he had never really been in a dive bar like this one before. “Hey,” you said softly, “Are you alright?” You knew he had a thing about germs, and if you were bothered by the sticky floors, you couldn’t imagine how he was feeling.

“I’m sure this comes as a surprise, but this,” he gestured to the partying college kids around you, “isn’t really my scene.”

A small laugh bubbled up from your throat, “Oh, no. I never would’ve guessed,” you played along with his sarcasm. “I’m afraid my shoes are going to come off when I try to walk,” you admitted.

He smiled slightly, “I’m trying not to think about it.”

Tentatively, you moved a little closer to him so you wouldn’t have to shout over the music. “I thought the UnSub hunted around ten?” You questioned. All of the bodies were usually found at midnight with lividity just barely beginning to show, meaning the victims were picked at ten, killed by eleven, and found at midnight.

They were calling him the Countdown Killer because he kept on such a tight schedule. “He should be,” Spencer answered, glancing down at the watch on his wrist.

You looked around the bar, the both of you had your backs to a wall, so you weren’t exposed on that side.

“Remember, if you spot him, do not engage,” Hotch ordered through your radios. You and Reid were simply there to find him, the rest of the team would handle the chase. “He’s likely been watching the news, so he may recognize your faces – don’t let him.”

While you weren’t entirely sure how you were supposed to hide your face from the suspect without seeming suspicious, you confirmed the plan with Hotch anyway.

 A gleam of blonde caught your eye, narrowing your eyes, you focused on the figure. “Spencer,” you swatted at his hand, “two o’clock.”

Discreetly, Spencer’s gaze flickered over in the direction you had suggested. “Turn around,” Spencer said, “Don’t let him see your face.”

You turned around so that you were facing Spencer, looking away from the suspect. “What about your face?” You asked, surely the both of you staring at the brick wall would seem suspicious.

“He’s killing women. I don’t want him to notice you,” he responded, momentarily looking past you and at the suspect.

Surprised, you furrowed your brows at Reid’s statement, by having you face him, he was trying to protect you. You turned your face into your shoulder, “Suspect is in the bar,” you whispered into your mic.

There was recognition from the rest of the team before it went quiet again. “He’s approaching us,” Spencer said, faint alarm springing onto his features. He wasn’t talking into the radio; he was letting you know.

Spencer might’ve been outside of the victimology, but you couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him if the suspect recognized him.

Instinctively, you leaned up on your tiptoes and pressed your lips against his. You were kissing Spencer.

At first, he was surprised, but his hands quickly found a home on your waist as he kissed you back. Your lips worked gently on his as he eased his mouth open, deepening the kiss. Abruptly, Spencer dragged you closer to him by the waist. The sudden movement caused your eyes to flutter open.

In your periphery, you could see the dangerous blonde walking away. He must’ve walked right past you, and Spencer had pulled you away from him. You let your eyes fall shut again.

You reached up to sling your arms over his shoulders as he experimentally slipped his tongue into your mouth. Your heart raced as you were fully making out with Spencer in the college bar.

Reluctantly, you separated yourself from Spencer, “Is he gone?” You whispered, peering up at him through your eyelashes.

Spencer nodded, swallowing thickly. His cheeks were tinted pink, and you were sure you were flushed as well.

You pressed your mic button, not taking your eyes off Spencer’s, “Suspect’s exiting out the rear door,” you notified the team. Suddenly, your job was done, and you became conscious of Spencer’s hands where they still remained on your waist.

Hotch asked you to report to the van, and you took Spencer’s hand and led him out of the bar. The cool night air calmed your rushing blood. “Thank you for that,” he said from behind you as you halted to look for passing cars.

You spun on your heel to look at him, “Did you just thank me for kissing you?”

“I thanked you for distracting the suspect, so he didn’t recognize me,” Spencer corrected, squeezing your hand.

Instinctively, you dropped his hand, “Right, me and my quick thinking.” There was not a single clear thought in your head. You started crossing the street as Spencer called your name, obviously confused.

You yanked your earbud out while the rest of the team was rambling on about the takedown over the comms. “What just happened?” Spencer asked.

“We made out in a bar, and you thanked me for it,” you answered stiffly, leaning your back against the white van. “So, you’re welcome,” you said. Really, you didn’t know what you wanted from him, and you knew that Reid’s experience with women was limited at best.

Surprisingly, Spencer rested a hand on either side of your head and leaned intoxicatingly close to you, “Did you want me to say something else to you?”

You looked up at him, you weren’t sure you had ever noticed the green flecks in his eyes, “I had a few ideas, yes.”

“Here was my other option,” he told you, dropping his head so that your lips met once again. You gasped into his mouth in surprise. Hesitantly, you placed one hand on the side of his neck and the other in his hair. He used both of his hands to cup your face, kissing you with less urgency than you had in the bar as if you had all of the time in the world.

The both of you jumped when the passenger side door to the van swung open and Emily poked her head out, “You know we can see you in the side mirrors, right?”

[issdisgrace]

alright I have an idea!!

so, you know Life of Luxury? Or just any sort of media where they have these deformed and/or distorted replicas of humanoids? Just search up “scary humanoid monster” or something like that, you’ll get some ideas of it.

what if The slashers meet this reader who just lives in this woods and they think nothing of it, until one day they come over and just open the front door to see this abomination of a creature. Full on lanky and long, skin is both too tight and too loose to be its own skin, its eyes seemingly hiding inside its sockets a bit too deep, etc etc.

and Reader just pulls up like “oh wsg, this is one of my rescues”

or basically, Reader just has so much empathy or just is insane and takes in these kinds of creatures and raises/cares for them like their Reader’s own flesh and blood. (Wouldn’t be too surprised if there was like certain incidents where one of them just randomly bite Reader in front of the slashers and Reader’s just all like “bad boy! Let go, or no treats!” And it just miraculously saves their entire limb.)

I like taking in strays if you didn’t notice. 😋

SLASHERS WITH A S/O THAT HAS CRYPTIDS AS PETS

WARNINGS: Getting bit, mentions of blood, nothing else really

A/N: Had the Hodag and the Chupacabra in mind when writing this

BO

Bo is just trying to see you, his lover, when he arrives to find you playing fetch with a creature. He is so confused. What the fuck is that thing? Why are you playing with it? Then he sees it bite your leg and your leg starts to bleed. He’s about to go back to his truck and get his shotgun and kill the thing. When he sees you start scolding the creature like a child telling the creature that biting you isn’t a nice thing to do and it’s lost their fetch playing privileges for the day. The creature seems kinda sad like it understood what you were saying. You pet it to cheer it up a little before heading back into your cabin the creature following you inside. Bo was in shock, he wants answers, he’s never seen anything like that thing ever. So he knocks on your cabin door. You yell that it’s open, and he enters to see you getting the stuff out to clean your wound; the creature laying in a pile of blankets by your bed that you must’ve set out for it. Bo asks so many questions and you're just like oh yeah that my pet, isn’t he just a cutie? Bo gives it the side eye after you say that, but he doesn’t say anything more. Bo eventually becomes used to the creature, but he certainly isn’t going to pet it or anything. Then slowly you introduce him to your other pets, the ones that come and go. And it’s the same cycle: confusion, questions, then acceptance. 

MICHAEL

Michael quite literally just tilts his head curiously at the creatures for a minute before going on with his day. He doesn’t mind your strange pets. He actually kinda likes them, but he’ll never admit that in any sort of way. Sometimes he’ll bring back bones for your pets to chew on. Just don’t ask where he got them from and why they look like human bones. Anyway, one time one of your pets bit your leg gently to get your attention but it was enough to draw some blood and Michael saw that and he tried to kill your pet. You stopped Michael of course, and scolding both him and your pet. You scolded your pet for biting you, telling it there were better ways to get your attention. The creature seemed to understand, and it gently nudged your leg with its head as if to say sorry. You then scolded Michael on trying to kill your pet and told him it was an accident on your pet’s part and it doesn’t know it full strength. You also told him even if one of your pets hurt you on purpose that he is in no way to hurt them then either. You care about them and you do not want to see any harm come to them. Michael just grunts and walks away. You don’t know what Michael is feeling you just hope that he doesn’t do anything later. Which he doesn’t and everything goes back to normal but he will always have a little grudge against all your pets because you should care about him 10 times more than your pets even though they’ve been with you for ages and Michael has only been with you for a couple of years.

TOMMY

Tommy, our sweet boy, loves your creature pets right off the bat. He’s never once scared of them or anything like that. He finds sort of a kinship with them due to the fact both he and your pets are viewed as monsters. He loves helping you take care of them. He loves playing with them, whether it’s fetch or tug of war. He’ll feed them scraps of victims. He’ll also help you set up and build an area just for your pets because Mama Luda May does not want all those pets in the house. Hoyt is banned from going anywhere near your pets by Mama Luda May because number one Hoyt is a piece of shit and would probably try to antagonize them or hurt them, and number two your pets would kill him without a second thought if they pleased. Anyway, you had been playing with one of your pets and they had gotten really excited and playfully bit you but since they are a strong creature, they accidentally used too much force when biting you. The bite was harmless in the long run, but it had started bleeding. Tommy was coming to get you for lunch when he saw this all happen. He scooped you up and took you inside and had Mama Luda May clean and wrap your wound even though you were perfectly capable of taking care of it yourself. While you are getting patched up, he goes back outside and makes sure your pet is ok. If your pet seems sad or upset he’ll spend sometime with it trying to cheer it up but will ultimately bring it inside with him so your pet could see you and see that you were ok before it goes back outside to its area with the other.

VINCENT

Vincent isn’t shocked or scared when he meets your strange pets. In fact, he is quite fascinated. He is fascinated with your pets and the way you guys interact. He signs or writes down questions for you wanting to know more about your pets, how you found them, how old they are, ect. He will draw so many pictures of them and each drawing will be absolutely beautiful and highly detailed. He will also make wax figurines of them just for you and he’ll randomly gift them to you. While Vincent likes your pets, they are completely banned from the basement because he doesn’t want them getting hurt. They are also unfortunately banned from the rest house as well because Bo thinks they are abominations. So Vincent helps you set up one of the houses in town for yourself so you can have your own space for the things you are interested in, like to do, and of course for your pets. However, you do still sleep with Vincent in the basement at night. But if you are sick and aren’t able to leave the basement to see your pets or take care of them. He will take care of them for you and will also allow your pets down in the basement for a couple of hours each day but the whole time he keeps his eyes on them at all times just to make sure they don’t get into anything or get hurt. Over time, he gets more comfortable with your pets presents in the basement and will allow them in at night to sleep with you guys. Sometimes he’ll wake up early to draw you in bed cuddled up with one of your pets. Has a secret sketchbook full of drawings like that and if you ever stumble across it, he will be beet red no matter what. 

[darinawrites]

⚹︎ — It's just a cold — ⚹︎⠀

Pairing: Dae ho x reader

Summary: you appreciate his love a lot, you do. But the first time you got a cold, in his eyes, you were on the verge of death. Him basically having a breakdown while getting groceries, hurrying to be by your side. Annoying, but also cute (Dae ho freaking out about a cold, basically.)

Content: fluff, fluff and even more fluff (the angst fics will come soon, dw), soft Dae ho, sick reader.

A/n: I am a firm fluff lover, if it wasn't obvious. Again, I tried to shorten the fic, but it still seems rushed to me.😓 I'll get the hang of it soon, one day. I'll probably make a fic with prompt of sick reader soon again and focus the prompt more on taking care of the fever. And as always, tips are appreciated <3

Word count: 2k

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Arms pushing a shopping cart, legs striding behind it. It was just a normal day for Dae ho, besides the fact his beloved didn't text him when he woke up. It set him out of his mellow mood in the morning, concerned nature immediately rushing to the worse.

To get his mind off of it, he decided to just shop the groceries this time, a task you usually handle. Phone in his hand, waiting for a buzz as he placed a few items in the cart.

"Never understood why there are so many types of toilet papers..." he sighed out, having the tedious task of picking the right product. How do people not go insane from this?

So engrossed in the task, he let his phone plop in the cart, now picking up the piece of paper for any details that may help him, forgetting you for just a small moment.

His phone let out a small buzz in the confined space, screen enlightening to notify a message has been delivered. But his ears didn't catch it, leaving it untouched.

Finally done, he'd only realize it once he picked up the phone and hurriedly opened it. His mind drifting back to you, not letting his hopes die down when checking for your name. And to his surprise, a little green blob indicated a message was left.

A soft smile was seen on him, before dropping it quickly. Eyes reading 'message deleted' on the screen when opening the supposed message

Huh? What could this mean?

Anxiety was starting to build again, now stopping the cart as he just stood still in the aisle. His thumb quickly swiping on the call button, ringing intruding his ears as your profile was now shown.

Oh gosh, were you on your period? A car crash? An intruder?? What if-

"Dae ho..?" a quiet voice called him trough the line, letting his thoughts be set aside. "Why are you calling?" it sounded restraint, not helping his trembling anxiety.

Collecting himself to answer properly, letting a pause on the line stay. "You didn't say anything this morning and even deleted your message. Please tell me what's wrong." His tone was soft and scared. Thinking this is a situation of trust, he didn't want to push it or sound needy.

A rasp in your throat could be heard, voice tinged with vulnerability, "I didn't want to bother you. I just have a slight cold, nothing serious-"

"A what?" he quickly added, fear evident in his words.

"A cold. Dae ho , please don't start-!" a little 'beep' rang out, making you sigh. A cough following right after. You admired his tenacity to always please you. You loved it even, but sometimes it's just too much, making you hesitant to tell him about your cold from the start.

After an ephemeral time, it would go away. It wasn't worth mentioning, but to Dae ho? You were on the verge of death. You hated worrying him so much, yet his tender personality made it incredibly hard. Making him overreact at even a diminutive amount of discomfort you felt.

You had a good idea of what was happening right now, after the call. But your clouded mind, hazy with the fever, couldn't handle thinking about it anymore.

You let your head rest back on the tenth of pillows you stacked, a thick blanket pulled over you, letting your phone fall down next to you. There's nothing you could do now. Only hopes and prayers for his own good to not overreact, unsure if his heart could take it anymore.

Sadly, your hopes were left in the corner as Dae ho was rushing trough every aisle. Trying to find anything to soothe your fever.

Tea? Pushed in. Soup? Every flavour was already laying in the cart. Sweat building on his forehead, getting a few glares from other people. But he couldn't bring himself to care, not when every inch of his body was thinking about you.

Completely abandoning the shopping list as his cart was filled to the brim with either your favourite foods or soups and comfort foods. Bringing his full cart to check out, foot tapping impatiently. He closed his eyes, trying to find any peace within him.

He did feel an immense amount of guilt for just hanging up on you, it was just in the moment. Feeling his heart sink and your rushed tone trying to stop him from doing anything extreme was too much, making his thumb, with no approval, click the 'hang up' button. His timidness pulling the strings on him like a puppet.

He'd normally feel a hand on his head, brushing trough his head when his anxiety got full control over him, reassuring words coming out of your plump lips. But that's not the case right now, its far from it. Heck, your hands were probably too weak to stroke his hair!

His face lifted up to stare at the cashiers face when his turn came, now having to deal with this all alone.

He didn't mutter a single word to them, paying no attention and focusing on the important thoughts. Picking up his bags when finally done and hurriedly walking to his car, going to pick up some medicine.

Stepping into the car, struggling to put the car keys in the hole, hands trembling. Questions such as 'What medicine do you need' now intruding his mind once more.

As the car started with a soft step on the gas, he tried to muster every memory of his limited experience with medication to know what you need. Expectedly not working, he sighed, cursing himself before coming up with a new idea. He took out his phone to the second best option. Google.

His eyed drifted to tame answers given to him on the top, easing him a little. And he should've stopped there, he really should have. The answers below weren't ones he wanted to see.

'Infections? bronchiolitis? Death??' you've teached him countless times to not be so gullible to what's written online, apparently it just went out of his ear as soon as you finished because he's pressing harder on the gas now with the newly found information.

He'll be sending you messages to update you where he was from now on, fearing now if you aren't as well as he thinks. He was a bit disillusioned with himself that he didn't do that earlier as he sent a bunch of texts, your phone vibrating right beside your sleeping face.

'Hey! I'm in the pharmacy right now, my love. I'll be with you soon.' click, and the message was sent, his other hand clutching the doorknob to the pharmacy. His feet now stepping on the wooden floors, contemplating what he should say, as he came up to the lady in the front.

"H-hello, may I get some medicine for Chilblain, Bronchitis, Arthritis-" he started to incessantly ramble all the diseases he could remember the moment the friendly lady smiled, her smile gradually fading into one of worry.

"..Is that all, sir?" he'd hear once his voice begged him to take a break. Fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, letting out a small nod, not long after walking out with 2 bags stacked to a brim, a worried wave letting him go from the lady behind him.

___

The buzzing of your phone finally woke you up, after the 30th time. Groggily opening your eyes, head still spinning and body fatigued. You weakly reached out for the phone, checking to see who disturbed your sleep. And to no ones surprise, Dae hos name popped up.

Before you could read trough the messages and see what he's been up to, the door flung open. An out of breath Dae ho was to be seen, a bunch of bags in his hands.

Your eyes were still hazy from just waking up, but you could see him rushing to your side, filling your ear with tons of question that your brain couldn't process as fastly as he was speaking.

"Dae ho!" you said as loudly as your throat managed, tone coming out more berating than you'd like, making him immediately stop in his tracks.

"Please..," you added now, softening your voice, "Stop worrying so much, it's a simple cold, okay? I love your worrying, but this is simple out of the line. I don't want to worry you so much, so listen to me." you stroked your hands trough his hair in a ponytail, emphasising to let his worries go.

Sighing as he let your words take the led and your shaken hands pluck the worry. Mumbling a little 'sorry' as he buried his head into your neck, his tense body now more relaxed, he knew he shouldn't worry so much, but he couldn't help it when it came to you.

Your lips were curling upwards the longer you sat like this. Letting your bodies melt into each other. It was always so nice having him in your arms. Not long after, much to your dismay, he lifted his head again. A sudden realization shining in his eyes.

"Hey...you're sick. I'm supposed to be taking care of you!" you let out a small giggle at that, his weight now off you as he took the bags into the kitchen and started doing...something. You're not quite sure what.

A few minutes passed by, his figure entering your eyesight again. This time with some pills and a bowl of soup, setting them down on the table. Picking up the pills, he signaled you to open your mouth. The small pill placed on your tongue once opening your mouth, swallowing it with the help of a water bottle beside you.

"This isn't some medicine for a weird disease with 40 letters, right?" you asked once you fully swallowed, teasing tone evident.

Pouting, he answered "Its just something to ease your pain and clear your nose. Glad to see the fever hasn't completely engulfed your teasing."

A rasp chuckle left your mouth "I had to, you brought a ridiculous amount of medicine." Your gaze was at his face, a small smile plastered on him. But from the corner of your eye, you spotted the soup. Attention now averted to the bowl. Did you have an appetite? No. Did you want it? Yes. Dae ho just manages to make everything look so good. A simple stew by him could make your mouth drip down with drool, making your eyes have a small glimmer as you intently looked at the soup.

Though, as you sat up to have a taste, you let out a loud groan immediately. The pain rushing back into your head. Dae ho was quick to react, arms reaching out to support your weight.

"Take it easy, love. Please." he hushed against your ear, manhandling your frail body with ease in a comfortable sitting position, wrapping the blanket around your figure in a way no cold seeps trough, being very meticulous with it.

You wanted to reach for the spoon, but the gesture was stopped with a small grip. "Don't worry, I'm here for a reason after all." hands bigger than yours were reaching out for the spoon this time, dipping it in the liquid before it was blown by the air left out of his mouth to cool it down.

You knew he liked protecting you, or rather feeling like he's protecting you. And you've always let him, his proud smile brightening the day everytime. And this was one of the situations, one arm hoisted around your waist, the other bringing the now cooled down soup to your mouth. You let the metal touch your mouth, pouring the warm soup and letting your taste buds enjoy it.

Your gaze never once left his eyes as he spoon feed you, such an intimate act in your mind. He apparently thought so to, his cheeks warming up everytime he brought the spoon back to your mouth.

"Hey, Dae ho..," your hoarse voice said, breaking the comfortable silence in the atmosphere, "Can you promise me to not have a day like this repeat again?"

He stopped his arm for a second, waiting a little before answering "Yes ma'am! If it helps you, then a promise will always be settled." Letting his hands fall onto his forehead, doing a salut with a warm, but serious smile.

It made you bite your lip, holding in a laugh.

He really was a goofus, your goofus.

[formylovetodaryldixon]

"Daryl Dixon: NSFW alphabet."

Summary: Daryl Dixon's version of the NSFW alphabet with you meeting each other since the beginning.

@kitt-iiworld: Hii.. since you made the sfw alphabet (I loved it) could you make the nsfw version now?

A/N: Hi, love! Thanks for your request, I really really hope you like this. I even thought THIS would be a good idea for a story, though I don't know if I could properly describe how the sex between you and Daryl turned into something more. This story is not that explicit, but still I leave a warning. I'm sorry if I can't express myself well; my English isn't great, but I'm trying to improve. Thanks!

A = Aftercare (What he does after sex)

During his sex life before you, Daryl Dixon didn’t give a damn about what happened afterward: he only care about the very end for him. That is why meeting you in that new world was confusing for him because all Daryl was looking for in the beginning was some kind of release (you didn’t mind, you were looking for the same thing). But for Daryl, your honest concern for him outside the tent, for example, made him start to realize that sex did come with some kind of show that he cared about how your body acclimated to the cold after feeling hot as hell, not just getting dressed again, but waiting for you to come down from your own high, so he started to stay with you long after the end. (Which was just as confusing for you, too.) And as Daryl fell in love with you at the same time that he was getting the idea that the strangers around him were important to him, he became a real lover, caring, attentive to what you needed afterwards to the point of being able to take care of you to share everything with you if there was a surface where he could sleep next to you without worrying about danger.

B = Body part (His favorite body part of himself and also his partner's)

Daryl had never wasted his time on something as banal as his looks, but everything about him was wild and almost pornographic. Daryl was hot, always wearing his sleeveless shirt that showed off his well-defined arms after working with them his whole life, under his angel-wing vest (that made him look like a damn rock star), but one compliment from you that made him shy (and at the same time made him feel confident that you didn't see anyone else like that) was the praise for his arms, which stood out without even flexing them. Daryl was inexperienced in the matter of relationships, but even he could detect the change in your breathing when his hand rested on your waist for some reason, especially to pull you closer, so he loved to hold you in them.

When he understood that love and pleasure did go hand in hand, for Daryl your body became sacred so he loved everything about it, because it was the only place where he could get everything at the same time: so it was a duty for him to make sure that you got all the pleasure from him that you could have and that he could give you, because his own climax was seeing that you had reached it with him.

C = Cum (Basically that)

Condoms are a must, of course, because Daryl doesn't want to start making babies, at least until he knows the place where he can make a home and a family with you is actually safe, a place where you two can settle down and not worry about danger. But since the Alexandria infirmary isn't always stocked with them, and birth control is scarce, if not nonexistent, the "safest" thing to do without missing out on that particular kind of fun is to pull it out before finish.

Which brings us to the next point.

D = Dirty secret (A dirty secret of his)

As time went on and as his relationship with you progressed, Daryl discovered that there was something arousing about spilling himself over you, seeing a part of himself dripping down your thigh if you two did it on the bathroom counter for example: it was like knowing that only he had access to those parts of your body that were always going to be off-limits to anyone else.

E = Experience (How experienced is he?)

Before you, Daryl only cared about himself, finding his climax and releasing his own lust or even his own frustration. The bars in his city were idyllic for that, so his experience was one-night stands, or even a few hours, rather, because for him it was a waste of time taking the women home or go to theirs. Meeting you at the end of the world for Daryl, at first, was just finding someone to do it with, but as life forced you to live together, doing it with the same person made his experience grow, because it made Daryl more observant to the point of perfectly remember those places inside you that made you press yourself against him more or moan louder, until the idea of him pleasing you was what made him finish too.

F = Favorite position

The Daryl of the beginning of the apocalypse cared about positions because he related it to dominating and not being dominated, so it was always one where he was in control of the situation (although he disliked positions where the woman was degraded because he liked to be in control but not hurt anyone in any way) but as Daryl got older and sex went from being that to making love, any position where he could see your face and the changes in it as you got higher was something he preferred.

G = Goofy (Is he serious or funny in the moment?) (Russian roulette)

“Shut it.” He warns you, keeping his warm mouth close to your entrance. “Fuck, why ya always taste so damn good? Makes me wanna live in between yer legs all the fuckin’ time.”

He wasn’t normally a very talkative person, but when Daryl was on the right mood he loved saying things that he knew would turn you on, leading you to the edge of being out of breath.

(Don't know if this makes sense, sorry) More than a teaser or a joker, Daryl is a bit more talkative even before you two do it because that's when words matter as much as actions (if you know what I mean) because his words are the conduit to have you where he wants you: squeezing your legs closed when they become images in your head, anticipating the moment that's going to come, whether it's happening right there or a little while. And when it happens, he has to tell you how you make him feel too. So Daryl is somehow always serious just because he means every word.

H = Hair (All kind of hair)

The first time before you two did it and the moment his beard (which Daryl had never bothered to shave completely) brushed your face, you giggled saying "it tickles me," but the giggle it provoked in you was enough for him to notice that something like that didn't bother you at all, which made him continue doing it on future occasions on purpose just to hear a sound he thought he'd never hear again in his life during the apocalypse, plus your laughter felt full of colors in a gray world.

As for his hair, the idea was to let it grow because cutting it often was a waste of time for Daryl, and although even Carol offered to do it, he kept rejecting the offer. But there was a silent compliment every time you pretended to downplay how good he looked until Daryl heard it out loud from you: you look like a rock star, and everyone wants to fuck the rock star.

And ya do? It was practically the only joke Daryl ever made, but that question was completely honest too because at that point in his life, he only cared about you.

As for you-know-where *wink*, he likes to keep it short enough to see the times you're the one who decides to go down on him, to get the full view of your lips against him that has him grunting in seconds.

I = Intimacy (How the moment starts?)

Sex evolved from that to lovemaking, but it was always passionate and intense, no matter if it had to be fast of slow. But when it started, you'd usually joke around with, "I'm in the mood, do you want to do it?" Or the moment would flow depending on whether one of you had been out on a supply run without the other, so your bodies would move automatically, seeking each other's warmth after being away from each other, especially since you were already used to being together most of the time. For Daryl, it would start with the brush of his hand over a particular part of your body without anyone noticing if you were with someone, and if you were alone and somewhere comfortable, he usually knew how to read the mood in the room before pressing his lips against yours.

J = Jack off (Masturbation)

He's not a big fan of doing it because being with you quells his own desires, but when the group for a supply run doesn't lump the two of you together, Daryl considers it, especially since his body misses yours terribly and when his mind starts projecting you in the most sinful ways he can think of.

K = Kink (Like, something he likes to hear or feel) (When you finally came back)

“Ya can read it.” He gets closer to you, pushing you softly for you to lay on your back, climbing on you, his nose brushing your skin as he starts kissing your neck, his hand caressing your side. “I'll entertain myself with somethin’ else.”

You love the sudden hot feeling, the tickling between your legs in anticipation, the need to have him close again.

“That’s not fair, you asshole.” You chuckle, trying your best to read the letter.

Daryl loves the aggression, chuckling too against your skin as he pulls himself lower, just to meet your most sensitive and still covered area. His hands look for the bottom and the zipper of your jeans, pushing them out of you with your underwear lock in his fingers. You try very hard to concentrate on reading, trying to understand the messy words on the paper, but when Daryl buries his face into you without a warning, just to devour you completely, earning a moan form your closed lips, it is impossible to do so.

Two things: (pet names aside or when you tell him to keep going or not stop) the first is the way that only you can call him names (playing) just because it breaks the perpetuated idea that Daryl is dangerous in a bad way, like he would hurt people for no reason. He is dangerous to strangers who exude danger, who seem capable of hurting his family for mere fun or sadism, so his posture or his gaze alone is a warning that they should stay away from his people, but Daryl is not that way with you, ever, so hearing you call him those names (in a jokingly way) is fun for him because despite everything, he only seeks to be a companion with you.

“That feels good?” He asks, and you nod, drowned in the sensation too much to form a word. “Lemme hear ya, peach. I really need ya right now.”

He chokes with his own words, looking at you with eyes full of lust, between the strands of hair that fall over his forehead, but when you think that can’t get any hotter, Daryl brings two of his fingers to his mouth, sucking on them before pressing them against your clit, rubbing the area, hard and fast, causing you to cry his name.

The second thing: devouring you first before sinking into you while feeling what he does to your body with his lips and fingers.

L = Location (Places to do it)

When you two first met, the only place to do it was in his tent because it was further away from the rest, or if it was the place (if it was safe) where you two were looking for something useful for the camp, especially since you were the only person Daryl accepted as a partner, and because the rest of them feared him. Same at the farm. And when you and the group arrived at the prison, it was safer to do it in the cells, in something comfortable like a bed because you didn't find one often in that world anymore. In Alexandria, Daryl started to enjoy sex on the kitchen counter if he couldn't find your warm body next to him in bed, especially since your body was more sensitive in the early mornings, plus the sounds you made drove him crazy.

M = Motivation (What turns him on?)

SO many things about you, but mostly you: it was almost ridiculous and even embarrassing for Daryl at first, the way he used to check you out because he was almost always more isolated from the rest of the people, so it was easy to capture the curve of your ass, or your legs when you started wearing shorts because it was so hot. Daryl didn't even have to imagine you naked to get turned on, and once you two started doing t, it was easy for him to finish after fantasizing about you. And on the occasions when you wore a dress on the farm to mitigate the heat, maybe borrowed from Maggie, or some skirt, it was enough for Daryl to get so turned on by imagining himself lifting it up and sliding your underwear off for him to plunge into you.

No = No (The turn offs)

Daryl is dangerous in that world, aggressive when he needs to be to protect his family because unfortunately the situations called for it, but after a lifetime of pain, the mere idea of ​​bringing that kind of aggression anywhere remotely near you is a resounding no to him. However, time together has given him the confidence to touch you and been playful and to know exactly how far to go, because Daryl knows your limits and his own, but since that idea has never excited either of you, he prefers "intensity," not pain. Never.

O = Oral (Giving or receiving)

Again, the idea of ​​eating you out first is his duty, savoring the moment if there's time for the whole game until he brings you to the end, perhaps at the end of the day where you two can be alone and at peace, or doing it faster if there isn't, but every chance he gets, Daryl does it. It's arousing and even ego-boosting to hear you, to feel you in his mouth, and the way your body reacts to his touch: your hand in his hair to hold him there or even to urge him to go deeper, or the way you resist squeezing your legs closed when he's in between while his own hands are on your hips or thighs to pull you closer to him, even though he physically can't anymore.

At the same time, Daryl LOVES the idea of ​​you going down on him, from start to finish. If he’s leaning against a wall, he’s driven crazy by the way you unbuckle his belt and his pants, sliding them down to his knees if there’s no time to remove them completely, with the sight of your lips pressing against his dick, going up and down all his length, your own hand wrapping around it while the other gripped his thigh. His reaction to pleasure is almost the same as yours, placing his hand on your head to guide you so you can take him all the way (without forcing), but the feel of your hot mouth on him has him grunting in seconds.

P = Pace (Is he fast? Or slow?)

It depends on your mood and what's happening around you two. It's always intense, but in different ways. Sometimes Daryl just wants to feel you pressed against him without any clothing while you both slowly enjoy the pleasure of the moment, feeling the swaying of your body and his without any rush, kissing and touching because there is time, although the feeling of the end always makes him increase the intensity with which he started. It basically depends on the moment and how life goes by.

Q = Quickie

With random girls in bars or other places, it was fine for Daryl because there were no feelings tying them to him, perhaps because the idea of ​​just pulling down his pants and doing it was all for him, but as he fell in love with you, the idea of ​​doing it in a hurry became something he no longer enjoyed, not when he started wanting to take his time feeling your body and your warmth. Daryl started enjoying the foreplay and what came after (even if you didn't have all the time in the world) to the point where he needed at least a moment to come down from that high with you by his side, and he didn't want to abruptly feel the cold your body left on his when you were the one who pulled away first, until one day, it was Daryl who questioned why you had to leave so quickly, and saying that out loud opened the door for him to consider that there were starting to be feelings involved. In conclusion, it wasn't the few minutes to do it, but rather the feeling that your body was just a means to obtain something for him alone.

R = Risk (Something risky?)

No. Absolutely nothing life-threatening. Daryl wants you alive, so anything that would put that at risk, even to experience new things, (even if I can't imagine what) is a no-no. You were pretty laid-back too, so you both enjoyed the ordinary. Perhaps the riskiest thing you both did was doing it knowing someone could find you (not necessarily something you purposely sought out, it just happened).

S = Stamina (How long can he last?)

Daryl can do it a couple of times, but he prefers to do it once, but using the time well, building the tension appropriately, tiring your body and his so that after chatting for a while, you can both sleep peacefully if it's the end of the day. You often joke that you're not getting any younger and that doing it once a day, but doing it properly was all you needed, and he agreed with that. Oddly, that chaotic life gave him a sense of peace when he was with you, so Daryl enjoyed the time with you, alone, without any clothing on. Doing so was intense, but somehow, it calmed the madness of his world too.

❧ T = Toys (Does he like toys?)

Nope. Maybe the Daryl of the beginning would feel like his masculinity was being offended, but you weren't interested in anything else either, so the idea never came up.

U = Unfair (Does he like to tease you?) (Didn’t get how this is different from the G, but oh well hehe)

In the lead-up to it, Daryl is amused by the way your body reacts to those little touches of his to let you know what’s coming next, just because time together has given him the confidence to tease you like that. Like his hand resting on your lower back because it’s a sensitive spot for you when you know what he’s asking for, and the way you arch slightly makes him feel good. During it, Daryl has learned how to change the pace of his thrusts just to make the moment last a little longer, so he would tease you like that, especially when it has you whining and begging him to move faster. But in the end, he always gives you all the pleasure he can give.

V = Volume (The sounds he makes or how loud he can get)

The sounds you make are something that have Daryl grunting against your mouth like an animal, especially if you're about to cum too. He's quiet in his daily life, talkative enough when you're alone together, but the sounds you make against him, against his shoulder or neck, are something that turns him on to the point where he has to crush his mouth against yours to stifle those little sounds he starts to make too. He's not that loud, but in the beginning, you two were always around someone so you were always careful about that. Before you, Daryl used to talk to women just to feed his own ego, sarcastically asking if it felt good because he knew what he was doing, but with you, it was a need to let you know that you made him feel good, that he needed only you.

W = Wild card (A random headcanon) (Same as the P, I guess?)

As the feelings grew and Daryl got older, trusting you (because he didn't trust anyone, much less intimately) made him enjoy having you on top of him, moving with him inside you however you wanted, (thinking about his pleasure too) with his hands on your hips or thighs to help you move even better.

X = X-ray (You know what I mean)

Without going into too much detail, it's big enough to fill you completely. Not too small, not too monstrously large to hurt you.

Y = Yearning (His sex drive?)

Daryl didn't think compulsively about sex, but when he was in a bar and there was always someone looking for the same thing, he did it. When you two met at camp in Atlanta and he started noticing you and even fantasizing about you, it was something that hadn't happened to him before, especially because he didn't usually like doing it with the same person over and over again. But as the act continued to repeat itself, Daryl began to feel the need to do it again with you, until he understood that he needed it not just for the action, but for the desire to be close to you, and feel you that way while you two enjoyed the pleasure. Physically, it was everything about you that attracted him, but it was also the way you, and only you, could roll your eyes at him, respond to his sarcasm with more sarcasm, the way you didn't feel intimidated by him when others were scared to be around him. That fierceness in you drove him crazy to the point of wanting you, not every minute of the day, but enough to be the one who looked for you first.

Z = Zzz (How quickly he falls asleep)

Daryl never slept much or well in the past, so when you two started spending time together afterward, he started sleeping better with you next to him, and it made him seriously wonder what the heck was going on with him. But at the same time, Daryl was discovering for the first time in his life what it was like to talk about nothing in particular with you before sleeping together, sharing stories until he was longing for it. During the day, he started thinking about what story he would tell you, especially something to make you laugh after he told you about the time he got lost in the woods as a kid (because after how worried you were about that), you laughed at the way Daryl ended by saying that everything had turned out okay, except for the fact that his butt was burning from having to wipe it with poison ivy. After the first time you slept together after doing so, Daryl would often fall asleep after you, just to make sure that until he couldn't resist sleep anymore, you were safe.

By the time you two were on the prison and in Alexandria, Daryl did the same thing, talking with you until you would fall asleep first, with him following you a little bit after.

[81pastrys]

Hey I have a Lando smut request if ur feeling up for it. Hear me out: Lando and guided masturbation. Reader and Lando had a small petty argument over smth and readers too stubborn to admit Landos right and Lando being Lando is also being stubborn (rightfully so in this case) but bc they're avoiding each other they're both becoming more needy and so one night reader tries to get herself off but it's not working cuz it's not the same as having Lando do the work and he catches her and basically refuses to help her out in any way except by guiding her (and mean Lando would defo be present here imo) and making her torture herself through his instructions and refusing to help her until she's done what he asked (and until she admits she's wrong). And some lighthearted aftercare at the end of all this filth 😭. Apologies for the long request hope u have a grt day

Guided Mastur Meditation

Summary— She finds herself ignoring Lando after a telemetry fight and can’t help herself trying to ease the sexual tension, but Lando interrupts and ‘helps’

Warnings— SMUT ; teasing ; guided masturbation ; fingering ; aftercare provided

A/N— uhm hello?! I LOVEEE this

Lando One Shot List

Dividers @bernardsbendystraws @dollywons

“You’re wrong, I saw the data Lando!” She argued, standing her ground in the argument. She was saying that Oscar had the upper hand and bottled it in the race, but Lando argued the opposite.

“No he didn’t, he may have had a better set up, but he didn’t have any upper hand.” Lando stayed calm, he understood the data a lot better than she did, even with her engineering degree. “They set up our cars how we ask them to, he always has a different advantage.”

“Lan, Oscar bottled it.” She calmed down now, not as upset. “Half the turns were over shot and the other half was alright, you barely overshot any!”

“Undershot, love, he undershot the turns.” Lando corrected. She groaned and walked off. He silently laughed to himself. He opened his computer and continued looking to the telemetry. He went over his and Oscar’s. Proving his point to be right.

For the next few days they slept facing away from each other, the stupid argument and their stubborn attitudes clashing. It was probably the longest they had gone without getting each other off and it weighed on them. Her especially, wanting an orgasm from his hands, his mouth, she got wet thinking of it.

She went to their bedroom and played on her phone before sparking the idea to get herself off. Lando was busy right? She searched her socials for a good fan fiction of Lando and put her hand down her skirt that she wore.

She read and slipped a few fingers under her panties, soaked with her arousal. Not that ignoring Lando turned her on, but his calm demeanor throughout it all does. Her fingers gathering the slick, making it easier to rub circles on her sensitive clit.

“He touched her with fervor as he slipped his fingers into her tight cunt” She followed the fan fiction to a T, although she was not gaining any satisfaction. His thick, rough fingers just felt so much better than her small, nimble ones. It wasn’t the same and she groaned at the relief she couldn’t get from her own hands.

Lando decided he was going to show her proof as to how she was wrong and walked into their shared bedroom, her hand pulling back quickly as she closed her phone and sat up. She didn’t think he noticed but the smirk on his face said otherwise.

“Does ignoring me make you aroused?” He asked with a seductive hint. Her face flushed with pinks and reds. “I was going to prove to you how wrong you were, but clearly you had other plans.”

She thought she would get the relief she wanted from him, but she was incorrect for thinking that. “I’m not wrong.” She mumbled, hoping for some sort of rough sex to assert his dominance in how he was right by fucking her dumb.

“You can say that you are right, but we both know you aren’t.” He said, still not making a move from the doorway with his arms crossed. “Go ahead, don’t let me interrupt you.” She looked to him nervously. “Make it easier for yourself, take those off.” He was getting hard thinking about how he could ruin her, or he can just tease and edge her by using his words. “I don’t plan on helping you much.”

She did as told and took off the skirt and panties, tossing them aside. She sat against the headboard, still no motions from Lando. He looked at her to continue and when she didn’t, only then did he move. Her breath hitched. He sat behind her and rubbed her arms while kissing her neck and face. The closest they had been since the argument.

“Touch yourself for me love, make yourself feel good yeah?” He whispered, his voice husky and deep. He watched as her hand moved back and rubbed small circles on her clit. “That’s it, how does that feel love?” He taunted.

She let out a quiet moan and moved with more aggressive circles. When he was satisfied with her small whines and moans he grabbed her hand and moved it down more, allowing two of her nimble fingers to slip in. “Please.” She moaned. He was teasing her with his words, she didn’t dare picking up speed.

“Curl your fingers for me, touch that sensitive spot you love.” He instructed. Her leg twitched when she did. He smiled and kissed her ear as he continued guiding her. “Move your fingers love, slowly, not too fast.” He watched as she listened, moving her hand at a snail like pace, in and out. The wet noises echoing in the quiet room.

He rubbed her thigh and the other moved her hair. “Lan..” She breathed, leaning back. Her head fell perfectly on his shoulder as her mouth hung open. She could feel his dick hard in his pants as she leaned back, slightly teasing him.

“Go faster, get yourself close.” He teased her still, knowing it takes her a long time to get herself to a climax. “Curl your fingers when you thrust them in, try to keep a steady pace love you’ve got it.” He praised. She felt a climax bubbling and he could sense it by the way she was squirming and the tone of her noises. He grabbed her wrist and moved her hand away.

“What? Lan.” She whined, kicking her feet down and straining her hand against his. He kissed at her neck and she relaxed at the slight pleasure he was providing. One hand intertwined with his fingers and the other in the hold of his by her wrist, dripping with her arousal. “I was so close please?”

He laughed into her neck and gave her one more kiss. “Am I right?” He asked. She whined and spat out that he was but he didn’t believe her. “No, no, I want to hear you say why I’m right.” Her legs continued to move as she tried prying one of her hands away.

“Oscar didn’t bottle shit, I’m sorry.” She whined at him. “Please Lan, let me finish.” Once her legs stopped moving and her breathing calmed, he let her hand go. “You edged me and I told you that you were right, please!!”

Her hand returned but she couldn’t get herself close again, his words stopping and replaced by kisses. “I need more of an explanation as to how I’m right, love.” He taunted her again. Her unsteady hand not getting her anywhere.

“Oscar didn’t have an upper hand, you did- fuck.” She moaned. He removed her hand again and before she could protest, he rubbed small, slow circles on her clit. She whimpered and held onto his arm with her slicked fingers.

“So wet, love.” He said, focusing on teasing her more. “We should argue more often, if it gets you this aroused.” Lando smiled at her state, head leaned back, mouth opened, legs lax against the bed, her hands both tensing at his hand or arm.

“You were right, please lan, don’t tease me again.” She said breathlessly at his slow movements. He finally listened and his fingers took over, doing as he told her earlier. Thrusting in and out, curling as they entered. Her breathing picked up and he felt her walls constricting against his fingers, a climax right on the brink.

“Close already?” He asked. “I shouldn’t let you finish, telling me I’m wrong and that my teammate had an upper hand on me?” He teased and she whined again. His fingers picked up their pace, the slick loud and wet on his hand. He moved their intertwined fingers across her stomach to hold her still while he finished her off.

“Oh my god, fuck lan!” She moaned. Her body crumbled at the orgasm like he had predicted, him following her movements forward to help her ride out the high and not leaving her to have a ruined orgasm. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She strained.

“That’s it, such a good girl.” He praised, usuing his strength to lean her back against him. She closed her legs on his hand as his fingers worked her slowly now. She panted as he removed the torturous fingers. “How’s it feel to be wrong?” He teased her still.

Her mind was cloudy, not caring one bit about being wrong anymore. Her ears rang as he coaxed her through. “I want to be wrong more often.” She panted at him. He erupted in small giggles as she relaxed against him. He rubbed her thigh, letting her body have a break.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” He moved from behind her, adjusting his own issue. He was going to deal with that later. For right now he was going to care for his girlfriend who he just gave a mind blowing orgasm. He returned with a damp towel to clean her up.

“You said you had proof that you were right?” She asked, cocking an eyebrow. He shut her up quickly as he cleaned her up, still sensitive from the orgasm. “I said you were right!” She protested as he cleaned her up, longer than usual.

“I know, I just like seeing you squirm and tell me over and over how right I am.” He finished and kissed her lips.

They both looked at the telemetry and it sparked another fight, this time he fucked her dumb and she never disagreed with him on telemetry again.

This is a long one! Absolutely LOVE the request btw

@il0vereadingstuff @angelluv16 @pandabiiissh @kallanfiona @itznotsophia

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Chapter 1: I Need You Now But I Don't Know You Yet

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!Reader, Reader POV

Summary: With a birthday printed on your wrist that happened over a hundred years ago, you always thought that you were cursed to never meet your soulmate. But when you finally meet the man that's supposed to be the other half of your soul, you wonder if the stars were wrong, and wonder how this man was meant for you. Reader is Hughie's sister, is not a supe, and is a Literature Professor that gets dragged into the middle of things. This fic takes place in an AU set loosely after Season 3 and does deviate from the plot of The Boys

Tropes: Soulmate AU, Little bit of Grumpy and Sunshine, Age Difference (Reader is in her 20s), Protective Ben/ Soldier Boy, Jealous Ben/Soldier Boy

Warnings: Self deprecating thoughts, Little bit sad, Cursing, Mentions of drinking, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of Death, Loneliness, Longing, Basically the reader just wants to be loved, Reader wears glasses?, Soldier Boy might be a little OOC.

Word Count: 6.3K

Song Inspiration For Chapter: IDK You Yet (Title of chapter based on song) Y'all should listen to this song because it fits so well!

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue Is in First Person And Is In Italics

A/N: Guys you have no idea how excited I am about this story! It's already shaking up to have a TON of my usual angst, but I'm not surprised.😅 I'm also a little disappointed. I read a soulmate AU fic forever ago for Joel Miller where the birthday was printed on the reader's arm and I cannot for the life of me remember what it was called or find it. If y'all know what it is, please let me know. I'd love to read it again and give the writer a little bit of credit for inspiration. ❤️

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

January 24, 1919

The date on your right wrist haunted you, the bold black numbers mocking from the moment you learned what they meant. It had to be a celestial mistake, a misprint, something wrong in the stars that shone so brightly over others, but dulled above your head.

Sometimes you thought you were cursed, that some mystical being before your birth marked you, scarred you, and made you carry the weight of the whole world on your shoulders.

That whoever it was made you different on purpose and you hoped one day you understood what that purpose was.

You'd never met someone born with the same dilemma, to be saddled with a soulmate that was born over 100 years ago, and yet here you were.

You'd heard it all growing up, the hushed whispered "freak" from your schoolmates, the odd looks from your neighbors, the pitying frowns of your parents who had known each other since pre-k, and the hug from your older brother as he whispered the familiar phrase “it‘ll be okay" to soothe you.

But you always wondered…

When would it be okay?

You watched all your friends find their happy endings with their soulmates, the birth years printed on their wrists at least within the same few decades, but not you.

You were alone, different, cursed.

The date printed on your wrist made you different, because no one else had a soulmate that was born so far in the past.

Your soulmate's birthday brushed on your skin only brought a wave of disappointment every time you saw it, because what the hell did it mean? 1919? That meant that your soulmate would be over 100 years old when you met him, whoever it was.

If you even met him.

No one lives that long. My soulmate should be long dead. He can't still be alive. Can he?

Each year that passed was like another nail in the coffin, but you celebrated the birthday of your supposed soulmate with a cupcake and a beer, locked away in your apartment to shut out the jeers of those who knew your particular dilemma. And each year when you blew out the candle you wished that it would be the year you met him, but now you weren't sure it would ever happen.

Because it was impossible.

You didn't understand why you were different, why you were chosen to have a soulmate that was long dead. Maybe it was true, maybe you were born late, born under the wrong sign, or maybe you really were cursed.

You'd heard the stories of people who never found their soulmates, urban legends really, but it didn't make you feel any better. The stories of people who wasted away to nothing, driven to the point of insanity because they never found the other half of their soul, alone for as long as they could stand it before they finally crumbled to dust.

You refused to be like them, turning to books for solace and hoping to escape. Slipping into the pages and into other worlds where people found their other half to leave the loneliness that haunted you behind.

And in that solace your found your true love, literature. It wove around you and brought you peace in a world where you felt lost and different.

When you moved away from the small town you grew up in, you got a job as a Literature professor, reading the great works of others, while trying to forget about the date on your wrist and the soulmate you longed for each day.

It was incredibly lonely to think that you'd live your whole life with only one half of your soul.

Every time you opened a book from the era your soulmate was supposed to be born in you wondered if he had read it, wondered what it was like to live in that time, and imagined what it would have been like to be there with him.

Each day you covered up the date on your wrist with a splash of foundation and playfully laughed it off whenever someone asked you if you'd found your soulmate yet. All the while spending year after year fading just a little bit more as you lost the last pieces of hope that you'd ever meet him.

One Year Ago

You were running late. Frankly you were always running late, but in the city that never sleeps it was to be expected.

It was supposed to be a big day. You had about a hundred papers to grade, a test to proctor, and three lectures to give, but you couldn't complain about your job, you loved it. Loved the groans of your students whenever you announced a test or an essay, loved the soft evenings where you read papers with a cup of tea and learned what in the assigned text was special to your students, and loved to teach from the books that had become home to you, the books that tried to heal your wounded heart.

But today something was different.

Something nagged at the back of your mind, as if you had forgotten that something else was supposed to happen today.

Haircut? No that's not it.

You think as you walk to the large wooden desk in your living room/bedroom. It was technically a dining room table, breakfast table, and your desk, but you'd loved it since the moment you found it tucked into a corner of an antique store in Brooklyn.

Your small studio apartment was quaint, the bedroom and living room divided by a large mid-century wooden screen that you had bought for twenty bucks at a thrift store the weekend you moved into your apartment five years ago. The living room only housed a plump cream colored couch that faced out the window towards the living room window that gave you a spectacular view of the alley between your apartment building and the next. Sometimes you got to watch the couple in the apartment across from you having a terrific fight and then got a front row seat to the loud make-up sex they had almost immediately after.

Large stacks of books dominated every wall stretching up as high up to the ceiling as they could reach, some were pressed against the exposed brick walls, others serving as the base for the coffee table you’d made with a vintage window, and of course there was one stack that towered high above your bed on top of your bedside table.  You didn't own a tv, not when you spent most of your time reading.

Being a English professor meant that you could never have too many books not when they were like old friends that pulled you in whenever you opened their yellowing pages.

Meeting with the head of the English department? You bite the inside of your cheek as you shove your notebook, planner, pencil case, and laptop into your leather messenger bag. No, that's on Thursday.

You'd been working on a research paper that you hoped to publish about the Modern Period of Literature in America, but the head of the English Department wanted to see how much you'd done. In all honesty the only reason why you'd started studying the Modern Period of literature was because it was supposedly the time period in which your soulmate grew up and you thought that it would give you some insight into what his life was like. 

And despite your being an expert on that time period, the head of the English Department did not share your enthusiasm for it. The only thing the head of the English Department had any enthusiasm for was his self-published book of erotic poetry and staring at your legs for too long while making subtle attempts for you to sleep with him even though he was married.

You fight the wave of revulsion with the memory of the last time you had a meeting with him and give yourself a once over in the mirror hanging on the bathroom door that faces in to your living room. You looked the way that you always did, maybe a little more frantic than usual, but that was expected given the fact that you were running late.

Today you had decided to wear your favorite dark green chunky sweater that you'd knitted yourself, a dark gray argyle midi-skirt, chestnut brown ankle high-heeled leather boots, and your traditional pair of circular black-rimmed glasses.

It's going to be a good day. You smile at your reflection. Yeah, if I could remember whatever the hell it is I've forgotten.

You roll your eyes and grab a bagel from the bag on the counter.

No time to toast it.

You think mournfully before shoving it between your teeth as you run out the door, slamming it behind you so hard that it rattles the watercolor botanical framed prints on the inside wall of the apartment.

"Late again?" Your neighbor, Mrs. Charleson, asks opening the cheerful yellow door of her apartment.

She was wearing her traditional pink cat eye glasses and had her wavy gray hair pushed back by a floral headband. When you'd moved in five years ago, she had brought over some cinnamon swirl muffins and a pot of blueberry tea. She'd just lost her own soulmate and husband of sixty-five years and was looking for a friend about as much as you were.

And although she had about eighty cats, all of which who were named after literary figures (your own cat was named Heathcliff), and often smelled like mothballs, you enjoyed spending time with her. She knew about your dilemma and didn't judge you for it. She didn't throw you a pitying look or make outrageous comments about why you'd been chosen to never meet your soulmate. If anything she acted like the way you thought your mother always should but never did. Not with judgement as your mother did, but with concern and love.

"Always." You shout back, muffled around the sesame seed bagel, stamping your foot to get your boot in the right position.

"Tea later?"

"Mhmm."

"Get some earl gray macaroons!"

You make it down the stairs successfully without falling, before throwing yourself against the door that leads into the black and white tiled lobby. Your high heeled boots clack loudly against the floor and you step out onto the crowded sidewalks of the early morning.

Fall was just beginning in the city, your favorite season. The leaves in Central Park were turning reddish brown and yellow and there was a wonderful chill that swept through the crowded streets.

You wove through the people, walking in the direction of NYU and looking down at the antique wristwatch perched on your left wrist to confirm what you already knew- that you were going to be late for your 8:00 am lecture on 20th Century American Romantics.

Shit.

The city is lively for a Monday morning. The chatter of people on phones, the buzz of traffic, the high pitched screech of horns, and the smells of the city wafted over you. It was so different from the small town you grew up in, but you loved being here. Here no one knew you, no one judged you, no one muttered something under their breath about you, and no one grabbed their children and crossed the street as if you were contagious.

You felt free.

You round the corner still looking down at your watch, weaving in and out of the foot traffic the best you can, when someone bumps into your shoulder. Whoever hit you was solid, broad, and much taller than you. The bagel drops from your mouth as you jostle from the bump, and you let out a low groan.

There goes my breakfast.

You look up prepared to curse out the offender when you stop. Whoever it was hadn't stopped moving, but you catch a flash of his bright green eyes as he passes, meeting yours for only a moment.

But that moment seems to last a lifetime.

He was tall with wild dark brown hair so long it touched his shoulders and a scraggly beard that fell over his chest almost to his collarbones. He looked dirty,  almost worn, and was wearing a faded maroon track suit that had some writing on the sleeve in another language that you couldn't place. But his eyes were a brilliant green, so beautiful that they took your breath away.

As soon as his eyes meet yours, your skin hums, body lightening, warmth unfurling like the petals of a flower in the center of your chest curling outward reaching for the sun above. All sounds of the city vanish, leaving you only with the manic thud of your heart. Everything in your body turns towards the man, cells vibrating, reaching out, wanting more, begging you to grab him and hold him close. Electricity pulses and dances along your skin making your hair stand on end and goosebumps erupt along your flesh.

The birthday inscribed by the stars on your wrist sears against your skin like a brand beneath the foundation you smeared over it this morning. You look at him as if seeing for the first time, as if the past years of your life have been colorless, as if you'd been living in a cave for centuries and he's your first glimpse of sunlight, and as if you'd never seen the stars and he's the midnight sky.

You'd never felt any of this before.

The man's eyes widen as he looks at you, people passing between the two of you in a faceless blur, and you wonder if he feels it too.

He has to…

But the man shakes his head and turns his back on you continuing on his path down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, adjusting the strap of the bag on his shoulder as he goes.

"Wait-" You start to say, but your phone rings loudly in your pocket breaking the spell, and as you look down to retrieve it, you lose the man in the crowd.

What the hell just happened?

The rest of your day is chaotic, almost a blur, your body still humming from seeing that man on the street, wrist aching where the birthdate on your wrist burned against your flesh so hot that it seared through the foundation you brushed meticulously over the skin this morning to cover it up. It was no longer black, but flashed a brilliant gold with every shift of your wrist in the light as you moved your arm when teaching, peeking out beneath the sleeve of your sweater. Every flash distracted you from your lecture. Even your TA, Tate, who sat in the front row of your class began to notice how often you lost your train of thought.

You barely got through your 8:00 am lecture, stumbled through you 9:00 and 10:15, and canceled your 2:00 class much to the chagrin of your students who were expecting a test.

When Tate finally asked you if you're feeling alright, you wave a hand and tell him to take the rest of the day off, while you barricaded yourself in your office and stared at your wrist for hours, running your hands over the golden date confused. The birthdays always shone gold after two people found one another, and when your soulmate died, it went back to black, as if a reminder that the world had faded.

It was weird to see it shine so brightly when you'd lived your whole life staring at the mark and wishing for it to go away.

But he's not here, he's gone. I don't know where he went or how to find him…

Your friends back home described finding their soulmates before, tried to explain to you what it was like when they locked eyes with them for the first time, but everyone was different. No one could describe exactly how they felt when it happened.

Deep down you thought that it should feel like what happened when you locked eyes with the man on the street, like nothing else existed, just him and you but-

He acted like it was nothing like I was just another person and not the other half of his soul.

You swallow the lump in your throat, emotion from a lifetime of disappointment building, and finally the tears begin to crest and fall over your cheeks. You'd never heard of a one sided soulmate before, of only one person feeling drawn to the other one.

Then again, I've never heard of someone printed with the date of a soulmate who was born so far in the past.

Seeing him for the first time was like taking a bullet to the chest, the sharp spike, followed by the force of gravity jolting you into reality.

But why him?

You think again about how weathered he looked, like he'd been living under a rock for the past hundred years. And then you see the flash of his brilliant green eyes again in your mind, just for a fleeting moment, but it's enough to make the warmth trail along your skin, like the soft caress of a lover.

Was he really born in 1919? Or was this just another joke? Another way for the universe to laugh at me?

Frustrated tears blur your eyes as you stroke the birthdate on your wrist, heart breaking all over again, because it seemed that even if you had found the man the universe designated for you, he didn't care.

One Year Later: Present Day

You sigh loudly and hold up another dress in front of your body looking at yourself in the mirror. You had no idea what you were going to wear to Annie and your brother Hughie's housewarming party and you only had about another thirty minutes before you had to leave.

Your brother had been living in New York longer than you had, but he still made time for you. The two of you got lunch every week and it was your fault that he met Annie.

Meeting her yourself had been a complete fluke. You'd been sitting at your favorite bench in Central Park by the pond, reading your favorite book, allowing the gentle prose of the author to whisk you away for a few minutes, when someone sat down beside you and promptly began to cry.

And when you asked her what was wrong she'd told you everything about her problems at work and although you'd never been the best at comforting other people, you'd taken her to the closest coffee shop and the two of you had bonded over Chai Tea lattes.

You'd invited her over to watch a movie with your brother one Saturday night and then had a front row seat when the two of them realized that they were meant to be together. You'd tried to be happy for them, but the whole time Annie gushed about Hughie and Hughie stared at her like she was the last glimpse of the sun before it dropped below the horizon all you could think about was that it would never happen to you.

And now one year later, the two of them were finally moving in together in a fancy apartment uptown and you didn't want to imagine what the rent was. Your own studio was enough for you and you were lucky enough to have one that was rent controlled.

But you figured due to Annie being one of the Seven, she was probably making more than your measly teaching salary could ever amount to.

Learning that she was Starlight had been surprising, you weren't a supe, not even close and you didn't want to be. You had your hands full with teaching college kids, and didn't want to think about what it would be like to have superpowers or really what you would do with them. You certainly didn't need them to be a teacher and you didn't want to have them.

Plus, you always worried that you'd get some weird power like shooting webs out of your butt or making it rain blood. You didn't want to take that chance and shooting up Compound V felt like Russian Roulette.

You also worried about your brother working so closely with supes. The two of you hadn’t met any growing up and you worried that he was putting himself in danger every day when he went out to deal with them. But you were happy that Annie went with him, because you knew that she wouldn't let anything happen to him, she loved him too much.

As you hold up a black dress in the mirror you see a flash of the golden birthdate on your arm, and you're unable to fight the emotion that builds in your chest when you do.

It had been a year since it happened, since you locked eyes with a complete stranger on the street and felt your soul intertwine with his and he turned his back on you.

You'd understood that.

Understood that for some reason he decided to turn away like you meant nothing to him, like you weren't the other piece of his soul, and like a part of him didn't call out to you, a lighthouse over a stormy sea to a sinking ship.

It had broken you more than the first time you realized what the date on your arm meant. It always seemed ridiculous that something that brought happiness to millions of others made you feel broken, like there was something wrong with you.

And in that moment on the street something felt right for a few seconds, you felt whole for the first time in your life, only to have everything dashed against the rocks all over again.

But you hadn't forgotten him, couldn't forget him. His green eyes haunted you and each night you dreamed of him.

You saw pieces of his life, his memories, felt his pain, his anger, his frustration, and deep down his fear whenever you fell asleep. You'd never heard of that before, of a soulmate dreaming the memories of another.

You'd asked your neighbor, Mrs. Charleson if she had dreams of her soulmate's memories, she'd said no, but then she said that she'd heard about it, thought that it was only a myth, but it meant that the souls were fated to spend more than one lifetime together.

As if you knew what that meant.

It had broken your heart even more when she said that, because if that were true why did he turn away?

How could he turn away? Why did he leave me standing in the street and acted like I wasn't his other half?

It made you think that maybe he wasn't impressed with you and that he was disappointed that you of all people were his soulmate.

You'd had a mental breakdown at Mrs. Charleson's apartment when you went home early the day you met your soulmate or whatever the hell he was.

She'd made blueberry tea and rubbed you back. And when the tea hadn't worked she had cracked a bottle of red wine and ordered greasy takeout food that the two of you ate on her floral couch while her cats circled like sharks looking for a piece of your chicken and broccoli.

You would have called Annie, but she and Hughie were out of town on a long weekend getaway.

And when you went back to your apartment and crashed into your bed, you'd dreamt of him for the first time.

The memories you'd seen when you closed your eyes that night were not happy at all. You'd seen the early years of his life being berated by his father, years of him drinking and fucking his sorrows away, and then the worst, him being tortured in what looked like a lab. He was a supe, that much you could gather from the memories. But they were filled with pain, suffering, frustration- you'd never met someone who'd been through so much before. Endured so much torture.

You still didn't know his name, didn't see enough of his life to figure out who he was, only that he was different than you in almost every single way. The memories were terrible, filled with blood, death, and pain. It scared you to see your soulmate that way, see him so angry and see him hurt and kill people. You couldn't imagine the kind of man he was, the kind of man who could burn someone beyond recognition and feel absolutely nothing.

It was confusing. You didn't understand how someone who was supposed to be the other half of your soul, was the complete opposite of you. Someone that was filled with so much rage and pain was the man the stars declared was for you.

It doesn't matter anyway. He saw you and didn't want you.

You ignore the lump of emotion in the back of your throat and hold up a navy blue dress, but you hang it back in your closet with a sigh. Nothing seemed to be appropriate for you to wear to the party and you hadn’t been shopping for a new outfit in ages. Not to mention you knew that no matter what you wore Annie would look flawless.

You loved your brother's soulmate, but sometimes you were intimidated by how pretty she was and how together she was. It made you a little self-conscious about the long skirts, sweaters, and blazers you wore when you were at work and you were not together at all.

You seemed to always be running around like a chicken with it's head cut off, frantically running from place to place and trying not to lose the last bit of sanity you had left. While Annie was confident, poised, and glided into each room.

Finally, you reach for a pair of your favorite blue jeans and the same green chunky knit sweater you were wearing the day that you saw him for the first time. The sleeves were long enough to cover the mark on the wrist. You hadn't told your brother or Annie about that day and you didn't want them to see the golden date on your wrist and ask you where your soulmate was.

Guess I'm going a little more casual today.

On your way out you give your cat, Heathcliff, an affectionate scratch behind the ears and grab your purse. You were running a little early this time, early enough to pick up a Snake Plant around the corner at your favorite plant shop, 'Please Don't Die,' as a housewarming gift and then stopped at the liquor store next door to grab a bottle of Annie's favorite wine.

You figured that you'd end up staying late and drinking wine with her long after the party was over.

Hughie opens the door of the apartment when you knock. "Thank God you're here! Annie is freaking out and driving me up the wall-"

"No I'm not! I'm just expressing all the things that have to be done within the next five minutes or I really am going to go crazy!" You hear his soulmate shout back when Hughie lets you in.

The apartment is fancier than yours, all white walls and glass windows that display a view you would kill for. Your brother is wearing a nice light blue button down shirt and navy tie, and his hair is it's usual fluffed and curly self. He looks happy and it warms a piece of your heart because you knew how much that he deserved it. And that's all you wanted for your older brother.

Annie appears, wearing a white dress that wraps over one shoulder and falls to her ankles, effortlessly elegant as usual. It made you feel self-conscious that you'd worn jeans, when Annie was wearing something that made her look like a Greek goddess.

"I am so underdressed." You mutter to yourself

"No! You look great babe. I love those jeans on you." She smiles pulling you in for a hug.

"Well-"

"But please let me do something with your hair." Annie touches the messy bun at the back of your head making a face.

"What's wrong with my hair?"

"Nothing, I'm just going to spruce it up a little bit for you."

"But-"

Annie pulls the bottle of wine and the plant from your arms and shoves them at Hughie. "We'll be right back." And with that she drags you to their shared bedroom.

20 minutes later your hair has been perfectly curled and styled by Annie's skillful hands. She'd even adjusted your make up so that now you're wearing a bold red lipstick and a dark eyeshadow that matches your ensemble. And even you have to admit that you look better than you did moments ago. You usually didn't wear that much makeup, sometimes it made you feel like you weren't you, but what Annie had applied seemed stylish.

"Thanks Annie."

"Of course." She smiles brightly and leads you back out into the large kitchen filled with stainless steel appliances and real marble countertops. "How have you been? Did you finish that paper you were writing?"

By now several people have already begun to gather at different parts of the apartment, talking quietly with one another, while sipping drinks and eating finger food. The sound of their chatter is masked by the Billy Joel song playing from the speaker in the corner.

"Yeah. I submitted it, now I'm just waiting for the department head to read it." You frown at the thought.

"You don't think he'll like it?" She moves to the freezer to grab a bag of ice.

"Dale doesn't like the modern period of literature as much as I do so I'm expecting him to have a lot of critiques and reasons why he doesn't like it." You take the bag from her and set it on the counter.

"Sorry."

"It's okay. I'm used to it. He's never ecstatic about my research work." The thought makes you frown. "Even though he knows it's my specialty and the reason why he hired me."

"Isn’t he the creepy married guy that keeps trying to take you to dinner and wrote all those sensual poems about women who sound nothing like his wife?"

"Yep."

"Ew." Annie's face scrunches up in disgust.

"My thoughts exactly." You sigh looking around the kitchen for an ice bucket. "Do y'all have an ice bucket somewhere or-"

"It should be in that cabinet." She points behind you just as you hear someone knock loudly on the front door.

"Perfect."

The ice bucket is acrylic, see-through, and light pink, but you find it easily. The ice clanks against the sides as you pour, not bothering to watch Hughie open the door for whoever it was that hit the front door of the apartment with so much force you thought it would cave in.

Annie leans against the counter pouring herself a glass of wine and groans to herself when she sees who Hughie was greeting.

"What's wrong?" You ask her, your tongue between your teeth as you try not to spill any of the ice over the perfect countertops.

"I didn't think he would come." She grumbles.

"Who?"

"Ben." Annie all but sighs the name.

"And why didn't you want him to come?" You ask, pouring more ice into the bucket.

"He's just kind of rough-"

"Rough?"

"He works with Hughie. He's a supe. Thinks he's the best thing since sliced bread or whatever.” She sighs again and takes a sip of her white wine to calm down. "Actually he used to be Soldier Boy."

"Soldier Boy? You mean the supe from the 80's that died?"

Hughie didn't tell me he had a dead man working with him.

"It's a long story." Annie waves her hand as if to dissipate the thought, but it doesn’t make you any less curious. "Now he works at the bureau with Hughie trying to keep supes in check. Usually he and Butcher bump heads."

"Oh."

Hughie didn't talk much about what he did with Butcher, or really who he met, but after Homelander disappeared and Stormfront took over as leader as the Seven more supes began to come out of the woodwork, supes that had been afraid before, but now had no one to keep them in check. And although The Seven were feared in the city, no one was feared as much as Homelander.

"I'm sure that he won't try anything Annie. And if he does I'll keep him in check." You smile at your friend.

It's her housewarming party and supe or no if he's a prick I'm going to kick his ass out. Annie doesn't deserve to feel stressed today of all days.

"Thanks babe."

"What are friends for?"

She squeezes your arm and walks away to talk with MM who stands with a little girl who must be his daughter. You'd only spoken to him a handful of times, but he was always eager to talk about her achievements in school. He was so proud of her that it made your heart warm. Her mother wasn't his soulmate, but there hadn't been any hard feelings between MM and his daughter's mother.

That wasn't unusual. You'd known several people who decided to date other people before meeting their soulmate as a way of passing the time. You'd always thought it was ridiculous to commit yourself to someone else and fall in love with them, only to have your heart broken when they met who they were meant to be with.

It was why you hadn't tried to date anyone, because you might have never met your soulmate, but the other person you'd be in a relationship with would. And you didn’t want to give your heart to someone only to have them leave you when they met their other half. Which meant that you were probably going to die alone, especially because your soulmate doesn't want you. It hadn't helped that you'd seen a few memories from your own soulmate with other women over the years, women that didn't look anything like you, women that seemed more confident, more beautiful, and more stylish than you.

Maybe that's why he didn't want me.

Your feel the familiar twinge in your chest when you thought that and fought the tears that burned when you thought of how happy Annie and Hughie were. You didn't want to cry at their party.

The familiar question rises in your head again:

When will it be okay?

Probably never.

You turn toward the freezer holding the now half-full bag of ice intent on putting it back when someone bumps into you. The bag slips from your hands and ice goes skittering across the perfect hardwood floors in every direction, but just when you start to drop to pick it up, you feel a large hand grip your shoulder.

A gasp escapes from your mouth as it makes contact.

As soon as the palm touches you, you feel nothing else, not the shift of the sweater against your skin, not the slight chill from the air conditioner, not the brush of your hair against your cheeks, all you feel is the warmth radiating through your clothes and soaking into your skin from the person's hand.

The hand moves to cup your chin gently, the shock of the person's skin touching yours makes the feeling increase ten-fold as the hand tilts your face up to meet the eyes of the person who bumped into you.

You know it's him before your eyes meet his, know that it's the man from the street who you saw for only a few seconds a year ago, but this time when his beautiful green eyes meet yours everything you felt that day comes roaring back.

He's taller than you remember, shoulders proud and broad stretching a dark gray button down shirt over his chest that have the sleeves rolled up revealing tanned arms. His hair is shorter, still dark brown, but now only long enough to cover the tops of his ears and his beard is shaved so that only a thick dusting covers his cheeks, but it's still him. And he's more handsome than any version you could come up with in your mind.

All sound in the room vanishes, the drone of chatter fades, the clinking of glasses disappears, the only sound that remains is your own heart thudding in your chest and you swear you can hear his beating at the same frequency, both of your hearts calling out to one another.

Your entire body feels like it's vibrating, as if every cell is moving so fast that they're heating you from the inside, leaving behind a molten puddle of what you used to be. A golden cord weaves around the two of you securing your heart to his in your mind, making you gasp as it hooks to his heart binding his soul to yours. Time stops as he gazes at you, something brightening in his green eyes as they absorb your own gaze.

The man doesn't move. It almost looks like he's stopped breathing, and you realize that you haven't taken a breath since he touched your shoulder. His eyes drop down to your right wrist where your hand rests over his heart, where he knows his birthday will be.

You don't remember reaching out to touch him, but now that you realize it, you can feel his heart beating beneath the palm of your hand like a fluttering bird, gentle and judging by the memories you had witnessed from him, nothing about this man was gentle.

"I've been looking everywhere for you sweetheart." The man rumbles, the words vibrating against your fingertips where they rest against his muscular chest. He smiles down at you and somewhere deep down you feel something break open that you thought was locked away long ago.

And as you stand there looking up at the man you thought you'd never see again, the autumn sun warm against your back, you feel a flicker of something that could grow into a blaze spark to life in your chest.

A/N: I hope y'all loved the first chapter as much as I loved writing it! I've never written a soulmate AU, so I am a little nervous about it, but I think that it's going to be a lot of fun! And yes, I did give Ben the same birthday as Dean Winchester (not the same year). In my head Ben is Dean from a different universe, and it just made sense to me. 😂

Thank you so much for reading! Reblogs, likes, and comments are not required, but are always appreciated! I love hearing what y'all think 😊 If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series please let me know! :)

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