#Like if you never want to mention it what's the point

[edwardslvrr]

FUTURE REPLACEMENT 𐙚 carlos sainz 𝒑. 𝒕𝒘𝒐

౨ৎ carlos sainz x singlemum!reader

the one where reader is a single mum who’s son got into karting when she catches carlos his attention on instagram after her son says he wants to be just like carlos sainz when he grows up

taglist if you'd like to be added to my taglist, message me privately or comment on this post

warning this is all fake and just for fun, no hate to any of the people mentioned. Just a reminder that this is pure for entertainment хохо

main masterlist 𐙚 carlos masterlist 𐙚 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆

౨ৎ f1wagscontent twitter

౨ৎ yourinstagram posted on their stories

replied to your story

yourbestfriend wish i could’ve been there, hugs to matteo and you!! yourinstagram matteo says hi!!

username matteo has got this in the bag i know it for sure! ‼️‼️

username he’s got this!

charles_leclerc good luck kiddo! yourinstagram he says thank you🙂

౨ৎ f1wagscontent twitter

౨ৎ yourinstagram spain

liked by carlossainz55 and 108.792 others

yourinstagram What a first season in karting for Matteo, sadly it didn’t end how any of us expected it to but I am so proud of you Teo <3 Becoming second in the championship in your first official season is totally insane, your future is so bright my boy and I’ll be there every step of the way🤍

Carlos, wow, what a big support you have been this season to teo. Always fixing up his kart and always cheering him on even when you can’t be there you find a way. Thank you, we love you 🩵

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username this made me tear up ngl

yourbestfriend what a season matteo!!! so proud🫶🏼

yourinstagram thank you for being there for so many of his races, he always loves when auntie [best friend name] is there

username carlos always fixing the kart omg 🥹

username let’s pretend last race never happened

username our future f1 champion‼️

carlossainz55 so proud of him, no matter what has happened he did so good this season especially for his first championship. mi futuro sustituto, tan orgulloso de él. [ my future replacement, so proud of him. ]

yourinstagram Te quiero mucho, Carlos. Gracias por todo lo que has hecho por Teo🤍 [ I love you very much, Carlos. Thank you for everything you have done for Teo. ]

౨ৎ carlossainz55 posted on their stories

replied to your story

yourinstagram liked your story

charles_leclerc liked your story

landonorris he’s better than you at this point carlossainz55 oh definitely, and i don’t even mind

౨ৎ carlossainz55 no location

liked by landonorris and 1.284.793 others

carlossainz55 Me siento muy bendecido por ser tu padre y tu mentor en el karting, Matteo. Menuda temporada has hecho, chaval, ¡ganando 5 carreras! Te estás volviendo mejor que yo, ¡supongo que pronto tendré que cederte mi asiento! Muy orgulloso ❤️

I feel very blessed to be your dad and your mentor in karting, Matteo. What a season you've had, kiddo, winning 5 races! You're getting better than me, I guess I'll have to give you my seat soon! Very proud ❤️

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username this made me ugly cry

username “blessed to be your dad” CAN YOU HEAR ME SOBBING

yourinstagram el mejor padre que un niño pequeño podría pedir, has estado ahí para él esta temporada cuando yo no podía. gracias, mi amor [ the best dad a little boy could ask for, you've been there for him this season when I couldn't. thank you, my love.]

carlossainz55 ❤️❤️❤️

username thought the story you posted made me cry but this is a whole new kind of crying omg

౨ৎ f1wagscontent twitter

━━ 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝒀𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝑳𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓

౨ৎ yourinstagram & carlossainz55

liked by yourbestfriend and 2.091.792 others

yourinstagram baby sainz coming 2026 🤍

tagged carlossainz55

view all 10.792 comments

username OH MY GOD

username my heart can’t take this

username goodmorningg????

yourbestfriend so excited for you both!! 💋

liked by yourinstagram & carlossainz55

landonorris baby sainz!!!! 😍

liked by yourinstagram & carlossainz55

username this is so perfect, i can’t describe it it just is

charles_leclerc congrats you two!❤️

liked by yourinstagram & carlossainz55

taglist - @louvrepool @italyrryx @buendiabebeta @lightdragonrayne @namgification @sammyam @americanbluebirdrb @poppyflower-22 @c-losur3 @haikyuen @evie-119 @raevyng @urfavsgf @nikfigueiredo

[frasier-crane-style]

I can tell you why this keeps happening, but you're not going to like it. I keep seeing posts like "oh, why do these lesbian shows keep getting cancelled, but the shows about BOYS KISSING get renewed?". And, you know, there's an answer. You won't like it, as mentioned, but I'll tell you. If you don't wanna know, just look at this gif of Lando instead.

Okay, the first thing you have to realize is that gayboy shows have an unfair advantage: they aren't aimed at gay men. They're aimed at straight female yaoibunnies. This is why all gayboy shows and movies are created by women: Red White & Royal Blue, Heartstopper, Love Simon. All of 'em. Even Brokeback Mountain. It's all by and for horny women.

Horny women, obviously, are a huge demographic. Fifty percent of the population. And, this is important, they're predisposed to like romance. Romance is cocaine to women. Gay romance is crack cocaine because they get to toss out the woman and throw in another pretty boy to replace her.

This is why you never see a gay movie about a bear, it's always twinks. Who do you think finds sexually nonthreatening boys, like, the hottest thing ever? Women and K-pop fans.

So a lesbian show will never do gayboy numbers, because it's only aimed at lesbians, while gayboy shows get to summon up a huge spirit-bomb of horny bitches.

But what about men, you might ask? Don't men like lesbians?

Well... they used to.

Years of girlboss feminism kinda poisoned the well. Not only are men generally not interested in romance because it's stupid and gay, but also these female-led shows tend to poorly plotted, politically preachy, and outright hostile to men. Especially straight white men, which is the biggest demographic there is next to horny bitches.

Most straight white male characters in these shows are portrayed about as well as an infomercial character.

They're evil, incompetent, stupid, inept, oblivious, obnoxious, disrespected. Would you want to watch a show where your 'representation' is depicted that way? Obviously not. And at this point, it's happened so often that it's just expected as par for the course with any show that has progressive themes.

Why would you take a chance on The Acolyte when it's been made clear "this isn't for you" and that THIS is how the creators see you?

Which leaves only lesbians as the audience for lesbian shows, and they're only two percent of the population. And even then, that two percent of the population will never all watch one thing.

I guess the "good news" here is that ideologically driven entertainment companies still think they SHOULD make lesbian shows, because those are even more progressive than simple female-led shows, so these first seasons will keep getting made.

But the numbers will never add up because there just aren't that many lesbians to form a fanbase, gay men don't give a shit, straight women don't give a shit (as mentioned, they like gayboy shows because those don't have one woman, let alone TWO), and straight men don't give a shit.

And that's probably where we're going to be for a while until entertainment companies get it into their heads to try chasing trans audiences, which are even smaller than lesbian audiences and will have other audiences giving even less of a shit, but why should that stop DIsney from spending several hundred million dollars on a eight-episode show about Gag Shitto, penis-y Jedi Knight?

(It will be deleted for tax purposes in three weeks.)

im done i genuinely cannot do it anymore

[fangel]

always, attic angel — jake [ 심재윤 ]

synopsis : jake’s hidden secret isn’t so secret anymore, but he’ll go to great lengths to keep it. he reaches his breaking point when faced with betrayal. he relinquishes any remaining sense of sanctity, surrendering to everything he's spent his life trying to suppress. ⇀ read part 1 here ⸝⸝ updated playlist

pairing : jake sim x fem. reader featuring : heeseung genre : psychological thriller, smut, yandere word count : 7.7k content advisory : dark content ⚠︎ sexually explicit content, obsessive!jake, possessive!jake, jake in general, corrupt!reader, choking, dubcon, somnophilia, spanking, unprotected sex, stockholm syndrome, religious themes and concepts, violence, blood, mentions of homicide/death, open ending - mostly proofread

“can you keep a secret?”

jake wasn’t only asking heeseung the literal question, but he was questioning himself. how long could he realistically hide you away? were you, his sacred secret, something that he could actually keep? he’s thought about it a lot. often losing hours in a day just going over the agonizing idea of not.

heeseung at a loss for words, just watches jake’s body language. jake is like nothing he’s ever seen before. jay and sunghoon have brought up jake’s odd behavior with concern, but he always brushed it off. now heeseung is here to witness it himself, stunned with his brows furrowed and a mouth opening and closing, looking for words he can’t find. he looks back up to the top of staircase, the room that he knows is occupied with someone. hundreds of questions flood his mind but he doesn’t know where to begin. 

“jake,” he says quietly, eyes darting from the door up the stairs and to the boys huddled in the living room. “what did you do? who is here?” even if jake did have a girlfriend, or just someone he’s been seeing, why would he need to act this way? with the way the air feels around them, heeseung is sure that there’s much more going on. and whatever it could be, was far from good. 

jake still can’t look at heeseung. he just stares to the floor with a death grip on heeseung. his breathing picks up in slow, deep heaves. he holds onto his hyung like a lifeline. heeseung feels genuine dread. the chill he feels run through his body makes every hair stand up. he wants to pull away from jake, to go investigate before the others get nosy or cause a scene. but he can’t. his instincts are telling him that if he moves too quickly that jake will break.  

“jake… if i go up there—” he begins to say slowly, quietly. and that’s when jake looks up at heeseung. his eyes look wild, almost like they’re threatening him. heeseung swallows hard, sensing that maybe he is silently threatening him. 

heeseung tries to step back but jake only digs his nails into the flesh of heeseung’s arm. he hisses at the sting and attempts to tug his arm away from the hold. jake’s strength is something heeseung never knew he had; he thinks that jake might just fucking break his arm at the elbow right here and now. 

through clenched teeth, jake seethes under his breath, “i’ll explain, but get them all out of my house first. and i swear to god if you tell another soul you’ll be buried out back too.” 

what the fuck, is all heeseung can think. his eyes wide from the venomous threat. he complies with jake out of fear. these were treacherous waters and he wasn’t going to test it out by diving in. especially with the tension growing too thick and too fast for heeseung to waste any time. 

jake follows heeseung to the living, standing behind him, watching and listening. he doesn’t say a word as his older friend handles the situation. he just shifts on his feet while staring into the back of heeseung’s head.

heeseung stumbles over his words, nervously attempting a lie to get the rest of the boys to leave. the words catching in his throat that he masks with a cough whenever one of them makes a questioning expression. 

although disoriented and perturbed, they all listen to heeseung. heeseung being obviously troubled with something serious made them gather their things with haste. they were rushing out to the car in minutes with no questions asked. there were many to be had, but they assumed they would find out eventually. 

jake and heeseung watch as they drive away, from the front door. neither of them say a word even when the vehicle is out of sight. the taillights fading into the snowscape treeline of gravel road is all to be heard and seen. 

there’s a pregnant pause before jake closes the door and locks it, all 5 different locks. heeseung raises a brow, stepping back slowly. his eyes watching as jake stuffs the ring of keys into his front hoodie pocket. he makes note of it. 

jake, still yet to utter a word, just walks into the living room area to clean up the leftover mess. heeseung, unsure of what to do, just helps in stillness. the tv remains a static screen displaying no signal: (1) check the cable connections and settings of your source device. the kitchen oven light flickers every so often. and the darkness of the night bleeds into the house. it’s eerily quiet between them. 

after some time, there’s a slow creak of a door to be heard. both of the boys heads shoot upward and down the hallway. layla trots away from them and sits at the end of staircase. her head tilted, ears raised, and mouth open in what would be interpreted as a smile. 

slow footsteps make their way down. the space between each creaking step of the wooden floorboards shows how apprehensive and timorous you are. once halfway down, there’s a pause. you’re standing there, waiting for a noise or response from jake. you saw the group of his friends leave, but there was still another car parked outside. and after waiting for so long, listening to silence, you had to see why jake hadn’t come up to see you, to tell you it’s safe to come out. 

jake stands from his crouched position, dropping the wet wipe he was just using to clean the low coffee table. he throws off his jacket to the edge of the couch. there’s a clink of the cluttered keys, but only heeseung hears it. jake’s already in tunnel vision. he gives heeseung a daring glare before walking away to meet you halfway. heeseung sits down on the couch, his hands folded over his lap while his leg picks up an anxious bounce. he looks at the pocket of the abandoned material. a glimmer of metals peak through the opening. 

jake walks up the stairs that you stand in the middle of, layla hot on his trail. he gives you a small smile as he places his hands on your shoulders to turn your body back around. “i didn’t tell you when to come out, did i?” he whispers with small anger, trying to keep his tone light but what’s deeper surfaces regardless. 

you very rarely made jake angry. a feeling of disappointment envelops you like instinct. as if you had to feel bad for going against him. 

“i’m sorry i made a noise,” you mumble, “i got excited when i heard them mention me.” it’s an honest admission. you turn your head back to jake and your guilt drops to something empty. the color fades from your face when you see him. he looks disgusted. “i-i’m sorry, i-” your mouth open and mind trying to find the right thing so say. 

he grabs the back of your neck and begins to walk forward, forcing your body back up to the bedroom. you stumble over your feet, nearly falling. his footsteps stomp against the wooden stairs. his hold on you is squeezing with fingers pressing into the sides of your throat. you want to cough away the feeling but decide on struggling to remain quiet instead. someone is still here. i promised to behave. 

when back in the room, he shoves you forward with the release of his grip. the door slams behind him. you lose balance but catch your own feet, your ankle shooting in a great affliction that you’ve become accustomed to ignore. your hands reach for your throat to massage the ache. you whimper at the touch. 

“it was a perilous decision, making you my attic angel.” his heavy footsteps march forward. he picks you up from under your arms and tosses you onto the bed. you bounce slightly before gathering yourself. you push yourself back into the corner of the bed, hugging your knees to tuck into your body, like you’re protecting yourself. you watch as he places his knee onto the bed, his hands too, leaning towards you. “i am trying so hard, so why isn’t it enough?” his head shakes in disbelief. “i’m just not enough for you? you want everyone to see you, to know you. why? as if they would need or love you as much as i do.” the last sentence is a scoff, spat with hate. he just stares at you with a tilt to his head. you feel that he’s mocking you in some way with his ridiculous words. 

tears brim your eyes, your hands forming small fists that tremble in a rage you’ve always felt within you. “i never asked you to.” your words are firm, a tight lip frown wears your face. you want to argue that this isn’t love and he’s just a sick man, but you don’t want to spill more tears over him. you’ve been drained enough.

jake’s face flashes with an array of emotions. his fingers curl into the blankets so tight his knuckles turn white. he looks irated and dejected, but mostly broken.

“you didn’t have to.” his face is a scowl, glaring at you for the first time. how could his attitude change so quickly? “you wanted me, and now you have me. let it be enough.” he pushes himself off the bed and picks up the metal cuff chain from the floor with one hand. you instantly try to scramble up off the bed but he’s faster; he takes your bruised, weakened ankle in his free hand to drag you into him. you yelp with agony, trying to kick your leg around in a struggle that would hopefully prevent the entrapment. but he secures it onto you with a low growl, warning you that your actions have been enough. 

with a burning gaze, he pushes you back down onto the bed before making strides to the door. he’s never been so blatantly mean towards you. it hurts far more than you could’ve ever expected. you slide yourself off the bed with urgency, tripping up behind him. you want to cry so badly, but you also want to show you’re stronger than he allows you to be. your hands reach for him to grab at the back of his shirt, a try of pulling him back from the door. “take it off! take it off now!” you stomp your metal clad foot, the chain rattles against the floor. 

layla begins to bark loudly from the other side of the door. her paws scratch at the closed white wood. 

jake spins around with your raised voice and slaps his hand over your mouth, “shut the fuck up!” he whispers with heated aggression. his other hand grabbing the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair and craning your neck back to look at him. crazed eyes stare into yours like they want to rip you apart. you can no longer help it now, tears escape and wash down to meet his hand. your entire body is now shaking in fear. “angel, i thought i taught you better than this… haven’t you made yourself known enough tonight?” he softens in tone, but his expression and hands don’t match. they’re strong, keeping you still. 

you shake your head frantically under his hold. his large hand taking up half your face, making it hard to breathe. your mouth and nose only taking in larger breaths of air that just isn’t sufficient. fat tears run down your face as you continue to shout muffled pleas into his palm. 

“take it off!” 

“let me go!” 

“stop, stop!” 

“help me!” it’s a deadened attempt of a shrill scream.

it’s all lost against his skin. you try to slap his hand and arms off of you but it’s to no avail. you’re simply too feeble to put up the fight you want to. you’ll always be overpowered by man. 

his hold doesn’t let up. he just watches you struggle in blazing silence. your lungs losing oxygen make you see bright white stars scatter your vision. the burning tears only make it all the more hazy. your body feels weak, like it’s about to collapse in on itself. is this what it’s like to lose consciousness? weird, it feels kind of good. you use all your strength to keep your eyes open, but they blink slowly to a close. 

“please.” is the final beg to be said against his palm.

“i love you.” is the final words he promises before it all goes black. 

　 　　　⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝　　 　　⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝　　 　　⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝

 　when jake finally comes downstairs, he looks like he’s seen a ghost. 

heeseung—who was in the kitchen—heard jake’s descent with the settling creaks of the house’s floors, returns to the couch. he nervously watches jake, who was yet to look over at him, as he stuffs something back into the hoodie that jake left behind before going up to that room. 

jake just stands at the bottom of the staircase with a dead stare, eyes unblinking and unfocused. he looks pale, stuck in a state that heeseung is not ready to approach or question. heeseung heard nearly everything from upstairs. it was jarring, and enough evidence to understand that the house is dangerous for everyone in it. 

to think that he’s been here before without a clue of what was happening behind closed doors makes his skin crawl. he never could have imagined that his own friend, or himself, would get wrapped up in a scenario like this. was it all merely a matter of time? 

heeseung slowly stands up. due to the silence, even the slight sound of movement has jake’s heard turn in a split second to his friend's direction. 

unknowing of what to do, heeseung just stays still like a deer in headlights. frightful in nature as if he was the one to be caught in the wrong place. he’s frozen under the cold, black eyes that bore into him. 

jake stalks over to heeseung slowly. the unbreaking eye contact and lack of words sends chills through the older male. the kitchen oven light hums in the background, and it’s all to be heard. jake places himself on the other couch in the living room. the light flickers off and on again when heeseung follows jake’s actions, sitting once more. 

“i’ve never hurt her before,” his tone hostile, as if to defend himself from whatever he was imagining that heeseung was thinking, “not physically at least, i don’t think.” 

heeseung feels a cold sweat take over. his palms sweaty, squeezing his own thighs for a sense of stability. this can’t be real. he couldn’t process any of this. how could this be what jake is? he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and gnaws with anxiety. eyes trained on the intense presence before him. 

jake speaks up again, his voice breaking like he’s about to cry, “she looked at me so.. she looked terrified of me, seung. and i made her cry again.” jake has his elbows resting on his knees, his head hung low with hands fisted in his hair. he pulls on his dark locks in distress. 

heeseung glances from jake to the front door. then back to jake. and then the staircase. and then the front door again before going back to jake. he feels like his lungs are going to burst, his breathing something he now has to force himself to manually maintain. 

“but fuck, man!” jake hits himself in the head once, twice, three times. his smack echoing through the room, sending shivers of panic through heeseung each time. “i-i can’t think! what the hell am i supposed to do!?” there’s a pause. “i want to be good for her. she’s supposed to help me but i’m getting worse everyday.” his hands drag down over his face, covering it. 

“jake, i don’t know—”, heeseung’s voice didn’t reach. 

“i went to church. i prayed. i couldn’t confess though. i was too cowardly to say what ill thoughts consumed me.” jake looks up to heeseung with tears in his eyes, “too cowardly to admit to what i’ve done. i want to be clean, man. but i am full of greed, lust, and wrath. i can wash my hands over and over, but i still remember the feeling. a damned confession wouldn’t take the weight of that away.” he laughs lowly, shaking his head. a hand lazily wiping his tears from his face. “and i see it every night. the stains that painted me, that should’ve made me feel dirty. it didn’t.” 

heeseung needs to get the fuck of here now. he can’t keep up with jake’s insane behavior or confession. this has gone far beyond his expectations; his flight or fight instincts are screaming that this is unsafe territory. 

“but when i have her, it’s not so bad. i can’t--i can’t have you getting in the way, or anything, anyone else, for that matter.” jake is hanging on by a thread, it’s clear. he was going to snap soon. “do you understand that?”

heeseung nods his head but can’t bring himself to say a word. 

“well say it, damn it! say ‘jake, i won’t get in the way.’” his voice loud, demanding. 

“jake,” he stands on shaking legs, “i won’t get in your way. i w-won’t say a thing. this has nothing to do with me, man.” his hands up in a defending position as he makes brave steps that lead to the front of the house. “you can trust me…” 

“i hope so, or you’ll end up like her parents… somewhere in the back of those woods to feed the maggots.” 

heeseung nods again then darts for the door and out to his car. he wastes no time in getting far away from that nightmare. as he starts the car, he looks up to the window at the highest point of the house. the light is off and there is no face peaking through with hope. heeseung exhales deeply. he recalls the smile jake wore with his leaving statement. closing his eyes, he knows that he is no hero, and certainly won’t be made a victim. 

but, he also isn’t someone to do nothing. so, he’ll leave for now. 

　 　　　⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝　　 　　⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝　　 　　⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝

 　jake’s mind is in a whirlwind. he needs to release the weight of everything that’s suffocating him from the inside. he feels as if all his organs have corroded and are crawling up his esophagus, like hundreds of little centipede feet, only to get stuck in his throat. 

he doesn’t even recognize how he got back to the bedroom since heeseung’s escape; unable to realize that some has passed. 

he stands in the middle of room, blinking his eyes back to a state of awareness. he was watching you sleep in the bed he placed you in. or perhaps he was just looking through you. he made you pass out in and from his own hands. he despised himself for it, and how it gave him a sense of god-like power. 

jake moves towards the bed and creeps in next to you. his hands find a place on your hips to pull you on top of him. the subtle movement of your chest and small breaths assure him of your liveness. he hugs you close like that for a minute.

his fingers trail up and down your body, squeezing and caressing his favorite parts of you. they stop at your ass, full in his hands he begins to move your body back and forth. his growing cock pressing up into your pussy, grinding with the maneuver. the back of his throat releases a soft, guttural sound. 

his large hands slip up your night dress and pull your underwear to the side. he runs a finger along your folds, feeling every detail of your womanhood. the callosed tips rub over your core until a layer of wetness leaks through.   

you shift on top of him, not awake, but subconsciously sensing an uncomfortable intrusion. a small noise leaves your lips, something of a whine. 

“i know you’re not all there. you’re too compliant with all i’ve done. you listen too well.” he’s whispering against the side of your face. his free hand working to take off his pants and boxer briefs. “you’re like me.” he licks a strip up your face, wet saliva leaving a trail. you stir again, face scrunching before rubbing onto jake’s shirt. 

he grins at you, thinking you’re cute all out of it and on top of him. his eyes find the teeth marks on your shoulder. the thin spaghetti strap of your dress falling from it, revealing full sight to the scarring mark of his possession. “i can sink my teeth into you and you will do nothing but watch me lick it clean. and you would still let me hold you. kiss you. and,” he’s rubbing his leaking cock against your pussy, humping up into you so the head dips in and out. “fuckkk.” he moans, feeling himself being teased with the enveloping of your creamy, warm hole. 

you make another tired, bothered sound with eyes squeezed shut. 

“possibly i have let you think of me as tender, but i will prove to you i am everything but.” he thrusts his hips upwards, his cock pushing into your tight core. he moans at the feeling of you wrapped around him, hugging him with wet heat. “i’ve always had these tainted thoughts with me. i could never admit to anyone, or myself, what i longed for.” his arms are wrapped around you, holding you close. his legs propped up, knees bent and feet pressed down to the bed, as he begins a brutal pace to pound himself in and out of you. 

your eyes open along with your mouth, a sound in between a moan and gasp leaves your lips. you look up to the man who is fucking you, confused and disoriented. you feel a deep pain between your legs and in the bottom of your stomach. you try to pull yourself back, to sit up, but jake grounds you to his chest. 

“i prayed for all the disturbed thinking to come to an end. my mind became more grotesque, morbid.” he looks at you and all you see is misery. his eyes are so empty yet he forces a smile. “i am haunted like a sick man.” i know, you think. your head rests tucked by his chin and neck. you just watch him, letting your body make little moans and chases to his touch like it’s trained to. “i always wanted more. i didn’t want to just think it, i wanted to do it all.” 

“mhmm.” your eyes blink slowly, watching the faces of pleasure he makes through your eyelashes. maybe this is all a dream, you imagine wishfully. 

“i stopped praying a long time ago, yet kept stepping into god’s house. i knew something, someone, would come for me.” he grunts, squeezing the skin on your back to bruises. his trusts become messy as squelching sounds of your pussy. skin slaps and fragmented noises come from the both of you. “in the bible; tell me, angel, who did god send to fulfill all his obligations?” he nibbles on your ear. sometimes licking and leaving his spit coating it. 

him pistoning his cock at his assaulting speed and force, elicits a loud mewl from you. you wish he would fuck you even harder. violent enough that it rattles your brain and body senseless. you don’t want to think at all, just want to see those stars again. 

jake is pissed when you ignore his question. one of his hands slides up your back while the other moves down to slap your ass. you whine at the sting. he grabs the back of your neck like he did earlier and you can’t help but grin a little. he yanks your head back and your body sits up on top of him. he feels so deep inside of you. you hum at the feeling, not even realizing your hand drops down to rub over your lower stomach. 

you still wear the faint grin on your lips as you look down at him. “hm?” 

“who carried out his judgements, served punishments, and set examples?” he fucks into you slower, focusing on your body. noticing how your hips move in small swivels and bounces on his cock. how your nipples peek through in needy points of the thin material. 

he gives your ass another slap and your head tips back with a moan, “ngh, the angels.” 

he squeezes your neck from behind at your response. your eyes rolls back as you continue to fuck yourself down onto him in severity. a slutty sound leaving you with every kiss of his dick to your cervix. 

“yes,” he pulls you back down to his face. his hand is still tight around your neck, borderline suffocating in pressure. “and he sent one to me too.” he feels your pussy pulse around him, signaling you’re close to cumming. “he sent you to me. but instead of learning a lesson i became obsessed just as my thoughts.” jake always had a dangerous personality, hiding inside of him. his obsessions becoming an illness was nothing he should be shocked by. or maybe it’s the other way around and he was always sick so he became it. “i so badly wanted you to be my savior… to tell me lies of purity and goodness.” he feels his cock throb, aching to release. he chases the feeling of pure want, pounding relentlessly into you. 

“open your mouth,” he demands with a low growl. you listen without a second thought and he spits into it. his saliva meeting your tongue only to be swallowed down. 

he pressed a kiss to your lips while you cry out in a mix of pain and pleasure as you cum. your body collapses on top of his like an act of defeat. your breathing so ragged and lungs suffering; jake releases his hold on your neck only to use both hands on your hips to bounce your body on him. 

while your body makes small quivers in overstimulation, jake groans loudly as he cums inside of you. as you feel the deep warmth coat your insides, a sense of drowsiness takes over you. 

“i feel like a besotted rot has taken over me, and it’s been growing evermore since i met you.” he whispers, relaxing his body flat against the bed. with you still on top of him and his cock still buried in you with his seed, he hugs you. “it’s killing me from the inside out. you’re going to kill me. i can feel it.” 

the quiet and gentle honesty of his fearful ending confession lulls you to sleep. 

he continues to fuck you until he’s too tired to not. 

　 　　　⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝　　 　　⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝　　 　　⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝

 　when you wake up the next morning, you feel your entire body is in pain. there’s a throbbing pain in your head, a dull strain in your neck, and a heavy ache in between your legs. 

you sigh as you sit your body up, hands place slightly behind you at your sides. you make slow circles of your head to stretch your neck muscles. there’s a pang of sharp pain for a split second but you relax once reversing the movements around. 

with lazy eyes, you scan the surroundings of the bedroom. the sun shines bright through the thin lace, white curtains. the clock reads that it is half past 10 in the morning. on the white, wooden night stand beside the bed is a note, a cup of water, and a plate of cut up fruit that has probably been out longer than intended. the door is slightly cracked open and the cold, heavy weight is missing from around your ankle. 

you stretch your arms and back before leaning over to chug down the glass of water. you think of eating the fruit presented for you, but decide on not. it's hard to have an appetite these days. 

you move yourself to sit at the end of the bed, legs and feet dangling off the mattress. you realize how quiet the house is. normally, jake is always with you when he’s home. if he’s working from home then he is next to you, or at least at the desk with his work laptop. but it’s saturday, so why would he be working? 

“jake!” you call out his name, but there is no response. your voice doesn’t sound like normal, it’s rough. you call for him again and still there is nothing. only layla comes up the stairs to push past the door. she too looks confused. 

you look outside the large window next to the bed and realize that his car isn’t there either. 

you look back to the nightstand, remembering there was a note left for you. you pick it up and read: had to run out. i will be back soon. rest and eat well, angel. 

with the note in your hand, you squeeze your hand into a fist, crushing and crinkling the paper in your palm. you stare at the destroyed paper, enclasped in your hand, before releasing your fist and letting it fall to the floor. 

the sound of a car driving makes you turn around. you don’t know if it’s annoyance or ease that washes over you. but once your eyes see the car, you know that it’s neither. because it’s not jake’s car that you see outside. you can recognize it’s one from the other night though. 

you’re quick to stand up and make your way over to the side of the clear glass. you peek over the side of the window, suddenly not comfortable to be seen. is it because you know jake isn’t here? your heart rate picks up rather quick, along with a feeling of anxiety. who is here? why? 

a tall man with dark, brownish.. no reddish hair, steps out of the now parked vehicle. he glances around before jogging over to the side of the house. you furrow your brows in confusion, wondering what he could be doing. you bite at your lip, trying to look around the house as much as the window allows.

then you walk over to the bedroom door and close it quietly, leaving you and layla inside. you lean your back to the door and slide down to the floor. your ear presses against the wood, listening to anything that you can. there isn’t much to be heard for a minute or so. and then there is. there’s a landing thud from somewhere downstairs. a clashing of objects hit the floor with it. something like a glass bowl or cup, if you had to assume. you can tell it’s coming from the kitchen based on the direction alone. 

your heart beats harder now and you don’t even realize how your hands hold a small tremble. you’re frozen in place; you don’t know what to do. jake always tells you what to do. he tells how to handle situations, how to react, how to respond. 

the footsteps of the intruder are rushed. quick feet move through the house and up to the stairs, only to stop right outside the door that you’re in front of. you feel a dangerous panic coarse through you, and unknown to you, you’re holding your breath as if it could give you away. 

seconds feel like minutes followed by a knock at the door. it’s slow and just as scared as you are. 

you place your hands over your mouth, silencing yourself from uttering a sound or a word. meanwhile layla lets out a guarded growl. you shake your head as you look at her, as if she could understand the notion. 

“i know you’re in there. i’m here… i’m here to help you.” the voice is sweet, familiar. it’s a friend of jake that’s been here before. he must have been the one who stayed longer than he should’ve last night. 

for some reason, you still remain silent. why would he come back? 

“i don’t know what exactly is going on between you two, but i know when something isn’t right. and jake isn’t…” his voice goes soft. he’s worried and nervous. 

“he isn’t what?” heeseung hears your melodic voice, weak yet defensive. 

“can you open the door? i don’t know how much time we have.” the door knob turns but doesn’t push open. it’s not locked. you both know it, but neither of you bring yourself to break the barrier. 

you stand from the door, your legs uneasy as if a baby fawn learning to walk. you grab the door handle with a timid hand. you turn it slowly and pull back the door just a crack. you look up with wide eyes. you’re face to face with someone other than jake for the first time in what feels like forever. someone is finally seeing you, talking to you, acknowledging your existence. why isn’t it as exciting as you anticipated? 

heeseung gapes at your disheveled appearance. his eyes quick to find the many bruises that litter your body, from your neck to your arms and legs. then to the scarred bite mark that’s discolored and horrid along your shoulder. and lastly over your face: dry, bitten lips and dark circles around your sad eyes. “i’m sorry.” is all heeseung can say. you think his voice sounds disappointed. 

“why? it’s not like you did anything.” you pull the door open a little more, unintentionally though. it furthered the exposure of the room when your hand pulled back to wrap around yourself. your eyes scan over his face, taking in the up close new appearance. you think he’s very cute for a second before a dread of guilt becomes you. you wrap your arms tighter around your midriff, as if to conceal what you’ve begged to be seen. you avert your eyes from his, suddenly embarrassed. 

heeseung steps into the room, and you step back. your eyes watch his feet. it feels like you weren’t given the permission to look at him; like you’ve already overstepped jake’s boundaries and broken his rules by seeing and speaking what you already have. yet your heart races with adrenaline. 

“that’s the problem. i didn’t do anything the minute i knew something was wrong.” 

it’s nice to hear something rational for once.  

“i tried to come up with some sort of plan as soon as i could. he left and i found his keys,” you immediately look up at heeseung when he mentions the object you fantasize about. keys. unlocked cage. freedom. “i figured the kitchen window would be the less susceptible.” he attempts a laugh but it’s clearly full of nerves. his eyes dart from you to the outside window. it reminds you of yourself. that feeling of waiting for jake, always mixed with too many emotions to really decipher. 

“but for real, you need to get a jacket and shoes on. we have to leave right now.” heeseung deadpans. his eyes watching yours that refuse to look back. you just stand still in the room, shaking like a leaf in the wind. your focus trained to the floor, spacing out from the scenario. 

“is this real?” your voice is quiet, unsure. “did jake put you up to this to test me? i don’t want to cause more trouble with him. i don’t like when he’s…”

heeseung begins to frantically search the room. he goes to the closet and shifts through the hanging clothes for the thickest jacket he can find. he grabs a big one with faux fur lining and heavy material, “put this on. where are your socks?” he hands it to you but you just hold it low in your hands, letting it hit the floor. he opens drawers of the dresser nearby, finding a pair of socks. 

still spacing out, feeling dreamlike, you sit down at the edge of the bed. the large winter coat still hands in your fingers, half over your lap and exposed legs. 

heeseung crouches down in front of you with socks in hand and a pair of boots by his side. he looks up at you with despairing eyes, but you just watch the floor below him. i should sweep the floors. there’s dog hair and dust everywhere. 

trepidatious, large and unknown hands pick up your foot. the cold fingers brush over your abused ankle. a sick feeling of flutters fills your stomach, you jerk your leg back from his touch. this isn’t right. something like a stray cat who doesn’t let strangers touch. 

“what happened to this?” he lightly taps the bone, “you need to see a doctor.” he tries again but faster this time. gentle hands pulling the sock over your foot and then the other. next he reaches for the boots to put your feet into. “come on, get the jacket on.” he says as he stands, a hand reaching out to you. you stand from the bed and ignore the offered gesture. 

you take a few steps forward and stop. heeseung takes notice of the slight limp in your walk. his eyes follow the floor from your feet and that's when he sees it. the long silver chain that’s attached to the bedpost, mounted to the floorboards. 

“jesus fucking christ…” he exhales, taking the coat from your hands to put it on you himself. 

“i used to try and break that whenever i had the chance, but i ended up hurting myself in the process.” you laugh a little. he sees your blank stare and lost smile. “he would ice my ankle for me though. and he wrapped it up, changing the bandages everyday when it was worse.” 

“i’m gonna get you somewhere safe.” heeseung promises, taking your hand in his own to lead you to the door. “you won’t have to live like this anymore, okay? do you have more family somewhere, someone we could call?” heeseung is doing his best to remain calm, but inside he senses immense uneasiness. you can feel how his palms are sweaty and holding too tight of you. you don’t like it. 

“my parents…” it’s a whisper. he helps you down the stairs and to the kitchen. your heart feels like it's a ticking time bomb set to explode. each beat a warning that screams louder and louder.

“well, how about anyone else.” there’s consternation. 

you stop in your tracks, heeseung tries to pull you forward. his eyes begging to leave through the window he left open for you two. “why anyone else?” you question. you feel heavy again, a boil builds in your body, your heart racing faster than you know it was capable. your breathing becomes quick and panicked. heaves and wheezes now leaving your body. “what? w-what do you m-mean?!” 

“they… jake, he…” heeseung stammers, his head moving side to side in a slow display of sorrow. he reaches out to you, to pull you into a hug of comfort. 

but you just stand there, unbelieving of what the man is trying to imply to you. “no, no… he wouldn’t—” your bottom lip quivers and eyes sting. 

from the corner of your eyes, you see a dark shadow approaching heeseung from behind. a large object hangs high in the air with the shadow. you let out a blood curdling scream, eyes looking past heeseung. the tall man turns his head around before the held object comes crashing down into the back of his head. heeseung drops to the floor in an instant, his hand slipping out of yours. 

it all happened so fast. 

you’re in a fit of panicked sobs now. your eyes can’t look away from the man who tried to help you; the man you didn’t try to believe in. there’s an open gash in his head, bleeding and matting into the hair. you feel sick. 

your attention is removed from the man when a familiar hard grip pulls on your hair. “where the hell did you think you were going!?” jake’s voice is terribly sad, loud and croaking. he’s dragging you back down the hall and up the stairs to your room. 

“i wasn’t going anywhere!” you squirm around trying to look back at him, “i was never going to leave! i swear!” 

jake sits you down at the chair by the desk, his hands place on your shoulders. he looks down at you with disquiet heartache, “you promise?” he’s fixing to cry. you hate when jake cries. 

you nod your head quickly, still having a panic attack, still frightful and overwhelmed. 

jake swallows hard, staring into your eyes. he’s trying to trust your word, and ultimately he just does. he places a long kiss to your forehead. you feel a drop of wetness land against your skin. and you just sit there, watching him leave the room with hands of shaking fists. 

you hear a lot happening downstairs while you’re glued to the chair. there’s loud commotion and aggressive words being passed between the two. heeseung is still alive. they’re fighting. 

unknowing of what to do, you squeeze your eyes shut. you curl your body inwards and cover your ears, gently rocking yourself back and forth to ease your mind of the chaos. this isn’t real. it’s all a bad dream. it’s another bad story you conjured up. 

and then someone yells. a painful, agonizing noise that you can’t disassociate from. it sends shivers through you. you can’t open your eyes, you can’t leave the room. if you don’t see it then it’s not happening, right? 

the clashing of aggression comes to a halt. and the usual eerily silence of the house stands still. 

a few minutes go by. 

you lift your head and open your eyes when you sense the door being weakly pushed open. 

you gasp and stand up, quickly moving over to jake to help him stand up straight instead of leaning on the door. 

“j-jake…” you’re crying, “hey, wha-what happened?” you’re trying to support his weight but it’s too much. you both somehow manage to make it to the bed. did he do it? did he kill heeseung? 

jake is covered in blood and he’s crying too. he simply shakes his head and presses wet kisses your cheek, pulling you down to lay next to him. he can’t say anything. 

confused and scared, you ask him again, but he doesn’t speak yet. he just holds onto you as tight as his body allows. the blood begins to stain your clothes, the bed sheets and blankets.

he breathes a ragged sigh, looking at you with wet, thick lashes, “i thought god hated me. ya know, for making me the way i am and expecting me to follow him.” he coughs, turning his head away from you, hiding. “but why would he hate me and still give you to me?” he laughs with a small cough, he feels his mouth tinge with metallic iron. 

you watch from the side of his face, crying quietly. then you feel it. the warm, seeping of thick liquid spilling onto you. your eyes track down your body and his, landing on the gash of his shirt. an open wound punctured in his side. a wrecked sound slips past your lips with your cries. 

“even if it was a punishment, you’ll always just be an angel to me.” his head turns back to face you, his mouth painted red with slips of blood passing the corners of his smile. 

you push yourself from his hug, crazed to find some material to wrap around jake and stop the bleeding. but he pulls you back to him, his eyes closing. “h-hey, hey. stop, it’s okay. just hold me close a little longer.” and you do. through all your whimpers, hiccups, and tears. you wrap your entire body into him, legs entangled and arms wrapped never this tight around him before. 

eve was made from adam’s rib. so is it really your fault for wanting to crawl inside the man you’re closest to? 

jake’s breathing is starting to become dangerously slow, along with the pulse of his heartbeat. 

heeseung, who managed to crawl his way up the stairs, waits outside the door. blood is dripping down his face and neck from his head. he coughs, grabbing your attention. 

you sit up just enough to not let go of jake, swollen eyes watching heeseung sit at the edge of the stairs. his body is struggling to stay upward, he wobbles and sways. his eyes not able to stay open. he asks you if you could drive them to the hospital, in hopes that there is still time to save them. 

you don’t take the risk of losing the only family you have left, so you do what he asks.  

 　time passes by in a blur. you end up back at house a day later to take care of layla. jake and heeseung are still in the hospital. you don’t know who will recover or die first.

when you return to the house, you do all the things that jake would normally do. you take layla outside for a walk around the house. you make sure she has food and water. you make yourself a meal that will be left untouched. 

and then you trudge up to your room and you crawl into the blood stained bed. you attach the metal cuff to your ankle, and lay there in silence. you think of praying but end up crying yourself to sleep instead. 

the first man you knew to really sin, not just true nor venially but mortally sin, you can’t help but want to wait for the return of. to be damned with him may be his punishment and your fate, but whatever happens is in gods hands now. maybe it doesn’t really matter anyways because you’ll be his attic angel, always.

© fangel ┊ do not copy, repost, modify or translate my content ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ — feedback and reblogs are appreciated 🗝️ !

꒰ tags & those who asked for part 2 ⸝⸝ if you want removed lmk ꔛ @nshmrarki @enhalxvr @jaengwon @taeminsboogers @beomsdoll @immelissaaa @pshfan0812 @supershy3 @hauntsoul @jenniferecand @randomanothercreature @numnomn @en-heedeungie @hwasangel @thatonedaragirltho @hooneverse @maliakealoha @kon-ss @laybensu @whateveridontcaresheesh @strawberrynull ꒱

[amaryllis-22]

Word count: 2.1k

Pairing: John Price × Reader

Infos: Pregnancy, afab reader, mild possessive behavior near the end, mature and slightly dark themes

Based on this idea

As a member of Task Force 141, you'd dedicated your whole life to your team, to the Crown, and to the protection of international security. Going from home to work and from work to home had become the normality you'd learnt to accept.

It was nothing too tragic, truly.

When you were on duty, you didn't have time to worry about your decadent social circle, and when you were off deployment, you could always hit a pub with one of the lads. None of them would ever turn down an opportunity for a little distraction. Hell, you'd even started spending more time in the barracks than in your flat, to the point where the landlord questioned whether you'd died in action and he merely hadn't been informed about it.

Everything had been fine until, well, it no longer was.

Shrouded in the silence of your one-room apartment on a grey autumn day, you'd wondered what would be left of you after you inevitably ceased to be useful to the military. You'd probably be discharged with a respectful handshake, a few medals, and a good amount of money to spend the rest of your life doing... what exactly? Rot in loneliness?

No, you couldn't stand it, not anymore at least.

Those same circumstances you had considered acceptable and fulfilling suddenly seemed not to be enough. Perhaps you could have borne it in your early years of service, when your sole concern was coming home in one piece and making sure your comrades did the same.

But at the moment you had other needs. You were aware of it.

You'd wandered for a while in the dark searching for something that could help you feel complete — a sort of homemade spiritual journey with more failures than successes and the revelation you were seeking at the end.

You wanted a baby, desperately.

You'd never thought about motherhood before, and yet it had only taken the slightest nudge to turn it into the entire centre of your attention. It was as if a switch had been flipped in your head, triggering that innate and basic instinct to bring another creature into this world.

Shit, you had nothing ready to welcome your little angel.

The house you lived in was too small and in a part of town not ideal for easy access to schools.

Not to mention your job.

You clearly had to take a leave of absence. No matter how accustomed you were to injury, you wouldn't have tolerated the slightest chance of jeopardising your pregnancy.

You absolutely had to notify the higher-ups, or things were bound to get ugly. Money wasn't an issue with all you had saved, but it was possibly worth looking for a part-time job to support yourself in the meantime. All in all, it was better to be safe than sorry

Maybe, just maybe, you were moving things a smidge too fast. No, starting to buy baby clothes and toys was not a good idea because in your euphoric frenzy you'd forgotten a rather important detail.

You weren't in a relationship.

Now, that could have been a problem.

Your lifestyle wasn't helpful in keeping anything steady in the romance department. You could go on a mission and disappear for the next few weeks, if not months. You'd tried in the past (albeit, you must admit, with not too much effort), but balancing your various obligations had proved so stressful that you'd proudly declared yourself out of the market. Your new-found desire to start a family, though, would have forced you to return.

As resourceful as you may have been, it was going to be difficult to conceive a baby without a man to, you know, knock you up.

At that point, instead of getting on some dating app or throwing yourself into a classic blind date like a normal person, what had you done? Obviously, you'd gone to your captain, the man who had saved your life more times than you could have counted, dropping the bombshell he wouldn't have expected.

⎯⎯⎯ 「 𖤓 」⎯⎯⎯

"I want a baby," you announced the minute you entered his office, barely giving the door time to close behind you before you placed yourself in front of his desk. John's hand, which had been working on paperwork, froze in its movement, and his sterling blue eyes lifted to give you his full attention.

"Pardon?" His voice came out gruff and deep, words slipping out in a rush, as if his mind was not quite ready to digest what you had told him.

"I want a baby, Cap," you repeated unperturbed, shoulders squared, legs slightly apart, and back straight as a board. You were almost as confident in your stance as you were in your conviction.

Price's eyebrows furrowed, lips curled into a grimace that bordered on mockery. "Yeah... I heard that."

He hesitated, absentmindedly drumming his fingers on the wooden surface of the desk. "I was just wonderin' why you felt the need to share the ... news with me."

The man struggled to follow on which train of thought your brain had derailed.

What was this nonsense?

As far as he knew, you weren't in a relationship and didn't seem interested in one. At least, that was the reply you had given Soap when the Scot had pointed out your dry romantic situation.

Going from 0 to 100 wasn't anything foreign for you; he had learnt to deal with it, but this... was excessive even by your standards.

Had you met some bloke who had made you fall at his feet with honeyed words and pretty promises? No, you wouldn't have been fooled by it. Not his soldier. You were too mature for that shit, but John couldn't help the feeling of jealousy growing in the pit of his stomach.

"I'm telling you this because..." Your statement was enough to snap him out of the tunnel vision his stubborn self had coerced itself into; "...I need your help, to get one I mean."

The silence that spread through the office following your declaration was suffocating. You had mentally prepared for every possible reaction from him, yet seeing it actually happen was in no way comparable.

It wasn't the first time you had stood under Price's intense glare, not with how your relationship was set up. As much as he was your superior, you hadn't failed to make your opinion heard if something didn't sit well with you. You had never come close to insubordination, never really questioned his authority, but you certainly hadn't simply responded with a mere "aye, Cap'n" and carried on with your day.

It was an odd partnership, but it worked for both of you.

If John had to be honest, he viewed it as refreshing and somewhat fascinating. He was aware of how deep your loyalty ran — you'd have followed him down to hell if it had been necessary — so he could overlook your more colourful comments. Still, that didn't mean that he would spare you any of his warning stares.

He wasn't sure if you were playing a nasty prank on him. It wasn't like you, not about such personal matters anyway.

You probably weren't, if the determination and sheer earnestness flashing in your eyes could serve as an indication. That, though, led him to another, bigger problem: seriously consider what you were asking of him.

To state that, after all the years you had spent working shoulder to shoulder, Price had never thought of moving things to another level with you would have been a lie. He clearly found you attractive, and the chemistry between you two was undeniable. But hell, you worked so well in his team that he didn't feel like fucking it up simply for some of his urges.

Blurring the lines between work and love life could prove to be a minefield, a dangerous territory where it was difficult to venture.

You, however? Seemed more than willing to dive in like a suicidal maniac.

"You sure are somethin'." He exhaled, with a hint of exasperation. He was way past the age to keep up with you; that much was clear.

John hadn't even entertained the idea that you might see him as more than a trusted friend (he refused to believe that your relationship was purely professional), and now you were begging him to impregnate you? A whiplash wouldn't hold a candle to what this whole affair had become.

He would have wanted to plant his hands on your shoulders and shake some sense into you, to bombard you with questions about how you came up with such a plan, to remind you, in a perhaps overly patronising way, that this was not a decision you could take lightly: it was one that would change your future in the long run, one that you appeared to be handling far too casually.

His tired and burdened body rose from the chair in all its might, strong legs leading him directly in front of you. You owed a lot of explanations to your Captain, who had no intention of letting the matter go without first securing the info he was seeking.

"Why are you proposin' this to me?"

There was no malice or accusation in that, only a curiosity that bordered nearly on morbid. John felt shameful in that moment. Of all the vastly more important issues he could have raised, that was the only one his mind had focused on.

In a twisted manner, you had chosen him.

The knowledge that you'd handpicked him of all people to 'help' you was enough to rub his ego in all the right places, but he needed to know why.

Did you realise who you were offering this to? The consequences that would have followed?

His gaze never left your face, refusing to miss any possible change in your mannerisms. He made you feel like a rare species under a microscope, as if you couldn't hide anything from him, not when he had already scoured the innermost depths of your being in search of answers.

"You're the first one I thought of," you mentioned, finding it almost difficult to get the words out. Your limbs had suddenly become tense, making your posture stiffer than it should be. "Besides, I couldn't trust anyone but you with this."

John regarded himself as a stable person, capable of maintaining a cool and detached mind even in the most absurd and stressful scenarios. Yet in that moment, you had really managed to catch him off guard.

For fuck's sake, he had enough.

Did you want his cock to bully your pussy so badly, to fill it with cum again and again until there was no doubt left about the life he had planted in your womb?

He wasn't going to stop you.

Noticing his impassive expression, you hastened to assure him that, should he accept, you would ask nothing in return: no support for the baby, no parental responsibility, and no emotional attachment.

At that he merely snorted, shaking his head as if trying to chase away an annoying bug.

If you thought he would leave both of you, you and YOUR child, you obviously had still not fully understood the kind of man he was.

John could already imagine it.

A small cottage surrounded by nature, his beautiful wife waiting for him at the door, open arms and sweet smile, the laughter of children in the distance, and a warmth to finally caress his tough skin.

He wouldn't have let you resume your military career after; it would have been too dangerous and pointless.

Not that you had to know.

You would have so much to think about that you wouldn't even notice it. Your little angels would need the steady presence of a mother, and you certainly wouldn't be the one to deprive them of that, would you?

Don't worry; he would take care of it, putting his life on the line for the safety of your little family.

Family.

He had struggled to believe he could ever have one of his own, and now you were offering it to him on a silver platter. How lucky.

"Alright." His calloused hand rose to meet your cheek, thick thumb being passed over the soft pad of your lower lip. His face lowered enough to be exactly before yours. "I'll help you, just... don't come cryin' later for bitin' off more than you could chew."

Tag list: @nova-willow-541

✎There will definitely be a part two in the future.

[fozmeadows]

This is a sidebar from my original point, but the mention of Amazon and its ubiquity makes me want to add on a theory of mine about why I think Amazon has been able to get such an insane foothold in the US market. Because the thing is, while Amazon originates in the US, it's now a global company - and yet, compared to other places in the world, it seems like Amazon's dominance over brick-and-mortar stores in the US far exceeds its grasp elsewhere. And while I was doing my Christmas shopping, I was suddenly struck by a possible explanation: the lack of walkable cities and public transport generally in America, coupled with the emphasis on strip malls rather than general commercial areas, which makes it much harder for people to quickly and easily access a wide range of goods in person.

See, in principle, I hate buying from Amazon; in practice, however, I live in a part of the US with negligible public transport and - crucially - do not have a car, which means that, if I want to buy something at at a physical shop, I'm broadly restricted to one of a handful of locations that are within a reasonable distance of my home. While I'm comparatively lucky, in that there are several such destinations to choose from, what's annoying is that it's only really feasible to rideshare to and from one of them on a single excursion, as opposed to hitting up multiple locations - and even if I had a car, these places are all far enough apart from each other that going to more than one in a single outing would take up a hefty chunk of time and involve driving on multiple freeways.

If I want to go to, say, IKEA, that's a 15-20 minute freeway drive to a location where there are no other shops nearby; if I want to go to Barnes & Noble - and I frequently do - there are three locations to choose from, but while the nearest one has the advantage of being next to my favourite boba place, the other surrounding shops contain little to nothing of interest to me, while the two more distant ones have more interesting surrounds, but no boba. There are two decently-sized Targets in driving range, but there's nothing else near each of them that makes the trip worthwhile, so I never get out there unless there's multiple specific things I need to buy, because if I only need one thing, the cost of a rideshare both ways is inevitably far more than I'd pay in shipping to get the same thing delivered.

And as best I can tell, this situation is pretty common throughout the United States. Unless you're lucky enough to live in a place with good transit and/or a thriving commercial downtown area, where you can easily walk between different kinds of shops in a single outing instead of having to drive 15 minutes, park, shop, drive 20 minutes and park again, ordering online ends up being, not just quicker and simpler, but vastly cheaper and more efficient than the alternative. Which is where Amazon enters the chat, using its shitty working conditions and vast resources to further fuck up the brick-and-mortar ecosystem, not because a majority of people inherently prefer buying shit online, but because a staggering proportion of America is expressly designed to require you to drive as much as fucking possible, even when that's the worst possible way to do things.

Whereas when I lived in Scotland, even though I had access to Amazon and would use it periodically - it was easier for Australian relatives to buy me Amazon gift cards than to either post a physical gift or buy me gift cards to UK stores, because many companies are Weird about people in one country trying to buy something online from them in a different country - for everyday needs, I could just... walk up to the local high street, from my house, on my human legs, and (if I so desired) hit up a homewares store, a hardware store, a bookshop, a pharmacy, a supermarket, a bric-a-brac place, an antique store, a cafe, the cinema, and a half-dozen other places. And this wasn't while living in a thriving metropolis: I was in St Andrews, a small university town! And if I really wanted a big day out, I could get one of the many regular buses over the water into Dundee and hit up the city center there, to exactly the same ends. Similarly, when I later lived in Aberdeen away from the city center, there wasn't much in walking distance of my house, unless I felt like trekking 40 minutes over to the nearest shopping complex - which I sometimes did, stroller and all, with my then-toddler in tow, because even if I got all tired out, I knew there'd be a bus to take me back home again. But I could also hop a different bus from the stop in my street and go straight to the city center, where - again - I could walk around hundreds of different shops with ease. Ditto every part of Australia I've ever lived in: even without a car, restricted to public transport or walking while toting around a small child, I was never reliant on internet shopping to get basic goods, because there was enough infrastructure that I could manage. And I'm not saying that's true of every part of Australia or the UK - rural areas in both countries are frequently very isolated and underserved by their local governments. But the difference now that I live in the US is stark.

Because here, the roads dominate. Freeways break up everything, and while there's a few nice commercial areas near me - streets with interesting shops and things to see - you cannot just hop a bus or train to access them, and even then, they don't flow naturally into the same sort of area the next suburb over: there's always a massive fucking multi-lane roadway in between, and the distance, even if walkable in theory, can be difficult to navigate on foot, because it's not designed with foot traffic in mind. You have to drive, and if you can't do that, then those places may as well not exist - and overwhelmingly, what you're left with access to instead are strip malls: clusters of random chain stores linked by a massive carpark and frequently situated in places with nothing else nearby; or at least, nothing else you can easily access without having to drive and park again.

And I genuinely think that this is a big part of why America has become so dependent on Amazon, as well as big box, everything-under-the-sun stores like Target and Wallmart: because without an abundance of accessible, walkable, local commercial centers, with all the greater variety they provide, they're the easiest, most efficient way for a car-dependent commuter populace - especially one so frequently time-poor, overworked, and underpaid - to buy shit.

Which suggests to me, very strongly, that one of the best ways to combat the dominance of not just Amazon, but big box chain stores, is to build functional public transport and walkable communities with decent commercial zoning - because the more people can easily access a variety of goods local to them, the less they'll need to be reliant on a few megacorps. So in the event that you needed another reason to support walkable communities and public transit: this is it. Fuck Amazon.

there is no ethical consumption under capitalism

Years ago now, I remember seeing the rape prevention advice so frequently given to young women - things like dressing sensibly, not going out late, never being alone, always watching your drink - reframed as meaning, essentially, "make sure he rapes the other girl." This struck a powerful chord with me, because it cuts right to the heart of the matter: that telling someone how to lower their own chances of victimhood doesn't stop perpetrators from existing. Instead, it treats the existence of perpetrators as a foregone conclusion, such that the only thing anyone can do is try, by their own actions, to be a less appealing or more difficult victim.

And the thing is, ever since the assassination of United Healthcare CEO Brian Thompson, I've kept on thinking about how, in this day and age, CEOs of big companies often have an equal or greater impact on the day to day lives of regular people than our elected officials, and yet we have almost no legal way to redress any grievances against them - even when their actions, as in the case of Thompson's stewardship of UHC, arguably see them perpetrating manslaughter at scale through tactics like claims denial. That this is a real, recurring thing that happens makes the American healthcare insurance industry a particularly pernicious example, but it's far from being the only one. Because the original premise of the free market - the idea that we effectively "vote" for or against businesses with our dollars, thereby causing them to sink or swim on their individual merits - is utterly broken, and has been for decades, assuming it was ever true at all. In this age of megacorporations and global supply chains, the vast majority of people are dependent on corporations for necessities such as gas, electricity, internet access, water, food, housing and medical care, which means the consumer base is, to all intents and purposes, a captive market. We might not have to buy a specific brand, but we have to buy a brand, and as businesses are constantly competing with one another to bring in profits, not just for the company and its workers, but for C-suites and shareholders - profits that increasingly come at the expense of workers and consumers alike - the greediest, most inhumane corporations set the financial yardstick against which all others are then, of necessity, measured. Which means that, while businesses are not obliged to be greedy and inhumane in order to exist, overwhelmingly, they become greedy and humane in order to compete, because capitalism encourages it, and because there are precious few legal restrictions to stop them from doing so. At the same time, a handful of megacorporations own so many market-dominating brands that, without both significant personal wealth and the time and resources to find viable alternatives, it's all but impossible to avoid them, while the ubiquity of the global supply chain means that, even if you can keep track of which company owns which brand, it's much, much harder to establish which suppliers provide the components that are used in the products bearing their labels. Consider, for instance, how many mainstream American brands are functionally run on sweatshop labour in other parts of the world: places where these big corporations have outsourced their workforce to skirt the already minimal labour and wage protections they'd be obliged to adhere to in the US, all to produce (say) electronics whose elevated sticker price passes a profit on to the company, but without resulting in higher wages for either the sweatshop workers overseas or the American employees selling the products in branded US stores.

When basically every major electronics corporation is engaged in similar business practices, there is no "vote" our money can bring that causes the industry itself to be better regulated - and as wealthy, powerful lobbyists from these industries continue to pay exorbitant sums of money to politicians to keep government regulation at a minimum, even our actual votes can do little to effect any sort of change. But even in those rare instances where new regulations are passed, for multinational corporations, laws passed in one country overwhelmingly don't prevent them from acting abusively overseas, exploiting more desperate populations and cash-poor governments to the same greedy, inhumane ends. And where the ultimate legal penalty for proven transgressions is, more often than not, a fine - which is to say, a fee; which is to say, an amount which, while astronomical by the standards of regular people, still frequently costs the company less than the profits earned through their unethical practices, and which is paid from corporate coffers rather than the bank accounts of the CEOs who made the decisions - big corporations are, in essence, free to act as badly as they can afford to; which is to say, very. Contrary to the promise of the free market, therefore, we as consumers cannot meaningfully "vote" with our dollars in a way that causes "good" businesses to rise to the top, because everything is too interconnected. Our choices under global capitalism are meaningless, because there is no other system we can financially support that stands in opposition to it, and while there are still small businesses and companies who try to operate ethically, both their comparative smallness and their interdependent reliance on the global supply chain means that, even if we feel better about our choices, we're not exerting any meaningful pressure on the system we're trying to change. Which means that, under the free market, trying to be an ethical consumer is functionally equivalent to a young woman dressing modestly, not going out alone and minding her drink at parties in order to avoid being raped. We're not preventing corporate predation or sending a message to corporate predators: we're just making sure they screw other worker, the other consumer, the other guy.

All of which is to say: while I'd prefer not to live in a world where shooting someone dead in the street is considered a valid means of redressing grievances, what the murder of Brian Thompson has shown is that, if you provide no meaningful recourse for justice against abusive, exploitative members of the 1%, then violence done to those people will have the feel of justice, because it fills the void left by the lack of consequences for their actions. It's the same reason why people had little sympathy for the jackass OceanGate CEO who killed himself in his imploding sub, or anyone whose yacht has been attacked by orcas - it's just intensified here, because where the OceanGate CEO was felled by hubris and the yachts were random casualties, whoever killed Thomspon did so deliberately, because of what he did. It was direct action against a man whose policies very arguably constituted manslaughter at scale; a crime which ought to be a crime, but which has, to date, been permitted under the law. And if the law wouldn't stop him, can anyone be surprised that someone might act outside the law in retaliation - or that regular people would cheer for them when they did?

[jessiexflem]

– secret's out | jessie fleming x reader

content: fluff, Kelli Hubly's post-pilates Instagram story

word count: 1.1K

Black? Navy? What about brown? No, black, for sure. Your eyes flick back and forth between the workout sets in front of you. The black set was the most comfortable, although it was a little boring. You were loving the brown set you bought, but any core work caused the waistband on your leggings to scrunch down your stomach. Your navy leggings were a bit snug, but you haven’t worn them in–

“Y/N, hurry up! We’re going to be late!” Kelli shouts through your door. Black, it is, you decide. You quickly get dressed, knowing your best friend wasn’t afraid to barge into your room even if you were only half-ready.

“We literally get to every class thirty minutes before it starts,” you counter, throwing your hair into a ponytail as you walk into the living room. Kelli had started taking you and some of the other Thorns to her pilates classes, and she insisted on getting to the studio way too early. Something about having the best reformer to pick, or whatever. 

Kelli, ignoring your remark, nods at your sports bra, “It’s chilly outside.”

Not wanting to get nagged for taking any longer to get out of the door, you grab the first sweatshirt you see and slip it on, a grey crewneck sitting on the armrest of your couch. Adequately dressed, you follow Kelli outside to her car. “Is Jessie coming?” she asks as she pulls out of your driveway.

You smile at the mention of your girlfriend, but shake your head. “She has a meeting with her publicist this morning.”

“Stop, your little smile,” Kelli gushes, “You’re so cute. You’re welcome, by the way.” 

A few years older, Kelli took you in as her pseudo-little sister when you got drafted to Portland in 2021. She was your first friend on the team, having been partnered with you for warm-up drills that preseason. Jessie had been assigned as Kelli’s away trip roommate this year, and after learning about your growing crush on your new teammate, she made it her mission to set the two of you up. 

“You’re never going to let go of the whole wingwoman thing, are you?” you groan, despite being grateful for your friend’s help. Initially, you had been so nervous around Jessie that you could barely form proper sentences around her. Early conversations were followed by plenty of ranting and face-palming to Kelli and Sam. After some motivation from the two, and Kelli planting a couple seeds in Jessie’s head, you mustered up the courage to ask her out. Well, it went more like you telling her “I want to go on a date with you,” then immediately walking away without actually asking the question. Luckily, Jessie found your lack of game and inability to flirt endearing rather than embarrassing, and you’ve been dating since June, about six months now. 

“You’ll be thanking me at your wedding,” Kelli teases.

The forty-five minute class went by fairly quickly, focusing mostly on arms and core work. It was a decently challenging class, and you could already feel your abdominal muscles getting sore. Kelli waves you over to the mirrored wall as you put your sweatshirt and shoes back on. “Picture time, Y/N/N!”

You slide yourself in front of Morgan, in between Sam and Mallie, posing for Kelli’s post-class mirror selfie. It’s become a tradition of sorts, especially now that you’ve gotten a pretty consistent group going together. “We’re so cute!” Kelli beams, uploading the picture to her Instagram story.

Jessie had gotten out of her meeting early, so she headed to your apartment, pulling into your parking lot as you were stepping out of the car. “Hi, darling,” she greets, planting a quick kiss on your temple, “Hey, Kelli.”

“Cute sweatshirt,” Jessie grins, pointing at where the Canada Soccer crest laid on the right side of your chest.

Kelli’s eyes follow her finger and go wide. “Oh my god!”

“What? What’s up?” your girlfriend knits her eyebrows in confusion, “You okay?”

“My story!” Kelli gasps, realization hitting you at the same time.

You frantically unlock your phone to pull up Instagram. Tapping on Kelli’s story, Jessie looks over your shoulder. Front and center was you, an American, a USWNT player, wearing a Canada Soccer sweatshirt. A Canada Soccer sweatshirt that belonged to the now only Canadian on the Thorns, your very private girlfriend. 

“Oh my god, I am SO sorry, I’ll delete it!” Kelli says, her fingers flying across her screen. 

“Fuck, I wasn’t even thinking,” you turn toward Jessie, scared of how she’d react. You had agreed to keep your relationship off of social media for now, wanting to keep to yourselves. “I’m sorry, Jess.”

“Why are you sorry?” Jessie frowns, looking at you, her eyes soft.

“I should’ve thought about what I was wearing before we took the picture,” you shake your head and stare down at your feet, “I’m so dumb, we’ve talked about keeping us private, and I messed up.”

“Hey, hey,” Jessie lifts your chin up with her finger, “You aren’t dumb, sweetheart. We were bound to slip up eventually, but I promise it’s not a big deal.”

“You’re not mad?” you gnaw on the inside of your cheek. 

“Of course I’m not mad,” your girlfriend pulls you into a hug, kissing the top of your head, “I’m not mad at you, either, Kel.”

Kelli smiles meekly at the two of you, “I took my story down, but I fear everyone’s already seen it.” She holds her phone out toward you, her message requests filled with fans who had replied to her story. 

Y/N’s sweatshirt???

Are Y/N and Jessie dating?!

Is that Jessie’s sweatshirt?

Okay, traitor, I see you, Y/L/N.

Newest CanXNT call-up, Y/N Y/L/N?

“I think you’re about to break Instagram, or at least my DMs” Kelli chuckles. 

After a laugh and some catching up between Kelli and Jessie, you and your girlfriend head back into your apartment. Checking your phone, you see that your notifications are blowing up. Multiple notifications are flooding your most recent post, a photo dump from Christmas. Jessie comes up behind you, wrapping her arms around your waist and placing her chin on your shoulder.

“This person wants to know which one of our families we spent Christmas with,” you giggle.

“Well, are you going to answer?” Jessie jokes, a goofy grin on her face.

“I’m sorry, again, Jess,” you sigh, “I know we wanted to stay more private, but we weren’t able to do things on our own terms because of me.”

“Baby,” your girlfriend places a kiss on your cheek, “I promise you have nothing to be sorry for. Secret’s out, but so be it. If anything, this gives me an excuse to post the film of you that I’ve been wanting to share.”

“Making it onto an Instagram post? Big moves, Fleming,” you tease, “What’s next, a ring?”

“Don’t tempt me, love,” Jessie’s arms tighten around you as she peppers your face with kisses, “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Now, show me these photos you’re posting.”

[ssa-dado]

21 - Physics

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, slight angst, whump Summary: Aaron Hotchner navigates the chaos of a teammate’s tragedy, personal struggles, and unresolved emotions toward you, with fate as his only constant. Past and present blur, coincidences and camaraderie intertwining as if tied by a red string. A case hits too close to home for everyone, forcing him to confront buried fears while managing the fallout as Unit Chief. But as events unfold, he realizes that nothing - neither relationships nor outcomes - ends quite the way he had foreseen. Warnings: violence, trauma, mentions of what happens in 3x09 & 3x11, use of alchool, some cuss words here and there, Hotch being a lot in his head, mentions of the fact you and Hotch fucked once, whoops. HOTCH SMITTEN LIKE A FOOOOL Word Count: 20.5k Dado's Corner: Flustered and smitten Hotch are peak Hotch. Also, I’m proud of finally nailing down a phrase that perfectly sums up their dynamic: he overthinks, while you overtalk. Oh, and one more thing: I officially have a new favorite character now, hope you love her as well. This chapter is a bit of a wild ride. A bit of fan service and the fan is me.

masterlist

In Stoic philosophy, physics (physikē) explores the nature of the universe, its structure, and the principles that govern it, providing the foundation for understanding humanity’s place within the cosmos.

For the Stoics, mastery of Physics was essential because it revealed the rational order (logos) underpinning all things, emphasizing the interconnectedness and inevitability of events.

The Stoics believed that fate (heimarmenē), the unbroken chain of cause and effect, binds all events in a web of necessity, with every occurrence unfolding as part of a rational, divine plan.

---

Sometimes, there’s just too much to do.

And honestly, sometimes, that feels like a blessing. A distraction.

Something to keep your mind from wandering back to the chaos of the past week. Not the mountain of paperwork waiting. Not the echoes of a case that clung to your thoughts. And especially not the emotional wreckage left behind.

No, you’d had a to-do list long enough to drown out anything else.

First, there had been guest lectures to prepare - because, God forbid, you gave up the career you’d built on your own before coming back to the BAU. That was yours and yours only, and you could never giving it up entirely.

Then, the FBI conference materials. A seminar on terrorism to finalize. Hours of research and fine-tuning to make sure it had been flawless, because that was the standard you’d set for yourself.

And let’s not forget the decade’s worth of solved cases you’d sifted through for examples to present. Because nothing screamed ‘productive’ quite like revisiting every horrifying thing you’d helped stop.

Then there was the apartment.

The apartment you still weren’t sure you wanted to call “home,” even though the rent you’d just paid suggested otherwise. Half of the boxes Aaron had helped you carry inside were still unopened, stacked against the walls.

And, of course, there was the team. The team that wouldn’t stop offering to help.

“We can chip in,” JJ had said.

“It’s no big deal,” Derek had insisted.

“Think of us as your moving dream team,” Penelope had declared, complete with jazz hands.

You had turned them all down. Firmly. Politely. And then less politely.

Aaron didn’t push, though.

He hadn’t insisted since your first no. He understood - probably better than anyone else - that you had to do this alone.

At least now you felt safe. For the first time in a year. And wasn’t that a luxury?

Another luxury? The fact that Hotch let you stay up late in the bullpen without questioning it too much. Not that he could afford to comment on your habits without opening the door to some pointed remarks about his own hypocrisy.

Because he stayed late, too.

Both of you. Night owls. Just like old times. Well, not exactly like old times.

Back then, you stayed late out of pride.

Who could solve the most cases? Who could earn the higher stats by the end of the quarter?

“I’m just saying,” Aaron had said one night in ’99, leaning against your desk with the kind of smugness that made you want to throw your stapler at him, “if I were you, I’d revise page ten of the case file. You clearly missed something.”

You, of course, had bristled. “Missed? I missed something?”

His reply was maddeningly neutral. “I’m just saying.”

You spent the next two hours poring over the file, only to realize, to your horror, that he was right. The unsub’s pattern was buried in the details you’d overlooked.

“Oh, you think you’re so clever,” you’d muttered as you shoved the solved case onto his desk.

“Not clever,” he’d replied with a faint smirk. “Efficient.”

Efficient? Well, now it was war.

What started as a casual rivalry quickly devolved into a full-blown competition. Nights in the office turned into marathons of who could close the most cases, complete with snarky comments and ridiculous one-upmanship.

“Did you just solve two cases in one night?” you’d asked incredulously one evening, staring at his smug face.

“Three, actually,” he’d corrected, leaning back in his chair like some kind of overachieving Greek god of profiling.

“Oh, it’s on,” you’d muttered, dragging another file off the pile and practically slamming it onto your desk.

By the end of the year, the two of you had obliterated every record the short-lived BAU had.

Even Gideon, who was famously difficult to impress, couldn’t believe it. He’d handed you a plastic trophy with the words ‘Most Productive Agents: 1999’ scrawled on it, muttering something about how he’d never seen anything so hideous.

“Let me remind you,” Gideon had said, handing over the trophy, “Rossi left the FBI before the end of the year. So, technically, you broke our streak by default.”

Neither of you cared. You’d still done it.

The trophy? Aaron had it proudly displayed in his office, perched next to his battered copy of Hegel for Dummies with a spine so broken it looked like it had been run over.

Yours? It was buried in one of those unopened boxes in your new apartment, its significance too bittersweet to face just yet.

Now, though, things were different.

The late nights weren’t about pride anymore.

They were about survival.

Aaron, in his office, scribbling away as if Haley’s forgiveness could be found at the bottom of yet another case report. You, in the bullpen, scratching out notes for your lectures with the same relentless drive - but this time, with the weight of a broken soul behind it.

Both of you would go home to spaces that felt more hollow than comforting.

Aaron’s was an empty house, caught in the eternal limbo of Haley’s indecision. Would she forgive him for being, in his words, a terrible husband and father? Or was he bracing for yet another blow in what felt like an endless cycle of disappointment?

Yours wasn’t much better. An apartment that didn’t feel like yours. Foreign surroundings that refused to settle into something familiar. Which was strange. For years, you’d thrived on not knowing where you were.

Changing countries more often than you changed your phone plan, living out of suitcases, hopping between temporary homes without so much as a second thought.

So why now? Why did this emptiness sting in a way it never had before?

“Maybe I’m getting soft,” you muttered under your breath, scribbling a note so aggressively you nearly tore the paper.

“Talking to yourself already?” Hotch’s voice carried down from the mezzanine, his tone calm but laced with just enough amusement to catch your attention. He stood leaning casually against the railing, looking down over your desk, which happened to be situated directly beneath him.

“Wouldn’t have to if you came out of your cave every once in a while” you shot back, not looking up.

There was a long pause before he answered. “Fair enough.”

But even as you bantered, you knew the truth: this wasn’t about the apartment.

It was about everything you’d tried to suppress catching up to you all at once.

It was fear. Fear of what had happened. Of what might still happen. Of being alone.

You sighed, leaning back in your chair and staring at the ceiling. Admitting it to yourself felt like defeat but at least, it was the first step forward, wasn’t it?

“Everything okay?” his voice cut through your thoughts again, quieter this time.

“Fine,” you said, your voice sharper than intended.

There was a pause. Then he said softly “You’re allowed to say you’re not, you know.”

You glanced up toward him, and sighed. “So are you,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then, as if fate had synchronized your thoughts, both of you said it at the same time. “I’m not.”

You blinked, looking at him, unsure whether to laugh or crumble under the sheer awkwardness of it. He seemed just as taken aback, standing there with that signature furrow of his brow, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d said it out loud.

“Well,” he said finally “that’s one way to break the tension.”

It felt strange - refreshing, maybe - to hear it spoken aloud. Even though you’d known, deep down, that neither of you was okay, sometimes you just needed to hear the words.

To have it acknowledged. Somehow, knowing he felt the same made it just a little easier to carry.

You nodded toward the stack of papers on your desk, eager to redirect the moment before it got too raw. “Well, since we’re both in the mood for honesty, I’ve got something for you.”

He tilted his head slightly, now moving down the stairs and crossing the bullpen toward you. “You always know how to make the best gifts,” he said, a touch of dry humor lacing his tone.

“Oh, this one’s a real treat,” you said, sliding the folder toward him.

Aaron opened it, skimming the first page, and raised an eyebrow. “Case summaries. You shouldn’t have.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied with a wink.

He chuckled lightly, closing the folder. “I’ll review them and file them in the system immediately. Truly, a gift worth cherishing.”

“Or,” you countered, leaning back in your chair, “they could wait until tomorrow morning.”

His brow lifted, probably not convinced of your ungodly offer. “And you think I’d waste your hard work like that?!”

“No,” you said, shrugging. “I think they could be the very first thing you file tomorrow morning. None of my efforts wasted, and you get to go home.”

You could tell he considered it for a moment, even if he kept his gaze steady on yours. “You make a compelling argument.” He said in mock formality.

“I know,” you said, smirking slightly.

He glanced back at the folder, then at you, and sighed. “Alright,” he said finally. “Tomorrow morning.”

“Good choice,” you said, your voice softer now, the teasing edge gone.

Hotch leaned slightly against your desk, holding the folder in one hand. “That applies to you too, you know. Whatever you’re working on… it can wait until 8 AM tomorrow.”

You opened your mouth to respond, barely managing to say “Alri-” before the sharp ring of his phone cut through the air.

His expression shifted instantly.

That composed, slightly softer look he’d had moments before hardened into something sharper - focused, intense. You recognized it immediately, the way his jaw tightened and his posture straightened. Something was wrong.

“Hotchner,” he answered, his voice low. The sudden shift in his tone made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

You didn’t need to hear the other side of the conversation to know it was serious. The single word he barked into the phone - “Where?” - told you everything.

You shot out of your chair, your heart already racing, and rushed toward his office. By the time he hung up, you were there, pulling his coat from the rack and holding it out to him. His eyes met yours as he moved toward you, his pace quicker than you ever remembered.

“What happened?” you asked handing him his coat, though you had a sinking feeling you didn’t want to hear the answer.

He didn’t even hesitate.

His eyes locked on yours, and in that split second, you saw everything you needed to know.

“Garcia got shot,” he said.

---

“What do we know?” Rossi asked as he walked into the hospital waiting room, headed straight for him.

“Police think it was a botched robbery,” he replied, his voice clipped, with a tense jaw.

Emily, looked toward you, her eyes wide and disbelieving, the shock still fresh. “Where’s Morgan?” she asked, her tone edged with worry.

You shook your head. “He’s not answering his phone.”

Hotch could sense the strain beneath your calm exterior, the cracks starting to show despite how hard you were trying to hold it together.

Why were you doing that? He was there for that reason.

Spencer didn’t even pause. He turned away immediately, his usual hesitance replaced only by urgency. “I’ll call him again,” he said over his shoulder, already pulling out his phone as he strode toward the corner of the room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hotch saw Rossi move closer, when he spoke, his voice was low, only meant for him. “What aren’t you saying?”

He didn’t look at Rossi right away, his eyes fixed on some indeterminate point across the room. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter than before, almost a whisper. “I spoke to one of the paramedics who brought her in. It doesn’t look good.”

And so, all you could do was wait.

Time moved strangely there, in this place of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smells, where the hum of machinery and the distant shuffle of footsteps filled the silence.

Seven FBI agents in a room.

But the titles didn’t matter there. Because each of you felt completely useless.

There were minutes of restless movements, of silent prayers, of thoughts no one dared to voice aloud. Some paced the hallway, unable to sit still, as if walking could somehow outrun the helplessness threatening to suffocate them. Others fidgeted, their hands twisting and folding into patterns born of nervous energy.

But eventually, you all stilled.

Emily and JJ sat down together. Emily’s hand found JJ’s, gripping it firmly, as if she could siphon away some of her fear, absorb the weight of it into herself.

Across from them, Spencer perched on the edge of a chair, his arms crossed tightly, his right hand rubbing absentmindedly up and down his left side in a motion that felt almost protective, almost desperate.

Rossi stood apart from the rest of you, his back turned, his figure outlined by the stark light of the hallway. He held a gold bracelet in his hands, the same one he always carried, his fingers moving over it in a rhythm that suggested it was as much for grounding as it was for comfort.

And then there was you.

You sat to Spencer’s right, your brow furrowed, your breaths slow but audible. Your eyes moved rapidly, scanning nothing and everything all at once. He could tell you were buried deep in your thoughts, lost in the labyrinth of your mind.

He wanted to know what you were thinking - wanted to reach into the chaos and pull you out.

He couldn’t, that thing he knew.

Probably, you were still sifting through philosophies, trying to find the right citation to cling to, the one that would hold you steady. Something wise and comforting, something that would tell you this wouldn’t end in tragedy.

And him?

He stood still, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He knew he had to keep it together - for all of you, for himself.

He stood so close to your left that he could feel your knee brushing the fabric of his pants every so often, a touch so faint it barely registered but still managed to tether him.

He observed his team, each of you unraveling in their own quiet way, while he avoided, at all costs, the thought clawing at the back of his mind.

The thought of living this again - he knew what it felt like, this helplessness. He remembered it too well.

Back when it was you lying on an operating table, under needles and lights, fighting to come back to him. That same sense of uselessness had consumed him then, and now it was here again, circling like a vulture.

But his mind, cruel as it so often was, always found new ways to torture him.

It conjured new voices, fresh what-ifs, flashes of memories he didn’t want, tethering him to the fear that churned relentlessly in his chest. None of it was helpful. None of it worth listening to more than once.

And yet, amidst the noise, it was something small that healed him now.

Your touch.

Your knee pressed fully against the side of his leg, a quiet, grounding gesture that pulled him from the spiral before it could drag him any deeper.

He glanced down at you instinctively, and when your gaze met his, it was steady, knowing, and impossibly calm.

It wasn’t extravagant - there was no dramatic gesture, no soft-spoken reassurance. Just a nod.

A simple acknowledgment, because you knew.

You knew he needed to hold it together. As Unit Chief. As the leader. As the anchor in this storm of uncertainty.

And yet, in that single nod, in the quiet understanding etched into your expression, you told him something else, too: if it were just the two of you, you’d let go.

Together.

If you could, you’d be wrapped in each other’s arms, sinking into one of those uncomfortable chairs, your head resting on his shoulder, his leaning gently against yours.

Just like you had in his living room that one night when everything else had fallen apart.

That memory burned in his mind, as vivid as if it had happened moments ago. The way you had leaned into him, your hand brushing against his chest, anchoring him in a way he hadn’t known he needed.

He’d been thinking about it for weeks, replaying it over and over, striving for it without even realizing.

Your touch had burned itself into his memory. It was solace, it was safety, it was the only thing that made the world make sense when nothing else did.

And then, without warning, the moment broke. None of you moved first - you didn’t have to. Derek’s hurried steps into the waiting room shattered the fragile quiet.

“She’s been in surgery a couple hours,” JJ said softly, her voice almost hesitant, as though saying it aloud made it worse.

“I was in church,” Derek responded, his voice tight, his eyes darting to Hotch. “My phone was off.”

Spencer spoke up, his voice quiet but insistent, trying to reassure Derek, but Hotch’s gaze softened as it drifted to him, the tension in his team mate's expression contrasting starkly with the rigid lines of his suit.

He barely noticed your shoulder brushing against his arm - because apparently, personal space was just a suggestion with you - but he didn’t mind.

If anything, the contact softened the edges of his thoughts, kept him tethered to the present.

Then, the door opened, and a doctor stepped in. “Penelope Garcia?” he asked.

Hotch stepped forward immediately. “Yes.”

“The bullet went in her chest and ricocheted into her abdomen. She lost a lot of blood. It was touch and go for a while,” The doctor’s tone was clinical, detached, but the words carried the weight of everything they’d been dreading. “But we were able to repair the injuries.”

Aaron felt his breath hitch.

“So, what are you saying?” JJ asked, her voice strained.

The doctor hesitated for a moment before continuing. “One centimeter over and it would have torn right through her heart. Instead, she could actually walk out of here in a couple of days, and I’d say that’s a minor miracle.”

The words barely registered, muffled under the synchronized exhale of relief from everyone in the room, including him.

His chest rose and fell heavily, the tension still coiling so tightly in his body that he had to bite his lip to stop himself from letting it all spill out.

He couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.

“She needs her rest. You can see her in the morning,” the doctor said before being immediately thanked and leaving the room.

Hotch straightened, forcing his composure back into place. He had to focus. He had to do what needed to be done.

“David and I will go to the scene,” he said, the words leaving his mouth almost automatically. “I think the rest of you should be here when she wakes up.”

Your brow arched slightly, the corners of your lips twitching upward for just a moment.

“I don’t care about protocol,” he added firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I don’t care whether we’re working this officially or not. We don’t touch any new cases until we find out who did this.”

Because when the family is involved, the law can go to hell.

You gave him another nod, this one filled with something more - pride, maybe.

---

But the consequences of his choices - of that particular decision, of every decision since - were harder to ignore.

It had started as something small, almost imperceptible. The kind of shift you only notice when looking back, piecing together the moments that led to now.

You spoke to him less on the job.

Maybe it had begun after Penelope was shot. Maybe it was even earlier than that - after that argument in the car the day Rossi rejoined the team.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t noticed. He’d thought about it more times than he cared to admit, replaying conversations and briefings in his head, trying to pinpoint the exact moment it changed.

Still, whatever the catalyst, it was there - distance.

You were more careful now, more reserved.

The way you hesitated before voicing disagreements during case discussions, when you used to challenge him so freely, so instinctively.

The way your once-abstract musings - philosophical detours that most of the times used to drive him to the brink of frustration - were almost entirely gone. He rarely heard them from you anymore.

It was Reid now, who would bring up some concept or theory, his voice filling the space that used to be yours.

And Hotch would sit there, listening, waiting - hoping, even - for your voice to cut in, to weave those extra threads of detail, to challenge or expand the discussion in that way that had always been so uniquely you. But it never came.

Your language had shifted, too.

Gone were the sweeping truths and nuanced arguments that once made every discussion with you feel like a labyrinth. Now you were grounded, concrete.

Practical. Logical... ironic, really.

The very thing that sometimes frustrated him - the way you could lose yourself in abstraction, dissecting every nuance as if it held the key to the universe, even when a case demanded quick action - was the same thing that made you indispensable to his being… to work.

Indispensable to work.

It was why the two of you had been able to crack so many cases together - at work.

The confrontation was what made it work.

Necessary. Vital.

His logic sharpening your abstractions, your ideas loosening the rigidity of his structures. Because both of you wanted to be right.

And in that pursuit, you always found the balance - in the balance, you caught killers. In the balance, you saved lives. Different truths, coexisting.

But now? Now, he found himself paying more attention to the details that had slipped through the cracks.

You’d stopped calling him “Partner”.

It wasn’t the word itself that mattered. It was what it signified. How for a brief amount of time it had even become a running joke, how you’d introduce him to people as “my partner,” and how they’d inevitably misunderstand, assuming you were together.

Maybe it was the way you talked about him. Maybe it was the way he looked at you... back then.

Anyways, it was gone. Because now, on the job, you only called him "Unit Chief".

Clinical. Precise. A title that left no room for interpretation. Best friends outside of work; your superior within it.

But he missed the ambiguity.

He missed the way you’d once spoken to him on the job like he wasn’t just your colleague, or your boss. Like he was someone you trusted - completely.

And maybe that was what stung the most. That sense of trust between you, once so natural, now felt… guarded.

He wanted to fix it, but how could he, without crossing some invisible line?

Because pairing himself with you on a case would have been the easiest solution, but he’d never allow himself that.

He never did. He couldn’t. To do so would feel selfish, like he was abusing his authority to serve his own ends… even that thought alone made his stomach churn.

So, instead, he paired you with Reid for geographical profiles or with Rossi in the field, keeping you at a polite, professional distance, telling himself it was better this way.

Telling himself it didn’t matter that you barely spoke to him unless you had to. Telling himself that your sudden carefulness wasn’t personal.

And yet, outside the job, it was a completely different story.

You two had grown closer - seeking each other’s company in ways that felt almost inevitable.

You didn’t plan it, but somehow, you always ended up together. And considering how close you’d already been, it was startling, almost disorienting.

Your shared tragedies should have been the sole reason for it, forging something unshakable, but this… this was different. It was more intimate, more vulnerable.

It felt more… familiar, though with what exactly?

Maybe it was the way you always seemed to gravitate toward each other, how his phone would buzz with a text from you - asking if he had time to grab dinner or if he could help you pick out furniture for your new apartment.

“Don’t worry,” you’d said that morning, flashing him a grin that instantly made him suspicious. “I just need your muscles, not your opinion. Unless you want to tell me I’m wasting money.”

He raised an eyebrow, following you into the store like a man marching to his doom. “You brought me for labor but not to stop you from making bad decisions?”

“Exactly,” you replied, already strolling ahead like you owned the place. “And don’t worry - it’ll take a couple of hours at most.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, letting out a disbelieving laugh. “A couple of hours? Wars have been declared, fought, and peace treaties signed faster than it takes to shop for furniture.”

“What, you think I’m indecisive?” you shot back, turning to face him.

“I know you are,” he replied, his tone flat. “And meticulous, which doesn’t exactly speed things up.”

“Just trust me, Aaron,” you said, your grin widening in a way that felt more like a warning.

Indeed, it didn’t take a couple of hours. It took the entire day.

And by the time you got back to your apartment, he was certain he’d pulled at least three muscles he didn’t even know he had.

“Next time,” Aaron said, panting slightly as he set the box down with a loud thud. “I’m bringing a forklift. Or an entire moving crew.”

“Next time?” you asked innocently, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “You’re already signing up for next time?! That’s so thoughtful, Aaron. Wow, you’re such a friend.”

“You’re lucky I have patience,” he muttered, glaring at the box like it had personally wronged him.

“Patience?” you laughed, crossing your arms. “You were ready to snap at that poor woman asking about the extended warranties!”

“That’s because she asked me six times,” he snapped, the memory still fresh.

“Well,” you said, grinning as you grabbed a water bottle from the counter and handed it to him, “now that torture is over, I think you deserve your prize. I have some office gossip for you.”

Aaron scoffed, took a sip from the bottle and crouched down to unbox the bookshelf. “I don’t care about your office gossip,” he said, his tone betraying none of the interest that actually was bubbling inside of him.

“...You don’t have to stay and build this, you know,” you offered, watching him carefully slide the first plank out of the box. “I’ve already dragged you into enough.”

“I’m staying,” he replied, glancing at you briefly. “I want to help.” Then, after a beat, he added, “So, what were you saying?”

You raised an eyebrow at him, making him regret what he just said. “Oh, so you do want to know?”

“You were going to tell me anyway,” he replied, pretending to be slightly annoyed.

“Well, now I’m not so sure,” you teased, plopping down next to him.

Then it happened.

Your hand reached for the instruction manual at the exact same moment as his, and your fingers brushed briefly. He froze, just for a second.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. No jolt of electricity, no world-tilting moment. Just… a touch.

Ordinary. Mundane.

And yet his brain, apparently bored of rationality, decided to hit pause.

You didn’t even seem to notice, already flipping open the pages of the manual like it was nothing – because it was. Meanwhile, he forced himself back into motion, his hand retreating too quickly as he muttered, “Sorry.”

“For what? Existing?” you quipped, glancing at him with a smirk that teetered on the edge of infuriating. “It’s fine, Aaron. Don’t worry, no need to be so polite.”

Polite. Yes, that’s what he was. Polite.

Not distracted. Not caught off guard. Certainly not anything else.

“It’s not a habit I plan to break,” he replied, his tone as steady as he could manage, focusing intently on pulling out the next piece of wood.

He just needed his personal space. You were close, physically, and his brain had momentarily overreacted. That’s all it was. It wasn’t significant. It wasn’t anything.

“I always forget I’m friends with the Queen of England,” you said, deadpan.

He shot you a flat look, holding up a piece that vaguely resembled part of a shelf. “So - are you actually reading those instructions, or are you just turning pages for fun?”

You squinted at the manual. “I mean… how hard can it be to put a rectangle on top of some other rectangles?”

He gave you a long, unimpressed stare. “…I’ll take that as a no” As usual, you got lost in your thoughts, your half-finished sentences going nowhere - resulting in still no gossip for him.

Thankfully, Aaron was used to that by now.

“So,” he said pointedly, cutting through your ramble, “the gossip you were so desperate to tell me?”

“Right,” you began, leaning in slightly, “I think Garcia and Kevin Lynch are dating.”

Aaron glanced at you, his brow furrowing. “Based on what?”

“Oh, come on, you were the one who planted the seed in my brain!” you said, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You met him first and said they’d be perfect together.”

“I told you they’d get along,” he corrected, his voice calm. “Not that they’d date, it was an observation.”

“Right,” you teased, leaning toward him. “Because Mr. Rulebook doesn’t meddle in office relationships.”

“I don’t,” he replied flatly, though the precision with which he was aligning the screws suggested otherwise.

“But you’re not denying it,” you teased, as you handed him the missing screw to complete his geometrical composition.

He sighed, already regretting the conversation. “Fine. I might have… noticed some things.”

Your eyes widened dramatically. “You’ve been paying attention? To gossip?”

He shot you a look so dry it could’ve absorbed a flood. “Not gossip. I noticed she’s been flirting with Derek over the phone less often in the past couple of weeks.”

You stared at him, probably trying to decide whether to be impressed or amused. “Oh so you do keep track of Penelope’s flirting habits?!”

“It’s hard not to notice, when all of this happens less than five feet away from me” he replied, focusing a little too intently on tightening a bolt. “She used to call him ‘chocolate thunder’ at least twice a day. Now it’s barely once.”

You snorted, clapping a hand over your mouth.

“What? If you’re going to accuse me of gossip, I might as well be thorough.” He frowned, though the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

You burst out laughing, sitting back on your heels. “Oh my God, I knew it. You secretly love this.”

“I don’t love this,” he said firmly, though his tone lacked conviction.

“Sure you don’t,” You smirked, glancing at the instructions and pretending to read them, just enough to give the illusion that you were actually contributing in some meaningful way. “So, what’s your theory? Think they’re dating?”

He shook his head, clearly weighing his words. “If they’re not already, they’re on the verge. Kevin’s nervous around her, and she’s not exactly subtle.”

You grinned, leaning closer. “I knew it! Now admit it, Aaron. You like the drama.”

Aaron sighed, picking up a screwdriver and turning his attention back to the pile of screws, as if sheer focus might absolve him of this entire conversation. “I don’t like the drama,” he said flatly. “I like efficiency. And indulging you in this nonsense means I won’t have to hear about it in bits and pieces over the next week.” 

You gasped, clutching your chest with exaggerated offense. “Nonsense? This is workplace anthropology, Aaron. This is about human behavior, relationships, and the intricate web of connec-” 

“Gossip,” he interrupted dryly, cutting you off mid-monologue. 

You rolled your eyes, but your grin was unrelenting. “You are so reductive. This is about understanding the human condition! Philosophers have been debating the nuances of human relationships for centuries. Aristotle, Plato” 

He glanced up, giving you a look that bordered on skeptical. “If this is about Aristotle and Plato, I’m out of here.” 

“Oh, come on,” you said, nudging his arm. “You’ve read Hegel. You know this stuff!” 

Aaron straightened the piece of wood he was working on, his voice impossibly dry. “I’ve read ‘Hegel for Dummies.’ The most philosophical thing I got from that book was the idea that contradictions eventually balance out.” 

“Exactly!” you said, pointing at him. “Which is why gossip is just the dialectic in action - thesis, antithesis, synthesis. We’re observing interpersonal contradictions and resolving them through discourse. Hegel would be proud.”

“Hegel would ask for his name to be removed from this conversation,” he replied, his tone bone-dry.  

“That’s not true!” you said, laughing. “This is exactly his philosophy. I know him.”

“He’s dead,” Aaron replied.

You froze, your hand hovering over a plank as your face morphed into an expression of exaggerated shock.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to cry because I reminded you he’s been dead for 200 years,” he added, the corners of his lips twitching despite his best efforts to stay serious.

“You’re heartless,” you said, glaring at him dramatically. “I’m grieving, and you’re mocking me.”

“You’re grieving a man you never met,” he pointed out, turning the screwdriver.

“Well, I’m sure we would have been friends,” you said, tilting your chin defiantly. “He would see me for who I truly am. A philosopher. A visionary.”

Aaron snorted quietly, shaking his head. “He’d last five minutes before walking out of the room.”

“Wrong,” you shot back. “He’d last five minutes before asking me to co-author his next book.”

He glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “It’s a shame you weren’t born two centuries earlier. You’d have spared him from obscurity.”

“Yes!” you exclaimed, pointing at him. “Thank you. See, this is why you’re my best friend.”

Aaron stilled, glancing at you briefly before returning his focus to the plank in his hand. “Because I humor your philosophical ramblings?”

“Because your dry humor is just a cover for the fact that you secretly love my ramblings. And I’d say you also agree with some of them.” You corrected, leaning in slightly.

He tightened a bolt, refusing to look up. “You’ve cracked the code. My life’s work of masking my enthusiasm has been undone by your unshakable confidence.”

“You’re so sarcastic,” you replied, grinning. “But seriously, Aaron. You’re the best.”

Before he could respond, you slid your arm around his shoulders in a quick side hug, leaning your head briefly against the curve of his neck.

It was nothing, really, again, just a fleeting gesture, casual. And that’s exactly why it felt so strange. So different.

He stilled, not visibly - at least he hoped not.

It wasn’t like those rare hugs of yours, the ones that seemed to stretch on for hours. This was just a fraction of a second, over before it even began, and yet it lingered, leaving behind a sour taste of wanting.

Maybe that was why it unsettled him. Your relationship didn’t rely on physical contact, it never had. Mostly because he wasn’t the type to invite it. Not intentionally. It just always felt too… intimate. Too exposing. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it - it was just… too much.

Too raw. Too close.

But you didn’t seem to mind. You always knew how to adjust, to make things work between you without pushing too hard or pulling too far.

And still, now once again you pulled back like it was nothing, grinning as though the moment hadn’t shifted anything at all.

That’s what got to him, he realized. The ease with which you could offer something like that and let it go, as though it didn’t mean anything. He envied it.

Jealousy, he thought, was too strong a word. Or maybe it wasn’t.

“But I’ll never be Hegel,” he said finally, his tone dry, laced with irony as he reached for the next piece of wood.

You blinked at him, tilting your head like he’d just said something utterly ridiculous. “Aaron Hotchner,” you began, your tone a mix of exasperation and fondness, “you’re better than Hegel.”

He glanced at you briefly, his expression somewhere between skeptical and resigned. “Oh please don’t you start.”

“I mean it,” you insisted, sitting up straighter, your grin turning softer. “He might’ve been a genius, but you’re… well, you’re you. Thoughtful. Smart. Kind. You’re my best friend, and I wouldn’t trade you for any dead philosopher.”

As much as he tried to act like he was above it, like he didn’t need the reassurance, he couldn’t deny how heartwarming it was to hear those kinds of words. Cheesy as they were. Deep down, he was a sentimental man, after all.

And so he sighed, but the small smile tugging at his lips probably betrayed him. “Could you please just hand me the next piece before this takes another century?”

“Anything for you, Queen of England,” you teased, passing him the next piece with an exaggerated flourish.

He gave you a look, the kind that said he was both exasperated and quietly amused. “Thank you,” he said, his voice dry but undeniably softer.

“Anytime, Your Majesty,” you replied, grinning as you reached back for the instruction manual. “Now, what’s next? Philosophical insights on brackets?”

“Just read the instructions.” He had just aligned another plank and was reaching for a screw when the sharp knock at the door interrupted the quiet rhythm of assembling furniture.

He froze, mid-motion, and then glanced at you. “That’s Mrs. Lee,” he muttered, already resigned.

Of course, it was Mrs. Lee.

She lived across the hall and seemed to have an uncanny ability to sense whenever he was over. In her late seventies, retired, widowed, and far too invested in both your lives, she had made it her unofficial mission to drop in with sweets every time Aaron was around.

Coincidentally, these sweets only ever appeared when he happened to stay over, as though he were the primary recipient and you were just a necessary middleman.

Well, it wasn’t exactly true - she adored you - but it was clear where did her preference lay.

Mrs. Lee, as Aaron had come to learn, was an enthusiastic watcher of outdated rom-coms, a self-proclaimed expert on “young love” - a category she had prematurely placed you and him into - and an avid admirer of “handsome men in suits.”

Naturally, she adored him.

You, softhearted as ever, had figured out early on that Mrs. Lee was lonely. So you occasionally let her hang out in your living room. She’d settle onto your couch with her movies, chatting about her glory days while Aaron begrudgingly assembled whatever piece of furniture you’d roped him into.

It had become a tradition he hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t seem to escape. And so the knock came again, more insistent this time.

“You want to get that?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

You grinned, tossing the instruction manual aside. “Of course. It’s probably for you anyway.”

Aaron sighed as you opened the door, revealing Mrs. Lee in all of her five-foot glory, holding some freshly baked pie.

“Hi, sweetheart,” came the familiar greeting, warm and affectionate as always. Then her eyes landed on Aaron, and her grin widened to near cartoonish proportions. “Oh, Aaron! I knew you’d be here.”

He glanced up briefly, bracing himself. “Good evening, Mrs. Lee.”

“I brought some blueberry pie,” she announced proudly, stepping inside and placing it on your counter. “I know how much you like blueberries, Aaron.”

He blinked, momentarily thrown. “How do you-”

“Oh, you just strike me as someone with good taste,” she interrupted as she made herself comfortable on your couch.

You turned to him, barely concealing your grin. “I think she’d be a great profiler.”

He agreed.

“Mrs. Lee, if only we weren’t already overstaffed, I’d hire you right away,” Aaron replied, his polite tone perfectly measured.

“Oh, Aaron dear,” Mrs. Lee cooed, waving her hand as though batting away a compliment, “you’re so kind. But I could never work at a job with a boss as handsome as you. I’d be far too distracted just watching you talk.”

Aaron froze, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled the t-shirt he was wearing.

“How do you work with him every day, sweetheart?” Mrs. Lee asked you, her tone conspiratorial.

You laughed, leaning back. “Oh, it’s easy. I just remind myself that under the suits, he’s really just a big softie.”

Aaron shot you a pointed look, his voice deadpan. “Not helping.”

Mrs. Lee giggled as she made herself comfortable on the couch, clearly entertained. “So, what’s today’s project?”

“Bookshelf,” you replied, gesturing toward the pile of wood and screws scattered across the floor.

Aaron frowned at the chaos. If it could even be called a bookshelf, it certainly didn’t look like one yet.

“It’s a bookshelf,” you insisted, catching the look he was giving it. “It’ll look better once you stop glaring at it and we actually continue working on it.”

“You’ll forgive me for not being optimistic,” Aaron muttered, crouching down to inspect the mess.

Mrs. Lee immediately chimed in, turning to you. “Oh, don’t listen to him, sweetheart,” she said, waving you off. “I’m sure it’ll be beautiful once it’s done. You two always make such a good team.”

Aaron sighed, already resigned to the commentary. “We’re not a team. I’m the one building this thing while she-”

“Supervises,” you interrupted brightly, leaning over to grab a stray screw. “You’re muscles and I’m brain, don’t forget about it.”

Mrs. Lee clapped her hands together in delight. “Oh, it’s just like my Charles and me! I’d dream up all sorts of projects, and he’d grumble the whole time but do them anyway. That’s how you know it’s love.”

Aaron froze mid-turn of his screwdriver, he glanced up. “We’re friends, Mrs. Lee,” he said firmly, keeping his voice as even as possible, though the comparison to her late husband didn’t exactly sit comfortably.

Mrs. Lee just laughed. “Oh, shoosh, Aaron, really, you’re exactly like my Charles,” she said, her tone fond but pointed. “Too serious, too practical. All logic. He was a lawyer, you know.”

Lawyer. Ha.

Weird how the coincidences had a way of piling up like bricks whenever Mrs. Lee was around.

Before he could deflect, you jumped in, far too quick for his liking. “Well, that must be fate! Mrs. Lee, did I ever mention that Aaron used to be a prosecutor before he joined the FBI?”

Her gasp was so loud it startled him. For a moment, Aaron thought she might drop her pie.

“A prosecutor? You?” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together as though she’d just unearthed some life-altering revelation. “Oh, Aaron, that is just too perfect. And I bet you were ruthless in the courtroom, weren’t you?”

Aaron opened his mouth to respond, but the words barely made it out. “Mrs. Lee, I-”

“Don’t be modest, dear,” she interrupted, brandishing her fork like it was a judge’s gavel. “I can just picture it - some poor defense attorney sweating buckets while you paced the courtroom like a lion on the hunt” She paused dramatically, then added an actual ‘rawr’ for emphasis, because apparently, the imagery wasn’t enough. “My, my, my. You must’ve been a sight to behold.”

Aaron rubbed the back of his neck, wishing desperately for the bookshelf to magically assemble itself so he could escape the conversation.

“You should’ve told me this sooner!” Mrs. Lee continued, turning to you as if you’d kept some scandalous secret from her. “I bet all those courtroom skills come in handy now, don’t they? You must be able to intimidate anyone with just one look.” She squinted the best she could, doing what Aaron assumed was her impression of his so-called “serious face”.

You laughed, nudging him playfully with your elbow. “She’s not wrong, you know. The Hotch Stare has probably solved more cases than our actual profiles.”

Aaron turned to you, leveling you with the exact look you were referring to - but the effect was slightly ruined by the warmth creeping up his neck, spreading to his cheeks. He could feel it, much to his dismay, and he looked away quickly, clearing his throat.

“The bookshelf,” he said dryly, but the flush in his face betrayed him entirely, and he knew it. Damn it.

You bit your lip, trying - and failing - to suppress a grin. “You’re blushing,” you pointed out.

“Oh, don’t tease him too much,” Mrs. Lee said, her grin widening as she leaned forward. “He’s probably shy. Aren’t you, Aaron?”

He didn’t need to look in a mirror to know the flush had deepened. Great. Now he was even redder. Wonderful.

“Extremely,” he replied deadpan, tightening the bolt in front of him with more focus than necessary, trying to ground himself in the mechanics of the bookshelf rather than the conversation swirling around him.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his failed attempt to use sarcasm. “Don’t worry,” you said with a smile that was far too fond for his peace of mind. “It's actually very cute when you blush.”

Aaron froze. No, no, no.

That was not something he was prepared to handle. He was already red, that much he knew - but now? Now, he could feel it spreading like wildfire.

He cleared his throat, his fingers tightening around the screwdriver with more force than necessary. “I don’t think that’s the kind of feedback the instruction manual had in mind,” he said dryly, though his voice wavered just enough to betray him.

You laughed again, soft and warm, and it only made things worse.

“Oh, come on,” you teased, leaning forward just slightly, your grin far too mischievous for his peace of mind. “You can’t possibly hate a compliment that much.”

“I don’t hate it,” he countered quickly, almost too quickly, still refusing to meet your eyes. “I just don’t think it’s relevant to… this.” He gestured vaguely at the bookshelf, hoping the movement would divert some of the attention away from his face.

He never thought he’d see the day when he’d be genuinely grateful for Mrs. Lee to launch into another one of her stories, but here he was. Apparently, miracles did happen. She’d managed to cut through your conversation, sparing him from further embarrassment.

“You two remind me so much of me and my Charles,” she said, a nostalgic sigh punctuating her words. “We teased each other constantly too. Oh, he’d look at me with those serious eyes of his and say, ‘You’re impossible, Sharon.’ Every single time.”

Aaron glanced up, her voice the reminder that, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, his heart wasn’t made of stone. Far from it, in fact.

“And I’d tell him, ‘No, Charles, you’re boring,’” she added with a chuckle. “And oh, the arguments we’d have! But they were the best arguments, you know? The kind that keep you sharp. Keep you… alive.”

Mrs. Lee’s expression softened, her smile turning bittersweet. “We got married after four months of knowing each other,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Fifty-two years of marriage. It wasn’t always easy, but I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.  And I still miss him every single day.”

He was lucky enough to know what love felt like, but he could only hope to be as fortunate as her, to know what it felt like for a love like that to last even half as long.

He didn’t dare look at you. He already knew you’d give her that soft, understanding smile you always did.

“Some people are just meant to be, aren’t they?” you said, your voice quiet but carrying the kind of certainty that made it feel like a universal truth.

“Wise words, dear.” But then she grinned suddenly, the mischievous sparkle returning to her eyes. “Still, he was a pain in the ass sometimes. Wouldn’t let me watch ‘The Love Boat’ as much as I wanted. So, you know what? Fuck him.”

Aaron blinked, srprised. He caught the way your mouth twitched before you burst into laughter, and he shook his head, half-amused, half-incredulous.

“Mrs. Lee,” he said, his voice flat, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

As you handed him another piece of wood, Mrs. Lee leaned forward. “Speaking of love,” she began, her tone dangerously casual as she turned to you, “Sweetheart, don’t be shy about asking me to turn off my hearing aid tonight… you know, if the two of you need to unleash all that stress. Especially you Aaron, you need to loosen up.”

Aaron froze, screwdriver slipping slightly in his hand.

What?

Both of you blinked, eyes wide, before instinctively turning to each other to confirm if you’d just heard the same thing - or if it was some bizarre, shared hallucination. Then, in perfect sync, you turned back toward Mrs. Lee.

She was grinning, eyebrows raised expectantly, as if she’d just offered you an excellent tip on couponing and was waiting for your gratitude.

Oh, so she’s serious…

“Mrs. Lee,” you managed finally, your voice shaking with suppressed laughter, “what on earth makes you think we need to, um… ‘unleash’ anything?”

She raised an eyebrow, looking far too pleased with herself. “Oh, honey, I’ve been around. I notice things. It’s been a tough week for you at the BAU, hasn’t it? All those cases piling up. All that stress. I can see it.”

Aaron set down the screwdriver, his jaw tightening. “How do you even know what kind of week it’s been?”

Mrs. Lee sat back, crossing her arms like she’d been waiting for the question. “I know everything, dear. I have contacts.”

Aaron exchanged a look with you, utterly baffled. “Contacts?”

She nodded sagely, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “I play bridge with a lady from the FBI cleaning staff. Lovely woman. You know… we simply talk.”

He couldn’t exactly fire the entire cleaning staff over this… but, for a fleeting moment, the thought had crossed his mind. Maybe just reassignments.

Practical. Strategic. Manageable.

But then the mental image of the inevitable paperwork reared its ugly head, and his idyllic fantasy died a quick and unceremonious death.

He’d just have to endure this one bookshelf and hope Mrs. Lee didn’t decide to take up poker with the IT department next. The idea of Garcia and Mrs. Lee joining forces was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat.

Mrs. Lee twirled her fork between the two of you, her grin devious. “And I also know you’ve been pushing yourselves too hard with all those late nights. That’s why I’m saying… you should just do it. Trust me, it works wonders.”

Oh, he knew. He definitely knew. You’d both made that mistake once. But no - never again. Absolutely not.

“Mrs. Lee,” he said evenly, “I don’t think this conversation is appropriate.”

“Oh, Aaron, don’t be such a prude,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Just fuck and then you’ll thank me.”

Charles was right, she really was impossible.

He turned to you, half-expecting to see the same look of disbelief mirrored on your face.

But instead, what he got the moment your eyes met was worse - infinitely worse.

You laughed. A real, unfiltered laugh, bubbling up and spilling over as though the absurdity of everything had finally caught up to you.

The sound was so unexpected, so you, that he couldn’t help it. That was it. A chuckle escaped him before he could stop it, and then another.

God help him, he was laughing too. Unguarded. He could feel it, the exasperation, but also something almost electric, different.

That feeling. That lightness.

When was the last time he’d felt that?

---

1998.

Aaron Hotchner liked to think of himself as a rational man.

A man who could look a brutal truth in the face without flinching, who could hold himself together when the world around him was falling apart. He prided himself on composure, on logic, on not succumbing to the whims of emotion.

But apparently, all it took to unravel that carefully cultivated persona was you showing up in a miniskirt and lace tights.

Really? A miniskirt? This was what undid him?

Not an unsub with a gun, not the horrors of the job… no, it was a skirt that wasn’t even all that short.

It was the perfect length, actually - tasteful, stopping just above the knee, not too long, not too short. The kind of length that somehow drove him to the brink because it hinted at more without being too much.

Perfect.

Why was he even thinking about the length of your skirt?

He was a grown man with a law degree, a rising star at the BAU, and yet here he was, mentally cataloging the specific placement of a hemline like some Victorian prude scandalized by the sight of a woman’s ankle.

It wasn’t like he’d never seen legs before.

Everyone had legs. He’d seen hundreds of them. Thousands. He even had his own pair of legs, for God’s sake.

And yet, here he was, sitting across from you, hyper-fixating on the floral lace pattern winding up your tights - roses, specifically - and spiraling into thoughts so unholy that he half-considered ordering another drink just to drown his embarrassment.

It didn’t help that you’d picked a rose-scented perfume to complete the ensemble, as if you weren’t already doing enough damage.

Subtle but it hung in the air every time you shifted in your seat or leaned forward, wrapping itself around him like it was mocking his rapidly dwindling self-control.

Forget a taunt - this was an ambush, and he wasn’t sure he’d survive the assault without visibly combusting.

Fantastic. Death by roses. How poetic.

And as if the scent alone weren’t enough, his brain - traitorous thing that it was - kept linking it back to the roses on your tights.

It was as if fate had decided he wasn’t already pathetic enough, so it hit him with a one-two punch of matching visuals and aromas, because God forbid he forget for even a second where else he’d seen roses tonight.

Seriously? Did you want him to lose the last shred of dignity he had left? Of course not, you were oblivious to the chaos you’d wrought. Blissfully unaware.

And now he was mentally punching himself for being this ridiculous. He was better than this... he had to be.

So he told himself it was nothing. Just surprise, that’s all. He was simply adjusting to seeing you out of your usual loose-fitting work pants, a new variable.

Of course, that’s it. A new variable. Totally normal reaction.

And yet, despite all his internal lectures, he couldn’t stop his thoughts from spiraling every time his gaze drifted south, the delicate floral patterns climbing up your legs in a way that was almost cruelly mesmerizing.

And why was he even thinking the word “mesmerizing”? It was fabric. Just fabric.

He tried to justify it - he was just being thorough. After all, he was a trained investigator. Thoroughness was part of the job. He definitely wasn’t looking because the curve of your legs had rendered him incapable of rational thought.

He’d just wanted to make sure you still had both legs. That’s all.

Limbs accounted for, Agent, move on.

Except, of course, he couldn’t move on. Not technically. His brain had a knack for circling back to things - moments, words, details he should’ve let go of but couldn’t seem to shake.

This time, it was a few days ago. The way you’d casually invited him out tonight, as if it were nothing. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like that’s just what friends do. Because, apparently, that’s what you were - friends.

Never mind that your so-called friendship was still in its embryonic stages. Never mind that you’d somehow managed to completely upend his world with one offhanded sentence.

“Mind joining me for a couple of drinks on Friday?” you’d said, so effortlessly it was almost infuriating.

Friday. Your day off.

The one day of the week you didn’t see each other.

You were asking to see him again on the only day you didn’t have to.

What were you doing to him?

Did it mean you actually wanted to spend time with him? Someone boring like him - not out of necessity, not because you were stuck at work or chasing down leads, but because you wanted to?

Why would you?

Why would someone as amazing, competent, smart, beautiful, and funny as you - someone who wore lace tights and a miniskirt on their Fridays off, and yes, Aaron, circling back to that again, apparently - want to spend time with him?

Bland. Broken. Overworked. With a sense of humor so dry even he didn’t fully understand it half the time.

And yet, before he could fully process what was happening, he’d agreed to your request... of course he had.

Because what was the alternative?

Spending yet another Friday night alone, replaying the worst parts of the week in his head?

Trying to convince himself that bad takeout and reruns of movies as old as you were somehow counted as "self-care"?

Going out with other colleagues and getting lost in the noise of too many conversations, only to utter a grand total of four sentences all night and come home feeling even worse?

Or…this. You.

Sitting across from him, lighting up the entire room with another absurdly entertaining story, because the universe had somehow decided you were its favorite magnet for chaos.

It wasn’t fair how easily you turned misfortune into something bordering on comedy gold, but he wasn’t complaining. He wasn’t even sure how you’d gotten here, exactly.

One moment, he’d managed to summon the courage to ask what you’d done on your day off - a monumental feat, as far as he was concerned - and the next, you were recounting it with the kind of unrestrained enthusiasm that could make a trip to the post office sound riveting.

Because, of course, you - a federal agent with an inexplicable knack for philosophical musings and a seemingly endless need to keep busy - had spent your day off at a flea market.

Except, as soon as you mentioned which market, his stomach dropped like a stone.

That place? That wasn’t a flea market - that was where good judgment went to die.

He’d made the mistake to even voice it out loud, so here it came. That spark in your eyes, the one that always appeared when you decided to mount your intellectual soapbox to prove him wrong. “Do you even know the history of that area?”

He blinked, halfway through lifting his glass, because no, he didn’t.

Maybe he did that to himself because straight up asking it wouldn’t make you raise your brows in such a disarming way when you voiced you facts.

And the words you used? Completely disarming. Most of them sounded like they’d been plucked straight from some forgotten 19th-century manuscript, one that had probably been touched by a handful of scholars and a few unlucky grad students. Words no one in casual conversation would ever use - except you.

Who even talked like that?

And, God, why was that so damn attractive?

It wasn’t like he was unfamiliar with big words - he was a lawyer by training, after all. He’d spent years with his nose buried in legal jargon and Latin phrases. He shouldn’t be so affected by vocabulary.

But what probably didn’t help was the fact that he was a history nerd. A big one.

He prided himself on knowing every obscure fact there was to know about Washington - dates, places, people. He could rattle them off in his sleep. And yet, you’d managed to pull out something he’d never heard before.

That was probably why now he was clinging to every word - because, naturally, you’d managed to hit his competitive streak, too... you just had to outdo him, didn’t you?!

He should say something to prove he wasn’t completely in the dark. Maybe casually mention that he used to collect coins as a kid.

But no. He wasn’t going to tell you that.

Not because it wasn’t true - it was, and he still did it sometimes, if he found one interesting enough - but because the second those words left his mouth, you’d know exactly what kind of loser he really was.

And what was worse? You’d probably tease him for it. Which, honestly, was the last thing he needed.

Or maybe the first. Hell, he didn’t know anymore.

“You’re really pulling out Reconstruction history to convince me it’s a flea market?” he said finally, lifting his glass to his lips in a poor attempt to hide the smile threatening to betray him.

“Yes,” you said simply, leaning back and crossing your arms with an air of victorious confidence. "Because it is a flea market. The absence of your knowledge does not negate its existence."

Aaron bit the inside of his cheek harder this time, half to keep from smiling and half to stop his brain from melting entirely.

God, you were insufferable. And brilliant. And - he really hated himself for thinking this - beautiful.

He could easily argue back.

He could tell you the truth - that the place you went to had devolved into anything but a market. That it was the kind of place he would’ve chased down suspects, not strolled through on a lazy afternoon.

But then you said the phrase “integral point of trade,” and Aaron swore he nearly choked on his drink. He busied himself taking another sip, just to avoid staring at you any longer.

He sighed softly, just enough to get you to glance at him. “What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes like you were daring him to say something contradictory.

Aaron shook his head, leaning an elbow against the table as he set down his glass. “Nothing,” he said smoothly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a twitch. “I’m just impressed.”

Your brow furrowed slightly, clearly suspicious. “Impressed?”

“Mm-hmm.” He tilted his head, pretending to scrutinize you. "With how effortlessly you’ve managed to transform a casual conversation into a dissertation defense."

The look you gave him was preciously smug. “You’re just jealous you didn’t know any of this.”

Jealous? No… yes, kind of.

Bewildered? Yes.

Smitten?  Absolutely.

But Aaron - trained professional, seasoned profiler, master of keeping things close to his chest - only picked up his drink again, hiding behind its edge as he muttered, “Sure. We’ll go with that.”

He let you have this one.

You looked far too pleased with yourself, your lips curved just slightly, your chin lifted like a challenge. It was a rare thing to see you so smugly triumphant, and as much as he wanted to argue - to win - he couldn’t bring himself to ruin it.

You’d never know that, technically, you were the one who was wrong. And that was fine.

Because if you knew, you wouldn’t be rambling so happily about your day, weaving it together with that unrestrained enthusiasm that made every mundane detail sound like it was something crucial.

You were, in a word, adorable.

The kind of adorable that made him laugh - not the polite, carefully curated chuckle he usually offered, but a real, startled laugh that felt foreign in his chest, like dusting off an old, forgotten relic.

The kind of adorable that came with you talking with your entire body, hands darting through the air as though you were trying to physically sculpt the story from nothing.

And somehow, Aaron found himself hanging on every word.

Even when the plot made no sense. Even when the punchline was nowhere in sight.

Adorable. Absolutely maddening. But utterly, ridiculously adorable.

And God, he was so completely smitten with you it was almost embarassing.

“…and then, as if the day couldn’t get worse, this guy completely cuts me off at the table. Like, who does that? It was so rude!” you said, your hands gesturing wildly and accidentally knocking the edge of the salt shaker.

He caught it just before it toppled and set it back in its place.

Oh, how you talked.

If Aaron was someone who overthought everything, you were someone who overtalked.

It was a paradox, really. You knew more languages than anyone he’d ever met. You were a genius, with a vocabulary so vast it could send people running for dictionaries. And yet, somehow, synthesis wasn’t in your lexicon.

You could spend twenty minutes setting up a punchline for a story that should’ve taken two, and he never minded.

You were recounting your flea market disaster like it was the most thrilling adventure, and of course, you weren’t just telling him. No, that wouldn’t be enough for you. You had to make him see it, live it, feel it the way you had.

“Wait, Hotch, you’re not getting it,” you’d said, your tone urgent, like it was a matter of life and death. And then, without warning, you grabbed his hand.

His heart did something humiliating - a stutter, a skip, whatever it was, it made him feel ridiculous.

Like a teenager with a crush. Which, of course, he wasn’t. He was a grown man. A rational man. One who should’ve been able to handle something as simple as you taking his hand to demonstrate a story.

But no.

You pressed his hand flat against the table, arranging his fingers like they were vital props in your reenactment. “This is the table,” you said with all the seriousness in the world, completely oblivious to the fact that you’d just stolen another year of his life with that one touch.

Your hands were on his.

Aaron Hotchner: a sheep in his nursery school Christmas recital, Pirate Number Four in his high school production of The Pirates of Penzance, and now - a table. A progression so absurd it might have made him laugh if he weren’t so desperately trying to breathe.

Stay calm, Hotchner. It’s just a table.

He should have felt ridiculous. Sitting there, his hand splayed out, but instead, all he could think about was how hollow his hand would feel the second you let go.

You had no idea, of course.

Oblivious to the fact that his brain was screaming at him to pull it together while simultaneously begging you to never stop touching him.

“And this is me,” you said, gesturing to yourself with your free hand.

Still, all he could think about now was the warmth of your hand on his, the way your fingers fit so easily against his own.

It’s a table, Hotchner, again. Just a table. Don’t lose your mind over a damn table.

“And this - oh, wait, I need something-” you said, pulling your hand away to grab the salt shaker, and in that instant, you proved his theory correct: his hand felt utterly and painfully empty without yours.

The salt shaker landed beside his hand, completing your bizarre little scene. “This is him,” you declared, as if it all made perfect sense.

“Salt shaker guy. Got it,” he said, his voice steadier now that you weren’t touching him.

You shot him a look. “Don’t make fun of the salt shaker. He’s pivotal to the story.”

He almost laughed at himself, for sitting there like a lovesick fool, hanging on your every word and praying for an excuse for you to touch him again.

Put them back. Please, for the love of God, put them back.

And then, as if you’d heard his silent plea, you reached for his hand once more, rearranging it.

Perfectionist. Adorable perfectionist.

“So,” you said leaning closer, “I’m here, looking at this table, minding my own business, when this guy” - you gestured to the salt shaker - “just swoops in out of nowhere and starts taking things. Like blatantly stealing!”

You were still holding his hand, your thumb brushing against his as you were, recounting how the ‘suspect’ had made off with a brass dolphin statue, of all things.

“A dolphin,” he’d said, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.

“Yes, Hotch, a dolphin. It was hideous, and I needed it,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him like he was the one who’d stolen it.

“And then - get this - the guy starts knocking over everything. A lamp falls, hits the table, and it all comes down.” you said, grabbing his other hand. Both of his hands now in yours. He was gone. Absolutely gone.

You continued “So - what am I supposed to do?” You looked at him expectantly, clearly waiting for his answer. Because, naturally, that’s what questions are for.

He straightened up slightly, clearing his throat. “You called the police because you’re FBI and have no jurisdiction-”

“I arrested him,” you interjected with flair, as if this were the most logical and inevitable conclusion. “Citizens’ arrest, it was humiliating. There was a crowd. They were staring. I had no choice. Society would crumble if we let salt shakers like him run wild.”

Aaron shook his head, his lips twitching as he fought off a grin. “And what? You read him his rights?!”

You adorably groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Worse - I might have told him, ‘Sir, drop the dolphin.’”

That was it. He lost it.

His laugh erupted, loud and unrestrained, turning heads at the bar. A few strangers even chuckled along, unaware of the joke, but Aaron didn’t care. He couldn’t stop.

For a man who lived by control, it should have been unsettling - the way he couldn’t rein himself in, the way his body betrayed him with laughter that felt too big, too loud.

But it wasn’t, not with you.

Because you’d managed to do what no one else could: make him forget himself. Make him let go.

And so he did.

His mind drifted away, pulled by a current he couldn’t control.

Aaron blinked, the memory of your hands on his burning his skin like an old scar. For a moment, he was back there: you across the table, reenacting the chaotic events of a flea market fiasco with a salt shaker and his hands, the sound of your laughter ringing in his ears.

But then the world shifted.

The small table stretched, the edges elongating, growing wider and longer until it wasn’t just the two of you anymore. The air thickened, filled with louder sounds - voices, overlapping conversations, a cacophony of presence.

This wasn’t 1998 anymore.

Now, the long table was crowded.

JJ sat at one end of the long table, her hand lightly resting on a glass of water as she laughed at something Penelope had said, her cheeks slightly flushed.

Whatever they were talking about, Aaron couldn’t quite make out - though the dramatic hand flails and an occasional squeal from Penelope made it clear it was probably something absurd.

On the closer side of the table, however, the conversation was significantly… less wholesome.

Next to JJ, Emily leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her face shifting between disgust and reluctant amusement, like she couldn’t quite decide whether to roll her eyes or encourage it.

Across from him, Derek grinned like a man who knew exactly what he was doing, his hands moving in exaggerated, circular motions that left no room for interpretation.

It was amazing, really.

When these two were this animated, it was either because they were dissecting some niche crime novel they’d both read or... this.

“And I’m telling you,” Derek declared, spreading his hands wide, “they were this big. Unreal, man. You’d have to see it to believe it - the biggest pair of - ”

“Boobs, Derek?” Emily cut in, raising an eyebrow so sharp it could’ve sliced through his bravado. “Subtle. Really. I’m impressed by your dedication to being as respectful as a middle schooler on spring break.”

Derek leaned forward, his grin turning downright wicked. “Oh, please, Em. Don’t even try it. I’ve seen you straight-up melt over a girl in a button-down. Subtle ain’t exactly your thing either.”

Emily rolled her eyes, taking a deliberate sip of her drink before setting it down with a smirk. “First of all, button-downs are hot. Second of all, mind your business, Morgan.” She leaned back in her chair. “At least I’m not out here narrating a National Geographic special on boobs. Talk about subtle.”

And then there was Spencer.

Of course, Spencer. Talking fast - too fast - gesturing wildly as he rattled off some philosophical theory that had to involve at least three different German philosophers whose names Aaron couldn’t spell, let alone pronounce.

And you.

Sitting at Aaron’s left, your hands flitted into Spencer’s space every other second, countering his arguments with rapid-fire points that seemed to form their own language.

Aaron caught maybe a couple of words out of every ten.

Something about Nietzsche. No, wait - you hated Nietzsche. Kierkegaard? Possibly.

Honestly, it could have been both. Or neither. For all he knew, you were inventing philosophers now just to keep the conversation interesting.

The two of you had been talking nonstop for the past hours - since the moment you boarded the jet. It had gone on so long, so consistently, that the noise was no longer conversation but had evolved into a kind of background static.

The rest of the team had tuned it out completely, treating your relentless back-and-forth as white noise punctuated by occasional bursts of excitement whenever one of you discovered a particularly “thrilling” point.

...thrilling for you, anyway.

Aaron was fairly certain no one else on the jet had ever found Kant ‘thrilling’ - at best, just a dead guy with a vaguely suggestive name that occasionally got a laugh.

It stung a little, though, when Aaron thought about how the team had spent a good portion of that time joking about you and Spencer - probably their way of coping with the relentless noise of your debates.

“Okay, seriously,” JJ had groaned at one point. “when we get to the bar tonight, they are sitting at a separate table. I can’t handle this anymore. And with alcohol involved? Forget it. My brain will shut down.”

Emily, sitting across from her, smirked. “Oh, come on, JJ. Don’t you want to learn about something completely useless while sipping a margarita? Could be fun.”

JJ shot her a look. “Pass.”

“We could all sit together at first and then just sneak off,” Derek said, leaning back in his chair with a self-satisfied grin. “Teach and Pretty Boy probably wouldn’t even notice… you know what they say - philosophy’s the language of loooove,” he added in a sing-song tone, waggling his eyebrows.

Penelope, who had been giggling quietly behind her hand, finally chimed in. “Aw, like two adorable little nerdy lovebirds. It’s so sweet!”

Lovebirds. Aaron’s jaw tightened as he stared straight ahead.

They were joking, of course. Obviously. There was no way they actually thought you and Spencer could be a thing. Relationships at work were strictly forbidden, after all.

It was in the rules.

Not that Aaron was thinking about relationships. That would be absurd.

It wouldn’t work - not because he didn’t like Spencer. Hell, Spencer was practically his first child. But the idea of you and Spencer together? It just didn’t make sense.

Sure he was brilliant, compassionate, genuine - all the qualities anyone could ask for. But Spencer wasn’t… well...

He just wasn’t for you.

Not that Aaron knew what your type even was. It wasn’t as if he’d spent the better part of a decade cataloging your preferences. That would be ridiculous.

But he did know one thing - you liked clever people. And Spencer was clever. A genius. Of course, it made perfect sense to everyone else that you’d be potentially a good match. Didn’t it?!

And what about him?

Aaron felt like he was drowning.

The table was alive with energy, with three conversations firing off simultaneously. And Aaron sat in the middle of it all, the only one not speaking.

Still, he absorbed it all: every word, every shift in tone, every burst of laughter. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t interject, even when he had something to say.

He just listened.

He wished he could do more than that. He wished people could see that he cared, that he was invested in what they were saying, even if his quiet nods and glances didn’t scream it like everyone else’s chatter did.

Because that was the thing about Aaron: listening came naturally to him. Reacting? That was harder.

He watched as Penelope exclaimed, “No way!” her hands flying up dramatically, her voice a beacon of enthusiasm. JJ chimed in with a soft “Really?” that pulled everyone into her orbit for just a second. Derek countered with a smug remark that had Emily rolling her eyes, but even she couldn’t suppress a grin.

And Aaron? Aaron just sat there, absorbing it all while his voice disappeared.

An hour could slip by without him saying a word, until someone finally remembered he was even there.

And that was the irony of it all: he was probably the most physically imposing person at the table, but his silence erased him. The conversation moved forward, leaving him stranded somewhere back in the past topic, unheard and unnoticed.

Most of the time, he didn’t mind. He didn’t need to be the center of attention, didn’t crave the spotlight - not here, not after a long day of being the Unit Chief.

But when he did notice? It hit him like a freight train.

Suddenly, he became hyper-aware of everything. The way his arms rested awkwardly on the table. The position of his hands. The stiffness of his posture. The sheer weight of his silence.

He felt out of place. Like a ghost at his own table.

Aaron shifted in his seat, stimming with his fingers - a small movement, but one that betrayed his discomfort. He glanced at the others, wondering if anyone had noticed, if anyone might throw him a lifeline.

But the table buzzed on, oblivious.

It started to sting when Aaron realized no one had asked him a question in the last 45 minutes.

He sat there, at the table with his team, feeling like a ghost at his own gathering. The laughter and voices surrounded him, a cacophony of sound that made it impossible to pinpoint one conversation from the next. He could barely hear himself think, and yet, inside his own head was where he remained, trapped, desperately wanting to be part of the moment but unsure how to step back into the light.

There’s a theory that says you don’t exist unless someone calls and you respond.

So there was light.

A warm touch of a hand on his left shoulder.

Aaron froze.

And then, it happened. Finally, a question. At him.

“So, are you going to New York tomorrow?” you asked, your hand still resting on his shoulder.

He hesitated for a second, as if needing to confirm that you were actually speaking to him. But the look in your eyes, the way they searched his, and the slight tilt of your head in his direction were more than enough to prove that you were.

It was strange. He wasn’t really used to being addressed like this in group settings - directly, personally. When people spoke to him, it was always about work, requests to stretch the days off into a long weekend, or about Jack, asking if he’d seen him recently.

No, he hadn’t. Not really.

He’d seen Jack about a month ago for barely a minute. He’d been asleep. Aaron had only gone to Jessica’s house because he’d needed to, after the worst case he’d handled all year.

Even now, guilt lingered for intruding like that, for being selfish enough to need that quiet moment, and it only deepened when questions like those came up, pulling him back to what he hadn’t done, to who he hadn’t been.

And yet, no one ever asked him about that. About him.

The questions were always for Hotch the Unit Chief or Aaron the dad. They were never about just Aaron.

“I-I don’t know yet,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. He half-expected you to nod politely and return to your conversation with Spencer. But you didn’t... why?

“What play were you planning to see?” you asked, your voice soft but curious, as though the answer genuinely mattered to you.

He paused, caught off guard by the question. He wasn’t sure why you even bothered. You knew next to nothing about musical theatre - less than he knew about philosophy, and that was saying something.

Because, if he were honest, he probably knew more about musical theatre than you did about philosophy. And you had a PhD in philosophy. Every paper you’d ever published had some philosophical angle, every argument you made seemed rooted in it. Hell, your mind practically breathed in philosophy. But musical theatre? That was his realm.

He wasn’t just an occasional fan - he was a theatre nerd, borderline obsessive. The kind of person who read scripts for fun, hummed overtures from shows no one else remembered, and had opinions on whether revivals ever truly lived up to the originals.

So why did this simple question throw him? Why did it feel like there was a weight behind it he couldn’t quite place? Maybe because you didn’t know that about him - not yet, at least.

Sure, you knew he loved musical theatre - which, honestly, was already an achievement. He rarely felt safe enough to share that detail with anyone. You knew he made it a point to see a Broadway play every time he was in New York.

But the rest? The details? Those he never shared. Not with you, not with anyone.

You didn’t know how often he went back to see the same shows, over and over again, as if they were old friends waiting to welcome him home.

Or how much he cherished the intimacy of tiny off-Broadway productions - the kind performed in spaces that barely qualified as theatres, where the air buzzed with raw, electric talent.

And he wasn’t sure how to tell you all of that without sounding like… well, like him.

Aaron Hotchner: Unit Chief. Father. Theatre Nerd.

“I haven’t really decided yet,” Aaron began, the words tumbling out faster than he intended. “But I’ve been thinking about catching this play. The original cast is coming back for a limited run this month to celebrate the anniversary… it’s kind of a big thing.”

What the fuck had he just said?

He sounded like one of those pretentious purists who thought only the original cast could do a show justice - the kind of person who wrote overly passionate forum posts about “artistic integrity.”

The same kind of person, ironically, he’d wasted too many hours of his life arguing with in comment sections, armed with nothing but a sense of logic, proper grammar, and the faint hope that maybe he could introduce them to the concept of reasonable thought.

And now? He sounded exactly like them. Great. Just great.

He needed to fix it. Immediately. Before he dug the hole any deeper.

“It’s not that I don’t like the current cast ,” he added quickly, as if that would save him. “Far from it. They’re incredible. I saw them last year, and they were just as powerful as I remembered. But…”

Oh, great. There was the but.

“The first time I saw it…” He trailed off for a second, feeling a pull he couldn’t quite articulate. “It was on opening night, back when it was still off-Broadway. No one really knew about it yet. It felt… raw, I guess. Intimate in a way that stayed with me.”

Intimate. Really, Hotchner?

He immediately winced internally. Now he sounded like a creep. Fantastic.

That was probably why you were smiling at him like that, with those soft eyes and that too-kind expression. Compassion. Pity.

That had to be it. You were humoring him.

Perfect. Just perfect. Can he do at least one thing right in his life? Just one? Apparently not.

The words started coming faster, his attempt to salvage whatever dignity he had left. “I mean, it’s the themes,” his hands twitched as if to emphasize the points, but he forced them to stay still. “They’re… timeless, but also distinctly modern. Community. Survival. Resilience. Love in its purest and messiest forms.”

Now he was waxing poetic. Could he even hear himself?

“People finding each other and holding on, even when everything around them is falling apart,” he continued, fully aware he’d gone too far but somehow unable to stop. “It’s hard to explain, but there’s something about it - the music, the storytelling. It’s honest, but it’s hopeful. It doesn’t shy away from how ugly life can be, but it still manages to show there’s beauty in the fight.”

He finally stopped, feeling his face grow warmer by the second. He might as well have just stood up and shouted, “Hi, I’m Aaron Hotchner, I’m 42 and I’m currently experiencing a complete emotional breakdown over a musical. Please be kind.”

What was he even doing? Did he think this would impress you? No, worse - for once he didn’t think at all. That was the problem.

“I don’t know,” he added quickly, trying to reel himself back in. “I’m probably just being sentimental.”

Beautiful, Hotchner. Very subtle. He was officially done talking. Forever, if possible.

You still smiled, leaning in slightly, and Aaron braced himself for the inevitable teasing, the polite that’s nice before you turned the conversation elsewhere. But instead, you tilted your head and said softly, “That doesn’t sound sentimental to me.”

He blinked, caught completely off guard. That wasn’t what he was expecting. Not even close.

“It sounds… personal,” you continued, your voice steady and calm. “Like it left a mark on you. I think that’s kind of incredible, actually.”

Aaron stared at you for a second, his mind scrambling - you weren’t laughing at him. You weren’t humoring him. You were listening.

“I-” he started, but the words caught in his throat.

You tilted your head, your smile growing just slightly, like you could see how much he was struggling to process this. “Really, I mean it. The way you’re describing it… honestly, it sounds beautiful. You connect with it. That’s the whole point of art, isn’t it? To find meaning in it, to feel heard.”

Beautiful.

Now you were waxing poetic. But somehow, hearing it from you didn’t make him wince the way his own words did.

He huffed a small, almost nervous laugh, more to himself than to you. It was infuriating how easily you could do that, just be this way. “I guess it is”

“Of course it is.” You teased lightly, sitting back in your seat but keeping your eyes on him. “Now, are you finally going to tell me the name of this life-changing musical, or is it some kind of classified information?”

“It doesn’t really matter,” he muttered, already trying to move past it. “You probably wouldn’t know it.” He caught himself. “It’s not important.”

You tilted your head, your smile unwavering, clearly not letting him off the hook. “It sounds important to you,” you said softly, leaning forward just a little. “And if it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

He huffed a small breath, glancing down at his hands. He couldn’t tell if your persistence was infuriating or disarming - or maybe it was both.

“It’s called Rent,” he finally said, the word slipping out before he could stop himself.

“I know it,” you responded without hesitation, and he was so surprised that he couldn’t help but chime in again.

“You do?” he asked, the surprise clear in his voice - not because Rent was niche, far from it. It was one of the most iconic musicals ever.

But coming from you? This felt like a monumental achievement, especially considering that the last time you two talked about musicals, you’d admitted to not knowing The Sound of Music was anything more than a movie. At this point, he’d learned to expect anything from you.

“Yes,” you said with a small smile. “It’s actually the only live show I’ve ever seen. My mom practically dragged me to it ages ago… it was the day I finished my PhD in linguistics.”

Aaron didn’t know where to begin. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He did.

He knew you’d lived in New York while working on your PhD at Columbia, just a stone’s throw away from the very theatres he’d spent hours traveling to whenever he could manage a free weekend.

And yet, in all that time, you’d seen exactly one show. One.

It was baffling. Almost impressive, really - your sheer commitment to avoiding the arts.

Was it a conscious effort? A statement? Honestly, he wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or begrudgingly admire the consistency.

“I don’t remember much of the songs, sorry” you admitted, your tone softer now. “I do remember, ironically, when we came in, they said the creator had passed the day before from a heart attack. I really could feel the emotion in the room. It was amazing - one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

It couldn’t be.

“January 26th, 1996,” he said, the words spilling out before he could stop himself.

You paused, your brows knitting together as you thought. “Oh, wow,” you murmured after a moment. “Yes, that’s right. How could you possibly know that?”

He felt his cheeks flush even as the words formed on his tongue. “That was opening night,” he said softly, almost hesitantly. “I was there too.”

You stared at each other, eyes locked. Silence.

He couldn’t quite put into words what it was that made the realization feel so… heavy.

Maybe it was the sheer improbability of it. How, out of all the places in the world, your paths had crossed that night in a tiny theatre in New York.

Because in 1996, you didn’t know each other. You were strangers in the truest sense of the word - two lives moving parallel, unaware of the other’s existence.

Of course, you wouldn’t remember seeing each other. How could you? The thought was absurd, and yet, the thought of it - of you there, somewhere in that 199-seat theatre, maybe half full - flustered him.

Had your eyes met in the foyer, just for a fleeting moment, the way they were meeting his now?

Had you brushed past him, two strangers moving toward seats that would bring you close but never quite close enough?

The thought sent him spiraling, not because it felt impossible, but because it didn’t. It felt inevitable.

Maddening and beautiful all at once, the kind of paradox that left him breathless.

There was a sweet, aching ignorance in the idea.

Neither of you had any way of knowing what you would one day mean to each other.

Of knowing that the stranger sitting nearby, lost in the same music and emotion, would one day become one of the most important people in your life.

It had to be fate.

You, sitting just as you were now - beside him, to his left. Or at least, that’s how liked to imagine it. Maybe you’d even leaned toward your mother then, the way you leaned toward him now, smiling.

Some people are just meant to be, aren’t they?

Fate, he thought again. Because if that wasn’t fate, he wasn’t sure what was.

So maybe he should go to New York. All the streets seemed to lead there.

Besides, someone he knew had just been assigned to lead the NYPD, maybe he should pay her a visit.

---

Hotch hadn’t expected how much the latest case would affect his team - or himself, for that matter.

He’d noticed something was wrong with JJ the moment they stepped into the first crime scene together.

There was a heaviness about her, a stillness he’d learned to recognize in the years they’d worked side by side. It wasn’t unusual for these cases to take a toll, but this one felt different.

He’d confronted her almost immediately, pulling her aside when Reid and the officer weren’t within earshot. He’d told her he understood - how could he not?

Ever since Jack was born, cases involving children had clawed at him in ways he couldn’t fully prepare for, no matter how many times he tried to steel himself.

But for JJ, it was different. It was worse. Every case they worked on - every horror they encountered - came across her desk first.

Every victim’s file landed in her hands before it reached anyone else. And far too often, those victims were women her age, mothers, daughters, lives cut short in ways too cruel to fathom.

He’d told her it was okay to lose it every once in a while, that no one could carry this job without feeling its weight. She hadn’t looked convinced, and he couldn’t blame her.

Coming from him - the Stoic - it must have felt hollow.

He saw it in her eyes, in the way her shoulders barely eased under his reassurances. She was still carrying it, even after the case was over.

And so he tried again.

He approached JJ as the officer closed the door on the car, securing the unsub’s wife, Chrissy, inside. She had killed him, desperate to protect their future child from his violent legacy.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

JJ stared blankly into the distance, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. It took a moment before she answered, her voice low and reflective. “You stop caring, you're jaded. If you care too much... it'll ruin you.”

“Just know that you did everything you could,” he replied softly. “Sometimes we get it right with a little luck, and most of the time we don't. That's the job. It's never perfect.”

He paused, his gaze shifting to her as his tone softened further. “It's still better to care.”

“You really believe that?” JJ asked, finally turning to look at him, her arms still folded defensively.

Of course not. Caring too much destroys you - it always does. Look at what it had done to his own life.

He shook his head slowly, his mouth twitching as if suppressing a more honest reply. “I believe it's never perfect.”

And maybe that’s what haunted him the most - how helpless he felt in the face of it. Because he knew better than anyone that words could only do so much. Pain like that didn’t dissipate because someone told you it was okay to feel it.

It lingered. It lingered in the quiet moments, in the spaces between cases, in the dark corners of your mind when you finally stopped moving.

Another one who didn’t show the weight of the case quite as visibly as JJ, but was no less affected, was Prentiss.

She was better at masking it - that much he could see. But Hotch also knew her well enough to recognize the way she carried her thoughts.

The motive behind this case, the layers of injustice, had settled heavily on her shoulders. It wasn’t hard to imagine why. Her frustration wasn’t so different from JJ’s in essence, it came from the same place - a longing for justice.

But for Prentiss, it wasn’t just about the crimes committed. It was about the deeper, systemic unfairness that had brought them here in the first place.

He could tell she was thinking about Chrissy, the young mother caught in an impossible situation.

About how, in a patriarchal society, the person who would truly pay the price for all of this wouldn’t be the perpetrator alone - it would be Chrissy, the woman who had tried to protect her child in the only way she thought she could.

It was horrifyingly unfair.

Aaron could feel her anger in the quiet moments, the way her jaw tightened when Chrissy’s name was mentioned, the way she avoided eye contact with anyone when the case wrapped. He understood it, but he didn’t say anything.

How could he? He had no right to.

As a man, he knew he was part of the very system she was furious with. Even unintentionally, even passively, he benefited from it. So he stayed quiet.

But that didn’t mean he did nothing. As a former prosecutor, he understood the gravity of Chrissy’s situation. The trial would not be easy. The legal system often wasn’t.

But he also knew the power of a voice within that system, the importance of framing the narrative with care. So he took the only step he could think of, the only one that felt right.

He sat down and wrote a letter addressing the complexities of the case. He focused on the circumstances that had forced Chrissy into a decision no one should ever have to make. He laid out the context, the systemic failures, the humanity of it all. And when it was done, he filed it with the process.

It wasn’t much, but it was a step.

It was all he could do - to have faith that the trial would deliver justice, not just for the victims, but for Chrissy as well.

With Morgan and Reid, the reasons were different - the questions a case like this left behind were vast, yet the two of them had latched onto the same one, albeit in opposing ways.

The cyclical nature of violence. The profound impact of familial legacy on individual behavior. Can you pass down the gene of evil? Is it inevitable? Or can it be changed?

It was ironic, really - how the same theme could yield two entirely different interpretations, juxtaposed like night and day.

For Morgan, who was slowly reapproaching a faith he’d long abandoned, the answers came from above. Or at least, he hoped they would.

Morgan searched for meaning in something greater, for the divine to offer clarity in a world that often seemed devoid of it.

Hotch couldn’t offer much in that regard; he understood it too well. He’d grown up in a family that confessed the same beliefs, heard the same hymns, recited the same prayers. And while the answers Morgan sought were his own to find, Hotch could offer a small gesture of solidarity.

So, when he went to the kitchenette for coffee, he made one for Morgan too. He didn’t say anything, just handed him the steaming cup, hoping the caffeine would keep him awake long enough to wrestle with those questions and, luckily, find some peace before it spiraled further.

He added an extra touch - his last dark chocolate truffle. He wanted it for himself, truthfully, but Morgan needed it more. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the right thing to do.

Because if there was one tenet of faith Aaron could still believe in, it was this: ‘be kind to one another.’ And sometimes, kindness came in the form of caffeine and chocolate

Then there was Reid. For him, the search for answers took a different path, one turned inward.

He sought them in the vast expanse of his mind, a database larger and more intricate than anything Hotch could fathom.

He knew that Reid’s healing process often began in solitude, pouring over facts, theories, and philosophical musings until they settled into something resembling clarity.

So, when he made coffee for him, he took care to prepare it the way Reid liked it - sickeningly sweet, almost more syrup than coffee. He didn’t interrupt Reid’s silent contemplation. It was still too early, the thoughts too embryonic.

Handing Reid the mug, he let the younger man be, knowing that if Spencer needed logical confrontation, he would come directly to him. They’d discuss the meaning of words, the patterns of human behavior, and then Reid would likely move on with his day.

What concerned him, though, was the possibility that Reid might go to you instead.

It wasn’t that Hotch doubted you - quite the opposite. If there was anyone who understood Reid’s need to dive deeply into the cultural and philosophical nature of humanity, it was you.

You had a way of peeling back layers, of digging into the complexities of existence, even when it required hours of intellectual and emotional suffering to do so. Hotch trusted you more than he trusted himself to guide Reid in those moments.

But if Reid came to you, it would mean the case had struck him harder than Hotch had realized.

Because you weren’t the first step in Reid’s process - you were the last. The one who could challenge him, pull him deeper, and help him emerge on the other side.

Hotch took a sip of his own coffee, glancing toward Reid, who was already lost in thought, and then toward Morgan, who sat quietly with his faith and his chocolate.

They’d find their answers in time, he knew. Whether above, within, or through someone who truly understood.

Rossi though was, without a doubt, the most frustrating one to figure out.

It wasn’t that Hotch didn’t understand why the case had affected him - he did. The reasons were as plain as day.

But Rossi’s stubbornness and unyielding pride made it nearly impossible to offer any kind of help, let alone get close enough to understand the full picture. He was still adjusting to the group dynamic, still learning to balance respect for everyone’s boundaries with his old habits of calling the shots.

Sure, there had been progress.

Rossi had made small steps toward blending in since rejoining the team, he was more open with him especially - but there were moments when his gaze drifted backward, to how things used to be.

That same tendency to look to the past was what Hotch knew had cut deepest in this case. The past haunted Rossi.

Hotch had seen it in the way his demeanor shifted, the way he threw himself into conversation with the local detective, whose story mirrored something unspoken in Rossi.

The detective had just closed a case that had haunted him for 27 years - a case that had cost him everything. His job. His mental sanity. His sense of self.

Rossi wasn’t as different from him as he probably wanted to believe.

Hotch had overheard more than one of their conversations, seen the way Rossi leaned in when the man talked about his regrets, about the weight he carried. And more than once, Rossi had mentioned his own “unfinished business,” those words lingering in the air like a loaded gun.

Hotch didn’t push. He couldn’t. Rossi had to face it on his own first, to admit - to himself, above all - that there was something he needed to confront.

But he hoped that when the time came, Rossi would find the strength to do more than just admit it. He hoped he’d find the strength to let it go.

Only an agent was left - two, if he counted himself.

It didn’t surprise him that the reason this case had shaken you was the same as his own, even if you hadn’t told him yet.

You didn’t need to. He knew you too well by now, and silence wasn’t as opaque as you probably hoped it would be.

And the thing that would help you was the same thing he knew would help him: dialogue. A confrontation of two broken individuals, trying to make sense of the same chaos from different angles.

You and him, speaking two completely different languages: physics and metaphysics. One grounded in logic and structure, the other stretching toward something bigger, intangible.

You sought answers in the abstract, in the why, while he clung to the tangible, the how.

Together, somehow, you always found your way.

Hotch made his way down the aisle of the jet, paperwork in hand, catching sight of you before he even reached your seat. You were hunched over a file, so engrossed that you didn’t notice him until he stopped beside you and cleared his throat.

Predictably, you snapped the file shut in an instant, like you were hiding state secrets. Too bad for you - he already knew.

“There’s no need to be so secretive about that case file,” he said, his tone deceptively casual as he lowered himself into the seat across from you, one hand tugging his tie back into place. “Especially when we’re both working on the exact same one.”

Your eyes flicked up, skeptical, and then down at the file he placed on the table - its size dwarfing yours like a monument to over-preparation. “Impossible,” you said, your arms crossing defensively. “Yours is the size of an encyclopedia.”

“Probably because it seems I’ve worked on it more than you have,” he replied, allowing himself the faintest hint of a smile. “Tell me, is it the Boston Reaper case by any chance?”

Caught you, Philosopher.

Your eyes widened, the look of someone watching a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat. “How? Why?”

That was all you managed to say, and Hotch had to fight back the urge to laugh. The great oracle of philosophy, reduced to caveman syntax. You sounded exactly like Jack when he was first trying to string together sentences as a toddler.

Those questions weren’t even for him - they were clearly for yourself.

How does he know? Why is he working on this case?

And honestly, Hotch thought, the answers were so obvious it was almost endearing that you bothered to ask.

He knew why you were both silently working on that case on the jet back to Quantico. It was your way of coping with the uncomfortable fear today’s investigation had stirred - that an old, unresolved case like this one could resurface, leaving a new trail of victims in its wake.

Fear - that you might end up like the detective from today, unprepared. All this time later, and still haunted by what could have been done differently.

The Boston Reaper wasn’t just another unresolved case. It wasn’t just about the local police pulling both of you off it before you’d even had the chance to work on a proper profile.

That had been frustrating, sure, but the ties to this case ran deeper.

For him, it had been his first case as a lead profiler, thrust into the role just as Rossi had abruptly left the team without so much as a warning.

For you, it had been your ever first unresolved case, the kind of professional scar that stayed with you no matter how many victories followed.

And then there was the part neither of you would ever mention aloud.

It had been the case assigned to both of you the morning after what could only be described as a monumental lapse in judgment - a lapse Mrs. Lee, would still gleefully encourage you to repeat.

“Fear,” Hotch said simply, answering the unspoken why. He didn’t dare meet your eyes as he added, “And you already know the ‘how.’”

Because of course you did.

That unspoken moment of realization between you was something he definitely didn’t want to linger on - mainly because the second he saw it in your eyes, he’d probably blush like an idiot, and you’d never let him hear the end of it.

“So,” he said briskly, gesturing toward your file, “can I read the Oracle’s thoughts on the case now?”

You hesitated for a moment, then handed him the file. “I got stuck,” you admitted, your tone less defensive now. “There’s barely anything in there.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here. Let’s see -” he said, flipping open the file.

His eyes immediately landed on one word written larger than the others, circled as if it demanded top billing in the drama of your thoughts.

“Fate,” he murmured, his lips twitching at the irony.

Of course it was fate.

If the past few days had taught him anything, it was that the universe had an excellent sense of humor - albeit a twisted one.

You leaned forward slightly, pulling him back to the present. “He uses the Eye of Providence as a symbol for his killings,” you explained, saving him from the philosophical essays you’d undoubtedly penned in the margins... thank God.

You continued “That’s where I started. But it led me nowhere. Then I thought about how he wrote ‘fate’ on the windshield of one of his victims in their own blood.” You paused for a bit. “Words are more powerful than symbols.”

That struck a chord. Words required intent, precision. They carried weight. They cut deeper.

Hotch’s eyes dropped back to the file, scanning your notes as he absorbed what you’d said. Pieces started clicking into place, fragments of thought aligning in a way that sparked something.

 He looked up at you. “What if he sees himself as the personification of fate?” he theorized, his eyes searching yours for confirmation.

“Well, didn’t you read my mind, Unit Chief?!” you said with a grin. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to prove.” That look - the one you knew drove him just slightly mad - prompted him to respond before he even had the chance to think better of it.

“And to do that, you had to go back quite a bit. Since Christianity influenced Western culture, we don’t talk about fate anymore - that’s more pagan. Instead, we talk about providence,” he said, his voice steady, almost clinical. “Ancient Greece, on the other hand, is full of legends where fate is one the central themes.”

Your grin only widened, amused and maybe a little impressed. “Wow. You really are good, Agent Hotchner,” you said with a mock coo. “Yes, exactly.”

Of course.

You were teasing him - again - but there was a glint in your eye, a genuine spark that reminded him why he always ended up drawn into these conversations with you, whether he wanted to be or not.

“I did try the legends first,” you continued “but the imagery didn’t match. To explain it, I had to revisit Stoicism. They saw the universe as governed by this entity called logos - a rational, divine order where everything connects in an unbroken chain of cause and effect. What I found particularly important is that fate, in their view, isn’t something chaotic but part of a structured system. It’s revolutionary.”

He wasn’t used to your characteristic back-and-forth during cases anymore. He hadn’t paired you with him in what felt like ages - since long before Rossi rejoined the team. Maybe it was deliberate. Maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t want to think too hard about it.

But hearing you now, rattling off ideas with that same unstoppable energy, he realized just how much he’d missed it. Your wits, your knowledge, your uncanny ability to pull connections out of thin air - it was as maddening as it was impressive.

Not that he particularly missed the mock praise you’d thrown his way earlier. That could stay firmly in the past where it belonged. Or, at the very least, it could try to sound a bit more genuine.

Not that he wanted to hear it, of course.

…Okay, maybe it was better to change the subject entirely.

He missed you.

“So, by presenting himself as ‘fate,’” you continued, “the Reaper excuses himself entirely. He’s not making choices - he’s just the inevitable result of the universe’s design. Or at least, that’s how he sees it. Responsibility lies with the deterministic nature of existence itself. Quite of a sophisticated delusion.” you added, leaning back with a wry smile.

Hotch tilted his head. “Interesting… but if he truly believed that, why leave a signature? Why call 911? That’s ego. He wants us to know it’s him. That’s not someone surrendering to inevitability - that’s someone demanding recognition.”

“That’s why I’m stuck,” you admitted, with a frustrated sigh. “The contradictions don’t align. His actions suggest ego, yes. A desire for attention, for dominance. But that one 911 call…”

He leaned forward slightly. “What about it?”

“The call bothers me,” you continued, your voice softer now, more introspective. “Too deliberate. Too… purposeful. I feel they aren’t just challenges. There’s something else, I can’t see it yet, but it’s not just about superiority. It doesn’t feel like pure ego.”

He responded to you way too quickly. “Then what does it feel like?”

You hesitated, searching for the right words. “Something human, maybe,” you said finally. “There’s something… ordinary about the Unsub. Normal. He blends in so seamlessly that even his grandiosity doesn’t seem entirely self-serving.” You gestured at the file in front of you. “I can’t connect these pieces. The deterministic philosophy. The theatrical ego. The calculated call. It’s like he exists in two worlds at once - one of chaos, and one of order.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment. “And you think the truth lies somewhere in the contradiction.”

You shrugged. “Doesn’t it always?”

Hotch exhaled softly, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched you.

You couldn’t help yourself, could you? Always had to end with something emblematic, like you were writing the last line of a novel. Throw in a fade to black, and you were set.

“When you’re done making fun of me,” you said, raising your eyebrows at him, “could you explain how, with the same lack of material, you somehow have a file twice the size of mine?”

He couldn’t help the brief laugh that escaped him. Of course, you’d noticed.

“I’m not particularly proud of this…” he began, his tone measured but edged with a hint of self-deprecation. “But after we were pulled from the case, I went back to Boston a couple of weeks later.” He paused, gauging your reaction before continuing. “I got George Foyet’s testimony while he was still in the hospital.”

Your head snapped up, staring at him, completely stunned. “You?” you said slowly, suspicion lacing every syllable. “You went back to Boston? The man who practically has the Constitution tattooed on his soul took a statement after being removed from the case? That wasn’t even legal, was it?”

“It wasn’t,” Hotch admitted, his smirk widening just enough to make you narrow your eyes further. “But I knew they’d write a book about the Reaper case eventually. Once it became public domain, the testimony would be usable. I was just… proactive.”

“Proactive,” you repeated, shaking your head with a disbelieving laugh. “That’s barely ethical.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I blame you.” His tone was deadpan. “You brought out the worst in me back then.”

You snorted, leaning back in your seat with an exasperated smile. “How convenient, blaming it all on what were actually your overthoughts after some drunk sex.”

Oh no. Absolutely not. He was not going there.

He looked down at the file on the table, hoping the angle would save him from the inevitable reddening of his face.

Why, of all the things you could’ve said, did you have to bring that up? It wasn’t even relevant - well, not entirely relevant.

Deflection. That was his only move now. Luckily, the one he had in mind was at least partially truthful.

“We’re landing in a few minutes,” he began, keeping his tone calm and measured, “so how about this: when we’re back, we exchange files. You can go through the testimony, and I’ll take another look at where you got stuck with the phone call. We both take the night to work on it, and tomorrow, we compare notes.”

You tilted your head, skepticism written all over your face. “And what if someone finds out we’re working on a closed case?”

“That’s why we’re doing it at your place,” he said, his tone completely matter-of-fact, like this was the most logical solution in the world. Because it was. It wasn’t an excuse, at all.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, so now you’re inviting yourself over?”

“Haven’t seen Mrs. Lee in a few weeks,” he said smoothly, like that was somehow a perfectly valid justification.

You laughed at that, shaking your head. “Right… You know what? She might adore you, but let’s not forget who she entrusted with her blueberry pie recipe.”

What?

And you waited all this time to tell him that?

So this is what betrayal feels like. A little less dramatic than expected, but still, very disappointing.

---

If there was one universal truth about the BAU team, it was this: no matter how different you all were, no matter how much tension simmered beneath the surface after a long case, there was one sacred ritual that bound you together - going out for drinks.

Especially after the cases that were draining, but not devastating.

The ones that left you raw but still intact, just enough to crave the company of those who understood the madness you faced.

This case had been one of those.

There was a quiet hum of unspoken agreement as everyone wrapped up their notes, pens clicking shut, desks tidied with a precision that came from mutual understanding rather than coordination.

It wasn’t planned, but somehow, you all ended up converging in the bullpen at the same time, like a gravitational pull none of you could resist.

The collective exhaustion that had hung heavy all day began to lift, replaced by a singular, unifying hope: to fuck up your livers just enough to lighten the weight pressing on your minds.

It was Derek who broke the silence, standing up from his chair and tossing his notebook across his desk with a grin. “Who’s up for a drink?”

Emily cheered like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Who’s up for five?”

“Five bottles, you mean?” you chimed in, feigning doubt as though you were on the verge of saying no.

“Each,” Emily clarified with a playful wink.

That was all it took for you to reach for your pen, clicking it closed with a dramatic flair before placing it back into your holder.

“Count me in,” Rossi said casually, like this wasn’t the team’s collective miracle of the week. For someone who had only recently started joining you on these outings, this was practically a declaration of loyalty.

“I don’t know,” Spencer muttered, adjusting the strap of his bag - a move so predictable it immediately set off Derek.

“Stop with the ‘I don’t know.’ You’re in, kid,” Derek said, striding confidently across the bullpen, leaving no room for argument. “JJ?”

“I’d love to, but I’m gonna have to take a rain check,” JJ said, offering a soft smile that carried just enough warmth to make Emily’s heart squeeze.

That meant only a single person remained.

“Unit Chief,” you said, striding toward him with that determined glint in your eye. “Just one beer.”

Hotch exhaled, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips as he glanced at you. “Sure,” he said simply, afterall he couldn’t say no to that, not after a case like this.

But apparently, his mere will hadn’t been enough to seal the moment.

The sound of the bullpen doors opening pulled his attention, the heavy glass swinging wide as a man in a suit entered. He moved with purpose, his expression unreadable, carrying an envelope and a folder that seemed too heavy for their size.

“Agent Hotchner?” the man called out.

Hotch straightened immediately, his spine rigid, the shift so automatic it was almost reflex. “Yes,”

What happened next took seconds, maybe less, but it felt like a lifetime compressed into the space of a breath.

His left hand moved to sign the notice, his name scrawled neatly onto the blank space with a pen he didn’t remember reaching for.

The man nodded once, taking the signed folder back with an efficiency that bordered on mechanical.

And just like that, he was gone - disappearing through the same doors he had entered, leaving destruction in his wake as swiftly as he’d brought it.

All that remained that could prove his existence was the envelope in Hotch’s hand, the weight of it far heavier than paper should ever be.

The bullpen was suddenly too quiet. Too still.

“What is it?” Emily asked, her voice cutting through the silence.

He really didn’t want to look up, but he still did anyways.

He gestured faintly with the envelope, his voice quiet, flat, as though detachment might dull the edge of it. “Haley’s filing for divorce.”

He paused, his gaze drifting back to the envelope, as though it might explain itself if he stared hard enough. Then he spoke again, his voice even quieter this time, almost resigned. “I’ve been served.”

Before anyone could respond, he turned on his heel, the envelope still clutched in his hand like a foreign object he didn’t know what to do with. He walked out, back through the glass doors, the weight of their closing behind him louder than it had ever have been.

You stared after him, your hand falling away from where it had hovered, wanting to reach out but knowing better.

You didn’t want to drink anymore.

And him?

Somewhere beyond those glass doors, Hotch kept walking, as though forward motion might somehow keep him from falling apart entirely.

The envelope burned in his hand, and every step felt heavier than the last, carrying him into a night that suddenly felt colder and far too empty.

Because now, it was real.

---

Phi’s Corner: Did I just waste 5 hours of my life discovering that Tumblr only allows 1,000 text blocks max and had to re-edit everything? Yes, I did. Because I’m a sucker for distanced one-liners, and the universe clearly hates me. Also… did you catch the little countdown? Hehe. I’m evil. Oh, and for the record - I am Mrs. Lee’s #1 stan. Don’t forget it.

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

[anna-mellgren]

I wanted to mention this here since I previously wrote how I enjoyed the movie It Ends With Us. I thought Justin Baldoni & Blake Lively had a feud over creative differences as producers of the film & I believed this was the root of their rift. Clearly, I had no clue of what went on behind the scenes and I will probably never watch the movie again after reading Blake Lively’s lawsuit. 

I don’t think Blake Lively is perfect & she has made mistakes like the rest of us. Was Blake rude to that Norwegian reporter 8 years ago? Yes... but Blake Lively was pregnant and maybe she had raging pregnancy hormones? Blake has done hundreds of interviews but this one blew up because she was a bit rude… I don’t think a male actor would get the same heat for a similar interview. Blake told journalists beforehand that she did not want to discuss her pregnancy from what I understand. All of this is beside the point because it doesn’t matter what you think about Blake… she did not deserve what happened to her. Nobody deserves to be sexually harassed whether you like them or not. The entire cast unfollowed Justin for good reason.

I have not always been perfect myself... I could be a proper bitch towards republicans for a few years after the Utoya massacre in Norway. I had so much rage about how the tragedy was covered in American conservative media & how it affected my Norwegian friend that I could properly go off on American conservatives who debated politics. I had so much anger buried inside me for years. I am more level-headed now & I even consider myself a moderate but I still hate Glenn Beck with a passion. I don’t go off on people anymore but maybe this could be a good reminder that sometimes there is more to the story if a girl is not super sweet 100% of the time?

I am 100% behind Blake after reading through the lawsuit. 

I really wish you all would let the “Blake Lively promoted that movie terribly” talking point go already considering we know Blake Lively was made a REAL LIFE victim due to the production and filming of this movie. Justin Baldoni and his buddy Heath repeatedly violated Blake’s space and entered her trailer while she was nude and/or breastfeeding, they showed nude photos of their spouses to Blake and other cast members, they repeatedly brought up their pornography addictions, they allowed their friends not associated with the movie on set during nude scenes with Blake, Justin and Heath pressured Blake to film the birth scene nude and the guy Justin got to play the OBGYN was just his friend, the studio didn’t have COVID insurance so they kept a covid exposure a secret which resulted in Blake AND her infant getting covid, Baldoni repeatedly would tell Blake he talks to her dead father, and Baldoni straight up admitted to Blake there’s been times he didn’t ask for consent and wouldn’t listen to his sexual partners who told him “no”.

This isn’t even close to being all the things mentioned in that sexual harassment and retaliation complaint and I didn’t even get into how the studio specifically told the cast to promote the movie the way Blake did, but people are still stuck on how this stupid movie was promoted. Y’all care more about a fictional story than an actual real victim like that’s crazy.

[macabrebatz]

GIFT EXCHANGE (Art the Clown/Reader)

Pt. 2 of O, Christmas Tree

Summary: You celebrate Christmas with Art

Author’s Note: Meant to post this on Christmas Day but I felt like crap. Hope you all enjoy a little late Christmas fluff. Happy holidays to everyone! Also thank you @hauntedfoodie for the this cute idea of exchanging gifts with Art!

Warnings/tags: Fluff, Art being Art, reader is filled with anxiety mainly due to Art, Vicky is briefly mentioned, gender neutral reader, spot the Scream reference, can be read as platonic or romantic to be honest, once again…are they roommates or lovers? You decide.

It had been a few weeks since Art had surprised you by decorating for Christmas. The tree he had gotten sat as a constant reminder of his rare but much-needed kindness.

Christmas was only in a few days. You couldn’t help but stare at the gifts below the tree. Your curiosity was getting the better of you.

At first, you had been very concerned about the gifts under the tree. What Art did was a kind gesture. Sure. But you knew Art. You knew the kind of being he was. You weren’t oblivious.

You’ve received presents from Art in the past. Presents is a strong word actually. What you had received was more of what you would call “evidence from a crime scene that Art most definitely caused wrapped up in a little box with a bow”.

However, your concern slowly dissipated when you found yourself examining the gift boxes early one morning. Art had wandered off, nowhere to be found. You had figured he was out on one of his usual sprees. Since you were alone you took the opportunity to sit in front of the tree, picking up each box.

There weren’t many which you saw as a good thing. If there were any body parts in them at least it wouldn’t be a lot.

You looked for anything that could be a sign of something gross or disturbing. No boxes were leaking any blood so that was a good start. None of the boxes smelled bad which was another good sign.

You picked up one of the black boxes, examining it with your hands. No blood, no smell. Much like the others.

You gave it a gentle shake and sighed in relief. For a moment you were scared that you might hear something crawling around in one of the boxes. You wouldn’t have been shocked if Art had snuck one of Vicky’s rats in the box to scare you.

You sat the box down with the others and a small smile spread across your face. You were still mentally preparing yourself. Just because he had opted out of body parts doesn’t mean that Art’s presents were going to be a joy to open. But you were still pleasantly surprised that the presents under the tree seemed fairly normal.

A few days passed and Christmas Eve was in full swing. Art had showed up at your house, covered in blood. The white trim of the Santa costume was no longer white. It wasn’t surprising to you. It was a routine at this point.

Art would leave for a prolonged amount of time, sometimes even days. Then he’d come to your house and you’d help clean him up. Despite his teeth and occasionally his hands, Art surprisingly seemed to like being clean after a long day of causing absolute mayhem. You would never fuss when he got blood all over your floor. And he would never put up a fuss when you lead him to the bathroom and put him in the shower.

Art had finished his shower before either of his costumes had dried all the way. You couldn’t convince him to wear anything different so he opted to roam around the house nude.

“Are you not cold?” You questioned.

He simply shook his head with a smile. You couldn’t help but giggle as he sauntered off.

Eventually, the suit was dry and you took it to Art, who got dressed.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” You asked the clown, watching him as he pulled his gloves onto his hand.

Art perked up and put his finger to his lips, tapping as if he were thinking of an answer. He grinned, nodding his head.

You both made your way to the living room and got comfortable on the couch. You found yourself watching multiple movies. A couple of Christmas classics and a couple of horror movies. Eventually, you found yourself drifting off to sleep, your head falling onto Art.

The next morning you woke up from your curled position on the couch, jumping at the sight of Art right in your face. He was sitting on the floor in front of you, silently staring at you with a smile on his face. On his head, he donned a Santa hat. You couldn’t help but wonder how long he had sat there like that. You weren’t fully sure if he even needed to sleep.

“Merry Christmas, Art.”

He stood up and grabbed your arms, pulling you up to a sitting position. He then walked over to the Christmas tree and picked up one of the black boxes under it.

Your stomach did a flip as he placed the box in your hands. It was rather light and it was wrapped up nicely with a little red bow on top.

Art sat down on the floor, crossing his legs. He patted his knees as he smiled at you.

All you could do was hope that whatever was in the box was normal as you hesitantly began unwrapping the box. Art was grinning ear to ear and you weren’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

The wrapping paper dropped onto the floor as you began to open the box. Inside was crinkly, red paper that you pulled out of the box. Underneath was an oversized dark red sweater. You pulled it out slowly, holding it up to look at it. Your fingers ran over the material. It was a good-quality sweater. You weren’t sure how or where Art had gotten it. It wasn’t like he was the type to go shopping. But he was the type to take stuff. You shrugged off the mental image of Art taking it from one of his victims. It was best not to linger.

You held up the sweater and smiled. It didn’t really matter where he got it, you couldn’t believe that Art had gotten you something so nice.

“Thank you so much, Art,” you said.

You slid down off of the couch onto the floor in front of where he sat and leaned over to hug him. He excitedly embraced you back.

You pulled off of him and looked under the tree.

“Okay, you’re next,” you said.

Art made a shocked face as if he were going to say, “You got a present for me?”

You grabbed a red box you had put under the tree a few days ago and Art gleefully took it from your hands. He quickly ripped off the wrapping and opened the box revealing a Bowie knife with a shiny white handle.

Art flipped it around in his hand, testing the weight of it. He grinned as he slid his finger along the blade and poked the tip of his digit on the pointed end.

“I was watching this movie while you were gone and these killers had a knife like that. I thought you would like it. And then I may or may not have snuck into the workshop to see if you already had one. And you didn’t, which is surprising-”

Art caused you to stop rambling when he surprised you with a hug. He never stopped you from hugging him but it was rare that he initiated it. He wrapped his arms around you. It was his way of silently thanking you.

You pulled away from Art with a smile. You glanced at the presents under the tree.

“Ready for the next one?” you asked.

Art nodded, clapping his hands together excitedly.

From the outside, the situation you found yourself in was odd, to say the least. Maybe it was even a little concerning. Living with a murderous clown wasn’t really on your bucket list nor did you ever expect to be spending a holiday with one. But here you were, exchanging gifts with the Miles County Clown. But despite the absurdity of it all, maybe spending Christmas with him wasn’t so bad after all.

[sahrii]

🤲🏽 msby black jackals!atsumu x reader angst where reader and atsumu are dating in secret but his fans dont know and y/n gets pretty hurt and jealous over some incident (you can choose) and its hurt/comfort with atsumu posting y/n 🙏🏽

smau + written if u can? snjdjsjdka sorry

only this time ! 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

atsumu miya x gn!reader

warnings! please pay attention to the dates and times, they’re kind of important, emotionally overwhelmed reader, mentions of drinking, hurt to comfort, mentions of crying, stupid atsumu :(, reader is alr friends w kiyoko and yachi, private relationship, cursing

also i’d like to thank @dearru for beta reading hehe thank u sm!

[11.11.2018, 12.08pm]

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

[11.11.2018, 12.34pm]

that was the first time atsumu never stood up to his words. he never ended up coming. he never ended up hugging you. never ended up telling you that it’s going to be okay. never ended up with his lips on yours, murmuring between kisses that he loves you to the point where it was going to kill him. never.

it was a murky, lonely night. you’d given up on him coming ages ago and sat on the soft yet lorn mattress of your bed, wrapped in what seems like ten blankets, thinking you’d be better off with his body heat instead of your own—or the blankets.

he’s probably too tired from practice. or something important popped up. or it might be that he’s just stuck in traffic and he’ll end up coming. you continued making excuses for him while drifting off to sleep, thinking of how good your night would’ve been with his arms wrapped around your figure and your head on his toned chest, listening to the echoes of his heart whispering words of love into your ears.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

[12.11.2018, 11.23am]

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

your trembling fingers clicked on the video yachi sent. this couldn’t be him. it couldn’t be atsumu. not when you told him you felt like absolute crap yesterday.

your eyes began to sting with tears and your felt as though the weight of the whole world fell unto your shoulders. you felt suffocated. suffocated and every other connotation of that word as if someone was purposely clutching at the back of your neck and pushing your head into water. you couldn’t breathe.

he didn’t even bother texting—no, he was out, getting drunk with his teammates at a fancy restaurant surrounded by a bunch of girls. truth be told, he wasn’t quite close to any of the girls, who you assumed were fans, but that didn’t really matter. what mattered is that he wasn’t there when you wanted him to be.

you chucked your phone to the other end of the bed and buried your face into the closest pillow to you and let your sorrowed tears soak the case of your white pillow.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

[21.11.2018, 4.03pm]

[notes: left on seen]

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

[21.11.2018, 9.28pm]

one knock, followed by two then another one. it was atsumu’s hallmark knock. you know that because it’s what he’s been doing every time he comes over. one knock, two knocks, and then one more knock.

you expected him to come, but hoped he didn’t. or maybe, deep inside, you hoped he’d come. you missed the way the earthy, clean smell of his cologne sneaked into your nostrils every time you’d nuzzle your head into the crook of his neck. the way his autumn brown eyes stared into yours. your missed the way his hand felt against yours, soft yet peppered with tiny callouses.

your breath hitches as you opened the door, only to find atsumu. your atsumu. with worried, remorseful eyes. eyes that screamed at you with apologies.

you stepped aside, silently inviting him in, and he accepted, gratefully by stepping a foot in. you closed the door, eyes stuck to the ground, unable to meet his honey orbs.

you wanted to hug him and tell him how much you missed your body being embraced by his arms and your fingers combing his soft yet tangled hair and—

“i—fuck! ’m sorry. ’m so sorry, i didn’t—listen, that day I was gonna come over, i really was—but i completely forgot that we had the team’s annual dinner that day—it completely slipped out of my mind and, i don’t know, i’m a dumbass ‘kay? i’m a shitty boyfriend and—“ he breathed. his hands were clenched and glued to his sides. “i’m an asshole and ’m sorry. you don’t deserve that, you deserve way better and you deserve to feel like you’re my priority. fuck—’m so sorry,” he stared into your eyes. you could feel your eyes stinging with tears, and a lump forming at the back of your throat.

“atsumu—listen, i was upset and i’m still upset. like—it’s not even the fact that you went out. if you sent me a text, i would’ve not minded. it’s the fact that you went out when i told you that i felt like shit and then never texted—like—i had to know from a video yachi sent on the group chat. do you know how much that hurt, atsumu?” your rasped out, fighting against the tears. in your heart, you’ve already forgiven him, but in your head, you had to tell him because you don’t think you can handle feeling like second to everything else one more time.

“i know, and i honestly don’t have anything to say to that. that was so shitty of me, i don’t know what the fuck came over me. ’m sorry,i—i promise this won’t happen again,” his hand was clutching his hair now, slightly tugging it. “so please, ’m sorry—please forgive me,” he whispered. it was as if you could see his voice physically break, and that was all it took for you to hurry his way and swing both your arms around his neck. and for him to wrap his arms around your torso.

it felt good, all the tension melted away. the weight on your shoulders was pushed off as soon as your skin made contact with his. as soon as you felt the hot breath of his mouth landing onto the crook of your neck. you pulled away slightly so that your eyes were directly staring at his, noses almost touching.

“only this time,” you said, referring to the fact that you forgave him so easily.

“only this time,” he repeated, hugging you closer.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

[21.11.2018, 11.35pm]

later that night, after briefing each other about how your days have been without each other around, he said that he had to send a quick text to the coach telling him he’ll be missing practice tomorrow to spend the whole day with you (he was secretly planning to miss the whole week, but was too afraid to tell you so he decided to leave it till tomorrow night).

your head was laying on his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat, legs tangled with his. your thumb lazily swiped down against the slightly cracked screen of your phone, updating your twitter feed every few seconds while he was busy texting his coach.

suddenly, a new post on atsumu’s twitter appeared. a picture of both your hands intertwined with the caption: [for everyone asking what’s the most important thing to me]

you glanced from your phone into his handsome face, leaning in to place a small peck on the apples of his cheek.

“you are such a dork” you grinned, snuggling into his chest one again.

“you love me though” he replied, lopsidedly smiling.

and it was true, you did love him.

[cherryswisherz]

KARMIC BALANCE ✷ CHAPTER III

✷WARNINGS cursing, pining??? idk. mention of the nd game and h*annah h*dalgo

✷NIYAH SPEAKS aye we back! this one is just paiges pob

✦✦✦✦

SENIOR YEAR

We lose to Notre Dame every year. 

Every. Fucking. Year. 

And now that I’m home in Storrs, looking at everyone as they try to mask their disappointment, I feel the loss even more. 

Which is why I’m walking around in the middle of night, the December air biting into my skin. I can’t stop thinking about everything that went wrong. Why everything went wrong. 

I honestly have no fucking clue why, but I know what went wrong. Everyone does. Our defense was lousy, our shots were horrible, we got too tired. I could go on, but that won’t fix anything. 

I find myself at Xavi and Janes house before I realize it. I tell myself that it’s because Yanna’s there, and not because of the wisdom that Xavia seems to have about every aspect of life. 

When Xavia opens the door wearing a smile and a moo moo, I ignore that bubly feeling in my chest and ask to come in. 

Once inside, I see her apartment is almost completely dark. The big lights are off, the living room being lit only by a candle and two lamps in opposite corners. 

“So, what’s up P?” Xavi asks, running her hands down the silk of her moo moo. “It’s almost midnight and you’re usually dead to the world by 9.”

Knowing that Xavia knows my bedtime makes me smile for reasons I don’t want to admit. 

When I first met her, Xavia was like a mystery. She was funny and smart and absolutely fucking beautiful. She’d apologized for making a false assumption about me. It was the first and only time anyone had ever done that and I never forgot it. 

When she and Jane started coming around more, I forced myself to swallow the want I had to learn more about her, to learn from her because I knew that if I’d gotten to the root of who she was, I’d be even more enthralled than I already was at that point. 

Eventually my heart stopped beating so fast around her. I’d stopped avoiding being within 3 feet of her and trained myself to treat her like I’d treated all my other friends. 

Because that’s what she is. My friend. 

It didn’t matter that her not worshipping ground I walked on excited me. It didn’t matter that almost every conversation we had alone rested in the back of my mind at all times. 

Xavia is my friend and that’s all she’d ever be. 

“Yeah I know. I just can’t get the ND game outta my head and I thought Yanna would be here to talk to.”

I’m lying and I know it. Whether Yanna was here or not, I would have found a way to talk to Xavi. I always did. Not because I wanted to be around her, but because she always had the answer to whatever problem that I have. Anyone would do the same if they’d stopped to pay attention when she was trying to get a word in. 

“Oh, yeah, she’s not here.” Xavi pointed a thumb to the back of her house, where Her and Jane’d bedroom’s were. Her locs swayed with the turn of her head. “Her and Jane went to Urgent Care cause she hit her shoulder on the wall and-” She waves her hands anxiously, as if she doesn’t feel like explaining a complex situation. “It was a whole thing. I’m sure you’ll hear about it tomorrow.”

I know I should be worried about my teammate who can’t seem to stay healthy. And I am. I make a mental note to check in on Yanna at some point, but right now, I’m thinking of a way I can stay and talk to Xavi without making it a thing.

“Oh…” is what I came up with. 

“You can talk to me?” Thank. God. “ If you want.”

Of course I fucking want. It’s all I’ve done for the past three years. 

I want to be a better person. 

I want to be 19 again and do everything differently. 

I want to win the championship this year. 

But all those wants are null and void for the biggest want of all. 

I want to get drafted to the WNBA.

And I’ve made  too many shitty decisions to get there to just throw it all away. So what if I’m miserable?

“Uh, yeah. That’s cool.” I play off my desperation and take a seat on her orange bean bag. 

Xavi plops down on the couch in front of me, crossing her legs and folding her hands. All her attention is on me and a part of me feels like I don’t deserve the attention of this amazing woman. But a bigger part is screaming that this is how it should be. 

Me, admiring every part of her, and her, willing and ready for anything I give her. 

Of course, in this situation all she wants is to know what’s on my mind, but I would give her whatever else she could think up. 

“So whatcha thinkin ‘bout?”  She asks sweetly. 

Her voice isn’t obnoxiously high. It’s kinda deep and mellow, just like she is.

“Um… I just can’t get over everything.” I shake my head and look at my hands. Hands that are supposed to get me everywhere I want in life.  “Like, I get why we lost. What we did wrong on the basketball front. But we were off the other day. We’d run those plays over and over again in practice. Studied film. We should have been prepared, but we were just off.  Like no matter how hard we tried, we just couldn’t get there.”

Xavia nods her head like she understands everything I’m saying. 

“Like everything was against you guys?” she questions. 

“No. I don’t think that anything was unfair. I think that our all just wasn’t enough.”

“Well, I know you can’t speak for anyone else, and I’d never ask you to. But why do you think you were off that night?”

She sounds like a therapist. The kind that isn’t just trying to fix you, but trying to understand you. The kind that hangs on to every word, but not to hold it against you.

“I don’t know. I just kept getting madder and madder and it threw me off. I did everything I was supposed to do.”

She looks confused now. “What do you mean ‘supposed to do’?”

“Like everything I thought was right. Everything I've always done.”

“Maybe that’s the issue.” 

Now I’m confused. 

“What?”

Following my routine has taken me and my team to the Final Four, and for Xavi to tell me it’s wrong stings a little. 

“Maybe doing everything you’ve always done isn’t the answer. Paige, you’re a somewhat mature adult. Do you honestly think you’re right all the time?”

What does she mean ‘somewhat’ mature? 

“...No?”

“Right.” Xavi sounds so sure of herself, leaning in and starting to talk with her hands like she does when she’s talking about her coursework or something equally as interesting to her. “It’s impossible to be right in every situation because every situation is different. When you throughout your daily life, do you treat every person the same? Do you go into every conversation with the same mindset, expecting the same outcome?”

I mean most people are the same, so what else am I supposed to do?

“Kinda, yeah.”

“Well that’s no bueno, babe.” She huffs out, pointing at me. Then, she entrances me again with her hands as she speaks. “ Every human is different. They have different pasts, and different views. Even if the difference between one person and another is miniscule, it’s there. And that difference is why it’s so important that we don’t generalize people.”

I know she’s stopped talking but I’m so caught up in her voice, and her hands and her face, and her to contribute to the conversation.

“Are you understanding?” She asks, seemingly genuinely concern with whether I’m comprehending what she’s telling me. 

And the answer is no, I’m not understanding. Whether there’s a differenc eor not, each person want the same thing and should be dealt with the same, based on what they want. 

This is the code fucking live by,a nd she’s sitting her debunking it in the most intellectual, attractive way possible.

“Not really.”

“Okay so like…” She sighs, pauses to think and then continues. “Do you remember when we first met? When I assumed you were a whore like alot of college athletes are?”

The reminder of our first interaction brings a calmness to me. I remember everything abou that night in her dorm. She wore sweats with no bra, and I’m pretty sure she was stoned.

“Yeah of course. You apologized to me that night and it kinda weirded me out.”

“Right.” Xavia snapped her fingers, bringing me out of my memory. “I apologized to you, because I generalized you and made an assumption based on one aspect of your identity. And I think it weirded you out because you’d generalized every person who’d made an assumption about you. I guess it’s rare that people apologize after being an asshole to you.”

It was rare. So rare that she’s the only person who’d ever done it.

“Okay…”

“So. Incourpurating that into basketball. Every team is different.”

I nod my head to let her know I was following. “Of course.”

“Okay and so every player on every team is different too.”

She lost me.

“No.” Now I’m the one leaning forward, talking with my hands. “They all move as a team. Yes, they have differences, but they’re all working together.”

“I see it differently.” She shrugs like she’s the master of basketball and done copious amounts of research on the psyche of an athlet.  “I feel like every player on that court moves individually. Do they play for the same team, and have the same goal? Of course. But they’re all different. They all have different thoughts and concerns and ideas. You said that girl Hannah was the head of the snake, but I think you should see it differently.”

“How so?”

“Instead of thinking of a team as one snake, think of it like… Like cheetahs!”

“Cheetahs?”

“Cheetahs.” She finalizes. “Once the mama cheetah gives birth, she trains her cubs to survive in any situation. To adapt to any surroundings. She teaches her cubs how to kill different animals, to hide, all that. Eventually, the cubs form a sibling group and go out together to execute everything their mother has taught them. Are you getting the analogy?”

When she’s explaining it in laymans terms, of course I get it. She could probably explain thermodynamics to me and I’d understand it fully. Xavia just has a way of making everything in life seem so simple. It’s wonderful, really.

“Yeah. Like the coach is the mother, the players are the cubs.”

“Right. But each cub is different. There’s a more dominant one, there’s submissives and then theirs the runts. Each one has to edit their mothers lessons to make it useful to them individually. Does that make sense?”

I’ve decided that she’s blown my mind enough for tonight, once again by being right about everything. So I just chuckle and dismiss the topic.

“How do you come up with this shit, Xavi?”

She laughs like a seductress and leans back on the couch, “I dunno. I read alot.”

You read alot? Reading alot has given you the ability to break down a sport like you’ve played it your whole life?

“Well thank you for sharing your knowledge with my dumbass, oh wise one.”

I stand up from the beanbag and make my way to the door, ready to take my exit.

“I’m not wise, I just see from a different point of view than you. Sometimes you gotta get outta your head.”

“I guess.” I sigh, then open my arms. “Thanks, Xavi.” 

She steps into me, her head just below my chest and wraps her arms around me. Her body is warm, but the silk she’s wearing cold. She doesn’t hug me tight or aggressively. Just stands there with her arms around my waist. 

It feels terrifyingly comfortable. 

“Anytime P.” she mutters, pulling away and ushering me out of her home. 

The whole walk back, my mind is on her and everything she said. 

How is it that this girl that is the exact opposite of everything I’m looking for, seems to be everything I need?

✷TAGLIST @patscorner @riyahtheballer @mattslolita @thaatdigitaldiary @janaelalfysblunt @mrsengstler @kmoneymartini @sageworld

@darkskinchristiandiorpostergirl @justliketoreadsowhat @pb524830 @pb524830 @dnftpn @sierrale8ne @numberonepartyanth3m

@pppaaiiiggggeeeeee @uwupaige @paigeluvvr @colorthecosmos444 @authentic-girl03 @makethemhoesmad @lovegalor333 @mrsarnold

@sellasstories @heart4caitlin @avvwritesstufff @st4rrzynight @bueckersp @paxaz535 @thelightknight21 @paxaz535

[waywardwhispersblaze]

Hey, thank you for your thoughts, this is a great discussion.

I also thought that Vi using the Grey was consistent with her stint with Jayce in season 1 ("one dead kid? There's plenty more where he came from!"). The use of the Grey isn't harmless, but it was targeted, and... I can see that from her point of view, it's still better than letting Piltover invade the Undercity in full force, which would've resulted in way more casualties. It would've been nice to see her explore other solutions before going with the Grey, but that part of the story was understandable enough. I genuinely think Vi and Jinx both have a point when they confront each other, but the thing is, the writers tend to present Vi's point of view with short lines of dialogue, while simultaneously going to great lengths to show us how Jinx sees her, as you say, so ultimately it does feel unbalanced in the way it is framed.

And while I know this is probably an unpopular take, I also think they did Vi's character a disservice by not really involving her more with enforcers in general. It would have been nice to see her interact with more people than just Caitlyn and Loris, especially in the finale, and it would have been nice to see how the enforcers come to see her. There could've been a story about her gaining their respect for the right reasons. They have Maddie briefly mention in act I how she's supposed to be a legend among enforcers (which... OK. Not for the right reasons lol. And I don't think this is a lie. She said that in front of Steb and Loris, and they had no reaction. A lie this big would've been dangerous for her cover), but it's never really elaborated on. There could've been a story about the enforcers gaining respect for Zaunites in general, which I think is hinted at during "the line" montage, but again, no elaboration, and no tie back to Vi's involvement with them. There could've been a story of Vi discovering what she wants to do for the city outside of getting revenge on Silco. There would've been plenty of opportunities to show us through these stories a more nuanced take than "Vi turned her back on her people just for Caitlyn's sake".

Vi is supposed to be a Piltover champion at the end of the day, but it really feels like that part is missing from her story. Alas, there Wasn't Enough Time (I take solace in the fact that most storylines suffered from this, not just Vi's).

(agree with your thoughts on Caitlyn, too)

Caitlyn and Vi weaponizing toxic air pollution against the undercity and then Jinx and Sevika using Janna’s temple to recreate her legendary miracle by blowing that toxic air back onto Piltover.

Jinx (and Sevika) just became the hero Zaun needs.

[holylulusworld]

Gap Filler (2)

Summary: Lack of communication leads to fallout.

Pairing: Walter Marshall x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, Walter being a douche, break-up, mentions of break-ups, amends, angry reader, unplanned pregnancy

A/N: A short drabble to the miniseries.

Gap Filler (1)

Walter feels like he’s losing his mind. He’s pacing the room, driving the lab assistant crazy. She huffs and shakes her head. Not only does Walter ask for an unauthorized analysis, but he also gets on her nerves.

“Sir, the results won’t come faster if you keep on walking holes into the ground. It will take as long as it takes.”

“I’ll be back in half an hour and need the results by then,” he huffs and turns to leave. “I know you’re not happy that I called in a favor. This is an important, life-changing event. So please, hurry up. I need to be sure if I bring something for the baby too.”

She furrows her brows but says nothing. Three years ago, Walter did her a favor without asking questions. She will do the same for him to pay him back and to be even with the grumpy detective.

“Half an hour,” she nods. “Got it.”

“…and?” Walter expectantly looks at the lab assistant. He never felt so much pressure on him before. Not even while on the hunt for a killer. “Please tell me you have the result for me.”

“Here.” She hands Walter the results. “Now we are even. Never ask me to do something like this ever again. I could lose my job.”

“If you forget about the test and the results, we are even.” He looks at the results. His heart jumped for a second before he remembered what he said to you only a few days ago.

“Detective.” She nods and turns back toward her equipment. “You shouldn’t waste more time. She’s on the way to start a new life far away from you.”

Walter huffs. The last thing he needs is someone telling him that he fucked up big time. He already knows there’s no way you’ll forgive him.

“Can I help you, sir?” The clerk at the shop asks. She’s looking at Walter standing in front of a shelf. He looks left and right, unsure what to buy. “Sir?”

“Hmm…” Walter dips his head to look at her. He has his arms crossed over his chest as he tries to decide on a gift hamper. “I need a gift for…” He sniffs and looks back at the shelf. “…my pregnant girlfriend. It should say, I’m sorry and happy to become a dad at the same time.”

She frowns. “You want to apologize with a baby gift hamper? Sir, I don’t know your girlfriend well, but that’s not the best gift for an angry pregnant woman.”

“How do you wanna know?” He cocks his head to watch her look at the shelf herself. “I want her to know that I’m happy about the baby and that I’m sorry for saying all those stupid things.”

She huffs now. “You are always sorry, aren’t you? Men are all the same. Do you believe a half-hearted apology and a random gift will make things up to her? How dare you come back to her to do it all over again!”

“Whoa, I didn’t ask for your opinion or help. If you’d excuse me now,” Walter angrily says. He glares at the clerk, pissed at her cocky attitude. “Whatever crawled up your ass is not my fault or problem. Nice customer service.”

He’s too angry to focus on buying anything at the shop. Walter storms out of the shop, squaring his jaw. The young woman at the shop wasn’t wrong. Walter hurt you beyond repair, and this can’t be fixed with a fucking gift hamper.

“I’ll take two, no, three of these.” Walter points at the flower baskets. “No, this is stupid. Give me your prettiest bouquet of peonies. She loves them.”

He looks around the flower shop, frowning deeply. There’s a beautiful orchid and a large cactus next to it. Walter shakes his head and laughs. “An impossible match,” he murmurs before pointing at the plants. “I changed my mind. I’ll take these two.”

Packing up your things to move out of your home feels wrong. You learned to love your apartment and turned it into a cozy home for you.

Not so long ago, you had hoped Walter would move in with you one day.

All your hope got shattered the day he told you Rachel is back and that he wants to try again. Your heart broke, and you mourned the life you could’ve had if only Walter felt the same.

Now you’re going to raise the life growing inside of you alone, far away from the friends you made and your beloved home.

“Well, this can’t be helped,” you murmur while rubbing your belly. There’s no swelling yet, but soon enough people will know you’re expecting. “We are going to do this all on our own, bean. Don’t worry. Your mommy is going to give you all the love you’ll need.”

For a few moments, you allow yourself to be sad about the breakup. You cry, you scream, and then you get up to pack up a few more things.

Walter is a nervous wreck. He paces in front of your apartment, the cactus, orchid, and a baby gift hamper in his arms.

“Fuck,” he curses. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Walter curses himself for being a fool. If only he knew that you never wanted to leave him for a better position.

How could he be so blind? How could he not see that your feelings for him were true?

His instinct should’ve told him you are not going to leave him. Instead, he ignored his instinct and listened to the nagging voice in the back of his mind.

“FUCK!” One last time, he takes a deep breath before knocking at your door, using his right elbow.

“Hello, what can I—” You stiffen when your eyes meet Walter’s blue eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I should ask you the same!” He huffs. “I told you so often to not open the door before checking who’s on the other side.”

You huff. “This is how you want to start this conversation? Really, Walter?” He smirks when you put your hands on your hips to glare at him. “What brings you here? Do you want to make sure I’m leaving? Maybe Rachel needs a new apartment, and you want mine.”

“Baby,” he hesitantly says. “Rachel is not, and never will be, a part of my life. She wanted to return for a few months, but we didn’t stay in touch. I lied, believing you want to leave me too. I was hurt and believed hurting you would make me feel better.”

You narrow your eyes. “For a smart detective, you are dumb as a brick.” Slamming the door in his face, you huff. “FUCK YOU!”

“Baby? Uh—will you at least let me explain things? Please?” He knocks at your door again, using his foot this time. “Y/N, please open the door. The cactus is poking my chest, and the orchid looks like it's scared of me.”

You’re tempted to open the door, almost giving in as he keeps talking. “No.”

“Please, at least take the plants. You see, the pretty one is you, soft and sweet. The large, ugly beast is me, rough and grumpy. Even though they are so different, he loves the pretty orchid.” He sighs deeply. “And he hopes that the pretty flower loves him too…”

Walter listens closely. He sucks in a breath when you curse behind the door.

“Baby, I know about the baby,” Walter continues. “I know what I did and said was unforgivable, but please talk to me…”

[mamawasatesttube]

Janet lives au my beloved, I love the difference in the Janet lives vs the Jack lives au :)

Happy holidays! :D

thanks, happy holidays to you too!!!

also aughgh right??? there is so much to ponder wrt janet our collective beloved janet... i think often about this. like. his issues with jack would both shrink and grow because on the one hand jack is no longer actively around to do shit to feed into tim's many complexes. on the other hand, he now has jack up on the Perfect Dad pedestal in his mind because he's dead. can't criticize your dead dad that's fucked up and horrible. right?

and on the other hand. man. so lets posit he has a better relationship with janet than he would with jack (because janet is a better parent than jack, and let's be real, that isn't really a high bar. but given jack's... everything, i just kinda really get the vibe that he left most of the actual parenting to janet). now at first you'd think this is solely a good thing! ...but can you imagine how much more agonized tim is about having to lie to his beloved mommy???? all the time??? he's even more torn between The Mission and his filial piety this time around!!! augh!!!

like all those times jack didnt notice tim hiding bruises with makeup ? if janet's around it is sooo possible that tim steals HER makeup for this specifically at least once and She. Notices. deeply possible that she puts together "tim showing up with mysterious injuries he keeps trying to hide and also lying to me about it" with "tim getting closer with dick grayson and bruce wayne while i was away" and deduces that she doesn't know WHAT they've gotten her little baby boy into, but she IS going to kill those guys. tim keeps insisting that they're very nice to him but that really isn't helping anything. but just the entire concept of janet actually paying attention to tim's injuries - noticing if he steals her makeup!!! - or paying attention to things like. *checks notes* one of his classmates being SHOT DEAD at their SCHOOL ???? hey jack how did you not even check on him once after this. whats wrong with you. i just wanna talk jack

so i think she'd find out tim's robin way faster than jack. he probably would agonize about wanting her to know but The Mission and the need for secrecy, etc. but notably, when she finds out, i don't think she'd force him to quit - she'd really really want him to, because this is so dangerous and he's her baby and she doesn't want him to get hurt!!! but if he pushed back and tried to explain his side of it, she'd actually be willing to at least hear him out (unlike jack).

but also. not to be predictable but. i think it would be really funny if at some point during this drama kon-el shows up on the front doorstep looking for robin, and eavesdrops just enough to understand that janet knows now. because. hear me out. this is how we once again arrive at tim walking into his own house and home and just balking because kon is at the kitchen table hanging out with his mother. mom why the heck are you giving superboy my oreos!!!!

(also, calling back a little to the concept of baby kon somehow befriending janet, but. very specific vision in my mind of "janet lives past identity crisis too au" where at some point baby kon mentions to tim in her earshot that hes never had a mom and wonders whats it like?? and she doesnt say anything but this strikes her to the heart. several years down the line when timkon are established at some point she's like conner sweetie i know a long time back you said you don't have a mother, and i understand that completely and don't mean to try and take any place in your life you don't want me in, but if you ever would like to have a mother-in-law… and tim is just like. MOM. ARE YOU TRYING TO PROPOSE TO KON FOR ME??? THIS IS SO CRINGE. UGH MOM STOP)

[sillymercury]

In the first tags it says most movies/books are not meant to be torn apart but I disagree completely. In fact I think most books/movies are made to dissected and understood on a deeper level. Because whether you like it or not and whether the author meant to or not, books/movies have themes and messages and many people enjoy finding them.

I don’t think it smart to write something(esp things so popular) off as mindless entertainment bc your being fed a message even if you don’t know it. There is nothing wrong with enjoying a book despite whatever message is being sent but when you blatantly ignoring the fact that these things exist is how propaganda propagates. If you are being intentionally fed a narrative without knowing you are likely to internalize it on some level which can be particularly dangerous. The danger presents itself abundantly in this day and age especially when you see people who have such hard stances but cant tell you/explain where those stances originate. Sns thrives off of the want to ‘turn your mind off’ and just consume/enjoy, but that’s never what actually happens. Your subconscious is still processing information but since you’re not consciously dealing with it that leaves room for issues like anxiety, depression, and personality disorder. This seems off topic but ‘mindless consumption’ isn’t a thing, your brain keeps score even when you don’t.

Also a book can have multiple “messages” and you can like some and not the others while still enjoying the piece overall. When I truly love a piece of media I acknowledge is flaws and shortcomings and can see the issues with a story/message while still enjoying it thoroughly. An example for me is I enjoyed the book The Picture of Dorian Gray while recognizing and rejecting the way the characters/book discusses and depicts women.

Like in Nestas book specifically, the main themes are empowerment (specifically female) and growth. This book was my favorite in the series and yet I can still acknowledge all the things wrong with it. Main character were incredibly hypocritical throughout the book, verbal abuse was seemingly over looked/excused, Stockholm syndrome parallels, etc. I identify these things but that still doesn’t detract from my experience instead, adds to it.

Another thing I wanted to mention before bringing this to a close; authors. For the sake of not rambling due to personal feelings I’ll just say, there is nothing wrong with calling out behavior or publicly disagreeing with ideals when it come to public figures. How it’s handled, whether it works, or it’s longevity is a different conversation but there is nothing wrong with speaking out against people in the public eye/people who create mass consumed media.

I understand your take, and I agree people take things way to seriously, but I think your frustration may be displaced. I think the issue with ACOTAR fandom specifically is the same issue with most fandoms. People are delusional, mean, and spoiled. People identify to hard or personalize characters/celebs to the point it becomes an parasocial and problematic. People are also very spoiled in the sense that we feel entitled to the things we want, like we deserve them intrinsically and when there is the threat of not getting what you want (esp is fandoms when discussing this almost mob mentality) or someone challenges your belief/opinion people lash out and get nasty, even feeling personally wronged but a differing stance. When you bring all of these things together it can get nasty very quickly. I’ve been and am still in so many fandoms that I hardly interact with because so much content is toxic or rage bait or whatever. Platforms like Reddit or discord where you can have controlled conversation with a group of people just as dedicated to a topic as you, and you can discuss thoughts and opinions in (what should be) a safe space is an incredible experience but most platforms don’t have moderation that can harbor that so then your left with a mess of often times toxicity and division.

I rambled and diverged a little bit but I thought hard about what I had read and this is what I came up with. Also I feel I should say I’m not a lit major lol but I am educated and I work hard to form my own opinions while still listening to other people takes. And that this is not an attack on op this is pretty much my stream of consciousness after reading the post and I am open to discussion.

my hot take as to why the acotar fandom is a shit show is because too many people with english degrees infiltrated and cannot read a book simply to enjoy it, they must pick it apart and analyze it to the point of just tearing it, the characters and the author apart. and gullible people adopted that same mindset.

in simpler terms: too many people take it way, WAY too seriously lol. like this series is meant for entertainment. sarah didn’t write classic literature with underlying themes on morals and society that’s meant as think pieces. y’all do too much and can never just enjoy things. you’re like the cinephiles that cannot just watch a movie for entertainment purposes, you need citizen kane otherwise you’re shitting on everything because it’s not up to your snobbish standards

[crookedteethed]

ᡣ𐭩 the good girl . • ° 　 .　 *　:.　the engagement (2)

synopsis -- when a drunken kiss leads to rejection, Rafe's possessive nature takes a darker turn. Between mounting debts, your engagement to his rival, and a trip to Morocco looming, Rafe manipulates his way into getting what he wants - you, isolated and far from home.

warnings -- 18+- mdni, cursing, mentions of murder, dark!rafe, stalker!rafe, stalking, unwanted touch, angst/hurt, rafe's daddy issues. mention of suicide (not literal)

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | word count: 3.5k

The fluorescent lights of Roots' private bathroom cast harsh shadows across Rafe's tear-streaked face. Your palm cradled his cheek, feeling the slight tremor in his jaw, the expensive cologne mixing with the lingering scent of vodka. This was Rafe Cameron stripped bare – no arrogance, no power plays, just raw vulnerability that made your heart ache, all to your belief.

"You're the only one who sees me," he whispered, his cerulean eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide with something more dangerous than just desire. "The only one who really sees me."

Time suspended itself in that sterile bathroom, reality shrinking to a single point: your thumb gentle against his tear-stained cheek, his hand finding your wrist – not to dominate, for once, but to steady his shaking world.

Then Rafe lunged forward, capturing your lips with a hunger that bordered on violent. The deep red lipstick he'd been watching all day smeared between your mouths like fresh blood. He kissed you as if he was starving, as if you held all the oxygen in the room, as if you were simultaneously his salvation and his damnation.

Just as his tongue sought to deepen the kiss, survival instinct kicked in. Your hand flew up, connecting with his cheek in a sharp crack that echoed off the bathroom walls.

"MR. CAMERON, THIS isn't appropriate!" The words tore from your throat, your voice bouncing off cold tile. "I don't know what you thought this is, but no, I'm not that type of girl--I'm your secretary." The last word tasted bitter on your tongue, like a reminder of all the boundaries you'd both just shattered.

His cerulean eyes darkened dangerously as you fled, watching your retreat with the focused intensity of a predator marking its prey. One hand touched the red mark blooming on his cheek – the same shade as your lipstick now smeared across his mouth like evidence of a crime.

Alone in the bathroom, Rafe's embarrassment quickly morphed into something darker. No witnesses meant no proof – just his word against yours if you decided to talk. The thought made him laugh bitterly as he lined up another hit of cocaine on the porcelain sink. He'd learned long ago that money could make most problems disappear, and he was nothing if not generous with his money.

The bartender's eyes widened at the size of the tip Rafe dropped on his way out – because even in crisis, a Cameron never forgot their image. But his practiced smile faltered when he spotted you in the waiting limo, pressed as far into the corner as physically possible, like a trapped animal seeking escape.

Rafe slid into the opposite corner, the leather seat creaking under his weight. The space between you felt electric with unspoken threats and possibilities. This was it, he thought – the final straw. Tomorrow he'd have to have that dreaded conversation with Ward about finding yet another secretary. And worse, by sundown he'd be on the first flight to Morocco – his father's favorite form of punishment disguised as business opportunity. Cameron Boy banished to the desert again, all because he couldn't keep his hands off his secretary.

But as he watched you from the corner of his eye, noticed how your breath hitched every time he shifted, how your fingers nervously played with your skirt hem, Rafe realized something that made his blood run hot: you weren't disgusted by the kiss. You were afraid – not of him, but of how much you'd wanted it too.

Maybe he wouldn't need to call Ward after all. Maybe his good girl just needed a firmer hand to guide her toward what they both wanted.

"I'm engaged." The words burst from your lips like a shield, shattering the charged silence in the limo. You watch as Rafe's expression transforms – his previous predatory calculation morphing into something far more dangerous, far more unhinged.

"Well," you continue, words tumbling out faster as his cerulean eyes darken with each syllable. "I've been engaged for the past year, we're saving up for a ring, but he's already proposed. We're looking at houses too—" You're rambling now, knowing you should stop but unable to halt the nervous flood of words. "I'm getting off topic, but what I mean is—I'm taken. I'm sorry if I gave you any wrong impressions…"

Your voice trails into nothing as Rafe's gaze pins you to the leather seat. The look in his eyes screams danger, screams shut up, screams of violence barely contained beneath his expensive suit. The air in the limo grows thick with unspoken threats.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, though you're not sure why you're apologizing. Maybe for the slap that's still branded red across his tanned cheek. But then again, you wouldn't have had to mark him if he hadn't tried to claim what wasn't his to take.

Rafe's knuckles bleach white against his knee as his jaw works silently, grinding thoughts you're terrified to imagine. Your engagement revelation hangs in the air like smoke – not the shield you'd hoped for, but kindling for something darker stirring behind his cerulean eyes. To him, your engagement isn't a wall; it's a challenge. Another obstacle to destroy.

His fingers drum against his thigh in a rhythm that sounds like a death march. When he finally speaks, his voice comes out soft, gentle even – and that's what terrifies you most. A gentle Rafe Cameron is a deadly Rafe Cameron.

"Well, I sure hope I'm invited to the wedding?" The question slides from his lips alongside a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Then comes the laugh – a sound that erupts from deep in his chest, too loud, too sharp, too wrong. It fills the limo like poisoned honey.

You force yourself to laugh along, the sound brittle and false, counting the seconds until this ride through hell finally ends. But the way Rafe's eyes glitter in the passing streetlights tells you this isn't an ending at all – it's a beginning.

That night, Rafe sat in his home office, the blue light of his laptop screen illuminating his tormented expression as he attempted to craft an apology email. The words poured out, a mixture of manufactured remorse and raw truth: how inappropriate his actions had been, how the alcohol had loosened his careful control, how he couldn't stop replaying that kiss in his mind.

But with each sentence he typed, the apology transformed into something darker, more possessive. Professional phrases dissolved into dangerous confessions – how he'd been watching you for months, memorizing every detail, dreaming of claiming what he saw as his. The kiss had only intensified his obsession, giving him a taste of what he'd been denying himself.

Mid-paragraph, clarity struck like lightning. An email would be evidence – permanent proof of his transgression. One forward from you to HR, to Ward, to the board, and everything would unravel. The Cameron empire had weathered many storms, but a harassment scandal involving the youngest son and his secretary? That would be harder to bury.

Rafe deleted the draft, watching the cursor blink accusingly on the empty screen. No, he wouldn't apologize. Instead, he'd show you exactly why crossing lines with Rafe Cameron was both the best and worst decision of your life.

Instead of empty apologies, Rafe decided to speak in the language he knew best: money.

With practiced ease, he logged into the payroll system using his father's credentials – a trick he'd learned years ago for situations that required discrete handling. An extra $2,000 added to your next paycheck would look innocent enough:

"Performance Bonus - Approved by W. Cameron."

A satisfied smirk played across his lips as he authorized the payment. He could already picture your face when you opened the check this Friday – that delicate mix of surprise and pleasure he'd come to crave. Would you understand the message behind it? That everything had a price, even forgiveness?

But as the night wore on, Rafe's thoughts began their familiar spiral. His fingers drummed against his desk as his mind filled with questions about you. What were you doing right now, at this exact moment? Were you home? Alone? Had you told your "fiancé" about the kiss? Were you touching your lips, remembering the taste of him like he couldn't stop remembering the taste of you?

He pulled up your employee file, eyes tracing over your address for the hundredth time. The logical part of his brain knew driving past your apartment at 2 AM would be crossing yet another line, but then again – hadn't he already crossed the biggest one in that bathroom? His car keys felt heavy in his pocket as his OCD thoughts circled like hungry wolves: check on her, make sure she's safe, make sure she's alone, make sure she's still his.

Rafe navigated the familiar streets with practiced precision, taking the curved bend that led to your apartment complex. He knew this route by heart now – the figure-eight loop that ended where The Cut began, a middle-class neighborhood that he deemed barely acceptable for someone who belonged to him.

He'd planned this carefully, dressed head-to-toe in black like a predator preparing for the hunt. Instead of his usual gleaming Mercedes, he'd chosen his older BMW – a car he despised for its squealing brakes and dated interior, but perfect for remaining anonymous. No one would expect Rafe Cameron, heir to the development empire, to be caught dead in last decade's model, which made it the perfect vehicle for nights like these.

The parking garage across from your complex offered the perfect vantage point. He eased into a space on the third level, ignoring the protesting squeal of those damned brakes. From here, he could see directly into your living room window, where a soft light still burned despite the late hour.

Rafe's fingers drummed against the steering wheel, a rhythm matching his racing pulse. How many nights had he watched your shadows dance across those curtains? The count blurred in his mind, each evening melting into the next. But tonight felt different. That kiss in the bathroom had changed everything – had turned his careful observation into raw hunger. Watching from afar no longer satisfied the growing obsession that consumed his thoughts.

His breath hitched sharply as you emerged from the distant hallway, wrapped only in a white towel that made his vision blur at the edges. The sight of you, casual and unguarded in your private space, sent a dangerous thrill through his body.

Then he saw it – you were talking, gesturing with a toothbrush in your mouth, clearly addressing someone just out of view. In all his previous surveillance – only twice from this particular spot, he reminded himself – he'd never caught a glimpse of this mysterious fiancé you'd mentioned. The thought of finally seeing his rival, the man who dared claim what Rafe considered his, made his blood simmer with anticipation and rage.

His cerulean eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, focused entirely on your apartment window. Tonight might finally reveal the face of the man he needed to remove from your life.

Then the moment Rafe had been waiting for arrived with all the subtlety of a knife to the gut. Rising from behind the low couch, partially obscured by the jungle of decorative plants crowding your window, stood a figure Rafe knew all too well. His worst suspicions crystallized into a reality far more infuriating than he'd imagined.

Pope fucking Hayward.

What was it with these Pogues like Hayward – always trying to claim what they couldn't afford? No ring, no house, just empty promises to girls who deserved better. To his girl. The thought made Rafe's blood boil. A Cameron would have already crowned you in diamonds, marked you with luxury. Not these pathetic Pouges from a man playing at success.

Rafe's hands clenched the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, a string of violent curses hissing through his teeth. Of all the men in Charleston, you were engaged to Pope Hayward – his childhood rival, his professional thorn, and now, apparently, the thief who'd dared to stake a claim on what belonged to Rafe.

The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity: those whispered conversations in meetings, Hayward's constant proximity to you, that smug smile he wore whenever Rafe watched you two interact. For a year, right under his nose, Pope had been marking his territory.

A dark laugh bubbled up from Rafe's chest, edged with something dangerous. This wasn't just about desire anymore – this was about revenge. Pope Hayward had just made the biggest mistake of his life, and Rafe would make sure he learned exactly what it meant to take something from a Cameron.

"I want Hayward gone." Rafe's voice cut through the pretentious lunch crowd at Charleston's finest bistro. You were safely tucked away at the office, working on his Cut property reports – exactly where he needed you while he handled this particular conversation.

The Italian sub in front of him bore the brunt of his aggression as he stabbed it with his knife, imagining a different target entirely. Ward Cameron watched his son's violence toward the innocent sandwich with growing concern.

"Are you kidding me, Rafe?" Ward's laugh held all the warmth of a shark's smile. "Pope Hayward is the smartest asset we've got. The deals he's closed for R&P alone—"

"I don't give a fuck about his deals," Rafe snarled, his cerulean eyes flashing with that familiar Cameron rage – the kind that had built their empire and destroyed countless lives along the way.

Ward set down his wine glass, studying his son with calculated precision. "This tantrum wouldn't have anything to do with your pretty new secretary, would it?" He leaned forward, voice dropping. "The one I caught you staring at during yesterday's meeting. The one who happens to be engaged to Pope."

"You knew?" Rafe said. "I thought work relationships weren't permitted."

"Pope works for R\&P, not for us," Ward replied simply, his tone suggesting Rafe was being deliberately obtuse. "Different company, different rules. Though I'm sure if he did work here, he'd manage to maintain professional boundaries better than some."

Rafe's knuckles whitened around his knife. The restaurant's ambient noise faded away, leaving only the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

"He works for our collaborators, son. I can't touch him without raising questions we don't want asked. Without damaging relationships we can't afford to lose." Ward's tone carried a warning. "Let it go."

Rafe pushed his plate away, appetite destroyed by the taste of his father's refusal. Fine. If Ward wouldn't handle this through official channels, there were other ways to solve the Pope Hayward problem. More permanent ways.

His mind drifted to the Morocco trip – to deep waters and convenient accidents, to bodies that never resurface and questions that never get answered. His lips curved into a smile that made Ward's blood run cold.

"You're right, Dad," Rafe said, his voice eerily calm. "I'll let it go."

But they both knew that was a lie. A Cameron never lets go of what they consider theirs.

Rafe's mind wandered to darker possibilities as Ward droned on about Morocco. How easy it would be to eliminate the Pope Hayward problem permanently. One push down the right stairwell, one "accident" at a construction site – problems had a way of solving themselves when you had Cameron resources.

You'd grieve, of course. But Rafe would be there, watching, waiting. He'd comfort you with gentle touches and understanding smiles, show you what real power felt like, what real wealth could offer. Soon enough, "Pope who?" would become your mantra as you fell deeper into Rafe's world.

But reality crashed through his murderous fantasy like ice water. The mounting debt to Barry and his other creditors was already a noose around his neck – adding a homicide investigation would be suicide. Besides, Pope's disappearance would raise too many questions, bring too much attention. Rafe Cameron might be unhinged, but he wasn't stupid.

As if the universe was mocking his thoughts, Ward cleared his throat and said those dreaded words: "I spoke with Dennis Rutherford the other day." His father stirred his soup with deliberate slowness, steam rising like a warning sign.

"Great." Rafe rolled his eyes, launching his napkin into the air with theatrical disdain. Just what he needed – another reminder of his mounting debts while plotting the removal of his rival.

The napkin floated down like a surrender flag, but surrender wasn't in Rafe's vocabulary.( Not when it came to you, anyway).

"Rafe," Ward's voice dropped to that familiar tone of paternal disappointment, the one that made his son's blood boil. "When will you realize that all of 'your' men were first my men? Every contact, every connection you think you own – I built those relationships decades ago." He paused to take another spoonful of soup, letting the words sink in like poison. "I went to prep school with these people, built this empire alongside them while you were still learning to walk."

Ward's eyes hardened as he set down his spoon with precise control. "Rutherford called me yesterday. Not you – me. Do you know how that feels? To have your son's creditor reach out because he doesn't trust said son to make good on his debts?" His laugh was bitter, cutting. "A quarter million in loans, Rafe. What am I supposed to do with that?"

The restaurant seemed to shrink around them as Ward leaned forward, voice barely above a whisper. "Sometimes I lie awake at night, wondering where I went wrong with you. Sarah and Wheezie turned out perfect, but you…" He shook his head. "Maybe I gave you too much. Maybe I didn't give you enough. But watching you spiral like this – the drugs, the debts, this obsession with your secretaries – I have to ask myself: what did I do wrong in raising you?"

The worst part wasn't the words themselves – Rafe had grown numb to his father's disappointment years ago. No, it was the way Ward maintained that perfect Cameron smile throughout his entire diatribe, nodding pleasantly to passing socialites while he gutted his son. Ever the performer, keeping up appearances for the Charleston elite who dined around them, pretending they were just another father and son enjoying an expensive lunch.

The casual cruelty of it all made Rafe's stomach turn. How Ward could slice him to pieces with that benevolent patriarch smile plastered across his face, how he could destroy his son while shaking hands with the banker two tables over. But it was that throwaway line – "Sarah turned out perfect" – that confirmed what Rafe had always known: Ward Cameron didn't just disapprove of his son's choices. He hated the very man Rafe had become.

The comparison to Sarah twisted like a knife. Perfect Sarah. Golden Sarah. The daughter who could do no wrong, even in her absence. While Rafe sat here, drowning in debt and obsession, wearing his father's contempt like a brand.

Ward's smile never faltered as he took another sip of wine, but his eyes held all the warmth of a shark's. The message was clear: Rafe would never be the son Ward wanted – but by God, he'd keep up appearances while reminding him of that fact.

"Listen, Rafe," Ward's voice dripped with false sympathy, that shark smile still firmly in place. "I'll cut you some slack. After all, it must be…" he paused, savoring the cruelty of his next words, "…absolutely exhausting being as incompetent as you are sometimes.

He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, every movement calculated for their audience of lunching socialites. "So I'm going to make you an offer. You handle the Morocco situation – properly, no mistakes, no distractions involving pretty secretaries – and I'll personally clear your $250,000 debt. Hell, I'll even throw in a bonus." His eyes glittered with dark amusement. "Consider it hazard pay for finally doing something right."

The offer hung between them like a noose, and they both knew it. Ward wasn't offering salvation – he was buying compliance, demanding submission. The money came with strings, each one designed to puppet his son exactly where he wanted him: away from Charleston, away from you, and firmly under his control.

But Rafe couldn't stomach the thought of leaving you behind. Not with Pope Hayward circling what belonged to him, planning to put a ring on the finger Rafe had already marked as his territory. Every second away would be another moment for Pope to play house with his property.

A plan crystallized in his mind, dark and perfect.

"You have yourself a deal, father," Rafe purred, his cerulean eyes glinting with something that made Ward's smile falter for the first time. "On one condition – my secretary comes with me. To keep me focused, you understand. To ensure everything goes… according to plan."

Ward studied his son's expression, finally recognizing the dangerous Cameron obsession he himself had passed down. In that moment, he realized his mistake – he hadn't just given Rafe an escape route from his debts. He'd handed his unhinged son the perfect opportunity to isolate his prey.

Morocco suddenly seemed very far away, and very, very dark.

a/n: thanks for making it to the end of this chapter!! as always all likes comments, and reblog keeps me motivated! 💕🫶🏾

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