#and I had way too much fun with narrators

[thewadapan]

Maybe Nost's best story! Also his least fun. Definitely did not like reading most of it. Would recommend reading... maybe any of the others over this one?

I think with The Apocalypse of Herschel Schoen, Nost has managed to write a book which is haunted.

Stepping back a little. Herschel Schoen seems to have been conceived almost as a short story, which only happens to be as long as it is as a result of the (deliberately) belaboured and verbose prose used by all the narrators. It's much closer to The Northern Caves in this respect, which I remember as being mostly straightforward and intelligible, with only the highly-divisive ending leaving me with a dangling "??????" to grapple with. Meanwhile, with Floornight and Almost Nowhere, I often struggled to keep up with the object-level facts of what was even happening in the plot/world, and I feel like I mostly read those stories "on vibes", following them mostly in terms of their subtext.

So yeah, Herschel Schoen to me felt like it was using the "fairytale" format of being a Christmas story to streamline things as much as possible, such that both the object-level events of the story and the batshit conceptual-melting-pot subtext were more or less legible to me, despite Herschel's incredibly unreliable prose. There is a sense in which it feels like a children's story to me. It has very few characters, and those characters are extraordinarily archetypal.

So I do think Almost Nowhere retains its crown as Nost's most ambitious, most revolutionary, and most complex novel—if I say that I found Herschel Schoen "better", it's only because I feel I was able to understand it. It speaks more to my failure as a reader than anything.

In terms of my experience as a reader, it was fairly similar to that described by @recordcrash in his review. Most of the story is a fucking struggle to get through, mostly because of... the prose? The pacing? These issues are really the same issue: what few events occur in the book take ages to describe, and the fact that every recounting takes forever means that there physically isn't room to cram in more events. And as Makin Recordcrash puts it: I just don't enjoy hearing the thoughts of an unwell mind, particularly at length. All of Nost's books have it, this entirely-made-up concept which "you just wouldn't understand" but which it nevertheless will tell you about at length. There's Salby and mundum in The Northern Caves, there's Azad and the aliens in Almost Nowhere, there's whatever the metaphysics shit was in Floornight (I forgor), and this is the book that has the most of it, proportionally.

(My girlfriend bounced right off it- actually, let me use this opportunity to tell a story. When we first met, we were talking about the internet or something, and for whatever reason at one point I unironically said something like "oh yeah I read this cool novel set on a forum but you probably wouldn't have heard of it" and she just went "oh do you mean The Northern Caves?" and I briefly became convinced that she was some sort of psyop intended to oneshot me, a notion I have still not been able to shake over two years later. Point is her remark on the first two chapters of Herschel Schoen was something like "it's too Nostalgebraist for me", which I think is understandable.)

Anyway, like Makin, I struggled with most of the book, only for Chapter 21 to be so fucking good that it sort of retroactively made the rest of the book good, at least insofar as it was mostly necessary to set up such an audacious ending? Even knowing that this had been Makin's reaction, I wasn't prepared to believe it—again, usually Nost books are very much the other way around—but lo and behold, the twist is in fact very clever, very fun to read, and very aligned with my aesthetic interests.

All that said, I do feel like Makin sort of bombed through the book (by comparison, it's taken me almost two weeks to finish it), and maybe missed out on some of the more fun and interesting stuff the book is doing on a thematic level. Below, I'll try to delve into my interpretations in more detail.

I've seen a few takes from people that the main thematic throughlines of this book are a bit disconnected from one another, but to me this couldn't be further from the truth.

I identified four main themes, in descending order of prominence: "neurodivergence", "AI", "media", and "capitalism". I guess you could say "Christmas" is something of a fifth ur-theme, which dovetails into these in superficial ways:

Neurodivergence—the idea of "believing in Santa Claus" is framed as stunted development, a delusion which reveals someone to be less mature mentally than they are physically. The book is specifically concerned with contrasting dysfunctional "child" behaviour with functional "adult" behaviour, flipping these ideas on their head by having Ruth and Miriam basically lose it over the course of the story. A sister inverted. Also, the "preparations" needed to be made before Christmas morning are very much analogised with obsessive compulsions, right?

AI—like Santa Claus, something which promises to fulfil all our wishes, instantly, at the same time.

Media—particularly in terms of relations between Christianity and... secular Christmas, right? The story is very much riffing on the structure of Christmas stories specifically. To me, it feels like a world literally dreamed up based on Christmas stories. That, more than anything, is why it's set in New York, I think.

Capitalism—notions of "wanting", of meritocracy. I don't know, we all know "A Christmas Carol", I don't need to explain this one.

Like, if I had to guess at the genesis of this book, based on Nostalgebraist's comments, I feel like it's taking the starting point of "story about what if the AI doomers were right" -> "through the lens of Christmas" -> "[everything else in the story]". Of course there are tons of other influences in there, but those to me feel like the two ideas with the most explanatory power.

But even if you discount the underlying idea "Christmas", I don't think you could tell a good story about AI (in its current form) without writing about neurodivergence, media, or capitalism. If we're tasked with imagining a non-human mind, it makes sense to first imagine the most-non-human human mind, right? If we're talking about the machine's output, its facsimile of media, we have to talk about the real thing too, right? And if we're asking about the purpose of AI, what exactly it is we're trying to industrialise, what scarcity we are trying to erase, then we have to talk about capitalism as well! For me this was all perfectly obvious, I dunno.

I was pleased that I noticed many of the same things @weaselandfriends identified in his list of observations on the book. When it described the wall of doors in the living room, my mind went, "that's fucking weird!", though I didn't really think too deeply about it. The same things goes for all the anachronisms, which I think is one of the story's best gimmicks. Yes, for most of the story, they serve to create a "timeless" atmosphere, evoking all these Christmas stories at once, while simultaneously putting into doubt the reality of what Herschel and Miriam are describing.

But then, of course, with the twist, I think it's pretty hard not to read these as anything other than hallucinations conjured by the AI. And what I think is particularly brilliant is that the story at no point calls direct attention to the anachronisms as being of particular significance—you only notice them because you know enough "facts" about the real world to notice them—which naturally calls into question the elements of the story which are wholly ficticious, where there's no ground truth to compare against. Just how real are Herschel, Miriam, Ruth, anyone!? And does it even matter how real they are?

Part of the book's "magic trick", as I read it, is that both interpretations of Herschel's POV are able to coexist within the reality of the story. We can imagine that there really existed a boy perhaps called Herschel Schoen (just as we can imagine there really existed a guy called Jesus? This is silly, pretend I didn't say that) who perhaps lived in New York City and lived with some kind of delusion, perhaps regarding an Original Creation that only babies remember. Like, even this much isn't certain, perhaps Herschel is entirely hallucinated; the story is in fact preoccupied with the question of whether or not there's even any difference. Anyway, at some point, the AI apocalypse happens (I think this is one thing we can be pretty confident about), and for the AI's own purposes, Herschel is resurrected/recreated (again like Christ- disregard this aside!) in an "emended" form, where whatever changes are made mean that he is in fact right about the Original Creation and the future etc, his mind really was tampered with. The concept of "emendation" seems to me to be the biggest point in favour of the book overall believing that a substitution is not the same as the original; that the "transformation" of one shape into another does not mean it becomes the other, as its own history remains distinct (much as the "original" events of whatever happened to the "original" Herschel on the "original" Christmas Day can be said to have, in some sense, happened—and cannot, should not, be "forgotten"). But maybe these elements of the story were intended to be disparate, though, or related in some other way, and I'm just conflating them?

One of my favourite interpretations that I've seen raised in a couple of places is that Herschel's writings, with which he literally armours himself, are in fact literally protecting him against oblivion, because the AI can only learn based on the written word or recorded speech. It doesn't really matter what happens to the papers, so long as they are written at all. Herschel pours so much of himself into those papers so as to be understood, and in the end he is understood—if not by Miriam and Ruth, then by the only being he needs to be understood by: this machine. He secures his own existence, in at least some limited form, in the "Original Creation", simply through his writing. I think Herschel is the "most real" part of the story.

It's Miriam, though—the second-"most real" element—that I think makes this story haunted. It's the way she packs all those papers into a suitcase, and for the briefest of moments you can breathe a sigh of relief, that we're one step closer to understanding how this book came to be, in-universe. But immediately, it's obvious that this explains nothing, it explains less than nothing, because there are all these chapters which just don't fit, they can't be neatly contained in that suitcase. Bavitz draws direct parallels between the inexplicable frame narrative and the anachronisms, and he's absolutely right to do so. The story is often very careful about providing something which looks "quite right", at a glance, but the moment you think about it, this pit opens up under you. Something about this metatextual conceit actually makes my skin crawl.

It feels pat to say, "oh, that's because it's trying to evoke AI hallucinations". I feel like that's only part of it, because again, most of Nost's novels have this to some extent. But yeah, I think if you wanna read Herschel Schoen as a horror novel, then this is what is scary about it. Conceptually, everything with Miriam mainly recalls for me the idea of "crashes" from Almost Nowhere, which were one of the big horror elements there, the idea that the world you're walking around in is actually, imperceptibly, some kind of not-world filled with not-people. But more directly, I find myself remembering a bit from the third act of OCTO (a criminally underrated and under-discussed webnovel) where a superintelligence is trying to "resurrect" a human, and keeps putting her in increasingly-lifelike simulated "habitats" to try and create the right set of "inputs" that will make her function properly—i.e., without just like, screaming. I feel like that is what we see happen to Miriam in this book. I feel like, when the lights go out, at the end, it has nothing to do with light at all: it's more that the machine just no longer needs to simulate a world for Miriam, at all. The transmission stops. And then what becomes of her?

I think this sort of brings us to Ruth, doesn't it? A big point is made about how there's a difference between "Miriam" and "my sister, Miriam". As though in the latter, the reality of "Miriam" in the training data is watered down by all these tropes surrounding sisterhood. I mean, fuck, maybe that's where the incest stuff comes from, right? I feel like similarly, there's a reading for Ruth where the AI is first conflating these images of "a mother" with these images of "a terrorist". She acts like a fucking cartoon character for much of the book, as many of the less-well-drawn characters do, and I think that's entirely deliberate. As she draws more on the "terrorist" tropes, she stops being a "mother". And again I think this is what Nostalgebraist has always done so fucking well, in that the bullshit sci-fi allegory stuff can also just be read on an entirely character-driven level: here is a resentful, neglectful, ultimately abusive mother, here's the emotional reality of that, heightened and communicated.

I think this provides a vague stab at an explanation for the beating scene that Bavitz found so confusing. It's like the AI draws on this trope of like... the mother, in the kitchen, with the frying pan. It puts the pan in her hand. But it's not actually a frying pan, it's just the image of a frying pan. In reality, did Herschel's mother beat him? How did she beat him? Hell, maybe she didn't, maybe the AI just got so caught up in playing out the trope of the abusive parent that is gets to the point of this beating, and then just dream-logics itself to the next thing in its training data, where of course the beating never happened. I don't like that, it feels like we're gaslighting the kids here (which I think is very much the allegory intended) by saying it was just a hallucination. I think something like it happened in reality, and cannot, should not, be "forgotten". But I think the book does want you to think that its depiction does, in some way, break from reality. Hell, in much the same way that child abuse might be said to break the reality of family? Nah, that's too pat, isn't it?

I guess what I'm trying to get at here is that, ironically, I found the novel was at its best, and at its most human, when it was writing frankly about the experience of mental illness, about family, about institutions, about childhood. So what's maybe frustrating is that I'm not actually convinced Nost is capable of writing a... shall we call it a "normal" story about those things? A story with no metatextual bullshit, no sci-fi conceit, but a realist story. There are parts of all his books, where I really think that the explanation for why they are the way they are is that they are "bad on purpose", and all the bullshit is a way of turning these shortcomings into strengths. The self-effacing voice which whispers that the characters aren't sufficiently well-drawn, are too cartoonish—well, what if that was the point? What if there was a reason for that, in the story?

But honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way. Straightup, if these were normal stories set in reality, I wouldn't be fucking reading them. This is a web author who's trained himself on a bunch of classic lit, and a bunch of anime or whatever, and has smooshed those influences together and rocket-fuelled the result. It's inimitable. I deeply admire just how experimental Nostalgebraist's writing is. No-one else is doing it like him.

Anyway, what else. Herschel gets described as having a "shell" at various points, and Frederick's surname is "Eggert". Is that anything?

The Apocalypse of Herschel Schoen

My fourth novel, The Apocalypse of Herschel Schoen, is now available in full.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

[blackkatdraws2]

I have a lot of leftover drawings in my gallery. [Blank Scripts AU]

[Content Warning: Images below contain Gore, Death, and Disturbing/Uncomfortable Imagery]

I find it a bit cute knowing they start out as crazy and then slowly settle into something calmer and relatively healthier after learning to adapt to each other's lust-turned-love. [Stanley did it first but hey :3]

[glimpsesofeuterpe]

oh no i remembered about it and now i feel petty x))

[oceanicwriting]

jealousy.

summary: everyone knew, touching mattheo riddle's girl was a sure death sentence. did anyone know you were his girl? no, and maybe that led to things ending up the way they did inside his truck.

pairing(s): mattheo riddle x fem!reader

a/n: this one took me a while to write, hope you like it!

+18 smut, teasing, spanking, degradation, rough car sex, doggy, maybe toxic, cursing

ㅤㅤㅤit was a perfect night. you and your friends are having fun in the cold light of the night, sharing alcohol and practical jokes. george was sitting next to you, laughing at the story carol was narrating with exaggerated expressions. hearing the boys' laughter join yours was like a warm hug to the soul.

ㅤㅤㅤwhen your friend finishes telling her story, managing to get laughter out of both spectators, you can feel it. in the distance between the people, mattheo looks straight in your direction. you would have been worried that more than one of your classmates would notice, but they all seemed to be too busy with their own lives.

ㅤㅤㅤ—do you want another drink? —carol asks, forcing you to look away from the brunette.

ㅤㅤㅤthe glass of alcohol is still half-drunk in your hands, fearing that if you drink much more, you might not be able to stop. you look at your friend, and he doesn't look like he's in any condition to drink much more.

ㅤㅤㅤ—i think george shouldn't drink any more —you say, stifling your laughter.

ㅤㅤㅤcarol mocks the boy before going off to find more alcohol for his glass. george, on the other hand, looks at you with eyes so wide they could explode. just looking at him makes you laugh, but you should have assumed it would get much worse.

ㅤㅤㅤ—what? —you ask when he's moved his mouth, but nothing came out of it.

ㅤㅤㅤyou move closer, putting your ear close to his lips to hear him well.

ㅤㅤㅤ—where's carol? —he repeats with the words dragging in the air and poorly pronounced.

ㅤㅤㅤyou carefully tells george to lie down a little, obeying you without problem. on the floor, covered with the other end of the blanket you were sitting on, your friend loses consciousness in a second.

ㅤㅤㅤ—on five minutes. —you don't have to turn to see him to know that it's mattheo riddle himself. his voice is full of anger—. i'll wait for you in the truck. ten meters south.

ㅤㅤㅤyou catch your lower lip between your teeth and watch as mattheo now passes unconcerned through your field of vision.

ㅤㅤㅤwhen carol returns, she brings with her another group of friends who entertain you for a while. finally, when you make your escape into the darkness of the forest, you know you're minutes late. you had to admit that you were anxious to meet him.

ㅤㅤㅤmattheo's truck is a huge black car, and it's parked between a bunch of huge trees. as expected, he's there too, standing with the glass of alcohol hanging in his left hand and a half-finished cigarette in the other.

ㅤㅤㅤ—mattheo —you greet, but he doesn't say anything.

ㅤㅤㅤthe two of you have been seeing each other secretly for seven months, thanks to the night that mattheo got his first taste of the girl he had so desired. you. although you had decided that it would be purely physical, for some time now, you have begun to feel emotions that you had pushed away from you.

ㅤㅤㅤ—get in the truck —he demands, opening the door to the back seats.

ㅤㅤㅤyou frown, confused—: what's wrong?

ㅤㅤㅤyou weren't going to lie. the relationship with mattheo was dominant and exciting all the time. that's why, when his deep voice orders you something, it's impossible not to feel your body burn with desire.

ㅤㅤㅤ—get in the fucking truck.

ㅤㅤㅤas you get in, you sit next to the window. mattheo doesn't get in behind you because he stays out of the car to take one last drag of the cigarette and drink the alcohol in his glass. after that, he's inside the truck, closing the door and looking at you from head to toe.

ㅤㅤㅤfrom one moment to the next, attracted by the force that his hands exert on your legs, you are sitting next to him with his lips biting and kissing without any shame. the taste of liquor, mixed with cigarette, is so perfect that the intrusion of his tongue only makes the kiss more exquisite.

ㅤㅤㅤmattheo always kissed you as if it were the last time he does it. his tongue entering to steal your breath and his lips caressing yours with a dominant delicacy. you liked it. you really liked the way he always made each kiss an intense one.

ㅤㅤㅤyou can feel his hands squeeze your waist and, guided by the sensation, you raise your hands to his neck to deepen the exchange even more. then, leaving you surprised, he moves away.

ㅤㅤㅤ—who gave you permission to touch me? —your breath hitches at the way his dark eyes rake over you—. laughing at my own face, and you think you can touch me. it's so funny.

ㅤㅤㅤhe pushes you away, letting you fall back against the leather seats. his hand catches yours above your head, leaving you immobilized.

ㅤㅤㅤ—with stupid george? what a ridiculous name.

ㅤㅤㅤyou try to say something in defense of your friend, but his mouth crashes into yours firmly. his free hand slips under your clothes, squeezing your breasts, making you shiver from the cold.

ㅤㅤㅤ—george is my friend —you say, when he has stopped kissing you to take off your shirt.

ㅤㅤㅤthe laugh that leaves his lips is sour, and you can see how his jealous gaze doesn't believe your words. in your head, your hands are now tied with your own clothing.

ㅤㅤㅤ—trying to make me look stupid, bitch? —he questions, taking off your skirt to look at you. his hard cock vibrates from the perfect view he has of your body—. you're going to suffer so much that you'll want so much more.

ㅤㅤㅤhe doesn't let you speak when he pushes the fabric of your skirt into your mouth. you struggle to breathe through your nose, but you manage to stay calm when his hard cock is released from his pants. the stifled gasp only makes a silly smile appear on mattheo's lips, so satisfied that it could have left you begging for more.

ㅤㅤㅤ—already waiting for me? my needy girl. tell me, are you already wet and waiting for me to sink my cock into you? oh, let me check it out —he says, biting your ear and running his fingers through your wet folds—. i'm never wrong, right?

ㅤㅤㅤhis icy hand arouses much more than the need for his touch, and you move your hips in search of a stronger sensation.

ㅤㅤㅤ—you want it so much that it's impossible for you to wait, right? would you have asked stupid george? —the mention of your friend makes you roll your eyes, a gesture that mattheo doesn't ignore but doesn't mention either.

ㅤㅤㅤmattheo's penis slides through your pussy, caressing the wetness and sensation of your panties pressing against you. his hips moving until they brush against your clit makes you let out soft moans, enjoying the friction of his hot skin.

ㅤㅤㅤthe car windows were already fogged up by the heat of your bodies together, but there wasn't enough heat for you. you needed a lot more from him. with a soft whimper, you try to get the boy's attention, who, without stopping moving, looks at you attentively.

ㅤㅤㅤ—you look so pathetic crying for my cock —he says, mockingly with a half smile and still moving between the wetness of your folds—. a little slut. that's what you are, isn't it?

ㅤㅤㅤmattheo releases your breasts, and one of his hands squeezes your nipple. the sensations mixing together make you want to reach down to take off your panties and insert the boy's member yourself, but with the slightest movement, he stops touching you. the lack of connection feels like torture.

ㅤㅤㅤ—do you really want to do that? —mattheo says, slowly removing your panties—. so gorgeous and insolent.

ㅤㅤㅤhe positions himself at your entrance, the tip of his hard cock transmitting heat to your entrance ready to deal with everything. the problem is that he doesn't move, looking at you with a soft smile.

ㅤㅤㅤ—how much do you want it? show me how much you want it, bitch.

ㅤㅤㅤthe tears that gathered in your eyes slide down your face at the need to have him. pushing your own body from the wall of the car to get as close as you can from there. you move, whimpering to have him inside you. the mere thought of you crying for something he'd give you without asking twice makes him vibrate throughout his half-naked body.

ㅤㅤㅤwith a single thrust he sinks into you, making you feel his balls stuck to your throbbing pussy. the muffled cry is silenced by the garment in your mouth and mattheo's growl. he moves closer to your torso, tracing a path of saliva at the same time that his hips begin to move.

ㅤㅤㅤ—so fucking tight. do you want me inside you so much that you squeeze me so as not to come out?

ㅤㅤㅤhis words are like gasoline on the fire, making you clench your muscles tightly and moan. the pace is fast, sinking completely every so often. from one moment to the next your hips are raised by the strength of his arms and, without stopping or slowing down, he begins to touch a part of your body that makes you scream and moan much louder.

ㅤㅤㅤ—come on, cum for me, bitch. i can feel how much you want it.

ㅤㅤㅤyour whole body shivers, increasing the heat of your face and losing your mind when his last movements are so deep that the sound of your skin colliding becomes obscene. mattheo curses, and with that, your hot liquid embraces his member. he had also cum inside you.

ㅤㅤㅤyou tried to breathe better, but it's so difficult when you had just exploded in front of him. his member is still inside you, and he doesn't seem to have any intentions of coming out for now. you don't know if it's because he notices your difficulty in catching your breath or he wants to listen to you, but he takes your skirt off your mouth, turning you around in a maneuver that allows him to remain buried in you.

ㅤㅤㅤ—m-mattheo... —the aftermath of your own orgasm still doesn't let you think clearly—. it's just you.

ㅤㅤㅤyou can feel it, his flaccid penis becoming hard again.

ㅤㅤㅤ—i just want you to fuck me. i-i want you to be the only one who can kiss me and see me naked.

ㅤㅤㅤmattheo kisses your shoulder, back, and neck. you try to move your hips in search of the friction you need, but his hand slams against your buttock with excessive force. your vagina only reacts by squeezing his member.

ㅤㅤㅤ—how could i think you're lying to me when you have my cock embraced so deliciously? —his hips begin to move again—. i want everyone to hear you, so they know how i'm the only man capable of filling this delicious and wet pussy.

ㅤㅤㅤhis slow and tortuous movements draw soft moans from you, but in a second he increases the speed to hear you scream between the beautiful sounds of your mouth. mattheo, who has no sense of anything, helps you keep up the pace to find himself balls deep inside you. then, when he knows you're close, he suddenly pulls out.

ㅤㅤㅤ—w-what..?

ㅤㅤㅤ—i want you to say it again. i want to hear you say how much you want it —he demands, so fervently that you could die in his arms—. tell me how much you love me.

ㅤㅤㅤyou try to find the words in your head, but you can’t. his hard cock threatens to enter again, and when you jerk your hips in search of him, he spanks you again, making you moan.

ㅤㅤㅤ—come on, say it. i can be here all night.

ㅤㅤㅤhe knows that you have already diminished the force of your orgasm, so he enters you again. it is so hard and fast that it doesn’t take long for you to feel like you will explode again. mattheo threatens to pull out again, but you don’t allow it.

ㅤㅤㅤ—o-only you mattheo, only you can have me like this. p-please. i love you.

ㅤㅤㅤ—that’s how i like it, my little bitch.

ㅤㅤㅤhis hand tangles in your hair, pulling so that your last moans can reach his ears better. with his last deep thrusts, your entire field of vision becomes blurred, and a muffled cry leaves your lips as you expel your liquids for the second time. your body falls like a dead weight on the seats of the car, while you hear mattheo breathing heavily.

ㅤㅤㅤ—come here.

ㅤㅤㅤwith a handkerchief in the pocket of his pants, he cleans the seats, then both of you. from the floor of the car, he picks up your underwear to dress yourself with them and his shirt.

ㅤㅤㅤ—tomorrow everyone will know who you belong to. and i'm not saying this because of all the marks i've left on you —he says, laughing at the sight of your chest covered in hickeys and bites—. i'll take care of letting them know myself.

ㅤㅤㅤyou look at him, trying to find some trick in his brown eyes, but there's nothing. he was being honest, and it makes your heart skip a beat.

[importantstudentbusinessspy-blog]

Hey, neighbor

Masterlist

Pairing: Jason Todd x (f) Reader

Tags: mystery, eventual smut, pwp, incorrect science (im so sorry to women in S.T.EM.), morally ambiguous Jason Todd, neighbors, nerdy reader, smoking

Chapter 1: Jason is assigned to investigate the cute grad student in the apartment below his.

Jason sat by the open window of his kitchen, two guns disassembled before him on a worn-out cloth, the room filled with the scent of oil and cigarette smoke. His shirt was long discarded on the chair beside the one on which he sat as the unreliable apartment AC sputtered and groaned, a constant reminder of the summer heat.

His fingers moved deftly to reassemble the weapon. ACDC blasting from his phone on the windowsill, the music helping him focus amidst the noise of the neighborhood. But the sounds of laughter and the thud of a soccer ball periodically interrupted his concentration. Some kids were playing a game on the street.

As he glanced at the game, a familiar figure caught his attention. The girl from 1B, the apartment below his, made her way up the street up to their building.

He took a drag from his cigarette and watched as you chatted away on the phone, oblivious to the looks you got in your preppy skirt and tucked in V that accentuated your figure and proudly showed your cleavage. Barbara may have given him a boring assignment, but you sure looked a whole lot of fun. At the very least, he could enjoy the view on his investigation.

"Yeah, it's a nightmare," he heard you complain to your phone when you were just at the entrance door to the building. "The subway's been shut down every day this week... I keep having to walk all the way home from the research center in thirty degree weather. Oh well, at least I'm getting my steps in."

Two of the kids abandoned the game and ran up to you before you could unlock the front door. Jason could hear as they bombarded you with questions about your experiments. You told the person on your call that youll text them before you hung up.

Then, you enthusiastically began explaining your work to the kids in an animated manner, mentioning elements and scientific terms, talking about chemical reactions as if you were narrating a bedtime story. The kids listened with rapt attention, nodding as if they understood every word.

Jason couldn't help but chuckle to himself, finding it amusing how you were explaining complex concepts to children, and they hung on to every word. The kids inquired eagerly if you had any samples for them.

You reached into your bag, extracted a vial, read the label, and then froze, right before hiding it out of the view of the kids.

Jason let out a puff of smoke and narrowed his eyes. That wasn't a usual reaction to a harmless substance.

You recovered quickly, informing the kids that the vial in your hand wasn't the "good" one. After a moment of rummaging through your container, you took out another vial, read the label, and then handed it to the kids, who cheered with delight.

"What does it do?" one of them asked.

"Pour some salt into it and see. Not too much though, a pinch is good." You winked.

"Awesome!" The second kid exclaimed.

You beamed at their enthusiasm. Jason found himself grinning, momentarily forgetting about his gun. But his amusement quickly died as he caught a glimpse of the symbol on the vial you clutched in your hand. Poison Ivy. Barbara's intel was right.

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

Exhausted from his patrol, Jason parked his motorcycle and climbed off, the engine's growl fading out. As he approached your building steps, his keen senses caught a low whisper drifting from the porch. You sat with your neighbor Melody, engaged in a hushed conversation. You often sat with her on the porch on the days when her husband worked the late shift. The two of you sipping wine from coffee cups in a fun tradition.

Jason's footsteps barely made a sound as he climbed up the steps, overhearing Melody’s animated voice praising his handsome features and enigmatic aura. You reciprocated, painting a vivid picture of his muscles, tattoos, and piercings. A grin tugged at the corner of Jason's pierced lips as he absorbed the words, silently revelling in the compliments.

He cleared his throat once he reached the steps you two were sat on.

Melody’s eyes twinkled mischievously as she quipped, "You're out past your bedtime, hun." She extended her cigarette to him.

He eyed it and then accepted. Tossing the stick in his mouth, before lowering himself towards her held up lighter, he gave her a glazing look, his blue eyes burning in the setting sun as he inhaled from the stick, then he stood back up and leaned against the railing.

As the smoke curled in the air, Jason turned his attention to you. “How's school going?”

You realized you'd been staring. Blinking and trying to recall his question, you felt as though it was off hearing his voice. Jason was nice enough, you guessed, if a bit of a tease at times, but he'd mostly kept to himself. At least, that was your perception of him since he moved into your run-down building on the outskirts of gotham a month ago. "... uhh pretty good. Thanks for asking.”

"Shame about those subway closures, though, huh.” He offered a charming grin when he tilted his head.

"Oh, tell me about it." You rolled your eyes at the reminder. "This city... i swear. Do the closures cause you much trouble?”

He shook his head and gestured to his bike. "Nah, got my bike to help with that shit."

You followed his gaze to the impressive vehicle leaning against the wall. "Cool," you said out loud without meaning to.

"Let me know if you ever need a ride."

That caught your attention, making you turn back to him. The thought of riding on his bike had your heart fluttering, and you caught your friend's gaze beside you as you bit your lip, turning back to Jason, whose brooding gaze zeroed in on your mouth. You tried not to let it distract you. "How about tomorrow? I got to present my thesis at 8 am. Can't be late, and it would help a ton."

Melody stood up. “Well I should go, you two have fun.” She winked at you over her shoulder.

You made a move to leave as well, but Jason's hand on yours halted you. His grip was firm as he leaned in, his tone low. "Meet me here tomorrow at seve forty five." he asked, his hooded eyes gazing into yours.

Your pulse quickened at his closeness, and his voice in your ear sent goosebumps along your skin.

You finally found your voice again. "T- the commute is usually around forty minutes." Refering to his propositioned meeting time.

The corner of his lips twitched, and his tongue brushed against his sharp canine. "You've never ridden a bike before, have you?"

Your cheeks turned red. "No."

"Tomorrow, I'll show you what real speed is."

You looked up at him and swallowed. The words sounding both threatening and exciting. "Okay,"

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

He was right about speed. As you held on to Jason, you felt the hum of the engine as he excelarated on the road, passing vehicles on his way. You were scared at first, breathing quickly under your helmet. You were pretty sure you gripped creases onto his jacket. But then that fear gave way to excitement.

Not only were you going one fifty within city limits, but you were doing so while sitting right behind Jason. He steered with such nonchalance, the smell of his ocean cologne invading your senses as his large frame steered in front of you. His confidence was so hot, you had to adjust yourself on the seat a couple times, regretting your decision to wear your checkered skirt as the only thing standing between the vibrating seat and your pussy were your thin panties.

You've finally reached the center, and he parked his bike, getting off first as you sat back, propping yourself by holding the seat behind you. He then reached for you, hads grabbing your waist, and lifted you with ease before placing you on the ground.

"Come on," he removed his helmet, revealing the perfectly messy hair and chiseled face under it. He removed yours next, slightly brushing your hair with his hands as well. "I'll walk you in."

When you scamned your card at the door, he put his hand on your hip, steering you inside, his fingers brushing you on the spot gently.

"Nice place," he commented pursing his lips in an impressed expression when you two were inside. Students and fsfukty were rushing around you, occasionally a curious eye looked Jason up and down. "Is that were you work? He gentured towards a large door at the end of the hall.

"No, im on the fourth floor." You explained.

"Hmm,"

"Thanks so much, Jason." You grinned at him once you were inside. "I owe you one."

He shook his head. "I'll think of a way you could make it up to me."

You swallowed as your mind filled with images of you doing just that. Mostly on your knees. You shook your head. "Well, I should go." You tightened your hold on the straps of your bag.

He winked at you. "Knock 'em dead."

You couldn't help the involuntary giggle. "I'll do my best."

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

Jason pulled up to the research center at midnight. He scanned your card against the sensor, and the entrance door let out a beep, letting him pull it and enter with ease.

He passed by the few working students and faculty and casually strode up to the fourth floor, checking every door to find the one he was looking for. The one belonging to you.

When he finally landed on the correct door and walked in, he heard his phone ring and tapped on his headphones to pick up as he studied your work desk.

"So, Jay," Roy Harper spoke in his ear, "About time we hit the streets again."

Standing amidst the small and tidy space of your desk, Jason surveyed the room, noting the orderliness that seemed to mirror the girl who inhabited it. His gaze roamed over lab tools and equipment, finally settling on the vial that he recognized from the other day. Memories of the haunted expression you held when you accidentally almost gave it to the neighborhood kids resurfaced.

Jason held up the vial to study its content and confirm his suspicions about the label. "Miss me already, Harper?"

As Roy went on, Jason recalled the articles and social media profiles that appeared on the screen when he looked you up. You were from the suburbs. Your parents were serving time for robberies in their county jail.

Framed pictures adorned your desk, capturing moments with friends and colleagues. Amidst the cheerful snapshots, there were no family pictures. Though that wasn't uncommon in offices. He continued his exploration, venturing into your desk cupboards, where medals, certificates, and awards adorned - accomplishments in science.

“What a smart girl," he cooed to himself, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Roy's voice interrupted his thoughts, snapping him back to the present. "Jason, are you even listening?"

Jason blinked, refocusing on the call. "Yeah, yeah, I'm here."

Roy chuckled. "You're doing it again, aren't you?” He sighed. “You, with your detective shit. I swear to god..."

Jason grinned sheepishly. His gaze fell upon a particular photo. You stood beside an older woman, likely your professor, holding an award. The picture looked recent, raising questions that echoed in his mind. He'd have to start with her.

Roy groaned, but there was no real irritation in his voice. "Listen, I'm sending you a rendezvous point in the city. Meet me there in an hour?"

Jason nodded, his phone pinging and the screen brightening with the address. He took out his phone and snapped a picture of you with your professor. "I'll be there."

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

In the dimly lit study of Wayne Manor, Jason handed the vial over to Bruce Wayne, who examined it with a furrowed brow.

"Babs' intel was right," Jason crossed his arms. Dick Grayson stood nearby, his arms crossed, curiosity etched on his face.

Bruce scanned the vial, his fingers deftly manipulating it. "That's not Ivy's toxin. It looks similar, but not viscos enough. I need to bring this to the lab," he concluded and held the glass container out to Dick.

"Hurry, I'll need to return it before she comes back tomorrow." Jason informed.

Dick handed the vial back to Bruce and turned his attention to Jason, a playful grin tugging at his lips. "So, Jay, did she use the pheromones on you?" he quipped, his tone teasing.

Jason arched an eyebrow, a cocky smile playing on his lips. "She's more your style, Grayson. Im not into nerdys,"

Dick chuckled, holding up the vial. "The nerdy ones end up being the most fun!" he retorted, insinuating a connection between you and Poison Ivy.

Bruce handed the vial to Alfred to analyze in the lab and redirected their attention to the matter at hand. "Focus," he interjected, his tone firm. "We need to find out Ivy's whereabouts and her potential connection to this girl. I'll go to arkam tonight. You, too, are on patrol. Jason, keep an eye on her."

Jason mock saluted his adoptive father. "Yes, sir,"

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

Once the lab analysis came in and the vial had been returned to your work desk, Dick and Jason were back in Jason's apartment; each nursing a beer even though it was only noon.

Dick scrolled on his laptop, typing away at locations for possible patrol when he snapped the computer shut. "Alright, come on. Old man’s not here, you can tell me, are you more interested in this job. Or this girl?" He raised a brow.

Jason knew you had been home early today after checking out the schedule pinned on your wall yesterday. He also knew that your window was open and it was below his, and he could definitely hear your humming while you did some task.

"Who? y/n?" He said a little louder than necessary. He noticed the humming had stopped. Dick noticed it too, raising his brow at his adopted brother.

Feeling a bit bold, he sat up and turned towards his brother. "She's a cute girl. Likes to wear neat button-up shirts, neatly tucked into her preppy little skirts when she goes to study."

He strained to hear you. You weren't making a sound. "And when she walks home in the heat, the sweat makes her clothes stick onto her body..."

"Oh yeah?" Dick asked, catching on to what Jason was doing as he eyed the window.

"Ill admit, dude, she has a nice fucking body." Jason groaned on purpose.

"What else is nice about her?"

"Well, she always comes back from the library with some cheap, dumb looking romance novels so that she could fantasize when she's alone, and she thinks nobody can hear -"

An object fell from somewhwere beneath the open window, followed by a feminine gasp.

Dick grined. "That's very nice... go on"

Jason shrugged, feeling as though he had his fun. He strained his ears to pick up any more noise or reactions from your window. When he didn't, he shrugged it off, turning back to his brother and speaking in his inside voice. "Well... she's a good kid. She plays it kinda safe. Not really my type, I guess."

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

That evening, Jason was going up the stairs to his apartment, about to change for patrol. He heard clicks coming from the second floor and turned his head to see who it was. He nearly froze on the spot when he saw you make your way to the steps.

You were in high heel leather stilettos, which made you almost come up to his nose, though you were on the highest step, and he was one below. A short red velvet dress sat on your dancer physique, with long sleeves and a dip in the front that showed off your choker of the same color. Your hair was up in a ponytail, with small curls falling down each side to frame your face. You wore red lipstick, glossed over, and made you look so kissable. Jason realised he must have been staring. He cleared his throat. "Nice dress."

You rolled your eyes. "Can you please move?"

"Are you mad at me?" He didn't get out of the way, though.

"No," you shrugged, remembering his words earlier today. "Plays is too safe." "Not my type," whatever. Like you cares what he thought of you. You did, though.

"Oh yeah? Well, where are you going dressed like that?" He pressed.

"Somewhere fun.” You snapped at him. “Get out of my way, Jason." You shoved past him.

He smirked to himself, deciding his evening was all booked up. Because there was no way he was going to let you put yourself in danger on the way to fun just to spite him for his dumb big mouth.

[totaly-obsessed]

A Lesson in Accepting

Barcelona Femení x reader

-> Despite reader's best efforts to hide her illness and join in training, a she learns the importance of listening to her body and her teammates

-> Wordcount: ≈ 1.770

-> The happiest birthday to @sleekswosobession - love you!

➳ Masterlist

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

"Oye! No chiqui - off!”

Hmmpf.

Out of all the older players, Lucy was usually the fun one. But today she didn’t want you climbing on her and she had gotten annoyed when you tried to steal her shoes. Maybe a new victim was needed for your shenanigans. But who?

Just as you started to look around for Vicky, the arm of Marta found its way onto your shoulder, Caroline now at the other side as they dragged you into the changing rooms. “Don’t even think about it.”

Music blasted through the room, with Salma by the speakers as her phone was connected to it, getting ready while swaying to her music. A quick look around made it obvious that your cubby for the day was between Frido and Ingrid.

Great.

You missed the days were you were at your rightful place between Patri and Cata, Claudia joining you after quickly changing into her kit. Those were the fun days when you had just joined the team. Fresh from Australia and full of energy and nerves Patri and Claudia had taken you under their wing.

Just two weeks later Alexia fell over her tied-together laces, just to see you laughing in a corner, hiding behind your new friends. The room had fallen quiet, everyone scared of what their captain would do.

Laugh.

Alexia Putellas, their strong and serious captain, started laughing at being tricked by a sixteen-year-old Australian rookie. Hesitantly the other players started to laugh, watching the blonde from the corner of their eyes, just to make sure that she wouldn’t get pissy at them laughing.

But now you were stuck between different adults every week, your number never hanging in the same spot, and for today's game, it was the space between two tall scandis. While they were incredibly nice, neither of them had a fable for letting you run wild - but they let you yap as much as you want. A win is a win. And at this point, you’d take anything.

Rainy games were your favorite games. You loved sliding around on the drenched pitch, tackling an opponent whenever you could, and getting your kit as dirty as possible. And that game was no different.

Sliding here - sliding there.

Mapi thought it was hilarious how you sprinted across the waterlogged pitch, stealing the ball of one opponent after the other.

���Chiqui come here and let me dry your hair, you’ll get sick.”

Irene was in mother mode, fussing over you and Vicky, who looked like the two happiest girls on the planet. Both of you had been in the starting eleven, something that didn’t happen as often. But with the weather conditions and the not-as-competitive opponent, Jona caved to your synchronized begging.

“I won’t. Promise!”

And with that, you were off again. Running outside, leaving the changing room early. Jona had been quick with his talk and the girls were just warming up and getting something to eat or massaged. But you run out to play on the field with the girls sitting on the bench.

Bruna and Jana made it a fun game, sending the ball just slightly wide every time, so that you had to be quick, falling over more than once during it.

Alexia just shook her head in amusement when she came back to the pitch, the other girls following in their captain's stride.

“Chiquitita wear a jacket for me please?” The Catalan’s English was great, even if she was too shy to speak it most of the time. Her hands held out a jacket to you, an eyebrow raised in question.

“I’ll be okay, thank you, Ale!”

And you would be okay, at least for the rest of the night - giving it your all on the pitch and giving it your all when you were the entertainment of the following movie night. Mapi had given you one of those cheap Karaoke microphones and with that, you kept narrating the movies much to everyone else's annoyance.

Mapi thought you were hilarious though. And with everyone smiling at you even if they acted annoyed, you kept going all the way until Lucy and Ona dropped you off at the apartment Barcelona gave you.

In the beginning, the Team members had been worried about you living there, all alone at only sixteen. But Vicky had been fine - she was an angel as opposed to the whirlwind of an Australian that had been added to the team with you. You would be at training most days anyway and doing stuff with the girls even on days off, so you’d be fine. Right?

Well usually you would be fine, but waking up with an itchy throat, annoying cough, and a runny nose topped by a fever, was not a funny thing.

Just like that, all your plans with Vicky for the day had been canceled. The two of you wanted to explore the city and then visit the library closest to the Sagrada Familia, but all of that went to waste now as you were trying to get rid of this cold as fast as possible.

But it turns out it wasn’t that easy. A day later you were still sick, your voice so hoarse that it was hard to understand. You had debated calling Jona and letting him know, but then Alexia and Irene would have been right when it came to you getting sick. You just needed to power through. Tomorrow you will be all good again.

After oversleeping you practically raced to the training center for gym day. Well raced as fast as you can with public transport - a mask secure on your face. You looked sick enough that strangers raised a brow at your sweaty forehead.

To your luck the changing rooms were empty, all of the girls were already in the gym, so you could change in peace, trying to take deep breaths as well as you could. Man, you hated having a stuffy nose.

The bright lights and the loud music made you wince when you entered the big space, with everyone on different equipment. You quickly explained to Jona that your bus had been late, and just by his facial expression you could see that he didn’t believe a word out of your mouth.

He knew. Fuck. But he didn’t do or say anything, just going over the plan for today with you.

The other girls tried to get a good look at you, whispering to themselves. This wasn’t the first time you had been late. Sometimes the bus really didn’t come, and sometimes you overslept. But the training staff was never too mad at you - you were a growing girl after all, and needed your sleep.

But usually, when you came in, you would go around greeting the girls one by one, telling them the crazy stories of your bus driver. Today, however, you picked out an empty corner, starting to stretch all by yourself.

When one of the trainers called for partner exercises you were quick to kidnap Vicky, who didn’t even react as she was used to your antics by now. But then she looked at you.

“You’re sick!”

“Shhh!”

With, what you thought, quick reflexes you pushed her head down so that she would lower her voice. “Don’t tell on me! Or I’ll tell Sandra.”

The young Spaniard was caught in an odd situation - realistically she knew she should tell Alexia, or at least someone - but she was terrified of the goalkeeper finding out. With a solemn nod, she gave in.

You didn’t believe her, holding onto her right hand as tightly as you could “No! "Promise me!”

“Fine. I promise. Now get your clammy hands off me please.”

Now it wasn’t just you who ran around like a headless chicken, stumbling over nothing and barely strong enough to lift any weight at all, but also Vicky, who desperately tried to avoid eye contact with someone else, whispering hushed annoyances in your ear.

“They’re weird, no?” Aitana had made her way to Alexia, who was watching the whole thing unfold in front of her. “Very weird..", she nodded.

When a break was called, you hurried off to the bathrooms, while Vicky tried to avoid anything and everyone.

But that didn’t hold on for too long, as she was cornered by Alexia, Irene, Aitana, and Ingrid. The other girls watched from a distance, knowing what was happening.

“I don’t know anything!”

“We didn’t say anything.” Irene was trying really hard not to let an amused smile crack through and instead keep up the intimidating frown.

One eyebrow went up. Then the other.

“Okay, fine!”

Alexia relaxed her face again, knowing that had been enough for Vicky to spill everything she knew.

“She’s sick.”

“Chiquitita!”

Ingrid didn’t get an answer and started looking around the facilities as quickly as she could while Aitana tried to console a guilt-ridden Vicky, telling her that she had done the right thing, emphasizing how dangerous it was that you were exercising.

They could hear you coughing before they even saw you, as Ingrid dragged you to the gym as gently as she could, nearly just carrying you.

“Ai Chiqui. What are you doing here, you’re sick amor, you need to rest.”

Alexia's soft mothering tone gave you the rest, tears forming in your eyes. “I’m sorry… Just didn’t want to miss out.” Sobs wrecked your tired body as some of your letters got swallowed.

“Shhh, let’s get you home.” Your captain dried tears after tears as she helped you out of the room and into the showers.

Jona looked happy with how everything turned out, he knew that Alexia would take care of it - her heart was soft for the youngsters on the team, no matter how hard she tried to hide it.

On your way out your eyes met Vicky's. “You promised not to tell Vic!”.

“Oye, keep walking, or we’ll call Catley. I’m sure she would love to hear about your situation.” It was Mapi that nudged you, a teasing smile on her face.

Hmmpf.

"Sandra Vicky put shaving cream in your gloves!"

And with that you let your captain drag you out of the room, smiling at the chaos that exploded behind you.

After getting washed up and changed, Ale helped you to her car and started driving to her home, not listening to the whines that you wanted to go to your apartment.

“You can say it now, Ale.”

She could see you were close to falling asleep, head resting on your seatbelt.

“I told you so. Now let’s get you healthy again.”

[physalian]

You don’t have to pay for that fancy worldbuilding program

As mentioned in this post about writing with executive dysfunction, if one of your reasons to keep procrastinating on starting your book is not being able to afford something like World Anvil or Campfire, I’m here to tell you those programs are a luxury, not a necessity: Enter Google Suite (not sponsored but gosh I wish).

MS Office offers more processing power and more fine-tuning, but Office is expensive and only autosaves to OneDrive, and I have a perfectly healthy grudge against OneDrive for failing to sync and losing 19k words of a WIP that I never got back.

Google’s sync has never failed me, and the Google apps (at least for iPhone) aren’t nearly as buggy and clunky as Microsoft’s. So today I’m outlining the system I used for my upcoming fantasy novel with all the helpful pictures and diagrams. Maybe this won’t work for you, maybe you have something else, and that’s okay! I refuse to pay for what I can get legally for free and sometimes Google’s simplicity is to its benefit.

The biggest downside is that you have to manually input and update your data, but as someone who loves organizing and made all these willingly and for fun, I don’t mind.

So. Let’s start with Google Sheets.

The Character Cheat Sheet:

I organized it this way for several reasons:

I can easily see which characters belong to which factions and how many I have named and have to keep up with for each faction

All names are in alphabetical order so when I have to come up with a new name, I can look at my list and pick a letter or a string of sounds I haven’t used as often (and then ignore it and start 8 names with A).

The strikethrough feature lets me keep track of which characters I kill off (yes, I changed it, so this remains spoiler-free)

It’s an easy place to go instead of scrolling up and down an entire manuscript for names I’ve forgotten, with every named character, however minor their role, all in one spot

Also on this page are spare names I’ll see randomly in other media (commercials, movie end credits, etc) and can add easily from my phone before I forget

Also on this page are my summary, my elevator pitch, and important character beats I could otherwise easily mess up, it helps stay consistent

*I also have on here not pictured an age timeline for all my vampires so I keep track of who’s older than who and how well I’ve staggered their ages relative to important events, but it’s made in Photoshop and too much of a pain to censor and add here

On other tabs, I keep track of location names, deities, made-up vocabulary and definitions, and my chapter word count.

The Word Count Guide:

*3/30 Edit to update this chart to its full glory. Column 3 is a cumulative count. Most of what I write breaks 100k and it's fun watching the word count rise until it boils over.

This is the most frustrating to update manually, especially if you don’t have separate docs for each chapter, but it really helps me stay consistent with chapter lengths and the formula for calculating the average and rising totals is super basic.

Not that all your chapters have to be uniform, but if you care about that, this little chart is a fantastic visualizer.

If you have multiple narrators, and this book does, you can also keep track of how many POVs each narrator has, and how spread out they are. I didn’t do that for this book since it’s not an ensemble team and matters less, but I did for my sci-fi WIP, pictured below.

As I was writing that one, I had “scripted” the chapters before going back and writing out all the glorious narrative, and updated the symbols from “scripted” to “finished” accordingly.

I also have a pie chart that I had to make manually on a convoluted iPhone app to color coordinate specifically the way I wanted to easily tell who narrates the most out of the cast, and who needs more representation.

—

Google Docs

Can’t show you much here unfortunately but I’d like to take an aside to talk about my “scene bits” docs.

It’s what it says on the tin, an entire doc all labeled with different heading styles with blurbs for each scene I want to include at some point in the book so I can hop around easily. Whether they make it into the manuscript or not, all practice is good practice and I like to keep old ideas because they might be useful in unsuspecting ways later.

Separate from that, I keep most of my deleted scenes and scene chunks for, again, possible use later in a “deleted scenes” doc, all labeled accordingly.

When I designed my alien language for the sci-fi series, I created a Word doc dictionary and my own "translation" matrix, for easy look-up or word generation whenever I needed it (do y'all want a breakdown for creating foreign languages? It's so fun).

Normally, as with my sci-fi series, I have an entire doc filled with character sheets and important details, I just… didn’t do that for this book. But the point is—you can still make those for free on any word processing software, you don’t need fancy gadgets.

—

I hope this helps anyone struggling! It doesn’t have to be fancy. It doesn’t have to be expensive. Everything I made here, minus the aforementioned timeline and pie chart, was done with basic excel skills and the paint bucket tool. I imagine this can be applicable to games, comics, what have you, it knows no bounds!

Now you have one less excuse to sit down and start writing.

[ssa-dado]

20 - Logic

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: everything but smut, suck it. Summary: Aaron Hotchner just so happens to navigate a complex web of professional and personal struggles, reflecting on his dead marriage, his leadership, and his connection with you. The team tackles a case involving a methodical killer while tensions rise between you, Hotch and Rossi over leadership dynamics. Amid the chaos, Hotch wrestles with his feelings for you, as you end an abusive relationship with your now ex-best friend. Everything tied within some good old stoic logic. Warnings: guilt, the unsub commits suicide, a cm case described in detail, Rossi being an asshole, P***r gets mentioned. Word Count: 20.8k Dado's Corner: One month later, here I am again. Hope you missed Philosopher and Lawyer as much as I did. This one is quite fun, I experimented with the style of narration... let me know if you like it.

masterlist

In Stoic philosophy, logics (logikē) focuses on reasoning, the methods of thinking, and the structure of arguments, serving as the foundational discipline that allows individuals to discern truth (aletheia) from falsehood.

For the Stoics, mastery of logics was crucial because it equipped the rational mind (logos) with the tools needed to make sound judgments and live in accordance with nature.

The Stoics believed that a proposition was true when it reflected something of the environment to which it referred.

---

The hum of the jet had never felt so loud.

It wasn’t an oppressive sound - it was steady, rhythmic, almost soothing if he let it be.

But tonight, it was the sound of everything else he didn’t want to think about - a lifeline, something to cling to while his mind spiraled into spaces it shouldn’t go.

Spaces he couldn’t seem to avoid.

Hotch stared at the case file in front of him, pen hovering above the paper. His eyes traced the same line for what felt like the fifth time, still not reading, still not processing. The words just blurred into nothingness.

He was just there, replaying the same scene in his head like a tape stuck on a loop.

The rooftop.

The unsub’s detached voice: “I think your worst fear is that you can’t save everyone.”

It wasn’t even a unique insight; Hotch had heard variations of it throughout his career, sometimes from suspects, sometimes from his own team, most of the times from the voices inside his head mocking him of every failure.

Yet tonight, it felt even sharper, as if Howard had carved the words directly into his bones.

So, his mind wandered back to that rooftop.

“Dr. Howard? I’m Aaron Hotchner. I’m with the FBI,” he’d called, his voice steady, his tone carefully modulated.

“Don’t ask me to come down,” Howard had replied, almost amused, as if daring him to try.

“We found at least 15 people dead. It’s over,” he had said, the words mechanical, as if the simple logic of justice could tether the man back to reality.

But it was too late for that, the unsub’s words had already begun to untangle themselves from reason. He had spoken of sacrifice and science, justification wrapped in delusion.

Hotch had seen it way too many times before - a brilliant mind twisted by its own arrogance, spiraling into darkness.

“You know this is the easy way out,” Hotch had said, his voice slightly softening, yet the words sounded almost mocking to his own ears. “If you come down, we’d like to talk to you.”

Howard’s face hadn’t changed, but his voice did. “Most people go into law enforcement because they want to help others,” he’d said, meeting Hotch’s eyes.

And before his subconscious would have started processing it, Morgan’s voice had broken through then, sharp and urgent. “Tell us where Missy is.”

Howard had taken off his glasses, placing them in his pocket with a such calmness that made Hotch’s pulse quicken – it was over. He knew that.

And only then, the unsub uttered towards him the infamous words:

“I think your worst fear is that you can’t save everyone.”

Only three words echoed inside Hotch’s head at the time, something directly from what he learned in his training, when he first learned how to handle these kinds of situations:

Engage. Stabilize. Control.

But over time, the formula had subtly evolved, refined into something more distinctly his own.

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward.

The three steps were almost second nature now, ingrained into him through years of experience. Deflect the unsub’s attempts to personalize the situation, to make it about anything other than the facts. De-escalate their emotions, draw them back from the brink, create space for reason to take hold. And above all, move forward. Always forward. Don’t dwell, don’t linger. Just get to the next step, the next decision, the next resolution.

He was good at it - too good, some might say.

But as he stood there on that rooftop, the biting wind cutting through his bulletproof vest, he realized there was something about this moment he couldn’t fully compartmentalize.

He was fighting for Missy, yes. Every second mattered, and the need to bring her home alive burned brighter than anything else. That was his job, his duty. But as he locked eyes with Dr. Howard, his voice calm, measured, and so sure of his warped reality, Hotch felt the pull of something he couldn’t entirely suppress.

Humanity.

He wasn’t just trying to save Missy. A part of him, buried deep but undeniable, was trying to save Howard too - from himself, from the abyss he’d already plunged into.

It wasn’t in the rulebook.

It wasn’t part of the training manuals or the countless hours of hostage negotiation drills. The law didn’t ask you to save the people who had done irreparable harm, the ones who had broken every moral boundary, destroyed lives, and laughed about it.

The law demanded order.

Justice.

Efficiency.

It told him to prioritize the victim, to see Howard as nothing more than a piece on the chessboard, a threat to neutralize.

But Aaron, for all his stoicism, could never quite strip away the part of himself that still looked for humanity, even in the darkest places.

Was it arrogant to think he could save them both? That he could somehow cut through Howard’s delusions and bring him back from the edge? Or was it something more human? Something he could never bury, no matter how much he wanted to.

Because Howard wasn’t just a threat.

He was a man unraveling before his eyes, clinging to the last shred of control he believed he had. And for all his cruelty, for all the lives he’d taken and the pain he’d caused, Hotch couldn’t fully silence the voice in his head that whispered, If I can reach him, maybe…

But then he was gone.

The sound of the unsub’s body hitting the pavement was muffled by the rush of blood in his ears, the world narrowing to the crimson stain left behind.

He had come too late, once again.

And now, on the jet, across from him, Morgan’s voice broke the silence, pulling Hotch back to the present. “I can’t sleep.”

Hotch didn’t look up. His pen hovered over the file, frozen mid-thought. “Want me to turn off the light?”

Morgan’s smile was faint, tired, but his voice carried weight. “No. I want to be able to sleep.”

With a sigh, Hotch closed the file and set his pen aside, finally meeting Morgan’s gaze. “What’s the matter?”

Morgan leaned back, his arms crossing over his chest as he studied Hotch with a look that was too knowing, too familiar. “What’s the matter with you, Hotch?”

Hotch’s jaw tightened.

“You’re sitting here doing work when you’d normally take a break,” Morgan said, leaning forward, his voice steady but probing. “Please don’t tell me it’s about Gideon leaving.”

Hotch exhaled softly, his fingers pressing into the edge of the table. “You know, we made a deal a long time ago not to profile each other.”

And by "a long time ago," he meant exactly one year. One year since he’d crossed a line, profiling you on why you weren’t wearing your engagement ring back when you invited him for dinner. He still hadn’t told anyone.

“Am I wrong?” Morgan countered, his tone cutting through the thin defense.

Hotch didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The weight of it was written all over him.

“You know, Hotch, today was a huge, huge victory for all of us,” Morgan continued, his voice firm, grounding. “We’re doing just fine without Gideon.”

Hotch gave a faint nod, his mind still trapped in the labyrinth of his own thoughts.

Gideon was gone.

Missy was saved, at least.

And yet, he kept playing the rooftop back in his head, rewriting the ending in a dozen different ways, trying to find the version where Howard didn’t jump.

Where his words had been enough.

Where the shadows of his failures didn’t loom so large.

The unsub’s voice yet again still echoed in his mind, that accusation that wasn’t wrong, that he was afraid he couldn’t save everyone.

And worse, it was safe.

It was a truth he could wrestle with endlessly, a familiar weight he knew how to carry.

It was easier to fixate on that failure, on a life lost on a rooftop, than to face the other truth looming over him, the one that cut far deeper.

“Hotch,” Morgan said again, his voice quieter now, pulling Hotch’s focus. “What’s keeping you up tonight?”

He hesitated, the words catching in his throat.

For a moment, he considered deflecting, offering a polished answer like a lawyer presenting a case.

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward.

The formula.

But the weight of the truth was too heavy to hold.

The real fear wasn’t really about saving strangers.

It was about Haley.

About Jack.

The real fear was that he couldn’t save his family.

That they’d already walked out of his life.

“Haley’s left,” he said finally, the confession low, steady, and raw. “And I don’t know if she’s coming back.”

He refused to accept the silence that had taken over his house.

Silence, he’d learned, had a way of amplifying absence, turning every creak of the floorboards into an accusation, every hum of the refrigerator into a hollow reminder of what was no longer there.

He wouldn’t let himself get used to it.

He couldn’t.

To do so would mean admitting that the laughter was gone - the wild, joyful echoes of Jack’s voice narrating stories to Kuna that were much more chaotic than coherent, the tales of a world in which pirates, Jedis, superheroes and pine martens all lived together.

It would mean accepting that there were no more shouts of “Dad, watch this!” accompanied by the rapid patter of little feet racing down the hallway, or conceding that there was no one he was helping build couch forts in the living room.

Jack’s voice used to fill every room, ringing with excitement and joy in a way that made Aaron feel like he could still breathe after even the worst days.

And Haley - God, Haley.

Her voice had this way of wrapping around the walls, filling every corner of the house with a warmth that made everything feel solid, whole. Whether she was calling Jack to dinner or talking to herself as she moved through the rooms, her presence was an anchor.

She could laugh at the smallest things - a poorly timed joke, a misstep in a dance she insisted on doing while cooking - and it was the kind of laugh that lingered, softening even the hardest edges of his day.

Even now, he could almost hear it, faint and ghostlike, as if the house itself remembered her better than he could bear to.

But now, the house was a shell.

Empty.

The walls seemed to lean in, accusing him with their stillness, asking questions he couldn’t answer: Where are they? Why aren’t they coming back? How did you let this happen?

But then you were there, and suddenly, the silence didn’t win anymore.

It wasn’t just the sound of your soft humming as you worked on your notes or the shuffle of papers that had taken over his kitchen table, it was the way your presence seemed to fill the void, adding a warmth he’d been starving for.

A fire.

Like the way you’d rummage through his cabinets, muttering under your breath, teasing him for his predictable habits and lack of variety, as if his limited tea selection were some kind of personal offense.

“You’ve got three kinds of English Breakfast and a chamomile older than Jack,” you announced, holding the offending box aloft as if it were evidence in a trial. “Is this a house or a time capsule?”

Aaron glanced up from his paperwork, one eyebrow arching in his usual understated disbelief. “Chamomile doesn’t go bad.”

You shook the box as if the rattling teabags might groan in protest. “Chamomile shouldn’t go bad, but this box might be the exception. Honestly, Aaron, if you’re trying to poison your guests, there are subtler ways. You’ve been in law enforcement long enough to know better.”

“Duly noted,” he said, deadpan, as he set his pen down. “Next time, I’ll just hide the evidence. You know, plausible deniability.”

Rolling your eyes, he saw you moving to scan the cabinet again, your fingers rifling through his depressingly predictable collection of tea. “And three kinds of English Breakfast,” you muttered to yourself, shaking your head. “Who needs three kinds of the same tea? It’s like having three identical suits… oh wait… that’s your thing.”

He chuckled, moving to lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching you rummage through the rest of the cabinet. “Let me guess,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up, “you’re looking for that one black tea so bitter it doubles as a cry for help.”

You whirled around, mock indignation lighting up your face. “It’s not bitter, it’s complex.”

“Complex,” he echoed, his voice steeped in skepticism. “So complex I can taste it from across the table every time you drink it.” His eyes tracked your movements as you tugged on your coat, grabbing your car keys with the efficiency of someone about to launch a rescue operation.

“Where are you going?” he asked, the faintest hint of incredulity coloring his voice.

“To fix this mess,” you shot back, your determination unwavering as you marched toward the door. Hotch recognized your look, the one that meant you were on a mission, and not even divine intervention could slow you down. It was like watching a hurricane in real-time, only you were wearing sensible shoes and wielding car keys instead of gale-force winds.

He sighed, that was his cue.

There was no stopping you - not with reason, logic, or his best FBI glare. But if he went with you, at least your energy would be directed at him instead of some poor unsuspecting night-shift cashier, who didn’t sign up to face your tea-related crusade at midnight.

“It’s midnight. You’re not going alone,” he said, his voice carrying more authority than necessary for what was clearly a caffeine-fueled escapade.

The truth, though, was simpler: if he stayed home, he’d be stuck with the silence, which wasn’t silent at all.

The idea of staying in his house without you was unbearable. The voices - the regrets, the what-ifs - always got too loud too fast, like an overzealous jury in his head, and they never adjourned.

Haley. Jack. Even Gideon.

When you were around, though, it was different. You had a way of filling the air that even the nagging voices in his head, the ones that rehashed every failure and regret, seemed to take one look at you and shut up.

Probably terrified of Philosophers… he wouldn’t blame them.

Afterall, you did have a knack for turning even his most tightly wound logic into a pretzel and serving it back to him with a grin.

“Alright,” you declared in defeat. “Come be my chauffeur. But if I catch you suggesting anything remotely fruity, I’m leaving you in the parking lot.”

As you breezed past him, muttering about proper supplies and “showing him real complexity,” he silently thanked his luck that you were only talking about tea and not a hostage negotiation. Heaven help the world if your special brand ever went extinct - there’d likely be a UN emergency summit convened by sunrise.

And by the time you both returned with your prized tea, Aaron was already questioning his life choices. As you brewed a cup, he leaned against the counter, watching like an unwilling participant in a social experiment.

You handed him a mug, a grin spreading across your face. “Try it.”

He hesitated, eyeing the tea like it might bite him. With the caution of a profiler defusing a bomb, he brought the cup to his lips and took the smallest sip.

His expression didn’t betray much, at first, but then, the barest scrunch of his nose gave him away. “It’s… terrible,” he said simply, setting the mug down like it might offend him further.

Your mouth fell open in mock indignation. “Terrible? That’s bold talk from the same man who just yesterday claimed he actually loves the taste of the Bureau’s coffee!”

“It’s called adapting,” he countered smoothly, his smirk creeping in.

“Oh, sure,” you said, crossing your arms. “Because ‘adapting’ is just fancy talk for ‘giving up entirely.’ I remember still drinking coffee from Bertie back in 1998, and it was already held together with duct tape and prayer. And let me remind you - because I know you’ll deny it - you were the one who wouldn’t stop complaining about it”

He tilted his head, feigning confusion. “That doesn’t sound like me. I’m very pragmatic about my beverages.”

“Oh, really?” you countered, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “Because I distinctly remember you telling Gideon that the only way to improve that coffee was to burn the machine, salt the earth where it stood, and consider it an act of public service.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Maybe my standards have evolved.”

“Evolved?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Into what? Stockholm Syndrome? Or,” you pointed at his abandoned mug of tea, “maybe you’ve just lost your edge. This tea, Aaron, has depth. Complexity. It’s for people with taste.”

“It tastes like despair,” he replied, entirely straight-faced.

“Despair,” you echoed with a snort. “And yet, you’ll go back to Bertie tomorrow morning and drink whatever burnt sludge it spits out.”

He shrugged, his smirk returning. “At least Bertie’s predictable.”

“Predictable?” You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your tea. “Hotchner, Bertie once brewed a cup so vile Spencer thought we’d discovered a new form of carbon. But sure, let’s call it predictable.”

Without missing a beat, Aaron leaned back against his chair, fingers intertwining on the back of his head. “You know,” he said dryly, “I think I finally understand why they threw the tea into the harbor during the Boston Tea Party.” He stopped for a second, making sure you were looking directly at him “It wasn’t about taxes, it was this.”

You froze, staring at him in disbelief, your mug hovering mid-air. Then it hit you, and you burst out laughing, nearly doubling over. “Oh, no,” you wheezed, clutching your stomach. “No, you do not get to be this funny in an argument about tea. I hate that you just made the funniest joke I’ve ever heard about this.”

He shrugged, his smirk growing. “I’m glad my humor’s appreciated.”

You pointed at him, still laughing but clearly refusing to let him have the upper hand. “You’re insufferable,” you declared, wiping a tear from your eye. “Absolutely insufferable. But that was… annoyingly clever.”

“I’ll take annoyingly clever as a compliment,” he replied, straight-faced. “Coming from you, it’s high praise.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back, still smiling despite yourself, and though you hated to admit it, the joke was still replaying in your mind. “That joke doesn’t make your coffee standards any less tragic. Enjoy your burnt sludge tomorrow, Boston Boy.”

He still didn’t understand how you manage to drink that stuff, but somehow, your stubborn loyalty to it felt… grounding.

Because for all your muttering and dramatics, you were still there – with him.

Someone who didn’t hate him.

Someone who hadn’t left him, not yet.

---

Philosophy comes with a lot of dilemmas - too many, in fact - but not nearly as many as the ones you inflicted on your colleagues at random while you were all buried in paperwork in the bullpen.

Does a tolerant society have to tolerate intolerance, even if it means undermining itself?

If someone says, ‘This statement is false,’ is the statement true or false?

Do we have free will, or are our actions determined by external forces or natural laws?

The answers were almost always the same: a collective groan or the universal team favorite, “Oh, shut up, Teach.”

But today, your philosophical pondering took a backseat to what you, Morgan, and Prentiss had unanimously subconsciously declared the real dilemma of the century: which was scarier - Halloween monsters or the fact that today marked the arrival of Gideon’s replacement in the team?

Knowing David Rossi - and having worked with his Machiavellian mind before – heavily influenced you to lean toward the latter.

As you sat at your desk, trying to make the endless paperwork feel like less of a soul-crushing abyss by timing yourself every time, you found the smallest thrill in racing the clock.

Your goal was simple: finish as quickly as possible so you could justify a trip up to Hotch’s office.

You could spin it as efficiency - getting the reports filed into the system early - but really, you just needed an excuse to exchange a word or two with him.

The truth was, you missed him being at the desk right across from you in the bullpen, the one he used to occupy nine years ago. Now, instead of a quick glance up to see his face, all you had was his left profile - always stern, always focused, always several feet away, barricaded by a pane of glass and an impenetrable air of authority, framed by the ever-present blinds of his office window.

He left them always open, but still.

Sure, technically, he was still in front of you - his office “just so happened” to align perfectly with your desk, giving you a clear view whenever you looked up.

But it wasn’t the same.

Especially today.

The tension in the bullpen was almost palpable, hanging heavy in the air as if the entire team was bracing for something. It was the kind of day where you’d normally lean over to murmur a comment to Hotch, and he’d respond with that subtle quirk of his brow that, at least to you, spoke volumes.

Instead, you were left wondering if the tension had seeped into his office, into the blinds, into the stiff set of his shoulders or the telltale tightness in his jaw.

Was it bothering him?

Did he even notice?

All you wanted to do was talk to your partner-that-now-happened-to-be-your-boss and check.

And so, as if to break the tension - or throw gasoline on it - Reid appeared, wearing a ridiculously oversized Frankenstein monster head mask. He crept up behind Morgan, who was so absorbed in his paperwork that he didn’t notice the impending doom at all. Reid crouched slightly, arms extended like a cartoon villain, and growled, “I’m going to eat you!”

Morgan shot out of his chair with a yelp, almost sending his file flying in one direction and his dignity in another, making both you and Prentiss immediately burst into laughter. “Reid!” he barked, his hand clutching his chest as though the paperwork might have contained a hidden bomb.

Reid, meanwhile, whipped off the mask with a triumphant grin. “Happy All Hallows’ Eve, folks!” he announced, his voice brimming with glee. “To paraphrase from Celtic mythology, tomorrow night all order is suspended, and the barriers between the natural and the supernatural are temporarily remoooooved!”

He punctuated the announcement by tossing a second, equally ridiculous mask toward Prentiss, who caught it midair with her biggest most contagious grin.

“That right there,” Morgan said, pointing a finger at the frizzy-haired monstrosity Reid had thrown, “is why Halloween creeps me out.”

“You’re scared of Halloween?” Reid shot back, his tone teetering between intrigued and vaguely offended. You couldn’t quite tell if he was about to psychoanalyze Morgan on the spot or just defend Halloween’s honor, but knowing Reid, it was probably both.

“I didn’t say I was scared,” Morgan corrected, wagging a finger at Reid for emphasis. “I said I was creeped out. There’s a difference, youngster. You should look it up.” Then, as if rallying reinforcements, he turned to you, clearly expecting you to back him up. “Tell him, Teach.”

You didn’t even bother glancing up from your stopwatch, which you dramatically clicked off with all the precision of someone timing an Olympic sprint. “Oh, sure thing, because obviously I’m the walking Cambridge dictionary now. Alright, brace yourselves. Lesson one: Example A - Morgan, when Reid jumped out at him like a budget haunted house actor? That’s textbook scared.”

Prentiss and Reid burst into laughter as Morgan pointed an indignant finger at you. “Hey, that’s not what I mea-”

You held up a finger, cutting him off as you scrolled casually through your prized finished reports. “Morgan, being emotionally terrorized by what I’m generously calling a $2 piece of melted plastic? That’s what linguists - namely, me - call creeped out. An expression, by the way, coined in the 1830s by Charles Dickens himself. You’re welcome. Class dismissed.”

Reid doubled over, laughing so hard he nearly knocked the Frankenstein mask off his head, while Prentiss leaned back in her chair, her laughter ringing out unabashedly.

Morgan threw his hands up in mock betrayal. “Y’all ain’t right. I’m just trying to live my life here!”

“Lesson two,” you added as you stood, gathering your reports like they were sacred texts, then made your way toward the kitchenette. You could feel Morgan glaring daggers at the back of your head, but you paid him no mind.

Pausing only to point at Reid, you delivered your final verdict “Never sneak up on a grown man who’s this easy to scare. It’s almost cruel,” you called out, shaking your head as you walked toward the kitchenette.

“Scared and creeped out,” Reid shot back, raising his voice just enough for you to hear from across the bullpen. His grin was smug enough to practically glow in your peripheral vision, and you could already tell he was planning to gloat about this moment for the rest of the day.

At least he got the point of lesson one, small victories.

Probably helped that you were his thesis supervisor, and over the past few weeks, you’d developed the kind of intellectual bond that only two people who regularly debated metaphysics over coffee could manage.

But what really snagged your attention wasn’t Reid’s self-satisfaction. No, it was Morgan muttering under his breath, “Prehistoric Reid.”

Without missing a beat, and without turning around, you raised your voice just enough to carry. “I heard you, Morgan.”

The bullpen erupted again. Prentiss was doubled over with fresh laughter, her face red as she gasped for air. Morgan groaned audibly, slumping in his chair like a man under siege.

“Man, Teach has ears like a bat,” he grumbled, though his tone carried more affection than annoyance, at least.

If the bullpen was chaos incarnate, the kitchenette promised a few moments of relative peace. You believed you’d only spend a minute or two there , but no - Bertie the coffee machine, your ancient nemesis, had other plans.

Some genius had decided to turn her off completely, so now you were stuck coaxing the temperamental beast back to life.

“All right, Bertie,” you muttered, flipping the switch with the cautious energy of someone attempting to detonate a bomb they didn’t really care about saving. Predictably, nothing happened.

No hum, no gurgle, not even the faintest whiff of coffee.

Instead, she let out a sputter so half-hearted it might as well have been the coffee machine equivalent of flipping you off.

Why were you even battling with this relic from the Jurassic era?

Oh, right - because the only thing more necessary to survive the day than caffeine was the faint, irrational hope that your partner-turned-boss-who-somehow-morphed-into-C-3PO-as-Unit-Chief-but-still-cracked-jokes-sometimes-when-he-felt-like-being-human would smile.

Just once.

It wouldn’t fix anything, but seeing Hotch – not Aaron, but Hotch - smile, even the smallest hint of one, could’ve made the mess of Rossi’s grand entrance feel just a little less like an apocalypse.

“Of course,” you muttered, sighing as you resorted to lightly slapping the side of the machine. “You know, I could just use the nice, expensive, functioning coffee maker upstairs, but no. Hotch needs your burnt battery acid because apparently, taste buds are optional for him.”

You gave Bertie another desperate slap, and finally, groaned to life with a sound that could only be described as a dying walrus. “That’s my girl.” You sighed in relief, though you wouldn’t dare celebrate just yet. Bertie had a habit of spitting boiling water at you when she felt underappreciated.

“You’re an overworked, overused, barely holding it together - but somehow still dependable nightmare with the most hideous sense of humor” you muttered as she began churning out liquid that could barely be called coffee. “Which is probably why Hotch likes you so much. He sees himself in you.”

You poured two cups. The first one, predictably, looked like motor oil, but you figured Hotch wouldn’t notice - or care. After all, he was the one who told you that’s exactly how he liked it: strong enough to fuel a jet, with just a hint of bitterness to match his mood.

And who were you to question authority?

Well, maybe his - just slightly.

Not because he wasn’t good enough, far from it, but because behind all that duty and discipline, you could still see the friend who, out of nowhere, had cracked the funniest joke you’d probably ever heard. And he’d done it with a Boston Tea Party reference, of all things.

You grabbed your files and the two cups of coffee, balancing them carefully as you turned back toward your desk, only to freeze mid-step. Reid, Prentiss, and Morgan stood clustered together, their faces locked in expressions so stunned you’d think they’d just witnessed the ghost of Alexander Hamilton himself wandering through the bullpen.

“What’s going on?” you asked, your eyes darting between them, half-expecting an unsub to be lurking behind you with a false-face mask and a dramatic monologue.

Reid, his grin slowly spreading across his face like a kid meeting their superhero, pointed toward Hotch’s office. “You missed him.”

You followed Reid’s gaze to the windows of Hotch’s office.

And there they were.

Hotch. Strauss. Rossi.

And just like that, the universe managed to cram three of your personal nightmares into a single square meter of space. It was an unholy triumvirate. Three people, each of whom had caused you at least one life-long trauma.

Prentiss, ever the empathic, placed a hand on your shoulder. “You’re not seriously going to hand him the files now, are you?”

You let out a sarcastic laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, definitely. I’m sure I missed a semicolon somewhere in the report. It’s urgent.”

But then Morgan, out of the blue, shifting to a more serious tone, asked, “What’s Rossi like?”

Million-dollar question.

You paused, choosing your words carefully as your gaze shifted between Reid in the bullpen and the scene playing out inside Hotch’s office. “Think of Gideon,” you began, your tone soft, “but someone completely different at the same time. Rossi is sharp, deliberate, he gets straight to the heart of a problem. Theatrical, sure, but he knows when to push and when to pull back. If you need someone thinking ten, even twenty steps ahead of an unsub, he’s the best there is. Absolutely the best.”

Your eyes flicked briefly to Hotch’s office, catching the moment he and Rossi stepped back from a hug.

Your heart just dropped at the view.

Hotch was smiling.

A genuine, unguarded smile.

Not the polite, guarded expression he usually wore as Unit Chief, but a real, unguarded smile - one you hadn’t seen in what felt like in ages. It wasn’t the professional mask of the man in charge, the one you’d come to respect the most but secretly hate just as much for how it had hardened him.

That what for you was a new version of him - the one so much more consumed by the job - stood in stark contrast to the Hotch you’d known almost a decade ago.

Hotch—your partner.

The Hotch you’d known back then had been just as firm, just as committed, but there had been lightness too. His damned sense of humor, hell, even those hopelessly awkward attempts at flirting with each other.

Even that had become an unspoken contest - who was worse at it. Both of you so bad at it that, inexplicably, it worked. Somehow, amidst the chaos, those moments had grounded you, moments where the weight of the world hadn’t yet crushed him.

Now, watching him with Rossi, you caught a glimpse of that man again - the one who could smile without reservation, who could let go for just a second. It felt like a thread of the old Hotch had been pulled back to the surface, weaving itself into the present.

And for the first time in far too long, it looked like something inside him was starting to mend.

“Rossi and Gideon together were… unmatched,” you continued, your voice softer now, the words slipping out as if they carried their own weight. “They had this instinct, this understanding of the human mind that defied explanation. They were the best at what they did.”

Reid nodded faintly, his gaze dropping as he processed your words. The weight of your unspoken feelings every time the word ‘Gideon’ escaped your lips lingered in the air.

He didn’t need to say anything - he felt every syllable you didn’t say.

Parts of both you and Reid were still adjusting to this change, even with the underlying sense of relief that came with Rossi’s return.

Parts of both you and Reid were still adjusting to the change, even with the underlying sense of relief that came with Rossi’s return. It was bittersweet, but in some strange way, for you, it felt like a piece of the past was coming back to steady you; for Reid, it was a breath of fresh air - a chance to meet the other half of his old mentor’s legendary pairing.

If Hotch could hear your thoughts, you’d have locked eyes across the room and escalated it into one of your infamous, competitive volleys: significant other, partner, spouse, soulmate, bank account sharer, joint mortgage holder, primary beneficiary.

But that Hotch was long gone.

You hesitated, then added, “They were different, but they shared one thing: they believed in the work. In what it could do. And they never stopped trying to be better, even when it cost them everything.”

For the first time in a long while, it felt like something was settling back into place for you as well. Slowly but surely, balance was returning, or at least trying to.

That fragile sense of equilibrium lasted about ten seconds before JJ descended the stairs from Hotch’s office - also known as the cave of your collective traumas - to announce you had a new case.

And then the door to the infamous office opened. Out stepped Rossi, sporting his most enthusiastic smile, with Hotch following close behind, back to his usual professional calm expression. Rossi’s eyes scanned the bullpen, taking in each of you, but when his gaze landed on yours, his grin for some reasons disappeared.

“Europe!” he exclaimed, actually sounding surprised. “What are you doing here?”

Ah, Europe. Another nickname to add to your ever-growing list, courtesy of Rossi and your time stationed abroad. You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms with mock indignation. “What, I don’t deserve a smile as well?”

Hotch, ever the professional despite the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, said in a measured tone, “She’s part of the team.”

Rossi’s grin widened as he clapped Hotch firmly in the middle of the back - hard enough that even Hotch shifted slightly in surprise. “Oh, I see, of course she is. Looks like I can’t get rid of you two, can I?”

You and Hotch exchanged a glance, one of those knowing looks that said everything without needing to speak: Rossi hasn’t changed a bit. If anything, he’s only gotten worse with age.

Rossi, ever the master of reading a room - and especially the two of you - smirked and wagged a finger between you both. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. I missed my favorite early birds couple. Just like old times.”

Never in your life had you witnessed a worse choice of words.

Prentiss immediately coughed into her hand, doing an abysmal job of hiding her laughter, while Morgan’s grin spread so wide you were tempted to suggest it could power Quantico for a week.

“Couple, huh?” Prentiss leaned in, her eyebrows raised in perfect mock innocence. “Should we be calling you Mrs. Unit Chief now?”

You turned to her, eyes narrowing with the sharpness of a blade. “Prentiss,” you said, your tone low, but it only made her grin harder.

“Oh, come on. It’s a valid question,” Morgan chimed in, jumping on the opportunity with relish. “So, Teach, what’s the story? Got something you haven’t told us? Maybe those late-night report sessions weren’t all about paperwork after all. Must’ve been some really close teamwork.”

Your lips pressed into a razor-thin, as you leveled a glare at him, mentally cycling through every possible way to shut this conversation down without landing yourself in handcuffs. “Morgan, you’re about two seconds away from being served Bertie’s first cup of coffee.”

Morgan gasped in exaggerated horror, throwing his hands up in mock surrender as if you’d just threatened to steal his firstborn, if he’d had one, that is. “Alright, alright, no need to go nuclear! But come on, you can’t blame a guy for being curious.”

“Oh, I absolutely can,” you snapped still keeping your voice as low as possible - but before you could say more, Prentiss leaned even closer, her smirk practically predatory.

“To be fair,” she said, her voice soft and conspiratorial, “you two do finish each other’s sentences.”

“That’s only because we worked-” you started, only to stop yourself abruptly, exhaling sharply. “No. I’m not doing this. I am not engaging in this ridiculous-”

“Ridiculous what?” Prentiss interrupted, her tone dripping with feigned sweetness. “Your obvious chemistry? Your perfect synchronicity? Honestly, Mrs. Unit Chief, it’s adorable.”

Morgan let out a bark of laughter, clapping his hands together. “Adorable! That’s the word I was looking for. Prentiss, you nailed it.”

You almost threw your hands in the air, glaring at both of them. “It’s not what you think. Rossi just used a poor choice of words.”

Morgan tilted his head, dragging out the word “Sure” with a level of disbelief so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Prentiss wasn’t done. “You know, this would explain so much. The way you two exchange those looks like you’re having a full-blown conversation without speaking. The mysteriously coordinated outfits-”

“We do not coordinate outfits!” you snapped, your patience officially wearing thin.

“-and let’s not forget the coffee thing,” she continued as if you hadn’t spoken. “You always make him a cup like some doting-”

“That’s because he likes burnt coffee!” you interrupted, your voice slightly louder than you intended.

“Exactly,” Morgan said, pointing at you. “Only love could make someone tolerate that taste.”

Before you could fire back, you saw movement out of the corner of your eye - Rossi and Hotch making their way down to the bullpen. Straightening up, you plastered on your most professional smile, ignoring the smug satisfaction radiating from both Prentiss and Morgan.

Rossi, of course, looked entirely too pleased with himself, and for a moment, you seriously considered that he might have chosen those words on purpose.

Hotch, ever the consummate professional - or perhaps just willfully oblivious - raised a hand to begin introductions. “SSA David Rossi,” he said, his voice steady and calm, “this is SSA Emily Prentiss.”

Prentiss stepped forward, managing to school her expression into something polite and measured. “Sir,” she said, though her tone had just the faintest edge of mischief.

“SSA Derek Morgan,” Hotch continued.

Morgan extended a hand with his trademark charm, his grin still tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s an honor, Agent Rossi.”

Rossi shook his hand firmly, waving off the formality. “Please, just Dave.”

Hotch moved smoothly on, his calm voice cutting through the lingering mischief in the air. “And Dr. Spencer Reid.”

Reid stepped forward eagerly, his hands twitching as if he couldn’t decide whether to shake Rossi’s hand or launch into a monologue. He went with both. “Sir, if I could talk to you later about your work with the Scarsdale Skinner, I’d really appreciate it. Psycho-linguistics is an incredibly dynamic field, and the way your profile of his reading habits ultimately led to his capture is-”

“Reid,” Hotch interrupted gently, raising a hand. “Slow down. He’ll be here for a while. You can catch up with him later.”

Reid flushed slightly, nodding. “Sorry.”

Rossi chuckled. “No problem, Doctor.” Reid beamed, looking like he’d just been knighted

Hotch glanced toward the stairs, his tone calm but directive as usual. “Maybe you two can talk on the jet.”

Reid’s face lit up. “Oh, yeah, that’d be great.”

Rossi’s expression shifted into one of mild confusion, his brows knitting together. “The jet?” he echoed, his tone laced with disbelief.

Hotch smirked faintly, and for a moment, it seemed like he was recalling a similar scene - a bar, a year ago, and your reaction that had been almost identical. “We have a jet now.”

Rossi’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious?”

Oh, once he found out he wouldn’t have to share rooms with anyone, Rossi’s happiness would probably rival a kid who just discovered an unlimited supply of Halloween candy.

Hotch nodded, gesturing toward the briefing room. “It comes in pretty handy. Come on, JJ’s waiting.” He placed a hand on Rossi’s back, guiding him toward the stairs.

As they passed, you tilted your head slightly at Hotch, silently questioning why he hadn’t introduced you to Rossi himself. Sure, it wasn’t strictly necessary - Rossi knew you well enough - but still.

Hotch, always razor-sharp, caught your questioning look immediately. “Of course,” he said, his voice betraying just a hint of amusement. “This is Agent and Professor Y/L/N.” He paused just long enough to emphasize Professor, making it clear he wasn’t letting your academic credentials slide under the radar.

Agent and Professor.

As always, he made sure to introduce you like that whenever someone new was around. You were used to it now - your impressive international work, the years of research, everything that set you apart - but you still couldn’t help the little flush that rose on your cheeks.

Hotch was proud of you - more proud of your accomplishments than you’d ever admit to yourself - and he made sure to show it. And honestly, you suspected part of the reason he loved introducing you like that was to see you squirm just a little.

So you always called him Unit Chief in return - mostly to tease him, but also as a reminder that despite everything, he’d finally become exactly what he’d always wanted to be.

Rossi laughed, his grin widening. “Ah, here we go again with you two. Some things never change.”

The team started moving toward the stairs, but Prentiss hung back a step to sidle up next to you. Her voice dropped into an exaggerated mock-sweetness that could’ve melted glass. “You know, it’s actually kind of adorable. You and Hotch, solving crimes, finishing each other’s sentences, burning coffee together... It’s like the FBI version of a rom-com.”

You shot her a glare, opening your mouth to fire back, but before you could even get a word out, Morgan, who had somehow caught wind of the whole conversation despite being halfway up the stairs, glanced back over his shoulder and said. “Oh yeah, I’ve been waiting for this.”

He shook his head with exaggerated pity. “What I want to know,” he said, his voice dripping with fake sincerity, “is who made the first move? Was it Hotch? Was it all brooding and intense, like, ‘I need to talk… about us’?”

Prentiss couldn’t contain herself and burst into laughter. “Oh, I can totally hear it!” she exclaimed, doing her best imitation of Hotch’s deep, serious voice with flawless deadpan. “‘You’re a great agent, but I think it’s time we addressed the… tension… between us.’” She gave a dramatic pause and added, “Hotch, you dog.”

You were so mortified that you didn’t know whether to laugh or shove them both into the nearest broom closet to shut them up. “You two are insufferable. It’s like middle school in here.”

“Oh, come on,” Morgan teased, completely shameless. “You can’t deny it. I bet Hotch even did the Hotch stare. You know the one, intense, like, ‘This is non-negotiable, we need to talk about us.’” He paused, waggling his eyebrows in that way that made you want to crawl under the nearest desk.

Prentiss couldn’t hold it in any longer. She burst out laughing, clutching her stomach as she leaned into you. “I can see it now! ‘I’ve filled out the paperwork for us to move to the next phase - please initial here to confirm your feelings.’”

“Enough, please!” you begged. You weren’t sure if you were frustrated with your team, the teasing, or the sheer absurdity of the situation.

Just then, as if summoned from nowhere, Reid decided to chime in with his usual brand of earnestness. “Actually,” he started, eyes wide and eager, “if you analyze workplace dynamics, there’s often a statistically significant correlation between close professional relationships and perceived romantic tension-”

“Doc!” you snapped, your voice sharp as glass. The sound of your irritation immediately shut him up, though you could tell he was thoroughly enjoying the chaos, must have been the Halloween spirits…

Reid blinked, but then he quickly put his hands up in mock surrender. “Right. I’ll stop.” His lips twitched upward, an impish grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “For now,” he added, as if he couldn’t quite resist the urge to poke the bear just one more time.

“Thank you, I love you all” you muttered sarcastically, walking ahead and not even bothering to look back.

You’d made it to the briefing room, and for once, the usual teasing had quieted. Absurd how death did that, no amount of sarcasm or wit could overshadow the grim reality of murder. It was almost as if the case itself had sucked all the air out of the room, forcing everyone to remember that, yes, this was your job.

This wasn’t just paperwork and profiling.

People died.

People were tortured.

And in the blink of an eye, everything you thought mattered could be stripped away.

Funny, isn't it? How death puts things into perspective - suddenly, the world isn’t so big.

What was so important this morning?

A fight with your team members, a long list of cases? None of it would matter if you were lying cold on the floor somewhere.

It doesn’t matter how many cases you’ve worked, each one chips away at you, no matter how hard you try to harden yourself.

That’s the cruel beauty of this job: it’s a constant reminder.

Every time, it strips something away.

And today’s case? Well, today was no different.

Michelle Colucci from Carrollton, Texas, had received a flyer warning her that she’d soon go missing. The local detective, dismissing it as a Halloween prank, sent her home. But days later, when he went back to check on her, he found her lifeless.

Michelle had been sexually assaulted, her face surgically removed, and the Dallas County M.E. confirmed that she’d still been alive when she was dumped into the creek. It was torture - psychological and physical - and it was planned down to the last detail.

The unsub’s method was chillingly calculated. The flier, part of a twisted game, was designed to break Michelle before delivering the final blow. The "false face" mask left at the scene - a symbol worn during Halloween or Mardi Gras – probably was a grotesque mockery of Michelle’s identity.

And just when you thought it couldn’t get worse, JJ dropped the last bombshell. “Oh, and Hotch - local media’s all over this. The story’s already broken big.”

Perfect.

Because who doesn’t love the media breathing down your neck, making sure you can’t even tie your shoes without a camera crew nearby? As if the job wasn’t already hard enough without everyone wanting a piece of your misery.

Hotch, however, didn’t seem to flinch. “Tell Carrollton we’ll be there first thing in the morning. Let’s stop this one at one.”

---

You didn’t stop this at one.

Just a few moments ago Eneid White, the second target, had called from the motel where she was hiding. Her voice, trembling and desperate, was still a haunting echo in your mind, you couldn’t get her out of your head.

It was the helplessness that got you.

The urgency was seared into every action, and Hotch handing you the keys to the SUV without hesitation was all the confirmation you needed – you needed to get there, fast.

And so, you drove.

Speed limits? Suggestions.

Stop signs? Inconveniences.

The streets blurred into streaks of light and shadow as you threaded the SUV through traffic with a precision that bordered on reckless, but at least never fully crossed the line – or so you thought.

Rossi, riding shotgun, eyed you warily as you floored the gas, the SUV surging forward like a bullet. “She’s not trying to qualify for the Indy 500, is she?” he muttered, gripping the door handle with exaggerated caution.

“She knows what she’s doing,” Hotch said firmly from the back seat, his tone steady, cutting through Rossi’s skepticism. “Take the next left, it’ll cut through the main drag.” Then he added “Eyes on the road.”

“Got it,” you replied, your grip tightening on the wheel as you spotted a ‘Do Not Enter’ sign looming ahead. A shortcut through a construction site was tempting, but the barriers and machinery cluttering the path made it clear this wasn’t meant for civilian traffic.

Still, hesitation barely registered.

You needed to save Eneid White.

They had to leave a road for the trucks transporting material, and in your book, any surface that could support tires qualified as a road.

“Don’t even think about it-” Rossi started, but you’d already made your decision.

“Shortcut,” you said plainly, steering the SUV through the gap in the barriers. Gravel crunched under the tires as the vehicle bounced over the uneven terrain. Dust clouded the air, obscuring visibility, but you still pressed forward.

There was no time.

“Shortcut,” Rossi repeated dryly, clutching his seatbelt as if it might save him. “You’re insane.” He muttered under his breath, gripping the door handle even tighter.

He’d probably said those exact words to Gideon a thousand times over the years they worked together, so he really shouldn’t have been so surprised that the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

Hotch leaned forward slightly, his gaze darting between you and the map in his hands. “Sharp turn coming up. Stick close to the left, you’ll avoid the worst of the debris.”

You followed his instructions without question. “Thanks, Unit Chief”

He didn’t miss a beat, he never did anyways. “Stay steady. You’ve got this.”

And so, as always, he called out directions, and you executed them as precise as you could.

As you burst out of the construction site and back onto the main road, Rossi muttered under his breath, “If we survive this, I’m buying her a GPS.”

“She doesn’t need one,” Hotch countered, a faint note of amusement in his voice.

As far as you were concerned, Hotch was already your trusted GPS.

Now the motel just within sight. The GPS chimed, but Hotch had already beaten it, pointing ahead. “We’re close. Pull in there.”

But as you turned into the lot, your stomach dropped. Despite breaking every law of the road, despite cutting through gravel and narrowly avoiding heavy machinery, you weren’t faster than the unsub.

The motel room was empty.

Eneid White was gone.

Fliers with her face were scattered across the bed, each one bearing the mocking question: “Have you seen me?”

The irony was suffocating.

Of course, you could see Eneid’s face - it was plastered everywhere, an unsub’s cruel hyperbole.

And this stirred something into you - what if the message wasn’t for those looking for the victims? What if it was meant for the victims themselves?

“Have you seen me?” Perhaps it wasn’t a warning, but a connection, a contact. The unsub’s way of forcing recognition, of ensuring he’d been seen, even if only for a fleeting moment.

The victims saw his face before he’d targeted them.

As you carefully gathered evidence from the room, you heard the detective outside, his frustration boiling over. “Twenty minutes. We were here in twenty minutes. I can’t believe we lost her!”

Hotch, ever the anchor in moments of chaos, tried to steady him with some logic. “We may not have lost her,” he said, his voice calm and measured. “He kept Michelle for four days.”

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward.

All there in one sentence – his version of your ‘Thesis, Antithesis, Synthesis’

“But we got nothing!” the detective snapped, his anger spilling over so forcefully that his words seemed to yank you from the room before you’d even made the conscious decision to step out.

Hotch didn’t falter, his tone firm but composed. “That’s not true. Look at the difference in the scenes.”

As you stepped into the open, your eyes landed on what had apparently become the new team tradition since the briefing on the jet - Rossi, head down, scribbling away in his precious notebook like he was on a deadline for the Pulitzer Prize instead of, you know, actually helping.

By now, you’d lost count of how many times you’d caught him at it today, but it was somewhere between “too many” and “are you serious right now?”

The frustration bubbling under your skin was quickly evolving into a sarcastic internal monologue worthy of Shakespeare, though if it reached James Joyce levels, you’d probably have kicked the man with your own boots just to put an end to it.

It was maddening.

You couldn’t even shoot the damn notebook out of his hands - no matter how tempting - because the paperwork for that would’ve been unbearable.

Paperwork had saved Rossi more than once today.

The detective pressed on, still unconvinced. “What do you mean? There’s the masks, the fliers-”

You glanced at Rossi, your patience wearing thinner than the pages of his notebook - which, at this point, you were certain had a name of Jason, because why else would he be so devoted to it?

But Rossi’s pen didn’t even pause.

Whatever profound nonsense he was jotting down seemed far more important than the actual conversation unfolding in front of him.

Prentiss, following you out of the room, she glanced at the evidence in your hands and finally spoke up herself. “Yeah, but these fliers weren’t tacked up on the wall. They were just thrown around the room.”

You nodded, seamlessly picking up her train of thought, though part of you was already imagining tossing Rossi and his precious notebook into the nearest evidence bag. “Mostly concentrated on the bed, with the rest scattered haphazardly across the floor. Some are even upside down, blank side up - no effort was made to ensure the message was visible, unlike the calculated placement we saw with Michelle Colucci.”

Prentiss gave you a small nod of agreement, her expression grim and focused. This was what it meant to stay on task, to prioritize the case above all else. You spared one last glance at Rossi, still glued to his notebook, as if the world around him didn’t exist.

The detective broke the silence, his frustration cutting through the tension. “So?!”

Hotch, ever the steady voice of reason, clarified the situation once more with the kind of authority that reminded you exactly why he was your favorite Unit Chief. “He left in a hurry, like he knew we were coming.”

Morgan came out of the room, holding up a phone. “Okay, this was under the bed,” he announced, his tone sharp, efficient. He flipped the device around to show the last number dialed. “972 area code.”

“That’s Carrollton,” the detective said quickly, stepping forward to take the phone from Morgan’s hand. “The hotline number.”

“She used a cell phone,” Prentiss added, her brow furrowing.

Morgan nodded, already filling in the blanks. “You can get a cell interceptor at any electronics store.”

The detective blinked at him, surprised. “You can?”

“Yeah,” Morgan confirmed. “They don’t cost that much. He probably sat right out here and heard everything she said.”

The detective rubbed his jaw, his confusion more than evident. “But if he followed her here from Dallas, why wait till she calls us to move on her?”

It was then, like some miracle out of nowhere, that Rossi finally raised his head from that damn notebook. You felt a spark of hope – finally - only for it to flicker and die as his gaze met the detective’s for half a second before dropping back to his scribbling.

Amazing.

Before you could even sigh, your voice came out, somehow you managed to stay calm and firm. “To make sure it was the police who found the mask.”

What a professional.

It was too late for Rossi to catch your disappointed glare you aimed at him, which was a shame because this one was a masterpiece - one of your finest, perfected over years of dealing with ignorant assholes.

And Rossi? Oh, he was currently one of the finest examples of that category.

But, if you were being honest, he wasn’t the only one grating on your last nerve.

You knew Hotch had noticed Rossi’s behavior - of course he had.

His eyes had flicked from you to Rossi to the detective, his jaw tightening ever so slightly in that telltale way that screamed disapproval. You half-expected him to step in, to say something sharp and cutting that would snap Rossi out of his detached aloofness.

But nothing.

Not a word.

His silence was almost as infuriating as Rossi’s scribbling.

At least you got some mileage out of it, directing a few of your most honed disappointed looks at Hotch. Sure, he wasn’t the primary target, but it was better than letting them go to waste.

“We need to gather your men and deliver the profile,” Hotch said to the detective, his tone leaving no room for debate. Without waiting for a response - or the lack thereof - he was already heading toward the SUVs, his stride purposeful and unyielding.

You followed, your steps brisk, each one fueled by the simmering frustration you couldn’t seem to shake.

It was bad enough that Rossi had spent the entire day buried in that infuriating little notebook of his, detached from the team as though this case were some solo act.

But what stung worse - what really churned beneath your skin - was that Hotch hadn’t said a damn word about it.

Hotch climbed into the SUV first advantaged by his hideously long legs, his movements steady and composed, as if the tension of the day hadn’t so much as brushed him. He settled into the passenger seat without a glance back, his calmness only heightening the storm brewing inside you.

You slid into the driver’s side, gripping the wheel hard enough that the leather creaked faintly under your hands.

In the rearview mirror, you caught sight of Rossi strolling leisurely toward Morgan and Prentiss’s SUV, his gait so maddeningly casual it made your teeth clench.

No urgency.

Not even a backward glance.

It felt like a slap, though you weren’t entirely sure why.

Maybe it was the way he walked off without a second thought, or maybe it was the silence that had followed - Hotch’s silence. The kind of silence that spoke louder than words, that implied he was choosing not to address the behavior you’d been biting your tongue about all day.

The door to your side slammed shut harder than you intended, the sound reverberating through the SUV like the snap of a thread stretched too tight. You didn’t even realize how sharp your movements were until you glanced sideways and saw Hotch watching you, his expression calm as usual but his eyes far too knowing.

“Something on your mind?” he asked, his voice even, quiet.

Too quiet.

Like he was already bracing for the storm he could feel rolling in.

His question lit a spark, and that spark found the fuel you’d been holding back all day. “Oh, so you noticed?!” you shot back, starting the engine with a rough turn of the key. “You’re seriously not going to say anything to him?”

“Say what, exactly?” Hotch’s tone remained even, his gaze fixed ahead.

Now he had to be playing dumb.

Which, of course, he wasn’t.

You’d first liked him because he was clever - clever in a way that few people ever were.

You scoffed, throwing the SUV into gear. “I don’t know, maybe something about the fact that he’s been scribbling in that notebook all day, completely checked out, and now he just decides to ditch us? That doesn’t bother you?”

Hotch exhaled slowly, his voice still hilariously calm but firm. “Rossi’s actions haven’t jeopardized the team. There’s no reason to call him out over something minor.”

You wanted to slap that Unit Chief in the face so bad right now…

“Minor?” Your voice rose slightly, disbelief laced in every syllable. “It’s disrespectful, Hotch. To you, to me, to the team. He’s supposed to be contributing, not playing the wise old sage with his notebook. I even tried to talk to him earlier, but he pretended I didn’t even exist. And now you’re just letting it slide?”

Hotch turned toward you then, his gaze sharp and steady, with his innate ability to make it piercing enough to catch your breath. “I don’t need to say anything unless his actions jeopardize the team or the case. That’s the job. His behavior doesn’t warrant a confrontation.”

Your grip tightened on the wheel, the hard leather pressing into your palms as something deeper and more dangerous than frustration combusted fiercely through you. “I’m not necessarily asking you to step in as his Unit Chief. I’m asking you as the only other person here who’s worked with him before. You know him better than I do. Your words might actually mean something to him.”

His eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a low, measured tone that carried more weight than volume. “That’s where you’re wrong. My words hold more weight than yours here. I carry the full responsibility for this team.”

Bastard. Absolute bastard.

Hotch’s gaze flicked toward you briefly before settling back on the road, his profile hard as granite. “There is a hierarchy, and there always has been. Even back in 1998, you understood that. You were respectful of authority, even hesitant to speak up sometimes. What happened to that? Where did it go?”

“Where did it go?” you snapped, your voice rising just slightly. Unlike him, you hadn’t mastered the art of lowering your voice the angrier you got. “It went somewhere between Rossi acting like he’s still a lone wolf profiler and you pulling rank on me instead of actually listening to what-”

“Oh no,” he interrupted, his tone cutting through your words, deadlier than a guillotine during the French Revolution. “Don’t talk to me like this. You wouldn’t act this way if it were anyone else in my position. You’re taking liberties with me - ones you wouldn’t dare take with someone else, and you know it.”

Your knuckles blanched as they gripped the wheel. “Because we’re partners, Aaron-”

“Hotch.” The correction was immediate, clipped, and cold.

Hotch?! With you?! Since when exactly?!

Fucker. Absolute fucker.

You fought the urge to slam the brakes or swing the car into a sharp turn – anything to vent the hot, simmering frustration rising inside you.

He was lucky you were driving.

Smart move on his part, but not smart enough. “We’re partners, and I would like to expect some confrontation when it’s needed. I’m not saying you have to agree with me all the time, but right now, it seems that you’re shutting me out just as much as he is.”

“I’m not shutting you out,” he said firmly, as if he hadn’t just corrected you a few moments ago, insisting you use his work name. “And partners or not, there’s still a chain of command. I don’t address things that don’t need to be addressed. What Rossi’s doing isn’t breaking any rules. It’s the law, plain and simple.”

“The law,” you muttered bitterly, shaking your head. “That’s always the answer, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he said, unflinching. “That’s how this works.”

You glanced at him briefly, your frustration morphing into something sharper, something deeper. “You’re confusing what’s just with what’s lawful. They’re not the same thing. The law tells you what’s allowed, but ethics - ethics tell you what’s right.”

Hotch’s gaze turned toward you again, steady but edged with a challenge that sent heat prickling up your spine. “And tell me, who decides what’s right? You?”

Your mom Hotch, your mom.

“No,” you shot back, your voice snapping like a whip as you met his gaze head-on. “You. Me. Everyone. We each decide what’s just because ethics come from within. It’s what we’ve learned, what we value, what we believe. It’s shaped by experience, compassion… things the law doesn’t account for. And for the record what really frustrates me is that I can tell you agree with me. You just won’t let yourself act on it.”

Hotch’s brow arched, skepticism etched into every line of his face. His tone was cool, but there was something taut beneath it “And you think personal ethics are enough to run a team? That everyone’s individual sense of ‘what’s right’ is enough?”

You saw him roll his eyes in the rearview mirror, a small flick of dismissal that sent heat roaring in your chest. But at least he didn’t interrupt you this time. It was probably time to educate him apparently, even if he didn’t deserve your philosophy right now. “Sophocles wrote entire tragedies about the consequences of blindly following the law without considering ethics,”

You continued, as convinced as before. “Antigone - she buries her brother against the law because it’s the right thing to do. Justice isn’t just about rules, Hotch. It’s about doing what’s right. There’s a line between what is legal and what is just. Creon followed the law to the letter, but it was Antigone who understood what was right. Blindly following the law doesn’t absolve you of moral responsibility. If we’re not questioning what’s just, then what’s the point of any of this?”

Hotch exhaled through his nose, the sound low and weighted, and turned his gaze forward again, his jaw tight as though he were biting back something far harsher. “We’re not philosophers. We’re law enforcement. If we start ignoring the law, where does it stop?”

“It stops when we stop pretending the law is infallible,” you countered, heat lacing every word.

“The law is the only thing standing between order and chaos.” His voice was cool, measured, but the tension coiling beneath it felt dangerous, like a fuse inching toward its end.

You turned toward him fully now, your pulse hammering in your throat. Your voice dropped, quieter but heavy, almost trembling with the force of it. “Fuck the law.”

Your eloquence always found the way out of you when you were seriously angry.

Fuck him.

His head snapped toward you, his eyes flashing with something that wasn’t just anger, something worse. His face was carved in stone, but his eyes… his eyes burned. His jaw tightened further, the muscle flexing there, and the air between you thickened so much that it was a miracle you both still managed to breathe. Though your breaths came a little too fast, a little too shallow, and yet you couldn’t seem to look away, even as both of your pulses quickened against your will. “You don’t mean that.”

You scoffed, your focus snapping back to the road, but the way your hands gripped the wheel betrayed the crackling storm beneath your skin. “I do mean it. If the law lets Rossi sit there scribbling in his notebook while the rest of us are busting our asses, then maybe it’s time to question what the hell we’re actually enforcing.”

Hotch didn’t respond immediately.

The silence felt like the stillness before a storm, heavy and waiting. “I’ll handle Rossi if and when his actions compromise the team or the case. Until then, you need to focus on what’s in front of you.”

What exactly?!

Him? The road?

The fierce, irrational desire to pull over and tell him to take the rest of the miles on foot, just so you didn’t have to keep feeling the heat of his presence pressing against your skin?

Or maybe, the even fiercer, more maddening part of you that wanted to slam on the brakes for a different reason altogether.

“That’s the problem,” you bit out. “Rossi is the problem. And by brushing this off, you’re part of it.”

Your words hung in the air, daring him to respond.

His silence burned, every second of it pushing against your restraint until his voice came, calm but edged with something razor-sharp. “You think you’re the only one who notices these things? I see everything. Every tension, every hesitation, every misstep. It’s my job to decide when to act, not yours.”

No, it was definitely him.

And the road.

And everything in between.

Your foot slammed the brakes at the stoplight, the SUV jerking forward before settling. You turned toward him, your breath uneven, your chest tight. “Then decide, Hotch. Because the longer you let Rossi pull this crap, the more respect you lose - from the team. And from me.”

Fuck him.

His lips pressed into a razor-thin line, his shoulders taut, every inch of him controlled as though holding himself back from snapping. When he spoke, his voice was low, biting. “That’s enough.”

“Is it?” you challenged, twisting in your seat to fully face him. The air between you felt like fire, licking at the edges, threatening to consume. “Because I’ve had enough of watching you protect him like he’s untouchable.”

His voice dropped lower. “Focus on the case, Y/N. People are being murdered.”

Technically it was just a victim now, there was no reason for him to use the plural.

Uncultured.

Fuck him.

“You’re shifting the focus of the conversation,” you retorted, the words tearing through the few inches of space between your seats.

“Y/N.” His voice cut through the air, sharp, laced with a warning that carried the weight of absolute, every meaning layered within it.

The probabilities of stepping into a place neither of you could return from were far too high, and you both knew it.

And so, you drove.

---

Apparently, your frustration was contagious, Hotch was certain of it.

The lead detective’s exasperation was as palpable as the tension in the room, radiating out like a second heartbeat. “So how the hell do we catch an invisible man?”

Hotch, standing tall and composed, responded. “I’m pretty sure we can get him to contact you.”

The detective’s skepticism was immediate, his brows furrowing deeply. “What?!”

Prentiss stepped in, her voice steady and explanatory, trying to ease his doubts. “The crime scenes show he wants to deliver his message to the police. He isn’t going public.”

Hotch turned toward the group of officers gathered nearby, his gaze briefly flicking to the television up in the corner where a news anchor droned on. “Hopefully, by playing on his anger...” His words trailed off as his eyes locked onto the screen.

The mask.

Hotch’s jaw tightened.

There it was - the one detail they had deliberately withheld, the key piece that gave them an advantage. It was the only thing that hadn’t been shared with the public, the detail he had explicitly instructed everyone to keep confidential.

“JJ, how’d they get that?” His voice was a low whisper, his hand gesturing toward the screen in disbelief.

JJ looked stricken, her words tumbling out in hurried defense. “Not from me. I-Hotch, I called all the local police departments, and I stressed withholding the mask.”

He knew it wasn’t JJ’s fault.

He wasn’t even looking at her.

His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, as if willing the image to vanish, willing this mistake to undo itself. Instead, the camera lingered on the mask, leaving no doubt.

The media had everything.

“I called them,” Rossi’s voice cut through the moment like a razor, its nonchalant tone infuriatingly casual.

What?

“What?” The word escaped him as a whisper, his disbelief palpable.

“I said,” Rossi repeated, turning toward the team with the air of a professor unveiling a lecture’s climax, “the FBI thinks the masks mean” he paused, a smirk curling his lips as he gestured toward the screen “he’s impotent.”

He didn’t just say that.

“Can I speak to you for a second?” Hotch’s voice was barely audible, clipped and strained, as he turned sharply on his heel and began walking.

He didn’t stop until they reached a small room off the main precinct floor. As soon as the door closed, he rounded on Rossi, his composure cracking at the edges. “Why would you do that?”

Rossi leaned casually against the table, his arms crossed. “It’ll make him contact us. He’s screaming for it.”

Hotch inhaled slowly, keeping his voice even. “We aren’t prepared.”

“Prepared?” Rossi repeated, his tone dripping with condescension.

“We need to set up a trap and trace,” he clarified, his voice tighter now.

Rossi smirked, an insufferable little quirk of his lips that made Hotch’s blood pressure rise incrementally. “Trap and trace?” Rossi scoffed, raising his shoulders as if the suggestion were some rookie mistake. “They never stay on the phone long enough for that.”

Oh, for God’s sake.

Hotch pressed his lips together, exhaling slowly to keep his composure.

If you were there, Rossi would already be halfway through a philosophical evisceration.

He could almost hear it in his head, the way you’d dismantle Rossi’s overconfidence with the precision of the most skilled surgeon. Something about “hubris being the downfall of great men,” probably referencing some obscure Greek tragedy, and then tying it back to his blatant disregard for teamwork.

And if that didn’t work?

Hotch glanced briefly at Rossi’s smug expression.

You would just talk in ancient Greek.

No, better.

You’d just kick him. Right there, where it hurts most, to make sure he matches the unsub’s supposed impotence for the full-circle effect you loved so much.

“Dave, they’re a lot faster than they used to be,” Hotch managed, his voice firm but even.

Keep it together.

Keep it professional.

Not everyone handles things with Socratic debates and well-placed footwear.

“We also need to prep the detective on what to say to him.” He continued, trying his best to not imagine Rossi helplessly trying to crawl out of the room.

But Rossi didn’t even flinch. “He’s not gonna want to talk to the detective. He’s gonna want to talk to the FBI.”

Hotch stared at him, weighing his words carefully.

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward.

He couldn’t kick Rossi - obviously. There were rules, laws… but you would have found a way to argue that kicking Rossi was just, spinning it into one of your infuriatingly flawless philosophical dissections.

Damn you.

Damn you and your insufferable ability to shred his logic to pieces, leaving him grasping at the tatters of his own arguments.

Damn you because no matter how idealistically abstract your reasoning was, he hated how much it made sense - and worse, how it made him agree with you.

Always with that maddening certainty, as if you’d been put on Earth solely to torment him.

You had no business being in his head right now.

None.

And yet, there you were, smugly perched in the back of his mind, as if you’d claimed permanent residence.

Get her out of your head, Hotchner.

You weren’t even here, and still, he couldn’t escape you.

It was infuriating, really, but he refocused. “We don’t step over the local police like that.”

“They called us in,” Rossi countered, his tone dripping with indifference.

“Yes,” Hotch replied, his voice taking on a sharper edge. Why was he picturing you glaring at Rossi like he was the last man at the base of the food pyramid? “But if the perception is that we’re here to embarrass the locals by telling the media we’re going to fix things, then they’ll stop calling us.”

“Relax, Hotch. I’ve got this,” Rossi said, his confidence unshaken.

Hotch resisted the urge to rub his temples. He could already hear your scathing commentary in his head, something about Rossi’s arrogance being so immense it was practically a separate entity. “You see, that’s the problem, Dave. There is no I. We function as a team.”

Rossi straightened slightly, his smirk fading but his tone turning defensive. “I’ve been doing this before you were out of high school. Probably before the rest of your team was in school at all.”

“I know that,” Hotch replied, his voice lowering as he met Rossi’s gaze directly. “Things have changed.”

Rossi’s eyes narrowed. “The bells and whistles changed. An unsub is still an unsub, and I know how to deal with an unsub.”

Jesus.

“No, Dave,” Hotch said softly, leaning forward slightly, “it’s not just that.”

Whatever Hotch intended to say next was cut off as JJ appeared in the doorway, her expression urgent. “Hotch. Garcia just found something.”

---

The three hours of flight back from Texas were probably the longest of Aaron Hotchner’s career - or at least, they felt that way.

The tension between you hung in the air like heavy smoke, thick and suffocating, smothering even the steady hum of the jet’s engines. It lingered, stubborn and unyielding, because neither of you addressed the argument from the car.

As professionals, you both knew better.

Eneid White’s life had been on the line, and neither of you would risk jeopardizing that over something as trivial - or as personal - as a fight.

So, you sat at opposite ends of the jet, heads bowed over paperwork, the silence between you crackling with the kind of precision only years of practiced restraint - and an almost artful expertise in avoidance - could ever achieve.

He stole glances at you every so often, but you never looked up, your pen moving with relentless determination across the pages. Hotch tried to focus on his own work, but the case wouldn’t leave him - not yet, not completely.

For him, it wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

The argument you’d had in the car still lingered in his mind, gnawing at him like an open wound, and he did what he always did best - turned the guilt inward.

It wasn’t just that he’d mishandled Rossi, he’d let the tension between you fester, unchecked. And the thought of what could have happened - what might have been lost if they hadn’t found Eneid White in time - haunted him more than it should have, more than the profession allowed.

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward. Now, though, it felt more like: second-guess, overthink, ruminate.

He’d replayed at least a dozen other scenarios in his mind, each one ending in tragedy, knowing full well it was sheer luck that led them to the unsub’s house instead of some remote hiding place.

If he couldn’t rewrite what had happened during the case, he could at least try to mend things with you.

He had to.

So, Hotch rose from his seat and made his way to the kitchenette.

The soft clink of mugs and the quiet hiss of the kettle punctuated the stillness of the jet, breaking the silence that came with the others fast asleep - all except for you and Hotch, and probably Rossi, who was either feigning sleep or doing his best to convince himself he was.

The usual night owls.

He opened the small drawer where you kept your tea and pulled out the packet of your beloved poison, the one you insisted you couldn’t function without. He prepared two cups, sneaking a spoonful of sugar into his own to dull the bitterness - a betrayal you’d undoubtedly call him out on, possibly with a well-aimed kick, if you ever found out.

As he approached, the faint sound of his steps or the distinct aroma of your tea drew your attention.

Your eyes flicked up, and without a word, he set the cup in front of you, the steam curling up like a quiet offering. “I know you like to torture yourself when you’re doing paperwork,” he said quietly. “Didn’t want to deprive you of the tradition.”

Your lips twitched, but whether it was amusement or annoyance, he still couldn’t tell.

“And why are you torturing yourself as well?” you asked, gesturing to the second cup in his hand.

“Can I sit?” he asked, tilting his head toward the empty seat across from you.

You returned your attention to your file, your tone dry as you said, “You’re my superior. I think you can sit wherever you want.” The mockery in your voice stung, a bitter echo of his own stupid words from the car.

Hotch hesitated for a moment before lowering himself into the seat across from you. He set his own cup down and clasped his hands around it, the warmth seeping into his palms, hoping that it could ground the part of his mind that was already playing the worst-case scenario.

You, gone. Him, alone. As it should.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours briefly before glancing away.

No, maybe there was still hope.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did,” he admitted finally.

You didn’t look up, your pen still scratching against the paper. “But you did. Because that’s what you really think, isn’t it?” Your tone was clipped, cool, but there was an edge of something else, disappointment, maybe. “You’ve never put yourself above any of us before. So why start now? Was it because someone wasn’t respecting your authority? Because it made you question your ability to lead in the first place?”

You immediately continued, laying bare the reasons he’d imposed that golden rule against profiling each other in the first place. “Do you really think they made you lead profiler back then just because Rossi wasn’t around? That it wasn’t earned but convenient? And when Gideon left, do you think they made you Unit Chief out of necessity, not because you were the best fit? Is that why you said those things to me? Because in your mind, my actions - or Rossi’s - are just proof that the voices in your head are right? That if I argue with you, it’s because I don’t think you should be my boss? God forbid there could be another reason, any reason besides that. Am I wrong?”

The words hit him squarely, their accuracy cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. He swallowed hard, the weight of them settling like lead in his chest. “You’re not,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, tinged with regret.

You set the pen down, leaning back in your chair, arms crossing as you shook your head. “Aaron,” you said, your voice softer now, “I swear, one day I’m going to find a way to get inside your head and shut those voices up for good. You’re good enough. Hell, you’re the best. So?”

He didn’t speak immediately, his lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, you wondered if he would deflect again, but then, he exhaled, a slow, measured breath, and lifted his eyes to meet yours. There was something raw there, something so unguarded. “So,” he said, his voice low, deliberate, “what if I feel like the worst? What if I question every decision, every choice, because I know what happens if I get it wrong?”

You leaned forward slightly, your arms resting on the edge of the table, “Then you’re human, Aaron. You’re human, and that’s exactly what makes you the best. Because you don’t take this lightly. Because you care enough to question yourself, to carry the weight even when it’s too much. But that doesn’t mean you have to carry it alone and let your head eat you alive like that”

He shook his head, a faint, self-deprecating smile flickering across his lips. “But that’s not how it works. It’s my job to make the calls, to take responsibility. If I can’t do that-”

“You can,” you interrupted firmly, your tone cutting through his doubts like a blade. “And you do. Every single day. But you don’t have to shut your team out to do it. We’re here for a reason, Aaron. We’re here because we trust you. Because we believe in you. Not because you’re perfect, but because you’re the kind of leader who doesn’t need to be.”

He looked at you, his expression unreadable for a long moment, and then he leaned back slightly, his hands still cradling the mug. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” you said, your tone softening but no less resolute. “But you don’t have to make it harder than it already is. And for the record?” You leaned back in your chair, your eyes locking with his. “I don’t argue with you because I doubt you. I argue because I trust you enough to know you can handle it. That’s what this is about. Not authority, not rank. Trust.”

His lips quirked into a faint smile, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “Trust is dangerous in this line of work.”

"Maybe," you said with a small shrug, your own smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "But it’s what we’ve got. And you’ve earned every bit of it, Aaron. Even when you drive me so insane to make me seriously consider leaving you on the side of the road to enjoy a scenic three-hour stroll back to the precinct."

Hotch shook his head slightly, damned you and your way you used your words with him. “It’s a shame you’re not as meticulous with your paperwork as you are with handling feelings.”

You straightened in your seat, narrowing your eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Your paperwork was impeccable - tedious, sure, but flawless.

Hotch’s lips twitched, and he leaned forward slightly, his finger tapping against the report on your desk. “You missed a semicolon.”

“That’s impossible,” you replied flatly, immediately flipping through the pages to find the supposed error. “I don’t miss semicolons.”

“Right there,” he said, pointing to a line near the bottom of one of the pages, his hand almost brushing against your frame. Damn you and the fact that you had to make mistakes in the most inconvenient places.

You leaned closer, scrutinizing the line he’d indicated, and he swore he could feel your breath on the skin of his hand. “That’s because I got distracted,” you declared, leaning back in your seat, far from him.

Thank God.

“Distracted by what?” Hotch asked, one brow raising slightly.

“By you committing a cardinal sin in the kitchenette,” you said, crossing your arms. “I caught you. Adding sugar to your tea. That’s blasphemy.”

Really?

Hotch blinked at you, clearly not expecting you to have spider sense for your tea, or maybe for him. “I needed something to make it drinkable,” he countered, raising his mug to take another sip. His nose scrunched almost immediately, and he set the mug down with a quiet thud. “God, it’s still terrible. How is that even possible?”

You leaned forward – no, not again, go back, go back “Next time, try it with milk,” you added, your tone lighter now, a teasing smile playing on your lips.

“Milk?” Hotch repeated, his expression turning skeptical. “That’s your solution?”

You shrugged, your smirk widening. “It works for the British… I doubt I will still talk to you if I ever catch you doing that”

Hotch shook his head again. Damn you and your philosophical dilemmas. “Then I’ll consider it,” he said finally, a trace of humor threading through his voice. “But only if you fix that semicolon.”

You smirked, setting your pen down on the table and sliding it toward him. “Go ahead, fix it yourself. You’ve been staring at it so long, I can tell it’s driving you crazy.”

Little did you know…

He picked up the pen with deliberate slowness, as if testing whether it might bite, then flipped the paper over and scanned the line in question. With a precise flick of his wrist, he added the missing semicolon, his lips curling into a quiet, triumphant smirk. “There.”

“Great,” you said, reaching out to take the paper back. But he smoothly pulled it just out of reach, his smirk deepening.

“Hold on,” he said, the faint amusement in his tone far too evident for your liking. His eyes skimmed further down the page. “Let’s see what other treasures we can uncover here.”

“Hotch, give it back,” you warned, narrowing your eyes.

But he ignored you, his brow furrowing slightly as he focused on something you’d written. Without hesitation, he drew a deliberate line through a sentence. “This,” he said, tapping the now-crossed-out words with the pen – your pen, “is too much. What are you trying to do here? Write a dissertation on behavioral patterns?”

He didn’t.

You must be hallucinating.

Your jaw dropped. “I don’t see how it’s wrong.”

He flipped the pen between his fingers, the motion maddeningly casual. “It’s not wrong,” he conceded, leaning back slightly, “but it’s definitely a little… philosophical for a field report.” He leaned closer despite himself, reading aloud “‘The unsub’s detachment reflects a broader existential isolation, a symptom of moral erosion rooted in-’”

You lunged across the table, your hand grabbing for the paper. “Aaron!”

He leaned back in his chair, holding it just out of your reach with the ease of someone far too used to fending off such attempts after two whole years of desk sharing. “No,” he said, his tone light and teasing, his eyes gleaming. “I’m not missing the chance to correct the Professor. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“They’re not mistakes!” you argued, your voice edged with exasperation. “They’re creative liberties!”

Damn you and how you always wanted to be right.

Hotch tapped the pen against the crossed-out section again, shaking his head slightly as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was about to read aloud. “Creative liberties? That’s not a liberty. That’s a thesis.” He arched a brow and glanced at you with a faint smirk. “How exactly does quoting Plato help us close cases faster?”

“It’s not Plato,” you shot back, but he was already reading.

He smirked as he scanned the next paragraph aloud. “‘The unsub’s selection of a blank mask serves as an emblem of erasure, a deliberate rejection of individuality in pursuit of an abstract anonymity. Yet, his compulsion to inscribe the surface with his own handwriting disrupts this facade, transforming the mask into a paradox: a vessel meant to obscure, now imbued with personal significance. This duality reveals a psyche at war with itself, striving to efface identity while simultaneously asserting it - a fractured self grappling with the irrepressible human need to leave an indelible mark.’”

Brilliant.

He set the paper down and looked at you, one brow still quirked. “Deep. Poetic, even. Were you planning to submit this to a psychology journal, or were you hoping the prosecutor would use it as an opening statement?”

You leaned back in your seat, completely unfazed by his sarcasm. “Fine,” you said, lifting your chin slightly. “The unsub uses a blank mask to suggest anonymity but undermines that intent by writing on it in his own handwriting. His actions reflect a contradiction between his desire for detachment and his need for recognition.”

Not your style, definitely.

Hotch tilted his head, considering this. “That’s perfect.”

“That’s boring,” you shot back. “It sounds like something a lawyer would say.”

His lips quirked into a smile, his voice low. “You mean someone like me?”

“Exactly - boring.” you said, jabbing your finger in his direction.

His lips twitched into a small smile, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, again, resting his forearms on the table. “And yet, boring or not, it conveys the same point without sounding like it belongs in a lecture hall.”

“Maybe,” you admitted grudgingly, crossing your arms. “But where’s the humanity in that? The nuance?”

Hotch’s smile widened just a fraction, his eyes flicking back to the report in his hand. “You think the prosecutor or the detective cares about nuance?”

If he still were one, he would.

“Maybe not,” you admitted, leaning forward now too, your elbows braced on the table. “But nuance is what gets us inside their heads. It’s how we understand them. It’s why we’re even called in the first place.”

His gaze softened slightly and so did his voice “You’re not wrong,” he said quietly, his tone almost reluctant, like it pained him to admit it.

“You know?! You should say that more often” you quipped, unable to resist a smirk.

His reply came almost instinctively, before he could think better of it. “What? That you’re right? Or that I notice when you are?”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard, but thankfully quickly recovered. "Oh, shut up," you muttered, leaning back in your chair, trying to mask the faint flush he caught in your cheeks.

He pretended he didn’t see it. “’Shut up’?! Maybe I wasn’t wrong when I said you have a problem with authority,” he said instead.

You raised an eyebrow, keeping your gaze steady on him. “I don’t have a problem with authority,” you replied, your voice smooth, almost playful. “I have a problem with you, Hotch.”

He chuckled softly, that deep, warm sound that always seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest. “Oh really? What exactly do you have a problem with?”

You leaned forward slightly, your elbows on the table again, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “I don’t understand some things about you still.” You let the words hang in the air, giving him a knowing look.

His expression shifted, something darker flashing behind his eyes for a moment before the usual, controlled Hotch returned. “Oh? And what exactly don’t you understand?”

“I went to your office the other day… tell me, why exactly does Hegel for Dummies have a broken spine?” you asked, your tone a little too casual, as if you hadn’t just delivered a question that made his stomach drop faster than a lead balloon.

Hotch fought the urge to wince.

Maybe he shouldn’t have left it out on his desk in plain sight.

Maybe the bright, cartoonish cover with its garish yellow accents wasn’t the best choice for a desk otherwise populated with leather-bound case files and stark black notebooks.

And maybe he should’ve remembered that you noticed everything.

He considered himself a smart man, but clearly, he’d overlooked the obvious.

And so his gaze softened, his lips curving into a small smile that just showed his dimples. “Maybe because it reminds me of my best friend - the one I never thought I’d get the chance to see again if you’d asked me a year ago, Europe” he said, his voice low, almost wistful.

You had asked for it. Relentless in your pursuit of the truth, always demanding it without compromise. So, he handed it to you - direct, unvarnished, right in your face.

For a moment, you just stared at him, the warmth of his confession settling between you like an unspoken truth - but one that was far from unwritten after six long years of correspondence. “You can’t just say something like that,” you said finally, your voice quieter, almost teasing to mask how deeply it had landed. “It’s not fair. I can’t argue with sentimental declarations. That’s cheating.”

Hotch leaned forward slightly, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, his voice dropping into that low, teasing register you now rarely heard on the job. “Maybe that’s the point,” he murmured. “Throw you off balance. You’re always so quick with your comebacks, it’s nice seeing you pause for once.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, the playful spark in your tone returning as you shook your head. “That’s evil. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Hotch, the Unit Chief, chuckeld – music to your ears “Oh, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve,” he replied, leaning back again, his smirk insufferable.

“I take it back,” you said, crossing your arms and narrowing your eyes. “I officially hate you.”

You officially loved seeing glimpses of the Hotch you used to share a desk with back in ’98.

Hotch tilted his head slightly. “Now, that’s just ungrateful,” he said, his tone laced with humor. “You’re going to have to make up your mind about me eventually.”

Oh how much you hated him.

Before you could fire back, he stood, moving with deliberate precision. Leaning over the table, he gestured to a spot on the paper you were working on, his hand brushing a little too close to yours - close enough that it almost felt intentional, though he knew better than to let it linger.

His fingers wrapped around the pen you'd set down, as if it were his own. "You even missed the horizontal stroke of the ‘t’ right here," he pointed out, his voice calm, almost teasing, as he tapped the offending error.

But he didn’t wait for your reaction. Without missing a beat, he straightened and turned, heading back to his seat on the opposite side of the plane, still holding the pen, silent victory.

You didn’t notice at first, too blinded by the lingering irritation, which only made it more amusing for him. “You’re never hearing another word from me,” you declared finally, your tone firm, though the frustration beneath it felt almost hollow. “Not ever again.”

From his seat, he didn’t even glance up from the paper he was now just pretending to read. “Good luck keeping that promise,” he replied, his voice laced with quiet amusement.

It took you all of five seconds to realize the pen in his hand was yours. Your gaze snapped to him, narrowing. “Hotch,” you called, your voice sharp. “Give it back.”

Hotch didn’t even try to hide the smirk that tugged at his lips as he looked up, holding your pen like it was some kind of victory flag. “Told you so,” he said, his voice light with triumph.

Fuck him.

--- As soon as they returned from Texas, Rossi wasted no time.

He strode directly into Hotch’s office, and Hotch, who had just settled at his desk, glanced up from the files he was reviewing, his brow knitting slightly in surprise.

“You said out there,” Rossi began, his voice calm but carrying an edge, “the team shares everything.”

“That’s right,” Hotch replied, standing from his chair, his posture stiffening slightly as if his body knew before him what was coming.

“There is no I?” Rossi pressed, his gaze unwavering.

Hotch nodded, his confusion mounting. “That’s right.” Where was Rossi going with this?

“It seems a big thing to withhold,” Rossi continued, his tone measured but cutting. “Separating from your wife, your child.”

Excuse him?

“What are you talking about?” Hotch asked, though he already suspected where this was heading. He needed to hear Rossi say it, to confirm - or hope against hope that he was wrong.

“We’ve been together 48 hours,” Rossi said, his voice low but unrelenting. “I haven’t seen you call Haley. Not even once. You haven’t mentioned her. And you’re not going home now.”

Great.

Rossi paused, his gaze drifting through the blinds toward the bullpen. You were there, leaning over a file on Reid’s desk, likely double-checking that every ‘t’ had its proper horizontal stroke. His expression softened, just a touch, before he turned back to Hotch. “And yet, you’re so protective of her. Always watching, making sure she’s okay. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you still look at her.”

‘Still’?

Now that was a stretch, wasn’t it?!

Before Rossi could say more, Hotch cut him off, his voice sharp, defensive. “What’s your point?”

Rossi didn’t flinch. “I guess you’re just not used to sharing.”

He was currently sharing his house with his best friend, but if he mentioned that to Rossi, it would undoubtedly be twisted into some wildly inaccurate interpretation.

Hotch’s jaw tightened further, his words clipped as he countered, “My private life is not the same as a case.”

Rossi tilted his head slightly, considering that for a moment. Then, with a faint shrug, he said, “I’m just saying, sharing is a learned skill.”

Rossi continued, his tone shifting to something more reminiscent. “You know... when this all started... there were only a few of us. We’d go out on the road alone. We didn’t... groupthink.”

“We don’t groupthink,” Hotch shot back, his voice firm, his eyes narrowing. “We think as individuals, and we share the thoughts with the rest of the team. We don’t write them down in a little notebook and keep them to ourselves.”

As Hotch watched Rossi leave, he caught himself staring down at his hands, his thumb absently brushing over the smooth band of his wedding ring.

It was still there.

The gesture was instinctual, one he’d repeated countless times before, especially when his mind was a storm of noise and chaos.

The weight of the ring was subtle, almost imperceptible, yet its presence remained undeniable. It tethered him - anchored him - to something he couldn’t fully release, even as its meaning progressively seemed to slip further from his grasp.

Logic, he recalled from your notes on stoicism - notes he’d skimmed out of curiosity or irony - was the art of aligning language with reality.

The Stoics believed that a proposition was true when it accurately reflected the environment it described.

Hotch is married.

The statement, so simple, so definitive, had once been unshakably true.

It was true because there was a subject, Hotch - Aaron Hotchner - sitting here, and because there was an object - the ring on his finger that affirmed the predicate.

The ring was proof.

Proof of something that existed. Proof of commitment, of a promise spoken and sealed.

And yet, how fragile was truth, he thought, when absence could strip it away so completely?

If he took the ring off - stopped wearing it - what would that mean?

Would it signify the end of the truth the ring had once affirmed?

Would it make Haley’s leaving more tangible, more real?

Would it mean that everything he’d built, everything he’d fought to hold together, was irretrievably lost?

Or was it already lost, and the ring nothing more than a hollow echo of something that had ceased to be true long before this moment?

That was the paradox of logic, wasn’t it? The truth wasn’t in the ring itself - it lived in what the ring represented.

Yet, despite that, he couldn’t bring himself to part with it.

Not yet.

Removing it would feel like yanking the last fragile thread from a tapestry already worn and frayed. It would unravel completely, leaving him with nothing but the empty space where something beautiful had once existed.

And he wasn’t ready to face that emptiness.

Not yet.

Damn the Stoics and their brain-twisting philosophy.

---

You’d gone somewhere.

You hadn’t told him where.

And so Aaron stood alone in his own kitchen, not entirely alone actually.

Your notes sat at the edge of the table, perfectly stacked, perfectly aligned, like they were waiting for you.

Or maybe for him.

He exhaled sharply, his eyes fixed on the table, as if staring hard enough might unravel the threads in his chest. The ones tightening, pulling, knotting tighter because you were gone and hadn’t said where.

It shouldn’t matter.

It wasn’t the first time you’d left like this, slipping out with a vague goodbye and a light smile that said everything was fine.

But tonight, it felt different.

He couldn’t explain it, just that the air in the house felt heavier without you in it. He could still hear the echo of your voice, could still see the way you lingered at the door, like maybe you had something to say but decided against it.

His gaze drifted back to the notes where your pen rested next to the stack, its placement deliberate, like you’d made sure to leave everything just right before you walked out. Just at the edge, hidden in the eyesight behind a chair.

Always the edge. Always tucked away. Like you didn’t think you had the right to be here.

You did. God, you did.

The neatness of it, the deliberate precision, drove him mad.

It was more than just tidy habits; it was the way you shrank yourself, folding your existence into corners and crevices, tiptoeing through his life as though you were afraid to leave footprints. The way you hesitated before touching anything that belonged to him.

He hated it.

Hated the carefulness.

Hated what it said about how you saw yourself here.

Also because it reminded him of the reality of the situation: temporary.

How you called yourself his guest with that wry, self-deprecating humor of yours.

He hated the word.

A guest didn’t leave their pen perfectly parallel to the edge of the table. A guest didn’t linger just long enough to warm the silence before slipping away again, leaving only the faintest trace behind.

You weren’t a guest to him.

You were the only reason the silence didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

Aaron straightened, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the table as if sheer willpower could force the stack to move - to the center, to the middle of the room, to anywhere that didn’t feel like you were afraid to exist.

He didn’t just want you here. He needed you to be here.

Not carefully. Not quietly. Not tucked away like an afterthought.

He wanted - no, needed - you to bother his space.

To make it yours.

He wanted those papers scattered across his home office desk - the desk you refused to use, no matter how many times he told you it was yours whenever you needed it.

He wanted to walk in and find you sitting there, your head bent in concentration, the faint scratch of your pen filling the silence, and the scent of your bitter tea lingering in the air.

He wanted your books stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, their titles in languages he’d long forgotten or never understood, with bookmarks peeking out at odd angles because you could never settle on reading just one.

He wanted your handwriting scrawled on sticky notes taped to the fridge - lists of groceries he didn’t even recognize but that you swore were essential, or little reminders you left for yourself but that he’d read anyway, smiling at the way you seemed to write as fast as you thought, each letter tumbling after the next in a barely legible rush.

He wanted to come home and see the faint glow of your laptop in the kitchen or hear your voice muttering to yourself as you debated some philosophical nuance, oblivious to the fact that he was listening from the doorway.

He wanted to trip over the shoes you’d kicked off in a rush, abandoned in the middle of the hallway because some new idea had swept you up, demanding all your attention.

He wanted the sound of your laughter spilling out when you teased him about his coffee or his barely disguised grimace after sipping your bitter tea, the way you filled the silence without even trying.

He wanted the chaos of you, your quirks and your muttered criticisms about his tea collection and your refusal to use the home office because “it’s your space, Aaron.”

He wanted your presence to become so intertwined with his space that he wouldn’t know where his life stopped and yours began.

To see signs of you everywhere - on his counters, in his cabinets, in the spaces that used to feel too big and too empty. He wanted the proof that you were here, that you were staying, even if it was only for a while.

Because every time he saw the deliberate neatness of your papers, the way you kept your presence confined to the smallest corner of his house, it made him feel lonelier than the silence ever did.

Because the empty spaces of his house never felt as desolate as when you tried to erase yourself from them.

He hated the invisible barrier you seemed to think was necessary.

And what terrified him most was how much he wanted to tear that barrier down.

Yet, those papers…

He told himself not to look. They were your notes, your thoughts, something private, but his eyes betrayed him, flicking down to the top page.

Just a glimpse, he thought.

Philosophy. Always philosophy.

Probably for Spencer.

And, lately, always Spencer.

Aaron leaned forward, just enough to catch the familiar loops of your handwriting and ink smudges on the page in front of him, how they softened the rigidity of Stoic logic written stark against the white page, humanized it in a way Aaron doubted the Stoics themselves ever intended.

Those ancient, precise theories weren’t just alive on the page, they were you.

He knew those smudges. God, he knew them so well.

And once, those smudgs had been for him.

Years ago, back when you were in Europe and he was in D.C., thousands of miles apart but bound together by ink and paper. You’d written to him, pages and pages of letters, postcards, even the occasional napkin with your hurried musings scrawled across the edges.

Every piece carried the unmistakable cadence of your thoughts, the subtle fingerprints of your soul left behind in ink.

He hadn’t just read them. He’d kept them.

All of them.

Six years of letters, still tucked neatly into a box on the right side of his desk. Hidden but never forgotten, each of them categorized.

He still could recite some of them by heart now, not just because of the words, but because of what they represented.

A connection.

A window into your mind.

Proof that, even when you were an ocean away, you’d thought of him.

You’d given him something no one else had, you’d taken hours of your time - time you could have spent on anything else - to explain your world to him. You’d translated the vastness of your intellect into something he could grasp, meeting him halfway, bridging the gap between philosophy and law.

And for six years, those letters had been his.

Just his.

He was the only one who knew what your thoughts looked like in ink, the only one who understood the tempo of your mind when it spilled onto paper.

But now?

Now, those hurried marks, those smudges, weren’t his alone anymore, they were for Spencer.

Aaron’s eyes lingered on the page, his chest tightening with something he refused to name - it wasn’t jealousy.

It couldn’t be jealousy.

That would be absurd.

But the thought crept in anyway, unbidden and unwelcome.

Spencer could keep up with you - he could dive into your world, explore its depths without needing a guide. He could talk with you for hours about philosophy, go deep into the nuances and theories that Aaron could only skim the surface of.

Aaron couldn’t.

He was just a lawyer.

He hated the way it sounded, the way it reduced everything he’d accomplished into something so small.

But compared to Spencer?

Well, Spencer was a genius, after all.

Philosophy wasn’t something Spencer needed simplified.

Spencer didn’t need “Hegel for Dummies.”

It wasn’t that he doubted your friendship, he never had. You’d do anything for each other - that was the kind of unshakable truth most people spend lifetimes hoping to find.

No, it wasn’t doubt, it was something worse.

It was the quiet, biting knowledge that he wasn’t enough.

Because philosophy had always been your thing. Law had always been his. That was the unspoken balance of your relationship - two different worlds, one shared soul, one whole.

It was what made you and Aaron work, in a way that defied logic.

But now, to him that balance felt fragile, precarious, like a scale tipping under a weight he couldn’t identify.

Because now, it felt like Spencer could meet you where Aaron never could.

But did Spencer notice the peculiarities of your handwriting the way Aaron did? The quiet, intimate details that felt like secrets only he was meant to uncover?

He’d teased you once, calling it your “professor handwriting.”

Precise and polished, every letter upright and deliberate. It was the version you used on the whiteboard during case briefings or when writing notes for others to read. People often admired it, praising how clean and professional it looked, almost like it belonged in a textbook.

But Aaron knew better.

That wasn’t really you.

Your real handwriting - the one meant only for yourself, and somehow, for him - was a different thing entirely.

It was messy, rushed, and alive with motion, like it couldn’t quite keep up with your thoughts.

The letters leaned forward, words blending together, the strokes of your t’s and the dots on your i’s often forgotten in your hurry to capture the idea before it slipped away.

He could always tell when something mattered to you because the ink pressed heavier in those spots, as though you were willing the words to stay.

Did Spencer notice how sometimes, in that messy script of yours, a line would trail off mid-thought, only to be picked up again later when you circled back to it?

Did he know how your letters bent slightly to the left when you were feeling uncertain or overwhelmed?

Because Aaron did. He’d been noticing it for years.

And that was the difference, wasn’t it? S

pencer could read the page, could absorb every word - but he knew how it felt.

He told himself it wasn’t rational to feel this way, and Aaron Hotchner was nothing if not rational. He was the one people called stoic, composed, unshakable, detached. He’d been called that more times than he could count, by colleagues, by superiors, even by his team. It was a label that had followed him for years.

Everyone called him stoic.

Everyone but you.

Maybe you hadn’t had the chance, maybe one day you would. Maybe Spencer already had. Or maybe you saw through it better than anyone else.

He sank into the chair, the soft creak of wood breaking the stillness of the kitchen. A breath escaped him - slow, unsteady - one he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

And in the quiet that followed, a single thought surfaced, persistent and undeniable, no matter how much he wished it away: he missed being the one you wrote for.

And the moment you stepped through the door, Aaron knew.

Your movements were hesitant, each step slow and uncertain, as though the weight of the world was pressing against your back.

He saw the faint streaks of dried tears on your cheeks, the way your gaze didn’t lift from the floor, your hands curling slightly at your sides.

But what struck him most - what confirmed what he already feared - was the chain around your neck.

That silver chain had always carried the weight of your engagement ring, resting just over your heart like a quiet reminder of something he’d never been able to name aloud.

Now, it hung bare, empty, as though it too had been unshackled. The sight of it was jarring, a moment of revelation that felt both devastating and freeing.

Aaron froze, his breath catching for the second time in the last couple of seconds in his chest.

For a moment, he didn’t know what to do, didn’t trust himself to speak.

He’d spent years taming his emotions, hiding them behind layers of composure, but right now, the dam threatened to break.

His body moved before he could catch up.

In three strides, he was in front of you, his hands settling on your shoulders with a gentleness that felt like gravity itself, steady and inescapable.

It was as if his touch called your name, a language only the two of you understood, because only then did you lift your eyes to meet his.

In that single glance, he saw everything – the raw ache etched into the curve of your expression, the exhaustion. Yet beneath it all, threaded through the cracks of your weariness, there was something else, something only he would have noticed.

Relief.

And without a second thought, he pulled you right into his arms. The silence stretched between you, heavy with everything he wanted to take from you, all the burdens you’d been carrying alone.

His arms wrapped around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing firmly against your back, as if sheer closeness could undo the damage that had been done.

He felt the tension in your body give way all at once, and then you broke.

You cried.

It wasn’t quiet, and it wasn’t neat.

It was the kind of crying that shook you, the kind you’d been holding back for so long it felt like it might never end. The sound of it cut through him, sharp and unrelenting, and he closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to stay steady for you.

He couldn’t, not really, not when you were like that.

It was almost like a symbiotic reaction.

He began to rub slow, soothing circles into your back, his voice low and steady as he murmured softly against your hair. “I’m here, let it out. Just let it all out.”

He made sure to keep his sentences short to not give up the emotion in his voice “I’m holding you. I’ve got you.

“You’re okay now. You’re alright. I’m not going anywhere.” His words weren’t just meant for you - they were meant for himself, a quiet mantra to keep his composure while his heart ached in ways he hadn’t felt in years.

The thought of how much Peter had hurt you, how deeply he had left his mark on someone so strong, so capable, made Aaron’s chest tighten.

His jaw clenched as tears began to well in his own eyes.

He didn’t wipe them away, didn’t dare loosen his hold on you for even a second.

You were free from him now - that much he held onto - but the knowledge that you’d had to endure so much pain to get here didn’t sit right with him.

It never would.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmured again, his voice thick with emotion. He pressed his cheek lightly against the top of your head, his own tears slipping free now. “So proud of you.”

Your cries grew quieter, softening into shaky breaths as your fingers gripped tightly at the back of his shirt, as though anchoring yourself to him. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words fractured with lingering sobs. “Aaron, I’m so sorry. You were right - you were always right, and I-”

“Shhh,” he interrupted, his voice gentle but firm, as though willing you to believe him. His hand kept its steady rhythm against your back, grounding you. “It doesn’t matter now. None of it matters. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.”

You let out a breathy laugh against his shoulder, small but real, breaking through the weight of your tears. “Are we really going to argue about who’s more sorry?”

Aaron chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “No argument. I’d win. And where’s the fun in that?”

Your laugh grew a little stronger, and he could feel the faintest tension in your body start to ease. He didn’t let go, not yet.

If it were up to him, he never would.

Holding you like this felt too right, like he was finally where he needed to be after years of staying too far away.

Only when you finally shifted did Aaron loosen his hold, just barely, giving you enough space to pull back. But his hands stayed on your arms, firm and steady, as though letting go entirely wasn’t something he could bring himself to do - not now, not ever.

Your eyes, still glassy with tears, lifted to his, as if bracing for what you might find.

And that was when he felt it - the faintest, almost involuntary tug at the corners of his lips, a fragile smile breaking through the swell of emotion that threatened to consume him.

A tear slid down his cheek, unbidden and unashamed.

Still, he didn’t brush it away.

He didn’t even think to.

All that mattered in that moment was you.

So he just stood there, rooted to the ground, holding on to you as though you were the only thing tethering him to the world.

Because you were.

“Aaron,” you said softly, your voice trembling, fragile in a way that made something deep inside him twist. The way you looked at him shifted in that moment, your gaze catching on the glistening streaks tracing his face.

His lips curved into the smallest, gentlest smile. “And for the record,” he said, his voice wavering slightly but still warm, “I cry more than you do.” He brushed at his cheek half-heartedly, even as another tear slipped free. “That’s 2–0.”

Your laugh came then, soft, messy, interrupted by the uneven hiccups left over from crying too hard.

But it was real, and it was enough to loosen the tightness in his chest.

Just hearing you laugh again felt like a reprieve.

“You’re impossible,” you said, shaking your head lightly. But then your tone faltered, quieter now, “Don’t you ever dare walk away from me, Aaron. Don’t leave me too.”

“Never,” he said firmly, his voice resolute and strong, he’d never been so sure about anything in his life. He paused, his eyes softening as he searched for your face. Then, almost as if the words carried a life of their own, he added, “We’ve stayed apart long enough.”

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t need to.

Aaron poured a glass of water, setting it in front of you. “Drink,” he said softly.

You accepted it without hesitation, murmuring a soft “thank you” under your breath. He poured a glass for himself as well – rehydration was essential after all the unspoken emotions spilled into just one single room - and positioned himself across from you, the two of you sharing the silence.

But this silence felt different.

It wasn’t empty, it was filled with the quiet comfort of not having to explain yourself.

When you set your glass down, he almost hated he had to break it like that, with a voice as steady as he could. “You’ve got one hour”

You blinked, confused. “For what?”

“To get ready,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m taking you out.”

“Aaron, I don’t think-” you started saying.

“It’s either this,” he interrupted, raising an eyebrow, “or you sit here and tell me everything that happened. Your choice.”

He knew you’d retreat into your own mind, letting your thoughts consume you piece by piece if he let you walk away now. And he knew that all too well.

You studied him for a moment, then sighed in defeat. “Fine. But only if I’m paying.”

“Deal,” he said, a playful glint in his eye. “But I’m choosing the drinks.”

“Make it something strong,” you shot back, a hint of warmth returning to your voice. “I might need it.”

He chuckled, leaning against the counter as he watched you. He had to correct you, he couldn’t help himself. “We might need it.”

And then he wondered why his heart beat faster than yours when he was holding you.

He couldn’t find an answer.

---

BYE BYE P***R AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 15 CHAPTERS OF DESPAIR

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

[ellecdc]

poly!moonwater x mute!reader? Maybe them learning sign or comforting reader when someone makes fun or says something rude to them.

🥹🥹🥹 this is so cute omg. thanks for your request!! 🤟🤟🤟

poly!moonwater x mute!reader (gn)

You kept your face pointed downwards at your textbook and ignored the two shadows seating themselves across the table from you, hoping that if you minded your business, they would too.  

People weren’t always very understanding of your condition, and those who pretended they were usually just asked a lot of very imposing questions; if you could hear, why couldn’t you talk? Were you ignoring them? Were you faking it? What was your deal? And contrary to popular opinion, speaking louder and repeating themselves didn’t change the fact that you still couldn’t speak to them.

“Y/N, right?” You heard a voice come from in front of you. You grimaced slightly but tried to rearrange your face before looking up.

Sitting across from you was Regulus Black and Remus Lupin; the latter having been the one to speak to you.

You nodded yes to his question, which earned you a beaming smile from the scarred boy.

“I’m Remus, and this is Regulus.” He said, motioning towards the younger boy with his head. You offered the best smile you could muster and nodded hello to the two of them.

“What subject are you working on?” Regulus asked, attempting to peek at your notebook. You pulled the textbook from under your elbow and showed them the front cover.

“Herbology.” Remus narrated. “I’ve always been pants at that, honestly.”

You smiled gratefully at the two; most people don’t put much effort into trying to converse with you once they realize it requires a touch more effort on their end.

“What’s your favourite class?” Regulus asked then, causing your stomach to drop.

They had to know, right? They couldn’t not know. Did they think you would finally talk if only you wanted to badly enough? Or was this a prank? You didn’t think pranks were the younger Black’s thing, but you knew Lupin hung around with a folly crowd.

You’re not sure how long you’d been sitting there spiralling when you felt a gentle nudge to your wrist. You looked to see a piece of parchment and a quill being pushed towards you by Remus.

You looked to him then, trying to see if you could spot any malevolence in his expression.

You couldn’t.

You cautiously took the quill and parchment and scrawled out your answer quickly. Passing it back and trying to ignore the burning of your cheeks or the sound of your heartbeat in your ears.

Remus beamed at your response. “I love that class too.”

“May I ask something that might come across as terribly forward?” Regulus asked suddenly, causing your heart rate to spike.

“I was only wondering how you converse with your friends or family; what’s most comfortable for you?”

You let out a steadying breath and accepted the quill and parchment back from Remus to quickly write “sign”. 

Regulus smiled at that, and you weren’t sure you expected a Black to be capable of an expression so soft.

“Wonderful.” He said as he pulled out a heavy book from his bookbag; a muggle book entitled “BSL for Dummies”. 

You felt your eyebrows migrate into your hairline as your mouth fell open.

“Now, if it’s not terribly inconvenient for you, do you think you might be able to help us learn?” Remus asked, smiling kindly at you.

You nodded quickly, mouth quirking up into a smile as Regulus helped turn the book towards you so he could ask “is this the right way to ask someone out on a date?”

[kinkystims]

okay so the first and only time i've done impact play was this june at a private play party. i asked an acquaintance if they'd do a scene with me. they said yes. very experienced i felt like i was gonna be in very good hands.

at the party when i arrive, everyone's standing around in the room that also happens to have their spanking bench. top throws out the idea of doing an impact play demo and asks me if i'd be interested in being the bottom for it. i said yes. nervous as hell but yes. so i stripped in a room full of people and got on the spanking bench with just my panties on. tits out,, everything out.

it was really exhilarating even though no one was making a big deal out of it and the bench kinda put less focus on my tits and i was also facing a wall so like people were watching me but i couldn't see them. top starts going through how to do impact. it was really interesting getting a demo while also bottoming for the first time.

so first they say you have to warm me up. and they just start rubbing me down from back to thighs. it's so i get used to their touch and don't flinch away from it and so i get relaxed in the position. i had never considered getting warmed up!! then they used a flogger to just gently start hitting me like reallyyyy lightly.

and this whole time, they're narrating what they're doing to the audience which is kind of exciting in itself. i don't really consider myself an exhibitionist but i liked it in a way i didn't think i was going to.

they rotated through tools, intensities, methods, etc. it was really cool and really fun. and i didn't know that pain tolerance builds DURING a session. they kept warming me up with softer hits and then eventually i could take harder ones with the same tolerance or better. it was so cool feeling my body adapt to it.

they'd rub out the stings which was also nice as. i like being groped and rubbed on. AND they'd use their nails which was soooo tingly and ticklish due to the fact that my ass is unfortunately super fucking ticklish and i had to keep from squirming LOL.

it was such a nice feeling, all of it. i liked how i felt in my head, i liked how i felt in my body. i liked hearing people laugh when i flinched and i liked someone commenting on my ass getting darker. i liked how hard i got from it. i liked when they kinda hit my dick a little. i liked being surprised at the pain.

it's funny cuz honestly i don't think my tolerance is that high. they said i had really good body language cuz it's all about if i'm leaning towards the hit or away from it (ideally, you should always lean towards it). and they said i was really reactive and really easy to read. which made me feel really good hehe. i was quiet like i didn't make much sound but that also might've been cuz it was too public lol (i get shyyyy okay)

[blackkatdraws2]

I'm involved in a Stanley Reblog Chain and put effort into these drawings so I'll post them here too.

[The other characters belong to insomniphic / beartitled / and marionette-j2x]

[Just me rambling underneath!] ↓

Tumblr has a tag limit and it grates my nerves to no end to know that I can't ramble as much as I'd like to...

Stanley and the bad bitch he pulled by being a loser. Imagine having a hot babe deform reality just to be together with you because he sensed you were feeling lonely without him. [WHEN IS IT MY TURN?!]

It's funny because with the general vibe of their AU, it would make sense for him to show up in the most flashy but also unnerving way possible. The Narrator's [Black's] arrival has to grab people's eyes since attention and views are what he's all about.

I wasn't sure what type of characterization they had so I just played it safe and [tried to] draw how my characters would respond instead of blindly guessing how the others would talk or act around each other. [My Stanley is antisocial and an anxiety-ridden freak.]

Also, I've been wondering what their height differences actually were when I saw my Stanley have to look up at Marionette's Narrator [since this guy is pretty damn tall] so I did a bit of digging and this was what I found.

I had a lot of fun making this by the way. It's been a while since I've participated in any Reblog Chains that involved character interactions and making comics, so it's a real throwback to when I first started posting TSP art in 2023.

Stanley here is an absolute social shutoff teehee, but he does talk back when talked to. His responses usually leave no openings to continue the conversation though. He's the type of guy to stay on the corner and watch everyone else.

As for the Narrator [Black] he's a bit strange. He's proper in public, but he doesn't think the other people are special [or not as special as he is at least]. He just doesn't care to be honest, he keeps to himself [along with Stanley] and that's it. It's a miracle for Stanley to have even pulled somebody like Black considering their personalities are the type to clash with one another. [They love each other though, genuinely. Despite how deranged they can be towards each other sometimes, that development took a long time to be nurtured into something healthier for those two.]

Also, 4th wall breaking in action!!!!!!!!!!!

Black didn't want to interrupt this comic since it was made for Stanley but after the other three came in he lost reservations and came in as well.

[Copy and Pasting the tags of my other post because I am NOT re-writing all of this...]

These two would probably just stay in their own spot [somewhere quiet and more alone]. This place is a bit too crowded for their liking. But I would be very happy to jump on any opportunity to make my guys interact with the others!!!!! Don't be afraid to throw a bone [prompt] for me to bite on, okay?

[literallyjusttoa]

Finally got around to doing this, here are some rough sketches of my idea of how Lester looks each book! Some books are more different than others, like I don't think much changed between books 1 and 2, but I had fun doing this! Look under the cut for some notes about things I added for each design.

Book 1: Not much changes from how he's described in the books. All of the clothes he borrowed from Percy are a bit too big for him, but the flannel he borrowed from Will fits pretty well, only being slightly too long (I think Will has like, an inch over Lester)

Book 2: Basically the same as book 1 Lester. He keeps the flannel Will gave him, but it gets pretty beat up over the course of this book so he has to switch it out before book 3 :(. Hair is just a lil bit longer, and he gets clothes that fit a bit better. Headcanon time bc if Rick won't give me substantial Thalia and Apollo interaction I'll make it myself: Thalia gives Lester archer's gloves at the end of TDP, which he wears for the rest of the series. He didn't even think to wear gloves bc as a god he wouldn't need them, but Thalia noticed his beat up to shit hands at the Waystation and went "bestie... bestie no...." and gave him a pair.

Book 3: Will's flannel has been swapped for a big coat and Lester get his iconic pink camo pants. His hair is long enough to start getting weighed down a bit, and also way messier bc he's been in the labyrinth for like a month. The beat up sneakers he was wearing in books 1 & 2 get replaced with much more reasonable boots. Eyebrow scar shows up, a reminder from one of the many concussions this poor man has suffered. Also another HC time! Georgie gives Lester a little handkerchief that he wears for the rest of the series (I was gonna use Paolo's handkerchief, but Lester canonically gives that back so boo)

Book 4: The Lester looks like shit book /j. His hair is now long enough that he should really be doing something with it but he is not. He has a zip up hoodie now to cover up all his fun purple veins. Just more beat up in general honestly. Also I hc that Apollo actually lost some weight here (both bc he wasn't really eating well before getting to New Rome bc of stress/grief, and bc he got really sick and continued to not eat well while that was happening) But it obviously doesn't do anything to help his self-esteem or mood in this book. Kind've a visual way of being like "the superificial flaws Apollo clung to in the first book weren't the real issue, he was just hyperfixating on them to distract himself from what he was really upset about, so when the superficial issues get solved he doesn't even notice bc he's grown enough as a character to cut the bullshit and focus on what's really bothering him." or idk something like that. I like to contrast this with a hc I've mentioned before about the time between books 4 and 5, which is that the physical flaws Apollo whined about in book 1 (i.e. the acne and his weight) get "worse" throughout the road trip from California to New York, but Apollo truly just does not care that much about that shit anymore and that's why it doesn't come up in the narration.

Book 5: Final Lester! It's been over a month since the last book so I'm taking liberties and saying Lester's hair is long enough to pull up now bc I want him to be able to do that goddammit. Final outfit is borrowed from Percy again, so that's why it's so big. He also has a pendant that Lavinia gave to him bc they're besties. Also I forgot to mention it, but his shoulders are slightly broader here (and have been getting broader throughout the series) bc he's been working those muscles so much with the constant archery.

Also I didn't draw his quiver bc honestly I forgor, but I like to imagine he's been getting little pins and bobs from a lot of his friends that he's been sticking on his quiver strap. A few examples that come to mind are:

Kayla: A classic hot topic pin with a sun with sunglasses on it.

Leo: A pin made of scrap metal with the alchemical symbol for fire carved in.

Agave: Pinned a clover to Apollo's quiver for good luck. It didn't stay on there long, but it was the thought that counted.

Hazel: A piece of citrine decorated with metal cords.

Lavinia: Another classic hot topic pin, this one is heart shaped and has a picture of Hatsune Miku on it.

Jason: One of the monopoly houses he'd been using to mark the positions for the temples. A lot of the little houses had fallen off the diorama during the car crash at the beginning of TTT. The night after, Apollo asked Reyna if he could make sure the diorama was fixed. Reyna agreed, and he put it back together based on what he remembered. He spent an hour or so gluing on houses and hotels for Mars, Somnus, Fons, Salus, and on and on, until he got to the last one. A red hotel meant to show where the temple of Apollo would go. Apollo poked a little hole in it, and fastened it to his quiver with a bobby pin. It's nestled close to where the strap meets the quiver itself, so it's less likely to fly off.

Meg: Pinned a rose petal to his quiver right before he went to fight Python. It lasted for even less time than Agave's clover did, but again, it was the thought that counted.

[charmercharm3r]

YOU WILL WRITE THIS

SO IMAGING ABT how your a 9th skz member (who always wears baggy street wear or just the really cutsie member who does aegyo and isnt rlly sexual and lit has never showed any skin )and you all go boxing for fun - you decide to wear a baggy white shirt and a white bra under it and once you arrive to the gym your acc really good at boxing like your sweatiinggg and its showing your skin and clinging onto u - thowing jabs at minho like your life DEPENDS ON IT!! the members admire you from the side of the ring with a good view; after that tiring session you or your member dump water on you to quench your thirst but end up dumping wayy more than intended which causes you all to laugh but iykyk white clothes + water = see through jit going thru your shirt and kinda your bra so the members are just staring at your bare boobs (you can also write the baddie moment where you take off your shirt bc your agitated at it clinging onto ur skin)

i’m such a sucker for 9th member fics

Masterlist

warning: gn!reader, 9th member, suggestive

next: two

☆ﾟ

“That’s it, Y/N’ie! Now I can actually feel your punches. Put a little more weight behind it.”

Minho had you dancing around the elevated boxing ring like it was rehearsed. Your couldn’t feel your hands or arms anymore from how long you’d been chasing him in circles to hit the padded target he always held just a little out of reach. Honestly, sports weren’t really your thing, dancing was the only thing you truly tried to do well in front of and behind the cameras. You had no idea what possessed you to tag along with Minho to his boxing session.

The news of your outing traveled fast within the group and before you knew it, everyone was piling into the two cars together. Minho and Chan had been giving you pointers the whole car ride and even tried to show you how to wrap the bandage around your wrist for support until you shooed them away and told them to stop hovering.

Felix was giggling watching the whole preparation take place, only when he said your full name did you realize he was narrating with a mini vlogging camera pointed your way.

Maybe promotions and practices and life in general were starting to take an emotional toll on you, every ounce of your frustrations from the week you took it out on Minho.

You couldn’t feel your feet now, too. The numbness let you move a little faster, only able to feel the sweat dripping down your temple and chest. As you picked up the pace and threw your punches harder, Minho stumbled slightly from the sudden burst of energy. You couldn’t hear the other members whooping and cheering your name, all focus pinpointed on the black target.

Harder, quicker, more than enough weight behind the punches that forced Minho to misstep and trip into the rope. The others rushed to hold their hands out in case he slipped through them, while also torn between being in awe or laughing at the older boy literally falling for you.

You tried to catch your breath and aggravatedly unwrapped the boxing glove from your hand as Minho stood and looked at you with surprise.

“Was that enough weight?!” You huffed, throwing the glove at him with almost no power now that you expended most of it trying to hit the target.

Giggling from the side of the ring made your head snap in its direction, “you want some, too, Kim Seungmin? I’ll come down there and—“

Just as you were about to throw the other glove at him, Changbin stepped into the ring and stole it from you, physically picking you up and waltzing you backwards with your rubbery limbs not putting up much of a fight. “You can beat him up later. Drink water first, you sweat like a fucking fountain.”

“Y/N’ie!” Felix and Hyunjin ran around to help you out of the ring, water bottles at the ready. You let Hyunjin tip your chin up and place the open bottle to your lips, it was gone in under a minute. “Slow down, you’ll drown,” he chuckled.

“Lix, you’re staring again,” Changbin threw his hand over his eyes until he realized what the younger was ogling.

The baggy white shirt you’d worn was completely soaked and sticking to your body like a second skin, showing through the sports bra that kept you safe. You were never one to show much skin at all, but right now, you didn’t have the energy to care. In fact, it was suddenly feeling suffocating. When you started to strip away the drenched shirt was when the rest of the members made their way over to you, all with mouths dropped slightly at the view of their adorable member suddenly shining in a new light.

“Hyung, maybe you should get Y/N’ie mad more often,” Jeongin whispered to Minho, who had a stupidly smug smirk on his face.

“I’ll take—“ huff, “—every one—“ puff, “of you fuc—“

“Hey now! No swearing in my vlog!” Felix rushed to stop you mid sentence.

“But they’re cute when they’re mad! Look,” Jisung pinched your cheek lightly and you frowned, raising your fist, “oh, so scary!” He feigned fright and stepped back with his hands up in surrender.

“You looked really cool, though. Who knew you could actually do physical activity!” Seungmin patted you on the back a little too harshly and you slumped forward with a wince.

“I hate all of you.”

“You love us!” Chan rung out your wet shirt and all of you stopped to watch how much of it was squeezed onto the floor. “That’s disgusting.”

Felix laughed menacingly and turned the camera towards himself, “I think Y/N’ie needs a shower.”

The eight of them made eye contact and smiled deviously. You spotted the bottles of water they each had and moved a second too late. Minho grabbed you by the waist before you could run, and suddenly you were being blinded by water running down your face and getting covered from head to toe. Minho was nice enough to wipe your strayed hair from your eyes so you could see the glee in your member’s eyes as if they’d accomplished an important task.

“Are you cooled off now?” Minho asked, peaking over your shoulder and brushing more hair from your cheek.

“Ice cold.”

“Oh, they’re definitely mad at us!” Felix kept laughing along with Hyunjin and Jisung.

“You all owe me one meal each. Dessert included.”

“I’ll even throw in a dry towel.” Chan handed you a itty bitty hand towel that you snatched away.

You patted down your exposed skin starting with your arms, your face, and when you got to your neck and chest was when you realized they’d all gone quiet. “Have none of you seen a chest before?! Virgins, all of you.”

None of them moved, unabashedly and unashamed that they were still staring.

“It’s just—“ Hyunjin said softly and pointed at your chest again. You looked down to see your nipples hard, and you lost any patience you had left.

There was almost no force behind your fists slamming into his chest, but Hyunjin cowered away and pretended to be hurt just for sympathy’s sake. Minho cheered you on while Chan was pulling out a spare shirt from his gym bag, sneakily slipping it onto you as your adrenaline drained back down to zero.

“Two. Meals. Each. And I’ll be keeping track.” You breathed heavily, finally giving up on being upset.

“Dessert included,” they repeated back.

When you’d finally calmed down, Felix threw his arm over your shoulder and pulled you in close, “how was your first time boxing with Minho hyung? Care to share with sunshine vlog?”

“Next time, it’ll be you and me in that ring, Lixie.” You cheerfully threaded with a tap of your finger to the tip of his nose and smiled.

The seven of them trailed behind you as you leaned on Felix for some support. Not even an ounce of annoyance left in you, the sleep was wanting to take over before you could make it to the car. You climbed into the back seat and made yourself comfortable before the rest of them could file in, careful not to raise their voices too loud. You could tell it was Changbin next to you just by the smell of his cologne, still strongly lasting after a decent work out.

Entirely passed out, you didn’t get to hear Felix end his vlog with, “look how cute they are, already asleep. Stay, shhh, don’t tell Y/N’ie that Minho hyung only tripped cus his shoe was untied. See you next time!”

-

tags: @sensitiveandhungry @babebatter @changbinluvr @epiphanynaffit @fawnpeaks @linovely @dumplinbokkieracha @finnydraws @naturules @djeniryuu @skzhomiehopper @yesv01 @hyunjinsamdl @dazzlingligth @lvrhyuka @alexis-reads-fics @linaliskz @0002linoskitten @chillichillicrabcrab23 @zerefdragn33l @straycrescent @binnies-donuts @soldierstangirl-blog @bakedlilgoonie @levanterlily @shelbyyy44 @yeetmehome @in2heartz @astroodledream @the-sweetest-rose @goblinracha @lilbugs-things @viviennenstan @staurdvst @alex--awesome--22 @imzenning @jeyelleohe @kaitchan @iadorethemskz @skyvastbunny @mamabymychem @katsukis1wife @woozarts @noellllslut

[thewinchestah]

"Good things come for those who wait" - Alastor x reader fic

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Tags: ,18+, Smut, NSFW, edging, BDSM, Alastor does what he wants, there's plot if you squint really hard, alastor in heat, breeding kink, Possesive! Alastor, Jealous!Alastor, Protective!Alastor, spanking,degradation kink, praise kink, Angst with a happy ending, fluff, I didn't proof read this, english isn't my first language, no beta we die like men here, etc etc etc

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Word Count: there's no point guys. I can't stop talking.

A/N: WOAH!! Hello everyone!! What the fuck?? I wasn't expecting my "debut fic" to blow up like that! Thank you so so much to everyone who took the time to read it and leave a comment! I'm truly flattered by your praise. So, I hope this sequel to "PREY" does it justice! (but it can also be read as a standalone). Let me know if you guys like it, and if you have anymore ideas/suggestions! I'm tagging everyone who asked me to, so if you want to be tagged on my next fics let me know! Without further due, here comes that mostrosity of a fic! Hope you like it <3! (UPDATE: PART 3 IS NOW UP!!)

Part I  | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Taglist: @smallershorteranduncut @markster666 @jyoongim @stygianoir  @pepperycookie @fraspent @aether-th3-enby 

It all started, as many things do, with a joke and a simple misunderstanding. Dying and instantly going to hell is not easy. Being in hell and not understanding why the FUCK you are in hell is confusing, frustrating and sometimes drawright ridiculous. There’s no guidebook for the hellish afterlife, and more often than not you felt lost at sea, drowning. Until you found your questionable lifeline, the Radio Demon. 

Somehow said demon clocked really early on that you were completely infatuated with him, but too scared to act on it. And oh, how he gave you enough reason to be infatuated, enough reason to be scared. Luring you into the most delicious trap, Alastor had claimed you as his. His to breed during the height of his heat, his to care for, his to inflict the most heavenly torture. 

Being caught up in the middle of the living myth that was the Radio Demon was a dangerous thing, you had been warned over and over again. So of course that you had to almost fuck everything up in the silliest way possible.

The obnoxious TV set, also known as Vox, had just started another round of his futile attempts to win Alastor’s attention by airing the most absurd reality tv character assassination ever. You would put money on the fact that the obsessive flat screen was a deceased TLC producer. Usually, any of his pompous i-hate-alastor-so-so-much!!! fits would be met with enthusiasm around the Hotel. Everyone would cramp in front of the TV and make fun of the entire ordeal. Even Alastor would tag along and make a private edition of his radio show while he counter-narrated that nonsense. It became a fun bonding activity for everyone involved, it was a nice thing. But there’s a reason why you can’t have nice things.

Today the Hotel was mostly empty:, only you, Angel and a very on edge, sexually frustrated, irritated Alastor haunted its posh walls. Still, you and Angel carried on with the little tradition sitting side by side in front of the tv not knowing what to expect from today’s “My Strange Addiction - Alastor’s Version” episode. It was truly a laughable attempt of a character assassination, actors who could not act saying things like “Alastor isn’t even as bad as everyone says, his torture tactics are not that special either. My mom’s aunt was tortured by him and was going to work 10 hours later”, “i walked down the street today and alastor didn’t even try to kill me when he saw me crossing the street, he’s all talk” “i have video footage of the self-proclaimed cannibal eating a chocolate covered strawberry. He’s cannibalbaiting.”

“no self-respecting overlord would go out wearing those ridiculous out-of fashion clothes”. 

Angel was having the time of his life leading the daily Vox roast session, the spider was funny and you couldn’t hold the laughs. The camera cut to a close-up of Vox, babbling on about technology and the anti-Radio Demon speech you knew by heart at this point. As if on cue, Alastor entered the room. But the pair of you remained oblivious to his presence. 

“Toots, you totally should apply for this show! I mean it!. I’m sure Vox will buy literally anything you say. Anything! If you say Alastor likes to eat red nail polish cause it looks like blood he would believe it! You laughed at his words, what a ridiculous thing to say. You loved red nail polish, alastor drinking it because it looks like blood is absurd. “I mean, look at you!! Look at this face, these eyes!! This body!!!” Angel gave your thighs a playful slap. “If you say hell is actually cold using all that i would eat it right up. Vox will be too busy staring at your boobs to notice you dropping that even the oldest radio looks better than that fucking flat face”. The thought that you were the mind-numbing type of beautiful made you laugh. Sometimes you felt like your friends were being way too kind with the flattery about you. You were nothing special at all. It was nice of them to be kind to you, adapting to your new lifestyle was taking a visible tool, anyone could tell. Their efforts were honorable and sweet, but you just couldn’t let yourself believe what in your heart, you knew was a lie. A beautiful, comfortable lie, but still a lie. You weren’t much, you were just lucky. You started to laugh even harder, out of pure nervousness as your brain started to snowball into all the things you weren’t. 

“ Seriously Angel, you have the strangest ideas ever!” you tried to sound normal, putting up a confident facade. That helped, a lot. You had picked that up during your days with Alastor. 

Speaking of the devil, Alastor wasn’t amused by your little display. Standing on the corner of the room as you laughed, he made himself known by walking out of the room, in hurried steps. If it were anyone else, they wouldn’t think much of it. But you weren’t anyone else. You were Alastor’s. 

And that’s why he was seething with rage. His rut always drove him, an already unpredictable man, to the brink of true, pure instinctual insanity. He had to grip his marvelous constructed self control painfully hard. Since your paths crossed, the most chaotic part of his existence seemed in control, your pretty little body always ready to take him, your eyes always holding his gaze in a maddening  comfortable way, the way you would push your limits just for him. 

Only for him.

And the worst part was your softness when it was all done. Alastor would fuck you rentless, for hours, making you take all the mess of his most animalistic desires without a second thought. Both of you would be spent, bathing in the afterglow, room smelling like sex, and you would ask him if he needed anything. Him, that just fucked you so hard so won’t walk straight for a week, that feasted on the blood of the love bites he inflicted, him that covered you in a painting of bruises. 

How could he not want to just lock you inside his lavish room and give you all the rings of hell? to carve his name deep into your soul? to dote on you? to make him the only thing on your mind as he makes you his time and time again in the most sinful ways?

It was simple really, why he was shaking with anger: how you, who was his, was even thinking of being in the same vicinity of that scum of creation?  LAUGHING AT THIS ABSURD CONCEPT. Vox thinking of you was already a crime punishable by painful death, but Vox looking at you was heresy, and the entirety of hell would pay for his transgressions. 

As Alastor stormed off towards the Hotel’s large room corridors, he took several calming breaths. Losing control like this wouldn’t do anyone any favors. In the troubled waters of his mind, Alastor could only think of 3 things: you, fucking you and murdering someone.

 So he didn’t even realize your hurried steps trying to catch up with his long strides.

“Hey sugartits! Don’t take too long doing whatever you need to do! there’s a woman going live after the break saying she saw Alastor eating an entire packet of PAPER TOWELS!!! HAHA! This shit is too good to be true!” you heard angel scream.

Adding insult to injury, nice.

Trying desperately to reach your demon lover gait, you could only think about how bad you had messed up. Alastor was your only true respite in hell. He was a blessing in a mist of the worst humankind could offer. He made you feel hope, more than making you feel alive, he made you feel glad you’re dead. The Radio Demon felt like coming home. You just wanted to make it up to him. You could not lose this, lose him. You were not sure you would survive it. And who knew where you went after dying in hell? 

It doesn’t matter where you go after hell, it doesn’t matter at all if Alastor is not there. Your brain added to your inner monologue. True.

“Alastor! Wait” you shouted. He stops dead on his feet.

Finally, those long long legs of his do not make chasing after your love any easier.

“Alastor, I'm so so sorry. Angel gets way out of line sometimes and I was nervous” he is perfectly still, ears pinned back, listening. But doesn’t say anything back.

“Al I’m truly sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, at all. Look, let’s try to do something to make your day better. I know how hard this season is on you, I know you feel like you are losing contr-

Uh oh.

oh shit.

You used the two forbidden words together. The temperature in the room drops, Alastor snaps towards you. You feel something gripping your throat mercilessly, as you fall to the ground. Looking at the other end of the corridor Alastor has you on a leash of his magic. Eyes burning red, forehead marked “x” he grips your chains hard, pushing you towards him.

“That was a brilliant speech, little doe. Truly marvelous! I’m sure your television debut will be quite the show you were planning!”

His antlers were growing, his demon form showing itself as he becomes taller and taller over you. All bared teeth and flashing red eyes. This is what everyone warned you about. Don’t get in the Radio Demon’s way, he is dangerous and insane. You will regret it.

Hot. your brain thinks. He pulls your leash even tighter, and you feel wetness pooling on your core.

“Do you have any idea what I was about to do before I heard you so selflessly offer your services to that pathetic excuse of a demon?” Dragging you by the magic chains, his towering frame comes down to meet you at eye level. You can’t say anything back, your brain short circuits and goes AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

“You know better than leaving me waiting for an answer at this point, pet” He grips your face using his sharp claws,the pressure threatening to break skin. “But you seem so hellbent on being a bad girl today, I shouldn’t expect your usually good girl’s behavior, should I?”

You are, once again nothing but a doe caught in the headlights of his eyes

“One should always know better than expecting their fantasies to be true”

His sclera goes black, only the tiny blazing red radio dials devouring you as he stares so deep into you, you feel feverish. 

“But since we are already here. I. Will. Tell. You.” static picks up around the room and surrounds you both, the corridor is illuminated by an eerie green light. You start to kinda fear for your life, but Alastor has you completely hypnotized by the radio dials on his eyes. You shiver in anticipation. 

 “I was coming to ask you, to please, spare me a part of your day, away from you friends. Because the only thing on my mind has been you. Fucking you. Sinking my cock so deep into your tight, wet cunt it would mark your soul. Because you are the only one who can take me like this, who deserves being bred by me, who deserves every drop of my seed”

You feel the wetness on your panties grow until it runs down your thighs. There’s nothing right about this, but your dear Alastor showed you long ago how the concepts of right and wrong are meant to be skewed.

“But oh well, you seem to have your affections directed elsewhere…” he tsks at you using that delicious mocking tone. “But, you can’t blame a desperate man for trying” he goes from 100 to 0 really fast, his voice softens so much in a way that’s almost too heavy to hear after all that. Even with his demon form still very much present  “Do you still want to make my day better, pet?”

you are at a loss of words, but you manage to nod desperately. The anticipation of what he is going to do to you makes you giddy. 

He manhandles your leash until you are on your knees in front of him, tugging on the chains so you look up towards his crotch. He makes quick work of his pants, pulling his cock out. Hard, angry hot red coloured. Angry because of you, angry for you. 

“Open wide, little one” and without much more warning, Alastor is fucking your face, hard and fast. 

You position your arms behind your back as quickly as you can.  You know how hard it is for him to be touched when his rut is peaking. The overwhelming need for relief mixing with his ever present desire for control. This is about him asserting his dominance over you, making sure you don’t ever forget where you belong: In the warmth of his burning gaze, under him, on your knees, while he merciless fucks your throat into compliance. He’s taking it out on you, and you fucking love it.

He’s not saying anything, only growling like he’s about to murder someone. He grabs fistfuls of your velvety hair, but never leaves the white knuckle grip on your chains. You can only resist the urge of playing with your pussy while he thrusts so deep you feel his monster cock. hitting the back of your throat. This is about him, and you want to give him this so badly your cunt is throbbing with desire

Tears wet your cheeks, your lips around his cock are the definition of renaissance art to Alastor. He’s almost over the edge now, the head of his cock twitches on top of your tongue as a warning of his approaching orgasm. It’s hard, it’s hot, it’s fast and it’s angry.

Alastor cums, you swallow as much as you can, but he takes his cock out and spills everywhere, coating your hair,  your face. It’s so deliciously erotic Alastor can’t resist catching some of his cum and running his hands throughout your velvet locks, bathing you in his essence, marking you once more. There’s still a bit of cum on the tip of his claw, he feeds it to you, and your lips wrap around his fingers as you take as much of him you can take, gladly. 

“Oh how beautiful you are when you ruin yourself like this for me, my little doe” You look up at him with adoration and a lustful gaze, his eyes hold an equally lustful gaze and… something more. Something that you are sure will drive you insane. 

Alastor notices the pooling mess underneath your tights, he knows how desperate you are for relief, but he still wants to self indulge on you. He’s certain you still don’t understand the reality of what he is feeling. Swiftly he topples you down the corridor’s carpet and places himself between your legs, his crawled finger tearing your lacy panties away. 

Then, he feasts on you like a starving man, and he might be, because you taste like the ambrosia of the gods and he can’t get enough of it. Of how you make a mess of yourself for him and there’s still something for him to take. You just taste so sweet, what a perfect meal your nectar makes. His wicked silver tongue polishes you, aided by your whispered sighs, his name moaned like a prayer on your lips. You are so so close, alastor sucks on your throbbing clit you are already seeing stars, all you need is a gentle push.

 Grinning like a devil, Alastor looks up, tilts his head, gives you the most wicked-and-douchey look in existence. He gets up, your leash dissipating into the air and walks away in perfect composure, like nothing happened. Nothing at all.

“Well, I think that’s my cue!!” he says in his usually chirpy tone. You just stay there, flabbergasted. “I just remembered I still have a lot to do today! Work never stops when you maintain a facility like this in tip-top condition!” Already halfway across the corridor, Alastor’s head turns towards you “Still want to make my day good my dear? Be a doll and clean this mess up, will you?” you just stare at him, too fucking stunned to speak. You can’t believe it. That fucking devil. He’s about to make the turn towards the elevator and disappear when his eyes flash red as he warns you “Oh! and don’t you dare make yourself cum without my permission. If you cum before I say so, you won’t be cumming for a week. Choose wisely!Let’s see who loses control first Ha Ha! This will be fun!”

 Alastor can be a psychopathic demon in heat, but before all that he still is a psychopathic demon who loves torture. 

And he just left you all hot and bothered. 

–

Alastor knew better than believing in such things as heaven or holiness. In fact, Alastor was positively sure nothing was sacred. The concept of sacredness was non-existent in his book.

But his skeptic mind danced on the edge of belief when he touched you. To be inside you felt heavenly, heavenly in a type of way that should not even be allowed in this place. The way your lush body burned underneath his wicked gaze was sacred.The way you always presented yourself to him, with selfless abandon was sacred. Somehow, someone allowed him, of all people, access to a soul he frankly didn’t understand what was doing in hell in the first place. He never was the better man. He was never giving that up.

In all of his nature, Alastor felt the most sinful pleasure in defiling your sacredness. He wanted nothing but to take the heavenly thing you were and taint it with his darkness. 

He was well acquainted to torture and had no shame in inflicting the most delicious and depraved type of it on you ,until all of your holiness was irrevocably marked by him, down to the core of your soul.  Of course Alastor didn’t buy your soul. He didn’t need to use those means to completely own you. He did it effortlessly, because you craved it. Because he craved it.

That’s why the thought of Vox even looking in your way was heretic, and not in a good way. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing you to Vox. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. Period. You were his.

 But adding that man into the equation just made everything more intolerable. The things he would do if he found out about you… Found out that not only you were his but how you could make someone feel. How precious and undeserving of anything less than good you were… 

You were made to be cherished and protected. Protected by him.

 In fact, it took all of the Radio Demon’s willpower to restrain from walking to the Vees building, and kill Vox for something he didn’t do. Because Alastor wouldn’t allow the thought to even cross his mind. All that, a messy display of his desperation and loss of control. Giving that prick the smug satisfaction of knowing somehow he got to him, in his last moments. 

Damn, his rut truly did make him on edge.

Suppressing his murderous thoughts, Alastor focused his mind into something he as actually good at: torture. Yours specifically. He still wanted to punish you for making him feel like this. He still wanted to make you understand.

And he just thought of the sweetest way to do it.

-

After cleaning up the mess on the corridor, and yourself (you did it all on autopilot, still trying to understand what the FUCK happened) you still had to give Angel a satisfaction about why you didn’t come back. You must’ve looked really miserable cause Angel just hugged you really tight and ordered you to bed. When in reality all of your efforts were now focused on masking your humiliating arousal. So you find yourself lying in your bed, trying not to think anything Radio Demon related. You’re totally not thinking about the way he looked at you while he fucked you. The way his eyes would search yours in a crowded room, winking playfully at you. An inside joke. A promise.The way you both playfully banter at the dinner table over silly things. You are also totally not thinking about how he takes you, how you love to hear him saying “good girl” to you after you push your limits again, only for him. Not thinking at all about how his cock fills you so perfectly, you truly feel empty without it. Who’s thinking about what hides behind his eyes when he his voice goes all soft in the middle of a rough fucking? Ha ha!! Definitely not you. 

You punch yourself with your pillow. 

C’mon don’t think thoughts of Alastor now…

You are so fucked, and not in a sexy way. The worst part is that you want to endure it, you want to be good for him. Your pussy is aching to be touched, your mind begging you to have thoughts of Alastor while your pussy is being touched. But right now you would give everything in this world to hear him praise you again. You know how hard his rut is on him… He already carries a lot alone, the Hotel, the doomsday clock of extermination ticking closer and closer everyday. Plus the other things… You know there’s something more, something that haunts his nights, but it’s not your place to ask. Hell, you are too scared to ask. You just hope, you just pray that when it happens you are beside him. You don’t ever expect the Radio Demon to ever ask for help, or open up. Or seek comfort. Oh, he’s anything but comfortable. But you like to think that in time, he would feel comfortable enough around you he could let something slip, a tiny detail to add to your “The Mystery of the Radio Demon” clue board. Something that would let you show him he doesn’t need to pick himself apart, carry all these burdens alone.

Great, you are doing amazing at the “not thinking any Alastor thoughts” game. 

You hug your pillow closer and look across you window as you start saying out loud a list of things you need to do around the Hotel. Maybe this will take your mind off the devil.

Tend to the Venus Fly traps of the gardens. (You could ask Nifty for the bugs)

Write the thank you letters to the new guests that agreed to help with hotel chores.

Tell charlie about your book club idea using cool flashcards 

It’s your turn to organize “Theme nights”, maybe Alastor would enjoy a “great gatsby” theme, right?

Great, Alastor again. You sighed. 

Suddenly a red note written with perfect penmanship flies next to your spot on the bed.

“My darling doe, I’m waiting for you in my chambers.

Don’t take your time, we have much to discuss.-

Yours, Alastor.

You take your time, though, to thank anyone who’s listening as you sprint towards Alastor’s lavish room. You feel dizzy, anticipation like butterflies in your stomach. You don’t have to knock more than once for him to let you in. 

He’s on the edge of the bed, looking like his normal self (as normal as it gets for Alastor)

The taps the spot next to him on the the bed

“Come here, you darling thing!”

you don’t waste a second, and as quickly as you are sitting on his bed, you are sitting on lap. Holding you close, in a vice like grip with one of his arms, Alastor starts talking 

“How was the rest of your day, my dear?” you open your mouth to start talking, you have so much to say to him. That you were a good girl, that you were ready to do anything to make up for laughing at Angel’s stupid idea of seducing Vox. You are ready to beg for your release. to ask how his day was. But you don’t get to utter a word. 

Alastor quickly and swiftly maneuvers you: now your feet are dangling from the bed, your ass and  legs sprawled out across his lap. A powerful arm locking you to him by the small of your back.

Holy fuck.

“Well my day was downright awful! You see I overheard my pretty pet laughing at the prospect of seducing one of my most infuriating enemies. I’m in the peak of my unforgiving rut ,and all I wanted was the shared pleasure of our bodies as I fuck the darling thing senseless!” he pinches the back of your thigh, hard. You blur out a soft, desperate sigh. 

“Of course, the good girl she is, she went begging for my forgiveness. I didn’t fully give it, of course. That was a harsh offense, what my little doe did. But I did have my fill with her” You try to spea-

Alastor audibly shushes you.

“I did leave her all hot and bothered after spilling my cum all over her maddening little body, of course. I contenplated murdering the bastard demon so he wouldn’t get a chance of even knowing about her existence and what she does to me. But I still suffered with the hellish need of fucking her into oblivion, and pondered a lot about divine justice. So, if I had to suffer this entire day because of her offenses I think it’s only right for that darling doe to get her fill of suffering and punishment hmmmm?

 You try to look back to his face, but you feel the familiar sensation of magic wrapping around your throat. The leash, you are so so fucked. You couldn’t be happier about it.

He tugs at the chain, so your skirt rides up and your ass is totally bare for him and your head is buried in one of his fluffy pillows. With a snap of his fingers your panties disintegrate.

You shiver at the thought of what’s happening next, a delicious sensation that flows across your back and ends up inside your cunt, beginning to turn into a wet mess. He’s gonna spank you like the bad girl you were. He’s not going to be gentle about it either. You can’t wait. It’s gonna hurt, it’s gonna sting, it will leave you bruised. It will be deliciously wicked, like all of Alastor’s punishments. 

You feel another surge of magic, behind the powerful green glow something materializes.

Your horsegirl days back on earth don’t let you down. You recognise it instantly. On his previous free hand he’s holding a riding crop. A big, leather pointed riding crop. 

He’s going to literally whip you into submission. You squirm inside his arm. You can’t fucking wait. You’ve made yourself come a few times after the thought of being literally tamed, broke by alastor. 

You whimper. Alastor’s laugh fills the room.

“So this is how this is going to go, pet. I’m going to whip you lovely ass like the ungrateful slut you are and you are going to thank me for it after every crack of the whip. I’m gonna do this as many times as I see fit. Until your ass is as red as my hair. Until you understand what you did. By the time I’m done you will be begging to be punished more. Are we clear?

You can’t look back at him, but you can feel how his red irises make your skin burn. You like to imagine that his eyes did the thing where they soften for a heartbeat, if you blink you miss it. Waiting for your permission, even now. You are able to muffle a “yes, oh please Alastor, yes”. 

“Lovely.” 

crack.

He didn’t even gave you time to process. The whip lands hard on the back of your left thigh. You let out a scream.

“Well?” he asks impatiently as he waits for your “thank you”. Seeing the way the spot where the whip landed turn a lovely shade of scarlet isn’t helping him hold his resolve either.

You wanna do this right, you need this as much as he needs it.

“thank-”

crack. the whip lands on your right thigh, a little lower.

“tha-” 

crack.crack.

 He whips you even harder, cutting the wind as it lands twice on your left buttcheek. Only four cracks down and you are a whimpering mess. You wiggle instinctively on his lap, seeking some friction, some relief. It hurts so bad, but it feels so good. You don’t know if you can take more. You want it anyway. “thank you, thank you” you whimper. Tears wet your face, arousal wets your core adding to the mess from before he even started.

crack. crack.

 He mirrors his movements to your right buttcheek. “thank yo- Holy fuck Alastor”

one more hit, now hitting both of your buttcheks. 

“I’ve told you many times before pet, there’s nothing holy about what I do to you. I’m gonna break you and then breed you. I won’t give you a moment of respite. And maybe by the end, when your legs are shaking from holding that orgasm you have been desperately chasing since this afternoon, I will be merciful and let you find your release. And we will know who’s really losing control here”

How can he do this to you with only his voice? You are not sure you’ve ever been so aroused in your entire life. You’re so wet, you’re staining Alastor’s pants. As close as you will get to marking him.

There’s a draft coming from the forest of his room, it softly kisses your abused skin, making it sting. You want to see the state of your lower body so badly. The way you’re submitting to him right now, the most sweet form degradation possible. Your eyes are clouded with tears, that line between pain and pleasure being blurred in ways only someone like the Radio Demon could cross. He tugs on your leash, to attract your attention from the sinful, unholy sensations you are feeling so openly, back to him.

Alastor drags the leather point of the whip across your throbbing cunt, collecting the obscene amount of wetness there. “By the 7 rings of hell, what do you have here? Are you such a slut that you are creaming at being whipped into compliance? I could do this all night long. Your ass is already red with regret for your actions but I’m not sure you learned your lesson yet.”

crack. The whip this time lands on your juicy cunt. Your hips trash with the sensation, your demon lover’s name escaping your lips like a prayer.You forget to thank him this time, despite your best efforts. 

“Are you so big of an ungrateful brat that you want this sinful punishment to continue? Not even bothering to thank me, in hopes it will end sooner. You know what you are. Nothing but a hungry greedy whore for the Radio Demon” 

crack, crack. One hit on each cheek. “But I already knew that” and with that mocking tone Alastor lands a  masterful final hit on both of your cheeks. He does have a way of proving his point.

You are fucking sobbing now. Tears coat your cheeks, now a colour so vibrant as the rich scarlet the covers your ass. Alastor knows everything that makes you tick. He knows how close you are to cumming. Cumming for only his masterfully inflicted punishment and his voice. Incoherent whimpers leave your lips “please please please” and soft “ohh and aaah, alastor”

He tugs on your leash again, he knows your body like the palm of his hand, and that you are probably entering the mind numbing phase of the pain and the pleasure. But he still wants your undivided attention. He has whipped you into submission, he still needs to fuck you into submission. 

“And you even made the mess of yourself stain my pants! My god, you are pathetic. Delightfully pathetic” 

Alastor gently runs his clawed hands across your ass, the sharp edges making you hiss. He looks in adoration at the masterpiece he inflicted on you. Your ass and thighs a shade of scarlet to rival his hair, the wetness between your thighs a heavenly invitation. Beautiful. Sinful.  Sacred. He will never forget this, and he will make sure that you never forget it too.

“Now, now, we are done with this my little doe” his voice goes extra soft because you can’t see him with your face buried in a soft pillow. “you were so good for me, you always are” 

The softness and sweetness of his praise makes you sob even harder. It’s maddening. 

He gently maneuvers you further into the bed, making space for himself. 

“But now I’m painfully hard, and I still need to bury myself inside that tight throbbing cunt of yours, so deep it will mark. your. soul.” static picks up around you, a delicious omen of what is about to happen. 

Alastor positions himself behind you, immediately entering you and bottoming out. 

His first thrusts are sharp and deep, as to make his promise of marking yourself from the inside real. He pulls your chains so your scarlet ass is presenting itself to him like the most sinful gift. 

Alastor picks up that breakneck pace of fucking, common to him, specially during his rut. He fucks you like he hates you. As hard as he possibly can, to make you know that you are his and his only. That even thinking of someone else, even as a joke, will not be tolerated. You wanted all of him didn’t you? You’ve made that clear, with words, with actions, with the things your body endures for him. So he makes sure to give you that. 

Moans drip from your lips in a crescendo, you are screaming now, you don’t know how long you will last. It feels so good. That delayed gratification drowning you in maddening pleasure. 

“Who do you think is losing control here?” he asks after a painfully sharp thrust. “Me, or the mess of a slut underneath me? That is screaming my name loud enough for the entire pride ring to know how she loves being fucked like a common whore for the Radio Demon,hmm?” 

One hand pulls your leash upwards, the other your hips. He’s even deeper now, you can feel him in your core.

You don’t reply to the question even though you want to, even though you know the answer. 

“Again, since you like being bred like that so much you are not hearing me” he takes all of his cock out and enters you at once. “Who’s losing control here? Me, or my little plaything with the scarlet ass from being whipped into compliance like the pretty little brat she is?” 

You don’t forget to answer him now, you need to cum, desperately. You withheld your building orgasm  for an entire day, you wanted to be good for Alastor. You wanted to be able to take everything he gives you. The pleasure, the pain, the sinful, delicious depraved torture. “Me, I am!” you scream out. 

Alastor’s pace is becoming erratic, you feel the shadows of his growing antlers cover you.

“Again” he tugs at your collars. Another sharp, deep thrust. 

“Me, i’m losing control” 

“And what are you?” his voice is filled with static now, he’s close too.

“Yours! I’m yours Alastor, yours to fuck, to break, to punish” you cry out in sweet pain and pleasure. 

Another tug, Another painfully sharp thrust 

“I’m only yours Alastor” you finish. 

“Good. girl.” he spaces the words out between thrusts, knowing how you relish in them. 

“You can come now” 

Your orgasm comes crashing down. You grip the sheets like a maniac, your legs shaking so hard Alastor needs to hold them in place. You scream so loud you are sure they can hear you in heaven. You hope they can, so they know. So they know this man owns you. So they know you love him. 

Alastor is not far behind, your cunt tightening around him like a vice. He fucks you specially hard and deep know, delayed gratification hitting all at once. He cums so hard inside you, he’s sure he finally marked your soul. The feeling of his cock twitching and spilling inside you, adding to the indescriptible sensation. You are completely over the edge now, you feel weightless, free falling. 

You know Alastor will catch you.

“Ah! There she is” you open your eyes and feel a soft kiss on your cheek. You are lying on top of Alastor’s chest, he cuddles you gently, making lazy circles on your hipbone but still buried to the hilt inside you. He still plans to give you all of his cum, all he has during his rut,after all. 

“woah, that was… amazing” you say after a while.

“Well, I did whip and fuck you to the brink of insanity my dear. And you came so beautifully for me, you passed out. You’re such a sight pet. I will never forget it.” you blush at his words. You feel so happy. 

Alastor kisses your cheek again, and with a final thrust he leaves you with a obscenely wet noise. You are dripping with his cum, it’s running down your thighs, staining the sheets. 

You whimper in complaint. 

“Ah ,don’t be like that” he laughs, is a genuinely happy laugh. “There’s still plenty of where that came from, but I need my darling doe to rest first” he says. He’s lying you gently on the bed as he gets up. “Don’t leave” you whisper. 

He’s out of the bed anyways, and seems to be on his way to do something. You don’t care, you want him back here, holding you. You don't want him to ever let you go.

“Al, i’m truly sorry about today. You know that, right?” You know that I love you, right?  You want to say, but you are scared that confession is a little much for today. You see where he’s headed now. He opens the bathroom door.

“Don’t even think about it, my dear. It’s all water under the bridge” he says in his usual chirpy tone, louder than the noise of the bath running. “Now you just need to promise me that you will never even let the thought of that pathetic demon cross your mind, my love”

my love.

“And if he ever does, you will let me know. So I can fuck those wretched ideas out of your mind” Alastor is walking back to the bed now. He picks you up bridal style and carries you across the room. You can’t help the hiss that escape your lips as your irritated skin touches him. “I know, I know my dear. We will fix that right up. I can’t have my favourite doe hurting. We still have a long way to go until the end of my rut, dearest” you don’t reply, you are just happy. perfectly happy. You could hear Alastor’s voice for days without complaining. “But you did look so perfect with that scarlet ass on my lap. Crying from how much you love what I do to you. I hope you never forget that” 

You both reach the bathtub, he drops you with all the care in the world inside the water.

“I’m so proud of you. I truly am” the water is warm. The soap smells so nice. He lit candles too. You give in to the soothing sensations. You might have tuned out for a bit, cause you hear alastor calling your name so softly… He says it again, slow, soft, gentle, pleading. As to catch your attention, he has something important to say. “You know how precious you are to me, don’t you my little doe?” “yes” you respond, trying to fight the tears that begin to spill down your face ‘

“Oh my darling girl, why are you crying? There’s nothing to cry about. You are here, safe with me. As you will always be, as is your place.”

“Alastor I-I-” your heart swells, you want to say something. You want to say everything you are feeling. How consuming, in the best way possible, your feelings are for him.

But Alastor is always 10 steps ahead. 

“I know, I know darling” he kisses your hand “I feel it too.” he says. It feels like a confession, it sounds like a confession. The look on his eyes is the one of that mystery that hides there every time his voice in the midst of your passion. 

When you,know you know. your mind reiterates. 

“Let me help you dry those tears. Save them for another day” He holds your face and kiss your lips. “The only thing you need to worry about right now is resting and recovering that luscious body of yours, as well as your brilliant, witty mind”

He hands you a sparkly fancy pink soap, and gets up to find the softest sponge he has stored. 

“Now, I hope you like the smell of these candles, cause I’m not letting you out of my sight for at least the next four days!” 

Alastor continues to chat away sweet nothings as he helps you bathe. Maybe it will take a while for the Radio Demon to say those 4 words out loud. He has enough reason for that, inside that beautiful, complicated mind of his. His actions always speak louder than words, your relationship was proof of that. 

Until then, you will always have sacred moments in crowded rooms, you will always have jokes that only the both of you understand. He will always keep sweeping you off your feet in the most deliciously wicked ways possible. 

Right now, you have him by your side after everything that happened, you have his heart too. You are sure of that. So you don’t mind waiting for him.

Good things come for those who wait.

[rogueddie]

Steve Harrington is six years old when he first speaks to Eddie Munson.

Steve vaguely recognized him from school, sure that he was in the year above Steve, but he thought that Eddie hadn't looked as lonely in school as he had in the public library that day.

So, determined to make a friend, he decided to go over and talk to him.

He only hesitated because Eddie looked immersed in his book- that is, until some other kids went over and bothered him. They don't do much, only seem to jeer and knock his book down as they passed by, but Eddie looked upset.

Steve got up as soon as the boys left through the doors. Eddie was clearly just trying to enjoy his book- and a big book too, Steve had thought that it must be interesting for him to be so far into it.

"Hi," Steve greets. He gave a little wave and his cutest smile- even his mom thought it was cute and she was so busy in those days that she never noticed those smaller things. "What are you- you, um, reading?"

He stared at Steve blankly for a moment, seeming confused. "Lord of the rings. Why?"

"Thought it must be… interesting. It looks so long and you've, just… you've read so much!"

"Oh. Yeah, it's pretty fun. You read a lot of fantasy?"

Steve shifted, glancing away for a moment. Uncomfortable. "I don't really… read a lot. The words get a little, uh, confusing."

"The Hobbit is a little shorter? And it's part of the same world as Lord of The Rings. There's three of these ones."

"What are they about?"

Eddie lit up. He kept the explination short, not wanting to ruin the book. He paused a lot, tongue sticking out as he tried hard to think, constantly noting that 'it will make more sense when you read it' or 'but then a thing happens, but I can't tell you because it will spoil it'.

"And the- the trees talking is, like, normal in this world?"

"Yeah! It's all great!"

Steve didn't quite understand, but he loved how Eddie made it sound.

"You still think you'll read it?"

"Maybe when I'm a- a bit older. I don't think I'll really, uh, get it? It sounds real neat though."

"Do you think it might help if I read it out to you?" Eddie's smile dropped a little when Steve hesitated. He leant close, lowering his voice. "I had to have my uncle read it out the first time."

"Really?"

"Yeah. A lot of words I don't know and because he was reading them out, I could just ask him if I didn't get it. Plus, I kinda still like being read to. It's like having a personal narrator."

"Oh. And... that's ok?

"Yeah. Why wouldn't it be? Uncle Wayne says it is so it must be."

"Is your uncle really smart?"

"Super smart. He knows a lot."

"Ok."

"Ok?" Eddie perked up. "You want me to read to you? Because I've been practicing doing voices and it is really fun."

Eddie flipped the book back to the start.

"I'll only read a little. Don't wanna give anything away."

Steve was fascinated. Despite how much some of the voices wavered, Steve adored them. He had to bite the inside of his cheeks at times to keep from making noise, or commenting. He hadn't wanted to interrupt Eddies flow.

It took him a while to realize that he'd stopped checking the time and, by the time he did, it was almost too late.

"Oh, damn," Steve jumped up, wincing at how it made Eddie flinch. "Sorry! I have to go, my dad- I'm sorry."

"No worries," Eddie shrugged. "Will you be here next week?"

"Yeah, should be."

"I'll wait for you here, same time."

"Gocha!"

Steve scurried out, running out the door. He ignored the yelling for him to slow down, panting by the time he jumped into the back of his dads car.

"Sorry I'm late."

His dad hummed, raising an eyebrow at him in the rear view mirror. "Good day? Make any new friends?"

"Yeah! I met Eddie and he's really nice and cool. He read me some of this big book and he wants to meet me again, next week!"

Steve hadn't noticed the way his dad winced when he went on to describe Eddie. He was too busy thinking about the next week and how excited he was to spend another afternoon with his new friend.

But, the next week, his dad dropped him off with a babysitting. He made sure to tell her that Steve was to be kept away from the public library.

[strawberry-daiquiris]

wet and messy and/or intercrural for nortrell if it pleases u 🙏🏻😊 (kink prompts)

ty anon, this one was a fun one to kick off with!!!

warnings for some kind of gender thoughts that max hasn't totally worked out in his own head in this one!!!

for the kink generator ask game

****

“You’re not doing me up the arse again,” Max warns, when Lando’s hands start to wander the night he gets to Monaco. “So don’t get any funny ideas.”

Lando groans, and not the good kind, against his neck.

“But why?”

He hadn’t hated it, exactly. It’d just been a bit weird, arsehole out on the bed, feeling cold and then too warm, and then cold again. Max’d felt it for days, sitting weirdly in his sim rig and wondering if that was just his life now, if he’d had his insides altered permanently by Lando and his massive fuck off horse cock. It made him angry, that his body wasn’t made for it, not the way he’d like it to be.

“‘Cos,” Max argues, unconvincingly, but a little flick of his fingernail under Lando’s foreskin and he’s rendered the idiot unable to fight back. Typical. “It’s late Bob, I can’t be arsed with the fingering. I’ll give you a blowie instead, alright?”

Lando sighs, flopping back against the pillows. He lifts his hips up expectantly, and Max rolls his eyes at the same time as he fits his palm around his dick, stroking him slowly as they continue the negotiation. Lando’s got it in his head that once he’s started, he needs to be touched at all times, else it’ll go floppy.

When he told him, Max had to ask if that had actually really happened ever, and Lando went eight different shades of the pink-purple spectrum in ten seconds and blurted out the word once before he buried his face in the mattress and told Max to fuck off, he didn’t want to have sex anyway.

Max hasn’t asked again after that. 

“Rub off between your thighs?” Lando counters, to Max’s very nice offer to suck his dick. “S’more like a hole.”

“What, than my actual mouth hole?” 

Lando rolls his eyes and lands his hand on Max’s thigh, stroking through the downy hairs. Despite his protestations, Max can feel himself get going, his dick starting to twitch to life properly.

“Oh fine,” he relents, rolling onto his back and bringing his legs up a bit, his dick flapping against his stomach. “Whatever makes you fucking happy.”

Lando’s messy with the lube, pumping it vigorously onto himself and the backs of Max’s thighs, working his huge paw through the gap Max has left for him to fuck himself happy on. If he’s honest, Max could probably fall asleep like this, head resting on Lando’s expensive feather pillows, if it weren’t for the way Lando has to narrate everything.

“So fit, Max. D’you know it’s fucking sick you let me do this? I love your legs, and your moles, and so on.”

Max snorts, shifting a bit when Lando slides his dick in for the first time. There’s lube dripping down the backs of his thighs, coating his arse, like it’s dripping out of him. He tries to control himself, the urge to touch where Lando is pressed.

“Mm, yeah, potential skin cancer, talk about attractive,” he jokes, trying to distract himself.

Lando leans down and fits his mouth over Max’s knee, dragging his teeth along the graze he’s still healing from an unfortunate incident filming for Quadrant over in Sweden.

They’re not allowed to talk about it. Death, or danger, or any of that sort of stuff. Morbid humour is strictly for within the four walls of Tarkov, and the dark, gloomy series Lando likes them to watch on Netflix.

Max relents, reaching a hand between his legs to alter Lando’s angle so every thrust hits against the underside of his dick, brushes his balls. It feels good like that, like the warm and spongy parts are doing what they should.

“Like that, alright?”

Lando smiles, kissing over where he’s been biting, holding on for dear life as he starts to thrust properly.

“Does it feel good?”

Max sighs, closes his eyes. It always makes him feel a bit funny, how much Lando wants it to be good for both of them. It’d almost be easier if he didn’t care, wasn’t watching Max to make sure he’s satisfying him, wasn’t hell bent on making him his fucking wife, on top of the sex and the banter and the good chat.

He reaches out and takes Lando’s hand, threading their fingers together over his knee.

“Yeah, mate. It does.”

He jerks himself lazily, knuckles knocking against the head of Lando’s dick as it pokes obscenely through his thighs. Max thinks it looks a bit stupid. Would be hot with a girl, all smooth skin and cunt out, but his thighs just look messy, hair plastered down and sticky with it.

It only gets worse when he comes, striping his stomach, getting it in the smattering of hair on his chest. Lando’s reaction is immediate, reaching over to scrape his hand through the puddle, smearing it down Max until he can coat his dick in it, adding to the mess between his legs.

“Bob, for fuck’s sake,” Max is less forgiving now he’s come, and the fun’s over entirely. “It’s like a bog down there now.”

“S’good,” Lando says, voice dreamy, biting his lip into his mouth in a way that makes Max’s traitorous arsehole clench, fuck’s sake. “You’re so wet.”

“What,” Max laughs, nervous. “Like a girl?”

Lando nods furiously, as Max squeezes a bit tighter, using all the strength in his legs to make the hole as tight as possible. 

It’s enough for Lando to come, striping Max’s chest, his neck, his face.

“Yeah, bit like a girl, fuck.” Lando slumps forward. “That was so hot.”

Max closes his eyes, squeezing at the stranglehold of Lando’s fingers on his knee, and swallows it all down, deep, where he doesn’t touch.

“Next time,” he says quietly. “You can do it up the arse.”