#cause god forbid anyone but me do it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ssa-dado · 14 days ago

Text

21 - Physics

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

masterlist

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

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

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

---

Sometimes, there’s just too much to do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then there was the apartment.

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

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

“We can chip in,” JJ had said.

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

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

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

Aaron didn’t push, though.

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

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

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

Because he stayed late, too.

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

Back then, you stayed late out of pride.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Efficient? Well, now it was war.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, though, things were different.

The late nights weren’t about pride anymore.

They were about survival.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence that followed was deafening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” you said, smirking slightly.

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

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

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

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

His expression shifted instantly.

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t even hesitate.

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

“Garcia got shot,” he said.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so, all you could do was wait.

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

Seven FBI agents in a room.

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

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

But eventually, you all stilled.

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

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

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

And then there was you.

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

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

He couldn’t, that thing he knew.

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

And him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your touch.

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

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

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

A simple acknowledgment, because you knew.

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

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

Together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hotch stepped forward immediately. “Yes.”

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

Aaron felt his breath hitch.

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

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

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

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

He couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

You spoke to him less on the job.

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

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

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

You were more careful now, more reserved.

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

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

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

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

Your language had shifted, too.

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

Practical. Logical... ironic, really.

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

Indispensable to work.

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

The confrontation was what made it work.

Necessary. Vital.

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

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

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

You’d stopped calling him “Partner”.

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

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

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

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

But he missed the ambiguity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It felt more… familiar, though with what exactly?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it happened.

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

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

Ordinary. Mundane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thankfully, Aaron was used to that by now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snorted, clapping a hand over your mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s dead,” Aaron replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too raw. Too close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, it was Mrs. Lee.

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

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

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

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

Naturally, she adored him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lawyer. Ha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaron froze. No, no, no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaron froze, screwdriver slipping slightly in his hand.

What?

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

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

Oh, so she’s serious…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Practical. Strategic. Manageable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charles was right, she really was impossible.

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

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

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

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

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

That feeling. That lightness.

When was the last time he’d felt that?

---

1998.

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

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

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

Really? A miniskirt? This was what undid him?

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

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

Perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantastic. Death by roses. How poetic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Limbs accounted for, Agent, move on.

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

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

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

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

Friday. Your day off.

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

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

What were you doing to him?

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

Why would you?

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

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

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

Because what was the alternative?

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

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

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

Or…this. You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who even talked like that?

And, God, why was that so damn attractive?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He could easily argue back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jealous? No… yes, kind of.

Bewildered? Yes.

Smitten? Absolutely.

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

He let you have this one.

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

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

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

You were, in a word, adorable.

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

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

And somehow, Aaron found himself hanging on every word.

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

Adorable. Absolutely maddening. But utterly, ridiculously adorable.

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

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

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

Oh, how you talked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no.

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

Your hands were on his.

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

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

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

You had no idea, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perfectionist. Adorable perfectionist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was it. He lost it.

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

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

But it wasn’t, not with you.

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

And so he did.

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

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

But then the world shifted.

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

This wasn’t 1998 anymore.

Now, the long table was crowded.

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

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

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

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

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

It was amazing, really.

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

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

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

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

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

And then there was Spencer.

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

And you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

...thrilling for you, anyway.

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

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

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

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

JJ shot her a look. “Pass.”

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

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

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

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

It was in the rules.

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

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

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

He just wasn’t for you.

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

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

And what about him?

Aaron felt like he was drowning.

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

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

He just listened.

He wished he could do more than that. He wished people could see that he cared, that he was invested in what they were saying, even if his quiet nods and glances didn’t scream it like everyone else’s chatter did.

Because that was the thing about Aaron: listening came naturally to him. Reacting? That was harder.

He watched as Penelope exclaimed, “No way!” her hands flying up dramatically, her voice a beacon of enthusiasm. JJ chimed in with a soft “Really?” that pulled everyone into her orbit for just a second. Derek countered with a smug remark that had Emily rolling her eyes, but even she couldn’t suppress a grin.

And Aaron? Aaron just sat there, absorbing it all while his voice disappeared.

An hour could slip by without him saying a word, until someone finally remembered he was even there.

And that was the irony of it all: he was probably the most physically imposing person at the table, but his silence erased him. The conversation moved forward, leaving him stranded somewhere back in the past topic, unheard and unnoticed.

Most of the time, he didn’t mind. He didn’t need to be the center of attention, didn’t crave the spotlight - not here, not after a long day of being the Unit Chief.

But when he did notice? It hit him like a freight train.

Suddenly, he became hyper-aware of everything. The way his arms rested awkwardly on the table. The position of his hands. The stiffness of his posture. The sheer weight of his silence.

He felt out of place. Like a ghost at his own table.

Aaron shifted in his seat, stimming with his fingers - a small movement, but one that betrayed his discomfort. He glanced at the others, wondering if anyone had noticed, if anyone might throw him a lifeline.

But the table buzzed on, oblivious.

It started to sting when Aaron realized no one had asked him a question in the last 45 minutes.

He sat there, at the table with his team, feeling like a ghost at his own gathering. The laughter and voices surrounded him, a cacophony of sound that made it impossible to pinpoint one conversation from the next. He could barely hear himself think, and yet, inside his own head was where he remained, trapped, desperately wanting to be part of the moment but unsure how to step back into the light.

There’s a theory that says you don’t exist unless someone calls and you respond.

So there was light.

A warm touch of a hand on his left shoulder.

Aaron froze.

And then, it happened. Finally, a question. At him.

“So, are you going to New York tomorrow?” you asked, your hand still resting on his shoulder.

He hesitated for a second, as if needing to confirm that you were actually speaking to him. But the look in your eyes, the way they searched his, and the slight tilt of your head in his direction were more than enough to prove that you were.

It was strange. He wasn’t really used to being addressed like this in group settings - directly, personally. When people spoke to him, it was always about work, requests to stretch the days off into a long weekend, or about Jack, asking if he’d seen him recently.

No, he hadn’t. Not really.

He’d seen Jack about a month ago for barely a minute. He’d been asleep. Aaron had only gone to Jessica’s house because he’d needed to, after the worst case he’d handled all year.

Even now, guilt lingered for intruding like that, for being selfish enough to need that quiet moment, and it only deepened when questions like those came up, pulling him back to what he hadn’t done, to who he hadn’t been.

And yet, no one ever asked him about that. About him.

The questions were always for Hotch the Unit Chief or Aaron the dad. They were never about just Aaron.

“I-I don’t know yet,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. He half-expected you to nod politely and return to your conversation with Spencer. But you didn’t... why?

“What play were you planning to see?” you asked, your voice soft but curious, as though the answer genuinely mattered to you.

He paused, caught off guard by the question. He wasn’t sure why you even bothered. You knew next to nothing about musical theatre - less than he knew about philosophy, and that was saying something.

Because, if he were honest, he probably knew more about musical theatre than you did about philosophy. And you had a PhD in philosophy. Every paper you’d ever published had some philosophical angle, every argument you made seemed rooted in it. Hell, your mind practically breathed in philosophy. But musical theatre? That was his realm.

He wasn’t just an occasional fan - he was a theatre nerd, borderline obsessive. The kind of person who read scripts for fun, hummed overtures from shows no one else remembered, and had opinions on whether revivals ever truly lived up to the originals.

So why did this simple question throw him? Why did it feel like there was a weight behind it he couldn’t quite place? Maybe because you didn’t know that about him - not yet, at least.

Sure, you knew he loved musical theatre - which, honestly, was already an achievement. He rarely felt safe enough to share that detail with anyone. You knew he made it a point to see a Broadway play every time he was in New York.

But the rest? The details? Those he never shared. Not with you, not with anyone.

You didn’t know how often he went back to see the same shows, over and over again, as if they were old friends waiting to welcome him home.

Or how much he cherished the intimacy of tiny off-Broadway productions - the kind performed in spaces that barely qualified as theatres, where the air buzzed with raw, electric talent.

And he wasn’t sure how to tell you all of that without sounding like… well, like him.

Aaron Hotchner: Unit Chief. Father. Theatre Nerd.

“I haven’t really decided yet,” Aaron began, the words tumbling out faster than he intended. “But I’ve been thinking about catching this play. The original cast is coming back for a limited run this month to celebrate the anniversary… it’s kind of a big thing.”

What the fuck had he just said?

He sounded like one of those pretentious purists who thought only the original cast could do a show justice - the kind of person who wrote overly passionate forum posts about “artistic integrity.”

The same kind of person, ironically, he’d wasted too many hours of his life arguing with in comment sections, armed with nothing but a sense of logic, proper grammar, and the faint hope that maybe he could introduce them to the concept of reasonable thought.

And now? He sounded exactly like them. Great. Just great.

He needed to fix it. Immediately. Before he dug the hole any deeper.

“It’s not that I don’t like the current cast ,” he added quickly, as if that would save him. “Far from it. They’re incredible. I saw them last year, and they were just as powerful as I remembered. But…”

Oh, great. There was the but.

“The first time I saw it…” He trailed off for a second, feeling a pull he couldn’t quite articulate. “It was on opening night, back when it was still off-Broadway. No one really knew about it yet. It felt… raw, I guess. Intimate in a way that stayed with me.”

Intimate. Really, Hotchner?

He immediately winced internally. Now he sounded like a creep. Fantastic.

That was probably why you were smiling at him like that, with those soft eyes and that too-kind expression. Compassion. Pity.

That had to be it. You were humoring him.

Perfect. Just perfect. Can he do at least one thing right in his life? Just one? Apparently not.

The words started coming faster, his attempt to salvage whatever dignity he had left. “I mean, it’s the themes,” his hands twitched as if to emphasize the points, but he forced them to stay still. “They’re… timeless, but also distinctly modern. Community. Survival. Resilience. Love in its purest and messiest forms.”

Now he was waxing poetic. Could he even hear himself?

“People finding each other and holding on, even when everything around them is falling apart,” he continued, fully aware he’d gone too far but somehow unable to stop. “It’s hard to explain, but there’s something about it - the music, the storytelling. It’s honest, but it’s hopeful. It doesn’t shy away from how ugly life can be, but it still manages to show there’s beauty in the fight.”

He finally stopped, feeling his face grow warmer by the second. He might as well have just stood up and shouted, “Hi, I’m Aaron Hotchner, I’m 42 and I’m currently experiencing a complete emotional breakdown over a musical. Please be kind.”

What was he even doing? Did he think this would impress you? No, worse - for once he didn’t think at all. That was the problem.

“I don’t know,” he added quickly, trying to reel himself back in. “I’m probably just being sentimental.”

Beautiful, Hotchner. Very subtle. He was officially done talking. Forever, if possible.

You still smiled, leaning in slightly, and Aaron braced himself for the inevitable teasing, the polite that’s nice before you turned the conversation elsewhere. But instead, you tilted your head and said softly, “That doesn’t sound sentimental to me.”

He blinked, caught completely off guard. That wasn’t what he was expecting. Not even close.

“It sounds… personal,” you continued, your voice steady and calm. “Like it left a mark on you. I think that’s kind of incredible, actually.”

Aaron stared at you for a second, his mind scrambling - you weren’t laughing at him. You weren’t humoring him. You were listening.

“I-” he started, but the words caught in his throat.

You tilted your head, your smile growing just slightly, like you could see how much he was struggling to process this. “Really, I mean it. The way you’re describing it… honestly, it sounds beautiful. You connect with it. That’s the whole point of art, isn’t it? To find meaning in it, to feel heard.”

Beautiful.

Now you were waxing poetic. But somehow, hearing it from you didn’t make him wince the way his own words did.

He huffed a small, almost nervous laugh, more to himself than to you. It was infuriating how easily you could do that, just be this way. “I guess it is”

“Of course it is.” You teased lightly, sitting back in your seat but keeping your eyes on him. “Now, are you finally going to tell me the name of this life-changing musical, or is it some kind of classified information?”

“It doesn’t really matter,” he muttered, already trying to move past it. “You probably wouldn’t know it.” He caught himself. “It’s not important.”

You tilted your head, your smile unwavering, clearly not letting him off the hook. “It sounds important to you,” you said softly, leaning forward just a little. “And if it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

He huffed a small breath, glancing down at his hands. He couldn’t tell if your persistence was infuriating or disarming - or maybe it was both.

“It’s called Rent,” he finally said, the word slipping out before he could stop himself.

“I know it,” you responded without hesitation, and he was so surprised that he couldn’t help but chime in again.

“You do?” he asked, the surprise clear in his voice - not because Rent was niche, far from it. It was one of the most iconic musicals ever.

But coming from you? This felt like a monumental achievement, especially considering that the last time you two talked about musicals, you’d admitted to not knowing The Sound of Music was anything more than a movie. At this point, he’d learned to expect anything from you.

“Yes,” you said with a small smile. “It’s actually the only live show I’ve ever seen. My mom practically dragged me to it ages ago… it was the day I finished my PhD in linguistics.”

Aaron didn’t know where to begin. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He did.

He knew you’d lived in New York while working on your PhD at Columbia, just a stone’s throw away from the very theatres he’d spent hours traveling to whenever he could manage a free weekend.

And yet, in all that time, you’d seen exactly one show. One.

It was baffling. Almost impressive, really - your sheer commitment to avoiding the arts.

Was it a conscious effort? A statement? Honestly, he wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or begrudgingly admire the consistency.

“I don’t remember much of the songs, sorry” you admitted, your tone softer now. “I do remember, ironically, when we came in, they said the creator had passed the day before from a heart attack. I really could feel the emotion in the room. It was amazing - one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

It couldn’t be.

“January 26th, 1996,” he said, the words spilling out before he could stop himself.

You paused, your brows knitting together as you thought. “Oh, wow,” you murmured after a moment. “Yes, that’s right. How could you possibly know that?”

He felt his cheeks flush even as the words formed on his tongue. “That was opening night,” he said softly, almost hesitantly. “I was there too.”

You stared at each other, eyes locked. Silence.

He couldn’t quite put into words what it was that made the realization feel so… heavy.

Maybe it was the sheer improbability of it. How, out of all the places in the world, your paths had crossed that night in a tiny theatre in New York.

Because in 1996, you didn’t know each other. You were strangers in the truest sense of the word - two lives moving parallel, unaware of the other’s existence.

Of course, you wouldn’t remember seeing each other. How could you? The thought was absurd, and yet, the thought of it - of you there, somewhere in that 199-seat theatre, maybe half full - flustered him.

Had your eyes met in the foyer, just for a fleeting moment, the way they were meeting his now?

Had you brushed past him, two strangers moving toward seats that would bring you close but never quite close enough?

The thought sent him spiraling, not because it felt impossible, but because it didn’t. It felt inevitable.

Maddening and beautiful all at once, the kind of paradox that left him breathless.

There was a sweet, aching ignorance in the idea.

Neither of you had any way of knowing what you would one day mean to each other.

Of knowing that the stranger sitting nearby, lost in the same music and emotion, would one day become one of the most important people in your life.

It had to be fate.

You, sitting just as you were now - beside him, to his left. Or at least, that’s how liked to imagine it. Maybe you’d even leaned toward your mother then, the way you leaned toward him now, smiling.

Some people are just meant to be, aren’t they?

Fate, he thought again. Because if that wasn’t fate, he wasn’t sure what was.

So maybe he should go to New York. All the streets seemed to lead there.

Besides, someone he knew had just been assigned to lead the NYPD, maybe he should pay her a visit.

---

Hotch hadn’t expected how much the latest case would affect his team - or himself, for that matter.

He’d noticed something was wrong with JJ the moment they stepped into the first crime scene together.

There was a heaviness about her, a stillness he’d learned to recognize in the years they’d worked side by side. It wasn’t unusual for these cases to take a toll, but this one felt different.

He’d confronted her almost immediately, pulling her aside when Reid and the officer weren’t within earshot. He’d told her he understood - how could he not?

Ever since Jack was born, cases involving children had clawed at him in ways he couldn’t fully prepare for, no matter how many times he tried to steel himself.

But for JJ, it was different. It was worse. Every case they worked on - every horror they encountered - came across her desk first.

Every victim’s file landed in her hands before it reached anyone else. And far too often, those victims were women her age, mothers, daughters, lives cut short in ways too cruel to fathom.

He’d told her it was okay to lose it every once in a while, that no one could carry this job without feeling its weight. She hadn’t looked convinced, and he couldn’t blame her.

Coming from him - the Stoic - it must have felt hollow.

He saw it in her eyes, in the way her shoulders barely eased under his reassurances. She was still carrying it, even after the case was over.

And so he tried again.

He approached JJ as the officer closed the door on the car, securing the unsub’s wife, Chrissy, inside. She had killed him, desperate to protect their future child from his violent legacy.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

JJ stared blankly into the distance, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. It took a moment before she answered, her voice low and reflective. “You stop caring, you're jaded. If you care too much... it'll ruin you.”

“Just know that you did everything you could,” he replied softly. “Sometimes we get it right with a little luck, and most of the time we don't. That's the job. It's never perfect.”

He paused, his gaze shifting to her as his tone softened further. “It's still better to care.”

“You really believe that?” JJ asked, finally turning to look at him, her arms still folded defensively.

Of course not. Caring too much destroys you - it always does. Look at what it had done to his own life.

He shook his head slowly, his mouth twitching as if suppressing a more honest reply. “I believe it's never perfect.”

And maybe that’s what haunted him the most - how helpless he felt in the face of it. Because he knew better than anyone that words could only do so much. Pain like that didn’t dissipate because someone told you it was okay to feel it.

It lingered. It lingered in the quiet moments, in the spaces between cases, in the dark corners of your mind when you finally stopped moving.

Another one who didn’t show the weight of the case quite as visibly as JJ, but was no less affected, was Prentiss.

She was better at masking it - that much he could see. But Hotch also knew her well enough to recognize the way she carried her thoughts.

The motive behind this case, the layers of injustice, had settled heavily on her shoulders. It wasn’t hard to imagine why. Her frustration wasn’t so different from JJ’s in essence, it came from the same place - a longing for justice.

But for Prentiss, it wasn’t just about the crimes committed. It was about the deeper, systemic unfairness that had brought them here in the first place.

He could tell she was thinking about Chrissy, the young mother caught in an impossible situation.

About how, in a patriarchal society, the person who would truly pay the price for all of this wouldn’t be the perpetrator alone - it would be Chrissy, the woman who had tried to protect her child in the only way she thought she could.

It was horrifyingly unfair.

Aaron could feel her anger in the quiet moments, the way her jaw tightened when Chrissy’s name was mentioned, the way she avoided eye contact with anyone when the case wrapped. He understood it, but he didn’t say anything.

How could he? He had no right to.

As a man, he knew he was part of the very system she was furious with. Even unintentionally, even passively, he benefited from it. So he stayed quiet.

But that didn’t mean he did nothing. As a former prosecutor, he understood the gravity of Chrissy’s situation. The trial would not be easy. The legal system often wasn’t.

But he also knew the power of a voice within that system, the importance of framing the narrative with care. So he took the only step he could think of, the only one that felt right.

He sat down and wrote a letter addressing the complexities of the case. He focused on the circumstances that had forced Chrissy into a decision no one should ever have to make. He laid out the context, the systemic failures, the humanity of it all. And when it was done, he filed it with the process.

It wasn’t much, but it was a step.

It was all he could do - to have faith that the trial would deliver justice, not just for the victims, but for Chrissy as well.

With Morgan and Reid, the reasons were different - the questions a case like this left behind were vast, yet the two of them had latched onto the same one, albeit in opposing ways.

The cyclical nature of violence. The profound impact of familial legacy on individual behavior. Can you pass down the gene of evil? Is it inevitable? Or can it be changed?

It was ironic, really - how the same theme could yield two entirely different interpretations, juxtaposed like night and day.

For Morgan, who was slowly reapproaching a faith he’d long abandoned, the answers came from above. Or at least, he hoped they would.

Morgan searched for meaning in something greater, for the divine to offer clarity in a world that often seemed devoid of it.

Hotch couldn’t offer much in that regard; he understood it too well. He’d grown up in a family that confessed the same beliefs, heard the same hymns, recited the same prayers. And while the answers Morgan sought were his own to find, Hotch could offer a small gesture of solidarity.

So, when he went to the kitchenette for coffee, he made one for Morgan too. He didn’t say anything, just handed him the steaming cup, hoping the caffeine would keep him awake long enough to wrestle with those questions and, luckily, find some peace before it spiraled further.

He added an extra touch - his last dark chocolate truffle. He wanted it for himself, truthfully, but Morgan needed it more. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the right thing to do.

Because if there was one tenet of faith Aaron could still believe in, it was this: ‘be kind to one another.’ And sometimes, kindness came in the form of caffeine and chocolate

Then there was Reid. For him, the search for answers took a different path, one turned inward.

He sought them in the vast expanse of his mind, a database larger and more intricate than anything Hotch could fathom.

He knew that Reid’s healing process often began in solitude, pouring over facts, theories, and philosophical musings until they settled into something resembling clarity.

So, when he made coffee for him, he took care to prepare it the way Reid liked it - sickeningly sweet, almost more syrup than coffee. He didn’t interrupt Reid’s silent contemplation. It was still too early, the thoughts too embryonic.

Handing Reid the mug, he let the younger man be, knowing that if Spencer needed logical confrontation, he would come directly to him. They’d discuss the meaning of words, the patterns of human behavior, and then Reid would likely move on with his day.

What concerned him, though, was the possibility that Reid might go to you instead.

It wasn’t that Hotch doubted you - quite the opposite. If there was anyone who understood Reid’s need to dive deeply into the cultural and philosophical nature of humanity, it was you.

You had a way of peeling back layers, of digging into the complexities of existence, even when it required hours of intellectual and emotional suffering to do so. Hotch trusted you more than he trusted himself to guide Reid in those moments.

But if Reid came to you, it would mean the case had struck him harder than Hotch had realized.

Because you weren’t the first step in Reid’s process - you were the last. The one who could challenge him, pull him deeper, and help him emerge on the other side.

Hotch took a sip of his own coffee, glancing toward Reid, who was already lost in thought, and then toward Morgan, who sat quietly with his faith and his chocolate.

They’d find their answers in time, he knew. Whether above, within, or through someone who truly understood.

Rossi though was, without a doubt, the most frustrating one to figure out.

It wasn’t that Hotch didn’t understand why the case had affected him - he did. The reasons were as plain as day.

But Rossi’s stubbornness and unyielding pride made it nearly impossible to offer any kind of help, let alone get close enough to understand the full picture. He was still adjusting to the group dynamic, still learning to balance respect for everyone’s boundaries with his old habits of calling the shots.

Sure, there had been progress.

Rossi had made small steps toward blending in since rejoining the team, he was more open with him especially - but there were moments when his gaze drifted backward, to how things used to be.

That same tendency to look to the past was what Hotch knew had cut deepest in this case. The past haunted Rossi.

Hotch had seen it in the way his demeanor shifted, the way he threw himself into conversation with the local detective, whose story mirrored something unspoken in Rossi.

The detective had just closed a case that had haunted him for 27 years - a case that had cost him everything. His job. His mental sanity. His sense of self.

Rossi wasn’t as different from him as he probably wanted to believe.

Hotch had overheard more than one of their conversations, seen the way Rossi leaned in when the man talked about his regrets, about the weight he carried. And more than once, Rossi had mentioned his own “unfinished business,” those words lingering in the air like a loaded gun.

Hotch didn’t push. He couldn’t. Rossi had to face it on his own first, to admit - to himself, above all - that there was something he needed to confront.

But he hoped that when the time came, Rossi would find the strength to do more than just admit it. He hoped he’d find the strength to let it go.

Only an agent was left - two, if he counted himself.

It didn’t surprise him that the reason this case had shaken you was the same as his own, even if you hadn’t told him yet.

You didn’t need to. He knew you too well by now, and silence wasn’t as opaque as you probably hoped it would be.

And the thing that would help you was the same thing he knew would help him: dialogue. A confrontation of two broken individuals, trying to make sense of the same chaos from different angles.

You and him, speaking two completely different languages: physics and metaphysics. One grounded in logic and structure, the other stretching toward something bigger, intangible.

You sought answers in the abstract, in the why, while he clung to the tangible, the how.

Together, somehow, you always found your way.

Hotch made his way down the aisle of the jet, paperwork in hand, catching sight of you before he even reached your seat. You were hunched over a file, so engrossed that you didn’t notice him until he stopped beside you and cleared his throat.

Predictably, you snapped the file shut in an instant, like you were hiding state secrets. Too bad for you - he already knew.

“There’s no need to be so secretive about that case file,” he said, his tone deceptively casual as he lowered himself into the seat across from you, one hand tugging his tie back into place. “Especially when we’re both working on the exact same one.”

Your eyes flicked up, skeptical, and then down at the file he placed on the table - its size dwarfing yours like a monument to over-preparation. “Impossible,” you said, your arms crossing defensively. “Yours is the size of an encyclopedia.”

“Probably because it seems I’ve worked on it more than you have,” he replied, allowing himself the faintest hint of a smile. “Tell me, is it the Boston Reaper case by any chance?”

Caught you, Philosopher.

Your eyes widened, the look of someone watching a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat. “How? Why?”

That was all you managed to say, and Hotch had to fight back the urge to laugh. The great oracle of philosophy, reduced to caveman syntax. You sounded exactly like Jack when he was first trying to string together sentences as a toddler.

Those questions weren’t even for him - they were clearly for yourself.

How does he know? Why is he working on this case?

And honestly, Hotch thought, the answers were so obvious it was almost endearing that you bothered to ask.

He knew why you were both silently working on that case on the jet back to Quantico. It was your way of coping with the uncomfortable fear today’s investigation had stirred - that an old, unresolved case like this one could resurface, leaving a new trail of victims in its wake.

Fear - that you might end up like the detective from today, unprepared. All this time later, and still haunted by what could have been done differently.

The Boston Reaper wasn’t just another unresolved case. It wasn’t just about the local police pulling both of you off it before you’d even had the chance to work on a proper profile.

That had been frustrating, sure, but the ties to this case ran deeper.

For him, it had been his first case as a lead profiler, thrust into the role just as Rossi had abruptly left the team without so much as a warning.

For you, it had been your ever first unresolved case, the kind of professional scar that stayed with you no matter how many victories followed.

And then there was the part neither of you would ever mention aloud.

It had been the case assigned to both of you the morning after what could only be described as a monumental lapse in judgment - a lapse Mrs. Lee, would still gleefully encourage you to repeat.

“Fear,” Hotch said simply, answering the unspoken why. He didn’t dare meet your eyes as he added, “And you already know the ‘how.’”

Because of course you did.

That unspoken moment of realization between you was something he definitely didn’t want to linger on - mainly because the second he saw it in your eyes, he’d probably blush like an idiot, and you’d never let him hear the end of it.

“So,” he said briskly, gesturing toward your file, “can I read the Oracle’s thoughts on the case now?”

You hesitated for a moment, then handed him the file. “I got stuck,” you admitted, your tone less defensive now. “There’s barely anything in there.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here. Let’s see -” he said, flipping open the file.

His eyes immediately landed on one word written larger than the others, circled as if it demanded top billing in the drama of your thoughts.

“Fate,” he murmured, his lips twitching at the irony.

Of course it was fate.

If the past few days had taught him anything, it was that the universe had an excellent sense of humor - albeit a twisted one.

You leaned forward slightly, pulling him back to the present. “He uses the Eye of Providence as a symbol for his killings,” you explained, saving him from the philosophical essays you’d undoubtedly penned in the margins... thank God.

You continued “That’s where I started. But it led me nowhere. Then I thought about how he wrote ‘fate’ on the windshield of one of his victims in their own blood.” You paused for a bit. “Words are more powerful than symbols.”

That struck a chord. Words required intent, precision. They carried weight. They cut deeper.

Hotch’s eyes dropped back to the file, scanning your notes as he absorbed what you’d said. Pieces started clicking into place, fragments of thought aligning in a way that sparked something.

He looked up at you. “What if he sees himself as the personification of fate?” he theorized, his eyes searching yours for confirmation.

“Well, didn’t you read my mind, Unit Chief?!” you said with a grin. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to prove.” That look - the one you knew drove him just slightly mad - prompted him to respond before he even had the chance to think better of it.

“And to do that, you had to go back quite a bit. Since Christianity influenced Western culture, we don’t talk about fate anymore - that’s more pagan. Instead, we talk about providence,” he said, his voice steady, almost clinical. “Ancient Greece, on the other hand, is full of myths where fate is one the central themes.”

Your grin only widened, amused and maybe a little impressed. “Wow. You really are good, Agent Hotchner,” you said with a mock coo. “Yes, exactly.”

Of course.

You were teasing him - again - but there was a glint in your eye, a genuine spark that reminded him why he always ended up drawn into these conversations with you, whether he wanted to be or not.

“I did try the those first,” you continued “but the imagery didn’t match. To explain it, I had to revisit Stoicism. They saw the universe as governed by this entity called logos - a rational, divine order where everything connects in an unbroken chain of cause and effect. What I found particularly important is that fate, in their view, isn’t something chaotic but part of a structured system. It’s revolutionary.”

He wasn’t used to your characteristic back-and-forth during cases anymore. He hadn’t paired you with him in what felt like ages - since long before Rossi rejoined the team. Maybe it was deliberate. Maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t want to think too hard about it.

But hearing you now, rattling off ideas with that same unstoppable energy, he realized just how much he’d missed it. Your wits, your knowledge, your uncanny ability to pull connections out of thin air - it was as maddening as it was impressive.

Not that he particularly missed the mock praise you’d thrown his way earlier. That could stay firmly in the past where it belonged. Or, at the very least, it could try to sound a bit more genuine.

Not that he wanted to hear it, of course.

…Okay, maybe it was better to change the subject entirely.

He missed you.

“So, by presenting himself as ‘fate,’” you continued, “the Reaper excuses himself entirely. He’s not making choices - he’s just the inevitable result of the universe’s design. Or at least, that’s how he sees it. Responsibility lies with the deterministic nature of existence itself. Quite of a sophisticated delusion.” you added, leaning back with a wry smile.

Hotch tilted his head. “Interesting… but if he truly believed that, why leave a signature? Why call 911? That’s ego. He wants us to know it’s him. That’s not someone surrendering to inevitability - that’s someone demanding recognition.”

“That’s why I’m stuck,” you admitted, with a frustrated sigh. “The contradictions don’t align. His actions suggest ego, yes. A desire for attention, for dominance. But that one 911 call…”

He leaned forward slightly. “What about it?”

“The call bothers me,” you continued, your voice softer now, more introspective. “Too deliberate. Too… purposeful. I feel they aren’t just challenges. There’s something else, I can’t see it yet, but it’s not just about superiority. It doesn’t feel like pure ego.”

He responded to you way too quickly. “Then what does it feel like?”

You hesitated, searching for the right words. “Something human, maybe,” you said finally. “There’s something… ordinary about the Unsub. Normal. He blends in so seamlessly that even his grandiosity doesn’t seem entirely self-serving.” You gestured at the file in front of you. “I can’t connect these pieces. The deterministic philosophy. The theatrical ego. The calculated call. It’s like he exists in two worlds at once - one of chaos, and one of order.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment. “And you think the truth lies somewhere in the contradiction.”

You shrugged. “Doesn’t it always?”

Hotch exhaled softly, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched you.

You couldn’t help yourself, could you? Always had to end with something emblematic, like you were writing the last line of a novel. Throw in a fade to black, and you were set.

“When you’re done making fun of me,” you said, raising your eyebrows at him, “could you explain how, with the same lack of material, you somehow have a file twice the size of mine?”

He couldn’t help the brief laugh that escaped him. Of course, you’d noticed.

“I’m not particularly proud of this…” he began, his tone measured but edged with a hint of self-deprecation. “But after we were pulled from the case, I went back to Boston a couple of weeks later.” He paused, gauging your reaction before continuing. “I got George Foyet’s testimony while he was still in the hospital.”

Your head snapped up, staring at him, completely stunned. “You?” you said slowly, suspicion lacing every syllable. “You went back to Boston? The man who practically has the Constitution tattooed on his soul took a statement after being removed from the case? That wasn’t even legal, was it?”

“It wasn’t,” Hotch admitted, his smirk widening just enough to make you narrow your eyes further. “But I knew they’d write a book about the Reaper case eventually. Once it became public domain, the testimony would be usable. I was just… proactive.”

“Proactive,” you repeated, shaking your head with a disbelieving laugh. “That’s barely ethical.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I blame you.” His tone was deadpan. “You brought out the worst in me back then.”

You snorted, leaning back in your seat with an exasperated smile. “How convenient, blaming it all on what were actually your overthoughts after some drunk sex.”

Oh no. Absolutely not. He was not going there.

He looked down at the file on the table, hoping the angle would save him from the inevitable reddening of his face.

Why, of all the things you could’ve said, did you have to bring that up? It wasn’t even relevant - well, not entirely relevant.

Deflection. That was his only move now. Luckily, the one he had in mind was at least partially truthful.

“We’re landing in a few minutes,” he began, keeping his tone calm and measured, “so how about this: when we’re back, we exchange files. You can go through the testimony, and I’ll take another look at where you got stuck with the phone call. We both take the night to work on it, and tomorrow, we compare notes.”

You tilted your head, skepticism written all over your face. “And what if someone finds out we’re working on a closed case?”

“That’s why we’re doing it at your place,” he said, his tone completely matter-of-fact, like this was the most logical solution in the world. Because it was. It wasn’t an excuse, at all.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, so now you’re inviting yourself over?”

“Haven’t seen Mrs. Lee in a few weeks,” he said smoothly, like that was somehow a perfectly valid justification.

You laughed at that, shaking your head. “Right… You know what? She might adore you, but let’s not forget who she entrusted with her blueberry pie recipe.”

What?

And you waited all this time to tell him that?

So this is what betrayal feels like. A little less dramatic than expected, but still, very disappointing.

---

If there was one universal truth about the BAU team, it was this: no matter how different you all were, no matter how much tension simmered beneath the surface after a long case, there was one sacred ritual that bound you together - going out for drinks.

Especially after the cases that were draining, but not devastating.

The ones that left you raw but still intact, just enough to crave the company of those who understood the madness you faced.

This case had been one of those.

There was a quiet hum of unspoken agreement as everyone wrapped up their notes, pens clicking shut, desks tidied with a precision that came from mutual understanding rather than coordination.

It wasn’t planned, but somehow, you all ended up converging in the bullpen at the same time, like a gravitational pull none of you could resist.

The collective exhaustion that had hung heavy all day began to lift, replaced by a singular, unifying hope: to fuck up your livers just enough to lighten the weight pressing on your minds.

It was Derek who broke the silence, standing up from his chair and tossing his notebook across his desk with a grin. “Who’s up for a drink?”

Emily cheered like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Who’s up for five?”

“Five bottles, you mean?” you chimed in, feigning doubt as though you were on the verge of saying no.

“Each,” Emily clarified with a playful wink.

That was all it took for you to reach for your pen, clicking it closed with a dramatic flair before placing it back into your holder.

“Count me in,” Rossi said casually, like this wasn’t the team’s collective miracle of the week. For someone who had only recently started joining you on these outings, this was practically a declaration of loyalty.

“I don’t know,” Spencer muttered, adjusting the strap of his bag - a move so predictable it immediately set off Derek.

“Stop with the ‘I don’t know.’ You’re in, kid,” Derek said, striding confidently across the bullpen, leaving no room for argument. “JJ?”

“I’d love to, but I’m gonna have to take a rain check,” JJ said, offering a soft smile that carried just enough warmth to make Emily’s heart squeeze.

That meant only a single person remained.

“Unit Chief,” you said, striding toward him with that determined glint in your eye. “Just one beer.”

Hotch exhaled, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips as he glanced at you. “Sure,” he said simply, afterall he couldn’t say no to that, not after a case like this.

But apparently, his mere will hadn’t been enough to seal the moment.

The sound of the bullpen doors opening pulled his attention, the heavy glass swinging wide as a man in a suit entered. He moved with purpose, his expression unreadable, carrying an envelope and a folder that seemed too heavy for their size.

“Agent Hotchner?” the man called out.

Hotch straightened immediately, his spine rigid, the shift so automatic it was almost reflex. “Yes,”

What happened next took seconds, maybe less, but it felt like a lifetime compressed into the space of a breath.

His left hand moved to sign the notice, his name scrawled neatly onto the blank space with a pen he didn’t remember reaching for.

The man nodded once, taking the signed folder back with an efficiency that bordered on mechanical.

And just like that, he was gone - disappearing through the same doors he had entered, leaving destruction in his wake as swiftly as he’d brought it.

All that remained that could prove his existence was the envelope in Hotch’s hand, the weight of it far heavier than paper should ever be.

The bullpen was suddenly too quiet. Too still.

“What is it?” Emily asked, her voice cutting through the silence.

He really didn’t want to look up, but he still did anyways.

He gestured faintly with the envelope, his voice quiet, flat, as though detachment might dull the edge of it. “Haley’s filing for divorce.”

He paused, his gaze drifting back to the envelope, as though it might explain itself if he stared hard enough. Then he spoke again, his voice even quieter this time, almost resigned. “I’ve been served.”

Before anyone could respond, he turned on his heel, the envelope still clutched in his hand like a foreign object he didn’t know what to do with. He walked out, back through the glass doors, the weight of their closing behind him louder than it had ever have been.

You stared after him, your hand falling away from where it had hovered, wanting to reach out but knowing better.

You didn’t want to drink anymore.

And him?

Somewhere beyond those glass doors, Hotch kept walking, as though forward motion might somehow keep him from falling apart entirely.

The envelope burned in his hand, and every step felt heavier than the last, carrying him into a night that suddenly felt colder and far too empty.

Because now, it was real.

---

Phi’s Corner: Did I just waste 5 hours of my life discovering that Tumblr only allows 1,000 text blocks max and had to re-edit everything? Yes, I did. Because I’m a sucker for distanced one-liners, and the universe clearly hates me. Also… did you catch the little countdown? Hehe. I’m evil. Oh, and for the record - I am Mrs. Lee’s #1 stan. Don’t forget it.

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

#aaron hotchner #hotch #criminal minds #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #criminal minds x reader

244 notes · View notes

marsmaximoff · 18 days ago

Text

🏛️ emperor caracalla ; headcanons ⋆₊𐕣˚𖤐 ݁｡☽

content warning: fem!reader. mentions of blood, killing and sickness, cheating, possessiveness, toxicity. idk if there’s anything else.

word count: 0.7k

author’s note: first time writing headcanons, so constructive criticism is welcomed. and english is my third language so please bear with me. i apologize for any mistake 🙏🏻 also, i’m unlocking a new obsession, so i needed to write for caracalla asap. i’m gonna write for other fred characters too because that man has me down bad. that’s it! enjoyyy! <3

emperor caracalla is a menace with an insane duality and you know that better than anyone

we have 1) mad ruler with an insatiable thirst for blood

you ALWAYS go to the games

he demands wants you there with him

(not like you have much choice being married to him)

but still, he loves to know you’re there. mostly because he actually enjoys sharing his passion and spending time with you. buuut, also because he REALLY likes to show you off. (you love seeing him all giggly clapping and yelling tho)

and let me tell you, he takes every opportunity to do so. to remind everyone that you’re his. and to brag in front of his pretty much unmarried brother.

i’m talking hand rubbing your thigh when sitting by his side (he does it absentmindedly, it’s genuinely cute), arm around your waist during feasts, sitting on his lap when watching combats, theatre or any sort of entertainment and a ton of PDA.

both of them are possessive, but he is more subtle, not as straightforward

regarding Geta, you two have an… odd relationship. he’s thankful there’s someone else to deal with his brother’s madness. but he’s suspicious of your intentions. tho jealous.

some would even say not only of the marriage itself…

caracalla knows, and absolutely feeds on it. he finally has something that belongs to him and only him

god forbid someone doesn’t get it

Dondus has grown to adore you. you’re like his other parent -he’s adopted you as such.

squeaks at you and happily climbs your arm to rest on your shoulder

loves using your braids as little ladders

and snuggling against your neck too

he’s just so cute can u tell i love him :3

anyways

and 2) sappy child

he follows you around like a puppy

you hate it when he gets overwhelmed, he tends to hide and isolate himself

you end up acting like his mother

gets insecure of his real face and keeps it from you

needs a lot of reassurance

the guards always look for you when he has an outburst

your touch and presence are the only things that ground him

LOVES LOVES LOVES cuddling

clings to you like he needs you to breathe

good luck waking up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom 💀

play with his hair and he’s GONE

big on pet names

to you is always “my love” “my dear” “my darling” “my wife” “my empress”

emphasis on the “my”

everything’s fine with him but “sweet boy” makes him melt

and obviously “my emperor” cause it makes him feel powerful

and compliments too

spoils and pampers the shit out of you

jewels, clothes, animals, entertainers, you name it

absolutely whipped

loves kissing

now, it can’t all be a fairytale 😞

sometimes you feel like he loves Dondus more than you

and it seems that some men being forced to kill each other brings him more happiness than you ever could

he can switch from sad to angry in a matter of seconds and sometimes his sudden change of tone and expressions startles you

🚩 🚩🚩

being married to a sick man is hard

many palace servants and guards feel bad for you

paranoid

thinks you don’t love him anymore and are going to leave him quite often

obsessive

if you say something that feels ‘off’ to him get ready for an intense interrogation

possessive and extremely jealous

cause why the fuck where you laughing with some random man?

he’d threaten to kill him and would probably get rough with you

hates other people touching you

gets violent

has hurt you before during one of his fits

regrets it afterwards but has a hard time apologizing

would probably be unfaithful. i know, i hate it too 🥲

over all i think he wouldn’t be that bad of a husband, like it could be way worse

and i say he could genuinely love you, it just wouldn’t be the healthiest of loves

but you can try to fix him girl ✨✨

#Spotify #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #gladiator fanfiction #emperor caracalla #caracalla x reader #gladiator caracalla #caracalla x you #caracalla headcanons #fred hechinger #fred hechinger x reader #fred hechinger x you #gladiator 2 headcanons #gladiator ii headcanons

319 notes · View notes

the-fiction-witch · 6 months ago

Text

My King

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Aegon Targaryen Couple - Aegon X Reader Reader - Y/n Targaryen (Aegons Wife) Rating - Sweet + Smut Word Count - 1330

Requested - I submitted a request/idea like this to another writer but I will not keep this like head canon idea type thing to myself........ Aegon is 100% the type to love his girl breastfeeding him... him being all stressed and angry or sad from the council not listening to him and Alicent being cruel and everything and he just wants to lay his head in her lap and latch his mouth onto her nipple and drink in her sweet milk... it makes him feel at peace... makes him feel wanted and loved and special

Writers Notes - I actually loved this idea so much I made two versions of it, cause I couldn't decide which angle I liked better so this is Version one a second will be coming soon.

Y/n sat in the royal chambers, perched softly on the ottoman beside the fire. Wearing her sweet soft green cotton gown with long off-shoulder sleeves. The twilight of the hour cascades purple and gold across the floor and tapestry-lined walls. Maids and guards long since sent away leaving only gentle sounds behind, The sound of the fire's soft crackles and pops, the sounds of gentle sucking, and of sweet heavenly humming.

Y/n hums softly to the baby in her arms, his little body cradled so sweetly and gently as the new prince feeds from his mother's breast.

“There we are, all done my little prince,” She cooed as she pulled the baby from her breast, wiped his lips, kissed his forehead and stroked her fingers softly over his Targaryen silver hair, She chuckled slightly at the baby's milk drunk little face, eyes droopy and sleepy.

“Fuck those cunts!” Erupted from the door as Aegon forced his way into the chamber throwing open the doors, letting them smack into the stone walls to their sides. He turned and slammed the doors in the faces of the guards who followed him, screaming to the ceiling like his own dragon,

Y/n, blinked a few times before she set the baby in the crib, “Is… everything alright my king?” She cooed,

He ran his hand through his silver hair and took a breath, “I wish to burn this infernal castle to the ground.”

“I see.” She nodded, “May I ask why?”

“Everything is why!” He yelled, “My mother is being a pretentious little bitch! Gives me all the power in the world and then forbids me to do anything! My brother is being a self-initiated little prick! Anyone think he thought he was king! This council constantly going round and round in bloody circles! Undermining My AUTHORITY!” He paced,

“I understand Aegon,” She nodded,

“W-what?” He froze up a moment,

“I understand, that must be very hard. Very conflicting emotionally and politically. I’m sorry you have to feel this way,” She cooed,

He scoffed a moment, “How is it… that you are… as angelic as you are?” he leaned his arms on the back of the chair, “You know just what I need.”

“Years of practice,” She chuckled,

He let a laugh slip, “I was expecting you to tell me how foolish I am, for feeling this way.”

“You are not foolish for feeling this way, your feelings are never foolish.” she affirmed, “It is a complicated time, but you have every right to feel disheartened and upset as everyone else does.”

“You’re too sweet. For a man like me.”

“Perhaps that's why you need me,”

“Perhaps it is,” He chuckled finally his eyes meeting his wife, He smiled at her a moment letting out a rather happy and content sigh, but his eyes flicked down to her bare breast and his teeth caught his bottom lip,

“Ohh! Forgive me, my king, I was feeding the prince.” She blushed pulling her dress back up and tying the small ribbon,

“You have no need to apologise Y/n,” He cooed, “How is he? Baby Baelor?” he asked coming to the crib to loom over his son,

“He’s fine, sleeping well.”

“Thank the gods,” He nodded, “And you?”

“I am very well my king,”

He chuckled and sat down in the chair beside her ottoman, “You have no need to still call me that,”

“I know, I just like to,” she smiled,

“You are far too sweet, for me, for Kings Landing … for Westeros,” He said pressing his forehead to hers and caressing her cheek, “Must you love me so strongly?”

“I must,” She nodded,

“Hum…” He smiled rubbing his thumb on her cheek before softly pressing his lips to capture her own,

The two shared a soft and loving kiss for a few moments before he pulled back,

“Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” she asked,

His eyes trailed down from her lips, down her neck and lingered on her cleavage, he licked his lip and captured it once more in his teeth, “Mhm,” He growled,

Y/n blushed a moment, “Yes my king,” she nodded moving her hands to unlace the top of her dress tugging the dress down and holding it at her waist exposing both of her bare breasts to him,

He smirked a low growl in his throat as he took his time, looking at her. His eyes trail over every single inch of skin with a look of feist desire. After a while, he moves his hands to stroke her skin running his fingers gently across her, “what happened here?” He asked his thumb briefly brushing over the small mark on her tender breast just above her nipple,

“He bit me.”

“Bit you?” He rasied an eyebrow,

“It’s alright little guy just doesn’t know his strength yet,”

“You poor thing,” he cooed, “It’s a crime to bite something so beautiful,” He cooed fully cupping her breasts in his hands his thumbs softly circling her nipples watching with glee as they perked up and hardened for his attention, He gives her a few tender squeezes before his attention fully moves to her nipples brushing his thumbs over them in little clockwise circles around the pointed peak, only so often brushing the peak itself which always made her whimper, “May I, my queen?”

She blushed, “Of course my king,”

He smiled and moved to kneel on the floor his body between her legs, he laid his head softly on her thigh looking up at her with a joyful smile,

She smiled down at him and stroked his silver hair as he began to pepper her breast with kisses,

He made sure to kiss as much as he could before reaching her nipple, he slowly circled the hard peak with his tongue before lapping at the nipple with the side flat edge of his tounge, forcing a giggle from her, “So sensitive Y/n,” He cooed,

“Well they’ve been working hard feeding you both,” She chuckled,

“True,” He smirked, “Come here my angel,” He cooed taking her other breast in his hand and locking his lips around her nipple latching to it, he circled the nipple with his tounge a few more times before he began to gently and softly suckle,

“There we go, does this please you my king?” She cooed as she stroked his hair,

He nodded as he began to gently drink, making sure not to be too hard or too fast on her tender breast as he slowly suckled and drank her milk, as soon as the milk touched his tongue he began to moan and groan his eyes rolling back before squeezing shut completely, his other hand squeezes and rubs her nipple on the other breast while he enjoys her sweet milk.

“Not too much, or there’ll be none left for Baby Baelon,” She chuckled,

“Hummm” He nodded a little dismissively enjoying himself far too much to stop,

She chuckled and rolled her eyes a little petting his silver hair and caressing his cheek as she held him in her lap letting him drink and play for a good while until finally, he pulled back.

Ageon licked her nipple clean and wiped his mouth, “You make me feel… so peaceful my angel,”

“I’m glad I can, I’m just happy you feel better.”

“I feel much better now,” he cooed nuzzling into her lap, “I love you y/n,”

“I love you too Aegon,” She smiled giving his cheek a soft little kiss,

509 notes · View notes

neysaadept · 1 month ago

Note

heyyyy,

I LOVE your Emily fics and only just saw you’re taking requests!! Congrats on the followers.💗 I was wondering if you could do an Emily/Reader fic maybe with the prompts “they didn’t deserve you” and “why are you doing this”, (early days in the relationship) where it’s Christmas time and Emily mentions in passing how she always spends Christmas alone cause it’s too much to go to her parents and reader decides to surprise her by making dinner and bringing it to her on Christmas Day! Emily is confused because she’s never had this kind of care or treatment and reader says she deserves it ( maybe first time saying ily?)

anyways just an idea and NO pressure if it’s stupid lmao! Ily

thanks

Please let me know what you think of this. It got really carried away and I really hope you liked what I did with this. *hides*

Take a Chance

Emily Prentiss x Female Nurse!Reader

Tags - No use of Y/N, swearing, angst, fluff, meet cute, first Christmas. Minors DNI

Summary - Please refer to the ask for summary!

AO3

Word Count: 4.4k

As a nurse, you had few rules for who were out of bounds in dating. Doctors are a big hell no. Yes, it seems romantic and dreamy to fall for some sexy, brilliant, doctor but there is too much overlapping and fucked up hours to connect that things can fizzle out so quickly once you realize there is no compatibility. And god forbid you end up having to work with one another? So, so awkward after a breakup.

And yes, you’ve been there and done that. Never, ever, again. You moved out of ICU to have less contact with the intensivist, Dr. Vanessa Hyland, and the ER has been headhunting you for a while now. You took the opportunity and ran. It is a change of pace, but it had the same adrenaline vice that you crave working and triaging the unknown that walk through MedStar Washington Memorial that was close to the VA*.

Your exclusion list also includes paramedics, firefighters, police officers, and anyone in your department. You didn’t want someone that had similar bizarre hours as you and that you might end up seeing at work if shit hit the fan. Healthcare was a small world, and you didn’t need your exes in your immediate orbit. You had enough drama at work and for the last year, the ER has become your work home and it has pushed you to pursue your license as a nurse practitioner. You had one year to go and were currently a resident.

You are career focused, intelligent and driven which currently made dating a low priority for you. Since the fling with Dr. Hyland fell through, you focus on yourself and enjoy being single since no one of genuine interest caught your fancy. And you stopped looking.

You didn’t realize your world was about to flip upside down when you knock on the window to Bay 3 in the ER and a deep voice said to come in.

That definitely didn’t sound like an Emily Prentiss to you. That must’ve been her partner speaking per the report given to you that he came along for the ambulance ride.

“Morgan, I can speak for myself …” came the snippy reply confirming your suspicions.

You pull the curtain back and take in the two feds in the room. The tall, dark, and muscular handsome fellow was hunched over the side rail before he saw you. “Hey, Doc. Mind telling princess here that she needs to behave?”

Your eyes dart to the woman on the cart who was squinting her best death glare at him. “I am behaving. I came here, didn’t I?”

With the concussion the female fed has, the bright lights of the room weren’t helping which made her glare pathetically cute. You turn the lights down, which the staff should have done in the first place.

“Better?” you say with an understanding smile.

She nods thankfully.

“Also, not a doctor. NP in training.” You walk in and introduce yourself. “So, shall I call you Emily or Agent Prentiss?”

She looks at you funny.

“Some feds have a stick up their ass about titles.”

“I definitely do not have a stick up my ass. Unless you count him?” She points a thumb at Morgan in all seriousness.

His face falls playfully with feign hurt, clutching at his chest. “Ouch, girl.”

“Hm,” you look thoughtfully between them and could feel the deeply rooted respect and love for these two partners. You decide to play along and return your attention to Emily. “Well, I’m sorry to say we don’t have a surgical consultant that specializes in that.” Then you wink. “I can always call security and throw him out if ya like.”

“Hey! Wait a second.” He lowers his hand accusingly. “You’re all not playing nice now.”

Emily chuckles. “I guess he can stay. He’s kinda my ride anyway.”

“Duly noted. Now, to business. May I?” You gesture to Emily’s head as you put on gloves. She nods and you start examining her scalp by gently running your fingers along her hair to smooth back to getting a better look. “The officer that was driving with you is doing OK. Same issue with head trauma after the T-bone. Do you remember hitting your head on anything before the airbags deployed?”

“Well, I was driving. Then we got the call on our suspect. Then we … we got the call on our suspect …” she shakes her head, wincing, trying to recall the memory before impact.

“Hey, if you don’t remember, it’s fine. I’m sure you know that. Doubt this is your first concussion?” You stop for a moment to make eye contact with Emily who rolls her eyes in affirmation. “Alright, well… you do have the start of a nice bruise here.”

You gently brush over the injury mid-scalp about halfway up from her left ear. “How’s the headache?”

“Pounding”, as she winces from your touch.

“Any nausea or vomiting?”

“No.”

“Dizziness or lightheadedness?”

“Nope.”

“Double or blurry vision?”

“A little. Tho it’s an improvement for Morgan’s looks.”

He whistles, shaking his head. “I’m letting that one slide since you’re suffering.”

You chuckle. “Alright, let me take a quick look at the rest of you. Anything else hurting that isn’t Morgan’s heart?”

That made her laugh as you pull the stethoscope over your head. “No. Nothing else hurts.

“Ladies, I’m starting to take offense now.” But he was all smiles.

You knew she suffered minor injuries from the ambulance report – contusions and small lacerations from shattered glass that didn’t require stitching. The officer on the passenger seat got cut worse being on the side of impact. You then listen to her heart, lungs and abdomen and palpate her stomach after making sure nothing was tender. Then did the same with her limbs testing neurological strength and any sore spots that may have been missed.

“Okay, Emily. Let’s get that CT done of your head.” You put the stethoscope back around your neck before placing your hands in your lab coat pockets. “If that comes back clean, I’ll release you home …” You see she’s about to ask a question you’re already anticipating. “… and no work until you’re medically cleared.”

She pouts rather prettily. You wish you didn’t notice. “And that also means no pretending to be cleared and going to work either.”

Morgan shakes his head and half smiles down at his partner. “Busted.”

“Had a feeling.” Morgan smirks between the two of you. “I’ll get those orders in.” You check your watch. “Should be done within the hour and we’ll go from there. If you need me, just call.”

Morgan steps around the bed to shake your hand. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” And you turn to look at Emily with a firm tone and playful eyes. “You behave.”

She huffs and settles back against the pillow, but Emily was fighting with a smile. To you it appears she was grumbling under her breath which was oh so common with law officials. When you leave the room, Morgan looks at Prentiss with a knowing look. In her state, she was genuinely confused. “What?”

“You’re making heart eyes with the nurse.”

“What? I … wasn’t. No way I was doing … whatever that thing you said I’m doing. It didn’t happen,” she says with a scowl.

“Heart eyes,” he reminds her.

“Whatever,” she snips. “Has to be the head injury.”

“Uh huh.” He looks back at the curtains then at his partner. “She’s your type too …”

“I’m not having this conversation right now,” she says, stopping Morgan from talking further about the nurse that was definitely her physical type. Plus, you were clearly smart and had a fun side at the bedside that made her smile.

Morgan smirks, seeing the dopey look. He knows she’s thinking about you. “When you’re better, then.”

“I’ll probably won’t remember this stupid conversation then either.” She ends the topic by crossing her arms and looking away from Derek. A perfect model of a petulant Prentiss.

Emily does hates that he was right. The question that remains is if she was going to do anything about it after Morgan’s teasing that would inevitably come at a later date.

Two weeks went by since you discharged Agent Emily Prentiss and life went on. You were working a double today in the ER.

“Let’s get a bag of O neg going on Bay 2 and prep endo for a scope.” You put the orders in and use the inter-hospital chat through the EMR* with Dr. Aorsen who is the GI specialist on call. Poor patient had a bleeding ulcer.

One of the techs calls your name and you answer without looking up, continuing to type up the H&P* on the patient so there will be no delays in the procedure. You answer with a pen dangling between your teeth. “Yeah?”

“An Agent Prentiss is here to see you.”

The pen drops from your lips as you swivel your chair around to look at the disheveled tech in surprise. “Uh, what?”

You couldn’t have heard that right.

He throws a thumb over his shoulder and nods in confirmation. “Fed named Prentiss is here to see you.”

Your eyes dart around the room trying to figure out why she is here and come up empty. “Is she here by herself?”

“Yep.”

“O … kay. Yeah. I’ll see what she needs. Tell her I need ten minutes to finish something before I can see her. Thanks, Marc.”

“Kay.” He wanders off and you finish your necessary charting. You weren’t going to drop everything to speak with her just yet when a patient needs your attention. Though your mind couldn’t grasp why she was here. You sent over the medical report on Agent Prentiss to the FBI the same week you discharged her. Nothing was out of the ordinary in your report. She suffered a typical concussion and filled out all the workers’ compensation documentation for the feds. It was way worse than filling out the damn metro police claims, and it took over an hour to finish.

Once you have all the necessary orders and documentation for your patient to go to endo, you meander through the nurses’ station and down the hall to where Emily is waiting. She currently has her hands behind her back which shows off the gun holstered to her hip. The white button down was under a black blazer that made her professionally beautiful and it was nice to see her be more casual from the waist down with jeans and black work boots.

And then there you are in your navy-blue scrubs, lab coat, hair up in a messy bun, and a stethoscope hanging around your neck. She definitely looks put together and was easy on your tired eyes.

Emily is distracting herself as she waits for you by taking in all the scenery around her from laundry bins to rolling medical equipment. But when she sees you, she visibly perks up and shifts on her feet.

You wonder if Emily is nervous but that is ridiculous. You push that thought out of your mind as you smile to greet her. “This is a surprise, Agent Prentiss.”

“Ah, Emily’s just fine. This isn’t anything official.” She says it a bit too quickly that makes your brows raise up in question.

“Well, that’s good. I was wondering.” You look her up and down and see that’s she’s recovered nicely, even if she isn’t relaxed speaking with you. Her hands are still behind her back. “You look well.”

“So, do you,” she says a bit too quickly when your eyes narrow in thought to her response. “I mean … for working long hours are the ER. It’s not easy.”

Your head moves to the left in curiosity as to where this was going. “Definitely not, but I love it. Wouldn’t be anywhere else. Though …” you bring your arm up and slowly gesture towards back down the hall “ … I’m sorry to be abrupt but with patients waiting … can you let me know how I can help you, Emily?”

You see her look mortified at keeping you waiting and that is when her arms swing around to her front, one crossing her abdomen. She was definitely nervous, but it is unclear why.

“Yes, I did want to thank you and see …” She nervously licks her lower lip, and your eyes are inevitably drawn to the motion.

You were hanging on her next words. The moment between you is filled with the sounds of electronic beeps, a patient moaning in confusion, and then the old Batman TV show theme goes off alerting your hospital that an ambulance was calling in a patient on the emergency line affectionately dubbed ‘The Bat Phone’ by the hospital. That seemingly jolts her back from looking at anything but you.

“ … well, see … you,” she says bashfully.

Your eyes widen. “See me?” You sound as confused as you appear.

“Yes,” Emily confirms with a hesitant nod.

Your eyes dart upwards in continued bewilderment before settling on her hopeful-looking brown orbs. “Look, I’m a complete idiot right now. Why did you need to see me?” You smile brightly with encouragement.

That seemingly provides the necessary motivation to be direct. “Yes. Socially. As in … dinner …?” Though Emily did end the last part awkwardly and began to flick at her thumbnail that was lying against her thigh.

Now with Emily’s intentions clear, you take a step back in wonder. “You’re asking me … out?”

Seeing that you took a step back makes Emily frown, thinking you weren’t interested. “Well, I was …”

“And you came here. To ask me out.” Your continuation of confusion is making her slowly back up towards the exit.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I …” she loosens the hold she has on her stomach and gracelessly swings her arms as she is about to turn, and hits the linen cart, causing a pile of towels and washcloths to tumble onto the floor. “Oh my god! I am so sorry!”

She crouches down to pick them up as you do the same but sliding to your knees. This wasn’t your first laundry pile up in the ER. “Hey, it’s okay!”

“No, it’s not.” Emily’s pale face was flushing prettily, and it makes you smile. “I made a mess.”

“Sweetie, this isn’t even close to a mess in my ER. Ever drop a commode?” That makes her laugh and diffuses the tension between you a little, but she was avoiding eye contact with you.

You both work at cleaning up when the two of you end up grabbing a towel at the same time. There was a quick game of tug of war and that finally brought her eyes up to see you. She was nervous and expectant, ready to run off in a heartbeat.

You give her your answer. “Yes.”

Her head leans in with disbelief. “Yes … what?” She asks hesitantly, needing confirmation.

“Yes, I’ll go out with you.” And just like that, you broke your rule about dating officers. There was something enigmatically irresistible about her and Emily mustered the courage to come down to your place of work to ask you out. How sweet is that?

Emily is too fucking adorable as her face works through the shock of what you said. “Oh … kay.” She nods. “Good. I mean …” She grins wide and bright. “Great.”

You both remain on the floor for a couple of beats before you lower your head, eyes studying Emily with a coy look. “Does this mean I can have the towel back?”

She busts out laughing and finally lets go.

That was a little over a month ago and you found out on your first date that it was her partner, Morgan, that helped talk Emily through her concerns. She explained how he was not just a good friend but was also like a brother to her. You were happy that Emily took this chance, and it was the happiest time of your life. You never thought that you’d find a partner that was able to understand the demands of your job and education by someone not in healthcare. Emily’s job is mentally, physically and emotionally draining like yours and despite the differences in careers, you understand the depts of humanity. Emily saw the worst of it and tried to bring the criminals to justice or at least provide closure for the victims and families. You do the same in your own way trying to save as many lives as you can as well as being the one to break bad news to people who loved your patients fiercely. You also saw the worst in a different way – shootings, stabbings, rapes, protests gone ugly. You and DC metro had a lot to talk about a lot of time. But the times you make a child smile when feeling terrible, or provide information that eases the mind of a patient that was so scared of why they were sick, or even the simple bedside talk to show you were a human being that truly cared, it was worth all the shit you dealt with.

But in between the long hours and when Emily was out of town, you make time for one another. Simple dinners, going out to the movies, long walks discussing nothing and everything, but the best was when Emily took you to the Smithsonian to see the staff carefully place a Santa hat on the life size brontosaurus display since Christmas was just around the corner. You didn’t even know they did that, and Emily was so pleased with herself at seeing your face light up in wonder. You of course took a selfie together after it was placed, but it ended up being at an awkward angle where you both were laughing as you were pointing to the dinosaur.

When you weren’t together, you had long talks over the phone and constant texts when Emily was on a case to make sure she was doing alright, which she did for you too! You both cared about your workaholic selves and kept reminding each other to take a break, eat and drink more than just beer when off the clock. Emily was able to keep work at work when in the moment with you but you could hear the weight of Emily’s job straining her voice. A hint of raw insight to her true feelings. You never push. Your relationship was still new, and you both were still learning one another.

When Christmas came, you were coming off a sixteen-hour shift that started right before 7am Christmas Eve. You were exhausted, the status quo for any resident, but you were also determined. This was your first Christmas with Emily, and you wanted to make it special. She admitted that the relationship she has with her mother is complicated and didn’t need, nor want, to show her face at one of her mother’s extravagant Christmas parties. Emily would just be shown off for propriety’s sake. It was easier being home alone with leftovers that Rossi made on Christmas Eve of pasta, seafood, and amazing Italian beef and sausages right after midnight. Between that, the homemade cookies gifted to her by Garcia, and a six pack of Stella bottled beer, Emily settled in for the day watching Die Hard because it is, and always we be, a Christmas movie. If you wanted to disagree with her, Emily was ready to fight.

By mid-afternoon, John McClane is crawling through the air vents and iconically complaining about ‘Come out to the coast, we’ll get together, have a few laughs…’ line when there’s a knock at Emily’s door. This confuses her because she wasn’t expecting anyone and you were at the hospital working. You told her that this morning over the phone during a break that, unsurprisingly, the hospital was short staffed, and they needed you. She put down Garcia’s festively colored frosted chocolate cookies and went to see who it was.

Which is why when she looks out through the peephole of the door, she gasps and quickly starts unlocking the door. She holds out her arms in surprise at the sight of you and speaks an octave higher in greeting. “What are you doing here?! You said you had to work tonight!”

She was all smiles seeing you … and you weren’t wearing your work clothes. You have on jeans, an ugly Christmas sweater that said ‘Fabulously Grinchy’ and arms full of bags. Emily was distinctively not festive on purpose with grey shorts and a baggy Yale sweatshirt. Even the black slippers were humdrum. It empowers you to see this and that you made the right decision to surprise her this way.

“Well, I lied,” you explain as she takes some of the bags from you. “Surprise!”

She steps aside to let you in and smells the familiar scents of pasta, sauce and bread. “What did you do?” she asks cautiously.

“I made Christmas dinner for us.” You beam, spinning around carefully in the living room with your arms out to display the bags. “Just need to warm it all up.

As you really did have to work long hours at the hospital, you enjoyed Skyping with your parents who lived of town while making homemade manicotti. It was your tradition to cook together, and it was nice to do it together this way. Thankfully you still had some frozen homemade pasta sauce that you could use and not be considered a heathen to your family because no daughter of theirs was going to serve their girlfriend pasta sauce from a jar.

“Oh my god,” she says your name and follows you quickly into the kitchen, trying to catch up. “You … you really didn’t have to go through all this trouble. And, really, why are you doing this? You’ve gotta be so tired after working a long shift. You should be relaxing.” Emily knew you did work today since she heard the intercom and all the various beeps, whirls and whistles of a hospital.

You left the bags on the island counter and start fiddling with the oven controls. “Eh, I’ve had worse.” You smirk over your shoulder. “So have you. Therefore, we deserve a nice Christmas not alone. Now. … ” you start looking for oven mitts and utensils by pulling out drawers and opening cabinets. You’ve been here once before and don’t have the lay of the land yet where Emily keeps everything.

What you didn’t know is that Emily is standing by the island counter with a firm grip on the edge because she is feeling a powerful rush of affection for you and a profound sense of guilt. She swallows hard and almost jerks with her movements in trying to find words to address you.

“Hey, Emily? Where’s the spatula? I don’t need to whisk anything, and you got like, three of them here.” With no answer, you turn around with the whisks in hand and a goofy smile which soon falls into a look of concern. Emily was staring at you with watery eyes.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” you ask, quickly setting aside the whisks that roll around the counter. One drops and bounces off the floor, but you don’t care. You place your hands around Emily’s shoulders and rub soothing circles. “Talk to me, please.”

Her face scrunches to the side, still struggling with guilt. “You shouldn’t be doing this. You’re tired. You should be sleeping. Or resting. Or just –“

You cut her off by gently cupping her face. Your thumbs continue their gentle stroking along Emily’s cheeks. “If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.” You smile with sincerity. “Only place I wanna be.”

“Fucking sap,” she says, curling her hands around your forearms. You both naturally bring your foreheads together in that moment and feel Emily’s shaky inhalation of breath. “I don’t deserve this.” She feels the need to clarify. “You.”

You close your eyes and ask nonjudgmentally. “Why?”

“Because I’m gonna mess it up. I always find a way to do it. Even if it’s not exactly me.” She sighs. “Like work, or my mother…”

“Hey, don’t do that.” You bring your hands down while lifting your head to gaze into Emily’s eyes. “Anticipating. We just gotta take it day by day and right now, I feel, that this is a good one.”

“Yeah?” she says quietly, licking her dry lips.

“Yeah,” you confirm, bringing one of her hands up to gently kiss. What you’re about to say you feel in your heart and it has been growing for the last week. Perhaps it was too soon to say it, but Emily deserves to know how you feel and that despite this being new, this was a relationship you were determined to see where it takes the both of you. “Maybe if I give you one of your presents, it’ll help you feel better?”

Her eyes look along the ceiling while she chucks. “Maybe.”

You lean forward and cup her cheek, gently caressing it until you lock eyes. “I love you, Emily Prentiss.”

Her audible gasp at the admission is swallowed by your lips gently kissing hers. The kiss was soft, a silent signature of proof to the words already spoken. It is affirmation that you want to be here with Emily, and you feel her free hand slide around your waist as she steps closer. The press of her body forces a sigh from your lips which makes Emily smile against yours.

“I love you, too.” She confesses quietly, pulling your joined hands against her chest. “And it scares me.”

“Well, here’s the good news.” Emily pulls back to look at you, brown eyes equally fearful and exhilarated, as she waits for what you must share. Your smile helps to ground her. “We get to be scared together.”

She laughs as a couple of tears fall free and you reach up to wipe them away. As she leans into your touch, Emily asks you a question since she has doubts about this gift of yours, no matter how much she treasures it. “Was that really one of my gifts?”

“No,” you admit and kiss her forehead. “But it’s all true. Consider it a bonus.”

Emily looks up to you with a smile that lights up the entire room. “Mm, I do like the sound of that,” she says before capturing your lips once again.

*Vetarans Affairs

*EMR - Electronic Medical Record

*H&P - History and Physical

#emily prentiss #criminal minds #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x female reader #emily x reader #emily x you #fic request #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you

194 notes · View notes

rhiaemrys · 1 year ago

Text

All of those Batfamily de-aged fics, but like, they’re all in their "Trouble-Maker Era". This is primarily to create as much chaos as physically possible, and potentially cause Batman a stress aneurysm.

Like, Dick Grayson, going from a relatively well adjusted (for a vigilante which isn’t saying much) to a tiny crazed 8 year old Robin who is ready to Fight God or die trying. He keeps perching on chandeliers, throwing stuff at people and hitting Damian over the head every time Damian mentions hes Robin.

Jason Todd, who was a well settled Red Hood. Little murder, but mostly having fun with the outlaws and saving the world. Now is an angry recently resurrected 19 year old bent on beating the Bat up. Currently he's gone to the wind. No one knows where he's at, but once something blows up they'll use that as a triangulator.

Cassandra Cain, who already is a stubborn shit at the best of times but has learned to compromise more and more over the years, is back to the homeless child that Bruce found during No Mans Land. She only trusts Bruce and Duke and is utterly willing to wreck anyone else who gets close to them.

Tim Drake, who has found his calling as whatever call sign he chooses, is now launched back to “All my friends and family are dead or think I’m in desperate need of therapy (which I am but god forbid I admit that), I think I’m a little insane with grief so let me traverse the entire world and work with one of my adoptive fathers greatest enemies to find him” Red Robin era. He's been holed up in his room running the calculations that this is a doomsday scenario since he got back from being de-aged.

Stephanie Brown (who, unlike the rest was smart enough to run for the hills when the magic user appeared, yelling out that this one is for the idiot boys, but unfortunately got waylaid by Cass), is now a new Spoiler who is spoiling to fight Batman barehanded because he said that she should go home.

Duke is back to the Robin War gang era and along with Dick, ready to Fight God. Hes got like, fifty makeshift weapons at one time and ends up teaming up with Cass.

Damian, currently Robin and doing very well in the role, is now back to the newly acquired child stage where he’s attempting to prove himself to both sides of his heritage. He ends up being terribly endearing to Bruce solely because, even if it's only partial, at least Damian sticks around for the whole lecture when the crew gets in trouble (he's only doing that so he can find loopholes).

It concerns Bruce how many of these literal children are either down to murder or take out their siblings should said sibling Attempt To Murder.

1K notes · View notes

thelovelyruin · 1 year ago

Text

𝖆𝖈𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖉.

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖘 : choso x fem reader

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖚𝖓 : choso just couldn’t wait for you and him to be acquainted.

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖒𝖔𝖔𝖓 : college au, smut, porn with plot, vaginal sex, praise, teasing, fingering, edging?

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖔𝖙 : 5.3K

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖗 : inspired by lyrics from acquainted by the weeknd.

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖒𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖘 : hello lovelies, thank you so much for reading! probably my favorite yet. i hope you enjoy it; if so, follow me for more. au revoir!

18+ MDNI ADULT CONTENT

Baby, you're no good 'cause they warned me ‘bout your type.

“Yeah, no.”

“What do you mean no?”

“I mean, NO. She’s bad news, dude.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I don’t. She just gives off the vibe that she’d break your heart or somethin'.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, she’s out of your league, first of all. You’re kinda awkward, and I can’t tell if you’re celibate or just can’t get laid. That and she’s pretty friendly with everyone.”

“Shouldn’t she be friendly?”

“Yeah, a little too friendly. A jealous motherfucker like you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“She wouldn’t be that way if she was in a relationship, right?”

Yuuji raised his eyebrow and threw his arms up.

“The world may never know. That is unless…you wanna know?”

Choso rolled his eyes, following Yuuji to class.

Baby, you're no good; I think I fell for you.

Little did Yuuji know Choso was already in love with you. As much as he’d try not to, he couldn’t help but see you walking around campus.

Pretty face adorned with sparkly lipgloss, your hair always down, giving a slight view of your hoop earrings. You usually wore a little locket necklace, never telling anyone what was inside, sitting atop a pink shirt that your tits always looked great in. Then a miniskirt that, depending on the breeze that day, gave a sneak peek of your ass. Then, the heels you wear, except for the winter when you wore a cute pair of boots with leggings, he could practically see through them. It was tough when he was in class with you; you raised your hand to answer a question, a French manicure, and the clinking of your bangles that were practically ASMR for him. Then, there were your books that, when some random guy wasn’t offering to hold them, pressed against your chest, making your breasts lift as you walked. Sometimes, you’d wear a perfume that smelled like cake; other days, vanilla, pretty hard to miss as you walked by. Then there was your skin, always glowing like you drank from the fountain of youth or something, legs smooth as you crossed them over one another or stood before the seminar to answer a question on the board. Sometimes, you had a pair of stockings or thigh highs that covered them, ending a little lower than where your skirt ended; god forbid you bent over, which you were careful never to do, usually asking someone to pick something up for you. You never touched a door either; sure, it was because every guy wanted to fuck you, running around like your puppies ready for a task; sometimes you gave them one, they’d run back to you with a lollipop or something like that, which you parted your lips so sexily to take in and suck.

It's not like he was paying attention or anything.

You got me puttin' time in.

Now, Choso wasn’t terrible at talking to girls, sometimes getting approached but a little too awkward to continue the conversation. Then again, he had the hots for you, so it was hard to look at anyone else. He’d got it in his mind that he’d talk to you one of these days. Maybe he’d ask you out on a date, but he wouldn’t know how he’d react if you rejected him; in light of that, he never said anything to you, just an awkward look if you guys ever made eye contact, which you always gave him a confident one, followed by a wave. But all that was thrown out the window right now. He was too shocked that you were standing in front of him to hear what you’d said; your face had one of those optimistic looks, hands sitting on his desk in the library as your arms squished your tits together, leaning over a bit to look at him.

“Hello, earth to Choso, you there?”

“Sorry, could you repeat that?”

Your skirt sat particularly short on your hips today, your belly button ring gleaming with a little heart at the end, but his eyes drifted to your waistline, a little bit of a pink fabric peeking ever so slightly out the top of your denim-

“I said, “Hey, Choso! What’s up?””

“Oh, sorry. Not much, how about you?”

“Oh, nothin’; saw you were sittin’ alone and wanted to come say hi; that okay?”

It was more than okay. He had to shift in his seat, boner becoming irritably hard against his thigh.

“Yeah, that’s fine. Uh, wanna take a seat?”

“Sure! So, whatcha workin' on?”

“Oh, I’m just studying for the statistics exam.”

“That class is super hard! I feel like I’m not getting any of it.”

He took that as his one-way ticket to testing the waters with you.

“I could, um, tutor you if you want.”

“Really? You’d do that for me?”

You perked up, hand touching his arms, tits calling out as you shifted towards him in the seat. He couldn’t take his eyes off them, but he knew he had to focus if this was gonna work at all.

“Yeah, it’s no problem.”

“Perfect, when are you free?

He was free anytime for you.

“Uh, I’m free after classes; what about you?”

“Hmm, well, I have a sorority meeting at six tomorrow, so that probably won’t work, but then, ooo, I have cheer practice on Thursday, ugh, and I can’t forget Nobara’s party on Friday!”

“So, Wednesday?”

“Perfect! We’d just have to do it after my nail appointment at 3.”

He looked at your nails; nothing looked bad about them, so he was confused. He hadn’t realized how busy you were, which explained why you didn’t have a boyfriend. But that only made him feel worse.

“I think your nails are nice like that?”

You were blushing now, bringing a hand out in front of you two.

“Ya think so? I was thinking of changing the color; I've changed my mind since last week.”

Your phone got a ring; he noticed it was Mai, a girl he’d often see you walking around with. Happily, you answered it.

“Hey babe, what's up?”

He couldn't hear what Mai was saying to you on the phone, but fuck, he wished you'd answer the phone like that for him. That's when it struck him that he hadn't even-

“Sorry about that! She had to tell me about this crazy thing one of our sisters did.”

“Sisters?”

“Yeah, like in our sorority, silly! Anyways, gotta blast, but I enjoyed our chat!”

You pulled a pen out of your purse along with a piece of gum; after unwrapping it and putting it in your mouth, you grabbed Choso’s hand, writing down your phone number.

“There ya go, put it in fast so it doesn’t wash off, 'kay? Bye, cutie!”

With that, you walked away. See, this is where Choso was fucked; he had to think about when he should text you, now, later today, or Wednesday? That and his boner. He hurried up and shuffled to his and Yuuji’s dorm room, using his backpack to cover his crotch.

Nobody got me feeling this way.

“YOU GOT HER NUMBER?”

“Yes, but it’s because I’m tutoring her.”

“So, you and her, alone. “Studying”.”

“Yes, Yuuji, now fuck off!”

When Choso told Yuuji about the exchange earlier, he was convinced you were on something.

“So, she just randomly walked up to you? Isn’t that weird?”

“Is it that foreign for someone to want to talk to me?”

Yuuji looked him up and down, giving him that look. Choso scoffed and continued typing up his essay. He couldn’t stop thinking about you, if he was being honest. He tried his best to put off texting you, but that lasted all but 4 hours.

“Hey. It’s Choso.”

He sighed as he threw his head back. He was feeling a bit stupid, to be honest. For all he knew, you had been dared to talk to him, or it was a little game you came up with. Still, he knew it wasn’t in your character to do something like that, but his self-loathing told him otherwise. All of a sudden, though, his screen lit up.

“haiiii <3 wednesday still good? :3”

“Yeah, what time?”

“let’s do 5, 'kay?”

“Sounds good.”

“yay! see you then :p.”

When Wednesday came around, Choso was nervous all day. Yuuji teased him for it, saying there was nothing to worry about; you guys were only “studying.” Choso had seen you in class with the usual demeanor and look, but instead, today, you gave him a wink as you walked by, which went straight to his dick. It had been 4:55, and he was pacing his room, trying to mentally and physically prepare to be alone with you for the next hour or so. But then five came, then 5:05, then-

A knock at the door, which he was praying, wasn't Yuuji coming back to the room; he told Choso earlier he was gonna spend the night out ‘In case something happened.’ Much to Choso’s bliss, it was you, panting a bit.

“I'm so sorry! I spilled my smoothie on my other top, so I had to change, then I ran over as fast as I could! You’re not too mad at me, are you?”

Choso had realized you had a different shirt on when he opened the door. This one was a lower cut, your cleavage on full display, the bottom short cropped. Damn, you looked good.

“You’re fine; come in.”

“Ooo, thanks!”

You walked into the room, and he waited for you to say something; his room was pretty much clean, except for a pair of socks Yuuji left on the floor. Instead, you smile at him, then bend over to set your purse and books- fuck, you bent over. Choso looked at every single item in the room, anything to not stare at your ass in his peripheral vision. Quickly, you got up and turned around, Choso flustered as ever.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“Uh, no…let’s get started.”

An hour passed, and Choso was shocked at his level of resolve. He tried his best to help you and pay attention to the papers in front of you, but fuck, your tits looked great from this angle.

“All done! I think this is the best I’ve ever done! Thank you so so much!”

You wrapped your arms around him, bringing him into a hug that made his breath rapid. You pulled back from him now, still hugging him, as you looked up at him with those doe eyes of yours. Choso was much taller than you, so he was getting quite the view, but that came with him looking the most flustered he’s ever been. You let go with a giggle, walking over to sit on his bed. He watched you sit back on your hands, legs slightly open as your chest poked out. God, you looked cute, even better that you were sitting on HIS bed.

“Hey, Choso?”

“Yeah?”

“I need your help with something.”

“What’s up?”

You got me touchin' on your body…

He walked over to you with a confused look on his face. What could you possibly want? You guys had already studied, which is what you both agreed to; maybe another class-

You opened your thighs to him, panty-clad pussy on full display.

He was about to fucking die. He couldn’t help but pinch himself; he had to be dreaming. It was already surprising to him that you were in his room, but you practically asking him to touch your pussy was an enigma. You pulled him forward by his shirt, his face up to yours.

“That is, if you wanna.”

Choso started melting, but he wouldn’t let this opportunity pass him by. With urgency, he dropped to his knees, positioning himself on the floor between your legs, both draped over his shoulders as he pulled you closer to him. God, he could smell you; it was making him hungry. Then there was your thong soaked from your wetness, leading him to wonder how long you wanted this. The print of your lips against the fabric was about to send him over. He brought his hands up your legs, the feeling of your plush thighs making him ache, all the way up to your hips, where he flipped your skirt up. He wasted no time grabbing the edge of your panties, backing up to pull them down your legs. You opened up a little more for him, soaked pussy on full display. He was dreaming, he was dreaming, he was dreaming. He experimentally brought his fingers up to spread your lips apart, precum dripping out of you. He almost passed out, but that was the last thing he needed to start his mission.

Choso brought his lips down to your pussy, lapping up all of your juices, then fucking his tongue into you. You were moaning, body arching as you found your fingers in his hair. Fuck you tasted good. He brought his tongue to your clit, circling the bud slowly, making the most out of this situation and simultaneously making you whimper.

“Choso….”

You sounded so fucking good. Every moan of his name went straight to his dick, which was looking to rub against anything to get some relief. He brought his fingers up and slipped them inside you, making you groan loudly. He explored your walls carefully, but it wasn’t until he curled his fingers that he really got a rise out of you.

“Fuck, right there, don’t stop!”

He was a damn good listener. He pumped his fingers in and out of you as your body jerked, begging to cum. He was in disbelief; he was the one making you feel like this. Moan like this. Cum like this. It came hard, fingers gripping his hair in a way that brought him out of his hazy state. And fuck, as you came down, you rutted your pussy against his tongue, mouth still opened and eyes rolled back. Choso was in fucking heaven. You were panting on his bed, half-naked, back still arched; you were a sight to see. You began to come back to earth, sitting up on your hands again, pussy most likely staining the sheets, but it’s not like he fuckin' cared.

“Come here.”

Your usual bubbly demeanor left the second you came, grabbing Choso by his shirt and bringing him down to kiss you. You opened your legs so he could position himself between them, kissing him intensely now. Instinctively, he brought his hand up to your tits, groping them through the fabric of your shirt, pinching your nipple once he found it. He ruts his hips against yours, making you groan into his mouth. Fuck, you were so hot, all of his senses were filled with you, he was gonna lose his-

I know I'd rather be complacent.

He fucking came on himself. Simultaneously, your phone began to ring, the same tone as the other day when Mai called you. With a pout, you walked over to his desk to grab your phone. God, he praised himself for wearing back sweats that day. Luckily for him, it didn’t seem you noticed, picking up the phone and smiling. Just like that, you were back to your usual self.

“Hey, hey!”

Mai said something to you as Choso went to his drawer, already looking for a set of underwear and pants to replace the ones he accidentally soaked. You were pouting now, tilting your head to the side as you talked to her.

“But Maiiii, I’m doing something super important!”

You looked at him from head to toe, smirking as you continued talking. Fuck, what were you guys talking about?

“Ugh, fine, but you owe me! See you in a bit.”

You hung up the phone and walked over to him, a sad look on your face as you wrapped your arms around him and nuzzled your head into his chest.

“You gotta go?”

“Yeah, but I really don’t want to!”

“It’s fine. You should be ready for the test on Thursday.”

You bent over to pick up your purse and books again; this time, he really couldn’t look because he knew his dick would probably betray him. You put your heels back on, getting on your tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.

“Bye, cutie!”

“Um, bye.”

Choso took a shower as soon as you left, in which he had to relieve himself from the events of today. It’s like he couldn’t get your taste you out of his head; every time he tried to focus on his essay, you were there. It didn’t help when he found your thong on the floor beside his bed. Shit, he hadn’t even thought to put them back on you. Quickly, he texted you, letting you know you forgot them.

“oopsie :3 consider them a gift ;)”

Fuck, you were dangerous.

Girl, I'm so glad we're acquainted.

Baby, you're no good.

“YOU DID WHAT?”

“Shut the fuck up, you're gonna wake the whole hall!”

“Let me get this straight, you fucked her?”

“No, yes, well, not exactly. I, you know…”

“Awe shit, she sucked your-”

“NO, YUUJI, JESUS.”

“So, what did you- Holy shit, you gave her head!”

Choso became flustered, never really having a conversation with Yuuji about his sex life, but Yuuji was more than open about his.

“Yes, I gave her head.”

“YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up! You’re too damn loud!”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s not like I didn’t believe in you or anything, but a girl like that? I probably would’ve cum on myself.”

Now, Choso knew you were busy, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to see you again. He’d remembered everything you said you had to do, so he figured he’d talk to you again at Nobara’s party. He was initially going because Nobara was a mutual friend through Yuuji, but now, he had a way better reason. You guys had seen each other around the halls Thursday, you giving him a wink every time you saw him, and he’d return it with a blush and grin. He hadn’t texted you either, trying to be considerate of your time, but as Friday afternoon came along, you appeared to be distant with him. He was nervous at this point. What if he was over-analyzing things? Just a quick fuck to get each other’s rocks off? Then, unfortunately, the thought came to mind that maybe you had realized he came on himself, which hurt his feelings pretty bad. I mean, he couldn’t help it; spontaneous oral on the girl he’d liked for months now, he was already in bad shape to begin with. But, fuck, he missed you.

All my homies think I'm crazy 'cause I'm thinkin' 'bout us lately.

Nobara’s party could be heard down the street, some AirBnb, all your sisters put in on. Choso couldn’t lie; it was pretty nice, a large house with at least eight bedrooms, a pool and basketball court in the back, and balconies on almost every window. He and Yuuji had shuffled their way into the house, Yuuji immediately looking for something to drink that was far from water. Once he found a bottle of tequila, he poured him and Choso a couple of shots, both throwing them back like it was nothing. Yuuji seemed to know everyone at this party, sparking conversation with damn near anyone that walked by. He and Choso found their way to the backyard, sitting in the little patio section next to the pool.

“So, did you text her yet?”

“No, I’m pretty sure she’s upset with me about something.”

“Cause she’s been giving you the silent treatment?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, she’s obviously not giving it to him.”

But really, if I could, I'd forget about you.

Yuuji pointed to you on the other side of the pool, talking to some guy. You held a cup, presumably with alcohol, but what you were wearing was the kicker. You hadn’t bothered to wear a top, just your string bikini covering your tits, which wasn’t doing a very good job of covering them up. Then there were your shorts; they were basically underwear with how high they came up, the underside of your ass on display. You were leaning into the guy, obviously in deep conversation. The guy, however, was getting an eyeful; he couldn’t even make eye contact with you because he was staring so intently at your chest.

You got me puttin' time in.

Choso couldn’t lie, it pissed him off real bad. He couldn’t tell if it was because you were talking to this guy and not him or because the guy was looking at you so inappropriately; it wasn’t like he was one to talk. But his jaw locked as he saw the guy slip a hand onto your waist as you stumbled a bit, and you didn’t stop him.

“She’s free to do what she wants.”

“Yeah, she’s doin’ what she wants, alright. Your face was in her pussy on Wednesday, and she’s probably gonna do the same to him tonight.”

Nobody got me feeling this way.

Yuuji’s comment had put a fire under Choso’s ass. Immediately, he got up from where he and Yuuji sat, heading straight towards you.

“Told you, you were jealous, bitch!”

Now, Choso wasn’t the confrontational type, but three shots in, he felt a little bit of that liquid courage. He’d closed the gap between the patio and the pool quickly, focused on getting to you; as he walked up, he could hear you giggling at whatever that fucker was saying. You turned your head in surprise, an awkward smile on your face as Choso grabbed your arm.

“Gonna borrow her right quick.”

Choso could hear the guy cursing him out in confusion as he walked away with you, but if anyone was confused, it was you.

You got me touchin' on your body….

Choso led you up the stairs as you rushed to keep up, spilling your drink a bit. He found an empty bedroom, walked you into it, and locked it behind him.

“Choso, what the actual fuck?”

“What are you doing, huh?”

“What am I doing? What am I doing? Motherfucker, what are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you haven’t talked to me in days. Then you pull me in here, like I’m the bad guy or something, fuck, did eating me out mean anything to you?”

“Of course it did! I haven’t texted you because I wanted to give you space!”

“I could’ve made time for you! I don’t wanna hear your shitty excuses as to-”

To say that we're in love is dangerous…

Your sentence was cut short by Choso pulling you into a kiss. You were fucking mad at him, sure, but you wanted to fuck him more than anything. That’s why you let him lay you on the bed behind you, mouth coming to kiss you, even deeper this time. He pulled back to undo your top, allowing your tits free.

“So, who the fuck was that?”

He brought his lips down to your nipple, sucking it as you moaned softly.

“A friend, what are you, jealous?”

He sucked the other one, massaging your tits as you watched him intently.

“Depends.”

“On?”

But, girl, I'm so glad we're acquainted.

Choso began to move his way down, sucking the skin of your stomach as he brought his hands down to hook into your shorts. He had them down to your ankles, pulling them off of you.

“I’m your friend too, no?”

“Something like that.”

He undid the strings on your bikini, throwing them somewhere in the room. He brought his face down to you, kissing your inner thighs to tease you.

“You let all your friends eat your pussy?”

Ever since I met you, I couldn't believe what you did.

You couldn’t answer his question, body reacting to the kitten licks he was giving your clit. Choso was a bit more familiar with you now; he knew you liked it when he fucked you with his tongue and that you moan a little harder when he pressed his tongue harder on our bud. But, god, you were intoxicating. He missed the taste of your pre-cum on his lips, shamelessly saturating his whole face with your juices. That is until he pulled his face back, teasing you.

“Answer me, princess.”

“No, I don't.”

That made him hungry, greedy even. His face was back on you, fucking his tongue into you as he pinned your hips down, watching you squirm from the pleasure. The pleasure he was giving you.

Choso picked up the pace of his tongue, his fingers finding their way to your pussy, curling them as he sucked on your clit. One hand still on your hips to keep you still; it was all in vain because when you came, your body came undone. You buck your hips into his touch, moaning his name as you let him suck you through your high. You were fucking beautiful. He pulled up to look at you, smirking as he saw your tits rise and fall from all the panting you were doing. He figured it wasn’t too bad to give you another orgasm; you looked so fucking hot coming down that he couldn’t resist drinking your cum as he brought his thumb to your clit. You were on fucking fire, still recovering from before, and now he was bringing you up to his face. He pinned you down, devouring you instantly.

Now, Choso felt a little adventurous, bringing his hands up to rub your nipples between his fingers while you fucked his face. You didn’t know where all this nerve came from, presumably because he’s made you cum twice now, the third one about to join. But you honestly didn’t give a fuck. If he had the balls to eat you as good as he was doing, you could care less. Because his tongue was just too damn distracting. You began to grind your pussy on his face, not even considering his ability to breathe; it’s not like he was concerned about it. You were moaning his name like a symphony, pulling them out of you more frequently as you felt your body giving in again.

“Choso, I’m, I, fuck!”

So comfort me…

Choso smirked into your pussy as you came, falling over onto the bed immediately. He was kissing you now, soft and sweet, like he didn’t intend to fuck the shit out of you. With a careful hand, he brought your leg up, pulling it away from the other so he could get in between them. He enjoyed the view of you, spent and gasping for air, bucking your hips slowly as you waited for him to fuck you. As he began removing his clothes, he continued this little conversation.

“Hm, that doesn’t make sense then, does it?”

“You’re more than a friend, Choso.”

At this point, he’d taken everything but his boxers off, dick almost stabbing out the front of his briefs. He took them off quickly, bringing his body back up to sit on top of yours. He kissed you as he fingered your pussy again, making you squirm under his touch. Messily, he brought your cum out of your pussy, rubbing it over his shaft as he looked down at you.

“More than a friend, huh?”

Choso kissed your neck as he slid his dick in, holding your hips as he rolled his into yours. He was painfully slow, pulling out to sink back in. Fuck, it was torture.

“Yes, Choso! Now fuck me, please!”

“No problem.”

He slammed his hips into yours, making you groan. He gripped you tightly as he fucked you, forehead meeting yours so he could see your pretty face as you took him so well.

“When was the last time you got fucked?”

“Months ago.”

“So, you decided you just wanted me to eat your pussy one day?”

He began that slow pace again, scratching his back as he reached the deepest parts of you.

“No, I liked you for a while! Thought you didn’t like me ‘til I met you in the library!”

He couldn’t fucking believe it. This entire time you’d been waiting for him to make a move, and he was too fucking pussy to do it. Well, he’ll make it up to you now by fucking your pussy. He hit that sweet spot inside you as you moved your hips to meet his, hands brushing through his hair as he gave it to you right where you needed him. And god, you were sexy. You pressed your tits against his chest as he fucked you into the bed, practically screaming his name every time he’d give you a hard thrust to get a rise out of you.

“I want you, princess.”

To be fair, you hadn’t really entertained any of the guys who wanted you; they’d just ogle you, but you wanted someone who’d claim you. Make you his. And Choso was doing it. He fucked you like no one had ever done before, sucking hickeys all over you that you were sure you didn’t have enough concealer to cover up. Then, there was the way he’d moan into your ear. Sometimes your name, but mostly baby, princess, beautiful. He was taking you higher and higher, and you didn’t wanna come down.

“Then, I’m yours.”

Ain't no rush from me.

That was enough for Choso. He fucked you faster, keeping your hips still so he could fuck you how you needed it. Your body was practically begging to cum again, all but throwing yourself at him. He prayed you’d cum soon because he’d be down for the count here shortly, panting into the side of your neck as he took you. And take you, he did, gripping his shoulders as you moaned his name into the room, eyes rolling back and mouth wide open as you came for the third time that night. You honestly didn’t know you had it in you, nor did Choso, because he was right behind you, gripping the headboard as he fucked you through his orgasm, whimpering your name as he fell to pieces inside you. Your pussy was like fucking heaven, taking his cum so well as your hands fell to your side, too fucked out to move.

I’ll keep on touchin' on your body. To say that we're in love is dangerous…

Choso fell beside you, exhausted as ever. He was grateful he’d taken precautionary measures and relieved himself before he came to the party cause he surely would’ve cum the second he felt your pussy. He looked over at you; he could tell you were pretty damn tired; who wouldn’t be after he made you cum so many times. So, he helped you put your clothes back on, carrying you down the stairs and out to his car. He shot Yuuji a text to let him know he was leaving, choosing to leave out the details of what he had been doing for the past hour and a half. After getting you in the car, he got in the driver’s seat and started it.

“Ima take ya home, okay?”

You perked up a little, grabbing his arm and wrapping around it.

“Wanna go home with you!”

“Whatever ya want, princess.”

Choso gripped your thigh as he drove off, returning to his dorm. He carried you to his room, removing your clothes and helping you get into one of his t-shirts. Both of you in the bed, he pulled you into his chest, letting you get comfortable. You look up at him, smiling a bit as you yawn.

“Night, baby!”

You kissed him quickly and laid back down, drifting off to sleep.

‘Baby’, huh? He could get used to that.

But, girl, I'm so glad we're acquainted.

♱ the song used in this story is acquainted by the weeknd. 🖤

♱ masterlist.

♱ all fics playlist.

𝖆𝖚 𝖗𝖊𝖛𝖔𝖎𝖗, 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖑𝖞𝖗𝖚𝖎𝖓.