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sarahowritesostucky · 7 months ago

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📖"The Commander's Omega"

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Tags: alpha/omega, dystopia, sex slavery, forced breeding, mutilation, rape, corporal punishment, fascism, hurt/comfort, power imbalance, mpreg, age gap (38/23), mentions of abortion

Summary: After years of a mass infertility crisis, the United States is overtaken by religious fanatics, and Bucky Barnes finds himself thrust into a brutal world of survival. When he's discovered to be fertile, he's forced to serve as a vessel: a caste of omegas who bear children for the political elite.

Chapter III. Freedom to

Story Masterlist

Before:

First, the president and the ranking fifteen closest in command are assassinated. There’s an explosion that nobody can trace, and just like that, the whole cabinet goes.

Bucky’s halfway through his Wednesday physics lecture when the professor stops what she’s doing and grabs the remote. The tv gets turned on and the one hundred and twelve freshmen in the lecture hall watch it play out on the news with a sense of surrealism.

NYU winds up suspending all classes, and Bucky takes the train home to spend time with his parents. George and Winnie put him up in his old room, which they haven’t yet bothered to empty out. There’s still a poster of Nine Inch Nails on the back of the door from Bucky’s alternative phase. Becca, Trudy and Clair come home within the following week, and the house is just as cramped as it ever was.

That’s how he finds himself at home when the news breaks that Congress has been eliminated. Eliminated, that’s the word they use. Not an assassination. Now it’s a terrorist attack, and the martial law that’s been in place since two weeks ago has everyone in their homes by sundown. But there are already guardians patrolling the neighborhood streets as if they’re the ones in charge.

Bucky gets a text from his bank, notifying him that his accounts have been frozen and will be transferred to his Alpha spouse or next of kin. He's still what-the-fucking that with his sisters when his mom steps out of the room to go call his dad and urge him to come home early from work. All their phones start shrieking with emergency alerts, telling them to shelter in place, that people on the street could be shot.

In the next few hours, Bucky's father comes home, looking wan and disturbed. Bucky can't get him to give a straight answer on what he saw out there to make him so upset, but the occasional pops of gunfire and revving vehicles outside are a hint. Bucky keeps getting text messages from his bank, from the University. When he tries to log into his accounts, he's blocked, and repeat text messages are triggered to his phone.

Becca, Trudy, and Clair are beta: they don't get any text messages.

His mom and dad come back into the living room and join Bucky and his sisters in sitting on the couch and watching the tv. Within hours, the news programs stop broadcasting. The tv shows only static. Within days, the missing news programs are replaced with just one: a state news channel.

The new broadcasts are bare-boned, but they are very informative. The anchor who used to do the six o’clock news comes on for her slot. She sits poised behind the news desk, making no comment for a long minute. There’s sweat visibly beading on her brow, but it’s obvious that she’s trying hard to maintain her composure while sitting in front of the large banner they’ve set as a backdrop. It's a symbol Bucky recognizes from a Christian nationalist group that's been in the news these past few years. "That's ... that's the Sons of Jacob flag," he says.

"Sons of what?"

"Holy rollers," he breathes, dread welling in his stomach. "They have a chapter on campus."

“Good evening,” the news anchor says, when someone or something offscreen prompts her. Her hands clasp tightly atop the desk and she begins cheerfully reading off the news: "As of six p.m. eastern time today, security in the capital has been declared restored," she announces. "The worst of the fighting is suppressed, and recovery efforts are being prepared for deployment in all major cities north of the Knoxville-Raleigh line. In Washington D.C., the government is reported to be secured and solidly in place."

"Oh, thank goodness," Winnie says, but Bucky is frowning at the tv and shaking his head.

"I don't think they mean the US government, mom."

"What?"

"Insurgent forces have suffered devastating defeats, and have been pushed back beyond the North Carolina-Tennessee border. Reports of smaller insurgent camps located in the Pennsylvania mountains are unsubstantiated at this point, but government officials are warning civilians in the Allegany Mountain range to avoid travel. An extended shelter in place order is expected to remain in place for the region."

Bucky looks worriedly to his mother, because he’s not stupid. The newscaster lady looks almost exactly the same as she always had before, only now there's an odd enthusiasm radiating from her; a sort of glassy-eyed, desperate-to-be-believed look that doesn't sit well with Bucky. It doesn’t take him long to learn what that look is, or what it means.

It’s fear. And it means that he should be afraid too.

After:

“Ofsteven, good afternoon.”

Bucky looks up from his seat at the window. Today is the third day in a row that he’s sat there, time spent mostly staring out at the back yard. There’s a black guy who wears beta blue and tends to the flowers and bushes out there. Sam. Bucky's been wondering if he might go down and poke around the little greenhouse that's attached to the kitchen, or if he'd be chastised for getting in the way.

But now Commander Rogers is standing awkwardly in the doorway to his little room, and Bucky snaps to attention. It's odd, hearing himself referred to by this new name. Up until not too long ago, he was called Ofwarren. Then at the red center, it'd been back to James, and now it's back to the goddamn patronymic. “Commander,” he says respectfully. "Blessed day."

The Commander gives him a tight sort of smile. “Blessed day." He steps a little farther into the room. "You can call me Steve,” he offers. "If you want."

"What?" Bucky shifts uncomfortably, realizes that he's not joking. “But ... That’s not allowed."

“I run my household a little differently, you’ll find,” Steve says. “Commander is ..." he makes a face. "It's very formal. I’d prefer it if you called me Steve. Especially since we’ll, erm ... you know. Be getting to know one another better.”

In another life, Bucky would’ve blushed, but he’s been indoctrinated in some ways whether he’d like to admit it or not. He’s used to his role as an object by now. “Okay,” he agrees quietly. "Fine."

He doesn’t want to seem too eager to be breaking the rules, since this could just be Commander Rogers’ way of tricking him, of sussing him out. There are true Believers who get their kicks that way, and vessels like Bucky are already known for rule breaking, criminally sentenced to their roles as broodmares for the state. Steve might just be trying to lure him into a false sense of comfortability by feigning friendliness. Commander Putnam had been that way. The bottoms of Bucky’s feet have scars from his misplaced trust in years past, and he isn’t keen on earning more.

“You can call me Bucky if you want,” he reluctantly offers.

Steve nods, brightening a bit. “Okay. Bucky it is." His mouth quirks and he tilts his head. "I take it that's a nickname of some sort?"

"Yeah. My one sister started it, back when she couldn't pronounce my middle name." He shrugs. "It's what my family called me."

Steve smiles, encouraged. "Are any of them still around?”

“No.”

He's surprised yet again, when Steve makes it clear he's going to join him for lunch.

Bucky'd thought commanders like Steve were too busy to take meals outside their offices. Even now, nearly four years after the institution of biblical law, there's still a lot of work to do: insurgencies to hunt, population crises to handle, people to surveil, torture, maim. Kill. The restructuring of the country is still in its infancy, and just because the iron fist of fascism has closed firmly around their necks doesn't mean there's ever a shortage of work to be done.

Bucky doesn't yet know what Commander Rogers' specific role is, in this brave new nation of theirs, but so far, every Commander that he's encountered has held an instrumental position. He tries to remember that, when his first instinct is to trust Steve's surface-level kindness. Steve isn't like him. He caused this. He wanted this.

Steve leads them downstairs, down to the conservatory that connects the kitchen to the greenhouse. It's set up as an informal dining room, and Bucky’s taken aback when, after placing a simple lunch of soup and sandwiches onto the table for the Commander and Bucky, the Martha named Sharon puts out four other place settings. Shortly thereafter, Sharon and the redheaded servant—Natasha, Bucky learns, and the gardener and the driver (Sam and Clint) join the table as well.

They eat in relative silence, and Bucky spends the meal sneaking surreptitious glances around at everybody. They’re all eating together as if they're equals, when Bucky knows they very much are not. Gender roles have been staunchly enforced in the past four years, and it's become a rare sight indeed, to have alphas, betas, and omegas interacting together all at once.

Steve is sitting at the head of the table, and it comes as a shock when he says, “So how has everyone’s morning been?”

Bucky keeps his eyes on his sandwich, sure that he’s not expected to answer. Natasha is the first one who speaks, saying, “Pretty good. Got the vacuuming done."

"Upstairs, or downstairs?" Steve asks pointedly.

"Downstairs. Upstairs isn't ready yet."

"Dammit," Steve grunts.

"All the laundry's done.” Natasha glances reproachfully at Sam. “Unless somebody makes an awful mess of his clothes going forward. Blood isn't exactly easy to get out, you know.”

Sam chuckles. “I have a dirty job, sue me.” He looks pointedly at Steve. "I got the hedges done."

"Did that go smoothly?" Steve asks without looking up from his soup. Bucky frowns, wondering how trimming the hedges could go wrong.

"There were a few dead spots, but they came off without a hitch."

"Disposed of?" Steve asks.

"Yep. Threw 'em in the burn pit."

Steve nods in somber approval. "Good riddance."

Jeez, Bucky thinks, these people take lawn maintenance very seriously. He realizes after a beat that his mouth is gaping a little, and he snaps it shut. This is the first time in nearly four years that he’s observed alphas, betas and omegas speaking so freely with one another, acting like equals. It’s almost like before. The thought puts an ache in his chest, which he quickly squashes.

“How about you Bucky?”

His eyes shoot up to find Steve and everyone else at the table regarding him. He quickly swallows the bite of sandwich in his mouth to answer, “Um, I’ve been okay. Just ... been in my room.” The answer is so dull that it almost makes him feel embarrassed. Even now, when the highlights of other people’s days are as tedious as laundry and gardening, Bucky himself has nothing to offer in the way of conversation. He doesn’t dare complain, though. There are worse things than being bored.

“You must be getting bored up there in your room,” Steve observes.

“Um …”

“I have a modest library in my office. If you like, you can poke around and find something that interests you.”

Bucky's stomach sinks, and his fingers feel cold where they grip his sandwich. “Excuse me?” he asks. Surely, this is a trap. This is the Rogers’ household trying to see whether he’s a True Believer or not. They're testing him. Bucky feels sick at the prospect of getting in trouble, so he mumbles, “I don’t think so,” and looks back down at his plate. “That’s not allowed.”

There’s a long beat of awkward silence, and then Steve says, “Guys, can you give us a minute?”

Four chairs scrape against the stone floor of the conservatory and Natasha and the others file out through the kitchen, disappearing back into the house. Bucky feels dread well in his gut. Has he said the wrong thing?

“Bucky,” Steve says carefully. “Do you really think that it’s wrong for an omega to read?”

Bucky can feel Steve’s eyes boring into his head, so he looks up. Steve doesn’t look upset, he looks interested. Bucky licks his lips nervously. “Well. I dunno. I ... was an engineering major, in college,” he says. “I minored in English Lit.”

Steve nods sympathetically. “I take it you were quite an avid reader, then.”

“I guess.”

Steve continues to eat his lunch as if Bucky hasn’t said anything wrong, and it gives Bucky hope. Surely this can’t be, he thinks. Surely there aren’t people like this, aren’t households like this, anymore. “Did you really mean it?” he asks, heart lifting with new hope, about ready to bust free of the scar tissue that’s kept it tethered down for so long. "You'd let me read?"

“Yes,” Steve says. “You can come to my office tonight, after evening meal. You can pick out some books.”

Bucky’s heart soars. “Can I take some back to my room?”

“Absolutely not,” Steve snaps, sounding like a true Commander for the first time yet. He levels Bucky with a stern look. “My office is the only room in the house without windows. Do you understand? You may only read them in there.”

Bucky swallows heavily and ducks his head, cowed. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Okay.”

Before:

Bucky’s naked toes scrape the ledge of the exam table. He’s only wearing the paper gown they gave him, and frankly the room’s too cold for that. The door to the exam room opens again, and Bucky’s eyes shoot up. He sits up straighter. “Doctor?”

The man doesn’t look at him. He walks over to the cabinets in the room and drops the folder he’s holding onto the countertop with a flourish and a sigh. Bucky screws up his face at having been ignored. “Um … what did the—”

“You’re pregnant,” the doctor says flatly, still not turning around. “Congratulations.”

Bucky’s heart sinks. Sure, he’d suspected. Hell, he’d pretty much known. Two positive at-home tests and a smiling pharmacist when he’d been desperate enough to buy a third had told him so. It’s why he’d come to the clinic. But still, shit. “Okay,” he says, swallowing heavily. “Okay. So, do I need to make another appointment to come back? Or can we just …”

The doctor’s shoulders tense up through the material of his lab coat. “Excuse me?” he says. He turns around and the expression on his face makes Bucky want to shrink away. “‘Can we just’? ‘Can we just’ what?”

“... I told you,” Bucky says, wary of the man's anger. “The pregnancy. I want to terminate.”

If he had any doubts about what was going through the physician’s mind, they’re quickly quashed by the way the man’s face now dissolves into disgust. “Well isn't that a pretty way of putting it,” he spits. “You want an abortion?”

“Uh, yeah.” Bucky juts his chin out in defiance. “You got a problem with that?”

The doctor scoffs. “Yes, I do. You know, hardly anyone can have a baby anymore. You manage to get pregnant, and you want to kill it?”

“It’s my choice.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Bucky stands up, heedless of the fact that he’s dressed in only the flimsy paper gown. “I don’t think you’re being very professional,” he says. Really, it’s not that this doctor’s opinion is that different from a lot of people’s these days, but Bucky still feels infuriated at the fact that he’s having to have this argument with a doctor, of all people. “Now, do I have to make an appointment to come back?” he grits. "Or can we take care of this today?"

The man’s features harden. “You’ll have to go somewhere else if you want to murder your own child. We don’t do that here.”

Bucky grinds his teeth. “This is a city-funded clinic.” He’d specifically come here instead of the private doctor that his parents’ insurance could easily cover. “You have to provide reproductive health care. It’s the law.”

“The law’s going to change real soon.” The doctor turns his back to Bucky and heads for the door.

Bucky watches in disbelief as he's utterly dismissed. “Excuse me?”

“Get the hell out of my clinic,” the man says as he flings the door open and steps out into the hallway. He spares Bucky one last contemptuous glance. “There’s a special place in Hell for people like you.”

Bucky gapes as the man goes, and the door slowly shuts behind him. Suddenly, the room feels even colder than it had before, and Bucky’s desperate to get his clothes back on. He stoops to grab his jeans and underwear from where he’d put them on a chair, and he shucks them on, followed by his shirt. He rakes his hands through his hair, feeling overwhelmed tears pricking at the edges of his eyes. He’s had enough shit to deal with lately, what with midterms, his boyfriend breaking up with him, and now this pregnancy scare (well, not a scare anymore, as it turns out). He really didn’t need to deal with such a shitty person on today of all days.

“Well fuck you too,” he mutters to the empty room, bitterness burning in his gut. He’s going to go straight to the next city clinic, and the next, and the next, until he finds someone to agree to help him. Because no way in fucking hell is he having a baby one semester into undergrad.

After:

Bucky trails his hands over the spines of the books that line Commander Rogers’ library. Steve is sitting at his desk, distracted by whatever he’s looking at on the screen of his computer.

There must be over a thousand books in the office. Steve has books on everything from philosophy to horticulture; from biographies and novels, to antique encyclopedias and foreign language art books. Bucky can’t help but be impressed. And jealous. "This is amazing," he murmurs.

Steve spares him a glance from over at his desk. He looks vaguely amused. “It’s just a library.”

Said like someone who's never had anything taken away from him, Bucky thinks peevishly. “Must be a thousand," he guesses.

"Close to twelve hundred, last time I counted."

"Are they all yours, or did they come with—” he cuts himself off before he can complete the question.

It’s not talked about openly, isn't considered polite, but everybody knows that the Commanders of the Faithful all live in grand houses that were taken and not bought. Taken from people deemed unworthy by the government. Gender traitors, freedom fighters, apostates. There are plenty of things that can get a person killed these days, their house stripped away along with everything else they own. There’s a strong chance that this house they’re standing in right now got snatched from someone else; a person with a life, hopes and dreams, furniture, family. A person with possessions and passions. With books.

Bucky tenses when he comes across an entire section stuffed full with different spiritual and holy books. There's one whole shelf dedicated to nothing but an assortment of bibles: King James, Catholic, Greek, and New Republic versions, all. Old and new, English and Latin. It seems to be a collection, and Bucky moves away down the line of books, uneasy at the evidence of Steve's religious fervor. "You're a collector?"

“Sort of. Took me over a decade to build all that up, though," Steve says. "I brought them all down when I moved. Couldn’t choose which ones to leave behind."

"Behind?"

"In New York.”

Bucky snaps to attention. “New York City?” he asks.

Steve looks over and sees his reaction—which must be telling, because a knowing smile splits his face. “What borough?” he asks.

“Brooklyn. Red Hook."

He scoffs and thumbs at his own chest. “Gowanus. Wow. I guess it’s a small world after all, huh? We probably grew up less than twenty minutes apart from each other."

Bucky bites his tongue to keep from saying any number of inappropriate, unfriendly things; about how their shared West Brooklyn origin is probably the only thing they have in common, how their situations are nothing alike, how Steve is obviously older than him, so they definitely were never “growing up” at the same time together, no matter where they lived. "Yeah,” he grunts. “Small world."

He keeps his focus on the books in front of his face. He's nervous just from perusing the titles; feels like he’s thirteen again, sneaking into his parents’ wine fridge, about to be caught and grounded at any second. Silly perhaps, but he can’t shake it. He doesn’t want to get into an unnecessary discussion on his appreciation for Commander Rogers’ library, or his own affinity for reading. Reading is forbidden for people like Bucky now. If caught, it could cost him a finger, or god forbid a whole hand. Since he’s only got the one left to work with, he’s got to be careful. The back of his brain keeps itching with the niggling reminder, over and over again: This could still be a trick.

In another life maybe he’dve be embarrassed of such paranoia, but he isn't now. He’s been conditioned to be this suspicious. At this point it’s simply survival instinct, to resist the twitch of his fingers as they linger over Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go. It's sandwiched alphabetically right between Huxley and Orwell, with a little metal placard overhead that's engraved in tidy letters: Dystopian Fiction. Bucky starts to reach for the book.

“You a fan of the genre?”

His heart leaps and he jerks his hand back and looks over at Steve. “What? No. No I just …” Steve watches him keenly, with an inscrutable expression that does nothing to calm Bucky's nerves. He hastily shakes his head. “I’d seen the movie once, is all. Before.” He doesn’t have to expound on what “Before” means. They both know. Before the government collapsed. Before the regime took over. Before the world went to shit.

Well, he doesn’t yet know if Steve agrees with that last part. Regardless, Bucky knows he can’t place all of his trust on this man and his considerate treatment thus far. It isn’t worth what little bodily integrity he has left. He's got to be careful. “It was a depressing movie, anyway,” he mumbles, and moves on down the line of books to look for something else.

He winds up choosing a pulpy science fiction novel that he’s never heard of, by an author he’s never heard of, with subject matter completely removed from real life. It’s a cheap paperback, with a worn spine and outdated, sun-bleached cover art. Looks like something somebody dug out of a bin at a yard sale. It's probably not a very good read, but if Bucky’s going to be caught reading anything, it’ll be least painful if it’s something that has nothing to do with anything. Nothing … subversive.

Steve doesn’t seem to care one way or another, though his eyes do seem sympathetic, as if he knows that Bucky is holding himself back. “You can come at night,” he tells him. “After dinner. I’ll be in here most nights. Sometimes doing business with other people, but when it’s just you and I alone together, I'll lock the door. You can stay and read whatever you like.”

Bucky tenses up at that wording: “alone together.” Since Gilead began, there’s only ever been one alpha who went out of his way to be alone with Bucky, and it hadn’t been for charitable reasons. “But it's not … It’s not a trade, right?” he checks nervously. When he works up the nerve to look at Steve's face, he catches the tail end of a shocked look, which rapidly bleeds into a scowl of insulted indignation. Bucky panics and tries to backtrack. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“You don’t have to come in here at all, if you don’t want to,” Steve snaps. “Go to your room instead, for all I care.” He goes back to his typing at the computer, visibly incensed. “I don’t expect anything from you.”

Bucky winces, mortified at having pissed off his new Commander so soon—and when the guy was only trying to be nice to him, too! There’s so little left in this miserable world for people like Bucky, and now he fears he might’ve ruined the one good thing that was being offered. “No,” he hurries to say. “I’ll stay. I-I'd like to. I mean ... if that’s still okay?”

Steve shrugs and doesn’t look over. “Do what you want.”

Feeling cowed, Bucky goes over to sit on the couch. He curls up in the corner nearest the room's fireplace and flips past the copyright and the title pages. He begins reading chapter one. It’s only as he’s re-reading the same paragraph for the third time that he realizes he’s not taking any of it in. He sighs and looks over at Steve. “I’m sorry," he says. "I wasn’t trying to insult you."

"It's fine."

Bucky bites his lip and looks back down. After another moment, he quietly adds, "Really, though. It's ... it means a lot, you letting me read in here." He peeks up again and finds Steve regarding him again, this time with a softened expression. Bucky tries to smile a little, and uses his name like a peace offering: "Thank you ... Steve."

Steve inhales deeply and nods, satisfied. “You’re welcome. Bucky.”

Story Masterlist

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secretwhumplair · 2 years ago

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Whump prompt XVII

Fake relationship but it's a prisoner and a guard. The prisoner desperately needs some favours. The guard enjoys the "affection" and power play.

Until the guard starts falling for their own lies and starts thinking that maybe, they both mean it. They break out the prisoner to start a new life... what will the prisoner do, now that they are free and the guard whose whims they've had to entertain for so long is no longer protected by their surroundings?

Bonus (It Came To Me In A Dream): It's a fantasy death row, and the guards have some say over who gets to be this week's public entertainment on the gallows, making the whole thing a literal life-or-death matter for the prisoner...

#whump #whump prompt #forced relationship #whumper turned whumpee #potentially >:)#implied non con #though I cannot stress enough how much this is not (only) about sex #doesn't have to be at all

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grubus · 1 month ago

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Hi! do you have any svsss fic recs? I really like syonr and I'm curious about what you like to read!

*rubs hands together*

Alright alright. Now some of these are probably already well known, but still!!

I make no secret of this, but as Prim is my favorite author and very cool friend, I will HAPPILY recommend these first;

Masochism is probably THE qijiu fic of all time, absolutely adore it. It's set in their disciple era, with YQY just grabbing at whatever scraps he can even as SQQ tries to push the boundaries and see what will make him BREAK. So, so good. Happy ending!

Tarnished Gold is my favorite original Binghe fic, and I hope more people give it a chance. I think the summary scare some but it's GREAT! I love it! Binghe's thought process, the way someone perceives SY as GYX from an outside perspective, and omg LPM is such a great character in it...

of course I recommend basically everything Prim writes.

(Shen Yuan Voice) It's not gay if- by Nachtofthedead is porn. Just straight up modern time BingYuan porn. It is filthy and great and *thumbs up* love it. Bingge decides to play along with SY's delulu thoughts on gayness and everyone are happy.

The Many Trials and Tribulations of Ming Fan by The Feels Whale (miscellea) is great and I think often overlooked. A oneshot from MF's point of view on how to handle SQQ's wife beam, deeply funny to me. They also wrote-

Dust and Broken Grains , which is basically "Binghe discovers early that Crying Works" and it becomes a fix-it fic. but there's more to it than that!!! Love it a lot.

Celestial Afterglow by elanor_pam is just. So good. SO GOOD. It's hilarious, it uses the System in a way few fics ever does and it has me cackling every time I read it.

What Is Seen by CaveteDracones is a fix-it with a side of whump fic, where SQQ's trial at HHP goes VERY differently. Truth serum! Torture! System Reveal! Yay!

Dual Cultivate or Date by acernor is THE BingLiuShen fic out there. Adore it. I'm sure many have already appreciated it, but it doesn't hurt to remind others that it exists!

A Child Once by Tossawary is a very, very good BingQiu and MoShang fic, and I honestly love not only BingQiu being forced to play parents, but also the MobeiBing friendship? Great, amazing. All the relationships in this is great, and I know most have heard of Tossawary but if you haven't given this specific fic a chance you SHOULD.

easy fix by airplanelanding (TheCourtSorcerer) is a smutty cumplane oneshot, where they are friends with benefits (approved by their husbands) for whenever said husbands are unavailable for Dual Cultivation Cure. This fic just really captures the snark and is also *chefs kiss*

with the tail of the snake by tciddaemina is a very, very good monsterfucker!SQQ fic where Binghe became a dragon in the abyss. I LOVE IT. It's a WIP, but *clenches fist* it's just so good. Soft and gooey and so HHHH yes good. I would probably put all their svsss fics in here but I am running out of time!!

.... but I have enough time to recommend my other favorite fic from them, which isn't even svsss! And is how I found them to begin with!

come all ye mighty is a Solo Leveling fic! It's Igris/Jinwoo, from Igris' pov, and I love the world building in it. As they say in the author's notes, it's a little bit of an au since it doesn't follow the original plot of the comic, but I reread this so, so often. 10/10, if you like solo leveling at all please give it a go I BEG OF YOU.

#svsss #ok i went more nuts than i expected #I have so many fics I could rec but these were the ones I thought of first #and now im out of time oopsie #svsss fic rec

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sarahowritesostucky · 5 months ago

Text

📖"The Commander's Omega"

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Tags: alpha/omega, dystopia, sex slavery, forced breeding, mutilation, rape, corporal punishment, fascism, hurt/comfort, power imbalance, mpreg, age gap (38/23), mentions of abortion, happy ending

Summary: After years of a mass infertility crisis, Bucky Barnes finds himself thrust into a brutal world of survival where he's forced to serve as a vessel: a caste of omegas who bear children for the political elite.

Chapter IV. Exit Wounds

Before:

Gunfire pops through the air: loud, sharp, fired in three round bursts. An hour ago it was distant, but now the whizzing sounds of bullets have gotten alarmingly close. Bucky turns his head and listens, trying to gauge proximity by the deep thwack of the bullets hitting the trees.

He’s taken cover inside of an abandoned RV in the woods. He’s wedged the door shut with a chair and is sitting propped up against the wall, in pain, his rifle laid down beside him. Leaves and trash litter the plywood floor. Whoever lived there before is long gone now.

Bucky’s head snaps back to the wall as he begins to hear shouts in the near-distance. He curses under his breath, pulse ticking hard in his veins from all the adrenalin. It could be his men out there, or it could be approaching guardians. He’s got no way of knowing. He’d still be out there fighting with all the others, except for that he’s been shot in the leg. And, well …

His eyes dart to the back of the trailer where Jenny’s stumbled to and dumped herself on the bed. She’s moaning even louder than before and Bucky feels like a royal fuck for sitting there on his ass, thinking of nothing but his own pain.

He grits his teeth and uses the stock of his M4 like a crutch to push himself up from the floor. “Ah!” he yelps, because fuck, does that ever hurt. But he clamps his mouth shut and bites his tongue until he can taste blood. He can’t go screaming and drawing attention to their position. He’s on his feet, leg throbbing terribly. His pants leg is torn and blood soaked from where the bullet went in. There’s no telling what caliber he’s been shot with, but he’s pretty sure there’s no exit wound. That’s not good news, but he tries to put it from his mind as he hobbles to the back of the RV where Jenny is.

She grimaces at him when she sees him. “Sorry!” she hisses. “I know. I know I’m being loud.”

Bucky scoffs. “You’re having a fucking baby.”

“God!” she sobs. “Yeah. Yeah I really am, aren’t I?”

Bucky smiles grimly, heart going out to her. “Just try your best to stay quiet, okay?” He knows it’s a shitty thing to say to a woman in labor, but Jenny’s not stupid; she knows what’s going on outside just as well as he does. They’re both omega. Neither one of them wants to be taken.

Jenny groans as another contraction comes on. Outside, the bullets and the shouts are getting louder, closer. “Shit,” Bucky hisses. He reaches down and unholsters his sidearm, sliding it on the bed towards Jenny’s hand. “Safety’s on,” he warns. “Ten rounds.” She’s straining and grimacing with her eyes closed as she works through the contraction, but Bucky catches the small nod she gives him. “Okay,” he says. Good.”

He limps back out to the front of the RV and positions himself by the window over the kitchen sink. It’s a decent line of sight, if the fighting gets close enough, but he can’t do anything about the fact that he’s exposed from the position. Oh well, he thinks. He’ll just have to make sure he shoots the fastest. He’s had great luck so far.

The fighting draws nearer, and before he knows it Bucky’s taking out enemy fighters left and right. At least the guardians wear uniforms. It makes them easily distinguishable from the rebels, easier to pick off. Bucky gets maybe fifteen, twenty guardians on the ground before the trailer door busts open, the chair propped behind it splintering like a bunch of toothpicks. Three guardians burst in, and Bucky’s only able to shoot one of them before they wrestle his rifle away and punch him square in the face, knocking him out cold.

After:

The bathwater sloshes gently against the sides of the tub as Bucky shifts to grab the bar of soap from its ledge by the windowsill. He soaps up his shoulders and rubs the suds around absentmindedly. He’s been finding himself daydreaming a lot lately. Not that it’s unusual for him. Daydreaming is one of the only things he has left to fill his time, and he’s been remembering his days with the resistance, in particular.

He’d fought with them for almost a year. It’d felt like five. Bucky knows that his mom and sisters are out of the country now, and that thought is one of the few that bring him comfort. He knows they’re safe. He knows that. By some small miracle, he’d been able to receive a letter from them a few months after they’d crossed the border into Canada. In it, his mother had written that they’d received official refugee status and were being hospitably housed in an elderly man’s townhome in Toronto, and she’d urged Bucky to give up the fighting and come be safe with them.

He hadn’t, of course. He’d been so naïve back then, with such a hero complex. So of course he’d chosen to stay and fight. It’d gotten him fuck all. But even now, sitting in lukewarm bathwater in Commander Rogers’ house, Bucky can’t bring himself to regret having fought. It’d been the right thing to do. If he hadn’t been captured he’d still be fighting today. He knows it.

He glances down at his body, brings his left leg up out of the sudsy water to thumb at the skin of his thigh. The scar tissue is pale now, almost indistinguishable from the rest of his skin. He runs his fingers over the smooth and bumpy texture of where the bullet had gone (and where it’d been none-too-professionally dug back out), thinking about that last fight. It’d been a shame, he thinks. He could’ve killed a lot more of the bastards if he’d only had a spot up in the trees. But instead he’d been stuffed inside that old tin can of a trailer, only slightly less of a sitting duck than the woman giving birth in the back.

He lets his leg slip back under the water with a sigh.

He never did find out what happened to Jenny or her baby.

“—o’clock today! Attendance is mandatory for all vessels!”

Bucky’s in the supermarket when the announcement rings out, pumped through the speakers out on the street. He can’t hear it clearly from inside the store, so he waits for the cashier to ring up his apples and other produce items. He pays with the appropriate tokens and then goes outside to listen to the announcement.

It’s a particicution they’re announcing, and Bucky’s blood goes cold. Oh god. Not again.

“Ugh, I wanted to go home and take a nap,” Bucky’s assigned walking partner complains as he rejoins him on the sidewalk, his own netted shopping bag filled with fish and ham from the deli next door. “Why can’t they just do this on their own?” he bemoans. “What do they really need us for anyway?”

“It’s to keep us afraid,” Bucky mutters. He still isn’t too sure what Ofjohn’s persuasion is. The entire point of having walking partners is so that they’ll report on each other. Ratting out the misbehaviors and thoughtcrimes of others has become something of a national sport under Gilead, so Bucky can’t be too forward with what he says around Ofjohn. “It’s to remind us what happens to criminals.”

Ofjohn glances at Bucky’s left sleeve that he’s got pinned up. “Like we could forget.”

Bucky’s lips thin but he doesn’t say anything. It’s true. He is a walking reminder for all the other vessels, a glaring billboard that screams: “Fuck up badly enough, and you could wind up like this guy.”

“Better get a move on,” Ofjohn says. He gestures with his shopping basket. “Gotta get this stuff home before it spoils.”

“Right,” Bucky says distractedly. He follows along after the other man, still not sure what to think of his new walking partner.

That afternoon’s particicution is like all the others Bucky’s attended in the past. It takes place in what was once a high school football stadium. With so few children being born since the advent of the fertility crisis, most of the schools have long since been repurposed. Nobody ever said the faithful weren’t resourceful.

Guardians holding the same guns that Bucky used to fight with tell them where to sit, and they all take their places, kneeling in neat lines in front of the stage that’s been erected for the occasion. The stadium’s speakers are blaring Gilead’s national anthem overhead (Bucky’s never learned the words) as if they’re assembled for a celebration, rather than the somber occasion it really is.

A caretaker ascends the stage, a handful of other caretakers at her back. They all smile down at the kneeling vessels like they’re glad to see them there—and hey, Bucky thinks, maybe they actually are. It’s hard to figure out how the minds of the faithful work sometimes.

“Good afternoon!” The lead caretaker says, speaking into the microphone that’s been placed on the stage. “I’m so glad to see you all here. Blessed day!”

“Blessed day!” they all echo back to her. Even Bucky says it, the response rote at this point.

“Good, good.” The caretaker sobers. “Now, we all know why we’re here today. We are one nation, under God. Each and every one of us has a duty in this new, blessed society. Sometimes duty is joyous, but sometimes it is also hard. When we’re confronted with sinners among us, we must remember our duty.” She looks behind the stage and nods to someone unseen. A moment later, two guardians come into view with a handcuffed man between them. They haul the man up onto the stage, and Bucky tenses up at the sight of him.

“Ohmygod,” he breathes, speaking in that quiet, motionless way that all vessels eventually master. He can sense several pairs of eyes sliding his way.

“What?” someone breathes back.

Bucky swallows heavily. “I know him. We went to school together.” He’d been in Bucky’s grade from the time they were kids and all the way through high school: Bradley Barnett. An alpha. Kinda shy. Nice kid, as far as Bucky was ever able to tell. He’d always come directly after Bucky, in alphabetical roll calls.

He looks older now. And drained, as if he’s fought and fought hard, but now all the fight’s gone out of him. He’s got bruises from being beaten already, and his face is all blotchy and tear-stained from crying. But he isn’t crying now. Now, he just looks resigned. Bucky swallows, recognizing that look more than he’d like to admit. He can remember feeling that way, right after they’d pulled the bag off his head and dragged him out of the van and into the red center four years ago. Defeat. That’s the look.

“This man, right here,” the caretaker at the microphone is saying, pointing her finger at Bradley like he’s the scum of the earth. “This man has been convicted of the crime of kidnapping.”

All around, the other vessels start murmuring. There’s shifting and stirring in the neat rows that they’ve formed.

“Quiet please! That’s not the worst of it, I’m afraid.”

Bucky’s eyes drift fearfully back up to the stage, to the guardians holding Bradley’s arms. Oh no, he thinks, dread welling up in his stomach. What are they going to say? What are they going to say he did?

“This man is a rapist.”

The murmuring intensifies.

“He raped a vessel.”

Louder, with a few people crying out, upset. Bucky is holding stock still and feeling sick to his stomach as Bradley hangs limply in the guardians’ hold.

“The vessel was pregnant!”

Louder.

“The baby died!”

Everyone erupts, all the other vessels yelling and crying out in rage. The only thing that keeps them where they sit, Bucky knows, is the multitude of guardians with rifles pointed their way. But they’re all shifting and stirring like caged, furious animals. The woman directly in front of Bucky is so distressed that she’s pulling viciously at her hair.

God, Bucky thinks, wanting to reach out and stop her. Everyone’s gone batty. His eyes shoot back up to the stage. Bradley is trembling now. Bucky wonders if he knows what’s about to happen to him, but decides that the answer is: probably not. He’d be peeing his pants by now, if he knew.

Well, he’ll be finding out soon enough.

“All right everyone. All of you, up up up, quick and orderly!” the caretaker chirps down at them. Bucky rises with the rest of the group and goes to join the large circle in the grass that they always form at events like this. The guardians drag Bradley down from the stage and into the center of the circle, then leave him there. Bucky doesn’t look at Bradley any more. There’s no point. Instead, he taps his fingers together in a staccato against his palm, running his old serial number through his mind on a loop – 32557038, 32557038 – hoping to be sunken deep in his head by the time they have to start this terrible thing they’re about to do.

“You know the rules of a particicution,” the caretaker at the microphone says. “Once I blow my whistle, you may begin. When I blow the whistle again, everyone stops.”

He keeps tapping, keeps cycling through the numbers: 32557038, 32557038, 325570—

The whistle blows, sharp and shrill, and everyone screams and rushes forward.

Bucky doesn’t remember the walk back from the particicution. The first thing that registers is the front door, which he stumbles through, feeling dazed and overwhelmed. He pushes it shut weakly behind himself, shutting the house back up into its usual dimness. The grandfather clock in the hall ticks rhythmically, back and forth. Bucky’s fingers twitch where they hang by his side.

He trails slowly down the hall, head buzzing. He’s got a faint intention of going up to his room, but it’s nascent, only half-formed. He’s just outside of Commander Rogers’ study when the door to the room opens and he steps out. He startles at the sight of Bucky, features quickly melting into a frown. “Bucky? What’s wron—” he breaks off, seeing Bucky’s distressed state, his rumpled clothes, his bloodied hand. “Bucky what happened?” He grabs Bucky’s shoulders and stares at him imploringly. “Bucky? Are you hurt?”

“… No,” Bucky breathes. “M’not.”

“Whose blood is this?” Steve asks, voice urgent. Bucky’s eyes flick up. The look of worry and confusion on Steve’s face is such an oddity. And for some reason, Bucky starts to giggle—only a little at first, and then a lot. Steve’s frown deepens. “What happened?”

Bucky giggles some more. When he’s finally able to stop, he just says, “Particicution,” and then starts giggling again. And it gets really bad as Steve’s face bleeds into understanding, and then pity. The giggles somehow morph into sobs, until Steve’s pulling him forward against his body and Bucky’s crying into his shoulder, the air leaving him in great, heaving gasps. “No, no no,” he hyperventilates. “I had to. We had to.”

“Come on,” Steve says quietly, and pulls Bucky into his office.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, after they’ve been sitting on the office’s opposing couches for some time. Steve’s got a fire roaring in the hearth between them. Its warmth replaces some of the body heat Bucky feels like he’s lost from the shock of the day. Steve’s also placed a blanket around his shoulders, and Bucky grips it tighter about himself as best he can with his one hand. There are still flecks of blood crusted under his fingernails.

“Nothing to say,” Bucky murmurs. “We ripped him apart.”

Steve is quiet for a long moment. It’s obvious he’s trying to think of what to say. “It’s not your fault.”

“I tried to kick him in the face,” Bucky says dully, only peripherally aware of how Steve freezes. “It’s what I always do. If you do it hard enough, you can knock ‘em out right away. Before …” He stops and sucks in a trembling breath, determined not to start crying again now that he’s finally gotten himself under control. “Before … the rest.”

Steve sighs. “You tried to spare him, Buck. That's good. You tried to do a good thing.”

“Didn’t work this time,” Bucky mutters. “He was screaming for a while.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, but the tension in the air between them feels heavy and oppressive. Silently, he gets up and goes over to the room’s sideboard, uncaps the whiskey and pours from the crystal decanter into one of the matching glasses. He comes back over and sits next to Bucky on the couch. “Here,” he says gently. “If you want.”

Bucky looks at the glass Steve’s offering him and considers it. Any other time he’d probably be shocked and on-guard, wary that this could be another trick, a test. But not now. Now he’s exhausted and the burn of whiskey sliding down his throat sounds like an excellent idea. He releases the blanket from his hand and takes the proffered glass, downing a large sip with a grimace. “Ugh. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Steve knows as well as he does that vessels aren’t allowed to drink alcohol. But Bucky can tell that, much like the reading, this is another little infraction that his Commander is going to allow him. Beside him, Steve sinks back into the couch cushions. “You going to be okay?”

Bucky scoffs quietly. “Gonna have to be, aren’t I?” When Steve doesn’t say anything back, he just shakes his head. “It’s weird. I used to fight in the resistance, you know?” He shrugs his left shoulder, indicating his missing arm. “S’why I lost this.”

“Bucky you don’t have to explain yourself to—”

“I killed a lot of people back then. Dozens and dozens. Shot people from hundreds of yards away, watched their skulls collapse through my scope.” He takes another big, rueful sip of the whiskey. “So you’d think I’d be used to this stuff by now.”

Steve makes a noise of protest. “It’s not the same, Bucky. What they make you all do at those things …” He shakes his head. “It’s traumatic. There’s no way it couldn’t be.”

“Hm.” Bucky nods. “They taught us some things in the resistance. Some simple techniques, for resisting torture.” He glances at Steve. “I tried using them today, to sink into my head.” He stares at the whiskey, swirls what’s left in the glass around a few times, admires the color, and then tilts it back and downs it in a long series of gulps.

“Jesus Bucky.”

He slams the glass down on the coffee table, exhaling harshly and licking his lips. “It didn’t fucking work.”

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kiwriteswords · 1 month ago

Note

possible whump request 🫣 reader getting hurt during a case and having to be hospitalized and hotch feeling off the charts guilty because he feels like it’s his fault so he distances himself? ty ily

The Guilt He Holds [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Ki2k Masterlist||MainMasterlist (not updated, sorry!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 4k|| AN: Hii! Thank you for the request. I think Hotch owns the emotion of guilt more than any character I have ever read/watched before, lol. But I hope you enjoy this!

Tags/Warnings: female reader, canon typical violence, canon typical themes, blood, waterboarding, trauma, torture, guilty!hotch, established relationship, potential tbc? (this is becoming my norm because I never know when to stop), Protective and reckless Hotch, BAU Reader

Summary: After a heated argument drives you to seek some air, you are kidnapped by an unsub. This incident forces Hotch to confront his guilt and the torment of nearly losing someone he loves all over again.

As Hotch navigated the cramped corridors of the local precinct, the turmoil in his mind was as narrow as the hallways themselves.

The urgency of the ongoing manhunt clashed violently with his personal conflicts, rendering each step a testament to his barely contained frustration.

"Why are we even discussing this here, at a time like this?" he snapped, pivoting sharply to confront you, his intense gaze burning with a fervor seldom seen beyond the field.

You stood resolute, your voice tinged with frustration. "Because you keep dodging this conversation, Aaron! We need to address it if there's any hope of making this work."

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose, the weight of his dual roles as a leader and a partner pressing down on him. "Look, I care about you, you know that. But we have a killer on the loose, and you want to talk about us? This is exactly why I was against this."

The precinct hummed with activity around them--the constant clatter of keyboards, the sharp ring of phones, the urgent shouts of officers updating one another. Yet, in that moment, their world seemed to narrow to just the two of them, isolated in their bubble of tension.

"I'm not trying to make things difficult," you countered, your voice a blend of pleading and defiance. "But pretending everything is fine isn't working. I need to know where we stand, especially with how closely we work together."

Hotch studied you, his expression set in stone. The risk of jeopardizing both his career and the unexpected relationship weighed heavily on him. "I'm in love with you," he confessed, the words freeing yet fraught with implications. "But I have to be realistic. What if this compromises our work? What if it affects the team?"

You crossed your arms, the hurt evident in your eyes. "And what if it doesn’t? What if we're better together in all aspects? We won’t know unless we try, Aaron."

As the tension escalated, Hotch's frustration crystallized into a biting retort. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe this was a mistake--not just us, but assuming you could balance this job and a relationship without one affecting the other.” The words were harsher than intended, and he regretted them instantly.

You recoiled, shock and hurt washing over your face. Silently, you turned and stormed out of the precinct, leaving behind a stunned silence. Hotch remained frozen, haunted by the harshness of his words. He rubbed his face, torn between chasing after you and maintaining his command.

Before he could decide, the precinct door burst open. JJ rushed in, her face pale, her breath short. “Hotch!” she gasped your name, her voice laced with panic. “There’s--there’s blood outside, and her badge…” She held up your badge, smeared with blood, discovered next to a large puddle on the pavement just outside.

Hotch felt the room spin as the gravity of the situation struck him. The argument, his cruel words, and now this horror. Guilt and fear knotted in his stomach. “Show me,” he whispered hoarsely as he followed JJ outside.

Outside, the scene was grim. Fresh blood trailed off around the corner of the building. Hotch's trained eyes quickly scanned the area, piecing together the likely scenario--the unsub might have been waiting, perhaps having followed you from the precinct.

“Get a team out here now! Set up a perimeter, and get Garcia on the line. Check every camera in this area,” he ordered, his voice cutting through the turmoil inside him as he slipped back into his role as unit chief.

His mind raced with the worst possibilities. He had always feared how a relationship could complicate their work, but never like this. His last words to you, so cutting and final, echoed in his mind, haunting him with their potential finality.

“JJ, stay here with the team and coordinate the search. I’m going to check the surrounding area. He can’t have gotten far,” Hotch stated, his voice firm despite the panic gnawing at him. He couldn’t afford to freeze--not when your life hung in the balance.

Following the blood trail that marked your sudden, violent departure, Hotch’s heart pounded against his ribs, driven by fear and adrenaline. He had to find you, had to fix this monumental error. Nothing else mattered now.

As hours passed, the team noted their normally composed leader coming undone. The reality of your absence was crushing. Overwhelmed by guilt and responsibility, Hotch moved mechanically, his usual precision replaced by a haunted, distracted demeanor.

His mind replayed the harsh words he had hurled at you, growing louder with each hour that passed without news of your safety. The precinct felt heavier with his palpable guilt, casting a shadow over everyone present. They exchanged concerned glances, deeply aware of his turmoil but uncertain how to help.

Blaming himself for the argument that put you in harm's way and his failure to protect you, his torment grew. Now, potentially facing the gravest consequence, the thought that he might never rectify his mistake tormented him endlessly.

Then, Garcia's voice cracked through the tension, a beacon of urgent hope. "Hotch, you need to see this," she called out, dread coloring her tone. At her workstation, the sight that met Hotch’s eyes was a live stream of you, tied to a chair, visibly beaten, the intermittent waterboarding a grotesque display of your torment.

Hotch's reaction was immediate and fierce. Jaw clenched, eyes narrowed to furious slits, hands balled into fists, he embodied pure, unbridled rage. The team, taken aback by his intense emotion, rallied to his side, spurred into action.

"Trace it! Now!" he commanded, voice booming through the room. Garcia's fingers flew over the keyboard, tracing the digital breadcrumbs back to their source. Hotch's mind was ablaze with thoughts of rescue and retribution, focused solely on saving you, ending your suffering, and ensuring the unsub would pay dearly.

The torture worsened, and your condition visibly deteriorated on the live feed. Blood streaked across your face, each breath a struggle. Hotch gripped a chair, his knuckles white, tension radiating from him like a storm cloud.

Derek stepped up, voice calm but firm. "Hotch, man, we’re going to get her. Stay focused. You’re no good to her like this," he attempted to ground his friend in reality.

But before Derek could continue, Garcia interrupted with a vital update. "I got it! I got an address!" Her words shook with the weight of the situation.

Hotch’s expression shifted from despair to determined resolve in an instant. "Gear up; we move now!" he ordered, leading a swift charge towards the exit. The team followed, each member fueled by a blend of professional duty and a deep personal stake in your rescue.

As they loaded into the SUVs, the tension was palpable. Hotch’s mind sharpened, focused entirely on the operation. Every second was agonizing, each tick of the clock stretching into eternity as he planned each move, driven by a silent vow to bring you back safely.

As the SUV screeched to a halt outside the decrepit slaughterhouse, Hotch was already out the door, his FBI vest barely secured. The building loomed ominously, its walls echoing the horrors of its past and now, the terror of the present. Hotch didn't wait for backup or even the tactical count of three; driven by the raw urgency of your screams piercing through the silence, he charged in recklessly.

He was certain he heard Derek--maybe even Emily’s voice call after him, but he didn’t wait. He just went.

The interior was a labyrinth of dark, narrow corridors, the air thick with the stench of decay and old blood that mingled with a faint, metallic scent of fresh blood--yours. Each cry, each plea that he heard fueled him, tearing at his heart and propelling him forward with increased desperation. The sound of your distress was a siren call he couldn’t ignore, and it guided him through the twisted pathways of the building.

Turning a corner sharply, Hotch came face-to-face with the unsub. The man they had been hunting for what felt like weeks, but it only was days. He stood so much bigger--taller…larger than you. The thought and images of this man taking advantage of you…Hotch couldn’t bare to think of it anymore.

He knew what the other victims went through. He was there were some people out there who would have rathered been dead after being at the hands of this unsub. But you, you fought back as long as you could.

The man lunged, wild-eyed and frenzied, but Hotch was fueled by a deep, seething rage that had been building since the moment he saw the live feed of your torture. He dodged the initial clumsy swing and grabbed the unsub by the collar, throwing him against the wall.

Hotch’s training was precise, but his emotions were raw and unfiltered. As the unsub struggled, striking out to fend off the attack, Hotch’s response was brutal. He unleashed a flurry of punches, each blow landing with the full weight of his fury and fear for your safety. The unsub tried to shield himself, but Hotch was relentless, driven by the vivid images of your pain that played over in his mind.

With each punch, Hotch felt a mix of satisfaction and horror at his own loss of control. The man beneath him was the source of his worst fears made manifest, and in that moment, Hotch was not just an agent of the law but an avenger, a protector whose love had been weaponized by his terror.

His fists were numb at this point--his entire body, honestly. If he had to think back on the only time he felt rage like this, it was when…it was when he found Haley. But he was too late.

He couldn’t be too late for you.

He couldn’t.

The sounds of the altercation echoed through the empty spaces of the slaughterhouse, a stark and grim symphony that underscored the violence of the confrontation. Hotch’s breaths were heavy, his face splattered with the blood of the man he was punishing. It wasn’t until he heard the shouts of his team, echoing down the hall and approaching fast, that he realized how far he’d gone.

“Hotch! Hotch, stand down!” It was Derek’s voice, firm yet filled with concern, cutting through the haze of Hotch’s red-tinted vision.

He paused, his fists still raised, hovering over the now barely conscious unsub. His chest heaved, and his hands trembled with the adrenaline and aftermath of his onslaught. As his team restrained the unsub and called for medical help, Hotch stepped back, his gaze shifting around, searching for you, needing to see that you were safe, to reassure himself that there was still something left to save.

Rossi's voice barely registered as he tried to intervene, his hands reaching out to grasp Hotch's bloodied fists, an attempt to bring him back from the edge. "Hotch, wait!" he shouted, but it was too late. Hotch was already barreling through the next set of doors, his focus singular and unbreakable.

Inside the grim room, the sight that greeted him was one of stark horror and desperation. You were slumped over in a chair, your body limp with exhaustion and pain. JJ and Emily were by your side, quickly working to untie the wires that dug cruelly into your wrists, their edges slick with your blood. Each movement they made was gentle yet urgent, trying to minimize any further harm.

Hotch froze at the threshold, his heart hammering in his chest as the scene unfolded before him. The room was cold, the only sounds were your soft groans and the quiet reassurances from JJ and Emily as they freed you from your bindings. The air was thick, tinged with the iron scent of blood and the stale mustiness of abandonment.

As Hotch stepped closer, the full extent of your injuries became painfully clear. Bruises in various shades of purple and black marred your face and arms, and blood had stained your clothing. Seeing your once vibrant presence reduced to such a state unleashed a wave of guilt so intense it nearly overwhelmed him. He had seen countless victims, had steeled himself against the worst of humanity, but nothing had prepared him for the sight of you, so broken and vulnerable.

The bile rose in his throat as he approached, his steps faltering. The guilt of knowing his last words to you before this ordeal were steeped in anger and frustration made him feel responsible for every mark on your body. He felt as if he had failed you in the most fundamental way.

"Hey, it's going to be okay," JJ was saying softly as she carefully cut the last of the wire. Emily supported your weight, helping you to lean forward as the final restraint was removed.

Hotch's breath caught in his throat as you looked up, your eyes meeting his. Even through the pain and exhaustion, the relief in your gaze at seeing him was palpable. It was a look that pierced through the chaos, through the guilt and the rage, grounding him in the moment, in the necessity of being there for you now.

"I'm so sorry," he managed to choke out, the words barely a whisper as he knelt beside you, his hand hesitating before gently touching your arm, afraid of causing more pain. "I'm here now. I'm so sorry I wasn't here sooner."

The room seemed to contract around him, the walls echoing back his whispered apologies. As JJ and Emily continued to tend to you, Hotch remained by your side, his presence a silent vow to protect and make amends, no matter what it took.

As the medics flooded into the dim, grimy room, their presence was clearly a blur to you, their movements too sudden and intrusive in the vulnerable state you were in. Even as they reached out to drape a safety blanket over your shoulders, your instincts kicked in--raw and frightened like a cornered animal.

"Don't touch me!" you managed to rasp out, your voice hoarse and strained from the ordeal.

The medics paused, taken aback by the intensity of your refusal but insistent on their duty. "You need medical attention now," one of them pressed, his tone both firm and clinical.

JJ, always the nurturing presence, tried to soothe you, her voice soft and motherly. "Sweetie, they're here to help you. We need to let them do their job." Her intentions were good, but the words felt like another layer of constraint, another set of hands trying to control you.

"No! Just--just give me a minute, please," you snapped back, the room spinning slightly as you struggled to maintain some semblance of control over what was happening to you.

Caught between his role as a leader and his personal feelings, Hotch watched helplessly for a moment, torn by your evident distress. Seeing another medic reach out to touch you again, he couldn't hold back any longer. "Give her a minute!" Hotch's voice boomed through the room, authoritative and commanding, halting the medic's movements instantly.

He turned to JJ and Emily, his eyes pleading for understanding. "Can you give us the room, please?" he asked quietly, the gravity of his tone conveying the seriousness of his request.

JJ and Emily exchanged a glance, their expressions a mix of concern and reluctance, but they nodded, trusting Hotch's judgment. They slowly exited the room, their steps retreating into the echo of the hollow, abandoned building.

Now alone with you, Hotch approached cautiously, his movements deliberate and gentle. He crouched down to your level, keeping a respectful distance to not overwhelm you further. His voice was soft, a stark contrast to the commanding tone he used with the others.

"Hey," he started, his eyes searching yours for any sign of what you might need from him. "I'm here, okay? No one's going to force you to do anything you're not ready for. We can take this as slow as you need." His gaze was steady, offering reassurance without the burden of expectation.

Your bottom lip trembled, the fear and relief mingling into a raw, vulnerable expression as your eyes locked with Hotch's. The familiarity of his presence, a stark contrast to the chaos and pain of the last hours, cracked the last of your composure.

"Aaron," you whimpered, your voice breaking with the weight of everything you had endured. The sound of his name--the voice he feared he may never hear again--it almost completely broke whatever was left of him.

"I know, I know," Hotch murmured gently, his voice low and soothing. Carefully, he reached for the safety blanket discarded by the medics. His movements were slow and deliberate, ensuring you felt no threat, only the promise of comfort. He unfolded the blanket with a tenderness that seemed to fill the cold, harsh space of the slaughterhouse.

With the blanket open wide, he leaned in slightly, giving you space to decide. Sensing your readiness, he gently wrapped the soft fabric around your shoulders, enveloping you in a warm embrace that felt like a shield against the harsh world. The blanket was a simple piece of fabric, but under Hotch's careful handling, it became a cocoon, offering the first touch of safety you'd felt in what seemed like forever.

As the blanket settled around you, your defenses crumbled, and you leaned into Hotch, your body instinctively seeking the reassurance of his physical presence. It was a silent plea for comfort, for a sign that it was truly over. Hotch responded without hesitation, his arms opening to receive you. You fell into him, your body heavy with exhaustion and emotional overload.

Hotch held you close, his arms strong yet gentle around you. He rested his chin on the top of your head. He didn't speak; no words were needed. His presence, the steady beat of his heart against yours, spoke volumes.

As the ambulance doors slammed shut, Hotch took a seat beside you, his presence a silent vow of protection and support. His team had given him a nod of encouragement, understanding the personal stakes involved, and affirming his decision to accompany you. The ride to the hospital was a blur, with the sirens cutting through the bustling city noise, yet inside the ambulance, there was a bubble of strained silence.

Hotch watched every move the paramedics made, each one meticulous and aimed at stabilizing your condition. His guilt was a tangible presence in the cramped space, each bandage they wrapped, each wince you couldn't suppress, felt like a direct indictment of his failure to protect you sooner. He kept his gaze fixed on you, his eyes tracing the lines of pain etched across your face, the consequences of his decisions written on your bruised skin.

Upon arriving at the hospital, the flurry of activity intensified as medical staff quickly took over. They moved you to a triage area where the stark fluorescent lights seemed to highlight the severity of your condition. Hotch remained by your side, a silent observer to the flurry of activity. As doctors and nurses cleaned your wounds, their gentle swipes at the blood and grime felt to him like strokes of accusation, each one whispering of what had happened under his watch.

You sat through it all, the shock still enveloping you like a thick fog, your voice lost somewhere on the floor of the slaughterhouse. You were responsive only to the touch of the medical staff, a nod here, a slight move there, as they stitched up your wounds and ran a series of tests to assess the damage not immediately visible.

Hotch found himself floundering under the weight of helplessness as he watched. The hospital's antiseptic smell, the constant beeping of machines monitoring vital signs, and the soft murmurs of the medical staff discussing your condition, all seemed to echo in the hollow space of guilt inside him. Each stitch they placed was a reminder of every moment you had spent waiting for rescue, every moment he had failed to prevent your ordeal.

Amid the clinical detachment of reports and assessments, Hotch felt an overwhelming need to do something, say something that could bridge the gulf of trauma and guilt between you. But the words were lodged in his throat, stifled by the realization that no apology could undo the pain you endured, no words could erase the scars that would mark this day.

So, he stayed, his hand finding yours, a silent communicator of his commitment and remorse, hoping that his presence could offer a sliver of comfort in the sterile, cold environment of the hospital.

The doctor motioned for Hotch to step into the hallway, a request he followed with a sense of dread tightening in his chest. The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor cast a stark glow, making the seriousness of the conversation even more palpable.

"Your partner will need extensive care, both physically and emotionally," the doctor began, his tone professional yet empathetic. "The trauma she's experienced is significant. It's clear she's been deeply affected by what happened."

Hotch nodded, his expression grave. He knew the road to recovery would be long and fraught with challenges, but hearing it so plainly stated by the doctor hammered home the reality of the situation.

"We'd normally recommend a 24-hour psychiatric evaluation under these circumstances to better understand her needs and ensure her safety," the doctor continued. "However, given your relationship and her response to your presence, it seems she might benefit more immediately from familiar support."

Hotch felt a mixture of relief and immense responsibility at the doctor's words. The idea that his presence could offer you some measure of comfort, that he could play a direct role in your recovery, gave him a focused purpose amid the swirling guilt.

"If you’re willing, your support could be crucial right now," the doctor added. "She’s clearly traumatized, and having someone she trusts by her side can make a significant difference in how she copes with these initial hours."

"I'll be here. Whatever she needs," Hotch affirmed without hesitation. The decision was simple in his mind; there was nowhere else he would be, no other role he would rather fill than to be there for you, to try and mend the sense of safety that had been so violently torn away.

The doctor nodded, seeming satisfied with his commitment. "I’ll arrange for a comfortable environment where you can stay with her. We’ll still need to monitor her closely and start working on a treatment plan that addresses both her physical injuries and psychological trauma."

"Thank you, doctor. I appreciate everything you’re doing," Hotch said, his tone sincere. The gratitude he felt for the medical team's efforts was profound, though shadowed by the ongoing concern for your well-being.

With the Unsub in custody and your discharge papers signed, the BAU could take you back home from the case.

As the jet sliced through the skies on the way back home, the interior was filled with a subdued silence. The rest of the team made quiet, gentle attempts to comfort you, but you remained mostly silent, your eyes closed, seemingly retreating into a cocoon of solitude.

Despite the hum of the engines and the occasional murmurs from the team, the atmosphere was heavy, laden with concern for you and the unspoken tensions of the recent ordeal.

Hotch sat stiffly in his seat, his gaze intermittently shifting from the reports in his hands to where you rested across the jet.

He wasn't in his clear mind to be doing bureaucratic paperwork, but here he was, acting like a coward, afraid to face your reaction to the events he felt he caused.

Each glance was a mixture of concern and self-reproach. The harsh words he had hurled at you before your abduction haunted him, echoing in his mind with relentless persistence.

He was wracked with guilt, convinced that his actions had somehow contributed to the horror you endured, fearing that you would see him now as part of the nightmare rather than a source of safety.

Emily, observant and intuitive, noticed Hotch's troubled demeanor and the distance he maintained. She approached him quietly, her expression serious. "You need to knock it off and go sit with her," she urged, nodding subtly towards you.

Hotch looked up, his frown deepening, a mix of defensiveness and confusion in his eyes. Emily didn’t flinch; she held his gaze steadily. "Right now, I don’t care that you’re the boss, Hotch. She needs you, and you need to make things right."

He opened his mouth to protest, perhaps to say that his presence might not be what you needed, but Emily continued, her voice firm yet filled with compassion. "Look at her, Hotch. She looks broken and shouldn’t be alone. Whatever happened before, whatever was said--it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you’re there for her when she wakes up."

Her words cut through his hesitation like a knife. Hotch knew Emily was right; his role as a leader was not just to command but to care, to mend the fissures that trauma had wrought in the team, especially in you.

Taking a deep breath, Hotch stood up, his resolve firming. He moved across the cabin, taking a seat beside you. As he sat down, the proximity to you, the sound of your quiet breathing, brought an aching mix of relief and renewed guilt. He watched you, your features relaxed in sleep but still reflecting the shadows of recent pain.

Gently, almost hesitantly, he reached out to take your hand, his touch tentative as if testing whether his presence was welcome. His other hand brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead, a gesture tender and protective.

When you finally opened your eyes, the weight of the entire ordeal reflected in your gaze, Hotch braced himself for any reaction--hurt, anger, or worse, disgust. However, what he saw instead was relief, a softening around your eyes that eased some of the heavy guilt anchoring his heart.

Sensing your need for comfort, Hotch tentatively opened his arms, an unspoken invitation for closeness. With a small, almost imperceptible nod, you moved closer and cuddled into his side on the jet's couch. His arm wrapped around you, pulling you gently against him, providing a warmth and security that only his presence could offer.

As you settled against him, a quiet sigh escaped you, one that spoke of burdens shared and the beginning of healing. Hotch's heart responded with a surge of protectiveness and affection, his own relief mirroring yours.

In that moment, with the quiet drone of the jet’s engines in the background and the softness of your presence beside him, Hotch felt a profound clarity.

The rest of the team, ever observant, watched this quiet exchange with a mixture of contentment and happiness.

It was more than just seeing one of their own safe; it was witnessing a bond reaffirmed under the harshest of tests. Their expressions held smiles of gentle approval, knowing too well the challenges both of you faced, both personally and as part of the team.

Hotch, holding you close, felt a deep-seated realization settle within him.

Despite the complications and potential risks of intertwining work and personal lives, being together and supporting each other was infinitely better than being apart.

The love that he had tried to compartmentalize away from his professional duties was not a vulnerability but a strength, a cornerstone for both of you to lean on in times of crisis.

Conversations would come later, but for now? This would do.

361 notes · View notes

ssa-dado · 3 months 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

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melpomenelamusa · 29 days ago

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Specific Whump tropes I like (Romantic version) 💕

Now it´s turn for some of my favorite romantic whump tropes to apply to your OCs in love or to your favorite ships:

Use as bait. Simply cannot be missed: Character 1 knows it's a trap (or maybe not), but they doesn't care, as they´ll do anything to save their beloved. On the other hand, Character 2 fears that Character 1 will get hurt trying to save them, and feelings of guilt and despair fight inside them thinking about the well-being of their beloved.

Whumpee fainting in the arms of their beloved, after struggling to maintain consciousness for who knows how long, because they finally feels safe.

When the family of one of the lovers doesn´t support the relationship and kidnaps one of them to prevent them from seeing their beloved.

Forced to hurt their loved one.

Killing for the sake of their loved one ("I let the world burn for you").

Force to watch their loved one being hurt, incapable of doing something at the moment (and a necessary recovery arc later).

One of the characters is forced to marry "the bad guy", while, in the crowd, their loved one can only observe, knowing that if they try something, the bad guys will kill the loved one.

Anything that includes a character finding their loved one bound and gagged by the bad guys.

"I just didn't know how much you were important to me until I saw them hurt you".

"Who did this to you?"

Dramatical traumatic backstory reveal.

Soul-bounding: what happens to one is felt by the other.

"Only you can hurt me".

#whump #whump community #whumblr #whump trope #whump prompts #whumpee x caretaker #whumpee x whumpee #romance in whump #make you OTPs suffer

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salemoleander · 1 year ago

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I am growing increasingly tired of the way certain sections of the MCYT fandom treats QPRs and non-romantic relationships as if they're inherently within Creator Boundaries. This is both ignorant of what QPRs are, and willfully avoids considering boundaries as anything beyond a useful checklist to bludgeon other fans with.

QPRs can look like friendships, friends with benefits, kink relationships, life partners, and a million other things. They can appear identical to romantic relationships from the outside. They can include sex. It's frustrating seeing QPRs morphed into Schrodinger's Platonic Relationship in fandom, where people write what is functionally just traditional romantic ship fic but still get to yell at other people for Breaking Creator Boundaries.

It feels like the assumption is "Romance might upset creators, but as long as it's platonic it's fine." As if a QPR fic where characters spend the whole time cuddling, or even a fic where they're assigned as family and are written to have a non-existent sibling relationship, wouldn't also be deeply weird & off-putting to creators. (I know many people don't approach creating fan content with creators in mind, but for those who evidently do it seems deeply odd to pretend that romance is taboo but cuddling/whump/etc are inherently unobjectionable.)

A fic where someone gets Overcome By Instincts and kidnaps another character to (platonically!!1!1!) force them to cuddle is way weirder than just having them kiss. Which is fine! It's fine to be weird! The problem is assuming that an ABO fic w/ the serial numbers filed off is inherently More Pure and palatable to creators just because it uses an & instead of a /, and in incorrectly redefining an entire complex relationship category to 'sexless off-brand romance that won't get me cancelled on Twitter'.

#uhhhh not sure what to tag #fandom discourse #mcyt #this isn't so much swinging at a hornet's nest as pulling it into the car next to me and shutting the door #but gd I cannot take the total ignorance of QPRs and hypocritical 'But Boundariessss!' from people writing a neutered version of 50 shades #happy to add more tags for blocking purposes!#salem tag

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wangxianficfinder · 14 days ago

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In the mood for...

March 1st

~*~

1. Hi!! Do you have any fics you'd recommend that feature WWX having like... the worst time of his life? Like extreme hurt BUT with comfort too pls. And also no rape/non-con stuff pls :)

Thank you! <3

out in the garden, there’s things you hid away by saltyfeathers (E, 121k, WangXian, Possession, Animal Death, mass death event, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt(s), lotta hurt lotta comfort, wwx-centric, unfortunately there’s also a bodily fluids warning, just like a lot of bodily fluids, there is sex and it is all in the last chapter, Serious Injuries, Angst with a Happy Ending, Post canon)

we’re starting at the end by Miss_Enthusiasimal (M, 92k, WangXian, JC & WWX, Time Travel, Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Golden Core Reveal, Burial Mounds, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Starvation, emaciation, Cannibalism, Self-Harm, Amputation, Suicidal Thoughts, Sunshot Campaign, let JZX and WWX be friends club)

🔒🧡 rain falls and soaks into the earth series by RoseThorne (T, 60k, WangXian, WIP, Near Death Experience, Attempt Drowning, Madam Yu Bashing, Recovery, No war AU)

🧡🔒 Truth Will Out (when caught on video) - End_OTW_Racism! by KizuKatana (E, 178k, WangXian, WN & WWX & WQ, graphic depictions of violence, modern cultivation, canon divergence, YZY abuses WWX, caught on camera, partial core removal, WWX kicked out of Jiang sect, livestreamer WWX, meet ugly, dual cultivation, smut, no war)

Odd Geometry by maziodyne (M, 126k, WangXian, ChengSang, XuanLi, QingLi, WIP, Major Character Death, WWX does not grow up in Lotus Pier, WWX Isn't Adopted by the Jiangs, Elemental Magic, Healer WWX, Sunshot Campaign, Post-Sunshot Campaign Slow Burn, letter writing romance, flirting at inopportune times, Crows, Familiars, Homoeroticism, epic divorce incoming, triple agent WQ, lockpicking, communication (but does it change anything?))

🔒💙 A Heart Undying by NonsensicalRambling (M, 114k, WangXian, Undead WWX, Canon-Typical Violence, canon-typical dead things the burial mounds, Fix-It of Sorts, Canon Divergence, Eventual WangXian, No Yīn Tiger Seal, Morally Gray WWX, Animals Eating People, WWX’s questionable choices, Morally conflicted LWJ, Oblivious WWX, WWX Creates a Sect | Yiling Wei, YLLZ WWX, Sect Leader WWX, LWJ & WQ have an Understanding)

a bite of a vow, a taste of the truth by occultings (microcomets) (E, 29k, WangXian, Modern with Magic, Case Fic, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Kissing, Pining While Fake Fucking, Truth Serum, Whump, Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Voyeurism, Monsters, Succubi & Incubi, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, Barebacking, Happy Ending, medically discouraged anal, Brief Subspace, Top LWJ/Bottom WWX, impressive heights of soap opera plot)

Window of the Waking Mind by mrcformoso (M, 8k, wangxian, LSZ & WWX, JC & WWX, Graphic depictions of violence, Major Character Death, Heavy Angst with a Happy Ending, Sad with a Happy Ending, Post-Canon, Torture, Golden Core Transfer, WWX Has Self-Esteem Issues, Hurt WWX, WWX Needs a Hug, WWX Needs a Break, Flashbacks, Curses, Night Hunts, Suicide, Starvation, Canonical Child Abuse, Canonical Character Death, Cannibalism, Although it was forced by the situation to survive, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, lots of comfort, Soft LQR, Learning To Communicate, Zidian Spiritual Tool, JC Tries, Reaction)

~*~

2. any fav nielan fics? :D

I like stiltonbasket's nielan fics

the universe moved for us by scribblemetimbers (G, 7k, NieLan, Modern AU, Romance, Meet-Cute, Wrong Number AU, Romantic Comedy)

found myself and my melodies by Stratisphyre (T, 10k, NieLan, background wangxian, Modern with Magic, Reasonable Authority Figure LQR, Qīnghéng-jūn's A+ Parenting)

~*~

3. Hi!!!

Would you recommend me some jealous WWX fics? I do not want either LWJ or WWX to be (or had been) in a relationship with somebody else though. I just want them to be so madly in love with eachother that they do no have time for anyone else (except A-yuan. He's their love child 😌). Just pure wangxian (or xianwang). I prefer it not to be a modern au. Some misunderstandings are welcome 😁

Thank you so much for all my previous asks!! 🤗 @grrumpywoof

For you by 10thNoNamePerson (T, 16k, WangXian, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, Cloud Recesses Shenanigans, Canon Divergence, No War AU, Teen Wangxian, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Jealous WWX, Soft WangXian, No Sunshot Campaign)

Always Light My Way by cqlorphan (E, 27k, WangXian, Post-Canon, Getting Together, Friends With Benefits, to lovers, Jealous WWX, a little bit, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pining while fucking, angsty sex, Top/Bottom Versatile | Switch LWJ/WWX, Bottom LWJ, Service Top LWJ, Topping from the Bottom, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Coming Untouched, Dom/sub Undertones, Oblivious LWJ, archer wwx, Smart WWX, Porn with Feelings, Also warning for Panic Attacks, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dual Cultivation)

call me home and I'll build you a throne by anaphoricae (E, 51k, WangXian, Post-Canon, Canon Compliant, Cloud Recesses, Getting Together, Developing Relationship, Self-Indulgent, Gusu Lan Juniors Dynamics, Touch-Starved, Non-Sexual Intimacy... and then Sexual Intimacy, Lán Juniors Gossiping about Wangxian, as a treat, Nightmares, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, WWX Has a New Golden Core, Farmer WWX, Chief Cultivator LWJ, Mutual Pining, Communication, Quietly Falling Into a Married Life, Light Angst, Wholesome, POV LWJ, POV WWX, LWJ in braids agenda, Sharing a Bed, WWX's Birthday, Semi-Public Sex, Cold Springs, Inventor WWX, Jealous WWX)

🔒 Four Parts Honey and One Part Vinegar by masked (T, 13k, wangxian, Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Junior Quartet Dynamics, Fluff, Humor, Time Travel, 5+1 Things, Jealous WWX, the Impeccable Trust between Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian, POV Outsider, everyone is Thirsty for Hanguang-jun as one tends to be)

💖 Hanguang-jun’s Husband by lilacevergarden (alittlemorecreative) (T, 6k, wangxian, time travel, bullying ur younger versions, jealous wwx)

Look Not With The Eyes by Spodumene (G, 28k, WangXian, Case Fic, Fluff and Humor, Love Confessions, Idiots in Love, There Was Only One Bed, Post-Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Original Character Death(s))

~*~

4. Heyy. Hope you are having a great day/night /morning, I wanted to know if I can submit a IITMF:

A) where Wei WuXian cuts off Lan Qiren beard.

B) Outsider or any characters point of view of Wei WuXian being intelligent/inventive.

C) A character or OC walking in on WangXian doing 'Everyday is Everyday' and is trunatised.

Thank you so much in advance!! 💐 @thewintersoldier2002

4B)

All Things Belong by kuroi_atropos (M, 93k, WRH & WWX, WangXian, WWX is a Wēn, Abuse, Whipping, Manipulations, Warning: WRH, Smart WWX, Possessive Behavior, Warning: JGS, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Past Rape/Non-con, Society Level Victim Blaming, Victim Blaming)

💙🔒 Away from Trouble by Ilona22 (M, 15k, WangXian, Not JC Friendly, LWJ/WWX Get a Happy Ending)

🧡 Company by WithBroomBefore (T, 29k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Pre-Relationship, Getting Together, POV LWJ, Fix-It, Pre-Canon, at least to start, WWX goes to Cloud Recesses, But Not In The Usual Way, fear of character death, Everybody Lives, Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Light Angst, good teacher LQR, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, brief discussion of past minor character suicide, Kitten, Not YZY Friendly)

Dispersing Clouds by dreamingofcake (E, 283k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Genius WWX, Inventor WWX, Not Jiang Family Friendly, Abusive YZY, Canonical Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Eventual Sex, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm (Background Character), Background Character Deaths, child deaths, Canon JC, Good Uncle LQR, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Cultivation Sect Politics, Homophobia, Heteronormativity, Feelings Realization, WWX is Not Oblivious)

💖 Hoards and treasures by apathyinreverie (T, 21k, WangXian, Siblings, Family, not particularly Jiang friendly, YZY Bashing, slightly darker Gusu Lans, LXC being the best brother, Some manipulation, But with the best of intentions, and not between wangxian, Dragon LWJ, Fox WWX, Smitten LWJ, Fluff, perfect happiness, adorable WWX, Romance, Some worldbuilding, courting)

Just go forward like you mean it by tawaen (M, 101k, WangXian, WWX & WN &WQ, WWX & JYL, NHS & WWX, Canon Divergence, WWx does not attend the Wen indoctrination, WWX saves Lotus Pier, Inventor WWX, No Golden Core Transfer, Sect Leader JYL, JC Has No Golden Core, Bad Parents JFM & YZY, Not JC Friendly, but he gets a happier ending than canon so don’t look here for bashing)

in the shadow of moonlit flowers by Reverie (cl410) (T, 56k, wangxian, LXC/NMJ, cloud recesses, NHS & LWJ friendship, developing relationship, LWJ pov, minor injuries, autistic LWJ, implied/referenced child abuse, aka YZY warning, genius WWX, light angst, hurt/comfort, WWX protection squad)

❤️ The One-Body Problem by metisket (T, 29k, LJY & WWX, LJY & LSZ, wangxian, possession, cohabitation, The One-Body Problem by SeaNoodle)

4C)

Lan Qiren walks in on Lan Zhan and Wei Ying having sex & gets upset in chapter 45 of Dispersing Clouds by dreamingofcake (E, 283k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Genius WWX, Inventor WWX, Not Jiang Family Friendly, Abusive YZY, Canonical Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Eventual Sex, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm (Background Character), Background Character Deaths, child deaths, Canon JC, Good Uncle LQR, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Cultivation Sect Politics, Homophobia, Heteronormativity, Feelings Realization, WWX is Not Oblivious)

A Brother's Woes by pupeez4eva (M, 2k, WangXian, Crack, Humor, Time Travel) Lan Xichen time travels and tries to reduce Wei Ying & Lan Zhan's shamelessness after having walked in on them having sex multiple times in the original timeline.

5 Interruptions by Gavilan, jennisaisquoi, kisahawklin, nonplussed non-fic (nonplussed), Rionaa, semperfiona_podfic (semperfiona), takopods (takonomz) (T, WangXian, Accidental Voyeurism, Embarrassment, Notfic, 5 Times, NHS is a Little Shit, wn is a cinnamon roll, LXC Ships It, Podfic & Podficced Works, Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Podfic Length: 0-10 Minutes, Humor) this is an audio only experience of 5 characters walking in on Wangxian, and while they're not all traumatized, certainly some are

🔒 A More Practical Approach by Elhana (T, 9k, WangXian, Canon Compliant, Teacher WWX, Humour, POV Multiple, Implied Sexual Content, when you just want to get frisky with your hot husband but your in-laws crave their peace and quiet, huge conflict of interest right there, WWX is resourceful, wuxia magic shenanigans, Post-Canon)

~*~

5. I am looking for some good fits from LWJ point of view. Preferably following his life according to canon (novel, donghua, cql). The longer the better (usually). Thanks! @hiddendonut

🔒 The Price of Old Wishes by SoManyJacks (E, 67k, WangXian, Minor canon divergence, Angst, POV LWJ, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, semi-verbal!LWJ, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide)

New Perspective series by mrcformoso (T, 8k, WangXian, LSZ & LWJ, Major Character Death, Angst, Hopeful Ending, Fatherhood, Regrets, Flashbacks, POV LWJ, LWJ-centric, Canonical Character Death - WWX, Pining LWJ, LWJ Has Feelings, LWJ Needs a Hug, Character Development, Dead WWX, LWJ deals with the death of his love, And learns to be a father along the way, Introspection, Feelings, LWJ is Bad at Feelings, Character Study, WWX’s death in The Untamed was too raw, Regretful LWJ, Breaking Toxic Cycles, Canon Compliant, LWJ in Seclusion, Post-LWJ in Seclusion, Child LSZ, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, but only the ending, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, LWJ regaining WWX's Trust, Golden Core Reveal, Good Kid LSZ, Post-Time Skip, Love Confessions, Requited Love, Trust Issues, WWX Has a Fear of Dogs, WWX Has No Golden Core, Light Jealousy, Fierce Corpse WN, Protective LWJ, Post-Canon, WWX Has Chronic Pain, WWX Has Issues, WWX has Phantom Pain, WWX was Malnourished, Sad LWJ, POV WWX, WWX is always cold, migraines, Suicidal WWX, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Suicide, mirror therapy, Good Friend NHS, Crying, WWX's body is normal but he still feels as if it isnt, Made up Nie Clan lore, POV LSZ; Found Family, Toxic Elders, Growing Up, The Lan Juniors, LSZ's parents suffered, And so he starts a revolution, Bringing about change, LWJ Adopts LSZ, WWX is LSZ's Parent, LSZ is a polite menace, HGJ raised an army of Lan rebels and we're here for it, Good Uncle WN) especially the first 2

~*~

6. Can you recommend a fanfic where jiang cheng got curse, and his partner is lan xichen?

~*~

7. Hello,are there any fanfics that deal with the aftermath of Nightless City with Wei Wuxian in the burial mounds leading up to the Siege. Like, the Wen siblings are now gone and his shijie. I am seriously drawing a blank here though on any specific ones that go over the reaction of all of them being gone or the wens reaction to just waiting to die. Au's are fine though.

~*~

8. ITMF a canon divergence fic where the golden core transfer fails and wwx has to amswer to jiang cheng about why his wasn't repaired and instead wwx lost his too and we go from there @body-inabyss-heart-inparadise

at the end of a storm (is a golden sky) by KouriArashi (M, 106k, WangXian, JC & WWX, JC/WQ, JC & WWX & JYL, JYL/JGY, Canon Divergence, Angst, Family, Grief/Mourning, Developing Relationship, Slow Build, Politics, Intrigue, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everybody Lives, Eventual Happy Ending, Chronic Illness, jiang family feels, Canon-Typical Violence, canon typical political bullshit, post sunshot)

~*~

9. ITMF! Just any fics with lwj being a huge simp. Modern or canon all are welcome. (No bottom lwj. Canon dynamics only) @aristocraticteacup

we'll get him falling for a stranger (or a catfish) by sweetlolixo (T, 38k, WangXian, Modern AU, College AU, Catfish AU, Eventual Happy Ending, Crossdressing WWX, Rich heir LWJ gets catfished by pretty WWX online that's it that's the fic, Pining LWJ, Fluff, Humor, lwj is a grade A+ SIMP, Identity Porn)

it’s just (aah) a little crush (crush!) by sweetlolixo (T, 9k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Romance, Fluff, Pining LWJ, Humor, Courting Rituals, Teen Wangxian)

I'll light the fire (You place the flowers in the vase) by somnologic (E, 6k, WangXian, Getting Together, Canon Divergence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Jealous LWJ, Top LWJ/Bottom WWX, Inventor WWX, Oblivious LWJ, Fluff and Smut, Cloud Recesses Shenanigans, Gusu Lan Arm Strength, No Sex Education in the Gusu Lan Sect, Beards (Relationships), WWX gets a beard Lan wife, LWJ gets confused, Happy Ending, Background Femslash, No actual cheating or infidelity occurs, Pining, Coming Out, Light Dom/sub, Simp LWJ)

The Nightshift by love_kacey (E, 27k, WangXian, Modern AU, Hotels, nightshift, receptionist lwj, POV LWJ, First Meetings, Flirty WWX, Simp LWJ, Workplace Relationship, Top LWJ/Bottom WWX, Power Bottom WWX, Explicit Sexual Content, Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, Cock Warming, Light Dom/sub, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, LWJ Talks Dirty)

The Mummified Emperor Wants To Marry Me by sweetlolixo (E, 84k, WangXian, WIP, Modern, Historical Fantasy, Royalty, Emperor LWJ, Mummy LWJ, Reincarnation, Size Difference, Archaeologist WWX, Simp LWJ)

beautiful, just like you by whenitfalls (T, 2k, WangXian, Bakeries, Mutual Pining, courting, Modern AU, Fluff, nielan, ZhuYi)

~*~

10. hello! for a future itmf: any modern AU fics were they attend some sort of cultivation school? been reading in this fandom since it practically started on ao3 and get hankerings for fics I only barely remember. thank you all for what you do! @abomimablesnwm

The Life Cycle of the Frog and the Fish by Aerlalaith (T, 53k, wangxian, modern, fairy tale elements, reincarnation, fluff & angst, humor, illnesses, curses)

Marks of weakness, marks of woe by Song_of_Storms (E, 48k, WangXian, WIP, College/University, Modern with Magic, Dark Academia, Rivals to Lovers, Dark LWJ, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Murder Mystery, Minor Character Death, Familiars, Fencing, Nonbinary NHS, Poison, Aftermath of Poisoning, Tagged Explicit For Later Chapters, LWJ's canonical inability to distinguish between immediate hatred and immediate attraction, furthering the LWJ/JZX/MM friendship agenda, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Intrusive Thoughts)

🧡 One Can Keep A Secret (If He Does Not Know It's There) by H_Belle (T, 5k, WangXian, Modern Cultivators, Inventor WWX, Secret Identity, Identity Reveal, YLLZ WWX, Rogue Cultivator WWX, Pining LWJ, POV WWX, Background Wangxian Getting Together, Jiangs are only mentioned in the passing, inspired by a tumblr post)

These next ones are also cultivation schools but Wei Ying and/or Lan Zhan are teachers rather than students:

Documented Fact by Scrippio (T, 7k, WangXian, Modern AU, Modern with Magic, College/University, Professors, Minor Injuries, Misunderstandings, Fluff, Zizhen POV, Humor)

Roadside Attractions by Bodldops (T, 10k, WangXian, Teacher WWX, Teacher LWJ, The power of organized aunties)

🔒 Song of Divination by LittleSummary (M, 28k, WangXian, NieLan, WIP, Single Parent WWX, Modern with Magic, Demonic Cultivation, Amnesiac WWX, Curses, Past Abuse, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Behavior, Bad Parent YZY, Bad Parent JFM, Canon JC, No JC & WWX Reconciliation, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, LSZ is a Wei, MXY is a Wei)

grimoire by WithLoweredVoices (M, 95k, WangXian, Dark Academia AU, Modern with Magic, Magical Realism, Postgrad WangXian, lots of cryptozoology and marine biology, maybe a little bit of, The Magicians AU, Fae LWJ, some horror elements, Angst with a Happy Ending, Unreliable Narrator WWX, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Mutual Pining, Minor MingYao, no redemption arc for MY)

~*~

11. Hi, first thanks for all your amazing work!! This site is awesome!! I searched but I couldn't find a list or compilation. I want stories that deal with Wei Ying is never found by the Jiangs. Not only him being raised in other sects, but not only major sects but small ones, or even being a rouge cultivator. Him being awesome no matter where or with whom he grew up. Thanks!! Be well!! :) @monicaop21

You might find some fics you'd like in this Non-Yunmeng Wei Wuxian comp

A Thousand Things by tickertape (M, 108k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, WWX Isn’t Adopted by the Jiāngs, Developing Friendships, lots of OCs, miscommunication and misunderstandings (they’re idiots your honor), Nightmares, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Cloud Recesses Shenanigans, Slow Burn)

🔒 the hearth series by eccentrick (G/T, 65k, WangXian, HuaLian, Found Family, fluff with plot, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Disabled Character, Ableism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, WWX Isn’t Adopted by the Jiāngs, slow burn found family, Adopt WWX, Married HuaLian, Post-Canon TGCF, Kid Fic, TGCF Spoilers)

Going on charmingly by scribbet (T, 21k, WangXian, Teenage LWJ, Cloud Recesses Shenanigans, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, WWX is BSSR’s Disciple, Genius WWX, Petty LWJ, Meddling LXC, What if LWJ didn’t have an excuse to instantly write WWX off?, Canon Divergence, JFM Doesn’t Adopt WWX, WWX minus canon sense of obligation, but still with an inability to shut up around LWJ, I swear LWJ’s inner voice was no quite so snarky when I started this, JZN is unfortunately present but only to lose face, LQR’s inconsistent adherence to the Lan clan precepts, writing the effective Lan education you would like to see in the world, Technically pre-relationship, but in the typical Wangxian way of them being in deep but just not acknowledging it yet, POV LWJ)

🔒 I Will Call You By Name by DisasterMages (T, 73k, WangXian, WWX raised by XXC, Canon Divergence, Family Feels)

❤️ Seen and not heard by eatmyass (E, 51k, WangXian, Case Fic, No Sunshot Campaign, Kid Fic, dadxian, Strangers to Lovers, Found Family, POV LWJ, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, Falling in love in metaphors)

what builds a home by Stratisphyre (T, 45k, WangXian, MY & WWX, Canon Divergence, Adopted WWX, POV Multiple, warning for JGS behaving exactly as expected, child endangerment, Brother Feels, Minor Character Death, [Podfic] Cold read of “what builds a home” by Stratisphyre by KeriArentikaiPods (KeriArentikai))

❤️🔒 Candy & Conspiracies by Reverie (cl410) (T, 16k, WangXian, JZX & WWX, Jīn Sect WWX, Chaos Gremlin WWX, Fluff and Crack, Humor, Cloud Recesses, Found Family, pure idiocy, And some light murder, the chaotic jin trio we could have had, good madam jin, No Angst, Canon Divergence)

🔒 shades of grey spill from my veins (bleeding ink all over the page) by Reverie (cl410) (M, 58k, NieLan, WangXian, SangNing, POV NMJ, Canon Divergence, Joining the “Wei Wuxian raised by the Nie Sect” Club, Mentions of WWX’s life on the streets, Hurt/Comfort, Accidental Sibling Acquisition, Single Dad NMJ, NHS & WWX Friendship, Fluff, Humor, Happy Ending, Everyone Lives AU, Protective NMJ, Sunshot Campaign, Some angst, Blood and Injury, Kidnapping, Protective Siblings, Found Family)

🔒 The Echoes of that News Ring Loud by Scarlet_Gryphon (T, 111k, NMJ & NHS, 3zun, NHS/WN, JYL/JZX, WangXian, MM & NHS, WQ/2nd Madam Mo, Time Travel Fix-It, NMJ Lives, WWX Raised by a Different Sect, Universal Da-ge NMJ, JGY deserved better, Cinnamon Roll WN, the Nie brothers will do whatever they can to save the world, Temporary character death (but they get better), Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Behavior, Everyone Lives, Good Guy XY, because let's not leave kids hurt on the street, Let's give NHS Battle Fans club member, Gray-Ace power trio 3zun, Canon Divergence, discussions of JGS's canon-levels of dickery, brief and non-graphic discussion of past rape/non-con due to QS's origins, Mentions of Nightmares, NHS is a Little Shit, Minor Character Death, Happy Ending)

~*~

12. In the mood for fic: I have recently read some crack ship ideas about Jin Zixuan and Wei Wuxian:-) Is there any fic where Jin Zixuan has actually crush on Wei Wuxian (or even Jiang Cheng) and is frustrated and that's why he treats Jiang Yanli that way. Because he actually wants her brother(s), not her. Any universe is okay except modern au. Thank you.

Couldn’t Scream Couldn’t Shout by mermorgie (T, 42k, WangXian, LXC & WWX, LXC & LWJ, LQR & WWX, JZX & WWX, WWX & NHS, LWJ & NHS, WIP, Not for JC stans, Muteness, Sign Language, references to selective mutism, Homophobic JC, canon JC characteristics, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Anxiety Attacks, Pining, LWJ is a Panicked Gay, Supportive Sibling LXC, JZX Tries, LQR Tries, Protective JZX, Scheming NHS, Bisexual JZX, LWJ is Bad at Communicating, WWX Has ADHD, Autistic LWJ, WWX Has a Fear of Dogs, Jiang Family Bashing) Jin Zixuan is bisexual in Couldn't Scream Couldn't Shout and talks to Wei Ying about sexuality in chapter 6. The author note in that chapter says Jin Zixuan has a crush on a guy but not Wei Ying and it was supposed to be revealed who Jin Zixuan liked but I dont't thinks it's been revealed yet (the story is a WIP that was last updated in August of 2022).

Also for 12, I swear I remember reading a story where Jin Zixuan was jealous of Lan Zhan being in a relationship with Wei Ying during the Cloud Recesses arc. I recall a scene where Jin Zixuan watches them while they're in Caiyi and I think Jin Zixuan had a crush on Wei Ying but I can't remember the name of the fic. Maybe someone else recalls it?

and the calm is deep where the quiet waters flow by izanyas (M, 303k, WangXian, off-screen rape, oppression, violence, sexual assault, grief/mourning, unwanted pregnancy) JZX does have a crush on WWX but it's definitely *not* crack mind the tags!

~*~

13. Hi, does anyone know of any fics where Wei Ying, after Lan Zhan ignores him, gives up on Lan Zhan and gives Lan Zhan the silent treatment and Lan Zhan later regrets ignoring him? @lanwuxian0725

Of Bunnies and Sleeves and All Happy Things by moonwaif (G, 3k, WangXian, two dorks, failed attempts at flirting, Lan Zhan is jealous, but he doesn’t know it, unresolved romantic and sexual tension, Mutual Pining) the ending is a bit abrupt in this one but it's the only one I can think of that fits

This Ain't Beijing by YilingSani (G, 7k, WangXian, Modern, Christmas, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, CEO LWJ, personal assistant WWX, Co-workers, LWJ Being an Asshole, Light Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Misunderstandings, wangxian fail to communicate as always, some dude hits on WWX, WWX falls first but LWJ falls harder)

Tell Me To Stay by YilingSani (G, 14k, WangXian, Established Relationship, Domestic Issues, Wangxian break up, LWJ Has Issues, Injury, Getting Back Together, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort)

~*~

14. Hello!

For itmf could you recommend any modern AUs where the equivalent of yllz wwx/his death is him having a mental health crisis?

Love you so much

Love Don’t Belong To Me by airinshaw (E, 28k, WangXian, Modern AU, Getting Together, Kissing, Intercrural Sex, Light Angst, Happy Ending, PTSD, Panic Attack, WWX’s canonical self-esteem issues, Canonical Child Abuse, not as dark as the tags imply, Past Relationships mention)

Come Around and Stay by trippednfell (M, 160k, WangXian, NieLan, Slow Burn, Kid Fic, Found Family, Modern AU, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, PTSD, Blood and Injury, Dissociation, Angst with a Happy Ending, Musicals, POV Alternating, Baking, Yunmeng reconciliation (eventually), Friend Zoning, Literal Sleeping Together, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks)

The Winner Takes It All by YilingSani (M, 46k, WangXian, Modern AU, Single Parent WWX, Old Friends, One Night Stands, No Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Forgiveness, Second Chances, Inspired by Mamma Mia! (Movies) Teen Pregnancy, Mpreg, mention of miscarriage, Birth Trauma, amniotic fluid embolism)

like a saturated sunrise by moonsteps (T, 26k, WangXian, College/University, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, References to anxiety, Family Issues, Friends to Lovers, Roommates)

总有一天; a place to hide (can’t find one near) by yiqie (E, 76k, WangXian, Modern AU, Pianist, Getting Together, Mental Health Issues, Suicide Attempt, Suicidal Thoughts, Depression, Hospitals, Overdosing, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Additional Warnings In Author’s Note) please mind the tags on this last one.

leave all your love and your longing behind by ScarlettStorm (E, 143k, WangXian, Modern AU, no magic, Meet-Ugly, Panic Attacks, autistic lwj, neurodivergent wwx, the neighborhood asshole dog, if you’ve met one then you know, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Minor Angst, major shenanigans, Happy Ending, for everyone including the asshole dog, Eventual Smut, switch rights, Sex Toys, horny yearning, Masturbation) that's the backstory in this (excellent) fic

~*~

15. Hi, thanks for all you do. ITMF fics where LWJ is extremely horny for WWX. I know this is saying a lot because he's canonically very horny, but I need him straight up "can't think about anything but wwx's ass" @thehappyyellow

🔒 The Second Jade of Lan’s late but incendiary sexual awakening by KizuKatana (E, 41k, wangxian, First Time, LWJ’s Horny Grip,LWJ does not know what hit him, and yet somehow he still realizes it before WWX, canon wangxian dynamics, college AU, LWJ starts off annoyed at WWXBut quickly discovers both his competency kink and a caretaking kink, Genius WWX)

Give Me One Good Honest Kiss by thunderwear (T, 1k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, LWJ kisses WWX when he drinks the alcohol for him, JZn can get fucked, WWX like idk whats happening but im into it, LWJ shooting his shot, First Kiss, horny LWJ agenda, LXC is suffering in LQR's namere, [PODFIC] Give Me One Good Honest Kiss by thunderwear)

LWJ’s Big Dick Agenda Series by raitala (E, 146k, WangXian, Modern AU, College AU, Porn with Feelings, Light Dom/sub, Under-negotiated Kink, Public Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Cock Warming, Angst, Feels, Domestic fluff, Misgendering, Slut Shaming, Crossdressing, Rimming, Roleplay)

slide by Anonymous (E, 5k, WangXian, PWP, First Time, Masturbation, Rimming, Thighfucking, Anal Sex, LWJ’s extreme thirst, no thoughts head empty just wwx getting railed, Intercrural Sex)

depths within by andreanna (E, 17k, WangXian, Dubious Consent, Canon-typical dubcon, Aftercare, Light Angst, Survivor Guilt, Pining, Kink Negotiation, Character Study, LWJ is a lusty boy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bondage, Voyeurism, Minor canon divergence, Family Feels)

~*~

16. I want any story about Lan Wangji marrying out of the Lan sect. Mostly I am looking for him marrying into the Jiang sect after Sunshot but anything where he leaves the Lan by marriage. @unaffiliatedmagpie

The Fire Lapping Up the Creek by notevenyou (E, 66k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Injury, Injury Recovery, Blood, Respiratory Illness, Major Illness, Fever, Grief/Mourning, Burial Mounds, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hunger and food scarcity, Surgery, Fix-It of Sorts, Le feu qui gagne la rivière by Silu_chan, [Podfic of] The Fire Lapping Up the Creek by exmanhater)

Grey Area by pearliegrimm (M, 31k, WangXian, MM/WQ, LWJ Stays at the Burial Mounds, Found Family, Yílíng Wèi Sect, Sect Leader WWX, WWX lives, Canon Divergence, LWJ defects, married wangxian, Established Relationship, Secret Marriage, Angst, POV Multiple, Unreliable Narrator, Eloping, Reconciliation, Fix-It, Not Everyone Dies)

Sunshower in Yiling Series by Aki_no_hikari (T/G, 24k, WangXian, Canon Divergence wwx is a genius and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, Light Angst, Introspection, Pining, Family Fluff, Battle Couple, Yílíng Wèi Sect, Teacher WWX, Family Drama) Parts 3, 4 & 5

Run Off The World by Sapphire_Roses (M, 336k, WangXian, XuanLi, SongXiao, WIP, Not Everyone Dies AU, Canon Divergence, Wen Remnants Live, Flashbacks, YLLZ WWX, WWX Creates a Sect | Yiling Wei Sect, Sect Leader WWX, Married WangXian, OCs, POV Outsider, Morally Grey Characters, (Do Take That Tag Seriously), Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Developing Friendships, Fluff, Attempt at Humor, Yunmeng Siblings Feels, Gusu Siblings Feels, Sibling Bonding, Pining, Character Study, Tenderness, Mild Smut, POV Alternating, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Minor Character Death)

The Trouble With Politics: a Treatise on Jiang Sect Deputies Gone Rogue by Sect Leader Wei Wuxian by stiltonbasket (G, 56k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Yílíng Wèi Sect, or: the one where yu zhenhong is a wild card, Smitten LWJ, Domestic Fluff, Politics, Happy Ending, Sect Leader WWX, Fix-It of Sorts, JZX still dies though)

💖 And They Have Escaped The Weight of Darkness by cosmicmilktea (T, 10k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Memory Loss, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Screw the Cultivation world tbh, The Lan precepts deserves better, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, domestic life, Social justice boyfriends wangxian, Happy Ending)

We can fix that by Spindoctor (E, 85k, WangXianJue, Threesome - M/M/M, NMJ Lives, Arranged Marriage, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Cock Warming, Caretaking, Light BDSM, Thigh jobs, Everyone Loves WWX, Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Starvation, Canon-Typical Violence, Starvation recovery, PTSD, PTSD RECOVERY, Suicidal Ideation, Scars, Discussion of Surgery, mild body horror, discussion of starvation, body talk, Nightmares, screaming ghosts, WWXs canonical cnc kink, cnc fantasies, Light Bondage, tender fucking, instead of talking about feelings, Slow Burn, JYL Lives, BAMF JYL, Erectile Dysfunction, Weight Gain, Chapter Specific Tags in Beginning Notes) Lan Zhan has arranged marriage to Nie Mingjue (he marries to Nie sect), then Wei comes into picture too;-)

An Elegant Solution by giraffeter (E, 205k, WangXianJue, Arranged Marriage, Canon Divergence, Threesome - M/M/M, Friends to Lovers, Fix-It, Everyone Lives, Courtship, First Time, First Kiss, Polyamory, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Rimming Voyeurism, Porn With Plot, horny dudes in love, Falling In Love, Light Bondage, Porn that turned out to have quite a bit of plot, Love Letters, WWX’s canonically fabulous ass, LWJ’s canonically large cock, Political Intrigue, ok one person dies but it won’t be anyone you care about, Praise Kink, Dom/sub, Spitroasting, JGY Redemption, Edging, [Podfic] An Elegant Solution by Koontyme, Translation (Русский) Available) I really recommend threesome marriage WWX/LWJ/NMJ where Wei and Lan Zhan marries into Nie to Nie Mingjue

~*~

17. itmf a fic where wwx is good with children pls! <3

Wei Wuxian: Baby Whisperer by JangJaeYul (G, 1k, WangXian, Post-Canon, Babies, Domestic, Fluff, WWX is good with kids, also they talk about LWJ being sad after WWX dies so be ready for that emotional ouchie)

🔒 Baby Whisperer Wei Wuxian by Preludian_Staves (T, 15k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Cloud Recesses Study Arc, Not Jiang Clan Friendly, Arranged Marriage (eventually for reasons), Parent-Child Relationship, Soft WWX, Pining LWJ, Good Parent WWX, WWX Is Good With Children, Single Parent WWX, Fluff and Angst, Developing Relationship)

The happy family book by blackberrydhhshhshsh (M, 13k, WangXian, WIP, Fluff, Slow Burn, Family Dynamics, Single Parent LWJ, Kindergarten Teacher WWX, author WWX, Modern, Falling In Love, Love Confessions, LWJ is Bad at Feelings, WWX is Good With Children, A-Yuan as a Tiny Matchmaker, Soft LWJ, tender moments, Angst with a Happy Ending, Kindergarten & Pre-school, Fluff and Humor)

Wei Wuxian Changes the Rules by cinder1013 (G, 2k, WangXian, learning, WWX is a teacher, WWX being so cute with kids)

🔒 Temporal Shift by Cy_an_Blue (E, 33k, LQR & WWX, WangXian, LWJ & WWX & LXC, LQR & LWJ & LXC, Amnesia, Amnesiac WWX, Third Jade of Lan WWX, Good Uncle LQR, Good Parent LQR, LQR adopts WWX, Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Curses, Cursed WWX, there is no cure, Fluff and Humor, Happy, Time Travelling WWX, Angst and Feels, Near Death Experiences, Lanling Jin Sect Bashing, Lanling Jin Sect, Lanling jin disciples are assholes, Warning: JGS, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Talks of Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Classism, Period Typical Attitudes, WWX's canonical cynophobia, no animals were harmed, WWX is Good With Children, Minor Character Death, it's SS, SS dies)

Protection by SauerstoffBrauchtManZumAtmen23 (T, 1k, WangXian, Crimes & Criminals, Dark LWJ, Dark WWX, Mute WWX, Crime Boss LWJ, Married WangXian Have Children, WWX is Good With Children)

🧡 paint smears on sunny days by SnowshadowAO3 (E, 53k, WangXian, Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Everyone Is Alive, Modern AU, Dadji, Mutual Pining, Happy Ending, Brief Alcohol Mention, Masturbation, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Accidentally co-parenting with your son’s art teacher, Fatherhood)

🔒❤️ Joy In the Midst of These Things Series by Glitterbombshell (T/G, 53k, WangXian, Angst with Happy Ending, Post-Canon, Teacher WWX, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, [Podfic] Joy In the Midst of These Things Series by GoLBPodfics (GodOfLaundryBaskets))

~*~

If you didn’t get an answer to your ask here, don’t forget to make use of @mdzs-kinkmeme and MDZS KINK MEME on Dreamwidth. Authors actually do use them for ideas. You may get what you order!***Your prompt doesn’t have to be kink! Fluff, crack, whatever - it’s all good!***

#wangxian #mdzs #wangxian fic recs #i'm in the mood for a fic #the untamed #wangxian fic search #wangxianficfinder #long post

117 notes · View notes

galaxywhump · 1 year ago

Text

Home Again

Trope: Not Used to Freedom

Fandom: Original Work

[SV-240 masterlist]

[blue for completed]

Timeline: post-captivity, set after Ghosts of the Past.

contents: recovery from slavery whump and forced relationship, hospital setting, childhood trauma, mention of therapy.

~~~

“Jonna Schulte visited me yesterday.”

Nathaniel is looking out the window, so Wren can’t see his expression, but he does notice the tension in his shoulders.

“I know.” Nathaniel’s voice is forced, stiff. “I talked to her.”

“Yeah, I heard you talking.” The emphasis Wren puts on the last word goes unnoticed. “So, what’s the deal with… all that? She didn’t tell me much.”

“We were married, it didn’t work out, so she left.”

Nathaniel spits out his words like they’re poison, as is the topic at large, but Wren doesn’t want to back out. It’s too important, and too confusing.

“She said she didn’t want to abandon me.”

Nathaniel inhales sharply and crosses his arms. “I don’t know what she did or didn’t want. You can ask her.” He finally faces Wren, his gaze like the dark sky before a thunderstorm. “‘I don’t want to talk about this.”

His tone is harsh, and it makes Wren freeze. There it is, the tension he’s felt for so long, his instincts urging him to run, and he feels so small and insignificant, but not in the same way that SV-240 made him feel. He doesn’t feel like a human being confronted with the unimaginable loneliness of being trapped on a distant planet. He feels like a helpless kid.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, looking away, his heartbeat deafening, his hands shaking.

Nathaniel seems surprised by Wren’s reaction, but he doesn’t add anything. The sense of immediate danger slowly fades, though the implications linger in Wren’s mind.

Nothing has changed. The events of the last two years did not overwrite his earlier memories and instincts, not that he really expected otherwise. What Daniel had put him through made him discover mechanisms within his psyche that he wasn’t aware of before, and which he figures must have come from his childhood. Now he gets to see their root cause with new eyes, and he doesn’t know if he’s ready for it.

Between living alone, struggling with the way his body and mind work now, and going back to living with his father, he’s not sure if there exists an option that isn’t terrible.

“Do you need help packing?”

He nearly jumps in place and shakes his head.

“No, no, I’ll do it myself. It’s not a lot.”

His hands are shaking as he puts what little he’d taken out back in the bag and zips it up.

As much as he wanted to leave the hospital before, now he wishes he could stay.

***

When they exit, there are people waiting for them, a small crowd gathered near the entrance, the sight of which causes Wren to stop abruptly, his eyes going wide. And then there’s noise, voices, and they don’t sound angry, but they’re too overwhelming for Wren to register anything. He stepped out of the hospital and fell into a void, and he’s frozen in place, gripping the strap of his bag so hard his knuckles turn white.

Someone grabs his arm and pulls, and his immediate reaction is to try and free himself, but when he manages to tear his gaze away from the crowd, he sees it’s just his father, so he forces himself to move, to put one foot in front of the other, to get the hell out, away from those people, everything is too much, too crowded, and it isn’t until he’s seated in the car that he can breathe again.

He exhales and leans forward until he rests his forehead against the back of the front seat, but he has to straighten up when the car starts. He blinks and his gaze flits towards the window, but he has to look away when he sees the crowd again.

“What happened?”

Wren winces. He can feel Nathaniel’s eyes boring into him, but he doesn’t want to look. It’s not like he knows what happened, anyway; for all he knows, he left the hospital building and regained consciousness in the car.

“Sorry,” he says, and Nathaniel doesn’t push, he never does anymore, he only wants uncomfortable conversations to end, and that’s exactly what happens. The drive home passes in silence, and Wren spends its entirety swallowing back tears.

***

Unlike him, the house hasn’t changed at all. It’s still neat, but unremarkable, average in just about every way; Nathaniel never flaunted his position by going for unnecessary luxury. Still gripping the strap of the bag tightly, Wren enters, and the inside is the same too, because it has always been comfortable, and that was enough. There are some new things, things he doesn’t recognize, but they’re minor, they don’t matter.

The door closes behind him, and something about the sound both sobers him up and sends him back to a day he’d rather not reminisce about. He can’t breathe, he can feel tears coming again, and this time he can’t hold them back, so he rushes upstairs, to his old room, which is also the same, the only difference being the boxes strewn about the floor. His things, brought back to the place he had escaped years ago.

He’s home.

Tears overflow and he furiously wipes them away. All he wants to do is sit on his bed and wallow in emotions that he can’t even identify, but he hears his father’s footsteps on the stairs, and he knows he has to appear at least a bit more put-together. He sits down on the bed anyway, unzips his bag, and starts unpacking it.

“Hey,” Nathaniel says after a symbolic knock on the doorframe. “Need any help?”

At first Wren wants to refuse again. These are his things, he can handle unpacking, and having his father here will probably only lead to more tension, more awkwardness, but…

He looks at the boxes. The bag he can handle, but with how he’s feeling he’s not sure the same can be said about the boxes. Besides, if he’s left on his own, he might just burst into tears and accomplish nothing, and his room being a mess will only drag him further into misery.

“Actually, yeah,” he says, looking up from the bag with a slightly forced smile. “I don’t know what I’m going to put where yet, but if you could help with the boxes, that would be great. Just… clothes on one pile, other stuff on a different pile, something like that.”

“Sounds doable,” Nathaniel laughs, and Wren does too, and they get to work, mostly in silence, sometimes making small talk or commenting on their finds.

“You still have this T-shirt?”

“Yeah, it’s living its best life as pajamas now.”

“Mhm. And this one?”

“Pajamas. Or, uh, for cleaning days.”

“This one too?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a hole in it.”

“Exactly. It’s perfect.”

They laugh, Wren through tears, because of course he’s crying, because he hasn’t seen these things in such a long time, he thought he’d never see them again. There are tears in his breaking voice too, which go unaddressed; it feels absurd, this elephant in the room, his silent breakdown and its cause, but he convinces himself that it’s better this way, that they can both pretend that everything is fine, even when nothing is.

Their conversations are normal, ignoring the context that is anything but. Catching up, how much has the city changed? It must have changed, it’s been… a while. Food. Food is a normal subject. They can get takeout, whatever Wren wants. Not from that one place, though. It closed down a year or so ago.

It’s strange to think that normal things were happening while he was away. A silly thought, of course he’d never think that everything was put on hold when he was kidnapped, but somehow it still hits him hard. The restaurant closed down, and he was busy being a captive. He doesn’t even know what was going on with his father when he was presumed dead, but he doesn’t want to start that conversation yet; he can ask about it later. Right now he focuses on dividing his clothes into categories with some semblance of sense before putting them in the closet.

The last thing he reaches for is his running T-shirt, and he pauses, holding it up, rubbing the slippery fabric between his fingers.

“I think I’m gonna go for a run,” he says, his idea verbalized as soon as it appears in his mind. Nathaniel, busy collecting the now empty boxes, looks at him with a frown.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

Naturally, Wren starts doubting himself, and maybe it is a stupid idea, but it’s an exciting one, and he doesn’t want to just give it up.

“Yeah, I… think I need it. I miss running.”

“Alright,” Nathaniel says, still seemingly unconvinced. “Now?”

“No.” Wren shakes his head. “I’ll wait until the evening. So it’s less warm.” And, hopefully, so there’s fewer people. He doesn’t say that part out loud. Being concerned about the weather is normal. Freaking out after being one of the only two people on an entire planet is not. He wants to be normal, and if he can’t, he’ll at least pretend.

The food they get from a place Wren knows well tastes different from what he remembers, but maybe he just doesn’t remember it well, it’s been so long, after all. They talk for a bit about nothing in particular, and when the silence threatens to turn awkward, Wren suggests watching something light, maybe a game show, and they do just that, joking and trying to guess the answers before the contestants do. It’s a familiar scenario in a way that fills Wren with unease as time goes on; he’s relieved when evening comes and he can excuse himself to get ready.

Putting up his hair to keep it out of the way and warming up before leaving the house is a routine he hasn’t forgotten, but it’s not as nostalgic and uplifting as it should be, because he used to do this on SV-240 too. Back then it made him feel better, but the price he pays now is that it’s become tainted, linked to memories of running laps around Daniel’s house, of working out alongside him. That, however, is reduced to a triviality when Wren leaves the house and faces the world outside.

Running laps within the safe area around the house, guarded from the dangers of the planet, was one thing; being faced with the startling realization that he can go wherever he wants is something else entirely. He’s no longer confined, be it to the house, the spaceship, or the hospital. He’ll have to go back home eventually, but he’s the one who gets to decide when that will be.

He’s free.

He sways on his feet a little, and has to take a deep breath of Earthly air. For just a moment he considers turning back, going back inside, but above all he feels… excited. Energized. He wants to get the most out of his newfound freedom, so he braces himself, chooses a direction, and starts running, maybe a bit faster than he usually would, and a wave of euphoria the likes of which he hasn’t felt in a long time spreads throughout his body, through his every nerve. His shoes hit the pavement at a steady pace, and his breathing falls into a familiar rhythm. That’s all that matters.

When he comes back home, he’ll have no choice but to face his thoughts. His first therapy session is coming up - how should he approach it? How much can he tell his therapist? He’ll have to bring up something, think about the last two years with Daniel, recall some of the physical torture, because he can’t imagine himself talking about anything other than that, even though it’s the other memories that give him nightmares each and every night. Is he going to have one tonight, in his old room? He doesn’t want his father to hear it. His father… The time they spent together was nice, and Wren knows it’s nothing new, nor was it a one-off. There have always been days like this, filled with casual, lighthearted conversations, joking and laughter, and yet, when he was away, he could only remember the other days, raised voices, disappointment and contempt. He got a reminder of that earlier, Nathaniel’s reaction to his question about Jonna, Jonna, his mother, who didn’t want to abandon him, who’s one message or call away…

He never wants to stop running.

~~~

taglist: @faewhump @inky-whump @whole-and-apart-and-between @whatwasmyprevioususername @procrastinatingsab @funky-little-glitter-bomb @goneuntil @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @sophierose002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump @kixngiggles @ohwhumpydays @whumpsical @wibbly-wobbly-whump @stab-the-son-of-a @his-unspoken-words @pumpkin-spice-whump @onlyhappywhenitpains @suspicious-whumping-egg @morning-star-whump @burtlederp @there-will-always-be-blood @springwhump

#bad things happen bingo #recovery whump #slavery whump #forced relationship whump #childhood trauma tw #whump #wren rackham #nathaniel rackham #sv-240 #my writing #pls let me know if there's a better way to tag stuff about wren's trauma #well i finally wrote something #i dusted this off recently #and woah i have a bthb card #so close to filling it out actually #anyway. this chapter's a bit different #but i suppose that the entire recovery arc is going to be a bit different #i hope you like it #and that the taglist works

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asiandramawhump · 3 months ago

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The Longest Promise (2023) - Whump List - Chinese

Whumpee: Shi Ying played by Xiao Zhan

Synopsis/Plotline: Royal Prince Shi Ying develops romantic feelings for his student, Princess Zhu Yan, but their student-teacher relationship prevents them from them expressing their true feelings. Fate works against them when they choose opposing sides in a political struggle. Eventually they put aside their issues to protect their beloved Kong Sang continent.

Genre/Tags: Adapted from a novel, Master-Disciple Relationship, Slow Burn, Romance, Cultivation, Warm Female Lead/Aloof Male Lead, Forbidden Love, Costume Drama

Watch On: Netflix, KissAsian

*SPOILERS BELOW - PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK!!*

1.01-1.02 - NONE

1.03 - (emotional whump), finds out that his mother committed suicide; collapse, panic, loss of control over powers; hurt/comfort :::(emotional whump), crying at mother's memorial :::grieving, lashes out and hurts other character

1.04 - (cont'd from 1.03) grieving, angry, punching tree, bloodies knuckles, accidentally injures others, guilt ::: coughs

1.05 - mild whump, slightly overexerted after teleporting

1.08 - bitten on wrist

1.09 - mild whump, slightly overexerted after teleporting

1.11 - knowingly absorbs poison ::: symptoms of poisoning, weak, pale, concern for him, coughing, helped to walk

1.17 - overuses his powers, collapses, unconscious, concern for him ::: thrown off cliff, drowning, under-water rescue kiss, coughing, weak, attacked by dragon, goes unconscious ::: unconscious for 3 days, back injuries from fight, injury treatment

1.18 - (emotional whump) despair over Zhu Yan's betrothal ::: requests punishment for his feelings: stabbed/slashed, shaking, weak, collapse

1.19 - (emotional whump) gives away hair pin to Zhu Yan; not whump but pretends to be an illusion to see Zhu Yan

1.20 - NO WHUMP - very fluffy scenes between Zhu Yan/Shi Ying

1.21 - destroys tree, coughs blood ::: (emotional whump) crying, sad

1.25 - stabbed with shards that are poisonous, collapses, goes unconscious ::: concern for him, cared for ::: wincing, coughing, attempting to hide injury, injury grabbed, injury discovery ::: (slightly funny) forced to take of himself, given medicine

1.26 - coughing; pretends to be sick (in disguise), immobilized (holding hands <3) ::: painful injury treatment, weak, need help to sit

1.27 - (emotional whump) concern for Zhu Yan; spits blood, risks Qi Deviation ::: heals Zhu Yan, spits blood

1.28 - (emotional whump) angry/hurt confrontation with his father, identity reveal

1.29-1.33 - no whump

1.34 - struck by lightning, coughs blood ::: (emotional whump) confrontation with Zhu Yan, pretends not to care to protect her; coughs blood, stumbles, pale, needs help to stand::: coughing

1.35 - (emotional whump) kills second male lead ::: (emotional whump) doesn't think Zhu Yan loves him, (crying) threatened to be stabbed ::: stabs himself with Zhu Yan's sword, coughs blood, dies

1.36 - dead/unconscious

1.37 - memory loss, cute scenes; falls asleep on Zhu Yan's shoulder (Zhu Yan hiding side effects of her reviving Shi Ying)

1.38 - (emotional whump) guilt, worry for Zhu Yan, crying

1.39 - requests to return to mortal realm; punishment, whipped, cut, struck with lightening, tortured, blood, coughing blood, concern for him; (emotional whump) meets mother in dream like state, crying ::: falls, collapses, goes unconscious ::: (still unconscious) bloody wounded; attacked, protected by Zhu Yan and mentor ::: bloody, wounded, mentor protects him with his own body, mentor fatally wounded (emotional whump) concern for mentor, crying ::: can't access power, struggling, coughing, (emotional whump) concern for mentor, crying, mentor mistakes him for Shi Ying's mother, mentor brushes tears from his eyes, hugging mentor's body, crying

1.40 - none

1.41 - attacked with energy, thrown against tree, cut on cheek, attacked again, clutches chest in pain, concern for him, stumbles, collapses, thrown against tree again, in pain, attacked again, crying, struggles to get up, collapses, someone tries to throw him off cliff, Zhu Yan sacrifices herself for him, unconscious ::: unconscious in the rain ::: still unconscious in the rain, healed by magic bird ::: rescues his girl, attacked, concern for Zhu Yan

1.42 - (emotional whump) panic for Zhu Yuan ::: sad over death ::: energy blowback from Divine Ring, blasted, staggers, coughs blood

1.43 - attacked, fight ::: absorbs evil spirit, fighting to seal away evil spirit, coughs blood ::: in pain, coughing more blood, concern for Zhu Yan ::: begs Zhu Yan to kill him, crying, panic ::: blasted back, in pain, crawling to Zhu Yan, coughing more blood, begging for Zhu Yan to kill him, emotional hug with Zhu Yan/crying, stabbed with Jade hair pin, collapses, dies on Zhu Yan's shoulder

!!!MAJOR SPOILER!!!

Ending is open to interpretation, but Shi Ying does come back at the end...either resurrected by mystical powers that be or just in spirit form, but Zhu Yan and Shi Ying are reunited at the end.

#whump #whump list #asian whump #cdrama whump #asian whump list #the longest promise #ren min #cdrama #costume drama #the longest promise whump #2023 whump

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chaotic-orphan · 7 months ago

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Delirious Villain x Hero Caretaker (5)

Read part one here // Continued from here

Heed the TW (and mind yourselves please <3):

TW: emotional abuse, physical abuse, mental abuse, vomiting, forced vomiting, violence, elements of psychosis, psychosis episode-like symptoms, vulnerable whumpee, intimate whumper, older brother whumper, young sibling whumpee, gaslighting, manipulation, sick whump, sickness whump, illness whump, reuniting with whumper, PTSD, facing whumper who gave PTSD, bad family relationships,

~*~*~*~*~*~

Villain eyed Superhero wearily. Despite all their training, all their progress, Superhero had a height and weight advantage over Villain. His broad shoulders stood proud, supporting his stupid head, with his smirk that made Villain’s stomach crawl. They needed to get out of here, to get help.

They wouldn’t make it to the door in the condition they were in, so that was out of the question. His eyes flicked to the couch where he was asleep not a few minutes ago, which felt like a lifetime now. He couldn’t see his phone. He needed to call Hero, but maybe it was tangled in the blankets?

“I can see the cogs turning, Vil,” Superhero said with a happy sigh. “If you’re hoping that your precious Hero comes to save you in time, don’t. They’re too busy saving someone worth saving.”

“Shut up!” Villain growled, pushing at Superhero’s chest with their free hand. “Get off of me!”

Superhero chuckled, tsking and shaking his head at Villain’s outburst. Villain’s heart didn’t forget to beat after that, the guilt at his Brother’s disappointment didn’t still affect him. It didn’t.

“Where are your manners, Vil? Jeez, does Hero just let you run wild? That must be so annoying for them.”

“Hero loves me.”

Superhero leaned in, dark eyes glittering with malice. “Oh yeah? Then why aren’t they here looking after you?”

Villain’s face scrunched up. “Because you sent them away!”

“Or are they just so tired with you that they had to get out of the house for a while. It seems like the latter to me. God, I remember how annoying you were. Nobody, not even Hero has enough patience to handle you.”

“Hero loves me,” Villain said again, this time a little quieter.

“No. They don’t. They probably just feel sorry for you and how pathetic you are. Like a wounded baby bird whose wings are too weak to make it fly.”

“My life doesn’t concern you anymore! You don’t have to interact with me on a daily basis! Please let me go. Please, Brother, please.”

Superhero pressed a finger to his lips. “Shush. No begging yet, Vil. It’s unbecoming.”

Without warning, Superhero yanked Villain off the wall and was about to throw him to the floor when the pair froze. Villain’s ringtone played mutely from the bedroom. Villain’s eyes widened.

Hero.

Superhero recovered quicker than Villain, a cruel grin on his face as he started dragging Villain towards the bedroom. He got a hand on the back of Villain’s neck and shoved him down so Villain had to walk awkwardly bent over. Superhero opened the door to the bedroom and saw the phone lighting up on the bed.

He threw Villain to the ground beside the bed, laughing as Villain stumbled before he hit the floor with a groan, grabbing Villain’s phone off the bed.

“Aww, Vil. It’s Hero. Probably calling you to tell you that they’re leaving you.”

“Shut up,” Villain hissed, rubbing their hip that took the brunt of the impact.

Superhero turned Villain’s phone to Villain so they could see the picture of Hero laughing, ice-cream in hand, a dollop of mint chocolate chip on the tip of their nose.

“Cute,” Superhero said with a scoff, then put his finger in his mouth and mimed vomiting. Superhero waited for Hero to hang up before scrolling through Villain’s phone. Superhero raised their brows, glancing at Villain over the phone. “You seriously don’t have a passcode or something?”

“Don’t need it.”

Superhero scoffed, turning his attention back to the phone. Villain moved to get to their feet when Superhero’s stare snapped to them. “Don’t move or I’ll kill Hero.”

That froze Villain in their movements, their heart hitching at Superhero’s easy threat. Superhero didn’t seem too bothered by it and soon his face split into a wide smile.

“Aww, look Vil. Hero text: Superhero,” Superhero paused, grinning down at Villain pointing to himself. “That’s me.” Then went back to reading. “Superhero said that he was short staffed, and sent me to West-point so I will be home later than usual. Sorry for leaving you again, there’s soup in the freezer if you feel up to it. I love you. xx.”

Villain tightened their hands into fists by their sides, clenching their jaw against every word that Superhero read. Hero was going to be home later than normal? West-point, that was at least an hour by metro from here and who knows when they’d get home… especially because—

Villain raised their gaze to Superhero who was grinning above them. “You weren’t short-staffed, were you?”

“Of course not,” Superhero said with a smirk. “I just had to get Hero away from you for a while. Hell, even Other Hero and Sidekick should’ve gone to central hospital but I asked for them to be transferred to West-point so we could have some long overdue family time.”

Superhero tapped on Villain’s phone a little longer and grinned after locking the screen, pocketing the phone in his back-pocket. “Just in case you get any ideas.”

Villain glared at him from the ground, a sudden overwhelming helplessness returning to him that he hadn’t felt since he was a kid. Since he moved out of his family home. Now it came back with a viciousness that threatened to drown him and left him clawing against it just to keep his head above the water and his breathing even.

“Now,” Superhero said, inspecting Villain with his piercing gaze. “What to do with you.”

“Just leave,” Villain tried. “Please. I don’t— I’m not apart of your life anymore. You don’t— you don’t have to do this.”

“Vil, Vil, Vil,” Superhero sighed walking towards Villain. “Family doesn’t quit on each other. They never give up on you. I know I don’t have to try and fix you, the truth is I never did. I just wanted what was best for you.”

“Yeah right! You just wanted what was best for you! Can’t have your little brother embarrass you in public!”

Superhero, to Villain’s surprise, softened at that. Villain didn’t trust it for a second.

“You’re right,” Superhero said with a breath. “I was so worried about what kind of shame or embarrassment you would bring on me. I didn’t want people associating failure with us.”

Superhero crouched in front of Villain, tilting his head to the side. A strange smile on his lips, that Villain couldn’t quite discern. It looked whimsical and yet sad, wait— was that a genuine smile? No. It couldn’t be.

“It’s because I saw our potential, Villain,” Superhero said with a scoff. “Y’know, it’s stupid, but when I worked so hard to be Superhero, to become the best and bring prestige to our family name… well, I pushed you hard too because I always imagined that it would be something that we’d do together. Something we’d achieve together. The best brother Superhero duo in history.”

Villain’s heart cracked a little, a swarm of guilt spilling out like a leak in a dam, constricting his chest. Villain longed to reach out, to close the distance between them to apologise for not being able to live up to Superhero’s expectations.

To tell him that Villain tried. He really fucking tried, but Superhero was always stronger, faster, better than he was and he couldn’t be the same.

He didn’t though. He tightened his hands into fists and stared at Superhero who looked six feet deep in fond memories and regrets.

“I’m sorry, Vil.”

It felt as if time stopped. As if the Earth stopped turning, and the world stood frozen. The moment right before a car crash, or something inevitable happening; the cusp that hides between moments like a trapdoor spider, waiting until you lowered your guard before attacking and killing you.

Villain’s voice was a whisper: “what?”

Superhero swallowed, forcing himself to meet Villain’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Villain.”

There was no joke or humour in Superhero’s face as he said that, again. Apologised? Again! But— but— Villain’s brain was fried from their flu because this must be another trick? Another hallucination. Superhero being sorry for something? Feeling remorse?

“I’m sorry about what happened on the outside, how people perceived us, what you said and did outside the house that I didn’t even think about how it all must’ve effected you. I’m sorry that I wasted all that time trying to correct your behaviour outside the house when really,” Superhero’s hand shot out like a viper to grab Villain by the throat, slamming him back against the wall. “Really I should’ve focused more on your manners and knowing your fucking place.”

Superhero stood, bringing Villain with him and threw him across the room. Villain tried to catch themselves before their face hit the wall by throwing their hands out, but they landed awkwardly on their wrist and the pain ricocheted down their arm. Villain hissed, retracting their arm but they didn’t have time to react before a hand was in their hair and bashing their skull against the wall.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Villain went dumb from the impact, their brain struggling to comprehend what was happening, but the pain. They felt the pain spread like wildfire through their skull.

The hand in their hair tightened and Villain cried out as they were dragged across the bedroom, back towards the kitchen. They tried to gain purchase on the ground with their knees, but Superhero was moving too fast for them to keep up.

Superhero paused two feet from the doorway. Villain didn’t know why, they just slumped to the ground like a dog in shade during a heatwave. They just needed to catch their breath. Or pass out. Either was a good option.

Superhero didn’t seem to think so. He lifted his hand suddenly, dragging Villain’s head up to look Villain in the eye. Villain hissed, hands clawing at the strong grip on his hair. Superhero grabbed Villain by the throat, slamming his head back into the wall.

Villain groaned at the impact, moving his hands to try and dislodge Superhero’s hand from his throat. “God. You really are pathetic, aren’t you? Did I not teach you anything?”

Superhero stepped back, dropping all contact from Villain who struggled not to slump down the wall to the floor.

Superhero took two steps back, running a hand down his face, pinning Villain to the wall with a harsh glare. Villain’s entire body was trembling at them, struggling to keep themselves up in case they needed to bolt. But Superhero’s eyes caught every tremor, every flinch or wince.

“You’re still fucking ruining everything. It’s all you ever do, isn’t it?”

“Fuck off.”

“You really don’t know, do you? You make people weak, Villain.” Villain froze at the emotion colouring Superhero’s voice. “You make people weak, because they feel like they need to look after you, or take care of you. For fuck’s sake, you can barely stand by your-fucking-self! You needed Hero to take days off of work to mind you while you were sick, like some fucking child! Do you know how embarrassing that is!”

“My life doesn’t concern you anymore,” Villain spat, tears pinpricking their eyes.

Superhero scoffed. “Doesn’t concern me?”

Superhero studied Villain’s face, the wince after Superhero spoke. Then recognition flashed on his face, putting two and two together.

“You didn’t tell Hero that we’re related,” Superhero said, tilting his head to the side, a smile gracing his lips at Villain’s silence. “Oh that is… that is hilarious. The person you love the most? You’re keeping secrets from them?”

“We are not related,” Villain said, their voice coming out stronger than they felt in that moment. “You are nothing to me. I left you and Mom, and Dad. I left. I made a life for myself, a life where I’m loved by somebody. Why can’t you be happy for me?”

“What, you think Hero actually loves you?”

Villain flinched at the words. “Oh you do, don’t you?” Superhero cooed, walking towards Villain again and grabbing their face in his hands. “Oh. You poor fucking idiot. You have no idea how much Hero hates you, do you?”

Villain’s eyes glistened with tears. Superhero slammed Villain’s head back into the wall.

“Do you?”

“Just leave… leave me alone,” Villain begged, tears finally spilling over his eyes. “Please.”

Villain’s hand reached up and curled his fingers around Superhero’s wrist, weakly tugging at it.

“I can make them love you again,” Superhero whispered. “I know how. I can make you worth something in their eyes, isn’t that what you want?”

Villain sniffled, nodding. Superhero cooed, brushing the sweaty hair back from Villain’s face. “I know. I know you’re scared, but big bro’s here now, hmmm? Come on.”

Superhero pulled Villain away from the wall gently, taking Villain’s wrist in his hand. “Come on.”

“Where are we—” Villain asked, their voice hitching, wiping away their tears with the sleeve of their shirt. “Where’re we going?”

Villain’s mind only registered they were walking towards the bathroom when Superhero opened the door. Then they started pulling against Superhero’s hold.

“No! No, no, no, no, no!” Villain cried, going limp and yanking backwards. Superhero dropped Villain, cursing at them for the sudden weight. Villain took the opportunity to roll onto their stomach, pushing themselves to their hands and knees and rushing forwards. They threw themselves to their feet, stumbling slightly, almost rolling on their ankles but they were standing. They bolted for the door to the bedroom, slamming their shoulder into the doorframe as they propelled themselves out and towards the front door.

A hand caught the back of their shirt and Villain cried out. They were yanked backwards, their head slamming off the doorframe to the bedroom. Villain fell like a sack of bricks and Superhero let them.

Villain blinked up bleary-eyed at the ceiling, the world swimming in a whirlwind of colour. Two Superhero’s appeared above Villain, shaking their heads, as if they were disappointed parents looking down on an unruly child.

“Look at what you did,” Superhero said, the words coming in and out of focus like pulses. He leaned down, crouched above Villain. Then a hand passed over his face and Villain’s head whipped to the side. They whimpered. “Ah. There you are,” Superhero said, only one of him now. “Still with me, Vil.”

Another slap and Villain whimpered, weakly pushing their hand against Superhero’s. Superhero easily batted it away, opting to instead pinch Villain’s cheeks between their thumb and forefinger and dig their fingers in until Villain’s mouth formed an O and they cried out.

“Listen runt, I didn’t want to hurt you! Don’t you see? I’m trying to help you. You’ve clearly let yourself go since the last time I saw you, and nobody, not even Saint Hero will love you if you’re fat and disgusting. You want to be worth Hero’s love, don’t you?”

Tears welled behind Villain’s eyes and they tried to turn their head away, not wanting to face Superhero and the truth in his words. Superhero didn’t even let Villain flinch in any direction before his grip tightened.

“Don’t you want to be someone worthy of love?” Superhero asked, his voice imperceptibly soft. Villain let out a pathetic yes, their voice muffled by Superhero’s hold on their face. Superhero’s features smoothed out and he nodded sympathetically. “I know. Come on, let’s get you up. I’m just trying to help you be worthy of Hero.”

Superhero helped Villain to sit up, openly crying now. Superhero nodded his head compassionately. “I know. I know. Shh. It’s okay. Big bro’s here now. He’s going to make everything better. Ssh. Don’t worry. Come on, runt.”

Superhero helped the wailing Villain to their feet, guiding them towards the bathroom again. Villain, resigned, followed along because they didn’t want to get hit again. They didn’t want to try and fight back and get beaten again. They didn’t want to be ugly for Hero, they wanted to be worthy of them. Hero was brilliant, perfect, why would they settle for anything less than that? God, Superhero was right.

Superhero gently pushes Villain to their knees, and tells them to: “open up.”

Villain felt the familiar fear creep back up their spine, making their hair stand on end. They shook their head, making to stand up but Superhero kept a hand on Villain’s shoulder, keeping them in place.

“Come on. You said you wanted to be worthy of Hero, right?”

Villain deflated. A part of them wanted to be perfect, to listen to Superhero and just give in, save themselves the pain. The other part was screaming at them, telling them they were worth more than this. That they hated this, and that Hero loved them no matter what. Strangely the voice telling them to fight sounded an awful lot like Hero’s.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to do anything. I’ll do it all, remember?” Superhero coaxed, his fingers tracing Villain’s jaw and resting at their bottom lip. “Come on, Villain.”

Villain didn’t protest, but they didn’t fight Superhero either, so when his fingers pushed past Villain’s lips, Villain didn’t move. Only when they went far, hitting Villain’s gag reflex did Villain start fighting him.

They shot up from their knees on instinct, but Superhero’s hold kept them down, his other hand going to the back or Villain’s hair and pulling it, yanking their head back so he could shove his fingers down further.

Villain whined, shaking their head. They didn’t want this, they didn’t want this! Villain felt bile climbing his throat and he jerked forward, but Superhero didn’t move his fingers and they hit the back of Villain’s tongue. Villain felt the warmth climbing his throat, gripping the toilet seat and ready to vomit.

Superhero pulled his fingers out at the last second, and Villain heaved. It was only bile that came out, green-hued see through slime, because Villain hadn’t eaten in days.

Superhero clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Hmm. That won’t do. We’ll go again.”

Before Villain could protest, Superhero’s fingers were in his mouth again, unmerciful as they shot to the back of Villain’s throat. Villain grabbed Superhero’s wrist, pulling his fingers out. “Don’t fight me, Vil. We agreed.”

Superhero’s fingers hit Villain’s throat again, and they felt the muscles in their neck contracting as another wave of nausea hit them. Panicking and wanting Superhero to just let them go, Villain clamped their jaw around Superhero’s hand.

Superhero yelped, then roared and yanked their hand out of Villain’s jaw. “I’m—” Villain gasped, but Superhero cut them off with a punch to the face. Villain’s head veered down, hitting off the edge of the ceramic toilet bowl with a dull thump.

A hand in their hair and their head was wrenched back. Superhero’s fist flashed in the corner of their eye, and struck the same place in their jaw, keeping them straight.

“I thought we agreed that I—” punch. “Know” punch. “Better.” A sharp slap deafened Villain as Superhero released them again, their head snapping to the side. “I don’t want to hurt you, but you force me to, Vil. I hate to see you like this, but as your older brother I’ll do what I have to do, to make you a better person.”

A sharp kick to the stomach, once, twice, three times and Villain lurched forward, crying out and swallowing hard to keep the rush of liquid crawling like a tidal wave up their throat. Superhero grabbed Villain by the throat. Leaning his face in closer to them.

“Come on, Vil,” Superhero said sweetly. “You want to look your best for Hero, don't you? You want to deserve them, right?”

“Pl—please,” Villain stammered, choking on Superhero’s tight grip. “Just lemme— go.”

“Stop fighting me, runt, I'm just trying to look out for you.”

Superhero pinched Villain’s jaw between his thumb and index finger, his nails digging into their cheeks, drawing blood, and forcing their mouth open. His fingers found the back of Villain’s throat, pressing down on Villain’s gag reflex.

Villain felt the muscles in his throat tighten, the bile burning acidic up their throat and they lunged forward, Superhero withdrew his hand from Villain’s mouth, but kept pinching their cheeks so Villain couldn’t swallow. Only when he was satisfied that Villain was about to hurl did he let go, grinning down as Villain spewed into the toilet.

A lot more than last time, their stomach ached as they vomited. A momentary pause and then another bout reared its head and tears streamed down their face, sobbing as they let the feeling run its course out of them.

Superhero patted Villain’s hair like a dog. “Good, see. You did so good.”

“What are you doing?”

Villain froze at the voice. Superhero’s hand stopped rubbing Villain’s hair, but he didn’t remove it from Villain’s head. Hero rushed in, going to Villain’s side and get grabbing their face in their hands, thumbing away the tears.

“Villain, shhh. Shhh, it’s okay.” Hero cooed. Villain sobbed against Hero’s hands, the gentle touches. They weren’t worthy of this kindness. They didn’t deserve Hero’s caring love. This was pity. They pitied Villain, that’s why they looked so caring in that moment. Not out of love. Why was Villain so weak to melt at the kindness, they should be worthy of them! Hero shouldn’t have to see Villain like this. “I’m here now. It’s okay.”

Hero glanced back at Superhero, eyes narrowed into a glare. “What are you doing here?!”

“I knew you would be away for a while today, Hero. And I knew you would be worried sick about your ill partner so I thought I would come and look after them for you.”

Hero’s eyes found Villain’s, searching, scanning for any sign that Superhero was lying. Villain was skittish and heaving, not meeting Hero’s eyes. There was something wrong, was it just vomiting? Being sick? No, this was different. Villain was incoherent and violent last time, now they were just… subdued and lifeless and terrified.

“You stepped over the line, Superhero,” Hero said firmly, eyes burning down at their lover. “Please wait in the living room while I help them to bed.”

Superhero’s eyes met Villain’s over Hero’s shoulder, a sadistic smile on his lips. He brought a finger to his lips and pointed down at Hero. Then drew a line across his throat and mimicked Hero being killed.

“Of course, Hero,” Superhero said easily, while Villain’s trembles intensified. Hero waited until Superhero had walked out the door before looking back at Villain.

“Vil, oh my god, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I should have never left you.”

They’re just saying that because you’re weak, Villain thought.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t ask Superhero to come. I didn’t know they would do something as crazy as this!”

They’re tired of you. They don’t love you, if they did they would have never left. You’re exhausting, you wear people out.

“Come on, Vil. Talk to me.” Hero said, leaning forward and pressing their forehead against Villain’s. Villain could feel Hero’s warm breath fanning against their face. They weren’t even worthy of this. “Shhh. Vil, it’s okay. I’m here now and I’m not leaving.”

When Hero wrapped their arms around Villain, Villain couldn’t hold it together anymore and they broke down into sobs that wracked their entire body. Their fingers turned to claws in Hero’s shirt, bunching it and holding on and not wanting to let go.

They were weak, they were so weak that they made the people they loved weak for them. It bled through from Villain into them, and now they were breaking Hero’s heart. They didn’t deserve Hero’s heart. They didn’t deserve any of this comfort and warmth and love.

Hero held them tightly and kissed their hair and cheek and anything their lips could reach, whispering reassurances and telling them that they loved them.

When Villain’s sobs had calmed down to mere whimpers and sniffles, Hero moved them, putting one hand under their legs and the other under their shoulders and lifted them like they were a baby. Villain curled into Hero’s embrace, a deep red blush filling their face with warmth.

Hero shouldn’t have to do this, to be the strong one. Villain was the strong one! God what happened to them?! Why couldn’t they just be perfect for Hero?

Hero put them into bed, lying beside them under the covers. They tilted Villain’s head down to lie on top of Hero’s chest, hearing their heartbeat. They were a tangle of limbs.

“What about,” Villain sniffed, “Superhero?”

Hero’s eyes darkened. “Let him wait. You’re my priority, Villain. You always will be. Never forget that.”

Villain sniffed, fresh tears streaming down their cheeks. “I love you Hero.” They said even though it broke their heart to say that. Weak! So weak!

“I love you more than you’ll ever know,” Hero whispered into Villain’s hair, kissing the top of their head.

*~*~*~*~*

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