#i finally nailed down the structure of what i want to happen and

[mail-me-a-snail]

i've finally finished reading true blu! i actually did it all in one go, otherwise i would have never started.

this comment is under that work a hundred times over, but your writing really is magnificent! so many niche words! lovely! the characterization was also very enjoyable, both with how everyone interacted with sniper, and one another. loved the bit with RED mick.

hooh. usually i have more to say about prose like that, but it has my mind a little addled. in the good way, of course.

very curious about what you will add to the storyline! best of luck writing it, mein freund.

wowowow you read all of that in one go?!! that's quite impressive :V i admire your perservance!! thanks so much for reading (⁠✷⁠‿⁠✷⁠) and aaa im happy you enjoyed my characterization and prose <33 i loveee niche words and phrases and bending the english language to the farthest reaches of its grammatical rules. it's awesome

[ssa-dado]

21 - Physics

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

masterlist

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

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

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

---

Sometimes, there’s just too much to do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then there was the apartment.

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

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

“We can chip in,” JJ had said.

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

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

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

Aaron didn’t push, though.

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

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

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

Because he stayed late, too.

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

Back then, you stayed late out of pride.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Efficient? Well, now it was war.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, though, things were different.

The late nights weren’t about pride anymore.

They were about survival.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence that followed was deafening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” you said, smirking slightly.

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

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

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

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

His expression shifted instantly.

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t even hesitate.

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

“Garcia got shot,” he said.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so, all you could do was wait.

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

Seven FBI agents in a room.

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

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

But eventually, you all stilled.

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

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

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

And then there was you.

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

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

He couldn’t, that thing he knew.

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

And him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your touch.

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

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

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

A simple acknowledgment, because you knew.

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

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

Together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hotch stepped forward immediately. “Yes.”

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

Aaron felt his breath hitch.

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

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

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

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

He couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

You spoke to him less on the job.

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

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

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

You were more careful now, more reserved.

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

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

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

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

Your language had shifted, too.

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

Practical. Logical... ironic, really.

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

Indispensable to work.

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

The confrontation was what made it work.

Necessary. Vital.

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

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

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

You’d stopped calling him “Partner”.

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

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

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

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

But he missed the ambiguity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It felt more… familiar, though with what exactly?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it happened.

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

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

Ordinary. Mundane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thankfully, Aaron was used to that by now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snorted, clapping a hand over your mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s dead,” Aaron replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too raw. Too close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, it was Mrs. Lee.

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

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

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

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

Naturally, she adored him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lawyer. Ha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaron froze. No, no, no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaron froze, screwdriver slipping slightly in his hand.

What?

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

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

Oh, so she’s serious…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Practical. Strategic. Manageable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charles was right, she really was impossible.

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

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

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

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

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

That feeling. That lightness.

When was the last time he’d felt that?

---

1998.

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

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

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

Really? A miniskirt? This was what undid him?

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

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

Perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantastic. Death by roses. How poetic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Limbs accounted for, Agent, move on.

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

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

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

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

Friday. Your day off.

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

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

What were you doing to him?

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

Why would you?

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

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

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

Because what was the alternative?

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

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

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

Or…this. You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who even talked like that?

And, God, why was that so damn attractive?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He could easily argue back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jealous? No… yes, kind of.

Bewildered? Yes.

Smitten?  Absolutely.

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

He let you have this one.

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

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

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

You were, in a word, adorable.

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

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

And somehow, Aaron found himself hanging on every word.

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

Adorable. Absolutely maddening. But utterly, ridiculously adorable.

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

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

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

Oh, how you talked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no.

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

Your hands were on his.

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

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

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

You had no idea, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perfectionist. Adorable perfectionist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was it. He lost it.

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

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

But it wasn’t, not with you.

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

And so he did.

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

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

But then the world shifted.

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

This wasn’t 1998 anymore.

Now, the long table was crowded.

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

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

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

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

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

It was amazing, really.

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

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

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

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

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

And then there was Spencer.

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

And you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

...thrilling for you, anyway.

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

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

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

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

JJ shot her a look. “Pass.”

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

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

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

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

It was in the rules.

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

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

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

He just wasn’t for you.

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

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

And what about him?

Aaron felt like he was drowning.

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

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

He just listened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the table buzzed on, oblivious.

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

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

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

So there was light.

A warm touch of a hand on his left shoulder.

Aaron froze.

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

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

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

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

No, he hadn’t. Not really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaron Hotchner: Unit Chief. Father. Theatre Nerd.

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

What the fuck had he just said?

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, great. There was the but.

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

Intimate. Really, Hotchner?

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

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

That had to be it. You were humoring him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It couldn’t be.

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

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

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

You stared at each other, eyes locked. Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a sweet, aching ignorance in the idea.

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

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

It had to be fate.

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so he tried again.

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

“You okay?” he asked gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was horrifyingly unfair.

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

How could he? He had no right to.

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t much, but it was a step.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sure, there had been progress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Together, somehow, you always found your way.

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

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

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

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

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

Caught you, Philosopher.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because of course you did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course it was fate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[mswyrr]

They spent the entire season showing the collapse of everything Alicent had invested meaning in and earning her final choice.

Things that came apart over the season:

-her father's role in all this; his approval (and fear of his disapproval) has driven her for her entire life! (bad move on multiple fronts, Aegon)

-her belief that she could do what this patriarchy promises and "influence" her sons toward a good direction (Aegon dismisses her but Aemond really drove the nail in with flagrantly slaughtering smallfolk and making his intent to force his sister to do it too clear)

-her belief that she had any allies and her skills in leadership and her track record of hard work actually meant anything to *anyone* (this was a cooperative effort by Aemond, Larys, and Criston - good work, fellas!)

-her belief that she could, if nothing else, at least protect her daughter (huge emotional pillar for her)

And if we look at her prior actions putting Aegon on the throne and protecting him with her life - both fit within those structures she had mentally and emotionally which this season ripped down.

I think the final one was the thing that took it over the edge, though -- the prospect of Helaena being used and hurt and destroyed as a person -- kind of like how degrading Aemond and his connection to his long-term sex worker was his final straw that made him want to kill and supplant his brother Aegon.

People keep pushing each other too far this season. Taking out the last thing that stands between them and a radical change. Pushing people until they're willing to lose things just to break the current dynamic.

Dae/mon pushes Rhaenyra too far, then the entire war does and she "breaks bad" in 2x07 (see my meta linked below for more on my pov on that); Aegon pushes Aemond too far; and the entire group of "green men" systematically pushes Alicent too far.

All the while, she had that offer from earlier in the season, when Rhaenyra risked everything to come speak to Alicent in her mind. She was mulling over it and thinking of what she could have said, should have said. At the same time, however, Rhaenyra was moving away from being that person [my meta argument on that here]. So the person she finally comes to make peace with isn't the same as she was in the Sept. And once again they tragically can't get on the same page. It does all fit together, even with issues in the writing.

And writing on Alicent's arc simply isn't as uneven as people are saying - the theme of people pushing each other too far and how they showed the pillars of Alicent's support crumbling were both clearly done.

And, yes - Alicent still has feelings for Rhaenyra and as all of this has been happening she's been having a midlife crisis and wishing she had just run away with her first love when they were girls. But that isn't her sole motivation!! It's just what comes spilling out of her because of the state she's in. It creates an appealing alternative to the hell she's living in at the Red Keep. But it wasn't THE single motivating factor.

On a show where fathers have behaved truly monstrously--up to and including their selfishness setting this civil war in motion to begin with--it's fascinating that people refuse to believe a mother can be pushed too far. That kinslaying and slaughtering whole cities and rejecting and humiliating her and threatening to mentally torture her daughter until she breaks wouldn't change her mind about her priorities.

The "green" side becomes owned by Aemond, a wilful (as far as she knows; I'm speaking of her pov here) kinslayer moral reprobate who is violent to his sister and wants to force her to do things that will break her mind. Alicent cannot expect that Aegon will be able to stop him. That's what the side is now, as far as she knows. And she thinks he's a monster who must be stopped, at any cost. That's why she told Rhaenyra "we both know what he is" about Aemond in the Sept. WHAT not who. Things like kinslaying and slaughtering smallfolk mean something to her. And her daughter is everything to her.

Team Green overall took her for granted and thought she'd always be their doormat, and Helaena too. And Alicent finally had enough. Again, given how monstrously the fathers on this show behave, I think they "showed their work" on her radical change of heart well. It's just some people believe nothing can ever justify a mother betraying her sons and I think that makes total sense, given everything.

Honestly, once Helaena was on the chopping block, it would have been out of character for Alicent *not* to do everything--destroy anything--to protect her daughter. She feels like protecting Helaena is the only good thing she's ever done in her life.

People can dislike the ending. It's always valid to dislike something in a story, it's fine. But disliking it doesn't mean it wasn't built up solidly, narratively speaking. The writers put a lot of work and narrative space into it, actually--this was one of the most developed parts of s2!--and weaving it into the season's larger theme of characters pushing each other to the breaking point.

[tv-show-stuff]

The Hollow Men

Thomas Kinard, in the aftermath

We are the hollow men

We are the stuffed men

Leaning together

Headpiece filled with straw.

It's not until the next week that Tommy realizes he probably just walked away from the best thing that has ever happened to him.

After leaving Evan's place - Buck's place, he thinks to himself, the final nail in the coffin - he gets in his car and does not think about it. He drives home and he does not think about it. He unlocks his door, walks all the way to his bedroom without turning on a single light, and he does not think about it. He strips down to his boxers and his socks and collapses face first on the duvet, not bothering to turn down the bed, and he resolutely does not think about it.

He spends the next five days feeling numb, moving fitfully through the motions, without taking a single second to process the monumental, life-altering decision he made. He gets up in the morning when his alarm goes off, makes his bed with military precision, showers and shaves and styles his hair and brushes his teeth and puts on his cologne like normal. He eats his standard two meals a day, breakfast and dinner, without really tasting them, deliberately ignoring the voice in the back of his mind saying "It's important to enjoy what you're eating, Tommy. Yes I know I was on the keto diet, what does that have to do with anything?" He goes back to skipping lunch, since there is no longer anyone who will wake up early to make one for him when he goes to work, and he doesn't feel like putting in the effort for himself ("If I have it ready for you before you leave, then you have no excuse to skip it, now do you?").

It's not until the sixth day that he realizes "Oh. I ruined something good for me because I was scared ." He's sitting on his couch, ostensibly drinking a beer that he's only taken three sips out of, half-heartedly watching the Kings play the Oilers, when he comes to this realization. His second thought after that is "This is not the first time I've done this."

The thing about Evan is, he's so solid. He's already lived more of a life in three decades than some people do for their entire existence. And even after everything he's gone through, he still manages to hold on to a level of optimism and determination and hope in a way that seams indefatigable. He's brilliant. He's bright. He's young, and exuberant, and after Tommy kissed him and helped him slot into place a piece of himself he didn't even know he was missing, he settled quietly into someone who knows what he wants.

Tommy doesn't know what he wants. Some days, he feels like he doesn't even know who he is. When he looks inward, he sees little more than smoke and mirrors; a labyrinth he doesn't know how to navigate. He's always felt a little off-kilter, like he's walking on a tight-rope, unaware if there's a safety net underneath him if he falls. He's never bothered to look down; he doesn't want to know.

Shape without form, shade without color,

Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Evan told him he saw a future together. He admires Tommy. He thinks he's brave. Tommy is the furthest thing from brave. The bravest things he's ever done have all involved Evan: that world-shattering first kiss in his kitchen; walking away after that failed date; saying yes to his invitation to the wedding. He doesn't think he's got any bravery left in him.

One day, Evan is going to realize that Tommy is a coward. He's hollow, broken; he has no solid core, no inner structure. He doesn't want to be there when it happens.

Evan deserves better than a shell of a person. He's recovered from everything that life has thrown so far thrown at him; he'll recover from this too. He may be heartbroken now, but eventually that will heal. One day, he'll probably even be thankful.

Tommy won't ever recover from this. This will haunt him until the day he dies. It doesn't matter. He'd break his own heart a thousand times over; he's not sure he has much of one anyways.

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.

Poem in italics by T.S. Eliot

This is my first fanfiction in a LONG time, and my first for this show, so please be nice! I'm not a great writer, but this has been haunting me and I needed to get it out of my system.

I'm barely in this fandom, but that man has me in a chokehold. A self-sabatoging character who thinks he doesn't deserve anything good?I can relate to that. Again, I'm really only a casual watcher, so if I've gotten any details wrong, please feel free to let me know (gently please!)

Also, I do have an ao3 account! I've never posted on it, I'm mostly only there to read, but if even 1 person likes this enough to want it put on there for some reason, let me know and I'd be happy to do so! I'm also thinking about adding more -possibly Buck's POV, maybe even a make-up. We will see if anyone even bothers to read this one lmao.

[venuscheered]

birdhouse -

what happens when marilyn finds a helpless baby bird? and why is it that belch huggins feels the need to step in?

*** a drabble i wrote today featuring marilyn fenix and belch huggins, slight hints at ocxcanon, but not overpowering. 1641 words.

Marilyn Fenix, she was never a crafty girl; when it came to her skill sets, it usually had something to do with athletics. She was a nimble little thing, flexible, and just about everything you’d expect a cheerleader to be. It’s what she knew, and it came effortlessly to her.

So when she slipped into woodworks, just about every student stared at her. Not even the instructor did much about it, watching idly as the blonde helped herself to some scrap wood, glue, and a few screws here and there. It was almost painful to watch- actually, it was painful to watch, especially for Belch Huggins. A brow raised as he watched the girl aimlessly hammer away at a screw like it’d been a nail. He’d almost felt embarrassed for her, if it wasn’t so damn grating.

About six screws in the cheerleader holds up her creation. All eyes on her, but not one set daring enough to look at it in any way less than positively; Marilyn was a nice girl, and simply put they didn’t have the heart to laugh at her - not to her face, anyway.

Belch however, wasn’t like everyone else. He was the kind of guy to tell it how it was, and sure, he wasn’t the brightest when it came to academics, not usually... But he was crafty as all hell - wood works, metals, anything he could do with his hands? The guy was a genius. So when his eyes set upon the final product he couldn’t stop the obnoxious laugh expelled from his gut.

“The fucks that supposed to be?”

It caught the attention of everyone, the hazel eyed cheerleader as well. He was met curiously by Marilyn, her lips parted as if she’d wanted to bolster ‘A bird house... duh!’ ditzy as some might peg her to be... Not even she could defend her carpentry skills. “A bird house..?” his question was met with one of her own.

“That ain’t even a box.” Belch was honestly impressed, strolling over as he’d snagged the makeshift (and glorified) box from her hands. “No bird is gonna live in here, and I ain’t even gonna mention how you used screws with a hammer.” The box is tilted around - mismatched wood grain, uneven edges, a waste of perfectly fine wood as far as he was concerned.

“Well, you kind of just did.” Marilyn could only retort under her breath, her frame shrinking down in defeat. She watched as the bully deconstructed what she’d spent a good twenty minutes on. A short gasp as he’d tossed it. “Hey..!”

Marilyn was promptly, and gently moved aside. Belch had something to prove, he always had something to prove. And while one might psychoanalyze that at a later date... It didn’t take a genius to realize he’d been building her a proper one. All she could do was idly wait and watch the master at work. In the time it took for Marilyn to build her birdhouse, Belch produced one of a much greater quality. They couldn’t even be compared in all honesty.

“It’s basic, but whatever. It’s a birdhouse.” Belch practically shoves the structure into her hands, before he thrust his hands into the depths of his pockets. Gauging her reaction. Marilyn’s lips pressed together, eyes curiously scanning what Belch had made - for a guy who was seen as so mercilessly destructive, he proved he had a calculating gentleness to create. Marilyn admired that, evident with eyes that sparkled even under the florescent lights of the workshop. “It’s perfect..” Marilyn decreed, her voice more of a hush as if she’d been talking to herself.

“course it is.” His confidence was met with thankful eyes from Marilyn, his gaze immediately darting away. Don’t look at me like that, damn it. “What’d you need it for anyways?” Belch wasn’t sure if he was asking because he actually cared, or if he needed to quickly recover from his lack of social skills when it came to girls.

Either way... Marilyn seemed more than happy that he’d asked. “Found somethin’ wanna see?” Her voice was hushed, as if whatever she found was top secret. Class had been over anyways, prior to this Belch ignored the bell for probably the first time in his life. His legs betraying him in following her down the hallway - and out the school.

While Marilyn hugged onto the birdhouse, she led him outside past the field. There was a lot of foliage and Marilyn knelt over and carefully pulled out a small cardboard box hidden within some bushes. The moment the box shifted, a piercing squeak came from inside. A little bird, small and sporting a few feathers, it was tinged a soft red. Had Marilyn known Stan Uris; he’d be able to tell her it was a Cardinal hatchling.

“I found him out here, I think last night’s storm separated him from his nest.” Marilyn replies, a finger gently nudging the bird, soft plumes nuzzled against her finger. “Isn’t he cute?”

Belch Huggins didn’t do cute, if a word in the English vocabulary could be any more foreign to him, it’d be cute. His head tilts, brow raised as he watched the pathetic little chick chirp away. It was smaller than a chicken wing, and anymore thought on the subject would have made him strangely hungry... So with a shake of his head he steps forward. “It’s ugly.” Belch noted that Marilyn didn’t seem to approve, evident by the downturn of her eyebrows and purse of her lips. He... didn’t like that expression on her all too much, it tugged on him for one reason or another - right then and there he vowed to keep his big mouth shut.

Leaning over he grabbed a hold of the birdhouse, perching it on the nearby tree - high enough that it’s parent could potentially find it, but low enough so that Marilyn (and even he...) could check up on it. Marilyn watches him curiously, her eyes soften before scooping the hatchling into her hands, and carefully poking it into the birdhouse. “It’s perfect!”

“course it is!”

Day by day Marilyn would check on that bird, it seemed as if it’s parent had come along. Seeing as the nestling had enough strength to continue to chirp about and poke it’s head out the small opening of the birdhouse. On occasion, Marilyn was surprised to have run into Belch there. He’d protest and claim he’d only come out here for a stray baseball... But neither of them bought it and Belch refused to come back at the same time as her again out of sheer embarrassment.

The next time was different, though. It was only out of curiosity that Belch found himself walking across the field, hell he didn’t care about that dumb bird one way or another. It’d fly away soon, and his excuse to come by would fly away with it. With hands stuffed into his pockets, he walks up to the same tree he’d come by every day to see - the same tree that he had to make excuses to ditch his friends for. And it wasn’t until he spotted the shape of Marilyn, hunched over and crying did he feel uneasy.

He takes his place, standing behind her as his eyes study her curiously, like he’d been a fly on the wall watching something he shouldn’t be. That’s when he’d set his eyes onto the small lifeless form of scattered little plumes and the chick which they came from. His stomach dropped, his hand involuntarily tilting his hat downward. Belch knelt down next to her - he wasn’t sure one way or another if Marilyn had even realized he was there but... She was crying.

Marilyn was crying.

Her hands for a final time scoop the small creature into her palms. It’s tiny body melding easily to fit. “Don’t do that to yourself.” He finally spoke out, his own voice evident at the discomfort of seeing her in such a state. Disappointment that he hadn’t been here even twenty minutes prior to catch the damn thing. “Hey-!“

He was greeted with puffy eyes, eyes that had always been so damn happy and bright. Belch was certain he’d never seen her cry before, and he was certain he’d never wanted to again. His gaze averted once more, uncomfortably fixing his hat (it was then and only then that he finally realized he did that whenever he was uncomfortable.) his head nodding in the direction of the tree which their bird fell from. With only his hands, Belch Huggins dug, he dug about six inches into the soil beneath the tree. Eyes expectantly staring Marilyn down when he finished, and the cheerleader shifted to gently place the chick into the Earth. “He wanted to fly.” her voice was raspier than he’d ever heard it before. “He wanted to do somethin - and he couldn’t.”

Belch’s gaze softened, studying Marilyn before he began to bury the bird with the soil he’d dug up. Neither teen said a word when he was done, opting to sit at their knees in front of the tree. A moment of solace. A sniffle left the blonde before she reached over and took a hold of his hands, larger than her own and littered in callouses; It took him by surprise, widened eyes as all he could do was sit and watch the strange girl next to him.

With a handkerchief Marilyn delicately wiped away at the mud coating his hands. She took her time with it too, as if it was a careful practice. Not once did hazel eyes flit up into his direction - no, she knew she’d end up crying again if she had. “For what it’s worth... The birdhouse was perfect.”

“...Of course it was.”

[quicksilverownsmysoul]

Sweet Dreams Are Made of This pt. 17

Dark! Peter Maximoff x fem reader (Mob Au)

So, I was sad and I missed sweet dreams Peter so I decided to finally bring him back. I’m not sure how often I’ll be able to post of if I’ll be able to keep it up but I really love this story and I love hearing about it from y’all so I’ll try my best to finish it! Cause I really want y’all to see the ending I have planned for it! I hope you like it and as always I love to hear from you guys so be sure to comment and send me asks about it!

Summary:  Peter has felt like a piece of him has been missing ever since he was taken away from his mother to be raised by his father. But when you seem to fill that piece there’s no way he’s ever letting you go

Warnings: Fluff, angst, mentions of violence 

Word Count: 1.5k 

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11| Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16

Peter awoke before you, moving in your arms to face you. Who was still fast asleep, but it was just as well, he wanted to stay like this as long as he could and he didn't think you’d indulge him in this way when you woke up. Peter’s hands were clenched close to his chest, he wanted to touch you but he didnt want you to wake. He didn't want to get caught.

So he watched you instead, took in the way your hair laid sprawled around you and the gentle rising and falling of your chest. He held his breath for a moment waiting for you to release your own before doing the same. He did it over and over until you were breathing in sync with one another. The rhythmic action eased his mind as he mulled over what would happen next. 

There was no denying you were going to be a permanent structure in his life, he assumed his father had brought you back and there was little chance he would let you. And if he tried Peter wouldn’t let him, he would rather die by his own creator's hands than risk losing you again. Despite this his heart still ached as he looked at you, something was nagging at him, that little part of him that came to life at the orders of his father. At the wickedness that lived within him when he carried out orders and relished in it.

It reminded him that you had left, sure you hadn’t a choice but he recalled the way he had watched the door and waited for you to try and break it down from the other side. That’s what he would have done if the position was reversed. But nothing, his father had watched with a growing grin as his face fell, realizing that you had left without even fighting for him. That you hadn’t even tried to contact him in the way he had done. That you didn't even care that he was slowly starving to death. That you had returned to your life without a second thought

That little part of him caused his hand to twitch and reach for your neck, to hover over the extended muscle. His fingers lightly laid over the skin, nails balancing on the delicate skin. One movement and you’d be gone, he could make you feel it all. All of those emotions that coiled within him and made him nauseated. He could watch the life drain from your eyes as you took your last breath with his name on your lips. He knew once he started he wouldn’t be able to stop, even if you begged, he’d go on. His love killing you before your lack of could kill him.

But then, in your sleep you reached for him, a hand pulling his waist closer and all those thoughts melted away. Peter felt a shiver run up his body and his hands curled back into his chest. You loved him. Oh you loved him so much that you sought him even in your sleep. 

The thought made him preen, and sink into the comfort of your embrace. As if a moment ago he wasn’t thinking of ending your life. Now all he could think of was how much you loved him and yet he needed more. Despite the row of pleasure last night he still needed more. Not necessarily in that way, although if the opportunity presented itself he wasn’t going to deny himself. No he needed you in a way that scared him, he needed you to smother him with love, to love him so much, so much to the point where the only thing that mattered to you was him. He needed to drown in it. For you to forcefully hold him down until he succumbed and died at the hands of you. He needed your love to kill him in the way that small part of him wanted to do to you. And even then it wouldn't be enough. 

Peter watched you until you finally awoke, and when you did he resented the way you moved away, scared at him watching you with those half lidded silver eyes of his. You looked around, unfamiliar with your surroundings and wondering if you were still trapped in a dream. But as you rubbed the sleep from your eyes your memory came back to you and a heavy feeling settled in your chest at the reminder. “Good morning.” Peter said, cold fingers coming to trace the outline of your mouth. You knew what he was hinting at and leaned forward kissing his lips. 

“Morning Peter.” You didn’t know what else to say, or what to do. You just stared at him as he did the same. But under your gaze he relented and dropped his cheeks dusting in scarlet and burying his face into you. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” He mumbled.

“Like what?” You asked. 

“Just… like that.” Peter didn’t elaborate and you didn't press him. After a moment he spoke again into your chest, “like you love me.” You couldn’t hear the words but felt the vibration of them run up your throat, unsettling you further. 

“What time is it?” You asked, squinting into the dark. 

Peter glanced at the clock above the door. “5:20, nearly breakfast time. Will you eat with me?” 

Your stomach churned at the thought of eating so early but you agreed, moving to get out of the bed before remembering you had shed your pants out of comfort the night before. You pulled the comforter tighter around your legs not wanting Peter to catch onto it and whine for an encore. “Do you have anything I can wear? My clothes are a mess from being in the rain yesterday.” 

Peter thought for a moment before moving over you and to the dresser. You watched him as he dug through his dresser, taking in his form. Despite his hunger strikes his body was still reminiscent of an athletic form. His legs, while long and lanky, still possessed the structure of an experienced runner. You wandered up to his narrow waist and to his once broad shoulders that now hung slightly forward. You wondered if anything he owned would even fit you.

He pulled out an oversized sweater with an intricate weave and embroidered PM crest over the chest and a plain pair of sweatpants, a bit of a mismatched pair. He looked almost embarrassed as he handed them over to you. “These are the only clothes I have other than what I typically wear.” You glanced past him and into the dresser to see it mostly lined with plain white dress shirts and black slacks. 

You took them and set them down in your lap with a grateful smile. “Thank you.” 

“I’ll um let you change in here. ”He mumbled, face tinted red as he took his own clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. 

You waited until the door completely shut before slipping your shirt over your head and putting on the sweater Peter had lent you. It fit you big and you could only imagine how it would fit his slender form. You rolled the sleeves back and held the pair of sweats out in front of you. It looked like a snug fit but you figured snug was better than nothing at all. You had just put them on when Peter came out. 

He was sporting his usual white button up with the sleeves secured tight at his wrists, and the bottom tucked into his black slacks. It looked as if he had tried to make himself look a little more put together than he actually was. His hair was gelled back and face bright with color, the outline of his fingers on his face indicated that he had slapped a little color into his cheeks in the hopes of looking somewhat nourished. The color only expanded when he saw you in his clothes, the PM embroidered crest resting over your heart. 

His eyes were unwavering as he took it in and after a moment you broke the silence. “What is it?” 

His tongue darted out to wet his lips and his eyes moved to look into yours, dark and unreadable. He made you wait a moment more before replying in a hushed voice that set you on edge. “You look like you belong to me.”

Taglist: @joshdunstoothbrush75 @coffeeandteaintheevening @livingmybestfictionallife @amourtentiaa @madison05x @rottenstyx @raincoffeeandfandoms @ietss @cursedandromedablack @castielsguardianangel22 @nightlockcornucopia @usuck @xlucyintheskywithdiamondsx @darlingevanpeters @whyisaah @hollandlover19 @quicksilversg1rl @loversjoy @sweetxswiftie13 @moonr1ver r @funelinee @kenmas-nintendoswitch @aruiiiii @foreverloops @jamesmarchisbae @bxtchopolis @demxnicprxncess @yes-divine-ruler @slayingdaily @valeriinee @clareissad

[marchipan]

I might be completely off the mark, but I'm starting to think Csm isn't about what we think is. That is, it feels like we are all some assuming this is a classic example of a hero's journey, but I'm starting to suspect it's more of a critique of Japanese society.

Like obviously it's a critique of Japanese society, like obviously, but no. I mean I think criticism is the story's purpose and bottom line. Like we keep expecting the classic hero journey route, where the mc goes on a journey, grows and goes back to the starting point having changed, but this may not be Chainsaw man. I think, instead, chainsaw man is kind of an analysis essay; an author trying to make sense of the environment he lives in, question it and invite people to discuss its structure.

Not to say that Denji and co can't/won't grow and change, but maybe that's not the point?

I arrived at this conclusion because Fujimoto keeps posing this kind of sub textual but clear questions contrasting different topics that are common points of contention among the Japanese, and the Japanese specifically.

For example, it should have been obvious but I only noticed after reading this beautiful article that the Fumiko/Miri throwdown about sushi vs steak is basically about Japanese traditions vs western traditions. As the article says, sushi in Japanese literature has been used in literature to represent all things Japanese for a long time, and what's more western than a steak?

Same with the nail demon and katana man. There's a common phrase in Japan "the nail that stands out will be hammered down" that refer to how the youth are encouraged to conform to society. Katana-man's Japanese name is basically "samurai sword" (probably changed to "katana-man" to make it catchier) which could be referencing the samurai code known as "bushido". Did you know "bushido" self help books are really popular among young men in Japan? Bushido has a lot of positive points, but it also preaches "real men" have to be strong and tough and, dare I say it, chauvinistic?

Having read Fire Punch (finally!) it seems this is a common theme for Fujimoto. He seems to like talking about society but from a stagnant point of view. Like Fire Punch ends with its main character in stasis for an uncomfortably long time, and that kind of reads as frustration with how society doesn't change. The Japanese, as a people, don't want to change, economy and politics analysts say. Rather, they are changing, but "their way and at their pace" which makes a lot of people frustrated ,many of them artists who call for quicker more radical solutions in their works. And, maybe this is Fujimoto? Like, maybe Chainsawman is Fujimoto's contribution to the discussion? In oposition to, for example My Hero Academia which talk about how hard work and collaboration is all that is necessary".

This is not to defend what has happened in the latest chapter, but rather, maybe brace for more?

[mikejoja]

thoughts on perverts:

nature chews on me

i wouldn’t even describe this as just music. it transcends the very idea of what a collection of songs needs to be. it’s an experience. a movie shown only through sound.

while listening to preachers daughter for the first time a couple summers ago, i felt seen. it took me on a journey with its more conventional song structures and narrative. this took me on a journey with only sound. it is a push against convention and an expansion on what sound and sound only can express. very little words are needed, much less a melody or hook. and only someone like @mothercain could pull this off.

in one of her recent posts she thanks the constant sound that exists in our world, sourcing electrical towers and radio signals. after my first listen, i completely understand why. the sound. the sound is always there. even in the middle of nowhere, where many of us are from, there’s always something beating on your eardrum. always.

(i at first did not realize just how much sound was present on these tracks. during the title track, i found myself growing just a tad bit bored towards the end. wondering is anything going to happen? is there going to be any music? then with less than 20 seconds left, all the music cuts out and reveals just how much sound was being utilized, shocking the listener to hayden’s haunting ability to mimic the sound of nothing, and exposing us to the fact that even with not a thing going on, those massive little sounds prevail.)

this supports what i see as the central idea explored throughout the project: guilt and need. i hesitate to say addiction as that may trigger thoughts of only substance abuse. (although i do think the most direct allegory could be made to opiate addiction) but rather need. the need behind the drugs and the sex, the need for love and for distraction, for constant sound, and the guilt that naturally must accompany it.

if you are always distracted, if there always exists a noise and the need to hear it, how could you possibly hear God? save for his condemnation of you. the need to get your fix, to keep the sound turned up dwindles Him down to only the guilt you carry for yourself.

all that is left of anything is guilt. to need something so terribly while knowing you shouldn’t even want it. if you could choose to not need, you would, but it is inescapable. it’s in your blood, you heart, your mind, your skin, your nails and hair and soul. you become only what you are yearning for. the repetition of “nature chews on me” perfectly puts this feeling into words. nature, the way the universe conditions us, chews on us. it made us need to long for that sound, but our own nature forces us to hate ourselves for it.

it is a viscous cycle. to need, to feel guilty for said need, go back to longing for it and then just around and around you go. the constant sound telling u either you need this or you shouldn’t.

the cycle ends in a total submission to need on the final track amber waves. “the devil i know is the devil i want” she sings. this need keeps gnawing and after so much wrestling back and forth, it can finally be satiated. the guitars pick up, crescendo and then fade into more ambient sound, which as we’ve discussed is very far from true silence. that little noise can still be heard peaking through at the tail end of the project.

“i can’t have anything” she says in defeat, caving to the need. becoming one with the sound.

[nintendoni-art]

So lets talk about Tabi, who is currently running in the @sonic-oc-showdown

✨- How did you come up with the OC’s name?

Right, so, they ended up getting their name while I was trying to name a separate character. While double checking to make sure that "Zori" didn't mean anything offensive, ended up finding out about Jika-Tabi and went from there.

🌼 - How old are they? (Or approximate age range) Born a couple decades past when the Nocturne Clan were supposed to be put in the cage/ The Knuckles Clan made their attempt to grab the Master and Chaos Emeralds. In their universe, the former didn't happen and the latter wasn't stopped.

🌺- Do they have any love interest(s)? ....No. Not anymore.

🍕 - What is their favorite food?

Steamed Soybeans! They like a little bit of chili oil and salt on them sometimes.

💼 - What do they do for a living? Salvage work, mostly. They'll spend their days scavenging badniks, item boxes, old chaos ore, you name it. Then they'll archive it and cobble stuff together in order to make things to help their fellow chao, like sensors to alert for predators, or filters in order to make sure water stays clean.

🎹 - Do they have any hobbies? Oh, tons! They love studying mechanics and, learning how to polarize lenses to find chaos radiation signatures, as well as Extreme Gear propulsion systems. And as of recent, they've been doing their best to revive a lost technique of gem cutting for maximum effect of their molecular structures. It's going well! ... It's going too well.

🎯 -What do they do best? Thievery! They will steal anything that's not nailed down and if it, they'll take a hammer to it. It's second nature to them, really, anything they find interesting, or shiny, or they need/want it, they are going to get it. There's not a lot you can do to stop them, the challenge is half the reason they love it so much.

🥊 -What do they love to do? What do they hate to do?

Tabi likes taking a few hours in their day to train. Free Running, Swordplay, trying to channel their natural connection with Chaos Energy in order to boost their own abilities, just to get out of the nest every once in a while, ya know? On that last bit, they used to be able to access what they could do with chaos energy with song and they could sing you an aria that could heal grievous injuries and soothe the soul. ...

Tabi... doesn't sing much, anymore. They hate doing that.

❤️ - What is one of your OC’s best memories?

They bit a child once. It wasn't biting the child that was the best memory, mind you, they thought said child was gonna eat them, to be perfectly fair.

But they've been so happy being the best parent they could be to that kid, it's funny that's how they remember meeting them.

✂️ - What is one of your OC’s worst memories? ...You know...

...it wasn't the fact that a Raptor Hawk attacked them. Or the fact that the Field Medic didn't have a choice but to amputate what was left of their wing. Or the fact that the experience left them so rattled, they couldn't quite keep up with the rest of the Babylonian Mercenaries they'd been raised with since hatching. It was the fact that when the distress signal they were charged to watch until their owner came back finally went out, the worst part was that it took 4 weeks to realize they might not be coming back.

🧊 - Is their current design the first one? Nuh uh, their horns used to go straight back with no horns, and they were closer colored to an adult dark flight chao.

And that's not to mention the other designs, depending on what time period it is...

🍀 - What originally inspired the OC?

I looked up the word "Zori". I saw what socks went with Zori. I got Ideas.

🌂 - What genre do they belong in?

Shonen? Anything where if you fight people and you win they become your friend.

Or whatever the hell The Last Of Us is.

💚 - What is your OC’s gender identity and sexuality?

Agender Demisexual

🙌 - How many siblings does your OC have?

None, anymore.

There were some other chao they were raised with, but they never really saw them again, except like...maybe once or twice.

🍎 - What is the OC’s relationship w/their parents like?

None, anymore.

It suits them just fine.

🧠 - What do you like most about the OC?

I like the fact that if you manage to get them to respect you, you'll have an ally for life, and they consider you family, they will fight god in order to protect your smile.

✏️ - How often do you draw/write about the OC? Far too much.

💎 - Do you ever see yourself killing off the OC?

Killing? No. Passing away peacefully after centuries of life? More likely. If anything? Something along the lines of being asked by El-ahrairah to join their Owsla. Sure, they'd balk at first, but they'd eventually accept their time is done, their era is over, and it's time to go, and it's ok to let what they've done echo in folklore and the like. They need that rest.

💀 - Does your OC have any phobias?

Birds. Big ones. If you have a low flying enough drone casting the shadow of one, or have some bird of prey calls playing near them, they'll freak out to the point of having severe panic attacks all the way to dissociating, but why would you do something like that.

🍩 -Who is your OC’s arch-nemesis or rival? They do have one. Of sorts. Tabi eventually manages to work through some of their feelings towards Mobians, and a lot of their anger gets blunted with age, and actually opening their heart up a bit. But a lot of the chao that follow them didn't have good experiences with Mobians either. And some of those chao weren't happy about their change of heart...

🎓 - How long have you had the OC?

About 5-6 years now? I think?

🍥 - What age were you when you created the OC? .....*cough* 27.

[jankwritten]

i think one of my biggest gripes with TSATS is the sentence structure and the way that things are phrased.

Sentence structure: the book is CONSTANTLY using ", and", or "then", or "but" instead of splitting up a phrase into two separate sentences. Once I noticed it, I couldn't stop noticing it. In some places it works fine, but right out the gate, as the first line of chapter one, it 1) caught my attention in a negative way and 2) felt immediately clunky and awkward.

The way that the book demonstrates action also feels unnatural and doesn't flow as well as it could. Things are described as happening "now", such as when Kayla takes her lolipop out of her mouth and holds it at her side, the book narrates it as "now holding the lolipop at her side". We didn't SEE that action occur, we're just being described the RESULT of the action, does that make sense? As a reader, you want to SEE the action, you want to SEE her tug the lolipop out of her mouth, see her hand hang by her side as her expression pinches with anxiety over the discussion. We don't want to just be told that "now" her lolipop is out of her mouth, y'know?

There are also sentences that just feel flat out unedited, phrases that have too many words for what they want to accomplish, or with a structure that doesn't make sense - like on page 56, the sentence "They raced up the steps to the platform, Nico easily outrunning his boyfriend, though that was mostly due to Will having to get his land legs again."

First of all - why are they running up the platform? In the previous line, where we're told their cab driver got them to the station with 6 minutes to spare, the specific choice of saying "to spare" makes it sound like there is plenty of time to make it to their train. In the sentences after, we even learn that Nico and Will wound up waiting for their train anyway, so, the fact that they're running when Will feels sick reads...weird, to me. If I was car sick, and then somebody forced me to run for no reason, I would not be a happy camper.

Second of all - The addition of the final third of the sentence, after the second comma, should be it's own phrase. It should be given it's own space, like "(though that was mostly because Will didn't have his land legs back yet)." because it's not important information, just an offhanded comment Nico is making.

Third of all - "though that was mostly due to" and "having to get his" are clunky and wordy. It could've just been "Nico easily outrunning his boyfriend, who didn't have his land legs back yet." It's a smoother sentence that doesn't get bogged down by the extra words.

And that's just one instance. This book is LOADED with moments like this, where action will get lost in a sentence's wordiness. The book tries to be quick and snappy, in Riordan's style, but it fails because it can't quite nail down the phrasing.

There are also moments where the only thing the characters are interacting with is each other, only grinning, grimacing, sighing, glancing at one another, etc etc, instead of doing actions while they speak. Fidgeting with their hands, shifting from side to side, looking away at their surroundings, that kind of stuff is how you convey a MOOD. Body language is important when writing character conversations!! Is somebody relaxed, or are their shoulders tensed up, arms folded across their chest with their muscles flexed, leaning back on one leg with their body halfway tilted away, as if they were ready to flee at a moment's notice? These are the kind of details that I'm missing in TSATS, the kind of things that feel like they're missing.

I also have a lot of gripes with the dialogue itself.

People don't talk like they do in TSATS. The content of what they're saying is realistic enough, sure, yeah, but the specific way that a lot of the dialogue is phrased? It doesn't feel natural. Try reading some of the sentences out loud without editing any of the words. It doesn't sound the way a human being SPEAKS.

THAT'S what I mean when I say these characters are OOC. The way that they're speaking is uncomfortable and feels as if they're being used as a puppet, or a mouthpiece for what somebody ELSE wants them to say.

[wonderland-smile-stories]

~ Chapter 2 ~

I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammar mistakes and how poorly written this fanfic is. English is not my first language and together with my dyslexia ass things can go wrong I'm sorry.

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the taste of metal in my mouth. It felt like I had swallowed a bunch of nails. I wanted to move my right arm, but I couldn't. Now that I think about it I couldn't move anything. It felt like something heavy was laying on top of me preventing me from doing anything. 

Slowly I opened my eyes, but only saw darkness. 

Here and there I saw a ray of light coming from above me, but they didn't really give me. What the hell happened? 

Flashes of memories ran through my head, but it was all so fuzzy. 

'You're alive that's what counts.'  

A hiss left my head when I hit my head against something heard when the voice suddenly ran through my head. 

'Don't do that.' 

I tried to move again, but my body was pinned under something heavy making it impossible to move. 

'Do you need my help?' 

I let out a sigh knowing I won't get out of this on my own. 

'It depends if you are actually going to help me or just turn me into an ugly monster.' A laugh ran through my head before she answered. 

'No need for that besides just use your full strength. You have done it before without me.' 

Yes in a life and dead situations where I have to act fast. I took a deep breath before I began to push against whatever was on me. For a second nothing moved, but then things began to shift. A loud yell escaped my lips before I pushed one last time with all my strength. 

Finally, I managed to shove the heavy thing off of me making it land somewhere further in the room. 

Blinking a few times I try to get the dust out of my eyes to get a better sight of my surroundings. It didn't seem like I was in a room. It was more the ruins of a room.

Carefully I began to stand up brushing off the dirty and other stuff that was lying on top of me. What the hell happened here? Where even am I? It looked like I was in a collapsed building, but why? 

I look back down at the hole I came from. 

Was I buried? 

Why would I be buried? 

If the building had collapsed when I was inside I should have been covered with only the stones of the building, but I was also buried underneath the dirt. 

Closing my eyes tightly I began to think back at the lasting I remembered. 

Memories of screams and my name being yelled ran through my head. . 

"I'm sorry," I whisper out. 

"You didn't deserve the way you were treated," 

"It wasn't your fault." 

"I lied," I whisper out. 

Hyun-su slowly pulled away looking at me with tears running down his face. I gave him a small smile before muttering. 

"I do want to be with you." 

Oh God.... I... I died. 

At least I think I did. 

Hyun-su, he fully turned and was going to kill everyone who came in his path. He had already killed Mister Han. 

What the hell happened to the building afterward? It was still standing when I was awake. 

Turning around I tried to see if anything was still there. Did they all escape safely? I hope they did. If the building collapsed they had to leave and go outside. I just hope they didn't die or get attacked by a monster. 

Hyun-su was his human self when I last saw him, so I'm sure he protected them when they had to venture out of the destroyed building. 

Carefully, I began to make my through the ruins of Green Home. Not everything had collapsed. There were still some structures of the old building standing giving me some shelter from the outside so that monster wouldn't spot me so easily. 

I don't know if I'm fully fine to fight a monster right now. 

My head is still foggy and my legs aren't as steady as I like them to be. I came to what I think was the main entrance of the building. The old chandelier was lying underneath some rumble. 

Flashes of the fight with Ui-myeong ran through my head. 

Everything when to shit after he arrived here. I wonder if all of us would still be here if he and those other guys wouldn't have found us. 

Looking up I saw something weird hanging there. It looked like and cocooned egg-like thing. Was this a monster as well? I could feel that something was in there, but I had never seen something like that before. 

Maybe it's better if I just let it be. 

My head snapped to the side when I heard something falling. I crouched when I saw something walk past the broken wall. 

"You." I breathed out when I saw the lotus root monster walking by. 

How the hell is this guy still alive? I guess if you don't burn them they survive anything. I watch as he walks further away from the building. If he is still alive others could easily be alive as well. It is better if I stay in the shadows for now. 

Carefully I stood back up backing away from the main entrance and into the back building. Walking further down the broken rooms I came to the familiar hall where the closet was where I would stay. 

Somehow it was a relief to see the door of the small closet still in there. 

My hand pushes against the old now almost broken door opening. It seems like nothing has changed here since I left it. 

The little room was still standing amongst the rubble of the building. Scanning the room my eyes landed on the mat I would try to sleep on and my bag. Closing the door behind me just in case a monster would wander in and see me I walk inside and sit down. 

I can't believe that this has been a place I have stayed for a good month. It seems more like it was a dream than that it was real. I grabbed the bag from the ground before putting it in my lap. 

Carefully I opened it and began to look inside. Thank god there were still some fresh clothes in it. After being buried I would like to change out of the dirty clothes. Taking all the clothes that were left out I notice something else lying at the bottom of my bag. 

A small smile came to my face when I took the photos out of my bag. I thought that they would be gone, but I guess I got lucky that the closet survived. 

I hope that everyone is okay. 

I need to find them. 

They can use all the help they can get to survive. I know that Hyun-su can protect them, but he's on his own against other monsters. Ji-su can fight as well and I'm pretty sure Eun-yu as well, but I don't know about the other survivors. 

Then there's Eun-hyuk. 

Did he turn into a monster at the end? I know that he was infected, but I know that he was strong enough to fight back. Is this why they left? Did he turn and attack the others? No, if he knew he would turn he would have left to protect the others and his sister. 

I just hope that he can fight the monsternazation and is helping them survive now. 

Putting the photos to the side I began to take my dirty and ripped clothes off. There weren't a lot of warm clothes left, but it was not like I was cold. The weather didn't seem to affect me at the moment. 

I took some thick black stockings with a dark green short dress. For some extra warmth in case I would get cold, I put on a black long-sleeved shirt underneath. While I was putting my black Converse back on my eyes went to my old clothes. 

The black hoodie of Hyun-su was lying on top.

How is he doing? Is he blaming himself thinking he killed me? Did that push him over the edge and let himself turn into a monster? 

Taking the hoodie in my hands I took a good look at it. It didn't seem really damaged. I also didn't want to leave it behind. This was the only thing I had left from him. It was only a bit dirty, but that was it. 

Without thinking much more about I put it on, before putting on an oversized jean jacket. The rest of the clothes I put back in my bag leaving the ripped ones behind. 

The pictures I put in it as well making sure that they won't get damaged if I needed to fight a monster. I'm gonna have to look around the building for some water and other stuff I could use to take with me. 

I really want to find the others. It's har to tell how long I have been unconscious, so I don't know how much of a head start they have on me. But they are in a group so they can't go fast if they don't want to attract monsters. 

I just had thrown my bag over my shoulder when I heard a crashing sound coming from the building followed by voices.

Previous Chapter ~ Next Chapter

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Hey guys, just like with the other fanfic I’ll update this one every other day!

[eternallyfrustratedwriter]

And I Lit A Fire That Wouldn't Go Out

Chapter 10

Prev Next

Dia stood stock still in front of the crumbling structure she'd escaped from 15 years earlier. Her heart was beating fast in her chest, and her breath came out in shallow gasps as she curled her hands into fists. Her nails dug into the skin of her palms, creating small crescent-shaped wounds that would bleed for a second before closing over again. Logan was stood off to the side, eyes focused on the door as he resisted the urge to bring his claws out. The surrounding forest was peaceful, with the sounds of wildlife and a rushing stream nearby, completely at odds with their inner turmoil at being faced with the place that took so much from them. Feeling like she was about to break down, Dia started backing up towards the motorcycle, her eyes never leaving the door that hung half off its hinges. 

"I'm sorry but I can't do this. You can explore but I'm not going back inside there," said Dia firmly, wrapping her arms around herself and clutching her sides tightly. 

"Come on. You didn't come all the way out here to back out at the last second, right?" asked Logan as he planted himself in front of her, hands on her shoulders to stop her from retreating any further. His expression wasn't giving anything away about his thinking but his grip belied a sense of desperation. Despite his bravado and posturing, he didn't want to go inside either, or at least not alone.

"I came because Charles told me I had to. I was perfectly fine with my memories the way they were. There was no reason I had to remember what happened!" snapped Dia before roughly shoving Logan away from her. The older mutant was pushed back quite a few feet and stayed frozen in the same position for a second before he let his arms flop back down to his sides. "My life was just fine before you showed up! Everything that's gone wrong recently can be tied back to you! Why'd you have to ruin everything?!"

The silence that followed was thick and oppressive, the harsh words that had been said stinging like knives. Logans posture stiffened slightly but it was enough to change his entire demeanor. The line of his jaw was tense, eyes sharper than they'd been a moment ago. After a few minutes of them just staring at each other, Logan turned around and started walking towards the crumbling building by himself. Before he disappeared inside, though, he paused for a second before looking back at where Dia stood. 

"Wait by the motorcycle. If you wander off I'm not searching for you." 

Dia nodded to him in response, her voice trapped in her throat after the awful things she'd yelled at him earlier. She watched as he disappeared inside before retreating to where the bike was propped up against a tree and sliding down against the trunk until her butt made contact with the ground. The dampness of the grass from the recent rainfall soaked through the pants she was wearing over her normal suit. Her head fell back against the wood with a slight thunk with a small burst of pain at the contact. 

Her eyes squeezed shut in frustration as she clenched her jaw, fingers digging into the soft ground around her. A low grunt left her mouth before she sent her head back into the wood, the pain grounding her as her thoughts kept trying to spiral. This was repeated until she felt warm blood dripping down her neck, a hand reaching behind herself to feel the wound as it was finally allowed to fully heal. As always no scar was left behind with the only evidence of her having been hurt being the blood that was already starting to dry. 

The sun, which had only just been starting to rise when they'd arrived, was now high in the sky and shining down intensely. Dia hadn't moved once since she'd deposited herself by the motorcycle, lower body slightly numb from having been stationary for so long. Her mind had finally started to still after she'd gone through the mental exercises Charles had given her years ago to help with how overwhelming her natural senses were when unchecked. The passing of time had hardly registered with her until the suns glare focused itself on her face, her eyes finally opening as she stretched herself out. 

The fact that Logan was still inside the building was the first thing she registered, limbs buckling slightly from disuse as she scrambled to her feet. She strained her ears as she tried to pick out his heartbeat from inside, trying to hear anything at all that indicated he was okay. The mental exercises she'd been doing for the past however many hours had her feeling like she was experiencing the world through a veil. While she normally welcomed that feeling, how it made her life bearable most of the time, she was cursing it right now. The exercises, while helpful, also left her unable to tap into that essential part of herself for a while. A voice in the back of her head would always start whispering small doubts to her whenever it happened to backfire on her, urging her to run with the feeling and question it. Ever the fucking coward, though, she would always tell the voice to shut up before sticking her head back in the sand. 

Slowly, she found herself approaching the doors despite her heart hammering against her ribs and the fact that she felt ready to throw up even though she hadn't eaten anything of real substance that day. Her senses kept pushing at their boundaries as she tried to pick up on anything that told her that Logan was okay. The door creaked slightly as she moved it aside, sunlight reaching forward for a ways before being swallowed up by the seemingly impenetrable darkness within. Her footsteps echoed slightly as she made her way inside, skin covered in goosebumps as she tried to keep her cool. Her nose could detect hints of pine, whiskey, and old cigar smoke that hung in the air telling her that Logan had been in the area. 

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness as she stepped further inside the building that had haunted her life since she'd escaped it. Even though she'd tried her best to forget sometimes what happened would slip through the cracks in her mind, attacking her at night or making her feel ill for a reason she couldn't fully understand if she saw a gun or blood splattered against concrete on the few times she went on missions. These feelings of unease and slowly creeping terror followed her as she made her way deeper, using her nose to guide her along the invisible trail as she played the worlds worst game of hot and cold. 

The trail got stronger the further inside she went until she came to a room filled with old machinery that was destroyed for the most part, parts strewn about the room with exposed wires hanging loose. The middle held a glass tank that was cracked, the water having long since drained out of it but she could still picture the vivid green it had been before. How it had crashed softly against the glass as the body had lowered itself into its depths, unaware of what the person had resigned themselves to. 

The crunch of debris under boots pulled her from her thoughts, and Logan walked out of one of the side rooms. Relief surged through her as she saw him stop a few paces away from her, hands shoved in his pockets. The silence between them now was even more oppressive than the one that had surrounded them outside. The little bit of light that managed to make its way in this deep, on account of the cracked foundation that had been invaded by plants, reflected off of his eyes in a golden glow that was much like her own. Another indicator that not only were they not human, it was almost impossible to even pass as it. 

"I thought I told you to wait by the bike?" grumbled Logan, eyes dropping down to the ground as he moved a piece of debris around with his foot. 

"I did but..." started Dia, voice barely above a whisper. A thousand thoughts were in her head, fighting to make it past her lips but they just ended up lodged in her throat instead. "I was worried because you hadn't come out yet so I went through my exercises to calm my mind but that also meant I couldn't sense you either and I just needed to be sure you were okay." 

All the jumbled thoughts fell from her mouth in a rush, her voice speeding up and getting louder as she went until she was left gasping for air at the end. 

Logan ended up just grunting in response to her confession before walking past her and towards the exit, confident that she would follow behind him. Sure enough, soft footsteps followed a few paces behind him. Close enough to keep up but far enough away that they wouldn't touch each other either. It wasn't until they were within a few feet of the exit that Dia put on a sudden burst of speed, grabbing Logans sleeve and dragging him to a stop. 

While he didn't shake her off, his shoulders were tense and his fingers twitched slightly in the air. 

"I need to say something and I know that the small bit of courage I'm holding right now will leave me once we step into the light again," said Dia, voice cracking as a tear slipped down her face. 

While Logan didn't say anything in response, the fact that he was still standing there and still letting her hold onto his sleeve spoke louder than any words could at that moment. 

"I'm sorry for what I said before. I felt cornered so I lashed out. While I came because of Charles I've actually enjoyed this past week with you," said Dia, fingers tightening themselves around the fistful of leather she'd managed to grab as she stepped closer to him. "You haven't ruined anything. I've actually enjoyed the mansion a bit more since you showed up." 

Logan heaved a sigh before he turned around, pulling his sleeve out of her grip so he could face her fully. He offered his same arm to her again, watching as her fingers curled around the leather a bit more softly this time. 

"Look, we're both a bit tense being back here. Let's just forget it. Capiche?" asked Logan, eyebrow raised as he tilted his head slightly. 

"Capiche."

[judeiscariot]

I recently started listening to CSH and famous prophets (stars) is one of my favorites out of everything I’ve heard so far. I’ve seen you mention it on here a couple times and I’d love to hear more about your interpretation of it! Only if you feel like it of course lol but I’m not great at lyric analysis stuff and I’m super interested

hi yes i’d love to talk about it!!! i’ve been wanting to do a line by line of this song for forever so thanks for asking <3 (fair warning though this is gonna be really long)

this song is sort of the last 'event' on the twin fantasy timeline, even though it's more of a summary. it's the culmination of everything that this story has been building up to. it's a breakdown in every sense of the word. like many songs in twin fantasy and will's body of work at large, it has an insanely ambitious structure that's hard to even nail down. it's made up of around six parts but it's basically impossible to even separate into choruses/verses/bridge, etc, so i'm just gonna go section by section:

much like the first track on the album, this song starts off with a really simple, isolated bassline before will's voice comes in softly. the first thing the speaker does is apologize to the idealized future versions of himself and his partner who he had become attached to. he had all these wonderful visions of what their life together might look like, but he's finally realizing that none of that is ever gonna happen, and things are quickly coming to an end. the 'ripping of the tape' could refer to an audio tape, a reference to how the original version of this album was a lot rougher in terms of sound quality, and will has said before that he prefers the smoother, more professional sound of face to face as opposed to the lo-fi of mirror to mirror. the tape could also be what's metaphorically holding the relationship together, and it's finally failing. the speaker knows the relationship is falling apart, but the realization doesn't make it any less painful. in the final line, he shifts the blame to the subject, in a coy and resigned sort of way.

the bruises represent the speaker and his partner - painful, brought on through trauma, lesions that the speaker carries around physically on his body. 'kicking the back of the seat in' probably refers to the fact that most of the vocals for will's early projects, including twin fantasy (mtm) were recorded in the backseat of his car, hence the band name. the speaker has sort of embodied the role of 'emotional punching bag' throughout the story (you can text me when punching mattresses gets old), and the bruises, or the pain the speaker was caused through the relationship, were something he wore with pride as though they represented the burdens he was willing to shoulder for love of his partner. but the bruises are fading now, healing, steering the speaker towards the metaphorical 'healing journey' he will embark on after being set free from the expectations and needs of this person. the vocals up until this point are soft, almost spoken-word, but here we crash into a jarringly intense instrumental that totally shifts the tone.

this part is buried beneath the instrumentals, almost inaudible, but it's so important. i see this as the speaker encouraging his past self, who this album is sort of dedicated to, not to spend too much time lamenting over the end of the relationship, because everything is gonna turn out alright even though it feels like the end of the world. even still, the speaker knows his past self wouldn't listen to this advice if he could hear it.

an experience like the one conveyed through this album is very much confined to teenagers/adolescents. it's essential that the speaker and his partner are fumbling young people with underdeveloped brains. there are certain emotions and ways in which we see the world as teenagers that inevitably dampen when we become adults. even if the speaker and his partner, now grown, were to touch each other like they used to, they wouldn't be able to access the emotions that were conjured by their teenage brains. the speaker and his partner are no longer in contact, sure, but they've lost access to one another in more ways than one. the speaker likes to think that he remembers what it was like to be with his partner physically, but he gives just about the vaguest and most generic description of a human body that he possibly could, literally trailing off at the end like he can't name anything beyond a few body parts. he doesn't actually remember specifics about this person at all.

the speaker questions whether the deterioration of the relationship was his fault, if he could have done something different, been better, saved it somehow. at the same time, he's realizing that he couldn't have, and wondering if this whole thing, that he dedicated all this time and stress and agony and love and joy to, was a complete waste of time, simply because it was destined to fail. throughout this verse, the speaker is coming to terms with the end of the relationship while simultaneously resisting it. it's pretty clear that there have been a good few 'breakup scares' at this point, and the speaker isn't sure if this is the real, true, final end. is this how life is going to be from now on? waking life feels like a bad dream, and he's walking around wondering if this person is, or ever was, his, if they're truly gone. 'the great silence' is the enormous canyon that opens between two people who have just ended a relationship as intense and intimate as this. they go from indescribable closeness to functioning like complete strangers, and it would give anyone whiplash, but especially a teenager who had never felt truly loved or understood before this person. this relationship has been so unsteady that even once significant time has passed since the end, he still sometimes wakes up with the hope that he might roll over and see his former partner next to him.

will refers to himself as both 'nervous' and 'a wreck' multiple times in this album, and in several other places throughout his discography. it's kind of a recurring motif. this may also be a callback to 'the bell jar,' one of the first tracks will ever released, before he was even making music as car seat headrest. as far as 'naming names' goes, this is probably a reference to the fact that he did in fact call cate wurtz by name in famous prophets (minds) in the mtm version of the album. cate wurtz is a comic artist and the author of the lamezone series, and she may or may not be the subject of twin fantasy. i find theories about the real life person who might be the inspiration for this album largely irrelevant and uninteresting, nevermind unimportant to my personal interpretation of the album, so i'm not gonna linger on that aspect of it. the last line is probably a reference to this song's counterpart. famous prophets (minds) ends with a spoken word recitation of 1 kings 19:11 - 12. the actual final lines of the verse are as follows: "But the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper." in the song, the final line is changed to "And after the fire, a sound of sheer silence." right before will says 'silence,' the music cuts out completely.

by this point in the song, it seems like the narrator has fully accepted that the relationship has come and gone whether he likes it or not. this person has faded into and subsequently out of his life, as people often do. there's nothing more to be said, it's all over, there's no getting around this.

now we slide into the seminal refrain of this song. even though in the previous verse, it seemed like he had fully accepted the end, now he's crying and screaming and begging to go back. the end of a relationship like this is obviously going to cause some extreme inner turmoil and it's not gonna be a smooth transition for the people involved. the vocals here are kind of agonizing - it gets more and more intense until he's more or less howling. even after the final repetition, he goes on yelling and crying under the instrumentals. what is the speaker even begging to go back to? when the relationship was new and full of promise? before the two of them ever met in the first place? if he could go back, would the speaker do things differently, or does he just want to live out the events of the relationship again exactly as they happened, so he can cling to the fleeting moments of joy and hope that were there, even though he knows how things are going to end? at the end of all this, he asks his former self again not to spend too much time on it, which is somewhat ironic. once he's done yelling, the instrumentals quiet down almost entirely to just the bassline that was present at the beginning, with the occasional guitar note.

the speaker didn't want his partner to develop too high an opinion of him. even though this whole album is literally about his ridiculously high opinion of this person, he's anxious at the idea of his partner thinking of him the same way. he doesn't want to disappoint him. the speaker also asks his partner not to joke about his own death - this is the only person he's ever felt truly loved or understood by, and the speaker desperately doesn't want to lose him.

the speaker urges his partner to keep it together. because he cares about him deeply, yes, but also because he's not sure if he'll be able to give his partner the support he'd need if he truly lost it. the 'art' he mentions is likely a reference to the art of cate wurtz, but like i mentioned above i'm not interested in diving too deep into that whole deal.

now we're back to the seminal refrain of twin fantasy itself. the whole 'beach' theme is a frequently recurring motif in will's work as far back as the numbered albums. the 'grave' is the place the speaker is trying to lay his feelings for this person to rest, and the ocean is...everything. life, the universe, any given day-to-day experience that might bring up feelings of this person again. no matter what the speaker does, this situation affected him so deeply that his feelings will keep resurfacing over and over again long after the relationship has reached its conclusion.

the refrain continues in the background as the instrumentals build in intensity and will starts to shout over himself. when an artist’s work begins to gain recognition, whichever piece it was that initially drew the attention of large crowds of people may become their 'holy grail,' so to speak. if a particular song gets a singer famous, or a particular painting gets a painter famous, they might lean on the themes and techniques they used when creating that particular piece in an attempt to create another piece which draws similar attention. this leads them to 'descend into cliché' and create work with less creative integrity. the grave symbolism continues, and now at the emotional climax of the album, the speaker says he might ‘fill it in,’ signifying that he has reached some sort of emotional resolution. he is hammering in the nail to ensure that the coffin remains shut tightly, so he can finally move on with his life and walk away from these emotions which have consumed him. 'i could give you what you deserve' may be a reference to the oft repeated line ‘art gets what it wants and art gets what it deserves,’ which pops up throughout will's work. the speaker comments on the fact that he could continue to make music about this relationship, that he could ‘watch the hammer swerve,’ as he attempts to metaphorically nail the coffin shut, i.e. watch himself fail in his attempts to move on from the emotions he has drowned so many times in.

the mirror symbolism is a direct reference to the original version of this album, with the 'mirror' symbolizing the relationship between the speaker and his partner. i've talked about the 'mirror to mirror' vs 'face to face' images before, but i'll summarize it again here: the first image is one of two mirrors facing each other, creating an endless tunnel of reflection between two people who can only see themselves in the other. the face to face image is one of two people regarding each other, recognizing the other while existing as separate bodies. the mirror breaking is the transition between mirror to mirror and face to face. the fantasy is shattered, and will is now at a very different place in his life than when the original version of this album was written. he's decidedly beyond his adolescence, and he no longer sees his partner as a mirror. he wouldn't trade anything for this absolutely necessary change in perspective. 'blackstar' is probably either a reference to the david bowie album of the same name, or the radiohead song of the same name. 'painstar' is explicitly a reference to cate wurtz's work. basically, it's a concept from the lamezine comics of a star/entity which only comes around once every thousand years or so. when you touch it, you feel unfathomable pain, but only for a split second. i see the concept used as a metaphor for the pain of the relationship - was it worth the agony the speaker is currently in for the joy he once had? the vocals here once again grow increasingly intense as the speaker begs...someone, for something.

as the vocals descend in intensity, will mutters this, which is probably a reference to the bit in high to death that includes an audio sample from the movie adaptation of ray bradbury's 'all summer in a day.' it's a science fiction story which takes place on a planet where the sun can only be seen once every nine years. the main character, a girl named margot, is originally from earth, and remembers what the sun looked and felt like. the other children don't believe her, and lock her in a closet before the day the sun is supposed to show itself. when the sun does appear, the other children forget about her, and she remains locked in the closet. the sample included in the song is her calling "william! let me out! william! william! let me out, william!" margot is a stand-in for the speaker's partner, who is begging will by name to release him from the fantasy will has him trapped in. now the roles are reversed and the speaker is begging his partner to let him inside the locked closet. despite all the speaker’s efforts, the two of them still somehow end up on opposite sides of the door. will wants his partner to let him in, so that they may at least be in the dark together. 

the instrumentals quiet down once again so that will is singing over a simple piano tune. this verse replaces the lyrics in the original version of famous prophets which called cate wurtz by name. in the original version, these lyrics were buried, whereas these are at the forefront, accompanied by almost no instrumentals. it's impossible for the listener to miss these. in the first ‘descend into cliché’ verse will mentioned that he could 'sing another song' as a sort of coping mechanism or way of dealing with the end of this relationship, so the 'music forsaking you' could refer to the speaker's coping mechanisms not being enough to comfort him in the aftermath of the relationship. rolling the stone over the grave is the same deal as will 'hammering in the nail' in an attempt to seal off his feelings about the relationship. this also evokes some biblical imagery, with how the entrance to the tomb of jesus was blocked with a huge stone. on the other hand, he could stare his feelings in the face, confront them head on and learn to cope. 'when the levee breaks' is probably a reference to the led zeppelin song 'if the levee breaks.' it seems like will is referencing several well-known musicians while thinking of his own 'prophecy' for his music career. this could be a reach, but the stone line might also be a reference to the rolling stones if we're going with this interpretation. the final line might refer to the fact that, even though these bands were and are incredible famous, the music industry is a cyclical entity and all famous bands will eventually fade out of the spotlight.

that 'what happened to you' might be a reference to leonard cohen's 'death of a ladies man.' will is a big leonard cohen fan and references to his work pop up fairly often. but other than that this verse fades into a soft instrumental where the fractured pieces of what will eventually be the spoken word outro start to fade in:

these are snippets from 1 corinthians 13, and reesa mallen is the actress who played margot in all summer in a day. this is a direct quote from the verse, but will shifts the order of the lines around to depart from the original meaning. the intended message of this verse is basically that love is the key to everything, and that one cannot access great and miraculous things in the absence of love. this arrangement of the lines sort of suggests the opposite - that love enters your life and wrecks you on its way out, that no matter what sort of effort you put out, when love goes it will leave you with nothing. i'll talk a little more about the use of this verse when we get to the end.

this is the true ultimate climax of the song, and of the story as a whole. it's a fractured, distorted sample of my boy, the first song on the album. i can't even describe how crazy this actually sounds you gotta just listen to it. i've talked about this before but my boy is a pretty hopeful and optimistic way to open this album, and throughout the story all that optimism and hope has pretty much been crushed. to me, this part is where the speaker has a breakthrough of sorts and truly, truly understands that it's over, even though his feelings for this person will keep resurfacing, the relationship is crumbling in his hands and soon there will be nothing left at all. the only line from my boy that's not present here is 'we won't be alone,' so do with that what you will. this section is just so insane, the instrumentals and the desperation and rawness of the vocals, there's one or two moments in here where will's voice blends completely with a guitar note, it's incredible. one of the things i love most about twin fantasy is how it manages to take this experience that would generally be regarded as frivolous, unimportant, childish, naive, etc, and successfully convey how deadly deadly serious it feels in the moment. like when we break it down to its bare essentials this album is about an online relationship between two teenagers in 2009. yet it somehow adequately conveys the absolute utter and complete long lasting devastation a relationship like this can feel in a hormone-addled teenage brain. the emotions of teenagers and adolescents are very often brushed off as overdramatic and kinda made fun of in media in general, but just because adolescent emotions are affected by teenage hormones or whatever doesn't make them any less real. in fact i think being a teenager often makes interpersonal relationship experiences similar to this all the more visceral and painful. this part of the song is where that really comes through for me and i find it so incredibly cathartic. the sheer grandiosity of the instrumentals ties it all together, and the horn arrangement in particular is amazing. will uses horns a fair amount in his work and it's always beautiful, but something about this instance specifically just shakes me to my core, man. it's like he's wailing in agony with all the choirs of heaven behind him.

now the instrumentals quiet down and an unfractured recitation of 1 corinthians 13 fades in. this verse perfectly sums up everything this story is about, and the whole idea behind remaking the album in the first place. the speaker and protagonist of the album is an adult now, and he's had years to process these events by this point. he no longer views them through that addled adolescent lens, but he remembers what it felt like to be shaken to his core by this situation. even still, he now sees the relationship for exactly what it is. he no longer sees others as a reflection of himself. he's able to regard the person who he underwent all this agony for as a separate, independent being and understand that his perception of them was false. no matter one's age, it's often borderline impossible to grasp the full significance of important life events as they're happening. only with time and reflection can we truly come to understand and process how events have affected us and how we are changed in their aftermath. the speaker in mtm is clouded by raw emotion, and therefore only capable of knowing 'in part.' the speaker in ftf is more mature, has garnered more life experience, and evidently spent many painful hours working through these events. therefore, he now 'knows fully,' and with the ability to know fully comes the ability to be fully known, to be truly loved and understood as he never could while operating under the delusions fueling this relationship. the instrumentals drop off entirely for the final line, which is a slight alteration from the actual bible quote. the original is as follows: 'And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.' this change allows for ambiguity as to which of the three remain within the speaker. the change could also refer to the two versions of the album which now exist, or it could refer to the speaker and the subject as people.

so that's famous prophets (stars). it's an absolutely incredible song and if you've never heard it you really really should. you can only really get the full affect if you listen to the whole album straight through, but i know not everybody feels like doing that lmao, same as many people don't feel like listening to a 17 minute song in the first place. but i think this song is best heard in your room, in the dark, at night, played over a speaker, while you're maybe just a little too high. can't recommend enough.

[ladylooch]

Our Little Family [Miles Wood] - Chapter 10

A/N from 👢 anon: Heeyy, sorry I'm a little late. But this is my Christmas present for you guys. There is smut here.

Now we always talk about getting on your knees for miles, imagine the other way around, and this can happen. Hope you guys enjoy it !!

Holding Miles in your arms, after a moment like this is special. You want him to feel loved, to understand that he can talk to you without being judged.

You rub his back and run your fingers through his hair. You kiss the top of his head.

“I love you, Miles William Wood.” 

Miles looks at you. 

“I love you.” 

He seals this unsaid promise with a kiss and what a kiss it's. One of your hands rests on his cheek while his hand is on your hips. 

You guys start to make out. It's slow kissing, exploring each other's mouths. You're lost in the kiss when Miles starts to move his hips. You moan into the kiss. You don't want to break this. 

Miles doesn't want that either. There is something about this sex. It's better than your first sex, first post-I love you sex. This is different. This is sex with your man finally ready to be yours, to give himself fully to you. Mentally and physically. 

You move your leg a little to give him a better angle. Miles pulls your leg higher. You moan into his mouth. 

You start to feel your orgasm building up. And as much as you want to get there faster, this pace is good, and you want to continue doing this.You're going to get there with time. Miles is hitting all the right spots. Your nails are digging into his shoulder blades. 

The knot in your stomach starts to get tighter and tighter by the second. He knows that you're getting there, and he is too. He's struggling not to cum. He moves his hand to your clit and rubs little circles. That brings you over the edge. Your orgasm brings Miles to his own. Both of you are moaning out each other's names. You almost black out. You rest your head against his forehead to calm your body down.

Miles is so relaxed now, you can feel that a huge weight left his body. You brush his sweaty hair from his forehead. You admire your fiance's fine bone structure. He pulls out, and you whine in the process. You feel so empty right now. 

Miles smiles as he brushes your lips with his thumb. You kiss it before saying that you need to use the bathroom. He helps you get up. You waddle to the bathroom. Miles chuckles, you want to flip him right now but bathroom first. You pee and take a quick shower. You come back and Miles is waiting for you with open arms. It's adorable how happy and relaxed he is right now. 

Before you go to bed, you pick up his dress shirt and give him a show. You walk to the bed, closing his shirt. You lay beside him, placing your head on his chest. 

“My clothes always look better on you.” 

“I know.” Your reply makes Miles chuckle before kissing your head. 

“I miss our baby. Can we call your mom?” You know Lily has an early bedtime, but you miss her. 

“Yeah, let's try.” Miles moves to grab his phone. He FaceTimes his mom while holding you in his arms. 

She answers the call, and her smile goes so bright. She was waiting for this moment. Where Miles is finally all in with you. 

After the greetings, you ask if Lily is still up. She replies that she's been asleep for 5 minutes or so. You get a little pouty. Cheryl apologizes. She says that if they knew that you guys were going to call, she would try and keep Lily up.

You assure her that it's okay, Lily needs her sleep, and you guys will try in the morning. You thank her for being with Lily. She says that they're happy to do it and then you end the call. You shift so you can cuddle your fiance. Miles put his phone aside before hugging you close. He kisses your head. 

You sigh, feeling his lips on your hair. This is perfect. Today has been perfect, all because of this man. You rest your chin on his chest to look at him. He's already looking at you. Both of you have heart eyes looking at each other. 

“Thank you for today. It means a lot to me. You are making time for me.” Miles reaches for your cheeks. 

“You don't have to thank me, I should have been making time for a long time now. Tonight is just the start, baby.”

You smile softly, turning your face to kiss his hand. You yawn, and Miles tell you to rest. You nod as you lace your fingers together. He knows that you're exhausted. He watches you fall asleep. It doesn't take him long to fall asleep too. Both of you are tired. 

You wake in the middle of the night needing to pee. You struggle to get Miles to let you go, but then he finally does. After using the bathroom, instead of you going back to bed. You stay up looking at the window, seeing the mountains, the quiet night outside. 

You and Miles struggled to get to this point. You know it's not easy for him, being on the road, blaming him for what happened. It's not going to help you guys. Things are going to change, you know that. 

“Babe, are you okay ?” Miles asks, hugging you from behind with that sleepy voice that makes you weak. 

“Yeah, just thinking about life. Didn't want to wake you.” You rest your hands on top of his. 

Miles rests his chin on your shoulder. You lean against him, enjoying his solid body behind you. 

“I want to marry you soon, like next month.” Miles catches you by surprise. 

“But, what about the party ? Your friends ? Your family ?”

“We can do the reception during the summer. But I want to be your husband. I want you to have my last name.” 

You spin in his arms. 

“Are you sure ?” 

“Yeah.” That grin comes to his lips. “That's all I want.” Miles licks his lips before kissing you. This kissing Miles is making you all soft, and you love him. 

The dim light in the room makes his body look like a Greek God. You guys are just kissing each other, and then you feel little Wood start coming to life. Miles pushes you against the window, moving one hand beside your head to brace himself. You moan into his lips reaching for his cock. You stroke him as you kiss. Miles breaks the kiss. 

“Turn around gorgeous.” You're a little unsure because you're going to be facing the window. 

Miles senses that it's something you're struggling with right now. 

“You don't have to, babe. I still can fuck you here with your back against the window.” You nod, that's such a turn on. 

Miles kisses your neck, as he works on opening your shirt. He starts to give your body open mouth kisses. He stops by your boobs giving his friends some love. 

Then he makes his way down, open mouth kisses. You look down. He's there on his knees for you. He moves your leg hooking over his shoulder.

You curse, feeling his tongue run through your folds. Your hand reaches for his curls fisting them, bringing him closer to where you need him. Miles starts to eat you like a mad man, and he's starving. 

Miles laps and sucks your clit. Sometimes he stops just to breathe, but that's when his fingers come to play. You're so sensitive from before, it's not going to take long for another orgasm from you. 

You're with your eyes closed, fisting his hair when you feel Miles hooking your other leg over his shoulder. He pushes you back so you can have the support from the window. 

It brings a string of curses from your lips. You know that he's strong, but this is such a turn-on to you. And he's not done with surprising you tonight  

Your orgasm hits you hard. You're shaking as Miles works you through your orgasm. He moves your legs down and kisses his way back to your lips. 

You wrap your arms around his shoulders for support. He kisses you, feeling yourself on his lips makes you moan. He rests his forehead on yours. 

“Are you okay, sweetheart ?” He asks, a little worried. Today has been a lot for your body, and he wants to make sure you're okay. 

You nod. “I just need a couple of minutes. This one was a lot.” 

He understands. Miles moves his hand to slide behind your back, but you stop him. You guys are staying right here on the window and he's going to fuck you there like he wants to. 

You guys stand there for a couple of minutes. You start to run your hand on the curls on the back of his head. You kiss his jaw, showing that you're good to go again. 

“Show me how strong you are, handsome.” Miles groans, followed by a curse. He's loving this night so far. 

He moves his hands to your ass, giving a little squeeze before sliding behind the back of your thighs. Miles brings both of your legs to wrap around his waist. You know this position is not going to be for so long. But it's so sexy. 

He moves you back so you can have the glass support for now. Miles lines himself before sliding in slowly. You can feel every inch of him inside you. You throw your head back with a long moan. 

He feels so damn good inside you. He takes a few steps back to show you how strong he is. With the help of his arms you start moving up and down on his cock. 

The only sounds you can hear in the room are your moans, your wet pussy sliding up and down his cock, his grunts, a few praises from him and your ass hitting his hips. 

He's driving you insane. He feels so good. You lean your head to rest on the crook of his neck. You're trying to focus on something else, but he's hitting all the right spots. 

You're about to scream. You bite the spot between his neck and collarbone. That's going to leave a mark in the morning. Miles grunts with the pain. 

“Put me down, babe. I want you to fuck me from behind.” You ask him softly. 

Miles helps you put your feet on the floor. You turn to face the glass. He deserves this, too. You cover your face with your arm. 

“C'mon babe, I'm waiting.” You say shaking your ass for him. 

He doesn't need to be told twice. Miles spread your legs for him before sliding in one sweet motion. He definitely comes as advertised. He's taking his time with you now. Deep and long thrusts. Miles slaps your ass cheek. 

You know you're not going to last long. But you want to give him this. Miles grip on your hips gets tighter, and you know he's struggling to contain himself. 

You bring his hand to lift your leg so you can have better access to your clit. You start rubbing circles as Miles hits every sweet spot inside you. He says a few encouraging words for you to come. 

And you do. Another one for the night. Miles brings you flush against his chest, resting his hand on your neck. He nibbles your ear lobe. 

Now it's your time to praise and encourage him. You say that he fills you so well, his cock is perfect for you, he makes you feel so good. And then of course you ask him to cum for you. 

That's exactly what he needed. Miles orgasm hits him hard. Both of you guys lean against the glass. He rests his head on the cool window. 

“Fuck, I love you.” He says between heavy breaths.

“Love you too, handsome.” 

Miles kisses your shoulder, enjoying this amazing feeling.

He pulls out and carries you to the bathroom. He lets you use the bathroom while he starts the water for you guys. Just a quick shower after all that sweat. 

After you pee, he helps you step in the shower to rinse off. You look at Miles with heart eyes, and this time, his eyes match yours. 

“Thank you for not shaving. I know you're not a fan” You say as you run your hand on his chest. Miles giggles, making you laugh in the process. 

“No need to thank me babe, today was for you and for us.” 

You smile and lean to peck his lips. You and Miles clean yourselves quickly so you can go to bed. You need some support. Your legs are giving up on you.

As soon as you are back in bed, you're taking all his personal space. Making him chuckle in the process. Miles runs circles on your arms as your body starts to get limp beside him. 

“Thank you for picking me. You're not going to regret it. I love you.” You say as your eyes start to blink with sleep. 

Miles gets a little upset that it took him so long to be fully in and picking you. He smiles and kisses your head. 

“I didn't regret anything up to now babe, not going to start now. I love you.”

His "I love you" is the last thing you hear that night. He watches you for a little bit before falling asleep too. 

[eilinelsghost]

Director's Cut: Grief in All Her Guises

Continuing to chip away at the Director's Cut game (still taking asks if you have any you'd like to send in - the more specific the better 😊) and today I'm hopping in with this delightful ask from @mangez-peches-art:

This is such a good question!

I actually went back and forth on this for a long time while I was planning out the series arc, and it was one of the main reasons it took me a really long time to get the first two installments nailed down (I'd been working on both of them for probably four months or so before I finally decided to post part 1 and get the series going). That meeting is such an iconic moment in their whole story and it felt like an oversight to leave it out at the beginning.

However, I ended up deciding to jump in after the relationships had been established for several reasons:

Logistics

First and most simply, there was the logistical difficulty of writing those encounters. I confess I balked at trying to accurately depict the process of two people learning each others' languages from scratch, even with the help of Finrod's ability to just stroll through Balan's brain. I don't have a lot of linguistics in my background and I wanted to be careful that I didn't lead with an installment that would undermine authorial trust if I completely botched how that process would go. Or, to put it more forthrightly, I was just scared of looking like I didn't know what I was talking about 😂

Perception of the Encounter

Another thing that made me hesitate was that the whole nature of that first meeting is laden with dreamlike imagery and I did not want to begin by "demythologizing" it at the start of the series. I wanted it to retain an unsteady and ethereal presence throughout their growing relationship that undergirds how they relate to each other. Each, in their own sense, feels that they have stumbled upon the other in a dream and the unsteadiness that brings to their daily reality shapes how each beholds the other.

For Finrod, dreams are laden with intent. It is through such that he retains any tangible connection to the Valar (or to Ulmo at least), and it is through such that he was given what he understands to be his purpose and duty in Beleriand. Even his moments of foresight hold a dreamlike quality where he seems to be pulled out from the reality about him to experience/witness moments of understanding that structure the subsequent direction of his life. Meeting Balan in a kind of dream, therefore, sets Balan alongside those other moments of import: their meeting is intended, their bond is unquestioned, this encounter was fated and they (Finrod and Balan/Balan's people) immediately belong to each other in a way that other meetings do not engender. In fact, this ends up being a large part of why Finrod is able to deceive himself re his own feelings for the whole of that first year. He does not question that he feels an unusually close bond - this is Balan, sent to him in a dream; Balan's people, brought to him by powers outside himself and each fated towards the other. Thus when he realizes what is actually going on within his own feelings, he panics both at the mortal/immortal divide and also at the fear that he has betrayed what was entrusted to him (entrusted by fate? by Eru? by the Valar?) through desiring that which was committed to his keeping.

For Balan, he and his people have finally crossed through the perils of the mountain passes, they have left behind (as they think) the danger of their former lives, and have come at last to a land of safety - where some even believe they may find the gods' own dwellings. And one of the first things that happens is he wakes in the middle of the night (is he awake? is he dreaming?) and meets Finrod's eye over a dying fire, his own harp held in the hands of a seeming god and images rising through the air about him in ways that defy understanding. Balan remembers this vividly throughout his life, but it is always somewhat fluid, always filled with an uncanny awe, fear, a nagging sense of unreality. This recurs throughout their relationship at various points - see, for example, the confession scene from In These Holy Waters where Balan once again encounters Finrod in a woods and once again doubts the reality about him:

The glade was spinning. Balan forced himself not to look away, for he could see his own passion blazing back from the other’s gaze, ardent and desperate, and his breath fled before the force of it. Did he sleep still? Had he awakened indeed or was he slumbering yet beside the boulder in the sun? He reached out to brush a strand of hair from Nóm’s face, his movements slow and muddled as though caught in the dream he feared

Keeping the mythological feel of that initial meeting was really important to me, especially early in the series to set the tone, and so I concluded that beginning with depicting it in full would likely undermine that strategy.

Memory as a Character

Finally, the third deciding factor for me here was that I wanted memory to function, in some sense, as another character in the series, given how Finrod speaks about the Eldar and memory in the Athrabeth. We begin the series with Finrod's confession to Aegnor and end the series with [redacted for spoiler reasons], which serve together to structure the intervening installments as a cluster of progressing memories, moving between past and present in (what I hope is) a stream of consciousness flow of connections. The lines between Balan's memories and Finrod's memories are deliberately blurred (who is it doing the remembering when both POVs are present throughout?) because their bond leaves them with the lines between each self blurred as well - Balan never fully absent because some part of him is still present in Finrod's own self, Finrod ever with one foot crossing into mortality because Balan too has preserved some part of Finrod within his own departed self.

So as part of this, there are three main memories that the series dances around long before we see them (or hear of them in greater detail): their first meeting, their eventual coming together, and Balan's death. Each of these are such laden moments that memory shies away from recalling them directly until it cannot be avoided. (This doesn't mean that you have to wait till the end of the series for each of these, I promise! Just that they all participate in a similar dance before appearing directly in the narrative.)

------

I think that covers most of the reasoning? That ended up being a lot longer than I thought it would! 😂 Let me know if there's anything else you'd like me to unpack more or if this didn't quite answer what you were wondering. Thanks so much for the question - this was such a fun one to answer!

[star-spangled-bastard]

For Sacred Geometry: 8, 17, 23, 25, 29 👀

8. Did you cut something out of the outline or an early draft? What was it and why did you decide to cut it?

This wasn't a scene that got cut but in my notes I had originally thought about inserting more Board/Speak from Northmoor over time. Mainly this wasn't done because it wouldn't have worked for dialogue, even though it probably could have been done for narration. Another reason I didn't go with it is because we see it from him in one of the few in-game memos and it was from very early on. So he either adopted that style of drafting messages early on after meeting The Board and then stopped over the years, or he kept it up but still started doing that very early on. I would have preferred it as a slow, creeping build up of more and more Board/Speak over time as his powers progress. So I just abandoned the concept completely, aside from his one memo to Ash when he's still in the Foundation, because it's in line with what we see in-game and there aren't really any other written out messages in the plot.

17. Talk about the fic’s ending. Why did you end it where you did?

I really really considered ending it at chapter 14 with The Board's final message. But I wanted to tie up the plot line of Ash leaving instead of leaving that open. We know Darling became Head of Research in 1995 and what better time for Ash to decide he needs to retire than after All That happened. I think it was good closure.

23. How did you come up with the title?

This was the rare case of having the title before I even had an idea for the plot. I think I only had the concept "I need to write a fic about Northmoor's term, and probably his conflict with Ash" and knew that I would call it that. The Foundation DLC has so much emphasis on the geometric structure of the pyramid and the nail, as well as the ley lines in the House. I was thinking about Ash's tape that goes over all the uses of triangles in various symbolism. The combination of the concept of sacred geometry in nature, combined with Northmoor's view of The Board as some divine entity, and even Ash's reverence for the Foundation and Oldest House just kind of created the perfect storm.

25. Share your favorite line

Oh this is a tough one. Off the top of my head, this was one I really liked:

A tear of equal parts frustration and betrayal wells up in his eye, until it spills over and sizzles into vapor before it completes its arc down his cheek.

29. If you made a playlist, talk about the songs on it and share a link

Of course I made a playlist! Here's the link to the full thing. (I promise it's not all angsty. just. most of it.) Linking some highlights under the cut along with the reasoning

Curses by The Crane Wives is kind of uncanny in how well it fits the plot!

Change Your Heart of Die by The Midnight is like perfect "end of act 2" material (bonus reference to the Crossroads)

Sun Bleached Flies by Ethel Cain gets a mention because I listened to it so much while writing the scene where Northmoor confronts The Board in the Astral Plane. It really helped shape the tone of some of the later scenes. the line "god loves you but not enough to save you" hits hard.

Have to Explode by The Mountain Goats the context, the resignation of it all

Like a River Runs by Bleachers very applicable to the epilogue, despite its tone the grief is there

Each Coming Night by Iron and Wine this one really hit me recently. I had already finished writing the final chapters but it suits them

Long Long Time by Linda Ronstadt I'd never heard this song before and randomly came across it in recommendations while writing the final scene of Ash and Northmoor in the Maintenance sector and it instantly destroyed me emotionally

Fire in the Driveway by Soccer Mommy this was one of the first songs I had in mind for the tone of this story and it's interesting because it's another where the lyrics work extremely well. but over the course of writing the plot the dynamic between Ash and Northmoor becomes much less strained so it doesn't fit their dynamic as much by the end

Strangers by Ethel Cain this is the most appropriate final song I can think of in this case. The opening lines are just. damn. Second only to the line towards the end "don't think about it too hard or you'll never sleep a wink at night again" With lines like "my memory restricted to a polaroid in Evidence" like. I can't not associate it with what happened to Northmoor.