#i hope it's the rooftop scene too! ;)

[britishchick09]

the blueprints for the immersive phantom experience have been released...

and it looks like random people are going to hear 'wandering child' when they're walking down the street? 😅😅😅

[binders-and-beanies]

Also when you listen to unconventional music it’s like. You have a societal obligation to constantly listen to music you don’t like, and be polite about it. But god forbid someone hears a snippet of something that means the world to you and they can shit all over it and you have to be polite about that too lol. Nothing is made for you except in spaces that your community specifically creates for that purpose and that’s BEAUTIFUL but it’s isolating

[lowkeyerror]

Talk it Out

Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Word count: 1.5k

Notes: Agatha All Along Finale Spoilers, Angst, I guess it's hurt/comfort, happy ending

Summary: The confrontation between Agatha and Rio goes differently with you there to mediate.

An: I've been itching to write for Agatha. I check the tags everyday for new fics, so I thought maybe I should contribute. Hope you like it

Masterlist

“Are you guys really going to do this? There has to be another way?”

Dark skies with ominous clouds loomed over Agatha's backyard. Rio was perched on the rooftop magic buzzing in her hands. Agatha stood on the ground exhausted from the trials of the road.

You found yourself standing in between the two.

“Darling, there is no other way. I don’t want to hurt you, don’t make me hurt you,” the rage dims in Rio's eyes as she looks at you.

You turn to the other woman. She’s trying to activate her powers, to no avail. You see a panic rise across her features. It's then that Rio begins her attack. When Agatha is flung back, you can’t help but scream her name.

“AGATHA!”

You attempt to run to her side, but vines snake their way up your legs keeping you in place.

“Rio please,” you plead with her.

Agatha answers, “She’s not going to listen to you sweetheart. Death is unkind, cruel even, and she cares for no one.”

Tears brim at your eyes hearing those words. Your whisper doesn’t get lost in the chaos, “That’s not true.”

“You can lie to yourself all you want Agatha, but she knows you’re full of shit,”  Rio hurls a vine at the witch leaving a nasty cut on her ankle.

“Look around Y/n, does this look like love,” Agatha spits out before her back connects with a tree.

Wires and vines alike start to wrap around Agatha, keeping her in place. Rio stalks towards her in a predatory fashion.

“End of the road Agatha, and you know where all roads lead.”

Agatha starts to beg for her life. This whole scene pulls your heart in two different directions.

Your magic was weak in comparison to most, but in this moment that didn’t matter. It was enough to escape the hold from the vines.

Just as Rio was going to blast Agatha out of existence you step between the two. Your hands outstretched to shield Agatha.

“Take me instead,” your gaze is soft when you meet Death’s stare.

“No,” Agatha and Rio speak in unison.

You shake your head, “You don’t get to say no. You need a soul and I’m offering mine.”

“It- it’s not your time,” Rio's excuse is flimsy.

“I’ve been around just as long as she has. I’ve sat by and watched her do the things that she did. I am your lover, just like she is. So you’re taking my soul.”

Agatha protests again, “She can’t have you.”

You turn to face her, “She already does, my love. I do not fear her as you do. I do not resent her. Spending eternity with her does not scorn me. I love her just as I love you.”

A scowl grows on Agatha’s face, “How can you forgive her?”

Rio wants to speak, but you place your hand on her chest, causing her to hold her tongue.

You squat down to Agatha’s level. Your hands caress her face, “I am grateful for what she gave us Agatha. Are you not? We’ve been alive for centuries, yet nothing has ever come close to those 6 years.”

“She took him from us.”

You shook your head, your voice was delicate, “He wasn’t even meant to take his first breath. We might’ve made him from scratch, but there’s only one person that gave him life, and you hate her for it.”

“He was my son too,” Rio speaks, no longer in her fighting stance.

Her eyes boring into Agatha, with a sorrow only death could convey.

Angry tears welled in Agatha’s eyes, “In the middle of the night. When we couldn’t even say goodbye. I was going to- I was going to do better for him, Rio.”

“I had to take him, and if either or you asked me not to… I don’t think I would’ve been able to do it. Don’t you think I would’ve loved to see him grow, Agatha? He was so much of all of us even at that age.”

“He was smart and cunning like you,  Agatha. He had your affinity for nature and balance, Rio. And he.. .”

“Was kind, just like you sweetheart,” Agatha finished your sentence.

Rio frowns, “I took no joy in taking him. In fact, taking a soul has never hurt so much. I didn’t just lose Nicky, I lost you too.”

“Tell her the truth,” you say to Agatha, who shifts a bit under your gaze.

“There’s nothing to tell,” her sentence falls flat at the end, in the way it does when she's lying.

Your tired eyes look at her, “Agatha, please.”

“I ran because I’m scared. Not of you, but of facing Nicky. If he saw who I am, what I’ve become he would-"

“Love you anyway,” Rio spoke with certainty.

It’s then that Agatha fully drops her mask, vulnerability on full display, “How are you sure?”

“You never hid yourself from him. He knows what kind of person you are, he always did. Maybe he wanted you to change, but he still loved you the way you were,” Rio spoke it like a fact.

It broke Agatha. She began to sob, “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. I’m sorry.”

You began to free Agatha from her spot against the tree. Rio instantly broke the binds after watching you struggle. She was cautious in her approach, of the two of you.

Rio wraps her arms around Agatha. Agatha melts into the embrace, the warmth comforting her. Rio begins to wipe away the woman’s tears.

You watch with a tender gaze and relief flooding through your features.

“No more fighting,” you look between the two of them.

“What about Billy?” Agatha clears her throat, trying to regain her composure.

Rio deflates, taking a step back from Agatha, “I still-”

“I told you to take mine,” you speak up.

Rio’s eyes darken, “I won’t.”

You invade the woman’s personal space. Your arms settle around the back of her neck. You lean into her, forehead resting against hers.

She breathes you in calmly. Eyes fluttering close. You kiss her, deeply. You don’t focus on the pain coursing through you, but rather the softness of her lips, the eagerness of her hands, the warmth of her body.

You can feel yourself slipping, but it doesn’t go too far as you are roughly shoved away from Rio.

“ARE YOU CRAZY!” Agatha yells.

Your breath is ragged as your life force slowly returns to you, “Maybe.”

You don’t think as you shoot your magic at Agatha. You know her instincts, you’ve seen them in action. Without thought she begins draining you of your powers. As you crumble, she rises.

“AGATHA!” Rio’s voice echoes something deadly.

It knocks Agatha out of her trance and she quickly cuts the line between your power and hers. You lay flat on the ground with your eyes open towards the sky. You’re breathing is minimal but present.

Rio looks at Agatha, “You need to give her some back or she won't make it.”

Agatha’s hands are trembling and she tries to out the power back, but nothing is happening.

“She’s- she’s not taking it,” Agatha begins to mumble.

“Y/n you have to receive the power, you have to do it or you’ll die,” Rio says sternly.

“The soul,”  you mumble.

Rio growls, “Forget about the soul, I’ll figure it out, just please.”

Before Agatha can put the magic, back into you again, you’re hit with a bright blue ray of energy. The force with which it hits you makes you jolt into an upright position.

“Is she going to be alright?” Billy jogs over to the scene in front of him.

It’s not what he thought it was going to be originally and for that he’s grateful. Fighting Death was not anywhere near his bucket list.

“Did you-”

“I-I came to fight and then I saw… everything. It just made sense to help,” Billy’s eyes search all 3 women.

You answer him first, “I’m alright, everything is fine.”

“A-are you sure?”

You look to Rio, who is already looking at you, she tells the teen “You are free to go.”

He looks at Agatha first and then you.

“We will around if you need us, don’t fret. This is not a journey, you have to walk alone,” you tell him.

The boy is quick to wrap his arms around you in a hug. You squeeze him back and whisper in his ear, “We will help you find him.”

He nods at your words. He takes one more glance at Agatha and Rio before leaving the yard.

“When are you going to tell him about the road?” Agatha questions you.

“Later, after I’ve spent some time with the women that I love. Both of them,” you say hopefully.

Rio looks at Agatha, you both knew it was her call.

The woman let out a dramatic sigh, “Nothing too strenuous I'm exhausted from all of that hard work.”

“A bath would do you well,” Rio bites back.

Agatha rolls her eyes, “You just want to see me naked.”

Rio chuckles, “Well, it has been quite some time. I’m sure Y/n wouldn't mind an intimate moment with both of us either.”

You shook your head, “Not one complaint.”

“You’re both ridiculous,” Agatha speaks.

“You love it,” Rio counters.

Agatha looks at you and then Rio before letting out a sigh, “I love you both.”

[jaewritesfic]

Melon!AU

Actual writing now, based on this post:

“What,” Tim breathes out faintly, “the fuck is that?”

Language, Bruce thinks faintly, though he doesn't manage to get it past his lips.

He is a man who prides himself on being ready for anything, but he most certainly didn't expect something like this when responding to the Batsignal tonight.

“That is a Pit Demon,” Damian's voice asserts through comms, grave in a way that betrays his collected mask. He's unnerved. “There is nothing else that could be.”

Bruce is unnerved too, though he refuses to show it.

Gordon had half the block cordoned off so no civilians would come through by the time Bruce and Tim - the closest at the time - had arrived on scene. The alley itself is blocked in by police cruisers, though the officers are staying very firmly behind the line and not approaching.

It's no wonder why.

The…thing backed into a dead end alley looks like it's made of smoke and shadow, all long sinuous lines and dangerous angles.

It's vaguely Humanoid in the sense that it has a long torso, arms and a head. The arms are too long, the fingers curved and wickedly sharp. The face is a well of deep shadow, a smooth slate broken only when it opens its jagged mouth to show off a full arsenal of fangs.

The only other facial features are the solid, glowing Lazarus green eyes. Wide and lamp-like, they give the distinct feeling that the creature's sights will not miss anything.

There are no legs. Just the sinuous curves and overlaps of a long smokey tail. It whips about with agitation.

Floating like mist on the water is a head of white hair, edges fuzzy and undefined like it can't decide whether it's a solid or a gas.

The creature lays with its chest nearly flat to the ground, propped up only by those horrifically sharp hands and poised like a predator ready to push off into a sprint.

Glowing Lazarus water seems to pool slowly beneath it, streaked here and there as evidence of past movement.

Bruce finally finds his tongue to question Damian. He can see his youngest standing on the opposite roof of he and Tim, the two buildings that form the alley their perch.

“You've seen something like this before?”

Damian hesitates. “...no. But there are stories of things coming out of the Pits. I doubt I need to explain why this seems to be one of them.”

With that color green shining out of its face and streaked across the alley? No. No, he doesn't.

“Do your stories have any clues on what to do when one shows up?” Tim asks, unable to tear his eyes away from the creature.

Damian scoffs. “Close your eyes and hope your end is quick.”

“Lovely,” Tim bites out, voice a little higher pitched than normal.

“We won't be doing that,” Bruce responds dryly, two taps coming through the comms notifying them of Black Bat's arrival.

Bruce looks up and has to search for her for a few seconds before he can make her out in the shadows of Damian's rooftop.

“I'm still five minutes out,” Dick comms in. “What exactly are we looking at here? Can Oracle give a visual with any cams?”

“I wish,” Oracle chimes in. “Even through the mask footage I have no idea what they're seeing. The feed is corrupted to hell and back whenever it's in frame.”

“Really? In person it looks like-”

Tim is cut off when the officers below make some kind of movement the monster clearly takes issue with, the snarl that almost physically ricochets off the brick walls making everyone wince.

It's like TV static and the crackle of lightning striking a tree, like glaciers cracking and shifting underwater all rolled into one.

The hair on the back of Bruce's neck stands on end.

“Fuck. It's like a living shadow, but all sharp and wrong and angry-”

“No,” Cass cuts in quietly, silencing everyone.

“...Black Bat?” Bruce questions lowly.

“Not angry,” she responds, as sure as ever when assessing a target - no matter what kind of target.

“Scared, hurt. Guarding chest, trying to hide it. Wants to scare us away, but making no move to attack. Posturing.”

The thing about Cass is that they trust her reads implicitly - her reads of people.

She wouldn't speak up if she wasn't certain, and she wouldn't be certain if she didn't see something painfully human in the creature below.

“...what do you suggest?” Bruce asks after a moment of tense silence, trying to reassess the creature and see what she sees.

He at the very least wants her opinion, so they can weigh it in formulating a plan here.

Cass keeps looking for a long moment, before she looks across the gap at him. “Needs help. Reach out - at least try.”

Masterpost

[hemlock-dreams]

Horny brain! Activate!

Just wanted to write a scene of Spidey finally getting to indulge his colossal oral fixation. Wade volunteers as tribute! So here: 4k words of pure filth.

---------------

Wade's back hits the wall. He's out of breath, body thrumming from the adrenaline, pulse a hummingbird beat against his chest.

Spiderman has him caged against the rooftop access, an inky blot in the darkness, an electric shadow pressed up against Wade. Their masks are halfway up, and Spidey's tongue is halfway down Wade's throat.

Spidey drops his head to the crook of Wade's neck, leaving a series of sucking kisses that make Wade ache in the suit. "I win," he says, smug as shit, but Wade can't fault him for it.

It was a good fucking chase and an even better fucking fight. He just wishes he could keep the bruises.

"Yeah, you did," Wade pants, grinding against Spidey's dense body. It's amazing, a perfect end to the night, except Wade's not ready for it to be over. "Where I come from, winners get a prize." He says, hoping it doesn't come out too desperate. Or maybe just the right amount of desperate.

Who the winner is in this situation is really up for interpretation, but Wade wants to think they can both get what they want.

Clearly, they're on the same wavelength because Spidey grabs the tail end of the thought and runs with it. "I've got some ideas…"

The dark, masculine purr of Spidey's voice makes Wade want to lick into his mouth, so he does, groaning when Spidey lets him have it. It feels so unbelievably good to let himself want without compunction, to take what's on offer without having to break off pieces of himself to pay for it.

It has the strange side effect of making Wade unusually generous. Borderline pliant—especially when it comes to his favorite spider.

"Oh, yeah?" Wade asks. His vision is already starting to sparkle, body twitching under Spidey's hands from the venom. Wandering hands inevitably end up on Spidey's magnificent ass, squeezing hard, knowing he can take it. "You know what they say. Sharing is caring."

A hand comes up between Wade's legs, palming the erection that's been there ever since Spidey tackled him across a fire escape three blocks ago. He's not gentle, either. Wade pushes up into it, shuddering when the pressure doesn't let up.

Fuck it's good. But he's more interested in what's Spidey's got cooking.

"Here's what's going to happen," Spidey starts casually, cool as a cucumber. Wade's heartbeat picks up immediately. Spidey always has spectacular plans, especially when they involve Wade. "I'm going to get on my knees, and you're going to fuck my mouth. My prize, is going to be swallowing you down— as many times as you can take it."

The words hit Wade like a nuclear fucking blast, evaporating all the air in his lungs. He doesn't even pretend to think about it; just shoves his hands between their bodies and starts yanking at his suit like it's offended the honor of his house and name.

“I haven’t done this before,” Spidey’s voice is thick with anticipation, and the way he watches Wade unbuckle his suit, licking his lips like there’s a five-course meal waiting in Wade’s pants makes his hands shake. “But I’ve thought about it. A lot.”

His mouth brushes under the edge of Wade’s mask as he confesses, licking the seam of the merc’s lips before continuing down his chin. 

“Tell me,” Wade grunts, fingers clumsy as he tries to get his fucking zipper to cooperate- difficult when Spidey’s fangs scrape over the sensitive skin of his jaw, little pinpricks of pain and pixie magic that make his trapped cock scream in the suit.

“Been thinking about how it would feel on my tongue,” Spidey indulges, panting wetly against Wade’s neck. “Thought about holding you down and stretching my throat around you, wanna swallow till I’m sore-”

Wade tears the zipper clean off with an unhinged sound. Spidey huffs a laugh, something about being impatient, but he's far past caring. Fuck patience. Fuck the suit. Everything between him and Spidey’s ravenous fucking mouth needs to fucking disappear. 

It takes a few drugged, desperate seconds to summon the coordination, but Wade finally manages to pull out his dick, hissing in relief as he palms the throbbing length of it. He’s already painfully hard from the chase. The thrill of being so thoroughly roughed up has him leaking against the blood-slick leather of his glove where he twists it around the head. 

Spidey bats it away with a low, possessive growl that makes Wade forget to register the tired knee-jerk stab of shame about his scarring. All attention is devoted to the sight of Spidey sinking to his knees with inhuman, predatory grace, and the heavy curl of his hands around Wade’s hips, coupled with the sharp glint of his venom-streaked fangs, has his dick jumping like he’s been electrocuted.

Fuck, fuck— Spidey hasn’t even done anything, and Wade's on the verge of begging.

“C’mon, Fangs,” he pleads because shame is on vacation right now, fisting the edges of Spidey’s suit and spreading his legs as far as the leather will allow. He tries to flex his hips, but it’s no use. Spiderman is carved from marble, his hands immovable from where he’s anchored Wade. 

There’s barely two inches between Spidey’s mouth and his dick, but it might as well be a fucking mile. He glances up at Wade, and his smile is hungry and a little manic, tongue pink and lurid as he swipes it across his fangs.

“I’ll probably hurt you,” he whispers.

Wade’s brain rattles in his head. “Promise?” He begs, breathless because just the thought of it has him panting like a bitch. 

That was apparently the right thing to say because Spidey laughs and gets with the fucking program.

It’s been a while since Wade’s been on his knees for anyone. Even longer since he’s been on the receiving end, but given Spidey’s hungry enthusiasm, Wade expected to be halfway down the man’s throat by now.

But predicting Spiderman is an exercise in futility because instead of going to town or doing any of the normal things people do when presented with a cock, he bypasses it to press his face to the base of the shaft, inhaling through his teeth in heaving gulps.  

Oh, that’s right. 

It's been mentioned once or twice, how Spidey can taste Wade on the air, that their constant proximity means he can parse the merc’s flavor apart from the rest of the ambient soup of the world. 

Wade doesn’t know what that really means, but he doesn’t care because Spidey rolls his face against Wade’s skin, breathing deeply, fingers convulsing around the merc’s hips in fits.

It’s both blisteringly hot and strangely chaste— like Spidey is feeling Wade because he’s pleasing to touch, using his body to satisfy all the little urges he’s had to keep tucked away, just because Wade makes him feel good in some bone-deep way.

The feeling unfurls, rolling outwards till his legs are trembling. His hands scrabble against Spidey because his grip is the only thing keeping Wade from freefalling.

“Jesus, Slick,” Wade pants, trying to swallow around the sudden lump his throat, “You’re gonna fucking kill me, come on.”

“Pot. Kettle.” Spidey breathes, in time with Wade’s spiking pulse, “You’ve been driving me crazy. The way you fucking taste, you have no idea-”

Wade really doesn’t. He’s extremely fuzzy on what keeps Spidey here, but he’s not dumb enough to call his bluff, not when his gorgeous hunter leans back and rolls his tongue over the head of Wade’s weeping dick, groaning like the merc is doing him a favor.

The first real touch of his tongue has both of them shivering, and Spidey suddenly descends on Wade like a man starved. He works his lips over the head of his dick like it’s the world’s most delicious lollipop, leaving tingling iridescent trails in his wake as he kisses down the shaft.

Wade is transfixed at the sight, pulse rabbiting as Spidey traces over the scars with his tongue, dipping into the grooves like he’s trying to ingrain them into his memory by mouthfeel alone. 

It’s the hottest fucking thing Wade’s ever seen. In fact, he wishes he could permanently pluck out his own eyes to make sure it’s the last thing he ever sees. Then again, maybe it's good he can't because there’s no way he’s missing the sight of Spidey chasing a drop of precum like it’s vital to his survival.

“You taste so pretty,” Spiderman slurs like he can read Wade’s mind, or maybe taste it on his tongue— punctuating the statement with a debauched kiss to the leaking tip. “So fucking perfect, wanna keep you here forever.”

The praise goes straight to Wade’s head, hips jerking uselessly against Spidey’s iron grip. “You can,” he sounds pathetic. “As long as you want, all yours.” And he is, fuck, he is— for as long as long as Spiderman can stand him. 

“Yeah?” A pink-slick tongue laves the underside of the head, tracing the throbbing vein there. Wade’s vision crackles; it’s so intense, “Whenever I want?” There’s something deeply satisfying in the way his fingers dig into Wade’s hip, ten sweet points of bruising pain that makes his dick weep.

“Yeah. Anytime, anywhere,” Wade promises fervently, sounding like the lovelorn maiden he is. He’ll let Spidey blame it on the venom. 

That gets him a crooked grin, pleased. Spidey purses his lips around the head of Wade’s cock, content to linger, pressing torturous little licks into his slit. 

Now, Wade is a well-known masochist, but apparently, he’s got a limit. “C’mon, Fangs,” he moans, twitching against Spidey’s mouth, heart jumping when the head of his cock hitches one venom-slicked lip high enough to see teeth, “Let me in.”

That earns him a heartfelt groan and a shiver. 

“I want, but-” Spidey hisses, rubbing his lips against scarred skin. Lips draw back in a facsimile of a snarl.

Wade pulls at Spidey’s shoulders, impatient, “Your teeth? Trust me, baby, it's all I've been thinking about. I want it.” Wade’s cock is literally jumping at the sight. Want doesn’t even begin to describe it. 

Wade needs it; needs to see that pretty needle-lined mouth wrapped around his cock before he wakes up behind whatever dumpster he’s offloaded his body. 

Spidey stares at him, breath coming out in harsh gasps.

"Please," Wade begs, and it must be convincing because Spidey twitches forward in an aborted movement.

“Show me,” Spiderman says, then shakes his head, sounding unhinged, borderline feral. “No…Make me.” 

The demand practically creaks under years of habits born in response to having fangs that don’t retract.

Jesus, he really hasn't done this before, has he?

The thought of being the first person to sink into Spiderman’s virgin fucking mouth drives him crazy. Wade isn’t delusional enough to believe he’ll be the last but fuck, he wants to make it so good that Spidey keeps coming back-

He remembers to tear his gloves off before fisting one hand into the back of Spidey’s mask, tugging hard, forcing the man’s head back until his neck is a pale, elegant line in the dark.

His gorgeous little spider doesn't even flinch; he just leans into the pain like it's a gift. The explicit show of trust sends all voices roaring, and the intensity of Wade's desire takes him by surprise. Violence, lust, love, all the lines blur until Wade can't tell the difference between wanting to fuck Spidey or kill him— whatever it takes to permanently mark him as Wade's.

Spidey chooses that moment to swallow, knowing that Wade's eyes follow the motion like a man possessed. Fucking tease. Wade's going to ruin him.

“Poor itsy bitsy spider,” Wade's voice is a velvet growl as he settles his other hand around Spidey’s jaw, reveling in how the simple touch makes him shiver. Has anyone else ever reacted like that to Wade? “Spent your entire life with that hungry mouth muzzled, huh?”

Wade doesn't wait for Spidey to confirm. He can already imagine the man's civilian life, a sad snapshot of carefully regulated emotions filled with close-lipped smiles and pursed grins. A real fucking shame because Wade recognizes a repressed slut when he sees one. Something, something birds of a feather.

“Don't worry, baby,” He slides his cock up and over Spidey's mouth, watching the wallcrawler jerk and pant as he spreads all that shiny venom over his cheeks, pushing up against the edge of his mask, “I'm going to pry you open just to see how soft you are inside.”

Spidey grits out a wounded noise, jaw hard enough to chew through gravel. He’s drooling through clamped teeth, venom, and spit trailing down his chin in rivulets. He wants it, bad, and Wade wants to give it to him.

Spidey just needs a little coaxing, and the challenge of it, combined with Wade's frayed impatience, makes his touches mean.

“Thought you wanted this?” Wade cruelly squeezes his fingers deep into the bone, right where the hinge is, just to watch Spidey flinch and take it. “Don’t tell me you chased me through the city just to pass on your prize?” 

He presses his cock against Spidey’s closed mouth, pushing past his lips to rub against his teeth and catch against his swollen gums, right up against the sensitive glands.

It must feel intense because Spidey shakes and whines, muscles spasming under Wade's fingers as he struggles to fight years of conditioning.

“Was it all talk?” He taunts, pulling back just enough to watch Spidey fight his grip to chase him. “Is it too much for you? Maybe I should put it away-”

It’s a bluff because Wade is fucking desperate, but Spidey’s jaw flexes in response, loosening just enough to unleash a furious growl. 

“No?” Wade pretends to think about it long enough for Spidey’s grip to turn dangerous. Wade's hips might be splinters by the end, but that’s just icing on the cake. “You want it?” 

“Yes,” Spidey chokes out, and Wade gives him a brutal little shake,

“Then, open up.” His voice is all malice, the way it gets when Wade's face to face with a target he’s looking particularly forward to taking his time with. “Let me break you in.”

That does it. A full-body tremor rolls up Spidey’s entire frame, and slowly, very slowly, his jaw begins to relax. 

What a perfect, fucking freak.

Immediately, Wade pushes his fingers into the soft hollows of Spidey’s cheeks, forcing his jaw wider, crooning in pleasure as he watches bruises bloom under pressure. “That’s it, Slick. Open up those pearly gates, lemme see what heaven looks like.”

The fangs really are pretty- long and graceful, and absolutely drenched, gums swollen around the base of his canines— hypersensitive, if the way Spidey is twitching is any indication. His mouth is plush and bright pink, a salivating mess when Wade jerks his head up for a better look.

His cock throbs at the sight, and Wade reached his limit about two paragraphs into this whole thing, so he starts pushing, dragging the leaking tip past Spidey’s criminally soft lips.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hand shaking around Spidey’s jaw. “Fuck, baby, you feel so good. Wider, that’s it, yeah-“

Spidey makes a garbled, incoherent noise that makes Wade want to slam in. His spider is breathing hard and fast, hands tight across the merc's hips; Wade has to fight for every goddamn inch, earn every shallow, torturous slide into that glorious mouth.

The wet, needy sound that accompanies every slide is addicting.

“That’s it, baby, keep that mouth nice and loose for me. Let me give it to you, fuck-” he’s working his hips in little jerks, just dragging the head across Spidey’s drooling mouth, fighting not to come before he's given Spidey his damn prize.

Wade goes deeper each time, teasing both of them when he pulls out and dips back in, little thrusts that have Wade’s nerve endings sparking. Fuck, fuck, he needs more—

"Is that all you can take?" It's supposed to be a taunt, but the words come out twisted, desperate. Wade needs to get deeper; he needs to carve out a space in Spidey's body just for him.

Spidey makes a frustrated, guttural noise around Wade’s cock as he tilts his head. The new angle makes his fangs look obscene, like two gleaming daggers poised over the head of Wade’s dick, and his voice pitches embarrassingly high at the sight.

“In, wanna see you take it.” Panting breaths, Wade pulling as much as he can, pushing his hips at the same time, but there's no fucking give to Spiderman. “Come on, come on, c’mon, c'moncmoncmon-”

Spidey shifts, and Wade feels his jaw pop under his thumb, the final piece of resistance disappearing as he finally leans in, and god- Spidey's mouth is a fucking revelation, all scorching heat, so wet there's almost no friction, just a long, dripping, sinful slide.

Wade hears himself whine, a perfect counterpitch to Spidey's low animal groan.

It's too fast, especially given Spidey's inexperience, but the promise of bruising that beautiful throat from the inside out burns all of Wade's gentler impulses.

And Spidey sounds so fucking pleased, like Wade is everything he ever wanted, sinking further and further like he can't bear the thought of pulling back— like the weight of Wade's cock is more important than the air in his lungs.

“C’mon,” He’s babbling, comically delirious even to his own ears, leaking every thought right into Spidey's greedy mouth, “Take it, take it, sweetheart, it’s yours, all of it, anything you need, Slick, please—”

He's so close. The world is starting to go hazy, the wet sound of Spidey's mouth, the bruising grip around his hips, the chill breeze over his stomach, everything blurring together to tease the most monstrous orgasm of his life.

Right as he's about to tip over the edge, Spiderman retreats, and Wade nearly breaks his own fingers trying to claw him back over his aching dick. Wade's throat burns, loud and incoherent, a wash of white noise against the coming tide.

It doesn't seem to matter, or maybe it does, because Spidey just breathes deep and sinks all the way to the root, and the resounding crack of Wade's skull against the wall is nothing but a delicious accent to the absolute tidal wave of pleasure that swamps him.

Time turns to spaghetti, and by the time Wade floats back up, it's to the sight and sound of Spidey shaking, whining around the thick length of Wade's cock, nose pressed against the bone. He sounds pained, like he's hurting, or—

“Jesus, Jesus, baby, did you just-?” Wade shudders, staring down at Spidey's kneeling form in disbelief.

Spidey just makes a raw, broken noise, sounding as fucked out as Wade feels. He swallows, then nods.

His hands haven't moved from Wade's hips.

"Where did they make you? Fuck, you're so, —just— fucking perfect. You're gonna kill me," Wade chokes out, hoarse, twitching against the soft meat of Spidey's throat.

Spiderman seems to take this as advice because instead of pulling off, he sinks even further until his face is completely pressed up against Wade's abdomen.

It's immediately too much, and Wade scrabbles at Spidey's shoulders, hissing as his body instinctively tries to retreat.

He doesn't go far because Spidey fuckin’ snarls around Wade’s cock in protest, and Wade suddenly finds himself pushed against the wall hard enough to grind his spine into the brick. He’s pinned, completely immobile, save for his mouth- which is still running a mile a minute, 

“Fuck, baby, Jesus, you're a fucking lunatic—!" His voice cracks as Spidey inhales him, taking the entirety of Wade's shaft like he's going to find the meaning of life at the base of it.

He stays there for a long time, immune to the desperate, inarticulate noises tearing out of Wade's mouth. Wade's cock hasn't even had a chance to go down, and thanks to Spidey, is almost painfully hard against the back of his throat.

Enthusiasm aside, Wade knows he needs to ease up. Spidey can't be getting enough air— but Wade can’t pull back, not when he feels the tips of those fangs threaten him when he tries. Instinct paralyzes Wade, but the sound that Spidey makes, a low hum of warning, vibrates through his cock and all the way up his spine.

Those teeth press close, locking tight enough to be unnerving. There's no pain, not yet, but the threat, the mere idea of it, sends Wade's brain right into the fucking stratosphere.

When his ears turn back on, it’s to the sound of his own babbling, out of his mind on a heady cocktail of terror and pleasure, "Fuck, Slick, your fucking teeth, yeah do it, do it, do it, do it—" Wade’s voice is wobbly, wet as he shakes from the overstimulation.

Spiderman doesn't let up, forcibly pushing Wade deeper into the wall as he speeds up.

Spiderman pulls back and sinks down, dragging the sharp points of his teeth across Wade's cock over and over and over, carving shallow lines of blistering pain and pleasure that coil in the mess of his brain until they're indistinguishable from one another.

Wade is suspended, writhing in pure, terrifying sensation, and the sounds being punched out of his chest are humiliatingly small and honest. 

Spidey’s venom is shimmering on his skin, coursing in his veins, sinking into his fucking soul and staining the ragged thing electric pink. His entire nervous system feels like it's been doused with gasoline and set on fucking fire.

It's too much. Every inch of exposed skin feels flayed. Wade's cock is just a raw nerve, and Spidey’s mouth a fucking black hole, sucking every single thought out of Wade’s head with incredible violence.

“Fuckbabyfuckican't—" But he wants to, wants to give it to Spidey, but there's just no way, he can't.

Spidey doesn't give a shit about Wade's limits, because he pries one of the merc's hands from his shoulder, and Wade valiantly scrapes half a brain cell off the floor to pay attention when Spidey presses the bare palm to the side of his neck—

Everything slows down. Oh fuck. Oh fuck-

Then Spidey swallows and squeezes, and the feel of his fangs pressing in, his throat distending around Wade’s cock, under his palm-

That’s it. Game over. Wade’s entire body locks up, muscles convulsing as Spidey wrenches his second orgasm from the fucking pits of hell. He comes so hard his teeth ache. It lasts for centuries, time stretching and wringing out every drop of pleasure until Wade is whiting out, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

He’s not sure he ever really comes back down; just floats just over the precipice of consciousness, just low enough to hear his own overstimulated whimpers as Spidey swallows around him, just like he promised.

For the first time in ages, Wade's head is blissfully silent, and he basks in it for as long as he can.

Eventually, the world begins to filter in, but Wade's body still feels languid, lacking the telltale bite he associates with general living.

Cracking his eyes open— when had he closed them?— Wade is treated to the sight of a very satisfied, very smug spider.

"Fucker." He manages, voice broken and rough with affection.

His legs are completely fucking shot, and the only thing stopping Wade from buckling to the grimy cement are Spidey's hands holding him to the wall, keeping the entire bulk of Wade's considerable weight like he's nothing.

His thumbs are stroking over Wade's hipbones.

It's hot. It's...it's...

He runs a soft hand over the fading bruises on Spidey's jaw and gets a sweet kiss on his knuckles in return. Wade's heart does something funny in his chest, but the accompanying feeling isn't funny in the slightest.

Then Spidey nips the thumb, grinning wide, a little drunk and a lot vicious. The broken rasp of his voice straight up rewires the pleasure centers of Wade's brain, “Again?”

Wade feels the addiction forming, physically impossible but there all the same. And like every substance abuse story, Spidey is going to eat Wade alive from the inside out.

What a way to go.

"Yeah," Wade grins. "C'mon sweetheart, let's see if you can actually kill me this time."

[dozyisdead]

I realized this a long time ago, but I will never truly support a team. I support and cheer for drivers, the people individually, because teams and organizations so often do not truly reflect the morals and beliefs of their individuals. At some point, money and bureaucracy take over, and things become muddy. I support drivers, not teams, because…

because Fuck You McLaren for what Daniel went through in 2021 & 2022 and the way he was treated behind the scenes and in the camera view the and the blatant disregard for his mental and physical condition and health, but I love Oscar Piastri with all my heart and how you don’t let the fights on track bother you outside of it and understand that racing is racing and what someone says there is not how they think of your person beyond it.

because Fuck You McLaren for the way you do team orders and how you put so much pressure and strain on your driver’s relationships and I’m talking about Hungary 2024, but Lando Norris you speak so much about mental health and I’m so glad you do because you bring light to a major part of any sport that so many ignore and I thank you for championing it so much.

because Fuck You Red Bull for dropping so many drivers at the flip of a coin because they can’t compare to your other driver’s talents and how you also show such blatant favoritism it’s disgusting and for the way you dealt with Christian Horner, but Max Verstappen is an incredibly kind and intelligent person who was given a bad hand but will not let the cycle repeat, and Daniel Ricciardo is a man who deserves so much more than what he was given and he still smiles and loves this sport with so much it’s terrifying to watch, and how much they have given and gotten back and grow because of who they are.

because Fuck You Williams for treating your drivers so horribly and having such obvious favoritism that it is detrimental to your driver’s health and specifically Fuck You to James Vowels for your insane behavior, but Logan Sargeant you deserve more than you were even given and Alex Albon you were one of the best teammates Logan could have ever asked for, Logan you deserve the world, thank you for opening the door for us.

because Fuck You Mercedes for trying to change who your driver is to fit your image because Valtteri deserved so much more and the way he was sacrificed was disgusting, but Sir Lewis Hamilton you champion so many and give a voice and platform to so many, bring attention to movements that have lacked support and the respect a d compassion you have for your fellow drivers, and how you’ve learned from your past and not let that define your relationships going forward.

because Fuck You Haas for the way you treat your drivers and how you never support them properly and I’m talking about You Gunther Steiner and the hell you put Mick through, but Kevin you did everything just to make it back, working as a welder for a year in a factory to claw your way back, and Mick you are more than just your name you are also a genuinely kind soul who I wish was given more time in multiple ways, and I know it’s hard but you’re doing amazing even if people in the past said otherwise.

because Fuck You Ferrari for the way you bleed your drivers dry and give them nothing while pretending to give them everything and how you cut some off so quickly it’s disgusting, but Charles LeClerc you have a soul that is too old and there is too much pain and sorrow painting your life path already, but you drive for yourself and for others, and you give hope back to those who have wept at Ferrari’s doorstep for generations, and you love with your heart so openly that I cannot help but admire you.

because Fuck You Alpine for the way you have treated drivers and how you have screamed of loyalty while also giving them no reason to be loyal and making their time there more painful that what is worth, but Pierre I know you mourn every second for lives that have been lost and you would scream from the rooftops if you were given a chance and I would hand you a megaphone because you have a rightful reason to.

because Fuck You VCARB for how you also drop drivers but I know it’s because you are a Red Bull subsidiary and how you gloss over how your drivers can be treated and how you try to sensor their anger and emotions, but Yuki Tsunoda I will forever applaud your skill and dedication to your team and sport, and I know it can be so hard being so far away from home in a land so foreign but you have carved out a place for yourself and I know you’ll make your dream of having your own restaurant come true.

because specifically Fuck The FIA for the insanity you decide is right and wrong and for how you let money blind you so much that you decide someone campaigning human rights and safety is a political statement and needs to be shut down.

because I will support people, not the half baked prettily worded lies organizations will tell us.

[miraclewoozi]

DO YOU DREAM OF ME? - c.hs

the first time you kiss your soulmate, you’ll open your eyes to a world of colour. the problem? vernon hates the thought that he might pull away from you and still see in monochrome.  or, five times he wanted to plant one on you, and the one time you beat him to it. 

pairing ; vernon x gn!reader.  content ; all the tropes. 5 times fic. soulmate au. slight college au if you squint. f2l. fluff, some angst. pining. one (1) hint of suggestiveness if u squint. MINORS STILL DO NOT HAVE MY CONSENT TO INTERACT.  content notes ; mentions of reader having a(n unnamed) partner & thereafter, going through a breakup due to said partner cheating. reader is maybe implied to be shorter than him but hopefully not too obviously or frequently. alcohol is mentioned & is a key theme in scene #3. pov switch for the final part (necessary for logistical reasons.) PLEASE let me know if i've forgotten anything. w/c ; 9.6k note ; welcome to thee most self indulgent fic ever lmao. i hope u enjoy this slight break away from what i usually post here (as if my entire brand isn’t writing losers in love. ANYWAY) -- this was very fun and a little bit special for me! <3

“What was your first kiss like?”

Initially, Vernon swears he just didn’t hear you right. It’s dark up here, where you’re hiding away from a party on the roof of his university accommodation and he’s starting to get tired. There’s some sort of siren wailing away in the distance to his left, and on the street below, a gaggle of freshmen are cackling as they walk past the building. His ear closest to you is currently listening to your favourite song. 

All the signs suggest that he simply got it wrong. 

But he doesn’t know if he believes those signs, especially not seeing as when he looks over at you, you’re staring pointedly up at the stars overhead. He doesn’t doubt that you’re giving yourself an ache in your neck in the process, too.

“Hmm?” He asks, taking out the earphone that connects him to you. The other one is still nestled away in your ear and he reaches to gently pull it away. “What was that?”

You still don’t look at him, but you do repeat yourself. Quietly. “What… was your first kiss like?”

“Oh.” 

He was right. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” you hurry to say, hugging his jacket tighter around yourself to block out the cold air that blows across the rooftop. He shrugged it off and told you to take it the very moment your teeth started chattering — almost an hour ago now. His arms are bare, shoulders and biceps only covered by a t-shirt so thin it’s practically sheer, but he isn’t cold. He’s always run hotter than most. “Sorry.”

He nudges you with his knee, silently telling you that you don’t need to apologise. He doesn’t mind — you just caught him off guard; Vernon hasn’t given this any thought in a long time, and he has to really put his mind to coming up with an answer. It was forever ago — when he was eleven or twelve, maybe, with his first ever girlfriend. They dated for a whole two and a half weeks. He doesn’t know if it really counts: the kiss was a dare, after all. 

“Kinda…” He starts, trying to follow the line of your sight, wondering if he can find the exact stars you’re looking at. “She’d just put this weird lipgloss on. It was real tingly. And like, neither of us knew what we were doing? So it… got everywhere. I think I ended up swallowing some, I don’t know. My mouth felt weird after. Thought I was having an allergic reaction.”

You laugh softly at him. “I think that would put me off for the rest of my life,” you say. 

“It almost did,” he chuckles. You hum at him and lean back on your elbows, leaving Vernon more than a little bit confused. He readjusts his hold on his knees, bringing them closer to his chest as he tilts his head down at you in your new position. 

“…why?” He asks, just as you close your eyes and take a deep inhale of the cool air. 

You just shrug. “I guess I just… wondered.”

He nods, and it’s his turn to fall short of a response, but that’s okay. You’ve known each other for too long for these silences to feel uncomfortable. He grew up with you. In fact, he’s reasonably sure he’s told you this story before. He must have done. 

Then he realises, maybe he hasn’t. Because he doesn’t know the story behind yours, and maybe that’s just a line the two of you never came to crossing. He knows he told his other friends, back then, because he was the last one in his circle to have a first kiss and he felt like it made him more grown-up, or something. Naturally, he left out the more embarrassing details. But maybe you just told your other friends who weren’t him, and went on with your life. Maybe yours was just… normal. 

Either way, he’s interested now. And there’s no time to ask like the present. 

“What was yours like?” He asks, fiddling with the strap on his wristwatch. You don’t answer straight away; he doesn’t think anything of it, because neither did he, but when he’s still waiting for you to speak a small eternity later, he prompts you again. “Hey, it can't have been worse than mine.”

You snort. 

“You’ll laugh at me,” you say, shaking your head. Vernon furrows his brows and drops his legs flat, twisting to one side to look at you. 

He doesn’t know where you’d get that idea from, but he’s… almost a bit offended by it?

“No I won’t,” he tells you softly. Maybe at first, he might’ve laughed with you, if your story happened to be as dumb as his own. But not at you. Never at. Not when he’s been the butt of the joke in too many friendship circles, for about as long as he can remember. 

You take a shallow breath, pursing your lips. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not…” you start to say, before you clear your throat and try again, this time heading in a different direction. “I don’t know. It’s dumb, I guess.”

“Don’t make me come down there,” Vernon threatens playfully, poking you in your side. You squirm, giggling despite yourself, despite the serenity of the sanctuary you two have found, despite the fact that you, too, were on the edge of falling asleep before your question came out of nowhere.  

He pokes you again, and again, and then starts to tickle your ribs instead. You squeal, swatting his hands away to no avail and you move to sit up, grabbing him by the forearms to physically make him stop. The grin on Vernon’s face is wide and heart-shaped. A warm feeling spreads through him: it has everything to do with the sweet sounds of your slowly dissolving laughter. 

You sit cross-legged across from each other like this for a moment or two. Your knees are touching. Your hands move down his arms until you’re holding him firmly by the wrists. Your eyes lock together: his crease with the sheer force of his boyish smile, while yours are narrowed, daring him to try and wiggle free and attack you again. 

He doesn’t, but for the first time ever, he’s struck with the urge to do something maybe more scary. 

The urge to just… lean in to you. 

It makes his heart do a backflip, in a way that it hasn’t done since he had his last crush. His head goes empty, and he forgets what he was even asking you before: the only thoughts he can muster are ones regarding what your lips taste like, whether they’re half as soft as they look, if you’d lightly touch his shoulder or his arm or his chest or his cheek—

Do you smile when you kiss?, he wonders. Do you sigh? Do you—

“I’ve never kissed anyone,” you answer, looking away now and letting go of him. He’s gone so loose in the moments since you grabbed hold of him that when you’re not supporting their weight, his arms fall like two cinder blocks onto his knees. 

True to his word, he doesn’t laugh. He’s surprised by your revelation, sure, but in no way humoured; actually, he feels a little saddened by it, for a reason he can’t put his finger to. He ends up not saying anything, just biting the inside of his cheek; he wants to ask why, but knows maybe that’s a bit of a dick move, and if it’s something you’re sensitive about he doesn’t want to risk hurting you.

But he’s watched people fawn over you for years, and he doesn’t think you’ve ever been short of attention from those who have thought you were attractive. So it can’t be that you’ve been lacking in chances? Surely?

“I thought… maybe I should save it,” you go on to explain. Your hands keep busy by playing with a thread at the cuff of his jacket sleeve, wrapping it around one finger until the skin beneath it pinches before you unravel it again. 

“Save it?” He asks. You nod your head.

“For when I thought I’d found them.” You pause, swallowing hard. “Like I said, it’s s—.”

“No it’s not,” Vernon says abruptly, shaking his head. He holds onto you now, one hand slipping around your back until it rests on the shoulder furthest away from him. You scoff. He squeezes you into his side. “Hey. It’s not stupid.”

He doesn’t like how this admission has, somehow, made his desire to kiss you stronger. He hates that he feels even more drawn to you, a magnet finally finding its opposing pole. It freaks him out a little. He’s never wanted to kiss anyone this badly. 

Red button theory, he tells himself to try and get back on the straight and narrow. If you hadn’t said anything, none of this would be happening.

“It’s romantic,” he says finally, swiping his thumb in small motions over the top of your shoulder. You nod, mumbling a ‘thank you’ (for what, he isn’t sure), and shiver. Vernon doesn’t know if that’s because of his proximity to you or because you’re finally starting to feel the cold. Either way, he takes the initiative to stand up and holds a hand out for you to take so he can tug you to your feet too. You get up with a little hop. 

It’s… devastatingly cute.

“Where are we going?” You ask, brushing off your jeans before shoving your hands into the jacket’s pockets. He’s already on the retreat, walking backwards towards the door that took you up here.

“To get food,” he tells you, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That party was dead, anyway.”

It doesn’t cross his mind again until your twenty-first birthday. 

He’s not your soulmate. He couldn’t be. The thought he had on the roof that autumnal night was little more than a passing fantasy; besides, he doesn’t have a thing for you. He doesn’t want to kiss you, or date you, or have you be his soulmate. The reason you work so well together is because you’re just friends; he thinks you’d drive each other crazy if things ever went romantic between you. You bicker with him for sport. He drowns away hours at a time with his headphones clamped over his ears and forgets to answer your texts. It would be a nightmare. 

Not that he’s ever thought about all that. Not actively, or even passively. Not when he should be listening to college lectures instead, for example. Not awake, nor in his dreams. He hasn’t. Not once. 

He swears. 

“You can save it ‘til tomorrow, if you want.”

Vernon bounces his leg nervously, fidgeting with the edge of your comforter as you sit on the floor in front of him, styling your hair for your party. He arrived half an hour ago while you were still waltzing around in your bathrobe, holding a small, neatly wrapped box in both of his hands. It’s several degrees too warm in your bedroom. He feels a bead of sweat roll down his back as you grumble what seems to be a threat at a strand that won’t cooperate. Thankfully, you don’t seem to notice his discomfort. (If you do, he’s grateful that you don’t say anything.)

“But it’s my birthday today,” you pouted, taking the box from him. “Let me finish getting ready, then I’ll open it. Come on.”

His wrist still aches with the pressure you held onto him with as you dragged him up the stairs. Your parents are away for the weekend and the house is all yours, so there’s a speaker blasting your favourite playlist full volume on your nightstand and there’s nobody to tell you to turn it down. He flits his attention between his phone and watching you, but he can’t fully concentrate on either; he’s too nervous that maybe you won’t like his gift, and he’s never been the type to splash out on birthday presents before but this… well, it burned a hole in his wallet, that’s for sure. 

“Okay. Wait here,” you tell him as you push up off the floor, limping on the leg that had started to fall asleep thanks to the way you were sitting. 

“All right,” he says back. As if he’d go anywhere, anyway. 

You grab a hanger from inside your closet and scurry off down the hall to the bathroom. For the first time, Vernon feels like he can actually breathe. He drops his phone onto the comforter between his crossed legs and cradles his head in his hands, telling himself that he needs to get it together. You’ve never not liked anything he’s given you, and you’ve known him now for more birthdays than you haven’t. 

Your friends said you’d love it. So did your mother, with a sparkle in her eye as she held it delicately in her fingers. He has nothing to worry about. It’s only you.

And yet—

“You’ll be honest if it looks bad?” You call from the other side of the door, interrupting how his lips move wordlessly in an endless mantra of self-reassurances. 

Vernon snaps his head up and he clears his throat, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Aren’t I always?” He answers.

You click your tongue, evidently disagreeing, but you pull the handle and take a step into the room anyway. When you see him, he looks exactly as he did when you left, no trace of his anxieties anywhere to be seen on his face or otherwise. 

When he sees you, he feels like the world could end any moment and he’d be okay with that. 

His mouth runs dry and his eyes seem to be stuck open, unblinking, fixated on you in your all black outfit as you stand still as a statue with your hands behind your back. You cough quietly, waiting for some kind of a response other than a dumb stare, but it doesn’t come. 

Eight seconds later… still nothing. 

“Do you hate it?” you fret, because Vernon is a very good hype-man and you’ve never known him struggle to find something positive to say. “All right, uh— okay—”

“No!” He rushes, almost shouting in his urgency to assure you that that’s not the case at all. He scrambles up to his feet, taking a breath, and pushes a hand through his hair. He’s been growing it out lately, and he kind of hates how his fingers catch on a tangle even though he brushed it meticulously before he left his apartment. You keep telling him it looks good, though, so he hasn’t been to get it cut. “God, no. I’m sorry. You look amazing.”

It doesn’t sound like much to the untrained ear, but the warmth of his compliments comes less in the words he says and more in the sincerity he says them with. Your face softens, and Vernon can see the way the thoughts of changing into something else fizzle out behind your eyes. He takes a backwards step to try and tempt you further into your own bedroom, and you move in tandem with him, closing that space and coming better into the light. 

“Wow,” he says, swallowing hard and looking you up and down. “I-… wow.”

It’s your turn to clam up, now. You look down at the floor, kicking at the carpet with your toes. “Shut up,” you say. “I’m not...”

“Yes, you are,” he protests, leaving no room for argument as he crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t know who you’re trying to impress but… yeah, it’s gonna work.”

You walk past him with a scoff, barging against his shoulder on your way; he dramatically staggers to the side, rubbing at the impact site, laughing. When he faces you again, you’ve picked the gift up from the end of your bed and are moving to sit on the mattress yourself. Your eyes flicker between Vernon and the empty space in front of you. He takes the hint, settling back down with one foot tucked beneath him, the other still planted on your rug. 

His heart shoots back up into his throat and he stares down at the box, licking over his lips and frowning at how dry they feel. He glances away, lifting a hand to his mouth, running his fingertips over his lips. What would they feel like pressed against yours? He thinks, and then he cringes again. 

You misread his reaction and hesitate with your finger pressed underneath a strip of tape, tilting your head at him. “What’s going to jump out at me when I open this?” 

“Nothing,” he says, rolling his eyes at you. “What do you take me for?”

“The kind of guy who puts glitter in birthday cards because he thinks it’s funny,” you retort, earning a click of his tongue. 

“That was one time!”

“One time too many.”

“I swear,” he laughs, tight shoulders easing, both hands falling to his lap. “No sparkles, no loud noises, nothing jumpy. Cross my heart.“

You eye him a little suspiciously but eventually tug your finger beneath the wrapping and make the first rip in the paper, allowing you to tear into the gift after keeping Vernon on edge for almost an hour and a half. You peel it away and it falls to the bedsheets, in your hands now a small, square box not too dissimilar a shade to your comforter. You look from it, to him, and he thinks you notice how his cheeks are a little darker than they were before. 

He nods at you once and you slowly pull it open. On a plush, velvety bedding sits an elegant, dainty bracelet. A small gemstone is set in the metal of the bar in the middle of the chain. You skim a thumb over it, your breath held.

“Vernon,” you murmur, tearing your eyes away from the bracelet to look at him. Now, even the tips of his ears have grown flushed, but you’re kind enough not to comment on it to avoid spoiling the moment you’re in. “This is…”

“The lady in the store said it was your birthstone,” he says, twiddling his thumbs. “I mean… I’m really just taking her word for it, ‘cause they all look the same to me, but—”

He’s interrupted as all of your weight topples against him, arms thrown around his neck in a hug. He hesitates a moment before he wraps his own around your waist, drops his head to your shoulder and he smiles wider than he thinks he ever has. “Happy Birthday,” he says, dragging his thumb up and down over your hip. 

“Silly,” you scold him playfully, still pressing wholly against him and showing no signs of moving. Your voice sounds thick, a little like you’re tearing up, so Vernon squeezes you tighter. 

“I know you are,” he chuckles. “But what am I?”

You swallow hard, finally now pulling away from the hug but sitting entirely too close for comfort, one knee pressing into the outside of his thigh. 

Your surprise attack has left him dishevelled. With a quiet apology, your fingers innocently try to smooth everything back into place, but Vernon doesn’t hear you say you’re sorry. His pulse, thundering in his ears, drowns it out while also skipping a beat with each little touch. You’re not looking into his eyes as you shyly put him back to rights, too busy working to tame his — at the best of times — unruly hair. 

He’s looking into yours though, and he can’t stop. 

Your eyes, which dart all over to find strands out of place, so your hands can move them to where they ought to sit and lay them down flat. Your eyes, that drop down the length of his throat as you realign the neck of his t-shirt over his broad shoulders. 

Your eyes: the ones crinkled at the corners as you pick the bracelet back up from your bed and admire it under your bedroom light. Your eyes, landing on his, finally, in a silent plea for help. 

“The best?” you answer, now, extending your wrist to ask him to put it on you. He takes the chain from your fingers and unclasps it, slipping it beneath your hand and holding it in place. 

“I know you are,” he says again, but it’s quieter now as he concentrates on trying to reconnect the two pieces. “But what am I?”

When he successfully fastens your gift onto your arm, he looks up to see your watery eyes still staring down at it. He decides this is the time to reveal part two of the surprise. Pulling up the sleeve of his t-shirt, he reveals his own wrist to you, and you now see there’s a matching chain hanging off it. A little stone set in the metal. His stone, presumably. You choke out a laugh around your tears, shaking your head. 

“You got us friendship bracelets,” you giggle, holding your hand next to his and admiring them together. Your skin touches and he feels butterflies erupt in his stomach, which he hasn’t felt around you since…

He nods, breathing a chuckle too. “Yeah,” he says. His heart is pounding. “I guess I did. Is… that okay?”

“I love them,” you insist, leaning forward to affectionately press your lips to his cheek. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

Your doorbell sounds downstairs and Vernon’s words die in his throat. Maybe that’s for the best, though; he’s got so much nervous energy rising up inside him and he’s scared it might accidentally force up something he’ll regret saying. You spring off the bed again, fussing in the mirror, and he watches you rush out the bedroom warbling about how you’re not ready for anyone to be here yet. It’s too early. What’s going on? Who is it?

He shifts his legs so both his feet are planted on the floor, letting out a breath he doesn’t remember sucking in. 

I love them. Thank you, you said. 

It’s perfect. 

He groans when he stands up, too, tugging his sleeve back down as he starts to follow after you.

“I know you are,” he mumbles under his breath, hearing your relieved laughter at it just being the FedEx man on your doorstep. It makes him feel warm. Everywhere. “But what am I?”

Five hours later, Vernon is seeing double. 

He has Seungkwan’s hands massaging the tops of his shoulders and there are two Juns sitting across from him at your dining table. He remembers feeling fine around 9pm, distinctly: like nothing he drank was having any kind of effect on him. Like he could walk home on his hands — like he was invincible. Now, after spending exactly five minutes out in the fresh air, he’s blinking four times for every breath he takes and his friends’ voices keep phasing in and out of focus.

“But what if they’re not?” Vernon stresses for the eighth time, fingers clumsily peeling at the label on his bottle.

“And what if they are?” Jun tries. Again. Also, for the eighth time, because apparently when Vernon gets tipsy, his skull gets really really thick and nothing in the world can penetrate it. “You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

Vernon shakes his head, sitting back so heavily that his chair tips and he sends Seungkwan stumbling into the wall behind them. His friend gives up trying to rub the stupid out of him and settles into the chair at Vernon’s side instead. 

“I don’t know-…”

“If you’re about to say you don’t know what you’ll do if it isn’t them, I’m putting you in an Uber and sending you home.” Seungkwan claps his hand down onto Vernon’s knee for good measure. “It’s not even been a day.”

Vernon groans, threading his fingers into his hair and tipping his head back. “It hasn’t, though,” he whines. “What if it’s been like this since… and I just kept ignoring…”

Jun and Seungkwan exchange a look. An exhausted one. They both know Vernon turns into a complete baby when he’s had a drink and can just about manage a trip to the bathroom without somebody holding his hand, but neither of them have seen him like this before. Neither of them want to see him like this ever again.

Hell, neither of them want to be dealing with him like this right now.

“You’ll never know if you don’t try,” Jun’s (remarkably) calm voice repeats as he pushes up from his seat and glances towards the doorway. His ears lock onto a voice just beyond it, and in an instant, the older man recognises his chance at an exit. He casts an apologetic glance at Seungkwan, who has resorted to rubbing Vernon’s earlobes to try and get him to stop stressing, and he dips out before either of them can argue. 

On his way, though, he throws in a sly little remark. One that raises Vernon’s– and Seungkwan’s– blood pressure to a level that would get them prescribed a week of strict bed rest.

“Besides – everyone can see the two of you were practically made for each other.”

Vernon whips around to face Seungkwan with shock written into every line of his face. It paints perfect full-signal WiFi creases on his forehead; it makes his jaw hang loose. 

“I– what?” Vernon splutters, shooting a hand to the back of his head. Seungkwan hasn’t taken his eyes off the doorway since Jun slipped through it. Vernon doesn’t notice the fact that his older friend’s full genetic line is currently being cursed out. “What does he mean?”

“You don’t have to do anything tonight,” Seungkwan tries, now acutely aware of the fact that Jun has just given Vernon a nudge he should never have. There’s a fine line between bolstering a friend and straight-up causing chaos. This could get messy. Seungkwan doesn’t like messy.

But… It's too late. 

Before Seungkwan can wrangle him back into his seat, Vernon has broken away from the table and is on the hunt for you. Seungkwan follows behind, doing his best to summon Vernon back, but he can’t. He’s on a mission now. And maybe that mission involves giving in to the thing that eats away at his brain when he should be waist-deep in music theory assignments. Maybe that mission is to finally, after two years, know what it feels like to kiss you. He’s going to find you, so help him God. He has to. 

And yes. He does. He finds you, eventually. As soon as he reaches the top of the staircase, there you are. 

Being pressed into the wood of your bedroom door, wrapped up in the arms of some pretentious looking art student in an oversized button-down and baggy, ripped jeans. Your mouth is covered by theirs, your fingers are threaded through those glossy fucking locks, both of you are laughing breathlessly as you drop one hand and it fumbles blindly to reach for the doorknob. 

Vernon spins away, turning his back as he hears the door click. At this exact moment, Seungkwan comes stumbling up the stairs too and plants his forehead into Vernon’s sternum. 

But his good friend’s skull is not the only thing Vernon is struck with, not the only thing knocking the wind out of him. 

Simultaneously, he’s swept up with the sobering realisations that either this guy is your soulmate, or you’re not the same person you were when you were nineteen. 

It’s eleven o’clock and two years later when he hears your secret knock on his apartment door. 

Maybe it’s luck. Maybe it’s fate. He only took his noise cancelling headphones off a few minutes ago before he washed up and settled into bed; his head has hardly even had time to make a dent in the pillows. But whichever force is at play, the thing that matters is that he hears you and he knows it’s you, straight away. He doesn’t remember how it started, exactly. He thinks it might have been while he was in his exam-season hermit stage in his first year of university and refused to come to the door unless it was something important. 

You’ve been knocking the same way for years now though, and he slides out of bed with creased brows at how desperate your fist sounds as it pounds against the wood. He pulls on an old t-shirt and perhaps the loosest fitting pair of shorts anyone’s ever owned, at least making himself decent before he answers. He’s still tying the drawstring when he gets to the door.

When he looks through the peep-hole to make sure he’s right, you’re drying your eyes on the back of your sweatshirt sleeve. You’re shivering quite violently, and you’ve got a bag on your shoulder that’s weighing you down on one side. Vernon’s heart sinks. He unbolts the door, pulling it open just as you lift your hand to knock again; your knuckles punch the air between you as your eyes land on him, and your bottom lip wobbles in despair. 

You fall into his chest with a sob. Tears start to soak their way through his shirt until it clings to the skin underneath. 

“Hey,” he soothes you, locking his arms so tight around you that there’s a strong chance they’re the only thing holding you upright. 

“I didn’t— know where else to go—” you choke out, your arm trapped between your chest and his as he rests his head on top of yours and pats your back softly. “I’m s-”

“Don’t you dare,” he murmurs, tilting his chin down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head. “It’s okay. I’m here. You can always come to me.”

He holds you until your shakes start to subside, trying to talk you through whatever this is with soft reassurances and gentle shushing sounds. When you pull back from him, Vernon guides you into his apartment, flicking on the lamp in his living room so he can see to settle you down on his couch. He throws a blanket over your legs before he sits down himself, pulling your hand into his lap and holding it between both of his own, his thumb moving absently over your knuckles. You’re still crying, but when you shuffle against the seat to be a little more comfortable and finally turn to face him, he finds his voice long enough to ask you what happened. 

“He kissed— kissed someone else,” you tell him, sniffling and shaking your head. 

His blood reaches boiling point in what must be record time and he knows he accidentally starts to grip your hand tighter, but he can’t stop. 

“He what?”

Vernon knows this guy wasn’t your soulmate. You told him, a few days after your birthday. You said everything was still black and white when you pulled back from the first of — what you spared no detail in explaining was — many, many, many kisses with him that evening. But you didn’t care. Not then, and not for the whole time you’ve been together. 

He asked you about it once. About four months in (when he figured things were starting to get serious), late at night, if it bothered you. Whether you were going to keep seeing him. If you still thought about finding your soulmate. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget what your replying message said. 

I mean, sure, I’m curious. But maybe I don’t need to see in colour. I think being in love is enough :)

So… you were in love. 

With someone who wasn’t him. 

He didn’t speak to anyone — not even you — for two whole days after that. He felt like he’d gone ten rounds with a peak-form George Foreman. He felt like he’d never be able to get rid of the pit that had developed in the depths of his gut. He couldn’t sleep, he could barely eat, he couldn’t focus: it was the worst he’d ever felt.  And, well… Vernon knew it was immature. He knew he was acting like a child. If he could’ve shaken it off, the way he’s always done with so many of the things in his life that have bothered him, he’d have loved to. But he couldn’t.

Besides. Only about four people noticed his silence, anyway. You weren’t one of them; your boyfriend was keeping you plenty busy.

“He went to a club and got completely wasted and he— he—” you say, squeezing his hand even tighter than he’s holding yours. “But-… he says he-…” Hiccup. “Everything. Straight away — his…”

You don’t need to say it out loud; if anything, he’s a little disgusted with himself that he didn’t figure this out sooner. “His soulmate,” Vernon ruefully finishes for you. He groans the words out, feeling rotten to his core. “I’m so sorry…”

Your shoulders start to shake and he wastes no time in pulling you sideways against him, both his arms locked around you again, just like before. 

“It’s so stupid,” you cry, laughing emptily. His stomach turns; he hates this. Your anguish is an assault on his eardrums, especially when he’s got you so close, but he tries so hard not to flinch, not to move away. You need him, no matter how agonised it makes him feel. “I knew he wasn’t mine, but I thought-…”

Your voice fades away to nothing. You shake your head.

“You thought he was happy the same way you were,” he finishes again. You just nod, sobbing harder. “That's not—… stop saying the way you feel is stupid.”

Vernon doesn’t understand how that loser could ever not have been happy with you. How could he dream about going out in search of something more? Hell, Vernon doesn’t think there’s a soul alive better than you — how could anyone stand to just throw you away?

He wonders briefly if you can hear his heartbeat, thundering in his chest with the rage he feels all the way into his bones. You’ve always told him that you admire how chilled out, how collected he is, but Vernon has never felt less calm in his entire life. It’s only as he acknowledges that he has no right to feel like this, that he takes a few deep breaths in an attempt to bring his fever down. You mimic him, trying to do the same, and by the time his pulse starts to settle, you’re back to just sniffling against his shoulder. 

“Stay the night here,” he tells you. It isn’t a suggestion, or really even a request. It’s an order. There’s no room for negotiation. “We’ll go get your things in the morning. I’ll be right there with you.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Vernon gets there before you do. Before you can protest the offers he’s made. Before you can ask him if he’s sure. He knows you, a little too well: he knows these are the words that are going to come out of your mouth next. “I’m with you, okay? Always.”

You sit back from him with a quiet chuckle, wiping your eyes again on your damp sleeve. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you,” you murmur. “You’re the best— the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He just rolls his eyes at you and shakes his head, standing up from the couch. (I know you are, he thinks. This isn’t the time for jokes, though.) He wishes you knew what you mean to him; how, in his eyes, you deserve the world, presented to you on a shining silver platter. Wishes you knew that he’d give it to you if thought he could carry it. 

“Go wash up,” he says, ignoring the ache in his chest at the way your watery lashes flutter when you look up at him. “I’ll find you something to sleep in.”

He locates a spare toothbrush from a travelling kit he’s never used and sets a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants on the heated towel rail, leaving you alone in the bathroom to go about your business. You emerge some fifteen minutes later to find Vernon perched on the edge of his bed, scrolling through an app on his phone. He can’t help but swallow at the way his clothes fit you. How the steam from your shower clings to your skin, casts a heavenly haze around you. He hopes it isn’t obvious. This is about more than his dumb little crush. 

“Were you asleep?” You ask him, nodding towards his comforter, still pushed back on one side. He turns to glance over his shoulder, following the line of your sight, before he looks back at you and shakes his head. 

“Not even close,” he says. “I’d just got into bed when you got here.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth and nod. Vernon doesn't think you look totally convinced, but he can’t force you to believe him, even if it is the truth. 

It’s unspoken but accepted that you'll sleep in the bed with him; he’s never let you stay on his couch when you spend the night, and you never agree to displacing him even though he always tries to insist he doesn’t mind. You’ve been friends for enough time now that it’ll never be weird to crawl beneath the sheets with him, anyway. At first, he didn’t really like sharing (he’s a bit… particular with how he sleeps, after all), but he got used to your weight on the mattress beside him quite quickly and makes a point to say he always sleeps better with you. 

He hasn’t curled up next to you for the night in over two years. It’s awful, that that’s what he thinks about now as he turns off the lights and you settle down, shuffling under the comforter until he slides in next to you in the dark and you can lay your head on his chest. He knows it’s selfish. He thinks it probably makes him a bad person, too. 

“Do you think—” you start to say, cut off by a long, vocal yawn. Your breath feels so warm through his t-shirt. “If you fall out of love with them… do the colours go away?”

With his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling he can’t even see, Vernon feels his heart shatter beneath the soft cushion of your cheek. He’s suddenly grateful he’s still fully clothed, as if the cotton barrier is the only thing stopping you from getting scratched by the splinters beneath his skin. He wonders if you hear it. It would be an easier explanation for why he doesn’t say anything than whatever his mouth could come up with, that’s for sure. 

“I don’t know,” he says after a few seconds too long. The arm wrapped around your shoulders slips down to your waist and he squeezes you. Briefly, he wonders if it can force your broken pieces back together. 

Vernon knows he would never do this to you. He’d never hurt you this way. Out of everyone he’s ever met, he thinks you’re the sweetest, the kindest, the most thoughtful of them all. The last person he’d ever wish a heartbreak upon. He even used to joke that he’d go to war with anyone who dared to try. 

But now he’s seeing it happen? He feels as if he really could. 

“I just hope you never have to find out,” he follows up, blinking back the thoughts that start to bubble away as your breaths slow down. 

He wrapped a band-aid around your finger when you got a papercut once and you asked him, then, if he would kiss it better. 

When you bumped your head in the playground, the same. 

He’d kiss it all better now too, if he could. He’d show you how you deserve to be loved. 

And he doesn’t just think it, anymore; Vernon knows that this makes him a terrible person. 

“I hope you don’t, either,” you mumble back. “... and I hope we find them soon.”

He’s so proud of you.

Okay, it never took much. He’s been proud of you for every good grade you’ve ever achieved, every doctor's appointment you booked for yourself, every trip to the dentist you stressed over. He’s been proud of you for finishing projects you were struggling with. Proud of you for learning new recipes. For every milestone, personal or professional, it’s the first thing he makes sure to say. 

[ hey, look at u go!!! proud of u :) ]

Now? He’s seen you crawl from rock bottom to the top of the world. It hasn’t been easy. There have been hurdles and barriers and sometimes, sixty foot high walls you’ve had to climb up and over, but you’ve done it. You’re thriving. Every time he looks at you, these days, if you’re not wearing a smile there are at least traces of one in your eyes, on your face, in your voice. Happiness suits you, and he’s so, so proud of you for getting here. 

He knows you’re doing better, because between Christmas and New Year, you asked him if he wanted to come to a party with you. At first, he wasn’t sure; the holidays left his wallet feeling a little light and he’s been on a really good streak of not drinking anything lately, but when you promised that you’d stay sober too, he kind of couldn’t say no. 

[ i just wanna see in the new year with my favourite person ever <3 ]

[ ha. flattery will get u everywhere ]

So here he finds himself, out in the backyard of somebody he’s never met, a can of Coke in one hand and your gloved fingers holding tightly onto the other. You dragged him outside at five minutes to midnight and — though he doesn’t know why — you decided you didn’t want to let go. Vernon certainly wasn’t going to be the one to make you. Your warmth down his left side is settling the slight unease he’s felt all evening while also making him feel tipsier than he’s ever been under the influence of any amount of soju; he thinks maybe this should scare him, but he’s just… so glad he came.

With sixty seconds until the clock strikes twelve, somebody stands up on top of the picnic table in the yard and starts to try and coordinate a countdown. With forty-five, Vernon squeezes your hand, butterflies where his stomach ought to be. With thirty, he takes a long drain of his drink, finishing it as if it’ll give him some courage, maybe, or… he doesn’t know. Zero sugar, zero caffeine — there’s no logic behind his process, just a lot of bubbles and artificially sweetened syrup. All the same, he crushes the can against his thigh and slips it into his pocket to throw away later. That alone relieves a bit of his adrenaline. 

Not enough, but some. 

With ten seconds remaining, the first shout drowns out the white noise in his ears, the chaos of his thoughts. 10. He joins them. So do you. 9. 8. Your voice is the loudest, the most excited sounding. You want this year to be over. You want the rest of your life to begin. 

7. 6. 5.

The crackers are set. Flames dance at the end of the garden on fire lighters, ready to send rockets shooting into the sky. 

Some people here are going to see them as they truly are. Brilliant and vibrant and colourful against the black canvas of the midnight sky. Vernon won’t. Neither will you. But what was it you said to him once?

4. 3.

Maybe I don’t need to see in colour. 

2.

For the first time, he thinks he agrees. The feeling of loving you, even if he never knows green from red, blue from orange? He doesn’t care. He has you. He loves you. That’s enough. 

1.

Happy New Year. 

As if dawn has broken early, the world becomes impossibly bright, pyrotechnics bursting not only over your own heads but everywhere, as far as his eyes can see. After the first few, he permits himself a glance over at your face: there are tears running down it, and his heart stutters, but then he hears you laugh. Brightly, wetly, more resonant than any of the booms and crackles and cheers he can feel all the way down to his toes. 

For whatever reason, Vernon starts laughing with you. 

You pull him closer into a bone-crushing hug and blink your damp lashes against the side of his neck. “Thank you for being here with me,” you say to him, practically shouting to be heard. “I love you so much.”

“I’m always gonna be with you,” he says as you pull back a little. Your arms are still around him. The chain of the bracelet he bought you all those years ago is bitterly cold against the back of his neck. He can’t feel his fingers anymore, all he knows is that they’re resting on the curve of your spine. He thinks he can see something in the way you look at him, so softly and tenderly and yet, in the twitch of your brow… 

Like you’re searching for something that might not be there. 

He knows his gaze moves in a perfect triangle — from your left eye, to your slightly parted, wind-chapped lips, to your right. He knows he stops breathing. He swears you do, too. Something builds — a spark catches, an energy festers, egged on by the curious murmurs of the people around you. 

You could do it, his brain tells him. 

So what if he’s a few minutes late for it to be traditional? Does it really matter? 

But he’s reminded, again, this time with a whizz and a boom and a crackle, that you aren’t his to have this way. His storybook moment fizzles out, the final firework bursting into sparkles overhead. He sees every one of your perfect features brighten in wonder as you tilt your head back to look up at it. Sees it beautifully reflected in your glassy eyes. He has about enough time to commit the image to memory before you clear your throat and finally step away from him, losing all touch for the first time since you came outside. 

One of your friends comes and pulls you into an embrace, before passing you along to someone else, and then someone else again. He loses you in the crowd that rushes to get back in the warm, but he makes no effort to move with them. He just stays out in the dark for a while with his own thoughts for company, shoving his frigid hands into the pockets of his jeans.

He’s happy, though. It’s like you said. 

Being in love is enough.

“There’s just one more thing,” you say as the waitress returns with your bank card and a receipt. Vernon slides you a look as he stands, picking up his jacket from the back of the chair he’s been sitting in. 

He shakes his head at you. “Whatever it is, it better not be edible,” he laughs. “I think this is the most full I’ve ever been.”

In other words, you’ve done enough already. Stop spending money on me. Please. Thankfully, your final surprise is in-keeping with his unspoken rule. 

His birthday rolled around way too quickly. The start of the year has been so chaotically busy; you swear, you’ve hardly seen him since he dropped you off home after the party. You moved out of your parents’ house for the second time a few weeks ago and settling in, unpacking boxes, sorting through clothes and belongings and trinkets has taken you much longer than you care to admit. You’ve been busy at work, too. So has he. Your social calendars have barely lined up at all. 

But you were determined to make plenty of time for him on his birthday. 

To Vernon, this has always just been another day. He’s never cared too much about big celebrations: as long as he can spend some time with people he cares about, he’s happy, and this year he’s managed exactly that. He saw his family this morning, had some friends drop by his apartment later in the day, and now, he’s with you. 

You’ve never been great at the laid-back approach, though. Not with him. How could you be, when he does so much for you, always without even batting an eye? When he deserves to be doted on, and adored, and thoroughly spoiled? It’s the same every year. You make a fuss, he playfully scolds you for it; you and he are creatures of habit. It’ll probably never change. 

This year, you invited him to your new place to open the gifts you’d bought him: the new speaker he kept saying he couldn’t justify buying, a record he looked at in the store a few months ago but never bought, a sweatshirt to replace the one you stole off him on New Years Eve. Some candies he likes. Then, after he finally stopped pouting and sighing that you really didn’t need to go to all this effort, you took him out for dinner, making a reservation for two at his favourite restaurant. 

The pouting continued. 

Only up until your appetisers came out, though. The moment your food was placed down in front of you, his eyes doubled in size and his lips became a little too busy to stay pursed. Your own dinner almost went cold with how fondly you sat and watched him. This year, you even spared Vernon the embarrassment of having the restaurant staff sing at the side of your table. 

All right, you have an ulterior motive, but… it’s the thought that counts, right? 

He holds the door open for you now as you thank the waitress who served you one last time and without him lowering his arm, you step into place beneath it. Tucked up into Vernon’s side, you’re as happy as you’ve ever been. Nervous, too, but… you have a good feeling. 

“Where to?” He asks as you fall into step together. 

“This way.”

You emerge from the shelter of the canopy outside the restaurant’s front door and immediately feel the cool tickle of a snowflake landing on your cheek. They started to fall while you were eating and Vernon couldn’t stop watching through the window, small specks that grew over the hour into big clumps that tumbled towards the ground. He’s always loved the snow, and there’s no real destination for this gift, anyway. You guide him to the left and watch as peace takes its rightful home on his beautiful features. 

“We’ve walked in a perfect square three times now,” Vernon says after a little while of meandering about in the dark, making comfortable small talk and laughing as the champagne bubbles in your stomachs continue to fizz away. “Where are we supposed to be going?”

You wondered how long it was going to take him to notice, or even if he was going to realise at all. Looking up and down the street you’re on, you stop in your tracks, standing beneath the same flickering street lamp that you’ve passed twice already. Your footprints trail both behind and in front of you, neither quite covered yet by the snowfall. You break into a laugh when you notice that the convenience store on your left has closed since the last time you came down this road. 

“I can get a map open, if…” Vernon starts, reaching into his pocket. You stop him, stepping out from under his arm and wrapping your hand around his wrist instead.

“I might’ve told a little white lie,” you confess, 

He halts with his phone only half pulled out, pushing it into his hip for fear of it falling if either of you let go. “What do you mean?” He asks. 

You know he’s probably thinking back to your earlier conversations, trying to figure out which part exactly is the mistruth you’re now admitting to. But whether he gets there on his own or not, he waits for you to answer. 

“I had it with me this whole time,” you explain, readjusting your hold on his covered forearm. His eyes dart downwards, looking at the site of contact, but he quickly lifts them back up to your face. “I was just… waiting for… ”

“What are you talking about?” Vernon asks. 

“Close your eyes.”

You know.

Unfortunately for your best friend, as hush-hush as he’s managed to be all this time, the same can’t be said for the other person he entrusts all his secrets to. A few weeks ago, when you’d called Seungkwan to coordinate timings for Vernon’s birthday plans, he’d accidentally let something slip. It was your suggestion of taking Vernon to dinner that did the trick. 

“Oh, he’s going to love that,” Seungkwan had gushed. You could hear the breadth of his smile down the phone and felt yourself growing hot at the compliment.

“You really think so?”

“Pfft. You could take him to the Eiffel Tower or to a drive-through KFC, and he’d still have hearts in his eyes – because it’s you.”

Of course, he attempted to do some damage control immediately after. Make out that he meant it in strictly platonic terms. But once the idea planted itself in your head, it sort of… made sense. You mulled it over for a couple of days but when you finally asked Seungkwan, deathly serious, if he really thought you stood a chance with Vernon?

He practically screamed ‘yes’ down the phone. 

“The last time you asked me to do this, you killed me at laser-tag,” Vernon says, narrowing his eyes. He surely doesn’t think you’re hiding a plastic gun underneath the coat he literally just watched you don, but he doesn’t do as you ask and you suck your front teeth at him.

“Luckily for you, I left all my weapons at home,” you counter. “Come on, please. Just… trust me.”

“Said that last time, too,” he snickers. But, to his merit, he finally does it. He takes in a breath and follows your instruction. “I swear to God…”

Selfishly, you take a moment to bask in how handsome he really is. His eyes twitch underneath his lids and snowflakes cling to his lashes, moving with them. It’s in his hair, too. On his shoulders. Melting on his cheeks, leaving small wet spots on his face. One lands perfectly on the tip of his nose. You would immortalise this moment, if you could.

It made sense, when you found out, because thinking back? Nobody has ever loved you how Vernon does. He shows it in so many ways – he sends you the songs that he hears and thinks you’ll like, the pretty photographs that he takes when he’s away for work, some variant of a ‘good morning’ text, almost every day. He massages your shoulders, lets you fall asleep on his lap, follows you around like an obedient puppy when you have errands to run just so you don’t have to do them on your own. 

He tries, and often fails, to cook you breakfast when you stay over. He brings you coffees, or lunch. He looks at you like you’re the moon and the stars. People have teased for years that you could be psychically connected. That you were cosmically united. That it was fate for Vernon to move into the house down the street from you when you were nine. To be the only other child your age on the block. 

Two people, perfect for one another, lives intertwined eternally by fate. Or, in other words…

“Are you…?” He asks, breaking the quiet that has only been filled with your cloud-forming breaths. 

“Give me a second,” you breathe. There’s no doubt in your mind.

You lean forward to kiss him softly, free hand settling against the side of his neck. In the February chill, Vernon freezes, no part of his body reacting to you except for his lips. Though they twitch in a gasp, they press back against yours as if he isn’t even thinking about doing it. As if it’s instinctual. As if he was always supposed to kiss you – as if he’s your…

There it all is, when you finally pull away.

Brown eyes, framed by fluttering lashes that untangle from one another to finally see you, too. Brown, you know, because when you asked your mother to tell you about Vernon’s colours when you were younger, that was the only one she told you, saying everything else might change when he got older. Warm, brown eyes. Glistening with every blink, blink, blink of the bulb above you. Pupils slowly dilating, drowning the colours out of view. You see his lids shoot wide as he realises, as he glances left and right, as he takes this new world in for the first time, too. 

“I knew it,” you say on a stuttered breath, so overwhelmed you could cry. “My soulmate.”

A brilliant smile threatens to split Vernon’s features in two as he cups your cheeks and pulls you back to him, kissing you again, and again, and again. 

“I know you are,” he says against your lips, his bare thumbs pink and cold as they press into your skin. And, before you can kiss him quiet – “but what ‘m I?”

thank u so much for reading, i really hope you enjoyed this. as always, your likes/reblogs/comments and feedback are always deeply appreciated.<3

[genericpuff]

LORE | REKINDLED EPISODE 54 - BETWEEN YOU AND ME

Previous episode | Next episode

phew Episode 54 is finally here! I know it was only delayed by a week, but I swear it feels like it's been an eternity.

This episode was admittedly... really hard to get through. Not for any outstanding reason, just due to a lot of sudden IRL stuff that sort of piled up on my plate at the last minute and caught up to me. I feel bad for not doing more to avoid that plate from spilling over which resulted in this episode being delayed another week but I've been trying not to beat myself up for it too much. Thank you all so much for your patience and kind words while I worked through this hurdle. The good news is, I have an appointment booked this month for an ADHD assessment, so if all goes well, I'll hopefully be able to get on some medication soon to help manage the ADHD-side of my ND brain. It's been very unmanageable this past month and has led to a lot of careless mistakes and subsequent stress, anxiety, and depression that's been making it harder for me to have fun doing what I do, so I'm hoping things will go well on that front and at the very least take the edge off a little.

Anyways, that's enough personal dumping from me but I figured I owe y'all at least an update of how things are going on my end. Thank you so much for reading and for your patience through the delay <3 And of course, a huge thank you as always to @banshriek for being my creative other half in this project. As hard as it turned out to be to get through an otherwise very simple episode, it would have been even harder still to do it alone and so having them in my corner has been an absolute blessing to help carry the weight of it all and hold me accountable to boot. Now that the work is done, it feels great to see it finished, and has one of my favorite panel redraws that I've been looking forward to for ages in it (the scene of Persephone sitting on the rooftop!)

now ima go treat myself to some shitty bar food and play the rest of Dawntrail LOL

[itsswritten]

For the Drabble requests - taking care of you when you’re having a rough mental health day? Like maybe trader has a panic attack or was randomly triggered during the day and just utter tooth rotting fluff while Az (or any SJM male, I just know you mostly write for Az) tries to take care of you?

Pairing: Azriel x reader

Word count: not sure sorry

A/n: a little drabble, thank you for the request! I hope you enjoy and please ignore any grammar mistakes, this was a very quick little mock up!

——————————————————————————————

Time had moved in a blur, hazing and fading before you until suddenly everything seemed to catch up.

The mission this morning had been a failure.

The scene you had arrived upon still hovered on the corners of your mind. Seeping into your vision and flitting away, tormenting you as it waited for the moment you finally acknowledged it.

You hadn’t stopped since this morning. Hadn’t allowed yourself a moment to slow, in fear you would have to face the very thing you were avoiding. You had returned from the mission with Cassian, his usual casual demeanour replaced with a solemn look as you both entered the House of Wind. Azriel had been waiting for you, had already heard from Rhys that you and Cassian had been too late to save the village, but you had walked into the house with a look in your eyes Azriel knew all too well.

So he waited.

Waited, while you had taken yourself to the rooftop to train till the ache in your muscles was too much.

Waited, while you clawed your leathers off and rubbed your skin raw in the hot tub.

Waited, while you reorganised yours and his wardrobe, meticulously tidying and cleaning your shared bedroom.

You had closed the door on the closet, time finally catching up to you as your fingers twitched by your side. There had to be something else you could do, something to fill your time.

Glancing around your room, your mind began to speed up. Desperately searching for something to focus on so you didn’t have to think about what you had seen this morning.

“My love,” his voice rumbled softly behind you, “that’s enough now.”

Azriel stepped closer, his arms wrapping around you from behind. His head sinking into the crook of your neck as he held you tightly against him.

“No..I need to-“

“There’s nothing you need to do.” he cut you off, steadying you as he felt the tremors of your body begin to take place. “And there was nothing you could have done.” He assured you.

There was silence for a beat.

Then a sob racked from you. A heart breaking cry broke free as you finally had stopped to feel what you had been running from.

Azriel had turned you around then, pulling you into his chest as he held you up. Your body going heavy in his arms as he felt your weight give out, his fingers brushing through your hair as he tried to calm you.

Whispered words and gentle caresses filled your senses for the next few hours before eventually your crying slowed. Your breathing settled to a normal pace and the torments of that morning dulled.

You were in bed now, still held in your mates arms as he comforted you.

“Thank you…” you whispered against his skin, your face remaining in the safe space of the crook of his neck.

“You don’t need to thank me for this, my love. I will always be here for you.” He replied softly, a tenderness in his voice as he craned to look down at you.

Glancing up you gave him a shy smile, “I know, but still, thank you.” You leaned up then, your lips grazing his with a kiss.

[buzzinrusso]

second chances?

Where ex lovers run into eachother.

Word count : 3k

The snow falls softly, dusting the cobblestone streets and clinging to rooftops like powdered sugar. Christmas lights twinkle above the market stalls, casting warm glows on the festive scene below. The air smells of pine, roasted chestnuts, and cinnamon, and everything feels like it’s straight out of a holiday movie—a perfect postcard moment.

But for you,it’s not perfect. Not anymore.

You pull your scarf tighter around your neck, the chill creeping into your bones. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t come here today, but something in you—something stubborn and nostalgic—had drawn you back. The market was always your favorite part of Christmas, and for a long time, it was something you shared with Lena. The two of you used to come every year, hand in hand, sipping mulled cider and picking out ornaments that you never really needed but bought anyway.

You shake your head, forcing yourself to focus on the present, to stop the memories from swallowing you whole.

It’s been months since Lena left.

Months since she walked away from you and everything you thought you had.

And now, standing in the middle of the busy market, you realize just how badly you’ve been pretending to be okay. You should’ve stayed home, away from this place, away from the past. But you didn’t. The weight of the memories is heavy on your chest, and you feel like you might break under its pressure.

And then you see her.

You freeze. For a moment, you’re sure it’s a trick of the light. But no—there she is, standing a few feet away, bundled in a dark coat and scarf, looking exactly the same and somehow completely different. Her hair peeks out from beneath the knitted hat, and her eyes meet yours before she blinks, like she’s not sure she’s seeing you either.

Your heart jumps in your chest. You want to walk away. You want to turn around and pretend this isn’t happening. But you can’t move.

Her gaze softens, and she steps forward hesitantly, like she’s testing the waters. Her eyes are wide, filled with something you can’t quite place.

“y/n?” she says, her voice thick with disbelief.

The way she says your name, it breaks something inside of you. You thought you were done. You thought you’d buried it all, that the past was something you could leave behind. But here she is, standing right in front of you, and everything inside you shifts. It’s as if time hasn’t passed at all. The ache in your chest feels as fresh as the moment she left.

“Lena.” The word slips from your lips before you can stop it.

You see her flinch, just for a second, and you hate how it makes you feel. It’s not supposed to matter anymore. She’s the one who left, after all. But still, you can’t help the rush of emotions that hit you all at once. Anger, sadness, relief, longing.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steady, but it cracks. You hate how fragile it sounds.

“Just… looking,” Lena replies, her voice barely above a whisper.

“For what?” you ask, the words leaving your mouth sharper than you intended. You can’t seem to help it. You’re still angry, still so deeply hurt.

Lena looks down, rubbing her hands together, and the silence between you stretches. It’s thick and heavy, like you’re both too scared to say the wrong thing.

You almost turn away. Almost. But then, she looks up at you again, her eyes searching yours like she’s trying to find the right words.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” Lena says, her voice small.

“Me neither,” you mutter, shifting on your feet. You try to move away, but she steps closer, and something inside you tightens.

“I… I should go,” Lena says suddenly, stepping back like she’s afraid you’ll push her away.

And for a moment, you almost want to. But then something else rises up in you, something too tired to ignore. It’s been so long. You’ve spent so many nights missing her, hating her, hoping that she might come back. And here she is.

“Wait,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

She freezes, her hand hovering in midair. She’s looking at you again, searching for something in your eyes. The moment hangs between you, fragile and uncertain.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice faltering. “Just… wait.”

Lena hesitates, looking torn. You know you’ve hurt her—left her when she needed you most. But you can’t stop the words from spilling out, can’t stop the part of you that still wants her.

Finally, she nods, and you both walk to a nearby bench. It’s tucked away from the bustling market, quieter here, but it doesn’t feel peaceful. It feels like the calm before a storm. You sit beside her, close but not touching, like you’re both too afraid to cross the invisible line between you.

“So..."lena says softly, after a long silence. Her voice is shaky, unsure, and it kills you to hear it like that.

You swallow, trying to steady yourself. It’s not easy. You don’t know how to start, don’t know how to face the mess you’ve both made.

“I’m sorry,” Lena says, her voice breaking just slightly.

You blink, surprised. “That’s it?” you ask, your voice sharper than you intend.

She flinches, and your chest tightens at the sight. You didn’t mean to hurt her again. But you can’t help it. You’ve been carrying the weight of her leaving for so long that it feels like it might crush you if you don’t say something.

“No,” she says quickly. “No, it’s not. I just—” She runs a hand through her hair, like she’s trying to find the right words, but they’re tangled up in the same mess of emotions that you’re both holding onto. “I don’t know where to start.”

You nod, your lips pressing into a thin line. “Maybe start with why you left.”

Lena’s face falls. You see the flicker of pain in her eyes, and it cuts you deeper than you expect. She takes a deep breath, and for a moment, you think she might not say anything. But then, finally, her voice comes, quiet and broken.

“Because I was scared,” she admits, and it’s as though all the air leaves the space between you. “I was scared of losing you, of how much I loved you.”

You don’t know what to say to that. She wasn’t the only one who was scared. You were too. You still are.

“I thought I was going to ruin everything,” Lena continues, her voice thick with emotion. “And I couldn’t live with the idea of you waking up one day and realizing I wasn’t enough for you.” She pauses, her gaze dropping to the ground. “So I ran. I left before you could leave me.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of all the things that were left unsaid. You can feel the anger rising again, but it’s not just anger anymore. It’s hurt. It’s betrayal. It’s all the years of being afraid to love her because you weren’t sure if you could trust her.

You shake your head, your heart pounding in your chest. “But you didn’t have to run, Lena,” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath. “You could’ve stayed. You could’ve fought for us.”

“I know,” she replies, her voice tight. “And I hate myself for it. But I was so afraid. And now… now I can’t take it back.”

You stare at her, trying to make sense of what she’s saying. How do you go back after all of this? How do you forgive something like this, when the wound still feels so fresh?

“I know I hurt you,” Lena says softly. “And I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. But I need you to know that I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.” She looks up at you, and there’s something raw in her gaze. Something vulnerable that makes your heart ache.

You want to scream at her, to tell her that she doesn’t get to just show up and make everything better with a few words. But instead, you say nothing. You just sit there, letting her words sink in, letting the silence hang between you.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” Lena whispers. “But I’ll do anything. Anything to make it right.”

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the weight of her words wash over you. You’ve spent so many months in pain, convincing yourself that you’d be better off without her. But now she’s here, and all the walls you’ve built are starting to crumble.

“Why did you leave?” Lena asks, her voice quieter now. “Why didn’t you stay? Why didn’t you fight for us?” She’s reaching for something—some answer that you don’t know how to give her. And it makes you feel so small.

You want to tell her everything. The fear. The uncertainty. The way you never thought you could be enough for her. But how do you say those things when your heart is still tangled up in the wreckage she left behind?

You may not have left physically,but you certainly left mentally.

And then, with a deep breath, you say, “I was scared too.”

Lena doesn’t say anything. she just looks at you, her eyes wide with something you can’t name. And for the first time in a long time, you feel the possibility of something else—a chance, however fragile, that maybe, just maybe, you could find your way back to each other.

The silence stretches, heavy with the weight of your words. The words you’ve never said before, the truth that’s been buried beneath layers of pride and fear. It feels both freeing and terrifying to admit it out loud.

Lena’s gaze softens, her lips trembling like she’s fighting against something—tears, maybe, or just the overwhelming flood of emotion that’s been building for months. She opens her mouth to speak, but no sound comes out at first.

“I didn’t know,” she says finally, her voice cracking. “I didn’t know you were scared too.” She looks down at her hands, rubbing them together as if trying to ground herself, trying to make sense of everything that’s happened.

You nod slowly, your eyes tracing the patterns in the snow beneath your boots. "I think I was more scared of being left behind, of never being enough. I couldn’t let myself be that vulnerable with you." The admission feels raw, the truth cutting deeper than you expected.

Lena’s gaze is gentle as she watches you, her own pain evident in the way she’s holding herself. "I thought you’d never love me the way I loved you," she whispers, and there’s an edge to her voice now, one that carries the ache of regret. "I thought I had to leave before you realized I was too broken for you."

The cold bite of the winter air seems to grow more pronounced as you sit there, in the space between you two, the distance once again palpable. But this time, it's not about rejection—it's about understanding, raw and real, in a way you’ve never experienced.

"Do you ever think about what we could have had?" Lena asks softly, her voice quiet but steady.

It’s a question that leaves you still, leaves you breathless. Do you ever think about it? Of course you do. You think about it every day—about the Christmases you spent together, about the laughter you shared, the soft moments when it felt like you were a part of each other. It was the kind of love that seemed invincible, until it wasn’t.

"I think about it every day," you answer honestly, the words slipping past your lips without hesitation. "But I also think about how much it hurt when you left. How you didn’t even try to fight for us. How it felt like you gave up."

You can’t stop yourself now. You’ve held it in for so long, and now it all comes pouring out—your fears, your pain, your loneliness. "You left me, Lena. You didn’t even look back. And that hurt more than anything."

Her breath hitches, and for a moment, it looks like she’s about to break. But she doesn’t. Instead, she looks at you with such sincerity in her eyes that it almost knocks the wind out of you.

"I didn’t leave because I didn’t care about you," she says softly, her voice low and trembling. "I left because I loved you so much that I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. I thought leaving was the only way to protect us both."

The way she says it—so fragile, so raw—hits you harder than anything she’s said so far. You thought you were done with her, that you could move on. But as much as you want to stay angry, as much as you want to keep the distance between you, a part of you still feels the pull. That old connection, the one you buried beneath all the hurt, begins to resurface.

You take a shaky breath, the words threatening to tumble out before you can stop them. "I never wanted you to leave, Lena. I just… I didn’t know how to stay in something that felt so uncertain. I didn’t know how to fight for us when I was so afraid of losing myself."

Your withdrawal wasn’t out of a lack of love, but from fear—fear of vulnerability, fear of losing yourself, and fear of an uncertain future with Lena.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The snow falls gently around you, blanketing the world in silence. But it’s not the cold that’s suffocating—it’s the weight of everything unsaid between you, the things you’ve both been holding back, the memories that you’re not sure whether to cherish or curse.

Lena reaches out then, her hand trembling as she brushes a stray lock of hair behind your ear. It’s a simple gesture, one that used to feel so natural, so effortless. But now it feels like it carries a thousand unspoken words. The moment hangs there, charged with the quiet intensity of everything that has been left unresolved between you.

“I know I hurt you,” Lena says quietly, her voice thick with emotion. “And I don’t know if I can ever make it right. But I need you to know that I’ll do whatever it takes to earn back your trust. To prove to you that I’m not running this time.”

You feel the vulnerability in her words, the openness that she’s never shown before. And for the first time in months, something shifts inside you. Maybe it’s the way she looks at you, or maybe it’s the tenderness in her voice that pulls at something deep inside of you. But whatever it is, it cuts through the walls you’ve built.

You close your eyes, letting the feeling wash over you, a storm of emotion breaking over the dam you’ve tried so hard to keep in place. "I don’t know if I can trust you again," you whisper, your voice unsteady. "But I want to. I want to believe that we can fix this."

Lena’s eyes search yours, and she takes a deep breath, her gaze intense. "Then let me show you. Let me prove that I’m here to stay. I’ll do whatever it takes."

You nod slowly, your heart pounding in your chest, unsure of what comes next. But you can’t bring yourself to pull away. The old hurt is still there, lodged in the deepest parts of you, but the possibility of something new—something real—feels almost too tempting to resist.

For the first time in a long while, you allow yourself to feel something other than pain. You let yourself feel hope.

"Okay," you say softly, your voice barely a whisper. "But I’m not making promises. I need time."

Lena’s lips tremble, and you see the tears she’s been holding back, the weight of her regret and guilt, threatening to spill over. But she doesn’t cry. Instead, she smiles—a small, tentative thing, but it’s enough. It’s more than enough.

"I’ll wait," Lena says softly, and the sincerity in her voice makes your chest tighten. "I’ll wait as long as you need."

You don’t know what the future holds. You don’t know if this is the beginning of something new or if it’s just another false hope. But for the first time in a long time, you’re willing to take the risk. Maybe this time, things will be different. Maybe, just maybe, you can find your way back to each other.

And with that thought in mind, you take a deep breath, let it go, and step forward—into the unknown, into the second chance you’ve both been waiting for.

Christmas Day

The morning of Christmas is peaceful, quiet. The snow has stopped falling, and the world is wrapped in a blanket of white. You and Lena sit by the window, sipping your coffee, both of you lost in the moment.

It’s not perfect. It’s not how you imagined things would be. But it’s real. And right now, that’s enough.

Lena reaches for your hand, her fingers trembling slightly, but you don’t pull away. You let her hold you. You let her in.

And as the Christmas bells ring in the distance, you know that, for the first time in a long time, there’s hope for a future you once thought was lost.

-----

HELLOO!! Merry Christmas my loves <33 this is the first part of my Christmas trilogy 🤶 I will admit this is one of the longest fics I've written and it took me like 2 weeks and I kept having chat gpt spell check for mistakes...

[emmylksblog]

GAVI BF HEADCANONS!

based on this request

a/n: i think it's accurate to his personality, tried to fit everything i could think of. hope yall like it! 🫶🏻

⚽︎ bf! Gavi is terrible at hiding his emotions. If he’s mad about something, he’ll sulk for exactly five minutes before bursting out with whatever’s on his mind. But if it’s about you, his frustration softens immediately: “I’m not mad at you, okay? I just… I care too much, that’s all.”

⚽︎ bf! Gavi gets super competitive with you, even over silly things. Whether it’s who can fold the laundry faster or who wins at Mario Kart, he’ll take it way too seriously. But if you win, he’ll let out a dramatic groan and accuse you of cheating—before pulling you into a playful hug. “Fine, you’re better. But only this time.”

⚽︎ bf! Gavi loves spontaneous adventures. If you’re lying around on a lazy Sunday, he’ll suddenly grab your hand and say, “Get dressed—we’re going out.” He doesn’t always have a plan, but somehow, his impulsive nature makes every outing feel exciting, whether it’s a drive to nowhere or ice cream at midnight.

⚽︎ bf! Gavi hates being apart from you. If he has to leave for a game, he’ll call or text you nonstop: “What are you doing? Are you eating? Are you thinking about me?” His teammates tease him, but he doesn’t care. “Shut up, this is important,” he’ll say, grinning at his phone.

⚽︎ bf! Gavi is easily flustered by compliments. If you tell him he looks good before a game, he’ll try to act cool, but his cheeks will flush immediately. He’ll mumble a quick “Gracias, guapa,” then pretend to focus on his laces just to hide how much he’s blushing.

⚽︎ bf! Gavi has no chill when it comes to showing affection. If he’s proud of you, he’ll shout it from the rooftops. If he misses you, he’ll tell you ten times in one call. “I don’t care if I’m being annoying—I just love you, okay?”

⚽︎ bf! Gavi’s protective instincts kick in everywhere. If you’re out walking and it starts to rain, he’ll instantly take off his jacket and throw it over your shoulders, muttering something about “not letting you get sick.” He acts like it’s no big deal, but he’ll grumble if you try to give it back.

⚽︎ bf! Gavi is obsessed with your laugh. He’ll do anything to hear it—bad impressions, dumb jokes, or even tickling you mercilessly. When you tell him to stop, he’ll grin mischievously: “Not until you admit my jokes are funny!”

⚽︎ bf! Gavi has a short temper, but you’re his exception. If anyone else frustrates him, he’s quick to snap, but with you, he’ll pause, take a breath, and say, “I don’t want to argue with you. Let’s figure this out, yeah?” He’s not perfect, but he’s trying for you.

⚽︎ bf! Gavi always forgets his own stuff but never yours. He’ll leave his keys or wallet behind constantly, but if you’ve mentioned needing something, he’ll somehow remember and surprise you with it. “You said you ran out of this, right?” he’ll ask casually, secretly proud of himself.

⚽︎ bf! Gavi insists on being your biggest fan. Whether it’s something big like a work presentation or something small like making the perfect coffee, he’ll hype you up as if you just won an award: “That’s my girl! I told you you’re amazing.”

⚽︎ bf! Gavi loves subtle physical touch. He’ll rest his hand on your knee during long car rides, tug gently at your sleeve if he wants your attention, or intertwine his pinky with yours when no one’s looking. It’s his way of saying, “I’m here. Always.”

⚽︎ bf! Gavi is a mess when it comes to surprises. He’ll try to plan something cute, like decorating your room or buying you flowers, but he’s so bad at keeping secrets that he’ll end up blurting it out before the surprise happens: “Okay, don’t be mad, but I have something planned… just act surprised, okay?”

⚽︎ bf! Gavi pretends he doesn’t like cheesy romantic movies. But when you make him watch one, he gets way too into it, yelling at the characters or tearing up at emotional scenes. “I’m not crying—it’s just allergies,” he’ll say, avoiding your teasing smirk.

⚽︎ bf! Gavi talks about the future without realizing it. Whether it’s casually mentioning how your kids would “definitely love football” or joking about what kind of house you’d live in, his words always carry that unspoken promise: “I’m not going anywhere.”

[ssa-dado]

20 - Logic

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

masterlist

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

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

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

---

The hum of the jet had never felt so loud.

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

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

Spaces he couldn’t seem to avoid.

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

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

The rooftop.

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

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

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

So, his mind wandered back to that rooftop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Engage. Stabilize. Control.

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

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward.

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

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

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

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

Humanity.

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

It wasn’t in the rulebook.

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

The law demanded order.

Justice.

Efficiency.

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

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

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

Because Howard wasn’t just a threat.

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

But then he was gone.

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

He had come too late, once again.

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

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

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

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

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

Hotch’s jaw tightened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gideon was gone.

Missy was saved, at least.

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

Where his words had been enough.

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

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

And worse, it was safe.

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

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

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

He hesitated, the words catching in his throat.

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

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward.

The formula.

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

The real fear wasn’t really about saving strangers.

It was about Haley.

About Jack.

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

That they’d already walked out of his life.

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

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

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

He wouldn’t let himself get used to it.

He couldn’t.

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

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

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

And Haley - God, Haley.

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

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

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

But now, the house was a shell.

Empty.

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

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

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

A fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sighed, that was his cue.

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

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

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

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

Haley. Jack. Even Gideon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone who didn’t hate him.

Someone who hadn’t left him, not yet.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He left them always open, but still.

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

But it wasn’t the same.

Especially today.

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

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

Was it bothering him?

Did he even notice?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just once.

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

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

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

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

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

And who were you to question authority?

Well, maybe his - just slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

And there they were.

Hotch. Strauss. Rossi.

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

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

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

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

Million-dollar question.

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

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

Your heart just dropped at the view.

Hotch was smiling.

A genuine, unguarded smile.

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

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

Hotch—your partner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that Hotch was long gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“SSA Derek Morgan,” Hotch continued.

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

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

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

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

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

Reid flushed slightly, nodding. “Sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agent and Professor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This wasn’t just paperwork and profiling.

People died.

People were tortured.

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

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

What was so important this morning?

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

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

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

Every time, it strips something away.

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect.

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

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

---

You didn’t stop this at one.

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

It was the helplessness that got you.

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

And so, you drove.

Speed limits? Suggestions.

Stop signs? Inconveniences.

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

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

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

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

Still, hesitation barely registered.

You needed to save Eneid White.

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

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

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

There was no time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The motel room was empty.

Eneid White was gone.

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

The irony was suffocating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was maddening.

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

Paperwork had saved Rossi more than once today.

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

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

But Rossi’s pen didn’t even pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amazing.

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

What a professional.

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

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

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

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

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

But nothing.

Not a word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No urgency.

Not even a backward glance.

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

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

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

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

Too quiet.

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

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

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

Now he had to be playing dumb.

Which, of course, he wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bastard. Absolute bastard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucker. Absolute fucker.

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

He was lucky you were driving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mom Hotch, your mom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck him.

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

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

Hotch didn’t respond immediately.

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

What exactly?!

Him? The road?

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

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

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

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

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

No, it was definitely him.

And the road.

And everything in between.

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

Fuck him.

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

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

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

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

Uncultured.

Fuck him.

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

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

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

And so, you drove.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

The mask.

Hotch’s jaw tightened.

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

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

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

He knew it wasn’t JJ’s fault.

He wasn’t even looking at her.

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

The media had everything.

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

What?

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

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

He didn’t just say that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, for God’s sake.

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

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

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

And if that didn’t work?

Hotch glanced briefly at Rossi’s smug expression.

You would just talk in ancient Greek.

No, better.

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

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

Keep it together.

Keep it professional.

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

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

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

Hotch stared at him, weighing his words carefully.

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward.

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

Damn you.

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

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

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

You had no business being in his head right now.

None.

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

Get her out of your head, Hotchner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus.

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

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

---

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

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

As professionals, you both knew better.

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

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

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

For him, it wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

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

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

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

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

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

He had to.

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

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

The usual night owls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, maybe there was still hope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank God.

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

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

Really?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little did you know…

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t.

You must be hallucinating.

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

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

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

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

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

Damn you and how you always wanted to be right.

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

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

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

Brilliant.

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

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

Not your style, definitely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If he still were one, he would.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hotch fought the urge to wince.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh how much you hated him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck him.

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

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

“You said out there,” Rossi began, his voice calm but carrying an edge, “the team shares everything.”

“That’s right,” Hotch replied, standing from his chair, his posture stiffening slightly as if his body knew before him what was coming.

“There is no I?” Rossi pressed, his gaze unwavering.

Hotch nodded, his confusion mounting. “That’s right.” Where was Rossi going with this?

“It seems a big thing to withhold,” Rossi continued, his tone measured but cutting. “Separating from your wife, your child.”

Excuse him?

“What are you talking about?” Hotch asked, though he already suspected where this was heading. He needed to hear Rossi say it, to confirm - or hope against hope that he was wrong.

“We’ve been together 48 hours,” Rossi said, his voice low but unrelenting. “I haven’t seen you call Haley. Not even once. You haven’t mentioned her. And you’re not going home now.”

Great.

Rossi paused, his gaze drifting through the blinds toward the bullpen. You were there, leaning over a file on Reid’s desk, likely double-checking that every ‘t’ had its proper horizontal stroke. His expression softened, just a touch, before he turned back to Hotch. “And yet, you’re so protective of her. Always watching, making sure she’s okay. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you still look at her.”

‘Still’?

Now that was a stretch, wasn’t it?!

Before Rossi could say more, Hotch cut him off, his voice sharp, defensive. “What’s your point?”

Rossi didn’t flinch. “I guess you’re just not used to sharing.”

He was currently sharing his house with his best friend, but if he mentioned that to Rossi, it would undoubtedly be twisted into some wildly inaccurate interpretation.

Hotch’s jaw tightened further, his words clipped as he countered, “My private life is not the same as a case.”

Rossi tilted his head slightly, considering that for a moment. Then, with a faint shrug, he said, “I’m just saying, sharing is a learned skill.”

Rossi continued, his tone shifting to something more reminiscent. “You know... when this all started... there were only a few of us. We’d go out on the road alone. We didn’t... groupthink.”

“We don’t groupthink,” Hotch shot back, his voice firm, his eyes narrowing. “We think as individuals, and we share the thoughts with the rest of the team. We don’t write them down in a little notebook and keep them to ourselves.”

As Hotch watched Rossi leave, he caught himself staring down at his hands, his thumb absently brushing over the smooth band of his wedding ring.

It was still there.

The gesture was instinctual, one he’d repeated countless times before, especially when his mind was a storm of noise and chaos.

The weight of the ring was subtle, almost imperceptible, yet its presence remained undeniable. It tethered him - anchored him - to something he couldn’t fully release, even as its meaning progressively seemed to slip further from his grasp.

Logic, he recalled from your notes on stoicism - notes he’d skimmed out of curiosity or irony - was the art of aligning language with reality.

The Stoics believed that a proposition was true when it accurately reflected the environment it described.

Hotch is married.

The statement, so simple, so definitive, had once been unshakably true.

It was true because there was a subject, Hotch - Aaron Hotchner - sitting here, and because there was an object - the ring on his finger that affirmed the predicate.

The ring was proof.

Proof of something that existed. Proof of commitment, of a promise spoken and sealed.

And yet, how fragile was truth, he thought, when absence could strip it away so completely?

If he took the ring off - stopped wearing it - what would that mean?

Would it signify the end of the truth the ring had once affirmed?

Would it make Haley’s leaving more tangible, more real?

Would it mean that everything he’d built, everything he’d fought to hold together, was irretrievably lost?

Or was it already lost, and the ring nothing more than a hollow echo of something that had ceased to be true long before this moment?

That was the paradox of logic, wasn’t it? The truth wasn’t in the ring itself - it lived in what the ring represented.

Yet, despite that, he couldn’t bring himself to part with it.

Not yet.

Removing it would feel like yanking the last fragile thread from a tapestry already worn and frayed. It would unravel completely, leaving him with nothing but the empty space where something beautiful had once existed.

And he wasn’t ready to face that emptiness.

Not yet.

Damn the Stoics and their brain-twisting philosophy.

---

You’d gone somewhere.

You hadn’t told him where.

And so Aaron stood alone in his own kitchen, not entirely alone actually.

Your notes sat at the edge of the table, perfectly stacked, perfectly aligned, like they were waiting for you.

Or maybe for him.

He exhaled sharply, his eyes fixed on the table, as if staring hard enough might unravel the threads in his chest. The ones tightening, pulling, knotting tighter because you were gone and hadn’t said where.

It shouldn’t matter.

It wasn’t the first time you’d left like this, slipping out with a vague goodbye and a light smile that said everything was fine.

But tonight, it felt different.

He couldn’t explain it, just that the air in the house felt heavier without you in it. He could still hear the echo of your voice, could still see the way you lingered at the door, like maybe you had something to say but decided against it.

His gaze drifted back to the notes where your pen rested next to the stack, its placement deliberate, like you’d made sure to leave everything just right before you walked out. Just at the edge, hidden in the eyesight behind a chair.

Always the edge. Always tucked away. Like you didn’t think you had the right to be here.

You did. God, you did.

The neatness of it, the deliberate precision, drove him mad.

It was more than just tidy habits; it was the way you shrank yourself, folding your existence into corners and crevices, tiptoeing through his life as though you were afraid to leave footprints. The way you hesitated before touching anything that belonged to him.

He hated it.

Hated the carefulness.

Hated what it said about how you saw yourself here.

Also because it reminded him of the reality of the situation: temporary.

How you called yourself his guest with that wry, self-deprecating humor of yours.

He hated the word.

A guest didn’t leave their pen perfectly parallel to the edge of the table. A guest didn’t linger just long enough to warm the silence before slipping away again, leaving only the faintest trace behind.

You weren’t a guest to him.

You were the only reason the silence didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

Aaron straightened, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the table as if sheer willpower could force the stack to move - to the center, to the middle of the room, to anywhere that didn’t feel like you were afraid to exist.

He didn’t just want you here. He needed you to be here.

Not carefully. Not quietly. Not tucked away like an afterthought.

He wanted - no, needed - you to bother his space.

To make it yours.

He wanted those papers scattered across his home office desk - the desk you refused to use, no matter how many times he told you it was yours whenever you needed it.

He wanted to walk in and find you sitting there, your head bent in concentration, the faint scratch of your pen filling the silence, and the scent of your bitter tea lingering in the air.

He wanted your books stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, their titles in languages he’d long forgotten or never understood, with bookmarks peeking out at odd angles because you could never settle on reading just one.

He wanted your handwriting scrawled on sticky notes taped to the fridge - lists of groceries he didn’t even recognize but that you swore were essential, or little reminders you left for yourself but that he’d read anyway, smiling at the way you seemed to write as fast as you thought, each letter tumbling after the next in a barely legible rush.

He wanted to come home and see the faint glow of your laptop in the kitchen or hear your voice muttering to yourself as you debated some philosophical nuance, oblivious to the fact that he was listening from the doorway.

He wanted to trip over the shoes you’d kicked off in a rush, abandoned in the middle of the hallway because some new idea had swept you up, demanding all your attention.

He wanted the sound of your laughter spilling out when you teased him about his coffee or his barely disguised grimace after sipping your bitter tea, the way you filled the silence without even trying.

He wanted the chaos of you, your quirks and your muttered criticisms about his tea collection and your refusal to use the home office because “it’s your space, Aaron.”

He wanted your presence to become so intertwined with his space that he wouldn’t know where his life stopped and yours began.

To see signs of you everywhere - on his counters, in his cabinets, in the spaces that used to feel too big and too empty. He wanted the proof that you were here, that you were staying, even if it was only for a while.

Because every time he saw the deliberate neatness of your papers, the way you kept your presence confined to the smallest corner of his house, it made him feel lonelier than the silence ever did.

Because the empty spaces of his house never felt as desolate as when you tried to erase yourself from them.

He hated the invisible barrier you seemed to think was necessary.

And what terrified him most was how much he wanted to tear that barrier down.

Yet, those papers…

He told himself not to look. They were your notes, your thoughts, something private, but his eyes betrayed him, flicking down to the top page.

Just a glimpse, he thought.

Philosophy. Always philosophy.

Probably for Spencer.

And, lately, always Spencer.

Aaron leaned forward, just enough to catch the familiar loops of your handwriting and ink smudges on the page in front of him, how they softened the rigidity of Stoic logic written stark against the white page, humanized it in a way Aaron doubted the Stoics themselves ever intended.

Those ancient, precise theories weren’t just alive on the page, they were you.

He knew those smudges. God, he knew them so well.

And once, those smudgs had been for him.

Years ago, back when you were in Europe and he was in D.C., thousands of miles apart but bound together by ink and paper. You’d written to him, pages and pages of letters, postcards, even the occasional napkin with your hurried musings scrawled across the edges.

Every piece carried the unmistakable cadence of your thoughts, the subtle fingerprints of your soul left behind in ink.

He hadn’t just read them. He’d kept them.

All of them.

Six years of letters, still tucked neatly into a box on the right side of his desk. Hidden but never forgotten, each of them categorized.

He still could recite some of them by heart now, not just because of the words, but because of what they represented.

A connection.

A window into your mind.

Proof that, even when you were an ocean away, you’d thought of him.

You’d given him something no one else had, you’d taken hours of your time - time you could have spent on anything else - to explain your world to him. You’d translated the vastness of your intellect into something he could grasp, meeting him halfway, bridging the gap between philosophy and law.

And for six years, those letters had been his.

Just his.

He was the only one who knew what your thoughts looked like in ink, the only one who understood the tempo of your mind when it spilled onto paper.

But now?

Now, those hurried marks, those smudges, weren’t his alone anymore, they were for Spencer.

Aaron’s eyes lingered on the page, his chest tightening with something he refused to name - it wasn’t jealousy.

It couldn’t be jealousy.

That would be absurd.

But the thought crept in anyway, unbidden and unwelcome.

Spencer could keep up with you - he could dive into your world, explore its depths without needing a guide. He could talk with you for hours about philosophy, go deep into the nuances and theories that Aaron could only skim the surface of.

Aaron couldn’t.

He was just a lawyer.

He hated the way it sounded, the way it reduced everything he’d accomplished into something so small.

But compared to Spencer?

Well, Spencer was a genius, after all.

Philosophy wasn’t something Spencer needed simplified.

Spencer didn’t need “Hegel for Dummies.”

It wasn’t that he doubted your friendship, he never had. You’d do anything for each other - that was the kind of unshakable truth most people spend lifetimes hoping to find.

No, it wasn’t doubt, it was something worse.

It was the quiet, biting knowledge that he wasn’t enough.

Because philosophy had always been your thing. Law had always been his. That was the unspoken balance of your relationship - two different worlds, one shared soul, one whole.

It was what made you and Aaron work, in a way that defied logic.

But now, to him that balance felt fragile, precarious, like a scale tipping under a weight he couldn’t identify.

Because now, it felt like Spencer could meet you where Aaron never could.

But did Spencer notice the peculiarities of your handwriting the way Aaron did? The quiet, intimate details that felt like secrets only he was meant to uncover?

He’d teased you once, calling it your “professor handwriting.”

Precise and polished, every letter upright and deliberate. It was the version you used on the whiteboard during case briefings or when writing notes for others to read. People often admired it, praising how clean and professional it looked, almost like it belonged in a textbook.

But Aaron knew better.

That wasn’t really you.

Your real handwriting - the one meant only for yourself, and somehow, for him - was a different thing entirely.

It was messy, rushed, and alive with motion, like it couldn’t quite keep up with your thoughts.

The letters leaned forward, words blending together, the strokes of your t’s and the dots on your i’s often forgotten in your hurry to capture the idea before it slipped away.

He could always tell when something mattered to you because the ink pressed heavier in those spots, as though you were willing the words to stay.

Did Spencer notice how sometimes, in that messy script of yours, a line would trail off mid-thought, only to be picked up again later when you circled back to it?

Did he know how your letters bent slightly to the left when you were feeling uncertain or overwhelmed?

Because Aaron did. He’d been noticing it for years.

And that was the difference, wasn’t it? S

pencer could read the page, could absorb every word - but he knew how it felt.

He told himself it wasn’t rational to feel this way, and Aaron Hotchner was nothing if not rational. He was the one people called stoic, composed, unshakable, detached. He’d been called that more times than he could count, by colleagues, by superiors, even by his team. It was a label that had followed him for years.

Everyone called him stoic.

Everyone but you.

Maybe you hadn’t had the chance, maybe one day you would. Maybe Spencer already had. Or maybe you saw through it better than anyone else.

He sank into the chair, the soft creak of wood breaking the stillness of the kitchen. A breath escaped him - slow, unsteady - one he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

And in the quiet that followed, a single thought surfaced, persistent and undeniable, no matter how much he wished it away: he missed being the one you wrote for.

And the moment you stepped through the door, Aaron knew.

Your movements were hesitant, each step slow and uncertain, as though the weight of the world was pressing against your back.

He saw the faint streaks of dried tears on your cheeks, the way your gaze didn’t lift from the floor, your hands curling slightly at your sides.

But what struck him most - what confirmed what he already feared - was the chain around your neck.

That silver chain had always carried the weight of your engagement ring, resting just over your heart like a quiet reminder of something he’d never been able to name aloud.

Now, it hung bare, empty, as though it too had been unshackled. The sight of it was jarring, a moment of revelation that felt both devastating and freeing.

Aaron froze, his breath catching for the second time in the last couple of seconds in his chest.

For a moment, he didn’t know what to do, didn’t trust himself to speak.

He’d spent years taming his emotions, hiding them behind layers of composure, but right now, the dam threatened to break.

His body moved before he could catch up.

In three strides, he was in front of you, his hands settling on your shoulders with a gentleness that felt like gravity itself, steady and inescapable.

It was as if his touch called your name, a language only the two of you understood, because only then did you lift your eyes to meet his.

In that single glance, he saw everything – the raw ache etched into the curve of your expression, the exhaustion. Yet beneath it all, threaded through the cracks of your weariness, there was something else, something only he would have noticed.

Relief.

And without a second thought, he pulled you right into his arms. The silence stretched between you, heavy with everything he wanted to take from you, all the burdens you’d been carrying alone.

His arms wrapped around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing firmly against your back, as if sheer closeness could undo the damage that had been done.

He felt the tension in your body give way all at once, and then you broke.

You cried.

It wasn’t quiet, and it wasn’t neat.

It was the kind of crying that shook you, the kind you’d been holding back for so long it felt like it might never end. The sound of it cut through him, sharp and unrelenting, and he closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to stay steady for you.

He couldn’t, not really, not when you were like that.

It was almost like a symbiotic reaction.

He began to rub slow, soothing circles into your back, his voice low and steady as he murmured softly against your hair. “I’m here, let it out. Just let it all out.”

He made sure to keep his sentences short to not give up the emotion in his voice “I’m holding you. I’ve got you.

“You’re okay now. You’re alright. I’m not going anywhere.” His words weren’t just meant for you - they were meant for himself, a quiet mantra to keep his composure while his heart ached in ways he hadn’t felt in years.

The thought of how much Peter had hurt you, how deeply he had left his mark on someone so strong, so capable, made Aaron’s chest tighten.

His jaw clenched as tears began to well in his own eyes.

He didn’t wipe them away, didn’t dare loosen his hold on you for even a second.

You were free from him now - that much he held onto - but the knowledge that you’d had to endure so much pain to get here didn’t sit right with him.

It never would.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmured again, his voice thick with emotion. He pressed his cheek lightly against the top of your head, his own tears slipping free now. “So proud of you.”

Your cries grew quieter, softening into shaky breaths as your fingers gripped tightly at the back of his shirt, as though anchoring yourself to him. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words fractured with lingering sobs. “Aaron, I’m so sorry. You were right - you were always right, and I-”

“Shhh,” he interrupted, his voice gentle but firm, as though willing you to believe him. His hand kept its steady rhythm against your back, grounding you. “It doesn’t matter now. None of it matters. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.”

You let out a breathy laugh against his shoulder, small but real, breaking through the weight of your tears. “Are we really going to argue about who’s more sorry?”

Aaron chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “No argument. I’d win. And where’s the fun in that?”

Your laugh grew a little stronger, and he could feel the faintest tension in your body start to ease. He didn’t let go, not yet.

If it were up to him, he never would.

Holding you like this felt too right, like he was finally where he needed to be after years of staying too far away.

Only when you finally shifted did Aaron loosen his hold, just barely, giving you enough space to pull back. But his hands stayed on your arms, firm and steady, as though letting go entirely wasn’t something he could bring himself to do - not now, not ever.

Your eyes, still glassy with tears, lifted to his, as if bracing for what you might find.

And that was when he felt it - the faintest, almost involuntary tug at the corners of his lips, a fragile smile breaking through the swell of emotion that threatened to consume him.

A tear slid down his cheek, unbidden and unashamed.

Still, he didn’t brush it away.

He didn’t even think to.

All that mattered in that moment was you.

So he just stood there, rooted to the ground, holding on to you as though you were the only thing tethering him to the world.

Because you were.

“Aaron,” you said softly, your voice trembling, fragile in a way that made something deep inside him twist. The way you looked at him shifted in that moment, your gaze catching on the glistening streaks tracing his face.

His lips curved into the smallest, gentlest smile. “And for the record,” he said, his voice wavering slightly but still warm, “I cry more than you do.” He brushed at his cheek half-heartedly, even as another tear slipped free. “That’s 2–0.”

Your laugh came then, soft, messy, interrupted by the uneven hiccups left over from crying too hard.

But it was real, and it was enough to loosen the tightness in his chest.

Just hearing you laugh again felt like a reprieve.

“You’re impossible,” you said, shaking your head lightly. But then your tone faltered, quieter now, “Don’t you ever dare walk away from me, Aaron. Don’t leave me too.”

“Never,” he said firmly, his voice resolute and strong, he’d never been so sure about anything in his life. He paused, his eyes softening as he searched for your face. Then, almost as if the words carried a life of their own, he added, “We’ve stayed apart long enough.”

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t need to.

Aaron poured a glass of water, setting it in front of you. “Drink,” he said softly.

You accepted it without hesitation, murmuring a soft “thank you” under your breath. He poured a glass for himself as well – rehydration was essential after all the unspoken emotions spilled into just one single room - and positioned himself across from you, the two of you sharing the silence.

But this silence felt different.

It wasn’t empty, it was filled with the quiet comfort of not having to explain yourself.

When you set your glass down, he almost hated he had to break it like that, with a voice as steady as he could. “You’ve got one hour”

You blinked, confused. “For what?”

“To get ready,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m taking you out.”

“Aaron, I don’t think-” you started saying.

“It’s either this,” he interrupted, raising an eyebrow, “or you sit here and tell me everything that happened. Your choice.”

He knew you’d retreat into your own mind, letting your thoughts consume you piece by piece if he let you walk away now. And he knew that all too well.

You studied him for a moment, then sighed in defeat. “Fine. But only if I’m paying.”

“Deal,” he said, a playful glint in his eye. “But I’m choosing the drinks.”

“Make it something strong,” you shot back, a hint of warmth returning to your voice. “I might need it.”

He chuckled, leaning against the counter as he watched you. He had to correct you, he couldn’t help himself. “We might need it.”

And then he wondered why his heart beat faster than yours when he was holding you.

He couldn’t find an answer.

---

BYE BYE P***R AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 15 CHAPTERS OF DESPAIR

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

[accioscarheadthings]

How are you? 😊

Please a Kenji Sato x American shy!reader? They’re dating and Kenji took her to Japan for the first time and shows her around. (I never went to Japan before & me don’t like sushi or spicy 😂). When shy!reader was walking around Japan and went to the tallest building or just an abandoned building to watch the stars or the moon but accidentally fell but thankfully Kenji saves her just in time as Ultraman, telling her, “theirs my girl”

https://youtu.be/hHkkwx0ZWXI?si=B0I-MsoR5hgbYq7N

hello love!! i'm great. thank you for asking. how are you? <3

of course, i hope you like this one;) sry that this ne took too long, wi was caught up with college. lemme know if there are any errors.

My stupid

pairing: kenji x shy!gf!reader

this contains: loads of fluff, use of petnames (baby, babe, sweetheart)

summary: kenji takes you to japan for the first time and shows you around. when you go to a building for stargazing, you don't pay attention to your surroundings and accidentally trip off the buidling.

masterlist !

you walked through the bustling streets of tokyo alongside kenji, feeling the city's vibrant energy envelope you. you clutched his arm tightly, a mix of excitement and nervousness coursing through you.

kenji glanced down at you, a warm smile on his face, "impressed?" he asked, his voice low and soothing.

you nodded, your eyes wide as you took in the vibrant scene. the city was a sensory overload, with its bright lights, colorful billboards, and the constant hum of activity.

"it's so different from home," you finally managed to say, your voice laced with awe.

kenji squeezed your hand reassuringly, "that's Tokyo for you," he responded, a hint of pride in his voice, "but there's so much more to japan than just the big cities,"

kenji took you on a culinary adventure through various restaurants and eateries, eager to introduce you to the diverse range of japanese cuisine.

some dishes, like the tender, buttery slices of tonkatsu, were delightful. however, others, such as the tangy taste of takuan pickles, were an acquired taste.

one dish, however, proved to be a unanimous dislike – sushi. the thought of eating raw fish made you wrinkle your nose in disdain.

kenji noticed a bit of food at the corner of your mouth, swallowing his bite of steak.

"what?" you blinked at him, trying to bat at your mouth, "do i have something on my face?"

"let me," kenji leaned over from the opposite of the table, his hand resting low on the column of your neck to hold you in place.

he closed his mouth at the edge of your lips, tongue caressing softly to get the crumb on your face.

a group of people passing by identified him, whispering between themselves and wolf-whistling at the intimate moment between you both.

when he pulled back, you felt the blood rush to your face as you stared down at your food with wide eyes, "i-you did not-" you stammered at a loss of words, "t-that was unnecessary,"

kenji sat back in his seat, his lips curling in a smug grin. he slung his arm over the head of his chair, "not if it can get you all bothered and cute,"

you felt your lips tug up, your resolve faltering, "shut up," you kicked his legs under the table when he chuckled in adoration.

as the night drew to a close, kenji took you to the rooftop of a building, a secret spot he loved to visit at the edge of the city, away from the crowd.

the view was breathtaking – stars twinkling overhead and the cityscape stretching out below.

you both laid down on the cool concert, snuggled against each other for warmth. a comfortable silence fell between you as you simply took in the moment's beauty, staring up at the stars.

"this is beautiful," you murmured, breaking the silence.

kenji turned his head to look at you, a fond smile on his face, "i knew you would love it," he replied, shifting closer to you, "there's something magical about watching the stars from here,"

you snuggled deeper into his side, feeling warm and content. your eyes closed in a sigh when he pressed a kiss on your temple.

the two of you shared a set of earphones, heads bobbing together to the music playing as you pointed at the constellations and random shapes the stars lined up to form.

just then, kenji's watch beeped, alerting him about a kaiju attack, he sat up immediately, making you follow his actions.

kenji placed his side of the earphones on your other ear, the soft music from his watch filling your ears. he leaned in and gently kissed you, his touch warm, affectionate, and apologizing for the interruption.

"I have to go deal with a situation as ultraman," he whispered in your ear, his voice serious.

you nodded, understanding the necessity of his duties. as he walked away, you continued to watch the stars, lost in thought and the gentle melody playing in your ears.

after a while, you began wandering in the small space of the terrace, listening to your song and feeling the night wind hit your face.

suddenly, the realization of your surroundings hit you like a wave. You had been so engrossed in the music that you hadn't noticed that you had inched closer to the edge of the rooftop.

the ground below loomed like a menacing abyss, its depths obscured by the darkness of the night.

startled, you took a step back, but it was too late.

you teetered on the edge, the weight of your body tipping you precariously over the drop.

in the nick of time, a pair of strong hands cupped and caught your body, preventing you from falling any further.

the music in your ears abruptly cut off, replaced by a familiar voice.

"there's my girl," ultraman murmured, his tone a mixture of relief and admonishment.

you stared up at his metal suit, his eyes glowing, and tried to calm down your breathing from the rush of the fall.

ultraman slowly set you on top of the building before transforming back to his human form. he stood in front of you, holding your face in worry, "you're not hurt, aren't you? thank goodness i made it back in time,"

but you didn't answer him; the realization of your stupidity sunk in, and you couldn't help but laugh at your own foolishness.

"i really am stupid, am I?" you said, a hint of sheepishness in your voice.

kenji had a soft smile playing on his lips, his raven bangs blowing in the wind, "yeah, you are," he replied, his voice affectionate. "but you're my stupid,"

you felt a pang of affection in your heart at his words, and a small smile tugged at the corners of your lips, "and you're stuck with me," you say, unable to resist teasing him a little.

kenji chuckled, his eyes glistening with mirth, "that I am," he confirmed, closing the gap between you by pulling you closer, "and I wouldn't have it any other way,"

[absolutebl]

This Week in BL - Getting hot under the collar and in the kitchen and on the pool table and...

Organized, in each category, with ones I'm enjoying most at the top.

Aug 2024 Week 3

Ongoing Series - Thai

Monster Next Door (Thai Thurs Gaga ) eps 3-4 of 12 - one of the things I'm enjoying about this show is the fact that the introverted super shy uke is having hot fantasies, and the extroverted seme is having the sweet fantasies. It's another way this show is highlighting God being the world's greenest flagged seme BL has ever produced. (And he's being given stiff competition this year - trend alert.)

Anygay: God is so cute and so not cool and so in love and all the consent asking word salad coming out of this boy. I LOVE him. 

Diew: It’s ep 4 so I’ve decided we can talk face-to-face.  God: So how many children do you want? 

The teaching him to play basketball bit, where God politely asks to hold his hand, is so freaking adorable I can’t.

I'm thinking of calling this show the anti-Mame pill.

Blue pill? Red pill? GREEN pill!

My Love Mix-Up Th (Fri YT) ep 11 of 12 - We gotta talk. I do like this version, but it’s starting to feel lackluster. Perhaps it always was by comparison to the bright sparkle uniqueness of the original. Perhaps I didn't notice because I was distracted by G4. But now I gotta say it's become a bit disappointing and even my love for G4 can’t seem to bind me to this. Frankly, this show is making me want to watch either the Japanese version, or My School President. It’s never a good sign when a currently airing BL makes me want to stop that and go rewatch an old one I’ve already seen.

NO SINGING.

Meanwhile, the "locked on the rooftop" trope! I haven’t seen that one in years. Cool. Also cute kisses. They learning. 

This Love Doesn't Have Long Beans (Fri iQIYI) ep 7 of 8 - I can’t believe this is ending next week. But also I can. And I have thoughts.

I really love SailubPon. They might be one of my favorite newer pairs on the scene right now. But I just don’t believe in these characters or this couple. I don’t feel like they are going to have a lasting relationship. It feels like they’re just using each other for sex and distraction, and that’s how the script to set it up, and as a result they’re never gonna make it as a couple. As soon as the sexual fire between them burns out, what do they have to build a relationship on? Frankly? That would be fine if this were a modern love drama, and not a BL. But this IS a BL.

Putting the health code violators aside, I really do believe in the secondary pair, but they haven’t been given enough bandwidth to develop as a couple. There’s no way they’re going to adequately resolve Methas and JJ in the final episode.

At this juncture, I’m mostly finding this show annoying. Which in itself is annoying, because I wanted to love it.

Why is it that Thailand, the land of the best food in the world, king of BLs, struggles so hard to produce the restaurant set BL of my dreams? I’m really pissed about this.

That said, the Methas & JJ stuff is killer. Loved JJ running away. So good. Plus the age old decision - love or money? 

Battle of the Writers (Sun YT) ep 2-3 of 12 - The issue was me and I've managed to get hold of this show again. The story within the story is so ridiculously badly written I'm going spare. I’m not sure if the outside show is not ALSO badly written. That said, I do love how the 3 writer friends are all shipping our leads. It’s VERY silly. Meanwhile, cohabitation trope is a go. 

I like the side couple too. Stern Daddy + lost puppy is a very cute dynamic, I hope we get more than just crumbs. I actually am enjoying this show now. Ep 3 kinda derailed into this weird chimera novel that they’re all writing together and I’m finding that bit the least interesting, but I adore the domestic components which I think may turn out to be TutorYim's strength (if they're allowed to lean into it). 

Addicted Heroin (Thai Tues WeTV) ep 1 of 10 - Man I hope this gets some kind of distribution at some point. It was a pain to find and watch. But I enjoyed it. The focus is more on the seme in Thailand’s version. Which I don’t mind since that's rare in BL, and it’s more August on my screen. It’s all round softer than China’s version but still feels very familiar. I know some fans are struggling with it, but not me.

Sunset X Vibes (Sat iQIYI) ep 10 of 12 - I like that Sam’s crafty business espionage has paid off. Them teasing Sam & Yo really had me belly laughing. It was so funny.

Legitimate question. Would one put perfume on one’s cheeks in Thailand, as one does on wrist or sternum? Because of the sniff cheek thing? Scented face powders?

I do feel like with MosBank & SailubPon scorching up our screens, we’re being spoiled by some of Thailand‘s best high heat pairs at the moment.

I Saw You in My Dream (Weds Gaga) ep 5 of 12 - It remains kind of sweet and cute. It's also calm and slow moving. Oddly it reminds me of La Cuisine in its style and execution (if not content). I’m enjoying it more than I thought I would.

The Trainee (Sun YouTube) ep 7 of 12 - I don’t know. I’m getting bored.

Love Sea (Sun iQIYI) ep 10fin - Fort’s acting during the break-up was truly great. But I feel for Rak. It’s rough to learn that someone else is playing a long game with feelings while you were playing a short game with d**k.

Ultimately this is probably a solid 8/10 show but I’m mad I wasn’t madder at it, and I'm mad I was so bored throughout. So it gets a 7/10 and let us not speak of this again. I’d like to simply forget about it. Trash watch.

Ongoing Series - Not Thai

Sugar Dog Life (Japan Sun grey) ep 1-2 of 10 - OMG a uni student who looks young and a... COP! GAH. The subversion and kink of it all. I had to go grey to get it and I hate everything about what I had to do. But ya know what? Fucking worth every single repeated crash-causing advertisement.

I love it. The grumpy lonely little student cook and the cheerful mature police officer. What a fabulous dynamic. Is the cook looking for a boyfriend or a Daddy, and do we care if it has the same result? It is filmed VERY manga style camp. I’m a little nervous about that, but this means it’s also very fluffy and so damn sweet. It made me squeak with the cute. I’m gutted this didn’t get distribution.

Ironic that Tawada Hideya is in a new BL while Sunspot is re-airing.

Cosmetic Playlover (Japan Tues Gaga) eps 3-4 of 8 - Ah, the gays are doubting the bisexual again. How familiar. I like how this one is paced and moving through time, even if the relationship seems to be going comparatively slowly by contrast. I love the way Sahashi is always looking at Natsume, even when they’re in conversation with someone else. Ah yearning. I think the conflict was kind of inevitable, given the two personalities of the protagonists, and I like that. (No manufactured angst here.) But I still hope they can repair the breach and I’m still interested. Frankly this is so classically Japan - I don’t know what story beats it’s following and I’m not entirely sure where it’s going, but I kinda like that unpredictability. Makes me think it could go into "must you, Japan?" territory but fingers crossed.

I Hear the Sunspot AKA Hidamari ga Kikoeru (Japan Weds Gaga) ep 9 of 10 - I'm enjoying it very much. I could do without the girl character. I know she’s more interesting than most (this is Japan after all), but she’s not really for me. It’s the complexity of the connection between the leads (and why they like each other) that’s being executed so brilliantly in this show (and in the manga, FYI). Both actors are so on point with their roles and the nuanced emotions required of these characters that every time it’s only them interacting I'm riveted. I could do without the rest of the cast tho.

Seoul Blues (Korea Fri? YouTube) ep 1 of 8 - I have a confession to make, I’ve been watching this whole series as it goes along. But this is the pair I absolutely like the most. I’m not sure I would necessarily recommend any of the installments, and I’m not sure how this one is going to go, but I’m VERY invested in this particular couple. They are so pretty!!!! This is a true friends-to-lovers struggle. I like that a lot. (Reminds me of I Cannot Reach You but a different dynamic.) Did I mention how pretty they are? And we already know they gonna kiss well. I bet the uncut version is stellar.

Meet You at the Blossom (China) - It's no one's funeral, turns out! Reports are in - not only are there kisses but it ends happily with wedding plans. So I'm eating crow, binging the fucker, and live blogging. I'm enjoying it. Ya'll know I adored Chinese BL before censorship. It has a certain unhinged quality I very much apreciate (and is the reason I'm so tolerant of the Thai pulps) that I think will marry well with Wuxia's effervescent and ever-present tropes. Watch me suffer here.

First Note Of Love (Taiwan Mon Gaga) eps 1-2 of 12 - About a singer with stage fright and his timid fan starring Charles (H4 the puppy one) and Michael Chang (the youngster in My Tooth Your Love), plus side couple featuring a Thai actor Jame (Koh in Gen Y) and Liu Min Ting (of Guardian fame). What a damn team. With their powers combined they are...

fine.

This is a fine BL. The fight scene was fun and I like the meet cute. I’m not sure about the chemistry of the leads, but I think they’ll probably do okay. I admit I’m struggling a bit with a singing and the music. Are you surprised? I think I like it enough, but I’m not wowed.

Takara's Treasure AKA Takara No Vidro (Japan Mon Gaga) ep 7 of 10 - Oh! Out of the blue attack kiss. What IS this show? I don’t get it at all. Bah. I guess they’re dating now. It’s… so odd...

It's airing but...

4 Minutes (Thai Netflix/Grey) - A rich boy at uni suddenly gains the supernatural power to see four minutes into the future. I have a source, but I've decided to hold off and binge if it ends okay, since it's only 8 eps. I depend upon y'all to tell me if it's safe.

8/16 The Last Time (Thai Fri YT) ? eps - Convoluted story of loss and possible reincarnation or something. Again delayed? Not sure what's going on with this one but the continued push-backs do not bode well.

In case you missed it

The Time of Fever AKA Unintentional Love Story 2 (Korea movie) trailer IS COMING IN SEPTEMBER!!!! (Yeah this is gonna sit here until then).

Next Week Looks Like This:

Upcoming BLs for 2024 are listed here. This list is not kept updated, so please leave a comment if you know something new or RP with additions.

Still Coming This Month!

8/22 The On1y One (Taiwan Thurs Gaga) 12 eps - announced in 2023 this one has a high school set stepbrothers trope and is reputed to be high heat. From Taiwan! It's made for me. Based on a novel Mou Mou from the Your Name Engraved Herein folks, so it could go dark. Still, I'm very excited.

8/22 The Paradise of Thorns (Thai movie) theater release - Jeff Satur is back but this does not look like a BL (the gay lover's death is the inciting event). More in Goodbye Mother vein. Looks dark and dramatic. He opposite and extremely well known actor Toey Pongsakorn who has never done gay before.

THIS WEEK’S BEST MOMENTS

WHY IS HE SO FINE?

I truly belly laughed. Sam & Yo did not go in the direction I expected, but this scene alone made me not mind that they curtailed the suffering Sam was rightfully due. (SunsetXVibes)

Tall boyfriend armpit, anyone? (Monster Next Door)

The two extremes of BL in one show (Long Beans indeed).

(Last week)

Streaming services are listed by how I (usually) watch, which is with a USA based IP, and often offset by a day because time zones are a pain.

The tag BLigade: @doorajar @solitaryandwandering @my-rose-tinted-glasses @babymbbatinygirl @babymbbatinygirl @isisanna-blog @mmastertheone @pickletrip @aliceisathome @urikawa-miyuki @tokillamonger @sunflower-positiiivity @rocketturtle4 @blglplus @anythinggoesintheshire @everlightly @renafire @mestizashinrin @bl-bam-beyond @small-dark-and-delicious @saezurumurmurs

Sigh, Tumblr in its infinite wisdom doesn't like too many tags.

[abiatackerman]

Insecurities

Event: @levievent "Levi Month 24"

❤️‍🩹Day 14: Jealousy❤️‍🩹

Canon universe! Captain Levi Ackerman x Medic Reader! Fluffy romance! Healing words! 1.3K words

❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

"I never should've expected anything. I'm fucking stupid."

Levi Ackerman, humanity's strongest soldier, says to himself, standing on the rooftop of the survey corps hq.

He's so frustrated......

"I'm friendly to everyone, that's why I try to act friendly with you too."

Your words echo in Levi's mind as he looks up at the stars with a gloomy expression.

Right, you were just being friendly with him just like you are with everyone else. But still he hoped you liked him. How you would always smile when you noticed him, how your soft hands would stitch him up with care if he got hurt, how your face used to soften when you listened to his story without judging....

He thought maybe... Maybe you did like him. More than a friend.....

But his hopes totally got shattered today when he saw you hugging another man as intimately as you could.

It definitely wasn't his intention to sneak up and find you and your "male best friend" at the secluded corridor of the infirmary. He just accidentally spotted the scene when he went there searching for you.....

But now it's making him feel frustrated, angry and jealous.... He can't help it.... He just likes you so much.... Is it wrong for him to like someone romantically? After all he's just a human! Can't he hope for the girl he likes to like him back? Just because he's the strongest doesn't mean he's not a HUMAN!

But he knows he shouldn't feel like this. He should have known that this would eventually happen. He is a guy whose mother was a prostitute, who has no future, who's short as a midget and who can die anytime....

Why would you choose him over someone who's rich, handsome and belongs to a noble family? He was stupid to even think about the possibility.

He sighs and sits in his usual place, leaning on the wall. He takes a deep breath to calm his raging jealousy. It always helps him to calm down and to put up a stoic expression on his face. No one actually understands his actual emotions. Though he thought you knew but....

He's definitely wrong.

"Levi?"

He freezes as he hears the soft voice which never fails to make his heart beat faster. Your voice... Why are you here? The timing can't be worse.... He takes a deep breath before answering.

"What?"

He asks in a stern voice, sterner than usual. He just can't help it. He's pissed with you.

"Mood off?"

You ask, chuckling and sit beside him. You're sitting so near that he can smell your scent. As always, it's natural and sweet.

And his favourite.

"None of your business."

Levi says again, trying to ignore your presence and your scent. He should leave.... Because he will do something he'll regret later if he stays here. He was about to stand up but stops as you speak up again.

"Josh's mom died. Suicide.... His father cheated on her with a maid."

Levi freezes as he realises that you are talking about the guy he saw you earlier with. He looks at you blankly as you start to talk again.

"You know, I was so dumbfounded.... Well since we're best friends I hugged him. I don't know what else to do to comfort him. And he cried like a baby. He loved his mother."

You say as you lean on the wall and look up at the sky. Levi clicks his tongue with irritation.

Are you trying to internationally irk him up? Do you want to see how he's gonna act when he's jealous? Otherwise why are you telling him that you hugged another man when he tried to give you hints so that you'll understand he likes you?

"Why are you telling me this?"

He asks with pure annoyance and you tilt your head to look at him.

"Because I thought you deserve to know."

"And why do you think that?"

Levi's immediate question makes you sigh. You start to play with your hair and you mumble in a low tone.

"Didn't want you to think that I'm cheating with you."

Levi pauses as you say that. He doesn't understand what you meant. Does it mean that you like him too? Are you trying to imply that you two are already in a relationship? Though he doesn't mind the idea even a bit but he's feeling stupid as a brat right now. He doesn't know how to reply to your question.

"I saw you leaving when I was hugging Josh. You looked so hurt and shocked and I  wanted to explain. You have to except Josh's presence in my life. He's one of my best friends and yes he may have some feelings for me but he never acted on it. Also he supports our relationship so...."

Levi stops you before you can speak any further.

"Are you trying to imply that you care more about me? Than Josh? You shouldn't. I don't deserve it. Also we're not in a relationship"

The words escapes Levi's mouth before he can realise. He immediately regrets it as soon as he notices you expression saddens. You nod.

"I know we're not but I just thought you like me. I mean I thought you gave me hints I guess I was wrong."

Levi's face softens at your answer. He looks at your face which is slightly pink now and the moonlight is highlighting your beauty more, making you look like an angel.

"Why me?"

He asks softly.

"I don't care about a prince charming Levi, I want a scarred knight for me. Who I can heal, who I can support. Who I can truly love after knowing all of his insecurities... It is my dream also...."

You say and look into Levi's eyes. Your voice turned firmer as you speak.

"You're the most incredible person I've seen. You're loyal, honest, caring and kind but you refuse to show it all. You're so beautiful and handsome and you know it too! You're strong as hell but inside you're suffering. Yet you keep fighting, for people, for humanity. Tell me, how can I stop myself from falling for you?"

Levi looks at you with a dumbfounded expression. You can't blame him because you know he may have never heard those things before. You smile and hold one of his hands, falling in love with his blue eyes which are glowing under the moonlight.

"Also about your past? I don't care. You had to do it to live. I bet your mother is so proud of you."

You smile sweetly.

"I'm jealous of her. He has an amazing son."

Levi feels tears covering his eyes so he blinks, refusing to cry.

"Shut up."

He says in a weak tone and looks away from you.

"Also look at you, what a gentleman you are! Though you were always jealous of Josh you never once behaved harshly with him. Most men would have punched him or punished me by now."

You chuckle and Levi shakes his head with amusement. You really never fail to make him smile. Or cry...

"What do you think I am? A teenager?"

You chuckle at Levi's words and shake your head.

"So you're admitting that you were jealous?"

You ask smugly and Levi looks at you and utters his words calmly.

"I don't think so there's no point in denying it since you've confessed too."

You smile widely.

"Can I take that as a yes?"

You give him your puppy eyes and he smiles a little.

"Tch yes... But never do that again. If that's not necessary."

Your face softens and you smile brightly at his words.

"You're really a gentleman, you know that? You're practically giving me the permission to hug another men. But I promise Levi, I'll never misuse the chance."

Levi makes a pissed expression and flicks your forehead.

"I trust you. I know you won't."

You rub your forehead and smile.

"I trust you too, Levi."

[ranhaitanisgf]

heyy congrats on 2k! can i request delinquent & class president + stuck together with baji? thanks and congrats again

—baji keisuke // delinquent & student council president // stuck together

☆ ˎˊ˗ i went. soooo . overboard . this was too good though once i got going i couldn't stoppp omg. all this is lowk inspired by that one scene from the webtoon a reason to die, so iykyk :3 thank you for requesting anon, and i hope youre still around 2 years later to read this! enjoyyy xoxo

☆ ˎˊ˗ warning! small references from the 'a letter from baji keisuke' prequel series!

☆ ˎˊ˗ fem!reader

☆ ˎˊ˗ wc ; 2.5k+

masterlist || 2k masterlist

the breeze of the early evening wind was doing wonders for you at the moment; it was nice to take a moment for yourself amongst all your responsibilities and just relax. 

it was even nicer that you were able to enjoy a cold beverage after completing all your student council duties; the vending machine on the rooftop was a great investment, (you’d been against it when someone pitched the idea, but you’re so glad you approved it). all of this paired with your favorite music playing through your earbuds from your iPod? 

yeah, this was a perfect moment. 

you perked up a bit when you heard the door to the rooftop open, looking to see who was there. 

“hm? oh, baji-kun!” the boy looked over to you at the call of his name, the corners of his lips turning up when he recognized you. “what’re you still doing here? i thought you would be home already.” you asked, pulling an earbud out of your ear. 

“chifuyu and ryusei were helping me with some stuff after school and we just finished up. how ‘bout you? it’s getting pretty late.” you sighed at his query, the stress coming back to you just thinking about all the things you have left to do. 

“there was a lot of club budgeting to finish because a lot of the clubs are requesting more budget. all the presidents are getting mad at me for choosing another club over them, but it’s like, maybe if you were more productive with your club, i would allot more budget, y’know? gah, just thinking about it gives me a headache…i haven’t even finished the revised budgeting for half of them…” you shook your head, sighing at the predicament. when you looked back up, you saw baji adjusting his glasses awkwardly, as if he didn’t know what to say.

“sorry about that, baji-kun. i just came up here for a small break from it and ended up complaining about it to you.”

“nah, it’s fine. ‘m kinda like that with studying too.” 

“oh, right! how has the studying been going for you-? wait, hm…” noticing that he was still standing, you paused, slipping your school blazer off and laying it down next to you, patting it. “here, come sit down! you don’t have to keep standing, y’know. i’m not gonna bite!” you teased, feeling satisfied when he came and sat down next to you. 

“anyways! how has the studying been? have your test scores been alright lately?” 

“yeah, they’ve been alright. enough to pass.” 

“i’m glad to hear it! you’re improving so much, it’s so impressive! oh, you can also always ask me for a tutoring session or if you need anything. that’s what i’m here for!” you offered, smiling at him. “i admire your diligence, so i’m happy to help with anything!” 

baji nodded at your words, a small smile on his lips. “yeah, thanks.” 

after a few moments of silence, you offered one of your earbuds to baji, who accepted. you weren’t sure if the two of you had the same music taste, but you figured it was worth a try, and surprisingly, he didn’t seem to complain at all. in fact, he even complimented your song choice, which made you feel a very normal amount of happy. a very normal amount. 

˗ˏˋ ☆ ˎˊ˗

you were scared awake by a sudden yell, jerking as you immediately sat up, wondering what was going on. 

“hey!! open this door right now!!” the banging on the door drew your attention to baji, who was no longer by your side and was yelling at the door. “hello?! shit…” he walked away from it, sighing a bit. 

now that you were a bit more awake and coherent, you realized that it was dark outside. 

oh shit…

“ohhh my god, i’m gonna be in so much trouble, ohhhh my god…” you mumbled, scrambling for your phone to check what time it was. when you finally found it and flipped it open, the only thing that popped up on the screen was the dead battery symbol, making you groan. 

“uh…” baji started, seeming a bit awkward. “the door…is locked.” 

“what?!” you exclaimed, shooting up and walking towards the door. you tried the doorknob to no avail, proving baji’s words to be true. “oh my god…dude, i’m so dead. school administration might actually kill me if they find out about this…” 

baji was running a hand through his hair, also seeming to be very stressed. “my mom’s gonna kick my ass…” 

now that you were looking more closely, you realized that baji had ditched his glasses and that his ponytail was gone, making him seem almost unrecognizable. in fact, you might not have recognized him if you’d passed by him on the street looking this way. 

in all honesty, he actually looked so much better without the thick lenses of his glasses blocking the view of his amber eyes, and you thought that his dark hair being free from a hair tie suits him a lot better. you’re curious to see how he dresses outside of school now; he would probably fit streetwear pretty good-

wait, you have to focus. there are more important things to be thinking about right now. 

right, right. 

focus. 

“baji-kun, does your phone have any battery?” 

“no…” he mumbled, his hands shoved into his pockets as he looked at the sky. you sighed, trying to think of something. in the midst of your thinking, a chilly breeze blew by, making you shiver a bit. 

“ahh, i can’t believe this is happening.” you murmured, laughing a bit at the ridiculousness of the situation. “actually though, i’m sorry about this, baji-kun. you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.” you said, feeling a bit guilty. after all, you had been the one who had offered for him to sit down with you, and from what you remember, you were the one who fell asleep. 

“it’s fine, i fell asleep too.” he said, leaning down to grab your school blazer off of the floor. “here, put this back on. it’s cold.” he tossed it over to you and you gladly accepted it, brushing some of the dust off before slipping it on. it helped a bit against the cold, but you supposed you underestimated how chilly the nights get in the spring. 

baji sat back down, taking his school blazer off and setting it beside him, loosening his lie. he leaned his head back against the wall and shoved his hands into his pockets. he seemed to have given up in trying to get someone’s attention, instead accepting the situation. you were about to sit down again and do the same, but you suddenly got an idea, shuffling around in your pockets for some spare change. 

“yes! 500 yen!” you whispered excitedly, walking up to the vending machine. “hey, baji-kun, do you like red bean?” 

“huh? yeah, why?”

“one sec…” you answered, putting the coins in the machine. you picked out two red bean buns, watching as they slowly dispensed and fell into the bottom compartment. reaching into the bottom, you grabbed both of them, walking a few steps and sitting next to baji. 

“i mean, it isn’t exactly dinner, but it’s something!” you said, offering one of the buns to baji. he accepted it, saying something about paying you back as he opened the wrapper, immediately taking a huge bite. you did the same, not realizing how hungry you were until you started eating it. 

“i’m actually such a genius for this!” you exclaimed, continuing to munch on the bread. “it’s so lucky that i ended up approving the budget for this vending machine!” silence fell over the two of you as you continued eating, but you felt more content than awkward. you’re glad that you ended up stuck here with someone nice like baji. 

speaking of baji, you were still a bit caught off guard by how different he looked without his glasses and ponytail. of course, you’d noticed how cute he was even before, but the word you would go with now is more like…attractive? 

really attractive, but still cute. 

“what?” 

“huh?” 

“you were lookin’ at me.” you felt your cheeks flush, a bit embarrassed at the fact that he caught you looking at him. 

“oh, i was just thinking, you look a lot different without your glasses. do you actually need them?” baji seemed to think for a moment before he spoke again. 

“nah, i jus’ don’t want people gettin’ the wrong idea about me.” he ended up saying. “i’m trying to get better with school, so if i go around lookin’ the way i do…” 

“girls will be attracted to you?” baji sputtered at your words, almost spitting out the bread that was in his mouth. 

“hah?! no!! it’s ‘cause i don’t want people knowing i’m in a gang!!” your jaw dropped at his words, and he subsequently smacked his hand over his face. 

the information was a huge shock to you. of course, you’d heard the rumors, but you’d chalked them up to just that; rumors. after all, even though baji wasn’t someone with perfect grades, you always saw him trying his best to get his grades up, and you really admired that. 

“you…pff…you’re in a gang?! riiight…” you managed to get out, giggles starting to overtake your words. “baji-kun, you literally dressed in a sailor school uniform to get extra tutoring-!” 

“hey! that was one time!” he grumbled, his ears turning pink. you finished laughing, wiping some tears from your eyes as you calmed down. 

“okay okay, sorry. i mean, are you being serious though?” you asked, feeling a bit curious.

“yeah. only losers lie about stuff like that.” 

“okay, which one then?” 

“toman.” again, your mouth dropped at his answer, but you recovered quicker than before. 

“t-toman, like tokyo manji gang…right. yes. wait, would you get arrested if people found out you were in a gang? why can’t anybody know?”

“it’s ‘cause then random dudes start showin’ up at school to fight, and then i get in trouble for fighting.”

“ohh, i guess that makes sense. why would they bother you at school though? school isn’t the place for that stuff…”

“dunno. it just gets annoying to deal with after a while, and my mom always kicked my ass when the school called her, so it was kinda crap.” you nodded thoughtfully at his words. 

“well, your secret’s safe with me, baji-kun! pinky promise i won’t say a word to anyone!” you held your pinky out, but he just looked away from you. 

“i believe you, you don’t have to-”

“c’mon!! it’s not a pinky promise if you don’t lock pinkies, y’know.” 

“...fine.” you cheered as baji relented, gently wrapping his pinky around yours. you shook your crossed pinkies and let go, feeling satisfied, (why did that small contact with him make your heart skip a beat?) 

“there! and you can beat me up or something if i break it.” you joked, leaning your head back against the wall.

“i’m not gonna beat you up.” 

“eh? why not?” 

“i don’t hit girls.” he said matter of factly, his tone quite serious. “only assholes hit girls.” you stared at him for a moment, seeing the dead serious look on his face before you smiled, closing your eyes. 

“y’know, you’re a pretty stand up guy, baji-kun. i like that about you.” you hadn’t meant to say the last part, but you were hoping he would just ignore it. 

“...thanks.” after that, there was a comfortable silence between the two of you, the only light source being the moon. you enjoyed living in tokyo, but if there was one thing you didn’t like, it was the fact that you couldn’t see the stars at all. 

“this wall is so uncomfortable…” you muttered, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep again. you’d long since given up on trying to get off the rooftop, so you figured that you might as well get some sleep since you were sure tomorrow was going to be interesting, (you weren’t looking forward to having that conversation with the principal). 

abruptly, you felt baji’s arm across your chest, pushing the side of your head to land on his shoulder. 

“better?” he asked, seeming to have no reaction. 

“uh, yeah…isn’t this uncomfortable for you though?” 

“nah.” 

“o-okay…” you said hesitantly. if you weren’t so tired, you probably wouldn’t have been able to sleep from how flustered you were right now; after all, you’ve never had a boy offer you his shoulder to sleep on, so why wouldn’t you be flustered?

it definitely wasn’t because it was baji. 

definitely not….

it was definitely because it was baji. 

˗ˏˋ ☆ ˎˊ˗

bonus: 

chifuyu and ryusei both looked down at the sight in front of them, shock filling their bodies. 

they’d been worried when baji had skipped the toman meeting yesterday evening, and they had been even more worried when his phone had been switched off, spending the rest of the night trying to find out what happened to him. however, now that they knew what had happened, they were about to burst their seams from laughter. 

“pff…do, hah, do we wake them up?” chifuyu whispered, his cell phone out and snapping pictures. 

“n-nah, haha, they look pretty cozy…pfff…” ryusei whispered back, his cell phone also out and snapping pictures from every angle. 

in front of them was baji and you, your head resting on his shoulder and his head resting on top of your head, dozing off without a care in the world. he had draped his blazer over the both of you as a blanket, and if one didn’t know any better, they might think that the two of you were a couple. 

“pff…this is some good blackmail stuff,” ryusei chuckled, exuding a proud aura. “look at toman’s little keisuke, all grown up now and sleeping with his crush! that’s what dreams are made.” chifuyu spluttered at ryusei’s words, a shocked expression on his face. 

“baji-san has a crush on (y/n)-san?! isn’t she the student council president?!” he whisper-yelled. ryusei nodded and shrugged. 

“the heart wants what the heart wants, or something.” 

“both of you, shut the fuck up.” 

“eek!” 

“gah!” 

baji glared at the two boys in front of him, holding up a finger to his lips, telling them to shush. 

“what’re you still doin’ here? scram.” they both immediately made a beeline for the door, fearful of baji’s wrath after being woken up from sleep. 

baji rubbed his eyes, yawning a bit as he looked around. he’s not sure what time it is, but he’s glad that it was only those two idiots who saw the two of you and nobody else. 

we should probably get up and get to class before someone else comes up here. 

he turned to the side to wake you up, but he stopped, looking at your sleeping form. he chuckled a bit when he saw your messed up hair, wondering how it got so messed up when the two of you were sleeping sitting up. he leaned back against the wall, staring up at the clouds passing by. 

just five more minutes.