#i need to get better at resting. i spend a lot of time thinking but. i need to get better at not feeling bad for resting.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Bradford Has a Princess

I used one of the amazing Tim Bradford ideas posted by @nevereclipse for this!! I hope you like it and it's along the lines of what you were thinking!☺️

Pairing: Tim Bradford x younger(24-26y/o)!fem!reader

Summary: Tim Bradford is whipped for you, treats you with nothing but the best princess treatment, and when his fellow officers call him out on it, he realizes how he truly feels about you.

Warnings: fluff! princess treatment and Tim being a SOFTIE™

Word Count: 1.6k+ words

You blow your hair out of your face before you tug it painfully behind your ear.

“Easy,” your boyfriend mutters, reaching over carefully. He gathers your hair much gentler than you had, pulls it loosely behind your ears, and uses the hair tie he wears around his wrist to secure it. “Better?”

You hum before you say, “Thank you, Tim.”

His hand moves down your back, resting comfortably against the base. After you finish your project, you take a paper towel from the nearby roll and wipe your hands.

“Need anything else?” Tim asks.

You smile over your shoulder as you rest against Tim’s chest. He’s older than you, and though some people might frown upon your relationship, you love him, not only because of the selfless way he treats you. Tim places his arm around your shoulders, then uses his free hand to pull your hand closer to him. He traces his thumb over your knuckles, then looks at your nails as his calloused palm holds you like you are the most precious thing in his life, in the world.

“I can make you an appointment at the nail salon you like,” he offers. “Tuesday?”

Tim shifts his hands, running his fingertips up and down your palm as he smiles.

“I can wait,” you answer. “I actually saw a kit online that lets you make your own nail art. Maybe I should try that next time.”

“Send me the link.”

Tim kisses your temple, then twirls the ends of your hair around his fingers. He decides he could spend forever here and wouldn’t even care what his friends thought about it.

“Tim!” Angela calls. “We’re all going to Andre’s.”

“Actually,” he begins.

“No, you skipped out the last three times, you’re coming with.”

“No arguments,” Nyla adds. “We might even make you pay.”

Tim sighs, his shoulders dropping as he nods. He follows them out of the station and is unsurprised to see Lucy, Nolan, Aaron, and Wesley waiting in the parking lot.

“Tim, you’re coming too?” Wesley asks. “I thought you’d finally sworn off fraternization.”

“Ha ha,” Tim deadpans.

“Can I ride with you?” Aaron asks. “My car’s getting a new wrap and Wesley’s backseat is a little tight with the carseats.”

Tim doesn’t answer but doesn’t say no, so Lucy nods and encourages Aaron to go. Aaron climbs into Tim’s passenger seat and buckles his seatbelt without a word.

“Oh,” he exclaims as Tim backs out of the space. “Who’s the Dior lip gloss belong to?” He lifts the tube out of the floorboard and recognizes it as part of a set his mom has. “This is expensive, they must be missing it.”

“She knows it’s here,” Tim grumbles, extending his hand to take it.

“Your sister?” Aaron guesses as Tim places it in the center console. He sees several other items, like a scrunchie, a receipt, and powder.

“None of your business,” Tim snaps. “Why are you getting an expensive car wrapped, anyway?”

“Because I can.”

Tim and Aaron fall silent, Tim thinking about you as Aaron wonders if the others know about the woman taking up space in Tim Bradford’s truck and in his life.

During your next date night, Tim opens the door for you, then wraps his arm around your waist as you enter the restaurant. He moves to his left to stand slightly behind you as you wait to be seated, and you smile over your shoulder at him.

At your table, Tim pulls your chair out for you, but you stop before you sit when someone says his name. You turn, and Tim’s shoulders tense beneath his blazer.

“Angela,” he greets tightly. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m on a date,” she answers with a smile. She looks at you before she asks, “And you?”

You sense the tension and interrupt to introduce yourself. You provide your name and shake her hand, then look to Tim.

“My girlfriend,” he tells Angela. “We’re on a date, so…”

“I’ll ask more later then. I mean that Timothy, you have a lot to tell me.” She turns toward you again and says, “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”

Alone, you take Tim’s hand across the table and apologize for interrupting him and his friend. He promises that he wasn’t bothered by that and assures you that he wasn’t avoiding introducing you on purpose but was just surprised. You fall into easy conversation, as usual, and the date is over far too soon.

When the waiter leaves the check on the corner of the table, you ask, “Going Dutch?”

“Going insane if you think I’m letting you pay for a date,” Tim mumbles before speaking up to say, “My treat.”

Tim offers his blazer before you walk out into the windy Los Angeles night, and you wrap your hands around his arm as he leads you to his truck. You’ve never felt as loved and as cherished as you do with Tim Bradford.

As you enter Tim’s house, he uses your joined hands to pull you back toward him. He dips his chin, gesturing for you to sit on the couch, then lowers to the table before it. With a gentle touch, Tim runs his hands down your leg, from your knee to your ankle. After he hooks his finger under the strap of your heel, he pulls your foot up, resting your calf on his knee to unhook the small buckle against your ankle and remove your shoe. He repeats the process with the other shoe, then lays his hands on your knees and leans forward.

“Hi,” you whisper with a smile.

Tim smiles in the proximity, then runs his hands up your legs to rest on your thighs.

“I love you,” you add.

“I love you,” he replies before he moves beside you on the couch, cups the back of your neck in his hand, and pulls into a kiss that proves it.

Tim stops mid-step as he enters the roll call room the following morning. Angela and Aaron are perched atop the tables to watch him with matching looks.

“What?” Tim asks.

“You have a girlfriend,” Angela says.

“That I’m thinking you bought Dior for,” Aaron adds.

“Who are you and what did you do with Timothy Bradford?”

“Yes, I have a girlfriend, and I bought her some makeup,” Tim admits. “What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal?” Aaron repeats incredulously. “You, Tim Bradford, are whipped.”

“He took her to an expensive restaurant last night,” Angela tells Aaron without looking away from Tim. “I bet he footed the bill, too.”

“There is no reason to be discussing this at work,” Tim points out. “So, drop it.”

“Drop what?” Lucy asks from the doorway.

One word, Tim mouths to Aaron. Aaron nods, but Angela smiles. Tim knows he has no power over her, but when she changes the subject, he sighs and nods once. She’ll bring it up again when he least expects it, but for now, the ‘news’ of his ‘being whipped’ for you is contained. He isn’t ashamed of you, of course, but some things need to be private.

Immediately after walking into Tim’s house, he kisses you so hard that you can feel the sticky texture of your lip gloss as it smears from the corners of your lips and onto your chin. When he pulls back, holding you up as you blink at him, breathless, he uses his thumb to wipe away the shiny mess he made.

“I missed you too,” you say.

“I was told today that I’m whipped,” Tim replies.

You furrow your brows, and Tim taps his knuckle against your forehead and smiles as he shakes his head. You relax but hold his side as you wait for more information.

“Aaron and Angela know about you, and he told me I was whipped. I realized that he’s right.”

Terrified that Tim is about to break up with you after this realization, you pull your bottom lip between your teeth. He huffs and tugs it free.

“I am more in love with you than I ever dreamed of being capable of. So…”

Tim is clearly trying to find the right words, and you smile as you offer, “Incandescently happy?”

“Completely and incandescently happy,” he agrees. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Tim smiles, then notices he disturbed your outfit with his sudden affection. He tugs the ridden-up fabric down over your hips before dragging his fingertips along your upper arm to fix your top.

“Remember when you bought me the makeup wipes?” you ask.

Tim nods and inquires, “Do you need them?”

You try to contain your smile but fail. “No, you just proved you can take off lip gloss without them.”

Tim tugs you closer, hooks his arms under your hips, and lifts you up. You gasp in surprise before gripping his shoulders. After he carries you to the kitchen and sets you on the counter, he takes your shoes off and stands between your legs.

“Should I make dinner or are you going to keep distracting me?”

You tap your finger against your jaw and pretend to ponder the question. “That depends… will your friends still be okay with this relationship when they find out you’re a cradle robber?”

“Maybe I should give you back then.”

You pout, and Tim kisses your forehead before he turns away. He passes you a bouquet of red roses, then sets a glass of your favorite beverage beside you. It’s the response you hoped for, and after you gently place the flowers aside, you pull Tim closer by his collar and smile against his lips.

[spaceman-earthgirl]

“Agatha and Rio arrived at school together this morning,” Jen says by way of greeting, dropping her books on the table and joining Alice and Lilia.

Alice looks up, half intrigued, but Lilia keeps her head down, ignoring Jen except for a little wave in greeting.

It’s before school, and the staff room is mostly empty, giving them plenty of space to gossip before the school day starts. Though not a lot of time, the bell for first period is about to ring so they better make this quick.

“When you say ‘arrived together’ do you mean they got out of the same car, or just walked into the building together?" Alice asks.

Jen deflates a little. “I saw them walk into the building together.”

“Then that proves nothing,” Alice says, returning to her book too.

It’s been a hot topic of discussion over the last few months, what’s going on between the two of them, ever since Alice had seen them in the hallway together, Agatha laughing at something Rio said. 

The way Alice tells it, Rio even touched Agatha’s arm, but that detail was added after a few retellings so Jen isn’t so sure about that part.

Either way, ever since they noticed, they can’t stop speculating, because even just the few times Jen has seen them interact since, there’s definitely been a vibe.

Lilia has repeated on multiple occasions that she thinks they’re together, but they need proof.

And Jen is determined to find it.

---

“Someone sent Agatha flowers.”

Jen grins, Alice always gets the good gossip.

“Who are they from?” Jen asks. There’s a pile of homework she needs to grade before her next class but this is more important.

“I’m not sure, I was in the main office when they got delivered. I managed to sneak a look at the card but all it had on it was a little green heart.”

Jen thinks about this for a minute. “A secret admirer perhaps? Maybe even one who teaches biology a few doors down.”

“There’s no way to prove that,” Alice says, but she still looks on board with this information.

“What if we just ask Agatha?” Jen asks, keeping a straight face for as long as she can before she bursts out laughing, Alice, and even Lilia joining in.

“It’d be your funeral,” Alice says.

And Jen knows it would be.

Agatha is snarky and no bullshit and you always want her on your side in an argument. There’s no way she’s risking Agatha’s bad side.

When she’d first met Agatha, she’d wondered why someone like her would even want to be a teacher, and then she’d actually seen her with her students and she’d changed her mind. Agatha might be scary, but she has a way with kids that Jen didn’t expect.

Maybe it’s the no bullshit thing that kids respect, but whatever it is, the kids love Agatha and she seems to love them too.

But there is still no way she’d ever ask Agatha about her personal life. From what Jen can gather from their limited interactions is that Agatha is a private person, and she’s not going to question that.

She really hopes Agatha never finds out that their favourite way to spend their lunch break is gossip about her and the chemistry she clearly has with Rio.

read the rest on ao3 or under the cut

---

“I just saw Agatha and Rio having lunch together in Agatha’s classroom.”

They really don’t greet each other normally anymore, they just spill gossip. She hopes the other teachers don’t overhear them. Or if they do, they have gossip to contribute.

“I knew it,” Jen says, like that’s the proof they needed when in fact it proves nothing except the fact that they’re friends.

Which they knew already, so that’s not news. They've seen them together enough to know that they're friends, which only adds fuel to their speculation because Agatha doesn't have any other friends at school besides Rio.

“And they were sharing a sandwich,” Alice adds.

Ok, that might be something. 

“’Lady and the tramp’ style?” Jen asks, because that’s the first thought that pops into her mind when Alice says it and she also knows Alice will hate her question.

As expected, she gets a withering gaze in return. “No not ‘lady and the tramp’ style, they were sharing a sandwich like normal people do, Rio handed Agatha half of her sandwich, but that’s all I glimpsed as I walked by.”

“I mean, that’s kind of something I guess?” Jen says. “Lilia, back me up?”

Lilia barely looks up from the book she’s buried in. “You already know my opinion on the matter, but that alone proves nothing.”

“I’m adding that to the list of signs they’re dating,” Jen decides after some thought. It doesn’t really prove anything either way, but she’s going to figure it out.

---

“Guess who is chaperoning the school lock in tonight together?” Jen asks. She feels like this is good information.

“I’m guessing Agatha and Rio?” Alice answers, taking a carrot stick from the container Jen offers. 

“As well as about 10 other teachers,” Lilia pipes in, ruining the fun.

Lilia is still firmly in the camp of “they’re definitely together, and why bother gossiping about someone else’s personal life?” but even she sometimes gets involved. She’d been the one that noticed Rio wearing a shirt she swears up and down she’d seen Agatha wear before.

But maybe they just shop at the same place, so that proved nothing either.

“Are either of you two chaperoning?” Jen asks. When they were taking volunteers, she’d said no. She couldn’t think of anything worse than being locked in the gym overnight with a bunch of kids. 

Agatha doesn’t usually volunteer for school activities either, which is why this is a little suspicious.

“No,” Alice says as Lilia shakes her head.

Damn, she wishes she’d volunteered now, they might’ve gotten some good intel.

On Monday, they get no information from any of the other teachers because she’s pretty sure no one else is as invested as they are so that’s a bust.

---

Jen is halfway through her sandwich when Agatha walks into the staff room. She watches in surprise as Agatha crosses the room, takes a seat at the only empty table and pulls out her lunch.

“Do you think they’ve had a fight?” Alice asks, as quietly as she can. There’s no need to ask who she’s talking about, they all know.

They’re all fairly certain that Agatha and Rio spend every lunch break together, so why not today?

The logical answer is that she’s busy so Agatha is eating alone but gossip and speculation isn’t logical.

A couple minutes later, Rio walks in and the imaginative side of Jen’s brain runs away with her, to the point that by the time Rio has crossed the room, Jen is expecting a fight because in her mind they’ve broken up, but all Rio does is sit down next to Agatha and pull out her own food.

Jen deflates a little. Not that she’d wanted a fight, but it at least meant they might get some drama.

That doesn’t stop her from watching them though. As subtly as she can, of course. She can see Alice and Lilia doing the same, all three looking for clues to whether something is going on between them or not.

But it’s about as boring as watching anyone else each lunch. All they’re doing is talking and eating and Jen is just starting to wonder if maybe they’re reading too much into things when it happens.

Jen can’t see from where she’s sitting what Agatha is eating, but whatever it is, it must be messy enough for Agatha to get something on her face. Rio reaches out and wipes her thumb across Agatha’s lips, removing whatever food was there, before bringing the thumb to her own mouth to lick it clean.

Alice immediately clutches Jen’s arm, clearly just having seen it too.

They (again, subtly) watch in silence until Agatha and Rio get up and leave not long later, nothing else eventful happening after the incidentTM.

“Did you see that?” Alice asks as soon as Agatha and Rio are gone.

“That is not 'just friends’ behaviour,” Jen says, still in shock at what they’d witnessed. Maybe there was something to this after all.

“I mean-“ Alice starts, like she’s about to justify it.

“No. Do you ever do that with your friends?”

“No,” Alice says, her cheeks going red.

“Exactly. So we’re adding this to the list of evidence that they’re dating.” Not that that list is very long, but if they’re not dating, then they’re clearly into each other, evidenced not just by what Rio had done, but by the fact that Agatha hadn’t punched her afterwards.

---

It’s early, earlier than she’d usually arrive at school, but they have a school spirit event today so they’d all arrived early to set up their classrooms.

But before that, Jen needs coffee.

There are a few other teachers on campus, all trying to get an early start on the day, so she’s not surprised when they walk into the staff room and find they’re not alone.

What she very much is surprised by, however, is that the two people in the room are Agatha and Rio.

And they’re kissing.

It’s a fairly chaste kiss, as far kisses go, which is probably good considering they’re at school. But Agatha is pressed close to Rio, Rio crowded against the counter.

At least their hands are in appropriate places.

The noise of the door closing must alert them to the fact that they’re not alone as they break the kiss and turn towards the noise.

“Morning,” Rio smiles, giving a small wave. She makes no move to push Agatha away though and Agatha doesn’t move either. Agatha does give a flippant wave in their direction which Jen is assuming is also a hello.

Clearly, they don’t care that they’ve been caught because Rio turns back to Agatha, saying something too quietly for them to hear but whatever it is, Agatha laughs.

Jen will blame the lack of coffee and the fact that they’ve been speculating about this for months for her next words.

“You two are together?” Jen asks before she can stop herself. There definitely was a more tactful way to ask that but it’s too late.

“I told you,” Lilia says, as Agatha and Rio turn back to them, finally stepping apart. Lilia pays everyone no mind as she walks across the room and starts making herself a coffee.

Jen ignores her, too focused on the two women on the other side of the room.

Agatha looks mad now, which is a little scary, but Rio looks amused.

“Are you serious?” Agatha asks, voice gruff, and Jen is starting to have regrets. But they’re in this now, and there’s only one way to find out the truth.

“We just…” Jen looks to Alice for support, but she holds her hands up in a way that says ‘don’t make me a part of this’. 

Traitor.

“We’d just noticed you two spending a lot of time together and you obviously have chemistry so we couldn’t help wondering if something was going on.”

Rio looks even more amused, and there’s a slight quirk to Agatha’s lips too which means she’s at least not contemplating killing her right now.

“You know nothing exciting ever happens in Westview,” Jen adds, like it justifies their actions. “It was just idle gossip.”

“Well, Rio starts. “You know, I saw Agatha and I just couldn’t stay away. I’ve been trying to get her to go on a date with me all year, it was those sexy reading glasses that-

Agatha gives Rio a slight shove, pushing her away and cutting her off. Agatha still doesn’t look mad at least. “We’re married,” Agatha says with a roll of her eyes, but the look is directed at Rio.

“See, I just couldn’t stay away,” Rio grins, gesturing to Agatha. “All she did was ask me one little question and now I’m hers fore-“

“Stop,” Agatha cuts in, giving Rio another playful shove but she’s looking at Rio with such affection that no one could deny them being in love. “Or else you’re walking home.”

Rio holds her hands up in surrender with a grin.

“You’re married?” Jen finally asks, incredulous. She almost feels like she’s intruding on something.

How on earth did they miss that?

“We’ve been married for eight years,” Agatha supplies, looking a little annoyed again. It’s very clear that the annoyance is directed at them, and not Rio. “It’s not a secret, everyone knows.”

Jen’s mouth drops open. 

“Or we thought everyone did.” Rio says, taking Agatha’s hand, threading their fingers together. “We have a kid too, if that helps,”

Jen feels each new piece of information like a physical blow. She needs to lie down, this is too much this early in the morning.

They clearly missed a lot.

“Come on,” Rio says, giving Agatha’s hand a tug. “Let’s leave these guys to whatever it is they’ve got going on here.”

“Sorry,” Jen says, having the decency to look sheepish as Agatha and Rio walk past them.

Even more so when Agatha stops and turns to them. 

“Maybe next time, don’t gossip about people behind their backs. If you have a question, just ask.”

“You heard the lady,” Rio winks, tugging on Agatha’s hand once more and then they’re alone again.

Jen and Alice wait a few short moments, making sure Agatha and Rio are out of earshot before they turn to each other.

“Oh my God,” Jen says, at the same time Alice says “I thought Agatha might hit you there for a moment.”

“I told you so,” Lilia says, carefully setting down three cups of coffee on their usual table.

She’s a lifesaver.

“I’m sorry, you did,” Jen says, gratefully accepting the mug. “Next time, I’ll believe you.”

“I can’t believe we missed it, all this time,” Alice says, looking equally grateful for her drink.

“Technically we missed nothing, we thought something might be going on and we were right.”

Jen is sticking by the fact that they got this one right.

“Yeah,” Alice says. “But married for eight years is a little different than wondering if two people are dating.”

Jen waves her off. “Details. But don’t think I will forget that you basically threw me under the bus there.”

Alice is the one who looks sheepish now. “Sorry, but she’s scary.”

Jen won’t deny that. “So, who’s going to be our next source of gossip? We’re going to need something new to talk about.”

Alice rolls her eyes but doesn’t protest, which is either because she’s too tired this early, or because she wants the gossip too.

Probably both.

“What about your love life?” Jen teases, earning a glare from Alice that she knew was coming. So, what? It’s easy to wind her up.

“Don’t you dare,” Alice warns.

“Fine,” Jen laughs. She’s sure they’ll find something else to gossip about, at least for now they’ve solved the Agatha and Rio mystery. 

Which wasn’t really a mystery after all, because it was common knowledge.

Apparently they were just the last to find out.

[changingplumbob]

Sup, it's ya boy Joey here! The one that is aware we are in a simulation. Well my watcher Kirsty has been brainstorming and she thinks she's got a schedule sorted. I told her she should let you know what input she is wanting from you for each stage so you can think about it in advance. I know, I know, I'm a genius. It's my trait, I can't help it.

Introduction Round

This will be when my older sister Devin gives a quick interview to each contestant and they meet Deanna and get to chat for a few hours. First impressions will be taken in to account for scoring but no one will go home.

You will be asked:

Three or four questions about your contestant from Devin (answer as your contestant)

Then contestants will be sorted into households to space out those that have high and low scores (e.g. household 1 will have the contestants ranked 1st, 7th, 13th, 19th, 25th) to try and have opportunities for all contestants. I will contact you about who is sharing a household with your sim. You will then be asked:

How they feel about being in their group, if they are looking forward to meeting anyone or concerned about getting along with anyone (answer as your contestant)

Excuse me Joey, I need to take over for a second.

Rounds 1 to 6

We will be with each household for 2 days, then have a group day where everyone comes together for the challenge, then have a further 2 days with each household. For that final day all contestants get to spend time with Deanna regardless of if they have or haven't won a challenge and solo date that week.

You will receive:

Brief description of the challenges in that round Number of skill building sections that week List of skills that could be helpful for that round and the following round

What is a skill building section?

A chunk of time I have allocated to let sims work on skills that will help them perform better in challenges for solo dates. When they are not in these sections or doing a challenge or on a date they will have time to chat with other contestants and Deanna.

What I need to receive back:

For each of the three weekly challenges: How your contestant feels about this challenge (answer as your contestant, 1 to 3 sentences) How your contestant reacts if they win and get a date (answer as your contestant, 1 to 2 sentences) How your contestant reacts if they lose (answer as your contestant, 1 to 2 sentences) For the skill building sections: Which skill you would like me to make sure your sim works on for each section. You can work on the same skill for all sections of time or have them all be different but they should be from the list I provide for you.

What about dates?

In the first round while we are all finding our feet Deanna will pick a date location. In further rounds you will receive:

A list of lot types your sim can pick from if they get a solo date

I will need to receive:

Your contestants top 2 choices

Eliminations

These will happen at the end of each round and will be calculated by friendship/romance bars overall not just per household.

Before an elimination you will receive:

Your sims current levels but NOT where that puts them amongst other contestants Reminder of prompts requested

I will need to receive (answer as your contestant, 1 to 3 sentences for each):

How your contestant feels going in to the elimination Their reaction if eliminated Their reaction if staying What they think is their highlight and lowlight of that round

Post Elimination

We will have some filler posts with all the contestants reactions/opinions on their "day of rest". This is so I do not have to spoil it for you if your contestant is going or staying before the post comes out. I will send the next rounds information to your ask box and request you try to respond within a week so I can start playing again.

Finale Round

Each of the top 4 will have a whole day with Deanna. I will provide a list of things I think your sim may enjoy doing and you can choose.

Potential Idea

I don't want your fun to end just because your sim goes home. If you think it's a good idea I am considering having all sims at all eliminations. I would then send eliminated sims similar questions like:

Which household have you enjoyed seeing this round Is there a challenge you are glad you didn't have to do Is there anyone you think is in danger of being eliminated Is there anyone you think deserves to be safe this round

That way we can keep everyone involved. I will ask in my first official ask to you if you would like to opt in or out of this. If you do not wish to keep being bothered after your sim is out I can make up some answers.

The Bottom Line

I enjoy writing dialogue as you may have guessed so would like this BC to feature dialogue. Since you have put so much time and effort in to sim creation I think it only fair that you give your sim a voice for some of their dialogue while I will handle the filler dialogue bits during challenges, dates, group meals etc. Hopefully your sims backstory and their answers to the questions can give me a feel of how to write them.

This is a big undertaking, it will take us several months but I should only need to contact you once every few weeks over this span. I would like it to feel collaborative which is why I am offering this all in option and saying I am just hosting the challenge. I want it to be a place for all your sims to shine and people who may not follow you yet fall in love with your dialogue or sim and become your mutual! Because simming is the most fun when you can talk to some people about your sims.

If you would like to opt out of all in, please let me know. Thanks for going on this journey with me. I hope there are some good surprises along the way and we can build connection with our fellow simmers.

@matchalovertrait, @daedriyth, @abbysimsfun, @ethicaltreatmentofcowplants, @ravingsockmonkey

@sanitysims, @perolesims, @ashubii, @pixeldistractions, @paracosmic-sims

@cawthorntales, @riverofjazzsims, @igglemouse, @invisiblequeen, @corrienteallita

@jonquilyst, @lostinsixam, @simscici, @simstagramsomeone, @berrysims-lp

@eljeebee, @belsasim, @hashimasims

Currently we have 7 open slots. These will be filled by filler sims who will leave the competition first if we do not get all slots filled. Just comment below the contestant list post if you would like to join us!

[nomairuins]

its so embarassing likee. going to talk abt a feeling you have but you already know ppl will be like Oh that sounds like depression lol and its like. well yes . i know . trust me i am so aware i am depressed . but its still like a thing ive been thinking abt and wanting to talk abt but ik itll just be like Ok hun 👍. idk idk what response i would want tho ig FNFNFNF

[loverboybrightsideghost]

god i can't wait to take my acting class

[daydreamerdrew]

The Defenders (1972) #70

[be-good-to-bugs]

the world isnt so bad

[vadlings]

Represention of Autistic Frustration in Laios Dungeon Meshi

Like many other autistic people, I related strongly to Laios Touden while reading Dungeon Meshi. This post isn't going to spend time disputing whether he displays autistic traits or not—while I could do that, I want to focus on why specifically his portrayal struck a chord with me in a way the writing of most other autistic-coded characters has not.

Disclaimer: as the above suggests, this post is strongly informed by my own experiences as an autistic person, as well as the experiences of my neurodivergent friends with whom I have spoken about this subject. I want to clarify that in no way am I asserting my personal experience to be some Universal Autistic Experience. This post is about why Laios' character feels distinct and significant to me in regard to autistic representation, and while I'm at it, I do feel that I have interesting things to say about autistic representation in media generally. This also got a bit long, so I'm sticking it under a read more. Spoilers for up to the end of chapter 88 below.

The thing that stands out most to me in regard to Laios' characterisation is the open anger he displays when someone points out his inability to read other people. This comes up prominently in his interactions with "Shuro" (Toshiro Nakamoto):

The frustration pictured above (Laios continuing to physically tussle with Toshiro, using crude language toward him) becomes even more notable when you remember that this is Laios, who, outside of these interactions, is not easily fazed and often exists as a lighthearted contrast to the rest of the cast. Then we get to Laios' nightmare.

In Falin's words: "Nightmares love emotional wounds. Wounds you hold in your heart. Things that give you stress, or things that were traumatic for you. They aggravate memories like that and cause the dreamer to have terrible dreams." (chapter 42, page 10.) (damn. i'm properly citing for this post and everything.)

Thus, Laios' nightmare establishes an important fact: even if he is unable to recognise social blunders while he's making them, he's at least subconsciously aware that other people operate on a different wavelength to him, and that he's an outsider in many of his social circles (both past and present). His dream-father's disparaging words stress the impact this has had upon his ability to live up to the expectations set out for him, and we also get a panel of kids who smirk at him (presumably former bullies to some degree). Toshiro's appearance only hammers home how much Laios is still both humiliated and angered by his misunderstanding of their relationship.

I've thought a lot about anger as concomitant to the autistic experience. When autistic representation portrays ostracization, it's generally from an angle of the autistic character being upset at how conforming to neurotypical norms doesn't come easily to them; as a result, they express a desire to 'get better' at meeting neurotypical standards, a desire to become more 'normal' (whether the writing implies this is a good thing or not). In contrast, not once does Laios go, "I need to perform better in my social interactions, and try to care less about monsters, because that's what other people find weird." His frustration is directed outward rather than inward, and as a result, it's the people around him who are framed as nonsensical.

The Winged Lion starts delineating Laios' anger, and Laios' reaction is to think to himself, "It can sense all my thoughts, huh?" (chapter 88, page 16.) This is the scene that really resonated with me. I'm not saying I have never felt the desire to conform to neurotypical norms that is borne from insecurity, but primarily, I know that I don't want to work toward becoming 'normal'—I don't want to change myself for people who follow rules I find nonsensical. It's the difference between, "Oh god, why can't I get it," and, "WHY CAN'T YOU GET IT?" (phrasing here courtesy of my friend Miles @dogwoodbite). And for me personally, Dungeon Meshi is the first time I've seen this frustration and the resultant voluntary isolation from other people portrayed in media so candidly. Laios' anger is not downplayed or written to be easily palatable, either.

The culmination of Laios' frustrations in this scene wherein we learn that Laios has fantasised about "a pack of monsters attacking a village" drives home just how alienated he really feels. I need not go into his wish to become a monster himself, redolent of how many autistic people identify/have identified with non-humans to some degree as a result of a percieved disconnect from society (when I was younger, I wanted to be a robot. I still kind of do.)

Obviously, wishing death upon other people is a weighty thing, but the unfiltered nature of this page is what deeply resonated with me. The Winged Lion is laying Laios' deepest and most transgressive desires bare, and they are desires that are a product of lifelong ostracization by others (whether intentional or unintentional). This is the brand of anger I'm familiar with, and that my neurodivergent friends express being familiar with, but that I haven't seen portrayed in writing so explicitly before—in fact, it surprised me because most well-meaning autistic representation I've experienced veers toward infantilisation in trying make the autistic character's struggles easy for neurotypicals to sympathise with.

Let's also not neglect the symbolism inherent to Laios' daydream. "A pack of monsters attacking a village". Functionally, monsters are Laios' special interest—he percieves everything first and foremost through his passion for monsters. His daydream of monsters attacking—killing—humans, is fundamentally a daydream of the world he understands (monsters) overthrowing the world that is so illogical to him, that has repeatedly shunned him (other people). I joked to my friends that it's an autistic power fantasy, and it actually sort of is. And in it, his identity is aligned with that of the monsters, while his anger manifests in a palpable dissociation from the rest of humanity. This is one manga page. It's brief. It's also very, very raw to me. I think about it often.

To conclude, I love Laios Dungeon Meshi. This portrayal of open frustration in an autistic character meant a lot to me, and I hope I've sufficiently outlined why. Also, feel free to recommend media with autistic representation in the notes if you've read this far—I would really like to see if there is more of this nature. Thank you for reading. I'm very tired and should probably sleep now.

[midwestprincesss]

never say sorry -sub!art donaldson x fem!reader smut

notes- this was literally supposed to be super short but i got carried away cause i am a whore (and proud of it)

cw- art is a little insecure:( , mentions of him having sex with tashi before (NO TASHI SLANDER I LOVE MY GIRL BUT IT'S FOR THE PLOT😭) , he cums prematurely (like...really..) art's a whiny little slut, art keeps calling reader love ( i got a thing for that pet name sorry y'all) , reader calls art 'artie' once cus it's cute&idc.

thinking about art constantly apologizing while having sex :( like ur unzipping his pants and he's already bucking his hips up into your hand, and then immediately muttering "sorry":(( my babyyy

so at first you think that okay, whatever, it's just something that slips out

but then he does it SO many times that you're actually starting to be concerned

like, you're giving him head and he moans a little too loudly- he's apologizing again. while kissing, you pull back for air and he still follows you, mouth half-open, wanting more - but then he realizes and he apologizes again.

but one time he really caught you off guard-

it had been a long day for him, spending almost all day training for his upcoming match. he barely had any time to rest, so he comes back to his dorm, taking off his shirt and pants, getting into bed with you only with his baby-blue boxer briefs on.

he kisses you. he's so fucking tired, but he still kisses you. 'cause he needs you, especially after the day he just had. you could feel his hard cock, practically begging you to take his boxers off.

"please love, wanna see you" he says while tugging at your top, watery eyes glistening with tears waiting to be spilled.

you take it off and unclasp your bra, little whimpers leaving his lips at the sight of you over him, with your tits out. you would love to take your time with him, really. to hear him beg and plead for you. but he's so eager, and so polite about it too- you just can't do that to him right now. so when you take off his boxers, his cock immediately jumps up, slapping his lower abdomen, right over his strawberry-blond happy trail.

"aww baby, look at you. you're so pretty aren't you?" you smile down at him, admiring how his legs shake slightly at every word you say. "hmm? aren't you?" you repeat. "mmghn- yeah, i- uhh i am" he says, eyes almost rolling back from the lack of touch. "you're what? say it." he sighs. you do this a lot. 'self love is important' you usually tell him- but not now. not when his dick is out, aching and leaking and begging to be touched. but just for the sake of it- just because he wants to please you, he says it. "i'm pretty"

"good boy," you coo, finally bringing a finger down to his cock, only to circle his pink, wet tip. and with that, he loses it. his mind goes blank, and he can't help it- all the waiting, the anticipating made him lose control of his body. he really didn't want to cum, he wanted to be good for you, but you were just so hot, he couldn't hold back. so immediately after his white, thick and warm liquid lands partially on his stomach and a bit on your hand, he starts babbling out apologies.

"i'm sorry, i'm so sorry love, please don't be mad, please- i'll clean up after myself- oh my god i'm so sorry-" he was so obviously tired, he could barely make up the words, yet he still continued apologizing. until you cut him off.

"art, baby- you dont need to apologize to me! what's up with this" you ask, softly. "you know i love making you feel good. and it's even better when i get feedback like this" you giggle. his cheeks turn bright pink as he covers his face.

"but i literally came the second you touched me" he mumbles, shyly.

you kiss his shoulder, smiling. "and it was hot."

"i- I don't know how to explain it to you, love- i just don't want to disappoint you. tashi used to hate it when i did any of this, she hated hearing me, and stuff like that- sometimes it made me feel like i was an object to her or something, y-you know? she'd get mad at me, and uh- it wasn't great."

"oh." you could actually feel your heart breaking for the boy. he was so sweet, he never deserved any of that. "well i'm not tashi, and i definitely won't get mad at you for anything like that. i like hearing you, and believe it or not, this was really fucking hot. you're letting me know i'm making you feel good. what's wrong with that?"

"just don't wanna upset you." art shrugs.

"i promise you artie, you could never upset me." you peck his lips and he smiles. "now let's clean you up"

[heyhotbitchrs]

when you stay up too late and suddenly you're unloved :/

[suguann]

✎. you've been on the run for a while. you knew someone would come eventually—but not him.

tags. fem!reader, old west era, bounty hunter simon, size difference, size kink, implied the reader's husband is a terrible human, accidental voyeurism, period-typical sexism, masturbation [18+ only]

masterlist

You’ve been running for months, first from your husband (the phantom grip of his hand still sending an ache through your wrist) and now as a wanted conwoman for stealing the clothes from an unsuspecting cowpoke who thought he was getting lucky. You can only imagine what Mama would say about trading your ruffled skirts for grass-stained trousers and boiled-leather suspenders.

(It’s unbecoming of a respectable woman, dear. Uncouth.)

She’d probably have a lot to say if she knew everything you’ve done to survive.

You hop from one place to the next only by the mere chance someone was willing to let a helpless woman accompany them on their travels. Nearly a month has passed since being stranded in a dusty old mining town after a man and his wife dump you off and leave you behind. Washoe’s a little gritty and not welcoming unless there’s money to spend.

It’s not exactly safe, not unsafe, either, but nobody asks questions as long as you keep your head down and play the part of a mourning widow just passing through.

You know you’ve overextended your stay when you can’t leave your room during the day without worrying about a noose and the open end of a barrel meeting you outside. 

(That your husband or that gun-waving cowpoke finally found you.)

Sleep practically clings to you like a second skin, but you don’t dare close your eyes—you can’t.

This is how you end up sitting in the corner of the saloon, using the last of whatever you have in your change purse to order something strong, something your husband kept locked away, and anything else he thought women shouldn’t have a part in. 

You don’t even realize that your eyelids begin to feel heavy, steadily blurring out the flickering lantern on the wall while you wait for your drink. 

You catch yourself once or twice before your head can hit the table, rapidly blinking away the exhaustion before your eyes slide to the swinging doors.

You should stay awake. 

You need to stay awake just a little bit longer—

Your luck runs out that day. 

It’s one thing to know it’d happen eventually, and something else to realize that you make it easy for him—the man with an infamous name and a faded black bandana covering half his face—how he walked into the saloon and scooped you up (all unladylike sleepy dead weight) out of the weathered booth without a fight.

When you’d woken up to find yourself trussed up and thrown over the back of his horse, you cursed him out with every word you could think of that would make Mama clutch her skirts. Your captor ignored you, only talking to you whenever he warned you he was about to set up camp. 

“Did my husband send you?” Acknowledging him after all this time tasted like pennies on your tongue.

The man, Simon Riley, had leaned back against his bedroll and tipped the brim of his hat over his eyes. “Go the fuck to sleep.”

That was several weeks ago. 

Now, you find yourself stranded in another state that’s more green and vibrant than anything you’re familiar with, stuck with a man who refuses to answer the questions you throw at him. He doesn’t talk outside a few cursory words you greedily latch onto. Anything’s better than silence and the sound of hooves hitting earth. 

The pace he keeps you at is exhausting. You complain about it enough until he moves you in front of him, tying your hands to the saddle's horn.

“I would strongly advise you to shut that mouth for the rest of the ride unless you want me to do something about that, too.” The low growl of his voice in your ear makes the fine hairs on the back of your neck stand up, muddling your brain.

You’re distantly aware you had something to say to that, but you don’t. 

And that is really saying something.

It’s because there’s someone he needs to meet in town—an errand that lawbreakers who run their mouths aren’t allowed to go on.

This is how you end up sitting in camp alone, twirling around a knife he gave you solely for emergencies. 

(Surprise, sharp and quick through your middle, when he tosses his pocket knife into the grass beside you. “What’s to stop me from leaving?”

You could’ve sworn he rolled his eyes. “Will you?”

It doesn’t seem worth dignifying with a reply. You don’t want to travel alone, and there’s a high possibility of getting lost, finding yourself saddled up with worse company than the one you’re stuck with.

Until he evidently catches you again.)

He’s a lot nicer than you first gave him credit for—if only by a fraction—not that you know much about Simon other than what you overheard from gossip circles before you became Mrs. Thornton. Afternoons spent sipping tea laden with honey and lounging around a table full of cakes in the sun parlor while wealthy women talked behind their lace-covered hands to hide secret smiles you were too naive to understand. 

Trying not to stare at the bulge of his arms with thin pink scars—unlike the men you’re used to who got through life with a silver spoon hanging from their mouth—as he places his saddle back on his horse, you think you finally know what they smiled about.

You learn those scars also litter his torso from the time you accidentally walked upon him mid-way through putting his trousers on after washing in the river. It’d been too dark for you to see much else, and you quickly returned to camp before he could say something that would embarrass you both. 

Then, of course, tucked away into your bedroll, you can’t help wondering what the rest of him would have looked like if you had stayed a second longer. 

If his jaw is sharp or soft behind that mask he insists on wearing—that’s if he’d let you see at all. 

Simon’s always so serious that it’s often hard to determine whether he’s merely tolerating your existence until he can get rid of you or if he’s unused to traveling accompanied for so long. It’s not as if he goes out of his way to make pleasant conversation with you for you to assume otherwise.

You look off in the direction where he disappeared into the dense line of trees hours ago, wondering if you should go out looking for him (mainly because you’re hot and sticky from the humidity) despite his order to stay put. 

But after four hours turns into five, you head off, searching for something to help cool you off.

Luckily, unlike the heavily eroded lands you’re used to, there isn’t any water shortage in a place that sees rain three times a day, so it doesn’t take long to find a lake. You set your knife down on the stone-covered beach, followed by your boots, until you’re left in nothing but your undergarments. 

The water is icy cold and laps gently at your feet when you step in. You can’t find it in you to complain as the heat from the day slowly washes away the further you walk in and find a wide ledge to sit on. 

Your thoughts drift back to Simon, incessant and intruding even though you shouldn’t be thinking about him while wet and naked. And suddenly, you can picture it: his hands replacing yours as they trace along your neck. You have a feeling they’re probably rough and scarred from years of living hard and gunslinging, extracting the readily available knowledge that they’re big enough to encase your waist.

He could maneuver you around however he wants (you know this), and you feel dizzy just thinking about it.

Sighing, you sink deeper into the water while your hands smooth over the tips of your breasts and down your stomach. 

You wish you could see him without violating whatever personal preservations hide him from the rest of the world. Instead, you’re left with your imagination—the benefits of being a married woman and the little experience you have in the bedroom finally coming into play. 

Closing your eyes, you picture what he might look like under those sun-weathered leathers, knowing that the broadness of his shoulders isn’t only due to his vest and holsters but also from how his job has shaped him.

Your hands travel lower, fingers brushing through the creamy, soft wetness between your legs, evidence of what Simon does to you even when he’s not around. A moan, too high and breathy, slips past your lips as you use your middle finger to circle your clit in slow, clumsy swirls from lack of practice and patience that spreads warmth through your middle despite the cold water. 

It’s good, your fingers discovering places your husband always ignored—too many nights spent with your hand under your nightgown long after he’d tucked his cock away and gone to sleep—but probably don’t compare to the ones you’ve caught yourself staring at far too many times. 

They don’t fill you nearly enough, unlike how you know Simon’s would—thick and unrelenting. Rough and long, reaching deep enough to make you breathless.

Your breath hitches from pinching the tight, sensitive peak of your nipple until you feel a slight sting, and then it slips out, a tiny thing that’s only audible to your ears—Simon—a secret you now share with the lightning bugs and crickets.

“Dirty, no good rotten—” he’d tell you for thinking such lewd thoughts about him, for sinning so easily. Maybe you are, for getting so worked up over a man who isn’t your husband (no matter how terrible a husband he may be).

A man who’s so big that he makes you feel small, the type that gives before he takes. It’s enough to make you work your hand faster—your body vibrating from the chill of the water and the ache between your trembling thighs.  

Fantasies aren’t enough to sate the deep longing in your chest. Yet you’re slipping over the edge of ecstasy before taking your next breath—all of it builds up and gradually crests inside you like the lake rippling against the shore.

Afterward, it leaves you feeling soft and blurred around the edges, a watercolor painting drying under the sun while you wait for your rapid heartbeat to slow.

You don’t realize your eyes have fallen shut until they flutter open, and you’re startled to find Simon standing at the shoreline, his chest heaving as if he ran here. 

(Though he probably did to see if you took the opportunity to leave.)

You’re glued to your spot on the rock, suddenly struck with the mortifying realization that he’d seen you come—that he possibly heard you cry out his name so intimately.

You watch him remove his hat and hang it on a branch with wide eyes. Followed by his undershirt, guns, and—

He keeps removing clothes until he’s completely naked on the shore—aside from his face that stays hidden—scars marred his chest, spreading to his collarbones and below the water as he steps into the lake and sits on another ledge across from you.

His mask makes him look more menacing, erasing any trace of softness there. And you wonder if he’s angry at you for wandering off.

"Come here." His voice is low and deep, rumbling in his chest.

You don't think he'd hurt you. If he wanted to, he would have done it by now.

At least, that’s what you’re going with to settle the nervous fluttering in your middle.

Water laps at your arms as you wade through the water, each shaky step bringing you closer until you stop before him.

"In my lap."

Your breath sticks in your throat as you do as he says, settling down onto his sturdy thighs, palms falling flat against his broad chest. That same breath comes out in one large exhale as his fingers slide along your jaw, to the nape of your neck, curling into your hair, wet and falling around your shoulders.

“Like this?” you ask, trying to ignore how breathy you sound.

He grunts, apparently in confirmation.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt so conflicted in your life—fear and arousal turning into a messy cocktail in your veins.

“Why do I always have to use a heavy hand to make you listen?”

Your lips part. Breath growing short. “I’m sorry.”

And then—

Simon pulls your head back sharply, exposing your throat.

Your body goes slack against his. Mind blissfully blank.

“No,” he says, tone flat. “But you will be.”

[peachesofteal]

Through Me (The Flood) - secret baby fic Simon Riley / female reader

Simon's short term rental is almost claustrophobic.

He tries to stay out of it, tries to keep himself busy. Active. After a week since you asked him to go home, to give you some space, he noticed he's lost weight. The thick of his ribs, his stomach, his thighs, has thinned out, cutting his bulk, exposing more muscle.

The grief feels more fresh than it has in years. Talking to you, telling you, has dredged up long buried things, agony and regret, pain that steals his breath and leaves him paralyzed. He forces himself not to think of it, but it still finds a way to creep in. To make him feel torn apart, turns him into a ghost.

He walks a lot. Walks to the store. Walks to the pub. Walks to the park. Sometimes he sits on the bench and watches mums push their buggies, wondering if it's something you might enjoy, if you were feeling better. Wishing he had made more of an effort to get you out of the flat, into the sunshine.

He's still walking to your building at night, standing under the tree, watching the lights flicker on and off. Your windows stay lit longer now, periods of sleep more infrequent, leaving him to worry that you're not getting enough rest, not taking care of yourself.

He walked all morning into early afternoon today. Tried to quell the nausea swirling in his stomach, tried not to watch the clock, or count the seconds. Tried to brace himself for the bittersweet he knew was coming.

>Hey, I'm going to be leaving pretty soon for work, and could be gone for a while. Could I see Orion before I go? Spend some time with him?

>Sure.

Your reply still rings in his ears. Short. Torturous.

But he doesn't blame you. He did it the wrong way. You have a child, his child, to protect, to take care of. Of course, you should be concerned. Maybe he should have found a better way to tell you. Maybe he shouldn't have told you at all.

A large part of him, the instinctual part, considered refusing you, when you asked him to give you some time, and he still hasn't made a decision about what he will do in the long run.

It would be so easy, to hide you away. To take you in the middle of the night, wake you up in a brand new home, high in hill, in a whole new country across a border.

When the knock on his door finally comes, he crams the overflow of emotion coursing through his heart into a teeny tiny box, and prays he'll be able to keep a lid on it.

"Hey." Orion turns in your grip, looking for Simon's voice, and you smother a wince at the shift in his weight.

"Hi." You look through him. Past him. To the left of his elbow, at his shoulder, the floor. Anywhere but his eyes.

"Thanks for letting me spend some time with him." Your lips go flat, but you shuffle the baby into his arms, managing to avoid skin to skin contact. It makes his stomach hurt worse than it already did.

"Of course, you're... you're his dad." You peek around him, trying to get a better look of the flat. "Do you uh, have stuff for him?"

"I went to the store."

"Okay. Well, good." You hand him the bag next. "I wasn't sure what you had so there are a few changes of clothes in there, just in case, and some bottles. They should probably go in the fridge. Diapers, some toys. Just in case... I didn't want.... I wanted you to have everything you might need." It's thoughtful of you, and he wants to smile, but you won't look at him.

"Thank you." You nod.

"Alright well, I'll come pick him up later? Just text me I guess, when you're ready. Hopefully he'll take a bottle."

"I can bring him-"

"No, that's okay." you cut him off sharply, shaking your head. He frowns.

"Why not?"

"I- I don't mind, coming by to get him."

"But if it's dark..."

"I can manage." You snap, and he purses his lips, but says nothing.

"Alright well, see you later then." You make some noncommittal noise, and then step closer, mouth pressing to Orion's cheek.

"Bye baby, love you." You finally look up at him, really look, and he holds his breath when he sees it all in your eyes. Pain. Confusion. Worry.

He did that.

The evening goes too fast. He manages to get Ry to nap, and drink over half a bottle, a huge win, but spends most of the time just holding him, walking him in circles in his flat, trying to memorize the feeling of his baby in his arms. He's fussier than usual, crying anytime Simon tries to put him down, which he doesn't mind, but concerns him. Is he like this at home, with you? Is this why you've been up more at night?

Still, it's over too soon, and when you're knocking on the door again, he stands on the other side a few seconds too long, wishing he had more time.

He's always wishing he had more time.

"How was he?"

"Good. More fussy than usual, but I got him to take most of a bottle. Is he doing alright?"

"He's been like this, the past few days. He's either going through a growth spurt, or developing some late colic. I hope it's the growth spurt." Oh no.

"Well, I'm here if you need anything. If you want me to take him at all." You nod.

"When uh... when are you leaving?"

"Two weeks or so. Once the guys get back, they'll have a few days debrief and then... we'll be off."

"Okay, well. Just let me know, when you want him again?"

"I will." He kisses Orion's cheek, whispering in his ear how much he loves him, before passing him to you. You have to reposition your posture to support his weight, and he winces. "Are you okay?" You blink at him, skeptical and surprised.

"I'm great Simon. Really peachy."

"Look, I know I really sprung-"

"Sprung? Is that what you're calling that? Simon... you blindsided me. You... you-" He holds up his hands.

"I'm much more careful now. I've learned a lot of hard lessons, and I would never, ever allow anything to happen to you or Orion." His shoulders slump, and he drops his eyes to the floor. Ashamed. Grief trying to work its way, trying to break him down just as it has all these years before. "I've learned from my mistakes." There's a long, uncomfortable since between the two of you, one that Orion fills with fussing, and then your voice cracks.

"Simon, that wasn't your fault.... I'm not... I'm not upset about... that. Or anything, that happened to you. I mean, I'm upset but not at you for that..." You take a deep breath. "I am upset for you, that those things happened to you, that you've been through such trauma, such horrible things." Tears wet your cheeks, but he doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. "I would never hold that against you. I'm upset about your job. And the danger it puts us in. I'm upset that I didn't know that you'd been gone for weeks, possibly months at a time. I'm upset that you promised me you'd be here, and then never mentioned the super secret task force that will... take you away from us." Orion cries, and you bounce him back and forth, finally looking Simon dead in the eye, facing him head on. "It feels like you've been lying to me, for weeks now. I thought we were in this, together, that we were- we were building something, together. Now it just feels like... I could lose you at any second instead. That Orion could lose his father, grow up without you." The last word rips from your lips in a sob, and you shake your head as he steps close.

"You will never lose me. Do you understand? That will never happen." He vows it, swears it, forces it out into the universe as a covenant, but you only shake your head again, sadly.

"You can't promise that."

[luveline]

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

When someone hurts you, you and Aaron both need time to get better, and to put things right. fem, 8k

cw canon typical violence, graphic scenes and imagery of assault/battery, recovery, mentions of being sick, issues eating. established relationship, lots of angst and comfort, hotch being vulnerable, jack being sweet 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

You lay backward over the luxurious stretch of the couch and sigh as your spine gives a sharp crick. Your head feels heavy after a long shower, your arms ache from a day at work, but the feeling of soft cotton on your legs deters any moping. 

I hope these are more comfortable, his note read, a white post it note stuck to a boutique bag. You wrap an arm around your waist remembering how Aaron’s message had made you feel: spoiled, and considered. 

You’d mentioned in passing that all your pyjamas are old and rough as a consequence, thought nothing of it, and promptly forgot about the conversation entirely. 

When Aaron finally comes home tonight, you’re going to give him a proper thank you. You can imagine his reaction to such a thing, his smile as he says it’s no problem, his eyes shuttering closed as you press a kiss to his cheek. You hadn’t realised how prevalent affection would become in your life after meeting him, but everything he does inspires love. Awful, soft, marshmallowy love where he looks at you and you want to sit in his lap. 

You slide your phone up your chest lazily and click the button on the side to light the display. Aaron hasn’t claimed to know when he’ll be home tonight. All he’d said was to let yourself in. 

It’s odd but not the worst thing in the world to be alone in his apartment. There’s less and less free space each time you visit as Jack begins to outgrow his and his fathers lodgings, but there’s never a stain or bad smell, the Hotchner apartment feels homey. You’re excited whenever you’re invited to spend the night with them. 

Maybe some time soon he’ll ask you to move in, or better, to marry him. You’re not a hundred percent sure how you feel about marriage, about being someone’s wife, but there’s a great well of pleasure to be found in the idea that Aaron would want to marry you. He makes you feel loved already in a hundred different ways but the ring might be nice, like a symbol to signify how much you mean to him. 

You rest your hand across your eyes. It’s silly to think of. Sillier to want so soon. You’ve been together for just under a year, and you have no false hopes about rushing into the future, but it’s certainly a future you want with him (and with Jack, too). He’s taking things slowly for a hundred different reasons but he loves you, and gifts like your new pyjamas cement that. He really listens to you. 

Your phone rings a moment later. 

You smile at the screen. It’s nice to be in love with someone who loves you too. 

“Hey,” Aaron says when you answer, his voice warm even through the phone, “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“How come?” You sit up with a little start. 

“It’s getting late, honey. I called Jess and Jack was already gone.” He doesn’t say anything further. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I wanted to hear your voice, I think.” 

“Well, where are you?” You struggle to envision him speaking saccharinely like this where his colleagues could hear him. He’s nice to you often, but he’s a reserved man. 

“I’m just,” —a crunching sound of metal, the trunk of his car closing— “about to get in the car. I’ll be home before ten. Can I have you until then?” 

“I don’t see any reason to say no. But do you think you could come home a little faster? I have a crick in my neck.” 

“And you want me to fix that?” 

“You always fix my neck.” 

“How have you done it?” There’s a sound you assume to be the car door closing, but you can’t hear anything beyond that. 

“I have bad posture.” 

“You have perfect posture.” 

“No, it’s quite bad.”

He laughs loudly. It took some time to draw the humour from him but he isn’t as stony as you’d think, and for a while he didn’t have much worth laughing for, anyways. Whenever you hear it, you try to prompt it twice. 

“You don’t have to lie to me, Aaron, it’s just like when you said my weird rash wasn’t weird.” 

He laughs again, to your pleasure. “It wasn’t weird, it was a heat rash, I promise. You act like you’ve never seen heat rash.” 

“One of us goes to hot cities all the time and one of us lives permanently in Virginia.” 

“What are you talking about? Virginia’s far from cold. You’re being argumentative, I can see your smile in my head. I’m never going to fix your crick if you keep acting like that.” 

“No, don’t be like that,” you laugh, tipping back into the cushions. “You’re always such a sore loser.” 

“What did I lose?” 

You can tell from his tone that you’ve promised yourself one of those hugs that borders on a straight jacket tightness, his face tucked into your neck as he asks you to repeat yourself. What did I lose? he’ll ask again, kissing your chin, the line of your jaw. Tell me clearly.  

“It hurts,” you say honestly, “please don’t be mad. I really need one.” 

“I’m not mad… I’m going under the overpass, my signal might cut out.” 

“Okie dokie. Hey, did you eat? I can make you something for when you get home. I got groceries.” 

“I’m not hungry, but you can make yourself hot cocoa, and I’ll drink it when I get there,” he says. 

“Or I could make us both some?” 

“It’s much more fun if I drink yours before you can, honey. You know that—”

You pause in the quiet, then hear a quick beeping. You pull your phone from your ear and find the call disconnected. 

Cruel overpass, you think. 

Sure he’ll call you back, you take your phone into his kitchen and set about finding all the things you’ll need for hot cocoa. One mug, because you should hate when he forces you to share, but you love the feeling of his fingers on yours as he takes it and the thankful kiss he dots on your cheek. 

The kettle is uncomplicated. You toy with the stovetop, set the kettle on the burner, and let the temperature rise. It begins whistling lightly a mere thirty seconds later. 

You click your phone on again. He’ll have passed through the tunnel now and will be calling you back any minute. You stare at the phone, hoping to summon him, slouched over the counter with the tin of cocoa powder by your fingers. The kettle whines with growing heat, but cool air kisses your back. 

Goosebumps rise. Up and down the lengths of your arms, the back of your neck—

A sudden chill. 

The lack of air comes before the hand, the pain a rush, a burst to be away from. Leather on your neck creaking without sympathy as a hand tightens and drags your body back against something hard. 

Not Aaron. Your scream comes strangled under cruel fingers as you fight to move forward again, straight for the burner, the kettle shoved across the burner grate and exploding with scalding water, heat of the burner kissing your chest— you scream, only it’s worse than a scream, sound from the deepest part of you forcing itself past the heat at your neck as you try to fling yourself away from the pain. 

You fall with a hard clout. “Stay still!” comes out enraged against the back of your neck. You drop to your knees, the pain lighting flaring up your chest, your gaze frantic as you search for a flame that isn’t there. You’re not on fire, you’re crawling and then scampering up into a standing position when the heavy weight drops itself on you again and smashes your face into the floor. 

All your fight leaves you. Your ears ring. Your panic wanes but the pain stays alert in your mouth. 

A hand grabs you by the back of the head and drives your face into the ground. It’s like light in your eyes and your nose, the brunt of it, the crack of your bone and the hot trickle of blood that swiftly follows. You gurgle in pain, spluttering and gagging against the linoleum, waiting for Aaron to turn you over and say sorry. It’s an accident.

Blood drains from your nose in spurts to match your racing pulse, so much blood you can see your eyes reflected in the dark stretch of it. Water drips down the front of the stove, your breath aches and begs, and your attacker takes a measured breath. 

He flips you over. You can’t slide away, there’s nothing left in you, your head a second body as he raises something. 

Your phone rings on the counter. 

“Please, don’t,” you plead with a sob.

You pass out as the pain connects. Just as quickly as it started, your body takes the reins. 

—

There’s a strange darkness waiting for you. Like waking before your alarm and stealing those last minutes, body aching, not wanting to get up and face the day. Aaron gets up early every morning, sometimes as early as four AM, and whenever you get up with him your eyes hurt for hours. 

Nothing, nothing, nothing. 

Hey, hey, I think your boyfriend’s coming.

What will he make of my handiwork?

You didn’t stay awake long enough for that one, did you? But you’re waking up now.

The pain is enough to wake you up again, a hot drag down the side of you to your hip and in. You aren’t aware of the sounds you make, but you can hear them. Your panicked squealing as the heat presses further and further in. Your crying, and your whispering, “Stop, stop.” 

“There’s handsome,” the dark voice says. “I’ve gotta go hide somewhere, does he carry after hours? I think I’ll find out.” 

“Oh,” you say, feeling sickly. You attempt to curl into yourself, when did you turn onto your back? “No,” you mumble, lips wet with something hot. 

“Honey?” a voice asks. 

“Honey,” you repeat, woozy again, darkness falling in all over again, where it stays. 

Honey, are you in here?

—

The window behind Aaron’s shoulder is cold. Rain patters fast like floods, thunder occasionally chewing through clouds, and Jack Hotchner cries sluggish tears into his dad’s shoulder. 

Aaron has his eyes closed. They’ve been at this for a while. “Shh, shh shh, buddy,” he says softly, patting the bottom of Jack’s back. He’d sway him back and forth if his arms weren’t about to fall off. 

Jack squirms closer, no room left between them. 

“I know it’s scary,” Aaron says. 

Jack just cries. This approach of quiet support isn’t working; Jack isn’t a baby that needs to be put to sleep, he’s a panicking little kid, and Aaron needs to change gears. He ushers him away from his chest and crosses his arm behind Jack’s back. Careful, he shifts Jack’s weight to free his other arm and brings his fingers up to the silky brown hair dropping onto Jack’s forehead. 

“She’s okay,” Aaron says, stroking Jack’s hair. His little forehead is clammy. “She’s not hurting. I know it looks scary, honey, but… she’s just resting.” 

Jack looks him in the eyes. “Her face.” 

“I know.” He nods emphatically. “It’s hard to see. Blood isn’t nice. You don’t have to see her again today, not if it’s too scary.” 

Jack lifts a hand to Aaron’s face. Clumsy but with clear attempts to be careful, he wipes at the skin under Aaron’s eye. Aaron bites back a smile. 

“I look tired,” he says. 

“Yeah.” Jack brings his hand back to wipe his eyes. He sobs as he does it. Aaron can’t describe the ache it gives him to see it. 

“Buddy, I’ll do it. Let me wipe your face. I can do it.” 

Jack drops his hands. Aaron turns his hand and wipes the smudge of Jack’s tears from hot cheeks, testing the waters with a little smile. 

“I couldn’t see you under all those tears.” 

Jack does a little smile back. “Yes you can.” 

“I couldn’t! But now I’ve wiped all your face I can see you again. You’re handsome, did we know that?” 

Jack giggles. He sniffles, and he presses his palm to Aaron’s neck. “I don’t want her to be sad, dad.” 

“She’s going to be sad, because something scary happened, but it’s okay. I’m gonna take care of her.” 

Aaron would offer to take him home, but they can’t go home. They may not go home for a long time —the team is still trying to work out how someone made it into the apartment without alerting the building’s security or Aaron’s internal system. And then escaped again without Aaron’s notice. Until then, Aaron has to make a decision about a safe house, for himself, Jack, and Jess, though she's extremely unreceptive to the idea. 

Aaron has to look after Jack, and he needs to take care of you. 

“What do you think, bud?” he asks, cupping Jack’s head in his hand. “Do you want to go home?” 

“You said I can give her a hug.” 

“If it’s too scary, we don’t have to. I don’t want you to get upset again.” 

“I’m not scared. I want to give her the hug,” he says. 

Aaron pulls him in for a hug of his own. “Okay, buddy. Just try to think of it like this. She’s where she needs to be to get better. Everybody here is looking after her. She’ll be okay soon.” 

Aaron looks over Jack’s head down the hospital hallway. It’s a quiet ward, and here between the main ward doors and the hallway that leads down to the individual rooms there’s complete silence. Night is approaching quickly again, and with it comes Aaron’s panic. Your head turned into a puddle, your face lax of expression in the dark. He can’t stop finding the women he loves bloody and on their backs. 

“Ready?” he murmurs. “Can you walk with me? My arms are tired.”

“Yeah.” 

Aaron puts Jack down gently onto his feet. He neatens his hair, chucking him under the chin as he goes to see his smile. He’s so pretty, like Haley was, with shiny eyes. He’s a beautiful kid. Aaron takes his hand and together they make their way down the hallway to your room. 

You’re sleeping. 

Aaron herds Jack through the door and to the plastic covered chair by your side, where he lifts him up and sits him down. He stays between you both. Jack isn’t scared of you, just the blood, but he wants to show Jack that he’s going to protect him from anything he needs protecting from. He also desperately wants to touch you, and reassure himself that you’re still breathing. 

He looks for your hand. Your pinky finger is splinted, but he can take it with care, give the palm of it a squeeze. 

The blood matted in your hair has finally been washed away after a turbulent day, as well as the staining that marred your face. Your nose is broken, and looks it, the bruises so fierce your eyes have turned puffy and your top lip has inflamed. There are second degree burns in multiple places but most affectedly on your chest. There’s a stab wound at your hip, allegedly done with a small blade. It nicked your small intestine. The bandages laid over you are a lump under your hospital gown. 

Aaron looks at you, and he feels a passionate disdain for himself. He wishes he could… be someone else. Someone who doesn’t have such a deep connection to a job that hurts the people around him, over and over. Haley used to say he was obsessed with being the hero, but this doesn’t feel heroic. 

“Do you wanna give her your cuddle?” he asks softly. 

Jack stays sitting. 

He’ll have to give it to you himself. Careful, Aaron leans down over your prone body and presses a half kiss to your ear, the only place that won’t hurt. 

You have an IV drip going into your arm, painkillers, an ECG monitor to the left. The room is white but busy, you’re a burst of colour against it all, your cuts and bruises, the evidence of violence he can’t remove. Aaron’s tired. He perches on the gap of bed by your leg and holds your hand, turning to Jack, who watches with a frown. 

“She’s sleeping,” Aaron says. 

“When can she come home?” 

“In a few days.” He feels the pad of your hand, terrified of your broken finger but needing to hold a part of you. 

“Why is she sleeping all day?” 

Traumatic experiences are exhausting. “I think she might want to be alone, so she sleeps.” 

“Should we go?” 

Aaron shakes his head. “I think we should stay. When she wakes up again she’ll be happy to see us, because we’re not strangers.” 

“We’re family,” Jack says. He’d liked that, when the nurse asked you how Aaron was related to you. Family only.

“We’re her family,” Aaron agrees. 

If he somehow miraculously fell out of love with you, you’d still be family to them. You’ve given so much of your heart since you met them. Aaron wants everything you have to give. 

You wake in a slow, slow upheaval. It takes effort on your part, the opening of sore eyes, the dreary decision to face your pain. Your hand jumps in his but relaxes when he shushes you, your slimmer fingers stilling under his rubbing thumb. For a split second, you keep your gaze half-lidded, jaw soft, like you’ve been indulging in a stolen nap. 

Then your breath catches and you screw your eyes tightly. 

“You’re okay,” he says, quietly, and not as lightly as he means to, “you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” in quick succession. 

“Hurts,” you say, and gasp, a whine stuck in your throat. 

He doesn’t know what to do. Jack shouldn’t watch this but he can’t leave you alone. “It’s okay,” he says, holding your wrist to stop it climbing up your bruised face. 

You were worse the first time you woke up. Catatonic, then sobbing. You mumble and whimper now, pain threading goosebumps down your arms. 

“It hurts too much,” you say. A sob falls out of you like you’ve been ripped open. 

Aaron doesn’t think, but an instinct sparks. The pain, to hit you right out of the gate like this, to make you say something like that when you’ve always always made your problems small, must be torture. It must feel new and sudden all over again. 

Aaron checks that Jack is alright and leaves the room. He looks down one hallway and then the other, but there’s no nurse around —he races to the reception desk and begs the two nurses there for help with you, “She’s in intense pain,” he says, grasping the desk. 

The nurse he’s more familiar with clears her throat. “Mr. Hotchner, she’s already had enough motrin for two people at your request, she really shouldn’t need–”

“Pain is just as important to treat as the injury.” 

A second nurse puts her salad down with raised brows. “Do you want to overdose her?” 

“Excuse me?” 

Aaron has always seen himself as a gentleman, but the argument that ensues is tricky to navigate while remaining respectful, and he’s no closer to better treatment for you by the end of it. He gives each nurse a disapproving glower and takes his phone from his pocket, turning on the spot, ready to call whoever it is he needs to call for a second opinion. He’s not gonna listen to you cry when there’s no need. 

He pushes the door open with the phone still clutched in his other hand. Jack’s climbed onto your bed. He cuddles your face, sitting by your pillows and bent over you protectively. 

Aaron lets out a breath. 

“It’s okay,” he says, his arm behind your head and his arm on your shoulder. “W’gonna take care of you.” 

“I know,” you say, crying without sound, shaking under his arms.

His cheek smushes against your forehead. Your eyes are closed and your face braced for contact Jack doesn’t make, careful not to hurt you as he rubs his cheek into your skin. Your blankets are falling off of you from the squirming and your bruises shine with tears in the light, but Jack has calmed you down some. 

Aaron shouldn’t have left Jack with you. He’s been so scatterbrained since he found you when he should be the opposite, but Jack is doing better than Aaron managed alone. 

“I’m sorry for crying,” you say slowly. “I’m hurting, but it’s not bad. I’m okay.” 

“That’s good. You have a big scratch on your face, and bruises.” 

“I know.” 

“Dad says you have a bruise on your tummy too.” 

“I got lots of bruises, but it’s okay. Don’t worry about me.” You bring your hand up injured and uncaring to rub his leg. “You’re being a really brave boy, thank you.” 

A tear rolls down your cheek. 

“It’s teamwork,” Jack says. “I hug you and you hug me.” 

“Is that what you want? You want a hug?” 

“I want to go home,” he says, hugging you harder. 

You grasp his arm loosely where it’s just under your chin. “Jack, can you move your arm?” you whisper. 

Your breath comes quickly, but Jack moves his arm away from your bruised neck and you try to calm yourself down. 

Aaron jolts himself back into action. “Sweetheart,” he says, rushing to sit Jack back and give you more space. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” 

He watches. Not sure what to say. Not sure saying anything is wise. You squint at him through your lashes, eyes opening slowly, your mouth a line pressed hard to stop from crying. 

“I think it's time for Jack to go home,” he suggests gently. 

“Yeah,” you say, eyes swimming with tears. 

“No.” Jack squeezes your head again, to your panic. 

“Jack, buddy, please don’t touch her neck,” Aaron says, grabbing Jack from your pillow. 

He erupts into tears again. Frantic and vying for you, Aaron tries to calm him and he kicks against his chest, tears turning to disgruntled sobs at not getting what he wants. You wince, pressing your face completely into the pillow. 

Aaron carries Jack from your room, phone in hand. 

—

Is she breathing? Can she talk? 

I don’t– I don’t know, I don’t– She’s breathing. Honey, can you hear me? I don’t know what to stop. I don’t know where it’s all coming from. 

Where’s the worst of the blood? 

It’s everywhere. 

Abdominal? Chest? 

I can’t tell. I can’t tell. 

Mr. Hotchner, you can’t panic. Does she have a chest wound?

Yes. Yes, but– 

Is she conscious? How’s her pulse? Be ready to start chest compressions. 

Honey, can you hear me? 

Your name said clearly. 

“Hey, can you hear me?” 

“Yes,” you murmur. 

“If you need a minute, that’s okay.” 

You cover your mouth with your hand. Emily Prentiss has a soft voice like your boyfriend’s when she wants to have it. She’s never spoken to you like this, none of his colleagues have, but since the incident, everybody treats you like you’re made of glass. 

Cognitive interviews are meant to happen immediately after an accident, but you weren’t up for company. Aaron promised this would be on your terms, that Emily is the most practised, and that she’s reaped the most information from them than the rest of the team. So far, it’s worked to drag bad memories to the surface. 

“Maybe we should start from the beginning.” 

There isn’t a beginning. There’s just conversation. Aaron’s hand on your heart and his shaky voice, so unlike him.

“Okay.” 

Emily reaches for your hand. She smiles, and her nice features get nicer. That’s another thing they all share, good looks. “Okay. What did you notice, in the kitchen? It’ll help if you close your eyes,” she reminds you. 

You close your eyes. 

“What stuck out?” 

“Nothing,” you murmur. “I’ve been in there lots of times, and nothing ever changes.” 

“Nothing? Not even the drawings on the fridge?” 

“Jack’s particular about his best work, even if I think they should all be on display.” 

Emily’s voice turns to a shard of itself. “What did you do? Can you take me through it step by step? Make yourself a cup of hot chocolate.” 

“I never got that far.”

“What did you do?” 

“I filled the kettle.” 

“What kettle?” 

You don’t understand the need for specificity, but you answer. “Aaron got it for me, when he… he told me he loved me, and when we got home he’d bought me a kettle and a bunch of stuff to make my being there easier. The kettle, because… he said something about superheated water. How the microwave can be dangerous, and this would be easier than a pan.” 

“Alright. Okay, and what did you do after that?” 

“I put the kettle on the stove.” You lit the burner, and heat kissed your palm, and suddenly the room had felt cold. “I got goosebumps.” 

“When?” 

“The kettle started to whistle, and it was cold.”

“And then–”

“Then he grabbed me.” 

“Yeah,” Emily says softly. 

You touch your nose. “I tried… He didn’t feel like a person. He didn’t feel like someone I was fighting, it was just painful.” 

“Like he was quick on his feet?” 

“He was silent. I didn’t hear him until I made him fall.” 

“How big did he feel?” 

Your stomach churns. Big. He’d felt big. 

Where’s the worst of the blood?

“He said he was going to hide,” you remember. 

“He said that? He said ‘hide’?

“Yeah. And he asked me if Aaron carries after hours.” 

“When was this?” 

It’s a headache. You try to remember more, because that’s what they need right now. If you ever want to go home, if you want Jack to go home, you need to remember more. The BAU are good, but nobody can make a map out of slivers. 

“That was at the end,” you say. 

“After he stabbed you?” 

You wince. “Yes. After.” 

“You’re doing so good,” she praises, “I just want to fill in the gaps.” 

“I can’t remember. I was unconscious.” 

“When Hotch found you?” 

“No, before.”

“Before?” she asks. 

You’re sick of sitting there with your eyes closed. Sick of your hands shaking with nowhere to hide them, and sick of feeling sick, your nausea as present as the stinging pain of your burned wrist against your sleeve each time you move. 

You open your eyes and look around the conference room for something interesting. How nice would it be to think of something else for a few minutes?

“He called it handiwork when he cut me. Asked if I thought Aaron would like it,” you say, bordering monotonous as your gaze fizzles, unfocused, across the room. 

“Okay, Y/N. Okay. I know you’re tired.” She reaches for your hands to squeeze at the same time. “You did really well. Any details at all are details we can use to find him.” 

You’re not in the mood for talking anymore. Tears burn your eyes, waiting for a blink to set them loose. 

“I want to see Aaron,” you confess quietly. 

“I’ll find him for you.” Emily stands but bends, the dark of her hair a contrast to her pale face. She’s lovely, and her hand is gentle on yours. “Are you okay? Can I get you something to eat?” 

So Aaron’s not keeping that to himself. “I want to see him, please.” 

“Yeah. Okay.” 

This is a horrible room. It’s not their fault, but the big white board is tacked with bad photos of grisly cases —currently your own. You stare at a photograph of your blood in the kitchen and don’t know what to do. Should you look away? You hadn’t realised you bled so much. 

You turn your chair toward the door. Emily looks back as she leaves and smiles at you softly, but your eyes are already moving to the smaller dry erase board by the doorway. It’s ‘Hotch’s turn to clean up on Thursdays. How strange that they make the boss clean the conference room. 

You can picture him picking up coffee cups and wiping down the table. You can always picture Aaron. 

You can see him hovering over you, his hand pressed to the bloody mess of your hip to stop the blood. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper to yourself, wanting to break from the memory, following Aaron’s example. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” You repeat it into your hands, head tilting down. You sink until your knuckles touch your knees. 

That’s all he says when you panic. He’ll say it over and over again until you can breathe right. I have you, I have you, you’re okay. 

He’s much quieter this time. You hear his footsteps, his familiar gait, your head pounding too hard to move. Aaron makes a sound between a sigh and a hum, like he’s saying a sorry hello as he kneels in front of you. His hand takes your face, rubs softly over your ear. 

“My head’s just hurting,” you murmur. 

He doesn’t respond. You sit together for some time as your mind races with bad memories, your fear a rush of goosebumps down the lengths of your arms and thighs. It’s hard not to think about what happened, mostly because you’re still a walking bruise, your stitches sting when you move, the blisters on your chest ache, all of it inescapable. But it’s your anxiety that plagues you most. You’re in a constant state of dread. 

You had no idea someone could hurt you as badly as they had until it happened, and now you’re desperate not to be hurt again. 

“You have to look after me,” you say eventually, throat sore with how awful it feels to say. 

“Yes, I do.” 

“Please don’t let me get hurt again.” 

Total silence. You sniffle at his lack of an answer, only slightly comforted by his hands at your wrists now, pulling them from your face. “Let’s sit up,” he says, standing himself. “Come on, let’s sit up. You shouldn’t be putting so much pressure on your abdomen.” 

You lean back and everything aches like a stretch after a long run or a bad night’s sleep. 

Aaron pulls a chair next to yours. When he sits, your knees are pressed in between one another’s thighs, so close he could hug you. You might need one.  He’s given you a ridiculous amount of them each day, some for him and some for you. 

He has with him a takeout box and a bottle of water. 

“Here,” he says, popping the seal of the drink. “Three sips.” 

You feel like crying, but you drink. He opens the takeout box to reveal a normal looking sandwich already cut into two halves, but he takes a plastic knife from his pocket, peels away the wrapping, and cuts the sandwich again into quarters. 

“I’m gonna be sick,” you say. 

“No, you’re not. You won’t be.” He presses the sandwich flat with his hands and holds it to you until you take it. “Please, Y/N. You only have to eat what you can.” 

“I don’t want it.” 

“Please.” 

“Did Emily tell you about my interview?” 

He reaches for your thigh. Mildly unlike him when you aren’t at home. You assume it to be a tether for your sake. “No. Is there something you think I should know?” 

“I don’t want to say it again.” 

“Then you don’t have to. Someone will tell me when I get back.” 

You pinch the fluffy bread in your hands, eyeing wearily at the wet insides. “Can I come with you?” 

“You’re having trouble in the cognitive interviews, you won’t want to hear what we have to say.” 

You split the sandwich in half again, watching as salad and mayonnaise ooze from the bread. 

“If you don’t eat, you won’t get better,” he says, a touch stern. 

“I can’t eat when you won’t let me come with you.” 

“I’m not the only person capable of protecting you. I…” He circles your wrist before you can make a mess. “Can you please eat it?” 

You take a bite to appease him, your stomach roiling, food wet and cold on your tongue. You eat the whole quarter queasily, a lump at the back of your throat begging you to stop. 

Aaron takes an empty hand and rubs it tenderly. “Thank you,” he says, that rubbing turned more forceful, his hand journeying to your elbow and back again. 

It’s sweet how attuned he is to your needing his touch, but mortifying. This entire experience had been embarrassing from start to end. Couldn’t defend yourself, can’t get to grips with it, and can’t keep anything down. Aaron looks at you and your bruises and you wonder if he’s seeing you with blood matted in your hair, or hearing you beg for him to get you something stronger. All you’d wanted was a sedative. 

“I’m far from the only person capable of protecting you,” he says. 

“You saved me,” you say. You mean it in every sense of the world. 

“…This is my fault.” 

“I want to be with you,” you say honestly. “I don’t feel okay by myself right now, I just need you, or I feel so sick I wish that I died.” The anxiety is marrow deep. 

Aaron looks gutted. “Don’t say that.” His hand goes back to yours, back to tenderness. “I know you're scared.” 

“Then why won’t you listen?” you ask weakly. 

“I’m listening to you,” he says, his tone a dulcet, pleasing softness you’ve never ever heard before, “I need you to be safe, and I need Jack to be safe, and I can’t do that while he’s still out there.” His brows pinch together, agonised. “I’m sorry you’re scared. I didn’t protect you. But I won’t let anything happen to you again.

“I love you. Please believe that I’m doing what’s best for you right now.” 

You turn your head away. He cups your cheek regardless. 

“I love you,” he says again. 

“I know.” 

“No, I love you.” 

He’s saying sorry.

“I love you,” you mumble back. 

“How are you feeling? Is anything hurting more? Weeping?” 

Your eyes are heavy at his touch. “You only looked at me a couple of hours ago.” 

“Alright. Can I kiss you? I need to go.” 

You don’t answer. Aaron kisses your chin, your jawline, the type of roving, teasing kisses he’d give as he squeezed your sides, only he doesn’t squeeze you, he can’t without hurting you. His hand hesitates just above your deepest wound. 

His bright kiss works to spark a modicum of life back into you. Not a lot, but enough. It was likely his intention, some quick prodding kisses to remind you of something happy between you both. 

You curl your fingers over his hand and turn your face for a chaste peck. He smiles, the curve of his lips evident and relieving against yours. 

“Someone will take you back to the safe house, okay? Give Jack a kiss for me,” he says. 

You nod. Aaron strokes your cheek. 

—

Your assailant could have killed you while you were vulnerable, but he didn’t. “He assumes he’ll have another chance,” Emily surmises. 

“That’s cocky,” JJ mutters. 

“It’s telling,” Aaron says. “But he won’t.” 

The coaching has been extensive. You, sick, a breath from tears and hurting, your shoulders in his hands and his grip too tight. If someone tells you I’m dead, you wait. If Morgan tells you I’m dead, you ask Rossi. If he says I’m dead, you ask Emily. You can’t believe the first thing someone says. No one is going to move you from this safe house to another without seeing me first. If I do get hurt, you and Jack will be moved separately. You will always get my confirmation before you’re moved. 

I’m not gullible, you’d said, wincing at his sharp tone. 

It’s not about that. People will lie, and they will lie well. They will talk their way into the house if you let them. You can’t let them. 

I won’t. 

He’s racing against a countdown, because no matter what he says, what you know, or how many agents wait outside your house, sometimes it’s a force of will. 

Foyet didn’t need much more than that. 

He admittedly feels on surer footing knowing where you are. The decision to guard you without putting you in WITSEC is aching and scary but better, too. He knows where you are. He can be there in ten minutes. No guessing games, but no hiding for you either. 

Your dread is taking over everything you do. Today’s the first day since you came home almost two weeks ago that you could function without a live-in nurse or Jess there to look after Jack, and already he’s worried, because he’d convinced you total honesty was what’s best for the both of you, and so your texts are candid. 

One an hour for his sake, more if you're up to it.

Threw up my beta blockers. Jack misses you, he wants to make you a Lego boat and fishing rod, but I’m not sure how to do it. Please make sure you eat dinner. 

Your next message makes him smile, thankfully. I’m kidding about the dinner thing. Ha. I had one of those gels you got for me, and Jack wants fries, so I’m making waffle fries. 

He texts back quickly. Eat dinner. Please tell Jack I miss him too, and don’t worry about the boat, he’ll work it out. Then, feeling awful, he adds, I love you

Aaron should go home. He’d feel better if he knew he was there to help you keep your medication down, but if he leaves… He knows his team will give you everything they have, but he has more. He can fix this. 

He can’t fix this, god, his head hurts badly. You’re covered in cuts and bruises and burns and he thinks he can make up for that? You’ve been brutalised. Aaron can’t believe this is happening again. 

He rubs his brow. 

“You okay?” Emily asks. 

When he looks up, JJ is gone. 

“I’m fine.” 

“It’s okay if you’re not.” 

He’s not fine, but he knows what she’s asking. “I’m okay enough to do this,” he says. 

It’s hard not to confuse you with memory, your hurting similar to his own, your situation one that he’s already lived. Haley will haunt him for life. It doesn’t usually feel as punishing as he fears he deserves: he gets to remember the best parts of her everyday. He sees her in Jack all the time. He sees her in you, occasionally —you’ll touch his hair or rub his arm like she would’ve done, and it doesn’t make him miss her any more than he does, he’s not in the business of wishing you weren’t yourself, he loves you, but he remembers her. Aaron remembers how he failed her every day. 

He can’t fail you, too. 

“Is it ever easy?” Emily asks. 

Aaron looks around for a bottle of water. “Is what?” 

“Being in love.” 

He thinks about it. “I must make it look hard.” 

She laughs softly. “Sometimes, yeah.” 

Maybe that’s not fair, then, to you. For him to make it seem difficult to love you. To fail to correct Emily when she asks. 

He chooses his words carefully. “Loving her is the easiest thing in the world. But… I continue to work a job I know makes me hard to love in return.” And that puts you in danger. 

It doesn’t feel wrong to be sincere. Perhaps it’s easier with Emily. She saw so much of him during Foyet, and she’s family, truly. He can tell her how intense it’s felt. 

“Well, it doesn’t seem hard for her,” Emily says. 

He shakes his head. 

She continues regardless, “Even during her cognitive, she mentioned the first time you told her you loved her. When it was over she wanted to see you over anything else.” 

But I put her here, he wants to say. Or doesn’t want to say at all, but instead knows with surety. 

“She can’t eat if I’m not home,” he says. What a thing to do to someone. “It’s my fault.” 

Emily smiles, hair slipping off of her shoulder as her expression turns to playfulness. “I think you’re seeing it all wrong. Something bad happened to her, and you’re so safe to her that you make it better when you’re with her. That’s not fault, Hotch. Just love.” 

He turns his attention back to the board without another word. 

—

When the day comes, when they find the man who hurt you, you’re sitting at home with Jack Hotchner in your lap. You’re laughing at his laughing, cartoon fish on the TV, and Aaron’s got a gun in his hand fifty miles away. You both giggle, nearly in hysterics as the safe house living room glows pink and red, Jack’s favourite character swimming hurriedly across the screen, as Aaron negotiates the arrest. 

Usually capable of mediation, Aaron finds his patience completely unravelled. He offers the UnSub two choices: he surrenders now, immediately, and he keeps his life, or he deliberates and Aaron kills him. 

He has reason to believe the UnSub will try again, of course. Will keep hurting you until it sticks. 

He goes home satisfied.

“Dad’s home!” you say excitedly, your movie long finished, your thighs numb and stitches stinging where Jack has leaned against you. You encourage him off of you as the front door closes, the cold air from outside rushing in. 

“Honey?” Aaron calls. 

“Yeah!” You stumble into a standing position, sure you look about as disgusting as you have since the situation began, promptly sitting back down as head rush hits. 

Jack races for the door, meeting Aaron in the hallway with a whoosh. “Hey!” 

“Hi, buddy, what are you doing?” 

“We watched Finding Nemo,” Jack says, “and now I’m hugging you, duh.” 

“Duh. Well, I need to talk to Y/N for five minutes. Can you wash your hands for dinner?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You okay?” he asks. 

“I’m fine.”

You hear the sound of a light kiss, and then Jack rockets across the hallway and up the stairs. Aaron walks into the doorway, tie still knotted but with no suit jacket, and you know what he’s going to say before he says it. He wears a strange expression.

“You got him?” you ask. 

He puts a white bag on the coffee table, looking down at you fondly. “I got him.” 

“How did you find him?” 

He crouches down in front of you. He’s so careful to be harmless to you now, so tentative. “You’re not the only woman he hurt. We dealt with him in the past. From the information you gave Emily during your interview, and the information he left behind, we found him… If you weren’t as brave as you are, I couldn’t have kept you and Jack safe.” He holds your knee. “Thank you.” 

You stare at him. Staring, wondering what he means. “Brave?” 

“Brave.” 

“I’m a coward.” 

He shakes his head. “No. You’re not.” 

All you've done for days is cry and throw up and bleed, literally. You’ve ruined clothes and sheets, thrown up in his lap, terrified and aching. Each time was met with the same gentleness. A kiss on the cheek, or a hand rubbing your back. Is that bravery? You feel like a baby. 

Aaron’s brow is relaxed. He takes your two legs into his hands, and he looks at you with a reverence that leaves you breathless. 

“You’re hurt forever because of me,” he says quietly, you strain to hear him, “because of who I am, and what I choose to be.” 

“How can you say that? It’s not your fault.” 

“It wouldn’t have happened to you if I hadn’t missed his MO the first time.” 

“You’re not putting the knife in anyone’s hand,” you argue. 

“But it keeps happening.” 

His hair shines dark and wet. It must be raining outside, the safe house walls are thick, the windows shuttered permanently, you haven’t heard a peep. You stroke it back from his forehead. 

“Remember… when we first got together, and you told me you were sorry for how hard being with you could be. And I said it was okay, that it wasn’t hard, and you said it would be?” 

“I remember,” he says, practically mouths. 

“I was so afraid when...” You swallow roughly. “I still am. But not– not of you. Not of what you can do. When you told me it was going to be hard, I thought, well, it’s worth it, because I really liked you then and I love you now.” Tears collect in your eyes. Safe. I’m safe. “And you look after me, so– so–” 

You stop as your voice turns to glass, worried you’ll make a fool of yourself and cry in his hands. 

“I didn’t want this for you,” he says. 

“Nobody wants this. Bad things happen to everyone, but who has someone like you to look after them?” 

He breathes out heavily. “Please… don’t cry.” 

You wipe your cheeks, taking a lengthy pause before you say, “I’m okay now.” 

He looks at you in silence. 

“Come and sit with me,” you say, scrubbing your cheeks, hot tears cooling on the backs of your hands. “Your knees.” 

He actually smiles. It changes his entire face. “What about my knees?” 

Aaron sits on the couch next to you atop Jack’s blanket, a bag of pretzels tipping between your leg and his. You attempt to rake his damp hair into submission as his fingers run against your thighs, fishing for pretzels to put back into the bag. 

You’d like for him to grab you and kiss you harshly, give you one of his straight jacket hugs, some roughhousing, but you won’t get that from him until you're better, and even then, it’s up in the air. So much has changed. 

But not everything. 

“I love you,” you murmur, fingertips scratching down behind his ear to the back of his head. 

He turns to you, sagging with relief and exhaustion. “Kiss?” he asks quietly. 

You nod. He holds your cheek, and you close your eyes at the same time for a kiss. It’s not a lot, but you have time. He can give you another one when you’re both better recovered. 

He pulls away. You open your eyes, finding his closed, his face downturned. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

“Was Jack good?” 

“Jack’s always good.” 

“Did the nurse have anything to say about your chest?” 

“She said it’s healing okay. That I need to use, uh, scar patches when they start to scab.” 

“I can get those.” 

“I know, I knew you would.” 

He gathers you up for a hug. For a moment, you think he’ll move on, that the end of your nightmare will kill his remorse, but he breathes in, nose wedged against your cheek. 

“Do you think that tonight, we could pretend it didn’t happen?” You’d like to just sit with him, press your hand to his chest and doze. It’s the first night in a while that you’ll feel completely. 

“Yeah. I can do that.” He hugs you rather tightly. “Do you want to see your present?” he asks, relaxing his grip. 

“My present?” 

He grabs the bag on the coffee table and places it in your lap. “I’m worried it’ll remind you of bad memories, but I wanted you to have nice things then, and I still do.” 

In the bag, there’s a pair of pyjamas. Very different to the ones you’d been wearing when you were attacked, they were girly and sweet, soft in your hands, these are sturdy. Still soft, but thick. The shirt is short-sleeved and the pants cuffed at the ankles, a hoodie tucked underneath them, and a packet of minky socks. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

Thanks for everything, for saving you twice, for taking care of you at your worst, and for wanting you to have something comfortable to wear at the end of it. To have experienced an abjectly cruel battering will leave its marks in your forever, but you meant what you told him. He looks after you, and you love him. 

He kisses your shoulder. “You don't need to say that.” 

He doesn’t add anything else, his nose pressed to your shoulder, his hand on your hip. Whatever goes unsaid can be felt in the other’s touch. 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thank u for reading!! it’s been a long time since I wrote a fic for hotch and it’s hard to write him being vulnerable but I hope this is alright anyways and that you enjoyed :D please consider reblogging if you did enjoy it (cos that way my fics get shown to more people <3) ❤️

[tsukasageorge]

Art block posting as usual

[lovelybucky1]

Treat Me Wrong

Kinktober Day 16- Degradation Kink

warnings: AFAB!Reader, manipulation, gaslighting, cheating, sex work, roleplay, spanking, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, mentions of pregnancy, 18+ minors DNI

main masterlist

kinktober masterlist

“I think we should break up,” you say.

Tommy’s face twists in anger and confusion. “Where’d you get that idea?” he asks.

This is exactly why you want to break up. He’s so dismissive and he doesn’t respect you. He’s sitting relaxed in his chair like you didn’t just suggest ending your relationship. Why is it so difficult for him to care about you?

“I’m not happy!” you say.

Tommy scoffs in response. “You live like a princess. What else could you possibly need?”

“Love and attention,” you huff.

“Christ,” he shakes his head in disbelief. “Are you a child? Do you really need me to attend to you all day to be content?”

“Not all day, Tommy. Just sometimes. What's the point in even having a lover if you won't spend time with them?"

"You act like I have a lot of free time to waste. I'm a very busy man."

His way of having excuses for everything make you feel like you're going insane.

"You have enough time to spend with prostitutes," you say bitterly. This makes Tommy perk up. "I know you go to see them after work and lie to me when you get home late. Why do you bother stringing me along if you'd rather pay for your companionship?"

Tommy chuckles darkly. "That's what this is about, eh?"

"Why the fuck are you laughing, Tommy?"

He stands up from his chair and crosses the room to stand in front of you. He places one hand on your hip while the other holds his cigarette. The smoke swirls in front of your face, the pungent smell burning your nose.

"You're jealous of my whores?" he asks smugly.

"What do they have that I don't," you ask angrily.

"I have certain needs that they satisfy."

You scoff and push his hand off of you. "We're together, Tommy. You should come to me to satisfy your needs, not step out on me."

Tommy rolls his eyes and grabs ahold of your wrist. "What I need isn't appropriate for a high society woman like yourself."

You furrow your brows in confusion, but no matter what he's talking about, you want to be able to provide it for him. "You don't get to decide what's appropriate for me or not. Besides, you'd know that I'm very adventurous if you ever took the time to actually be intimate with me."

He blinks slowly at you and licks his lips, then smirks devilishly. "You want me to treat you like one of my whores?"

"Yes, Tommy."

"Right." Tommy stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray on the side table, the turns his attention back to you. Both of his hands are on your hips now, holding you firmly. "You promise not to get upset?"

"Why would I get upset?"

Tommy fights back a smirk. "Because I tend to be a bit... harsh."

"Harsh?" you ask.

"You said you want me to fuck you like a whore. A dirty, cheap, used up whore that's only good for taking cock. Is that right?" You hesitantly nod. "Then until I'm finished, that's exactly what you're going to be. I'm only going to stop if you tell me to, otherwise I'm going to have you just like I have them."

"Okay," you breathe.

Tommy steps away from you and sits back in his chair. "Take your dress off," he instructs.

You find it a bit odd that he's just watching instead of also getting undressed, but it does make you feel better that the prostitutes he visits don't get to see him naked.

You strip piece by piece until you're bare in front of him. He stands up again and looks over your body, occasionally prodding and groping you.

"Turn around," he says, voice low. You do as he says and you allow yourself to be moved over to the couch. Tommy pushes you so you're bent at the waist over the arm rest, bare ass on display.

Tommy continues to grope you; he slaps your cheeks, spreads and slaps them, and teases at your folds.

“Wet already? Didn’t think whores got off on their work,” he says.

Without much prep, he shoves two fingers into your cunt. Like a true whore, you take them easily. He opens you up by scissoring his fingers inside you. He's going quickly, not bothering to take his time and make it pleasurable for you. You suppose he pays for his own pleasure, not yours.

"Already loose too. How many others did you have today?" he asks. When you don't answer him, he delivers a slap to your ass.

"N-none," you whimper.

"Sounds like business is slow."

He pulls his fingers out of you and wipes your wetness on your thigh. He then moves to press his hips against yours, allowing you to feel the bulge in his slacks. He grinds up against you shamelessly, making you feel even more humiliated now that he's simulating fucking you while he's fully dressed.

"Tell me you want my cock," he orders.

"I want your cock," you parrot with a whine in your voice.

"You can be more convincing than that," he says with a slap to your ass. "Be a good whore and beg me to fuck you."

You take a deep breath. "Please fuck me. I need your cock so bad... Mr. Shelby," you add for good measure.

That seems to please him, because he moves away from you far enough to pull his cock through his fly. He rubs the head through your folds, teasing your entrance with it.

"I'm not going to catch anything from fucking you raw, am I?" he asks, though he knows the answer.

"No, sir," you reply.

You're glad he bent you over like this, because that means he can't see your embarrassed face and you don't have to look into his intimidating eyes.

"Mm, good."

He pushes inside you, not gently but he doesn't aim to hurt you. Once he's fully seated inside, he begins to thrust before you're ready for it. You gasp in surprise, but you're helpless to do anything but take it.

"Didn't think pussy so cheap would take me so well," he groans. His hands grip tightly on your hips and he slams you back to meet each of his thrusts. His cock bumps against your cervix uncomfortably, but it feels best for him when you take it all the way, and that's the only thing that matters.

With each thrust, you make a punched out little moan. Tommy, however, is silent above you, save for a bit of heavy breathing. It isn't until you arch your back and really start putting on a show that he speaks up.

"Like a fuckin' professional, eh? I should come to you more often. Y'know, my woman's a real bitch sometimes. Never lets me fuck her like this. Thinks she's too good to get bent over. Has so many opinions, too. But you're a good woman; quiet, tight," he leans down, draping himself over your back to speak into your ear. "Obedient."

You can't help but moan at his filthy words, despite how degrading they are. You shouldn't find your lover talking badly about you so arousing, but you cant help it.

"She gets so mad I cheat on her but I think she'd understand if she felt this cunt for herself. 'm gonna marry her and fuck her full of babies to keep her busy while I give the real good stuff to you."

"Fuck," you whimper and immediately regret it.

"You like when I talk to you like a whore? You like getting fucked hard like I don't love you?"

It's rare that Tommy says he loves you. So rare, in fact, that you often doubt if it's true.

"Yes, yes," you gasp. "I love you."

"Mm," he hums. "Save it for when I'm not paying you."

[gremlingottoosilly]

thinking about konig asking to eat you out and you being like “lol no i’m on my period.” and he’s all “ohhhh idc idc i wanna eat it so bad 🥺” and you need to be like no. buddy. you clearly do not get it. i am not a 2-3 day period, “who needs pads i’ll just freebleed” girlie. i am a 7-8 day, heavy flow, bleed through the pad girlie, lmfao.

and then he eats it anyways because not only has he been around so much more blood than you could ever imagine but also he’s lowkey highkey into it teeeheeeeeeee ;P

"Schatzen, I kill people for money. You really think I'm scared of a little blood?" You wasn't nervous of the fact he wasn't scared of a bit of blood - even though it was not, in fact, just a little. Even though it was, in fact, a lot and made you ask him to bring you newer pads. You didn't really think he would be scared of a bit of period blood - but you were fucking terrified at the fact that he seemed to adore it. To cherish every drop, till the last one - to press his face between your thighs and look at you like a kitten who wants a bit of cream. The thing is, Konig missed you. Returning from a two month contract only meant he was ready to destroy your pelvis and fuck you for every hour he is on leave - unfortunately, he can't quite do that, you're too fragile to take his cock four times per day...but you can take his tongue. Even if that means having the metallic taste cling to his tongue for days on end, he would gladly spend the whole week buried in your cunt, relishing in your taste. It's a nice way to deal with cramps, he might think. Konig literally read one article about how orgasms can sometimes help some people with their cramps, and he'd use this for the rest of his life. Oh, your stomach is hurting and you feel like your womb is trying to eat you from the inside? Just let him eat you out! No matter how many times you push him away and beg for him to stop, he'd still laugh and push his tongue deeper, over and over. He is a mercenary, he is getting paid tons of money to cover himself in blood of his victims - having his pretty girlfriend cry and cum on his tongue is a nice addition. You don't even question it when he starts to track your periods, knowing you'd have it even when you forget - you don't question the dates he literally keeps posted on your shared calendar, don't care that the amount of heating pads in the house had largely diminished - and he won't buy you a new one because he is much better at being a heating pad anyway!