#i'm not sure if i have the discipline to organize this thing

[ssa-dado]

24 - Logos

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, hurt/comfort, SMUT Summary: A few weeks ago, Aaron had read a passage from Plato's Symposium - "And when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of himself... the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and one will not be out of the other's sight, even for a moment." He hadn’t fully understood it. Not until he found himself sitting on your couch at 3 a.m. Warnings: + 18 MINORS DNI (I will ground you) alcohol consumption, some cuss words here and there, VERY GRAPHIC AND DESCRIPTIVE SEX because I'm a weirdo, it's basically porn with philosophy (not in the middle of it - of course - I'm not that weird), dirty talk, unprotected sex, piv, oral sex and a lot of pining. Hotch is a whore. Word Count: 18.9k Dado's Corner: I don’t know, I’m both proud and deeply insecure about posting this. It’s my first time writing smut. Ever. I have no idea if it’s good. No idea if it’s too much or too little - if I over-explained things or if I didn’t explain enough. It’s their first time actually sober, and they’re supposed to be a little cringe - uncertain, hesitant, not entirely sure what to do with each other or where they fit and that’s deliberate. I wanted it to feel real - flawed, messy, something that isn’t just perfect and seamless, but human. There’s good and bad, there’s laughter and uncertainty, there are tears of joy and tears of fear. And I just hope it feels like something.

masterlist ; mandatory first part because if you skip this, you'll be utterly lost and it's not my fault

In Stoic philosophy, logos represents the rational principle that governs the universe, uniting logic, physics, and ethics into a cohesive worldview. It is the divine reason permeating all existence, structuring nature according to order and necessity.

In Stoic logic, logos manifests as the foundation of rational thought, guiding human reasoning toward clarity and truth. Mastery of logic enables individuals to distinguish between valid judgments and deceptive impressions, ensuring alignment with reality.

In physics, logos is the active, organizing force (pneuma) that sustains and directs the cosmos. Everything unfolds according to its rational design, making the universe an interconnected, purposeful whole rather than a realm of randomness.

In ethics, living in accordance with logos means harmonizing one’s will with nature’s rational order. By cultivating wisdom, self-discipline, and virtue, individuals align their actions with universal reason, achieving tranquility and moral integrity in a world shaped by necessity and change.

Happiness is a complex concept - or at least, it became one once thinkers like Aristotle started overanalyzing it.

He distinguished between fleeting pleasure (hedonia) and deeper fulfillment (eudaimonia), and ever since, that debate has been stitched into the fabric of western culture.

Now, most people unknowingly follow this hierarchical model of happiness, never realizing it originated from a handful of bored, existentially troubled men desperately trying to intellectualize their own misery.

Maybe that’s why it’s considered completely normal to ask if someone is really happy - because centuries of philosophy decided that happiness alone isn’t enough – it had to be the right kind of happiness.

And yet, even you weren’t immune to that trap. Because standing there, dancing with Aaron, you admitted to yourself that you were, in fact, truly happy.

Not just for yourself, but for him - for the man who, for the first time since signing his divorce papers a few months ago finally looked light. Not weighed down. Not lost in some invisible battle in his mind. Just… happy.

And the moment felt so sweet, a microcosm where locking eyes with each other was ordinary conduct in such close proximity, where neither of you felt the need to temper that undeniable - if slightly terrifying - undercurrent of chemistry.

Just the understanding that this was safe, that this was allowed.

And somehow, that made it even sweeter.

Not just the warmth of it, not just the effortless way you fit into this tight space together, but the inescapable fact that your probably borderline-manipulative plan to drag him out of his self-imposed exile - had actually worked.

"Now you have to tell me how you managed to get not only Rossi but Hotch to join us tonight, sweet Teach - what kind of sorcery did you pull?" Penelope beamed, not even giving you a second to breathe after you’d opened the door to your apartment.

Ever since she got shot and still struggled with being alone in her house, the two of you had built this little ritual - getting ready together, spending a few hours just the two of you in your apartment before a night out.

A win-win, really, considering you also took your time settling into this place, figuring out how to make it feel like home. Penelope had even been the one to help you unpack your very last box, and now this little tradition had taken root.

She brought the wine, you experimented with vegan appetizers - some more successful than others - and the two of you would rant, gossip, and talk about everything and nothing. But, most importantly, Penelope took on the herculean mission of wrangling your ridiculously high-maintenance team into one place for a night out.

It was a diplomatic nightmare. The venue had to be quiet enough for Spencer but still have music good enough for Derek, serve whatever mocktail JJ was obsessed with that month, and somehow accommodate Emily’s inevitable last-minute curveballs - which, incidentally, was how Spencer found himself at a drag show for the first time.

Shockingly, he’d been asking to go back to that bar ever since.

You, meanwhile, were more like Penelope’s unpaid secretary. She desperately needed one, given the sheer level of effort it took to coordinate this mess.

"You asked, and I delivered," you said, shrugging. "Told Rossi that Hotch was coming, told Aaron that Rossi was coming too - he actually turned out to be much easier to persuade."

"I wonder why… oh, right," Penelope sing-songed, eyes gleaming. "Big Bossman has a soft spot for you, smiley little thing."

You rolled your eyes. "The fact that we’re friends doesn’t change that he is infuriatingly stubborn once he makes up his mind. So annoying."

"Nine years of ‘friendship’" Penelope quipped, stretching the word out suspiciously.

"Actually, it’s ten," you corrected, sipping your wine as you settled onto your kitchen stool.

Penelope gasped - full dramatic hand-to-chest gasp. "Oh my STARS and MOONS! Ten years?! And you didn’t tell me?! What did you do? What did he do? Just the two of you , alone somewhere private, existing in your natural secretive habitats like the little pretty, reserved, woodland creatures you two are… especially now that he’s divor-"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down, Pen!" you cut her off before she could run that train straight off the rails. "How many times have I told you we're-"

But no. She didn’t let you finish.

"Oh, Teach!" she grinned, eyes sparkling enough to concern you. "I was just suggesting you two do something to celebrate… something you two love to do. You know, stay up all night bonding over files… bending over files…"

You choked.

Actually choked.

Wine went straight up your nose, burned your throat, and splattered all over you, going everywhere.

Your counter.

Your floor.

Your poor, innocent, pristine white pants.

Penelope screamed - but not in horror, in absolute, unhinged delight.

"OH MY GOD," she cackled, slapping a hand against your back like that would somehow help you breathe again. "I HAVE NEVER BROKEN YOU SO FAST."

You wheezed, still coughing. "Penelope-"

She wiped a fake tear from her eye, grinning. "Oh no, sweet pea. You absolutely just got - wait." She paused mid-celebration, tilting her head as if she had just made a discovery.

Then, in a tone far too calm for the amount of damage she was about to inflict - "Much like I imagine Aaron Hotchner could do."

A horrible, inhuman noise clawed its way out of your throat - your last dying breath, probably.

Penelope lost it. Full-body laughter, already snatching a towel but making zero effort to hide the criminal glint in her eyes.

"I’m just saying," she went on, barely containing herself, "you and Mr. Tall, Dark, and Emotionally Repressed have this whole agonizingly slow-burn, will-they-won’t-they, tragic yearning thing going on, and you know I’m right."

You groaned, dabbing furiously at the stain. "There is nothing slow-burn about a decade-long friendship."

"Aha! So you admit it’s a burn!" Penelope beamed, pointing at you like she had just cracked a conspiracy wide open.

The more you dabbed, the worse it got - just like this conversation, apparently. "Oh, no, I never-”

"All I’m saying is," she steamrolled over you, completely unfazed, "the energy you two radiate is so thick I could slather it on a bagel. Toasted chemistry. Smothered in slow-burn spread. One time I saw him look at you like you personally hand-crafted happiness from scratch just for him. Like you reached into the fabric of the universe and said, ‘Here you go, Hotchner, a reason to believe in joy again.’"

You paused, glaring at her. "That is insane."

She ignored you, fully in the zone now. "And don’t even get me started on the way you look at him when he isn’t paying attention."

You looked at him completely normally. Totally neutral. A textbook, regulation-approved gaze.

Even Anderson looked at him with more fervor than you ever did - and as far as you knew, he wasn’t even into men.

You scoffed, crossing your arms. "And how exactly do I look at him, Penelope? Enlighten me."

She grinned - dangerously - and leaned in like she was about to drop the biggest bombshell of your life. "Like you already know what he looks like naked and are trying very, very hard not to think about it."

You froze.

For exactly half a second - which, unfortunately, was half a second too long.

Penelope’s entire face dropped. Eyes huge. Mouth hanging open. A moment of stunned silence. And then-

"OH. MY. GOD."

Your stomach plummeted. "Penelope, don’t-"

"OH MY GOD. YOU DID."

"Penelope," you tried again, desperately attempting to rein in the chaos - but, to your credit, you did at least try to keep your voice level.

"JESUS, MARY, AND EMILY PRENTISS, YOU TOTALLY DID THE HORIZONTAL TANGO WITH AARON HOTCHNER. YOU SNEAKY LITTLE MINX. HOW DARE YOU HIDE THIS FROM ME?!"

"Penelope, for the love of-" you started, but of course she chimed in again.

"WHEN?! WHERE?! HOW?! DETAILS, WOMAN!"

You exhaled through your nose, dragging a hand down your face because there was no getting out of this.

"Once," you muttered. "Nine years ago."

Silence.

Then, with the most scandalized expression you've ever witnessed on her face, she shrieked, "ONLY ONCE?!"

You threw your hands up. "Yes, only once! And never again."

"WHY ONLY ONCE?!" she shrieked, as if you had just admitted to committing the single greatest injustice known to mankind.

You exhaled, bracing yourself, hoping that a little honesty might finally get her to calm down. "Because, at the time… I might have had a bit of a crush on him. And we were coworkers. And it wasn’t exactly… ethic-"

"FUCK THE ETHICAL!" she screamed, thrilled by the sheer scandal of it all.

You should have seen that coming."Penelope!"

She flailed her arms so violently she nearly knocked over her wine glass, eyes wide "You had a crush on him?! ON HOTCH?! AND YOU ONLY DID IT ONCE?! Oh, I cannot with you right now. You are so infuriating sometimes! You have the emotional restraint of a saint, and I do not mean that as a compliment."

"We were both drunk, and it was a mistake. It happened, we moved on, and that was the end of it. We’re friends, and that’s all it’s ever going to be." you said, unwavering. " Honestly, I don’t even think about it anymore - sometimes, I even laugh about it."

Penelope squinted, gears visibly turning in that devious head of hers, already cooking up something absolutely unhinged. "Mmm-hmm. Okay. Fine. Sure. Let’s pretend I accept that. But-"

Oh no.

"-if it were to happen again, hypothetically speaking, do you think it would be even better now that he’s aged like a fine, expensive, top-shelf wine? And, and, anddd - follow-up question - on a purely objective, scientific level - how would you rate him? You know, visually?"

"Penelope!" you groaned, but unfortunately, your traitorous brain had already started answering the question.

Yes.

And no comment.

"Okay, okay, fine, no ratings," she huffed dramatically, rolling her eyes so hard you were surprised she didn't sprain something. "But-"

This was it. Your moment. Time to end this madness with a good old, firm, satisfying -"No."

But, of course, that would have been too good to be true.

She continued "-would you say he's more on the impressively sized side or-"

"Penelope, please." You were already suffering.

She waved you off like your dignity was a minor inconvenience to her scientific research. "Listen, I’m just saying," she went on, tone now fully deranged, "the man carries himself like he’s got something to be confident about. Big hands, big energy, big…"

You froze. "Do not finish that sentence."

"BIG, HUGE D-"

Time to draw the line.

You shot up so fast your chair went flying, rattling against the floor as you grabbed your phone.

Penelope screeched. "Wait - what are you doing?!"

You scrolled, thumb unwavering, and hit call. "Giving you a direct source."

Her soul left her body. "NO. NO, YOU WOULD NOT-"

You absolutely would.

And you did.

"Come on," you said, completely deadpan, as the dial tone rang. "It’s just Aaron."

Penelope malfunctioned. She glitched like a corrupted file. She stared at you, horrified, mouth moving but no sound coming out.

"He’s just 'Aaron' to you?" she whispered, her hands flailed before slamming onto the table as if physically stabilizing herself. "No last name? No title? Just oh, you know, my casual little ex-lover, Aaron? Just ‘hello, this is a man I have been biblically familiar with, Aaron?’ Just ‘we had sex nine years ago, and now he’s simply Aaron, like we’re old college roommates and not two people who have seen each other naked’"

…Hmm. Well. Yes?

To be fair, you’d never really thought about it before. It just… happened. One day, he was Hotch, then - sometime after that night - he was Aaron. And after that, you never really stopped.

No big discussion, no conscious decision - just a shift so seamless that you hadn’t even registered it until right now, in this very moment, with Penelope practically having a full-body breakdown in your kitchen.

Not important. Moving on.

Because, frankly, you had bigger concerns - like how you were about to experience instant, irreversible consequences for your actions, since the call, after one, two, three rings-

Connected.

"Hello?" His voice came through the line - slightly huffed, a little breathless, like he’d just moved across the room.

"You took a while to pick up," you said casually - a joke, a throwaway comment.

There was a pause. A beat.

And then, in that deadly flat, unbothered tone of his, he answered, "I was still in the shower."

You froze.

Penelope froze.

Somewhere, on the opposite side of your living room wall, your elderly neighbor Mrs. Lee - who had been subtly not subtly eavesdropping through the thin drywall of your apartment - probably froze.

You could feel Penelope vibrating beside you, gripping your arm so tightly she was cutting off circulation, meanwhile, your brain was running in circles, slamming against metaphorical walls, and screaming into the void because-

Aaron in the shower.

Aaron, freshly out of the shower.

Aaron, picking up the phone, standing there, probably half-naked, hair wet-

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

You leaned back against the counter, schooling your expression into something completely unfazed. "Well, now I feel bad for interrupting."

"I doubt that," he said dryly. "Is something wrong?"

"Not at all. It’s just that Penelope had something very important to ask you," you said, glancing over at her with the most innocent, borderline sadistic smile you could muster.

"I - what - no, I don’t-" she sputtered, frantically shaking her head and waving her hands.

Aaron, still completely unaware of the impending disaster, said, "What is it, Penelope?"

Dead silence.

Garcia looked like she had been struck by divine retribution.

"Go on," you mouthed, biting back a grin. "Ask him."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Nothing.

Just the sound of sheer existential regret.

"Garcia?" Aaron prompted, his tone patient, if slightly concerned.

"I - um - hi, sir Sir," she finally managed, voice several octaves higher than usual. "I - I just - well, you know - um. How was your shower?"

You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from screaming.

Aaron, completely unfazed, just answered like this was a normal human interaction,"It was fine."

"Good! That’s great!" Garcia blurted, nodding furiously at no one in particular. "Love a good shower! Love hygiene! So important! Huge fan of cleanliness! Showering - what a concept! Water? Incredible. Soap? Revolutionary. Scrubbing? Life-changing. Anyway, I have to go bye!"

And then she hung up so fast it was a miracle she didn’t break the phone.

You just stared at her.

She just stared back.

Then, in perfect sync -

You both screamed, laughing.

"You traitor!" Penelope wheezed, still half-laughing, half-mortified.

"You were the one who wanted answers!" you gasped, nearly crying from laughter.

"Not from him directly!" she shrieked, burying her face in her hands like that could somehow reverse time - but she was laughing anyway, because this was, undeniably, the funniest and most horrifying thing that had ever happened.

"Well, I just saved you the effort," you teased.

She ripped her hands away from her face, wild-eyed. "You made me ask our boss about his shower."

"You made me listen to your entire dissertation on whether or not he’s impressively sized - I feel like we’re even."

You still somehow winced thinking back about it.

She groaned, collapsing against the counter. "I will never recover from this."

"Oh, I’m sure you absolutely will," you said, reaching for the wine bottle. "Do you want more wine?"

She lifted her head just enough to nod. Begrudgingly.

You poured, sliding her glass across the counter. Then, with the kind of magnanimous generosity only wine-fueled chaos could inspire, you added, "And - because I am a good friend - I will allow you one question about that night. One. With a detail."

Penelope snapped upright faster than the speed of light, gasping. "Oh, this is the best day of my life."

You chuckled, shaking your head, sipping from your own glass too. "Make it count."

She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and then, she leaned in and whispered- "Was it at least good enough that you'd do it sober?"

You nearly choked, again. "Penelope!"

She lifted a hand. "No, no, no, this is a very fair, very respectable question."

Sure, a question that required another sip of wine to be answered, especially because at this point you literally had nothing more to lose. "Penelope, I would do it sober, wide awake, fully caffeinated, after eight hours of sleep, in a well-lit room, with a legally binding contract ensuring I’d remember every single second."

Penelope screamed.

"OH MY GOD," she wailed, collapsing onto the counter. "THIS IS MY NEW FAVORITE NIGHT."

You took another sip, completely unfazed, as she flailed so hard she nearly launched herself off the stool.

"I NEED TO LIE DOWN," she gasped, gripping onto the counter for support. "I NEED TO CALL EMILY. JJ – OH SWEET LITTLE JJ – SHE’S IN NEW ORLEANS SHE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW”

"You need to calm down," you deadpanned.

She pointed at you, accusatory, still half-breathless from screaming. "You were gonna take this to the grave. You were gonna let me die not knowing this. ME. PENELOPE GARCIA. The person who has kept all of your secrets and asked for nothing in return except unfiltered chaos."

"I was absolutely going to take this to the grave," you confirmed, refilling your wine.

She let out a dramatic gasp. "YOU MONSTER."

You shrugged. "You survived."

She slammed a hand on the table. "You know who wouldn’t have survived?"

You tilted your head. "Who?"

She leaned in, eyes glinting. "Aaron Hotchner."

You made a low, strangled noise in the back of your throat.

"Oh, he absolutely wouldn’t have survived if he knew this just came out of your mouth," she continued, giddy, thriving off the absolute chaos she had unleashed. Then, dead serious - "Text him right now and tell him."

You slammed your wine down. "I am definetely not texting him that."

"Why not?!" she howled.

"Because I told you - I’m never doing that. Ever. I’m serious. If I could go back in time and relive that sober? Sure. But not. Now."

She narrowed her eyes, assessing, calculating.

"Okay, okay, alright then - next question." she said too fast, taking a sip like she was preparing for battle. "Do you think he’d do it sober?"

You opened your mouth - but nothing came out. Because you hadn’t actually thought about that before.

Penelope gasped so loudly that you were surprised the walls didn’t shake. "OH MY GOD, YOU DON’T KNOW."

"I-"

"OH MY GOD, WHAT IF HE THINKS ABOUT IT, WHAT IF HE REGRETS NOT DOING IT AGAIN."

"Penelope," you said slowly, carefully, " you know what? I have reached my limit. This conversation is getting put away. We are going to the bathroom, I am curling your hair, and we are talking about something else."

"You know, Teach," she mused, stretching luxuriously as she grabbed her wine glass. "You have a really weird way of showing love."

You took a slow sip of wine, watching her over the rim of your glass. “I agree - it’s because I hate you just as much as I love you, PG. Opposites aren’t really opposites, you know? They kind of fold into each other - love, hate… same fire, same burn. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.”

You were actually proud of this philosophical pearl of wisdom. Penelope? Not so much.

She cut you off immediately. "Oh my GOD, this explains so much. This is exactly why you and Hotch looked like you were about to fuck in the middle of the bullpen yesterday."

"PENELOPE."

She pointed at you, completely unbothered. "OH NO NO NO - I was sitting there, minding my own business, when suddenly you two were arguing about the profile like you were in some kind of battle for dominance, standing way too close, talking way too low, making way too much direct eye contact."

"We were disagreeing about the profile."

"YOU WERE HAVING A MENTAL THREESOME WITH THE PROFILE BETWEEN YOU."

You let your head drop onto the counter.

She kept going. "It was totally foreplay - and then, mid-argument, he even took you to his office."

You lifted your head just enough to glare at her. "We went to his office to continue the discussion in private."

"Sure..." she grinned, skipping toward the bathroom. "Fine, fine. But just so you know," she threw a look over her shoulder, "if Hotch ever does take you to his office for anything other than work, I expect a full report."

Oh fucking hell.

"I hope your curls come out uneven," you muttered, grabbing the curling iron.

"I hope you get stuck in an elevator with him," she shot back.

You narrowed your eyes. "I hope you trip in your heels tonight."

She grinned wider. "I hope Hotch sits across from you at the bar and just stares at your lips the whole time."

You scoffed. "I hope your mascara smudges so bad you look like a raccoon by the end of the night."

She perked up. "I hope you two sneak away to the bathrooms at the bar, and you have to keep quiet while he-"

"PENELOPE."

She continued, undeterred, "I hope he backs you up against the bar, leans down all serious like he’s about to tell you something important - and then just whispers the filthiest thing you’ve ever heard."

"I hope you break a heel on the way there and have to borrow one of Morgan’s sneakers."

"I hope he offers you his jacket and you realize it still smells like his cologne and suddenly you’re thinking about it again."

"I hope you stub your toe so hard you rethink everything."

"I hope he says your name in that low voice of his, and for a split second, you remember exactly what he sounded like nine years ago-"

"I hope you spill something on your dress and have to go home early."

She cackled, victorious. "I hope you wake up in his bed and don't regret a single thing."

And maybe, exactly because the two of you had this conversation, you shouldn’t have agreed to go to the bar together in a single car – hers.

You should have seen this coming.

Indeed, as you and Aaron made your way back to the bar, drinks in hand, you spotted Derek and Penelope approaching with a very specific look on their faces.

Derek clapped a hand on your shoulder and said, "Teach - Babygirl had too many drinks to drive, I’m bringing her back home, can-"

Aaron didn’t even let him finish.

"I’ll give the professor a ride," he said immediately, smooth, confident, like he had already made up his mind before Derek even spoke. "You go, Morgan. See you tomorrow morning."

You barely had time to process how utterly inevitable this was - how there was no escaping the tension that had been building up all night until the very moment you stepped out of his car and reached your apartment door.

And then - Penelope smirked.

The smuggest, most self-satisfied, most evil little smirk in existence. You hoped, deeply and sincerely, that this wasn’t her plan all along - but judging by the way she waved so innocently as Derek dragged her away, eyes twinkling like the devil himself-

Yeah. You were doomed.

You were doomed the second you and Aaron stepped out of the bar and, with zero effort, he pushed open the massive, heavy wooden door like it weighed nothing at all. Casual. Effortless. Like he hadn’t even thought about it.

Just naturally stepped aside, one hand braced firmly on the doorframe, the other resting lightly against the door, waiting – watching - as you walked past him.

You were even more doomed when you reached his car and - of course - he opened the passenger seat for you too.

Didn’t even let you reach for it yourself.

Just beat you to it with ease, pulling it open - but instead of walking away immediately, he lingered for half a second longer, his hand still resting on the handle, holding it just firmly enough so he could be the one to shut you in himself.

Like this wasn’t already a lost art. Like this was just how things were supposed to be.

To top it all off, he got in, and as he backed out of the parking spot, his arm reached behind your headrest, fingers resting exactly there, his body leaning in just slightly closer as he turned to glance over his shoulder.

You had never wanted to fight for your life more.

Not because of the closeness.

Not because of the way his short-sleeved polo shifted, muscles tensing subtly, biceps flexing just enough as he turned the wheel -

No.

It was because he chose this exact moment to mutter, in that low, distracted, completely serious voice, something about the structural failures of public infrastructure.

"Parking lots aren’t properly illuminated," he murmured, half to himself, half to you, as he pulled out of the space - leaning in just enough for you to be wrapped in the warmth of his woody cologne. "Streetlamps are too far apart - against regulation. Visibility’s compromised."

You blinked.

It was so incredibly Hotchner of him to be thinking about streetlamp regulations at a time like this that you nearly lost your mind.

But you couldn’t even react, because then he turned on the car radio. And instead of some normal, pre-set station, it booted right into his most recent activity.

Which meant - of course - it immediately picked up in the middle of whatever custom CD he had been listening to on the way to the bar.

You had exactly one second to register the unfamiliar tune before it clicked - this was from whatever Broadway musical he was currently obsessed with.

Oh, he was such a loser.

You turned your head toward him, but Aaron - unfazed, unbothered - simply reached forward and turned the volume down to a casual, background level.

Like this was all perfectly normal.

Like you hadn’t just caught him.

"Aaron." You bit back a smirk.

He kept his eyes firmly on the road, expression unreadable. "Hmm?"

"Which one is this?" you asked, already knowing the answer but needing him to say it out loud.

"Wicked," he muttered. Then, quickly -"I can change it."

"Oh no, no, don’t you dare, Hotchner." You chuckled, settling in. "Always wondered what your music taste sounds like."

He exhaled deeply. "It is not only this-" he started, trying, truly trying to make you understand the complexity of his other music tastes, to defend his honor, but – they just started singing. And he knew.

He knew.

You were never going to let him live this down. Better off saving his breath.

Hilarious, and the best part? He didn’t even know he was.

Halfway through, you tilted your head, listening. "So this whole song is about two girls absolutely hating each other because they’re complete opposites, but they’re forced to be roommates?"

"Pretty much, yes." His answer a little too quiet, and - though he tried to hide it - deeply embarrassed.

You grinned. "It kinda sounds like they have a crush on each other," you commented, trying your best not to notice how his fingers tapped the wheel, completely in rhythm with the song, while his face remained perfectly composed - extremely normal about something he so clearly wasn't at all.

"That’s the whole point," he said, deadpan, keeping it short.

"Oh “ You blinked. “Do they get together at the end?"

"Unfortunately not." He sounded so genuinely bitter about it that you nearly laughed. "They become best friends, though."

Though, judging by the way his gaze flicked toward you for half a second, he wasn’t entirely sure if you were still talking about the musical - or something else entirely.

Especially when you simply hummed, turning to look out the window. "Best friends."

"Yes. Best friends." His fingers tightened on the wheel.

And damn if you didn’t let the silence linger just a beat too long.

"They don’t get together because they’re completely different, so they’re not compatible?" you asked, your voice just a little too earnest.

"Not because of that," he started. "It’s because one of them becomes a political fugitive and is declared a national threat, while the other is essentially forced into being the corrupt government’s PR puppet."

Ah. Okay.

There was no possible way to explain it in a way that didn’t completely kill the mood - impossible, really. But he tried anyway.

"Although," he added, keeping his voice even, measured, like this was not something he had many thoughts on, "they do have a really dramatic goodbye, where they sing about how much they changed each other’s lives and how they’ll never be the same again."

He felt you turn toward him, and though he kept his eyes on the road, he felt it - that shift in your attention, God knows on what, though.

"Best friends," you repeated.

He gripped the wheel just a little too tight. "Best friends," he confirmed, again.

A beat. A pause. Too long.

"And you think it would have been better if they had been together?" Your question landed way too heavy, like you knew exactly how much weight it carried.

Like you knew exactly how his mind worked, how he had spent far too long thinking about this, not just in the context of some musical, but in general.

He exhaled, keeping his eyes fixed ahead, but his grip tightened again.

And then-

"Fuck yes," the words left his mouth way too fast.

So fast that he heard you laugh before he even saw you smile from the rereview mirror of the car.

And God - that laugh.

It wrecked him.

Not because it was loud or sudden, but because it was yours. Because it was real. Unguarded. Effortless. Because it was him that pulled it from you - and it was then, in that moment, that he knew.

He was so, so fucked.

Because this wasn’t new. This wasn’t some sudden realization, some reckless thought that had just wormed its way into his mind out of nowhere.

It had been there. For a long time. Ten whole years.

He had just never let himself look at it too closely.

Because if he did - if he let himself really think about it, about how he felt like he was burning alive every time you looked at him like that - it would be too much.

It would consume him.

And he could not, would not, risk this unless he was absolutely sure.

Unless he knew you wanted him too.

Unless he knew you burned for him the same way he was combusting for you in real time in this car.

And that terrified him, because he was not sure.

Because you laughed like it was just funny.

Because you smiled like this was just a conversation.

Because you did not look wrecked.

Not like he felt.

So instead, he cleared his throat, steadied his grip, and forced his voice into something casual, distant - yet still, somehow, not completely backing down. "You think they should have ended up together too, then?"

Not ‘do you think I’m wrong’.

Not ‘do you disagree’.

But  - you think so too.

Like some small, cowardly, pathetic part of him needed to hear you say it.

There was a pause - not a long one, not anything noticeable if he wasn’t paying attention. But he was.

He was paying attention to everything.

To the way your breath hitched just slightly, to the way your fingers twisted at the hem of your sleeve, to the way you turned your head to look at him.

“Obviously.” You gestured toward the radio. “You don’t harmonize so effortlessly with someone you’re just calling a ‘friend.’ That’s literally just denial with extra steps.”

He almost told you that harmonizing perfectly was the entire point of musical theater. That it was scripted, practiced, designed to fit together.

That it didn’t mean anything.

But he didn’t, because he knew what you meant. “So you believe in that?” he asked, voice steady, casual, like this was just another discussion.

You raised an eyebrow. “In what?”

His fingers tapped against the wheel, once, twice – thoughtful - before he finally spoke. "That some people are just... deluding themselves."

The shift was small, but he felt it. Your smile didn’t falter. Your posture didn’t change. But something in your expression - in your eyes specifically - shifted.

It was dangerous, talking to you like this.

Because you noticed too much. Because you understood more than most. Because you saw through things - through people - with a clarity that was often unnerving.

Especially when it came to him.

Especially when he wasn’t sure he was ready to be understood like that.

It was your job, afterall.

"Oh, absolutely," you said easily, your tone way too light for his liking. "People are the most oblivious to themselves. We exist in a perpetual state of contradiction - endlessly chasing clarity while fiercely protecting the illusions that comfort us. We reshape our own realities, bending them to fit the narratives we can live with, refusing to confront the truths that feel too heavy - even when they’re staring right at us."

And didn’t he know - hadn’t he always known - how precise you could be with words in moments like this? The moments where he wasn’t, the only moments where he wasn’t precise at all.

How effortlessly you could thread meaning into silence, weaving it into something he could either acknowledge or ignore.

How your gaze lingered just a fraction too long, like you were offering him a choice.

And he didn’t know whether to turn away from it - or step straight into it.

Because for once, he couldn’t read you and that terrified him.

He had spent his entire life seeing through people, understanding them before they even understood themselves.

Yet here he was, in the quiet of his car, in the space between you, not entirely sure who you were talking about.

And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

So he did what he had always done.

He lived with it.

With the sound of his heart thundering louder than the music - louder than your occasional singing along when something familiar played, or the rhythm of your voice alternating with his as you both filled the car with conversation about everything and nothing.

Each block closer to your apartment building felt like a loss, something slipping through his fingers before he even had the chance to hold onto it. He was already mourning the night before it was over.

And neither of you seemed to want it to end, given how relentlessly the talking continued, stretching time as far as it would allow.

It wasn’t until half an hour later that it even occurred to either of you that you were standing outside in the cold, leaning against the driver’s side door, your arms wrapped around yourself in a futile attempt to keep warm. He was still in the car, window rolled down, engine still running, caught between staying and leaving.

It made him ache, interrupting you mid-sentence to point it out. “You’re shivering,” he said quietly, apologetic, as though he were to blame for the biting chill in the air.

It made him ache even more when, instead of brushing it off or saying goodnight, you invited him upstairs, at how his jacket was discarded somewhere along the short path to your building’s entrance, now draped over your shoulders along with his arm, pulling you closer.

It was ridiculous how, even with two jackets on, the only thing keeping you from freezing was his arm.

What was even more ridiculous - hideous, really - was how he should have been the one freezing, left in nothing but short sleeves, yet somehow, standing there with you wrapped up in him, he’d never felt warmer in his life.

So warm that he didn’t even notice the chill of the night.

So warm, in fact, that he didn’t even need the blanket you handed him when you both settled into your living room, waiting for the heating to kick in. He let it drape over his lap out of politeness more than necessity, as if pretending to care about staying warm.

Now, you sat on opposite ends of your couch, shoes abandoned by the door, both of you leaning on the armrest closest to the other, legs angled toward one another, the space between you steadily narrowing. Distance itself felt like an insult, your arms resting along the back of the couch so you could still face each other, still hold onto the moment that neither of you wanted to let slip away.

And he didn’t dare lose sight of your eyes.

It was in that exact moment that a memory surfaced—some weeks ago, sitting alone in his living room, reading Symposium, a book he only picked up because he had seen you so engrossed in it on the jet. Because he had wanted to understand what had captured your mind so entirely.

And everything that followed - a whole night of texting, deep conversations neither of you ever brought up again, like always.

His eyes had analyzed the book twice, dissected its structure, its meaning. And yet, only now, in the absence of it but in your presence, did he finally understand that one passage.

"And when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of himself… the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and one will not be out of the other's sight, even for a moment."

He understood.

Because he couldn’t look away from you - not now, not ever.

The world outside was so quiet that every word exchanged between you felt magnified, as though the universe itself had leaned in to listen. And when even your whispers felt too loud, you shifted closer, scooching toward him on the couch.

Just a few inches at first.

And then he did the same.

You moved again. Then so did he.

And suddenly, your crossed leg was draped over his, the fabric of your tights brushing against his jeans as naturally as if it had always been there. His left hand settled somewhere near your knee - hesitant, not gripping, but resting. Shy.

The ticking clock on the wall was the only tether to the concept of time, because what he’d assumed to be ten, maybe fifteen minutes revealed itself to be a full hour.

3 A.M. And neither of you seemed to care.

By then, his hand had already found the courage to rest between your thighs, still safely on your knee. Though it didn’t take long before his thumb began moving on its own, tracing slow, idle patterns over the thin fabric of your tights.

He didn’t say anything about the way your foot brushed his calf, or how his name on your lips sounded softer in the early hours. Or at how all of this mutual care betrayed his mind, cracking open a small window to what it could have been.

Yet somehow, it felt far more like a glimpse of what it could be.

“Aaron,” your said, soft enough that it sounded more like a thought than a spoken word.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a statement. It was just his name. Him.

And somehow, that made it all the more devastating.

You hesitated, your eyes dropping to where his hand rested on your knee. He followed your gaze, and in that moment, even though he’d memorized every fleck of color in your irises, their absence felt like a loss.

So dull that his thumb stilled its movements across your knee under your inspection, as if the simple acknowledgment of the two of you now might shatter everything.

He braced himself for a shift - for the game you always played, where lines were drawn, and walls went back up. Where the closeness between you was something fleeting, fleeting enough to pretend it never existed.

But then, you looked back up.

And instead of retreat, instead of scolding or teasing or anything he expected, there was something else entirely. “I really don’t want this night to end.”

He wasn’t sure he’d heard you right, but the look in your eyes left no room for doubt. You weren’t just talking about the night… and neither was he.

But he didn’t know how to give you the honesty you deserved without completely unraveling, not until his thumb resumed its gentle movements on your knee - more to selfishly steady himself than anything else.

“Neither do I,” he admitted finally, even if each second was daring him to say more, to close the space between you entirely. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not yet.

It was you who moved first.

Plato said that ‘At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.”

Maybe he was right, because as your hand slid down his arm, it felt like a verse being written. The way your fingertips barely grazed the surface of his skin, tracing the map of his veins with a tenderness you hadn’t realized you possessed, pretending the warmth under your fingertips didn’t make your stomach tremble, until finally, your touch lingered on his knuckles.

A pause, hesitant. Then, almost instinctively, you laced your fingers with his. It felt... inevitable. Natural in a way that terrified you.

“Didn’t expect you to be this warm,” you murmured, your voice light, almost teasing, though you couldn’t hide the way it trembled.

You finally found the courage to meet his eyes. Hazel. Searching. Devastating.

And you weren’t afraid of what you saw, you already knew. What terrified you was that, with one touch, you might have unraveled something too fragile to survive.

His gaze fell to your joined hands, his thumb gliding softly over the back of yours, speaking in the ineffable language of touch.

“I didn’t expect to feel this… right,” he said, the words so quiet they felt more like a confession than a statement.

The smallest smile tugged at your lips, and you leaned in just a little more. “Aaron…”

And that was it.

Whatever restraint he’d been holding onto slipped away entirely. Before he could overthink it, his hand came to rest against your cheek, his calloused palm cradling the softness of your face.

Gentle. Steady. Tender.

The contrast was almost startling, culminating in the soft whimper that escaped your lips as the cold metal of his watch grazed your neck. And so, apologetically, his thumb began to move, tracing gentle patterns along your cheek, as though committing every curve, every subtle shift, to memory.

You didn’t pull away.

Instead, your hand slid to his wrist, holding him there, your thumb tracing the same delicate patterns along his inner wrist, matching his movements with the same ease that echoed in the way you ordinarily mirrored each other’s posture, each other’s language.

His gaze flickered to your lips. “You have no idea how hard it is to stop myself here,” he just said, now without a hint of regret, not when your eyes searched his with the same intensity he felt pulling at his chest.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered, the words so soft they barely reached him, but he heard them as clearly as if you’d shouted.

His breath came shallow now, his gaze searching yours, as though looking for any sign of hesitation.

But there was none. Only the quiet, unspoken truth reflected back at him.

And so his other hand found your waist, pulling you closer - so close that, without thinking, you moved to straddle him, your knees settled on either side of his hips.

“I-” he stammered, as he looked at you wide-eyed tilting his head back slightly, before shaking his head, a breathless chuckle escaping him.

“Sorry,” you blurted, heat rushing to your face as you realized just how intimate the position you’d claimed truly was – the cruelty of not having even thought about it once before moving, how it was the only way to still communicate with his eyes.

“No,” he said quickly, almost shy, but the way his thumbs brushed your sides betrayed how much he didn’t want you to move. “Don’t apologize. I just wasn’t expecting it...” he trailed off, though you didn’t miss how his gaze flickered to your lips more than once.

“…Are you comfortable?” he asked softly, his eyes wandering across your face.

It wasn’t just a question; it was a moment stretched taut, as if he was buying himself time, wanting to keep this moment balanced on the edge of the razor for just a little longer.

On this space of tenderness, where care outweighed desire, where everything still hung in the balance, where there was still time to hold back, to savor the precipice, waiting for one of you to risk it.

You nodded. “Very.”

The smallest, warmest smile flickered across his lips. “I’m happy you are,” he murmured.

How could he be even so sweet? How could he, in the middle of this - when your body was pressed so close to his - still be so considerate, so cautious, so Aaron?

How could his hands, now steady on your waist, have only settled there after he’d murmured a careful, overly-polite, “May I?”, the formality of it, juxtaposed with the intensity of his touch, was enough to make you giggle.

“Please don’t smile at me like that when you’re this close,” he said, his voice dropping to a low rasp, his gaze fixed on your lips.

You couldn’t help but grin wider. “Why not?” your fingers brushing lightly against his jaw.

“Because,” he began, his lips twitching up, “it makes me forget how to think.”

Crazy, really. The idea that Aaron Hotchner, the most precise and methodical man you’d ever met, could forget how to think. Thinking was practically the core of his being, wasn’t it?

Cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I am.

Because if forgetting how to think meant losing himself, then you were the cause. You had undone him.

Shaken the core of a man who had carved his entire existence around reason – or at least, tried to fool everyone into thinking so. And now, here he was - disarmed by nothing more than a smile, a touch, and the mere proximity of your lips.

If existence is rooted in thought, and Aaron’s thoughts were consumed entirely by you, did that mean his existence was yours to hold? Did that mean, right now, he existed only because you allowed him to? Couldn’t be that.

Still, how dizzying it was to consider how quickly you’d become his undoing – yet, perhaps what was even more terrifying was the way he seemed to welcome it.

“You’re not wrong,” he murmured, his voice quiet but steady, like a confession meant just for you. His dark eyes searched yours, their intensity almost overwhelming. “You do undo me.”

Your breath caught. “How did you even manage-”

But he didn’t let you finish. His forehead pressed softly against yours, his nose brushing yours in the faintest of touches.

And so your eyes closed together, as if the nearness alone was too much to bear, especially when his lips hovered so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath.

How paradoxical it was that you both desperately craved each other’s mouths, yet now, in this unbearable closeness, neither of you could summon the courage to take the last step.

How you continued lingering in the tension, your breaths mingling, your bodies pressed so close that those strong hands of his, still firmly on your waist, urged you even further onto him.

Neither of you wanted to bear the responsibility of what came next. What was about to happen. What was meant to happen. It wasn’t a game anymore. You were done waiting.

You wanted him. Now.

You were ready - to let it all go.

“Aaron,” you whispered, looking into him.

And as always, he seemed to be the only one who understood you, he began to trail kisses across your face, soft, slowly, taking his time.

Your temple.

The side of your right eye.

The curve of your cheek.

Down to your jawline.

Then, he traced his way back up, planting one final kiss at the very edge of your mouth.

When he pulled back, intoxicated, his eyes found yours - wet, shining, unguarded, just like his.

“Please, ask me to stop,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his eyes already glistening with unshed tears.

“Aaron, I can’t,” you murmured, the words trembling on your lips as your breath mingled with his, the space between you growing thinner with every passing second.

The moment.

How do you measure a moment like this?

One tick of the clock. Two tears slipping free from both of you. Three uneven heartbeats, each louder than the last.

And then, finally, he closed the distance.

You should have probably expected that your first kiss would taste like salt, the tears trailing down your faces mingling somewhere in between and masking the real sweetness of it. How the flavor of each other’s mouths was obscured, just as you’d both hidden your true feelings for so long.

It was so cruel in its irony, yet somehow, it fit so perfectly that neither of you could bring yourselves to care.

Because his lips were too soft against yours for your own good, the gentleness of his hand gripping the nape of your neck pulling you closer, while the other rested against your tear-streaked cheek, damp from both the lingering press of his lips moments before and your tears.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t to retreat - it was to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling, even as his own streamed freely, unchecked.

And as much as you wanted to keep going, to lose yourself in the solace of his mouth, something greater pulled you both in.

Without hesitation, you collapsed into each other’s arms, clutching tightly as though the world around you was slipping away, tears soaking into the other’s shoulders.

Was it penance? For realizing too late how simple this could have been? For all the wasted years, the missed chances, and the pain endured in silence?

Or was it just acceptance -that only now were you both ready to bear the weight of this, to hold each other completely, to disappear into one another?

Maybe that was the point.

Because in that embrace, unplanned and unbidden, came a feeling so familiar it ached.

That same resonance in your chest, the same connection of that first time you ever held him like this, nine years ago in your old apartment, when his walls cracked just enough to let you in.

And so the memory bleeds into the present, and it’s almost unbearable how much has stayed the same, and yet, how utterly everything has changed.

That stupid Hegel wasn’t wrong: the synthesis always becomes a new thesis, a cycle repeating itself. The moment was reborn, again and again, every time.

But damn, how it changed with every turn.

The same, yet entirely different.

The weight of then. The depth of now.

It was all there, in that fleeting, aching embrace. Not just holding on to each other, but to every version of yourselves that had come before - and every one still waiting in the future.

Even as the moment began to fade, as you pulled back - both drawn by the undeniable hunger to find each other’s mouths again - the synthesis was already shifting, reshaping into something new.

Another storm, another struggle, another antithesis loomed ahead, but always, always, the cycle reached for a new synthesis. And Hegel, damn him, was right again.

The cycle never ends.

But neither, it seemed, did you.

Competing with each other, as always.

Neither of you willing to back down, both so eager to claim the other that it became impossible to tell who started the second kiss, it just… happened.

This time, there was no softness, no hesitation - just urgency. Your hands tangled in the back of his hair, pulling him closer, keeping him right where you wanted him, while his hands gripped your lower back.

The moment your lips parted, offering him the faintest invitation, he deepened the kiss without even thinking it twice. His tongue slid against yours with so much hunger you were intoxicated, only for you to interrupt with a sharp bite to his bottom lip.

He growled at the challenge, he had to one-up you, returning the favor by sinking his teeth into your jawline, as if to stake his claim all over again, a sound so low and primal it seemed to vibrate straight into your skin, making you gasp and tighten your hold on him even more, eager to hear it again.

Damn him and his competitiveness.

You couldn’t help but meet it head-on, your hands roaming over the taut muscles of his back, feeling every shift, every flex as he moved against you.

He broke away briefly, not to stop, but to catch his breath as his lips found new territory. From your mouth to your jaw, and then down to your neck, your head tilting back reflexively, granting him even more access.

He smiled against your skin, insufferable even now, and when his lips returned to yours, that grin only widened. You kissed him again and again, but since his stupid smile kept getting in the way, you ended up kissing his teeth more than once.

Damn him.

And yet, you found yourself smiling like a fool, because how could you not? There was no way you could be making him feel this way, yet here you were - both of you lost in it, pushing and pulling, both refusing to surrender.

The more you had of each other, the more you wanted, never satisfied, never close enough, as though the only way to end this ache was to somehow crawl into each other’s skin.

And so, blame the position.

Blame the dress you’d chosen tonight, skimming your thighs, leaving so little to the imagination as it rode up with every shift against him.

Blame the way your kisses had shifted, growing hungrier, messier, more tongue than lips, more heavy breathing than words.

Or blame his new-found obsession to place wet kisses on the spot just behind your ear just to hear you gasp, while he had the audacity to hum into your neck, utterly satisfied with himself, like he was savoring your every reaction to the exquisite work of his mouth.

Blame his body, the way he pressed against you, his hands sliding from your waist to your hips, then lower, settling on your ass with a grip that didn’t make the things any easier.

Blame the way his growing bulge rubbed against you through the rough fabric of his jeans, the friction hitting exactly where the ache was blooming, pulling shudders from deep inside you.

Blame all of it - the kisses, the position, the maddening press of his body against yours - because it only made you more desperate.

The carnal realization of just how badly you wanted him, left you unable to stop. Your hips moved instinctively, grinding against his hardness, the rhythm of your kisses syncing with the desperate roll of your bodies.

Thank God his jeans were dark, because you were sure by now your arousal was leaving its mark on him, soaking into the fabric, leaving evidence of just how far gone you were – and if he noticed, if he felt it, the way his grip tightened on your waist told you he didn’t care.

If anything, it spurred him on, pulling you closer, holding you tighter, neither of you could stop moving.

The worst part? You didn’t want to. Not even a little.

What was even worse than this? The fact that Aaron, ever the master of timing, felt the need to comment on the obvious.

“You know what you’re doing, don’t you?” he asked breathless, lips flushed and slightly swollen from yours.

No shit, Sherlock.

You didn’t hesitate. “Aaron, do I look like I don’t know exactly what I’m doing?”

That even managed to earn a chuckle from him – speaking of victories - “Just… wanted to make sure you’re alright with this pace. We’re not exactly taking it slow, you know?!” he rasped, as his hands slid up and down the sides of your hips.

No shit, Sherlock, part two.

Was he worrying about you or himself?

You tilted your head, searching his face, the faint crease in his brow, the way his eyes softened as soon as they were met with yours. “Aaron,” you cupped his cheek. “Do you want to take it slow instead?”

Shit. What if you’d misread him? What if this hesitation wasn’t about concern for you but second thoughts about the entire thing? You hated yourself. How could you even think that-

“Not really,” he admitted, his lips curving into the most kissable smile. “I just… don’t want you to regret this. I’d wait forever if you asked me to, but right now…” His words faltered, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Right now, I don’t think I can. But only if you want it too.”

Oh God, how considerate he was.

Oh God, how much you never trusted anyone as him, how safe did he make you feel, how it almost brought tears to your eyes because you’d forgotten what it felt like to be looked at, cared for, wanted like this.

Oh God, how much you didn’t want to respond with words, to just take his hand, guide it between your legs, and let him feel exactly how much you needed him.

But words it was, then.

“I do, Aaron,” you said, taking his hands in yours. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure of anything. I want this. I want you. But…” Your lips curled up. “Not on my couch. Could we maybe hold out until the bedroom?”

Ah, yes. Turning 30 had officially made you someone who prioritized the longevity of their furniture over their sex life.

How responsible.

How tragic.

And yet, neither of you moved. It took a second - or two, or three - for both of you to gather the energy to even try standing after spending what felt like an eternity tangled up on your poor, overworked second-hand couch…

…a poor overworked second-hand. Hm. Now there was a pattern.

You hated yourself a little for how evil the thought was. Poor couch, poor him.

Not that it wasn’t true. But still - evil.

Still nearly as evil as the absolute disaster you’d made of his hair with your hands while you were making out. A fitting match for the flush on his face and the state of his half-untucked polo, which you’d been yanking at so fervently it was a miracle it hadn’t come off entirely.

Speaking of things you couldn’t stop noticing, the sight before you now was definitely a huge… huge walk with him to your bedroom. Because surely your hallway hadn’t been this long before.

Or maybe he was thinking the same thing, because just as you reached the doorway to your bedroom, he turned you, your back pressing against the wall before you even had time to push the door open.

You didn’t expect him to be this passionate – and desperate, when his mouth was back on yours, claiming you in a kiss so hot and wet it that the wetness surely wasn’t exactly isolated to your mouth at all.

You gasped, caught completely off guard, and that was apparently all the invitation he needed to slip his tongue deeper into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, and it was so good that you barely managed to catch your breath, let alone remember the damn bedroom door.

“Aaron-” you managed between breathless kisses, barely stringing the words together.

As if you could talk.

As if you could pretend to hold any moral high ground here when your leg was already wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. And oh, he was there - all of him. Thick, hard, and pressing against you.

He groaned into your mouth as his hands slid lower, gripping a handful of your ass, “I know,” he muttered, his voice rasping against your skin. “I know. The door.”

Oh, but why did his voice have to sound like that - so low, so wrecked… so unfair.

Anyway, the door.

Not that it mattered, apparently, because he didn’t move. His lips found your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin there, as his hands kneaded the flesh of your ass like he couldn’t get enough.

“You’re not exactly working on it,” you managed to gasp, and oh, you were so proud of yourself for having the strength to bicker with him even now, even like this.

Of course, Aaron, being Aaron, couldn’t resist biting back.

You felt the curve of his lips against your neck, he chuckled as his teeth grazed the hollow of your throat. “Well,” he murmured, returning to nip at your earlobe. “What about you?”

The man was infuriating. And hot. And so completely overwhelming you could barely think straight.

“I’m very busy right now,” you managed to counter, though what you really meant was that your back was far too occupied arching into him, practically begging for more.

At least he somehow found the self-control to pull back after what you could most graciously describe as an obscene amount of very enthusiastic dry humping. You were both so doomed. His hands steadied you just long enough for him to fumble for the doorknob.

And then the second you crossed the threshold, all bets were off.

His lips - no, his mouth - were on yours again, the kiss so heated it was more teeth and tongue than finesse. Probably because it hit you both at the same time - the realization of just how painfully simple it would be to strip the other bare.

His polo? A quick tug away from being tossed aside. Your dress? One little zipper stood between it and the floor. No barriers. No obstacles. That was all it would take.

And it was as if he read your mind because without a word, his hands found your waist and spun you around, pulling you back against him.

You barely had time to gasp before his head dipped to your neck, as his fingers found the zipper of your dress way too easily without even having to look. Just before he moved it, he paused. “I might’ve left a mark.”

Oh no, what a pity…

“Make it two,” you whispered, your voice trembling as your hand slid into his hair, pressing his head right where you wanted it.

And because Aaron apparently took instructions very well when they suited him, he bit down, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver, the sharpness of it immediately soothed by the warm drag of his tongue.

The sound you made was embarrassing - breathless and high-pitched – that only seemed to spur him on, since in less than a second, the dress was pooling at your feet, leaving you bare save for your tights and underwear.

Mismatched underwear.

A good lace bra - at least there was that - with the most comfortable white cotton grandma pants you could have pulled from the depths of a multipack that were, by how the things have been going now, almost certainly transparent. Perfect.

Not that any of this was supposed to happen, of course.

You hadn’t exactly planned on getting laid by your… what even was he? Your best friend? Your boss?

An objectively gorgeous man with dark eyes that burned into you, whose voice could make your knees completely weak? The person you’d been quietly, stubbornly, and stupidly in sexual tension hell with for a decade?

He was all of that. He was none of that. He was Aaron, and whatever Aaron Hotchner was to you, you hadn’t planned on getting laid tonight. Or this morning. Or whatever ungodly hour it was now.

But plans didn’t seem to matter anymore.

Not when his hands were sliding over your body like you were something he’d wanted for so long that touching you now felt like the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

Not when his lips found yours again, claiming them in a way that made you wonder how either of you had ever survived without tasting each other.

And certainly not when the moment your back hit the mattress of your bed, his full weight pressing into you fully, how your legs opened instinctively, welcoming him, pulling him closer, your body arching into him like it was chasing something only he could soothe.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, scanning your face like he was trying to memorize every detail. “God, you’re so beautiful,” he said softly, his voice rough but sincere.

“God, you’re so clothed,” you shot back without thinking, your quick wit betraying you yet again, unsure whether to curse yourself for ruining the moment or to thank your sarcasm for always wanting to keep things… balanced.

But instead of appreciating your humor or giving you the satisfaction of stripping him, the insufferable man had the audacity to bypass your comment entirely.

With a swift motion, his hand reached behind you, unclasped your bra, and tossed it somewhere into the abyss of the room without so much as a second glance.

You blinked, momentarily stunned, a flush creeping up your neck at the brazenness of it. “I was referring to you, Hotchner.”

“Eventually,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours before capturing them again in a kiss that effectively cut off any protest you might’ve had. Clever man.

And so he started his descent, a study in patience, still hopelessly romantic about it, as if the situation weren’t already infuriating. Because even though you knew for sure he could feel the way your nipples had hardened against him, he still took his time.

Kissing his way down your throat, spending far too long mapping out the curve of your collarbone with his mouth, fingers just hovering - like he wasn’t already touching you everywhere.

And then, finally, his hands moved. Possessively. His palms covered your breasts, kneading them in a way that sent sparks ricocheting through you, his lips pressing a single, scorching kiss right in the middle of your sternum.

That did it. That had your thighs clenching on instinct, a desperate attempt to manage the growing fire low in your belly.

But you refused to let a sound escape.

Oh no. You weren’t about to give him that satisfaction. Especially not when he got to enjoy the full view of you laid out beneath him while you were left with only the delicious flex of his biceps.

Biceps, which, while spectacular, were not the bare expanse of his back. Not the firm ridges of muscle you knew were under that godforsaken polo, the one thing keeping things uneven between you.

He seemed to catch on to the game you were playing, though, because without warning, his mouth closed over one of your nipples, his tongue swirling over the sensitive peak so perfectly that it had your breath catching in your throat.

At the same time, his fingers found the other, pinching, rolling, teasing - the combination so damn lethal when paired with the languid flicks of his tongue, sending shocks straight to your clit.

Still, you bit your lip, stubbornly holding back the sounds he so clearly wanted to pull from you, even if the ache between your thighs was unbearable now - a dull, insistent throb that begged, no, pleaded for attention.

Attention that the insufferable man was withholding.

Or, unlike you, he simply didn’t want to rush… damn him. He was making it impossible to keep up the charade.

Because every flick of that damned talented mouth of his - now moving onto your other breast - every brush of his fingers, every sound he made against your skin that revealed just how hungry he was of your flesh, was undoubtedly designed to unravel you, piece by piece.

Every piece, that is, except for your poor, neglected, throbbing clit.

And of course, he was enjoying every second of it. Smug bastard.

“You know,” he murmured against your skin, his lips still grazing your nipple, “sounds are appreciated.” …Oh, fuck him.

“So is nudity,” you managed to snap, though your voice trembled, betraying just how close you were to falling apart.

He stilled. Lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze. And then he smirked.

Ah. That smirk. Never a good sign.

Especially not when paired with the way his hands started working your tights down - so slowit was almost unbearable. Always careful, always considerate Aaron. But God, right now, you wanted him ripping them off you.

His gaze swept over you, his eyes instantly darkened as they dettled on the on the damp patch at the center of your underwear.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, rougher, as his thumb grazed over the edge of the fabric.

Before you could process how pleased he was with himself, he spread your legs further, settling himself between them. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, pinning you down, and he started trailing kisses along your inner thigh.

From the knee.

Oh, come on.

Still, you hissed at the contact, at the way his mouth devoured your thighs like he was savoring every inch of them.

Like this, this was what he lived for. Worshipping you.

And the way his lips moved, how drunk he looked as he worked his way upward, kissing, sucking, biting - just enough to make you twitch, the way his breath shook when he exhaled against your thigh - it only made it worse.

The closer he got, the more impossible it became to hold back the sounds slipping from your lips.

And then - one last kiss, right there, where your thigh met your core.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he murmured, and before you could even think about responding, his tongue flicked out, tasting the arousal that had trailed up to where his mouth lingered.

Oh. What a whore.

“You’re such a who-” you began, but the words barely escaped before he bit down lightly on your clothed clit, sharp enough to send a jolt through your entire body and rip a strangled cry from your throat.

Your reaction must have been exactly what he wanted, because his fingers replaced his teeth immediately, pressing against you through the thin, damp fabric.

“Oh, there you are,” he murmured, dragging his fingers down the length of your slit. “For a second, I thought I wasn’t doing it right.”

You scoffed, or at least you tried to. The sound barely made it past your lips before breaking into another sharp, breathless cry as his fingers rode back up, pressing against your clit in slow circles, the cotton barrier dulling the sensation just enough to drive you insane.

One, two, three strokes - then you stopped counting, too caught up in the feeling of him until he finally tossed the fabric aside, making you feel the cool air against the wet heat of your core, but he didn’t move.

Didn’t touch.

Just -

"You're a goddess."

He stared for so long that you started to wonder if he was waiting for you to say please, some kind of power play. 

Your lips curled slightly as you lifted your chin. "If you think I’m going to beg you now, Hotchner, I’m absolutely not.

Apparently, you had never been more wrong in your life.

Because his head snapped up so fast it was almost comical - except for the way his entire face flushed. Not just with arousal - well, yes, definitely with arousal - but with something else.

The way his mouth parted slightly before he swallowed, his throat bobbing, his gaze flicking away for half a second like he had to collect himself, undoubtedly made you think-

"I was actually…" he cleared his throat, "asking for permission."

Oh. Oh. Apparently, someone couldn’t hide being a bottom for more than a few minutes.

Aaron ‘Attitude’ Hotchner? Gone. Reduced to sheepish glances and waiting for permission like a damn Victorian gentleman the second he actually looked at your cunt.

Hilarious.

"You have it," you murmured.

That was delicious.

And because he was so whipped, he didn’t just dive in immediately. No. Of course not. He had to come all the way back up first, had to kiss you before anything else.

And then he was gone. Gone from your mouth, gone from your chest, gone from anywhere but exactly where you wanted him most.

The very first swipe of his tongue across your folds obliterated any coherent thought, reduced your world to this - to the wet heat of his mouth, to the steady press of his hands holding you open, to the obscene sounds of him devouring you.

There was nothing but him, the way his tongue curled against you, the way his lips closed around your clit with just the right amount of pressure, the way his name tumbled from your lips and melted into the deep, guttural moan he let out as he first tasted you.

And honestly, you couldn’t decide what was hotter - the way his sounds came in perfect harmony with your own cries, or the fact that he was so vocal while eating you out, like it brought him just as much pleasure as it did you.

And it probably did.

Because he lapped at your dripping cunt like a man starved, frantic, desperate, moving with such a hunger that made your fingers dig into his hair, gripping tight like you could somehow hold on to reality through him.

But he didn’t want space. Didn’t need it. If anything, he leaned in further, groaning low against your soaked, swollen cunt, letting you drip down his chin as if he loved the way your arousal was entirely coating his flushed face.

Loved being drenched in you. Loved ruining himself on you.

“Aaron-” your voice broke, your hips jerking up into him, needy. “God, your tongue is unreal.”

And oh, he heard you, loud and clear.

Because his immediate response? Teeth. A quick, sharp graze of his teeth against your clit, followed by a suction so deep, so overwhelming, it ripped a scream straight from your throat.

Fuck him.

“Your-your mouth is unreal,” you stammered, correcting yourself, because apparently, he wasn’t letting you off the hook without acknowledging his full range of talents.

Smiling against your skin - as if it wasn’t blatantly obvious that he had a praise kink, too.

“Sorry,” he said with a kiss to your inner thigh as his thumb kept working on your clit. “I just thought you were a thorough one, Professor.”

What a whore.

“Oh, fuck you for calling me ‘Professor’ like it doesn’t turn you on just to say it,” you shot back.

 “Oh, it does,” he admitted with no shame whatsoever. “I just wish you could feel how much.” His gaze flicked down, daring you to follow it - to the thick, aching bulge straining against his pants, so hard it had to hurt, so obvious it made you clench around nothing.

How cruel of him.

“Keep talking to me like that, Aaron, and I’ll crush your head with my thighs,” you warned, voice shaking, hands fisting into the sheets because he was still teasing, still circling with his thumb instead of putting his damn mouth back where you needed it most.

“Please do,” he said.

And then he gave you exactly what you wanted. His tongue plunged into you, pushing past the unbearable emptiness, giving you something to clench around, something to grind against, something to drown in.

And because he was, apparently, crafted to be the most infuriatingly perfect thing to ever exist - his nose pressed against your clit with every movement, sending white-hot jolts of pleasure through you so intense your legs tried to snap shut around his head.

He was faster. Stronger. Hands tightening against your thighs, keeping them spread as he pressed you further, pinning you down so he could devour you properly. And when your thighs twitched again, reflexive, desperate-

"Stay open for me."

That awful, awful sound. That little flick of his tongue against his teeth, a wordless tsk of disapproval - he did it every time, every single time, and it should have pissed you off but instead, shot straight through you, coiling low in your belly, leaving you breathless, made you arch into his mouth, made you-

"Still, please," he growled, more desperate now, fingers tightening like the control freak he so obviously was. Apparently, the man simply could not function if his so-called work space wasn’t perfectly in order.

Some things never changed.

“You’re such a hypocrite, it was-” Your breath caught on another roll of his tongue, hips jerking up against his face. “It was you who begged me to-”

"Mm," he hummed against you like he was thinking about it, his mouth hot and slick as he pressed deeper, let his tongue flatten. "And?"

…And then his lips closed around you, sucking just right, and you broke. You felt it coiling, tighter, tighter, low deep in your stomach.

"Aaron, I'm so close."

"I got you," he murmured, suddenly warm, suddenly gentle - because despite all the arrogance, the smug little smirks, he was nothing but a softie. All bark, no bite. Well… except for the other kinds of bites. "Don’t worry. Let go."

Then his tongue flicked - once, twice… and you were gone.

Shattered apart, trembling beneath his mouth, your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking, desperate. The pleasure hit sharp and fast, so intense it almost hurt, your muscles locking up as wave after wave crashed through you.

But he didn’t stop. Not until you’d come on his face just one more time.

So his tongue was back on you before you could even recover, dragging you higher, keeping you there, refusing to let you go. His mouth was relentless, but his fingers - God, his fingers.

How many times had you daydreamed about them? How many nights had you imagined the way they’d feel sinking inside you, stretching you open, fucking you deep and slow until you couldn’t think?

A reasonable number of times. That’s what you told yourself.

So it only made sense that you were impatient now, desperate to feel them inside you instead of just ghosting along your soaked folds, teasing, tracing, dipping in just enough to have you thinking, finally -

Only for him to pull away again, just as fast.

“Need some help finding it, Hotchner?” you bit out breathlessly, your voice dripping with sarcasm despite the whimper it ended on. “Don’t be embarrassed. I can guide you if-”

Before you could finish, one thick finger thrust deep inside you, cutting off your words with a strangled moan.

“I think I’ve got it,” he said smugly… oh, he definitely did.

The stretch of just one finger had you reeling, but then he added a second without hesitation, the fullness making you gasp. Two of his fingers felt like three of yours, stretching you perfectly, pressing against spots you didn’t even know existed.

“Fuck, Aaron,” you moaned, gripping the sheets as he started to move faster, stroking that perfect spot again and again until your vision blurred.

“You like that?” he asked, his voice so low and rough that made your toes curl, unable to respond if not with a whimper.

“Yeah, you do,” he murmured, his lips brushing your thigh as his fingers curled deeper, pressed just right, dragging a broken moan from your lips, his own voice dark with approval. "God, you’re so wet."

Your cheeks burned because well, wasn’t he right?!

The evidence of it was everywhere - slicking his fingers, his hand, his face, and the way he said it, so casually, like he was just stating a fact, only made the heat in your belly coil tighter.

"Damn, you’re so fucking good," you gasped between shattered breaths.

“Mm, so is this cunt,” he shot back between licks, groaning as he felt you flutter around his fingers.

What a dirty, dirty mouth. And damn, if he did he put it to use.

It didn’t take long. Barely a few more thrusts of his fingers into your slick, throbbing cunt, barely a few more drags of his tongue against your clit - before he had you unraveling completely.

Your body seized, back arching clean off the bed, a sharp, helpless cry ripping from your throat as you came so hard you almost sobbed.

He didn’t stop.

His fingers kept fucking into you, curling just right, stroking deep, drawing out every last shudder, every last desperate moan. His tongue never left your clit, flicking, sucking, keeping you there, forcing you to take every wave, every aftershock, dragging you through it until your thighs trembled around his head, until you were whimpering, pleading, too overstimulated to handle another second.

Only then did he finally pull away, lips gliding up your body, dragging sticky, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, your ribs, your breasts, until his weight was pressing you into the mattress again, until you were surrounded by him, the scent of sex thick in the air, his mouth still hot and wet against your skin.

"God, you’re a fucking vision when you come," he murmured, voice husky, lips brushing over your jaw as his hand slid up to cradle your face.

And then he kissed you.

Deep, filthy, his tongue sweeping into your mouth without hesitation, letting you taste yourself on him, letting you feel the slick mess he’d made of you, the evidence of how thoroughly he had devoured you.

Romanticism truly was dead.

“Still too clothed,” you whispered, voice low, teasing, as your fingers trailed from his jaw down to his chest, nails scratching lightly over the fabric of his polo, feeling the heat of him beneath it. Annoyingly in the way.

“You’re very welcome to change that now,” he huffed, smirking, giving you another quick, teasing kiss, the barest brush of his lips over yours.

Who were you to refuse?

Your hands moved swiftly, gripping the hem of his shirt and tugging it up, over his head, before tossing it somewhere behind you - who cared where? That would be his problem in a few hours anyways.

And oh damn-

If you thought the polo highlighted his frame, without it he looked absolutely massive. His chest, his shoulders, the way his muscles shifted beneath his skin - it was almost unfair how goodlooking he was.

You leaned in to kiss him, letting your fingers roam all over him - probably lingering a little too long on those broad, perfect shoulders. Honestly, you were doing your best not to bite them.

Mostly. A little nip didn’t count, right? Surely it was allowed. To test. It wasn’t your fault they looked like they could carry the weight of the world - and you - without breaking a sweat. But of course, he couldn’t know that. He couldn’t know that his shoulders alone were making you go feral.

So you distracted him the best way you knew how - your lips pressing against his neck, soft at first, teasing, before nipping lightly at his pulse point, teeth scraping just enough to earn you a sharp inhale.

Still, even as your lips worked to keep him occupied, your thoughts betrayed you.

You were sure you’d implode the moment you saw his back - the way those muscles would shift and flex. Just the thought of it had your pulse racing. Thankfully, he was still facing you, so you had a little more time to live. But not much, considering the way your mind still found a way to betray you.

Because now all you could picture was his weight on top of you, pressing you into the mattress, pinning you down with no way out. Now all you could feel was the phantom stretch of him, the way he’d fill-

Right. His jeans. Still in the way. Still ruining your life.

You swallowed hard, forcing your hands to move lower, fumbling with his belt and zipper. If your hands trembled, you’d blame it on how hard you were trying not to stare at the thick bulge beneath the denim. Trying being the keyword, because at this point - you weren’t better than a man.

His jeans hit the floor, leaving him in just his boxers, making it quite difficult to ignore the outline of him anymore - thick, hard, already straining against the fabric, the damp spot at the tip teasing at just how ready he was.

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you glanced up, silently asking if you could take things further. He gave a small nod, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, and that was all the encouragement you needed.

Your hands turned momentarily shy as you hooked your fingers into the band, slowly tugging them down. He sprang free, thick and hard, flushed at the tip, already glistening with slick arousal, and God, you swore your mouth went dry and then wet all in the span of a heartbeat.

You couldn’t stop yourself from murmuring, “God,” as your fingers wrapped around him, thumb brushing over the swollen, leaking head, smearing the wetness there, spreading it over the burning skin.

The reaction was immediate.

His head tipped back, his grip on your hips tightening, trying hard not to just rut into your fist like some desperate, touch-starved needy thing. But he was trembling , his self-control fraying one slow stroke at a time as you worked him over, your fingers squeezing around the slick head before dragging back down his length.

"Fuck," he muttered, the sound wrecking you, shooting straight between your legs.

“You’re so-” you started, but the words failed you. What could you even say? You were too distracted by the weight of him in your hand, the way he twitched against your palm and the way the thick vein along his shaft throbbed with every stroke of your hand.

All you knew was that you wanted him in your mouth. Wanted to drag your tongue along that vein, wanted to feel the heavy weight of him on your tongue, wanted to take him down until tears pricked the corners of your eyes. The need burned in your gut, tight and relentless, but still, it wasn’t enough. Because as much as your mouth ached for him, the fire between your thighs was worse. So much worse.

“Aaron,” you breathed, voice shaking as you looked up at him, your fingers still wrapped around his cock, still stroking him, enjoying the way his chest rose and fell with every movement of your hand.

His eyes - dark, heavy-lidded - met yours, his breath coming uneven, jagged, as he rasped, desperate, "Take whatever you want."

“I want you.”

Aaron groaned, his lips twitching into something that might have been a smile if he wasn’t so wrecked with desire. “Come here,” he murmured, as he leaned down and kissed you. And God, what a kiss.

Before you knew it, he had you back on the bed, his body hovering over yours, his broad shoulders framing your view of him. He settled himself between your legs, his mouth moving to your jaw, then down to your neck, at the point there was no doubt in a few hours you’d wear a turtleneck to work.

Still, he paused, hovering just above you, his lips brushing against yours as he asked one more time, “Are you sure?”

At this point, if you weren’t aching for him, you might’ve had the patience to be sarcastic. Something like, No, actually, I’m not sure. Let’s both get dressed again and see if that helps.

“Aaron, I’m literally begging you,” you said, exasperated, though you didn’t miss the glint in his eyes – if he just wanted you to beg him he could have simply asked. You would have never said it out loud but at least he could have tried…

“Just making sure,” he said so softly his voice seemed even deeper than it already was, but his hand slid between your legs, fingers gliding through your folds, and the way he groaned when he felt how wet you were made you shudder.

“God, you’re soaked,” he muttered, almost to himself, as if confirming what he already knew.

You didn’t think it was possible to be more turned on, but apparently, Aaron Hotchner could always prove you wrong.

And ever the hopeless romantic - because apparently, he was so much of a kisser - he kissed you again. It wasn’t fair, honestly, how good he was at this, how much intention he poured into every press of his lips , every flick of his tongue, every sharp little pull at your bottom lip that had your hips rolling up against him. It was infuriating.

"I’m on the pill," you gasped between kisses, cutting straight to the point because at this rate, you were about two seconds away from losing your mind.

"Good," he murmured, his lips ghosting over yours again. "That’s good."

Of course it’s good, Aaron. As if you were trying to create another insufferable Hotchner. One man who could argue his way out of anything was already more than enough for the world.

He shifted, aligning himself at your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against you, dragging through your slick folds with just the slightest roll of his hips. The stretch, even in just the promise of it, had you gasping into his mouth.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he rasped, his forehead pressing against yours, still searching for any sign of hesitation. Classic Aaron.

And because he was Aaron, of course he kissed you again, stealing what little breath you had left as he began to push inside.

Holy fucking-

Your nails dug into his shoulders as he filling you inch by inch, his cock sinking in with a slow, thick glide that made your head tilt back into the pillow, your mouth falling open as sounds escaped your lips - a moan, then a gasp, and a whimper.

When he bottomed out, buried to the hilt, so deep you swore you could feel him in your stomach, you swore you might break, and you loved every second of it. How the hell did he even feel this good?

"Jesus Christ," he gritted out, breath hot against your jaw.

He paused, his cock throbbing inside you as he let you adjust, his lips ghosting over your jawline with kisses so soft they felt almost reverent, as though the slight ache of the stretch was something he needed to apologize for.

“God, you’re so tight.”

You involuntarily clenched down around him in response, "Fucking Christ," he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours for a moment. “You’re going to kill me.”

And fuck, if the second he started moving you weren’t utterly determined to hear every name of every deity from his long-lost religion tumble from his lips, as long as it meant he kept thrusting so deep inside you – making your breath catch from the mere drag of him pulling his entire length out before pushing it back in.

“Fuck Aaron, you feel so good,” you gasped, your hands tightening on his biceps.

And damn him, because he loved it - loved your praise so much that a low chuckle rumbled in his chest, even as his breath came uneven, ragged. “Fuck, you look so beautiful from here,”

He leaned in, his hips still moving, his lips brushing against yours just enough for you to feel the heat of his breath, to taste the promise of his kiss. “You’re perfect,” he whispered, making your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him deeper.

The shift in angle made his next thrust hit you in a way that tore a cry from your lips. He must’ve felt it - the way your body tightened around him, the way your nails sank into the strong muscles of his back, leaving red lines in their wake - because his pace quickened, each thrust better than the last.

And damn it if he didn’t fuck you so good.

“Right there,” you gasped, arching your back as the head of his cock hit that spot “Oh, Aaron-”

“God, I love how you say my name,” he rasped, his forehead dropping to yours as he planted a kiss on your temple between thrusts.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, dampening the dark, thick strands of his hair that clung to his face, his brows furrowed all concentrated, his cheeks flushed, jaw tight, and God, if he wasn’t the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

How stupid, how utterly reckless, it was to feel yourself falling for him all over again. And not just falling - but plummeting, freefalling into the abyss of him. Exactly now, exactly like this - when he was buried so deep inside you that it felt like he was carving himself into your soul.

How shallow, how ridiculous, to let your pupils blow wide with hunger, to let your chest ache with something too tender, too raw, while your body burned for him like this.

Because it wasn’t just the way his hips buckled into yours, wasn’t just the rhythm of his thrusts, wasn’t just the stretch and fullness that made you gasp. No, it was the way his name tumbled from your lips like it was the only word you knew, and the way he rasped your name back, hoarse and desperate, like it was his prayer.

The wet slap of his hips meeting yours, the creak of the bed beneath you - it was way too loud for the early hours, you knew that. Too wild, too shameless, probably waking every neighbor you had, giving them the privilege of hearing his name tumble from your lips and yours from his.

But how could you care? How could you even think about anything beyond him, especially when he shifted suddenly, leaning back and lifting your legs over his shoulders?

“Like this,” he muttered, his voice rough and breathless. His hands gripped your thighs, steady, holding you in place as he adjusted himself, his cock driving deeper - God, how was it even possible to feel this full?

His next thrust stole the breath from your lungs, and the one after that made your vision blur, leaving you gripping the sheets, then the bedframe, his arms - anything you could reach.

“I got you,” he rasped, his tone softer now, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was absolutely wrecking you, you might’ve laughed at how he said it. So casual, so reassuring, like he wasn’t currently fucking you out of your mind.

And then, just to make sure you were well and truly destroyed, Aaron leaned down and pressed a kiss to your trembling leg. A kiss. Soft and lingering, like he wasn’t simultaneously driving into you with enough force to make you think about it for days. A true gentleman, really. Absolutely chivalrous.

“Oh, fuck you,” you managed to gasp, your voice shaking as your nails dug into his arms.

He smirked, his hips snapping forward harder, making your back arch off the bed.

“I believe I already am,” he shot back smoothly, and damn him - despite the situation, or maybe because of it - you laughed.

The sound made him pause for a fraction of a second, his brow quirking as his lips twitched into something softer, something that could almost be called tender if he wasn’t currently wrecking you.

He leaned in, clearly intending to kiss you - except you were still laughing, leaving him kissing your teeth instead of your lips.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered against your mouth, his voice filled with faux exasperation, as if it weren’t entirely his fault. But the way he looked at you, his eyes soft and sweet despite the hunger blazing behind them, made it clear he wasn’t serious at all.

“I really hate you,” you managed to say, still laughing, the words breathless and shaky.

“Liar,” he countered smoothly, his lips curving into a grin of his own before he kissed you properly this time, slow and deep, stealing the air from your lungs. “You’ve never hated me at all.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the next thrust silenced you, sending a bolt of pleasure straight to your core, leaving you gasping instead of speaking.

“Yeah,” he rasped, his voice thick, his eyes locked on yours as he watched you fall apart beneath him. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

Bastard. Oh, how he’d pay for this. Just… not now. Not when the heat in your stomach was building too quickly, you could already feel your toes curling, your legs trembling where they rested on his shoulders.

“Aaron-” His name spilled from your lips in a broken cry, your hands clutching at him desperately, your body trembling beneath him.

“I know,” he rasped, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot and uneven as it fanned over your lips. “You’re close. I can feel it. Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight.”

And then, just to destroy you completely, he spat on his fingers. The sound alone sent a shiver through you, but watching him, seeing the way he reached down and slid his slick finger to your clit, circling it, left you utterly wrecked.

That alone was so unfairly hot you were surprised you didn’t come on the spot just from seeing it.

“God,” he groaned, his hips keeping the same rhythm as his fingers worked you over, the combination of his cock driving into you and his fingers basically breaking you apart. “I’m close too. Come for me. I want to feel it - I need to feel you.”

And there was no stopping it. The pressure snapped all at once, a tidal wave of pleasure crashing over you, leaving you shaking and gasping for air. Your body clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality, your nails digging into his back as your orgasm ripped through you.

“Aaron,” you cried out, his name falling from your lips in a broken, desperate plea as your cunt clenched around him so tightly that it pulled a guttural groan from his chest.

His movements stuttered, his rhythm faltering as he buried himself deep one last time, his head tipping back, lips shaping into your name.

You felt him spill inside you, the hot rush of him filling you, the heat prolonging the throbbing waves of your own climax, as your body convulsed with the lingering echoes of pleasure. It was too much. Too raw. Too perfect. The kind of climax that left you completely destroyed, your mouth falling open as you tried and failed to even catch your breath.

Your limbs felt boneless, your heart was about to burst out of your chest, a haze in your head. Wow.

Aaron’s thrusts slowed, his movements becoming languid as he guided you both through the final waves of pleasure, his hips rocking into you softly.

When he finally stilled, he stayed inside you, his body collapsing onto yours, every muscle undone, spent, his breath hot against your neck. His skin was slick with sweat, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and fuck, you never wanted him to move.

A slow, lazy kiss landed on your shoulder, his lips lingering there for a second before he murmured, "Are you okay?"

Really?

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it, as your fingers threaded through his beautiful damp hair. “Okay?” you echoed, still struggling to breathe, still feeling the aftershocks of him inside you. “Aaron, I think you might’ve just killed me.”

He huffed out something that could’ve been a laugh if he had the energy, and just because he was perfectly positioned - completely wrecked, head buried against your shoulder, practically melting into you - you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

It felt almost paternalistic, sure, the kind of kiss that came with the smug satisfaction of having him completely undone over you, like he might fall apart if he even tried to move. The salt of his sweat clung to your lips, a stark contrast to the bitter taste of the tears you’d swallowed earlier. It felt better - so much better.

Aaron sighed against your skin, lips twitching like he wanted to smile but was too exhausted to bother, he pulled out, leaving you wincing at the sudden emptiness.

He sat back on his heels, his gaze dropping to the mess he’d made of you, and for a moment, you swore he looked almost proud. But, of course, because Aaron fucking Hotchner couldn’t let you have five uninterrupted minutes of post-orgasmic bliss without switching into Mr. Practical, he tilted his head and said, “You should probably clean yourself up.”

You blinked at him, deadpan. “Wow. Romance is truly alive and well.”

He grinned just enough to make you want to hit him and kiss him at the same time. “Where do you keep your towels?” he asked.

“Wow,” you muttered, flopping back onto the bed. “Absolutely fantastic. I give you my soul, and in return, you turn into a housekeeper.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple before standing and stretching.

And, of course, because the universe hated you, he looked absurdly good doing it. Broad shoulders, sweat-slicked skin, and the faint red lines your nails had left down his back. God, his back. Huge. Muscular. You really wanted to-

“Dramatic?” you scoffed, snapping yourself out of the borderline feral train of thought. “I just had the best orgasm of my life, and now you’re asking me about towels. What’s next, changing my bedsheets?”

He shot you a look over his shoulder, that infuriating smirk still tugging at his lips. “Best?” he echoed, his tone dripping with mock surprise. “Did I hear you correctly?”

You groaned, “God, you’re unbearable.”

“No, no,” he continued, turning back toward you, his smirk widening into something dangerously close to smug. “Say it again. Best orgasm of your life? Because I recall giving you three - you might need to pluralize that.”

Oh, how cocky he was. You grabbed the nearest pillow and chucked it at him, unfortunately the man also had perfect reflects. “So, where are these towels?”

“In the bathroom,” you muttered, gesturing vaguely in its direction. “Third drawer on the left. Please, by all means, go do your very important post-coital housekeeping.”

He chuckled as he made his way to the bathroom, and you watched him go, biting your lip as your gaze drifted lower. Because of course you looked. How could you not? The way his muscles moved as he walked, the strong lines of his back leading down to that quite flat yet perfectly sculpted-

“Stop staring,” he called over his shoulder without even looking back.

You scowled, sitting up and grabbing the other pillow to hurl at the bathroom doorway. “I wasn’t staring!”

He was no fun.

“You know,” you called after him, unable to help yourself, “it’s a shame you’re so good in bed, because you are the single most annoying person I’ve ever met.”

“Funny,” he shot back from the bathroom, his voice echoing slightly. “You didn’t seem too annoyed about it five minutes ago.”

Not that you had been even a little annoyed when you woke up right into his arms - despite the fact that you distinctly remembered falling asleep holding him.

“How much time do we have?” you murmured, your words muffled as your head stayed nestled against his chest.

“You’ve got 1 hour... I got half” he chuckled, then continued “I need to head home and get changed.”

But his arms instinctively tightened around you, like he wasn’t quite ready to let you go just yet. Like he could pretend, just for a little longer, that there was still time.

“How amazing would Agent Hotchner be if he just called to say we had the weekend off?” you said, tracing patterns of his flexed bicep tighetened around you.

He chuckled softly, the vibration of it rumbling beneath your cheek. “I doubt Agent Hotchner even has the strength to get up and take his phone from his jacket.”

“Well, since I’m feeling so generous, I could go and hand it to him,” you offered with faux magnanimity, but before you could move, his hand slid to the back of your head, pressing you back into him, while the other hand gripped your waist.

“Stay,” he said too softly for your own good.

You smiled against him. “I could stay longer if we didn’t have to go to work, you know...”

He chuckled again, this time shaking his head in amusement. “Nice try, sweetheart.”

Your head lifted slightly, an eyebrow raised. “Sweetheart?”

And there it was.

Fuck.

Was this the time to tell you? That if he’d been smitten before, now he was utterly undone? That despite making a living solving puzzles, he couldn’t think of a single scenario in which he wasn’t yours?

It was logic, wasn’t it? A proposition is true if it’s reflected in reality.

And this was his truth: he was yours. Irrevocably, undeniably yours.

There wouldn’t be a more evident fact - not until the marks you’d left on his neck and chest faded away. But even then? He would still belong to you.

Damn the stoics for being right.

“Sorry,” he said, as though the endearment had slipped past his guard.

Before he could say more, you tilted your head up and kissed him, catching him completely off guard. His startled expression was so genuine that you couldn’t help yourself - you kissed him again, determined to wipe it off his face.

His lips curled into a smile against yours, and when you finally pulled back true to form, he couldn’t resist deflecting. “If you’re trying to charm me into giving the day off, I’ll save you the trouble - it’s not going to work. Even if you keep kissing me.”

You laughed and leaned up to give him another kiss. But this time, you didn’t stop there. You moved down, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw. “I just want to make sure you understand the opportunity you’re blowing here,” you murmured into his skin, your lips ghosting over his pulse.

“The reports aren’t going to fill themselves,” he replied, though his voice lacked conviction.

Oh, neither was your cu-

“You sure about that?” you teased, nibbling gently at his collarbone as your hand trailed lower, brushing over where something was definetely starting to grow in between his boxers, making him hiss.

“What’s the matter?” you asked innocently, your hand now resting over his hardening cock, feeling the heat of him through the thin fabric.

“Maybe it’s the fact that you’re devouring my neck at seven in the morning,” he managed.

“Devouring? Not yet.” Your lips descended again, this time grazing over his collarbones, the faint scrape of your teeth dragging along his skin. When you bit lightly at his chest, his sharp inhale was all the reward you needed. “But don’t worry, I plan to.”

His mouth opened like he was about to fire back, but before he could, your hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers.

You stroked him slowly, dragging your thumb over the slick head, smearing the precum as if you had all the time in the world. “So,” you started lightly, as he cussed at your touch, “what are you going to do with the hour we have left?”

He tried to respond, he really did.

“I-” His breath hitched when your tongue darted out to trace just above his lower stomach.

“Well?” you pressed, lifting your head to look at him, your grin so sweet it could’ve killed him. “Breakfast? A shower? Or, you know, something else?”

“Breakfast sounds…” He barely managed to get the words out before his voice broke entirely, his body jerking slightly when your tongue flicked out to tease the tip of his cock.

“…like a good idea,” he finished weakly, though you weren’t convinced he even knew what he was saying at this point… better like this anyways.

“Good,” you hummed, dragging wet kisses along his length, while your hand kept moving, stroking him slowly, savoring the way his cock twitched in your hand. “So, Aaron, what do you feel like having for breakfast?”

His head fell back against the pillow, a low groan escaping him as his fingers tangled in your hair. “God,” he rasped, the word dragged out of him so pitifully it was almost tragic.

You grinned against his skin, looking up at him. “I’m pretty sure that’s not in my fridge,” you replied deadpan.

“Sweetheart…” He was absolutely desperate as your kisses moved lower, your tongue tracing a path along the underside of his cock.

“Hmm?” you hummed innocently, as if you didn’t notice the way his grip tightened in your hair or the slight tremble in his thighs.

He didn’t answer - but his phone did instead.

The sharp buzzing from the pocket of his discarded jacket in the living room shattered the moment.

Both of you jerked back, adrenaline ripping through the haze, already halfway off the bed before you even thought about it.

It was clumsy, both of you scrambling, bumping into each other as you stumbled toward the sound, breathless for entirely different reasons now.

Aaron got to it first, answering with the efficiency of a man who had switched back to work mode in an instant.

The call clicked on, and a voice - male, urgent - filled the room. "…The two bodies. The man died from a gunshot to the head, though he was stabbed multiple times post-mortem. The woman died from stab wounds."

You stilled.

Aaron’s face hardened. Rocher’s victims.

The ones he had been taunting you with.

"Agent Hotchner, there’s one thing…" the agent on the other end hesitated.

Aaron’s eyes sharpened. "What?"

"These bodies were killed exactly fifteen days ago," he said.

Aaron froze, you felt it at the same time he did - fifteen days ago.

You and Aaron had been interrogating Rocher exactly fifteen days ago.

He hadn’t killed them himself. He couldn’t have.

You were both there.

Your eyes met his, and for a split second, neither of you spoke.

“He had a partner,” Aaron said, his arm sliding around you instinctively, pulling you closer before you even realized you were starting to breathe too fast.

“Did you manage to identify the victims?” he asked.

“Yes - the man’s name is Michael Fowler, 34, a lawyer, junior associate at Madison & Green. The woman is Renee Hudson, 22, student at Columbia University, enrolled in the faculty of…”

You didn’t even know why you tensed so much.

The answer was obvious before he even said it.

“…philosophy.”

The call ended, but the silence left behind was louder than the voice on the line had been.

And in that silence, you could hear everything - the inevitability of it, tangled with the sound of the tears slipping down both of your faces.

And when your gaze flicked to Aaron, when his arm instinctively pulled you closer, you knew - without a word, without a glance – you’ve been both staring at the exact same spot on the wall.

Because it wasn’t just the age gap.

It wasn’t just the coincidence of numbers.

It was what made it undeniable.

A lawyer.

And a philosopher.

And the way your broken voices found each other in the quiet, harmonizing each other’s names in perfect, unintentional sync, just a few rushed heartbeats later.

Almost like in the musicals.

Almost sweet.

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

I sincerely apologize - but the cockblocking was absolutely necessary. Otherwise, they'd never keep their hands to themselves. Honestly, with a job like this, interruptions are basically a given. If I had a nickel for every time these two got cockblocked by a phone call, I’d have two nickels - which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happeend twice.

Ahem... so, uh, let me know what you think... of this. All of this. I need your feedback because I am currently gnawing at the edges of my enclosure

[neo-shitty]

🙃.

[grison-in-space]

Has Biden actually done anything at all? There's evidence going around and I think it's compelling, the alternate to voting is instead doing actual social work and participating in protests and organizing political action, which is a good idea i think

1) Yes. Inarguably this has been the most effective progressive domestic administration since I have been alive, and I'm in my thirties. What in the fuck are you talking about? It's not perfect, but it's better than we've seen in fifty years: Obama tried, but Democratic Congressional organization was just not yet used to working with a completely obstructionist GOP Congress in the wake of the tea party.

Even in terms of foreign policy, this is also pretty much as good as US involvement gets. Sorry. Our foreign policy has been shaped by monsters for decades, and that's even without dealing with our huge and active branch of Christian doom cultists. There ain't a candidate in the world that could stop the entire accumulated momentum of geopolitics with a snap of the finger, and I'm not really willing to pretend that Biden is particularly notable for not managing to fix Israel/Palestine relations.

2) In your own words, anon, what precisely does organizing political action entail without participating in the political process? Do you think that abstaining from the part of the gig where you, the citizen, get to say which official gets the job somehow makes your opinions matter more to your elected public officials? Have you ever organized to get so much as a municipal one-time library project budget expanded? Are you perhaps only skilled at political argument with people who already agree with you on the Internet?

What is your leverage, and could it reasonably be described as "extortion" or "blackmail" or "political corruption?" Because those are pretty much the only things on the table that can work more effectively to drive an elected official than a disciplined coalition of political allies (who can be purchased with, you guessed it, votes) or a reliable bloc of voter support. Your vote matters less than the ones you bring with you, sure. Do you think that not voting yourself somehow helps people organize to drive more votes? Have you perhaps replaced your complex reasoning skills with a rapidly dying jellyfish?

3) Holy passive vagueness, Batman! "Evidence is going around." What a masterpiece of a sentence! How it suggests everything while providing nothing! What evidence? Who collected it? Who is talking about the evidence "going around?" Who is listening? How many of them are there? What did they think before? The more I think, the more questions I have, and damn if they ain't predisposing me to be even less charitable.

Like, this is so catastrophically poorly supported that I have to confess that I not only believe this is probably an ask in bad faith (i.e. by someone who is expecting to piss me off or otherwise engage with me adversarially, probably spammed to a whole host of blogs at once with no expectation of response) but I actively hope that it is. The alternative is to have to grapple with the reality that some people are so uncomfortable with the responsibility of moral agency that they're willing to release useful levers of legal and social power just so that they never do anything problematic with that power. Much better, of course, to wash one's hands of anything that might have the stink of responsibility clinging to it. Might fall from the membership of the Elect if you actually get yourself all muddy by doing things, I reckon.

I don't even believe that voting is the only lever we have when it comes to our elected officials or that votes are necessary to secure change, and I am certainly not talking about the presidential ticket alone when I talk voting. What I do believe is two things: one, that voting is a potential lever of power on the emergent chaos of the society in which we live. And two, that anyone telling me to leave a lever of power on the ground without a damn good reason is either incompetent, malicious, or both.

[charcoal-xl]

Hi! Can i request Sasuke x Uchiha fem reader arranged marriage? Please make it, non massacre au. Thank you! 😄

Sasuke Uchiha - Arranged Marriage

Artcreds @oppy190213 (found on Pinterest)

Growing up in a disciplined clan such as the Uchiha he wouldn't be to surprised that he'd been placed into an arranged marriage, he might view this as part of his duties being the son of Fugaku.

On the other hand however he's pissed, he believes this will get in the way of his goals and what he's trying to achieve, he has no time for dull lifeless romance his goals are much bigger than that, he needs to train to surpass his brother and prove himself as more than just a second born son.

When he finally meets you it's at a situated event organized by both parties, neither of you spoke it was mainly just both your families finalizing marriage agreements, making sure everything was set properly.

That was the first time and only time you met your fiance before your wedding.

The wedding was simple and traditional, the main guests being family, friends and high ranking clan officials.

The both of you are then moved into a house together on Uchiha territory, right next to the main household and it's quiet to say the least...

You don't do anything intimate the first night (if you catch my drift) however you do sit down and have a discussion.

"I want to make one thing clear I'm not doing this out of love but obligation to my clan, I have never desired a wife or a family for that matter, so don't expect this to be like one of those childish fairytales, I have my own goals and ambitions and I don't need anyone getting in the way."

And that's it, the first words your husband ever spoke to you...colddddd.

It's not that he doesn't like you, it's just that he doesn't care about you that much. If anything you're just another burden he has to deal with for now.

If you want him to warm up to you even a bit you'd need to show that you are in fact not a burden, and that you are perfectly fine being independent and on your own sometimes.

In the beginning your married life with him isn't too bad, as long as you're not in his face 24/7 trying to get him to love you.

If anything it's still quiet maybe even a bit boring, but it doesn't stay like that for long, slowly but surely his temperature gets warmer.

And he starts to notice things you do.

Like how even though he makes his own lunches, the right ingredients are always in the fridge.

He'll be training in the yard and you'll prepare fresh food and a cold glass of water for him for when he's done.

Or when he comes back from missions and has a nice warm bath and a clean house waiting for him.

He likes how you do these things in silence, where you're not constantly asking him to praise you and tell you you did good, you just know that your work doesn't go unnoticed, and he can just appreciate things in silence.

These actions don't go unreciprocated however, he starts to do things differently as well.

You sleep in separate rooms and wake up around the same time, you just a bit after him. You'll see him in the mornings drinking his coffee at the dinner table, if he notices you drink coffee or tea in the morning as well he'll start to leave just a little extra water in the kettle for you, so you don't have to heat some up yourself.

Or if he notices you take on a certain hobby and you're running out of something like paint or yarn he'll quietly pick up more for you, no thanks needed. But don't point out how he smiles slightly seeing you using it.

He's smart enough to know he doesn't feel the same about you, like he did in the beginning. And that the feelings he has for you now are more deep and meaningful.

He would never want to admit this out loud however, he wouldn't even know how to express it.

Until (drum roll please...) you're put in danger! classic am I right

For this let's say someone kidnaps you for ransom while out shopping.

Maybe this was for the best, now he can enjoy his life in peace and not have to worry about having a wife at least that's what you thought he would want.

That was until a very angry Uchiha showed up and beat the bloody shit out of everyone in that room but you, using his sharingan.

He takes you in his arms and asks if you're all right or if you're hurt anywhere, when you say you're surprised he showed up he responds with something along the lines of:

"You're my wife, did you think I was just going to leave you here?"

It's said in a slightly aggressive tone, as if he was mad you even questioned it.

However there were a couple words he said that really stood out to you.

You're his wife?

I mean sure legally you were his wife you are married, but he's never referred to you as such before, even in public he'd call you his 'arranged spouse' or his 'contracted marriage partner' nothing flattering to say the least.

He notices your reaction and tries to cover up his words with:

"if anything ever happened to you it would look bad on me, I mean what would people say about the Uchiha clan if they just let their, uhm spouses yeah spouses get stolen... *cough* *cough*

You don't press any further, his slightly flushed cheeks and sped up words give it all away and your relationship only goes up from there.

Come winter you might even be sharing a bed, but it's just to keep you warm, obviously winter can be a very harsh season, he swears it...

I reread this a couple times but it's still very likely that a couple mistakes slipped past me so if you see anything that's phrased weirdly just point it out and I'll fix it, anyways I hope you like it, and if it's not what you were looking for feel free to send in a more specific request, and I'll do my best... maybe

also I accidentally lost a bullet point, I think I deleted it, but if something random is just there and you're super confused and it looks a lot like something else just lmk lol

Jan 18,2025

[milykins]

Dad HCs

This is based on an AU where the guys are all aged up and married with children. I'm a sucker for soft dad moments between them and their little ones.

No warnings necessary, very soft and sweet.

I hope you enjoy!

Mikey:

The one all the kids flock to for snacks. He’ll sneak them treats before dinner too. It drives Leo crazy.

Makes the absolute best pillow forts and organizes cozy movie nights and slumber parties. All the kids sleep in the living room and they love it.

Makes the babies laugh every time without fail.

His own children are little chefs and love helping him around the kitchen. He teaches them all how to cook and bake.

Carries them all effortlessly when they’re small, like a living jungle gym. Children will just suddenly run and jump onto his shell when he’s not looking.

Sings lullabies at bedtime and knows all the best, silly songs to sing for impromptu dance parties. He knows ALL the tiktok dances and loves to make videos with them.

Always wears the feathered boa and the hat for tea parties. When he’s feeling particularly fancy, he’ll put on the best posh British accent that he can do.

Raph:

Tries to be the ‘tough’ uncle and father but ultimately melts whenever they do anything remotely cute or adorable. The littlest one wants to hold his hand and call him ‘uncle waphie’? He’s done.

The little girls have him completely wrapped around his finger and know how to get exactly what they want. If Leo says no, Raph says yes.

The one tossing them into the air and giving the wives (and Leo) a heart attack.

Encourages them to take risks and face their fears. They want to try doing the dangerous thing? He’ll be there to support them and make sure they don’t hurt themselves.

Teaches them martial arts along with Leo but also wrestling and kick-boxing when they’re older.

Teaches the kids (especially his sons) the right way to show their feelings and not to bury their emotions. He’s trying to break the cycle and open healthy lines of communication.

Teaches the kids (especially his daughters) to not take crap from anyone. He teaches them to be tough because the one thing that terrifies him more than anything is something bad happening to his girls because he didn’t prepare them enough.

Sings lullabies to the babies when he thinks no one is watching.

Leo:

The only one who can calm them all down. Mikey’s kids when they’re over-excited and Raph’s hot-tempered ones when they’re angry.

Starts their ninja training from a young age, instilling the values of discipline, honour, speed, and agility. He finds he loves it. The little ones, especially his own, are so eager to learn, and it warms his heart.

Pretends he doesn’t notice when they fall asleep during meditation.

Teaches them how to read and write Japanese. He also teaches Japanese calligraphy to those who wish to learn.

Teaches them how to work through their feelings, adding onto what Raph is doing.

Sometimes feels like he’s the ‘boring’ uncle but the children all gravitate to his calm energy. Sometimes one of children will come over in a huff and sit next to him like a little ball of anger. After a little while they’ll get up and go back to what they were doing noticeably calmer than before.

Sings lullabies in Japanese.

Donnie:

The fun science experiment uncle and father. He’s eager to teach and they’re eager to learn.

The children will all crowd around him with little goggles and lab coats eager to do science with him.

They gravitate to him as well because he’s so quiet and calm, similar to Leo.

Will be hyper-focused on his work and suddenly discover a sleeping child in his lap.

Educates them in the case that they cannot attend school due to their appearance.

Helps them with homework and projects in the case that they can attend school.

Also teaches basic medical first aid when they’re older.

Teaches them that a strong mind is just as important as being outwardly strong.

The go-to for quiet cuddles and hugs.

Loves reading to them at bedtime, sparking an interest and love of reading in many of the children.

Taglist

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Please ask if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

[bucketslutz]

Don't Be Late

(Professor Logan Howlett x F! Student Mutant Reader)

Click here for chapter index

Chapter Summary: The President of the University hears you out about Logan's behavior.

(A/N): yay!! this chapter took me FOREVER!! i'm so sorry about the wait, i just wanted to make sure i got everything perfect. i mentioned in the notes for the last chapter that i might recommend a song for each chapter and i think i will start that this chapter!! so for this chapter i'd recommend listening to sailor song by gigi perez. enjoy!

Warnings: smut, 18+, MDNI!!, unprotected sex, p in v, oral, f! receiving, dirty talk, swearing, overstimulation lowkey

Word Count: 7,055

Chapter 5

Time passes painfully slow outside of the president’s office. Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your blouse, trying not to get yourself too worked up with feverish anger as you organize your thoughts. You can’t let the president know how charged and complicated your feelings towards Logan truly are, no, all he needs to know is what Logan did wrong. You’ve never had a meeting like this before. You don’t have problems with people, you don’t argue with professors, you don’t report people. In all your years of academia, you’ve never had to do anything like this before. And you’re nervous. The president’s assistant calling your name pulls you from your thoughts, causing you to look up at her eagerly.

“He’s ready for you, ma’am,” she smiles politely, gesturing to the office door to her right. You thank her as you stand, smoothing your skirt down with your clammy hands. You open the door gently to find Dr. Charles Xavier sat behind a grand oak desk, scribbling on an array of papers. He’s a thin, older man, completely bald. You didn’t know much about him before this meeting, other than the fact that he’s paralyzed from the waist down and can often be seen traversing campus on his motorized wheelchair. He looks up from his work as he hears you come in, smiling politely as he confirms your name.

“Yes, sir, thank you for meeting with me,” you say, approaching the desk to shake his hand before sitting in a cushioned chair situated in front of him.

“I’m more than happy to accommodate you, my dear. Now, what can I do for you?” he asks, his voice seemingly coated in a genuine concern as he folds his hands in front of him.

“Yes, sir. Um, I’m not sure how much of my email your assistant disclosed,” you start sheepishly, clearing your throat in nervousness. “But, uh, I’ve been having some problems with my American Civil War professor—“

“Logan Howlett,” he cuts you off, a look of understanding washing over his face, like he’s used to hearing his name be brought up often.

“Yes, him,” you confirm, an awkward smile turning the corners of your mouth up. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“Logan can be quite difficult, at times. I’ve heard my fair share of stories from student and faculty alike,” he remarks, very matter of factly, not bleeding too much emotion into his words. Which makes it difficult for you to know which side he’s on: Logan’s or yours. “Now, tell me, what troubles you, child?”

“I—uh, I don’t really know where to start,” you admit, embarrassed as every ounce of preparation has left your mind. 

“Just tell me everything, starting from the beginning,” he advises, his voice soothing you in a way you can’t quite explain. So you start from the beginning, obviously leaving out the part about your repetitive, lewd sex dreams. You try your best to remain as polite as possible when you talk about the things you and Logan said to each other in the heat of an argument, omitting some of the more colorful language in an attempt to maintain Dr. Xavier’s respect. Once you finish detailing the past week’s events, you exhale a sigh of relief, Dr. Xavier offering you a sympathetic look.

“I see, I’m sorry to hear about all of those experiences and how they troubled you,” he offers sympathetically, “I will have a meeting with Logan and see to it personally he gets the proper discipline for his actions and the clear harm they’ve caused you.”

You sigh in relief, releasing tension from your shoulders you didn’t even know you were holding there.

“Thank you, Dr. Xavier, you have no idea how much that means to me,” you beam.

“Please, call me Charles, and I am always here if you need anything, my dear,” he consoles, a kind smile reaching his eyes in sincerity, “We must learn to take care of each other, in these trying times.”

“Yes, sir, of course, thank you again,” you reach across the desk to shake his hand, he accepts generously, using both his hands to encase yours.

His words put you at such ease, you haven’t felt this kind of relief in ages. It’s like you’ve just finished a productive therapy session. Like your mind has been tucked in and put to bed. You gather your things, and head to the door of Charles’ office. He calls your name, causing you to whip your head back around to look at him.

“Everything will work itself out, rest assured,” he remarks with a warm smile. You nod, believing in what he says wholeheartedly. For the first time in a week, you don’t feel plagued with overwhelming feelings for Logan. You often found yourself looking for him in places that you might run into him, in stores, on campus, at red lights. But you can’t bring yourself to care anymore. As you drive to work, passing by the bar, you don’t even think to see if his truck might be there like you’ve done the past few days. As you stock shelves in the store, you stop hoping that he might walk through the door to buy cigars and a case of beer again. You’ve effectively exiled him from your thoughts and feelings. He could be fired tomorrow for what he did, and it wouldn’t matter to you. There’s a warm bed waiting for you at home, and, for once, you do not wish for Logan to be there waiting for you too. 

…

You’re greeted in the morning to the sound of your alarm, no wet dreams this time that jerk you awake. This morning, you wake up by yourself. You make breakfast for yourself. You get dressed for yourself. The only thing you do for Logan, is print out your essay. You drive to class, not a worry or care in the world for him or his opinions. After your talk with Charles, you know Logan cannot, at the very least, pull another stunt like he did Monday. You didn’t see him on Wednesday, as you were in your meeting with Charles then and cared more about that than being in his class with his “bullshit lectures,” as Logan himself put it.

Yet here you are, sitting down in his class, ready to listen to another bullshit lecture. He looks almost sullen today, like something heavy weighs on his shoulders. Maybe Charles has met with him and he’s sulking now as a result of being slapped on the wrist. Maybe this is his last day. Maybe they’re putting him on a forced sabbatical and replacing him with someone who isn’t an asshole for the rest of the semester. Logan clears his throat, preparing to give his lecture to the class. He holds everyone’s attention now, the scattered murmurs of friendly conversations coming to a halt as notebooks open and pens are clicked.

“Westward expansion, manifest destiny, whatever the hell you want to call it, was the topic of your essay,” he starts, “A lot of people say that it was a cause of the Civil War. I’d be inclined to agree. Some people would say that it helped unify the nation after the war. But I disagree,” Logan states, speaking from a place you haven’t heard him speak from before. “I wat—I read about natives being killed in cold blood, kids bein’ beat in schools so bad they forget where they’re from, mountains of dead buffalo rotting to waste just so they can watch these native people die off. You can’t unify a country by hatin’ people. You can’t win a war against slavery then turn around and still treat people like vermin. You hear of these things now, you think shit like this doesn’t happen—won’t happen anymore. We all think we’re immune. Til’ one day you wake up and all of a sudden there’s a target on your back. Maybe you wake up tomorrow and they wanna put you in a school,” he points to someone in the class for emphasis, “Make you forget everything you’ve ever known, rip your child away from you like you’re cattle. It doesn’t take a lot to convince the world you’re less human than everyone else. You’re not guaranteed shit in this country. Not freedom. Not liberty. Not independence. We’re all one bad president away from becoming nazis. Don’t forget that. And don’t get comfortable.”

The room is dead quiet, almost like a collective shock has washed over everyone. Logan has never been this candid in class before. He just regurgitates facts from the textbook without much opinion or thought to what he’s saying. You barely know what to make of that, as well as the potential source of his rant. No one else dares to speak, to question, to think. Logan’s gaze flits to you briefly, you make eye contact. To anyone else, this wouldn’t be anything more than a passing glance. To you, that meant something. You don’t know what, but there was something underlying there. Jesus, what did Charles say to him, you think to yourself. And then, like nothing happened, Logan cracks open his textbook to carry on with his lecture, causing everyone to rush back to their notebooks to take their notes. You somehow bring your focus back to the curriculum, choosing to ignore his impromptu monologue and carry on with your day.

Yes, he surprised you. But you don’t care. Charles probably just knocked some sense into him so he’d stop acting like an immature prick and start caring about his job. But never mind with that, you still have a whole afternoon ahead of you, full of classes and work and not thinking about Logan. In fact, you really don’t think about him at all the rest of the day. You had too much classwork to really allow your mind to drift, the convenience store was busy with a shipment that you had to take inventory of, and you have a pint of ice cream calling your name at home.

The storm outside contrasts your state of mind as you drive home from work. You don’t feel clouded, angered, passionate—you feel quiet. But not the forced quiet you’ve put out into the world as a means of protection, no, there’s a tranquility to you now. There’s nothing to fear, as your feelings for Logan no longer threaten to reveal your powers. You can live the life of anonymity you’ve always wanted to. 

As you pull into your driveway, your stomach drops at the sight of a truck parked in front of your house. Logan’s truck. What the fuck is he doing here, you think to yourself, how does he know where I live? You put your car in park, stepping out into the pouring rain, you try to beeline for your front door, really not wanting to see or speak to him. Logan steps out of his truck and starts calling your name, you do your best to ignore him as you approach your door. Just as you think you’ve made it, he slides in front of you, stopping you from putting your key in and unlocking it.

“Logan, you need to leave,” you say calmly, avoiding eye contact with him, fixing your gaze to the ground.

“I can’t,” he says breathlessly. You look up to meet his gaze, his eyes look needy and earnest, like a puppy melting into its owner’s lap. His chest rises and falls as he pants heavily. “I have to...” He trails off, seemingly struggling to find the words. You don’t have time for this, you don’t want him here. You scoff in frustration and shove him away from you, he steps off your porch and into the pouring rain. You begin to unlock your door, despite Logan pleading your name. Your door creaks open, his pleading grows incessant, the rain pounds against your roof with intensity. You whip around to face him, throwing your things into your house before you charge towards him. 

“Goddamn you, I can’t do this anymore!” you bark, allowing the rain to soak you as you advance towards Logan further and further, watching as he backs away. “Just when I thought I was done with you, when I thought I’d never have to spend an extra second thinking about you again, you show up here, and for what? Why did you come here, huh? To beg for my forgiveness?”

Logan’s jaw tenses, like he’s unable to find the answer himself, looking like a wreck as he gets soaked by the rain without a care. Does he even know why he came here? You scoff in disbelief, almost laughing.

“Do you even know why you came here?” you ask, flicking wet hair from your eyes as you stare him down. He just looks at you. That’s all he does. God, does he have nothing to say? Nothing? “Well, if it’s forgiveness you want, you’re not getting it. I don’t owe you anything.”

You turn around, stomping to your door until Logan’s hand grasps your arm and spins you back around to face him.

“You owe me everything, damn it,” he utters passionately, his voice intense and low but full of sadness. His eyes almost look glassy, but you can’t tell if the tears in his eyes are real or a result of the rain that’s hit his face. His breath is heavy, like he desperately needs to convey something, his grip on your arm tightening slightly, “You owe me. In more ways than you know. For every time you’re in my head—in my dreams. You owe me. And you don’t even know it.”

Your breath hitches when he says that. Did he just say dreams? He has dreams about you?

“Dreams?” you question, trying your best to hide your shock as you push him to clarify, blinking the rain out of your eyes. He lets go of your arm and turns away from you, hands on his hips as he starts pacing. Like he’s considering what he wants to say—how he wants to say it.

“Almost every night since I’ve met you,” he mutters intensely, as he looks at everything but you. “You don’t know what it’s been like—the hell I’ve been through tryna’ get you outta my head.”

You’re dumbfounded. You don’t know what to say. Has he felt this way the whole time? Does he dream the same dreams as you? You’re buzzing with thoughts and feelings, ones you thought you put to bed.

“Logan, what dreams?” you press further as you take two steps closer to him, his back still to you as you search for the answer you’ve been desperately seeking from him. He peeks over at you, rain dripping off the tip of his nose onto his leather-clad shoulder, clearly hesitant to disclose the content of the dreams.

“I—I can’t,” he sputters.

You swallow hard, deciding to take a risk you probably shouldn’t be taking.

“The first dream,” you start, “Was I in your office?”

He immediately turns to face you, looking at you with utter shock painted on his face.

“How did you know that?” 

You don’t answer. You’re locked in place, incapable of speaking. Perhaps you’re too scared to say it. 

“Maybe you owe me too,” you murmur, stitching your brows together, trying to stop your chin from trembling.

He stares at you with a passion that makes you almost crumble to the earth. He walks towards you, a slight hesitation in his step once he’s no more than a few inches away from your face.

“Logan,” you whisper, almost gasp, feeling a surge of fear rise within you. You can’t give in. You can’t let him get too close to you. His hands reach up to cup your face, and you want to shove him off. You want to tell him to stop. But it feels so right when he holds you like this, thumbs attempting to brush the constant flow of rainwater from your cheeks. 

“We can’t,” you mutter, bringing your hands to his wrists, wanting to use them to pull his hands from your face. But you find solace in the way he’s holding you. He looks down to your lips, then back to your eyes, the corners of his mouth turning up into the slightest smile.

“To hell with can’t,” he husks, his voice bleeding gravel and a fervent want. His head dips down, his lips parting as he tries to capture your lips with his. But you push him off, backing away in fear of letting him get close to you. You can’t do it. Because deep down you know that if you let him kiss you, you’ll let him in to every part of yourself. There won’t be a corner of you that won’t be unknown by him. And you can��t let that happen.

“No. Logan, I’m sorry. I can’t,” you declare with a shaky voice, tears welling in your eyes as you take as many steps back as you can. Your retreat almost causing you to slam into the trunk of the oak tree in front of your house.

He utters your name, taking a few steps towards you before continuing, “If you don’t want to do this—if you don’t want me because I’m your teacher…Say the word, and I’ll never speak to you again.”

You gape at him, doe eyes staring up into him as he speaks to you with clarity.

“But if you’re backing away from this because of fear—you don’t wanna let me in,” he continues, practically pinning you to the tree as he steps closer, “Then you’re gonna have to trust me—you gotta let me in.” He brings his hands back to your face, keeping your gaze earnestly. You can’t help the tears that roll down your cheeks now. You could just say it—tell him that you don’t want to be with him because he’s your professor. Just one sentence and you may never have to speak to him again. You’d never have to see him, save for class, you can just forget about all of this. But you can’t. The words feel like poison in your mouth. You look like you’re choking on air trying to form the words.

“Logan,” you manage, “You don’t understand, you can’t—you don’t want to get close to me.” Your cries are growing louder, your words becoming choked by your sobs. Logan soothes your name, bringing his head down to your level, now eye to eye with you. You grip his wrists tightly, keeping his hold on your face firm.

“Well—maybe I do understand. But you won’t know unless you tell me!” he stresses, his voice growing in intensity as he tries to get you to understand. You go back and forth, Logan pleading your name, as you shake your head, yelling ’no’ insistently.

“Logan, I can’t!” you resist, your face twisting into a mixture of heartbreak and sorrow. He growls your name desperately.

“Listen to me, I understand!”

“You don’t!” you wept, pushing him off of you and turning towards your house, being done with this and him. He yells your name, but you stay your course. He yells your name again, you ignore it. From behind you, he lets out a vicious growl of effort before you hear a sharp ‘snikt’ and a slice, causing you to turn around to witness a broad limb begin to fall from above Logan’s head. You panic.

“Logan!” you gasp, reflexively raising your hands and using all your strength to project a large crystalline barrier between the tree’s limb and Logan’s body. You support its full weight before throwing it to an empty patch of grass, your eyes still glowing fuchsia from the use of your powers. Your stomach drops. Panic starts to set in from the reality of what you just did. Then a glint of something metal hits your eyes, drawing your attention to Logan’s balled up fist. Three prongs of metal protrude from his knuckles, sending a shiver down your spine. You almost don’t believe it. You blink in disbelief, stepping off the porch as you approach Logan slowly. The rain showers you once again, washing away your uncertainty and your fear. Logan stares at you, chest heaving, claws still bared. Teeth slightly bared, breath hitching when you’re within inches of him under the tree. Your hand reaches down to his wrist, pulling it upwards so you may get a better view of his claws. You stare at them incredulously, still struggling to comprehend how this is possible.

“The whole time?” you murmur in disbelief, eyes flicking between his eyes and the sharp blades.

“These don’t exactly grow overnight, bub,” he smirks, retracting them back into himself, startling you slightly.

“You’re like me?” you question, though it sounds a bit more like a revelation. You run your fingers over his knuckles, feeling where the blades once were. He nods gently, bringing his hand to your cheek, your hand staying with his wrist, leaning into his touch.

“I’m like you,” he confirms, bringing his other hand to your forehead, brushing stray wet hairs from your face. His gaze flicks down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. There’s nothing holding you back now. Standing on your tiptoes, swinging your arms around his neck, you pull yourself up to connect your lips with his in a desperate kiss. He leans into you, eagerly, wrapping his arms around your back to pull your frame into his as firmly as he can. Electricity rushes through your body, almost making you shudder with excitement at the feel of his lips on yours. His tongue swipes gently against your bottom lip, you welcome it into your mouth, meeting his tongue with your own. He swallows you, moving his hands to your face like he can’t let you slip away from him for even a second. You cradle the back of his neck, slipping your fingers through his soaked hair. He deepens the kiss further, sliding his hands down to your waist, dipping you backwards slightly as he grips you tightly there. You moan gently, growing more desperate the longer you kiss him, needing to feel more of him. You break the kiss, panting heavily, sputtering as rain water attempts to enter your mouth. Logan breathes with you, your nose grazing his, not being able to help the smile on your face. He smiles back.

“Can we get out of the rain?” you chuckle, a chill overtaking your body as the rain’s assault continues. He nods, and without hesitating, he scoops you up into his arms and carries you bridal style towards your porch. You yelp gently as he whisks you away, maneuvering through your front door, shutting it with a kick behind him. After he sets you down, the next few moments are a blur—kisses growing sloppy, shoes flying off, hands pulling at jackets. Clumsily, you lead Logan up the stairs, not allowing the kiss to falter. He eventually gets tired of tripping over you, scooping you up by the ass and lifting, which causes you to respond by eagerly wrapping your legs around him. It’s messy, the way he bumps you into furniture, pressing you against the wall, attacking your lips with a feverish desire. One hand glued to your ass for support, the other searching the wall for the threshold to your bedroom, in an effort to maintain the contact of his lips on yours. Eventually, pushing the both of you through to your room before throwing you on your bed, no care for the wet clothes and hair that are soaking your sheets. 

He looms above you, his strong stance making you wonder how you can be in the presence of someone so perfect. In one fell swoop, Logan pulls his white tank top over his head, revealing his chiseled physique to you, a silver chain hanging from his neck. You don’t have time to ask about it before he’s on top of you, swallowing you, your legs wrapped around him as he grinds down into you making you gasp into the kiss. He paws at your shirt, tugging and dragging it up your body until you’re forced to remove your mouth from his to allow him to take it off of you. There’s not a moment wasted with him. His hands need to be on you at all times; whether he’s grasping your breasts, your waist, your face. He explores every inch of you with his hands. A whine escapes your lips when he breaks the kiss, but he’s swift—trailing his mouth down your neck. The kisses there are sloppy, wet, harsh as his teeth nip at your skin. His lips drag down your chest where he playfully bites at your lacy bra making your breath hitch in anticipation.

This is more than you could’ve dreamt, you have to keep reminding yourself that this is real. He’s real. He’s here. His lips and tongue coating your body is real, his hands pulling down your pants is real, the gaze you see situate between your legs is real. Everything feels heightened, each touch electric and charged. Logan sits up, roughly pulling you down the bed so your hips are hanging off the edge, the floor meeting his knees so he can be eye level with your thinly clothed pussy. He’s savoring you, biting the soft skin of your inner thigh, gripping your waist in an effort to keep you planted. You squirm under his grasp as you grow more and more desperate for his mouth on your aching cunt. 

“Logan,” you rasp, scratching at the sheets beneath you with need. He gazes at you from between your legs, a cocky grin making you melt. 

“Dreamt ‘bout this,” he husks, his hot breath fanning your lace-clad pussy before he plants gentle kisses to the crease between your inner thigh and labia. The occasional dipping of his tongue to the sensitive skin there makes you writhe more under his grasp. Hands glide up your stomach as he continues carefully teasing you, avoiding your core as much as possible with each flick of his tongue and kiss planted. He palms your tits through your bra lazily before bringing his hands back down your body to toy with the waistband of your panties. You can tell that he’s enjoying this immensely, taking his time with such passionate care you almost don’t mind how slowly he pulls down your panties. Lifting your legs to allow him to pull them the rest of the way off your legs and to the floor, you almost want to giggle that you could’ve taken them off this entire time with your powers. But you enjoy this—how carefully he’s taking his time and savoring each swell and curve of your body till you’re spread bare in front of his eyes. 

In any other circumstance, you’d be hiding away sheepishly under such an intense gaze, but Logan’s eyes aren’t boring into you possessively. They’re drinking you, digesting your appearance with such an intensity you’re struggling to comprehend how he’s been able to resist you for so long. You gasp when his tongue flicks your throbbing clit gently, arching your back off of the bed. He’s testing the waters now, priming your arousal so you’re good and ready for him. His tongue moves painfully slow, licking the inside of your lips as you squirm in anticipation. Then he moves more center, running his tongue along the full length of your pussy, causing you to elicit a throaty moan in approval. He groans in appreciation at your neediness for him, taking it as a sign to dive into you completely. You can’t help the moan that leaves your mouth as his tongue laps at your clit hungrily. The sensitivity sending shockwaves through your body as he applies expert pressure to the sensitive bud. Your hand flings to his still-wet hair, gripping a fistful as you hold him to your pussy. 

He ravishes you. Lapping at your juices noisily as he brings one hand from your waist to dip a finger into your slick core. You groan at the sudden feeling of fullness, quickly adding a second finger to pump in and out of you. His pace is consistent, tongue at your clit, fingers in and out of you, and you can barely take it anymore. His digits stroking the most sensitive parts inside of you while his mouth works expertly at your clit—practically making out with it. God, you don’t know how much longer you’ll last like this, gasping and moaning with each curl of his fingers, Logan growling into your pussy with approval of the lewd noises you make for him. Every synapse is firing inside of you as you become laser-focused on the pleasure he gives you. You’re a mess—sputtering broken moans and words of encouragement as he works you closer and closer to your climax.

“Logan,” you gasp, “I-I’m—“ Your grip on his hair growing more desperate, trying your best to not flail your body too much as he devours you. He doesn’t say anything in response to you, far too focused on your pussy to offer more than moans in approval of your impending orgasm, like he’s egging you on with his groans and grunts. Your arousal swirls inside of you, butterflies fluttering through your bloodstream as you get closer and closer. A taut cord somewhere deep inside of you gets pulled tighter and tighter, till it snaps with white hot pressure. A guttural moan escapes your throat as a flood of pleasure rushes through your entire body, all the way to the bright fuchsia emanating from your eyes. Logan guides you from your orgasm, letting your clenching pussy ride it out on his fingers while your clit throbs on his tongue. Wave after wave hits you, like your body can’t shake the pleasure he’s given you. Back arching off the bed, your body wriggling and twitching from the force of your orgasm. The pace of Logan’s tongue slows and the pressure eases gently. Eyes half-lidded, breath heavy, you’re on cloud nine as you revel in one of the best orgasms you’ve ever had. Your bliss shrouded you so much you barely noticed the pace of Logan’s tongue quickening, his fingers gently curling inside of you as he tries to bring you towards another peak. You inhale sharply at the sudden pleasure pulsing from your clit.

“Logan,” you rasp, your body barely able to contain your writhing as he pulls you towards another orgasm. He groans into you as he feels you clench around his fingers, quickly approaching another climax. Tongue flat against your clit, lapping at it feverishly, your arousal bubbles up deep inside of your stomach before reaching its boiling point, yet again, and cascading white hot pleasure throughout your body. Your eyes pulsate pink as your moans reverberate around the space. You’ve never had an orgasm induced by another man, let alone two. Chest heaving, you attempt a glance at where Logan is situated between your legs. He’s pulled away from your center now, chin wet with a mixture of his saliva and your slick. He stares at you lustfully, panting as he plants lazy kisses to your inner thigh. Logan gets up off his knees, undoing his belt before he shoves his pants down his legs, his erection visible through his boxers. Your head falls back against the bed as he crawls on top of you, trailing kisses up your stomach to your chest. He stops at your bra-clad chest, his pelvis situated between your legs.

“Sit up,” he instructs huskily. You oblige, sitting up on your elbows to allow his arm behind you so he can unclasp your bra swiftly. The straps release their tension from your shoulders, shrugging the garment off with ease. Logan resumes the kisses to your chest from where he left off, beginning to suckle and bite at the tender flesh of your breasts and leaving marks in his wake. You hum in approval, arching into him, your bare pussy grazing his erection gently—the motion enough to elicit a low growl from his throat. He kisses up your neck, leaving licks to your jaw before capturing your lips in another needy kiss. You moan into his mouth, hips grinding down into yours. You long to feel him completely bare under you, growing desperate as the kiss deepens. Deciding you’ve had enough of his boxers, you take matters into your own hands. A slight flick of your wrist and you’ve unraveled the atomic structure of his boxers, leaving him bare above you. There’s a hesitation in his next kiss, breaking it to look down at his lower half in confusion, then back up at you.

“How’d you do that?” He asks, a mixture of confusion and amusement in his voice. You grab the back of his head, pulling him back down to your face so you can resume the kiss.

“Fuck now…ask later,” you murmur between kisses, to which Logan accepts without protest. Now you can feel the full length of his cock pressed up against your center. And this shouldn’t come as a surprise to you, considering you’ve dreamt about this, but he’s big. His size has become so much more real without the dreamy haze that you’re used to clouding it. His hips snap and the tip of his cock slips into your entrance, making you both groan at the contact. Your nails bite his skin, leaving light indentations that are gone almost instantaneously, you take notice but move on quickly when you feel Logan line himself up at your entrance.

“We’re gonna take it nice and slow, baby,” he husks, the dog tags around his neck swinging like a pendulum. You’re sure now that there’s a waterfall between your legs and that the warm up won’t be necessary, but then he presses his tip in further and you gasp suddenly at the sharp pain.

“Good girl,” he drawls, clearly trying to keep his own pleasure in control, “Take some more for me, princess.” He sinks in a few more inches. Tears prick your eyes from the stretch he’s causing to your pussy, but it feels so good. You need him deeper. Your legs hook around him, heels digging into his ass in an effort to spur him on. 

“Deeper, Logan, please,” you whine, lazily and desperately capturing his lips in a kiss.

“You sure, baby?” He asks cautiously, murmured between kisses. You nod eagerly, attempting to drive him further in and before you can even prepare it, he does. Spearing you nearly in half, you break the kiss, a mixture of moans and pained groans emanating from your lips. This is so much harder than you remember it being in your subconscious. The stretch, the fullness, the way he’s reaching your cervix already without even trying. Tears escape your eyes, but despite the strain his dick is putting on your body, it feels so good inside of you. You resume the kiss hastily, bucking your hips slightly in an attempt to get Logan to begin thrusting.

“Fuck me,” you murmur against his lips, groaning when he slides out of you, then back in languidly. You both groan into the kiss, Logan having trouble keeping his mouth on yours while he begins his thrusts. He keeps the pace slow in an attempt to preserve the integrity of your pussy and not tear you in half, but you need more of him. You want to feel him in every corner of you. 

“Logan, I’m not gonna snap, you can fuck me.”

He looks down at you, lips grazing yours, when suddenly his eyes grow darker and more lustful. Clearly planning on doing just that, he readjusts himself slightly for better leverage, and thrusts into you harder than he has all night. Back arching into him, your pained gasp melts into a high pitched moan. Logan quickens his pace now, slamming into you with animalistic intent. His mouth drops to your neck, where he kisses and sucks on the skin, marking his territory with bruised intent. He bites down into your flesh as your heels press into his ass and force him deeper into you. With each thrust he prods your cervix, making you unsure if your moans are from the sharp pain or the immense pleasure from the fullness of his cock and stretch he provides for your pussy.

“So—so tight for me, babygirl,” he growls, skin clapping against skin with a speed you didn’t even know a person could be capable of going. It’s overwhelming, you’re sure that an average person would break in half from the strength of his thrusts, even with your heightened strength you’re sure you’re going to be feeling sore well into next week. His pace doesn’t falter, not even for a second, his pants fan the skin of your neck as your nails dig into his back. You’re not even sure if he’s noticed the marks you’re leaving on his skin, caught up within his own pleasure.

“Fuck, baby—close, so close,” he groans, pulling his face from your neck to lock his lips with yours. His thrusts are so fast that you have a hard time keeping up with the kiss, a part of you growing exhausted from the onslaught on your pussy and ready for him to come inside of you.

“Come for me, please,” you whine breathlessly into the kiss. Logan doesn’t need much more coaxing before his hips stutter. He groans above you, reaching his hands above your head to support himself on the wall as he reaches the peak of his orgasm. You jump slightly at the sound of his claws retracting and stabbing into your drywall, then he unloads inside of you, releasing hot ropes of his seed with a throaty moan. His lips are barely on yours at this point as you try your hardest to maintain the kiss. He slumps over you, his back rising and falling quickly as he comes down from his orgasm. You close your eyes, feeling blissful, your pussy the perfect kind of sore. Logan trails gentle kisses up the length of your neck, peppering them along your jaw before capturing your lips with his. Pulling away, you smile at him, swiping wet hair from his forehead as he returns the smile.

“Dunno about you, princess, but I could go for another round,” he remarks, to which you laugh in response thinking he’s joking. Then suddenly you feel his dick twitch inside of you and realize he’s still hard. You huff in exhaustion, almost blushing. God, you could fuck longer, but you have nothing left in you.

“Logan, I don’t think I got much more in me,” you sigh in defeat, causing Logan to let out a soft hum in thought. He plants a gentle kiss on your lips.

“Mm, d’you…want it…again?” He murmurs between kisses, the gravel in his voice making you clench involuntarily.

“I do,” you whisper, suddenly feeling a second wind of arousal swirling inside of you. Logan slides out of you, eliciting a groan from him and a quiet whine from you.

“On your stomach,” he directs, on his knees above you now. You oblige, rolling over, arching your back slightly to allow Logan easier access to your pussy. You settle into this position—a lazy doggy-style. Logan lines himself up yet again, sinking into you with a rough groan as his hands plant on your hips. He uses your body as leverage to begin thrusting in and out of you, causing you to moan throatily at the way his dick perfectly hits all the right spots. Every ridge, every spongy part inside of you, Logan glides over expertly. Mewling and moaning in pleasure, each thrust of his hips hitting you perfectly. You’re in heaven, so relaxed, feeling so euphoric as he stretches your pussy and fills you. His hands squeeze at your hips, occasionally gliding down to your ass to give it a good squeeze.

“God, how are you tighter?” Logan groans, his thrusts hard yet languid with each roll of his hips. “Pussy so good—so, so good for me, baby.”

You don’t say anything in response—you can’t, you’re reduced to a puddle of moans and groans of pleasure beneath him. Complete putty in his hands that he can do what he pleases with. You don’t know how you’re still even conscious, exhaustion seeps into every pore of your body, but pleasure is keeping your blood flowing and your heart racing. Your clit throbs between your legs, you attempt to squeeze your thighs together to alleviate the pressure, causing Logan to moan above you as you clench.

“Keep doin’ that, princess, I just might come again,” Logan husks. You sneak a flirty glance from over your shoulder and clench your thighs together yet again, Logan clearly struggling to remain upright. Logan’s pace quickens, his thrusts snappier and more desperate. You squeeze again, and again, gyrating your ass gently each time. And that’s all it takes for him, hands flying from your waist, claws unsheathing and stabbing into your mattress as Logan rides out his second orgasm. Growling and moaning as he unloads his hot seed into you yet again. He sits there for a minute, dick twitching inside of you, claws embedded into your mattress, sweat sticking to his heaving chest. Quickly, his strength regains, and his breathing slows. He pulls out of you, still hard, slumping beside your exhausted body. You roll over, wrapping yourself around him, nuzzling into his chest. You can hear his heartbeat beneath your ear, your hand coming to play with the silver tags that lay on his chest.

There’s so much you don’t know—so much you want to know. But Logan feels so peaceful, this is so peaceful. His arms wrapped around you, his breath steady. He knows who you are, and he quite possibly might be the only person to ever understand you this innately. And, for the first time in your life, you’re excited for someone to see you for who you truly are.

...

(A/N): AHHHHHHHH!!! i'm so happy i got to write this chapter. this slow burn could've been slower but im impatient. the smut took me literal days to write, but im so happy with how it turned out!! i hope you guys are happy with the way i let it all play out, i hope no one feels it was too rushed or that some things don't make sense. there are plenty of things from logan's side that will become fleshed out later on. but if some things dont make sense feel free to ask questions in the comments and i will answer (so long as it doesn't spoil things for future chapters teehee). thank you always for the support, i read every single comment and it really keeps me going🫶🏻

to view on ao3 click here

tags: @wolviesgirl @sanemis-piss @fictionalmen-dilflover @e-nonsense

[logicallabyrinth]

Platonic yan? Either with the mafia, professor or doctor

I'm just gonna do all 😇 (kill 3 birds with one stone). I'm assuming your asking for headcanons??

Platonic yan! Mafia (Sebastian Silver)

As the head of a powerful mafia organization, Sebastian takes "protective" to a whole new level. No one dares to even glance you, not even by accident, because the consequences are always swift and brutal.

He insists on keeping tabs on your whereabouts at all times. Sometimes through his men or subtle surveillance, you're never truly alone.

His version of affection involves expensive gifts. Sometimes it's not even practical. It’s not unusual for a brand-new car, an entire wardrobe, or even a small business in your name to appear out of nowhere.

If you ever try to assert your independence, he’s quick to remind you of the “dangers” outside. “The world isn’t kind. Let me take care of things.”

Any sign of disloyalty, even unintentional, is met with a hurt expression and an intense lecture about how much he’s done for you. He doesn’t get angry. Just disappointed... and that guilt works like a charm.

He’s not above eliminating people from your life if he feels they’re “bad influences.” Like friends who overstep your boundaries or question his relationship with you tend to disappear without explanation.

Platonic yan! Professor (Prof. Victor Grayson)

Dr. Grayson amazing academically, but his attachment to you is far from normal. He’s obsessed with your potential and will go to any lengths to ensure you succeed, on his terms of course.

He insists on tutoring you personally, claiming no one else understands your learning style like he does. These sessions often go far beyond academics, with him subtly prying into your personal life. These questions might seen innocent at first, but overtime they get worse.

Your success is his success. Every achievement of yours is celebrated with an intensity that feels suffocating, as though your life is a reflection of his own worth.

He’s manipulative, using guilt or intellectual arguments to keep you dependent on him. “You’re capable of so much, but you’ll squander it without proper guidance. Trust me, I know what’s best.”

Any sign of rebellion is met with quiet but firm discipline. He’ll lower your grades, “misplace” important papers, or subtly sabotage your reputation just to steer you back into his control.

He has a way of making you feel like his guidance is a privilege, something you should be grateful for. “Most students would kill for my attention. You’re lucky I see something special in you.”

Platonic yan! Doctor (Dr Nathaniel Callas)

Dr. Callas is outwardly charming and caring, but his obsession with your well-being, actually you in general, is far from healthy. Every minor symptom you mention is going to throw him into a spiral.

He keeps detailed records of your health, far more thorough than needed, and refuses to let any other doctor near you. “No one knows your case like I do. Trust me, they’ll only mess things up.”

He insists on controlling every aspect of your health. From your diet, exercise, sleep schedule, and even your social habits. He frames it all as concern for your “long-term well-being.”

If you resist him, he uses his medical expertise as leverage, subtly threatening you with dire consequences. “Ignoring this could have catastrophic results. Do you really want to risk it?”

His office becomes a second home for you, whether you want it to or not. He always has an excuse to keep you there. “just a quick check-up” or “a follow-up to monitor your progress.”

You’re never sure how much of his care is genuine and how much is an excuse to keep you close. Either way, you know better than to challenge him. His calm, professional demeanor hides a dangerous determination.

Any sign of you prioritizing someone else’s advice over his sends him into a quiet spiral. He won’t lash out, but his disappointment is palpable, and he might even “find” something concerning in your test results to reel you back in.

[batmanfruitloops]

I gotta know about the Drcrane au, is it only inspired by Frankenstein in the sense of reanimating/making a person from the dead or are there other elements?

Like does Jonathan hate Ed like Victor hates the creature after making him? If so that’s so tragic. :(

Or is it like one of the au’s where Victor loves his creature?

Does Jervis take the place of Clerval? Or does Ed take the place of Clerval?

Why does Jon create Ed? Did he know Ed before hand and reanimate him or did he create him fully from scratch? If he created him fully from scratch what was the reason?

LASTLY is Ed similar to the creature in being somewhat of a mess of parts or is Ed “perfect”? Basically what I’m asking is does Ed only have his head recognizable as Ed or? 

Sorry I know this a lot I just really love Frankenstein and wanted to know about the au.

@quackerzzz

I haven't actually read the book, so it's just based on bits and pieces of themes and concepts that I like about the story, as well as inspiration from Frankenstien-related media. Things like Tim Burton's Frankenweenie and Young Frankenstein but it's been a while since I've watched either movie. However, I was mostly inspired by seeing someone else make a Frankenstein au with Jonathan and Ed. Unfortunately, I never saved it or anything and I'm not sure if I could find the post again, especially since it was someone else drawing pictures for the person's au. If I do find it again, or if someone knows what post I'm talking about, I'd love to credit them. I'll leave a description of what I saw in the post at the end of this one in case someone recognizes the description.

Anyway, I'm fascinated by medicine and love all things biology, so I'm more fixated on that aspect of Frankenstein's story than the themes of human hubris. I'm just curious what would happen if you brought someone back to life in such a way? In the world of medicine now, we can technically bring people back to life with resuscitation. People can be dead for hours and be brought back. We can also reattach limbs and transplant organs. So like, conceptually, you could make a Frankenstein. So what better way to explore that idea than with the blorbos, they are my little Muppets to put into whatever situation I want.

Jonathan wouldn't create Ed for the same reason Victor creates the monster but it's still a similar theme. Jo would still be very interested in psychology but based on the time Frankenstein takes place, it wouldn't be an established discipline. I'm pretty sure it wouldn't even have a name to it yet. So he'd be trying to explore psychology and his peers wouldn't really understand what he was doing and look at him like a dog chasing his own tail. Psychology is notorious for not being taken seriously, even among academics. Since you can't really measure anything. So Jonathan would be pretty frustrated. Because of this, he'd become proficient in things like physiology and neurology. Knowing how the human body physically works, especially the brain can get him closer to unlocking the secrets of the mind.

So Jonathan creates Ed to further his understanding of the human body and its relation to the brain. He wouldn't be doing it for the sole purpose of bringing Ed back to life but would be curious if it's possible (maybe even subconsciously hoping it would happen, it would be nice to not be alone). He wants to see what the brain is capable of. It's mostly an intense version of using electricity to move the muscles of a frog. If the brain suddenly has power, what will it decide to do? Would it truly be alive?

Ed isn't someone Jonathan knew, he's pretty much made from scratch. He was Ed when he died but he is still Ed after he's reanimated, he just can't remember. His body was in pretty poor condition when he died (I'm not entirely set on the details), he at least had gotten ill and likely was mutilated in some way. Ed's body is essentially a base for Jonathan to work off of. He keeps his head and then other bits and pieces from there. Ed is an unclaimed cadaver when Jonathan goes looking for parts. Jonathan feels he's technically free to use those parts for his experiments. Ed is just what he needs.

Ed is perfect after he is reanimated in a medical sense. With minimal issues, his brain accepts everything that didn't originally belong to his body. The blood type is the same, it's in the correct place, and all the blood vessels and nerves are connected as they should be. It all acts as one body. Eventually, he'd look like a normal person with only the scars from the operation, but he'd look horrific before his body healed—like a walking piece of sad jerky.

Jonathan doesn't hate Ed but he's not really sure how to handle him at first. He didn't expect Ed to be fully alive and he wouldn't expect Ed to live very long. He'd be scared to get attached for this reason. So there's a lot of strain on their friendship at first. Jonathan hardly has positive interactions with anyone and still grew up in a horrible environment. So to be thrown into a situation where he suddenly has to care about someone is very stressful. Ed is also a very clingy and affectionate person so that makes it a billion times worse. They do still become best friends as they normally do, it just takes a lot more work than usual. Before then Jo does try his best to take care of Ed even if he's being distant.

Jervis I don't think would be an equivalent to Cerval. I didn't know about this character. Instead, he is a tailor/hatter. He knew Jonathan before Ed was created but is not friends with him yet, they are good acquaintances. Jervis is one of the few people Jonathan has had a positive experience with but he's still shy and has a hard time getting close to people. Jo appreciates Jervis a lot even if he's not close with him, Jervis actually treats him like a person and doesn't guak at him. Jo especially appreciates Jervis's kindness because he is a tailor. Jervis has to get so physically close to Jonathan to tailor his clothes properly and yet he makes no comments on Jonathan's appearance or demeanor and just makes friendly conversation. He's very happy to go see Jervis any time he needs his clothes mended or something (even though he could mend it himself;)). Jo is able to fully become friends with Jervis after Ed's creation and the Dork Squad is together yet again.

-Fluffy

(Post description I was talking about undercut)

There are two drawings I'm pretty sure, In the first one Jonathan is saying something along the lines of "I need to work so don't bother me" and Ed replies with "No problem" Then the next drawing is Jonathan sitting at a table with a pencil and Ed pushing him out of the way reaching for Jonathan's pencil and saying "my turn!" and there's an arrow pointing at Ed that says "learning to write."

[shepherds-of-haven]

Hey! I have been a longtime fan of SHOH and I have recently begun writing my own fantasy story. How do you make your vast and rich cast of characters interact with each other in such a natural and consistent manner? I am really inspired by the way you fleshed out relationship dynamics for so many characters and would love to get some insight into that process.

Ah, thanks for the question, and thank you so much for your long support of ShoH, I really appreciate it! 💖

And hmm, this is a great question! I'm a bit chagrined to say that, at this point, I don't really think about it in the moment or apply a particular conscious methodology when it comes to writing the characters' interactions with each other: most of their dialogue and dynamics spring up naturally and seem to be dictated by the characters themselves, as well as my own long experience and familiarity with them. So in a way, it's sort of a "practice + patience = natural results" process! I start with their individual core personalities and then see how such characteristics might naturally react to each other: someone who's a bit more prickly and fiercely independent and assertive like Ayla might have friction with an authority figure as disciplined and military-minded as Blade, or would have more conflict with other members of her team due to her own natural wariness and past, but it also makes sense that she'd be softer around kind, non-threatening people like Shery or someone as naturally disarming and full of easy camaraderie like Trouble. Sometimes they do surprise me, though! But basically I carve out their most distinct personality traits, or what would be most apparent about them to strangers at a glance--(Chase: loose, playful, enigmatic, chaotic, mischievous, informal. Riel: rigid, highly intelligent, ruthless, orderly, neurotic, sophisticated)--and then I throw them together into different scenarios and observe how they might react to each other. Natural compatibilities or dynamics will start to form from there!

In my earliest days as a writer, one thing that I found really useful was switching up the format when writing and fleshing out the characters. Sometimes it's too much work to try and think of a Plot Reason why they're on a mission together or what other things are happening, like a whole short story about a mystery they're solving or whatever, and organically try to dig into their dynamic that way. If I really wanted to focus on exploring their relationship to each other, I would literally write either short screenplay vignettes as they came to me, devoid of any actual plot (like the two characters in a garden, eating lunch together), or interview/Q&A transcripts, LOL. This was a really good way of developing fast, off-the-cuff dialogue between the characters in a way that can deepen your understanding of their relationship. Like imagine they're just trapped in a room and some journalist or invisible speaker is plying them with questions. Sort of like how I imagine the Shepherds' Corner, where a panel of the characters are being polled for different questions!

(This is stirring up ancient memories for me, actually. In the LiveJournal days of like 2005, there would be tons of those OC number replacement questionnaires floating around, where there'd be 3-5 slots at the top; you'd assign each of your characters a number, and then the questionnaire would proceed to ask them questions, like so:

Blade

Briony

Trouble

Character #3, how much do you weigh?

Trouble: "Oh, uh... I actually have no idea. Nobody ever weighs me except the Healers during my annual exams, and I'm usually in a rush to get out of there as soon as I can, so I never asked..."

Blade: [disbelieving snort] "It's sure to be a lot. You eat for three."

Trouble: "Hey, fuck you?"

Briony: "You do eat a lot, Trouble..."

Maybe it seems a bit silly, but you can see how doing enough of these could allow certain character dynamics to emerge and become clearer: Blade and Trouble have a relationship where they take the piss out of each other, Briony is a more moderating influence but is still honest in a group setting (whereas she might be more diplomatic one-on-one LOL), and etc...)

Making character webs like this might also prove helpful!

Finally, one last thing to note is the form and medium that you're writing in. A rule that was often pushed in creative writing classes is that readers of short stories tend to be extremely economical with their time; the medium is already so pared down that readers will immediately notice fluff or filler, which is great for character and relationship-building but not so great for things like short stories, where every word and sentence has to count (or readers will wonder what's the point of including them). (<- Obviously, fanfiction adheres to different principles.) Conventional novels have much more leeway, but there are certainly still some constrictions; scenes often serve to either further the main plot, provide plot exposition or worldbuilding to a reader, progress a character's individual development, or provide momentum to some aspect of their relationship to others. So you don't often see stuff like Halek's witch's bane incident crop up in novels, unless it's something that comes back around in some way later. (Obviously this also varies with the novel and the genre.)

Part of the reason why I chose interactive fiction is because its conventions inherently allow more freedom with this kind of thing; you can eavesdrop on your companions drinking together, or play a card game with them, or have input as they argue about Caine's education or the state of current politics or what have you, because games are immersive and players are already primed to expect that kind of immersion, and so it's very easy to showcase the characters' interactions with each other. You don't have to worry about justifying the purpose of an interaction or a scene in relation to the overall story, especially because readers can often skip and ignore these interactions altogether. This isn't me trying to steer anyone towards a specific medium, btw: I'm just saying I have an inherently easier time showcasing these character dynamics and relationships because I'm making a game with them, whereas it might be harder to have an organic reason for Briony, Ayla, and Tallys to get drunk and start beating the shit out of some farmers in a tavern and then have a sleepover where they talk about their feelings in a typical novel? Hopefully that makes sense! The short of it is, it's absolutely possible to have the same kind of character beats and relationship-building in a novel, but if mine seem particularly rich and immersive, it's also because the genre I'm working in lends itself to that and provides a lot of opportunities!

Anyway, hopefully something in there was helpful! Thanks again for the question, and good luck with your own writing, that's so exciting! 🌟

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Podcasting "Microincentives and Enshittification"

Tomorrow (Oct 25) at 10hPT/18hUK, I'm livestreaming an event called "Seizing the Means of Computation" for the Edinburgh Futures Institute.

This week on my podcast, I read my recent Medium column, "Microincentives and Enshittification," about the way that monopoly drives mediocrity, with Google's declining quality as Exhibit A:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/microincentives-and-enshittification/

It's not your imagination: Google used to be better – in every way. Search used to be better, sure, but Google used to be better as a company. It treated its workers better (for example, not laying off 12,000 workers months after a stock buyback that would have paid their salaries for the next 27 years). It had its users' backs in policy fights – standing up for Net Neutrality and the right to use encryption to keep your private data private. Even when the company made ghastly mistakes, it repented of them and reversed them, like the time it pulled out of China after it learned that Chinese state hackers had broken into Gmail in order to discover which dissidents to round up and imprison.

None of this is to say that Google used to be perfect, or even, most of the time, good. Just that things got worse. To understand why, we have to think about how decisions get made in large organizations, or, more to the point, how arguments get resolved in these organizations.

We give Google a lot of shit for its "Don't Be Evil" motto, but it's worth thinking through what that meant for the organization's outcomes over the years. Through most of Google's history, the tech labor market was incredibly tight, and skilled engineers and other technical people had a lot of choice as to where they worked. "Don't Be Evil" motivated some – many – of those workers to take a job at Google, rather than one of its rivals.

Within Google, that meant that decisions that could colorably be accused of being "evil" would face some internal pushback. Imagine a product design meeting where one faction proposes something that is bad for users, but good for the company's bottom line. Think of another faction that says, "But if we do that, we'll be 'evil.'"

I think it's safe to assume that in any high-stakes version of this argument, the profit side will prevail over the don't be evil side. Money talks and bullshit walks. But what if there were also monetary costs to being evil? Like, what if Google has to worry about users or business customers defecting to a rival? Or what if there's a credible reason to worry that a regulator will fine Google, or Congress will slap around some executives at a televised hearing?

That lets the no-evil side field a more robust counterargument: "Doing that would be evil, and we'll lose money, or face a whopping fine, or suffer reputational harms." Even if these downsides are potentially smaller than the upsides, they still help the no-evil side win the argument. That's doubly true if the downsides could depress the company's share-price, because Googlers themselves are disproportionately likely to hold Google stock, since tech companies are able to get a discount on their wage-bills by paying employees in abundant stock they print for free, rather than the scarce dollars that only come through hard graft.

When the share-price is on the line, the counterargument goes, "That would be evil, we will lose money, and you will personally be much poorer as a result." Again, this isn't dispositive – it won't win every argument – but it is influential. A counterargument that braids together ideology, institutional imperatives, and personal material consequences is pretty robust.

Which is where monopoly comes in. When companies grow to dominate their industries, they are less subject to all forms of discipline. Monopolists don't have to worry about losing disgusted employees, because they exert so much gravity on the labor market that they find it easy to replace them.

They don't have to worry about losing customers, because they have eliminated credible alternatives. They don't have to worry about losing users, because rivals steer clear of their core business out of fear of being bigfooted through exclusive distribution deals, predatory pricing, etc. Investors have a name for the parts of the industry dominated by Big Tech: they call it "the kill zone" and they won't back companies seeking to enter it.

When companies dominate their industries, they find it easier to capture their regulators and outspend public prosecutors who hope to hold them to account. When they lose regulatory fights, they can fund endless appeals. If they lose those appeals, they can still afford the fines, especially if they can use an army of lawyers to make sure that the fine is less than the profit realized through the bad conduct. A fine is a price.

In other words, the more dominant a company is, the harder it is for the good people within the company to win arguments about unethical and harmful proposals, and the worse the company gets. The internal culture of the company changes, and its products and services decline, but meaningful alternatives remain scarce or nonexistent.

Back to Google. Google owns more than 90% of the search market. Google can't grow by adding more Search users. The 10% of non-Google searchers are extremely familiar with Google's actions. To switch to a rival search engine, they have had to take many affirmative, technically complex steps to override the defaults in their devices and tools. It's not like an ad extolling the virtues of Google Search will bring in new customers.

Having saturated the search market, Google can only increase its Search revenues by shifting value from searchers or web publishers to itself – that is, the only path to Search growth is enshittification. They have to make things worse for end users or business customers in order to make things better for themselves:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys

This means that each executive in the Search division is forever seeking out ways to shift value to Google and away from searchers and/or publishers. When they propose a enshittificatory tactic, Google's market dominance makes it easy for them to win arguments with their teammates: "this may make you feel ashamed for making our product worse, but it will not make me poorer, it will not make the company poorer, and it won't chase off business customers or end users, therefore, we're gonna do it. Fuck your feelings."

After all, each microenshittification represents only a single Jenga block removed from the gigantic tower that is Google Search. No big deal. Some Google exec made the call to make it easier for merchants to buy space overtop searches for their rivals. That's not necessarily a bad thing: "Thinking of taking a vacation in Florida? Why not try Puerto Rico – it's a US-based Caribbean vacation without the transphobia and racism!"

But this kind of advertising also opens up lots of avenues for fraud. Scammers clone local restaurants' websites, jack up their prices by 15%, take your order, and transmit it to the real restaurant, pocketing the 15%. They get clicks by using some of that rake to buy an ad based on searches for the restaurant's name, so they show up overtop of it and rip off inattentive users:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/24/passive-income/#swiss-cheese-security

This is something Google could head off; they already verify local merchants by mailing them postcards with unique passwords that they key into a web-form. They could ban ads for websites that clone existing known merchants, but that would incur costs (engineer time) and reduce profits, both from scammers and from legit websites that trip a false positive.

The decision to sell this kind of ad, configured this way, is a direct shift of value from business customers (restaurants) and end-users (searchers) to Google. Not only that, but it's negative sum. The money Google gets from this tradeoff is less than the cost to both the restaurant (loss of goodwill from regulars who are affronted because of a sudden price rise) and searchers (who lose 15% on their dinner orders). This trade-off makes everyone except Google worse off, and it's only possible when Google is the only game in town.

It's also small potatoes. Last summer, scammers figured out how to switch out the toll-free numbers that Google displayed for every airline, redirecting people to boiler-rooms where con-artists collected their credit-card numbers and sensitive personal information (passports, etc):

https://www.nbcnews.com/tech/tech-news/phone-numbers-airlines-listed-google-directed-scammers-rcna94766

Here again, we see a series of small compromises that lead to a massive harm. Google decided to show users 800 numbers rather than links to the airlines' websites, but failed to fortify the process for assigning phone numbers to prevent this absolutely foreseeable type of fraud. It's not that Google wanted to enable fraud – it's that they created the conditions for the fraud to occur and failed to devote the resources necessary to defend against it.

Each of these compromises indicates a belief among Google decision-makers that the consequences for making their product worse will be outweighed by the value the company will generate by exposing us to harm. One reason for this belief is on display in the DOJ's antitrust case against Google:

https://www.justice.gov/opa/press-release/file/1328941/download

The case accuses Google of spending tens of billions of dollars to buy out the default search position on every platform where an internet user might conceivably perform a search. The company is lighting multiple Twitters worth of dollars on fire to keep you from ever trying another search engine.

Spraying all those dollars around doesn't just keep you from discovering a better search engine – it also prevents investors from funding that search engine in the first place. Why fund a startup in the kill-zone if no one will ever discover that it exists?

https://www.theverge.com/23802382/search-engine-google-neeva-android

Of course, Google doesn't have to grow Search to grow its revenue. Hypothetically, Google could pursue new lines of business and grow that way. This is a tried-and-true strategy for tech giants: Apple figured out how to outsource its manufacturing to the Pacific Rim; Amazon created a cloud service, Microsoft figured out how to transform itself into a cloud business.

Look hard at these success stories and you discover another reason that Google – and other large companies – struggle to grow by moving into adjacent lines of business. In each case – Apple, Microsoft, Amazon – the exec who led the charge into the new line of business became the company's next CEO.

In other words: if you are an exec at a large firm and one of your rivals successfully expands the business into a new line, they become the CEO – and you don't. That ripples out within the whole org-chart: every VP who becomes an SVP, every SVP who becomes an EVP, and every EVP who becomes a president occupies a scarce spot that it worth millions of dollars to the people who lost it.

The one thing that execs reliably collaborate on is knifing their ambitious rivals in the back. They may not agree on much, but they all agree that that guy shouldn't be in charge of this lucrative new line of business.

This "curse of bigness" is why major shifts in big companies are often attended by the return of the founder – think of Gates going back to Microsoft or Brin returning to Google to oversee their AI projects. They are the only execs that other execs can't knife in the back.

This is the real "innovator's dilemma." The internal politics of large companies make Machiavelli look like an optimist.

When your company attains a certain scale, any exec's most important rival isn't the company's competitor – it's other execs at the same company. Their success is your failure, and vice-versa.

This makes the business of removing Jenga blocks from products like Search even more fraught. These quality-degrading, profit-goosing tactics aren't coordinated among the business's princelings. When you're eating your seed-corn, you do so in private. This secrecy means that it's hard for different product-degradation strategists to realize that they are removing safeguards that someone else is relying on, or that they're adding stress to a safety measure that someone else just doubled the load on.

It's not just Google, either. All of tech is undergoing a Great Enshittening, and that's due to how intertwined all these tech companies. Think of how Google shifts value from app makers to itself, with a 30% rake on every dollar spent in an app. Google is half of the mobile duopoly, with the other half owned by Apple. But they're not competitors – they're co-managers of a cartel. The single largest deal that Google or Apple does every year is the bribe Google pays Apple to be the default search for iOS and Safari – $15-20b, every year.

If Apple and Google were mobile competitors, you'd expect them to differentiate their products, but instead, they've converged – both Apple and Google charge sky-high 30% payment processing fees to app makers.

Same goes for Google/Facebook, the adtech duopoly: not only do both companies charge advertisers and publishers sky-high commissions, clawing 51 cents out of every ad dollar, but they also illegally colluded to rig the market and pay themselves more, at advertisers' and publishers' expense:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jedi_Blue

It's not just tech, either – every sector from athletic shoes to international sea-freight is concentrated into anti-competitive, value-annihilating cartels and monopolies:

https://www.openmarketsinstitute.org/learn/monopoly-by-the-numbers

As our friends on the right are forever reminding us: "incentives matter." When a company runs out of lands to conquer, the incentives all run one direction: downhill, into a pit of enshittification. Google got worse, not because the people in it are worse (or better) than they were before – but because the constraints that discipline the company and contain its worst impulses got weaker as the company got bigger.

Here's the podcast episode:

https://craphound.com/news/2023/10/23/microincentives-and-enshittification/

And here's a direct link to the MP3 (hosting courtesy of the Internet Archive; they'll host your stuff for free, forever):

https://archive.org/download/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_452/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_452_-_Microincentives_and_Enshittification.mp3

And here's my podcast's RSS feed:

http://feeds.feedburner.com/doctorow_podcast

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/microincentives-and-enshittification/

[d3f3n3str4t10n]

Playing through Chapter 1 with the info gained from Chapter 2 (Or I guess, watching playthroughs, in my case) helps shed a lot of light on certain details... but one thing that always struck me as strange even after that was the phone call between Ashley and Renee.

Here, it seems like she's showing genuine shame for what she's doing, or what she feels like she has to do... though exactly what that is, is left unclear. The vagueness of it all is, of course, to build up mystery as to what it could mean, which we find out more about in Chapter 2. And in chapter 2, we find out that Renee was... heavily implied to be very much in on what these quarantine people were doing. Selling their organs, using their deaths as an insurance scam, to the point of willingly and deliberately hiring a hitman to kill Andrew and Ashley once they escaped.

We aren't fully sure about how deep this conspiracy goes; If this is something the water company as a whole is pushing on a widespread scale, or just certain people within it, or even if the 'parasites' are real or not. (Though I think it's all but clear that they were just made up...) We know from flashbacks and the Grave's own words that Renee wasn't exactly the most 'present' mother figure. Yet when confronted about it, she of course, denies it. (To a degree, anyway.)

We haven't seen or heard much of any direct interactions between Leyley and Renee, or much of Renee in general, so we don't have too much to go off of. This could very easily just be classic Graves' Family Gaslighting here... but I honestly think there's some truth to what Renee is saying here.

(Is it just me, or are Renee's eyes in this picture... slightly more green than they are in the present day?) Anyway, as we see in the screenshot above, Renee doesn't seem very worried about whatever Andy is upset about. We know that Andy had the responsibility of raising Leyley from a young age, which is likely what this conversation is about. Her uncaring, nonchalant look here gives off the impression that she's more annoyed about the situation than concerned. (Or she just has a resting bitch face, who knows?) She claims she "Thought they were getting along, so she didn't want to see what was happening." when apologizing to Andrew. I'm assuming this mainly meant that she didn't want to spend the time and effort to raise her kids, and just put the burden of disciplining Leyley on Andy. She was never counting on Leyley being such a handful... But she does bring up a... well, not a great point but a point nonetheless.

Why... didn't she turn her in? Ashley's quick to point out that it was simply to cover her own ass, and save herself the embarrassment and trouble that would be; having your kids murder another kid, even if accidentally... but is that... really it? Considering Andy and Leyley were so young when that happened (I'm willing to bet Andy wasn't even 10 yet. At the most, he was probably 12-13, meaning Leyley was around 10-11...) I really don't think the sentencing for them would've been... THAT bad? I don't know about the laws for this kind of stuff, but kids accidentally killing another kid while playing an innocent game of hide and seek... It feels like they very easily could've played the "I'm just a little kid I had no idea what would happen I'm so sorry" card fairly easily. This probably would've led to Mr. and Mrs. Graves taking most of the heat, being their parents. At least, that's what Ashley claims Renee was actually concerned about. But... then... why was she 'sorry' when she told Ashley to stop calling her? If she saw her as nothing more than an embarrassment, why would she say that? Was she only doing it to come off as caring one last time? Was a small spark of regret and humanity poking through her facade as she left her kids to slowly starve to death and be harvested for their organs? Did she really 'try' with Ashley? We know through the "Mother's Intuition" preview video that we'll be getting at least 1 flashback from Renee's perspective, and we know that we'll be seeing many more flashbacks with the family when they were still together, and possibly seeing some of their extended family. (Staying at their grandparent's house, for example.) I'd very much like to know what *they* thought about all this. Their reaction to Renee getting pregnant to young, why Renee decided to keep the baby, (If that was even her decision to begin with...), why she thought it was fine having another, (Even if Andy was an 'easy child,' there had to be more to that decision, surely. Was Renee just that impulsive back then? Did she not see that having 2 children would just be more work? Why did she want to have another kid specifically???)

I really do think there's more to Renee than we've seen and heard so far. I don't think she's as heartless as some of her actions make her seem. I genuinely think that, at one point, she 'tried' with Ashley. But at some point, she gave up, and left Andy to pick up the slack. Maybe it's just cope, idk.

[benchwarming]

i meant to reflect a bit before the end of 2024 about the experience of quitting my job last summer, but then my holidays were disrupted by norovirus AND conjunctivitis 🤪 so i didn't get around to it. until now!

i quit my job in august. i'd been at a startup for 6.5 years and had no plans to leave, buuuut then we were acquired in '23 by a big multinational firm. i won't get into all the ways that our new parent company eroded what had been to that point a pretty good place for me to work, but man, it fuckin sucked.

i was admittedly sensitive to it because "toxic legacy corporation led by sociopaths and staffed by mediocre assholes" was exactly the environment i was escaping when i'd joined the startup. but having to kowtow to a new c-suite of boomer-brained idiots with no sense, strategy, or discipline at a company i never wanted to work for in the first place was excruciating. especially bc i then had to turn around and try to make the best of their idiocy for a team of people* looking to me for reassurance and motivation.

i've never quit a job without having my next one lined up. it took like a month to admit to myself i was serious about the idea. then another month to be convinced by friends and fam that i was allowed to quit. then a few business days to calculate how long my finances would hold up. then another month to figure out what would have to happen for me to actually go through with it.

but of course something did happen, and i did quit. it was very scary!!! and i felt so guilty leaving my team. but i was able to kick off some freelance copywriting work right away, and a freelance consulting project came my way after that, and more things popped up after that. and while i have a lot to learn yet about how to make freelancing a sustainable long-term career, i'm extremely confident that it's worth it to try, at least for a while, bc uhhhh i am. SO much happier?!

i don't think it hit me exactly how much work i was doing, or how hard i was pushing myself to stay on top of it all, until i didn't have to do it anymore. i'm still getting used to that honestly. for the first few weeks i'd jolt awake worrying i'd forgotten something on my to-do list or automatically pull up zoom bc i felt sure i had a meeting to attend.

in comparison to that garbage, freelancing has been easy breezy. but i don't mean easy like mindless, i just mean like - i'm able to dictate the terms and scope of the work, and as a result it doesn't feel like "stuff i have to do" so much as "stuff i'm working on." that may be a distinction without a difference for a lot of people but it's turned out to be a pretty big deal for me: if i gotta work to live (and right now i do), then getting to call the shots and fully own the results makes it easier to conceptualize the work as an opportunity (fun! interesting! good use of time!) rather than an obligation (annoying! inflexible! standing between me and fun stuff!). and after years of managing a team it's such a relief to be responsible only for myself again.

of course the other thing i had at that job was a good salary. and i won't lie, i really miss the money. but i think i can get my income back up in that ballpark by the end of 2025 if i play my cards right. and even if i don't, i know now that enduring corporate agonies for that kind of money is no longer a worthwhile tradeoff for me.

since quitting there have been moments where i've felt dumb for not realizing sooner that freelance would be a better fit at this point in my professional life than a staff job. but i went into 2024 knowing i needed to take some kind of step forward in my career, and i did, and i learned stuff about myself in the process, and now i hate being alive at least 25% less per day than i used to. and that's sort of the whole point of everything, right?**

*by december, 80% of our department would be laid off, and the few left over would be desperate to leave. a really unfortunate end to an incredible marketing organization.

**of course now my therapist is like "so since 2023 was your Living Situation year, and 2024 was your Career year, does that mean 2025 is going to be your Relationship year?" and ughghghfhfhgf. like she's right, but. ugh. but she's right! but UGHHH

[espionn]

RainWing tribe sheet!

honestly i'm not 100% sure i like this sheet visually. its ok but not my best. i do like my more in-depth headcanon stuff for rainwings, though, so i hope people like it anyway!

fyi the next few tribes are giving me a bit of trouble so i might post these a little slower, but i still plan to get out all 10 tribes!! they just might be more than a few days apart.

Physical Appearance + Traits:

-RainWings live in the dense and tropical rainforest. Similarly to chameleons, they have prehensile tails and claws well-adapted to cling to branches; and, most strikingly, their coloration can be changed at will, to any color under the sun. This can be used for perfect and uncanny camouflage, for intimidation, for beauty and expression, and to communicate emotions. (Below is a chart of emotions corresponding with their colors; note, though, that they can be combined with each other, and patterned, to mean slightly different and more complex things.)

-Like birds of paradise, they are fond of bright and bold colors, but when they want they can also make themselves virtually undetectable. What exactly this skill is used for depends on the period of history; showing off, playing hide-and-seek, hunting, silent warfare.

-RainWings also have fangs that can be used to expel “venom” - called such for lack of a better word. It does not need to be injected to be deadly, unlike most venom, and rather seems to have a burning, warping and generally destructive effect on cells upon contact. Whether it is deadly depends on the level and location of exposure.

-Neck, chest and sometimes tail frills are used for expression and dance; the floatiness of these frills, and their color-changing abilities, make them hypnotizing. Neck ruffs in particular are commonly used for communication: perked up to show curiosity, drooping to show discomfort or sadness, and flared to show anger and to intimidate. 

-Their fifth claw - the dew claw - is larger and more opposable than those of other tribes, more like a human thumb. This, and their extra (and also more dextrous) wing claw, lets them climb and cling to trees with swiftness and ease. It also makes it easier to use tools, and crack open fruits and nuts, while keeping themselves steady and balanced. 

Life Cycle:

-RainWings are typically laid in clutches of 4-9 eggs. They take the longest of any tribe to develop within the egg; they incubate for nearly half a year, and still are hatched with pale and dull colors. As they grow, though, they get better control over their color-changing abilities through play under the watch of the rest of the tribe.

-RainWings do not form partnerships at all, and rarely mate with the same dragon twice. They also do not raise dragonets on their own; all dragonets are raised communally by the wider tribe. RainWings make friends and have positive relationships, but the idea of parental or romantic relationships are odd to the vast majority of them. Romantic partnerships are not completely unheard of, but they’re seen as unusual.

-Dragonets are naturally playful and learn to harness their abilities through games and competitions. This, though other tribes scoff at it, is quite effective, and other than a lack of structure and discipline in certain eras depending on the queen, RainWings are not less powerful than any other tribes, through nature or nurture. 

-The oldest they usually live is to 90 -100. It's uncommon to go much longer than that, which makes RainWings one of the shorter-lived tribes. Old RainWings tend to live together in their own communities within the tribe, and likewise, younger RainWings prefer each other's company. These boundaries aren't strict, but social norms expect dragons to generally stick to their age groups.

Society and Culture:

-RainWings’ societal structure has varied through time. Their ranged venom and near-invisibility makes them excellent assassins and spies, and several times in history they have been organized or hired in this way. Their nature, though, tends to be easygoing and nonviolent on the whole, and their culture tends to drift in that direction in the absence of external pressure. 

-RainWings are social dragons, and while they do not have a particularly ranked and organized society structure, like SeaWings, their social and personal dynamics are complex and important. Popular and well-liked RainWings are more successful in their tribe than those who are disliked and outcast. Their emotions are very openly communicated, and the idea of hiding thoughts and feelings is strange to them. That isn’t to say they lack subtlety and tact, but they rarely try to suppress their natural scale fluctuations. 

-A lot of RainWing culture rests on colors. They use colors to communicate and associate objects with different emotions based on their color. They sometimes set distinct color palettes in order to appear a certain way in front of others, but some level of fluctuation is impossible to avoid.

-RainWings are the only tribe that has no written language. They are completely illiterate not out of laziness or inability, but because historically they have never had need for communication that isn’t direct and in the present. Their visual signals are so complex that they might be called a crude type of sign language, less refined than Aquatic but not entirely dissimilar, but the only RainWings taught to read and write are those involved in diplomacy or other inter-tribe interactions where it may be necessary. For their own tribe affairs, verbal communication is all they need.

-One of the ultimate staples of RainWing culture is performance - theater and dance. Their dances, often synchronized, with their agile bodies, floating frills and shifting colors, are famously breathtaking and mesmerizing. There was a time when RainWing dancers would travel and perform for different tribes, and dragons scrambled to watch them. For RainWings themselves, though, the performances take on their own meanings, as emotional expression comes through in the colors and some dances tell elaborate stories through these visual cues. Silent theater, similarly, relies on color to tell stories, and these shows aren’t as popular among other tribes simply because other dragons can’t fully comprehend the meanings of different scenes.

-RainWings don’t use facial expressions much, because their scales are so adept at showing emotion, and sometimes that causes communication issues with dragons from other tribes. Similarly, they struggle to separate different tribes from their color associations; for example, it’s hard to get over the subconscious assumptions that all SkyWings are angry, all IceWings are in pain/distress, and all NightWings are constantly overflowing with rage and hatred. (@puzzled-pegasus inspired this one - hope you don’t mind me adopting it!)

-Sleep schedules are loose to non-existent, best compared to that of cats; RainWings generally sleep at midnight and midday, and are awake at dawn and dusk, but short naps throughout the day are considered normal and acceptable.

-Because of the diversity of plant life in the rainforest, RainWings have a more in-depth knowledge of toxins and medicines than any other tribe, and their medics can cure a vast number of ailments. They also have access to - and use - a great variety of stimulants and hallucinogens, usually in a festive or celebratory context.

Diet: Selectively herbivorous. RainWings can eat meat, and sometimes do, but generally they prefer to put time and energy toward gathering rather than hunting. They eat just about every type of fruit under the sun, having adapted to a high-glucose and low-protein diet, and their dishes are elaborate and flavorful with spices and sweeteners; just about every other tribe that eats plants is happy to invite RainWing fruit merchants into their towns. RainWings were also the first Pyrrhian tribe to produce chocolate.

[serpenttailedangel]

I'm back in "reading scholarly articles by people advocating for major policy and education program change" mode and, subsequently, back in "disgusted by the amount of mask-off shit people just straight up say that you get called a conspiracy theorist for repeating to people who don't read this garbage even though these fuckers publish their insanity" mode. Presumably, these people expect that no one outside of their circles reads their stuff, so they can put it in ink. Although I guess it also helps that they use a lot of deceptive language and contradictions to try and snag people who aren't thinking too hard about what they read.

United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization has a book available for free digital download in which they argue for some pretty insane shit (claiming to support academic freedom while also mentioning they want certain research subjects suppressed, wanting more politicized disciplines to have equal input to things like chemistry and biology in medical research, and new ranking for schools based on how well they comply with this guideline rather than the quality of their research or how good they are at teaching.) I tried telling someone about it IRL and they told me that whoever I heard about it from must have been lying. When I told them I was specifically citing UNESCO's official publication on their website, this person concluded that the only logical explanation was that the UN was hacked and someone wrote and posted a 100 page hoax paper for nebulous false flag reasons, and the UN has been unable to take the fake paper down and unwilling to release a statement saying it's fake for a year now.

But. like, in defense of the people who haven't read this stuff and also don't believe it when you talk about it, I've checked four different times to make sure that the author of Drag Pedagogy is an actual person affiliated with Drag Queen Story Hour events and not some intern Ted Cruz paid to write a false flag article. Sometimes shit gets so mask-off that I struggle to believe my own eyes.

[greatrunner]

Someone asked Bisan Owda what she thought of the US TikTok Ban, and her answer was, effectively, "You all used the platform to build an awareness of what was happening to us. That's a good thing. But, now, you need to do more."

Materially, the US losing the platform isn't likely to change the material condition of Palestine this far into the genocide. The most we could've done has been done, and now we've fallen into a lull where the primary use is staying connected to the families folks are fundraising.

And everyone from GoFundMe to every social media platform nuking Palestinian accounts has demonstrated there is a collective effort within tech and capital to ensure that every single person in Palestine is murdered. Every institution on this planet you can think of has and is conspiring to murder these people, and what a way to realize the entire world is under the thumb of fascists.

On the other hand, TikTok has helped or brought attention to the living conditions of other Americans. People's lives are impacted by the negative aspects of the State and natural disasters and positively by community organizing efforts.

At the very least, TikTok has illustrated a collective sentiment of hatred toward our politicians and the wealthy, something the State is visibly rattled by (hence the ban).

Emotionally, many Americans aren't ready to do the more part. Folks haven't accepted that protesting in mass droves without doing anything or putting anything behind it won't change things. I'm not sure people have realized that "calling your represenatives" and trying to speak to them in person is a futile effort precisely because they are suggesting that you do. The moment they started doing that after that healthcare CEO got murked by The Adjuster, I knew the jig was up.

They know that shit don't work, and I need the rest of America to realize that as well.

But at the same time, throwing a brick through their window doesn't do much except allow them to manufacture consent against people who aren't playing the optics game. They can still galvanize droves of people into believing someone is a criminal because they keep saying it on the news and strip a situation of all nuance.

And the rest are just trying to find a starting point where consequences can materialize. And that takes patience, patience that a populace socialized to expect immediate results, haven't made a discipline.

I've never felt more like a peasant than I have now.

[tokiro07]

Ichi the Witch ch.13 thoughts

[You're As Cold As Ice]

(Topics: criticism - presentation, character analysis - Desscaras/Togeice/Ichi, thematic analysis - talent/philosophy, speculation - arc progression)

This week's chapter is meant almost solely as an introduction to Togeice as a character rather than just a plot device to give Ichi grief. To accomplish this, Nishi lists off all of Togeice's most notable accomplishments

Tell Don't Show

A child prodigy who developed Mantinel's security system, a beloved teacher, a seasoned Witch with 16 acquisitions to her name, and even an endorsement from Monigold to become the next head of Mantinel, Togeice sure sounds impressive!

Except...we still have no context for any of that. We don't know what it takes to run Mantinel or even how big of an organization it is, we don't know what the average number of acquisitions any given Witch has, or even how much weight Monigold's word has. We can infer a lot of that from the fact that Monigold is the head of such a politically important organization and that she's pointing to Togeice's record as evidence of her prowess, but without a frame of reference for any of this information, I'm not exactly blown away by any of it

Still, it's not like it's entirely lost on me or anything. Like I said, I can make inferences, and it's clear enough that Togeice is meant to be a big deal that I think we can take this chapter at face value, I just feel like this flavor of character introduction needs a little more prep work to get the full effect

All of that said, this chapter did help put a few things into perspective for me. In particular, what makes Desscaras the "Strongest Witch"

Might Doesn't Make Right

When asked if she would consider nominating Desscaras as the next leader of Mantinel, Monigold bluntly refuses the notion, citing her and other Witches' egotism as a disqualifying factor

Desscaras is clearly powerful, but she lacks discipline, foresight, cooperation, work ethic...she doesn't have a single quality that suggests she would know the first thing about being a leader or maintaining an organization. Under her leadership, at best Desscaras would allow Mantinel to fall into chaos due to her own negligence, and at worst she'd drive it into the ground herself with ill-conceived policies that would likely harm its reputation and relationships

Togeice, however, actually cares about Mantinel and its longevity and has the skills necessary to preserve it. She may not be physically capable of beating Desscaras in a fight, but she's far better equipped for a leadership role

This is yet another example of the cast's unique talents being highlighted, suggesting that this won't just be a theme surrounding Kumugi, but rather one that permeates the entire story. We'll have to keep an eye on how Nishi continues to develop it, but I'm starting to think that talent is going to be one of if not the foremost theme of the series

In fact, it's already being used to paint Togeice as the underdog in this competition

Bad Matchup

In shocking contrast to her fastidious nature, Togeice doesn't seem to have any battle sense, trying to brute-force her way to victory by blasting the entire area with ice instead of systematically searching for Kindake. Based on Kindake and Hisame's dialogue, this flashy and aggressive approach is pretty common for Witches, so it's possible that Togeice came into that habit naturally based on the nature of Magik battles, but going by what Monigold said, her style is unusually wanton even by Witch standards

Maybe she just doesn't have any respect for combat as an art form, or she's strong enough that such a straightforward approach has simply never failed her, but either way her detail-oriented style simply doesn't manifest in how she fights. While she is reducing Kindake's hiding spots, the only reason he's concerned about that is because it will make it easier for Ichi to find him, not because he seems to actually consider Togeice herself a threat

While I thought that her poor sense of direction would be what hampered her ability to track down Kindake, she's managed to circumvent that expectation by not even looking at all. She probably thinks she's bound to catch him eventually, but really he's just going to keep slipping through her attacks until he's cornered by Ichi

Everything is stacked against Togeice here, both despite her overwhelming capacity for force and because of her inability to apply her best talents to a situation that seems like it would perfectly complement them

Meanwhile, Ichi's hunting skills are not only completely appropriate to the situation, he's also proving more than capable of applying them as needed. The problem, though, is that he's being portrayed almost like a villain

Good is Not Nice

While it's almost certainly just for comedy, there's no denying that Ichi is chasing a small, cute, nearly defenseless critter with bloodlust in his eyes. His relentless pursuit of Kindake, who again hasn't actually violated Death for Death aside from simply saying he would kill people while throwing a tantrum, makes Ichi look pretty far from the heroic role that being the protagonist would usually fill

I think this is going to help flesh out the nuance of Ichi's character, as I've been speculating from the beginning that Death for Death was a thin veneer meant to hide and temper Ichi's violent nature, and that his justifications of D.f.D. would likely become flimsier over time. I don't know if this is meant to be the start of it, but I think it will come to serve as an early warning sign when Ichi falls down the slippery slope later

Ichi taking on the role of the heel here also furthers my suspicion that neither he nor Togeice will win this challenge and a third party will swoop in to steal the kill. With Ichi being this cruel, it almost feels like he doesn't deserve to win, but it's not like we want him to lose because of that either. Instead, I think both Ichi and Togeice would stand to gain a lot more as characters from having their bout interrupted

I may change my tune with this coming week's chapter, as Kindake may prove more aggressive or Ichi may lighten up, but for now, like I said last week, things seem to be stacked a little too far in Ichi's favor for his win to be satisfying

Until next time, let's enjoy life!