#it was completely out of character for them both

[shellem15]

One thing that kinda frustrates me about Shen Jiu fics is that they so often try to sanitize him. Make him nicer/more misunderstood than he actually is.

Like, he was definitely very misunderstood in source material, but he also was straight up a terrible person too, y'know? Both things can be true at once.

The biggest thing is his treatment of Luo Binghe, playing on the idea that it wasn't *as* bad as the characters thought it was. Now, this is just plain wrong cause we know from the extras that SJ gave Binghe the fake cultivation manual with the intent that it would literally explode him. He really wanted to murder that kid, yall. Loony toonz ass villain. Keep this man away from children

And he was definitely a total asshole to all his coworkers, even during disciple days. The other Peak Lords are under no expectation to like him nor tolerate his behavior, especially since they (except Yue Qingyuan) don't know about his backstory (very intentional on SJs part)! SJ very deliberately ostracized himself. His nasty reputation didn't just spring up out of nowhere. He has agency even in other people's opinions of him.

This is particularly notable in his interactions with Liu Qingge. It wasn't "LQG bullies poor SJ and spreads nasty rumors about him." It was a rivalry, a give and take between the both of them. They were both assholes to each other, but clearly, despite the animosity, there was some deeper feeling (SJ being so affected after LQG's murder accusations and then later death). Again, agency is key here.

He's also completely unrepentant until the very end! He will never apologize ever, so no sudden "oh god, what have I done?" heel-turns for him, buddy. If it was that easy, then he wouldn't have gotten human sticked in the first place.

SJ is tragic and sympathetic. SJ is also an awful person and a complete asshole. He's allowed to be both, and both of these sides of him are what makes him an interesting and engaging character.

[p0orbaby]

All I Want for Christmas

summary: your daughter didn’t get the one present she really wanted

warnings: none !

a/n: thank you for the request, i hope you like it !

word count: 2.9k

-

You notice something’s off with Eliana two days after Christmas. At first, it’s subtle—an anomaly so slight it could almost be chalked up to post-holiday fatigue. Normally, mornings with Eliana are chaotic in a way that feels both exhausting and oddly necessary, as though the house depends on her noise to keep it from crumbling into silence. She bursts into the day like a firework: her small feet slapping against the wood floors, her hair a wild halo of dark curls, her voice ricocheting between pitches as she narrates her life in real time or belts out whatever song has recently embedded itself in her psyche.

Today, there’s none of that. She lingers in her pyjamas—a pair with faded unicorns that she refuses to let you throw away despite the fraying cuffs—long after breakfast. When you remind her to brush her teeth, she drags her feet, her movements lethargic in a way that feels rehearsed, like she’s trying to stretch each step into eternity. It’s the absence of urgency that unsettles you. Eliana thrives on urgency. She once cried because Alexia beat her to the front door when the postman rang.

But this morning, there’s no competition. No noise. No off-key rendition of Vampire by Olivia Rodrigo echoing from the bathroom as she “forgets” to spit out her toothpaste. You’re struck by how quiet the house feels. Not peaceful—just wrong.

By lunch, the feeling hardens into certainty. Eliana picks at her sandwich with the detached precision of someone performing a task they’ve been paid to complete. She peels the crust away slowly, meticulously, her small fingers working like a jeweller inspecting a flawed diamond. The crust sits in a neat pile beside her plate, untouched. So do the carrot sticks you’ve artfully arranged into a star shape—an attempt to disguise healthy food as something fun. Usually, she’d at least nibble on the points before declaring them “too crunchy.” Today, she doesn’t even bother with the charade.

And then there’s the Coke. You could write a thesis on Eliana’s Coke-stealing habits. How she waits, biding her time like a cat stalking prey, until you’re sufficiently distracted—mid-sentence, mid-bite, mid-thought. The moment your guard drops, she strikes: clutching the can with both hands, her face breaking into a grin so triumphant it’s impossible to be mad. You always let her have one sip, though you draw the line at more. She doesn’t push her luck; she knows where the boundary is and takes satisfaction in skirting it.

But today, the Coke sits untouched. You leave it on the table deliberately, watching her from the corner of your eye, waiting for the familiar rustle of movement. It doesn’t come. She doesn’t even glance at it.

Alexia notices it too. She’s standing at the kitchen sink, rinsing the cutting board she insists on hand-washing because the dishwasher “ruins the wood” (a claim you’ve never verified but don’t argue against). “She’s been quiet today,” Alexia murmurs, glancing towards the living room. Her tone is casual, but there’s an edge of concern beneath it.

You follow her gaze. Eliana is curled up on the sofa, her knees drawn to her chest, her chin resting on top of them. The TV plays some saccharine animated film about magical snowmen and plucky penguins—one of those films where everything sparkles unnaturally, and the characters blink too often. Normally, Eliana would be transfixed, laughing at all the wrong parts and narrating the plot aloud despite everyone already watching. But today, she’s motionless. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused, as though the screen is a window to a world she can’t quite enter.

“Maybe she’s tired,” you say, though you don’t believe it. Eliana doesn’t do tired. Even as a baby, she fought sleep like it was a personal enemy, crying herself hoarse rather than admit defeat. Sleep was a battle you rarely won outright; most nights, you settled for a stalemate.

Alexia doesn’t look convinced either. She dries her hands on a dishtowel, her brow furrowed. “I don’t know,” she says. “This isn’t like her”

It isn’t. And that terrifies you in a way you can’t fully articulate. You watch her from the kitchen doorway, your hand resting lightly on the frame, as though bracing yourself against an invisible weight. She looks small. Fragile. The kind of fragile that makes you want to wrap her in bubble wrap and keep her from the world.

But it’s not her size that unnerves you—it’s the silence. Eliana’s silence feels like an absence, like something crucial has been taken away without your permission. You can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong, though you don’t know what.

And that, more than anything, is what scares you.

-

You get your answer that evening, during bedtime. Eliana’s room is a testament to her devotion to pink—a monochromatic sanctuary where even the air seems tinged with a rosy hue. The walls are painted a soft blush, a decision you regretted halfway through applying the third coat but one you could never take back once she saw the finished product and declared it “princess perfect.” Her duvet cover is a riot of pastel stars, most faded from repeated wash cycles and the occasional chocolate milk spill. On her bedside table sits a lamp with a shade adorned with tiny ballerinas, their poses forever frozen mid-pirouette.

The bookshelves, crammed to the edges, are an organised chaos of her literary life. Picture books dominate the lower shelves—familiar titles with tattered spines that you could recite in your sleep (Guess How Much I Love You has practically become your mantra). Higher up, a collection of chapter books gathers dust, ambitious purchases she insisted on during a trip to the bookstore, her eyes wide with determination. She struggles with the longer words but refuses to ask for help, insisting on piecing together syllables with the kind of stubborn grit that feels both infuriating and endearing. She gets that from you.

You tuck her in with the practised efficiency of someone who has made a ritual out of bedtime. She clutches Mr Snuggles, a stuffed rabbit so battered it looks like it’s survived a war zone. He’s missing an eye, his fur matted beyond recognition, but to Eliana, he’s irreplaceable. You know this because you’ve tried to replace him—multiple times, in fact. You’ve scoured boutique toy stores, online shops, and even eBay, searching for a plush rabbit with vaguely similar dimensions. Each attempt has been met with disdain. “It’s not him,” she always says, clutching Mr Snuggles tighter as though you’d threatened to take him away permanently.

“You’ve been quiet today,” you say, brushing a strand of dark hair away from her face. Her hair has reached that awkward in-between length where it’s too long to leave unchecked but too short to do anything meaningful with. She hates the hairdressers, the stiff capes they drape over her, and the stylist’s endless chatter about her favourite Disney princess. You’ll have to bribe her with ice cream to get her there.

She doesn’t respond immediately. Her gaze drifts upwards, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as though it holds the answer to some unspoken question. Her fingers tighten around Mr Snuggles, her thumb absently stroking the spot where his eye used to be. Finally, she speaks.

“Santa didn’t bring me what I wanted”

Your stomach twists in the way it does when you know something is wrong, but you can’t yet identify what. “What do you mean?” you ask, keeping your tone light. “He brought you loads of things. That dollhouse you’ve been asking for since May, the colouring set with the glitter pens—”

“No,” she interrupts, her voice soft but resolute. “I wanted a sister”

You blink. “You wanted what?”

“A sister,” she repeats, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And he didn’t bring me one”

For a moment, you’re too stunned to respond. Your brain cycles through a series of fragmented thoughts: What? When? How? You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting Alexia to materialise in the doorway, her presence offering a lifeline. But the hallway is empty, save for the faint hum of the washing machine on its spin cycle. You’re on your own.

“When… when did you ask Santa for a sister?” you manage, your voice strained with the effort of keeping a straight face.

“At school,” she says matter-of-factly. “We wrote letters. Miss García said we could ask for anything we wanted”

“And you asked for a sister?”

She nods, her expression solemn in the way only a six-year-old can manage when they think they’ve been wronged.

“And you didn’t think to mention this to me? Or Mamá?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise”

You press your fingers to your temples, as if physically holding your head together will help you process what you’re hearing. A surprise. Of course. Eliana watches you with wide eyes, her expression expectant. It dawns on you that she’s waiting for an explanation.

“Well,” you begin, your words slow and deliberate, as though carefully navigating a minefield, “Santa doesn’t… bring people as presents”

“Why not?”

Because it’s illegal. Because Santa isn’t real. Because your wife and I can barely handle the one child we already have.

“Because,” you say instead, stalling, “that’s not how it works. Sisters are… different. You don’t get them from Santa”

Her brow furrows, and for a moment, she looks startlingly like Alexia—her small face drawn into a frown of concentration, as though dissecting your words for hidden meaning. “Then where do they come from?”

You pause, the weight of the question settling over you like a heavy blanket. There are a dozen ways you could answer this, most of them wildly inappropriate for a six-year-old. You settle on, “From Parents, sweetheart”

She considers this for a moment, her head tilting slightly to the side. “So can you and Mamá make me one?”

The question hangs in the air, absurd and sincere in equal measure. You feel a sudden, overwhelming urge to laugh. Or cry. Or both. “It’s not that simple, Eliana”

“Why not?”

Before you can answer, Alexia appears in the doorway, her hair pulled into a loose bun, her face flushed from the effort of folding laundry. She takes one look at your face, at the strained expression and the faint sheen of panic in your eyes, and bursts out laughing.

-

Later that night, after Eliana is finally asleep, you and Alexia sit in the living room, letting the weight of the day settle over you. The room is dim except for the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights, blinking lazily in alternating patterns. The air smells faintly of pine needles and the remnants of the vanilla candle Alexia lit hours ago but forgot to blow out. There’s an almost sacred stillness in the house, the kind that feels rare and precious when you have a six-year-old.

Alexia hands you a glass of wine, her fingers brushing yours for a moment longer than necessary. She sits beside you on the sofa, curling her legs beneath her and pulling a blanket over both of your laps. She’s wearing an oversized hoodie—yours, you think, judging by the way the sleeves swallow her hands—and a pair of faded joggers. Her hair is loose, falling in soft waves around her face, and there’s a faint smudge of mascara beneath one eye that she hasn’t bothered to wipe off.

She looks tired but beautiful, the kind of beauty that feels effortless and intimate, like a secret only you’re privy to. It makes your chest ache in a way you don’t entirely understand.

“So,” she says, breaking the silence, “our daughter asked Santa for a sister”

You exhale, shaking your head as you take a sip of wine. It’s red, something bold and expensive that Alexia brought home last week. She has a knack for choosing good wine, even though she always claims it’s pure luck. “She did”

“And she’s heartbroken Santa didn’t deliver,” Alexia adds, her tone half-amused, half-disbelieving.

“She is,” you say, setting your glass on the coffee table. The table itself is covered in the detritus of Christmas: an abandoned roll of wrapping paper, a pair of scissors, and the instructions for the dollhouse you spent three hours assembling on Christmas Eve while Alexia supervised with a glass of champagne in hand.

Alexia leans back, stretching her legs across your lap. Her socked feet are warm against your thigh, and she wiggles her toes absently as she looks at you. “What do you think?” she asks, her voice light, as if she’s testing the waters.

“About Eliana asking for a sister?”

“No,” she says, her lips twitching into a small smile. “About giving her one”

You laugh, a short, sharp sound that feels more defensive than amused. “You can’t be serious”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” you repeat, incredulous. “Because we barely survived the first time around. Do you not remember the colic? The sleepless nights? The time she screamed for three hours straight because she didn’t like the colour of her bib?”

Alexia tilts her head, as if genuinely considering your words. “She was a baby. That’s what babies do”

“Exactly. And you want to do it all over again?”

Her smile widens, and there’s a mischievous glint in her eyes now. “Maybe”

You groan, leaning your head back against the sofa. “You’re insane”

“I’m not,” she insists, nudging your thigh with her foot. “Think about it. Eliana’s older now. She’s more independent. She’s in school most of the day. We’re not in the trenches anymore”

“The trenches,” you mutter, reaching for your wine again.

Alexia shifts closer, her foot still resting against your thigh. “I loved it, you know. All of it. Even the hard parts”

“You loved it?”

“Yes,” she says firmly. “I loved being a mum to a newborn. Watching her grow, seeing all the little things she learned every day. It was… magical”

You glance at her, and the soft, wistful expression on her face makes something inside you twist.

“And you,” she continues, her voice lowering slightly, “you were amazing”

“Alexia,” you say, a hint of warning in your tone.

“I’m serious,” she says, her hand finding yours beneath the blanket. Her fingers are warm, her grip gentle but insistent. “You were. You still are. And when you were pregnant…”

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

She grins, her teeth catching the light. “You were insatiable”

“Oh, for God’s sake”

“It’s true,” she says, laughing now. “I could barely keep up with you”

“You managed,” you mutter, taking another sip of wine.

Her laughter fades into a softer, more thoughtful smile. “I’m just saying,” she says, her thumb brushing over the back of your hand, “I wouldn’t mind doing it all over again”

You study her, trying to discern if she’s really serious or just testing the waters. But there’s something in her eyes, a quiet certainty that unnerves you.

“You really want another baby,” you say, not quite a question.

She nods. “I do”

“And when were you planning on telling me this?”

She shrugs, looking faintly sheepish. “I don’t know. I guess I was waiting for the right moment”

“Like now? After our daughter guilt-tripped us with her Santa request?”

Alexia laughs, and the sound is warm and infectious. “Exactly”

You shake your head, but a small smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. “You’re unbelievable”

“I’m practical,” she counters. “Think about it. We can afford it. We have the space. The time. A great support system. Mami would love to help us out again”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want to tell her we’re thinking about having another baby? You know she’ll start knitting booties the second the words leave your mouth”

Alexia shrugs, unbothered. “Let her. Eliana would love matching booties for her and her sibling”

The image of Eliana holding a tiny, wriggling baby flashes in your mind, unbidden. It’s too cute, too perfect, and you push it away before it can take root.

“It’s not just about logistics,” you say quietly.

“I know,” Alexia says, her voice softening. “But we’ve done this before. We know what to expect now. And we’re not the same people we were back then. We’re stronger. Better”

You glance at her, at the quiet confidence in her expression, and feel a pang of guilt for doubting her. She’s right, of course. You’ve come so far since those early days with Eliana. But still, the thought of starting over feels overwhelming.

“I don’t know,” you say finally. “It’s a lot to think about”

Alexia nods, her thumb still tracing slow circles on the back of your hand. “I’m not asking for a decision tonight. Just… think about it”

You nod, letting your head rest against her shoulder. The wineglass dangles from your fingers, forgotten. The weight of her hand on yours, the steady rise and fall of her breath, grounds you.

For a moment, the two of you sit in silence, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Then Alexia speaks again, her voice so soft you almost don’t hear her.

“She’d be a great big sister,” she says. “Don’t you think?”

You close your eyes, letting the words settle over you. In your mind’s eye, you see Eliana again, her wide, hopeful eyes as she clutched Mr Snuggles to her chest. You see her laughing, running through the park with a smaller version of herself trailing behind her.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “She would”

[tookishcombeferre]

Even as an adult, I quite like them. They're good for thinking about heavy political and psychological topics in an accessible, and almost guided, way. I find that if a book is well written that it has something to say across generations. As an adult, I often find myself thinking about characters like Haymitch, Cinna, Katniss' mother, and other adult characters, and those characters make me question: what makes a Cinna vs. a Haymitch vs. Katniss' mother? What allows Haymitch to, eventually, pull himself off his butt to get Katniss sponsors after he has failed so many times as opposed to Katniss mother who literally cannot pull herself out of her depression? Where does he find the strength? What gives someone strength where other people can't find it? Is it innate? Is it learned? Is it situational? What made Cinna decide to rebel? Why did he decide to leave behind his privileged Capitol life for something more dangerous? Why sacrifice stability? And, I think that's where well written books can grow with their audience. When you have well written and compelling minor characters, you have the opportunity for deeper analysis into the wider universe which makes for good adult reading. Collins has this. Her character building is very compelling even into her very minor characters, and that sets up a pretty interesting universe. (At least, in my opinion.) Now, do I think it's perfect? No. I'm not an uncritical worshiper. But, do I think it's worth it for adults and young people both to read? Heck yes! My personal pet peeve about people judging The Hunger Games, is that they often pit it against other dystopian novels like 1984. You can't do that. It's written in a different genre, at a COMPLETELY different time, for a different purpose. Pitting a YA novel that is teaching politics, through dystopia, to younger people against a dystopian novel written for adults as political commentary is like comparing brownies to one of those chocolate protein smoothies. They might both have chocolate in them as a main ingredient but cold day in hell the texture or foundation is the same. And, both a part of a balanced adult "reading diet." You can't just be reading 1984, Dostoevsky novels, War and Peace, and like ... I dunno ... what else is long, really dense, and depressing, but good? ... Silence? Yeah. We'll go with Silence by Shūsaku Endō. As an adult, you have to "read your brownies" too. Because, sometimes? You learn a lot from a good brownie. TL; DR: The Hunger Games is INCREDIBLE at what it does. It absolutely deserves a place in the dystopian canon. It's a phenomenal series for young people with incredibly compelling characters that teach some great beginning dystopian lessons both politically and psychologically, and I think it can have some interesting things for adults to learn as well.

eagerly awaiting the reveal of what political science 101 concept is she going to stop the plot to teach middle schoolers about. we got bread and circuses we got the extended work on thomas hobbes my money is on haymitch starting this book as an objectivist and having to unlearn that in the face of true struggle

[nqueso-emergency]

i seriously don’t understand what bucktommy shippers see in tommy though. genuinely. he starts the show as a racist misogynist and is reintroduced as somebody who has literally 0 defining character traits. he treated buck like a child. he didn’t know or care about the people in buck’s life or buck’s interests. you all claim that he’s had character growth since s2 but we never saw any evidence of that so why should we believe he’s changed? like i’m not even trying to hate here and i really don’t gaf about buddie, but seriously why are you guys so obsessed with tommy 😭

What I don't understand is why some people, like you, anon, put the entire "racist and misogynistic" atmosphere of the 118 under Gerrard completely on Tommy.

Yeah. He makes a racist joke towards Chim when he firsts comes into the 118 but no one stands up against it. In fact, people smirk at it. Even Eli. Eli explains the reason the 118 keeps Chim at arms length. I really wish people would actually watch the episode.

And if you want to get technical, we do see growth in Hen begins (time wise, Chim begins is first. Not Hen's) and when Hen shows up, Tommy is much more accepting of new people. In fact, he's interested in Hen until Gerrard opens his mouth, each time ultimately using his authority to intimidate and I know people hate this accusation but Chim never stands up for Hen in front of Gerrard or the others either.

And that's because they all know how difficult it is working under Gerrard.

By Bobby begins, it's clear that Tommy, Sal, Hen, and Chim all get along. And honestly by saying he's had no growth is an insult to both Hen and Chim's judge of character. Do you think they would willingly hang out with someone outside of work who they felt was actually racist and misogynistic?? Hell no. Didn't you watch the stuff with Jonah?? Hen hated him.

As for having no defining character traits, you're very wrong. Tommy shows up. For friends, for the wedding date, for coffee after the disaster date. He includes Eddie in a lot of his interests. He showed up at the hospital for Buck when he got hurt. He never told Buck he was stupid for believing in the curse and he wasn't embarrassed to be in public with Buck covered in boils. He stayed the night with Buck, sleeping on a tiny ass couch just to be near him. He also attended a funeral for a mummified cowboy and even dressed up.

All those things cover the shit you've said that Tommy doesn't do.

He does care for Buck's interests. He does care for the people in Buck's life. He went to a fucking zoom birthday party for Christopher ffs.

Not to mention, Tommy has acknowledged multiple times that he wasn't a good person back then. He even broke up with Buck even though he was clearly falling for Buck (and I believe already has).

Saying you don't care about buddie doesn't give you the right to say you don't see something that others do.

I don't see buddie happening. Never have. But people can still ship them. That's not a problem, and honestly, I'd never ask someone in fandom WHY they like a character or a ship or even a trope.

The issue is when people are obsessed with a character they don't like. That is where we are in the 911 fandom and it's why there's so much hate.

So. Perhaps. You should send this ask to a buddie bnf and ask them why they're so obsessed with Tommy. Especially now that he's broken up with Buck.

[northboreas]

I cannot understate how clever and beautiful Penelope's response to wyfilwma is. In the original myth, Penelope literally isn't sure if the man before her is truly her husband, so she asks him to move a bed that is impossible to move. A fact about their relationship that only he could know. When he gets absolutely flabbergasted over this request, it's proof that it IS him.

In Epic there is only one change. Instead of Penelope being unsure, Odysseus is unsure of himself and feels like he would be unrecognizable to his wife. He keeps telling her over and over again, I am not the man you knew, and it's almost as though he's trying to convince himself, too. Like since he crossed every line he's killed all the gentleness in him, and he has to force himself to accept it. Penelope knows better, Penelope knows him. Instead of using their wedding bed as a way to prove it to herself, she proves it to him instead.

"See that wedding bed? Could you carry it over?

Lift it high on your shoulders and take it far away from here"

Shes talking about their bed but she is also talking about their love, their history, everything that makes up their marriage. Its like shes asking him, if you truly are someone else- here's everything that we used to be, everything that we built together, throw it out. You're not the same, right? Then surely you can detach yourself from it all.

But he cant. he cant he cant he cant and she knows that. The shock and the outrage and the pain of being asked to do such a thing hits him with a full force and he talks of how he made the bed, what its meant to them, why he couldnt possibly move it away.

"Do you realize what you have asked me?

The only way to move it is to cut it from its roots"

To cut it from the roots would be to sever their love entirely, it cant exist without what came before and what came before was the two of them. He fears thats what she wants, a completely uproot of their life together. But the fact that he fears it, truly deeply cares like a sentimental bastard, the fact that he could never not be the man who loves her is what she's been trying to show him all along.

"Only my husband knew that

So I guess that makes him you"

like my GOD. THIS LINE. He cannot be anything but her love because he is the only man who knows what they are to each other. She says it and that is final. Moving it is impossible because seperating the man he used to be from the man he is is impossible too. They are one in the same.

"I will fall in love with you over and over again

I don't care how, where, or when

No matter how long it's been, you're mine

Don't tell me you're not the same person

You're always my husband and I've been waiting, waiting"

She is not loving him by ignoring the trail of bodies in his wake and her love does not change the carnage-- in fact she is the reason for it, she knows this and she doesnt care. This is her husband now and always. And as long as bloodied hands will still hold her weaving ones he is the same exact man she's been waiting for.

It is such a beautiful message to leave your audience with. It is so perfect for Penelope as a character and the emotional weight this song has elevated my understanding of the odyssey and their relationship. Twenty years is so long, everything has changed, we have done unforgivable things to get home to each other-- because our home is each other. You are sharp and cruel and I am cunning and so so angry and we are both so tired but guess fucking what, I love you. No matter how long its been, youre mine.

[addledmongoose]

Best of 2024 Good Omens Fanfiction

Welcome to my list of the best Good Omens fanfiction I’ve read in 2024! These are my favorites of all the novels, short stories, and series I’ve read this year, and they’re the ones I have or am most likely to read more than once. There’s so much amazing talent in the Good Omens fandom, and I will never be able to read every great story, but I’m happy to have found these fantastic works. (FYI, I added up the word counts of all the stories on this list, and it’s over three million!)

First of all, if you haven’t read the stories on my 2023 Best Of list, be sure to check out the amazing works there. There are a lot of older classics, like Or Be Nice, Slow Show, and Pray For Us, Icarus and some stories written after season two released, like Factory Setting and Married At First Sight. 

Secondly, here is the entire list of every recommendation I’ve made in 2024. There are far more great stories than can fit in a single year-end list. I’ll be unpinning that list and pinning up a new one next year.

Last year, I was able to split my list up more evenly into canon adjacent/compliant and human AU. This year, I read a wider variety of stories, many of them quite long, and more series. I’m splitting the list into three categories: canon, human AU, and non-human AU. There's no order or ranking to the list; they were mostly just added as I read them.

There are also no WIPs here; all of the stories are complete. The series are also complete at the time of this list or are a series of standalone shorts that don't need to be read in order. My preferences lean toward funnier, lighter stories and are often heavy on plot. If you’re looking for dark stories with a lot of angst, you won’t find as many here as other blogs might recommend. It’s not that some of these don’t have dark, sad moments or moments of angst, but Aziraphale and Crowley must have a happy ending, and I prefer stories that don’t make me cry or cause a lot of stress.

If you like these stories, don’t forget to leave kudos and comments for the authors! 

If you hit that "Keep reading" button, strap in! This is a very, very long post.

Canon

They’re still angel and demon. I’m counting Reverse Omens in this category.

The Seventh Prince of Hell (56K; Rated M) by @evilasiangenius

Reverse Omens. This is actually part of a series, but I’ve only read the first book, so I’m not listing it as a series. Aziraphale is the Seventh Prince of Hell. His animal aspect is the octopus. Crowley is an ordinary angel. Both are assigned to Earth. They have adventures!

Genesis 3:(-7)-5.5 -7   And they assembled all the Lords, the Princes of Hell into a congregation together sometime after the seventh day, but not on a day of rest because even the Dark Council has a day off. -6  When it came to pass that all grew weary of the powerful pointing presentations, Lord Beelzebub spake with a loud voice, saying unto them, One of uzz brotherzz muzzt go to Earth as Hell’s Represzentative and thwart the doings of Heaven; there izz no choice now that the Almighty has created humanzz. Who amongzt uzz shall take up the project? It comezz with a great deal of extra paperwork, much travel, and no overtime pay. And we shall not reimbursze anything and there shall be no per diem. [...] -3  And of the seven Princes of Hell, three stepped forward, and only three; not two nor five, which are the other prime numbers near three and definitely not one, which is not a prime at all but the unit. The first was the Second Prince, who is called Asmodeus and is a demon of lust. The second was the Seventh Prince, who is called Aziraphale and is a demon of collecting stuff. And the third was the Fourth Prince, who is not worth talking about because they only appear in this one scene and for no other reason than to have three characters. I think that Prince is the demon of executive dysfunction or erectile dysfunction or something like that. Maybe both.

***

Nice And Ominous: a reluctant eschatology of the Second Attempt (series) (117K; Rated T/E) by @e-rated-beardo

A three-part, post-s2 series with gorgeous art by the author. Part I is Crowley’s POV as he deals with the loss of his angel. Part II is from Aziraphale’s POV as he tries to stop the Second Coming and deal with the loss of his demon. Part III is the thrilling finale (and the happy ending). Expect a lot of angst but great characters and plot.

It was a shit day. All the days had been shit, and there had been rather a shitload of them so far. Tucked away in a disused corner of a car park in a retail park in Croydon, a lanky man cracked his eyes open and scowled out the side window of his car. There were raindrops hitting the glass and clouds massing towards the eastern horizon suggested a storm was on its way. He had slept uncomfortably across the front seats for a good amount of time (it didn’t much matter what exact amount), and despite the car being a vintage and exceptionally attractive specimen, nobody had paid it much mind—and the few people who had had the idea to come over and have a look at the ostensibly abandoned vehicle had all suddenly realised how much they actually needed to go buy a sofa or something at that Ikea over there, right about now, in fact. Untangling his various limbs, the man in the car—who wasn’t exactly a man, as such, but close enough for government work—reluctantly sat up, his boot brushing against one of the empty bottles on the floor. He had neglected to sober up before going to sleep.

***

Too Hot for Heavenly Handling (2.4K; Rated E) by @hollybennett123

Crowley says yes to returning to Heaven. The two enjoy three fornication-fueled weeks before they’re hauled before the Metatron and the other archangels for a disciplinary hearing. Rating-aside, there’s not any actual sex in this story. It’s implicit; not explicit.

I’ve read this story more times than I can count (ok, it’s seven). I nearly choked the first time I read it, because I was laughing so hard. Every sentence is a gem. The timing of the jokes is impeccable. There’s not a single bad line in this entire piece. 

“No angel shall pretend to be of a lower status than their actual ranking,” Aziraphale reads aloud. “What does that have to do with — ohhh,” he says, wide-eyed, remembering their ongoing little roleplay. Crowley, an angel of the lowest ranking in their little game, seeking favour from an Archangel; offering to service him in secret so he might earn a series of Heavenly promotions. It had been jolly good fun, actually. “Misuse of Heavenly furniture,” the Metatron continues. “One count. Again, the actual number is unknown. Quite frankly, no one here is willing to research it further to gather any more evidence than the minimum required to bring you before this Council.” Looking back, Aziraphale’s desk has seen quite a bit of action in recent weeks. And the chair. The walls, too, if they count.

***

Aziraphale’s Diaries (series) (11K; Rated T) by @fellshish

A series of standalone fics written as Aziraphale’s diary entries. They don’t need to be read in any order. All of them are fantastic, but I probably laughed the hardest at “Adventures of a mystery shopper in the bookshop.” Aziraphale decides Crowley must be bored after the Nomageddon and in need of work and decides to “let” him take care of his bookshop while he’s away, but then he worries the demon might sell some of his books.

29 August 2018 I’ve informed Crowley I’ll be going away for about three weeks, to perform an exciting and complicated blessing abroad. In reality, I’ve booked the Ritz for myself, where I’ll be forced to act human and eat breakfasts, lunches and dinners. Anything to keep a close eye on Crowley!   30th August 2018 It’s my first day away. I decided to go by the bookshop in an “old and confused man disguise” so I could look through the window. I was just in time (a three hour window between lunch and afternoon tea at the Ritz) to see him read the letter I’d posted a few days ago so it would arrive just as I’d left.  It was cleverly addressed “To the owner or the current guardian of this bookshop”. I used all my knowledge of humans, gathered via the cleverest of ways (a lot of reading), to write it. 

***

A Special Place In Hell (50K; Rated T) by @hotcrosspigeon and @mirach

When Adam shifted reality and caused Satan to disappear, the nearest supernatural entity became the new King of Hell. As it so happened, a certain angel was standing just a little closer than his demon.

Aziraphale, while not Falling, becomes the new ruler of Hell and must navigate Hellish politics, find a role for the love of his life, and maybe bring some proper tea time to the infernal realm. I stumbled upon this story purely by accident one night, and it was a pure joy to read. It’s one of those stories I wish was a series, because I could read so much more in this world.

"Hello, Crowley, my dear fellow. I would like to discuss a certain issue with you. You see, I somehow got into a very peculiar predicament..." Aziraphale sighed in frustration, pacing in his bookshop. "No no no, that sounds like I got my hand stuck in the sweets vending machine again." He cleared his throat. "Hey Crowley, what's up? Better sit down because I have some news to tell you... And by some news I mean... errr..." The angel groaned. "Oh Heavens, there's just no proper way to say this. Ugh, come on, Aziraphale, buck up! You just need to get to the point, that's all. Say the things as they are. No going in circles around the matter. Nice and accurate, right. Just tell him..." He turned at the sound of the bookshop doorbell. "Hello Crowley! Nice weather, isn't it?" "Wha..?" Crowley raised an incredulous eyebrow over the top of his sunglasses, a drop of water running along the edge of his nose. His red hair was plastered to his forehead. He turned to look out the window, jerking a thumb at the onslaught of vicious hail and rain that pelted the glass and plinked against the pane. "Oh, ha ha , very funny. It's bloody bucketing down, angel! I legged it in here before I got clonked on the head with a hailstone the size of my fist." He stopped and frowned at the angel in concern. "Er... you all right? You're looking a bit peaky."

***

Flowers From Hell (42K; Rated T) by @entanglednow

Crowley creates a hybrid demon flower that turns out to be a little more than he intended. This was such a sweet, beautiful story of found family and love, and you’ll absolutely fall in love with Ivy and want to do everything to protect him.

There's a low, quiet rustle from the atrium, where Crowley keeps his finest plants. The beautiful and often terrified rows of them are always so tall and glossy, and fantastically well maintained. Aziraphale regrets that he hadn't taken more of an interest in Crowley's hobbies. It wouldn't have been too difficult, he imagines, to seek out rare specimens to offer the demon. When he's been given so many long sought after volumes, and unpublished manuscripts in turn. Perhaps he could encourage Crowley to open up more, with a few well thought out questions pertaining to his plants, and their various needs. He knows Crowley has been absorbed in a special project recently, he'll make a point to ask about it today. Aziraphale heads into the stretch of greenery, following the tap of feet on tiles, and the quiet swish of foliage. He catches a flash of red hair at the end of the room, behind a messy spray of deep green leaves, then another flash, of what might be the long, pale curve of a shoulder. "Crowley?" The whole room smells damp, thick with fresh soil and crushed plant matter, and it grows stronger the deeper in Aziraphale ventures. He's sure the room wasn't quite so large before, it's clearly been expanded since he visited last, a deep bed of soil is now packed at the back of the room. "Crowley." Aziraphale eases a large spray of damp leaves aside. "I hope I'm not too early, I was -" Crowley is standing by the far wall, carefully touching the valley in the middle of a large leaf with curious, repetitive motions. He's also quite naked. It's - it's unexpected to say the least.

***

Time Marches Forward (129K; Rated M) by @bellisima-writes

While Aziraphale is in Heaven trying to thwart the Second Coming, Crowley is trying to help a frightened 15-year-old Adam learn to deal with his powers. I consider this the definitive S3 (even having written a post-S2 myself), regardless of what the upcoming finale gives us. Every character is wonderfully fleshed out. The plot is intriguing. I read it as fast as humanly possible, barely stopping to do anything else.

Crowley felt the air in the Bentley shift slightly. “What are you doing here?” Crowley jumped in shock, hitting his head on the roof of the Bentley so hard his sunglasses fell off. Adam was suddenly in the passenger seat, studying him cautiously. “Hey! You can’t just come into my car, uninvited,” Crowley hissed, grabbing his glasses and placing them back on his face. He realized he was still slouching, making Adam appear much bigger than he was. He sat up straight and crossed his arms in an attempt to look more intimidating and less drunk. He wondered if it was wise to try and glower at the Antichrist. “He can, actually,” Pepper said from the back seat. Crowley turned and snarled as he noted the three other teenagers in his car. Wensleydale and Brian sat beside her. “He can do anything.” “Yeah well, that may be so but that doesn’t make it right. Just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should,” he looked Adam directly in the eyes as he said this, assuming no one else around him would ever be so blunt. “What are you doing lurking around my house?” Adam asked again plainly. Crowley’s glowering was not working. “Ngk. I didn’t come to see you, if that’s what you're asking. I’m as shocked as you are to find myself here. I was asleep for a few days. The bloody car did it; blame it for the lurking”

***

The Last Angel (162K; Rated E) by @bellisima-writes

Crowley's been Hell's Grand Inquisitor for millennia now. Ever since the Apocalypse, he's managed to carve out a relatively cushy life for himself. Hell won the War, Angels were essentially eradicated and all human souls were Satan's. Everything was fine. Until one day he hears a rumor that the Last Angel in the universe was finally captured. Until Beelzebub is suddenly ordering him to get information from said Angel, information that's critical for Hell's survival. Until the moment he first locks eyes with the last Angel, and everything he's ever known starts to crumble around him.

I can’t come up with a better description than the summary. Much like the author’s previous work, Time Marches Forward, this is plot-heavy, exciting, action-packed, and gorgeous. The characters are detailed and realistic. The plot sings. And you won’t see the surprise until it’s already there.

“What kinds of rumors?” he asked, shifting in his seat to properly face Eric. Words were one thing, but body language was another. As Grand Inquisitor, Crowley learned early on to weigh both when evaluating information shared by a source whose reliability was questionable. Eric was a nice kid, sure. But their reliability would definitely be categorized as questionable . Eric’s mood shifted as they glanced around the corridor. Crowley hadn’t realized how quiet the cells had gotten. The bloody humans were eavesdropping again. He dug deep and pulled up a hiss so loud and laced with demonic power that it rattled every cell door in the entire block. Eric motioned with their hand for Crowley to follow them into a corner and out of earshot of everyone else. As Crowley pulled himself up and started walking he sent searing looks down each row of cells around him. They were all going to have a talk about this later. “What?” he asked when he got close enough to Eric. Still eyeing the cells behind them, Eric leaned in closer and whispered, “Hastur finally found him."

Crowley shook his head. Eric’s shiftiness was starting to annoy him. “Found who?” “The one who killed Ligur. Crowley, Hastur’s finally captured the last Angel.”

***

Kidnapping A Supreme Archangel For Fun And Profit (series) (31K; Rated T) by @waitingtobebroken

Mostly outsider POV. Four short stories told mostly from the points of view of Agiel, the Supreme Archangel’s assistant, and Kric (Eric with a K), the Grand Duke’s assistant as they try to figure out why the Supreme Archangel is so unworried about all the times he’s getting himself kidnapped by the Grand Duke. In the meantime, the two assistants find that maybe they have more in common than they would have expected, being hereditary enemies and all.

Being Lord Beelzebub's demonic assistant had been easier than overseeing the third circle of Hell. Just stay out of the way, don't make eye contact, not that Kric could, having been blessed with a distinct lack of eyes, and do not talk to the Prince of Hell, unless it was a 'Yes, Your Highness' or... No, that was pretty much it. You did not go around saying "No" to Lord Beelzebub. And of course, just as they had finally grown comfortable in their position, had even found the perfect time to ask for an assistant of their own... There had been a change in leadership. And Kric had found themself serving Crowley. The Original Tempter, the Snake of Eden, the Earth Walker. Kric was not impressed. Flash bastard. And suddenly, they were expected to be in the throne room at all times. To answer when addressed. Proper, actual answer. None of that automatic 'Yes, your Highness' they were so used to. The first time His Rottenness had held up two sashes, before the monthly meeting between Heaven and Hell and had asked which one made his scales look more iridescent and Kric had answered in the only way they knew how... Well, let's just say that hadn't gone well. They had been sent to something called Fashion Week. To better their understanding of clothes and colour theory, something they could sense had been invented by a fellow demon. Lord Crowley, most probably, judging by the way His Wickedness had grinned when he had told them that.

*****

Human AU

Fully human characters. No supernatural/magical elements.

Waking Up Slow (88K; Rated E) by @themoonmothwrites

After both being exposed to covid, strangers Crowley and Aziraphale wait out their isolation together (there’s only one bed!) at a cottage by the sea. This is complete cosycore fluff with just a touch of angst (and a happy ending) near the end. This gorgeous story has stuck with me for so long. If you want something that’s just plain pleasurable to read, this is it.

“Lovely view.” The voice was low, with the slightest hint of gravel, and right next to Aziraphale’s ear. He made an undignified noise and spun round in fright. “Where the devil did you-?” he started, high-voiced, before his foot caught on a stone and he lost his balance. The stranger was standing so close that Aziraphale toppled right into him, and the pair of them went down together in a tangle of knees and a solid thunk to the forehead. “Ow,” the man said, squinting up at Aziraphale, gaze unfocused, before his eyes fell closed. “Oh no!” Aziraphale breathed. “Oh dear. What do I-?” He’d left his blasted phone at the cottage, now of all times when he actually needed it! With an unconscious man lying before him! And it was all Aziraphale’s doing! “I can-- I can-- I know what to do!” he told himself, attempting belatedly not to panic. The best thing to do was not to think too hard. Tipping up the stranger’s chin, Aziraphale pinched his nose and lowered his face until his mouth closed over the other man’s.

***

The Prince’s Consort (142K; Rated E) by @ineffable-toreshi

Aziraphale is the crown prince of a fictional nation. Crowley is a Lily, trained in one of Lucien’s brothels and kept a virgin for the eventual sale to a wealthy master. Against the brothel owner’s wishes, Crowley is purchased by the prince’s adviser, Gabriel, as a companion for Prince Aziraphale. Aziraphale didn’t want a purchased mate, however, and decides to court his new consort the old-fashioned way. 

The description makes this sound like a darker story than it is; it’s actually a really sweet story with only one bad guy (and it’s not Gabriel).

I wrote a much longer review here if you’d like more details.

“I...I was just wondering, my Lord,” Anthony said, nervously nibbling on his lip and twisting his fingers in his lap. “Why did you choose me ?” Gabriel cocked his head to the side. He leaned back, reclining with his arms thrown up over the edges of the bench, and seemed to think about the question. By the time he finally opened his mouth to answer, Anthony was practically vibrating with curiosity.  “There were a few factors,” he explained thoughtfully. “I’ll admit that your appearance was the first and foremost. I prefer women, myself, but I know beauty in a man when I see it. And I’ve seen the types who’ve caught the prince’s eye over the years. I’m quite confident that he will find you more than pleasing, from an aesthetic standpoint.”

***

Keep Digging (7K; Rated T) by Appleseeds

After panicking and losing his nerve trying to ask out Aziraphale, the co-worker Crowley has an enormous crush on, he tells a little white lie that ends up completely spiralling out of control since he can't seem to stop digging himself into a deeper and deeper hole. Now he's obtained plans to help him break into a school, inadvertently funded the purchase of explosives, and, knowing his luck, the fake blood will end up permanently staining the tiles. Who knows though, maybe in the end, it'll all turn out to be worth it.

Another one of those stories that are so funny tears stream down my face every time. Even going back through it to find an excerpt had me choking down laughter.

“I actually used to be a music tutor. That was one of the little jokes I liked to tell.” Aziraphale giggled again. Nhhhhh. “Wish you could tutor me…” Crowley muttered under his breath. “Oh! Are you wanting to learn to play a musical instrument?” Aziraphale asked brightly. Crowley’s eyes widened. He wasn’t supposed to hear that. Of course, he wouldn’t have heard it if Crowley had just kept his big mouth shut. “Um. Yeah.” “Wonderful! Which one?” FUCK. How the hell was Crowley supposed to answer that? Whatever he said, he might end up having to get one of said instrument, and he didn’t know much, but he knew musical instruments could be incredibly expensive. There must be something that would be cheap enough to procure if needs be, right? And with that thought, Crowley responded. “The triangle.” Oh Jesus Christ.

***

Temple of the Muses (241K; Rated E) by @ajconstantine

It’s the start of the Season in 1841 Victorian England. Mr Anthony Crowley has left a life of working at a luxurious high end bordello in Paris behind him and is now a courtesan intent on climbing the social ladder in London to increase his status and social connections. After unexpectedly inheriting the title of the Earl of Eastgate, Aziraphale finds himself trying to navigate the complicated world of the aristocracy. Duke Gabriel purchases a month-long contract with Mr Crowley for Lord Fell as a surprise gift to Aziraphale’s astonishment and dismay. He declines to take full advantage of Crowley’s charms but agrees to an arrangement of pretending to be Crowley’s paramour in exchange for lessons on the etiquette and expectations of Society. It’s a practical arrangement, nothing more. Certainly no feelings will be involved...

One of the best, most well-researched stories I’ve read. The historical elements are fascinating, and the world-building is top notch. Set in an alternate 1841 where there’s no stigma on same sex relationships, but same sex marriage is still not allowed. The story alternates between the present time, with Aziraphale and Crowley navigating their growing relationship, and Crowley’s time being trained at one of the most elite bordellos of Paris.

Crowley has a lot of autonomy in this story. He actively chose to become a sex worker. Once he leaves the bordello and becomes a courtesan, he can refuse to sign with a client. And while there are consequences for breaking a contract, a courtesan can walk away from a troublesome client.

“Exactly what position do you think I was hired for?” Crowley interrupted, pulling the shoulder of his robe back up. The Earl looked at him as if he’d asked a ridiculous question. “Valet, of course.” Crowley barked out a disbelieving laugh. “Duke Haven didn’t tell you about me?” The Earl pursed his lips, tilting his head in puzzlement. “Not you precisely. I was at his house last week, and he chastised me when I mentioned that I didn’t have a valet, insisting I needed one even though…” His eyes widened. “Oh no. What… what did you think you were being hired for?” Struck by the absurdity of it all, Crowley fought the strong urge to laugh outright. Instead, he gave the Earl a roguish grin and bowed with a flourish.  “Mr Anthony Crowley, at your service, sir. Duke Haven procured a contract for me to be your... courtesan.” Lord Fell's mouth dropped open as he gaped at him in apparent shock. “You— I—” He floundered, at a loss for words as he looked away from Crowley. His eyes landed on the bed. To Crowley’s growing amusement, the Early actually blushed, red staining his cheeks as he swiftly averted his gaze.  

***

#RAINBOWROAD (series) (407K; Rated T/E) by @nieded

If you haven’t heard of this one yet, you’re one of today’s lucky 10,000. This is one of the best, most well-written human AUs that anyone has produced for Good Omens (or really, of any romance). It’s a three-book, three-short series set in the world of Formula 1 racing. You heard that right. You don’t need to know anything about F1 racing. You don’t even need to like F1 racing. You just need to want to read one of the best romances ever written to enjoy this series.

Ezira Phale is a rookie F1 driver. AJ Crowley is an F1 veteran and an idol of the 25-year-old racer. Everything changes when Ezira meets and falls in love with Crowley, and the older driver (by about 10 years; there’s not a massive age difference here) seems to return his feelings. I wrote a very long review of the series here, so I won’t go into a ton of detail again except to say, if you love human AU, this should be on your list. The author adds notes at the end of the chapters explaining some of the more technical aspects of the sport, or talking about some of the real racers, and it’s fascinating. 

Ezira makes his escape from the after-party after stealing a handful of fig tartlets from the hors d’oeuvres table. He ducks out the service exit before looping back to the front of the hotel. God, he wants to sleep off his tipsiness. It’s significantly cooler at night, and he wraps his arms around his shoulders before slipping inside, making a dash for the elevator. Punching his floor number, he leans against the wall and closes his eyes, waiting to be taken to his floor. Then the elevator jerks as someone jabs their hand between the sliding doors, forcing it back open. Ezira lifts his head and glares at the newcomer before his eyes widen, flushing when he recognizes the red hair and black Renault polo. AJ Crowley throws himself into the opposite corner of the elevator and pulls the brim of his hat down. He turns to look at Ezira from under his cap. "Tough luck out there today, huh?" he asks. Ezira frowns and blinks. And because he’s a little drunk and high on adrenaline, he says, "Didn’t you place seventh? I thought that was fucking brilliant." This earns him a snort, and then a bit of stifled laughter. "You can’t say fuck." "You say fuck in almost every interview you do." Not that Ezira has watched every single post-debrief involving AJ Crowley. This makes Crowley laugh harder, and he wipes at his eyes. "You just look like you should be in a painting or something. You’re like a Hummel." Flabbergasted, Ezira stares. His cheeks grow hot when he realizes AJ Crowley is taking the piss. "I don’t even know what that means." Crowley wipes his eye with the back of his hand and then presses his lips together in a feeble attempt to hold back another fit of laughter. "I’m sorry. I’m just very, very drunk, and was not expecting you to say ‘fuck.’ You look like those cherubs from Italy."

***

Lunacy (57K; Rated E) by @snae-b

@snae-b writes some of the best sci-fi GO stories you’ll ever read. This is hardly the only great story of theirs I’ve recommended; it just happens to be my personal favorite. Crowley is the crew chief of a mining operation on one of Pluto’s tiny moons. Aziraphale is a geologist there to study the structural integrity of the moon. But something seems to be alive, something that shouldn’t be there. This is pure psychological horror, the kind of story where you’re never quite sure what’s real and what’s a hallucination. You’ll find definitely NSFW artwork throughout, so take note not to read it around people you wouldn’t want seeing porn on your screen.

Crowley zones out as they continue their conversation. Things had been weird in the mine today. For the past month really. Tech malfunctioning. Batteries draining when they should have been able to hold a charge for days. Half the lights were on the fritz. As if it weren't dark enough in there already. He'd had to trek nearly a mile into Sheol with only the lights on his helmet to repair them. And his crew had their hands full with extraction, so he’d had to do it alone. The darkness really starts to play tricks on you in there. He spent as much time looking over his shoulder as he did working on the lights. Kept thinking that he was seeing something. Something hiding in the shadows. Something that lived in his peripheral vision. As he tugs a beanie on over his head there’s a light rapping on the wall and everyone glances up to the figure in the doorway. “Excuse me, Mr. Crowley. If you have time in your schedule, I really need to discuss the most recent surface scans with you. Could you come by my quarters before dinner?” Crowley sighs as he snaps on his mag boots. “Yeah. Sure thing doc. I’ll be by in thirty.” The scientist only nods before he disappears down the hall. Dr. Aziraphale Fell. He doesn’t wear the standard issue jumpsuits. He wears thick sweaters and wool trousers that look ridiculous with his mag boots. And when he isn’t wearing them, he can hardly get around. Bumps into everything and everyone. He’s never been off planet before and it shows.

***

Miracles on Ice (131K; Rated E) by @henriettarhippo

It’s the “Blades of Glory” AU you never knew you wanted. Crowley and Aziraphale are men’s figure skaters who get banned from the sport after a fight on the podium. Years later, Aziraphale’s coach, Gabriel, suggests the two of them team up to compete in the Olympic’s pairs event. Only problem is, the two skaters hate each other. 

This is very much an enemies-to-lovers story, and Gabriel as their coach and sponsor is the perfect combination of asshole and good guy. He genuinely does care for his two skaters, and he’s generous with his money, but he also has that rich guy attitude of being used to getting what he wants, and he’s not afraid to tell them to stop being dumbasses either.

“Hey angel, was that your routine? Because it looked to me like a lot of swanning about on the ice with a few pirouettes thrown in.” The mocking drawl came from the figure making his way towards Aziraphale on a pair of sharp blades. Clad in skintight black velvet trousers and a black turtleneck adorned with glittering red crystals—to match the striking red curls that stopped at his shoulders—Aziraphale’s skating rival Crowley beamed down at him with a malicious grin. “Also, you’re a bit late. They handed out the women’s medals earlier today.” He pulled down the dark shades he always wore to give Aziraphale a wink. Aziraphale bristled and sat up straighter. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. That was textbook precision, and I think you’ll find it was the same scores I beat you with last year in Oslo.” “The hotel had a free bar I don’t even remember Oslo,” Crowley said dismissively as he approached the entrance to the rink. He turned back and gave Aziraphale a grin. “But I do remember Boston, and that victory was almost as sweet as the look on your face when you botched that triple loop.” Crowley let out a laugh at the scandalised look Aziraphale gave him. The loudspeakers started up with the first booming notes of a rock song and Crowley hopped up onto the ice and skated away from him before Aziraphale had the chance to reply.

***

Friends Don't (33K; Rated E) by @missunderstoodlyrics

Human AU. Another fantastic enemies-to-lovers by MissUnderstoodLyrics. This is the newest story on this list.

Aziraphale and Crowley are rival advice columnists whose companies are merged. The CEO, Gabriel, tells them they now have to do a joint video podcast together. The snark and bickerflirting are top notch, and this story kept a smile on my face. They have to keep their romance a secret, because the whole schtick of their podcast is their very public rivalry, but it gets harder and harder the closer they become.

Aziraphale attempted to drown his mirth in his wine glass, which was precisely when Crowley decided to position his mouth millimetres from the angel’s ear. “Blair. Have you met him? Worst. Comb-over. Since. Thatcher,” he whispered and then found himself helpfully patting Aziraphale's back as the man choked and spluttered, his cherubic face turning a delightful shade of pink. “Absolute fiend,” Aziraphale managed once he’d caught his breath, but the corners of his mouth were twitching traitorously. Crowley clocked Michaela out of the corner of his eye; she was leaning forward to shush them. Aziraphale escaped her wrath by standing and marching to the stage, his back straight and shoulders squared. He planted himself solidly in front of the microphone and proceeded to destroy what was left of Crowley’s sanity. “I once met a man-shaped snake,” he stated, his gaze firmly locked on Crowley. “Whose snark was taxing to take With swagger and pose He turned up his nose But his wisdom was rather half-baked.”

*****

Non-Human AU

One or both of them are non-human, or have some sort of supernatural abilities (like magic) but aren’t angel or demon. I’m including omegaverse in this category.

Mark of the Serpent (150K; Rated E) by @naromoreau and @summerofspock

Prince Aziraphale is about to be crowned King of Angelhaven when he's taken captive by pirates. When he's sold as a pleasure slave to King Crowley, ruler of the nation readying for war with his, he is forced to keep his identity a secret as he tries to find a way home and keep peace. But not everything at King Crowley's court is as it seems and Aziraphale will have to face machinations of a Royal Court that are far more complex than he had thought. A Captive Prince AU with an omegaverse twist.

The first omegaverse story I genuinely liked, even though Crowley is pretty awful toward Aziraphale at first. Since then I’ve come to enjoy more of them, but this is the one that got me into the genre. This is another one I’ve written a much longer review about here including an explanation for the “extremely dubious consent” tag.

"What about this one?" the omega king asked, eyes fixed on his face, a strange curl to his mouth. "He's an Angel," Hastur sneered. "Pretty, isn't he? We were trying to pick a variety for your majesty to choose from since you didn’t deign to accompany us, but we didn’t find out his origin until after we brought him. He probably doesn't even speak the language." The words manifested in Aziraphale’s mind, and he immediately saw the genius in them. If he didn't speak the language, he could hardly be appealing as a consort to the king. He would be dismissed, sent back to Tracy's, and given time to heal before making his escape. "An Angel?" the king repeated, something passing over his face that Aziraphale didn't like. "What's your name?" "I’m sorry," Aziraphale stammered in Angelic, sticking to his hastily made plan. "I don’t...I don’t know what you're saying." King Crowley smiled and said, in perfect Angelic, "I asked what your name was." "Oh, um, I- you can call me whatever you wish," Aziraphale said, not wanting to risk even a part of his name. The king laughed. "I'm choosing the Angel. Send him to my quarters." "But your majesty-" The omega king turned on Ligur. "You wanted me to choose a pleasure beta and I did. It's done. Were there any other highly important council matters or can I get back to my day?"

***

Saltwater on Skin (186K; Rated E) by @candyqueenblog

Another one with a longer review here. Ezra Fell is an award-winning novelist celebrating the millionth sale of his newest books with his friends and baby brother, Gabriel, on a rented yacht. He falls overboard and washes ashore on an uncharted island, and while awaiting rescue, he gets the strange feeling he’s not alone.

This is a low angst love story between the human and the naga who rescues him, and you’ll fall in love with the island and Crowley’s four sisters. Gabriel is a peach here, much younger than Ezra and very much the caring baby brother. 

And if you’d prefer an Ineffable Wives version of the story, you can find that here. I haven’t read it, but I assume it’s equally good.

Ezra couldn’t stifle the flood of tears as he threw his arms over his head with a scream. Then a pair of rough, but blessedly human hands, covered his wrists. “You… scared?” The stranger’s voice was gravelly, most likely from disuse, but to Ezra it sounded more beautiful than all the angelic choirs. He sobbed in relief. “Oh thank heavens! I thought for sure I was going to-” His words sputtered and died when he opened his eyes to look at his rescuer. It was a man… ...from the waist up. The man’s bare torso was thin, but well defined with long arms lean with muscle. His face was all angles framed by a shock of red hair that curled down his back. His eyes were captivating. They were human enough, save for the iris being the color of spun gold and sliced right down the middle by a slit-shaped pupil. That was about where the human similarities ended. From the waist down the man’s skin melded into a massive snake tail that was wider than Ezra’s entire body and covered in black scales with a red underbelly that matched his hair.

***

FAETED (series) (251K; Rated G/T) by @ineffably-good

The only story in this category that’s not rated E. A three-book, one-short series where Ezra, an English teacher at a public school accidentally ends up in the Fae realms and in the hands of the Unseelie king, Crowley. The world-building is fantastic, and the books use some of the side characters so well, especially Hastur and Ligur, two of Crowley’s most trusted advisers. Crowley is good to Ezra, but he’s spent a thousand years ruling over the chaotic and dangerous unseelie fae, and he doesn’t always know how to handle being in love with a human. And Ezra doesn’t understand the difficult and often prickly politics of the fae, so the two have a lot of misunderstandings to work through. It leads to several fights, but they are usually resolved within the chapter.

The stories are heavy on plot, mostly around the world of the fae, which is one of the things I love most about this series. I could easily read dozens of books set in this world.

Lord Crowley watched as Ezra emerged from the coach, curious to see how this strange mortal would react to his first sight of the Dark Court. Would he blanch in terror? Would he be curious? He didn’t know or understand the creature across from him, but he knew one thing— his reactions, to date, were not what the Prince expected. This was oddly refreshing. It had been so, so long since anyone had managed to surprise him. He watched as Ezra emerged, his fluffy golden hair sticking out in all directions above the dark gray travel cloak he’d donned. He smiled faintly and with studious politeness at the horrifying gremlin who helped him down the steps, brushed the nonexistent dust off himself, and  took in his surroundings. Crowley was gratified to see his eyes widen as he looked around. They were standing in the center of an immense cavern, almost as if a mountain had been hollowed out inside by an immense blast. The rock walls climbed up above them and came together at an unmeasurable distance overhead and were dotted everywhere one looked with cavernous openings, some of which flickered with the light from a fire further inside. Creatures here and there, too murky to make out fully, hovered near the openings of some of them, peering down at the return of their Prince with eyes he could not read. Further ahead, the floor cracked into a massive chasm which ranged across the rest of the cavern and was crossed here and there by rickety-looking bridges. It was lit from below by the light of flames and the scent of sulfur. Stalagmites rose from the floor at irregular intervals, some of them paired with stalactites dropping from the ceiling like large, rocky icicles. Their surfaces glittered here and there with what looked like mica or gems. Crowley watched as Ezra took all of this in at a glance. “Thoughts?” said Lord Crowley, sidling up to him. Ezra turned astonished eyes the color of blue sky to him. “It’s beautiful! I’ve never seen anything like this.” Crowley searched his face for mockery or insincerity but found only earnestness. The Prince felt a tingle of pleasure at this, at least for a moment, until he ruthlessly slammed that feeling down inside himself and returned to his usual sardonic detachment. He hadn’t brought the human here to be his friend.

***

If He’s Your Cleric, Why Is He Putting Me In His Bag of Holding? (300K; Rated E) by @noodlefrog-omens

I read this twice in a row. Literally. I stopped it and almost immediately started it again. I played D&D 3.5 for many years, and I absolutely loved seeing a D&D adventure played out in the GO universe. Aziraphale is the cleric of an adventuring party that stupidly decides to abandon him in the dungeon (you don’t abandon your healer!). Crowley is a very hungry mimic who ends up nearly dying in Aziraphale’s bag of holding before the cleric rescues him. (Look, if you’re going to look like a fancy book, don’t be surprised when the man tries to steal you).

Aziraphale still needs to find his adventuring party again, and the mimic decides to travel along with him. Along the way they find kobolds, a doppelganger, traps, and the obligate dungeon maze, all the while getting to know each other. Aziraphale recognizes his feelings toward the mimic fairly early on, but it takes Crowley longer to even understand what his feelings even mean. 

The porn doesn’t start until chapter 33 (of 40), and only covers maybe three of the remaining eight chapters. You can read the entire adventure and stop once they leave the dungeon if you don’t want any monsterfuckery, or you could skim past the smut to the ending. I don’t know if the author has any plans for sequels, but if he does, I’ll be right there ready.

In that moment, Crowley knew that he had found the right bait to lure this human right to his doom. He waited as patiently as he could while nearly vibrating himself into a puddle, watching as Aziraphale puttered around the room cooing over all the books and scrolls in the room as though they were living creatures. “Just you wait,” Crowley thought to himself, inordinately pleased to have figured out what made this stubborn human tick. “One of them will be.” “There must be centuries’ worth of knowledge collected in just this one chamber,” Aziraphale said in a reverent whisper. Finally, finally he started touching things in this dungeon. He even took his heavy leather gloves off, tucking them into his belt before running a fingertip along the spines of the books chained to the shelves. Crowley watched him take one right off the shelf and thumb through a few of the pages. “We must have walked right by this room. I don’t know why Sandalphon told me there wasn’t anything behind this door. He must not have looked closely enough.” Aziraphale turned his back to the shelves to glance back at the door, and Crowley took his chance to crawl up the side of the bookshelf and arrange himself in front of the chained tomes in pride of place. It wasn’t difficult to change himself into the shape of a book, but this was always about the details. It was an art form. Which books, exactly, had Aziraphale been drawn to? Old ones with leather covers, mostly. Ones with bits of fiddly decoration on the spine. Ones with a bit of mystery. Aziraphale was a cleric, so he was probably interested in talking to the Gods and shite like that, or at least understanding them. That was an angle Crowley could work with. He gave his skin a supple leather texture, inky black and vaguely shimmery in a way he knew would catch the flickering light being thrown out by that sword. Gold edging and lettering crept across his cover and spine, promising divine secrets and cosmic mysteries to anyone who would just reach out and touch. He couldn’t see himself, but Crowley knew that he was a very sexy book right now. Aziraphale would have to be mad not to notice him.

***

Crowley And The Chocolate Factory (55K; Rated E) by @entanglednow

Crowley has to step up for his nephew Adam when he wins a ticket to tour the famous chocolate factories, run by the reclusive and deeply strange Zira Zonka. It doesn't take Crowley long to decide that he wants nothing to do with the man, who's clearly hiding dark and mysterious secrets.

Do you like your Crowley grumpy and cynical? Do you like your Aziraphale weird? Did you think the one thing missing from Charlie and The Chocolate Factory was sex between Wonka and one of the parents in a vintage Bentley? Then this is the story for you!

Crowley doesn’t know what to make of the definitely strange Zira Zonka, but he finds himself drawn to the man nonetheless. The story is set in modern times, but if you know the original (at least the movie version; I can’t speak for the books), you have a general idea of what’s going to happen to the children. 

Zonka releases the arms of his partners for long enough to jerk his cane towards the sky, which erupts in a shower of flower petals and candy - a large proportion of which fall on the immediately excited crowd. Crowley's fairly certain he gets hit on the head by a soft fudge. God, this is humiliating. Zonka dances right and then left while the audience cheers in appreciation. He does another circle, separates from the row to do some unimpressive spins while trying - and failing - to find a good rhyme for liquorice. "My candy emporium has so much in store. Just step right up and walk through the door!" Zonka's gold and white cane snaps up into the air again, this time leaving a burst of light and his name written across the sky in sparkling gold calligraphy. It seems to be a dramatic ending, Crowley certainly hopes it's a dramatic ending. "Half of those lines were a stretch," he complains, but quietly and mostly to himself, because the audience seems to have found the whole thing captivating, Adam included. "And there's only five kids, not six, he can't even count." The Erik's all unlink arms, to thunderous applause from the crowd behind him, and Zonka gives the widest grin Crowley has ever seen. His hands flung on his hips, like the world's most enthusiastic children's entertainer. Crowley half expects him to ask who wants to see a magic trick. "How has this man possibly managed to stay out of the limelight for twenty years?" he wonders. "Or twenty minutes."

***

Villainous (217K; Rated E) by @ineffablepenguin

Once Upon A Time… There was a red-haired sorcerer who lived alone in a high tower, and a blond prince who lived in a palace full of people. And they were both of them desperately lonely. The Kingdoms of Empyrion and the Sorcerers of Apollyon have hated each other for hundreds of years, ever since the Great War. They do not interact, other than to occasionally try to kill one another. And they certainly do not make friends. Crow is an exhausted sorcerer who just wants everyone to leave him the hell alone: for the Sorcerer’s Council to stop harassing him to live up to his potential, and for wannabe Empyrion Heroes to stop attacking his tower to try and kill him. Until one day when he meets Prince Azra of the High Fells, who doesn’t behave anything like he’s supposed to…

This is one of those stories a lot of people recommend for good reason. It’s a fantastic fairy tale full of love and romance between two people who seem destined for one another. The writing is gorgeous, the world-building is fantastic, and there’s really great artwork scattered throughout. Some of the artwork is fairly suggestive, and all of it is stunning.

Crow slowed to a stop, and his gaze flickered bemusedly over him. The man was…not tall. Or remotely intimidating. He stood a couple inches shorter than him, even with the thick boots. Wide eyes shone resolutely grey-blue, the precise shade of his doublet, under a tumble of feathery white-blond curls cut a bit too short to be fashionable. And... his stubbornly-set jaw was rather less chiseled than Crow was used to seeing. No conveniently placed scars, no gritty dents or smudges on that immaculate armour. Heroes usually had cheekbones that could cut glass, but this one’s were rounded, and slightly rosy to boot. Cherubic was the word that came immediately to mind, and Crow nearly snorted out loud. He looked to be roughly Crow's own age, and was staring determinedly, if anxiously at him from behind that enormous broadsword. There was a long, tense silence as Crow and the armoured man sized each other up. The Hero spoke first. “Now see here, villain, I don’t want to have to kill you, so just turn about and head right back where you came from.” His voice was precise and educated, nearly fussy, and while self-assured was lacking in the usual bravado. Crow blinked, taken aback, and the flames in his hand faltered. “You don’t want to kill me?” “Well…no, not particularly.” The confidence wavered for an instant, then solidified. “Which is not to say that I won’t! Rest assured I will if you cause trouble!”

***

The Crawly Chronicles (series) (179K; Rated T/M/E) by @theladydrgn and @sylwritesstuff

When Aziraphale Fell, reporter for The Daily Messenger, is tasked with a simple story on smuggling, he isn't expecting to find out that Lightbringer, Inc. has been experimenting on something that could be an animal, an oil slick, or something else entirely. He especially isn't expecting that being to come home with him and change his entire life.

I’m a fan of the Tom Hardy Venom movies, which made this two-book, two-short series perfect for me. The books follow the plot of the first two movies, though book 2 also starts with the sexual relationship between the two characters. 

My favorite parts of the story are of the two learning to live together while sharing a body, and Aziraphale trying to figure out how to handle having feelings for a creature he’s permanently attached to who is so completely alien (literally) that he’s not even sure that romantic and sexual love are even an option.

The food the human was making already smelled good enough to eat to them, and they did not want to wait twenty minutes. This time their control of the human's hand was less subtle as they dipped fingers into the leftover batter and brought a generous scoop of the chocolate mix to their mouth. “Nasty human's is what they were.” Aziraphale froze or at least tried to. His mouth seemed to have other ideas, cleaning the mixture from his fingers. “What- Who said that?” he demanded messily, looking around. “I did.”  Aziraphale took several steps back, grasping for the cane he'd left leaning against the counter. The voice sounded as if it were everywhere around him or- or in his own mind somehow. “That's hardly reassuring. Who are you? How did you get into my home?” “Got in the same way you did, human.” They grabbed the bowl of chocolate mixture before the human stumbled too far from it, fingers scraping the last dregs of it to not waste a single bit. The cane fell to the floor.  Aziraphale tried stopping himself, but he couldn't seem to make his hands do what he wanted them to do. “Stop! How-” What in the world was happening and how did he stop it? “No. I'm hungry.” “That doesn't make any sense! Stop!” he demanded, struggling to keep his chocolate covered fingers away from his own mouth. “Fine.” They still felt so weak that fighting this human for control was a struggle and a challenge that they did not want to have. It was just so much easier to slip out between their cells and wrap a long tongue around their fingers instead.

***

And finally, if you made it all the way to the end, thank you!

I have three Good Omens novels of my own I hope you’ll check out, a post-S2 with an upcoming sequel; a “they never met”/fake marriage adventure; and a reverse omens (a WIP as of 27 Dec, 2024; chapters are released on Fridays, and it should be completely posted around mid-February 2025).

[stardustandash]

How many fics have you worked on since January?

Worked on about 55? I think? Its hard to calculate as I posted whumptober and febuwhump as individual stories but they exist in one doc each on my computer. I've worked on 6 fics that are either as of yet unposted, unprinted in a zine, or just lost unfinished limbo (I need to work on my merrin-focused post nur fic omg)

2. What’s something new that you tried in a fic this year?

I guess I've tried to play more with present vs past tense, and finishing multichapter fics before posting. Did try out a time loop for the first time during whumptober and had fun with that!

3. What piece of media inspired you the most? (This can be the fandom you wrote the most for, the one that spawned the most ideas, the one you thought about the most, etc.)

I feel like Star Wars is the pretty obvious answer, though right at the end of the year here comes Dragon Age with a steel chair after 4 years of not really being involved in the fandom

4. How many fandoms did you write for this year?

Seven, I think! Jedi Fallen Order & Survivor, The Bad Batch, Dragon Age Inquisition & Veilguard, FFXV, FFXVI, Horizon Zero Dawn & Forbidden West, and Twisted Wonderland

5. What ships captured your heart?

As a gen writer its rare for ships to catch me, but thank you Veilguard for giving me Rook x Harding, and M!Rook x Emmrich. (Not a fan of F!Rook x Emmrich sorry yall)

7. What characters captured your heart?

As always Cal remains number 1 in my heart. I love him so much, along with the whole Mantis crew <3 For new this year, I am bewitched body and soul by the Veilguard crew. The writers were cooking with all of them, they're all amazing!!

8. Did you write for any new fandoms or ships this year?

...Does Veilguard count lol? For new fandoms I wrote one FFXVI fic early in the year.

I've got two fics for Rook x Harding and one wip for Rook x Emmrich as new ships!

9. What fic meant the most to you to write?

That's a hard question!! I think I poured a lot of my own personal emotional anguish into a lot of the fics I wrote this year. It's been a rough year for many reasons, and writing out all that angsty hurt/comfort helped a lot

10. What fic made you feel the happiest to work on?

I think finishing 'what makes a family' was honestly one of the best feelings ever! And the fact that I still get comments on it from time to time about people binge-reading it.

11. What fic was the most satisfying to finish writing?

I guess I could go with the above, but actually completing whumptober was pretty satisfying.

12. What fic was the most difficult to write?

'i do not love the bright sword for its sharpness' is at the top of this pile. i think about it constantly but actually writing it is proving super difficult, and it remains unfinished...

13. What fic was the easiest to write?

The one for the Pabu Days zine!! I wrote the first draft in just over an hour, and it was about 1k too many words lol

14. What were your shortest and longest fics posted this year?

of the ones written entirely in this year, 'take a breath before the plunge' wins with its 11k words. If we count just completed this year, 'what makes a family' wins at just shy of 70k

The shortest was one of the whumptober fics, 'where flesh and metal meet'

15. What were your go-to writing songs?

The Horizon games' soundtracks! Less of a song list, but there's too many to put in here.

What was the hardest fic to title?

...all of them. Titling things is the hardest part of writing fics

16. What's your favorite title of the year?

Love and Blood Both Run Red, or maybe Cold But For Your Company

17. Share your favorite opening line

In some way, Tech thinks, it is poetic to die for his family.

From here, at the bottom

18. Share your favorite ending line

He turned, and came face to face with a skull staring back at him. There were holes through the skull, and though everything had been decayed by time, Cal could still see that the skeleton wore Jedi robes.

From then there was nothing

19. Share your favorite piece of dialogue

ooh i don't know! If its humorous then assume its one of my favourites

20. Share your funniest line

see above

21. What's something that surprised you while you were working on a fic? Did it change the story?

I think being able to slip back into old fandoms and characters for whumptober was a surprise. it didn't change the story but it was surprisingly quick to get back into things i hadn't touched in years

22. What writing programs did you use? Did you write by hand?

I use microsoft word for all my fics. which isn't great for longform fic and probably why i don't write too much of it

23. If you had to choose one, what was THE most satisfying writing moment of your year?

Again, actually managing to complete whumptober felt really good!! I've never managed to finish a writing challenge like that so it was a really proud moment

24. Did you do anything special to celebrate finishing a fic?

I don't think I've ever done anything?? Though I am thinking about starting a lil scrapbook of comments or smth like that

25. How did you recharge between fics?

what is this recharge you speak of? I am either possessed by ideas that demand attention or left in a drought of creativity

26. Did you create fanworks other than fic?

I do playlists for myself sometimes. I have ones for Cal, Crosshair, and Omega right now. I constantly wish i had the patience to improve my art skills to do fanart

27. How many events did you take part in? (bangs, exchanges, ship weeks, zines, prompt memes, they all count!)

4 if you count febuwhump and whumptober. I'm in a Bad Batch zine that's in preorders right now - Pabu Days, and participating in a fic/art exchange for new years for Twisted Wonderland

28. If this were an awards show, who would you thank?

firstly I'd like to thank my cat for being the one to hear me talk out plot points and details. I'd also like to thank @pennflinn and @breakfastteatime for being both supportive of all my j:fo fics as well as being inspirations themselves in that fandom! And the whole j:fo fandom at large for being awesome and supportive of each other's works. And I need to mention @fanfoolishness for joining me in not one, not two, but THREE! fandoms here!! As well, shoutout to @shadowcrow for yelling on my rook x harding fics! it's a small corner of the fandom but at least it's got you there!

29. What's left on your to-do list for 2024?

Finish this fic for the new years exchange, and get another chapter of Blood and Love Both Run Red up! Though it may only be one of those that happens...

30. What would you like to write next year?

I wanna finish bright sword and get that post nur Merrin fic postable! And since I'm currently consumed by Veilguard I wanna write more of that next year too!

A slightly revised version of last year's questions! Two ways to play: Reblog and have your followers send you numbers, or answer the whole list!

How many fics have you worked on since January?

What’s something new that you tried in a fic this year?

What piece of media inspired you the most? (This can be the fandom you wrote the most for, the one that spawned the most ideas, the one you thought about the most, etc.)

How many fandoms did you write for this year?

What ships captured your heart?

What characters captured your heart?

Did you write for any new fandoms or ships this year?

What fic meant the most to you to write?

What fic made you feel the happiest to work on?

What fic was the most satisfying to finish writing?

What fic was the most difficult to write?

What fic was the easiest to write?

What were your shortest and longest fics posted this year?

What were your go-to writing songs?

What was the hardest fic to title?

What's your favorite title of the year?

Share your favorite opening line

Share your favorite ending line

Share your favorite piece of dialogue

Share your funniest line

What's something that surprised you while you were working on a fic? Did it change the story?

What writing programs did you use? Did you write by hand?

If you had to choose one, what was THE most satisfying writing moment of your year?

Did you do anything special to celebrate finishing a fic?

How did you recharge between fics?

Did you create fanworks other than fic?

How many events did you take part in? (bangs, exchanges, ship weeks, zines, prompt memes, they all count!)

If this were an awards show, who would you thank?

What's left on your to-do list for 2024?

What would you like to write next year?

[ssa-dado]

21 - Physics

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

masterlist

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

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

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

---

Sometimes, there’s just too much to do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then there was the apartment.

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

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

“We can chip in,” JJ had said.

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

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

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

Aaron didn’t push, though.

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

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

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

Because he stayed late, too.

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

Back then, you stayed late out of pride.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Efficient? Well, now it was war.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, though, things were different.

The late nights weren’t about pride anymore.

They were about survival.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence that followed was deafening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” you said, smirking slightly.

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

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

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

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

His expression shifted instantly.

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t even hesitate.

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

“Garcia got shot,” he said.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so, all you could do was wait.

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

Seven FBI agents in a room.

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

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

But eventually, you all stilled.

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

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

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

And then there was you.

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

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

He couldn’t, that thing he knew.

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

And him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your touch.

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

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

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

A simple acknowledgment, because you knew.

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

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

Together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hotch stepped forward immediately. “Yes.”

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

Aaron felt his breath hitch.

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

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

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

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

He couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

You spoke to him less on the job.

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

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

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

You were more careful now, more reserved.

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

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

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

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

Your language had shifted, too.

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

Practical. Logical... ironic, really.

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

Indispensable to work.

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

The confrontation was what made it work.

Necessary. Vital.

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

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

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

You’d stopped calling him “Partner”.

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

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

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

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

But he missed the ambiguity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It felt more… familiar, though with what exactly?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it happened.

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

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

Ordinary. Mundane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thankfully, Aaron was used to that by now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snorted, clapping a hand over your mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s dead,” Aaron replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too raw. Too close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, it was Mrs. Lee.

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

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

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

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

Naturally, she adored him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lawyer. Ha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaron froze. No, no, no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaron froze, screwdriver slipping slightly in his hand.

What?

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

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

Oh, so she’s serious…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Practical. Strategic. Manageable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charles was right, she really was impossible.

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

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

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

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

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

That feeling. That lightness.

When was the last time he’d felt that?

---

1998.

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

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

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

Really? A miniskirt? This was what undid him?

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

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

Perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantastic. Death by roses. How poetic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Limbs accounted for, Agent, move on.

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

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

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

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

Friday. Your day off.

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

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

What were you doing to him?

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

Why would you?

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

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

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

Because what was the alternative?

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

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

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

Or…this. You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who even talked like that?

And, God, why was that so damn attractive?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He could easily argue back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jealous? No… yes, kind of.

Bewildered? Yes.

Smitten?  Absolutely.

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

He let you have this one.

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

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

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

You were, in a word, adorable.

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

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

And somehow, Aaron found himself hanging on every word.

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

Adorable. Absolutely maddening. But utterly, ridiculously adorable.

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

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

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

Oh, how you talked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no.

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

Your hands were on his.

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

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

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

You had no idea, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perfectionist. Adorable perfectionist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was it. He lost it.

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

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

But it wasn’t, not with you.

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

And so he did.

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

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

But then the world shifted.

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

This wasn’t 1998 anymore.

Now, the long table was crowded.

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

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

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

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

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

It was amazing, really.

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

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

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

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

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

And then there was Spencer.

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

And you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

...thrilling for you, anyway.

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

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

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

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

JJ shot her a look. “Pass.”

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

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

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

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

It was in the rules.

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

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

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

He just wasn’t for you.

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

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

And what about him?

Aaron felt like he was drowning.

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

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

He just listened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the table buzzed on, oblivious.

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

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

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

So there was light.

A warm touch of a hand on his left shoulder.

Aaron froze.

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

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

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

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

No, he hadn’t. Not really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaron Hotchner: Unit Chief. Father. Theatre Nerd.

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

What the fuck had he just said?

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, great. There was the but.

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

Intimate. Really, Hotchner?

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

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

That had to be it. You were humoring him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It couldn’t be.

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

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

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

You stared at each other, eyes locked. Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a sweet, aching ignorance in the idea.

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

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

It had to be fate.

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so he tried again.

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

“You okay?” he asked gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was horrifyingly unfair.

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

How could he? He had no right to.

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t much, but it was a step.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sure, there had been progress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Together, somehow, you always found your way.

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

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

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

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

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

Caught you, Philosopher.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because of course you did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course it was fate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your grin only widened, amused and maybe a little impressed. “Wow. You really are good, Agent Hotchner,” you said with a mock coo. “Yes, exactly.”

Of course.

You were teasing him - again - but there was a glint in your eye, a genuine spark that reminded him why he always ended up drawn into these conversations with you, whether he wanted to be or not.

“I did try the legends first,” you continued “but the imagery didn’t match. To explain it, I had to revisit Stoicism. They saw the universe as governed by this entity called logos - a rational, divine order where everything connects in an unbroken chain of cause and effect. What I found particularly important is that fate, in their view, isn’t something chaotic but part of a structured system. It’s revolutionary.”

He wasn’t used to your characteristic back-and-forth during cases anymore. He hadn’t paired you with him in what felt like ages - since long before Rossi rejoined the team. Maybe it was deliberate. Maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t want to think too hard about it.

But hearing you now, rattling off ideas with that same unstoppable energy, he realized just how much he’d missed it. Your wits, your knowledge, your uncanny ability to pull connections out of thin air - it was as maddening as it was impressive.

Not that he particularly missed the mock praise you’d thrown his way earlier. That could stay firmly in the past where it belonged. Or, at the very least, it could try to sound a bit more genuine.

Not that he wanted to hear it, of course.

…Okay, maybe it was better to change the subject entirely.

He missed you.

“So, by presenting himself as ‘fate,’” you continued, “the Reaper excuses himself entirely. He’s not making choices - he’s just the inevitable result of the universe’s design. Or at least, that’s how he sees it. Responsibility lies with the deterministic nature of existence itself. Quite of a sophisticated delusion.” you added, leaning back with a wry smile.

Hotch tilted his head. “Interesting… but if he truly believed that, why leave a signature? Why call 911? That’s ego. He wants us to know it’s him. That’s not someone surrendering to inevitability - that’s someone demanding recognition.”

“That’s why I’m stuck,” you admitted, with a frustrated sigh. “The contradictions don’t align. His actions suggest ego, yes. A desire for attention, for dominance. But that one 911 call…”

He leaned forward slightly. “What about it?”

“The call bothers me,” you continued, your voice softer now, more introspective. “Too deliberate. Too… purposeful. I feel they aren’t just challenges. There’s something else, I can’t see it yet, but it’s not just about superiority. It doesn’t feel like pure ego.”

He responded to you way too quickly. “Then what does it feel like?”

You hesitated, searching for the right words. “Something human, maybe,” you said finally. “There’s something… ordinary about the Unsub. Normal. He blends in so seamlessly that even his grandiosity doesn’t seem entirely self-serving.” You gestured at the file in front of you. “I can’t connect these pieces. The deterministic philosophy. The theatrical ego. The calculated call. It’s like he exists in two worlds at once - one of chaos, and one of order.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment. “And you think the truth lies somewhere in the contradiction.”

You shrugged. “Doesn’t it always?”

Hotch exhaled softly, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched you.

You couldn’t help yourself, could you? Always had to end with something emblematic, like you were writing the last line of a novel. Throw in a fade to black, and you were set.

“When you’re done making fun of me,” you said, raising your eyebrows at him, “could you explain how, with the same lack of material, you somehow have a file twice the size of mine?”

He couldn’t help the brief laugh that escaped him. Of course, you’d noticed.

“I’m not particularly proud of this…” he began, his tone measured but edged with a hint of self-deprecation. “But after we were pulled from the case, I went back to Boston a couple of weeks later.” He paused, gauging your reaction before continuing. “I got George Foyet’s testimony while he was still in the hospital.”

Your head snapped up, staring at him, completely stunned. “You?” you said slowly, suspicion lacing every syllable. “You went back to Boston? The man who practically has the Constitution tattooed on his soul took a statement after being removed from the case? That wasn’t even legal, was it?”

“It wasn’t,” Hotch admitted, his smirk widening just enough to make you narrow your eyes further. “But I knew they’d write a book about the Reaper case eventually. Once it became public domain, the testimony would be usable. I was just… proactive.”

“Proactive,” you repeated, shaking your head with a disbelieving laugh. “That’s barely ethical.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I blame you.” His tone was deadpan. “You brought out the worst in me back then.”

You snorted, leaning back in your seat with an exasperated smile. “How convenient, blaming it all on what were actually your overthoughts after some drunk sex.”

Oh no. Absolutely not. He was not going there.

He looked down at the file on the table, hoping the angle would save him from the inevitable reddening of his face.

Why, of all the things you could’ve said, did you have to bring that up? It wasn’t even relevant - well, not entirely relevant.

Deflection. That was his only move now. Luckily, the one he had in mind was at least partially truthful.

“We’re landing in a few minutes,” he began, keeping his tone calm and measured, “so how about this: when we’re back, we exchange files. You can go through the testimony, and I’ll take another look at where you got stuck with the phone call. We both take the night to work on it, and tomorrow, we compare notes.”

You tilted your head, skepticism written all over your face. “And what if someone finds out we’re working on a closed case?”

“That’s why we’re doing it at your place,” he said, his tone completely matter-of-fact, like this was the most logical solution in the world. Because it was. It wasn’t an excuse, at all.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, so now you’re inviting yourself over?”

“Haven’t seen Mrs. Lee in a few weeks,” he said smoothly, like that was somehow a perfectly valid justification.

You laughed at that, shaking your head. “Right… You know what? She might adore you, but let’s not forget who she entrusted with her blueberry pie recipe.”

What?

And you waited all this time to tell him that?

So this is what betrayal feels like. A little less dramatic than expected, but still, very disappointing.

---

If there was one universal truth about the BAU team, it was this: no matter how different you all were, no matter how much tension simmered beneath the surface after a long case, there was one sacred ritual that bound you together - going out for drinks.

Especially after the cases that were draining, but not devastating.

The ones that left you raw but still intact, just enough to crave the company of those who understood the madness you faced.

This case had been one of those.

There was a quiet hum of unspoken agreement as everyone wrapped up their notes, pens clicking shut, desks tidied with a precision that came from mutual understanding rather than coordination.

It wasn’t planned, but somehow, you all ended up converging in the bullpen at the same time, like a gravitational pull none of you could resist.

The collective exhaustion that had hung heavy all day began to lift, replaced by a singular, unifying hope: to fuck up your livers just enough to lighten the weight pressing on your minds.

It was Derek who broke the silence, standing up from his chair and tossing his notebook across his desk with a grin. “Who’s up for a drink?”

Emily cheered like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Who’s up for five?”

“Five bottles, you mean?” you chimed in, feigning doubt as though you were on the verge of saying no.

“Each,” Emily clarified with a playful wink.

That was all it took for you to reach for your pen, clicking it closed with a dramatic flair before placing it back into your holder.

“Count me in,” Rossi said casually, like this wasn’t the team’s collective miracle of the week. For someone who had only recently started joining you on these outings, this was practically a declaration of loyalty.

“I don’t know,” Spencer muttered, adjusting the strap of his bag - a move so predictable it immediately set off Derek.

“Stop with the ‘I don’t know.’ You’re in, kid,” Derek said, striding confidently across the bullpen, leaving no room for argument. “JJ?”

“I’d love to, but I’m gonna have to take a rain check,” JJ said, offering a soft smile that carried just enough warmth to make Emily’s heart squeeze.

That meant only a single person remained.

“Unit Chief,” you said, striding toward him with that determined glint in your eye. “Just one beer.”

Hotch exhaled, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips as he glanced at you. “Sure,” he said simply, afterall he couldn’t say no to that, not after a case like this.

But apparently, his mere will hadn’t been enough to seal the moment.

The sound of the bullpen doors opening pulled his attention, the heavy glass swinging wide as a man in a suit entered. He moved with purpose, his expression unreadable, carrying an envelope and a folder that seemed too heavy for their size.

“Agent Hotchner?” the man called out.

Hotch straightened immediately, his spine rigid, the shift so automatic it was almost reflex. “Yes,”

What happened next took seconds, maybe less, but it felt like a lifetime compressed into the space of a breath.

His left hand moved to sign the notice, his name scrawled neatly onto the blank space with a pen he didn’t remember reaching for.

The man nodded once, taking the signed folder back with an efficiency that bordered on mechanical.

And just like that, he was gone - disappearing through the same doors he had entered, leaving destruction in his wake as swiftly as he’d brought it.

All that remained that could prove his existence was the envelope in Hotch’s hand, the weight of it far heavier than paper should ever be.

The bullpen was suddenly too quiet. Too still.

“What is it?” Emily asked, her voice cutting through the silence.

He really didn’t want to look up, but he still did anyways.

He gestured faintly with the envelope, his voice quiet, flat, as though detachment might dull the edge of it. “Haley’s filing for divorce.”

He paused, his gaze drifting back to the envelope, as though it might explain itself if he stared hard enough. Then he spoke again, his voice even quieter this time, almost resigned. “I’ve been served.”

Before anyone could respond, he turned on his heel, the envelope still clutched in his hand like a foreign object he didn’t know what to do with. He walked out, back through the glass doors, the weight of their closing behind him louder than it had ever have been.

You stared after him, your hand falling away from where it had hovered, wanting to reach out but knowing better.

You didn’t want to drink anymore.

And him?

Somewhere beyond those glass doors, Hotch kept walking, as though forward motion might somehow keep him from falling apart entirely.

The envelope burned in his hand, and every step felt heavier than the last, carrying him into a night that suddenly felt colder and far too empty.

Because now, it was real.

---

Phi’s Corner: Did I just waste 5 hours of my life discovering that Tumblr only allows 1,000 text blocks max and had to re-edit everything? Yes, I did. Because I’m a sucker for distanced one-liners, and the universe clearly hates me. Also… did you catch the little countdown? Hehe. I’m evil. Oh, and for the record - I am Mrs. Lee’s #1 stan. Don’t forget it.

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

[fractoluminescence]

I know little to nothing about either works here, but I wanted to point something out

I'm not surprised the first one got picked the most. Because here's the thing - there are two types of factors in fictional universes

One is how good the characters are, and the other is how good the gimmicks of the story are (such as worldbuilding, aesthetic, themes etc.)

In both of these, I was under the impression, as an outside observer, that people liked the characters a lot. And the thing is, both options 2 and 3 have to at least partially give up on the characters: option 2 meshes them in a way that is bound to sacrifice the traits of at least one group of characters, and the second completely omits one of the two groups

Option 1 is the only one that keeps both groups of characters intact. And that tells me one thing: you guys love these characters. Most of you love the green frog and phoenixman too much, and are unwilling to give up on either, and so the collab format you pick makes them stand on equal grounds. And I just think that's so sweet

Yeah anyway I'm probably just stating the obvious but I wanted to point it out because it made me smile. Bye :>

Examples below:

[bet-on-me-13]

Fanfics that changed your entire perception on a piece of Media?

Every once in a while I will find a Fanfic that completely overhauls my entire perception of a Show or Book, to the point that I consider that Fanfic as a Better Canon than the Actual Canon Story. Simply because I adore them so much.

(Not to say the actual Canon isn't good, but I just like certain elements of the fanfics more than what they did in Canon, and in some cases those elements stack up so much I wish I could just replace the entire story with them)

For Harry Potter it was Lily's Boy. This added so much to the HP Universe and made a story I desperately wish was Canon instead. I think most people who read this agree, especially because JK Rowling🤢 sucks ass at actual worldbuilding and this sets up a magical world that feels fleshed out and alive. My only gripe is the Ron and Hermione bashing, but I can ignore that pretty easily. Dumbledore Bashing is perfectly fine imo.

For MHA it was We Are Here: Emerald Sparks and Angel on my Shoulder. Both are Fics that dramatically expand on the MHA Worldbuilding, and have Concepts and Arcs that I wish were a part of the actual Anime. Especially with the expansion they do on what happened during the Dawn of Quirks, and just how Dark and Brutal the MHA World can actually get when you think about the information we are given about it in Canon.

And the big one for me, for Legend of Zelda: BOTW it was Luminous. This is a huge one because I actually cried when I read it, the character writing, emotional beats, headcanons, and more are all just absolutely incredible and kept me on the edge of my seat every single chapter until it finished. The scenes with the Champions and Mipha, the flashbacks, the Yiga Clan, the OC's, and character expansions, and so much more. I cannot wait for the sequel and prequel series that are in the works.

Any fics like that for you? (Also any recs?)

[wisegirl25]

I am SO tired of people comparing Timebomb to Ghostflower, do NOT insult my babies Jinx and Ekko like that

Timebomb absolutely clears Ghostflower anyday

First of all, I feel like most of y’all are just “drawing parallels” where there really aren’t many because they’re both animated interracial couples (black dude/white girl) with dimensional issues

Their actual relationships are NOTHINGGG alike

Timebomb has HISTORY. They were best friends, they were enemies, and they LOVE each other. They both have trauma and difficult situations. They live in a society where they face insane oppression and class struggle. THAT is their story.

No hate to Ghostflower fans but that ship is genuinely horrible and has nowhere near the level of connection that Timebomb does, it’s very surface-level imo like a silly little teenage romance.

And Jinx, as much as she was ready to kill Ekko, never sold his identity out to Silco even though she knew he was the leader of the Firelights…just saying. (Looking at you Gwen)

Timebomb is what Ghostflower THINKS it is

And when it comes to the actual characters, they’re not similar at all. You cannot tell me you can draw a SINGLE similarity between Jinx and Gwen (or even Powder and Gwen) that isn’t completely surface level. I can see where some people come from with Miles and Ekko (they both paint murals and are smart Ig) but still I feel like y’all are just saying this because they’re both black. Miles is an awkward teenager facing the burden of being Spiderman, whereas Ekko is the leader of a gang/group that is actively fighting against the oppression they as a group face to make their lives better. He’s shaped by his environment. Ekko is also genius on an insane level in comparison to Miles…

Anyways no hate to anyone who likes Ghostflower (or these characters because I may have dissed them a lil bit) but if I see one more person acting like the two ships are the same I’m actually gonna cry

And do not say “it’s not that serious it’s all for fun blah blah blah” because it is, to me it is

[bookishdiplodocus]

How to plant information elegantly

Say, for example, you’re writing a swimming pool scene and you need to plant the fact that Susan is blonde, because in a few chapters, the detective will find a blond hair at the crime scene.

You want the planted information to be memorable, but at the same time not stand out too much. The ideal is to push the information into the reader’s subconscious without a neon light arrow saying, “You might want to remember this, dear reader. This will be relevant!” The planted information needs to feel natural, organic, but memorable enough so when it turns out to be ✨a clue✨, your reader thinks, “I should have seen it!”

Let’s look at some options.

Susan, who is blonde, took a deep breath and dived into the pool.

This feels forced and awkward. The two pieces of information (pool + blonde) are not connected, the fact that she is blonde feels irrelevant and shoved in. If the reader remembers this, it’s because they noticed how the information is forced upon them.

Elegant ⭐

Memorable ⭐⭐

Organic ⭐

The blonde Susan swam across the pool. / The blonde, Susan, swam across the pool.

This feels more natural, but there’s a danger that only the swimming will stick into the reader’s mind because her being blonde is so unnoticeable. There is also a minor danger that the reader will expect an non-blonde Susan to show up in the first variation.

Elegant ⭐⭐

Memorable ⭐

Organic ⭐⭐

Susan was annoyed. She had just washed her hair with that ridiculously expensive Luscious Blonde shampoo and now her friends wanted to go swimming? What a waste of money.

This feels natural and organic, because both elements are conveyed from Susan’s point of view. They are both relevant and connected, and on top of that you get to build Susan’s character.

Elegant ⭐⭐⭐

Memorable ⭐⭐⭐

Organic ⭐⭐⭐

Her friends were already in the pool, but Susan held up her pocket mirror, making absolutely sure that the latex cap wouldn’t let any water in. She just had her hair bleached and after the debacle of 2019, she would never forget what chlorinated water did to bleached hair.

Susan’s POV makes her blond hair relevant to the swimming, as with the example above, but this time you’re presenting a completely different character. It feels organic and personal, and the fact that she is blonde will be lodged into the reader’s mind without screaming “It’s a clue!”.

Elegant ⭐⭐⭐

Memorable ⭐⭐⭐

Organic ⭐⭐⭐

I hope this is helpful! Follow me for more writing tips or browse my entire collection of writing advice now.

Happy writing!

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Your tags make me want to read Price getting to pat Nik. Please? 🥺

Nik's hair is a reflection of his character.

cw: none (partly inspired by a post by @panchulien with a young Nik and Price).

Price had realised he was obsessed with Nik's hair quite early on. When they had met, it had been a harsh buzz cut; a number two all the way over at the very longest, with a clean shaven jaw. It hadn't suited him. Not even in his blue uniform and cap. His eyes were too warm for the austere, minimalist impression the rest of him was trying to communicate. It was like his internal conflict had manifested in his physical appearance; the severe officer battling the warm-hearted Russian patriot.

After Price had "liberated" him, or rather, encouraged him to turn informant and cut his own path towards liberation, Nik had grown his hair out. Price remembered seeing him for the first time after freeing him from the detention centre in which his own government were going to execute him. Nearly a year had passed, and Nik's hair had grown into an unruly mane. Close to a mullet, but with erratic, thick black curls paired with roguish facial hair. He had reminded Price of a musketeer or a Renaissance poet. The sombre misery had been replaced by an almost manic charisma.

That had suited him. It set off the wildness in his eyes. But that wildness had manifested in other, more dangerous ways. Price and Nik had fed off of each other's anger and their penchant for violence in those early days. When they were on op together, their lack of boundaries had led them to dark places; Nik, without direction or purpose beyond point and shoot, and Price with a chip on his shoulder.

Price had watched those thick curls fall across a blood smeared face after Nik had beaten a man to death with his bare hands more than once, the crooked smirk that followed revealing a flash of something raw and in pain beneath the surface. They crossed lines, violated boundaries and codes of ethics, telling themselves it was for a higher purpose that not even they had much of a handle on.

Mac had tried to keep them apart. Had warned Price away and told him to get a grip. Dogs that bit the hand that fed them were put down eventually, one way or another. But Nik had been intoxicating. His rage completed and complemented Price's in the worst and best ways.

Nik needed to heal. They both did. It took years. Years of dancing around each other, of finding the limit of what they would do for the "greater good", working out what that even bloody meant in the first place. They carved out their own morality, separate from the hypocrisy of the institutions that had made them, and slowly, slowly, the rage, the bleeding wounds, inside Nikolai had healed. Price had fallen in love with that wild, uncontrollable maniac, and he had stayed in love with him once he had found enough peace to stop his own self-destruction.

Price sat across from him in the little boat they had hired for a tour down the River Oder. Nik had wanted to show Price Wrocław, the Venice of Poland. Twelve little islands connected by over a hundred little bridges, with one of the biggest markets in Europe. Nik had spent the morning dragging Price down side streets to find some of the three hundred odd little bronze gnomes scattered throughout the city. "To commemorate the Orange Alternative movement," Nik had explained, his big hands gesturing expressively towards the Gothic Town Hall, tone excitable and boyish, "they used absurdist humour to protest against communist rule in the eighties."

Nik was at peace now. Nearing his fiftieth birthday, his hair was receding into a deeper widow's peak, smoothed back and neat, with slight curls at the back and beneath his ears. His stubble flattered his jaw and Price liked raking his nails through it when they kissed. Not too wild, not too austere. A perfect balance that reflected the equilibrium in Nik's heart.

"John?" Nik asked, his eyebrows raised. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, comrade," Price said, flashing rueful smile. "Just thinkin' about old times."

"Ah." Nik scratched up his bare forearm to the fold of the sleeve at his elbow. "Well then," he picked up his glass of krupnik and Price did the same, "to old times."

"And all the good times to come, cheers." Price knocked back a mouthful of the liqueur and grimaced. "Jesus fuck, Nik, this shit is fockin' 'orrid." He tipped the remainder of the glass overboard. "Could murder a man for a decent stout."

Nik rolled his eyes. "You take the Englishman out of England, but..."

Price kicked his shin lightly. "Yeah yeah, Mr World Wide. I'm a simple man with simple tastes, not all of 'em good."

"Oh, I don't know," Nik hummed. "You are dating me after all."

And there, just for a moment, was a flash of that wild, curly-haired man that had first stolen Price's heart in the devilish little grin on Nik's face, and Price's blood ran hot in his veins.

[psychemochanight]

Honestly, even if I love the new interpretation of Dick as the "angry Robin" that we have these days, sometimes it feels bad that you can't talk about a version of Dick as Robin that isn't like that without getting people saying things like "that's not Dick, he's the angry one, the bloodthirsty one" and... What?

It takes away a lot of depth from the character when people only think of that when talking about Robin!Dick, when, since always, Dick was, quite possibly, one of the best written characters, and one of those that has more nuances to make him a completely human character, not only in the sense of not having superpowers, but of being able to empathize with him.

There are many versions of the story, but the most widely accepted version is that Dick lost his parents at the age of eight, watching them fall because they sabotaged their act, an act Dick probably saw many times, one he knew for sure his parents would never fail... Until it failed, and through no fault of their own.

Dick was a little boy who grew up in a loving family (as far as we know, I still think they were strict, but not necessarily bad parents... We'll talk about the Court of Owls later), and from one second to the next, all of that ended. Even if Bruce was there for him, things obviously weren't the same anymore, they never would be again.

Although many have the idea that Dick escaped from youth center to kill Zucco, in the original stories Dick didn't even know yet about him, at least not that much to know what he really did; but he wanted to escape from juvenile so as not to lose his values, so as not to stop being who he is, who his parents taught him to be.

Even in the lines where he DOES say he wants to kill Zucco, in most cases, when push comes to shove, he wants to prevent Zucco's death. There are some moments where he even confesses that he didn't want Zucco to die, he just wanted justice for his parents.

People now see Dick as the Robin who only saw misfortune and was an absolute menace to society, and while, yes, Dick was an absolute menace, it was only to the villains, who heard a little boy laughing at them before beating the shit out of them. Plus, even as a child he was a master manipulator, both for enemies and allies.

But what about the rest? Robin was supposed to be the light where Batman was the darkness. He was the one who comforted scared civilians when Batman couldn't. He was the sensitivity that Batman cannot afford to show.

Dick Grayson was the one who saved Batman from losing himself in the same darkness that he himself was making his only way of life, and this is something that Alfred has pointed out before. It is thanks to Dick that Batman stopped being the ruthless "hero" he was becoming. Damn, he was the one who softened Alfred's heart in the first place too.

This was the Robin that Superman saw as worthy of carrying the mantle of Nightwing, whom he saw as someone who could represent hope itself.

Bruce didn't start smiling just because of the other Robins like many people now believe, no. Dick was the first to make him smile again, the one who opened the doors for the others.

Dick was always kind and tender-hearted, always joy where there was only devastation.

Even if he was the living nightmare of villains, he was still that cheerful child who wanted to avoid the pain of others. The boy who inspired other heroes, not only because of his skills, but because of his heart.

Dick is a character who, while he is now more recognized as Nightwing than as Robin (which doesn't bother me at all, because that was always his goal when he became an independent hero), he still has a history that people seem to increasingly forget about and pigeonhole his development into something... Flat.

Were there times when Dick had more anger and pain than any other feeling in him? Yes, absolutely YES. But this stage is mostly in his Discowing years, not of Robin as such (I'm not saying there weren't such moments, but there aren't as many as people describe now), or as some animated series showed (I love these series, even if they turned Dick into a feral child who is unable to smile, lol)

Again. I LOVE Dick's portrayal as a feral child and absolute menace to society (which he was), but I also LOVE when artists, writers, and the entire fandom itself appreciates the different nuances of his personality, from his ability to laugh despite the misfortunes in his life, to his sadness that never ceased to be a part of him, until the moments where he could only feel rage and pain and felt that the world was only darkness, unable to see the colors that emerged from the light he projected by himself.

Look at him, he's so cute <3

Does anyone care about this yap? No, but I wanted to let out what I've been repeating in my head for days because people on tiktok have me fed up HAHA

[xxsycamore]

╰┈➤ It’s Halloween night at the Crown caste, and you’re looking for some fun.

- William, Harrison, Liam, Elbert, Alfons, Jude, Ellis, Roger, Victor, Ring, Nica, Darius x f!reader

[ ◄ PART 1 ] - [ ◄ PART 2 ] - ◉ PART 3

• rating: 🔞 E (MDNI) • tags: Monsterfucking; Human/Monster; Mythical Beings & Creatures; Manipulation; Mildly Dubious Consent; Curse play; Non-Human Genitalia; Anonymous Sex; Masquerades; Creampie; Vaginal Sex; Vaginal Fingering; Sirens; Water Sex; Bathtub Sex; Brainwashing; Smoking; Rough Sex; Desk Sex; Squirting and Vaginal Ejaculation • wordcount:  3,261 • masterlist

a/n: I got this idea for a story that is similar to Nine Nights, but without any plot or continuity between the different parts whatsoever. Unless, of course, you want to imagine that all of these take place one after another (poor Reader)... Monsterfucking is a new territory for me, so please bear with me. Once again, I tried leaving you with enough hints about who is who and I hope you can have fun guessing them lol

Dubcon warning: The reader seeks out physical intimacy on her own from the very beginning, however, some suitors use their curses' abilities on her without her being aware of it.

NEW: I made a playlist for this fic! It consists of 12 songs, one for each scenario. Enjoy <3

VISIONS OF TEMPTATION 2024/ KINKTOBER DAY 31: Non-human characters/traits

❝ MONSTER VILLAINS' NIGHT. ❞ (PART 3)

IX. A sly Kitsune

"How do you move your tail like that? It's very realistic... It's wagging so cutely too…"

The fox-like man seated at the other side of the table keeps gazing lazily at you, his chin resting on his palm, as he makes a show of wagging his heavy, fluffy tail for you.

"How are you so sure that it's not real?"

Yeah, right. You'd find his teasing cute if it weren't the tenth or so time he's been answering your question with a question tonight. Each one more deceitful than the previous until you're completely confused about which parts are true and which aren't. The conversation flows easily despite that, as you find yourself stimulated by his web of lies, if anything.

With a smirk blooming on your lips, you decide to answer his riddle without words. Standing up from your seat, you walk slowly until you're behind him, and with one swift motion, you pull on his tail.

The teal-eyed stranger hisses as if he can feel actual pain from the faux appendage. He's such a good liar, a play-along comes naturally to him, it seems. You're a little bit impressed.

It begins to seem strangely exaggerated for a mere act when he looks behind his shoulder and his face is beet red when you meet his gaze. Gone is the playful glint in his eyes, and for a second, you're genuinely worried that you went too far. So you wait for him to say something, anything.

"You've got some nerve, attacking the kitsune's most sensitive spot."

You burst into laughter, barely caring about getting eyes on you from the surrounding crowd. What's more, you're absolutely triumphing on getting this sort of reaction from him - he's almost a sorry sight at the end of his wits, throwing another poor lie at you like that.

"Oh? So what's gonna happen if I keep touching it?"

You wrap your fingers more around the fluffy appendage now, the fur so thick that you can't meet your thumb with the rest of your fingers. You give it a nice stroke, bottom to top, feeling its hard center curve and resist in your hold, as if there truly is a bony spine inside. You're not sure how he's pulling it off when you can see both his hands laid out on the table now, elbows settled on the hard surface with his head drooped in between in a display of utter powerlessness.

By the time you let go and place a hand on his shoulder in concern, the expression on his face has gone through another metamorphosis. There's something animalistic to his gaze now, and it matches the speed with which he drags you out of the room and into some secluded part of the castle.

You're suddenly shoved against a cold wall, the stranger's body firmly pressed against your back as he presses his hips against yours, making you feel the arousal tenting his pants at the front.

"So kind of you to check on me after playing with me so lewdly. Did you feel sorry for me back there? It seems like you've been deceived by the kitsune."

You let out a whimper as your lust for him grows. Screw him for messing with your head like that. But mindgames aside, you know you can get a good time out of this, and you don't practically mind the ongoing roleplay, quite the contrary.

It feels like an eternity has passed before he finally aligns his cock with your dripping hole. You moan as your walls squeeze around him tightly, but he gives you no chance to get used to the delicious stretch before he pulls out of you.

"Say it. Say that you want me to fuck you."

What a tease.

"I want you …to…fuck me…" Throwing your shame out the window, it doesn't take you long before you press your hips back into his, hoping that his swollen cock will find its way inside by chance.

You feel the brush of his fluffy tail around the small of your back, the sensation unfamiliar and not unlike being teased with a feather, and it does a great job at distracting you so he can bottom out inside you in a sharp thrust.

"Ahhh!♡"

"Now then. Let's say that I have a trick up my sleeve to keep you impaled on my cock looong after you get what you want from me. Am I lying, or am I telling the truth?"

Another wag of his tail. Your mind is getting clouded by the growing pleasure, and you realize that this is your only chance to answer before you reach your orgasm.

"Nhhg- I'm rather-sceptical! Haven't you thought that you might not be my type?!"

Bold words for someone who has a cock buried to the hilt inside them currently, you know, but you can't help it. The stranger lets out a chuckle, rutting his hips against you once, and twice, and by the third time, your orgasm hits you.

"Wrong."

Something expands at the base of his cock, and a shudder runs through you. Is that... a knot? An overwhelming sense of fullness rules over your nethers, heightening the pleasure, and only then do you realize you might have truly been deceived by a kitsune.

And leaving its grip might be a little harder than you thought.

X. A bewitching Siren

As soon as you step foot out of the hall, your ears detect a melodic singing voice that is nothing like the music played at the party. Is that coming from a singer invited to perform here? Maybe that's the sound of him doing his warmup. With no set direction in mind, your feet take you closer to the source of that music, without thinking.

Through long and elaborately decorated corridors, your step speeds up, as you're eager to meet the talented individual. If he's someone famous, perhaps you'll able to get his autograph, or at least exchange a couple of words and treasure the chance meeting as a memory…

Following the voice to what looks like a regular restroom, you assume that he came here for privacy. Your excuse would be that you wanted to freshen up, yes, that sounds good. Actually, wasn't that your goal in the first place? Your head is full of excuses to follow the voice, and you understand nothing of it, but your hand is already at the doorknob.

The man you find inside, to your utter surprise, is relaxing in a bathtub. He's in costume too, much like everyone else at the party, but his puts many others to shame.

"What a beautiful tail! It reflects the light so beautifully…Oh, I'm sorry for barging in! I was looking for a restroom, and…"

"Why, thank you! Finally some company, I was starting to get lonely here."

Flip-flap. The beautiful siren's tail you just complimented is even more gorgeous when moving, the holographic properties of its scales making a beautiful rainbow pattern under the bathroom light. You're not sure why he chose something so unpractical if he's prone to getting lonely, but you give him credit for the beautiful sight he makes.

"Do you want to keep me company? I can sing for you."

"Yes, please!"

You're unsure of where that eagarness of yours comes from - wanting to spend more time with his beautiful face, or his intoxicating singing voice. But you don't let the offer slide, you'd be a fool if you did.

"Why don’t you come closer?"

Once again, your feet take you near him before your mind can command them to. Taking a seat at the edge of the bathtub, you offer the stranger a somewhat awkward smile, and he gives you one in return. His eyes are like candy, looking at you so sweetly with their magenta color as if daring you to get even closer. But you don’t get a say in that. Because he takes matters into his own hands, pulling you in by the arm until you lose your balance and fall in the tub right on top of him.

Your yelp is masked by the noisy splash of water, but you can't move an inch. The beautiful tail you admired just a while ago now turns into an immobilization tool, wrapping around your legs and pressing them tightly together. Similarly, he wraps his naked arms around your torso, fully capturing you in his grasp. He also appears to be… laughing.

"What are you squirming so much for? I thought we were going to have fun?"

"I'm just- surprised- Ahh!!"

Flipping the two of you around, you find your head dangerously close to being pushed underwater.

"Isn't it exciting to be held like that? Don't worry so much, I'm not gonna drown you! I need a pretty woman like you by my side if I want my singing performance to truly capture the romantic sound I'm trying to give it! And if we were to make love during it, that's making it even more powerful, don't you think?"

His sense of humor is strange, but you can't deny the way adrenaline heightens your need, as much as you hate the part of your brain that does that to you. He begins touching you all over with his gentle hands while humming a tune, and between desperate moans, you have another chance to admire his costume, the scales on his arms a beautiful finishing touch.

When he finally enters you, your world is spinning, and the sound of water continuously spilling over the edge of the tub sounds so distant. The man's moans are like a melody, the way he drags them out, you feel brainwashed by them almost. You'll do anything to prevent him from putting an end to that song, until you can't move a limb anymore. You just have to be careful not to completely drown in him.

XI. A cunning Devil

Wandering off on your own turns out to be rewarding as you truly manage to find another balcony that's not as crowded as the hall's main one. The crisp midnight is heavenly when you take a lungful, instantly putting you at ease. It makes you that much startled when you suddenly register someone's presence beside you. Cigarette smoke rudely enters through your nose just as you've been getting to enjoy your air filtered out from heavy perfumes. The man doesn't pay you much attention upon setting his elbows on the railing, and you can't decide if you're relieved or offended by it. The latter somewhat prevails, and you decide to break the ice after all.

"Too noisy inside, huh? It's good that we found a place to escape, haha…"

You're just a tad awkward with him, and he isn't helping much with the uninterested half-gaze he casts in your direction as he lets out a huff of smoke.

"Did ya come here hoping that I'd fool around with you?"

W-What on Earth…! Just what left him with the impression that you're-

"Take yer decision quickly. I'm almost done here."

What is he acting so full of himself for? It pisses you off, and that's no good, because you know yourself too well when being provoked.

"Fine. Let's 'fool around'. I bet you're not even that good."

The stranger takes another drag of his cigarette.

"And what do I get in return?"

The audacity!

"Excuse me? You get my body, maybe? We're BOTH in this, aren't we?"

For the first time, he turns to fully face you. You see a pair of short, pointy red horns on top of his head, and his tired eyes have a strange glint in them, making him look dangerous somehow.

"Can you repeat that for me?"

"What? I'm giving you my body."

His violet eyes flash red for a second, you swear you see them. It must be the light playing tricks on you. Not that it matters now. Not when the whole demeanor of the stranger changes in the next second, with you being whisked away in his arms and pinned against the nearby wall.

"I'm gonna treat ya to some good time, after all."

"Finally." You roll your eyes, getting used to the new arrangement as the man captures your wrists and pins them above your head. You try to initiate a kiss despite your partial immobilization, but you easily miss his lips when he lowers his head to nibble at your neck instead. The bickering must have rilled you up, because you're moaning already, despite yourself. The last thing you want is to give him the time of day and become a whimpering, moaning mess under his touch. You'll hold back as much as you can, just because. But he's making it way harder than anticipated.

Between your legs, his hand finds your dripping core easily but he's gone the second it starts feeling good. You curse him in your head, but your temper is quickly softened by the way he hoists up one of your legs on his arms and enters you. His cock feels divine, you hate to admit, as he loses no time starting to thrust away in your welcoming heat. Maybe a quick, rough fuck is exactly what you wanted. You open your eyes just so you can look at him through a layer of lustful haze. Is he enjoying this as much as you are?

The smirk on his face catches you off guard, and coupled with a rougher thrust, it becomes the reason why you reach an explosive climax so soon. He follows not long after, pulling out at the last moment and painting your abdomen with his cum.

On wobbly legs, you readjust your clothes to retrieve some decency before you return to the real world. But a hand captures your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

"Tsk, where do ya think yer going? Did ya forget already? Your body is mine now."

A thin red tail with a pointed tip wraps around your leg, further preventing you from making your escape. You hear your own heart pound in your chest, and you realize that you might have just made a deal with the Devil.

XII. A beguiling Death

"Awww, I hate this part so much! Seeing the hall get emptier and emptier as the small hours roll in…" You giggle a little at Victor's woes. The social butterfly he is, it only makes sense that he feels that way, on top of him being the party's host. You've chosen his company for a large chunk of the evening, yet you still feel as if you barely spent time with him. He's been excusing himself times and times again, talking with guests, managing the event, making sure that everyone's having fun. All of which, of course, includes you, and you're thankful for that, making sure to remind him what a good time you're having every chance you get. "But Victor, isn't it nice? You'll get to relax at long last! You must be tired." Victor looks at you, a mysterious little smile on his face. For someone who smiles so often, you pride yourself in recognizing the different meanings behind the curling of his lips, but that one in particular worries you. "Are you sure you're not having malicious intent when you're saying that? Something like wanting me all for yourself when the guests leave? Ahahaha!" The laughter doesn't make it any less obscene, what he's suggesting. You feign shock as you gaze away from him. "I never said that!" "Naughty girl, what did you think? I meant it with utmost innocence! We could help ourselves to some sinfully sweet leftovers once anyone leaves, for starters!" Oh! Okay, he caught you there. You both laugh, holding each other's gaze. His idea doesn't sound all too bad. You tell him you'll be waiting in his office, with a wink. He nods and stands to his feet, preparing to see the last of the guests out.

*** "Victor, you're still wearing your costume!" You don't have to wait long for him. Your arms are open and welcoming as soon as he enters the office, and he gives you a warm hug without saying anything. His long, black robes give him an interesting aura. His choice of costume frankly surprised you. For someone as eccentric as him, you were ready to bet he'd pick something flashy and colorful, but no. Tonight, he's Death. Your best guess is that he played along with the Grim Reaper nickname, living up to it at least in appearance. His hug gets… handsy. You're being pushed back until your rear bumps into the edge of his desk, and you've no choice but to sit on it. His tongue enters your mouth as his hands never stop wandering on your body, squeezing there and there and feeling you up. "Little Robin." "Hmm?" You barely have the brains left to answer him, just from a few kisses. You want him, now. You hope whatever he wants to talk about right now is directly related to him putting his cock inside you. "What would you do if Death wants to claim you right this instant?" Yes. Gods, yes. "I will simply accept my fate." "Hoooh? Aren't you a good girl!" Victor's long fingers worm their way under layers of clothing until you feel their coldness on your most burning parts. He's inside your panties now, and the way he loses no time slipping two of his digits inside you is making you practically melt. "Ahhh~" He shows no mercy, fingering you at a steady pace from the get-go. You don't hold back either, ready to give him everything you've got. Letting go, you're inevitably pushed over the edge and drenching his fingers with your cum. "And that, my dear," he whispers in your ear, making a shiver run down your spine, "Is called The Little Death." Your heart starts beating faster as you turn your head to capture Victor's gaze. There it is, this strange light in his amethyst eyes again. As if he's just beginning to have his fun with you after revealing another trick up his sleeve. Barely having time to recover, you start moaning in earnest again, as he scissors his fingers through you. Pleasure builds up, and just as you begin to get used to it, Victor changes the angle and begins hitting your sweet spot at the upper wall of your heat with the roughened pads of his fingers. "Ahh- Victor-Too much-" "Let yourself go, Little Robin. Tonight, I want to take everything you have to offer." Helplessly, you grab onto his dark robes for purchase as an unfamiliar sensation builds inside you. You let go as he tells you to, and you're granted with the obscene sound of water hitting the tiled floor of his office. "Nghh- Victor-" "Marvelous. Let's see how many more you can endure, shall we?" As more liquid escapes you, drenching him completely, you feel shameful, yet it's just so good it turns your brain to mush. You're not sure how many more little deaths Victor can pry out of your body, but you'll gladly leave yourself in his arms until the sun comes out.

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[spop-romanticizes-abuse]

whenever i say that a character needs therapy and healing before they start a relationship, people jump at my throat and assume that i'm saying that people with mental health issues shouldn't date at all or that they're not deserving of love.

folks. i have bipolar type 2. i'm also a psychology major. trust me when i say that i never said people with mental health issues shouldn't date at all.

i just think that it's a lot healthier to get into a committed relationship once you've started therapy and/or medication. no one is stopping you from getting into a relationship before that, but there is a higher chance of the relationship turning unhealthy and/or complicated. not just for your partner but for yourself as well.

and there are other relationships that people can and should focus on. i would never recommend an individual completely isolate themselves because they're mentally ill. that's the opposite of effective, it will only worsen your mental health.

romantic relationships aren't the only form of love. and when a person focuses solely on their romantic relationship, pushing aside their familial and platonic relationships, there's a higher chance of the person becoming overly dependent on their partner, which can again be unhealthy.

and keep in mind, my criticism is also more from a fictional perspective. stories that ignore a character's trauma and just give them a romantic partner aren't trying to tell you that people with mental health issues deserve love too, they're trying to brush the character's trauma under the rug and hoping that you won't notice.

a lot of these writers seem to genuinely think that romance will “cure” a character, and that's such a harmful mindset because it discourages people from seeking professional help. it's the same logic as thinking that birthing a child will solve relationship problems between a couple - that's just not how it works.

and in cases like catra, it's even worse because catra is not just dating anyone, she's dating the same person she has abused since childhood. this is destructive for both of them, not just adora. we have to realize that toxicity often stems from some kind of trauma (though not always) and it's not ableist to say that an abuser shouldn't be dating their victim.

one good example of a relationship involving a victim of trauma, in my opinion, is steven and connie from steven universe.

steven universe future focuses entirely on steven's deteriorating mental health, caused by all the trauma he endured in the original series. but in the end, after experiencing a mental breakdown, he actually seeks professional help before beginning to date connie.

it must also be mentioned that their relationship had great development since their friendship was already quite healthy and mutually supportive, and connie has been with steven through all his highs and lows. and so, it doesn't feel like this relationship came out of nowhere, just so that steven gets a happy ending.

it's a satisfying conclusion to both of their arcs and even better because they're allowed to stay away from each other and pursue their own goals while still being in a relationship, meaning that there won't be the risk of them becoming codependent.

this is all that i'm asking writers do with their characters with mental health issues/trauma. you can give them a romantic partner, just make sure you address their personal problems too, instead of brushing them under the rug.