#its been some time since i wanted to do this

[hedgehog-moss]

When the world feels chaotic and unstable you can draw comfort and hope from one enduring certainty, and it is...

... that Pampérigouste escaped again.

She Found A Way, and so can you—the first tenet of llama philosophy.

@ Anon from last time, please don't insult my fence again, it is truly doing its best 😔 One of the crossbars snapped because of the snow. Or the wind. Or Pampe. But I launched an investigation and found the crime scene pretty soon, thanks to her footprints in the fresh snow. (Surrounded by a whole lot of Pandolf's excited pawprints.)

Pandolf & I walked around in the woods for some time looking for a replacement crossbar—as always, he wasn't quite sure what we were looking for but was very supportive and enthusiastic nonetheless.

We found a suitably long & straight branch.

Ta-dah! All patched up. (It's hard to tie knots with freezing hands so I warmed them up in Pandolf's neck fur at regular intervals. He thought he was being petted for being a good dog. He would have probably been even happier to realise he was being a good and useful dog, at the same time.)

I felt like I had earned my morning coffee, but just to be on the safe side, I went to check another crossbar that I've been keeping an eye on as a potential Escape Spot, because it's curved and therefore lower than the others—but there were no llama footprints there.

Then I saw Pampe start trotting towards a specific part of the fence, with this cheerful and resolute gait which is always very alarming. I went after her, and discovered that she'd led me straight to another broken crossbar, and she was politely waiting for me there.

She is so confident in her abilities that she's decided she can afford to give her adversary some helpful tips.

I had no trouble getting her back in her pasture btw, the Muesli Whistle still works very well (especially in winter when she's hungrier.) She didn't really want to go anywhere; her to-do list for today was 1. test every crossbar by applying pressure with her neck to locate a weak one, lower it then gracefully jump over it to practise her best talents; 2. acquire illegal hazel catkins from the tree near my house, thus making sure I can spot her from my window and see how talented she is; 3. make me say "Pampe!!!" in that annoyed tone that she evidently enjoys hearing; 4. wait for me to go get the usual muesli bribe before following me to the pasture.

And since the other animals always end up getting some muesli as well, it's clear that Pampe thinks of her escapes as a service to her community.

[headspace-hotel]

This year has, so far, been for me a series of rapid realizations of what I have been unlearning.

I went to the library. This was a couple weeks ago. I knew I needed to read a book, fiction. I hadn't done so in over a year and it was the longest period of time I had ever gone without doing so. I made a rule: I would only pick books I had never heard of, by authors I had never heard of, and I would not do any preliminary research or even bother to look at what the book was about. I would make my decision on whether to read or not purely on my impression of the title, cover and opening lines.

The book was The Connoisseur by Evan S. Connell. It was kind of a random selection. I sat down with it in a corner of the library and straight up devoured it. I tore through the book within a few hours, without taking a single break. I was captivated. I couldn't put it down.

It is a book about a guy who buys a Mayan figurine in a knickknack shop while he's on a business trip. and becomes obsessed with pre-Columbian sculptural art. There isn't really much of a plot apart from this. He goes to sketchy antique shows, has conversations with museum curators, wealthy art dealers and forgers, and seeks to learn how to distinguish a genuine pre-Columbian piece from a fake one. It was written in the 1970's, so the views on Native Americans are antiquated and sometimes offensive, and there is the troubling thread of the very concept of looting another culture's treasures and treating them as collectibles, though the book is not without commentary on this.

All the same, it was a completely intoxicating read. The vicarious experience of becoming fascinated with a topic and having it unfold a whole world for you was ferociously gripping, and so was the intrigue of the art collecting world itself. The frauds, forgeries, smuggling, museums, academics, aristocrats, auctions and seedy flea markets. Will he ever be able to tell if a piece is "real?" Does it matter if it's "real?" Why does he want to own and possess a piece of art, and how does its "realness" affect that desire? The book leaves you not knowing what to think.

It is a book about curiosity, portrayed in the narrative as a totally unreasonable lightning bolt that strikes a man who has never been fascinated by anything and changes him forever. Why? Why does a Mayan figurine, in particular, speak to him? Why does any piece of art, or any fascinating thing in the world, speak to anyone? It is unknowable.

I went to the library again. I picked a new book using the same rules. This book was Fragile Beasts by Tawni O'Dell. Just like the last time, I was totally captivated. I couldn't put it down.

Did I have a couple major problems with the portrayal of some important aspects of the story? Yes. (It would make the post much longer to discuss.) Was I completely captured by and invested in the story for the time I was reading it? Also yes. The book braids together several very different strands-- the story of a legendary Spanish bullfighter and a wealthy American woman that he loved, two brothers stuck in an ugly family situation after their father's death in a car accident, and a rich old heir to a Pennsylvania coal mining fortune and to the sinister underbelly of her family's business.

There was a lot about baseball, which I know nothing about, and bullfighting, which I know nothing about, and I certainly don't know anything about being a teenaged boy who resents and mistrusts his estranged mother, or an aristocratic old lady who lives in a mansion and eats fancy Spanish food. It was fun to experience so much unfamiliar stuff and to care about things I wouldn't normally care about. Once again I couldn't stop reading until I had finished it.

I don't know that either book was "good," though I thought they were both well written; I just know that reading them was like being hooked up to an IV of something essential and life-giving and feeling it reanimating my body.

It had been a year since I had read any fiction, but it had been much, much longer since I had loved to read. As I became an adult I had become picky and critical about books, and developed a highly sophisticated sense of my taste and the books I considered good- which were very rare. My taste in books became so sophisticated, eventually, that I didn't like books at all anymore.

I had almost withered away from deficiency of that essential nutrient known as STORY. I'd almost crumbled myself into dust from pretentiousness! I may have been terribly wrong about the kinds of things I liked to read, on top of it. And I certainly hadn't realized that story was such an essential nutrient.

"Just entertainment" the pretentious sorts of people might say of a book they think is useless-- but what is entertainment but to absorb your mind in something, and what is absorbing your mind in a book but to experience things you would never have experienced? It expands you and makes you more complicated. It is the study of human existence itself.

Now all I have been able to think about today is finishing my work and going to the library again...

[mossterunderthebed]

I HAVE BEEN ASKED SO YE SHALL BE ANSWERED

OKAY SO

Gojo meets yuuji who works part time at a station gassing up ppls cars and gojo is instantly attracted and charmed and chats him up for ages but eventually his boss yells at yuuji to hurry up and so he scurries off but gojo comes in the next day w a different car and keeps doing that until theyve been chatting for like a week or two and gojo mentions his car needing a tune up bc something keeps grinding but hes not a mech so he doesnt know how to fix it 

and yuuji volunteers and says hes been working with cars since he was a little boy cause its what his father did for a living and his gramps kept the shop running bc he couldnt bear to let it go but he didnt know much so yuuji was determined to make the business succeed and learned at the hands of the man gramps hired and also worked all the time of random scraps and junk cars and just constantly tinkered so hes really good and confident w them 

and so he looks at gojos car and fixes it in up just a few mins and gojos suitably impressed and offers him a job but yuuji doesnt get it and gojos like ‘im an f1 drier. P famous actually.’ 

and yuuji just stares at him blankly and is like. ‘Yeah. i know.’ and gojos like ‘wut’ and yuuji lists off some of his accomplishment and smiles at him and is just like ‘ive been cheering you on since i was like six and knew what racing was’ 

and gojo’s amazed that yuuji didnt dissolve into a Fanboy and kinda accuses him like ‘u didnt act like squealy or like you knew me or anything’ and yuuji was like ‘no? Because that would be weird? And you’re a person and a customer and im not gonna make you uncomfortable?’ 

and gojos kinda stumped but also like ‘so u dont want my autograph’ and yuuji just goes bright pink and kinda mumbles ‘i didnt say that’ and gojo grins and goes ‘how about this then? Ill give you a chance to be a part of F1 history AND get my autograph. If you come work on my team’ 

and so he does and the team (run by getou suguru gojo’s best friend since high school) is kinda skeptical abt him at first but hes actually amazing with cars and super strong and friendly and helpful and they’re all won over super fast. 

And then u know. Goyuu speed date and get married and its all adorable ‘n’ stuff.

my piece for a gojo cup sleeve event !

[ssa-dado]

24 - Logos

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And somehow, that made it even sweeter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no. She didn’t let you finish.

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

You choked.

Actually choked.

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

Your counter.

Your floor.

Your poor, innocent, pristine white pants.

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

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

You wheezed, still coughing. "Penelope-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You froze.

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

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

"OH. MY. GOD."

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

"OH MY GOD. YOU DID."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

You should have seen that coming."Penelope!"

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

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

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

Oh no.

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

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

Yes.

And no comment.

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

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

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

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

"Penelope, please." You were already suffering.

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

You froze. "Do not finish that sentence."

"BIG, HUGE D-"

Time to draw the line.

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

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

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

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

You absolutely would.

And you did.

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

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

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

…Hmm. Well. Yes?

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

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

Not important. Moving on.

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

Connected.

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

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

There was a pause. A beat.

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

You froze.

Penelope froze.

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

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

Aaron in the shower.

Aaron, freshly out of the shower.

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

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

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

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

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

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

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

Dead silence.

Garcia looked like she had been struck by divine retribution.

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

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

Nothing.

Just the sound of sheer existential regret.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You just stared at her.

She just stared back.

Then, in perfect sync -

You both screamed, laughing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You still somehow winced thinking back about it.

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

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

She lifted her head just enough to nod. Begrudgingly.

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

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

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

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

You nearly choked, again. "Penelope!"

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

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

Penelope screamed.

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

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

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

"You need to calm down," you deadpanned.

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

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

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

You shrugged. "You survived."

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

You tilted your head. "Who?"

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

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

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

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

"Why not?!" she howled.

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

She narrowed her eyes, assessing, calculating.

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

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

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

"I-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"PENELOPE."

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

"We were disagreeing about the profile."

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

You let your head drop onto the counter.

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

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

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

Oh fucking hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"PENELOPE."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should have seen this coming.

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

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

Aaron didn’t even let him finish.

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

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

And then - Penelope smirked.

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

Yeah. You were doomed.

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

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

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

Didn’t even let you reach for it yourself.

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

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

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

You had never wanted to fight for your life more.

Not because of the closeness.

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

No.

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

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

You blinked.

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

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

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

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

Oh, he was such a loser.

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

Like this was all perfectly normal.

Like you hadn’t just caught him.

"Aaron." You bit back a smirk.

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

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

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

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

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

He knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah. Okay.

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

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

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

"Best friends," you repeated.

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

A beat. A pause. Too long.

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

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

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

And then-

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

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

And God - that laugh.

It wrecked him.

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

He was so, so fucked.

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

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

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

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

It would consume him.

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

Unless he knew you wanted him too.

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

And that terrified him, because he was not sure.

Because you laughed like it was just funny.

Because you smiled like this was just a conversation.

Because you did not look wrecked.

Not like he felt.

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

Not ‘do you think I’m wrong’.

Not ‘do you disagree’.

But  - you think so too.

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

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

He was paying attention to everything.

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

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

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

That it didn’t mean anything.

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

You raised an eyebrow. “In what?”

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

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

It was dangerous, talking to you like this.

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

Especially when it came to him.

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

It was your job, afterall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he did what he had always done.

He lived with it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He understood.

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

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

Just a few inches at first.

And then he did the same.

You moved again. Then so did he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And somehow, that made it all the more devastating.

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

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

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

But then, you looked back up.

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

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

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

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

It was you who moved first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that was it.

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

Gentle. Steady. Tender.

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

You didn’t pull away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. “Very.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wanted him. Now.

You were ready - to let it all go.

“Aaron,” you whispered, looking into him.

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

Your temple.

The side of your right eye.

The curve of your cheek.

Down to your jawline.

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

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

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

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

The moment.

How do you measure a moment like this?

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

And then, finally, he closed the distance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe that was the point.

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

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

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

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

But damn, how it changed with every turn.

The same, yet entirely different.

The weight of then. The depth of now.

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

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

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

The cycle never ends.

But neither, it seemed, did you.

Competing with each other, as always.

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

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

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

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

Damn him and his competitiveness.

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

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

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

Damn him.

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

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

And so, blame the position.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No shit, Sherlock.

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

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

No shit, Sherlock, part two.

Was he worrying about you or himself?

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

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

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

Oh God, how considerate he was.

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

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

But words it was, then.

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

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

How responsible.

How tragic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if you could talk.

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

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

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

Anyway, the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh no, what a pity…

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

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

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

Mismatched underwear.

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

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

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

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

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

But plans didn’t seem to matter anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you refused to let a sound escape.

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

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

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

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

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

Attention that the insufferable man was withholding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah. That smirk. Never a good sign.

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

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

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

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

From the knee.

Oh, come on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. What a whore.

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

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

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

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

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

Didn’t touch.

Just -

"You're a goddess."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hilarious.

"You have it," you murmured.

That was delicious.

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

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

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

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

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

And it probably did.

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

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

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

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

And oh, he heard you, loud and clear.

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

Fuck him.

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

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

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

What a whore.

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

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

How cruel of him.

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

“Please do,” he said.

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

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

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

"Stay open for me."

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

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

Some things never changed.

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

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

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

"Aaron, I'm so close."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t stop.

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

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

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

And then he kissed you.

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

Romanticism truly was dead.

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

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

Who were you to refuse?

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

And oh damn-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The reaction was immediate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy fucking-

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

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

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

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

“God, you’re so tight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Really?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was no fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there it was.

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

Damn the stoics for being right.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, neither was your cu-

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tried to respond, he really did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stilled.

Aaron’s face hardened. Rocher’s victims.

The ones he had been taunting you with.

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

Aaron’s eyes sharpened. "What?"

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

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

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

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

You were both there.

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

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

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

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

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

The answer was obvious before he even said it.

“…philosophy.”

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

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

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

Because it wasn’t just the age gap.

It wasn’t just the coincidence of numbers.

It was what made it undeniable.

A lawyer.

And a philosopher.

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

Almost like in the musicals.

Almost sweet.

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

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

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

[mewhenimanangel]

need that, hamzahthefantastic

prev pt 3*

—synopsis. hamzah invites you over to be in their new video

—warnings!: freaky uti, dry humping, undressing

notes 🫧: the fight was so tuff, i’m a die hard noob

—🐞

you parked your car outside hamzah’s house, fixing your lip gloss and zipping up your sweater before going to knock on his door.

him and martin invited you to be in one of their sims videos since mandy was on vacation and they knew you played as well.

it’s been around two weeks since you and hamzah made out in his car. since then, you’d been texting a lot more and you hung out twice with mandy and martin. though, you haven’t done anything to continue what he started.

hamzah answered the door with a grin, “come on in boi, we haven’t started playing yet. martin’s still connecting the camera and the mic” he closed the door behind you.

you felt something brush against your leg, looking down to see his cat rubbing itself on your leg. “awwww he’s so cute” you reached down to see if he’d let you pick him up.

when he did you held him in your arms and rubbed behind its ear. “which one is this?” you asked hamzah. “this is blue. red’s probably upstairs somewhere clawing at something.” he said, reaching over your arm to pet blue.

“i had to put a child lock on my fridge cause they figured out how to open it bruh” he shook his head.

you giggled looking at him with a smile.

“oh hey y/n, didn’t know you were here already. i just finished setting up the camera” martin said. “heyy” you put blue down on the floor, following martin.

“you ready to get your sims on?” he asked. “try freaking born ready” you giggled, hamzah following behind you.

you sat off to the side on the couch in hamzah’s office while they started the video. “hello everynyan-” hamzah interrupted him “dude what” “it’s like a meme like have you ever seen it? it’s like oh my gahhh” martin awkwardly repeated the video, hamzah stifling a laugh. “anyways we’re back and better than frigging ever” martin started off.

“now it has been a while-“ “definitely been a while-“ “right, a while since our regularly scheduled programming” hamzah said. “i hope you guys enjoyed the fight, we worked super hard literally for like six months”

“and you may realize we’re not in our usual spot, wanna tell them why that is?” martin said. “yes we are, we’re in my house this time because mandy’s on vacation and martin, feeling like a sad little lonely boy wanted to come over and play with me”

“yes mandy is gone. she is in spain right now because she doesn’t love me anymore. you know what they say, ‘go to spain when your lover’s a pain’. that’s why she hasn’t proposed to me yet in the big year of twenty twenty-five” martin went on. “literally nobody says that”

“but speaking of mandy, today we’re playing the sims. something we haven’t done in a long time and we need a little bit of a refresher” “yes, the sims is a girl game and since we don’t have mandy, we brought back up” hamzah added.

“yes, we obviously cannot play this game ourselves so we brought in another expert” they looked at each other before counting down from 3 and snapping their fingers. you knew they were gonna put some silly transition effect over this.

hamzah got up to get another chair for you “you good?” he asked you, making sure you were comfortable. and you nod your head before sitting between them. “hellurr. yes i am mandy’s back up today. because obviously, they don’t know what they’re doing so im taking over.”

“dude what is it with girls and the sims. only girls know how to play the sims” martin and hamzah riffed while you logged into your sims account.

“now this is your first time on here y/n, how do you feel in the presence of such greatness” martin asked. “well im honored to be on but i don’t know about ‘greatness’” you joked.

after two hours of creating sims and making them kill, cheat, fornicate, and find love, they ended the video. “banger video alert” hamzah turned the computer off. “uhh yeah that was really good if i do say so myself.” you pat yourself on the back.

the three of you lounged around hamzah’s living room for another hour after that. “are you guys hungry?” hamzah asked “i was gonna order some food” “actually i still have some packing to do for my flight tomorrow” martin sighed while playing with red. “oh shit right, i forgot” hamzah shrugged.

“i’m gonna head out now bro i’ll see you next week” he dapped hamzah up before doing the same to you. hamzah followed him out before closing the door behind him.

“i could eat” you shrugged and hamzah smiled. he pulled his phone out and ordered chick-fil-a, adding in your order.

you sat criss crossed on his couch as blue jumped into your lap, snuggling up against you and purring. “his ass definitely likes you” hamzah chuckled.

“do you want one?” he asked, coming back from his bedroom with a little jar of edibles. “sure” you reached to grab one with your nails.

hamzah grabbed one too and you tapped them together in a ‘cheers’ motion before eating them.

you soured your face and gagged “okay these are nasty oh my god” you laughed. “yeah they taste like butt but they do the job. the food should be here in like twenty minutes” he said, joining you on the couch.

you helped him review the footage from the video before he sent it to their editor. by now the edible was beginning to kick in and you were growing hungrier by the minute. his door bell rung and he got up to answer the door.

he came back holding the bags of food up with a smile on his face and plopped down onto the couch, this time much closer to you, legs and arms touching.

“fuck i’m starving. is that shit kicking in for you yet?” he asked, handing you your sandwich and fries. “oh it is” you grinned.

“have you ever had the mac and cheese?” he asked you. “no i usually go for the fries” “okay here you gotta try it.” he took some on his fork and put it in front of your mouth, paying close attention to the way your lips wrapped around the fork. “right?” he nod his head at your reaction.

“wait here, you’ve got some cheese on your mouth” he said, brushing your lip off with a napkin. “oh..oops” you giggled through your slowed words.

the two of you tore through your food, turning on family guy in the background. “that was so fucking good” you looked at him, eyes low and red.

“right…..i’m stuffed.” you slowly sipped on your milkshake. “do you ever think about what they do with the cut out pieces of fries?” you asked, just chatting. “i always wonder but they probably just throw them away.” he added.

you leaned back into the couch, cross legged, knee resting atop of hamzah’s as he put his arm on the back of the chair behind you.

he slowly rubbed your bare shoulder that peeked from under your hoodie that was falling off. you leaned your head back, resting it on his arm before looking at him.

“so, are we just never gonna talk about it again?” you addressed the elephant in the room. “hm?” he looked at you. “the kiss, are we just gonna act like it didn’t happen?”

“no of course not, i just wasn’t sure if i had made you uncomfortable so i didn’t wanna push anything again” he shrugged. “hamzah i kissed you back for a reason. i wanted it” you reassured. “and i still do” you said, looking away for a second.

he grabbed your chin, turning your face back to his before kissing you. you leaned into the kiss, rubbing your nails at the back of his neck.

the room filled with your mutual satisfied sounds, hamzah pushing his hand up under your sweater. he laid you down against the couch arm, keeping himself steady atop of you.

he slowly pulled the zip down, taking off your sweater off, you willed yourself to follow his lead, wrapping your arms around him. he broke the kiss, “you good, right?” he asked. “yeah, keep going. i want you, hamzah” you reassured. he kissed you again before lining kisses down your jawline and throat. he sucked down on your skin “wait don’t leave any hickeys” you said through a moan.

“too late” he let out a breathy laugh, making you giggle. hamzah let out a soft noise at the feeling of your nails rubbing through his hair. he slowly eased his up under your tank top, reaching up he grabbed a handful of bra. “here, hang on” you sat up, taking off your shirt and throwing it by your sweater. you fiddled with your bra clasp and eased the straps off your shoulders, letting your boobs rest.

hamzah stared at them, mouth agape. “that was a push up bra by the way, so don’t be too disappointed” you joked. “how would i be disappointed. you’re fucking hot” he pulled you atop of him and kissed you, hands firm on your ass.

he kissed down the middle of your chest before his mouth latched on. you sighed in satisfaction when he rolled his tongue.

you subconsciously grinded your hips on his, feeling him grow. “fuck” you winced. you stayed in that position for a while, dry humping each other as he kissed and sucked all over your upper body. you felt yourself getting needier by the minute. “hamzah-“ you started before being interrupted by a knocking on the door. “dude let me in, i forgot my wallet” it was martin.

you looked at hamzah before getting up. he kissed you “go to my bedroom, i’ll be there in a second” he told you and you smirked before leaving the room.

hamzah let him in “ugh thank you, i was worried you fell asleep” martin said, spotting his wallet on the side table.

hamzah looked over his shoulder realizing your shirt and bra were still thrown around on the couch. “imagine i went all the way to spain and forgot this just sitting here” martin chuckled before turning around, hamzah missing the chance to let him not to.

“oou you got chick-fil-a? anything left?” he looked inside a bag before he came face to face with your bra. he turned around, jaw dropped “dude!” he gasped and hamzah grinned.

lvryn

Liked by hamzahthefantasfic, clairedrakee and others

lvryn alright who pressed fast forward on my weekend 😂

mandys_iphone cute

user HELLO? is this a soft launch?????

ynlover omg this and how touchy they were in the sims video last month, they’re definitely dating ?)!(!;$:

— 🐞 the end

[peachdues]

FREE USE UNIVERSITY!

Tengen x Sanemi x Kyojuro x Reader Roomate Free Use AU • NSFW

A/N: a new mini-series. this is meant to be a headcanon post that I can add to whenever horny. I have no excuse for this. It’s straight smut.

CW: MDNI • explicit sexual content below • free use • threesomes • voyuerisum • somnophilia • oral sex • references to anal sex • just straight filth tbh • creampies

Some roommates do group movies or grocery trips to bond; your roommates, however, have adopted a different approach. 

Tengen is the first to initiate this little exchange, and at the beginning, it really isn’t an exchange at all. Instead, it starts out as a simple request: stress relief. He’d come home angry and pissed after a lab went horribly wrong, and there you’d been, too irresistible to be hanging around the apartment in those too-short shorts. He’d taken one look at you, lounging on the couch in the living room, idly flipping through a textbook, and his frustration had made him bold enough to ask.

Maybe it had been the look in his eyes — fiery and sultry, an unusual contrast to his normal, loping swagger, that made you clench your thighs together. Or, perhaps it was simply because he was hot and it had been ages since you last got laid. Either way, Tengen ended up fucking you clear in the open, right on the couch. Every bit of it was hotter than you’d ever imagined — toe-curling and mind-numbingly good, the orgasm he fucked out of you strong enough to make you tear the glossy page of your text right from its binding as your fingers spasmed beyond your control. 

Maybe it would have been a one-time only sort of thing, or perhaps even the start of a secret, roommates-with-benefits arrangement. But then, Sanemi came home right as Tengen was in the middle of pumping a second load of cum into you, and your secret was out before you’d ever fully had the chance to keep it. You hadn’t seen Sanemi’s face, as yours was pressed into the sofa beneath the mass of Tengen’s palm, but you did hear Tengen’s snarky little what, you want some, too? 

Instead of answering, Sanemi had simply crossed the living room, drawing to a stop right in front of your head, and gently coaxed your face up from its place between the cushions. 

Sanemi’s fingers lingered under your chin, the pad of his thumb thick with calluses. “Well?” 

Call it orgasmic delusion or simple wantoness on your part, but your consent came with a dip of your head, and your lips parting around his thumb. The momoent you flicked your tongue out over his skin, Sanemi snapped, and his cock was down your throat faster than you could blink. 

Kyojuro was the last to join your little arrangement, quite literally stumbling across the sight of you, standing at the stove as you waited for your dinner to heat while Sanemi was on his knees behind you, his face buried in your ass. The sound of Kyojuro’s books hitting the floor as he stared was met only with a casual glance over your shoulder and a smile of greeting, before Sanemi did something downright sinister with his tongue and made your eyes roll into your head. 

Poor, sweet Kyojuro, still couldn’t bring himself to join in, no matter how many times he came across — or outright stared — at the way his two best friends used you so easily. You were kind and sweet, and a good roommate, so he couldn’t imagine debasing you that way, even if that quickly became the only thing he could think about. 

He tried, oh, he tried, to resist. But your dealings with Tengen and Sanemi meant that you wore less and less while at home until you were lounging about in only the thinnest underwear or the shortest little tops — all of which could easily be moved out of the way when the moment called for it. Soon, Kyojuro found himself standing behind you while you did the dishes, his cock in hand as he furiously pumped himself against the curve of your ass. You always stayed in place when you felt his warmth bearing into you from behind, even going so far as to grind against him to help him along. He almost could have been satisfied with just this, until you began moaning for his cum, pushing your hips back almost in demand as you waited to feel him spurt across your skin. That’s when he broke. 

Now, when Kyojuro is stressed — which is more often that you’d thought, to your surprise — you can almost guarantee he’s going to sit you down on the nearest surface and spread you wide.

Of course, it became obvious that all three of the boys were involved with you, and so, a roommate meeting is called. Details need to be hammered out, understandings need to be reached that everything was platonic and no one was at risk of developing any other feelings. Once that’s done, Tengen, always the instigator, is the one to suggest you as the group bonding activity. After all, you have three holes and two hands, he reminds you, slyly. 

They’re fair, of course, so a deal is struck: you in exchange for your share of the rent. An exchange of goods for services, as Tengen had put it. They lived in this apartment on their own before you moved in, so cost isn’t prohibitive. The only bills you have are your own groceries and your personal shit, so really, what do you have to lose? Besides, they’re all hot as hell, and you’re young. Might as well enjoy the ride. 

Sometimes they wait for the first one to finish with you, the other two wait in their rooms, pumping their stiffened cocks to the sounds of your whines and the other’s grunts or moans. Other times, though, one or both will join in, and you find yourself the object of three equally ravenous appetites. 

And, free use really means free use. Scrolling through social media? Fun! But if Tengen sidles up to where you lounge on the couch, his cock hard and balls full, you know to open your mouth. And you’re more than free to keep browsing the web as long as your throat is available. Talking to your mom? No problem; Kyojuro is still lifting up your shirt and taking one of your pretty tits in his mouth. He’ll do his best not to groan and suck at your nipple too loudly, but he only has so much self control. Besides, his hot mouth and devilish tongue are guaranteed to have you desperate to get off the phone before you get off while still on it — especially if his fingers start playing between your thighs. Trying to shave your legs in the shower? Might want to put the razor down, because Sanemi caught one glimpse of your ass in the foggy bathroom mirror and decided it would look better with his cum leaking out of it. Your pussy too, for that matter.

To keep everything within the bounds of fair play, the boys did agree to one rule: once someone comes, they move to sometbing different. That way, no one monopolizes any part of you, and everyone gets a fair shot at cumming where they want. Though, as time goes on, you do learn that they have their preferences. Tengen loves filling up your greedy little cunt with as much as it will take, while Sanemi loves cumming all over your tits or face. Kyojuro had been a bit of a surprise, preferring not your mouth, but your ass to pump his frustrations into.

It helps that the only bottoms you wear when lounging around the apartment is your underwear. That means whoever happens to walk by can simply reach over and tug your panties to the side and sate their need without the fuss of buttons or belts.

That sort of convenience is also the reason you’ve learned to sleep naked. It’s far easier to come out of sleep with their tongue or fingers or cock already inside you than it is to be startled awake by wandering hands trying to find you beneath unnecessary layers in the dark. 

Oh, don’t think being asleep matters, either. Your bedroom is public, as far as anyone is concerned. Besides, you don’t need to be awake to give your boys what they need, and that’s what this is all about, right?

Kyojuro was the first to pierce that veil, pushing into your room well after midnight one night, desperate and aching. Your body was far too pliant in his hands as he pushed your legs out of his way, his cock drawn to your center in the dark like a magnet. You’d woken up just as he fully sheathed himself inside you and widened your thighs to make room for him. 

Of course, Kyojuro didn’t know how to be quiet, which meant the rest of the apartment quickly became privy to his late night activities. Even half-asleep, you’d sensed Tengen and Sanemi watching from your doorway, admiring.

“Atta boy, Kyo,” Tengen claps Kyojuro on his shoulder the moment he finishes moaning out his ecstasy, his limbs shaky and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. “Got her nice and ready for us.” 

“Us?” You shoot back, your thighs rubbing lazily together as you savor the feeling of Kyojuro’s hot seed leaking out of you.

A hand — Sanemi’s judging by the roughness of skin — hooks around your ankle, tugging you to the edge of your bed before flipping you to your stomach. “You two woke up the whole damn apartment, so you’ve gotta help us get back to sleep.” 

You smother your grin against your blankets. “That was Kyojuro, not me.” 

Across the room, Kyojuro huffs out a half-hearted apology, still panting and breathless. In the dark, you can almost see the sweaty flush that always spreads across his chest after he comes; the glassiness that settles into his eyes once he’s successfully fucked every thought right out of his head and directly into you.

“Not punishment,” Tengen corrects, tapping the bulbous head of his cock against the seam of your lips. “Just a little late-night treat.” 

Humming contentedly, you drag your tongue right across Tengen’s tip, savoring the hitch in his breath. Just as you part your lips to take his shaft into your mouth, you feel your mattress dip as Sanemi’s weight settles in behind you. 

“Fuck you came a lot,” Sanemi groans at Kyojuro, dragging the tip of his length up and down your swollen cente to coat himself. “She likes that, though. Don’t you, sweetheart?”

Your moan is drowned out by Tengen’s raspy swear, the vibrations of your mouth around his cock forcing his hips to buck, pushing him further down your throat. 

Sanemi chuckles and reaches under you, his fingers circling smoothly over your clit. “She’s good at holdin’ it, too.” He shuffles forward on his knees, his tip aligned at your entrance. “I’ll give you more, sweetness, don’t worry. Let’s see if I can get all of us off together again.” 

Last week, Sanemi had come home to the sight of you on all fours with Tengen halfway down your throat. He hasn’t wasted any time in throwing his books to the side, unbuckling his pants, and wedging himself between your spread thighs, his own cock heavy and hard in his hand. Tengen must’ve warmed you up already, because Sanemi slammed his hips forward with no resistance until he was groin to ass with you. 

You’d been the first to tap out, coming hard on him with a half-moan, half scream muffled by Tengen’s girth. The vibrations had proven to be too much for him, for not half a second later had his eyes rolled back, a strangled whine slicing through ragged pants and the sound of Sanemi’s skin clapping against yours. Tengen final thrust choked off the last of your air supply but before you could pull off him, he’d planted one massive hand right at the back of your skull and held you in place. Of course, the sight of Tengen fucking his cum down your throat and the way you creamed around his dick had Sanemi spilling into you hard and fast not a moment later, nearly going cross eyed in the process.

Now, with a single forward-pitch of his hips, Sanemi sheathes himself inside you with a loud swear. There’s no time for you to adjust; you didn’t need it, not when Kyojuro’s cum is steadily squelching out of you with every sticky thrust. Before long, your toes are curling against your sheets, the blankets fisted in your hands soaked with drool that spilled down your chin while Tengen languidly fucks your mouth, his fingers twisted hard in your hair. 

True to his word, Sanemi gets all three of you off together, though it’s his orgasm that sets off the train of euphoria. He comes with a firm twist of his hips, his fingers digging possessively into the meat on your hips as he holds you flush against his groin. The feeling of his balls pulsing right against your swollen center sets you off next, your thighs trembling almost violently in their effort to keep you from collapsing into your bed. Yet, for all your struggling, Sanemi only cants his hips forward to prolong the length of his release. The force of his movements sends you jolting forward until your nose is buried in the coarse smattering of silver-white hair that covers Tengen’s groin. Predictably, that’s all it takes to send him over the edge, and Tengen spilled down your throat with a cracked Fuck! 

All in all, no place — or surface — in the apartment is off-limits. The kitchen counter, the sofa, the shower, any of their rooms (including yours), the balcony, all of it is fair game when the mood strikes. No matter what you’re doing, no matter what time it is, if someone is hard, they’re coming to you to fix it. 

For instance, there are only two bathrooms in the apartment, and though the boys were considerate in letting you take the bedroom with the private, attached bath, that doesn’t mean your shower isn’t as fair game as the rest of your room. In fact, of the two apartment showers, Sanemi prefers your standing enclosure to the boys’ shared tub.

He’s especially fond of your glass doors, which fogs up easily because that means he could press your body right against it and fuck you senseless, guaranteeing the imprint of your perfect body will be left behind on the shower door even even after his cum runs down your legs and the drain.

By the end of the month, there isn’t a single place in the apartment where you haven’t been thoroughly fucked. That is, at least, until the swing arrives. 

I’m sure I’ll add onto this debauchery. I’ve no shortage of ideas, unfortunately for you all.

LIKES, REBLOGS, COMMENTS APPRECIATED!

[seewetter]

My first thought at hearing horror described as "a predatory force seeking out the exposed and vulnerable elements of society" made me think of a movie about a monster tormenting people who refuse to be vulnerable and at the end the "final girl" has vulnerability but must spend a highly uncomfortable eternity with the monster.

But then I realized that while that would make a good horror movie, it would just be the flip side of the coin of horror movie avoidance. The audience then simply gets "action movie"-like gratification where the victims have to open up and be vulnerable and laughs in schadenfreude when they fail at this task. It could be good horror, but it wouldn't challenge its target audience, who don't relate to the victims in the film. The audience would side with the monster, and watching the predation with a certain level of emotional detachment. "Ahaha, that frat bro couldn't show vulnerability, go get him". This could be a fun movie, but it's not a template for the appeal of horror. And people who don't want to be vulnerable in that particular way can become more entrenched in their mindset, because the film isn't just victimizing (people like) them, it mocks its victims, it addresses the audience as people superior to those victims.

If, say, a slasher movie features a bunch of frat bros who never open up to each other, this doesn't reflect real vulnerabilities of frat bros, who IRL do tell each other pretty harrowing stories and show emotional vulnerability in the right social setting -- the reason shitty men bully emotional or "weak" men in group settings is cishet patriarchal pecking order / violence. These guys do all these weak and emotional things all the time, just under the "right" pretense. So a horror film where frat bros are killed for being repressed kind of misses its mark as social criticism.

But even if the film killed frat bros or karens or other groups of privileged people who either repress something or hide a violent underbelly of their group, a challenging horror film walks a fine line.

Any horror film that simply *gives them what they deserve*, say a slasher film where frat bros die one-by-one as the monster seeks out guys who aren't, as prev put it "reduced to tears", is wish-fulfillment for an audience critical of frat bro culture. Like I'd get a kick out of it, I think such stories should be told and I'll watch at least a few of them, but I know deep down that I'm watching something that doesn't actually affect me. Don't misunderstand me: I don't think entertainment needs to be pure. I don't think it needs to teach valuable lessons. But since people above are discussing the kind of infantile mindset where someone basically doesn't like about horror the very thing that makes it horror (the helplessness) I can't but mention that to really get audiences to experience helplessness, you need *them* to actually feel helpless. So watching some Karen who totally deserves to get chopped to bits feel helpless ...only works if *you're* a Karen like that yourself -- and even then might not work if you rightfully(?) suspect this entertainment was made by other people to make fun of you or feel superior to you.

Schadenfreude (enjoying the damage others face) is absolutely a viable ingredient for entertainment: but absurdly, it's an ingredient for a feelgood movie. A morality play that preaches to the choir.

This is one reason why trans women and people with physical disfigurements have been so attentive to transmisogyny and ableism in horror. Because in both cases, the mainstream has been making feelgood movies where the monster is Other and people can feel superior to that form of otherness. They can pat themselves on the back for thinking that disfigurement makes someone monstrous or uncomfortable or undesireable or disgusting. A disfigured monster's body would not be half as ableist if it wasn't part of a sort of morality tale feelgood movie, where bad people get what they deserve and good people go rewarded. Giving the disfigured monster more sympathy effectively doesn't just muddle the ableism, but also muddles the predation and violence of the monster. Which won't really make sense to the audiences who wanted a morality play to feel better about themselves but also--- morality plays are a part of horror, but they are kind of like decaf coffee. It's horror without the helplessness of horror.

Even a film with an amoral ending, like Cabin in the Woods, is basically just defanged horror, it's an action comedy with horror tropes and weird sci-fi and fantasy elements. The amoral ending (just letting the world get destroyed) is cool and entertaining, but this is definitely a feelgood film.

If someone wants to make a film about unavoidable pain and suffering, then they can't shy away from actually inflicting that fictional pain and suffering on their fictional characters. And if that movie is meant to avoid the thing where wealthy suburbanites are victims of the murder doll or demon home invasion or whatever, if you want to show the vulnerability of homeless people for example...well then you can't shy away from portraying the futility of their attempts to get help.

Feelgood films (both the Action Horror movie and the Schadenfreude Morality Play) have their place in the world of storytelling and can say interesting things. But the impulse to always want "soft" horror is maybe partly due to how effective it can be, as a genre, to actually make people live through helplessness and unavoidable pain. I don't think the last type is more legitimate, but I do think, especially when it deals with marginalized pain or deals with privileged pain in a way that truly hits its mark, people will tend to not want to watch it.

It's not uniquely American for people to not want to get to close to this sort of pain. It seems like the product of neoliberalism: even the most victimized people in the poorest countries are told that what truly matters is their authenticity, their integrity. Labour is increasingly expendable, people can easily lose everything... and so they are being comforted with the idea that at least they *are themselves* (hence why I'm always trying to define being trans not as "who I am, who I truly am inside" and more in terms of "my freedom of association and self-definition is being taken from me, using biology as an excuse". When people want to *be themselves*, experiencing a story where they have to be vulnerable can be incredibly difficult.

I'm still not sure why rich people applauded "Parasite" -- did the film fail on some level, or did they shield themselves from the film's message -- and I can't say what the magic ingredients are to make a story impact its target audience. Parasite, though, is about poor people told from their perspective -- and rich folks are the Other. So maybe that explains its muted effect: Like that social media post about bullies at school cheering on Dumbo the elephant beating up his bullies. This is the story of Dumbo, audiences cheer Dumbo on because they like him. They aren't vulnerable to the critique of Dumbo or Parasite, because the hero isn't a bully like them. And bullies are fundamentally unsympathetic as characters. Audiences tend to want them to die.

I think a really psychologically effective horror film is one where the protagonists are people the audience relates to, who do bad things that the audience somewhat dislikes but can find understanding for and where the antagonist isn't a bringer of morality, but simply a force of destruction. Where the core defining aspect of the monster isn't how clearly it reflects some real-world problem, but how relentlessly it pursues its tastes or agenda. The monster(s) acts like a real-life problem in its horrific effects, but it isn't allegorical. Or at least not allegorical for an issue near and dear to the audience's heart. But I'm not sure how much horror can actually cause audience introspection. I don't think we can fully expect entertainment to hit the mark on that. People watch entertainment for the fun of it -- if someone wants entertainment to be transformative, they need to take notes from entertainment that appears to have a genuinely transformative effect (like "A Short Film About Killing" which supposedly ended the death penalty in Poland or "Jaws" which supposedly caused a temporary shark murder spree).

But regardless I think it makes sense to realize that horror films that make the audience feel smart for avoiding bad things and horror films that harrow the audience with inescapable horror are pandering to different desires and are, in a sense, different genres. If you know that, you have a better grasp on how to design your own stories or how to recommend stories you come in contact with.

people are so mean about horror movie victims like. sorry but if i had gone to a cabin in the woods with my friends as a teenager you couldn't have stopped us from reading aloud from the evil tome. how were they supposed to know the ancient curse was real they're like 17

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ dark but just a game ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ guard!cho sang-woo x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header!

˚ ༘♡ you had never intended to find yourself entangled in a brutal series of death games, but with debt mounting to over fifty million won and loan sharks breathing down your neck, you had no choice. every option you had once clung to had crumbled beneath you, leaving you hollowed out and desperate. the loans you’d taken weren’t unreasonable, not in your mind, they had been necessary to pay for medical expenses for your family living outside of south korea. your own job instability, a relentless and bitter cycle, had only worsened the situation. bankruptcy wasn’t an option. not anymore. so when the mysterious offer to join the squid game appeared, luring you in with the promise of a fortune beyond imagination, you made a choice, and now you were paying the price for it.

˚ ༘♡ despite the aftermath of the horrifying massacre that was the first game, the sickening realization that the smiling, painted doll mask and vast game arena disguised an execution ground, you had returned. others might’ve run, and you had been tempted. but what waited for you back outside was worse in its own way, hunger, homelessness, death at the hands of men who didn’t wear pink jumpsuits but carried just as much coldness in their eyes. at least here, you had a slim chance at survival. slim was better than none.

˚ ༘♡ the choice to return wasn’t as straightforward as you pretended. you had barely slept the night after red light, green light. your hands still trembled at the memory of gunshots ringing out akin to firecrackers, and every time you closed your eyes, you saw bodies falling, twisted on the cracked concrete. you’d thrown up twice in the morning after staggering back to your apartment. your reflection in the bathroom mirror had been ghostly, pale, clammy, with a thin sheen of sweat clinging to your skin. you weren’t ready to die, but you weren’t sure if you could endure staying, either.

˚ ༘♡ somewhere, in the midst of that daze, you had done something foolish. you had pulled out your phone, hands shaking, and opened the contact you swore you’d deleted months ago, your ex-boyfriend, cho sang-woo.

˚ ༘♡ you hadn’t spoken to him in almost a year, not since he left you. still, your fingers hovered over the screen, your chest tight, as if the past could crawl back out of the ashes and offer you some small sense of solace. it hadn’t. he hadn’t answered, hadn’t even seen your message. just like all the others.

˚ ༘♡ now, standing on your balcony with the humid night air pressing down on you, you scrolled through the string of unanswered texts, each one a painful remnant of how pathetic you’d felt in those first few months.

˚ ༘♡ a text from three months ago, “please call me. i just want to talk.”

˚ ༘♡ another text from two months ago, “did i do something wrong? why won’t you answer me?”

˚ ༘♡ the most recent text you sent one month ago, “sang-woo, please.“

˚ ༘♡ the messages had only gotten shorter as the silence stretched. eventually, you stopped texting altogether, though you hadn’t deleted the thread. not yet.

˚ ༘♡ you tipped the bottle of beer to your lips and let the stale, bitter taste burn its way down your throat. the linen pajamas you wore, loose and slightly frayed at the hems, felt too light in the breeze. you had bought them during one of your better months, before everything collapsed. ivory-white. it felt ironic now, standing there in something that once made you feel clean and new, as if you hadn’t spent the past six months clawing at the edge of a financial abyss.

˚ ༘♡ he hadn’t even broken up with you properly. just a voice message, sent in the early hours of the morning, after what you thought had been a perfectly normal week together.

˚ ༘♡ “it’s over. i’m seeing someone else.” that was all he said. no explanation. no apology. it was the last time you’d heard his voice.

˚ ༘♡ you clenched the beer bottle in your hand, your jaw tightening as the memory resurfaced. maybe it shouldn’t have mattered anymore. maybe it didn’t, not really. you had bigger problems than a broken heart.

˚ ༘♡ that night, when you had tried to call him after the game, it wasn’t solely love that had driven you, it was fear. bone-deep, marrow-crushing fear that curled into your stomach and refused to leave. you had been entrenched in loneliness, suffocated by the silence of your empty apartment, unable to shake the memory of bodies dropping all around you. the crack of gunfire still rang in your ears like a phantom sound. you had seen the raw, naked terror on the faces of people who, just moments before, had been laughing and chatting like ordinary men and women trying to make ends meet. you had run for your life, muscles screaming, breath ragged in your throat. yet here you were, alive, if that word even meant anything anymore.

˚ ༘♡ you had wanted to hear a familiar voice, something that grounded you. and in your desperation, you had reached for him. you should have known better.

˚ ༘♡ your hands twitched, numb and shaky as you stared at the endless void of unanswered messages, your name likely long since blocked or ignored. the strain of everything pressed into your chest, and before you could stop yourself, your grip on the beer bottle loosened. the glass slipped from your fingers, tumbling to the ground. it shattered against the concrete floor of your balcony, sharp fragments scattering around your bare feet. jagged edges slashed at your ankles, but you hardly noticed. warm blood trickled in thin, crimson ribbons down your skin, but it felt distant, like it was happening to someone else. all you could think about was him. you missed him so ardently.

˚ ༘♡ despite everything, despite the way he had discarded you so easily, like a brief financial setback in his long list of losses, you still longed for him. you hated yourself for it. it made no sense. he had left you. he hadn’t cared, not when you called, not when you cried, not when you begged him for an explanation. and yet, in the deep recesses of your mind, you remembered the way he had once held you, his fingers threading through your hair as you dozed off in his lap while a movie played in the background. you remembered how he would press a warm palm to your cheek when you were upset, his thumb smoothing over your skin in quiet reassurance. he had been gentle then, loving in the smallest ways.

˚ ༘♡ you had convinced yourself, naively, foolishly, that he had loved you as much as you loved him. yet it had all been a sham.

˚ ༘♡ your friends had been right. they had warned you, time and time again, but you hadn’t listened. you had defended him, telling them he wasn’t like other men, that he wasn’t just another sleazy businessman hopping from woman to woman for a night’s pleasure. he was different. he was yours. except he wasn’t. not anymore. maybe he never had been.

˚ ༘♡ you forced yourself to move, blinking back the sting in your eyes as you took a step forward, only for a sharp, burning pain to shoot through your foot. you hissed, looking down to find a shard of glass embedded in the arch of your foot, fresh blood dripping onto the tile. before you could clean it up, the doorbell rang.

˚ ༘♡ for a minute, you stood frozen, your pulse spiking. no one visited you. no one ever did. who the hell would be here at this hour?

˚ ༘♡ you limped to the door, ignoring the sting in your foot as you pulled it open, only to be greeted by an empty hallway. your breath caught, eyes darting left and right. no one. not even the sound of retreating footsteps. but there, lying on the ground, was a small, rectangular card.

˚ ༘♡ your chest tightened as you reached down, fingers trembling slightly as they closed around the thin cardstock. you didn’t need to flip it over to know what it was. you had seen this exact card before, pressed between the fingers of a well-dressed salesman who had lured you into this nightmare with a simple game of ddakji.

˚ ༘♡ it was an invitation. an invitation to return. you knew what it meant. you had seen the consequences with your own eyes. returning would put your life in grave danger. it was more than just a game, it was a death sentence for all but one. but what choice did you have?

˚ ༘♡ there was nothing for you out here. the loan sharks would find you eventually. if not them, then starvation, or illness, or some other cruel twist of fate waiting just around the corner. at least in the game, you had a sliver of control over your life. a chance at a different life.

˚ ༘♡ your fingers tightened around the card. you called the number on the back. the voice on the other end was eerily calm. the instructions were the same. “meet at the designated location. don’t be late.”

˚ ༘♡ that night, the same sleek black limousine pulled up to the curb outside your apartment. the tinted windows gave away nothing, its surface reflecting the dim glow of the streetlights. you hesitated only for a second before stepping inside. the door shut behind you with a soft click. before you could process anything, before you could even think to resist, the faint hiss of gas filled the cabin. your eyelids grew heavy, your vision blurred at the edges, the world tilting sideways. your body slumped against the seat, consciousness slipping through your fingers.

˚ ༘♡ when you awoke, you were back in the dormitory. the harsh, sterile lights buzzed overhead. the cold metal bunk beds stretched on endlessly in neat rows. the air smelled faintly of sweat, anxiety, and something metallic beneath it all. you sat up, the familiar weight of the forest-green uniform settling around your shoulders. player 017. that was the number stitched into the fabric over your chest. as you looked around, bleary and disoriented, you saw the same faces as before. most of the players had returned, just like you. you swallowed, rubbing your eyes before exhaling shakily. you had made your choice. there was no turning back now.

˚ ༘♡ dinner that night consisted of a bento box filled with plain white rice, a folded egg omelet, and pickled vegetables. the portions were small, meager, as if designed to keep you just on the edge of starvation without tipping over. the smell of vinegar from the pickled radish stung your nose, mingling with the faint metallic scent of blood still clinging to your memories from the day before. but you had no appetite.

˚ ༘♡ around you, other players dug into their meals with fervor, shoveling food into their mouths like they hadn’t seen a proper meal in weeks. some ate in silence, their eyes darting around as if expecting someone to snatch their rations away. others whispered among themselves, cautious yet eager, already beginning the inevitable process of forming alliances. you made no move to approach anyone, instead sitting on the edge of your cot, your arms draped over your knees, watching them in silence. you knew how this worked. alliances were necessary, but they were fragile things, born out of convenience rather than loyalty. at some point, when push came to shove, they would fall apart.

˚ ༘♡ “excuse me, miss.”

˚ ༘♡ the voice was unfamiliar yet kind, breaking through your detached observation. you glanced up and found yourself looking at a middle-aged man standing before you, his expression open and friendly. the number 456 was sewn onto his uniform.

˚ ༘♡ “if you’d like to, you can join our team,” he offered, his smile pleasant despite the lines of exhaustion on his face. “we’ll work together and protect one another in the next games. it’s better to have people to rely on.”

˚ ༘♡ behind him stood two other players. one was a man of south asian descent, curly-haired with a gentle face, player 199. the other was frail and elderly, with thin white hair and a slightly dazed look, player 001. the sight of them together was oddly endearing, as if they were an unlikely little family.

˚ ༘♡ “i remember you from the first game,” 456 continued. “you were really agile and quick! you didn’t hesitate at all.”

˚ ༘♡ his words caught you off guard. you hadn’t thought anyone had been paying attention to you specifically, not with the sheer carnage unfolding all around. you tilted your head slightly, considering the offer. alliances were fickle things, but so was survival.

˚ ༘♡ “if you don’t mind having a woman on your team,” you said, your voice neutral.

˚ ༘♡ “of course not!” player 456 responded immediately, his grin widening. his enthusiasm was almost infectious.

˚ ༘♡ you exhaled quietly and gave a small nod. “all right, then.”

˚ ༘♡ he beamed, and behind him, player 199 gave you a friendly nod, while the old man chuckled softly to himself as if he found something amusing. you weren’t sure what to make of them yet, but for now, they were better than nothing.

˚ ༘♡ that night, despite having people to watch your back, you struggled to sleep. the dormitory was eerily quiet, yet the tension in the air was suffocating. the rhythmic breathing of the other players did little to ease your unease. above you, a gleaming light flickered every so often, casting brief, disorienting shadows across the ceiling. you stared at it blankly, thoughts tumbling through your mind akin to loose stones down a cliff.

˚ ༘♡ cho sang-woo. your fingernails dug into the skin of your palms, your heart aching at the thought of him. had he so much as read your pathetic text messages? did he know that you had disappeared from your home in the midst of night? was he out there, living his life as if nothing had changed, as if you had never existed? it was foolish to think about him. pointless. yet, despite your exhaustion, sleep refused to come.

˚ ༘♡ morning arrived with the dull clang of metal gates and the sound of approaching footsteps. breakfast was as simple as the dinner before it, nothing more than a bottle of milk and a single piece of bread.

˚ ༘♡ you had eaten nothing the previous night, your stomach empty, gnawing at itself in protest. forcing yourself up, you dragged your weary limbs toward the serving station. most players had already collected their rations, eager to eat before whatever horrors the next game had in store for them. you were the last one in line, and as you approached the station, you noticed something unusual.

˚ ༘♡ only one guard was left behind. he stood behind the makeshift counter, taller and broader than the others. the standard pink jumpsuit concealed most of his features, but there was something about the way he held himself, rigid, disciplined. you took a step forward, reaching for the meal, and as he handed you the bottle of milk and bread, something caught your attention.

˚ ༘♡ the scent of tobacco. it was faint, barely perceptible beneath the sterile, controlled air of the dormitory, but it was there. familiar. clinging to the fabric of his uniform, lingering in the space between you.

˚ ༘♡ for a short while, the world around you faded. your mind snapped back to another time, another place. late nights curled up on the couch, the bright gleam of city lights through the window. the burning scent of cigarette smoke woven into his clean-cut suit, clinging to his skin. you used to scold him about it, nag him to quit. “it’s bad for you, sang-woo. you’ll regret it one day.” he’d always laugh, a soft, wry chuckle, and tell you he’d quit the following week. but he never did.

˚ ༘♡ your fingers brushed against the guard’s gloved hand as you took the food. it was an accident, merely a momentary slip, but he didn’t pull away.

˚ ༘♡ the intimacy lasted only a second, maybe two, but it felt longer. you could feel the intensity of his gaze behind the mask, the pressure of something unsaid in the space between your hands. then, just as quickly as it happened, you snapped out of it. your fingers recoiled, your hand withdrawing, clutching the bottle of milk tightly. you cast him a strange look, but the mask gave nothing away.

˚ ༘♡ without another word, you whipped your head around and walked back to where your newfound team sat, your pulse quickening for reasons you didn’t fully understand. the milk was lukewarm, the bread dense and dry, but hunger gnawed at your insides, leaving you no choice but to force it down. across from you, player 456 introduced himself as seong gi-hun, speaking through mouthfuls of bread. he had a boisterous, comforting presence, someone who had probably been the most talkative in any room he’d ever walked into. beside him, player 199 offered a polite nod and a warm smile. “ali abdul,” he said, his tone peaceful despite the hardened exhaustion in his eyes. player 001 sat at gi-hun’s side, an amused glint in his gaze, though when it came time to say his own name, he faltered. his brow furrowed in confusion, his lips parting, but no answer came.

˚ ༘♡ “i… i can’t seem to remember,” he murmured after a moment, shaking his head as if trying to clear it.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun patted the old man on the shoulder with an easy familiarity, as if this weren’t a place where people were going to die. “don’t worry about it, sir. happens to the best of us.”

˚ ༘♡ you said your own name last, voice steady and neutral. you weren’t sure why you bothered, given the likelihood that most of you wouldn’t make it out of here alive. but names were powerful things, even in a place like this.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun’s eyes widened. “what a coincidence!” he said, chewing the last bite of his bread with enthusiasm. “a childhood friend of mine has a girlfriend by that name. cho sang-woo. really smart guy. graduated from seoul national university, the pride of our neighborhood, actually.” he grinned, nostalgia coloring his voice. “he was always a little serious and distant, but a good man. saw him not too long ago, actually. talked about her with a lot of affection.”

˚ ༘♡ you considered staying silent, letting his words pass, but your sentiments got the better of you. “you’re mistaken,” you said, your voice carefully measured. “you must mean ex-girlfriend.”

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun blinked, confused. “no… i saw him just the other week. he said he was still together with her.” then something seemed to click in his mind. he sat up straighter, his expression shifting from curiosity to outright surprise. “wait a minute… you’re her, aren’t you? you’re sang-woo’s girlfriend?”

˚ ༘♡ you stiffened. ali glanced between you and gi-hun, his expression cordial. the old man merely hummed to himself, watching the exchange with a clouded haze in his eyes.

˚ ༘♡ “what are you doing in a place like this?” gi-hun continued, baffled. “if you were in trouble, why didn’t you ask sang-woo for help? he would’ve been happy to give you money if you needed it, i would think.”

˚ ༘♡ his words sent a sharp, bitter pang through your chest. you fought to keep your expression neutral, though you could feel the beginnings of a frown tugging at the corners of your lips. “i was under the impression he didn’t want anything to do with me,” you said carefully. “he broke up with me months ago. told me he was seeing another woman.”

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun’s brows furrowed. he shook his head. “that doesn’t sound like sang-woo at all,” he said, his voice firm, almost disbelieving. “you’re the only woman i’ve ever heard him talk about.” he paused, scratching the back of his head. “ah, you know, he was always so focused on school, then work… i don’t think he’s ever had a serious relationship before. at least, not that i ever heard of.”

˚ ༘♡ your hands bent into fists beneath the table. you weren’t sure what to make of that. was sang-woo lying to gi-hun? or had he lied to you?

˚ ༘♡ you bit your lip, pushing the thought aside. “i think our time is better spent discussing what the next game could be and what our strategy will be,” you said, keeping your tone level.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun nodded. “you’re right. no point dwelling on things we can’t change.”

˚ ༘♡ you all turned your focus toward the upcoming game. gi-hun tossed out a few ideas, tapping his fingers against the table as he spoke. “gonggi, maybe?” he suggested. “or elastics?”

˚ ༘♡ “hide and seek,” ali offered. “or maybe rock-paper-scissors? it must be a simple children’s games, the first game was one.”

˚ ༘♡ you frowned, thinking back to red light, green light. the first game had been straightforward, but brutal. if this was a pattern, then the next challenge would be similar, easy in theory, but deadly in execution.

˚ ༘♡ “whatever the next game is,” you murmured, your voice low, “our lives will be in danger.” no one disagreed.

˚ ༘♡ before anyone could say more, the blaring sound of the intercom echoed through the vast dormitory, its robotic tone devoid of humanity. “all players, please prepare for the second game.”

˚ ༘♡ a deep, mechanical hum followed as the immense steel doors at the far end of the room slid open with a hiss. the air inside the dormitory seemed to shift, thickening with tension. guards stood at attention beyond the threshold, faceless and motionless, their pink uniforms stark against the sterile white walls. there was something ominous in their stillness, as if they were waiting for something, anticipating the inevitable.

˚ ༘♡ a dense lump formed in your throat as you swallowed back unease. around you, players hesitated before pushing themselves to their feet, each movement sluggish with dread. one by one, you all fell into line, shuffling forward like cattle to the slaughter.

˚ ༘♡ the pastel stairways loomed ahead, their paths painted in bright, childlike colors. the contrast was sickening. bubblegum pink railings, sunflower-yellow steps, sky-blue walls. it should have been whimsical, playful even, but instead, it felt like a nightmarish illusion, something meant to disarm you, to lull you into a false sense of security before tightening its noose.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun walked beside you, his expression bewildered. ali stayed close as well, his usually warm features stiff with apprehension. even player 001, the elderly man who had, up until now, seemed oddly cheerful despite the circumstances, was quiet.

˚ ༘♡ as you descended the final set of stairs, the doors before you parted with an ominous heaving. you stepped inside, the room was a playground. your breath became erratic as you took in the scene before you.

˚ ༘♡ the walls and ceiling were painted a brilliant cerulean blue, dotted with illustrations of fluffy white clouds. slides, jungle gyms, and brightly colored structures filled the space, mimicking the innocent joy of a schoolyard. but the momentary illusion of normalcy was just that, an illusion. you knew better than to trust the childish aesthetic.

˚ ༘♡ above, speakers crackled to life. “welcome to your second game.”the same feminine voice from before. at the far end of the room, four doors stood side by side. each bore a simple, distinct symbol, a triangle, a circle, a star, and an umbrella. “please choose one of the four shapes and stand in front of the corresponding door.” that was it. no explanation of what game awaited you. no hints, no clues. merely a demand.

˚ ༘♡ your pulse quickened, your gaze flickering toward gi-hun, who looked just as lost as you were. “what should we do?” you asked, your voice hushed.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun exhaled. “i don’t know if we should split up or pick one door as a team.”

˚ ༘♡ you turned your head slightly, scanning the other players. some had already made their decisions, rushing toward their chosen symbols with varying degrees of certainty. others lingered, hesitating, unsure.

˚ ༘♡ then, movement caught your eye. near the door marked with a red triangle, a guard stood unnaturally still. taller than the others. broader shoulders. something about him felt… different. the way he stood, the way his masked head was aimed ever so slightly in your direction.

˚ ༘♡ a shiver ran down your spine, you turned away abruptly, refusing to acknowledge whatever that was. whoever that was.

˚ ༘♡ “i think we should go with our gut instinct,” you said, keeping your tone neutral. “but we should choose different doors. it increases our chances.”

˚ ༘♡ ali gave a firm nod. “i’ll go with circle.”

˚ ༘♡ “i choose triangle,” player 001 said, his voice lighthearted despite everything.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun turned to you, offering you a choice. “you can pick either star or umbrella.”

˚ ༘♡ your lips parted slightly, eyes flickering between the two remaining doors. neither gave you any indication of what was to come. but as you stared at the star, something tugged at the back of your mind, a memory. late nights with sang-woo. the two of you walking through quiet city streets, your hand in his, the sky stretched out above you, endless and dark, speckled with distant stars. you remembered how you used to tilt your head up, watching them twinkle, feeling so small but safe at his side.

˚ ༘♡ “… i’ll pick star,” you said softly.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun grinned. “then i’ll do umbrella.”

˚ ༘♡ you weren’t sure why, but something about that made you uneasy. when your group dispersed toward their respective doors, the locks clicked open. beyond the doors, a small station awaited, with a single guard seated at a table. thin, round metal tins were stacked neatly in front of them.

˚ ༘♡ slowly, you lifted the lid. inside, nestled within the tin, was a sweet dalgona sugar candy. etched into its surface was a perfectly traced star. your stomach dropped as realization sank in, the intercom crackled again. “the second game is dalgona.” your fingers clenched around the metal case. “each player must extract their shape cleanly within ten minutes to pass. failure to do so will result in elimination.”a timer appeared on the screen above. “let the game begin.”

˚ ༘♡ when the words left the intercom, the countdown started. your hands shook slightly as you picked up the thin needle provided, moving toward the slide where you could sit and steady yourself.

˚ ༘♡ a sudden, sharp noise split the air.

˚ ༘♡ you flinched, your body tensing instinctively, then a piercing bang. a gunshot.

˚ ༘♡ your head snapped up just in time to see a woman’s body hit the ground, her shattered dalgona candy slipping from her limp fingers. blood pooled beneath her corpse. a guard loomed over her lifeless form, lowering their pistol. around you, murmurs of horror rose. some players froze entirely, paralyzed by fear. others broke out into a cold sweat, their needles trembling against the brittle candy in their hands.

˚ ༘♡ your own grip on the tin tightened, your heart hammering violently against your ribs. if your candy cracked, you would die.

˚ ༘♡ you exhaled shakily and turned your focus back to your own dalgona. the star shape was intricate too many edges, too many delicate points. one wrong move, and the candy would snap in half. your hands were damp with sweat, your fingers slick against the cool metal of the needle. you swallowed hard, then, carefully, you began.

˚ ༘♡ as you sat in the vast playground, carefully working your way around one delicate point of the star in your honeycomb candy, that feeling intensified.

˚ ༘♡ a guard loomed inches behind you, his masculine presence impossible to ignore. he was taller than most of the others, broader in the shoulders, his stance unnervingly rigid. though his mask revealed nothing, you were certain, absolutely certain, that it was the same guard from before. the one who had lingered too long when handing you your breakfast, the one who smelled of cigarettes, the one whose gloved hand had ghosted over yours just long enough to send a shiver up your spine, the one who stared at you relentlessly before the second round began.

˚ ༘♡ but now was not the time to fixate on him. your entire existence balanced on the fragile line of sugar and patience. you kept your breath steady, hands trembling as you scraped your needle along the delicate shape. all around you, screams of anguish rang out, followed swiftly by the deafening crack of gunfire. players sobbed, begged, collapsed in pools of their own blood, but you forced yourself to ignore them. you had to.

˚ ༘♡ your world was reduced to this tiny, brittle shape in your hands. until it wasn’t.

˚ ༘♡ the sound of a faint, practically imperceptible crack reached your ears. your breath caught in your throat. slowly, fearfully, you looked down. a single, jagged fracture ran through the middle of your candy. broken. the game was over for you.

˚ ༘♡ your stomach dropped. your hands went numb, a cold dread washing over you like ice water. you had lost. and you knew what came next.

˚ ༘♡ slowly, as if in a trance, you turned. the guard behind you stepped forward, raising his pistol.

˚ ༘♡ you had seen this happen to others already. a merciless execution. one bullet to the head, and your body would crumple to the floor, just another nameless corpse in this twisted game.

˚ ༘♡ your legs trembled. “please…” the word left your lips before you could stop it, barely above a whisper, pathetic in its desperation. but it was in vain. no one had been spared before. no one ever would be.

˚ ༘♡ the guard leaned in closer, the cool metal of the gun pressing against your chest. and then, a voice. so low you almost thought you imagined it. “play dead.”

˚ ༘♡ that voice. it couldn’t be.

˚ ༘♡ regardless of every rational thought in your mind screaming at you that it was impossible, you knew exactly whose voice it was. cho sang-woo.

˚ ༘♡ your body went rigid, shock paralyzing you as the burden of confusion surged through you. but there was no time to think.

˚ ༘♡ the gun lowered slightly, shifting away from your head and down toward your chest. you barely had a second to comprehend what was occurring before a red-hot explosion of pain tore through your side, a bullet sinking just below your ribs, missing anything vital but still slicing through flesh and muscle with terrifying ease. the force of the impact sent you stumbling backward, your vision blurring as agony shot through every nerve in your body. you wanted to scream. you wanted to sob. but you didn’t. you couldn’t.

˚ ༘♡ you let yourself go limp. your body collapsed to the ground, your limbs falling still, your breath shallow. you forced your eyes shut, ignoring the unbearable pain radiating through your chest, ignoring the warm trickle of blood pooling beneath you.

˚ ༘♡ you willed yourself to become nothing. just another body. the potent scent of blood filled your nose as you felt hands, his hands, grab onto your arms.

˚ ༘♡ then, the sensation of being dragged. your body scraped against the cold, hard floor, pain flaring with every inch you moved, but you kept still, fighting against every instinct screaming at you to cry, to breathe harder, to react. you couldn’t. you had to stay dead.

˚ ༘♡ footsteps moved around you. guards passing by, other bodies being disposed of. slowly, the sounds of the execution grounds faded. the doors shut behind you. you were being taken somewhere. your heart pulsated in your ears, your blood running hot and thick down your side, staining your uniform. and through the dizzying haze of pain and terror, one thought remained, echoing over and over in your mind. only of cho sang-woo.

a/n: let me know if you have any thoughts or wish to see another part to this story!!

[lovelytsunoda]

club tropicana | lando norris

summary: on an all inclusive holiday in ibiza, y/n finds herself falling head over feet for the charming british barman

pairing: bartender!lando norris x female! reader

warnings: reader has some crappy former friends, please do not get into a car with a barman at a shitty three star spanish resort (lowkey inspired by my 'benidorm' rewatch), cameos from carlos and fernando, im so sorry that this took me literally a month and a half to write.

club tropicana drinks are free / fun and sunshine, its enough for everyone all that's missing is the sea / but don't you worry, you can suntan

the sun beat down on the resort-goers, reflecting off the chlorinated water in the swimming pool. sunbeds were arranged around the large body of water. swimmers in the pool sat on mosaic stools underwater to order drinks at the swim up bar.

she was supposed to be on this trip with her friends. well, some friends they were. ending a friendship over text with about six weeks left in her second-to-last university semester before graduation.

and so she had gone alone, to the most affordable three-and-a-half star resort in ibiza. truth be told, she hadn't wanted to go to the party island in the first place. if she didn't leave the resort, it wouldn't even matter.

bookmarking her page, she sat her copy of dark sacred night down on the sunbed and strode towards the pool. the pool was crowded, but the swim-up seats at the bar were, unfortunately, the easiest way to get a drink at the resort.

she took a deep breath and ducked below the water, swimming over to where the bar was. she liked being underwater. all her senses were dulled, and the noise of the real world seemed to fade away.

"one vodka orange, please." her voice was quieter than intended when she sat down at the bar, and for a moment she worried that the barman couldn't hear her.

"coming right up, love." the barman was british, with a mop of curly hair and a pale yellow resort shirt that had the name 'lando' embroidered over the heart. he winked at her as he got the vodka down from a shelf behind the bar and began to mix her drink.

lando wasn't oblivious to the understated beauty of the girl in front of him, water running down her soft skin and dipping into the curve between her breasts. her wide, gentle eyes. the way the orange fabric of her swimsuit hugged her curves.

she was wearing a one-piece, a rarity in ibiza.

"so," he asks, setting the drink down in front of her. "what brings you to spain"?

he always asks, even if he doesn't care. but one thing he's noticed since he started working behind the bar is that everybody has something to say, and sometimes they just need a stranger to say it too.

kind of like the characters in that old billy joel song, the one about the piano and the man at the bar making love to his tonic and gin.

and she doesn't know what it is about lando that put her so at ease, but suddenly shes talking and talking and can't make it stop and now he knows all about the three years of friendships she forged at university and how all she had to show for it were two refunded ryanair flights and a text message saying that they 'needed space' and 'our friendship will not be continuing at this time' with no explanation of what she had done to push them away in the first place.

funny that.

"does that sound ridiculous?" she cringed. "it sounds really silly now that i've said it out loud."

"people come to ibiza for dumber reasons. i worked in benidorm for two years, and you should see the train wrecks that come through there." lando laughed, leaning against the tiled bar. "you're better off without them, if you ask me. they sound very catty."

"catty is saying it nicely." she laughed along, sipping her vodka orange.

talking with lando was easy. more so, it seemed like he genuinely cared, and that he wanted to listen. it had been a long time since she had felt like anyone wanted to listen to her. even still, the voices in her head were getting harsher and harsher.

"what are your plans for later?" lando asked, head cocked to the side. "i've got this friend, he owns a party boat company."

"lando, i'm not getting on a spanish party boat with a man i hardly know." she cringed, stomach flip-flopping. had she gotten the total wrong idea about him? he seemed like the kind of guy who would know just about everybody in ibiza, and probably half of benidorm as well. "does anything that i've just told you make you think that i would literally at all be interested?

lando raised his eyebrows. "you didn't let me finish, love. he also does nighttime stargazing tours. that far out on the water, there's nothing in the way of you, the sky and the stars. i thought that was much more up your alley. i could take you tonight if you wanted to."

she felt a pit in her stomach and cursed herself for jumping to conclusions. for a moment, the barman had looked genuinely hurt, right now, though, he looked at her with puppy-dog eyes, and expression that inevitably made her cave.

after all, she was on vacation.

and here she was, waiting in the lobby of the hotel in a low cut black halter dress. she'd done her makeup, which was a rarity. she was tempted to turn her location tracker on, but wondered who she would share it with. she could always tell the woman working reception to call her at a set time, and then the police if she didn't answer, she supposed.

lando pulled up outside in a little fiat 500, looking dapper in a collared shirt. his hair was visibly caked in gel, and he smelled like expensive cologne.

far more expensive than a barman should have been able to afford.

"are you ready for the night of your life, milady?"

she fought the blush, looking at his extended arm. no doubt he wanted her to link her arm through his. and they said that romance was dead.

"take it away, bartender."

the fiat should have felt cramped, but instead felt cozy. spanish synthpop music played on the radio, something uplifting and calming as lando drove through the cobbled ibiza streets. she looked out the window in wonder, eyes wide as the city nightlife passed them by.

all too soon, they had arrived at the dock, and lando was speaking rapid-fire spanish to another man who was leaning through the window. they laughed, and the spaniard clapped lando on the shoulder before taking a small handful of bills from him.

the barman stepped out of the fiat, crossing around the car to open her door and help her out of the little hatchback car.

"your carriage awaits." he grinned, cocking his head in the direction of the boat. "come on, i got us the best seats."

on the boat, an older dj was playing a wham! record, 'club tropicana' blaring out over the sound system.

"when does the bar open?" she asked quietly. "i'm craving something."

"in about twenty minutes, as soon as we leave port." lando replied, resting his hands on her waist. "in the meantime, can i tempt you to a dance?"

ah, why the hell not?

"hey, fernando," lando started before rattling off something in spanish. the dj nodded once before changing the record on his turntable.

spanish synthpop.

lando took her hands in his, pulling her closer for a spirited dance, his hips swinging back and forth with abandon. she fought the urge to burst out laughing as she let him pull her close. the sun was dipping low over the horizon, and down at the dock the deckhands were getting ready to leave port.

but with lando's hands burning into her skin as he lead her in something that might have vaguely resembled the tango, she had forgotten all about the fact that she was on a stargazing cruise, not a latin dance boat.

she only realized the song was over when the audience that had gathered around her and lando had started to clap. red faced and blushing, she dropped lando's hands and shyly pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

"i think im ready for that drink now."

lando beamed, resting his hand in the small of her back. "of course, sweetheart. vodka orange?"

"you know me so well."

lando effortlessly slid behind the bar, hands flying as he grabbed glasses and bottles and shakers. she leaned against the bar, chin in her hand as she watched him work, muscles rippling in his forearms underneath the rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt.

he winked at her as he passed her the glass. by now, the sun had fully dipped below the horizon, and if one craned their neck up, they would be able to see a glimmering landscape of stars, uninterrupted by the muted lights on the boat.

lando came to stand behind her, his hands resting on her waist, protectively holding her body to his.

"so, be honest, this just made your trip a whole lot better, didn't it?"

despite herself, she laughed, relaxing into his touch. "yeah, it really did. thank you, lando."

"wait," he started, hand moving to her chin. "my job isn't quite done yet."

"what are you-"

she didn't get a chance to finish as the barman touched his lips to hers. they were soft. way softer than any barman's lips should be, well taken care of like the rest of the brit in front of her. she fell, no, tumbled into the kiss, feeling herself falling faster with every second that they spent lip-locked.

and she knew that there was no way that barman wasn't coming home with her. who needs return flights anyways? maybe she could just stay in ibiza and snog him for the rest of her her working life.

for now, though, she'd just settle with getting him into her hotel room.

[concenecxere]

this is so beautifully put. i mean gorgeous. i am not caught up so i am effectively spoiling myself but funnily enough i actually tried to talk to my mother about this while watching s1 bc at the same time i'd been reading a chapter of this book about compulsory sexuality (refusing compulsory sexuality: a black asexual lens on our sex-obsessed culture by sherronda j brown) which really encouraged this exploration for me. like so much of what stood out to me was the direct comparison of innie marks interrogation of his own creation being spurred on whilst dealing with integrating helly into the severed floor (and the loss of petey) vs his sister on the outside having her first child. helly r is almost a petulant child to him at first, an inconvenience to the order of things although necessary for their workplace function at lumon (like ops gf said, just like helena mark as her boss almost resents the freedom with which helly is defiant), until of course he really reconciles the severity and the lengths she goes to and turns inward and wonders why he never stopped to question it all himself. so we see these motivations for reproduction in direct contrast -- in the story of mark the final goal of his reproduction is productivity (by separating himself from his trauma), versus devon and rickan taking an approach to reproduction "more virtuously" by comparison (like excited for the journey of raising a unique human being). now this is the point where i realized i was talking to my mother and didnt really have my thoughts wrapped around it and wanted to begin that type of conversation with more nuance and the conversation naturally returned back to the show.

but! back to the book by sherronda j brown -- it has a whole chapter on productivity, partially tackling how capitalism incorporates productivity into nuclear family making which kind of effectively pulls the magic out of the point of a family. a child is not something that you can utilize/form for some present/later convenience, they're a human being with their own unique ambitions and the beauty of parenthood is often watching them discover that etc etc. but capitalism looks to control family making as it is a method of economic stimulation. again this requires a lot of nuance, because since we are so embedded in capitalism in some ways you have no choice but to be implicit even if you are aware, and you can be doing this wether you realize it or not. i also want to be sure i acknowledge that i am by no means an expert on this i just felt emboldened to get into it here. alongside those examples given by the amazing prev posts/tags this is illustrated in real life by how so many people are realizing using children as a contingency plan for who'll take care of you when you age or like expecting grandchildren from your own children. like its absolutely not a bad thing to want these things but assuming no matter how you treat your children that its their responsibility to fulfill that for you is bull -- and objectively to expect this is not even always guaranteed biologically for several reasons but i digress. a child is their own person worthy of respect and if you don't give it to them they don't/shouldn't owe you present or future compliance (again theres nuance, even in severance given the outies varying levels of awareness of/care about their innies treatment) but capitalism is a part of perpetuating this. as so many now realize if you are surrounded by real true community confirmed elder care and the opportunity to be a grandparent-like mentor is/should be available without nuclear family to fulfill it. the power of found family and all that beautiful stuff! particularly when imagined with a queer lens. but capitalism has taught us intentionally that all of this should come from the heteronormative nuclear family and is only valid when derived from a heteronormative nuclear family in order to isolate us from one another and sell us these opportunities in other ways for their own gain. anyways i've danced all around it myself but brown says the following far more concisely in their amazing book (which i look forward to finishing).

"anxiety about the sex recession among young people is also anxiety about an accompanying decrease in marriage, nuclear family making, and home ownership. all of these things are intimately related and impact our economy, especially because they are so easily capitalized on. those invested in the capitalist system work to convince us that these are necessary parts of life and that participation in them makes us more mature adults and 'productive' members of society... therefore, cisheterosexual sex itself becomes a means of productivity because it is understood to ultimately lead to marriage, procreation, and nuclear families, all of which are integral to patriarchal and white supremactist capitalist systems."

its so remarkably layered i would love to pick the brains of the writers about it all!! lumon offering severance and the creation of an innie as this amazing way to free themselves from the monotony of a job or like the weight of the outside world on their work. but of course this job is necessitated by the capitalist society they exist within and the thing that drives them all to severance is what capitalism forces them to believe they have wrong with themselves or have to achieve to be successful. so then when they create their innie, or "have their child" as it were, and the child demands more love than you ever thought you were allowed the capitalism worm in your brain has already prepped you to place the blame on the child and not realize the system is what has it all wrong. and even if you do understand the systems driven you to this point the cost that you've paid for being compliant all this time is this life you now get to watch your child live.

my gf said something sooo insane about helly the other day and i cannot stop thinking about it. she was like. helena and helly’s relationship is almost maternal. the way helena created helly as an extension of herself, to serve her interests, to try and impress her own family. she scolds helly, talks down to her like a child. “i understand you’re unhappy with the life you’ve been given” “i am a person, you are not”. the way she envies and resents helly’s freedom. the way she feels entitled to helly’s life and is now living vicariously through her in the most literal sense. what if you created life and now they’re experiencing the things you’ve always wanted for yourself. what if you created life and they were flawed and loud and demanding and they were loved more than you’ve ever been. and you hated them for it. the mother/daughterisms are insane my girlfriend is insane

[juricel]

heyyy its me again

I have a silly request for you which you can ignore if you want to, since I think your ask box is piling up haha!

basically,

Yandere reader x pre corrupt shadow milk cookie turns to reader x Yandere shadow milk cookie

Reader, at first is super obsessed and does a lot of stuff for pre-corrupted shadow milk cookie and hes like super disgusted by how they’re acting. And suddenly, reader disappears one day, and hes fine with it

beasts get corrupted then get jailed,,

while in jail shadow milk cookie misses how loving y/n was, and realised that he has taken them for granted </33 And now he wants them back because of how love deprived he became

when hes out of the silver tree he see’s y/n again and at first hes all hip hip hooray !! until he sees that y/ns clinging onto the THIEF!!!

he goes batshit crazy, you can be creative with this if you want or just give your little ideas/comments I just really want more food wahah

so sorry if this doesn’t make much sense, it’s 2am :’)

tysm for reading oh great one!! you don’t have to do this right away dont worry love ur work already

—💤non

a/n: it's okay, i understand what you were aimimg for! I focused on the other requests before this one and had some church duties to do, so I apologize for having you need to wait for so long.

— yandere! shadow milk cookie x past yandere! reader (ft. the bus driver, pure vanilla cookie.)

໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა ۪ ׂ CONTENT WARNING: manipulation, physical abuse, heavy possessive and obssessive behavior, unhealthy relationship, implied forced established relationship, implied mindbreak, corruption, objectification, stalking, pure vanilla cookie needs a fucking break, one of these warnings is not like the rest, potential ooc.

𖦁 blueberry milk cookie was a heaven sent gift from the witches above, he was a celestial jewel, an angel's whisper brought down to earth, the very breath of seraphim—an impossible, transcendental blessing cradled in the tender arms of witches' own grace. he was a splendid confection, kneaded from divine essence, destined to scatter blessings upon the crumbed multitudes of earthbread—a being way out of your league, you, an ordinary cookie who could crumble and wither into a flour with not a single eye batting to your direction.

𖦁 ah, but how radiant he was, you couldn't help yourself from your love, your dear, your luminous, immortal darling. does he even know? does he grasp the way his mind glows, the way his thoughts spill like molten gold onto the parchment of your very soul? he was your everything, your love—your guiding star, your perfect darling, your sole, necessary breath. and yet, the world, the pitiful, ignorant world, could not comprehend his brilliance, like a mere toy, they had molded him, and cast him aside once their utilitarian need had been served; they did not deserve him. no, the world could not deserve him—those who fail to recognize the sacredness of his mind, who treat his wisdom as commonplace, who look upon him without the reverence of a disciple at the feet of a god—it sickens you, stirs a fury deep within your chest. in the hollowed, gleaming corridors of his towering spire, you would see them—fawning, indulging in their miserable, blind inanities, lost in the sick lies they prefer over the sublime truth he alone could offer. and mind you, it was he—he—who spent his invaluable time, his precious moments, entangled with these dull, odious fools, these imbecilic cookies just for them to throw it away! he should not have to share his divine self with such paltry, uninspired creatures. no, no, no. you could not abide it. you would sever every connection, carve away every distraction, erase every tether that pulled him from you. and if it were required to cloak him in the softest, most unrelenting shadow, to shield him from the world that could never grasp his greatness, to hide him where only your gaze could drink in the luminous glow of his mind—so be it. you would protect him, cherish him, and keep him safe from those who could never understand him as you do.

𖦁 yet, he couldn't seem to understand it all; with every embrace, a look of disdain was given to you, as if you were a taint smeared upon heavens, can't he understand? these cookies were the one that were evil! they will defile him, corrupt his very name with degeneracy! you were merely shielding him away from the evil, how could he not comprehend that? he must've been brainwashed. yes, surely, or so that was what you wanted to believe, however, all his actions proved otherwise: with every touch, he recoiled, like a skittish moth repelled by the flame it once sought. with every affectionate word, he replied in clipped, mechanical syllables, blunt and cold, each one landing with the weight of a slammed door. there was no love in them—no warmth, no hesitance, no trace of a feeling that might, by some miracle, have softened the harsh lines of his indifference. you learned quickly that tenderness was a language he neither spoke nor cared to decipher. a hand reaching for his own was met with a perfunctory pat, a touch devoid of meaning, as if acknowledging, rather than returning, the gesture. you could pour all your warmth into him, let it trickle down the cracks in his facade, but he would not absorb it. He remained, steadfast in his distance, near enough to torment, far enough to elude. you tried to believe in the silences, in the space between his words, in the possibility that somewhere beneath that marble exterior, there was something that resembled love. but hope, much like affection, was wasted on him. you tried, really! to continue loving him, you truly did, but, ah, your feelings leisurely diminished into grains of flour until your love turned into rust and dust.

𖦁 it wasn't long until then your unfortunate sweet dear darling, the celestial beacon in your life was sullied into taint when you vanished into thin air. from graces, he fell, and into the bottom of the endless pit of corruption.

𖦁 and oh, how much he changed: in the cold, lonely cell, he reminisced the past, thought of you, thought of your oh so tender gentle caresses! and to say that it made him deprived of warmth, made him ache—hunger not for food, but for yours was an understatement. he sought and yearned for it, hunger gnawed, a sensation with fangs, sharp and insistent, curling inside his ribs like a starved serpent. he gwaned for you—not sweetly, not poetically, but in the way of a body denied water, of lips cracked and trembling at the edge of a mirage. oh, to be held, to be devoured, to be anything but this wretched hunger pressing against the ribs, licking at the throat, whispering: more, more, more... ah! he couldn't stop it! he promises to himself that he'd apologize to you and pamper you with affection once he gets out of this petulant little silver tree!

𖦁 and he'd definitely stick to his word; the moment he flees from the withering tree binding him and his allies, he had his priorities straight: to find his dear darling! he was beyond ectastic, thoughts filled of embracing you once more and kissing you, but, ah, none could prepare him for the sight that would unfold infront of his very gaze—his sweet puppet was linking arms with /him/. at first, he laughed, he chuckled and brushed it off, no, no, surely he was just presuming things! there was no way his dear would betray him and replace him with such a... ungracious caricature of a cookie, right? right? if you were, he'd definitely need to give you a better eyes as a replacement which was a no worries for him! he has a nice stock of replacement! surely, you wouldn't stoop down to that level of degeneracy. yet, you didn't approach him like he thought and dreamed of within the silved tree, you only took a cautious step back, away from him, away from your perfect celestial darling and to the burlesque version of himself, realization dawned and it made him seeth with anger.

𖦁 blasphemous! how dare you! you superseded his spot with this thing?! to betray him was one thing, but to replace him with this cheap copy of himself whom hadn't grown ever slightly intelligent despite wielding his own power?! you little pest! he'll make you pay for this. oh, and, don't worry your pretty little brain! he promises to be much, much more tender than he will be to him, it will be grand, a show that will mark itself in earthbread's history. so won't you be a good little dear and wait till he finishes his one last marionette show before tending to you?

𖦁 and as for the destiny of the silly little thief... ah, he vows to make him taste his own medicine and he'll make certain it will be a fate worse than crumbling away! he wasn't gonna kill him, no, no, death was far too gentle, he was gonna corrupt him, brainwash his mind with sweet, insidious poison, and distort his reality into a glistening hall of mirrors where every reflection was a lie, every whisper a trick of the light. he would unravel, unravel most grotesquely, as his reason frayed like moth-eaten silk, his thoughts dissolving into the same exquisite delirium that had once seized his own skull in its venomous embrace! and most importantly, he was gonna make him feel like what it felt like to be in his place! he stole his soul jam and now you, surely he doesn't think he can get away with that, can't he? no, no, if he wants to take from him so badly, he was gonna make him /him/.

𖦁 but ah, don't be so upset, dear. shouldn't you be exhilarated? he's giving you the attention you craved for, the attention you digged the sand and soils for until your fingers scarred and numbed for, the attention you yearned and sought for like a madman. so, why won't you clap, give your sweet jester an applause for his spectacular show? don't tell him you were still concerned of pure vanilla cookie! he simply put him in the right path, the road down to the deepest depths of hell, of course, but it was still a befitting destination!

𖦁 yet, still, still, you prattled on, fretting that lovely little head of yours over pure vanilla cookie—his name tumbling from your lips like some sacred incantation, a hymn to a god too distant to listen. and oh, how it curdled something deep inside him, how it set his very marrow alight with a fury so exquisite it was almost pleasure. could you not see? he was here. here, before you, in all his resplendent, fevered devotion, and yet you—blind, foolish, maddening thing—spoke of another. oh! perhaps a lesson was in order. yes, yes, that's right, a lesson. a gentle one, at first—he was, after all, a man of remarkable patience. a game, then, a little amusement, something to turn those wandering thoughts back where they belonged. he would not interrupt, no, never that. he would only guide, nudge, mold. and in the end, oh, you would see. you would understand. you would learn.

𖦁 and to say the wait had been merely excellent would be a crime of understatement, a paltry insult to the fevered anticipation that had coiled and uncoiled within him for so long. no, the outcome was a marvel beyond the bounds of mere expectation. you were back, back as you had been, intact, whole—his darling, his own, still in possession of that precious, once-fractured self. giddy with triumph, he would fall against you, arms encircling the exquisite stillness of your form, his dear darling, still and unresponsive—your gaze, those glassy and depthless eyes, did not meet his but stretched past him, unfocused, fixed upon some distant and nameless horizon. there was no flicker of recognition, no gentle return of his embrace. and yet, he clung to you, triumphant, unbothered by your silence, unshaken by your vacancy. you were here. that was more than enough.

a/n: I've received like... so many requests featuring pure vanilla cookie with yandere shadow milk cookie after i made that one post... do you guys want him dead? anyways, i just lost my pity in the guaranteed banner to fucking sherbet cookie. i need frost queen to turn him into snow once again... can someone bless me their mystic flour luck, ill give you my burning spice who is currently 4 stars (f2p)

[revelboo]

Ok but why do we have the same music taste?? I didnt even entirely realise outsude of the I Fight Dragons songs at first but I listen to every single one of those

Great minds think alike 😅

Everything Is Alright Pt 130

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• Servos pressing against his chassis over his spark chamber, it’s hard not to fixate on that fragile, little spark tangled in him. Something Megatron had never actually thought to want. Never allowed himself to even consider it as an option. But now that it’s happened? He just desperately wants to protect this. Remembering the feel of you drifting through him, that you’d felt like sunshine, bright and warm. Addictive. It’s not like he’d lied- the spark will need contact with you. Strengthening it by spark bonding again and again. At least, that’s how it’s supposed to work, but the carrier is also supposed to keep the spark.

• Frustrated, he lets himself into the Constructicons’s habsuite looking for Hook and somehow isn’t the least bit surprised to see the biggest of them, Bonecrusher, leaning forward cooing at a little human sitting on his thigh as he offers them a package of some kind of human food. Because of course they’ve got a human, too. Suspects there’s more than a few of them smuggled aboard the Nemesis at this point. It’s the thing they’ve built against the wall that gets his attention, though. Bending slightly to study what they’ve done without his permission. And all of them are frozen, watching him. “What is this?” He asks, forgetting that he’d wanted to ask the medic about sparklings and spark bonds.

• Watching Scrapper come forward, hands away from his frame, Megatron resists the urge to smile at the mech’s obvious discomfort. ‘Just a little habitat. For the human.’ The Constructicon shrugs slightly even as he manages to look guilty. Putting himself between Megatron and his brothers, taking responsibility. ‘No one’s fraggin’ it,’ Scrapper adds as Bonecrusher curls his hand protectively around you. If the Constructicons aren’t fragging theirs, it’s probably just a matter of time until one of them tries to. What is it about humans that makes his troops lose all control? The interfacing can’t just be that good. But studying the little structure with its facilities, he can’t deny the Constructicons are onto something. Maybe you’d like something like this? “Can you build more of these?”

• Staring after his cassettes and their little human, Soundwave’s servos flex against you. Not wanting to give you up, wanting to spend time with you. Ask you to bond to him, do it right this time. Not deal with whatever is going on there. Rumbling when Starscream reaches to take you from him with a haughty, ‘looks like you’ve got a mess to deal with.’ And you look back at him as the Seeker carries you off, your expression making his spark ache. Because there’s always someone else needing him, demanding his time. So used to ignoring what he wants to look after everything else. And he just wants some time with you.

• Soundwave looks so lost, staring after you as Star carries you back to his habsuite. Just immediately sitting on his berth and mass shifting. Wrapping himself around you with a shuddering intake through his vents. And it’s the first time you’ve been alone with him since what he’d done. Since he’d stripped away Soundwave’s bond. Hurt you and Soundwave. “Why did you do it?” You ask, unable to just let it go as his servos run over you, like he’s checking for injuries. Reassuring himself that you’re okay.

• Denta gritting at the soft, hurt question, his wings flick. Because no answer is going to be good enough to excuse that. Doesn’t even know how to start making amends for it. Helm brushing your forehead so he can focus on those eyes he loves, he vents softly. “Jealousy. Fear,” he admits, gripping your arm when you try to lean away. “I thought I was losing you piece by piece. That I was being replaced.” Other hand cupping your cheek to keep you from turning away, his own optics shutter. Ashamed of what he’d done in a fit of jealous anger. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Our sparkling. You’re all I have.”

• That doesn’t make it better. Not by a long shot, but you’d driven him to this. Made him feel that Soundwave was replacing him. “I love Soundwave,” you say and those red optics open, leaning forward to stay pressed against him when he tries to lean back, you grab onto his shoulders. “And I love you. This is all really messed up and I know it.“ Unable to choose between them and accidentally hurting them both over and over. It’s all you, isn’t it? “I don’t know how to stop loving him.”

• And you sound so lost, pressing your face against his shoulder as he cups the back of your head. “I knew when I started falling in love with you, that this wouldn’t be easy. I tried to do what was right by you. To let you go and couldn’t even do that,” he growls, tucking you more firmly against him. “We’re both a bit fragged up.” Hears you snort at him as he forces your chin up. “Are you leaking again?” Venting affectionately, he brushes his mouth against your forehead. “We’ll figure this out together.”

Previous

[kenyuukissme]

thinking about rin itoshi and sharing airpods with you.

i’m imagining you’re at a park together, its just about the evening. you’re standing beside the bench that you threw your bag onto, its just while you search for something in your bag. rin sighs, as you pull out your phone and an overly decorated airpod case.

now, listen. i just know he’d say “ew, that’s unhygienic.” but with enough convincing (pestering), you finally get him to wear one of your airpods. but what do you play, for someone who will most definitely judge your music taste?

“play whatever. just make it quick.” he mutters, taking your hand in his. your hand fits just perfectly with his, the gaps between his fingers comfortably enough space for yours to fit right in.

but despite him telling you to play anything, you’re still nervous. what if he’s just tolerating it?

since rin has decided you’re taking far too long (its been less than a minute.), he takes your phone from your hand, searching up an artist and choosing a featured album. you can’t see what song it is, nor who the artist is, so you just let it be.

now playing — black beauty [lana del rey]

he leads you, without a single word, to the swings and sits down. you sit on the one beside him, stretching slighting over the side to keep holding his hand. he stays put, simply taking in the moment and music. you try swinging. he sighs, letting go of your hand and letting you swing.

he can hear just barely over the music, you humming. it’s pretty. you’re pretty. so is the sunset.

ah, right. the sunset.

he stands up almost abruptly, grabbing onto the chain of your swing and accidentally stopping it so suddenly that you fall. right off of it.

“aaaaahh rinnieeee!!!” before you can even finish your sentence, he sighs. he offers his hands for you to grab and stand up with. but you stay on the floor, the wood chips and dirt clinging onto your clothes.

he sighs for what is the third (but feels like the hundredth) time this evening.

“fine, just. hurry up, we’ll miss it.” he leans down, opening his arms for you to wrap your own arms around his neck. you do as he gestured, carefully watching as he lifts you from the floor and holds his hands under your thighs.

you wrap your legs loosely around his waist, and once you’re comfortable, he starts walking yoj to wherever he said you guys would be late too.

turns out it’s not very far. in fact, you simply were carried to the shade of a nearby tree. to be fair, it’s mostly getting dark so the shade of a tree isn’t needed. nevertheless, he carefully sits you down on the grass and starts brushing the bits and bobs off of your clothes. he sits down beside you, and without a word, lays down. he looks at you, you’re confused. but he had one arm out, gesturing for you to lay down.

so you do. and before he can move his arm, you lay your head down on his bicep. you cheekily giggle, he simply rolls his eyes (he secretly hoped you’d lay on his arm).

“so, what would we be late for?” you ask, adjusting your airpod and snuggling a little closer to him. you wrap one arm around his torso, tracing light shapes on his side to pass the time.

“shh. it’s nearly time.” okay. loser.

you’re about to protest when he simply turns your face for you. and when he does, it’s perfect.

now playing — let the light in [lana del rey]

colours mix perfectly, between the branches of the tree you’re laying under. it’s truly a moment you can’t take a photograph of with a phone or just some camera. you just have to see it with your eyes. the colours are as if they’re hand in hand, they mix and merge perfectly. just like how your hand fits in rin’s.

watching a sunset, listening to lana and laying in your boyfriends arms. what more could you want?

a/n :: rushed. hate this. but it could be worse, ig. based off my irl experience. hope you like it, vee <3 taglist :: @sl-vega ; @rink1sser ; @veestar49111 + open [ask to be added] likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated

© kenyuukissme 2025 {do not copy, translate, steal, modify or repost without permission}

[lipglossanon]

Until the End

Real son!Leon S. Kennedy x real mom!reader (one shot)

Warnings: incest, dead dove, mom/son, simp Leon, cnc (reader’s “not” into it at first 😉), kissing, dirty talk, teasing, oral (f receiving), just the tip 😩, unprotected sex, creampie, mommy kink to the extreme

not proofread ✍️ it’s been a while since I’ve worked on anything so hopefully this doesn’t suck lmao the ending is just kinda meh

shoutout to the discord; I posted some of this WIP and they gave me the inspo to finish 🤭

title from the Breaking Benjamin song

It’s a quiet affair when you sign the divorce papers. Your husband—of twenty four years—deciding that he’d rather live overseas with his secretary instead of sticking it out; it’s not something you would have foreseen, but as they say hindsight’s always 20/20. It upset you at first but once the indignation died down, you realize you feel more relief than anything. Things have been strained for years and then in the last five, he’s barely been home long enough to chat about your days. 

The one who took it the hardest out of anyone is Leon. Your husband offered him a place to stay, but he chose to live with you (being a mama’s boy through and through). After his father left, Leon angrily refused to speak with him anymore and instead focused on his work and trying to pick up any slack around the house. Not that you hadn’t already been doing that for years, but it’s sweet of him to want to take care of you. 

He dotes on you now, making sure you’re eating and drinking and taking care of yourself. His friends tease him about it or rib him about having a milf (which you had the unfortunate chance to overhear as you walked into the living room). Meeting Leon’s mortified gaze, you smile tightly and walk through to the kitchen. He kicks them out and apologizes profusely to you, face buried in the crook of your neck, lips brushing your skin as he murmurs how sorry he is and promises it won’t happen again. 

Things go back to normal for a while. The absence of your husband is something you don’t even notice anymore. Leon is more than capable of moving out and living on his own, but he says it’s closer to work and easier to keep an eye on you if he lives at home. Besides, he told you with a serious face, he doesn’t have a girlfriend to make things awkward so for now you just need to chill out and let him take care of things. 

He gets a promotion at work, no longer relegated to being just a traffic cop, and you couldn’t be more proud! Your offer to take him out to a nice dinner gets turned down; in its place is an evening of take out and drinking. Since it’s the weekend, neither of you are worried about being hungover the next day, so you both end up drinking more than you usually would. 

Later, Leon walks with you from the dining room to the living room, each of you laughing at some silly joke that you can’t even remember. 

Settling together on the couch, he tucks into your side, face nuzzling against your neck like he used to do as a little boy. You giggle and run your hand through his hair. 

“You’re so sweet, Leon,” you murmur, “but aren’t you a little too old to be cuddling your mom?”

“Uh uh,” he whines, making you laugh harder, “always need you, mama.”

“Okay, okay,” you pat his head, slumping further into the couch, the alcohol buzzing through your veins, “my little boy’s all grown up.”

Feeling maudlin now at remembering that the passage of time waits for no one, you sniffle and it draws Leon’s attention.  

“What’s a’matter?” He mumbles, hazy blue eyes sharpening to see your tears, “mom?”

You smile and cup his cheek. Neither of you have shied away from physical affection; however, you remember on more than one occasion you thought Leon went overboard with cuddling and snuggling with you. Now that seems like a silly thought, he just missed you during his long hours on duty. 

“Nothing, just so proud of you,” you smile, dropping your hand to rub his shoulder. 

He kisses your cheek and you coo softly. Moving closer, he lands another soft kiss to the corner of your lips. Blaming it on the alcohol, a warm thrum of heat sings through your stomach. 

“Mama,” he whimpers, lips clumsily landing on yours. 

You freeze, body heavy and thoughts slow. Leon presses his mouth more firmly against yours and you gasp, lips parting under his and he eagerly kisses you harder. Whining, you try to tug your head away but he follows you, kisses becoming rougher while pressing you deeper against the couch. 

Your hands come up and tangle in his hair, but instead of pulling him back they scrape against his scalp, making him groan deliciously. He shifts, pulling away to tilt his head at a better angle before pressing another hot kiss against your lips. You sink into it, clit pulsing in arousal, mouth tingling from each sloppy kiss from your son.

Finally, you twist away, panting heavily while Leon rests his forehead against your jaw. 

“Mama, why’d you stop?” He presses a soft kiss under your ear, making you shiver.

“Leon, this—this isn’t right,” you plead, eyelashes fluttering as he nips and sucks your neck.

“Just this once,” he murmurs, lips dragging against your skin and sending chills down your body. “Let me show you how much I appreciate you, mommy.”

His words and actions are muddling your mind… and you’ve been lonely for so long. Swallowing, you breath out a shaky breath, mind made up.

“O-okay,” your body feels hot, muttering that out loud.

Moaning, he bites your jaw then kisses your cheek. “Thank you.”

He shows his appreciation by kissing the breath from your lungs; your son’s excitement ramps up your own, cunt pulsing with need as slick fills your panties. Wet, drugging kisses pass between you until you completely lose yourself to the feeling, making out with Leon until your lips are swollen. 

You jump, feeling his fingers trail along your thigh, slipping under your skirt and brushing against your panties.

“God, you’re so wet. Wanna bury my face in your pussy.”

You moan, and he teases your cunt through the soppy fabric.

“You can’t,” your hips grind down into his hand.

“Okay, promise I’ll behave,” he chuckles.

Without another word, he flips your skirt up and slips your panties down your legs to bunch at your ankles.

“Oh mommy,” he moans, fingers tracing your slit up and down before circling your clit, “your pussy’s so soft. Fuck me.”

Your hips buck and he bites his bottom lip, fingers rubbing up and down your pussy lips. 

“So, so soft,” he whispers, eyes glued to where his fingers are touching, “my stubble’s gonna feel so rough when I kiss her, mama.”

You whine high and reedy but shake your head, “No, no, this is all I’m allowing, Leon. You promised.”

“Just a kiss or two,” he murmurs, voice low and smoky, “she needs it, look how soft and sweet she is, just begging for my mouth. C’mon, mama, just let me have a couple of kisses.”

Your resolve cracks at his pleading. 

“Just a couple, then we stop,” you try to sound firm but your voice comes out breathier than you’d like. 

“Mmhmm, thank you, mama,” he kisses the side of your cheek then the corner of your lips.

You feel a little disappointed that he stops to kneel between your legs. He brings his hands up to spread apart your cunt, slick dripping from your hole as his mouth hovers over your mound. 

“Oh fuck, mom,” Leon whines, tongue lapping at your clit, “so fucking wet. Am I making you this wet? God, your pussy’s so fucking sexy.”

Another groan and he’s fluttering his tongue across your pudgy bud before sucking it gently into his mouth. He pulls back and kisses the hood of your clit. You moan softly and cant your hips up. 

“W-we shouldn’t, baby,” you plead, fingers tangling in his hair again, but not pushing him away. 

“Been wanting to do this forever, dreaming about how I wanna lick your pretty pussy til you cream all over my face,” he pants, dilated eyes watching your face, “gonna make you cum over and over tonight.”

“Fuck,” you gasp as he thrusts his tongue into your pussy, walls clamping around the slippery muscle, “Leon! 

He hums and grinds his nose against your clit as his tongue fucks in and out of your hole, spit dripping down your ass onto the couch cushions. Your eyes flutter as your orgasm winds tight in your abdomen. 

“Need to eat you out everyday, mama,” he pulls back, slick shining across his lips and chin, “treat this pussy like she deserves. Don’t you wanna feel good?”

He sucks your clit back into his mouth, hot tongue flicking against the sensitive bud. It only takes a few more teasing licks before your climax breaks over your body like a tidal wave. Toes curling, your hands tug on his hair making him moan, tonguing at your fluttering cunt until he finally pulls away with one last sucking kiss. 

He crowds you on the couch, thick forearms hooking under your knees to keep you spread open. He nods down to his jeans; your eyes flit from his face to the bulge pressing obscenely against his zipper. 

“Pull it out,” he murmurs, blue eyes nearly black. “Take my cock out so I can stuff your cunt, mommy.”

Shaking your head, your voice cracks, “No, baby. That’s going too far.”

He whines, “But it hurts, mama. You’re being so mean. At least jerk me off.”

Biting your lip, his pouty mouth has you reaching forward, undoing his pants and tugging them down his thighs. You gently ease his dick from his briefs, uncut head sticky with precum. You both moan when you grip his stiff cock, the blood hot skin against your palm turning you on more than you ever thought. Thumb pressing against the slit, you smear the pearlescent sheen across his tip until he’s whimpering. 

“Mommy,” his hips thrust forward, “it’s sensitive.” 

He sags forward, and your legs slide up his arms until your calves press against his biceps. This new position has his dick grinding against your swollen cunt, the head grazing across your pudgy clit. Your fingers loosely circle the base of his cock, the backs of your knuckles brushing against his balls. 

“So good, fuck,” he chokes out, humping your pussy. “Just let me cum like this, let me mark you up, mama. Yeah, just coat this sexy fucking pussy with my cum.”

Keening, you let go of his cock to feather your fingers against his heavy balls. “You can, you can cum all over me.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he chants, pink lips parted and eyebrows furrowed as he watches his cock slip between your pussy lips to rub against your hole. “Mommy, just let me put the tip in, please? Promise it’ll just be the tip. Please.”

You know you should say no, but then again you should’ve put a stop to this before it even started. Just the tip wouldn’t be so bad, you think, eyes greedily taking in his fat, drippy tip. It wouldn’t hurt to let him try it out.

“Just the tip, Leon,” you murmur, flicking up to meet his blown out gaze. “But only this once.”

“Thank you,” he groans, “love you so much, mama.”

Moving one hand from his hold on your leg, he grips his cock and guides the head to your clenching hole. His thumb presses down on the head as he rocks forward, slipping the tip into your wet cunt. You suck in a deep breath at the same time he grunts. The other hand gripping your thigh tightens, fingertips tightly digging into the soft skin. 

Leon blows out a breath, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “You feel so good.”

He ruts the head of his cock in and out of your pussy, the wet schlick loud in the otherwise quiet living room. Your hands move over your head to drape over the back of the couch, fingers grasping at the cushions. 

“Can I—,” he cuts himself off, eyes squeezing shut. “Can I go a little deeper, mommy?”

Your slick hole clenches down on him and he whimpers. 

“H-how much deeper?” You hear yourself say, mouth running away from you. 

“Just an inch or two,” he gasps, feeling overwhelmed by the heat of your cunt. “Pretty please, mommy.”

You nod, eyes unable to look away from where he’s splitting you open, dick driving deeper and deeper—going so much farther than a few inches—into your pussy until he’s completely buried in your pulsing walls. 

“Leon!” You cry out, head falling back as your cunt stretches around the fat girth of his cock.

“Sorry, mama,” he practically slurs, pussy drunk already. “Didn’t mean to, it just slipped.”

You whimper at the pleasure pain of his tip kissing your cervix as he grinds himself against your cunt. Clit rubbing against his pelvis makes you squeeze and clench around his dick, in turn making him groan from deep in his chest. He barely pulls out before fucking back into your sopping wet hole. 

“So perfect,” his face pinches in pleasure. “God, mom, your pussy—gonna make me cum so fast.”

You dig your hands into the couch and roll your hips down into his thrusts, “You need to pull out, baby. It’s bad to cum inside. You’ve gotta pull out of mommy’s cunt.”

He makes a broken sound from the back of his throat and drives his cock into you with harsh, pounding thrusts. 

“No, I’m gonna cum in you, make you nice and full,” he bites out, sweat dripping from the straight line of his nose onto you. “Stuff you so full, mama.”

You can’t hide how his words make your pussy clamp down on his cock, his own hips stuttering as your cunt tries to milk his cock. 

“Yeah, mommy, squeezing me so good, so fucking good,” he pants. “Fuck, ‘m gonna cum.”

He reaches down, hot palm a brand across your mound as his thumb teases your clit. You thrash against him, but it’s no use as he strums your swollen bud in rough little circles that makes your thighs tremble. 

“Leon,” you moan, a second orgasm quickly building in your core. “Oh god, I’m so close.”

He doesn’t stop the frantic pumping of his hips, fucking his cock into your squelching heat while he rubs your clit—his blue eyes jumping between your face and your pussy. Mouth dropping open, he groans, mumbling praises and promises under his breath. Pinching your clit between the knuckles of his first and middle finger, he gives pulsing squeezes to the sensitive bundle of nerves until you’re cumming loudly. 

Your back bows, fireworks going off in your brain, dimly realizing that Leon’s gripping your hips as he wildly fucks your cunt. 

“Fuck, fuck, mom,” he chokes on the word, burying himself balls deep in your soft, wet walls and spilling his thick cum as deep as possible. 

You whimper, squeezing down on him as the hot splash of his spend fills your cunt. He eventually stills, hips still snugly pressed against you as close as possible. Slick and jizz begin to slowly leak out from around his softening cock. He hisses when he pulls out, then immediately whimpers, fingers playing with his cum dripping from your hole.

“Leon, stop, it’s sensitive,” you gasp, eyes slipping closed when his fingers slide up to rub across your fat clit. 

“Sorry, mama,” he pulls back only to drop to his knees, eyes dark, mouth hovering tantalizingly close to your sloppy cunt. “Let me kiss it better.”

[sandwitchstories]

Not-So Malevolent Shrine

Welcome back to more adventures in Mouse's Mini-verse! I just can't get enough of these two together!

For more adventures with Mouse and Dad!Sukuna, check out my Daddy Duty Series on my AO3 - Here! )

If you prefer to read this story on AO3 click here !

Author's Note: For anyone new to my Dad!Sukuna Series, Mouse is Sukuna's, currently, 2 year old daughter with reader.

Summary: Upon hearing Mouse yelling something in the backyard Sukuna heads out there to investigate. As per usual when this father and daughter combo are left unsupervised, hijinks commence.

WC: 1101

CW: reader is referred to as 'Mama' but not described, toddler dad Sukuna, girl dad!sukuna, true form Sukuna (4 arms), it's pretty much just plain Dilf Sukuna fluff and crack, SFW in every way, just family fluff, father and daughter fluff, I love them together, baby's first attempt at curse techniques

“Ma-leb-pu-tent Shine!!! I said Ma-leb-pu-tent SHIIIINE!!!.... Shine please and Thank you?”

Sukuna headed outside, curious just what his daughter was doing and even more curious about who she was talking to. He found her standing in the yard, doing what looked to be the toddler version of his palm sign for Malevolent Shrine. Ah, so that’s what she was trying to say.

“Mouse. What are you doing?” he asked, startling her and watching her whip around to face him.

“I tryin’ to do shine like Papa does but it no want to come for me. I even said please and thank you,” she told him with a frustrated look on her face.

“It is shrine not shine.” He stopped in front of her, towering over the toddler with his arms crossed. 

“I says that.”

“Why do you have a need of Malevolent Shrine, brat?” he asked, lips pursed as he waited for an explanation.

“That,” she turned and pointed behind her.

Sukuna saw the decent sized watermelon sitting in the grass a short distance away. He glanced down at her and asked why she had not done what should obviously have been her first choice before trying to unleash shrine. “Why didn’t you just ask Uraume or your mother?”

“No! Papa! Uhm… they no know…” she scratched her little pink head as she looked up at him.

His daughter may be a thief but at least she did not lie. He smirked down at her, “They told you to wait until after dinner, didn’t they?”

“Yes… but  starving Papa. I no have a tummy mouth but my tummy is empty and hungry, Papa!” She looked up at him with big huge pleading eyes.

Sukuna sighed before kneeling down on one knee. He reached out a hand and gripped her arm, pulling her closer with a gentle but firm tug. He tapped the tip of her little turned up nose when she looked up at him. Time to set her straight. Better do it while she was still young.

He kissed her forehead and turned her around so she was in front of him facing the watermelon. “Since the watermelon is only 1 thing and it has a small circumference-”

“Whats a cir-cub-prince?”

“Circumference. Its how big a circle needs to be. Notice how the watermelon is not very big?” she nodded. “That means it would be better to use a single slashing attack. Now, Do you want slices or chunks?”

“Chunks, please and thank you, Papa!” she said in a tone of victory, cheering her little hands up.

“Alright. Then this is what you want to use. Dismantle!” he moved his hand and the watermelon fell apart into perfect cubes.

“Thank you, Papa!!” Mouse bolted from his arms towards the juicy pile of green and pink contraband. She jumped up and down, squealing with delight before leaning down to grab a piece in either hand and come running towards him. She held up a piece to him. “You have some too, Papa!”

And wouldn’t luck have it that the moment he sunk his teeth in he heard your voice from behind. He didn’t have to look to know your hands were on your hips and your face was pinched in frustration. “What do you two think you are doing? You’re going to ruin your appetites!”

“Uh-oh, Papa!” Mouse said in a loud whisper to him. “She got her stink face on. We in big trouble.”

If you had heard her words or seen his face when she said it, he knew they would both be did. Even if not a single word she spoke was a lie. It was the perfect description for it. “Go get a piece for Mama. I’ll try to smooth it over.”

“Okay, Papa!” she nodded and took off running while he stood to face you. “I came outside to find her trying to use Malevolent Shrine to cut the watermelon she admittedly stole. But don’t worry precious one, I have corrected the error of her ways.”

“Here, mama!” Mouse said as she came running back, holding up a piece for you and eating a fresh new piece in her other hand.

“Oh you did?” You asked him, taking the watermelon from Mouse. You looked down at her and brushed bach hair from her eyes with your fingers. “So Papa already talked to you about how stealing is bad?”

“Nope! Papa taught me that to make little chunks you need to use dibanedele not Ma-leb-pu-tent shine. Because of the cir-cub-prince of a watermelon,” she explained as she held onto your robes with her sticky free hand.

You glared at Sukuna who just shrugged his shoulders. “I told you I corrected her on the error of her ways.”

“Papa is the best Papa!” Mouse laughed happily, blissfully unaware that you were conjuring the image of squashing her father’s head over and over and over again in your mind. She ran off to get more melon. 

“That’s your version of correcting the error of her ways?” you grumbled as he smirked. You shook your head, a small smile tugging at one corner of your lips. “I should have known before I even asked.”

“Mama, Papa! Come have more with me, please and thank you!” Mouse called, gesturing with her hands for you to join her.

You once again found yourself adopting the ‘if you can’t beat them, join them’ mentality with a sigh. You grabbed one of his hands and gave it a tug,  “Come on, we better go help her. There’s too much evidence there for her to eat all of it by herself and Uraume will be looking for that watermelon soon.”

“You want to teach her to eat the evidence of her crimes but I got the stink face merely for correcting which technique she needed for that situation?” he arched an eyebrow at you. 

Your eyes narrowed on his face. “Excuse me? Stink face?”

“Don’t be mad, precious one, it describes it accurately.”

You laughed and let him pull you in for a kiss. You cupped his face with your hands, letting him kiss you softly several times before you pulled back. “I supposed my having a stink face pairs well with your being a stinky head.”

“Ouch,” he said, screwing up his face and letting you go.

“Ouch in deed, ouch indeed. Now come, my beloved, we must go assist our little delinquent in covering her tracks.” It was a  life full of craziness that you led, but there was nowhere else you would rather be and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[marril96]

Mirrors

Chapter 2: Broken

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x reader

Summary: While Agatha is resting, Billy engages you in a heart to heart.

Editor: @fruityhahn

Previous chapter.

Agatha looked so peaceful when she slept. There was a calm to her, a peace that wasn't often known to her. Her head lay in your lap as you caressed her hair with utmost tenderness, your eyes glued to her face that was still unnaturally pale. Were it not for the steady rise and fall of her chest, and the gentle beats of her heart that reverberated against your forearm, you would have thought her dead.

Thankfully, she was very much alive.

You swore to do whatever it took to ensure that it stayed that way.

While the rest of the coven had gathered around a fire and engaged in chatter and laughter, you had made a fire of your own, hidden away behind the trees and away from prying eyes. Giving Agatha some privacy as she rested. Giving you some time alone with her for the first time in three long, long years.

You'd draped her coat over her, covering every inch of her, hiding it away from the cold that was eating away at her. Every now and then your hand would slither down to her side and feel the flesh that, mere hours ago, was pierced deep, almost to the bone. Just to make sure that the wound was no longer there. That for some strange reason, hadn't reappeared. That she wasn't in danger of bleeding out again.

You'd come so close to losing her. It was worse than the last time since then at the very least you knew that she was alive. She wasn't in your life but, to the best of your knowledge, she was among the living.

She almost wasn't that lucky.

You're such an idiot, you thought, shaking your head in disapproval. She could have told you that she was injured. She could have asked for help. No matter how awkward things were between you, you would have rushed to her aid, no questions asked.

Which was exactly why she'd kept it to herself.

This was just another problem that she could avoid addressing. Just another problem that she could ignore in hopes that it would go away.

Things like this never did.

Which, in turn, had only made her even more keen on pretending it wasn't there.

Even as the pain got unbearable (it had to have been; that wound was pretty deep) and she was barely able to keep herself on her feet, she'd kept on a brave face and insisted that nothing was wrong.

Had she not collapsed, she would probably still be at it, pale as a ghost but insistent that she was okay.

You fucking bitch.

If only you could hate her. Even when she did things like this, you couldn't muster an ounce of hate towards her. You hated that she did it, hated that she'd put you in a position — once again; this wasn't the first time she'd done this in your centuries together — where you feared for her life. Hated that she couldn't put her pride aside and let you help her before things got this bad.

But her, you could never hate.

You loved her too much for that.

Yet another thing you hated.

A rustle prompted you to twitch, shaking you out of your thoughts. Your hackles rose, firm as needles. Instinctively, you bent over Agatha's sleeping form and pulled her closer against you, shielding her, protecting her. Keeping her safe from whoever and whatever could possibly pose a threat to her wellbeing.

Teen's thin form slowly padded closer, his hands up to signal that he was here in peace.

A breath you'd been holding in left your mouth, almost painfully. Relief flooded your veins, lifted heavy weight off your shoulder. "Sorry, I thought…"

I thought you were Rio.

Out of everyone, she was the last person you wanted around Agatha at a time like this.

"You're good," Teen said, offering a smile that proved he meant it. "I just wanted to see how she's doing."

"She's still asleep." Your hand resumed its place on her hair, fingers twining into chocolate locks. "Unconscious. Whatever."

Teen gave a nod of understanding. "Mind if I sit?"

"Go for it."

You didn't exactly want company, but there was no harm in letting him join you, if only for a few minutes.

The kid cared about Agatha; that much was clear. Be he the Scarlet Witch's son or not, he was a kind soul. He meant no harm.

Agatha was quite fond of him, as well. When he had gotten injured, she was the one who'd urged Jen to act. She was the one who'd sat by his side until he'd woken up.

She could pretend all she wanted — she cared about this kid. She cared too much for her own good.

He reminded her of her own kid.

Not that she would ever admit it out loud.

"You're very protective of her," Teen remarked.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, staining them flush. "Someone has to be."

Especially now that she was powerless. She needed someone in her corner, someone to have her back. Someone to defend her when she couldn't do it herself.

"She doesn't exactly have a stellar reputation," the kid said with a chuckle.

"Nope." Understatement of the century. "Most people aren't her biggest fans."

"I've noticed."

Who wouldn't?

"Everyone either wants her dead or hurt."

"How come you don't?"

"Because I got to know her."

Because she let you get to know her.

Because she let you fall in love with her.

Because, behind closed doors, she wasn't the cold-hearted bitch everyone thought her to be.

"She does grow on you," Teen said.

It was your turn to let out a chuckle. "She sure does."

His face suddenly grew serious. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Do you know what happened to her son?"

Yes. You did. She'd told you once, two centuries ago, and had spent the rest of that night crying her eyes out while you'd held her and assured her that she wasn't a bad mother, that Nicky had loved her and had known that he was loved in return.

"That's not my story to tell."

Agatha had sworn you to secrecy. She didn't care about what people were saying about her. Didn't care that they'd spread around a tale of her having murdered her son or sacrificed him to the Devil. Didn't care that they'd made her out to be a monster.

As much as it pained you to listen to the rumors, you had to let it go. 

It was her life. Her character. If she didn't mind having it assassinated, who were you to say anything?

"Just… don't believe rumors, okay?" You couldn't tell the truth, but you sure as hell could point in its general direction. "People say awful things. None of it's true."

"Jen said—"

"That's definitely not true," you cut him off, setting the record straight. You'd wanted to strangle the other witch, especially after her gossip had resulted in Agatha getting that awful hallucination, but Agatha had ordered you to back off. "I can't say much. Just… it wasn't her fault."

That was what made that situation so tragic.

Agatha had done right by her son, had loved him and cared for him the best way that she knew how, and that still hadn't been enough. She'd still lost him.

Teen nodded, taking your words in.

"Don't prod her," you told him. "She doesn't like talking about it."

"She closed off when I asked her."

"She has a tendency to do that."

Of course, you had ways of making her talk, regardless.

Most times.

If she was being really stubborn, not even mind control could get the words out of her.

"Any other Agatha tips and tricks?" Teen asked with a hint of amusement in his tone, trying to lighten the mood.

Your response, on the other hand, was as serious as a heart attack. "Give her some grace. She's not bad. She's just… her. She may say or do some unsavory things, but that's not who she is."

Your eyes fell to her face in your lap. She looked so serene. So soft. The picture of the woman you fell in love with, once she'd lowered her walls and let you in. Once she'd allowed you to meet the real her.

Yes, she was selfish, yes she was wicked, but there was good in her. It was there in traces, present in every touch of her hand, every brush of her lips against yours, every comforting embrace and loving word that came out of her mouth in times when you most needed it.

Your Agatha was no angel, but she was a person, with all the good and bad that came with it.

She was your person.

"Don't take it to heart when she pushes you away."

"Is that what you did?" Teen asked, contemplating his words for a few moments, unsure whether to dare to prod.

One look from you was enough to assure him that it was okay.

It was only natural to ask.

After all, he had been there when Agatha had shown up at your house — the house that the two of you had used to share — and started reaming you out for having abandoned her, and you, giving as good as you'd gotten, had screamed how she had been the one to abandon you.

In reality, you'd both abandoned each other.

You'd both suffered, each in your own way.

"Yeah."

It would be a lie to deny it.

You'd been doing so for long enough.

"Can I ask what happened?"

You thought it over for a moment, then decided, what the hell.

Maybe telling someone would help lift this enormous burden off your shoulders.

"Three years ago we got into this massive fight. She left and…" The lump in your throat hurt to swallow. It burned its way down. "She didn't come back."

Fights like that were a yearly occurrence in your relationship. Usually, one of you would leave in a huff, pissed to high heavens, in desperate need of space, of time to cool off and clear her head. A few days would pass, and the angry party would return home. There would be tears and a conversation filled with apologies from both sides, and the truce would be sealed with a kiss.

There was none of that this time around.

Agatha hadn't returned home.

She hadn't responded to text messages or picked up calls.

It was like she had disappeared off the face of the planet.

The words that had left your mouth that day had been foul. You'd never spoken to her like that before. Had never known you'd had it in you to even attempt to.

Agatha, true to her character, had given as good as she had gotten. Her sharp tongue had made sure to make every insult sting like a slap to the face.

It had, by far, been the worst fight the two of you had ever had.

When she hadn't returned and had — it seemed — ignored all of your attempts to contact her, you'd thought that that was it. She'd had enough. She'd decided to cut you off for good and go her own way. She'd decided to find herself a girlfriend who wouldn't yell at her and call her names. She'd decided you just weren't doing it for her anymore.

So you'd let her go.

You'd moved on.

Well, theoretically.

One didn't move on from Agatha Harkness. One didn't just stop loving her. It would be impossible.

But you'd learned to live without her.

For the past couple of weeks you hadn't even cried once.

It was progress, of sorts.

Then she'd shown up at your door and, instead of hurt, there was guilt, and it was there to stay. For good, it seemed.

Just as you deserved.

As much as you wanted to pretend otherwise, the brunt of the blame was on you.

You shouldn't have given up on the woman you loved.

You should have looked for her.

You should have fought for her.

"And you didn't look for her?" Teen said softly, as if afraid of offending you.

The truth itself was far more offensive than any perceived slight.

You gave a small shake of your head. "I thought she'd moved on."

"Did you move on?"

"I thought I did."

Your hand slid to Agatha's side again. All clear. No wound. You allowed yourself a breath of relief, a welcome distraction from the turmoil that was eating you up inside.

"Sounds like you guys just had a misunderstanding."

That was exactly what it was.

A misunderstanding.

A case of mixed signals. Something a simple conversation should be able to fix.

It would have, if not for what had transpired as a result.

Oops didn't even begin to cover it.

"Yeah, well, that misunderstanding cost her three years of her life," you said, angry at yourself, at the dire situation that your inaction had contributed to.

"That wasn't your fault," Teen pointed out.

It was your mother's, you thought bitterly.

Wanda had inflicted unparalleled damage upon Agatha.

And you had let her.

You were none the wiser, pissed at the woman you loved instead of directing your anger where it actually belonged. Too busy resenting her to consider unforeseeable circumstances might be at play.

"You don't understand, Teen." You almost said Billy, but you caught yourself at the least moment. Agatha was way better at this stuff than you. "That spell that she was under… it was torture."

Even short-term exposure to such a spell could leave permanent marks on one's psyche.

Agatha had been under it for three years.

Three years of pain. Three years of anguish. Three years of torment.

Your hand gripped her shoulder. You pulled her closer, relishing in the fact that, despite everything that had transpired, she was safe. She had people to help her when she was in need. She had a coven.

She had you.

"She was suffering for three years and I had no idea."

Teen shifted uncomfortably. His gaze briefly fell upon Agatha's sleeping form before returning to you. "I'm sure she knows it wasn't on purpose."

"It doesn't matter. She was still hurt, and I wasn't there to protect her."

"You couldn't have known."

"Yeah, well, I should have!"

Teen flinched, startled by your outburst. Uttering a small apology, looked down at Agatha's tranquil face. Still pale, still deathly cold. No healthy blush that usually adorned her cheeks.

"I can't even imagine what it must've been like." You brushed your fingers across her cheek, tenderly, softly, as if she were made of porcelain. As if one careless touch would shatter her into a million pieces. "She won't talk to me."

Even if she did, there wasn't much that you could do.

Something like that didn't leave one's mind unscathed. The damage, once inflicted, was done. She would bear that pain for life.

The only thing that you could do was have her back. Assure her that it was okay, that you loved her no matter what.

This was just another scar in her collection. It didn't make her weak. It didn't change how you saw her, how you felt about her.

She was still your Agatha.

The problem was she was stubborn and would die before allowing herself to be vulnerable yet again.

"You can still be there for her," Teen said.

If only it were that easy. "She won't let me."

"Make her," he said with a shrug. As if it were that easy. As if Agatha would admit defeat and surrender without a fight.

You had to laugh. "You think anyone can make Agatha Harkness do anything?"

There was that time she'd caught the flu, and she wouldn't take Tylenol to lower her fever because human medicine was beneath her. You'd ended up crushing it into her soup, which, when she'd realized the white, gritty substance weren't spices, as you'd adamantly claimed, had ended in her dramatically proclaiming that you were trying to poison her.

Granted, that could have been the fever talking; Tylenol hadn't yet kicked in. But still.

"You're here now, aren't you?" Teen said.

"Only because she's unconscious." You stroked Agatha's hair, thick and beautiful. Silk between your fingers. You missed it. "I'm fine with her not wanting me around. I just want her to be okay. That's all. I don't wanna force myself into her life."

"Something tells me that you wouldn't be here if she didn't want you to be," Teen pointed out. "Even if she's putting up a front."

A smile broke out on your mouth. "Maybe."

She did say she didn't hate you.

Maybe there was still hope.

Maybe she could find it in her to forgive you.

"You said it yourself: she's not bad. She's just… her. Give her some grace."

You had to laugh. "Using my own words against me? That's very Agatha of you."

"It's true," Teen said with a chuckle.

Yeah. You supposed it was.

Agatha could do with some grace.

She didn't have people — friends, loved ones — out there to look out for her, to have her back even when she was in the wrong.

For three long, long years she didn't have you, either.

You wanted to make it right.

Agatha deserved that much.

"I should get back," Teen said, motioning to the rest of the coven out back, their chatter and laughter a distant echo.

He glanced down at Agatha; at her face being caressed by your fingers, at the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, concern etched all over his face like a tattoo.

He didn't want for her to be hurt any more than you did.

"She'll be okay," you said softly, offering him the same guarantee that Lilia had given you.

Agatha was strong. Resilient.

She would survive this.

She would recover in record time, as if she'd never even been in this predicament.

"I know," Teen said. "She's the baddest bitch in South America and Europe. Nothing keeps her down for long."

A laugh, loud and hearty, tore from your throat.

He was right; this was just an injury. One of the countless she'd acquired over the centuries, that she'd lived through with relative ease.

Who was to say she wouldn't do so again?

Your Agatha was nothing if not a fighter.

No sooner had his footsteps faded in the distance than Agatha's voice, coarse like beach sand, broke the silence that had settled over you. "Wasn't that disgustingly sappy? Lifetime channel would be proud."

How could you forget?

Your Agatha was nothing if not a sneaky bitch, as well.

*****

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