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ssa-dado · 14 days ago

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19 - Push & Pull

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader Genre: slow burn, whump, fluff Summary: Everything that happens in 3x2 - the good, the bad, the ugly, what you see and especially what you don't see. Warnings: themes of suicide, non-consensual sexual encounters, infidelity, alcohol, physical violence that feels like the filthiest smut, CM case details, P***r gets mentioned Word Count: 21k - you can start feisting now Dado's Corner: Despite the fact that a good third of this chapter was fever-fueled - yes, I'm still a helpless victorian child rotting in bed - this has to be my favorite in the series. The complexity, the blend of themes, the highs and lows… It was an emotional rollercoaster to write. Please tell me I didn't waste your time and show me some love because I'm never writing such a long chapter like this ever again. Honestly, it was challenging on every level, but I could say, I'm satisfied about how it turned out.

masterlist

Gideon, your mentor, was unraveling.

His office had turned into a reflection of his mind: cluttered, chaotic, littered with unfinished reports, half-eaten meals, and newspapers strewn like remnants of thoughts he couldn’t quite piece together. The deep shadows beneath his eyes grew darker with each sunrise, his sharp instincts dulled by an overwhelming sense of doubt that he wore like a second skin.

It was Reid, in his quiet, persistent way, who seemed to keep Gideon tethered to the here and now. Every night, after the bullpen had emptied and the hum of activity quieted, Reid would slip into Gideon’s office with his well-worn chessboard.

No words were needed between them - Reid would simply set up the pieces, and they’d play, the clink of pawns and knights the only sound breaking the stillness.

Sometimes, Reid would ramble on about obscure facts, statistics, or philosophical musings - trying, in his own way, to coax Gideon out of the fog.

And sometimes, it even worked.

Gideon would nod, listening, though his eyes were always distant, like his mind was trapped in some other place, some other time.

You noticed it all.

You saw the way Gideon was slipping further into himself, withdrawing into a shell built from old scars and fresh wounds, and despite your own burdens - the ceaseless grind of paperwork, the weight of decision-making - you couldn’t help but stay.

Late into the night, you’d linger in his office, your own files spread out on the corner of his desk as they played chess in the background.

It wasn’t planned.

No one spoke of it.

But the three of you were drawn together by the silence, by the shared weariness that seemed to fill the room. There was a strange, unspoken bond forged in those long hours, a quiet understanding that didn’t need words.

One particularly late night, you noticed Gideon had barely touched his dinner.

A dry sandwich sat untouched on his desk, the wrapper barely peeled back. His gaze was fixed on the chessboard, but you could tell he wasn’t really seeing it.

Across from him, Reid spoke softly but quickly, his usual stream of physics trivia flowing in a rapid, soothing rhythm. As much as you wanted to follow along, the complexity of it eluded you, your focus drifting instead to Gideon.

He wasn’t listening to Reid either.

Not really.

His gaze flickered toward the younger profiler as if searching for something in him - a reflection, a glimpse of the man he used to be. It was as if Gideon believed that, if he looked long enough, he might find in Reid the younger version of himself - the idealist who still found meaning in the smallest details, who once believed in the unshakable rightness of the work.

That’s when you decided it was time to lighten the mood, if only a little.

Without a word, you began rummaging through your bag, searching for the small box you always carried for nights like these.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Finally, your fingers closed around it - a box of espresso-filled chocolate truffles.

You pulled it out and placed it on the table between them, the soft rustle of the box breaking the silence. Both Gideon and Reid looked up from the chessboard, their attention caught by the unexpected offering.

“Thought we could use a pick-me-up,” you said, giving them a small smile. "Chocolate, sugar, caffeine, all the essentials.”

Reid’s eyes lit up immediately, his love for sweets rivaling his encyclopedic knowledge. Without hesitation, he reached for one, already unwrapping it before you even finished speaking.

“Just be careful,” you cautioned, watching him with amusement. “Make sure to eat it all in one bite, the center is-”

Too late.

Reid bit into the truffle with enthusiasm, only for a stream of espresso to spill out, running down his chin and splattering onto his shirt. His eyes went wide with surprise, his fingers frozen mid-bite as the liquid dripped onto him.

You stifled a laugh, raising an eyebrow as you glanced over at Gideon, who had paused, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “-liquid,” you finished, a little too late, but the playful tone wasn’t lost on either of them.

Reid blinked down at the mess, flustered. “I… should’ve listened,” he muttered, grabbing a napkin as you chuckled softly.

For the first time in days, Gideon let out a genuine laugh—the sound warm and rich, cutting through the tension that had gripped the office for weeks.

It was contagious, and soon you found yourself laughing too, shaking your head at Reid, who was frantically dabbing at his shirt with a napkin. “Well,” you teased, trying to suppress your grin, “at least now you get a second truffle, Reid.”

Reid shot you an exasperated look but reached for another anyway, this time more cautiously. He ate it in one swift motion, nodding with appreciation at the taste.

As the laughter faded, Gideon leaned back in his chair, still smiling softly. “I have to say, it’s nice being included in you and Hotch’s little long-lived tradition,” he remarked, his tone light but carrying an edge of nostalgia.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “It’s not a tradition, Gideon. Just an act of kindness.”

His smile grew, though weariness hung at the edges. “Sure, but you and Hotch have always had your... gestures. I’ve seen it over the years.”

Feigning offense, you shot him a playful glare. “Are you accusing me of being too nice?”

Gideon chuckled, shaking his head. “Not at all. But there’s always been something different between you two. Even in the quiet moments, you’ve had each other’s backs in ways that most people couldn’t even see. It’s unusual, how quickly he let his guard down with you.”

You deflected with a smirk. “Well, I was the only one slipping him chocolate across the desk. If you or Rossi had tried, maybe you’d have broken through that wall too.”

He didn’t laugh this time, his voice lowering slightly. “It’s not just about the chocolate...”

You knew exactly what Gideon meant, the weight of his words hanging in the air between you, but thankfully, before you could respond, Reid - oblivious to the underlying tension - cut through the moment. “Gideon, your move,” he said, eyes still fixed on the chessboard.

And just like that, you saw it - the way Gideon’s focus shifted, retreating inward.

His face darkened, leaving behind a man questioning everything: the cases, his instincts, his very place in the team.

Your heart clenched.

This was the man who had taught you to trust your gut, to peel back the layers of darkness in others to find the truth, that had brought you right where you belonged. He’d been your mentor, the one who shaped you into the profiler you had become. And now, watching him crumble, piece by piece, felt like losing something vital, a part of yourself that had always drawn strength from him.

And so, you stayed.

You overstayed your office hours, finishing your paperwork in Gideon’s office instead of Hotch’s. It wasn’t a solution, but it was something.

And Reid, with his boundless loyalty stayed too, playing chess with Gideon night after night, keeping him tethered to the world for just a little longer.

But as the days passed, you saw it, every time you caught him staring off into the distance, you knew he was drifting further into the abyss.

In those two weeks, you did everything you could to hold him together.

You brought more truffles, more late-night conversations, more quiet companionship. But you knew, no matter how much you tried to anchor him, he was already gone - retreating into the darkness of his own making.

But you stayed anyway, because that’s what you and Hotch had always done for each other. And even though Hotch wasn’t there, you carried on the tradition.

Because that’s what partners do.

---

As the weight of the last night as Unit Chief night pressed on, your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You already knew who it was before you glanced at the screen.

Peter.

You sighed softly, your thumb lingering over the screen for a moment.

“I’ll be back in a second,” you said, quietly excusing yourself as you stood from Gideon’s desk. Reid and Gideon were still staring intently at the chessboard, though Reid’s eyes flickered up to meet yours when you moved toward the door.

He gave you a questioning glance, and without saying a word, you lifted the chain around your neck, revealing the engagement ring you always kept there. You gave it a playful swing, making a mock-embarrassed face, knowing full well they understood why Peter was calling so late.

“Trouble at home?” Gideon teased, his voice soft but filled with implication. He knew the tension between you and Peter had been simmering lately.

You forced a smile. "Just the usual check-in,” you said, stepping out into the hall, feeling the weight of their eyes on your back.

As soon as you closed the door behind you, you answered the call. "Pete, I know what you're going to say," you began, leaning against the wall, trying to keep your tone measured, but your exhaustion was seeping through.

"And you know why I’m calling," Peter’s voice was tense, irritated. "You’ve been in the office for days now. When are you coming home?”

"I’m still here because of Gideon,” you said, your voice dropping as you glanced back toward the door. “I’ve told you this before. He's not... he's not doing well, Peter. He needs someone keeping an eye on him."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "He’s a grown man, Y/N. Gideon’s been through a lot, but you can’t babysit him. He’s a legend in the field, you really think-"

"I’m not babysitting him," you interrupted, your voice sharper than you intended. "I’m making sure he doesn’t fall apart. You don’t know what he’s been like these past few weeks. He’s barely eating, barely sleeping. You worked with him too, you should understand how serious this is."

Peter sighed, the sound heavy and tired. "You know I worked with Gideon for years, but you’re acting like it’s your job to save him. What about us? What about our life?"

You pressed your lips together, feeling the familiar sting of guilt rise sharply in your chest. "Pete, I’ve seen this before. I know the signs." The words were quiet but filled with a heaviness that made your throat tighten. "When someone stops caring, stops trying... and then, if they suddenly seem calm, peaceful even, it’s because they’ve already made their choice."

There was a heavy silence on the other end, the kind that seemed to stretch into forever, the kind that made you wish he would say anything - anything but what you knew was coming. Peter’s voice cut through the quiet, blunt, almost cold. "Y/N, you can’t save everyone – especially when they’re not asking for your help in the first place."

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, cold and final, the truth of them sharp but unwelcome. Your breath caught in your chest, and for a moment, even the bullpen across from you seemed too small. How could he say that? Didn’t he understand?

"I can’t just let it happen, Peter," you whispered, your voice breaking, the pain barely held back. "I won’t."

His frustration seeped through the line, thick and undeniable. "You always do this, Y/N. You get too involved. If you couldn’t control it in your own home, then what makes you think you can with Gideon? You can’t keep carrying this guilt with you everywhere you go."

His words were biting, an ultimatum thinly veiled as concern. "You need to come home. It’s past midnight, Y/N. This isn’t even your responsibility anymore. Hotch is back as Unit Chief, so stop clinging to this. You’re supposed to be going back to the Academy, back to teaching. You need to remember where you belong, because this - " he paused, letting the weight of the moment hang between you, "this needs to end. Everything’s supposed to go back to normal."

"Back to normal?" you echoed, the bitterness of the words catching in your throat.

As if the past few weeks could be erased.

As if Gideon spiraling wasn’t your concern anymore.

As if you hadn’t been holding everything together, here and at home.

But most of all, as if the cracks in your own life could just be mended overnight.

You sighed, exhaustion settling deep into your bones, making your shoulders sag. "Alright, Pete. Just... give me some time. Let me say goodbye, and I’ll come home. I promise."

There was a brief pause on the other end, a moment where you almost expected him to soften, to understand. But when Peter spoke again, his voice was colder, sharper. "Fine. But don’t take too long. And remember, I love you, okay? I’m doing this for you. You should be grateful I put up with this, most men wouldn’t."

The words stung, but you were too tired to react, too worn down to really let them sink in. "I am… sorry... I love you, too."

"Good," he replied, and there was an edge of something dark there, something you couldn’t quite touch in the moment. "And when you come home, don’t say you’re tired. You’ll find a better way to apologize, won’t you?"

Before you could respond, the line went dead, leaving you standing in the dim light of Gideon’s office. The ache of everything unsaid, everything unresolved, tightened in your chest, but you pushed it down. You had to. There was no space for that kind of pain right now.

With a deep breath, you steadied yourself and walked back toward Gideon’s office. When you pushed the door open, you found them right where you’d left them, both hunched over the chessboard, though they looked up almost in unison when you stepped in. There was an unspoken awareness in the room, like they could sense the shift in your mood before you’d even said a word.

Reid offered a small, tentative smile before glancing back at the chessboard, his brow furrowing as though trying to solve a puzzle. Gideon, on the other hand, didn’t speak right away. His fingers were idly tapping the edge of the board. It wasn’t until you approached the desk that he finally broke the silence.

“Everything sorted?” he asked, his voice soft, though he didn’t look up, as if giving you space to decide how much you wanted to share.

“More or less,” you replied, trying to keep your tone light. You lingered near the desk for a moment before continuing, your voice a little quieter now. “Just... wanted to say goodbye before I head out.”

That made him pause.

Gideon’s head lifted, his sharp, discerning eyes narrowing as he locked onto yours. It was as if he could see right through you, past the walls you were so desperately trying to keep up. His gaze softened, but it was Reid’s reaction that caught you off guard, that really hit you.

Reid’s eyes widened in genuine surprise, as though the reality of your departure had only just dawned on him. “You’re... leaving?” His voice was soft, almost childlike in its sadness, like he couldn’t quite believe it, but it was the rawness in his tone that caught you off guard.

You weren’t sure what hurt more: the way his question lingered in the air, fragile and aching, or the fact that you hadn’t truly accepted it yourself until that very moment.

You nodded, forcing a light smile despite the tightness in your chest. “Yeah, but don’t worry. Hotch will be here in seconds. Knowing him, he’s probably already waiting for me in the elevator, like we’re two Swiss guards changing shifts.” You tried to make it sound casual, but even the humor felt bittersweet. “You won’t be alone here for long.”

Gideon’s chuckle lingered in the air. “Oh, don’t I know it. You two,” he began, his tone tinged with something deeper now, “like some inevitable force of nature. You’re out here burning the midnight oil, and Hotch... he’s already pulling the sun back up. It’s funny, really. Like the two of you are stuck in some cosmic dance. Push, pull. Night and day.”

You couldn’t help but smile, though his words stirred something heavier inside you. “Hey,” you teased lightly, trying to brush off the weight of it, “we balanced each other out.”

“Balanced? You two were an overworking disaster,” Gideon said with a smirk, leaning back in his chair, his tone light but his eyes reflective. “The only relief was seeing you separately this time around.”

He paused, his expression softening, becoming more contemplative. “It reminds me of something from one of Heraclitus’ fragments: ‘The way up and the way down are one and the same.’ That’s what you and Hotch are, not just balance, but two sides of the same journey. You push him deep into the night, and he pulls you back into the day. It’s not just about working together - it’s about how you exist together. Two halves of one whole.”

He glanced at you with a knowing smile. “That kind of partnership... it’s rare. Don’t ever take it for granted.”

And then his mind drifted to more than ten years prior, back when he stood before his class on that first day, the low hum of shuffling papers and whispers settling into silence as he prepared to speak suddenly all came back to him – now.

In his first class there was a routine he had mastered - a careful choreography of words and images designed to unsettle the students, make them question the very foundations of their understanding. These future profilers, most of them ex-cops, were here to learn to see beyond the obvious.

And what better way to start than with a puzzle they wouldn’t expect?

He clicked the projector, and Heraclitus appeared on the screen - his shadowed face staring out from antiquity. The image was his favorite weapon, a portrait of philosophy’s "dark" and "obscure" mind, someone no one in this room was likely to recognize.

It was an intimidation tactic, plain and simple.

The baffled faces around the room were predictable, a symphony of confusion and unease. Gideon could feel the atmosphere shift as students glanced nervously at one another, trying to decipher what that unknown face had to do with the world of behavioral analysis.

But then, in the front row, there was something Gideon hadn’t expected.

A single discordant note in his well-rehearsed composition: a smile.

It came from you.

Gideon’s focus narrowed, his routine thrown ever so slightly off course.

Who was this young student, barely old enough to be in the Academy, wearing an expression of recognition?

Not confusion, not fear, but understanding.

It was unsettling, rare - intriguing. He couldn’t help himself. His curiosity got the better of him, and he went off script.

“What’s so funny about that picture?” Gideon asked, his voice sharper than intended, but charged with genuine interest.

All eyes turned to you, the youngest in the room. For a moment, the room held its breath, waiting for the usual nervous fumbling.

But you didn’t falter.

Instead, you met Gideon’s gaze, confident and steady.

“That’s Heraclitus,” you said, your voice clear, unmistakably sure of itself.

The simple statement landed like a lightning strike in the room. Gideon raised an eyebrow, impressed but still testing. “And what exactly do you find so amusing about Heraclitus?”

Leaning forward slightly, your excitement bubbled beneath your measured tone. “Heraclitus, the ‘Obscure,’ the philosopher of contradictions and paradox. No one expects philosophy in a behavioral analysis class, but he fits perfectly”

Gideon’s lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile, though he masked it quickly. "Go on," he said, his tone a challenge.

You straightened in your seat, your eyes meeting his."Heraclitus also talked about the unity of opposites, how things that seem in conflict are actually interdependent. ‘The way up and the way down are one and the same,’ he said. It’s like the way we study both victims and unsubs in this field. They seem like opposites, but understanding one helps us understand the other. Just as pain and joy, light and dark, can’t exist without each other, neither can the criminal and the victim in our analysis. They’re part of the same story, the same journey."

Gideon felt a rare flicker of pride - not for himself, but for the potential sitting in front of him. You weren’t just reciting textbook philosophy; you were applying it, weaving it into the very fabric of the discipline you were there to learn.

And you weren’t done yet. Of course, you couldn’t resist - you had to link it to one of your all-time favorite philosophers. You leaned forward, a glint of excitement in your eyes.

"Even Hegel was profoundly influenced by Heraclitus. He said that there wasn’t a single proposition of Heraclitus that he hadn’t adopted in his own logic. Heraclitus' idea of 'becoming,' the flux between being and non-being, deeply influenced Hegel’s dialectic. It’s similar to what we see in criminal behavior - the constant push and pull between identity, choices, and circumstances. It’s never just one thing, it’s always in motion, always evolving."

That was the first time Gideon’s never-failing intimidation tactic had faltered, the only other time it would happen again would be years later, with Spencer Reid.

Heraclitus had marked your first interaction, a bridge between minds.

And now, as he watched you walk toward the elevator for what would unknowingly be your final moment together, Gideon couldn’t help but reflect on the strange symmetry of it all.

Heraclitus - the philosopher of change, of things never staying the same - had also marked your last exchange.

It felt fitting, like the end of a cycle, the completion of a journey.

In that instant, as you turned your back, unaware of the farewell lingering in the air, Gideon felt something unexpected - peace.

A peace that had eluded him for so long, now settled quietly in his chest.

He had done it.

He had left something behind, something more enduring than cases closed or criminals caught.

You.

Spencer.

His legacy.

Not just students, not just colleagues, but two minds shaped by the very philosophy that had shaped him: always seeking, always questioning, always flowing with the deeper currents of human behavior.

Suddenly he was no longer burdened by the weight of leaving. He could let go now, because he would never be truly gone – because his presence, his wisdom, lived on in both of you.

In your intellect, your understanding, in the way you would carry on the work with your own brilliance and compassion. You were the continuation of the journey, just as Heraclitus had once said: the way up and the way down are one and the same.

He had done his part.

Peaceful.

Grateful.

And finally free.

Today was the day.

The day Aaron had both longed for and dreaded in equal measure.

Every action since the moment he opened his eyes had been deliberate, as if each small motion was preparing him for the weight of the hours ahead. His body was already drained, conserving what little energy remained for the mental battle he knew was coming. It was like walking in slow motion, bracing himself for the inevitable.

Haley moved quietly around the table, as if she could feel the tension radiating from him without a word spoken. She handed him a fresh cup of coffee on the table, its dark aroma rising between them like a silent acknowledgement of what loomed.

Aaron ephemerally glanced up, offering her a smile - small, tired, and fleeting, the kind of smile that never quite reached his eyes. She didn’t need to ask; she already knew. The weight of the day sat between them, unspoken.

“Thanks, honey,” he murmured, his voice low and strained.

“Yep,” Haley replied simply, though her eyes lingered on him longer than usual, filled with quiet concern. She stepped behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders, applying a gentle pressure. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Aaron nodded, though it felt more like a reflex than an honest answer. His shoulders stiffened under her touch, his mind far away. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince her or himself. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Across the table, Jack was giggling as he tried to scoop cereal into his mouth, his little hands fumbling with the spoon. Kuna, the pine marten plushie, sat propped beside him as if it, too, was waiting for breakfast. Jack giggled again, offering the toy a bite of cereal as Aaron watched, feeling a pang of guilt mixed with love.

“You’re doing the right thing,” Haley said softly from behind him, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of certainty, as if she could sense the turmoil inside him.

Aaron nodded again, staring down into his coffee, his fingers tracing the edge of the cup. “I know,” he replied, though the words tasted hollow. He knew it, but he didn’t feel it. The decision he was about to make—requesting a transfer to Strauss—gnawed at him. He could hear her words ringing in his mind: “If it were solely up to me, you would never get these credentials back.”

It wasn’t just about work, though.

It was about purpose.

These last two weeks had been torture, not because he didn’t love spending time with his family, but because the stillness, the helplessness of suspension, had chipped away at him. Aaron was never the type to sit still.

His entire life had been built around momentum, around action.

These past weeks, he had felt himself slowly unraveling, checking in with you more often than necessary - not to oversee your work as interim Unit Chief, but because he missed it.

He missed the pulse of the job, the sense of purpose that came with it. He loved his family more than anything, but he couldn’t deny the restlessness eating away at him.

"Getting suspended was a blessing in disguise," Haley continued, her hands now gently massaging his tense shoulders. "We deserve a normal life."

Aaron took a slow breath, the words sinking in. He loved Haley, loved Jack, loved the idea of a normal life for them all. But was he even capable of that? Was "normal" ever really going to fit him? He felt the weight of her words more than ever, yet they didn’t soothe him like they should have.

"I love you," Aaron said quietly, turning his head slightly to meet Haley’s eyes, his tone filled with sincerity but also the unspoken conflict that still lingered beneath.

“I love you, too,” she replied, her hands slipping from his shoulders as she gave him a tender smile, though there was something unspoken between them as well. The past two weeks had been hard on both of them, in different ways.

Jack, unaware of the tension, looked up at his dad with a beaming smile. "Sok, Kuna!" he chirped, holding up his sippy cup toward the plushie, as though offering it juice.

Aaron blinked, caught off guard, before letting out a surprised laugh. He couldn’t believe it. His two-year-old son had just said a sentence - albeit a grammatically incorrect one - in Croatian. Aaron laughed, shaking his head in disbelief.

Aaron’s grin widened, the tension in his chest easing for just a moment. Of course, Jack would learn that word. You’d been playfully insisting on reading The Adventures of the Pine Marten in its original Croatian to Jack ever since you’d gifted him the book, mostly to humble him as usual.

At first, it had been a challenge, but after a few butchered attempts, Aaron had managed to learn a couple of basic words. “Sok,” which meant juice, and "Kuna," the name of the pine marten character, were the ones that stuck.

Aaron leaned forward, grinning at his son. “Kuna wants some juice too, huh, buddy?”

Jack, as if determined to correct his father, beamed and repeated, “Sok.”

Aaron couldn’t help but laugh again, shaking his head in disbelief. It was one of the few moments lately that lifted the dark cloud hovering over him. "Sok," he repeated with a grin. "Of course, Jack. Juice."

Haley, who had been watching the exchange with an amused but slightly exasperated expression, raised an eyebrow. “Did you tell her that Jack learned to say 'Kuna' before 'Dad'?”

Aaron groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Oh no, she can never know that. You think she’d ever let me live it down? I’d hear about it for the rest of my life.”

Haley smirked, shaking her head, though there was a subtle edge to her amusement. “Only your son could pick up two words in Croatian by the age of two. Seriously, do you even know how many words a two-year-old should know?”

Aaron didn’t hesitate, slipping into profiler mode as easily as breathing. "Between 100 and 500 words. So the fact that Jack knows even 0.5% of that in Croatian is... pretty impressive," he said, pride swelling in his chest.

Haley rolled her eyes, though her smile lingered. "Out of all the words, it’s 'Kuna' and 'sok.' You’re really proud of that, huh?"

Her words had a playful tone, but Aaron couldn’t help but notice the underlying frustration. It wasn’t the first time Haley had made comments like that. “That’s my fault, the only words I can actually pronounce are 'Kuna' and 'sok.'”

Haley let out a short laugh, but it had a bitter edge. “Out of all the bedtime stories you could read, you’re reading that Croatian book. Sometimes I wonder... I swear, Jack reminds me so much of you and her. If this keeps up, he’ll be in university by fifteen.”

Aaron laughed, though he could sense the underlying tension. "Hey, those words - 's,' 'k,' and 'n' - they’re great for his pronunciation. He’s got a head start." He ruffled Jack’s hair, feeling a surge of fatherly pride.

Haley gave him a look, half-joking but with an edge. "Are you going to be mad if Jack grows up to be a linguist instead of a lawyer like you?"

Aaron hesitated, his gaze drifting to Jack, who was happily babbling to his stuffed marten, Kuna. The thought tugged at his heart, and his mind inevitably wandered to you, at the profound impact you'd had on him, his life, and, in subtle ways, on his family.

You’d only met Jack twice, but your influence was undeniable.

It was woven into bedtime stories, casual conversations, even the way Jack’s eyes would light up at words in other languages.

Aaron spoke about you way too often, sharing stories of your time together, your intense passion for languages and philosophy - all those hours you spent digging deep into human nature and meaning.

He’d done it even when Jack was too young to understand, planting seeds that somehow, in his son’s little world, had started to bloom. He liked to imagine that some of your passion had seeped into Jack - through stories, through osmosis, through that connection he always felt when talking about you.

“I wouldn’t mind if Jack grew up to be a linguist like her,” Aaron said softly, a warm smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he imagined Jack inheriting that same thirst for knowledge, that wide-eyed wonder at the world.

But then, a nagging thought tugged at him - Jack’s repeating words like “Kuna” and “sok” was innocent, even charming.

It was just a toddler picking up on the rhythm of language, right?!

But what if one day Jack started rattling off philosophical musings - your philosophical musings?

Aaron wasn’t sure he could handle that.

The thought of raising a mini-version of you was both amusing and daunting.

He adored you, truly, but he also knew how relentless you could be when it came to deep conversations. Would Jack grow up with that same fierce, intellectual curiosity? Aaron wasn’t surely ready for that, especially not from a toddler.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head, trying to imagine the future. “You know what I’d really be worried about?” he asked, his grin returning despite the weight still lingering in his chest. “If he starts talking about philosophy like her.” He smirked, a playful glint in his eyes as he glanced at Haley, trying to lighten the moment. "Can you imagine? My worst nightmare would be hearing my son say the name Plato."

Haley raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a knowing smile. "Oh, please. You love it when she starts talking about philosophy. Don’t act like you wouldn’t secretly be proud."

Aaron’s smile softened at that, his heart swelling with the truth of her words.

Of course, he would be proud.

Just like he was proud of everything Jack did - whether he followed in his footsteps or carved his own path.

But imagining his little boy spouting off Plato or Hegel at the dinner table, at two years old? That was another story.

Before Aaron could respond, Jack, as if sensing his father’s thoughts, piped up from his high chair with a grin. “Plat!”

Aaron’s eyes widened in shock, his heart skipping a beat.

There was no way.

Jack couldn’t possibly be saying Plato, could he?

"Kuna wants some more cereal on his plate?" Aaron asked quickly, trying to redirect the conversation, his voice a little too cheerful as he pointed to the bowl in front of Jack. "This is called a bowl, not a plate, buddy."

But Jack giggled, delighted by the attention, and in that mischievous, toddler way of his, he declared loudly once again, “Plat!”

Aaron glanced at Haley, who was now biting her lip to keep from laughing, and he realized he wasn’t out of the woods yet. His son’s innocent mimicry was hitting far too close to home. But as if to make matters worse, Jack giggled again, this time saying something that sent another shockwave through Aaron's system.

“Heg!”

Aaron froze, staring at Jack with wide eyes.

There was no way his son was about to say Hegel.

He couldn’t possibly.

Not Hegel.

Not the philosopher you mentioned the most.

Frantically, Aaron scrambled to recover. "Eggs, buddy? You want eggs?" he asked, laughing nervously, already planning his escape route for when Jack inevitably started quoting full passages from the works of ancient philosophers. He could feel his heart racing at the thought.

Jack, still giggling, waved his hands as he played with Kuna, blissfully unaware of the existential crisis he was causing his father. Meanwhile, Aaron glanced at Haley, who shook her head, clearly amused by the whole situation.

"You know," she teased, a glint of mischief in her eyes, "if he keeps this up, he’ll be rattling off entire philosophical arguments before he’s five."

Jack’s giggles filled the room, and Aaron let out a shaky laugh, grateful that his son wasn’t quoting philosophers just yet.

But deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time.

The day Jack said "Socrates," Aaron would have to get creative - maybe "sausages" could be his go-to deflection.

There was only one person yet to be informed about his transfer request from the BAU.

He couldn’t avoid this conversation any longer.

Even though he knew you were probably heading out to teach your first class of the day at the Academy - something you'd been looking forward to for weeks - he had to do it now.

‘She deserves to know’, Aaron thought, as his thumb hovered over the call button. He took a deep breath and pressed it, listening as the line rang.

"Unit Chief?" your voice answered, light and full of warmth. The sound of your happiness struck him, and he could hear the bustle of students in the background.

You sounded truly happy, like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders. Aaron couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. You’d taken on so much in his absence, and despite your talent for compartmentalizing the stresses of work and life, he knew it hadn’t been easy for you.

He admired how you could move through the chaos and still find joy, something that felt foreign to him these past few weeks.

"How does it feel being back?" you asked brightly, already celebrating his return as if you were right there in the bullpen with him.

Aaron swallowed hard.

He couldn’t pretend everything was normal.

"I requested a transfer," he said, his voice flat. The words spilled out faster than he’d intended, but he couldn’t hold them in any longer. They were burning a hole in his chest.

The line went silent. One of the few times Aaron ever remembered it feeling uncomfortable between you two.

"Where did she tell you to go?" you asked, your voice quiet but laced with a sharp understanding. You didn’t ask ‘where did you choose?’ or ‘where are you headed?’

You already knew this wasn’t truly his choice, it would never be.

"White-collar crime," Aaron answered, his voice dripping with bitterness despite his best efforts to keep it neutral.

You scoffed, disbelief dripping from your voice. "Seriously, Aaron? Did you put down 'coin collector' in your ‘fun facts about me’ section, and Strauss decided that made you the perfect fraud detective? What was her logic? ‘Oh, he can spot a rare penny, let’s put him on white-collar crime!’" You let out a sharp, sarcastic laugh. "Honestly, your talent - the Aaron Hotchner, wasting away in the land of paperwork and forgeries. Your skills are being thrown in the trash. Why would she do that?"

"She said it’s because I was a prosecutor," Aaron explained, though he didn’t even believe it himself. The words felt hollow as they left his mouth.

"Then she must really hate you," you said, your tone shifting, half-joking but carrying the weight of truth underneath. You always teased him about his past as a prosecutor, poking fun at him for being a 'suit' - but today, there was no laughter nor banter, just an undercurrent of anger.

There was another beat of silence, the weight of the conversation sinking in. Aaron could almost hear the wheels turning in your mind as you processed what he had told you.

"Peter works in white-collar crime too," you said softly, trying to find common ground, trying to make it make sense. "He was a profiler, just like me. Just like you."

Aaron could hear the strain in your voice.

You were trying to offer some kind of comfort, but he could feel the tension, the unspoken weight of something much deeper between your words. Before he could respond, you continued, and this time your voice carried that unmistakable philosophical edge that always made him stop and listen, no matter the situation.

"But you’re different, Aaron," you began, your voice softening as it delved into deeper waters, the kind you knew Aaron always paid attention to. "What sets you apart isn’t just your skill - it’s your empathy. That’s what makes you irreplaceable. White-collar crime... it’s sterile. To them, criminals are just reduced to numbers, a name on a file, detached from any sense of their human nature. They’re stripped of complexity, of identity. But you..."

You paused, feeling the weight of what you were about to say, "You see criminals for what they truly are: people. Broken, flawed, yes. But human."

Aaron’s grip tightened slightly on the phone, but he remained silent, waiting, knowing you were just getting started.

And he was right.

Talkative, as usual.

"It’s easy to see the humanity in victims," you continued, your voice laced with both tenderness and conviction, "because we’re conditioned to feel for them, to mourn them. But you… you do the impossible. You see the humanity in the people who commit the crimes, the ones we’re taught to loathe, to cast aside. You see the hurt, the trauma, the reasons behind their actions. You see them as more than the sum of their worst mistakes. That, Aaron, is rare. That’s what makes you exceptional."

You paused again, the emotion thick in your throat as you tried to find the right words, knowing you had to make him understand. "We were taught to break people down into patterns, behaviors, motivations. But you don’t just analyze - you connect. You see through the layers of darkness and you recognize that beneath the surface, there’s still something worth understanding. You bring out the human element in a job that demands detachment."

Aaron’s throat tightened. How did you always manage to articulate things in a way that made the abstract suddenly feel so tangible? You were right - he knew it - but hearing it from you made the reality of his decision even heavier.

"You can’t reduce people to their actions," you continued, "not the way they do in white-collar crime. Not the way Strauss wants you to. You see beyond that. You’ve always seen beyond that. And that’s why this transfer isn’t just a waste of your talents - it’s a loss for everyone who relies on you to see them, really see them, when no one else can."

Aaron let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, the weight of everything - the decision, the transfer, the exhaustion - pressing down on him.

"And the hardest part?" you added, your voice quieter now, almost a whisper. "The hardest part isn’t just leaving the BAU. It’s knowing that you’ll be asked to abandon the very thing that makes you who you are. That’s what white-collar crime will do to you - it’ll strip away your empathy, piece by piece, until all that’s left is someone you don’t recognize."

You were right, as alwa – most of the times.

But that wasn’t why he requested the transfer.

"Does Peter come home at a normal time?" Aaron asked abruptly, knowing you would catch the subtext.

There was a brief pause, a hesitation that he immediately picked up on. You paused for a fraction longer than usual, and that was all Aaron needed to understand that something wasn’t right. "Yes," you said, your voice quieter, more resigned. "He’s home most of the time, if that was your worry. He’s home even more than I am, actually."

Aaron could hear the bitterness beneath your words. "Does that make you happy?" he asked gently

There was another silence, longer this time. Aaron’s stomach tightened. He could feel it, something was wrong. But what?

The truth was, Aaron had no idea what had happened between you and Peter last night. And when you came home? It had turned ugly.

You could still feel his hands on your body rough, demanding. His words about how you owed him an apology, about how you were supposed to show him you were sorry. You’d been exhausted, drained from everything with Gideon, not after the emotional toll of the past few weeks.

But Peter hadn’t cared.

He hadn’t listened.

He’d just acted.

Aaron’s voice on the phone brought you back to the present, but you were struggling to keep your composure. He was asking questions, trying to understand, but how could you tell him what had happened? How could you explain that everything in your life was falling apart?

"Does that make you happy?" Aaron asked again, his voice gentle but pressing.

You hesitated again, knowing that Aaron could read the smallest of pauses.

But how could you answer?

How could you tell him that everything was wrong, that nothing made you happy anymore?

---

He had barely begun to sort through his books and personal items when Garcia had come in, a mixture of sadness and hope in her eyes.

"Is it appropriate to ask whether I could talk you out of it?" she had asked , almost pleading, yet her tone tinged with the sort of desperate optimism that only her could muster.

Hotch couldn’t look at her.

"Heard you got a bigger office," he said, forcing a half-smile as he stacked the tomes on top of each other.

She played along smiling though her attempt at lightness fell flat. "A swanky new map and everything."

Hotch had paused mid-pack, his gaze drifting toward the stack of files on his desk. He saw her hesitate, holding a file in her hands as if she wasn’t sure whether to give it to him.

"It’s the Milwaukee file. JJ wanted me to give it to you."

His heart clenched. The familiar burn of curiosity flared up inside him. "I’m not working it."

Garcia’s face was tight, holding back something she didn’t want to say. "I’m just following orders." She pressed the folder into his hand, her voice quiet. "They found a new body this morning. The others are headed straight to the scene."

That was hours ago, and yet it felt like only moments had passed.

Now, sitting alone in his car, Aaron stared at the case file in the passenger seat. He knew he should leave it behind, let it go. It was the right thing to do - for Haley, for Jack, for the fragile promise of a normal life he’d been trying so hard to grasp.

But the push of the manila folder was almost unbearable, like a gravitational pull that he couldn’t ignore. It called to him, with a magnetism that felt almost sinful, the kind that wormed its way into his thoughts until it was all he could see.

He knew it wasn’t just curiosity - it was the desperate need to still feel like he was part of the team, like he hadn’t been stripped of his identity, relegated to a role he wasn’t ready to embrace. The file promised him a lifeline to who he used to be, to the life he was being forced to leave behind. He craved the rush, the sense of purpose that only the job could bring.

‘I’ll just put it away in my office’ he tried to reassure himself, even as his fingers twitched toward the folder. But the moment he stepped through the front door, the stillness of the house hit him like a wave, pressing down on him.

His home office, once a safe haven where he could lose himself in the work, felt cold and unfamiliar now - tainted by the distance growing between him and Haley.

He couldn’t go there. She’d notice. She’d feel the shift.

So he waited.

His body was coiled, tense, like a spring, listening for the sounds of Haley moving upstairs with Jack. He held his breath to her soft footsteps, waiting for the gentle click of the nursery door. And when it finally came, he slipped onto the living room couch, the file in his hands, feeling the now-familiar forbidden thrill quicken his pulse.

It was a silent kind of betrayal, opening the file right in their living room, yet the push was too strong, the pull too insistent to take any longer. His hands seemed to move of their own volition, sliding open the manila folder so that the scent of fresh ink and paper filled his senses, hitting him like a drug he'd been too long without.

The rush was immediate -a heady cocktail of thrill and terror - and his sight blurred for a moment as he scanned the introductory paragraphs. The words for one fleeting instant began to shimmy before him, fuzzy, out of focus.

So unlike him.

Always present.

Always focused.

But now?

Everything else paled into insignificance in that single fragment of time: the burden of his transfer, the oppressive silence of the house, the chasm widening between him and Haley. In that swift heartbeat, he was just Aaron Hotchner, or better - Hotch - holding a case file in his hands.

It was a fraction of a second he would wish he could reclaim, the sweet ignorance of what was to come, the last breath of ordinary before everything would begin to break apart.

A fraction of a second, that’s all he had.

And then came the clarity.

Dark blue ink.

Gel pen.

0.7mm tip.

It was immediate.

It hadn’t been JJ who asked Garcia to hand him the file,

It had been you.

The blue ink screamed against the page, a jarring contrast to the black-and-white case details.

The familiar shade of deep blue you always used, the pen that seemed to bear the weight of every observation you made, every thought you trusted him to read.

Your handwriting - one constant in his life - appeared now like an intrusion.

You had pulled him back in, a lifeline disguised as an anchor, tethering him to a life he was already struggling to leave so much.

He knew why you’d done it, felt your intentions through the words you’d scrawled on the side of the pages: a subtle reminder of who he was, a steadying hand.

But it stung, a betrayal dressed as support, calling back his instincts, awakening the part of him that craved the hunt. He resented it, hated how you knew what he needed even when he was trying to silence it.

He didn’t want to be pulled back in.

Not by you.

Because he could always manage to silence his own voice, but yours? Yours never.

He couldn’t stand the way your presence in his mind made him doubt, the way it nudged the conscience he was desperately trying to bury.

But in the silence, he had buried something else - he hadn’t heard the faint sounds of Haley’s footsteps, hadn’t sensed her presence beside him until she was already there.

“Is Jack still napping?” The words slipped out instinctively, a reflex to buy a moment - not to divert her from the case file laying on the coffee table she’d surely already noticed, but to protect the one thing he could still preserve.

He could keep Jack from witnessing what was about to unravel.

Haley’s gaze was steely, scrutinizing him with an intensity that seemed to cut through every layer of defense he had.

"I thought this was over," Haley said, stretching her palms as if grounding herself, her voice tight and hard.

"It is," he said firmly, choosing his words in consideration, measuring each with the deliberation of a man who stood too close to a precipice. “I’m just curious.”

Haley let out a sharp breath, her mouth twisting into a bitter smile that didn’t reach her eyes, a shadow of the warmth he used to see there. They stood locked in a silent standoff, a lifetime of shared memories flickering between them like ghosts. He could feel the argument waiting to break free, simmering in the quiet between them, unspoken words just waiting to pierce the space they once shared.

And then the phone rang.

A shrill, jarring sound slicing through the tension like a blade. It was the household line, buzzing on the table before him. Aaron reached for it, desperate for even a momentary escape from the heaviness that weighed on his chest, but it was a fleeting, fragile illusion of comfort.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Haley’s hand reaching towards the photographs on the table, swiftly flipping them facedown as though the sight of them was something she couldn’t bear.

In that brief, almost tender moment of closeness, he felt nothing but the icy distance between them, a void that had grown too wide to bridge.

“Hello” The word hung in the air, heavy and uncertain. Silence answered him back, a silence that stretched far beyond the line. He tried again, "Hello?" he repeated, the word hanging in the air like a plea, but the line remained dead.

Before he could turn back to Haley, before he could face the storm gathering in her eyes, the phone rang again.

Only this time, it wasn’t the house phone.

The sound echoed from across the room - from her purse, sitting neatly on the side table by the door, ringing insistently, demanding attention.

Her personal phone.

The sound echoed from the side table by the entrance, and both of them turned, their movements perfectly synchronized in that single instant - the first time they had moved together, effortlessly in tune, amidst the discord of their unraveling world. A bitter note of perfect harmony, a heartbeat of shared motion, in a symphony that had become painfully out of key.

And with it came the undeniable truth, creeping in like a cold shadow, that the life they had built was no longer whole.

Clarity.

A chill ran through him, Haley’s gaze flicked from the purse back to him, her face clouding, a flicker of panic in her eyes before something else - a defiance, a kind of worn resignation - surfaced. She looked like the criminals he’d seen in interrogation rooms just before they confessed, her body a canvas of the truth she hadn’t yet spoken aloud.

His heart was shouting at him, urging him to stop analyzing her with his profiler’s eyes, the ones that stripped away any illusions. If only he could switch off that part of himself, maybe he could still live in blissful ignorance, cling to the delusion that his worst fear wasn’t unraveling right before him.

But that was the curse of his job - it defined him, for better or worse.

He was trained to see the truth, to read between the lines, and now there was no unseeing it, even though it felt as if she were the one sleeping with a gun underneath their bed.

The pieces continued to assemble themselves in his mind unbidden, swift and unforgiving, and he saw everything.

He remembered his father.

The infidelities everyone had known about.

The shame he had carried in silence, back when Haley was the only one who’d comforted him, promising he’d never be like his father, that they would build something unbreakable, something lasting. She had seen him through those years of shame and anger, through the wounds his father had left behind.

And yet, here she was.

She had hurt him in the very way that had once broken him.

"What did the Section Chief say?" She asked, her voice tense, her hands moving to her hips - a stance he recognized all too well. It was her defense mechanism, a way to regain control of the conversation, to shift the power back to her.

But the phone was still ringing, hanging in the air like an accusation she refused to acknowledge. He fixed her with a hardened gaze, silently willing her to explain. Instead, she ignored it, raising an eyebrow in a silent demand for him to answer her question.

Only when the phone finally stopped ringing did the silence grow heavier between them.

“She suggested I transfer to a white-collar crime task force,” Aaron said, his voice barely holding together, each word heavy with the weight of what was slipping away. He turned his gaze away from her, looking anywhere but at the face he had once known so well. The pain in his chest throbbed, a wound that felt like it would never heal.

And he moved there it was again, that echo - blue.

Blue, scattered all over the margins of the case files.

He could almost hear your voice in the back of his mind, unbidden, stirring memories he had tried so hard to bury.

“It’s a beautiful metaphor, Aristophanes tells us that when two halves find each other, there is a recognition, a knowing. It’s not just attraction or desire - it’s a profound sense of homecoming, of finally feeling whole.”

He remembered that day, the pride he felt when you stood up at his wedding, your words carrying a weight that felt like destiny. How he had looked at Haley then, feeling so sure, so hopeful that he had found his missing half, the person who made him whole.

“Aaron and Haley, you are each other’s missing halves. You are each other’s home. And today, you stand before us, not as two separate people, but as a whole, as something that the world tried to keep apart but couldn’t. You’ve found your way back to each other, just like you were always meant to.”

Your words were a promise, one he had clung to during every argument, every moment of doubt. He had kept the pages of your speech hidden in his desk drawer, reading them whenever he needed reassurance that they were meant to be, that they could weather any storm.

But now, that certainty felt like a lie, a broken promise that tasted bitter and hollow.

"Would you have to travel?" Haley asked, and there was no curiosity in her voice, no real concern - just a rote question.

“No,” he replied. “I’d have a nine-to-five life.”

But it didn’t matter.

None of it did.

The foundation they had built together was already crumbling.

She nodded, the motion mechanical. "Then it’s a no-brainer," she said, but there was no relief in her voice.

No joy.

Just finality.

An ultimatum.

Then she walked away, her bag clutched tightly in her hand, leaving him frozen in place, staring into the emptiness she left behind. The silence swallowed him whole, and all he could hear were the echoes of his own thoughts, the relentless surge of guilt washing over him like a tidal wave - his oldest, most familiar companion. It weighed heavy on his chest, pushing him down until he felt hollow and exposed.

There was only one thing he knew he couldn’t fail at—the one thing that never failed him.

His job.

With a steadying breath, he picked up the phone - the same one that had rung into nothingness only minutes ago - and dialed.

"Hey," Morgan's voice came through the line.

Hotch immediately replied “How’s it going?”

---

Hotch dressed himself with deliberation, his mind continuously repeating a mantra he clung to - the team needs me - as he methodically went through his motions with the practiced efficiency that was his trademark. He tied the knot on his tie carefully, almost ritualistically, and took the gun from the safety box on the nightstand with silent certitude. His mind was already in Milwaukee, with the team, miles away from where he stood.

Haley burst in as if she were a sudden gust of wind that broke his focus. "What the hell are you doing?" Haley's voice was sharp, almost desperate, echoing with anger and fear.

"Keep your voice down," he calmly but firmly returned, his eyes never meeting hers while continuing to fold the clothes from the dresser. He couldn’t afford to lose his composure now.

"Gideon didn’t show in Milwaukee, and the team needs me," he said, his voice calm but unyielding. He didn’t lift his gaze from his task, already knowing Haley could sense it - the unwavering resolve, the wall she couldn’t break through.

There was no point in arguing, he had already chosen, and nothing she said would change the path he was on.

“I don’t believe this.” Haley shook her head, disbelief etched in every line of her face.

He didn’t stop, didn’t even look at her.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his tone overly steady, betraying how much he was trying to control the situation. “It won’t affect my transfer if I’m working on an existing case.”

His hands moved mechanically, pulling clothes from the dresser and laying them on the bed, his attention focused on his preparations. The meticulous packing felt like his only control in a situation spiraling away from him.

“You’re not working on this case,” Haley demanded, her words clipped, biting. She was trying to reach him, trying to make him see what he was sacrificing, but he remained unmoved.

“I can’t just switch off my loyalty, Haley.” The words came out like an admission, his gaze finally meeting hers.

Loyalty.

What a word, what an irony.

“They suspended you for two weeks,” she said, her voice rising with urgency. She was trying to make him see what he was throwing away. “Who are you being loyal to?”

“The team needs me,” His voice was firmer now, more resolute.

He could have said more, could have pointed out her own failings with the concept of loyalty, but he didn’t.

There wasn’t time, and in his heart, the job came first.

Always had.

He could never be satisfied.

“Aaron, you’re allowed to be satisfied. You’re allowed to find happiness outside of work. It doesn’t make you any less dedicated. You’re not the man you were back then. You’re better.” Your voice slipped into his mind as he stared blankly into the distance. Just allowing your words to surface was already a victor, —he could never shut you out completely.

But looking back, he realized—no, he was even worse.

“I wish it were that simple. I want to believe you, but I keep feeling like… I’m never satisfied. No matter how much I achieve, no matter how far I go, it never feels like enough.” He admitted, not even aware the confession had escaped his lips..

“Aaron, happiness isn’t a destination,” you had said, your response almost immediate. “It’s not something you can chase down like a criminal or lock away like a case file. It’s messy and imperfect, and sometimes, it’s just allowing yourself to be enough. It’s letting go of the ‘what ifs’ and the regrets. You have a chance to rebuild something with Haley, to find that piece of your life you thought you’d lost. Why not take it?”

I love you – here’s why.

He wished he’d had the courage to say what he felt back then. Maybe he wouldn’t be in this mess if he had.

Instead, all he had left was the silent regret - I loved you, and that was his burden to bear.

Back to this hollow routine, back to a crumbling marriage that left him feeling more empty than fulfilled. If it had been you, he thought, you would have understood without him having to explain. You would have stayed by his side just as he would have stayed by yours, without the pain, without the pretense.

Too late.

“No, they need Gideon,” Haley shot back, the desperation in her voice barely masked. He could hear her fear, her anger, the worry she tried to hide beneath her frustration.

Hotch moved to the bathroom, collecting his essentials, his voice echoing off the tile. “Do you know what this guy’s doing to women in Milwaukee?” His voice was tight, his words clipped - almost a challenge.

He was asking because he knew she wouldn’t want to hear it. Because the truth was ugly, and he couldn’t turn away from it.

"I don’t want to know," she said, her voice breaking with emotion, but he continued, unable to stop himself.

“He’s using his son to lure them, he’s holding them, and then he’s cutting their hearts out.” His tone was clinical, detached - a profiler’s voice.

The urgency, the danger, had overtaken everything else.

The case was all that mattered now.

“Aaron, stop!” she shouted, and he froze, finally turning to face her. The look in her eyes - pain, anger, desperation - was like a slap to the face.

“Don’t make me the monster here,” she pleaded, her voice softening, the anger draining from her as she looked at him with something close to resignation. “I feel sick about these women, but when this case is over, there will be another one. And another one and another one. It is never going to stop.”

He held her gaze, feeling the weight of her words settle like lead in his stomach. “This is who I am,” he said simply, and the raw truth in those words cut through the tension like a knife.

“No,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, sadness and frustration mingling together. “This is what you do.”

He swallowed, his throat tight, and tried to explain himself. “I’m trying to do the right thing, here and there,” he began, but his voice cracked, the weight of his choices pressing down on him. “And I would really appreciate a little support.”

Haley’s laugh was short, bitter, a scoff that cut deep. “That’s right, ‘cause you always need to be the hero,” she said, her voice laced with resentment.

“Don’t give me that,” he snapped, his own anger flaring, but she didn’t back down.

“No, obviously, a happy life isn’t enough for you,” she said, her words like ice, hitting him with the weight of a truth he didn’t want to face. He looked at her, his eyes burning with unshed tears, knowing he couldn’t argue, knowing she was right in ways he couldn’t admit.

“But you deserve it, Aaron. You deserve to find the kind of happiness that doesn’t come with strings attached, that doesn’t make you feel like you’re constantly running.”

His gaze fell to where your hands touched, his thumb brushing yours. I love you. That’s the only thought his mind managed to form. But he couldn’t say it.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve always been the one keeping me steady, reminding me why I do this. You make it bearable.”

“I’ll always be here,” you said, your voice trembling. “No matter what. Even when it’s hard, even when you feel like you don’t deserve it. I’ll be here.”

I love you.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “For everything.”

I love you.

He zipped up his go-bag, the sound unbearably loud in the tense silence that had fallen between them. Haley’s eyes were glassy, the fight leaving her as he turned to go. “Aaron, I need you here,” she said, her voice cracking, a final plea.

He stopped, his back to her, the words hanging heavy in the air. “And I will be here, as soon as this case is over,” he said, his tone detached, determined, before walking out the door, not daring to look back.

As he descended the stairs, her voice rang out behind him, cutting through the silence like a knife. “Yeah, well make sure you give your son a kiss before you leave.”

Jack. His whole world.

Then the memory played in his mind like a haunting melody - Jack’s small face lighting up the moment he first began stringing words together.

Each syllable a small miracle, a bridge to understanding, but the very first combination of words he’d uttered had been “Dad. Work.”

But now he brushed it off.

He didn’t stop, didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

Not now.

Because the job was all he had left.

Dad. Work.

---

“I told you, I hate politics,” Emily said, her voice steady but resigned as she stood in the kitchen, the weight of her decision heavy in the air.

“Come to Milwaukee,” Hotch pressed, his voice firm, not backing down. He saw it - the hesitation in her eyes, the uncertainty.

It was enough to make him push a little harder. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said, his tone softening. “If your ready bag isn’t here, packed, I won’t bother you anymore. But if it is, I want you on that plane with me. One more case.”

Emily sighed, the conflict clear on her face. “I already turned in my badge and my gun,” she said, the words feeling empty, as if she didn’t fully believe them herself.

“That’s just hardware,” Hotch countered gently, his eyes not leaving hers, sensing the crack in her resolve.

“Give me five minutes,” Emily said, her voice resigned, the decision made.

He won. He was good at his job.

“Good,” he replied giving a slight nod. “I’ll be waiting for you in the car” His voice was steady, calm, as he turned and left the room, leaving her alone with the weight of the choice she had just made.

The ride to the hangar was excruciating, the car barely moving in the gridlock of DC traffic. Hotch’s gaze was fixed ahead, focused on the road, but as they neared a familiar intersection, his eyes darted - just for a second – on something standing on the right of the road, toward your apartment building.

It was a reflex, a momentary flicker of concern, as if he needed to reassure himself that everything was in its place.

But he wasn’t the only one watching.

Emily caught the movement, her profiler’s instincts picking up on the subtle shift. She turned her head, recognizing the building immediately.

“Y/N’s one of the best profilers we’ve had,” Emily said, breaking the heavy silence. “In just two weeks, she surpassed everyone’s expectations. She belongs in the BAU” Her voice was steady, confident.

“I know,” Hotch replied, his voice flat. It was all he could say because he did agree. He knew you belonged with them. With him.

“Then why aren’t we going to get her?” Emily pressed, her brow furrowing.

“I’m not Unit Chief,” he said, the tightness in his voice betraying his struggle. “I can’t authorize her return.”

Emily shot him a skeptical look. “Oh, come on. I resigned, you requested a transfer, and yet here we are, headed to Milwaukee together.” She let the words hang in the air, then added, “What’s the real reason, Hotch?”

He gripped the steering wheel tighter, staring straight ahead. “That is the real reason, Prentiss,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction, and they both knew it. They barely moved in the traffic, only inching forward, and they were trapped together in this car, with nowhere to hide.

“Have you even asked her?” Emily’s tone was sharper now, unwilling to let him off the hook so easily.

“She can’t,” he said, his words clipped, almost desperate.

“She wants to,” Emily said firmly, her gaze unwavering. “Look, she’s living a life that’s not really hers, and we both know why. She wants to be back with the team, Hotch - our life, not some half-life she’s pretending to be okay with.”

His grip loosened on the wheel, but his face remained his usual stoic mask. “I know,” he said quietly, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror, trying to focus on anything but the truth Emily was forcing him to face.

Emily softened, just a bit. “Hotch, I don’t like you for a lot of reasons,” she said with a small smile, “but if there’s one thing I respect about you, it’s that you don’t quit. You’d do anything for the team, even if it costs you everything. You’ve never given up before - don’t start now.”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “The Section Chief won’t like this,” he said, but even as he spoke, his hand was already turning the wheel to the right, aiming the car toward your apartment. “How did you know I was looking at her building?” he asked, a trace of amusement flickering across his features.

Emily’s smirk widened. “Oh, she didn’t tell you?” she said with a light laugh. “Last Friday, we finished early and Y/N invited me, JJ, and Penelope out for drinks at that bar near her place. I don’t remember much about the apartment building because, well... let’s just say the drinks were strong. But I remember the bar, and it’s just down the street. We all crashed at her place.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow. “And you made it to work the next morning?”

Emily chuckled. “Nope. She gave us the weekend off. I told you, she’s fantastic. Hell, she even mentioned how she’d love to try out that new theory they’re testing in Europe, the four-day workweek. Called them ‘exemplars of virtue.’ I don’t think I’ve ever loved philosophy more,” she said with a grin. “And just so you know, she was always the first one in and the last one to leave. She’s more obsessed with this job than you are.”

A rare, quiet chuckle escaped Hotch’s lips. “Sounds exactly like her,” he said softly, a warmth in his voice that hadn’t been there all drive.

Since he rang your doorbell, Aaron hadn't heard anything but the rhythmic click of heels that was getting closer and closer with every step down the hall, the pulsation of his heart immediately tuning to it and making anticipation grow till everything stopped. He held his breath as you opened the door, cautiously, slowly, revealing the face he’d been waiting to see.

He had first glimpsed your smile - slightly surprised, yet lit from inside by something deeper, a feeling of pride hiding beneath a few loose strands of hair framing your face, the only testament to your long day. Then you moved more fully into the light, no longer half-hidden behind the door, he immediately recognized your own version of uniform – a total black three-piece suit.

The close-fitting vest, the shirt buttoned right up to your neck, but with the cuffs folded up to the elbows that showed those light smudges of blue marker on your forearm - a subtle hint of your time spent writing on the board.

It was a small yet telling difference from the past two weeks, a sign of this old rhythm you'd settled back into. The jacket, hanging neatly on the entryway hook, added to the scene, highlighting that you’d just come home from a lecture. You were still in your heels, you hadn’t even had the chance to slip them off yet.

For a moment, you both stood there, frozen in a strange yet familiar silence. The way you looked at him - unafraid, warmly, and with a hint of pride - made him feel seen in a way he hadn’t been in weeks.

Accepted for who he was – and what he did.

“Hotch” you finally said, and he almost flinched, caught off-guard by the weight of that name. You hadn’t called him that in years. Between you, it was always something different, something uniquely crafted only for the two of you, of your partnership that felt as if it had been woven by fate.

It had always been ‘Partner’, your go-to,

‘Lawyer’ when you wanted to tease him on something, it probably was his personal favorite,

‘C3-PO’ that one primordial on-hit-wonder, thankfully only used once after your first case,

‘Unit Chief’ came later, after his promotion a title he saw you’d always used with pride,

‘Aaron’ only in those rare moments when it was just you two, away from the intensity of the Bureau.

One of the few people who was allowed to call him by his name, Aaron. Always Aaron.

Yet today, you chose “Hotch,” and it didn’t feel like distancing - calling him by the name anyone else on the job could use. Instead, it was a recognition. It was a nod to who he could finally be again - the strong, steadfast, but also overworked Unit Chief.

With a straight face, you extended your hand in a playful, formal greeting, as if you were strangers meeting for the first time. It was a parody of the professionalism that defined your roles, a subtle reminder of the colder side of your work. But you two always had a knack for weaving warmth into even the smallest gestures - like this one - turning formality into an unexpected moment of connection, catching him off guard.

He sighed, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he took your hand, meeting your playful formality with his usual steady, intense gaze. The moment his fingers wrapped around yours, a subtle shift passed between you, sending a shiver down his spine.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended, his hand lingering in the handshake. There was so much he wanted to tell you - how grateful he was for passing the file to Garcia, for understanding without him having to ask. Yet somehow, the words caught in his throat, and he found himself simply holding on, hoping you could sense everything he couldn’t quite say.

“Of course,” you replied softly, your eyes never leaving his, your smile radiating reassurance as you released his hand, stepping aside to let him in.

Walking down the hallway together, he was struck by a wave of nostalgia, seeing you both in your familiar work attire. So much felt the same, yet somehow everything was different. If he squinted, it was almost like those countless evenings at the BAU, the tailored suits and easy professionalism bringing back memories.

As you walked ahead, he noticed the subtle change in how your suit now hugged your form a bit closer, accentuating your figure. It was as though you'd embraced a different rhythm - lecturing definitely didn't require for you to have a full range of motion chasing unsubs through the mud had.

“I didn’t come just to thank you,” Hotch began, his voice firm, but there was a vulnerability in his gaze as he searched yours for any hint of a response. “I know you’re not satisfied with only two weeks at the BAU.”

You looked back at him, and though you didn’t say a word, something in your expression softened, your eyes reflecting that familiar, unspoken understanding. He could see the weight you carried, and there was no denying that you wanted to be part of the team again. He continued, his tone more intimate now, almost pleading.

“The team needs you, Y/N. And I need my partner back. We had a deal.”

"Promise me that you’ll only leave me if you get tired of me. Otherwise, I’ll always fight to have you back - and you have to let me. Deal?"

Your lips curved into a faint smile as a soft sigh escaped between them. "You and your deals," you whispered, your words laced with a hint of desperation.

He held your gaze, a glimmer of hope surfacing. “I can read you as well as you read me. You pulled me back into the BAU, let me do the same for you. I wouldn’t push you if I didn’t know you wanted it too.”

For a moment, your gaze dropped, a flicker of longing overshadowed by resignation. “There’s nothing I want more than to come back,” you admitted softly, a hint of pain in your voice. “But Peter… he won’t be happy about it.”

Hotch’s jaw tightened, and he nodded, already bracing himself. “Let me handle Peter,” he said, voice low and unyielding. “Just let me try.”

But then, before either of you could say another word, Peter entered, his presence breaking the moment like a shattering glass. “Aaron, everything alright? Why are you here?”

Aaron glanced at you with the corner of his eyes, waiting for even a slight nod, some permission to move forward.

No response.

Unusual.

Instead, your gaze was fixed on a blank spot on the wall since Peter had entered, a detail that unsettled him. He noticed the slight tension in your shoulders, the guarded distance in your posture. A realization dawned on him, a sinking feeling deep in his chest. You were avoiding making eye contact with Peter.

Preoccupying.

Only then you turned to look at him, as if sensing his analyzing eyes on you. As you made eye contact, he saw your expression shift subtly, eyebrows lifting just a fraction. Hotch’s trained eyes caught every detail, the slight tremor in your gaze, the way you held yourself like you were guarding something fragile.

Shame – he read.

He looked at you, his stomach twisting. His profiler instincts connected this moment to the hesitation in your voice during that phone call—the pauses you hadn’t been able to hide. He had sensed something wrong then, but now it seemed painfully clear.

Yet he needed to be sure.

It couldn’t have happened, not to you.

With a slight tilt of his head, he asked you silently, ‘What happened?’

He watched as you exhaled softly, the faintest shudder in your breath. Your eyes glistened, fogging over with unshed tears. You hadn’t once looked in Peter’s direction. That small, vulnerable expression shattered something in him.

Avoidance.

Fear.

That was all he needed to know.

A fierce, uncontrollable rage surged through Hotch, flooding him with a fury he rarely allowed himself to feel. His fists clenched, nails pressing into his palms as every fiber of his being strained against the violent urge to rip Peter from the doorway, to make him feel the weight of every unspoken bruise, every flicker of fear he’d seen reflected in your eyes.

But he forced himself to stay rooted. He had to be steady, composed - for you. This wasn’t just about vengeance, it was about being the pillar you needed, holding back the storm that threatened to consume him.

"Y/N is needed for a case in Milwaukee,” Hotch said, his voice low and unyielding, a hard edge replacing any trace of the diplomacy he had planned. His gaze stayed locked on Peter, cold and unwavering, the words landing like an order, not a request.

Peter’s face tightened, but he didn’t back down. “She can’t go,” he replied sharply. “The contract was clear - just two weeks at the BAU. Those two weeks are up, Aaron.”

Hotch's jaw clenched as he turned to you, his eyes scanning for some sign of how Peter's response had impacted you. Your silent, pleading expression said it all: the unspoken hurt, the vulnerability glimmering in your eyes, became a catalyst to rush a wave of protectiveness through him and once again make the promise to be your shield when his anger boiled over.

Peter couldn’t see it - refused to see it - but Hotch did.

And as he held back the fury simmering beneath his composure, one thought pulsed through his mind: ‘Peter should be grateful for every breath I’m letting him take right now’.

Hotch didn’t flinch, his voice turning colder, each word cutting and precise. “This is pre-existing case. Any agreement with Strauss doesn’t apply here - I’m simply requesting her consultation. That’s her choice, not yours.” There was no warmth in his tone, Peter wasn’t owed that. Hotch leveled him with that piercing, unyielding gaze - one that could cut straight through, leaving a person regretting they even graced this Earth.

Peter turned to you, desperation flashing in his eyes. “Did you ask him to come here?” Hotch noticed something unsettling in Peter’s gaze, a hardness he hadn’t seen in over a decade of knowing him. There was a volatile edge, almost aggressive.

“I thought I made myself clear last night,” Peter continued, his voice taut with anger. “If you go back to the BAU, we can’t build a life together. You don’t have to drag Aaron in here to defend your selfish choices, making me look like the bad guy.”

Before you could respond, Hotch cut in, his voice ice-cold and unyielding. “Peter, if you were as perceptive as you claim, you wouldn’t need to ask her something that obvious. I came here on my own. She had no part in this.” He paused, his eyes never wavering from Peter’s. “Shut up and let her decide for herself.”

Peter’s face twisted with disbelief, and he snapped, “Really, Aaron?”

Hotch’s hand clenched involuntarily, his patience on edge. But as you noticed and found the strength to intervene, your tone steady yet pleading. “Pete, it’s just one case - I’m asking for that much. It won’t impact our life as much as you think.”

“Won’t impact us?” Peter’s voice rose, his frustration spilling over. “What will happen when this case over? When come home too exhausted to even look at me? Too tired to even take off your jacket? How can we build a life when you’re always drained?”

You exhaled deeply, shaking your head, “We’ll figure it out. I’m sure we will.” You turned toward the corridor that led to your bedroom, determination etched on your face. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” you declared, glancing pointedly at both Hotch and Peter. “And if I see either of you with even a scratch on your face, I swear I’ll beat you both senseless.”

Peter opened his mouth to protest, but you cut him off, raising a finger for emphasis, looking at him with a disappointed piercing look on your face. “We are beings graced with reason so let’s engage our intellect instead of our fists. As Aristotle said, ‘Man is by nature a political animal’, which means we should sort out our conflicts through dialogue, not by throwing punches. I would hate to resort to that, so do me a favor and keep it civil, okay?”

Hotch nodded, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips, he definitely didn’t expect a scolding from you in your teacher voice. “Understood.”

“Good,” you replied, disappearing down the hallway.

Afraid that Hotch and Peter would end up in the ER, you packed your go-bag in a frenzy, barely taking the time to change from your suit you wore for your lesson into a looser – too many buttons and too little time. You only swiftly traded your heels for your usual leather loafers, and with no time to style your hair properly, you simply tied the front pieces back to keep them out of your face.

As you returned to the living room, you found Hotch and Peter standing on opposite sides of the room, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. You approached Peter first to say goodbye, reassuring him once again. You wore your engagement ring prominently, hoping to remind him of the bond you still shared. But he remained silent, avoiding eye contact as you two exited the apartment.

As soon as the door closed behind you, a long sigh escaped your lips, and you looked up at Hotch. “Thanks for having my back,” you confessed, your voice dropping to a soft whisper as you waited for the elevator.

Hotch glanced at you, his expression serious, a flicker of concern passing through his eyes. “Always. Do you want to talk about it?”

You offered a faint smile, appreciating his offer, but shook your head. “Not right now. We have a case to solve.”

His tone remained serious, and you could feel the weight of his words. “Just let me know when you’re ready. I’ll be here. Just don’t use the case a shield to avoid what you went through.”

“I won’t,” you promised as the elevator arrived with a soft ding. As the doors slid open, you both stepped inside, and the momentary quiet enveloped you, a mix of anticipation and unspoken emotions swirling around. Hotch pressed the button for the ground floor, the hum of the machinery filling the silence.

“I need to ask you a favor,” Hotch said, breaking the quiet, his voice laced with a gravity that made you turn, eyes widening in surprise. He hesitated for a brief second, like he was choosing his words carefully, a weight settling between you. “Morgan told me Gideon didn’t show up in Milwaukee, and he’s not answering his phone. Reid... he’s struggling, not handling it well. I’m concerned for him.”

He exhaled, softening slightly. “I know this affects you too, but you’ve always being able to keep focus, to compartmentalize, no matter what’s happening.”

Hotch paused, his eyes brightening up. “Three days into your assignment as Unit Chief, Reid started a philosophy bachelor,” he revealed, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. You raised your eyebrows, caught off guard.

Reid hadn’t told you.

“I honestly thought it’d take him at least a week to get actually hooked by your metaphysics,” Hotch chuckled, the sound warm but tinged with bittersweetness.

“He looks up to you, Y/N,” Hotch continued, his voice quiet but certain. “He needs someone he trusts, someone who can get through to him.” His gaze met yours, sincere, and you could see the depth of his worry, for Reid, for the team, for everything this absence had disrupted. “I know I’m asking a lot, especially now… but he’ll listen to you. You’re the one who can really help him through this.”

You held his gaze, feeling the responsibility settle over you. “It’s not too much to ask, Aaron. I know how much it can help to have someone there when it feels like everything is falling apart,” you said, a small, appreciative smile edging onto your face.

He furrowed his brows, keeping a straight face as he pretended to be surprised. “Was that a compliment?”

“To you? Not even close,” you replied, rolling your eyes. Then your tone shifted to serious. “But you need to promise me something in return.”

“Anything,” he replied immediately, and then regretted it as you extended your hand, palm up.

Of course.

He sighed, handing you the car keys, his fingers lingering for a second as if hesitant, you grinned, a spark of excitement in your expression. “Bet we’ll get to the hangar in half the time now?”

He crossed his arms, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “When I said you were a ‘good driver’ nine years ago, I didn’t mean ‘racecar-level.’”

“Please, I’m practically an F1 prodigy,” you shot back, pocketing the keys. “I promise to obey the law. Mostly.”

“They’re called guidelines,” you teased, striding confidently toward the car. “Besides, I remember a certain Unit Chief who used to be my copilot during most of those drives. Didn’t hear any complaints then.”

“Oh, I had complaints,” he replied, trying to maintain his seriousness. “Just don’t take any unnecessary risks,” he warned, though his voice was laced with humor. “I can’t afford to lose my partner on the road, too.”

“Relax, Hotch. I promise I’ll drive like my mom is in the passenger seat,” you replied, smirking as you walked to the car.

“Good,” he replied with a smirk, “because I’m not sitting there - Prentiss is.”

As you slid into the driver’s seat, you greeted Emily with a grin while Hotch climbed into the back, securing himself with an almost exaggerated seriousness.

“How come you’re not driving, Hotch?” Prentiss asked, raising an eyebrow as you revved the engine, giving it an amused look.

“Just keeping the pressure off me,” Hotch replied dryly, crossing his arms. “But I fully expect to hear all the wild driving stories, Teach.”

You glanced back, grinning, eyes on the road. “Actually, you feature in most of mine… Should I start with the one on August 23, 1999, or save the best for last?”

“The best?” He raised an eyebrow, leaning in.

“You know, the one that was… memorable in all the wrong ways.” You shot him a knowing smile.

Emily’s interest piqued, and she leaned forward, looking between the two of you. “Okay, I need to know. What happened on August 23, 1999?”

Hotch’s voice was almost comically serious. “Confidential”, he deadpanned.

---

“Look who’s here,” Reid said gleefully, his eyes lighting up as you, Hotch, and Emily stepped into the Milwaukee police station.

Emily settled into the chair next to Reid, flashing him a grin. “Hey, where do we start?” she asked, already scanning the room for files.

You approached, settling in beside JJ and Morgan, giving a small nod as Reid handed you the case file. “Thank you, Doctor,” you said with a smile.

Hotch entered last, carrying the weight of the room’s attention. He placed his bag on the floor and shook Morgan's hand, who seemed to look visibly surprised yet grateful and relieved to see him.

Then he positioned himself between Morgan and you, standing still on his right, and after a beat, immediately swapped places with you, that subtle instinct kicking in - a sense that something just wasn’t quite right until you stood on his left.

It was a nearly imperceptible movement, yet one that anchored you both. That formation had become natural, a silent tradition. Your right side close to his left - a setup that always allowed each of you to feel covered and focused, knowing where the other would be.

A comfort in the subtle code you shared, where neither words nor looks were needed to communicate an understanding that ran deep. Once positioned, you felt that inner switch flip, both of you immediately present, ready for whatever the case had in store.

Emily, glancing over at JJ, grinned. “How fast can you get us up to speed?”

JJ smirked, holding up a file. “How fast can you sit down?”

As Strauss settled into her seat, the tension still thick in the air, you shared a wordless exchange with Hotch. His eyes, steady and unwavering, held a trace of amusement behind his seriousness, as if to say, “Here we go.”

Your raised eyebrow and slight smirk replied, “Always making friends, aren’t you?”

He tilted his head a fraction, a subtle, almost invisible shrug. “Comes with the job.”

Your expression softened, silently saying, “You think she’ll hold her tongue until later?”

He replied with the smallest hint of a smirk, “If we’re lucky.”

You resisted a chuckle, responding with a quick, subtle nod, “Guess we’ll find out.”

Hotch tilted his head slightly, as if to say, “Maybe you could scare her off with some Aristotle”

You slightly raised your eyebrow, “No need to ask me twice, Lawyer”

---

Hotch reached out instinctively as Strauss tripped on the ramp, steadying her with a gentle but firm grip while she clutched the iron fence to regain balance. “Are you all right? You okay?” he asked, his tone professional but soft.

Strauss’s face twisted in horror, eyes filling with tears as she looked at the body. “I-I stepped on her hair,” she stammered, visibly shaken.

Hotch’s voice remained steady, a blend of professionalism and quiet empathy. “If you need a second, take a second.” He watched as Strauss covered her mouth, attempting to pull herself together.

He continued gently, “This is what it is. Just don't let the public see you break down.” After a beat, he helped her turn back up the ramp.

When his eyes met yours, you gave him a small nod, silently volunteering to handle Strauss ‘I got her, you go ahead with the team’. He acknowledged it with a brief, grateful glance before moving on.

You led Strauss a few feet away from the body, keeping your voice low to ensure no one from the press overheard. “Alright,” you said gently, “we’re going to stand here and pretend we’re discussing the case. Take as much time as you need. Just breathe.”

As she composed herself, you continued smoothly, “The unsub changed the dumping site. He usually used the Third Ward, but it seems the only pattern is choosing areas without much public traffic. See? Look around - do you see any residential buildings nearby?

“No,” she replied. You continued using this technique, asking questions to help her focus and steady herself, calming her down bit by bit.

“Good. Now, one more thing,” you said with a warm, gentle smile. “This might seem unrelated, but you do have children, right?”

“Yes,” she answered, looking slightly puzzled but following along, starting to piece things together.

“Exactly. Say you’re at the supermarket, buying your kids a packet of chips. When you’re putting items in your shopping bag, you likely place the chips on top, right? They’re fragile - otherwise, you’ll end up with just crumbs. But if you’re in your head or in a rush, you probably don’t store them with the same care as usual.” She nodded, still piecing it together but following along.

You continued, "Apply this logic to the crime scene here. The unsub chose a low-traffic area with no prying eyes, yet he left the body right at the start of the ramp. He could have moved it a few more feet towards the wall, and you wouldn’t have stepped on her hair. But he didn’t. So, what does this tell us?"

“He was rushed,” she replied firmly.

“That’s a good observation,” you reassured her with your teacher voice, adding, “Or it could also mean he’s escalating, becoming less meticulous. Which is even more dangerous.” You nodded, acknowledging her insight.

“Go brief the team, Agent Y/L/N,” she instructed, a hint of gratitude in her eyes, you took at as a win.

“Yes, ma’am,” you replied, nodding before turning back to the team. As you walked over, you noticed Morgan, JJ, and Prentiss approaching a man who was rushing closer, his face etched with desperation.

He stumbled toward the police barricade, calling out her name, “Claire!” His voice cracked, filled with a futile hope that maybe, somehow, the officers were wrong - that it wasn’t her lying there, cold and with her heart brutally carved out.

“Claire!” he screamed, the sound shattering the quiet like a final, haunting echo. No matter how well you compartmentalized, this part - the raw ache of those left behind - always managed to somehow creep under your skin, always reminding you of the relentless grief and helplessness in the aftermath of violence. But that was a good thing. It comes with being human.

As you got closer towards the body you overheard Hotch say, “Morgan says you're worried about Gideon,” his gaze shifting briefly to you as you walked over, stopping just inches away.

You leaned over beside Reid, bracing your hands on your knees. Sitting at his eye level would have definitely been more ideal, but given your limited range of motion, this position would have to do.

You could feel Hotch's questioning gaze on you, clearly unaccustomed to seeing you in such an unusual stance - almost like a quarterback before kickoff, it felt so… out of character? Probably that’s what he thought, as he looked at you as if to ask ‘Quarterback?’

You arched a brow back. ‘Either this or a body in my living room.’

His eyes momentarily drifted to the necklace hanging from your shirt before he shot you a deadpan look that implied, ‘Not mine.’ Then he immediately shifted his gaze back to Reid.

Reid glanced up at Hotch, his face clouded with worry. “I keep calling him, but he doesn’t call back,” he admitted, his voice strained with concern.

Hotch’s gaze softened as he thought of Gideon’s familiar retreat. “He’s probably at his cabin,” he said gently, his eyes distant. “It’s where he goes when he needs to… get away.” He paused, then added with a preoccupied look, “Reid, I need your head in this.”

Reid’s lips pressed into a thin line, nodding. “I know.” Hotch gave him one last steadying look before heading toward the car.

“I need you to put your heart into this too,” you said, catching Reid’s gaze as you both walked toward the SUV. “The way Gideon would.”

Reid’s voice dropped, his tone laced with sadness. “That’s… not easy.”

"I never said it would be. Why hand you basic multiplication when I know you can tackle differential equations?" you replied with a sly smile. “But if you bring even a part of Gideon’s approach to this case, show up with the same heart, then in a way - he’s here with us,” you continued “By focusing on what’s present, the essence of what Gideon represents lives through you. Husserl’s phenomenology.”

“Edmund Husserl, the mathematician?” Reid asked, a spark of interest lighting up his eyes.

“Philosopher first, mathematician second,” you jokingly corrected him with a soft smile. “I totally recommend diving into his work. You’d find his ideas on consciousness and experience fascinating…and useful.” You paused, the corners of your mouth lifting. “By the way, since we’re on the topic of philosophy - a little bird told me you’ve started to study for your philosophy degree recently”

He tilted his head, brow raised. “A bird?” he asked, clearly confused.

“Judging by his appearance, I'd say it was a great horned owl - a 6’2” stressed, overworked, and somewhat emotionless owl in a suit,” you teased, a grin spreading across your face as Reid’s eyes widened slightly, recognizing the nod to Hotch.

“I was waiting for the right moment to tell you about it, Teach. I’m sorry,” Reid admitted, his gaze downcast.

You shook your head, a soft smile creeping onto your lips. “I’m not mad, I could never be. But I’ll take it personally if you don’t choose me as your thesis supervisor. And if you graduate with anything less than honors, well… that would just be unacceptable.” A playful glint sparkled in your eyes. “After all, if you choose me, you’re guaranteed honors.”

Reid raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “I thought only co-supervisors could be from outside the university.”

You leaned in, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “I have a friend who used to be a prosecutor who’s exceptionally skilled at bending the law, so you might want to start considering your options.” You grinned, the reference to Hotch hanging in the air like an inside joke. Reid chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief.

The two of you were standing on either side of the SUV; you by the driver’s door and Reid by the passenger side.

With a swift flick, you tossed the car keys over the top of the car. Reid managed to catch them mid-air, almost fumbling. “You drive,” you said firmly, a knowing smirk tugging at your lips.

The gesture wasn’t just about who got the wheel, it was a subtle way to keep Reid grounded, away from his spiraling thoughts. As he took the keys, his expression softened, and he seemed to relax just a bit.

For the few minutes it would take to drive from the crime scene to the station, his focus would be on the road rather than his thoughts. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to buy him some peace, if only for a short while.

---

“David Smith, the name of the child,” you said firmly into the phone as you hurried out of the school, adrenaline pumping through your veins, you’ve already taken out the car keys of the SUV. Reid and JJ followed closely behind, their expressions matching your urgency. “He left school early with the nurse on duty. They’re headed back to his house. She might be the next target. I sent you the address the school provided.”

“Alright, see you at his house,” Hotch instructed, his tone steady and authoritative. “Slow down a few houses before the unsub’s. I’m seeing it’s a low-density residential area, you could be noticed.”

“Copy that, we’ll wait for you there,” you replied, glancing back at Reid and JJ, who were already strategizing their approach as you made your way to the car.

Every second counted.

---

“How's she doing?” Strauss asked, her eyes on Prentiss, who was being tended to by the paramedic, her face bruised but calm.

"She’ll be okay," Hotch replied, his tone steady, though his jaw clenched slightly.

Strauss continued, “You know, I can’t officially approve of how this all went down.” Her words held a warning, her gaze fixed on him.

“The arrest was clean. Breaking up this team would be a mistake.” His voice was controlled, but a flicker of frustration lingered beneath. Bureau politics, always standing between him and the work that mattered most.

Strauss’s expression shifted. “None of you will ever move up the chain of command, you know that.”

Hotch didn’t hesitate.

“Why would I ever want to leave the BAU?” He turned away, needing to separate from her cold rationalizations.

But her words echoed, a slow, unwelcome realization: this life, the BAU, his team - it was slipping from his grip.

At home, he’d face Haley, their marriage hanging by a thread he couldn’t pull taut. He’d have to muster the words, once again, to explain why he needed this, why the BAU was the only stability he had left. He wasn’t just fighting to keep the job, he was fighting to keep himself together.

The job would always be his calling, but a gnawing ache tightened in his chest as he watched his team—specifically you, sharing a laugh with Prentiss. Emily was teasing you about the FBI bulletproof vest you were wearing over your outfit.

“Teach, let me say it: with that vest, you kind of look like a pimp,” Emily grinned, the paramedic finishing up her forehead treatment.

“A pimp?!” you exclaimed, shaking your head in disbelief. “You’re saying this only because you’re dying to try it!” You began to unbutton your vest before even finishing your sentence, playfully handing it over to Emily.

You turned your back as she slid it on, raising her eyebrows and asking for your opinion. “Now you look like a magician at a child’s birthday party” you quipped keeping a straight face, and laughter erupted between you two. Hotch nearly chuckled himself, grateful to see you fitting in so seamlessly.

Working with you again after all these years, witnessing your deepening bond with each team member, was a reminder of what he had missed in his life. The connections, the laughter, always having each other’s back - it all felt like coming home.

What had once felt like a distant vision, a hope he could barely allow himself, was now real: you, him, and the team, together. Hotch couldn’t help but let that settle in, a weight of happiness and something like relief.

He couldn’t imagine giving this up not after the seven years it took to get you back to him. Even if he couldn’t sit across from you at your old desks, at least you could always stand by his side.

On his left.

And him on your right.

“I’m seeing you tomorrow, right?” you asked, catching him off guard with your nearness. He hadn’t realized you’d moved closer, the warmth of your presence both grounding and distracting.

He hesitated. “I don’t know yet.”

You gave him a familiar, disappointed look. “You haven’t called Haley yet, have you?”

Hotch’s expression shifted to something darker, more serious. “I’d rather have this conversation face-to-face.” Then, after a beat, he asked, “Has Peter answered?”

Your half-smile was wry, maybe a little weary. “Which one of my 23 calls?” You always softened things with humor, but he could hear the edge in your voice.

“Any,” he said, irritation simmering as he thought of Peter’s silence.

Your ironic grin said it all. “None.” Hotch scoffed, shaking his head, and you gently deflected. “A part of me kept thinking coming back wouldn’t be the same as it was, that working with you would turn into working for you. That’s scary.” You met his gaze, sincerity shining through. “But actually watching you step into your role, I’ve never seen you more like yourself than I did today.”

He sighed, your words striking a deeper chord. “I really needed to hear that, thank you.” he replied quietly, his voice thick with gratitude. “And… you know, for me, you’ll always be my partner. I hope you still think of me as yours.”

You met his gaze, steady and warm. “I do,” you answered softly, a reassurance in your eyes. “But I still expect all my partner privileges, though.”

A grin played on his face. “Your transfer will be the first paper I file.”

“Caught you!” You raised an eyebrow, catching him in his words. “Filing implies you’re still part of the team, which means you’re morally obliged to show up tomorrow, Unit Chief.”

Hotch’s smirk widened, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Morally binding? That’s circumstantial at best,” he replied. “You’ll need a statute or at least a binding contract if you’re going to get me to commit. Moral obligations don’t hold up in court.”

You laughed, but he could feel the seriousness in your tone “Call your wife, Lawyer.”

And that’s when he convinced himself.

He was determined to fight for this life, for you and this team - even if it meant returning home to another confrontation. But fighting alone wasn’t possible, it takes two to spark a conflict, and one person couldn’t sustain it.

You can’t fight if you’re the only one left standing in your own home.

It takes two people to start a conflict. One wasn’t enough.

“Haley?” The word felt like a scream in the stillness of his house, yet it came out as a whisper, more an expression to himself than a call for her. The only answer was an echo, his question bouncing back at him.

He had always argued against responding to a question with another question. But there it was - the truth, indifferent to his profiler rules, obeying only its own logic.

In that moment, everything went blank, his mind shut down. For several moments, he struggled to formulate something – anything - but nothing came to him. Then, only one thought broke through the fog, taking center stage in his mind, grounding him.

‘German philosopher, Hegel once said:

every idea – thesis,

inevitably faces opposition - antithesis,

leading to a resolution – synthesis.’

-Hegel for Dummies.

He ascended the stairs, each step echoing the weight of his thoughts.

Thesis: his resolve, the first step upward, filled with hope this was just happening in his head.

Antithesis: the second step, shadowed by doubt and the painful memory of the love he had just lost.

Synthesis: the third step, an ephemeral blending of grief and determination, a bittersweet acknowledgment of what was and what could never be again.

And then again-

‘German philosopher, Hegel once said:

The synthesis then becomes the new thesis,

sparking further conflicts and resolutions in a continuous cycle of development.

Hegel believed that conflict is essential for progress.‘

-Hegel for Dummies.

Another step-

Thesis: “This is who I am”, “No, this is what you do.”

Antithesis: “I’ve never seen you more like yourself than I did today”

Synthesis: …

But what happens when he is left alone, unable to reach synthesis?

‘German philosopher, Hegel once said:

When there is no synthesis, conflict can lead to chaos.

Without a resolution, opposing ideas may continue to clash

without progress,

resulting in frustration,

confusion,

or a breakdown of understanding.’

-Hegel for Dummies.

He should have called Haley at least once.

Maybe then he wouldn’t be standing here, paralyzed in the doorway of the empty bedroom, a haunting silence enveloping him like a shroud. The air was thick with the remnants of a life that felt painfully out of reach.

She had left, taking Jack with her, and with them went the laughter that once filled these walls.

Thesis: He was a terrible father and husband, forever tethered to his job, sacrificing family for duty. He deserved every consequence of his choices - Jack’s first combination of words echoing “Dad—work,” a reminder of his absence, Haley’s betrayal, and the stark realization that his family had slipped through his fingers like sand.

Antithesis: Yet, his work was the only thing that made him feel whole, a place where he could be competent, useful, the only identity he knew how to embrace. It was where he found purpose, and, for a fleeting moment, a sense of self-worth.

Synthesis: Three buzzes from his phone that pulled him back to reality, and he immediately glanced at the screen, his heart racing.

Philosopher:

I noticed Emily was feeling down, so I convinced her to join me at the bar. I told her that the big scar on her head would make for a great conversation starter. (BTW – I was totally right)

Penelope, Derek, Jennifer, and EVEN Spencer - our kind-hearted colleagues - suggested that Emily and I, the re-integrating members, should fund all the drinks in the spirit of “teamwork”. Please come rescue our wallets, we’re at the bar between 12th Street and K NW. I owe you a pint, maybe even two.

No pressure, though - stay with Haley and Jack if you need to. The situation hasn’t escalated yet.

He didn’t have to think it twice, you were all he had left.

---

Aaron arrived at the bar not long after your message, quietly slipping into the group, trying to shake off the hollow feeling that had been creeping over him.

His eyes found you almost immediately, as if magnetically pulled to you, laughing with Emily and the team. But just as he began making his way over, he noticed the entire white-collar unit entering, with Peter at the front.

If he thought he’d hit rock bottom before, he realized now that apparently, there was even a basement below even that. What a perfect timing for a little reunion wasn’t it?

Peter, already a few drinks in, caught sight of you and wasted no time making his way over, his expression tainted with something meaner than usual. “Look who’s here,” he sneered, his voice carrying a sarcastic bite. “The BAU swoops in, disrupts lives, and sweeps my fiancée back into its arms. All so you can play hero.”

The laughter and conversation at the table went quiet as the team noticed the shift in tone. You froze, unsure of what to say, giving him a wary look. “Pete, this isn’t the time or place,” you replied, keeping your voice calm and somewhat quiet, despite the tension building around you.

“Oh, right.” Peter rolled his eyes, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Gotta keep the BAU's image all pristine.”

Peter leaned in closer, his words loud enough for everyone to hear, his gaze lingering on the team around you. “Funny, though, you have all this dedication for them, but no time for… bedtime. You still want this ‘us’ you’re promising me, or was that just a story?”

Oh, he really wanted to punch Peter in the face.

Although Aaron’s face remained impassive, his eyes sharp, his tone calm but lethal. “You know,” he began, stepping closer, “I’ve looked the other way when you’ve crossed lines before. But if you disrespect her like that again, I’ll have no problem spending a night in jail.”

Peter laughed bitterly, turning to him with a mocking smirk. “What, she needs you to fight her battles now? Hate to break it to you, but I’m the one she said yes to, Hotchner. Maybe it’s time you got over it.”

Everything stopped.

The tension inside him turned hot, searing through his last shred of patience.

Aaron didn’t even hear the sounds around him as he moved. His fist shot forward, a flash of rage, finding Peter's face with a controlled, devastating force.

The satisfying crunch of bone and flesh beneath his knuckles felt like long-awaited justice, a release.

Blood trickled warmly between his fingers, and the bar sank into a stunned silence, every gaze fixed on the unfolding scene. Peter staggered back, eyes wide as he clutched his nose, the steady stream of crimson painting a harsh line down his hand.

Derek and Emily jumped to their feet, rushing to Aaron's side, each grabbing one of his arms, pulling him back before the situation could escalate further. “Hotch, that’s enough!” Derek hissed, his grip firm

Aaron shot Peter a glare that could freeze fire. “If you ever speak about her that way again,” he said, his tone barely a whisper but chilling, “I won’t stop at a bloody nose.”

Peter wiped his face with a hand, a cruel smile forming through the pain. “Tough words from someone who can’t even keep his own family together,” he retorted, his words biting, dripping with contempt.

He was dead.

Not today.

He stiffened, a flicker of pain flashing across his face before he shut it down, his expression hardening.

The insult struck a nerve, and he clenched his fists, resisting the urge to strike again.

Spencer, watching the exchange unfold, shuddered slightly, recognizing the dangerous glint in Aaron’s eyes. Even Morgan’s hand, steady on Aaron’s shoulder, seemed to tighten as he held him back.

He felt your hand gently rest on his arm, a warmth spreading through him that caught him off guard. The touch sent a subtle shiver down his spine, a soft but undeniable reminder of your presence, grounding him.

“Peter, that’s enough,” you said sharply, your voice steady despite the emotions roiling within you. “Get away. You’re acting like a child.”

Peter laughed bitterly, his eyes flashing with anger as he backed up, but the look on his face made it clear he wasn’t quite done. “Fine,” he said, wiping his bloody nose.

“I’m done here. Have fun with your so-called family, see you at home, if you still want to.” he sneered, casting one last look around the table before staggering back to his white-collar buddies.

You turned your focus back to him, your hand still resting on his arm. “Are you okay?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, exhaling deeply. “I’m fine,” he replied, though his voice held a hint of weariness. “I’m sorry - I shouldn’t have let it get to that point.”

You squeezed Aaron’s arm gently, giving him a reassuring smile. “You didn’t have to do that, you know. But… thank you.”

Aaron met your gaze, his expression serious. “I’d do it again if I had to,” he looked at you, catching the unease that lingered in your eyes as Peter momentarily turned away. “Come on,” he whispered, leaning in close enough that only you could hear. “Let’s get you out of here.”

You didn’t argue, simply gave a nod.

Outside, the crisp night air hit you, grounding you just slightly, though your mind still buzzed with everything that had happened, Aaron kept a steadying hand on your shoulder, guiding you to his car.

Once seated, he let out a sigh, his gaze trained on you. “I don’t want you going back to him tonight,” he said softly, his words holding a quiet urgency. “If he’s already drunk and angry…” He left the sentence hanging, the implication heavy in the silence.

You looked away, taking a deep breath. “Aaron, I can’t just-”

“I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you because I didn’t insist,” he interrupted, his tone low, leaving no room for you to argue. “You don’t have to stay for good. Just let me take you back to your place so you can gather some things. Stay with me tonight. Just… please.”

His gaze held yours, an earnest plea in his eyes that made it impossible to refuse.

You gave a small nod, and Aaron’s shoulders visibly relaxed, some of the tension slipping away. The drive back to your apartment was quiet, the kind of silence that held too much weight to break. When you returned to collect your things, you admitted to yourself that Peter’s absence was a relief.

---

As Aaron pulled up to his place, he walked you in, stopping to gesture toward the guest room. “You can take this room for as long as you need,” he said, offering you a comforting smile.

Yet there was something flickering in his expression - an uncertainty, a regret he couldn’t quite mask. You sensed it before he said a word.

“Aaron… is Haley alright with this?” you asked softly, instinctively careful. There was something wrong.

He exhaled, his gaze drifting on a blank space on the wall. “She’s… not here. Hasn’t been, actually.”

That couldn’t be true.

He looked at you, the confession raw and vulnerable, his eyes wet. “She took Jack. When I got back after Milwaukee, the house was… empty.”

Your hand flew to your mouth, unable to keep the gasp from escaping. “Oh, Aaron” you whispered. That’s all you managed to say. No words of wisdom, no philosophical theories, nothing.

It felt like the whole world crashed right upon you.

Why?

Martyrdom only held meaning if death served something greater. That purpose had once been enough to bear it.

Now, stripped of that cause, the reality was laid bare: nothing remained but death itself - cold, hollow, and devoid of purpose.

The emptiness sank in, exposing the unrelenting finality that was no longer a noble sacrifice but a bleak, pointless end.

“It’s my fault. I failed them… just like I’ve failed you.” As he said it, you felt the prickling of tears, unbidden and impossible to hold back.

No sobs, no breaking down, just a quiet release of all the pain you’d kept carefully tucked away.

He reached for you instinctively, his hand brushing your arm with a tenderness that broke the silence. “I never wanted this for you. For us. I’m sorry.”

You tried to smile, but it trembled at the edges. “All I ever wanted was to see you happy, Aaron,” you replied, voice thick with emotion. “I thought… I thought you’d finally found it.”

He sighed, the confession heavy in his voice as he looked down, feeling the regret twist deeper within him. “Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever be good enough to deserve that kind of happiness you talked about.” The words hung in the air, unguarded. Echoing in the empty walls of his house.

He led you to the couch, poured two glasses, and offered you one. The silence felt almost sacred, each of you sorting through fragments of your own heartbreak, yet finding a strange comfort in the other’s presence.

After a long pause, Aaron cleared his throat. “Here’s the deal,” he began softly, his eyes meeting yours with a rare openness. “I’ll give you all the time you need. No pressure. If you want to talk about anything, all you have to do is ask. Otherwise, we’ll pretend none of this ever happened… until you’re ready to figure it out.”

His words struck you deeply, and your voice came out more vulnerable than you intended. “What if… what if it’s too complicated?” you whispered, gripping your glass as if it could ground you.

“Then we’ll untangle it together,” he replied, his tone steady. “For now, stay here with me. We’ll both take the time we need to figure this out.” He hesitated, then added softly, “You don’t have to face him. And I’ll figure out… my own things with Haley.”

You nodded, your heart aching with a mixture of relief and sadness. “Thank you, Aaron. I… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He looked at you with such warmth that for a moment, the weight on your chest felt lighter. “You’ll never have to find out - partners privileges” he replied simply.

You nodded, letting a deep, unspoken understanding settle between you. Slowly, you leaned into him, your head finding a place on his shoulder, and he responded instinctively, slipping his arm around you in a way that was both familiar and unexpectedly tender.

The weight of his arm was warm and steady, grounding you in a closeness that felt just on the edge of something you’d both carefully avoided acknowledging.

A gentle silence wrapped around you, though it was charged with the kind of tension that comes from being close to a line neither of you dared cross.

The simplicity of it, just leaning into him, felt almost too good, as if it could shatter with the wrong word or movement.

The moment felt fragile.

Precious.

“I wish it didn’t have to be like this,” you murmured, barely louder than a breath, afraid that if you spoke any louder, the delicate tension might break.

He sighed softly, and you felt his cheek rest against the top of your head, the warmth of his breath brushing your hair. “I know,” he replied, voice low and heavy, almost like a vow he couldn’t put into clearer words. “But whatever happens,” he added after a pause, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He shifted, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to the top of your head. You let out a chuckle slightly shaking your head, feeling a wave of warmth settle over you, shoulders relaxing further against him.

He pulled back, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Too much?” he asked, his tone teasing.

You grinned, glancing up at him. “Not unless you’re hiding a bottle of tequila around here.”

He chuckled, his arm steady around you. “Tequila’s been blacklisted since ’99,” he replied with a laugh.

“Good,” you whispered, and a soft laugh escaped. The air felt lighter, like a shared secret wrapped in laughter. You leaned back against his shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing align with yours, each second deepening that shared comfort.

He sighed, settling in, voice warm with humor. “Banning tequila was one of the best choices I’ve ever made.”

You arched an eyebrow, pretending to consider his words. “Best choice? So, this ranks above the law degree? The Bureau? Working with me?”

“Easily,” he deadpanned, a hint of his own teasing smile. “Even ranks above knocking on your door to ask you to quit teaching.” He paused, his hand resting easily on your shoulder. “And just so you know, your official transfer paperwork to the BAU is sitting on my desk. Unsigned, waiting for your signature, to make it official.”

“Oh, is that so?” you teased, shifting slightly to look at him. “I’d say this transfer back to the BAU is already morally binding,” you said with a grin, “especially since, technically, I’m living here.”

He raised his eyebrows, clearly intrigued. “Is that right? And exactly why does that make it morally binding?”

You tilted your head, enjoying the game. “Because, by the rules of ‘teamwork,’ I’d feel too guilty taking up space in your guest room without helping out on cases. Besides, someone has to balance out your caffeine intake and remind you to avoid questionable interrogation tactics.”

He chuckled, tightening his arm around you just a little. “Ah, moral obligation then. And here I thought you might just be getting comfortable with the arrangement.”

You smirked, leaning your head back on his shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing sync with yours, that rare, unspoken understanding in the air. “It’s your word against mine, Lawyer.”

---

Phi's Corner: Thank you @c-losur3 for the lovely bit that inspired the bar scene, hoping it turned out to be just about right.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @cuddleprofiler ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @justyourusualash ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

#aaron hotchner #hotch #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #symposiumff

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sibyl-of-space · 2 years ago

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Reblogging this again because GUESS WHAT GAMERS!!!!!!!!!!

Ok I know probably none of your guys are as plugged in to #chessdrama as I am but like, putting aside Hans's horseshit for 8 seconds, I am SO EXCITED about the championship match upcoming in 2023.

It's like a Hollywood underdog movie come to life.

The chess championship works like this: there is a "candidates tournament" where only a very small handful of the best of the best are invited to participate, and the winner of that candidates tournament is selected to face off against the incumbent grand champion in the championship match.

There are TWO "but"s about it this year.

1) One of the players invited to the candidates tournament, Sergey Karjakin, publicly announced support for the Russian invasion of Ukraine earlier this year. As a result he was banned from FIDE events for a time - therefore disqualifying him from the candidates' tournament. This will be very relevant later.

2) Reigning world champion Magnus Carlsen declined to defend his title. The likeliest reason being that he has held the title since 2013 and has repeatedly shown himself to be on a league of his own, and already defeated this year's winner of the candidates' tournament (Ian Nepomniachtchi) in LAST year's championship match... anyway for whatever reason he will not be participating and will relinquish the title.

So who is the championship match going to be between? The top TWO finalists of the candidates' tournament. The top finisher was also last year's finalist, Ian Nepomniachtchi.

And who finished second place in the candidates' tournament 2022....?

This is where it gets super juicy. The second place finisher was Ding Liren, who was not originally invited to the candidates' tournament, but was a last-minute replacement for the banned Sergey Karjakin!!!

The guy who wasn't originally even in the candidate's tournament now has a shot at the world champion title.* Y'all it's so exciting. I can't fucking wait until April. Like even if Ian wins the title you can't tell me Ding having a seat at that table isn't some chefs kiss shit.

Anyway here's my favorite picture of Ding Liren which I'm pretty sure was a photo op specifically to announce his invitation to the championship match, and you can't say they didn't flex at the opportunity (but I'm also laughing at the not properly buttoned up dress shirt and ill-fitted suit):

This has been your reprieve from chess drama involving Hans. Thank you for your attention

* it should be clarified that Ding Liren is like up there among the highest ranking players EVER, with a batshit impressive resume of his own, hence he was chosen as a replacement (iirc as the highest ranking player not already in the tournament). So it's not like he's some nobody. He is very very much somebody. it's just the circumstances around his candidacy for the championship title this year are so.. DRAMATIC

#juiciest world Chess championship since Magnus was crowned in like 2013 #congratulations Ding Liren WHAT a match #he came back from a deficit like three times in the classical portion #and then made a super swaggy move to win as black in the last rapid game of tiebreaks #King shit

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dozydawn · 1 year ago

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Samima Akter looks at her opponent during the Women's Rapid Chess Individual during the 15th Asian Games, 2006. Photographed by Streeter Lecka.

#the reflection of the board in her glasses #chess #samima akter #eyeglasses #fave pics #1k

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago

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Black Metal and Bourbon (III)

AU MASTERLIST || THE FINAL PART

PAIRING: Biker/Mechanic!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Bartender!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 7.9k

WARNINGS: Depictions of injuries, blood, gore, abductions, death, talks about bike crashes, violence, guns, intended harm, past toxic relationship, murder, protective!Simon, suggestive content, (1) dirty joke, etc. (18+ mini-series)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You remember the long nights when you would sit in the empty bar and wonder why you’d never left. Why you couldn’t up and disappear like you wanted to—a bird taking flight and choosing any direction at all to travel, just as long as you didn’t stay on this branch. It wouldn’t have been hard. There wasn’t anything here that mattered to you.

This invisible string was holding you back, waiting; tying you to something that you would never understand for as long as you lived. You had dreams and aspirations.

So why hadn’t you grabbed them by the throat and dragged them along with you?

Maybe there were larger powers in that old town, a mischievous spirit that played a game of chess with the lives of its inhabitants. It certainly felt like it.

Especially when you’re flying through the air, the rain falling in slow motion as hands slash past wind to grab at your body. You recall flashes of that day. Snippets.

Even now, you feel like you see it in the third person, your form getting tossed by the momentum of the flipping motorcycle and cutting the storm—Simon’s hands reaching out and grasping you. He had dragged you into his chest, his back taking the force of the ground as you slid along the wet streets, pained grunts echoing into your soul as your panic resulted in a shocked muteness. His hands had been gripping you so tight that veins had burst, the view of the sky above you as your back conformed to his chest.

And then you’d both tumbled, rolled over and over as the screech of metal grated your ringing eardrums and pain flared like fire. Your head slammed into the front of the helmet with a smack, and nothing else is recalled.

Until now, of course.

You try to move your fingers, the tight hold of a cast over the entirety of your left forearm—the action brings a wave of weakness with it, making you grit your teeth. You’d woken up in the hospital with black dots in your vision, your body so unresponsive your mind had panicked thinking you wouldn’t be able to move at all.

And Simon?

Where was Simon? You’d been so loud with your hoarse calling that the nurses had rushed in and had to put you back under, letting you drift and brushing their hands over your head as you babbled on failing breath. Never once had your brain left you void of the mechanic’s brown eyes—his hands grabbing you, keeping you safe at the risk of his own flesh.

He hadn’t been wearing a helmet.

But now…now you were fully conscious.

“Where is he?” Your face is perhaps one of the few parts of you that was unscathed. Your legs were skinned—wrapped so tightly you couldn’t move them. While Simon’s leather jacket had saved your arms, they were still battered and bulging with blisters as big as your hand. Your forearm was broken.

The nurse shushed you, and your voice snapped. “Loralie, I’ve known you since middle school,” she pauses, lips thinning as she messes with your IV drip. “You’re going to tell me where the hell he is, or I’m going to scream that you made Braylan Holt forge your high school diploma.”

Sizzling eyes meet yours, but not even that will deter you—your heart is heard, rapid on the screen to your left.

“You’re a damn horror, Bartender.”

“You’re acting like I give a shit,” you growl and the nurse slightly moves back, never hearing that venom from you before to such a degree. “Where the fuck is Simon before I get up myself.”

It’s like a dog with fear aggression—you can’t comprehend the man you’d formed such a bond with hurt, much less here in this hospital with you and…and…

Your heart rate increases even more.

He wasn’t wearing a helmet.

“That’s not gonna happen, Sweetheart,” Loralie grits out. “You won’t be walkin’ for another week, at least. Not with all that damage—your legs were so bloody the EMTs couldn’t tell where the hell the blood was even comin’ from.”

Your working hand curls into a tight fist, teeth snapping together as you restrain a flinch. You don’t want to think about that right now.

“Simon,” you grunt, shaking.

The woman stares for a moment before sighing.

“You’re something strange, Girl. How the hell you managed to be stuck here is some mystery I can’t fathom. Fine,” she glares before a fast whisper. “But you best forget about that stint with Holt, alright? You never mention that again—”

“Already forgotten,” you grind out, impatient. Even the muddled agony from under the sheen of the pain meds couldn’t stop you. “Speak.”

“The man’s in rough shape. Hasn’t woken up yet.” Your jaw clenches tight, blood pumping like a river. A finger is leveled at you, moving in an accusing motion. “He’s lucky he didn’t die, by all accounts the shape he was in he should have. Had to go into surgery to get the bike shrapnel out of his legs.”

“Surgery?” Your eyes go wide, your voice frantic. “W-what about his head—did he hit it, or…or is he—”

“His brain waves are active.” The nurse tidies the blankets at the end of your bed. “Can’t say that about his body.”

Your throat sinches violently, and you have to look away to hide your tears. Moments later, the woman lets out an aggressive sigh, her hands moving to cross over her chest.

“That man must fucking love you,” you blank, blinking quickly as you sniffle and try to shift your expression back to fake anger.

“What…?” You ask, your tone defeated.

Loralie stares, her eyes moving to the IV only to waft back when she can gather her thoughts.

“If he hadn’t grabbed you, you would have gone right off the edge of the road into the rocks.” In the bed, your body goes as still as possible, your ears twitching at the confession. “In the middle of getting road-burned to all hell, he still grabbed you. If you would have gone over, we’d only be having one of our intensive care rooms filled up…you hear?”

You can’t say anything, only watch as the nurse finishes up her work and exits with one last look of exasperation.

Alone, your brain finally tries to comprehend what you’d just been told.

“...Simon,” you whisper to dead air long minutes later, the machines all around you beeping.

The tears come easily.

—

When your legs finally started working again, it didn’t bring you any comfort. Only Simon could do that, and seeing the looks from the other staff, they knew it as well. You couldn’t keep your full weight on your limbs, only bend the toes and knees in small intervals.

The doctor said it was a fantastic start, but you felt helpless.

You wanted to see him, yet first came the interview with the Sheriff to explain what had happened. After the details started coming back, a larger picture was formed, and when you had been able to get ahold of a phone—your own shattered and little more than a box—you’d heard a case had already been opened.

Simon’s bike had been tampered with.

After you’d given your statement, you had been surprised to find three mechanics at your door, walking in quickly and throwing over concerned looks at your busted forearm and hidden legs.

“Christ,” Soap says, a flash of anger crossing like lightning over his eyes. “You don’t hurt much, do you?”

“No,” you lie easily. “Could be worse,” your words were whispered.

John sends you an indiserable look as Gaz sips off his hat and keeps it in his grip as he frowns.

“We’re happy you’re alright, Love. Scared us half to death when we heard the news—thought the worst,” Kyle commented, the Brit’s hand running over his neck slowly.

They could all tell that you weren’t in the right mindset.

“He’s alive,” you look over to Price sharply. Those blue eyes don’t waver. “That’s all that matters. He’s alive.”

“Aye,” Johnny agrees, nodding his head and crossing his arms. A stubborn expression was on his face. “Never known someone like Simon. The man’ll push through without a doubt—just needs time to rest up.”

“I shouldn’t have agreed to go out,” you mutter, rubbing at your cheek, thinking about a man with a mangled body and skinned bones. Jesus, he needed to be alright. He had to be.

“No one could have thought that would happen,” Kyle comes over and puts a firm hand on your shoulder. “Hey, c’mon,” you look at him with a guilty face; fear under your tiny pupils. The man smiles, but it’s shaky at best. “We all know who to blame for this, yeah? Don’t go taking that from the person who needs to carry it.”

“We’ve been keeping up with it,” Soap adds, frowning. “Still no trace.”

“They haven't found him yet?” Your brows turn in with concern, a sudden paranoia entering your head—if they hadn’t found Graham, what’s to stop him from doing something like this again? Hell, if he was unhinged enough to commit attempted murder, what was stopping him from pushing those boundaries now that he’s already gone through with the former?

“We’re not going anywhere,” John seems to sense this. You look at him quickly. The man grunts, lips moving as he speaks. “Not until he’s found.”

A piece of your heart eases at that, thankfulness flooding your veins.

“...Do,” your voice pauses, and you swallow down saliva slowly before you continue. “Do you know when they’ll let me see him?”

Soap and Gaz share a glance, the Scot going to ease into the chair on the other side of the room with a low sigh.

“They’re not letting anyone in,” Kyle utters. “Not until his condition improves a bit. We tried.”

“Two weeks,” John nods to you. “They’re only giving estimates.”

Fingers twitching, you look down at your lap, the hospital bed hard under you. The words come out, and you find they’re met with a hard certainty from the men around you.

“What if they don’t find Graham?”

“...Then we will.”

—

The mechanics had all looked over their bikes for any tampering and had found none when they reported back to you—the bolts had been loosened only on Simon’s. Soap was the one who had mentioned that you might have never been the target at all, and that Graham had been a spiteful man who just wanted to make a point about his past relationships’ new attraction. The thought didn’t settle you.

All of them were undeniably worried about their friend.

You’d tried to get what you could out of the other nurses—any signs of waking or getting better, but there were only stiff looks as if it was taboo to talk about him. Like an inside joke with the devil.

The staff had finally said they would tell you themselves if there was any change in Simon’s health. It didn’t stop you from asking, though. It currently didn’t stop you from sneaking out in the middle of the night after visiting hours, either.

Your legs were still weak, sometimes going numb entirely as you dragged them over the floor. Inside your eyes, black dots swirled as you effectively dodged the front desk by taking the far back hallway; the lights above your head were too bright and too loud.

Your arm burned something awful.

Eyes blinking rapidly, you pant as you go from room to room, not stopping even to breathe before room fourteen makes your soul pull in on itself like a crow holding a bell. The bit of metal jingles, attached to a red string that flutters in the wind—reaching back to the wreath it was stolen from.

Not understanding the instinctual feeling, you grasp the handle and push open the door with more force than you’re able to push out of you; your working arm quivering violently.

But the sight behind the door is something you would cross mountains for.

Simon lies still on the bed, attached to so many machines he seems more like a cyborg than a man. Over his face, an oxygen mask takes the place of a balaclava, and the right side of flesh is patched with so many bandages the bulk makes your stomach drop.

“Simon,” you whisper, stuttering as your blood falls internally to pool at your feet.

Walking over as quickly as you’re able, you pause at the side of his bed, nearly falling over as your knees buckle. You lean your weight on the frame and take a deep breath.

This man saved your life.

You look at him, unable to say anything—unable to utter a sarcastic quip. Your hand stutters in its course through the sterile air, but at the very end of it, your skin settles over Simon’s hand; the limb on his chest.

“Simon,” you say again, licking your lips, fingers squeezing his tattoos as if to bring the images to life. “Can you hear me, Brown-Eyes?”

You needed him to wake up—needed to speak to him, see that October gaze lock so numbly with yours. Dead eyes had never meant so much to you than when the man that wore them wasn’t blinking so softly. Where had he gone?

“Simon,” you plead, getting choked up when nothing happens beyond the flicking of the light on the ceiling. The beeping of his pulse didn’t change, not even when you intertwined your fingers together to lock them like a knot—a promise. “I need you to be okay,” your voice stutters.

“We have to get through this together…I…” Tears splatter his tattoos, his lovely, beautiful, tattoos, you hiccup. “We need each other.”

Maybe it was cliche, two people who relied on one another in a town of nobodies, but it didn’t make it untrue. And maybe it was a partial lie—after all, you didn’t know what Simon thought of you exactly, but the way he looked at you, how he cast his shadow above yours, was a well enough guess in the right direction. But you needed to say it, and your heart ached to see him like this.

Simon doesn’t move, his hand is cold and his lashes stuck to his cheeks.

“Simon,” you hiss, sniffling.

The hours pass, and you stay there for as long as you’re able before your body is about to give out on you. You reluctantly kiss his forehead and leave with a crushing weight on your shoulders, so much so that the flashes of broken metal and rain don’t even bother you at this point.

A rage grows in your breast.

But when you sneak back to your room, you don’t go to bed. You can’t. The smell in the space is something that leaves your eyes stuck wide until your legs actually do buckle. Your eyes stare at the far wall blankly.

Cigarette smoke lingers in the air.

—

“He woke up last night.” Your blank eyes stare, expression stuck firm. Loralie gives you your lunch, setting it down on the bed tray. “Around three. Said your name and then passed out again.”

“Why didn’t you get me?” You’re already pushing off the bed, your lips letting loose a grunt. The boys had to be at work today—a Thursday—so that left you alone and bored until they took a break and walked over to keep an eye on things.

Wincing when your feet touch down, you’re quickly, and very easily, pushed back into bed with a scoff.

“Loralie,” you growl, venom in your throat like a rampaging bull.

“Sit down and let me finish.” The both of you glare before she rolls her eyes and points to the food. “Acting like a damn teenager. Eat.” She doesn’t start until you pick up the fork just to shove a single piece of the lunch into your mouth to spite her, slowly chewing it with a scowl. Loralie rubs at her temple. “He’s getting better, but it’s still a long road. Activity’s peaking every now and again—fingers been twitching, too. Some of the bandages have been able to come off.”

“Thank the fucking lord,” you breathe, running both hands over your face as you sigh out slowly. “Any estimate on when he might fully wake up.”

“God knows,” the nurse huffs. “He had brain bleed. Man was all kinds of messed-up.”

Your chest tightens, but you say nothing. You’d suddenly lost your appetite.

As the afternoon rolls around, you take down your pain medicine and fight the blurriness of your eyes. Healing was a very long and very tiring process—it seemed like no matter how much sleep you got you still woke up tired. And you suppose that was why you fell into an uncomfortable nap and woke up to the window still open, the moonlight rays like sheer fabric cascading down to the tile floors.

Groaning, your head lifts from the pillow; your first thoughts are always of Simon and how he’s doing. It was time to see him again.

Your TV-static mind reruns how he looks over and over again—the bloody bandages, the wrappings around his face. Even the machines now seemed to sneer at you as your guilt grew harder to ignore. He’d saved you at the cost of himself…without even hesitating.

Why would he do that?

“You really had to go and make me love you, huh?” You ask into the cold air, a breeze shifting through as you slowly sit up on one arm. “Simon, if I’d known you would have gone and done this, I would have never looked at that sold sign. At least then you’d be okay.”

“You love him?” Your body twists up, large patches of gauze pulling at dried blood and mixed plasma as your body keeps itself upright. The shadow in the corner of the room moves as your fatigued brain wakes itself back up in no time at all.

Graham.

Eyes stuck to the far corner, the phantom of your Ex stands tall—his eyes beady. Your entire being freezes as your lips part in horror, yet, you can’t make a sound.

He’s disheveled looking, but those eyes of his have never been more rageful. Like walking through the hospital and coming face-to-face with a grizzly bear of all things. It’s strange, but your thoughts immediately go to Simon as he steps forward, sneering at you.

“The first man that comes into town and you love him? I didn’t think you were so easy, but I guess I was wrong.”

“What are you doing here?” Your voice is hushed, panicked—adrenaline spikes in your veins.

If you screamed, who’s to say he wouldn’t just pounce on you?

Graham runs a hand over his hair, his scent taking up your nostrils until you feel the need to nearly gag at ash and tobacco. “I needed to see you—explain,” he stutters, emotions swiftly flicking from anger to fake remorse.

Your hand slowly inches to the nurse-call button attached to the wall near the bed, the cord leaking out like a snake as your fingertip catches against it.

“You weren’t supposed to be on that bike, okay? Celina fucking messed it up—she was supposed to keep you workin’ until he went out on his own.” He’s coming closer, and you push back up the mattress in distress.

He doesn’t stop.

“What the fuck, Graham,” your voice rises slightly, cracking in the middle.

The man growls. “It wasn’t my fault! J-just forget about it, okay? You’re fine now, it all worked out.”

“You tried to kill us!” You shout, and Graham’s instant hiss makes you flinch back and scamper as you slam the wall behind you.

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Do not…do that. Keep your damn voice down!”

“And if I scream?” You tilt your head, shaking violently. “What then, huh? You lousy son of a bitch.”

“You’re lucky I don’t pay that Simon of yours a visit, yeah?” Your lungs tighten, a wheezing inhale stuck in your throat.

“You wouldn’t, Graham,” you whisper hastily. “Not with all of this shit you’ve gotten yourself into—turn yourself in and fix this.”

The man spays his hands and your hand shifts to the bulk of the nurse’s button, running over the top until you find the correct one to press.

It moves in with a slight pop of plastic, the darkness of the room giving you extra coverage as you slowly drop it back down.

“It’s too late for that.” Graham shakes his head, and his stench overtakes you as you gag lightly, casted hand coming up to hide your nose. He pauses near the side of the bed, and you push to the opposite side and hear your feet slap the ground. The size of your makeshift barrier doesn’t fill you with confidence. “You need to come with me.”

“What,” you laugh in exasperation; fear coating the hoarse noise. “No! Leave!”

It was obvious that your usual sarcastic tone had slipped to a fearful one, your heart making your voice palpitate with every thump of the veins in your neck.

The door opens and Graham’s hand darts to the back of his pants.

Loralie’s body comes into view. “What’s happened now—”

A great ear-shattering boom leaves you screaming as blood splatters into the air.

—

Simon woke up to the world spinning.

He grunts heavily, the oxygen mask over his face tight before he can slap a weak hand to the plastic and pull it back. The man coughs, spine curling before a bone-deep pain makes him stop with a firm inhale.

Blinking sluggishly, he grinds his teeth together and lets the mask slip to his cheek. Movement at his slide makes Simon pause—trying to gather his bearings.

What was going on?

“Simon, easy with it.” Scottish. Johnny. “Christ…how am I going to explain this?” More shuffling and fast feet over to the side of the bed.

“Johnny,” Simon grunts, vocal cords tight. He needed water.

“One second, just wait. Let me…” A pause before a sloshing of water. Above the man in the bed, the ceiling moves and swirls—dancing. Simon remembers water…the bike…

“Can you hold it, then?” He doesn’t answer the Scot, instead slapping out a hand to curl the body of the glass, bringing it to his lips and downing the liquid as it slips from the side and dribbles down the side of his face.

Johnny grumbles, “Alright.”

You.

Simon choked on the drink, moving it back before his arms slammed to the bed, the glass bouncing off and shattering against the floor.

“Fucking hell!” Johnny shouts, rushing forward to put a stiff hand on Simon’s chest, trying to push him back down and avoid the glass that now litters the tile. “Stop it, you’ll destroy all the damn work they did, ya idiot!”

“Where is she?” Simon garbles out, glaring forward even as his body screams and peels back healed flesh.

“Stay the fuck down and I will!” Blue eyes sear downward, meeting brown as they battle for a moment.

Simon clenches his hands, but compiles, top half moving back to collapse to the pillows once more. Not once do his eyes stray from the Scot, ordering him mutely to continue as his heart pounds in his breast. He remembers grabbing you and then nothing else—the scream of sirens in his ears like a distant call from a dream. But his body ached far too much for this to be a dream.

“Where,” Simon forces out through his accent, throat like gravel. His chest was filled with dread at the nervous sheen over Johnny’s face.

“Ah…” The Scot begins. “She’s fine, Simon. She’s alive.”

That didn’t give him any reassurance.

Simon hisses, quickly trying to get back up again and succeeding in straining his body enough to sit halfway upward. All of the wires and cords attached to him rip and pop off, frantic beeping emanating from the room.

“Take me to ‘er. Now.”

“I can’t do that!” Johnny hisses, hands out and failing to keep him stationary. “Would you just calm down?”

The man doesn’t answer, not until the nurses rush into the room due to the noise and tell him false words to try and get him to lay back down. Simon knew something was wrong—instincts going haywire.

Were you…dead? No, you couldn’t be. That wouldn't be possible. Johnny knew better than to lie to him.

“Johnny!” Simon shouts as loud as he’s able; raw authority in his mouth. Even the nurses freeze at that.

The mohawked man’s twisted face is wracked with guilt, and there calls to the fact that Gaz and Price are nowhere to be seen.

Simon says it slowly, wounds bleeding and his face opening the long scrapes of road-burn on his left side. It burns like a fire—itching like no other. But it’s secondary to the pure adrenaline keeping him awake.

“Where.”

Even Johnny can’t fight that tone.

“Graham has ‘er.”

—

This was a hunting shed, you knew. One out in the middle of the trees—about three miles from town with its rot-infected walls and a chipping wood fireplace. The floor is nearly covered in cigarette butts.

You stay stuck in the far corner—hands and feet zip-tied together. Your head had been covered by a bag that you had grabbed and ripped off when the world stopped jostling from the trunk of a car. From then, you had been dragged at gunpoint through the hell portal of the front door.

Graham is watching from the single chair across the room, itching at his scalp with the barrel of a .44 Magnum and using his other hand to rub along his thigh.

“Shit,” he mutters as you watch, silent and as still as a stake in the ground. “Shit, shit, shit.” Loralie’s blood is still splattered along your face.

He’d shot her through the stomach. You’d seen her body drop: dead in an instant.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Graham stands suddenly, and your body recoils with a slam of your shoulder into the wall. The frame shakes. The man quivers as he glares at you. “It wasn’t my fault she came in through the fucking door!”

You only nod tinily in frantic agreement, looking around the room in search of anything that might help you. But there’s only so much you can do against a man holding a gun—a man who finds himself wanted for a slough of crimes which now just got incredibly long.

You had heard the sirens bouncing over the hills hours prior, but no one knew you were out here unless they happened to be the best-trained tracker of all time.

It should be morning now, but the threat of rain outside obscures the tiny slivers of light that try to pierce the leaves of the forest.

“Fuck!” Graham screams, foot kicking out to connect with the chair and sending it flying backward before it splinters and clatters—all termite-eaten legs and cracked seat.

Your mouth releases a squeak, panting breath a sharp gasp.

You needed to figure something out. Quickly.

The single window is smashed in, glass sprinkling the ground in large shards, and you don’t care if it’s the result of some teenagers smashing property or anything else for that matter—you had to snap these bonds.

It wasn’t like the termites could help.

“Graham.” You’d never call yourself stupid, and heaven help anyone else who tried to. You didn’t work at a bar without learning more and more about the human psyche than all the years in school and adult life combined. Everyone had games they played inside of their head, a series of tic-tac-toe boards or grandiose plots of fanatical sagas; it just so happened that Graham fashioned himself the hero of every single one of them. Every line was his chicken scratch signature.

“Graham,” you raise your voice and say again, forcing past the quiver in your tone to a lake’s calm waters.

The man’s panicking—restless as he paces the front door, guarding it from you. It wasn’t too far-fetched to believe he could kill you now to put an end to this shit-show. He’d always taken the easy way out, after all.

But his eyes snap to yours regardless, and you have to not scream at him as he does.

“What?” He hisses, motioning to you with the gun with a limp arm. “You wanna weigh in, then? I did this for you and you went and ruined it!”

“I know I did, baby,” you breathe, alarm bells blaring. “I’m sorry—I just wasn’t thinking. I wanted you to fight for me.”

Your throat simmers with bile.

What were you saying? You had no idea, but it played into Graham’s weaknesses. Maybe Simon had rubbed his casual strength over to subjugate your brash sarcasm and brutish aggression.

Simon.

God, thinking about him made you want to cry.

“What are you talkin’ about?” Graham intently listens, the gun shaking. “Don’t….Don’t fucking play with me right now,” he warns, growling.

“I’m not playing,” you raise your hands up, the cast protecting one wrist, but the other had the harsh plastic suffocating your veins like it was a supple neck under a cougar’s jaw. “I’m not. I got with Simon because I wanted to make you jealous—at that party?” You suck down a fast breath. “I wanted you to swing on him, yeah? I know you could have made an example out of him.”

“Course I would have,” Graham mutters, pushing his hand up over his face to clear it of the sweat and crimson droplets. “Lousy no good mechanic with a shitty bike.”

“Graham, can you cut off the zip-ties, please?” He laughs and shakes his head immediately.

“I’m not that stupid there, Sweetness.” Your jaw clenches, anger spiking.

“I never said that you were,” you snapped desperately, hospital gown all dirty and your bandages hanging off of you like you were a mummy trapped in a tomb. It didn’t sound that far out of place. “You’re hurting me.”

The floors creak as you shuffle, moving your body forward trying to stand on bound ankles. It doesn’t work. Your ears twitch above the rumble from the clouds far above, past the hole-filled roof, to the sound of an exasperated scoff.

“You’ll live. Now be quiet and let me think—you’ve made a mess of everything.” Adrenaline gives everyone a high like no other. It happens fast and can start up from the adrenal glands in mere moments when under stress or danger; when it leaves, it can result in lightheadedness, and trembling. Go long enough to where you can get it out of you entirely, it can even lead to tiredness.

Three hours pass, and it’s storming outside as Graham is sleeping near the door. Curled like a wolf, the silver glint of the magnum is still clutched in his hand, fingers loose like worms as his face twitches. You had waited the past hour to see if he would wake up.

Now it was time to act.

As you slowly hobble to your elbows and knees, dragging yourself along the cigarette-coated floor, you collect dust like the knick-knacks in your home. Taking small and quick breaths, your eyes lock with a sharp piece of glass as your agonizing injuries pull and break open. Blood is so heavy in the air that it’s able to be tasted on your tongue—coated so thick even the deluge of rain can’t get rid of the stain.

Graham mutters in his sleep, and your heart beats far into your mouth; body locking up as your gaze flashes over to the twitching shadow. Lightning flashes outside as you slowly start back up again—one eye always to the side and the pupils smaller than a spec of dirt.

You lick your lips, creeping onward until you can reach out your fingers and slice them on the side of the glass. Your lips hold tight a whine of pain, hand clenched over the material as you twist it around and line the edge up with the zip-tie.

Your breath is all you can hear—loud inside of your head before the sawing motion makes the cuts over your hands grow deeper the more you press into the plastic. Welts had burst by now, puss seeping to the ground as the zip-tie around your wrists popped with a snap of hard material.

A yell of achievement is kept inside of your sputtering chest as you shove your leaking palms to the wood, rolling to your back and bending your knees to bring your ankles upward.

The second tie snaps just like the last, and your limbs roll themselves in circles to get the circulation back as quickly as possible, gaze jerking back and forth to Graham as your pulse roars.

Run. Run. Run.

Every rush of your blood sings the same order.

Lose him in the storm.

Your legs wobble as you shove yourself up, the glass still held in your hand—an infectious thought entering your body as you stare at the magnum. Stumbling, your bare feet steady themselves as your shoulder knocks the back wall, face contorted inwards.

How hard would it be to steal it? He was sleeping.

Blinking away the black fireworks in your vision, you look from the broken window to the door, remembering the bike crash as the rain seeps in from the roof. Water splashes as the minutes spread like crimson pools.

Graham’s troubled face shifts as he groans, and you’re already out of the window with a slide of glass and a slap of wet grass.

You’re running through the forest as if a deer, crashing through undergrowth and slipping down ravines. The gown and the trailing bandages have long been soaked, heavy in their own right—a second skin hanging off as your blood gets washed away by the rain. You don’t know when you started crying, but the sky’s tears bled with your own exceptionally well.

There were multiple times when you swore there were footsteps behind you—right on your tail as your blurry vision finds phantoms in the bushes and the leaves as they fly up behind you at a kick of your mud-covered feet.

You didn’t have a destination, and as far as you cared, you could die in these woods happily as long as Graham never had the chance to make a decision. In the end, his own ability to fuck himself over never had the chance to change—thank God.

A hand slams on your shoulder.

Half a scream is stifled, as another is leveled to your mouth—your body is yanked to the side. Dragged behind the bark of a tree, lightning flares overhead as if as shocked as you were, arms and legs kicking out.

There’s a stiff grunt, and large biceps that curl your waist. Words are about to be uttered into your ear canal before your teeth chomp down on the thick material of padded gloves, eyes wide with blurry panic.

“Sunshine!” You don’t listen over your muffled curses, nails clawing into a forearm as your casted limb aches.

Whirled around, your spine finds a trunk, and you snarl before, once more, “Bloody hell, Sunshine, it’s me!”

Finally able to see who was keeping you hostage, your struggling halts with a knee halfway up and ready to send full force into a crotch. You blink multiple times, panting into the palm before the hand drops entirely and you can take down fragmented breaths.

A skeleton-painted balaclava is only a glimpse before those October eyes suck you in.

Simon and you stare at one another as the storm rages on.

He was in all black—straps and holsters clipped onto his thighs and chest above a combat vest that you’d seen in military documentaries on TV; a compression shirt under a water-resistant covering rolled up to his elbows. And guns.

Guns at his thighs, a rifle at his chest, a knife at his belt.

Simon Riley was dressed for war.

You stutter, eyes beady as you open and close your mouth.

Wasn’t he supposed to be in the hospital? How did he find you?

“How…” You blink as the man’s concerned eyes scan you over, rage shimmering in his expression as water saturates his mask. His gloved hands settle at your shoulders and squeeze before they move once more. “How did you…?”

“Let me look,” he mutters, touching your wrist and bringing it up. Your mouth shuts tight, flinching. Simon halts and quickly glances back up with a simmering gaze. He doesn’t move, and when he blinks, whatever anger that was mounting is re-hidden back behind the void of his irises. You stare as his browns melt.

“Can I touch you, Love?” Water slaps your head but the barrier of trees helps slightly. The question was one of the most important he could have asked.

You nod, but he still waits.

“Yes,” your voice pushes out. Simon’s large hand recaptures your flesh like a precious object, twisting it around.

He tenses at the blood, and, just like the realization outside of the vandalized shop, he tells you quietly, “You’re shaking.”

“Simon,” your lips wobble, sniffling.

Your body is shielded in an instant.

“It’s alright.” He breathes into your scalp—you feel his pulse, his hard surety; this wasn’t a hold that was quick to leave. “I’m ‘ere, I’ve got you. We’ll be alright. Focus on me, Sunshine. Focus.”

It wasn’t soon after that those arms separated for a moment, the velcro of a vest in your ears before a rain jacket is carefully, yet quickly, pulled through your arms and zipped up. The rifle is leaning against a rock as the hood is pulled to protect your visage from the downpour. But the rain is the last thing on your mind.

Screaming echoes out over the night and you gasp, head jerking up to the trees as the yowls vaguely take the incorporeal shape of your name on the battling wind.

Simon growls, hand coming up to rest beside your skull on the trunk as he leans over you, gazing off into the night.

“Stay still,” he utters into your ear, the compression shirt tight enough to make the bulk of bandages easily visible all along his arms and shoulders. A pistol is held loosely from his free hand—his fingers twitching around it as numb eyes move along the open spaces of forest.

Not about to muster a response, your fatigued and addled mind begins to blank of all else but the scent of muddled oil and metal; tattoo ink.

Simon grips you closer to his chest as the wrathful calls bounce on air-waves like arrows right to his building fury. The man’s jaw clenched tightly—body shaking not from the chill but from restraint.

He’d broken out of the hospital with one goal: track you down and get you back. Anything else was an added pleasure that the veteran had mulled over as he busted out his old gear and strapped himself with whatever he might need.

Everyone’s only concern was with how he was still shaky on his feet after the crash, but in reality, Simon barely noticed. The minute he’d heard you were gone, all bets were off.

No one had clung to military life more than him, not even Price.

No one messed with someone he cared about and got off scot-free, even if it ended in a life sentence in jail. Eating a meal was too good for Graham Whitaker—breathing was too good.

But before all of that dark work, first came you.

Nothing else was touching you. Ever.

So the rushing feet weren’t much of a concern to the man, truth be told. Simon clocked the fool a mile before his huffing was etching like a point through the storm, cheek to your scalp as you shiver and shake, fingers curled into his shirt as your eyelids flutter.

He needed to get you medical attention—clean those wounds.

But Graham.

“No!” His screaming continues, stumbling through about ten feet away—the glint of a gun at the fool’s thigh unmistakable. “No! I was asleep for five minutes!”

Brown eyes don’t blink as they watch, feeling you tense and tighten even at the phonics of the man’s speech.

“Don’t look, then, yeah?” Simon utters softly. The sound of the safety being flipped off on his gun was drowned out. Your mind barely comprehends the words, all of it slurring together as Simon’s hand curls your skull and covers your ear above the hood. An oil painting smeared by blood-coated fingers that hold you so sweetly. “Easy. It’ll be over soon.”

You get drunk on it as you nuzzle your face into his neck. Simon’s focus threatens to give way before he blinks at the scene ahead of him.

Graham twists in a circle, nearly sobbing as he yells even more and grips one hand into his hair, pulling harshly. It was like watching a toddler having a tantrum, though this was far more serious. And deadly.

But all of that searching wasn't for nothing.

Simon lets his eyes lock with Graham Whitaker only once, and even then it was a mere glance. A Ghost deserves nothing more before it disappears back into smoke.

Panicked widening, an arm seizing up.

It had been for more of the mechanic’s benefit than anything else—torture in its own right as a rabbit stares down a wolf and its foaming maw. Simon was never reckless; never eager to kill even back then. It had been his job, and he’d done it tactfully—resourcefully. A dance of instinct and sheer nuance to get the ques down that had taken him decades to perfect. Training like that didn’t just go away.

People only saw him coming if he wanted them to.

And Simon desperately wanted this man to look into his eyes as he pulled that trigger. Not even the maggots would want the body he gives to them.

—

You both lay in bed, silent.

The sheets are warm with body heat, and the cast around your arm had only come off two days ago—the flesh sore and the muscles weak. Around you, hard limbs are anchoring you to a chest filled with scars; scars you’d memorized easily as you traced over them like a painter with her favorite brush.

He wouldn’t tell you the stories behind them, and you have to admit you were relieved about that. It was the past, after all.

This moment was for the future.

“Want you to work with me in the shop,” Simon mutters as he stares into your eyes. You blink, brows lightly furrowing before his hand comes up and his digits brush your cheek softly. Your lashes flutter at the scrape of calluses as he continues in a low grumble. “Custom detailing.”

“...And will I be paid for this?” You ask him, teasingly—delicately.

“As much as you want.” Simon isn’t joking. “More than what the fuckin’ bar can give you,” his breath moves over your pulse, making you shiver.

Your half-lidded eyes stay locked into those endless voids, his slow blinking waiting for an answer as the bulk of his belongings sits in the corner of your room.

“Haven’t even finished the mural yet,” you huff. “Eager to get me next to you?”

“Yes.” Simon moves forward, and, without the need to hide himself from you, presses his lips to your chin, head dipping to tilt your face and allow him access to your neck. You hear him nearly purr when your fingers card his hair, nails set into his flesh.

“I make pretty good tips, Brown-Eyes.” Fingers pulse at your hips, slipping over flesh.

There’s no reason to keep talking about this—your answer is already obvious—but the both of you enjoy this endless chase.

Something new and, for you, something to make your feet stationary.

Simon had taken out his CB1000R for the first time for your date yesterday, his eyes avoiding yours as you’d asked why he’d been five minutes late. He’d said it was because he’d been checking the motorcycle over all day—re-checking it once before coming over with a knot in his intestines.

There was the very obvious change of two helmets, as well. You had thought you’d be hesitant to get on a bike again, but the feeling of Simon’s body in front of yours was more of a comfort than anything that came before. The wind at your sides as he’d driven far slower than ever—glancing back nearly every minute to make sure you were alright.

Big teddy bear, you thought affectionately.

“Can give you a better one,” Simon jokes crudely in your bed, grunting like a beast. Your lips let loose a snort, head flopping down to rest on the top of the man’s skull. At his back, your fingers play with the brunt of his old scars as well as the new ones that are still and an angry red; barely closed.

“That was horrible.” Simon shivers under your study when your lips mutter your amusement.

“A bit.” He smirks. “You givin’ me an answer, Sunshine?”

This would be the last chance to get out of this town—say no and disappear, never to be seen again just like the hundreds before you. What life could you have out there? What could you build differently—build like a pack of wooden blocks and poke at before they fall down?

What could you nurture what you already had blooming?

You sigh, arm moving back to perch under Simon’s neck. Pulling him back, you tilt his head to meet yours as he hums, kissing him on the lips and taking his freedom as your own. Simon’s hand spans your spine as his fingers spread; the stretch of his tattoos corrupting your soul one atom at a time as he opens his eyes to watch.

A loyal sin had never tasted better.

You ease back and whisper over his open mouth, “Yes.”

October eyes consume you whole.

—

This town is small—it talks. Everyone knew what happened to Graham Whitaker; everyone knew who killed him.

But small towns always have big secrets that no one ever discusses.

They never found his body, and the boys had all made sure they never would. So, to this day, the bastard is still listed as he should be:

MISSING: GRAHAM WHITAKER

Dangerous individual believed armed and dangerous. Do not attempt to approach.

Information? Contact your local police force at the provided number below.

Celina and the rest of Graham’s goons never showed their faces again, and even then, there was no evidence to directly tie them to anything beyond the loose connection to the vandalism.

Of course, the bar was always bustling, eager to speak about it even when ivy had crept over the telephone post flyers and hidden them from any eyes. That one cold case that was ingrained into its history until something else came along—told on long nights to ease the bored atmosphere of passing folk and crumbling buildings. Grumbled over the raw scent of black metal and grunted at the rim of a Neat Kentucky Bourbon.

The twitched smirk over those lips is always a staple, though, and so is the brown-eyed look passed your way as you sit content under the stretch of his arm, art journal open to yet another page as the appointments piled up.

You haven’t shown him yet, but all of your sketches are of him.

TAGS:

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ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused · 9 months ago

Note

YALL OML I WOULD DIE IF YOU UPDATED THAT ONE SHOT OF SPENCER REID AND CAM! GIRL READER🤭

fem camgirl!plus size reader, wc: 412. nsfw.

a/n: I REALLY WANTED TO EXPAND ON THIS!! i really missed writing for camgirl!reader and after seeing so much positive feedback from kinktober, i figured you guys would want me too as well!!

Spencer Reid felt different.

Nothing bad, no. Just... different. Ever since he had joined you for a camming session, he had felt like a part of him had been irreversibly changed. He would go out everyday, the feeling of knowing something so scandalous that his teammates didn't was… exhilarating. The kind of feeling he'd get from watching a foreign film or winning a game of chess.

Maybe it was because he had done something extremely out of his comfort zone, or the fact that thousands of people watched him play with you; and he wasn't even counting the part where they had also seen his naked body as well.

Oh God, you. You were his roommate, his most treasured friend and the girl of his dreams. He couldn't help but question how he could allow himself to fall so easily under your spell, but if he really cared, would he have kept coming back?

“Arch your back deeper, pretty girl. Let them see you.” Spencer encouraged with a groan from behind you.

You were on your hands and knees, naked and face shamelessly contorted in pleasure in front of the camera for all of your followers to see.

They still couldn't see his face, and honestly, as long as Spencer was an FBI agent, they were probably never going to. What they could see though was the long contours of his body, the lithe frame of his upper body which persparated with sweat.

Ever since the first time he joined you, you hadn't cammed alone. He never asked you for the earnings after the stream even though you insisted that he took it.

You did as he asked, arching deeper to the point where the lumps of your ass cheeks showed. “Look at that. They think you're so pretty.” He was obviously reading the comments, and your cheeks burned.

It wasn't like your comment section had never complimented you before; you basically made a living from them finding you attractive, but it was different. This was Spencer calling you pretty, and it made your gut twist in such a way that heightened your pleasure embarrassingly.

“Pl- please… harder, baby, harder.” You begged. Spencer held you down by the back of the neck, hips pistoning into at a rapid pace.

“Harder? Dirty girl.” Spencer degraded, though it caused you to let out an embarrassingly loud whine. “You see that guys? She likes when I'm mean.”

Spencer Reid was different.

And he liked it.

ೃ⁀➷ my lovely taglist!: @alina02 @louderfortheback @minervadashwood @their-love @fandomsarelifee @theendofthe70s @nomajdetective @mgg-theprettiestboy @phoenixblack89 @celtic-crossbow @hallecarey1 @bunnybabe-babydoll @alixwriter @dixonzzgirl @violettavirus

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rhinexstone · 1 year ago

Text

Snw spoilers about SPIRK

The CHESS GGAAAAAAMMME

Spock playing the game so fast with Chapel struggling to keep up, while they literally talk about Spock wanting to make their relationship official while Chapel clearly struggles with commitment and giving up/showing emotional territory

I can’t help but KNOW this is where their conflict will always be rooted, that Chapel is slow to fall in love, and so she’ll turn down Spock too late, too painfully late, and by the time we get to TOS he’s going to be hurt by her but she’s still falling in love and her past actions kill her

BACK TO THE MOMENT

THEM NOT BEING ABLE TO MATCH PACE WITH KIRK LITERALLY WATCHING FROM AFAR, LURKING AND BEING DEEPLY INVESTED IN THE GAME AND STRATEGY

Kirk then IMMEDIATELY telling the first person who sits next to him about their game, that he’s know EXACTLY what to do. He can not only keep pace with Spock, but maybe even beat him, something that would prove to be difficult. They move at the same, rapid pace. Because they’re both deeply feeling beings and when they feel it’s with their whole body and essence, and with neither pumping the brakes it’s inevitable that they become entwined. And because it’s them, because it’s fucking kirk and spock, they never face any need to let go

#star trek #spock #jim kirk #James t Kirk #commander spock #spirk #snw #Star Trek snw #strange new worlds

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ihopeinevergetsoberr · 4 months ago

Text

the counterpart

chapter 8 — fly on the windscreen (final)

wc: 11k~ (a lengthy one, i know, but i spent two months on this for a reason).

more angst, chess metaphors and depeche mode references (sorry). but i promise i fixed it. and besides — who doesn’t love a good makeup sex scene? oh yes, i went all out with that one. you’re welcome.

—

In 1956, at the chaste age of thirteen, Bobby Fisher made history.

Game of the Century — that’s what people dubbed it, and it sure did deserve the title: a teenage boy defeated an international master, and with precision so oddly fascinating, that it instantly put the whole chess-world in a strangling chokehold. You never paid that event much mind — young geniuses are not that rare of a thing in this pedantic industry. But Viktor claimed it impacted him — he, too, won his first significant tournament at thirteen, and therefore related to Fisher immensely.

You remembered the day he told you this in explicit detail: it was the third evening of your affair — right before the mangled bouquet incident. He showed up a tad later than he usually did — and you smiled, realizing that such time-defining adverbs were now acceptable to use while referring to his treasured visits. He was wearing a plain, frayed shirt: a smear here, a patch there: had to help his professor in the lab with something awfully urgent. You rushed to get him out of that sordid thing. Helpful hands popped all buttons open and nudged him softly into the shower. You liked him to enter the filth of your bedroom clean, so the traces of it last longer afterwards. He always complied.

By the time you set up the board and settled on the comforter, cross-legged, he was done bathing. His skin no longer smelled of dust and machinery, the slippery swiftness of it longing for your attention. He walked out bare — both due to the lack of spare clothes, and because you’d shed them off of him even if those happened to be thrown somewhere nearby. His chest swelled under your hand, flushed and wet.

You made love. It’s funny how fast you stopped calling it just ‘sex’ or ‘fucking’ — oh no, with him you suddenly saw the act of letting someone into your flesh gentle, and, accordingly so, couldn’t just abide by those two simple terms. Sometimes they failed to embrace the concept.

He tastes of soap and salt when it’s over. Sweat politely intrudes the new, fresh smell of him, and you kiss its tiny drops off his clavicles — two beautiful dips, fragile masterpieces of skin and bones. He laughs and lets his eyes rest. You watch his pupils move under the veiny eyelids, and his lashes tickle your finger when you swipe it gently over those delicate things: to feel the soft movement underneath, to absorb every internal shift in him — his heartbeat, his wincing, the fall of his stomach when he exhales. You wonder if he does the same when you don’t notice.

“Can I show you something?” It comes out of him strangely flimsy, in a much thicker, throatier timbre. You nod, and he reaches for the board.

He shows you the Game of the Century. Has it memorized by heart: goes over each move with excited commentary, and his eyes beam almost as passionately beautiful as when he looks at you, dreamily mesmerized.

“I don’t get it,” you murmur. Your head rests on his lean thigh, pieces a shaky, hlack-white horizontal blur. Scrawny fingers tangle little loops into your hair. “Why did Byrne never take Fisher’s queen? It was right there in front of him the whole time!”

Viktor chuckles. Bends down to kiss you softly on the temple and smirks discreetly when your pulse touches his mouth, rapid and intense. Playing chess with him always gives you lovely headaches.

“Because Fisher offered it to him on purpose. He wanted to perform a Smothered Mate.”

“Oh.” You humm.

Now you saw it.

—

You roll over to intercept the little affection. Prop your back with both elbows. Let him comfortably straighten his spine. It’s sweet that he allows it to twinge for you, even if just for a moment, but you don’t appreciate such sacrifices.

Teeth hurt a bit from a sudden clash, but he soothes it when tongues twine, circling lazy patterns. It’s slobbery — a tad clumsy, even, but you like it that way: wet, raw, and terribly, sorely tender.

He takes you again. Disperses a hundred breathy ‘laská’s all over your pliant skin — neck, and shoulders, and breasts, and thighs. They’re still there, even now that he’s gone — now that you made him go, but the traces of him are no longer sweet and darling. They’re bits of pleasure you were never worthy of, a constant reminder of how you treated that soft man. Not as boldly dark as they used to be: plum started to dissolve into faint, flimsy yellow. The plague of his lovebites, the lasting symptom of his fondness.

You think of that evening again.

“Thank you. For showing me this.” You nod to the board and hop on the windowsill to light a cigarette. His heart tries to find its way out of his sternum, muscles still twitch in the afterglow of his orgasm. Both a vision: him — a tired one, full of delicious soreness, you — candid and gorgeously smudgy.

He rolls on his stomach and cocks a brow, meets your gaze with a warm half-smile. “And here I thought you weren’t interested in a tutor,” sasses delicately. You threaten to throw a lighter at him. You both laugh. And when the balmy sound dies down, his intricate eyes narrow cat-like. They cautiously slide over your form with a quizzical little flicker, and you know he’s contemplating something — it’s visible in his every motion, in the humm he makes before finally daring to be bold.

“Could I request something… a little risqué?” he finally asks.

That intrigues you. You take a hissy drag and lean on the glass behind you, wincing when smoke comes out of your nostrils. “I don’t know,” you muse tortuously, “could you?”

“I would appreciate it if you dropped the obstinacy.”

“Viktor. I’m probably giving a view of my naked ass to god knows how many people in the building in front of us. How much more risqué can it get?”

“And yet, I prefer to be certain. Don’t taunt me here, milackú. Please.”

Please. You love it when he says that. There’s something so syrupy about getting this word out of him, and you’re not sure you ever wish to bid farewell with that little addiction.

He crawls to you out of a damp mess of sheets, pale skin almost peachy where the evening sun embraces each bony slope of his. Thin arm reaches for something on your nightstand and snatches it. Has you smiling in curious bliss when he leans closer, almost falling off the edge of the mattress. Finds some leverage in your hanging off the windowsill legs and clumsily curls around them, pressing the gentlest of kisses to each knee. Now you rise above him, gorgeously drowned in a forthcoming sunset, and light peeks through your fingers when you spread them to catch a hold of your cigarette.

Viktor hands you the ‘something’ he stole an instant earlier. It’s your seedy “Canon”, with its murky lens looking up at you, reflecting the perplexed frown of your face. You run a finger over its cold, metallic frame.

“Does this have any film in it?” Viktor asks. Places his chin on your thigh and stares, beautifully hopeful. You shrug.

“Most definitely. It might be expired, though. Why?”

He gives it a thought. Leans into your touch and sighs gratefully when you cradle his cheek and stroke — a loving swipe of a trembling thumb over his hollow features. His kisses strike again — now to the inside of your palm, a whisper of a touch, warm and a little ticklish.

“I want to take your picture,” he finally mumbles.

You almost choke on the filter. Ashes fall on your skin and Viktor rushes to blow the damage away —soothes it gently before it burns through.

“What? You mean… now?” Your voice is weak when you say this. Not due to shame or some other internal quandaries — you’re astonished, and it entertains him, makes him laugh again when you pull away to stare at him mid inhale, smoke a bitter halo around your disheveled hair. Yes, he wants to capture this. He absolutely has to.

“I’d like to savor this,” Viktor explains. “In a more… tangible way. If only you’re willing to indulge me, of course.”

Of course.

He says he doesn’t want you to pose. A rather hard request, considering the scenery: it simply calls for a pretty arch, for any method of glamorizing your crippling addiction and sheer immodesty. But you aim to please him. Your shoulders laze, narrowed eyes try to sneak a sly peek when he presses the shutter button. He tempts you to smile — the way he bites his tongue in an earnest search of a flattering angle. The flawless intimacy of taking a boudoir picture. You wonder how the local CVS workers handle those. Then chuckle, realizing they’ve probably seen much worse.

Viktor clears his throat.

“Can I… have it? After you develop those?” His plea is careful, hushed. Always so sickeningly polite.

“What for?” You torture him again, letting yet another stub rest in a porcelain grave of cigarette bums. Viktor shrugs.

“Oh, I… I suppose I could keep it in my wallet. After I receive your permission to be that bold.”

“In your wallet? How scandalous!”

“Scandalous?”

“Exactly. I’m wearing nothing but thin air in there. Doesn’t it bother you?”

“No.” He shakes his head so innocently it makes him look grotesquely oblivious. “Should it bother me?”

Your foot softly presses into his chest and pushes him back on the bed. He meets that fate with a dainty laugh, and it’s even lovelier when the rest of you follows along, mindful not to make him wheeze. A harmless vengeance, a tacit promise of what’s to come. And he welcomes it, each hand awfully tender in a cautious hold of your rear, curled in the most adoring of squeezes.

You hover above his face, smiling. “I doubt it came out beautifully.”

He smiles back. “Of course it did. It has you in it.”

And he’s almost right. Because it comes out perfect instead.

—

Here you are, in the mighty fervor of your bareness, your cigarette a sparkly scepter between delicate fingers. It’s a little grainy, yet still lush with saturation — all yellows, pinks and reds, flowing prettily into terracotta precisely where sun wraps around the curve of each breast and dark nipples — those gorgeous lines of stilled tenderness. Head thrown back, mouth parted to let out a livid smoky mist — he must’ve caught you mid exhale: so conveniently brusque. Pure art in the obscene privacy of your bedroom.

…But it’s been a torturous week of avoidant silence, and your bed, albeit filled with memories, feels terribly empty — wraps you in its reproachful mess and strangles relentlessly, and you have no desire to come back to it anymore; seven languid dawns met anywhere but in the sheets.

All because comprehension is cruel, and it deprived you of resting, solace long gone alongside him — his tenderness, his touch, his patience. Oh how you longed for it, how agonizingly jealous you grew towards that proudly naked version of you from the picture: she was yet to find out how the lack of him really feels, how heartwrenching his resentment can get. It pierced through you — that all-consuming, frightening realization. And precisely when you first got your hands on developed film, too: Viktor will never have it. He doesn’t want it anymore.

Heartbreaks always come with additional obstacles: finals week made college feel like a coffin, tight, and suffocating, and overwhelmingly grim. It reduced your days to a torturous routine of turning in essays and sneakily running around the campus in between exams: made you attend to every single precaution in the book to avoid bumping into him.

You even stopped visiting the engineering department to catch Jayce for once obligatory debriefs by a cigarette — the risks weren’t worth exchanging even the messiest dirty rumors. Besides, what’s there to tell him? ‘I started fucking your ‘grandmaster’, developed a feeling I’m afraid to admit even to myself and screwed it all up by letting my wrathful tendencies take over’? Yeah. That’s not exactly an event one boasts about.

So you found salvation in misery. Stuffed yourself full of its moping weight, wore it like a veil, showed it off whenever something called to leave your self-prescribed hermitage — an ostentatious ‘Look, I did this to myself!’ So craven. So pathetic.

And you couldn’t look at chess anymore. The image of his sinewy hand was now forever attached to the only board you owned, hovering above the pieces in its usual pensive manner. It wounded you. Filled you with some visceral, peculiar rage — and you couldn’t even tell towards who exactly. It’s like you were suddenly deprived of all the other feelings and now had to make do, seeking solutions in disposing of everything he ever touched in your room. But that would also include your skin, so you quickly abandoned the thought. If only the memories of that last draw were that easily escapable. You swallowed yet another frustrated swear.

Something about it all seemed oddly… awry. Specifically his queen moves: Viktor was never the one to open harshly, he attacked much deeper into the game and preferred initiating trades — rude invasions were more your style, after all. But that day he developed your approach: you were certain of it, trembled whenever reminiscing hit you.

And tonight it hits you right in the gut.

—

You’re down to your last cigarette and it makes your throat wail — you’ve had more of those tonight than there are hours in a whole day. Lost count of desperate, big gulps of wine, too, and even considered asking the Lord himself to turn all the water in your apartment into more of that life-saving beverage. The irony hears your prayer, making you cackle, and ‘Sweetest Perfection’ slowly fades into the sexy guitar riff of ‘Personal Jesus’. But instead of reaching out to touch faith you touch the stop button. It’s hard to appreciate music when a headache is splitting your head in twain.

An utter mess — that’s what you were, scrunched on the floor in your underpants, trembling fingers tracing chaotic circles over the surface of your favorite record, the tournament notes wounded with a wine stain. Your board laid tiles down, crushing the pieces, evidently knocked over in what looked like a livid splutter.

Viktor could’ve won. He should’ve, actually — it came down on you when wrath died down just enough to finally set the pointless self-deprecating aside. Better late than never, and yet living in ignorance didn’t seem that agonizing now that you deigned to analyze his moves.

He didn’t offer you a queen exchange. You were certain he chose to refrain from it on purpose: because that would’ve extended the match, allowing him to move his king someplace safe. And, concurrently, aim for a winning position. Viktor, of all people, wouldn’t miss it — which meant he showed you mercy. Always so goddamn caring — fuck, how blinded one must be to overlook something so gallant?

He still cared about making you leave with a good rating, swallowed his pent-up pride to evolve all that into a draw. Played with his heart for once. A charity, of sorts, and normally you despised that — would tear him a new one for even assuming that you needed such leniency. But not this time. Not after he responded to your onslaught with chivalry.

Your world is fuzzy when you reach for the door knob — all astigmatic spurts of light, drunkenly smeared and heavy. It’s a night of spontaneous decisions and you commit to it like a martyr: first deciding to indulge in game analysis, then drinking yourself to death over each new discovery.

And now you wince, slipping into your loafers, feeling their harsh press into those swollen spots under each buckle-bone. No socks. No pants, either. Just half-naked fervor and a long leather coat to loosely wrap around yourself — the only armor you need to run outside and head straight towards his dorm, shivering when chilly air softly creeps up your bare legs.

It’s terrifying how fast decisions are made when you rely purely on liquor and shaky crumbles of messy sanity; with what menacing speed you rushed for him, breathless and murky-gazed. Fingers fumbled with the sharp edge of that erotic monstrosity you slipped into your pocket before running out the door: something kept restraining you from disposing of it, made your hands twitch whenever you held that picture above the weak fiery tongue of your lighter. Viktor deserved to take a glimpse at it. Even if he decides to burn it himself immediately after.

You swiftly sneaked past the concierge in awkward, wasted excellency. Stumbled over a threshold with a sobby grunt. Almost expected someone to catch you, to enquire why could you possibly be headed to a young man’s room at two in the morning, with just a weary leather cover compensating for your lack of decency.

But you’ve made it. Stood by his door before dazed mind even managed to realize just what you’re about to do, knees so pitifully shaky you might just be swept off your feet. Figuratively, first, when your white-knuckled fist dares to knock. Literally, when his footsteps shuffle in your direction.

You know he’s not asleep. It’s almost like he never is — except for those sacred hours when you somehow manage to tire him out: a rare occasion, a calming little tribute. Your heart shrinks when his hand peeks out, tightly curled around the door knob. He’s tense: more so than ever, weariness prominent in a heavy lean on his cane, eyes dreary and red at the inner corners. They flicker in mistrust — stare through you in a way only he possesses, intricate enough to reach your very gut, chase down the drunken audacity and cut it abruptly at the base. You’re not sure if it can save you the embarrassment anymore.

Viktor snaps out of it — blinks his momentary awe away and frowns, quizzically hostile. Pale wrist flicks in a sudden rush to fix his unbuttoned shirt: he doesn’t know you came to beg for a truce yet, thinks you might just go for his throat if he doesn’t put up a defense quick enough.

It pains you. Stabs your own neck and twists that thing a few torturous times before you finally remember how to breathe. A silly thing, a craving to lay your heart at his feet — to be bold, or desperate, or either of those at once. Easier said than done, because your courage is in shambles as soon as his lips twitch, and the crease of a pretty mouth you grew to adore suddenly feels like a vicious personal attack. And it only intensifies when he sighs, utterly forceless.

A rocky start. Even rockier now that he huffs your name out like it’s a swear, and disbelief contorts him, deep and flush-cheeked.

“Why are you indecent?” He all but hisses it, the perfect mad man — all awe-struck copper and audacious glimmer in the depths of his wide-snapped eyes. Has you hiding both quivering legs behind the leather closure of your coat, suddenly shamefully aware of your state of undress. Should’ve never let that impulse win, should’ve waited until morning, but how were you supposed to fight something so potent, so atrociously urgent?

“I had to see you.” A whisper, a silly blunder. Like a pathetic attempt at getting out of a fork — a sacrifice of a piece to postpone a checkmate.

Viktor blinks at you in bewilderment. His throat is dry — it’s prominent in an awkward cough he chokes on, in the way he averts his face.

“That doesn’t explain much,” mumbles finally, staring into the floor. Bites his cheek to muffle an angry comment, watches you sullenly with repressed bitterness. “Why are you here?”

It’s a simple question. A straight-to-the-point one, too — he doesn’t move an inch, pierces right through you with the pressure of his anguish. And it’s only fair, after all — you butchered his heart and vanished into a week of soul-crushing silence, only to return with no purpose, answers and pants. If anything, he’s being quite charitable by even letting you in.

“I couldn’t sleep.” God, would you just tell him already? How much longer can you drag this madness out, how much more liquor do you have to consume until it finally drowns your sorrow? No, that won’t do. And Viktor thinks so too — scoffs with a rageful glare, grabbing a hold of the door knob again.

“Then I suggest you retreat to your room and take a melatonin. Good night.”

“Viktor. Viktor, please—“

You cling onto that appeal with every ounce of your desperation, his name a harsh clash of consonants on your wagging tongue — a slurred and rhotic last resort, a hasty mess of shaky syllables. And, strangely enough, it works: urges him to recoil, to return the tremulous stir, to let you see that blend of hurt and confusion in the blown out voids of his pupils. It’s almost like you’re pushing him to the verge of his kindness, bearing witness to every inner change. Here he is, grim and distant — all clenched jaw and enraged inhales, softening into promising mercy. Through a condescending sigh, no less, but you’ll take it. Oh, you’ll take it alright — because this is not a negotiation. This is redemption at any cost.

Viktor resigns. Whispers a tired “Come in” and points to his bed, watches you limp inside with a weak, disapproving head shake. It’s a walk of shame — grumpy sounds of skin as bare feet drag pitifully on the floor, shoes and coat shed off carelessly somewhere at the entry.

An abrupt sound of him fumbling with the lock, then a few light thuds of his cane — you absorb it all, waiting for your execution, eyes nailed to the parquet, skittishly following little wooden patterns. You don’t know what to say to him, and it’s terrifying — sure, wine must’ve triggered the motive, but it can only get one so far. And now you crumble, shrinking when the mattress bends by your side, the cross of his lanky legs cloudy in your peripheral. He keeps his distance, seated at a good arm’s length: too close for a shot, too far for an embrace, just enough to add to your agony. Rubs his forehead with a somber wince, turns to look at you with a harried pout, so tragically handsome. A bunch of veins twined tensely on that pretty ivory neck.

“Please, say something,” begs you hoarsely, setting his cane aside. “Don’t torture me with your silence. It depletes me. And, quite frankly, I’ve had enough of that.”

You swallow thick, pushing that lump down your throat with immense effort, bitter sticky spit foaming at the tip of your tongue, threatening to come out if you don’t shove it down your stomach quick enough. Tastes of drunk, delirious promises. And you must spew them out before they drool out on their own.

“I’m sorry.” This comes out slurred too, but you don’t mind the stumbling as long as it gets the message across. Viktor scarcely cocks his head, all flushed ears.

You proceed.

“For the tournament. Well, for what I did to you before our game, I shouldn’t have— Fuck, how do I even put this? I shouldn’t have done it. All of it.”

Your tear is in your mouth before you know it, and you swipe your tongue over a chapped lip, rushing to get it out the way while he remains still, simply waiting for you to continue with a straight, cold face. Almost kills you with that indifference, or whatever it is he’s trying to sell for it, but you don’t even think of backing off. You have to look at him. You ought and want to.

“I was cruel,” you confess, gulping down a sob. “Extremely so. It’s the rage, you see. I’m a fucking slave to it. So afraid to be hurt that I rush to do the hurting myself. But you… You, with your good intent, and your endless kindness — you, of all people, shouldn’t suffer from that ugly flaw of mine. And I’m sorry for being so full of it. For making you a victim of my crudeness. And for disappearing to bask in it, ever so selfishly. I didn’t run away because I don’t care. I ran away because I’m a coward.”

He simply nods. Tortures you with a few more seconds of painful silence, sitting up with a curious humm. Locks both trembling hands together and lets his thumbs take turns, circling over each other. Wheezes out a careful ‘Are you, now?”

You huff. “Of course I am. It took me a week to say this to you.”

“But you’ve made it after all.” Viktor shrugs. It’s hard to tell if he’s being genuine or sarcastic, especially when his gaze keeps crashing you with all its reticent spite.

“Yes, but this is not the way to approach this. It’s not like I didn’t consider crawling here earlier, though—“

“Crawling?” he interrupts. Treats you to a minute of quiet turmoil, waits for you to clarify with a sharp inhale. Props himself on a fist and scoots closer, hovering above your face to scrutinize it intricately. “Are you intoxicated?” finally guesses when the evidence hits him in the nostrils.

You shrink away, blinking in confusion. Wasn’t it obvious?

“Yes,” you respond in a skittish whisper. “And I’m sorry for that too. I just… I couldn’t bring myself to come to you earlier, but then… That draw, you see. It didn’t sit right with me, and so I tended to some self analysis. I noticed what you’ve done. Noticed what you sacrificed to make me walk out of there with a decent rating. Even after the way I’ve treated you. It made me hate myself so bad I felt the need to flush it down right that instant. But it only got more unbearable to endure any longer. So I simply… Ran out the door to tell you this. I shouldn’t have. Well, now I know that I shouldn’t—“

You’re rambling, and it’s a lengthy, fidgety monologue. So utterly terrified that you can’t even keep track of those ugly cries anymore — they fly out in between words, cutting into a fusion of your candor and hysteria.

But Viktor doesn’t soften. If anything, he’s even sharper now, frowning deeper with every new sentence you throw at him. Cuts you off with a scoff, wagging his head in bewilderment — like he can’t stand to even look at you, let alone listen to any more of these heartful babbles. Curses in Czech under his rapid breath.

“Unbelievable,” he blurts out, turning away. “So that’s how you view me? That’s how you view us? A meaningless, casual affair you can abandon whenever you please and then repair with a few desultory ‘sorry’s? Is that what I am to you? A foolish suitor undeserving of a proper, sober apology? Well, I’ll have you know that I’m not one of your pawns. And I won’t put up with it — not in a hundred years.”

Your panic comes back, drawing a snappish bawl out of stinging lungs, and you sniff, trying to push those unsavory tears back where they belong. Unkempt nails bite into your palms, leaving a violent pattern of rouge, deep punishment.

“You don’t have to put up with it,” you speak again, trying to redeem that heavy home truth. “I don’t want you to.”

“Stop mentioning that,” Viktor demands with a furious scowl, making you gobble up that stupid semantic. “I’m in no need of your elaboration.”

“But I truly mean that!”

“Mean it all you want, but don’t expect my approval just because you finally deigned to throw a plea at me. I did nothing to merit that. Both the insults and this mess of a repentance.”

That one does the job. Peels the scab off your wounds, urging each evil goosebump to rise — and thank god for the soft bed under your trembling form, because your knees feel like soaked cotton, unsturdy and doomed to fail.

But you force them to obey, springing up above him in a snappy jerk. It’s a classic, of sorts, like a denial of a King’s Gambit: he doesn’t take the piece you offer him, aiming for something else instead. Something more crucial, and so inherently fragile. Stares up at you with his head thrown back, threateningly beautiful in the sheer shadows that blinds cast on his face. Urges you to seek silly symbols in the way your lack of clothes contrasts his utter modesty.

Here you are — raw and exposed. One step from shameful nakedness, standing trial in this state of non-sexual, sudden nudity. Here he is — armed with thick fabric, not a smidge of his usual emotive range prominent in both expression and attire. All edgy cheekbones and pure, unfiltered anger in the slight twitch of a bushy brow. So snarky when it arches, challenging you to keep going. To fight for forgiveness for once.

“You’re right.” It’s a simple statement — a calm, casual acknowledgement. Still teary-eyed and puffy, but those are merely debris. You wipe them away, ready to strike again. “I am a mess. A mess like no other, that’s for sure. I don’t expect you to fix me. I simply paid you what’s due, and you’re allowed to send it back — I’m in no position to demand you forgive me. I never wanted to do that anyway. I’m simply sorry. For mistaking your help for malice, for letting the fear of losing my silly independence win, for prioritizing it over the bond we’ve built. And for not giving you the apology you deserve. Truly. That might just be my biggest regret so far.”

Viktor doesn’t respond. His chest feels heavy, swiftly falling after each deep breath. He’s taking you in — bare legs, bare soul, bare feelings. A sweet contradiction, a living oxymoron in the suspenseful darkness of his bedroom, but he doesn’t know what to do with you, how to save either of you from the power you hold over each other.

This calls for a solution. And you come up with one, attempting to step away, already eyeing the corner you’ve thrown your coat into.

“I should go,” you propose, carefully inching towards the door. “That would be the wise thing to do.”

But Viktor’s views on prudence evidently differ. Because his fingers gnaw at your wrist, startling with the tight strength of their gentleness. Such a warm handcuff — it reminds you of your starvation, of just what you’d cross to experience him like this again — insistently gracious, caring to his very core. Pulls you towards him, biting a cheek when you don’t slip away. Realizes the extent of your desperation and sighs, admitting that his own reaches the same depth. Wins a silent staring competition when you blink, completely dazed, finding your voice in a weak ruckle of his name.

“No,” he drawls, squeezing firmer, “you’ve done enough ‘wise’ deeds tonight. I’m not sure I can endure one more.”

“I know, Viktor. That’s why I need to go.”

“You’re a fool if you think I’m letting you walk out of here in that state. You came to apologize, after all. It would be quite counterproductive of you to storm off sobbing instead of achieving your initial goal.”

Your lashes flutter again, flicking a tear. It crawls back into your eye, blurring the world around you, and you rush to rub it out of there, freeing your hand out of his insistent grasp. He lets go, surprisingly reluctant.

“I thought we’ve already established that I’m in no state for this conversation.”

“Indeed, we have. Which is exactly why you’re going to take a shower and go to sleep, so your wits are about you when we’re back at it in the morning.” He then clears his throat, fighting a sad, hopeless smile. Loses when the corners of his mouth inch up, adding a sarcastic “I would, actually, lend you a melatonin, if it weren’t for the consequences of mixing it with alcohol. But your loss, I suppose.”

He’s quieter with that remark. Spares you a moment of familiar, light-hearted comfort — all hushed chuckles, lost, frustrated glances, and fidgety, lonely hands.

The embodiment of confusion, of bitterness that still fights to linger around, but doesn’t stand a chance against longing. Reducing the smartest person you know to a love-struck man that has no idea how to save this, yet wants you to stay so badly. Even worse when you look him in the eye, shyly asking if there’s any hot water left for you to use.

The world makes sense again. Or so it seems.

—

Your dream is lucid — a blend of bizzare, threatening images stirring you awake every time the thing gets too real, forcing bloodshot eyes to snap open and search for him in the opaque darkness, pulse a racing, unpleasant thump in both sweaty temples. Only simmering down when you manage to make out the skews of his shoulders: distant, but so darling. So many torturous inches separating your back from his — it’s more gaunt than you remember, the lopsided arch of it suddenly more bitter than ever, and you quit stealing discreet peeks, nuzzling back into the clean, mint-scented comfort of his pillow. Drifting back to yet another frenetic vision, thinking about how strange it is to share a bed with Viktor without lying tucked under his sharp, bony chin.

You wake up morbid and, expectedly, hungover. Still wearing both scandalous garments you barged in — numb fingers slide over an exposed thigh, then rub the bridge of your nose hard enough to snap the delicate cartilage. You watch the ceiling tarnish full of flimsy black holes, whimpering as it cleanses of them just as swiftly when your sight repairs itself after a long squint. Shaky arms rummage around, stilling mid slow caress over Viktor’s side — still warm and slightly bent inwards, that overwhelming evidence of his presence. He left you an aspirin and a silly note:

“I have a final to take. Will be back at 10. Don’t you dare run away.

P.S.

Please, don’t drink coffee. Your head will kill you.“

Your finger stumbles, covering the sharp ‘V’ in the lower corner. An excessive little gesture — as if you wouldn’t guess the sender if he didn’t sign it. You put the sweet warning away and swallow the pill, wincing when it scrapes its way down your throat.

The morning finally starts.

Sore for whatever reason legs still hang back, and you force them to oblige, scrunching over the sink when those bratty, boneless appendages finally get you to the bathroom. It’s a lifeless, automatic routine — except you have to smear the toothpaste all over your teeth with a trembling finger. You thought of buying a brush to keep next to his for the nights you’re over, but now it repulses you, urges to avert your tired eyes from the mirror: what if you fucked it up beyond return? What if there’s no ‘for when I’m over’ anymore, but only ‘for when I used to be’?

You don’t embrace that revelation. It appalls you, makes you crave the tasteless comfort of a cigarette — but you ran out of them last night, and, concurrently, respected Viktor’s strong preferences for keeping your favorite vice at least out of his room. And it’s not like this horrific anticipation should last much longer — self-doubts were kind and time-consuming, carrying you through fifty five minutes of tedious, head-in-hands agony. And when the key finally clangs, albeit a quarter later than expected, you rise from the unkempt bed, untangling from the blankets.

He looks collected: walks right past you, rushing to rid that lanky neck off the strangling tie. Softly hums an unbothered ‘Good morning’, sparing you nothing but a reserved nod, and you writhe upon that calm violence, watching him tend to yet another languid habit — as if both the tournament and last night never existed, as if him simply coming back from a tiring final is the only thing that’s happening in this room, and you’re going to watch him settle back into his domesticated, quiet life.

But no, you’re convinced that it’s a vengeful punishment — a silent treatment to make up for the one you put him through during your endless days of lacking courage. And so you sit, mouth agape, while he fetches his notes out of a shabby bag, flipping through them with a casual yawn. Plugs the kettle into an outlet, running a hand through a short row of tea boxes on the desk (you only managed to notice that little collection now), then shrugs, picking out a random one with a casual finger-flick. Stills in a half-turn over an angular shoulder, cursory inquiring what flavor you prefer. Driving you deeper into tremendous confusion.

“I.. Whichever you like,” you mumble from the bed, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Only stopping when it starts to slightly taste of iron.

Viktor understands. Hands you a steaming mug and pulls out a chair to be seated right in front of you, and it all resembles a pitiful, canonical therapy session — even the way you stare at your tea (chamomile, so it seems), shamefully making out the floating, whimsical reflection of your face in the brownish liquid. Wondering if it’s hot enough to burn your tongue. Preferably, to a decent degree.

Viktor coughs. Crosses his legs again — always chooses that pose for uncomfortable conversations, whereas you always shrink embryo-like — a disparity to his almost professional manner. Oh just how he sits, vestless and relaxed, taking a slow sip. Makes you wish you were the cup, so he could wrap his hand around you and squeeze — to death, or bliss, or revulsion. Anything, but apathy. Please, no more of that. Please please please.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. Grabs the mug by its rim and holds it like one does a wine glass, lets you see the tension in each fingertip. You return to staring down, unsure how to approach the question. Really, though, how do you feel? Scared? Excited? Nauseated? Sorry? You’re sure he gets it by now. And, therefore, all this — is a penalty. It’s only right. It has to be.

You shrug, letting a whiff of fear invade every sharpened sense. Chamomile joins in, too. This time, evidently.

“Are you punishing me?” you finally croak. He frowns at that, treats it like the silliest nonsense to ever be said out loud. Rushes to shake his head, to deny and prove wrong. And it confuses you beyond belief, forces an exchange of wide-eyed, bewildered gazes.

“No,” he insists. “Of course not. I’m asking because I want to be certain that you’re able to proceed with the colloquy. That wouldn’t be possible were you still under the influence of any… substances, would it, now?” He adds with a chuckle. Dry, and curt, and failing at easing anything at all, but you still believe him. You choose to, even if it’s hardly plausible.

“Yes.” You offer him a lie. “I want to proceed.”

It’s best he doesn’t know how not ready you really are.

He gulps, then. Waits for your confession to unravel, plowing through you with the sheer power of patient madness, even if that doesn’t make much sense — how can someone stare with such urgency, yet remain so gentle with it? You know you’ll find him drawn to you if your own eyes dare to move from the slowly growing lukewarm tea.

“Were you cordial with me last night?” He finds a way to pluck the answers out of you, appeals to something you’re convinced is always the case with your inept amends.

“Of course. I always am.” He arches a brow, causing you to reconsider. As if to cut you off with a silent, cheeky ‘Really, now?’.

“I meant… I’m always sincere with my apologies,” you try to recover, setting your mug down on the floor before it slides out on its own and shatters into pieces. Can’t have it sharing the destiny of your stability.

“I just… I’m really struggling to understand you here,” he spoke softly, putting his own tea away — and it’s left forgotten on his desk, like a non-verbal, inanimate testimony. “Why would you turn to anger in response to aid? I don’t think I’ll ever distinguish that, you’ll have to excuse me here.”

“No, that‘s a… really good question.”

“Answer it, then.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“That won’t ease our quandary.”

“I’m aware, but… Just let me think a little. Please.”

He lets you. Invites you to help yourself to all the time in the world, but you only take two minutes — it’s important not to squander his generosity. Especially when you don’t know exactly how much more he has to spare.

“It’s like… Caro-Kann, and I’m playing black,” you finally mumble, knowing he’ll ask to elaborate.

“Caro-Kann?” Viktor muses, visibly besotted. As if he expected you to think anyhow but in chess.

“Mhm. Seems so safe and solid, and yet the development is so slow, and the board lacks space for me, and white can be so unpredictable with their responses—“

“Yes, I’m familiar with the disadvantages of this opening.” He raises a hand, stopping you from burrowing any further into tiring theory. “Please, get to your point.”

Your pulse thumps a march so terrified it echoes in your throat, swells above your left breast into something unbearably massive — capable of breaking the ribcage and rolling out to his feet. It reverberates in your temples, too, and you squint, as if enduring a migraine. Eyes shimmy down to pathetically shaky knees.

“When I play Caro-Kann, I prepare for an attack from white,” you continue carefully. Viktor looks at you, attentive to the bone. “But it doesn’t happen — and I panic. Like I’m all ready to be aggressive, to sting if you come any closer, and you just choose… not to. Here I am, with my developed bishop, threatening a check, but you ignore it and play something like… say, pawn h4. And I grow livid, and my pieces fly all around the board, but it all seems so useless, because you haven't taken anything from me yet. And I take first, and inevitably lose by taking more and more — because I was scared to let you do it to me first.”

“That’s just ridiculous,” he protests. Crosses both lanky arms on his chest, leaning into the chair. Rests his neck on the top back, glaring from beneath heavy lids. “You’re not supposed to play it like that.”

“Exactly. That’s why I like gambits. You always know what to expect with a gambit. Even if your opponent declines it, you know it’ll hurt later. For both of you. It’s predictable, and beautifully violent. It’s what I’m used to. Not only in chess.”

“As much as I’m infatuated with your skills at merging logic with poetics, metaphors are not my forte. I’d much rather you explain in layman’s terms.”

Hearing Viktor call himself that sounds almost blasphemous. But you don’t argue with his wording. You fix your posture and recline, mirroring the angle he looks at you from — your one last death rattle before resignation. And he waits, fumbling with a rolled up sleeve. Getting more vulnerable, inviting you to follow suit. His eyes fill with contradictory, somber candidness. ‘Get right with me,’ they beg of you discreetly.

But begging is hardly necessary. Not when he’s entitled to knowing the truth.

“I see you as a threat to my independence. Not just you, I suppose — anyone who’s not responding in a way I know how to handle.”

Viktor nods. “So you’re implying that you only know how to handle… mockery?”

“Correct.” You stop to gasp for air, the sharp pang of its scarcity pinching at your lungs. “I’m sorry,” you add in a mumble, and he sees just how vehemently you mean it, pupils so wide they almost steal every bit of your beloved copper.

A creak of a chair when he gets up, sighing harriedly. Has you stirring, utterly convinced that he’s about to fetch his cane out of its convenient spot against the desk — but he never reaches for it. Finds leverage in a sturdy hold of your knee instead, leans on it with a wistful smile and settles right into the notch of sheets next you. Not quite where he sat last night, but much closer — evidently so. And when he doesn’t move, letting your bare thigh freely rub against the thick fabric of his trousers, you know he accepts the truce, even with no verbal confirmation. Bless the mighty power of his languid body language. Careful, when he takes your hand in his, covering the tracery of palm lines in lovely strokes. So darling. So familiar.

“You,” he emphasizes with sweet indignation, “are incredibly gentle. I don’t ever wish to hear that you’re incapable of handling kindness. You simply ought to learn not to bite at the hand that feeds you. And that requires playing more Caro-Kann. I’m willing to help with that. As long as you’re willing to learn.”

His touch grows firmer, suddenly flowing into a squeeze, and you bate a breath, tongue a swirling little drill into the slopes of your palate. But Viktor goes on, keeping you close — practically face-to-face, and so very, very intimate.

“And no more returning to stupid vices when you’re facing a nuisance,” he demands. Means it with every ounce of his being. The veins on his neck swell again, menacingly handsome.

“Yes.” You gulp. The knot in your throat dissolves. “Of course.”

“I see it now. The reason why you think I’m encroaching on your autonomy, that is,” he muses, a bit sorrowful. “It must feel torturous — having to keep your guard up all the time. And I detest those who put you in such misery. However, I don’t like to be mistaken for such a man. I spoke up because I don’t tolerate disrespect. Not because I was trying to assert… ownership of you.” He trailed off, eyes filled with awkward sheen. “Although, I do admit that some possessiveness was involved.”

Your chuckle turns into a sonorous laugh, but it’s hardly mocking. Insightful, more so.Like the one people emit after solving an equation with the most simple of formulas, like finding out that a confusing answer was sickeningly obvious all along. He allows you to touch him, stays still when you dare to entangle a hand in his hair, brushing through it with a little tug. Lets you know that he’s starving, too. For conversation, for skittishness, for what it augments into when the tension softens.

Shivers run all the way up to tense shoulders when he wraps an arm around the arched curve of waist, pressing flush against his side to fetter into a desperate embrace. You giggle, dragging a fingertip over his flushed ear. Catch the shift in his breath, so abrupt and delectable.

“You know, I really did threaten to kick that prick in the crotch,” you murmur.

“Oh, I’m aware. Should I be concerned for my own, er… testicles?”

“No. Well, not in a way that hurts. If you’ll have me.”

A sheepish grin pulls at the corner of Viktor’s lip. “Now?” prods so huskily that it paints his motives unhallowed, and you hussle in his grasp, wondering if the implication is really there. Wondering if his hunger had suddenly merged with yours.

And, well, that’s certainly a way to secure an amnesty. One you’re conveniently very eager for.

So you decide to be bold. “Like I said.” You lean closer, tipping your head down. “If you’ll have me.”

Viktor chortles. “Is that even a question?”

Oh fuck.

The malt of his tongue sliding sloppily into your mouth — a kiss so lewd it has your world tumbling indistinct under fluttering eyelids, blurring completely when he steals your breath, ardent and tumultuous when your gasps turn into whines under that persistent, sweet pressure of his lips — starved enough to bruise, to bite a chunk out of you if only he tried hard enough. So wet it threatens to get into your throat, or drip down both of your chins in a glistening little trace — and you open up for him, always so incessant with that reciprocation: tongue, and teeth, and lips so pliant at his disposal. Doesn’t matter if you’re choking. You want to pass out under that gentle mouth, so warm, and inviting, and pressing into you in the most perfect of kisses. Even more strangling when his fingers dig into your hip, holding in place, eager enough to linger there for a few hours in speckled red, engraving his sheer desperation. You can hardly control your own, pulling at one messy chestnut strand. And it earns you a moan — gorgeously wheezy as he sucks at your bottom lip, teeth a sudden sunk into it when he senses the sharp affection and returns it right that instant.

And you’re putty in those sinewy hands, arching backwards and falling senseless onto the sheets, tangling them with every new jerk of shaky legs. Spiraling into immaculate, tingly madness when Viktor exhales a chuckling breath somewhere above the collarbone, grabbing an overbearing hold of your chin. Coaxing your head to tip back and make some place for his teeth; thirty two little prickles plunging into your throat with pent-up vigor. Pulling at your skin in a not-so-gentle lovebite. More canines than anything, overwhelmingly so.

But you let him, and meet it with a moan, needy, and high-pitched, and utterly unfeigned — an invitation to suckle more of you into his eager mouth. So he accepts it, freeing a soft breast out of the loose hold of a lacy shirt — and suddenly you’re grateful for that rushed choice of attire, so fitting for the way he squeezes, and twists, and selfishly laps up to tease a soft nipple to delicious stiffness. Watches the fleshy shade of it darken, growing hard under a playful lick. Smug, when he looks up, going in for another taste, pinch slow and torturous when he pulls at that tender nub, prideful for the way you keen, twitching with a fistful of his hair between lithe fingers. And so indecisive, too: does he want it nice and slow, or impatient, hasty and salacious? So many options to choose from.

He’s leaning towards the latter, however. Lurches the shirt off your chest, tucking it to hastily ruffle around your waist — thank god for the lax straps, so helpfully hanging off both shoulders. Always teasing the lack of a bra.

Warm palm lingers over the dip of your solar plexus, so gentle between the spread of breasts. And when it creeps higher, lingering over your chin, you force him to be even bolder. Stealing a sharp, dazed exhale when you capture his wrist, leveling those talented digits with your open mouth. Cheeky as you guide them inside, tongue a hot, wet fondle between ring and middle finger. And he shudders, enthralled by the sight, swallowing a whimper as you taunt him. Dragging out that debauched pop when you wrap your lips around them and suck hard, looking up with needy, impudent eyes.

Such a filthy thing. Even dirtier now that you’re done with your little performance, head drooping to the side, adding to the complacent smirk. Viktor heaves out a laugh.

“You’ll be the death of me,” whispers sweetly. Presses a peck to your shoulder, smiling when you trace the sharp line of his jaw. Tilts a hollow cheek into your touch, stilling above you. Steams pure admiration, pulling you closer. And you let him have that, so sickeningly starved for his love, grateful for the kiss he plants on the corner of your mouth, shivering when his caring hand — still a little spit-slick at the fingertips — brushes somewhere dangerously low, tickling at the pelvic bone.

“Wouldn’t that be a good way to go?” you muse. The ever indefatigable tease, gorgeous, as you wrap both arms around his neck, noses pressing together for a split second.

“I can think of a better one.” He shrugs. And when you humm, asking to elaborate, he simply clings to your thigh, thumb a fleeting brush over the damp edge of your underwear. “Crush me,” he pleads, “while I taste you.”

“That’s hardly fair. I want to taste you too.”

And he falters, coyly chewing on a thin lip.

“I think there’s a remedy for that.”

Always a sight when he rises to undress, fumbling with the impressive amount of buttons. Makes it feel like a striptease, of sorts — an unintentional, lazy show. But this time he’s a little hasty. Almost tears that shirt apart, cocky when it gets to you, thin and immaculate — the pretty tautness of what little muscle he possesses, a shadowy slope of his navel and the curly black fluff running down right into his trousers. Besieging what you know must be really hard to keep in there when you look at him like this — so achingly desperate. Nimble, when you kindly help him with a belt, grinning vixen-like when the buckle budges. Normally, you’d palm him through all those layers, perhaps adhering to some languid torment. But today you’re undressing him rather crudely, eager to pull every cover down long legs and grab a hold of that lovely cock, fingers curling at the base to lay it flat against your restless tongue.

But he stops you. Grabs a gentle squeeze of your hair somewhere at the nape, coaxing to meet the lustful scold of both glowing eyes. The slight twitch of a lopsided smile, weakly melting into an open-mouthed gasp.

“Not yet,” begs of you so softly you can’t help but comply. With a reluctant whine, no less. And Viktor dismisses it, crawling back in between parted legs, fingers the sweetest of hooks into your underwear, then an eager drag of it all the way down and off the ankles. Dazed, when he notices a slick little stripe precisely on the pliant inner thigh. Cheeky, when he nudges legs apart again, and nuzzles into the delicate wetness, tongue darting out to lick the trace away — a tad sour, but he adores it, wants to bury his face in that divine flavor, to drench his fingers full of it.

“Tease,” you accuse. His chin rests in that sweet spot between your thumb and index when he leans in for a kiss, grinning almost ear to ear. Can’t taste yourself on his tongue yet, but that’s a question of lust and a few more minutes of fervent devouring. It’s manageable. Exciting.

“Bold of you to assume I can last through all your tortures,” Viktor murmurs, a little strangled. Falls supinely on his back, staring lazily from under dark lashes. “Although, I’m flattered. You give my stamina much more credit than it deserves.”

“Oh please,” you scoff, turning around. Gasping, when long fingers curl into your waist, each thumb a press into your back dimples. And he pulls you onto him, nudges to throw a quivering leg over his neck and drift higher – until your knees press into the matress, and you’re hovering above him in a clumsy squat. And he’s gorgeous beneath you — hair sprawled out on the pillow into a myriad chestnut strays, eyes instantly meeting yours when you throw him a lustful look over your shoulder.

“Sit.” His breath is syrupy against you, making the slick of folds feel somewhat cold when he exhales into that darling flesh.

“On your face?” You want to be sure, to coax the obvious answer out of him. It’s a delicious offer, and you wonder if it still stands — as if Viktor’s hands digging into your sides with such firmness is not enough of a confirmation.

“Precisely,” he rasps. Strokes each haunch in admiration, slowly making his tender way to your ass, spread slow and gentle, yet so achingly lewd it has your face blushing a pretty coral. Twitching, when he smooths a palm over one soft curve and fights the urge to leave a pink trace of a loving slap. And he smiles when you leak at the touch, tongue peeking out to deliver a shuddering lick, to circle the lovely orifice loose, sucking gently on your swollen clit. And you arch backwards again, mouth agape and stuffed full of your own fingers — to muffle that loud whine of a plea, preventing a noise complaint. And Viktor stirs your heat awake again, kisses coyly at the entrance before his index effortlessly slips inside — pumping, and curling, and making a nice, wet sound. “You’re so beautiful,” he praises. “Please, don’t crouch. Sit. I beg of you. You don’t know what it does to me.”

And he’s right. You don’t know, yet his cock teased full of blood gives you a decent idea on that. So you melt, sighing when your clit lands exactly where you prefer it: on Viktor’s precious tongue, always so eager to please, to whisper filthy words or confession-like Czech nothings. And it’s a pleasant fusion: you know his eyes snap wide open when you reach to push him into your mouth, licking off the musky bead at the reddened tip and humming at the familiar, salty taste. He follows suit, meeting every bob of your head with the loveliest of little wet thrusts — tongue and fingers working together to earn yet another clench, while you tense up, gagging when he tickles the back of your throat. And you’re struggling to take him full, yet yearn for it with such genuine madness: so determined to please and be pleased, merciless with each persistent grind on the seediness of his tongue, grateful for the white-knuckled grip sturdily keeping one hip in place. And it consumes you, that earnest chase of dizzying undoing, the need to memorize the patterns of the throbbing veins on his cock, each slippery, muffled gulp as you swallow around him, keen on having him paint your throat in warm, slightly bitter spurts.

But you could also have him find that release inside you. How precious that must be — the tempting stretch of him, gorgeously raunchy, the sounds of skin slamming against Viktor’s narrow hips so utterly debauched. How good he’d feel, pulling you apart, coated in sweat, and slick and your greedy kisses. How breathy you’d plead him to fuck you stupid, moaning things so obscene your ears might still burn hours later. Yes, you’d rather finish him off like this. And you almost feel sorry for that impulse, yanking your mouth off his cock. Deft, when you slip from his grasp, turning to find him flushed and almost drunk on sensations. Oh, he was so, so close. How cruel of you to dispose him of that bliss.

But you’re about to offer him so much more. So darling when you roll onto your back, open legs a lewd, tantalizing invitation. Beckoning to slide back in — deeper, heavier, closer. And he whimpers at the loss of you, hands immediately aching to gnaw at whatever they can reach.

“Didn’t want you to cum yet,” you murmur. “Not until you’re inside me.”

That breaks him. Urges to accept the endeavor, rolling swiftly atop your sprawled out form and into the tender twine of limbs. “Milackú,” he keens through a shaky sigh. Pointy lips tremble against your neck. “Oh, milackú. What am I supposed to do with you?”

“I can think of a certain verb. Four letters. Short and sweet.”

And Viktor’s eyes lance your very heart when he whispers “I can think of two.”

“Mmm, I’m not sure I want you to ruin me. ‘Fuck’ will have to suffice.”

“Not the word I was referring to.”

He’s gentle when he pushes in, hooking one thigh over his hip, thrust slow and deliciously torturous — more so to savor, to feel every crevice of yours wrap around him tightly.

“Viktor,” you plead, wheezy and breathless, but he cradles your face and tips it towards him, aching to have you crumbling under his foggy gaze, drawling a high-pitched whine as he slides in hilt-deep, leaning in to lick a slippery kiss to the side of your neck.

“I want to love you,” he pants. “Four letters. Short and sweet.”

It courses through you, that tender revelation. And he means it, stroking a thumb over your bottom lip, gently nudging your mouth open for another heartful collision. Pours his whole being into that tangle of tongues, glides two shaky fingers over the swell of your clit and presses, stealing moans, twitches and incoherent mumbles.

You want to let him love you, to emit something that isn’t a muffled cry of his name, needier with every motion. And it’s so inherently filthy. The arc of your back over the damp sheets, the debauched stumble of your words as you whisper that confession back, nails a deathgrip into his shoulder when he thrusts again, gently working you through a release. Always so keen on making you cum first, on hearing more of those lewd squelches. And when the stretch stings you for the umpteenth sweet time, it takes him only a few more flickers over the sloppy mess of your clit to coax the final plea out of your sore throat, uttering a praise so dirty it has your toes curling tight enough to spread the tension all the way up to calves. Makes you feel the delicious pain of an orgasm spasm in all its candid beauty — perfect, loud, and hard, swathing around his cock in the loveliest of squeezes. And Viktor claims it like his greatest achievement, moaning into your ear as he finally allows himself to follow suit, lean body a tired collapse on your chest when it waves through him, sticky and so, so warm. Must be the result of a week’s long obstinacy or the plain desperation he nourishes when it comes to you, but you know you just have to make him cum like this again — unarterlably inside you, with every twitch of him so clearly palpable against slippery walls.

And you’re full of him, overflowing, pulsating and suffocating, the ripples on the ceiling indistinct when you rest your slightly teary eyes. Viktor slides out, stealing a glance at a white little trail running down your thigh in a way so salacious he almost bites his tongue. Breathes so heavily you can feel every shift of his lungs under a flushed cheek. And you notice just how he holds you, basking in the weary afterglow, his chest a heaving pillow for you to nuzzle into. There they come — the loving trades of glossy glances, the smiles when you notice a bold scratch on his scrawny shoulder: he’s going to wear you for days, grinning whenever he passes a mirror naked.

Naked. It strikes you, the little thing you still have to do. It’s right there, in the pocket of your leather coat, probably a little crumpled. But you rush to fetch it nonetheless, ignoring Viktor’s confused humm of a protest. Laughing when he tries to stop you from making your way to the peg, so nimble even with your wobbly, fucked out walk.

“You wanted to have it.” You grin, handing him the picture. So excited for the gasp when he reaches for it, weary eyes still adorably puzzled as you slip back in bed and under his gentle arm. Giggling when he unfolds the thing and utters an insightful ‘oh’.

He remembers now. Holds it with a knowing smile, amber eyes gliding over each divine line of you, eyeing first your version from the windowsill, then looking back at the real thing with even more striking appreciation. Like he couldn’t believe that a gorgeous creature from the photo is actually sprawled out in his bed; that he’d touched her, pleasured her, been inside her.

“Thank you. It’s breathtaking.” His forehead presses against yours, and you flick a few wet hairs off its salty, sticky skin. You both need a shower, terribly so.

“Do you really want to carry it in your wallet?”

“Oh, I intend to. If you approve of it, of course.”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes at him in a theatrically mocking way. “Mmm, I don’t know about that. Normally, I wouldn’t allow it, but I suppose I could make an exception for the man I love.”

His laugh wraps around you, warm and dear, muffling against your mouth when you lean to kiss him again — to ensure he doesn’t doubt you, to show him that you’re certain. Sighing when mouths part, but he’s quick to offer you his hand instead, and fingers carefully coil together, tender and still shaky. And Viktor bows his head, settling a soft peck against your knuckles.

“Go take a shower. I’ll get the board. We’re playing a lot of Caro-Kann today.”

—

i want to thank every single one of you. this fic has been A JOURNEY. it gave me a better vocabulary (because writing viktor requires research, especially when english is not your first language), a chess addiction and a stronger nicotine one (you don’t want to know how many cigarettes i’ve smoked during those long writing sessions, and neither do i — i’ve stopped counting for a reason). i don’t know if i’m pleased with how this fic turned out. it’s my first multichapter, so of course it’s not exactly perfect, but it was a fine ride nonetheless and i’m glad so many of you loved it. so excited for season 2!!!! so excited to write more for my favorite boy!!! but as of now, i’m taking a small break from writing.

oh, and i wanted to do something special once i’m done with this au. so here’s a spotify playlist dedicated to this fic: the c(o)unterpart

tags: @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @thehistoriangirl @queen-of-elves @vyshnevska

#the cunterpart #viktor x reader #viktor arcane #viktor fanfic #viktor smut #viktor x reader smut #viktor x f!reader #no beta we die like men

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