#soundtrack (pm)

[greenleaf4stuff]

In Convenience, Chapter 1, Part 2

(all previous parts of "Of Convenience" and "In Convenience")

Adar x Celebrimbor (silverscars) political marriage to marriage of love AU, post story chapter 1, part 2. Despite Adar’s reassurances, the smith tries to overcome his own apprehension and create the wedding rings himself. After facing difficulties, his uruk husband offers them both an alternative solution.

Poor Celebrimbor is getting hit with a dose of ambition again. It's good he has Adar with him this time. A big thank you to @plotdesigner once again, who undoutably inspired some of the ideas about uruk marriages and related customs with her writing! <3

As Celebrimbor quickly found out two days later, the thought of forcing himself to make rings for himself and his husband was, indeed, a bit of a foolish one.

It was frustrating, to say the least. He’d given the others instructions to spend the day outside and rather help the uruk better set up their camp to brave the bright sunshine, since there had been few clouds during the last couple of days.

It had been both an honest attempt to help Adar and his children, but also a welcome opportunity to sit in the remnants of the forge and try to reclaim another part of himself.

A part that Celebrimbor felt had been stolen from him, tainted and twisted, when 'Annatar' had taken his knowledge and skill and used it for his own means.

Some of it, he had already regained in Gurlak’s little forge. But some facet of him – his pride, he’d come to suspect with a scowl – wasn’t satisfied with that. It wanted to work in his own forge again, and it wanted to work on something similar yet wholly different than what he’d last worked on in here.

Weddings bands. Simple, elven wedding bands.

Celebrimbor knew the tradition well – silver rings for engagement, and then a simple gold band for married pairs, worn on the right index finger.

Of course, as a smith with his heritage and due to the fact that this was not a traditional Eldar marriage, Celebrimbor had felt as if that would have been too simple a task for him.

No, he wanted to create something that encompassed both the beauty and the depth of the love he felt for his husband, perhaps even rivalled the elven rings of power. Something that Adar would be proud to wear and display, simple enough for a warrior, yet distinct. Shaped with intention as well as skill.

Yes, that would be a good way to represent their union.

The problem was that Celebrimbor had been unable to complete even a single, satisfactory sketch.

He was ruffling his own hair in agitation as he faltered, then stopped, with yet another design – too clunky, too big, too elaborate – and leant back in his chair with a loud, frustrated groan while he rubbed his hands over his face.

He’d been at this for hours, judging by the movement of the sun outside. And yet he had nothing to show for it.

The elf flung the graphite he’d used across the table in a sudden, almost petulant surge of anger at himself. It jumped off the table once and, as it did so, broke apart.

Celebrimbor’s anger broke right alongside it.

At the door to the forge, he heard movement. The elf could immediately guess who it was, but did not consider himself to be in the right state of mind to turn around and greet the other. Instead, he leant forward and buried his face in his hands, elbows propped up on the table.

Out of anyone, he’d hoped his husband might not be the one to find him here, like this.

"A very kind gesture, to send us your assistants to aid my children in erecting sun tarps," the uruk spoke as he entered the forge proper. "However, I must admit that I was missing your presence at the camp."

It was said in a teasing manner. And yet, Celebrimbor almost felt as if that made it all worse.

He remained hunched over his work table, unmoving, and let the thought pass him by. This was his husband – he had obviously missed Celebrimbor, had actually decided to come and visit him in his forge despite his many tasks. He did not and could not know of the smith’s struggle with himself.

The uruk fell silent when he got no answer, and soon, measured footsteps were nearing the table. While the elf didn’t particularly look forward to the conversation they’d undoutably soon have, he felt a weight fall off his shoulders knowing Adar was here.

He had felt terribly lonely, all by himself, amid the remnants of destruction and previous failures.

The uruk finally came to stand directly next to Celebrimbor’s table, so close that the elf could feel his body heat. It was tempting to remain in the dark and imagined safety of his own hands, but Celebrimbor had never been the one to choose the easiest route over the most sensible.

Most of the time, anyway.

He let his fingers slip off of his face, before he folded them and pressed his mouth against them, staring straight ahead. He needed a moment, and then glanced up at his husband, aware that his unhappiness, the sheer dismay in regards to his current predicament, was likely showing on his face.

Adar had leant his hip into the side of the table where he stood next to Celebrimbor, close enough that his cuirass was almost touching the elf’s arm. If they hadn’t been together, perhaps the proximity, the other’s stance, the way he looked down at Celebrimbor with a straight back and a tilted head, would have been intimidating.

As it was, the elf knew it to be concern, and he didn’t make any attempt to hide his failed sketches or the broken graphite as Adar took in both his husband and the work table with quiet, intense eyes.

There was a slight frown to his face for a moment, before that expression smoothed itself out again, as the other seemed to come to a realization, or perhaps a conclusion. He looked at Celebrimbor for a while longer, then turned around and stepped back into the room.

It only took a short moment for him to return, this time carrying a stool, which he placed close to the smith’s own chair.

Adar soon sat down upon it, legs facing away from the table and into the room. He propped the elbow closest to Celebrimbor onto the table’s surface, and then leant over, moving in close enough that their upper thighs were pressed against one another.

His face was open, and it carried a silent request – that Celebrimbor talk to him.

They stared at one another some more before the smith finally lifted his face from his hands and averted his eyes. His words came out haltingly at first.

"I thought I was ready. It would have been...I’d hoped to replicate what I managed to do with Morgoth’s crown, I suppose. I wanted that same feeling of – of doing something worthwhile. Something beneficial. That would not cause harm and misery."

He paused, took a breath, leant back in his chair. Why did he feel so defeated, when the evil that was darkening his thoughts had already been vanquished?

The slump of his frame felt uncharacteristic even to himself. "I know you said I shouldn’t push myself for your sake, and I also know you were right about that. And yet, who but you would deserve to have a ring made for them? It might not have the power of the three, granted. But I wished for yours to have a measure of their beauty, at least."

He felt his face pull into a grimace for a moment, and tilted his head this way and that as he grit his teeth. "He doesn’t deserve to taint this. He’s done far too much to you, to both of us, to also steal this. My joy in creating, and you having a token that shows the whole of Middle-earth what you mean to me. I- it feels like a defeat, that I cannot overcome this hurdle. As if he’s won, in some small way."

He turned towards Adar again, and could feel excess moisture in his eyes before he managed to blink it away, but barely. "Do I make any sense?"

Adar considered him intently, but not for long. He hummed. "Far too much, in fact. Yes."

The elf blinked, and moved forward in his chair as Adar reached out to wrap an arm around his waist. Soon, Adar had pulled himself into Celebrimbor’s side, against his arm and hip, and lifted his own chin over the elf’s shoulder.

He placed a kiss at Celebrimbor’s temple before pressed their faces together, his nose and lips and jaw to the elf’s cheek, his chin on the elf’s shoulder, both staring at the sketches.

Celebrimbor, himself, reached out and held onto the arm Adar had propped onto the desk still. He soon found his hand held in Adar’s as they both applied gentle pressure.

"It honors you, that you would wish to display our bond so openly to the world. In a manner none could misunderstand," Adar said, slowly. "That you wish to claim me like this. Believe me, you have already done so, even without a public display."

The reassurance was like a balm to Celebrimbor’s troubled mind.

Still, Adar continued. "Eventually, you will reclaim this part of yourself as well. I have no doubt about that. You are far too passionate about your craft not to."

"But not today, not here, and not like this. You cannot force a wound to heal. Even if your intentions are noble. And truly appreciated."

The elf hummed in response, and turned his face into Adar’s until their foreheads and noses touched. He let himself lean onto the uruk as he breathed a quiet sigh.

"I suppose you might have a point there," the smith replied and a small, but humorless grin found its way onto his face for the blink of an eye. "I’m sorry, I know you have a lot on your plate right now. And don’t get me wrong, I do not think of our marriage as diminished if we do not wear rings, or if I’m not the one make them for us."

A pause. Being this honest with both Adar and himself was still a novelty, and at times a little painful. "I suspect it’s less my love for you so much as the expectations I have for myself that are making this such a difficult topic for me. I love you, and us, just as you are. Never doubt that."

That was important to him. As much as he still struggled with what had happened during Sauron’s stay in Eregion, he never wanted Adar to feel as if their relationship needed to hold up to some kind of outside notion. The problem was, at least partially, in Celebrimbor’s own head. And not with their marriage.

He could feel Adar smile against his face, and opened his eyes to see the uruk with his own half-open, watching Celebrimbor with an incredibly fond, if sad look.

The elf felt as if his own feelings were directed back at him.

He wanted to further reassure the other, but Adar was faster to speak.

"Let me try something," he asked. The way his expression was changing had the elf perk up quickly; there was a spark in the uruk’s eyes, as if he had gotten a particularly good idea.

Intrigued, Celebrimbor nodded.

Adar leant back from his husband, taking his warmth and his hands with him. The elf, however, was far too curious to mourn their loss.

The uruk grabbed his own belt; he had stopped carrying his large broadsword everywhere he went, but as the smith soon saw, that did not mean he was unarmed. He carried a small knife, made in a similarly improvised manner as most uruk weapons. From what the other had told him, it had been fashioned from the broken-off tip of his sword.

Celebrimbor briefly frowned in response, especially when Adar lifted the knife up and towards his own head. The only thing the other did, however, was to grab a fine, thin strand of his own hair, and then cut it close to the root.

The elf blinked and raised his eyebrows in confusion as he watched Adar put the knife away again and tie a small knot at one end of the strand of hair. Soon, his husband was reaching forward and grabbed a hold of the elf’s hand.

He put the knotted end of the strand in between Celebrimbor’s digits, tucked between thumb and index finger. As he pressed the tips of the two digits together with his own, he sought out the elf’s eyes once more.

"Hold onto this tightly."

Again, Celebrimbor could only nod mutely.

And then watched as Adar sat back, separated the strand into three smaller sections, and began to braid it.

Judging by the speed and the evenness of the braid as it came together, he had done this before. Not even the gauntlet seemed to be a detriment, but rather, the pointed tips helped him separate errand pieces of hair from each other. It was quite fascinating to observe.

"Among the uruk, marriage in the traditional, Eldar sense of the word did not exist for a long time," Adar began as he braided, focused on his task. "Unions between two of my children have only become somewhat common after the first time I managed to defeat Sauron. Under his and Morgoth’s reign, it was just not feasible."

"But my children endured, and developed their own traditions and customs in response. We had no precious metals, but we had other means to show affection and loyalty."

Finally he had finished the braid, and tied another small knot at the end. Gently, he slipped the side that Celebrimbor had held onto from between the elf’s fingers. Though not without brushing his own over his husband’s hand as he did so.

The elf kept his eyes on the finished braid, now utterly captivated, as Adar twisted it around and into itself. Again, this seemed to have been something the other had done before, Celebrimbor could not guess how many times.

His mouth fell open and his eyes widened slightly when, by the end of his motions, Adar was left with a braided ring in his hand. Small, thin, yet intricate. Beautiful. Made with intention, and skill.

Celebrimbor stared at him in what was both surprise and awe, eyebrows raised and mouth still slightly open. The uruk took his husband’s right hand, held it up with his gauntleted one, and used the other to slip the braided ring onto the elf’s finger.

Celebrimbor found his breath stuttering on his next exhale, as his eyebrows knitted briefly and he stared at the little trinket he now wore. It fit perfectly.

A myriad of emotions overcame him then, from astonishment, to wonder, to love. He looked up into Adar’s eyes again, and his face split into a wide smile as he did.

The uruk had looked...not apprehensive, per se, but a little questioning. After seeing Celebrimbor’s reaction, he seemed to be fully at ease once again.

"We usually carry braids or strands of hair, but sometimes turning them into rings is a safer option, to avoid losing it. Perhaps, this might serve as a solution to our conundrum until you have healed enough to attempt making rings again."

Celebrimbor smiled and felt moisture creep into his eyes once more, though this time, for a much more welcome reason. His smile turned lop-sided as he looked down and carefully moved his fingertips over the ring, felt the smoothness of the hair, marveled at how it shone in the color of rust in the sunlight.

"That...that is more than a compromise," he decided, and looked at Adar again. "Or a replacement. I quite like it, and what it represents. As well as the thought of renewing it with you. Thank you, Adar."

He tilted his head to the side a little. "Do you think my hair might be long enough for a braid as well?"

It was Adar’s turn to be stunned for a moment. Soon, a small smile touched his face, and the edges of his eyes crinkled. The uruk grabbed his knife again. "I think I can figure something out. Turn your head a little, so I can find a good strand to cut."

Celebrimbor gladly let Adar touch his jaw and chin to move his head in the direction he desired, smiling all the while.

It took the uruk a bit more time to fumble with the hair for the second braid, but Adar did end up making another ring. When Celebrimbor gingerly took it from him and then slipped it onto Adar’s index finger, it contrasted nicely against the uruk’s skin – and the hair of Celebrimbor’s ring.

Both of them held up their hands next to each other, turning their new tokens about this way and that, watching the light play off of them, the delicate details of the braids. When their eyes found one another once more. They both were smiling.

Yes, Celebrimbor would need more time to fully reclaim all that which he felt he had lost in the last few weeks. But the fact of the matter was, he had also gained something in turn.

He and Adar both had time, now. They’d figure it out together, and forge their own path.

[limoncats]

ball jointed

faithless

nightfall phantasmagoria

[madwickedawesome]

figured id visualize something i said today

[darkgamer-900]

My dreams are Christmas related and it's starting to creep up on me. It's Halloween damn it

My YouTube music playlist isn't helping either like just let me listen to music 😭

I'm actually gonna be done with myself if we walk into the Home Depot today and see a shit load of Christmas trees across from the Halloween stuff. Ik I love The Nightmare Before Christmas but this isn't what I had in mind

Anyways I found this on Tubi and apparently it's really bad😭

[maxwells-dem0n]

2 hour thermal physics speedrun time

[qualxon]

Ok

Hear me out -

[peachcitt]

listening to resolute and ready from the trollhunters official soundtrack to start my day off like it’s the apocalypse

[leonvarcas]

IT’S OVER

IT’S FINALLY OVER THE EVIL IS DEFEATED IF I NEVER SEE A CHICKEN AGAIN IT’LL BE TOO SOON

[dcviated]

Fearing a tomorrow where I embrace the anxiety that everything's about to shatter And looking only at the day after tomorrow won't bring me an answer-- I know that! What will I draw on the tomorrow that spreads infinitely, pure white? What will I draw on the tomorrow that reality stained pure black? I struggle and shine

[doctorwhoisadhd]

woah the fez and the portal is just a BUNCH of different leitmotifs

[areislol]

"forget him, be with me instead."

ft— various male genshin x fem! reader (childhood friend trope)

warning — slight angst but it's just a pinch! comfort, mutual pining (?), smitten men, fluff, kissing. headcanons are a bit down! modern! au, implied toxic relationship

a/n— yay time to write some fluff after writing angst, what a life! listened to laufey's 'everything i know about love' album while listening to this ^^ this is a little bit rushed and might be a wee bit shitty but uhm please don't judge your girl was out here suffering

wordcount. 3.7k

synopsis. your boyfriend stood you up on your date, once again, and as usual your childhood friend is here to comfort you.

In the soft glow of the quaint café, you sat alone, your anticipation slowly morphing into a quiet ache. You had meticulously chosen your outfit, a delicate dance between casual and elegant.

You had arrived early, your excitement palpable. The minutes stretched into an eternity as the minutes on the clock ticked away, and the once hopeful glimmer in yours eyes dimmed with each passing moment.

The ambient chatter and clinking of utensils became a dissonant soundtrack to your growing unease. You checked your phone repeatedly, hoping for a message or a call that would explain the delay.

The vibrant ambiance of the café, which had initially felt like the backdrop to a romantic night, now served as a cruel witness to your solitude.

You take out your phone from your pocket, anxiously checking the time on your phone before sliding your hand back in, clenching it tightly. 8 PM. Your heart sunk as you realized that it was now exactly 8 PM, the time you both agreed on arriving.

You didn't want to jump to conclusions, maybe he was stuck in traffic? But then again it was 8 PM, barely any road traffic. Was his boss keeping him back for a little bit? Did the wifi cut off in his building, was that why he couldn't send you a text?

Despite trying to comfort yourself by putting ideas in your head, you had a hunch that he was most definenetly not coming, he had forgotten about your date.

It wasn't the first time he stood you up, as a matter of fact, he had stood you up many times but you always pushed it aside. You pushed his mistakes aside, why? Because he was your boyfriend. You knew it was wrong but... what could you do? You didn't want to lose him.

As the realization settled in, a mixture of disappointment and embarrassment clouded your expression. The waiter, noticing your solitary presence, approached with a mixture of sympathy and concern.

You mustered a brave smile and declined a menu, your appetite for food dissipating. The warmth of the café offered little solace as you continued to sit on your reserved seat, looking like an utter fool just sitting there, waiting for someone who wasn't going to come any time soon.

You checked the time once again, 8:10 PM, seconds went by, then minutes, and hours. You checked the time one more time—the clock reached 10:15 PM. You had arrived at the café at 7 PM.

Sighing at the realization that you really sat there and waited for your 'boyfriend' for three hours, you felt like an idiot. And even more of an idiot of the fact that you let this slide so many times.

You decide to leave the café, ignoring the sympathetic looks given your way. You take out your phone from your pocket once again, this time you didn't check the time but rather press on a familiar icon before making a call.

As you foot taps on the ground anxiously you wait for him to pick up the phone. You stand outside just a few inches away the café door, as you wait for what felt like an eternity all the emotions got to you.

Tears welled in your eyes, betraying the resilience you had tried so hard to maintain. Your emotions that were long kept in check, spilled over like a dam bursting at the seams. The phone continued to buzz, waiting for the other side to pick up.

The streetlamp cast a soft glow on your tear-streaked face as you lowered your phone, defeated by both the silence and the heartache. But just as the phone was about to go silent, by some miracle he picked up.

"Y/N?" For some odd reason hearing his voice made you have the urge to bawl your eyes out once again. You hastily wiped away your tears and attempted to sound nonchalant.

"Hey I uh.. I—" you paused, voice a delicate balance between composure and fragility. Sighing, you continued. "I got stood up."

Your words were short and blunt, but by now you were holding back a waterfall. You patiently wait for his answer over the deafening silence. "... Again? That boy.."

His voice was laced with annoyance, disappointment and concern.

"Where are you now? At the café? Stay right there, shit it's raining, make sure to stay under cover okay? I'll be there in about 10 minutes."

You could hear the sounds of him excusing himself from his boss and the angry cries from his boss.

"Aren't you at work though? It's okay you don't have to come pick me up."

"Are you crazy? So what if I'm at work? I'm not leaving you out there alone, plus it's raining. I know you hate having wet hair." Well, he wasn't lying. He was your childhood friend after all, he knew almost everything about you.

And before you knew it, just after a couple minutes of ending the call you noticed a figure making it's way towards you, umbrella in hand as he gives you a small smile. All the while rain was pouring down on your head.

is extremely happy that you finally realized that your boyfriend (soon to be ex) is horrible, he won't show it though. but he is really happy.

the first thing he did when he saw you absolutely drenched in the heavy downpour was take off his jacket and place it over your shoulders and hold the umbrella over your head. there were many questions he wanted to ask but the main one was "are you alright?"

yes he wanted to question about that damn lout (your boyfriend) but he already knew the answer. it happened too many times, way too many times. you and your boyfriend would agree to go on a date, you would arrive early or on time, you wouldn't get an answer from him when you questioned why he was late, minutes would turn into hours and then you would call him.

he wasn't mad at you, no never, but your (*cough* ex *couch*) boyfriend? absolutely. if anything he wanted to prove to you that he was a horrible boyfriend so he would always come to pick you up and try to knock some sense into your head, sometimes his words would go from one ear and out your other.

when you don't answer his question and begin to bawl your eyes out he immediately begins to panic, because you are crying hard. he only lets out a soft sigh before holding the back of your head and gently pushes your face in his chest, letting you cry into his chest. he softly pats your head in an attempt to comfort you (it does)

he resist the urge to say "i told you so" because, he did tell you so, but he knew it would only dampen your mood. he reassures and shushes you warmly, and his soft voice really does calm you down.

"shh, i know it's okay. you'll be fine. he is a big jackass alright? don't waste your pretty tears on him."

you both begin to walk together through the raining weather, he obviously doesn't want to see you cry so he offers to buy you your favourite snacks and drinks in a convenience store. you refuse, thinking that you already troubled him enough but NO he will not take no for an answer.

"trouble me? never."

and it worked!! your mood slightly lifted after chugging down your favourite packet of chips. in all honestly he found your puffy cheeks and eyes cute, the way your eyes glistened slightly from your tears, and the way you were chomping on your food? so adorable.

when you quietly thank him his heart bursts even more (like every other day he sees you) but he waves his hand, "it's nothing, sit down, lets talk."

why did he sound so scary? he would never know. when you both sit down on the ground, back pressed against the wall of a shop, he begins to question you. "you do realize that this is like the tenth time he stood you up right?" you nod your head sadly as you were reminded of what had happened.

he sighed, "i just want you to know that this.. you can't just forgive him after this, after all of this. he even forgot your anniversary! i'm.. i'm just worried for you. you know that?"

you knew he was only worrying for you and wanted the best for you. but despite all the other times that you would dismiss his worries and say "it's okay we all make mistakes" you really thought about it this time. and boy was he right.

do you know how ecstatic he was when you told him that you would break up with him!? HE WAS OVER THE MOON, he was literally on cloud 9. not that he could show it thought, you would be suspicious of him. but then again he has had the biggest and fattest crush on you since you were little.

but after that he tried his best to make you happier (even if he hated doing it), he would point out the most stupidest shit ever, "oh look at that squirrel, Y/N, doesn't it remind you of childe?" or "wow the uh, the light is really.. light'ing.."

sigh.. he's trying his best okay..

although it wasn't really funny, the way he spoke was most definenetly funny. when he notices how you hold back your laughter or even chuckle slightly that's just his motivation to do better, he would also tell you silly little jokes that he googled on his phone (while you were looking away) quickly.

buttt now he has an even better idea :) what is it you say? taking you out on a date of course! right now...? why not right now!

(please he's just really excited that you're going to break up with that old hag, meaning he has a shot!! he will definenetly give it his all to try and woo you.)

— ALHAITHAM, kaeya, WRIOTHESLEY, AYATO, dainsleif, NEUVILLETTE, CYNO, ZHONGLI, tighnari

starts scolding you and goes on a bit ass rant about how you deserve better than that (AND I QUOTE) "low life lout", he thinks he sounds all harsh and mean but to you he only sounds like he was really worried about you

"seriously, how many times does this boy have to repeat his actions until the truth gets through your thick noggin." he heaved a great sigh, a bit dramatic don't you think? he continues to rant and rant about blah blah blah you weren't listening. and only when he notices that tears are rolling down your cheeks freely does he shut the hell up.

"hey hey— what's wrong? don't cry.." he tries his best to act slightly annoyed because truly he kind of was, he hated seeing you hang out with your 'boyfriend', he hated seeing how your eyes would light up every time you saw him, the effort you put into your relationship, he hated how blind you were to his actions.

but, despite his tough outer shell he was really a softie inside. so when you began to bawls your eyes out (again) he immediately switches up, his voice that was so harsh was no soft and tender. a tone he barely uses (he only spoke nicely to you okay!!)

a sigh. "i didn't mean to be mean, i'm sorry. i'm just so annoyed that you keep on.. i don't know! i'm just frustrated okay." you were confused? why was he frustrated, shouldn't it be the other way around since.. you.. were the one being stood up?

he (surprisingly) wipes away your tears, cupping your cheeks with his hand as he uses his thumb to dry your tears. "i don't like seeing you cry, okay? follow me now" you were confused again, but follow him anyway.

he literally bought you back inside the café, the waiter looks happy and surprised (in her head she was thinking: wow so this is the fucker who stood his own girlfriend up?), when he was ordering your favourite pastry and drink he was really confused about why the lady was giving him such a dirty face.

"hey y/n, any idea why that lady over there is giving me a stank eye?"

he watches as you eat your food happily, he only hoped that you had forgotten what had happened before, not only that but he sees this as a way to show you that he would be a much better boyfriend, i mean look at him! he came (he would always come on time), memorized what your favourite snacks/pastries/drinks were, sat down with you. he wasn't trying to boast but.. he would make one hell of a boyfriend than your current one.

you noticed that he wasn't eating and just.. staring at you. "want some?" you offered, he shook his head no but you wouldn't take that for an answer. you shove a spoonful of cake in his mouth and smile happily. "yummy?" he only grumbles, looking like an angry cat. "mmm i guess.." (he really liked it please feed him more)

seeing you smile after bawling your eyes out and wasting your tears on somebody you didn't deserve felt like a treat. he also wipes the excess food and crumbs on the corner of your lips, he looked adorable when he was concentrating hard to wipe it off, and it wasn't like he was trying to be romantic as he wasn't maintaining eye contact, but when he backed away and looked at you and notices how you were smirking he scoffed.

"don't you get any ideas now." you giggled at his words and continued to eat your cake as well as occasionally feeding him as well. all you were thinking about was ow delicious the cake was but all he was thinking about was you. he was.. basically taking you out on a date. woah.

when you both exit the shop, you thank him for the food and also apologize for dragging him out here in the rain and how you got his hair wet. "yeah well yours is too. you can blame that asshole." he noticed how your face slightly drops, a solemn expression on your face.

"yeah.. i guess so." !?!?!?! you actually agreed with him?!?! HE WON AT LIFE WOOOOOOOOOOO

and now that you both are on the same terms he can finally talk to you about everything, but all the while he was explaining how he saw him (your soon to be ex) treat you, he couldn't help but also include his feelings. that's one thing you caught on.

"he forgot your anniversary, did you forget? i was absolutely frustrated! i mean at his actions, i mean his actions and him! i would never do that if i was your boyfriend. h—hypothetically."

you had a hunch that he had a thing for you, but not that big of a crush. maybe he was just really angry that he kept stumbling over his words?

either way, he told you what you should do you this time you listened, chiming in with your own experiences with your boyfriend and the more you did that the more you began to notice hoe you really looked past all his red flags.

safe to say he won at life, again, this time he won't pussy out on you and will for sure confess to you!

— WANDERER, XIAO, dottore, diluc, PIERRO, albedo

a bit... too giddy. willingly SHOWS and TELLS that he is happy. i mean not at you being stood up but how you're finally getting a grip, wait.. is than a "i'm going to break up with him" he heard?!?! GOD BLESS

he doesn't say anything at first, comforting you and drying your hair the very best he can (literally bought a book to dry your hair: swatting it), he lets you cry on his shoulder, letting you hug him tightly (not that he was complaining... oh did you just break his ribs? nah it's all good)

he lets you calm down first to the point where it's just hiccups rather than tears rolling down your cheeks (and when you could barely breathe by how you were choking on your tears), he holds you in his arms, rocking you slightly.

"okay, i don't want to sound.. rude but, i think it's time you start to notice how badly he's treating you. i mean, look at you, you're a mess (dare i say, a beautiful one), he made you feel this, he made you cry. and he isn't here to apologize. this isn't the first time too, y/n, i'm begging you, please don't look past this."

he tries his best to explain to you everything, what he saw, what he is doing to you, how he feels and how you feel (he knows everything shh). and you can't deny it, you won't, because everything he was telling you was true. and you hated how you couldn't deny anything.

he leaves you for a couple of minutes so that you could collect your thoughts and emotions while he went to go buy some snacks, especially some sweets and savory. "this should cheer you up" he says as he passes the plastic bag to you.

"oh wait i forgot to get some ramen, be right back!" you didn't have enough time to stop him as he was already on his way to grab a hot cup of ramen for you. he was just too sweet. when he came back with your favourite cup of ramen he would open the lid and blow onto it, he insisted on feeding you, saying that you must've been exhausted from today (but you barely did anything?)

you can't help but notice how... somewhat happy he was, normally when he comes after you call him (after being stood up once again) he seemed concerned for you, and he does look concerned for you, i mean he is always but today... he looked giddy. was it maybe because you said that you would be breaking up with your boyfriend today? so strange..

!!! not only that but he encourages you to break up with him, and he doesn't mean it like that, he just wants the best for you. and you obviously say yes because.. everything he is telling you IS true. next thing you know he's literally helping you write a sincere paragraph to your boyfriend on text.

"oh you should send a voice message as well, i think it'll really help him understand how serious you are."

you're too afraid to make a voice message? no worries, he'll do it for you!! he will send the most passive aggressive voice message know to man kind (he had to fight back the urge to yell obscenities over call). basically, this man is way too happy, not that it's suspicious or anything, just a little worrying LMAO

he's just really happy, happy for him and you! it's a win-win honestly. you finally get out of that toxic relationship and finally get a hold of reality, but also for him to finally get his chance to maybe try to confess to you. (one day... but he'll make sure to woo you sooner or later before someone else swoops you off your feet)

he's literally on his way to manifest for you two to be together, repeat after him, i don't chase, i attract (he literally chases after you so uhm forget about that please)

— THOMA, KAVEH, LYNEY, itto, gorou, KAZUHA, pantalone, heizou, VENTI, capitano, childe, baizhu

As the rain began to clear, only leaving behind a tranquil symphony of soft pitter-patters. You two stood next to each other, letting the silence take over.

All the while he was contemplating something, something that will change your relationship for the better or worse.

Should he kiss you?

For years he had always wanted to feel your lips against his but he was always so nervous to do so.

But right now? It was the perfect opportunity, the raining had almost cleared, the atmosphere was soft and romantic. If he didn't do it now then who knew how long it would take for him to build up his courage again?

All of the sudden he cupped your cheek with warm palms, the tenderness in his touch was evident even in the hesitant pause that hung in the air.

For a moment, uncertainty flickered in his eyes, a silent contemplation of unspoken desires. Was he really about to pussy out again?

You, for one, was a bit puzzled by the sudden shift in the atmosphere and his sudden actions. When your gaze met his with curiosity. In that fleeting moment, he knew he had to do it.

Even if it ruined everything he built up with you.

He muttered a breathless "fuck it," as if casting aside the weight of hesitation that tethered him, in a moment that felt like an eternity, he leaned in, eyes fluttering shut as he leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a passionate kiss that stole her breath away.

You were caught off guard, were you imagining this? No you couldn't be, it felt so real. Your heart raced with a mixture of surprise and delight. The kiss was passionate and full of raw emotion, igniting a fire within her that she was pressed so far down.

The softness of his lips against yours sent waves of tenderness through your body, and in that moment, your realized that this kiss was not just a spur-of-the-moment act; it was a reflection of the unspoken feelings that had been building between them for so long.

His touch was gentle yet filled with an underlying intensity, it was a kiss that sparked something, expressing all the words they had been too afraid to say.

You closed your eyes, allowing him to continue as your hands held onto his wrist. A couple of seconds passed by when he, unfortunately, pulled away—your eyes locked once again in a silent acknowledgment.

His eyes held such a fiery passion as you stared deeply into your eyes. He looked relieved as if finally taking initiative that had been weighing him down.

"I... But—" You were still left breathless as you spoke, you felt an underlying guilt, still not haven broken up with your boyfriend yet.

He understood what you were thinking and feeling, "look at me, Y/N." At his request you did so, observing his face and trying to guess what he was going to do next. Kiss you again? (Yes please)

"Forget him, be with me instead."

note: off to continue writing for my sagau now, this was more like a shitpost for the shits and giggles but aye

taglist: @tomansimp @one-offmind @miitchiji @dainsleif-when-playable @momoewn @stygianoir @irethepotato @v4an @imetsk @fiannee @sunnyf4lls if im missing anyone please tell me because i have an inkling feeling i missed a few..

liking + following + reblogs are very much appreciated!!!

another note: not proof read so if you found any spelling/grammar mistakes PLEASE tell me

[polarfarina]

Anybody else notice that YouTube's recommendations change based on what time of day it is

Like I listen to asmr to get to sleep at night but I never get asmr recommendations during the day, only after the sun has gone down when I usually watch/listen

[delusionsofgrandeur13]

CASUAL

is it casual? is it casual now?

chapter two and a half

NSFW. MINORS DNI.

tim drake x reader

series inspired by Casual by Chappell Roan

readers can expect: sexual acts (in a car) such as fingering, cunnilingus, sex in both cowgirl and missionary positions, cream pie, reader is on birth control, sort of edging, a bit of taunting in the dirty talk, use of 'sweetheart,' a repeat panty thief, tim mysteriously knowing where reader lives, blurry relationship lines. duh. happy reading!

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●

it’s almost a week later when…

your phone buzzes loudly on the bed from where you tossed it earlier.

“what the-”

incoming caller: drake

your clock reads 11:27 pm. you don’t pick up.

you have a test tomorrow. you have a pimple coming in on your cheek. you’re in your pajamas, for christ’s sake. no. you don’t pick up. 

and it’s not the first call of his you’ve ignored this week either. your phone log is littered with his name in a bright, angry red. you’ve been so strong. 

your phone buzzes again, just once this time. 

“come out.” 

….

what? 

you don’t remember ever giving tim your address. 

a peek out your window proves his presence, his sleek black car looming on the street outside of your house. it’s been a quiet night, your neighborhood soundtracked by the whirr of insects and the occasional car driving by. you let the curtain fall back into place, your feet doing a nervous shuffle as your brain moves 1,000 miles a minute. 

is he going to stay there until you come out? is he here to apologize, confess his undying love and devotion to you? you huff out a bitter laugh. fat chance. you’re not together.. but he figured out where you live? 

and he’s here. he showed up. at practically midnight, to….? to what? see you? 

he…wants to see you?

unfortunately that’s all it takes for you to shuffle into a pair of flip flops and head outside. 

“took you long enough.” his tone is dry, the glint in his eyes setting off a chill that travels up the length of your spine and back down several times over. 

he’s upset. 

“patience is a virtue, drake.” you squeeze out your reply, tucking your hands under your thighs. you squint out into the night, through the pristine windshield. settling back into the lush leather seat just reminds you again who you’re dealing with. 

“since when have i ever cared about virtue, sweetheart?” his finger finds your chin, nudging you over so you face him. his eyes are all over you, hungry. you laugh under your breath, rolling your eyes. what the fuck, right? 

“that’s right.” he replies, at your non-answer.

his lips are on yours, his arm is around your waist, he’s pulling you into the center console, pulling you closer to him. you kiss him back, a wave of anger and burning want cresting deep inside of you. you’re not together but he’s kissing you like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted. you bite his bottom lip, relishing the way he feels between your teeth. he moans into your mouth and your heartbeat pounds in your ears. what even is this for him? fun? a fuck and run? 

you run your fingers through the thick locks of his hair, pulling as his tongue swipes your clit again. he lifts his head to look at you as your legs jerk, waves of pleasure racking your body. 

“still mad, sweetheart?” the cocky smile he’s wearing makes you want to scream. you use your hands in his hair to pull him back down, trying to shut him up. tim works quickly, pulling you close to the edge, so so close, just to lean back again. he kisses the inside of your thighs, tender and sweet, but smiling at your frustrated groans. 

“drake.” 

“not convincing enough…you don’t seem like you want it that bad.” 

“tim,” you say, through gritted teeth. you’re so over his shit.

“hmm…” he teases your entrance with the pad of his middle finger. 

“timothy.” 

“that’s more like it.” he slides it in, pumping it once, twice, before adding his ring finger and curling them inside of you. 

you can’t reply, too focused on the way he’s slowly easing the burning ache between your legs into something bigger, something hotter. coaxing the flame into an inferno as pleasure has you arching your back and digging your nails into his bicep.

he releases the breath he was holding once he’s fully seated inside of you. 

you’re connected like a pair of puzzle pieces. his hand finds your hair, wrapping the length around his fist. he thrusts once, slowly, before almost pulling all the way back out. you whimper, hooking your heels behind his back. he pinches one of your thighs, making you squirm. 

he thrusts in again, hard, his hips slamming into yours. you moan out loud, completely involuntarily. the glint in his eyes is back, but you barely get a glimpse before he’s throwing his head back, groaning through his teeth. 

“made me wait, so, so long-” he cuts himself with a groan.

“it’s been a week, drake.” your reply is punctuated with his hand on your tit, squeezing, hard. 

“what, sweetheart?” he bites out, his facial features harsh in the low light.

“i-, tim,” your brows are knitted together in confusion, a frustrating swirl of emotions flooding your body. pleasure, hurt, frustration, want, need.

 his pace has slowed, and he’s bent low, right in your face. you lean forward, trying to kiss him, but he only lets you get so close before he’s pulling away. 

just out of reach. his pace picks up again and the friction has you sobbing, your toes curling as he teases your clit. his gaze is burning into yours, the pleasure building, growing, deep inside of you, threatening to take you all the way, push you over the edge, and you’re there, you’re—

tim stops, pulling all the way out. he shifts, his thighs spread as he leans back against the seats. he looks over at you. 

“you wanna take over for me?” except it’s not really a question. 

his eyes are unreadable. he’s acting nonchalant but you can feel the need rolling off of him in waves. 

you nod, your eyebrows furrowed. he’s being so weird. he shoots you a little half smile, using his thumb to smooth out the dents on between your brows. 

you’re straddling him, slowly easing down. tim’s hands are running up and down your thighs, his touch familiar. 

this is the first time he’s ever said anything about you on top. 

you in control. 

he’s already moved the front seats forward, so you have plenty of room.  

you move your hips, hesitant. tim moves further down, leaning back more. watching.

you find a rhythm that works for you, hits all the right spots. you’re gasping out, your hands roaming tim’s shoulders and neck as his sit on your waist.

his eyes are on you, obviously engrossed in your actions. he’s nodding, giving you his approval. the look in his eyes is almost..proud. little sounds escape from behind his gritted teeth, his fingers squeezing into the meat of your hips. you want to package them up and save them for later.

you’ve never seen him let go like this before. he is one for control, always. obviously in his every day life, and as you’ve learned, especially in bed.

he’s learned how your body reacts. pulling you accordingly, as if on a rope, hand over hand, to a precipice.​ to the finish line.

just to keep you away from it.

because he can.

tim’s so attentive, so sharp, so alert. never misses a thing. that’s why he’s not surprised when you stop, breathing hard. your hands cover your face. tim wants you on top and you can’t even deliver. but your core aches from working for your pleasure, your body growing weak from the repetition. 

“tim, i can’t-” you barely pant out the words before his hips are finishing the work yours couldn’t. your arms go around his neck while his fall into place easily. one looped around your back, the other gripping at your ass as he thrusts into you relentlessly. he gives it a slap, one that stings, sending a spark up your spine. 

“i got you, sweetheart,” he whispers into your ear, dark and breathy. “always so worried, huh?” 

you can hear the smug smile in his voice. he’s just showing off now, running his mouth and doing all the work.

“..so worried i won’t let you finish.” 

he leans you away from him, watching the way your tits bounce with heavy-lidded eyes. his thumb finds your clit easily, getting you back towards the edge he had pulled you away from so abruptly. you shudder and fall apart in his arms, tim pulling you close again to thrust until he’s finished too. he inhales harshly, once, before groaning loudly, his arms tight around your torso. his release fills you, burning hot as it mixes with your own. 

“needed that,” he grunts out. “..needed you.” 

you thread your hands through his messy hair, smiling down at him. he smiles back, it's small, barely a stretch of the lips, but he looks content. satisfied.

you giggle, shoving him off. “drake, i have a test in the morning!”

“so?” he pulls you back towards him, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your neck. 

“so, i’d like to pass it?”

“i can make a couple of calls.” his thumb bumps your clit, and it’s so, so sensitive, but you force yourself to ignore it. 

“wha-? timothy.” you extract yourself again, and he lets you this time. his lip is pouty, the swell of it just heightening the effect. you level a look at him, and he runs a hand through his hair, nodding. 

“okay, okay, fine, whatever. go.” 

you grab your flip flops, try to smooth your hair down. 

you stumble out of the car, his words following you:

“and sweetheart?” 

you turn, holding your breath. his cheeks are pink, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

“pick up when i call you.” 

you make it back inside, closing your bedroom door and leaning back against it. you clench your thighs together, the warmth between your legs threatening to drip down, down, down. 

you realize: you’re not wearing any underwear. 

fuck, drake, again?

god, you’d been so strong.

●

●○

●○●

●○●○

●○●○●

tim drake's fan club:

(taglist)

@dfgcbgdc @benditlikegumby93 @agent-nobody-knows @jaybunsblog @astermos-74 @ravenna-reid @borutoistrash1-blog @slut4animedilfs @nuggget-consumer-9000 @turtleturtleturtleturtleneck @hellishattempt @trashhighwaybird @sergeant-angels-trashcan @lilithskywalker @natsukicookies

●○●○●

●○●○

●○●

●○

●

[ssa-dado]

23 - Ethics

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, slow burn (though at this point, the ragù has been simmering so long it's practically ready to serve), hurt/comfort, miiiiiild angst Summary: Hotch somehow finds himself standing in the middle of a winter night, wearing a short-sleeved polo, all because you called (read: expertly manipulated) him into joining the team at the bar. He hadn’t wanted to come. And yet, between the past few weeks of damning evidence he’d been collecting against himself and the undeniable proof unfolding right in front of him, he’s just cracked the hardest case of the last ten years: his true feelings for you. Warnings: alcohol consumption, some cuss words here and there, mentions of what happens in 3x19 and case talk involving SA, Hotch steals a bite of your cheesecake Word Count: 16.6k Dado's Corner: This is the first part of the Act Two finale (yayyyy), the second part will be up in a few hours, as soon as I finish editing (and hunt down some S3 Hotch pics/gifs for the thumbnail - help a girl out if you’ve got any I can use in sequence like these two). Some details aren’t meant to be overlooked… and the same ones remain unresolved. Never trust an unfinished case

masterlist

In Stoic philosophy, ethics (ethikē) examines the principles of virtuous living, focusing on how individuals can align their actions and character with reason and nature, ultimately achieving a harmonious life.

For the Stoics, the pursuit of virtue was essential, emphasizing self-discipline, moral integrity, and the cultivation of wisdom to navigate life’s challenges.

The Stoics believed that apatheia - freedom from destructive emotions - was central to living virtuously. By cultivating rational detachment and understanding the nature of desires and fears, individuals could transcend emotional turmoil and align their inner state with the rational divine order (logos).

It was all your fault.

His fault, technically, for now being stuck in DC’s late-night traffic at 11 PM, singing - more like yelling - along to a mishmash CD he’d burned himself: everything from The Beatles to random musical soundtracks, and - he fully blamed the divorce for this one last addition - Taylor Swift.

But the rest? That blame fell squarely on you.

You, who’d managed to yank him out of his solitary cocoon with a single phone call - wielding the same authority he’d use to haul you out of your pajamas for a case at ungodly hours, except your urgent mission revolved around meeting the rest of the team at a bar.

“Come on, Aaron,” you’d insisted over the phone, timing impeccable as always - right after he’d swapped his work slacks for his own pajama pants. “You haven’t left your house in two weeks, it’s not healthy. The only social contact you’re getting is from serial killers and uncooperative detectives.”

And, apparently, a nagging life coach he didn’t remember hiring.

“Don’t forget Strauss,” he’d muttered, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Worse than psychopaths,” you’d quipped. “Do it for my peace of mind, please?” you’d added, with a note of genuine concern creeping in.

He was grateful this was all happening over the phone - you couldn’t enhance your request with those devastating puppy eyes he could imagine far too clearly.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back against the couch. “I’m fine. Really. Maybe next time.”

“Exact same words you told me last Friday,” you shot back without missing a beat. “Aaron, please, I’m on my knees here.”

He really did not want to picture it... too late.

“I’m already in my pajamas,” he replied cheeks blushed, hoping you’d give up - only for you to burst his eardrum with a deafening “OH!” that made him freeze.

“Rossi just texted me he’s coming too,” you pressed on, clearly not letting this go. “You have to be there. Derek is ovulating and will be glued to the dance floor. That leaves Rossi alone with Spencer. With alcohol. Aaron, alcohol. You don’t want Rossi to quit again do you?”

“Alright, alright, I get it,” he caved, already twisting the shower knobs. “I’ll be there.”

“You’re the best,” you cooed. “I’m texting you the address now. And, of course, the first round’s on me - my apology for so heartlessly interrupting your thrilling evening of pajamas and solitude.”

“Oh, you’re spoiling me,” he replied dryly, though the small smile tugging at his lips betrayed him - not that it had anything to do with you, of course. “Bye, see you soon.”

“See you!” you chirped brightly, and just before the call ended, you added with a playful, heartfelt, “I love you, bye!”

He told himself the reason his heart skipped - not one, but two beats - was because the shower water was still running, and the bill would be astronomical if he didn’t get in soon.

Yet, it still took him a minute to step into the shower and another ten to wipe the ridiculous, boyish smile off his face.

Details. Minuscule, insignificant details.

As insignificant as the fact that, even though he’d wanted nothing more than to stay in, he ended up taking his sweet time getting ready, using a little less gel in his hair and swapping out his usual zip-up for a black polo that fit just a little too well. Short-sleeved too.

And now, here he was, stuck in traffic - less than usual, but still traffic - drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, singing his heart out to a soundtrack from a musical.

Not 70s rock. Not The Beatles.

Loud enough to rattle the windows, his voice carrying the tune with no regard for key or pitch.

For once, he didn’t care. Not about his hair, ruined by the head-bobbing, or his volume, which would mortify him in any other context. He was too caught up in the rare freedom of it all, the raw, unfiltered honesty of being alone in his car.

And by the time Aaron stepped into the bar, the scene was exactly as he’d expected - or, more accurately, exactly as you’d described it during your excruciatingly persuasive phone call.

On his left, Penelope and Emily were swaying to the music, drinks in hand, throwing occasional glances at Derek, who was - using your precise words - ovulating on the dancefloor. Aaron could barely make him out through the crowd of women gathered around him.

But his eyes didn’t linger there.

They found you quickly - though apparently, it took you even less time to spot him because you were already standing up from your seat and waving with a smile so warm it made the crowded bar feel a little less suffocating.

From the moment he saw you, Aaron couldn’t decide whether to be grateful you’d dragged him out of bed or curse you for subjecting him to the sight of you in that dress - without so much as a warning.

It seemed to conspire with the dim bar lights, luring his gaze far too easily to every curve it chose to flaunt or hide just enough to drive him mad.

He told himself he was just trying to figure out the color - that was the only reason his eyes lingered, surely, to where the hem flirted with the middle of your thigh, hovering just close enough to tempt but never quite touching because, unlike his thoughts, your dress had boundaries.

Or why he felt a flicker of embarrassment - no, mortification - when his gaze, against every ounce of his better judgment, dropped to the necklace you always wore.

Somehow, today, it looked… different. Distracting. Suddenly worthy of deep, thorough analysis.

And by deep, he meant he’d probably memorized the exact number of loops in the chain, the way they caught the light, the faint sway against your skin… not that he was staring.

It wasn’t the faint curve of your collarbone the chain rested against that caught his attention.

Definitely not.

And it wasn’t the faintest suggestion of cleavage beneath it that made his mouth go dry.

Absolutely not.

No, clearly, this was about something else. Something important. Pressing. Like… the chain itself. Yeah. It was just a nice chain. Very symmetrical. Perfect craftsmanship, really.

At least, that’s what he told himself, and maybe it was time to move on. His mind should’ve been occupied with something else, anything else. Like… murder investigations. Team dynamics. Bureau politics. You know, actual priorities.

Except, wait. The color of your dress.

Right. That.

He hadn’t quite cracked it yet. What a coincidence. Probably worth another look.

Maybe two.

By the time he reached the booth where you sat with Spencer and Rossi, he was proud - no, smug - to say that he could, with almost scientific certainty, declare that the dress was black. Definitely black.

Just to confirm it wasn’t some tricky, dark navy blue, he stole another glance.

Maybe two, again.

...Nope. Black. Absolutely, positively black.

“Grazie a Dio, Aaron, you’re here!” Rossi groaned the moment Aaron reached the table, grabbing his face with both hands like a long-lost relative and planting two theatrical kisses on his cheeks, Italian style.

Aaron barely flinched, turning toward you instead. He didn’t even think about it, his eyes just started seeking yours like a reflex, searching for the one person who could make the absurdity of this greeting feel even remotely bearable.

And there you were.

Your eyes met his before he could even fully look, as though you’d been waiting for it.

The twitch of your lips, the teasing sympathy in your smile, was all it took to push him to the brink of laughter.

He caught himself, barely. It wasn’t supposed to be this funny, but somehow, it was.

Rossi patted Aaron’s shoulder, as if testing whether he was truly there to save him or just another hallucination brought on by sheer desperation. “If I hear one more random fact from this drunk kid,” Rossi said, gesturing toward Spencer, who was slumped in the booth, cheeks flushed and waving sloppily in Aaron’s direction, “I’m going to throw myself in the fryer.”

“Are you alright, Reid?” he asked cautiously as he slid into the seat next to yours. You shifted slightly to make room, your knee brushing his in a way he tried very hard not to notice.

“Alright?!” Spencer giggled, eyes wide with unrestrained glee. “Phenomenal!”

Then, without missing a beat, he turned to Rossi, leaning in with an exaggerated wobble. “Ooooooooooh, Rossi, speaking of drinking - did you know that the concept of 'drinking to get drunk' is a uniquely modern phenomenon? In Ancient Greece - hic - they diluted their wine with water. If you drank it undiluted, you were considered barbaric. So technically - hic - we’re all barbarians right now. Except for you, Hotch! You…you just arrived.”

Aaron stared, his lips pressing into a flat line to suppress a laugh. Phenomenal. Sure, that’s one word for it.

“How many drinks did he have?” Aaron asked, glancing sideways as he felt your arm brush his.

“Technically one,” you replied with a pitying smile that somehow made his chest feel both lighter and tighter at the same time.

Aaron raised a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s impossible. How did-”

You cut him off, leaning in closer, resting your elbow lightly on his shoulder, your breath brushing his ear as you spoke. “He just wanted to loosen up a bit… Derek told him his mission tonight was to ‘find him some.’”

You paused to take a look at his reaction, pulling back just slightly, which made him instinctively turn toward you.

He hadn’t realized how little space you’d left until your noses touched… fuck.

“…And he got nervous,” you continued back in his ear, as though the proximity hadn’t left you as flustered as it had him. “So he ordered the cocktail that, according to his ‘scientific and cultural data,’ had the least amount of alcohol.”

Aaron turned his head just enough to speak, the movement brushing his nose against yours again. “Well, he’s more than just loose.” The corner of his mouth twitched into the faintest smirk, though his pulse was anything but steady.

He half-expected you to pull away now, to laugh and break whatever spell was weaving between you. But you didn’t. If anything, you seemed just as still, as if you hadn’t noticed - or didn’t mind - how close you were.

“Let’s just say the bartender was very generous with the vodka,” you said softly, your hand patting his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Except it wasn’t.

Your touch burned in a way that felt entirely unfair.

“So, uh… here we are.” You said, finally pulling back from him.

Your eyes met, holding for just a moment longer than necessary, the bar suddenly so quiet he swore he could hear his pupils dilate. “Don’t worry, he ate all of mine and Rossi’s fries. He’ll hopefully sober up soon.”

“Did you know, Hotch,” Spencer slurred, his voice brimming with childlike enthusiasm, “that your brain processes alcohol at an average rate of one standard drink per hour? But genetics, age, and body mass - hic - can totally change that. You might process it slower because you’re, uh…” He squinted, his face scrunching in concentration. “Old.”

The look Aaron shot him was enough to make even a tipsy genius backtrack immediately. Spencer immediately flailed into damage control, his hands waving erratically. “Older! Older…er!” he stammered, his voice pitching higher in panic. “Like, statistically, your metabolism is probably, um, slowing down a tiny bit. Nothing drastic! Just, you know, the natural process of… life.”

Sure, ‘popular…lar’.

Aaron arched an eyebrow. “Fascinating, Reid. Anything else you’d like to analyze?”

Spencer, who barely understood sarcasm when sober, let alone in his current state, widened his eyes, thinking Aaron had actually prompted him to elaborate for once. “You know… there’s this thing called nonverbal communication. It’s like… 60-65% of all human communication. And yooooou’re… you’re doing a lot of it right now, Hotch.”

Aaron froze, his brow furrowing. “What are you talking about, Reid?”

Spencer tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned forward. “With the professor! It’s fascinating!” he insisted, now fully in observation mode. “The eye contact! Did you know prolonged eye contact – hic - increases oxytocin levels? That – by the way – it’s also called the cuddle hormone. It’s sooooo cool. Your brain could actually be tricked into thinking you’re falling in lo-”

“Spencer,” you interrupted, your voice pitched higher than usual, “I think it’s time for more fries. Want to come with me?”

Before he could even reply, you grabbed Spencer’s arm and practically hauled him out of the booth, your pace hurried enough to suggest you weren’t about to take no for an answer. As you reached the edge of the table, you glanced over your shoulder, your eyes landing on Aaron. “Aaron, want a beer too?”

“Yes, thanks,” Aaron replied automatically, already beginning to rise from his seat.

But you stopped him with a light press of your hand to his shoulder, the touch so casual, so natural, that it sent his brain skidding into a corner. “No, no,” you said quickly, “you stay here. You and Rossi can… talk about that sport where 22 grown men chase a ball around for 90 minutes.”

...Soccer?!

Aaron didn’t want to be left alone with Rossi.

By the way the older man was already giving him that look - the one that made him feel both exposed and deeply irritated - it was obvious Rossi had no intention of letting him off easy. It didn’t help that you were still standing there, waiting for him to respond while his thoughts were stuck looping around the fact that your hand had just been on his shoulder.

“Soccer?” Aaron asked finally, arching a brow in an attempt at nonchalance.

“Yes, that,” you said, flashing a quick smile before turning toward the bar. As you walked away, dragging a wobbly Spencer under your arm, you threw a mischievous glance over your shoulder at Rossi. “I heard someone’s favorite team didn’t qualify for the Champions League semifinals.”

And just like that, you were gone.

Rossi shook his head, swirling the last of his bourbon with a smirk. “Cheeky.”

The best. How someone like you even existed, Aaron had no idea. And how lucky he was - unreasonably, undeservedly lucky - to share the same earth, the same air, the same fleeting moments as you.

“She’s relentless,” Aaron replied, his tone carefully neutral, though by the smitten look he had on his face he certainly wasn’t fooling anyone - not Rossi, but hopefully still himself.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Rossi quipped. “Relentless suits her. Works on you, clearly.”

He started stroking the side of his index finger with his thumb - an unconscious habit he was positive Rossi had already clocked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means she’s the only one who could drag you out of the house tonight, and we both know it,” Rossi said, tapping his fingers lightly on the edge of his glass.

Amazing. Subtlety, as usual, was nowhere on Rossi’s game plan.

Aaron shot him a warning look, but Rossi, as always, pressed on. “The rest of us have been trying to get you to come out for weeks, and you’ve shot us down every time. But her?” He nodded toward the bar, where you were now laughing at something Spencer said - or, God help him, did. “One phone call, and here you are.”

Aaron clenched his jaw. He’d shut you down before. Several times, in fact… and every single time, he’d felt guilty about it. He’d almost called you back afterward, too – almost though.

“She caught me at the right time,” he said finally, his tone flat, though his thumb hadn’t stopped brushing against his index finger. He kept his focus on the fake wood grain of the table, pretending it was infinitely more interesting than Rossi’s smug expression.

Right time. Sure. That’s what it was. A half-truth was still technically a truth.

And yet, before he could stop himself, his gaze lifted toward the crowd, scanning the bar until he found what he was looking for… not you. Definitely not you.

He was just… checking if Derek had started one of his signature dance moves yet. That was it. Because it wasn’t a night out until Derek was doing the spin or the body roll. Just keeping tabs on his team. Responsible leadership and all that.

With the very corner of his eye, maybe, he caught a glimpse of you at the bar. Pure coincidence. A side effect of good peripheral vision.

Rossi snorted beside him. Aaron didn’t need to look to know the man had caught him mid-definitely-not-checking-on-you “Sure kid,” Rossi said, his tone dripping with disbelief. “Did she also catch you at the right time when you casually decided that tonight was the night to show off those biceps you’ve been hiding under your button-downs all winter.”

Aaron shook his head, exhaling sharply. “You’re reading too much into this.”

“Am I?” Rossi countered, his grin softening into something closer to understanding. “Or are you just trying too hard to pretend you don’t feel anything for her?”

Aaron didn’t respond, just tensed, jaw tightening as he reached for his glass of water - the one you had left for him before he even got here, because you knew his throat tended to go dry after car rides. Weren’t you just the most thoughtful person on the planet?

He took a slow sip, pointedly avoiding Rossi’s gaze.

“How long are you planning to keep this up?” Rossi continued, his voice gentler now, though still laced with exasperation. “It’s already been ten years, Aaron.”

Oh, fantastic.

Ten years.

Thanks for the reminder, Dave.

Of course, he knew. He’d been planning to ask you to dinner to mark the milestone, even going so far as to dial your number - only to chicken out halfway through because, heaven forbid, you might think it was something more.

Actually, scratch that - he wasn’t just afraid you’d think it was something more; he was terrified you’d reject the idea that it could be something more and vanish from his life entirely. Because, you know, losing ten years of friendship over one misstep made perfect sense.

So here he was: milestone uncelebrated, phone call abandoned, still trying to think of a way to commemorate the occasion without it coming off as a grand romantic gesture.

Devious? Maybe.

Necessary? Absolutely.

Likely to end in disaster? Well, that was the theme of the decade, wasn’t it?!

Aaron froze for half a second, his grip tightening on the glass. “It hasn’t been a decade.”

Rossi arched an eyebrow. “Oh, no? She walked into the BAU ten years ago. Sat down at that desk right in front of yours. And you’ve been looking at her the exact same way ever since.”

“That’s not true,” Aaron said quietly, though even he could hear the lack of conviction in his voice.

Rossi leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his tone softening further. “Aaron, you might be fooling the others, but not me. So, what is it? Why are you holding back?”

Aaron sighed, setting the glass down. “Because it’s complicated, Dave. You know that. She’s… she deserves better than this. Better than me.”

Forty-two - just old enough for the years to start showing. A single father who barely saw his son once a week. Divorced. Obsessed with his job. Exhausted. Guarded. Haunted. Broken. Your boss.

Rossi hummed, sitting back again. “And you think ignoring how you feel is what’s best for her?”

Aaron didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the table - locked in, really, to the point where he was actively analyzing the artificial wood grain, bitter.

Years of progress in manufacturing, and they still couldn’t make it look real… oh. Rossi was staring at him.

“I get it,” Rossi said after a moment, his tone softer now. “You’ve been through hell, and I know you don’t want to risk losing her if you take the big step. But the way I see it, you’re already losing her - piece by piece - every time you convince yourself to keep quiet.”

Aaron’s shoulders stiffened, his jaw tightening as his fingers curled tighter around his glass.

“Don’t overthink it, kid. Just… stop fighting it.” Rossi added, his voice almost gentle. “Before you let another ten years slip by. And maybe think about telling her the truth about what happened two weeks ago.”

Aaron’s eyes snapped back to Rossi, his posture stiffening instantly. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on,” Rossi said, feigning exasperation. “You don’t think I know about the Rocher interrogation? The trip up to Riverhead to pick her up? Whatever that was?”

Aaron’s jaw tightened, his mind flashing back to the moment—standing in your doorway, the look of confusion and sleep still etched into your features.

“She told you about that?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

“She didn’t need to,” Rossi replied. “I saw the way you were when you got back. The way you looked at her. Like you’d been reminded all over again why you feel the way you do.” He leaned forward, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “So, what happened?”

Aaron hesitated, his throat tightening. “Nothing happened.”

Exibit A: Gregory Rocher ☆ ★

You loved your job.

Maybe if you kept repeating that to yourself, the phrase would eventually trick your brain into ignoring the fact that your phone was ringing before sunrise - on your day off, no less.

“What do you want?” you grumbled, your voice still thick with sleep, raspy enough that you secretly hoped Hotch might mistake you for someone else and end the call.

“I need you.” His voice was steady, firm, and yet his choice of words couldn’t have been more… devious.

Anyways, you loved your job.

You loved how it gave you a hero’s excuse to avoid your mom’s bland Christmas dinner, complete with undercooked turkey and her interrogation about why you’d dropped the engagement to “one of her most brilliant students.” A student who, coincidentally, had also been the most pompous ass you’d ever met.

But you didn’t love being summoned at four in the morning.

“At four in the morning?” you shot back, your inhibitions still fast asleep, leaving your attitude free to roam - hopefully not too much, or he’d start comparing you to Rossi. “I’m in Riverside, Hotch. It’s going to take-”

Six hours.

It was going to take six hours to get to Washington, assuming the traffic gods were merciful and you magically developed the ability to teleport into clothes instead of the mismatched pajamas you were currently wearing.

“I’m coming to get you,” he cut in, his voice sharp and decisive. “You have one hour.”

You had never been more awake in your life.

He didn’t tell you why it would only take him an hour - because he wasn’t driving from D.C. That would’ve meant he left at 11 PM, and surely Aaron Hotchner had better things to do with his evening at that specific time.

No, he wasn’t in Washington. He was driving from New York. Specifically, Long Island City. Kate’s apartment.

Not that he’d ever tell you that. Heaven forbid you learn he was starting to see someone after the divorce. It wasn’t like it mattered or it was a big deal - according to him, anyway.

Instead, you were treated to updates about Jack’s latest obsession with olives - because that, of course, was vital information. Why? Because Jack’s father lived in constant fear he’d choke on one.

“What? Did you even sleep? What time did you even get out of your apa-”

Ten minutes ago, but of course, he wasn’t about to admit that. Still, you weren’t wrong - he hadn’t slept.

“I’ll wait for you outside your door,” he said briskly, his voice as clipped as ever. “Be quick.” And just like that, he hung up.

You loved your job.

You loved that your boss was such a gentleman to pick you up himself, unprompted, at four in the morning - truly, the epitome of chivalry.

You’d have to thank him for his thoughtfulness by offering him one of your mom’s infamous homemade Christmas cookies, knowing full well they could double as blunt-force weapons. The image of him trying to bite into one, only to realize he’d underestimated the hardness scale of baked goods, was enough to make the early wake-up call almost worth it.

He needed you? Well, you needed to see the look on his face when reality - and your mother’s culinary prowess - hit him square in the teeth.

You loved that he didn’t even bother to tell you what this was about. Instead, you were stuck in the passenger seat of his car, trapped in the limbo of the unknown for the next hour, trying to decipher if whatever he “needed” from you would require leaving an apologetic note for your mother.

Not that you cared what she thought - though her constant jabs at your career choices were getting painfully unoriginal. At the very least, you’d be giving her some fresh material to work with.

Instead, Hotch figured that shoving the file of one of the country’s most prolific serial killers into your lap would save him from enduring your commentary on the sheer absurdity of the situation.

The situation being, of course, that he’d let himself take advice from your nosy, wise-beyond-her-years neighbor Mrs. Lee. And maybe, she was right. Maybe there was something wrong with him.

Because it wasn’t just the big things, it was the smallest things that sent him spiraling. Like how his heart raced every time you walked into the bullpen, the way he couldn’t stop himself from stealing glances, or - God help him - the fact that he caught himself smiling like an idiot just because you’d shown up wearing a brand-new shirt.

It wasn’t rational.

It wasn’t like him to feel this way, to lose focus over something so mundane, to feel his chest tighten when you were around as if the very air you breathed was somehow different from everyone else’s. He was better than this.

He had to be.

It wasn’t because of feelings.

Of course not.

That would be ridiculous.

It wasn’t because he’d look for you in every room, or because he felt lighter when your laugh broke through the tension of yet another exhausting day. No, it wasn’t that.

It was something simpler, more primal, more explainable. Something like the fact that it had been far too long since anyone had touched him - not a handshake, not a brush on the shoulder, not anything. That’s what it was.

It wasn’t that he was unraveling because it was you. No, it was the absence of human contact.

The way it made every small gesture you threw his way feel magnified a hundredfold, leaving him raw and exposed.

It was about sex. Plain and simple.

That’s why he’d started cancelling on the team’s weekend plans. Not because he was rotting away in solitude, staring at the four walls of his house. No, it was because he’d started spending those mornings in someone else’s bed.

Kate. Quiet, predictable, uncomplicated Kate.

It was funny how, when he woke up in her bed, the ceilings always looked the same. For a brief moment, his mind would trick him, letting him believe he was back in his old house and Haley was still sleeping on his chest.

But some mornings, his mind played crueler tricks. Some mornings, it made him think it was your ceiling. That it was you shifting closer to him in the sheets, your arm brushing his as you searched for warmth.

Of course, it wasn’t you.

It could never be you.

Kate barely talked, and when she did, it was only about the job. That was fine. They didn’t need to talk. They didn’t have the time, and, frankly, they didn’t have the desire. They had better things to do.

And it worked.

It worked because now he didn’t unravel when your hands brushed his. He didn’t falter when you and he sat far too close at yet another precinct, staring at yet another case board. He didn’t catch himself lingering when he leaned over you, his arm brushing against your legs as he reached for the markers on your side of the table.

It worked because he could tell himself none of it mattered anymore. At least, that’s what he kept trying to convince himself.

Because if it wasn’t just about touch, if it wasn’t just the absence of connection, if it was something deeper, something more dangerous - then it would destroy him. And he couldn’t let that happen. Not again. Not with you.

“I assume you brought coffee,” you teased, rubbing your hands together for warmth as you slid into the passenger seat.

Without a word, Hotch reached into the cupholder and handed you a steaming cup, his fingers brushing yours briefly.

“Oh, you truly are the love of my life,” you joked, taking a noisy sip. It was perfect - exactly how you liked it, without even have to tell him.

Hotch instead stayed silent, focusing on the road ahead, more intense than usual.

Why did your words ache and swell in him at the same time? They were a joke - of course, they were a joke. You hadn’t meant anything by them.

But the quiet of the early morning, the faint glow of the first rays of sunlight spilling over the horizon… it amplified everything.

That it was just the two of you.

Alone in his car.

You were clearly dressed for work, but the early hour lent the kind of casualness that felt almost disarming. Like this wasn’t a job, but a road trip. No one else on the road, the occasional twinkle of Christmas lights still flickering from the houses you passed.

You broke into the infamous tin of cookies, offering him one like it was some peace treaty. He took it reluctantly and discovered that, when drowned in coffee, they were… tolerable. Barely.

It was warm, but not the warmth of coffee. Not the air conditioning humming in the car. Definitely not the double layers of undershirts he was wearing.

It was you.

You were a kind of warmth he didn’t know how to define. It was in the way your eyes lit up as you gazed out the window at the familiar landscapes of your childhood, pointing out places he hadn’t thought twice about. To him, they were just small-town markers: a gas station here, a church there, but you narrated them with the same enthusiasm his son had when describing his favorite superheroes.

Would you have been this close if he’d met you before? Like… when you were six?

Oh. Right.

He’d been eighteen then - one of the top students at GWU, buried under a mountain of coursework and juggling internships. Those days felt like a lifetime ago, nothing more than a distant blur. The only tangible reminder of that chapter was an old t-shirt he hadn’t laid eyes on in years.

And you? At six, you were probably busy mastering your third language – because everyone on this Earth knows 3 languages fluently at that age - and putting everyone else in your class to shame. Basically what you still did nowadays. Especially with Morgan.

Twelve years of age difference. Yeah.

On second thought, this whole scenario was horrifying. He’d have been a stressed-out college freshman, and you’d have been… what? Some tiny, smug, baby genius correcting his grammar with crayon-stained fingers?

Absolutely not. Forget he even thought about it.

And so he reached behind his seat, pulling out the file. The reason - the only reason - you were in the passenger seat beside him. Not because he needed an excuse to spend time with you. Definitely not.

Gregory Rocher.

This wasn’t a road trip. This wasn’t casual. This was work.

Your fingers hesitated before flipping the file open. “What’s this about?” you asked.

“Rocher claims there are more bodies,” Hotch said, his voice steady, but slightly tense. “He’s asking for a meeting.”

Rocher wasn’t just prolific - he was vile. His victims - women, all of them - had been strangled, violated, and discarded like garbage. Classic misogynist.

Unsurprisingly, you remembered the case as if you’d been there yourself. Hotch had made sure of that. It was one of the first unsubs he’d caught without you, and clearly, he hadn’t been handling it well.

The letters he’d sent about it read less like updates and more like a full-blown PhD thesis, packed with so many details you half-expected an appendix and a bibliography. It had been his way of coping, drowning you in enough information to make it feel like you were right there with him.

Sweet, when you first received them.

Almost sweet, looking back now.

My dearest, philosopher,

I miss you. Though I’m told this is a natural side effect of tolerating someone for so long, I can’t say I approve.

My new partner snores. Loudly. I’m fairly certain the sound violates several Geneva Conventions, but HR disagrees. He also insists on “bonding” over lunch, which I suspect is a euphemism for wasting my time.

It’s strange solving cases without you. This one - a nightmare of strangulations and discarded lives - had me up for nights. If you’d been here, I might have slept more. Or less. Let’s be honest, knowing us, probably less. But at least you’d have been there with some infuriating insight, turning the whole thing into a metaphor for humanity’s collective failings. You’d have annoyed me. And, somehow, made it better.

I hope Europe is treating you well. It better be extraordinary, or I’ll have to take issue with an entire continent. Write back soon, if only to remind me there’s someone out there who can still hold an intelligent conversation. Until then, I’ll just keep surviving this... barely.

Take care of yourself. I mean it.

Yours,

Aaron.

And if at the time, the sentence for Rocher was life without parole, recently, the courts had upgraded it to the death penalty. That change sparked all kinds of debates - within the team, the system, everywhere. Rocher didn’t care, though. He never cared.

He’d been taunting the justice system since the day they locked him up, and now, with his execution looming, he was claiming there were more victims. His final power play.

What always stuck with you, though - what made your skin crawl - was how he didn’t flinch when they handed down the death sentence. Not a twitch, not even in his eyes, no tremble in his hands, not even a flicker in his gaze. He gave no one the satisfaction of seeing a monster come undone.

You’d called that apatheia.

The Stoics had this concept, this ideal state of being, where you freed yourself from destructive emotions - excessive anger, fear, grief, or pleasure. Apatheia wasn’t about feeling nothing, but about staying so unshaken by success or failure, by fortune or tragedy, that you became untouchable.

That was Rocher. Or at least, that was the face he wore - unbothered, calm.

It was twisted, wasn’t it? The same man who had committed his murders in explosions of emotion, drowning in irrationality, now stood there in coldness.

And yet, maybe that was what had made him so dangerous - even in death, even at the mercy of a system he couldn’t control, he had still tried to grab the reins, to steer the narrative.

Requesting that interview? That had been his final-

Wait was that…

“Why’d you stop?” Hotch’s voice broke through the quiet of the car, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror before he turned his head slightly, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“I-” You faltered, your thoughts scattering as you noticed the faint curve of his lips. “You were smiling.”

“Was I? Really?” His brows lifted slightly, genuinely surprised.

His hands tightened just a fraction on the wheel, barely noticeable - just like the subtle flush creeping up his neck, blooming beneath the collar of his shirt.

That man was so ridiculously easy to fluster, which would’ve been endlessly entertaining if he didn’t immediately cut your fun short by pivoting to “important matters.” Suddenly, it was all about interrogation tactics and the riveting nuances of Rocher’s profile.

As if you hadn’t already skimmed the backstory a dozen times while he nitpicked through mock-interrogation scenarios like this was some FBI debate club. Really, your boss truly did suck.

Because by the time he’d finished dissecting every possible angle, there were still two hours left to endure… now what Unit Chief?!

“How’s your mother?” Hotch asked suddenly, his voice so soft it almost sounded like he was apologizing for bringing it up.

“Oh, she’s fine,” you said, waving a hand dismissively. “In less than five minutes after I got there, we’d already hit the classics: worrying about my job, reminiscing about my failed engagement, and of course, lecturing me about how I don’t visit often enough. Because, you know, even when she’s not working, she’s still a professor.”

Hotch’s lips twitched, a near-smile that quickly faded. You’d told him about her before - how she was relentless, how she’d shaped you into the person you were today, constantly pushing you to know more, achieve more. And in the end, it worked, true.

On the surface, you always joked about it, like it was no big deal – even now. But he knew better. He knew what you meant when you said things like that – that if you ever stepped outside her carefully crafted expectations, you weren’t enough for her.

And while you’d perfected the art of shrugging off her comments, throwing back one of your usual biting remarks to dismantle her criticisms, he was sure it wasn’t that simple. He’d seen the way they lingered, even if you didn’t realize it yourself… you wouldn’t bring it up if it didn’t sting not even a little, right?

Or maybe that was just him being overly perceptive. Or worse - overprotective.

Him? Overprotective about you? No. He was just… looking out for you.

Like an older sibling would. A sibling who, admittedly, sometimes let his imagination wander into places it shouldn’t.

“Of course… I’m guessing you handled it with your usual grace,” he said dryly, already bracing himself for whatever sharp response you had locked and loaded. When it came to the things that came out of your mouth, “grace” was often a loose interpretation at best.

“By ‘grace’ - do you mean biting my tongue to avoid commenting on the absolutely astounding leap she made from talking about biologically cultivated vegetables to my ‘biological clock’? Then yes, Aaron. Loads of grace.”

Hotch let out a huff of air, something caught between a sigh and a laugh, shaking his head. “Why does she still press you like that?”

After all, you were in your thirties, with more degrees and certifications than he had fingers on one hand. You were financially independent, had built a career that people admired, and, honestly, you were the most incredible woman he’d ever met.

One of the most. You were a great friend. An invaluable colleague. An efficient subordinate. Subordinate.

Because he was your boss. And you were off-lim-

“I think she’s just bored,” you continued, glancing out the window at the passing scenery. “She’s semi-retired, her favorite golden boy student turned out to be a disaster, and I’m not exactly giving her grandkids to micromanage. So, she channels all that leftover energy into reminding me, repeatedly, of my poor life choices.”

“They’re anything but poor choices,” he said firmly. “Do you know how many agents I walked through the BAU last month because of a certain professor who inspired them so much they decided this was a career worth pursuing?”

You blinked, caught off guard. Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you turned your gaze out the window, shrugging in an effort to downplay his words. “Could’ve been anyone. Not necessarily me.”

"After the fifth one in a row quoted Plato at me when I asked them why they wanted to be a profiler, I’m positive they got that from you." He countered.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re just trying to cheer me up because you had the nerve to call me at 4 a.m. to help you interview a psychopath.”

“If that were true, I’d have said something much more flattering," he said, too offhandedly, like it wasn’t even something he had to think about.

You arched a brow, your lips curving into a smirk. “Such as?”

He shot you a brief glance, raising an eyebrow, having already profiled your blatant attempt at fishing for compliments. "Nice try, s-"

He bit his lip just in time.

“Oh, come on,” you pressed. “This is a safe space, it’s just the two of us. You can let it out.”

"You really think I’m going to fall for that?" He shook his head, praying to every deity ever worshiped by mankind that you weren’t referring to what had been seconds away from slipping past his lips.

“Fall for what?” you asked, all wide-eyed innocence. “My charm?”

Hotch chuckled, his eyes still focused on the road ahead, even though his fingers were tapping idly against the steering wheel. “Much more than your charm.”

Much more?

Weird.

Very weird.

And it wasn’t the only thing off about him that day. It got progressively more odd, more noticeable, especially when you were both sitting across from Gregory Rocher.

He had personally requested to speak with Hotch, insisting he would only cooperate with him. That wasn’t surprising. What was surprising - at least to Hotch - was that the moment you both stepped into the room, it was you Rocher greeted first.

“Oh, that’s the teacher?” he said sheepishly.

Before you could react, before you could even fully register the recognition in his tone, Hotch was already stepping in front of you, his arm coming up instinctively, shielding you.

“It’s professor,” he corrected, his voice flat and deadly. “Sit back down.”

And Rocher obeyed.

But his wording stuck with you, even as Hotch launched into the preliminary questions. Teacher - not agent, not even professor. Strange.

You didn’t have time to dwell on it. Rocher wasn’t going to give up the location of the extra body without a performance, dragging you both into whatever twisted fantasy he had planned - a game of control. No surprise there. You had prepared for this. Over-prepared, maybe. If only Hotch were sticking to the damn script.

Because the moment Rocher’s focus landed on you - his gaze drifting back to you more than once, even while Hotch was speaking - the Unit Chief shifted. He started talking more, cutting in faster, interrupting where he normally wouldn’t.

And Rocher noticed.

“How is it like to work with someone like him?” he asked you, slipping the question in the middle of detailing location specifics, as if he wasn’t aware of what he was doing.

Hotch barely let you breathe before biting back, “Don’t waste our time, Rocher.”

“See?” Rocher grinned. “Isn’t he way too controlling?”

Funny, coming from a man who strangled twenty-seven women with his bare hands.

You exhaled slowly, refusing to take the bait. “Where’s the body?”

But Rocher was enjoying himself now, stretching out as much time as he could, his focus was more on how the two of you were conducting the interrogation rather than the questions themselves. “She’s completely different from you, Agent Hotchner,” he mused, again, completely ignoring your question. “How does it work between you?”

“It’s none of your business,” Hotch said, his voice sharper now, edged with something harder. “Answer her question.”

Rocher ignored him, gaze still locked onto you. “Do you know what they say about opposites, Professor?”

For the sake of-

You tilted your head slightly, unimpressed. “There are completely contradicting interpretations throughout history and culture. You might want to be more specific.”

At that, Hotch turned his head sharply toward you, his posture tightening.

Rocher noticed. He grinned wider, feeding off the shift in energy.

“Oh, look,” he cooed, mockingly delighted. “The protector is mad that you’re engaging with me.” His eyes flicked back to Hotch, studying him. “Why don’t you scold her, Agent Hotchner? Bring her out of here, discipline her for misbehaving with her superior.”

“Really?” You sighed, unimpressed. “Are you also going to suggest he strangle me? Like you did with the other twenty-seven women?”

Rocher’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened.

“Oh, that’s hard, Professor,” he taunted, voice sing-song. “Considering he can’t even look you in the eye since you came back from Europe.”

Hotch’s entire body went rigid.

Rocher leaned in slightly, head tilting as if savoring the reaction. “Tell me,” he murmured, watching Hotch carefully, testing him, “Did he have to take an issue with an entire continent to be like this now?”

You froze. Choice of words – again - familiar.

Something at the back of your mind was screaming at you, urging you to put the pieces together, but Hotch was already moving.

“This ends here,” he said, voice flat, final. He rose from the chair, his hand pressing lightly against your back, signaling you to get up.

You didn’t move.

You were still hardly staring at Rocher, still listening, still piecing something together, something that wasn’t just a power play. Rocher exhaled, amused, shaking his head as his gaze flicked back to Hotch.

“She’s smarter than you,” he commented lazily.

Hotch barely reacted, but you heard it. The way Hotch said your name again - soft, almost pleading. You felt it. Soft... and hard? Opposites-

You turned back to Rocher. “What were you saying about opposites?”

His eyes glinted, gleeful. “What do people say about opposites?” he prompted.

Clearly, all those hours spent studying philosophy had been leading up to this - a discount fortune cookie moment with a serial killer. Truly, a proud academic achievement.

“Opposites attract,” you answered, immediately regretting it - because, fantastic, now you sounded like one of those corny motivational quotes slapped onto a coffee mug, probably collecting dust in your mother's kitchen cabinet.

Hotch called your name again, firmer this time, but even he hesitated when Rocher’s grin turned knowing. “Do you believe that, Y/N?”

Speechless.

Hotch stiffened.

His voice dropped, threatening. “You don’t get to call her that.”

Rocher chuckled. “Jealous you’re not the only one who can?”

His hand slammed down on the metal table, the crack of impact ricocheting off the walls and straight into your ears. Rising from his chair, he leaned over the table, his frame so massive that it cast a shadow over Rocher.

"Shut up."

Goosebumps.

Hotch was one of those people whose voice didn’t need to be loud to be lethal.

But this time, it was.

For the first time since you’d met him, you heard him raise his voice too.

Although Rocher was still smiling.

Hotch stared him down for a few seconds, the lights in the room only making his face look harsher - his eyes darkened, accentuating the bags beneath them and the sharp line of his brow bone.

His nostrils flared, his mouth slightly parted, and then he said, “I don’t play games, Rocher. You collaborate, or you go back to rot. Now.”

“Funny, Agent Hotchner. I am cooperating. You’re the one getting all worked up.” Rocher’s tone was infuriatingly smug, but then his gaze slid back to you. “One of you is actually listening. The other is too emotional to see what’s right in front of him.”

You knew you’d hit rock bottom when, against all logic, you actually felt a flicker of pity for a serial killer - because he had just made the monumental mistake of calling Hotch emotional.

Without even a second thought. Without realizing what that meant.

What Hotch would do with that.

What Hotch would do to him.

No - you were terrified. And, somewhere deep inside, maybe even slightly tur-

“You’re stalling,” Hotch bit out, still leaned over the table.

“Oh, come on. I can’t spoon-feed two grown adults.” Rocher lifted his hands. “I already gave her something 'vital' - let’s just say that.” His smirk sharpened as his eyes flicked back to Hotch. “But at least she’s trying. You? You’re absolutely blind.”

Did it mean you were getting closer?

A flicker of something cold crawled up your spine. Opposites. A push and pull. You and-

The realization crashed into Hotch first, though. “There are two bodies.”

Rocher’s smile widened.

Oh, fuck him.

You and Hotch reached the same inevitable conclusion. Duality. Equilibrium.

The fundamental nature of opposition. Nothing exists in isolation - light is meaningless without darkness, fire without ice, predator without prey.

That’s why Rocher had been so fixated on it.

Why he had pushed you so relentlessly.

Why he had asked you - again and again - to define opposites.

Because one cannot exist without the other.

Because contrast is the foundation of meaning.

Because the presence of one demanded the existence of its counterpart.

Which meant-

Your throat tightened. “A woman… and a man.”

Rocher’s grin split open like something rotten. “Surprise.”

Surprise his ass.

The blood in your veins turned to ice. This wasn’t just different. This wasn’t just a twist.

This was a complete deviation of his M.O.

Rocher killed for sexual gratification. That was his entire pattern, his entire psychological makeup. He had a very clear type, a very clear need - and men weren’t part of it.

So, why?

You shot Hotch a look, and he was already thinking the same thing.

“Need a moment alone?” Rocher grinned.

Before you could respond, Hotch grabbed you by the wrist - completely unnecessary, honestly - and pulled you out of the room.

“Why the change in M.O.?” you asked at the exact moment he said, “Are you okay?” His hand settled on your shoulder - gentle, steady, ever so caring, apparently.

You blinked. “I’m fine, Aaron. You’re the one I’m worried about.”

Because, honestly? The image of him completely losing control out there was still playing on a loop in the back of your mind.

But for some reason, he didn’t answer.

Instead, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head, back to business. “It doesn’t make sense. He has a very specific victim type - all single women in their thirties. He finds them, seduces them…”

“Lures them to dates,” you continued, your voice quieter now, like saying it aloud made it heavier. “He needs control so badly he violates them before and after they’re dead. Strangulation - it’s not just about the kill, it’s about feeling the life leave their bodies. He wants to experience everything.”

Hotch’s expression hardened, his voice dropping to a murmur. “A serial rapist doesn’t just become an omnivore.”

“No… and we’re also assuming he used strangulation on both victims,” you pointed out. “For all we know, he could have changed his method.”

Hotch nodded along, already processing it. “He must have focused more on the woman. Maybe the man was a casual vic-”

“Philosooopheeer.” Rocher’s voice rang out from the monitor in a sing-song tone.

Your breath caught.

What the hell?

And yet - despite the weight pressing down on your chest, despite the sudden static in your mind - his name still slipped past your lips.

Barely a whisper. Barely a breath. But it was there.

“Aaron-”

Rocher’s voice hummed through the speakers again. “Philosopher, the opposites.”

Your pulse pounded against your ribs.

Loud. Drowning everything else.

“Aaron-”

Softer this time. Shaky. Uncertain.

Then - warmth.

The solid, steady warmth of his hand on the curve of your back.

“You’re the only one who calls me that.” You swallowed hard, not even glancing at him, eyes locked onto the monitor. “How does he know?”

Hotch’s fingers curled just slightly against your back. “Don’t let this affect you,” he murmured.

But even he wasn’t unaffected.

Even he wasn’t untouched.

Because now, beneath the steady mask, he felt guilty of bringing you there with him in the first place.

At this point, Rossi made a mental note to reward himself with that indoor pool he’d been dreaming about - because if he managed to get even one step forward with Aaron Hotchner, Denial Incarnate, he deserved a damn medal.

“It’s crazy. They’ve been grid-searching an entire forest for a week, and still - no bodies,” Rossi declared, shaking his head.

“I fear it’s only going to get worse now that Rocher’s dead,” Aaron said, voice low. “Everyone’s starting to believe it was his last move to buy himself more time.”

“To feel in control one last time,” Rossi mused.

He caught how it took a second too long for Aaron to respond. “I guess so…”

Except, judging by the way Aaron was suddenly hyper-focused on Rossi’s hair - definitely not admiring its painstakingly maintained perfection, which, by the way, was an absolute waste tonight, considering he’d already lost the woman he’d been eyeing for the past five minutes thanks to all this foolery - Rossi figured something else was going on.

And sure enough, when Aaron parted his mouth, Rossi was pretty damn sure it wasn’t to ask about the elite hair-gelling techniques he’d been mastering since the '70s.

No, it was because, right behind him, at the bar, a man - a male specimen - was currently eyeing you and Spencer.

Rossi sighed, barely hiding his smirk.. “You’re an ass-clown, Aaron.”

Just a clown in a short sleeved polo and jeans, watching a circus only he cared about.

“Can I pay for what that lovely lady and her magic broomstick ordered?” a voice drawled behind you, oozing with the kind of misplaced confidence that could only belong to someone deeply unburdened by self-awareness.

Spencer froze mid-sentence.

You turned around, only to be met by a tall, dark-haired guy, probably around your age. Objectively good-looking, sure - too bad he’d skipped cologne and decided to marinate in eau de fragile masculinity before stepping out tonight. A bold choice. Didn’t suit him. Didn’t suit anyone, really.

“Damn, the front view’s even better,” he smirked, his gaze shamelessly scanning you from head to toe. Funny how his ‘scanner’ seemed to jam conveniently at your cleavage, lingering just a second too long - one second away from you deciding to poke his eyes out yourself.

You crossed your arms, leveling him with a look that should’ve sent him scurrying back to whatever hole he crawled out of. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that if you just tell me how much it was.”

He chuckled, leaning a little too far into your personal space. “Oh, don’t be like that, sweetheart. Just letting you know what I see. And what I see…” His gaze dipped again, lower this time, his lips curving into a grin that made your skin crawl. “…yeah, worth every penny.”

You set your jaw, your voice firm. “The bill.”

The human dumpster tilted his head, his smirk widening, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “Aw, come on. Don’t be so cold. What’s a pretty little thing like you doing with him anyway?” He gestured lazily toward Spencer behind you, who was watching the exchange with wide, nervous eyes. “Bambi doesn’t even know how to treat you right.”

Spencer opened his mouth, his face reddening as he tried to stammer out a response. “Well, actually, the concept of ‘leagues’ in relationships is a social construct based on arbitrary perceptions of-”

…attractiveness and compatibility. In fact, research suggests that successful relationships are more strongly correlated with shared values and emotional intelligence than with surface-level traits… if only he’d let him finish.

“That’s enough,” you snapped, your hand twitching toward the pint of beer next to you - the one that was supposed to be Aaron’s.

Not that he’d technically mind if you repurposed it as a blunt-force weapon, but a small, rational voice in the back of your mind reminded you that he’d probably prefer it stayed in the glass rather than all over this idiot’s face.

Probably. Maybe. Jury was still out.

“Oh sweetheart don’t talk to me like that, I think of something a whole lot better to put in that mouth of yours.” He leaned in closer, his breath heavy with whatever cheap whiskey courage he’d choked down earlier.

He was dead.

“Get out of my face before I find something to shove into yours,” you snapped, your voice icy, “like my fist.”

And honestly, you weren’t just threatening.

You were ready.

Hand cocked, trajectory planned, already envisioning the satisfying sound of his ego shattering like glass.

But before you could even lift said fist, Spencer, sweet, wonderful Spencer, decided this was his moment to intervene, bless him. He probably thought he was saving this guy from imminent destruction, or maybe just delusional a warning might actually work to make him shut his mouth.

“Sir, I think you should-” Spencer started, his voice trembling slightly.

“Stay out of it, Einstein,” the man snapped, dismissing him with a lazy wave. “I’m just messing around. Though, I gotta say…” His voice dropped lower, his gaze doing yet another thorough inspection of everything except your face. “I kinda like it when you’re fiery.”

Oh, he was really begging for it now. Just as you were about to test out the self-defense moves Derek had been teaching you - already savoring the thought of your fist making satisfying contact with his smug face - you heard it.

A steady, deliberate rhythm approaching, marked by the kind of authority that sent most people scattering before they even knew why.

“Apologize,” came the voice from behind you.

Aaron. And you didn’t have to turn around to confirm it. You’d know that voice anywhere - overprotective party pooper.

The man scoffed, trying to laugh it off, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “Hey, man, I was just joking around-”

“No, you weren’t.” Aaron cut him off. “It was predatory.”

The man probably just learnt a new word judging by the look on his face. “What the fuck do you mean, buddy?”

“That you’re pathetic.” Aaron said, giving him one of his best stares. “That because your mother never bothered to hang your drawings on the fridge when you were a kid, you’ve spent your entire life demanding validation from people who want nothing to do with you - just like her. Pathetic. And predatory.”

Damn, brutal - judging by the way the guy flinched, Aaron had nailed every single assumption. Truly, the best profiler you knew. “What the fuck are you? A shrink? You don’t know me, man!”

Aaron didn’t flinch. “I don’t?” he said coolly, tilting his head slightly. “I know you’re addicted to porn because it’s easier for you to objectify women than to accept that no one can stand to be around you in for more than five minutes. The only people who tolerate you are the three equally repressed guys you met at the gym - guys as shallow as you are.”

And speaking of porn, that was officially the hottest thing you’d ever heard come out of Aaron Hotchner’s mouth. It ranked right up there with “We can take the rest of the weekend off” and “You’re right.”

And he even kept going “You’re the reason the average IQ in this country keeps dropping. And guess what-”

Oh, my God. Say more things. Call him shallow again. Please.

“What you just said constitutes sexual harassment under federal law.” Aaron turned slightly to Spencer, who straightened immediately, as if on cue. “Reid, would you mind explaining the legal repercussions for this kind of crime?”

Spencer despite being still a bit dizzy, started. “Suuure. Under Title VII of the Civil Rights Act and most state laws, sexual harassment is a punishable offense, particularly when the behavior is hostile or unwanted - like in this case.” He made sure to raise his finger at that, just to be clear of course. “Penalties can include fines reaching thousands of dollars, and in some cases, jail time, especially for repeated offenses or behavior involving threats.”

“And rest assured, I will personally ensure you face the maximum penalties,” Aaron said, his voice smooth and deadly. “Every aggravating factor: your persistence after being told to stop, your blatant disregard for boundaries.”

Oh, wow.

Hot.

Even hotter because you knew how meticulous Aaron was about getting every detail perfect.

You shouldn’t have been thinking it - not now, not here - but damn. His tone. His precision. The sheer, undeniable power behind every syllable.

Impossible not to notice. Impossible not to feel.

You could practically see it: in his office late at night, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, meticulously piecing everything together. File after file laid out in perfect order, his jaw tight, his brow furrowed. He’d pause only to sip his coffee, the tension in his frame so palpable it made your stomach flip just imagining it.

And no, you really shouldn’t be sexualizing your best-friend-that-also-happened-to-be-your-boss-haha-so-funny in the light of day.

Or night.

Or ever.

Anyways - whenever Aaron spoke like that, it was objectively impossible to ignore how magnetic he was. You could try to deny it, lie to yourself, pretend you were above it.

But deep down? He could get it.

Anytime.

Your respect, of course.

“Now, here’s what’s going to happen.” he said, his voice cold and commanding, “You’re going to look her in the eye and you’re going to apologize. Then, you’re going to walk out that door and disappear. Because if I ever hear your name in connection with behavior like this again, I will ruin you. And trust me - I’m very thorough. Do I make myself clear?”

The man nodded hurriedly, his head bobbing like a puppet on strings. “I-I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

Aaron’s gaze hardened. “Louder.”

“I’m sorry!” the man practically shouted, his voice cracking under the pressure.

“That’s a start, but you owe him an apology too.” You nodded toward Spencer, who had been standing slightly behind you, watching the exchange with wide eyes.

The man blinked, his head snapping toward Spencer. “I-I didn’t-”

“Oh, but you did,” you interrupted, your tone calm but firm. “You insulted him, called him names, and dismissed him like his voice didn’t matter. That’s harassment too, in case you didn’t realize.”

The man hesitated, looking like he’d rather crawl under the nearest table than follow through. Aaron shifted slightly beside you, crossing his arms. “I don’t think she was asking.”

The man’s face flushed with a mix of anger and humiliation, but he turned to Spencer, his shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry,” he said, though the words still sounded like they burned his tongue on the way out.

Spencer nodded, then, with a dramatic flick of his wrist, popped a fry into his mouth. “Aww, thank you,” he said, voice dripping with exaggerated politeness. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were having a perfectly pleasant evening before you decided to ruin it.”

The man and his fragile masculinity didn’t need any further encouragement. Still, Aaron’s eyes stayed on him until the bar’s entry door slammed shut behind him. Without even turning, he extended his fist toward Spencer. “Thanks for the backup, Reid.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he bumped it awkwardly with his own, the exchange so stiff and adorable that it was officially the cutest thing you’d ever seen.

“Are you both alright?” Aaron asked, his eyes lingering on you just a second longer than necessary.

Spencer, still gripping his fries like a lifeline, blinked up at Aaron with wide eyes. “I think I’m sober now,” he said matter-of-factly, shoving another fry into his mouth like it was a medical prescription for trauma.

“Leave it to you to use fried food as a coping mechanism,” you teased, though couldn’t help but laugh.

“Well, it’s scientifically proven that carbohydrates can temporarily reduce stress,” he replied, ever the scholar. “And given the situation, I think this is a perfectly rational response.”

Aaron’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile as he looked at Spencer. “Whatever works,” he said, his tone quieter now.

Without thinking, you rested your hand lightly on Aaron’s shoulder. “Thank you,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his. “For everything.”

Aaron started to respond, but you barely caught it. Something along the lines of apologizing for stepping in when you could have handled it yourself - but he’d done it anyway because, apparently, you were about three seconds away from punching the guy.

You nodded along, but the words barely registered because your mind was already spiraling.

Don’t do it.

Don’t say it.

You’re going to make it awkward.

Yes, he’s your best friend, but also your boss.

Your very capable, very professional, very in-control boss. And when he went all out like that – damn - it was so ridiculously hot that you wanted to - NO. STOP IT.

Too late - you cleared your throat. “We’re off duty, right?” you asked, your voice more casual than it had any right to be.

Aaron blinked, slightly thrown, but nodded anyway. “Yes… why?”

You hesitated for a split second, your better judgment screaming at you to back out, but you ignored it, throwing caution straight into the wind. “Is it awkward if I say out loud that what you just did was extremely hot?”

You immediately regretted your word choice.

You should have said “said” instead of “did.”

You absolutely should have said “said.”

Aaron blinked – again - his lips parting slightly… probably because you hadn’t reached for some obscure 18th-century adjective like you usually did. Maybe because - oh.

His cheeks were turning pink.

Aaron Hotchner was blushing.

“That depends,” he said smoothly - too smoothly for someone whose face was actively betraying him - “how ‘hot’ are we talking?”

Oh. Oh.

He reused your stupid adjective. On purpose. Just to shove it back in your face.

Classic Hotchner.

And there it was again - that casual, teasing push and pull.

The ephemeral flirting that was supposed to be a joke. The kind that had been happening a little too often lately.

You grinned, leaning in slightly, lowering your voice to a whisper, playing the game. “You don’t want to know.”

“If you say so,” he replied, and made it worse by flashing you his dimples.

You opened your mouth, ready to fire back with something clever - or, at the very least, something that sounded clever in your head, but all of a sudden-

“OOOOOOH! Teach, Hotch!” Spencer’s voice sliced through the tension like a buzzer going off at the worst possible time. “Did you know that the term ‘hot’ as an expression of attractiveness has roots in medieval metaphors? They often associated passion with heat, and by the 19th century, it evolved into a colloquial term for desirability.”

Aaron cleared his throat, sitting back slightly, though the faint blush on his cheeks lingered. “Thank you, Reid”.

Spencer nodded earnestly. “Well, I figured since you were discussing the term, it was relevant.” He popped another fry into his mouth, clearly pleased with his contribution.

Aaron turned to you, his lips twitching again. “Educational and perfectly timed.”

A joke, as usual, a much more felt in your chest kind of joke.

“Right,” you replied, fighting back a laugh. “Nothing like a bit of etymology to really set the mood.”

Spencer blinked, tilting his head. “Set the mood for what?”

And that’s when it all started going downhill.

Because by the time you got back to the booth, Rossi had already vanished - true to form - leaving behind nothing but an empty glass, a generous tab for someone else to pick up, and the faintest whiff of cologne that somehow still managed to reek of wealth and desperation.

The entire team, instead, apparently driven to madness by the frustration of the past week, had decided to collectively ovulate.

You barely had time to sit down before Derek swooped in, snatching Spencer by the collar of his shirt.

“C’mon, Pretty Boy, found the one for you,” he announced, dragging a very confused - but at least mildly more sober - Reid toward some unsuspecting woman who, by some miracle, actually seemed to enjoy his rapid-fire tangents about quantum mechanics.

Oh, how you loved women in STEM.

“Good luck, Pretty Boy!” Derek called over his shoulder, already abandoning Reid in favor of sweeping his babygirl onto the dance floor. Penelope had been waiting all of five seconds before declaring, “Finally! Our song!” and yanking Morgan into a routine that was absolutely choreographed.

No way it wasn’t.

Emily, to her credit, lingered just long enough to trade a few snarky remarks with you and steal a sip of your drink before the woman she’d been eyeing all night finally gathered the courage to summon her over.

“Go get her,” you encouraged her, raising your glass in mock cheers.

“Don’t wait up,” Emily quipped, slipping out of her seat, but before she could take two steps, Aaron chimed in, his tone entirely too dry.

“Work at 8 a.m. tomorrow,” he reminded her.

Emily stopped mid-stride to roll her eyes before, for some reason, winking at you. “Yes, Sir,” she mocked, before sauntering off - uncharacteristically giddy.

And just like that, it was you and Aaron, sitting in a room thick with mating hormones. Not exactly ideal.

You’d survived through worse, at least. And still had nightmares of what happened a week ago.

Exibit B: Charcoal Grey ☆ ★

Never in your life had you been so thoroughly out-lawyered as the day you went to witness Hotch’s testimony in the trial of Brian Matloff - the unsub who’d awakened from a coma that had kept him blissfully unconscious since 2004. Now, armed with focal retrograde amnesia, the man claimed he didn’t remember committing the crimes. Convenient.

And because of that, along with a healthy dose of masochistic curiosity to see Lawyer Hotch in his natural habitat, you found yourself sitting next to Spencer in the courtroom, breathing the same oxygen as not one, not two, but three lawyers.

First, the defense attorney, who would inevitably deploy every slimy lawyer trick in the book to defend a man who killed innocent girls.

You could already feel your blood pressure rising just imagining how he’d try to mess with Hotch’s head, distorting the truth under the guise of legal gymnastics. All perfectly sanctioned by the law, of course, which made it even more infuriating.

Then there was Cece Hillenbrand, the prosecutor.

She’d just called Hotch to testify, and honestly, it went so well the jury looked about two seconds away from throwing roses at her feet. Too bad she was still a lawyer, and your opinion of lawyers hovered somewhere between mild distrust and praying for the meteor.

The blonde bob didn’t help either at all – for some reasons it felt way too reminiscent of Haley. Maybe that’s why Hotch was looking at her with what you could only describe as way too much eagerness, which she’d obviously mistaken as her golden ticket to his ride. Literally. That kind of ride.

You could also pretty much tell she was smitten.

Not that you could blame her.

Objectively speaking, Hotch was perfect.

Tall. Dark hair with those infuriatingly handsome streaks of gray that somehow made him look even more distinguished. That one single white eyelash on his left eye that was unfairly cute. Long eyelashes. The adorable crease in his brow whenever he was focused. A side profile Michelangelo would’ve killed to sculpt. That deep, warm voice capable of commanding a courtroom into instant silence. Veiny forearms. Big hands. Hairy hands.

And… other intimate physical details that you were definitely not going to let your brain linger on right now.

Oh, and yes – smart, of course. Brilliant, actually.

So perfect it almost made you want to warn her off. About how You’d been fooled by those kind, relentless hazel eyes yourself. But then again, she was a lawyer. And lawyers didn’t deserve such precious life-saving advice.

Or maybe it was because you simply did not have the guts to tell a complete stranger something like that without sounding like an absolute creep.

Over a man, of all things.

Worst of all possible fates.

And to complete the dreaded lawyer triumvirate - last but certainly not least - there was Hotch. Aaron. Lawyer.

If you started unpacking your thoughts on that man, you’d probably end up writing a book longer than War and Peace. Though one recent chapter might be titled: “How the numbers didn’t add up.”

Why, exactly, did he insist on dragging you to Virginia with Spencer and himself for this trial?

You hadn’t worked the original case back in 2004, and you definitely didn’t have any legal expertise to speak of. And yet, here you were.

But hey, whatever the Unit Chief wanted, the Unit Chief got, right?

Maybe it was because of the PhD you shared with Spencer in psychology - though if tactical strategy was the goal, the smarter choice would have been to leave you back in Quantico, far away from the courtroom circus.

Not that you were making the calls here. Clearly, this was all part of Hotch’s master plan to make you suffer among a sea of insufferable lawyers. Brilliant move, really.

“Now, my client ran from the police, A behavior that you called” the defence attorney stated as he looked into the file on the table “’A strong indicator of his guilt.’”

“Yes, that's correct.” Hotch confirmed.

Why was he even always so proper…

“Were you aware that he had an outstanding warrant at the time of his arrest?” the defense attorney asked, striding toward the testimony stand where Hotch sat, calm and composed.

“Yes. I believe it was for an automobile accident, a hit and run,” Hotch responded.

“So isn’t it possible that Mr. Matloff fled, not because he was guilty of murder, but because of this other warrant?” the attorney pressed.

You almost wanted to stand up and applaud the sheer stupidity of the question. Really, it took a special kind of talent to ask something that idiotic.

Unfortunately, Hotch couldn’t call him out for it - officially, anyway. “There were eight law enforcement officers in bulletproof vests. I doubt any reasonable person would assume-”

“A yes or no answer will do,” the attorney interrupted, smugly cutting him off mid-sentence.

“Fuck him,” you muttered under your breath, bristling as Hotch was forced to answer, “Yes, it’s possible.”

Beside you, Spencer turned, his eyes wide with shock. “Language!” he whispered harshly.

“I just can’t stand when rhetoric is used to distort the obvious,” you muttered defensively.

“They didn’t seem to bother you much earlier when it was Lawyer Hillenbrand using it,” he pointed out, voice barely audible but definitely smirking for reasons you were ignoring on principle.

“Because she’s supposed to be on our side,” you shot back. “I’m morally obligated to support this lawyer madness when it benefits us.”

“Are you sure it’s not about the fact that he interrupted Hotch?” Spencer pointed out quietly.

Well. Yes, of course… but it wasn’t just that, was it?

How could you be this mad over an arrogant idiot cutting someone off mid-sentence? Must be something more. Must be all these lawyers overcomplicating something so simple.

…As if you could talk.

“Are you sure it’s not cumulative frustration?” you shot back with a smirk.

Spencer tilted his head, considering. “Statistically, it could be both.”

You barely suppressed a laugh, biting the inside of your cheek as you turned your attention back to the stand.

Hotch, as always, remained calm and collected - but you still caught it. That faintest twitch in his jaw. The only visible sign of frustration as the attorney continued talking down on the very thing that had shaped all of your lives.

The very thing that was the reason why a ring was missing from Hotch’s hand.

The reason Spencer barely got to see his mom.

The reason you were alive today - and also why your life was constantly at risk. Opposites.

But sure. Let’s frame behavioral analysis as a pseudo-science. Let’s ignore the countless lives it had saved, the crimes it had prevented, the killers it had caught, just so this smug bastard could spin a cheap courtroom trick, already sensing the “If the FBI has gotten profiles wrong before, how can they be trusted now?” incoming from a mile away.

Oh, truly. Suck it.

But what really burned was the fact that to make this argument, he was standing there undermining Hotch’s credibility in a room full of people.

Hotch - who was the best profiler you knew. Bias or not, that was just a fact.

And now, you had to sit here, behave decently, and watch this clown parade his bullshit like it meant something.

“Having been wrong on those cases, isn’t it possible that you were wrong about Brian Matloff?” he attorney pressed on, undeterred.

“No,” Hotch replied simply.

“The fact is,” the attorney continued anyways, “behavioral analysis is really just intellectual guesswork. You probably couldn’t tell me the color of my socks with any greater accuracy than a carnival psychic.”

Hotch shot him a look that could have frozen water, and it almost made you laugh. Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him, you thought, seething internally.

Oh, how you wished you were a carnival psychic right now. They always had crystal balls, and one of those would be just perfect to shove right up-

“Charcoal gray,” Hotch said.

You couldn’t help but smile. It didn’t even matter if he was right or not; it was so Hotch – that determination to prove he was right, no matter what. And of course, he had to do it with that understated sass.

God, you loved that about him.

The attorney, however, wasn’t as charmed. He spun on his heel and raised the hem of his pants, exposing his socks to the jury. “Well, look at that,” he said smugly. “He got one right.”

Hotch barely blinked.

“You match them to the color of your suit to appear taller. You also wear lifts and have had the soles of your shoes replaced. One might think you're frugal, but in fact, you're having financial difficulties. You wear a fake Rolex because you pawned your real one to pay your debts. My guess is to a bookie.” His tone was calm, measured - but the glint in his eyes told an entirely different story.

And God help you, you couldn’t look away.

This was the Hotch you first met.

The man who never held back when proving a point, who used logic and intellect as a weapon without ever raising his voice. Who didn’t need theatrics, just cold, undeniable facts to dismantle someone completely.

It was a pity, really - how he let others do most of the talking these days. How he stepped in only to make the big decisions, rarely taking the floor himself. You'd almost forgotten this side of him.

The side that made him who he was.

And watching him now - fully in his element, effortlessly dismantling someone with nothing but facts and razor-sharp precision - it was intoxicating.

And there was no point in even trying to deny it.

The attorney bristled, his face reddening. “I took this case pro bono. I am… one of the most successful criminal attorneys in the state,” he shot back defensively.

You nearly rolled your eyes.

Amateur mistake.

If there was one thing you’d learned in nearly a decade of bickering with Hotch, it was that the second wave always hit harder than the first.

And, predictably, it did.

“Your vice is horses,” Hotch continued, unbothered. “Your BlackBerry’s been buzzing on the table every 20 minutes, which happens to be the average time between posts from Colonial Downs. You’re getting race results. And every time you do, it affects your mood in court. And you’re not having a very good day.”

“That’s because you pick horses the same way you practice law,” Hotch concluded after a brief pause, his voice dropping ever so slightly. “By always taking the long shot.”

Next to you, Spencer whispered in awe, “Wow, that was so-”

Hot. Panties dro-

“Fascinating,” you cut in quickly, glancing at Spencer as he gave you a curious look.

The attorney, meanwhile, looked like he’d been sucker-punched. He opened his mouth, floundering for a response, but Hotch wasn’t done.

“If I’m not mistaken,” Hotch said, his gaze calm but piercing, “the results from the fifth race should be coming through any minute.”

Right on cue, the BlackBerry on the attorney’s table buzzed loudly, the sound slicing through the silence in the courtroom.

“Why don’t you tell us if your luck has changed?” Hotch asked smoothly, and for a moment, your heart skipped a beat.

Because that – that - was your move.

He had picked up your habit—the one he teased you about constantly - of ending arguments with a question.

It was something that had been ingrained in you for years, thanks to an almost obsessive love of Socratic gnoseology - the idea that knowledge is not something you hold, but something you uncover through dialogue.

And your personal interpretation of it in which truth exists in the space between two minds, constantly shifting, constantly evolving.

So when a conversation ended, it didn’t really end - because there was always a question left hanging in the air, an invitation for the next step in the process.

And you did it all the time.

"That’s not how psychopathy works," Hotch had told you once, after you’d suggested a suspect might be forcing himself into emotional relationships as a way of imitating normalcy. "True psychopaths don’t feel the need to mimic emotions that serve no function for them."

"But if the imitation itself brings him a sense of control, doesn’t it serve a function?" you had countered, arching an eyebrow at him.

Hotch had opened his mouth, closed it again, then just shook his head.

"You always do that," he had muttered.

"Do what?" you’d replied

"Leave the conversation open-ended." He’d observed, looking into your eyes

“I do?” you’d replied, leaving him inhaling through his nose to avoid the urge to… do something about it… take the matter in his own hands.

Or there was that time on the jet, after a particularly difficult case.

You’d been sitting across from him, still dissecting the nuances of the unsub’s psychology, pulling apart the threads like you could unravel the truth if you just tugged hard enough.

"He killed because he needed to prove his own autonomy," you mused, more to yourself than to him.

"Or he killed because he was incapable of existing outside the parameters of control," Hotch countered, leaning back slightly, arms crossed, ever the counterweight to your theorizing.

You nodded, thoughtful, then tilted your head at him.

"But if control is a construct, then what does that say about our ability to assign guilt? Can you truly be responsible for something if the very foundation of your actions was never yours to begin with?"

The second the words left your mouth, Hotch exhaled sharply through his nose, then scrubbed a hand down his face.

"You know what it feels like talking to you sometimes?" he muttered, shaking his head.

You raised an eyebrow. "Do enlighten me."

He let out a long-suffering sigh. "Like I can physically feel your fingers poking around inside my brain."

A slow grin spread across your face. "Did I rub the spot that itches?"

The look he gave you could’ve scorched metal. "No."

His glare was so Hotchner™ that it sent you completely over the edge. You laughed – loudly - and the unexpected force of it was enough to make Derek, who was sitting across the aisle, rip off his headphones with a frown. "Did - did Bossman just make a joke?"

Hotch turned to him with the exact same withering stare, as if that alone was enough to erase the last minute from existence. Which only made you laugh harder.

You wiped a tear from your eye, struggling to breathe. "He’s hilarious, isn’t he?" you managed between gasps, leaning back into your seat, while Hotch sat there looking like he was seriously considering whether the seat next to Rossi was available - and if relocating mid-flight was a viable option.

And yet -

Here he was now.

Doing the exact thing he’d always scolded you for.

Ending with a question.

Leaving it open-ended.

Again - like truth itself was something that couldn’t be pinned down - something that lived in the dialogue between two forces rather than in any single answer.

Like the moment you were sure you’d found it, it had already shifted into something else.

And much to your utter surprise - Hotch was looking directly at you as he said it. Was it acknowledgement?

Or maybe he’d finally started to see what you’d always known.

The best arguments never really ended, they just evolved.

Much like this cross-examination.

“Your honor, this is-” the attorney began, his voice strained.

“What do you want me to do?” the judge interrupted, giving him a stern look. “Either show us your Blackberry or cut him loose, counselor.”

The attorney swallowed hard, his confidence now thoroughly shattered. “Nothing further,” he muttered, retreating to his seat.

“Wise decision,” the judge said dryly. “Court will be adjourned until 9 a.m. tomorrow.” The gavel came down with a sharp crack, signaling the end of the session.

As the room began to empty, you stole another glance at Hotch, who was helping Cece Hillenbrand to gather their notes, completely unbothered by the absolute public execution he’d just performed. If you weren’t careful, you were going to need a good excuse for why you couldn’t stop smiling.

When the case finally wrapped, a few days later, you, Hotch, and Spencer were busy putting files back into the box for the drive home when Cece made her way over, phone in hand.

“It’s over,” she announced, a satisfied smile on her face. “Matloff’s pleading out.”

“Congratulations,” Hotch said, his tone polite but neutral, as she stepped closer - closer specifically to him, as if the rest of the room – ergo, you and the Doctor - didn’t exist.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” she added, voice warm, eyes locked on Hotch like he was the only person in the room.

Which was fascinating, considering you and Spencer were also standing right there.

Not that she seemed to notice - because apparently, furniture didn’t get acknowledged. You shot Spencer a side-eye just to confirm he was catching this absolutely shameless display.

He was.

"First round’s on me," she added, flashing an even wider smile, completely ignoring the fact that -unbelievably you and Spencer had also worked on the profile. But sure. All Hotch.

He barely held back a laugh, suddenly finding a very unnecessary interest in the files in front of him.

Meanwhile, Hotch didn’t miss a beat. "No, we’ll take a rain check. We’ve got a long drive," he said casually, already reaching for the evidence box. "Maybe another time."

A long drive?

Sure. If you considered three hours and forty minutes long.

You’d done worse on less sleep. Honestly, if Hotch wasn’t so insistent on driving all the time like it was some kind of sacred duty, you could’ve shaved at least forty minutes off that easily. And if he got tired, he knew you’d switch - just like you always did.

No. This wasn’t about the drive. Definitely not.

And the realization made your heart feel just a little lighter.

The moment Hillenbrand was out of earshot, Hotch turned back to you and Spencer with the nonchalance of a man who definitely hadn’t just sidestepped the most obvious invitation to spend the night with a woman who, by all accounts, was exactly his type.

"Where are we staying for dinner?" he asked, tone all business.

You raised an eyebrow. "Here?" You gave him a look that, if translated, would read: Are you serious?

"If it gets late, I can drive on the way back so you can rest," Hotch said, so earnestly matter-of-fact it was almost convincing—almost.

Either he completely missed your point, or he was choosing to ignore it.

Thankfully, Spencer wasn’t one to let things slide.

"Didn’t you just implicitly tell Mrs. Hillenbrand you couldn’t stay up late?" he asked, brows furrowed in genuine confusion.

You bit back a laugh, leaning casually against the table. "Yeah, Hotch," you echoed, tilting your head toward him with exaggerated innocence. "I thought we had a long drive ahead of us? Wouldn’t want to keep you up past your bedtime."

Hotch shot you and Spencer one of his looks, the desired effect unfortunately ruined by a twitch of his lips. “I figured you’d want a real meal before we hit the road”

Before you could throw another quip his way, Hotch lifted the evidence box and reached the door first, holding it open for you and Spencer. As you stepped through, you felt it - his hand, settling lightly at the small of your back, guiding you forward.

Brief. Fleeting. But it sent a shiver down your spine you tried to brush off the best you could.

It wasn’t the first time he’d done it – all of these overly-polite, instinctive gestures like that seemed second nature to him - but lately? It had been happening a lot more.

"Thanks, Hotch," you said, not sure whether you were thanking him for the touch or for the fact that chivalry just seemed to effortlessly exist within him - either way, you didn’t dare look at him.

"Of course," he replied.

Weird.

Again.

Still - not as weird as when he seemed to completely break character at the diner later that night.

It had started off normal enough - ordering, small talk, Spencer rattling off statistics about late-night dining habits until Hotch shot him a look that had him switching to stirring his coffee instead.

And then? Then Hotch had stolen a piece of your dessert.

Just casually reached over with his fork, sliced off a bite of your cheesecake like it belonged to him, and popped it into his mouth before you even had time to register what had happened.

"What the-" you stared at him, utterly scandalized.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look remotely guilty. Just set his fork down neatly and said, "To celebrate the victory."

You blinked. "That was my celebration."

"You were taking too long," he said, so matter-of-fact you almost choked.

Spencer, across the table, looked back and forth between the two of you like he was watching an alien encounter.

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, Hotch leaned back in his seat, sipping his coffee, and went off on a full tangent about his time in law school.

As if you hadn’t had enough of lawyers in the past few days because of him.

As if he hadn’t just stolen your damn dessert.

And yet - you let him talk.

Because there was something almost soft about it, the way his voice dipped slightly as he recounted late nights, textbooks, memorizing case law until his head ached. He wasn’t bragging - just reminiscing. Something about the way he spoke made it feel less like he was listing facts and more like he was inviting you into a part of his life that he rarely, if ever, shared.

And then, just as you were starting to enjoy it-

"You know," Spencer interjected, "technically, eating from someone else’s plate without permission is a form of food aggression, commonly observed in pack animals."

Hotch didn’t waste a second. "If you want a bite too, Reid, you can just ask the Professor."

Spencer went bright red.

You grinned, rolling your eyes. "Sure," you said easily, nudging your plate an inch closer. "And while you’re at it, go ahead - take another bite yourself. Since we’re apparently just ignoring the rules of polite society now."

Hotch met your gaze, unreadable for a moment. Then—without breaking eye contact—he reached forward with his fork, deliberately sliced off another bite of your cheesecake, and ate it.

Slowly.

Your jaw dropped.

You gasped, scandalized. "Aaron."

He barely blinked. "It’s a very good cake."

Your outrage. Your absolute disbelief. You weren’t sure whether you wanted to fight him or-

No. Fighting. Definitely fighting.

"So uncivilized…," you muttered.

You had never hated a man more in your life. He would pay for this. Someday.

"Well," you said finally letting out a nervous laugh, acknowledging the obviously abandoned booth empty except for you, Aaron, and was that… yes. Emily’s scarf. "Looks like it’s just the two of us."

Aaron smirked, looking straight into your eyes. "So it seems."

And of course you had to smile back, trying to keep things casual despite the very real, very undeniable fact that his gaze lingered just a second too long. Or maybe two – or three.

Must have been the beer - even though you knew far too well it would take a lot more than a few drinks to knock Aaron Hotchner into nonsense.

Especially when the silence that followed felt… weird.

Not uncomfortable, just strange enough to make you want to do something about it - something you’d been itching to do all night but hadn’t been able to, because apparently, you had to unpaidly babysit Spencer and entertain Rossi until the very man sitting across from you finally graced everyone with his presence.

"So…" You exhaled, tilting your head toward the dance floor. "Are we just going to rot in this booth all night, watching everyone else have fun?"

Aaron shook his head, already defensive. "I don’t rot."

"Oh, forgive me," you said." Incorrect wording choice, my dearest sir. Are we to simply remain here, languishing in solitude, whilst the rest of our merry company partakes in revelry and joyous abandon?"

Although, judging from the look he gave you, despite the linguistic accuracy, he wasn’t really fond of your impeccable sense of humor.

You sighed and gestured toward the dance floor, further solidifying your case. And - just in time to really drive your point home - even Spencer was now being dragged into the chaos in real-time. The Unit Chief truly could not rely on semantics this time.

A phenomenon so shocking that Aaron actually sat up slightly, his mouth opening as if to intervene, even before you could ask, "I don’t dance," he said.

You scoffed. "Liar."

Because oh, you would never forget the day you first found out that him, of all people, was actually a very good dancer.

Which was exactly why you should have known better.

If only you had been thinking with your brain instead of getting distracted by the way his biceps and veiny forearms flexed when he leaned his elbows on the table, you might have realized what he was actually saying:

"I don’t dance… with you."

Not tonight.

Not when he was still, every once in a while, subtly checking to see if your dress had somehow shifted a shade darker shade of navy blue - or if it was still black.

So thorough, Aaron. Really.

And so, instead of admitting any of that, he just huffed, reaching for another excuse. "They don’t play old songs for old people like me."

An impressive effort - really. Especially considering the Rihanna song currently blasting in the background.

Even more impressive? The fact that this exact song - the one he had just written off as not for his demographic - was one of many he had been singing at full volume in the car on the way to the bar.

And he had felt so relieved that you’d never come to know that particular detail. Which made it all the sweeter when, instead of humoring him, you simply-

Stood up.

No teasing. No cat and mouse. Just turned on your heel and disappeared into the sea of sweaty, dancing bodies.

That…

That wasn’t the plan. Or, at least, it was supposed to be his win.

Except now, he was the one sitting there.

Alone.

In that rotting booth.

Watching the dance floor.

Watching for you.

Catching glimpses of you as people moved, blocking and unblocking you like a shifting tide.

And he hated it. Truly.

So when, inevitably, a song old enough to be considered "an old song for old people like him" - despite being a timeless disco classic and released eleven years after he was born (but hey, that’s the oldest a bar DJ could get) - started playing through the speakers…

He knew his fate was sealed.

Dancing Queen. How ironic. This must have been the national holiday of "let’s all make fun of Aaron Hotchner."

And so, because his earlier conditions had been rendered completely inefficient, you were back at the booth within seconds, ready to claim your hostage.

Quite literally the happiest hostage.

"I do not dance," he tried again, but it was already too late, you were grinning, already tugging him up by the arm.

"Come on," you insisted, already swaying, already singing - "’Cause you can dance, you can jiiiiiiiive…’"

You linked your arm through his, looping it like something straight out of a Regency-era ball, because if the man was so insistent on playing up his age tonight, then he might as well fully commit, embracing some proper old-fashioned social etiquette while you were at it.

He half-protested, half-laughed - despite himself - as you dragged him toward the dance floor.

On the outside? He looked like a dried prune.

Scowling.

Trying desperately to suppress every ridiculous flutter in his stomach as you danced right next to him - casually grabbing his shoulders, sliding your hand along his biceps, anything, really, just to let him loosen up.

And, most importantly, since you were a rancorous little thing, to embarrass him.

So, carefree, you pointed straight at him during the chorus, belting out, "Dancing Queen, young and sweet, only seventeen!"

…Really?

Aaron faltered, frowning. "I’m forty-two."

And somehow, that tiny moment of confusion cracked his defenses.

He laughed.

And just like that, you had him - always had him, if he were honest.

It’s just that this moment - maybe in its genuineness, in the memories that pulled him back - was making it so much harder to fight.

Because just like now, you had dragged him onto the dance floor nine years ago, on that ridiculous night when you had somehow convinced him to dance to that choreographed routine of "It’s All Coming Back to Me Now."

Again, how ironic, because now- as he danced with you, nowhere near as gracefully as that night, but laughing anyway, belting out off-key lyrics with you, twirling you just for the joke-

It was all coming back to him.

No need to fight the fall anymore.

You were both undeniably off-key, the dance moves were questionable at best, and there were far too many exaggerated hand gestures and mock performances happening between the two of you.

But for once, he wasn’t overthinking.

Wasn’t pulling away.

Wasn’t bracing himself against the idea of enjoying something just because.

Because, just like he could be himself alone in his car, singing off-tune with the windows rolled up, so could he be himself with you.

No fear, no hesitation. Just this. Falling for someone in a way that wasn’t grand or poetic.

Not a bunch of doves trained to spell your name in the sky.

Not a dramatic sunrise over a canyon shaped like a heart.

Not a sweeping declaration in the middle of a rainstorm.

Not the kind of love that finds its pleasure after pain.

Just a bar, a stupid song and you.

He was yours.

But would you be his?

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

I MIIIIGHT HAVE FORGOTTEN SOME NEW TAG SORRRYYYYY I'M DUMBBBBB, tell me if I did AAAAAA SORRYYYY

[httpsserene]

𝖍𝖙𝖙𝖕𝖘𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖊'𝖘 1𝖐 𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖑

welcome to the table of contents for my one-thousand followers special !

i'm baffled at the amount of love and support from all of you; in under the two-months i've been writing on this blog, i've managed to have good enough writing to convince you guys to save my blog. i started writing f1 ff's with the sole purpose to provide more black!reader based content, and i never imagined that i'd have a thousand eyes reading my delusional scenarios lol. thank you, truly, from the bottom of my heart :)

as promised, the special event is a continuation of the first upload of my f1 kinktober series. those of you who were desperate for a part-two of the corruption kink with charles leclerc / max verstappen / black!reader--here it is, in abundance. a five-part series (including the f1-ktober upload). merry christmas, loves xxx

if you would like to be added to this series' taglist, send me an ask or leave a reply.

all episodes uploaded at 12 PM EST on their release date.

posts tagged as # httpss :// 1k special.

all works can be found in my table of contents (m.list).

𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐬

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: max and charles don’t mind receiving a five-second penalty for slipping past your boundaries. seeing a black and white flag doesn’t scare them in the slightest; not when you're performing so well under their guidance. 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: charles leclerc / max verstappen x fem!black!reader 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: multi-chaptered series.

view playlist? ↴

pilot: corruption kink w/ charles leclerc and max verstappen

innocent and virgin !reader has never touched herself before. she knows how to, in theory, but whenever she tries, she chickens out. her tried and true way of receiving pleasure is failing her. she thinks that maybe it's time to allow her relationship with her two respectful and experienced boyfriends, to reach the next step. and she'll find that they're very willing to teach her a few things.

episode two: 𝗿𝗲𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗮𝘃𝗼𝗿 | handjobs | 12/9/23

slightly less innocent, virgin!reader has had her view of pleasure shifted. her libido has increased to insane levels after she finally allowed her boyfriends to fix her…dry spell. charles and max have no issues with helping her ride out her newfound sexual appetite, and figure that she may be ready to take the next step. or, more accurately, take the next hand.

soundtrack - gun • doja cat

episode three: 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘃𝗲 | fingering | 12/11/23

tainted, virgin!reader is growing tired of grinding against her boyfriends. she’s never touched herself before—no toys, no fingers, no fondling—the friction from a pillow used to be enough. but, maybe having something inside of her isn’t as terrifying as she believed. charles’ pretty pianist fingers don’t look too scary, and they way he raves about how talented max’s daunting thicker fingers are; well, she could be convinced to see what all the fuss is about.

soundtrack - pressure • ari lennox

episode four: 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗼𝗻𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗮𝗹 𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘄𝘁𝗵 | oral sex | 12/15/23

soiled, virgin!reader is well aware of her boyfriends’ desire to eat her alive, sorry, to eat her out. from the way they can’t resist drinking her wetness off their (or her own) fingers, to the way they can’t stop running their mouths about getting their mouths on you: they’ve made how desperate they are, very clear. for some reason, she can’t get past her mental block to allow them to feast between her legs, or to taste what’s between theirs. max figures she just needs a demonstration to quell her fears; charles is a more than willing participant.

soundtrack - super freaky girl • nicki minaj

finale: 𝘂𝗻𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝘀𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗼𝗿 | vaginal sex | 12/17/23

tonight, innocent and virgin!reader will be defiled, deflowered, tarnished—whichever word you prefer. from the moment she told them she was ready to lose her virginity, they’ve been carefully planning out a special night, for her. and shockingly, there’s not an ounce of fear, anxiety, or doubt in her mind—max and charles have gained her complete trust. they haven’t given her a single reason to believe that they wouldn’t treat her right. she couldn’t have asked for better men to take her virginity—if this is corruption, she’s delighted to experience it.

soundtrack - wet dreamz • j.cole

𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 ↴

extra scene: downforce

all my (terrified and oversensitive) homies hate vibrators!! max and charles introduce you to something better

© httpsserene2023