#there are people like this existing in the world

[rihfenty]

not to be a taylor swift fan or anything but something about the most important sporting event in the us being made about taylor swift to the point ppl want teams to win or lose bc they hate her and to the point they are booing her just existing at the game really scares me when i think about how exploited she was by media & made the scapegoat and villain for everything. why do so many people gleefully flock to hate her in droves when she's done nothing? it's almost like an enjoyable sporting event TO bully taylor and that's crazy and it scares me when i think how huge she is right now bc toppling from that will be hard and i don't want the world to tear her apart again

[amoressb]

───── TWO IDIOTS IN LOVE 西村 力 N. RK

ꪆৎ ⋆˚࿔ just two best friends being oblivious to their love for each other ｡｡ bestfriend!riki x reader . fluff & wc. 1.0k ; kissing, skinship ｡｡

──── ARCHiVE

riki and you had been best friends since middle school. the type of best friends who communicated through facial expressions alone, who texted each other memes at three in the morning, and who had an entire language of inside jokes no one else could understand. you two bickered like an old married couple, stole food off each other’s plates without permission, and shared your wildest dreams without hesitation.

too bad you two were completely oblivious to the fact that you were in love with each other. so when riki surprised you with tickets to universal studios, you had tackled him in a hug, nearly knocking him over.

“you are officially my favorite person ever,” you declared, eyes sparkling. “i better be, these tickets were not cheap,” riki joked, though he looked pretty pleased with himself.

the moment you two stepped into the park, the chaos began. both running from ride to ride like little kids, shoving each other playfully as you two argued over what to do next. you screamed the loudest on roller coasters (riki swore you shattered his eardrum on jurassic world), while riki attempted to set a new personal record for how many butterbeer flavored treats a person could consume in one day.

“are you sure you should be eating another one?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as riki took a huge bite of a butterbeer flavored churro.

riki waved you off, “please, my stomach is built for this.”

not even an hour later, he was groaning on a bench, his head in your lap as you laughed mercilessly at his misery.

“laugh it up,” he grumbled. “oh, i will,” you teased, poking his cheek. “this is what you get for underestimating butterbeer.”

by nightfall, you two finally made your way to super nintendo world. the moment you stepped in, both of you were hit with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. the neon lit mushroom kingdom surrounded you and riki, the familiar game music playing softly in the background.

“riki.” you grabbed his arm, shaking him with excitement. “we’re in mario land!”

“i know,” riki grinned. “this is literally my childhood dream come true!”

“okay, we have to go on mario kart : bowsers challenge,” you said, practically vibrating with excitement.

“oh, absolutely,” riki agreed. “and i’m so ready to destroy you.”

“in your dreams, loser.”

as soon as you got into your karts, the competition began. you threw yourselves into the ride, dodging banana peels, throwing shells, and laughing way too hard when one of you got hit. by the time you two stumbled off, breathless and giddy, you and him were still arguing about who had won.

“i definitely won,” you declared.

“you literally lost at the finish line,” riki shot back. “just accept that i’m superior.”

“please yeah right—” you groaned and shoved his shoulder.

it was supposed to be playful, but riki, being the clumsy guy that he was, lost his balance. instinctively, he grabbed onto your wrist, but that just made you stumble too and suddenly—you two crashed into each other.

your faces were way too close.

neither of you moved. you could feel rikis breath against your lips and you were very aware of the fact that your hands were gripping his hoodie while his fingers were curled around your wrist.

everything around you—the neon lights, the distant game music, the sound of other people laughing—blurred into the background. the only thing that existed in that moment was him.

and then riki, looking dazed and definitely not thinking straight, mumbled, “if i kissed you right now, would that be really stupid or only kind of stupid?”

your brain short circuited. “wh—” you opened your mouth, but no words came out. “did you just—”

riki blinked, his own words catching up to him. his face immediately turned bright red. “i—i didn’t mean to say that out loud,” he stammered.

you stared at him, your heart pounding. the worst part? you didn’t hate the idea. in fact, it was like something clicked in your brain—all the teasing, all the lingering touches, all the everything suddenly made sense.

“oh my gosh,” you whispered. “what?” riki asked nervously.

“i’m in love with you.” the words slipped out before you could stop them and as soon as you said them, your eyes went wide. “oh no.”

“oh no?” riki repeated, staring at you. “why oh no?”

“because..” you groaned, covering your face. “because now i can’t pretend i don’t have feelings for you and now our friendship is going to be so weird, and i—”

“y/n.”

you peeked through your fingers. riki was staring at you, wide eyed, looking like you had just revealed the greatest secret in the universe and then…he grinned.

“you love me,” he repeated, and he sounded way too smug about it. you scowled, “shut up.”

“no, this is amazing,” riki said, his grin widening. “because guess what?”

“what.”

“i’m also in love with you.”

you blinked. “wait…what?”

“you heard me,” riki said, rocking back on his heels. “i love you. i have probably always loved you and if we weren’t in the middle of mario land, i would definitely be kissing you right now.” you gaped at him, “we’re in mario land, riki.”

“i know,” he smirked. “which is why i’m gonna kiss you right here and make it the most iconic confession in history.”

you barely had time to react before riki leaned in, his hand cupping your cheek as he kissed you—warm, soft, and so so long overdue. eventually you melted into him, your hands fisting his hoodie.

when you pulled apart, your face was on fire. “that was—”

“amazing?” riki grinned. “i was gonna say stupid, but sure.” riki laughed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “you totally lost mario kart, by the way.” you groaned, “you’re lucky i love you.”

“yeah you do” he smiled. you rolled your eyes playfully with a smile as you lean into his arms, head sort of resting on his shoulder/chest, his hand that was around your shoulder intertwined with your right hand.

and just like that, two oblivious idiots in love finally got their happy ending…at mario land, of all places.

⋆｡°✩ @miukidoll @liwinly @sugarikiz

[sepdet]

Oh but this is fascinating.

If "it's fictional because it doesn't exist in nature," then anything that exists through human intervention doesn't exist!

house. Eiffel Tower. crime. tin. Australia. bread. dog. ink. oranges. music. job. tunnel. Sony.

Have they' conflated fictional with fabricated, meaning both "made" and "made up"?

That's an example of polysemy, a word containing multiple meanings.

Polysemy is common in most languages. Less so for English, which is about 5 languages in a teenchcoat, so it has a huge vocabulary. Different shades of meaning have become associated with different words, and the scope of each word has tended to shrink.

I wonder if that contributes to some English-speakers' literalism.

Here's another example of polysemy from [problematic] Joseph Campbell, whose descriptive ideas about mythology tend to be misapplied proscriptively;

The [interviewer] began argumentatively, “The word ‘myth,’ means ‘a lie.’ Myth is a lie.”

So I replied with my definition of myth. “No, myth is not a lie. A whole mythology is an organization of symbolic images and narratives, metaphorical of the possibilities of human experience and the fulfillment of a given culture at a given time.”

“It’s a lie,” he countered.

“It’s a metaphor.”

“It’s a lie.”

This went on for about twenty minutes. Around four or five minutes before the end of the program, I realized that this interviewer did not really know what a metaphor was. I decided to treat him as he was treating me.

“No,” I said, “I tell you it’s metaphorical. You give me an example of a metaphor.”

He replied, “You give me an example.”

I resisted, “No, I’m asking the question this time.” I had not taught school for thirty years for nothing. “And I want you to give me an example of a metaphor.”

[...]

Finally, with something like a minute and a half to go, he rose to the occasion at said, “I’ll try. My friend John runs very fast. People say he runs like a deer. There’s a metaphor.”

As the last seconds of the interview ticked off, I replied, “That is not the metaphor. The metaphor is: John is a deer.”

He shot back, “That’s a li v e.”

“No,” I said, “That is a metaphor.”

And the show ended. What does that incident suggest about our common understanding of metaphor?

It made me reflect that half the people in the world think that the metaphors of their religious traditions, for example, are facts. And the other half contends that they are not facts at all. As a result we have people who consider themselves believers because they accept metaphors as facts, and we have others who classify themselves as atheists because they think religious metaphors are lies.

This argument goes all the way back to Plato and Socrates, who redefined mythos "story, utterance, thing said/told" as pseudos "lie, falsehood,"

It seems to me the problem is not only literalism, the refusal to recognize polysemy or nuance, but a tendency to insist on one meaning of a word when, in context, it means another.

Campbell was concerned with literalism in religion. Now, it's creeping into science, which you'd think would be a better fit for literalism, but not if we latch omto the wrong meanings of words.

Think of the scientific use of "theory" to mean a widely-accepted explanation of something supported by evidence, experiments, and a large body of scientific research by many different research, vs the general public's dismissive use of "theory' to mean hypothesis.

If we've got a lot of people who think scientific theories are unproven guesses, and even that fabricated materials are imaginary, no wonder trust in science is eroding.

or else I'm reading way way way too much into one person's post. 😅

i logged on to twitter.com and saw somebody say “plutonium is fictional because it doesnt exist in nature”. which, one, i dont think is entirely true, im fairly certain trace amounts of plutonium exist in natural uranium deposits, and two, that is such a frankly wonderfully incorrect definition of fictional and im deeply intrigued by the implications. concrete is fictional. polyester doesnt exist

[solxamber]

Leona romantic and here's the song!

https://youtu.be/nBteO-bU78Y?si=BNupz7ZfAHeIzMER

Dont forget to drink water and eat some food!

"Love me like I love you" || Leona Kingscholar

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: We're Still Underground by Eve

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 660

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Mild Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship

Leona Kingscholar had never trusted happiness. It was a fleeting thing, a trick of the light, a cruel joke whispered on the wind before it was snatched away. He had learned long ago that hope was a losing game, that people only stuck around until they found something—or someone—better.

So when you came into his life, so bright and unwavering, so determined to love him without reservation, Leona didn’t know what to do with it.

You were everything he had convinced himself he wasn’t meant to have. Soft laughter in the morning, your fingers smoothing through his hair as he rested his head in your lap. Gentle kisses on the corner of his mouth, whispered words of affection given so freely it made his chest ache. You looked at him like he was worthy, like he was enough.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Because one day, you would realize the truth.

One day, you would see what everyone else had always seen—that he wasn’t worth staying for.

Leona had been waiting for that day since the moment you first called him yours.

Waiting for you to wake up and understand that he could never be the person you deserved.

Waiting for the moment you left him behind.

It was late when it happened, when the words he had spent so long dreading finally left your lips. The two of you were tangled together on his bed, your body warm beside his, your hand resting against his chest in lazy contentment.

“I love you."

He froze.

For a moment, the words didn’t quite register, like a foreign language spoken too softly to understand.

Then, his body tensed, and something heavy lodged itself in his throat.

“Don’t joke about stuff like that,” he muttered, staring up at the ceiling. His voice was calm, but the grip of his fingers against the sheets betrayed him.

There was silence, thick and suffocating.

Then���

"Leona."

His name on your lips was firm, filled with something unshakable. Before he could move, you reached for his hand, gripping it tightly.

"Look at me."

He did.

And you were watching him with something so raw, so devastatingly real, that it made his heart stutter in his chest.

"I mean it," you said, voice steady, eyes burning into his. "I love you."

Something inside him cracked, something deep and buried, something he had spent years convincing himself didn’t exist.

His breath was uneven, his thoughts a mess of tangled emotions. "Why?" he asked hoarsely.

"Leona, you're it for me." Your fingers tightened around his hand, grounding him, keeping him from slipping back into the shadows of his own mind. "I love you. Not some idealized version of you, not some fantasy. You."

His throat felt tight.

You weren’t saying this because you wanted something from him, or because you were caught up in the moment.

"You think I want the sun?" you murmured, your forehead pressing against his, your warmth seeping into his skin. "I don’t care where we are, Leona. I don’t care if we never leave the underground. As long as I have you, that’s enough."

His fingers twitched, then curled around yours.

For so long, he had been waiting for the inevitable goodbye.

But you weren’t leaving.

You had never planned to.

Slowly, hesitantly, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest. He could feel the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, could feel the quiet certainty of your presence beside him.

And maybe, he could believe in this.

Maybe love wasn’t about climbing toward something unreachable. Maybe it wasn’t about being enough for the rest of the world.

Maybe it was simply this—two people standing in the dark, hands clasped tight, knowing that neither of them would ever let go.

And for the first time in his life—

Leona didn't mind remaining underground

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

[ssa-dado]

24 - Logos

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And somehow, that made it even sweeter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no. She didn’t let you finish.

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

You choked.

Actually choked.

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

Your counter.

Your floor.

Your poor, innocent, pristine white pants.

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

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

You wheezed, still coughing. "Penelope-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You froze.

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

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

"OH. MY. GOD."

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

"OH MY GOD. YOU DID."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

You should have seen that coming."Penelope!"

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

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

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

Oh no.

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

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

Yes.

And no comment.

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

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

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

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

"Penelope, please." You were already suffering.

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

You froze. "Do not finish that sentence."

"BIG, HUGE D-"

Time to draw the line.

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

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

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

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

You absolutely would.

And you did.

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

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

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

…Hmm. Well. Yes?

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

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

Not important. Moving on.

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

Connected.

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

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

There was a pause. A beat.

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

You froze.

Penelope froze.

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

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

Aaron in the shower.

Aaron, freshly out of the shower.

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

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

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

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

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

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

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

Dead silence.

Garcia looked like she had been struck by divine retribution.

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

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

Nothing.

Just the sound of sheer existential regret.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You just stared at her.

She just stared back.

Then, in perfect sync -

You both screamed, laughing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You still somehow winced thinking back about it.

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

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

She lifted her head just enough to nod. Begrudgingly.

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

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

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

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

You nearly choked, again. "Penelope!"

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

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

Penelope screamed.

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

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

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

"You need to calm down," you deadpanned.

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

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

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

You shrugged. "You survived."

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

You tilted your head. "Who?"

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

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

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

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

"Why not?!" she howled.

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

She narrowed her eyes, assessing, calculating.

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

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

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

"I-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"PENELOPE."

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

"We were disagreeing about the profile."

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

You let your head drop onto the counter.

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

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

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

Oh fucking hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"PENELOPE."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should have seen this coming.

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

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

Aaron didn’t even let him finish.

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

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

And then - Penelope smirked.

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

Yeah. You were doomed.

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

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

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

Didn’t even let you reach for it yourself.

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

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

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

You had never wanted to fight for your life more.

Not because of the closeness.

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

No.

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

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

You blinked.

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

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

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

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

Oh, he was such a loser.

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

Like this was all perfectly normal.

Like you hadn’t just caught him.

"Aaron." You bit back a smirk.

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

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

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

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

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

He knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah. Okay.

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

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

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

"Best friends," you repeated.

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

A beat. A pause. Too long.

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

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

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

And then-

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

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

And God - that laugh.

It wrecked him.

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

He was so, so fucked.

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

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

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

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

It would consume him.

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

Unless he knew you wanted him too.

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

And that terrified him, because he was not sure.

Because you laughed like it was just funny.

Because you smiled like this was just a conversation.

Because you did not look wrecked.

Not like he felt.

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

Not ‘do you think I’m wrong’.

Not ‘do you disagree’.

But  - you think so too.

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

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

He was paying attention to everything.

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

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

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

That it didn’t mean anything.

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

You raised an eyebrow. “In what?”

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

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

It was dangerous, talking to you like this.

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

Especially when it came to him.

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

It was your job, afterall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he did what he had always done.

He lived with it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He understood.

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

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

Just a few inches at first.

And then he did the same.

You moved again. Then so did he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And somehow, that made it all the more devastating.

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

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

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

But then, you looked back up.

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

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

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

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

It was you who moved first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that was it.

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

Gentle. Steady. Tender.

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

You didn’t pull away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. “Very.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wanted him. Now.

You were ready - to let it all go.

“Aaron,” you whispered, looking into him.

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

Your temple.

The side of your right eye.

The curve of your cheek.

Down to your jawline.

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

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

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

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

The moment.

How do you measure a moment like this?

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

And then, finally, he closed the distance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe that was the point.

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

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

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

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

But damn, how it changed with every turn.

The same, yet entirely different.

The weight of then. The depth of now.

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

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

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

The cycle never ends.

But neither, it seemed, did you.

Competing with each other, as always.

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

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

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

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

Damn him and his competitiveness.

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

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

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

Damn him.

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

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

And so, blame the position.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No shit, Sherlock.

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

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

No shit, Sherlock, part two.

Was he worrying about you or himself?

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

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

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

Oh God, how considerate he was.

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

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

But words it was, then.

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

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

How responsible.

How tragic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if you could talk.

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

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

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

Anyway, the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh no, what a pity…

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

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

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

Mismatched underwear.

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

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

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

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

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

But plans didn’t seem to matter anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you refused to let a sound escape.

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

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

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

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

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

Attention that the insufferable man was withholding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah. That smirk. Never a good sign.

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

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

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

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

From the knee.

Oh, come on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. What a whore.

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

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

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

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

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

Didn’t touch.

Just -

"You're a goddess."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hilarious.

"You have it," you murmured.

That was delicious.

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

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

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

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

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

And it probably did.

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

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

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

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

And oh, he heard you, loud and clear.

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

Fuck him.

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

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

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

What a whore.

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

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

How cruel of him.

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

“Please do,” he said.

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

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

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

"Stay open for me."

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

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

Some things never changed.

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

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

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

"Aaron, I'm so close."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t stop.

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

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

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

And then he kissed you.

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

Romanticism truly was dead.

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

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

Who were you to refuse?

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

And oh damn-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The reaction was immediate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy fucking-

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

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

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

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

“God, you’re so tight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Really?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was no fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there it was.

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

Damn the stoics for being right.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, neither was your cu-

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tried to respond, he really did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stilled.

Aaron’s face hardened. Rocher’s victims.

The ones he had been taunting you with.

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

Aaron’s eyes sharpened. "What?"

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

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

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

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

You were both there.

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

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

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

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

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

The answer was obvious before he even said it.

“…philosophy.”

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

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

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

Because it wasn’t just the age gap.

It wasn’t just the coincidence of numbers.

It was what made it undeniable.

A lawyer.

And a philosopher.

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

Almost like in the musicals.

Almost sweet.

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

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

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

[metanarrates]

rambling again abt sensationalization of cults because this comes up whenever i discuss the fact that I was raised in one, but... like many other forms of abuse, i think there ends up being a popularly conveyed idea of an "outside world" where there's going to be unambiguous freedom. and don't get me wrong, being outside a cult or any other abusive environment is way better than being inside one, but you get outside and if you have eyes you notice the ways that society is abusive and coercive. you notice the ways your personhood gets curtailed by things by school & work & government. the idea of the cult being a sensational, unique outlier is at best a comforting lie told by people who don't want to notice parallels, and at worst, I can't help but see it as an intentional scapegoating of cults and of abusers to distance broader society from being implicated in having caused similar harm. don't fall for it. a cult is an intensifier of patterns that already exist. abuse is an intensifier of patterns that already exist. it is absolutely not unique lol!

[quilitain]

I feel like an important milestone on the road to equality is reaching the Right to be Boring.

Cishet white folks get to be boring in fiction all the time. In fact some never progress beyond this. They get to do plain, simple things without the need to justify their character's existence because they're assumed to be the default.

Which is great for real people in the real world, but can be understandably disappointing when applied to a fictional work where tension, drama, and exaggerated stakes are the things we're going to see

I am genuinely not advocating for a return to queerbait tv, I was vocally against it the whole time it was happening that was like my whole shtick for a while but it is kind of wild that when gay people weren’t allowed on tv, gay characters (who weren’t allowed to be gay) would be drinking poison for each other and killing bad guys for each other romantically and offering to go to prison in each other’s place and now that we are allowed to have gay people on tv…gay people will just be having a healthy conversation and going going on a date like normal people. Get OUT of my face with that

[pro-sipper]

Sooo so so sick and tired of the holier than thou "proship and antiship are both dumb" "I'm so over shipping discourse" "I'm a secret third thing (adult with a job)" circle jerk bullshit I keep seeing on this site

First of all, most of these people don't even see what's actually going on here. It doesn't stop at what fandom ships are good or bad.

And where do they get off thinking it's just some dumb internet tumblr drama? Do you know that people who exist online also exist in real life? And the ideas that they express or act on online (like wanting to censor fiction, thinking they're the authority on what can be written about, sending death and rape threats to people who write fiction in a way they don't like) also carry over into real life?

Real life where we're in a fucking puritan nightmare of a media literacy crisis. You can really look around you at the world we live in and think a thing like censorship is just an issue that exists in cyber space?

[arayapendragon]

how i shift 🦉

it took me years of experimenting, trial and error to realize i don’t need methods, subliminals and guided meditations to shift. while i do agree that these tools can help you shift, because they do work for many people, my recent experiences have helped me understand that all you truly need to shift is yourself, nothing else. and nothing can ever change that. 

you simply need to have an awareness, which you obviously do ahahaha. to shift, you just need to align that awareness to your desired reality. here’s how i do it:

i decide where i want to shift to, and think about that reality for a while

i acknowledge the fact that my desired reality exists somewhere in the multiverse, and that it is possible to become aware of it

i embrace a “fuck it, whatever happens, happens” mindset and let go. i detach from the outcome (to shift)

i become equally open to both waking up in my cr and waking up in my dr. i put neither event above the other, i am okay with either of them happening. if i shift, that’s great. if i don’t, that’s okay. i can always try again. i have all the time in the world to do so. 

i decide that i will wake up in my dr and fall asleep

i wake up in my dr 

i've noticed that each time i used this technique, i shifted successfully. its helped me with 2 intentional shifts, and several other shifts to one-off dr’s and random realities in the past, so i can assure you that this works! :) this is a simple technique for overthinkers or people who don’t like methods. it helps you embrace your natural talent, and proves how easy, effortless, and natural shifting can be. 

here’s my 2 success stories from using this technique:

last october i was taking an afternoon nap and spontaneously decided to shift to my hogwarts golden trio era dr. i fell asleep while affirming "i am" and woke up on the train to hogwarts, exactly as i'd scripted! i was standing outside the compartment, and all my senses were present in that reality. i could hear the train horn, the sound of the people talking, i could see the interior of the train in front of me, and felt the chugging of the train beneath my feet.

this image is very similar to what i saw during that shift

2. i wanted to shift to my hogwarts legacy dr yesterday night. while falling asleep, i decided that i was going to wake up on the hogwarts express, but was also equally open to waking up in my cr. i didn't mind either outcome. i let go and fell asleep. as i woke up, something felt different. my eyes were closed but i was no longer lying down - i was sitting upright. i was no longer in a still and silent environment - i felt the chugging of the train engine beneath my feet. i quickly realized that i had in fact shifted to my hogwarts legacy dr and was on the train to hogwarts. i shifted back after a minute as i was quite dazed and disoriented, but i shifted nevertheless!

my advice 

don’t try to follow someone else’s steps. do what resonates with YOU, its your journey. 

embrace the process and each step of your shifting journey. demotivation is normal, you’re only human, it won’t stop you from shifting. 

realize that you don’t need anything to shift but yourself. if guided meditations and subliminals work for you, then keep at it! but if you’re not making any progress with them, its time you rely on yourself rather than external aid to shift. the power lies within you, its always been there. 

there's no need to put in effort while doing your method 

simply thinking about your dr and deciding that you want to be there can help you shift

go with the flow, be spontaneous and have fun

stop doing things that aren’t working for you

detach from the outcome of shifting, it will happen eventually, don’t focus on it happening too much

happy shifting! 🩷

[mmoozzee]

seeing Superman (or any superhero for that matter, but especially Superman) directly saving an innocent bystander that we can see and not just the vague idea of "saving the city/world/galaxy" is so refreshing. superheroes exist, not just to fight crazy supervillains in over the top battles, but to help the innocent, to care enough about their fellow to recognize that they have the ability to help people and to take the initiative to do so. in doing so, they fulfill their fundamental purpose, to inspire people to do the same. I may not have super strength like Clark or a billion dollars like Batman, but you can still help people in your own life. Picking up trash, buying a meal for someone in need, giving your time to volunteer, jumping a stranger's car on the road, clearing snow for a neighbor who can't. by doing impossible things they don't have to do to help others simply because they have the ability, they inspire us to do the same. I don't know if this new movie is any good yet, but it's off to a good start. maybe, just maybe, Hollywood is remembering why we made these paragons in the first place, to give us hope, and that? that excites me.

SUPERMAN (2025) dir. James Gunn

[rotagnus]

what does this person think of you? --<3

this is an intuitive reading, if it does not speak to you do not take it to heart. i will be blunt so don't expect butterflies and unicorns. this is asking about someone who at least knows about your existence...so no f/s, no celebrity. can be romantic or platonic. blurbs because i made six piles...maybe i'll add on later or do a pt. 2. feedback is appreciated but not required. enjoy, babies 💋

i've been a bit busy with personal life and senior year, but when spring break rolls around i'll make more pacs and in between then as well. <3

this person thinks that you're very fawn-like. you're bubbly and you know how to be the center of attention, which can bug you sometimes--this person thinks you revel in it, though. compared to you, they may be less popular--nerdier, unseen, and they admire the way you can command people at your will. they may be meek and have had some issues in their life that have caused them to be on the more quiet side. they're a very calm person though, and they appreciate that you're more different than them. they think you're warm, and although you're a bit too bright at times, they love your spark. i think you're asking about someone on your level, around your age. if this is a romantic connection, i think there's some potential, although this person may not be ready for this. you are much more spiritually advanced than them. song: easy lovers by piero piccioni. animal: mourning dove. place: coastlines.

this person can probably be seen as a bit rude/cold at first. i'm thinking of sea storms, brick walls incase that may be significant. you're probably out of high school, in the real world. this may be a coworker or college friend you're asking about. anyways, i think they think that you're pretty neat. you probably have similar interests--if you haven't spoken to them, you really should. this can be a very good friendship. they may like sports or have varying hobbies than you (not interests necessarily). you're more on the artistic, musical side. they think that you're very talented, but that you show this side to other people rarely. you have this summery aura around you. you feel like home. but they, also, have a very widespread social circle and they think very positively about other people. they're probably more talkative than you are. song: champagne coast by blood orange. animal: tiger. place: islands.

this person may resent you a little bit for some reason. i'm thinking of birds. i think you embody some quality that they wish to have, and the fact that it seems like you exhibit this so easily makes them upset. you're a very lucky person and life gives you whatever you want on a silver platter--they do not know that you've worked for everything that you currently have. you may be flighty, which can be both positive or negative, and it pisses them off because they stay in one spot all of the time. you're not attached to things as much as they are, and it makes them furious at how fast you can move on from things. you probably smile a lot and they get upset with that--this can be an ex, someone who didn't make the first move, even a parent with whom your relationship has grown sour. i think that this connection is probably better off not existing. song: angel by massive attack. animal: snake. place: inland.

they think a lot of you contrasts other parts of you. you may be a feminine man or a masculine woman, or exhibit qualities that aren't expected of you, like being a girl and having short hair or having a job in a more male-dominated field, f.e. you're a fiery person--i wouldn't say outright bubbly like pile 1, because you do have your silent moments, but when you do speak you fill your words with passion. you're a very powerful person and they don't know what to make of you. you're a bit intimidating so if you're hoping they'll approach you, you may have to make the first move 😂. but if you've spoken with them already, this person likes you and adores you. you're their little punk and they think that you're pretty darn cool. they're probably alternative, or they also defy norms. that's why they think you're pretty nice. they're a genuine person, although they may be a bit blunt sometimes. song: elskling by elusin. animal: dolphin. place: cities.

i think this person thinks you're very beautiful. note that this doesn't mean they are necessarily attracted to you, but for a lot of you, they are. you have very well-defined features, and you don't try to cover them up, even though some of you do struggle with self image. they think you're not only absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, but you're wise. you're soft but you know how to punch too, but you choose to be at peace. i don't really think this person is in a position to know a lot about you, as of now...i would be 50/50 about talking to them seriously if you haven't already. this person does have the ability to form meaningful connections with people, but for some of you they're lustful and very material-based. song: agora hills. animal: cat. place: luxurious/well cared for.

ahhh my final pile! hi darling. this seems like someone you've fell out with, or you have had a rocky relationship. i think you're tired, or sad now--maybe you have seasonal depression. i feel like you're carrying a big weight on your shoulders, and this person has noticed that too. they think of you as very honorable. you have a strong-set of morals that they admire, and they like how you're loyal to things despite sometimes it being to a fault. they think that you're a very honest person--unrelated but some of you may have an accent or an interesting way of speaking. you have a good heart, and because of this you have an amalgamation of many different people in your social circle, since you're non-judgmental. the person thinks that this is bad, because they're really judgy themselves. they're also probably insecure. i think you need to stop caring about what this person thinks and instead go treat yourself. after you've helped yourself out of this sludge, you'll learn that you don't really care for what they think--this doesn't mean that they don't matter, no, but it means that they're not the focal point of your life and that the beautiful energy surrounding you should be devoted to other things, not just them. song: total eclipse of the heart by bonnie tyler. animal: dog. place: southern.

[jzprncess]

threads of the past ౨ৎ

pairing : charles leclerc x reader

face claim : various people

main summary : Y/N and Charles grew up together in Monaco, sharing a close bond until her mother took her away after a family conflict. Many years later, after a loss she had to endure, Y/N returns to Monaco to fulfill a promise. There, she unexpectedly reunites with Charles, now a successful Formula 1 driver

part 2 previous

word count : 4,874

warnings: some designers do not exist in this au since i might take their fashion pieces!

note: my writing motivation is back. i honestly have the next part written out in my head. i hope you guys enjoy this one like you did the last. you may think this one is lacking unlike the last one but its the simple lore that was needed to build the story.

────୨ৎ────

Y/N sat frozen, her mother’s words from the letter echoing in her mind like a whisper she couldn’t ignore. Her fingers clutched the edges of the paper, creasing it as tears blurred her vision. She felt an overwhelming mix of emotions—grief, confusion, and a deep ache for a past she had buried but never truly let go of.

Go back to Monaco.

The words hit her like a tidal wave, crashing over her carefully constructed life in New York. She stared out the rain-speckled window, the city streets below buzzing with the endless motion of taxis, hurried footsteps, and life moving on. Her mother’s absence left an unbearable stillness, a void that no amount of city noise could fill.

New York was home now. It had been her mother’s dream to build a life here—a dream she had passed down to Y/N like an inheritance. It was where they’d built their routines, their traditions, their tiny world above the deli. It was where her mother had taught her to sew late into the night, where they’d baked cookies on Christmas Eve, where they’d danced in the kitchen to old jazz records on lazy Sunday mornings. New York was more than just a city; it was their sanctuary. How could she leave it behind?

But then, Monaco…

The memories were so vivid they felt tangible, like the scent of saltwater and fresh lavender carried by a Mediterranean breeze. She could see her father laughing as he helped her balance on a bike for the first time, hear the distant hum of the harbor as she and Charles raced down cobblestone streets, their carefree giggles echoing in the air. The warmth of those moments wrapped around her like a long-forgotten blanket, stirring something deep in her chest.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, guilt creeping in. She had tried so hard to move on, to create a life that didn’t revolve around what was left behind. But her mother’s words reopened wounds she thought had healed, forcing her to confront the parts of her life she had deliberately ignored.

Her thoughts wandered to her father. She had spent so many years trying not to think about him—about what they could have had if life had been kinder. There were pieces of him scattered in her memories, fragments of love and laughter that had faded over time. Now, her mother’s letter made her wonder: had she spent too long running from his memory? Had she missed out on understanding who he really was, or who she was because of him?

But it wasn’t just about him. It was about everything she had lost. The years she could have spent in Monaco, the friendships she could have nurtured, the life she could have had with Charles if things had been different. It all felt like a distant dream, one she wasn’t sure she could return to without breaking herself all over again.

And yet… what if her mother was right? What if Monaco was the missing piece of the puzzle?

The thought scared her. She had spent the last ten years building something here, something her mother had been proud of. She had grown roots in this city, and tearing them up felt impossible. Could she really pack up everything she had built, everything her mother had worked for, and leave it behind?

Her gaze fell to the letter again. Her mother’s handwriting, once so familiar, now felt like a message from a world that no longer existed.

“I don’t want to leave you, Mom,” Y/N whispered, her voice trembling. Her chest felt tight, the weight of the decision pressing down on her. She knew that going back to Monaco would mean facing everything she had avoided for so long. It would mean confronting her grief, her regrets, and the pieces of herself she had tried to bury.

But it would also mean honoring her mother’s wish, fulfilling a promise that had been made before Y/N was old enough to understand it. It would mean reconnecting with the parts of her that she had left behind, no matter how much it hurt.

Her tears fell freely now, landing on the letter in her lap. She took a shaky breath, her hands trembling as she folded it carefully and set it aside.

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “But I’ll try. For you.”

The decision wasn’t final—not yet. It would take time to gather the courage to face everything waiting for her in Monaco. But for the first time, Y/N allowed herself to imagine it. To picture the streets, the harbor, the life she had left behind.

She wasn’t ready to pack up and leave just yet. But in her heart, she knew the first step had already been taken.

Y/N tucked the letter into the top drawer of her desk, her fingers lingering on the handle for a moment before she pushed it shut. Her room felt smaller now, like the weight of her memories had made the walls press inward. She leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling, her mind still racing.

Hours passed in a haze. She busied herself with tasks she didn’t need to do—organizing her closet, rearranging the kitchen shelves, watering her plants even though she’d done it yesterday. Anything to avoid the gnawing ache in her chest.

By the time the sun began to set, Y/N found herself on the fire escape outside her window. She sat there with a mug of tea, the metal cold beneath her as she looked out at the city she loved so much. The skyline was painted in hues of orange and pink, the soft hum of life below serving as a constant reminder of why she had stayed.

Her phone buzzed beside her. She hesitated before picking it up, half-expecting a message from someone from Monaco who had heard the news. Instead, it was a simple text from her best friend in New York.

gracie : Hey, just checking in. You good? Let me know if you want me to bring over some food or just sit and scroll TikTok with you. Love you.

A small smile tugged at Y/N’s lips. Gracie always had a way of knowing when she needed a little grounding. The thought of her best friend showing up with her oversized hoodie, a random array of snacks, and the determination to turn any bad mood around made Y/N’s chest ache in the best way.

She glanced back at the letter, then at her phone.

y/n : I’m okay. Just… processing. But thank you. I love you, too. 

It was a lie—she wasn’t okay, not entirely. But how could she explain the turmoil in her chest? The memories of Monaco tugging her one way and the life she’d built in New York pulling her another? How could she tell Gracie that her heart felt like it was caught in a game of tug-of-war with itself?

The truth was, she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know how to face the idea of returning to Monaco, a place she hadn’t called home in years.

Her gaze fell on the letter again, her mother’s handwriting looping across the page. The words “find your way back” seemed to glow, as though they were written just for her, meant to haunt her in this moment.

Gracie would understand—she always did. But this? This was something Y/N wasn’t sure she could explain to anyone.

Y/N stared at the stack of stationery in front of her. She hadn't written a letter in years—texting, emailing, and social media messages had long replaced the old-fashioned art. But this time, there was something different. Something final.

She had made her decision, but that didn't make the weight of it any easier to bear. She needed to say goodbye. To all the people who had made New York feel like home, who had helped her heal, and who had been there for her in the quiet moments of grief.

The pen felt heavy in her hand as she began writing.

Dear Leo,

I don't even know how to begin this, or if it will even do justice to how much you’ve meant to me. When my mom and I first moved to New York, we didn’t have much. You let us rent that apartment above your deli, and for that, I’ll be forever grateful. It wasn’t just the rent you helped with—it was the kindness, the way you checked in on us, and the warmth you always offered with your sandwiches. You were like family to us, Leo.

I remember the way you’d smile when I’d sneak into the deli just to say hello, how you’d ask about my day as if you had all the time in the world. I’ll never forget those moments. You became a part of our life in ways you may not even realize.

I’m writing this because, with everything happening, it’s time for me to say goodbye. I’ve made the decision to return to Monaco to deal with the past. It’s hard to leave New York, especially with all the memories of my mom, but I know it’s time to face what’s waiting for me.

I want to thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for everything you did for us. Your generosity and the way you opened your door to us—it meant more than words can express. I’ll always cherish those memories.

Wishing you all the best,

Y/N

⋆

Dear my fashion connections,

First off, I just want to say how incredibly thankful I am for all the opportunities you’ve given me. Working with you, learning the ins and outs of the fashion world, and seeing my designs take life has been a dream come true. From the custom pieces to the small fashion shows, you’ve helped me grow as a designer in ways I never expected.

I’m reaching out because, as difficult as this is, I’ve made the decision to return to Monaco. The decision has nothing to do with my passion for design—it’s about facing my past and moving forward with the pieces of me that I’ve left behind.

I want to reassure you that I’m not stepping away from design. Fashion is part of who I am, and that won’t change. I’ll still be working on my pieces, growing, and pushing my creativity.

I hope we can continue to stay connected, and who knows what collaborations the future might hold. I’ve learned so much from you, and I’m excited to see where our paths may cross again.

With gratitude,

Y/N

⋆

Dear Gracie,

I don’t even know where to start. You’ve been my best friend for so long, and the thought of writing this letter makes it all feel so final. But here we are. I’ve made the decision to return to Monaco. I know it’s hard for you to hear, and it’s probably hard for me to say, but it feels like the right thing to do.

It’s been over a week since I opened the letter from my mom, and I’ve been battling this inner war—do I stay in the place I’ve built for myself here, or do I go back to the place I left so long ago? It’s not that I want to leave New York. God, New York has become my home. But Monaco has always been there, lurking in the back of my mind, and after my mom’s passing, I realize I have to face it. There are things there, pieces of myself, that I’ve left behind. I need to reconnect with them, and with the life I thought I’d never return to.

I’ve spent so many years here, with you by my side, making memories that I’ll carry with me forever. From all the late nights working on sketches to those impromptu trips to get ice cream, it’s all been a part of my journey. And now, as hard as it is, I have to say goodbye for now.

You’ve been my rock, Gracie. You’ve been my person when I needed someone to laugh with, someone to cry with, and someone to remind me that life keeps moving forward even when it feels like it’s falling apart. I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve been to me. You’ve made New York feel like home, and you’ve made my life better just by being in it.

I can’t imagine what life is going to look like without you by my side, but I promise you that this isn’t the end of our friendship. It’s just a chapter closing. I’ll miss you more than words can express, but I know that we’ll find a way to stay in touch, even if we’re miles apart. Maybe one day, I’ll bring you to Monaco, and we’ll share the life I left behind with you.

Thank you for being the best friend I could’ve asked for.

With all my love,

Y/N

Y/N had sealed the last envelope and taken a moment to breathe. The letters were sent—her goodbyes were final, and soon, the people she loved would know that she had made her choice. The cab ride to the airport felt almost surreal, like it was happening to someone else. She couldn’t quite believe she was leaving New York. Her home. Her memories. Gracie and Leo, even her fashion connections... everyone would soon understand that she was gone, but they wouldn’t get the chance to say goodbye to her in person.

She had made her peace, but the reality of it all hadn't fully settled in. The taxi sped through the streets of New York, her favorite spots flickering past the windows. Would she miss this? The city felt like it had become a part of her, yet she knew deep down that she had to leave.

At the airport, everything moved in a blur. Checking in, passing through security—it all felt so automatic. She wasn’t ready to face it, but she had no choice. Her bags were already packed, her mind made up. As she walked toward her gate, the weight of the goodbyes started to feel heavier, especially as she glanced at her phone, now filled with messages she wasn’t ready to read.

As the plane began to taxi down the runway, the thoughts of leaving New York began to catch up to her. She hadn’t told Gracie, not fully. The letter would speak for her. She had said everything she needed to in it, but the truth of her leaving felt too raw to say out loud.

It wasn’t just the city she was leaving behind. It was the memories of the life she built with her mom. The deli. The quiet mornings with Leo. The late-night baking sessions that had become so familiar. Those pieces of her life, the ones she had woven so carefully, felt like they were slipping away, but there was no going back. She had made her decision.

Her phone buzzed again, and she glanced at it for just a moment before turning it face-down in her lap. It was too late. She wasn’t turning back.

By the time the plane reached cruising altitude, the weight of the decision hit her in full force. The moment to reflect had come and gone, and now there was only moving forward. No more doubts. No more goodbyes.

Gracie would get the letter soon enough. The others too. She knew they’d be shocked, maybe even upset. But it was the right thing to do.

The next chapter had already begun, and Monaco awaited her.

Back in New York:

Gracie, completely unaware of what Y/N had been planning, sat at her desk in the quiet of her apartment. The envelope was plain, just like any other. When she opened it, she smiled, thinking it would be one of those notes from Y/N she always got—something lighthearted and full of her usual sass.

But when she read the words, her stomach dropped.

"Dear gracie," the letter started. "I don’t even know where to start. You’ve been my best friend for so long, and the thought of writing this letter makes it all feel so final. But here we are. I’ve made the decision to return to Monaco. I know it’s hard for you to hear, and it’s probably hard for me to say, but it feels like the right thing to do."

Gracie blinked at the letter, her heart racing. She stared at the words, trying to make sense of them. Back to Monaco? What did that even mean? Gracie couldn’t believe it. Y/N was just... gone? No warning? No final hug?

She read it again. And then again. But the words still didn’t change.

Y/N was leaving. For real.

Elsewhere in New York:

Leo stood behind the counter, wiping down the marble as he always did when the last of the customers had left for the evening. His gaze flicked to the envelope that had just been slid under the door.

It wasn’t unusual to get letters, but this one was different. He recognized Y/N’s handwriting immediately.

When he opened it, the familiar warmth of her words filled him with a strange ache. She was leaving. She didn’t say goodbye in person. Just... a letter.

“Dear leo,” she had written. “I’m writing this because, with everything happening, it’s time for me to say goodbye. I’ve made the decision to return to Monaco to deal with the past. It’s hard to leave New York, especially with all the memories of my mom, but I know it’s time to face what’s waiting for me. I want to thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for everything you did for us. Your generosity and the way you opened your door to us—it meant more than words can express. I’ll always cherish those memories.”

Leo set the letter down slowly, the quiet of the deli suddenly feeling heavier than it ever had before. He knew it had been coming, in a way—Y/N was always so restless. But this was still a shock. A final goodbye he hadn’t been ready for.

Y/N stepped off the plane, the familiar scent of the Mediterranean air hitting her senses immediately. She hadn’t been back in Monaco since she was a child, and everything seemed both the same and completely different. As she walked through the airport, her mind buzzed with a thousand thoughts—some exciting, others overwhelming. She had chosen not to rent the house her family used to live in; it felt too much like stepping back into a past she couldn’t fully reclaim. No, she needed a fresh start. A new place. A clean slate.

She made her way to the car rental desk, the keys for a small, sleek car handed to her without a second glance. The driver in her could appreciate the smooth engine and the way the car hugged the curves of the roads leading up to her new apartment.

Her new apartment was on the quieter side of Monaco, away from the busy tourist spots, but still within easy reach of everything she might need. The building itself had an old charm, the kind of elegance that came with age. But inside, it was a modern mix of comfort and style. A space to breathe. A space to start over.

Her things were already waiting in boxes, ready to be unpacked. But before she dove into the routine of arranging her life, she stood by the window, gazing out at the panoramic view of the harbor below. The water shimmered under the midday sun, the yachts gliding past like fleeting memories.

It didn’t feel real yet. She had made her decision to return, but everything felt like it was in the air, just waiting to fall into place. With one last sigh, she headed toward the boxes, determined to start making this new chapter her own.

Y/N spent the next few days getting settled in. The apartment felt like a blank canvas, and she knew it would take time before it felt like home. The first thing she did was get the essentials—groceries, toiletries, some clothes to unpack—but there were no rush to make the space feel permanent. It was strange, but there was a certain comfort in taking her time.

She spent a lot of time staring out the window, lost in thought. She couldn’t help but wonder about all the things she had left behind in Monaco—the memories of her childhood, the friends she’d lost contact with, and the family she’d once known. It wasn’t easy to push aside those feelings of nostalgia, but she wasn’t here to relive the past. She was here to move forward.

She got to work organizing the apartment, focusing on small tasks to keep her mind busy. Her walls would eventually be filled with art, her shelves with books, and the space would come to life in a way that felt uniquely hers. But for now, it was quiet. Too quiet.

She hadn’t made many plans yet—apart from figuring out how to balance her life in Monaco with the projects she’d started in New York. A little bit of the old Y/N mixed with the new. She still wasn’t sure about everything, about what exactly she was supposed to do next, but she’d figure it out. Like she always did.

Y/N was sitting on her new bed, the unpacked boxes scattered around her, when her phone buzzed. It was Gracie. Her stomach dropped a little—she had hoped the goodbye letter would be enough of an explanation, but now Gracie was calling, and that only meant one thing.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N answered. “Hey, G.”

Gracie’s voice came through quieter than usual. “Y/N... what’s going on? I got your letter, but... I don’t know. I don’t understand. Why didn’t you say goodbye? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Y/N’s throat tightened. She had known this call would come. “I’m sorry, Gracie. I thought it’d be easier this way. I didn’t know how to say it out loud... that I was leaving.”

“Leaving?” Gracie repeated, her voice small. “But... why? You—everything was so good, Y/N. You were... you were happy, I thought. You always told me New York was your home, and now you’re... gone? Just like that?”

Y/N closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the distance, both physical and emotional, that was growing between them. “I wasn’t happy, G. Not the way I should’ve been. I had to leave. I needed a change. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I wasn’t sure I could. Not yet.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Gracie finally spoke, her voice a little shakier than before. “I don’t get it. Why Monaco? After everything? After everything you built here, Y/N...”

Y/N leaned back against the wall, trying to find the right words. “Because... because it’s where I started, G. It’s where I was happy when I was little. It’s where I’ve always felt a connection to, even if I left. It’s... complicated, okay? But it’s where I need to be right now.”

Gracie let out a small sigh. “I just—why didn’t you let me in? Why didn’t you tell me you were struggling? I would’ve been there for you. I could’ve been there for you.”

Y/N swallowed hard, guilt weighing on her chest. “I didn’t want to burden you. I didn’t want to drag you into my mess. You’re doing so well, G. You have everything going for you.”

Gracie’s voice cracked. “But you were my best friend, Y/N. I would’ve done anything for you.”

Y/N blinked back tears, her hand tightening around the phone. “I know. I know, and I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I’m not mad at you,” Gracie said softly. “I just... I don’t know. I don’t understand. I don’t know how to feel.”

“I know,” Y/N whispered. “I’m not asking you to understand. I just—this is something I had to do. I can’t change it. I wish I could’ve been more honest with you, but I didn’t know how. I still don’t.”

Gracie was silent for a few moments before she spoke again, the sadness still lingering in her voice. “I just... I don’t know what to say to you. I feel like I’ve lost you.”

Y/N’s heart ached. “You haven’t lost me, G. I’m still here. I might be in Monaco, but I’m still the same person. I’ll always be your best friend. I promise you that.”

Gracie took a deep breath, her voice steady but soft. “I want to believe you. I just... I didn’t expect this, Y/N.”

Y/N nodded, even though she knew Gracie couldn’t see her. “I didn’t expect it either. I wish I could explain it better. But I promise you, I haven’t forgotten about you. I’m still here, even if it’s from a distance. I’ll write, or even better, i'll spam you with emojis everyday. I won’t disappear.”

Gracie was quiet for a moment before she responded, her voice calmer. “Okay. I get it. You had to do what’s best for you, right? I understand that. I’m sad, but I get it.”

“I’m sorry it had to be like this. I didn’t want to leave without telling you everything,” Y/N admitted.

Gracie gave a small, soft chuckle. “You’re y/n. You don’t have to explain everything. If you need to go, you need to go. Just... make sure you take care of yourself, okay?”

Y/N felt a sense of relief wash over her. “I will. And thank you, for understanding. You’re the best, Gracie. I’m so lucky to have you.”

“I know,” Gracie replied, her tone light but sincere. “I love you, and I want the best for you. Just don’t be a stranger.”

“I won’t,” Y/N said, her heart warm. “Love you too. I’ll be in touch soon, okay?”

“Okay,” Gracie agreed softly. “Take care, Y/N. I’m here whenever you need me.”

It had been a few days since Y/N had arrived back in Monaco. The shock of the decision had started to wear off, leaving a quiet sense of resolution in its place. Her boxes were unpacked, her clothes neatly hanging in the closet, and the apartment—though still unfamiliar—had started to feel more like hers with every passing hour.

The mornings here were different—brighter, lighter. It wasn’t just the sun, but something else in the air. There was a strange peace in being back, despite the swirl of emotions that still threatened to overwhelm her. It wasn’t like New York. It wasn’t the same life, the same chaos, the same pace. But there was a stillness to Monaco that made it feel like the right place to slow down for a while, to figure out what she truly needed.

Y/N stretched on the couch, the cool air from the open balcony window brushing against her skin. She had spent the morning walking around, reacquainting herself with the streets she hadn’t walked down since she was little. Nothing looked quite the same, but everything felt just as familiar. The places she remembered in bits and pieces—the ice cream shop with the blue awning, the park with the old stone fountain—had all changed. But that was to be expected. Time did that to places.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She picked it up, seeing a message from Leo, the deli owner downstairs.

“Hope you’re settling in okay! Let me know if you need anything or just want to chat.”

She smiled at the message, grateful for the familiar kindness. Leo had been like family to her and her mom during their time in New York, always there with a warm meal or a quiet word when they needed it most.

Y/N had planned on responding, but the sound of a knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. She set her phone down and made her way to the door, her heart picking up just a little. She wasn’t expecting anyone.

She opened it to find a small package on the doorstep, tied with a simple twine. There was no note, just the box. A gift, perhaps?

Curiosity piqued, Y/N brought it inside and sat on the couch, carefully untying the string. Inside was a small plant—an olive tree sapling, delicate but full of potential. A simple, yet meaningful gesture. She ran her fingers over the leaves, feeling a small sense of comfort.

The city had been welcoming her back in its own quiet way.

She glanced at her phone again, then typed a quick message to Leo: "Thank you for the plant. It's perfect."

With a deep breath, Y/N leaned back into the couch. She was still figuring out how this new chapter would look—how long she’d stay, what she’d do next, and whether she’d ever truly feel at home again in Monaco.

But for now, she was here. And that was enough.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

taglist: @heluvsjappie @awritingtree @steamy-smokey @alex-wotton @ssarqhxo @rainy-darling @mymilkshakefun @hs2016 @linnygirl09 @coral7161

[romerona]

Ethera Operation!!

You're the government’s best hacker, but that doesn’t mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Awkward!Hacker! FemReader

Part I

This was never supposed to happen. Your role in this operation was simple—deliver the program, ensure it reached the right hands, and let the professionals handle the breaching.

And then, of course, reality decided to light that plan on fire.

The program—codenamed Ethera—was yours. You built it from scratch with encryption so advanced that even the most elite cyber operatives couldn’t crack it without your input. A next-generation adaptive, self-learning decryption software, an intrusion system designed to override and manipulate high-security military networks, Ethera was intended to be both a weapon and a shield, capable of infiltrating enemy systems while protecting your own from counterattacks in real-time. A ghost in the machine. A digital predator. A weapon in the form of pure code. If it fell into the wrong hands, it could disable fleets, and ground aircraft, and turn classified intelligence into an open book. Governments would kill for it. Nations could fall because of it.

Not that you ever meant to, of course. It started as a little experimental security measure program, something to protect high-level data from cyberattacks, not become the ultimate hacking tool. But innovation has a funny way of attracting the wrong kind of attention, and before you knew it, Ethera had become one, if not the most classified, high-risk program in modern times. Tier One asset or so the Secret Service called it.

It was too powerful, too dangerous—so secret that only a select few even knew of its existence, and even fewer could comprehend how it worked.

And therein lay the problem. You were the only person who could properly operate it.

Which was so unfair.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be your problem. You were just the creator, the brain behind the code, the one who spent way too many sleepless nights debugging this monstrosity. Your job was supposed to end at development. But no. Now, because of some bureaucratic nonsense and the fact that no one else could run it without accidentally bricking an entire system, you had been promoted—scratch that, forcibly conscripted—into field duty.

And your mission? To install it in an enemy satellite.

A literal, orbiting, high-security, military-grade satellite, may you add.

God. Why? Why was your country always at war with others? Why couldn’t world leaders just, you know, go to therapy like normal people? Why did everything have to escalate to international cyber warfare?

Which is how you ended up here.

At Top Gun. The last place in the world you wanted to be.

You weren’t built for this. You thrive in sipping coffee in a cosy little office and handling cyber threats from a safe, grounded location. You weren’t meant to be standing in the halls of an elite fighter pilot training program, surrounded by the best aviators in the world—people who thought breaking the sound barrier was a casual Wednesday.

It wasn’t the high-tech cyberwarfare department of the Pentagon, nor some dimly lit black ops facility where hackers in hoodies clacked away at keyboards. No. It was Top Gun. A place where pilots use G-forces like a personal amusement park ride.

You weren’t a soldier, you weren’t a spy, you got queasy in elevators, you got dizzy when you stood too fast, hell, you weren’t even good at keeping your phone screen from cracking.

... And now you were sweating.

You swallowed hard as Admiral Solomon "Warlock" Bates led you through the halls of the naval base, your heels clacking on the polished floors as you wiped your forehead. You're nervous, too damn nervous and this damned weather did not help.

"Relax, Miss," Warlock muttered in that calm, authoritative way of his. "They're just pilots."

Just pilots.

Right. And a nuclear warhead was just a firework.

And now, somehow, you were supposed to explain—loosely explain, because God help you, the full details were above even their clearance level—how Ethera, your elegant, lethal, unstoppable digital masterpiece, was about to be injected into an enemy satellite as part of a classified mission.

This was going to be a disaster.

You had barely made it through the doors of the briefing room when you felt it—every single eye in the room locking onto you.

It wasn’t just the number of them that got you, it was the intensity. These were Top Gun pilots, the best of the best, and they radiated the kind of confidence you could only dream of having. Meanwhile, you felt like a stray kitten wandering into a lion’s den.

Your hands tightened around the tablet clutched to your chest. It was your lifeline, holding every critical detail of Ethera, the program that had dragged you into this utterly ridiculous situation. If you could’ve melted into the walls, you absolutely would have. But there was no escaping this.

You just had to keep it together long enough to survive this briefing.

So, you inhaled deeply, squared your shoulders, and forced your heels forward, trying to project confidence—chin up, back straight, eyes locked onto Vice Admiral Beau "Cyclone" Simpson, who you’d been introduced to earlier that day.

And then, of course, you dropped the damn tablet.

Not a graceful drop. Not the kind of gentle slip where you could scoop it back up and act like nothing happened. No, this was a full-on, physics-defying fumble. The tablet flipped out of your arms, ricocheted off your knee, and skidded across the floor to the feet of one of the pilots.

Silence.

Pure, excruciating silence.

You didn’t even have the nerve to look up right away, too busy contemplating whether it was physically possible to disintegrate on command. But when you finally did glance up—because, you know, social convention demanded it—you were met with a sight that somehow made this entire disaster worse.

Because the person crouching down to pick up your poor, abused tablet was freaking hot.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a head of golden curls that practically begged to be tousled by the wind, and, oh, yeah—a moustache that somehow worked way too well on him.

He turned the tablet over in his hands, inspecting it with an amused little smirk before handing it over to you. "You, uh… need this?"

Oh, great. His voice is hot too.

You grabbed it back, praying he couldn't see how your hands were shaking. “Nope. Just thought I’d test gravity real quick.”

A few chuckles rippled through the room, and his smirk deepened like he was enjoying this way too much. You, on the other hand, wanted to launch yourself into the sun.

With what little dignity you had left, you forced a quick, tight-lipped smile at him before turning on your heel and continuing forward, clutching your tablet like it was a life raft in the middle of the worst social shipwreck imaginable.

At the front of the room, Vice Admiral Beau Cyclone Simpson stood with the kind of posture that said he had zero time for nonsense, waiting for the room to settle. You barely had time to take a deep breath before his voice cut through the air.

“Alright, listen up.” His tone was crisp, commanding, and impossible to ignore. “This is Dr Y/N L/N. Everything she is about to tell you is highly classified. What you hear in this briefing does not leave this room. Understood?”

A chorus of nods. "Yes, sir."

You barely resisted the urge to physically cringe as every pilot in the room turned to stare at you—some with confusion, others with barely concealed amusement, and a few with the sharp assessing glances of people who had no clue what they were supposed to do with you.

You cleared your throat, squared your shoulders, and did your best to channel even an ounce of the confidence you usually had when you were coding at 3 AM in a secure, pilot-free lab—where the only judgment you faced was from coffee cups and the occasional system error.

As you reached the podium, you forced what you hoped was a composed smile. “Uh… hi, nice to meet you all.”

Solid. Real professional.

You glanced up just long enough to take in the mix of expressions in the room—some mildly interested, some unreadable, and one particular moustached pilot who still had the faintest trace of amusement on his face.

Nope. Not looking at him.

You exhaled slowly, centering yourself. Stay focused. Stay professional. You weren’t just here because of Ethera—you were Ethera. The only one who truly understood it. The only one who could execute this mission.

With another tap on your tablet, the slide shifted to a blacked-out, redacted briefing—only the necessary information was visible. A sleek 3D-rendered model of the enemy satellite appeared on the screen, rotating slowly. Most of its details were blurred or omitted entirely.

“This is Blackstar, a highly classified enemy satellite that has been operating in a low-Earth orbit over restricted airspace.” Your voice remained even, and steady, but the weight of what you were revealing sent a shiver down your spine. “Its existence has remained off the radar—literally and figuratively—until recently, when intelligence confirmed that it has been intercepting our encrypted communications, rerouting information, altering intelligence, and in some cases—fabricating entire communications.”

Someone exhaled sharply. Another shifted in their seat.

“So they’re feeding us bad intel?” one of them with big glasses and blonde hair asked, voice sceptical but sharp.

“That’s the theory,” you confirmed. “And given how quickly our ops have been compromised recently, it’s working.”

You tapped again, shifting to the next slide. The silent infiltration diagram appeared—an intricate web of glowing red lines showing Etherea’s integration process, slowly wrapping around the satellite’s systems like a virus embedding itself into a host.

“This is where Ethera comes in,” you said, shifting to a slide that displayed a cascading string of code, flickering across the screen. “Unlike traditional cyberweapons, Ethera doesn’t just break into a system. It integrates—restructuring security protocols as if it was always meant to be there. It’s undetectable, untraceable, and once inside, it grants us complete control of the Blackstar and won’t even register it as a breach.”

“So we’re not just hacking it," The only female pilot of the team said, arms crossed as she studied the data. “We’re hijacking it.”

“Exactly,” You nodded with a grin.

You switched to the next slide—a detailed radar map displaying the satellite’s location over international waters.

“This is the target area,” you continued after a deep breath. “It’s flying low-altitude reconnaissance patterns, which means it’s using ground relays for some of its communication. That gives us a small window to infiltrate and shut it down.”

The next slide appeared—a pair of unidentified fighter aircraft, patrolling the vicinity.

“And this is the problem,” you said grimly. “This satellite isn’t unguarded.”

A murmur rippled through the room as the pilots took in the fifth-generation stealth fighters displayed on the screen.

“We don’t know who they belong to,” you admitted. “What we do know is that they’re operating with highly classified tech—possibly experimental—and have been seen running defence patterns around the satellite’s flight path.”

Cyclone stepped forward then, arms crossed, his voice sharp and authoritative. “Which means your job is twofold. You will escort Dr L/N’s aircraft to the infiltration zone, ensuring Ethera is successfully deployed. If we are engaged, your priority remains protecting the package and ensuring a safe return.”

Oh, fantastic, you could not only feel your heartbeat in your toes, you were now officially the package.

You cleared your throat, tapping the screen again. Ethera’s interface expanded, displaying a cascade of sleek code.

“Once I’m in range,” you continued, “Ethera will lock onto the satellite’s frequency and begin infiltration. From that point, it’ll take approximately fifty-eight seconds to bypass security and assume control."

Silence settled over the room like a thick cloud, the weight of their stares pressing down on you. You could feel them analyzing, calculating, probably questioning who in their right mind thought putting you—a hacker, a tech specialist, someone whose idea of adrenaline was passing cars on the highway—into a fighter jet was a good idea.

Finally, one of the pilots—tall, broad-shouldered, blonde, and very clearly one of the cocky ones—tilted his head, arms crossed over his chest in a way that screamed too much confidence.

“So, let me get this straight.” His voice was smooth, and confident, with just the right amount of teasing. “You, Doctor—our very classified, very important tech specialist—have to be in the air, in a plane, during a mission that has a high probability of turning into a dogfight… just so you can press a button?”

Your stomach twisted at the mention of being airborne.

“Well…” You gulped, very much aware of how absolutely insane this sounded when put like that. “It’s… more than just that, but, yeah, essentially.”

A slow grin spread across his face, far too entertained by your predicament.

“Oh,” he drawled, “this is gonna be fun.”

Before you could fully process how much you already hated this, Cyclone—who had been watching the exchange with his signature unamused glare—stepped forward, cutting through the tension with his sharp, no-nonsense voice.

“This is a classified operation,” he stated, sharp and authoritative. “Not a joyride.”

The blonde’s smirk faded slightly as he straightened, and the rest of the pilots quickly fell in line.

Silence lingered for a moment longer before Vice Admiral Beau Cyclone Simpson let out a slow breath and straightened. His sharp gaze swept over the room before he nodded once.

“All right. That’s enough.” His tone was firm, the kind that left no room for argument. “We’ve got work to do. The mission will take place in a few weeks' time, once we’ve run full assessments, completed necessary preparations, and designated a lead for this operation.”

There was a slight shift in the room. Some of the pilots exchanged glances, the weight of the upcoming mission finally settling in. Others, mainly the cocky ones, looked as though they were already imagining themselves in the cockpit.

“Dismissed,” Cyclone finished.

The pilots stood, murmuring amongst themselves as they filed out of the room, the blonde one still wearing a smug grin as he passed you making you frown and turn away, your gaze then briefly met the eyes of the moustached pilot.

You hadn’t meant to look, but the moment your eyes connected, something flickered in his expression. Amusement? Curiosity? You weren’t sure, and frankly, you didn’t want to know.

So you did the only logical thing and immediately looked away and turned to gather your things. You needed to get out of here, to find some space to breathe before your brain short-circuited from stress—

“Doctor, Stay for a moment.”

You tightened your grip on your tablet and turned back to Cyclone, who was watching you with that unreadable, vaguely disapproving expression that all high-ranking officers seemed to have perfected. “Uh… yes, sir?”

Once the last pilot was out the door, Cyclone exhaled sharply and crossed his arms.

“You realize,” he said, “that you’re going to have to actually fly, correct?”

You swallowed. “I—well, technically, I’ll just be a passenger.”

His stare didn’t waver.

“Doctor,” he said, tone flat, “I’ve read your file. I know you requested to be driven here instead of taking a military transport plane. You also took a ferry across the bay instead of a helicopter. And I know that you chose to work remotely for three years to avoid getting on a plane.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. “That… could mean anything.”

“It means you do not like flying, am I correct?”

Your fingers tightened around the tablet as you tried to find a way—any way—out of this. “Sir, with all due respect, I don’t need to fly the plane. I just need to be in it long enough to deploy Ethera—”

Cyclone cut you off with a sharp look. “And what happens if something goes wrong, Doctor? If the aircraft takes damage? If you have to eject mid-flight? If you lose comms and have to rely on emergency protocols?”

You swallowed hard, your stomach twisting at the very thought of ejecting from a jet.

Cyclone sighed, rubbing his temple as if this entire conversation was giving him a migraine. “We cannot afford to have you panicking mid-mission. If this is going to work, you need to be prepared. That’s why, starting next week you will train with the pilots on aerial procedures and undergoing mandatory training in our flight simulation program.”

Your stomach dropped. “I—wait, what? That’s not necessary—”

“It’s absolutely necessary,” Cyclone cut in, his tone sharp. “If you can’t handle a simulated flight, you become a liability—not just to yourself, but to the pilots escorting you. And in case I need to remind you, Doctor, this mission is classified at the highest level. If you panic mid-air, it won’t just be your life at risk. It’ll be theirs. And it’ll be national security at stake.”

You inhaled sharply. No pressure. None at all.

Cyclone watched you for a moment before speaking again, his tone slightly softer but still firm. “You’re the only one who can do this, Doctor. That means you need to be ready.”

You exhaled slowly, pressing your lips together before nodding stiffly. “Understood, sir.”

Cyclone gave a small nod of approval. “Good. Dismissed.”

You turned and walked out, shoulders tense, fully aware that in three days' time, you were going to be strapped into a high-speed, fighter jet. And knowing your luck?

You were definitely going to puke.

Part 2???

[crazy-pages]

Speaking of which, the longer I've been around on this Earth the more I have started to notice what I like to call "motivated worrying". This is when somebody has legitimate seeming worries that an intervention might actually make things worse, but there's secretly a pattern to the things they're worried about.

With healthcare, you will find a lot of centrists who are worried that universal healthcare will be too expensive and the taxes involved will actually make people worse off on average. Similarly, you will find centrists who are worried about harm reduction drug programs increasing the number of addicts. Who are worried that if you give money to homeless people, they will use it on drugs and actually end up being worse off. They will be worried that increasing the corporate tax rate will grind the economy to halt.

And the thing is, even the more obviously incorrect worries will appear to come from a sincere place. They might actually come from a sincere place. Now if they bothered to look up any of this stuff, whether that means taking a detailed look at iniversal healthcare programs around the world or looking up the data on homeless aid interventions, but even that can be justified. Most people don't look up this stuff all the time.

But the key thing which makes motivated worrying disingenuous is what gets worried about.

It doesn't take long to notice when talking to a centrist, if you are paying attention, that this worrying never gets applied to the existing status quo, or to actions which might help marginalize people either. Centrists will worry until the cows come home about whether it's "safe" for trans students to participate in sports ... but not about if it's safe to pass exclusionary laws targeting people who frequently experience hate crimes. They will worry about if a left-wing party pandering to progressives might lose them conservative votes, but rarely about if pandering to conservatives will lose them progressive votes. And when it comes to things they don't want to do anyway, the worrying never gets resolved. It never becomes something which is worth looking into.

This can be very subtle because these worries often concern legitimate possibilities, or at least things which could understandably be seen as legitimate possibilities. And most people at some point go through a phase where they are worrying for a problem but haven't yet sunk their teeth into understanding it. The trick with centrism that this phase of worrying about something without having resolved that worry gets stretched out forever, and applied to every positive intervention under the sun.

[suguslve]

thinking about loser (perv) idia .ᐟ

♰ pairings. idia shroud x shy fem! reader

♰ warnings. suggestive content. loser! idia at first but then he becomes a pervert (yum). noncon (?). pantie sniffing and stealing. stalking. uhhh idk what else. mdni

♰ word count. 1.5k

♰ a/n. i was on idia brainrot these past few weeks and decided to whip a lil something up ;) enjoy reading and lmk your thoughts!

— loser! idia who kept his head down, ignoring everyone, why does crowley need ALL housewardens to attend to a stupid meeting in the first place? he was busy uttering curses in his mind when your sweet voice broke the ruckus. his head snapped up just slightly, just enough to steal a glance at you. w-wait were you stuttering?! and you weren’t just stuttering—you were anxiously fidgeting with your hands too!! are you nervous because of the meeting? because of someone? or—wait—what if you’re nervous because you hate crowds too?! oh god, did he just find a fellow social avoidance expert??

— loser! idia who actually wanted to approach and talk to you, but obviously he’s a coward. yeah, nope, definitely NOT happening. he’d literally rather fight a final boss solo with no revives than approach you right now. and so, as the meeting adjourns, he quickly and quietly leaves the room (with his heart racing wildly and his face burning). 

— loser! idia who desperately tried to avoid you at every turn—but it was like the universe had other plans. no matter where he tried to hide, there you were. his carefully scouted, ultra-secret, 1000% normie-free safe zones? infiltrated. by you. of all people. what kind of cruel RNG was this?! ugh, this was turning into a way bigger side quest than he signed up for. his usual gaming hideout behind the school? you were there, sitting on the steps, quietly reading. the abandoned hallway near the library? you showed up, looking just as startled to see him as he was to see you. EVEN THE ROOFTOP—his ultimate last resort—had somehow become your preferred quiet spot?! and the worst part is sometimes, he’d see you there… and instead of running, he’d hesitate. just for a second. because—ugh, he’d never say it out loud—but you weren’t loud like the other normies. you weren’t disruptive. you were just… there. quiet. fidgeting. existing in your own little world.

— loser! idia who finally gained the courage to approach you. oh but trust him, it wasn’t like he wanted to—he just… happened to be in the same spot as you (again), and instead of immediately running in the opposite direction like usual, he somehow convinced himself to stay. which, might have been a huge mistake because the second your eyes flickered up to meet his, his brain immediately started screaming. abort, abort, abort— but you’d already seen him. his escape route had been cut off. and he just stood there, shifting on his feet, pulling at the strings of his hoodie like it was a lifeline. his mouth opened. closed. opened again. say something, you coward! 

— loser! idia who mumbled the weakest, most pathetic greeting ever known. “u-uh…yo?” his voice cracked, and he wanted the ground to swallow him up whole there on the spot. that was so cringe!! seriously?! ‘yo’?! what am i a generic background delinquent?! while he was having a crisis, you chuckled softly before greeting him in return. idia.exe has stopped working.

— loser! idia who didn’t know how this “friendship” between you even started. at first he avoided you like the plague and the next thing he knew, you two were hanging out like it was normal. at first, he figured you were just another shy person suffering through NRC, but the more you talked, the more he realized—wait, you actually get him?! you didn’t just tolerate his rants about games, anime, and how normies were a blight upon existence—you joined in. he slowly let his guard down around you. he didn’t even mean to, but you were just… easy to talk to. there were no expectations, no forced small talk, no annoying social pressure. if you two sat in silence, it wasn’t awkward. if you talked, it wasn’t exhausting. before he knew it, he was complaining about gacha rates and actually making jokes without wanting to crawl into a hole and die afterward.

— loser! idia who slowly fell for you and your little quirks. but hey! it’s not like you can blame him. you were stupidly cute in ways that made his heart do dumb things. you matched his energy—avoiding crowds, hiding from normies, nerding out over random things. you got excited about the smallest details, and somehow, somehow, you even made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the biggest loser in existence.

— loser! idia who slowly became possessive and obsessive over you. it started as just worry, okay?! totally normal levels of concern. but then his mind started spiraling—what if something bad happened to you and he wasn’t around?! NRC was a literal villain academy, full of shady, power-hungry weirdos, you can’t trust any of the students here—well, aside from him and ortho but that’s besides the point! you—with your big doe eyes and painfully sweet personality—were basically walking around with a giant “EASY TARGET” sign on your back. you can be easily taken advantage of!

— loser! idia who swore to be your protector. it wasn’t even a choice at this point—it was a necessity. so what if he wasn’t exactly the heroic, sword-wielding, normie-approved protector type? he had brains. he had strategy. and most importantly—he had a highly advanced AI-powered little brother who could do background checks on anyone who so much as looked at you funny. he might be a loser, but if he notices someone teasing or making you uncomfortable, he’ll reluctantly step in. “H-hey, back off, normie… uh, I mean, don’t be rude, or whatever…” then he drags you away like a panicked introvert escaping a social interaction.

— loser perv! idia who set up cameras all over ramshackle dorm to “keep an eye out on you.” it wasn’t stalking! no no, this was just preventative security measures! NRC was dangerous, okay?! a totally defenseless, magicless, too-trusting person like you? living alone in a rundown, ghost-infested dorm? that was basically asking for trouble. anyone with half a brain would’ve done the same! (right?)

— loser perv! idia who watches you 24/7 watching everything. the way you got ready for bed. the way you sighed and stretched when you thought no one was looking. the way your shirt slipped off your shoulder sometimes. and oh god, when you absentmindedly played with the hem of your skirt or chewed on the end of your pen? yeah. he was so beyond saving. okay so maybe he checked the cameras a little too often. maybe he kept the feed open on one of his monitors at all times. maybe he watched you even when there was no actual danger. but it’s not like he was doing anything weird! just… making sure you weren’t lonely!

— loser perv! idia who became utterly obsessed with you. he’d watch you from afar, his eyes tracing every movement, every smile. his room was filled with pictures of you, some taken without your knowledge. his obsession grew darker, more twisted. his obsession became all-consuming. he hacked into your social media accounts, reading your private messages and learning more about you than you ever intended to share. he’d watch you through hidden cameras he installed in your room, feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction as he invaded your privacy.

— loser perv! idia who snuck into your dorm one night as you were asleep. he watched you for hours, his heart racing with excitement and fear. oh how he wanted to touch you, to feel your skin against his. but he knew he couldn’t risk waking you up. instead, he roamed your room. touching your things, smelling the perfume you use, looking at the plushies you kept, but it wasn’t enough, so he made his way to your bathroom and went through all your dirty clothing. sniffing the clothes you wore, rummaging for ages until he found it. your soiled panties. he took them all, moaning as he smelt your scent on them. god he can feel himself growing hard right now. he took your underwear and kept them all on the pocket of his hoodie. but before he left he made sure to give you one look, and well maybe a peck on your cheek, but it’s not like you’d find out, right?

— loser perv! idia who rushed to his dorm room and locked it to make sure no one would disturb him. 

— loser perv! idia who watched various amounts of hentai that night, imagining it was you writhing and moaning under him. he pulled off his sweats and boxers and let his cock free. he hissed as the cold air hit his cock—then, he pulled your panties from where he had kept them. one hand sniffing it, and the other jerking himself off. he was so close, he could feel it, and so he took your underwear and jerked himself with it. oh fuck, he couldn’t take it anymore.

— loser perv! idia who couldn’t help himself from moaning your name over, and over until he came hard. his mind filled with dirty thoughts of defiling your innocence. god, he can’t wait to ruin you. he jerked himself faster, and faster until he came. his fluids soiling your panties. his breathing was labored, cheeks flushed. ah shit, this wasn’t gonna cut it, he needed more.

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[paddockbunny]

I’m selling some of my old designer pieces and the AUDACITY some people have. Jacquemus bag, used once for a wedding, RRP £500+, this dumb fuck offers…..£65! £65!!!! It’s on for an incredibly fair price at £350 and they offer £65?!

THEN insult me, the bag and the fact I said no by telling me I’m out of order for not selling it to them for £65! So I block and report but then go on to their own page where, what I found can only be described as an abomination. Random shit from sweatshops and dodgy market stalls for £45!! Most of it doesn’t look remotely real and what I would call “Turkey specials” (aka fakes)

Then as if it doesn’t get worse she has the sheer gall to be listing a pair of what I can only describe as “trash worthy” (they’re so damaged and wrecked) Dolce & Gabbana (like, love, they were cancelled years ago…they’re vile people) heels for £199.99!!!! The only place these shoes should be going is in the bin. They’ve been thoroughly worn and trashed. The leather (if it’s even leather) has come away from the heel, the soles are completely filthy and should have been replaced, you can see the toe marks heavily ingrained into the bed of the shoe as they’ve clearly been worn to death.

One of the reasons she claimed by Jacquemus bag was only worth £65 was because it’s 5 years old and literally said “it’s pre-pandemic” (wtf does covid-19 have to do with a handbag in the first place????) Like, honey, babes, these manky D&G heels can’t even be found online they’re THAT old, they have zero authenticity, no dust bag (which all designer shoes come with dust bags), no receipts, no nothing and are TRASHED and you’re still trying to sell them for £200 in the same breath as you claim that my bag which has been worn once, pristine, comes with dust bag, box and tags, bought from Selfridges on Oxford Street with a receipt to prove it, kept on a shelf in my closet out of sunlight etc. is worth £65?! HAVE A DAY OFF!