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dont-look-its-embarrassing · 2 days

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To Be Seen

Azriel x Reader

This is my first ever one-shot or fanfiction type writing on here, so be patient with me bc it will be FAR from perfect or good.

This is purely self-indulgent bc again, I'm new at this and just wanted to write an insert or y/n type little blurb.

Summary; Being the best friend of Feyre when she was human, you regretfully got roped in and turned with her sisters as a tool for manipulation by Hybern. As the sister's find it hard to settle in claiming the attention of the two other bats, you attempt to make Feyre's and the inner court's life easier by flying under the radar and figuring it out on your own. However, are you really as unnoticed as you hope or is a certain shadowsinger entrapped by your caring and soft nature as his heart battles his mind for the third sister or you.

Warnings: None really, mentions of PTSD and anxiety, loneliness and self-help, slow-burn, slight angst with a fluffy ending, reader just wants to be seen but feels like she can't ask

Word count: 2,389

The sound of a door opening broke you out of your thoughts as you sat in the drawing room in the house of wind. The gentle crackle of the fire Infront of you allowed your body to sit comfortably within the rather cold season and the book you were just reading sat loose in your lap. You haven't gotten used to your enhanced hearing yet as your now longer and thicker hair gently fell from where you had tucked it behind your ear.

"Y/n?" Your best friend's voice echoed into the room as her footsteps followed. A soft smile spread across your features as she came in, confirmed you where there, and plopped down ungraciously on the couch next to you. "Thank the mother you are here."

Her features where stressed, the worry written all over her face as she took your form in.

"What's going on?" You ask, hopeful to help.

Feyre let out a sigh as she let her eyes wonder to the fire Infront of the both of you.

"Nothing. Everything. I don't know, it seems that everything I do to try and help Nesta and Elaine seems to only make things worse." She rung her hands, a trait she picked up back in the human lands when she was nervous or upset. "It just never seems enough to make them comfortable or to try and apologize for everything that happened."

Your best friend's eyes slightly widened as she took her gaze from the flames.

"How are you? Are you doing okay?" The genuine care and concern oozing off of the female Infront of you reminded you of why you cared so much about your friend in the first place. When she was taken, you had searched high and low for her in hopes to get her back only to have her return happy and healthy with a loving man, or male, doting on her every need. You were ecstatic, and expressed yourself as so, even if it was with fae beings. When you and her sisters were taken, that happiness was put on hold to make sure that you are all where comfortable. Feyre's self-sacrificing nature did always drive you mad, even now when she was so close to being truly happy.

"I'm okay Feyre." She shot you a look, trying to dig deeper and call the bluff you made. "Seriously, I'm here with you and in an amazing place that I could only dream of with great people."

"A lot happened Y/n. A lot happened to Elaine and Nesta, but a lot happened to you." She was right, and it was weird for you to be so put together when the worlds of the other two were falling to pieces. With your more emotional and strong relationship with Feyre, you had been held captive with her sisters yes, but you also took the brunt of interrogation that the wicked king deemed necessary to gain any information of her court. You had put yourself in that position, you knew how awful she would feel about her familial blood being brutalized in such a way, so you took the heat. But, in the end, her sisters still took the change harder and refused to accept their new life, making everyone on edge and overexerting themselves to help.

With one look at your best friend's-tired eyes, you knew that she couldn't handle another burden. More like she shouldn't have to handle another burden.

The word tasted sour on your tongue.

Burden.

Shaking your head a small gentle smile graced your face, and you forced your features to emulate that same energy.

"I'm okay Feyre, really. Aside from some cool new power thing that I haven't figured out, I'm fine. " The breath she released could only register as relief in your mind as she met your smile.

"Okay, and we will definitely start working on that when we are all settled here." Her reassurance did little to reassure that it would be investigated. Again, with the two sisters gaining war altering abilities, your random energy (that had yet to manifest) would be put on the back burner until everyone else was settled. Again, the slight dismissal ached, but you understood the need for others to take precedence.

Giving a little nod, you two sit in silence for a bit just listening to the crackling of the fire and enjoying each other's presence. That is, until a wince rippled across your friends face and she slowly rose.

"I'm sorry, I have to go. I think Elaine is out and not talking to Lucien and it's a mess-"

"It's fine Feyre, go make sure they are okay." You assure with the same smile. Giving one last 'thank you, I love you' she was gone like the wind that howled outside the windows. The silence that followed her exit had the ringing in your ears become a bit to unbearable. Removing yourself from the couch, you travel down to your room and grab a quick change of footwear.

Today would be a good day to explore the town, or at least good enough to get your mind out of the dark slump of trying to acclimate to its' new body and abilities.

Making your way towards the door, a small flicker of shadow catches your eye.

"Hello?" You call. You know that Rhys is most likely with Feyre and Azriel is also probably there because of Elaine, so you dismiss it quickly after a moment, chalking it up to just a trick of the light.

Opening the door, the slight chill on the wind has a shiver run through you, but the sun quickly chased it away. Breathing a sigh, you look at the vastness of the stairs below you.

No time like the present.

Taking one step at a time and avid breaks when needed, you would rather not admit to yourself just how much time that trek took. However, upon reaching the bottom, the satisfaction that filled you outweighed the journey. Walking down the streets of Velaris, the bustling normality of the people filled you with ease. As your heels clicked against the stones below, your gaze just missed the little shadow that trailed behind your body.

Taking in the colors and vibrant people, the ease and happiness that covered their faces had the ache in your gut grow more and more. Your mind wandered to if you would ever be that happy and mundane. With everything that had happened so far, the familiar life in the human forest (although had its struggles) seemed like an ideal. It was the lack of routine, lack of knowledge, the newly sprouted life, the misplacement, all of it plus more. You didn't notice your breathing gain more weight and take longer to fill your lungs than it did at the house. You also didn't notice the little skitter of the shadow that had followed you as it raced away towards some unseen location. The heat in your body seemed to increase as the sight of a simple family loving and walking together entered your mind.

Would anyone love you like this?

You couldn't think.

Ducking into a nearby ally, the overhead sheets and covering allowed it to be shaded and darker than the streets 20 feet away. Even then, the darkness of the ally seemed to illuminate with your presence there. However, it wasn't the light, it was the lack of grasp of oxygen you could inhale and the strenuous shaking your body couldn't stop. The tears that fell without your knowledge burned their tracks into your skin and sizzled as they hit the ground. Your body gave way to the spasms that took ahold of you as your mind raced. Burring your head into your knees, you attempted to shut the world out and let your mind slow but to no avail. You wished the darkness of the alley would swallow you whole, allow the sun and light to escape you being seen just this once.

Almost as if your prayers where in fact answered, the light surrounding you died as the darkness of the ally surrounded you. Picking your head up to view what cloud or magical being answered your plea, your eyes were met with those of hazel crouching Infront of you.

"Azriel?" You hadn't met this male for more than a couple days ago. He was nice, offering to go with you places or chat every so often. You had a couple nightly talks with him where you shared some stories between the two of you. Nothing out of the ordinary though, you felt safe around him when he was near. Confusion washed your features and for a moment your brain stopped running in circles and focused on why the male might be in front of you in this very unfortunate situation.

"You're okay." His large hands had gently pried your head from between your own. He Slowly, as if not to spook you further, reached for your hands and took them in his own. As twisted as it sounded, the morbid scarring that littered his skin grounded you further and pulled you back to this moment and out of that forsaken cell and cold water. "Focus on me, breathe."

The ease of your breath returned as the seeming dark cloud that surrounded you peeled back revealing that same dampened alleyway. However, the slight char on the walls and burns on the ground was distinct enough to question. Looking around, more of those marks surrounded you but faded as it got further from you. Opening your mouth to ask, a quick look from the male had you hesitant as he shook his head.

"One thing at a time sunshine." You nod, ignoring the small butterfly that hatched in your stomach at the nickname, but the pain in your head from the little outburst brought you back to reality. Bringing your hand up to caress the muscle between your eyes, Azriel scanned you from head to toe checking for any other possible injuries. "Let's get you back to the house, okay? Have Madja take a look at you and maybe give you something to help process."

Although the beginning of his statement was directed at you, for an answer, the second part was mumbled more to himself.

"Okay." The short response was all you could get past your lips as he sent you a small smile and opened his arms.

Looking at him questionably, he held back a chuckle.

"Have you never flown?" Shaking your head, no, you had never flown before. Winnowed? Yes, but never in the arms of one of the three males residing in the same house at you. The aspect of Azriel being your first had a little flush cover your cheeks. He approached you carefully, scanning your eyes for any aversion to being touched or space invaded. If you didn't just have a literally breakdown in the middle of Velaris, you could've sworn there was a deeper emotion residing in his eyes.

Guilt?

Worry?

Longing?

You couldn't place it and decided not to keep the process waiting. Taking a step towards him, he kept his arms spread out to accompany your space against his.

"Wrap your arms around me." His voice was lowered with your closer proximity. Slowly you brought your arms to wrap around the back of his neck. He waited until you settled there before moving to hoist you up into his arms and walk slightly out of the alley to give his wings more room to take flight.

While doing so, you couldn't help but settle into his warmth as it felt nice against our colder frame. With all the adrenaline wearing off, you were left shivering.

"Make sure to hold on." He noted, which was all the notice you got before suddenly you two were no longer on the ground. Tightening your grip instinctually, you shut your eyes as you could practically feel the male smile at your nature.

"How did you get down there anyway?" With the loud wind it was hard to hear, but again due to the lack of space between the two of you his voice rang clear.

"I walked."

"Down those?" Without realizing the easygoing atmosphere he created, you had peered open your eyes to look down at the stairs you both were currently soaring over. Only a brief look however as you still had some human tendencies and did have a slight aversion to heights.

"Yeah." You nodded and went to shut your eyes once more to finish out the flight, but as you did you caught sight of a new look on the spymaster's face.

Pride.

Landing as softly as possible, Madja was already there waiting for the two of you to arrive. Without thinking, you blamed it on the spymaster's shadows (but grateful they were there). Feyre also stood to the side of her, worry wringing her hands again and you let out a sigh of defeat.

Stumbling out of Azriel's arms, he steadied you, giving a once over before his high lady had shot him an inquiring look. She looked at you shortly after.

"You are never to lie to me again Y/n, you hear?" Her chastising voice was filled with love and worry all the same.

But before you could open your mouth to respond with a thousand reasons why you might, a certain male beat you too it.

"Don't go too hard on her, admittedly we have all been a bit busy to check in." You both glanced back at the male in question as his shadows wrapped around him in song. He has said it was so to promise his attention to fix the problem, which warmed your core.

"She will be okay Feyre." Meeting eye contact with him, he had sent you a small nod of his head and smile before disappearing into the dark.

Your best friend looked at you in question, but a deeper thought was spinning in her head. However, the little throat clear of the healer nearby jumpstarted the next 24 hours of care and therapy from your best friend and the best healers in Prythian. The whole endeavor couldn't tear your thoughts to a certain inner court male and the way his arms felt around you.

Maybe you would be okay.

#acotar #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #feyre archeron

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moonstruckme · 9 hours

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Hi! If you are still accepting requests would you be ok with writing something with poly emt or doctor rem where your tampon string breaks? (I heard that actually happens and vowed to never use them like God that's terrifying)

Hi lovely thanks for your request and it’s also important to me that you know this is extremely (extremely) rare so I hope you’re not too freaked out! Ly <3

cw: non-sexual nudity (full disclosure, he puts his fingers in her so potential sa trigger though to be clear there's nothing even slightly malicious about it)

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 692 words

You stare down at the white braid of thread in your hand and try to take a deep breath.

“How is it possible that I have no socks?” Remus opens the bathroom door, going to the mirror and frowning as he combs down a couple errant pieces of hair with his fingers. It’s normal for him to come in without knocking, you’re far past the point of being pee shy around him, but this morning you’re horrified at the intrusion. “I swear I’m always buying socks. Do you think you have any pairs that might fit me, lovely? I need some to wear to work.”

“Remus,” you say.

You try not to be alarming, but Remus is perceptive and he’s alarmed nonetheless. He turns to you with a wary expression.

“Dove?”

You hold up your severed string feebly. “I’ve lost my tampon.”

“Oh.” He blinks, eyebrows lifting. “Okay. In…where?”

“In me.”

“Have you tried to get it out?”

You nod, feeling the burning of panicked tears in your eyes. “I can’t find it.”

“Okay, that’s alright.” Remus hesitates for only a second before opening the cabinet and grabbing a towel. “I can get it for you. Let’s go to the bed.”

You don’t move. “What if we can’t get it?”

Remus stops in the doorway. Doubles back. “Hey,” he says softly, taking your hand and bending to look you in the eyes. “We’ll get it out, sweetheart. You’re not the first person this has happened to, and it’s not my first time dealing with it. Come with me, okay?”

You follow him tentatively. Your boyfriend has the momentum of a man with a plan. You watch as he unfolds the towel partway towards the end of the bed, smoothing it out. “Climb up here for me.”

You go where he tells you, sitting atop the towel and waiting awkwardly for your next instructions. You’ve really no clue what to do.

Remus offers you a gentle smile. “Don’t think this will do us much good,” he says, pulling the tampon string from between your fingers. You hadn’t realized you’d still been holding onto it. “How long has it been in for?”

“Overnight,” you answer quietly. “More than eight hours is bad, right?”

“It’s probably fine,” he assures you. “It increases your risk for infection, but we’d know if anything had set in. I’m going to get it out, alright? You trust me?”

You nibble your lip. “Okay.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Lay down, try to relax.”

You lay on your back, folding your hands on your stomach, and try not to cry. It’s not that you’re worried Remus will hurt you, or even that you’re uncomfortable with him feeling around for your tampon—you’ve been in far more compromising positions with him—just that this unforeseen and horrific development feels like a lot to adjust to after just waking up. This is not how you were expecting your morning to go.

Remus folds one of your legs up higher (“Can you keep this here for me please, lovely?”) and soothes his hand over your hip while his other one sweeps a slow, searching circle inside you.

“Found it,” he says. “Hold still for just a bit longer, I’ve almost…got it.” He emerges victorious, your tampon held proudly between two fingers. “See? Not so dire.”

“Oh my god.” Your relief is immense, bigger than words. A tear slips out when you close your eyes. “Thank you.”

“Oh, my love.” Remus pulls you upright, folding you into a hug. He sets the tampon down on the towel beside you, shushing you when you fret about getting blood on it (“What did you think it was there for?”). He sways you back and forth a few times, kisses the salty corner of your eye. “You’re alright, sweetheart. We’ll keep an eye on you to make sure nothing changes, but I don’t think it was in long enough to be too dangerous.”

“Just, thanks for your help,” you sniffle. “I was really freaking out.”

“I can tell,” he laughs, giving you a fond squeeze. “I get why you’d be nervous, but try not to worry too much, okay? I��ve always got you.”

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itneverendshere · 2 days

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tryin' to behave, but i'm feelin' some type of way - r.c drabble.

request: rafe x bitchy!pogue reader pleaseeeee!!!! he just hates that he wants her soo fucking bad and she finds it hilarioussss

warnings: it gets steamy but no smut!; slutshaming; they both need therapy okay.

felt like writing something out of the bartender!reader universe and had this request saved up on my notes, hope you enjoy 🫂 wrote this on my phone so if there’s any typos pretend you didn’t see them 🥰🥰🥰🥰

you’re out of place here, which is exactly why you’re here, tannyhill.

fuck them. fuck him.

every high-strung kook princess with their perfectly manicured nails gives you a quick once-over, nostrils flaring when they catch the sight of your scuffed-up boots. not that you care. it’s not like you’re trying to impress anyone.

and why should you? you’re only here for the free booze, it’s not your fault this place is such a bore. always all pearls, pastels, and the scent of white wine and privilege. who the fuck drank white whine at a party? but the real reason you’re here, the whole damn reason, is staring straight at you from across the room.

rafe cameron. ugh and yum.

he’s leaning against the bar, muscles taut under that fitted navy polo like he was born to flex, with a scowl as always. it’s always that look—the one that’s aimed solely at you, every time he sees you. it’s practically a tradition by now. you show up somewhere, he glares.

there’s a tightness in his shoulders, something tells you he’s going to snap eventually, maybe it’s because you’ve been pushing buttons lately. maybe it’s because he’s got his daddy’s expectations hanging over his head like a guillotine.

or maybe it’s just because he wants you, and that little inconvenient truth pisses him off to no end.

you flash him a slow, lazy grin, shifting your hips as you grab a beer from the cooler. when you catch the way his eyes drag over you, lingering on your exposed skin, your stomach hums with satisfaction.

let him look. let him stew in it.

“country club,” you call sweetly, raising your bottle in a mock toast, the light catching on the condensation like it’s winking at him. “how’s it going?”

his jaw ticks, his lips pressing into a thin, flat line. “you shouldn’t be here.”

“and yet, here i am,” you sing-song back, taking a slow, pointed sip. you’re feeling reckless tonight. he’s dangerous, sure. but he’s also predictable. you know exactly how to make it worse. “aww, what’s wrong?”

you know exactly this’ll go. he’ll insult you, you’ll insult him back, and then—

his eyes narrow dangerously, that vein in his temple ticking. “what the fuck are you wearing?”

you blink innocently, glancing down at yourself. “clothes, obviously. why? does it bother you?”

“yeah,” he snaps, eyes raking over you again, lingering on the swell of your chest, the sliver of skin peeking out above your waistband. “aren’t you tired of slutting yourself around?”

your lips curl into a smirk, the slow burn of satisfaction warming your chest. this is exactly what you were hoping for.

“slutting myself around?” you echo, voice teasing. “didn’t know you were keeping tabs.” you cock your head, letting your gaze linger on his flushed cheeks, the way his nostrils flare, and that slight clench of his fists by his side.

he’s seething—looks ready to burst into flames right here in front of the bar. good.

he’s always been like this with you. short fuse, especially when it comes to what you’re wearing, how you look, where you go. but you’re onto him. you know what it’s really about.

“you must really be obsessed with me,” you continue, “it’s kinda weird, don’t you think?” you take another sip, slow and deliberate, licking your lips as you meet his glare. he steps closer, crowding into your space, his chest brushing against your shoulder. you should back up, or at least pretend to care, but you just tilt your head, looking up at him with a smug little grin. “what’s wrong?” you murmur, “feeling a little tense?

“fuck off,” he grits out, stepping back like he’s burned. but it’s too late. you’ve got him now.

you cock your head, giving him a slow, taunting smile. “why? afraid you’ll get hard in front of your little friends?”

his eyes darken, jaw clenched so hard you wonder if it hurts. “i swear to god—”

“what?” you interrupt, teeth flashing. “you gonna hit me? break another one of your daddy’s toys?” you wave your hand around the pristine room, the glittering chandelier, the polished bar. “go on, then. show everyone what a psycho you are.”

“you think i won’t?”

“yeah, i think you won’t,” you say softly, staring right into those burning blue eyes of his. “because you’re all bark and no bite.”

“you wanna see bite?” he murmurs, voice dripping venom. “i’ll show you fucking bite.”

then his hand snaps out, wrapping around your upper arm, and before you can react, he’s yanking you out of the room, down a hallway that’s all shadowed corners. you stumble, cursing under your breath, but he doesn’t stop until you’re both crashing through a side door into some empty back corridor.

“jesus, cameron, take a fucking xanax—” you start, wrenching your arm free.

for a second, you think you’ve gone too far. his whole body goes still, and something flares in his gaze—something unhinged and a little bit terrifying. but instead of snapping, instead of throwing a punch, he leans in, so close you can feel the heat of him against your skin.

you’re shoved against the wall, hard, his body caging yours in, his hands braced on either side of your head. you freeze, breath hitching. he’s close—too close—and it’s too hot and too much and—

“shut up,” he growls.

you should tell him to fuck off. you should knee him in the balls. you should do anything but feel the way you do right now—flushed, breathless, and…too horny for your own good.

“do you always have to be so fucking dramatic?” you huff, placing your hand in chest in a futile attempt to push him away. you know he can break you in half if he wants to.

he doesn’t move of course, just stares at you, chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon. he’s got that crazed look in his eyes that should make you run for the hills, and yet you stay put.

and then, suddenly, his mouth is on yours, demanding and angry.

it’s not a kiss—it’s a punishment. his teeth nip at your bottom lip, his tongue sliding against yours with a harshness that steals your breath. you gasp, your hands coming up to shove him away again, but somehow they get tangled in his hair instead, gripping the soft strands as he presses closer, closer— it’s a disaster. you’re a disaster. because you don’t pull away.

you kiss him back like an idiot, just as desperate, your nails digging into his scalp as you pour all your frustration into the kiss. why does he have to be this hot? in your books, kooks aren't allowed to be hotter than a 5. unfortunately, rafe is a solid eleven.

he tastes like mint and rage, and it shouldn’t feel this good, but it does. god, it does. he breaks away, panting, glaring down at you like you’re dirt under his shoes. “you drive me fucking insane, y’ know that?”

“good,” you gasp, licking your lips. “you deserve it.”

he laughs, a low, harsh sound. “you’re such a fucking bitch.”

“and you’re a spoiled, narcissistic asshole,” you snap back, shoving at his chest. he doesn’t even flinch, just glares harder, and it sends a thrill through your entire body. you’d never seen him like this, so unguarded and it was weirdly intoxicating.

“i should ruin you,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself. his hand comes up, fingers brushing your jaw, trailing down your throat. “make you beg.”

you keep your expression defiant. “you think you can?”

rafe smirks, slow and dangerous, and it makes something burst in your belly. “i know i can.”

his hand slides lower, fingertips brushing the hem of your top, and your breath catches. you should stop this again. you should slap him, kick him, do anything but let him keep touching you like that, but you don’t. you just stare up at him, heart racing.

“show me then.”

and then his hands are on you, yanking you forward, spinning you around. you gasp, palms slapping against the wall as he presses up behind you, his body solid against yours.

“you’re a fucking brat,” he growls, his mouth right against your ear. one of his hands comes up, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling just enough to make your back arch.

“and you’re obsessed with me,” you shoot back breathlessly, tilting your head to meet his gaze over your shoulder.

rafe’s grip tightens in your hair, hard enough to sting, and his lips brush your earlobe, “obsessed?” he repeats, like he can’t believe you had the fucking audacity to say it. “don’t flatter yourself, baby.”

but you feel the way his body presses against yours. your panties might be drenched but this man is just as hard. he’s close to you—so fucking close—you feel every ridge of him, and despite every insult he’s ever thrown your way, despite how much he claims to hate you, he’s here. the way he’s breathing tells you exactly what you need to know.

you twist against him, pushing back just enough to test his restraint. “then why are you so worked up, huh?”

“i think you’re confusing us.”

“sure,” you laugh, even as his hands move down your sides, his fingernails digging into your hips. “that’s why you dragged me out here, right? because you’re just so indifferent?”

his chest brushes against your back with every ragged breath. he’s losing it. you’re making him lose it. and fuck, that feels good.

“i could ruin you,” he whispers again, like he’s trying to convince himself. his hand skim up your ribs, thumb grazing the underside of your tit, and your senses kicks into overdrive. “one word from me, and you’re done.”

“you’re all talk cameron,” you challenge, arching your back slightly, giving him more room to touch you.

you shouldn’t want this—you shouldn’t need this—but you can’t stop.

his mouth is on your neck, hot and open, teeth scraping against your skin in a way that sends a shudder from your head to your toes.

“fuck you,” he growls against your throat, the words almost lost in the heat of his mouth. “i’m not playin’ your games.”

you bite back a moan, fingers curling against the cold wall. “you’re already playing.”

“you’re so fucking—” he cuts himself off, breathing harshly through his nose. “fuck, i hate you.”

“no, you don’t,” you turn your head just enough to catch his eye. his gaze is wild, and you smirk, taunting him with your lips just inches from his. “you wish you did.”

you know you’re pushing your luck, but then again, when haven’t you?

“you have no fucking clue what i wish,” he growls, each word dripping with so much frustration it makes you laugh.

it comes out like a soft, mocking sound. “ooh, i think i do. you wish i’d shut up. wish i’d disappear. but you really wish you didn’t get hard every time ’m around.”

his jaw ticks, that telltale sign that you’re getting to him. god, he hates you. you can see it in his clenched teeth, his furrowed brows. he hates that he wants a pogue and you find it hilarious.

“don’t flatter yourself pogue,” he snaps, but his voice is strained. his hands tighten on your hips, fingers biting into your skin just shy of painful.

you push back against him just a little harder again, feeling the rigid line of his cock pressed against your ass.

“yeah?” your voice turns breathy. “then why do i feel that?” you grind your hips subtly, just to punctuate the point, and the low sound that rumbles out of him is almost worth the risk of provoking him further.

“because you’re a fucking tease,” he mutters, voice harsh and low in your ear. “you show up, looking like you want it—”

“and so what if i do?”

it’s a dare. he’s holding you, like he can’t decide if he wants to strangle you or fuck you senseless, perhaps both. you know you’ve crossed some invisible line.

“you’re gonna regret this,” he murmurs.

“maybe,” you shoot back, unflinching. “but that’s the thing, rafe.” you twist, just enough to look at him over your shoulder, “i think you’re more scared of what you might regret.”

instead of shoving you away, instead of storming off, he does the one thing you didn’t expect. he laughs.

it’s that crazy sound he makes before he does something reckless every time, the kind that makes people run away. it’s such a humorless sound, it should scare the living shit out of you as he leans in, lips brushing against your neck. “don’t say i didn’t warn you.”

before you can answer, one hand slides up to cup your jaw, tilting your head back so you’re forced to meet his eyes. they’re wild, almost feral, just like you expected.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers, his thumb brushing your lower lip, the touch so gentle it’s almost jarring. “go on, say it.”

you swallow hard, pulse hammering in your throat. you should say it. but you don’t want to.

“make me.” you know he hears you—feels you—because the corner of his mouth lifts in a slow, taunting smirk.

“yeah?” he drawls, thumb slipping from your lip to trace along your jawline, his touch featherlight and maddening. “you sure?”

“prove me wrong. or are you scared?”

“you think ’m fucking scared of you? think i can’t handle a little mouthy brat like you?”

he’s goading you, pushing you like he always does, and every word you had prepared dies on your lips

“i’d loooove to see you try.”

“oh, you will.”

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readerstories · 1 day

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When You Touch Me - Wolverine x male reader x Deadpool 1/?

God I'm a sucker for a soulmate au. (AO3)

Warnings/tags: male reader, canon-typical violence, enemies to friends to lovers, eventual smut, slow burn

Wordcount: 2347

Summary: You’ve heard many stories about how people met their soulmates. Everyone crazier than the last, ranging from typical meet cutes, meeting with one of them at death's door, in war, meeting at your soulmate's wedding to another, and everything in between and outside of that. You had just never expected to add yours to the crazy list, meeting yours in a fight, only realizing after trying to kill each other for at least half an hour. And you certainly don’t expect to have another.

Other info: About this au - Soulmates find each other through touch, which establishes a mental link that lets feelings through, and if solid and built up enough over time, simple thoughts/words can also come through. Some bonds are purely platonic, about ⅓ in total. Multiple soulmates are not unheard of, but rare, more common with platonic soulmates.

Quickly about the reader - mercenary/gunman/thug for hire. Great shot with pretty much any gun, has two knives as backup weapons, has fought with swords before. Looks wise he has hair and is shorter than Wade and Logan, but I try to keep no specific height in mind while writing. Has a few scares scattered over his body, but nothing specific as of yet. Does not want a soulmate, thinks it just leaves people vulnerable. Lives on his own in an apartment he owns and is content with his life.

All you were, really, was hired help.

All you were supposed to do was stand around and look scary with a few other tugs in a warehouse with high shelves stacked with crates, while your employer (a generous word for the drug dealer that hired you) met with another drug dealer.

It had gone tits up the second a man wearing a red and black spandex suit and katanas on his back of all things came crashing through a window.

You had dived for cover, because there are gunshots ringing out in the milliseconds after the glass shatters. You curse, reaching for your gun, with just one single 10 bullet magazine, because your stupid employer had insisted you only needed one when you asked for more. So to have something more you had your adamantium knives strapped to each thigh, hidden enough under your black joggers.

You curse under your breath, cause this is fucking awful. You hear gunshots over and over again, people are dying, wood from shipping crates are splintering, metal is hitting the floor.

And there’s talking.

Fucking talking.

“Come one guys, your aim is all off! Did none of you ever train on the neighborhood cats?”

Well, more like yelling. Because even though the warehouse wasn’t empty, it still had an echo. You are used to the loud sounds, it fuels your adrenaline as you peek out from behind the crate you are using as a shield.

The man, you are just going to call him Red for now, is flipping and bouncing between crates, avoiding any big hits. A few bullets graze an arm, but he doesn’t seem to take notice as his own bullets find their marks, bodies dropping around him. He’s nimble and quick about it, taking down guys from both sides with equal gusto, and you find yourself just watching him carefully. He’s almost elegant, light on his feet, and a jab or taunt spewing out of his mouth every few bullets.

Careful not to alert Red or anyone else about your position, you shift, gun in hand watching him saunter over to your employer, the last man standing. Well, not really, since he’s down on his knees, begging for something incoherent while fat tears and snot roll down his face.

“Newsflash asshole, I don’t care for your tragic backstory that the writer won’t let you talk about.” Red raises his gun, one last loud bang filling the warehouse before it’s quiet once again.

“Last fucking one, my counting skills once again making me win.” Red claps his hands together, before moving his hands to his hips, looking around the warehouse. “What a fucking mess.” He shakes his head, and you see your opportunity now that he thinks it’s all over.

You move up, pulling the trigger as soon as your gun is aimed right. Red doesn’t even get to turn before six bullets go through his chest, two through his throat, and the last two finding their mark in his skull. You shouldn’t use all your bullets on one target like that, but still you do. Red drops like a sack of potatoes, and you draw a sigh of relief, lowering your gun as you too look around the warehouse. You’re glad it’s far away from anything else, because it should take at least a few hours before the cops are alerted, and by that time you would be far away from this warehouse that is by now covered in blood, bullet casings, and dead men.

Your earlier relief turns into utter confusion as you hear shuffling, and when you turn back towards where Red’s body is, you see him shake his head where he lays crumpled on the floor, and seconds later he’s on his feet with a groan.

“Okay, good shot whoever that was.” You gape, words slipping out of your mouth without meaning to.

“What the fuck.” Red’s head snaps towards you.

“Oh, there you are.” His voice is light, almost like he’s halfway into song. “I would return the favor, but I’m fresh out of bullets so this will have to do.” He pulls out the katanas strapped to his back. You grab your knives, managing, somehow by the grace of whatever runs this universe, to bring it out just in time to block both katanas that were coming at you in tight formation.

“Oh so you weren’t just happy to see me.” Red jokes, and though you can’t see his face under the mask, you are pretty sure he is grinning. You grunt, because there is no way for your brain to form words as you parry another attack from him, retreating.

You are in no position to attack, so all you do is stop his, and try to escape, backing off. Or rather, you try to, but Red is not letting up, so all you end up doing is walking backwards through the warehouse in a vague path between boxes and shelves as he attacks.

He manages to get a few slashes here and there to connect, but they are shallow, just enough to draw blood and sting. One on your left arm, two on your right arm, three on your left leg. You wonder if amounts are on purpose. He seems to take it all as encouragement, laughing, keeping up his quick attacks.

You don’t know you hold out, breathing heavy, arms and hands hurting with how you are clutching and shielding with your knives like your life depends on it.

Because it 1000% fucking does, that’s why you manage.

Red finally lets up, just enough that you can create some space between the two of you. You don’t dare to actually turn and run, certain he has no moral code of cutting down someone from behind. So you just try to slowly create even more room between the two of you as you watch for his next attack.

“Oh I am having fun!” Red tries to clap, but he just knocks the hilts of his katanas together. “Though we are just a little unevenly matched here.” He sounds like he’s breathing just a little bit harder at least, even though there are no cuts next to the bullet holes riddling his suit. He tilts his head for a moment, then bends down, and then there’s a katana sliding over the floor, bumping into your boot. You look down at it, before looking back up at him.

“Come on, pick it up.” Shifting your knives into one hand, you keep your eyes on the white eyes of his mask as you bend down and pick up the sword.

“Oh yeah, look at me during.” You ignore his comment, feeling the weight of the katana in your hand. It’s heavy, but perfectly balanced, feeling perfect as you spin it in your hand a few times, the hilt still warm from Red’s earlier hold.

“Hot.” Red says as he twirls his second katana, mimicking you. Once more ignoring him, you put your knives back in their sheats. “Do you have them there to distract your enemies by making them think you are going to jerk off mid-battle?” You snort.

“No, they are there so they are more hidden, and more difficult to grab.”

“If you wanted my hands in your pants all you had to do was ask, baby.” You think Red is winking at you through the mask. You roll your eyes, taking a deep breath.

“Shut the fuck up.” With both of your hands on the hilt of the katana, you are ready to defend yourself from his first attack.

“Ohhh, you remind me of someone. I think the two of you would get along, he’s also a man of few words. Maybe I’ll let you live so you can meet him and fight him too, more material for my spank bank.” He definitely winks this time, then you are defending yourself from another attack from him. It pushes you backwards, again, but this time, you are able to attack back.

Though you can’t help but wonder if he’s letting you, just indulging you. Because you can feel how strong he is when you parry his strikes, you felt how strong he was when all you had was your knives.

It’s a dance, a dance he lets you participate in as you block, attack, block, attack, block. Redirecting his sword coming for your throat so it splinters wood instead of flesh.

“How did you learn to fight like this?” Wade asks, almost spinning as his energy is redirected away from your body. He is at least breathing a little heavier, and for some reason, you find yourself having a little fun, even though you think you know how this is going to end.

“I was a loser in high school. What about you?” You speak through gritted teeth, the sound of metal on metal filling the warehouse as you block another attack. You don’t even know why you ask him back, but it feels right.

“Something similar.” It’s still kinda hard to tell, but you think he grins under his mask as you attack back.

You do get a few cuts in, deep enough that it slices through his suit and the skin underneath, but it leaves you with little satisfaction as you see the cuts heal in seconds. Though at least his suit can’t fix itself, growing more tattered by the minute as new slashes and old bullet holes make a mess of it.

“So you are not just a pretty face, there’s some skills there.” You frown, anger flaring, and you are about to say something, but with a quick move that you have no opportunity to block, and that truly demonstrates the difference between the two of you, he nicks you with just the tip of the katanta, just on the left corner of your mouth. You startle, but on instinct your tongue goes out to lick at the blood now sliding down to your skin. It just gives you more motivation to strike back, a big one that leaves behind what could almost be called a titty window on his chest, showing textured skin underneath.

“Ohhhh, freaky.” Red taunts, slicing your chest too, though your skin doesn’t heal when metal connects after slicing through your shirt like air. You curse, adrenaline causing your ears to roar, and the world to go a little fuzzy at the edges. You touch your chest, fingers coming back bloody, watching Red. Your own katana pointing towards the floor, ready, but down as you breathe heavily.

“Leaving yourself all open for me? You shouldn’t have.” Red coos, and that is what you are counting on. Letting him attack you straight on, thinking you have given up, so you can shove the katana through his skull, killing him again, and leaving you at least a few moments to high tail it out of there.

It’s what the plan is.

It does not work out like you intend it to.

It goes in a whole new direction.

Because when he comes close enough, you manage to get a hold on his shoulder, which gets you a hopefully not deadly slice over your abdomen for your efforts. You are moving quickly, seconds away from stabbing the katana through the bottom of his jaw. But then your fingers touch a bare spot on his shoulder where his suit had gotten torn, and there’s a sparkler going off in your brain, a sizzling sensation that settles in the back of your head as feelings of excitement, adrenaline, and happiness that are not your own speeds through your mind.

You gasp out loud.

You can’t help yourself.

Because you know what that was.

And there is no fucking way.

WHAT. THE. ABSOLUTE.

FUCK.

Fucking no.

A soulmate.

You have a fucking soulmate??????

And this is how you fucking meet him????

In all of your turmoil, you have dropped the katana that was destined to go through Red’s skull. He is a few paces behind you, not immediately attacking, just watching you as you turn around in your now mostly frozen state.

“Wh-”

“Touch me.” Red blinks, owlishly even with the white eyes of his mask.

“Wow, so forward. You know, con-”

“Shut the fuck up.” You march over to him, and in what seems to be confusion he lets you tug the glove of his hand that is not holding his katana. You interlace your fingers, the motion absurdly tender for the moment that is currently playing out. You see his eyes widen behind the mask, and you are sure his mouth opens and closes several times even hidden as it is.

“What the fuck.” The words are so soft out his mouth that you are not even sure he said them. Not that it matters, because a second later he is wrenching his hand back like you burned him. He runs past you, and you watch as he picks up his katana where you dropped it, and then keeps running after that brief slowdown, heading towards a door you hadn’t noticed while you were fighting. You startle yourself into action finally, following him, but he’s out the door before you can reach him.

On the other side there’s a hallway, and his back is quickly retreating, and all you feel is panic. You are not sure which of you it is coming from.

You try to keep up with him through multiple hallways, but he’s fast, getting out of the building before you do. It’s enough of a headstart that you only see backlights and hear the roar of a motorcycle speeding away.

You run over to where the cars you all arrived in earlier are parked, but of fucking course all tires are slashed. Not like you had any of the keys anyway, but they would have been easy enough to find in some dead man's pockets.

“Fucking MOTHERFUCKER!” You know he can’t hear you, but you hope Red feels your frustration through your bond as you punch the hood of a car, denting the metal.

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wickedscribbles · 2 days

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whoever makes my baby cry (is gonna lose some teeth tonight) ch. 4 (final)

Masterlist

Ch. 1, Ch. 2, Ch.3

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x Logan Howlett/Wolverine

Rating: Explicit

Tags: smut, fluff, pet names, biting, rimming, enthusiastic consent, multiple orgasms, messy sex, power bottom Logan, top Wade, teasing/banter, dirty talk, anal sex, mild genderplay

Word Count: 5K

If you like what I write and can afford to do so, please consider buying me a coffee! It would be much appreciated.

Wade has him on his back so fast the world tilts.

Logan’s willing to go where he wants, especially if that place is upside down on their mattress. He lands hard enough to bounce a little, huffing out a laugh, the sound ending in a pleased hum as Wade goes right back to kissing him. He wraps his legs around Wade’s waist, cups his face in his hands, wanting to touch him everywhere. This is the kind of prelude to sex that leaves him breathless; not too fast, not too slow, the anticipation of it all clinging to their skin like static.

Above him, Wade can’t seem to decide if he wants to keep kissing him – rough and enthusiastic – or talk about everything that's coming next.

“God, you looked so fucking hot punching that walking protozoa –” he gasps the words right into Logan’s mouth, and Logan can only grin back, chasing Wade’s lips for more. “Love it when you’re mean like that –”

“Oh, do you?”

“You know I do, smartass,” Wade says, his tone and his face so full of love that he might as well have called him angel. His mouth travels to the sensitive place under Logan’s jaw, teasing with teeth. “Will you tear someone in half for me next time? Will you tear me in half?”

Logan can’t stop fucking smiling. Even as he arches up and into the kisses tracing along the line of his throat, he’s smiling, feeling floaty and stupid and turned on.

“Not in the apartment, ya freak,” he manages.

He isn’t deterred. “Your freak,” Wade says. “And no, I'd wait til we took a little trip out to the woods like you want.”

“I'd like that.”

“Tearing me in half?” Wade's mouth pauses, hot and wet, at Logan's collarbone to ask the question.

“Takin’ a trip,” Logan corrects, panting a little now. Squirming for more attention, his cock hard trapped between their bodies.

“Oh, okay, okay. So we can screw in the woods without having to worry about staining the sheets? And play out the ‘fucking a lumberjack’ fantasy one of us may or may not be harboring?”

Logan raises an eyebrow at the lumberjack bit, but chooses to say nothing. Hey, whatever floats his boat. God knows they’ve done far stranger things.

“Sure. Or fuckin’ up the carpet. Been a minute since we had a real rollaround.”

Wade hums his agreement at that, trailing a delicate hand down the length of Logan’s bicep, then his forearm, until their fingertips are touching. Logan’s fingers twitch when he touches them, their hands intertwining. Willingly, he lets Wade bring his hand to his mouth – knows instantly what he wants him to do. He opens his mouth and takes Wade’s fingers on his tongue.

“Good boy,” Wade breathes, and Logan can feel himself leaking in his boxers, dripping a spot against the cotton. He pants out a shaky sort of noise in answer, maybe an agreement or disagreement to the praise, he doesn't know, can’t think. “Yeah, you know just what to do, don’t you?”

His lips close around what's in his mouth, tight, sucking at them just like he'd sucked Wade's cock this morning. Getting them sloppy, dribbling with spit, some of it stringing out of his mouth and into his facial hair. There are still days when they're in too big of a damn hurry to care, but this foreplay is erotic on its own, too.

For a while, they linger suspended in that moment, Wade straddling his lap and watching with fascinated eyes as his fingers move slowly in and out of Logan's mouth. They look at each other, into each other, long past the shyness.

The way Wade looks at him still makes Logan burn, two parts of him trying to run away from one another. It's nice to be wanted. It's terrifying to be wanted. He thinks that the fear of ruining this is getting quieter, though. He hopes.

“Wanna try something,” Wade says all at once, his face brightening with the type of mischief Logan knows only too well. “Here – lift up for a minute –”

Letting Wade’s fingers slide out of his mouth, he does as he's told, spreading his legs a little wider as Wade reaches behind them for one of the pillows. He places it just underneath Logan's hips, turning his attention back to his naked torso, raining kisses on his body.

“Need these off,” Wade murmurs, almost to himself, tugging at Logan's boxers. Breathing shakily, he obliges him, kicking them to the floor. His cock springs up as Wade sheds him pajamas as well, resting heavy above his abdomen in anticipation. He's fucking restless for something, anything, a flurry of past positions floating past his eyes like a slideshow.

For a few seconds, Logan thinks it's his turn to get sucked off, and he's definitely not complaining. Wade lavishes attention on the meeting of his hip and thigh, biting in just the right way to make Logan jump, smirking to himself when he earns an arch off the mattress for more. Logan's palm rests on his head, encouraging. Trusting.

But he bypasses Logan's cock like it's not there. Instead, he trails past, licking a stripe down his balls, pressing his scarred palms to Logan's thighs to spread them wider, and – oh. Oh okay. Wade’s hot breath hesitates over his hole for only an instant before his tongue is tracing the most delicate circles.

“F-fuck!”

Logan squirms at the unexpected sensation, curling his toes. He feels Wade's hands twitch where they rest on his inner thighs, and looks down to see him looking back.

“Okay?” He asks.

“Yeah, s’good, I just didn't know –” Logan answers, far too quickly. He blinks, a lot, in an effort to remember how to put one word in front of the other. “You can keep going. If you want.”

“If I want,” Wade repeats wryly. “Yeah, okay, champ.”

Only capable of swallowing hard in response, Logan lets his head fall back against the mattress, his whole body tense with the thought of what's going to happen next. He feels Wade's breath back at his hole, and God, it's so sensitive there, his tongue lapping at him as he spreads his legs further.

It's not quite like anything he's felt before. It's good.

“Relax,” comes Wade's voice, light with amusement before his fucking tongue goes right back to Logan's ass. His knee gets pushed up, opening him like an old paperback.

He's aware that his chest is rising and falling and rising and falling, a rapid in and out. The little circles that Wade traces with his tongue shift into broader strokes, something deeper. Logan moans with the change, thrusting up into nothing.

“Feels so fuckin’ good, Red,” he says softly, his voice coming out smaller than he thought it would. “I don’t, I haven’t –n-never –”

He’s aware that he doesn’t make any sense, but Wade doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, it encourages him, a low hum drawn from the other man’s throat as he pulls away to look at him. His eyes are massive between the vee of Logan’s legs.

“Never ever? Am I actually taking a sweet, precious piece of your virginity?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Logan whines. “Keep going.”

Wade ducks back down, but not before babbling something about best day of his life and definitely going on Tumblr (and it had better not).

He can’t wait anymore for Wade to touch him, fuck him, whatever he’d planned to add to the mix. Getting eaten out is such a tease but he needs more and he needs it now. Logan grasps his cock, already slippery with pre-come, and starts a rhythm that has his head swimming immediately.

With a hiss, Wade digs his nails into the flesh of his thighs, groaning into him. Logan has a feeling that if his mouth were free to say something, he’d be giving him a string of encouragement. Shit, even imagining what Wade would be saying is enough to turn him on.

Moaning out something that strongly resembles Wade’s name buried in a sea of praise, Logan grinds back on his face, chasing more, so so so close.

That’s it, baby, the Wade in his head says. Actual Wade is panting hard against his ass now, getting sloppy. Come for me. Know you want to. Pretty pretty please.

Logan’s eyes roll back. He comes in frenetic bursts all over Wade’s face and shoulder, vaguely aware that now he has pulled away to praise him, kissing up and down Logan's thigh to watch the whole show. Logan's hands scrabble in the sheets, some pathetic little sound coming out of his throat.

“Peanut, Jesus fucking Christ…”

He says something like ungh in answer, looking down at Wade covered in his come. He is so hot with that satisfied smirk on his face, it’s ridiculous. And then he takes a finger and drags it across the side of his face, where there’s a streak of Logan’s spend, and pops it into his mouth.

Fuck, okay.

Barely done from their first round, Logan’s cock twitches again.

“Got me good, Pollock,” Wade comments, still wearing that crooked grin that makes his heart do shit that Logan would worry about if he didn’t know it was always healing. “You liked that, huh?”

It takes a lot to resist the urge to say no shit, but Logan manages. Instead, he runs his hand up and down Wade’s cheek, feeling his spend there all sticky, his mind swimming with sex-drunk praise (you’resofuckingprettywantyousobadithurts).

“Gonna sit on your dick now,” he says instead, and Wade backs off of him fast to allow that to happen.

Their places swapped, Logan palms at Wade’s cock tenderly, not missing the way Wade’s lips part on a soft little ah of need. Wade’s dick is damn near perfect, fulfilling every stupid fantasy Logan had before he worked up the guts to come knocking on his door and do something about it. Bottoming out on Wade still stretches him out so full and delicious, turns him dumb in a way that topping him doesn’t – though he won't say no to either.

He lifts his hips, situating Wade underneath him, when he sees two fingers trailing up his chest.

“Sure you’re wet enough?” Wade teases. “Could finger you a little more, just to be safe.”

Fingertips land on Logan’s mouth, and oh, does this man know how to push his luck. Faking a scowl, Logan takes Wade’s middle finger playfully between his teeth and bites down hard, breaking skin and crushing bone. Blood wells up all at once, his mouth full of copper, and Wade gasps in delight as his cock twitches against Logan’s inner thigh.

“There’s my kitty cat,” he praises, grinning like floodlights. Though broken, his finger is still hanging on after he pulls it away. “Aww, you didn't bite it off this time.”

“‘M feelin’ generous.”

“God!” Wade laughs as Logan guides himself down, trailing off halfway through whatever quip he’d cooked up. He grabs Logan's thighs, moaning at the sensation. “Fuck, princess, you’re still so fuckin’ tight –”

As Logan seats himself fully, he can tell that Wade’s already regretting not being on top. His mouth is doing that cute little scrunch thing it does when he gets impatient. But Logan loves seeing Wade all desperate, too horny to think straight, begging to fuck him or be fucked. If Logan weren’t just as desperate half the time, he’d make Wade wait ages for what he wants. Maybe someday they’ll cool down enough to try that.

Maybe.

Because despite having already come once already, Logan’s not in much better shape. Getting eaten out had eased the way for Wade inside him, but the stretch is still toeing the edge of pain and bliss. He knows as soon as they move, it’ll melt nicely into the latter.

“Hurry up and fuck me,” Wade says, pouting. He’s already breathless, his face flushed, gripping Logan’s thighs so hard that they’re bruising and healing and bruising again in a continuous cycle. It’s so hot. “Please please please, you’re so tight, I’m not gonna last, please.”

If that doesn’t light Logan up from the inside out, nothing will.

Pausing only to give him a yeah, okay, Logan grinds his hips down hard. Wade’s answering whine is like magic, high and keening, something that Logan’s going to replay in his mind over and over like the mixtapes high schoolers used to make for each other to flirt. He could probably pick out each individual note, tell you the crescendo, see the arc of it burned on the inside of his eyelids.

Wade looks like a porn star underneath him, mouth hanging open, eyes unfocused, hips meeting Logan’s perfectly every – fucking – time. Logan’s cock is flushed and hard between them again, slapping skin with every thrust.

“Logan,” Wade moans out.

Logan’s thrusts get just a little harder, a little faster. That tight tight sensation of climax sits somewhere in the bottom of his stomach, in reach if he worked for it, but he’s nowhere as close as Wade is. Wade’s delirious with it, right there sitting on the brink, and Logan feels like he’s on fire with how sexy he finds the man.

“Yeah?” Logan purrs back.

“So fuckin’ close, right there, gonna come –”

“I can tell.”

Later, Wade will give him shit for being such a tease – and tell him how hot it was. But for now, Logan pins both of Wade’s wrists in place, knowing he’ll try to cover his face. He wants to watch the whole show, not just the trailer. He lets his fingers trace through the other man’s, a part of him loving the added intimacy, and greedily takes in every second of Wade coming inside him.

“Lo-ogan, ah, shit shit shit –!”

Wade rolls his hips up slow and deep as he comes, head thrown back, filling Logan with warmth. Logan honest-to-God shivers, knowing his cock is drooling all over Wade’s stomach just from watching him. Playing with him a little, Logan gently thrusts down, stimulating him through the aftershocks just to watch him gasp and jolt. The little sounds he makes after coming, all fucked-out and satiated, are right up there for Logan with the usual sounds of sex.

(Huh. Maybe he likes Wade’s voice even more than he thought.)

Wade's face is still flushed when he can make eye contact again, and Logan only smiles at him, pleased with himself.

“No fair,” Wade grumbles.

Logan leans down to kiss him, bumping their foreheads together. They’re both covered in a fine sheen of sweat, among other things, and he lingers there to get Wade to kiss him back nice and slow. At this point, he really does feel drunk, heavy-limbed and satisfied without the theoretical liver damage.

“Don’t see what’s unfair about it,” Logan replies once they’ve broken away again. “Just gave me a damn good show on top of a phenomenal fuck. If I could reach my wallet right now, I’d tip ya.”

“Peanut, I swear on Fox Studio’s grave, if you keep pulling this kind of dialogue out of nowhere I’m going to have a stroke.” Wade turns to glare at a random corner of the room. “And you had better watch it. We did not talk about this before the chapter started.”

Threats to no one aside, Logan just shakes his head, unfazed. Something makes him want to keep talking, and he’s not sure if it’s how loose and warm his body feels, or the day they’ve had, or a combination of both.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty when you come,” he confesses, and Wade looks up at him with what can only be described as a mix of shock and horror.

“Oooookay, that’s enough for you, big guy –”

Wade struggles to get out from underneath him, attempting to lift his hips, but it’s no use. Logan sees it coming and shifts his weight more fully onto the mattress, effectively trapping him in place.

“Nope,” he says, unable to keep from sounding a little smug. “Think I’m gonna set my big adamantium ass right here until you learn to take a compliment.”

“Yeah? And what if I shoot my way out?”

It doesn’t surprise Logan in the slightest when Wade pulls the .45 from behind the headboard and aims it between his eyes. It does, however, annoy him. He sinks down further, aware that Wade’s gone soft, come slipping loose in a steady stream between their bodies onto the sheets.

“Rhonda’s gonna be pissed if she hears a gunshot, you know that. Slap us with another fee for damages, and I sure as shit ain’t coverin’ it just because you don’t want to hear how goddamn good you look.”

Wade’s finger plays with the trigger, stroking it as if in thought. His mouth scrunches. In all honesty, Logan wouldn’t mind a shot or two – it’s been a while since he’s taken one, and he knows Wade wouldn’t get him anywhere awful. They like each other well enough to spare major head wounds now, and that’s typically the only unspoken rule.

But to his surprise, Wade puts the gun back where he’d stashed it, flopping his head back on the pillows with a dramatic sigh.

“Fine, you monumental pain in my ass. What else do you want to tell me that’s so important?”

Logan pauses a moment, amused. He wasn’t quite sure he’d get this far. Half of him pictured this ending in an all-out bloodbath – the kind they’d have to replace the sheets and the carpet for. Maybe even have to paint the walls again. God, he wishes they didn’t live in a fucking apartment – or the city.

“You’re hot as hell, Wade,” he starts. Wade’s mouth is very scrunched, eyebrows drawn down in a similar pout. He looks like he’d rather be sitting on a stick of lit dynamite than listening to this. “What, you didn’t think I thought that? When we’ve been fuckin’ each other senseless for this long?”

“Just thought maybe I had a magic dick,” Wade mutters.

“Hah. Never said you don’t.”

Logan finally lets Wade’s cock slip out of him entirely, crawling up until his mouth is inches from Wade’s. The proximity makes the other man’s eyes dilate, breath catching, and Logan could live off of the thick smell of sweat and lust and come they’ve created in this room together.

He kisses Wade, quick, just a taste, and leaves him wanting more.

“You’re fuckin’ funny.”

Another kiss, this time a little deeper, Wade reaching up for him with half a grin on his face. He’s getting hard again – Logan can feel it against the muscles of his abdomen. The next time Wade's mouth collides with his, he brings teeth, taking Logan's bottom lip and pulling hard enough to make him moan.

“You’re – wild – to watch in a fight. Sweet – to the people you care about.”

They’re making out in earnest now, Logan gasping to get the words out as Wade drinks him up.

“You –uh!”

Caught off guard, Logan doesn’t have the time to finish his sentence as Wade flips him on his side. Nose to nose with one another now, he lets Wade continue his desperate barrage of kisses, hooking an arm around Logan’s neck. Their stiff cocks rub together, tantalizing friction, and Wade trails his lips to Logan’s ear.

“You like me all that much, get on your hands and knees.”

His voice is low and sultry in a way that lets Logan know that they’re far from done. Laughing softly, Logan does as he asks, Wade moving around him as if they’re different parts of the same body. Planting his palms on the mattress, he closes his eyes in anticipation. Wade slides his cock against his ass, the briefest tease, before placing himself at his entrance.

He doesn't waste time pushing back inside. Logan's body takes him easily, a breathless sound of excitement leaving him as Wade’s hands come to settle on his hips. Though he can't see Wade's face, he can feel the shift in energy – he can hear Wade's heart pumping fast, sense his heightened enthusiasm.

Settled inside Logan up to the hilt, Wade shifts his hips in a lazy figure eight.

“You ready?”

Logan nods, his uh-huh coming out like a groan of pleasure. He stares down at his own spread hands, the ruined sheets, biting his lip as Wade continues to tease him.

It doesn't last long. Less than a second passes between his confirmation and Wade’s first sharp thrust, bullying Logan forward before he can get his bearings. Wade wastes no time in setting a punishing rhythm, leaving him helpless to do anything but arch back into what he's getting.

He pants and moans every time Wade comes close to nailing that spot, feeling his claws start to slip out bit by bit. Their mattress topper is in bits and pieces under the cover of the sheet, more foam chunks than anything now, and he's about to make it a lot worse. Logan lets himself sink claws deep into the padding, leaning his face forward into the pillows to muffle the most embarrassing of the noises he's making.

Wade isn't letting him get away that easily.

“That's my fucking big boy,” he breathes, and Logan lights up with a blush bright enough to color his fucking chest. His cock jumps. “Take me so well every time, don't ya? Every – fuckin' – inch?”

Oh god oh fuck.

“Wade,” he says into the pillows, practically mewling out the word. Latched into the mattress with his claws anchoring him in place as Wade nails that incredible place right there oh fuck oh Christ. “Hah, fuck, you gotta slow down, or – I –”

“Or what, sweetheart?”

A clever hand reaches around to jerk Logan's cock, nice and deep the way he needs it, and Logan moans so deep in his throat it comes out more like a growl. Wade matches his thrusts in time, slower now but fuller, getting Logan to cry out louder than he'd ever admit he gets.

“You gotta slow down, Red,” Logan manages to repeat, but he already knows it's no use. “Gotta s-slow down, oh f-fuck!”

He comes much harder than he thought he would, hissing out a string of swears into the poor abused mattress. Coating the sheets below him, watching as some dribbles onto his thigh. Wade pushes his hips higher, fucking him through it like it's easy, his fingers brushing soothing circles as Logan shivers and spills and pants.

His whole body tingles with that sensitive sensation he's come to equate with powerfully good sex, with a certain look in Wade's eyes or a tone in his voice. He's going to feel this later, the honey-hum ache lingering in every muscle, but it's more than worth it.

“Flip over,” Logan insists after the moment has passed. “Wanna watch you come again.”

A cocky tsk from behind him catches Logan off guard. A gentle hand lands on the curve of his ass. Loving.

“Aw, peanut. Baby. Who said you were done?” Wade’s voice comes out light and cheerful, but they both know what the undercurrent holds.

Yeah, he's definitely in his bossy little top mood now, Logan thinks. Not that he doesn't find it incredibly hot. But it's also fun to be a bit of a brat every once and a while.

“Don't think I can,” he tries, sliding his claws out of the mattress but settling firmly. “C'mon, Wade. Fuck me ‘til you finish.” Logan hesitates. “Please?”

An equally long pause. He can almost hear Wade thinking.

“Nahhh,” he decides. “You can do one more for me, then I'll fill you up until you fucking drip.”

This time, the pointed gap in the air is for Logan to really say no, use a safe word, if he needs to. And he definitely doesn't need to, doesn't want to. Besides, he's never been one to back away from a challenge, especially if it's Wade who's handing it out.

“Yes, sir,” Logan says mockingly, lifting his ass back up in the air.

He hears Wade make a strangled little noise of want before gripping his ass tight.

“Good fucking girl,” he growls, pushing Logan down until he's flat on his stomach on the bed.

Logan’s pretty sure he whines at that. It’s hard to tell anymore.

To say that the sheets are saturated in come would be an understatement at this point, but Logan can't focus on that as much as he's focusing on getting hard again, Wade’s teeth sinking deep into the side of his neck. The pain is nothing compared to the pleasure, a drop of water in the ocean – and Logan’s fucking dying of thirst.

He breaks the skin. Granted, it takes a little more effort for him to do it than it does for Logan, but he doesn’t mind the extra gnashing around. Chewing on his neck like it’s a goddamned squeaky toy. He’s flattered by it, in a way, that Wade would do all that just to spill blood for sex.

Wade’s tongue laps at the ring of blood he’s produced as he presses into his ass again, slow, and Logan can tell that he’s trying to hold back. To really spoil him with this extra orgasm, instead of keeping it all tit for tat. He doesn’t know why – he’ll pester him later about it and only get ‘cause I love you and I wanted to, you fuckin’ beefslab of a man, in answer.

But right now, Wade’s hot, panting mouth trails to Logan’s ear, and his teeth pull on the lobe, hard. Logan bares his neck further with a near silent intake of breath, wordless permission, and that’s all that Wade needs. Without further ado, Wade’s teeth seize around the loose cartilage and bite, ripping it off in a gush of blood.

“Fuck –!” Logan hisses, feeling the warmth of it trickle down on the sheets near his face.

“I’m trying my best, dollface,” Wade says sweetly in reply. Logan wishes he could see him. “You have no idea how good you look like that, all spread out like a two dollar whore on nickel night. Really putting my stamina to the test.”

He sighs, moving his hips so gently he may as well not be moving them at all. Despite insisting that Wade come a final time so that they could be finished with the whole romp, Logan finds himself growing impatient. There’s blood in it for him now, literally, and his cock is throbbing where it’s trapped against his stomach and the bed.

“But when a Scout makes a promise, they keep a promise. Right?”

“I promise you’re a pain in my ass,” Logan huffs. “Wade, c’mon, if you’re gonna fuck me then fuck me, don’t just –”

The words screw around are a little lost in the sudden snapping of Wade’s hips. Logan gasps instead, taken off guard by the instant ferocity of it. One of Wade’s hands grips a fistful of Logan’s hair, rough, incredible, while the other palm stays firm at his hip, holding them both in place.

“What were you saying, honey badger?” Though the words are innocent, Wade’s voice hits his (regenerating) ear in a mocking growl, all exertion.

Logan can’t even form a fucking sentence, let alone a smartass response. Wade knows him well enough, is smart enough to know exactly where his prostate is, how deep to press and for how long. He can play his body like an instrument few have taken the time to learn, let alone master.

Sinking his claws back into the mattress, scrabbling for any sort of purchase, Logan presses his face into the pillows with a desperate sound. He wants to tell Wade how good it feels, that he’s nailing his prostate just right, stirring up a heat inside of him that no one’s ever quite hit before, so good he wants to sob, but all he can do is lie there ass up and gasp out with every thrust. He tries to match Wade’s pace, hold the rhythm.

“Am I nailing your g-spot, baby?” Wade purrs, and something like scandal and delight war for attention in Logan’s mind. “Yeah, I feel you, pussy so fuckin’ tight.”

“Wade, o-oh Christ,” he says, breath hitching. Tears sting the corners of his eyes and he’s torn between so many points of pleasure and his cock is gliding as Wade pushes him forward, he’s going to come again, just as Wade had said he would – “ – Wade, Wade, Wade –”

He’s still chanting Wade’s name, voice rising an octave or so, as orgasm hits him like a goddamn train. The warmth of it coats his belly and chest, his face muffled deep into the pillows – tears and spit dampening the material. He arches back hard as Wade thrusts a handful of times to finish not long behind him.

“Fuck,” Wade says under his breath. “Kitty cat, oh fuck yes.”

The quiet that falls after, only their combined breath, is so deep and peaceful that Logan passes out almost right away. He isn’t sure how long Wade lets him sleep – only that he wakes up to his shoulder being shaken gently, Wade standing beside the bed with a fond smirk on his face.

“You’re gonna be stuck to the bed if you stay there like that, cowboy,” he tells him, offering a hand to help him up. “C’mon. Let’s get clean.”

Logan makes a grumpy sort of sound, too comfortable to want to move. “Only if we get to sleep all day tomorrow.”

Wade’s face brightens at the idea. “Fuck yeah – pile all the blankets on the couch and order takeout?”

It sounds like a dream come true.

“Yeah.”

Logan takes his hand. Once they’re clean, with the sheets and blankets replaced, it’s the deepest and most comfortable sleep of his life.

#poolverine #deadpool x wolverine #deadpool x wolverine fic #deadpool x wolverine smut #poolverine smut #deadclaws #logan howlett x wade wilson #logan howlett #wade wilson #deadpool #wolverine #deadpool fic #wolverine fic #deadpool and wolverine #hugh jackman #ryan reynolds

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neyafromfrance95 · 2 days

Note

what's wrong with haladriel tag today? everyone is spreading hate or getting baited by the antis. doom and gloom. only a few posts are of the shippers goofing or discussing the ep in a way that doesn't feel like the show ended haladriel for good.

yeah, idk. i try to not scroll down the tag nowadays. i finished the episode and it was fine to me. i understand everyone's complaints and frustrations as i myself wished for sauron to see galadriel being in captivity at least (and my main issue is galadriel's shortened screentime), but i feel like we might be overreacting a bit and ruining our own shipping experience?

what saddens me the most is that i don't see the fan creations getting appreciated. the shippers would make great gifsets, edits, art - no reblogs. write fics - no comments or kudos. maybe the fandom is still small but i look at the stuff from s1 and it had so much more interaction and encouragement from other shippers.

even the metas from s1 aren't all about "when will celeborn appear and can galadriel be shipped with sauron when she is married to celeborn?" it seems like haladriels didn't give a f about that forced discourse back then and were just wholly enjoying the ship.

as i've said, i think elrond kiss is not the worst thing for haladriels. it might indicate that celeborn won't be introduced (yet), so galadriel won't have to "go back to being his wife". elrond/galadriel won't turn any more romantic than this, at most it will be ambiguous. and they might be testing the waters for how the audiences react to canon divergence. if elrond can be galadriel's jacob, why can't sauron be her edward?

listen, so many of the most iconic ships have never kissed or were never officially a couple. if the dynamic is shippable then why stop shipping just bc a season doesn't go exactly as the fans wanted it to go in their wildest dreams? we still have s3, there still might be the mind-palace communication explored in s3. after all we know the whole show was inspired by the idea that sauron ever so gropes to see galadriel and at some point galadriel closes the door on him but he still allows her to roam his mind freely!

+ this season still was like a continuation of sauron and galadriel mirroring each other, it confirmed that galadriel has feelings for sauron and that sauron is obsessed with her. there is still one ep left where this slow-burn build-up is supposed to climax.

my point is, let's try to be more positive? and being positive isn't necessarily confined to being delulu. it means creating fan content or hyping up fan creations, it means taking what we get in the episodes and dissecting it with passion, engaging with analysis, having fun!

i have been in many other fandoms and i know that a fandom can't be longevous if it's sustained on frustration and negativity and discourse 80% of the time.

for what's it worth, let's let the creators know that we want haladriel, not that we hate the show the same way the lorebros hate it. yk?

#sauron x galadriel #haladriel #saurondriel #the rings of power #galadriel #sauron #trop #galadriel x halbrand #rop

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ssa-dado · 2 days

Text

10 - The Reaper Aftermath

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader Genre: slow burn, fluff, weird stuff Summary: After a tense night together, you and Hotch navigate a strained morning at work, where the unspoken weight of your shared intimacy lingers. Rossi’s sudden retirement adds to the turmoil as Hotch steps into his new role as lead profiler amidst a challenging new case involving the Reaper, a killer whose chaotic pattern masks a deeper psychological game. Despite the emotional undercurrents, you both reaffirm your partnership, finding solace in the familiar rhythm of working side by side, trusting each other completely. Warnings: Use of alcohol, implied sexual intercourse, CM case, ungodly privation of the filthiest smut ever known to mankind. Word Count: 7.8k Dado's Corner: I don't know about you but I'm obsessed with their quick-witted humour, I could write a whole chapter of them just teasing each other. I chose to approach the Reaper case with a more psychological focus, emphasizing the emotional and mental shifts that occur during the investigation rather than the details of the case itself. (especially since the details of the case are already explored in 4x18, and I will probably touch on that in Act 2). Feel free to hate me for the lack of... you'll see.

previous chapter ; masterlist

The morning after that last night out with Hotch, you found yourself standing in front of your mirror, meticulously buttoning your shirt from the bottom up. Each button felt like a tiny act of defiance against the emotions swirling inside you, your fingers pausing over the last one at the collar, the one you never left undone. This morning, you paid even closer attention, fastening it tightly as if the extra effort could hold back the flood of thoughts and emotions from the night before. You tugged at the fabric, straightening it in an attempt to hide the unease lingering beneath your usually composed exterior.

The drive to Quantico felt quieter than usual, the familiar route stretching out before you like an endless loop of half-formed thoughts. Everything felt heavy, from the overcast sky outside your windshield to the weight of your own footsteps as you made your way inside the building. It wasn’t like you to feel this out of sorts; usually – as Hotch always seemed to remind you - you were the second one in, eager to start the day. But today, you had let yourself linger too long in the quiet of your apartment, the memories of last night’s closeness replaying in your mind, making you hesitant to face the day ahead.

When you arrived, it was almost on time - not early, not rushing in at the last second, but exactly when you were supposed to be there. It was a stark contrast to your usual punctuality, and it made the bullpen feel off-kilter, like you were arriving in a world that wasn’t quite your own.

You walked past the familiar rows of desks, noting the absence of your early morning routine: the extra coffee you usually grabbed for Hotch, the quiet moments where you caught up before the office filled up. Instead, you felt the eyes of your coworkers, subtle but present, as if they could sense something had shifted between you and Hotch, even if they didn’t know exactly what.

You dropped your bag onto your desk, letting the thud of it break the silence that seemed to hang over everything. Hotch was already seated across from you, his posture stiff and his focus unnervingly intent on the paperwork in front of him. You were used to seeing him like this - calm, composed, always in control - but today, there was something else. A stillness, a carefulness in his movements that felt forced, as if he was deliberately trying not to meet your gaze.

“Morning,” you said, your voice sounding strangely formal, even to your own ears. It was a simple greeting, but it felt loaded, heavy with the weight of everything you weren’t saying.

“Morning,” Hotch replied, his tone equally distant, almost clinical. He glanced up for the briefest of moments, his eyes locking with yours in a fleeting exchange that was too intense, too knowing. It was as if he was searching for something in your expression, but when he found nothing, he quickly looked away, burying himself back in his work with a determined focus that only made the awkwardness between you more palpable.

There was no banter, no teasing remarks, none of the familiar rhythm that usually defined your mornings together. Instead, you both fell into an overly professional demeanor, a sharp contrast to the easy comfort you usually shared. It felt like you were tiptoeing around each other, careful not to let your eyes linger too long or your words stray too close to the truth.

You stole a glance at him, your eyes tracing the familiar lines of his face, searching for some indication of what he was thinking. But Hotch was strangely unreadable, his expression a careful mask that gave nothing away. His fingers tapped rhythmically on his desk, a subtle, nervous habit that you’d seen him do only when he was deep in thought or wrestling with something he couldn’t quite put into words. The sight of it sent a pang of something uncomfortably close to guilt twisting in your stomach.

You knew why this morning felt so strange, why the air between you was thick with a weight neither of you dared to address. The silence, once easy and familiar, now hung heavy, echoing everything that had transpired the night before.

It was all still so vivid in your mind: the way his touch lingered when he’d pulled you onto the dance floor, his fingers grazing your skin as if testing a boundary neither of you had acknowledged but both knew existed. His voice, soft and intimate, had dipped to a lower register, words murmured close, his breath warm against your ear, sending a shiver through you that you couldn’t ignore.

The laughter, the shared drinks, the sway of your bodies in perfect rhythm, it all felt like a game you’d played a thousand times, only this time, the rules were different. Each step, each touch, blurred the line between friendship and something deeper, something uncharted.

And then, as if it were the only possible outcome, you crossed that line.

It wasn’t just a kiss or a fleeting moment of weakness; it was a quiet, reckless decision that led you into his bed, the unspoken tension finally breaking.

Later, in the stillness of his apartment, everything had shifted. The way he whispered your name in the dark, soft and vulnerable, filled with an emotion you’d spent months pretending wasn’t there, shattered any illusion that this was just a one-time mistake. It wasn’t casual; it wasn’t simple. It was the culmination of the months of stolen glances, lingering touches and hidden feelings that you could no longer deny.

Now, in the cold light of morning, you both knew: there was no going back, no way to tuck what had happened neatly back into the box of “what ifs.”

But you’d both agreed - silently, in that unspoken way you often communicated - that it couldn’t happen again. You were partners, first and foremost, and whatever had happened last night couldn’t be allowed to interfere with that. Yet sitting across from him now, the absence of your usual camaraderie felt like a physical ache, a reminder of everything that had shifted in the space of a few hours.

Your eyes flicked back to him, lingering longer than necessary on the bruise just visible under his jaw, a faint shadow that stood out against his otherwise immaculate appearance. You knew exactly how it got there, and the sight of it sent a rush of heat flooding your cheeks, your mind replaying the moment when you’d pressed your lips to his skin, lost in the haze of too many unspoken words and too many – but in reality just enough - drinks.

You hesitated, the silence between you thick with unspoken tension. Unable to take it any longer, you broke it with a quiet, pointed remark. “You missed a spot. Bottom left, under your jaw.” The words were soft, but they landed like a dart, sharp and deliberate. You watched as Hotch's eyes flickered with something you couldn't quite name, his expression hardening.

His hand automatically went to the spot, fingers brushing against the faint bruise. His gaze turned razor-sharp, locking onto you, and in that moment, everything you’d been avoiding was laid bare between you. It wasn’t just the hickey you were pointing out, it was the fact that you both knew last night had crossed into dangerous territory.

“You weren’t exactly subtle yourself,” he replied, his voice low, almost gruff, as he dropped his hand and straightened his posture. His jaw clenched, as though willing the conversation to end there, to move on as if nothing had changed. But the bruise remained, a visible reminder of how close you’d both come to losing control.

You glanced down at your desk, pretending to shuffle through papers you didn’t need, trying to distract yourself from the way your mind kept drifting back to the feel of his touch, the way his breath had hitched when you’d moved closer. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

You’d been so sure that if you ever gave in to the tension between you, the crush you’d nursed for the past month would diminish, that it would finally be out of your system, allowing you to go back to the easy camaraderie you valued so much. But instead, it had done the opposite. Your feelings hadn’t lessened, they’d deepened, complicating everything in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

You stole another glance at Hotch, but he was focused on his work, his face a mask of concentration that did little to hide the tightness in his shoulders, the way his pen tapped absently against the desk. You wondered if he was thinking about it, too - about how last night hadn’t felt like a mistake, but something far more significant.

Before you could linger on the tension any longer, a second realization tugged at your focus: the absence of Rossi. His desk, typically the source of chatter, knowing looks, and smug remarks - especially when it came to you two - was oddly quiet. You had been bracing yourself for his inevitable teasing, the sly comments you were certain would come after last night, but there was none of that.

The papers on his desk were neatly stacked, untouched, and his chair sat conspicuously empty, the usual hum of his presence missing from the room. It was unusual, and for the first time that morning, a small sense of relief crept in.

You exchanged a puzzled glance with Hotch, the shared silence between you breaking just enough to shift your focus away from the awkwardness of your own situation. It was rare for Rossi to be late, even rarer for him to miss a morning without so much as a heads-up. You both stared at his empty desk, the unease you’d felt all morning now tinged with a new kind of worry.

Hotch cleared his throat, his voice low but steady as he spoke. “Have you heard from him?”

You shook your head, the tension between you momentarily forgotten as concern took over. “No, nothing. And he usually -”

Before you could finish, the sharp buzz of Hotch's phone broke the silence, the sudden noise jolting both of you. He grabbed it quickly, his brow furrowing as he listened, the seconds stretching into minutes. With each passing moment, his expression darkened, the tension in his features deepening. The lines of his face tightened, hardening into a mask of unreadable intensity, his eyes distant as he absorbed whatever news was being delivered on the other end.

“What is it?” you asked, the uneasy feeling in your gut growing stronger.

Hotch hesitated for just a moment, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. Whatever he was about to say, you knew it wasn’t good.

Hotch’s eyes met yours, lingering for a moment longer than necessary, as if searching for some unspoken reassurance. He looked back down at his phone, the subtle tremble of his hands betraying his usually composed exterior. You had never seen Hotch look quite like this, caught between disbelief and a sense of duty, grappling with emotions he couldn’t quite show.

“It was Gideon,” Hotch began, his voice tight and strained. “Rossi has decided to retire. Effective immediately.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and for a second, you couldn’t quite grasp them. Your mind flashed back to the night before: Rossi belting out karaoke tunes with exaggerated flair, his face alight with mischief as he dragged the two of you into the chorus. He had been so full of life, so present. The idea that he had been planning this, that he was ready to leave everything behind, felt surreal.

“What?” you said, your voice breaking slightly. “He didn’t say anything last night. We were with him. He was - ” You trailed off, unable to reconcile the man who had been the life of the party with the one who had just walked away without a word.

Hotch nodded, his jaw clenched, his eyes darting to Rossi’s empty desk as if he still couldn’t quite believe it. “I know. Gideon said he didn’t want to make a fuss, didn’t want to say goodbye. But… it’s done. He’s gone.”

The finality of it hit you like a punch to the chest. Rossi was more than just a colleague; he was a mentor, a friend, the glue that held the team together when the cases got too dark. You glanced over at his desk, neatly organized, as if he’d planned his departure meticulously. It felt like a betrayal, not because he left, but because he hadn’t trusted any of you enough to tell you. You had thought you knew him, thought you could see through his bravado, but now you were left with the unsettling realization that maybe none of you had really seen the signs.

You tried to piece together the clues from the night before, replaying every interaction, every smile. Had there been a moment when Rossi seemed distant, a flicker of something behind his eyes that you missed? You remembered his laugh, loud and genuine, the way he had raised his glass to toast to more adventures, the way he winked at you and Hotch like he was in on some private joke. It hadn’t seemed like the last night of anything.

Hotch’s voice pulled you from your spiraling thoughts. “There’s more,” he said, his tone filled with a heaviness that made your heart drop. “We’ve got a new case.”

The words were like a slap, jarring you back into the present. There was no time to process Rossi’s departure, no moment to grieve the sudden loss of his presence. Your stomach tightened as you tried to keep up with the shift in focus.

“A new case?” you echoed, still disoriented. “But… who’s going to lead? Hotch, who…?”

Hotch looked at you, his expression resolute yet laced with a flicker of doubt that you’d never seen in him before. His next words were soft but firm, tinged with a reluctant acceptance of the reality before him.

“I am,” he said, the weight of the admission settling between you like a heavy stone.

You stared at him, absorbing the significance of his words. Hotch had always been driven, tirelessly dedicated to the job in a way that made him seem almost invincible. Every late night spent poring over case files, every sacrifice he made in his personal life was a testament to his commitment to this role.

You knew that leading the BAU was something he had worked toward for years. But seeing him now, his face shadowed with the weight of his new responsibilities, it was clear this wasn’t the triumphant moment he’d dreamed of.

“Hotch…” you began, but the words faltered. You wanted to tell him that he deserved this, that you trusted him more than anyone to lead the team, but you could see how deeply he was struggling with the suddenness of it all. There was no joy in this victory, no time to celebrate a promotion. It was just an abrupt shift in power, thrust upon him without warning, in the wake of a friend’s quiet betrayal.

Hotch straightened his posture, the flicker of vulnerability quickly replaced by the stoic resolve you were used to seeing. He opened the case file on his desk, his movements precise and deliberate, as if falling back into the familiarity of work could steady him. “We’re heading to Boston. Detective Tom Shaunessy requested our help,” he explained, flipping through the pages. “He’s been chasing this killer for a while, but it’s gotten out of hand. He wants us to take over.”

You nodded, the gravity of the situation slowly taking precedence over the turmoil in your heart. Hotch read the details aloud, his voice firm, but you could hear the undercurrent of determination driving every word. “We’re looking at a series of brutal murders dating back to 1995. Nineteen victims so far. No clear victimology. He kills men and women of all ages, no specific type. He’s erratic. The press has named him ‘The Reaper.’”

You listened closely, your mind already working to piece together the profile. The randomness of the victims was unsettling: no patterns, no predictability. It was the hallmark of an omnivore, a killer who could strike anyone, anywhere.

But it was the signature that caught your attention: The Eye of Providence. You knew it was more than just a calling card; it was a message, a symbol that carried layers of meaning about control, power, and perception. You could feel the challenge of the case already pulling you in, your philosophical background itching to untangle the complexities behind the Reaper’s twisted mind.

Hotch turned to you, his expression softening slightly as he acknowledged your expertise. “I need you on this,” he said, the intensity in his eyes making it clear how much he was counting on you. “Your insight, your understanding of symbolism, it’s going to be crucial. The Reaper doesn’t just want to kill, he wants to send a message, and I need you to help us understand what that is.”

You nodded, swallowing the knot of emotions still lodged in your throat. “Of course. I’m with you, Hotch. All the way.”

Hotch’s shoulders eased slightly, the faintest trace of relief crossing his features. He gave you a small, appreciative nod, and for a moment, the heavy tension between you lightened just enough for you to feel that familiar connection, the unspoken bond that had always made you such effective partners.

But then the weight returned, heavier now that you were both staring down the reality of this new chapter without Rossi. Hotch turned his attention back to the task of assembling the team, calling on Gideon, who looked as shaken by Rossi’s departure as you felt, and Peter, who was eager but visibly unnerved. Everyone was trying to process the absence of Rossi, and it left the team feeling unbalanced, vulnerable in ways that none of you were used to.

As Hotch briefed the group, you couldn’t help but steal glances at him, watching the way he stood at the head of the table with a mix of determination and quiet fear. This was his moment, his chance to prove himself, but it came at a cost none of you had anticipated. The room felt different without Rossi’s larger-than-life presence, the silence of his empty chair serving as a constant reminder of how quickly everything had changed.

Hotch addressed the team, his voice strong, commanding, but there was an underlying edge to it, a strain that hinted at the pressure he was under. You could see it in the way his fingers tightened around the file, the way his eyes flicked briefly to Rossi’s desk before he refocused. He was trying to hold everything together, to be the leader the team needed him to be, even as the loss of Rossi lingered like a phantom in the room.

You looked around at your colleagues: Gideon, who was visibly struggling without his long-time partner; Peter, who had been left stunned by the news; and Hotch, standing at the helm, carrying the weight of leadership on his shoulders. It was a team in transition, a group of people trying to find their footing in the wake of unexpected change.

As you gathered your things to head out on the case, Hotch pulled you aside, his expression serious but softened by an unspoken concern. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” he asked, his voice low and tinged with the hint of last night’s lingering awkwardness. “After everything… after what happened between us, I just need to know you’re okay.”

You looked up at him, feeling the familiar pull of your emotions, the ones you had been trying to suppress since that morning. “I’m okay, Hotch,” you reassured him, your voice steady even though your heart was anything but. “We got a job to do, and I’m with you.”

He nodded, relief flickering across his face, and you could see the gratitude in his eyes, mingling with all the unspoken things neither of you were ready to say. He placed a hand on your shoulder, a brief but reassuring touch that sent a jolt through you, a reminder of the connection you shared, of the trust that bound you together even when everything else felt uncertain.

Hotch’s voice softened as he looked at you, his eyes holding a mix of gratitude and determination. “And I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know how this is going to go, but I know that with you on the team, we’ve got a shot.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle into your chest. It was more than just professional respect, it was trust, a mutual reliance that had been built over countless cases and long nights spent dissecting the darkest parts of human nature. But now, with Rossi gone and Hotch unexpectedly thrust into the role of lead profiler, that bond felt even more vital, more fragile.

As you turned to head out, the tension between you and Hotch still hummed beneath the surface, unspoken but palpable. Every stolen glance, every touch lingered longer than it should have, and it was impossible to ignore how last night’s encounter had shifted something between you. The professionalism you were both desperately clinging to felt like a thin veil, barely concealing the emotions roiling beneath.

The ride to the crime scene was quiet, the usual banter replaced by a heavy silence. Hotch sat beside you in the SUV, his gaze fixed out the window, lost in thought.

You could sense the storm brewing inside him: the pressure to perform, the weight of filling Rossi’s shoes, and the lingering awkwardness from the night you’d spent together. Every so often, he’d steal a glance at you, as if seeking reassurance, and each time your eyes met, there was an unspoken acknowledgment of yet another new, uncharted territory you found yourselves in.

You reached the scene, a stark contrast to the quiet of the drive. Detective Tom Shaunessy greeted you, his face lined with fatigue and frustration. He was an old-school cop, worn down by the relentless chase of a killer who always seemed to be one step ahead. Shaunessy’s voice was gravelly as he filled you in, his tone edged with a mix of desperation and begrudging respect for the BAU’s expertise.

“We’ve been after this bastard for years,” Shaunessy said, his gaze shifting between you and Hotch. “The Reaper’s not like the others. He doesn’t have a type. He doesn’t play by any rules we can figure out. He’s just… hunting. For sport, for fun…I don’t even know anymore.”

Hotch nodded, listening intently, his face betraying none of the emotions roiling inside. He was back in his element now, the weight of leadership pushing him into action. But you knew him well enough to see the subtle tension in his posture, the flicker of self-doubt that lurked just beneath his composed exterior.

As you arrived at the police station, the atmosphere was thick with tension, every officer’s expression tinged with frustration and exhaustion. The walls were lined with photos of the Reaper’s victims: men, women, and children of all ages, each face a reminder of the indiscriminate nature of this killer. The room felt heavy, filled with the unspoken dread of a case that had plagued the Boston PD for years without any hope of resolution.

You stood shoulder to shoulder with Hotch, examining the board filled with crime scene photos, articles, and evidence. His proximity was comforting, but today it felt charged, every brush of his sleeve against yours sending sparks that you tried to ignore. Hotch’s focus was laser-sharp, but you could sense the weight of Rossi’s absence pressing on him, every decision carrying the burden of his new role.

Hotch’s voice cut through the quiet, steady and analytical. “We’re not dealing with your typical killer. He doesn’t have a clear type, he doesn’t fit into any neat boxes. The Reaper’s victims range from teenagers to the elderly. Men, women, different ethnicities, there’s no commonality except for one thing: his need to dominate. He’s not just killing; he’s proving that he’s in control.”

Gideon, who was pacing the room with his hands clasped behind his back, nodded, though his usually confident demeanor seemed muted. Without Rossi beside him, he seemed adrift, his eyes darting restlessly as if searching for the right words. “He’s a narcissist. It’s not about the kill, it’s about the power he gets from it. Every murder is a performance, a way to manipulate the narrative and assert his superiority.”

You took a step closer to the evidence board, staring at the dark, foreboding symbol of the Eye of Providence that had been carved into every crime scene, its triangular shape and watchful eye casting a shadow over the investigation. The weight of its meaning settled in your mind, and you could feel Hotch’s gaze fixed on you, waiting. He knew the significance of your insights, the philosophical perspective that often unlocked pieces of the puzzle others might overlook.

“The Eye of Providence,” you began, your voice steady but tinged with unease, “is more than just a symbol. It represents an omniscient force, an all-seeing presence that’s often tied to themes of divine judgment, control, and authority. To most, it’s a symbol of God’s watchful eye over humanity, but to the Reaper…” You paused, searching for the right words as the team’s eyes turned to you, each face a mix of focus and anticipation.

Hotch’s brow furrowed slightly, and he leaned forward, his intense gaze never wavering. “What does it mean to him?” he prompted, his voice low, urging you to continue.

“To the Reaper,” you said, meeting Hotch’s eyes briefly before returning your focus to the symbol, “it’s more than a calling card, it’s his way of asserting power. He’s saying, ‘I see you. I am above you.’ This isn’t just a game for him; it’s a declaration of superiority. He’s setting himself up as judge and executioner, and that symbol is his throne.”

Peter, standing to the side, crossed his arms, his jaw clenched as he considered your words. “So he’s just some narcissist who thinks he’s God?” he asked, but there was an edge to his tone, a mix of frustration and anger directed at the man they were hunting.

“Not just narcissism,” you replied, shaking your head. “It’s deeper than that. Michel Foucault, a French philosopher, explored the concept of constant surveillance as a form of control. He talked about the panopticon: a design for a prison where the mere possibility of being watched was enough to alter behavior. The Reaper uses this symbol not just to leave a mark, but to instill fear and submission. He’s telling everyone that he is always watching, even when we don’t see him. He’s creating his own psychological prison.”

Hotch nodded, the lines on his face deepening as he absorbed your insight. “He’s weaponizing the idea of being watched,” he said, almost to himself, his mind clearly turning over the implications. “He’s not just taunting us. He’s controlling us, making us feel his presence every time we look at this symbol.”

Gideon, who had been listening quietly, stepped closer, with a feeling of grim understanding. “It’s a power play,” he added, his voice thoughtful. “But it’s also personal. He’s not just some detached observer; he’s putting himself in the role of a god, and he’s making sure everyone knows it.”

You glanced at Gideon, then back at the board, the discussion pulling at the threads of deeper meanings. “Philosophers like Nietzsche warned about individuals who saw themselves as beyond conventional morality. What he called the Übermensch, a figure who creates his own values, sets his own rules, and places himself above the rest of humanity. The Reaper is doing just that. By using this symbol, he’s telling us that he’s not just playing by his own rules; he’s making them. He believes he answers to no higher authority, because in his mind, he is the highest authority.”

Peter stepped forward, his arms wrapped around himself, a contemplative look in her eyes. “It’s like St. Augustine’s idea of divine providence,” he said, catching your attention, recalling your mother’s Italian literature lessons at University. “Augustine talked about God’s omniscience being active - guiding, shaping, and controlling human destiny. The Reaper isn’t just watching; he’s actively shaping the fate of his victims. He’s not passive. He’s taking on the role of the one who decides who lives and dies.”

Hotch’s expression tightened, his eyes dark and focused. “So every time he leaves that symbol, he’s reinforcing his belief that he’s untouchable,” he said, his voice filled with determination. “That he’s the one in control of this game.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of it all settle over the team. “Exactly. This isn’t just a message; it’s a declaration of dominion. He’s trying to tell us that he holds all the power, that in his mind, he’s not just a participant in this twisted game. He’s the god who sees all, who judges all, and who decides the final outcome. And until we break that illusion, he’s going to keep playing with us like we’re his puppets.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the reality of your words sinking in. Hotch turned back to the board, his jaw set in determination. The game wasn’t just about catching a killer anymore; it was about dismantling the delusion that the Reaper had constructed around himself. And until they did, he would continue to watch, and act, from above.

Gideon, who had been silently studying the photos, broke his silence. “He’s not following any set rules. He’s an omnivore. Most serial killers have a type, a preference, but the Reaper’s all over the place. It’s like he’s trying to prove that he’s untouchable, that he can kill whoever he wants, whenever he wants.”

Hotch’s jaw tightened, the strain of the case visible in the lines of his face. He leaned closer to the board, his eyes tracing the patterns in the killings, his mind working overtime. “He’s escalating. He’s testing us, seeing how far he can push before we catch up. And the victims... the younger women, he focuses on them with his knife. It’s personal. The knife becomes a substitute for penetration, a way for him to assert even more dominance.”

Gideon’s gaze flickered to Hotch, his voice quieter than usual, filled with a sense of urgency. “We need to be careful. He’s already evolving, and if we don’t get ahead of him, he’ll keep pushing boundaries. He thrives on chaos, and the more unpredictable he is, the more control he feels.”

Before you could add your thoughts, the door swung open, and Detective Shaunessy strode in, his face pale and lined with exhaustion. The stress of years chasing an invisible predator showed in every step he took, every furrow in his brow. “We’ve got another one,” he said, his voice tinged with a mixture of anger and defeat. “But this time, there’s a survivor.”

The room fell into a stunned silence, each of you processing the rarity of that statement. Hotch’s head snapped up, his expression a mix of hope and determination. Survivors were almost unheard of in cases like this, they could be the key to unraveling the Reaper’s patterns, to finally understanding the mind of the man behind the mask. “Who is it?” Hotch asked, his voice laced with urgency.

Shaunessy handed over a thin file, his hands trembling slightly. “George Foyet. Twenty-eight years old. He was found in his car, severely injured but alive. His date, Amanda Bertrand... she didn’t make it. The Reaper got to them both, but somehow, Foyet survived.”

Hotch’s face hardened as he skimmed the report, his grip on the file tightening with every line. Foyet had been stabbed repeatedly but had miraculously pulled through. Amanda, just nineteen, had been left to bleed out beside him. And once again, the Reaper had marked his territory with the Eye of Providence, drawn in blood on the car window.

Gideon glanced over Hotch’s shoulder at the file, his eyes darkening with a mixture of anger and resolve. “He’s getting bolder. He’s not even trying to hide anymore. Leaving a survivor wasn’t a mistake, it was deliberate. He’s taunting us.”

Hotch nodded, his focus razor-sharp. “We need to talk to Foyet. He might have seen something, heard something, that can give us insight into the Reaper’s methods. We can’t afford to let this slip through our fingers.”

But before you could move, Shaunessy’s voice cut through the room, filled with an unexpected bitterness. “It doesn’t matter what he saw. We’re shutting this down.”

You blinked, stunned by the sudden shift in Shaunessy’s tone. “Shutting it down? We’re finally getting somewhere -”

Shaunessy rubbed his temples, his expression strained. “The DA wants to cut our losses. The city’s in a panic, the mayor’s breathing down our necks, and they think we’re chasing shadows. They’re calling it. You’ve got to pack it up.”

Hotch’s composure wavered, frustration seeping through his usually calm demeanor. “This isn’t the time to back down. We’re close. We’ve got a survivor, a lead-”

Shaunessy’s voice was flat, weary. “I’m sorry, Agent Hotchner. Orders came from the top. We’re done here.”

The team was left standing in the silence of the conference room, the sting of defeat heavy in the air. It wasn’t just a case ending, it was a door slamming shut on the first major challenge Hotch faced as the new lead profiler. He stood there, file still in hand, shoulders tense, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. This wasn’t just about the Reaper; it was about his leadership, the responsibility of carrying the team forward without Rossi.

Back at Quantico, the bullpen felt heavier than usual, the usual hum of voices and movement replaced by a somber, almost stifling silence. Hotch sat at his desk, his eyes fixed on the scattered files in front of him, each one a stark reminder of how close they had been, and how far they still were. The frustration and guilt hung over him like a cloud, every document, every photo another jab at what they hadn’t been able to finish.

From your own desk, you watched him, feeling the pull to reach out. It wasn’t just about the failed case; it was the unspoken weight of everything that had happened between you in the past twenty-four hours. Summoning your courage, you stood and walked over, perching on the edge of his desk as you searched for the right words.

“It’s not your fault,” you said softly, breaking the silence between you. “We did everything we could. The Reaper’s been playing this game for years, and we were closing in. You did a great job, Hotch.”

Hotch looked up, his eyes meeting yours. In that brief moment, you saw the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide. “But it wasn’t enough,” he said, his voice raw and edged with frustration. “Rossi would’ve handled this differently. He always found a way.”

You leaned in closer, offering him a reassuring smile. “Rossi left because he trusted you to lead, Hotch. He knew you’d step up, and you have. And if he were here, he’d remind you of the same thing: it’s not over. The Reaper’s still out there, and we’re going to find him.”

But as you worked in companionable silence, Hotch’s demeanor shifted. You noticed his brow furrow, a telltale sign that something was bothering him. His eyes flicked over the crime scene photos again, more intently this time, as though searching for a hidden detail.

“There’s something off about this case,” Hotch murmured, his voice low, almost as if he was speaking to himself. “Something we haven’t seen yet.”

You paused, glancing at him, your curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?”

Hotch picked up one of the photos: the Eye of Providence scrawled in blood on the window of George Foyet’s car. His thumb brushed over the image, his expression darkening. “It’s not just about control. The symbol, the randomness… it’s all too calculated. We’ve been looking at this like it’s all part of his MO, but what if it’s more than that? What if there’s a pattern we’re not seeing?”

You leaned closer, your focus sharpening as you tried to connect the dots he was hinting at. “You think he’s using the randomness to hide something? Like there’s a method in the chaos?”

Hotch nodded slowly, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of frustration and determination. “Yes. It’s like he’s hiding in plain sight. We need to go back through everything: the timelines, the locations, the victim profiles. We’re missing something, and I have a feeling it’s right in front of us.”

The urgency in his voice sent a chill through you. It wasn’t just a hunch, it was the kind of instinct that had saved lives before, and you knew better than to ignore it. You picked up the nearest file, flipping through it with renewed purpose, your mind racing alongside Hotch’s.

“We’ll figure it out,” you said firmly, meeting his determined gaze. “Whatever he’s hiding, we’ll find it.”

Hotch looked down, a faint, weary smile tugging at his lips. The exhaustion in his eyes was still there, but your words had sparked something, a glimmer of renewed resolve. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For being here. For… everything.”

The weight of his gratitude hung between you, thick with unspoken emotions that neither of you seemed ready to address. You could sense the frustration gnawing at both of you, knowing the Boston PD had shut you out of the case just as things were beginning to make sense. But you knew better than to let the burden fall entirely on him. So, without hesitation, you reached over and grabbed half of the paperwork from his desk, pulling it toward you.

“Hey,” Hotch protested, his voice tinged with both surprise and amusement.

“Don’t even start,” you interrupted, flashing a playful grin. “They made you lead profiler and then doubled your paperwork load without so much as a warning. Seems a little unfair, don’t you think?”

“You don’t have to,” Hotch said, shaking his head slightly, though the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease a bit.

“I want to,” you insisted, picking up your pen, the one Hotch had given you a few days ago, engraved with a small ‘200’. You held it up with a smirk. “Besides, this pen is way better than the garbage I used to use. I could file reports all day with this thing.”

Hotch chuckled, a sound so rare it almost felt out of place in the tense atmosphere. “I’m still the one required to do them. You’re just trying to get out of your own work.”

You glanced up at him with a mock-innocent expression. “You’re welcome to report me to Gideon if you want. You could even throw in how highly unprofessional we were last night.”

Hotch’s smile faltered, his eyes flickering with that mix of embarrassment and amusement you’d grown to appreciate. “Let’s not touch on that,” he muttered, his voice low but carrying a dry, wry edge.

“Oh, I agree,” you teased, keeping your tone light despite the undeniable tension that lingered between you. “Highly unprofessional. I mean, drinks, dancing, and then… well, you know. I think HR might have a field day.”

Hotch shook his head, glancing back at the paperwork, but the tension between you was briefly replaced by a shared, private joke. “Yeah, let’s keep last night out of the official report.”

You both laughed, the sound cutting through the heavy silence. For a fleeting moment, the weight of everything - Rossi’s departure, the case, the uncertain lines you’d crossed - lifted, even if just a little. But the chemistry between you lingered, unshakable, no matter how hard either of you tried to focus on work.

You tossed your pen down for a moment, giving Hotch a pointed look. “Honestly, I think we’ve moved well past ‘highly unprofessional.’ I mean, dancing that close? I’m pretty sure we crossed some boundaries that even the handbook doesn’t cover.”

Hotch gave you a mock-serious look, the smile tugging at his lips betraying him. “They’ll probably have to write a whole new chapter for us. Something like, ‘How Not to Conduct Yourself at an After-Hours Team Gathering.’”

You leaned in, raising an eyebrow. “Right? And then there’s the ‘Never, Under Any Circumstances, End Up in Your Coworker’s Bed’ subsection. That one’s definitely bolded and underlined for emphasis.”

Hotch rubbed his hand over his face, but you could see the grin threatening to break through. “You’re forgetting the appendix. The part that says, ‘Absolutely No Whispering Your Colleague’s Name in the Dark Like You’re in a Damn Romantic Drama.’”

You burst out laughing, and Hotch finally let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. You both knew how ridiculous it sounded, but there was something comforting in the banter, something that made the tension between you easier to bear.

“Honestly,” you leaned back, arms crossed, a teasing glint in your eyes, “at least we didn’t end up doing karaoke. Can you imagine the disaster if we’d ended up singing a duet on top of everything else?”

Hotch’s eyes widened in mock horror, raising a finger as if warning you. “No. Absolutely not. That’s where we’d draw the line. The second someone suggests karaoke, we’re leaving the bar.”

“Aw, come on, Hotch,” you teased. “I bet you’ve got some killer Sinatra vocals hiding in there somewhere. ‘Fly Me to the Moon,’ perhaps? I could see it.”

He chuckled, shaking his head with an amused sigh. “I’d rather chase the Reaper through the dark again than face that kind of embarrassment.”

“Too late,” you grinned, tapping the paperwork pile between you. “You already slow-danced with me in public to Celine Dion last night. The ship of embarrassment has definitely sailed.”

Hotch gave you a playful glare, leaning in just slightly. “I think I need to file a new report: ‘Behavioral Inconsistencies in BAU Members Post-Tequila.’”

“Oh, you mean me being the perfect model of professionalism at all times?” you shot back, unable to suppress your laugh.

“Sure,” Hotch deadpanned, though the smirk was still there. “Except for the dancing. And the… well, everything that followed.” He paused, his gaze holding yours for a moment longer than necessary, and you felt the tension ripple back between you. He chuckled softly, but his voice was more serious now. “Let’s not make ‘that’ a habit, okay?”

You winked, leaning back in your chair, your voice light but with just the slightest edge. “What’s ‘that’ exactly?!”

Hotch’s lips twitched at your response, a faint smile breaking through his otherwise serious expression. He leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing playfully. “You know what ‘that’ is,” he said, his tone low but teasing.

You laughed, folding your arms across your chest, challenging him with your gaze. “Oh, come on, Hotch. You’re going to have to be more specific. Dancing? Tequila? Or maybe it’s the part where we-”

He cut you off, raising a hand in mock surrender. “Okay, point taken.”

The moment stretched between you, a mixture of playful banter and something deeper lurking beneath. It was a balancing act you both seemed to be performing, skirting around the edges of the unspoken while pretending everything was back to normal. And yet, somehow, it felt like you were falling back into your rhythm, the natural back-and-forth that made you such strong partners on the job.

“Partners,” Hotch finally said, his voice steadying, as though reminding both of you what mattered most. “We’re partners first. Whatever else happened… that’s what needs to stay the priority.”

You nodded, feeling the seriousness return, but also the reassurance that this conversation, this acknowledgment, wasn’t meant to push you apart, it was to bring you back to where you belonged.

“Agreed. Partners first,” you echoed, softening the weight of your words with a smile.

The tension in the room seemed to ease, and Hotch’s expression reflected the same. His shoulders relaxed, and the silence between you shifted from awkward to comfortable again, like slipping into something familiar after a long day.

“So,” you continued, leaning forward and placing the paperwork back on his desk with a deliberate thud, “shall we tackle this mess, partner?”

Hotch nodded, that quiet, steady determination settling back into his features. “Let’s get to it.”

As you both dived into the files, it felt like old times, just the two of you, working side by side, falling into the familiar groove of sharing ideas, analyzing details, and teasing out the patterns that made sense of the chaos. The banter flowed easily now, with Hotch giving you subtle smiles every so often, and you returning them with your quick-witted remarks, each one a reminder of why you worked so well together.

Hours passed, the silence between you only broken by the occasional flip of a file or the tap of fingers on the desk. It felt like the old days again: before the case, before the night out, before things had gotten complicated. There was comfort in that, and you were grateful for it.

Finally, as the evening started to creep in, Hotch leaned back in his chair, stretching slightly. “You’ve still got some paperwork left,” he pointed out, glancing at the pile on your side of the desk.

You looked at the stack, then back at him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re one to talk. You’ve barely made a dent.”

Hotch’s smirk returned, that rare, dimpled smile that he only showed when he was truly at ease. “I’m the lead profiler. I delegate.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress your grin. “Uh-huh. Convenient.”

He pushed his chair back slightly, standing up and stretching more fully now. “Come on. We’ve done enough for today. Let’s get out of here.”

You stood too, collecting your things, feeling a sense of peace that you hadn’t expected. The tension between you had simmered down, replaced by something more solid, friendship, partnership, and that unspoken bond that you both knew was there, but didn’t need to be addressed right now.

As you walked out of the office together, side by side, Hotch glanced over at you, his expression softer than usual. “You know,” he started, his voice thoughtful, “I wouldn’t have gotten through this without you.”

You looked up at him, surprised by the honesty in his words. “Hotch-”

He cut you off with a small shake of his head. “I mean it. We’re a team. And I trust you. More than anyone.”

For a moment, the air between you shifted again, a quiet understanding passing between you both. There were no grand gestures, no dramatic confessions, just the acknowledgment of what had always been there, the trust, the bond, and maybe something more that didn’t need to be named.

You smiled, bumping your shoulder lightly against his. “Right back at you, partner.”

Dado's Corner pt.2: Is it okay if I say I am unwell? With this we mark the end of Act 1. I'm going to miss them so much, especially because in part 2 there will be the whole team as well, so we won't probably have as many solo moments between the two. They're so cute, help I'm obsessed. Also in Act 2 there will be Unit-Chief Aaron (aka grumpy Aaron, dad Aaron and much more). I will miss this light-hearted version of him so much - although this doesn't mean it will be lost forever. I've only written the 1st chapter of Act 2 so - if you have any suggestions - feel free to share them! Also - prepare yourself to cry for the interlude. Probably it will be the most bittersweet chapter so far. BYEEEEE

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

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