#when a certain other tag is literally right there

[cavillscurls]

you came? ⟡ you called.

no-outbreak!joel miller x f!reader (feat. miss sarah miller)

It still seems impossible to let you go, especially when life gets tough.

warnings/tags: no outbreak au. joel & reader dated when she was finishing college, and he is in his late 30s. sarah is six. angst. breakups. family drama. classism & the discussions of wealth. right person, wrong time. depictions of depression & anxiety. sarah is involved in a car accident (she is ok!). hospitals. fluff. girl!dad joel. heightened emotions. unresolved feelings. hurt/comfort. ambiguous but happy ending. <3 reader is physically nondescript, but contains an individualized backstory. not beta'd & only slightly proofread. wc: 3.3k

He missed the call.

His baby girl was in the hospital, and he missed the fucking call.

It’s difficult not to feed into guilt as he rushes through the haze-ridden streets across town, pelts of rainwater hitting his windshield. Curses are spewed under his breath, and he feels the burn in his sinuses and the tremble in his chin, how his throat feels thick with every nervous swallow.

It appears they lost some control with how slick the roads have been, is what they’d said when he called back.

The nurse's voice was even and lackluster in a way that Joel knows is irrational to be bothered with, but he’s unable to reason. He doesn’t understand how the rest of the world can keep spinning when his feels like it’s falling apart.

Both kids and Mrs. Watson are alright, but we are concerned your daughter may have sustained a bit of head trauma from bumping into the window, and we took her back for a CT scan to be on the safe side.

He doesn’t blame Margie Watson, even in this irrational state of mind. Sarah and her son have always gotten along well, and she has been kind enough for the last two years to carpool Sarah home with them three days a week when his outrageous work schedule wouldn’t allow the time. It could’ve happened to anyone, anywhere.

Still, he wonders why now? Why his little girl?

His hair is flattened with rainwater when he bursts into the emergency room lobby. He’s not even sure he turned off the truck engine, but that seems of little importance as he stumbles toward the front desk, frantic eyes darting every which way to get a sense of where she may have been taken.

He’s had to do this—the waiting and worrying a parent often does for their child whenever they are upset, or sick, or hurt—many times. And every time, he’s done it alone. It’s overwhelming and all-consuming, and he thinks, for a little while, he quite literally forgets how to breathe. Has to forcibly rise and contract his chest to gulp down the oxygen that keeps his body moving, if only to be certain his baby comes out better for it on the other side.

Sweat pools at his temples. His heart is beating so violently in his chest, he hardly registers the woman at the desk speaking.

“We’ve got you all checked in, Mr. Miller. We also want to inform you that we went ahead and called the second number listed under Sarah’s emergency contacts.”

This gets his attention. His brows scrunch together. “Second—?”

“Joel?”

Air rushes back into his lungs, and there is the momentary sensation of relief. The memories flood, ones that he often tries to repress to no avail.

He blinks once. Twice. He thinks he’s gone absolutely fucking mad.

But then you’re cautiously stepping towards him, the glint in your eyes nearly as frantic as his, arms somewhat outstretched as if you’re ready to take him by the shoulders. Ground him as you have so many times before. Steady him when that feeling creeps in—the one he’s disregarded for decades in hopes that it would magically disappear—and stop the ground from falling beneath his feet.

You were always the stable one. Enduring and confident. All his loyalty and handiness couldn’t make up for what you did to his mind.

You were the calm.

Despite how crazy he was for you, Joel had never fit into your life. At least, not into your family’s mold of what your life should be.

Sarah was only ten months old when you met. It’s funny, measuring the passage of time through the years of his daughter. But she entered the world as the center of his universe, and everything that came to them after was simply pulled in by her orbit.

He wasn’t in any place to be meeting people, let alone dating as a newly single father, coping with an abandoned relationship. But you were so damn smart. So sweet. Your meeting was happenstance, a mutual friend’s birthday party for which he somehow managed to get the time off and a sitter. You were finishing up your degree and planned to attend grad school in-state. A beautiful girl from a wealthy family whom he somehow managed to charm. And even more importantly, you managed to impress his daughter.

He knew after your fourth date, when he had worked up the courage to finally introduce you to her, that this would be no casual fling. And it wasn’t.

A month turned to six, six months to a year, and suddenly, you were interwoven into each other's every waking moment. Joel had forgotten about the stress and heartache of his previous involvement; it was easy to do so when what was right in front of him felt entirely stable, and good, and real.

For his thirty-fifth birthday, you threw him a surprise party. Normally, such a display would not be his forte. But it was a modest enough affair, only the closest of friends and family, all packed into his backyard with Tommy on the grill and Sarah passing out those pointy party-store birthday hats. You’d strung up some lights, ordered a cake from one of the nicest bakeries in town, and even managed to hire his favorite local band to play for the night.

He remembers the bright smile on your lips so vividly, the smooth way you reached for his shoulder and pressed up onto your toes to kiss his cheek and purr a happy birthday, handsome, in his ear.

He bought the ring the very next day.

And when you said yes, bright, teary eyes and the sweetest smile, he was so happy.

It wasn’t much. He got Tommy to take Sarah for the evening and cooked you a three-course meal. Set a nice cloth along the table, even lit some candles. Placed your favorite record on the turntable. And just before dessert, he asked you to dance. Something that was usually begrudging, like pulling teeth to get him to do it, and you sprang up with elation, letting him twirl you around the living room until he pulled you in close, breathed in the scent from your neck, and asked you to marry him.

He felt your body slow, heard the little gasp from your lips, and when you pulled back to look at him, he could tell you didn’t believe him. He reached into his back pocket for the square velvet box, and the rest was history.

He was so fucking happy.

Your parents, however, did not appear to share the same sentiments.

They had always been kind enough, especially when his daughter was involved. But they were a different kind of people than Joel’s parents were, a different kind of people than he was altogether—old money, an ancestral stake in their town. They expected excellence, and there was no denying the pride they had in your smarts, your ambitions. Their view of the world was limited, chained to glory over happiness.

“This all just seems a bit impulsive, doesn’t it?”

“She has so much ahead of her, you can’t possibly expect her to settle down here!”

“We just wouldn’t want this to hold her back.”

The stress of it all had taken a toll on both of you, and the spring before you left grad school, you called it off.

Last he heard, you had taken a job up in one of the Dakotas.

Seeing you now? It feels like a stab to his already churning gut.

“Hey,” he finally hears himself say, but his voice doesn’t sound like his.

“Hey… hi.”

You’re a little out of breath, eyebrows pulled taut on your forehead, and his heart aches at the sight. He’s seen you this way, loving, concerned, more times than he can count. He never thought he’d see it—especially not for him—ever again.

You lift your left hand to rub soothingly across your cheek.

He doesn’t see a ring.

“Thank you, um,” he starts again, feeling all sorts of discombobulated, “you-you didn’t have to—”

You shake your head.

“Of course I did.”

And he looks at you now. Really looks at you, and he feels like you can see right through him. He feels that tightness creep into his throat again, and before he knows it, you’re expelling a shaky sigh and surging towards him. His arms open immediately.

The press of your body is anchoring, and he’s grateful that he can bury his tear-welling eyes in the mask of your hair. He squeezes them tight, focusing on the way you hold him, and the euphoric rush of getting to hold you. He never thought he’d get the chance again.

“Did you see her?” he croaks into your neck.

He feels you nod. “Only briefly when they brought her in,” you explain, softer now, voice wavering just like his. “She was awake. She was okay. Just looked a little shaken up.”

This relieves him. It’s nearly the same information the nurses gave him, but hearing it from you feels different. Genuine, like he doesn’t have to second-guess whether or not it’s worse than they’re making it out to be.

“Didn’t know they still had your information,” he grumbles, shaking his head. He realizes he’s held on too long, just a moment past acceptable, and starts to loosen his arms. “I can ask them to change it—”

“No,” you interject, peering up at him now like he’s said something of great offense. But the sharpness hastily wilts away, and you worry your bottom lip with your teeth, carefully slithering your arms off of him and crossing them over your stomach. You take a single step back, and his chest aches. “I mean, I… I’m happy to stay on as long as you need me to.”

He could ask Tommy. Albeit most of the time, if Joel’s busy, so is he. He contemplates his other options, and not much comes to mind. Then, he considers that this may be your way of asking if there are any other options. The thought, while arguably a long shot, stirs him.

He considers his next words carefully.

“I’m… m’sure she’s glad it was you,” he murmurs, and the crease between your brows softens. “Considerin’ I was no fuckin’ help.”

The crease returns.

“Don’t,” you counter, shaking your head. He knows that look. Knows you mean business. “Don’t do that. You couldn’t have possibly expected this.”

He knows he can’t argue. He’s tried countless times. Instead, he sighs. Hangs his head, props his hands on his hips, and taps an antsy foot.

“What’re you—”

He has to bite his tongue. What’re you even doing here? He wants to ask, but he cowers from the harshness. Braces himself for the fear of even asking.

“I mean… you’re here,” he opts for. “Didn’t expect you to be here.”

He peers up at you through hooded eyes, chin still tilted in shame, and your arms loosen until they finally fall slack at your sides. He wonders how this feels for you, if it’s just as anxiety-inducing as it is for him.

“Yeah, I um. I moved back in October,” you explain, seeming to hesitate before: “My dad’s not doin’ too well.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and then, a deep-set frown. He knows he isn’t your father’s favorite. Hell, your father ain’t his favorite either, but it’s not the news he was hoping to hear.

“M’sorry to hear that,” he says earnestly, and you thank him softly, sniffling.

He has a million questions. He doesn’t think there’s enough time left in his life to ask them all. And he finds himself panicking a little, sifting through each and every one of them, trying to choose the right one.

Just as he thinks he’s landed on it, a nurse in blue scrubs is approaching in his peripheral.

“Mister and Misses Miller?” she chirps.

You both turn your heads, but Joel hears the quiet gasp of air you intake, and sees the way your mouth hangs open, on the precipice of rebuttal.

“Is she ready for us?” Joel asks, never giving you the chance. Never even bothering to correct her himself. There are small wins in this, like the way your eyes flutter over to him in silent inquisition—no ill-will, just curiosity.

The nurse smiles. “Yeah, y’all are welcome to come on back.”

She winds you both through the sterile halls until he sees a sign that reads PEDIATRICS. He’s so aware of your footstep behind him, following closely. He has the momentary urge to reach back, seek out your hand, and with it, your comfort. But he refrains. Squeezes that same hand into a fist, and scolds himself for how foolishly simple it is to fall back into old habits.

The nurse stops at door 241 and taps her knuckles lightly three times before opening the door and letting you both inside.

The familiar sound of Barbie: Swan Lake is on the television. He knows this because it plays through about four times a day in the living room. Although most of the time, it’s accompanied by the unsteady little girl in her tutu in front of the screen, replicating each sequence more and more precisely each day.

This time, he finds his little girl propped up in the bed pressed against the center of the wall. Her wide eyes dart from the screen to him at the sound of the door, and he sees them well with tears.

His heart breaks. Literally, he thinks it’s cracked in two.

“Daddy!” she calls, and it sounds like she’s exhaling some great burden. A relief. A precious smile and hands reaching toward him despite the pain he’s caused in making her wait.

He’s stalking towards her immediately, crouching down on sore knees beside the bed so she can wrap those outstretched arms around his neck. He puts his own around her tiny body, trying not to hug her too hard despite the unbearable need to have her close. Safe. Always safe with him.

“Hey, babygirl,” he mutters, trying to swallow back tears of his own. And she’s brave, so brave in the way her little body trembles, but she never lets them fall.

When she pulls back, he places a lingering kiss on her forehead.

“M’so sorry I wasn’t here,” he says, tilting his head at her sadly. Her lips turn into a pout, and she reaches her tiny hand to take his much bigger one, giving it a squeeze.

“It’s okay, Daddy.”

He shakes his head. “No, it ain't, baby.” He lifts that same hand up to kiss her knuckles, too. “Can you forgive me?”

Her dimpled smile returns, and Joel thinks maybe the cracks have started to heal. “Can we... get ice cream after this?”

Shared laughter echoes across the room, and the levity of her question lifts the final weight from his chest. Too damn smart for her own good.

“Bribin’ me now, huh?” he asks, tsking his tongue. “Yeah… yeah, I think we can make that happen.”

“Then I forgive you,” Sarah says triumphantly, reaching out to give her father another much-needed embrace. The amused nurse places a clipboard of release papers onto the tray table.

“The CT scan and X-Ray came back entirely normal, Mr. Miller. Safe to assume Sarah is just dealing with a mild concussion due to the impact. Dizziness, sensitivity to the light—” she gestures towards the dimmed switch. “You may notice some bruising or swelling around the forehead—ice is your friend until that goes down. Other than that, just continue to monitor over the next couple of weeks. Lots of rest, ease back into high-intensity activities, and give us a call if anything worsens.”

He nods carefully along with her instructions. “Yeah, of course. Thank you.” The nurse offers all three of you a smile before excusing herself, the door thudding behind her.

The guilt lessens now that she’s here, safe, within reach, staring at him with her big-brown eyes and toothy grin. He feels lightheaded, the adrenaline worn off, and the emotional whiplash of the hours events pumping rapidly through his veins.

“Oh, look!”

Luckily, it’s his Sarah who breaks the deafening silence. Over the sound of whirring machines and stale air, she squeals, reaching under the flimsy blanket. The pulse ox monitor on her tiny finger makes him frown, but what she reveals from hiding can’t help but soothe the soul.

“Look what they gave me, Daddy!”

A little white teddy bear, the kind with a tulle bow tie wrapped around its neck, and a permanent smile stitched across its snout. She squeezes it to her chest and smiles widely, and Joel is met with the endearing sight of her two missing front teeth. They had fallen out only days apart.

He leans in close, all serious like. She giggles.

“You gotta name for ‘em yet?” he asks.

She nods her pretty head of curls three times.

“Paddington.”

“Fantastic choice.”

She laughs again, hugs Paddington tight, and Joel tries to be grateful for a moment. Tries to acknowledge all the hurt and sickness happening in the building around him that somehow did not infiltrate this very room today. Instead, he has a beautiful baby girl with only a bump on her head.

Instead, he’s been reunited with someone just as beautiful. Someone he wonders if he’d ever see again had it not been for what transpired today. He glances your way, finding you leaning casually against the wall with your arms crossed and an enamored look in your eye. You straighten a little when you catch him looking, and he feels compelled to shower you in a gratitude he's not sure he knows how to convey. He owes you, for more reasons than just this.

As if she can read his mind, Sarah’s voice picks up, just above a whisper now:

“Daddy…. Honey’s here.”

He feels himself go red to the tips of his ears.

There’s another breath of shared laughter, endearment, and maybe a bit of awkwardness.

Honey.

Just something he used to call you. Something innocent and fond. Naturally, Sarah picked it up, and eventually, she started calling you it too.

He gives you an apologetic look, and the way you peer back—so fragile, so careful in the way you appraise him and his babygirl—makes his tongue feel heavy. Like that name, that title, still festers there. Like he could scream it at the top of his lungs if it meant one chance to use it again.

“I know she is, baby,” he answers instead, squeezing Sarah’s arm tenderly. “You’ll have to thank her for comin’ all this way to check on you.”

Her eyes dart towards you again, and whatever she finds has them slanting back Joel’s way so sweetly. The kind of look no good father is immune to.

“Can she come get ice cream with us, too?”

His instinct is to decline. Soften the blow with a clever excuse, and talk his way out of big questions that seem too difficult to explain to someone so small, the way he always has.

But the words never come. They die on his tongue that still holds memory. Every word he’s ever spoken, every piece of time remnant with you.

He can’t say it. He won’t.

He looks at you, instead. Your shoulders gone slightly rigid, and your brows piqued with subtle curiosity. Like you’re waiting to see where he takes this next. He swallows hard, swallows down the fear, the regret, and anxiety.

“She’s more than welcome to,” he says, and his daughter beams. “If she’d like.”

He sees the stale lights reflect off your eyes, brimming with tears. Notices the way your chin trembles, and how you press your lips together in a hard line, the way you always do when you want to be brave.

He sees a gleam of hope. Memories swaying between the space you all occupy, assuring him that they aren’t just figments of his imagination, but real, and raw, and true. That they live just as deeply in you.

Your lips part, and he holds his breath.

“I’d love to,” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear.

He exhales.

He sees a second chance.

And he has every intention of taking it.

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joel miller masterlist

[basedonconjecture]

shy nerdy illario? shy nerdy illario.

So I recently posted some rambling Illario Dellamorte thoughts in the tags of this post featuring his awkward little handwave at Cafe Pietra during the Coffee with the Crows quest about believing in a shy nerdy Illario.

The tags for context:

#illario dellamorte who are you when you aren’t performing #never lets anyone know what his real passions are so they can’t take them from him or use them against him #is even more awkward than lucanis

There were more but these are the ones that said thoughts mostly center on.

I don't think I'm really an outlier when it comes to recognizing that Illario very often operates in what feels like very scripted ways. He's built up a certain reputation, people expect him to be a specific way, and he plays into that. At the same time, there's an air of cynicism about him when he does. I look to that moment in The Wigmaker Job when he's introducing himself to the elf in the alienage as the "Lesser" Dellamorte and go back and forth on what's really happening. I've talked a little bit this before and how I think the joke, while painfully self-deprecating, only works as a joke there because it's understood on some level that Lucanis doesn't believe it to be true even if everyone else does. But it's a sort of viciously repeating cycle right? If he introduces himself in this manner to everyone he meets, if he defaults to the self-deprecative, silver-tongued charmer who spends hours on frivolous things like gloves, then this is the sum of who he becomes to people. He disarms them before they have a chance to form any other opinion, be potentially disappointed in, and/or criticize him (for anything that matters). He's told them what he wants them to believe about him, what they will inevitably come to believe anyway, and allows that to be the preeminent version of Illario Dellamorte that exists to the wider world. It is so strategic and so so damning on an interpersonal level.

What does any of this have to do with shy nerdy Illario I keep mentioning? One of the questions I ask above is: who is Illario Dellamorte when he's not performing? Without the cynicism attached to playing a role in which one is never quite certain whether one is liked for the performance or for the bits of truth in said performance, without the drive to external validation in pleasing other people, without the necessity of differentiating himself from his cousin or his grandmother, who does he then become? In TWJ, Lucanis mentions, in passing, that Illario doesn't have any friends and never leaves Treviso. This could be hyperbole, the ribbing between siblings, and not to be taken literally—or it could also be that, when not working a contract, Illario keeps to himself, maybe not so much a homebody as Lucanis, but not as much of a carouser as being a flirt and a supposed enjoyer of nightlife suggests. I tend to lean more toward the latter. When removed from the role of Master Dellamorte the Lesser™ I think Illario does fall closer to Lucanis on the scale of introversion/extroversion, his social agility being learned rather than inherent, and I think he has an unfortunate tendency to feel some control over people in the way he manipulates them. If he can figure out what they want, if he can make them like him even, they become more predictable. He doesn't get hurt. But do they ever really like him for him? Could they? I think he really very much struggles with that cynicism wrt to his personal relationships and pushing past it to make any genuine connections with people. I also imagine that he places his personal interests beneath layers and layers of apathy to, in a way, shield them from judgment. For someone very often criticized on multiple fronts, I can't imagine there's much appeal in being openly earnest and enthusiastic about anything. Ever. Everything—and everyone—is kept at a distance. If one is never taken seriously anyway, what is the point of trying? But if you spend so long burying the things you enjoy in life under apathy, you forget how to talk about them and how to engage with them honestly. I think there's a very real possibility that Illario has at least one interest or hobby that he's really very passionate and stupidly knowledgeable about that absolutely no one in his life is aware of because he won't let them be. (I personally think it probably falls somewhere in the arts, like music or painting or fashion, just based on the everything about him, but could you imagine if it's something tangential like chemistry?? Poisons and cosmetics, do you see my vision? I can't be the only one to have thought about this, right???). In a world where someone manages to break through the cynicism enough to learn this about him, I don't think he'd know how to talk about it, at least not without practice, and I think he would flounder, frankly. Importantly, this struggle would also occur when attempting to be genuine with people too—people who expect him to flatter and cajole and be a specific way—and I think he would fumble and say the wrong thing and put his foot in his mouth in the attempt to learn how to be vulnerable. Illario trying to reconcile how he used to approach relationships versus how he should and wants to approach relationships is something that, to me, can be quite crunchy in both the character growth sense and just calculating the amount of psychic damage he'd be able to take Being Perceived for realsies before imploding.

[shrinkthisviolet]

no literally like I do think she gravitates toward and responds better to female leadership (even though she told mohan she could take constructive criticism and immediately started arguing scvbnbcvnmgfchjjf) but it drives me crazy when people are like "oh she's just a MAN-HATER 😈 but it's okay because she was abused 😇 but she was suspicious of langdon because he's a MAN in power" as a way to gloss over the fact that his behavior was objectively inappropriate and she was doing the smart and responsible thing by paying attention to drug inconsistencies

(post + my tags for context)

YESSS exactly! There is definitely truth to the fact that she has an issue with male authority figures, but that has more to do with “well she and her best friend were assaulted by a trusted male adult and then her best friend killed herself, so yeah, obviously she’ll be wary of men in positions of power.” It’s not based on her visibly responding poorly to male leadership, but rather an understandable trauma response. And like...it doesn’t cause her to distrust any of the men on the show.

Because what we see is that she responds well to those who mentor her, regardless of what gender the mentor in question is. Mohan is blunt...after asking Trinity if it’s okay. Collins is firm but not unkind. So is Ellis. Abbott scolds her for doing the procedure by herself (and reminder to those who need it, she did try to find an attending first), but also praises her for good work done (this combo helps foster trust). Robby is crashing out with the David stuff on top of everything else, but he still takes the time to tell Santos she did the right thing. Garcia is the first person to be encouraging and treat her as an important asset to the team (she and Santos fight later, but Santos still trusts her because Garcia encouraged her first). Santos responds positively to all of these...because she is not being scolded (a little, yes, but not just that). She is being mentored, she is being guided.

The only person she really has an issue with is Langdon. And...this needs some nuance. It’s not because he’s a male authority figure per se. It’s because he’s a male authority figure who seems to have it out for her and is not shy about showing it. He yells at her, puts her down when she tries to bring up concerns, pulls rank frequently, etc. He thus comes across to her as that kind of male authority figure: the kind she needs to be wary of, careful around, because who knows what he’s capable of.

(Ofc on Langdon’s end, he clearly sees so much of himself in her (which is especially clear when he complains about her to Robby to discredit her) that it’s causing him to be harsher on her than the others, which just reinforces Santos’s perceptions of him...and so the vicious cycle continues).

Look at how quickly she takes the blame for Mohan, knowing how pissed Langdon is and wanting to protect her. Look at how instinctual that is. Santos has done this before, with someone she loves (maybe her best friend at some point, maybe her siblings if the show does indeed let her have younger siblings) in the face of a powerful adult who wants to hurt them. Take the pain, be the shield, do not let the person behind you be hurt. Emotionally (which is the case here), physically, it doesn't matter—the pain is hers to bear (especially after she failed to protect her best friend from it. Hey, for all we know, maybe her best friend was this for her too).

And YESSS she didn’t report Langdon because he was a man with power over her. She reported him because there were multiple drug discrepancies that he brushed off, and she found it suspicious and investigated and reported it. Which, as Robby said, is what you’re supposed to do! See Something, Say Something is a very common refrain in hospitals. Especially when Langdon was not only stealing drugs, but also diluting certain medications and not telling anyone, putting patients in serious danger!

(Given that the drugs he was taking were benzos, he likely wasn’t high on-shift (benzos are depressants), but...the theft and dilution are pretty bad in and of themselves)

The takeaway is clear: Santos is likely wary of men in power initially, but she doesn’t necessarily have a problem with them unless they reinforce her fears of possible harm. Langdon does. Robby and Abbott do not.

[heirofseaandfire]

manifesting i am my own muse for the magic 8 ball song because it is the funniest option. to me.

[pardonmydelays]

all jokes aside, our show is in sixteen days and i've never been more anxious about anything in my entire life

[lupucs]

Gosh I love your art!

But uh whats your favorite deltarune ships?

Thank you so much!! Oh gosh, you really caught me off guard with this one hah!

Well, uh I think it should be pretty obvious which ships I like by now...

It's clearly-

It-

It's obviously...

THOSE GUYS!

[icewindandboringhorror]

Apparently I can meet my goal of roughly 400,000 words in 6 months if I just somehow write at least 2,200 words a day ghbjh... Almost 2,500 today... huzzah...

[mourn-and-watch]

unconditional devotion is fun and all but i love when you have to work on your relationships with characters in rpgs. it's so much fun when they openly question mc's decisions if they are not aligned with their morals. when they object and start an argument and must be convinced to do something. when they don't join mc in the final fight if you don't trust each other enough.

the payoff hits so much harder this way. if you're a dick to them they will not put you above their principles and stances because why would they? but if you helped them if you proved yourself to be trustworthy if you were good to them they will stand beside you even if they're conflicted and have to sacrifice something for that. and it's so cathartic when you know they could leave but at the end of the day they didn't! because them and your character are besties! friendship and love are hard to earn but you did it and now it helped you win!

[seaofreverie]

How it feels to tag the official account in my fanart post on insta and then they don't share it in their stories

[secret--history]

the whole 'there are not very many Great Causes worth fighting for these days' from Julian scanned as WAY more out of touch than the moon landing thing for me the first time i read tsh

[shield-and-saber]

yeah, so i just finished cataclysm

[firebirdsdaughter]

I respect your right…

… To interpret this honestly incredibly vague character writing/story telling in this way. I respect it.

You're wrong, but I respect it.

[koalemoslepus]

//Warning I have a tendency to accidentally hide my true vents in the tags by total accident

-----

I just saw an AI bot meant to give you the AI prompts to write AI image generations like at what point do we literally just get to revoke brain if you're not going to do it like literally we don't need you to copy and paste the machines could do that quite easily with a script and frankly I vote we pay them instead of you because shit maybe we could get some deflation in here if the money starts disappearing and it's not like you're fucking doing a damn thing for it also in my like in my warped verision of reality I cling to maybe?? If we let everyone go down this rabbit hole of the tech we have at present being sentient we could somehow crackpot loop our way back around them being regulated more than a worker maybe we'd help curb the cash incentives cause I know they'd get more protections / freedoms than a woman would in my lifetime FUCK anyway

[radio-4-is-static]

WONDER BOY'S AKUMU CLUB - Yojiro Noda

[fairyysoup]

easy living

pairing: eric (a quiet place: day one) x fem!reader

summary: You ran into Eric on accident. Now you're facing the end of the world together. How do you get to know someone when you can't make a sound?

tags: smut, oral (f receiving), dry humping, piv sex, silent fucking, angst, hurt/comfort, survival, discussions of trauma, slight suicidal ideation by reader, words of affirmation as a love language, stay silent or die (obviously), strangers to lovers, apocalyptic, the cheesiest ending bc it's me writing, billie holiday lyrics bc it's also me writing

a/n: here it is, the silent fucking fic i promised y'all a year ago when this movie was announced. it was supposed to be like 1-2k words of plain smut but then I got too into the theory of what one does when you can't show affection through words and I genuinely discovered a tidbit of trauma I didn't know I had while writing it so I will be talking to a therapist about it, and also I'm literally out here baring my soul lol.

i also want to thank @bigtiddythanos @raraeavesmoriendi and @maximoffwxnda for supporting me throughout this writing process <3 this fic literally would not have been finished or published without y'all

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

The rain has ended. Morose, you stare up at the ceiling, wondering when you’ll get something close to free reign with your voice again. 

Of course the world had to end while you were at fucking Whole Foods.

You’ll miss certain things. Things you always took for granted, that you never even considered made a lot of noise until now. Typing on the computer. Making stir fry. Microwaving a burrito at 3am. Lighting a match, washing your face. Taking a shower.

And other things, too, that are more obvious, like singing while making cookies. Slurping the bottom of a milkshake. You’ll never be able to have a pet bird. You’ll never be able to see another concert again, and damn it if you didn’t really want those Glastonbury tickets a month ago. But it all just seems trivial, now. You don’t see why you shouldn’t just lay here on the couch forever. 

On the other side of the coffee table there’s a gentle shuffling. Eric rouses as quietly as he can; at the very least, your apartment creates a hospitable enough environment that he isn’t startled awake. It’s so silent in the apartment that you can hear the slight shift in his intake of breath, the rustle of the pillow as he turns his head to look at you. 

You want to look at him, but you fear that you’ll end up wanting to talk. So, you say nothing. You do nothing. You stare at the white paint on the ceiling and you wonder whether it would be better to get on one of the boats headed out into the water, or to move inland, away from people, away from sound. There has to be somewhere far enough away from the city that the… creatures won’t go, right?

Eric waves his hand in your periphery, so that you have no choice but to acknowledge that you know he’s awake. You have no choice but to turn your head and look into the depths of his eyes, and feel all the pain of the last 48 hours return to you. You’d been able to talk last night, just enough, in time with the rain and the thunder– enough to learn that he has family across the world. 

You can’t imagine knowing that somewhere, across an ocean and half a world away, your parents may or may not be dead. No way to contact them, no way to know what’s become of them. You can’t even begin to fathom the fear that he’s feeling, as much as you’re despairing. 

Eric’s big eyes tell you everything. Sadness and fear, and trying to grasp at the smallest hint of normalcy he can get. He blinks at you, and mouths, You okay?

No, you’re definitely not okay. Things are not okay. Things are broken and can’t be fixed. Things will never be the same again. He knows that, as much as you know that. But you nod anyway, even though you feel your heart beat a little bit slower than usual, like it wants to just go ahead and give up already. Tears prick at your eyes, and you have to close them before you let on that you’re lying.

Eric knows you’re lying, of course. How could anyone be okay, in this kind of situation? But he waits until you open your eyes, and then he mouths, Coffee?

You let out a small sigh of relief, and a smile that’s indescribably warm crosses your face. Even though he can’t make a sound, he knows exactly what to say.

You don’t have a coffee maker that doesn’t also make a ton of noise. But through some kind of witchcraft, Eric quietly empties two k-cups into a glass measuring cup and boils a soup pot full of water on the stove, and suddenly you have hot coffee in front of you. 

On a notepad left on the counter, you write, Wish I had some tea for you. 

Eric’s lips turn up at the edges, and he takes the pen from you. You’re able to doctor your coffee for about one second before he slides the notepad back to you.

Bloody American.

Your ensuing huff of a laugh is enough to make him turn pink around the ears, and he turns to place the dirty measuring cup into the sink. He reaches for the faucet, but then thinks better of it. You’ll have to figure out how to wash the dishes later.

You both drink your coffee in silence on the couch. You never considered yourself uncomfortable with silence; you’ve lived alone, you’ve gone for weeks without uttering a word before. But it’s so difficult to be sitting next to someone– someone you feel you could really get to like– and not be able to say a word. To make a sound, laugh or cry or snort or grunt. 

You’ll never be able to know what Eric’s laugh sounds like, or listen to his favorite song with him, or watch some stupid rerun of Friends with him while ignoring your responsibilities. He’s right there next to you, he’s risked his life to save you once already, and yet he’s so far away. You’ll never get to know him in all the ways you want to. Will you ever really know him at all?

He’d created a diversion when one of the fucking things had you trapped in a corner, between a dumpster and a brick wall. He chucked a rock at a car and set off an alarm, and then ran with you down an alleyway, his arm wrapped tight around your waist. Eric looked so sad, following you like a lost puppy. He was fucking drenched, too, so you know he’d probably been through one hell of a morning. And then the rain started, and the creatures were confused and… well, you weren’t just gonna leave him, scared and alone.

You, too, were scared and alone.

Eric’s hand appears to brush away a tear that had begun to fall down your cheek, betraying your internal monologue. You look to him with puffy eyes, and he pulls his hand away, suddenly unsure of whether you’re okay with such an intimate gesture. 

Your coffee cup meets the table with a quiet tap. You’re slow to move, but you scoot towards him, his arm still outstretched towards you, his eyes wide. Eric has the prettiest eyes in the world, you think. You want to tell him so.

But you’re a little too choked up to form words, anyways. Your forehead meets Eric’s shoulder, and his arm comes around you before you can huff the first silent sob that brims up. He coos softly into your hair, so softly that you can barely hear it, but it conveys enough. It does enough. 

The world is fucked. Your life is fucked. You have tunnel vision and you can only see things getting worse from here on; the only good thing you know anymore is holding you and caressing your head so gently that it pushes your tears out for you. 

You’ll never get to see a movie in a theater, and smell the stale popcorn again. You’ll never drive down the highway with the wind in your hair. You’ll never ride a roller coaster or sing karaoke. You’ll never go to a club and have a drunken heart to heart with a stranger in a bathroom.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” You whisper, so faintly that it’s barely above a breath, your lips pressed to the shell of his ear. “To try to exist in a world where you have to pretend like you don’t exist?”

Eric pauses, holding you to him. You can see the wheels turning in his head, while he tries to figure out what to say. Then he turns his face to put his lips against your ear, the same way you’d done to him. 

“I think it’s worth it to try to survive.” His breath tickles your skin when he whispers, “So survive with me, yeah?”

You nod solemnly, your tears threatening to rise up again. “I can’t stand not talking to you.” It’s so hard to keep your voice from cracking, from rising above the merest hint of a whisper, directly to him and no one or nothing else. 

Eric takes it in stride. “You are talking to me.” He pulls back and bats his eyelashes, and you think, he oughta fucking know what that does to me. 

“Not like this,” you breathe to him, because that’s really what it is– it’s a breath. A sigh. A gust of air and nothing else, barely anything that registers on your vocal chords. Your hand on the back of his neck, pulling him close to you. His hand, tightening on the middle of your back, holding you there. “I want to talk– I want to get to know you.” 

“Well, this isn’t so bad, is it?” Eric turns his head. His forehead nudges yours at the temple, and you swear you see a flash of a smile on his face. “What do you want to know?” 

His forefinger traces up and down, up and down, a gentle pattern that keeps you grounded. You bite your lip, trying to keep from letting the sounds come out too loud. You say the first thing that comes to mind. “What’s your favorite song?”

“Easy Living. Billie Holiday.” 

“You’re kidding.” You’re blushing, hot in the cheeks. You’re imagining it; slow dancing in the kitchen with him while oldies plays on the radio. You didn’t think such an innocent question would send you spiraling like this, but it hurts worse to know that it will probably never happen.

“Absolutely not.” 

“Somehow… I can’t picture you listening to jazz.” 

“Picture it all you want,” he whispers. Eric swallows, and continues, “My granddad used to have these records, and we used to play them on Christmas. But when– when he died, the records went missing. I couldn’t find the song until a couple years ago,” he explains, and his voice cracks just slightly into a murmur. 

You both freeze. You wait for the sound of creatures coming down the hallway, busting down the walls… nothing happens. You let out a breath, and you pull his face closer to yours. His eyes flick over your face, and you put your lips against his ear. 

“You have to be so quiet. Can you do that for me?” Eric nods in your hands. “I wish we could do anything but this. I wish that we could have met in better circumstances. I wish… I wish I had known you before all of this. I think we would have had a lot of fun. But if this is the only way I can get to know you, and hear your voice now, I’ll take it.” You’re nodding as well now, like you’re trying to convince yourself of it. “I’m telling you this because I don’t know how long we have. Together, I mean. And I don’t want to waste it passing notes. Okay?” 

“Okay.” He sounds clipped. His hand fidgets on your back, and you pull away to find him misty-eyed, his brows turned up. He fishes for words that don’t come, and then he nods. “Okay.” 

Neither of you move. The atmosphere around you feels heavy, like it’s pressing in on all sides. Eric’s hand slides up your back and to your face, and you remember that you’re still holding his. You’re near sitting in his lap with how close you’ve become, and the realization of that feels like a punch to the gut.

You think you should pull away. You don’t. 

Eric’s thumb traces a gentle arc across your bottom lip. It’s so featherlight it’s barely there– his eyes are honed in on your mouth, clearly lost in thought. You’d let him stay there as long as he wants, but you want every minute you can get. “Eric–”

He closes the gap and kisses you. The way you’d said his name– or not said it, rather, you sort of mouthed it against his thumb– had done the job you wanted it to. It feels like this was the obvious conclusion to the system you’d worked out, the close proximity and your shared fears. He’s scared, he said as much last night. You’re scared, you said so just now. 

Nowhere to go, nothing else to do except be right here, living. Alive, together. Kissing Eric, and him pulling you close by the waist, so that you do swing your leg and seat yourself in his lap. And as much as you love talking, and it breaks your heart that you can’t jabber at him, there are some things you just can’t put into words. Like the way that his hand on the back of your neck lights you up inside, or that you can’t think of anything other than all the areas where his skin is touching yours, and how you suddenly wish there was way more of them.

It’s stupid how much you like him already, really. You can feel your nonexistent friends clucking their tongues and shaking their heads, saying, “One day? That’s all it takes? You find some guy at the end of the world and you fall in love in 24 hours?” And they’d be right– maybe it’s not love. Not yet, anyways. But you could see it easily becoming that. And that fact scares you even more.

Your hands find Eric’s chest and the frantic beating of his heart tells you nearly the same thing. You break the kiss, trying to quietly catch your breath without gasping like you’re half-drowning. It’s harder than you expected. 

“Been wanting to do that all morning,” Eric whispers. And just like that you’re falling again, faster this time, like he’s just melted your wings right off and sent you plummeting.

You struggle to keep from gasping aloud when he kisses your jaw, just beneath your ear. It’s the lightest touch but you swear it burns, sears your skin. 

Your hands find the back of the couch, twitchy fingers digging in to keep you steady. Your mouth finds his again, his tongue tasting of coffee, and Eric kisses you a bit harder now, a bit sloppier. 

Breaking away, you open your eyes to find his wide, starstruck, his mouth hanging open like he’s been shocked beyond belief. You didn’t honestly intend for this to happen– you wanted to talk. But somehow this seems better, more appropriate. 

How do you get your feelings across when talking isn’t really an option? When innocent attraction becomes… whatever this is? 

You press a single finger to his plush lips, signaling exactly what you mean without a word. Quiet. 

Eric purses his lips, kisses your finger without breaking eye contact. His pupils are blown out so far that the barest hint of golden brown surrounds them, glinting in the sunlight from the window. 

You lean forward, until your mouth touches his ear. “Your eyes are so fucking pretty, Eric,” you whisper to him, and your teeth latch onto his earlobe to tug gently. You can’t help it– you grind your hips down into his lap, without even thinking of doing it. “You’re so pretty.”

Eric whimpers. It’s a soft sound, hollow in the back of his throat, but it’s still too loud for the world that you’re in. You clamp your hand down over his mouth, and his breath comes out sharp and hot over your knuckles as he tries to regain composure.

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask him, whispering gently in his ear. Against you, he shakes his head no. “Want me to keep going?” Eric nods his head yes. 

He’s shaking under you, his fingertips digging into your lower back like he can’t hold onto you hard enough. At the thought, your pulse pounds, blood positively humming through your veins. 

You nuzzle his cheek, and give him the sweetest kiss you can while your hand is still clamped over his mouth insistently. “You have to be. Fucking. Silent. Do you understand?” He nods. “We can’t make a sound. Okay?” 

Eric nods again, and keeps nodding until you let him go. If the rain was still pouring like earlier, you could tell him how much you want him, too. How you don’t want to be mean, you just don’t want to get hurt. This is a bad idea, all things considered. But Eric slides his hand down and cups your ass to lift you up a bit, and the words bad and idea suddenly fucking vanish from your vocabulary.

You stand long enough to kick off your sweats, your day old panties going down with them. You hadn’t dressed to be sexy yesterday, you dressed to get groceries. You don’t necessarily want Eric to see your faded cotton underwear with the stretched out elastic and multiple frayed holes. You don’t think it would add to your sex appeal right now. 

He doesn’t notice the lack of a strip tease– he’s already taking you by the hips, not even waiting for you to shuck your t-shirt. He pulls until you’re stood in front of him, and then hooks your leg over his shoulder. 

So. Eric doesn’t need to be asked to go down on you, he just does. The gentleman. His hands are firm on your ass as he nuzzles into the patch of hair between your legs, and the precarious balancing act makes you snatch onto the back of the couch again. 

His tongue glides through the folds of your pussy slowly, methodically. You aren’t sure if he wants to take his time, or if he’s going slow so that he doesn’t make too much noise when doing it, but he latches onto your clit and sucks agonizingly softly, like he knows he should do it harder but won’t risk making you moan. 

It’s so gentle, and it builds. Pretty soon, you’re having a tough time keeping your whimpers in, even when he’s basically just teasing you, flicking his tongue over your clit with even the barest pressure. Your head has fallen back on your shoulders, your hand now clasped over your own mouth to stifle your sighs. 

Then, Eric’s hand glides up to splay across your lower back, and he sucks long and hard at your clit, and your hand squeezes murderously at the back of the couch while you ride out your orgasm on his tongue. 

Knees buckling, you collapse into Eric’s lap. He has a doe-eyed look on his face that’s way too innocent after what he just did to you. With panting breath and shaking hands, you cup his rosy cheeks in your palms, shaking your head in disbelief. 

Eric’s brows tilt in worry, like he did something wrong. He opens his mouth, but you put your fingers against his lips to silence him, and lean forward to breathe, “You’re too sweet for me, Eric.” 

He traces his fingers lightly up your spine, and turns his head. “Maybe one day I won’t have to be sweet. Maybe then I can really fuck you.” 

The sound of his whispering voice in your ear makes you shiver, your lust reaching a boiling point. The idea of him really fucking you– that this isn’t even him as normal, that he’s having to hold so much back– makes you burn hot all at once. That this isn’t something he’s planning on doing once. That there’s a ‘one day’ that he sees in the future with you in it. 

With a nod, your breath catches in your throat. You find your way to his mouth again, kissing him desperately. You can taste yourself lingering on his lips, and your hips rock forward against his again. 

Eric inhales sharply, stifling his own moan. You guess you have to take it just as slowly as he did, ease him into it. You work your hand beneath his unbuttoned fly and palm him, keeping your touch gentle against his hot skin. He shakes, his hands laid out against your spine, his eyes sparkling when he looks up at you. 

You push your forehead against his as you sink onto his cock, letting yourself adjust to his size. His breath stutters as he tries to keep quiet, small puffs of air spilling out and meeting your electrified skin. You curl your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, rocking your hips just barely, settling into his lap. 

This is more intimate than you can ever remember being with anyone, but right now it just feels right. Maybe it could be cathartic to fuck like a couple of animals in the face of doom, but Eric pulls your body flush against his, one strong forearm around your waist, and his nose nudges yours, and you think this is better. This is what you both need. Closeness. Sweetness. 

There isn’t a lot of movement– you can’t risk it. You and Eric seem to be in agreement on that, because as soon as you start trying to move in earnest, he just pulls you back to him, his arm around your waist and his hand petting the back of your head. 

Eric rocks his hips up into yours slowly, deeply, and it’s the depth of it and the slow sensuality that keeps you floating. Your clit catches on the patch of hair at the base of his cock each time you roll your hips with him, and you have to kiss him to keep from keening aloud. He doesn’t seem to mind it. 

You know he’s close when he tucks his face against your neck, his arm tightening around you. “Feels so fucking good,” comes his whine in your ear, and you gently shush him, your hand resting on the back of his head to keep him muffled against your shoulder. You want so badly to look at his face when he cums, but there’s that pesky issue of staying alive, and that hinges on whether or not he can keep quiet when he does. 

To his credit, he bites your shoulder and only whimpers a little bit. It’s just a squeak, but really, he could have been much louder about it, and then you would have both been in trouble. Imagine having to run for your life with your pants down. 

Ever the gentleman, he keeps you there even after he’s spent and sensitive, his hand clamped down on your thigh to prevent you from moving. His thumb finds your clit, and he lifts his head to watch you, his hooded eyes trained on your face as he brings you to the edge and over it again. He watches the way your brows tilt up, the way you struggle to keep your own eyes open, and the silent moan that threatens to break past your parted lips.

Eric claps his hand down over your mouth before it can. Your eyes fly open, your cunt clenches down around him, and he bares his teeth as you cum hard. It’s cyclical, comes in waves as he continues to stroke you through it, as he keeps his hand clamped down on your mouth to keep you quiet. 

To keep you quiet. 

Feverish and exhausted, you come down with your chest against his, Eric’s head flopped back onto the backrest of the couch. Your knees fucking hurt and you have yet to get off of him, and you sort of dread the moment when you have to. But this means your mouth is positioned right next to Eric’s ear, and you’re nothing if not a talker.

“Eric?” you whisper, and he turns his head just enough to let you know he heard you. “I’m glad that I met you when I did. Even if it’s terrible timing, I’m glad we met.”

A sweet, tired smile flits across Eric’s beautiful face. He nudges his nose against your temple. “I’m glad, too.” 

You shift off of him, and he squeezes your thigh just at the same time as he scrunches his face. He’s such a trooper about it, you kiss his cheek as you go, leaning over to grab a pair of earphones from the coffee table. 

You hand one ear bud to him, watching as confusion crosses his face. He watches you type on your phone as he tucks the bud into his ear, and you the other. 

On low volume, you listen to the soft piano and saxophone intro to an old jazz standard. Eric grins, his hand finding your cheek before he pulls you in for a kiss. 

And then, Billie Holiday’s voice plays for only you two to hear. 

Living for you is easy living, It’s easy to live when you’re in love And I’m so in love, There’s nothing in life but you.

[kiwriteswords]

could you write a hotch x reader story where reader is literally a knockout bombshell and the team meets her for the first time and both are humbled and shocked tht Hotch could pull that. Also maybe she works in different department of the FBI, but not BAU and derek and others have always talked about how hot reader is but happy id they cnt have reaader that hotch can!

The Beauty and The Boss

Masterlist || Ao3

AN: Thanks so much for the request! Sorry, it took me so long to get it written :)

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader

Word Count: 4.5k

Tags/Warnings: Mild language, fade-to-black smut scene, reader wears makeup, workplace flirting, commentary about reader's appearance by BAU, jealous!Hotch, mention of a Holiday party, mentions of a bar scene.

Sypnosis: Aaron Hotchner’s professionalism hides a secret: he’s been in a relationship with you, the stunning agent who turns every head at Quantico. While his team spends months admiring and teasing about you—unaware of the truth—Hotch quietly enjoys keeping the relationship private. But when the BAU holiday party reveals the truth, the team is left shocked, realizing the woman they’ve been swooning over is already spoken for by the man they least expected.

The Quantico breakroom buzzed with life as Derek Morgan leaned back in his chair, a grin stretching across his face. “I’m telling you, there’s not a person in this building who doesn’t turn their head when she walks by.”

Emily Prentiss smirked, crossing her arms as she perched on the edge of the counter. “Understatement of the year, Morgan. She’s practically stopped traffic in the hallways more than once.”

Penelope Garcia, seated with her tablet, chimed in. “More like a goddess descended from Mount Olympus, wielding a to-do list and a killer power suit. The woman is unreal.”

You had no idea you were the current topic of conversation as you breezed through Quantico’s corridors. Your heels clicked against the tiled floor with the kind of authority only a seasoned professional carried. Your fitted blazer hugged your form just right, the kind of attire that screamed competence but still left a trail of stunned admirers in your wake. You were a boss, and you knew it—not in an arrogant way, but in the way a woman who worked twice as hard to get half as far in a male-dominated field knew her worth.

Little did they know that, as much as they admired you from afar, you had a certain someone who saw all those layers they missed—someone who knew how you carried the weight of your team, your projects, and your life with equal parts grace and grit.

That someone was Aaron Hotchner.

Unbeknownst to the BAU, the stoic Unit Chief had been keeping a significant secret. You and Aaron had been together for over a year. Though you both worked under the same massive roof, your respective departments didn’t often overlap—an intentional boundary to keep things professional and out of sight from prying eyes.

Aaron entered the room just as Morgan’s laughter rang out. “No, but seriously, Hotch, you’ve seen her, right? You can’t tell me someone that fine doesn’t have half the men here wrapped around her finger.”

Aaron’s sharp gaze flicked to Morgan, his jaw tightening subtly. “Morgan, shouldn’t you be focusing on case files rather than office gossip?”

Morgan raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying, man, beauty like that deserves to be appreciated.”

Emily grinned. “Don’t let Strauss hear you. She’d have you running sensitivity training for a month.”

Garcia waggled her eyebrows. “Maybe Hotch is just annoyed because she’s his type. Dark hair, smart, confident—maybe there’s some unspoken pining we don’t know about.”

Aaron’s lips pressed into a firm line as he reached for a file, “Let’s keep the speculation to yourselves. We have enough on our plates without playing matchmaker.” His tone was calm but carried enough weight to signal the end of the conversation.

He didn’t let his composure falter, but inwardly, he found himself caught in a tug-of-war between amusement and annoyance. You were undeniably stunning, and he couldn’t blame his team for noticing, but their casual banter skirted dangerously close to the truth.

Later that afternoon, the sun streamed through the tall windows of the BAU bullpen, casting golden streaks across the room as you entered. Your heels echoed confidently against the polished floor, their rhythmic click commanding attention as you moved with purpose. A fitted pencil skirt emphasized the natural sway of your hips, and your blazer was tailored perfectly, hinting at the strength and grace beneath. Loose curls framed your face, falling just so, and your makeup—subtle but flawless—added to the aura of a woman who meant business.

Conversations quieted as you passed by the desks. Agents glanced up from their work, some stealing longer looks than they should have, while others leaned toward their neighbors to murmur something under their breath. You didn’t acknowledge the attention. You were used to it. Your focus remained locked ahead as you carried the neatly bound folder in your hands, its weight a mere fraction of the responsibility you carried daily.

You reached the door to Aaron Hotchner’s office just as it opened. He stepped out, his posture as straight and commanding as ever, but his sharp eyes softened for the briefest moment when they landed on you. The shift was imperceptible to anyone else, but you caught it—it was the kind of look he reserved only for you.

“Agent Y/L/N,” he greeted evenly, his voice steady but low enough that it felt personal.

“Agent Hotchner,” you replied with a nod, the professionalism in your tone betrayed by the faint twitch of a smile at the corner of your lips.

Behind you, Morgan's voice rose in a stage whisper. “And there she is…”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, keeping your expression neutral as you extended the folder to Aaron. “I just need your signature on these budgetary adjustments. It’s time-sensitive.”

Aaron’s brow furrowed slightly as he accepted the folder, his long fingers brushing against yours briefly. “Of course,” he said, already flipping it open to skim through the pages. “Give me a moment.”

As he turned and walked back into his office, you followed without hesitation, pushing the door closed behind you. The muted sound of the latch clicking shut seemed to signal a shift in the atmosphere. The second the door was closed, your composed expression melted into something softer, teasing.

“I heard Morgan,” you said in a low voice, a mischievous glint dancing in your eyes. You set a hand on your hip, leaning slightly as you watched him work.

Aaron’s lips curved into a subtle smirk as he scribbled his signature onto the documents. “They talk about you often,” he replied, not looking up right away. “Morgan more than most.”

You tilted your head, your brow arching playfully. “Jealous?”

Finally, he looked up, setting the pen down and stepping closer. “Observant,” he corrected, his tone dry but his gaze warm. He handed the folder back to you, and as his fingers brushed yours again, the slightest spark of electricity passed between you. “You look stunning today, by the way.”

“Today?” you teased, your voice dropping slightly as you tilted your chin. “What about yesterday?”

Aaron’s smirk deepened, the rare expression enough to make your stomach flip. “Every day,” he replied smoothly, his voice dipping into that low, velvety tone that sent a thrill through you. He stepped just close enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne—subtle and clean, just like him.

For a moment, the space between you felt charged, but you straightened, breaking the tension with a soft laugh. “Careful, Agent Hotchner,” you said, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “Someone might notice.”

He chuckled softly, the sound rare but rich. “Let them speculate.”

The corner of your mouth twitched in amusement, but you turned on your heel, your exit as purposeful as your arrival. Behind you, Aaron watched, his expression softening again as the door clicked shut. The office suddenly felt emptier without you in it, and the faintest hint of a smile lingered on his lips.

Moments after, when you stepped out of Aaron’s office, the door closing softly behind you, you nearly collided with David Rossi. The veteran profiler stepped back gracefully, offering you a warm smile as his eyes flicked to the folder in your hands.

“Agent Y/L/N,” he greeted smoothly, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “You’re lucky Hotch doesn’t have a ‘No Stunning Women’ policy in his office. Makes the rest of us forget what we’re working on.”

You gave a polite laugh, your smile measured but warm. “Always a pleasure, Agent Rossi. Don’t let me distract you too much.” With a nod, you stepped past him and continued down the hall, your heels clicking confidently on the polished floor.

Rossi watched you leave, shaking his head slightly before stepping into Hotch’s office, and shutting the door behind him. “You didn’t tell me your office doubled as a runway, Aaron,” Rossi quipped as he took a seat across from Hotch’s desk, still grinning.

Hotch didn’t look up from the report in front of him. “Rossi.”

“I’m just saying,” Rossi continued, leaning back in his chair. “Agent Y/L/N is quite the… presence. Can’t imagine you get much work done when she’s around.”

Hotch finally glanced up, his sharp eyes locking on Rossi with a calm but pointed look. “She’s one of the most competent agents in this building.”

Rossi raised his hands in mock surrender, the grin still on his face. “No offense, Aaron. I’m just appreciating fine talent when I see it. Professionally, of course.”

Hotch’s expression didn’t shift as he returned to his paperwork. “Make sure it stays professional, Dave.”

Rossi chuckled, standing up and adjusting his suit jacket. “Noted. I’ll leave you to your work, but for the record… you’ve got good taste.”

Hotch’s eyes flicked up for a brief moment, narrowing slightly as Rossi turned to leave. Once the door closed behind him, Aaron exhaled, his jaw relaxing as the corners of his mouth twitched faintly. You had that effect on people. Rossi wasn’t wrong about that, but Aaron wasn’t about to let anyone reduce you to just that. Not on his watch.

It wasn’t much later in the week when the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filled the dimly lit bar as the BAU team finally unwound after wrapping a grueling case. At their usual table near the back, JJ, Penelope, and Emily leaned close together, conspiring with mischievous smiles. Derek Morgan leaned back in his chair, his beer in hand, as he glanced across the room toward you.

You were with your own team, sitting at the far end of the bar. The laughter coming from your group was infectious, and more than a few heads in the bar had turned to admire the sharp, confident woman at the center of it all. You were a vision, dressed in a fitted, dark emerald blouse that complemented your glowing skin, your hair falling perfectly into place despite the long week.

Emily nudged Derek, her grin widening. “Now’s your chance, Morgan. She’s right there, and she’s smiling. That’s basically an invitation.”

Penelope nodded eagerly, swirling her cocktail. “Seriously, Derek. You’re Mr. Smooth—to make one of your famous sweet moves. She’s gorgeous, brilliant, and, let’s face it, probably way out of your league, but you’ve got charm. Use it!”

JJ smirked, sipping her drink. “They’re not wrong. She’s definitely the type to keep you on your toes.”

Derek chuckled, shaking his head, though his gaze lingered on you for a moment. “You ladies make a good point. Pretty boy over here has been staring so hard, I think he forgot how to blink.”

Reid’s head snapped up, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. “I haven’t been staring—I was observing!”

Penelope laughed, reaching out to pat his arm. “Sure, sweetie. Keep telling yourself that.”

Meanwhile, Aaron Hotchner sat quietly at the edge of the table, nursing his drink and doing his best to keep his expression neutral. He caught Rossi’s amused glance and ignored it, his attention drifting toward you. Across the room, your eyes flicked to his, and in that instant, the noise of the bar seemed to fade. Your lips curved into a soft, knowing smile, and Hotch’s lips twitched in response, his gaze steady but warm.

“Alright,” Derek announced, standing up and brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. “Time to show you all how it’s done.”

As he sauntered toward you, the rest of the team watched with poorly concealed anticipation. Hotch leaned back slightly, a faint smirk playing at his lips as he took another sip of his drink, clearly amused.

At the bar, Derek slid into the seat beside you, his trademark charm on full display. “Well, well, Agent Y/L/N,” he began, flashing you a dazzling smile. “A woman like you at a place like this—it’s like a shooting star landing in a parking lot. Rare. Unexpected. Stunning.”

You turned toward him, your smile warm but professional. “Agent Morgan,” you greeted. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh, I’m just wondering if I can buy you a drink. You look like someone who deserves only the finest.”

You chuckled softly, tilting your head. “That’s kind of you, but I’m good for now. Thank you, though.”

Derek raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “You sure? A woman like you turning down a Morgan Original? That doesn’t happen often.”

You smiled, leaning in slightly, your voice light but firm. “I’m flattered, Derek, really. But no, thank you.”

Derek blinked, clearly surprised but respectful, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Can’t blame a guy for trying. You have a good night, Agent Y/L/N.”

As he returned to the table, Rossi leaned back in his chair, his grin widening. “I think I know why she turned you down.”

Derek arched a brow. “Oh, yeah? Enlighten us, wise old man.”

Rossi swirled his drink lazily. “She’s already seeing someone.”

That caught the team’s attention. JJ frowned thoughtfully. “She doesn’t wear a ring.”

Emily shrugged. “Doesn’t mean anything. Rossi’s probably right—someone like her? Definitely taken.”

Penelope gasped. “She’s got to be dating some rich CEO type. Like a Christian Grey situation—minus the creepy stuff. You know, private jets, expensive suits, maybe even his own island.”

Reid tilted his head. “Statistically, high-powered women often prefer partners who are equally accomplished, so it’s not unreasonable to assume…”

Hotch, listening quietly, couldn’t help but chuckle softly under his breath. It was rare for him to indulge in such amusement, but their wild guesses about your personal life were too far from the truth to resist.

“Something funny, Hotch?” Derek asked, narrowing his eyes playfully.

Hotch met his gaze evenly, his lips twitching. “Just enjoying the show, Morgan.”

From across the room, you glanced at him again, your eyes meeting his with a spark of shared amusement. You knew, just as he did that the truth was far more satisfying than any of their guesses.

That night, the familiar warmth of your shared apartment enveloped you as you stepped out of the bathroom, your hair still damp from the shower. The soft glow of the bedside lamp lit the room in hues of gold, casting a gentle light over Aaron as he stood at the dresser, folding his tie with precision. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms, and his expression was calm, though you could tell from the faint tension in his jaw that something was on his mind.

There was something mesmerizing about the way he moved—calm, methodical, and yet there was an intimacy in the gesture that always left your heart fluttering.

You crossed the room, barefoot, wearing one of his old FBI academy T-shirts that hung just above your thighs. It was soft and familiar, smelling faintly of him, and you loved how it made you feel wrapped in his presence.

As you climbed into bed, you leaned back against the headboard, watching him with a small smile. “You’re quiet tonight,” you teased, running a hand through your damp hair. “That’s usually my thing.”

Aaron glanced at you, his lips quirking slightly before he shook his head and continued folding. “I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

He sighed, placing the tie in the drawer before turning to face you, his arms crossing over his chest. “My team.”

You raised a brow, leaning forward slightly. “Oh? What did the BAU do this time?”

Aaron smirked faintly, shaking his head as he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his watch. “It’s not what they’ve done. It’s what they keep saying.”

You tilted your head, your curiosity piqued. “Do tell.”

He exhaled, his voice even but carrying a hint of frustration. “They don’t stop talking about you. Derek, Emily, Penelope… even Reid, apparently. It’s constant.” He turned to look at you, his dark eyes warm but serious. “I’ve been patient. I’ve let it slide because they don’t know. But I think I’ve hit my limit.”

A slow smile spread across your face as you scooted closer, resting your chin on his shoulder. “You’re jealous,” you teased, your voice light and laced with amusement. “Aaron Hotchner, stoic leader of the BAU, is jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he replied firmly, though the slight twitch of his lips betrayed him. “I just don’t appreciate them… ogling you.”

You chuckled softly, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your chin against his shoulder. “You know I think it’s kind of hot when you’re jealous, right?”

He turned his head slightly to look at you, his expression softening. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” you said with a grin, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “It’s sweet that you care so much. But you don’t have to worry, Aaron. I’m yours. Completely.”

He turned fully now, his hands coming up to rest on your knees as he looked at you with a rare softness in his eyes. “You have no idea how much I appreciate hearing that.”

You smiled, leaning in to brush your lips against his. “Good. Because it’s true.”

He kissed you back gently, one hand sliding up to cradle your cheek. When you pulled away, you saw the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Aaron lingered close for a moment, his thumb brushing your cheek in a rare display of vulnerability before he exhaled softly and pulled back. Standing, he moved toward the dresser with the same calm, deliberate manner that always captivated you.

His hands went to the buttons of his shirt, working them loose one by one. The sound of each button sliding free seemed amplified in the quiet of your shared space. You couldn’t help but admire the way the soft light played over his features—his strong jaw, the tension in his shoulders, and the faint lines around his eyes that only made him more striking.

Aaron shrugged off his shirt, revealing the toned muscles of his chest and the scar along his side that you knew he sometimes still tried to hide. He folded the shirt with the same precision as his tie, setting it neatly aside before slipping out of his slacks and into the lounge pants he favored at night.

“Don’t stop on my account,” you teased, your voice warm and playful as your eyes lingered on him.

He glanced back at you with a small, knowing smile. “Enjoying the show?”

You grinned. “Always.”

Aaron shook his head slightly, his smirk growing as he crossed the room and slid into bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, and the familiar warmth of his body radiated toward you as he leaned back against the pillows, one arm sliding around your waist to pull you close.

“You really don’t have to worry about what your team says,” you murmured, your fingers tracing absent patterns on his chest. “I only have eyes for you.”

His hand came up to cup your cheek, gently tilting your face toward his. “You’re sure about that?” he asked softly, though the faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes betrayed the question’s seriousness.

“I’m sure,” you whispered, leaning in to brush your lips against his. “You’re the only one who gets this version of me. The rest of them don’t even come close.”

Aaron deepened the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that still sent your heart racing. His hand slid down to your hip, pulling you closer as your fingers tangled in his hair, and for a moment, the world outside your shared room ceased to exist.

The soft rustle of sheets and the low hum of your shared laughter filled the space as your words became unspoken reassurances, translated into the way he touched you, the way he held you, the way he kissed you as though you were his lifeline.

In the darkness, as the lamp flicked off and the night stretched on, you made it perfectly clear—he was yours, and you were his, completely. Always.

The annual Bureau holiday party arrived soon after and was in full swing, the large event hall buzzing with laughter and conversation as agents and staff mingled under the soft glow of festive string lights. Tables lined with food and drinks flanked the room, and a DJ played a mix of holiday classics and upbeat pop songs. The BAU team had claimed a table near the center, already deep into their drinks and holiday banter.

Derek leaned back in his chair, scanning the room with an easy grin. “Alright, I’m calling it now. This year’s party MVP? Gotta be me. I’ve got the charm, the moves, and the mistletoe strategy ready to go.”

Emily rolled her eyes, sipping her drink. “Your confidence is astounding. Let’s see how it plays out when someone turns you down again.”

Penelope chuckled, adjusting the festive reindeer antlers perched on her head. “Maybe don’t aim for anyone who’s already out of your league, like a certain Agent Y/L/N.”

“They’re never letting that one down,” Reid laughed. 

Derek smirked. “She’s not here yet, but hey, holiday parties are all about surprises. Maybe she’ll get a look and change her mind?”

JJ raised a brow. “Speaking of surprises… does anyone else feel like Hotch is acting weird lately? He’s been way too quiet during our usual teasing.” Will was at her side, with an arm wrapped over her shoulders. 

Rossi, swirling his glass of whiskey, gave a knowing smirk but said nothing.

The conversation halted abruptly as the door to the hall opened, and heads turned to see Aaron Hotchner entering with you at his side.

The two of you stepped into the room, hand in hand, your fingers loosely intertwined as Aaron scanned the crowd with his usual composed demeanor. You looked radiant in a fitted emerald dress, its sleek design effortlessly elegant, while Aaron’s sharp black suit was understated yet commanding.

The BAU table fell silent, their jaws collectively dropping.

“Is that…?” Penelope started, blinking rapidly.

“Hotch,” JJ finished, her voice barely above a whisper. Will let out a breathy laugh. 

“And Agent Y/L/N,” Emily added, looking between the two of you as if she’d seen a ghost.

Morgan leaned forward, his grin faltering. “No way.”

Hotch’s lips twitched into the faintest smile as he caught their stunned expressions. He led you toward the table with a calm confidence, his hand still firmly in yours.

“Evening, everyone,” he greeted, his tone as steady as ever.

You smiled warmly, giving a little wave with your free hand. “Hi, guys. Hope we’re not late.”

The team exchanged glances, still struggling to process what they were seeing.

Derek was the first to recover, though his grin was more sheepish than his usual swagger. “Well, damn. Hotch, you really know how to keep a secret.”

Hotch arched a brow, his hand resting protectively on your back as he pulled out a chair for you. “It’s never been a secret. Some things are worth keeping private.”

Emily leaned closer to Penelope, muttering, “Okay, I officially feel bad for every single comment I’ve ever made about her in front of him.”

Penelope nodded vigorously. “Same. Oh my gosh, same.”

JJ shook her head, laughing softly. “And Derek, all the flirting?”

Morgan held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, I didn’t know! But I’ll admit when I’m beat. Respect, Hotch. You’re a lucky man.”

Hotch’s expression softened slightly as he glanced at you. “I know.”

Rossi, still sipping his drink, chuckled. “For the record, I knew when to quit. The first time I made a comment about her, the look Hotch gave me said everything I needed to know.”

You raised a brow, your lips curving into a playful smile. “Oh? And what look was that?”

Rossi smirked. “The one that says, ‘Say one more word, and you’re not making it to retirement.’”

“Back into retirement,” Hotch corrected with an amused look. The table erupted into laughter.

Emily leaned forward, her curiosity winning out. “Alright, spill. How long has this been going on?”

You exchanged a glance with Aaron, his hand still resting lightly on your back.

“A little over a year,” you admitted, and Hotch nodded. 

“A year?” Penelope gasped. “And you managed to keep it quiet this long? I’m impressed.”

Hotch’s gaze swept over his team, his voice calm but with a subtle warmth. “We wanted to keep things professional. But we both agreed it was time.” A mischievous glint flashed in his eyes as he added, “Especially before one of you asked her out on a date next.”

The team erupted into laughter, though Derek groaned, throwing his head back. “Aw, come on, Hotch! You’re never letting me live that down, are you?”

Emily smirked, leaning back in her chair. “You really did shoot your shot, Morgan. Respect for the boldness, but hindsight? Not your best moment.”

Penelope covered her mouth with her hand, barely containing her giggles. “I’m never going to stop picturing Hotch sitting back in his office, watching that go down and just... waiting.”

JJ joined in, shaking her head with a grin. “Honestly, Derek, if looks could kill…”

Derek held up his hands in surrender, chuckling despite himself. “Alright, alright! I didn’t know, okay? And for the record, I was nothing but a gentleman.”

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand as you smiled at him. “You were, Derek. I thought it was sweet.”

“Sweet?” Hotch interjected, his tone laced with playful sarcasm as he glanced at you. “I’d call it… bold.”

You nudged his arm with your elbow, your smile widening. “Aaron.”

His lips twitched into a faint smirk as he looked back at the table. “But in all seriousness, I can’t blame anyone for noticing how incredible she is. I just happen to be the lucky one.”

The table quieted for a moment, the sincerity in his tone catching everyone off guard. Emily was the first to break the silence, raising her glass with a grin. “Well, here’s to the two of you. A BAU power couple if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Cheers to that,” Penelope chimed in, her eyes sparkling.

As the team raised their glasses once more, you glanced at Aaron, your fingers brushing his under the table. His quiet smile and the gentle squeeze of your hand told you everything you needed to know. You were his, and he was yours, and no amount of teasing or surprise from his team could change that.

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