#your finest china

[printsagainstthemachine]

year of the rabbit

/january 2023

(c) schlag_girl

[rainbowrosegames]

going through some of my older poems and the shit that was written at like 3 am tired and dying inside has no fucking reason to slap so hard

like when did i become a poetic genius with these sick ass lines

[alien-girl-21]

.

[pomefioredove]

Saw requests opened again! Can I have Scarabia headcanons for this scenario: so they invited their s/o back to the Scalding Sands for a festival and provides their lover with a special evening attire for a party or smth. The outfit itself is red and gold (typical Scarabia colors) but the s/o is from a culture where those are wedding colors (ex: China, Vietnam, India, Nepal, etc). Cue the reader teasingly asking them if this was their way of proposing. How do Jamil and Kalim react (separately) and how blushy do they get?

OH THIS IS SO CUTE! omggg

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ wedding colors

summary: a little misunderstanding type of post: headcanons characters: jamil, kalim additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

poor Jamil

in all the chaos of preparing for the festival, he forgot to ask you what colors you wanted

of course, he knows your favorites

but he wants this to be special

and now he only has a day left to arrange an outfit for you!

that's not enough time to customize something

so, he gets his mom's permission to borrow something of hers

she has the nicest clothes, and it'll be meaningful

he chooses something neutral (or so he thinks)

red and gold for the festival, right?

and you look stunning in it!

but he takes note of the strange smirk on your face as you ask where he got it

"It's my mother's nicest outfit," he says, a little too proud of himself

"Your mothers... and in these colors... is this your way of proposing?"

huh

???

Jamil knows he fucked up right away

only then, he remembers you mentioning the meaning of red in your culture, and...

it completely slipped his mind

he stammers out some half-assed explanation and then excuses himself to cool down in the hall

how embarrassing...

at least you just think it's funny

but, even he will admit, the following festival makes a great "wedding venue"

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Kalim's family tailor wasn't enough

this is a special event, after all, and he wants everyone to know just how special you are

he hires the finest tailor in the land and tells him to make the "prettiest outfit anyone's ever seen"

...and nothing else

so, the tailor, with such little foresight, chooses the easiest colors

red for courage and life

gold for nobility and perfection

easy, right?

well...

Kalim thinks you look amazing, and he's so excited to introduce you to everyone that he doesn't let you get a word in

at the end of the festival, you joke that if it had been your family, everyone would be asking about the wedding

and he's like

:)?

so you explain the meaning of the colors

and his face just fills with dread

not at the premise of marrying you

but because this outfit isn't nearly good enough to propose to you in!!!

and once he starts, he won't stop

first of all, he would have gotten you the most beautiful clothes anyone has ever worn

he would have an entire parade of exotic animals and gold and jewels in your honor

and then a banquet

and then a scenic carpet ride

and then he'd propose. of course!

it's cute how worked up he gets over it, and how much he's already thought it out :)

[ladywhistlewrites]

Hi can I request a wife x Anthony bridgerton story where reader is finally pregnant and how she would tell Anthony and the family

hi darling, ofc!! (omg thanks for sending an ask)🩷

Anthony Bridgerton x female wife! reader

warnings: mentions of period/blood, pregnancy

***

The morning light filters through the delicate lace curtains, casting a warm glow over the room as you stretch beneath the covers. It’s early, and the house is still wrapped in the serene quiet of dawn. You take a deep breath, feeling the familiar tug of routine urging you to start the day. As you move to rise, a sudden realization freezes you in place. You glance down at the crisp white sheets beneath you and feel a jolt of surprise and anticipation. There is no sign of your monthly visitor.

Your heart begins to race. Could it be? After all these months of hope and disappointment, dare you believe it? Your hands tremble slightly as you press them to your abdomen, a wave of tentative joy washing over you. You have to be sure. Quietly, so as not to wake the household, you slip from the bed and dress quickly, your thoughts a whirlwind of hope and possibility.

Making your way down the hall, your steps are light, almost as if you are floating. Each breath feels like a prayer, a silent plea for your dreams to be true. As you approach Anthony’s studio, you hear the soft scratching of his pen against paper. He’s been up for hours, as is his custom, losing himself in work before the household stirs.

You hesitate for a moment at the door, gathering your courage. Then, with a bright smile breaking across your face, you push it open and step inside. Anthony looks up, his eyes lighting with surprise and pleasure at the sight of you.

“My love,” he greets, rising from his desk. “What brings you here so early?”

You can barely contain your excitement as you close the distance between you, your hands reaching out to grasp his. “Anthony, I have news. The most wonderful news.” Your voice trembles with emotion, and you see his eyes widen, a spark of anticipation igniting within them.

“What is it?” he asks, his tone eager, almost breathless.

“I… I think I’m pregnant,” you whisper, tears of joy welling in your eyes. “I checked the sheets this morning, and there was nothing. I haven’t felt any of the usual signs. Anthony, I believe we are finally going to have a child.”

For a moment, he is silent, the words hanging in the air between you. Then, with a cry of joy, he sweeps you into his arms, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. Laughter bubbles from your lips as you cling to him, the room a blur of motion and happiness.

He sets you down gently, his hands framing your face as he gazes into your eyes, his own brimming with tears. “My love, you’ve made me the happiest man in the world,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “We are going to be parents.”

You nod, unable to speak, overwhelmed by the depth of his joy and the love shining in his eyes. He kisses you then, a tender, reverent kiss that speaks of promises and dreams and the future you will build together.

In the hours that follow, you and Anthony make plans to share the joyous news with the rest of the Bridgerton family. The day seems to fly by, a whirlwind of preparations and secret smiles, your heart soaring with the knowledge of the life growing within you.

As evening falls, the dining room is a picture of elegance and warmth. The table is set with the finest china, gleaming silverware, and fresh flowers that fill the air with a sweet fragrance. The soft glow of candlelight bathes the room in a golden hue, casting flickering shadows on the walls.

The family gathers, their faces alight with curiosity and affection. You can barely contain your excitement, your eyes meeting Anthony’s across the table, a silent communication passing between you. Finally, as the conversation lulls, Anthony rises, his hand reaching for yours.

“Everyone,” he begins, his voice steady but filled with emotion, “we have some wonderful news to share. We have just learned that we are expecting a child.”

For a heartbeat, there is silence, and then the room erupts in joyous exclamations. Daphne and Eloise rush to embrace you, their laughter mingling with yours. Benedict and Colin slap Anthony on the back, their congratulations hearty and sincere. The younger Bridgertons dance around the room, their excitement infectious.

Violet, her eyes shining with tears, crosses the room to you. She takes your hands in hers, her smile radiant as she draws you into a warm embrace. “Oh, my dear,” she whispers, her voice trembling with happiness, “this is the most wonderful news. I am so happy for you both.”

You hold her tightly, the love and acceptance in her embrace filling you with a profound sense of belonging. “Thank you, Violet,” you whisper back, your voice choked with emotion. “We are so blessed to have all of you to share this with.”

As the evening unfolds, the room is filled with laughter and celebration. Glasses are raised in toasts, and stories are shared, each one adding to the tapestry of joy that weaves through the night. You sit beside Anthony, your hand in his, your heart full to bursting with love and happiness.

This is the beginning of a new chapter, a future filled with promise and hope. And as you look around at the faces of those you hold dear, you know that this child will be welcomed into a world brimming with love and joy, surrounded by family who will cherish them always.

***

hope you like it!!🩷

[tootiecakes234]

The Nanami brain rot has taken over😭

Here are random Kento Headcanons:

SFW:

You will not pay for a single thing whilst in this man presence and will feel completely insulted if you even THINK about paying yourself.

His nicknames for you: darling, my love, sweetheart, angel, my good girl🤭 and Y/N(only when he’s being stern with you)

Spoils you and I mean spoiled rotten. You have hyper fixations, he completely indulging you in whatever it is. You have a hobby, he’s providing all the supplies you need to fulfill it.

As soon as you start spending nights at his house, his bathroom is fully stocked with everything you might need, he keeps your favorite foods on deck and buys several changes of clothes for you to keep there.

He works and often but any free time he has is spent with you. You are the only reason he ever takes vacation time. He will whisk you away to a tropical island for a week and indulge you both.

He gets so tense from work sometimes and having you work out kinks for him and generally just give him much needed massages is his favorite thing in the whole world.

Nanami also really likes buying outfits for you to wear. And will lay out outfits for you to wear on random days.

If he has the time, he always cooks for you but he really appreciates that reciprocate that and cook for him on days when he doesn’t have the time.

NSFW

This man has 3 vastly different sides to him and bed and it’s really just depends on his mood which one you’re going to get.

You have the adoring Kento who worships your body like you’re a goddess. Kisses & caresses like you’re the finest of china. He has nights when all he cares about is your pleasure and he’ll be between your legs for hours without ever finishing himself.

Then you have the needy starved Kento that ravages you like, simply put, a whore. Will put your down on your hands and knees and fucks your mouth like a cunt. Pulls your hair while fucks into your from behind telling you how filthy and sloppy your cunt in in your ear. This Kento also borders the line of being an exhibitionist.

And the the 3rd kento that LOVES to tease you. Where he touches you all day, kissing your neck and behind your ear but when you get home will act like nothings happened and waits until you beg him to fuck you. The one that brings you to the brink of orgasm over and over but never letting you finish until you start crying. This kento is also borderline exhibitionist.

Not matter what side of his you get tho, afterwards he is right back to being the devoted boyfriend/husband with the immaculate aftercare.

Also think this man is very into anal play so beware of his slipping fingers and toys into no man’s land.

He will offer to bring in toys very early in the sexual relationship because he understand they are an enhancement to your pleasure and he’d never deny you. He also has toys he likes you to use on him as well.

Loves tying your hands together or to the headboard while he has his way with you. Usually uses of his ties to do so.

Anyways…. I can’t stop thinking about him. In my current daydream we are buying our first house together and these are re couple of the Headcanons I’ve imagined so far🤭

Also I didn’t proofread so🥺 don’t be mean.

Kento Nanami Masterlist

[kingkatsuki]

Just more silly little Bakugou thoughts because I’m insane :)

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy/being pregnant.

Bakugou has such big, rough hands but he holds you so cautiously when you’re pregnant. As though the same hands that were built to protect you, could do you the most harm. It’s cute really, the way he treats you like the finest bone china, enveloping you in bubble wrap to try and shield you from all the horrors of the world. Protecting the now two most important things in his life.

“I’m not even showing yet, baby.” You laugh when he places a protective palm over your tummy as you prepare to cross the road together as a bike races by, “The paps are gonna find out before we’ve even told anyone.”

“Don’t fuckin’ care,” He scoffs, letting you lace your fingers with the hand that was against your stomach as you begin to cross the road together, “You’re the most important thing in my life— both of you are— of course I’m gonna protect you.”

“You’re such a sap,” You tease, squeezing his hand softly as he shoots you a playful glare.

“A sap that fucked a baby into you.” He gives you a smug grin when you reach your other hand up to smack his arm, shrinking back as he pretended to be scared of your assault, “Oi! Just because you’re pregnant doesn’t mean I won’t bend you over my knee, sweetheart.”

“Isn’t that how we got into this in the first place.” You laughed as he rolled his eyes at you playfully.

Bakugou pushed the door to the doctors surgery open with his free hand as he held it high so you could walk in beneath his arm, waiting for you to get checked in as he slid into the seat beside you, “We get a photo of her this time, right?”

“Her?” You turned to Bakugou with curious eyes.

“Yeah, I mean or him,” He shrugged.

“Dynamight wants a little girl, huh?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” He smiled, “But anything would be perfect if it’s with you.”

Most would think that the Dynamight wouldn’t take to fatherhood; a man who was far too brash and volatile to take on such a nurturing role. You were certain you could see the scathing headlines now, watching and waiting to see him fail. But you knew better— you got to experience the way he protected you.

Bakugou is there to help you out of the tub after enjoying a bubble bath that he prepared, because although you always deserved to be pampered it’s tenfold now that you’re carrying his child. Wrapping a towel around your frame as he presses a kiss to your forehead, drying off your skin as he stands with you in the steamy bathroom. Taking in every gorgeous curve that’s more accentuated and pronounced now you’ve got that ethereal, dewy glow that you get when you’re creating another human.

He’s so gentle when he drops down to his knees, as though he’s ready to worship every inch of you— and he is. Slowly smoothing lotion into the ever growing bump that’s starting to show more and more each day, confessing your worries about stretch marks to Bakugou who now made it his mission to massage your bump each evening, “We’re going to have to tell your mum soon, Katsuki.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He mumbles, smoothing the cream into your skin as he presses his lips against the ever-growing bump.

“I won’t be able to hide it much longer, and she’ll kill you if she finds out from the news.” You carded your fingers through his messy spikes as he nuzzled your tummy, creamy hands still smoothing along your skin as he stared up at you with crimson eyes.

“I just want to enjoy you like this a bit longer,” He mumbled, pressing a kiss against your ever growing bump, “Then we can show her the scan.”

[ghouljams]

*Taking the nasties down off a tall shelf like they're the finest china*

So... König and Fetch...

(cw: fingering, ignoring you, f!reader, squirting if you squint)

He keeps squeezing your ass every time you get up to grab something, only half paying attention to the movie you wanted to watch, so you do the only logical thing and offer to let him play with it as long as you can watch the shitty rom-com. He'd taken you up on the offer far too quickly, but you'd anticipated that. Which is why you'd so prettily laid yourself over his lap and wiggled your hips for him.

It starts easy. His big hands grope the squishy globes of your ass, squeezing and kneading the skin while you use your arms as a cushion to keep your eyes on the TV. It's sort of nice, like a weirdly focused massage. He tugs your shorts up. Actually, you shouldn't call them shorts, they're his boxers, he pulls his boxers up. Wedges the fabric between your cheeks and hums, tugging it this way and that, just inspecting you as his hands continue their massaging.

It isn't until he tugs them to the side that your trouble really starts. You don't need to read his mind to know what he's after, you can feel the press of one thick finger against your cunt. Your legs are squeezed together, just by virtue of the way you've laid yourself, and it makes you feel all the tighter as he pushes his finger into you. The sinful burn of skin against skin as he sinks the digit into you makes you huff out a breath. You try to keep your focus on your movie as he silently pumps his finger in and out of you, changing the angle every few strokes to try and find your sweet spot.

You do your best to return that silence.

You're not doing well. The chuffed breaths that he draws from you are tinged with need, the start of full-blown whines that you can barely contain. He pulls his hand back to add a second finger, this time hitting his mark. You bite your lip to hold back the quiet noise you make, your gaze turning away from the film as you press your forehead to the couch cushion. König doesn't even bother shushing you. Silent as he is in the field, you can almost hear his focus as he pumps his fingers into you, targeting your soft spot with pinpoint precision.

You're so tight, your legs straight over his lap, your stomach pressed against his thick thigh, and he just keeps fucking his fingers into you. All that delicious friction that punches desperation into your stomach, tightening your senses into a single point of need and heat. Your cunt clenches, your muscles eager to find their favorite release.

You're getting louder. The longer he fucks you the louder you get. Your hips push back into his thrusts, your back arching without you realizing it, raising your hips higher and higher until you feel König's lips press against your ass.

His pace is so steady, stuck on two fingers in a slow, deliberate, in and out. It's not enough. Which means you're too busy chasing your own high to notice when his lips turn to teeth. Sharp canines and flat molars digging hard into your soft flesh. Your eyes flutter, his fingers curl, and you feel the break-blossom of blood over your skin. God, you hope it scars.

He pulls his teeth from your ass only to lap at the blood, tracing the fresh bite with his tongue. You whine for him, every needy desire on the tip of your tongue. He grabs your hip to hold you still against his chest and fucks his fingers into you hard and fast. Your teeth rip into the couch cushions as you scream through the rush of orgasm. It tears through you, bursts from you, your skin heats until you feel like you'll melt. Everything tightens and shatters, and you see stars as your eyes roll back.

You reach behind you to grab his wrist, desperate to stop the movement of his hand. Fuck that's wet.

"This isn't too much for you meine herz," König tells you, the first thing he's said since getting his hands on you. Which is fine, he doesn't have to say anything, all he needs to do is,

"Take your fucking pants off." You hiss, clawing at his belt.

You nearly jump off his lap to avoid being thrown off it with how quickly he stands.

[simonsrileyhusband]

❤️ hihi! i don’t know if you’ve written this before, but what about Simon helping FtM reader after top surgery? picking them up when they’re finally good to go home, helping them eat, move around, things like that. i’m getting my top surgery soon and i’m mad nervous abt it, so i may or may not be channeling this here LMAO

ty!!! -🥩🦌

omg! congrats on your surgery, i hope you are doing fine.

simon is very delicate with you, very. he acts like you are the finest piece of china potery and so fragile that a soft movement will brake you. thats because he is afraid, he doesnt want you to be in pain or have an accident, so he does everything around the house.

the laundry? dont worry, he already did it. you need a drink? he already has a bottle of water, orange juice and a soda in hand, which one do you want? does your feet hurt? don't worry, he went to grab the lotion to give you a massage.

simon doesnt let you move if he doesnt think is necesary and that includes walking. he picks you up and carries you around. he even helps you brush your theet because "the movement of your arm cound mess with your stitches."

"lovie, are you sleeping?" he mumbles, pooking your arm softly. you hum a bit sleepy. "sorry love, its just weird that you sleep... tilted..." he pouts and kisses your hand, because he cant sleep without touching you, but for your safety he cant hug you.

once your scars are healed and you are fully recovered simon has a fixation with your bare chest and scars. he loves to trace them and just stare at them. he gives little kisses around them and whispers soft praises. "so pretty... you look so handsome my love."

[thebigbadbatswife]

The Softest Touch

Pairing(s) - Bruce Wayne x F!Reader

Summary - “Can I touch you?” It’s such a simple question and yet it has the Dark Knight melting down to the core.

Warnings - Implied sexual harrasment, Canon-typical violence, Angst, Injuries, Hopeful ending. (If I missed anything, lmk!)

A/N - A bit of a different take on Bruce than what I typically write. Maybe it's because I've been in more of an angsty mood than fluffy/smutty recently, but, anyway, hope you all enjoy! 💜

Word Count - 784

Despite his reputation, Bruce hates being touched. It all started after that night in the alley. People hugging him and patting his back, touches that he never asked for or wanted. People constantly invading his personal space. And the older he got, the worse it became. Hands touching him where he doesn’t want them to, but having to play into it to keep his image up to stop anyone from finding out how he actually spends his nights. It’s not like anyone could ever believe a playboy of his status would ever truly hate the feeling of hands on his body anyway.

His nights aren’t much better. Blow after blow being dealt to his body, pain radiating across every inch. Fists, bats, crowbars, bullets and explosions. The latter leaving him dazed. The ground rushing to meet him far more than it should for any one person. The smell of smoke caught in his nose and the sounds of people suffering filling his ears, along with a high pitched ringing, as he perches upon some rubble, slowly gathering his bearings so that he can move on and straight into the next fight.

“Can I touch you?” The question is so simple and asked so softly that it catches him completely off guard.

How long has it been since someone actually asked him if it was okay to touch him? Hell, has anyone ever asked him? In truth, with the blood that runs through his veins and the name he carries, the way the vultures watch him, waiting to tear him apart and that nightmare he lived in the alley, he has never really had a choice in much of anything. And in situations where he thought he did, all he has are memories of someone he thought he could trust taking what they wanted from him and leaving him to deal with the aftermath. 

Yet, here you are. Asking him if you can touch him. Offering him a choice, something he’s almost certain he’s never had before. 

He eyes you for a moment, swallowing thickly, before finally nodding as he doesn’t trust his voice. He watches you closely as your gloved fingers come up to cup his face, your eyes completely focused on the gash along his jawline. You handle him with such care as you move his head upwards to get a better look, it would be easy to think that he’s made of the finest china instead of a hardened vigilante. 

It leaves a warmth blooming in his chest that he knows for sure that he’s never felt it before. It almost has him wanting to lean into your touch. Almost. 

You pull away to rummage through your kit, pulling out some alcohol, gauze and a large bandaid. “Sorry, but this is going to sting.” You’re so sweet thinking that the stinging from some alcohol cleaning his wound will cause him more pain or discomfort than the world has already given to him. Far too sweet for him.

Fuck. He has to look away from you lest his suit becomes even more uncomfortable than it already is. Not that you would even be able to tell. It’s insanity that just the smallest bit of kindness has him feeling like this. It leaves him wondering if he’s been drugged again. Throughout the years he has gone through so much. Shot, stabbed, poisoned, drugged, his back broken and his heart ripped out multiple times. Yet your careful and gentle touch has impacted him far more than any of those other blows ever could. 

You’re being so careful with him. Treating him like he’s actually worth something. 

He wonders what his life might have been like if you had crossed paths with him earlier. What kind of man he might have become. Before he came back to an empty manor, a hastily written letter and an abandoned diamond ring. Before he damned and chained himself to a hell of his own making. Would he have been a better man? A good man, like his father? A doctor instead of a vigilante stuck in this perpetual cycle of violence he’s cursed himself with? 

Would he be someone who is actually deserving of your kindness and care? 

He doesn’t know and he knows that he never will know. What ifs are a bad thing to dwell upon, but he knows one thing. It’s a feeling deep within his gut. He would have still found you. He still would have met your soft touch. Drawn towards you like a moth is drawn towards a flame. He would still feel like an honourable and good man beneath your touch.

And he only has one question for you.

“What’s your name?”

[tangylemonade]

Friends w/ Benefits 

Jeonghan x afab reader  18+ MINORS DNI (istg 🫵🏾 ಠ_ಠ if I catch you)

Literally just wrote this lol and it's not actually proofread (I looked over it once). Maybe 1k I need to go to bed but I wanted to write so here I am (btw thank you anon for the suggestion 😊) It's basically just smut with dialog and a bit of angst I guess

The buzz of your doorbell was unexpected but not surprising. You knew Jeonghan had gotten off of work around this time and on particularly stressful days he seemed to find himself at your door holding a bottle of wine waiting for you to open up.

“And he's back...” you said jokingly, as you opened the door and turned back into your kitchen.

“Treat me kindly, I bear gifts.” he retorted as he kicked off his shoes and shut the door.

“I was just about to eat dinner. You hungry?”

“I could eat.”

Jeonghan followed you into the kitchen, opening the cabinet right away and taking out the wine glasses.

“Mhhhh…that smells good.” he dipped his finger into the sauce you were simmering and popped it into his mouth. “Needs a tad more salt.”

“Gross.” you said swatting him away but still adding a pinch of salt and stirring the dinner that was always far too much for only you.

You served you both and sat down at the table.

“Ohh, I see you've brought out your finest China madam.” Jeonghan said as he picked up the plastic spoon you placed next to his paper plate.

“Fuck off. Are you gonna wash the dishes?”

All he did was laugh his little gremlin laugh and take a bite.

“This is delicious. I'm glad I came at the last minute and saved your dinner from disaster.”

“I think you're dehydrated darling; this is a bit too salty.”

“It tastes perfect to me.” He said with a shrug. “This wine tastes like shit though.”

“There really is no better pairing.” you said with a laugh.

“Agreed.”

Once dinner was done you put the pots in your refrigerator and threw out the dishes.

“And clean.” you said flopping down on the couch and putting your feet on Jeonghan’s lap.

“I'm gonna go shower. Wanna join me?” Jeonghan asked as he stretched and got up.

You nodded and followed him into the bathroom ripping off your clothes and tossing them in your hamper. Jeonghan followed suit, except he purposely ignored the hamper step, and turned on the shower, hopping in right away.

“Seriously? The hamper is right there.”

You rolled your eyes and put his things in your hamper which now had just as many of his clothes as yours.

“Jeonghan, you're gonna have to start paying some of my water bill if you keep this up.”

You stepped into the shower to find him slowly stroking his erection as the hot water ran through his long hair.

“Good god you couldn't wait.”

“You were taking so long.”

“Picking up your clothes.”

“Whatever. Get over here.”

He grabbed your hand and pulled you towards him under the water. Your soft lips bounced into his as his hands ran along your ass and thighs. Running your hands through his hair you grabbed a handful and tugged, pulling a moan from his hungry lips. Dropping your hands down to his cock you stroked him adding a little squeeze just to feel the falter in his kisses along your neck.

“You’re really sensitive today.”

“Long day.” Jeonghan said before pushing you up against the shower wall.

His fingers found your clit and he returned that favor with a pinch that had you almost slip.

“Wait.” you said breathlessly as you stopped his hand. “Sit down, I wanna ride you.”

Jeonghan happily complied as he sat back in the tub of the shower and looked up at your body.

He could stare at you like that forever. 

In the dim light of the bathroom your body looked heavenly as the water patted on your skin. 

You lowered yourself onto him, your pussy lips laying on his throbbing cock and making it twitch in frustration. Looking down into his eyes you drove him crazy as you sinfully moved your hips and dragged your wet pussy up and down his shaft. Jeonghan’s hands traveled up and down your body as he squeezed at your breast, his thumb and index playing and squeezing your nipple.

“Fuck.” Jeonghan breathed out as your heat continued to glide against him. “Let me fill you baby.”

You lifted your hips as he reached down and guided himself into you, your walls naturally sucking him in with greed.

Jeonghan's hands that once again sought purchase on your breast were met with yours as you pinned them above his head and leaned in to capture his lips. Nipping and sucking you marveled at the quickness in which Jeonghan’s fair skin began to show signs of your obsession.

Greedily you rocked your hips, your moans syncing with his and bouncing loudly off the bathroom walls.

“So good....” you moaned.

Your eyes fluttered open and closed as you anchored yourself against Jeonghan’s chest and picked up your pace.

But Jeonghan's eyes watched you. He watched your body move with sensual fluidity as you pulled more pleasure out of him than anyone else ever could. He watched your flushed face through the steam of the shower as your eyebrows crinkled in pleasure. He swallowed every one of your kisses as you languidly laid them against his open mouth.

The shower water patterned off of your hot bodies as they rocked together chasing the high of the moment.

Jeonghan took in your every quirk and your every expression as the feeling of you and watching your pleasure drove him over the edge. You were already pulsing in hot waves around him and that was all he needed. 

Jeonghan held you close as he thrusted into you a few more times before his own orgasm shot from him in fiery pleasure. He leaned back and looked up at you once again as you dazedly looked up at the ceiling and caught your breath. 

The water and sweat trickled down your neck to your collarbone, along your soft mounds, and off your nipples onto Jeonghan’s body as he drank in your afterglow.

Too soon you rose from off of him chuckling at Jeonghan as he continued to lay down in the tub. Your and his juices were still dripping down your thigh and glistening on his cock. 

Jeonghan still made no effort to move so you put on a little show for him in sensual jest-fullness as you sudsed up and washed off, his eyes unwaveringly watching you. Laughing you stepped out of the shower and wrapped the towel around your body.

“Seriously Jeonghan, I'm gonna send you my water bill this month. Don't stay in there too long.”

With that you were out of the bathroom shutting the door behind you. Jeonghan let out a breath before rising tiredly from the tub. He felt that way after every fuck. Beyond please and very exhausted in so many ways. 

He finished showering before drying off and getting dressed

Jeonghan walked into your room, your his towel over his head as he shook it around to dry his hair.

“Move over.”

“Jeonghan… you know how I feel about cuddling.”

He threw his wet towel at you and rolled his eyes. “Who wants to cuddle with you?”

You tossed the towel back at him before rolling over and giving him some room.

You laid there in his shirt, so soft and warm as you drew your favorite cold and distancing line.

“Whatever dude, just stay on your side.”

He had a side in your bed that he'd lose the moment he crossed. Jeonghan shook his head at the absurdity before flopping down next to you and slipping under the covers, pulling more towards him.

Jeonghan smiled as he felt your foot on his back, kicking against him and pulling your covers back.

“Nice try buddy but you forget who's boss.”

“Well, it was worth a shot.” Jeonghan said before releasing the extra blanket that he didn't even need.

How could he forget who was boss when everything here followed your terms of engagement. But then again, Jeonghan agreed so who was he to complain?

“Listen Jeonghan.” you said after the first night something like this had happened. “You'll always be my best friend but we're adults so that doesn't mean we can't enjoy each other in uh… more ways if we want.”

Jeonghan agreed without a second thought.

“Friends,” he said with a smile. 

“With benefits?” 

Jeonghan shook the hand you were holding out to him. 

At the time it seemed like an excellent idea to him who only wanted to feel your body wrapped around him once more. Anything to have a part of you who was still too broken to give anything whole.

But now that his side of your bed was so cold he wasn't so sure anymore. 

He laid watching your back as your shoulder peacefully rose and fell.

“Friends.” he whispers to himself before rolling over.

MY MASTERLIST

[fear-is-truth]

Hi i dont know if requests are open or not feel free to ignore this if you are busy!

I was wondering if you could do Evans with an autistic reader? You have the best writing ever and am sure whatever you write will be amazing

I receptly got diagnosed with autism and am starting to get used to it but the hardest part of all haves been finding people who accepts me this way or finding representation and i thought it would be comforting to read your writing about something like this

Have a good days and take care!♡

⋆𐙚 ₊ the evans x autistic reader .ᐟ

ft. tate langdon ‧ kit walker ‧ frat!kyle spencer ‧ james patrick march ‧ cult leader!kai anderson ‧ peter maximoff ‧ colin zabel ‧ warren lipka

a/n: enjoy, pookie !!

⟢ 𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐃𝐎𝐍.

tate would rely on how you explain your experiences and base his reactions on that. If you mention sensory sensitivities, he’d attempt to avoid triggers—but sometimes he fucks up.

he would appreciate your bluntness or literal way of speaking. especially when you’re talking about morbid stuff.

if you have hyperfixations or special interests, tate would listen to you super intently, because he loves seeing you passionate about something.

if anyone belittled you or made ignorant comments, tate wouldn’t even hesitate to lash out (verbally or worse) in your defense.

⟢ 𝐊𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑.

he would approach your autism with patience and a strong desire to learn how to support you better.

he would genuinely value the way you see the world, often marveling at your unique insights or the connections you make. “i never would’ve thought of it that way. that’s incredible.”

kit would happily adapt to your routines or help you stick to them. if you liked having breakfast at the exact same time every day, he’d join you.

if you ever feel self-conscious about your traits, kit would be the first to remind you that they make you who you are and that he adore every part of you.

he’d be great at recognizing when you’re overwhelmed or anxious.

would fully support your interests, even if they’re niche or kinda obscure.

⟢ pre death .ᐟ 𝐊𝐘𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑.

kyle would never see your autism as a challenge; instead, he’d see it as part of what made you special. he would be endlessly supportive and sweet.

when you had a meltdown, kyle would stay super calm and be there for you in any way you needed. he’d hold you if you wanted or just sit nearby.

if anyone judged you or made rude comments, he would be the first to defend you.

he’d think your stimming was adorable. he’d play with your fidget toys or pick up new ones when he saw them in stores.

if you struggled with social interactions, kyle would subtly guide you without making you feel embarrassed. later in private, he’d quietly explain someone’s tone if it confused you.

if you were overwhelmed by sensory input, he would guide you to a quiet place or shield you from crowds.

⟢ 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇.

james is a stickler for his own routines but would seamlessly incorporate yours. if you needed structure, he’d find ways to create schedules that align with both your needs.

he would literally, in his pretentious fake brahms accent, tell you that he finds your mind “simply fascinating.”

being detail-oriented, he would quickly notice if certain stimuli upset you. the perfect lighting, temperature, or ambiance tailored to your liking.

if you liked eating the same thing every day, he’d have mrs evers serve it on the finest china, him saying, “consistency, my dear, is the backbone of sophistication.”

⟢ cult leader .ᐟ 𝐊𝐀𝐈 𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍.

kai would scoff at the label, dismissing it as just another way society tries to put people in boxes. he’d say something condescending like, “you’re not autistic; you’re just you. stop letting woke leftists try to define you.”

but deep down, he’d be fascinated by the way your mind works. even though your honesty and blunt nature would annoy him, especially if it challenged his authority or poked holes in his ideas.

if you had a special interest or hyperfixation, kai would find a way to exploit it. he’d definitely rope you into doing something for him.

he would be visibly irritated with any stimming behaviours you had, like rocking or fidgeting. he’d snap at you, “can you stop that? it’s distracting.” over time, he might learn to tolerate it—or not.

during one of your sensory overloads or meltdowns, he’d get visibly frustrated, telling you that, “you need to get your shit together.” but eventually, kai would just leave you alone to work through it.

would intentionally push you into situations that he knows make you uncomfortable, framing it as a way to “toughen you up.”

⟢ 𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐗𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐅𝐅.

peter would absolutely adore every aspect of you, including your autism. he’d constantly remind you how fascinating your mind is.

if you had a hyperfixation, peter would dive right into it with you. whether it was a niche video game, a tv show fandom, or collecting random objects, he’d get so into it just to make you happy. he’d joke, “so, when do i get to be the world’s second-best expert on this? after you, of course.”

peter wouldn’t be fazed by your bluntness or honesty—in fact, he’d find it super relatable because he’s just as blunt as you. “finally, someone who just tells it like it is. you’re my kinda person.”

if anyone mocked or misunderstood you, peter would use his superspeed to tie their shoelaces together or give them a wedgie.

⟢ 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐍 𝐙𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐋.

whatever you were hyperfocused on, colin would be your biggest fan. whether it was a niche topic or a hobby, he’d ask questions and letting you infodump. if it was something like a favorite tv show fandom, he’d take the time to binge every season and try to impress you with his knowledge.

colin would pay attention to the little things that made you comfortable and surprise you with them. for instance if you liked soft fabrics or weighted blankets, he’d go the extra mile to find them for you.

⟢ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐊𝐀.

warren might occasionally fuck up and say the wrong thing, especially if he didn’t fully grasp your sensory needs. but he’d sincerely apologise and try to make it up to you.

he would get a kick out of your bluntness, especially since he’s not exactly a fan of sugarcoating himself.

disclaimer: i did a lil research on autism but i’m still not totally sure if i got it right >.<

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[kisseobie]

Hard hours🤭🤭

I’d love to read any of your thoughts about the members being more submissive. Headcannons, a MtL, drabbles, whatever rly!!

I love your writing so so much im so glad someone is writing for soulseob now<3

p1harmony as subs

pairings: ot6 p1harmony x reader

genre: nsfw (mdni)

a/n: soooo glad i’m getting some sub piwon asks because i haven’t explored it enough .. i consider myself a switch leaning submissive so it’s natural for me to write dom piwon but i dabble in the sub piwon fantasy as well mwahahaha

𓇼 keeho

sooo whiny and needy. although he’s playful in nature, i don’t really think keeho would be as bratty as a sub as most may assume. in fact, i think he would be pretty happy to comply with your demands, whether you’re treating him like the finest of china, or defiling him like a bitch in heat. he prefers to be degraded and treated like a slut, but is always eager to give you sloppy kisses while you fuck your fingers into his hole. loves to be slapped on his face and spat on, he’s just so dirty when he’s in subspace. aftercare is super important with him though, the contrast makes him dizzy but fills his heart up with warmth and comfort. isn’t very mouthy in terms of dirty talk, but does moan very high pitched, to the point where you sometimes have to clasp a hand atop his mouth to shut him up. keeho is also a big fan of toys as well—a true size queen in my head, fucks himself with his dildos to prepare for the eventual pounding you give him with your strap-on <333

𓇼 theo

on the opposite end of keeho, theo is an absolute brat in bed. doesn’t comply with your orders, defies your every command with a smirk, like it’s the funniest thing in the world. in reality, he just wants to be punished, wants to be overstimulated to the point where he can’t remember his own name. when yangie slips into subspace, it lasts for hours, not that you would ever complain when he’s so fun to play with. your boyfriend is a munch, so he’ll spend an eternity kitty licking at your cunt and leaving his weeping cock aching and untouched. you’d offer to help him, but his brattiness forces you to be oh so mean to him, rutting your pussy against his face, not allowing him to breathe several seconds at a time. it all just makes more blood rush to his cock, and soon he’ll be begging and dropping the bratty act, pleading for you to please just touch him :(

𓇼 jiung

a bit shy every time he subs, but that doesn’t mean he’s not excited! ji is just so pretty, you can’t help but worship his body and praise him like he’s the most angelic thing on the planet (he is!). jiung particularly loves when you blindfold him, the deprivation of the sight of what you plan to do to him builds up a strange bubbly feeling in his tummy. isn’t a big fan of pegging, personally he’s not the type to bask in the soreness that’ll surely burden him the following morning. despite his distaste for pegging, he’s not entirely opposed to you exploring his hole, encourages it even, when your fucking your tongue into the tight concave. jiung isn’t too vocal, but his little gasps, paired with the slight wobble of his lips when you do something particularly pleasurable, is enough to signal to you just how much your boyfriend loves to be treated like the pretty princess he is

𓇼 intak

not a brat, not incredibly docile, but a secret third thing… seriously though, intak’s approach to being submissive has you dazed and confused at times. he’s so incredibly pliant in certain situations, but squirms so damn much at other times that you mistake his natural bodily reactions as defiance. don’t punish him for pulling away please! it makes him a bit sad :( he’s just so sensitive, sometimes the constant assault of your fingers prodding at his hole and pinching his nipples is just too much for his pretty little body :( if you call him anything like “good boy” or “pup” he’s drooling, and if he had a tail, it would most definitely be wagging. intak really loves to fuck his cock into you, but all the power lies in your hands. tell him to slow down and he’s slowing the fuck down.. it’s funny how you have him wrapped around your finger. is very loud in bed, babbles a lottttt lol

𓇼 soul

so slutty bro.. he’s so willing to take anything you want to give him. breath play? he’s expecting your hand around his throat in t-minus ten seconds. you wanna tie him up? he might already know a thing or two about shibari. he’s just so excited to be the center of attention, loves your praises of his body, loves being humiliated equally as much. i think he’s the biggest fan amongst the members of edging, sho finds it so sexy that you’re in total control of his climax, feels lightheaded when you curl your fingers tightly around his tip as a make-shift cockring because you know he can’t hold it in without it :(( oh and he fully expects to be pegged, even sends you the sluttiest pictures of his fingers fucking into his hole when you’re stuck at work—just to let you know that he’s prepped himself for you :O

𓇼 jongseob

i think sub seob comes out in a very vulnerable way… he just naturally falls into subspace when he’s feeling unconfident or needy. really really loves to hear your praises every time you pop your mouth off of his cock when you’re worshipping his dick. whines so pathetically when you pull off of him suddenly, but thanks the lord above when you replace your lips with your cunt. i think he might possibly be the most pliant and obedient of the six. it takes a lot of experimenting with him for jongseob to figure out just what he likes when he’s subbing, so be patient with him. i think he’d love to be pegged every once in a while, especially if he’s a bit tipsy lol.. overall is just a good boy who wants to feel loved </3

a/n: i haven’t been beta reading anything i’ve posted tonight because i’m too lazy but i’ll come back later to do that and fix any grammatical errors if there are any lol

taglist: @woozixo @hearts4chanhee @kyokopi @astro-doll-the-star @soobiary @kyaaramello @t3ssamoodboard @angelcbf @idontknow-1s-world @vivienne-sim @elissasimp @imjustayapper @ihatewreckingballmains @sosaverse @seobing @www90kitsch @khfviq @barbiekh86t @bbyjjunie @taeyangi @fullsunstrawberry @jihnyah @intheemptymirror @watamotee33 @dreamer1299 @jixnnsie @wonootnoot @yukx-x047 @sundancearchives @chuuswifereal @seisyiss @fishsquishh @sunnyyangie

© kisseobie, please do not repost my writing!

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

[anakinellie]

what’s the smell? m.r || amortentia with… mattheo riddle

the faint scent of dried blood. you're not too sure how he manages, but you have yet to see mattheo completely bloodless. maybe it's on his knuckle, or on his nose, maybe it's days after a fight. fights he would begin and end to defend his friends, or defend you. he was a fighter as much as a lover (although only you knew how much of a lover he truly was). mattheo was loyal to a fault, a little of blood meant nothing in order to defend his loved ones' honor. specially yours. he would bleed and draw blood for you, and so he would tell you every time.

the taste of cherry sweets, only making his kisses more addicting. mattheo had a sweet tooth, it wasn't a secret to any of you. the boys would often tease him for it. as much as he acted big and scary, he would end up the day begging pansy for her secretly stashed cherry flavored gum. he wouldn't admit to it, but his love for the fruit's sweetness began with you and your enticing cherry flavored lip balm the first time you had kissed him in the darkness of the black lake.

it's the lingering smell of cigarettes smoke he leaves behind to haunt you. it's on his hands when he cups your face delicately, like you're the finest china he has ever seen and one wrong move would break you. on his clothes, when he offers you his tunic, cause merlin forbids you get sick in his presence. it's on his tongue when he kisses you like a desperate man, always leaving you wanting more, but nothing compared to his craving of you.

[kafkaeya]

chained - part one

character: wriothesley

request: Wriothesley x Prisoner reader 😏This kind of enemies or poles opposing each other, but in secret they love each other but do not dare to confess because of their pride or status, I like to imagine the tense and charged atmosphere they make together.

tw: restraints (reader is chained in solitary confinement)

an: this had to be multiple parts! enemies to loves can't be a one part job. so... i hope this tides you all over until part two <33

only the occasional clinking of your chains broke the prolonged silence, as you sat cross-legged on the floor. you had just met your fate: what seemed like eternity in the fortress of meropide, with the first week in solitary confinement until your risk assessment was completed. the floor was cold, cobblestone pinching your skin as you wriggled about in search of comfort, yet instead all the writhing did was make your muscles tense and your body ache.

wriothesley was standing on the other side of the iron bars of solitary confinement, sizing you up with his arms crossed.

“sulking, still?” he asked, voice smooth and conversational, almost taunting you – thus cutting you deeply, and completely rubbing you the wrong way.

you opted to stay silent, instead tilting your head with a wolfish curve to your lips. you had a thousand insults on the tip of your tongue, but for once your mind spoke sense to you: be silent; wait it out; don’t prolong your time in here.

“you know,” wriothesley continued, leaning on the hatch to your cell with arms either side of the window, “i’ve been doing this job long enough to know the difference between relenting and stubbornness. you aren’t relenting, are you?”

once again, you thought silence was wise.

“how… irritating. here i was, hoping you’d provide some entertainment.”

“sorry to disappoint,” you finally spoke up. “i’m actually rather boring.”

“you’re not boring,” he retorted, “in fact, i find you rather infuriating. infuriating is never boring.”

“i’m flattered.”

wriothesley turned around, facing the guard in charge of observing you for the duration of your stay in solitary. “bring my finest cups, and the tea on the top shelf.”

the guard departed, leaving the two of you alone.

“it’s rare i offer tea to a prisoner here,” wriothesley turned his attention back to you. “would you like some?”

“let me guess: you’ve put some kind of sleeping potion in there, to bore you by sending me to sleep.”

“never. i daren’t taint my beloved rare leaves with any nonsense like that. it is good, old-fashioned tea. rooibos. caffeine-free, so it won’t wake you up, and supposedly good for your cholesterol – although i never factor that into the enjoyment aspect.”

you tilt your head, leaning back against the wall – as best you can, with the chains keeping you to the floor. “you some kind of expert?”

“if you consider this expert knowledge, then sure.”

“how sad.”

“says the one in solitary.”

your chains rattle as he grinds your metaphorical gears. “how i wish i could punch your stupid little face.”

wriothesley shrugged, “you’ll get your chance to do that next week, little one.”

the endearment on the end was bitter, full of distaste and resentment – like a green tea.

the guard brought in two cups of tea, filled to the brim with leaves and hot water. the leaves were in a strainer, confined like yourself, yet their flavour oozing into the white china cups. wriothesley opened your cell door, and placed one cup down right beside you. then, he took his taunting one step further – by sitting in the bed you could not reach and sipping his tea idly to himself.

“you’re getting too close to the wolf’s den,” you gibe in return.

“i’ve never been afraid of wolves, although… right now, i’m looking at a pup.”

the urge to pour his piping-hot tea all over his smarmy face was high, yet you opted to do the right thing – however tedious – and you sipped the tea as tidily as you could.

“thoughts?”

“tastes like… dodgy water.” you replied.

“hmm…”

a moment’s silence passed by the two of you.

wriothesley looked on at you while you sipped your tea, despite your prior comment. “i reckon all this rage, this anger, is a front. one big act, like a pantomime.”

you scoffed, “you don’t know me, duke.”

“i will, pup.”

he sipped his tea, finishing the cup, before repeating, “i will”.

you, too, finished your tea. he picked up the cup without hesitation, and walked straight for the cell door.

“i will check in on you tomorrow. no, there is no sleeping potion in the tea, yet it is the caffeine-free teas that make you the weariest. sleep well, on the cobblestone.”

and with that, the cell door slammed.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

it was safe to say that wriothesley’s tone was a lot more casual, somehow, the following day. his demeanour was calmer, shoulders drooped and wrists clicking in his hands as he popped his bones.

“did you sleep well?” he asked, already anticipating your answer.

you spit back, “what do you think?”

“that’s what i thought… although, you look better than yesterday. still miserable, but better. i'll put it down to the tea”

you scoffed, rattling your chains, “miserable? yes. furious? also, yes.”

“oh, i anticipated that too. those in solitary are not entitled to meals from the cafeteria, however i thought i would be generous – as it’s your first full day, and all.”

at that, your stomach rumbled – fresh bread, jam, and butter greeting you as the cell door opened once more. wriothesley, like with the tea, placed the box of food in front of you – and sat down on your bed. his legs were spread, his elbows resting on his knees and one hand propping up his head as he watched you try to butter your bread.

“here,” he said, moving to kneel down in front of you. “i’ll take pity on you and do it myself.”

without waiting for a reply, wriothesley picked up the valberry jam and the butter, and started spreading them over your bread. then, his taunting nature returning: he picked up the bread, folded it in two, and moved it towards your face.

“open wide.”

you spat on the ground.

“fine, no food for you at all.”

reluctantly, you opened your mouth. smirking, wriothesley fed you the bread. it took a few moments for one of you to speak again: it was him, once again in jest.

“thank you so much, duke. your kindness is so—"

you cut him off. “go rot.”

“how stubborn.”

“better than rolling over, obeying, and thanking you like a good little pup.”

wriothesley’s smirk evaporated. “you think this is about me wanting you to obey?”

a tilt of your head once more. “i think this is about a power trip.”

wriothesley stood up, kicking the empty food box away. “power trip…”

then, he lifted your chain, rattling it with passion and aggravation. “you think i like my prisoners in here? in chains? with no free will, no autonomy? you think i get off on this?”

all you did was nod.

wriothesley scoffed, and abandoned your cell until the next day.

[ssa-dado]

8 - Law & Self-Awareness

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader

Genre: angst, sad stuff, fluff

Summary: Hotch and Peter confront a tense situation as they rush to Riverhead, where the unsub is expected to strike next, but conflict arises when Peter wants to warn you, fearing for your safety. Hotch insists on following procedure, though both men struggle with personal fears and the ethics of their choices. At Riverhead, you visit your father's grave, reflecting on past decisions and realizations. In a quiet moment later, surrounded by your team, you come to understand a truth you've been trying to avoid.

Warnings: Grief, CM case

Word Count: 6,1k

Dado's Corner: Here's the sister chapter of the previous one! The narration is still inspired by Suits' 2×08. Funny how Aaron making physical contact with you occupies 57 paragraphs while Peter doing the same thing ½ of a line. Also this is probably the first chapter in which Y/N's physical appearance is mentioned sooo let me know if you imagined her in this way (it's still very vague don’t worry). That said, bring out your finest china, we're celebrating!

previous chapter ; masterlist

“Riverhead,” Hotch said, his voice taut, barely containing the urgency that trembled beneath the surface. “He’s going there next.”

Peter’s eyes widened in disbelief, his immediate reaction pure instinct as he reached for his phone, fingers fumbling desperately to find your contact. “We have to call her. She needs to know -”

Hotch’s hand instinctively shot out, grabbing Peter’s arm with a force that matched the fear hiding behind his calm eyes. “No, we can’t. If we warn her, we risk tipping the unsub off, causing chaos, panic. It’s not just about her, Peter. It’s about every person in Riverhead. We have to handle this the right way.”

Peter wrenched his arm free, his anger flaring like gasoline igniting in the confined space of the SUV. “You’re seriously going to let her walk right into this? She’s in danger, Hotch! And you’re just going to sit back and do nothing?”

Hotch’s expression remained steely, but there was a tremor beneath the surface, a vulnerability he kept tightly under wraps. “This isn’t just about her. There are hundreds of people in Riverhead who could be at risk. If we alert her and it gets out, we’re not just endangering her, we’re endangering everyone. It’s not fair to warn one person and not the others. You can’t let your feelings dictate your decisions.”

Peter’s laugh was sharp and scornful, tinged with a mix of disbelief and fury. “Feelings? Don’t talk to me about feelings, Hotch. You’re always hiding behind the rules, always standing on the side of the law like it’s some infallible god. But this isn’t just about following orders - this is real, and she’s walking into something she can’t see coming.”

Hotch’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles going white as the weight of Peter’s words crashed over him, each one a blow to the carefully built walls he’d constructed around himself.

He shot Peter a side glance, his voice simmering with restrained anger. “I’m not doing this because it’s easy, I’m doing it because it’s the only way to stop this from getting worse. If we tip him off, if she gets scared and acts on it, it could cause a domino effect that puts even more lives at risk. We have to be smarter than that.”

Peter turned to fully face Hotch, the intensity between them palpable, a charged current of frustration and fear. “You keep talking about doing the job, about being ‘smart,’ but what about being human? What about doing the right thing for once instead of hiding behind procedure? What happens if something happens to her, Hotch? Are you really going to look me in the eye and say we did the right thing?”

Hotch’s expression tightened, his jaw clenched as he fought to keep his emotions in check. He kept repeating the same words, not so much to convince Peter, but to anchor himself - to hold onto some semblance of control as much as possible. “This isn’t just about one person, Peter,” he said, his voice a bit strained with the weight of the impossible choice they faced.

“We can’t put her safety above everyone else’s. It’s not how we do things. If this gets out, if people panic, we lose everything. That’s exactly what the unsub wants: to see us unravel, to watch us make decisions with our hearts instead of our heads. We can’t give him that satisfaction. We can’t let him win.”

Peter scoffed, his anger bubbling over as he stepped closer, his eyes blazing with frustration. His voice rose, each word laced with a mix of fury and desperation. “You’re always so damn obsessed with the law, Hotch,” he snapped, his breath coming faster, as if the force of his emotions was too much to contain. “But what about ethics? What about the people behind the profiles, behind all these damn statistics and protocols? This isn’t just a case file, it’s about real people.”

Peter’s tone shifted as he tried to reach Hotch, his next words softening, laced with an urgent plea. “You know Y/N. I know Y/N. And if she were standing here, right now, listening to us argue like this, she wouldn’t hesitate for a second. She’d probably quote some damn philosopher she loves - Sophocles or whoever - about how there’s more to this than just sticking to the rules. She’d remind us that the law isn’t the only thing that matters, that there’s a fine line between what’s legal and what’s just.”

Peter’s voice cracked slightly, his gaze searching Hotch’s for any flicker of understanding. “She’d be talking about the balance between law and justice, that sometimes what’s right and what’s legal are not the same thing. And you know she’d be right, Hotch. We’re not just here to enforce rules. We’re here to protect people. And if you can’t see that, then maybe you’ve lost sight of why we’re doing this in the first place.”

Hotch felt something inside him twitch at Peter’s words, a sharp, painful pull that he couldn’t ignore. The truth of what Peter was saying sliced through his defenses like a scalpel, precise and unyielding. It was as if Peter’s voice had reached into the guarded, unspoken places of his mind, exposing the doubts he worked so hard to bury. He could almost hear your voice echoing in his head, clear and insistent, the way it always was when you spoke up during team meetings.

You had a way of looking at cases that was different from anyone else, this deep, almost philosophical curiosity that refused to settle for the easy answers.

You’d sit there, arms crossed, eyes locked in that thoughtful gaze, and when you spoke, you’d often pose questions that hung in the air, challenging every assumption. You never just saw suspects and victims; you saw people - complex, flawed, human. You’d remind them all that beyond the evidence, beyond the profiles, there were lives and stories that couldn’t be reduced to simple binaries of right and wrong.

Hotch could almost picture you now, leaning forward in your seat, the intensity in your eyes as you dissected every aspect of the case. You were never satisfied with just the black-and-white - you thrived in the gray, constantly urging the team to see beyond the rigid lines of the law.

At how you’d quote philosophers, pull wisdom from literature, history, anything to make your point. It wasn’t about showing off. it was about challenging everyone, especially him, to rethink their approach. You’d often remind him that justice wasn’t just about following rules, it was about finding the truth that lay hidden beneath the surface, about doing what was right, even when it wasn’t easy.

Peter’s words hit Hotch hard because they echoed what you would’ve said, what you always said. It was that relentless pursuit of justice, that constant push to go beyond the status quo, that made you such an irreplaceable part of the team. And right now, it was tearing Hotch apart, knowing that you weren’t there to challenge him, to remind him of the bigger picture, to make him question the very things that had once felt so certain.

Peter noticed the crack in Hotch’s demeanor, and he pressed on, his voice softer now but no less intense. “But none of that matters if she doesn’t make it out alive, does it? You can stand here all day talking about rules and duty, but if she’s gone, who’s going to remind us of the difference? The dead can’t debate law and ethics, Hotch. Only the living can do that.”

Hotch’s breath caught in his throat, Peter’s words hitting him with a force that felt physical, like a punch to the gut. He could feel the fear that had been clawing at his insides since the moment he realized you were in danger, the fear he had been trying so desperately to keep at bay.

The fear of losing you - of never getting the chance to understand what this thing between you could be, of failing to protect the one person who had managed to breach the walls he’d spent years building.

“You think I don’t know that?” Hotch’s voice broke, his control slipping for just a moment. “You think I don’t feel it? But it’s not just about what we want, it’s about what we have to do. You want to protect her, and so do I. But again, this isn’t just about saving her. It’s about stopping him. It’s about making sure no one else gets hurt because we let our guard down.”

Peter’s gaze softened, but his frustration remained, an unresolved tension simmering between them. “Maybe you’re right, Hotch. Maybe we have to think about everyone. But that doesn’t mean you’re not scared. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean you don’t care. So stop pretending you’re above it all, because you’re not. You’re just as terrified as the rest of us.”

Hotch looked away, his eyes fixed on the road ahead as he tried to regain his composure. Peter was right, he was terrified, but not just for you. He was terrified of what it would mean if he let this get personal, if he let himself care too much and it all fell apart. But as they hurtled toward Riverhead, the truth of Peter’s words lingered, gnawing at the edges of his resolve.

He couldn’t afford to lose focus, not now. But the fear, the aching fear that he was making the wrong call, that he was letting his own walls cost him something irreplaceable, was a battle he was losing with every mile closer they got to you.

And in the silence that followed, the weight of those unspoken fears hung heavy between them, a fragile truce bound only by their shared desperation to protect you, no matter the cost.

---

You had finally arrived at Riverhead.

The cemetery was quiet, shrouded in a stillness that felt heavy with the weight of unspoken memories. Each step toward your father’s grave felt deliberate, slow, as if every movement pulled at something deep within you that you hadn’t touched in years. You hadn’t been here since the funeral, and the sight of his name etched into the stone brought a fresh wave of emotions you weren’t prepared for: grief, anger, regret, all tangled up in the memories you had tried to bury.

You knelt beside his grave, your fingers trembling slightly as you placed a single orchid on the cold, gray headstone, the delicate petals were a sharp contrast to the starkness of the granite. Orchids had always reminded you of the first case you ever worked on at the BAU - a case that had tested every part of you, that had made you realize what it truly meant to carry the weight of other people’s pain.

The purple flower was a fitting tribute, an unspoken apology for not being there when he had needed you most, for choosing a path that had pulled you away from his final moments.

You traced the letters of his name, feeling the grooves under your fingertips, and memories of the past surged forward, unbidden. You thought back to the day you told your parents you wanted to become a profiler - a day that, despite all the tension that often simmered between you, had stood out as one of the rare moments of connection between you and your father.

It had been a rainy Sunday afternoon, the kind that kept everyone indoors and made the house feel smaller, the air thick with the unspoken tensions that seemed to linger in every corner. You had been pacing your bedroom, rehearsing the words over and over in front of your mirror, heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and dread. Telling them that you wanted to be a profiler felt like exposing a piece of yourself that you had kept hidden, especially from them.

You finally gathered the courage, walking down the stairs with resolve. Your father was at the dining table, surrounded by stacks of paperwork, his glasses perched on his nose as he scribbled notes on a report.

He was always working, always lost in something that seemed more important than anything happening in the room. It was his way: work was sacred, an escape, and a duty that defined him. You often resented it, the way he would get so caught up that he’d miss dinners, birthdays, the small moments that you had yearned for as a child. But there were also times when you admired his dedication, his unspoken belief that what he was doing mattered.

Your mother was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with an efficiency that matched her exacting nature. She always seemed to be in motion, always doing, rarely resting. She was the professor, the academic who had spent her life studying the human mind, dissecting theories, and teaching students who idolized her. To her, intellect was the highest form of achievement, and anything less was a waste of potential.

You stood in the doorway, feeling the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in your chest, but you pushed forward, clearing your throat to catch their attention. “Mom, Dad… I need to talk to you about something.”

Your father glanced up first, pulling his glasses off and setting them on the table with a raised brow, his expression curious but calm. “What’s on your mind?”

You hesitated, glancing between them, searching for the right words. “I’ve decided what I want to do after graduation. I… I want to be a profiler. I want to join the FBI.”

The room fell silent, the only sound the steady chop of your mother’s knife against the cutting board. Your father’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t speak right away, just watched you, his gaze heavy with a mix of concern and something you couldn’t quite name. Your mother, however, set her knife down sharply, her brow furrowing as she turned to face you.

“A profiler?” she repeated, the disbelief clear in her voice. “Y/N, do you have any idea what that entails? You’re talking about diving into the minds of criminals, putting yourself in danger every day. This isn’t some classroom exercise, this is real life.”

You braced yourself, taking a deep breath. “I know what it means, Mom. I’ve thought about this for a long time. I don’t just want to study the human mind, I want to understand what happens when it breaks. I want to make a difference, to stop people from getting hurt.”

Your father remained quiet, but his gaze never left yours, absorbing every word. There was something in his eyes that told you he was listening, that he understood the weight of what you were saying.

“Do you really understand what you’re asking for?” your mother continued, her voice laced with frustration. “You’re brilliant, Y/N. You have so much potential. You could do anything: be a researcher, a professor. You’d be safe, you’d be respected. Why throw all that away to chase criminals?”

It stung, but you had expected her reaction. For as long as you could remember, your mother had pushed you toward her path, believing that academia was where you belonged. But as much as you respected her work, it had never felt right for you.

The endless theories, the dissection of literature studies in sterile classrooms, it all felt too detached, too far removed from the gritty reality of the world you wanted to understand. You wanted to do more than just read about what broke people; you wanted to see it, to confront it, to fight against it.

“I don’t want to be safe, Mom,” you said, your voice firmer now, carrying the weight of all the arguments you’d been rehearsing for months. “I want to be out there. I want to see the truth of what people can become, the good and the bad. I can’t just sit back and write papers about it.”

Your mother’s mouth tightened, the disappointment etched in her features, but your father leaned back in his chair, studying you with a quiet intensity. He cleared his throat, and you braced yourself for the inevitable disapproval. But when he finally spoke, his voice was low, contemplative, carrying the weight of his own unspoken struggles.

“If this is really what you want,” he said slowly, choosing each word with care, “then you have my support.” He paused, glancing at your mother before returning his focus to you. “Work is… sacred. It’s a calling, not just a job. I know I haven’t always been there, and I know you’ve seen the toll it can take. But I also know the satisfaction that comes from doing something that matters, something you believe in.”

Your heart swelled, caught off guard by the unexpected warmth in his words. It was one of the few times you’d felt truly seen by him, and the memory of that moment, of his quiet nod of approval, had stayed with you ever since.

Your mother turned away, picking up the knife and resuming her chopping, her movements more forceful now. “Just don’t come crying to me when it all falls apart,” she muttered, the bitterness barely hidden in her tone. “There’s no glory in risking your life. There’s no reward for choosing danger over reason.”

But you held on to your father’s words, his silent validation, and in that moment, it had been enough. Even if he wasn’t always present, even if his own work often kept him away, he had understood the drive that pulled you toward the unknown, the need to carve your own path, even if it led you away from everything they had envisioned for you.

As you stood at his grave now, the weight of that decision felt heavier than ever. You had chosen this life, knowing full well the risks, knowing the sacrifices that would come with it. And yet, in this quiet moment, you couldn’t help but wonder if he would still be proud, if he would still see the value in the path you had chosen.

You stood up, brushing the dirt from your knees, feeling the rough earth cling stubbornly to your clothes. As you turned to leave, something caught your eye near the cemetery entrance: a line of sleek, black SUVs parked in formation.

Your heart skipped a beat as you recognized the unmistakable outlines of the BAU vehicles, their dark, imposing presence impossible to miss. But what truly made your breath hitch was the sight of Hotch. Even from this distance, you recognized him instantly, not by his face, but by his unmistakable posture, the way he stood with that rigid, commanding presence, his stance was familiar, almost comforting in its certainty, a figure you’d know anywhere, even among a crowd.

It was only after a moment that your gaze shifted and you noticed Peter beside him, standing just as tensely, their expressions hard and urgent. Hotch’s sharp, focused demeanor contrasted with Peter’s more animated stance, but there was no mistaking the tension that hung between them, like a taut wire ready to snap.

Despite the distance, you could feel the weight of their conversation, the urgency that radiated from them both, and it made your pulse quicken. You hesitated, watching them, knowing that whatever they were discussing, it was serious, and you were about to be pulled right into the heart of it.

A surge of fear shot through you as you rushed toward them, your heart pounding with a mix of dread and confusion. As you got closer, you could see the strain etched across Hotch’s face, the urgency in his eyes that told you something was terribly wrong.

“Hotch?” you called out, breathless, searching his expression for answers. “What’s going on?”

Hotch turned to you, his eyes meeting yours, and for a split second, you saw the raw fear that he usually kept buried deep within. His jaw tightened, the weight of everything he couldn’t say hanging heavily between you, and you knew, whatever this was, it was bigger than any case you had ever faced.

Hotch’s normally composed demeanor was strained, his eyes revealing the fear he had been fighting to suppress all day. Peter, usually quick with a grin, looked torn between anger and the overwhelming relief of seeing you safe.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, breathless from both the sudden sprint and the weight of dread that settled in your chest. “Why are you here in Riverhead?”

Hotch exchanged a quick glance with Peter, an unspoken conversation passing between them before he turned back to you, his voice steady but edged with urgency. “The unsub’s been leaving clues at each crime scene, riddles hinting at his next target. The latest message… it mentioned Riverhead.” He paused, the gravity of his words sinking in, his gaze unwavering. “We think he’s planning his next attack here.”

Your stomach dropped, the weight of his revelation hitting you like a physical blow. The peaceful cemetery, a place you had come to seek closure and quiet, suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable, and fraught with danger. You looked around, the once comforting silence now suffocating as you imagined the unsub watching, waiting. You turned back to Hotch, trying to make sense of the layers of fear and determination that flickered across his face, unspoken and raw.

Peter, attempting to cut through the tension that gripped you all, forced a smile, though his voice was tight with the day’s unrelenting strain. “Luckily, Hotch cracked the code before anything happened. Sharp as ever, saved us all a lot of grief.”

You barely registered Peter’s words, his voice a distant murmur against the roar of your own thoughts. Guilt and self-reproach surged within you, crashing over like relentless waves. You were supposed to be better than this: your instincts, your training, everything you had learned should have protected you. But you had been caught off guard, blindsided by a danger that crept too close, too fast. Your eyes flicked back to the gravestones, their cold, silent presence now bearing witness to your vulnerability, each one a haunting reminder of how close you’d come.

Hotch, always attuned to the unspoken, stepped closer, sensing the spiral of self-doubt threatening to consume you. His hand found your shoulder, his touch firm and grounding, pulling you back from the edge of your own unraveling. The contact was startling at first, his touch warmer and steadier than you expected, cutting through the noise in your head like a lifeline.

It was a simple gesture, but it felt like an anchor in the storm, grounding you when everything else seemed to be slipping away. Hotch's touch was rare, almost unheard of, he was always so composed with his steady presence always keeping his distance, preferring words over gestures. But this, the solid weight of his hand on your shoulder, meant more than he could ever say.

His touch was warm, steady, a silent assurance that seeped past your defenses. It wasn’t just a comforting squeeze; it was Hotch’s way of saying what he rarely ever said aloud: I’ve got you. You’re safe. We’re here, and we’re not going anywhere.

The unspoken promise behind that touch cut through the chaos and fear, wrapping around you like a shield against the overwhelming feeling of guilt and self-doubt. It was as if he was lending you his strength, even for just a heartbeat, and in that moment, it was enough to keep you from completely falling apart.

“We’ve alerted local law enforcement,” Hotch said, his voice lower, more gentle now, the usual edge softened as if he was speaking directly to the turmoil inside you. “They’re securing the area. The unsub’s been targeting public spaces to create fear and chaos, but we won’t let him succeed. Not here, not today.” His words were calm, steady, the kind of reassurance that cut through the panic clawing at your chest.

You nodded, the knot in your throat tightening painfully as you fought to swallow the rising wave of emotion. The breath you drew felt unsteady, like the first real one you’d managed in minutes, but even as you tried to gather yourself, the stark reality of how close you’d come to danger clung to you, gnawing at the edges of your composure.

Hotch’s hand stayed firm on your shoulder, grounding you in a way that was both comforting and unnerving. It was a constant, quiet reminder of your vulnerability, a presence that made it impossible to hide from the fear you so often buried deep.

Desperate to shift the mood, you forced a strained smile, hoping to lighten the heaviness in the air. “Since we’re all here… how about we grab dinner?” you suggested, your voice wavering but hopeful. “There’s this local spot I used to go to when I was a kid. It’s nothing fancy, just this cozy little place, but it’s familiar, and… I could really use some company that feels like home right now.”

Hotch’s hand lingered for a moment longer, as if he was reluctant to let go, his touch a silent reassurance that even in your most vulnerable moments, he was right there with you. The smallest flicker of understanding passed between you, unspoken but felt deeply, as if he knew exactly why you needed this, why you needed them.

Peter’s grin was immediate, though it was tinged with the lingering shadows of what could have been. He clapped his hands together, trying to inject some much-needed levity into the moment. “Now you’re speaking my language. Food, friends, and hopefully a strong drink or two. What do you say, Hotch?”

Hotch hesitated, his mind still half-entangled in the day’s events and the potential dangers that loomed. But then he looked at you, really looked - saw the exhaustion etched into your features, the traces of pain you’d been carrying since your father’s grave. He knew this wasn’t just about a meal; it was about finding a moment of respite, about reconnecting when the job tore so much away.

“I’ll join you,” Hotch said quietly, his voice softer than you’d expected. “But I’ll catch up in a bit. There’s something I need to take care of first.”

You watched him turn back toward the cemetery, his figure fading into the sea of gravestones. It wasn’t like Hotch to delay; he was always so determined, so single-minded when it came to the job. But you sensed this wasn’t just about duty, it was about finding his own moment of stillness in a day that had been anything but.

Peter placed a comforting hand on your back, his touch gentle and familiar, guiding you toward the restaurant with an ease that belied the day’s tension. The small, local eatery was exactly as you remembered: warm, inviting, with the kind of worn wooden tables that made you feel instantly at home. The faint hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the soft glow of the streetlights filtering through the windows, all of it wrapped around you like a comforting embrace.

Rossi and Gideon joined soon after, settling in with the kind of camaraderie that came only from years of shared battles and late-night stakeouts. There was a tiredness in all of you, a bone-deep fatigue that only people in your line of work truly understood, but for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t just about the job - it was about being together, about finding solace in each other’s presence.

Rossi leaned back in his chair, his eyes twinkling with a blend of mischief and genuine curiosity. “So, thesis, antithesis, synthesis,” he mused, his voice carrying that familiar hint of amusement. “Come on, kid. Educate us. What’s that all about in these weird Hegelian stuff you always talk about?”

You chuckled softly, grateful for the distraction. “It’s about the constant cycle of conflict and resolution. The synthesis - the so-called solution - doesn’t end the cycle; it just becomes the new thesis. Life is always evolving, always challenging us to adapt. Every resolution leads to a new conflict, a new question. It’s never really over.”

Rossi nodded thoughtfully, his gaze flicking between you and the empty seat that Hotch had yet to fill. “Sounds like something we could all stand to remember,” he said, his tone softer now, more reflective.

Meanwhile, back at the cemetery, Hotch stood alone in front of your father’s grave, the silence hanging heavy and profound. The orchid you had placed there was still fresh, its vibrant petals striking against the cold, unyielding stone.

Hotch understood the significance of that flower, the way it linked back to the very first case you’d ever worked at the BAU, the first time your paths had crossed.

It was the unsub’s calling card, a chilling detail that had haunted the case and marked the start of your journey in this unforgiving world. It was the first time he saw you not just as another agent but as someone uniquely brilliant, fiercely determined, and carrying a burden that ran deeper than anyone could have guessed.

Hotch knelt slowly, the memories of that first meeting mingling with the present, a bittersweet reminder of how far you both had come. He thought of you standing in that briefing room, so composed and meticulous, always immaculate in your appearance.

Your hair, always perfectly straightened, framing your face in a precise way that left nothing to chance. You wore black almost every day, the monochrome only broken by subtle variations in texture: sleek, tailored fabrics that gave the faintest hint of depth but no room for distraction.

He knew it wasn’t just a preference; it was armor, a way to command respect in a field that often doubted you because of your youth. On days when you felt a little lighter, a little braver, you’d occasionally allow yourself the small rebellion of a white shirt, a glimpse of something softer beneath the carefully crafted exterior.

He remembered noticing the deliberate choices you made, how you often wore masculine, tailored suits, sometimes even a three-piece, to project authority and mask the youth that others might use against you.

You were always striving to appear older, tougher, less vulnerable, less feminine, crafting an image that demanded to be taken seriously. And while it worked on most, Hotch never needed the sharp suits, the perfectly placed hair, or the carefully chosen colors to see your worth.

From the beginning, he had valued your insights, your sharp mind, and your relentless drive. He had never looked down on you, never needed you to prove yourself in ways that others did. He saw past the façade to the strength and vulnerability beneath, and he respected you all the more for it.

As he placed the small replica of the Guggenheim Museum beside the orchid, the gesture felt heavy with meaning - a tribute not only to your father but also to the history you both carried.

It was an offering of understanding, a quiet acknowledgment of everything unsaid between you. As Hotch lingered by the grave, he couldn’t help but think of the first day he met you, how determined you were to make your mark, and how, even then, he had been grateful for your presence. You challenged him in ways that reminded him of why he had started this journey, refusing to let the darkness win.

For a moment, Hotch allowed himself to feel it all: the gratitude for having met you, the fear of losing those he cared about, and the faint, fragile hope that maybe, he could find a way to let someone in without losing himself completely. As he stood there, surrounded by the quiet of the cemetery, he found a flicker of peace, a rare, delicate solace that, for the first time in years, made him feel less alone.

When Hotch finally made his way to the restaurant, the sight that greeted him was a balm to his weary soul. You were seated at the table, laughing at something Peter had said, your eyes sparkling with a light that had been missing all day. Rossi and Gideon were leaning back, more at ease than he had seen them in a long time, their expressions softened in a way that only moments like this could bring out - rare and fleeting for men who had spent their lives chasing shadows. It was a simple scene, but it was enough.

It was a reminder of why Hotch fought so hard, why he kept pushing forward, even when the weight of his responsibilities felt like too much to bear.

Without hesitation, Hotch took the seat directly across from you, mirroring the way your desks were always arranged back at the office.

It was deliberate, instinctual - a configuration that felt as natural as breathing. There was comfort in this alignment, in the way his eyes always found yours first, no matter how hectic the day had been. It wasn’t just about proximity; it was about connection.

Sitting across from you allowed him to see you fully, to catch those fleeting, unguarded moments when the professional masks slipped, and the real you shone through.

It was the angle that felt right, where he could read the subtle shifts in your expression, the small smiles that hinted at unspoken thoughts. It was where he could feel the bond between you most acutely, a silent acknowledgment of the trust and understanding that had grown over time.

You looked up as Hotch sat down, your gaze meeting his with a warmth that said more than words ever could. In that moment, the noise of the restaurant faded away, leaving only the quiet understanding that had always existed between you.

It was as if the world had shrunk to just the two of you, anchored by the familiar rhythm of shared space, the unspoken promises that bound you together. You had always understood each other in ways that transcended words - both driven by the same relentless need for justice, both carrying the weight of lives you couldn’t always save.

“I thought you’d never come, partner,” you greeted him, your voice carrying a mix of relief and something deeper, something that spoke to how much his presence truly mattered. It wasn’t just relief, it was comfort, knowing that he was here, that he always showed up, no matter what.

Hotch’s response was immediate, his voice softened with sincerity. “How could I miss this?”

The words were simple but carried so much more meaning. It wasn’t just a casual remark, not from him. It felt like a reaffirmation of something deeper, a silent promise that went beyond tonight.

It was a declaration that he was there, not just for this moment, but always. His presence was grounding, steady, the kind of anchor you hadn’t realized you needed until it was there.

As the night went on, you couldn’t help but reflect on how everything had unfolded - especially the train journey that had brought you to this point.

Or how the out-of-the-blue conversation with Rossi about Hegel’s thesis, antithesis, and synthesis now felt almost fated, as though the universe had nudged him to ask you once again – to make you acknowledge the truth you kept hidden within you.

Maybe the irony was the point: Hegel’s idea of the synthesis, the resolution that comes from the collision of opposing forces, was exactly where you found yourself.

The journey to self-awareness wasn’t linear; it was filled with contradictions, moments of doubt, and unexpected realizations.

Every step you had taken, every case, every sleepless night, now made sense, as if you had reached a vantage point from which you could see it all clearly for the first time.

It was like standing on the top of a mountain after a long, hard climb, finally able to look back at the winding path that had led you here.

And standing at that vantage point, you could see why you had been hesitant about the date with Peter, why something in you had resisted moving forward with him. It wasn’t because you didn’t care about him - it was because your heart had already chosen someone else.

The truth settled in gently, like a quiet revelation you had always known but hadn’t fully accepted until now.

It was Hotch.

It had always been Hotch.

The connection between you, the understanding, the trust that went deeper than words, it was more than just friendship or partnership.

You had admired him, respected him, but now you could see it for what it really was.

The reason you had hesitated, the reason you hadn’t been eager for anything else, was because the person you truly wanted was sitting right across from you.

You had a crush on Aaron Hotchner.

●

Extras: here are some pics of the Guggenheim Museum by Frank Lloyd Wright! It inspired me to write the case you read in "Thesis" and Aaron Hotchner to show his love support to Y/N in this chapter.