#giving presentations/lectures: also fine

[kvetchinglyneurotic]

why must i create a powerpoint? is not enough to stand at the front of the room and talk with nothing behind me as god intended?

[iamthepulta]

I need to decide on classes next semester. I really shouldn't take any, but I just found out that there's advanced petrology being offered along with mining legal structure. I also really really want to take Italian, and somehow I got it in my head to take any cuneiform/Babylonian/Mesopotamian classes if they're offered.

ಥ⁠╭⁠╮⁠ಥ I want to be three people... It's not fair...

[autism-corner]

go my amoebe

[colossrat]

Batman: Captain, you're hurt. Is there someone you want to get in touch with?

Well… Vic (cyborg) is already there, Barry and Diana too… who else is he friends with?

Constantine? Yes, but John doesn't like the league and will give him a hell of a lecture for getting hurt…

Harley? poison ivy? Batman wouldn't like to know they were friends. two-faces? oh- absolutely not.

Captain cold? No. Snart knows Billy, not Cap. And Batman wouldn't like that either. Maybe Barry would like…?

Freddy and Mary are probably sleeping right now…

Marvel: Can you… can you call the Fawcett zoo, sir? I have a friend who works there… I'd really like to see him right now. and say that I'm fine.

Bat makes the call, Billy asks for the phone and they chat for a while

Marvel on the phone: Oh, no, no… I'm high right now- Noo! its cus im right above the sky-- I'm fine, just space... But I think I'm also high on morphine yea, some opioids yes… no? Oh, I would love to! Yes. Uhm. The one next to… yes-- I know- i know you know, and you know, I know you know! Stop fishing. Yes, waits waits, buh-bye!! I'll see you soon. mwaaah and he gives the phone back to batman Marvel: Hey? Boss? My friend is coming to bring me some tea that I like, kay? to make me feel better. Don't be rude to him, he's called mister tawky tawny. Just stay cool, okay? Be cool…

And he drops his head on the pillow and falls asleep, snoring loudly

Nobody understands a thing and from what Batman researches, Tawky Tawny is a tiger from the zoo, and they think the captain was just delirious on morphine But not five minutes later, a bipedal tiger in a suit arrives at the watchtower via the Zeta Tubs using the captain's credentials. he carries a little madam's bag that is carrying a tea kit and some biscuits

Tawny presents himself as the gentleman he is with an education that would make Alfred blush, but he doesn't allow anyone to slow him down. He goes straight to the room where the captain is, because he can smell him maybe? The league doesn’t know for sure.

There, he takes a small table and a portable OVEN from Madame's tiny ass little bag and begins to make tea. to. make. tea. The second Tawny opens the cookie jar, Marvel wakes up to the sound and smell and starts crying with joy at seeing his best friend and familiar

he introduces him to the whole league while drinking tea and stuffing his mouth with cookies, fat tears streaming down his face and tawny just enjoys his friend's company and takes care of him, but he doesn't avoid giving a dirty look to anyone who decides to judge their friendship

Tawny, pretending to be hurt: I'm surprised by your surprise. Don't you talk about me, cap?

Marvel, afraid that he hurt the tiger's feelings: I do!!! I talk about u all the time, all the time!!! they know you are my best friend!!!

Superman: it's true! he speaks a lot and very highly of you, we just--

Barry: we thought you were crazy, bro! Tim was hacking the watchtower cameras at that time by coincidence, so in a matter of minutes Damian would be running there to see the bipedal tiger and ask to pet him and tell him everything he knows about tigers

[emo-batboy]

Things Battinson Totally Did During His First Year of University

Using Unhinged or Odd Things I Also Did as a College Freshman :D

Note: for this list, let’s believe Bruce was living in an (admittedly expensive and swanky) dorm because it is required for first-years, especially those entering at a young age, and Alfred told him he needed to make friends. Also yes I did every single thing on this list. I never claimed to be a role model

Bruce, to his TA: I’m so sorry I’m late to class. I gave blood a few hours ago and almost fainted on the way here, but it won’t happen again.

Signs up for a class called “Age of Dinosaurs” despite it not being required whatsoever and proceeds to work his entire schedule around it

Bruce: Your mental health is super important. If you think you should see the on-campus therapist, go see them. Friend: Fine. I’ll sign up for therapy if you sign up for therapy too. Bruce: Hold on-

Finds a loophole in his housing contract that allows him to get a pet frog, calls him kermit :)

Gets a second frog because Kermit was lonely, names it Constantine after Muppets Most Wanted, then realizes that they’re gay for each other. Wonders if the rainbow-colored rocks he got them triggered anything

Swings dramatically between calling Alfred every single day and ghosting him for weeks, cries when he realizes what he did

“Accidentally” joins the student body council, doesn’t know what he’s doing, gets re-elected anyway

Molds a dragon out of Laffy Taffy instead of doing his work

Bruce: *joins Honors, gets all A’s, takes the max amount of classes, has several minors, overachieves* Also Bruce: I’m a failure.

Breaks into a building after hours to study because NO ONE KNOWS HOW TO SHUT THE FUCK UP AT THE LIBRARY

Bruce: I will not get seasonal depression this year. Bruce: *gets real and seasonal depression that year*

Meticulously schedules his day with a color-coded planner because if he sits down for too long, the thoughts will consume him

Gives a presentation to his rhetoric class on how much he likes Spider-Man: Into the Spiderverse (it is 20 minutes long)

Successfully allocates funding from the student body council to pay for free feminine products in the dorms OUT OF SPITE because someone said it couldn't be done. fuck you, Andrew

Bruce: It is not an all-nighter if I go to sleep before my first class. Friend: It is 7:30am, the sun is in the sky, and your first class is at 12:30. Bruce: But I am getting sleep.

Refuses to go anywhere without his backpack because what if he needs three notebooks at once

Loses over 20 pounds because ✨stress✨ and scares the shit out of Alfred when he comes home for Thanksgiving

Argues with his TA over the one (1) question he got wrong on his Dinosaur exam

Bruce, calling Alfred: Hello father figure. How do I do taxes? Do I have to do them myself? Also, I think I’m having a panic attack.

Joins in on a charity arts-and-crafts project that gives kids books with matching activities made by volunteers, proceeds to commandeer the project because “it’s not color-blind friendly” and rewrites the instructions for everyone

Makes a murder wall

Goes to one (1) sports game and proceeds to leave in the first ten minutes because it’s way too loud wtf is wrong with people

Professor, addressing the lecture hall: I dare you to write an essay about these two sentences. Bruce: *writes an essay about six words, gets a 100, never even read the book*

Crawls into the ceiling for some alone time

Ghosts someone after a date because he’s too scared to tell them he didn’t know it was a date in the first place and now he feels bad

Classmate: How tf does he walk across campus that fast? I go in the same direction he does on my bike, and he’s always ahead of me. Bruce: *is gay sprinting to Dinosaur class*

Refuses to let others use his Favorite Pen TM

Constantly gets mistaken for a Grad Student because he is “so wise and mature” (bestie, that’s the autism)

Alfred: *casually mentions he got into a car accident through text* Bruce: *replies with a meme while hyperventilating because he doesn’t know what to do with that information??!*

Wears a suit to one of his finals

Regularly eats non-organic food for the first time in his life, proceeds to learn about several allergies Alfred forgot to mention he has

Writes “What is a Hot Pocket?” in calligraphy and proceeds to laugh his ass off alone in his dorm because he is so exhausted he’s reached the point of delusion

Locks himself out of his dorm right before class, frantically asks the floor group chat if someone can help, proceeds to tell the nice gay man on the floor who saved him “I love you” because his social skills have hit rock bottom

Makes a little music album display next to his desk for his favorite band (Nirvana) His friends call it a shrine, and they are technically correct

Has a blacklist of people he refuses to interact with because Reasons

Counselor: What do you want to do when you graduate? Bruce: *gestures vaguely*

Refuses to take the bus because there are people in there and he doesn’t like those

Loses one of his frogs, how tf did he do that, they’re fully aquatic, oh fuck, this is probably why they got rid of that loophole a year later because unbeknownst to Bruce, he accidentally started a frog revolution in the dorms, btw he SWEARS he did not mean to do that

Has two trash cans in his room: one for the Good Garbage, and one for the Bad Garbage. Only Bruce knows which is which

Bruce: *writes a creative piece about a ship’s final thoughts as it sinks, bringing its passengers down with it* TA: Absolutely lovely, Bruce, but are you okay?

Goes on Night Walks, keeps himself safe by maintaining a level 12 resting bitch face at all times

Earns the nickname “8th floor cryptid” after pacing the halls at 3am when it’s too cold for Night Walks (honestly tho how tf didn’t he get the nickname earlier?)

Bruce: Do you think a depressed person could do this? Bruce: *has a manic episode*

Okay that's all love you BYE

[felassan]

Lucanis and Crows snippets, under a cut due to spoilers.

How would Viago and Teia react to a Crow Rook being romantically involved with Lucanis? "Teia is going to plan the wedding, and insist that Viago give Rook away at the ceremony. Viago will sigh dramatically, lecture Rook about it, and then spend a week picking out the right gloves to wear." [source]

If Illario wasn't locked away, how would he react? "Under any circumstances, Illario would be upset since it's a whole lot of attention that's STILL not on him. He would definitely get drunk at the reception and tell the same two most embarrassing stories about Lucanis over and over until Viago knocked him out and put him upstairs." [source]

With Rook romancing Lucanis, is it possible that Spite could become affection or benevolence? "Spite's basic aspect is defiance. He can be more or less difficult depending on influence (rebellion vs. vindictiveness, etc), but at his core he's always going to be a spirit of "NOPE"" [source]

Lucanis' mother was the heir apparent to House Dellamorte [source]

Does Spite have any kind of feeling about Rook? "Spite is fond of Rook in his own Spite-like way. He and Lucanis agree on the point of trusting Rook over and above other people or themselves. He does go to Rook for help with Lucanis, after all." [source]

For the Lion King reference in Murder of Crows, Mary Kirby went to the cinematic animators and described it as Illario's "Scar at Pride Rock" scene [source]

User: "I cut Lucanis' hair and shaved his beard and I almost feel like I should apologise to him" / Mary Kirby: "Now he can't tell himself from Illario, and you've given them both a complex." [source]

Teia and Viago were half-written by Mary Kirby and half-written by Luke Kristjanson [source]

Lucanis likes his coffee black [source]

Would he judge your coffee order? "As long as it's not boiled, or instant coffee, or whatever that stuff from a can is, he's fine with it. Or at least, he will only judge you silently for it." [source]

What kind of treats does Lucanis like? "Sweet, because it goes better with his coffee. Savory, if somehow he is NOT drinking coffee at that moment." [source]

Lucanis grew his beard and long hair while in the Ossuary. "He hasn't exactly had a haircut in a while." [source, two].

Would Lucanis make Powerpoint presentations about jobs or to talk? "No, he doesn't want to talk to anyone, let alone explain things and present them. That's 300% an Illario thing. That man has a powerpoint to introduce his powerpoint about why you should listen to his powerpoint." [source]

"Lucanis would never be on social media. He'd be on YouTube watching videos of people restoring rusty cutlery with no dialogue until four in the morning." [source] Could he tell when content is manufactured? "Yes. And he gets upset and finds Bellara or Neve (whichever is unluckier) to rant about it." [source]

Lucanis' favorite stove burner? Right front [source]

"Spite doesn't have any concept of physical appearances. It looks the way Lucanis sees himself. Lucanis is never relaxed, even in casual wear." [source]

Along with Lucanis Mary Kirby also wrote Spite [source]

Mary Kirby wrote Illario, Luke Kristjanson wrote the Crow faction quests [source]

Lucanis' perfect date night? "I'm gonna be honest: There is a non-zero chance it would involve assassinating somebody and getting coffee, and I'm not entirely certain which would come first." [source]

Lucanis "has so much [trauma] to sort through, and he could really use some help. Like, a Marie Kondo level of help with that." [source]

What sparks joy for Lucanis? "Coffee, paella, wyverns, knives, REDACTED, book club, REDACTED, revenge..." [source]

Lucanis is older than Illario by a few months [source]

How did Spite feel watching Lucanis fumble after the near-kiss moment with Rook? "Confused. Spite, like most demons, doesn't really get emotions outside its domain. Not doing something that someone clearly wants you to do should make you happy! I mean, honestly, what's better than that, except maybe revenge?" [source]

Did Spite interact much with Manfred? "We wrote a bunch of interactions between them, though I have no idea how many made it in." [source]

Update:

What are the names of Lucanis' parents? / "I didn't give them names, and in the event that Lucanis comes back in a later game, I don't want to hand out info that might just get contradicted by his next writer. (If I don't answer a lore question for him, this is probably why. I don't want to write checks someone else has to cash.)" [source]

What is Mary's take on Spite's possible involvement or lack thereof in Rook and Lucanis' relationship? / "Honestly, I don't know, and that's a question his next writer might explore? Where do your pent-up feelings of frustration go when you're happy? What does an emotion like defiance even understand about love? (I think that's fun to think about, but your mileage may vary.)" [source]

[aryadelvich]

Summary : You’re a student in law at the university of Colombia in New York. It’s your last year. Professor Luigi Mangione teach in this university and you’re one of his student in cybersecurity course. He has a crush on you and asks you on a date.

Updated masterlist

— Columbia University —

You’re seated alone in the faculty lounge, your nerves quietly bubbling under the surface. Today, you were set to teach an introductory criminal law course for first year students. You could always recognize a young cohort when you saw one—still slightly clinging to their high school mentality. Despite your nerves, you were also eager. Law was your passion, and the opportunity to teach it felt like an honor. You often joked that professors were just professionals who loved hearing themselves talk about their favorite subject for hours on end.

You diligently prepared your handouts, reviewed your notes, and double-checked your presentation for typos. You were So engrossed in your task that you didn't notice someone sitting down next to you until his raspy voice broke your concentration.

"Good morning y/n” Luigi's curious tone startled you.

He was always so polite, never skipping the rituel of politeness.

You looked up, your heart skipping a beat. It was him. Again.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, a small, playful smile tugging at his lips.

You couldn't help but wonder what lay behind that constant smile of his. It was as if he were perpetually amused by something no one else could see.

"I'm preparing for the lecture I'm giving to the first-years," you replied, calmly.

"Oh, I see. Preparing? At the last minute?" he teased, his voice adopting a half-paternal, half-professorial tone, as though ready to scold you.

"No, I'm reviewing," you corrected him, emphasizing the word. "Making sure everything's in order."

He looked relieved. "Good. A lecture shouldn't be prepared overnight. Trust me, I know."

"Really? No way! I hadn't noticed at all," you shot back sarcastically.

He grinned but didn't relent. "If you want, I can help with your presentation."

"Oh, please, Professor Mangione, save me!" You mocked dramatically. "I'm in distress and in desperate need of your superior male brainpower!"

He was always up for helping others. Hero complex maybe. Luigi chuckled, bowing his head slightly in surrender.

"I get it. You don't want my help. Fine. But I'm free from 10 to 1 today, so I'll sit in on your lecture. You know, just to see how it goes."

"Are you sure?" You asked, a sly glint in your eye that didn't escape Luigi's notice. You were definitely plotting something, but his curiosity got the better of him.

From his backpack, Luigi pulled out a remote with a laser pointer and handed it to you.

"You'll need this. It's handy for switching slides."

You softened, smiling at the thoughtful gesture. "Thank you."

Noticing the time—9:50 a.m.—you gathered your materials and headed toward the assigned lecture hall for your three-hour session. Luigi followed a few steps behind.

As you entered the classroom, all eyes turned to you. It was common for those in the legal field to carry themselves with poise: immaculate attire, perfect posture, and an undeniable air of authority. Luigi quickly took a seat in the third row, his gaze never leaving you.

You approached the podium with confidence, connecting your laptop to the projector with effortless ease. Though students were still settling in and whispering among themselves, you exuded calm professionalism. Your eyes briefly met Luigi's, who wore his trademark smirk—half-mocking, half-amused.

You began in a steady voice:

"Good morning, everyone. I'm y/n y/s and today we'll dive into the foundations of criminal law. But first... let's break the ice with a question."

You paused, scanning the room before zeroing in on Luigi.

"Professor Mangione, since you've graciously decided to join us, maybe you'd like to enlighten us?"

Luigi, caught off guard but clearly entertained, straightened in his seat.

"Me?"

"Yes, you," you said with a mischievous smile. "Surely someone as brilliant as you already knows the answer."

You’re giggling inside, taking revenge from what he did to you. The students turned to look at him, curious about the unfolding interaction. He crossed his arms, leaning back with feigned contemplation.

"All right. Ask your question."

You didn't flinch, your smile widening slightly.

"Define 'criminal offense' in one concise sentence."

Luigi grinned awkwardly, eliciting a few quiet chuckles from the class. He could feel the challenge in your eyes. You were enjoying this. But instead of feeling trapped, he saw it as an opportunity to impress you.

"The criminal offense is..." He paused dramatically. "...an act or omission prohibited by law and punishable by a sanction."

You tilted your head, your smile triumphant.

"Not bad. But you forgot to mention that it must be defined by a legal provision. A crucial detail, Professor Mangione."

The students chuckled, appreciating the exchange. Luigi nodded, accepting the correction with good humor.

"You're right. My apologies, Professor y/s" he said with a submissive voice.

Throughout the lecture, you continued to engage the students, sparking debates and answering questions. But you couldn't resist circling back to Luigi, throwing him curveballs with hypothetical scenarios. He responded each time with a mix of humor and insight, keeping the atmosphere light and engaging.

Near the end of the session, you delivered your final jab.

"One last question for our special guest: Professor Mangione, in your opinion, what's the main difference between criminal law and a cybersecurity class?"

Without missing a beat, Luigi replied, his signature smirk in place:

"Easy. In cybersecurity, the goal is to avoid prison. In criminal law, you learn how to put others there."

The room erupted into laughter. You shook your head, amused but unwilling to let him have the last word.

"Well, I see a promising career in comedy if tech ever bores you."

As the class dispersed, Luigi approached the podium, hands in his pockets.

"Not bad, y/s. You really know how to hold a class's attention."

You packed up your things, smirking.

"Thanks. And you really know how to make a spectacle of yourself."

"I try my best to contribute to society," he said with mock seriousness.

You raised an eyebrow. "Admirable."

He looked at you, his tone softening.

"You need to stop complimenting me. I might start liking you more than I should."

You froze for a moment, unsure of his intent. Was he talking about friendship... or something more? He stepped closer, the distance between him and you shrinking as his gaze locked on yours.

"What?" You whispered, caught off guard.

"Are you free tomorrow evening?" he asked, his voice tinged with nervousness.

"Yes..."

"I'd like to take you somewhere. Would you say yes?"

"Is this... a date?" You asked, needing clarity.

He nodded with a shy smile on his face. "Yes."

For the first time, you blushed, your usual composure slipping.

"All right..."

Luigi's face lit up with his most genuine smile.

"Tomorrow, 7 p.m. I'll pick you up. What's your dorm?"

"John Jay, room 703."

"Got it. See you tomorrow."

You parted ways in silence, the tension lingering in the air. Once out of sight, Luigi exhaled deeply. He hadn't expected you to agree. His feelings for you were becoming too strong to ignore, and for once, he'd decided to take the leap.

You guys liked it ? Do you want me to write others stories of Luigi ?

[leviruthan]

could you maybe write the dorm leaders with a reader who is just like yashiro nene (tbhk)? :]

dorm leaders with a reader who is like yashiro nene -

who is clumsy, kind-hearted, a bit naive, romantic and dreamy (watched tbhk really long ago so just how I remember nene, only personality tbh appearance not mentioned)

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

riddle is so stressed by you 

you're the type of walking disaster who breaks rules without meaning to. but somehow he can’t bring himself to stay mad. i mean if you look at him with those wide pleading eyes what's he supposed to do

your tendency to trip over your own feet remind him of a less disciplined version of himself before he went full rulebook tyrant

you once tripped and spilled tea all over his notes. instead of yelling he just sighed and handed you a napkin then muttered "it’s fine. just… be more careful next time" you try to. at least. even though often showing failure. progress is progress..

thinks it's both admirable and idiotic how you’re always trying to see the good in people, even when they’re being total jerks

he tutors you because your grades are… let’s say a work in progress. he’s strict, but he blushes every time your hands brush while you're studying 

you leave little sticky notes with doodled hearts and "you’re doing great, riddle-senpai! :3" on his desk. he keeps them in a secret drawer

lowkey jealous when you gush about other things (like ace’s magic tricks or cater’s selfies) he wants to be the one you gush about. he’d rather die than admit it though 

you’re too trusting, and he’s constantly saving you from shady deals (aka azul) or grim’s and ace's bad ideas

"you can’t just give your lunch to a random student because they ‘looked hungry’!" (some savanaclaw student probably) he lectures then makes sure you get a proper meal afterwards 

secretly loves how you soften his edges. you once dragged him to a festival while he grumbled about frivolous distractions

he let you put a flower crown on his head. he wore it for the rest of the day on the festival, blushing every time you smiled at him

you’re in the heartslabyul garden, trying to help trim the rosebushes, but you’ve accidentally snipped a flower meant for the queen’s display

riddle’s face is redder than the roses as he marches over, rulebook practically manifesting in his hand

"y/n! rule 249 clearly states-!" he stops mid-sentence when you turn around, holding the ruined rose with a sheepish grin "i’m so sorry, riddle! i thought it looked lonely, so i… uh picked it for you?" you tuck the flower behind his ear, and his brain short-circuits

he’s torn between scolding you and melting into a puddle. "y-you can’t just… do that," he stammers, adjusting his dorm leader sash to hide his blush

you giggle and he swears his heart skips a beat. "i’ll make it up to you! tea party, just us? i will make you a strawberry tart too!" and unless you ask for trey's help it's not going to be good

VIL SCHOENHEIT

vil is your personal fairy godmother but the judgy kind

thinks you're cute but he’s also obsessed with "fixing" you.

he’s always adjusting your posture, critiquing your outfit or spritzing you with some fancy perfume because "a diamond in the rough still needs polish, darling"

you once called him pretty instead of handsome during a film club meeting. he didn’t speak to you for an hour, but you caught him smiling at his reflection later

you bring him homemade snacks (they’re a little lumpy, but you tried) he critiques the presentation but eats them anyway when no one’s looking

he’ll brush your hair back to check your makeup or hold your chin to inspect your skincare routine

you’re obsessed with romance novels, and vil catches you crying over one in the pomefiore lounge. he rolls his eyes but sits beside you, offering a silk handkerchief and a critique of the book’s plot. "if you must indulge in such drivel, at least pick something with substance," he says, but he’s secretly reading it later for research purposes obviously

he admires your optimism, though he’d never admit it because he believes you shouldn't always try to see the good it'll make you a target cause not everyone is nice

you’re always hyping him up, telling him he’s even more beautiful in person than on magicam. he smirks, but his heart does a little flip

he’ll adjust your scarf with a soft "you’re hopeless without me."

he lowkey loves your compliments, especially when you gush about his elegance. you’re his biggest fan, and he thrives on it

AZUL ASHENGROTTO

your naive nature makes you an easy target for his contracts, but somehow you keep slipping through his schemes with your pure luck

though, he’s fascinated by your sincerity. you’ll gush about his new menu at the mostro lounge. he’s doesn't know what he should do between exploiting you someway and just basking in your praise

he teaches you to swim better after you nearly drown in a gym class. he’s smug about it. but he’s also gentle

you leave little seashell trinkets on his desk as thank you gifts. he acts like they’re tacky but displays them proudly in his office

he gets flustered when you call him pretty or hug him impulsively. "y/n, this is a professional establishment!"

you broke a teacup in mostro lounge? that’s a favor you owe him now. but hey look at him with your puppy eyes. give him a hug. you're out of trouble 

you’re always daydreaming about some grand romance and azul sees an opportunity. he’ll casually mention how he could "make all your dreams come true" with a sly grin. but then you blush and say, "you already do," he drops whatever he was holding currently

your clumsiness is a problem in the mostro lounge. you’ve broken at least three glasses trying to help out, but azul can’t bring himself to ban you

instead, he assigns you to customer relations (aka smiling at people), which you’re scarily good at

when you once tripped with mocktails crashing to the floor. azul appears in a flash, "y/n, do you know how much those cost?!" he starts

but you’re already on the floor, apologizing profusely with those big, teary eyes

azul just sighs, kneeling to help you clean up. "honestly, you’re more trouble than you’re worth"

but he also knows couldn't trade you for anything 

KALIM AL-ASIM

kalim thinks you’re the best

your cheerful vibe matches his energy perfectly. and he’s always dragging you into his wild plans

you're the best duo. and jamil's worst nightmare 

you both get into trouble constantly of course 

he loves how you never judge his over-the-top ideas. you just nod and go along, even if you end up covered in glitter or lost in the desert

he’s super affectionate, always hugging you or throwing an arm around your shoulders

you make him flower crowns that may not look that great. but he just loves you even tried. and he wears them proudly even during important housewarden meetings 

he gets starry-eyed when you talk about your dreams or blush at his compliments. he’s already planning y(our) future wedding in his head

you're a hopeless romantic and he wants to make EVERY single dream of yours come true. believes he is the prince in your fairytale 

once told him you dreamed of a prince sweeping you off your feet, and he immediately started planning a grand gesture

you’re too trusting, and kalim’s too nice and kind. together you're disastrous. so you both get scammed sometimes

he’s always giving you little gifts. flowers, jewelry, or just shiny rocks he found- because "they reminded me of you!" you’re his favorite person to spoil

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

leona calls you herbivore like everyone else, but with you, it’s almost affectionate. your clumsy attempts to cheer him up amuse him to no end

you tripped and fell into his nap spot, landing right on his chest. he grumbled but didn’t push you off. just smirked and went back to sleep

he likes how you don’t tiptoe around him like others. you’ll plop down next to him and ramble about your day, and he’ll pretend to ignore you (but he’s listening)

you bring him snacks and he eats them without comment, secretly pleased you thought of him 

he’s protective in his own way. someone teases you? they’re getting a glare that could kill. and if they keep it up it will kill

"don’t do anything stupid while I am gone" is a line he often uses, ruffling your hair

you once said you thought he’d make a great king because you were talking about fairytales. and he snorted. "tch, too much work" but he’s lowkey pleased 

you’re too trusting, and it makes him protective. you once wandered into a shady part of the savanaclaw dorm, and leona dragged you out before you could get roped into a dumb bet. "stick with me, or you’re gonna get eaten alive," he growls. but who would dare?

it's not unusual for you to trip and leona catches you before you faceplant. "can you he any less careful." he grumbles

you make him cute little things (flower bracelets and stuff) he says why would you even do that but when you put it on him he's not resisting and doesn't take it off

IDIA SHROUD

"thinks a lot" "doesn't think" duo

you’re both disasters in your own ways. him with his social anxiety you with your clumsiness 

you bond over late-night gaming sessions. you’re terrible at the controls. but he’s patient, muttering tips while blushing at how close you’re sitting

he’s crushing hard but would rather jump into a virtual void than confess. still he’ll fix your phone or hack your game to give you extra lives. that's flirting if you understand

you watch romance animes together and debate on best ships and troupes

ortho floats in and sighs "please touch grass, both of you."

your trusting nature terrifies him. you once clicked a sketchy link on magicam because it promised free rare gacha pulls, and idia had save your account "you’re gonna give me a heart attack!" he whines, but he’s secretly proud of his save

you once hugged him after he fixed your phone, and he blue-screened for a solid minute

you’re in idia’s room, sprawled on the floor. trying to beat a boss in his favorite game. you’re mashing buttons like a gremlin, and he’s wincing

 "y/n, you’re gonna break my controller," he mutters and he leans over, guiding your hands with his own. his hair flickers pink as he realizes how close he is

"u-uh, just… press this one," he stammers. you grin, oblivious to his panic. and cheer happily when you finally win

"idia, you’re a genius!" you tackle-hug him, and he freezes, muttering, “i-it’s just a game…” but he doesn’t push you away

you’re crying over a scene, and idia’s trying to act cool but his hair’s flickering pink

"this is so lame," he mumbles. but when you lean against his shoulder, sniffling, he freezes. "y-you okay?" he stammers. you smile up at with teary-eyes

"you’d totally be the cool loner guy in this anime, idia. too bad he's the second lead. i would have chosen you." his hair flares bright red, and he mumbles, "shut up… but...you’d be the cute main character." you both hide your faces, blushing like idiots in love

MALLEUS DRACONIA

malleus is adores you

you're just so adorable. clumsy, bubbly, innocent, small. your bright energy is like a spark in his shadowy world and he’s quietly smitten

he loves your stories about everyday life. you’ll ramble about dropping your lunch or forgetting homework, and he listens like it’s in the bible 

he takes you on midnight walks through diasomnias gardens, showing you glowing flowers or teaching you about gargoyles. you’re too awestruck to notice his lingering gazes

you make him a lumpy friendship bracelet (it barely fits his wrist and looks not appealing enough) he wears it anyway, and sebek yells about "disrespect!" until malleus silences him

he’s possessive in a quiet way. if someone else is hogging your attention, his eyes darken and suddenly there’s a storm brewing outside 

you’re not afraid of him (mostly because you’re too oblivious and uh idiotic) and he treasures how you treat him like just another guy

your romantic daydreams make him curious. you once described your ideal date. stargazing, a picnic, maybe a dance. and malleus took mental notes. a week later, he invited you to a "casual" nighttime stroll that was suspiciously close to your dream date

you’re too trusting, and it worries him. you once followed a mysterious light in the woods, thinking it was pretty, and malleus had to pull you back before you wandered into some kind trap

"child of man, you must be more cautious," he says while already casting protective spells around you. although if you're with him he'll let you do anything because he's confident he can protect you

you’re in the diasomnia courtyard, trying to dance with malleus after you heard he’s never tried it. you’re terrible, stepping on his toes, but he just chuckles cause, like your little feet could hurt him. he guides you with a hand on your waist

[4m1rz]

Young Luv

NMIXX Sullyoon x Male Reader

Kink: multiple creampies, class sex, mommy kink

Special thanks to @lustspren for giving me the idea for the title of the fic. Also thanks to @mode-lfy for beta-read it as well being the inspiration of the fic.

It was a normal day in PJY University. All of the students have done the middle term exam and are waiting to know how they did and what their results will be. This also includes Han Yechan, despite him being nervous about it.

Han Yechan is in the final year of university. He is well known to be the top athlete in the university as being the notorious basketball player of the university. He is always getting picked for basketball matches, whether it's against other universities or the nationals. This even happens in his final year as he is still being scouted for those matches.

However, due to him being too active with his basketball matches, his grades were always at the lowest. This causes him to always get scolded by the lecturers that teach his classes. Some lecturers even threaten him by saying that they will report it to the coach of the basketball team, hoping that he'll get dropped off from the team.

This makes him scared a bit despite the fact that he believes that the basketball coach would not be removing his name from the team. Unfortunately, no matter how he tries, he is not able to catch up with the learnings due to his hectic schedule. This does make him a bit frustrated and almost given up as he does not want to repeat his semesters.

This time however, he is confident that he will pass the exam. The reason; he had an amazing tutor that helped him to study back the subjects he's been missing for such a long time. His tutor also tries the best to make him focus on his study and gives advice.

Back to the present time, Yechan is at the entrance of his classroom. As he opens the door, he notices there are some students already in the classroom. However, there is one girl who takes all of his attention which is the class representative, Seol Yoona or mostly known as Sullyoon.

Sullyoon is the daughter of the university director, Seol Taehyun. She is always being talked about all around the university because of her beauty. However, there's also some students and lecturers in the university who talk badly about her.

The first reason is about how inappropriate she wears on the university campus. This can be seen with how short her skirt is and the unnecessary accessory all over her uniform. She is also being talked badly about because she always gets good scores in exams as if she bribes the lecturers that teach her by using his dad as a threat. Nonetheless, there is still someone that believes how she actually is.

Back to the present time, Yechan walks towards where Sullyoon is sitting and greets her. “Hey there Yoona, how are you doing today?” He says. Despite almost all of the students and lecturers calling her Sullyoon, only Yechan prefers to call her by her real name. He believes that her real name suits her and sounds prettier, which makes him constantly calling her that.

This makes her look at him with her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Hey Yechan. I'm doing just fine. Are you excited to know your result for this exam?” She chimes which makes him giggle and scratch his head awkwardly. “I sup-pose… Well then, I'm going to my seat.” He exclaims, to which she nods and lets him go to his seat.

Several minutes later, everyone else was already in the class and the lecturer, Ms Song Jimin had finally arrived. She teaches the subject a bit first before announcing that she'll be giving the results of the exam. This causes some students to be nervous yet excited at the same time.

And with that, it is time to announce the grades for every student in the class, starting from the lowest and progressively moving to the highest. After Ms Song reveals each student's result, they go to the front and take the exam paper. However, most of the students in the class feel weird as Yechan’s name hasn't been called as they know that he always has the lowest grade.

“Now, I'll announce the ones getting the highest grades for the exam. This time, there's two people in this class that achieve the highest grades...” The lecturer says and then continues. “The first person is, as always, our class representative, Sullyoon.” She says to which it is followed with an applause from everyone in the class. Then, Sullyoon goes to the front and takes her graded exam paper before Ms Song says to her, “Keep up the good work.”

“For the second person, oh wow… I didn't expect this would happen. It's Han Yechan.” She says it with a very surprised yet excited tone. This results in all of the students in the class to be shocked and engage in small chats amongst each other as this incident hasn't happened till now. Then, he shyly walks to the front and takes the exam paper.

“I didn't expect you'd ace this exam, Yechan. Did you cheat or is someone able to tutor you?” Ms. Song asks him which makes him chuckle sheepishly before answering. “Yeah, I had someone to tutor me. That someone is able to make me recap the whole subject without letting me be distracted. I really have to thank that person later.” He says.

After that, he walks back towards his seat. As he was going back to his seat, he felt someone had passed a folded paper on his used-to-be-free hand. Nonetheless, he waits until he is finally at his seat before unfolding the paper to which there's something written on it:

‘Stay with me here after class’

-SY-

After he reads the paper, he looks to the possible culprit which is Sullyoon to see that she's looking back at him. Then, she gives him a sultry wink which makes him giggle a bit. He is eager to know what she is up to later on.

About 3 hours later, at around 5 pm, the class ends; to be frank, it's the only class of the day. Everyone in the class starts to leave the classroom one by one, except for Yechan and Sullyoon. After it is confirmed that there's only the two of them in the class, Sullyoon walks towards the door before closing and locking it.

After that, she walks towards Yechan's seat before sitting on his table. However, before she sits on his table, she lifts his head before pecking his lips which makes him a bit stunned. “Congrats baby, I knew you could ace this exam.” She says.

Well, there is a secret that both of them have been keeping from anyone else in which they are secretly a couple. They have been dating in secret for about 4 months now since the day that she agrees to tutor him. The person that he has been thanking earlier is actually her.

That is also why he didn't believe any of the rumours that had been pointed towards her. Despite sometimes asking her dad to do or buy stuff for her, she is mostly independent and very hardworking. This is mostly due to her dad trains her to do things by herself and not hoping for others yet still pampering her with love and wealth. He also remembers how diligently she tutors him for the exam.

“Hehe, thanks… It is all thanks to my beautiful, sexy and diligent tutor right in front of me. I thank you so much for it, babe.” He says and gives her a wink. Somehow, she suddenly frowns after he says that. Then, she leans forward and grabs his necktie before tugging it towards her, making their face really close.

“That’s not what you should call me right now, baby. Come on, call me correctly.” She says while giving him a sultry smirk. Knowing her agenda, he playfully rolls his eyes before saying back. “Ugh, fine. Thank you so much for tutoring me, mommy.” This makes her giggle before releasing her grip on his necktie.

“That's more like it, baby. You're such a good boy.” She exclaims and returns him back with a wink. “Oh please mommy, don't act like you're the dominant one here. I still remember the way you begged me the last time I rammed your pussy.” He retorts with a playful mocking tone. This only makes her giggle even more.

“What can I say, my sweet, strong baby has an amazing dick, mmmmh…” She says and licks her lips, imagining how he always fuck her. He is only able to shake his head while looking at her expressions.

“... Anyways, since you did excel in this exam, I will tell you your gift as promised. Well, it's in front of you right now.” She chimes and gives yet another wink. “So… you're my gift huh? Hehe, I guess you finally want to fulfill your fantasy of getting fucked in the classroom, mommy. About time we make these soundproof walls for good use.” He retorts and smirks at her.

Apparently, the whole university building had soundproofing walls installed about a year ago, thanks to Sullyoon asking her dad for it. She says that she wants it to make her even more focused in class but deep down, she really wants to have sex at school which is on her bucket list.

“Mommy has been planning for this since forever…” She says. Then, she suddenly lifts her skirt a bit, showing her laced purple panties that already had some wet spots on her crotch region. “... besides, don't you want to help mommy fulfill her bucket list of getting fucked in school?” She continues before biting her lips seductively.

This causes his dick to start getting hard underneath his pants, creating a bulge. She smirks even more, seeing how her actions make him hard already.

“Alright, fine mommy. I'm also getting impatient with all of your teasing. Let's start now.” He says which makes her feel giddy. “Now that's a good boy. However, mommy has set up some rules. Mommy only letting you to fuck my pussy for up to 3 rounds. Also, you must cum with mommy for each round, understand?” She orders to which he nods to it.

After that, she gets down from the table and starts pulling down her skirt and panties at the same time. This also indicates him to pull down his pants and boxers, revealing his already hard dick. Upon seeing his hard dick, she smirks more before getting onto his lap, sitting right on top of his dick. Then, she starts to grind on it which makes both of them moan.

“Mmmh, mommy… I thought you wanted to do this quickly.” He whines which makes her giggle. “Be patient, baby. Mommy wants to… mmmmh… make your dick wet enough first.” After a while, as she confirms that his dick is wet enough, she lifts herself a bit. Then, she holds his dick, aiming with her pussy before plunging down, making both of them moan even more.

“Oh god, your pussy still feels so tight, mommy… Even af-ter what we did two days ago, mmmmh.” Yechan chimes. As Sullyoon keeps on riding his dick, both of them start to unbutton each of their shirts before removing it, leaving him fully naked while her with only a matching laced purple bra which he then unclasps and removes it from her.

After removing her bra, he immediately attacks her tits with licks, sucks and bites which makes her squirm more. “Mmmmh, that's it baby. Make mommy’s tits feel good, oh gosh!!” Her response makes him do it more to her a lot more erratically.

About 15 minutes later, both of them feel each other about to have their own releases with his dick pulsating and her pussy throbbing. “Go on t-then, baby. Cum with mommy. Mommy needs to be filled right now, mmmmh…” Sullyoon groans, which leads to them to cum at once and also indicates the first creampie for her.

Five minutes worth of pantings later, she gets up from his lap and their mixed cums start to get out from her pussy. “Oops, it starts leaking. I guess you have to fill mommy with your cum again, baby.” She says to him with a smirk on her face. This makes him scoff before getting up and carrying her towards the lecturer table.

As he put her on the table, she instantly spreads her leg, insisting him to fuck her in that instance. However, instead of inserting his dick back into her pussy, he inserts two fingers inside her and starts fingering. This makes her shocked which leads to her whining madly.

“Nnngh, come on baby. Fuck mommy’s pussy again, I need it!!!” This makes him chuckle and pulls his fingers before pushing his dick back into her pussy. “Y-Yes, baby. Fuck this needy mommy of yours, nice and hard, mmmh.” She squeals loudly, feeling the pleasure from getting her pussy filled with his dick.

As he thrusts his dick back inside her pussy and starts fucking her again, he wants to ask the one question he had since before they did this. “So mommy, that purple lingerie… mmmmh… seems new. When exactly did you buy- oh god- those? How exactly have you been…. mmmmh… planning this?” His question makes her chuckle with moans in between.

“Oh baby, mommy just bought that purple lingerie a couple days ago. You see, mommy has been planning this… mmmmh… since our exam ended a few weeks ago.” She answers, yet she continues more. “Mommy knows that you have worked hard for the test… and I might have been spoiled with the results earlier than the rest of us since my dad got the info from our teacher. That's why I've been preparing for this.”

Her answers make him become more ecstatic which causes him to thrust into her pussy even faster and harder from their first round. This causes her to moan as loud as she could, as if she was screaming for her life.

“Y-Yes baby!!! Keep fucking my pussy. Make mommy sore really good at the end of this session, oh god!!” Her moans just keep making him more aroused to which he complies with keep fucking her pussy. It didn't take a long time after that before both of them cum at the same time yet again, which also makes it the second time he fills her up with his cum.

“Make sure you hold it in this time, mommy.” He warns her to not let his cum to get out from her pussy. However, as soon as he pulls out his dick, a huge load of their mixed cums spill out from her. This makes him sigh before looking at her face to see a huge smirk is formed on her face.

He then puts his hand around her neck, lightly chokes her. “You really know how to make me infuriated. Such a bratty mommy you are.” He playfully mocks her to which she nods pretty quickly to it. “Yes baby, I am your bratty mommy. I love to make you mad so that you could fuck mommy harder and harder.” She answers with gleaming eyes.

Her answers just make him only able to shake his head, baffled at her brattiness. Minutes later, he lifts her once again and carries her towards the classroom door. Then, he bends her over before lining himself at her back.

“Y-Yah, why here? Don't we have somewhere else in this classroom to fuck?” She asks with a worried tone which results in him scoffing. “Oh please mommy, you're the one who is always asking for having sex in public places. Besides, when we did it, your pussy seemed to be wetter, as if you really wanted us to get caught.”

She shakes her head to what he just said, trying to deny his exclamation. However, it is futile as he pushes his dick back into her pussy to experience that her pussy is indeed, feels a lot wetter than their previous two rounds. With a smirk on his face, he mouths ‘I told you so’ at her before pounding her pussy again.

She still tries to retaliate, meeting his poundings and shaking her head continuously while looking at him innocently, she tried though. However, it is no use as he hardens his poundings every time she tries to meet his pounds. In the end, she just whimpers before admitting her defeat.

“F-Fine, you win. Mommy always wanted us to have sex… nnng… in secluded public places. Mommy also loves adrenaline when doing it and hopes we might have a moment when we almost got caught doing this.” This results with him humming in satisfaction towards her response as he's still pounding her pussy.

As time goes by, both of them are at the brink of cumming for the third and final round of their sex sessions. “G-Gosh, baby… I'm so close and I know you are too. Fill mommy’s pussy one last time with your hot cum, please, mmmmh!!!” She insists on him. In the end, he obliges and after a minute later, he releases the final load of cum for the session deep inside her pussy. This also triggers her to cum all over his lower body.

As both of them are panting after that tiring session, Yechan roams his hands all over Sullyoon's body, trying to prolong the sensation of their orgasms. This makes her hum, feeling the warmth of his touch. Amusingly, he ends it by giving her butt cheeks some spanking which makes her yelp and turns her head towards him before giving her a playful yet deadly glare.

He then pulls his dick from her pussy after he feels that he has felt relaxed enough after his orgasm. Fortunately, this time, there is just a small amount of their mixed cums spilling out. “I guess you do know how to save my cum inside of you after all, mommy.” He says with a big smirk on his face which makes her scoff as if he's mocking her.

“Anyways, do you like the prize that I have prepared for you, baby?” She asks him, right after she turns around from her previous position. He just nods as an answer. “It was, indeed. Honestly, any present from you is good enough for me, but this is definitely top tier. At least, we're able to fulfill your bucket list.” He continues not until there's a loud rumbling sound coming from their tummies.

This makes both of them chuckle, knowing that both of them are exactly hungry. “Well then, I guess we better get something to eat. We did spend our time here without knowing it's almost dinner time.” Sullyoon says while looking at the wall clock in the classroom.

“I guess you're correct, Yoona.” He says which results in him getting pinched by her. “Yah, I told you to call me that when we're in public. You can only call me baby or mommy when it's just the two of us.” She whines and follows it up with her lips pouting. This makes him chuckle, seeing her looking so cute at the moment before giving those lips of hers some pecks.

“Hehe, I know… It's just, I love to see your pouting lips when you're upset.” He explains. “Anyways, let's get back dressed and get ourselves our dinner. I'm sure you're up for more rounds after dinner. Gonna get your other two holes to be filled with my cream.” He adds more with a smirk on his face to which, there is also a smirk appearing on her face as well. Nonetheless, they went back to where their outfits are left, putting them back on before leaving the classroom.

[ssa-dado]

21 - Physics

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, slight angst, whump Summary: Aaron Hotchner navigates the chaos of a teammate’s tragedy, personal struggles, and unresolved emotions toward you, with fate as his only constant. Past and present blur, coincidences and camaraderie intertwining as if tied by a red string. A case hits too close to home for everyone, forcing him to confront buried fears while managing the fallout as Unit Chief. But as events unfold, he realizes that nothing - neither relationships nor outcomes - ends quite the way he had foreseen. Warnings: violence, trauma, mentions of what happens in 3x09 & 3x11, use of alchool, some cuss words here and there, Hotch being a lot in his head, mentions of the fact you and Hotch fucked once, whoops. HOTCH SMITTEN LIKE A FOOOOL Word Count: 20.5k Dado's Corner: Flustered and smitten Hotch are peak Hotch. Also, I’m proud of finally nailing down a phrase that perfectly sums up their dynamic: he overthinks, while you overtalk. Oh, and one more thing: I officially have a new favorite character now, hope you love her as well. This chapter is a bit of a wild ride. A bit of fan service and the fan is me.

masterlist

In Stoic philosophy, physics (physikē) explores the nature of the universe, its structure, and the principles that govern it, providing the foundation for understanding humanity’s place within the cosmos.

For the Stoics, mastery of Physics was essential because it revealed the rational order (logos) underpinning all things, emphasizing the interconnectedness and inevitability of events.

The Stoics believed that fate (heimarmenē), the unbroken chain of cause and effect, binds all events in a web of necessity, with every occurrence unfolding as part of a rational, divine plan.

---

Sometimes, there’s just too much to do.

And honestly, sometimes, that feels like a blessing. A distraction.

Something to keep your mind from wandering back to the chaos of the past week. Not the mountain of paperwork waiting. Not the echoes of a case that clung to your thoughts. And especially not the emotional wreckage left behind.

No, you’d had a to-do list long enough to drown out anything else.

First, there had been guest lectures to prepare - because, God forbid, you gave up the career you’d built on your own before coming back to the BAU. That was yours and yours only, and you could never giving it up entirely.

Then, the FBI conference materials. A seminar on terrorism to finalize. Hours of research and fine-tuning to make sure it had been flawless, because that was the standard you’d set for yourself.

And let’s not forget the decade’s worth of solved cases you’d sifted through for examples to present. Because nothing screamed ‘productive’ quite like revisiting every horrifying thing you’d helped stop.

Then there was the apartment.

The apartment you still weren’t sure you wanted to call “home,” even though the rent you’d just paid suggested otherwise. Half of the boxes Aaron had helped you carry inside were still unopened, stacked against the walls.

And, of course, there was the team. The team that wouldn’t stop offering to help.

“We can chip in,” JJ had said.

“It’s no big deal,” Derek had insisted.

“Think of us as your moving dream team,” Penelope had declared, complete with jazz hands.

You had turned them all down. Firmly. Politely. And then less politely.

Aaron didn’t push, though.

He hadn’t insisted since your first no. He understood - probably better than anyone else - that you had to do this alone.

At least now you felt safe. For the first time in a year. And wasn’t that a luxury?

Another luxury? The fact that Hotch let you stay up late in the bullpen without questioning it too much. Not that he could afford to comment on your habits without opening the door to some pointed remarks about his own hypocrisy.

Because he stayed late, too.

Both of you. Night owls. Just like old times. Well, not exactly like old times.

Back then, you stayed late out of pride.

Who could solve the most cases? Who could earn the higher stats by the end of the quarter?

“I’m just saying,” Aaron had said one night in ’99, leaning against your desk with the kind of smugness that made you want to throw your stapler at him, “if I were you, I’d revise page ten of the case file. You clearly missed something.”

You, of course, had bristled. “Missed? I missed something?”

His reply was maddeningly neutral. “I’m just saying.”

You spent the next two hours poring over the file, only to realize, to your horror, that he was right. The unsub’s pattern was buried in the details you’d overlooked.

“Oh, you think you’re so clever,” you’d muttered as you shoved the solved case onto his desk.

“Not clever,” he’d replied with a faint smirk. “Efficient.”

Efficient? Well, now it was war.

What started as a casual rivalry quickly devolved into a full-blown competition. Nights in the office turned into marathons of who could close the most cases, complete with snarky comments and ridiculous one-upmanship.

“Did you just solve two cases in one night?” you’d asked incredulously one evening, staring at his smug face.

“Three, actually,” he’d corrected, leaning back in his chair like some kind of overachieving Greek god of profiling.

“Oh, it’s on,” you’d muttered, dragging another file off the pile and practically slamming it onto your desk.

By the end of the year, the two of you had obliterated every record the short-lived BAU had.

Even Gideon, who was famously difficult to impress, couldn’t believe it. He’d handed you a plastic trophy with the words ‘Most Productive Agents: 1999’ scrawled on it, muttering something about how he’d never seen anything so hideous.

“Let me remind you,” Gideon had said, handing over the trophy, “Rossi left the FBI before the end of the year. So, technically, you broke our streak by default.”

Neither of you cared. You’d still done it.

The trophy? Aaron had it proudly displayed in his office, perched next to his battered copy of Hegel for Dummies with a spine so broken it looked like it had been run over.

Yours? It was buried in one of those unopened boxes in your new apartment, its significance too bittersweet to face just yet.

Now, though, things were different.

The late nights weren’t about pride anymore.

They were about survival.

Aaron, in his office, scribbling away as if Haley’s forgiveness could be found at the bottom of yet another case report. You, in the bullpen, scratching out notes for your lectures with the same relentless drive - but this time, with the weight of a broken soul behind it.

Both of you would go home to spaces that felt more hollow than comforting.

Aaron’s was an empty house, caught in the eternal limbo of Haley’s indecision. Would she forgive him for being, in his words, a terrible husband and father? Or was he bracing for yet another blow in what felt like an endless cycle of disappointment?

Yours wasn’t much better. An apartment that didn’t feel like yours. Foreign surroundings that refused to settle into something familiar. Which was strange. For years, you’d thrived on not knowing where you were.

Changing countries more often than you changed your phone plan, living out of suitcases, hopping between temporary homes without so much as a second thought.

So why now? Why did this emptiness sting in a way it never had before?

“Maybe I’m getting soft,” you muttered under your breath, scribbling a note so aggressively you nearly tore the paper.

“Talking to yourself already?” Hotch’s voice carried down from the mezzanine, his tone calm but laced with just enough amusement to catch your attention. He stood leaning casually against the railing, looking down over your desk, which happened to be situated directly beneath him.

“Wouldn’t have to if you came out of your cave every once in a while” you shot back, not looking up.

There was a long pause before he answered. “Fair enough.”

But even as you bantered, you knew the truth: this wasn’t about the apartment.

It was about everything you’d tried to suppress catching up to you all at once.

It was fear. Fear of what had happened. Of what might still happen. Of being alone.

You sighed, leaning back in your chair and staring at the ceiling. Admitting it to yourself felt like defeat but at least, it was the first step forward, wasn’t it?

“Everything okay?” his voice cut through your thoughts again, quieter this time.

“Fine,” you said, your voice sharper than intended.

There was a pause. Then he said softly “You’re allowed to say you’re not, you know.”

You glanced up toward him, and sighed. “So are you,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then, as if fate had synchronized your thoughts, both of you said it at the same time. “I’m not.”

You blinked, looking at him, unsure whether to laugh or crumble under the sheer awkwardness of it. He seemed just as taken aback, standing there with that signature furrow of his brow, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d said it out loud.

“Well,” he said finally “that’s one way to break the tension.”

It felt strange - refreshing, maybe - to hear it spoken aloud. Even though you’d known, deep down, that neither of you was okay, sometimes you just needed to hear the words.

To have it acknowledged. Somehow, knowing he felt the same made it just a little easier to carry.

You nodded toward the stack of papers on your desk, eager to redirect the moment before it got too raw. “Well, since we’re both in the mood for honesty, I’ve got something for you.”

He tilted his head slightly, now moving down the stairs and crossing the bullpen toward you. “You always know how to make the best gifts,” he said, a touch of dry humor lacing his tone.

“Oh, this one’s a real treat,” you said, sliding the folder toward him.

Aaron opened it, skimming the first page, and raised an eyebrow. “Case summaries. You shouldn’t have.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied with a wink.

He chuckled lightly, closing the folder. “I’ll review them and file them in the system immediately. Truly, a gift worth cherishing.”

“Or,” you countered, leaning back in your chair, “they could wait until tomorrow morning.”

His brow lifted, probably not convinced of your ungodly offer. “And you think I’d waste your hard work like that?!”

“No,” you said, shrugging. “I think they could be the very first thing you file tomorrow morning. None of my efforts wasted, and you get to go home.”

You could tell he considered it for a moment, even if he kept his gaze steady on yours. “You make a compelling argument.” He said in mock formality.

“I know,” you said, smirking slightly.

He glanced back at the folder, then at you, and sighed. “Alright,” he said finally. “Tomorrow morning.”

“Good choice,” you said, your voice softer now, the teasing edge gone.

Hotch leaned slightly against your desk, holding the folder in one hand. “That applies to you too, you know. Whatever you’re working on… it can wait until 8 AM tomorrow.”

You opened your mouth to respond, barely managing to say “Alri-” before the sharp ring of his phone cut through the air.

His expression shifted instantly.

That composed, slightly softer look he’d had moments before hardened into something sharper - focused, intense. You recognized it immediately, the way his jaw tightened and his posture straightened. Something was wrong.

“Hotchner,” he answered, his voice low. The sudden shift in his tone made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

You didn’t need to hear the other side of the conversation to know it was serious. The single word he barked into the phone - “Where?” - told you everything.

You shot out of your chair, your heart already racing, and rushed toward his office. By the time he hung up, you were there, pulling his coat from the rack and holding it out to him. His eyes met yours as he moved toward you, his pace quicker than you ever remembered.

“What happened?” you asked handing him his coat, though you had a sinking feeling you didn’t want to hear the answer.

He didn’t even hesitate.

His eyes locked on yours, and in that split second, you saw everything you needed to know.

“Garcia got shot,” he said.

---

“What do we know?” Rossi asked as he walked into the hospital waiting room, headed straight for him.

“Police think it was a botched robbery,” he replied, his voice clipped, with a tense jaw.

Emily, looked toward you, her eyes wide and disbelieving, the shock still fresh. “Where’s Morgan?” she asked, her tone edged with worry.

You shook your head. “He’s not answering his phone.”

Hotch could sense the strain beneath your calm exterior, the cracks starting to show despite how hard you were trying to hold it together.

Why were you doing that? He was there for that reason.

Spencer didn’t even pause. He turned away immediately, his usual hesitance replaced only by urgency. “I’ll call him again,” he said over his shoulder, already pulling out his phone as he strode toward the corner of the room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hotch saw Rossi move closer, when he spoke, his voice was low, only meant for him. “What aren’t you saying?”

He didn’t look at Rossi right away, his eyes fixed on some indeterminate point across the room. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter than before, almost a whisper. “I spoke to one of the paramedics who brought her in. It doesn’t look good.”

And so, all you could do was wait.

Time moved strangely there, in this place of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smells, where the hum of machinery and the distant shuffle of footsteps filled the silence.

Seven FBI agents in a room.

But the titles didn’t matter there. Because each of you felt completely useless.

There were minutes of restless movements, of silent prayers, of thoughts no one dared to voice aloud. Some paced the hallway, unable to sit still, as if walking could somehow outrun the helplessness threatening to suffocate them. Others fidgeted, their hands twisting and folding into patterns born of nervous energy.

But eventually, you all stilled.

Emily and JJ sat down together. Emily’s hand found JJ’s, gripping it firmly, as if she could siphon away some of her fear, absorb the weight of it into herself.

Across from them, Spencer perched on the edge of a chair, his arms crossed tightly, his right hand rubbing absentmindedly up and down his left side in a motion that felt almost protective, almost desperate.

Rossi stood apart from the rest of you, his back turned, his figure outlined by the stark light of the hallway. He held a gold bracelet in his hands, the same one he always carried, his fingers moving over it in a rhythm that suggested it was as much for grounding as it was for comfort.

And then there was you.

You sat to Spencer’s right, your brow furrowed, your breaths slow but audible. Your eyes moved rapidly, scanning nothing and everything all at once. He could tell you were buried deep in your thoughts, lost in the labyrinth of your mind.

He wanted to know what you were thinking - wanted to reach into the chaos and pull you out.

He couldn’t, that thing he knew.

Probably, you were still sifting through philosophies, trying to find the right citation to cling to, the one that would hold you steady. Something wise and comforting, something that would tell you this wouldn’t end in tragedy.

And him?

He stood still, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He knew he had to keep it together - for all of you, for himself.

He stood so close to your left that he could feel your knee brushing the fabric of his pants every so often, a touch so faint it barely registered but still managed to tether him.

He observed his team, each of you unraveling in their own quiet way, while he avoided, at all costs, the thought clawing at the back of his mind.

The thought of living this again - he knew what it felt like, this helplessness. He remembered it too well.

Back when it was you lying on an operating table, under needles and lights, fighting to come back to him. That same sense of uselessness had consumed him then, and now it was here again, circling like a vulture.

But his mind, cruel as it so often was, always found new ways to torture him.

It conjured new voices, fresh what-ifs, flashes of memories he didn’t want, tethering him to the fear that churned relentlessly in his chest. None of it was helpful. None of it worth listening to more than once.

And yet, amidst the noise, it was something small that healed him now.

Your touch.

Your knee pressed fully against the side of his leg, a quiet, grounding gesture that pulled him from the spiral before it could drag him any deeper.

He glanced down at you instinctively, and when your gaze met his, it was steady, knowing, and impossibly calm.

It wasn’t extravagant - there was no dramatic gesture, no soft-spoken reassurance. Just a nod.

A simple acknowledgment, because you knew.

You knew he needed to hold it together. As Unit Chief. As the leader. As the anchor in this storm of uncertainty.

And yet, in that single nod, in the quiet understanding etched into your expression, you told him something else, too: if it were just the two of you, you’d let go.

Together.

If you could, you’d be wrapped in each other’s arms, sinking into one of those uncomfortable chairs, your head resting on his shoulder, his leaning gently against yours.

Just like you had in his living room that one night when everything else had fallen apart.

That memory burned in his mind, as vivid as if it had happened moments ago. The way you had leaned into him, your hand brushing against his chest, anchoring him in a way he hadn’t known he needed.

He’d been thinking about it for weeks, replaying it over and over, striving for it without even realizing.

Your touch had burned itself into his memory. It was solace, it was safety, it was the only thing that made the world make sense when nothing else did.

And then, without warning, the moment broke. None of you moved first - you didn’t have to. Derek’s hurried steps into the waiting room shattered the fragile quiet.

“She’s been in surgery a couple hours,” JJ said softly, her voice almost hesitant, as though saying it aloud made it worse.

“I was in church,” Derek responded, his voice tight, his eyes darting to Hotch. “My phone was off.”

Spencer spoke up, his voice quiet but insistent, trying to reassure Derek, but Hotch’s gaze softened as it drifted to him, the tension in his team mate's expression contrasting starkly with the rigid lines of his suit.

He barely noticed your shoulder brushing against his arm - because apparently, personal space was just a suggestion with you - but he didn’t mind.

If anything, the contact softened the edges of his thoughts, kept him tethered to the present.

Then, the door opened, and a doctor stepped in. “Penelope Garcia?” he asked.

Hotch stepped forward immediately. “Yes.”

“The bullet went in her chest and ricocheted into her abdomen. She lost a lot of blood. It was touch and go for a while,” The doctor’s tone was clinical, detached, but the words carried the weight of everything they’d been dreading. “But we were able to repair the injuries.”

Aaron felt his breath hitch.

“So, what are you saying?” JJ asked, her voice strained.

The doctor hesitated for a moment before continuing. “One centimeter over and it would have torn right through her heart. Instead, she could actually walk out of here in a couple of days, and I’d say that’s a minor miracle.”

The words barely registered, muffled under the synchronized exhale of relief from everyone in the room, including him.

His chest rose and fell heavily, the tension still coiling so tightly in his body that he had to bite his lip to stop himself from letting it all spill out.

He couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.

“She needs her rest. You can see her in the morning,” the doctor said before being immediately thanked and leaving the room.

Hotch straightened, forcing his composure back into place. He had to focus. He had to do what needed to be done.

“David and I will go to the scene,” he said, the words leaving his mouth almost automatically. “I think the rest of you should be here when she wakes up.”

Your brow arched slightly, the corners of your lips twitching upward for just a moment.

“I don’t care about protocol,” he added firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I don’t care whether we’re working this officially or not. We don’t touch any new cases until we find out who did this.”

Because when the family is involved, the law can go to hell.

You gave him another nod, this one filled with something more - pride, maybe.

---

But the consequences of his choices - of that particular decision, of every decision since - were harder to ignore.

It had started as something small, almost imperceptible. The kind of shift you only notice when looking back, piecing together the moments that led to now.

You spoke to him less on the job.

Maybe it had begun after Penelope was shot. Maybe it was even earlier than that - after that argument in the car the day Rossi rejoined the team.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t noticed. He’d thought about it more times than he cared to admit, replaying conversations and briefings in his head, trying to pinpoint the exact moment it changed.

Still, whatever the catalyst, it was there - distance.

You were more careful now, more reserved.

The way you hesitated before voicing disagreements during case discussions, when you used to challenge him so freely, so instinctively.

The way your once-abstract musings - philosophical detours that most of the times used to drive him to the brink of frustration - were almost entirely gone. He rarely heard them from you anymore.

It was Reid now, who would bring up some concept or theory, his voice filling the space that used to be yours.

And Hotch would sit there, listening, waiting - hoping, even - for your voice to cut in, to weave those extra threads of detail, to challenge or expand the discussion in that way that had always been so uniquely you. But it never came.

Your language had shifted, too.

Gone were the sweeping truths and nuanced arguments that once made every discussion with you feel like a labyrinth. Now you were grounded, concrete.

Practical. Logical... ironic, really.

The very thing that sometimes frustrated him - the way you could lose yourself in abstraction, dissecting every nuance as if it held the key to the universe, even when a case demanded quick action - was the same thing that made you indispensable to his being… to work.

Indispensable to work.

It was why the two of you had been able to crack so many cases together - at work.

The confrontation was what made it work.

Necessary. Vital.

His logic sharpening your abstractions, your ideas loosening the rigidity of his structures. Because both of you wanted to be right.

And in that pursuit, you always found the balance - in the balance, you caught killers. In the balance, you saved lives. Different truths, coexisting.

But now? Now, he found himself paying more attention to the details that had slipped through the cracks.

You’d stopped calling him “Partner”.

It wasn’t the word itself that mattered. It was what it signified. How for a brief amount of time it had even become a running joke, how you’d introduce him to people as “my partner,” and how they’d inevitably misunderstand, assuming you were together.

Maybe it was the way you talked about him. Maybe it was the way he looked at you... back then.

Anyways, it was gone. Because now, on the job, you only called him "Unit Chief".

Clinical. Precise. A title that left no room for interpretation. Best friends outside of work; your superior within it.

But he missed the ambiguity.

He missed the way you’d once spoken to him on the job like he wasn’t just your colleague, or your boss. Like he was someone you trusted - completely.

And maybe that was what stung the most. That sense of trust between you, once so natural, now felt… guarded.

He wanted to fix it, but how could he, without crossing some invisible line?

Because pairing himself with you on a case would have been the easiest solution, but he’d never allow himself that.

He never did. He couldn’t. To do so would feel selfish, like he was abusing his authority to serve his own ends… even that thought alone made his stomach churn.

So, instead, he paired you with Reid for geographical profiles or with Rossi in the field, keeping you at a polite, professional distance, telling himself it was better this way.

Telling himself it didn’t matter that you barely spoke to him unless you had to. Telling himself that your sudden carefulness wasn’t personal.

And yet, outside the job, it was a completely different story.

You two had grown closer - seeking each other’s company in ways that felt almost inevitable.

You didn’t plan it, but somehow, you always ended up together. And considering how close you’d already been, it was startling, almost disorienting.

Your shared tragedies should have been the sole reason for it, forging something unshakable, but this… this was different. It was more intimate, more vulnerable.

It felt more… familiar, though with what exactly?

Maybe it was the way you always seemed to gravitate toward each other, how his phone would buzz with a text from you - asking if he had time to grab dinner or if he could help you pick out furniture for your new apartment.

“Don’t worry,” you’d said that morning, flashing him a grin that instantly made him suspicious. “I just need your muscles, not your opinion. Unless you want to tell me I’m wasting money.”

He raised an eyebrow, following you into the store like a man marching to his doom. “You brought me for labor but not to stop you from making bad decisions?”

“Exactly,” you replied, already strolling ahead like you owned the place. “And don’t worry - it’ll take a couple of hours at most.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, letting out a disbelieving laugh. “A couple of hours? Wars have been declared, fought, and peace treaties signed faster than it takes to shop for furniture.”

“What, you think I’m indecisive?” you shot back, turning to face him.

“I know you are,” he replied, his tone flat. “And meticulous, which doesn’t exactly speed things up.”

“Just trust me, Aaron,” you said, your grin widening in a way that felt more like a warning.

Indeed, it didn’t take a couple of hours. It took the entire day.

And by the time you got back to your apartment, he was certain he’d pulled at least three muscles he didn’t even know he had.

“Next time,” Aaron said, panting slightly as he set the box down with a loud thud. “I’m bringing a forklift. Or an entire moving crew.”

“Next time?” you asked innocently, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “You’re already signing up for next time?! That’s so thoughtful, Aaron. Wow, you’re such a friend.”

“You’re lucky I have patience,” he muttered, glaring at the box like it had personally wronged him.

“Patience?” you laughed, crossing your arms. “You were ready to snap at that poor woman asking about the extended warranties!”

“That’s because she asked me six times,” he snapped, the memory still fresh.

“Well,” you said, grinning as you grabbed a water bottle from the counter and handed it to him, “now that torture is over, I think you deserve your prize. I have some office gossip for you.”

Aaron scoffed, took a sip from the bottle and crouched down to unbox the bookshelf. “I don’t care about your office gossip,” he said, his tone betraying none of the interest that actually was bubbling inside of him.

“...You don’t have to stay and build this, you know,” you offered, watching him carefully slide the first plank out of the box. “I’ve already dragged you into enough.”

“I’m staying,” he replied, glancing at you briefly. “I want to help.” Then, after a beat, he added, “So, what were you saying?”

You raised an eyebrow at him, making him regret what he just said. “Oh, so you do want to know?”

“You were going to tell me anyway,” he replied, pretending to be slightly annoyed.

“Well, now I’m not so sure,” you teased, plopping down next to him.

Then it happened.

Your hand reached for the instruction manual at the exact same moment as his, and your fingers brushed briefly. He froze, just for a second.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. No jolt of electricity, no world-tilting moment. Just… a touch.

Ordinary. Mundane.

And yet his brain, apparently bored of rationality, decided to hit pause.

You didn’t even seem to notice, already flipping open the pages of the manual like it was nothing – because it was. Meanwhile, he forced himself back into motion, his hand retreating too quickly as he muttered, “Sorry.”

“For what? Existing?” you quipped, glancing at him with a smirk that teetered on the edge of infuriating. “It’s fine, Aaron. Don’t worry, no need to be so polite.”

Polite. Yes, that’s what he was. Polite.

Not distracted. Not caught off guard. Certainly not anything else.

“It’s not a habit I plan to break,” he replied, his tone as steady as he could manage, focusing intently on pulling out the next piece of wood.

He just needed his personal space. You were close, physically, and his brain had momentarily overreacted. That’s all it was. It wasn’t significant. It wasn’t anything.

“I always forget I’m friends with the Queen of England,” you said, deadpan.

He shot you a flat look, holding up a piece that vaguely resembled part of a shelf. “So - are you actually reading those instructions, or are you just turning pages for fun?”

You squinted at the manual. “I mean… how hard can it be to put a rectangle on top of some other rectangles?”

He gave you a long, unimpressed stare. “…I’ll take that as a no” As usual, you got lost in your thoughts, your half-finished sentences going nowhere - resulting in still no gossip for him.

Thankfully, Aaron was used to that by now.

“So,” he said pointedly, cutting through your ramble, “the gossip you were so desperate to tell me?”

“Right,” you began, leaning in slightly, “I think Garcia and Kevin Lynch are dating.”

Aaron glanced at you, his brow furrowing. “Based on what?”

“Oh, come on, you were the one who planted the seed in my brain!” you said, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You met him first and said they’d be perfect together.”

“I told you they’d get along,” he corrected, his voice calm. “Not that they’d date, it was an observation.”

“Right,” you teased, leaning toward him. “Because Mr. Rulebook doesn’t meddle in office relationships.”

“I don’t,” he replied flatly, though the precision with which he was aligning the screws suggested otherwise.

“But you’re not denying it,” you teased, as you handed him the missing screw to complete his geometrical composition.

He sighed, already regretting the conversation. “Fine. I might have… noticed some things.”

Your eyes widened dramatically. “You’ve been paying attention? To gossip?”

He shot you a look so dry it could’ve absorbed a flood. “Not gossip. I noticed she’s been flirting with Derek over the phone less often in the past couple of weeks.”

You stared at him, probably trying to decide whether to be impressed or amused. “Oh so you do keep track of Penelope’s flirting habits?!”

“It’s hard not to notice, when all of this happens less than five feet away from me” he replied, focusing a little too intently on tightening a bolt. “She used to call him ‘chocolate thunder’ at least twice a day. Now it’s barely once.”

You snorted, clapping a hand over your mouth.

“What? If you’re going to accuse me of gossip, I might as well be thorough.” He frowned, though the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

You burst out laughing, sitting back on your heels. “Oh my God, I knew it. You secretly love this.”

“I don’t love this,” he said firmly, though his tone lacked conviction.

“Sure you don’t,” You smirked, glancing at the instructions and pretending to read them, just enough to give the illusion that you were actually contributing in some meaningful way. “So, what’s your theory? Think they’re dating?”

He shook his head, clearly weighing his words. “If they’re not already, they’re on the verge. Kevin’s nervous around her, and she’s not exactly subtle.”

You grinned, leaning closer. “I knew it! Now admit it, Aaron. You like the drama.”

Aaron sighed, picking up a screwdriver and turning his attention back to the pile of screws, as if sheer focus might absolve him of this entire conversation. “I don’t like the drama,” he said flatly. “I like efficiency. And indulging you in this nonsense means I won’t have to hear about it in bits and pieces over the next week.” 

You gasped, clutching your chest with exaggerated offense. “Nonsense? This is workplace anthropology, Aaron. This is about human behavior, relationships, and the intricate web of connec-” 

“Gossip,” he interrupted dryly, cutting you off mid-monologue. 

You rolled your eyes, but your grin was unrelenting. “You are so reductive. This is about understanding the human condition! Philosophers have been debating the nuances of human relationships for centuries. Aristotle, Plato” 

He glanced up, giving you a look that bordered on skeptical. “If this is about Aristotle and Plato, I’m out of here.” 

“Oh, come on,” you said, nudging his arm. “You’ve read Hegel. You know this stuff!” 

Aaron straightened the piece of wood he was working on, his voice impossibly dry. “I’ve read ‘Hegel for Dummies.’ The most philosophical thing I got from that book was the idea that contradictions eventually balance out.” 

“Exactly!” you said, pointing at him. “Which is why gossip is just the dialectic in action - thesis, antithesis, synthesis. We’re observing interpersonal contradictions and resolving them through discourse. Hegel would be proud.”

“Hegel would ask for his name to be removed from this conversation,” he replied, his tone bone-dry.  

“That’s not true!” you said, laughing. “This is exactly his philosophy. I know him.”

“He’s dead,” Aaron replied.

You froze, your hand hovering over a plank as your face morphed into an expression of exaggerated shock.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to cry because I reminded you he’s been dead for 200 years,” he added, the corners of his lips twitching despite his best efforts to stay serious.

“You’re heartless,” you said, glaring at him dramatically. “I’m grieving, and you’re mocking me.”

“You’re grieving a man you never met,” he pointed out, turning the screwdriver.

“Well, I’m sure we would have been friends,” you said, tilting your chin defiantly. “He would see me for who I truly am. A philosopher. A visionary.”

Aaron snorted quietly, shaking his head. “He’d last five minutes before walking out of the room.”

“Wrong,” you shot back. “He’d last five minutes before asking me to co-author his next book.”

He glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “It’s a shame you weren’t born two centuries earlier. You’d have spared him from obscurity.”

“Yes!” you exclaimed, pointing at him. “Thank you. See, this is why you’re my best friend.”

Aaron stilled, glancing at you briefly before returning his focus to the plank in his hand. “Because I humor your philosophical ramblings?”

“Because your dry humor is just a cover for the fact that you secretly love my ramblings. And I’d say you also agree with some of them.” You corrected, leaning in slightly.

He tightened a bolt, refusing to look up. “You’ve cracked the code. My life’s work of masking my enthusiasm has been undone by your unshakable confidence.”

“You’re so sarcastic,” you replied, grinning. “But seriously, Aaron. You’re the best.”

Before he could respond, you slid your arm around his shoulders in a quick side hug, leaning your head briefly against the curve of his neck.

It was nothing, really, again, just a fleeting gesture, casual. And that’s exactly why it felt so strange. So different.

He stilled, not visibly - at least he hoped not.

It wasn’t like those rare hugs of yours, the ones that seemed to stretch on for hours. This was just a fraction of a second, over before it even began, and yet it lingered, leaving behind a sour taste of wanting.

Maybe that was why it unsettled him. Your relationship didn’t rely on physical contact, it never had. Mostly because he wasn’t the type to invite it. Not intentionally. It just always felt too… intimate. Too exposing. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it - it was just… too much.

Too raw. Too close.

But you didn’t seem to mind. You always knew how to adjust, to make things work between you without pushing too hard or pulling too far.

And still, now once again you pulled back like it was nothing, grinning as though the moment hadn’t shifted anything at all.

That’s what got to him, he realized. The ease with which you could offer something like that and let it go, as though it didn’t mean anything. He envied it.

Jealousy, he thought, was too strong a word. Or maybe it wasn’t.

“But I’ll never be Hegel,” he said finally, his tone dry, laced with irony as he reached for the next piece of wood.

You blinked at him, tilting your head like he’d just said something utterly ridiculous. “Aaron Hotchner,” you began, your tone a mix of exasperation and fondness, “you’re better than Hegel.”

He glanced at you briefly, his expression somewhere between skeptical and resigned. “Oh please don’t you start.”

“I mean it,” you insisted, sitting up straighter, your grin turning softer. “He might’ve been a genius, but you’re… well, you’re you. Thoughtful. Smart. Kind. You’re my best friend, and I wouldn’t trade you for any dead philosopher.”

As much as he tried to act like he was above it, like he didn’t need the reassurance, he couldn’t deny how heartwarming it was to hear those kinds of words. Cheesy as they were. Deep down, he was a sentimental man, after all.

And so he sighed, but the small smile tugging at his lips probably betrayed him. “Could you please just hand me the next piece before this takes another century?”

“Anything for you, Queen of England,” you teased, passing him the next piece with an exaggerated flourish.

He gave you a look, the kind that said he was both exasperated and quietly amused. “Thank you,” he said, his voice dry but undeniably softer.

“Anytime, Your Majesty,” you replied, grinning as you reached back for the instruction manual. “Now, what’s next? Philosophical insights on brackets?”

“Just read the instructions.” He had just aligned another plank and was reaching for a screw when the sharp knock at the door interrupted the quiet rhythm of assembling furniture.

He froze, mid-motion, and then glanced at you. “That’s Mrs. Lee,” he muttered, already resigned.

Of course, it was Mrs. Lee.

She lived across the hall and seemed to have an uncanny ability to sense whenever he was over. In her late seventies, retired, widowed, and far too invested in both your lives, she had made it her unofficial mission to drop in with sweets every time Aaron was around.

Coincidentally, these sweets only ever appeared when he happened to stay over, as though he were the primary recipient and you were just a necessary middleman.

Well, it wasn’t exactly true - she adored you - but it was clear where did her preference lay.

Mrs. Lee, as Aaron had come to learn, was an enthusiastic watcher of outdated rom-coms, a self-proclaimed expert on “young love” - a category she had prematurely placed you and him into - and an avid admirer of “handsome men in suits.”

Naturally, she adored him.

You, softhearted as ever, had figured out early on that Mrs. Lee was lonely. So you occasionally let her hang out in your living room. She’d settle onto your couch with her movies, chatting about her glory days while Aaron begrudgingly assembled whatever piece of furniture you’d roped him into.

It had become a tradition he hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t seem to escape. And so the knock came again, more insistent this time.

“You want to get that?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

You grinned, tossing the instruction manual aside. “Of course. It’s probably for you anyway.”

Aaron sighed as you opened the door, revealing Mrs. Lee in all of her five-foot glory, holding some freshly baked pie.

“Hi, sweetheart,” came the familiar greeting, warm and affectionate as always. Then her eyes landed on Aaron, and her grin widened to near cartoonish proportions. “Oh, Aaron! I knew you’d be here.”

He glanced up briefly, bracing himself. “Good evening, Mrs. Lee.”

“I brought some blueberry pie,” she announced proudly, stepping inside and placing it on your counter. “I know how much you like blueberries, Aaron.”

He blinked, momentarily thrown. “How do you-”

“Oh, you just strike me as someone with good taste,” she interrupted as she made herself comfortable on your couch.

You turned to him, barely concealing your grin. “I think she’d be a great profiler.”

He agreed.

“Mrs. Lee, if only we weren’t already overstaffed, I’d hire you right away,” Aaron replied, his polite tone perfectly measured.

“Oh, Aaron dear,” Mrs. Lee cooed, waving her hand as though batting away a compliment, “you’re so kind. But I could never work at a job with a boss as handsome as you. I’d be far too distracted just watching you talk.”

Aaron froze, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled the t-shirt he was wearing.

“How do you work with him every day, sweetheart?” Mrs. Lee asked you, her tone conspiratorial.

You laughed, leaning back. “Oh, it’s easy. I just remind myself that under the suits, he’s really just a big softie.”

Aaron shot you a pointed look, his voice deadpan. “Not helping.”

Mrs. Lee giggled as she made herself comfortable on the couch, clearly entertained. “So, what’s today’s project?”

“Bookshelf,” you replied, gesturing toward the pile of wood and screws scattered across the floor.

Aaron frowned at the chaos. If it could even be called a bookshelf, it certainly didn’t look like one yet.

“It’s a bookshelf,” you insisted, catching the look he was giving it. “It’ll look better once you stop glaring at it and we actually continue working on it.”

“You’ll forgive me for not being optimistic,” Aaron muttered, crouching down to inspect the mess.

Mrs. Lee immediately chimed in, turning to you. “Oh, don’t listen to him, sweetheart,” she said, waving you off. “I’m sure it’ll be beautiful once it’s done. You two always make such a good team.”

Aaron sighed, already resigned to the commentary. “We’re not a team. I’m the one building this thing while she-”

“Supervises,” you interrupted brightly, leaning over to grab a stray screw. “You’re muscles and I’m brain, don’t forget about it.”

Mrs. Lee clapped her hands together in delight. “Oh, it’s just like my Charles and me! I’d dream up all sorts of projects, and he’d grumble the whole time but do them anyway. That’s how you know it’s love.”

Aaron froze mid-turn of his screwdriver, he glanced up. “We’re friends, Mrs. Lee,” he said firmly, keeping his voice as even as possible, though the comparison to her late husband didn’t exactly sit comfortably.

Mrs. Lee just laughed. “Oh, shoosh, Aaron, really, you’re exactly like my Charles,” she said, her tone fond but pointed. “Too serious, too practical. All logic. He was a lawyer, you know.”

Lawyer. Ha.

Weird how the coincidences had a way of piling up like bricks whenever Mrs. Lee was around.

Before he could deflect, you jumped in, far too quick for his liking. “Well, that must be fate! Mrs. Lee, did I ever mention that Aaron used to be a prosecutor before he joined the FBI?”

Her gasp was so loud it startled him. For a moment, Aaron thought she might drop her pie.

“A prosecutor? You?” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together as though she’d just unearthed some life-altering revelation. “Oh, Aaron, that is just too perfect. And I bet you were ruthless in the courtroom, weren’t you?”

Aaron opened his mouth to respond, but the words barely made it out. “Mrs. Lee, I-”

“Don’t be modest, dear,” she interrupted, brandishing her fork like it was a judge’s gavel. “I can just picture it - some poor defense attorney sweating buckets while you paced the courtroom like a lion on the hunt” She paused dramatically, then added an actual ‘rawr’ for emphasis, because apparently, the imagery wasn’t enough. “My, my, my. You must’ve been a sight to behold.”

Aaron rubbed the back of his neck, wishing desperately for the bookshelf to magically assemble itself so he could escape the conversation.

“You should’ve told me this sooner!” Mrs. Lee continued, turning to you as if you’d kept some scandalous secret from her. “I bet all those courtroom skills come in handy now, don’t they? You must be able to intimidate anyone with just one look.” She squinted the best she could, doing what Aaron assumed was her impression of his so-called “serious face”.

You laughed, nudging him playfully with your elbow. “She’s not wrong, you know. The Hotch Stare has probably solved more cases than our actual profiles.”

Aaron turned to you, leveling you with the exact look you were referring to - but the effect was slightly ruined by the warmth creeping up his neck, spreading to his cheeks. He could feel it, much to his dismay, and he looked away quickly, clearing his throat.

“The bookshelf,” he said dryly, but the flush in his face betrayed him entirely, and he knew it. Damn it.

You bit your lip, trying - and failing - to suppress a grin. “You’re blushing,” you pointed out.

“Oh, don’t tease him too much,” Mrs. Lee said, her grin widening as she leaned forward. “He’s probably shy. Aren’t you, Aaron?”

He didn’t need to look in a mirror to know the flush had deepened. Great. Now he was even redder. Wonderful.

“Extremely,” he replied deadpan, tightening the bolt in front of him with more focus than necessary, trying to ground himself in the mechanics of the bookshelf rather than the conversation swirling around him.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his failed attempt to use sarcasm. “Don’t worry,” you said with a smile that was far too fond for his peace of mind. “It's actually very cute when you blush.”

Aaron froze. No, no, no.

That was not something he was prepared to handle. He was already red, that much he knew - but now? Now, he could feel it spreading like wildfire.

He cleared his throat, his fingers tightening around the screwdriver with more force than necessary. “I don’t think that’s the kind of feedback the instruction manual had in mind,” he said dryly, though his voice wavered just enough to betray him.

You laughed again, soft and warm, and it only made things worse.

“Oh, come on,” you teased, leaning forward just slightly, your grin far too mischievous for his peace of mind. “You can’t possibly hate a compliment that much.”

“I don’t hate it,” he countered quickly, almost too quickly, still refusing to meet your eyes. “I just don’t think it’s relevant to… this.” He gestured vaguely at the bookshelf, hoping the movement would divert some of the attention away from his face.

He never thought he’d see the day when he’d be genuinely grateful for Mrs. Lee to launch into another one of her stories, but here he was. Apparently, miracles did happen. She’d managed to cut through your conversation, sparing him from further embarrassment.

“You two remind me so much of me and my Charles,” she said, a nostalgic sigh punctuating her words. “We teased each other constantly too. Oh, he’d look at me with those serious eyes of his and say, ‘You’re impossible, Sharon.’ Every single time.”

Aaron glanced up, her voice the reminder that, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, his heart wasn’t made of stone. Far from it, in fact.

“And I’d tell him, ��No, Charles, you’re boring,’” she added with a chuckle. “And oh, the arguments we’d have! But they were the best arguments, you know? The kind that keep you sharp. Keep you… alive.”

Mrs. Lee’s expression softened, her smile turning bittersweet. “We got married after four months of knowing each other,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Fifty-two years of marriage. It wasn’t always easy, but I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.  And I still miss him every single day.”

He was lucky enough to know what love felt like, but he could only hope to be as fortunate as her, to know what it felt like for a love like that to last even half as long.

He didn’t dare look at you. He already knew you’d give her that soft, understanding smile you always did.

“Some people are just meant to be, aren’t they?” you said, your voice quiet but carrying the kind of certainty that made it feel like a universal truth.

“Wise words, dear.” But then she grinned suddenly, the mischievous sparkle returning to her eyes. “Still, he was a pain in the ass sometimes. Wouldn’t let me watch ‘The Love Boat’ as much as I wanted. So, you know what? Fuck him.”

Aaron blinked, srprised. He caught the way your mouth twitched before you burst into laughter, and he shook his head, half-amused, half-incredulous.

“Mrs. Lee,” he said, his voice flat, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

As you handed him another piece of wood, Mrs. Lee leaned forward. “Speaking of love,” she began, her tone dangerously casual as she turned to you, “Sweetheart, don’t be shy about asking me to turn off my hearing aid tonight… you know, if the two of you need to unleash all that stress. Especially you Aaron, you need to loosen up.”

Aaron froze, screwdriver slipping slightly in his hand.

What?

Both of you blinked, eyes wide, before instinctively turning to each other to confirm if you’d just heard the same thing - or if it was some bizarre, shared hallucination. Then, in perfect sync, you turned back toward Mrs. Lee.

She was grinning, eyebrows raised expectantly, as if she’d just offered you an excellent tip on couponing and was waiting for your gratitude.

Oh, so she’s serious…

“Mrs. Lee,” you managed finally, your voice shaking with suppressed laughter, “what on earth makes you think we need to, um… ‘unleash’ anything?”

She raised an eyebrow, looking far too pleased with herself. “Oh, honey, I’ve been around. I notice things. It’s been a tough week for you at the BAU, hasn’t it? All those cases piling up. All that stress. I can see it.”

Aaron set down the screwdriver, his jaw tightening. “How do you even know what kind of week it’s been?”

Mrs. Lee sat back, crossing her arms like she’d been waiting for the question. “I know everything, dear. I have contacts.”

Aaron exchanged a look with you, utterly baffled. “Contacts?”

She nodded sagely, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “I play bridge with a lady from the FBI cleaning staff. Lovely woman. You know… we simply talk.”

He couldn’t exactly fire the entire cleaning staff over this… but, for a fleeting moment, the thought had crossed his mind. Maybe just reassignments.

Practical. Strategic. Manageable.

But then the mental image of the inevitable paperwork reared its ugly head, and his idyllic fantasy died a quick and unceremonious death.

He’d just have to endure this one bookshelf and hope Mrs. Lee didn’t decide to take up poker with the IT department next. The idea of Garcia and Mrs. Lee joining forces was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat.

Mrs. Lee twirled her fork between the two of you, her grin devious. “And I also know you’ve been pushing yourselves too hard with all those late nights. That’s why I’m saying… you should just do it. Trust me, it works wonders.”

Oh, he knew. He definitely knew. You’d both made that mistake once. But no - never again. Absolutely not.

“Mrs. Lee,” he said evenly, “I don’t think this conversation is appropriate.”

“Oh, Aaron, don’t be such a prude,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Just fuck and then you’ll thank me.”

Charles was right, she really was impossible.

He turned to you, half-expecting to see the same look of disbelief mirrored on your face.

But instead, what he got the moment your eyes met was worse - infinitely worse.

You laughed. A real, unfiltered laugh, bubbling up and spilling over as though the absurdity of everything had finally caught up to you.

The sound was so unexpected, so you, that he couldn’t help it. That was it. A chuckle escaped him before he could stop it, and then another.

God help him, he was laughing too. Unguarded. He could feel it, the exasperation, but also something almost electric, different.

That feeling. That lightness.

When was the last time he’d felt that?

---

1998.

Aaron Hotchner liked to think of himself as a rational man.

A man who could look a brutal truth in the face without flinching, who could hold himself together when the world around him was falling apart. He prided himself on composure, on logic, on not succumbing to the whims of emotion.

But apparently, all it took to unravel that carefully cultivated persona was you showing up in a miniskirt and lace tights.

Really? A miniskirt? This was what undid him?

Not an unsub with a gun, not the horrors of the job… no, it was a skirt that wasn’t even all that short.

It was the perfect length, actually - tasteful, stopping just above the knee, not too long, not too short. The kind of length that somehow drove him to the brink because it hinted at more without being too much.

Perfect.

Why was he even thinking about the length of your skirt?

He was a grown man with a law degree, a rising star at the BAU, and yet here he was, mentally cataloging the specific placement of a hemline like some Victorian prude scandalized by the sight of a woman’s ankle.

It wasn’t like he’d never seen legs before.

Everyone had legs. He’d seen hundreds of them. Thousands. He even had his own pair of legs, for God’s sake.

And yet, here he was, sitting across from you, hyper-fixating on the floral lace pattern winding up your tights - roses, specifically - and spiraling into thoughts so unholy that he half-considered ordering another drink just to drown his embarrassment.

It didn’t help that you’d picked a rose-scented perfume to complete the ensemble, as if you weren’t already doing enough damage.

Subtle but it hung in the air every time you shifted in your seat or leaned forward, wrapping itself around him like it was mocking his rapidly dwindling self-control.

Forget a taunt - this was an ambush, and he wasn’t sure he’d survive the assault without visibly combusting.

Fantastic. Death by roses. How poetic.

And as if the scent alone weren’t enough, his brain - traitorous thing that it was - kept linking it back to the roses on your tights.

It was as if fate had decided he wasn’t already pathetic enough, so it hit him with a one-two punch of matching visuals and aromas, because God forbid he forget for even a second where else he’d seen roses tonight.

Seriously? Did you want him to lose the last shred of dignity he had left? Of course not, you were oblivious to the chaos you’d wrought. Blissfully unaware.

And now he was mentally punching himself for being this ridiculous. He was better than this... he had to be.

So he told himself it was nothing. Just surprise, that’s all. He was simply adjusting to seeing you out of your usual loose-fitting work pants, a new variable.

Of course, that’s it. A new variable. Totally normal reaction.

And yet, despite all his internal lectures, he couldn’t stop his thoughts from spiraling every time his gaze drifted south, the delicate floral patterns climbing up your legs in a way that was almost cruelly mesmerizing.

And why was he even thinking the word “mesmerizing”? It was fabric. Just fabric.

He tried to justify it - he was just being thorough. After all, he was a trained investigator. Thoroughness was part of the job. He definitely wasn’t looking because the curve of your legs had rendered him incapable of rational thought.

He’d just wanted to make sure you still had both legs. That’s all.

Limbs accounted for, Agent, move on.

Except, of course, he couldn’t move on. Not technically. His brain had a knack for circling back to things - moments, words, details he should’ve let go of but couldn’t seem to shake.

This time, it was a few days ago. The way you’d casually invited him out tonight, as if it were nothing. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like that’s just what friends do. Because, apparently, that’s what you were - friends.

Never mind that your so-called friendship was still in its embryonic stages. Never mind that you’d somehow managed to completely upend his world with one offhanded sentence.

“Mind joining me for a couple of drinks on Friday?” you’d said, so effortlessly it was almost infuriating.

Friday. Your day off.

The one day of the week you didn’t see each other.

You were asking to see him again on the only day you didn’t have to.

What were you doing to him?

Did it mean you actually wanted to spend time with him? Someone boring like him - not out of necessity, not because you were stuck at work or chasing down leads, but because you wanted to?

Why would you?

Why would someone as amazing, competent, smart, beautiful, and funny as you - someone who wore lace tights and a miniskirt on their Fridays off, and yes, Aaron, circling back to that again, apparently - want to spend time with him?

Bland. Broken. Overworked. With a sense of humor so dry even he didn’t fully understand it half the time.

And yet, before he could fully process what was happening, he’d agreed to your request... of course he had.

Because what was the alternative?

Spending yet another Friday night alone, replaying the worst parts of the week in his head?

Trying to convince himself that bad takeout and reruns of movies as old as you were somehow counted as "self-care"?

Going out with other colleagues and getting lost in the noise of too many conversations, only to utter a grand total of four sentences all night and come home feeling even worse?

Or…this. You.

Sitting across from him, lighting up the entire room with another absurdly entertaining story, because the universe had somehow decided you were its favorite magnet for chaos.

It wasn’t fair how easily you turned misfortune into something bordering on comedy gold, but he wasn’t complaining. He wasn’t even sure how you’d gotten here, exactly.

One moment, he’d managed to summon the courage to ask what you’d done on your day off - a monumental feat, as far as he was concerned - and the next, you were recounting it with the kind of unrestrained enthusiasm that could make a trip to the post office sound riveting.

Because, of course, you - a federal agent with an inexplicable knack for philosophical musings and a seemingly endless need to keep busy - had spent your day off at a flea market.

Except, as soon as you mentioned which market, his stomach dropped like a stone.

That place? That wasn’t a flea market - that was where good judgment went to die.

He’d made the mistake to even voice it out loud, so here it came. That spark in your eyes, the one that always appeared when you decided to mount your intellectual soapbox to prove him wrong. “Do you even know the history of that area?”

He blinked, halfway through lifting his glass, because no, he didn’t.

Maybe he did that to himself because straight up asking it wouldn’t make you raise your brows in such a disarming way when you voiced you facts.

And the words you used? Completely disarming. Most of them sounded like they’d been plucked straight from some forgotten 19th-century manuscript, one that had probably been touched by a handful of scholars and a few unlucky grad students. Words no one in casual conversation would ever use - except you.

Who even talked like that?

And, God, why was that so damn attractive?

It wasn’t like he was unfamiliar with big words - he was a lawyer by training, after all. He’d spent years with his nose buried in legal jargon and Latin phrases. He shouldn’t be so affected by vocabulary.

But what probably didn’t help was the fact that he was a history nerd. A big one.

He prided himself on knowing every obscure fact there was to know about Washington - dates, places, people. He could rattle them off in his sleep. And yet, you’d managed to pull out something he’d never heard before.

That was probably why now he was clinging to every word - because, naturally, you’d managed to hit his competitive streak, too... you just had to outdo him, didn’t you?!

He should say something to prove he wasn’t completely in the dark. Maybe casually mention that he used to collect coins as a kid.

But no. He wasn’t going to tell you that.

Not because it wasn’t true - it was, and he still did it sometimes, if he found one interesting enough - but because the second those words left his mouth, you’d know exactly what kind of loser he really was.

And what was worse? You’d probably tease him for it. Which, honestly, was the last thing he needed.

Or maybe the first. Hell, he didn’t know anymore.

“You’re really pulling out Reconstruction history to convince me it’s a flea market?” he said finally, lifting his glass to his lips in a poor attempt to hide the smile threatening to betray him.

“Yes,” you said simply, leaning back and crossing your arms with an air of victorious confidence. "Because it is a flea market. The absence of your knowledge does not negate its existence."

Aaron bit the inside of his cheek harder this time, half to keep from smiling and half to stop his brain from melting entirely.

God, you were insufferable. And brilliant. And - he really hated himself for thinking this - beautiful.

He could easily argue back.

He could tell you the truth - that the place you went to had devolved into anything but a market. That it was the kind of place he would’ve chased down suspects, not strolled through on a lazy afternoon.

But then you said the phrase “integral point of trade,” and Aaron swore he nearly choked on his drink. He busied himself taking another sip, just to avoid staring at you any longer.

He sighed softly, just enough to get you to glance at him. “What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes like you were daring him to say something contradictory.

Aaron shook his head, leaning an elbow against the table as he set down his glass. “Nothing,” he said smoothly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a twitch. “I’m just impressed.”

Your brow furrowed slightly, clearly suspicious. “Impressed?”

“Mm-hmm.” He tilted his head, pretending to scrutinize you. "With how effortlessly you’ve managed to transform a casual conversation into a dissertation defense."

The look you gave him was preciously smug. “You’re just jealous you didn’t know any of this.”

Jealous? No… yes, kind of.

Bewildered? Yes.

Smitten?  Absolutely.

But Aaron - trained professional, seasoned profiler, master of keeping things close to his chest - only picked up his drink again, hiding behind its edge as he muttered, “Sure. We’ll go with that.”

He let you have this one.

You looked far too pleased with yourself, your lips curved just slightly, your chin lifted like a challenge. It was a rare thing to see you so smugly triumphant, and as much as he wanted to argue - to win - he couldn’t bring himself to ruin it.

You’d never know that, technically, you were the one who was wrong. And that was fine.

Because if you knew, you wouldn’t be rambling so happily about your day, weaving it together with that unrestrained enthusiasm that made every mundane detail sound like it was something crucial.

You were, in a word, adorable.

The kind of adorable that made him laugh - not the polite, carefully curated chuckle he usually offered, but a real, startled laugh that felt foreign in his chest, like dusting off an old, forgotten relic.

The kind of adorable that came with you talking with your entire body, hands darting through the air as though you were trying to physically sculpt the story from nothing.

And somehow, Aaron found himself hanging on every word.

Even when the plot made no sense. Even when the punchline was nowhere in sight.

Adorable. Absolutely maddening. But utterly, ridiculously adorable.

And God, he was so completely smitten with you it was almost embarassing.

“…and then, as if the day couldn’t get worse, this guy completely cuts me off at the table. Like, who does that? It was so rude!” you said, your hands gesturing wildly and accidentally knocking the edge of the salt shaker.

He caught it just before it toppled and set it back in its place.

Oh, how you talked.

If Aaron was someone who overthought everything, you were someone who overtalked.

It was a paradox, really. You knew more languages than anyone he’d ever met. You were a genius, with a vocabulary so vast it could send people running for dictionaries. And yet, somehow, synthesis wasn’t in your lexicon.

You could spend twenty minutes setting up a punchline for a story that should’ve taken two, and he never minded.

You were recounting your flea market disaster like it was the most thrilling adventure, and of course, you weren’t just telling him. No, that wouldn’t be enough for you. You had to make him see it, live it, feel it the way you had.

“Wait, Hotch, you’re not getting it,” you’d said, your tone urgent, like it was a matter of life and death. And then, without warning, you grabbed his hand.

His heart did something humiliating - a stutter, a skip, whatever it was, it made him feel ridiculous.

Like a teenager with a crush. Which, of course, he wasn’t. He was a grown man. A rational man. One who should’ve been able to handle something as simple as you taking his hand to demonstrate a story.

But no.

You pressed his hand flat against the table, arranging his fingers like they were vital props in your reenactment. “This is the table,” you said with all the seriousness in the world, completely oblivious to the fact that you’d just stolen another year of his life with that one touch.

Your hands were on his.

Aaron Hotchner: a sheep in his nursery school Christmas recital, Pirate Number Four in his high school production of The Pirates of Penzance, and now - a table. A progression so absurd it might have made him laugh if he weren’t so desperately trying to breathe.

Stay calm, Hotchner. It’s just a table.

He should have felt ridiculous. Sitting there, his hand splayed out, but instead, all he could think about was how hollow his hand would feel the second you let go.

You had no idea, of course.

Oblivious to the fact that his brain was screaming at him to pull it together while simultaneously begging you to never stop touching him.

“And this is me,” you said, gesturing to yourself with your free hand.

Still, all he could think about now was the warmth of your hand on his, the way your fingers fit so easily against his own.

It’s a table, Hotchner, again. Just a table. Don’t lose your mind over a damn table.

“And this - oh, wait, I need something-” you said, pulling your hand away to grab the salt shaker, and in that instant, you proved his theory correct: his hand felt utterly and painfully empty without yours.

The salt shaker landed beside his hand, completing your bizarre little scene. “This is him,” you declared, as if it all made perfect sense.

��Salt shaker guy. Got it,” he said, his voice steadier now that you weren’t touching him.

You shot him a look. “Don’t make fun of the salt shaker. He’s pivotal to the story.”

He almost laughed at himself, for sitting there like a lovesick fool, hanging on your every word and praying for an excuse for you to touch him again.

Put them back. Please, for the love of God, put them back.

And then, as if you’d heard his silent plea, you reached for his hand once more, rearranging it.

Perfectionist. Adorable perfectionist.

“So,” you said leaning closer, “I’m here, looking at this table, minding my own business, when this guy” - you gestured to the salt shaker - “just swoops in out of nowhere and starts taking things. Like blatantly stealing!”

You were still holding his hand, your thumb brushing against his as you were, recounting how the ‘suspect’ had made off with a brass dolphin statue, of all things.

“A dolphin,” he’d said, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.

“Yes, Hotch, a dolphin. It was hideous, and I needed it,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him like he was the one who’d stolen it.

“And then - get this - the guy starts knocking over everything. A lamp falls, hits the table, and it all comes down.” you said, grabbing his other hand. Both of his hands now in yours. He was gone. Absolutely gone.

You continued “So - what am I supposed to do?” You looked at him expectantly, clearly waiting for his answer. Because, naturally, that’s what questions are for.

He straightened up slightly, clearing his throat. “You called the police because you’re FBI and have no jurisdiction-”

“I arrested him,” you interjected with flair, as if this were the most logical and inevitable conclusion. “Citizens’ arrest, it was humiliating. There was a crowd. They were staring. I had no choice. Society would crumble if we let salt shakers like him run wild.”

Aaron shook his head, his lips twitching as he fought off a grin. “And what? You read him his rights?!”

You adorably groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Worse - I might have told him, ‘Sir, drop the dolphin.’”

That was it. He lost it.

His laugh erupted, loud and unrestrained, turning heads at the bar. A few strangers even chuckled along, unaware of the joke, but Aaron didn’t care. He couldn’t stop.

For a man who lived by control, it should have been unsettling - the way he couldn’t rein himself in, the way his body betrayed him with laughter that felt too big, too loud.

But it wasn’t, not with you.

Because you’d managed to do what no one else could: make him forget himself. Make him let go.

And so he did.

His mind drifted away, pulled by a current he couldn’t control.

Aaron blinked, the memory of your hands on his burning his skin like an old scar. For a moment, he was back there: you across the table, reenacting the chaotic events of a flea market fiasco with a salt shaker and his hands, the sound of your laughter ringing in his ears.

But then the world shifted.

The small table stretched, the edges elongating, growing wider and longer until it wasn’t just the two of you anymore. The air thickened, filled with louder sounds - voices, overlapping conversations, a cacophony of presence.

This wasn’t 1998 anymore.

Now, the long table was crowded.

JJ sat at one end of the long table, her hand lightly resting on a glass of water as she laughed at something Penelope had said, her cheeks slightly flushed.

Whatever they were talking about, Aaron couldn’t quite make out - though the dramatic hand flails and an occasional squeal from Penelope made it clear it was probably something absurd.

On the closer side of the table, however, the conversation was significantly… less wholesome.

Next to JJ, Emily leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her face shifting between disgust and reluctant amusement, like she couldn’t quite decide whether to roll her eyes or encourage it.

Across from him, Derek grinned like a man who knew exactly what he was doing, his hands moving in exaggerated, circular motions that left no room for interpretation.

It was amazing, really.

When these two were this animated, it was either because they were dissecting some niche crime novel they’d both read or... this.

“And I’m telling you,” Derek declared, spreading his hands wide, “they were this big. Unreal, man. You’d have to see it to believe it - the biggest pair of - ”

“Boobs, Derek?” Emily cut in, raising an eyebrow so sharp it could’ve sliced through his bravado. “Subtle. Really. I’m impressed by your dedication to being as respectful as a middle schooler on spring break.”

Derek leaned forward, his grin turning downright wicked. “Oh, please, Em. Don’t even try it. I’ve seen you straight-up melt over a girl in a button-down. Subtle ain’t exactly your thing either.”

Emily rolled her eyes, taking a deliberate sip of her drink before setting it down with a smirk. “First of all, button-downs are hot. Second of all, mind your business, Morgan.” She leaned back in her chair. “At least I’m not out here narrating a National Geographic special on boobs. Talk about subtle.”

And then there was Spencer.

Of course, Spencer. Talking fast - too fast - gesturing wildly as he rattled off some philosophical theory that had to involve at least three different German philosophers whose names Aaron couldn’t spell, let alone pronounce.

And you.

Sitting at Aaron’s left, your hands flitted into Spencer’s space every other second, countering his arguments with rapid-fire points that seemed to form their own language.

Aaron caught maybe a couple of words out of every ten.

Something about Nietzsche. No, wait - you hated Nietzsche. Kierkegaard? Possibly.

Honestly, it could have been both. Or neither. For all he knew, you were inventing philosophers now just to keep the conversation interesting.

The two of you had been talking nonstop for the past hours - since the moment you boarded the jet. It had gone on so long, so consistently, that the noise was no longer conversation but had evolved into a kind of background static.

The rest of the team had tuned it out completely, treating your relentless back-and-forth as white noise punctuated by occasional bursts of excitement whenever one of you discovered a particularly “thrilling” point.

...thrilling for you, anyway.

Aaron was fairly certain no one else on the jet had ever found Kant ‘thrilling’ - at best, just a dead guy with a vaguely suggestive name that occasionally got a laugh.

It stung a little, though, when Aaron thought about how the team had spent a good portion of that time joking about you and Spencer - probably their way of coping with the relentless noise of your debates.

“Okay, seriously,” JJ had groaned at one point. “when we get to the bar tonight, they are sitting at a separate table. I can’t handle this anymore. And with alcohol involved? Forget it. My brain will shut down.”

Emily, sitting across from her, smirked. “Oh, come on, JJ. Don’t you want to learn about something completely useless while sipping a margarita? Could be fun.”

JJ shot her a look. “Pass.”

“We could all sit together at first and then just sneak off,” Derek said, leaning back in his chair with a self-satisfied grin. “Teach and Pretty Boy probably wouldn’t even notice… you know what they say - philosophy’s the language of loooove,” he added in a sing-song tone, waggling his eyebrows.

Penelope, who had been giggling quietly behind her hand, finally chimed in. “Aw, like two adorable little nerdy lovebirds. It’s so sweet!”

Lovebirds. Aaron’s jaw tightened as he stared straight ahead.

They were joking, of course. Obviously. There was no way they actually thought you and Spencer could be a thing. Relationships at work were strictly forbidden, after all.

It was in the rules.

Not that Aaron was thinking about relationships. That would be absurd.

It wouldn’t work - not because he didn’t like Spencer. Hell, Spencer was practically his first child. But the idea of you and Spencer together? It just didn’t make sense.

Sure he was brilliant, compassionate, genuine - all the qualities anyone could ask for. But Spencer wasn’t… well...

He just wasn’t for you.

Not that Aaron knew what your type even was. It wasn’t as if he’d spent the better part of a decade cataloging your preferences. That would be ridiculous.

But he did know one thing - you liked clever people. And Spencer was clever. A genius. Of course, it made perfect sense to everyone else that you’d be potentially a good match. Didn’t it?!

And what about him?

Aaron felt like he was drowning.

The table was alive with energy, with three conversations firing off simultaneously. And Aaron sat in the middle of it all, the only one not speaking.

Still, he absorbed it all: every word, every shift in tone, every burst of laughter. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t interject, even when he had something to say.

He just listened.

He wished he could do more than that. He wished people could see that he cared, that he was invested in what they were saying, even if his quiet nods and glances didn’t scream it like everyone else’s chatter did.

Because that was the thing about Aaron: listening came naturally to him. Reacting? That was harder.

He watched as Penelope exclaimed, “No way!” her hands flying up dramatically, her voice a beacon of enthusiasm. JJ chimed in with a soft “Really?” that pulled everyone into her orbit for just a second. Derek countered with a smug remark that had Emily rolling her eyes, but even she couldn’t suppress a grin.

And Aaron? Aaron just sat there, absorbing it all while his voice disappeared.

An hour could slip by without him saying a word, until someone finally remembered he was even there.

And that was the irony of it all: he was probably the most physically imposing person at the table, but his silence erased him. The conversation moved forward, leaving him stranded somewhere back in the past topic, unheard and unnoticed.

Most of the time, he didn’t mind. He didn’t need to be the center of attention, didn’t crave the spotlight - not here, not after a long day of being the Unit Chief.

But when he did notice? It hit him like a freight train.

Suddenly, he became hyper-aware of everything. The way his arms rested awkwardly on the table. The position of his hands. The stiffness of his posture. The sheer weight of his silence.

He felt out of place. Like a ghost at his own table.

Aaron shifted in his seat, stimming with his fingers - a small movement, but one that betrayed his discomfort. He glanced at the others, wondering if anyone had noticed, if anyone might throw him a lifeline.

But the table buzzed on, oblivious.

It started to sting when Aaron realized no one had asked him a question in the last 45 minutes.

He sat there, at the table with his team, feeling like a ghost at his own gathering. The laughter and voices surrounded him, a cacophony of sound that made it impossible to pinpoint one conversation from the next. He could barely hear himself think, and yet, inside his own head was where he remained, trapped, desperately wanting to be part of the moment but unsure how to step back into the light.

There’s a theory that says you don’t exist unless someone calls and you respond.

So there was light.

A warm touch of a hand on his left shoulder.

Aaron froze.

And then, it happened. Finally, a question. At him.

“So, are you going to New York tomorrow?” you asked, your hand still resting on his shoulder.

He hesitated for a second, as if needing to confirm that you were actually speaking to him. But the look in your eyes, the way they searched his, and the slight tilt of your head in his direction were more than enough to prove that you were.

It was strange. He wasn’t really used to being addressed like this in group settings - directly, personally. When people spoke to him, it was always about work, requests to stretch the days off into a long weekend, or about Jack, asking if he’d seen him recently.

No, he hadn’t. Not really.

He’d seen Jack about a month ago for barely a minute. He’d been asleep. Aaron had only gone to Jessica’s house because he’d needed to, after the worst case he’d handled all year.

Even now, guilt lingered for intruding like that, for being selfish enough to need that quiet moment, and it only deepened when questions like those came up, pulling him back to what he hadn’t done, to who he hadn’t been.

And yet, no one ever asked him about that. About him.

The questions were always for Hotch the Unit Chief or Aaron the dad. They were never about just Aaron.

“I-I don’t know yet,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. He half-expected you to nod politely and return to your conversation with Spencer. But you didn’t... why?

“What play were you planning to see?” you asked, your voice soft but curious, as though the answer genuinely mattered to you.

He paused, caught off guard by the question. He wasn’t sure why you even bothered. You knew next to nothing about musical theatre - less than he knew about philosophy, and that was saying something.

Because, if he were honest, he probably knew more about musical theatre than you did about philosophy. And you had a PhD in philosophy. Every paper you’d ever published had some philosophical angle, every argument you made seemed rooted in it. Hell, your mind practically breathed in philosophy. But musical theatre? That was his realm.

He wasn’t just an occasional fan - he was a theatre nerd, borderline obsessive. The kind of person who read scripts for fun, hummed overtures from shows no one else remembered, and had opinions on whether revivals ever truly lived up to the originals.

So why did this simple question throw him? Why did it feel like there was a weight behind it he couldn’t quite place? Maybe because you didn’t know that about him - not yet, at least.

Sure, you knew he loved musical theatre - which, honestly, was already an achievement. He rarely felt safe enough to share that detail with anyone. You knew he made it a point to see a Broadway play every time he was in New York.

But the rest? The details? Those he never shared. Not with you, not with anyone.

You didn’t know how often he went back to see the same shows, over and over again, as if they were old friends waiting to welcome him home.

Or how much he cherished the intimacy of tiny off-Broadway productions - the kind performed in spaces that barely qualified as theatres, where the air buzzed with raw, electric talent.

And he wasn’t sure how to tell you all of that without sounding like… well, like him.

Aaron Hotchner: Unit Chief. Father. Theatre Nerd.

“I haven’t really decided yet,” Aaron began, the words tumbling out faster than he intended. “But I’ve been thinking about catching this play. The original cast is coming back for a limited run this month to celebrate the anniversary… it’s kind of a big thing.”

What the fuck had he just said?

He sounded like one of those pretentious purists who thought only the original cast could do a show justice - the kind of person who wrote overly passionate forum posts about “artistic integrity.”

The same kind of person, ironically, he’d wasted too many hours of his life arguing with in comment sections, armed with nothing but a sense of logic, proper grammar, and the faint hope that maybe he could introduce them to the concept of reasonable thought.

And now? He sounded exactly like them. Great. Just great.

He needed to fix it. Immediately. Before he dug the hole any deeper.

“It’s not that I don’t like the current cast ,” he added quickly, as if that would save him. “Far from it. They’re incredible. I saw them last year, and they were just as powerful as I remembered. But…”

Oh, great. There was the but.

“The first time I saw it…” He trailed off for a second, feeling a pull he couldn’t quite articulate. “It was on opening night, back when it was still off-Broadway. No one really knew about it yet. It felt… raw, I guess. Intimate in a way that stayed with me.”

Intimate. Really, Hotchner?

He immediately winced internally. Now he sounded like a creep. Fantastic.

That was probably why you were smiling at him like that, with those soft eyes and that too-kind expression. Compassion. Pity.

That had to be it. You were humoring him.

Perfect. Just perfect. Can he do at least one thing right in his life? Just one? Apparently not.

The words started coming faster, his attempt to salvage whatever dignity he had left. “I mean, it’s the themes,” his hands twitched as if to emphasize the points, but he forced them to stay still. “They’re… timeless, but also distinctly modern. Community. Survival. Resilience. Love in its purest and messiest forms.”

Now he was waxing poetic. Could he even hear himself?

“People finding each other and holding on, even when everything around them is falling apart,” he continued, fully aware he’d gone too far but somehow unable to stop. “It’s hard to explain, but there’s something about it - the music, the storytelling. It’s honest, but it’s hopeful. It doesn’t shy away from how ugly life can be, but it still manages to show there’s beauty in the fight.”

He finally stopped, feeling his face grow warmer by the second. He might as well have just stood up and shouted, “Hi, I’m Aaron Hotchner, I’m 42 and I’m currently experiencing a complete emotional breakdown over a musical. Please be kind.”

What was he even doing? Did he think this would impress you? No, worse - for once he didn’t think at all. That was the problem.

“I don’t know,” he added quickly, trying to reel himself back in. “I’m probably just being sentimental.”

Beautiful, Hotchner. Very subtle. He was officially done talking. Forever, if possible.

You still smiled, leaning in slightly, and Aaron braced himself for the inevitable teasing, the polite that’s nice before you turned the conversation elsewhere. But instead, you tilted your head and said softly, “That doesn’t sound sentimental to me.”

He blinked, caught completely off guard. That wasn’t what he was expecting. Not even close.

“It sounds… personal,” you continued, your voice steady and calm. “Like it left a mark on you. I think that’s kind of incredible, actually.”

Aaron stared at you for a second, his mind scrambling - you weren’t laughing at him. You weren’t humoring him. You were listening.

“I-” he started, but the words caught in his throat.

You tilted your head, your smile growing just slightly, like you could see how much he was struggling to process this. “Really, I mean it. The way you’re describing it… honestly, it sounds beautiful. You connect with it. That’s the whole point of art, isn’t it? To find meaning in it, to feel heard.”

Beautiful.

Now you were waxing poetic. But somehow, hearing it from you didn’t make him wince the way his own words did.

He huffed a small, almost nervous laugh, more to himself than to you. It was infuriating how easily you could do that, just be this way. “I guess it is”

“Of course it is.” You teased lightly, sitting back in your seat but keeping your eyes on him. “Now, are you finally going to tell me the name of this life-changing musical, or is it some kind of classified information?”

“It doesn’t really matter,” he muttered, already trying to move past it. “You probably wouldn’t know it.” He caught himself. “It’s not important.”

You tilted your head, your smile unwavering, clearly not letting him off the hook. “It sounds important to you,” you said softly, leaning forward just a little. “And if it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

He huffed a small breath, glancing down at his hands. He couldn’t tell if your persistence was infuriating or disarming - or maybe it was both.

“It’s called Rent,” he finally said, the word slipping out before he could stop himself.

“I know it,” you responded without hesitation, and he was so surprised that he couldn’t help but chime in again.

“You do?” he asked, the surprise clear in his voice - not because Rent was niche, far from it. It was one of the most iconic musicals ever.

But coming from you? This felt like a monumental achievement, especially considering that the last time you two talked about musicals, you’d admitted to not knowing The Sound of Music was anything more than a movie. At this point, he’d learned to expect anything from you.

“Yes,” you said with a small smile. “It’s actually the only live show I’ve ever seen. My mom practically dragged me to it ages ago… it was the day I finished my PhD in linguistics.”

Aaron didn’t know where to begin. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He did.

He knew you’d lived in New York while working on your PhD at Columbia, just a stone’s throw away from the very theatres he’d spent hours traveling to whenever he could manage a free weekend.

And yet, in all that time, you’d seen exactly one show. One.

It was baffling. Almost impressive, really - your sheer commitment to avoiding the arts.

Was it a conscious effort? A statement? Honestly, he wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or begrudgingly admire the consistency.

“I don’t remember much of the songs, sorry” you admitted, your tone softer now. “I do remember, ironically, when we came in, they said the creator had passed the day before from a heart attack. I really could feel the emotion in the room. It was amazing - one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

It couldn’t be.

“January 26th, 1996,” he said, the words spilling out before he could stop himself.

You paused, your brows knitting together as you thought. “Oh, wow,” you murmured after a moment. “Yes, that’s right. How could you possibly know that?”

He felt his cheeks flush even as the words formed on his tongue. “That was opening night,” he said softly, almost hesitantly. “I was there too.”

You stared at each other, eyes locked. Silence.

He couldn’t quite put into words what it was that made the realization feel so… heavy.

Maybe it was the sheer improbability of it. How, out of all the places in the world, your paths had crossed that night in a tiny theatre in New York.

Because in 1996, you didn’t know each other. You were strangers in the truest sense of the word - two lives moving parallel, unaware of the other’s existence.

Of course, you wouldn’t remember seeing each other. How could you? The thought was absurd, and yet, the thought of it - of you there, somewhere in that 199-seat theatre, maybe half full - flustered him.

Had your eyes met in the foyer, just for a fleeting moment, the way they were meeting his now?

Had you brushed past him, two strangers moving toward seats that would bring you close but never quite close enough?

The thought sent him spiraling, not because it felt impossible, but because it didn’t. It felt inevitable.

Maddening and beautiful all at once, the kind of paradox that left him breathless.

There was a sweet, aching ignorance in the idea.

Neither of you had any way of knowing what you would one day mean to each other.

Of knowing that the stranger sitting nearby, lost in the same music and emotion, would one day become one of the most important people in your life.

It had to be fate.

You, sitting just as you were now - beside him, to his left. Or at least, that’s how liked to imagine it. Maybe you’d even leaned toward your mother then, the way you leaned toward him now, smiling.

Some people are just meant to be, aren’t they?

Fate, he thought again. Because if that wasn’t fate, he wasn’t sure what was.

So maybe he should go to New York. All the streets seemed to lead there.

Besides, someone he knew had just been assigned to lead the NYPD, maybe he should pay her a visit.

---

Hotch hadn’t expected how much the latest case would affect his team - or himself, for that matter.

He’d noticed something was wrong with JJ the moment they stepped into the first crime scene together.

There was a heaviness about her, a stillness he’d learned to recognize in the years they’d worked side by side. It wasn’t unusual for these cases to take a toll, but this one felt different.

He’d confronted her almost immediately, pulling her aside when Reid and the officer weren’t within earshot. He’d told her he understood - how could he not?

Ever since Jack was born, cases involving children had clawed at him in ways he couldn’t fully prepare for, no matter how many times he tried to steel himself.

But for JJ, it was different. It was worse. Every case they worked on - every horror they encountered - came across her desk first.

Every victim’s file landed in her hands before it reached anyone else. And far too often, those victims were women her age, mothers, daughters, lives cut short in ways too cruel to fathom.

He’d told her it was okay to lose it every once in a while, that no one could carry this job without feeling its weight. She hadn’t looked convinced, and he couldn’t blame her.

Coming from him - the Stoic - it must have felt hollow.

He saw it in her eyes, in the way her shoulders barely eased under his reassurances. She was still carrying it, even after the case was over.

And so he tried again.

He approached JJ as the officer closed the door on the car, securing the unsub’s wife, Chrissy, inside. She had killed him, desperate to protect their future child from his violent legacy.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

JJ stared blankly into the distance, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. It took a moment before she answered, her voice low and reflective. “You stop caring, you're jaded. If you care too much... it'll ruin you.”

“Just know that you did everything you could,” he replied softly. “Sometimes we get it right with a little luck, and most of the time we don't. That's the job. It's never perfect.”

He paused, his gaze shifting to her as his tone softened further. “It's still better to care.”

“You really believe that?” JJ asked, finally turning to look at him, her arms still folded defensively.

Of course not. Caring too much destroys you - it always does. Look at what it had done to his own life.

He shook his head slowly, his mouth twitching as if suppressing a more honest reply. “I believe it's never perfect.”

And maybe that’s what haunted him the most - how helpless he felt in the face of it. Because he knew better than anyone that words could only do so much. Pain like that didn’t dissipate because someone told you it was okay to feel it.

It lingered. It lingered in the quiet moments, in the spaces between cases, in the dark corners of your mind when you finally stopped moving.

Another one who didn’t show the weight of the case quite as visibly as JJ, but was no less affected, was Prentiss.

She was better at masking it - that much he could see. But Hotch also knew her well enough to recognize the way she carried her thoughts.

The motive behind this case, the layers of injustice, had settled heavily on her shoulders. It wasn’t hard to imagine why. Her frustration wasn’t so different from JJ’s in essence, it came from the same place - a longing for justice.

But for Prentiss, it wasn’t just about the crimes committed. It was about the deeper, systemic unfairness that had brought them here in the first place.

He could tell she was thinking about Chrissy, the young mother caught in an impossible situation.

About how, in a patriarchal society, the person who would truly pay the price for all of this wouldn’t be the perpetrator alone - it would be Chrissy, the woman who had tried to protect her child in the only way she thought she could.

It was horrifyingly unfair.

Aaron could feel her anger in the quiet moments, the way her jaw tightened when Chrissy’s name was mentioned, the way she avoided eye contact with anyone when the case wrapped. He understood it, but he didn’t say anything.

How could he? He had no right to.

As a man, he knew he was part of the very system she was furious with. Even unintentionally, even passively, he benefited from it. So he stayed quiet.

But that didn’t mean he did nothing. As a former prosecutor, he understood the gravity of Chrissy’s situation. The trial would not be easy. The legal system often wasn’t.

But he also knew the power of a voice within that system, the importance of framing the narrative with care. So he took the only step he could think of, the only one that felt right.

He sat down and wrote a letter addressing the complexities of the case. He focused on the circumstances that had forced Chrissy into a decision no one should ever have to make. He laid out the context, the systemic failures, the humanity of it all. And when it was done, he filed it with the process.

It wasn’t much, but it was a step.

It was all he could do - to have faith that the trial would deliver justice, not just for the victims, but for Chrissy as well.

With Morgan and Reid, the reasons were different - the questions a case like this left behind were vast, yet the two of them had latched onto the same one, albeit in opposing ways.

The cyclical nature of violence. The profound impact of familial legacy on individual behavior. Can you pass down the gene of evil? Is it inevitable? Or can it be changed?

It was ironic, really - how the same theme could yield two entirely different interpretations, juxtaposed like night and day.

For Morgan, who was slowly reapproaching a faith he’d long abandoned, the answers came from above. Or at least, he hoped they would.

Morgan searched for meaning in something greater, for the divine to offer clarity in a world that often seemed devoid of it.

Hotch couldn’t offer much in that regard; he understood it too well. He’d grown up in a family that confessed the same beliefs, heard the same hymns, recited the same prayers. And while the answers Morgan sought were his own to find, Hotch could offer a small gesture of solidarity.

So, when he went to the kitchenette for coffee, he made one for Morgan too. He didn’t say anything, just handed him the steaming cup, hoping the caffeine would keep him awake long enough to wrestle with those questions and, luckily, find some peace before it spiraled further.

He added an extra touch - his last dark chocolate truffle. He wanted it for himself, truthfully, but Morgan needed it more. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the right thing to do.

Because if there was one tenet of faith Aaron could still believe in, it was this: ‘be kind to one another.’ And sometimes, kindness came in the form of caffeine and chocolate

Then there was Reid. For him, the search for answers took a different path, one turned inward.

He sought them in the vast expanse of his mind, a database larger and more intricate than anything Hotch could fathom.

He knew that Reid’s healing process often began in solitude, pouring over facts, theories, and philosophical musings until they settled into something resembling clarity.

So, when he made coffee for him, he took care to prepare it the way Reid liked it - sickeningly sweet, almost more syrup than coffee. He didn’t interrupt Reid’s silent contemplation. It was still too early, the thoughts too embryonic.

Handing Reid the mug, he let the younger man be, knowing that if Spencer needed logical confrontation, he would come directly to him. They’d discuss the meaning of words, the patterns of human behavior, and then Reid would likely move on with his day.

What concerned him, though, was the possibility that Reid might go to you instead.

It wasn’t that Hotch doubted you - quite the opposite. If there was anyone who understood Reid’s need to dive deeply into the cultural and philosophical nature of humanity, it was you.

You had a way of peeling back layers, of digging into the complexities of existence, even when it required hours of intellectual and emotional suffering to do so. Hotch trusted you more than he trusted himself to guide Reid in those moments.

But if Reid came to you, it would mean the case had struck him harder than Hotch had realized.

Because you weren’t the first step in Reid’s process - you were the last. The one who could challenge him, pull him deeper, and help him emerge on the other side.

Hotch took a sip of his own coffee, glancing toward Reid, who was already lost in thought, and then toward Morgan, who sat quietly with his faith and his chocolate.

They’d find their answers in time, he knew. Whether above, within, or through someone who truly understood.

Rossi though was, without a doubt, the most frustrating one to figure out.

It wasn’t that Hotch didn’t understand why the case had affected him - he did. The reasons were as plain as day.

But Rossi’s stubbornness and unyielding pride made it nearly impossible to offer any kind of help, let alone get close enough to understand the full picture. He was still adjusting to the group dynamic, still learning to balance respect for everyone’s boundaries with his old habits of calling the shots.

Sure, there had been progress.

Rossi had made small steps toward blending in since rejoining the team, he was more open with him especially - but there were moments when his gaze drifted backward, to how things used to be.

That same tendency to look to the past was what Hotch knew had cut deepest in this case. The past haunted Rossi.

Hotch had seen it in the way his demeanor shifted, the way he threw himself into conversation with the local detective, whose story mirrored something unspoken in Rossi.

The detective had just closed a case that had haunted him for 27 years - a case that had cost him everything. His job. His mental sanity. His sense of self.

Rossi wasn’t as different from him as he probably wanted to believe.

Hotch had overheard more than one of their conversations, seen the way Rossi leaned in when the man talked about his regrets, about the weight he carried. And more than once, Rossi had mentioned his own “unfinished business,” those words lingering in the air like a loaded gun.

Hotch didn’t push. He couldn’t. Rossi had to face it on his own first, to admit - to himself, above all - that there was something he needed to confront.

But he hoped that when the time came, Rossi would find the strength to do more than just admit it. He hoped he’d find the strength to let it go.

Only an agent was left - two, if he counted himself.

It didn’t surprise him that the reason this case had shaken you was the same as his own, even if you hadn’t told him yet.

You didn’t need to. He knew you too well by now, and silence wasn’t as opaque as you probably hoped it would be.

And the thing that would help you was the same thing he knew would help him: dialogue. A confrontation of two broken individuals, trying to make sense of the same chaos from different angles.

You and him, speaking two completely different languages: physics and metaphysics. One grounded in logic and structure, the other stretching toward something bigger, intangible.

You sought answers in the abstract, in the why, while he clung to the tangible, the how.

Together, somehow, you always found your way.

Hotch made his way down the aisle of the jet, paperwork in hand, catching sight of you before he even reached your seat. You were hunched over a file, so engrossed that you didn’t notice him until he stopped beside you and cleared his throat.

Predictably, you snapped the file shut in an instant, like you were hiding state secrets. Too bad for you - he already knew.

“There’s no need to be so secretive about that case file,” he said, his tone deceptively casual as he lowered himself into the seat across from you, one hand tugging his tie back into place. “Especially when we’re both working on the exact same one.”

Your eyes flicked up, skeptical, and then down at the file he placed on the table - its size dwarfing yours like a monument to over-preparation. “Impossible,” you said, your arms crossing defensively. “Yours is the size of an encyclopedia.”

“Probably because it seems I’ve worked on it more than you have,” he replied, allowing himself the faintest hint of a smile. “Tell me, is it the Boston Reaper case by any chance?”

Caught you, Philosopher.

Your eyes widened, the look of someone watching a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat. “How? Why?”

That was all you managed to say, and Hotch had to fight back the urge to laugh. The great oracle of philosophy, reduced to caveman syntax. You sounded exactly like Jack when he was first trying to string together sentences as a toddler.

Those questions weren’t even for him - they were clearly for yourself.

How does he know? Why is he working on this case?

And honestly, Hotch thought, the answers were so obvious it was almost endearing that you bothered to ask.

He knew why you were both silently working on that case on the jet back to Quantico. It was your way of coping with the uncomfortable fear today’s investigation had stirred - that an old, unresolved case like this one could resurface, leaving a new trail of victims in its wake.

Fear - that you might end up like the detective from today, unprepared. All this time later, and still haunted by what could have been done differently.

The Boston Reaper wasn’t just another unresolved case. It wasn’t just about the local police pulling both of you off it before you’d even had the chance to work on a proper profile.

That had been frustrating, sure, but the ties to this case ran deeper.

For him, it had been his first case as a lead profiler, thrust into the role just as Rossi had abruptly left the team without so much as a warning.

For you, it had been your ever first unresolved case, the kind of professional scar that stayed with you no matter how many victories followed.

And then there was the part neither of you would ever mention aloud.

It had been the case assigned to both of you the morning after what could only be described as a monumental lapse in judgment - a lapse Mrs. Lee, would still gleefully encourage you to repeat.

“Fear,” Hotch said simply, answering the unspoken why. He didn’t dare meet your eyes as he added, “And you already know the ‘how.’”

Because of course you did.

That unspoken moment of realization between you was something he definitely didn’t want to linger on - mainly because the second he saw it in your eyes, he’d probably blush like an idiot, and you’d never let him hear the end of it.

“So,” he said briskly, gesturing toward your file, “can I read the Oracle’s thoughts on the case now?”

You hesitated for a moment, then handed him the file. “I got stuck,” you admitted, your tone less defensive now. “There’s barely anything in there.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here. Let’s see -” he said, flipping open the file.

His eyes immediately landed on one word written larger than the others, circled as if it demanded top billing in the drama of your thoughts.

“Fate,” he murmured, his lips twitching at the irony.

Of course it was fate.

If the past few days had taught him anything, it was that the universe had an excellent sense of humor - albeit a twisted one.

You leaned forward slightly, pulling him back to the present. “He uses the Eye of Providence as a symbol for his killings,” you explained, saving him from the philosophical essays you’d undoubtedly penned in the margins... thank God.

You continued “That’s where I started. But it led me nowhere. Then I thought about how he wrote ‘fate’ on the windshield of one of his victims in their own blood.” You paused for a bit. “Words are more powerful than symbols.”

That struck a chord. Words required intent, precision. They carried weight. They cut deeper.

Hotch’s eyes dropped back to the file, scanning your notes as he absorbed what you’d said. Pieces started clicking into place, fragments of thought aligning in a way that sparked something.

 He looked up at you. “What if he sees himself as the personification of fate?” he theorized, his eyes searching yours for confirmation.

“Well, didn’t you read my mind, Unit Chief?!” you said with a grin. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to prove.” That look - the one you knew drove him just slightly mad - prompted him to respond before he even had the chance to think better of it.

“And to do that, you had to go back quite a bit. Since Christianity influenced Western culture, we don’t talk about fate anymore - that’s more pagan. Instead, we talk about providence,” he said, his voice steady, almost clinical. “Ancient Greece, on the other hand, is full of myths where fate is one the central themes.”

Your grin only widened, amused and maybe a little impressed. “Wow. You really are good, Agent Hotchner,” you said with a mock coo. “Yes, exactly.”

Of course.

You were teasing him - again - but there was a glint in your eye, a genuine spark that reminded him why he always ended up drawn into these conversations with you, whether he wanted to be or not.

“I did try the those first,” you continued “but the imagery didn’t match. To explain it, I had to revisit Stoicism. They saw the universe as governed by this entity called logos - a rational, divine order where everything connects in an unbroken chain of cause and effect. What I found particularly important is that fate, in their view, isn’t something chaotic but part of a structured system. It’s revolutionary.”

He wasn’t used to your characteristic back-and-forth during cases anymore. He hadn’t paired you with him in what felt like ages - since long before Rossi rejoined the team. Maybe it was deliberate. Maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t want to think too hard about it.

But hearing you now, rattling off ideas with that same unstoppable energy, he realized just how much he’d missed it. Your wits, your knowledge, your uncanny ability to pull connections out of thin air - it was as maddening as it was impressive.

Not that he particularly missed the mock praise you’d thrown his way earlier. That could stay firmly in the past where it belonged. Or, at the very least, it could try to sound a bit more genuine.

Not that he wanted to hear it, of course.

…Okay, maybe it was better to change the subject entirely.

He missed you.

“So, by presenting himself as ‘fate,’” you continued, “the Reaper excuses himself entirely. He’s not making choices - he’s just the inevitable result of the universe’s design. Or at least, that’s how he sees it. Responsibility lies with the deterministic nature of existence itself. Quite of a sophisticated delusion.” you added, leaning back with a wry smile.

Hotch tilted his head. “Interesting… but if he truly believed that, why leave a signature? Why call 911? That’s ego. He wants us to know it’s him. That’s not someone surrendering to inevitability - that’s someone demanding recognition.”

“That’s why I’m stuck,” you admitted, with a frustrated sigh. “The contradictions don’t align. His actions suggest ego, yes. A desire for attention, for dominance. But that one 911 call…”

He leaned forward slightly. “What about it?”

“The call bothers me,” you continued, your voice softer now, more introspective. “Too deliberate. Too… purposeful. I feel they aren’t just challenges. There’s something else, I can’t see it yet, but it’s not just about superiority. It doesn’t feel like pure ego.”

He responded to you way too quickly. “Then what does it feel like?”

You hesitated, searching for the right words. “Something human, maybe,” you said finally. “There’s something… ordinary about the Unsub. Normal. He blends in so seamlessly that even his grandiosity doesn’t seem entirely self-serving.” You gestured at the file in front of you. “I can’t connect these pieces. The deterministic philosophy. The theatrical ego. The calculated call. It’s like he exists in two worlds at once - one of chaos, and one of order.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment. “And you think the truth lies somewhere in the contradiction.”

You shrugged. “Doesn’t it always?”

Hotch exhaled softly, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched you.

You couldn’t help yourself, could you? Always had to end with something emblematic, like you were writing the last line of a novel. Throw in a fade to black, and you were set.

“When you’re done making fun of me,” you said, raising your eyebrows at him, “could you explain how, with the same lack of material, you somehow have a file twice the size of mine?”

He couldn’t help the brief laugh that escaped him. Of course, you’d noticed.

“I’m not particularly proud of this…” he began, his tone measured but edged with a hint of self-deprecation. “But after we were pulled from the case, I went back to Boston a couple of weeks later.” He paused, gauging your reaction before continuing. “I got George Foyet’s testimony while he was still in the hospital.”

Your head snapped up, staring at him, completely stunned. “You?” you said slowly, suspicion lacing every syllable. “You went back to Boston? The man who practically has the Constitution tattooed on his soul took a statement after being removed from the case? That wasn’t even legal, was it?”

“It wasn’t,” Hotch admitted, his smirk widening just enough to make you narrow your eyes further. “But I knew they’d write a book about the Reaper case eventually. Once it became public domain, the testimony would be usable. I was just… proactive.”

“Proactive,” you repeated, shaking your head with a disbelieving laugh. “That’s barely ethical.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I blame you.” His tone was deadpan. “You brought out the worst in me back then.”

You snorted, leaning back in your seat with an exasperated smile. “How convenient, blaming it all on what were actually your overthoughts after some drunk sex.”

Oh no. Absolutely not. He was not going there.

He looked down at the file on the table, hoping the angle would save him from the inevitable reddening of his face.

Why, of all the things you could’ve said, did you have to bring that up? It wasn’t even relevant - well, not entirely relevant.

Deflection. That was his only move now. Luckily, the one he had in mind was at least partially truthful.

“We’re landing in a few minutes,” he began, keeping his tone calm and measured, “so how about this: when we’re back, we exchange files. You can go through the testimony, and I’ll take another look at where you got stuck with the phone call. We both take the night to work on it, and tomorrow, we compare notes.”

You tilted your head, skepticism written all over your face. “And what if someone finds out we’re working on a closed case?”

“That’s why we’re doing it at your place,” he said, his tone completely matter-of-fact, like this was the most logical solution in the world. Because it was. It wasn’t an excuse, at all.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, so now you’re inviting yourself over?”

“Haven’t seen Mrs. Lee in a few weeks,” he said smoothly, like that was somehow a perfectly valid justification.

You laughed at that, shaking your head. “Right… You know what? She might adore you, but let’s not forget who she entrusted with her blueberry pie recipe.”

What?

And you waited all this time to tell him that?

So this is what betrayal feels like. A little less dramatic than expected, but still, very disappointing.

---

If there was one universal truth about the BAU team, it was this: no matter how different you all were, no matter how much tension simmered beneath the surface after a long case, there was one sacred ritual that bound you together - going out for drinks.

Especially after the cases that were draining, but not devastating.

The ones that left you raw but still intact, just enough to crave the company of those who understood the madness you faced.

This case had been one of those.

There was a quiet hum of unspoken agreement as everyone wrapped up their notes, pens clicking shut, desks tidied with a precision that came from mutual understanding rather than coordination.

It wasn’t planned, but somehow, you all ended up converging in the bullpen at the same time, like a gravitational pull none of you could resist.

The collective exhaustion that had hung heavy all day began to lift, replaced by a singular, unifying hope: to fuck up your livers just enough to lighten the weight pressing on your minds.

It was Derek who broke the silence, standing up from his chair and tossing his notebook across his desk with a grin. “Who’s up for a drink?”

Emily cheered like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Who’s up for five?”

“Five bottles, you mean?” you chimed in, feigning doubt as though you were on the verge of saying no.

“Each,” Emily clarified with a playful wink.

That was all it took for you to reach for your pen, clicking it closed with a dramatic flair before placing it back into your holder.

“Count me in,” Rossi said casually, like this wasn’t the team’s collective miracle of the week. For someone who had only recently started joining you on these outings, this was practically a declaration of loyalty.

“I don’t know,” Spencer muttered, adjusting the strap of his bag - a move so predictable it immediately set off Derek.

“Stop with the ‘I don’t know.’ You’re in, kid,” Derek said, striding confidently across the bullpen, leaving no room for argument. “JJ?”

“I’d love to, but I’m gonna have to take a rain check,” JJ said, offering a soft smile that carried just enough warmth to make Emily’s heart squeeze.

That meant only a single person remained.

“Unit Chief,” you said, striding toward him with that determined glint in your eye. “Just one beer.”

Hotch exhaled, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips as he glanced at you. “Sure,” he said simply, afterall he couldn’t say no to that, not after a case like this.

But apparently, his mere will hadn’t been enough to seal the moment.

The sound of the bullpen doors opening pulled his attention, the heavy glass swinging wide as a man in a suit entered. He moved with purpose, his expression unreadable, carrying an envelope and a folder that seemed too heavy for their size.

“Agent Hotchner?” the man called out.

Hotch straightened immediately, his spine rigid, the shift so automatic it was almost reflex. “Yes,”

What happened next took seconds, maybe less, but it felt like a lifetime compressed into the space of a breath.

His left hand moved to sign the notice, his name scrawled neatly onto the blank space with a pen he didn’t remember reaching for.

The man nodded once, taking the signed folder back with an efficiency that bordered on mechanical.

And just like that, he was gone - disappearing through the same doors he had entered, leaving destruction in his wake as swiftly as he’d brought it.

All that remained that could prove his existence was the envelope in Hotch’s hand, the weight of it far heavier than paper should ever be.

The bullpen was suddenly too quiet. Too still.

“What is it?” Emily asked, her voice cutting through the silence.

He really didn’t want to look up, but he still did anyways.

He gestured faintly with the envelope, his voice quiet, flat, as though detachment might dull the edge of it. “Haley’s filing for divorce.”

He paused, his gaze drifting back to the envelope, as though it might explain itself if he stared hard enough. Then he spoke again, his voice even quieter this time, almost resigned. “I’ve been served.”

Before anyone could respond, he turned on his heel, the envelope still clutched in his hand like a foreign object he didn’t know what to do with. He walked out, back through the glass doors, the weight of their closing behind him louder than it had ever have been.

You stared after him, your hand falling away from where it had hovered, wanting to reach out but knowing better.

You didn’t want to drink anymore.

And him?

Somewhere beyond those glass doors, Hotch kept walking, as though forward motion might somehow keep him from falling apart entirely.

The envelope burned in his hand, and every step felt heavier than the last, carrying him into a night that suddenly felt colder and far too empty.

Because now, it was real.

---

Phi’s Corner: Did I just waste 5 hours of my life discovering that Tumblr only allows 1,000 text blocks max and had to re-edit everything? Yes, I did. Because I’m a sucker for distanced one-liners, and the universe clearly hates me. Also… did you catch the little countdown? Hehe. I’m evil. Oh, and for the record - I am Mrs. Lee’s #1 stan. Don’t forget it.

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

[trippinsorrows]

lessons in love

authors note: here we are with yet another au...i don't wanna hear it. 😭 friendly reminder that this story is set in 2004, or this is where it's kicking off, at least. thus, some of the dialogue and pop cultural references may read as dated and/or cringe. that's because it is. i'm writing it to reflect the time back then, friends.

faint hint of pride and prejudice as well as the move 'ever after' influences if you turn your head to the side, close one eye, and squint the other.

words: 6k

warnings: angst, violence against women, scenes of abuse. also, roman is a dick. that needs its own tw.

September, 2004

“Naw, you crazy as hell man,” Jey’s voice is much louder than it should be considering where they all are. Not that it makes a difference. The conversation at hand demands to be had, at least, according to the twins. “You’d really choose to bang Melyssa Ford over Esther Baxter?”

At being presented with the question once more, Jimmy sucks his teeth, Naomi, his longtime girlfriend since high school, with one arm over his shoulder, a wry smile on her pretty face. If she’s bothered by the conversation at hand, she’s doing a fine job not showing it, even though Roman knows she’s not. It’s why she’s one of the few people he likes, more tolerates, outside of a select few people. She’s just chill.

“Dawg, have you seen the Big Pimpin video? Thong Song?” Is Jimmy’s rebuttal as he shakes his head, whistling lowly. “That’s a fine ass shawty.”

“Have you seen Esther’s juggs?” Jey shoots back, leaning in his seat, rubbing his hands together. “You trippin, man.”

“Why can’t they both be fine?” Bayley asks, the only one of the group halfway paying attention to the lecture being taught. Roman would also pay attention but not for the fact that he couldn’t give two shits about this class. He’ll do a quick review before the next exam and pass it with flying colors, as per usual. 

“Exactly,” Naomi agrees, her brown eyes falling onto him as she lifts her chin. “Roman, what do you think?”

It's an easy question, thus his answer is almost instant, as it came to him the minute the conversation started. 

“Why choose one when you can have both?” 

His response earns a round of whoops and “ohh’s” that are somehow loud enough to snag the attention of a few nearby students but not the attention of Professor Guerrero. Again, not that he cares.

“You a dog, uce,” Jey laughs, reaching for his hand as they share the secret handshake they’ve had since they were kids. “A straight up dog.” 

“Tell me about it,” Bayley mutters, as Roman just smirks and rolls his eyes. He’s always been 50/50 on her. Best friend of Naomi since middle school, her admission into their tight friend group is something he’s always gone back and forth on. Some days she’s tolerable, others, she’s an insufferable, judgmental bitch. 

“Babe.”

Roman’s eyes shut. 

Speaking of insufferable…

Samantha props herself down in one of the empty seats in the row in front of theirs. The row that’s always kept empty, because it’s a known fact that Roman likes his space. Not to mention his security detail sits not too far, incognito but also not, because everyone knows who Roman Reigns is.

Whether they want to or not. 

He sighs, ignoring the snickering of the twins. “What?”

She rolls her eyes, clearly either uncaring or ignorant to the fact that he really doesn’t want to be bothered right now. Or, ever.

“Let’s go out this weekend,” she proposes. Smacking her gum obnoxiously, she twirls her fingers around her chestnut ringlets, Roman’s eyes falling to the beaded, silver Bebe written across the chest part of her sleeveless shirt. Her tits look nice in it. He’ll give her that. Not much else. “I wanna see that new Residential Evil movie that just came out. The one with that girl. Milla Jolly, or something like that.”

“It’s Milla Jovovich,” Bayley corrects, muttering something in Spanish that Roman is pretty sure was an insult. It makes his smirk return just a bit. 

“Whatevs,” Samantha scoffs, smacking that damn gum even louder, focusing back on him. “What do you say?”

“I have a game this weekend.”

“Yeah, on Saturday, but what about Sunday.”

“I'm going to Church.” 

Jey snorts. “The closest uce ever has and will get to a church was that lil’ preacher kid he was banging junior year.”

Naomi shakes her head. “She was a nice girl, too, until she got caught up with your ass.”

“You know what they say about nice girls,” Jimmy smirks, leaning over to kiss on her neck, prompting Naomi to fight back a smile as she playfully pushes him away. 

“Whatever.” Samantha sounds even more annoyed. Good, he thinks. Maybe she’ll leave me the fuck alone. 

But, she doesn't, instead crossing her arms. “Roman, I’m really getting tired of this.”

“Tired of what, Sam?” Not that he cares, he really doesn’t, he’s just needing to know what delusion about “them” she’s telling herself this week.

She motions between the two of them with them ugly ass duck nails. “You acting like this with me.”

“How is it any different than he’s ever acted with you?”

Roman has never been one to tell people when they’re right, but Bayley hit the nail on the head. His cold, stoic, almost cruel disposition has been the same since they first started messing around with each other during freshman year of high school. He’s never lied to her about what “they” are. She just hears and believes what she wants. To a detriment.

Samantha turns her glare to Bayley. “Was I talking to you, chica?” The disgust in that final word is enough to get Bayley sitting forward in her chair.

“No, but you’re in my space getting on my nerves, puta.” And without missing a beat, Bayely translates, “that means bitch, bitch.”

Roman readies to tell Samantha to shut the fuck up and go the fuck away when another party enters the space. Another unwelcomed party. 

“Excuse me.” Professor Guerrero’s irritating ass voice is added to an already irritating conversation as she stands in the walkaway, arms crossed, the overhead lighting highlighting her thick ass mustache. “Is there something you’d all like to share with the rest of the class?”

Roman sits unbothered, as Naomi, the good girl of the friend group, offers an unnecessary apology. “No, Professor Guerrero. We’re sorry about the noise.”

“Are you?” She challenges, prompting Roman to sigh loudly. “Because it seems all your little group has done in my class this semester is cause disturbance.”

“You still teaching, ain't you?” Roman shoots back in a bored tone, pulling out his Blackberry to check for any unread texts, feeling Samantha’s heated gaze on him. Again though, not that he actually fucking cares. “Can’t be that much of a disturbance.”

Naturally, his smart ass retort earns chuckles from around the room, Jimmy and Jey dapping him up, which only further irritates the professor. “Mr. Reigns, I will not tolerate that kind of flippancy in my classroom.”

“So do something about it,” he challenges, still not matching her fiery gaze. When nothing is said, or done, he scoffs, “exactly.”

Because at the end of the day, she’s not going to do shit. Roman is untouchable, and everyone knows it. Including Vicki Guerrero.

As the noise continues around, she steps closer, leaning far too into Roman’s personal space, earning a vicious glare from the nineteen year-old. “I may not be able to remove you from my class, but I can certainly make this experience as unpleasant as I possibly can for you.”

At that, Roman finally lifts his gaze, voice as nonchalant as the expression on his face. “Good luck with that, Vickie.”

If he didn’t dislike this bitch as much as he does, Roman might be impressed by how she doesn’t back down. But, the hate is too strong for an acknowledgement. She straightens up, clearing her throat, voice projecting, “the next unit will require a semester long project that you all will complete in groups of two. Pairings that I will put together.” 

At that, the entire atmosphere shifts, sounds of grumbles and protests. Roman sucks his teeth. He already hates people enough as it is, but to be put in a group with someone he doesn’t know and won’t like is only going to make this wack ass class that much more unbearable. 

She walks away, down the steps to head back to the podium, right as Samantha opens her mouth.

Thus, he promptly puts her in and reminds her of her “place” in his life.

“If I’m not filling it, I don’t want to hear it.”

Her cheeks burn bright red from obvious embarrassment as the twins are fight for their life beside him.

“She must really like your ass, Roman, cause ain’t no way…” Naomi trails off, shaking her head. 

She might have a point, but also, that’s Samantha’s problem. Not his fault she’s a dumb bitch who can’t accept the fact that he only likes what she can do for him sexually. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“Alright, listen up everyone,” Guerrero starts, and Roman actually pays attention this time, because he has a strong feeling he’s not going to like what she says. At all. “This next unit will be focused on Pride and Prejudice, arguably, one of Jane Austen’s best books.”

“Damn,” Jey curses. “Can’t we just watch the movie?”

“You all will read this book and work together with your partner over the semester to create a presentation touching on a variety of subjects and literary tenets.” 

Roman shuts his eyes, already dreading this shit. It’s not that he hates reading. He doesn’t mind it at all. He just hates reading classics. That shit gives him migraines. “Now, the groups will be as follows….”

Naturally, he tunes her out, uncaring about any of the other pairings except the one this bitch has put him in.

“...Jey Uso and Sami Zayn.”

Beside him, Jimmy, Naomi, and Bayley are in fits as Jey angrily throws down his pencil. “The water boy? Man, this some bullshit!”

“Jey!” Sami, the man in question, the actual equiptment manager from their football team, stands from where he sits, turned around and waving wildly like a fucking groupie. “Hey, my dog! We’re partners!”

“I’m about to drop out,” Jey mutters, completely ignoring an ecstatic Sami. “She done put me with fuckin’ ginger Jesus Christ Superstar.”

“Be nice,” Bayley scolds, looking among the guys. “He idolizes you all.”

“And? I ain’t ask for that shit.”

“....Jimmy Uso and AJ Lee.”

At that, Jimmy and Naomi lose all sense of humor, Naomi the first to protest, “oh hell no.” 

AJ looks over her shoulder and happily waves to Jimmy, clearly celebrating in her seat. Naomi points to her, while speaking to Jimmy, “she got one goddamn time, and the minute she do some shit I don’t like, I’m beating that ass.”

Naturally, Bayley lifts her hand for a fist-bump, the two in obvious agreement.

Roman chuckles. This’ll certainly be interesting. AJ is known across campus as the psycho/obsessive cheerleader, and for good reason. Her last breakup with some dick from the baseball team resulted in her disappearing all last semester and randomly showing back up for this one like nothing happened. Like everyone doesn't know she had some sort of psychotic break and was in the nuthouse.

How the fuck did she get let back in?

Roman tunes out the sound of Bayley and Naomi now rejoicing as their names were listed together, making them partners. Expected, but also not. Guerrero’s issue has primarily been with Roman and his twin cousins, not necessarily the women.

Sexist bitch.

“....And finally, Roman Reigns and Solana Miller.”

He frowns, intrusive thought/question escaping the confines of his mind. 

“Who the fuck is Solana Miller?”

“The Miller's daughter.”

Laughter from not only beside him but the students in hearing distance of Jimmy’s dumbass response, prompting a borderline lethal glare from the young Tribal Chief that has everyone quickly quieting down and the twins coughing.

Still without an answer, Roman sits up in his seat and looks over at the women, knowing if anyone would know, it’s Naomi. “Who is she?”

Naomi opens her mouth, looking around the classroom, moving her head past the bodies up and moving around, familiarizing themselves with their partners. “Umm….” She stops, making a face. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Roman mocks. “Oh, what?”

Discreetly, Naomi points down, Roman following her finger to see it’s landed perfectly on a back. A back that’s draped in an oversized sweatshirt, dark hair pulled back in what he’s pretty sure is considered a “messy” bun. Naturally, her back towards them, he can’t make out a face.

His frown shifting into a scowl. “That her?”

Naomi nods. “She’s also in my math class. I don’t know anything about her. Just that she’s super quiet,” Naomi answers. “Like, I don’t think I’ve ever heard her talk. Here or in math.”

“Damn, you got Helen Keller for a partner.”

“Jimmy!”

“Now that everyone knows who their partner is, make sure to exchange contact information, as you’ll be working together closely for the rest of the semester.” Roman’s dislike for this woman just reached level 10, cause why the fuck would she put him with a mute bitch? “And, I’d highly advise you all to take this project seriously, as it’s worth half  your final grade.” She then moves to hand out the packet with all the necessary information to the front row, starting with this Solana person, as it gets passed around to the rest of the class.

“Damn,” Jey groans. “Now, I actually gotta try.”

Roman ignores him as Guerrero goes to dismiss the class, some packing up to leave, others still talking to their partners. He waits until he gets the packet with the project overview, before standing up and slinging his backpack over his shoulder. 

Jimmy offers a lazy warning of sorts, as Roman starts to move down the steps. “Don’t be late, or else Coach Booker gon’ have all our asses.”

“I know,” he mutters, seeing Sam stand up out the corner of his eye, clearly hellbent on following him.

“Roman—”

“Fuck off.”

The sound of her scoffing diminishes with each step he takes, and the closer he gets to this girl, the more he realizes just how tiny she is. He practically towers over her. 

“Hey.”

She jumps, turning around, unintentionally dropping some of the folders in her hand that she was hurriedly trying to stuff into her backpack. “S–sorry.” Comes a voice that’s quiet and soft, a perfect match for the girl in front of him.

Roman sighs, eyes lifted to the paneled ceiling as she moves to pick up the dropped items. For a second, he considers doing it for her, but she’s fast, already on the move.

“I’m s-sorry.” Another apology as she stands before him, lifting her eyes to his, finally meeting his annoyed gaze.

Huh.

Roman takes a second to take her in. Despite the homeless themed outfit she has going on, baggy ass sweatshirt, sweats, and some creased Nike’s, she’s not ugly. At all. Big, light brown eyes, full lips, her face shape on the rounder side, but it works for her. Makes her look….angelic almost. She’s pretty. He won’t deny that, but everything else though….is annoying.

She’s annoying. 

“I—” He sighs, yet again. That damn stammering is irritating as fuck. “I—I don’t—you don’t have to help me, ya’ know.”

At that, he pauses. “What do you mean?”

For whatever reason, her cheeks start to flush red, as she drops her gaze, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I–I can…I can do the project by myself, and just—”

“Do you think I’m fucking stupid?” He rebuffs, voice harsh and criticizing. “That I can’t do a dumbass book project?”

Her eyes widen, as she shakes her head. “N–no, that—that’s not what I meant.” She winces, voice softening even more, gaze back on the ground. “I’m sorry…”

For the briefest second, he feels something. Something…different at seeing her reaction to his spurning. Something close to…guilt?

Whatever.

He shakes his head, pulling out his phone. “What’s your number?”

The floor, or her sneakers, no longer have her attention. He does. “Wh–what?”

“Your number,” he says it slowly, like talking to a child, lightly shaking the phone in his hand. “So we can work on the project.”

Truth be told, he’d much rather do all the work himself, slap her name on it, and let her have a few talking points during the presentation portion. Or, none. Something tells him that damn stuttering will cause them to get points deducted, and he can’t have that shit. 

As long as he’s been in school, he’s always been an A student, and that’s not about to change because of some girl who can’t even maintain eye contact for longer than two minutes. 

She opens her mouth. “Umm—” Another push of her hair behind her ear, as she chews down on her bottom lip. He makes and takes note of that. Her lips. They’re even nicer than he realized. “My—my phone isn’t working right now.” His eyes narrow. The change in intonation. Higher. Inconsistent eye contact. She’s lying. “But—” He watches as she turns slightly, not missing the almost wince on her face when she does so. 

Huh.

She pulls out a black composition notebook, small hands turning to a blank page as she uses the pen on the table to scribble something down. She rips the page out, turning it over and handing it to him. “That–um–it’s my school email.” He frowns. Email? “It’s—it’s the best way to contact me.”

Maybe, but it’s annoying as fuck. Text would be a lot easier. Hell, even talking on the phone. Nevertheless, while she’s lying about her phone not working currently, he doesn’t believe she just, for whatever reason, doesn’t want him to have her contact info.

Maybe she doesn’t have a phone? He wonders, but regardless, it doesn’t make a difference.

Taking the piece of paper from her, their fingers brush against one another, and he can’t ignore that something. Not a spark. Not anything to write home about. Just…something. She must feel it too, because she quickly retracts her hand, going to return her notebook in her backpack. 

“You work?” He asks, folding the paper into a square and shoving it in his back pocket. 

He’d ask if she plays any sports or anything, but something tells him he already knows the answer to that. 

She nods. “Yeah, umm, Borders.” The bookstore. Of course. “Only—only part time, though. I–I can work around your schedule.”

“Good.” That’d be significantly easier considering he’s almost certain that his is significantly busier than hers. “I’ll email you….” Damn. What was her name again?

“Solana,” she answers for him, a trace of an accent in the middle portion. 

“Solana,” he repeats, realizing that it fits her. He doesn’t know how, just that it does. 

And then, the faintest hint of a smile. “O–okay.” She looks at him, and he looks back, neither of them saying anything for a solid minute before she opens her mouth, as if preparing to to say something when her gaze fixes on something behind him. “Oh no.” He frowns, turning to see the only thing she could be looking at. The clock.

“I have to go,” she says, clearly in a rush. But, something else. Panicked. She sounds panicked.

“‘I’ll look for your email,” she offers, as he naturally steps to the side, allowing her to pass him. His eyes shut as the scent of her perfume or body spray invades his nostrils. Sweet. Again, it fits her. 

Roman says nothing else as she dashes out of the room, clearly late for something.

But, what?

—----------

“You’re late.”

It’s the first—and last—thing Solana wants to hear, but that’s exactly what she’s met with the minute she hops into the passenger seat of her brother’s BMW.

Swallowing, her lips suddenly feel dry, her stomach doing those flips in preparation for what she already knows is coming. “I’m sor—”

Thud.

Her eyes slam shut from the pain that shoots all throughout her head. Pain that’s a result of Wesley slamming it into the windshield. Naturally, she goes to feel for any sort of cut or blood, relieved when her blurry vision reveals blood-free fingers.

“Stupid bitch,” he mutters but says nothing else, just continues to drive them home in silence. Solana curls herself into the corner as much as she can, eager and almost needing to put as much distance between them as possible. Not that it makes a difference.

None of it ever does. 

The first thing she notices upon pulling up to the house is the black SUV parked in the driveway along with the two men, large, burly, dressed in black suits in black sunglasses standing near the vehicle. Watching, almost. 

It doesn’t necessarily make her take pause, but it does heighten her already shot nerves. Her father is usually temperamental on most days, but that temper only seems heightened on days when he has business meetings. Especially those from home.

“Hurry up,” Wes shoves her from behind, Solana having to catch herself from falling as they walk up and past the men to head into the home. Naturally, she does her best to keep her head down and mouth shut.

It’s just always worked better that way.

However, stepping into the home, dropping her backpack near the door, knowing it's going to be inspected, what she doesn’t expect is the sight of her father standing near the entryway with another man. It’s unexpected, because he usually does his business in his office down the hall. Except, the handshake between them seems to signify the conclusion of business. A deal made.

That helps her anxiety a little bit.

Maybe he won’t be in such a bad mood.

Except, the anxiety that was just settling spikes once more when the man opposite her father turns his attention onto her. He’s about what and what in height and build with her father, barely pushing 6’0, stomach a bit rounded from what she’d guess is a lifestyle full of bad habits and poor decisions. The hair on his head is full and almost certainly a piece. His dark blue eyes pierce into her, his thin lips, surrounded by an unkempt beard and mustache, unsettle her. 

He unsettles her.

She drops her gaze to the ground, naturally moving to the side and out of his way as he starts to walk in her direction. She’s prepared for him to pass her up, to ignore her like almost everyone else in her life has outside of when she’s upset them, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t, because he stops and turns in front of her. His thick, clammy finger moving under her chin and forcing her to look up.

She can only stare back at him, his almost musty body odor invading her senses, the same way his hand on her face violates her personal space.

And, then he smiles, “perfect.”

Frowning, Solana does her best to remain quiet, though her confusion runs abundant as he finally walks out and takes his leave.

What was that about?

However, the slamming of the front door reminds her that a man’s strange gesture to and with her matters little in the face of everything else. 

Very little.

“Solana.”

Instantly, she’s straightened, back against the wall behind her. Eyes shut, she swallows, murmuring, “yes, sir?”

Xavier’s intimidating voice and frame move to stand before her, his hands clasped behind his back. “Your brother told me you were late today.”

The tremble in her belly is matched by the falter in her voice. “Y—yes, sir. I—I was.”

“Hmm.”

It takes everything in her to not break down right then and there. “I’m s–sor—”

One minute she’s attempting to plead for mercy, the next her eyes are wide, her fingers grasping the hand around her neck. 

Wes’s dark cold eyes bleed into her. “Did he say you could speak?”

No.

Never.

Solana feels her sense of reality draining away when he finally releases his tight grip, her body crumpling to the floor as she coughs violently. 

“Where were you?” Xavier asks in a bored tone, completely unaffected or bothered by the scene before him. Not that she expected anything other than indifference, or maybe even excitement.

It’s just always been that way.

Solana sniffles, doing her best to keep the tears at bay. “My—my class ran over.” She’s about to share the portion about the project, but quickly decides against it. He’ll ask questions, questions about her partner, and that’s the last thing she needs. For her father to find out that she’s been assigned to work with Roman Reigns, of all people, for the rest of the semester.

It’s something she’s still trying to sit on.

“I don’t believe you.”

Damning words that can only mean one thing.

“No,” she whispers, eyes widening in horror and terror at what she knows is about to commence. “Pl–please.” 

“Wesley,” Xavier’s deep voice cuts through her begging and the sound of her sniffling. “Remind your sister what happens to liars in this house.”

“No, please!” Tears run down her face. There’s no use or even ability to hold them back anymore. She’ll get on her hands and knees to beg, if that’s what it takes. Even if she knows better. Knows that no matter what she says or does, it won’t change the outcome. Won’t change what’s about to happen.

She shouts in pain when Wes grabs her by her hair and begins to drag her away. “Please! I’m sorry! I’m not lying!” Pleads for mercy from men who possess none. Cries that fall on deaf, uncaring ears. Always have. 

Always will.

—--------

The water raining down on her body provides the perfect blend and cover for the tears that cascade down her reddened cheeks. Eyes swollen from crying so hard and heavy, Solana hugs herself only to wince from the aches and pain that radiates throughout her body. A body covered in bruises, some new, some old, all holding a story, a tale that tells the story of unimaginable pain and torture. 

A story that’s been hers as far back as she can remember. It’s all she knows. If it wasn’t her brother, it was her father, and if wasn’t her father, it was her brother. Though, over the past few years, it’s been more her brother enacting the punishment her father always believes her deserving of.

While he just watches. Watches and ignores her screams and sobs, the way she’s begged for Wesley to stop, for Xavier to help her, only for the brutal beatings to continue, sometimes until she’s rendered unconscious, waking up bloody and bruised hours later. 

Like tonight.

Having to drag her battered body into the shower to try to rinse and wash away what can never truly be destroyed. The scars on the outside pale in comparison to the marring etched on the inside. Tattooed onto her soul. 

A healing she’ll never be able to attain. 

No matter what.

It’s a bit of a wash/rinse/repeat routine. She eventually cleanses her body, hands moving gently over the more tender areas. Pops the Tylenol she keeps in the medicine cabinet in her bathroom and applies the Vicks VapoRub over certain areas. The areas where the rub will make some sort of difference. 

Not much. 

Nothing ever really does these days. 

Stepping out of the bathroom, dressed in the dark blue soffee shorts and thin sleeved camisole, Solana holds onto her side, sore and aching from the brutal kicks Wes delivered. It’s a miracle he didn’t crack one of her ribs.

Wouldn’t be the first time. 

Moving into her bedroom, she carefully closes the door behind her, knowing better than to lock it. She learned a long time ago the beating sustained from that kind of disrespect wasn’t worth the false sense of security the action brought. It didn’t make a difference, anyway. One way or another, they’d get to her. 

They always have. 

She takes a deep breath and rubs at her head, wincing, remembering the impact it made with the car window. A small knot on her scalp. Another reminder of a the never-ending cruelty she’s been subjected to her entire life. 

An inescapable hell. 

Not wanting to spend too much time dwelling on what she cannot control, Solana walks over to her desk where her desktop sits, the screen already turned on, as she’d hit the on button and started the dial-up before getting in the shower.

Sitting down, her eyes briefly fall to the framed photo that sits beside her computer. Miraculously untouched and unscathed despite countless violent encounters that have taken place in this very space. 

A trembling hand lifts to grab the frame she still remembers picking up that day so many years ago. One of the few times they were able to go out together and just have fun. A cheap little $5 frame from Goodwill, purple with colorful, positive words and groovy flowers. In it, one of her favorite photos of the two of them. Her mother’s protective arms wrapped around her, Solana with a toothy smile, beaming up for the photo as Nina kissed her daughter’s cheek.

Solana’s eyes shut. If she tries, really tries, she can still smell the scent of her mother’s perfume. Light and floral. It’s one of the few, positive things she can recall. The sound of Nina Miller’s voice left her years ago, and for every time Solana tries to remember, she’s only met with her mother’s screams and pleads for mercy at the hands of her heartless father.

Similar to her own experiences. 

And, if she thinks too hard, then different kinds of memories haunt her. The kind, no matter how hard she’s tried since that day, she can’t seem to fully erase. 

“Mommy!” Solana’s tears partially blind her from the horrific sight before her, both a blessing and a curse. A face disfigured, a partially nude body violated, left bloody and broken. An innocent life taken at the hands of evil. “Mommy, please wake up.” A child pleading on ears that will never hear and focused on eyes that will never blink, forever damned to a vacant, lifeless expression.

“Mommy, please don’t leave me.” The cries of an innocent child, clutching and holding onto the limp body of the one person who’s ever loved her, who she’s ever loved. “You said you’d be okay!” She cries, laying her head on the still chest, uncaring of the blood that stains her little hands and body. Uncaring of the heat of the flames around them and the smoke that intrudes her tiny lungs. 

Uncaring if it consumes them both.

“I won’t leave you, mommy!” A vow, a promise to stay with her until the end, even if it means the end for two instead of just one. 

Solana takes a deep, necessary breath, free hand over her heart, as she reorients herself. Remembers where she is and not where she was, even if some days, it’s hard to tell the difference.

“I miss you, mommy…” She feathers her finger over her mother’s face, choosing to remember her as that, as the happy mother who was delighted at being able to spend the day with her only daughter.

Not the last day she spent with her only daughter.

Swallowing, Solana places the frame back on the desk and refocuses on her monitor, seeing a ‘1’ icon on her AOL email shortcut on the desktop.

It brings up a frown as she navigates to click it, opening her inbox. A tiny gasp leaves her mouth at the unread email and who it’s from. 

Shock quickly wearing away, she hits open on the message.

From: reignsr_26@kingston.edu

To: millers_27@kingston.edu

Subject: Meeting

Solana, 

The sooner we get started on this, the better. I have practice every day essentially, along with a lot of other things, but I have a gap on Wednesdays from 4 to 6. Could you make this work?

Roman

She reads over the email at least two, maybe three, times, still stuck on a couple things, really. The main one being just how this is supposed to work. How she’s supposed to work with Roman Reigns when it’s obvious he already hates her. It’s unsurprising though. It’s a widely known fact that Roman hates most and likes few, the few mostly being his inner circle that’s comprised primarily of his family members.

Beyond that, it confuses her to no end how she’s supposed to act like he’s not who he is. Like, he isn’t the Tribal Chief. Like he isn’t the Head of the Table. Like he isn’t the, for all intents and purposes, the, for lack of better term, king of Kingston. 

He runs this whole city, the state, really. And, maybe it’s less him and more his family, more the Bloodline. One of the biggest crime syndicates in this hemisphere. At nineteen, the world is in the palm of his big hands. Everything revolves around him. With just one word, life and death are dependent upon him.

A part of her is intrigued, but a larger part is just terrified. Terrified as to how this is all going to work.

In the moment, she’d told him she could work around his schedule, because that seemed like the smartest thing to do. Solana might live a sheltered life, but she’s not so with her head in the sand that she doesn’t know who Roman Reigns is.

That she doesn’t know if there’s one thing she can do to help herself, it’s to stay on his good side. 

Or, whatever less volatile side of him exists. 

But, in actuality, working around his schedule would actually be a lot harder than she was thinking in that moment. Because she lives her life based around the schedule of her father and brother, mostly, Wes, as he’s finishing up his last year at Kingston University while she’s just started her first year not only a month and some change ago.

However, it seems like, for once, life is on her side.

Because Wes’s schedule on Wednesdays is pretty booked, resulting in her having nothing to do but hang around campus for a few hours due to his back to back schedule, including an evening class.

It….it should actually work.

Solana moves to type out a response, editing it once, then twice, before hitting send. 

From: millers_27@kingston.edu

To: reignsr_26@kingston.edu

Subject: RE: Meeting

Roman, 

That will work for me.

Thank you. 

Solana

Not expecting a response tonight, she moves to shut down her computer and rises up from her chair. But, not before turning to hit the on button for her boombox. Already having memorized the order of tracks on the CD she burned a couple weeks prior, she skips to track 18, music quickly filling the room. 

Young girl, don't cry

I'll be right here when your world starts to fall, ooh

Young girl, it's alright

Your tears will dry, you'll soon be free to fly, ooh

Eyes watering from the lyrics that never fail to evoke a visceral, emotional response, she walks over to her bed, powering through her pain as she lifts the mattress up just enough to grab it.

Her diary.

Pink with ballerinas on the cover, it’s the latest addition to her growing collection that fills the bottom of her closet. But, this one, something about this one has quickly risen to the top of her favorites. She knew she had to have it the minute she saw the stack of them pulled out of the box while working inventory a few months back. And when her 18th birthday rolled around this past July, she did just that. Picking up the journal as her sole and only birthday gift.

Solana moves over to her nightstand, grabbing the key taped on the underside. The key needed to unlock said diary. Pen in hand, she slides to the floor, back against the edge of the bed, lyrics continuing to provide a hope she’s not sure she actually believes in anymore.

When you're safe inside your room, you tend to dream

Of a place where nothing's harder than it seems

No one ever wants or bothers to explain

Of the heartache, life can bring and what it means

Her eyes closing, a strong attempt to fake it, to pretend, to briefly try to act like this is temporary. That this life she struggles to call a life is actually hers. That better days are ahead. 

That someday, maybe, just maybe, she’ll finally be able to feel it again.

Happy.

That she can be happy. 

Unlocking her journal, she moves to an empty page and starts it out the same way she’s started every entry since then. Since that day. 

The day she died.

The day they both died, really.

Dear Mom…

[glossypolaroidkisses]

pt 2 continuing jealous college bf lu anon ask — <3

You don’t fully process it until you’re walking out of the lecture hall, Luigi at your side, his stride just a little too purposeful; He’s still simmering.

You press your lips together and bite your tongue, hiding your amusement as you glance up at him. His jaw is tight, tongue pressing into his cheek like he’s trying to stop himself from saying something, but it slips out anyway.

“That guy is so full of shit.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Luigi.”

“No. Seriously,” he mutters, shaking his head. “The way he was talking, it’s like he just discovered how smart you are.” He scoffs. “Like he’s some kind of genius for pointing out something that’s fucking blatant.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So… what? You wanted him to downplay it?” you ask. Luigi turns to you, incredulous. “No, I wanted him to not act like he had some exclusive insight into your talent—like he just, gets you, or something—when really, he was just inflating his own ego.” Luigi’s voice dips lower, rougher. “Probably trying to impress you.”

Ah. There it is. You fold your arms, biting back a smile. “So you are jealous.”

Luigi scoffs, looking away. “I’m—” He exhales sharply, then grumbles, “It’s not jealousy.”

You give him a knowing look. He glares for half a second before rubbing the side of his face and muttering, “Fine. Maybe that plays a part.”

You smirk, leaning in slightly. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.” You pause, tilting your head. “But now I’m starting to wonder… you were paying a lot of attention to him. Should I be jealous?” you tease.

Luigi glares at you for half a second before rubbing his face. Then, with perfect deadpan delivery, he mutters, “Can’t believe you let a man who dresses like a divorced economics professor flirt with you in front of an audience.”

You blink, caught completely off guard, before bursting into laughter.

“Oh my god.” You press a hand to your mouth. “Luigi.”

“What?” He shrugs. “The man has salt-and-pepper hair but the energy of an undergrad trying too hard in a philosophy debate. It’s offensive.”

You shake your head, still laughing. “You’re so petty.”

“Only when it’s deserved.” He smirks, but his eyes soften just a little as he looks at you. “And only when it involves you.”

A slow grin spreads across your face. “Hot.”

Luigi’s head snaps toward you again, eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s trying to gauge if you’re messing with him. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You step closer, tilting your head. “The whole passive aggressive, I’m-smarter-than-you thing?” You start fanning yourself for dramatic effect. Luigi lets out a breathy chuckle. “Didn’t do it to be hot.”

“Still was.”

His fingers flex at his sides, like he’s debating whether to pull you in right here, right now. His voice drops lower, edged with possession. “You’re mine, you know. Even if people don’t know it.”

A shiver runs through you. Your amusement melts into something warmer, heavier. “I know.”

He studies you for a second before shaking his head. “Also, you being smart is common knowledge. His spectacle was nothing but a reminder of your brilliance and a display of his ignorance.”

You laugh, looping your arm through his. “Noted.”

By the time you get to his dorm, he’s settled. Mostly. You stretch out on his bed, lazily watching as he tosses his bag onto the chair. Then—

“I still don’t like him.”

You burst out laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

He huffs, shaking his head with a smirk. “And you…” He leans in, voice dropping. “…are mine.”

Your stomach flips. His voice—low, assured, certain—does something to you.

“You did kill that presentation, though,” he murmurs against your hair, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead. “So damn smart.”

“You give me too much credit.”

He shakes his head, unwavering. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. I’ll make sure you get what you deserve until the day I die.” He purrs. Your heart stumbles.

Then—

“…Still don’t like Neil.”

You groan, shoving him lightly as he laughs, low and satisfied. “You don’t have to like him,” you tease, “you just have to like me.”

Luigi chuckles. “Happily.” He leans in, his lips brushing yours, soft at first; Then deeper, slow and claiming. You sigh into him, fingers tangling in his curls, your body melting against his. Luigi’s hands find your waist, firm, grounding, like he needs you to know how much he wants you close. How much you belong to him, here, in this moment, with no room for doubt.

[bizarrelovetriangel]

the princess and her knight.

he devoted his life to you. he'll sacrifice his heart and soul for you, even if fate doesn't allow it. but maybe there's something stronger than fate that will grant your deepest desires.

princess!mc/reader x knight!caleb au. fluff with angst but mostly fluff. mutual pining. yearner and jealous caleb. briefly features other characters.

inspired by this lovely art by zvdohu

You glared at Caleb from across the room. How dare he laugh at you while you suffer?

Your grandmother, the current queen of the kingdom, is once again reminding you of Linkon's history by forcing you to read the thick, dusty books in the library.

In a week, you will be hosting a ball to celebrate the day Linkon was born, and as part of tradition, you are to give a speech to honor your ancestors.

Usually, the Queen is the one that does the special presentation in front of the guests; however, this year, your grandmother wants to draw more attention to you.

She's planning to step down as the Queen soon and passing the title to you. She wants people to recognize you as the kingdom's new authority figure. She wants to be certain that you won't make any foolish mistakes during your speech.

That's why Caleb is laughing at you right now.

He's leaning against the door that he's guarding, completely entertained by the faces you're making as you try not to fall asleep in the middle of Josephine's lecture.

Suddenly, the door was opened and Caleb was thrown off balance, causing him to wobble for a second.

"Queen Josephine, Princess," your grandmother's main guard, Jenna, greets you both. "It's time for dinner."

"Yes!"

You jumped from your chair and fled from the library before anyone could stop you. You grabbed Caleb's left arm and pulled him with you as you disappeared through the hallways of the castle.

"Come on, Caleb!"

"Whoa! Slow down, pip-squeak! Food's not going to run away. They were cooked very well, you know? That boar was fast, but I was faster."

You laughed at how proud he looks. "I'll join on the next hunt. I bet I'm even faster than you. I will catch bigger meals, too!"

"Oh? I'll take that as a challenge."

Your pace slows down as you reached the courtyard. As other knights and retainers crossed paths with you, they respectfully bowed at you and Caleb.

The Princess and the Knight Commander.

"If you catch a bigger prey than me, I'll do anything you want for a whole day - "

"Just one day? Also, you have to do whatever I want anyway. Because I'm the princess." you grinned. "But fine. I'll be sure to make it a long, memorable day for you, Sir Caleb."

"Hey now, don't get carried away, pip-squeak. I said, if you catch a bigger prey than me. But if I win, then you have to do something that I want."

"Sure, sure. whatever."

It didn't matter because you're going to win.

"Good evening, Princess, Sir Caleb." You two were greeted by a retainer as you entered the great hall, where you always eat.

"Good evening."

You sat down at your usual spot and Caleb, as always, took the seat across from you.

"Wait, this...." your knight sniffed one of the food in front of him and grimaced. "There's cilantro in this! Why - I told them not to put cilantro on my portions..." His eyes slowly met your judging gaze. "Pip-squeak, this must be yours - "

"No. Eat your vegetables."

///////////////

As much as you enjoyed your savory dinner, your stomach yearned for more food when midnight struck. You stayed up late memorizing your speech for the ball, and now, you're in desperate need of a snack.

You put on a cardigan over your nightgown, then you quietly left your room. Caleb should already be in his room around this time, so you didn't need to worry about slipping past him.

You made your way to the castle's big kitchen and cheered at its vacancy.

Now, what can you eat?

You can't go wrong with classic sandwhich.

A potato soup would suffice, too.

Dumplings would be amazing.

"How about an apple pie?"

You picked up the closest item to your hand, which happened to be a frying pan, and used it as a weapon to defend yourself from the person that sneaked up right behind you.

Caleb was unfazed as his prosthetic right arm clung against your weapon right when it was about to hit his face.

"What a funny looking sword you have here, princess." he smirked at you. "Did you lose the one I gave you for your birthday two years ago?"

You huffed, though you felt relieved that it's only Caleb and not your grandmother. He's not wearing his night attire yet nor is he in his all-black knight uniform. Instead, he's in his training gear.

It's not unusual for him to train late at night, though it is rare to see him in the kitchen at this time. Either someone snitched on you, or he caught you himself on his way back to his room.

"Impressive reaction time though. You remembered my lessons. Well done." He put the frying pan back to its initial place.

"I'm just hungry and want a snack." you sigh, rubbing your growling stomach.

Caleb shook his head. "Grandma will scold you if she finds out..." He then ruffled your hair. "Well, she won't hear it from me. What do you have in mind, pip-squeak?"

You beamed at him. "You'll make me food?!"

"Mhmm. And for myself, too, since I just finished training and am in need of protein."

"Yay! I want to help! Let's use the leftover shrimps and make spicy wontons!"

The Queen's loyal guard caught you two as you were chatting and laughing loudly in the kitchen, but she decided not to say anything.

Afer all, this is something that's been happening for as long as she started working for the royal family. Ever since you were little, you and Caleb would often sneak in the kitchen to make yourselves a late night snack.

Caleb is good at leaving no evidence of his crimes, and both of you look way too happy every time you're munching, so Jenna never wants to be the one to put an end on your fun.

///////////

You and Caleb separated from the other knights and hunters so you can start your competition: whoever catches the bigger prey wins.

Even though it's noon, all the trees in the forest provided plenty of shade to block a lot of sunlight, so most of your path is darkened.

"You have to be careful, pip-squeak. Gideon told me there's been more victims of that red dragon living at the edge of the kingdom."

"Nice try, but I'm not scared of dragons." You crossed your arms and walked ahead of Caleb, adjusting the gloves you wore on your hands.

You're wearing your hunting uniform and your sword is sheated by your hip, ready to be drawn at any sign of danger.

"Anyway, we should split up so we can look for our preys. I'll go this way."

Caleb hesitated but agreed. "If anything happens, just call for me. Be careful and pay attention to your surroundings."

"I know." You gave him a wave before walking farther into another direction.

Caleb kept his eyes on you for as long as you were visible to him.

He knows that you are capable of protecting yourself. Not only were you trained by himself, Jenna also made you one of her students. You absolutely have the skills to be a high-ranking knight, too.

It's just that he's so used to being your protector for pretty much your whole lives. Before you knew how to fend for yourself, it was his job to make sure nobody hurts you, ever again.

When you were children, before being adopted by Josephine, both of you were properties of the kingdom, used as lab rats for military and warzone weapons.

He knows you have no memory of it because that's one of the outcome of their cruel, inhumane experiments, but Caleb will never forget it. He always tried to protect you even when he couldn't, even when he knew they were going to punisn him twice as much.

Once Josephine reigned over the kingdom after its vile, previous ruler's death, the two of you were freed. Caleb promised to stay by your side to keep protecting you. He'll never let anything happen to you for as long as he lives.

That's why it's hard for him to let you out of his sight. He trusts you, but he holds no trust for the rest of the world.

"Hehe, you're not gonna believe what I got."

After an hour, you reunited at the same spot where you split up from. Caleb is already there, waiting for you while casually sitting against a thick tree trunk and eating an apple.

Caleb raised a brow at your dirty face and clothes. "What could've possibly given you such a trouble?"

"Ta-da!"

"...."

"...."

".....pfft!"

"Caleb!" Your right fist landed on his shoulder. "Don't laugh!"

"It's...." he took a few more seconds to let out all his giggles while your face heats up with embarrassment. "It's a hare! Truly a hard thing to catch. I'm so proud of you, princess~"

You playfully smacked his shoulder again. "Shut up! This was all I could find! What about you, then?! Where's your catch? I don't see anything!"

Caleb crossed his legs so he could sit even more comfortably. "I also had a little trouble finding anything. All I could get was that little thing that almost ran into me."

You faced the direction that he pointed to and your mouth drops at the sight of a dead stag.

"What?! How?!"

Caleb laughs at your reaction. "Unfortunately for you, pip-squeak, I just know this forest better than you do. I know where all the big guys like to hang out at this time of the day."

"Damn."

"Don't look so down." Caleb poked your nose. "You'll have another delicious meal tonight, thanks to me. And we can eat your catch for our midnight snack, too."

"Ugh, now I'm mad." Mad at yourself for bringing up such a silly challenge that you stood no chance of winning. "I didn't even get to use my sword that much after I spent a long time polishing it! Caleb, let's spar!"

He was quick to bring out his sword before giving you a dramatic bow. "As you wish, my princess."

////////////

Over the next few days, you spent most of your time and energy preparing for the upcoming ball.

You helped your grandmother decide what food will be made, you thought of the decorations and the set up of tables, and you also had to be the one that decided who will receive invitations for the event.

"Who's Rafayel again?" Caleb asks, looking over your shoulder to read the name on the envelope you're holding.

You pointed at a painting hanging on a wall of the study room.

"Another prince, but also an artist. He's the one who painted that, and several other paintings in the castle. Grandma's a big fan of him. And me, too."

"And you're inviting him?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because.... grandma wants to?"

"But do you want to?"

"I... guess so? It'd be nice to meet him and tell him that I'm a fan of his work."

"...you could just write him a letter." he murmured, resting his chin on your shoulder as he continued to examine the envelope. "Lemuria? Isn't that the kingdom underwater?!"

"Yep."

"Are you sure you want him to come all the way here? Isn't it too far for him?

You grunted. "It's up to him if he wants to come or not. Anyway, that's the last invitation. Now, I need to go see Doctor Zayne."

As you were ascending from your chair, Caleb freezes. "You're going to see Zayne? What for?"

"For my regular check up."

"Oh, right...."

Caleb frowns for a moment, eyes darting to your chest, right where your heart is. It's a very special heart. He wants to protect it, too, but only a healer has the ability to do that.

"I'm coming with you! I haven't seen him in a while. I should get a check up, too, for my arm."

Now, it's your turn to falter, but Caleb took no notice as he's grabbing all the invitations you had in your hands.

Caleb lost his right arm just a couple of years ago. An unknown knight had attacked the two of you on your way back from visiting another princess.

Even today, you're unsure of their purpose. One thing that's certain is that you were not the only target: they clearly tried to capture you and Caleb.

Caleb sacrificed his right arm, but he managed to defeat the unknown knight. You don't know what happened to them afterwards, but you assumed they'd been executed for the attempted abduction.

Although Caleb was able to get a prosthetic arm, you're still saddened by the incident. He'd mentioned to you once that he can't feel anything in his right arm, unless it's extreme pain. You wish there was something you could do for him.

"I'll bring some left over cake." Caleb grins. "I hope Zayne likes carrot cake."

"Caleb, no!"

/////////////

This time, you didn't sneak in the kitchen. Instead, you sneaked out of the castle. And this time, you have a partner in crime.

"Sshhh, they're coming."

You and Caleb are squished together inside a small, but thankfully clean supplies closet on the hallway closest to the castle's backdoor exit.

You already feel hot from the brown cloak that you're wearing to hide your identity, but Caleb's body being pressed against yours made you feel as if you're inside a volcano.

One of his hand is on your waist, keeping you steady since the floor is littered with small random objects you can easily slip from. His left hand is covering your mouth so you don't make any noise.

Your heart is racing so fast, you worried for a moment that you might have to go back to see Zayne for another check up.

It's pitch black and you can't see anything, but you know Caleb's face is extremely close to yours because you can feel his breath grazing your lips.

You can hear the quiet clinking that his charm is making as it dangles on the clasp of his cloak.

The silver tag that says, 'When U come back', attached to an apple with a red jewel. You gave the charm to him when he had officially become a knight, and Caleb decided to put it on his cloak so that he's always wearing it.

When he's not wearing the cloak, he'll put it on a silver chain and turn it to a necklace. No matter where he goes, no matter the time of day, he's always wearing it.

And now, the charm is tickling your cheek as Caleb shifted slightly to stop his legs from numbing.

The insides of your stomach is dancing nervously. You feel like you're going to throw up.

Sure, you've been this close with Caleb before. But most of those times happened when you were younger. Things are a little different now.

The way you see him.... it's no longer the same way as you looked at him when you were kids. Now, you see him in ways that make your heart skip a beat as you imagine him holding you when you fall asleep at night.

"They're gone. Let's go!"

Caleb held your hand and together, you escaped from the castle just an hour before midnight.

This time, you'd gone out to fill your stomach with chicken skewers that both you and Caleb love. They are only available outside of the castle, so you don't always get to enjoy it unlike him, who has much more freedom.

Afterwards, you climbed a hill that gave you the best view of the kingdom, as well as the twinkling stars of the night sky.

You and Caleb found that spot years ago, and it's become one of your favorite places to cool off whenever you need to get away from the castle and momentarily forget about your princess and knight duties.

"The ball is just two days away. Are you excited?"

"I don't really mind parties and it is fun to host them, though it's also exhausting. I can't wait for it to be over already." you sigh. "I am a little nervous about the speech, but other than that, I think everything is all set."

"Don't worry. I'll prepare a cheat card for you. If you forget the words, just look for me in the crowd."

"Heh. Of course."

"What about dancing? Did you get enough practice or are you gonna keep stepping on people's feet?"

"I only did that to you one time!"

"More like five times."

"And that was before I started getting used to dances since I've started to attend lots of formal events with grandma. I'm way better now."

Caleb smiled before reaching out his left hand at you. "Prove it then, pip-squeak."

"What?"

"Dance with me."

"Right now? Here?"

"No time and place better."

You took his hand and got into position. There's no music, so Caleb provided one for you by humming a melody that sounds familiar yet you can't recall exactly where it's from.

The ground you stood on was pure grain and dirt, but you didn't care. All that matters right now is that you're together, and having him close to you is something that you'll always cherish.

"Hmm, you're right. Two minutes in so far and you haven't stepped on me. Already an improvement."

"I told you! I'm a good dancer now!" You then remembered something that was worth sharing. "Oh, but do you remember this one knight from when we visited Princess Tara? He was such a horrible dancer!"

While you broke into a rant, Caleb's eyes fell to your lips as they moved.

Just a little closer...

Just for a second, he wants to know how they would feel and how they would taste. Would they be as soft and sweet as he imagined?

So, so, close.

But he can't.

Caleb forced himself to look away and give a little distance between your faces and bodies. His gaze shifted to your shoulder so that he doesn't get caught into your bewitching features again.

He's a knight and you're the princess.

That's all.

Years ago, he could have been a prince, too. Josephine originally wanted to make you two her heirs to take over the crown once she steps down.

But Caleb realized that becoming an heir means that not only does he have to marry a princess from another kingdom for political purposes, he'll also have to devote his life to this kingdom. He didn't want to serve the kingdom. He just wanted to serve you and you only.

That's why he chose to be your knight. He decided to devote his life to you. He'll give his life to you, to protect you, for as long as he can. All he wants is to be by your side for as long as you let him.

Although, Caleb isn't sure if he's ready to accept the possibility that a prince will come and steal you away one day.

He will have no choice but to accept it.

He's going to have to brace himself every time you fall into someone else's arms. He'll just have to force himself to look away when another prince kisses the lips that he's only ever dreamt of.

It's a sacrifice he's willing to make as long as he can keep protecting you.

///////////

The speech went well, fortunately.

You were a little nervous with so many eyes on you, but Caleb standing right in front of you with a reassuring smile on his face made you feel light and safe. You were able to give your presentation without stuttering and making unnecessary hand movements.

Your grandmother looked proud, so you took that as a good sign. You immediately rewarded yourself with a glass of wine. Just one. It's nowhere near enough to mess with your senses, but plenty for you to relax and enjoy the party.

You sat with the Queen and enjoyed eating delicious meals with her. Then, your attention was requested by a prince who wanted a dance with you.

Your grandmother urged you to go to the dance floor before you could shove a macaron in your mouth.

The prince in an all-white suit caught that and laughed with amusement. He gave you some time to enjoy your dessert before patiently taking your hand and leading you to the area where other people are dancing.

Prince Xavier is from the neighboring kingdom. You two are good friends and frequently have meetings together.

Every time there's any political assemblies that require attendance of royalties, you always look for Xavier so you can sit next to him. He prefers to take naps than participate in discussions, so he's the best company you could have.

"Is the Princess dancing with Prince Xavier?"

Caleb overhears one of the guests.

"They would make quite a strong pair, wouldn't they? The two royal families unifying would certainly be helpful to both kingdoms."

He leans his back against the wall and watches the way your dress twirls along with your movements as your dance partner spins you around elegantly.

Caleb can't find it in him to look away from you.

Ever since he escorted you out of your room, wearing that beautiful dress, his eyes have been glued to you like a masterpiece in a museum.

Even when you're dancing with a prince who had one arm around your waist, he stared. Even when you laughed at something Xavier had said, Caleb didn't move his gaze.

When another princess had come up to him to ask him for a dance, he made an excuse. "I must keep a close eye on my princess the whole time in case of any danger. My apologies."

He only looked away from you for a brief moment, but when he returned his focus on you, Caleb caught you looking at him while one of your arms remained on Prince Xavier's.

He didn't break the eye contact.

And neither did you.

You feel like you're being pulled towards him by an invisible force, yet there was nothing that was stringing you in any direction.

It's just your racing heart.

You want to dance with Caleb just like how you did under the stars.

What would he say if you asked him?

Would he say yes simply because you're the princess?

You were terrified to find out.

And so, you ran off towards the food tables and ate away your feelings with the help of some desserts.

Doctor Zayne said eating sweet treats can make you feel better, and he's right.

"The red velvet cupcakes must be so good, even your cheeks are enjoying them."

You didn't even need to check who just showed up next to you. The reason for the butterflies in your stomach.

"Try one!"

You shoved a red cupcake in his mouth before he could reject you. He had no choice but to chew and swallow.

"You're right. It's yummy."

He then raised his left hand towards your face and brushed his fingers against your cheek to get rid of the frosting that stained your skin.

"Better be careful, princess. If you make a mess out of yourself, you might scare away any potential suitors eyeing you tonight. I can confirm, there are quite a few of them."

You scoff. "If they can't handle food crumbs, they're too weak for me."

Caleb laughs. "That's true. You do look your best when you're happily devouring snacks, after all."

"Oh yeah! That reminds me, you have to make that thing that you gave me the other day! It's so good and I need more of it!"

Caleb crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly while his eyes lights up at your compliment. "I don't know... I might have to start charging you. It takes time and hard work to make them, you know?"

"Fine, I'll give you whatever you want. I don't care. Just need more of it."

You started to daydream about the tasty snack, but you were instantly pulled out of it as Caleb asked you a question.

"Pip-squeak, you remember my reward for our hunting competition?"

You nodded. "I have to do something you want." You assume he'll ask for that now. "What is it? It better not be anything weird that'll make people laugh at me."

Caleb smiled softly. "I don't know. Some people might laugh, since it will be an unusual thing to see, but...."

"But..."

"But... will you... dance with me?"

You dropped the cupcake on your hand.

"Huh!?"

Caleb stood his ground with more confidence this time. He opened one hand in front of you. "Will you dance with me?"

For a moment, you wondered if you were dreaming.

Your heart accelerated and your palms started to sweat.

If this is just another dream, then you'll gladly enjoy it.

"I'd love to."

The feeling was the same as the last time. It didn't matter if you were alone on top of a dirty hill, or in a bright and colorful ballroom filled with people watching your every move.

As long as it's Caleb, it feels right.

It can't be anyone else. It has to be him. The one that you want to spend the rest of your life with. The one you want by your side. Not just as a knight, but a lover.

It has to be Caleb.

It's always been Caleb.

It will always be Caleb.

"If you keep looking at me like that..." he whispered as he rested his forehead against yours. "I might do something crazy."

"How crazy?"

"It might make grandma mad. Because... I might scare away the princes that want to steal you from me."

That was when you noticed it. The desperation in his eyes and voice.

He wanted it too.

The same thing that you want.

A life together.

A life where you're not just the princess and her knight.

"Maybe you should do it."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"You know why..." He looks down at his hand that rests on your hips. "You're the princess and I'm just a knight."

"So what?"

"We can't - I don't have anything to offer you."

You brought your hands on the back of his neck and pulled him even closer to you.

"All I want is you, Caleb. That's plenty already."

"But..."

"What's the point of being a princess with all this power, if I can't be with the one I truly love?"

Caleb's eyes widened as soon as the last word came out of your mouth.

His breath hitched and his grip on your waist tightened.

"If they want to take away my title, then so be it. At least, my heart will be where it wants to be." You meant every word and you've never been certain with anything in your life.

Caleb was terrified to move.

What if he makes one wrong move and suddenly, he's waking up on his bed and this was all just in his head?

It all feels too good to be true.

But once your warm, soft hands held his face, he realized just how real everyhing this.

It's now or never.

If he doesn't do it now, he might not get another chance.

And so, the knight kissed the princess.

//////////

Now, it's your turn to laugh at Caleb.

"Pay attention! As the Prince Consort, you have to know these things!"

"Grandma, I already know all this. I've done all my homework when I was in school, unlike a certain pip-squeak who just made me do her homework for her."

You grinned as you recalled the memories he was referring to. "Why did you do them? You could've just said no."

Caleb shook his head.

You both know very well that he can never say no to you. You have the power to make him do even the most ridiculous things in the world.

You can make him eat the most disgusting food.

You can make him climb the highest mountain.

You can make him stop somebody's heart.

All you have to do is ask and he will obey.

His life remains yours, always.

"Anyway, there's another hunting party so I have to get ready now. I'm still the Knight Commander, so I can't be late. See you later, grandma!"

Caleb rushed to you and picked you up bridal style as he runs away from the library.

"Pip-squeak, shall we have another competition? If I catch a bigger prey.... will you sleep in my room tonight?"

You lightly punched his chest at his suggestive smirk that had your face burning. "I'd do that if you just ask me normally, dummy. But if I win! You have to cook dinner for me!"

"Whatever you want, my princess."

[yesimwriting]

Okay, so, secretly pining best friends with Logan! Very fun! Loved it!

But also, adults do have "sleepovers," (too tired/drunk/late to drive home, so you crash overnight on the couch) and depending on the dynamic of your friendship, can actually be a little taste of what domestic life would be like together. Just. Sitting together quietly, winding down from a good day, then getting ready for bed when one of you decides it's time to be A Responsible Adult and get a decent night's sleep (you're not kids anymore, after all. Sleep is important).

Waking up in the morning, knowing your best friend is here. Quietly making breakfast together, laughing over how sleepy you both are before coffee, lightly teasing each other over bed head and morning breath. Doing your morning routines together, pointing out stupid shit in the news or bitching over work emails, just drawing out the time before you have to get ready to face the real world.

Imagine Logan being one of those sleepy bear types who grumbles until he fully wakes up, who's soft and warm and domestic when he's with someone he trusts. Also, I imagine that if you tease him about needing to shave in the morning, he'd be the type to chase you down and rub his scruffy face on you in revenge, which is basically how a scruffy guy marks you as his. (His best friend? His potential future partner? No, just his in general.)

a/n yes, a hundred percent yes to all of this

----

The soft glow of the bedside lamp has transported you into another world. A universe made up of the faint scent of detergent and the feel of warm bedding beneath your fingertips.

You blink. There's no reason to feel as drowsy as you do, not when Logan's spent the last ten minutes scolding you. Still, though, something about sitting at the foot of his bed makes it easy to give into your lingering haze. It'd be easy to fall asleep like this.

"Don't," the instruction is flat, "Stay awake."

His back is still to you, which means there's no harm in openly frowning. "I am."

Logan's sigh is nearly masked by the gentle groan of a drawer being pushed shut. He turns around, expression still pinched but much less irritated than before. "Barely." You part your lips, some nonsensical protest waiting on the tip of your tongue, but Logan beats you to it, "Here."

He's extending an arm, a piece of fabric clutched loosely between his fingers. You blink again, this time focusing on the weight of your eyelids. The gesture is such a sharp contrast from his earlier attitude, you're nearly overwhelmed by your whiplash.

You stand before accepting the T-shirt. "Thought you were mad at me."

He lets out a breath, the sound sharp enough to constitute a warning. "I'm not--" His gaze shifts towards the ground. "You should have called me."

This again. "I was fine." His eyebrows draw together with the same level of offense that he used when you first presented this argument. "And I wasn't even alone, I was with Jean and Scott." He scoffs. "And you said to call you if anything went wrong, and nothing did."

Logan walks forward slowly, his steps measured until he's close enough to fully deteriorate your already fragile train of thought. In an attempt to regain control, you lift your head to look him in the eye. He frowns as he raises a hand, his fingers coming to rest beneath your chin.

He's careful as he tilts your head back. There's a weight to his silence. "You're drunk." All you can think to do is blink. He's known this, it's the main reason he's been lecturing you since the couple that graciously allowed you to third wheel all night dropped you off. "You're unreliable."

"Not that drunk."

The correction doesn't ease him. He studies you for another long moment before releasing you with a tired sigh. Maybe you should take it easy on him. It's not his fault he has the heart and patience of someone that's lived two centuries. You sigh. "Fine, next time I go out, I'll wake you up to come get me, even if I'm totally okay."

He ignores your sarcasm with expert ease. "Knew you'd get it, Princess."

You squeeze the T-shirt's fabric between your fingers in an attempt to ignore the warmth threatening to crawl up your neck. "I'm full of understanding."

"Yeah," he mumbles flatly, turning away from you as he walks towards his bed. You watch him with an openness that a more sober you would have never gotten away with. Logan had come to the door in a pair of loose sweats and no shirt. It had been easy to ignore his appearance when you were still in the giggly stages of being drunk. "Go change."

An instinctual desire to argue almost has you protesting, but you are tired of your going out clothes. And the thought of getting to pass out in Logan's bed for a few hours isn't exactly unappealing.

You pull the T-shirt over your head. Logan says your name, but you're too focused on adjusting the hemline to react. The shirt's large enough to cover most of your upper thigh, falling only an inch or two above the dress you're wearing. You slip the dress's straps off of your shoulders before reaching beneath the shirt's loose fabric. You tug at the dress's zipper before slipping the material down your legs.

You pick up the discarded fabric, folding the dress before placing it on top of Logan's dresser. He's uncharacteristically quiet as you approach the available side of his bed. "You seem tired."

He leans towards his nightstand, arm stretching outwards to turn of his bedside lamp. His eyes settle on some point a little past your shoulder. "Not all of us are 20-somethings that can stay up all night."

It's a teasing comment, likely an attempt at preemptively limiting your usual 10 to 15 minutes of yapping before actually attempting to fall asleep, but it digs at you. Jean was the one that insisted on letting Logan babysit you, you wanted to let him sleep. "I didn't want to wake you up."

Logan shifts, his bent leg nearly brushing against yours. "I wasn't asleep," the words are low, careful, "But if I had been--you wake me up." He pauses. "I'd rather that than know you're walking around drunk and looking like that."

An uneasy heat spreads through your chest. You focus on the bedding pooled over your lap. Like that--the kind of comment that'd usually have you insulting the person making it for attempted slut shaming. But Logan's voice is too distant for you to find any insult in it, even in a teasing context.

You bend fabric between your fingers, pressing the nail of your thumb into the material. You nod once.

He shifts towards you, his warmth becoming impossible to ignore beneath shared bedding. "I sleep better like this anyway."

The words are uncharacteristically soft, almost cautious. You lean into the feeling of them, allowing your back to relax against a pillow.

You've shared a bed with Logan before, usually after hanging out with him a little too late and once on a mission where you had to pretend to be recently engaged to avoid blowing your cover. It's not exactly common, but you know how he sleeps enough to know that he's not exaggerating. As soon as he's asleep, he loses the ability to be aware of personal space, an arm across your waist and chin pressed into your shoulder.

"Considering the way you take up the entire bed, I'm sure."

He exhales, the sound more pointed than it needs to be. "You steal blankets."

You scoff. "That's so not true." The corner of his mouth pulls itself upwards, the look much too triumphant. What a lame argument--you don't steal blankets, you're not given a chance to. As soon as Logan's on you, it's nearly impossible to move. "Like I can steal blankets out from under your adamantium skeleton."

Logan tilts his head, eyes narrowing in a way that promises nothing good. "You're saying I'm heavy."

Well, when framed like that, anything can sound rude. "No." You press your lips together to keep from laugh. "I"m saying your skeleton is literally made of metal..." You straighten in an attempt to make yourself focus. "...And metal is--" Your mental hold slips, a soft laugh tumbling past your lips as you try to think of a politically correct way to make your point. "...Heavy."

He leans forward, his knee brushing against your leg. There's a tact to his movement, a deliberateness better suited for the violence of the outside world. A warning, you realize, a moment too late.

Logan shifts his weight. You laugh as his hands find a place on each of your shoulders. "That's the same thing."

Helplessly, you press a palm against his chest. Your halfhearted protests do nothing to sway him. You laugh again, elbow pressing into the mattress in an attempt to steady yourself. Logan moves a hand to the back of your head before letting the brunt of his weight fall onto you.

You let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a squeal as you're pushed down. Your head hits the pillow, but the suddenness of the motion doesn't hurt. His forearm is resting near your head, turning him into more of an implication than an actual force capable of crushing you.

You let yourself smile openly. For someone that's always willing to remind you of his age, he has no problem acting like a child. Your lips part, but the laugh attempting to crawl up your throat dies before it can slip out.

Logan's watching you, his eyebrows drawn together in a way you can't interpret. His warmth, the feel of him against you, all of it, loses its humor.

He stays like that for what could be awhile, or no time at all. Then, Logan shifts, his arm moving away from the side of your head. Before you can overthink the change, he's resting his head against your upper stomach.

He's--there's never been this much openness about physical contact. Sure, you guys are comfortable with each other, with you having no issue resting your head against his shoulder during movies or reaching for his hand after a particularly rough mission, but that's--that's usually you.

You force yourself to recover, focusing on your breathing to keep from outing yourself. With the kind of care you'd use to keep from scaring off a skittish stray, you move a hand towards his back. He briefly stiffens as you drag your fingers against his skin, but after a second, he exhales. "You're like a house cat."

You feel Logan's sigh more than you hear it. "I'm not answering that." That's okay. You're happy enough without his validation.

Things stay quiet, and you slip further into the realm between sleep and consciousness. "You--you're um--okay, right?" The question is stiff, maybe even a little awkward. You're so close to sleep, you can't bring yourself to get what he's asking. "Comfortable?"

You're glad to not have to hide your smile. "Yeah," you mumble, voice distant, "It's nice."

You're not sure what you're referencing, but Logan doesn't ask, so you decide it doesn't really matter.

----

The light is a tangible thing, felt against your skin before you can squint your eyes open to see it.

You shift, noting the dull ache of your head as you lift your hand to wipe at your face. Wait.

It comes back to you all at once--the drinking, the after drinking, Logan.

You open your eyes fully. It's instinct to shift, but it's nearly impossible to do much more than lift your head. Logan's asleep, his head resting against your ribs and arm draped over your waist. How did you not notice this?

It would make sense for Logan to be a light sleeper. Even when he's at ease, he never seems fully settled in the feeling. So you're careful as you move, head turning as you try to look at him.

Logan's breathing loses its consistency before you can fully embrace the privacy. His fingers press into your hip so briefly you almost convince yourself the contact is only a product of your early morning haze.

He moves onto his back, palm brushing against your shirt as he leaves you. "Morning, princess."

There's something comforting about hearing his voice first thing in the morning. "Good morning." The words are a little raspier than you thought they'd be, difficult to force out around your hazy discomfort.

The corner of Logan's mouth pulls itself upwards. "I thought 20-somethings didn't get hangovers."

You roll your eyes. There are a lot of aspects of Logan's personality that warrant old man jokes, but his alcohol tolerance isn't one of them. You roll onto your side, propping your head up on one elbow. "I'm not hungover."

The almost-smile grows into something more assured. You let yourself enjoy the easiness of it. "Sure you're not, bub." The response is so warm you have to work at keeping your halfhearted pout.

Logan shifts, the mattress dipping as he sits up. "C'mon." He turns his head, looking at you from over his shoulder. "You'll feel better after you eat something."

The mention of food makes you aware of a hollowness you hadn't yet noticed. The thought of breakfast feels perfectly settling. You sit up with a smile, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. "You're not gonna make me eat weird hangover cures, are you?"

He pushes himself to stand. "You're going to have to take that chance."

There's no humor in his tone, and his back is to you so you can't read his expression, but something tells you it's safe to follow him out of his room, anyway.

[redrose10]

Can we do professor/student “quiet baby the others will hear you”. Please ?

<Quiet Baby>

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

Professor Yoongi x Female College Student Reader (both consenting adults)

Warnings: Jealousy, using someone else to make someone jealous, light smut (smuttier than I planned but nothing crazy), swearing

I hope you like it! Also, since it wasn’t noted, I wrote this with Yoongi because it just fit him. I hope that’s okay!

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

There was nothing sexier than watching your boyfriend looking all studious surrounded by books and papers, his tie undone hanging loosely around his neck, sleeves rolled up, and his glasses on the tip of his nose as he was buried deep in thought making notes and editing his paper. His recently bleached hair (he was a sweetheart and let you test out a new product on his hair before sacrificing your own) was tousled from hours of running his hands through it. He was finishing up his dissertation in preparation to obtain his PHD and you were so beyond proud of him.

You were also getting incredibly turned on by the sight in front of you.

Before you knew it you were inserting yourself between him and the table to straddle his lap. Slowly you started placing kisses down his neck.

“Y/N…please.”, he grumbled.

“Come on Yoongi. You’ve been working all night. Let me make you feel good.”, you mumbled into his skin focusing your lips on the spot just behind his ear that always drove him crazy.

“Y/N.”, he hissed as you began rolling your hips a little, “Any other time your clothes would already be across the room, but I really need to focus right now.” He placed a kiss on your lips before scooting the chair back slightly to make it easier for you to hop off.

He chuckled seeing your pout and the defiance of you refusing to get up. “I promise I’ll make it up to you once I turn this paper in. I’ll be all yours for anything you want.”, he said before giving your thigh a light smack to encourage you to get up.

“Fine.”, you huffed and retreated to the bedroom to try and get some sleep instead.

When you woke up the next morning Yoongi was already gone. On Thursdays he had an early morning lecture. Not only was your boyfriend a smart phd candidate, but he was a hard working college professor teaching a physics course.

And you just happened to be lucky enough to be in his 2pm class. Which gave you a great idea because you were still a little bit annoyed that he had rejected you so easily the night before. So you carefully selected your outfit, a short black pencil skirt and a crisp white blouse neatly tucked in with a pair of sheer black tights and your favorite black pumps, an outfit Yoongi had told you many times absolutely drove him crazy. To anyone else you were dressed up to give a presentation or maybe you were having a job interview, but you knew he would know the real reason and it would get to him and you could feel the excitement building.

When he walked into the lecture hall closing the door behind him your breath got caught in your throat. He greeted a few of the students as he made his way to the front of the class. He looked so warm and cozy and handsome in his favorite pea coat his cheeks just a little red from the cold winter air. You smiled when you noticed the blue sweater he had underneath, a Christmas gift you’d given him last year. You were really glad you decided to go back to college giving you the chance to meet and fall in love with such a man.

You did your best to keep your composure as he took off his coat and set up for class because no one else knew that the two of you were a thing. Even though you were two consenting adults, the school still wouldn’t like it.

Unfortunately for you, Yoongi didn’t really seem to notice or care about the little ensemble you were wearing. You didn’t get a smile or even an eye roll which you would have appreciated. This only made you more determined to get him worked up just as much as you.

“Hey Jimin?”, you whispered to the man next to you. When he looked in your direction you leaned over in his direction, “Do you happen to have the notes from last class that I could copy? Somehow I lost mine.” Enthusiastically he nodded and handed you his notebook, “Yeah of course. Color coded and everything.”

“Thank you Jimin!”, you exclaimed, “You’re just the best!”

Yoongi cleared his throat, “Miss L/N…Mr. Park…is there anything you’d like to share with the class?”, he said. Jimin sat up straight and shook his head, but you were less afraid of Yoongi. “Nope, we’re good. I just really needed some help and Jimin was happy to assist.”, you said with a smile. Yoongi eyed you both before turning back to the board to continue with the lecture.

“Wow is it warm in here or just me?”, you sighed quickly undoing a couple more buttons on your blouse. The top of your white lace bra just barely peaking through. Jimin, being quiet the gentleman, did his best to keep his eyes focused on the front of the room. That is until you leaned over unnecessarily close to him giving a better view of your cleavage and bra, “Here are your notes! Thanks again. You’re such a life saver. And a cutie on top of it!,” Shyly he chuckled before grabbing the notebook out of your hands.

Yoongi clapped his hands together, “Well it looks like the snow is getting pretty bad out so why don’t we end class early so you all can get home. We’ll pick up from here next class. Be safe out there everyone.”

You couldn’t help but pout a little feeling like you didn’t accomplish what you set out to do. Although it did warm your heart thinking about how he worried for the safety of his students. As you were packing up your belongings you heard him clear his throat again, “Miss L/N, can I please have a word with you?”

Slowly you finished packing up your stuff as you waited for the last few students to leave the room. When you were alone you walked over to his desk ready to get a talking to or something of that matter.

“I’m not really in the mood for one of your lectures right now.”, you groaned when you got in front of him.

But he surprised you by grabbing your hips spinning you around and pinning you against the desk underneath him, “Yeah then what are you in the mood for hmmm?”

He kissed your lips before slowly moving his own lips down your neck to your chest nipping at the skin and pulling your bra away with his teeth. This was completely unlike him. He definitely wasn’t into PDA especially around the campus.

“Yoo-Yoongi.”, you stuttered out. His hands slowing pulling up the hem your skirt as his fingers trailed up your thighs making your brain turn to mush. “What do you think you’re doing to me huh? You teased me last night when I was busy. I could barely focus. Now you’re teasing me here…showing up to class dressed like this…flirting with Park right in front of me. Do you know how hard it was for me to control myself?”

He rocked his hips against you to give emphasis on the word hard. The feeling making you whine out in need. “S-Someone’s opening the door.”, you finally managed to get out in a panic.

Yoongi grabbed your things and your hand and swiftly pulled you into the small closet off to the side.

On the outside you could hear chairs being moved and a few mumbles from students coming into the room getting ready for the next class.

Your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest thanks to the fear of being caught, but your boyfriend seemed to have other ideas.

He gripped your hips pulling you back against him gently grinding himself against your backside. You bit your lip to stifle a moan at the thought and feeling of him needing you so badly.

The professor started the lesson and was going on and on about some equation. You tried to keep your focus on what was happening out there so that you could hear if anyone was coming to the closet and give yourself time to come up with a story to explain everything, but Yoongi’s grip on your hips intensified as he quickened his movements behind you. At some point one of his hands had reached into your blouse and lifted your bra up giving him easy access to gently squeeze at your breasts. The sensation making you arch your back and push yourself onto him even more. Both of you struggling to keep quiet.

Without another word he pulled up your skirt until it was around your waist. The tights were a lost cause those being nearly ripped from your body at the start. The sound of his belt being undone sent a burning feeling through your body.

“Is this what you wanted? What you were so needy for?”, he asked.

Unable to speak you nodded.

“You had no problem talking to Jimin earlier, but now you can’t speak? I want words Y/N.”, he whined feeling your wetness with his fingers.

“Y-yes. I need you Yoongi. Right now. I need you. Please.”, you mewled bracing yourself against the walls of the closet.

“Good girl.”, he gritted as he easily entered you in one go. Both of you doing your best to stay silent.

“Yoongi move please.”, you begged needing more stimulation.

“I-I know baby. I just..I need a minute.”, he groaned into your shoulder blade. Still upset about the prior night you decided to clench around him as hard as you could making him hiss before immediately pulling out so he wouldn’t finish so quickly.

“You think you’re funny don’t you.”, he spat while spinning you around to face him.

“Yeah a litt-“, you tried to respond, but were silenced when he hoisted you up holding you against the side wall of the closet. He entered you once again, but this time didn’t wait for either of you to adjust. He started pounding into you with such a rapid pace you completely forgot where you were and a loud drawn out moaned escaped you.

You put your hand over your mouth in shock because it sounded like footsteps were getting closer and closer to the closet.

Yoongi continued to lazily thrust in and out of you like he was determined for both of you to finish no matter what happened and you had to admit that the feeling was getting you close.

After a minute of silence the footsteps moved farther and farther away and the professor resumed the lecture.

You looked at him to see if he still wanted to continue and it seemed that he did because he picked up the pace again while sucking a bruise into your skin. You willed yourself to not make any more noise, but every time Yoongi would hit that spot just perfectly getting you closer and closer to your release, you would whine and whimper just a little bit more.

“Quiet baby the others will hear.”, he smirked before picking up the pace even more this time. It didn’t take much longer for the two of you to both come undone together. He held you up for a minute while you caught your breath. Slowly he let you down and pulled out, both of your wincing at the overstimulation.

“Fuck Y/N. That was so hot.”, he sighed as he grabbed his scarf out of his bag to help clean you up. “Yeah uh…I didn’t mean for it to go exactly like this, but I’m not complaining.”, you giggled, “So uh how long is this class?”, you asked suddenly realizing you were going to be stuck in the closet for a while.

“This is a quantum physics class and it usually lasts about two hours.”, he apprehensively said.

“Well that sucks.”, you scoffed feeling a little annoyed now.

“Does it though?”, he asked pulling you against him once again, “I don’t know about you, but I could definitely go for another round…maybe two.”

[callingitquits]

Fluff? Johan Headcanons? His Version Of It, Anyway

These are just some Johan fluff headcanons that live rent-free in my head (they’re fluffy to me, okay??). Also yes, my post formatting is a little chaotic—I’m still figuring out how to actually post on Tumblr. Bear with me!

He Has Cold Hands and Uses Them on Purpose

He touches the back of your neck or slips his fingers into your shirt just to watch you shiver. It’s not mean, exactly…. more like a quiet, playful cruelty. But he warms them on you too, resting his palms on your stomach or the sides of your face.

He’s Not Physically Clingy but He Hovers

He doesn’t wrap himself around you. He doesn’t demand your touch. But he’s close. Always near. Reading behind you. Sitting by your feet. Leaning against the counter while you cook. He touches you in passing. A brush of fingers, a hand at your back. But never excessive. Just present.

He Kisses With His Eyes Open

Not always. But often enough that you notice.

Usually in low light, when everything feels still. He’ll kiss you with his eyes open. Watching. Not romantic. Not possessive. Just… focused. Like he’s verifying something.

One night, you pull back mid-kiss and blink.

“Okay, creepy,” you say, half-laughing. “What are you watching me for?”

He doesn’t break his gaze. Then, almost to himself, he says:

“I didn’t want to miss anything.”

Testing It

Eventually, you feel a little daring. “I can do that too.”

He raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

So, you lean in and kiss him with your eyes wide open.

He notices, of course, and doesn’t blink. You try to hold his gaze..but it’s way too intense. You pull back, laughing awkwardly. “I can’t… I can’t do this.” you admit.

There’s a flicker in his expression—something between amusement and mild surprise.

“Well?” You prompt, a little flustered.

“You blinked.” he says, deadpan.

“Jesus,” you mutter, “You’re like a vampire. Nothing fazes you.”

That earns you the faintest, most self-satisfied grin.

The Back of His Hand is Strangely Tender

When he strokes your cheek, he uses the back of his hand. Not the palm. It’s strangely reverent. Like touching you too directly would make it real. Too real. He saves the palm for holding, for grounding you, for when you’re shaking.

His Wardrobe Reflects Another Era For Sure

Pressed shirts. Wool coats. Leather gloves. Collared sleepwear. He owns one dark turtleneck that you relentlessly pick at him for owning. You tease him about dressing like he’s about to deliver a lecture in 1963. He never takes the bait.

He Makes Breakfast in Silence

He wakes up early, as always, though he’s not often there. But when he is, he doesn’t slam cabinets or make noise. He moves through the kitchen with precise, graceful efficiency. Eggs, toast, coffee…. all laid out before you’ve even dressed. He doesn’t ask what you want. He already knows. And he never eats much himself.

He Does Laundry Like a Ritual

Neat, folded with an almost clinical calm. Your socks are rolled. Your shirts are arranged by shade. He never complains about it, just quietly takes over. Like ensuring your comfort gives him some semblance of control.

He Reads Next to You Instead of Watching TV

TV overstimulates him. But he’ll sit with you on the couch, a book in hand, letting you watch whatever you want while he sits beside you. He’ll glance up occasionally. Not at the screen, but at your face when you’re absorbed in it.

He Brushes Your Hair Sometimes. Not Out of Romance.

It starts when he notices you struggling with a knot. He takes the brush, wordless, and moves with methodical gentleness. He doesn’t speak while he does it. Just watches the way the strands shine when they fall right.

He’s Unbothered by Clutter..Unless It’s His Things

Your mess? Your half-drunk tea, clothes draped over the chair? He never comments. But if he leaves something out: a paper, a book….he returns it to its exact place with mechanical discipline. Chaos is fine. Just not his chaos.

He Tucks Things Into Your Space Without Telling You

A pressed flower between your journal pages. A book left on your bed with a passage underlined. A matchbook from a place you mentioned once. It’s never loud. Never announced. Just there, like he’s been weaving himself into your life strand by strand.

He Has a Specific Spot on the Couch and Always Sits There

It’s the one with the best view of the door. The wall to his back. He never comments on it. Never moves unless you ask. It’s a subtle instinct: self-protection wrapped in routine.

He Always Knows When Something’s Off. Even Mundane Stuff

“You didn’t write in your journal today.”

“You’re wearing the same clothes you did yesterday.”

He notices the smallest shifts and will mention them in a way that makes you feel both seen and slightly unnerved.

He Believes in Manners…but Only Certain Ones

He’ll kiss the back of your hand. He’ll stand when a woman enters the room. But he won’t say “bless you” when someone sneezes. He won’t bow to social conventions just because they’re expected. His etiquette is curated. Purposeful.

Technology Frustrates Him

He’s miraculously brilliant, but not modern. Phones, updates, apps…they irritate him. He has no patience for buffering, autocorrect, or interfaces designed to be ‘intuitive’. You find it a little funny. You might help set up his devices sometimes, muttering that for somebody who could probably write a thesis in his sleep, he really can’t work Bluetooth. He lets you. He even thanks you once.

You Call Him Out Without Ceremony

He’ll say something like, “That suits you. It has dignity.”

And you’ll blink. “What are you, some kind of Victorian grandpa?”

It never phases him. He’ll just smile, faintly amused, as if he’s been called worse.

He Hangs Your Jacket Without Being Asked

Every time you come home, he takes it from your shoulders and hangs it properly. No big gesture, just a smooth, wordless habit. He doesn’t like seeing things carelessly tossed, especially yours.

You Hate How He Doesn’t Text Back

It drives you insane. You’ll send:

“are you dead?”

“you better not be dead”

“you owe me dinner”

Only to find, three days later, a letter in your mailbox that begins with, 

“I read once that urgency ruins clarity…” 

You groan.

He Keeps a Mug That’s Clearly Not His

It’s chipped, mismatched, probably yours from years ago. But he uses it for tea when you’re not looking. There’s a faint comfort in it, even if he’d never admit that out loud.

He Reads Aloud in the Evenings Sometimes

If you’re tired or curled up next to him, he’ll read a passage aloud from whatever book he’s holding. His voice is low, unhurried. He rarely explains the meaning. He just lets the words hang in the air.

He Has One Designated Drawer That’s Just For Your Stuff

In his room, in his space. Filled with things such as hair ties, notes, backup meds, and half-melted chapsticks. No label. No fanfare. Just quietly yours.

He Doesn’t Know How to Ask for Space

Johan will never ask for space the way most people would. He’ll simply become distant, cold, or retreat emotionally until it’s obvious that something’s off. You learn this about him and give him the room he needs without question. You don’t pry, don’t force him to explain. But when he comes back, you’re there, always patient. You’ve learned that sometimes, his silence isn’t rejection. It’s just his way of recharging.

Sleeping

He’s restless at night. He rarely lets his mind settle. But if you’re asleep against him, he forces himself not to move a muscle, not to wake you. His body becomes tense, almost painfully still, just to accommodate your peace. He’ll stare up at the ceiling until morning if he has to.

He’s Not Good with Sleep

Johan rarely sleeps deeply. He doesn’t trust it. Nightmares slip through, and the silence of early morning makes his mind louder. You notice the way he stirs at the slightest noise, how his body stays tense even in rest. You’ve learned not to touch him when he’s asleep. Only to speak gently if he wakes. On the rare nights he sleeps soundly beside you, you treat it like a fragile miracle.

Little Verbal Glitches

Johan is eloquent, but every once in a while around you…especially when tired or distracted—he’ll say something quietly unpolished. A soft “Stay.” when you get up. A muttered “You’re warm.” if he brushes past you. These small, raw slips are rare, but more honest than any performance he could put on.

He Doesn’t Know How to Play

Games, teasing, inside jokes….they confuse him. He understands the rules, but not the joy. You show him by pulling him into your world: silly observations, harmless dares, questions that mean nothing and everything. At first, he humors you. Then he starts to respond. Not always with words. But with the curve of his lips. The gleam in his eyes. You can tell when he’s playing back.

If You Tell Him You Love Him

You say it one day when his guard is low—late night, quiet room, your voice hushed like you’re afraid it’ll spook him.

“I love you.”

You don’t expect him to say it back. Not really.

There’s a pause. Long enough to make your stomach twist.

Then:

“I know.”

He says. Simply. Calmly. No mockery, no warmth. Just fact. Like it’s something he’s known longer than you have.

People Watching and Making Up Stories

One of your stranger little habits together—sitting somewhere in public and making up fake, elaborate stories about random strangers passing by. Your stories are usually goofy and endearing, while Johan's are disturbingly insightful, often leaning toward something darker. But sometimes, he plays along with your lighter tone just to see your reaction.

He Doesn’t Laugh Often

He smiles, but laughter doesn’t come easily. Humor for him is dark, cerebral. Never carefree. The first time you make him genuinely laugh, it startles you. It’s rare, brittle, short-lived…but you commit it to memory. After that, you start trying a little harder. Not to change him. Just to see it again.