#how's that for a random mishmash?

[fictionadventurer]

Fog!

fog- Name four things you'd like to know more about

Identifying local plants and possibly foraging

Making macarons (a bad idea that I nonetheless want to try)

Car maintenance

Sustainable agriculture

[punkssavior]

better than sex.

cm punk x fem!reader

part two of 'tired of you'. i decided to give these sweeties a prequel since you guys seemed to love their relationship as much as i do (before it ended, duh). this fic is also much fluffier than the last. ur fuckin welcome ;)

** installment TWO of the ACE OF SPADES series.

SERIES MASTERLIST <- linked here!

tags! @xkittypunkerx @idaisyy @ringoffiction @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling @eringobragh420 @meadow-field

content warnings: mentions of blood/violence (very brief!), hookups, oral (f!receiving), car sex, occasional pet names.

wordcount: ~12k

Nights out were supposed to be fun.

Right?

What originally began as a multi-club run and bar hop quickly turned into a mishmash of fallen through plans, after the group of college friends you’d decided to meet up with began acting out of line.

“You told me to meet you at Aurora!”

“I’ve been standing out here for at least thirty minutes!”

“Well— can you tell him to hurry up please? I’m freezing my ass off out here!”

You hugged your brown, faux fur jacket tightly to your chest, walking out of the thumping New York City nightclub named Aurora. Your friends told you to be there at 10:30 sharp, which you were, after taking 2 trains and a taxi to get you there.

Surely your ‘friends’ weren’t intentionally trying to swindle you, leaving you standing out in the cold as they spontaneously decided to shake up the meeting plans.

Surely that wasn’t the case, you hoped.

The weather was unforgiving, that small fur coat and matching boots barely keeping your body at a livable temperature. You always hated going out in the winter, especially since none of your clubbing outfits were suitable for harsh winds and possible snow.

God, this was a drag.

The strip that Aurora was on was very secluded, resembling more of a dark alleyway than a place for bustling nightlife. As much as you hated to admit it, in order to prove to yourself and your parents that moving back to New York by yourself was a good idea, you were a little bit scared to be alone right now.

There was an event happening in the venue down the block, and you could tell from the colorful lights beaming out of the small glass windows and the neon sign at the entrance. But other than those two leakages of light, you hadn’t a clue what was going on.

With yet another huff of frustration, you pull out your phone once again and dial the number of your friend, Cassie.

It goes straight to voicemail.

“Cass,” you sigh into the microphone, “If nobody’s coming to pick me up, just fucking say it already. I mean, I’ve been standing out here for what, an hour? At this point, I might as well walk home! Y’know what, yeah! How about this, I’ll walk home so you and your stupid friends don’t even have to worry about getting me a ride! Take your dumb, fucking clubbing plans, and shove them up your—”

“You okay?”

You shriek, the feeling of a cold, rough hand resting on your shoulder by your neck causing you to whip around. Without thinking, you wind up your fist, and whack whatever, whoever, it was, square in the nose.

“Shit!”

The now embodied voice falls limp in agony, breathing heavy from the practically lethal blow as you take a step back.

Woah.

You gasp quietly, covering your mouth with your hands. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry—”

The man doesn’t answer; instead, he’s keeled over, now resting his hands on his knees. You stare down at him for a moment, in pure shock at the way you were able to just swing around and punch this poor guy in the face. You supposed it was a good omen for your survival skills.

“Don’t— don’t sweat it,” he finally answers you, his raven-colored hair hanging above the ground and over his features as he collects himself. You can see him gathering his breathing, his shoulders moving beneath his tight, dry-fit athletic top when he shakes his head.

“Are you okay?” your voice betrays you, as you take a step closer to his crumpled up figure. You knew deep down that stepping this close to a random guy on the street was one of the first things they taught you not to do in grade school— but you felt particularly bad in this situation.

Beneath where his face was parallel with the ground, you see a drop of blood hit the pavement beside your feet. You take a step back, to your original position.

“I’m fine. Happens— more often than you’d think,” he says, slowly coming to and standing up straight.

When he looks at you, you almost feel the need to gasp. The lower half of his chiseled face was doused in blood, caught in the crevices of his now forming smile. You admire him in a moment of utter shock, your gaze bouncing between a pair of hazelish eyes and a lip ring.

“Do you— get punched in the face by girls on the street often?” You attempt to lighten the mood, now feeling like a mouse as you notice just how much he towers over you.

“Girls on the street? No, never. But grown men in speedos? Absolutely, all the time.”

You wanted to speak again, but were stunned by the growing amount of blood that poured from his nose. But he took it like a champion, using the white tape dawning his wrists to sop up some of the flow. You also couldn’t help but notice the red X’s drawn on that wrist tape, now stained with crimson.

“You sure know how to pack a punch with those little ass hands,” he chuckles wryly, glancing down at the hand you’d punched him with. You follow his eyes, noticing a small speckling of red across your knuckles. “Might I ask why your first thought was to lay one on me?”

“May I ask why you thought it was a good idea to approach me on a dark street corner?”

“You were yelling into your phone. Seemed agitated.”

A smile fights its way onto your cheeks, and you shake your head, “An agitated young girl cursing someone out on the phone seemed approachable to you?”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

You laugh, still taking him in. He was built, surely some kind of gym rat or athlete. You assumed he’d just gotten done working out, evident from the way his forehead glistened with sweat despite the rapidly dropping temperatures outside. He also carried a confident air to the way he shot back up after being punched in the nose, a catty smile and eyes that were green enough to kill a man.

You were now simply infatuated with looking at him.

“I’m Phil, by the way. I’d shake your hand but I don’t think you want any more of my blood on your person.”

Hot blush falls across your cheeks, but you take his hand anyway, absolutely unbothered. “I’m Y/N. And I’d take looking like a crime scene over turning down a handshake from the first man I’ve ever punched in the face any day.”

Phil smiles, and it’s more warm and inviting than you’d ever expected from a man who looked like him. His jet-black hair was a stark contrast to the olive tones of his complexion, only making those damned green eyes pop out at you like a picture book.

“Y/N,” he repeats, savoring your name on his tongue, “Do you work out?”

“I don’t.”

“Hm.”

You cross your arms over your chest, ignoring the small spatter of blood on your hand in order to tuck it away from the harsh cold. “Why do you ask?”

Phil shakes his head, pressing an index finger to his temple, “Still just reeling from that absolute roundhouse to my nose.”

“Did it hurt?” you inquire, wincing as you notice the blood continuing to drip onto his black shirt.

“Would you believe me if I said I barely felt it?”

“In your dreams, maybe,” you scoff, watching Phil as he digs into his pocket to pull out a crumpled up tissue, “You think you’re tough or something?”

Phil laughs, a hearty, genuine chuckle that almost felt like he was mocking you. You fold in on yourself slightly, unable to pull your stare away from the way he was delicately wiping his scarlet coated, busted nose.

“Some would say I am. But it’s up to you to believe that.”

“Are you picking a fight with me, Phil?”

Looking mildly offended, he scoffs, “I don’t fight chicks. In fact, I typically let them swing at me with little to no consequence.”

You harumph at his comment, shaking your head. The nerve of this guy to act like your first ever punch didn’t hurt him? How dare he.

“Well, it seems to me like that blow to your nose knocked a few screws loose in that pretty head of yours.”

You expect him to fire back with a witty comment, anticipating the ping-pong of banter. But instead, his smug smile pokes dimples into his cheeks.

“You think I’m pretty?”

Silence falls over the two of your bodies, the winter winds now whipping around you as you froze in time. You were completely speechless, Phil just standing haughtily before you and allowing you to take in his question.

“I, uh— I didn’t— didn’t think…”

“Didn’t think? About what you said? You had that quip ready and loaded.”

“It was an expression,” you feign innocence, your eyes growing wider by the second, “Y’know Phil, I don’t appreciate your tone.”

He laughs, just laughs. Everything under the moon tonight seemed funny to this guy and you hadn’t a clue why.

“It’s weird hearing you say my name this many times within the span of five minutes.”

You raise a curious eyebrow, slowly getting the feeling that a facade was being dropped, “You’re not used to people saying your name?”

“Not necessarily. Most people call me Punk.”

Punk. How fitting, you thought. Fitting enough for a man who has let his nose bleed for the better half of ten minutes while dressed exclusively in black. You push your lips to the side, mind still reeling about what exactly he was hiding behind that nickname.

And, respectively, what he was hiding beneath that tight ass shirt.

“Punk. Would you prefer it if I called you that instead of Phil— ‘er whatever?”

“Whatever floats your boat,” Phil, Punk, shrugs, his arms mirroring yours crossed against his chest, “Do you have a name that you’d prefer me to call you?”

Immediately, your mind went elsewhere. Far off elsewhere.

“I don’t think so, no.”

He takes a moment to think, his pupils enlarging when his eyes scan over your figure and eventually stop down at your brown fuzzy boots.

“Bunny.”

“What?”

“Those boots. Looks like you skinned a rabbit for those babies.”

You press your hand to your chest, awestruck by the abrasiveness of his words, “Heeeey! They’re fake, asshole!”

“Fake or not, they remind me of bunnies. That’s just how it’s gonna be.”

Punk looks back down at your boots, and you can’t help but cross your legs and stand at ease like a soldier. You wished you’d had gum to smack or a bubble to pop; for he had you feeling like a complete amateur in a battle of wits and compliments.

“So that’s the script we’re sticking to,” you mumble, trailing off, now self conscious of whether or not your jacket and boots actually look like you were compliant in animal cruelty.

“You tell me, Bunny. How does it sound coming out of my mouth?”

His words snap your eyes back to attention on his face. He juts his tongue out to wet his bottom lip, and you can’t help but notice the piercing that sat directly in the middle of it. You freeze at the sight of it, which you seemed to be doing a lot the more you noticed the smaller details of his person.

“Sounds nice,” you hum, satisfied. A bit distracted by his attractiveness and the small gap between his front teeth.

You were still telling the truth.

“Perfect. Now that we’ve gotten the semantics of politeness out of the way— care to explain why you’re out here alone on a cold winter night in a miniskirt?”

“I’m surprised it took you this long to point out that I was wearing a miniskirt, actually.”

Punk chuckles dryly, “I was concerned about the loud, hurtful obscenities you were yelling into your phone and here you are thinking I’m a shallow pig.”

You sigh in defeat, having lost the battle of wits once and for all. Punk seems to notice the sudden deflate in your ego, as you look out into the street.

“I was supposed to be clubbing with my friends— but they fucked up all the plans and now here I am. Standing outside in the cold. Just so happen’ to also be in a miniskirt and boots that apparently make me look like a bunny.”

“They left you here?” Punk asks, the concern laced through his voice far more prominent than the sarcasm.

“They didn’t even show up.”

The more you mulled over your unfortunate plans for the evening, the sadder you felt about how it all went down. You didn’t think that those low-lifes ditching you would have such an effect on you, but you just decided it’d be best to choke it down.

“That’s fucked up. I’m sorry, Bunny.”

“It’s fine. No skin off my teeth.”

Punk’s sharp face softens for a moment; you still can’t help but stare. The juxtaposition of a soft brown rabbit, Bunny, standing meekly before a tall, raven-haired, vampire was driving you insane. The thought of his blood splattering across your knuckles, the thought of him wiping up the mess, amused by the collateral damage and completely unphased by the pain.

Anyone else would run off, terrified of leaving their fate in the hands of a hard-headed stranger they’d met on a poorly-lit street corner.

Anyone else would be scared.

But not you. You weren’t scared of Punk.

In fact, you rather liked him.

“You cold?” He breaks the silence, sniffling as if to regain the sensation and feeling in his nose.

“Very.”

You take a deep breath in, remembering the little clutch purse that you’d brought that held all of your clubbing essentials; a singular tampon, a wallet, headphones for the train, the keys to your apartment and a loose cigarette.

Y’know, in case of emergency.

Soon enough, that cigarette is between your lips. You fish around the bottom of your tiny handbag as Punk just stares you down, nailing your furry brown boots to the pavement.

“Fuck,” you grumble, rolling your eyes, “Do you have a lighter?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Bummer.”

After looking down at your purse for so long and almost forgetting that he was standing there, you catch Punk’s gaze. With a straight face, he reaches up, and plucks the cigarette from your mouth.

“And you shouldn’t either.”

Your shoulders slump, a whine stuck in the back of your throat, “Can’t a girl take the edge off?”

“Every time a pretty girl smokes a cigarette, an angel loses its wings.”

It was still very cold. But the way Punk so graciously and spitefully took the cigarette out of your mouth and tossed it into a nearby subway grate made the pit of your stomach grow warm. You couldn’t deny the effect he was having on you. He was ballsy— fearless. Ten minutes into knowing him, you’ve already grown quite fond of this dynamic.

“Fine. No smoking. But can we at least go somewhere warm if you’re gonna keep asking me questions?”

“Is my body heat not enough for you?” Punk quips right back, somehow closer than you remembered him being.

“Standing here with you has been fun, but—it’s thirty degrees. Take me somewhere warm or else I’ll start screaming that you’re an axe murderer.”

Amused by your empty threat, Punk smirks. He took a moment to think to himself, before reaching into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulling out a set of car keys.

“I’m parked in the garage. I assume you need a ride. No way Bunny’s gonna hop on home all by herself.”

“Bunny would’ve gotten home just fine.”

Your arms are still crossed against your chest, attempting to subdue the chattering of your teeth. But rather than leading you towards the garage in question, Punk stays still. His eyebrow raises at you, his lips pushed to the side.

“Well? Aren’t you gonna lead the way?”

“Aren’t you missing something?”

“Missing what? I have all my shit—”

You begin to frantically tap at your pockets, feeling silly once you remember that damn miniskirt.

“Here, I’ll make this easy. What’s the magic word?”

“Oh come on.”

Punk stands his ground, his teeth now sunk into his bottom lip, “I’m not going anywhere until I hear you say it.”

You huff like a child, stomping your foot against the ground out of pure instinct. The weather was taking over your senses, making your hands freeze up and the back end of your jaw clench.

“Fine—Please, Mr. Punk? May I please go sit in your nice warm car so I don’t get hypothermia and die?” You have your own fun, and let your eyes go wide and shimmery.

“Only since you asked so nicely.”

You could tell that the little show you put on made Punk stiffen up, a slick attempt to play it cool left him digging his hands into the pockets of his sweats before turning to lead you to his car.

Good call, Punk.

“So, now that you know my reasoning for standing outside of a nightclub with my ass out, how about you tell me what you’ve been up to on this fine Friday night?”

As the two of you walk towards the parking garage, shoulders occasionally knocking in time with the clunking of your boots, you turn to admire his side profile. He walks, looking straight ahead, almost as if he were attempting not to get sucked back into those eyes of yours.

“I actually had a match tonight.”

“A match? What are you, a boxer or something?”

“Every time you take a guess about me, you get closer and closer to the actual answer,” says Punk, sparing you a sideways glance, “One more guess and you’d be right on the nose.”

“The only thing that I can think of when you say ‘matches’ is boxing—”

“—Wrestling,” he jumps the gun, “I’m a professional wrestler.”

Oh.

“Makes sense why my punch didn’t hurt.”

You pout dramatically, feigning for a reaction out of him while the two of you walk through a practically empty parking garage towards a beat up Chevy Malibu in the very last spot.

“Why the long face, Bunny?” he asks, his car honking as he unlocks it, “Did you want it to hurt?”

That comment in particular makes you blush. You felt small enough next to him as is, but his wordsmithing abilities left you breathless. He smiles at you, rounding the hood of his car to hold open the door for you. There was something a little more complex than pure satisfaction hidden beneath those eyes of his.

You wait until the two of you are sitting side by side in the car before answering, thinking the thrill of anticipation is what’s getting him going, “No. I didn’t expect to punch anyone tonight at all. Just— kinda bummed that my first ever punch was square in the nose of a man who gets punched for a living.”

“You’ll get there someday. Maybe next time I’ll cry a little bit— just to make you feel better.”

You scoff, reaching over to push him in the shoulder. He takes it lightly, but you’re stuck on the firmness of his bicep.

“You keep implying that there’ll be a next time. What if I never see you again after tonight?”

Punk leans his head against the car seat, his eyes fluttering towards the windshield as his Adam’s Apple bobs. An open, empty parking lot with a singular flickering light really set the mood for the circumstances.

“Is that what you want? To never see me again?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But it was implied.”

Your face pinches. You wished you had that cigarette right about now. Punk’s face was unreadable, and you couldn’t stand it. This entire situation left you feeling a bit dizzy.

“You’re such a jerk,” you blurt out.

“And you’re kind of a brat. ‘Suppose it’s a match made in heaven.”

Feeling defeated, you huff, and fold your hands in your lap. You don’t think you’d ever met someone who could keep up with all of your quips. You were smart, but he was smarter. You were snappy, but he left you tongue tied.

“Wanna get milkshakes?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

There it was again. That ping in your stomach every time he shot you down. It was getting to be amusing— the more he deflected and kept up that cocky attitude, the more you wanted to push his buttons.

“It’s late,” he mumbles behind a half-lit smile, reaching down to fiddle with his wrist tape, “Any more sugar in you and you’d be wound up like a toy.”

“You don’t know that,” you defend, mimicking his movements and twisting the costume ring on your middle finger.

“You’d be surprised at how well I can read people. Especially clever girls like you.”

You were a button pusher by nature, but Punk was made of rubber. Everything you had to say bounced right off of him. You couldn’t stand it, he was perfect. He was so fucking hot that it made you want to claw at walls and break through windows. It was absolutely infuriating.

“What are you doing to me?” you ask; once again, not thinking, moving your hands animatedly, “It’s like you’ve got a forcefield on my brain or somethin’.”

Punk scoffs, eventually reaching the end piece of his wrist tape and beginning to slowly unravel it, “I’ve been told I have a weird effect on people.”

“Weird is a fucking understatement.”

You were telling the truth. The chokehold that Punk held over you loomed like a storm cloud— his eyes, his moody face, that thick, toned body and that damn black hair. You were a sucker for an emo boy, but you didn’t think that obsession ran deep.

Until right now.

A brief silence passes, and it’s tense. You keep sneaking glances at him as he waits for the car to warm up. He keeps catching your eyes every time they wander down to the little sterling silver ring pierced into his lip.

“So,” he begins to say, turning up the temperature dial all the way, “Finally warm enough for me to ask some more questions?”

“Well yeah, I guess… God, you make it sound like I’m in the interrogation room.”

“I meant that sincerely, dick. I was asking if the temperature of the car was to your liking.”

Although having met him under an hour ago, a comfortable smile slides across your face. You sigh dramatically, kicking up your feet onto his dashboard and letting your furry jacket fall open to reveal your cute little clubbing top.

“Sure, I’m warm. Hot, even. Might start sweating soon. This jacket’s a bitch and a half.”

“A cold-blooded woman. I like it.”

“It’s one of my most redeeming qualities,” you retort, gaining back some of that confident spark you lost in the crossfire of Punk calling you a brat, “So, what? Are we playing twenty questions?”

“Twenty questions?” Punk repeats, his sentence trailed with laughter, “I’ve been out of the scene for a long time— didn’t think it was long enough to have to resort back to icebreakers.”

“Hey, don’t laugh! It’s a good way to get to know someone! Here, ask me anything. No holds barred.”

Punk rolls his eyes begrudgingly, his massive ego somehow bruised at even the mention of such a childish game. He thinks to himself for a moment, ultimately caving when he looks over and sees your newly exposed chest.

“Alright, fine. I’ll bite. What’s your favorite color?”

“Lame,” you blow a raspberry at him, “it’s blue.”

“Y’know, I’d like to see you ask a better question.”

You sit up slightly in the car seat, uncrossing your legs from the dash and putting them back in their correct place on the floor. In one last attempt to commandeer the power dynamic in your favor, you place your elbow on the center console, and stare deeply into his eyes.

“Thought this one would’ve been a no-brainer, but— do you have a girlfriend?”

Punk scoffs, as if he were offended that you’d even assume, “A girlfriend? No.”

“Hm. Good to know. I’ll keep that on the back-burner.”

“Must be my turn again,” The cheeky expression lingers on his face— you could tell he was amused just by looking at you.

“Yep. That’s how the game works.”

“Okay,” he puffs, mimicking the batting of your eyelashes and the little twinge of flirtiness in your smile, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Nope. Not a boyfriend for miles.”

He nods, his lips pursing, “As you said, it’s really just— good to know.”

Twenty questions was an awful game. Despite being the one to suggest it, you were also the first to admit it. There was so much nothingness to be discussed when it came to getting to know someone— and asking mundane questions seemed far too manufactured for the way you typically liked to handle things.

Punk already seemed to take a liking to you, it was evident in the way he acted thus far. His body language, the way he was teasing you. It was just so comfortable. And comfort was a good thing in most cases.

But in this case, comfort wouldn’t do.

“My turn,” you blurt excitedly, repositioning your legs back up onto the dashboard, “I’d like to take this question to address the elephant in the room.”

“Elephant—?”

You smile at Punk, watching his eyes follow your movements, the tail end of his sentence getting lost somewhere in his distracted mind.

“You keep on staring at my legs, Punker. You wanna get your head between ‘em?”

“Pardon?” he asks, his Adam’s Apple bobbing as he swallows.

“You heard me, pretty boy.”

In a flash, Punk’s body is strewn across the center console. He’s kissing you.

Holy fuck, he’s kissing you.

His lips are soft and inviting, a stark contrast to the heavy breathing and wandering tongues between you as he presses his chest into yours. It was a whirlwind, you could barely keep up with him. You decide to pull away for a moment, honing in on those beautiful Kelly greens.

“Shit,” Punk laughs, his palm cupping your cheek and letting the remnants of wrist tape scrape against your skin, “I’m sorry.”

“What the hell are you apologizing for?” you breathe out, feeling like your back was superglued to the leather.

Punk retreats back to the driver’s seat, running a hand through his hair. He’s panting, that wicked smile still painted across his face, “Nothing, nothing— I just—”

And just like that, you’re attached at the lips once more.

You figured the less time spent talking right now would be for the better; getting to know someone was just semantics, anyway. If you think someone’s hot, and that person shares the sentiment, you firmly believe that you should get into their pants as quickly as possible.

Especially when that someone is a suave, punk wrestler who had some sort of bionic force field over your mind.

You deepen the second kiss, practically dislocating your hip as you stretch over the center console. You want to get closer— the inside of the car and the lowness of its ceiling preventing you from positioning yourself in the ways that you want.

“Get on top of me. Right now.” Punk’s words knock against your now plump lips, raw from all the teasing.

You oblige without another word, hoisting yourself over the console and straight into his lap. You think you have it all under control, despite the wobbling of your knees each time you look into his eyes.

“You’re very demanding,” you tease.

“And you seem— insatiable.”

Once you lower your hips onto his lap, a collective sigh fills the car. Not much was released from the tension in your lower half, but you fit into his lap like the last piece of a puzzle. He spread his legs comfortably beneath you, wasting no time in attaching his broad, blistered hands to y our waist.

Punk chuckles to himself, watching you adjust your ass so that it wasn’t digging into the steering wheel.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“This is just— an odd situation we’ve gotten ourselves into,” says Punk, reaching up to run his hand across your chest to the nape of your neck, “We met less than an hour ago. Now you’re straddling me in my car.”

“I’m a woman that knows what she wants as soon as she sets her eyes on it,” you whip back, taking your pointer finger and finally getting to run it across that dastardly handsome lip ring.

“I like you more and more each time you open your mouth. Makes me wonder what else it can do.”

Punk’s sentence trails off when his hand slowly snakes its way into the back of your hair. You smirk at his gentle quip, a subtle push in the right direction.

“Wanna find out?”

He pulls you back in, breathing in deeply as he nips at your bottom lip with his teeth. You moan at the feeling of his hand in your hair, tugging at the roots like he was trying to pull you away, but couldn’t stand to be far from you for longer than a second.

You swivel your hips against his, the tight biker shorts beneath your miniskirt leaving zero room for the imagination. When your hip makes one last dig, Punk’s entire body jolts— he takes that pent up frustration out on your soft flesh, nipping at your jaw towards your neck.

“Fuckin’ Christ, you’re—”

“Everything and more?” you gloat through heaving breaths as he starts a trail of love bites down towards your clavicle, “Super hot and amazing?”

You can feel Punk laughing beneath you; as if he hasn’t let himself enjoy life like this in a long time.

“You’re— unreal.”

With his words, you scoop up his face in your hands. It was hard not to just talk his ear off and shower him in praise for the foreseeable future, he checked every box for you as far as a man goes.

“What? What about me is so unreal?”

“Just— everything,” he hums, his eyes foggy and in a daze, “Can’t really put my finger on it at the moment.”

“Why not?”

“You’re like a fuckin machine gun. Loaded with questions.”

“Kiss me harder,” you purr, lifting your hips and planting them back down firmly onto the growing bulge in his sweats, “Maybe that’ll shut me up.”

Soon enough, you’re back in the game. Punk had taken the liberty of shrugging you out of your fuzzy jacket— the one he liked so much that he pulled a nickname out of his ass for.

He took time showering you in kisses; one would think a man of his stature wouldn’t be so delicate. But he treated you like he was picking petals off a daisy— and you were more than satisfied with that.

“Wanna take this to the backseat?” Punk grunts as your hands start to grasp at the hem of his shirt, he notices your struggle.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“Figured you’re tired of the steering wheel digging into your ass.”

You smile warmly at his cute little quips, wanting nothing more in this moment than to pinch at his cheeks, “Why thank you for being so considerate, Mr. Punk.”

You grace him with one more searing kiss, letting him linger in the aftermath before rising from his lap. Making it to the back with grace, you slide into the seat behind the passenger as Punk stares at you from the front.

“I would have opened the door for you. You didn’t have to pull out a whole gymnastics routine.”

With flushed cheeks and a smile, you shrug, “It’s more fun this way.”

“Whatever you say, Bunny,” Punk chuckles, shaking his head as he pushes open the driver’s side door.

You sit timidly in the backseat for the few seconds that you’re alone, your body pumping with adrenaline. It was hard to believe the turnaround of how this night was going— from shitty, fallen through club plans, to meeting someone who may or may not be the love of your life. It was all happening so fast, you could barely keep up.

“So.”

Punk’s voice and the slamming of the car door snaps you out of your spaceout. You turn to him with an amused face, instantly brought back down to earth when you notice how he’d comfortably spread his legs. A silent invitation.

“Sooo…”

“Come here often?” he jokes, drumming his fingers against his knee and eyeing your figure.

“That was so fucking corny. You’re such a loser.” You laugh, mimicking his eyes and traipsing them down his frame.

Dear God, he was divine.

“Quit the name calling and c’mere, you fuckin’ minx.”

As if his words were a wish and you were a genie that granted them true, you slowly crawl over to him, softening your eyes and tossing your hair over your shoulder as you once again get comfortable onto his lap.

The kiss from earlier picks back up— it felt almost redundant to do so. But you couldn’t get enough of the taste of his lips, and he couldn’t stand resisting the scent of your vanilla perfume.

“How far do you wanna go?” You breathe out, not entirely thinking with your head screwed on while he claws tightly at your hips.

“As far as you’ll take me. Seems like you’ve got the energy.”

“What? Can’t keep up with me?” you pout, leaning in to nip at his jawline and graze his stubble with your teeth, “So much for being an athlete.”

Punk snorts, you’d almost forgotten how strong he really was. He pulls you closer to him, your chest fully flushed against his.

“Don’t test me. Just because you’ve got the libido of a rabbit doesn’t mean I can’t keep up.”

“Ahhh, I don’t know— you got that kind of stamina in the bedroom? Or do you save the real show for when you’re in the ring?”

“Bunny wants a show, huh? I’ll give you a fuckin’ show—”

Like flipping on a light switch, Punk’s entire demeanor changes. The oozing sense of a desire to be in control clouded the small Chevy Malibu like smog. His hands detach from your waist, with one hand cupping your face and the other sliding up towards your throat.

You were loving this energy— he was like a leech. Feeding off of your lust like it was keeping him alive. When his hand eventually clamped down against the sides of your throat, you moaned out, pushing out a weak smile through newly forming tears in your eyes.

“Punk—” you squeak, but it wasn’t loud enough to grab his attention. He was kissing you with so much fervor and passion that it almost knocked the wind out of you.

Your position quickly switched. He was now on top of you, crammed into the backseat of this entirely too small sedan, his hips meeting yours and causing friction in your lower half. The bulge in his pants was making you want to take whatever he was willing to give.

It was almost desperate at this point.

“Shirt. Off. Now.” The odds were seemingly back in your favor. You’ve been wanting to see what was hiding beneath that tight athletic top the moment you saw how his back muscles contorted beneath it, illuminated by the streetlamp after you whacked him in the nose.

“Help me,” he huffs, struggling to reach between your bodies towards the hem of said shirt, “Help me get this damn thing off.”

You chuckle at his eagerness, the clumsy fumbling in an attempt to peel off Punk’s shirt allowed you to see a bit more of the sparkle in his eyes as he laughed along with you. Once the shirt was off, the most you could do was stare.

Tattoos. So many of them. You wanted to run your hand across all of them and paint along the colorful, traditional style. He was truly a work of art.

The heat of the moment had never left, but for a second, it felt as though you and Punk were the only two people on this planet. He hovers above you, panting at the sight of lust in your eyes. His dark hair was like a set of blackout curtains that framed his face just right. You couldn’t help yourself. You pushed a lock of that hair behind his ear, catching what you assumed to be a bashful, blushed grin.

“What? What are you smiling at?” you ask through giggles, letting the back of your hand trail his jawline.

“Nothing, nothing— you’re lookin’ at me stupid right now.”

“I’m sorry,” you hum, “I can’t really help it. I—didn’t know you had tattoos.”

“I’ve got quite a few, yeah,” he nods, speaking to you as if his bulge wasn’t millimeters away from where the both of you needed it to be, “Glad you like ‘em.”

“I don’t have any tattoos, sadly. ‘Wish I did. The adrenaline rush of a needle getting shoved into your skin over and over again seems like it would be better than sex.”

Punk’s eyes flicker with desire, his gaze firmly planted onto your lips as you spoke. He was one track minded, from what you could tell. Though you weren’t sure which track he’d been focused on running.

“Better than sex huh? You say that like I don’t have you here, pinned to my backseat.”

“It was a euphemism, jackass,” you snarl, craning your neck to reach up and peck him on the lips, “Doesn’t mean I don’t still want a tattoo. Or, to be pinned to your backseat.”

“Maybe tomorrow we’ll go get you a tattoo, eh? Set you up with an artist and everything. That way you can really tell me if being under the needle is better than sex.”

The kiss picks back up for the hundredth time, though it was the fiercest kiss of them all. Soon enough, Punk was shimmying you out of your miniskirt and biker shorts, and pushing your knees towards your chest.

“Is it fucked up that I’ve been thinkin’ about seeing you like this since I laid eyes on you?” He takes his time with you, settling to the best of his abilities while crammed into the back of his own car.

The only sound you could muster was an airy giggle, his blistered hands rubbing circles atop your knees as he slowly started to spread you wider.

“Tell me. Tell me right now if it’s fucked up and I’ll stop.”

“What? Are you crazy?” you say, propping yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him, “I should punch you again for thinking that way.”

“Mmmh, I’d like to see you try.”

You understood why Punk kept implying that there’d be a next time. Because the way his gaze roamed down every dip and curve of your body and stopped to linger on your clothed core…

…You couldn’t imagine being here, in this moment, with anyone else.

“Can I just say— you’re fuckin’ heavenly,” Punk grumbles, his hands finally finding the lacy trim of your underwear.

“All these compliments are gonna start getting to my head, Punker. Choose your next words wisely.”

He chuckles, knowing full and well that he was holding the reins. You had him, basically, in a headlock. Your ankles clasped around the back of his neck, keeping him hostage towards the center of your thighs.

“Want these off?” he asks, pulling at your waistband.

You think for a moment, letting Punk take a second to drink you in, in all of your aphrodisiacal glory.

“Mmmh, no. Kinda’ wanna see you work for it.”

His eyes suddenly narrow with challenge, a newly formed drop of sweat beginning to roll down his forehead at the sheer impetuosity of his current position.

Face first towards your pussy.

Punk doesn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes lock with yours— your head begins to spin as he lowers his, not breaking his stare for even a second. He takes his rough-padded fingers, and pushes aside the dainty lilac colored fabric of your underwear.

“Work for it,” he mutters, scoffing under his breath as he feels your entire body jolt, “Yeah fuckin’ right.”

Punk dives into you with expertise and precision, his tongue initially dragging a long, torturous swipe up between your folds. The pressure of his tongue against your now aching core felt like you were just launched into the air from a slingshot.

You gasp. You whine. Your legs had suddenly gone limp and dropped beside him. You attempt to claw at his colorful, painted shoulders but instead, end up reaching all the way to his back to dig your nails straight into his spine.

He hums in what you assumed to be delight, ripples from his vocalization sending a shock wave through your body, whilst he continues to prod at your entrance with his tongue.

“Holy fuck—” you breathe out, the sensation of his nimble tongue causing your legs to spasm, “Fuck— fuckin’— shit!”

With his head still buried between your thighs, Punk laughs. He simply can’t help it.

“You’ve got a mouth like a goddamn sailor,” his eyes pop up to look at you momentarily, but that wouldn’t do.

“Keep your comments and questions reserved for after the show, thank you.” Shaking your head, you push his mouth back down to where the attention was needed.

After all was said and done, you still couldn’t believe you were here right now. It seemed far too early into the evening to call any shots, though it was far past midnight now, but there was a stirring feeling in your gut about Punk.

The stirring could've been attributed to the agility of his tongue between your thighs, but the bigger part of you knew that this feeling could only be described as butterflies.

Butterflies. That’s exactly what it was. From what you knew about him so far, Punk was a gentleman. Treating you delicately like he was pruning a rose bush, but with just enough of that rough, jagged edge that made you swoon.

Back to the present. You’d been digging your nails into Punk’s toned back for so long that you started to notice red etchings in the place of your hands.

“Oh my God,” was all you could muster. His tongue flicked mercilessly at your sensitive clit— the way his head dipped and swiveled only proved the attention he was paying to you.

He really was working for it.

“Keep goin’… fuck, please keep going. I’m— so close.”

With your words, Punk’s head pops up. He replaces his mouth with his fingers, immediately pushing two of them inside you and stretching your walls along with it.

“What’s that? You’re close, you said?”

His eyes shot through yours like bullets, his face now morphed into, possibly, the most determined expression you’ve ever seen. He takes those two fingers and curls them deep inside of you, the sounds of your arousal suddenly echoing throughout the car.

“Yes— yes I’m fuckin’ close… Are— are you mocking me?” you pant, weakly chuckling at the mercy of his fingers.

“Mocking you? C’mon now,” he interrupts himself with a grunt, his voice rich and sticky like honey, “I just wanted to clarify… and hear that pretty voice while you cum for me.”

Stars begin to cloud your vision. Your heart rate was picking up at rapid speeds, chanting yes yes yes yes yes over and over again as if it were some sort of demonic hymn. Punk had you hypnotized, borderline possessed. His face melts in time with yours, studying your expression as you chase your orgasm towards the finish line.

“Punk, oh fuck. God, yes. Faster. Faster!”

“Give it to me, Bunny. Gonna cum all over my fingers like a good girl? Yeah.”

Punk nods to you, as if it were a sign to let loose. He was coaching you through this like he was born to please you, hitting all of the correct spots with his large digits and occasionally ducking down to lap up your juices.

“So fuckin’ wet for me, baby. So fuckin’ good. I know you’re almost there.”

Seconds later, he does the unthinkable, and presses his palm flat against your lower stomach. You whine at the now building pressure, still cursing and surprised at the fact that you hadn’t drawn blood from his shoulder blades after grabbing them so roughly.

His body shifts upwards, keeping his balance by still pressing deeply against your abdomen. He muffles your moans with a searing hot kiss, biting at your bottom lip to heighten both the pain and the pleasure.

“Cum all over my fuckin’ hand, baby. I wanna’ make a mess of such a sweet, pretty girl.”

You do as you’re told, naturally, your body jolting in pure bliss as release crashes over you. Your legs stiffen, and go weak once again, letting Punk grace you with one last dirty kiss before pulling away to ease you.

“Holy shit,” you breathe out, your body still in a state of shock.

“Mmmmmh,” Punk hums as he massages one of your thighs, still coaxing you through your high with his two fingers, “That’s it, Bunny. Let it all out.”

You finally get a second to relax your shoulders, your neck falling limp as you rest your head against the car door. It was hard to believe just how fast your heart was beating— that was probably the best orgasm you’ve had in months.

“Feelin’ okay?” Punk breaks the heavy, sweaty silence, abruptly pulling his fingers out from you and making you gasp. He seemed to be extra cautious now, making sure your lightheadedness wasn’t too much of an issue.

“I— Shit… Fuck, I’m sorry. Don’t really— have the words.”

He chuckles softly, taking it upon himself to reach out and lift you, propping you upright against the carseat. “I’ve rendered the chatterbox speechless? Never in a million years…”

“Oh shut up,” you whine, feeling the remnants of slickness between your thighs, “It’s gonna take a lot more than that to get rid of me.”

After a few tender moments of giggles, swatting at each other playfully, and threatening to punch Punk once more, you had resumed the position onto his lap. While still crammed into the back of the Malibu, his large, blistered hands roamed your sides and sent shivers down your spine. He had also asked you’d be opposed to keeping your skirt off for the time being.

Of course, you didn’t mind.

“Where’d you learn that shit, Punker?”

“Hm?” Punk seems to be lost in you, his eyes wandering down to the love bites he’d left on your neck.

“Oh come on. You just whipped me through fucking space and time and you’re gonna act all humble about it? Where’s your pride?”

“I don’t think it’s anything to brag about. Real men make girls cum. It’s as simple as that.” He punctuates his thought with a kiss to the tip of your nose, his eyes narrow and hazy with adoration.

“Oh, so you save all your gut-punch-trash-talking for the ring, huh?”

Your comment makes him laugh. It’s hearty, and rich; he’s so lost in your eyes that you’re afraid he wouldn’t be able to find his way back.

“If you came to one of my matches, you’d find out. But why don’t we save the shop talk for another time and get you home? It’s getting late.”

Your chest aches, the words echoing against your skull. Take you home? The thought of going home after one of the most exhilarating nights of your life so far felt like an arrow through the back. You didn’t want this to end, you didn’t want to leave this car. You didn’t want to leave this parking garage.

You didn’t want to leave Punk.

“Do you have any plans tonight?” you ask softly, the first time you’d put your guard up since you were standing on the sidewalk.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Come home with me. Stay the night.”

You blurt it out faster than you could process your thoughts— though you always were a firm believer in trusting your gut.

“You serious?” He tucks a rogue strand of hair behind your ear; he seemed to have put his guard down for a fleeting moment, too.

“Serious. I’ve got a nice king-sized bed all to myself and a vinyl collection that’ll make your dick hard.”

“Once again, unreal…” Punk chuckles, shaking his head. You feel his body rumble along with it and can’t help but hold onto him tighter.

“…Sure. I’ll stay the night. But if you’re lying about that record collection, I’m driving back and leaving you out on the sidewalk where I found you.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal. If you don’t have a raging boner the second you step into my place, I’ll sell you my soul.”

“A deal with the devil,” Punk smiles warmly, before pulling you in for one last kiss that’s as sweet as molasses, “Prettiest damn’ devil I’ve ever seen.”

—

After a playful, sexually tense car ride that seemed to last an eternity, Punk finally pulled up to the front of your place. Throughout the entire duration of the drive, his hand was anchored to your thigh, rubbing slow, soothing circles that occasionally veered off between your legs; you talked his ear off about work, friends, and all of the other quirks that made your life worth living.

He also told you more about his wrestling career, and how he was working small indie shows in hopes to sign a bigger contract. You listened to his ramblings about what it takes to be a wrestler, not without asking him a million questions, of course.

You learned that his full ring name was CM Punk. And quickly realized that the ‘CM’ could stand for just about anything— Cookie Monster, Curtis Mayfield, Car Muffler. The possibilities were endless for you. But truthfully, hearing you talk and joke around was the only thing that mattered to Punk.

Your curious mind and nonstop motormouth quickly became one of the things that Punk liked most about you.

But he wouldn’t admit that aloud.

“So, this is the place huh?” Punk hums, tossing his head back at you with a bit of tension from before that still lingered, “The place that’s supposed to blow me away with a rockin’ record collection and a promised king-sized mattress.”

“Mhm. Welcome to my dojo. Usually there’s no boys allowed— but tonight, I’ll make an exception.”

Soon enough, Punk opened the car door for you, allowing you to slide out and stand beside him on the sidewalk in front of your apartment. You lived in a duplex in Brooklyn, in a somewhat seedy neighborhood that you quickly took a liking to after living in it for almost half a year. Your neighbors were kind, considerate, and never asked questions.

You hoped that’d remain true after tonight.

The two of you walk up to the porch, laughing playfully at the misfortune of your miniskirt before reaching the door. But before you fish out your key from your clutch, you spin around, and press your back against the screen.

“What’s the password, Punky Brewster?”

His eyes widened with challenge, a smug expression on his face, “How should I know? It’s my first time here.”

“I can give you a hint if you’d like,” you purr like a cat, trailing your index finger down his chest as he steps a smidge closer.

“A hint, huh? Lucky for you, riddles turn me on.”

You laugh heartily— you haven’t laughed this much in months. He was surely a spitfire for the ages; the only person for miles who was willing to keep up with your attitude for this long. You couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes seemed to shimmer as he gazed down at you, the overhead lighting of your porch giving him a faux halo.

Fitting.

“This isn’t a riddle. It’s simple. You have something that I want. And I need you to give it to me.”

“Something that you want— interesting. Is it a physical object? An action? C’mon Bunny, cut me some slack. My brain’s fuckin’ fried.”

A desperate chuckle passes his lips, and he just can’t help but reach out to caress your cheek. Still reeling from previous events, you nudge your face right into his palm.

“I feel as though I’m being fair. You have something I want, and I need you to give it to me.”

You were implying that you wanted a kiss. It was simple. Merely because you couldn’t stand the thought of your lips being detached for longer than the time it took to walk up your front porch.

After thinking to himself for a moment, your cheek still cradled in his palm, the lightbulb flicks on in Punk’s mind.

“Oh. You fucker. I know what you want.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you shrug, chewing on your bottom lip.

“Only ‘cause you’re greedy. C’mere.”

Leaning in to kiss him for approximately the fifteenth time tonight still felt like slow motion. It wasn’t until your lips finally reconnected that the tension left your shoulders.

‘Mrrrrooowww’

A loud mewl from behind snaps the kiss. Punk stares at you in shock for a moment, but you knew exactly what that sound was. “What the hell was that?”

‘Mrrroowww’

At your feet sits a little tortoiseshell cat. The neighborhood stray.

“Jesus Christ, scared the shit out of me.” Punk steps back, teetering with uncertainty in an attempt not to step on the animal. You didn’t think such a small creature would knock a big man off his balance so easily.

“Scared?” you scoff, bending down to scoop up the familiar cat, “Of this little guy?”

Punk’s eyebrow raises, curiously admiring your Snow White-esque way of going about this. “Is he a friend?”

You chuckle at his sarcasm, petting the purring feline and letting him rub his head in your palm. “I guess you could call him that. This is Channing Tatum. Mr. Tatum, Tater Tots, Tater for short. He comes by every morning and night to hang out for a bit. I think we, uh, interrupted his busy schedule.”

“No shit. That’s his fuckin’ name?” Punk guffaws, crossing his arms in disbelief, “Who named him that?”

“Who do you think?”

Punk chuckles, running a hand through his hair, “Naturally.”

“Yeah. I feed him n’ stuff,” you rattle off like you were born to, still petting Tater and watching as he cocks his head towards Punk in curiosity, “He’s put on a few pounds since I moved here, but I plead the fifth. This dude’s got hookups at every house on this block.”

“Smart man. He’s a hustler.”

It took Punk a moment to reach out and pet Tater, the tattoos on his knuckles catching the light of the porch. DRUG FREE was scrawled across his hands in black ink, making your mind race with even more questions to ask him. But you didn’t want to bore him, or piss him off. So instead, you just soaked in the moment.

“What do you feed this guy? He’s got buff shoulders and a toned bod. Might have to hijack his diet.”

“I’ll give him a combo of wet and dry food every day,” the two of you were now petting Tater simultaneously, and he was loving every second of it, “plenty of water, too. Hydration is important for cats, you know.”

The loud purrs disrupted the peaceful silence between you and Punk. You catch his eyes in a sideways glance— he wasn’t looking at Tater anymore.

He was looking at you.

“I give you cat people a lot of credit. Cats usually hate me,” Punk smiles, leaning in to hear the loud, rumbling purrs coming from such a small creature, “This one might be special.”

“He’s pretty good at feeling people’s energy. He gets it from his mama.”

“Didn’t realize I was signing up to be a step-father.”

An airy chuckle leaves his chest, but you clam up. For no particular reason. “Why don’t we go inside? I’m still fuckin’ cold.”

There’s a pause in space and time. You set Tater down gently onto the porch and watch him scurry off, knowing he’ll be back promptly at eight in the morning for breakfast. But the way you clammed up just then didn’t go unnoticed by Punk, you just assumed he chose to ignore it.

You led him over the threshold of your apartment, tapping the tips of your fuzzy boots on the side of the door to rid them of any dirt, mud, or grimy New York snow-sludge. Punk mimicked your actions, as if he’s been here before.

“Shoes off?”

“Shoes off.” You repeat, pulling off one boot at a time as your ass hits the floor. Punk slides out of his Nikes, propping them up against the wall beside yours.

“Your place is nice,” Punk whistles, his hands on his hips as he admires your living room/kitchen combo.

“It’s not much, but it’s all me.”

“No roommates?” He asks, shuffling towards your kitchen island and poking his nose into one of your drawers.

“Nope. I got a discount on this place because the roof was caving in on my side. My dad’s a contractor, he came down from upstate and fixed it for free.”

“Jesus,” he glances at you on the floor, you were now sitting criss-cross applesauce. He can’t help but stare as you unzip your fuzzy coat, haphazardly tossing it onto the back of the couch.

“Meh, it’s no big deal. Knowing that the roof may cave back in any day now really keeps me on my toes. Gets me motivated, you know?”

Your dry humor makes Punk laugh, the gap in his teeth catching beneath the kitchen lights. When you finally stood up, and walked over to him to stand at the opposite side of the kitchen island, the two of you were now in a face-off.

The energy switch was minuscule. His eyes narrowed, as did yours, as you braced your hands against the granite.

“Want anything?”

“You know what I want.”

You scoff, “I meant like, a glass of water. Or something of that nature.”

“A glass of water, sure,” Punk agrees, watching you vigilantly as you round the corner into the kitchen where he was. He was standing in front of the fridge, causing your back to slide against his when you went to open it.

The energy between you was like static— it was jarring and abrasive, sending little shocks down your spine. He doesn’t waste much time, spinning around to hold you from behind.

“Punk,” you say, your throat now gone dry.

“Hm?” His face had moved towards the crook of your neck, lips hovering behind your ear, “what’s up, Bunny babe?”

“You’ve got a real personal space problem.”

“Not like you mind it,” he retorts, lips finally connecting to your neck as he leaves soft kisses in their wake.

“I don’t. Just trying to be a good host. That’s all.”

“Am I invading your space? Do you want me to stop?”

Punks hands move from your waist, scooping up your breasts to massage them, all in one motion. The action makes you whine, and clench the glass of ice cubes in your hand. He was licking and biting at your neck, nearing the spaghetti strap of your clubbing top.

“No, no. I don’t want you to stop.”

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

Punk spins you fully to face him, leaving the refrigerator door open and idle. The cool air hits your back and meshes with the contrast of how hot and searing his lips feel against your neck.

He really loved to bite at you, maybe he was a vampire.

In one motion, Punk takes the glass from your hand and sets it down on the counter behind him, pulling you into his waist as he rests his back against the granite. It was a ridiculously slow, methodical dance he was pulling, his breathing heavy against your ear as he can’t decide whether to hold your hips, or your ass.

You take your now free hands and lace them around his neck, finally able to fully flush your body against his without being restricted by the confines of a backseat. He hums in delight when your tits press against his chest, and pushes you away to get a better look.

“I don’t know what it is, but you’ve got me whipped. Not gonna lie, it was taking everything in me not to pull the car over and fuck you on the side of the highway.”

You blush at his admission, “I wouldn’t have been mad at that. Though I don’t know how fucking in that small ass car would’ve went.”

“Anything is possible. We could’ve made it work,” Punk smirks, brushing a lock of hair out of your face, “I’ll keep it in mind for next time.”

Making out with someone against your kitchen counter wasn’t particularly a dream of yours. But the way Punk held you tightly and let his hands roam across your ass beneath your miniskirt, sans biker shorts, made you want to fall asleep and never wake up.

You moan into his mouth, letting the rough, sloppy kiss take over your senses. Punk moves you fluidly, whisking you away from the counter towards the wall.

“P-Punk—” you sputter, due to his hand hovering around your skirt.

“Yes?” He asks softly, almost too sweetly.

“Can I just—show you around?”

Punk sighs, pulling away from you to scratch his neck. His hand slaps his thigh when it drops, motioning for you to ‘go ahead’ with a lazy smile.

You slither out from his hold, making sure to sway your hips and drag your hand along the granite of the kitchen island, “So. This is the kitchen. Obviously. We’re standing in it.”

You point around, and his eyes follow, occasionally reminding you of his presence with an “uh huh” here and there. Once you make it towards the stairs, you stop and spin to face him.

“You don’t care at all, do you?”

Punk’s cocky expression doesn’t falter. He’s leaning on the wall, his strong, tattooed arm hovering beside your head, which is how he was standing while you pointed out every single knickknack on your shelf.

“Bunny. Baby. You think I don’t care?” he clutches his chest, feigning hurt, “I bet I can recite everything you just said back to you.”

“I don’t fucking believe you,” you retort, crossing your arms with a pitiful pout, “You’ve been staring at my ass for so long to the point where it’s got bullet holes.”

At that moment, Punk wanted nothing more than to run the pad of his thumb along that plump bottom lip, but he kept his inner monologue at ease.

“The cat statues were a housewarming gift from your bitch friend Cassie, the one that ditched you tonight.”

Your eyes widen as Punk leaves the wall, stepping back over to the shelf. “The matchbox is from the restaurant that you worked one shift at— and then quit on the spot after a customer said your top was too low cut.”

“You found the bottle caps on the street in Queens, bought that seashell from a neighbor, and stole that pool ball from a billiard bar—”

A stammer gets caught in your throat as Punk, quite literally, repeats your words verbatim. “—Am I missing anything?”

“I—”

“You wanna tell me again that I’m not listening?”

“Oh fuck you,” you say sternly, but are unable to hide your smile when Punk pulls you beside him to take a gander at your trinket shelf.

“I’ve been trying, baby. But you’re not easy and I know that. If asking you about your frequent yard sale visits is what it takes to get you in my arms, I can do this all night.”

Smooth. He was so goddamn smooth. To spare him the satisfaction of giving him what he wanted the moment he asked for it, you slide out of his grasp once again, and scurry up a few stairs. The stairs that lead towards your bedroom.

“If you’re looking to do this all night, we’re already halfway there.”

“Time is a construct,” Punk scoffs, crossing his arms with that same lethal stare and mimicking your posture, “Show me to the bedroom, please.”

What started as a slow ascent quickly turned into a game of cat and mouse. You giggled as you flew up the stairs, hearing Punk’s heavy, socked footsteps gaining on you from behind.

“Stop it! You’re fuckin’ scary!” you shriek, clipping the corner of the stairs towards your bedroom door.

Your back is pressed against the door now, with Punk slowly creeping towards you. His broad shoulders grow taut against his athletic top with each eerie step.

“So I scare you. You’re admitting it?”

“What?” you raise an eyebrow, face flushing of all color, “you don’t scare me. You were just—running at me like it’s hunting season.”

“I wasn’t tryna’ scare you. But I mean, I could be scary if you wanted.”

You swallow. Hard. You’d only seen certain facets of Punk’s personality in the three hours of knowing him. And despite your curious nature and the inexplicable magnetic grip he held over you, the thought of him scaring you never really crossed your mind. You wondered what it was like to actually be threatened by him.

You wondered if he’d even give you the chance to know it.

“Really?” you stammer, your voice betraying you and fleeting off when he reattaches his hand to your waist, “You’d be scary for me?”

“Well, of course I would. It’s all an act. I can be whatever you want me to be, Bunny baby.”

A sinking feeling reaches the pit of your stomach, your insides growing warm and fuzzy with each passing moment.

“You’re quite the talker, aren’t you?”

“I’ve been told I have a magic mouth. Tongue included.”

You shake your head, chewing at your bottom lip whilst your eyes flick between his facial features, a stirring sense of God knows what clouding over your mind.

“Can I be honest?”

Punk nods solemnly, at full attention.

“I uh, haven’t done this in a while. I know I’ve only known you for like, three hours but— I don’t know. Don’t wanna mess this up.”

His face softens at your admission; you couldn’t quite get a read on him, but his expression had yet to reach this level of vulnerability. The steel cage that guarded that pretty, tough face seemed to snap, the corner of his lips tugging up into a sincere smile.

“Hey, it’s alright. I know I lay it on kinda thick when it comes to all the flirting but— truth be told, it’s been a while for me too.”

“I just— I wanna see you be scary. I wanna see you get mad. I wanna feel your jaw tick whenever you get irritated.”

Oh God, you were feeling yourself near the start of a class-act ramble. Shut up. Stop talking, you thought, for the love of fuck, stop talking.

“But I’ve also had so much fun making you laugh. And— calling you dumb names like Punky Brewster. I didn’t wanna leave the sidewalk. I didn’t wanna leave the car. I didn’t want you to just— take me home.”

“Shit,” Punk laughs, just as you mentioned, “you’re such a damn sap.”

Your body language grows more timid. Almost as if you were moving backwards from the progress you’d made whilst out on that sidewalk or in the back of that busted up Chevy. But truthfully, you didn’t want to mess this up. You had finally felt as though you’d found someone who was your perfect fit. A match made in fucking heaven.

“Is that a bad thing?” you mumble, looking down to muddle with your thumbs.

Before he speaks again, Punk sighs, tutting you with a click of his tongue before reaching up to pull your eyes back into his.

“No. It’s not a bad thing. And please, don’t you ever give me those sad puppy eyes again, ya’ hear?”

“I know, I know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you admit sheepishly, “forget I said anything?”

“Oh, fuck off. Are you kidding me? That was just about the sweetest damn thing that’s ever been said to me, and you want me to forget it? Y/N, seriously. It’s okay.”

When he speaks your name, something about him snaps you back to reality. Maybe it was the fact that the emptiness that you felt in your chest from getting ditched by your friends filled right back up the moment you gazed into his eyes, but Punk genuinely had a hold over you.

And from the way he was taking in all of your babblings and praise, you could assume that he was feeling it too.

“Don’t get all pouty on me. I fucking hate that you’re not smiling right now,” says Punk, rubbing your chin with his thumb. You force out a smile that was hidden behind your own self doubt, starting to slowly feel comfortable again.

“Can I show you my room?” you hum, the nervous chewing of your lip morphing into a sultry gaze.

“You can show me anything, anytime.”

After the short lived grand tour, you and Punk made it to your bed. The promised king-sized mattress seemed satisfactory, getting rave reviews all around. It didn’t take long for Punk to sprawl across it, with your head seeking refuge on his chest.

“I’d kill to have a bed like this,” Punk says, running a hand across the side of your face, “I’ve got a fucking twin back at my place.”

“A twin? Jesus fuck. You’re like, six feet tall. There’s no way you can sleep comfortably in that.”

“You’d be surprised. Usually I’m so tired after my matches that I just— crash without thinking. I’ve got a roommate too, but he's never around. Always out doing fuck all and coming home at four in the morning.”

You shake your head, hearing the soft thumping of Punk’s heartbeat meshing with the mellow Led Zeppelin record that you’d chosen to play on your stereo. “Having a roommate must suck.”

“It isn’t exactly a dream, but he helps keep the rent paid. That’s all that matters to me.”

“Y’know— if you just stayed here all the time you wouldn’t have to worry about roommates.”

Punk laughs, his chest rumbling, “Wouldn’t that make you my roommate?”

“Well, to quote a great and honest man; I can be whatever you want me to be.”

“Using my own words against me huh? Damn, you’re good.”

A lazy smile spreads across your face as the two of you laugh, completely consumed with the moment. And each other. The scent of his cologne mixed with the sweat and adrenaline from hours prior��� you were debating offering him a shower. You were also debating whether or not you ever wanted to let him leave.

You’d soon find out that the answer was never.

“Y’know Bunny, you’re alright.” Punk breaks the peaceful silence, sitting up and leaving your head to go with it.

“Just alright?” you tease, letting out a sigh and running your hand through his dark locks, “I thought I was heavenly. Unreal. Whatever other fuckin’ SAT words you pulled out on me tonight.”

“You told me the compliments were getting to your head.”

“That didn’t mean I wanted you to stop.”

Punk pulls you into a kiss; it’s the most fiery, the most passionate one of the evening. It was getting far too late now— you could almost see the sunlight peeking over the horizon through the coin slots in your curtains. You’d officially stayed up all night.

But you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

[cxvii666]

“love island freestyle”

college au! stoner!hanta sero x fem!plug reader

(track 3 of the why's this dealer EP)

cw: drinking, bad language, recreational drug use, reader sells bud, pussy eating, make out sessions, threesome in air quotes (denki's more of a voyeur than anything else) more like you x hanta(x denki), lots of second base action, 21st century love story, genz romcom type beat - part 2 was better and part 1 was my baby

wc: 2.9k

“tall dark and handsome? nope, i'm small got biceps and charisma.”

starting track...

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

....

the party is in full swing, a chaotic mishmash of too-loud music, clinking bottles, people yelling and the occasional cheer from a victorious drinking game. the air reeks of cheap beer and cheaper cologne, and there's this unspoken agreement that everyone is pretending the sticky spot on the floor isn't there. hanta's pretty sure someone just knocked over an entire plate of chips somewhere near the kitchen, and judging by bakugou's growling and yelling, it's about to get cleaned up in the most aggressive way possible.

still, he's not paying much attention to any of that.

not when he's standing near the couch with you on one side and denki on the other, grinning like he just won the lottery. hanta's not entirely sure how this happened-how he went from nursing a lukewarm beer in a corner to being wedged between you two-but he's not complaining.

the three of you were making idle talk about the party, who's a bitch, who hooked up with who, but to be perfectly honest, you have no idea what to say. you know so many cool things about sero, the type of music he likes (from his instagram highlights), that he drinks this special organic green tea every morning (from denki accidently drinking it this one time and screaming it about), that he's super into horror manga, that he likes the same movies as you, that he backstraps when he rolls, and you want him to teach you. but it's like you can't even open your mouth to say any of this to him, and denki has for sure has picked up on this.

the blonde glances at you now from across hanta, mostly out of his own surprise that neither of you two have made a move yet. he mentally rolls his eyes, you all for sure love to call him the dumb one but the only idiots he sees are the two pining next to him.

so denki, as always, is the catalyst. "sooo," he says, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, "y'know, i was thinking..." and the both of you groan on reflex because he's got that glint in his eye, the one that usually means trouble. "we should totally play spin the bottle. or like, seven minutes in heaven or something. you guys down?"

hanta's about to protest- because really?, who even plays those anymore?- but then you laugh. it's that same laugh from the car, the one that's stuck in his head for days, and suddenly he's a little more open to the idea.

"spin the bottle, huh?" you say, leaning back against the armrest of the couch, your hood slipping slightly. "that's so middle school of you, denki.

"hey, middle school was a vibe." denki shoots back, unbothered. he plops down on the carpet in front of the coffee table and waves at the two of you to join him.

"c'monnn, it'll be fun. unless you're scared."

"you're unwell," you deadpan, but your feet follow him to where he's sat and when the smirk creeping onto your face betrays you, and denki catches it like a hawk. you glance at hanta, eyebrows raised. "you in?

"ummm," hanta hesitates, but the way you're looking at him makes it hard to say no. "-sure?"

"that's the spirit!" denki hollers, snatching an almost-empty beer bottle from the table. he's vibrating with chaotic energy as he spins it, barely waiting for it to stop before shouting, "Y'ALL JOINING OR WHAT?"

mina and kirishima are immediately in because they can smell drama from a mile away. a couple of randoms that hanta doesn't from campus join too, and suddenly there's a circle forming, powered entirely by questionable decision-making, and denki's grin widens as he sets the bottle in the middle.

the game starts innocently enough. a couple of spins lead to awkward cheek kisses, overdramatic "EWWWs" from mina, and one insanely disastrous attempt by kirishima to lips bakugou, which ends in a wrestling match that topples half the circle and flipping a table.

but then. oh, then. the bottle lands on you. or more accurately, on you and denki, because the blonde immediately grabs the bottle before it even stops spinning fully.

"alright, alright." denki says, waving his hands like he's running damage control, but his grin is devious. "we'll share."

"share?" hanta asks, an eyebrow raising. "how does that even work?"

denki, completely unfazed, points between you and hanta. "it's simple, dude. a group effort. right, babe?" he winks at you, and to hanta's surprise, you're laughing again.

hanta might actually short-circuit. "you're so stupid." you say, still laughing, but your gaze flick to hanta, and there's no denying the glint of amusement in your eyes.

"what do you say, sero? think you can handle it?"

hanta's not sure if it's the alcohol, the atmosphere, or just the way you're looking at him, but he rolls his tongue across his teeth, a lazy grin creeping onto his face and he nods. "yeah, uh, sure. why not?"

cut to: the three of you sprawled on the couch like you just collectively lost a game of jenga, but instead of wooden planks, it's your sense of dignity. the rest of the group has dispersed, denki's practically in your lap, hanta wedged inbetween, and there's entirely too much touching. it starts simple-a hand on a knee, a brush of shoulders-but then denki's dragging his fingers under hanta's hoodie, and your lips are at his neck, and holy shit, when did it get so warm in here?-

"relax, sero," denki says, low and taunting as he finally slides off of your lap, watching you trail your hands down, down, and back up hanta's chest. "we're just having fun."

"yeah," you add, your voice smooth and teasing. "you trust us, right?"

hanta inhales deeply trying not to lose his composure fixing his beanie back over his head. "yeah. of course."

he looks from you to denki before sniffing as his fingers twitch from where they're gripping the sides of your thighs, fuck he really hopes his hands aren't sweaty. he's chill guyed to close to the sun, his mouth has run dry, his social battery is depleting and to be honest he's growing a bit tired of the chaos surrounding you.

that's when denki leans in with his sly grin and nods at his bestfriend, "you wanna go for a smoke huh?" and he turns to you, "i know a spot if you don't mind supplying." and you're already on your feet not hesitating to agree. hanta nods along, his lazy smile softening at the thought of escape. the three of you slip out unnoticed, the bass of the music fading behind you as the crisp night air hit.

"god, i thought we'd never leave." you mutter, shoving your hands into your hoodie pockets checking for your phone, your lipgloss, your wallet and your bud, as denki looks over with a mock gasp.

"what, my party planning wasn't good enough for you?"

"your party planning?" you shoot back, raising an eyebrow. "you're just the guy who shows up with the aux cord and a vape. let's not overstate your role dude."

hanta snickers, shaking his head as denki gasped dramatically. "can you fuck off, hanta, tell her i'm vital to party ecosystems."

"nah she's got a point," hanta replies, his voice laced with amusement. "i don't remember seeing you do much more than yap and hit your pen."

denki groans, muttering about how no one appreciates his genius as he leads the way to a bus stop round the back of the field not far from the mina's place. the three of you settle under the secluded barely lit bus shelter. hanta rolls his own cig while you roll up the joint. you glance over at his fingers a couple times and nearly drop the roach when you watch him lick a stripe down the rolling paper.

you finish up and pass denki the joint, the first few hits were passed around in comfortable silence, as you all take a second to breathe in the crisp night air.

"alright, spill," denki says suddenly, leaning back and eyeing you. "what's your deal with sero?"

your stomach drops. "huh, what?" you replied, grasping onto what's left your pride and trying to play it cool despite the heat creeping up your neck. "what deal? i don't have a deal, there's no-"

"you're super into him."

hanta's head snaps up. "what?" he echoes, looking between the two of you.

"nothing," you say quickly, shooting denki a death glare and snatching the zoot from him. "stfu, what is wrong with," you say with a hiss.

"It's fine," denki teases, leaning into hanta with a conspiratorial whisper. "she told me earlier. said you were her dream guy and everything."

you groan, burying your face in your hands. "i actually hate you."

hanta's laugh rang out, light and easy. "is that true?" he asked, his tone teasing but warm.

you peek at him from between your fingers. his grin was wide, but his gaze was soft, genuine. it made your heart flutter, and for a moment, you forgot how to speak.

"yeah, well," you say finally, taking another hit before passing him the joint. "don't let it go to your head."

hanta smiles, a faint blush dusting his cheeks and when the point of connection where your fingertips touch shoots a spark through him. "wouldn't dream of it."

denki's cackle breaks the moment. "you guys are so cute i might puke," he says, clutching his chest dramatically. "okay, okay, let's get snacks before i lose my buzz."

the room was softly lit, the only illumination coming from the early morning sun filtering through the curtains, casting a golden hue over the tangled pile of limbs on hanta's bed. the three of you were still sleeping, basking in the warm, lazy comfort of the previous night's haze. the air smelled faintly of citrus and smoke, the lingering traces of your late-night adventures.

you stirred first, a soft hum escaping your lips as you blink against the sunlight. you stretch slightly, careful not to disturb the two boys beside you. hanta's arm was draped over your waist, his grip loose and comforting, while denki lay sprawled on his stomach, one hand brushing against your shoulder.

"morning," you whisper, your voice still thick with sleep, as you turn your head to meet hanta's warm brown eyes. he looks at you with a lazy smile, his hair mussed and sticking up at odd angles.

"morning," he replies, his voice raspy and soft, the kind of tone that sent shivers down your spine.

denki groans from his place next to you, stretching dramatically. "why is the sun so loud?" he mumbles, making you and hanta laugh.

"you're the loud one," you shoot back, chucking a pillow at him. "ow fuck." "oh don't be such a baby."

hanta's laugh rumbles in his chest, and you feel it more than heard it. the vibration was comforting, grounding you in the soft intimacy of the moment. "i think you're just mad you're not a morning person," he says, his voice still low and gravelly from sleep.

denki cracks one eye open to glare at you, though his lips quirked into a grin. "well liked it better when it was just us, the food, and the movie."

hanta's hand brushes against your hip as he shifts closer. "yeah, but this is nice too."

you feel the tension shift in the room, subtle but palpable. hanta's thumb traces a slow circle on your hip, the light touch sending sparks across your skin. denki notices, of course, his grin fading into something softer, something more curious as his gaze flicks between the two of you.

"you're touchy this morning," you tease, though your voice was quieter now, your heart picking up speed.

hanta doesn't answer right away, his lips quirking into a small, knowing smile as he leans closer. his voice barely above a whisper when he says "can't help it. you're here."

denki's eyes widen slightly, his usual cool guy act slipping for a moment. "whoa, okay, are we doing this? s this a thing now?"

you laugh again, the sound nervous but excited. "are you always this subtle?"

denki smirks, sitting up slightly. "subtlety is overrated. i'm just saying- if something's happening, i'd rather not be the clueless idiot in the room."

hanta snorts, his hand still resting on your hip. "you've never been clueless, denks."

the air grew heavier, the playful banter giving way to something more intimate. hanta's gaze meets yours, a question lingering in his expression. when you nod, his hand slides up your side, his touch firm but careful, testing the waters.

denki watches, his breathing hitching slightly as hanta leaned in to kiss you. it was slow and deliberate, his lips soft and warm.

"you okay, denki?" you ask leaning back to look at him from beside you when you and hanta finally break for air. the brief pause is just that, brief, because hanta's lips are back on yours before you can finish speaking.

"oh, i'm very okay," he replies, his grin returning as he leaned back against the pillows. "don't mind me. just... enjoying the view."

hanta has to physically pull himself off of you in order to shoot his best friend a look that was both completely exasperated and totally amused. "you think you're such a joker-"

"yeah, yeah," denki says, waving him off. "just keep going, don't let me distract you."

hanta turns his attention back to you, his hands sliding under the hem of your shirt, his touch igniting a trail of heat along your skin. he guides you onto your back, his lips finding yours again, deeper this time, more insistent. his hands roam, exploring the curves of your body with a reverence that made you swallow down a whimper.

denki shifts closer, his eyes fixed on the way hanta kisses you, his own hands twitching as if he wanted to reach out but didn't quite dare. "you guys are so hot together," he murmurs, his voice low and filled with awe.

hanta pulls back slightly, his lips swollen and his gaze dark. "you want to join, or are you just gonna sit there?"

denki blinked, clearly caught off guard, but the slow grin spreading across his face said everything. "oh, i'm in." what followed was a blur of soft laughter and heated touches. the blonde gets manhandled into sitting behind you as hanta presses you back into denki's chest. hanta's lips trail down your neck, his hands pulling your shirt up and over your head. denki leans in, his fingers brushing against your arm as he tilted your chin toward him for a kiss that was playful but electric.

when hanta slid lower, his kisses trailing down your stomach, you shiver, anticipation thrumming through you. denki's hand finds yours, his grip firm and reassuring as he watched hanta settle between your thighs. his eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

"you're beautiful," hanta murmurs, his breath warm against your skin before he presses a kiss to your inner thigh. the sensation sent a jolt of pleasure through you, as your ass jerks back and the blonde lets out a sigh as you make contact with the half-chub in his boxers. your free hand tangling into hanta's soft hair as he continued his slow, deliberate exploration.

denki's breathing grew heavier, his gaze fixed on the way hanta moved, the way you reacted. "holy shit," he whispered, his voice thick with arousal. "you're so into this, aren't you?"

you nod, unable to form words as hanta's mouth finally finds its mark, his tongue moving in deliberate, torturous strokes up your slit that left you gasping. as he ate you out with passion, grunting and groaning into your pussy, hips bucking into the mattress. denki's hand tightens around yours, his other hand resting on your knee, his touch grounding you as the pleasure built higher and higher.

hanta didn't stop, his hands gripping your hips to keep you steady as he worked you over with a skill and dedication that left you trembling. denki's eyes never left you, his own arousal evident as he leaned closer, his lips brushing against your temple in a surprisingly tender gesture.

"you're amazing y'know," he murmurs, his voice filled with genuine admiration.

when you finally come undone, your body arching off the bed and your cries muffled against denki's shoulder, hanta didn't let up until you were completely spent, twitching and whining. he pulled back, his lips glistening and his expression smug as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

denki let out a low whistle, his grin wide and appreciative. "damn, sero. i didn't know you was an eater like thaattttt," he turns to you "he's a keeper forreal-" you cut him off with a pillow to the face as hanta snickers, climbing back up to press a kiss to your forehead. "glad you think so."

you laugh softly, your body still buzzing as you reach for hanta pulling them both into a lazy, contented embrace. the three of you stayed like that, tangled together in the warm morning light, the world outside forgotten as you basked in the easy intimacy of the moment.

...end of playback

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

HEYYYYY YALLLL this is the last part of this particular series but i love this au and i have some more thingys in my drafts a lot briefer than this and if you LIKED this one then you'll probably LOVE girls who like to fuck

[ssa-dado]

23 - Ethics

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, slow burn (though at this point, the ragù has been simmering so long it's practically ready to serve), hurt/comfort, miiiiiild angst Summary: Hotch somehow finds himself standing in the middle of a winter night, wearing a short-sleeved polo, all because you called (read: expertly manipulated) him into joining the team at the bar. He hadn’t wanted to come. And yet, between the past few weeks of damning evidence he’d been collecting against himself and the undeniable proof unfolding right in front of him, he’s just cracked the hardest case of the last ten years: his true feelings for you. Warnings: alcohol consumption, some cuss words here and there, mentions of what happens in 3x19 and case talk involving SA, Hotch steals a bite of your cheesecake Word Count: 16.6k Dado's Corner: This is the first part of the Act Two finale (yayyyy), the second part will be up in a few hours, as soon as I finish editing (and hunt down some S3 Hotch pics/gifs for the thumbnail - help a girl out if you’ve got any I can use in sequence like these two). Some details aren’t meant to be overlooked… and the same ones remain unresolved. Never trust an unfinished case

masterlist

In Stoic philosophy, ethics (ethikē) examines the principles of virtuous living, focusing on how individuals can align their actions and character with reason and nature, ultimately achieving a harmonious life.

For the Stoics, the pursuit of virtue was essential, emphasizing self-discipline, moral integrity, and the cultivation of wisdom to navigate life’s challenges.

The Stoics believed that apatheia - freedom from destructive emotions - was central to living virtuously. By cultivating rational detachment and understanding the nature of desires and fears, individuals could transcend emotional turmoil and align their inner state with the rational divine order (logos).

It was all your fault.

His fault, technically, for now being stuck in DC’s late-night traffic at 11 PM, singing - more like yelling - along to a mishmash CD he’d burned himself: everything from The Beatles to random musical soundtracks, and - he fully blamed the divorce for this one last addition - Taylor Swift.

But the rest? That blame fell squarely on you.

You, who’d managed to yank him out of his solitary cocoon with a single phone call - wielding the same authority he’d use to haul you out of your pajamas for a case at ungodly hours, except your urgent mission revolved around meeting the rest of the team at a bar.

“Come on, Aaron,” you’d insisted over the phone, timing impeccable as always - right after he’d swapped his work slacks for his own pajama pants. “You haven’t left your house in two weeks, it’s not healthy. The only social contact you’re getting is from serial killers and uncooperative detectives.”

And, apparently, a nagging life coach he didn’t remember hiring.

“Don’t forget Strauss,” he’d muttered, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Worse than psychopaths,” you’d quipped. “Do it for my peace of mind, please?” you’d added, with a note of genuine concern creeping in.

He was grateful this was all happening over the phone - you couldn’t enhance your request with those devastating puppy eyes he could imagine far too clearly.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back against the couch. “I’m fine. Really. Maybe next time.”

“Exact same words you told me last Friday,” you shot back without missing a beat. “Aaron, please, I’m on my knees here.”

He really did not want to picture it... too late.

“I’m already in my pajamas,” he replied cheeks blushed, hoping you’d give up - only for you to burst his eardrum with a deafening “OH!” that made him freeze.

“Rossi just texted me he’s coming too,” you pressed on, clearly not letting this go. “You have to be there. Derek is ovulating and will be glued to the dance floor. That leaves Rossi alone with Spencer. With alcohol. Aaron, alcohol. You don’t want Rossi to quit again do you?”

“Alright, alright, I get it,” he caved, already twisting the shower knobs. “I’ll be there.”

“You’re the best,” you cooed. “I’m texting you the address now. And, of course, the first round’s on me - my apology for so heartlessly interrupting your thrilling evening of pajamas and solitude.”

“Oh, you’re spoiling me,” he replied dryly, though the small smile tugging at his lips betrayed him - not that it had anything to do with you, of course. “Bye, see you soon.”

“See you!” you chirped brightly, and just before the call ended, you added with a playful, heartfelt, “I love you, bye!”

He told himself the reason his heart skipped - not one, but two beats - was because the shower water was still running, and the bill would be astronomical if he didn’t get in soon.

Yet, it still took him a minute to step into the shower and another ten to wipe the ridiculous, boyish smile off his face.

Details. Minuscule, insignificant details.

As insignificant as the fact that, even though he’d wanted nothing more than to stay in, he ended up taking his sweet time getting ready, using a little less gel in his hair and swapping out his usual zip-up for a black polo that fit just a little too well. Short-sleeved too.

And now, here he was, stuck in traffic - less than usual, but still traffic - drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, singing his heart out to a soundtrack from a musical.

Not 70s rock. Not The Beatles.

Loud enough to rattle the windows, his voice carrying the tune with no regard for key or pitch.

For once, he didn’t care. Not about his hair, ruined by the head-bobbing, or his volume, which would mortify him in any other context. He was too caught up in the rare freedom of it all, the raw, unfiltered honesty of being alone in his car.

And by the time Aaron stepped into the bar, the scene was exactly as he’d expected - or, more accurately, exactly as you’d described it during your excruciatingly persuasive phone call.

On his left, Penelope and Emily were swaying to the music, drinks in hand, throwing occasional glances at Derek, who was - using your precise words - ovulating on the dancefloor. Aaron could barely make him out through the crowd of women gathered around him.

But his eyes didn’t linger there.

They found you quickly - though apparently, it took you even less time to spot him because you were already standing up from your seat and waving with a smile so warm it made the crowded bar feel a little less suffocating.

From the moment he saw you, Aaron couldn’t decide whether to be grateful you’d dragged him out of bed or curse you for subjecting him to the sight of you in that dress - without so much as a warning.

It seemed to conspire with the dim bar lights, luring his gaze far too easily to every curve it chose to flaunt or hide just enough to drive him mad.

He told himself he was just trying to figure out the color - that was the only reason his eyes lingered, surely, to where the hem flirted with the middle of your thigh, hovering just close enough to tempt but never quite touching because, unlike his thoughts, your dress had boundaries.

Or why he felt a flicker of embarrassment - no, mortification - when his gaze, against every ounce of his better judgment, dropped to the necklace you always wore.

Somehow, today, it looked… different. Distracting. Suddenly worthy of deep, thorough analysis.

And by deep, he meant he’d probably memorized the exact number of loops in the chain, the way they caught the light, the faint sway against your skin… not that he was staring.

It wasn’t the faint curve of your collarbone the chain rested against that caught his attention.

Definitely not.

And it wasn’t the faintest suggestion of cleavage beneath it that made his mouth go dry.

Absolutely not.

No, clearly, this was about something else. Something important. Pressing. Like… the chain itself. Yeah. It was just a nice chain. Very symmetrical. Perfect craftsmanship, really.

At least, that’s what he told himself, and maybe it was time to move on. His mind should’ve been occupied with something else, anything else. Like… murder investigations. Team dynamics. Bureau politics. You know, actual priorities.

Except, wait. The color of your dress.

Right. That.

He hadn’t quite cracked it yet. What a coincidence. Probably worth another look.

Maybe two.

By the time he reached the booth where you sat with Spencer and Rossi, he was proud - no, smug - to say that he could, with almost scientific certainty, declare that the dress was black. Definitely black.

Just to confirm it wasn’t some tricky, dark navy blue, he stole another glance.

Maybe two, again.

...Nope. Black. Absolutely, positively black.

“Grazie a Dio, Aaron, you’re here!” Rossi groaned the moment Aaron reached the table, grabbing his face with both hands like a long-lost relative and planting two theatrical kisses on his cheeks, Italian style.

Aaron barely flinched, turning toward you instead. He didn’t even think about it, his eyes just started seeking yours like a reflex, searching for the one person who could make the absurdity of this greeting feel even remotely bearable.

And there you were.

Your eyes met his before he could even fully look, as though you’d been waiting for it.

The twitch of your lips, the teasing sympathy in your smile, was all it took to push him to the brink of laughter.

He caught himself, barely. It wasn’t supposed to be this funny, but somehow, it was.

Rossi patted Aaron’s shoulder, as if testing whether he was truly there to save him or just another hallucination brought on by sheer desperation. “If I hear one more random fact from this drunk kid,” Rossi said, gesturing toward Spencer, who was slumped in the booth, cheeks flushed and waving sloppily in Aaron’s direction, “I’m going to throw myself in the fryer.”

“Are you alright, Reid?” he asked cautiously as he slid into the seat next to yours. You shifted slightly to make room, your knee brushing his in a way he tried very hard not to notice.

“Alright?!” Spencer giggled, eyes wide with unrestrained glee. “Phenomenal!”

Then, without missing a beat, he turned to Rossi, leaning in with an exaggerated wobble. “Ooooooooooh, Rossi, speaking of drinking - did you know that the concept of 'drinking to get drunk' is a uniquely modern phenomenon? In Ancient Greece - hic - they diluted their wine with water. If you drank it undiluted, you were considered barbaric. So technically - hic - we’re all barbarians right now. Except for you, Hotch! You…you just arrived.”

Aaron stared, his lips pressing into a flat line to suppress a laugh. Phenomenal. Sure, that’s one word for it.

“How many drinks did he have?” Aaron asked, glancing sideways as he felt your arm brush his.

“Technically one,” you replied with a pitying smile that somehow made his chest feel both lighter and tighter at the same time.

Aaron raised a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s impossible. How did-”

You cut him off, leaning in closer, resting your elbow lightly on his shoulder, your breath brushing his ear as you spoke. “He just wanted to loosen up a bit… Derek told him his mission tonight was to ‘find him some.’”

You paused to take a look at his reaction, pulling back just slightly, which made him instinctively turn toward you.

He hadn’t realized how little space you’d left until your noses touched… fuck.

“…And he got nervous,” you continued back in his ear, as though the proximity hadn’t left you as flustered as it had him. “So he ordered the cocktail that, according to his ‘scientific and cultural data,’ had the least amount of alcohol.”

Aaron turned his head just enough to speak, the movement brushing his nose against yours again. “Well, he’s more than just loose.” The corner of his mouth twitched into the faintest smirk, though his pulse was anything but steady.

He half-expected you to pull away now, to laugh and break whatever spell was weaving between you. But you didn’t. If anything, you seemed just as still, as if you hadn’t noticed - or didn’t mind - how close you were.

“Let’s just say the bartender was very generous with the vodka,” you said softly, your hand patting his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Except it wasn’t.

Your touch burned in a way that felt entirely unfair.

“So, uh… here we are.” You said, finally pulling back from him.

Your eyes met, holding for just a moment longer than necessary, the bar suddenly so quiet he swore he could hear his pupils dilate. “Don’t worry, he ate all of mine and Rossi’s fries. He’ll hopefully sober up soon.”

“Did you know, Hotch,” Spencer slurred, his voice brimming with childlike enthusiasm, “that your brain processes alcohol at an average rate of one standard drink per hour? But genetics, age, and body mass - hic - can totally change that. You might process it slower because you’re, uh…” He squinted, his face scrunching in concentration. “Old.”

The look Aaron shot him was enough to make even a tipsy genius backtrack immediately. Spencer immediately flailed into damage control, his hands waving erratically. “Older! Older…er!” he stammered, his voice pitching higher in panic. “Like, statistically, your metabolism is probably, um, slowing down a tiny bit. Nothing drastic! Just, you know, the natural process of… life.”

Sure, ‘popular…lar’.

Aaron arched an eyebrow. “Fascinating, Reid. Anything else you’d like to analyze?”

Spencer, who barely understood sarcasm when sober, let alone in his current state, widened his eyes, thinking Aaron had actually prompted him to elaborate for once. “You know… there’s this thing called nonverbal communication. It’s like… 60-65% of all human communication. And yooooou’re… you’re doing a lot of it right now, Hotch.”

Aaron froze, his brow furrowing. “What are you talking about, Reid?”

Spencer tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned forward. “With the professor! It’s fascinating!” he insisted, now fully in observation mode. “The eye contact! Did you know prolonged eye contact – hic - increases oxytocin levels? That – by the way – it’s also called the cuddle hormone. It’s sooooo cool. Your brain could actually be tricked into thinking you’re falling in lo-”

“Spencer,” you interrupted, your voice pitched higher than usual, “I think it’s time for more fries. Want to come with me?”

Before he could even reply, you grabbed Spencer’s arm and practically hauled him out of the booth, your pace hurried enough to suggest you weren’t about to take no for an answer. As you reached the edge of the table, you glanced over your shoulder, your eyes landing on Aaron. “Aaron, want a beer too?”

“Yes, thanks,” Aaron replied automatically, already beginning to rise from his seat.

But you stopped him with a light press of your hand to his shoulder, the touch so casual, so natural, that it sent his brain skidding into a corner. “No, no,” you said quickly, “you stay here. You and Rossi can… talk about that sport where 22 grown men chase a ball around for 90 minutes.”

...Soccer?!

Aaron didn’t want to be left alone with Rossi.

By the way the older man was already giving him that look - the one that made him feel both exposed and deeply irritated - it was obvious Rossi had no intention of letting him off easy. It didn’t help that you were still standing there, waiting for him to respond while his thoughts were stuck looping around the fact that your hand had just been on his shoulder.

“Soccer?” Aaron asked finally, arching a brow in an attempt at nonchalance.

“Yes, that,” you said, flashing a quick smile before turning toward the bar. As you walked away, dragging a wobbly Spencer under your arm, you threw a mischievous glance over your shoulder at Rossi. “I heard someone’s favorite team didn’t qualify for the Champions League semifinals.”

And just like that, you were gone.

Rossi shook his head, swirling the last of his bourbon with a smirk. “Cheeky.”

The best. How someone like you even existed, Aaron had no idea. And how lucky he was - unreasonably, undeservedly lucky - to share the same earth, the same air, the same fleeting moments as you.

“She’s relentless,” Aaron replied, his tone carefully neutral, though by the smitten look he had on his face he certainly wasn’t fooling anyone - not Rossi, but hopefully still himself.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Rossi quipped. “Relentless suits her. Works on you, clearly.”

He started stroking the side of his index finger with his thumb - an unconscious habit he was positive Rossi had already clocked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means she’s the only one who could drag you out of the house tonight, and we both know it,” Rossi said, tapping his fingers lightly on the edge of his glass.

Amazing. Subtlety, as usual, was nowhere on Rossi’s game plan.

Aaron shot him a warning look, but Rossi, as always, pressed on. “The rest of us have been trying to get you to come out for weeks, and you’ve shot us down every time. But her?” He nodded toward the bar, where you were now laughing at something Spencer said - or, God help him, did. “One phone call, and here you are.”

Aaron clenched his jaw. He’d shut you down before. Several times, in fact… and every single time, he’d felt guilty about it. He’d almost called you back afterward, too – almost though.

“She caught me at the right time,” he said finally, his tone flat, though his thumb hadn’t stopped brushing against his index finger. He kept his focus on the fake wood grain of the table, pretending it was infinitely more interesting than Rossi’s smug expression.

Right time. Sure. That’s what it was. A half-truth was still technically a truth.

And yet, before he could stop himself, his gaze lifted toward the crowd, scanning the bar until he found what he was looking for… not you. Definitely not you.

He was just… checking if Derek had started one of his signature dance moves yet. That was it. Because it wasn’t a night out until Derek was doing the spin or the body roll. Just keeping tabs on his team. Responsible leadership and all that.

With the very corner of his eye, maybe, he caught a glimpse of you at the bar. Pure coincidence. A side effect of good peripheral vision.

Rossi snorted beside him. Aaron didn’t need to look to know the man had caught him mid-definitely-not-checking-on-you “Sure kid,” Rossi said, his tone dripping with disbelief. “Did she also catch you at the right time when you casually decided that tonight was the night to show off those biceps you’ve been hiding under your button-downs all winter.”

Aaron shook his head, exhaling sharply. “You’re reading too much into this.”

“Am I?” Rossi countered, his grin softening into something closer to understanding. “Or are you just trying too hard to pretend you don’t feel anything for her?”

Aaron didn’t respond, just tensed, jaw tightening as he reached for his glass of water - the one you had left for him before he even got here, because you knew his throat tended to go dry after car rides. Weren’t you just the most thoughtful person on the planet?

He took a slow sip, pointedly avoiding Rossi’s gaze.

“How long are you planning to keep this up?” Rossi continued, his voice gentler now, though still laced with exasperation. “It’s already been ten years, Aaron.”

Oh, fantastic.

Ten years.

Thanks for the reminder, Dave.

Of course, he knew. He’d been planning to ask you to dinner to mark the milestone, even going so far as to dial your number - only to chicken out halfway through because, heaven forbid, you might think it was something more.

Actually, scratch that - he wasn’t just afraid you’d think it was something more; he was terrified you’d reject the idea that it could be something more and vanish from his life entirely. Because, you know, losing ten years of friendship over one misstep made perfect sense.

So here he was: milestone uncelebrated, phone call abandoned, still trying to think of a way to commemorate the occasion without it coming off as a grand romantic gesture.

Devious? Maybe.

Necessary? Absolutely.

Likely to end in disaster? Well, that was the theme of the decade, wasn’t it?!

Aaron froze for half a second, his grip tightening on the glass. “It hasn’t been a decade.”

Rossi arched an eyebrow. “Oh, no? She walked into the BAU ten years ago. Sat down at that desk right in front of yours. And you’ve been looking at her the exact same way ever since.”

“That’s not true,” Aaron said quietly, though even he could hear the lack of conviction in his voice.

Rossi leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his tone softening further. “Aaron, you might be fooling the others, but not me. So, what is it? Why are you holding back?”

Aaron sighed, setting the glass down. “Because it’s complicated, Dave. You know that. She’s… she deserves better than this. Better than me.”

Forty-two - just old enough for the years to start showing. A single father who barely saw his son once a week. Divorced. Obsessed with his job. Exhausted. Guarded. Haunted. Broken. Your boss.

Rossi hummed, sitting back again. “And you think ignoring how you feel is what’s best for her?”

Aaron didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the table - locked in, really, to the point where he was actively analyzing the artificial wood grain, bitter.

Years of progress in manufacturing, and they still couldn’t make it look real… oh. Rossi was staring at him.

“I get it,” Rossi said after a moment, his tone softer now. “You’ve been through hell, and I know you don’t want to risk losing her if you take the big step. But the way I see it, you’re already losing her - piece by piece - every time you convince yourself to keep quiet.”

Aaron’s shoulders stiffened, his jaw tightening as his fingers curled tighter around his glass.

“Don’t overthink it, kid. Just… stop fighting it.” Rossi added, his voice almost gentle. “Before you let another ten years slip by. And maybe think about telling her the truth about what happened two weeks ago.”

Aaron’s eyes snapped back to Rossi, his posture stiffening instantly. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on,” Rossi said, feigning exasperation. “You don’t think I know about the Rocher interrogation? The trip up to Riverhead to pick her up? Whatever that was?”

Aaron’s jaw tightened, his mind flashing back to the moment—standing in your doorway, the look of confusion and sleep still etched into your features.

“She told you about that?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

“She didn’t need to,” Rossi replied. “I saw the way you were when you got back. The way you looked at her. Like you’d been reminded all over again why you feel the way you do.” He leaned forward, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “So, what happened?”

Aaron hesitated, his throat tightening. “Nothing happened.”

Exibit A: Gregory Rocher ☆ ★

You loved your job.

Maybe if you kept repeating that to yourself, the phrase would eventually trick your brain into ignoring the fact that your phone was ringing before sunrise - on your day off, no less.

“What do you want?” you grumbled, your voice still thick with sleep, raspy enough that you secretly hoped Hotch might mistake you for someone else and end the call.

“I need you.” His voice was steady, firm, and yet his choice of words couldn’t have been more… devious.

Anyways, you loved your job.

You loved how it gave you a hero’s excuse to avoid your mom’s bland Christmas dinner, complete with undercooked turkey and her interrogation about why you’d dropped the engagement to “one of her most brilliant students.” A student who, coincidentally, had also been the most pompous ass you’d ever met.

But you didn’t love being summoned at four in the morning.

“At four in the morning?” you shot back, your inhibitions still fast asleep, leaving your attitude free to roam - hopefully not too much, or he’d start comparing you to Rossi. “I’m in Riverside, Hotch. It’s going to take-”

Six hours.

It was going to take six hours to get to Washington, assuming the traffic gods were merciful and you magically developed the ability to teleport into clothes instead of the mismatched pajamas you were currently wearing.

“I’m coming to get you,” he cut in, his voice sharp and decisive. “You have one hour.”

You had never been more awake in your life.

He didn’t tell you why it would only take him an hour - because he wasn’t driving from D.C. That would’ve meant he left at 11 PM, and surely Aaron Hotchner had better things to do with his evening at that specific time.

No, he wasn’t in Washington. He was driving from New York. Specifically, Long Island City. Kate’s apartment.

Not that he’d ever tell you that. Heaven forbid you learn he was starting to see someone after the divorce. It wasn’t like it mattered or it was a big deal - according to him, anyway.

Instead, you were treated to updates about Jack’s latest obsession with olives - because that, of course, was vital information. Why? Because Jack’s father lived in constant fear he’d choke on one.

“What? Did you even sleep? What time did you even get out of your apa-”

Ten minutes ago, but of course, he wasn’t about to admit that. Still, you weren’t wrong - he hadn’t slept.

“I’ll wait for you outside your door,” he said briskly, his voice as clipped as ever. “Be quick.” And just like that, he hung up.

You loved your job.

You loved that your boss was such a gentleman to pick you up himself, unprompted, at four in the morning - truly, the epitome of chivalry.

You’d have to thank him for his thoughtfulness by offering him one of your mom’s infamous homemade Christmas cookies, knowing full well they could double as blunt-force weapons. The image of him trying to bite into one, only to realize he’d underestimated the hardness scale of baked goods, was enough to make the early wake-up call almost worth it.

He needed you? Well, you needed to see the look on his face when reality - and your mother’s culinary prowess - hit him square in the teeth.

You loved that he didn’t even bother to tell you what this was about. Instead, you were stuck in the passenger seat of his car, trapped in the limbo of the unknown for the next hour, trying to decipher if whatever he “needed” from you would require leaving an apologetic note for your mother.

Not that you cared what she thought - though her constant jabs at your career choices were getting painfully unoriginal. At the very least, you’d be giving her some fresh material to work with.

Instead, Hotch figured that shoving the file of one of the country’s most prolific serial killers into your lap would save him from enduring your commentary on the sheer absurdity of the situation.

The situation being, of course, that he’d let himself take advice from your nosy, wise-beyond-her-years neighbor Mrs. Lee. And maybe, she was right. Maybe there was something wrong with him.

Because it wasn’t just the big things, it was the smallest things that sent him spiraling. Like how his heart raced every time you walked into the bullpen, the way he couldn’t stop himself from stealing glances, or - God help him - the fact that he caught himself smiling like an idiot just because you’d shown up wearing a brand-new shirt.

It wasn’t rational.

It wasn’t like him to feel this way, to lose focus over something so mundane, to feel his chest tighten when you were around as if the very air you breathed was somehow different from everyone else’s. He was better than this.

He had to be.

It wasn’t because of feelings.

Of course not.

That would be ridiculous.

It wasn’t because he’d look for you in every room, or because he felt lighter when your laugh broke through the tension of yet another exhausting day. No, it wasn’t that.

It was something simpler, more primal, more explainable. Something like the fact that it had been far too long since anyone had touched him - not a handshake, not a brush on the shoulder, not anything. That’s what it was.

It wasn’t that he was unraveling because it was you. No, it was the absence of human contact.

The way it made every small gesture you threw his way feel magnified a hundredfold, leaving him raw and exposed.

It was about sex. Plain and simple.

That’s why he’d started cancelling on the team’s weekend plans. Not because he was rotting away in solitude, staring at the four walls of his house. No, it was because he’d started spending those mornings in someone else’s bed.

Kate. Quiet, predictable, uncomplicated Kate.

It was funny how, when he woke up in her bed, the ceilings always looked the same. For a brief moment, his mind would trick him, letting him believe he was back in his old house and Haley was still sleeping on his chest.

But some mornings, his mind played crueler tricks. Some mornings, it made him think it was your ceiling. That it was you shifting closer to him in the sheets, your arm brushing his as you searched for warmth.

Of course, it wasn’t you.

It could never be you.

Kate barely talked, and when she did, it was only about the job. That was fine. They didn’t need to talk. They didn’t have the time, and, frankly, they didn’t have the desire. They had better things to do.

And it worked.

It worked because now he didn’t unravel when your hands brushed his. He didn’t falter when you and he sat far too close at yet another precinct, staring at yet another case board. He didn’t catch himself lingering when he leaned over you, his arm brushing against your legs as he reached for the markers on your side of the table.

It worked because he could tell himself none of it mattered anymore. At least, that’s what he kept trying to convince himself.

Because if it wasn’t just about touch, if it wasn’t just the absence of connection, if it was something deeper, something more dangerous - then it would destroy him. And he couldn’t let that happen. Not again. Not with you.

“I assume you brought coffee,” you teased, rubbing your hands together for warmth as you slid into the passenger seat.

Without a word, Hotch reached into the cupholder and handed you a steaming cup, his fingers brushing yours briefly.

“Oh, you truly are the love of my life,” you joked, taking a noisy sip. It was perfect - exactly how you liked it, without even have to tell him.

Hotch instead stayed silent, focusing on the road ahead, more intense than usual.

Why did your words ache and swell in him at the same time? They were a joke - of course, they were a joke. You hadn’t meant anything by them.

But the quiet of the early morning, the faint glow of the first rays of sunlight spilling over the horizon… it amplified everything.

That it was just the two of you.

Alone in his car.

You were clearly dressed for work, but the early hour lent the kind of casualness that felt almost disarming. Like this wasn’t a job, but a road trip. No one else on the road, the occasional twinkle of Christmas lights still flickering from the houses you passed.

You broke into the infamous tin of cookies, offering him one like it was some peace treaty. He took it reluctantly and discovered that, when drowned in coffee, they were… tolerable. Barely.

It was warm, but not the warmth of coffee. Not the air conditioning humming in the car. Definitely not the double layers of undershirts he was wearing.

It was you.

You were a kind of warmth he didn’t know how to define. It was in the way your eyes lit up as you gazed out the window at the familiar landscapes of your childhood, pointing out places he hadn’t thought twice about. To him, they were just small-town markers: a gas station here, a church there, but you narrated them with the same enthusiasm his son had when describing his favorite superheroes.

Would you have been this close if he’d met you before? Like… when you were six?

Oh. Right.

He’d been eighteen then - one of the top students at GWU, buried under a mountain of coursework and juggling internships. Those days felt like a lifetime ago, nothing more than a distant blur. The only tangible reminder of that chapter was an old t-shirt he hadn’t laid eyes on in years.

And you? At six, you were probably busy mastering your third language – because everyone on this Earth knows 3 languages fluently at that age - and putting everyone else in your class to shame. Basically what you still did nowadays. Especially with Morgan.

Twelve years of age difference. Yeah.

On second thought, this whole scenario was horrifying. He’d have been a stressed-out college freshman, and you’d have been… what? Some tiny, smug, baby genius correcting his grammar with crayon-stained fingers?

Absolutely not. Forget he even thought about it.

And so he reached behind his seat, pulling out the file. The reason - the only reason - you were in the passenger seat beside him. Not because he needed an excuse to spend time with you. Definitely not.

Gregory Rocher.

This wasn’t a road trip. This wasn’t casual. This was work.

Your fingers hesitated before flipping the file open. “What’s this about?” you asked.

“Rocher claims there are more bodies,” Hotch said, his voice steady, but slightly tense. “He’s asking for a meeting.”

Rocher wasn’t just prolific - he was vile. His victims - women, all of them - had been strangled, violated, and discarded like garbage. Classic misogynist.

Unsurprisingly, you remembered the case as if you’d been there yourself. Hotch had made sure of that. It was one of the first unsubs he’d caught without you, and clearly, he hadn’t been handling it well.

The letters he’d sent about it read less like updates and more like a full-blown PhD thesis, packed with so many details you half-expected an appendix and a bibliography. It had been his way of coping, drowning you in enough information to make it feel like you were right there with him.

Sweet, when you first received them.

Almost sweet, looking back now.

My dearest, philosopher,

I miss you. Though I’m told this is a natural side effect of tolerating someone for so long, I can’t say I approve.

My new partner snores. Loudly. I’m fairly certain the sound violates several Geneva Conventions, but HR disagrees. He also insists on “bonding” over lunch, which I suspect is a euphemism for wasting my time.

It’s strange solving cases without you. This one - a nightmare of strangulations and discarded lives - had me up for nights. If you’d been here, I might have slept more. Or less. Let’s be honest, knowing us, probably less. But at least you’d have been there with some infuriating insight, turning the whole thing into a metaphor for humanity’s collective failings. You’d have annoyed me. And, somehow, made it better.

I hope Europe is treating you well. It better be extraordinary, or I’ll have to take issue with an entire continent. Write back soon, if only to remind me there’s someone out there who can still hold an intelligent conversation. Until then, I’ll just keep surviving this... barely.

Take care of yourself. I mean it.

Yours,

Aaron.

And if at the time, the sentence for Rocher was life without parole, recently, the courts had upgraded it to the death penalty. That change sparked all kinds of debates - within the team, the system, everywhere. Rocher didn’t care, though. He never cared.

He’d been taunting the justice system since the day they locked him up, and now, with his execution looming, he was claiming there were more victims. His final power play.

What always stuck with you, though - what made your skin crawl - was how he didn’t flinch when they handed down the death sentence. Not a twitch, not even in his eyes, no tremble in his hands, not even a flicker in his gaze. He gave no one the satisfaction of seeing a monster come undone.

You’d called that apatheia.

The Stoics had this concept, this ideal state of being, where you freed yourself from destructive emotions - excessive anger, fear, grief, or pleasure. Apatheia wasn’t about feeling nothing, but about staying so unshaken by success or failure, by fortune or tragedy, that you became untouchable.

That was Rocher. Or at least, that was the face he wore - unbothered, calm.

It was twisted, wasn’t it? The same man who had committed his murders in explosions of emotion, drowning in irrationality, now stood there in coldness.

And yet, maybe that was what had made him so dangerous - even in death, even at the mercy of a system he couldn’t control, he had still tried to grab the reins, to steer the narrative.

Requesting that interview? That had been his final-

Wait was that…

“Why’d you stop?” Hotch’s voice broke through the quiet of the car, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror before he turned his head slightly, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“I-” You faltered, your thoughts scattering as you noticed the faint curve of his lips. “You were smiling.”

“Was I? Really?” His brows lifted slightly, genuinely surprised.

His hands tightened just a fraction on the wheel, barely noticeable - just like the subtle flush creeping up his neck, blooming beneath the collar of his shirt.

That man was so ridiculously easy to fluster, which would’ve been endlessly entertaining if he didn’t immediately cut your fun short by pivoting to “important matters.” Suddenly, it was all about interrogation tactics and the riveting nuances of Rocher’s profile.

As if you hadn’t already skimmed the backstory a dozen times while he nitpicked through mock-interrogation scenarios like this was some FBI debate club. Really, your boss truly did suck.

Because by the time he’d finished dissecting every possible angle, there were still two hours left to endure… now what Unit Chief?!

“How’s your mother?” Hotch asked suddenly, his voice so soft it almost sounded like he was apologizing for bringing it up.

“Oh, she’s fine,” you said, waving a hand dismissively. “In less than five minutes after I got there, we’d already hit the classics: worrying about my job, reminiscing about my failed engagement, and of course, lecturing me about how I don’t visit often enough. Because, you know, even when she’s not working, she’s still a professor.”

Hotch’s lips twitched, a near-smile that quickly faded. You’d told him about her before - how she was relentless, how she’d shaped you into the person you were today, constantly pushing you to know more, achieve more. And in the end, it worked, true.

On the surface, you always joked about it, like it was no big deal – even now. But he knew better. He knew what you meant when you said things like that – that if you ever stepped outside her carefully crafted expectations, you weren’t enough for her.

And while you’d perfected the art of shrugging off her comments, throwing back one of your usual biting remarks to dismantle her criticisms, he was sure it wasn’t that simple. He’d seen the way they lingered, even if you didn’t realize it yourself… you wouldn’t bring it up if it didn’t sting not even a little, right?

Or maybe that was just him being overly perceptive. Or worse - overprotective.

Him? Overprotective about you? No. He was just… looking out for you.

Like an older sibling would. A sibling who, admittedly, sometimes let his imagination wander into places it shouldn’t.

“Of course… I’m guessing you handled it with your usual grace,” he said dryly, already bracing himself for whatever sharp response you had locked and loaded. When it came to the things that came out of your mouth, “grace” was often a loose interpretation at best.

“By ‘grace’ - do you mean biting my tongue to avoid commenting on the absolutely astounding leap she made from talking about biologically cultivated vegetables to my ‘biological clock’? Then yes, Aaron. Loads of grace.”

Hotch let out a huff of air, something caught between a sigh and a laugh, shaking his head. “Why does she still press you like that?”

After all, you were in your thirties, with more degrees and certifications than he had fingers on one hand. You were financially independent, had built a career that people admired, and, honestly, you were the most incredible woman he’d ever met.

One of the most. You were a great friend. An invaluable colleague. An efficient subordinate. Subordinate.

Because he was your boss. And you were off-lim-

“I think she’s just bored,” you continued, glancing out the window at the passing scenery. “She’s semi-retired, her favorite golden boy student turned out to be a disaster, and I’m not exactly giving her grandkids to micromanage. So, she channels all that leftover energy into reminding me, repeatedly, of my poor life choices.”

“They’re anything but poor choices,” he said firmly. “Do you know how many agents I walked through the BAU last month because of a certain professor who inspired them so much they decided this was a career worth pursuing?”

You blinked, caught off guard. Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you turned your gaze out the window, shrugging in an effort to downplay his words. “Could’ve been anyone. Not necessarily me.”

"After the fifth one in a row quoted Plato at me when I asked them why they wanted to be a profiler, I’m positive they got that from you." He countered.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re just trying to cheer me up because you had the nerve to call me at 4 a.m. to help you interview a psychopath.”

“If that were true, I’d have said something much more flattering," he said, too offhandedly, like it wasn’t even something he had to think about.

You arched a brow, your lips curving into a smirk. “Such as?”

He shot you a brief glance, raising an eyebrow, having already profiled your blatant attempt at fishing for compliments. "Nice try, s-"

He bit his lip just in time.

“Oh, come on,” you pressed. “This is a safe space, it’s just the two of us. You can let it out.”

"You really think I’m going to fall for that?" He shook his head, praying to every deity ever worshiped by mankind that you weren’t referring to what had been seconds away from slipping past his lips.

“Fall for what?” you asked, all wide-eyed innocence. “My charm?”

Hotch chuckled, his eyes still focused on the road ahead, even though his fingers were tapping idly against the steering wheel. “Much more than your charm.”

Much more?

Weird.

Very weird.

And it wasn’t the only thing off about him that day. It got progressively more odd, more noticeable, especially when you were both sitting across from Gregory Rocher.

He had personally requested to speak with Hotch, insisting he would only cooperate with him. That wasn’t surprising. What was surprising - at least to Hotch - was that the moment you both stepped into the room, it was you Rocher greeted first.

“Oh, that’s the teacher?” he said sheepishly.

Before you could react, before you could even fully register the recognition in his tone, Hotch was already stepping in front of you, his arm coming up instinctively, shielding you.

“It’s professor,” he corrected, his voice flat and deadly. “Sit back down.”

And Rocher obeyed.

But his wording stuck with you, even as Hotch launched into the preliminary questions. Teacher - not agent, not even professor. Strange.

You didn’t have time to dwell on it. Rocher wasn’t going to give up the location of the extra body without a performance, dragging you both into whatever twisted fantasy he had planned - a game of control. No surprise there. You had prepared for this. Over-prepared, maybe. If only Hotch were sticking to the damn script.

Because the moment Rocher’s focus landed on you - his gaze drifting back to you more than once, even while Hotch was speaking - the Unit Chief shifted. He started talking more, cutting in faster, interrupting where he normally wouldn’t.

And Rocher noticed.

“How is it like to work with someone like him?” he asked you, slipping the question in the middle of detailing location specifics, as if he wasn’t aware of what he was doing.

Hotch barely let you breathe before biting back, “Don’t waste our time, Rocher.”

“See?” Rocher grinned. “Isn’t he way too controlling?”

Funny, coming from a man who strangled twenty-seven women with his bare hands.

You exhaled slowly, refusing to take the bait. “Where’s the body?”

But Rocher was enjoying himself now, stretching out as much time as he could, his focus was more on how the two of you were conducting the interrogation rather than the questions themselves. “She’s completely different from you, Agent Hotchner,” he mused, again, completely ignoring your question. “How does it work between you?”

“It’s none of your business,” Hotch said, his voice sharper now, edged with something harder. “Answer her question.”

Rocher ignored him, gaze still locked onto you. “Do you know what they say about opposites, Professor?”

For the sake of-

You tilted your head slightly, unimpressed. “There are completely contradicting interpretations throughout history and culture. You might want to be more specific.”

At that, Hotch turned his head sharply toward you, his posture tightening.

Rocher noticed. He grinned wider, feeding off the shift in energy.

“Oh, look,” he cooed, mockingly delighted. “The protector is mad that you’re engaging with me.” His eyes flicked back to Hotch, studying him. “Why don’t you scold her, Agent Hotchner? Bring her out of here, discipline her for misbehaving with her superior.”

“Really?” You sighed, unimpressed. “Are you also going to suggest he strangle me? Like you did with the other twenty-seven women?”

Rocher’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened.

“Oh, that’s hard, Professor,” he taunted, voice sing-song. “Considering he can’t even look you in the eye since you came back from Europe.”

Hotch’s entire body went rigid.

Rocher leaned in slightly, head tilting as if savoring the reaction. “Tell me,” he murmured, watching Hotch carefully, testing him, “Did he have to take an issue with an entire continent to be like this now?”

You froze. Choice of words – again - familiar.

Something at the back of your mind was screaming at you, urging you to put the pieces together, but Hotch was already moving.

“This ends here,” he said, voice flat, final. He rose from the chair, his hand pressing lightly against your back, signaling you to get up.

You didn’t move.

You were still hardly staring at Rocher, still listening, still piecing something together, something that wasn’t just a power play. Rocher exhaled, amused, shaking his head as his gaze flicked back to Hotch.

“She’s smarter than you,” he commented lazily.

Hotch barely reacted, but you heard it. The way Hotch said your name again - soft, almost pleading. You felt it. Soft... and hard? Opposites-

You turned back to Rocher. “What were you saying about opposites?”

His eyes glinted, gleeful. “What do people say about opposites?” he prompted.

Clearly, all those hours spent studying philosophy had been leading up to this - a discount fortune cookie moment with a serial killer. Truly, a proud academic achievement.

“Opposites attract,” you answered, immediately regretting it - because, fantastic, now you sounded like one of those corny motivational quotes slapped onto a coffee mug, probably collecting dust in your mother's kitchen cabinet.

Hotch called your name again, firmer this time, but even he hesitated when Rocher’s grin turned knowing. “Do you believe that, Y/N?”

Speechless.

Hotch stiffened.

His voice dropped, threatening. “You don’t get to call her that.”

Rocher chuckled. “Jealous you’re not the only one who can?”

His hand slammed down on the metal table, the crack of impact ricocheting off the walls and straight into your ears. Rising from his chair, he leaned over the table, his frame so massive that it cast a shadow over Rocher.

"Shut up."

Goosebumps.

Hotch was one of those people whose voice didn’t need to be loud to be lethal.

But this time, it was.

For the first time since you’d met him, you heard him raise his voice too.

Although Rocher was still smiling.

Hotch stared him down for a few seconds, the lights in the room only making his face look harsher - his eyes darkened, accentuating the bags beneath them and the sharp line of his brow bone.

His nostrils flared, his mouth slightly parted, and then he said, “I don’t play games, Rocher. You collaborate, or you go back to rot. Now.”

“Funny, Agent Hotchner. I am cooperating. You’re the one getting all worked up.” Rocher’s tone was infuriatingly smug, but then his gaze slid back to you. “One of you is actually listening. The other is too emotional to see what’s right in front of him.”

You knew you’d hit rock bottom when, against all logic, you actually felt a flicker of pity for a serial killer - because he had just made the monumental mistake of calling Hotch emotional.

Without even a second thought. Without realizing what that meant.

What Hotch would do with that.

What Hotch would do to him.

No - you were terrified. And, somewhere deep inside, maybe even slightly tur-

“You’re stalling,” Hotch bit out, still leaned over the table.

“Oh, come on. I can’t spoon-feed two grown adults.” Rocher lifted his hands. “I already gave her something 'vital' - let’s just say that.” His smirk sharpened as his eyes flicked back to Hotch. “But at least she’s trying. You? You’re absolutely blind.”

Did it mean you were getting closer?

A flicker of something cold crawled up your spine. Opposites. A push and pull. You and-

The realization crashed into Hotch first, though. “There are two bodies.”

Rocher’s smile widened.

Oh, fuck him.

You and Hotch reached the same inevitable conclusion. Duality. Equilibrium.

The fundamental nature of opposition. Nothing exists in isolation - light is meaningless without darkness, fire without ice, predator without prey.

That’s why Rocher had been so fixated on it.

Why he had pushed you so relentlessly.

Why he had asked you - again and again - to define opposites.

Because one cannot exist without the other.

Because contrast is the foundation of meaning.

Because the presence of one demanded the existence of its counterpart.

Which meant-

Your throat tightened. “A woman… and a man.”

Rocher’s grin split open like something rotten. “Surprise.”

Surprise his ass.

The blood in your veins turned to ice. This wasn’t just different. This wasn’t just a twist.

This was a complete deviation of his M.O.

Rocher killed for sexual gratification. That was his entire pattern, his entire psychological makeup. He had a very clear type, a very clear need - and men weren’t part of it.

So, why?

You shot Hotch a look, and he was already thinking the same thing.

“Need a moment alone?” Rocher grinned.

Before you could respond, Hotch grabbed you by the wrist - completely unnecessary, honestly - and pulled you out of the room.

“Why the change in M.O.?” you asked at the exact moment he said, “Are you okay?” His hand settled on your shoulder - gentle, steady, ever so caring, apparently.

You blinked. “I’m fine, Aaron. You’re the one I’m worried about.”

Because, honestly? The image of him completely losing control out there was still playing on a loop in the back of your mind.

But for some reason, he didn’t answer.

Instead, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head, back to business. “It doesn’t make sense. He has a very specific victim type - all single women in their thirties. He finds them, seduces them…”

“Lures them to dates,” you continued, your voice quieter now, like saying it aloud made it heavier. “He needs control so badly he violates them before and after they’re dead. Strangulation - it’s not just about the kill, it’s about feeling the life leave their bodies. He wants to experience everything.”

Hotch’s expression hardened, his voice dropping to a murmur. “A serial rapist doesn’t just become an omnivore.”

“No… and we’re also assuming he used strangulation on both victims,” you pointed out. “For all we know, he could have changed his method.”

Hotch nodded along, already processing it. “He must have focused more on the woman. Maybe the man was a casual vic-”

“Philosooopheeer.” Rocher’s voice rang out from the monitor in a sing-song tone.

Your breath caught.

What the hell?

And yet - despite the weight pressing down on your chest, despite the sudden static in your mind - his name still slipped past your lips.

Barely a whisper. Barely a breath. But it was there.

“Aaron-”

Rocher’s voice hummed through the speakers again. “Philosopher, the opposites.”

Your pulse pounded against your ribs.

Loud. Drowning everything else.

“Aaron-”

Softer this time. Shaky. Uncertain.

Then - warmth.

The solid, steady warmth of his hand on the curve of your back.

“You’re the only one who calls me that.” You swallowed hard, not even glancing at him, eyes locked onto the monitor. “How does he know?”

Hotch’s fingers curled just slightly against your back. “Don’t let this affect you,” he murmured.

But even he wasn’t unaffected.

Even he wasn’t untouched.

Because now, beneath the steady mask, he felt guilty of bringing you there with him in the first place.

At this point, Rossi made a mental note to reward himself with that indoor pool he’d been dreaming about - because if he managed to get even one step forward with Aaron Hotchner, Denial Incarnate, he deserved a damn medal.

“It’s crazy. They’ve been grid-searching an entire forest for a week, and still - no bodies,” Rossi declared, shaking his head.

“I fear it’s only going to get worse now that Rocher’s dead,” Aaron said, voice low. “Everyone’s starting to believe it was his last move to buy himself more time.”

“To feel in control one last time,” Rossi mused.

He caught how it took a second too long for Aaron to respond. “I guess so…”

Except, judging by the way Aaron was suddenly hyper-focused on Rossi’s hair - definitely not admiring its painstakingly maintained perfection, which, by the way, was an absolute waste tonight, considering he’d already lost the woman he’d been eyeing for the past five minutes thanks to all this foolery - Rossi figured something else was going on.

And sure enough, when Aaron parted his mouth, Rossi was pretty damn sure it wasn’t to ask about the elite hair-gelling techniques he’d been mastering since the '70s.

No, it was because, right behind him, at the bar, a man - a male specimen - was currently eyeing you and Spencer.

Rossi sighed, barely hiding his smirk.. “You’re an ass-clown, Aaron.”

Just a clown in a short sleeved polo and jeans, watching a circus only he cared about.

“Can I pay for what that lovely lady and her magic broomstick ordered?” a voice drawled behind you, oozing with the kind of misplaced confidence that could only belong to someone deeply unburdened by self-awareness.

Spencer froze mid-sentence.

You turned around, only to be met by a tall, dark-haired guy, probably around your age. Objectively good-looking, sure - too bad he’d skipped cologne and decided to marinate in eau de fragile masculinity before stepping out tonight. A bold choice. Didn’t suit him. Didn’t suit anyone, really.

“Damn, the front view’s even better,” he smirked, his gaze shamelessly scanning you from head to toe. Funny how his ‘scanner’ seemed to jam conveniently at your cleavage, lingering just a second too long - one second away from you deciding to poke his eyes out yourself.

You crossed your arms, leveling him with a look that should’ve sent him scurrying back to whatever hole he crawled out of. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that if you just tell me how much it was.”

He chuckled, leaning a little too far into your personal space. “Oh, don’t be like that, sweetheart. Just letting you know what I see. And what I see…” His gaze dipped again, lower this time, his lips curving into a grin that made your skin crawl. “…yeah, worth every penny.”

You set your jaw, your voice firm. “The bill.”

The human dumpster tilted his head, his smirk widening, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “Aw, come on. Don’t be so cold. What’s a pretty little thing like you doing with him anyway?” He gestured lazily toward Spencer behind you, who was watching the exchange with wide, nervous eyes. “Bambi doesn’t even know how to treat you right.”

Spencer opened his mouth, his face reddening as he tried to stammer out a response. “Well, actually, the concept of ‘leagues’ in relationships is a social construct based on arbitrary perceptions of-”

…attractiveness and compatibility. In fact, research suggests that successful relationships are more strongly correlated with shared values and emotional intelligence than with surface-level traits… if only he’d let him finish.

“That’s enough,” you snapped, your hand twitching toward the pint of beer next to you - the one that was supposed to be Aaron’s.

Not that he’d technically mind if you repurposed it as a blunt-force weapon, but a small, rational voice in the back of your mind reminded you that he’d probably prefer it stayed in the glass rather than all over this idiot’s face.

Probably. Maybe. Jury was still out.

“Oh sweetheart don’t talk to me like that, I think of something a whole lot better to put in that mouth of yours.” He leaned in closer, his breath heavy with whatever cheap whiskey courage he’d choked down earlier.

He was dead.

“Get out of my face before I find something to shove into yours,” you snapped, your voice icy, “like my fist.”

And honestly, you weren’t just threatening.

You were ready.

Hand cocked, trajectory planned, already envisioning the satisfying sound of his ego shattering like glass.

But before you could even lift said fist, Spencer, sweet, wonderful Spencer, decided this was his moment to intervene, bless him. He probably thought he was saving this guy from imminent destruction, or maybe just delusional a warning might actually work to make him shut his mouth.

“Sir, I think you should-” Spencer started, his voice trembling slightly.

“Stay out of it, Einstein,” the man snapped, dismissing him with a lazy wave. “I’m just messing around. Though, I gotta say…” His voice dropped lower, his gaze doing yet another thorough inspection of everything except your face. “I kinda like it when you’re fiery.”

Oh, he was really begging for it now. Just as you were about to test out the self-defense moves Derek had been teaching you - already savoring the thought of your fist making satisfying contact with his smug face - you heard it.

A steady, deliberate rhythm approaching, marked by the kind of authority that sent most people scattering before they even knew why.

“Apologize,” came the voice from behind you.

Aaron. And you didn’t have to turn around to confirm it. You’d know that voice anywhere - overprotective party pooper.

The man scoffed, trying to laugh it off, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “Hey, man, I was just joking around-”

“No, you weren’t.” Aaron cut him off. “It was predatory.”

The man probably just learnt a new word judging by the look on his face. “What the fuck do you mean, buddy?”

“That you’re pathetic.” Aaron said, giving him one of his best stares. “That because your mother never bothered to hang your drawings on the fridge when you were a kid, you’ve spent your entire life demanding validation from people who want nothing to do with you - just like her. Pathetic. And predatory.”

Damn, brutal - judging by the way the guy flinched, Aaron had nailed every single assumption. Truly, the best profiler you knew. “What the fuck are you? A shrink? You don’t know me, man!”

Aaron didn’t flinch. “I don’t?” he said coolly, tilting his head slightly. “I know you’re addicted to porn because it’s easier for you to objectify women than to accept that no one can stand to be around you in for more than five minutes. The only people who tolerate you are the three equally repressed guys you met at the gym - guys as shallow as you are.”

And speaking of porn, that was officially the hottest thing you’d ever heard come out of Aaron Hotchner’s mouth. It ranked right up there with “We can take the rest of the weekend off” and “You’re right.”

And he even kept going “You’re the reason the average IQ in this country keeps dropping. And guess what-”

Oh, my God. Say more things. Call him shallow again. Please.

“What you just said constitutes sexual harassment under federal law.” Aaron turned slightly to Spencer, who straightened immediately, as if on cue. “Reid, would you mind explaining the legal repercussions for this kind of crime?”

Spencer despite being still a bit dizzy, started. “Suuure. Under Title VII of the Civil Rights Act and most state laws, sexual harassment is a punishable offense, particularly when the behavior is hostile or unwanted - like in this case.” He made sure to raise his finger at that, just to be clear of course. “Penalties can include fines reaching thousands of dollars, and in some cases, jail time, especially for repeated offenses or behavior involving threats.”

“And rest assured, I will personally ensure you face the maximum penalties,” Aaron said, his voice smooth and deadly. “Every aggravating factor: your persistence after being told to stop, your blatant disregard for boundaries.”

Oh, wow.

Hot.

Even hotter because you knew how meticulous Aaron was about getting every detail perfect.

You shouldn’t have been thinking it - not now, not here - but damn. His tone. His precision. The sheer, undeniable power behind every syllable.

Impossible not to notice. Impossible not to feel.

You could practically see it: in his office late at night, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, meticulously piecing everything together. File after file laid out in perfect order, his jaw tight, his brow furrowed. He’d pause only to sip his coffee, the tension in his frame so palpable it made your stomach flip just imagining it.

And no, you really shouldn’t be sexualizing your best-friend-that-also-happened-to-be-your-boss-haha-so-funny in the light of day.

Or night.

Or ever.

Anyways - whenever Aaron spoke like that, it was objectively impossible to ignore how magnetic he was. You could try to deny it, lie to yourself, pretend you were above it.

But deep down? He could get it.

Anytime.

Your respect, of course.

“Now, here’s what’s going to happen.” he said, his voice cold and commanding, “You’re going to look her in the eye and you’re going to apologize. Then, you’re going to walk out that door and disappear. Because if I ever hear your name in connection with behavior like this again, I will ruin you. And trust me - I’m very thorough. Do I make myself clear?”

The man nodded hurriedly, his head bobbing like a puppet on strings. “I-I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

Aaron’s gaze hardened. “Louder.”

“I’m sorry!” the man practically shouted, his voice cracking under the pressure.

“That’s a start, but you owe him an apology too.” You nodded toward Spencer, who had been standing slightly behind you, watching the exchange with wide eyes.

The man blinked, his head snapping toward Spencer. “I-I didn’t-”

“Oh, but you did,” you interrupted, your tone calm but firm. “You insulted him, called him names, and dismissed him like his voice didn’t matter. That’s harassment too, in case you didn’t realize.”

The man hesitated, looking like he’d rather crawl under the nearest table than follow through. Aaron shifted slightly beside you, crossing his arms. “I don’t think she was asking.”

The man’s face flushed with a mix of anger and humiliation, but he turned to Spencer, his shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry,” he said, though the words still sounded like they burned his tongue on the way out.

Spencer nodded, then, with a dramatic flick of his wrist, popped a fry into his mouth. “Aww, thank you,” he said, voice dripping with exaggerated politeness. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were having a perfectly pleasant evening before you decided to ruin it.”

The man and his fragile masculinity didn’t need any further encouragement. Still, Aaron’s eyes stayed on him until the bar’s entry door slammed shut behind him. Without even turning, he extended his fist toward Spencer. “Thanks for the backup, Reid.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he bumped it awkwardly with his own, the exchange so stiff and adorable that it was officially the cutest thing you’d ever seen.

“Are you both alright?” Aaron asked, his eyes lingering on you just a second longer than necessary.

Spencer, still gripping his fries like a lifeline, blinked up at Aaron with wide eyes. “I think I’m sober now,” he said matter-of-factly, shoving another fry into his mouth like it was a medical prescription for trauma.

“Leave it to you to use fried food as a coping mechanism,” you teased, though couldn’t help but laugh.

“Well, it’s scientifically proven that carbohydrates can temporarily reduce stress,” he replied, ever the scholar. “And given the situation, I think this is a perfectly rational response.”

Aaron’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile as he looked at Spencer. “Whatever works,” he said, his tone quieter now.

Without thinking, you rested your hand lightly on Aaron’s shoulder. “Thank you,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his. “For everything.”

Aaron started to respond, but you barely caught it. Something along the lines of apologizing for stepping in when you could have handled it yourself - but he’d done it anyway because, apparently, you were about three seconds away from punching the guy.

You nodded along, but the words barely registered because your mind was already spiraling.

Don’t do it.

Don’t say it.

You’re going to make it awkward.

Yes, he’s your best friend, but also your boss.

Your very capable, very professional, very in-control boss. And when he went all out like that – damn - it was so ridiculously hot that you wanted to - NO. STOP IT.

Too late - you cleared your throat. “We’re off duty, right?” you asked, your voice more casual than it had any right to be.

Aaron blinked, slightly thrown, but nodded anyway. “Yes… why?”

You hesitated for a split second, your better judgment screaming at you to back out, but you ignored it, throwing caution straight into the wind. “Is it awkward if I say out loud that what you just did was extremely hot?”

You immediately regretted your word choice.

You should have said “said” instead of “did.”

You absolutely should have said “said.”

Aaron blinked – again - his lips parting slightly… probably because you hadn’t reached for some obscure 18th-century adjective like you usually did. Maybe because - oh.

His cheeks were turning pink.

Aaron Hotchner was blushing.

“That depends,” he said smoothly - too smoothly for someone whose face was actively betraying him - “how ‘hot’ are we talking?”

Oh. Oh.

He reused your stupid adjective. On purpose. Just to shove it back in your face.

Classic Hotchner.

And there it was again - that casual, teasing push and pull.

The ephemeral flirting that was supposed to be a joke. The kind that had been happening a little too often lately.

You grinned, leaning in slightly, lowering your voice to a whisper, playing the game. “You don’t want to know.”

“If you say so,” he replied, and made it worse by flashing you his dimples.

You opened your mouth, ready to fire back with something clever - or, at the very least, something that sounded clever in your head, but all of a sudden-

“OOOOOOH! Teach, Hotch!” Spencer’s voice sliced through the tension like a buzzer going off at the worst possible time. “Did you know that the term ‘hot’ as an expression of attractiveness has roots in medieval metaphors? They often associated passion with heat, and by the 19th century, it evolved into a colloquial term for desirability.”

Aaron cleared his throat, sitting back slightly, though the faint blush on his cheeks lingered. “Thank you, Reid”.

Spencer nodded earnestly. “Well, I figured since you were discussing the term, it was relevant.” He popped another fry into his mouth, clearly pleased with his contribution.

Aaron turned to you, his lips twitching again. “Educational and perfectly timed.”

A joke, as usual, a much more felt in your chest kind of joke.

“Right,” you replied, fighting back a laugh. “Nothing like a bit of etymology to really set the mood.”

Spencer blinked, tilting his head. “Set the mood for what?”

And that’s when it all started going downhill.

Because by the time you got back to the booth, Rossi had already vanished - true to form - leaving behind nothing but an empty glass, a generous tab for someone else to pick up, and the faintest whiff of cologne that somehow still managed to reek of wealth and desperation.

The entire team, instead, apparently driven to madness by the frustration of the past week, had decided to collectively ovulate.

You barely had time to sit down before Derek swooped in, snatching Spencer by the collar of his shirt.

“C’mon, Pretty Boy, found the one for you,” he announced, dragging a very confused - but at least mildly more sober - Reid toward some unsuspecting woman who, by some miracle, actually seemed to enjoy his rapid-fire tangents about quantum mechanics.

Oh, how you loved women in STEM.

“Good luck, Pretty Boy!” Derek called over his shoulder, already abandoning Reid in favor of sweeping his babygirl onto the dance floor. Penelope had been waiting all of five seconds before declaring, “Finally! Our song!” and yanking Morgan into a routine that was absolutely choreographed.

No way it wasn’t.

Emily, to her credit, lingered just long enough to trade a few snarky remarks with you and steal a sip of your drink before the woman she’d been eyeing all night finally gathered the courage to summon her over.

“Go get her,” you encouraged her, raising your glass in mock cheers.

“Don’t wait up,” Emily quipped, slipping out of her seat, but before she could take two steps, Aaron chimed in, his tone entirely too dry.

“Work at 8 a.m. tomorrow,” he reminded her.

Emily stopped mid-stride to roll her eyes before, for some reason, winking at you. “Yes, Sir,” she mocked, before sauntering off - uncharacteristically giddy.

And just like that, it was you and Aaron, sitting in a room thick with mating hormones. Not exactly ideal.

You’d survived through worse, at least. And still had nightmares of what happened a week ago.

Exibit B: Charcoal Grey ☆ ★

Never in your life had you been so thoroughly out-lawyered as the day you went to witness Hotch’s testimony in the trial of Brian Matloff - the unsub who’d awakened from a coma that had kept him blissfully unconscious since 2004. Now, armed with focal retrograde amnesia, the man claimed he didn’t remember committing the crimes. Convenient.

And because of that, along with a healthy dose of masochistic curiosity to see Lawyer Hotch in his natural habitat, you found yourself sitting next to Spencer in the courtroom, breathing the same oxygen as not one, not two, but three lawyers.

First, the defense attorney, who would inevitably deploy every slimy lawyer trick in the book to defend a man who killed innocent girls.

You could already feel your blood pressure rising just imagining how he’d try to mess with Hotch’s head, distorting the truth under the guise of legal gymnastics. All perfectly sanctioned by the law, of course, which made it even more infuriating.

Then there was Cece Hillenbrand, the prosecutor.

She’d just called Hotch to testify, and honestly, it went so well the jury looked about two seconds away from throwing roses at her feet. Too bad she was still a lawyer, and your opinion of lawyers hovered somewhere between mild distrust and praying for the meteor.

The blonde bob didn’t help either at all – for some reasons it felt way too reminiscent of Haley. Maybe that’s why Hotch was looking at her with what you could only describe as way too much eagerness, which she’d obviously mistaken as her golden ticket to his ride. Literally. That kind of ride.

You could also pretty much tell she was smitten.

Not that you could blame her.

Objectively speaking, Hotch was perfect.

Tall. Dark hair with those infuriatingly handsome streaks of gray that somehow made him look even more distinguished. That one single white eyelash on his left eye that was unfairly cute. Long eyelashes. The adorable crease in his brow whenever he was focused. A side profile Michelangelo would’ve killed to sculpt. That deep, warm voice capable of commanding a courtroom into instant silence. Veiny forearms. Big hands. Hairy hands.

And… other intimate physical details that you were definitely not going to let your brain linger on right now.

Oh, and yes – smart, of course. Brilliant, actually.

So perfect it almost made you want to warn her off. About how You’d been fooled by those kind, relentless hazel eyes yourself. But then again, she was a lawyer. And lawyers didn’t deserve such precious life-saving advice.

Or maybe it was because you simply did not have the guts to tell a complete stranger something like that without sounding like an absolute creep.

Over a man, of all things.

Worst of all possible fates.

And to complete the dreaded lawyer triumvirate - last but certainly not least - there was Hotch. Aaron. Lawyer.

If you started unpacking your thoughts on that man, you’d probably end up writing a book longer than War and Peace. Though one recent chapter might be titled: “How the numbers didn’t add up.”

Why, exactly, did he insist on dragging you to Virginia with Spencer and himself for this trial?

You hadn’t worked the original case back in 2004, and you definitely didn’t have any legal expertise to speak of. And yet, here you were.

But hey, whatever the Unit Chief wanted, the Unit Chief got, right?

Maybe it was because of the PhD you shared with Spencer in psychology - though if tactical strategy was the goal, the smarter choice would have been to leave you back in Quantico, far away from the courtroom circus.

Not that you were making the calls here. Clearly, this was all part of Hotch’s master plan to make you suffer among a sea of insufferable lawyers. Brilliant move, really.

“Now, my client ran from the police, A behavior that you called” the defence attorney stated as he looked into the file on the table “’A strong indicator of his guilt.’”

“Yes, that's correct.” Hotch confirmed.

Why was he even always so proper…

“Were you aware that he had an outstanding warrant at the time of his arrest?” the defense attorney asked, striding toward the testimony stand where Hotch sat, calm and composed.

“Yes. I believe it was for an automobile accident, a hit and run,” Hotch responded.

“So isn’t it possible that Mr. Matloff fled, not because he was guilty of murder, but because of this other warrant?” the attorney pressed.

You almost wanted to stand up and applaud the sheer stupidity of the question. Really, it took a special kind of talent to ask something that idiotic.

Unfortunately, Hotch couldn’t call him out for it - officially, anyway. “There were eight law enforcement officers in bulletproof vests. I doubt any reasonable person would assume-”

“A yes or no answer will do,” the attorney interrupted, smugly cutting him off mid-sentence.

“Fuck him,” you muttered under your breath, bristling as Hotch was forced to answer, “Yes, it’s possible.”

Beside you, Spencer turned, his eyes wide with shock. “Language!” he whispered harshly.

“I just can’t stand when rhetoric is used to distort the obvious,” you muttered defensively.

“They didn’t seem to bother you much earlier when it was Lawyer Hillenbrand using it,” he pointed out, voice barely audible but definitely smirking for reasons you were ignoring on principle.

“Because she’s supposed to be on our side,” you shot back. “I’m morally obligated to support this lawyer madness when it benefits us.”

“Are you sure it’s not about the fact that he interrupted Hotch?” Spencer pointed out quietly.

Well. Yes, of course… but it wasn’t just that, was it?

How could you be this mad over an arrogant idiot cutting someone off mid-sentence? Must be something more. Must be all these lawyers overcomplicating something so simple.

…As if you could talk.

“Are you sure it’s not cumulative frustration?” you shot back with a smirk.

Spencer tilted his head, considering. “Statistically, it could be both.”

You barely suppressed a laugh, biting the inside of your cheek as you turned your attention back to the stand.

Hotch, as always, remained calm and collected - but you still caught it. That faintest twitch in his jaw. The only visible sign of frustration as the attorney continued talking down on the very thing that had shaped all of your lives.

The very thing that was the reason why a ring was missing from Hotch’s hand.

The reason Spencer barely got to see his mom.

The reason you were alive today - and also why your life was constantly at risk. Opposites.

But sure. Let’s frame behavioral analysis as a pseudo-science. Let’s ignore the countless lives it had saved, the crimes it had prevented, the killers it had caught, just so this smug bastard could spin a cheap courtroom trick, already sensing the “If the FBI has gotten profiles wrong before, how can they be trusted now?” incoming from a mile away.

Oh, truly. Suck it.

But what really burned was the fact that to make this argument, he was standing there undermining Hotch’s credibility in a room full of people.

Hotch - who was the best profiler you knew. Bias or not, that was just a fact.

And now, you had to sit here, behave decently, and watch this clown parade his bullshit like it meant something.

“Having been wrong on those cases, isn’t it possible that you were wrong about Brian Matloff?” he attorney pressed on, undeterred.

“No,” Hotch replied simply.

“The fact is,” the attorney continued anyways, “behavioral analysis is really just intellectual guesswork. You probably couldn’t tell me the color of my socks with any greater accuracy than a carnival psychic.”

Hotch shot him a look that could have frozen water, and it almost made you laugh. Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him, you thought, seething internally.

Oh, how you wished you were a carnival psychic right now. They always had crystal balls, and one of those would be just perfect to shove right up-

“Charcoal gray,” Hotch said.

You couldn’t help but smile. It didn’t even matter if he was right or not; it was so Hotch – that determination to prove he was right, no matter what. And of course, he had to do it with that understated sass.

God, you loved that about him.

The attorney, however, wasn’t as charmed. He spun on his heel and raised the hem of his pants, exposing his socks to the jury. “Well, look at that,” he said smugly. “He got one right.”

Hotch barely blinked.

“You match them to the color of your suit to appear taller. You also wear lifts and have had the soles of your shoes replaced. One might think you're frugal, but in fact, you're having financial difficulties. You wear a fake Rolex because you pawned your real one to pay your debts. My guess is to a bookie.” His tone was calm, measured - but the glint in his eyes told an entirely different story.

And God help you, you couldn’t look away.

This was the Hotch you first met.

The man who never held back when proving a point, who used logic and intellect as a weapon without ever raising his voice. Who didn’t need theatrics, just cold, undeniable facts to dismantle someone completely.

It was a pity, really - how he let others do most of the talking these days. How he stepped in only to make the big decisions, rarely taking the floor himself. You'd almost forgotten this side of him.

The side that made him who he was.

And watching him now - fully in his element, effortlessly dismantling someone with nothing but facts and razor-sharp precision - it was intoxicating.

And there was no point in even trying to deny it.

The attorney bristled, his face reddening. “I took this case pro bono. I am… one of the most successful criminal attorneys in the state,” he shot back defensively.

You nearly rolled your eyes.

Amateur mistake.

If there was one thing you’d learned in nearly a decade of bickering with Hotch, it was that the second wave always hit harder than the first.

And, predictably, it did.

“Your vice is horses,” Hotch continued, unbothered. “Your BlackBerry’s been buzzing on the table every 20 minutes, which happens to be the average time between posts from Colonial Downs. You’re getting race results. And every time you do, it affects your mood in court. And you’re not having a very good day.”

“That’s because you pick horses the same way you practice law,” Hotch concluded after a brief pause, his voice dropping ever so slightly. “By always taking the long shot.”

Next to you, Spencer whispered in awe, “Wow, that was so-”

Hot. Panties dro-

“Fascinating,” you cut in quickly, glancing at Spencer as he gave you a curious look.

The attorney, meanwhile, looked like he’d been sucker-punched. He opened his mouth, floundering for a response, but Hotch wasn’t done.

“If I’m not mistaken,” Hotch said, his gaze calm but piercing, “the results from the fifth race should be coming through any minute.”

Right on cue, the BlackBerry on the attorney’s table buzzed loudly, the sound slicing through the silence in the courtroom.

“Why don’t you tell us if your luck has changed?” Hotch asked smoothly, and for a moment, your heart skipped a beat.

Because that – that - was your move.

He had picked up your habit—the one he teased you about constantly - of ending arguments with a question.

It was something that had been ingrained in you for years, thanks to an almost obsessive love of Socratic gnoseology - the idea that knowledge is not something you hold, but something you uncover through dialogue.

And your personal interpretation of it in which truth exists in the space between two minds, constantly shifting, constantly evolving.

So when a conversation ended, it didn’t really end - because there was always a question left hanging in the air, an invitation for the next step in the process.

And you did it all the time.

"That’s not how psychopathy works," Hotch had told you once, after you’d suggested a suspect might be forcing himself into emotional relationships as a way of imitating normalcy. "True psychopaths don’t feel the need to mimic emotions that serve no function for them."

"But if the imitation itself brings him a sense of control, doesn’t it serve a function?" you had countered, arching an eyebrow at him.

Hotch had opened his mouth, closed it again, then just shook his head.

"You always do that," he had muttered.

"Do what?" you’d replied

"Leave the conversation open-ended." He’d observed, looking into your eyes

“I do?” you’d replied, leaving him inhaling through his nose to avoid the urge to… do something about it… take the matter in his own hands.

Or there was that time on the jet, after a particularly difficult case.

You’d been sitting across from him, still dissecting the nuances of the unsub’s psychology, pulling apart the threads like you could unravel the truth if you just tugged hard enough.

"He killed because he needed to prove his own autonomy," you mused, more to yourself than to him.

"Or he killed because he was incapable of existing outside the parameters of control," Hotch countered, leaning back slightly, arms crossed, ever the counterweight to your theorizing.

You nodded, thoughtful, then tilted your head at him.

"But if control is a construct, then what does that say about our ability to assign guilt? Can you truly be responsible for something if the very foundation of your actions was never yours to begin with?"

The second the words left your mouth, Hotch exhaled sharply through his nose, then scrubbed a hand down his face.

"You know what it feels like talking to you sometimes?" he muttered, shaking his head.

You raised an eyebrow. "Do enlighten me."

He let out a long-suffering sigh. "Like I can physically feel your fingers poking around inside my brain."

A slow grin spread across your face. "Did I rub the spot that itches?"

The look he gave you could’ve scorched metal. "No."

His glare was so Hotchner™ that it sent you completely over the edge. You laughed – loudly - and the unexpected force of it was enough to make Derek, who was sitting across the aisle, rip off his headphones with a frown. "Did - did Bossman just make a joke?"

Hotch turned to him with the exact same withering stare, as if that alone was enough to erase the last minute from existence. Which only made you laugh harder.

You wiped a tear from your eye, struggling to breathe. "He’s hilarious, isn’t he?" you managed between gasps, leaning back into your seat, while Hotch sat there looking like he was seriously considering whether the seat next to Rossi was available - and if relocating mid-flight was a viable option.

And yet -

Here he was now.

Doing the exact thing he’d always scolded you for.

Ending with a question.

Leaving it open-ended.

Again - like truth itself was something that couldn’t be pinned down - something that lived in the dialogue between two forces rather than in any single answer.

Like the moment you were sure you’d found it, it had already shifted into something else.

And much to your utter surprise - Hotch was looking directly at you as he said it. Was it acknowledgement?

Or maybe he’d finally started to see what you’d always known.

The best arguments never really ended, they just evolved.

Much like this cross-examination.

“Your honor, this is-” the attorney began, his voice strained.

“What do you want me to do?” the judge interrupted, giving him a stern look. “Either show us your Blackberry or cut him loose, counselor.”

The attorney swallowed hard, his confidence now thoroughly shattered. “Nothing further,” he muttered, retreating to his seat.

“Wise decision,” the judge said dryly. “Court will be adjourned until 9 a.m. tomorrow.” The gavel came down with a sharp crack, signaling the end of the session.

As the room began to empty, you stole another glance at Hotch, who was helping Cece Hillenbrand to gather their notes, completely unbothered by the absolute public execution he’d just performed. If you weren’t careful, you were going to need a good excuse for why you couldn’t stop smiling.

When the case finally wrapped, a few days later, you, Hotch, and Spencer were busy putting files back into the box for the drive home when Cece made her way over, phone in hand.

“It’s over,” she announced, a satisfied smile on her face. “Matloff’s pleading out.”

“Congratulations,” Hotch said, his tone polite but neutral, as she stepped closer - closer specifically to him, as if the rest of the room – ergo, you and the Doctor - didn’t exist.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” she added, voice warm, eyes locked on Hotch like he was the only person in the room.

Which was fascinating, considering you and Spencer were also standing right there.

Not that she seemed to notice - because apparently, furniture didn’t get acknowledged. You shot Spencer a side-eye just to confirm he was catching this absolutely shameless display.

He was.

"First round’s on me," she added, flashing an even wider smile, completely ignoring the fact that -unbelievably you and Spencer had also worked on the profile. But sure. All Hotch.

He barely held back a laugh, suddenly finding a very unnecessary interest in the files in front of him.

Meanwhile, Hotch didn’t miss a beat. "No, we’ll take a rain check. We’ve got a long drive," he said casually, already reaching for the evidence box. "Maybe another time."

A long drive?

Sure. If you considered three hours and forty minutes long.

You’d done worse on less sleep. Honestly, if Hotch wasn’t so insistent on driving all the time like it was some kind of sacred duty, you could’ve shaved at least forty minutes off that easily. And if he got tired, he knew you’d switch - just like you always did.

No. This wasn’t about the drive. Definitely not.

And the realization made your heart feel just a little lighter.

The moment Hillenbrand was out of earshot, Hotch turned back to you and Spencer with the nonchalance of a man who definitely hadn’t just sidestepped the most obvious invitation to spend the night with a woman who, by all accounts, was exactly his type.

"Where are we staying for dinner?" he asked, tone all business.

You raised an eyebrow. "Here?" You gave him a look that, if translated, would read: Are you serious?

"If it gets late, I can drive on the way back so you can rest," Hotch said, so earnestly matter-of-fact it was almost convincing—almost.

Either he completely missed your point, or he was choosing to ignore it.

Thankfully, Spencer wasn’t one to let things slide.

"Didn’t you just implicitly tell Mrs. Hillenbrand you couldn’t stay up late?" he asked, brows furrowed in genuine confusion.

You bit back a laugh, leaning casually against the table. "Yeah, Hotch," you echoed, tilting your head toward him with exaggerated innocence. "I thought we had a long drive ahead of us? Wouldn’t want to keep you up past your bedtime."

Hotch shot you and Spencer one of his looks, the desired effect unfortunately ruined by a twitch of his lips. “I figured you’d want a real meal before we hit the road”

Before you could throw another quip his way, Hotch lifted the evidence box and reached the door first, holding it open for you and Spencer. As you stepped through, you felt it - his hand, settling lightly at the small of your back, guiding you forward.

Brief. Fleeting. But it sent a shiver down your spine you tried to brush off the best you could.

It wasn’t the first time he’d done it – all of these overly-polite, instinctive gestures like that seemed second nature to him - but lately? It had been happening a lot more.

"Thanks, Hotch," you said, not sure whether you were thanking him for the touch or for the fact that chivalry just seemed to effortlessly exist within him - either way, you didn’t dare look at him.

"Of course," he replied.

Weird.

Again.

Still - not as weird as when he seemed to completely break character at the diner later that night.

It had started off normal enough - ordering, small talk, Spencer rattling off statistics about late-night dining habits until Hotch shot him a look that had him switching to stirring his coffee instead.

And then? Then Hotch had stolen a piece of your dessert.

Just casually reached over with his fork, sliced off a bite of your cheesecake like it belonged to him, and popped it into his mouth before you even had time to register what had happened.

"What the-" you stared at him, utterly scandalized.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look remotely guilty. Just set his fork down neatly and said, "To celebrate the victory."

You blinked. "That was my celebration."

"You were taking too long," he said, so matter-of-fact you almost choked.

Spencer, across the table, looked back and forth between the two of you like he was watching an alien encounter.

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, Hotch leaned back in his seat, sipping his coffee, and went off on a full tangent about his time in law school.

As if you hadn’t had enough of lawyers in the past few days because of him.

As if he hadn’t just stolen your damn dessert.

And yet - you let him talk.

Because there was something almost soft about it, the way his voice dipped slightly as he recounted late nights, textbooks, memorizing case law until his head ached. He wasn’t bragging - just reminiscing. Something about the way he spoke made it feel less like he was listing facts and more like he was inviting you into a part of his life that he rarely, if ever, shared.

And then, just as you were starting to enjoy it-

"You know," Spencer interjected, "technically, eating from someone else’s plate without permission is a form of food aggression, commonly observed in pack animals."

Hotch didn’t waste a second. "If you want a bite too, Reid, you can just ask the Professor."

Spencer went bright red.

You grinned, rolling your eyes. "Sure," you said easily, nudging your plate an inch closer. "And while you’re at it, go ahead - take another bite yourself. Since we’re apparently just ignoring the rules of polite society now."

Hotch met your gaze, unreadable for a moment. Then—without breaking eye contact—he reached forward with his fork, deliberately sliced off another bite of your cheesecake, and ate it.

Slowly.

Your jaw dropped.

You gasped, scandalized. "Aaron."

He barely blinked. "It’s a very good cake."

Your outrage. Your absolute disbelief. You weren’t sure whether you wanted to fight him or-

No. Fighting. Definitely fighting.

"So uncivilized…," you muttered.

You had never hated a man more in your life. He would pay for this. Someday.

"Well," you said finally letting out a nervous laugh, acknowledging the obviously abandoned booth empty except for you, Aaron, and was that… yes. Emily’s scarf. "Looks like it’s just the two of us."

Aaron smirked, looking straight into your eyes. "So it seems."

And of course you had to smile back, trying to keep things casual despite the very real, very undeniable fact that his gaze lingered just a second too long. Or maybe two – or three.

Must have been the beer - even though you knew far too well it would take a lot more than a few drinks to knock Aaron Hotchner into nonsense.

Especially when the silence that followed felt… weird.

Not uncomfortable, just strange enough to make you want to do something about it - something you’d been itching to do all night but hadn’t been able to, because apparently, you had to unpaidly babysit Spencer and entertain Rossi until the very man sitting across from you finally graced everyone with his presence.

"So…" You exhaled, tilting your head toward the dance floor. "Are we just going to rot in this booth all night, watching everyone else have fun?"

Aaron shook his head, already defensive. "I don’t rot."

"Oh, forgive me," you said." Incorrect wording choice, my dearest sir. Are we to simply remain here, languishing in solitude, whilst the rest of our merry company partakes in revelry and joyous abandon?"

Although, judging from the look he gave you, despite the linguistic accuracy, he wasn’t really fond of your impeccable sense of humor.

You sighed and gestured toward the dance floor, further solidifying your case. And - just in time to really drive your point home - even Spencer was now being dragged into the chaos in real-time. The Unit Chief truly could not rely on semantics this time.

A phenomenon so shocking that Aaron actually sat up slightly, his mouth opening as if to intervene, even before you could ask, "I don’t dance," he said.

You scoffed. "Liar."

Because oh, you would never forget the day you first found out that him, of all people, was actually a very good dancer.

Which was exactly why you should have known better.

If only you had been thinking with your brain instead of getting distracted by the way his biceps and veiny forearms flexed when he leaned his elbows on the table, you might have realized what he was actually saying:

"I don’t dance… with you."

Not tonight.

Not when he was still, every once in a while, subtly checking to see if your dress had somehow shifted a shade darker shade of navy blue - or if it was still black.

So thorough, Aaron. Really.

And so, instead of admitting any of that, he just huffed, reaching for another excuse. "They don’t play old songs for old people like me."

An impressive effort - really. Especially considering the Rihanna song currently blasting in the background.

Even more impressive? The fact that this exact song - the one he had just written off as not for his demographic - was one of many he had been singing at full volume in the car on the way to the bar.

And he had felt so relieved that you’d never come to know that particular detail. Which made it all the sweeter when, instead of humoring him, you simply-

Stood up.

No teasing. No cat and mouse. Just turned on your heel and disappeared into the sea of sweaty, dancing bodies.

That…

That wasn’t the plan. Or, at least, it was supposed to be his win.

Except now, he was the one sitting there.

Alone.

In that rotting booth.

Watching the dance floor.

Watching for you.

Catching glimpses of you as people moved, blocking and unblocking you like a shifting tide.

And he hated it. Truly.

So when, inevitably, a song old enough to be considered "an old song for old people like him" - despite being a timeless disco classic and released eleven years after he was born (but hey, that’s the oldest a bar DJ could get) - started playing through the speakers…

He knew his fate was sealed.

Dancing Queen. How ironic. This must have been the national holiday of "let’s all make fun of Aaron Hotchner."

And so, because his earlier conditions had been rendered completely inefficient, you were back at the booth within seconds, ready to claim your hostage.

Quite literally the happiest hostage.

"I do not dance," he tried again, but it was already too late, you were grinning, already tugging him up by the arm.

"Come on," you insisted, already swaying, already singing - "’Cause you can dance, you can jiiiiiiiive…’"

You linked your arm through his, looping it like something straight out of a Regency-era ball, because if the man was so insistent on playing up his age tonight, then he might as well fully commit, embracing some proper old-fashioned social etiquette while you were at it.

He half-protested, half-laughed - despite himself - as you dragged him toward the dance floor.

On the outside? He looked like a dried prune.

Scowling.

Trying desperately to suppress every ridiculous flutter in his stomach as you danced right next to him - casually grabbing his shoulders, sliding your hand along his biceps, anything, really, just to let him loosen up.

And, most importantly, since you were a rancorous little thing, to embarrass him.

So, carefree, you pointed straight at him during the chorus, belting out, "Dancing Queen, young and sweet, only seventeen!"

…Really?

Aaron faltered, frowning. "I’m forty-two."

And somehow, that tiny moment of confusion cracked his defenses.

He laughed.

And just like that, you had him - always had him, if he were honest.

It’s just that this moment - maybe in its genuineness, in the memories that pulled him back - was making it so much harder to fight.

Because just like now, you had dragged him onto the dance floor nine years ago, on that ridiculous night when you had somehow convinced him to dance to that choreographed routine of "It’s All Coming Back to Me Now."

Again, how ironic, because now- as he danced with you, nowhere near as gracefully as that night, but laughing anyway, belting out off-key lyrics with you, twirling you just for the joke-

It was all coming back to him.

No need to fight the fall anymore.

You were both undeniably off-key, the dance moves were questionable at best, and there were far too many exaggerated hand gestures and mock performances happening between the two of you.

But for once, he wasn’t overthinking.

Wasn’t pulling away.

Wasn’t bracing himself against the idea of enjoying something just because.

Because, just like he could be himself alone in his car, singing off-tune with the windows rolled up, so could he be himself with you.

No fear, no hesitation. Just this. Falling for someone in a way that wasn’t grand or poetic.

Not a bunch of doves trained to spell your name in the sky.

Not a dramatic sunrise over a canyon shaped like a heart.

Not a sweeping declaration in the middle of a rainstorm.

Not the kind of love that finds its pleasure after pain.

Just a bar, a stupid song and you.

He was yours.

But would you be his?

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

I MIIIIGHT HAVE FORGOTTEN SOME NEW TAG SORRRYYYYY I'M DUMBBBBB, tell me if I did AAAAAA SORRYYYY

[solxamber]

Savannahclaw, 3, fluff

Here and Now || Ruggie Bucchi

For the Holiday Event! || Prompt: "I'll always be here", Genre: Fluff

The clock on the wall blinks 11:30 PM when the door finally creaks open. You look up from your spot on the couch, cozy under a blanket, to see Ruggie dragging himself inside, his steps slow and heavy. His uniform is rumpled, his hair sticking out in random places, and his ever-present grin is nowhere to be found.

"I'm so sorry," he says, voice a mix of guilt and exhaustion. He drops his bag by the door and rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. "I know I told ya to wait for me, but...ugh, there was so much stuff today. Too many gigs, and then Leona wanted somethin’ done last minute—"

"Ruggie," you interrupt, and he stops rambling to glance up at you hesitantly. "It’s okay."

"Okay?" His ears twitch, and he blinks at you like he can’t believe his own. "You’re not mad?"

You shake your head, offering him a small smile. "I’m not mad. Disappointed, maybe, but not mad. I know how hard you work, Ruggie. I’m not gonna hold it against you."

"But..." He fidgets, wringing his hands. "We didn’t even get to go on our date. You waited all day, and I just—"

"Ruggie," you cut him off again, your tone a little firmer this time. "I’d rather eat instant ramen on the couch with you than go to some fancy place with someone else. You know that, right?"

He stares at you for a moment, his tired expression softening into something warm and vulnerable. "You really mean that?"

"Of course I mean it." You stand and walk over to him, placing your hands gently on his shoulders. "Now, go sit down. I’ll microwave something, and we can call it a five-star dining experience."

He lets out a breathy laugh, his tail swishing behind him. "You’re somethin’ else, y'know that?"

As Ruggie collapses onto the couch, you throw together the most basic meal you can manage with what’s in the fridge—a mishmash of leftovers and a packet of instant noodles.

It’s terrible, barely edible, but when you sit next to him on the couch, eating out of mismatched bowls with plastic forks, it somehow feels perfect.

Ruggie chuckles between bites, his foot nudging yours playfully. "This ain't half bad. Real ‘gremlin cuisine.’"

You snort, almost choking on your food. "We should open a restaurant. Call it The Trash Den."

"Only if you’re the head chef," he says, grinning now, his exhaustion fading bit by bit.

You roll your eyes but can’t stop your own smile. The glow of the TV flickers across the room, the two of you bundled under a shared blanket as you lean into his side. The tension in his shoulders finally eases, and he looks down at you, his expression softer than you’ve ever seen it.

"Thanks for waitin’ for me," he says quietly, his voice filled with more sincerity than usual. "I know I’m not the easiest guy to stick around with, but...I’ll always try to make it worth it. I promise."

You rest your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes. "I’ll always be here, Ruggie. No matter what."

The rest of the night passes in peaceful contentment, your makeshift dinner long forgotten as you drift off against him, the weight of the day replaced with the simple comfort of being together.

Masterlist

[snuggleboots]

₊˚♡˚₊ The Akatsuki, communicating their love ₊˚♡˚₊

₊˚♡˚₊ feat. Itachi, Kisame, Kakuzu, and Hidan ₊˚♡˚₊

Tags: Fluff, mishmash of random headcanons, general cutesy relationship stuff.

♡ Kisame communicates his love in various ways, but it's always most sincere in the little things he does. If you're both walking up a flight of stairs, he'll always walk behind, just so he can steal a kiss without having to lean down a bit to reach you. Usually, he'll follow that up with a stupid little, 'How's it feel to be the tall one for once?'

♡ He's a man who likes to sleep in, but when you're sleeping with him, it's his god-given duty to wake you up with some combination of stupid, sleepy shenanigans. It typically starts with some needlessly aggressive cuddling while he's waking up, which becomes a smattering of kisses and little nips dealt wherever he can reach, and eventually develops into... either cackling over your groggy irritation or moving into a little extra lovin', if you feel up to it.

♡ Cuteness aggression is a real thing, and it's his curse. If your tongue pokes out just a little bit when you're thinking hard or focused on something, if you flex your toes like a little cat when you stretch, or purse your lips when you're frustrated - he's gonna bite you. Always does. He can't help it, he gets the impulse to squish you, bite you, pinch, or bully you a little bit when you're minding your business, doing things that he finds objectively precious. You make his teeth itch when he catches you off guard, and you flash him those big eyes, and- UGH.

♡ Now, he isn't the perfect listener by any means, but Kisame is very attentive when tiffs happen in the relationship. He listens with the full intention to learn and solve the problem, and if things get a bit heated he'll calm himself down and ask you to back up and explain why you're upset. He doesn't make a habit of taking himself too seriously, which really helps him navigate rough patches well.

♡ Your personal space is his preferred space. You're stretched out, reading a book or resting your eyes? It doesn't matter where you're hanging out, that's still just as good as an invitation in his books. When he saunters on over and nonchalantly plonks his entire body weight on top of you, he doesn't even have the courtesy to say sorry for the disturbance. Nope, he's on a mission, hooking his arms around your waist and just burying his face in your belly. You're warm, you smell so nice, and he's livin' large on cloud nine, which means you're stuck there until he's decided he's had his fill for a bit.

♡ Itachi's a man with simple wants and simple displays of love. If your days are busy and he's tucking into bed before you are, he'll cosy up on your side to keep it warm until you're ready to join him for the night. It's a little silly, a little cute, watching a man like him streeeetch right out when you meander into the bedroom, and unceremoniously shimmy back over to his side before settling in and promptly passing out. That is, however, a quiet little token of his affection.

♡ He's perceptive about things you don't enjoy doing, and especially things you tend to stress about. Without so much as mentioning it, he'll tend to the little things like that just to take them off your plate. If you're sick or in pain, Itachi is more than content to take care of you. Sorry, it's a small facet of who he is, to tend to the very few people he cares about. The man also cooks, and pretty damned well at that. His breakfasts are a cure-all when you're feeling like absolute garbage.

♡ There is such a thing as an 'Uchiha pout', and he weaponizes it for petty reasons and to ridiculous extents. He isn't always just some stone-faced caricature of a stoic, and it's brilliantly displayed when you deny his simple requests, such as relaxing after a long day, curled up on the couch with him when he's having a low-energy, no spoons left kind of day.

♡ Yes, he wants to settle his weight into your side and just be - or better yet, rest his head on your shoulder and soak up some easy, effortless affection until he's feeling a bit better. (Please card your fingers through his hair, he won't nod off again, really-) If you really have the audacity to say no - and he will call it that - you're going to see him purse his lips, pinch his brows and angle his face away from you like some kind of disappointed housecat. 'You make me lonely', he'll halfheartedly mumble, because it's a guilt trip that works and he's fully aware of that fact. No, he does not feel bad about it, either.

♡ Kakuzu's 'love language' exists in subtle acts of service and physical touch, generally shared in private. No, he's not going to say he loves you, but he can show you that your presence doesn't irritate the part of his brain that makes him want to shove his fist through someone's skull.

♡ When the seasons turn and you inevitably wind up freezing cold every goddamn night, he's content to settle beside you on the couch and tuck your chilly feet under his leg while he unwinds with a good book. There's no need to fill the silence, just let it be and enjoy the moment. You're cosy, he's relatively happy, and for all intents and purposes, you two are set to have a wonderful, quiet night.

♡ And since Kakuzu's a habitual early riser, you're typically still snoring long after he's up and ready for the day. When it's time for him to get up and get dressed, he'll flop his blanket - because he sure as hell doesn't share one - over your head before he turns on the light to get dressed. When he's done and the light's out he'll pull it down and be on his way without having disturbed your sleep.

♡ On the odd time that you're waking up with him, he'll slip by while you're getting dressed and steal a kiss to your shoulder.

♡ When his nail polish is chipped and it's time to reapply, he'll let you do it. For one, it's less for him to do, but! It's also a little token of trust on his part to toss you the polish, plop his hand in your lap, and grumble something like, 'Don't paint my damn fingers this time'. You probably still manage to flood his cuticles, which he will grumble about, but it's the thought that counts.

♡ Hidan's love can sometimes be compared to that of a fat, obnoxious housecat. If he's off-duty when you're trying to enjoy some free time, he is firmly wedged up your ass because he likes attention and you actually listen to him when he talks about... whatever's bouncing around in his head.

♡ Lounging on the couch when he's just coming in from a month on the road? Haha, sucks to be you actually, because he's instantly ripping through the living room at terminal velocity, with full intentions of divebombing your sorry ass before you have the chance to scramble up and evade him. You're still wheezing from impact, and this guy's already launching into a tirade about every little gripe he's had about his mission. 'Kakuzu was a dick, the ration bars taste like shit, the coil broke on my scythe and, and, and...'

♡ Hidan loves a good late-night hangout, so he's usually around to burn time with you when you can't sleep. Even when you don't feel like talking, he always fills the silence himself by chatting your ear off about whatever comes to mind. Sometimes it's just life stuff, other times it's his interests - and often, he'll animorph into a used cars salesman for Jashinism. You expect it, he loves that you actually listen and engage with him.

♡ 'You only get to die if you lived, no matter how great or shitty your life was, get it? Seeing the end is a privilege', he'll mutter into the lip of a half-full mug. When you're tired at the table, jolting upright after accidentally dozing off for the fifth time during his proselytizing, Hidan will slide you a cup of something that'll keep you fucking wired for the night. It's not to be a dick, obviously, but you're listening! And this is important shit! 'Diseased, crippled, or fuckin'... broke; at the end of the day, you're alive, and your pain's recognised by Lord Jashin. Suffering is a gift imparted, that only the living receive, and...' something something Jashin is great, and you should probably definitely convert.

♡ He's claimed half of your bed, and sleeping with him fucking sucks. He sleeps like a starfish and steals the blankets, and you're not waking him up unless you feel like investing some serious effort into doing so. He snores, and on the nights that he winds up sleeping half on top of you, you have to deal with the fact that he drools like a dog and sleeps with his mouth hanging open. You don't wanna deal with that? Tough shit, you're comfy, and somehow your bed is just waaaaay better than his. Okay? Okay.

[maggotmuncher0]

Do you ever just mishmash random beetles together and make a fake beetle or are you always drawing a real guy

i mostly draw real beetles, because i want to teach others how to appreciate and love nature. Some people who had fear of marine creatures/insects told me that after seeing my drawings they became less afraid! So that's basically the purpose of my art

By the way, you can ask me on my main account, it's absolutely okay!

[annahxredaxted]

Need your Milo Rebane hcs STAT

AYYY YES OKAY FOR SURE

1. He’s a very good cook. He doesn’t like to eat out, because he prefers to know what he’s eating and who’s preparing it. Even if its a nice restaurant he just prefers home cooked.

2. Is a jogger. He goes on random jogs because he likes the appearance of keeping up with himself. He also is an AVID gym goer, definitely has a lot of people claiming him as their “gym crush”

3. He does have a couple casual hookups, usually at his house on his terms.

4. ^ but he hasn’t slept with anyone casually since sweetheart, he’s not sure why. The clan members were confused at the lack of traction going into his home.

5. ABSOLUTELY JACKED, even with the vampiric strength, he is so buff you wouldn’t even think it’s from his magical abilities.

6. Will ask sweetheart if they want to come over, usually to “ask them for help” about random things, but it usually leads to them on his bed again.

7. Scared of commitment. He knows he wants sweetheart, he knows he wants exclusivity, but is terrified that they’ll think he’s coming on too strong and he knows it won’t last forever (unless…)

8. His childhood he was extremely poor, so with his newfound wealth he is big spender. He buys lots and lots of nice decor, nice clothes, gold jewelry, watches, cufflinks etc.

9. Once when sweetheart came over to “help out” he noticed their rims were busted and their bumper was damn near falling off. He bought them a car. Like. A new car. In cash.

^Obviously they couldn’t accept it until he begged and guaranteed it barely put a knock in his account.

10. He loves biting, but he’s always cautious. Very cautious. Once he bit and noticed them getting lightheaded and didn’t bite again for quite a while.

11. When he notices sweetheart getting anxious or upset, he tries to help them breathe, constantly listening to their heart and doing breathing exercises with them.

12. He likes the bashfulness, he gets cocky when their shy and sweet to him. It’s not a usual attitude he receives from his life so he always smiles.

13. Because the Fooliverse is mishmashed I’m saying he’s at least 6’1

14. The morning after their first time sweetheart woke him up gently and quietly and awkwardly asked if they could use his shower in the sweetest voice he’d ever heard, and died from cuteness aggression.

- “can I borrow your shower really quick..?”

-…. “Uh.. y-yeah sure, knock yourself out.”

15. Definitely uses a sauna and afterwards him getting out is the hottest thing ever.

FREAKATHON TIME

WILL MAKE YOU ASK, he won’t do anything unless it’s explicitly stated that’s exactly what you want. No bullshit implications. He likes the redness when they’re trying to tell him but can’t.

SIT ON HIS FACE. He likes it. He loves it. Kill him. It’s not like you can that easily.

Bites anywhere and everywhere. He asks if you want him to heal it but secretly he likes looking at it in the morning. His big silky pjs hanging off your shoulder, a cute little bite mark on your collar bone. he will combust.

Has gotten hard just from looking at sweetheart. Genuinely. They were talking to him about something, made a gesture unintentionally, their face looking up at him in such a way.

He buys them so so so many new clothes and makes them try them on for him. Like fashion show. It usually ends without any clothes on either of them.

When going down on them, he likes to look up slightly, and watch their facial expressions to gauge what works and what doesn’t. (And bc he likes to watch)

Once told them to touch themself while he watched, he liked the embarrassed expression they held.

When sweetheart is going down on him he is such a praiser, talking about how good they are, how well their doing, how good it feels etc etc, he has a hand in their hair, moving it to their cheek to admire their face.

[patheticpoems]

heyy! If it's fine with you, I'd love for u to mention ur whole journey with loass, how and when exactly in ur journey did u end up manifesting ur dream life, (like go into detail as much as possible if u can cz i love hearing ppl yap about how much the law or void has changed their life) and if u ever had any doubts and if yes then how did u tackle them, etc, etc.

Also, I absolutely loveee ur blog, so thankyou so much for taking out ur time to write all these valuable posts!

TYSM LOVELY this is very messy and the order is very..... not comprehensive imo but bear with me😞 I swear I'll make a cleaner version at some point dating back even before I got into loass maybe

okay so my journey with loass started back in 2021 i believe? I was introduced to it throught the solar subliminals creators code and at the time that really caused like an influx of posts to start coming up. I wasn't on any apps at the time (I'd occasionally use amino or ig but you can understand how these weren't the most active or very comprehensive, didn't feel like I was informed enough - which rlly, you don't need to be, you don't need to know the works of something for it to function for you - but that lead me to installing tumblr. I had heard a lot about the community so I was interested in seeing what's up and christ, it really was different. At the time there were many creators who have now deactivated but there were a lot and I mean a lot of good posts I even had a loass blog by a diff name then.

I think the paragraphs of text accompanied by the aesthetics really just lures you in more, but in a sense i think I was enjoying reading other peoples success stories more than having my own. at the time I understood how loass works and I had a lot of the same opinions I do now but the weird this, is that the thing that was having me not try is a mishmash of I never felt the need to and also I lacked discipline. Consistency was a very hard thing for me, I'd always flip flop, go back and fourth on everything. I'd get these random moments of motivation, tell myself I'll stay consistent and listen to this subliminal playlist till I have what I want but ironically, I somehow didn't realise that I was still putting the power outside of my own hands, that I was still assuming I didn't have it because I didn't see it. Which for me was very surprising you could say. I always felt i was in power, not as a person but as more and I don't mean that in a corny way but it was more so because I had my own opinions about who we are, what we are, which can now be explained as pure consciousness, awareness.

For a long time I struggled mostly because I didn't care? Like i felt like I should, I felt I should have strong emotions over what I'm getting but for me it was really just meh. Like nothing. It wasn't like I hadn't manifested deliberately, I have but only a couple. The mistake I was making is acknowledging what I didn't want. Its like imagine I tell you, "pretend I didn't say that" and you went and repeated what I said back to me, I was doing that to myself, I wasn't paving my own path, I was reacting to whatever I saw.

The tackling part kind of came easier for me, mostly because I someone who can detach from things very easily or just blatantly ignore them very quickly. What I particularly had trouble with was feeling like I was doing it well. I'm not someone who actively thinks, matter of fact I rarely hear my voice in my head, so I always feel like I'm watching a silent film so it felt hard for me to know what my assumptions were. That was something I had to suck up. If I didn't know how I naturally felt about it I'd assume that its obviously that I have my assumptions. It was very annoying somewhat, but I'd try not to linger on it and just forget about it, go on with my life.

My success came earlier this year since it was when I finally decided I had like a lot of things I wanted and I was ready for them to come to fruition. I felt an actual desire for them which for me was usually hard to have.

[valeriefauxnom]

More Dragalia Minor Mistakes (Or, when Dragalia's writers and/or translators failed a lore check)...

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Dragalia was surprisingly astute to the general mass of lore it had. That being said, it's only natural that a few mistakes or lore contradictions would slip through the cracks over years of development, perhaps staff coming and going, yadda yadda. Consider this just the second of small logs of whatever I've noticed, throughout my meanderings through the wiki and more!

First up, we're starting today's category with 'technology', namely, the humble abacus. Dragalia's mishmash of technology is understandable, since they've been artificially kept in a state of technological limbo until canon time. And of their technology, we know that the abacus is something that's been lost to most of the world, it seems.

It's Xiao Lei's whole thing, for the rest of the cast to be amazed at how fast she's able to do math with, how cool that is, etc etc. It's this special Taiwuan thing that might save the scientists in Alberia a lot of work!

One problem: this random NPC, very Alberian, shopkeep also is randomly using one, to no amazement by the cast.

Whoops.

More relevant to the main story, though, Phares once incurs a small case of brainfog and mistakes the name of his own terminal illness:

This one I think I can reasonably provide a rationale for this being a translator's error, perhaps one who hadn't dealt with Phares or at least dealt with him for a while. Why? Wyrmscale is more literally in Japanese 'dragon scale - itis', (or, 竜鱗病, ryu urin byou, ryu=dragon, urin=scale, byo = character for 'sickness'), so a translator might have read that and just translated it literally instead of checking whatever lore docs they might have had that they'd already called it 'wyrmscale' in English!

Also related to the lore, this next one's more of a case of later lore contradicting the earlier one, and boy is it petty quibbling on my end.

In short, take a look at this dialogue from Elysium:

See anything wrong? No?

Well, my problem is the use of the word 'young' here! It is the singular word that goes against lore here, as I can't exactly argue against his opinion claim of 'immature!'

We've no less than three other canon sources at least that instead frame humans as a species as among the first in the universe, right along with dragons!

So, yes, Elysium, you're not wrong to call humans 'immature', but to call their species 'young'???? You know better than that! (no he didn't, since this dialogue came before any of the other contradictions here, I believe, but it's still technically an error!)

If we're on a dragon kick, pop quiz: who was Alberius' first pactbound dragon?

Some of you might be yelling 'MIDGARDSORMR' as others yell 'CHTHONIUS', and then you both might hypothetically look at each other and feel confused. Well, you may be glad to know that this was a genuine lore contradiction instead of one of you being 'wrong'.

It's understandable why people thought both options, even aside from the lore confusion. Midgardsormr as the first to really start hanging out with him, or Chthonius as the dragon he was tied body and soul to in the end, who literally merged with him?

Overall, I'm more of the 'Chthonius' side for what they ultimately intended, as we also see other descriptions painstakingly spell out that Mids was the 'first dragon to personally meet Alberius' instead of just saying 'pact with Alberius', and one slipped through the cracks, but still! These minor lore slip ups are what I'm cataloguing here. Honestly, between this, the non-pact slip-up with Brunhilda in the previous post I made, and other things like Alberius slapping Jupiter, he sure had a lot of pacting 'fun' and drama, huh?

Now I'll return to the royal fam lore drama. A long long time ago, I made a post explaining how the family says their names, as is said by their siblings. Some (Phares, cough cough) shooketh me greatly, as the aforementioned example's name might more phonetically be rendered 'Farez' to me instead of the 'Fairays' I was running with more since in my brain I was connecting it to words like "pharaoh" instead.

But I realized I overlooked their father's name. From what I'm seeing, only Audric says his own real name, as everyone else wants to call him His Majesty, Father, or the King.

And here's the doozy: his dementia aura he gives everyone has also been affecting he himself, because he says HIS OWN NAME two different ways!

Here's the relevant soundbites to demonstrate what I mean:

Here, we see one 'Or - Ray - Li - Us' and one 'Or - Rel - ii - Us'

I thiiink we see 'Ray' version twice vs the one time of 'Rel', but this more seems to be a division between his base form and Gala form.

I did a bit more digging, and we've also Gala Gatov... but his pronunciation is so foggy that it's remarkably hard to tell if he's saying 'Ray' 'Rel' or 'Ril', though I overall lean towards 'Rel' on a slowdown!

So... yeah. I guess it's ultimately up to you guys how you wanna say his name, because they sent mixed signals in English!

(As a bonus I'll just throw this other soundbite out here for any of you guys curious about how to say Vio Rhyse Alberia, since it's become a minor battle cry for the fandom in their grief)

Huh... you know, that might actually be a great place to meld into my final example!

'Vio Rhyse Alberia' is suggested once to mean 'Glory to Alberia'. Presumably, it's not just their modern language nor another real one, since we don't really see them bust out other similar phrases. Heck, even Audric's pronunciation here is a slight warp from the standard 'Al-beer-ia' with whatever little roll he's doing with the 'r' in there.

Specifically, it's likely 'Ancient Alberian', a language that Elisanne ID's as existing in ch.13, and one Phares is also likely able to read for him to be able to get the stuff it's written on up and working (+the fact he's specifically talented in 'ancient languages' plural).

This is... well, a big 'Hum' moment, in that while I cannot think of a way in which it makes sense, it's not as cut-and-dry as the others for 'this says x, this says y'.

If we're talking early Ilian church, specifically, this dates this machine to about 1k years ago, during the golden age of humanity and Ilia. It makes sense, since alchemy was also in its heyday then.

The thing is that Alberia just flat-out didn't exist until 300 years ago, until Alberius created it. With how similar 'Alberius' and 'Alberia' are in name, one might have presumed he named it after himself. But let's excuse that little bit, and just say it's a root that stems from earlier language in the same way humans are often named after objects even to this day.

It's still a bit confusing - this puts Ilia in a weird place to where she's fully comprehend-able to our modern crew and vice-versa despite seemingly speaking this different language. Ilia even seems to share a similar slang culture, with her joining the crew in occasionally butchering French on purpose (toot sweet in place of tout de suite). I might be tempted to excuse it like how English has developed, from a point where its written variety has greatly developed even when most of the words they were saying/writing are understandable, but this again is troubled by the existence of 'Vio Rhyse Alberia', a phrase that is clearly not a 'normal part' of their language.

This is giving me weird ideas where Ilia is speaking in this really ancient dialect that's just barely understandable to the modern day crew, kinda like how we can kinda piece out even some Old English or Latin with vocabulary even when it's written entirely differently. Take the good old people doing Old English covers of songs, where we see 'Irish-made' in a Pumped Up Kicks translation turned to 'Írisc-worht', which to me I can piece together 'Irish' from the first word and get reminded of 'wrought' from the second, which is a word that means, well, made from.

I digress. The best way I can really excuse the name is honestly a bit funny: that historians and all those scholars retroactively decided to call this language they (re)discovered 'Ancient Alberian' just because the land that they discovered it on or something is now Alberia, long enough before that the Church was able to pick it up again and start teaching kids it.

Alternatively, that there was a historical Alberia that Alberius stole the name from, that Euden would then go on to steal from Alberius when naming his own kingdom. "That's Alberia, this is Alberia, are there any more Alberias I should know about? Meow (says Leonidas' 'Alberia' reformed under his sovereignty)"

Sigh. Make of it what you will. But there's something funky going on in the linguistical history of Alberia here. The way I've personally decided to sweep it under the rug is treating them as spoken similarly enough for Alberius-Ilia-Euden to all mutually comprehend (Alberius additionally trapped in a cave and serving as a perfect time capsule of his language at the time), but the written form has warped far too much for any of them to understand each other. Still doesn't explain Vio Rhyse but hey, blame other lost language's influence or something and boom.

That's enough rambling on my end, however. If you've any other plot holes or lore failure checks, though, please let me know!

[king-candybug-backup]

Hey, what does sinstar look like?... I have a feeling I want to cook something

CONSIDER ME EXTREMELY CURIOUS?????

So the character from the original arcade game looks like this, he's basically just a floating spaceship head:

But if you're talking the fic Cy-bug form specifically, I picture him as something kinda like this (warning for EXTREMELY rough and rushed sketch lol):

Basically I figure he'd be mostly like a normal Cy-bug, just bigger and with Sinistar's face and general colour scheme (as a side note, I didn't include the mishmash of weapons he attached to himself in chapter 2 because I am bad at drawing weapons lol, but he's just going around eating random stuff for the power-ups, so that's not super important in how it looks imo lol)

[tomose]

[Someday, in the Kitchen Where Echoes Smile] Chapter 7 Translation

MITHRA: Whatever. So did that get your day back?

Mithra suddenly looked up at me.

After blinking once or twice, I finally understood his words.

AKIRA: Oh… Oh! That was– Were you trying to cheer me up?

MITHRA: Yeah. Anyway, please make that thin, crispy-looking thing.

I couldn’t help but let out a chuckle.

AKIRA: (So that was Mithra’s attempt at comforting me. I mean, if I’m being honest, it took me a hot minute to process what he said. But…)

Mithra made a beeline for the door; I followed him out of the pantry.

AKIRA: Wait for me, Mithra!

By the way, I really appreciate the gesture. I’ve bounced back all thanks to you!

MITHRA: Mhm, is that so?

Good for you.

AKIRA: Hello again, everyone. Mithra and I are back.

LENNOX: Glad you could join us.

CAIN: We’ve got the salad and soup figured out; Nero just finished writing down the recipes.

AKIRA: Wrote down?

NERO: I’m not a natural at giving explanations like our Teach or Rutile, so instead…

RIQUET: Oh, I made the suggestion. The way it goes is that we all get to prep and cook individually while following Nero’s recipe notes. And from there, he will be going around to assist or offer guidance as necessary.

Nero typically teaches me and Mitile this way whenever we’re trying our hand at cooking.

AKIRA: I see! That’s a smart method.

SNOW: Full recipe list: Ready! All members: Present! Let the cooking class begin!

ALL: Roger!

NERO: The soup of the day is what I call "Late Winter Soup a La Brute Force".

LENNOX: Brute... force…

NERO: Chuck this unholy mishmash of ingredients in the pot and season heavily. Wing it until the flavors come together.

FIGARO: From your explanation alone, I can tell we have our work cut out for us.

NERO: To soak up the flavors, I need the carrots cut into bite-sized pieces.

*demonstrates* About this big.

All right, I’ll leave it to you three. Call me if you need help.

FIGARO & SNOW & LENNOX: Copy that.

FIGARO: …There, that should do it.

LENNOX: You’re fast, Dr. Figaro. Not to mention, your cuts are exactly like the samples Nero prepared.

FIGARO: Yeah, well, I consider myself a quick and adept learner.

You’re good with your hands, but… Aren’t those a little too chunky?

LENNOX: Well, now that you mention it… Then again, isn’t this what you’re looking for when you say “bite-size”?

RIQUET: Nero! I tried cutting some carrots. Can you check if I got the size right?

NERO: Let’s see here…

FIGARO: Oh, perfect timing. Looks like Riquet brought up the same question.

Nero, Riquet, could you do a quick comparison with Leno’s carrots?

RIQUET: Gladly. Here’s what I have.

LENNOX: These are mine and these are Nero’s samples.

RIQUET & LENNOX: With all three batches lined up…

LENNOX: I can see that mine are too big, while Riquet’s are on the smaller side.

I think I was too focused on the word “bite-sized” that I ended up using my definition as the standard.

RIQUET: Same here…

NERO: Maybe I didn’t explain it well enough… Then again, randomness is what makes late winter soup a real treat. Keep doing what you’re doing.

Once we get to the boiling stage, let’s throw Mr. Shepherd’s carrots in the pot before everything else, then add Riquet’s a little later.

RIQUET: Got it! I’ll advise Master Sage and Cain to follow the sample cuts as precisely as possible.

SNOW: …Aaaand done! Ta-da: A cutie carrot!

FIGARO: No wonder you’ve been uncharacteristically quiet this whole time, Master Snow. You should know better than to play with food…

SNOW: Hey, I’m not playing around! If you’re looking for cuteness in a bowl, garnishing is the way to go!

NERO: Err… Correct me if I’m wrong–is that single piece of carrot all you got? Where… is the rest…?

SNOW: Nothing to correct~

NERO: I-I see… If you could… kindly pick up the pace…

FIGARO: Sorry about that, Nero.

Master Snow, enough with the cutie so-and-so; please get down to business.

SNOW: Aww…

LENNOX: What’s the harm in letting Master Snow have a little fun? Plus, if we learn how to carve garnishing, I’m sure it will bring a smile to Mitile's and Rutile’s faces.

Master Snow, how about you carve a few more cutie carrots then cut the rest into regular pieces? Dr. Figaro and I can help.

SNOW: Yahoo! Thanks, Lenny–this is why you’re the GOAT! No one at the Magic Manor can top you at being the bigger wizard!

FIGARO: Oh, for goodness’ sake…

RUSTICA: Tear up each leaf of lettuce as small as possible… Smaller makes it easier to digest…

MITHRA: *sigh* Ugh, my shoulders feel stiff…

Why are we stuck doing this anyway?

RUSTICA: Well, if I had to guess, it’s because our attempts at knife work ended up with the red bell peppers and tomatoes and chopping boards and knives flying everywhere.

So Nero put us in complete charge of this prep work instead—including everyone’s share—stressing how lettuce is the star ingredient of the salad. What an honor it is to be entrusted with such a crucial task.

Speaking of which, how small a piece are we talking about?

MITHRA: Search me… Isn’t it quicker to just ask Nero yourself?

<<Arthim>>

NERO: Ack…! Mithra, what the heck! Did you really have to Arthim when it’s such a short distance? You almost gave me a heart attack, sheesh…

RUSTICA: Hello there, Instructor Nero. Do you mind if we ask a question?

MITHRA: How small do we have to tear up the lettuce?

NERO: Oh… You mean those teeny tiny pieces? Ripped the hell out of it, didn’t you?

Yeah, that’ll do. Scrape everything into a bowl–

RUSTICA: Oh, are we done? In that case, may I try my hand at soup-making? Let's see, where is the knife I was using earlier? I'm sure it's in here somewhere.

MITHRA: And I’ve got some frying to do. What temperature should the oil be? High enough to burn?

NERO: Wait! Hold it! I take back what I said!!

RUSTICA & MITHRA: Hm?

NERO: Tear it up smaller, yeah? I know you can. You guys are crushing it.

MITHRA: ? Mhm, if you say so.

RUSTICA: Tearing up these lettuce pieces smaller than they already are seems to be a challenging undertaking.

Mithra, let’s do our best together.

The restaurant was filled with the rhythmic chopping of knives, the clinking-clanking of utensils, as well as the joyous laughter of company.

I couldn’t help but break into a grin while brushing egg wash on the pie crust with Riquet and Cain.

AKIRA: (I’m glad Lennox and Figaro made that suggestion ‘cause this hardly feels like a formal cooking class. Instead, we’re just enjoying an open and engaging time of fixing a meal together.)

CAIN: All that’s left is to pop this in the oven, right?

RIQUET: Do you think our apple pie will turn out delicious?

CAIN: You bet! How could it not, when you read through the recipe over and over?

RIQUET: Oh, tell me about it. Someone had to make up for your slapdash way of doing things, Cain.

Had I not double-checked, we would have gotten the number of eggs and the amount of sugar wrong among other things…

CAIN: That’s definitely my bad. You’re a lifesaver, Riquet, you know that? I really appreciate it.

Moving on, the last on our list is frying schnitzel–now this one’s right up my alley. I better seize my chance to impress!

AKIRA: Give it your best shot, Cain!

AKIRA: (Now where was I? Pound the meat flat: Check. Season: Check. Grind breadcrumbs: Also check. Next is…)

NERO: How’s it going, you three?

AKIRA: Hi, Nero.

RIQUET: So far so good.

CAIN: Vegetables are chopped for the salad; the apple pie is in the oven. Also, the soup is simmering at low heat right now.

We're about to get started with breading some schnitzel.

NERO: Good going. That's what I like to hear.

Phew, you guys are a godsend...

AKIRA: (Something tells me everyone else encountered some difficulties…)

RIQUET: Nero! Please watch us shallow-fry some schnitzels!

NERO: I got you. Ready when you are.

CAIN: Thanks. Lemme check the recipe real quick here… It says, “Heat a generous amount of cooking oil in a frying pan.”

Hmm, this much?

AKIRA: (Whoa?! That’s generous, all right!)

NERO: Hey, uh, Mr. Knight? Sorry, I totally messed up my wording there. You’ll only need this much oil for shallow frying…

CAIN: Oh, yeah. Emphasis on “shallow”, huh? My bad. I kinda zeroed in on the word “frying” and let muscle memory take over.

Next… While the oil is warming up, dredge the meat in flour then dip in the egg mixture…

*plonk plonk* *SPLAT*

NERO: !

CAIN: And for the final step, coat the meat in breadcrumbs. *smother*

There! With the breading taken care of and my oil all warmed up… Time to start frying! Here goes!

NERO: NOT ON MY WATCH, YOUNG MAN!!!

Read the friggin’ recipe! It says to coat in a thin, even layer!

CAIN: Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!

Cain's knightly instincts must have kicked in because he responded in a perfectly well-projected voice then promptly straightened his posture. As the saying goes, “Once a knight, always a knight.”

Meanwhile, upon coming back to his senses, Nero flails his arms in a panic.

NERO: Cra– M-My bad…

CAIN: Hey, what are you apologizing for? I’m clearly at fault here.

So, thin and even, right? Let me give it another shot.

By the way, you sure know how to pack a punch when you’re mad! For a moment, I thought I was back again in the barracks getting chewed off by a senior knight.

NERO: Hahaha…

RIQUET: Nero! Nero! I’m done with the breading step. Can I start frying?

NERO: Wow, good job. That’s an A+ work right there.

RIQUET: Yay! Here I go then! Gently does it…

Ahh?! The oil!

AKIRA: It’s splattering everywhere!

[yayasvalveplay]

In canon, Optimus sacrificed himself because the second "container" was the Matrix of Leadership, not some random container I decided that would be on the Nemesis, so he moved the AllSpark into the Matrix to then trap Unicron inside (as my friends call the AllSpark's original container) the lava lamp. Yea Megatron is having a time, he's probably slinking off somewhere to wallow in his grief. (Hive Queen Optimus)

Starscream and Shockwave pulling themselves out of the ocean and flopping onto some beach, very much in pain. Starscream has no fucking idea what's going on since he was the one to die at the end of season 2 while Shockwave doesn't know how the Nemesis battle went but can assume what happened. They notice that oh yea they're next to each other, but they have no idea where they are or if there's any energon around. Shockwave is the first one to realize they got some new information in their memory banks from the Unicron situation and they figure out that yea, the Autobots won the war, the Decepticons seemed to have merged with them, and the Predacons (Starscream is freaking out that Predacons exist) are vibing with them too.

The duo eventually get found by the USA government and Fowler scrambles over to tell Arcee and the... Insecticon lizards. I don't know what to call those three. Anyways, Arcee and one of the hive members pop over to see what shockstar are up to and just kinda find them wandering. In their minds they only have each other, since there's no way for them to get back to Cybertron to their knowledge. After some talking Arcee and the Insecticons dump the two off near the cave the like five Vehicons on Earth are staying and the Vehicons are so fucking happy to see some members of High Command even if the Decepticons aren't really a thing anymore. The duo just decide to stay with the Vehicons and Arcee and the hive member slink back to where the children are.

Meanwhile on Cybertron, Soundwave is leading the building efforts for the new city around the Omega Lock. The underground tunnels from the Unicron prep are being reused to make bunkers on the off chance acid rain shows up. The main buildings that have been finished so far are the hospital (Ratchet insisted on it and Soundwave agreed), a sparkling care center, and housing. Multiple schools are almost finished building and the first neutrals from the war finally start returning to Cybertron.

The neutrals have to get used to the new Cybertron, since Insecticons, Vehicons, and Predacons are all about helping build and lay foundations and some of said Vehicons and two of the Predacons are picking up medical knowledge to help Ratchet and Knockout at the hospital. Most are extremely happy that the war is over and what they can see being prioritized. With the neutrals coming in they have more hands to build other priority buildings and more housing and jobs. Before the city gets too big though, Optimus Prime appears with lil Arazoma trotting next to him and announces that a form of leadership must be established beyond this mishmash they have now. While it works now, yes, it will not work when more cities are added to Cybertron.

They took a bit of time to work out a government each city must abide by, with more neutrals coming in in the mean time, but they eventually figure one out. Each city would govern themselves via whatever means they wish as long as it doesn't bring harm to other mecha and follows some sort of "bill of cybertronian rights" but they must have some form of representative so every city can send one to represent their city for any meetings that would affect the whole planet or for primal festivals (when Primus starts insisting to start them again). While some Cybertronians aren't happy with this system, a large majority are and that's the system put in place.

Optimus finally allows the Insecticons to make a new hive on Cybertron and they start digging right smack dab between New Kaon and the Well. Lil Arazoma asks mama if he can still see his friends over in New Kaon and Optimus answers that of course he can, the Insecticons or Bumblebee can take him over, and Arazoma just starts getting excited at seeing his big brother Bumblebee again.

I might continue this later, but I think it'll be fun to let other people expand this au too. Knowing me I'm gonna be focusing on the hive when I come back for more since it's been so long since Optimus was bred by his hive.

-Oppy Breeding Anon (I gotta remember to keep adding that)

Them coming up on the beach stareondering what the frag has been going on. Why was he in the water? And oh look there's Shockwave,,, "SHOCKWAVE HOW DID YOU GET HERE!?"

Also. "THE FRAG YOU MEAN THERES PREDICONS AND YOU BUILT THEM!?"

They get taken in by the vehicons that stayed on Earth. I mean earth really isn't that bad but they do want to see how Cybertron is faring.

The insecticon lizards are funny.

As for the hive i can just see their reaction when Op is watching them all hang out. Taking care of the eggs or is cleaning each other off. He looks at one of the named Insecticons who are standing right next to him.

"What is it my queen? Your field is radiating happiness and want."

"I think it's time that we build ourselfs a new nest. Don't you think [insecticons name]" there's a pause with everyone as they look over at Op.

"You mean?"

"I do."

They get right to work making their nest. Making it close to the well since it's so well guarded already that's where their queen should lay his eggs.

Oh and once its all ready and secure (Arazoma sent away to his brother.) Optimus wants into his new breeding room. Sits down and opens his valve pannel. And open invitation, one the hive gladly takes.

[1d1195]

Love and Dryer Sheets II

Read the rest here: Love and Dryer Sheets

I'm not sure if you saw but there's going to be some pretty big reveals in this section I think. I feel like you might not like the ending of this part but I hope I'll start making it up to you in the next parts.

~6.3k words

Warnings: angst, fluff, Harry is an ACTUAL a-hole, toxic relationships mentioned, described. Relationships are hard, love is complicated. Cheating. Please read with caution.

Sitting across from her on the washer reading his book while she read hers. That was the only other time that he felt pure, silent, peace. It needed an explanation, but he couldn’t give it one. He was so infatuated with her so instantly it was like the part of his brain that controlled his heart saw her and said: Ah, yes. You found her. Finally.

Harry was undeniably (and unapologetically) obsessed. He spent so much time walking down to the laundry room just to see if she was there that his calf muscles were getting a serious work out from the number of stairs he had been descending and climbing, over the last month since he met her. It was pathetic. He would head to the basement after checking the mail in the alcove by the main office. When he “needed fresh air” he ran down to the steps and poked his head in after dashing outside for all of thirty seconds, like a loon. It was good they didn’t have a doorman, he would have saw right through Harry.

If he saw her doing laundry, he ran back to his apartment and put together a mishmash of random clothes and towels so he could hurry back and get a sense of calm for a half hour. Even if it was just five items. And sometimes he washed clean towels. But the laundry room was free—one of the biggest perks of this building.

The biggest perk of all was her of course.

The anger Harry felt nearly all hours of the day swelled and swelled when he was home. It made him want to bash his head through the wall and he couldn’t figure out why he didn’t just fix his problem. Therapy might have helped. Maybe even one of those Eat, Pray, Love retreats to center himself could have provided some guidance. Or maybe he should have just told Gemma what the problem was, and his big sister would come to his rescue as she usually did. Maybe she would be able to tell him exactly what to do and everything could have been fine.

But admitting he had a problem seemed like the opposite of fixing it.

So, he only felt at ease during two time periods these days.

One of the times was while working. Which was a feat itself because there was only so much relief that he could find staring at his computer screen for eight hours on end. The numbers were boring, and he could manipulate them or analyze them in his sleep as needed. It was brainless to him and made it easy to turn off the anger for a bit of time and just focus on patterns. There was a sense of tranquility among the numbers. They had a clear answer when put together; his conscience didn’t yell at him when he was at work. It was also the only time he didn’t think about the sunshiny princess that liked laundry.

Sitting across from her on the washer reading his book while she read hers. That was the only other time that he felt pure, silent, peace. It needed an explanation, but he couldn’t give it one. He was so infatuated with her so instantly it was like the part of his brain that controlled his heart saw her and said ah, yes. You found her. Finally.

But Harry didn’t believe in soulmates. He couldn’t believe in soulmates.

“Your wash is done,” she murmured without looking up from her page. Harry was already staring at her, so he wasn’t terribly surprised when she spoke. Her gaze didn’t shift from the words on her page when she spoke. Even with Harry ogling her. How long had he been staring at her? Did she even notice? Did she care? It made him a little nervous that he was so infatuated with her; he wanted to know if it was one-sided. It probably was. Simply because Harry was so grumpy and there wasn’t a whole lot of talking when they spent their hour together doing laundry. She exuded this bubbliness. It was in her aura or whatever wave of energy she gave off to the rest of the world. She was sweet and kind. Harry was grumpy and obsessed. She was probably just too polite to tell him to go away. Harry wished she was staring at him the way he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

You need to get a grip. His conscience was resigned but still trying. It was all the little voice could do at the moment. Harry slid from the washer and quickly dumped his stuff into the basket to transfer it over to the dryer. She giggled at her book and Harry thought his heart might melt out of his ribcage at the sound.

He mindlessly put the stuff in the dryer. With her advice, he went out and bought the sweet-smelling dryer sheets that made his clothes less stiff and reminded him of her. Jesus Christ, you’re an idiot. It sounded like his conscience simply up and left the office. Slamming the metaphorical door on Harry’s absolute hopelessness.

Harry returned to the washer he was sitting on and went back to his book. If someone came down and the other washers were filled, he would have to give it up and find a different spot to perch while he waited for the dryer and he hated when that happened. Watching her read was one of his new favorite past times. “How was work?” He asked her without looking up from his book.

“It was fine,” she shrugged. “We got some really good news for one of our patients which is great. But sometimes they...almost struggle more with good news than bad news. It’s common enough. They’ve had so much bad happen, it’s hard to believe good can happen. Does that make sense?”

Harry looked up finally and admired her beauty silently. It was hard to believe.  “Perfect sense,” he murmured.

“How about you? How’s work been this week?” She asked, putting her book in her lap and giving Harry her full, undivided attention.

It seemed nearly unnatural to be so smitten with someone he had met just over a month ago. Maybe she did like him? Liked him enough to ask about work and not tell him to take a hike. Maybe laundry was her time for peace and Harry was ruining that. “Work is fine. S’a little boring. Jus’ numbers and reports.”

“Do you like it?” She asked, tilting her head at him.

He nodded. “Yeah, I do. S’exactly what I wanted t’do.”

“Then it’s not boring,” she smiled so sweetly, Harry thought he would get a cavity.

They sat there smiling at each other for a few blissful moments. But then someone entered the room with their bag of laundry. “S’my cue,” he grumbled in annoyance.

She smiled. “I’ll keep an eye on your dryer,” she said. “Guard it with my life,” she promised opening her book again.

She is really nice. His conscience admitted. Harry smirked to himself, his internal monologue finally agreeing with him. But you’re still an absolute idiot.

*

She was putting away her laundry in the correct drawers when there was a knock on her door. She nearly sprinted to the door dropping her T-shirts on the floor at the sound of the person on the other side. She was giggling as she made her way to the main room of her apartment and flew across the space to yank the door out of the way. The door was barely open, and she was tackling Niall in the biggest hug she could manage.

“Hey princess,” he chuckled wrapping his arms around her tightly. “How are you?”

She pulled back. “Better now that you’re here.”

He rolled his eyes. “I was only gone two weeks.”

“It was a year,” she nodded firmly.

“I helped you move in, darling,” he rolled his eyes and entered the apartment. He inspected her décor, looked at the arrangement of her furniture, and admired the big window looking out over the little main street that led to town. “S’beautiful here,” he told her with a smile.

She nodded, answering with her own grin. “It is.”

“Are you happy?” He asked.

She nodded again. “Yes, very.”

His smile didn’t falter as he nodded appreciatively at her response. He wanted the very best for her. “I saw Dickhead,” he told her.

She rolled her eyes. “That’s not his name, Niall.”

“It may as well be,” he grumbled sitting on the sofa. She flopped down beside him resting her head on his shoulder. “I hate him,” he reminded her.

“I’m not really a big fan either,” she giggled.

“I would kill him for you.”

“I know you would,” she patted his leg. “But that’s not necessary. I’m away from him, I’ve got this cute place, I’m out of my parents’ crazy house,” she smirked and rolled her eyes. “And... I think I... may have met someone.”

“Why didn’t you lead with that, darling?” He said, turning toward her so he could look at the adoration that fell over her face. “Where did y’meet him? What’s he like? Does he like you?”

Niall had been her best friend since high school when he moved to town and didn’t know anybody. He looked overwhelmed trying to find his classes and she just looped her arm around his elbow and started walking him through the hall on an impromptu tour as if she always knew him. When questioned about being late, she explained that she had been asked to guide Niall around since he was new. Since she had a beautiful smile and that kind personality, it was impossible to think she was lying. But even if she had been caught in a lie, she wouldn’t have minded because it was for Niall.

Niall was the funniest, kindest, best friend anyone could ask for. Her parents and his parents asked all the time why they didn’t just get married. They were so close. Sometimes they didn’t even talk to each other for hours on end. It was effortless to be friends. Sitting quietly together made them happy. “I’ll marry you if you can’t find anyone by the time we’re thirty-five,” Niall winked.

She rolled her eyes at the time, but after her most recent breakup, it felt like maybe she would be marrying Niall once they turned thirty-five. “I don’t want to marry you,” she said with a shrug. “I feel like once you’ve seen someone eat a whole large pizza on their own the magic is just gone.”

“Darling, that is exactly the reason you should marry someone,” he laughed. But it was okay, because he didn’t want to marry her either. She was his best friend.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

But really, they didn’t date because they just knew it wasn’t what they needed. They needed to be friends. They wanted to be friends. Best of friends. She was the first one to swoop in and tell Niall everything would be okay when he was upset or nervous about something new. Niall knew how to make her feel better when her cramps were bugging her or when she had a really long day.

Or when her parents’ fighting finally got to her.

She loved her parents, really, she did. But most of the time it didn’t seem like they loved each other. The last thing she wanted was to end up like them with anyone she dated long term—but especially not with Niall. He always listened to her vent about how their arguing bothered her. How it worried her. It made her nervous that her future relationships were doomed before they started; because what kind of example had they set for her?

Niall could assuage her worries with ease. It had been many years of him listening and offering advice. There was so much about relationships they didn’t know in their high school and college years. Maybe there was something about her parents’ relationship that she would never know.

“They got you out of the deal, princess,” he told her after a particularly bad night at home. “Think that would keep me around on it’s own.”

She wasn’t sure that was honestly the best idea or solution on the subject. But it did make her feel better at the time. Which was why she loved Niall so very much and never wanted to do anything to jeopardize their friendship.

But despite no one finding Niall before she did on his first day of school, Niall needed no help at all when it came to dating. He had plenty of girlfriends over the years. Some were intimidated by their friendship, but most were fine with it—especially after they met her.

“Niall, I think I want to marry her. Are you sure you don’t want to date her?” One of his girlfriends in college asked him and of course he relayed the message.

So, being friends was easier, better, for them.

She went on dates but didn’t have a lot of long-term boyfriends. Dickface as Niall said, was her most recent relationship. They dated for nearly three years. He was controlling, did not like Niall very much, and in Niall’s opinion he was always one inconvenience, one irritation away from harming his best friend either emotionally (or, terrifyingly enough, physically) and Niall wouldn’t stand for that one second longer than he had to.

It got really bad around the two-and-a-half-year mark. She had called Niall crying. Niall wasn’t used to that. She was unbelievably strong and even with the saddest job in the world, he thought there was nothing that her sunny disposition couldn’t fight through.

Niall didn’t even hear what the problem was. When he thought about it now, he didn’t even remember what the issue was that she told him over the phone. Niall was already heading to their place, packing her overnight bag, and getting her out of there. She had to move back home for a bit making her crazier than ever as she listened to her parents fight and argue every night.

She hadn’t talked about another guy since their breakup.

Niall never really understood how she ended up with her ex anyway. He was nothing like her. He wasn’t sunny enough for her. His mood soured so rapidly it was like being with a ticking time bomb. As much as Niall told her he didn’t think it would work out, he knew it would have to be her to figure it out. Until she called him (or if something really bad actually happened), he would have to let her be her own person and support her as much as possible.

Until they broke up, Niall never hated him. If his best friend saw something good in him, then there was something good. Some people just don’t work out. Some people don’t click—or stop clicking, and it takes a while to see it.

“I met him doing laundry,” she told him with a laugh. “How silly is that?”

Niall smirked. “Yeah? What’s his name?”

“Harry,” she took a deep breath and looked at her hands. “He sits and does laundry with me. It’s quiet and we read our books. We chat too, but really, it’s just... comfortable.”

Her whole life was loud. Hospitals were loud. Her parents were loud. Niall, when he was excited, was louder than anyone she knew. Laundry was quiet. Laundry was a chore that always eased her mind a bit—especially when everything in her brain was tired and longing for serenity. When Harry came in grumbling and angry, she worried he would ruin the one thing that made her happy and calm.

Maybe that was why she offered him to use her laundry detergent. Maybe it was her first selfish act in so many years of listening to constant arguing and being in a relationship that made her feel anything but peace. So, when Harry accepted her help, when he kept sitting with her and enjoying the peacefulness of the chore, it felt like... fate.

“That’s adorable,” Niall smiled. “Have you asked him out?”

“Absolutely not, Niall. That’s so creepy. I’ve seen his underwear.”

“He’s probably seen yours,” Niall reminded her. “Already at third base, y’know?”

She punched him in the stomach without force behind it. “Shut up.”

“Well, what else do you know about him?”

“Honestly, not much. But he’s nice...a little...grumpy.”

Niall narrowed his eyes at her immediately. “Listen, darling. I’m not about to watch you be in the same relationship you just left. I don’t want to be the friend that tells you who to date or whatever but—”

“Niall, this is completely different.”

He didn’t buy it. And maybe he wouldn’t force her to break up with her last boyfriend, but he would absolutely stop her before something bad happened. “Why’s he grumpy?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know...but he’s not grumpy toward me. Mom is always on the defensive. Dad is always playing the victim. Dickhead was always annoyed with whatever I did...” she trailed off. She caught Niall’s smirk as she used his nickname appropriately. “Harry is... I don’t know. I don’t seem to annoy him... I think I might... I don’t know. I get the sense that he doesn’t feel very at peace sometimes. But... when we read and wait for laundry... I don’t know... he seems... happy.”

“Well, that is quite the feat now isn’t it,” Niall smirked. But he knew it was true. She was this bright spot of sunshine. She could make the saddest situations happier. She had this way of mediating situations she had no business being a part of into something better. When they were at stores and the customer in front of her in line gave the cashier a hard time, she was the first person to defend the employee and work out a compromise or explain it in a different way. Of course, whoever crossed her path had no choice but to agree with her. See it from her perspective.

Being friends with the kindest soul he knew was amazing.

But it meant Niall had to protect her peace because not very many people did it for her in the past.

“I am a delight,” she reminded him with another punch.

She can hold her own. Niall thought with a smirk to himself. “Truly.”

She thought about Harry’s soft brown locks and his green eyes that haunted her dreams. It was... the universe talking to her. It had to be. Even if she didn’t believe in that stuff. Even if she didn’t want to believe in it. Because Harry was simply too good to be true. He had already spent hours in that dark and damp basement with her doing a house chore of all things.

But there was the other most amazing coincidence that rattled her to her core. “Niall... he...” she sighed dreamily. “He brought up The Wizard of Oz without me... saying anything.”

That certainly lit a lightbulb in Niall’s brain. He looked over toward the bookshelf beside her TV display. One whole shelf had various editions of the book. A collection she had thrifted and worked hard on since she got her very first job in high school. Gifts from Niall and other friends and family helped make her collection bigger. The books weren’t necessarily worth money or anything, but they were a part of what she loved. Part of what made her...her. That was priceless.

“Really,” he sounded just a little skeptical. She couldn’t blame him—she was skeptical. She never thought in a million years she would have a soulmate. It didn’t seem possible given the display of “love” she had at home. “That’s...that’s kind of crazy.”

She nodded in agreement. “I was...speechless.”

“Another feat.” She rolled her eyes and Niall received another punch to his stomach. “Alright, alright,” he chuckled. “Well... let’s go run your errands so you can go do laundry like an old married couple with your new guy.”

*

Harry was once more ascending the steps from the basement disappointed to see she wasn’t there. It had been nearly five days since they’d done laundry together. The anger he felt was causing the familiar shake to reappear in his hands which he thought might permanently be balled into fists. If he didn’t see Sunshine soon, he might have to go right to her door to find her.

However, he was looking at his phone to answer a text when he heard her laughter. It was pathetic that he could recognize it by sound already. Like a child, he hid behind the mail alcove peeking around the corner to see what made her laugh so hard.

The anger was there to stay.

A man had his arm around her shoulders, and she was still snickering at whatever he said. The smile on his face matched how Harry felt whenever he was around her.

Harry wanted to kick himself. Of course, she would find a new guy quickly. She was adorable, intelligent, sweet, and sunshiny. Any guy would be stupid not to fall for her. Obviously, it happened to Harry so very quickly.

Even when it shouldn’t have. His conscience reminded him futilely.

Not the time, he grumbled back internally to the little voice. But Harry believed no one could control who they fell for. There was a click, a sigh of relief, a sense of recognition that passed over two people and they just knew. It looked like whoever had his arm around her knew that she was a sense of relief. He found her.

Harry didn’t believe in soulmates.

Not anymore.

So, the anger would stay.

*

Harry flopped onto the couch and ran his hands over his face as he tried to compartmentalize all the emotions he felt. Jealousy, anger, and frustration was not a good look. He should have just told Gemma. Gemma always knew what to do. But falling for someone...he wasn’t sure Gemma could help. Wasn’t sure that Gemma would want to help.

“I thought you were going out?”

If Harry was in a better headspace, he might not have noticed the attitude. Or maybe there wasn’t attitude and he made it up from just being so angry. “No, love. Change of plans,” he murmured.

She stood in the doorway. “So, you got all mad and worked up, stormed out, just to come back?”

Harry definitely wasn’t imaging her attitude—it was plain in her voice, in her posture. It was like she was looking to argue and fight. “M’sorry,” he said sincerely. “Does that interrupt y’plans or something?” He asked her, turning toward her figure in the entryway of the kitchen. It felt like he already lost because of the defensive tone in his voice in the question he asked.

Ava was supposed to be his soulmate. Harry always thought she was. When they met his heart did the fluttering thing that it was supposed to do when he met someone he liked. The butterflies in his stomach took flight. She took his breath away. She was funny and beautiful. Harry knew he liked kindness, but if he knew that Ava’s kindness was limited back when he met her, he might not have ever dated her.

Harry loved Ava. He did.

But sometimes he didn’t love her the way he used to love her.

Maybe that should have been a clue to him to just end it. They had been together for almost five years. Things were comfortable even if they were tense. Harry liked living here. Especially now.

No. His conscience said simply. Not okay.

Truthfully? Harry should have ended it three years ago. Harry was constantly apologizing on behalf of Ava when they were at parties or dinner. When they hung out with friends, they could sense their tenseness. If he were honest with himself, their relationship had an expiration date, and they were soured now. He hid the bad parts of his relationship from everyone he knew. From his mum, his sister, his friends...

Even himself.

Maybe it took meeting the girl obsessed with laundry who reminded him of pure sunshine, to get his mind thinking about all of it again. That would make some sense. Harry should have asked his mum what to do. But Harry was on his own. He was a fully grown adult and he had to figure out what to do and make his own mistakes. His mum and sister couldn’t fix this for him. Especially because he needed to admit that there was something to fix, first.

But the calmness he felt every time he walked into the laundry room was hard to ignore.

That’s fair. His conscience admitted.

Rubbing his hands over his face again he looked at Ava. “What d’you want t’do then?”

She sighed so loudly. It was like knives digging into his heart. “Forget it. I’ll change my plans.”

“What the fuck, Ava? Like are y’having someone over and y’want me gone? Jesus...”

“Shut up, Harry,” she rolled her eyes. “I just don’t want people seeing us argue.”

“We don’t have t’argue, y’know.”

“I know that. I don’t think you know that.”

This was how it went. All the time. Arguing about nothing until Harry got so worked up and angry, he stormed back to the laundry room. But now he wasn’t going to do that. Not when he knew that the sweet girl that he met there was probably in a healthy, normal, beautiful relationship with the man that had his arms around her shoulders.

So, he would argue with Ava.

Because what else was he supposed to do?

*

The entire time she ran her errands with Niall, she thought about Harry. It wasn’t that Niall wasn’t good company. It was just that everything reminded her of Harry. The color green, the title of a book he had read in her presence that she saw while they walked through target, a jersey of the soccer team he liked that she had seen him throw in the dryer at least three times already...

The overwhelming...peace she felt just by thinking about him was practically unnatural. Her stomach twisted with longing to be near him. Not that she didn’t love hanging out with Niall—of course she loved to hang out with her best friend. But there was something about Harry that drew her to him. It was like he was this beacon of comfort.

Niall held her bags while they headed back into her apartment building. Part of her wanted to take the elevator to the fifth floor and knock on every door until she found him and could introduce Niall to him. But that would be insane.

“Do you know any of your other neighbors?” Niall asked as they waited for the elevator.

“Oh crap, yeah! Actually, I told my elderly neighbor I would grab her mail,” she said taking a sharp right turn into the mail room. The elevator pinged a moment later with its arrival. Niall chuckled following her. She stood in front of the silver boxes embedded in the wall and searched for her neighbor’s box along with her own. With the two mail keys on her key ring, she quickly opened the box and pulled out her neighbor’s mail first, and then her own. She sifted through her letters checking for anything of importance for just a moment. Niall waited patiently, not that it would take her long.

“Are you going to stand in front of the boxes all day?”

She turned around and looked at the woman who spoke. She was stunning. She should have been a model. It rendered her completely speechless. Or maybe it was the cranky attitude that made her voice catch in her throat. But she was staring at her as if she were stupid for taking up space. “Oh, sorry,” she murmured quickly and stepped around her.

The woman released an irritated scoff. It was sad that she felt bad about being in the way. Maybe it was the annoyance the woman had in her voice. It made her feel bad that she did something wrong. It was her fault that she was in the way. Maybe that was ridiculous to spiral so quickly—especially when the woman could have easily said excuse me. But she tended to blow things out of proportion when she felt like she did something wrong.

Niall eyed the woman suspiciously from the entryway to the alcove and glared at her for the attitude she showed his best friend. He knew she was probably already spiraling in her delightfully sunny brain and feeling bad even though the woman was rude. She quickly pushed Niall toward the elevator before he said something that would make her untoward attitude for her worsen. Once in the elevator Niall looked at his best friend.

“Who pissed in her Cheerios?” He grumbled.

“That was a lot for the mailroom,” she agreed even though she still felt bad.

Niall smirked. “Guess not all your neighbors are friendly. Wicked witch,” he muttered.

She ignored the comment–even though she found it a little funny. “Oh, you’ll love Mrs. Williams. She thinks everyone she meets is the cutest, sweetest thing. And she’s always baking something.”

Exiting the elevator and returning to her apartment, Niall chuckled to himself. “I don’t know if Mrs. Williams could say that about her.”

She was never one to speak ill of someone else—especially someone she didn’t know. But the little nit-picking part of her brain that she was unable to ignore thought Niall might be right. That was extremely rude for no reason. But she shouldn’t judge. Maybe she was having a bad day. The very same thing happened with Harry and look how nice he turned out to be.

“Can I meet Harry?” Niall asked with a wiggle of his eyebrows. It was like he heard her thoughts about the very man. Maybe he did. It felt like her brain just kept shouting his name repeatedly. Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry...

This was unhealthy and ridiculous. Soulmates weren’t real. Harry was just a nice person who liked to read while they did laundry together. Maybe he would have done it whether she was there or not. It was a necessity and after his laundry was almost moved from the washer he very well could have changed his tune and just been there for the safety of his belongings.

It had nothing to do with her.

...Right?

“Um...I guess...we could go see if he’s doing laundry,” she suggested. “But you can’t be weird.”

“Darling,” he put a hand over his heart as if she really insulted him. “I can’t believe you would say that about me. M’not weird.”

She looked at him blankly while he smiled so excitedly at her, it was like he was asking for candy at the grocery store before dinner and she was telling him no. “Don’t be ridiculous around him either.”

He rolled his eyes. “My best behavior,” he promised.

*

Laundry was calming. He should have known. It seemed like she knew everything there was to know—particularly about this silly little chore. Since he saw her with another guy, and of course another spat with Ava that turned into a bigger deal than it should have (as it always did), he needed to do something to calm himself. He wanted out of the apartment that hosted hostility in every particle of the air. It was a risky move to go to the very room that they had met. It reminded him that she was out with another man, and it was none of Harry’s business.

It also doesn’t matter. Harry wished his conscience had an off switch. He knew the voice of reason was really just the rational part of his brain trying to make sense of how fucked up his brain was acting. Laundry was her thing. He shouldn’t have tried to make it his own just because he liked her. When you shouldn’t.

Harry was going to stick his head in the washer and run the spin cycle just to get his conscience to shut up.

He heard her laughter and of course it made his crummy mood worsen. He was going to have to pretend that he wasn’t upset about something he had no right to be upset about. It was then he realized she wasn’t alone.

There was no way he could pretend he wasn’t mad when he heard her laughter paired with a guy’s laughter.

You’re hopeless. His conscience told him. Harry kept his eyes on his book. Reading The Wizard of Oz seemed like the worst idea in the world at that moment, but he couldn’t help it. He was drawn to her. Everything about her. Getting to know her more, even through an early 20th-century children’s novel, was the only thing that made sense when everything in his life seemed so... sad.

“Hey Harry,” her voice sounded like how the sun looked after it rained. Right before a rainbow appeared and the raindrops were dripping off trees. He couldn’t not look up.

“Hey,” he murmured quietly with a forced smirk.

Her smile was so kind it was hard for him to be annoyed that she was so happily taken. Especially when he wasn’t happy. Furthermore, since she was happy...without him. “This is my best friend, Niall. He wanted to meet you,” she said gesturing to the man he had previously seen holding her around the shoulders.

Best friend. Do you see how fucking stupid you are? Harry wasn’t sure if that was his conscience or just the general voice in his head but the way the anger melted off him wasn’t normal. He was stupid. Getting all worked up over something he wasn’t even sure about—about something that wasn’t even rightfully his to be annoyed.

“Hey, Harry. Heard a lot about you. She’s got you in her Wizardly book club I see,” he smiled holding his hand out for Harry to shake. It seemed utterly insane that Harry didn’t like Niall just because he held her the way he wanted to hold her. Even though it was now obvious it was a friendly thing.

“Ah...yeah...jus’ started it though,” he smiled feeling the sourness he felt toward her best friend dissipate by the second. “Y’must have read it, yeah?” He asked Niall.

“Oh, read it, watched it, had her read it to me, watched a documentary, went to the museum about it.”

“Please, make me sound crazier.”

“You do it all on your own, darling,” Niall winked at her.

Harry smiled at their banter. It seemed so...effortless. Maybe it would have been easier for Harry if they were a couple. Harry could see how much they adored each other just from their laughter and inside jokes that he had only witnessed through the looks they gave each other. It was nice. Harry was glad she had someone like Niall to adore her unconditionally.

But it also made him want to do it just as much.

“How long have y’known each other?” Harry asked, putting his book on the washer beside him. She dumped her stuff into the washer across from him, like she always did while Niall did the math in his head.

“Since we were fifteen,” he smirked. “So... twelve years.”

“Mmm... Niall has been the same immature nuisance since he was fifteen,” she smiled.

“Is that so, princess? I recall you getting all flustered at the duty-free store when we went to Canada last summer.” She rolled her eyes and Harry was simply overwhelmed by how much he liked her. “Sorry to meet you and leave Harry, but the missus is calling me about dinner,” he said.

Ah. So, they really aren’t meant to be. That boded well for Harry.

“Tell her that my hourly fee goes up when you insult me in front of new friends,” she said without turning around to watch Niall head for the door. He rolled his eyes at Harry and sighed.

“Good luck with her. It’s nice knowing not all of her neighbors are wicked,” he said knowingly. Harry smirked in response wondering who that was directed to. He would have to ask when he left. Niall pressed a hand on her lower back and pecked her cheek. “See you soon, darling.”

“Thanks for hanging out, Ni,” she grinned so cutely that it warmed Harry all over. Head to toe. She closed the lid of her washer and took her usual seat as Niall headed back to the main lobby. “Where are you?” She asked.

“Huh?”

“What page?”

“Uh...” he opened the book to the jacket cover holding his spot. “Seventeen.”

“So she’s in Munchkinland, right?” She smiled.

Harry smiled. “Feel like y’already know that, Sunshine.”

He thought she was beautiful without thinking about it much in all the time he spent with her. But somehow, the way her cheeks turned the most beautiful shade of pink...she was even more beautiful than he could ever imagine. “Well... yeah, I know but...” she looked shy. Maybe even felt a little awkward. Harry hated that. He wanted her to feel everything good. He wanted to read the book with her just to understand her even more.

“It’s sweet, don’t feel bad. M’liking it so far. Don’t know how I haven’t read it before.”

She had a book on her lap but she held her fingers around it so it was curled shut. “Read it to me,” she said.

“M’sorry?”

“Read it out loud,” she shrugged. “I already know it, so...it’s not like I missed anything,” she giggled.

Somehow, reading her favorite novel in the world probably meant way more than it should have. Definitely wasn’t something Harry should do. In fact, he should have told her about Ava right then.

“...But Dorothy, knowing her to be a witch, had expected her to disappear in just that way, and was not surprised in the least.”

Harry felt like his conscience had put up a sign on it’s office door. Out to lunch. It was funny how his mind could tell him off even when he was in control of it.

But the smile on her face made her think that he hadn't ever been in control at all. Harry agreed wholeheartedly with Dorothy. He wasn’t surprised in the very least.

--

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[elderwisp]

Hi, hello, if possible could we please get a tour/images of Frances and Dan's house, I really like how you decorate and it would be great to see how both styles mix in the same space, please? PD: Frances is my fav and im suffering and excited all at the same time. Is she okay? Watching movies or having a burnout because shes avoiding her feelings?… This is so long… :3 Youre doing so fcking great!!, i'll be waiting next update bye <3

;A; Of course! Their apartment was difficult to decorate at first because of their styles being on different spectrums but then I started thinking more about where they are at in their lives which helped piece things together :D The kitchen area is still a bit of a WIP but I'm pretty content with the bedrooms! Also I haven't completed the bathroom yet as I am looking for some specific CC:

The Kitchen:

⋆｡°✩ The kitchen feels like a mishmash of random items. Certain items I picked from Frances's previous apartment and the inspiration I was going for was two college students buying items from a thrift or antique store. The mugs don't really match, everything is a hand me down but it's got character LOL

The Living Room:

⋆｡°✩ The living room also having older furniture mixed in with modern pieces I'd imagine was bought from Amazon hehe. They have a large record collection that's on display, referencing Dan's love for physical media and Frances's appreciation for music. I'd imagine that piano though being slightly broken but still Frances loves it nevertheless... Sort of like her relationship with her brother, Atlas!

Dan's Bedroom:

⋆｡°✩ I love Dan's room so much. It's something that's so out of my typical style which is why it was my favorite to build! I wanted to lean more into like an early 2000's Urban Outfitters, Alexa Chung sort of indie vibe and I like all of the little pieces. Especially the cute dessert pieces by SourClown! I imagine Dan broke into her old house to bring that fish tank

Frances's Bedroom:

⋆｡°✩ Frances's room is cluttered but an organized chaos. Her wall is covered in posters and photos of her friends. Their desk is filled with school assignments and random notes. I thought the cluttered desk was a nice contrast to Dan's bedroom not having a desk to study on just to show the difference in their approaches to school. Frances's bed is tucked into the corner as I imagine the corner is safety for her although I would love to find a wired bed frame where the edge of the bed is open :3

Lastly THANK YOU SO MUCH! I'm glad you're enjoying it! ( ╥ ᴗ ╥) We haven't seen Frances in a minute, haven't we? I'm so pumped you noticed that. A lot has changed within the time she's had to say goodbye to Icarus but I'll leave you with this: Sometimes when we find ourselves unable to control certain elements in life, we can tighten our grip on the things we feel we can direct as a way to ground ourselves in a new reality. For Frances, that's a person (⊙_⊙)

[carnalhaus]

Hi! I asked this question on my other account but I had to delete it before you could respond so I’d thought I’d just ask you again lol

Do you have any tips as to facial likeness? Like making the character look the same in each drawing, at different angles, expressions, ect? I struggle with it, especially expressions and how a persons features change depending on which emotion, you know?

Also random but have you ever played left 4 dead? 😅

hi 🦭 sorry ! answering things can definitely take me a very long while sometimes. if i don’t get to it right away, stuff can get buried.

to answer your question, i’m really not sure if i have a definitive answer, but i can try. trust me i have a lot of trouble sometimes too. my main tip i guess is to have real life people in mind when it comes to drawing characters. it can either be their whole face or just specific features, but it really helps to have something tangible. over time it becomes a lot easier to replicate when you have a physical example of what you’re trying to draw, like staring at a vase would help you draw vases better. overall, it’s just all about keeping in mind which specific features they have, and what the important parts of their faces are.

as easier examples: for cheyenne, i reference pictures of kate lambert (katopunk), and for dove, i reference pictures of quannah chasinghorse. the likeness doesn’t have to be exact, but general facial shapes are pretty much the same. with chey, i keep in mind her very high arched eyebrows, stronger nose bridge, dead eyed stare, pouty lips, and sunken cheeks. with dove, i keep in mind her almond eyes, stronger jaw, freckles, fine lines, and thicker eyebrows. so, even if you make “mistakes” or draw in a completely different style, the important features still carry on that it’s the same person.

as a more difficult example, i’ll put down sledge. i made this little mishmash a while ago to help a friend out with drawing him. as you can see, he doesn’t really resemble one person specifically, but he has important features that i look for in other people, and general facial likeness to help get expressions across.

+ i honestly have no idea what left 4 dead is ! i don’t play a lot of games. i think the only big video game i actually played “myself” was rdr2 and i refused to hold the controller the whole time cause video games make me nervous.