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reidsmanuscript · 5 months ago

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Seven Seconds

Summary: when Katie Jacob's gets abducted in a Mall, setting the clock for the BAU, who needs a legal favor, and it's been a year since the A.D.A. has know anything about Spencer Reid. Pairing: Spencer Reid x lawyer!reader Genre: pinning, SLOW BURN, maybe right moment?, angst bc i love angst wc: 4.6k! (i know so small comparing to part 1 bear with me) TW: cm canon typical violence, set in 05x3 "Seven seconds" (obviously lol), sexual violence, implied reader's dark past, glimpses of female rage. A/N: my idea for the serie is be taylor jenkins reid and have you question if lawyer reader exists or not (delusional bitch), english is not my first language and let's pretend it's proofread part I - part II - part III - part IV - masterlist

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Spencer sat on the park bench reading a book while playing chess with Ethan, brilliant kid for his age and good opponent, not good enough though because when he cheered “I see checkmate in 5, What do you see?” It took Spencer one glance to calculate all the movements necessary.

“I see it in 3” he answered looking at his book again, the kid turned around the board and moved the pieces

“We've missed you out here” he said, staring at the board amazed.

“Thanks. I, uh, I had to take a little break”

“How come?” His hands froze on the book for a second before closing it.

Spencer had been clean for over a year now, it was 14 months and 2 weeks ago that he had freaked out after noticing his stash of Dialud was gone along with his needle. Where could he find more? Who knew about his addiction? Where was his stash? Who the fuck is Dr. Fitzgerald? Did you report him?

His first instinct was confronting you, given that you were the only person who found out his drugs that he knew, the first days he was a complete paranoid, he jumped every time Hotch called his name, or that Gideon looked at him a little too long.

At the end of the week he was thinking where he could find more, and when that thought scared him, he called the number of the card you had left in the same pocket his drugs used to be.

“Hello this is Dr. Fitzgerald” said a calm voice, it was 10 p.m. so there was a higher chance of going to voicemail, but he got an answer and the tremor of his hands got a little worse. Was it the anxiety or the withdrawal?

“Umm hello.. this is.. Dr.. this is Spencer Reid and someon-""I've been waiting for your call Dr Reid” the other line interrupted, he froze for a second.

“I used to play with a co-worker friend of mine. He's probably the best mind I ever went up against. One day, he just decided that he didn't want to play anymore.”

Fast forward, she helped him get clean and stay clean after Gideon left, getting tested regularly, and gave him the contact of the help group of FBI addicts. He was better, he was alive.

“So you gave up, too?”

“Just the opposite. I attempted to play Through every permutation of moves on a chessboard.”

“That's an infinite number of games.”

“It's not infinite. It's just- it's exponentially large.”

“You couldn't have played through them all.”

“There's an average of 40 moves per chess game, And I'll tell you something– the more I played, The more I realized that every single match every single chess game, Is really just a simple variation on the exact same theme. You know? It's aggressive opening, Patient mid-game, inevitable checkmate, And I realized why my friend quit. He was tired of repeating the same patterns And expecting a different outcome.”

“That's because you haven't come up on Fridays or Mondays in a while” the way his eyebrows went up along his voice tone made him feel like he knew something that he didn't.

His eyebrows furrowed “What do you mean?”

“There's this great player who comes around those days, she even brings the best pastries, and her games is similar to yours, always two or three moves ahead, she always beats everyone here… i think her boyfriend called her Buzz or something like that, like the Toy Story character”

“Buzz?… i don't really remember anyone with that nickname”

“It’s probably not that one but you don't know her because she started coming like 8 months ago.. I'm sure you have a lifetime of chess strategy in your head that you're just sitting on, but when you meet her?” He made a dramatic pause “You'll have to play it.”

He glances at his watch to realize his 15 minute break is coming to an end. “I still use it. I just, uh... I apply it differently. I have to go. It's good seeing you.”

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That evening, the BAU was called in for a local case—a little girl, Katie, had been kidnapped from a busy mall. A week earlier, another girl had been taken from the same location and found dead hours later. Now, they were all racing against the clock.

Katie’s parents were desperate. As any parents would be in this situation, right? But when Hotch asked the father if either of them was having an affair—a routine question in abductions—the man took offense. Deep offense. So much so that he refused to let the FBI search their house.

Now, what kind of parent refuses to help the police find their missing child?

In a small surveillance room, Morgan and Reid sat with Garcia, who was visibly frustrated by the mall’s ancient security system. They were surrounded by screens displaying grainy footage from different angles—well, almost every angle. They had a single glimpse of Katie in one video, and then, seven seconds later, she was gone.

JJ and Prentiss were with the mother, aunt, and uncle, trying to get a read on the family dynamic. Meanwhile, Morgan and Reid had conducted a cognitive interview with Katie’s cousin. It had led nowhere.

“The family has refused permission to search the house,” Hotch announced as he stepped into the room.

“What do you mean they denied?” Morgan’s frustration was evident. “Your only child goes missing, and you refuse to collaborate?”

No one disagreed. They were all thinking the same thing.

“The cousin didn’t say much,” Reid added. “He was too distracted in the game room to notice anything.”

Hotch exhaled sharply. “I’ll speak to the detectives, see if we can get a warrant.” His tone was firm, but they all knew time wasn’t on their side.

Garcia adjusted her glasses. “Sir, I mean this in the best way possible, but it’s almost 8 p.m. I don’t think-”

“I’ll handle it,” Morgan interrupted.

All Reid and Garcia turned to him with identical looks. What do you mean you will handle it?

Hotch’s eyebrows furrowed, but after a moment, he gave a small nod and walked away. Morgan was already pulling out his phone.

“I have a contact,” he explained, dialing.

He put the phone on speaker. It rang once. Twice. On the third ring, a voice answered—sharp, direct, and all business.

“A.D.A. Woodvale.”

Reid went rigid.

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It was late in the office; most people had already gone home, including your assistant Molly. All but Austin, who was still there because he had a lead on one of your cases. You knew he was still hanging around because, over a year ago, when someone had snuck into your office to harm you, you’d become a little paranoid. You’d gotten better, but Austin insisted on keeping you company, especially since your car was in the mechanic’s.

You were reviewing a legal brief, pen in hand, skimming the margins to jot down notes when the desk phone rang. Without looking up, you hit the speaker button with the tip of the pen.

“A.D.A. Woodvale.”

There was a beat of silence before a familiar voice cut in—smooth, direct, urgent.

Morgan called your name “Hey. We need a warrant. Fast.” You blinked, setting the pen down.

Reid and Garcia exchanged glances as Morgan jumped in without hesitation.

“Katie Jacobs. Eight years old. Abducted from a mall earlier tonight,” Morgan started, all business. “Another girl was taken from the same place a week ago—she was found dead hours later. We’re working against the clock.”

You frowned, swirling the pen, going through the multiple scenarios. You had heard about last week’s case, and how slow the police had moved back then.

“We’ve got mall surveillance footage,” Morgan pressed. “At first, we thought she just vanished, but Garcia finally pulled something from one of the side corridors. Katie wasn’t taken by force—she was walking calmly with someone.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around her pen. “Someone she knows.”

“Exactly,” Morgan confirmed. “That narrows it down to family or close acquaintances.” They all shared a silent thought. Family.

We know they’re hiding something,” Morgan corrected. “We just don’t have the probable cause to kick the door down.”

Garcia watched as Morgan paced slightly, his tone firm but urgent.

“That’s thin, Morgan,” Your voice came through the speaker, steady and unyielding.

“We don’t have time for airtight,” Morgan countered.

Your jaw tightened. “You don’t have time for me to get laughed out of a judge’s office, either. Refusing a search isn’t a crime, and suspicion alone doesn’t cut it. I need more.” You understood where the suspicious came from, how are you supposed to help them if they had nothing?

There was a pause. A beat of silence. Then, another voice—one you hadn’t heard in over a year.

“99% of abducted children who are killed due within the first 24 hours” He cleared his throat, willing his voice to stay even. Spencer Reid. “75% within the first 3 hours, and what only law enforcement knows is Jessica Davis joined the 44% of children who are abducted and killed within the first hour. We’re already past the three-hour mark. If we don’t act now, statistically speaking—”

“The likelihood of recovery drops exponentially,” You sighed, already standing up, ignoring how his voice sounded. So different. So… clean.

Your gaze flicked to the clock. 8:06 p.m. Damn it.

You grabbed a blank warrant form from her drawer and reached for a pen. “Send me the address and everything else you have. Give me 20 minutes.”

Click. You didn’t have time for goodbyes.

Austin raised an eyebrow from his seat. “Guess you’re not going home anytime soon.”

You didn’t look up as you started writing. “I never was.”

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The courthouse was mostly deserted at this hour. The fluorescent lights hummed quietly, and the stillness of the evening was only interrupted by the sharp click of your heels on the polished floors followed by Austin’s boots toward the judge’s chambers.

“You sure you don’t want me to take this one? Sweet-talk her maybe?” he teased.

You shot him a look. “You think Judge Holloway is the type to be charmed? Plus, you’re a private investigator, not a lawyer.”

“She’s not gonna like you showing up this late.”

You didn’t miss a beat. “If she’s still up, she’ll make time for this.”

Taking a steadying breath as you stopped in front of the door, you quickly ran through your notes, making sure you had every detail in order. Then, without hesitation, you pushed through the heavy wooden doors of Judge Evelyn Holloway’s chambers.

Inside, the judge barely glanced up from her paperwork. “You have two minutes, Woodvale.”

Stepping forward, you set the warrant request on the desk. “Your Honor, I apologize for the late hour, but we have a child abduction case we’re working against the clock. A young girl, Katie Jacobs, was taken from a mall over three hours ago. We’ve obtained surveillance footage showing her walking with an individual—someone she likely knows. We believe the family is withholding information, and they’ve refused to allow us to search the residence.”

The judge narrowed his eyes, folding her hands on the desk. “And what do you propose I do about it? What evidence do you have to warrant a search?”

You kept your voice steady. “We have footage of the girl with someone who wasn’t a stranger, Your Honor. The parents are refusing cooperation, and the father was evasive when asked about possible affairs, which raises red flags about his involvement.”

Holloway sighed, leaning back in her chair. “That’s thin.” You were ready for that.

“I have the full footage from the mall security, including a timestamp showing the precise time the girl went missing. She is last seen walking calmly with someone she knows, most likely family.”

There was a brief pause, and for a second, you thought you were about to lose her. So you pulled Reid’s words from memory, adjusting them just enough to make them your own.

“Time is working against us. Statistics show that 99% of abducted children who are murdered lose their lives within the first 24 hours 75% within just the first three. And only law enforcement-”

She cut you off with a raised hand, signaling you to stop.

The judge exhaled through her nose, it was late and you were rambling about statistics and you knew she wanted you out as soon as possible when you started citing numbers. So pushing himself out of her chair with a slight groan. “Fine. Get me the paperwork. I’ll sign it—but you better have your ducks in a row.”

You nodded, her demeanor unflinching. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

As you turned to leave, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the hours ahead of you. But you were used to this—fighting against the clock.

“Let’s move,” motioning to Austin. He gave you a small nod. “You got it.”

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Exactly 15 minutes after the call, 5 minutes earlier than promised, Morgan’s phone rang. He answered it without even looking.

"You got your warrant. I'll meet you there," Alex’s voice came through, crisp and businesslike, just as expected.

Morgan exhaled, his relief barely hidden. "Thank you, Woody."

He paused for a moment before adding, "I owe you one," then hung up, turning to Reid.

“Tell Hotch we’re heading to the Jacobs’ house,” he instructed, already moving toward the door.

Spencer had been timing her. It wasn’t the first time he'd gotten caught up in the tense waiting game of law and order, but the pressure of it had a different weight today. The memory of your voice, clear and resolute, echoed in his mind, sharper than before.

For Reid, part of getting clean wasn't just the physical withdrawal—it was the emotional weight of confronting his mistakes. The memory of how he'd lashed out at you a year ago still haunted him. How could he have been so cruel? The hurt in your eyes, the way he dismissed you, the way it all spiraled… it wasn’t just the drugs that had made him say those things. And the fury he saw when you looked at him, Dialuid in hand, how you looked like a timing bomb when he was trying to see if he could talk to you, the tension in your shoulders, the lock in your jaw, the grip on the file. He’d been battling so much more since then, in his mind, you saved his life by doing what he couldn't do.

He’d rather die than relive that moment again, than say those things. And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of another chaotic case, still carrying that guilt with him. He stayed behind Morgan for just a beat before pushing down his feelings and moving quickly.

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The engine of Austin's bike rumbled to a stop as they pulled up in front of the house, where Morgan and Reid were standing in front of the black SUV. You slid off the back with practiced ease, taking off the helmet and letting your hair fall loose.

Austin followed your lead, taking his helmet off with a groan. “So, what exactly are we looking for?”

You shot him a quick, sidelong glance, handing him the helmet, keeping your expression flat knowing he’s about to be a drama queen. “You’re not coming inside. The warrant’s for FBI and police only. Not P.I.s included”

Austin paused, a mock pout crossing his face. “Excuse me? I just got you here, through all that traffic, risking myself to get a speeding ticket and now I don’t get to search? This is the second time in the night that you P.I. shaming me. Do you hate me?”

“If I hated you I wouldn’t have bailed your ass out of jail… twice” you remark the last part. He had a talent for sticking his foot where he shouldn’t be, maybe that’s what makes him good at his job.

“You act like you wouldn’t do it a third time” he was mocking, but he was right, something you would never admit to him.

You start walking to the house “Mhm.” you hum rolling your eyes, heading towards where Morgan and Reid were.

You didn't expect him to be there, or maybe you did, maybe you wanted to see him and know what had happened to him since the last time you saw him. They were looking at you, Morgan with a curious already-profiling-you stare, while Reid expression was more… cautious. He looked so different, his cheekbones were prominent in an attractive way and not sickly, he had put on some healthy weight and was not fidgety. You were not mad anymore, because of course at the moment the hurt had turned into rage like it always does for you, but it was more because of phantoms than anything else.

“Got your golden ticket” you said, avoiding Reid’s gaze as you pulled the warrant from the inner pocket of your gray coat and swung it toward them.

Morgan nodded “You staying?” He gestured with his head to Austin who was leaving.

“I have to make sure you find something, otherwise the judge will have my head for this,” you said dryly, shrugging as though the threat didn’t bother you, but there was a flicker of seriousness behind your words. You were only talking to him, which felt rude because Reid’s stare was locked in your profile.

Reid was thinking how pretty you looked, how the black vest suited you, and he couldn’t ignore the fact you had changed your brown bag to a black one that looked nothing like his. Your white shirt and gray coat gave you an older, wiser look, but as Reid analyzed your features, he realized he didn’t even know how old you were. You couldn’t be older than him. Serious, sharp, and young... How was it possible for someone that young to be the A.D.A.?

Reid’s mind couldn’t let go of the numbers. The average age of an Assistant District Attorney in the U.S. is 36. You couldn’t be older than 25, and yet you were already in that position.

You glanced at him for a moment before stepping inside the house, feeling the weight of his stare. The look made him snap out of his trance-like state, and of course, his eidetic memory hated him, because for that brief second, he remembered how you had looked at him a year ago.

Morgan nodded and thanked you again before he and Reid walked into the house. You left the warrant on the hall table with a deliberate touch, your fingers lingering for just a moment—as if to remind yourself that you weren’t entirely done with this.

“Somebody lit a fire last night,” you heard Reid say.

“Well, there are dirty dishes for three in the kitchen, so they eat together as a family.” Morgan’s voice carried from the other room as they moved through the house, taking in the details.

If Katie was in danger, the signs wouldn’t be in plain sight. You had to look where they hid—where children kept their secrets. Their bedrooms.

“Hey, my favorite movie from when I was a kid.” Reid held up a DVD, turning it in his hands before pulling it from the player just as you passed by him, tugging on latex gloves before heading upstairs, you did feel a little guilty for not even looking or talking to him, but it was something you did unconsciously.

“So they watch movies together, too,” Morgan mused. They were starting to build a picture of the family’s dynamic.

“By a fireplace in a house that’s straight out of a catalog,” Reid added. “Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted this any cozier.”

“That’s what worries me.” There was weight in Morgan’s voice. A tension that sat between them.

Upstairs, you searched through the rooms with careful precision.

When you first became a lawyer, you made a promise—never ignore a sign. Since then, you have gone further. You didn’t just refuse to ignore them; you searched for them. Hollow eyes. Unexplained bruises. Small bloodstains. You looked for them in teenagers, in young adults, in the elderly. But nothing—nothing—was more painful than a child who couldn’t speak up.

Because they were small. Because someone older, someone stronger, was hurting them. There's nothing more hurtful than not being able to speak out, to say something and stand up for yourself. Except when someone did—someone saw the bruises, the fear, the signs—and they looked away deliberately. Because a child’s pain was inconvenient. Because it came with a mountain of paperwork no one wanted to touch.

You had spent your whole life making sure you never looked away.

That’s why you were hunched over the small desk in Katie’s bedroom, flipping through her drawings when Morgan and Reid entered the room. They started searching, their movements efficient and methodical.

“Katie’s been wetting her bed,” Reid said as he lifted the duvet, inspecting the mattress beneath it.

“A lot of six-year-olds do. Could be bad dreams,” Morgan replied, crouching beside you as he sifted through a pile of toys.

You considered that possibility—it was perfectly logical. In a perfect world.

“Some kids won’t get up at night because they’re afraid of the dark,” Reid added, his tone careful. Almost knowing.

“Or it could be a lot more complex than that.”

Morgan had found a doll. Not a Barbie missing a shoe or one that had simply been played with too much. No—this doll was different.

Its hair had been hacked off, jagged strands sticking out unevenly. Red marker smeared across its face like smeared blood. Its clothes were yanked askew, twisted, and wrong.

“Most girls covet their dolls like an extension of themselves.” He took the doll in his hands like it was made of fine glass.

“Reid, I know these signs-— acting out on her toys, wetting the bed. She's obviously covering up something about that necklace.”

“And her cousin might be holding something back.”

“Well, this looks more like a man than a boy to me,” you said, holding up a drawing of a tall, shadowy figure towering over a small, crying child.

Morgan took it from your hands, his expression hardening as he analyzed the image.

“Psychology says drawing is a child’s way of channeling their inner world. Look at the strokes—how harsh they are,” you pointed to the dark, jagged lines forming the tall figure, then traced your finger over the smaller one. “And this looks like Katie to me. She forgot to draw the hands, which means she feels powerless… helpless.”

Morgan took his phone out, dialing up “Hotch, we think Katie’s being molested,” Morgan said, his voice clipped. “And we both know the odds.”

A brief silence. Then Hotch’s response, firm and certain. “Most likely by someone under the same roof.”

He hung up, and both men started toward the door, their movements brisk with purpose. But you stayed behind for a moment, rooted in place, taking in the scene. Trying to quiet the distant sirens that echoed in your mind, the same ones always shouting when you were face to face with these situations. A loud pause—maybe out of respect for Katie and her pain, for everything she had been forced to endure.

From the doorway, Spencer glanced back. The dim light from the hallway cast your figure in stark contrast, outlining you in shadow—your form dark against the soft glow of the room. He couldn’t see your expression, couldn’t read your face. He focused on the way your hands curled into fists at your sides, the tight set of your shoulders.

And he wished—just for a second—that he could see more.

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You stood outside, leaning against the wall, arms crossed tightly over your chest. By your side were Morgan, Jeremy, Katie’s cousin, and Reid.

Turns out, Katie’s uncle, Richard, was her abuser. A disgusting son of a bitch who deserved to rot in hell. And you were going to make sure he did. He had destroyed Katie’s childhood, probably more than just hers, shattering an entire family in the process. His own son, standing right next to you, was collateral damage he clearly hadn’t spared a thought for. And then there was his wife. The woman who had chosen to look away. Who had taken Katie and nearly gotten her killed, all for the pathetic, desperate hope that it would somehow stop her husband from creeping into little bedrooms at night. She deserved the same hell he did.

A stretcher rolled past, Katie’s small frame barely visible beneath the blankets as the paramedics guided her into the ambulance. Her mother clutched her tiny hand, whispering something—words meant to soothe, to promise safety.

A young voice cut through the air. “I heard her call my mom’s name. That’s what I remembered before.”

You closed your eyes, your mind already racing ahead. Your attorney brain was piecing it together, sketching out the battle that was coming. If the kid had heard it, that made him a witness to the abduction. His own mother had committed the crime against her niece. And God only knew what else he had seen—what else had been happening in that house—without fully understanding it.

“We get it, kid. That’s your mom,” Morgan said, his voice steady. But you knew the truth: if Jeremy could barely say those words to them, getting him to the stand in front of a jury would be another fight entirely.

The boy shifted on his feet, staring at the ambulance. “What’s gonna happen to me now?”

If God existed, He had already been too cruel. He had let all of this happen. And you knew how these things worked—knew there was a very real chance that Katie’s parents, burdened with their own grief, would resent Jeremy by association. That they wouldn’t take him in. That he would be swallowed by the foster system.

You wouldn’t let that happen.

The sirens blared outside the mall, cutting through the air with urgency, but it was the ones inside your mind that were louder—screaming in the same rhythm, as if they were one and the same. Distant and deafening, they filled every corner of your head, drowning out everything but the grim reality unfolding before you.

“I don’t know, Jeremy,” Reid answered, his voice gentle. “But we’re gonna make sure you’re alright, okay?”

Jeremy didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed fixed on the ambulance. “Is Katie gonna be all right?”

You wished—desperately, violently—that you could tell him yes. That you could say it with certainty and make it true. But how could you give him something you didn’t have?

“She will, eventually,” Morgan said, his voice firm.

You exhaled sharply. The words made your skin crawl.

“Is she?” The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it—low, bitter, nearly spat out under your breath. Just quiet enough that the kid wouldn’t hear. Just loud enough that Morgan did.

Before he could respond, you were already moving.

Your feet carried you toward the police car, toward the sick, selfish bastard they were shoving into the backseat. Your hand shot out, slamming the door closed—harder than necessary, just enough that it cracked against Richard’s face.

Morgan watched. So did Spencer.

And for the first time, he realized just how much of a puzzle you really were.

Partially because, throughout all of this, you hadn’t looked at him once. Not when he entered the room, not when he spoke, not even now, standing just a few feet away.

Partially because your eyes, when he finally caught a glimpse of them, were full of something he rarely saw outside of a case like this. Pure, undiluted rage.

Not just anger. Not just frustration. Something deeper. Something personal.

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part III　 Feedback feeds motivation! Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated <3

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eringobragh420 · 5 months ago

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✘✘ i got it. ✘✘

➺ pairing — cm punk ♥︎ f!reader ➺ summary — punk discovers paul heyman’s daughter used to be involved with someone he hates. punk reacts as expected. ➺ links — one. two. ➺ words — 6.2k ➺ warnings — nsfw. age gap (she is twenty-something, he’s forty-something), daddy kink, dirty talk, name-calling, oral (f receiving), somnophilia, unprotected p in v, toxic relationship, cum 18+ ➺ notes — shoutout to @caramara3 for all the ideas and listening to me whine AND reading this before I posted. thank you so much for putting up with me! ➺ taglist — if you’d like to be added, please click here!

➺ MASTERLIST

➺ if you enjoy my writing, please consider donating toward my IVF journey!

continued from part one.

Wake me up when you get here.

Oh, he planned to do just fucking that, he thought, grinning wildly, tooth-gap on full display as he strolled down the hotel hallway toward his room. Inserting the card key into its slot, he entered the dark room, allowing the door to click closed softly behind him. Her iPad, propped up on the nightstand, was playing an episode of her favorite television show, silhouetting her body as she slept soundly on her side, facing away from him. He dropped his bag in the closet before lifting his hoodie over his head, tossing the garment onto the bag. He toed off his sneakers in the same place, smelling her shampoo and her body wash and her lotion because they all had very different, very distinctive scents—she must have showered while he’d been gone—and he suddenly didn’t have time to remove anything else.

He crawled slowly onto the bed behind her, holding himself up on his hands and knees as he nuzzled her neck, inhaling all of her fragrances. She snored softly, and Punk breathed a laugh against her hair—when this girl slept, she slept hard. And he’d taken advantage of this fact on more than one occasion, just like he would take advantage tonight. He’d done it before with a couple other women with mixed results, but he honestly didn’t care whether they liked it or not. Because he loved it. A sleeping woman was beautiful, sexy, an air of innocence surrounding her as she breathed evenly, utterly ignorant to the predator stalking her, who had intentions less pure than that of the devil himself.

“Are you awake, kitten?” he asked, expecting and receiving only more tiny snores. He licked at her neck, chasing those sweet scents, his hand sliding down her side to her ass barely covered in a pair of soft shorts. She gave no indication she was conscious, and Punk kissed her shoulder, her arm, the tips of his hair grazing her skin as his mouth traveled down her body. “Daddy’s home,” he grinned wickedly, mischievous eyes lifting to search her face as he tenderly maneuvered her onto her back for easier access to everything. She may sleep hard, but that was no reason to be careless with her or rough, no reason to tempt fate, no reason to see just how much he could get away with before she woke up.

Punk shuffled the blankets toward the bottom of the bed where he sat back on his heels for a moment, head tilted, hands on his thighs, and simply watched her. She wore one of his white merch shirts with the sleeves deeply cut out, the outer curves of her breasts on full display, and sometimes he found that sexier than if he were seeing the whole set. The bottom of the shirt had ridden up, giving him a view of her belly button piercing, his cock twitching at the dangling diamond jewelry he’d bought for her recently, at the memory of removing the old one and inserting the new one and how fucking hard that simple act had made him.

“Look how cute,” she’d gushed before sifting her fingers through Punk’s hair, and he’d kissed the diamonds before raising his eyes to hers. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Punk was on his hands and knees again, hands on either side of her hips. “You’re welcome, Peach,” he’d replied. The shy smile she’d given him had been so fucking precious, and Punk’s heart throbbed now at the memory just as it had in the moment. Nicknames, diamond jewelry, installing a tracking app on her phone so he knew where she was at all times, and suddenly it had become more than just fucking between them. Or had it been like this since the beginning?

Forcing himself out of the memory and back into the present, his wolfish eyes gazed at the diamonds by the light of the iPad as he lowered his head, swiping his tongue along the accessory. As his cock strained against his jeans, he sat up so he could pull her shorts and panties down her legs and off, careful not to remove the strangely sexy, huge fuzzy socks on her feet. And there she was, his very favorite peach, the sweetest, tightest, goddamn prettiest pussy he’d ever seen, and that included in real life and in porn, and he got to feast on it any time he damn well pleased.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his long body stretching out behind him, hips instantly rolling against the mattress, though it provided only a minimal amount of relief.

He slid the tip of his nose from the bottom of her clit to the top, eyes closing as he inhaled, easily overdosing on her feminine aroma. His tongue snaked out of his mouth to replace his nose, flicking over the little nub, and then his lips wrapped around it and he sucked ever so carefully, reverently. And he didn’t regret molesting her while she slept, or tracking her whereabouts, or watching her from a dark corner to be sure she was safe and she wasn’t doing anything he deemed wrong because this cunt was worth every diabolical sin he ever had or would ever commit.

He had her dripping down his beard in no time, his dick promising to bust through his jeans at any moment as his tongue worked overtime, and she still slept, though she was becoming a bit restless. Her satiny legs moved and stretched around him, arms twisting under her pillow as her back arched, sending one of her breasts popping out the side of the sleeveless shirt. Punk smirked, nibbling her clit and reaching up to cup the bare breast, gently groping, scraping the pad of his thumb over the hardening nipple—that got him a teeny, tiny mewl, but then her body relaxed and she let out a breath and she was off to dreamland once more. Punk chuckled, hot air rushing over her soaked pussy, causing it to clench, and he was done with this fucking foreplay. He sat up on his knees, pulling the button of his jeans through its loop, lowering the zipper, and he pulled his weeping cock out, jaw clenching to keep from moaning as he gave it a few hard strokes. He could still taste her on his lips, smell her in his beard and mustache, as he reached up to expose her other breast in the same manner as its twin.

“Wore this just for Daddy, didn’t you?” Punk uttered, tweaking the nipple gingerly, and she produced a defiant whine this time, and even in her sleep, she was a goddamn brat. “Shut up,” he groused, massaging the unyielding head of his cock along her slippery slit before sliding slowly inside her tight hole, inside heaven itself.

Her spine bowed again, a complete groan escaping her lips as she tried to close her knees against the foreign intrusion, but Punk grabbed her thighs and held them apart, his dick jolting within her as he continued on. Her eyes fluttered, hands coming out from under the pillow to blindly shove at whomever was assaulting her, obviously disoriented, and Punk, always the clever predator, slammed the iPad down on its screen to extinguish the light, making it even more difficult for her to figure out what was going on. He snatched her wrists mid-air, her hands instantly making fists, and he slammed them above her head, at the same time fully immersing himself inside her. The groan he released was savage, vibrating the both of them, and he finally draped his long, hard body over hers, every muscle in his arms flexing as she fought him, his waist too close to hers for her legs to do any damage, and the more she fought, the tighter she became. He didn’t notice the vicious smile splitting his lips—and she couldn’t see anything at all in the pitch black of the hotel room—when he tucked his face into her neck, clamping his teeth onto her sleek skin.

“Punk?” she panted, and he basked in the sensation of her nipples touching his chest every time she inhaled. “Daddy?”

“It’s me, Peach,” he replied charmingly, as if moments ago he hadn’t been an unknown attacker, purposely darkening the room so it made it more difficult for her to figure out who was on top of her. Her legs were no longer trying to close, instead wrapping themselves around his trim waist, fuzzy socks locking at his lower back, but he refused to relinquish his vice-like grip on her wrists just yet.

“What are you doing?” she quietly asked, finishing with a moan as Punk almost pulled his cock completely out of her cunt before thrusting back deep inside her.

“Just relax,” he coaxed. “Daddy’s using you right now.” He felt her cheek graze his as she nodded and let out a dainty breath that ghosted along his shoulder. She angled her hips, sucking Punk’s cock somehow further into her pussy, and they shared a moan.

“I can smell my pussy on your beard,” she whispered, her lips rubbing along the salt and pepper stubble, and Punk lifted his head, their noses brushing.

“I needed a late night snack,” Punk explained, rocking his hips into hers, her body moving in sync with his tempo. “And you know how I feel about peaches—”

His mouth covered hers, devouring her groan, and their kiss was feral, teeth-clacking, tongues wrestling, and it wasn’t about gaining dominance during something as simple as a kiss. No, it was about trying to taste her everywhere, lick her everywhere, feel every part of the inside of her mouth, memorize every tooth and taste bud. His thrusts came harder, faster, scratching that itch deep inside her as their lips moved together, perfectly in sync, her hips lifting to meet each pump. She was so fucking tight, so pretty, so trusting.

“Daddy, I’m gonna come,” she exhaled, breaking the kiss with a lewd, wet smack.

Punk released one of her wrists so he could quickly lift the iPad back into its propped up position, coloring the room in ever shifting, dull shades of blues and whites. Her smooth lips were parted, cut up t-shirt gathered between her bouncing breasts, and maybe he shouldn’t have killed the light in the first place. He reclaimed her wrist, her skin still heated from his earlier grip, but she slipped through his grasp, and she intertwined their fingers instead, and he told himself the gesture meant nothing, that he was too lazy to rearrange his grip.

Whatever the reason, he let her hold his hand.

“Look at me,” Punk commanded. She shook her head, brows arching, licking her lips, and then licking them again, except this time the tip of her tongue circled her lips, tasting the remnants of her pussy juices and his spit. He preferred when she obeyed, but her defiance turned him on, too, made his balls tighten and his lower back tingle. “Fucking look at me, you stupid slut.”

She cried out, squeezing his hand, and he thought for a moment he was going to have to tell her again, but then her glazed-over eyes popped open. Their gazes met, and another shout escaped her lips before her cunt pulsated around his cock. He’d wanted to last longer, to fuck her until she begged him to stop, until she couldn’t take it anymore, until she was either in too much pain or too overstimulated to the point of crying—fuck, he loved it when she cried, tears streaming pathetically down her beautiful face while she beseeched him to stop, to please let her live—but then her cunt was milking his cock, begging in its own way for a reward for being so good to him, for him. He unloaded suddenly deep inside her, hips stuttering, breath hitching, and he felt like maybe he died a little, but he never once broke the eye contact he’d demanded, and neither did she, despite their earth-shattering orgasms.

“Oh, my god,” she sighed, blatantly satisfied, and Punk released her wrist and hand one at a time so he could support his weight with one arm at all times—under his dead weight, she’d have surely been crushed. She instantly combed her fingers through his hair, Punk’s eyes closing as her manicured nails scratched along his scalp, and if she were a wrestler, this would be her finishing move. “Thanks for waking me up,” she giggled, pressing her lips to his for a kiss that lasted minutes. Minutes. Never once did he feel the urge to pull away or feed her some excuse as to why he needed to put space between them, and if the grip she had around his neck or the rolling of her hips against his were any indications, she wouldn’t have allowed him to separate them, anyway.

“You’re welcome,” Punk replied, catching her contagious, after-sex smile. “I hope you’re ready to go back to sleep, though. We gotta get up early.”

The following day, the couple—oh, jesus… are we a couple? Punk wondered—arrived at WWE Headquarters separately—Punk drove a rental, she always had a car service available to her—for a meeting organized by Triple H concerning the direction of the company. As CM Punk, and with a rock solid contract, he assumed the content wouldn’t have much to do with him, but his attendance was mandatory nonetheless. She was present as Paul Heyman’s protégé—the heir apparent—the future of what’s best for business. And before he made himself known to her, he watched her from afar, snapping photos as she chatted with talent, had a conversation with her father, and he even photographed her thumbs tapping away on her phone, seconds later receiving a text from her.

I know you’re here, the text said, and Punk’s eyes narrowed, glancing up at her. He was about to respond when another message came through. I can feel you watching me.

Punk replied after a moment, sending one of the first pictures he’d taken of her so he could give her a rough idea just how long he’d been stalking her. His chartreuse eyes switched from his phone to her, standing in a corner across the room.

She smiled upon receiving the message, chewing on her bottom lip as she quickly typed an answer. Now I’m wet, it said.

“There’s my guy!”

Punk glanced up at Paul Heyman as the shorter man approached him, joyful smile on his face, and then Punk’s eyes lowered to his phone once more when it vibrated.

You fucking creep, he read, hearing her taunt him in his head, her playful tone laced with lust and obscenity, and he almost reached down to adjust his tweaking dick, catching himself at the last second as Paul stood in front of him. Punk killed the screen on his phone and stuffed the device into his back pocket, crossing his sinewy, tattooed arms over his broad chest, preparing for either a famous Heyman lecture about this or that, or he was about to give Punk a sneak peek of what Triple H would shortly announce to everyone. The content didn’t matter—Punk couldn’t have cared less regardless—but he hated being interrupted, and the anger did well at suppressing his blooming arousal.

Once the actual meeting started, Punk parked his ass in the back row of chairs, sipping his coffee and scrolling his phone—it would be too risky to open that thread of messages while so many people were in such close proximity to him and could easily look over his shoulder. And then she was suddenly passing in front of him, a soft breeze of her perfume splashing across his face, and he inhaled until his lungs promised to explode, holding his breath as if the fragrance would have a mind-altering effect on him. She sat in the empty seat beside him, arching a brow as she glanced at him, a smile only for Daddy on her flawless lips.

As Triple H began speaking about whatever, Punk pretended to stretch in her direction, dropping an arm on the back of her chair. “You’re fucking killing me,” he breathed, glancing behind them as he spoke.

She wasn’t as covert as he, simply leaning over closer to his ear as she whispered, “Sorry, Daddy.”

Punk looked at her as she pulled away, their eyes locked in yet another contest, and probably anyone who looked at them right now would be able to tell what was going on between them. There was a crackle in the ether surrounding them, tension so thick it was difficult to breathe, and although the eye contact succeeded only in further charging the air and condensing the passion between the old man and his pretty peach, neither of them broke it. Until—

“So I want you all to give a warm welcome to Logan Paul!”

She blinked, the debauchery in her eyes from before replaced with unease and, what, fear? What had changed her mood so drastically and so quickly? He got his answer when she slowly turned her head to the podium, a snarl of disgust stealing her normally carefree smile and attitude. Punk followed her hardened gaze, watching as the douchebag “social media superstar” shook hands and hugged Triple H. Most of the people in attendance cheered or clapped, but the girl beside him looked as though she might throw up at any moment, and Punk wasn’t a fucking moron.

“Tell me you didn’t date him,” he said, instantly wishing he could grab the spoken words and stuff them back down his throat. He hadn’t meant to say date—he didn’t care who she’d dated—he’d meant to say fuck. Because he did not care about her past boyfriends. He didn’t. She looked at him, once sparkling eyes having lost their light falling shamefully, and Punk needed to hurt someone.

“I wouldn’t exactly call it dating,” she quietly replied.

Punk’s eyes closed and he took several deep breaths in a futile attempt to cool the raging fire within. He'd have to process her prior taste in men at a later time—the utter devastation written across the pretty girl’s normally lighthearted face had his stomach in knots and his hands clenching into fists, unclenching, and repeating. He’d never seen her this way before, not even when the two of them argued, and he placed a hand over his aching chest as a memory flashed through his brain.

“Sorry I woke you,” she’d said, watching as he climbed on the bed so he could reach the ceiling and slay the evil eight-legged imposter that’d had her screaming for help at three in the morning.

“What do I always tell you?” Punk had asked, balling up the paper towel with the spider carcass, hopping off the mattress.

She’d smiled, clasping her hands behind her back as she’d closed the space between them. “Daddy will always take care of me,” she’d sweetly replied.

Sweet. She was sweet. What the fuck had she even been doing with that idiot in the first place? What the fuck was she doing with him?

“I’ll take care of you,” Punk suddenly said, speaking without thinking.

Her eyes rose to his. “What?”

“It,” Punk immediately corrected. “I’ll take care of it.”

“… There’s nothing to take care of.”

“I’m gonna make sure he doesn’t bother you.”

She rolled her eyes, Punk resisting the urge to smack her thigh as punishment for the offending gesture. “Just leave it alone. You don’t even …” She shook her head. “Just leave it alone. Leave it alone, leave him alone, leave …” She trailed off.

Punk’s jaw tightened. “Leave you alone?”

“Did I fucking say that?”

Punk was silent—she hadn’t said that, but she might as well have—as he faced his body forward, again folding his arms over his chest. The two of them endured the remainder of Logan Paul’s insufferable speech, neither of them speaking again or even looking at the other. Punk didn’t really know what the heart of the argument he’d started was. Jealousy—Logan was younger, probably had more stamina, and could probably keep up with her better than Punk could. Humiliation—Was Logan really the kind of guy she was attracted to and she was just fucking Punk until she found someone better? Fear—What had the newest member of the Raw roster done to his girl in the past? Or had it been a special cocktail of all three?

When the garbled speech finally ended, Punk jumped from his chair, intent on escaping in his rented SUV, but Paul Heyman stopped him, as well as his daughter, imploring them both to meet the latest superstar. Owing a lot to Paul, Punk allowed himself to be tugged in that direction, and because she was his offspring, Punk’s little peach couldn’t find it in her heart to deny him, either. On the upside, Punk would be able to gauge the energy between her and Logan, keeping his eyes peeled for knowing smiles or blushes or lip biting.

None of which happened. Punk almost wished they had.

“Holy shit!” Logan shouted once he laid his eyes on Miss Heyman. Punk watched her as she forced a smile but refused to make any sort of eye contact with the blonde moron. “I didn’t know you worked here!”

She blinked. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t know that,” she replied, looking everywhere but at Logan’s face.

Punk’s emerald eyes switched to the influencer as he shrugged. “I just don’t think about you, you know,” he said. Punk licked his lips, chewing the bottom one, tasting copper. “I mean, I don’t think about you in WWE.” He wasn’t trying to correct himself, and suddenly Punk’s vision was stained crimson, hands forming fists again. Who the fuck did this kid think he was? He turned his attention to the Second City Saint, extending his hand, and it took several moments for Punk to force his hand to shake Logan’s. He squeezed, hard, forbidding Logan to let go, and just as the kid’s face began to morph into worry, the girl with the dangling diamond belly button ring cleared her throat, diverting Punk’s attention and reminding him with her eyes not only who he was, but where he was. He was about to release Logan’s hand when the younger man pulled him in for a hug and whispered in his ear, “I act like I don’t remember her, but I do, and if you get the chance, you should hop on that.” Punk’s eyes glazed over, his entire body stiffening. “She’s a freak, bro.” The words were enough to set Punk’s blood boiling, but the fact that this kid just told a stranger, a coworker, that Paul Heyman’s daughter was a freak added fuel to the fire. Was he trying to impress Punk? Make a new fucking friend? And who else would he tell before he even got out of the building? Who else had he told already?

“Ah, fuck,” Punk sighed, his momentary shock allowing Logan to remove his hand from Punk’s grasp and put some distance between them before Punk made a decision.

“Punk.” His sweet, precious, little peach. He looked down at her, a foot, if not more, shorter than him, who loved to brush her fingers through his hair and was the reason he’d started growing it out in the first place, and he needed to hurt someone. “Don’t,” she warned, with zero conviction in her voice. Maybe she knew he wouldn’t listen, maybe she wanted him to hurt someone but she had to pretend to try and stop him.

“What’s going on?” her father asked, making his presence known.

Punk gazed down at her, hands on his hips, and he knew very well there would be consequences for his actions, but he was prepared to face them head on. There would be consequences for her, as well, possibly, and still it wasn’t enough to hold him back. He tilted his head, pursing his lips, caressing her cheek with his thumb, fingers tickling her neck, and he turned around, stomping after Logan. He grabbed the new hire’s shoulder and spun him, Logan caught off guard, and Punk reeled back and got off a clean, hard punch to the asshole’s face. Punk followed him as he fell, straddling Logan with a knee on the floor and the other leg stretched out as he held him down with one hand and punched him repeatedly with the other.

“Shut the fuck up!” Punk yelled, pausing the battery just so he could point at the beaten man under him. “Not one more goddamn word about her.” The hand holding Logan down went to his throat, and his voice was somehow much calmer than before. “Do you understand me?” Gentler still.

“What the fuck, bro?” Logan yelled, doing his best to fight back, but Punk had gained the upper hand early and never released it.

“I’m not your bro. Son. Stay the hell away from her. And keep her name out of your dumb fucking mouth.”

Punk finally climbed off him. Adrenaline surged through his veins, masking any pain, but he knew Logan had gotten a few lucky punches in while defending himself, though any bruises or black eyes were the least of his concerns. As he searched the surrounding crowd for the entire reason for his outburst, his heart accelerated when he realized she was nowhere to be found. Had she really left? He thought maybe she’d want to watch him beat someone’s ass for real, but evidently he was wrong. And as his eyes passed over the various attendees, he came to Paul Heyman who was still standing nearby, eyeing him suspiciously, and oh, that’s probably why she hadn’t stuck around.

Punk sighed, carding his fingers through his hair in case it had been mussed during the fight, and he wished it were her hands fixing his hair. “Paul,” he said.

Paul watched Punk a moment, Punk massaging his throbbing hand. “Punk,” he eventually said, passing his old client without another look. Punk wasn’t sure what any of it meant, but since it was his life, he figured it would be bad.

Only capable of handling one problem at a time, Punk chose the most important. As Triple H was headed his way, Punk slithered throughout the crowd, bobbing and weaving, successfully escaping WWE Headquarters without being stopped. Shaking his throbbing hand, Punk drove quickly and erratically back to the hotel, having no idea what he might find when he got there. Would she be in their room? Did she book another hotel? Was she on her way to the airport to board a fucking jet?

“Goddamn it,” he exhaled. No answers, only more questions. What other influencers had she slept with? Celebrities? Younger men she could compare him to?

Fuck, he clearly wasn’t built for a relationship, much less a relationship with a woman twenty years younger than him, but he still pulled the SUV into the parking lot of the hotel they’d stayed in. He still took the elevator to their floor and he still jogged down the hallway to the correct door. He remembered making this trip the night prior, how excited he’d been, how amazing it had turned out, neither of them having any idea what was in store for them the next day. He pulled the key card out of his pocket, paused briefly, and inserted it, dropping his forehead against the door when the light turned red. He tried again just for the hell of it with the same result, and he tossed the useless card over his shoulder.

“Peach,” Punk said. “Sweetheart, you in there?”

Silence.

“I, uh—” He chuckled, though nothing about this was even remotely funny. “Look, I’m not sorry for kicking that kid’s ass. He had it comin’.”

Silence.

“What did you want me to do?” Punk asked, hands on the doorframe. “He was gonna tell—”

The door opened without warning. “You don’t know that, old man!” his sweet peach yelled. “And now we’ll never know!”

“Okay,” Punk said, holding a hand up, smiling at the sheer audacity of the entire situation, at her thinking that loser wouldn’t tell more people what he’d told Punk, or something worse. A smile that dropped instantly when she shoved him backward, heels of her hands on his chest, sending him stumbling into the hallway.

“But you just couldn’t help yourself,” she went on. “And now my dad’s gonna know about us!”

Punk looked at her a moment before stomping across the hall, bound to enter the room and force her to have a conversation instead of a screaming match, but once he was close enough, he felt the smack before he even saw her hand. His cheek exploded, a surprising amount of power inside this tiny girl, and he lost his balance but was able to turn in a circle instead of face-planting. As he came around to face her again, opposite hand cradling his stinging cheek, lopsided smirk tilting his beard and mustache, he started inside again. She was able to close the heavy door before he could cross the threshold, turning the deadbolt even though she didn’t have to. The lock clicking heavily into place seemed to echo throughout his brain, Punk laughing again, however inappropriately, and he pounded on the door more out of irritation than anything else. Here he was, an old fucking man, too tired and, well, old for this shit, but he was still making an effort, trying to talk through things when he otherwise would have just said fuck it and been on his way. He was going to have to accept sooner rather than later that his life would be very different from here on out.

Maybe, he thought. If she ever opens the goddamn door!

Punk sighed, his body rolling along the door as he put his back to it before sliding down until his ass met the hard, ugly carpet he swore was the same at every hotel he’d ever been to. He scratched at his beard, wincing from the slap a moment ago, and he wondered whether his skin would simply redden or if he’d wake tomorrow morning with a light bruise. Arching a brow, he glanced down the hallway upon hearing the elevator ding, the sound almost as loud as the deadbolt separating him from his peach. The one thing that could have made Punk’s day even worse rounded the corner, Paul Heyman strolling toward him, a savvy smile on his robust face. Punk bent his knees, resting his elbows on them, and he raised a hand to wave.

“Paul,” he greeted.

Paul came to a stop a few feet away and leaned on the wall in front of his old client. “Punk,” he said. He nodded at the door Punk rested against. “What are you doing outside my daughter’s room?”

Punk’s mouth clamped shut and he averted his gaze. He should have been man enough to own up to what he’d been doing to Paul’s daughter, what they’d been doing together, but he clammed up and said nothing. Fucking coward. You’re not good enough for her.

Paul breathed a soft laugh, tucking his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “I remember when I heard you guys fighting at the Christmas party,” he casually confessed. Punk’s eyes widened as he gaped at the hideous carpet. “I think she … wanted to dance with you, right?” After a moment, Punk nodded. “But you didn’t want to because … What was your reason again?”

Punk scratched at his eyebrow with his thumb, and his cheeks weren’t red just from Miss Heyman’s slap. He cleared his throat, shaking his head, and he ultimately looked up at Paul. “Uh … at the time, Paul, I didn’t want anyone to find out about us.”

“Right,” Paul shrugged, “but for some reason, today was okay for everyone to find out? With the added bonus of a fist fight.”

“Look—”

“Stop,” Paul interrupted. “Of course I don’t want you dating my daughter. My daughter is too good for you.”

“I don’t disagree.”

“I said shut up. But I looked the other way because I’ve never, in all her life, seen her as happy as she’s been with you.” Punk’s stomach sloshed. “So you—” The round man leaned over and pointed at Punk, his bulging eyes like two tiny pyro flames. “—need to fix this.”

“What do you think I’m doin’ here, Paul?” Punk seethed, gesturing at his surroundings.

“Looks like you’re sitting on your ass pouting,” Paul snapped. “Stand up. Be the man my daughter deserves.” Punk nodded, and was this what shame felt like? “What are you waiting for? Get up!”

Punk chuckled, climbing to his feet, brushing off his jeans self-consciously. “Thanks, Paul,” he said. Paul only glared at Punk before turning and heading back toward the elevator. Suddenly Punk heard the deadbolt release, and he spun around to face the door as it opened, though, at the last second, he took a step back. She stood there, eyes burning much like her father’s had. “You’re not gonna hit me again, are you?” he asked. Her frown twitched, and he considered it a victory to still be able to charm her.

“You liked it,” she said. Punk’s own smirk grew, green eyes brightening, and he nodded. “I heard you talking to my dad.” Punk nodded again, and who had really done the enchanting here? Her beauty, even while angry, was unmatched, her pretty scent infiltrating his senses, and he thought for sure this time he’d end up stoned. “So how do you plan on fixing it?”

Punk pretended to weigh his options, eyes looking about as he thought. “I thought maybe you could sit on my face for … at least an hour.”

Her jaw worked, but that adorable smile of hers was starting to bleed through even more. “How do you actually plan on fixing it?”

Punk gripped the doorframe and leaned inside the room, drawing her eyes to his biceps despite being covered by a white hoodie. Her scent became stronger, her pupils grew larger, and Punk decided he wanted to fight with this girl and only this girl for the rest of his life. “I honestly don’t know,” he replied, “but I thought we could start with a dance.”

Her blossoming smile melted as she swallowed. “What?”

Punk extended his hand, palm up, and she let only a brief moment pass before she placed her hand in his. He took a few steps backward, into the hallway, and she followed, eyes glassy while watching his face closely. Punk locked her gaze with his as he pulled his phone from his pocket, glancing down momentarily to find the correct app and locate a song they’d be able to dance to. He pressed play before tucking the device away once more, taking a deep breath when their eyes met, and he took her other hand, so tiny in comparison to his, so soft, lifting both of them to his shoulders. The tips of his fingers danced up her arms and down her sides, grinning at the tightening of her muscles where he knew her tickle spot to be, landing heavily on her hips.

He turned them in a slow circle, shifting their weight from one foot to the other, and he wished he’d done this at Christmas. Her in her sexy green dress and heels, the stockings with the seams up the back … fucking idiot, he berated himself. No one would have suspected them of having a connection that went beyond just dancing—he knew that now, he’d known it then—but why had it mattered? He was an adult and she was an adult, which made their ages irrelevant, and, oh, by the way, he’d never given a fuck what people thought about him or the things he did, so why did he care when it came to her?

“I’m sorry for slapping you,” she whispered, squeezing his shoulders, one hand sneaking to the back of his neck. Punk tilted his head with a small shrug, and she finally, finally, smiled—a full smile, like he could see every single one of her teeth, and he determined at that moment to make it his life’s goal to keep this smile on her face for as long as he was able. “But …”

Punk’s brows rose, thin lips forming an O. “You liked it, too, didn’t you?”

Her eyes were downcast then, remaining long enough that Punk truly thought she was humiliated by the newly discovered kink, but then her gaze lifted to meet his, and they were fucking black and consumed by hunger and filth and him. Her ability to flip a switch with her moods might have irritated other men, but Punk welcomed it—he enjoyed the surprise of not knowing which princess he was going to get on any given day.

“Maybe,” she whispered, rising to her tip toes. “Possibly.” Her silky lips brushed his as she breathed, “Perhaps.” The kiss she gave him couldn't even be described as a peck—so gentle, so goddamn elegant—because he wasn’t sure he’d felt it at all. His hands glided from her hips to her back, easily covering the expanse, pulling her closer to him. “But also definitely.”

Punk’s smile had enough energy to power an entire country until the end of time. “Wanna do it again?” he purred.

“Actually I do,” she replied. “But first thing's first … you need to go down to the front desk.” She tossed a thumb over her shoulder. “We're locked out.”

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uwmspeccoll · 2 months ago

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Decorative Sunday

We've made several posts about paste papers, but never one that explains the complete process and technique. This small accordion book (4"x4"; 10x10 cm), Making Paste Papers by noted American paper artist Diane Maurer (b, 1944), made at her home studio in Spring Mills, Pennsylvania with original paste-paper samples in 1992 signed by the artist, does just that. It offers simple, step-by-step instructions on how to make paste papers from mixing the paste to finishing the paper.

Maurer is noted for a variety of paper arts, but she writes, "Although I am known for my books and decorative papers, my focus for many years has been on creating paper collage. I begin my collages by marbling, paste painting, and dyeing paper to create the colors and textures that are essential to my artwork. Then I tear, cut and combine multiple layers of patterned papers with handmade papers to represent surrealistic landscapes and fanciful seascapes. Most have considerable dimension, approaching paper sculpture."

Recently, Maurer was invited to become part of the MET's Paper Legacy Project for which she handcrafted 40 papers, including traditional marbling, Japanese Suminagashi marbling, and paste papers.

Our copy of this book is another donation from the estate of our late friend Dennis Bayuzick.

View more of our posts on paste papers.

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#Decorative Sunday #decorative arts #decorative plates #paste papers #paste paper #making paste papers #Diane Maurer #decorative paper #Dennis Bayuzick #paper samples #paste paper samples

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 4 months ago

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High Stakes (1) | Yanderes x reader

The sound of your commander’s neck snapping was a lot less gory than you expected. Grateful that the only image you will have attached to this experience was their crumpled body on the floor. The culprit stared apathetically at you—who was bowing in acknowledgment.

“You. Will be the new commander of this shuttle.”

“Yes Sir.”

There was nothing more to say as your superior angrily stalked out of the room, their cape and the scent of burned flesh left in the remaining breeze. Along with him, your new co-workers rushed after, purposefully avoiding your gaze as they stepped over your old boss. Hearing the air-tight doors seal shut you finally inhaled, delighting in the much-needed breath of air. Forcing yourself to breathe, although the tension in your body was about to be at an all-time high.

The stakes were monumental.

They are your life.

______________________________________________________________

After your former boss’s demise, you were able to adapt to your role. Successfully carrying out five years of managing a law-abiding, rebel-free, cargo ship. According to the contract you were demanded to serve for a total of six years before you were allowed to retire. Living frugally with room and board provided by the government you were more than prepared for an early retirement. The stressful atmosphere and sleepless nights were far too much for you to do this as long as the last guy.

But of course, in your last months, it just wouldn’t be that simple.

“Commander (L/N)! We’ve captured two stowaways in the cargo bay!”

“Not unusual we give them the usual treatment and send them on a prison transport.”

“These two, are the recently caught rebels. Escapees from…his prison.”

“....I see. I’ll confirm their identities shortly.”

There was a 1 in 60% chance that your ship would be an unlucky vessel for trouble-seeking rebels. And with their recession on behalf of the newest supreme officer hard at work, you thought you’d have the privilege of not being in such an unlucky position. Eager for the last thing you hear not to be that dreadful snapping of bones.

You locked your office before heading to the brig. Passing by multiple armed guards marching on patrol. After having learned of the rebel’s presence you doubled the guards, even if you had yet to confirm it was them. Better safe than sorry.

The door opened with a hiss, your lieutenant officer especially red in the face as she turned from the cells. The cells were made of electric titanium, glittering as clear hexagons. An upgrade the new Supreme officer had made—saying even the most powerful rebels were slaves to its power. You were grateful you had them updated.

“Commander this Rebel Scum, matches the description perfectly,” she huffed handing you the tablet that showed the recently taken mug shots of the prisoners.

The prisoner on the right was a lean fellow but the muscles he displayed were obvious. The tattoo of a prisoner marking his exposed upper shoulder, the sleeveless body shirt fashionably clashing against the tied jumper around his waist. The dull, dirtied gray jumpsuit evidently matched the standard issue for high-value prisoners. He was doing push-ups, seemingly for a while now— he had a darker complexion, sheened with the glow of a measurable amount of sweat. His hair, short and curly, remained unaffected bouncing in tandem with his vertical rhythm. Going up and down and up and down. He spared a look at you, brown eyes housing odd speckled flecks of gold.

This was he.

Matthew Roche—a Human male, age 25, 210 cm, convicted of conspiracy, Assault of Multiple Officers, Treason, Shipment of Illegal Weaponry, and Sabotage.

Notes: Well-behaved in proximity to Prisoner #600 also known as “Ruu”, atypical human strength; give no utensils or any object that can deal damage with blunt force.

“Like what you see? I’ve picked a fine man haven’t I?”

The coy and accented voice that rings out is muffled, coming from the adjacent cell. In there is the other convict. Skin a light pink and purple hair so dark you might’ve mistaken it for black, is a smirking fiend. Leaning against the wall closest to the other cell, he has a much shorter build. Barely a shred of muscle on his body and the tattered remains of a red jumpsuit hanging off his shoulders. You recognized that suit.

“Did you kill and take the suit of one of my mechanics?”

“Ah recognize it do you? I took some creative liberties to maybe match my style a little.”

You didn’t relent, still waiting for him to answer your question. The convict pouted puffing his lips and crossing his arms. Scleras black and pupils red, pretending to squint with fake tears. You didn’t appreciate how long he was taking to answer. The furrowing of your brows, was all your lieutenant needed eagerly grabbing the remote control on the side of the cells. On the little panel connected by a wire to the cells, there was a lock for a key to release and eight buttons meant to depict the levels of electric energy. Your lieutenant eagerly clicked on the third button. Immediately the flash of light goes off, bolts of electricity dancing within the cell. The inmate within writhing in agonizing pain.

“Aaaagh!”

Matthew banged the clear wall, seemingly unbothered by the numbing agent infused into it in favor of silently demanding she stop. You didn’t need to watch the prisoner writhe anymore, unbelievably feeling guilty for their obvious pain.

“Yuki, please.”

She didn’t seem all that willing to listen but one look and she turned the effect off. The prisoner slumped into the wall reeling from the pain they were in. Still, they looked up at you with a smirk, with slow agonized breaths.

“I didn’t kill anyone…they’re just…sleeping it off in your oil garage.”

The lieutenant looks at the communicator on her wrist, quickly alerting the coworkers in that department. Next, she pulled up the hidden camera in the garage of the naked employee among the barrels proving that statement to be true.

“Commander that statement appears to be true. They are still breathing.”

You hum, finally exhaling, and you officially check the tablet. The picture matches the defeated inmate in the cell, still rocking the same wide smile

This was Rumakia Hintoth Yeward colloquially known as “Ruu the Ruthless”-a Diagalos Male, age 134, 145 cm, convicted of Genocide, Murder of Multiple Officers, Treason, Conspiracy, Maiming, Public Indecency, and [REDACTED].

The following notes are also redacted the only words in big letters: NOTIFY SUPREME UPON CONFIRMATION. Sending a look at the recovering Diagolos, there was no doubt this was the rebel they so desperately were after. You’d have to send a call to the Supreme immediately.

“Commander should I–?”

Turning to Yuki and her concerned face, speaking more than any words. You appreciated her offer, certain your previous authority would have taken it in a heartbeat but you were not him. Patting her on the back, you shook your head; purposely ignoring her worried expression and hand reaching out for you.

“Prisoners, you’ll be dealt with in a day’s time. Please get your rest.”

The sentiment was a minor courtesy, almost one you made with pity in your heart. For who they were meeting with next would not be so merciful to stop at the third electric shock. You hoped for your crew’s sake the prisoners would be the only ones receiving that kind of attention.

______________________________________________________________

You could smell the sweat of your crew. Their nervousness was all too palpable to you. You hoped your mask of apathy was of some comfort. Unless any of them spoke out of turn the only one with their head on the chopping block is you.

“Supreme One, it’s an honor to have you here.”

The new Supreme was younger, the wrinkles on his face few and far between. Tastefully on the side of his mouth; similar to smile lines—though that was unlikely. He was donned in the usual black, the typical cape lying only on his right shoulder. Hands in gray gloves that were curled into fists at his sides.

“The pleasure will be all mine when I have my escapees.”

“Of course.”

With another bow, you walked alongside him. Leading him and his personal army of trained guards to the brig. Along the walk you could feel his burning gaze on…you. As unsettling as it was this was your superior in every way, as far as you know he could do anything he wanted. You wouldn’t be able to stop him anyway.

“I’m surprised,” his voice was smooth and sultry; the kind you would have liked a partner of yours to have if you had the time. “To think they employed someone as young as you. I thought I was the only one.”

You didn’t answer. Only nodded.

What were you supposed to say?!

Continuing to walk alongside him, your comfort was placed on the prisoners. At the very least any unwanted attention would be siphoned from you to them the second he had the rebels in his grasp. All you needed now was for that to come to pass.

The wail of the alarm made you want to cry.

Yuki’s voice rang out on the loudspeaker; your stomach further twisting on itself

“T-the ah–the prisoners have escaped! They’re headed for the docking bay, proceed with extreme caution. One is a Diagolos! Act accordingly with the emergency protocols–”

Her struggled warning, made it all too real.

Along with the blaring siren and the red emergency lights, you began to direct your guards. Splitting them off with intentions to funnel the prisoners into airlocks. The plan being if all else failed to jet them into space.

Amid your running mind, you felt a tight grip on your arm. It belonged to the Supreme One, pulling you along as he made his way to the airlock. Leading instead, it amazed you how he’d memorized the outline of a small-time cargo ship under his reign.

“You come with me!”

You followed the best you could, surprised by the detour he was making. Truly curious as to what he had in mind.

“Sir this isn’t the way to the airlock shouldn’t we–”

“They’re going to split up, you might get one to go that way but you won’t get the other.”

With your help, the Supreme One made it through. Your hand and memorized codes made for an easy route for him to eventually come across a bloodied hallway. The emergency light coated the room in a dim red, terribly lighting the surmountable corpses on the ground. At the end of the hallway was Ruu holding a guard intimately, leaning their body against his knee. From afar it looked as though he was placing a passionate kiss on their neck. But alas the light revealed the exact opposite: where his pink lips were on their neck so were the elongated round fangs sucking the man’s blood and some of his organs out. In an instant the man shriveled up, their body deflating before being tossed to the ground alongside the other corpses. Above him stood Rumakia a bloody and wide smile on his face as he danced over his various meals.

“Well hello there dear Supreme it seems you found my jailer! How lucky am I that the two humans of interest are right in front of me!”

The Supreme One’s stoic face stretches into a smile—a twisted, wicked smile, you’re sure is worthy of a man ruling the government. He unsheathes a sword of light and electricity, illuminating the room much better.

By now you felt it was time you excused yourself. As willing as you were to take the fall for your crew, dying in the midst of a battle of the most violent beings on the ship was not your forte. You tried to run, turning to where you originally came but were stopped. Like you weighed nothing the Supreme One had pulled you into his chest with his un-moveable grip, holding his electric sword in the opposite hand he started to laugh.

“Come now, Rumakia! Attack me with my commander,” he’s holding you so tight but you refuse to move the memory of your commander’s crumpled corpse plaguing your mind.

The irony of your similar fate, you fail to realize the specific way you’ve been pulled into the man behind you. Practically no space between you both; his breath, smelling of ashes tickles the side of your face. His nose sensually runs along your cheek as he taunts the fanged prisoner across from him.

“So lovely! I see why you traveled so far for this lifeblood,” the Supreme dares a lick to your sweating neck, “I can’t wait to enjoy them once I kill you!”

The alien across the way shrieks an ear-piercing howl, their hair widening in tandem. A fact about the Diagolos was that their thirst for blood was at its highest or in times of great stress invoked another ability than great strength—-the use of tendrils. So small and weak they mimic hair like any other species but within a specific set of circumstances their tendrils grow and act as additional limbs. That was exactly what was happening now and for Ruu with lusciously long hair meant a web of extra problems for the Supreme One.

Satisfied, the man holding you lets out a whistle, someone of his personal guard appearing behind him in an instant. With his electric sword cutting at the reaching tendrils, your superior twirls you throwing you into the arms of his guard—that doesn’t release you despite your struggling.

“Take the Commander to my ship. Kill anyone that gets in your way.”

The guard only nods before dragging you away, this time you don’t fight as another shrill cry echoes down the hallway. You let the guard lead you, so you can replay the moments before. It was puzzling to try and imagine what exactly was the competition. It couldn’t be you….could it? It’d be bizarre to believe that a prisoner who’s sustenance was blood traveled across the vast galaxy to find you. More than likely you just happened to have a blood type he was interested in…it had to be.

“Move!”

The aggressive pushing from the guard broke you from your thoughts. Passing by the corpses of the same soldiers you’d sent away made you pause. The guard groaned before lifting you up, carelessly tossing you over their shoulder to trudge over their bodies. Your memories with the people they were replay and you feel an overwhelming sense of guilt.

A commander should go down with their ship, right?

You attempted to leave, tearfully reciting the exact thing, hoping to appeal to the person behind the mask. And for a moment they pause seemingly taking your ask into consideration.

“Didn’t want to do this.”

They were swift, unsheathing an electric zapper and jamming it into your side. The force of the jab—painful and the electrocution—burning. You're left to writhe with the resounding pain as the guard moves to pick you up again. Securing your limp body on their shoulder they plan to continue on their way.

“H-hey let them go!”

The pain is paralyzing and you struggle to lift your head much further but you recognize the voice. It’s Yuki. Hardly able to look you note the stance she’s in, the growing crimson puddle beneath her, and the way she leans against the wall. She’s hurt. You want to call out to her, but any attempt to get her attention is thwarted by the guard turning around. Forced to look at the blackness of their uniform you feel them chuckle and pull out a weapon. It doesn’t click the way the zapper did.

It clicks the way guns do.

“With your condition, I doubt you’ll survive this. Not really one to be making demands.”

A shot rings out and she screams.

She’s not dead but you can smell that familiar smell of burning flesh.

“Any regrets?”

“Just that…I can’t promise you it’ll be any better with them, (Y/n)...but I hope it’s better than with him..”

“What?!”

You’re moving again despite the aches in your body. You move to look up, finding your poor lieutenant with a ghastly paleness on her face covered in blood. A shot rings out and her final words ring loudly in your ears.

Who could she mean by they?

She couldn’t possibly mean...?

“What a waste of energy that bi–” your retainer was halted by the baffling sight of a hand sprouting from the front of their chest. Looking down and blankly trying to hold the hand sticking out of him, their mouth fills with blood as the hand retreats. Finally, you’re released, awkwardly catching yourself with aching legs as they descend to the floor. Above them is none other than Matthew.

“You! But why would you—?”

“We have to leave now. Do you need me to carry you?”

The voice that leaves his lips moves something in you, you’ve rarely felt moved before. So consumed with work you never could begin to think of anything romantic with anyone, But hearing his voice and being grabbed by the sturdy hands attached you felt a need like never before. Perhaps it was the electricity, influencing you to lose your inhibitions as you failed to register any of the words coming out of his mouth. Only when his lips stopped moving and he tilted his head did you begin to think maybe you should reply but then you’d have to remember what was said. And that just wasn’t possible.

“What?”

Unlike the guard before he didn’t sigh exasperatedly, just bent down and picked you up. Holding you in that forbidden carry, cradling your back and thighs. Something must be wrong. So very wrong. Despite all your knowledge of the horrors that had been committed by the man holding you, your hands still reached for his face. Squishing what little fat remained of his cheeks and rubbing your thumbs over those delectably plump lips. This felt like there was something terribly wrong. But you also couldn’t stop.

“Have you always been this pretty?”

The stoic face that was oh-so focused on his unannounced mission, looked at you in surprise. Then like the moon coming out on a cloudy day, he smiled. It made this unfamiliar part of you swoon, demanding you lean and nuzzle into the neck of a criminal.

“So sappy, I was worried I wouldn’t make it in time.”

It was Rumakia, even more bloody than you when you had left him, wearing a form-fitting body suit with a cape that dragged on the floor—a trophy from a battle won with your superior no doubt. Skipping over more fallen companions of yours but for some reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Leaning into the alien’s touch he held your face in his hands, making eye contact with his red eyes. For some reason, you felt significantly hotter.

“Who would’ve thought our pheromones would take into effect now? During our little coup…but I’m not complaining. I’ve been waiting far too long for this.”

His kisses were like ice cubes in an intense Earthian Summer, refreshing and addictive. They continued trailing from the corner of your mouth to the veins of your neck, an oddly cool feeling of a sickled tongue going up and down and up—

“W-what’s going on? What’s happening?”

Ruu giggled the clutch on your face trailing to your jaw with a focus on your neck. More kisses and the grazing of something sharp–like the flat side of a blade threatening to turn over any moment. What should have incurred your fear, instead incited your heartbeat to increase in excitement.

“This is what I was after for so long. Letting myself get captured and roughed up when I easily could have massacred them all.”

With not a second wasted Rumakia plunged his fangs into your neck and began to suck at your blood. Feeling your energy drain should have been terrifying, thinking of the guard you saw literally being sucked to death. Instead, you felt a pooling heat below your waist, causing you to uncomfortably shuffle. Ruu was moaning and you felt inclined to join registering how you were being brought to the ground from your elevated state. The light weight of a body being positioned on top of you and those hands fondling every part they could. It felt good but so confusing.

The loss of energy already drained from the stress of the Supreme One’s visit.

The weird heat burning beneath your clothes.

And the inviting touches of the alien above you.

It was too much.

And then it stopped.

The only thing remaining was that unbelievable heat as the fangs left your body and you looked up at Ruu. His lips and chin coated in your blood, looking down at you with a dark pink blush overtaking his face. Behind him was Matthew looking upset…but not in the way you would be if anyone was having their life sucked from them in front of you. No, it was more of a pout. Ruu followed your gaze to look at the man, tilting his head.

“I would have liked you to do this on our ship,” he looked around the room, the floor practically covered in corpses—the corpses of your friends and coworkers, “I doubt when they come to their senses they’ll appreciate having their first with you here...among all of them.”

Enjoying your clearer conscious, you agreed with him. But you still had so many questions.

Ruu scoffed flipping some of his hair off his shoulder, that wide smile returning as he looked at Matthew.

“Hmph so? They don’t get a say anyway, they're my human! Why should I even care what they think about these lessers? If they’ve got the headspace to be thinking about anyone but us than we clearly aren’t satisfying them enough.”

Matthew sighed shaking his head, as he extended his hand to Ruu. Pulling him up and hugging, you once again got to see that rare smile on his face. Sharing a peck between them, Ruu was the one who pulled away easily picking you up and balancing you so that he was cradling you.

“Come on then let’s get to the ship then! I’ve been waiting so long for this.”

Matthew let out a laugh, taking you from the alien resuming his princess carry. Inviting you to rest on his shoulder as he walked alongside Ruu, casually making conversation about the crew your crew they murdered.

“Were you the one to get rid of that annoying lieutenant? They were so annoying! Kissing up and then daring to electrocute me just for joking!”

“I started to but in the end, they proved to be useful.”

“Hmph, I wish I could’ve been there. To see the light fade from her eyes would have been a dream!”

“But you got the Supreme pest, right?”

“I did. That vermin actually touched them, can you believe it? I know he’s half Diagolos and their blood type is nice but the sheer audacity was nauseating.”

“Maybe we can get the rebellion to…thank us.”

“Hm, and that ‘thank you’ can come in the shape of a moon all to ourselves.”

“That’s very unlikely.”

“...Money wouldn’t be too bad, then.”

A wave of exhaustion struck you harder than any you’ve felt. Reluctantly given into sleep fully leaning into Matthew. Eyes closed and your consciousness fading you felt warm lips lovingly brush against your forehead.

“Rest easy, my love.”

“You’re where you belong.”

______________________________________________________________

Matthew shot a hand straight through the enemy’s head, uncaring of the way it lifelessly flopped in front of him. Moving onto the oncoming soldiers coming around the corner he did the same thing he always did: disarming the obstacles and clearing the path for his clients. Checking over his shoulders he listens to them gush about the information they received with one another. He doesn’t sigh, but he does throw the last obstacle at their feet. Startling them and regaining their attention.

“Time to move. We still have to meet the others at the rendezvous point.”

He was glad he mentioned it, their eyes lit up and they moved a lot quicker. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the predictability, he centers himself. As a human, his ability to sense others wasn’t incredibly complex but if there was anyone he could find in an instant it was his love. With a tad more urgency Matthew runs through the clean and industrial halls of the Grand Empire's Ship.

Their latest clients weren’t his favorite group to work with, considering it always involved dabbling with the oligarchy regime. But it wasn’t his decision, it was his partner’s. In Matthew’s opinion an incredible privilege for such a bodacious operation. If it wasn’t for the one gift, his love had been given they’d have no allegiance to the ragtag group.

“Nice to see you all in one piece.”

The familiar voice made Matthew swoon, resisting the urge to smile. Settled to stand behind Rumakia as he spoke with the rebels. All smiles and light speech; Matthew let him do the talking since he didn’t bother sugarcoating anything.

“Thank you for your help Rumakia sir!”

“You know I’m only here to repay a debt. After this gig, I’ll take my payment and go.”

“Of course. Let’s take the drives and cruise out of here with the trash as our cover!”

Like any other mission the entire group retreats to their ship, floating away with the trash dumped before the enemy ship jettisons back out to space. As they drifted with the debris collectively watched several cargo ships dock. It’s then that Matthew is finally compelled to watch the 5th cargo ship slot into place.

A sweltering heat made him sweat, his body suit clinging to his skin tighter than before. His heart beating impossibly loud he held his hand over his peck as if to muffle it. Heavy breathing and some unneeded rush of adrenaline drying his mouth.

“Hey, what a find! That’s the cargo ships transporting the hyperdense generators! Highly explosive and probably what’s fueling their latest weapons….”

“We should circle back and blow those up. If we can impede their operations for only a month that’d help us the most.”

Matthew felt a small hand on his lower back, slightly soothing with Ruu’s cold fingers. It grounded him more than he’d admit to--hearing his voice.

“We wouldn’t mind taking the mission to get on that ship. Say one of those generators might save us another job or two.”

Matthew was amazed at how well Ruu could keep his cool. Of the many conversations they had about their bonding, the Diagolan confided in him what it felt like to first be aware of Matthew. Apparently along with the intense heat, there was an overwhelming need to feed—an animalistic drive to get through all obstacles to get to his mate. Seems like the second time he’d gotten better at managing it.

“To put you on the ship would be unnecessary but if you were really eager to get one of the generators that can be arranged. There is a transferring of their mechanics from the prison to the cargo ships though that route…”

The rebel trailed off, their face twisting into a grimace that made Matthew worry. It made Ruu impatient.

“OUT WITH IT! *ahem* What about it?”

The rebel’s eyes widened at the intensity before coughing up an answer, “The prison that switches mechanics is from HIS private prison…our records indicate they do more than just monitor your every move.”

Matthew wasn’t against dealing with torture. He’s done that before. It seemed the issue was the time constraint. On a mission with quick timing, he’s sure he could appease Ruu. Sucking his blood and sex would be sufficient, but enduring a prison sentence, torture, and being separated? That would be a feat.

“We’ll do it.”

“Huh?!”

“You heard me, HUMAN! We’ll do it.”

“But the stakes are so high! There’s no guarantee you’ll survive if HE catches wind that you’re after a generator.”

Matthew couldn’t help but agree this could be even more dangerous if that thing knew what they were actually after. And being detained under that one’s supervision could be fatal when it comes to torture.

The stakes were high.

Ruumakia knew this too, his elongating claws scratching into the leather padding of his seat.

“We’ll do it,” Matthew spoke this time, slipping a hand onto the thigh of his lover.

They had to.

Because you are their life.

Sequel maybe? 🖤🖤🖤🖤

#yandere x reader #yandere x you #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yanderexrea #yandere #yanderes #yandere poly #yandere polyamory #yandere polyamorous #yandere poly x reader #yanderes x reader #yandere ocs #yandere x darling #yandere oc x reader #yandere original characters #poly yandere #poly yandere x reader

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geekrewindcom · 8 months ago

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Install CMS Made Simple with Apache on Ubuntu 24.04

This article explains installing CMS Made Simple (CMSMS) with Apache on Ubuntu 24.04. CMSMS is a popular open-source content management system that relies on the LAMP or LEMP stack. It is designed to allow web admins and users to create powerful and dynamic content websites. Apache2 is the world’s most widely used web server, making it an excellent choice for CMSMS. Ubuntu Linux is a secure and…

#CMS Made Simple #Content Management System #Ubuntu Linux

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lucrezianoin · 5 months ago

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Pause the video to read. Sorry for the crappy videos and awkward setting, I am moving and HAVE NO TABLE, so I am on the ground.

Here is part 1: from AO3 to printing

Part 2: Folding and stitching together the booklets

You will now have a pile of printed sheets (pages), front and back, previously organized in booklets. I used an 8-page booklet, which means that I will need to fold together 2 sheets, one inside the other.

Follow the numbers, so that you will have the lower number on the outside (on the starting point of the booklet, so on the left) and the higher number on the outside at the end of the booklet (on the right). Each booklet will basically be a "mini book" of only 8 pages.

Fold all the booklets and make sure to pile them in the correct order. Your pile will be your printed book!

Now that you have everything folded make sure to check that your first page and your very last page are blank. I forgot so I added a blank sheet (folded) at the start and at the end of my pile. The blank pages will be needed because they will be glued to the cover!

Now you can use a pencil to mark where to poke your holes. I usually choose 2,5 cm from each border and then divide the remaining page by marking every 4 cm, but it is up to you!

Next you will need to mark each single booklet. You can do that by measuring each with a ruler, or just using the rule while poking the holes - or, you can pile them all up, make sure they are well aligned, use a ruler as a guide to mark a vertical line that follows your previous measurements.

In this video I did a mix of the two, as some of my mark were not too visible, so while I was poking the holes I guided myself with the ruler.

Now, time to poke the holes! You will poke each booklet (two sheets, one inside the other) together. Open the booklet facing down so you can see the pencil marks. Make sure to add a soft surface underneath (I used some foam), and then use a needle or an awl to poke the 5 holes. At the end you should have a pile of booklets, all with 5 holes that can more or less (more is better!) align with each other's.

TIME TO STITCH THE BOOKLETS TOGETHER.

Stitching is probably the most time consuming step.

There are different way to stitch the booklets together but each one is fundamentally a version of a thread passing inside and out the holes you made in a booklet and then connecting to the next booklet and the next and the next. For this reason it is important to make sure you are stitching your booklets in the correct order.

As I said, there are different stitches so it is up to you what to choose. I personally use:

youtube

The video will also teach you:

How to start with the first booklet

How to change the thread when you finish it

How to secure the thread at the end

Other examples are the French stitch (video here) which is particularly pretty so probably best to use if you do not fully add a cover (covering the spine) but stitch a cover at the start and end like you see in the video.

The thread you use also depends on what you prefer. I personally use a waxed thread (more resistant) if I have very big paper. In the example I filmed I have extremely thin paper so I am stitching the booklet together with a simple embroidery thread.

I also recommend using a small curved needle!

#bookbinding #bookbinding guide #ao3 #fanfics #Youtube

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heartless-aro · 4 months ago

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DIY Pride Gear

In honor of Aromantic Spectrum Awareness week, I thought I’d make a list of some resources for making some DIY aro pride gear!

Aro Rings

For anyone who doesn’t already know, an aro ring is a white ring worn on the left hand middle finger, signifying that the wearer is on the aromantic spectrum.

If you want to make one yourself rather than buying online or searching through local stores trying to find a suitable ring, AUREA made a pretty detailed tutorial on how to make an aro ring, which I’ve linked below.

It’s also pretty simple to make rings out of polymer clay if you would prefer an easier method.

Pride Flag

This tutorial is for a rainbow flag, but if you would prefer to make an aromantic flag, you could just use the same method with different fabric colors. (Since the aro flag is a 5 stripe flag, you’d probably want the fabric strips to be around 20.4 cm wide by 150 cm long if you want to get close to the dimensions of the flag in the video).

youtube

Pins

Great if you want to make something cheap and easy with a pride flag on it, especially if you want to make something with one of the more obscure or complicated flags, since those can be harder to sew or buy.

youtube

Patches

Aroworlds is aro-specific and thus includes many different aro flags, but the tutorials in the two videos can also be easily done for pretty much any horizontal striped pride flag.

youtube

#asaw 2025 #asaw #aro #aromantic

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onlyangel4 · 3 months ago

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always been there. cm punk. part four.

toxic!roman reigns x reader. cm punk x reader.

synopsis: you and punk have been best friends (with undeniable tension) for years, but you’re in a long-term relationship with roman reigns. when that relationship turns toxic, punk is forced to watch from the sidelines, helpless as you start fading, losing yourself piece by piece. the night you finally break free, he’s the one who picks up the pieces.

author's note: love you roman but someone needs to be the villian for this

warnings: toxic relationship. mainpulation. cursing.

taglist: @leo4242564 @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling @tinyxrose @pyro-romantic @jihyowrrld @gamer-carat @amandairene88

part one // part two // part three // part four // part five

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the hotel was quieter than usual. a few stragglers from the afterparty were still lingering around the bar, talent either winding down or heading up to their rooms. the rumble was over. the adrenaline should’ve been high.

but punk’s mind was still back in the arena.

he hadn’t seen you since earlier that afternoon.

not backstage, not in catering, not even peeking out from gorilla. you were gone.

he spotted cody nursing a drink near the corner of the bar, sleeves rolled up, tie loose.

punk made a beeline.

"yo", he said low, sliding into the seat beside him.

cody glanced over, instantly catching the edge in punk’s tone. "hey. you good?"

"no", punk didn’t bother sugar coating it. "she didn’t come back after the show. she left straight for the hotel."

cody’s brows drew together. "you sure?"

"yeah. i checked with one of the drivers. she left before the main event." punk leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "that girl was supposed to win the rumble two weeks ago. then suddenly she’s not in it. she’s quiet. detached. doesn’t fight it. she is not okay"

cody looked away, his jaw tensing. "i tried checking in on her. few times. roman’s always there. always."

"that’s the problem", punk muttered. "he’s not just always there. he’s in everything. her bookings. her reactions. hell, even the way she talks now."

"you think he had something to do with the rumble change?"

punk didn’t even hesitate. "i know he did."

they sat in silence for a beat, the noise of the lobby distant. that was until he heard it.

voices.

around the corner near the hallway to the elevators.

punk's ears perked.

a familiar laughter.

he gestured for cody to follow and both of them stood, drifting quietly toward the corner where the og bloodline boys were posted up, roman in the middle with the usos on either side

"i’m just saying", roman’s voice carried, smug and smooth. "they weren’t going to risk losing me over a rumble win. this company knows what I’m worth."

jimmy chuckled. "you really went in there and said you’d walk?"

"i told them if she went over, i was out. plain and simple."

punk’s stomach dropped.

he heard cody swear under his breath.

"didn’t think they’d cave that fast", roman continued, sipping from a glass like it was nothing. "but they did. she bought the whole charlotte thing too. poor thing looked so crushed when i had to 'comfort' her."

that made jey laugh. "you are cold, uce."

roman just smiled.

what none of the men in the room knew was that there was someone in that room that could wipe that smile clean off roman's face.

to their left, someone else was leaning against the wall. head down. hoodie up.

bayley. your closest friend on the woman's rooster.

she hadn’t moved. she was half hidden behind a potted plant and holding her phone in front of her, screen still on. recording.

but roman didn't know this so he kept on going. digging his own grave.

"you got to keep your girl in check. especially when she starts getting ideas."

that was the final straw.

punk moved before cody could stop him.

he turned the corner fast, jaw clenched, eyes locked on roman like a heat seeking missile. the usos straightened as they saw him, but punk didn’t even blink at them.

his voice sliced through the air. "say that shit again."

the laughter died.

roman turned, expression neutral at first but then he saw who it was.

"punk."

"you heard me." punk stepped closer, chest rising with every breath. "say it again. about keeping her in check."

roman didn’t flinch. just lifted an eyebrow. "you got a problem?"

"oh, i’ve got a lot of problems" punk spoke, bitter laughter in his voice. "but my biggest one? is standing right in front of me talking about my best friend like she’s a piece of property."

jimmy moved forward, but roman lifted a hand, stopping him.

"this doesn’t concern you", roman said coolly. "you don’t know anything about us"

"i know enough", punk snapped. "i know you went behind her back. i know you lied to her. i know you stood in that locker room and sold her a future she earned only to rip it away because you couldn’t stand the thought of her being bigger than you."

roman’s smile was slow. mocking. "that’s rich, coming from a guy who’s been standing on the sidelines, watching. doing fuck all"

punk’s fists clenched.

"i did nothing because i thought she was safe with you."

they were chest to chest now.

"you want to talk about safety?" roman said, his voice low. "she’s not cut out for the pressure. not for the top spot. i’m just saving her from burning out."

punk leaned in closer, his voice like venom. "no, you’re just afraid. afraid she’ll stand on her own and not need you anymore."

the silence crackled like static.

punk took a step back, eyes never leaving roman. "you’re not a protector. you’re a cage."

cody was already moving, trying to diffuse it before it got physical.

but it was too late.

because in the corner, bayley was still there. still filming.

and she didn’t stop.

not when roman cursed under his breath.

not when punk turned on his heel, storming out of the hallway.

not even when the Usos realized what she was doing and she hit send before they could convince her to do anything else.

the video went out.

to you.

and with it, every lie roman ever told began to unravel.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the hotel room was quiet.

too quiet.

roman had left just after you both got back, said he had to "go clear his head." you hadn’t asked where. you didn’t really care. not right now.

you sat on the edge of the bed, still half in your makeup, hair dishevelled, one of roman's hoodies keeping you warm

your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

you barely looked at it.

but then you saw the name.

bayley.

and just below it: 1 video attachment

your chest tightened.

there was no message. no warning. just the clip.

you tapped it.

and then you watched.

you saw it all. roman standing with jimmy and jey, smug and triumphant, laughing. "you gotta keep your girl in check"

then punk.

exploding.

you didn’t breathe. you didn’t blink.

you watched as punk defended you. as he stood up for you in a way no one else had. as he saw through everything roman had said and done.

you watched him call roman out, not just for the rumble. but for everything.

and then you watched bayley, phone shaking slightly, catch the tail end of it, roman calling you weak. a burden. a liability.

the clip ended.

the room stayed silent.

but inside you? everything shattered.

you stared at the screen. replaying it three times.

somewhere between the second and third watch, your hands started shaking.

you had known.

you’d felt the truth clawing at the edges of you for weeks now, but seeing it. hearing it, made it real.

roman lied.

he stole from you.

and the person who had spent all that time convincing you that you were the problem? had never been protecting you. he’d been dimming your light so it didn’t outshine his.

you blinked hard, a hot tear slipping down your cheek before you could stop it.

you didn’t remember the walk through the hotel lobby. you didn’t remember the elevator ride. your phone was still clutched in your hand, screen dark, a follow up message from bayley was left unopened because you couldn't bare to face it all.

roman’s voice was already burned into your mind anyway.

you were shaking by the time you reached punk’s door.

your knuckles hovered, breath catching, but before you could knock, the door opened.

punk froze when he saw you.

it was like he’d been pacing. hair messy, hoodie unzipped, brows furrowed like his thoughts had been eating him alive.

and then he saw your face.

tears clinging to your lashes. lips parted, breathing shaky.

you fell apart in the doorway.

"hey", he said, voice soft, like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you or not.

but you were already moving.

you stepped in and pressed both palms to his chest, like you were bracing yourself against the weight of everything.

you let it out.

you didn’t try to hold it in. you didn’t try to make it quiet or pretty.

it was messy. it was loud.

you sobbed, full-body, gut-wrenching sobs that felt like they’d been buried for months. like the weight of everything roman had said, everything he’d done, every time he made you feel small was finally crashing down on you.

punk didn’t say anything.

he just wrapped his arms around you and held you.

so tight. like he knew if he let go, you’d fall apart all over again.

"i trusted him", you cried against his chest, voice breaking, raw and ugly and honest. "I let him convince me i wasn’t enough, i let him do everything god, i was so fucking stupid"

"no, you weren’t." his voice was steady, right in your ear. "you weren’t stupid. you loved someone who didn’t deserve it."

you shook your head, tears soaking through his shirt. "he took everything. he took everything from me."

"no", punk said again, voice low but fierce. "he didn’t. you’re still here."

you pulled back just far enough to look at him, your face streaked with tears, hands still curled in the front of his hoodie like you didn’t trust the ground beneath you.

"i don’t know what to do", you whispered, trembling. "i don’t know who I am without all of this—without him."

punk reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, thumb catching one of the tears trailing down your cheek.

"you’re you", he said quietly. "you’re still her. the woman who should’ve won the rumble. the woman who will main event someday, with or without anyone’s permission."

his voice cracked just a little at the end. not enough for you to call out but enough for you to feel.

you stared at him, searching, desperate for something to hold onto.

and he gave it to you.

he just held you. let you cry. let you feel it.

#wwe #wwe fic #wwe fandom #wwe fanfiction #wwe raw #wwe smackdown #wwe x reader #cm punk #cm punk x reader #cm punk fanfiction #cm punk x fem reader #cm punk x y/n #cm punk fluff #cm punk angst #wwe angst #wwe fluff #roman reigns #roman reigns angst

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reiderwriter · 1 year ago

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🔫 Oh, Captain, My Captain 🔫

Pairing: Unit Chief!Spencer Reid x Fem BAU!Reader

For the CM Kink Bingo Challenge 2024

Requested: Unit Cheif!Spencer who uses gun training as an excuse to rub up on the new member🤭

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI Gun kink, dubcon, dry humping, pictures/photos, age gap, Pervert! Spencer, unprotected sex, implied cream pie, semi-public sex, boss x employee dynamic, spanking, masturbation, slight cum play, degradation (slut, whore etc), praise kink if you squint (good girl).

A/N: This is my first entry for the CM Kink Bingo challenge 2024~! I chose a lot of the prompts based on some of the smut requests in my inbox and let my TELL you I was SO EXCITED to write Unit Chief + gun kink!!! I'm so excited for this entire challenge tbh, it reminds me of the good old days on past years' Kinktober 😂🥰

Masterlist || Bingo Board

When Spencer Reid was made the interim Unit Chief for the BAU, he agreed with the reasoning. At the time, he really couldn't argue that he was aptly experienced, responsible enough to make big decisions, and reliable. And whilst he had been through a lot in the last two decades with the FBI, he still did value his own sense of morality.

He accepted the job and then was assigned you as an intern, and suddenly, he didn't agree with any previous assessment of him.

Experienced, yes, but he was still stammering and rambling when discussing simple things like the weather. He certainly wasn't responsible enough to keep his eyes off you, and he probably couldn't be relied on in the field to focus instead of thinking about your pretty, plump lips and how they would feel wrapped around his cock.

All morality had gone out of the window after a week of working with you when he closed his office blinds, popped his pants open and took his cock in hand, relieving himself while staring at your newly printed ID card.

He had a lot of power, during the few months Emily was away, and he was trying desperately not to use it.

Unfortunately, with great power comes a great amount of orders to give, and since you reported directly to Unit Chief Reid, you'd become his de facto shadow for the first few weeks. You bought him coffees when you got your own, asked him for quick run downs of past cases so you could take notes and remember relevant details for later, asked him for help writing reports.

Which caused the blinds to be drawn at least once a day as he desperately tried to keep his hands off you.

Emily had joked when leaving him behind that she'd usually give the new boss the “don't shit where you eat” speech, especially with people in your chain of command, but it really wasn't necessary with him. Of all people.

It didn't help that you were so damn clumsy in the office. You were usually pretty calm and collected, but since starting at the BAU, the pressure was getting to you a bit.

You made small mistakes, you double, and triple checked your work, and you were constantly in Spencer's office asking him for opinions on topics, for background information, and for, well, reassurance.

And you dropped stuff. A lot of stuff.

Your analytical Monday have been perfectly suited to the BAU, but somewhere between your head and your hands, all your body parts refused to function adeptly. You'd dropped things constantly, tripped on your own feet, and constantly bumped into people even while they stood still.

Not to mention the time your dropped your (thankfully, iced) coffee all over Spencer's lap when you'd brought him his own.

“Oh my- Oh my god, Doctor Reid, I am so so sorry,” you scrambled, immediately grabbing tissues as he jumped up from the desk.

“Please let me help you, god, I'm so stupid, I'm so sorry-” you said, patting away as his lap as he stood frozen in front of you. You dropped to your knees to mop up the traces of coffee still running down his thighs, as he stammered.

“Y/N, please, you don't need to, I have a spare pair I can-”

“I'll have them dry cleaned, I promise,” you begged, just as a knock sounded and the door to his office swung back open for JJ to enter through.

“Spencer, the files for the- woah! Okay, I'm not jumping to conclusions, but I'm still backing out of this room right now.”

She laughed her way out of the room, which was when your brain finally caught up to your hands and realized the stupid position you'd put yourself in.

You'd practically pushed your boss up against the wall, kneeled before him, and begged to touch him.

You'd squeaked out an apology and quickly left the office, much to Spencer's relief, because even after an ice bath and semi-public humiliation, he was hard and horny and his IQ had been knocked to roughly 7.

How he'd wanted to keep you pinned in place, to stroke your cheek as he made sure you took each inch of him down your throat slowly, filling you up so you couldn't escape.

How he'd wanted to keep his job as well, something he'd probably not get to do if JJ had decided to walk back in, or - god forbid - bring other witnesses to his debauchery.

You were clumsy, and he was desperately horny, and you were both complete and total messes.

“I don't see how I can help you, Y/N,” Tara held up her hands in defeat as you begged for her help.

“I'm competent with a gun, but it's not something I can teach you. I wouldn't know where to start.”

“I just need someone to show me how to hold it properly. There's a trick to it, right? There has to be a trick to it?”

“Ah yes, the old aim and shoot trick, I forgot about that one,” Rossi laughed, shaking his head at your office antics.

You'd been interning for a few weeks, and the latest in a line of ability tests was shooting. You'd pretty much aced the physical fitness test, but you'd never even held a gun before joining the FBI, and you were struggling.

“I've put in 10 hours at the shooting range in the last week, and the closest I've got to an accurate shot was hitting the next lane's paper. Don't ask.”

Your coworkers shared a sympathetic look as you sat down at the round table, ready to hear the next case details.

“I'm relegated to office work until I pass this certificate, and I was not made for sitting at a desk for 7 hours.”

“Well, why don't you ask Reid for help?” JJ said helpfully, bringing her coffee to her lips to hide the meddling smile plastered there.

“Reid?”

“He had some issues shooting when he was a rookie as well, but he put in some hours at the range, and now he's the best shot on the team.”

“Easy there, blondie, I'm nothing to sniff at with a gun myself,” Rossi smiled, patting himself on the back.

“I'm sure he'd enjoy helping you,” JJ continued.

“Who would enjoy what?” Spencer said, finally joining the team in the meeting room and pulling out the case files as everyone opened up their tablets.

“Y/N was just saying she's having some trouble shooting, and I suggested she ask for your help?”

He froze momentarily and stared down at you as you looked up at him, hopefully, a shy smile on your face.

He tried to keep his eyes on yours, but from this height, he had the perfect view down your shirt, your perfect-sized breasts pressing together as you leaned towards him, giving him a generous eyeful.

He looked away quickly and nodded his agreement, sitting himself down and attaching his eyes to the files instead so he could get his mind off of your body, and your lips, and the begging that surely would've come out of your mouth had he not accepted earlier. His brain was tormenting him with images of you underneath him, under his desk even, his cock in your mouth as you paid for his precious time training you. He blinked away the thoughts and, for once in his life, actually had to put effort into reading and understanding each word on a page as he ignored the raging fire of his lust.

A few hours later, the two of you were at the shooting range.

“My main problem is shooting. The instructors said my form isn't great either and that I looked like a child playing with toys whenever I hold a gun, so if you could help with that…?” You said, putting on the goggles and turning back to look at your boss.

“Doctor Reid?” You asked.

“Oh, yeah. Yes, they said something similar when I was training. First, let's see what you can do.”

You smiled at him as he watched you bounce up to the lane and pick up the gun. You calmed your breathing and got ready to take the safety off when you felt a hard hand clamp over your own and pull the gun from your hand.

“What are you doing?” He asked, staring down at you with wide eyes.

“You said to show you-”

“You're not wearing a vest.”

You cursed quickly as he pulled you back over to the side of the room. The place was practically deserted, as it was past the official closing hours of the range, but Spencer had been forced to pull some strings with his new title and had managed to keep it open (and somehow unmanned) until now.

He quickly grabbed the first vest he saw and pulled it over your head, taking the side straps and tightening them until the vest was comfortably protecting all your major organs. His hands lingered for a second, and you stared shocked up at him, somehow enjoying the way he pushed you around.

You were a grown woman, and you could do this all by yourself, but there was something about a man roughly a decade and a half older than you controlling your movements that were entirely too dangerous. You quickly stepped away and back to the podium, whispering a quick thanks under your breath as you tried to ignore the heat pooling between your legs.

You stretched out your neck a little as you felt him walk back behind you again, keeping his distance as he watched you shoot your first clip at the targets.

Out of six bullets, you'd missed the target five times and had grazed just below the targets arm once, a brilliant display of your natural lack of talent.

“Your form is wrong. You're holding yourself too rigid, which means the recoil has a higher chance to hurt you. Loosen your arms slightly.”

His advice was actually good and you followed his instructions closely, listening clearly as he walked you through each tip.

“Like this?”

“A little more… here, let me.”

You had no chance to react before his body was pressed behind yours and his hands were wrapped around your own, moving g each finger by a fraction to improve your grip, trailing up your arms slowly, leaving a field of goosebumps wherever his fingers grazed. He repositioned your elbows before moving forward his hands down to your hips, turning them slightly as he widened your stance.

“Try now.”

Breathless, you could only nod as he stepped back, unaware if he'd even said anything since his hands had landed on you.

You forced yourself to breathe again and took one shot.

"Oh my god, it hit. Spencer, it hit!”

“Do it again and we can celebrate.”

Another five shots later, and you'd managed a small cluster of hits around the arms and one shot.

“You're definitely veering left, so let's try and over correct by aiming to the right.”

He pushed up against you again and held the gun, moving it to the right a fraction, taking complete control of your body.

If your breath was scarce before, it was totally gone now as you felt his crotch press up against your ass. Considering the bulletproof vests put an extra inch around your chests, he was absolutely doing it on purpose, and you were shocked to realize you were too.

You'd pushed your ass back into him, grinding slowly on his hardening cock as he hooked his head over your shoulder, looked down the sight with you, and fired the gun.

Straight into the center of the target.

“Good girl,” he whispered before pulling away.

He moved two meters away from you, and maintained the distance for the rest of the night, and even though you were both aware of his hard cock tightening his pants, neither of you said a word.

“Same time tomorrow,” he said and grabbed his jacket to leave. It was the first thing he'd said as your Unit Chief that even vaguely sounded like a command and not an enthusiastic suggestion, and you were suddenly very excited for the rest of the week.

“Before we start,” he said the next day, unbuttoning his shirt sleeves and rolling them up to his elbows neatly. “Show me your posture again.”

He gestured towards one of the dummy guns at the side of the range, the style you recognised from mission training that held small layers instead of bullets - same weight, same mechanism, no lethality.

You'd spent the day and night worked up from the last time you'd been here with him, and a small part of you felt disappointed you were starting with the kiddy gun. Not one to miss an opportunity, though. You bent over to pick it up, making sure to bend at the waist right in front of him to show off your ass.

Maybe you'd gone crazy, but the memory of his touch was burning you from the inside out and you needed to feel it again to make sure you weren't crazy.

He maintained his distance, though. It was hard for him to keep his hands off you in all honesty, arms crossed to keep himself from crossing any more lines. That and he was sure that you'd be able to tell he'd spurted cum all over them in his office the night before despite him scrubbing them thoroughly multiple times, the weight of his guilt eating into him like a parasite.

“Arms up, point straight. Good.” You tried to keep still as he assessed your form, but his eyes prowled over you thoroughly, and you had to suppress a shudder.

“You need to control your breathing, Y/N, you can't be afraid of pulling the trigger if you need to.”

“I'm not-”

“Shoulders back,” he said, moving to your side as he again began slightly correcting your form.

Unlike the day before, though, this time, there were no bullets. And no bullets meant no bulletproof vest.

That's why when his exploring hands came to your chest, he could feel your hardening nipples through the flimsy material of your dress. He could feel you pressing forward into his touch as his hands cupped your breast.

“Calm your heartbeat, Y/N. You need to stay calm so you can shoot straight, right?”

The words sounded alien, even to him. His gaze was locked on the top of your shirt, looking down it to the slope of your chest, disappearing into your dress. He so wanted to let his hands disappear right along with them, to pull you back into his aching cock and play with your nipples until you cried out for mercy.

He let his touch fall and played off his molestation as correction, even as your underwear grew slick with desire.

“Grab your vest. Let's try again.”

A week of late night training later, and you weren't sure if you were improving at all. The guns were the last thing on your mind when Spencer's hands were on you, his voice in your ear telling you how good you were for him, such a good subordinate.

Both of you had yet to acknowledge that you were spending the majority of the session just rubbing up on each other, like teens at prom, desperate for whatever friction you could get without having to name the game you were playing.

“Doctor Reid, if I hit the target this time, can you do something for me?” You chanced on the Friday, needing something else to tide you over for the weekend.

“What do you need?”

“No, no, nothing specific, just like a…a reward?"

He'd done his best to keep his hands off of you, which meant that he'd failed miserably, and he knew exactly what he'd like to treat you to as a reward. Keeping his hands of you in daytime hours had become harder and harder as the week flew by, and he felt like a randy school boy the amount of times he'd needed to excuse himself to either kill his bones or abuse his cock with his hand.

“Oh,” he said, growing quiet. You took his hesitation for rejection, and immediately began to back pedal.

“Y-You don't have to, sir. It was really quite conceited on my part to demand a reward from y-”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“If you shoot six bullets that hit either the chest or the head, you'll get a reward.”

You smiled brightly at him, suddenly feeling very hopeful.

“But if you miss, you'll get the opposite.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could even think about what they meant. Just hearing the words made him want to visibly cringe and write himself up for office misconduct. But your smile didn't fade one bit.

“Yes, sir. I won't let you down.”

Turning away from him, you loaded your weapon again, and he watched you put yourself into the correct position. Despite his middling efforts to actually teach you, you had seemed to have improved over the last few days.

He wasn't sure if he wanted that outcome.

Just as you stepped up to take your first shot, he stepped closer to you, wrapped his hands around your waist, and pushed up against you.

Your first shot veered left, completely missing the target as you gasped. Spencer had popped open the front button of your pants and was unzipping them, letting his hand wonder down to your panties.

“Look straight. There will be distractions out in the field, you can do this, right?”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

You tried to steady your breathing g and your hands again as he began rubbing slow circles into your underwear, your body alight with lust as you let him.

Your second shot hit the paper. Your third didn't.

“You can do better than that, Y/N.”

You took another deep breath and picked up your gun again, shooting just as he shoved your underwear to one side and dipped his fingers into you.

Your mouth opened in a silent moan as you quickly shot your last three bullets, not caring where they went so much as where his fingers went.

“Y/N, I expected better,” you could hear the smile in his voice as he took the gun from your hands with his spare. “You can't even handle a weapon like this.”

He kept his fingers pumping shallowly inside you, as he inspected the gun again.

“Maybe you'd learn better under duress. I did, too. It's easy to learn when there's a gun pointed yo your head, right?”

He quickly turned the gun on you pushing it to your temple as his other hand shoved your pants down. He angled you forward with a press of his hips as his fingers returned to your cunt and slipped deeper inside.

“S-Spencer, fuck-”

“You missed all six bullets, so punishment it is.” His fingers gained speed as you stood, flushed and spreading your legs for him. You wanted to bury your head in your arms and scream out your moans, but the gun to your head kept you quiet and in place.

“You may not be able to shoot a gun, Y/N, but that doesn't mean you're not enjoying them. You're so wet for me.”

Tears sprung to your eyes as you felt your climax build and build, chasing the high you'd been searching for with every unprotected touch.

You were letting your boss touch you, letting a man almost old enough to be your father hold a gun to your head, and you were going to squirt all over his fingers very soon.

“Spencer, Spencer, please- please….”

“Shhh, it’s okay. There's nothing to be embarrassed about. You just needed some more help learning. You can cum now, princess. It's okay, let go.”

You tried your best to hold back, but your body had a mind of its own as your orgasm hit you, the cold metal of the gun finally moving away from your head.

With one hand around your waist, pinning you to the side so you stayed upright, Spencer carefully placed the gun back down before dragging your pants back up your legs.

Taking your elbow in his hand, he walked you to the door as you blinked out the daze in your eyes.

“We're going to my office now. To talk about your recent performance.”

You couldn't have cared less what he'd said as long as his hands were on you, stretching your head back so it rested on his chest and pushing up until your lips could connect with the bare skin at his neck.

“Hands off. We're going to walk all the way back to my office, and you're not going to let anyone know what just happened, okay? Not with your words, or your expressions or body language, okay?”

You nodded, but he kept a hand on your elbow, gesturing yourself forward.

You weren't sure how you were even able to walk after what had to have been the most intense orgasm of your life, but the promise of more likely carried you all the way up the stairs until you were comfortably enclosed in Spencer's office.

Like he'd found himself doing multiple times a day this month, Spencer closed the blinds, pulling you down to the sofa with him as he sat.

“When I was your age,” he started, making sure your ass was facing up as he pushed your head into the cushions gently.

“When I was your age, I couldn't shoot well. My Unit Chief had to kick some sense into me. I think you need that as well, right, Y/N? You need someone to beat some sense into you?”

You nodded as he stroked your hair, and he thanked you for being so open to him.

He made quick work of your pants and underwear, and in a quick hot burst, his hand came down on your ass.

“Fuck, more. Please more!”

He did it again and again as you squirmed in his lap and moaned, begging him to keep brutalizing you.

“That's it, show me how pathetic you are, show me how much you're craving my attention.”

He pushed your legs off of his lap until you were kneeling on the floor underneath him. He pulled up your arms and pulled your shirt over your head, similarly discarding your tank top and bra until you were totally bare on the floor in front of him.

Instead of stripping himself yet, he pulled out his phone, palming himself through his pants.

“Show yourself off,” he said, pointing the camera at you.

You followed his directions quickly, hands flying to your tits to fondle them while he took pictures of your fucked our face.

With his foot he gently nudged you down onto all yours, letting you know to turn around so he could flash a picture or two of your sloppy cunt as well.

Your hips rocked back and forth in the air, unconsciously searching for something to rub against, some relief from your frustrations.

He kept snapping pictures.

Deciding that you needed his attention and stat, you let your chest fall to the floor, face flat too as your hips lifted higher in the air. Your hands found your ass cheeks, and you spread them slightly, giving Spencer an even better view of how much you needed him.

He took one last photo, and then he knelt behind you faster than you could expect.

In a heartbeat, his pants were down, in two his cock was buried deep inside of you.

“So…tight, shit. You're such a precious little slut, you kept this little pussy nice and fresh just for me, right?”

It was all you could do not to cum right there, and when he started moving you were a goner. It had always been easier for you to cum a second time than it was for you to cum a first time, and considering how quick he'd made it happen earlier, you really should've been expecting it.

Your body convulsed around his cock as you screamed into the floor, hands still spreading yourself wide for him as he rutted into you.

“That's it, milk my cock, Y/N. Milk your bosses cock, let me blow my load inside you.”

Your nipples rubbed painfully against the carpet, only adding to the storm of stimulation you were experiencing.

His hips faltered as he collapsed over your body, holding tight as his muscles locked him into place with his orgasm. He came inside you with a grunt, and he felt your cunt still clenching around him, making sure to take every last drop.

“That- was much - preferable,” you said, gasping for breath. “To shooting - any gun.”

He rolled off of you as you laughed, body satiated now for the first time in what felt like forever.

“You still need to work on your gun skills,” he said after you'd detangled yourself, but before either if you had worked up the courage to leave the floor and get dressed.

“Why?” You said, turning your head to look at him lying on the floor next to you.

“It seems I can fire pretty accurately already,” you said, as your hand snaked down to his cock one more time.

#cmkinkbingo2024 #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #mgg #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid smut #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n

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ssa-dado · 7 months ago

Text

20 - Logic

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: everything but smut, suck it. Summary: Aaron Hotchner just so happens to navigate a complex web of professional and personal struggles, reflecting on his dead marriage, his leadership, and his connection with you. The team tackles a case involving a methodical killer while tensions rise between you, Hotch and Rossi over leadership dynamics. Amid the chaos, Hotch wrestles with his feelings for you, as you end an abusive relationship with your now ex-best friend. Everything tied within some good old stoic logic. Warnings: guilt, the unsub commits suicide, a cm case described in detail, Rossi being an asshole, P***r gets mentioned. Word Count: 20.8k Dado's Corner: One month later, here I am again. Hope you missed Philosopher and Lawyer as much as I did. This one is quite fun, I experimented with the style of narration... let me know if you like it.

masterlist

In Stoic philosophy, logics (logikē) focuses on reasoning, the methods of thinking, and the structure of arguments, serving as the foundational discipline that allows individuals to discern truth (aletheia) from falsehood.

For the Stoics, mastery of logics was crucial because it equipped the rational mind (logos) with the tools needed to make sound judgments and live in accordance with nature.

The Stoics believed that a proposition was true when it reflected something of the environment to which it referred.

---

The hum of the jet had never felt so loud.

It wasn’t an oppressive sound - it was steady, rhythmic, almost soothing if he let it be.

But tonight, it was the sound of everything else he didn’t want to think about - a lifeline, something to cling to while his mind spiraled into spaces it shouldn’t go.

Spaces he couldn’t seem to avoid.

Hotch stared at the case file in front of him, pen hovering above the paper. His eyes traced the same line for what felt like the fifth time, still not reading, still not processing. The words just blurred into nothingness.

He was just there, replaying the same scene in his head like a tape stuck on a loop.

The rooftop.

The unsub’s detached voice: “I think your worst fear is that you can’t save everyone.”

It wasn’t even a unique insight; Hotch had heard variations of it throughout his career, sometimes from suspects, sometimes from his own team, most of the times from the voices inside his head mocking him of every failure.

Yet tonight, it felt even sharper, as if Howard had carved the words directly into his bones.

So, his mind wandered back to that rooftop.

“Dr. Howard? I’m Aaron Hotchner. I’m with the FBI,” he’d called, his voice steady, his tone carefully modulated.

“Don’t ask me to come down,” Howard had replied, almost amused, as if daring him to try.

“We found at least 15 people dead. It’s over,” he had said, the words mechanical, as if the simple logic of justice could tether the man back to reality.

But it was too late for that, the unsub’s words had already begun to untangle themselves from reason. He had spoken of sacrifice and science, justification wrapped in delusion.

Hotch had seen it way too many times before - a brilliant mind twisted by its own arrogance, spiraling into darkness.

“You know this is the easy way out,” Hotch had said, his voice slightly softening, yet the words sounded almost mocking to his own ears. “If you come down, we’d like to talk to you.”

Howard’s face hadn’t changed, but his voice did. “Most people go into law enforcement because they want to help others,” he’d said, meeting Hotch’s eyes.

And before his subconscious would have started processing it, Morgan’s voice had broken through then, sharp and urgent. “Tell us where Missy is.”

Howard had taken off his glasses, placing them in his pocket with a such calmness that made Hotch’s pulse quicken – it was over. He knew that.

And only then, the unsub uttered towards him the infamous words:

“I think your worst fear is that you can’t save everyone.”

Only three words echoed inside Hotch’s head at the time, something directly from what he learned in his training, when he first learned how to handle these kinds of situations:

Engage. Stabilize. Control.

But over time, the formula had subtly evolved, refined into something more distinctly his own.

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward.

The three steps were almost second nature now, ingrained into him through years of experience. Deflect the unsub’s attempts to personalize the situation, to make it about anything other than the facts. De-escalate their emotions, draw them back from the brink, create space for reason to take hold. And above all, move forward. Always forward. Don’t dwell, don’t linger. Just get to the next step, the next decision, the next resolution.

He was good at it - too good, some might say.

But as he stood there on that rooftop, the biting wind cutting through his bulletproof vest, he realized there was something about this moment he couldn’t fully compartmentalize.

He was fighting for Missy, yes. Every second mattered, and the need to bring her home alive burned brighter than anything else. That was his job, his duty. But as he locked eyes with Dr. Howard, his voice calm, measured, and so sure of his warped reality, Hotch felt the pull of something he couldn’t entirely suppress.

Humanity.

He wasn’t just trying to save Missy. A part of him, buried deep but undeniable, was trying to save Howard too - from himself, from the abyss he’d already plunged into.

It wasn’t in the rulebook.

It wasn’t part of the training manuals or the countless hours of hostage negotiation drills. The law didn’t ask you to save the people who had done irreparable harm, the ones who had broken every moral boundary, destroyed lives, and laughed about it.

The law demanded order.

Justice.

Efficiency.

It told him to prioritize the victim, to see Howard as nothing more than a piece on the chessboard, a threat to neutralize.

But Aaron, for all his stoicism, could never quite strip away the part of himself that still looked for humanity, even in the darkest places.

Was it arrogant to think he could save them both? That he could somehow cut through Howard’s delusions and bring him back from the edge? Or was it something more human? Something he could never bury, no matter how much he wanted to.

Because Howard wasn’t just a threat.

He was a man unraveling before his eyes, clinging to the last shred of control he believed he had. And for all his cruelty, for all the lives he’d taken and the pain he’d caused, Hotch couldn’t fully silence the voice in his head that whispered, If I can reach him, maybe…

But then he was gone.

The sound of the unsub’s body hitting the pavement was muffled by the rush of blood in his ears, the world narrowing to the crimson stain left behind.

He had come too late, once again.

And now, on the jet, across from him, Morgan’s voice broke the silence, pulling Hotch back to the present. “I can’t sleep.”

Hotch didn’t look up. His pen hovered over the file, frozen mid-thought. “Want me to turn off the light?”

Morgan’s smile was faint, tired, but his voice carried weight. “No. I want to be able to sleep.”

With a sigh, Hotch closed the file and set his pen aside, finally meeting Morgan’s gaze. “What’s the matter?”

Morgan leaned back, his arms crossing over his chest as he studied Hotch with a look that was too knowing, too familiar. “What’s the matter with you, Hotch?”

Hotch’s jaw tightened.

“You’re sitting here doing work when you’d normally take a break,” Morgan said, leaning forward, his voice steady but probing. “Please don’t tell me it’s about Gideon leaving.”

Hotch exhaled softly, his fingers pressing into the edge of the table. “You know, we made a deal a long time ago not to profile each other.”

And by "a long time ago," he meant exactly one year. One year since he’d crossed a line, profiling you on why you weren’t wearing your engagement ring back when you invited him for dinner. He still hadn’t told anyone.

“Am I wrong?” Morgan countered, his tone cutting through the thin defense.

Hotch didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The weight of it was written all over him.

“You know, Hotch, today was a huge, huge victory for all of us,” Morgan continued, his voice firm, grounding. “We’re doing just fine without Gideon.”

Hotch gave a faint nod, his mind still trapped in the labyrinth of his own thoughts.

Gideon was gone.

Missy was saved, at least.

And yet, he kept playing the rooftop back in his head, rewriting the ending in a dozen different ways, trying to find the version where Howard didn’t jump.

Where his words had been enough.

Where the shadows of his failures didn’t loom so large.

The unsub’s voice yet again still echoed in his mind, that accusation that wasn’t wrong, that he was afraid he couldn’t save everyone.

And worse, it was safe.

It was a truth he could wrestle with endlessly, a familiar weight he knew how to carry.

It was easier to fixate on that failure, on a life lost on a rooftop, than to face the other truth looming over him, the one that cut far deeper.

“Hotch,” Morgan said again, his voice quieter now, pulling Hotch’s focus. “What’s keeping you up tonight?”

He hesitated, the words catching in his throat.

For a moment, he considered deflecting, offering a polished answer like a lawyer presenting a case.

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward.

The formula.

But the weight of the truth was too heavy to hold.

The real fear wasn’t really about saving strangers.

It was about Haley.

About Jack.

The real fear was that he couldn’t save his family.

That they’d already walked out of his life.

“Haley’s left,” he said finally, the confession low, steady, and raw. “And I don’t know if she’s coming back.”

He refused to accept the silence that had taken over his house.

Silence, he’d learned, had a way of amplifying absence, turning every creak of the floorboards into an accusation, every hum of the refrigerator into a hollow reminder of what was no longer there.

He wouldn’t let himself get used to it.

He couldn’t.

To do so would mean admitting that the laughter was gone - the wild, joyful echoes of Jack’s voice narrating stories to Kuna that were much more chaotic than coherent, the tales of a world in which pirates, Jedis, superheroes and pine martens all lived together.

It would mean accepting that there were no more shouts of “Dad, watch this!” accompanied by the rapid patter of little feet racing down the hallway, or conceding that there was no one he was helping build couch forts in the living room.

Jack’s voice used to fill every room, ringing with excitement and joy in a way that made Aaron feel like he could still breathe after even the worst days.

And Haley - God, Haley.

Her voice had this way of wrapping around the walls, filling every corner of the house with a warmth that made everything feel solid, whole. Whether she was calling Jack to dinner or talking to herself as she moved through the rooms, her presence was an anchor.

She could laugh at the smallest things - a poorly timed joke, a misstep in a dance she insisted on doing while cooking - and it was the kind of laugh that lingered, softening even the hardest edges of his day.

Even now, he could almost hear it, faint and ghostlike, as if the house itself remembered her better than he could bear to.

But now, the house was a shell.

Empty.

The walls seemed to lean in, accusing him with their stillness, asking questions he couldn’t answer: Where are they? Why aren’t they coming back? How did you let this happen?

But then you were there, and suddenly, the silence didn’t win anymore.

It wasn’t just the sound of your soft humming as you worked on your notes or the shuffle of papers that had taken over his kitchen table, it was the way your presence seemed to fill the void, adding a warmth he’d been starving for.

A fire.

Like the way you’d rummage through his cabinets, muttering under your breath, teasing him for his predictable habits and lack of variety, as if his limited tea selection were some kind of personal offense.

“You’ve got three kinds of English Breakfast and a chamomile older than Jack,” you announced, holding the offending box aloft as if it were evidence in a trial. “Is this a house or a time capsule?”

Aaron glanced up from his paperwork, one eyebrow arching in his usual understated disbelief. “Chamomile doesn’t go bad.”

You shook the box as if the rattling teabags might groan in protest. “Chamomile shouldn’t go bad, but this box might be the exception. Honestly, Aaron, if you’re trying to poison your guests, there are subtler ways. You’ve been in law enforcement long enough to know better.”

“Duly noted,” he said, deadpan, as he set his pen down. “Next time, I’ll just hide the evidence. You know, plausible deniability.”

Rolling your eyes, he saw you moving to scan the cabinet again, your fingers rifling through his depressingly predictable collection of tea. “And three kinds of English Breakfast,” you muttered to yourself, shaking your head. “Who needs three kinds of the same tea? It’s like having three identical suits… oh wait… that’s your thing.”

He chuckled, moving to lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching you rummage through the rest of the cabinet. “Let me guess,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up, “you’re looking for that one black tea so bitter it doubles as a cry for help.”

You whirled around, mock indignation lighting up your face. “It’s not bitter, it’s complex.”

“Complex,” he echoed, his voice steeped in skepticism. “So complex I can taste it from across the table every time you drink it.” His eyes tracked your movements as you tugged on your coat, grabbing your car keys with the efficiency of someone about to launch a rescue operation.

“Where are you going?” he asked, the faintest hint of incredulity coloring his voice.

“To fix this mess,” you shot back, your determination unwavering as you marched toward the door. Hotch recognized your look, the one that meant you were on a mission, and not even divine intervention could slow you down. It was like watching a hurricane in real-time, only you were wearing sensible shoes and wielding car keys instead of gale-force winds.

He sighed, that was his cue.

There was no stopping you - not with reason, logic, or his best FBI glare. But if he went with you, at least your energy would be directed at him instead of some poor unsuspecting night-shift cashier, who didn’t sign up to face your tea-related crusade at midnight.

“It’s midnight. You’re not going alone,” he said, his voice carrying more authority than necessary for what was clearly a caffeine-fueled escapade.

The truth, though, was simpler: if he stayed home, he’d be stuck with the silence, which wasn’t silent at all.

The idea of staying in his house without you was unbearable. The voices - the regrets, the what-ifs - always got too loud too fast, like an overzealous jury in his head, and they never adjourned.

Haley. Jack. Even Gideon.

When you were around, though, it was different. You had a way of filling the air that even the nagging voices in his head, the ones that rehashed every failure and regret, seemed to take one look at you and shut up.

Probably terrified of Philosophers… he wouldn’t blame them.

Afterall, you did have a knack for turning even his most tightly wound logic into a pretzel and serving it back to him with a grin.

“Alright,” you declared in defeat. “Come be my chauffeur. But if I catch you suggesting anything remotely fruity, I’m leaving you in the parking lot.”

As you breezed past him, muttering about proper supplies and “showing him real complexity,” he silently thanked his luck that you were only talking about tea and not a hostage negotiation. Heaven help the world if your special brand ever went extinct - there’d likely be a UN emergency summit convened by sunrise.

And by the time you both returned with your prized tea, Aaron was already questioning his life choices. As you brewed a cup, he leaned against the counter, watching like an unwilling participant in a social experiment.

You handed him a mug, a grin spreading across your face. “Try it.”

He hesitated, eyeing the tea like it might bite him. With the caution of a profiler defusing a bomb, he brought the cup to his lips and took the smallest sip.

His expression didn’t betray much, at first, but then, the barest scrunch of his nose gave him away. “It’s… terrible,” he said simply, setting the mug down like it might offend him further.

Your mouth fell open in mock indignation. “Terrible? That’s bold talk from the same man who just yesterday claimed he actually loves the taste of the Bureau’s coffee!”

“It’s called adapting,” he countered smoothly, his smirk creeping in.

“Oh, sure,” you said, crossing your arms. “Because ‘adapting’ is just fancy talk for ‘giving up entirely.’ I remember still drinking coffee from Bertie back in 1998, and it was already held together with duct tape and prayer. And let me remind you - because I know you’ll deny it - you were the one who wouldn’t stop complaining about it”

He tilted his head, feigning confusion. “That doesn’t sound like me. I’m very pragmatic about my beverages.”

“Oh, really?” you countered, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “Because I distinctly remember you telling Gideon that the only way to improve that coffee was to burn the machine, salt the earth where it stood, and consider it an act of public service.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Maybe my standards have evolved.”

“Evolved?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Into what? Stockholm Syndrome? Or,” you pointed at his abandoned mug of tea, “maybe you’ve just lost your edge. This tea, Aaron, has depth. Complexity. It’s for people with taste.”

“It tastes like despair,” he replied, entirely straight-faced.

“Despair,” you echoed with a snort. “And yet, you’ll go back to Bertie tomorrow morning and drink whatever burnt sludge it spits out.”

He shrugged, his smirk returning. “At least Bertie’s predictable.”

“Predictable?” You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your tea. “Hotchner, Bertie once brewed a cup so vile Spencer thought we’d discovered a new form of carbon. But sure, let’s call it predictable.”

Without missing a beat, Aaron leaned back against his chair, fingers intertwining on the back of his head. “You know,” he said dryly, “I think I finally understand why they threw the tea into the harbor during the Boston Tea Party.” He stopped for a second, making sure you were looking directly at him “It wasn’t about taxes, it was this.”

You froze, staring at him in disbelief, your mug hovering mid-air. Then it hit you, and you burst out laughing, nearly doubling over. “Oh, no,” you wheezed, clutching your stomach. “No, you do not get to be this funny in an argument about tea. I hate that you just made the funniest joke I’ve ever heard about this.”

He shrugged, his smirk growing. “I’m glad my humor’s appreciated.”

You pointed at him, still laughing but clearly refusing to let him have the upper hand. “You’re insufferable,” you declared, wiping a tear from your eye. “Absolutely insufferable. But that was… annoyingly clever.”

“I’ll take annoyingly clever as a compliment,” he replied, straight-faced. “Coming from you, it’s high praise.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back, still smiling despite yourself, and though you hated to admit it, the joke was still replaying in your mind. “That joke doesn’t make your coffee standards any less tragic. Enjoy your burnt sludge tomorrow, Boston Boy.”

He still didn’t understand how you manage to drink that stuff, but somehow, your stubborn loyalty to it felt… grounding.

Because for all your muttering and dramatics, you were still there – with him.

Someone who didn’t hate him.

Someone who hadn’t left him, not yet.

---

Philosophy comes with a lot of dilemmas - too many, in fact - but not nearly as many as the ones you inflicted on your colleagues at random while you were all buried in paperwork in the bullpen.

Does a tolerant society have to tolerate intolerance, even if it means undermining itself?

If someone says, ‘This statement is false,’ is the statement true or false?

Do we have free will, or are our actions determined by external forces or natural laws?

The answers were almost always the same: a collective groan or the universal team favorite, “Oh, shut up, Teach.”

But today, your philosophical pondering took a backseat to what you, Morgan, and Prentiss had unanimously subconsciously declared the real dilemma of the century: which was scarier - Halloween monsters or the fact that today marked the arrival of Gideon’s replacement in the team?

Knowing David Rossi - and having worked with his Machiavellian mind before – heavily influenced you to lean toward the latter.

As you sat at your desk, trying to make the endless paperwork feel like less of a soul-crushing abyss by timing yourself every time, you found the smallest thrill in racing the clock.

Your goal was simple: finish as quickly as possible so you could justify a trip up to Hotch’s office.

You could spin it as efficiency - getting the reports filed into the system early - but really, you just needed an excuse to exchange a word or two with him.

The truth was, you missed him being at the desk right across from you in the bullpen, the one he used to occupy nine years ago. Now, instead of a quick glance up to see his face, all you had was his left profile - always stern, always focused, always several feet away, barricaded by a pane of glass and an impenetrable air of authority, framed by the ever-present blinds of his office window.

He left them always open, but still.

Sure, technically, he was still in front of you - his office “just so happened” to align perfectly with your desk, giving you a clear view whenever you looked up.

But it wasn’t the same.

Especially today.

The tension in the bullpen was almost palpable, hanging heavy in the air as if the entire team was bracing for something. It was the kind of day where you’d normally lean over to murmur a comment to Hotch, and he’d respond with that subtle quirk of his brow that, at least to you, spoke volumes.

Instead, you were left wondering if the tension had seeped into his office, into the blinds, into the stiff set of his shoulders or the telltale tightness in his jaw.

Was it bothering him?

Did he even notice?

All you wanted to do was talk to your partner-that-now-happened-to-be-your-boss and check.

And so, as if to break the tension - or throw gasoline on it - Reid appeared, wearing a ridiculously oversized Frankenstein monster head mask. He crept up behind Morgan, who was so absorbed in his paperwork that he didn’t notice the impending doom at all. Reid crouched slightly, arms extended like a cartoon villain, and growled, “I’m going to eat you!”

Morgan shot out of his chair with a yelp, almost sending his file flying in one direction and his dignity in another, making both you and Prentiss immediately burst into laughter. “Reid!” he barked, his hand clutching his chest as though the paperwork might have contained a hidden bomb.

Reid, meanwhile, whipped off the mask with a triumphant grin. “Happy All Hallows’ Eve, folks!” he announced, his voice brimming with glee. “To paraphrase from Celtic mythology, tomorrow night all order is suspended, and the barriers between the natural and the supernatural are temporarily remoooooved!”

He punctuated the announcement by tossing a second, equally ridiculous mask toward Prentiss, who caught it midair with her biggest most contagious grin.

“That right there,” Morgan said, pointing a finger at the frizzy-haired monstrosity Reid had thrown, “is why Halloween creeps me out.”

“You’re scared of Halloween?” Reid shot back, his tone teetering between intrigued and vaguely offended. You couldn’t quite tell if he was about to psychoanalyze Morgan on the spot or just defend Halloween’s honor, but knowing Reid, it was probably both.

“I didn’t say I was scared,” Morgan corrected, wagging a finger at Reid for emphasis. “I said I was creeped out. There’s a difference, youngster. You should look it up.” Then, as if rallying reinforcements, he turned to you, clearly expecting you to back him up. “Tell him, Teach.”

You didn’t even bother glancing up from your stopwatch, which you dramatically clicked off with all the precision of someone timing an Olympic sprint. “Oh, sure thing, because obviously I’m the walking Cambridge dictionary now. Alright, brace yourselves. Lesson one: Example A - Morgan, when Reid jumped out at him like a budget haunted house actor? That’s textbook scared.”

Prentiss and Reid burst into laughter as Morgan pointed an indignant finger at you. “Hey, that’s not what I mea-”

You held up a finger, cutting him off as you scrolled casually through your prized finished reports. “Morgan, being emotionally terrorized by what I’m generously calling a $2 piece of melted plastic? That’s what linguists - namely, me - call creeped out. An expression, by the way, coined in the 1830s by Charles Dickens himself. You’re welcome. Class dismissed.”

Reid doubled over, laughing so hard he nearly knocked the Frankenstein mask off his head, while Prentiss leaned back in her chair, her laughter ringing out unabashedly.

Morgan threw his hands up in mock betrayal. “Y’all ain’t right. I’m just trying to live my life here!”

“Lesson two,” you added as you stood, gathering your reports like they were sacred texts, then made your way toward the kitchenette. You could feel Morgan glaring daggers at the back of your head, but you paid him no mind.

Pausing only to point at Reid, you delivered your final verdict “Never sneak up on a grown man who’s this easy to scare. It’s almost cruel,” you called out, shaking your head as you walked toward the kitchenette.

“Scared and creeped out,” Reid shot back, raising his voice just enough for you to hear from across the bullpen. His grin was smug enough to practically glow in your peripheral vision, and you could already tell he was planning to gloat about this moment for the rest of the day.

At least he got the point of lesson one, small victories.

Probably helped that you were his thesis supervisor, and over the past few weeks, you’d developed the kind of intellectual bond that only two people who regularly debated metaphysics over coffee could manage.

But what really snagged your attention wasn’t Reid’s self-satisfaction. No, it was Morgan muttering under his breath, “Prehistoric Reid.”

Without missing a beat, and without turning around, you raised your voice just enough to carry. “I heard you, Morgan.”

The bullpen erupted again. Prentiss was doubled over with fresh laughter, her face red as she gasped for air. Morgan groaned audibly, slumping in his chair like a man under siege.

“Man, Teach has ears like a bat,” he grumbled, though his tone carried more affection than annoyance, at least.

If the bullpen was chaos incarnate, the kitchenette promised a few moments of relative peace. You believed you’d only spend a minute or two there , but no - Bertie the coffee machine, your ancient nemesis, had other plans.

Some genius had decided to turn her off completely, so now you were stuck coaxing the temperamental beast back to life.

“All right, Bertie,” you muttered, flipping the switch with the cautious energy of someone attempting to detonate a bomb they didn’t really care about saving. Predictably, nothing happened.

No hum, no gurgle, not even the faintest whiff of coffee.

Instead, she let out a sputter so half-hearted it might as well have been the coffee machine equivalent of flipping you off.

Why were you even battling with this relic from the Jurassic era?

Oh, right - because the only thing more necessary to survive the day than caffeine was the faint, irrational hope that your partner-turned-boss-who-somehow-morphed-into-C-3PO-as-Unit-Chief-but-still-cracked-jokes-sometimes-when-he-felt-like-being-human would smile.

Just once.

It wouldn’t fix anything, but seeing Hotch – not Aaron, but Hotch - smile, even the smallest hint of one, could’ve made the mess of Rossi’s grand entrance feel just a little less like an apocalypse.

“Of course,” you muttered, sighing as you resorted to lightly slapping the side of the machine. “You know, I could just use the nice, expensive, functioning coffee maker upstairs, but no. Hotch needs your burnt battery acid because apparently, taste buds are optional for him.”

You gave Bertie another desperate slap, and finally, groaned to life with a sound that could only be described as a dying walrus. “That’s my girl.” You sighed in relief, though you wouldn’t dare celebrate just yet. Bertie had a habit of spitting boiling water at you when she felt underappreciated.

“You’re an overworked, overused, barely holding it together - but somehow still dependable nightmare with the most hideous sense of humor” you muttered as she began churning out liquid that could barely be called coffee. “Which is probably why Hotch likes you so much. He sees himself in you.”

You poured two cups. The first one, predictably, looked like motor oil, but you figured Hotch wouldn’t notice - or care. After all, he was the one who told you that’s exactly how he liked it: strong enough to fuel a jet, with just a hint of bitterness to match his mood.

And who were you to question authority?

Well, maybe his - just slightly.

Not because he wasn’t good enough, far from it, but because behind all that duty and discipline, you could still see the friend who, out of nowhere, had cracked the funniest joke you’d probably ever heard. And he’d done it with a Boston Tea Party reference, of all things.

You grabbed your files and the two cups of coffee, balancing them carefully as you turned back toward your desk, only to freeze mid-step. Reid, Prentiss, and Morgan stood clustered together, their faces locked in expressions so stunned you’d think they’d just witnessed the ghost of Alexander Hamilton himself wandering through the bullpen.

“What’s going on?” you asked, your eyes darting between them, half-expecting an unsub to be lurking behind you with a false-face mask and a dramatic monologue.

Reid, his grin slowly spreading across his face like a kid meeting their superhero, pointed toward Hotch’s office. “You missed him.”

You followed Reid’s gaze to the windows of Hotch’s office.

And there they were.

Hotch. Strauss. Rossi.

And just like that, the universe managed to cram three of your personal nightmares into a single square meter of space. It was an unholy triumvirate. Three people, each of whom had caused you at least one life-long trauma.

Prentiss, ever the empathic, placed a hand on your shoulder. “You’re not seriously going to hand him the files now, are you?”

You let out a sarcastic laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, definitely. I’m sure I missed a semicolon somewhere in the report. It’s urgent.”

But then Morgan, out of the blue, shifting to a more serious tone, asked, “What’s Rossi like?”

Million-dollar question.

You paused, choosing your words carefully as your gaze shifted between Reid in the bullpen and the scene playing out inside Hotch’s office. “Think of Gideon,” you began, your tone soft, “but someone completely different at the same time. Rossi is sharp, deliberate, he gets straight to the heart of a problem. Theatrical, sure, but he knows when to push and when to pull back. If you need someone thinking ten, even twenty steps ahead of an unsub, he’s the best there is. Absolutely the best.”

Your eyes flicked briefly to Hotch’s office, catching the moment he and Rossi stepped back from a hug.

Your heart just dropped at the view.

Hotch was smiling.

A genuine, unguarded smile.

Not the polite, guarded expression he usually wore as Unit Chief, but a real, unguarded smile - one you hadn’t seen in what felt like in ages. It wasn’t the professional mask of the man in charge, the one you’d come to respect the most but secretly hate just as much for how it had hardened him.

That what for you was a new version of him - the one so much more consumed by the job - stood in stark contrast to the Hotch you’d known almost a decade ago.

Hotch—your partner.

The Hotch you’d known back then had been just as firm, just as committed, but there had been lightness too. His damned sense of humor, hell, even those hopelessly awkward attempts at flirting with each other.

Even that had become an unspoken contest - who was worse at it. Both of you so bad at it that, inexplicably, it worked. Somehow, amidst the chaos, those moments had grounded you, moments where the weight of the world hadn’t yet crushed him.

Now, watching him with Rossi, you caught a glimpse of that man again - the one who could smile without reservation, who could let go for just a second. It felt like a thread of the old Hotch had been pulled back to the surface, weaving itself into the present.

And for the first time in far too long, it looked like something inside him was starting to mend.

“Rossi and Gideon together were… unmatched,” you continued, your voice softer now, the words slipping out as if they carried their own weight. “They had this instinct, this understanding of the human mind that defied explanation. They were the best at what they did.”

Reid nodded faintly, his gaze dropping as he processed your words. The weight of your unspoken feelings every time the word ‘Gideon’ escaped your lips lingered in the air.

He didn’t need to say anything - he felt every syllable you didn’t say.

Parts of both you and Reid were still adjusting to this change, even with the underlying sense of relief that came with Rossi’s return.

Parts of both you and Reid were still adjusting to the change, even with the underlying sense of relief that came with Rossi’s return. It was bittersweet, but in some strange way, for you, it felt like a piece of the past was coming back to steady you; for Reid, it was a breath of fresh air - a chance to meet the other half of his old mentor’s legendary pairing.

If Hotch could hear your thoughts, you’d have locked eyes across the room and escalated it into one of your infamous, competitive volleys: significant other, partner, spouse, soulmate, bank account sharer, joint mortgage holder, primary beneficiary.

But that Hotch was long gone.

You hesitated, then added, “They were different, but they shared one thing: they believed in the work. In what it could do. And they never stopped trying to be better, even when it cost them everything.”

For the first time in a long while, it felt like something was settling back into place for you as well. Slowly but surely, balance was returning, or at least trying to.

That fragile sense of equilibrium lasted about ten seconds before JJ descended the stairs from Hotch’s office - also known as the cave of your collective traumas - to announce you had a new case.

And then the door to the infamous office opened. Out stepped Rossi, sporting his most enthusiastic smile, with Hotch following close behind, back to his usual professional calm expression. Rossi’s eyes scanned the bullpen, taking in each of you, but when his gaze landed on yours, his grin for some reasons disappeared.

“Europe!” he exclaimed, actually sounding surprised. “What are you doing here?”

Ah, Europe. Another nickname to add to your ever-growing list, courtesy of Rossi and your time stationed abroad. You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms with mock indignation. “What, I don’t deserve a smile as well?”

Hotch, ever the professional despite the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, said in a measured tone, “She’s part of the team.”

Rossi’s grin widened as he clapped Hotch firmly in the middle of the back - hard enough that even Hotch shifted slightly in surprise. “Oh, I see, of course she is. Looks like I can’t get rid of you two, can I?”

You and Hotch exchanged a glance, one of those knowing looks that said everything without needing to speak: Rossi hasn’t changed a bit. If anything, he’s only gotten worse with age.

Rossi, ever the master of reading a room - and especially the two of you - smirked and wagged a finger between you both. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. I missed my favorite early birds couple. Just like old times.”

Never in your life had you witnessed a worse choice of words.

Prentiss immediately coughed into her hand, doing an abysmal job of hiding her laughter, while Morgan’s grin spread so wide you were tempted to suggest it could power Quantico for a week.

“Couple, huh?” Prentiss leaned in, her eyebrows raised in perfect mock innocence. “Should we be calling you Mrs. Unit Chief now?”

You turned to her, eyes narrowing with the sharpness of a blade. “Prentiss,” you said, your tone low, but it only made her grin harder.

“Oh, come on. It’s a valid question,” Morgan chimed in, jumping on the opportunity with relish. “So, Teach, what’s the story? Got something you haven’t told us? Maybe those late-night report sessions weren’t all about paperwork after all. Must’ve been some really close teamwork.”

Your lips pressed into a razor-thin, as you leveled a glare at him, mentally cycling through every possible way to shut this conversation down without landing yourself in handcuffs. “Morgan, you’re about two seconds away from being served Bertie’s first cup of coffee.”

Morgan gasped in exaggerated horror, throwing his hands up in mock surrender as if you’d just threatened to steal his firstborn, if he’d had one, that is. “Alright, alright, no need to go nuclear! But come on, you can’t blame a guy for being curious.”

“Oh, I absolutely can,” you snapped still keeping your voice as low as possible - but before you could say more, Prentiss leaned even closer, her smirk practically predatory.

“To be fair,” she said, her voice soft and conspiratorial, “you two do finish each other’s sentences.”

“That’s only because we worked-” you started, only to stop yourself abruptly, exhaling sharply. “No. I’m not doing this. I am not engaging in this ridiculous-”

“Ridiculous what?” Prentiss interrupted, her tone dripping with feigned sweetness. “Your obvious chemistry? Your perfect synchronicity? Honestly, Mrs. Unit Chief, it’s adorable.”

Morgan let out a bark of laughter, clapping his hands together. “Adorable! That’s the word I was looking for. Prentiss, you nailed it.”

You almost threw your hands in the air, glaring at both of them. “It’s not what you think. Rossi just used a poor choice of words.”

Morgan tilted his head, dragging out the word “Sure” with a level of disbelief so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Prentiss wasn’t done. “You know, this would explain so much. The way you two exchange those looks like you’re having a full-blown conversation without speaking. The mysteriously coordinated outfits-”

“We do not coordinate outfits!” you snapped, your patience officially wearing thin.

“-and let’s not forget the coffee thing,” she continued as if you hadn’t spoken. “You always make him a cup like some doting-”

“That’s because he likes burnt coffee!” you interrupted, your voice slightly louder than you intended.

“Exactly,” Morgan said, pointing at you. “Only love could make someone tolerate that taste.”

Before you could fire back, you saw movement out of the corner of your eye - Rossi and Hotch making their way down to the bullpen. Straightening up, you plastered on your most professional smile, ignoring the smug satisfaction radiating from both Prentiss and Morgan.

Rossi, of course, looked entirely too pleased with himself, and for a moment, you seriously considered that he might have chosen those words on purpose.

Hotch, ever the consummate professional - or perhaps just willfully oblivious - raised a hand to begin introductions. “SSA David Rossi,” he said, his voice steady and calm, “this is SSA Emily Prentiss.”

Prentiss stepped forward, managing to school her expression into something polite and measured. “Sir,” she said, though her tone had just the faintest edge of mischief.

“SSA Derek Morgan,” Hotch continued.

Morgan extended a hand with his trademark charm, his grin still tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s an honor, Agent Rossi.”

Rossi shook his hand firmly, waving off the formality. “Please, just Dave.”

Hotch moved smoothly on, his calm voice cutting through the lingering mischief in the air. “And Dr. Spencer Reid.”

Reid stepped forward eagerly, his hands twitching as if he couldn’t decide whether to shake Rossi’s hand or launch into a monologue. He went with both. “Sir, if I could talk to you later about your work with the Scarsdale Skinner, I’d really appreciate it. Psycho-linguistics is an incredibly dynamic field, and the way your profile of his reading habits ultimately led to his capture is-”

“Reid,” Hotch interrupted gently, raising a hand. “Slow down. He’ll be here for a while. You can catch up with him later.”

Reid flushed slightly, nodding. “Sorry.”

Rossi chuckled. “No problem, Doctor.” Reid beamed, looking like he’d just been knighted

Hotch glanced toward the stairs, his tone calm but directive as usual. “Maybe you two can talk on the jet.”

Reid’s face lit up. “Oh, yeah, that’d be great.”

Rossi’s expression shifted into one of mild confusion, his brows knitting together. “The jet?” he echoed, his tone laced with disbelief.

Hotch smirked faintly, and for a moment, it seemed like he was recalling a similar scene - a bar, a year ago, and your reaction that had been almost identical. “We have a jet now.”

Rossi’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious?”

Oh, once he found out he wouldn’t have to share rooms with anyone, Rossi’s happiness would probably rival a kid who just discovered an unlimited supply of Halloween candy.

Hotch nodded, gesturing toward the briefing room. “It comes in pretty handy. Come on, JJ’s waiting.” He placed a hand on Rossi’s back, guiding him toward the stairs.

As they passed, you tilted your head slightly at Hotch, silently questioning why he hadn’t introduced you to Rossi himself. Sure, it wasn’t strictly necessary - Rossi knew you well enough - but still.

Hotch, always razor-sharp, caught your questioning look immediately. “Of course,” he said, his voice betraying just a hint of amusement. “This is Agent and Professor Y/L/N.” He paused just long enough to emphasize Professor, making it clear he wasn’t letting your academic credentials slide under the radar.

Agent and Professor.

As always, he made sure to introduce you like that whenever someone new was around. You were used to it now - your impressive international work, the years of research, everything that set you apart - but you still couldn’t help the little flush that rose on your cheeks.

Hotch was proud of you - more proud of your accomplishments than you’d ever admit to yourself - and he made sure to show it. And honestly, you suspected part of the reason he loved introducing you like that was to see you squirm just a little.

So you always called him Unit Chief in return - mostly to tease him, but also as a reminder that despite everything, he’d finally become exactly what he’d always wanted to be.

Rossi laughed, his grin widening. “Ah, here we go again with you two. Some things never change.”

The team started moving toward the stairs, but Prentiss hung back a step to sidle up next to you. Her voice dropped into an exaggerated mock-sweetness that could’ve melted glass. “You know, it’s actually kind of adorable. You and Hotch, solving crimes, finishing each other’s sentences, burning coffee together... It’s like the FBI version of a rom-com.”

You shot her a glare, opening your mouth to fire back, but before you could even get a word out, Morgan, who had somehow caught wind of the whole conversation despite being halfway up the stairs, glanced back over his shoulder and said. “Oh yeah, I’ve been waiting for this.”

He shook his head with exaggerated pity. “What I want to know,” he said, his voice dripping with fake sincerity, “is who made the first move? Was it Hotch? Was it all brooding and intense, like, ‘I need to talk… about us’?”

Prentiss couldn’t contain herself and burst into laughter. “Oh, I can totally hear it!” she exclaimed, doing her best imitation of Hotch’s deep, serious voice with flawless deadpan. “‘You’re a great agent, but I think it’s time we addressed the… tension… between us.’” She gave a dramatic pause and added, “Hotch, you dog.”

You were so mortified that you didn’t know whether to laugh or shove them both into the nearest broom closet to shut them up. “You two are insufferable. It’s like middle school in here.”

“Oh, come on,” Morgan teased, completely shameless. “You can’t deny it. I bet Hotch even did the Hotch stare. You know the one, intense, like, ‘This is non-negotiable, we need to talk about us.’” He paused, waggling his eyebrows in that way that made you want to crawl under the nearest desk.

Prentiss couldn’t hold it in any longer. She burst out laughing, clutching her stomach as she leaned into you. “I can see it now! ‘I’ve filled out the paperwork for us to move to the next phase - please initial here to confirm your feelings.’”

“Enough, please!” you begged. You weren’t sure if you were frustrated with your team, the teasing, or the sheer absurdity of the situation.

Just then, as if summoned from nowhere, Reid decided to chime in with his usual brand of earnestness. “Actually,” he started, eyes wide and eager, “if you analyze workplace dynamics, there’s often a statistically significant correlation between close professional relationships and perceived romantic tension-”

“Doc!” you snapped, your voice sharp as glass. The sound of your irritation immediately shut him up, though you could tell he was thoroughly enjoying the chaos, must have been the Halloween spirits…

Reid blinked, but then he quickly put his hands up in mock surrender. “Right. I’ll stop.” His lips twitched upward, an impish grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “For now,” he added, as if he couldn’t quite resist the urge to poke the bear just one more time.

“Thank you, I love you all” you muttered sarcastically, walking ahead and not even bothering to look back.

You’d made it to the briefing room, and for once, the usual teasing had quieted. Absurd how death did that, no amount of sarcasm or wit could overshadow the grim reality of murder. It was almost as if the case itself had sucked all the air out of the room, forcing everyone to remember that, yes, this was your job.

This wasn’t just paperwork and profiling.

People died.

People were tortured.

And in the blink of an eye, everything you thought mattered could be stripped away.

Funny, isn't it? How death puts things into perspective - suddenly, the world isn’t so big.

What was so important this morning?

A fight with your team members, a long list of cases? None of it would matter if you were lying cold on the floor somewhere.

It doesn’t matter how many cases you’ve worked, each one chips away at you, no matter how hard you try to harden yourself.

That’s the cruel beauty of this job: it’s a constant reminder.

Every time, it strips something away.

And today’s case? Well, today was no different.

Michelle Colucci from Carrollton, Texas, had received a flyer warning her that she’d soon go missing. The local detective, dismissing it as a Halloween prank, sent her home. But days later, when he went back to check on her, he found her lifeless.

Michelle had been sexually assaulted, her face surgically removed, and the Dallas County M.E. confirmed that she’d still been alive when she was dumped into the creek. It was torture - psychological and physical - and it was planned down to the last detail.

The unsub’s method was chillingly calculated. The flier, part of a twisted game, was designed to break Michelle before delivering the final blow. The "false face" mask left at the scene - a symbol worn during Halloween or Mardi Gras – probably was a grotesque mockery of Michelle’s identity.

And just when you thought it couldn’t get worse, JJ dropped the last bombshell. “Oh, and Hotch - local media’s all over this. The story’s already broken big.”

Perfect.

Because who doesn’t love the media breathing down your neck, making sure you can’t even tie your shoes without a camera crew nearby? As if the job wasn’t already hard enough without everyone wanting a piece of your misery.

Hotch, however, didn’t seem to flinch. “Tell Carrollton we’ll be there first thing in the morning. Let’s stop this one at one.”

---

You didn’t stop this at one.

Just a few moments ago Eneid White, the second target, had called from the motel where she was hiding. Her voice, trembling and desperate, was still a haunting echo in your mind, you couldn’t get her out of your head.

It was the helplessness that got you.

The urgency was seared into every action, and Hotch handing you the keys to the SUV without hesitation was all the confirmation you needed – you needed to get there, fast.

And so, you drove.

Speed limits? Suggestions.

Stop signs? Inconveniences.

The streets blurred into streaks of light and shadow as you threaded the SUV through traffic with a precision that bordered on reckless, but at least never fully crossed the line – or so you thought.

Rossi, riding shotgun, eyed you warily as you floored the gas, the SUV surging forward like a bullet. “She’s not trying to qualify for the Indy 500, is she?” he muttered, gripping the door handle with exaggerated caution.

“She knows what she’s doing,” Hotch said firmly from the back seat, his tone steady, cutting through Rossi’s skepticism. “Take the next left, it’ll cut through the main drag.” Then he added “Eyes on the road.”

“Got it,” you replied, your grip tightening on the wheel as you spotted a ‘Do Not Enter’ sign looming ahead. A shortcut through a construction site was tempting, but the barriers and machinery cluttering the path made it clear this wasn’t meant for civilian traffic.

Still, hesitation barely registered.

You needed to save Eneid White.

They had to leave a road for the trucks transporting material, and in your book, any surface that could support tires qualified as a road.

“Don’t even think about it-” Rossi started, but you’d already made your decision.

“Shortcut,” you said plainly, steering the SUV through the gap in the barriers. Gravel crunched under the tires as the vehicle bounced over the uneven terrain. Dust clouded the air, obscuring visibility, but you still pressed forward.

There was no time.

“Shortcut,” Rossi repeated dryly, clutching his seatbelt as if it might save him. “You’re insane.” He muttered under his breath, gripping the door handle even tighter.

He’d probably said those exact words to Gideon a thousand times over the years they worked together, so he really shouldn’t have been so surprised that the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

Hotch leaned forward slightly, his gaze darting between you and the map in his hands. “Sharp turn coming up. Stick close to the left, you’ll avoid the worst of the debris.”

You followed his instructions without question. “Thanks, Unit Chief”

He didn’t miss a beat, he never did anyways. “Stay steady. You’ve got this.”

And so, as always, he called out directions, and you executed them as precise as you could.

As you burst out of the construction site and back onto the main road, Rossi muttered under his breath, “If we survive this, I’m buying her a GPS.”

“She doesn’t need one,” Hotch countered, a faint note of amusement in his voice.

As far as you were concerned, Hotch was already your trusted GPS.

Now the motel just within sight. The GPS chimed, but Hotch had already beaten it, pointing ahead. “We’re close. Pull in there.”

But as you turned into the lot, your stomach dropped. Despite breaking every law of the road, despite cutting through gravel and narrowly avoiding heavy machinery, you weren’t faster than the unsub.

The motel room was empty.

Eneid White was gone.

Fliers with her face were scattered across the bed, each one bearing the mocking question: “Have you seen me?”

The irony was suffocating.

Of course, you could see Eneid’s face - it was plastered everywhere, an unsub’s cruel hyperbole.

And this stirred something into you - what if the message wasn’t for those looking for the victims? What if it was meant for the victims themselves?

“Have you seen me?” Perhaps it wasn’t a warning, but a connection, a contact. The unsub’s way of forcing recognition, of ensuring he’d been seen, even if only for a fleeting moment.

The victims saw his face before he’d targeted them.

As you carefully gathered evidence from the room, you heard the detective outside, his frustration boiling over. “Twenty minutes. We were here in twenty minutes. I can’t believe we lost her!”

Hotch, ever the anchor in moments of chaos, tried to steady him with some logic. “We may not have lost her,” he said, his voice calm and measured. “He kept Michelle for four days.”

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward.

All there in one sentence – his version of your ‘Thesis, Antithesis, Synthesis’

“But we got nothing!” the detective snapped, his anger spilling over so forcefully that his words seemed to yank you from the room before you’d even made the conscious decision to step out.

Hotch didn’t falter, his tone firm but composed. “That’s not true. Look at the difference in the scenes.”

As you stepped into the open, your eyes landed on what had apparently become the new team tradition since the briefing on the jet - Rossi, head down, scribbling away in his precious notebook like he was on a deadline for the Pulitzer Prize instead of, you know, actually helping.

By now, you’d lost count of how many times you’d caught him at it today, but it was somewhere between “too many” and “are you serious right now?”

The frustration bubbling under your skin was quickly evolving into a sarcastic internal monologue worthy of Shakespeare, though if it reached James Joyce levels, you’d probably have kicked the man with your own boots just to put an end to it.

It was maddening.

You couldn’t even shoot the damn notebook out of his hands - no matter how tempting - because the paperwork for that would’ve been unbearable.

Paperwork had saved Rossi more than once today.

The detective pressed on, still unconvinced. “What do you mean? There’s the masks, the fliers-”

You glanced at Rossi, your patience wearing thinner than the pages of his notebook - which, at this point, you were certain had a name of Jason, because why else would he be so devoted to it?

But Rossi’s pen didn’t even pause.

Whatever profound nonsense he was jotting down seemed far more important than the actual conversation unfolding in front of him.

Prentiss, following you out of the room, she glanced at the evidence in your hands and finally spoke up herself. “Yeah, but these fliers weren’t tacked up on the wall. They were just thrown around the room.”

You nodded, seamlessly picking up her train of thought, though part of you was already imagining tossing Rossi and his precious notebook into the nearest evidence bag. “Mostly concentrated on the bed, with the rest scattered haphazardly across the floor. Some are even upside down, blank side up - no effort was made to ensure the message was visible, unlike the calculated placement we saw with Michelle Colucci.”

Prentiss gave you a small nod of agreement, her expression grim and focused. This was what it meant to stay on task, to prioritize the case above all else. You spared one last glance at Rossi, still glued to his notebook, as if the world around him didn’t exist.

The detective broke the silence, his frustration cutting through the tension. “So?!”

Hotch, ever the steady voice of reason, clarified the situation once more with the kind of authority that reminded you exactly why he was your favorite Unit Chief. “He left in a hurry, like he knew we were coming.”

Morgan came out of the room, holding up a phone. “Okay, this was under the bed,” he announced, his tone sharp, efficient. He flipped the device around to show the last number dialed. “972 area code.”

“That’s Carrollton,” the detective said quickly, stepping forward to take the phone from Morgan’s hand. “The hotline number.”

“She used a cell phone,” Prentiss added, her brow furrowing.

Morgan nodded, already filling in the blanks. “You can get a cell interceptor at any electronics store.”

The detective blinked at him, surprised. “You can?”

“Yeah,” Morgan confirmed. “They don’t cost that much. He probably sat right out here and heard everything she said.”

The detective rubbed his jaw, his confusion more than evident. “But if he followed her here from Dallas, why wait till she calls us to move on her?”

It was then, like some miracle out of nowhere, that Rossi finally raised his head from that damn notebook. You felt a spark of hope – finally - only for it to flicker and die as his gaze met the detective’s for half a second before dropping back to his scribbling.

Amazing.

Before you could even sigh, your voice came out, somehow you managed to stay calm and firm. “To make sure it was the police who found the mask.”

What a professional.

It was too late for Rossi to catch your disappointed glare you aimed at him, which was a shame because this one was a masterpiece - one of your finest, perfected over years of dealing with ignorant assholes.

And Rossi? Oh, he was currently one of the finest examples of that category.

But, if you were being honest, he wasn’t the only one grating on your last nerve.

You knew Hotch had noticed Rossi’s behavior - of course he had.

His eyes had flicked from you to Rossi to the detective, his jaw tightening ever so slightly in that telltale way that screamed disapproval. You half-expected him to step in, to say something sharp and cutting that would snap Rossi out of his detached aloofness.

But nothing.

Not a word.

His silence was almost as infuriating as Rossi’s scribbling.

At least you got some mileage out of it, directing a few of your most honed disappointed looks at Hotch. Sure, he wasn’t the primary target, but it was better than letting them go to waste.

“We need to gather your men and deliver the profile,” Hotch said to the detective, his tone leaving no room for debate. Without waiting for a response - or the lack thereof - he was already heading toward the SUVs, his stride purposeful and unyielding.

You followed, your steps brisk, each one fueled by the simmering frustration you couldn’t seem to shake.

It was bad enough that Rossi had spent the entire day buried in that infuriating little notebook of his, detached from the team as though this case were some solo act.

But what stung worse - what really churned beneath your skin - was that Hotch hadn’t said a damn word about it.

Hotch climbed into the SUV first advantaged by his hideously long legs, his movements steady and composed, as if the tension of the day hadn’t so much as brushed him. He settled into the passenger seat without a glance back, his calmness only heightening the storm brewing inside you.

You slid into the driver’s side, gripping the wheel hard enough that the leather creaked faintly under your hands.

In the rearview mirror, you caught sight of Rossi strolling leisurely toward Morgan and Prentiss’s SUV, his gait so maddeningly casual it made your teeth clench.

No urgency.

Not even a backward glance.

It felt like a slap, though you weren’t entirely sure why.

Maybe it was the way he walked off without a second thought, or maybe it was the silence that had followed - Hotch’s silence. The kind of silence that spoke louder than words, that implied he was choosing not to address the behavior you’d been biting your tongue about all day.

The door to your side slammed shut harder than you intended, the sound reverberating through the SUV like the snap of a thread stretched too tight. You didn’t even realize how sharp your movements were until you glanced sideways and saw Hotch watching you, his expression calm as usual but his eyes far too knowing.

“Something on your mind?” he asked, his voice even, quiet.

Too quiet.

Like he was already bracing for the storm he could feel rolling in.

His question lit a spark, and that spark found the fuel you’d been holding back all day. “Oh, so you noticed?!” you shot back, starting the engine with a rough turn of the key. “You’re seriously not going to say anything to him?”

“Say what, exactly?” Hotch’s tone remained even, his gaze fixed ahead.

Now he had to be playing dumb.

Which, of course, he wasn’t.

You’d first liked him because he was clever - clever in a way that few people ever were.

You scoffed, throwing the SUV into gear. “I don’t know, maybe something about the fact that he’s been scribbling in that notebook all day, completely checked out, and now he just decides to ditch us? That doesn’t bother you?”

Hotch exhaled slowly, his voice still hilariously calm but firm. “Rossi’s actions haven’t jeopardized the team. There’s no reason to call him out over something minor.”

You wanted to slap that Unit Chief in the face so bad right now…

“Minor?” Your voice rose slightly, disbelief laced in every syllable. “It’s disrespectful, Hotch. To you, to me, to the team. He’s supposed to be contributing, not playing the wise old sage with his notebook. I even tried to talk to him earlier, but he pretended I didn’t even exist. And now you’re just letting it slide?”

Hotch turned toward you then, his gaze sharp and steady, with his innate ability to make it piercing enough to catch your breath. “I don’t need to say anything unless his actions jeopardize the team or the case. That’s the job. His behavior doesn’t warrant a confrontation.”

Your grip tightened on the wheel, the hard leather pressing into your palms as something deeper and more dangerous than frustration combusted fiercely through you. “I’m not necessarily asking you to step in as his Unit Chief. I’m asking you as the only other person here who’s worked with him before. You know him better than I do. Your words might actually mean something to him.”

His eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a low, measured tone that carried more weight than volume. “That’s where you’re wrong. My words hold more weight than yours here. I carry the full responsibility for this team.”

Bastard. Absolute bastard.

Hotch’s gaze flicked toward you briefly before settling back on the road, his profile hard as granite. “There is a hierarchy, and there always has been. Even back in 1998, you understood that. You were respectful of authority, even hesitant to speak up sometimes. What happened to that? Where did it go?”

“Where did it go?” you snapped, your voice rising just slightly. Unlike him, you hadn’t mastered the art of lowering your voice the angrier you got. “It went somewhere between Rossi acting like he’s still a lone wolf profiler and you pulling rank on me instead of actually listening to what-”

“Oh no,” he interrupted, his tone cutting through your words, deadlier than a guillotine during the French Revolution. “Don’t talk to me like this. You wouldn’t act this way if it were anyone else in my position. You’re taking liberties with me - ones you wouldn’t dare take with someone else, and you know it.”

Your knuckles blanched as they gripped the wheel. “Because we’re partners, Aaron-”

“Hotch.” The correction was immediate, clipped, and cold.

Hotch?! With you?! Since when exactly?!

Fucker. Absolute fucker.

You fought the urge to slam the brakes or swing the car into a sharp turn – anything to vent the hot, simmering frustration rising inside you.

He was lucky you were driving.

Smart move on his part, but not smart enough. “We’re partners, and I would like to expect some confrontation when it’s needed. I’m not saying you have to agree with me all the time, but right now, it seems that you’re shutting me out just as much as he is.”

“I’m not shutting you out,” he said firmly, as if he hadn’t just corrected you a few moments ago, insisting you use his work name. “And partners or not, there’s still a chain of command. I don’t address things that don’t need to be addressed. What Rossi’s doing isn’t breaking any rules. It’s the law, plain and simple.”

“The law,” you muttered bitterly, shaking your head. “That’s always the answer, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he said, unflinching. “That’s how this works.”

You glanced at him briefly, your frustration morphing into something sharper, something deeper. “You’re confusing what’s just with what’s lawful. They’re not the same thing. The law tells you what’s allowed, but ethics - ethics tell you what’s right.”

Hotch’s gaze turned toward you again, steady but edged with a challenge that sent heat prickling up your spine. “And tell me, who decides what’s right? You?”

Your mom Hotch, your mom.

“No,” you shot back, your voice snapping like a whip as you met his gaze head-on. “You. Me. Everyone. We each decide what’s just because ethics come from within. It’s what we’ve learned, what we value, what we believe. It’s shaped by experience, compassion… things the law doesn’t account for. And for the record what really frustrates me is that I can tell you agree with me. You just won’t let yourself act on it.”

Hotch’s brow arched, skepticism etched into every line of his face. His tone was cool, but there was something taut beneath it “And you think personal ethics are enough to run a team? That everyone’s individual sense of ‘what’s right’ is enough?”

You saw him roll his eyes in the rearview mirror, a small flick of dismissal that sent heat roaring in your chest. But at least he didn’t interrupt you this time. It was probably time to educate him apparently, even if he didn’t deserve your philosophy right now. “Sophocles wrote entire tragedies about the consequences of blindly following the law without considering ethics,”

You continued, as convinced as before. “Antigone - she buries her brother against the law because it’s the right thing to do. Justice isn’t just about rules, Hotch. It’s about doing what’s right. There’s a line between what is legal and what is just. Creon followed the law to the letter, but it was Antigone who understood what was right. Blindly following the law doesn’t absolve you of moral responsibility. If we’re not questioning what’s just, then what’s the point of any of this?”

Hotch exhaled through his nose, the sound low and weighted, and turned his gaze forward again, his jaw tight as though he were biting back something far harsher. “We’re not philosophers. We’re law enforcement. If we start ignoring the law, where does it stop?”

“It stops when we stop pretending the law is infallible,” you countered, heat lacing every word.

“The law is the only thing standing between order and chaos.” His voice was cool, measured, but the tension coiling beneath it felt dangerous, like a fuse inching toward its end.

You turned toward him fully now, your pulse hammering in your throat. Your voice dropped, quieter but heavy, almost trembling with the force of it. “Fuck the law.”

Your eloquence always found the way out of you when you were seriously angry.

Fuck him.

His head snapped toward you, his eyes flashing with something that wasn’t just anger, something worse. His face was carved in stone, but his eyes… his eyes burned. His jaw tightened further, the muscle flexing there, and the air between you thickened so much that it was a miracle you both still managed to breathe. Though your breaths came a little too fast, a little too shallow, and yet you couldn’t seem to look away, even as both of your pulses quickened against your will. “You don’t mean that.”

You scoffed, your focus snapping back to the road, but the way your hands gripped the wheel betrayed the crackling storm beneath your skin. “I do mean it. If the law lets Rossi sit there scribbling in his notebook while the rest of us are busting our asses, then maybe it’s time to question what the hell we’re actually enforcing.”

Hotch didn’t respond immediately.

The silence felt like the stillness before a storm, heavy and waiting. “I’ll handle Rossi if and when his actions compromise the team or the case. Until then, you need to focus on what’s in front of you.”

What exactly?!

Him? The road?

The fierce, irrational desire to pull over and tell him to take the rest of the miles on foot, just so you didn’t have to keep feeling the heat of his presence pressing against your skin?

Or maybe, the even fiercer, more maddening part of you that wanted to slam on the brakes for a different reason altogether.

“That’s the problem,” you bit out. “Rossi is the problem. And by brushing this off, you’re part of it.”

Your words hung in the air, daring him to respond.

His silence burned, every second of it pushing against your restraint until his voice came, calm but edged with something razor-sharp. “You think you’re the only one who notices these things? I see everything. Every tension, every hesitation, every misstep. It’s my job to decide when to act, not yours.”

No, it was definitely him.

And the road.

And everything in between.

Your foot slammed the brakes at the stoplight, the SUV jerking forward before settling. You turned toward him, your breath uneven, your chest tight. “Then decide, Hotch. Because the longer you let Rossi pull this crap, the more respect you lose - from the team. And from me.”

Fuck him.

His lips pressed into a razor-thin line, his shoulders taut, every inch of him controlled as though holding himself back from snapping. When he spoke, his voice was low, biting. “That’s enough.”

“Is it?” you challenged, twisting in your seat to fully face him. The air between you felt like fire, licking at the edges, threatening to consume. “Because I’ve had enough of watching you protect him like he’s untouchable.”

His voice dropped lower. “Focus on the case, Y/N. People are being murdered.”

Technically it was just a victim now, there was no reason for him to use the plural.

Uncultured.

Fuck him.

“You’re shifting the focus of the conversation,” you retorted, the words tearing through the few inches of space between your seats.

“Y/N.” His voice cut through the air, sharp, laced with a warning that carried the weight of absolute, every meaning layered within it.

The probabilities of stepping into a place neither of you could return from were far too high, and you both knew it.

And so, you drove.

---

Apparently, your frustration was contagious, Hotch was certain of it.

The lead detective’s exasperation was as palpable as the tension in the room, radiating out like a second heartbeat. “So how the hell do we catch an invisible man?”

Hotch, standing tall and composed, responded. “I’m pretty sure we can get him to contact you.”

The detective’s skepticism was immediate, his brows furrowing deeply. “What?!”

Prentiss stepped in, her voice steady and explanatory, trying to ease his doubts. “The crime scenes show he wants to deliver his message to the police. He isn’t going public.”

Hotch turned toward the group of officers gathered nearby, his gaze briefly flicking to the television up in the corner where a news anchor droned on. “Hopefully, by playing on his anger...” His words trailed off as his eyes locked onto the screen.

The mask.

Hotch’s jaw tightened.

There it was - the one detail they had deliberately withheld, the key piece that gave them an advantage. It was the only thing that hadn’t been shared with the public, the detail he had explicitly instructed everyone to keep confidential.

“JJ, how’d they get that?” His voice was a low whisper, his hand gesturing toward the screen in disbelief.

JJ looked stricken, her words tumbling out in hurried defense. “Not from me. I-Hotch, I called all the local police departments, and I stressed withholding the mask.”

He knew it wasn’t JJ’s fault.

He wasn’t even looking at her.

His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, as if willing the image to vanish, willing this mistake to undo itself. Instead, the camera lingered on the mask, leaving no doubt.

The media had everything.

“I called them,” Rossi’s voice cut through the moment like a razor, its nonchalant tone infuriatingly casual.

What?

“What?” The word escaped him as a whisper, his disbelief palpable.

“I said,” Rossi repeated, turning toward the team with the air of a professor unveiling a lecture’s climax, “the FBI thinks the masks mean” he paused, a smirk curling his lips as he gestured toward the screen “he’s impotent.”

He didn’t just say that.

“Can I speak to you for a second?” Hotch’s voice was barely audible, clipped and strained, as he turned sharply on his heel and began walking.

He didn’t stop until they reached a small room off the main precinct floor. As soon as the door closed, he rounded on Rossi, his composure cracking at the edges. “Why would you do that?”

Rossi leaned casually against the table, his arms crossed. “It’ll make him contact us. He’s screaming for it.”

Hotch inhaled slowly, keeping his voice even. “We aren’t prepared.”

“Prepared?” Rossi repeated, his tone dripping with condescension.

“We need to set up a trap and trace,” he clarified, his voice tighter now.

Rossi smirked, an insufferable little quirk of his lips that made Hotch’s blood pressure rise incrementally. “Trap and trace?” Rossi scoffed, raising his shoulders as if the suggestion were some rookie mistake. “They never stay on the phone long enough for that.”

Oh, for God’s sake.

Hotch pressed his lips together, exhaling slowly to keep his composure.

If you were there, Rossi would already be halfway through a philosophical evisceration.

He could almost hear it in his head, the way you’d dismantle Rossi’s overconfidence with the precision of the most skilled surgeon. Something about “hubris being the downfall of great men,” probably referencing some obscure Greek tragedy, and then tying it back to his blatant disregard for teamwork.

And if that didn’t work?

Hotch glanced briefly at Rossi’s smug expression.

You would just talk in ancient Greek.

No, better.

You’d just kick him. Right there, where it hurts most, to make sure he matches the unsub’s supposed impotence for the full-circle effect you loved so much.

“Dave, they’re a lot faster than they used to be,” Hotch managed, his voice firm but even.

Keep it together.

Keep it professional.

Not everyone handles things with Socratic debates and well-placed footwear.

“We also need to prep the detective on what to say to him.” He continued, trying his best to not imagine Rossi helplessly trying to crawl out of the room.

But Rossi didn’t even flinch. “He’s not gonna want to talk to the detective. He’s gonna want to talk to the FBI.”

Hotch stared at him, weighing his words carefully.

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward.

He couldn’t kick Rossi - obviously. There were rules, laws… but you would have found a way to argue that kicking Rossi was just, spinning it into one of your infuriatingly flawless philosophical dissections.

Damn you.

Damn you and your insufferable ability to shred his logic to pieces, leaving him grasping at the tatters of his own arguments.

Damn you because no matter how idealistically abstract your reasoning was, he hated how much it made sense - and worse, how it made him agree with you.

Always with that maddening certainty, as if you’d been put on Earth solely to torment him.

You had no business being in his head right now.

None.

And yet, there you were, smugly perched in the back of his mind, as if you’d claimed permanent residence.

Get her out of your head, Hotchner.

You weren’t even here, and still, he couldn’t escape you.

It was infuriating, really, but he refocused. “We don’t step over the local police like that.”

“They called us in,” Rossi countered, his tone dripping with indifference.

“Yes,” Hotch replied, his voice taking on a sharper edge. Why was he picturing you glaring at Rossi like he was the last man at the base of the food pyramid? “But if the perception is that we’re here to embarrass the locals by telling the media we’re going to fix things, then they’ll stop calling us.”

“Relax, Hotch. I’ve got this,” Rossi said, his confidence unshaken.

Hotch resisted the urge to rub his temples. He could already hear your scathing commentary in his head, something about Rossi’s arrogance being so immense it was practically a separate entity. “You see, that’s the problem, Dave. There is no I. We function as a team.”

Rossi straightened slightly, his smirk fading but his tone turning defensive. “I’ve been doing this before you were out of high school. Probably before the rest of your team was in school at all.”

“I know that,” Hotch replied, his voice lowering as he met Rossi’s gaze directly. “Things have changed.”

Rossi’s eyes narrowed. “The bells and whistles changed. An unsub is still an unsub, and I know how to deal with an unsub.”

Jesus.

“No, Dave,” Hotch said softly, leaning forward slightly, “it’s not just that.”

Whatever Hotch intended to say next was cut off as JJ appeared in the doorway, her expression urgent. “Hotch. Garcia just found something.”

---

The three hours of flight back from Texas were probably the longest of Aaron Hotchner’s career - or at least, they felt that way.

The tension between you hung in the air like heavy smoke, thick and suffocating, smothering even the steady hum of the jet’s engines. It lingered, stubborn and unyielding, because neither of you addressed the argument from the car.

As professionals, you both knew better.

Eneid White’s life had been on the line, and neither of you would risk jeopardizing that over something as trivial - or as personal - as a fight.

So, you sat at opposite ends of the jet, heads bowed over paperwork, the silence between you crackling with the kind of precision only years of practiced restraint - and an almost artful expertise in avoidance - could ever achieve.

He stole glances at you every so often, but you never looked up, your pen moving with relentless determination across the pages. Hotch tried to focus on his own work, but the case wouldn’t leave him - not yet, not completely.

For him, it wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

The argument you’d had in the car still lingered in his mind, gnawing at him like an open wound, and he did what he always did best - turned the guilt inward.

It wasn’t just that he’d mishandled Rossi, he’d let the tension between you fester, unchecked. And the thought of what could have happened - what might have been lost if they hadn’t found Eneid White in time - haunted him more than it should have, more than the profession allowed.

Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward. Now, though, it felt more like: second-guess, overthink, ruminate.

He’d replayed at least a dozen other scenarios in his mind, each one ending in tragedy, knowing full well it was sheer luck that led them to the unsub’s house instead of some remote hiding place.

If he couldn’t rewrite what had happened during the case, he could at least try to mend things with you.

He had to.

So, Hotch rose from his seat and made his way to the kitchenette.

The soft clink of mugs and the quiet hiss of the kettle punctuated the stillness of the jet, breaking the silence that came with the others fast asleep - all except for you and Hotch, and probably Rossi, who was either feigning sleep or doing his best to convince himself he was.

The usual night owls.

He opened the small drawer where you kept your tea and pulled out the packet of your beloved poison, the one you insisted you couldn’t function without. He prepared two cups, sneaking a spoonful of sugar into his own to dull the bitterness - a betrayal you’d undoubtedly call him out on, possibly with a well-aimed kick, if you ever found out.

As he approached, the faint sound of his steps or the distinct aroma of your tea drew your attention.

Your eyes flicked up, and without a word, he set the cup in front of you, the steam curling up like a quiet offering. “I know you like to torture yourself when you’re doing paperwork,” he said quietly. “Didn’t want to deprive you of the tradition.”

Your lips twitched, but whether it was amusement or annoyance, he still couldn’t tell.

“And why are you torturing yourself as well?” you asked, gesturing to the second cup in his hand.

“Can I sit?” he asked, tilting his head toward the empty seat across from you.

You returned your attention to your file, your tone dry as you said, “You’re my superior. I think you can sit wherever you want.” The mockery in your voice stung, a bitter echo of his own stupid words from the car.

Hotch hesitated for a moment before lowering himself into the seat across from you. He set his own cup down and clasped his hands around it, the warmth seeping into his palms, hoping that it could ground the part of his mind that was already playing the worst-case scenario.

You, gone. Him, alone. As it should.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours briefly before glancing away.

No, maybe there was still hope.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did,” he admitted finally.

You didn’t look up, your pen still scratching against the paper. “But you did. Because that’s what you really think, isn’t it?” Your tone was clipped, cool, but there was an edge of something else, disappointment, maybe. “You’ve never put yourself above any of us before. So why start now? Was it because someone wasn’t respecting your authority? Because it made you question your ability to lead in the first place?”

You immediately continued, laying bare the reasons he’d imposed that golden rule against profiling each other in the first place. “Do you really think they made you lead profiler back then just because Rossi wasn’t around? That it wasn’t earned but convenient? And when Gideon left, do you think they made you Unit Chief out of necessity, not because you were the best fit? Is that why you said those things to me? Because in your mind, my actions - or Rossi’s - are just proof that the voices in your head are right? That if I argue with you, it’s because I don’t think you should be my boss? God forbid there could be another reason, any reason besides that. Am I wrong?”

The words hit him squarely, their accuracy cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. He swallowed hard, the weight of them settling like lead in his chest. “You’re not,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, tinged with regret.

You set the pen down, leaning back in your chair, arms crossing as you shook your head. “Aaron,” you said, your voice softer now, “I swear, one day I’m going to find a way to get inside your head and shut those voices up for good. You’re good enough. Hell, you’re the best. So?”

He didn’t speak immediately, his lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, you wondered if he would deflect again, but then, he exhaled, a slow, measured breath, and lifted his eyes to meet yours. There was something raw there, something so unguarded. “So,” he said, his voice low, deliberate, “what if I feel like the worst? What if I question every decision, every choice, because I know what happens if I get it wrong?”

You leaned forward slightly, your arms resting on the edge of the table, “Then you’re human, Aaron. You’re human, and that’s exactly what makes you the best. Because you don’t take this lightly. Because you care enough to question yourself, to carry the weight even when it’s too much. But that doesn’t mean you have to carry it alone and let your head eat you alive like that”

He shook his head, a faint, self-deprecating smile flickering across his lips. “But that’s not how it works. It’s my job to make the calls, to take responsibility. If I can’t do that-”

“You can,” you interrupted firmly, your tone cutting through his doubts like a blade. “And you do. Every single day. But you don’t have to shut your team out to do it. We’re here for a reason, Aaron. We’re here because we trust you. Because we believe in you. Not because you’re perfect, but because you’re the kind of leader who doesn’t need to be.”

He looked at you, his expression unreadable for a long moment, and then he leaned back slightly, his hands still cradling the mug. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” you said, your tone softening but no less resolute. “But you don’t have to make it harder than it already is. And for the record?” You leaned back in your chair, your eyes locking with his. “I don’t argue with you because I doubt you. I argue because I trust you enough to know you can handle it. That’s what this is about. Not authority, not rank. Trust.”

His lips quirked into a faint smile, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “Trust is dangerous in this line of work.”

"Maybe," you said with a small shrug, your own smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "But it’s what we’ve got. And you’ve earned every bit of it, Aaron. Even when you drive me so insane to make me seriously consider leaving you on the side of the road to enjoy a scenic three-hour stroll back to the precinct."

Hotch shook his head slightly, damned you and your way you used your words with him. “It’s a shame you’re not as meticulous with your paperwork as you are with handling feelings.”

You straightened in your seat, narrowing your eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Your paperwork was impeccable - tedious, sure, but flawless.

Hotch’s lips twitched, and he leaned forward slightly, his finger tapping against the report on your desk. “You missed a semicolon.”

“That’s impossible,” you replied flatly, immediately flipping through the pages to find the supposed error. “I don’t miss semicolons.”

“Right there,” he said, pointing to a line near the bottom of one of the pages, his hand almost brushing against your frame. Damn you and the fact that you had to make mistakes in the most inconvenient places.

You leaned closer, scrutinizing the line he’d indicated, and he swore he could feel your breath on the skin of his hand. “That’s because I got distracted,” you declared, leaning back in your seat, far from him.

Thank God.

“Distracted by what?” Hotch asked, one brow raising slightly.

“By you committing a cardinal sin in the kitchenette,” you said, crossing your arms. “I caught you. Adding sugar to your tea. That’s blasphemy.”

Really?

Hotch blinked at you, clearly not expecting you to have spider sense for your tea, or maybe for him. “I needed something to make it drinkable,” he countered, raising his mug to take another sip. His nose scrunched almost immediately, and he set the mug down with a quiet thud. “God, it’s still terrible. How is that even possible?”

You leaned forward – no, not again, go back, go back “Next time, try it with milk,” you added, your tone lighter now, a teasing smile playing on your lips.

“Milk?” Hotch repeated, his expression turning skeptical. “That’s your solution?”

You shrugged, your smirk widening. “It works for the British… I doubt I will still talk to you if I ever catch you doing that”

Hotch shook his head again. Damn you and your philosophical dilemmas. “Then I’ll consider it,” he said finally, a trace of humor threading through his voice. “But only if you fix that semicolon.”

You smirked, setting your pen down on the table and sliding it toward him. “Go ahead, fix it yourself. You’ve been staring at it so long, I can tell it’s driving you crazy.”

Little did you know…

He picked up the pen with deliberate slowness, as if testing whether it might bite, then flipped the paper over and scanned the line in question. With a precise flick of his wrist, he added the missing semicolon, his lips curling into a quiet, triumphant smirk. “There.”

“Great,” you said, reaching out to take the paper back. But he smoothly pulled it just out of reach, his smirk deepening.

“Hold on,” he said, the faint amusement in his tone far too evident for your liking. His eyes skimmed further down the page. “Let’s see what other treasures we can uncover here.”

“Hotch, give it back,” you warned, narrowing your eyes.

But he ignored you, his brow furrowing slightly as he focused on something you’d written. Without hesitation, he drew a deliberate line through a sentence. “This,” he said, tapping the now-crossed-out words with the pen – your pen, “is too much. What are you trying to do here? Write a dissertation on behavioral patterns?”

He didn’t.

You must be hallucinating.

Your jaw dropped. “I don’t see how it’s wrong.”

He flipped the pen between his fingers, the motion maddeningly casual. “It’s not wrong,” he conceded, leaning back slightly, “but it’s definitely a little… philosophical for a field report.” He leaned closer despite himself, reading aloud “‘The unsub’s detachment reflects a broader existential isolation, a symptom of moral erosion rooted in-’”

You lunged across the table, your hand grabbing for the paper. “Aaron!”

He leaned back in his chair, holding it just out of your reach with the ease of someone far too used to fending off such attempts after two whole years of desk sharing. “No,” he said, his tone light and teasing, his eyes gleaming. “I’m not missing the chance to correct the Professor. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“They’re not mistakes!” you argued, your voice edged with exasperation. “They’re creative liberties!”

Damn you and how you always wanted to be right.

Hotch tapped the pen against the crossed-out section again, shaking his head slightly as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was about to read aloud. “Creative liberties? That’s not a liberty. That’s a thesis.” He arched a brow and glanced at you with a faint smirk. “How exactly does quoting Plato help us close cases faster?”

“It’s not Plato,” you shot back, but he was already reading.

He smirked as he scanned the next paragraph aloud. “‘The unsub’s selection of a blank mask serves as an emblem of erasure, a deliberate rejection of individuality in pursuit of an abstract anonymity. Yet, his compulsion to inscribe the surface with his own handwriting disrupts this facade, transforming the mask into a paradox: a vessel meant to obscure, now imbued with personal significance. This duality reveals a psyche at war with itself, striving to efface identity while simultaneously asserting it - a fractured self grappling with the irrepressible human need to leave an indelible mark.’”

Brilliant.

He set the paper down and looked at you, one brow still quirked. “Deep. Poetic, even. Were you planning to submit this to a psychology journal, or were you hoping the prosecutor would use it as an opening statement?”

You leaned back in your seat, completely unfazed by his sarcasm. “Fine,” you said, lifting your chin slightly. “The unsub uses a blank mask to suggest anonymity but undermines that intent by writing on it in his own handwriting. His actions reflect a contradiction between his desire for detachment and his need for recognition.”

Not your style, definitely.

Hotch tilted his head, considering this. “That’s perfect.”

“That’s boring,” you shot back. “It sounds like something a lawyer would say.”

His lips quirked into a smile, his voice low. “You mean someone like me?”

“Exactly - boring.” you said, jabbing your finger in his direction.

His lips twitched into a small smile, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, again, resting his forearms on the table. “And yet, boring or not, it conveys the same point without sounding like it belongs in a lecture hall.”

“Maybe,” you admitted grudgingly, crossing your arms. “But where’s the humanity in that? The nuance?”

Hotch’s smile widened just a fraction, his eyes flicking back to the report in his hand. “You think the prosecutor or the detective cares about nuance?”

If he still were one, he would.

“Maybe not,” you admitted, leaning forward now too, your elbows braced on the table. “But nuance is what gets us inside their heads. It’s how we understand them. It’s why we’re even called in the first place.”

His gaze softened slightly and so did his voice “You’re not wrong,” he said quietly, his tone almost reluctant, like it pained him to admit it.

“You know?! You should say that more often” you quipped, unable to resist a smirk.

His reply came almost instinctively, before he could think better of it. “What? That you’re right? Or that I notice when you are?”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard, but thankfully quickly recovered. "Oh, shut up," you muttered, leaning back in your chair, trying to mask the faint flush he caught in your cheeks.

He pretended he didn’t see it. “’Shut up’?! Maybe I wasn’t wrong when I said you have a problem with authority,” he said instead.

You raised an eyebrow, keeping your gaze steady on him. “I don’t have a problem with authority,” you replied, your voice smooth, almost playful. “I have a problem with you, Hotch.”

He chuckled softly, that deep, warm sound that always seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest. “Oh really? What exactly do you have a problem with?”

You leaned forward slightly, your elbows on the table again, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. “I don’t understand some things about you still.” You let the words hang in the air, giving him a knowing look.

His expression shifted, something darker flashing behind his eyes for a moment before the usual, controlled Hotch returned. “Oh? And what exactly don’t you understand?”

“I went to your office the other day… tell me, why exactly does Hegel for Dummies have a broken spine?” you asked, your tone a little too casual, as if you hadn’t just delivered a question that made his stomach drop faster than a lead balloon.

Hotch fought the urge to wince.

Maybe he shouldn’t have left it out on his desk in plain sight.

Maybe the bright, cartoonish cover with its garish yellow accents wasn’t the best choice for a desk otherwise populated with leather-bound case files and stark black notebooks.

And maybe he should’ve remembered that you noticed everything.

He considered himself a smart man, but clearly, he’d overlooked the obvious.

And so his gaze softened, his lips curving into a small smile that just showed his dimples. “Maybe because it reminds me of my best friend - the one I never thought I’d get the chance to see again if you’d asked me a year ago, Europe” he said, his voice low, almost wistful.

You had asked for it. Relentless in your pursuit of the truth, always demanding it without compromise. So, he handed it to you - direct, unvarnished, right in your face.

For a moment, you just stared at him, the warmth of his confession settling between you like an unspoken truth - but one that was far from unwritten after six long years of correspondence. “You can’t just say something like that,” you said finally, your voice quieter, almost teasing to mask how deeply it had landed. “It’s not fair. I can’t argue with sentimental declarations. That’s cheating.”

Hotch leaned forward slightly, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, his voice dropping into that low, teasing register you now rarely heard on the job. “Maybe that’s the point,” he murmured. “Throw you off balance. You’re always so quick with your comebacks, it’s nice seeing you pause for once.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, the playful spark in your tone returning as you shook your head. “That’s evil. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Hotch, the Unit Chief, chuckeld – music to your ears “Oh, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve,” he replied, leaning back again, his smirk insufferable.

“I take it back,” you said, crossing your arms and narrowing your eyes. “I officially hate you.”

You officially loved seeing glimpses of the Hotch you used to share a desk with back in ’98.

Hotch tilted his head slightly. “Now, that’s just ungrateful,” he said, his tone laced with humor. “You’re going to have to make up your mind about me eventually.”

Oh how much you hated him.

Before you could fire back, he stood, moving with deliberate precision. Leaning over the table, he gestured to a spot on the paper you were working on, his hand brushing a little too close to yours - close enough that it almost felt intentional, though he knew better than to let it linger.

His fingers wrapped around the pen you'd set down, as if it were his own. "You even missed the horizontal stroke of the ‘t’ right here," he pointed out, his voice calm, almost teasing, as he tapped the offending error.

But he didn’t wait for your reaction. Without missing a beat, he straightened and turned, heading back to his seat on the opposite side of the plane, still holding the pen, silent victory.

You didn’t notice at first, too blinded by the lingering irritation, which only made it more amusing for him. “You’re never hearing another word from me,” you declared finally, your tone firm, though the frustration beneath it felt almost hollow. “Not ever again.”

From his seat, he didn’t even glance up from the paper he was now just pretending to read. “Good luck keeping that promise,” he replied, his voice laced with quiet amusement.

It took you all of five seconds to realize the pen in his hand was yours. Your gaze snapped to him, narrowing. “Hotch,” you called, your voice sharp. “Give it back.”

Hotch didn’t even try to hide the smirk that tugged at his lips as he looked up, holding your pen like it was some kind of victory flag. “Told you so,” he said, his voice light with triumph.

Fuck him.

--- As soon as they returned from Texas, Rossi wasted no time.

He strode directly into Hotch’s office, and Hotch, who had just settled at his desk, glanced up from the files he was reviewing, his brow knitting slightly in surprise.

“You said out there,” Rossi began, his voice calm but carrying an edge, “the team shares everything.”

“That’s right,” Hotch replied, standing from his chair, his posture stiffening slightly as if his body knew before him what was coming.

“There is no I?” Rossi pressed, his gaze unwavering.

Hotch nodded, his confusion mounting. “That’s right.” Where was Rossi going with this?

“It seems a big thing to withhold,” Rossi continued, his tone measured but cutting. “Separating from your wife, your child.”

Excuse him?

“What are you talking about?” Hotch asked, though he already suspected where this was heading. He needed to hear Rossi say it, to confirm - or hope against hope that he was wrong.

“We’ve been together 48 hours,” Rossi said, his voice low but unrelenting. “I haven’t seen you call Haley. Not even once. You haven’t mentioned her. And you’re not going home now.”

Great.

Rossi paused, his gaze drifting through the blinds toward the bullpen. You were there, leaning over a file on Reid’s desk, likely double-checking that every ‘t’ had its proper horizontal stroke. His expression softened, just a touch, before he turned back to Hotch. “And yet, you’re so protective of her. Always watching, making sure she’s okay. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you still look at her.”

‘Still’?

Now that was a stretch, wasn’t it?!

Before Rossi could say more, Hotch cut him off, his voice sharp, defensive. “What’s your point?”

Rossi didn’t flinch. “I guess you’re just not used to sharing.”

He was currently sharing his house with his best friend, but if he mentioned that to Rossi, it would undoubtedly be twisted into some wildly inaccurate interpretation.

Hotch’s jaw tightened further, his words clipped as he countered, “My private life is not the same as a case.”

Rossi tilted his head slightly, considering that for a moment. Then, with a faint shrug, he said, “I’m just saying, sharing is a learned skill.”

Rossi continued, his tone shifting to something more reminiscent. “You know... when this all started... there were only a few of us. We’d go out on the road alone. We didn’t... groupthink.”

“We don’t groupthink,” Hotch shot back, his voice firm, his eyes narrowing. “We think as individuals, and we share the thoughts with the rest of the team. We don’t write them down in a little notebook and keep them to ourselves.”

As Hotch watched Rossi leave, he caught himself staring down at his hands, his thumb absently brushing over the smooth band of his wedding ring.

It was still there.

The gesture was instinctual, one he’d repeated countless times before, especially when his mind was a storm of noise and chaos.

The weight of the ring was subtle, almost imperceptible, yet its presence remained undeniable. It tethered him - anchored him - to something he couldn’t fully release, even as its meaning progressively seemed to slip further from his grasp.

Logic, he recalled from your notes on stoicism - notes he’d skimmed out of curiosity or irony - was the art of aligning language with reality.

The Stoics believed that a proposition was true when it accurately reflected the environment it described.

Hotch is married.

The statement, so simple, so definitive, had once been unshakably true.

It was true because there was a subject, Hotch - Aaron Hotchner - sitting here, and because there was an object - the ring on his finger that affirmed the predicate.

The ring was proof.

Proof of something that existed. Proof of commitment, of a promise spoken and sealed.

And yet, how fragile was truth, he thought, when absence could strip it away so completely?

If he took the ring off - stopped wearing it - what would that mean?

Would it signify the end of the truth the ring had once affirmed?

Would it make Haley’s leaving more tangible, more real?

Would it mean that everything he’d built, everything he’d fought to hold together, was irretrievably lost?

Or was it already lost, and the ring nothing more than a hollow echo of something that had ceased to be true long before this moment?

That was the paradox of logic, wasn’t it? The truth wasn’t in the ring itself - it lived in what the ring represented.

Yet, despite that, he couldn’t bring himself to part with it.

Not yet.

Removing it would feel like yanking the last fragile thread from a tapestry already worn and frayed. It would unravel completely, leaving him with nothing but the empty space where something beautiful had once existed.

And he wasn’t ready to face that emptiness.

Not yet.

Damn the Stoics and their brain-twisting philosophy.

---

You’d gone somewhere.

You hadn’t told him where.

And so Aaron stood alone in his own kitchen, not entirely alone actually.

Your notes sat at the edge of the table, perfectly stacked, perfectly aligned, like they were waiting for you.

Or maybe for him.

He exhaled sharply, his eyes fixed on the table, as if staring hard enough might unravel the threads in his chest. The ones tightening, pulling, knotting tighter because you were gone and hadn’t said where.

It shouldn’t matter.

It wasn’t the first time you’d left like this, slipping out with a vague goodbye and a light smile that said everything was fine.

But tonight, it felt different.

He couldn’t explain it, just that the air in the house felt heavier without you in it. He could still hear the echo of your voice, could still see the way you lingered at the door, like maybe you had something to say but decided against it.

His gaze drifted back to the notes where your pen rested next to the stack, its placement deliberate, like you’d made sure to leave everything just right before you walked out. Just at the edge, hidden in the eyesight behind a chair.

Always the edge. Always tucked away. Like you didn’t think you had the right to be here.

You did. God, you did.

The neatness of it, the deliberate precision, drove him mad.

It was more than just tidy habits; it was the way you shrank yourself, folding your existence into corners and crevices, tiptoeing through his life as though you were afraid to leave footprints. The way you hesitated before touching anything that belonged to him.

He hated it.

Hated the carefulness.

Hated what it said about how you saw yourself here.

Also because it reminded him of the reality of the situation: temporary.

How you called yourself his guest with that wry, self-deprecating humor of yours.

He hated the word.

A guest didn’t leave their pen perfectly parallel to the edge of the table. A guest didn’t linger just long enough to warm the silence before slipping away again, leaving only the faintest trace behind.

You weren’t a guest to him.

You were the only reason the silence didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

Aaron straightened, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the table as if sheer willpower could force the stack to move - to the center, to the middle of the room, to anywhere that didn’t feel like you were afraid to exist.

He didn’t just want you here. He needed you to be here.

Not carefully. Not quietly. Not tucked away like an afterthought.

He wanted - no, needed - you to bother his space.

To make it yours.

He wanted those papers scattered across his home office desk - the desk you refused to use, no matter how many times he told you it was yours whenever you needed it.

He wanted to walk in and find you sitting there, your head bent in concentration, the faint scratch of your pen filling the silence, and the scent of your bitter tea lingering in the air.

He wanted your books stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, their titles in languages he’d long forgotten or never understood, with bookmarks peeking out at odd angles because you could never settle on reading just one.

He wanted your handwriting scrawled on sticky notes taped to the fridge - lists of groceries he didn’t even recognize but that you swore were essential, or little reminders you left for yourself but that he’d read anyway, smiling at the way you seemed to write as fast as you thought, each letter tumbling after the next in a barely legible rush.

He wanted to come home and see the faint glow of your laptop in the kitchen or hear your voice muttering to yourself as you debated some philosophical nuance, oblivious to the fact that he was listening from the doorway.

He wanted to trip over the shoes you’d kicked off in a rush, abandoned in the middle of the hallway because some new idea had swept you up, demanding all your attention.

He wanted the sound of your laughter spilling out when you teased him about his coffee or his barely disguised grimace after sipping your bitter tea, the way you filled the silence without even trying.

He wanted the chaos of you, your quirks and your muttered criticisms about his tea collection and your refusal to use the home office because “it’s your space, Aaron.”

He wanted your presence to become so intertwined with his space that he wouldn’t know where his life stopped and yours began.

To see signs of you everywhere - on his counters, in his cabinets, in the spaces that used to feel too big and too empty. He wanted the proof that you were here, that you were staying, even if it was only for a while.

Because every time he saw the deliberate neatness of your papers, the way you kept your presence confined to the smallest corner of his house, it made him feel lonelier than the silence ever did.

Because the empty spaces of his house never felt as desolate as when you tried to erase yourself from them.

He hated the invisible barrier you seemed to think was necessary.

And what terrified him most was how much he wanted to tear that barrier down.

Yet, those papers…

He told himself not to look. They were your notes, your thoughts, something private, but his eyes betrayed him, flicking down to the top page.

Just a glimpse, he thought.

Philosophy. Always philosophy.

Probably for Spencer.

And, lately, always Spencer.

Aaron leaned forward, just enough to catch the familiar loops of your handwriting and ink smudges on the page in front of him, how they softened the rigidity of Stoic logic written stark against the white page, humanized it in a way Aaron doubted the Stoics themselves ever intended.

Those ancient, precise theories weren’t just alive on the page, they were you.

He knew those smudges. God, he knew them so well.

And once, those smudgs had been for him.

Years ago, back when you were in Europe and he was in D.C., thousands of miles apart but bound together by ink and paper. You’d written to him, pages and pages of letters, postcards, even the occasional napkin with your hurried musings scrawled across the edges.

Every piece carried the unmistakable cadence of your thoughts, the subtle fingerprints of your soul left behind in ink.

He hadn’t just read them. He’d kept them.

All of them.

Six years of letters, still tucked neatly into a box on the right side of his desk. Hidden but never forgotten, each of them categorized.

He still could recite some of them by heart now, not just because of the words, but because of what they represented.

A connection.

A window into your mind.

Proof that, even when you were an ocean away, you’d thought of him.

You’d given him something no one else had, you’d taken hours of your time - time you could have spent on anything else - to explain your world to him. You’d translated the vastness of your intellect into something he could grasp, meeting him halfway, bridging the gap between philosophy and law.

And for six years, those letters had been his.

Just his.

He was the only one who knew what your thoughts looked like in ink, the only one who understood the tempo of your mind when it spilled onto paper.

But now?

Now, those hurried marks, those smudges, weren’t his alone anymore, they were for Spencer.

Aaron’s eyes lingered on the page, his chest tightening with something he refused to name - it wasn’t jealousy.

It couldn’t be jealousy.

That would be absurd.

But the thought crept in anyway, unbidden and unwelcome.

Spencer could keep up with you - he could dive into your world, explore its depths without needing a guide. He could talk with you for hours about philosophy, go deep into the nuances and theories that Aaron could only skim the surface of.

Aaron couldn’t.

He was just a lawyer.

He hated the way it sounded, the way it reduced everything he’d accomplished into something so small.

But compared to Spencer?

Well, Spencer was a genius, after all.

Philosophy wasn’t something Spencer needed simplified.

Spencer didn’t need “Hegel for Dummies.”

It wasn’t that he doubted your friendship, he never had. You’d do anything for each other - that was the kind of unshakable truth most people spend lifetimes hoping to find.

No, it wasn’t doubt, it was something worse.

It was the quiet, biting knowledge that he wasn’t enough.

Because philosophy had always been your thing. Law had always been his. That was the unspoken balance of your relationship - two different worlds, one shared soul, one whole.

It was what made you and Aaron work, in a way that defied logic.

But now, to him that balance felt fragile, precarious, like a scale tipping under a weight he couldn’t identify.

Because now, it felt like Spencer could meet you where Aaron never could.

But did Spencer notice the peculiarities of your handwriting the way Aaron did? The quiet, intimate details that felt like secrets only he was meant to uncover?

He’d teased you once, calling it your “professor handwriting.”

Precise and polished, every letter upright and deliberate. It was the version you used on the whiteboard during case briefings or when writing notes for others to read. People often admired it, praising how clean and professional it looked, almost like it belonged in a textbook.

But Aaron knew better.

That wasn’t really you.

Your real handwriting - the one meant only for yourself, and somehow, for him - was a different thing entirely.

It was messy, rushed, and alive with motion, like it couldn’t quite keep up with your thoughts.

The letters leaned forward, words blending together, the strokes of your t’s and the dots on your i’s often forgotten in your hurry to capture the idea before it slipped away.

He could always tell when something mattered to you because the ink pressed heavier in those spots, as though you were willing the words to stay.

Did Spencer notice how sometimes, in that messy script of yours, a line would trail off mid-thought, only to be picked up again later when you circled back to it?

Did he know how your letters bent slightly to the left when you were feeling uncertain or overwhelmed?

Because Aaron did. He’d been noticing it for years.

And that was the difference, wasn’t it? S

pencer could read the page, could absorb every word - but he knew how it felt.

He told himself it wasn’t rational to feel this way, and Aaron Hotchner was nothing if not rational. He was the one people called stoic, composed, unshakable, detached. He’d been called that more times than he could count, by colleagues, by superiors, even by his team. It was a label that had followed him for years.

Everyone called him stoic.

Everyone but you.

Maybe you hadn’t had the chance, maybe one day you would. Maybe Spencer already had. Or maybe you saw through it better than anyone else.

He sank into the chair, the soft creak of wood breaking the stillness of the kitchen. A breath escaped him - slow, unsteady - one he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

And in the quiet that followed, a single thought surfaced, persistent and undeniable, no matter how much he wished it away: he missed being the one you wrote for.

And the moment you stepped through the door, Aaron knew.

Your movements were hesitant, each step slow and uncertain, as though the weight of the world was pressing against your back.

He saw the faint streaks of dried tears on your cheeks, the way your gaze didn’t lift from the floor, your hands curling slightly at your sides.

But what struck him most - what confirmed what he already feared - was the chain around your neck.

That silver chain had always carried the weight of your engagement ring, resting just over your heart like a quiet reminder of something he’d never been able to name aloud.

Now, it hung bare, empty, as though it too had been unshackled. The sight of it was jarring, a moment of revelation that felt both devastating and freeing.

Aaron froze, his breath catching for the second time in the last couple of seconds in his chest.

For a moment, he didn’t know what to do, didn’t trust himself to speak.

He’d spent years taming his emotions, hiding them behind layers of composure, but right now, the dam threatened to break.

His body moved before he could catch up.

In three strides, he was in front of you, his hands settling on your shoulders with a gentleness that felt like gravity itself, steady and inescapable.

It was as if his touch called your name, a language only the two of you understood, because only then did you lift your eyes to meet his.

In that single glance, he saw everything – the raw ache etched into the curve of your expression, the exhaustion. Yet beneath it all, threaded through the cracks of your weariness, there was something else, something only he would have noticed.

Relief.

And without a second thought, he pulled you right into his arms. The silence stretched between you, heavy with everything he wanted to take from you, all the burdens you’d been carrying alone.

His arms wrapped around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing firmly against your back, as if sheer closeness could undo the damage that had been done.

He felt the tension in your body give way all at once, and then you broke.

You cried.

It wasn’t quiet, and it wasn’t neat.

It was the kind of crying that shook you, the kind you’d been holding back for so long it felt like it might never end. The sound of it cut through him, sharp and unrelenting, and he closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to stay steady for you.

He couldn’t, not really, not when you were like that.

It was almost like a symbiotic reaction.

He began to rub slow, soothing circles into your back, his voice low and steady as he murmured softly against your hair. “I’m here, let it out. Just let it all out.”

He made sure to keep his sentences short to not give up the emotion in his voice “I’m holding you. I��ve got you.

“You’re okay now. You’re alright. I’m not going anywhere.” His words weren’t just meant for you - they were meant for himself, a quiet mantra to keep his composure while his heart ached in ways he hadn’t felt in years.

The thought of how much Peter had hurt you, how deeply he had left his mark on someone so strong, so capable, made Aaron’s chest tighten.

His jaw clenched as tears began to well in his own eyes.

He didn’t wipe them away, didn’t dare loosen his hold on you for even a second.

You were free from him now - that much he held onto - but the knowledge that you’d had to endure so much pain to get here didn’t sit right with him.

It never would.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmured again, his voice thick with emotion. He pressed his cheek lightly against the top of your head, his own tears slipping free now. “So proud of you.”

Your cries grew quieter, softening into shaky breaths as your fingers gripped tightly at the back of his shirt, as though anchoring yourself to him. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words fractured with lingering sobs. “Aaron, I’m so sorry. You were right - you were always right, and I-”

“Shhh,” he interrupted, his voice gentle but firm, as though willing you to believe him. His hand kept its steady rhythm against your back, grounding you. “It doesn’t matter now. None of it matters. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.”

You let out a breathy laugh against his shoulder, small but real, breaking through the weight of your tears. “Are we really going to argue about who’s more sorry?”

Aaron chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “No argument. I’d win. And where’s the fun in that?”

Your laugh grew a little stronger, and he could feel the faintest tension in your body start to ease. He didn’t let go, not yet.

If it were up to him, he never would.

Holding you like this felt too right, like he was finally where he needed to be after years of staying too far away.

Only when you finally shifted did Aaron loosen his hold, just barely, giving you enough space to pull back. But his hands stayed on your arms, firm and steady, as though letting go entirely wasn’t something he could bring himself to do - not now, not ever.

Your eyes, still glassy with tears, lifted to his, as if bracing for what you might find.

And that was when he felt it - the faintest, almost involuntary tug at the corners of his lips, a fragile smile breaking through the swell of emotion that threatened to consume him.

A tear slid down his cheek, unbidden and unashamed.

Still, he didn’t brush it away.

He didn’t even think to.

All that mattered in that moment was you.

So he just stood there, rooted to the ground, holding on to you as though you were the only thing tethering him to the world.

Because you were.

“Aaron,” you said softly, your voice trembling, fragile in a way that made something deep inside him twist. The way you looked at him shifted in that moment, your gaze catching on the glistening streaks tracing his face.

His lips curved into the smallest, gentlest smile. “And for the record,” he said, his voice wavering slightly but still warm, “I cry more than you do.” He brushed at his cheek half-heartedly, even as another tear slipped free. “That’s 2–0.”

Your laugh came then, soft, messy, interrupted by the uneven hiccups left over from crying too hard.

But it was real, and it was enough to loosen the tightness in his chest.

Just hearing you laugh again felt like a reprieve.

“You’re impossible,” you said, shaking your head lightly. But then your tone faltered, quieter now, “Don’t you ever dare walk away from me, Aaron. Don’t leave me too.”

“Never,” he said firmly, his voice resolute and strong, he’d never been so sure about anything in his life. He paused, his eyes softening as he searched for your face. Then, almost as if the words carried a life of their own, he added, “We’ve stayed apart long enough.”

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t need to.

Aaron poured a glass of water, setting it in front of you. “Drink,” he said softly.

You accepted it without hesitation, murmuring a soft “thank you” under your breath. He poured a glass for himself as well – rehydration was essential after all the unspoken emotions spilled into just one single room - and positioned himself across from you, the two of you sharing the silence.

But this silence felt different.

It wasn’t empty, it was filled with the quiet comfort of not having to explain yourself.

When you set your glass down, he almost hated he had to break it like that, with a voice as steady as he could. “You’ve got one hour”

You blinked, confused. “For what?”

“To get ready,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m taking you out.”

“Aaron, I don’t think-” you started saying.

“It’s either this,” he interrupted, raising an eyebrow, “or you sit here and tell me everything that happened. Your choice.”

He knew you’d retreat into your own mind, letting your thoughts consume you piece by piece if he let you walk away now. And he knew that all too well.

You studied him for a moment, then sighed in defeat. “Fine. But only if I’m paying.”

“Deal,” he said, a playful glint in his eye. “But I’m choosing the drinks.”

“Make it something strong,” you shot back, a hint of warmth returning to your voice. “I might need it.”

He chuckled, leaning against the counter as he watched you. He had to correct you, he couldn’t help himself. “We might need it.”

And then he wondered why his heart beat faster than yours when he was holding you.

He couldn’t find an answer.

---

BYE BYE P***R AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 15 CHAPTERS OF DESPAIR

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