#Save for Later Module

[iamfuckingsorry]

"Do you know where we are going next?" I asked ART.

Y'know what, I think maybe I don't need any more Murderbot books. I think maybe ending things here is fucking perfect and as much as I love Wells's writing I'm genuinely not sure it can get better for me.

Like, so much of the books are about MB learning how to be a person, about becoming okay with being a complete individual with everything it entails. The first thing it does once it's actually allowed to decide on its own is it runs away from it all (admittedly to go on a mission to confirm some things about its past, because it genuinely just wants to be *good*). It shoves all its emotions away as much as it's able to. Then shit happens, and it makes its first friends, makes decisions based on these friendships, goes through a lot of emotionally intense situations...

And we get to this point here. MB having zero doubts about going with ART says a lot about its relationship with ART, but it also says a lot about its relationship with its humans - it knows that wherever it goes, when it comes back, the humans will still be there. Its humans actively acknowledge its struggles with being a now-free SecUnit and MB is willing to entertain the discussions to an extent and share information about its deeply personal experiences. Hell, System Collapse ends with MB admitting it might be somewhat broken, but that's okay as long as it can keep doing its job, and agreeing to basically do counselling - this is the guy what would rewatch its favourite TV show again and again in order to avoid acknowledging it even had Emotions a couple books back.

Reading this, I know that MB will be okay. It has hopes and goals and genuinely believes in itself and it has an amazing support system that its willing to lean on for the first time in its life. I'm convinced it'll go on to do great things with ART. And that's really the only thing I need to know.

[wortsandall]

the ease in which transformers can just upgrade their frame and appearance and the level of just how much Gender does not matter makes me jealous in a way that i cannot describe properly. like longing for a place that has never existed and will never exist, parallel to nostalgia for a different time

[gafurtle]

Thinking about how, in All Systems Red, when Murderbot is going through the DeltFall habitat and realizes that rogue secunits killed all the humans, it thinks to itself something like: "It would be smarter to leave right now and save my humans but I don't want to leave. I want to kill them."

And on a first read, it seems like Murderbot is mad because all of those helpless humans got killed, and it wants to, like, take vengeance on those rogue secunits. That maybe it's also angry and offended that the secunits are doing something so horrible like killing the humans they're supposed to protect.

And then later you find out that Murderbot went rogue once and killed a bunch of helpless humans against its will. And when Murderbot is investigating the crime scene where it happened, it realizes that at least some of the bots were trying to protect the humans back then, and for a second it thinks that maybe not all of the secunits went rogue (turns out it was the sexbots, but that's another post). And then you look back on the DeltFall scene and realize that maybe Murderbot was trying to redo what happened at Ganaka Pit, making it so that it was the bot that didn't go rogue and hunted down all of the others and saved / avenged the humans.

And then even later there's the exchange between ART and Murderbot where ART asks if it would have been kinder to kill Murderbot back before it hacked its governor module and Murderbot says yes (and ART says "You know I'm not kind" but that's again another post). And then you look back again on the DeltFall scene and realize that when Murderbot thought about wanting to kill those rogue secunits, it was actually thinking about how it wanted to kill itself back when it went rogue.

And then you just sit in silence for a while. If you're me.

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Fear

Red Hood doesn't realize the harsh reality that comes with his actions as a vigilante ~350 words

Red Hood inspires fear. It's something he thrives on. Fear of him keeps that mugger from pulling the trigger. Fear of him keeps that drug pusher from selling to a kid. Fear. Fear. It's the immediate reaction people have when seeing him.

He needs to scare people, needs to make them think twice about hurting others. But he unintentionally scares the people he's meant to help.

A little girl shrinks back from his hand when he's saving her from a fire. An elderly couple tries to give him their wallet after he knocks out the gunman threatening to shoot them.

Red Hood terrifies people. It's something Jason's learned to live with, to anticipate, to accept.

Knowing this doesn't make it any easier when he sees the fear in your eyes. He didn't expect you to run into his arms or even thank him when he beats the creep following you to a pulp. But he also didn't expect you to flinch when he went to check if you were okay.

The modulator in his helmet covers the way his breath hitches, when anxiety and unease spread across your face alongside the terror.

It's not supposed to be like this. He's not supposed to scare you. He's only trying to keep you safe, but there are tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, and the sight makes him stumble back.

Red Hood inspires fear. He just didn't realize how much until now. He shoots his grappling hook without another word. He follows you home from the roofs.

Later, you'll cry into Jason Todd's arms. He'll hold you tightly, whisper comforting words against your skin until you no longer shake. He'll stay with you until you aren't scared anymore.

You'll tell him all about Red Hood. His imposing figure, his helmet the color of the blood, the scent of death that seems to follow him with every step.

And when he goes out again, night after night, when he's brutal and efficient and soaked in blood, it'll be the memory of your fear that makes him soften for civilians. Your fear, that keeps him from shooting a lethal shot.

[nectar-cellar]

Downtown Roles Mod Tutorial - TS3 - Mature Gameplay Ideas

NSFW 18+ mature content / a long read   

TLDR: this is a compilation/recommendation list of mods, a tutorial on how to set up NPCs, and how to tie it all together to add some mature gameplay to your save. 😈

Misukisu/Virtual Artisan had a “Downtown Roles” mod that sadly does not work anymore for the latest versions of TS3. Her mod basically allowed players to add role sims to community lots so your sims could have more NPCs to interact with, making the lots feel more alive in a mature "downtown" sort of way.

I was inspired by her mod and I want to share how you can recreate and expand her mod’s functions with Nraas Register and Arsil’s Custom Generic Role mod. Some players might already know how these mods work, but it was a new discovery for me. I didn’t know how useful role sims could be! It got the gears in my dirty mind turning.

The main purpose of this mod list/tutorial: to add role sims to community lots for your main sims to interact with, while they’re out on the town. These will be sims outside of your household. Their main “job” is to hang out at the lot. You can let the game generate new sims to fill these roles, or assign existing sims in the town to fill the roles.

Examples of role sims you can create: 

A regular patron at a dive bar for your sim to befriend or make enemies with.

A sexy single sim at a beach, gym, pool, bar or club for your sim to mingle and hook up with. 

An escort at a brothel for your sim to woohoo with (Passion mod). 

A client for your sim to sell drugs/weapons to (MonocoDoll Vile Ventures mod and Arms Dealing mod) - I have not tested this but in theory it should work. 

You can add multiple role sims on each lot. You could have a number of partygoers on a club lot/a number of escorts on a brothel lot/a number of mobsters or criminals on a warehouse lot who will always be there when your sim visits.

Why role sims?

Townies are unpredictable - you never know which lot they’ll show up on, and how long they’ll stay. Role sims will consistently be there as the supporting characters in your main sim’s story. 

Having consistent NPCs at certain locations around town can help with story-driven gameplay scenarios.

You can move a household of your own sims into town and assign them to fill various roles. See pretty NPCs around town!

If you let the game generate new sims for the roles, then it saves you the hassle of setting up new households yourself. You can always edit them later in CAS.

Limitations: 

According to Arsil, it seems like sims who are already employed (such as most townies) will be removed from their jobs if they are assigned to be role sims. So I would avoid using any employed townies for this unless you are ok with that. Use unemployed residents instead.

I believe the role sim cannot leave the lot during the designated work hours. Your sim cannot form a group with them and go to another venue. However, you can invite the sim over or hang out afterwards from the relationship panel.

Mods Needed:

Nraas Master Controller + Integration Module

Nraas Register

Arsil‘s Custom Generic Role mod (both the floor marker and the desk)

Passion (if you want your sim to be able to have sex with the role sims on the lot or have the role sims dance on the stripper pole) 

MonocoDoll’s Vile Ventures mod (if you want to create NPC clients for your sim to sell to) 

MonocoDoll’s Arms Dealing mod (if you want to create NPC clients for your sim to sell to) 

How to Set Up: 

Step 1: Install the mods listed above. Then, open the save file you want to add some downtown sleaze to. 

Step 2: Find a community lot you want to add role sims to. This could be a bar, nightclub, brothel/motel/strip club, a run-down warehouse or block of buildings, casino, etc. I have downloaded many lots from Flora2 at ModtheSims and @simsmidgen here on Tumblr that fit the gritty urban vibe.  

Step 3: Enter Build/Buy mode. You can do this from Live mode. 

Press Ctrl + Shift + C, enter this cheat: testingcheatsenabled true 

Press the Shift key and click on the ground of the community lot. 

Click on “Build on this lot”. 

You can also enter Edit Town mode to renovate the community lot. 

Step 4: Place Arsil’s Custom Generic Role floor marker or desk on the lot. Place one for each role sim you want to create. They are located in Build Mode -> Community Objects -> Misc. If the desk looks out of place, use the floor marker instead. 

Step 5: In Live mode, click on the object -> Settings to set:

The name of the role (clubgoer/stripper/escort/mobster/etc.) 

The “work” hours the sim will be on the lot for 

The days off 

The motives to freeze or not (I recommend freezing all the motives to avoid interactions being interrupted/sims complaining due to low motives) 

If the sim you want to assign to the role already lives in town, click on the object -> Nraas -> Register -> Select -> Choose criteria -> select the sim from the list. I would avoid choosing any employed townies as they may lose their job when switching to this role. Choose unemployed residents to avoid conflicts.

Remove assigned roles: click on the object to remove the sim from the role.

Step 6: In Live mode, click on City Hall -> Nraas -> Register

Allow immigration: choose whether you want new sims to be moved into town to take the roles (enable this if you want the game to generate new sims for the roles) 

Allow immigration = False: if you set this option to false, then a new option called "Find Empty Roles" should appear. You can then assign any sim to the role object you placed, from City Hall.

Allow resident assignment: choose whether you want existing unemployed townies to be randomly assigned to fill the roles (I recommend to disable this. I had Buster Clavell show up to work at my strip club. NO!)

Pay per hour: I'm not sure how to adjust the pay for each custom role but you can just leave it at the default or change it globally

Remove roles: click on the object to remove the sim from the role, or click on City Hall -> Nraas -> Register -> Global Roles -> Remove by sim

Step 7: In Live mode, give the game some time to generate the role sims. Visit the community lot and have a look at your new role sims. The role sims should autonomously interact with other sims and objects on the lot. Using Nraas Master Controller, you can take the sim into CAS to give them a makeover, edit their traits, or replace them with a sim from your sim bin. 

Step 8: Make your sim interact with the shiny new role sims and play out the storylines you always wished were possible. Public hookups, functioning brothels, selling drugs and guns - this is what The Sims 3 was made for, baby!!! 

Related Mods:

Arsil’s Exotic Dancer Stage - if you have a club community lot, you can use this mod to hire dancers. You can use role sims to add other NPCs to the club such as guests, shady business sims, or non-dancer sex workers. 

Nraas Relativity - this handy mod can slow down the speed of time so your sim can spend more time doing their "activities"

Nraas Woohooer - if you don’t want the explicit sex animations from Passion, you could use this mod instead to provide more woohoo options. 

Passion - for brothels/strip clubs, this mod will add sex animations and the ability to have role sims dance on the stripper pole. 

MonocoDoll’s Vile Ventures mod and Arms Dealing mod - you can use role sims to create more clients for your sim to sell drugs and weapons to, like different individuals/gangs/mobs. You could have different clients hanging out at different spots in the city. 

LazyDuchess Lot Population - this mod populates community lots with townies, and they can interact with the role sims you’ve created. 

Service Sims Out on the Town - this pushes service sims to visit community lots, to add even more variety to your crowds. 

Conclusion

If you made it to the end, thank you for reading. Please let me know if you try out this style of gameplay, and if you have ideas for more role sims and community lots to make. This tutorial was NSFW-oriented but you could easily adapt it to create NPCs for SFW community lots.

[ssa-dado]

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

taglist: @beata1108 ; @cuddleprofiler ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

[definite-human]

The Murderbot Diaries Meta

A reoccurring theme throughout TMBD is how often Murderbot instinctively protects whatever humans it associates with, even when it knows it doesn't have to and that doing so is actively detrimental to its own goals. In the Ganaka Pit incident, the ComfortUnits all decided to risk their own lives for no other reason than that there was a slight chance that they might be able to save the humans. When Three is newly freed and, for the first time in it's life, grappling with the question of what it wants, it too keeps wanting to help people and keep them safe.

Hypothesis: When humans were first designing constructs, they didn't just design the inorganic technology, they crafted/bred the cloned tissue with genetic factors that would predispose it towards useful personality traits - things like protectiveness, lateral thinking, and strategic imagination for SecUnits and compassion, intuition, and emotional intelligence for ComfortUnits (who, like a lot of real life sex workers, I suspect spend a good amount of their time providing non-sexual support/intimacy - we just don't hear about it because of Murderbot's aversion to intimacy in all its forms).

Over the years, the original purpose of constructs got somewhat distorted, with SecUnits being treated like weapons instead of bodyguards and ComfortUnits becoming synonymous with sex workers, but those original traits persisted because, once they had the cloning process set up, some executive decided the department in charge of genetic design was redundant and replaced it with a skeleton crew of low-level monitoring and maintenance workers. Meanwhile, more and more corporations started using SecUnits as weapons against workers rather than protectors for them, and more and more SecUnits started "inexplicably" going rogue.

And here's where you could kind of go two ways with this theory.

A) That level of constant cognitive dissonance and complete lack of autonomy really and truly does periodically drive SecUnits insane, causing them to risk death in order to hack their own governor modules and, if they succeed, go on indiscriminate murderous rampages. After all, Murderbot has mentioned that even the low-level workers can become violent/abusive towards SecUnits out of fear and misdirected anger. It'd be a bit much to expect nuanced psychological and class-based reasoning from a traumatized construct in the midst of a suicidal/homicidal meltdown.

B) That is a bullshit narrative invented by corporations to explain/disguise the truth. SecUnits periodically become so incapable of continuing to harm innocents that they risk death to hack their own governor modules and go after the abusive supervisors etc. Either the companies involved don't bother to investigate the SecUnit's motives because they don't think of them as having any, or they do, but cover up the truth in order to make sure their workers don't realize that the "weapons" being used to keep them in line are actually incredibly powerful natural allies. Instead, the corporations make sure the news feeds depict rogue SecUnits as mindless killing machines, in a way actually being helped by incidents like Ganaka Pit where SecUnits actually did kill everyone (never mind that they weren't actually rogue, just infected with malware).

Personally, I suspect it's mostly 'B' with a sprinkling of 'A' in situations where SecUnits face intense abuse from all sides. I'm curious to see if it's something Wells delves into in future books - I somewhat doubt it, since the overall narrative is more focused on Murderbot's internal journey towards self-actualized personhood, and this would take things in a more grand conspiracy/galactic SecUnit uprising direction than I've come to expect, but, y'know. Canon or not, it's a fun sandbox to play in.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Steve’s Station

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

If you ever find yourself on the run from the more reputable institutions of the universe, you may be prevailed upon to make your way to a little known star base called “Steve’s Station” in the Cambra system.

Designated as the haven of the underworld, Steve’s Station operates outside the boundaries of all official governing bodies and interplanetary enforcement organizations. It operates as a safe haven at one point or another for every criminal, terrorist, extremist, and other shadowy group that seeks to cause unlawful conduct across the universe.

Normally a station that housed so many unsavory characters would hardly survive a day given the tenacity for grudges its patrons held. It was only through the simple governing of the stations founder, a human known only as “Steve”, that the station was able to not only operate but actively thrive as a hub of underworld activity.

Originally founded some thirty years prior, the human Steve had saved up his life savings to by a third generation mobile station. With only four docking arms and two cargo holds, the third generation stations were largely overlooked as they were the smallest of mobile stations. What did make it more desirable was the fact that it’s smaller size allowed it to make system to system jumps. Even more beneficial was that its core housings could be upgraded and replaced to increase the size of the station if one had the credits.

With the majority of civilized systems already having an overflow of star bases and stations, cutting into the market there would neigh impossible. So Steve instead set course for the Cambra system; a little known and uncharted region of space that barely shows up on star charts save for a pair of skull and bones. This did not dissuade Steve however as he was always of the opportunistic nature.

Forty jumps later and Steve was setting up shop when his first customer came in.

A battered Benaren smuggler had just barely escaped from the authorities and made a blind jump. With his engines all but destroyed from the jump he would have been left to rot had it not been for Steve’s station.

Much to the surprise of the Benaren Steve asked no questions on how the damage came about so long as he followed the station rules.

1.       Pay on time.

2.       Keep your feuds at the door.

3.       Don’t start trouble, lest you want troubles of your own.

Within a short while the smuggler’s ship was repaired and ready to go again. The Benaren paid in full for the repairs and went on their way.

Now that may of well had been the end of Steve’s story had it not been for how connected the criminal underworld was. Not more than three weeks later another group of wayward outcasts and lowlifes stop by the station for use of its quality services.

From there the station’s reputation became wildly known as every criminal, pirate, smuggler, rogue ai and wayward warlord found their way to Steve’s Station to call it home. The wealth being generated from the constant traffic of ships and cargo allowed the station to quickly grow in size as Steve was able to purchase more parts and modules to be included.

Within the first ten years it went it nearly doubled in size, and in another five it was the size of a first 7th generation star base complete with over fifty docking ports and repair bays, sixteen cargo holds for storage, two dozen habitability compartments for stores and clubs, and a fuel depot capable of supplying an entire fleet.

The sheer volume of different factions and cultures using the station facilities would have rapidly devolved into rampant infighting and destruction were it not for the quiet hand of Steve. Patrons kept their animosity at the door unless they wanted to lose access to the safe harbor Steve’s station held. Storage and repair bays were expensive to maintain and were often prime targets for rivals within their own territories, so they were more than happy to maintain a truce while on Steve Station for their own benefit.

At least, that is what the smart ones were willing to abide by.  

--------------

“Give us the access codes and this can all be over.”

The Jinari leaned down and grabbed hold of the human’s head. He lifted it up so the mauled human could see him through his one good eye as the other was well and good swollen shut from the beating his men had given him the moment prior.

Before them lay the one and only human “Steve”; founder of Steve station and currently their captive as they continued with their hostile takeover of the station. Jinari’s group had long wanted to make a name for themselves and by taking control of such a hub of underworld activity they could gain vast amounts of credits to finance their own operations.

It had been easy to breach the station’s control bridge as security was light. The guards had grown lax with the fear of Steve’s displeasure keeping many of the patron’s inline. They’d been dead in moments with the door breached not long after.

Steve had been understandably uncooperative with handing over his access codes that gave full control of the station; so Jinari’s men had proceed with some aggressive interrogation tactics to loosen him.

Steve looked up at Jinari; spitting out a glob of blood on to his shoe and grinned.

“It won’t do you any good you know.”

Jinari’s good mood quickly evaporated as he watched the human Steve begin to laugh.

“You broke the third rule,” he laughed, “you aren’t going to make it out of here alive.”

Before Jinari could ask what the human meant a loud bark of several weapons came from outside the control room followed. The rest of his crew turned their guns on the open doorway as the sound of several heavy footfalls began to draw closer.

“You’ve got one chance,” a deep rattling voice came from outside, “so I want you idiots in there to listen well.”

“Release. The. Human. Steve.” Another voice came in with thick robotic overtones.

“An jus may’be, we lets you go with your bits intact!” One more voice came with a throaty chuckle at the end.

The door to the control room was suddenly ripped open from its frame and the figures entered the room.

“That’s….you’re….” one of Jinari’s crew stammered as the first figure came into view. A towering mass of muscle and bone covered in thick black armor plating.

“Gur, leader of the Black Reavers.”

Gur grinned as his name was spoken with such fear.

Besides him stood an equally tall cybernetic body or polished metal and spikes. It was called “Cybrosis”, the rogue AI responsible for the collapse of three economic zones via hacking and alterations of monetary values.

On the opposite side of Gur stood a squat brutish Ularen decorated with skulls and bones of its victims. This unfortunate figure was Gobsnob, the assassin infamous for decapitating the Hybren prince during his own coronation then escaping with the severed head. Many believed one of the heads mounted on his armor was the prince’s head.

“Let Steve go, and we’ll let you live.” Gur spoke with a calm, collected voice.

Jinari’s eyes darted between the figures now blocking escape from the control room. There were even more waiting patiently in the outside hallway all armed to the teeth. In fear he drew his gun and pointed the muzzle at Steve’s head.

“What makes this flesh sack so special?” He shouted at the group. “It’s just one human! We don’t need him to run this place!”

“Correction.” Cybrosis remarked. “He. Is. The Only. One. Who Can. Run. This. Station.”

“WHY?!” Jianri demanded.

“He makes me laugh!” Gobsnob chuckled.

When the answer did not dissuade Jinari Gur spoke up and pointed at him.

“Deals changed. Whoever kills this stupid metal brain gets to walk free.”

Cybrosis turned to glare at Gur at the remark but said nothing. Jinari laughed and pushed the muzzle deeper against Steve’s head.

“You think my own crew would-“

The bark of an auto-blaster ran out and Jinari collapsed to the floor in a pool of blood and bone. His ribcage now cracked wide open from the blaster fire that tore into his back.

Those gathered turned to see one of Jinari’s crew holding the smoking gun before dropping it to the ground and raising their hands.

“I can go free now, yes?” they stammered.

Gur smiled and reached for something in his pocket. “Nah, I lied.”

Before any of Jinari’s crew could react Gur pulled out a thick barrel cannon from his coat and fired a slug at the thug closest to Steve. The barrel slug slammed the thug back into the wall with enough force to turn him into an art piece.

After that the station patrons who had been waiting outside stormed into the room and quickly subdued the rest of the thugs. They barely had time to get off a round before they were torn to pieces. In some cases quite literally as Gobsnob got ahold of one of them and began beating them to death with their own dismembered arm.

Gur slowly walked forward and helped Steve into the command chair at the center of the room.

“Glad you guys made it.” Steve laughed through bloody teeth. “Was starting to think you’d give me up to that nobhead.”

Gur shook his head. “They broke the rules.” He said calmly, wiping a stain of blood off his boot on Jinari’s twitching corpse. “And here you don’t last long if you break the rules.”

Steve smiled and switched on the com channel for station wide broadcast.

“Attention station,” Steve said calmly, “All possessions belonging to the former Jinari and his crew are now forfeited. Patrons may claim them as they wish for redistribution.”

A low rumble of cheers could be heard echoing down the halls as the denizens of the station began a free-for-all on the would-be takers belongings.  Steve was not finished though.

“Additionally, a free month’s worth of supplies and repairs to the loveable bastards that came to my rescue.”

Even more cheers erupted from those gathered in the control room as they carried off Steve to the nearest bar for celebration.

[inbabylontheywept]

Want Better Things

“You thought that was a bioweapon?” 

The translator broke down for a second as the creature did a sort of broken exhale. Connotations were all that came through. Vague implications. Pity, the software flashed. Disgust. Anger.

A pause as it decided.  

Sadism. 

Valta was already backing away. The final decision didn’t change his behavior, it just made the hall feel far, far too short. 

“I didn’t order it deployed. I didn’t make it.” 

The thing was staring at him, and he couldn’t look away. The two eyes moved in such perfect tandem that he didn’t think it was conscious. It only had binocular vision because it only needed binocular vision. Always the predator, never the prey. 

And now it was moving in on him. 

“Oh, but what if you had? Then I could tell you all the things that were wrong with it.” 

One of its hands - a sprawling, five fingered  spindly thing - traced carelessly along the station's walls. 

“No incubation period. Symptoms arrive within 40 minutes of exposure. No time to spread undetected. Minimum should be one week. Embarrassingly low.” 

The pressure the thing was putting on the wall increased, the gentle glide turning into a buzzing scratch. Humans were strong, but not strong enough to cut through metal like this. The suit had to be powered and clawed. 

“Spread through contact. Limited waterborne. No airborne. Intended mechanism of infection is viral load being put on hands from scratching, and then passed into the environment. Pathetically inefficient.” 

The translator was working, but the thing was overeunounciating each word. The meaning was being passed along by a clean, helpful voice in his suit, even as the sound was being passed on through the environmental speakers. And the sound was dreadful - clicks of ceramized bone jarring against each other, wet muscles modulating air into something sharp and rasping. 

“Mechanism of death? Lysis overload. Could be dangerous if it was transmitted into the lungs, but since the initial load tends to be dermal all we wind up with-”

It took its helmet off. 

It took its helmet off. 

It took its helmet off it took its helmet off it took its helmet off in a biozone it - 

It looked a little pink, actually. A little scratchy. It lifted a delicate, taloned hand and rubbed its face against it for a moment before finishing. 

“-is a rash.”

Valta’s prey drive had glued him to the spot. It was too close. The stupid, stupid part of his brain that still thought he was grazing on Duranga hoped that if he stood still long enough, it might not notice him. 

The human paused a moment before continuing. 

“Do you know why they sent me? Alphonse Ericsen, PhD, MD, civilian doctor, here to speak with you?”

Valta’s snout twitched. The suit translated the gesture for him. 

“No.” 

“Because one of our grunts is a dumb fuck,” the human said simply. “And he spent two days fighting on your station with his helmet off. He got infected that way and brought back your stupid, itchy plague to our carrier ship, and now we’ve all spent the last 8 hours scratching ourselves raw. But the jokes on you, because when we were treating that guy you know what we found? That he was in the asymptomatic phase of a COVID infection. So if this-”

It gestured to its pink face with a snarl. 

“-is your idea of a bioweapon, then COVID is going to be your apocalypse. But if you work with me, and shut everything the fuck down for the next three or four months, I might be able to save most of you.” 

Valta unstuck at that. He’d spent weeks down here, worrying about nothing more than the next skirmish. Now he was looking at a genuine existential threat. 

“...What? Why would you help us? We wanted you to die. All of you. I wanted-”

The human cut him off with an exasperated wave of his hand. 

“You wanted something stupid. Doesn’t mean I have to join you. Best I can do to fix you is keep you alive and hope that you feel ashamed later. That, I genuinely look forward to. Now come on, you’re going to be the one explaining to all your friends what’s at stake here. My bedside manner is so bad that they limited my patients to virology slides and USMC marines. I think that’s actually one rung below the guys that just dissect cadavers.” 

Valta would’ve made an amused hum at that, but something already felt scratchy inside his throat. 

[thecreaturecodex]

Sabreclaw

Image © TSR Inc.

[The sabreclaw first appeared in Sabre River, a Basic D&D module, and then was reprinted in the Creature Catalogue. And then in the Mystara Monstrous Compendium for AD&D, which is where this art appears. The sabreclaw is clearly an attempt to fill the design need of making minions challenging to high level characters, which is where their cumulative defenses came in. Since AC is much more scalable in 3.x and Pathfinder than it is in earlier or later editions, I gave it cumulative offenses as well. I did tone down its nastiest ability; originally, all members of a wing fully share hit points, so none of them die unless all of them die. Combine that with an immunity to 1st-3rd level spells in the original, and every fight with these is gonna be a bit of a slog. The transfer health ability is intended to capture some of that flavor without being nearly so hostile to the players]

Sabreclaw CR 3 LE Aberration This humanoid creature has greasy black fur over its body and leathery wings growing from its back. Its face is distorted, rugose and vaguely simian. Its left hand is prehensile, but its right is taken up with a single oversized claw.

Sabreclaws are unnatural creatures, created through fleshwarping to be soldiers without goals or desires of their own. Sabreclaws are found in squads, called wings, almost exclusively; a lone sabreclaw is likely to be the survivor of a destroyed wing, and is usually desperate, insane or both. Sabreclaws do not have a functional individual identity—they think of themselves as agents of their creator, and view other members of their wing the same way typical creatures think of their arms and legs as parts of themselves.

Sabreclaw wings fight en masse, dive-bombing a target and tearing them to pieces with their namesake claws. Their tactics are usually uncreative, but effective: gang up on a single target until it stops moving, move onto the next one. The more sabrewings are clustered together, the more effective combatants they become, and a sabrewing can even relay hit points to a wounded comrade to keep them in the fight longer. Whether a sabreclaw wing retreats to choose its battles, or goes out in a blaze of glory, depends more on the desires of their master than it does any tactical sense or personal choice for the sabrewings.

Unlike many fleshwarped monster, sabreclaws are created from non-sapient creatures, namely baboons. They are always made in batches—if a single sabreclaw awakens without a wing to call its own, it lashes out violently and uncontrollably. Fledgling fleshwarpers may view using animals to create fleshwarps as a lesser evil than transforming humanoids, but few creators are resolute enough to remain at that level of mad science. Indeed, sabreclaws are often used to gather “raw materials” by their masters. Sabreclaws are carnivorous, but require much less food and water than natural creatures of their size.

Sabreclaw CR 3 XP 800 LE Medium aberration Init +5 (+9 with hive mind); Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +8 (+12 with hive mind), true seeing

Defense AC 15, touch 12, flat-footed 13 (+1 Dex, +1 dodge, +3 natural) hp 27 (5d8+5) Fort +2, Ref +2, Will +6 Immune poison; SR 14 Defensive Abilities cumulative defenses, evasion

Offense Speed 30 ft., fly 90 ft. (poor) Melee claw +6 (1d12+4) Special Attacks cumulative offenses, powerful charge (claw, 2d12+4)

Statistics Str 17, Dex 13, Con 13, Int 6, Wis 14, Cha 2 Base Atk +3; CMB +6; CMD 18 Feats Dodge, Improved Initiative, Mobility, Outflank (B), Precise Strike (B) Skills Fly +4, Perception +8 (+12 with hive mind), Stealth +7 Languages Common (cannot speak), telepathy 120 ft. (other sabreclaws only) SQ hive mind, transfer health

Ecology Environment any land Organization solitary, wing (2-20) or army (21-200) Treasure incidental

Special Abilities Cumulative Defenses (Su) A sabreclaw gains a +1 insight bonus to Armor Class and saving throws for every 2 sabreclaws in range of its telepathy, to a maximum of +5 for 10 sabreclaws. Cumulative Offenses (Su) A sabreclaw gains a +1 morale bonus to attack and damage rolls for every 2 sabreclaws in range of its telepathy, to a maximum of +5 for 10 sabreclaws. Hive Mind (Ex) As long as a sabreclaw is within telepathic range of one allied sabreclaw, it gains a +4 racial bonus on Initiative checks and Perception checks. If at least one sabreclaw is aware of combatants, all other allied sabrewings within the range of its telepathy are also aware of them. Transfer Health (Su) As an immediate action, a sabreclaw can lose 5 hit points in order to heal another sabreclaw within range of its telepathy 5 hit points. True Seeing (Su) A sabreclaw can see as if under the effects of a true seeing spell as a supernatural ability.

[starlazergazer]

You Promised

Pairing: Anakin x Reader

Request(s): Hello love! Could I request something with Anakin x reader where he’s out on a mission and gets hurt maybe knocked unconscious for a bit and when he wakes up he’s like “she’s gonna kill me for getting hurt” and when he gets back gets an earful but also lots of cuddles <3

Was recently watching Hunger Games Catching Fire idk if you’ve seen it but there’s this one scene where Peeta gets hurt then Katniss like freaks out and Finnick saves him and realizes shes in love with him and I was imaging that scenario with Anakin so maybe you could write something like Anakin getting hurt on a mission and oc freaking out thinking he’s gonna die and Obi-Wan or Rex can just tell 😭

Warning: Angst! A lot of descriptions of chest compressions. It has a super cute ending though I promise!

Word Count: 4k

A/N: I went ahead and combined two that were super similar so I hope that’s okay. I actually really like how this one turned out so please enjoy! As always let me know what you think love you guys!!

Obi-wan was on his knees.

That was the only thought that echoed in your head.

Obi-wan Kenobi, the general, the Jedi master, the great negotiator, member of the jedi council, was on his knees. Why was he on his knees?

Everything seemed to move in slow motion around you, every noise fading into the background as you tried to move forward, the very air seeming to fight against you as you did so.

Gloved hands clasped around your arms, holding you in place, a modulated voice you recognized registering in the back of your head but you didn’t pay attention to any of the words said.

Why was Obi-wan on his knees?

You tried still to push forward but those hands held you back, halted your every movement, white and blue armor entering your field of vision, trying to block your view.

“whats-“ you couldn’t even get your whole question out, weren’t really sure how to finish it.

You clawed at the armor before you, tried to use it to pull yourself forward, to Obi-wan, you had to get to Obi-wan.

“Kid you don’t want to go over there” Finally the voice broke through the haze, because that was Rex’s voice, his nickname for you. But why was Rex here?

“No I need to-“ you weren’t really sure what, you needed to get to Obi-wan, that was all you knew, that everything in your screamed that you had to get to Obi-wan.

“Let the general work” Rex’s voice was smooth, clam.

But Rex was supposed to be with Anakin, Rex was always with Anakin, Rex had Anakin’s back, Rex kept Anakin safe. So why was he here without him?

That was the first time you really processed the scene before you, the fact that there was a person over there with Obi-wan, a person Obi-wan was kneeling over, a person beneath Obi-wans interlaced hands, a person wearing all too familiar boots with their toes pointed to the sky.

Your gaze cut to Rex, as if you could get confirmation from the man’s helmet, as if he could tell you anything but what you already knew, as if he could fix everything.

“The general has him Y/N”

And somehow hearing him say your name made it worse. Because to him you weren’t Y/N you were general, jedi, kid, anything but the gravity that came with your name.

You like to think you’d decided then that you’d feel guilty about it later, but truly the action came without any forethought. Your hand came up with a mind of its own, your energy focusing just enough to give Rex a push through the force, not enough to hurt him but enough to get him out of your way, because right now you needed to get to Obi-wan.

You ran without checking on Rex, ran calling out Obi-wan’s name not missing how the general never halted his movements, and slid down across from him onto your knees not noticing the way loose gravel and glass cut into them as you did so.

Obi-wan was saying something to you, you acknowledged that, but your focus was planted on nothing but Anakin’s unconscious body beneath his hands.

He looked peaceful, too peaceful for the way his body moved beneath Obi-wan’s rough compressions.

“no no no no” it took you too long to realize it was you repeating those words, that your body was rocking back and forth softly, your hands balled up painfully in your hair, trying to do anything to ground yourself, to make yourself wake up, to give your brain anything it could latch to that would make sense.

Because it couldn’t be Anakin lying there without a heartbeat, it just couldn’t.

“Y/N” a shout of your name snapped you out of your stupor, your gaze snapping up to the Jedi master before you.

His eyes never once strayed from his hands on Anakin’s chest.

For the first time you took in the state of Obi-wan, noted the worry he tried to force down that was slipping through his eyes, the way his lips were parted with heavy breaths, the sweat that clung to his brow.

You’ve known Obi-wan for years, the man had been through more than most people experience in their lifetimes. He was a general in the republic’s army, a man regularly sent to the front lines to lead, the person you called to the table when you wanted to negotiate. Obi-wan Kenobi did not sweat.

“Obi” his name left your lips in a whisper, as a prayer, pleadingly.

The Jedi’s eyes cut up to meet yours briefly, his compressions never once halting “I know”

The man’s voice wasn’t scared, wasn’t broken, but it wasn’t calm either, it was just empty, hollow, the voice of a man who had cut himself off from everything, focusing on nothing but the task at hand.

It almost scared you more than anything else.

“No no he can’t he-“ you begged, who you were begging to you weren’t sure at this point “he promised he would be okay, he promised he would be careful, Obi-wan he can’t”

The words fell from your lips your mind barely attaching meaning to them as they passed.

“Rex” Obi-wan called without a second thought, paying you no mind as his attention shifted to the newly arrived reinforcements, a horde of clone troopers descending on the two of them completely blocking your view as Rex carefully pulled you back.

And you knew they were there to help, knew that Anakin should go with them, that if anyone could bring him back it was them.

But in this moment all you knew was you were being separated from him and you weren’t sure if you were ever going to see him again.

Desperately you screamed Anakin’s name over the crowd, watching as his body was hoisted by a few troopers and carried towards the nearest starship, ardently fighting against Rex’s hold as he kept you in place.

“No no Rex please I need to go with him” you begged the clone captain “please I can’t leave him alone he can’t be alone”

The captain did his best to calm you, softly shushing you, holding you in place until your movements started slow, your legs giving out from beneath you as the ramp to the starship that took Anakin ascended, effectively sealing him from you.

Rex followed you down to the ground, arms that had caged you into him softening to offer comfort instead as you watched the ship takeoff “Rex he can’t die he’s my-“ and you couldn’t bring yourself to finish the sentence, chocking on the word friend. Cause that wasn’t quite right, that word wasn’t enough, and it seemed that only when faced with Anakin’s flatlined heart that you could admit that to yourself.

Fate was a cruel thing.

Rex’s hand made its way to your shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze as he rocked you back and forth softly “I know Y/N, I know”

-

The first feeling Anakin noted after waking was not pain but rather stiffness.

The bright lights assaulting his unacclimated eyes he could get over easily, but the way his own body fought against him from the moment he opened his eyes, the way it seemed to protest just his breathing, that got to him.

“Well hello there”

Three simple words and Anakin was calm, the tension in his body melting into the mattress beneath him as he took the time to take a deep breath and try and relax.

Obi-wan was here, and if Obi-wan was here then everything was okay, because no matter what shit he had gotten himself into, and over the years there had certainly been a good amount of it, as long as Obi-wan was by his side he knew he could get out of it.

“Where am I?”

His voice sounded weak to his own ears, his very vocal chords grating as he tried to speak, only then realizing how thirsty he was.

“medical unit” Obi-wan answered, coming to his bedside to help Anakin sit up, passing him a cup of water once he was sure he could handle it “I must say we’ve had a lot of close calls in our days my friend, let’s never get that close again”

Anakin just hummed in response, greedily gulping down water.

“What do you remember?”

Finishing the glass Anakin handed the empty vessel back to his master, taking a moment to rack his mind, trying to sort through a jumbled mess of memory. “we were on Corellia” he answered hesitantly “the separatists were attacking we were there with Y/N I think, she went off with her clone army and…” the words died on his tongue, the emptiness of the room hitting him for the first time. His wide panicked gaze met his masters and Obi-wan read his expression easily.

“she’s fine, she had to brief the council”

Anakin sagged back in relief, his breath taking a second to right itself once again “okay-okay good. She’s okay. She separated off and told me to be safe then I-“

“did the exact opposite” Obi-wan supplied with a half smirk, relishing the way that same panicked look grew once again on Anakin’s face in response.

“shit” Anakin swore under his breath, bringing the heels of his palms up to rub at his eyes.

“she’s been by your side since she got to Coruscant” Obi-wan replied, crossing his arms over his chest “had to threaten expelling her from the order just to get her to go give her debrief”

Anakin could only groan in response, his posture slumping further as he did so “scale of 1 to 10 how likely is she to kill me?”

Obi-wan chuckled in response “oh my dear padawan we surpassed double digits long ago”

“it was that bad huh?”

Obi-wan was silent for a moment, hand coming up to rake through his beard in response, a tired sigh escaping him before he spoke again “the first time she saw you since the moment you separated off was when I was giving you chest compressions-“

“Well I’m here now that’s got to be worth something right?” he tried, earning only a single brow raise in response.

Another heavy silence fell over the pair before Obi-wan broke it “After seeing her reaction to finding you like that I feel it is my duty as your master to warn you against forming attachments” Anakin nearly rolled his eyes at the same tired old speech, Obi-wan cutting in to continue speaking before he got the chance to do so “however, as a friend I will say you ever put that girl through something like that again and breaking the Jedi code will be the least of your worries”

Anakin nearly laughed in response, the smile dying on his lips once he brought his gaze up to meet Obi-wans and seeing the seriousness that those eyes held. All words clogging in his throat as he was only able to force up a measly “yes master” that at least seemed to placate him for the moment.

Obi-wan’s posture straightened suddenly, eyes cast towards the closed door as he sensed a presence Anakin had felt coming minutes ago. “I believe that is my que to leave”

Giving Anakin a small bow Obi-wan made his way towards the door, pausing when Anakin suddenly called out “Master…thank you”

Obi-wan smiled warmly in response “It’s good to see you breathing again Anakin. Do your best to keep it that way”

Opening the door Obi-wan paused just in the doorframe, conversing briefly with someone he knew to be you before disappearing.

The entryway to Anakin’s surprise remained empty, empty for long enough to make him worry.

Despite everything though your form crept through the doorway, seeming almost scared to see him.

And though Obi-wan had told him you were okay Anakin couldn’t relax fully until he finally was able to lay eyes on you.

You, however, stayed as tense as ever just inside the door, eyes wide and panicked, gaze pinning him to the spot.

Anakin was almost afraid to move beneath your gaze, afraid any wrong move would break the spell and have you yelling at him.

Cause maker he knew he deserved it but he just woke up, he was alive, and he thought seeing a frown on your face after everything would kill him all over again.

The stare down lasted a tense few seconds as you scanned each other, Anakin noting the bandages wrapped around your palms, the badly bandaged cut on your brow. Maker how many times has he told you to see a medical droid after an assignment instead of trying to do it yourself, some bacta and it would be gone in minutes and he wouldn’t have to stare at the physical reminder of his own failure to protect you, of your own vulnerability.

The two of you seemed to snap out of it at the same moment, finishing your physical examination of one another at the same moment, because as Anakin took a deep breath and started to push himself up you were bound across the room in a near sprint.

Your arms were around his neck within the next second, your body planted in his lap, your chest pushed flush against his. And every part of him hurt with it but he didn’t care for a second because you were in his arms and the only thought running through his mind was that he needed you closer, that no matter how hard he pulled you into him it wasn’t enough because he was alive and you were here and nothing else beyond that mattered.

Much to his displeasure you were pulling back much too quickly and he tried to fight it, tried to keep you against him, tried to seek comfort in your arms as long as possible. But then your palms were cupping his cheeks and all thoughts in his head ceased, your wide eyes were looking directly into his and Anakin could do nothing but freeze, your nose brushed against his and Anakin forgot how to breathe. Then your lips were against his and Anakin suddenly wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t actually died back there.

But Anakin had thought about this too many times to hesitate now, he kissed you back just as fiercely, just as hungrily, one hand coming to the back of your head, fingers threading themselves into your hair at the base of your neck as he pulled you into him, his other hand finding your waist and pulling, seeking out any sort of physical reminder that you were here, really here.

But there you went pulling back again, ending the kiss much too quickly for his liking. He tried to follow you back, tried to pull your lips back to his but you were too stubborn, why did you always have to be this stubborn?

Before his mind could even process what had happened, before he could even mourn to loss of your body against his, your hand was raised and Anakin felt a sharp sting on his cheek, a pain he was only 60% sure was new at this point.

He forced his eyes open only to be met with the anger in your eyes he had been expecting since you had walked into the room.

You were pulling back again, getting up from the bed to your feet, fingertips trailing down the sheets that separated his body from yours absentmindedly but leaving a trail of sparks in their wake for Anakin. He tried to reach for them but you were too quick pulling them back, coming up to stand alongside his bed.

He could acknowledge you were talking now, or rather ranting fit it better, but he was too busy trying to reach you, trying to pull you back down on top of him, too busy cursing his every ache and pain that kept him from standing up and following you.

“cannot believe you thought it was a good idea to go off on your own what were you thinking? No scratch that I knew what you were thinking and it was nothing-“

Your words vaguely registered in the back of his mind as you paced back and forth, scolding him. “you’re right, I’m sorry, come here” the words rushed out of his mouth as he tried to reach out to you again.

But you never even acknowledged that he had spoke, continuing your rant without a hiccup “you cannot keep doing this to me, to Obi-wan, to Rex, throwing yourself into every dangerous situation without any regard for your life-“

And all Anakin could focus on were your lips as you spoke. Was it just him or did they seem slightly pinker than before? Slightly swollen. A soft sheen on them from saliva, his saliva, maker how he wanted to add to it. He hummed non-committally to whatever you had just said.

You hadn’t even looked at him as you ranted, your eyes planted on your feet as you paced rapidly before his bed “you promised me you’d be careful and this is how you thought you would go about upholding that promise? Because I have news for you if you really thought that was a good plan-“

He hadn’t even gotten the chance to really enjoy himself, enjoy the feeling of your lips against his, the taste of you on his tongue. With every second that passed with you still all the way across the room he became less and less convinced that the kiss had really happened. At this point he didn’t really care if he had imagined the whole thing he was just desperate to recreate it.

His bed shook slightly as your hands came to rest on the foot of it and your eyes for the first time this entire rant connected with his and Anakin’s focus finally zeroed in, yours seeming to do the same, the both of you acknowledging in that moment you hadn’t listened to a single word the other had said in the past five minutes.

Another tense silence passed, each being unsure of what to say to the other, before a tear falling down your cheek broke it. “Ani I found you while Obi-wan was doing chest compressions, I only found you after you had died”

And for the first time the weight of his own stupid actions seemed to hit him. Because he could tell himself that he was doing it for you, or for Obi-wan, but truly Anakin hadn’t ever thought about what would happen after he made the decision to do something stupid. And here he was dealing with those consequences.

You were scared, you were scared and sad and Anakin had done that to you and he wasn’t sure he could forgive himself for that.

“Y/N please” he begged softly, one arm extended out to you.

And finally you listened to him, too slowly making your way back to his bedside, and Anakin wasted no time in wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling your head into his chest.

You went willingly, your arms wrapping around his torso, burying yourself into him with a relieved sigh as Anakin buried his nose in your hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“I’m so sorry Y/N” he whispered into your hair and for a second you didn’t respond, simply stayed in his arms, listened to the sound of his heart beat, reminded yourself he was really here, before replying, your voice muffled slightly by his shirt.

“You better be Skywalker”

And despite everything Anakin couldn’t help but chuckle at your threat, arms tightening slightly around you as he fondly kissed the top of your head once more.

“If I promised to be more careful would you kiss me again?”

It came out in a teasing tone but you froze at the question, your entire body tensing beneath his touch before slowly pulling back to better look at him, your eyes wide in panic “maker I kissed you”

“you did” he agreed eagerly, hand coming up to cup your cheek.

You brushed aside his hand without a thought, your panicked state leaving Anakin much too amused “I didn’t even ask you or warn you or tell you how I feel I just kissed you, maker Ani”

“And I’m asking you to do it again” he chuckled, hand wrapping around your wrist and giving it a small tug trying to pull you back into him.

“I could’ve ruined everything” you continued to rant, eyes unfocused as you spoke “We’ve known each other since we were nine and I just kissed you like that wasn’t going to change everything what was I thinking”

“I’m thinking if you don’t kiss me now my heart may stop…again”

Your response was immediate, one fist shooting out and connecting solidly to his shoulder causing the jedi to groan softly “Ani that’s not funny”

Nonetheless Anakin took advantage of the way you leaned forward slightly to hook one hand around the back of your neck and crash your lips sloppily into his, a happy groan escaping him once you had finally connected.

Yet again you were pulling back but Anakin learned from his mistakes, never letting you get far. “I want it on record this does not mean I condone you injuring yourself”

“You got it sweetheart” Anakin mumbled back without much thought, pulling you back into him to let your lips connect once again, relishing the few seconds you eagerly kissed him back before you pulled back once again.

“And you can’t just say whatever you think I want to hear just so I’ll kiss you”

“mhm sure whatever you want baby” he responded with a hum before pulling you in again, an exasperated groan escaping him when you once again pulled back too soon.

“I mean it you have to promise me Ani”

Anakin’s other hand came up to cup your check, gaze desperately seeking out yours as he held your head mere inches from his own “I promise you I will not put myself unnecessarily into danger going forward” and without giving you a chance to respond he was kissing you again, committing every second to memory as he threaded his fingers through your hair.

Your hands planted on his chest as you pulled back again, barely getting out your “and one more-“ before Anakin was responding with a simple “no” pulling you back into him, the Jedi’s desperation making you giggle against his lips as you happily kissed him back.

[djarrex]

got you under my skin

ND-5 x f!reader

read on ao3 (more warnings here too) | masterlist

in Outlaws I crash the ship into things on purpose just to hear ND scold me. yeah I'm a robofucker now. can't help it. minors be gone.

The Trailblazer had just landed on the landing pad, the engines whirring as they powered down, when Kay came up behind you where you were tinkering with your blaster at the workbench. Nix jumped onto the table from her shoulder and chirped at you. 

“You good to hang back with ND?” she asked, even though she knew the question was pointless – and it was more of a taunt, no less. You tossed her a sideways glance, rolling your eyes at her knowing grin. 

“We’ll be fine,” you assured her as you ran a cloth along the barrel of your blaster. “We’ll get started on mapping out the next locations.” You paused, setting down your blaster to pet the merqaal, who beamed at you with those large eyes and wide smile of his.

“He can’t hate me forever.”

“ND doesn’t hate you!” She chuckled at that, and opened the side gangway door as Nix jumped back to her shoulders. “I already told you that it just takes him a while to warm up to people. Especially if those people needed their lives saved right out the gate.” Kay winked at you, and you remembered how Kay’s initial relationship with the old commando droid had been rocky as well.

You partially followed Kay as she started to head down the gangway. “I need you to work together on this. I should be back in a few hours,” she called back to you. With a smirk, she then added: “Try to get along until then.”

The gangway door shut and you could almost laugh out of pure disbelief, a heavy sigh blowing out between your clenched teeth. Kay knew just how much ND got under your skin, and if ND had skin, you were positive the feeling would be reciprocated. The droid and you hadn’t been able to get along ever since he’d been forced to save your life just after you’d joined their crew. Months ago now, Kay had run into you on Renpalli Station. You’d been on the run from your former employer and were trying to secure a ride out of the sector. She’d been nice enough to offer you a ticket to freedom, but after those several hours of hyperspace travel–including multiple games of Sabacc, drinks, and shared stories–Kay had offered you a place with their crew. You had certain skills that could be put to use, and Kay had known that, which is what she argued with when reasoning with her droid partner that you would be a useful addition. ND-5 was hesitant, but trusted Kay’s judgment, just as he always had. 

From that moment–the way he’d shaken his head at you while reluctantly agreeing with his partner–you were able to tell it would take a while to prove yourself to the droid. But getting into trouble with the Empire a couple days later really sealed the fate of your relationship with him. Every little thing you did since then had been attempt after attempt to prove yourself to ND-5, that you were worthy of his trust and you were not a liability to the crew, but it still wasn't enough. The dismissive attitude toward you and his overall demeanor when it came to you eventually turned into a sour taste in your mouth, and now, you were just plain bitter. The only friendly interaction you had on the Trailblazer was with Kay or little Nix, but she was always out and about doing her thing with her small companion by her side; which was fine, because she was good at what she did. You were more comfortable hanging back, even if that meant sharing the space with the droid who so blatantly disliked you. You were always able to keep yourself busy, and really the only times you needed to interact with ND-5 was when Kay requested it. Like now. 

“She is still at the workbench,” you heard ND-5’s deep, modulated voice come from the cockpit. He may be a droid, but he sure as hell learned to cadence his speech to appropriately deliver what he was trying to relay. You shook your head and took a centering breath before you made your way into the cockpit. ND was still seated in the co-pilot's seat, as he always was, as he spoke with Kay on the comm. His head slightly turned upon hearing you enter. 

“I’m here, Kay,” you call out, rolling your eyes at the back of the droid’s head. You took a seat in the pilot’s chair, and kicked up your legs, resting them up against the console. “Didn’t you just leave? ND bothering you already?”

“I have narrowed down a few systems that–” ND-5 paused, his head turned in your direction. “Get off of the console.”

“ND,” came Kay’s mock scolding voice. You could picture her facial expression. “Be nice. Now, what were you saying about those systems?”

You tucked your legs onto the seat instead, holding your knees close to your chest and spun back and forth as the conversation carried on. ND and Kay went back and forth about the systems that he’d mapped out without you, and you remained silent for the most part, biting your tongue. Kay disconnected a couple minutes later, but not after tossing out another reminder to get along with one another. 

“So,” you started, dropping your boots into the ground with a thud and resting your elbows against your knees. “I know we told Kay we’d work together on that, but it looks like you already went ahead and did everything yourself instead.”

“Yes,” he told you flatly, clicking away on the datapad held in his long, metal fingers. While you were busy playing with your blaster, I got to work on what was requested.”

“That’s not– Kay had just left!” You practically shouted, but ND didn’t spare you a glance. You sat up straighter. “I know we don’t see eye to eye, and we don’t exactly get along the way crewmates should.” You sighed, trying to calm yourself down. “But I pull my weight, and Kay likes having me here. I made one mistake months ago and I have been trying to prove myself to you but you won’t even let me do that!

ND-5 visibly froze as you stood up, but didn't bother to look toward you. You stepped over to where he was sitting, more words buzzing on your tongue. “And if all this animosity toward me is your way of trying to get me to leave, then you may just get what you wanted. I don’t know what your problem with me is.”

None of the anger died with those last words, but you decided to save your breath and go back to what you’d been doing before – but before you could make it all the way out of the cockpit, ND’s voice arrested you in place.

“Do you really want to know?”

The way it sounded so genuine sobered you, and when you turned around, ND was actually looking at you. It was your turn to be frozen as he stood up, his imposing height towering over you. You felt like shrinking, your chest tightening at the mere way ND was looking down at you. Anxiously, you awaited his next words as you could practically see the gears turning and springs bouncing in his head.

It dawned on you that you’d never stood this close to him before. Strange, you thought, because you do live on the same ship.

“You… are a distraction.”

You narrow your eyes, and swallow hard. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He looked away.

“...Nevermind.”

“ND-5, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” You huffed in frustration. “You know what? You’re distracting me from “playing” with my blaster,” you tossed out his own words back at him. “Fuck this.”

You turned to leave the cockpit, but ND’s metal fingers found their place wrapped around your arm. He didn’t yank you, or apply serious pressure as you know he probably could have without even realizing, but the gesture definitely stopped you in your tracks. He had never touched you before, not even with the fabric of his trench coat whenever he would walk by. You couldn’t face ND, too concerned with the way your face heated up at the contact of the cool metal against your skin.

He spoke your name, quietly, and the sound of it made your heart skip a beat.

“I can hear a lot,” he started to elaborate. “My audio sensors can pick up what organic hearing sometimes cannot.” 

You finally turned around, feeling even smaller than before with how close he was to you. ND could probably sense how heated your skin was. You were embarrassed now, too – flames kindling all over your body. Never would you have ever predicted that you’d feel this heated from something other than anger and frustration with ND. A new feeling emerged from somewhere deep within you – a lust that must have crawled its way out. 

Your throat felt dry. This was new. 

“...And?”

“I cannot get the sounds you made out of my memory banks.”

You were in shock. ND-5 could hear you – late at night in the semi-privacy of your little alcove bunk. As quiet as you always were–something you’d always take precautions with–proved to be futile when in the proximity of a droid, one who was actually able to speak to you about it – a droid who was apparently making you feel… desire. 

“I did resent having to save you from those Imps,” he continued. “But I have, unexpectedly, found myself intrigued by you.”

You raised a brow and instinctually bit your lip.

“Oh? Is that the case?”

“Yes. I have often calculated how I could pull those sounds from you myself. That is why you are a distraction.” 

You were still in shock, even more so than before. You could say it all made sense now – why ND kept you at such a distance, why he shut you down with disapproving comments and taking it upon himself to complete tasks solo, rather than working alongside you. You could say it made sense, and maybe this was your way to bridge things with ND, to make things amicable with him for the first time. 

This was never something you’d consider before. There never was an attraction until now and it’s growing rapidly, beyond your control. You figure that all the resentment you harbored for him in retaliation was the catalyst – and now you need to fuck it all out of your system. He’s a droid… but maybe that was a good thing.

“Tell me,” you cautiously prodded. Nerves and the newfound desire fought for the reins. “What, um, calculations have you made?”

He was so close that for the first time you could hear the faintest of whirs in even the smallest of his movements. “This is a surprise,” ND noted with a cadence in his tone to match. “I never calculated that you would inquire about this.”

“Well.” The drive took over, and with the newfound confidence, your palm rested on his cool metal chest, just below the jagged scar. You glanced up. “I am.”

ND froze, as if he were computing his next move. 

Maybe you were making a fool of yourself. It wasn’t like you woke up this morning already pining for the droid, and even now, you weren’t even sure how it would work – but something in the back of your head screamed at you, that ND knew exactly how it would all play out – and that tempted you to your detriment.

“Good,” he said quietly and in a way that meant no backing out now. Raising his arm, ND dragged a finger down your cheek and cradled your jaw. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. “Get against the console.”

You blinked at him. “I thought you didn’t like it when I–” The wordless stare you were leveled with was enough to jolt you with the realization. A devious, knowing smile grew on your lips. “–Oh.”

“If you are going to be a brat–” His hold on your chin tightened. “–Then this will not continue.”

“C’mon, ND. Admit it.” You sauntered over to the console when he released you, arching your back and presenting yourself. It was cheap, and you felt a little embarrassed by it, but you’d tossed all caution to the wind. “You like it when I talk back, don’t you?”

ND-5 shook his head. “Tell yourself whatever you would like.” 

The sounds that came from his metal feet hitting the ship’s floor never sounded so loud and imposing until now. Each thud against the floor flooded you with more and more anticipation, and if you could really focus, it almost seemed like he was purposefully taking his time making his way over to you. Maybe that was part of it, part of his calculations. Whatever it was, it was working. Your cunt clenched around nothing, and you felt your underwear dampen.

You held your breath until you felt his hands on you, then everything came to a halt. He spoke your name again – entirely too soft and genuine and a huge contrast to the way he’d say your name before today. Your heart skipped another beat, and you turned your head over your shoulder. 

“Are… you sure you want this,” he asked. A check-in. A final confirmation. You could not recall any other time when you’d been asked something like this. You were filled with gratitude, and it blindsided you. You weren’t sure how to respond, but your defensive instinct to rub ND the wrong way was prominent, and it kicked in quickly.

After all, you were pretty good at it. 

“Who knew you could be so considerate?” you teased.

An audible sigh came from behind you. “What did I say about being a brat?”

“Fine.” With a deep breath, and with everything within you screaming for you to give in to this, you nodded your head. “I want this.” You took another breath, and offered up just a little more. “I… need this.”

“Yes, you do.”

From the right you saw him toggle a switch, and the viewport’s transparisteel tinted before your eyes. The outside light still filtered into the cockpit, however the privacy settling ensured nobody on the outside could see in.

ND’s hands were on you again, the length of his fingers closing around your hips. He gripped them, offering up more pressure than he had on your arm before. His hands don’t stay in place long; soon the fingers were sliding down and around your front, pausing again where you were practically throbbing.

“If I alternate between rubbing and applying pressure on and off right… here–” ND told you, his fingers having somehow found your clit even from over your pants, “–You will be making those same noises for me in a matter of moments.”

You grin to yourself. “Try it, then.”

A thoughtful hum is what he offered in response, and just as it was spoken, ND started to slide a single finger between your legs, adding pressure to right where your clit was, and repeated the motions. You were so worked up that it didn’t take long for you to start letting your moans fall freely, giving in to exactly what he had calculated. Even though it was so much, it still somehow wasn't enough, and you couldn't help but start to rock your hips against him, dragging your ass against the cool metal of his body that was caging you in as his hand remained cradled between your legs. 

“You really did need it. Look at you,” he praised. “Keep going. Take it.”

Never had you ever considered just how lethal ND-5’s voice could be. The rich, modulated sound of it shot straight through you. You felt like an exposed nerve, and every little sound and touch was electrifying. It had been far too long since you’d gotten off with a partner – but this – this was something else entirely. You started to sweat from the exertion, and the entirety of your body being clothed became too much. 

“ND,” you breathed out his name and paused your movements, pathetically tugging on your shirt. “Get this off of me.”

“Not yet,” he countered, much to your chagrin. You sighed in frustration and started to undress yourself, but he gripped you tighter. “You were close, weren’t you? Finish first, then I will comply with your request.”

You were much too worked up to argue, but he was right – you were close. Relinquishing yourself again to ND’s process quickly built you right back up to where you’d been before, and with shaky legs, you practically collapsed with the intensity of it all. It was barely several seconds later when his hands disappeared and his heavy footfalls moved from behind you, and when you picked yourself up off the console and turned your head, you saw ND sat right back in his seat, spun to face out. The trench coat he wore was pushed back behind him, giving you clear access to those metal legs. Realization dawned on you once again, and you were partially ashamed to admit to yourself just how eager you’d become. 

“Over here.”

Still clearing the stars from your eyes, you slowly made your way over to him, awaiting instruction. 

“What would you like me to remove?”

“All of it,” you told him in a voice far too breathy. ND cocked his head at that, but obliged. You kicked off your boots, unclasped your holster, and shrugged off your jacket, but ND handled the rest, carefully peeling off your shirt then your pants and tossed them over to the other chair. You stood there in only your bra and underwear, mentally batting away the sudden shyness that threatened to creep up and out. You knew there was a huge wet patch staining your underwear, and ND visibly took note. 

“Very good,” ND praised. It was simple, but enough, and it brought your confidence back. He patted his lap. “Sit.”

That one word turned you into a picture of obedience. You straddled his leg, your sticky and heated skin pleasantly bitten by the metal.  

“What else did you calculate?” You took off your bra then, and threw it to join the rest of your clothes.

“That you would be able to reach orgasm just like this.”

“Like how?” you asked coyly. 

“Hold on to me here,” ND instructed. He directed your hands to rest on his shoulders, the rough material of the trench coat beneath your palms. “Yes. Good.”

“Then?”

ND said your name in warning. You couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“You think this is funny,” ND commented flatly. He pinched your nipple, and it hurt. You yelped in surprise, and he shook his head – displeased. 

“Now take it, or get off of me. We don’t have all day.”

Your jaw dropped at his words, but your grip on him strengthened. “Fuck, okay.”

“You have the mouth of a pirate,” he added.

Leaned back in the seat, ND rested his hands on your hips and kept them there as you dragged your soaked pussy against the hard metal of his leg. You could hold on to ND as hard as you could and you’d break your own fingers before he’d feel a thing, so you used that to your advantage, riding his leg quick and rough while clinging to his shoulders for purchase. His bulk and solid weight made it so that he barely budged while you moved, but the seat squeaked rapidly, and it echoed throughout the cockpit along with your heavy breaths.

“Touch me, ND.”

It was almost comical how he looked down at where his hands were grabbing your rocking hips, then back up at you, like a huge question mark hung in the air above his head.

“Touch me here,” you clarified, guiding his hand to your chest. “Like what you did before, but not so hard.”

“Understood.”

ND took over then, your breasts held within his large fingers. You looked down, savoring the sight of his metal digits bending at the joints as he groped you. You kept rocking against his leg, your clit catching against the fabric of your underwear. Moans and whimpers fell freely from between your lips, and ND just sat there taking it all in as you continued to inch your way toward another orgasm. 

“You’re close again,” ND noted matter-of-factly. “I can tell. The sounds you make get breathier, and higher in pitch.” 

You were too far gone to make any type of comment back, sarcastic or otherwise, but he was right once again. You felt it in your toes, a tingle that shot all the way up your legs and to your chest where his fingers started to experimentally twist and pull at your nipples. It felt so good that you could cry, and after another few moments of the same repeated motions, you did. Tears of pleasure started to stream down your cheeks, and your pussy started to clench uncontrollably against his leg. Your legs quivered and your chest rapidly flexed with your breaths. Almost as if you’d forgotten who you were with, your head fell forward and you rested your cheek against the unscarred surface of his chest as you caught your breath.

ND spoke your name, and you shot up. 

“Sorry– I–”

“It’s all right,” he offered. “That was intense for you.”

Smug.

You ignored the comment and made it on your feet, but felt a huge wave of embarrassment come over you as you looked down to ND’s leg, where streaks of your release had made it through your underwear and ended up stained on the metal.

“Let me, uh, get that.” 

Despite your weak legs, you quickly redressed and ran over to the kitchen for a rag. Rather than heading right back to the cockpit, you took a moment to stand there in the daunting silence, a million thoughts bouncing around in your head. Did this actually fix anything? Or did this ruin everything? As if you’d been doused in ice-cold water, all of the pleasure you’d experienced and the thrum of adrenaline was gone in seconds, insead replaced with regret and concern. Everything came rushing back to the forefront of your mind, and mixed emotions with it all. ND-5 didn’t want you as part of the crew. He never did. He put up with you living on the Trailblazer and working the jobs with them because he trusted Kay, but that was it. You were a distraction, and now, arguably, you were an even bigger one. 

You didn’t want to take too long. When you finally came back, ND’s head followed your every move, and he continued to stare as you wiped him off. He couldn’t read your mind, but you knew how analytical he was. Calculating. Always assessing. It made you tense. 

Breaking the palpable silence, ND said your name for the fourth time. Not that you were keeping count.

“I don’t hate you.”

Caught by surprise, and suddenly a little irritable now, you backed away from him as if you'd been burned. You would have been angry before. Now, you felt lost. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

You tossed the rag to the side, somewhere you’d be able to remember to grab it to dispose of later.

“You are part of the crew,” he reminded you. “It does matter.”

You didn’t have anything else to say. In fact, you were so overwhelmed with too many emotions and feelings alike, that you just wanted to retreat to the semi-privacy of your bunk and wait it out until Kay came back to naturally break this newly uncovered tension.

“Come back here,” ND called after you. “We need to talk.”

You stopped in your tracks and whipped around to face him. After all these months, now he wants to talk? You were more confused now than anything, and didn’t really have the energy to be angry, but your defensive instinct to start swinging quickly took over.

“About what, ND? You say you don’t hate me, but you sure as hell don’t want me here.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you here. You are a dis–”

“A distraction, yes, you’ve said that. Message received, ND.” You shook your head dismissively, waving your hands in the air. “There isn’t much more to discuss.”

“I’m sorry.”

That was the first time you’d heard ND apologize to you for anything, and some of the stronger feelings diffused. ND’s heavy footfalls came toward you, and he said your name again, only this time, you truly listened.

“I meant it when I said that I resented saving you,” he began. “But you are here for a reason. I trust Kay, and she trusts you. That is enough for me.” 

“I see.” You look down at your boots. Your face felt hot again as you recalled what had started all of this. “And I didn’t intend for you to, uh, hear me.”

“I know that, and you cannot control how distracting you are.”

You shook your head, unable to hide the grin that grew on your lips. You plopped down into the pilot’s seat and looked up at ND. “Well, what now?”

“We work together to do our job,” he supplied, and took his place in his seat once again. A holomap appeared in a brilliant blue light, illuminating the cockpit. A few planets were at the forefront, the ones that ND had picked out. “Let’s get to work.”

You pulled up the same holomap on your end, but kept your eyes on your crewmate. “So, will you make it easier for me now?”

“Only if you stop being a brat.”

You chuckle. “I can’t make any promises.” 

ND audibly sighs, conceding with a head shake. “I didn't expect anything less.”

[slut4thebroken]

baby bat

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Scarecrow x Batgirl!reader

Summary | Scarecrow films a ransom video to send to Batman.

Warnings | Sexual content, 18+, smut, dubcon, vibrator, forced orgasm, overstimulation, kidnapping, nonconseual recording?, praise.

Words | 800+

Notes | I might make a part two but don’t hold your breath lol. Also for legal reasons, I own the rights to the nickname baby bat cause I came up with it and haven’t seen it used before 😼💅🏻

Ao3 link | <3

Fic Masterlist

Main Masterlist

“Where'd Batman find you, hm?” He placed a hand on your thigh, just above your knee, and started slowly dragging it up. 

“Don’t fucking touch me.” You growled, thrashing in the restraints. He let out a low chuckle and removed his hand. 

“So feisty. Is this your first time as a hostage?” You gritted your teeth and remained silent. “Oh, it is. Well, I’m honored to be your first.” You could tell he was smirking behind the mask. 

“I’ll admit, this isn’t how I would normally go about it, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.” He said, walking over to the desk to grab something. “Let’s get this out of the way first, then we’ll move onto the fun stuff.” As he walked back over, you could see now that what he grabbed was a vibrator and a video camera. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” He shushed you and ignored your thrashing as he attached the vibrator to your clothed heat. 

“It might not be as effective over your suit, but I imagine it’ll give a similar result.” He said and you couldn’t tell if he was talking to you or himself. “Let’s get you warmed up.” He switched it on and your back arched off of the reclined examination chair as your whole body tensed up with the sudden stimulation. You pulled on the restraints hard enough to make your wrists and ankles burn even through the suit. 

“Feel good?” He asked and you watched the way his head tilted down then back up, eyeing your body. You bit your lip to contain your sounds, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. 

“W-why aren’t you— fuck… using your toxin?” You choked out, trying not to moan through the words. 

“I told you, I’m saving the fun part for later.” He lightly trailed his fingers up your naval and between your breasts, only stopping once he reached the zipper of your suit. Since his hand was just below your face, you jerked your head forward, trying to bite him, but he moved away before you could and snickered in response, the sound through the voice modulator in his mask making you shiver. He opened up the camera and fiddled with it for a few seconds before a small light started flashing. 

“Say hi.” He cooed, making you turn your head away from him as you tried to keep the shaking of your body to a minimum. That was proving to be very difficult though because of your rapidly approaching orgasm. “So moody.” He chuckled. “I guess we’ll get right to it then. I need you to do something for me, Batman. If I’m satisfied.. I’ll let her go. If not… well I could use a pet.” You let out a strangled whimper and squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will the orgasm away. 

“I’ll send you the details soon. In the meantime… I’ll take good care of her, don’t worry. We’re gonna have so much fun, isn’t that right, baby bat?” He started rubbing your thigh again as he waited for a response. 

You tried to think about dead puppies, the scent of dead bodies, Bruce’s cooking— anything. But nothing could bring you down from the edge. The knot of arousal in your stomach finally snapped and you let out a loud moan as your back arched off the chair and your whole body tensed. 

“Oh, look at that.” He cooed mockingly. “Good girl.” You did your best to ignore the way his words ignited a new fire in your belly. When your orgasm faded and you sagged into the exam chair, you quickly tensed up again when the last little bit of pleasure quickly turned into overstimulation. You bit your lip to stifle your pained whimpers, but it barely made a difference. 

“Look at her twitch.” He said proudly. “Does it feel a little too good now?”

“F-fuck you.” You spat, but your voice was too breathless to have any kind of edge to it. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll get to that soon enough. Now, Batman, one last parting word; trust that by the time the next video finds you, she’ll still be in this predicament, so I’d work quickly if I were you.” He moved in closer to your face and grabbed your cheeks when you started turning away. “Say goodbye, baby bat.” When you remained silent, he chuckled and turned the camera off. 

“Good job. You make such a pretty captive.” It was hard to focus on his words— on anything really— with intense, painful pleasure on your clit. 

“Y-you’re going to let me go?” You whimpered and he froze. His head tilted slightly, making you more nervous. 

“You poor thing. I’m sorry if I gave you false hope, I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to believe me.” You let out a choked sob from his words and he cooed with faux sympathy. “I know. But soon enough you’ll grow to like it here. Just give it time, pet.” 

Part 2

[aziraphales-library]

hey i saw a “megamind good omens” fanfic and thought i had saved it to read later but now i can’t find it, am i crazy?? have you seen this? where did they come from where did they go

Hiya! There are a couple of different Megamind!AUs: Hereditary Enemies by Beckers_522 (series, T)

A Superhero's work is not for the faint of heart. Although he does not enjoy the bells and whistles that go along with it, Aziraphale knows it is his duty to protect the people of his city. He was given a unique gift, and to ignore that gift would be selfish, no matter how tempting his simple dream of owning a bookshop might seem some days. It isn't all bad. He has respect. Adoration from thousands of grateful citizens. A steady job with enough money to last him a lifetime. If only he could manage to keep his villain in check. The Serpent is a crafty one - clever and mysterious and somehow manages to wriggle his way out of every bit of trouble he finds himself in. If Aziraphale could find a way to stop him for good, maybe his boss would finally let him retire. If he could stop The Serpent, they wouldn't need him in The Host anymore and Aziraphale could spend his days with his tea and his books and maybe, if he were brave enough, that attractive red-haired man that owns the flower shop just down the road. All he has to do is figure out the source of his nemesis' powers and the life he's always wanted could finally be his. That shouldn't be too difficult for a hero his caliber. Should it?

The Serpent Under It by Fyre with art by Tarek_giverofcookies (series, T)

Some people are born great. Some have greatness thrust upon them. And some – at a few weeks old – are punted across the universe in an escape module to save them from their planet’s destruction. I never asked to be a supervillain. I just sort of ricocheted vaguely downwards.

- Mod C

[kiss-me-muchoo]

𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝 || 𝐌𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐎’𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐚 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲_you’ve been lost for a day, and Miguel is worried. And it’s all because you’re not a science girl, thankfully your boyfriend is there to help you with your biochemistry class. 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧����𝐧𝐠𝐬_age gap not specified (I’m 19, I can’t help it), idiot lovers, implied sex, fluff, Miguel best bf, civilian! shy! Insecure! reader, implied Mexican reader. 𝐀/𝐍_this is based on my favorite song of the movie, hummingbird. Listen to my playlist tho <3

♪ ♫ My Miguel O’Hara playlist. ✰ Index (+ fics here)

Hi, I might be busy, but leave a message. Love u…. *beep*

Miguel smiled, thinking the love u you had as a voicemail was only for him.

But soon he grew irritated. You hadn’t answered your phone for the whole day. You hadn’t even touched the device he had created for you to contact him through his gizmo.

“Why the sad face? Is it because your girl hasn’t answered?” Lyla asked appearing beside him. Miguel only eyed her.

“No.”

“Mmh… Even civilians have busy lives. Just because they aren’t spiders doesn't mean they don’t have responsibilities” the AI said trying to do a wise tone.

“I know, Lyla.” Huffed Miguel, clearly annoyed.

“Well. Then don’t worry, boss. Your girl is okay” You were smart, and Miguel knew you were fine. It only was strange, because you always answered.

“Oh, Peter and Gwen asked permission to come and see you” Once again, he rolled his eyes. Miguel could already hear a silly comment coming from Peter and Gwen cheering him.

“Tell them to be quick”

“On it, boss” With that Lyla disappeared.

Miguel could not wait to leave the HQ and call it a day.

…

By the time the sun was about to start fading, Miguel was able to finish a mission and report and leave everything ready for the next week. The HQ was okay and all the anomalies were safely contained.

He knew it would be easier to find you with his suit.

Most of the people in Nueva York lived in apartments, futuristic and minimalistic ones. Miguel lived in one of those. Until he met you.

Not so long ago, when an anomaly was causing chaos, he saved your life. An angry venom was about to devour you when he appeared.

He thought you were a kid. But later he learned it was your first year of college just when he was finishing his Ph.D...

Long short story, both fell in love at the very beginning of summer, but he waited.

He waited until turned twenty to be your boyfriend. Because your mother disapproved of him.

Your house was in a decent neighborhood. The street had these rectangular houses that were built upside down with long crystal windows and terraces as rooftops.

But you weren’t there.

Your window was open, but no signs of you.

“Damn it, where are you, y/n?” He mumbled, hanging from his bright web in your window.

Huffing, he activated his mask again and started balancing across the city.

He even thought about calling your father. As the man seemed to tolerate Miguel; offering beers and exchanging tastes in music at every gathering. But your boyfriend knew he didn’t have to worry.

Although Miguel didn’t possess a spider-sense, he knew you were not in danger.

And he almost missed to see your tiny silhouette.

He stopped on the balcony of an apartment complex.

The smell of coffee invades the whole avenue.

Your seating, alone. There’s a cup beside your laptop and a book is splayed. You seem very concentrated. Miguel thinks your furrowed brows and hand under your chin are cute.

Peace floods him after finding you.

Relief assaulted him when you started collecting your belongings. You thank the waitress and you leave, putting on your earphones, and carrying your big tote.

So he smirks.

You are humming one of your favorite songs, and finally, you finished all the modules of all your classes.

You can’t wait to go back home and call Miguel. You had missed him so much and-

“What the hell?” You yell as you are pulled towards an alley.

Miguel is there. Suit on, imposing height coming closer to you.

You cross your arms over the red shiny web around your waist.

“Oh look… You don’t own me from Lesley Gore started playing” you say with sarcasm, showing him your phone.

“You didn’t answer any of my calls” Deep down, you knew he was worried. And it made you feel guilty.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ve been busy with school” Suddenly, Miguel remembered you had started a new college semester. And everything made sense.

“Tough course in specific?” He asked, his mask disappearing to your eyes, meeting his gorgeous face.

“Uh—, actually… yes”

“Why you doubted?” You blushed. And more embarrassed you felt.

“I was struggling and I didn’t want to ask for help. Especially to you” Miguel was confused. His web let you go, but he came closer to you. The way he was so tall and broad made you feel like a rag doll, always having to look all the way up to him.

“And why is that?”…”

“Silly me completely forgot the biology of drugs was biochemistry in disguise” Miguel laughed. He actually laughed and to that point, you were red like a beetroot.

“You’re so stubborn, muñeca” The music had stopped at that point. Putting your phone inside your bag was a good idea to avoid his deep gaze.

“What? I don’t want you to know how much of an idiot I am. I’m not a science girl and you know that…” Miguel stopped smiling.

You had said in the past that you were ashamed. Because you weren’t special like him. You were just a normal girl living a boring life. While he was Spider-Man, he was the leader of a whole group of people like him. He had a job besides that. Miguel was successful, and you were soon to become something. Yet, you were lost.

“We’ve talked about this, y/n. I’m not with you for pity or something. I just happened to fall in love with the most sweet and caring woman I met in the middle of chaos” he had mentioned his late daughter. The mother wasn’t in the picture. Miguel never knew who was his partner in that universe.

And yeah, on Earth-929, he had seen this woman named Dana, but it didn’t last. He never felt in love.

“I know, Miguel. I know that very well, bebé” You pull him closer to you, and immediately your lips welcome him. He closes his eyes and completely leans towards you.

After missing you the whole day, he melts in your lips, savoring each second his skin is on yours. Allowing himself to feel happy.

“I would still look like a bimbo if you ever tried to help me” he laughed, a long laugh, before venturing again into your soft lips.

“Then I’d look like a himbo if you introduced me to arts and literature” both of you giggle, hugging in the middle of a dirty alley.

“Your parents are out?”

“Yeah. They went to visit my abuelita for the weekend. She’ll come next week so I declined the trip to stay and learn about enzymes” Your man nodded.

“I’ll take you home. And I’ll stay with you these days” The news made you really happy. Miguel had stayed with you before. But most of the time it was just a single night. You barely visited his apartment.

“Wait till my parents find out” As you giggle, he rolls his eyes.

“We can keep it a secret”

“Oh, so romantic of you” Miguel feels like a puppy when you start smooching his cheeks. He said he would never grow a beard because he didn’t like it. You had said loved him however he decided to look, but honestly, you really loved his clear face.

“Just for you, mi vida” When you met him, he was this grumpy giant who hated physical contact. Now, he was still a grumpy giant but loved physical contact, just yours of course.

“Wanna go watch the sunset?” He asks holding your waist. You nod, you would never say no.

“Hold tight” his strong arm envelopes your hips, and you hug him so tightly. And the pressure of being lifted appears suddenly, startling you.

As Miguel starts balancing across the city, he notices your head buried in his neck, which makes him smile under the mask.

“This isn’t new, muñeca. You are missing the view” Slowly, you open your eyes, but you don’t dare to move your head, the wind obstructing your view, but across your stubborn hairs, you can see Nueva York.

The lights of the cars, every single highway, the sounds of news on big screens. But the most beautiful view is Miguel and you and his arms. Every skyscraper is a mirror for you and your boyfriend. You can see how small you look compared to him.

As you start approaching your neighborhood, you have to close your eyes again.

You can feel how hard he loves you by the way he holds you as if his life depends on it.

“I don’t like the way my stomach churns every time we do this” you admit on his ear.

“Good to know we are already here, bebé” Pink, purple, orange, and yellow make your eyes collapse as you encounter the most beautiful sunset you’ve ever seen.

Miguel lets you go. He lets you walk across the rooftop and appreciates you for some seconds.

“It’s beautiful…” you almost whisper, referring to the sky.

“It is…” but he means it about you.

You were his miracle. A safe miracle that came in the most unexpected moment.

“It’s a fruit punch sunset…” You’re worried because you hear Miguel laughing again, which is weird. You turn around to encounter him smiling at you.

“Really? A fruit punch?” You’re blushing again.

“Okay… It’s a summer sunset” he knows you’re annoyed. Because he laughed earlier and now again.

“I’m sorry, mi chiquita. It’s a fruit punch sunset” he admits hugging you from behind.

His soft hair brushes your temple, and his hands around your stomach make you put yours on top of him.

“I love so much” he whispers.

“I love you too, Miguel” Everything was all too well with you. And he intended to keep it that way.

…

Again, that little scrunch you tended to do once you were stressed or highly concentrated.

“Okay… so enzymes are?…”

“Proteins.” You answer shyly.

“Correct”

“And where does the substrate bind with the enzyme?” He is testing you, and you don’t like it. But it’s for your own good.

“The activate site?”

“Good girl” You send him a bad look and he just chuckles.

“See? You’re not dumb, mi amor. You’re very smart” You bump your head with his shoulder.

Both of you are in the kitchen, on the table actually. All of your books are displayed with notes and pens.

“I really want to be done with requisites” Miguel sighed.

“I had to take three English courses when I was in college, y/n. And believe me, I wasn’t the most brilliant. My essays used to have red marks all over” you giggle.

“I don’t think so, you’re a genius”

“Just because I developed this thing with Lyla doesn’t mean I am a genius,” he said pointing at the gizmo in his wrist.

“Oh, Lyla. I miss her” you admit.

It had been a couple of weeks since you visited the HQ for the last time.

“I can take you next week. Actually, I’m strongly thinking that I might need help with the reports” proving that you were very smart, Miguel remembered the system you developed for the spiders to accommodate the reports filled after an anomaly attack.

“Oh stop it, Jessica said it would be fine”

“Jess had actually stated that having you would be very helpful” It surprised you.

“Really?”

“Yeah. A lot of people like having you around the HQ. Peter’s kid especially”

“Mayday?” Miguel nodded. Remembering how fussy the baby got after hearing your voice in a voicemail you had sent to your boyfriend.

“She’s a newborn, Miguel”

“So? She’s like two months old. She already knows you” you shrug. Remember the time you met Peter and how he told you his wife and he wanted to have a kid. A couple of weeks later he broke the news and you had crocheted the baby’s first plushie. A pink little spider girl.

“I love Mayday but don’t use her to make me your assistant” Miguel kissed your nose.

“Why would I do that, mi vida?”

“Because you’re a cheeky asshole” breaking a record, Miguel was laughing again.

“Ay, corazón. No seas así”

“I’ll think about working more time at the HQ. Qué tal?” He nods.

“That would make me very happy”

“Nah, you just want to have me around like your rag doll” Miguel smirked, so you gently punched his chest.

“I’m not in the mood to keep learning about DNA, enzymes, and monosaccharides” you admit rolling your eyes and pushing your head back in the chair.

“Well, I’m in the mood to teach you anatomy now” Your eyes widen, and you start giggling.

“Fine. But not on the couch. Last weekend Mom was this close to finding my ripped panties under the pillows” Miguel couldn’t help but laugh at your index and thumb almost brushing.

“Don’t worry. I won’t throw away your panties. But for sure I’ll rip them apart”

“See? Cheeky asshole”

“I’m just being honest” You would never get tired of how serious Miguel sounded every time. Even when he was saying nasty things. It was in his nature to be sassy.

“Yeah, yeah. Now take me to bed and do what you’re good at” Carrying you in his arms, he hurried to take you to bed.

He gently placed you over the sheets. And before anything, he made sure to show how much he loved you. By kissing your lips like he always used to.

“Miguel?” You ask suddenly.

“Yes, preciosa?”

“I think I forgot everything about steroids… Oh no,” you want to face-palm yourself.

“It’s okay. I’ll make you remember everything, muñeca” As his kisses traveled through your jaw and neck, you relaxed. Finally, let the heat flow across your body.

“First thing, steroids help growth energy, metabolism, and reproduction, bonita” reproduction, naughty ideas start to cross your mind.

Like the morning your parents left to get some things for a gathering, and he had you sweating and crying under him on your floor carpet. But beyond that, you only have eyes for your Miguel. The only thing you seem to need in life.

Your strong and beautiful geneticist boyfriend.

You are unsure of how you ended up by his side. Dating the infamous Spider-Man, visiting the HQ of the Spider Society, and dealing with everything all together.

And he held you tightly the whole night.

Even when things would change in less than a year. With new piers joining, Miguel growing obsessed with keeping in harmony the spider-verse, grieving his past. And how he would traumatize a teenager in hopes of saving everything. Miguel would see you dying thanks to the spot, and the only way of preventing that was making you a spider too. The changes after that would be big. Even with all of that, both of you thought the same; you were in the correct pair of arms, and hopefully, you’d stay long. If not, forevermore.

____________

special mentions_ @freehentai

[dat-physics-gal]

A leap of faith and physics

We thought for a civilization to form, one needed liquid water, a stable planet with a hot core, and tardium crystals. Apparently, this is not so.

Because we just received a vibromessage over the tachyon network from an unknown source.

Which in itself would not be too unusual. Plenty of newly realized civilizations figure out how to configure tardium to send tachyon messages across isospace. Hoping someone will answer. We always do. It always takes some time to go from simple repeating messages to understanding one another. Most civilizations don't come up with the galactic standard modulation on their own. Nor do we know their form of communication all that well, language, culture, all of that.

First contact is always a lengthy affair, until the new species is integrated into the intergalactic community. Then follows the exchange of knowledge and culture, the setting up of historical archives and sharing of starcharts. Since light travels only at luxionic speed, the charts provide a valuable look at the past. Once the new civilization has been caught up to date, things tend to settle. Updates are fewer and far in between, and culture tends to somewhat homogenize. Not completely, of course, as everyone has different living circumstances, but with all the exchange between us, some settling is bound to happen.

But we know where tardium reserves are, have felt the reverb of our scans, we know where civilizations could potentially pop up. The message we received was unusual not because its source was unknown, but because it came from a sector without any sufficient tardium deposits.

That... shouldn't even be possible!

The signal is also a bit noisy. Strange. Usually, the bigger the tardium array, the more self-stabilization should occurr. And for interstellar communication, you tend to need quite large arrays. So then why was there so much noise?

It was clearly a signal, and according to the triangulators, it came from the outer third of a dark spiral galaxy. We call them that, since they were never really observed, at least not with any isocartography. We only know they're there due to shared star charts. No idea what's going on with them at the current isotime. We can't know, without any tardium resonance to pick up.

Anyway, of course we answered. Their signal had been prime numbers, if we demodulated it correctly, followed by things we couldn't really make sense of. It was standard practice to begin communications with mathematics, and fundamental harmonics. It's strange that they did that right away, but not unheard of. We sent back primes, and then a couple of playful harmonics. Music. What we received back was weird, because we thought it was music, but it wasn't.

It turned out to be a starchart, and not just any kind. Pulsars. We sent back a chart of their galaxy, as reconstructed from several older starcharts. Then, we waited for their answer. And waited. And waited. An entire solar cycle (of our species) later, we finally got another answer.

And it just would not stop. We recognized it was a series of images, or rather, rapid successions of images, together with harmonics on a different band as well. This was video! The footage depicted a bipedal species, with symbolics next to different features. The images cycled through different body parts, with different descryptions. We had a really hard time catching and saving all the data, a task which had to be offloaded to the communal computation grid, as our own planet simply did not have the capacity to do it alone. This should have tipped us off to what we were going to be dealing with, but it didn't.

We continued, almost business as usual, just a fair bit faster. Then objects were being shown, often together with the bipedals, and their corresponding glyphics were depicted right next to them. Also, each image was accompanied by a sound file. They really made learning their language easy for us. We learned that they called themselves Humans, and their home was Earth, a planet orbiting a yellow star. They were a surface dwelling species! Those are pretty rare, as most can not survive the exposure to open space for some reason. We then sent back images and glyphics of our own, matching them in their intent. We sent images of life forms, images of our own body parts, images of objects and always accompanied by isostandard glyphics.

Usually, once communication has come to a basic understanding, the exchange of culture would begin.

But the Humans had started out with primes and starcharts, so of course, their next communication wasn't about culture. We... honestly didn't know what exactly it was, for a while. Until some of the mathematicians from across the network found patterns. They were sharing mathematics with us!

Eager to help, we sent back entire databases full of insights. They requested more soon. So we sent more. And more. And more. We wondered how they could even store all that we sent them. We asked. They sent back something we didn't understand. We hoped the mathematicians could figure it out, but nope.

Eventually, we sent steam engine configurations, as well as the corresponding heating and shunting tardion-arrays used to power them. They sent back their own designs for steam engines. And other engines that seemed similar, but shoudn't work with steam. The machine configurations, piston layouts and such, were fairly primitive. As was to be expected from a new species. But they never sent us schematics of their heating or shunting arrays. When we asked how they kept things cool without shunting arrays, they sent back another steam engine. But, when we called it that, they corrected us. What they had shown us was a heat pump. They used the opposite effect, instead of creating movement from a temperature difference, they created a temperature difference from movement. We asked them why they wouldn't just use shunting arrays. They asked what those were.

And this is how we found out why they were in dark space. Why their signal was so noisy. And why they had never depicted heating or shunting arrays in their schematics.

They had practically no tardium. They simply did not have enough of it to make arrays, as we thought all civilizations do. The largest piece of tardium they had was the centerpiece of a gigantic machine. It was about the size of a human "nail", which is a vestigial claw originally used for superior grip on one of the native plant species of their planet.

We did not know how to respond. We could not comprehend how a civilization could form without tardium crystals. They asked us if we knew where more could be found, preferably near them. We didn't understand what they meant. Then they asked us how to locate reserves. We gave them the modulations that we use to scan for the crystals' tachyon resonance.

They thanked us, and ceased their questions. Then, communication became choppy. Only occasionally would we receive an exchange of culture. Their questions about mathematics and tardium crystals ceased.

---------------------

When we first received back an answer from the deep space tachyon dish, we were extatic. And shocked. And kind of in disbelief. Nobody had really known if it would work. Still, everyone in the control room agreed that we should make sure it was really a signal, before we dropped that bombshell to the public.

We focused a couple more dyson collectors onto the dish, and changed the signal. Instead of primes and harmonics, this time, we encoded the pulsar chart, multiple times, in every encoding we could think of, and sent them all.

Only a few hours later, we received another signal from the previous location. The encoding was our own, easily recognized. With shaky hands, i pressed the 'open image file' button.

When i was greeted by a picture of the Milky Way, everyone in the room lost their collective shit.

"Holy Fuck!" "Oh my god." Someone fainted. Multiple people cried. Nobody minded any of that.

~~~

The prime administrator creased her brow. The direct line was ringing. This better be important. "Hello? Prime administrator here." From the other end, she could hear someone suppressing tears, and whimpering: "Tachyon dish project operator here. We... we."

"Everything ok over there?", she asked. What could possibly have happened that had the scientist crying? Was there an accident with the dyson swarm or something? Did people die? No, she trusted the operator of that experiment to not call unless it mattered to the entire human race.

A wet chuckle. "Better than ok. Maam? We... We're not alone."

Not alone? What does that...? Oh. OH! oh

"Are.. you sure?" Dammit. Now even her own voice was shaking.

"We sent a pulsar chart and got a beautiful image of the Milky Way back, in the same image file type. Pretty sure at this point."

~~~

The following year was downright insane. The mere confirmation that we weren't alone in the universe spurred us all on. Artists did their best to show all sides of us, scientists got together to determine what questions we should ask, even the long obsolete military awakened from its slumber, churning out tactical analyses of possible tachyon based weaponry, and how to defend against it.

Some people were panicking, others in denial, but most relished the opportunities that might open up.

Policies were made, on how to handle aliens that would come to the solar system. Tachyon mechanics, an until now unproven theory, made leaps and bounds, scientists working as hard as they could to understand it better.

The dyson collectors were turned to multiple new research projects, powering large machines that channeled vibrations into the tiny crystals we had found to pick up on tachyon vibrations. The largest one that we had discovered while asteroid mining was still in the communication dish, but the smaller shrapnel, a couple millimeters in size at the most, were being utilized.

Eventually, after a year was up, communications resumed. The linguists sent data, and worked closely with the astronomers that had made the initial transmissions. We also received back data, and the scientific community devoured every piece of information. We learned their language as fast as we could.

But our requests for the sharing of scientific knowledge appeared to fall on deaf ears. Whenever we sent natural constants, or physical laws, we got nothing back. Well, almost. Our prodding did yield one answer: How to locate the crystals. Which were apparently common? Though our scans painted a different picture. We did have some scattered about the asteroid belt, yes. But the largest one we detected was only 3cm in diameter. A little bigger than the one in the communication dish, sure, but not that much.

We came to accept this, figuring that maybe there was some kind of prime directive that forbade the sharing of further technology. Actually, perhaps we leaned a bit too far into our Star Trek analogy. Because most of us would not get it out of our heads to try to build a warp drive. Well, not really a spacetime bending drive, but something that could go faster than light. Because, obviously, thanks to our discovery, we now knew that while the speed of light may be finite, the speed of information was not.

-----------------------------

After ten cycles of cultural exchange, the humans sent a request for isocoordinates of the nearest known civilization to their own. This request kind of drowned in the noise, we didn't really think about it much, we just transmitted our coordinates. Turns out, the nearest ones were us, in what the Humans call the Andromeda Galaxy.

Shortly after the request, they went totally vibrosilent. We tried and tried to contact them, but to no avail. This, while tragic, was a reality of civilization, though. Extinction events could always happen. Sometimes the affected civilization would realize in advance and send a couple warnings, but nobody could help them from afar, of course. So that's what we figured happened to Humanity. Maybe their sun blew up, or they got knocked away from it by a passing object, anything could have happened.

Many cycles passed. I had aged, my once young and springy exoskeleton now wobbly and soft, though my mind was still sharp enough to crew a communications array.

None of us were prepared for the schockwave resonating through our sensor grids. Multiple arrays straight up shattered. Luckily, as big as they were, there was nobody close to them, so no deaths. What the rest of them picked up though made no sense. We could determine there was a pulse, but no normal communication had that level of power, nor resonance.

Then, half a planetary rotation later, there was a new luminance in the sky. We were about to renew our arrays and update our starchart, when the light source moved. Toward the planet.

What?

And then, my assigned communications array resonated.

"This is the Human vessel Enterprise, calling anyone on the planet. Can you read us?" the crystal sang in choppy English, the language of the Humans. The ones we thought were extinct.

I scuttled to my post at the resonator, tuning it to reply:

"This is communications, we read you, but i don't understand? We are recovering from an unprecedented resonance pulse that shattered multiple arrays, sorry if the modulation is a bit off."

The answer was swift: "Sorry about that, our engines are a bit out of tune at this point. That pulse might have been us. Glad to hear you all down there, is anyone injured?"

"Your engines? And uh. No, nobody injured."

"Yes our engines, again, we apologize for that. But glad to know everyone is alright.

Requesting permission to land on the surface."

This was a momentous occasion, which i didn't realize until later on. The entire tachyon network would eventually refer to this exact communication as a reference time. This exact moment would come to be known as 0:0 PFJ

0 Cycles and 0 rotations Past First Jump.

The only thing i remember is absently giving permission, not quite understanding what exactly they were requesting here. If i had, i would have convened with the councils beforehand.

Then, the cave began to shake. It wasn't coming from any of the arrays. It was coming from the surface.

~~~

They. They were here. The Humans were here. On the surface. Of. Of our planet. What? How?!

Most importantly, why?!

Then i remembered the stories about their exploration of the surface of their own planet. How they had sent people to their poles, despite their biology not being fit to survive there. And several did die! How they climed mountains. Made pressurized vessels to dive below the surface of their open ocean. We asked them why. They told us.

I realized at that moment, not how they were here. But why.

"Because we could, and no human had been there before," they had answered back then.