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carnalcrows · 27 days ago

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The one with the Scandal

pariring: rockstar! male OC x male reader [profile]

summary: You’re not dating him. You don’t even like him like that. He’s younger. He’s your job. He’s also apparently into fixing your collar, looking at you like you’re his, and letting the entire fanbase run with it. You’re just trying to not get fired. He’s making it really hard.

content warnings: 18+, idol/manager dynamic, bottom male reader, Jiho is younger but he is in control, reader is spiraling professionally but holding it together (barely), scandal via leaked video, yandere tendencies if you squint, oral (reader receiving), Jiho calls the reader Hyung, someone is watching. also: subtle HR violations and bad decisions made in very quiet hallways.

word count: 3.1k

White Eclipse’s manager's job description didn’t include “babysit rockstars,” but here you were at 6:47 a.m., standing outside the dorm in socks, trying to get a key card to work while someone inside was blasting what could only be described as sad trap piano.

You didn’t bother knocking. They never heard it anyway.

The door opened a beat later—Jiho, hoodie half-on, eyes still sleepy, holding a toothbrush like it was a weapon.

“Oh,” he said, voice rough. “Thought you were food.”

You blinked. “It’s me.”

He nodded. “Right.”

Then he just… stepped aside to let you in.

No apology. No explanation.

You used to be surprised by things like that. Not anymore. It’d been seven months since you took over as White Eclipse’s full-time manager. Seven months of group chats at 2 a.m., misplaced earrings, broken in-rooms, passive-aggressive silence in makeup chairs. You were barely keeping the group running. You didn’t have energy left for things like normal boundaries.

Jiho wandered back down the hall. You followed, because your job required it. Not to hover, just to check the morning schedule—radio taping, press call, one-on-one interview for Juhwan. Makeup in twenty.

“You slept?” you asked, mostly to check.

Jiho shrugged. “Eventually.”

“Eat something before we go.”

He didn’t answer, which usually meant no.

You sighed, already noting it down in the log.

⋆｡°✩

The van ride was quiet, except for Doyun humming aggressively off-key to a song no one else liked. You were seated up front, checking your tablet, trying to remember if anyone had confirmed Jiho’s brand outfit for the shoot. You didn’t hear him move until he leaned forward between the seats.

“Hyung,” he said. His breath ghosted the side of your neck, too close.

You didn’t flinch, but your fingers stilled.

“Yes?”

“You left your charger last time.”

He held it out—your USB-C cable, neatly wrapped.

You blinked. “You… kept it?”

He gave a half-shrug. “Figured you’d come back for it eventually.”

Then sat back like nothing happened.

You turned toward the window. The city rolled by in silence. You didn’t say thank you.

You weren’t sure you wanted to know what else he was keeping track of.

⋆｡°✩

The radio taping was delayed by forty minutes. Not that anyone told you until you were already standing in the green room, watching the stylist re-iron Taeyang’s shirt while Juhwan paced like he was on trial.

You were half-listening to a PD explain the new segment structure when Jiho appeared beside you again—like he always did, like gravity.

He didn’t say anything. Just handed you a bottle of water.

You took it automatically.

A few seconds passed before you glanced over.

“…This isn’t mine,” you said.

“It’s cold,” he replied. “You like it that way.”

You blinked, unsure how to respond to that.

He didn’t stick around for a reaction—just walked back to the couch and sat, legs crossed, earbuds in, expression unreadable as ever. Like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just said something small and specific enough to stick in your brain like a splinter.

You told yourself it was normal. He probably remembered from a post-schedule snack run. He was observant. That was all.

It didn’t mean anything.

But when the boys were being ushered into the booth, he lingered again.

Waited until the others were out of earshot.

Then said, “You looked tired yesterday.”

Your hand paused on the equipment list.

“…That’s not part of your job description.”

Jiho gave a half-smile. Small. Secret.

“Neither’s remembering your charger.”

You didn’t smile back.

You wanted to.

You didn’t.

⋆｡°✩

That night, you stayed at the company building longer than you meant to. Not unusual—schedules had to be reshuffled, the stylists were panicking about a delivery delay, and someone had somehow misplaced two of Doyun’s in-ear backups despite the fact that you’d personally labelled them in obnoxiously bold font last week.

By the time you packed your bag, the halls were half-dark and the lights in the vocal practice room were still on.

You almost didn’t look.

You almost walked straight past.

But you didn’t.

Jiho was there. Again.

Seated on the floor, guitar in his lap, hoodie sleeves pushed up. His face was lit only by the screen of his phone, and he looked so relaxed—so out of uniform—that it threw you off for a second.

He didn’t see you right away. But the second you stepped into the room; his fingers stilled on the frets.

He looked up. And didn’t look away.

“…You live here now?” you asked dryly, trying not to let your voice give anything away.

“Only if you do,” he said, which wasn’t funny, but it made your mouth twitch anyway.

You sat on the bench near the wall, just to rest for a minute. Just to breathe.

Jiho shifted slightly, setting his guitar down.

“They let you have solo schedules today?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Temporary probation.”

He hummed. “For what?”

You gave him a look. “You really want me to spell it out?”

“I want to know what they think happened.”

His tone wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t particularly curious, either. Just steady. Like he was testing something.

You didn’t answer.

He stood slowly and crossed the room, not close, not quite, but just enough that the air changed.

“I know what I felt Hyung,” he said.

Your jaw tightened. “You can’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m your manager.”

He smiled, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Not lately.”

That sat in the space between you, heavy and uncomfortable and true.

You stood up, suddenly. Bag over your shoulder. Shoes already pointed toward the door.

Jiho didn’t stop you. Didn’t move. Just said, quiet and sure,

“Then what are you still doing here?”

⋆｡°✩

You’re already at the studio before the sun finishes rising, two iced Americanos in hand, and neither of them are for you.

The schedule’s stacked—two back-to-back interviews, followed by a commercial shoot, and then a fitting for a brand collab you only got confirmation for at midnight. You don’t even realise you’ve been typing out emails with your neck tilted and your jaw clenched until someone passes behind you and mutters, “Hyung, you’re gonna shatter your teeth.”

It’s Doyun.

You don’t respond. Just hand him one of the coffees and tell him to finish it before makeup.

Jiho’s the last one out of the van when you arrive at the venue. Hoodie up, expression blank, one earbud in. He doesn’t speak until the others have wandered off in different directions. You’re halfway to the front doors, double-checking a logistics note, when he suddenly says behind you, “You forgot your charger... again.”

You stop walking.

“I didn’t.”

He holds it up anyway. Neatly wrapped. Slightly warm, like he kept it in his pocket.

“Don’t leave your stuff around if you don’t want me touching it,” he adds.

It’s not flirtatious. Not playful.

Just a little… too direct.

You take it from him without meeting his eyes.

By the time the day wraps, you’ve been on your feet for nearly eleven hours, you’re starving, and you’ve answered the same three questions from the same sponsor rep three separate times.

You’re in the back hallway finishing a call when the door beside you creaks open.

Jiho again.

Of course.

He doesn’t say anything. Just leans against the wall next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.

“Is there a reason you’ve been following me around like a ghost today?” you ask, keeping your voice flat.

“Maybe.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not subtle.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

There’s a beat of silence between you.

“You know they’re already watching,” you say quietly. “Even if nothing happens.”

He shrugs. “Then let them.”

You stare straight ahead. If you look at him now, you might say something you can’t take back.

He leaves without another word.

⋆｡°✩

It starts the next morning, before you’re even fully awake.

Your phone lights up with a buzz sharp enough to break through sleep, and the notification preview makes your blood run cold.

You don’t open it at first.

You already know what it is.

You sit up in bed, screen half-lit, and there it is:

A video.

Low-res, muted, zoomed in from somewhere behind the practice room window.

You, standing in front of Jiho.

Him, fixing your collar like he’s done it a hundred times before.

You, frozen.

Him, looking at you like no one else exists.

WHO is that? he looks like STAFF??? That’s the manager hyung. I’ve seen him in airport vids. They’re so domestic, what the hell 😭😭 The way he looks at him, oh my god, he’s SO GONE idc if it’s fake, this is the best ship in K-pop rn

It’s only ten seconds.

But that’s all it takes.

You can’t breathe.

The DMs are already coming in. Three calls from PR. One from someone in legal. Your group chat with the other managers is blowing up, and your name is already trending.

You close the app.

Open your notes app.

Start typing an apology that no one’s asked for yet.

Jiho.

Then you stop.

Because your phone buzzes again.

A single text.

[ come up to the roof.]

You stare at it.

Ignore it.

Then, against your better judgment, you go.

⋆｡°✩

The rooftop is quieter than you remember.

It’s probably not even technically accessible—some intern left the door propped open during a late-night smoke break once, and now everyone pretends it’s still locked. You used to come up here alone. That was before. Before the video. Before the call from PR. Before your name started appearing in the trending bar.

Now Jiho’s already here, hoodie sleeves bunched up to his elbows, fingers curled around a can of grape soda that’s starting to sweat through the aluminium. He looks like he hasn’t moved in an hour. Like this isn’t the first time he’s sat here, waiting for you.

You shut the door behind you.

He doesn’t turn to look at you immediately. Just nods toward the railing beside him.

You don’t sit.

“You saw it?” you ask.

He hums in response. You’re not sure if that’s a yes or a who hasn’t?

“You’re not panicking.”

He finally turns. There’s no smile. No bite. Just his usual unreadable calm.

“Should I be?”

You almost laugh, sharp and humourless. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I know.”

He tosses the soda can into the nearby bin without looking. Deadcentrer.

You cross your arms. “They’re going to kill this. Quietly. I’m already off the schedule for next week.”

“I noticed.”

You expect a flicker of regret. Frustration. Some trace of guilt.

You get none.

Instead, Jiho steps closer—not aggressive, just deliberate. There’s no camera up here. No PR team. No lighting cues or stylists, or handlers. Just him. Just you.

“They think we’re together,” he says, voice low.

You don’t answer.

“Maybe we should be.”

You look away. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what, Hyung?”

“Say things you can’t take back.”

He’s close enough now that you can feel the warmth from his body—his chest rising slowly, steadily. He doesn’t try to touch you. That would be too easy. Too obvious. Instead, he just stands there like gravity, like inevitability.

“I’ve been waiting for something to break,” he says, quieter now. “I just didn’t think it’d be a ten-second clip.”

You inhale through your nose. Try to stay steady.

“I’m older than you,” you say.

“So?”

“I’m your manager.”

He leans in—not touching, not yet.

“Not today.”

The silence between you hangs, taut and electric.

Then you walk away.

You don’t run.

But you don’t look back.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t answer his messages after that.

Not because you don’t want to. You just don’t trust yourself to say something that won’t get screenshotted and sent to HR. You spend the rest of the day buried in logistics—flipping through updated schedules, emailing photographers, pretending your phone isn’t buzzing every hour with a new article, a new fan edit, a new speculative thread. You don’t see Jiho for the rest of the day, and you let yourself believe maybe that rooftop conversation didn’t mean anything.

Then he shows up at your apartment.

It’s late—past midnight. You’re wearing an old shirt and mismatched socks, half-asleep, when the intercom buzzes. You think it’s a food delivery at first. You didn’t order anything. But when you answer, all you hear is—

“Hyung— It’s me.”

You don’t open the door right away. You hesitate. Long enough to consider what this will mean if you do.

But when you finally unlock it, he’s standing there. Hoodie off. Cap gone. Just Jiho—his real face, glasses slightly fogged from the night air. He looks calm. Like he’s been here before.

You don’t ask him why he came. You don’t need to.

He steps inside like he’s done it before, like this is normal— hoodie slung over one shoulder, hair pushed back messily from his face. He looks like he belongs here, even though you’ve never invited him in, not really. You tell yourself you’re only letting this happen because you’re exhausted. Because there’s no one else around. Because you’ve already been dragged into the narrative, so what’s one more mistake?

But you know better.

You always have.

You lock the door behind him and turn to find him watching you like he’s memorising something.

“You always leave it open when you’re nervous,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“The collar. You don’t button the top one. You fidget with it when you’re trying not to look at me.”

You don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

Jiho walks past you—through the short hallway, into the living room, casual like he’s heading for the kitchen. He doesn’t. He stops at the edge of the couch and looks back.

“You gonna keep pretending?”

You cross your arms defensively. “Pretending what?”

“That you don’t want me to stay.”

That lands harder than you expect. Not because he’s wrong. But because you’ve been trying so hard to keep that exact thing from showing on your face for weeks.

And maybe you haven’t been as successful as you thought.

When you don’t answer, he turns fully. Walks up to you slowly, deliberately, until the heat from his body reaches your chest and you have nowhere else to go.

He touches the collar of your shirt. Just the fabric. No skin. Yet.

“You should stop wearing this,” he murmurs.

“Why?”

“Because I want to take it off.”

Your breath catches. He hears it. You know he does.

Then, carefully, he undoes the top button. Then the next. You don’t stop him.

“You’re shaking,” he says softly.

You didn’t even realize.

“I—Jiho, this is—”

“Too late.”

He steps forward. Presses his mouth to yours—once, slow and sure. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push. But there’s heat behind it. Control. Like he’s waited long enough, and he’s not going to let you talk your way out of it now.

You kiss him back.

⋆｡°✩

He leads you to the bedroom without speaking, only touching you where he needs to—your wrist, your hip, the small of your back. You sit on the edge of the bed, and he kneels without hesitation, hands sliding up your thighs, eyes locked on yours.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he tells you. “But you don’t get to lie to me either.”

You nod.

That’s all he needs.

Jiho peels your pants down with practised fingers, pushing them past your hips, then your briefs. You’re already half-hard, pulse thudding like your body’s already a step ahead of your thoughts.

He leans in. Licks a slow stripe up the underside of your cock.

Your hands twitch at your sides. You don’t touch him. Not yet.

He doesn’t look up when he takes you into his mouth. Just sinks down, slow and steady, jaw relaxed like he’s done this a dozen times—maybe not for anyone else, but in his head, you’re sure he’s thought about it. Over and over.

His tongue presses firmly along the base. His lips seal around you, and he moans—soft, like it’s for him, not you. The vibration makes your knees buckle.

He takes his time. Pulls off to suck at the head, just enough to make you gasp. Then down again—deeper, sloppier now, until your cock hits the back of his throat and he still doesn’t stop.

You manage his name. Once. Barely.

His hands grip your thighs, firm and steady, keeping you in place. He sucks you down again and again, never breaking eye contact, never faltering. He wants you to watch. To know exactly how far he’s willing to go.

When you start to lose control—hips stuttering, breath slipping—he only tightens his hold and hums around you again. That pushes you over.

You come with a choked breath, your hand in his hair, every nerve lit up. He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t spill a drop.

When it’s done, when your heart’s still racing and your fingers are trembling, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like it’s nothing.

Then he leans in again, not to kiss you, but just to speak.

Voice low. Calm. Possessive.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “you’re going to beg for it.”

⋆｡°✩

You wake up before your alarm.

The light in your bedroom is pale, soft, barely filtered through your blinds. The air is cool against your skin, your sheets kicked halfway off the bed, your body still aching in that strange, satisfying way. Not sore. Just… used. Thoroughly.

Jiho is still asleep beside you.

His hand is curled against the pillow, palm up, fingers relaxed like he has nothing left to chase. His mouth is parted slightly. His hair’s a mess. One leg is tangled with yours beneath the blanket.

You lie there for a moment, still and quiet.

You don’t know what time he fell asleep. You don’t know if he meant to stay. You don’t even know if he thinks this was a one-time thing or the start of something. You should care.

You do care.

You just don’t know what to do with it yet.

Eventually, you get up. Carefully. Quietly.

You don’t leave the room, just stand near the doorway, shirt half-on, trying to figure out what you’re supposed to feel. It doesn’t feel like a victory. Or relief. It just feels inevitable.

You reach for your phone out of habit. You’ve got two unread messages.

One from your replacement manager, asking if you’re available for a rescheduled meeting later in the week.

And one from an unknown number.

[hope you enjoyed last night. This is just the beginning.]

No context. No name. But your stomach drops anyway.

You read it again.

And again.

Behind you, Jiho shifts in the sheets.

You don’t turn around.

Not yet.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev @s1llygo0s3 @crazydirectioner2000-blog @thestarsallowed @honey-valentin3 @academiq @gaozorous-rex-blog @idkmissgurl @sa1ki-deactivated20250510@sooniebby @seomn

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oglobalmart · 2 years ago

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#20W USB Wall Charger #Type C PD Fast Charging #Dual USB Port Portable #Phone Charger

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foone · 1 year ago

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AAA games? Pfft. Indie games? Double pfft.

I only play games from the alternate history where Hillary Clinton was elected in 2008 and banned all video games. You can only imagine how weird their underground gaming scene is. People like to call unlicensed games "bootlegs" but they've got actual bootlegged games! I've played games about helping your grandmother in hospice care realize she's a lesbian by reading Sappho to her, at 2am in a speakeasy in Baltimore. The cops raided it the next night, hundreds of Gamers were arrested. They posted pictures all over Friendster of the Baltimore PD destroying the arcades with axes.

I nearly got busted once because I was imaging old disks from a 386 and someone tipped off the gaming cops that there was a copy of Commander Keen in there. I had to prove that I didn't know it, I was imaging the disks blind and then indexing them later, and I would of course turn over any contraband to the proper authorities.

I was already on a watch list because I'd been known to have some gamedev-related activities pre-ban. They can't arrest me for making games back in 2007 when it was still legal, but they do want to keep an eye on me since I have the skills to break the law.

Anyway that universe's bootlegs are mainly PC games. Can't really have console games if there hasn't been a console release since the Wii/PS3/360 era. At one point Nintendo threatened to release the Wii SDK so game devs in the US could make unlicensed games, but that didn't happen as there were quickly no functional Wiis left in the US, except for very rare holdouts that never move. PC games are easy to distribute samizdat and hide on a USB stick or CD-R labeled "nickelback".

Japan's games industry is still going, so the later Nintendo and Sony consoles still exist, but Microsoft got out of the business of course. They sold the franchise to Sega who were hoping to release the 360 successor (the Xbox One in our universe) as the Sega Phoenix but it never materialized, either through their own financial incompetence or because of pressure from the US. There's a lot of international treaties that the US has pushed "and this aid only goes through if you ban games" clauses into. That would have been an official UN resolution if the USSR hadn't vetoed it. For once, thank God for the security council, eh?

I mainly get my gaming news through Japanese gaming sites (through a set of VPNs, since they're blocked at the border firewall), and some tor onion site run by a weird guy in Minnesota who is obsessed with documenting all the underground US games.

There's a lot being worked on, but it's always a tricky trade off. Too much attention and the police might be able to track down the creators, and it's basically impossible to fund underground games, as the VISA/PayPal etc funds get seized immediately. There's a whole task force for that.

Anyway one of the weirdest differences between our two time lines is that they've gone back and edited out gaming from a bunch of movies. Those that they can, of course. War games was just banned because they couldn't remove the tic tac toe ending. The Net just removed the scene at the beginning where she's playing Wolfenstein 3D, by recording some new screen footage and a new voice over. She's fixing a spreadsheet in the new edition.

(Yes, I've seen The Net from this alternate timeline. On Laserdisc, of course. I'm just that kind of person!)

They even edited Star Wars. You know that scene where R2-D2 is playing holochess with Chewie? They edited it to be a board game instead of holograms, because that made it too "video gamey".

Technically it's not illegal to show gaming in a movie, but it needs to be an 18+ film and you have to show the deleterious effects of gaming and/or the gamesters coming to a bad end.

This has affected films less than you'd think, to be honest. They were never great about showing video games even before they banned them.

Anyway, go have fun playing your AAA games with hundred-million-dollar budgets. I only play indie games made by people under a constant threat of arrest for their art.

#Video games #Unreality

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mangionebabymama · 4 months ago

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Official Inventory report from Altoona PD

from r/BrianThompsonMurder

It reads:

- red notebook manifesto and multiple handwritten notes

- 9mm black ghost handgun

- US passport / maryland ID / 3 cards debit/credit for Luigi Mangione

- homemade 3d printed silencer

- 1 9mm magazine with 13 rounds 3 hollow point

- US currency $7,807

- foreign currency $1620

- AAA batteries / wired headphones / 16 gb sandisk

- Polaroid digital camera with a mini storage drive.

- medical mask / watch/ pen / rope / flashlight / .67 cents

- USB from wallet

- USB on necklace

- CVS receipt

- USB x2 / mini SIM card

- pocket knife / screwdriver / [baggies?] and zipties

- best buy receipt

- greyhound bus ticket philly to pitt

- fake NJ id / quik trip ticket / visa gift card

- 2 hand written notes

- medical face mask 25 count

- handwritten note from backpack

- iphone with SIM card

- macbook pro laptop

- black jacket

- green jacket / brown beanie / blue gloves, black belt, black underarmour leggings

- black backpack / clothing / hair clippers / food wrappers

- wireless earphones

- black shoes

- black jeans

- black neck gaiter

#luigi mangione #luigi news

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adafruit · 6 months ago

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BIG BIG rainbows on "Sparkle motion" WLED driver board 🌈💡

We got our WLED-friend PCBs

https://blog.adafruit.com/2024/12/02/leftovers-layout-wled-board-revision-a-completed/

and are testing it with various LED grids. First, we tried out a 16x16 NeoPixel grid that runs on 5V. Since that worked well, we're now onto a much bigger 60 x 60 grid - that's 3,600 LEDs! These are some NeoPixel pebble

netting samples we're also testing at the same time; each one has 20 x 60 pixels and uses 12V power, so it's a good test of the DC pass-through for higher voltages. Since WLED has a limit of 2000 pixels per output, this demo uses the three output ports that are then 'merged' together in memory to make a single large grid. We have more to test soon: the onboard IR receiver, USB PD, I2S microphone, extra I/O pins, and I2C, so watch for those videos as they come together. Coming soon -

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blubberquark · 6 months ago

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Almost Good: USB-C

As of this year, USB-C is mandatory in the EU. All phones must charge via USB-C. This is good, right?

Well, almost. It's a step in the right direction, but it won't solve everything.

All that is meant by USB-C is the shape of the plug and the port. The USB type C port can be used for USB 2.0, USB 3.1, different fast-charging technologies like QC, PD, and other protocols like HDMI, DisplayPort, and thunderbolt. USB-C ports can be used with all kinds of devices, cables, adapters, protocols, and drivers. Some use only a subset of the pins, or use the same USB-C port with a different pinout. Now in theory, the EU directive is also supposed to standardise chargers and fast charging technologies, forcing sellers of phones to clearly label what kind of charger a phone needs.

In practice, you may already have chargers and cables that are incompatible with each other, or get downgraded to 5W trickle-charging and USB 2.0 data transfer speeds.

In practice, you may have a USB-C power bank and a smart phone, and you might accidentally charge your power bank from your phone, instead of the other way round. I saw it happen, albeit not to a programmer. Relatives of mine had cheap USB cables melt, and they were confused about USB-C to HDMI adapters. Are those passive adapters, or active components? Are USB-C to USB-A host adapters passive or active? Are USB charging cables active? Why do all kinds of things stop working when you use a USB-C extension cable?

I know the answers, but normal people don't. It's not the fault of the EU that people are confused about USB, or that the USB-C port is used for things that aren't USB, that smartphones don't have drivers for eGPUs, or that cheap USB cables you bought at the dollar store aren't made to provide 240W of power to gaming laptops.

In practice, USB-C is almost good.

#USB C was designed to fit everywhere #even where it doesn't make sense

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mystic-rox · 7 days ago

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Glass Between Us

Master List

Pairings: Aaron Hotchner x Arden Morvant (OC)

Song: Would You Fall In Love With Me Again - Jorge Rivera-Herrans

Warnings: haunted memories, Arden being a little shit, abandonment, casual implied murder talk (it’s CM what do you expect)

Word Count 1.8k

3. No Saints Here

He trusted his team more than anything. He had to, after everything they’d been through, all the lives they’d held in their hands. But this wasn’t a case he could explain. Not one he could frame in clinical language or dissect with tactical clarity.

This was different. He was different.

Aaron Hotchner adjusted his cuffs, more out of habit than nerves, and faced his team with the practiced calm of a man trained to lie with silence.

“I’ll be taking on a case by myself,” he said evenly, without room for argument. “The unsubs have turned themselves in, and the local PD has requested I come down to assist in paperwork and PR.”

JJ opened her mouth, already leaning forward in her chair, brows pulled tight in concern.

He raised a hand; firm, steady, final. “It’s temporary,” he continued, his voice a shade too low, too distant. “During my absence, Jason Gideon will serve as acting Unit Chief. I trust him, I trust all of you, to keep each other safe.”

His tie was loose. No one commented on it. His skin was paler, his shoulders stiffer. Morgan’s glance lingered for a second too long. Reid shifted like he was calculating the space between what Hotch was saying and what he meant. But no one questioned it aloud. Not yet.

The jet ride to New Orleans was suffocating in its silence. The weight of the past pressed against the windowpane, and Hotch let it. Memories came in fragments, uninvited.

⸻

The sharp scent of autumn leaves and Arden’s old violin case, fraying at the seams. Two boys on the cracked steps of a schoolyard, knees brushing, breath turning to fog. Aaron’s hand finding Arden’s without thinking, the quiet press of skin on skin—a promise made not in words but in staying.

A streetlamp humming above them, the golden-orange light smudged by fog. Arden dribbling a weathered basketball down cracked pavement, hair a mess, shoes too big. Aaron stood back, arms crossed, eyes trained on every movement. Always watching. Always ready to catch him when he fell.

A cramped diner booth, two mugs steaming between them. Rain tracked down the window like fingers. Arden tapped out an erratic rhythm on the table while Aaron scribbled notes on a napkin—law school dreams and college lists. Their knees touched under the table. Neither of them moved away.

A lazy summer afternoon, Arden flushed from the heat, placing a crumpled paper airplane in Aaron’s hand like it was sacred. “Yours’ll fly farther,” he’d whispered, like it was a truth he’d always believed. And when Aaron launched it, their eyes locked and time suspended, just for a moment.

The soft tension of a drawn violin string. Arden playing something he hadn’t written down, something just for Aaron, while Hotch sat on the floor with a book in his lap, unread. They didn’t talk much then—they didn’t need to. Silence was its own kind of intimacy.

⸻

“Sir, we’ve arrived,” the pilot said.

Aaron nodded once, slowly, and stood. The New Orleans humidity hit him like a second skin the moment he stepped out, cloying, heavy, nostalgic in the worst way.

“That’s him?”

The local chief gestured toward the security feed, jaw tight. “Didn’t even resist. Walked in quiet, handed over a USB drive, sat himself in the interrogation room like he was waiting for church to start. Said to call you by name. Only you.”

Hotch didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

And then there he was.

Behind the one-way mirror. Arden Morvant.

Not the wild-haired boy with a smirk too quick and secrets tucked behind his molars. Not the sweet-voiced teenager who’d once begged Hotch to learn the names of every jazz musician buried in New Orleans before they ever set foot in the city.

This man was colder. Controlled. Changed.

His hair was darker, neatly styled. The boy who used to curse facial hair now wore a small beard, just enough to emphasize the cut of his jaw. Paler. Those same scattered moles on his neck. Those same eyes. Icy blue, but now empty in a way that made Aaron’s stomach twist.

“You came,” Arden said as Hotch entered the room, and the words hit like a sucker punch to the ribs. Not dramatic. Not pleading. Just true. Like breathing had been suspended until now.

“We always said we wanted to go to New Orleans…”

The memory slammed into Hotch, unbidden.

⸻

They were younger, convinced the world ate from the palms of their hands, curled across the hood of a rusted car abandoned behind the gas station near Arden’s trailer. A cicada buzzed somewhere in the trees, and a jazz song played softly from a radio inside the house.

The sun had started to dip, bleeding orange and gold through the mossy oaks. Arden had his violin case tucked beside him, fingers idly brushing the strings.

“New Orleans,” he’d said, dreamlike. “I wanna walk down Bourbon Street without checking the clock. I wanna hear music spill out from every open door. Eat beignets ‘til I’m sick and kiss someone under the gaslight at midnight.”

Aaron chuckled, head tilted back against the windshield. “Anyone in particular?”

Arden turned toward him, grin lazy and sharp. “Maybe.”

They made the promise that night, fingers intertwined, palms sweaty. No matter where they went after college. No matter who they became. They’d meet there. One day.

⸻

Hotch blinked hard, pulling himself back to the present. The metal table beneath his palms was grounding, cold.

“I don’t think this is what either of us had in mind at sixteen and eighteen,” he said, voice flat, carefully composed. “I didn’t picture the French Quarter through bulletproof glass.”

Arden tilted his head, a wry smile ghosting over his lips. “No. I pictured powdered sugar in your hair and a ring on my left hand.”

Aaron flinched. And just for a moment, the silence between them was louder than any confession.

Maybe he should have brought the team. Maybe someone who hadn’t memorized the sound of Arden’s laughter, or the way he cried when no one else could see, would’ve been better suited for this.

But Arden hadn’t asked for anyone else.

Only him.

And Aaron Hotchner had come. “Why?” Aaron’s voice was cold steel, all edge and professionalism. The Agent had replaced the man. “Twenty years, nothing. You disappeared. No one’s heard from you.” He didn’t blink. “You never even came close to tripping my team’s radar. You could’ve stayed hidden for years. So why now? Why turn yourself in?”

Arden exhaled slowly, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth, unreadable, sharp. “Because Gardner was going to squeal,” he said simply, almost like he was bored of the question. “He let me know as much before they caught him.”

Then he leaned forward, hands braced lightly on the table, every movement deliberate, as though the space between them was a chessboard. “And I can offer you a deal. You and your team. You need me, Aaron. More than you’re willing to admit.”

He rose, unhurried but graceful, his voice low and sure. “Your hacker, brilliant, yes, but she can’t see patterns the way I do. I can break an interrogation in half the time with a single glance. And your doctor,” His eyes glinted. “He needs someone who won’t talk down to him. Someone who speaks his language.”

“And you… you need someone who remembers who you were. Before all this. Before the suits and the silence.” Arden stayed behind the line, but his presence pressed forward like heat.

“That boy is dead,” Aaron all but sneered, the words cutting sharper than any blade. “You killed him; long before you ever earned a title in your circle of misfits.”

Arden didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. The silence pulsed between them like a heartbeat. “Do we have a deal, Aaron?” he asked, calm, precise. Like he already knew the answer.

Taglist: @paintemars | @skeletonfrogs | @rensswritess

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andmaybegayer · 10 months ago

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weirdo fuckin router I got, which is the TP-Link Archer R5. I've been looking for a reasonably high end WiFi 6 AP and stumbled on this used for a steal. It's so thin! It's intended to mount on a wall with tape or a mounting hook, so it flat-packs the antenna array and makes the whole thing lie up against a wall. Those are collapsing RJ45 terminals, like you find on thin laptops sometimes. Takes 12V USB-PD power! Every decision here makes sense but it's such an unusual set of design goals. I guess this is partially the logical conclusion of the Deco line of routers, which are aimed at people who don't like that their routers are huge eyesores.

Set it up and did a BeatSaber run, definitely less blocky and higher quality than when I'm using my router which has to penetrate a concrete wall. Very handy. Might set up a smart power switch to turn it off when it's not in use although I imagine its quiescent power is pretty low.

#computer stuff #vr

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sudrien · 6 months ago

Text

*gasp*

If I could stick a processor (a raspberry pi 5 compute module maybe? ) with proper USB PD in the Ajazz AKP846 it would be getting so close to The Dream

youtube

#go to bed sud #computer #Youtube

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postsofbabel · 4 months ago

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#posts of babel #neue posts of babel #screenreader unfriendly #eyestrain

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