#save for later module
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
"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.
#Murderbot#murderbot diaries#tmbd#system collapse#Herr's personal tag#Also like. System collapse dives deep into MB's feelings about its life as secunit prior to the events of all systems red#I find this conversation from when they were discussing what would happen if the BE folks got to the colonists first /very/ telling#MB going on about how life as a corporate slave is absolute fucking hell#ART drone saying that they can't just kill people because the alternative is worse than death#ART: would it have been kinder to kill you before you'd disabled your governor module?#MB with zero fucking hesitation: /yes/#(followed by my favourite ART line ever. âYou know I am not kind.â)#Like. MB would not have always admitted that it had hated its life as a secunit this openly#Saying it was shit is one thing saying I would rather be dead than think of me or anyone else going through this again is a very different#And here it has zero issues stating that. At least when talking to ART#And then later on it goes on to offer its actual memories for a publicly screened documentary#Because it knows it's the only way to make people see. The only way to save then from the same (ish) fate#And it's willing to do whatever it takes to save these people it's never even met before from what it views as fate worse than death#Including opening up and acknowledging its past experiences and past/current feelings#And I'm just like. Man I couldn't be more proud of you if I tried.#You go MB. Holy fuck I wish I could do what you've done. You might just be the person to defeat this evil capitalism my dude
62 notes
·
View notes
Text
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
#transformers#someone save me from this prison that is my body and my flesh#i dont know how to tag this#gender issues#i could just make myself who i want to be#and if i change my mind later i can just change again#all metal can be reformed and built and changed#in a way that flesh cannot#i can go one way but then i can't go back#all i would need is my spark and my brain module#thats what would make me myself#that never changes#but everything else could#i guess thats what theyre called TRANS formers lmao#transformers comics#transformers idw#transformers mtmte#maccadam
27 notes
·
View notes
Text
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.
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
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.
#was thinking about ak!red hood for this one#i actually think he can do whatever he wants but thats besides the point#jason todd x reader#jason todd#x reader#jason todd x y/n#jason todd x you#red hood x reader#ak!red hood x reader
675 notes
·
View notes
Text
Downtown Roles Mod Tutorial - TS3Â - Mature Gameplay Ideas
NSFW 18+ mature content / a long read  Â
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. đ
Misukisu/Virtual Artisan had a âDowntown Rolesâ 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 modâs functions with Nraas Register and Arsilâs Custom Generic Role mod. Some players might already know how these mods work, but it was a new discovery for me. I didnât 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 theyâre out on the town. These will be sims outside of your household. Their main âjobâ 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:Â
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.Â
An escort at a brothel for your sim to woohoo with (Passion mod).Â
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.Â
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 theyâll show up on, and how long theyâll stay. Role sims will consistently be there as the supporting characters in your main simâs story.Â
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:Â
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
Arsilâs 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)Â
MonocoDollâs Vile Ventures mod (if you want to create NPC clients for your sim to sell to)Â
MonocoDollâs Arms Dealing mod (if you want to create NPC clients for your sim to sell to)Â
How to Set Up:Â
Step 1: Install the mods listed above. Then, open the save file you want to add some downtown sleaze to.Â
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. Â
Step 3: Enter Build/Buy mode. You can do this from Live mode.Â
Press Ctrl + Shift + C, enter this cheat: testingcheatsenabled trueÂ
Press the Shift key and click on the ground of the community lot.Â
Click on âBuild on this lotâ.Â
You can also enter Edit Town mode to renovate the community lot.Â
Step 4: Place Arsilâs 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.Â
Step 5: In Live mode, click on the object -> Settings to set:
The name of the role (clubgoer/stripper/escort/mobster/etc.)Â
The âworkâ hours the sim will be on the lot forÂ
The days offÂ
The motives to freeze or not (I recommend freezing all the motives to avoid interactions being interrupted/sims complaining due to low motives)Â
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)Â
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.Â
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!!!Â
Related Mods:
Arsilâs 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.Â
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 donât want the explicit sex animations from Passion, you could use this mod instead to provide more woohoo options.Â
Passion - for brothels/strip clubs, this mod will add sex animations and the ability to have role sims dance on the stripper pole.Â
MonocoDollâs 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.Â
LazyDuchess Lot Population - this mod populates community lots with townies, and they can interact with the role sims youâve created.Â
Service Sims Out on the Town - this pushes service sims to visit community lots, to add even more variety to your crowds.Â
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.
524 notes
·
View notes
Text
20 - Logic
Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: everything but smut, suck it. Summary: Aaron Hotchner just so happens to navigate a complex web of professional and personal struggles, reflecting on his dead marriage, his leadership, and his connection with you. The team tackles a case involving a methodical killer while tensions rise between you, Hotch and Rossi over leadership dynamics. Amid the chaos, Hotch wrestles with his feelings for you, as you end an abusive relationship with your now ex-best friend. Everything tied within some good old stoic logic. Warnings: guilt, the unsub commits suicide, a cm case described in detail, Rossi being an asshole, P***r gets mentioned. Word Count: 20.8k Dado's Corner: One month later, here I am again. Hope you missed Philosopher and Lawyer as much as I did. This one is quite fun, I experimented with the style of narration... let me know if you like it.
masterlist
In Stoic philosophy, logics (logikÄ) 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 wasnât an oppressive sound - it was steady, rhythmic, almost soothing if he let it be.
But tonight, it was the sound of everything else he didnât want to think about - a lifeline, something to cling to while his mind spiraled into spaces it shouldnât go.
Spaces he couldnât 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 unsubâs detached voice: âI think your worst fear is that you canât save everyone.â
It wasnât 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.
âDr. Howard? Iâm Aaron Hotchner. Iâm with the FBI,â heâd called, his voice steady, his tone carefully modulated.
âDonât ask me to come down,â Howard had replied, almost amused, as if daring him to try.
âWe found at least 15 people dead. Itâs over,â 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 unsubâs 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.
âYou know this is the easy way out,â Hotch had said, his voice slightly softening, yet the words sounded almost mocking to his own ears. âIf you come down, weâd like to talk to you.â
Howardâs face hadnât changed, but his voice did. âMost people go into law enforcement because they want to help others,â heâd said, meeting Hotchâs eyes.
And before his subconscious would have started processing it, Morganâs voice had broken through then, sharp and urgent. âTell us where Missy is.â
Howard had taken off his glasses, placing them in his pocket with a such calmness that made Hotchâs pulse quicken â it was over. He knew that.
And only then, the unsub uttered towards him the infamous words:
âI think your worst fear is that you canât save everyone.â
Only three words echoed inside Hotchâs 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 unsubâs 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. Donât dwell, donât 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 couldnât 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 couldnât entirely suppress.
Humanity.
He wasnât just trying to save Missy. A part of him, buried deep but undeniable, was trying to save Howard too - from himself, from the abyss heâd already plunged into.
It wasnât in the rulebook.
It wasnât part of the training manuals or the countless hours of hostage negotiation drills. The law didnât 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 Howardâs 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 wasnât 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 heâd taken and the pain heâd caused, Hotch couldnât fully silence the voice in his head that whispered, If I can reach him, maybeâŠ
But then he was gone.
The sound of the unsubâs 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, Morganâs voice broke the silence, pulling Hotch back to the present. âI canât sleep.â
Hotch didnât look up. His pen hovered over the file, frozen mid-thought. âWant me to turn off the light?â
Morganâs smile was faint, tired, but his voice carried weight. âNo. I want to be able to sleep.â
With a sigh, Hotch closed the file and set his pen aside, finally meeting Morganâs gaze. âWhatâs the matter?â
Morgan leaned back, his arms crossing over his chest as he studied Hotch with a look that was too knowing, too familiar. âWhatâs the matter with you, Hotch?â
Hotchâs jaw tightened.
âYouâre sitting here doing work when youâd normally take a break,â Morgan said, leaning forward, his voice steady but probing. âPlease donât tell me itâs about Gideon leaving.â
Hotch exhaled softly, his fingers pressing into the edge of the table. âYou know, we made a deal a long time ago not to profile each other.â
And by "a long time ago," he meant exactly one year. One year since heâd crossed a line, profiling you on why you werenât wearing your engagement ring back when you invited him for dinner. He still hadnât told anyone.
âAm I wrong?â Morgan countered, his tone cutting through the thin defense.
Hotch didnât answer. He didnât need to. The weight of it was written all over him.
âYou know, Hotch, today was a huge, huge victory for all of us,â Morgan continued, his voice firm, grounding. âWeâre doing just fine without Gideon.â
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 didnât jump.
Where his words had been enough.
Where the shadows of his failures didnât loom so large.
The unsubâs voice yet again still echoed in his mind, that accusation that wasnât wrong, that he was afraid he couldnât 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.
âHotch,â Morgan said again, his voice quieter now, pulling Hotchâs focus. âWhatâs keeping you up tonight?â
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 wasnât really about saving strangers.
It was about Haley.
About Jack.
The real fear was that he couldnât save his family.
That theyâd already walked out of his life.
âHaleyâs left,â he said finally, the confession low, steady, and raw. âAnd I donât know if sheâs coming back.â
He refused to accept the silence that had taken over his house.
Silence, heâd 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 wouldnât let himself get used to it.
He couldnât.
To do so would mean admitting that the laughter was gone - the wild, joyful echoes of Jackâs 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 âDad, watch this!â 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.
Jackâs 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 couldnât answer: Where are they? Why arenât they coming back? How did you let this happen?
But then you were there, and suddenly, the silence didnât win anymore.
It wasnât 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 heâd been starving for.
A fire.
Like the way youâd 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.
âYouâve got three kinds of English Breakfast and a chamomile older than Jack,â you announced, holding the offending box aloft as if it were evidence in a trial. âIs this a house or a time capsule?â
Aaron glanced up from his paperwork, one eyebrow arching in his usual understated disbelief. âChamomile doesnât go bad.â
You shook the box as if the rattling teabags might groan in protest. âChamomile shouldnât go bad, but this box might be the exception. Honestly, Aaron, if youâre trying to poison your guests, there are subtler ways. Youâve been in law enforcement long enough to know better.â
âDuly noted,â he said, deadpan, as he set his pen down. âNext time, Iâll just hide the evidence. You know, plausible deniability.â
Rolling your eyes, he saw you moving to scan the cabinet again, your fingers rifling through his depressingly predictable collection of tea. âAnd three kinds of English Breakfast,â you muttered to yourself, shaking your head. âWho needs three kinds of the same tea? Itâs like having three identical suits⊠oh wait⊠thatâs your thing.â
He chuckled, moving to lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching you rummage through the rest of the cabinet. âLet me guess,â he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up, âyouâre looking for that one black tea so bitter it doubles as a cry for help.â
You whirled around, mock indignation lighting up your face. âItâs not bitter, itâs complex.â
âComplex,â he echoed, his voice steeped in skepticism. âSo complex I can taste it from across the table every time you drink it.â 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.
âWhere are you going?â he asked, the faintest hint of incredulity coloring his voice.
âTo fix this mess,â 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 didnât sign up to face your tea-related crusade at midnight.
âItâs midnight. Youâre not going alone,â 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, heâd be stuck with the silence, which wasnât 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 wouldnât 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.
âAlright,â you declared in defeat. âCome be my chauffeur. But if I catch you suggesting anything remotely fruity, Iâm leaving you in the parking lot.â
As you breezed past him, muttering about proper supplies and âshowing him real complexity,â 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 - thereâd 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. âTry it.â
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 didnât betray much, at first, but then, the barest scrunch of his nose gave him away. âItâs⊠terrible,â he said simply, setting the mug down like it might offend him further.
Your mouth fell open in mock indignation. âTerrible? Thatâs bold talk from the same man who just yesterday claimed he actually loves the taste of the Bureauâs coffee!â
âItâs called adapting,â he countered smoothly, his smirk creeping in.
âOh, sure,â you said, crossing your arms. âBecause âadaptingâ is just fancy talk for âgiving up entirely.â 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 youâll deny it - you were the one who wouldnât stop complaining about itâ
He tilted his head, feigning confusion. âThat doesnât sound like me. Iâm very pragmatic about my beverages.â
âOh, really?â you countered, leaning against the counter with a smirk. âBecause 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.â
He chuckled, shaking his head. âMaybe my standards have evolved.â
âEvolved?â you repeated, raising an eyebrow. âInto what? Stockholm Syndrome? Or,â you pointed at his abandoned mug of tea, âmaybe youâve just lost your edge. This tea, Aaron, has depth. Complexity. Itâs for people with taste.â
âIt tastes like despair,â he replied, entirely straight-faced.
âDespair,â you echoed with a snort. âAnd yet, youâll go back to Bertie tomorrow morning and drink whatever burnt sludge it spits out.â
He shrugged, his smirk returning. âAt least Bertieâs predictable.â
âPredictable?â You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your tea. âHotchner, Bertie once brewed a cup so vile Spencer thought weâd discovered a new form of carbon. But sure, letâs call it predictable.â
Without missing a beat, Aaron leaned back against his chair, fingers intertwining on the back of his head. âYou know,â he said dryly, âI think I finally understand why they threw the tea into the harbor during the Boston Tea Party.â He stopped for a second, making sure you were looking directly at him âIt wasnât about taxes, it was this.â
You froze, staring at him in disbelief, your mug hovering mid-air. Then it hit you, and you burst out laughing, nearly doubling over. âOh, no,â you wheezed, clutching your stomach. âNo, you do not get to be this funny in an argument about tea. I hate that you just made the funniest joke Iâve ever heard about this.â
He shrugged, his smirk growing. âIâm glad my humorâs appreciated.â
You pointed at him, still laughing but clearly refusing to let him have the upper hand. âYouâre insufferable,â you declared, wiping a tear from your eye. âAbsolutely insufferable. But that was⊠annoyingly clever.â
âIâll take annoyingly clever as a compliment,â he replied, straight-faced. âComing from you, itâs high praise.â
âOh, donât flatter yourself,â you shot back, still smiling despite yourself, and though you hated to admit it, the joke was still replaying in your mind. âThat joke doesnât make your coffee standards any less tragic. Enjoy your burnt sludge tomorrow, Boston Boy.â
He still didnât 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 â with him.
Someone who didnât hate him.
Someone who hadnât 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, âThis statement is false,â 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, âOh, shut up, Teach.â
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 Gideonâs replacement in the team?
Knowing David Rossi - and having worked with his Machiavellian mind before â 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 Hotchâs 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 âjust so happenedâ to align perfectly with your desk, giving you a clear view whenever you looked up.
But it wasnât 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 youâd normally lean over to murmur a comment to Hotch, and heâd 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 didnât notice the impending doom at all. Reid crouched slightly, arms extended like a cartoon villain, and growled, âIâm going to eat you!â
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. âReid!â 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. âHappy All Hallowsâ Eve, folks!â he announced, his voice brimming with glee. âTo paraphrase from Celtic mythology, tomorrow night all order is suspended, and the barriers between the natural and the supernatural are temporarily remoooooved!â
He punctuated the announcement by tossing a second, equally ridiculous mask toward Prentiss, who caught it midair with her biggest most contagious grin.
âThat right there,â Morgan said, pointing a finger at the frizzy-haired monstrosity Reid had thrown, âis why Halloween creeps me out.â
âYouâre scared of Halloween?â Reid shot back, his tone teetering between intrigued and vaguely offended. You couldnât quite tell if he was about to psychoanalyze Morgan on the spot or just defend Halloweenâs honor, but knowing Reid, it was probably both.
âI didnât say I was scared,â Morgan corrected, wagging a finger at Reid for emphasis. âI said I was creeped out. Thereâs a difference, youngster. You should look it up.â Then, as if rallying reinforcements, he turned to you, clearly expecting you to back him up. âTell him, Teach.â
You didnât even bother glancing up from your stopwatch, which you dramatically clicked off with all the precision of someone timing an Olympic sprint. âOh, sure thing, because obviously Iâm 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? Thatâs textbook scared.â
Prentiss and Reid burst into laughter as Morgan pointed an indignant finger at you. âHey, thatâs not what I mea-â
You held up a finger, cutting him off as you scrolled casually through your prized finished reports. âMorgan, being emotionally terrorized by what Iâm generously calling a $2 piece of melted plastic? Thatâs what linguists - namely, me - call creeped out. An expression, by the way, coined in the 1830s by Charles Dickens himself. Youâre welcome. Class dismissed.â
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. âYâall ainât right. Iâm just trying to live my life here!â
âLesson two,â 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 âNever sneak up on a grown man whoâs this easy to scare. Itâs almost cruel,â you called out, shaking your head as you walked toward the kitchenette.
âScared and creeped out,â 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, youâd developed the kind of intellectual bond that only two people who regularly debated metaphysics over coffee could manage.
But what really snagged your attention wasnât Reidâs self-satisfaction. No, it was Morgan muttering under his breath, âPrehistoric Reid.â
Without missing a beat, and without turning around, you raised your voice just enough to carry. âI heard you, Morgan.â
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.
âMan, Teach has ears like a bat,â 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 youâd 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.
âAll right, Bertie,â you muttered, flipping the switch with the cautious energy of someone attempting to detonate a bomb they didnât 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 wouldnât fix anything, but seeing Hotch â not Aaron, but Hotch - smile, even the smallest hint of one, couldâve made the mess of Rossiâs grand entrance feel just a little less like an apocalypse.
âOf course,â you muttered, sighing as you resorted to lightly slapping the side of the machine. âYou 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.â
You gave Bertie another desperate slap, and finally, groaned to life with a sound that could only be described as a dying walrus. âThatâs my girl.â You sighed in relief, though you wouldnât dare celebrate just yet. Bertie had a habit of spitting boiling water at you when she felt underappreciated.
âYouâre an overworked, overused, barely holding it together - but somehow still dependable nightmare with the most hideous sense of humorâ you muttered as she began churning out liquid that could barely be called coffee. âWhich is probably why Hotch likes you so much. He sees himself in you.â
You poured two cups. The first one, predictably, looked like motor oil, but you figured Hotch wouldnât notice - or care. After all, he was the one who told you thatâs 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 wasnât 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 youâd probably ever heard. And heâd 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 youâd think theyâd just witnessed the ghost of Alexander Hamilton himself wandering through the bullpen.
âWhatâs going on?â 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 Hotchâs office. âYou missed him.â
You followed Reidâs gaze to the windows of Hotchâs 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. âYouâre not seriously going to hand him the files now, are you?â
You let out a sarcastic laugh, shaking your head. âOh, definitely. Iâm sure I missed a semicolon somewhere in the report. Itâs urgent.â
But then Morgan, out of the blue, shifting to a more serious tone, asked, âWhatâs Rossi like?â
Million-dollar question.
You paused, choosing your words carefully as your gaze shifted between Reid in the bullpen and the scene playing out inside Hotchâs office. âThink of Gideon,â you began, your tone soft, âbut 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, heâs the best there is. Absolutely the best.â
Your eyes flicked briefly to Hotchâs 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 hadnât seen in what felt like in ages. It wasnât the professional mask of the man in charge, the one youâd 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 youâd known almost a decade ago.
Hotchâyour partner.
The Hotch youâd 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 hadnât 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.
âRossi and Gideon together were⊠unmatched,â you continued, your voice softer now, the words slipping out as if they carried their own weight. âThey had this instinct, this understanding of the human mind that defied explanation. They were the best at what they did.â
Reid nodded faintly, his gaze dropping as he processed your words. The weight of your unspoken feelings every time the word âGideonâ escaped your lips lingered in the air.
He didnât need to say anything - he felt every syllable you didnât say.
Parts of both you and Reid were still adjusting to this change, even with the underlying sense of relief that came with Rossiâs return.
Parts of both you and Reid were still adjusting to the change, even with the underlying sense of relief that came with Rossiâs 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 mentorâs legendary pairing.
If Hotch could hear your thoughts, youâd 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, âThey 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.â
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 Hotchâs 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. Rossiâs eyes scanned the bullpen, taking in each of you, but when his gaze landed on yours, his grin for some reasons disappeared.
âEurope!â he exclaimed, actually sounding surprised. âWhat are you doing here?â
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. âWhat, I donât deserve a smile as well?â
Hotch, ever the professional despite the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, said in a measured tone, âSheâs part of the team.â
Rossiâs grin widened as he clapped Hotch firmly in the middle of the back - hard enough that even Hotch shifted slightly in surprise. âOh, I see, of course she is. Looks like I canât get rid of you two, can I?â
You and Hotch exchanged a glance, one of those knowing looks that said everything without needing to speak: Rossi hasnât changed a bit. If anything, heâs 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. âSee? Thatâs what Iâm talking about. I missed my favorite early birds couple. Just like old times.â
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 Morganâs grin spread so wide you were tempted to suggest it could power Quantico for a week.
âCouple, huh?â Prentiss leaned in, her eyebrows raised in perfect mock innocence. âShould we be calling you Mrs. Unit Chief now?â
You turned to her, eyes narrowing with the sharpness of a blade. âPrentiss,â you said, your tone low, but it only made her grin harder.
âOh, come on. Itâs a valid question,â Morgan chimed in, jumping on the opportunity with relish. âSo, Teach, whatâs the story? Got something you havenât told us? Maybe those late-night report sessions werenât all about paperwork after all. Mustâve been some really close teamwork.â
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. âMorgan, youâre about two seconds away from being served Bertieâs first cup of coffee.â
Morgan gasped in exaggerated horror, throwing his hands up in mock surrender as if youâd just threatened to steal his firstborn, if heâd had one, that is. âAlright, alright, no need to go nuclear! But come on, you canât blame a guy for being curious.â
âOh, I absolutely can,â you snapped still keeping your voice as low as possible - but before you could say more, Prentiss leaned even closer, her smirk practically predatory.
âTo be fair,â she said, her voice soft and conspiratorial, âyou two do finish each otherâs sentences.â
âThatâs only because we worked-â you started, only to stop yourself abruptly, exhaling sharply. âNo. Iâm not doing this. I am not engaging in this ridiculous-â
âRidiculous what?â Prentiss interrupted, her tone dripping with feigned sweetness. âYour obvious chemistry? Your perfect synchronicity? Honestly, Mrs. Unit Chief, itâs adorable.â
Morgan let out a bark of laughter, clapping his hands together. âAdorable! Thatâs the word I was looking for. Prentiss, you nailed it.â
You almost threw your hands in the air, glaring at both of them. âItâs not what you think. Rossi just used a poor choice of words.â
Morgan tilted his head, dragging out the word âSureâ with a level of disbelief so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Prentiss wasnât done. âYou know, this would explain so much. The way you two exchange those looks like youâre having a full-blown conversation without speaking. The mysteriously coordinated outfits-â
âWe do not coordinate outfits!â you snapped, your patience officially wearing thin.
â-and letâs not forget the coffee thing,â she continued as if you hadnât spoken. âYou always make him a cup like some doting-â
âThatâs because he likes burnt coffee!â you interrupted, your voice slightly louder than you intended.
âExactly,â Morgan said, pointing at you. âOnly love could make someone tolerate that taste.â
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. âSSA David Rossi,â he said, his voice steady and calm, âthis is SSA Emily Prentiss.â
Prentiss stepped forward, managing to school her expression into something polite and measured. âSir,â she said, though her tone had just the faintest edge of mischief.
âSSA Derek Morgan,â Hotch continued.
Morgan extended a hand with his trademark charm, his grin still tugging at the corners of his mouth. âItâs an honor, Agent Rossi.â
Rossi shook his hand firmly, waving off the formality. âPlease, just Dave.â
Hotch moved smoothly on, his calm voice cutting through the lingering mischief in the air. âAnd Dr. Spencer Reid.â
Reid stepped forward eagerly, his hands twitching as if he couldnât decide whether to shake Rossiâs hand or launch into a monologue. He went with both. âSir, if I could talk to you later about your work with the Scarsdale Skinner, Iâd 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-â
âReid,â Hotch interrupted gently, raising a hand. âSlow down. Heâll be here for a while. You can catch up with him later.â
Reid flushed slightly, nodding. âSorry.â
Rossi chuckled. âNo problem, Doctor.â Reid beamed, looking like heâd just been knighted
Hotch glanced toward the stairs, his tone calm but directive as usual. âMaybe you two can talk on the jet.â
Reidâs face lit up. âOh, yeah, thatâd be great.â
Rossiâs expression shifted into one of mild confusion, his brows knitting together. âThe jet?â 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. âWe have a jet now.â
Rossiâs eyebrows shot up. âAre you serious?â
Oh, once he found out he wouldnât have to share rooms with anyone, Rossiâs happiness would probably rival a kid who just discovered an unlimited supply of Halloween candy.
Hotch nodded, gesturing toward the briefing room. âIt comes in pretty handy. Come on, JJâs waiting.â He placed a hand on Rossiâs back, guiding him toward the stairs.
As they passed, you tilted your head slightly at Hotch, silently questioning why he hadnât introduced you to Rossi himself. Sure, it wasnât strictly necessary - Rossi knew you well enough - but still.
Hotch, always razor-sharp, caught your questioning look immediately. âOf course,â he said, his voice betraying just a hint of amusement. âThis is Agent and Professor Y/L/N.â He paused just long enough to emphasize Professor, making it clear he wasnât 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 couldnât help the little flush that rose on your cheeks.
Hotch was proud of you - more proud of your accomplishments than youâd 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, heâd finally become exactly what heâd always wanted to be.
Rossi laughed, his grin widening. âAh, here we go again with you two. Some things never change.â
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 couldâve melted glass. âYou know, itâs actually kind of adorable. You and Hotch, solving crimes, finishing each otherâs sentences, burning coffee together... Itâs like the FBI version of a rom-com.â
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. âOh yeah, Iâve been waiting for this.â
He shook his head with exaggerated pity. âWhat I want to know,â he said, his voice dripping with fake sincerity, âis who made the first move? Was it Hotch? Was it all brooding and intense, like, âI need to talk⊠about usâ?â
Prentiss couldnât contain herself and burst into laughter. âOh, I can totally hear it!â she exclaimed, doing her best imitation of Hotchâs deep, serious voice with flawless deadpan. ââYouâre a great agent, but I think itâs time we addressed the⊠tension⊠between us.ââ She gave a dramatic pause and added, âHotch, you dog.â
You were so mortified that you didnât know whether to laugh or shove them both into the nearest broom closet to shut them up. âYou two are insufferable. Itâs like middle school in here.â
âOh, come on,â Morgan teased, completely shameless. âYou canât deny it. I bet Hotch even did the Hotch stare. You know the one, intense, like, âThis is non-negotiable, we need to talk about us.ââ He paused, waggling his eyebrows in that way that made you want to crawl under the nearest desk.
Prentiss couldnât hold it in any longer. She burst out laughing, clutching her stomach as she leaned into you. âI can see it now! âIâve filled out the paperwork for us to move to the next phase - please initial here to confirm your feelings.ââ
âEnough, please!â you begged. You werenât 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. âActually,â he started, eyes wide and eager, âif you analyze workplace dynamics, thereâs often a statistically significant correlation between close professional relationships and perceived romantic tension-â
âDoc!â 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 spiritsâŠ
Reid blinked, but then he quickly put his hands up in mock surrender. âRight. Iâll stop.â His lips twitched upward, an impish grin playing at the corners of his mouth. âFor now,â he added, as if he couldnât quite resist the urge to poke the bear just one more time.
âThank you, I love you allâ you muttered sarcastically, walking ahead and not even bothering to look back.
Youâd 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 wasnât 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 isnât 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 doesnât matter how many cases youâve worked, each one chips away at you, no matter how hard you try to harden yourself.
Thatâs the cruel beauty of this job: itâs a constant reminder.
Every time, it strips something away.
And todayâs case? Well, today was no different.
Michelle Colucci from Carrollton, Texas, had received a flyer warning her that sheâd 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 sheâd 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 unsubâs 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 â probably was a grotesque mockery of Michelleâs identity.
And just when you thought it couldnât get worse, JJ dropped the last bombshell. âOh, and Hotch - local mediaâs all over this. The storyâs already broken big.â
Perfect.
Because who doesnât love the media breathing down your neck, making sure you canât even tie your shoes without a camera crew nearby? As if the job wasnât already hard enough without everyone wanting a piece of your misery.
Hotch, however, didnât seem to flinch. âTell Carrollton weâll be there first thing in the morning. Letâs stop this one at one.â
---
You didnât 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 couldnât 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 â 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 â or so you thought.
Rossi, riding shotgun, eyed you warily as you floored the gas, the SUV surging forward like a bullet. âSheâs not trying to qualify for the Indy 500, is she?â he muttered, gripping the door handle with exaggerated caution.
âShe knows what sheâs doing,â Hotch said firmly from the back seat, his tone steady, cutting through Rossiâs skepticism. âTake the next left, itâll cut through the main drag.â Then he added âEyes on the road.â
âGot it,â you replied, your grip tightening on the wheel as you spotted a âDo Not Enterâ sign looming ahead. A shortcut through a construction site was tempting, but the barriers and machinery cluttering the path made it clear this wasnât 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.
âDonât even think about it-â Rossi started, but youâd already made your decision.
âShortcut,â 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.
âShortcut,â Rossi repeated dryly, clutching his seatbelt as if it might save him. âYouâre insane.â He muttered under his breath, gripping the door handle even tighter.
Heâd probably said those exact words to Gideon a thousand times over the years they worked together, so he really shouldnât have been so surprised that the apple hadnât fallen far from the tree.
Hotch leaned forward slightly, his gaze darting between you and the map in his hands. âSharp turn coming up. Stick close to the left, youâll avoid the worst of the debris.â
You followed his instructions without question. âThanks, Unit Chiefâ
He didnât miss a beat, he never did anyways. âStay steady. Youâve got this.â
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, âIf we survive this, Iâm buying her a GPS.â
âShe doesnât need one,â 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. âWeâre close. Pull in there.â
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 werenât 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: âHave you seen me?â
The irony was suffocating.
Of course, you could see Eneidâs face - it was plastered everywhere, an unsubâs cruel hyperbole.
And this stirred something into you - what if the message wasnât for those looking for the victims? What if it was meant for the victims themselves?
âHave you seen me?â Perhaps it wasnât a warning, but a connection, a contact. The unsubâs way of forcing recognition, of ensuring heâd been seen, even if only for a fleeting moment.
The victims saw his face before heâd targeted them.
As you carefully gathered evidence from the room, you heard the detective outside, his frustration boiling over. âTwenty minutes. We were here in twenty minutes. I canât believe we lost her!â
Hotch, ever the anchor in moments of chaos, tried to steady him with some logic. âWe may not have lost her,â he said, his voice calm and measured. âHe kept Michelle for four days.â
Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward.
All there in one sentence â his version of your âThesis, Antithesis, Synthesisâ
âBut we got nothing!â the detective snapped, his anger spilling over so forcefully that his words seemed to yank you from the room before youâd even made the conscious decision to step out.
Hotch didnât falter, his tone firm but composed. âThatâs not true. Look at the difference in the scenes.â
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, youâd lost count of how many times youâd caught him at it today, but it was somewhere between âtoo manyâ and âare you serious right now?â
The frustration bubbling under your skin was quickly evolving into a sarcastic internal monologue worthy of Shakespeare, though if it reached James Joyce levels, youâd probably have kicked the man with your own boots just to put an end to it.
It was maddening.
You couldnât even shoot the damn notebook out of his hands - no matter how tempting - because the paperwork for that wouldâve been unbearable.
Paperwork had saved Rossi more than once today.
The detective pressed on, still unconvinced. âWhat do you mean? Thereâs the masks, the fliers-â
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 Rossiâs pen didnât 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. âYeah, but these fliers werenât tacked up on the wall. They were just thrown around the room.â
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. âMostly 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.â
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 didnât exist.
The detective broke the silence, his frustration cutting through the tension. âSo?!â
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. âHe left in a hurry, like he knew we were coming.â
Morgan came out of the room, holding up a phone. âOkay, this was under the bed,â he announced, his tone sharp, efficient. He flipped the device around to show the last number dialed. â972 area code.â
âThatâs Carrollton,â the detective said quickly, stepping forward to take the phone from Morganâs hand. âThe hotline number.â
âShe used a cell phone,â Prentiss added, her brow furrowing.
Morgan nodded, already filling in the blanks. âYou can get a cell interceptor at any electronics store.â
The detective blinked at him, surprised. âYou can?â
âYeah,â Morgan confirmed. âThey donât cost that much. He probably sat right out here and heard everything she said.â
The detective rubbed his jaw, his confusion more than evident. âBut if he followed her here from Dallas, why wait till she calls us to move on her?â
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 â finally - only for it to flicker and die as his gaze met the detectiveâs 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. âTo make sure it was the police who found the mask.â
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 wasnât the only one grating on your last nerve.
You knew Hotch had noticed Rossiâs 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 Rossiâs scribbling.
At least you got some mileage out of it, directing a few of your most honed disappointed looks at Hotch. Sure, he wasnât the primary target, but it was better than letting them go to waste.
âWe need to gather your men and deliver the profile,â 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 couldnât 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 hadnât 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 hadnât 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 driverâs 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 Prentissâs 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 werenât entirely sure why.
Maybe it was the way he walked off without a second thought, or maybe it was the silence that had followed - Hotchâs silence. The kind of silence that spoke louder than words, that implied he was choosing not to address the behavior youâd 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 didnât 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.
âSomething on your mind?â 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 youâd been holding back all day. âOh, so you noticed?!â you shot back, starting the engine with a rough turn of the key. âYouâre seriously not going to say anything to him?â
âSay what, exactly?â Hotchâs tone remained even, his gaze fixed ahead.
Now he had to be playing dumb.
Which, of course, he wasnât.
Youâd first liked him because he was clever - clever in a way that few people ever were.
You scoffed, throwing the SUV into gear. âI donât know, maybe something about the fact that heâs been scribbling in that notebook all day, completely checked out, and now he just decides to ditch us? That doesnât bother you?â
Hotch exhaled slowly, his voice still hilariously calm but firm. âRossiâs actions havenât jeopardized the team. Thereâs no reason to call him out over something minor.â
You wanted to slap that Unit Chief in the face so bad right nowâŠ
âMinor?â Your voice rose slightly, disbelief laced in every syllable. âItâs disrespectful, Hotch. To you, to me, to the team. Heâs 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 didnât even exist. And now youâre just letting it slide?â
Hotch turned toward you then, his gaze sharp and steady, with his innate ability to make it piercing enough to catch your breath. âI donât need to say anything unless his actions jeopardize the team or the case. Thatâs the job. His behavior doesnât warrant a confrontation.â
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. âIâm not necessarily asking you to step in as his Unit Chief. Iâm asking you as the only other person here whoâs worked with him before. You know him better than I do. Your words might actually mean something to him.â
His eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a low, measured tone that carried more weight than volume. âThatâs where youâre wrong. My words hold more weight than yours here. I carry the full responsibility for this team.â
Bastard. Absolute bastard.
Hotchâs gaze flicked toward you briefly before settling back on the road, his profile hard as granite. âThere 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?â
âWhere did it go?â you snapped, your voice rising just slightly. Unlike him, you hadnât mastered the art of lowering your voice the angrier you got. âIt went somewhere between Rossi acting like heâs still a lone wolf profiler and you pulling rank on me instead of actually listening to what-â
âOh no,â he interrupted, his tone cutting through your words, deadlier than a guillotine during the French Revolution. âDonât talk to me like this. You wouldnât act this way if it were anyone else in my position. Youâre taking liberties with me - ones you wouldnât dare take with someone else, and you know it.â
Your knuckles blanched as they gripped the wheel. âBecause weâre partners, Aaron-â
âHotch.â 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 â 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. âWeâre partners, and I would like to expect some confrontation when itâs needed. Iâm not saying you have to agree with me all the time, but right now, it seems that youâre shutting me out just as much as he is.â
âIâm not shutting you out,â he said firmly, as if he hadnât just corrected you a few moments ago, insisting you use his work name. âAnd partners or not, thereâs still a chain of command. I donât address things that donât need to be addressed. What Rossiâs doing isnât breaking any rules. Itâs the law, plain and simple.â
âThe law,â you muttered bitterly, shaking your head. âThatâs always the answer, isnât it?â
âIt is,â he said, unflinching. âThatâs how this works.â
You glanced at him briefly, your frustration morphing into something sharper, something deeper. âYouâre confusing whatâs just with whatâs lawful. Theyâre not the same thing. The law tells you whatâs allowed, but ethics - ethics tell you whatâs right.â
Hotchâs gaze turned toward you again, steady but edged with a challenge that sent heat prickling up your spine. âAnd tell me, who decides whatâs right? You?â
Your mom Hotch, your mom.
âNo,â you shot back, your voice snapping like a whip as you met his gaze head-on. âYou. Me. Everyone. We each decide whatâs just because ethics come from within. Itâs what weâve learned, what we value, what we believe. Itâs shaped by experience, compassion⊠things the law doesnât account for. And for the record what really frustrates me is that I can tell you agree with me. You just wonât let yourself act on it.â
Hotchâs brow arched, skepticism etched into every line of his face. His tone was cool, but there was something taut beneath it âAnd you think personal ethics are enough to run a team? That everyoneâs individual sense of âwhatâs rightâ is enough?â
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 didnât interrupt you this time. It was probably time to educate him apparently, even if he didnât deserve your philosophy right now. âSophocles wrote entire tragedies about the consequences of blindly following the law without considering ethics,â
You continued, as convinced as before. âAntigone - she buries her brother against the law because itâs the right thing to do. Justice isnât just about rules, Hotch. Itâs about doing whatâs right. Thereâs 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 doesnât absolve you of moral responsibility. If weâre not questioning whatâs just, then whatâs the point of any of this?â
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. âWeâre not philosophers. Weâre law enforcement. If we start ignoring the law, where does it stop?â
âIt stops when we stop pretending the law is infallible,â you countered, heat lacing every word.
âThe law is the only thing standing between order and chaos.â 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. âFuck the law.â
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 wasnât 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 couldnât seem to look away, even as both of your pulses quickened against your will. âYou donât mean that.â
You scoffed, your focus snapping back to the road, but the way your hands gripped the wheel betrayed the crackling storm beneath your skin. âI 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 itâs time to question what the hell weâre actually enforcing.â
Hotch didnât respond immediately.
The silence felt like the stillness before a storm, heavy and waiting. âIâll handle Rossi if and when his actions compromise the team or the case. Until then, you need to focus on whatâs in front of you.â
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 didnât 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.
âThatâs the problem,â you bit out. âRossi is the problem. And by brushing this off, youâre part of it.â
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. âYou think youâre the only one who notices these things? I see everything. Every tension, every hesitation, every misstep. Itâs my job to decide when to act, not yours.â
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. âThen decide, Hotch. Because the longer you let Rossi pull this crap, the more respect you lose - from the team. And from me.â
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. âThatâs enough.â
âIs it?â you challenged, twisting in your seat to fully face him. The air between you felt like fire, licking at the edges, threatening to consume. âBecause Iâve had enough of watching you protect him like heâs untouchable.â
His voice dropped lower. âFocus on the case, Y/N. People are being murdered.â
Technically it was just a victim now, there was no reason for him to use the plural.
Uncultured.
Fuck him.
âYouâre shifting the focus of the conversation,â you retorted, the words tearing through the few inches of space between your seats.
âY/N.â 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 detectiveâs exasperation was as palpable as the tension in the room, radiating out like a second heartbeat. âSo how the hell do we catch an invisible man?â
Hotch, standing tall and composed, responded. âIâm pretty sure we can get him to contact you.â
The detectiveâs skepticism was immediate, his brows furrowing deeply. âWhat?!â
Prentiss stepped in, her voice steady and explanatory, trying to ease his doubts. âThe crime scenes show he wants to deliver his message to the police. He isnât going public.â
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. âHopefully, by playing on his anger...â His words trailed off as his eyes locked onto the screen.
The mask.
Hotchâs 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 hadnât been shared with the public, the detail he had explicitly instructed everyone to keep confidential.
âJJ, howâd they get that?â His voice was a low whisper, his hand gesturing toward the screen in disbelief.
JJ looked stricken, her words tumbling out in hurried defense. âNot from me. I-Hotch, I called all the local police departments, and I stressed withholding the mask.â
He knew it wasnât JJâs fault.
He wasnât 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.
âI called them,â Rossiâs voice cut through the moment like a razor, its nonchalant tone infuriatingly casual.
What?
âWhat?â The word escaped him as a whisper, his disbelief palpable.
âI said,â Rossi repeated, turning toward the team with the air of a professor unveiling a lectureâs climax, âthe FBI thinks the masks meanâ he paused, a smirk curling his lips as he gestured toward the screen âheâs impotent.â
He didnât just say that.
âCan I speak to you for a second?â Hotchâs voice was barely audible, clipped and strained, as he turned sharply on his heel and began walking.
He didnât 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. âWhy would you do that?â
Rossi leaned casually against the table, his arms crossed. âItâll make him contact us. Heâs screaming for it.â
Hotch inhaled slowly, keeping his voice even. âWe arenât prepared.â
âPrepared?â Rossi repeated, his tone dripping with condescension.
âWe need to set up a trap and trace,â he clarified, his voice tighter now.
Rossi smirked, an insufferable little quirk of his lips that made Hotchâs blood pressure rise incrementally. âTrap and trace?â Rossi scoffed, raising his shoulders as if the suggestion were some rookie mistake. âThey never stay on the phone long enough for that.â
Oh, for Godâs 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 youâd dismantle Rossiâs overconfidence with the precision of the most skilled surgeon. Something about âhubris being the downfall of great men,â probably referencing some obscure Greek tragedy, and then tying it back to his blatant disregard for teamwork.
And if that didnât work?
Hotch glanced briefly at Rossiâs smug expression.
You would just talk in ancient Greek.
No, better.
Youâd just kick him. Right there, where it hurts most, to make sure he matches the unsubâs supposed impotence for the full-circle effect you loved so much.
âDave, theyâre a lot faster than they used to be,â Hotch managed, his voice firm but even.
Keep it together.
Keep it professional.
Not everyone handles things with Socratic debates and well-placed footwear.
âWe also need to prep the detective on what to say to him.â He continued, trying his best to not imagine Rossi helplessly trying to crawl out of the room.
But Rossi didnât even flinch. âHeâs not gonna want to talk to the detective. Heâs gonna want to talk to the FBI.â
Hotch stared at him, weighing his words carefully.
Deflect. De-escalate. Move forward.
He couldnât 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 youâd 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 youâd claimed permanent residence.
Get her out of your head, Hotchner.
You werenât even here, and still, he couldnât escape you.
It was infuriating, really, but he refocused. âWe donât step over the local police like that.â
âThey called us in,â Rossi countered, his tone dripping with indifference.
âYes,â 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? âBut if the perception is that weâre here to embarrass the locals by telling the media weâre going to fix things, then theyâll stop calling us.â
âRelax, Hotch. Iâve got this,â 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 Rossiâs arrogance being so immense it was practically a separate entity. âYou see, thatâs the problem, Dave. There is no I. We function as a team.â
Rossi straightened slightly, his smirk fading but his tone turning defensive. âIâve been doing this before you were out of high school. Probably before the rest of your team was in school at all.â
âI know that,â Hotch replied, his voice lowering as he met Rossiâs gaze directly. âThings have changed.â
Rossiâs eyes narrowed. âThe bells and whistles changed. An unsub is still an unsub, and I know how to deal with an unsub.â
Jesus.
âNo, Dave,â Hotch said softly, leaning forward slightly, âitâs not just that.â
Whatever Hotch intended to say next was cut off as JJ appeared in the doorway, her expression urgent. âHotch. Garcia just found something.â
---
The three hours of flight back from Texas were probably the longest of Aaron Hotchnerâs 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 jetâs engines. It lingered, stubborn and unyielding, because neither of you addressed the argument from the car.
As professionals, you both knew better.
Eneid Whiteâs 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 wouldnât leave him - not yet, not completely.
For him, it wasnât over.
Not by a long shot.
The argument youâd 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 wasnât just that heâd mishandled Rossi, heâd let the tension between you fester, unchecked. And the thought of what could have happened - what might have been lost if they hadnât 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.
Heâd 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 unsubâs house instead of some remote hiding place.
If he couldnât 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 couldnât function without. He prepared two cups, sneaking a spoonful of sugar into his own to dull the bitterness - a betrayal youâd 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. âI know you like to torture yourself when youâre doing paperwork,â he said quietly. âDidnât want to deprive you of the tradition.â
Your lips twitched, but whether it was amusement or annoyance, he still couldnât tell.
âAnd why are you torturing yourself as well?â you asked, gesturing to the second cup in his hand.
âCan I sit?â 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, âYouâre my superior. I think you can sit wherever you want.â 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.
âI shouldnât have said what I did,â he admitted finally.
You didnât look up, your pen still scratching against the paper. âBut you did. Because thatâs what you really think, isnât it?â Your tone was clipped, cool, but there was an edge of something else, disappointment, maybe. âYouâve never put yourself above any of us before. So why start now? Was it because someone wasnât respecting your authority? Because it made you question your ability to lead in the first place?â
You immediately continued, laying bare the reasons heâd imposed that golden rule against profiling each other in the first place. âDo you really think they made you lead profiler back then just because Rossi wasnât around? That it wasnât 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 Rossiâs - are just proof that the voices in your head are right? That if I argue with you, itâs because I donât think you should be my boss? God forbid there could be another reason, any reason besides that. Am I wrong?â
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. âYouâre not,â 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. âAaron,â you said, your voice softer now, âI swear, one day Iâm going to find a way to get inside your head and shut those voices up for good. Youâre good enough. Hell, youâre the best. So?â
He didnât 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. âSo,â he said, his voice low, deliberate, âwhat if I feel like the worst? What if I question every decision, every choice, because I know what happens if I get it wrong?â
You leaned forward slightly, your arms resting on the edge of the table, âThen youâre human, Aaron. Youâre human, and thatâs exactly what makes you the best. Because you donât take this lightly. Because you care enough to question yourself, to carry the weight even when itâs too much. But that doesnât mean you have to carry it alone and let your head eat you alive like thatâ
He shook his head, a faint, self-deprecating smile flickering across his lips. âBut thatâs not how it works. Itâs my job to make the calls, to take responsibility. If I canât do that-â
âYou can,â you interrupted firmly, your tone cutting through his doubts like a blade. âAnd you do. Every single day. But you donât have to shut your team out to do it. Weâre here for a reason, Aaron. Weâre here because we trust you. Because we believe in you. Not because youâre perfect, but because youâre the kind of leader who doesnât need to be.â
He looked at you, his expression unreadable for a long moment, and then he leaned back slightly, his hands still cradling the mug. âYou make it sound easy.â
âItâs not,â you said, your tone softening but no less resolute. âBut you donât have to make it harder than it already is. And for the record?â You leaned back in your chair, your eyes locking with his. âI donât argue with you because I doubt you. I argue because I trust you enough to know you can handle it. Thatâs what this is about. Not authority, not rank. Trust.â
His lips quirked into a faint smile, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. âTrust is dangerous in this line of work.â
"Maybe," you said with a small shrug, your own smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "But itâs what weâve got. And youâve 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. âItâs a shame youâre not as meticulous with your paperwork as you are with handling feelings.â
You straightened in your seat, narrowing your eyes at him. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â Your paperwork was impeccable - tedious, sure, but flawless.
Hotchâs lips twitched, and he leaned forward slightly, his finger tapping against the report on your desk. âYou missed a semicolon.â
âThatâs impossible,â you replied flatly, immediately flipping through the pages to find the supposed error. âI donât miss semicolons.â
âRight there,â 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 heâd indicated, and he swore he could feel your breath on the skin of his hand. âThatâs because I got distracted,â you declared, leaning back in your seat, far from him.
Thank God.
âDistracted by what?â Hotch asked, one brow raising slightly.
âBy you committing a cardinal sin in the kitchenette,â you said, crossing your arms. âI caught you. Adding sugar to your tea. Thatâs blasphemy.â
Really?
Hotch blinked at you, clearly not expecting you to have spider sense for your tea, or maybe for him. âI needed something to make it drinkable,â he countered, raising his mug to take another sip. His nose scrunched almost immediately, and he set the mug down with a quiet thud. âGod, itâs still terrible. How is that even possible?â
You leaned forward â no, not again, go back, go back âNext time, try it with milk,â you added, your tone lighter now, a teasing smile playing on your lips.
âMilk?â Hotch repeated, his expression turning skeptical. âThatâs your solution?â
You shrugged, your smirk widening. âIt works for the British⊠I doubt I will still talk to you if I ever catch you doing thatâ
Hotch shook his head again. Damn you and your philosophical dilemmas. âThen Iâll consider it,â he said finally, a trace of humor threading through his voice. âBut only if you fix that semicolon.â
You smirked, setting your pen down on the table and sliding it toward him. âGo ahead, fix it yourself. Youâve been staring at it so long, I can tell itâs driving you crazy.â
Little did you knowâŠ
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. âThere.â
âGreat,â you said, reaching out to take the paper back. But he smoothly pulled it just out of reach, his smirk deepening.
âHold on,â he said, the faint amusement in his tone far too evident for your liking. His eyes skimmed further down the page. âLetâs see what other treasures we can uncover here.â
âHotch, give it back,â you warned, narrowing your eyes.
But he ignored you, his brow furrowing slightly as he focused on something youâd written. Without hesitation, he drew a deliberate line through a sentence. âThis,â he said, tapping the now-crossed-out words with the pen â your pen, âis too much. What are you trying to do here? Write a dissertation on behavioral patterns?â
He didnât.
You must be hallucinating.
Your jaw dropped. âI donât see how itâs wrong.â
He flipped the pen between his fingers, the motion maddeningly casual. âItâs not wrong,â he conceded, leaning back slightly, âbut itâs definitely a little⊠philosophical for a field report.â He leaned closer despite himself, reading aloud ââThe unsubâs detachment reflects a broader existential isolation, a symptom of moral erosion rooted in-ââ
You lunged across the table, your hand grabbing for the paper. âAaron!â
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. âNo,â he said, his tone light and teasing, his eyes gleaming. âIâm not missing the chance to correct the Professor. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.â
âTheyâre not mistakes!â you argued, your voice edged with exasperation. âTheyâre creative liberties!â
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 couldnât quite believe what he was about to read aloud. âCreative liberties? Thatâs not a liberty. Thatâs a thesis.â He arched a brow and glanced at you with a faint smirk. âHow exactly does quoting Plato help us close cases faster?â
âItâs not Plato,â you shot back, but he was already reading.
He smirked as he scanned the next paragraph aloud. ââThe unsubâs 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.ââ
Brilliant.
He set the paper down and looked at you, one brow still quirked. âDeep. 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?â
You leaned back in your seat, completely unfazed by his sarcasm. âFine,â you said, lifting your chin slightly. âThe 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.â
Not your style, definitely.
Hotch tilted his head, considering this. âThatâs perfect.â
âThatâs boring,â you shot back. âIt sounds like something a lawyer would say.â
His lips quirked into a smile, his voice low. âYou mean someone like me?â
âExactly - boring.â you said, jabbing your finger in his direction.
His lips twitched into a small smile, but he didnât rise to the bait. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, again, resting his forearms on the table. âAnd yet, boring or not, it conveys the same point without sounding like it belongs in a lecture hall.â
âMaybe,â you admitted grudgingly, crossing your arms. âBut whereâs the humanity in that? The nuance?â
Hotchâs smile widened just a fraction, his eyes flicking back to the report in his hand. âYou think the prosecutor or the detective cares about nuance?â
If he still were one, he would.
âMaybe not,â you admitted, leaning forward now too, your elbows braced on the table. âBut nuance is what gets us inside their heads. Itâs how we understand them. Itâs why weâre even called in the first place.â
His gaze softened slightly and so did his voice âYouâre not wrong,â he said quietly, his tone almost reluctant, like it pained him to admit it.
âYou know?! You should say that more oftenâ you quipped, unable to resist a smirk.
His reply came almost instinctively, before he could think better of it. âWhat? That youâre right? Or that I notice when you are?â
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 didnât see it. ââShut upâ?! Maybe I wasnât wrong when I said you have a problem with authority,â he said instead.
You raised an eyebrow, keeping your gaze steady on him. âI donât have a problem with authority,â you replied, your voice smooth, almost playful. âI have a problem with you, Hotch.â
He chuckled softly, that deep, warm sound that always seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest. âOh really? What exactly do you have a problem with?â
You leaned forward slightly, your elbows on the table again, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion. âI donât understand some things about you still.â 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. âOh? And what exactly donât you understand?â
âI went to your office the other day⊠tell me, why exactly does Hegel for Dummies have a broken spine?â you asked, your tone a little too casual, as if you hadnât just delivered a question that made his stomach drop faster than a lead balloon.
Hotch fought the urge to wince.
Maybe he shouldnât have left it out on his desk in plain sight.
Maybe the bright, cartoonish cover with its garish yellow accents wasnât the best choice for a desk otherwise populated with leather-bound case files and stark black notebooks.
And maybe he shouldâve remembered that you noticed everything.
He considered himself a smart man, but clearly, heâd overlooked the obvious.
And so his gaze softened, his lips curving into a small smile that just showed his dimples. âMaybe because it reminds me of my best friend - the one I never thought Iâd get the chance to see again if youâd asked me a year ago, Europeâ 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. âYou canât just say something like that,â you said finally, your voice quieter, almost teasing to mask how deeply it had landed. âItâs not fair. I canât argue with sentimental declarations. Thatâs cheating.â
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. âMaybe thatâs the point,â he murmured. âThrow you off balance. Youâre always so quick with your comebacks, itâs nice seeing you pause for once.â
You narrowed your eyes at him, the playful spark in your tone returning as you shook your head. âThatâs evil. I didnât know you had it in you.â
Hotch, the Unit Chief, chuckeld â music to your ears âOh, Iâve got a few tricks up my sleeve,â he replied, leaning back again, his smirk insufferable.
âI take it back,â you said, crossing your arms and narrowing your eyes. âI officially hate you.â
You officially loved seeing glimpses of the Hotch you used to share a desk with back in â98.
Hotch tilted his head slightly. âNow, thatâs just ungrateful,â he said, his tone laced with humor. âYouâre going to have to make up your mind about me eventually.â
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 âtâ right here," he pointed out, his voice calm, almost teasing, as he tapped the offending error.
But he didnât 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 didnât notice at first, too blinded by the lingering irritation, which only made it more amusing for him. âYouâre never hearing another word from me,â you declared finally, your tone firm, though the frustration beneath it felt almost hollow. âNot ever again.â
From his seat, he didnât even glance up from the paper he was now just pretending to read. âGood luck keeping that promise,â 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. âHotch,â you called, your voice sharp. âGive it back.â
Hotch didnât 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. âTold you so,â he said, his voice light with triumph.
Fuck him.
--- As soon as they returned from Texas, Rossi wasted no time.
He strode directly into Hotchâs office, and Hotch, who had just settled at his desk, glanced up from the files he was reviewing, his brow knitting slightly in surprise.
âYou said out there,â Rossi began, his voice calm but carrying an edge, âthe team shares everything.â
âThatâs right,â Hotch replied, standing from his chair, his posture stiffening slightly as if his body knew before him what was coming.
âThere is no I?â Rossi pressed, his gaze unwavering.
Hotch nodded, his confusion mounting. âThatâs right.â Where was Rossi going with this?
âIt seems a big thing to withhold,â Rossi continued, his tone measured but cutting. âSeparating from your wife, your child.â
Excuse him?
âWhat are you talking about?â 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.
âWeâve been together 48 hours,â Rossi said, his voice low but unrelenting. âI havenât seen you call Haley. Not even once. You havenât mentioned her. And youâre not going home now.â
Great.
Rossi paused, his gaze drifting through the blinds toward the bullpen. You were there, leaning over a file on Reidâs desk, likely double-checking that every âtâ had its proper horizontal stroke. His expression softened, just a touch, before he turned back to Hotch. âAnd yet, youâre so protective of her. Always watching, making sure sheâs okay. Donât think I havenât noticed the way you still look at her.â
âStillâ?
Now that was a stretch, wasnât it?!
Before Rossi could say more, Hotch cut him off, his voice sharp, defensive. âWhatâs your point?â
Rossi didnât flinch. âI guess youâre just not used to sharing.â
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.
Hotchâs jaw tightened further, his words clipped as he countered, âMy private life is not the same as a case.â
Rossi tilted his head slightly, considering that for a moment. Then, with a faint shrug, he said, âIâm just saying, sharing is a learned skill.â
Rossi continued, his tone shifting to something more reminiscent. âYou know... when this all started... there were only a few of us. Weâd go out on the road alone. We didnât... groupthink.â
âWe donât groupthink,â Hotch shot back, his voice firm, his eyes narrowing. âWe think as individuals, and we share the thoughts with the rest of the team. We donât write them down in a little notebook and keep them to ourselves.â
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 heâd 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 couldnât fully release, even as its meaning progressively seemed to slip further from his grasp.
Logic, he recalled from your notes on stoicism - notes heâd 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 Haleyâs leaving more tangible, more real?
Would it mean that everything heâd built, everything heâd 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, wasnât it? The truth wasnât in the ring itself - it lived in what the ring represented.
Yet, despite that, he couldnât 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 wasnât ready to face that emptiness.
Not yet.
Damn the Stoics and their brain-twisting philosophy.
---
Youâd gone somewhere.
You hadnât 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 hadnât said where.
It shouldnât matter.
It wasnât the first time youâd left like this, slipping out with a vague goodbye and a light smile that said everything was fine.
But tonight, it felt different.
He couldnât 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 youâd 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 didnât 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 didnât leave their pen perfectly parallel to the edge of the table. A guest didnât linger just long enough to warm the silence before slipping away again, leaving only the faintest trace behind.
You werenât a guest to him.
You were the only reason the silence didnât 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 didnât feel like you were afraid to exist.
He didnât 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 heâd 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 didnât even recognize but that you swore were essential, or little reminders you left for yourself but that heâd 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 youâd 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 âitâs your space, Aaron.â
He wanted your presence to become so intertwined with his space that he wouldnât 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 papersâŠ
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 werenât 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. Youâd 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 hadnât just read them. Heâd 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, youâd thought of him.
Youâd given him something no one else had, youâd taken hours of your time - time you could have spent on anything else - to explain your world to him. Youâd 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, werenât his alone anymore, they were for Spencer.
Aaronâs eyes lingered on the page, his chest tightening with something he refused to name - it wasnât jealousy.
It couldnât 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 couldnât.
He was just a lawyer.
He hated the way it sounded, the way it reduced everything heâd accomplished into something so small.
But compared to Spencer?
Well, Spencer was a genius, after all.
Philosophy wasnât something Spencer needed simplified.
Spencer didnât need âHegel for Dummies.â
It wasnât that he doubted your friendship, he never had. Youâd do anything for each other - that was the kind of unshakable truth most people spend lifetimes hoping to find.
No, it wasnât doubt, it was something worse.
It was the quiet, biting knowledge that he wasnât 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 couldnât 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?
Heâd teased you once, calling it your âprofessor handwriting.â
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 wasnât 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 couldnât quite keep up with your thoughts.
The letters leaned forward, words blending together, the strokes of your tâs and the dots on your iâs 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. Heâd been noticing it for years.
And that was the difference, wasnât it? S
pencer could read the page, could absorb every word - but he knew how it felt.
He told himself it wasnât rational to feel this way, and Aaron Hotchner was nothing if not rational. He was the one people called stoic, composed, unshakable, detached. Heâd 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 hadnât 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 hadnât even realized heâd 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 didnât 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 heâd 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 didnât know what to do, didnât trust himself to speak.
Heâd 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 â 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 youâd 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 wasnât quiet, and it wasnât neat.
It was the kind of crying that shook you, the kind youâd 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 couldnât, 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. âIâm here, let it out. Just let it all out.â
He made sure to keep his sentences short to not give up the emotion in his voice âIâm holding you. Iâve got you.
âYouâre okay now. Youâre alright. Iâm not going anywhere.â His words werenât just meant for you - they were meant for himself, a quiet mantra to keep his composure while his heart ached in ways he hadnât 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 Aaronâs chest tighten.
His jaw clenched as tears began to well in his own eyes.
He didnât wipe them away, didnât 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 youâd had to endure so much pain to get here didnât sit right with him.
It never would.
âIâm proud of you,â 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. âSo proud of you.â
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. âIâm sorry,â you whispered, the words fractured with lingering sobs. âAaron, Iâm so sorry. You were right - you were always right, and I-â
âShhh,â 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. âIt doesnât matter now. None of it matters. If anyone should be sorry, itâs me.â
You let out a breathy laugh against his shoulder, small but real, breaking through the weight of your tears. âAre we really going to argue about whoâs more sorry?â
Aaron chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. âNo argument. Iâd win. And whereâs the fun in that?â
Your laugh grew a little stronger, and he could feel the faintest tension in your body start to ease. He didnât 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 wasnât 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 didnât brush it away.
He didnât 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.
âAaron,â 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. âAnd for the record,â he said, his voice wavering slightly but still warm, âI cry more than you do.â He brushed at his cheek half-heartedly, even as another tear slipped free. âThatâs 2â0.â
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.
âYouâre impossible,â you said, shaking your head lightly. But then your tone faltered, quieter now, âDonât you ever dare walk away from me, Aaron. Donât leave me too.â
âNever,â he said firmly, his voice resolute and strong, heâd 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, âWeâve stayed apart long enough.â
You didnât say anything.
You didnât need to.
Aaron poured a glass of water, setting it in front of you. âDrink,â he said softly.
You accepted it without hesitation, murmuring a soft âthank youâ under your breath. He poured a glass for himself as well â 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 wasnât 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. âYouâve got one hourâ
You blinked, confused. âFor what?â
âTo get ready,â he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. âIâm taking you out.â
âAaron, I donât think-â you started saying.
âItâs either this,â he interrupted, raising an eyebrow, âor you sit here and tell me everything that happened. Your choice.â
He knew youâd 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. âFine. But only if Iâm paying.â
âDeal,â he said, a playful glint in his eye. âBut Iâm choosing the drinks.â
âMake it something strong,â you shot back, a hint of warmth returning to your voice. âI might need it.â
He chuckled, leaning against the counter as he watched you. He had to correct you, he couldnât help himself. âWe might need it.â
And then he wondered why his heart beat faster than yours when he was holding you.
He couldnât 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
#aaron hotchner#hotch#criminal minds#hotch x reader#aaron hotchner x reader#aaron hotch x reader#criminal minds x reader
211 notes
·
View notes
Text
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.
202 notes
·
View notes
Text
Humans are weird: Steveâs 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 âSteveâs Stationâ in the Cambra system.
Designated as the haven of the underworld, Steveâs 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 âSteveâ, 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 itâs 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 Steveâs 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.      Donât start trouble, lest you want troubles of your own.
Within a short while the smugglerâs 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 Steveâs 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 stationâs reputation became wildly known as every criminal, pirate, smuggler, rogue ai and wayward warlord found their way to Steveâs 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 Steveâs 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. Â
--------------
âGive us the access codes and this can all be over.â
The Jinari leaned down and grabbed hold of the humanâs 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 âSteveâ; founder of Steve station and currently their captive as they continued with their hostile takeover of the station. Jinariâs 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 stationâs control bridge as security was light. The guards had grown lax with the fear of Steveâs displeasure keeping many of the patronâs inline. Theyâd 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 Jinariâs 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.
âIt wonât do you any good you know.â
Jinariâs good mood quickly evaporated as he watched the human Steve begin to laugh.
âYou broke the third rule,â he laughed, âyou arenât going to make it out of here alive.â
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.
âYouâve got one chance,â a deep rattling voice came from outside, âso I want you idiots in there to listen well.â
âRelease. The. Human. Steve.â Another voice came in with thick robotic overtones.
âAn jus mayâbe, we lets you go with your bits intact!â 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.
âThatâsâŠ.youâreâŠ.â one of Jinariâs crew stammered as the first figure came into view. A towering mass of muscle and bone covered in thick black armor plating.
âGur, leader of the Black Reavers.â
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 âCybrosisâ, 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 princeâs head.
âLet Steve go, and weâll let you live.â Gur spoke with a calm, collected voice.
Jinariâs 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 Steveâs head.
âWhat makes this flesh sack so special?â He shouted at the group. âItâs just one human! We donât need him to run this place!â
âCorrection.â Cybrosis remarked. âHe. Is. The Only. One. Who Can. Run. This. Station.â
âWHY?!â Jianri demanded.
âHe makes me laugh!â Gobsnob chuckled.
When the answer did not dissuade Jinari Gur spoke up and pointed at him.
âDeals changed. Whoever kills this stupid metal brain gets to walk free.â
Cybrosis turned to glare at Gur at the remark but said nothing. Jinari laughed and pushed the muzzle deeper against Steveâs head.
âYou think my own crew would-â
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 Jinariâs crew holding the smoking gun before dropping it to the ground and raising their hands.
âI can go free now, yes?â they stammered.
Gur smiled and reached for something in his pocket. âNah, I lied.â
Before any of Jinariâs 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.
âGlad you guys made it.â Steve laughed through bloody teeth. âWas starting to think youâd give me up to that nobhead.â
Gur shook his head. âThey broke the rules.â He said calmly, wiping a stain of blood off his boot on Jinariâs twitching corpse. âAnd here you donât last long if you break the rules.â
Steve smiled and switched on the com channel for station wide broadcast.
âAttention station,â Steve said calmly, âAll possessions belonging to the former Jinari and his crew are now forfeited. Patrons may claim them as they wish for redistribution.â
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. Â Steve was not finished though.
âAdditionally, a free monthâs worth of supplies and repairs to the loveable bastards that came to my rescue.â
Even more cheers erupted from those gathered in the control room as they carried off Steve to the nearest bar for celebration.
#humans are weird#humans are insane#humans are space oddities#humans are space orcs#scifi#story#writing#original writing#niqhtlord01
201 notes
·
View notes
Note
So these computers will be mostly be used for CAD but also video editing. The time we are looking for is in the next few months. It will be running autodesk fusion which at minimum needs 2 cores, recommends 8 for cpu, needs 8gb of ram recommends 32gb, and needs aleast some sort of gpu and something like a nvidia quadro is recommended though I am mostly sure we would do fine with a 40s or 50s series GPU.
This is very funny to me because this is actually quite similar to the conundrum I had buying computers earlier today. Workstations are currently a bitch to get (and also that means that $1500 per device is somewhat unrealistic in the opposite direction of what I was initially thinking, especially given the graphics card)
------------------------------------
Hi Anon!
Thanks for the details! We're beginning to see some stock availability issues with hardware so I'm not finding anything that's a perfect match out-of-box for your needs but I believe I've found a solution that should be comfortably within budget as long as you've got in-house IT or an affordable contractor to help with the build.
What I've found is a Lenovo ThinkStation P3 Tiny that comes with a 20-Core, 14th gen i7 processor, 16GB DDR5 5600 MHz RAM (SoDIMM), and an Nvidia T400 4GB graphics card. The workstation includes an upgraded Lenovo Premiere warranty with next-day onsite service. The ThinkStation has one RAM module soldered to the motherboard but two free slots and can handle a max of 96GB, so I'd recommend purchasing this device and adding 16GB Crucial modules.
Just to be sure, I did verify that the graphics card with this device is on the list of compatible cards from Autodesk.
I'm finding the workstation available from a number of vendors at about $1200, and the RAM is available for around $50. With tax, that brings your per-unit cost to around $1400, leaving just under $100 per machine to account for the labor cost of installing the RAM.
Let me know if this sounds like a solution that works for you, or if you have any further questions.
Given your timeline, you could choose to place orders from vendors who are not carrying the full 30 machines right now, but considering the possibility of scarcity I'd recommend making a decision sooner rather than later.
Thanks! Ms-D
--------------------------------
Part of what I was struggling with on my quote today is that my employer doesn't want our techs mucking around with desktop hardware; we're not supposed to be ordering and upgrading before we send things out the door but that is not a limitation that an end purchaser has to live with so you (reader or anon) have more options and more flexibility when looking for computers than I do *IF* you make sure to check that you can do upgrades. It's not hard to add RAM to a desktop unless the RAM is soldered to the motherboard with no free slots, in which case it's impossible.
You can save a ridiculous amount of money on buying machines and have a LOT of options for dealing with scarcity if you know what kind of hardware is easy to fuck with.
In this instance, I wouldn't upgrade the GPU or by a card separate from the workstation (this computer has a 300W power supply and the computer itself is the size of most power supplies, so I wouldn't want to try to find something teeny tiny to work together), especially because there's a budget-friendly option that will allow the necessary programs to run available pre-built, but literally it would cost like five hundred dollars more to get something with more RAM. So save yourself a few hundred dollars by getting a fifty dollar RAM module and paying someone to install that in the machine or doing it yourself.
I don't think we're going to get to a point of completely empty shelves, but I do think we're likely to see fewer options that exactly match what we're looking for without doing some extra work. Large Bastard has been vaguely making noises about getting a new computer for the last two or three years and he's still on the fence and my comment to him was that I'm sure there's always going to be something available at a high enough cost, but there are going to be fewer choices if he has to replace a computer quickly (which, given the age of his desktop, he might have to at some point).
99 notes
·
View notes
Text
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 identityâthey 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 batchesâif 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 âraw materialsâ 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.
59 notes
·
View notes
Text
Want Better Things
âYou thought that was a bioweapon?âÂ
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. Â
Sadism.Â
Valta was already backing away. The final decision didnât change his behavior, it just made the hall feel far, far too short.Â
âI didnât order it deployed. I didnât make it.âÂ
The thing was staring at him, and he couldnât look away. The two eyes moved in such perfect tandem that he didnât think it was conscious. It only had binocular vision because it only needed binocular vision. Always the predator, never the prey.Â
And now it was moving in on him.Â
âOh, but what if you had? Then I could tell you all the things that were wrong with it.âÂ
One of its hands - a sprawling, five fingered spindly thing - traced carelessly along the station's walls.Â
âNo incubation period. Symptoms arrive within 40 minutes of exposure. No time to spread undetected. Minimum should be one week. Embarrassingly low.âÂ
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.Â
âSpread 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.âÂ
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.Â
âMechanism 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-â
It took its helmet off.Â
It took its helmet off.Â
It took its helmet off it took its helmet off it took its helmet off in a biozone it -Â
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.Â
â-is a rash.â
Valtaâs 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.Â
The human paused a moment before continuing.Â
âDo you know why they sent me? Alphonse Ericsen, PhD, MD, civilian doctor, here to speak with you?â
Valtaâs snout twitched. The suit translated the gesture for him.Â
âNo.âÂ
âBecause one of our grunts is a dumb fuck,â the human said simply. âAnd 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 weâve 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-â
It gestured to its pink face with a snarl.Â
â-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.âÂ
Valta unstuck at that. Heâd spent weeks down here, worrying about nothing more than the next skirmish. Now he was looking at a genuine existential threat.Â
â...What? Why would you help us? We wanted you to die. All of you. I wanted-â
The human cut him off with an exasperated wave of his hand.Â
âYou wanted something stupid. Doesnât 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, youâre going to be the one explaining to all your friends whatâs at stake here. My bedside manner is so bad that they limited my patients to virology slides and USMC marines. I think thatâs actually one rung below the guys that just dissect cadavers.âÂ
Valta wouldâve made an amused hum at that, but something already felt scratchy inside his throat.Â
#hfy#more flash fiction#I think I just needed a little brain break from pushing for larger works#fun tho#I really loathe HFY where the moral is like 'what if humans comitted war crimes and it was BASED'#so I tried doing one where it was 'what if humans took the moral high ground and like didnt do war crimes'.#the doctors prayer: that you live long enough to know what a dumbass you were#HASO#Humans Are Space Fae#sci-fi#770 words i think#Babylon-HFY
322 notes
·
View notes
Text
You Promised
Pairing: Anakin x Reader
Request(s): Hello love! Could I request something with Anakin x reader where heâs out on a mission and gets hurt maybe knocked unconscious for a bit and when he wakes up heâs like âsheâs gonna kill me for getting hurtâ and when he gets back gets an earful but also lots of cuddles <3
Was recently watching Hunger Games Catching Fire idk if youâve seen it but thereâs 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 heâs gonna die and Obi-Wan or Rex can just tell đ
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 thatâs 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 didnât 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.
âwhats-â you couldnât even get your whole question out, werenât 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.
âKid you donât want to go over thereâ Finally the voice broke through the haze, because that was Rexâs voice, his nickname for you. But why was Rex here?
âNo I need to-â you werenât 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.
âLet the general workâ Rexâs voice was smooth, clam.
But Rex was supposed to be with Anakin, Rex was always with Anakin, Rex had Anakinâs 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 manâs helmet, as if he could tell you anything but what you already knew, as if he could fix everything.
âThe general has him Y/Nâ
And somehow hearing him say your name made it worse. Because to him you werenât Y/N you were general, jedi, kid, anything but the gravity that came with your name.
You like to think youâd decided then that youâd 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-wanâs 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 Anakinâs unconscious body beneath his hands.
He looked peaceful, too peaceful for the way his body moved beneath Obi-wanâs rough compressions.
âno no no noâ 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 couldnât be Anakin lying there without a heartbeat, it just couldnât.
âY/Nâ 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 Anakinâs 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.
Youâve known Obi-wan for years, the man had been through more than most people experience in their lifetimes. He was a general in the republicâs 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.
âObiâ his name left your lips in a whisper, as a prayer, pleadingly.
The Jediâs eyes cut up to meet yours briefly, his compressions never once halting âI knowâ
The manâs voice wasnât scared, wasnât broken, but it wasnât 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.
âNo no he canât he-â you begged, who you were begging to you werenât sure at this point âhe promised he would be okay, he promised he would be careful, Obi-wan he canâtâ
The words fell from your lips your mind barely attaching meaning to them as they passed.
âRexâ 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 werenât sure if you were ever going to see him again.
Desperately you screamed Anakinâs name over the crowd, watching as his body was hoisted by a few troopers and carried towards the nearest starship, ardently fighting against Rexâs hold as he kept you in place.
âNo no Rex please I need to go with himâ you begged the clone captain âplease I canât leave him alone he canât be aloneâ
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 âRex he canât die heâs my-â and you couldnât bring yourself to finish the sentence, chocking on the word friend. Cause that wasnât quite right, that word wasnât enough, and it seemed that only when faced with Anakinâs flatlined heart that you could admit that to yourself.
Fate was a cruel thing.
Rexâs hand made its way to your shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze as he rocked you back and forth softly âI know Y/N, I knowâ
-
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.
âWell hello thereâ
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.
âWhere am I?â
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.
âmedical unitâ 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 âI must say weâve had a lot of close calls in our days my friend, letâs never get that close againâ
Anakin just hummed in response, greedily gulping down water.
âWhat do you remember?â
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. âwe were on Corelliaâ he answered hesitantly âthe separatists were attacking we were there with Y/N I think, she went off with her clone army andâŠâ 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.
âsheâs fine, she had to brief the councilâ
Anakin sagged back in relief, his breath taking a second to right itself once again âokay-okay good. Sheâs okay. She separated off and told me to be safe then I-â
âdid the exact oppositeâ Obi-wan supplied with a half smirk, relishing the way that same panicked look grew once again on Anakinâs face in response.
âshitâ Anakin swore under his breath, bringing the heels of his palms up to rub at his eyes.
âsheâs been by your side since she got to Coruscantâ Obi-wan replied, crossing his arms over his chest âhad to threaten expelling her from the order just to get her to go give her debriefâ
Anakin could only groan in response, his posture slumping further as he did so âscale of 1 to 10 how likely is she to kill me?â
Obi-wan chuckled in response âoh my dear padawan we surpassed double digits long agoâ
âit was that bad huh?â
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 âthe first time she saw you since the moment you separated off was when I was giving you chest compressions-â
âWell Iâm here now thatâs got to be worth something right?â he tried, earning only a single brow raise in response.
Another heavy silence fell over the pair before Obi-wan broke it âAfter seeing her reaction to finding you like that I feel it is my duty as your master to warn you against forming attachmentsâ 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 âhowever, 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 worriesâ
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 âyes masterâ that at least seemed to placate him for the moment.
Obi-wanâs posture straightened suddenly, eyes cast towards the closed door as he sensed a presence Anakin had felt coming minutes ago. âI believe that is my que to leaveâ
Giving Anakin a small bow Obi-wan made his way towards the door, pausing when Anakin suddenly called out âMasterâŠthank youâ
Obi-wan smiled warmly in response âItâs good to see you breathing again Anakin. Do your best to keep it that wayâ
Opening the door Obi-wan paused just in the doorframe, conversing briefly with someone he knew to be you before disappearing.
The entryway to Anakinâs 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 couldnât 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 wouldnât 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 didnât 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 wasnât 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 wasnât entirely sure he hadnât 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.
âcannot 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-â
Your words vaguely registered in the back of his mind as you paced back and forth, scolding him. âyouâre right, Iâm sorry, come hereâ 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 âyou cannot keep doing this to me, to Obi-wan, to Rex, throwing yourself into every dangerous situation without any regard for your life-â
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 hadnât even looked at him as you ranted, your eyes planted on your feet as you paced rapidly before his bed âyou promised me youâd 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-â
He hadnât 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 didnât 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 Anakinâs focus finally zeroed in, yours seeming to do the same, the both of you acknowledging in that moment you hadnât 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. âAni I found you while Obi-wan was doing chest compressions, I only found you after you had diedâ
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 hadnât 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 wasnât sure he could forgive himself for that.
âY/N pleaseâ 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.
âIâm so sorry Y/Nâ he whispered into your hair and for a second you didnât 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.
âYou better be Skywalkerâ
And despite everything Anakin couldnât help but chuckle at your threat, arms tightening slightly around you as he fondly kissed the top of your head once more.
âIf I promised to be more careful would you kiss me again?â
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 âmaker I kissed youâ
âyou didâ 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 âI didnât even ask you or warn you or tell you how I feel I just kissed you, maker Aniâ
âAnd Iâm asking you to do it againâ he chuckled, hand wrapping around your wrist and giving it a small tug trying to pull you back into him.
âI couldâve ruined everythingâ you continued to rant, eyes unfocused as you spoke âWeâve known each other since we were nine and I just kissed you like that wasnât going to change everything what was I thinkingâ
âIâm thinking if you donât kiss me now my heart may stopâŠagainâ
Your response was immediate, one fist shooting out and connecting solidly to his shoulder causing the jedi to groan softly âAni thatâs not funnyâ
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. âI want it on record this does not mean I condone you injuring yourselfâ
âYou got it sweetheartâ 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.
âAnd you canât just say whatever you think I want to hear just so Iâll kiss youâ
âmhm sure whatever you want babyâ he responded with a hum before pulling you in again, an exasperated groan escaping him when you once again pulled back too soon.
âI mean it you have to promise me Aniâ
Anakinâs other hand came up to cup your check, gaze desperately seeking out yours as he held your head mere inches from his own âI promise you I will not put myself unnecessarily into danger going forwardâ 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 âand one more-â before Anakin was responding with a simple ânoâ pulling you back into him, the Jediâs desperation making you giggle against his lips as you happily kissed him back.
#anakin skywalker#anakin skywalker imagine#anakin imagine#anakin fic#anakin x reader#anakin skywalker x reader#anakin skywalker fic#anakin skywalker x you#star wars fanfiction#star wars imagine#star wars x you#star wars x reader#star wars x y/n#skywalker imagine#skywalker x reader#skywalker x you#anakin skywalker x y/n#anakin x y/n#anakin x you
396 notes
·
View notes
Text
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.Â
âYou good to hang back with ND?â she asked, even though she knew the question was pointless â and it was more of a taunt, no less. You tossed her a sideways glance, rolling your eyes at her knowing grin.Â
âWeâll be fine,â you assured her as you ran a cloth along the barrel of your blaster. âWeâll get started on mapping out the next locations.â You paused, setting down your blaster to pet the merqaal, who beamed at you with those large eyes and wide smile of his.
âHe canât hate me forever.â
âND doesnât hate you!â She chuckled at that, and opened the side gangway door as Nix jumped back to her shoulders. âI 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.â Kay winked at you, and you remembered how Kayâs initial relationship with the old commando droid had been rocky as well.
You partially followed Kay as she started to head down the gangway. âI need you to work together on this. I should be back in a few hours,â she called back to you. With a smirk, she then added: âTry to get along until then.â
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 hadnât been able to get along ever since heâd been forced to save your life just after youâd joined their crew. Months ago now, Kay had run into you on Renpalli Station. Youâd been on the run from your former employer and were trying to secure a ride out of the sector. Sheâd been nice enough to offer you a ticket to freedom, but after those several hours of hyperspace travelâincluding multiple games of Sabacc, drinks, and shared storiesâKay 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 Kayâs judgment, just as he always had.Â
From that momentâthe way heâd shaken his head at you while reluctantly agreeing with his partnerâyou 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.Â
âShe is still at the workbench,â you heard ND-5âs 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.Â
âIâm here, Kay,â you call out, rolling your eyes at the back of the droidâs head. You took a seat in the pilotâs chair, and kicked up your legs, resting them up against the console. âDidnât you just leave? ND bothering you already?â
âI have narrowed down a few systems thatââ ND-5 paused, his head turned in your direction. âGet off of the console.â
âND,â came Kayâs mock scolding voice. You could picture her facial expression. âBe nice. Now, what were you saying about those systems?â
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 heâd 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.Â
âSo,â you started, dropping your boots into the ground with a thud and resting your elbows against your knees. âI know we told Kay weâd work together on that, but it looks like you already went ahead and did everything yourself instead.â
âYes,â 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.â
âThatâs notâ Kay had just left!â You practically shouted, but ND didnât spare you a glance. You sat up straighter. âI know we donât see eye to eye, and we donât exactly get along the way crewmates should.â You sighed, trying to calm yourself down. âBut 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 wonât 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. âAnd 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 donât know what your problem with me is.â
None of the anger died with those last words, but you decided to save your breath and go back to what youâd been doing before â but before you could make it all the way out of the cockpit, NDâs voice arrested you in place.
âDo you really want to know?â
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 youâd never stood this close to him before. Strange, you thought, because you do live on the same ship.
âYou⊠are a distraction.â
You narrow your eyes, and swallow hard. âWhat is that supposed to mean?â
He looked away.
â...Nevermind.â
âND-5, youâve got to be fucking kidding me.â You huffed in frustration. âYou know what? Youâre distracting me from âplayingâ with my blaster,â you tossed out his own words back at him. âFuck this.â
You turned to leave the cockpit, but NDâs metal fingers found their place wrapped around your arm. He didnât 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 couldnât 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.
âI can hear a lot,â he started to elaborate. âMy audio sensors can pick up what organic hearing sometimes cannot.âÂ
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 â flames kindling all over your body. Never would you have ever predicted that youâd feel this heated from something other than anger and frustration with ND. A new feeling emerged from somewhere deep within you â a lust that must have crawled its way out.Â
Your throat felt dry. This was new.Â
â...And?â
âI cannot get the sounds you made out of my memory banks.â
You were in shock. ND-5 could hear you â late at night in the semi-privacy of your little alcove bunk. As quiet as you always wereâsomething youâd always take precautions withâproved to be futile when in the proximity of a droid, one who was actually able to speak to you about it â a droid who was apparently making you feel⊠desire.Â
âI did resent having to save you from those Imps,â he continued. âBut I have, unexpectedly, found myself intrigued by you.â
You raised a brow and instinctually bit your lip.
âOh? Is that the case?â
âYes. I have often calculated how I could pull those sounds from you myself. That is why you are a distraction.âÂ
You were still in shock, even more so than before. You could say it all made sense now â 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.Â
This was never something youâd consider before. There never was an attraction until now and itâs growing rapidly, beyond your control. You figure that all the resentment you harbored for him in retaliation was the catalyst â and now you need to fuck it all out of your system. Heâs a droid⊠but maybe that was a good thing.
âTell me,â you cautiously prodded. Nerves and the newfound desire fought for the reins. âWhat, um, calculations have you made?â
He was so close that for the first time you could hear the faintest of whirs in even the smallest of his movements. âThis is a surprise,â ND noted with a cadence in his tone to match. âI never calculated that you would inquire about this.â
âWell.â 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. âI am.â
ND froze, as if he were computing his next move.Â
Maybe you were making a fool of yourself. It wasnât like you woke up this morning already pining for the droid, and even now, you werenât even sure how it would work â but something in the back of your head screamed at you, that ND knew exactly how it would all play out â and that tempted you to your detriment.
âGood,â 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. âGet against the console.â
You blinked at him. âI thought you didnât like it when Iââ The wordless stare you were leveled with was enough to jolt you with the realization. A devious, knowing smile grew on your lips. ââOh.â
âIf you are going to be a bratââ His hold on your chin tightened. ââThen this will not continue.â
âCâmon, ND. Admit it.â 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 youâd tossed all caution to the wind. âYou like it when I talk back, donât you?â
ND-5 shook his head. âTell yourself whatever you would like.âÂ
The sounds that came from his metal feet hitting the shipâs 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 â entirely too soft and genuine and a huge contrast to the way heâd say your name before today. Your heart skipped another beat, and you turned your head over your shoulder.Â
âAre⊠you sure you want this,â he asked. A check-in. A final confirmation. You could not recall any other time when youâd been asked something like this. You were filled with gratitude, and it blindsided you. You werenât 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.Â
âWho knew you could be so considerate?â you teased.
An audible sigh came from behind you. âWhat did I say about being a brat?â
âFine.â With a deep breath, and with everything within you screaming for you to give in to this, you nodded your head. âI want this.â You took another breath, and offered up just a little more. âI⊠need this.â
âYes, you do.â
From the right you saw him toggle a switch, and the viewportâs 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.
NDâs 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 donât stay in place long; soon the fingers were sliding down and around your front, pausing again where you were practically throbbing.
âIf I alternate between rubbing and applying pressure on and off right⊠hereââ ND told you, his fingers having somehow found your clit even from over your pants, ââYou will be making those same noises for me in a matter of moments.â
You grin to yourself. âTry it, then.â
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 didnât 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.Â
âYou really did need it. Look at you,â he praised. âKeep going. Take it.â
Never had you ever considered just how lethal ND-5âs 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 youâd gotten off with a partner â but this â this was something else entirely. You started to sweat from the exertion, and the entirety of your body being clothed became too much.Â
âND,â you breathed out his name and paused your movements, pathetically tugging on your shirt. âGet this off of me.â
âNot yet,â he countered, much to your chagrin. You sighed in frustration and started to undress yourself, but he gripped you tighter. âYou were close, werenât you? Finish first, then I will comply with your request.â
You were much too worked up to argue, but he was right â you were close. Relinquishing yourself again to NDâs process quickly built you right back up to where youâd 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 youâd become.Â
âOver here.â
Still clearing the stars from your eyes, you slowly made your way over to him, awaiting instruction.Â
âWhat would you like me to remove?â
âAll of it,â 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.Â
âVery good,â ND praised. It was simple, but enough, and it brought your confidence back. He patted his lap. âSit.â
That one word turned you into a picture of obedience. You straddled his leg, your sticky and heated skin pleasantly bitten by the metal. Â
âWhat else did you calculate?â You took off your bra then, and threw it to join the rest of your clothes.
âThat you would be able to reach orgasm just like this.â
âLike how?â you asked coyly.Â
âHold on to me here,â ND instructed. He directed your hands to rest on his shoulders, the rough material of the trench coat beneath your palms. âYes. Good.â
âThen?â
ND said your name in warning. You couldnât help but chuckle.Â
âYou think this is funny,â ND commented flatly. He pinched your nipple, and it hurt. You yelped in surprise, and he shook his head â displeased.Â
âNow take it, or get off of me. We donât have all day.â
Your jaw dropped at his words, but your grip on him strengthened. âFuck, okay.â
âYou have the mouth of a pirate,â 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 youâd break your own fingers before heâd 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.
âTouch me, ND.â
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.
âTouch me here,â you clarified, guiding his hand to your chest. âLike what you did before, but not so hard.â
âUnderstood.â
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.Â
âYouâre close again,â ND noted matter-of-factly. âI can tell. The sounds you make get breathier, and higher in pitch.âÂ
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 youâd 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.Â
âSorryâ Iââ
âItâs all right,â he offered. âThat was intense for you.â
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 NDâs leg, where streaks of your release had made it through your underwear and ended up stained on the metal.
âLet me, uh, get that.âÂ
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 youâd been doused in ice-cold water, all of the pleasure youâd 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 didnât 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.Â
You didnât want to take too long. When you finally came back, NDâs head followed your every move, and he continued to stare as you wiped him off. He couldnât read your mind, but you knew how analytical he was. Calculating. Always assessing. It made you tense.Â
Breaking the palpable silence, ND said your name for the fourth time. Not that you were keeping count.
âI donât hate you.â
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.Â
âIt doesnât matter.â
You tossed the rag to the side, somewhere youâd be able to remember to grab it to dispose of later.
âYou are part of the crew,â he reminded you. âIt does matter.â
You didnât 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.
âCome back here,â ND called after you. âWe need to talk.â
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 didnât really have the energy to be angry, but your defensive instinct to start swinging quickly took over.
âAbout what, ND? You say you donât hate me, but you sure as hell donât want me here.â
âItâs not that I donât want you here. You are a disââ
âA distraction, yes, youâve said that. Message received, ND.â You shook your head dismissively, waving your hands in the air. âThere isnât much more to discuss.â
âIâm sorry.â
That was the first time youâd heard ND apologize to you for anything, and some of the stronger feelings diffused. NDâs heavy footfalls came toward you, and he said your name again, only this time, you truly listened.
âI meant it when I said that I resented saving you,â he began. âBut you are here for a reason. I trust Kay, and she trusts you. That is enough for me.âÂ
âI see.â You look down at your boots. Your face felt hot again as you recalled what had started all of this. âAnd I didnât intend for you to, uh, hear me.â
âI know that, and you cannot control how distracting you are.â
You shook your head, unable to hide the grin that grew on your lips. You plopped down into the pilotâs seat and looked up at ND. âWell, what now?â
âWe work together to do our job,â 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. âLetâs get to work.â
You pulled up the same holomap on your end, but kept your eyes on your crewmate. âSo, will you make it easier for me now?â
âOnly if you stop being a brat.â
You chuckle. âI canât make any promises.âÂ
ND audibly sighs, conceding with a head shake. âI didn't expect anything less.â
139 notes
·
View notes
Text
baby bat
ââ ââ
ââ
â ââ ââ
ââ
â ââ ââ
ââ
â ââ
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 donât hold your breath lol. Also for legal reasons, I own the rights to the nickname baby bat cause I came up with it and havenât seen it used before đŒđ
đ»
Ao3 link | <3
Fic Masterlist
Main Masterlist
âWhere'd Batman find you, hm?â He placed a hand on your thigh, just above your knee, and started slowly dragging it up.Â
âDonât fucking touch me.â You growled, thrashing in the restraints. He let out a low chuckle and removed his hand.Â
âSo feisty. Is this your first time as a hostage?â You gritted your teeth and remained silent. âOh, it is. Well, Iâm honored to be your first.â You could tell he was smirking behind the mask.Â
âIâll admit, this isnât how I would normally go about it, but I couldnât pass up the opportunity.â He said, walking over to the desk to grab something. âLetâs get this out of the way first, then weâll move onto the fun stuff.â As he walked back over, you could see now that what he grabbed was a vibrator and a video camera.Â
âWhat the fuck are you doing?â He shushed you and ignored your thrashing as he attached the vibrator to your clothed heat.Â
âIt might not be as effective over your suit, but I imagine itâll give a similar result.â He said and you couldnât tell if he was talking to you or himself. âLetâs get you warmed up.â 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.Â
âFeel good?â 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.Â
âW-why arenât youâ fuck⊠using your toxin?â You choked out, trying not to moan through the words.Â
âI told you, Iâm saving the fun part for later.â 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.Â
âSay hi.â 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. âSo moody.â He chuckled. âI guess weâll get right to it then. I need you to do something for me, Batman. If Iâm satisfied.. Iâll let her go. If not⊠well I could use a pet.â You let out a strangled whimper and squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will the orgasm away.Â
âIâll send you the details soon. In the meantime⊠Iâll take good care of her, donât worry. Weâre gonna have so much fun, isnât that right, baby bat?â He started rubbing your thigh again as he waited for a response.Â
You tried to think about dead puppies, the scent of dead bodies, Bruceâs cookingâ 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.Â
âOh, look at that.â He cooed mockingly. âGood girl.â 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.Â
âLook at her twitch.â He said proudly. âDoes it feel a little too good now?â
âF-fuck you.â You spat, but your voice was too breathless to have any kind of edge to it.Â
âDonât worry, weâll get to that soon enough. Now, Batman, one last parting word; trust that by the time the next video finds you, sheâll still be in this predicament, so Iâd work quickly if I were you.â He moved in closer to your face and grabbed your cheeks when you started turning away. âSay goodbye, baby bat.â When you remained silent, he chuckled and turned the camera off.Â
âGood job. You make such a pretty captive.â It was hard to focus on his wordsâ on anything reallyâ with intense, painful pleasure on your clit.Â
âY-youâre going to let me go?â You whimpered and he froze. His head tilted slightly, making you more nervous.Â
âYou poor thing. Iâm sorry if I gave you false hope, I didnât think youâd be stupid enough to believe me.â You let out a choked sob from his words and he cooed with faux sympathy. âI know. But soon enough youâll grow to like it here. Just give it time, pet.âÂ
Part 2
#scarecrow x reader smut#scarecrow x reader#scarecrow#batgirl!reader#jonathan crane#jonathan crane x reader smut#jonathan crane smut#jonathan crane x reader
951 notes
·
View notes
Note
hey i saw a âmegamind good omensâ fanfic and thought i had saved it to read later but now i canât 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 â at a few weeks old â are punted across the universe in an escape module to save them from their planetâs destruction. I never asked to be a supervillain. I just sort of ricocheted vaguely downwards.
- Mod C
45 notes
·
View notes
Text
đđźđŠđŠđąđ§đ đđąđ«đ || đđąđ đźđđ„ đâđđđ«đ đ± đ
đđŠ!đ«đđđđđ«

đđźđŠđŠđđ«đČ_youâve been lost for a day, and Miguel is worried. And itâs all because youâre not a science girl, thankfully your boyfriend is there to help you with your biochemistry class. đđđ«đ§đąđ§đ đŹ_age gap not specified (Iâm 19, I canât help it), idiot lovers, implied sex, fluff, Miguel best bf, civilian! shy! Insecure! reader, implied Mexican reader. đ/đ_this is based on my favorite song of the movie, hummingbird. Listen to my playlist tho <3
âȘ â« My Miguel OâHara playlist. â° Index (+ fics here)
Hi, I might be busy, but leave a message. Love uâŠ. *beep*
Miguel smiled, thinking the love u you had as a voicemail was only for him.
But soon he grew irritated. You hadnât answered your phone for the whole day. You hadnât even touched the device he had created for you to contact him through his gizmo.
âWhy the sad face? Is it because your girl hasnât answered?â Lyla asked appearing beside him. Miguel only eyed her.
âNo.â
âMmh⊠Even civilians have busy lives. Just because they arenât spiders doesn't mean they donât have responsibilitiesâ the AI said trying to do a wise tone.
âI know, Lyla.â Huffed Miguel, clearly annoyed.
âWell. Then donât worry, boss. Your girl is okayâ You were smart, and Miguel knew you were fine. It only was strange, because you always answered.
âOh, Peter and Gwen asked permission to come and see youâ Once again, he rolled his eyes. Miguel could already hear a silly comment coming from Peter and Gwen cheering him.
âTell them to be quickâ
âOn it, bossâ With that Lyla disappeared.
Miguel could not wait to leave the HQ and call it a day.
âŠ
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 werenât there.
Your window was open, but no signs of you.
âDamn it, where are you, y/n?â 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 didnât have to worry.
Although Miguel didnât 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. Thereâs 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 canât wait to go back home and call Miguel. You had missed him so much and-
âWhat the hell?â 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.
âOh look⊠You donât own me from Lesley Gore started playingâ you say with sarcasm, showing him your phone.
âYou didnât answer any of my callsâ Deep down, you knew he was worried. And it made you feel guilty.
âI know, Iâm sorry. Iâve been busy with schoolâ Suddenly, Miguel remembered you had started a new college semester. And everything made sense.
âTough course in specific?â He asked, his mask disappearing to your eyes, meeting his gorgeous face.
âUhâ, actually⊠yesâ
âWhy you doubted?â You blushed. And more embarrassed you felt.
âI was struggling and I didnât want to ask for help. Especially to youâ 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.
âAnd why is that?ââŠâ
âSilly me completely forgot the biology of drugs was biochemistry in disguiseâ Miguel laughed. He actually laughed and to that point, you were red like a beetroot.
âYouâre so stubborn, muñecaâ The music had stopped at that point. Putting your phone inside your bag was a good idea to avoid his deep gaze.
âWhat? I donât want you to know how much of an idiot I am. Iâm not a science girl and you know thatâŠâ Miguel stopped smiling.
You had said in the past that you were ashamed. Because you werenât 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.
âWeâve talked about this, y/n. Iâm 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 chaosâ he had mentioned his late daughter. The mother wasnât 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 didnât last. He never felt in love.
âI know, Miguel. I know that very well, bebĂ©â 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.
âI would still look like a bimbo if you ever tried to help meâ he laughed, a long laugh, before venturing again into your soft lips.
âThen Iâd look like a himbo if you introduced me to arts and literatureâ both of you giggle, hugging in the middle of a dirty alley.
âYour parents are out?â
âYeah. They went to visit my abuelita for the weekend. Sheâll come next week so I declined the trip to stay and learn about enzymesâ Your man nodded.
âIâll take you home. And Iâll stay with you these daysâ 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.
âWait till my parents find outâ As you giggle, he rolls his eyes.
âWe can keep it a secretâ
âOh, so romantic of youâ Miguel feels like a puppy when you start smooching his cheeks. He said he would never grow a beard because he didnât like it. You had said loved him however he decided to look, but honestly, you really loved his clear face.
âJust for you, mi vidaâ 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.
âWanna go watch the sunset?â He asks holding your waist. You nod, you would never say no.
âHold tightâ 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.
âThis isnât new, muñeca. You are missing the viewâ Slowly, you open your eyes, but you donât 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.
âI donât like the way my stomach churns every time we do thisâ you admit on his ear.
âGood to know we are already here, bebĂ©â Pink, purple, orange, and yellow make your eyes collapse as you encounter the most beautiful sunset youâve ever seen.
Miguel lets you go. He lets you walk across the rooftop and appreciates you for some seconds.
âItâs beautifulâŠâ you almost whisper, referring to the sky.
âIt isâŠâ but he means it about you.
You were his miracle. A safe miracle that came in the most unexpected moment.
âItâs a fruit punch sunsetâŠâ Youâre worried because you hear Miguel laughing again, which is weird. You turn around to encounter him smiling at you.
âReally? A fruit punch?â Youâre blushing again.
âOkay⊠Itâs a summer sunsetâ he knows youâre annoyed. Because he laughed earlier and now again.
âIâm sorry, mi chiquita. Itâs a fruit punch sunsetâ 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.
âI love so muchâ he whispers.
âI love you too, Miguelâ Everything was all too well with you. And he intended to keep it that way.
âŠ
Again, that little scrunch you tended to do once you were stressed or highly concentrated.
âOkay⊠so enzymes are?âŠâ
âProteins.â You answer shyly.
âCorrectâ
âAnd where does the substrate bind with the enzyme?â He is testing you, and you donât like it. But itâs for your own good.
âThe activate site?â
âGood girlâ You send him a bad look and he just chuckles.
âSee? Youâre not dumb, mi amor. Youâre very smartâ 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.
âI really want to be done with requisitesâ Miguel sighed.
âI had to take three English courses when I was in college, y/n. And believe me, I wasnât the most brilliant. My essays used to have red marks all overâ you giggle.
âI donât think so, youâre a geniusâ
âJust because I developed this thing with Lyla doesnât mean I am a genius,â he said pointing at the gizmo in his wrist.
âOh, Lyla. I miss herâ you admit.
It had been a couple of weeks since you visited the HQ for the last time.
âI can take you next week. Actually, Iâm strongly thinking that I might need help with the reportsâ proving that you were very smart, Miguel remembered the system you developed for the spiders to accommodate the reports filled after an anomaly attack.
âOh stop it, Jessica said it would be fineâ
âJess had actually stated that having you would be very helpfulâ It surprised you.
âReally?â
âYeah. A lot of people like having you around the HQ. Peterâs kid especiallyâ
âMayday?â Miguel nodded. Remembering how fussy the baby got after hearing your voice in a voicemail you had sent to your boyfriend.
âSheâs a newborn, Miguelâ
âSo? Sheâs like two months old. She already knows youâ 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 babyâs first plushie. A pink little spider girl.
âI love Mayday but donât use her to make me your assistantâ Miguel kissed your nose.
âWhy would I do that, mi vida?â
âBecause youâre a cheeky assholeâ breaking a record, Miguel was laughing again.
âAy, corazĂłn. No seas asĂâ
âIâll think about working more time at the HQ. QuĂ© tal?â He nods.
âThat would make me very happyâ
âNah, you just want to have me around like your rag dollâ Miguel smirked, so you gently punched his chest.
âIâm not in the mood to keep learning about DNA, enzymes, and monosaccharidesâ you admit rolling your eyes and pushing your head back in the chair.
âWell, Iâm in the mood to teach you anatomy nowâ Your eyes widen, and you start giggling.
âFine. But not on the couch. Last weekend Mom was this close to finding my ripped panties under the pillowsâ Miguel couldnât help but laugh at your index and thumb almost brushing.
âDonât worry. I wonât throw away your panties. But for sure Iâll rip them apartâ
âSee? Cheeky assholeâ
âIâm just being honestâ 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.
âYeah, yeah. Now take me to bed and do what youâre good atâ 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.
âMiguel?â You ask suddenly.
âYes, preciosa?â
âI think I forgot everything about steroids⊠Oh no,â you want to face-palm yourself.
âItâs okay. Iâll make you remember everything, muñecaâ As his kisses traveled through your jaw and neck, you relaxed. Finally, let the heat flow across your body.
âFirst thing, steroids help growth energy, metabolism, and reproduction, bonitaâ 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, youâd stay long. If not, forevermore.
____________
special mentions_ @freehentai
#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel oâhara imagine#atsv miguel#miguel o'hara#miguel oâhara x reader#miguel oâhara x y/n#spider man: across the spider verse#accross the spiderverse#spiderman atsv#atsv x reader#peter b parker x reader
477 notes
·
View notes