#stoplight of crime

[honeypiehotchner]

Juno (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- one shot

Hello again! This goes from zero to 100 in two seconds flat don't @ me!! Sabrina's new album came out and reawakened something in me (everyone say thank you Sabrina) (also this is not beta'd I wrote this in a short n' sweet haze)

Summary: Aaron is working from home but what paperwork he needs to do is the absolute last thing on your mind.

Warnings: smut! 18+ only! this is so filthy! in no particular order: multiple orgasms, cockwarming, choking, brat tendencies, stoplight system, unprotected sex, breeding kink (briefly), face fucking, overstimulation

WC: like 3,400 I lost my damn mind clearly

You’re not sure what’s gotten into you. Blame it on period hormones (probably) or the fact that Aaron looks absolutely delicious right now in his tight black t-shirt (most likely), but you’re going to go insane if either of you have clothes on for another five minutes. 

The problem is, Aaron is trying to focus. It’s one of his days where he works from home, an idea you gave him when you realized how easy it would be for him to do the same paperwork just from the comfort of your living room. It was a brilliant idea at first. You got to see him more, and were able to do your own thing around the house while he did his work. You got to have lunch together, and offer a genuine mental break in between his mountain of paperwork. 

Now, though, you can’t find it in you to give a single fuck about whatever needs to be signed, who needs to clear what, and what phone calls he still needs to make. 

“Honey,” you call sweetly from the kitchen. You watch him from over the island, your thoughts going all sorts of ways -- namely, deep into the gutter. “Want to break for lunch?”

You see Aaron shake his head, still typing furiously on his laptop. “It’s not even noon yet.”

“Brunch?” you try again, walking out of the kitchen. You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms over your chest in the way you know he loves because of the view it gives him of your cleavage. And you’re wearing a v-neck shirt today for that exact reason, too.

Aaron still doesn’t look up. “I’m sorry honey, maybe in an hour?”

You let out a huff that you know he hears because he finally looks up, eyebrows raised just so. It’s a look that you love. Curious, veering toward that playful annoyance that you can’t seem to go a few hours without his undivided attention. 

Which, you can, by the way. You’re more than capable. It’s just that right now, it’s a crime that his eyes have been looking at paperwork when they should be looking at you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and there’s some hesitation in his voice. You know he’s assuming the worst. That you’re not okay mentally, and that’s why you need him to take his lunch break now or maybe for the rest of the day. He’s done it before on your darker days.

But you’re okay. You’re perfectly fine. You’d just be even better if he put the damn laptop away and put his fingers to use somewhere else.

Which is exactly why you come to a stop in front of him and reach forward, tilting his screen down and down until it closes. He lets you.

He lets you take his laptop and put it on the table beside the couch. He watches you, his fiery brown eyes taking in every second. He lets you straddle his hips, your arms circling his neck.

“I see now,” he smirks, his hands finding their rightful place on your waist and squeezing lovingly. “By ‘lunch break’ you mean…”

“Put a baby in me,” you blurt, rocking your hips against his.

He stills, his hands making you stop your movements, too. His eyes are darker now in a way you haven’t seen in a while. “What?”

“Please,” you say, leaning your forehead down onto his, trying to move your hips again. “Need you.”

“Honey, we can’t have--”

“Yes I know the semantics, Aaron,” you mutter, now annoyed and lifting your head to glare at him. He has a vasectomy, you get that. “I mean fuck me like you’re putting a baby in me.”

His hands squeeze again. “I see.”

You frown. “Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not,” he smirks, one hand leaving your waist to stroke your cheek. “You’re adorable when you’re horny.”

You roll your eyes, peeling yourself off his lap. He lets you go, albeit with a curious look. You turn and head for the bedroom.

“Where are you going?” he calls out after you, still with that damn smirk lacing his words.

“To get myself off,” you reply in a deadpan. “Since someone--”

You don’t have a chance to finish your sentence before Aaron is right behind you, hands on your hips, spinning you around to face him. That look full of fire is back again, stern this time.

“Did I say you could do that?” he says in a low tone.

“Did I ask?” you retort, backing out of his grasp and darting into the bedroom. 

Now there’s a smirk on your lips. It’s quickly approaching shit-eating grin territory, which you know will only egg Aaron on further. This little game of cat and mouse happens to be your favorite, and he knows it.

You’re barely two steps into the bedroom when Aaron is attached to your back yet again, this time wrapping his arms around your waist, locking you in.

“Color?” he whispers, his lips right at your ear, sending shivers straight down your spine.

You groan. “Green. Neon green. So green, I need you to--”

He spins you again, this time backing you into the wall and attacking your lips. Finally, you think, though you know you’re in for it now. The thought has a grin crawling up your lips, and you’re unable to stop it.

“What’s so funny, hm?” he scolds, moving his lips to your neck instead, to the exact spot he knows makes you weak in the knees. Like clockwork, he has to wrap an arm around your waist to keep you upright, your knees buckling when he bites down just so.

“Nothing,” you manage through a moan, tipping your head back onto the wall. “Shit.”

“You’re ridiculous sometimes, you know,” he says, but he’s smiling against your skin. “Can’t let me focus on work because you need me to fuck you.”

“In my defense,” you try, your hands scrambling for his shoulders, for something to ground you. “You didn’t fuck me this morning.”

“I fucked you last night,” he reminds you, as if you needed the reminder. It’s the reason you slept so soundly. “Was that not enough?”

You can’t help it; you laugh. 

He lifts his head, raising an eyebrow at you. The same question as before on his lips.

“Sorry, I thought you were joking,” you say. 

“You’re insatiable.” 

“Guilty,” you grin, grabbing his face and pulling him back in for another kiss.

You make out against the wall for too long like two teenagers behind the bleachers at school. You hook one leg around his hips, pulling him in and grinding against his obvious erection. It’s enough to have him groaning into your mouth, pressing you against the wall with renowned vigor. 

You can feel how wet you’re becoming and fuck, neither of you have even taken a single article of clothing off yet.

Aaron notices, one hand traveling south without you paying attention, too busy relishing the way he licks into your mouth, stealing your every breath. The kissing becomes increasingly sloppy when he works his hand into your leggings, under the waistband of your underwear, and into you.

“Oh my god,” your back arches against the wall, pushing his fingers deeper. He doesn’t bother with one, starting right away with two, curling them when you grind harder.

“You’re soaking my hand,” he practically growls into the next kiss, adding a third finger after only a few thrusts. Your body accepts it willingly, always ready for him. “Jesus.”

“More,” you gasp, pushing him deeper. “Aaron, more, I’m serious--” Your words break off as he scissors his fingers, making your eyes roll back instantly.

“I can feel you already,” he smirks against your cheek, pressing a kiss there, an action so sweet and gentle compared to what the rest of him is doing. “Come on, honey. You’re cumming as many times as you want.”

That makes you inch closer to the edge at a frightening speed. He says you can cum as many times as you want, but what he means is he’s going to force as many orgasms out of you as he can. Until you tell him to stop or he decides you need a break. 

The thought of being an overstimulated mess in his embrace later has you climaxing against his fingers, your head falling onto his shoulder as his movements never cease, milking every last wave out of you. 

You lift your head in search of his lips again, which he willingly gives to you, his fingers slowing to soothing strokes as you whimper into his mouth. You’ve only had one orgasm and you already feel ruined. He can tell the way you tremble against him, so he checks in once more.

“Green?” he whispers, kissing your forehead.

You nod. “Green. You?”

He smirks. “Absolutely.”

He picks you up into his arms, inelegantly tossing you onto the bed behind you. You giggle as you bounce on the mattress, tugging your shirt over your head as he does the same to his. His hands move for his belt and you practically jump to the end of the bed, swatting his hands away.

“Since when is that your job?” you frown up at him, unbuckling his belt without looking.

He laughs, petting your head gently. “So sorry, you’re right.”

“What was that?” you tease. “I don’t think I heard you.”

“Don’t push it.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” you smirk, pulling his belt out of the loops and tossing it somewhere. You don’t wait for him to reply before you unbutton his jeans, yanking them down with his boxers.

There’s just something about his dick. You hate that you love it, or maybe you don’t hate it at all. All you know is you need it in your mouth right now.

So, you do that, without any warning. Aaron thrusts forward into your mouth on pure instinct, not expecting you to wrap your lips around him so soon. You slide down the edge of the bed onto your knees, pulling him back to you by his thighs. 

You take your time, pushing his jeans and boxers down further. When you pull back for air, he steps out of them and kicks them elsewhere, returning to you quickly, knowing better than to keep you waiting. 

You swallow him down again, moaning around him in the way you know he loves. It takes all of two seconds before he gently holds the back of your head, asking silently for permission that you were already about to grant. You look up at him, batting your eyelashes as you squeeze his thigh twice. Go ahead.

The thing about Aaron fucking your face is that it took a while for him to do it as hard as you really wanted. He’s always so gentle, a quality that drew you to him initially. You love how gentle he can be. But you love it equally as much when he is rougher with you.

Like now, when he has you pinned against the bed, one hand on the back of your head as he fucks into your throat. It’s blissful, quite frankly, the way he feels, and you thank the universe every time for your lack of a gag reflex. 

He holds you there with a deep groan, and you feel him twitch in your throat once before he pulls you off entirely. You frown up at him, once again not getting what you wanted, but he doesn’t have any time for that.

He picks you up by your armpits, hauling you back onto the bed. Your leggings and underwear are gone in a single second, along with your bra. He’s crawling up your body and crowding your space before you have a second to protest that he wasn’t down your throat for near as long as you wanted him to be. 

All frustrations leave your mind the second he pushes inside of you, immediately sliding home, his hips flush against yours. 

It’s a feeling you’ve grown to love, the way he hits you so deep. Another thing it took him a while to be comfortable doing.

He’s not average sized by any means, and you’re the first to admit it made you salivate the first time you saw. The first time he fed himself into you and worried that he was hurting you, meanwhile you were clawing his back because you wanted more. It hurt for a moment, only an uncomfortable pressure because he was bigger than your vibrator, but as soon as you were used to the size of him, you wanted all of him.

He stays there, deep in you without moving for a moment, grinding against you. His lips attack yours again before he pauses to lean his forehead on yours, trying to catch his breath.

“You drive me crazy,” he says on a shaky exhale.

You wrap your legs around him, thrusting your hips up to take him a little more. His hips stutter, pushing in the way you wanted him to, the way you know you can make him do involuntarily.

“Fuck,” he bites out, turning his attention to your neck again.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging. “Exactly. So why aren’t you moving?”

He nips at your neck. “Because if I move, I will cum right away.”

“Who said I only want you to cum inside me once?”

He groans again, fingers digging into your hips as you circle them, though he doesn’t try to stop you. “Greedy” is all he says, but he finally moves.

The thrusts are slow at first, Aaron clearly trying to pace himself. You can’t say you’re doing the same, already chasing your second high as he slams his hips into yours. Your hand reaches down to rub your clit, but is promptly smacked away by Aaron’s hand as he glares at you.

“Since when is that your job?” he echoes you from earlier, only this time, there’s more heat to it. He grabs both of your wrists, pinning them above your head to stop any other temptation. “Not this time.”

His thrusts pick up speed and depth, his body moving against yours in the exact way that makes you fall apart. It’s not often that he doesn’t let you cum from added clit stimulation -- not that you can’t without it; it just makes the high feel that much better -- but sometimes he does. It’s an ego trip for him as much as it is for you.

It also adds an unpredictable nature to it, which is why your second orgasm takes you by such surprise. You seize against him, your hands doing all sorts of squirming to try to break free of his grasp, but he doesn’t let you, and he doesn’t let up. You don’t realize why until you feel the warmth spreading into you as he reaches his own peak. 

You’ve clearly worked him up as much as you worked yourself up because his thrusts barely slow down, and he doesn’t soften inside of you. 

Instead, he pulls out only to flip you on your side, sliding in behind you and pulling your leg up and back over his hips. The action causes some of his cum to spill out of you, but you don’t have any time to focus on that before he fucks back into you. 

You’ve ceased to have any coherent thoughts as Aaron whispers dirty nothings into your ear, one arm wrapped around your body to keep you pinned against him. The pleasure doesn’t stop and at one point, you question if your second orgasm stopped at all or if it has continued this entire time.

Aaron reaches underneath the pillow where he knows he’ll find one of your vibrators because he heard you using it this morning. No, he didn’t fuck you this morning, but you fucked yourself, and truly, at 8am, he should’ve known you’d end up like this by eleven. 

Your mind doesn’t register what the sound means until the vibrator is pressed against your clit. Your body jerks, scrambling for some grounding, your hands finding it in wrapping them around his arm. 

He switches hands on the vibrator, so one hand is free to wrap around your throat. Your eyes roll back as soon as you feel the gentle pressure, your body practically going limp against him. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs directly into your ear, his thrusts slowing to deep strokes. “You’ve got a couple more in you.”

“A couple?” is all you manage to say, your hand squeezing his wrist so he knows to squeeze your throat a little more.

“Mhm,” his voice rumbles in your ear, sending goosebumps all over your body. “Is it too much?” His question is laced with just the right amount of pity that makes you shake your head against him. “I thought so,” he replies, switching the vibrator to a higher setting.

It sends you into your third orgasm instantly, squirming violently against him as he pushes into you deeper. He knows how much you love that, and loves how much you squeeze around him as he slides inside, fighting against your muscles that threaten to force him out. You’ve done it before, a mesmerized look on his face and yours when you both realized what happened. Since then, you told him you liked it more when he fought to stay inside. 

He takes the vibrator away as you calm down, his hips also pausing, keeping himself deep inside you. The pressure is soothing, and you take a moment to take a deep breath. His palm falls away from your throat, instead propping underneath your cheek.

It takes a few seconds before you feel yourself spasming around him. He chuckles against your back, pressing a kiss to your neck. “Still?”

You nod dumbly, rocking your hips again. “Yeah. I don’t know, I just-- Need more.”

“I’ve got you,” he soothes, pulling out again to roll you onto your stomach instead, one of your favorite positions.

You’re floating as you settle into the pillows, letting Aaron manhandle you wherever you need to be. You groan in your happy, blissed out state as he slides home again, draping himself over your back.

He is gentler now, knowing that’s exactly what you need at this point. The last orgasm he pulls from you is just as gentle, and he pushes deeper into you, letting you ride it out. 

He pulls your hips up and thrusts once, twice before he’s spilling into you. You didn’t realize he was that close again. The warmth is soothing this time as it spreads through you. 

Aaron leaves you only to settle behind you, spooning you once again. Your hand reaches behind you to find him, and he catches your wrist. 

“You need to rest,” he chides softly.

“I know,” you whimper. “Need you inside me.”

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your neck as he slides in again, still half-hard, but it’s enough. You settle down as soon as the weight of him is tucked inside you again. “Better?”

“Mhm,” you sleepily nod, pushing back into him so he holds you tighter. “Do you have to go back to work?”

He chuckles against you, sighing. “No, I’m done for the day, I think,” he says. “I’ll tell them you weren’t feeling well.”

That makes you laugh. “We need a better excuse.”

“Or I need to go back to working in the office.”

You roll your eyes. “Like that’ll make a difference.”

He shakes his head, his mind remembering the same memories that you are. The many lunch hours when you went to eat with him, and ended up with your back pressed into the couch, his tie stuffed in your mouth to keep you quiet.

“Go to sleep,” he says, pulling you impossibly closer. “I’ll make us lunch when we wake up.”

“Perfect,” you smile, nuzzling into him. “Love you.”

“Love you too, honey,” he says, pressing little kisses to your neck and cheeks, wherever he can reach. “Now sleep.”

You’re already halfway there. The combination of him nestled inside of you and the post-orgasm exhaustion is enough to lull you into a restful sleep.

[universal-verringbebe]

LADS MEN AS YANDERES

Alternatively titled "when your boyfriend is a yandere but that's your kink"

a tentative 18+ MDNI because I don't get explicit but it's HIGHLY suggestive

Zayne:

• My man's is CRAZY possessive and dominant.

• You're not allowed to see any other doctors but him

• Even if he's busy with another patient, he demands that you wait until he's done, regardless of what kind of injury you have

• As soon as you officially get together, he has you moving into his flat

• You WILL be sleeping in his bed every single night, no exceptions

• Don't even think of taking a nap on the couch, it's the bed or nothing

• And you eat that shit up

• Every time he orders you to do something, you have to stop yourself from jumping him right then and there

• Like he'll put a glass of water in front of you and coldly order you to "drink" and suddenly you're on your knees trying to get your fluids from somewhere else.

• You have male friends? Not anymore.

• If some of them suddenly vanished because of some dude named Dawnbreaker, that's not your business.

• The type to have you in bed and make you talk before pleasing you

• "Say my name"

• "Good girl, now say it again but louder"

• "Tell me you're mine"

Xavier:

• He's absolutely the stalker type

• Before you even officially met him, he was stalking you for at least a year.

• The area you used to live in had a high crime rate but you never met any trouble

• Wild, wonder why

• When you moved to a new apartment, he was your neighbor, what a coincidence and he started bonding with you like that,

• Whenever you needed anything or was having trouble with something, he would conveniently be there with a solution.

• You start to suspect the stalking and confront him

• When he confirms you literally just say "wow that's hot, please take me now"

• And that's how you got together

• From then on, he's just glued to your side no matter where you go

• You get a new job? Who's that fine piece of ass that's your coworker? Oh, hi Xavier.

• In bed, and I will continue saying this on main with no shame for xavier specifically, BREEDING KINK 🗣️🗣️🗣️

• He's going to fill you up whether you like it or not

• Spoiler alert: you like it

• "Just take it all my star, gonna make you give me a galaxy"

• "If I put a baby in you, then you really will have to stay with me forever"

Rafayel:

• THIS FUCKER IS MANIPULATIVE and NEEDY

• The moment he laid eyes on you, it was a wrap gg ez

• Like he deliberately will bump his car into yours at a stoplight, say it was your fault and demand your information

• Of course he's not going to make insurance claims or anything, he'll just buy you both a new car

• But now he has your number and you're never getting rid of him

• If he catches someone flirting with you, they'll suddenly find themselves without a job, homeless, in prison for 10 years for a crime he definitely committed and pinned it on them.

• And you're just here like, damn, you're so sexy when you ruin other people's lives🤪🥴🥵

• He said say less and proposed to you right then and there.

• How dare you not have your attention on him 25/8, do you even love him?

• Definitely needs affirmations every 0.3 seconds

• Also demands you prove your love to him. Like, if you love him, you'll pose nude in front of a whole class just so he can watch you squirm

• Spoiler alert: you're squirming because this arouses you

• LOVES marking you up and buying you revealing clothing to show his artwork off

• "They all need to know you're mine"

• "Don't cover that up. In fact, let me make it bigger, come here"

[sanguineterrain]

I'm BEGGING for a continuation of the drabble where Reader breaks up with Jason

Thinking of him injured and alone after almost dying is killing me 😭

this got more serious than i intended lol but i hope you like it anon! finally there is resolution!

jason todd x gn!reader. tw jason almost dies, hints of self destructive behavior, guilt, communication (i am forcing the batboys to be good communicators!!!), injured jason, dick being the bestest goodest big brother.

pt 2 to this

****

It's extremely stupid for you to be out this late, but if you hadn't left tonight, you'd probably never leave. And you needed to leave. You can't sustain whatever you and Jason had.

Asking him to quit would've been unfair, and you know he won't do it. This city pulls him back in every time.

"Where ya headed?" the cab driver asks. He doesn't look too shady. He'll definitely overcharge you, but at this point, you don't care. You just want to go home.

"Gotham Heights." You don't give him the exact address, but someplace close enough.

It's begun to rain. You try not to think about how you just left Jason. You turned off your phone as soon as you closed the door; you know he's probably calling like crazy, but as soon as you answer, you'll go back.

And you can't.

You blink back tears. You can't keep watching him throw himself into worse and worse danger. Jason fights crime like he'd sooner let it kill him. One day, it will.

The car pulls up to a stoplight. You're dozing; it's nearly eleven o'clock after all.

Suddenly, something lands on the hood. You jump, heart dropping.

"What the fuck?!" the driver squawks.

Nightwing perches on the hood of the cab. He lightly taps the windshield.

"Evening. Mind pulling over?" he asks pleasantly. "I'm actually their designated driver tonight."

"Nightwing!" you snap, hot with anger. "Get off the car!"

"You shut off your phone and left," Dick says, those white lenses zeroed in on you. His tone is cutting. "He's losing his mind. You know we don't go dark."

You close your eyes briefly. "We almost lost him, 'Wing," you croak.

"So your instinct was to leave?"

"Alright, that's it! Get outta the car," the driver says, unlocking the doors. "Fuckin' crazies..."

Dick opens the door for you and tosses a roll of twenties on the seat. The cab speeds off. You wrap your arms around yourself as he guides you to the sidewalk.

Several emotions cross Dick's face, before he lands on one. Sympathy.

"What happened?" he asks softly.

Your face crumples. "He died, Dick."

"I know," he says, holding your elbow. "I was scared too. But he's okay. He's the toughest guy I know."

"How am I supposed to keep him alive?" you ask desperately. "I can't."

Dick frowns. "That's not your job. I wouldn't expect that of you, and I know Jason doesn't either. None of us do."

You press your palms to your eyes and start to cry for real.

"I just want him to be okay. Every time he goes out, I think it'll be the last time I see him. I love him too much to lose him, Dick."

Dick hums. "Have you told him this?"

You shrug, wiping your eyes with your hand. "Some of it. I-" You wince. "I yelled before I left. He was being so nonchalant about it, and I know it was so I wouldn't worry, but..."

"I know. He can be a real pinhead about some things, but Jason's on it when it counts. He loves you a lot, and I think he'd want to know you're feeling this way."

You rub your eyes so hard you see shapes. "I don't know, Dick. I don't know if I can tonight."

Dick sighs sadly. "Alright. Look, I'll take you home. But can you at least tell him you're okay? He called me up, terrified. Said he dreamt you were in an accident."

Nightmares. The guilt triples.

You turn on your phone. Ten missed calls and fifteen unread texts pop up.

[10:38pm] Baby please come back

At least text me you're okay

I messed up, and you can leave, but at least tell me you're safe

[10:42pm] I'm calling Dick

Sweetheart don't get into a car

[10:43pm] Please don't I have a bad feeling about it

Call me please

You sniffle and tap on Jason's contact. The phone rings once before he picks up.

"Baby? Hi, hi. God, fuck. Are you okay? Is Dick there?"

Jason sounds wrecked. His voice is raw like he's been crying. Tears start to build up in your own eyes.

"H-hey, Jay. Yeah, I'm okay. Dick is here."

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have scared you. Shouldn't have been reckless. I won't do that again. I won't patrol alone anymore. I'll-I'll work with Batman again. I called him just now. Told him I'd be at the Cave next week."

"Jay, don't force yourself to work with Batman for me," you say, your stomach a pit. "I don't want you to do something that'll make you miserable."

It's been better, lately, Jason's relationship with his family. It's not perfect, but then again, you wouldn't expect a family that dresses up in Halloween costumes every night to fight crime to be perfect.

"It won't!" Jason says. "Look, B and I have our differences. That's for damn sure. But I'm not so mad about it these days. And I should be safer. You were right. I want to come home to you, sweetheart, I do. If that means working in a team, then I'll do it. I'll do whatever will make us both happy and safe."

You squeeze your eyes shut. "I'm sorry I wasn't there sooner, Jay. I should've been."

"Oh." Jason sounds heartbroken. You can imagine him running a rough hand through his hair right now, tearing through the strands. "No, no, no. Baby, my love, listen. I don't blame you for any of this. That's not your responsibility. It's my job to keep myself alive. And Leslie's, once in a while. But I don't expect that from you. Never from you."

It's quiet for several moments. Then Jason speaks again, tone timid.

"Have I... did I make you feel that way?"

"No, you didn't," you say, opening your eyes. "Not directly. But... I don't know, Jay, I've just felt like there's nothing holding you back some days. You fight like you're fighting something inside of you." You bite the inside of your cheek. "I don't want it to burn you out for good."

Not again, you don't say.

Dick bows his head, and suddenly, you're there, watching them lower Jason Todd's body into the ground.

"I won't let it," Jason whispers. "I won't. I'm sorry I did this to you. Made you feel like this. I only ever wanna be good for you. I'm-I'm trying to be good."

Your lip trembles. "I wanna come home, Jay."

Jason makes a desperate sound, like a wounded animal. "Please come home, baby. I don't want you to leave. Wanna hold you so bad."

"Okay." You nod at the phone and look at Dick. "Can you take me home?"

He smiles, small and hopeful. "Of course."

****

Jason nearly tears the door off of its hinges before you can knock. He's probably been listening for your footsteps all evening. Your throat tightens.

"Hi, baby, hi, hi," Jason says, bracing himself against the doorframe as he pulls you into a hug. "Missed you so much. Love you so much. I'll be better, it'll be better. I promise."

You kiss his shoulder and bury your face in his warm chest, listening to his heartbeat. A-live, a-live, a-live, it says.

"Thanks, Dickie," Jason murmurs into your skin.

"Sure thing, Little Wing," Dick says, and you think he might sound a little misty-eyed. Sentimental sap.

"Thanks, D," you say softly, and Dick squeezes your shoulder.

"Get some sleep, both of you."

"You first," Jason says, and Dick laughs on his way out.

You help Jason inside, tucked under his arm, and this time, he lets you guide him to the bed. He allows you removal of your shoes and jeans before tugging you in with him.

"I'll be better," he vows, and rolls you over so you're face-to-face. "I promise."

"I believe you," you say, thumb brushing over his salt-streaked cheek. "I'm sorry I went dark, sweetie."

He shakes his head. "'S okay. Well, I mean, it's not, but I understand. I just want you safe. And here. But only if you wanna be here. I won't force you."

"Of course I want to be here, Jay," you say, kissing his cheek. "There's no place I'd rather be. I just... I want us to live."

Jason swallows and nods.

"I'll live. I will. For both of us."

[ssa-dado]

4 - Thesis

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader

Genre: fluff, slow burn

Summary: Gideon urgently pulls Hotch and you into a complex case, leading to a sleepless night of intense work discovering the unsub's fascination with a symbolic, twisted version of a note design. Despite exhaustion, your insights prove invaluable, strengthening your bond with Hotch as partners as something seems to shift. As Rossi and Gideon joke about their own partnership comparing it to your own with Hotch, it’s clear that a deeper connection is unfolding. Warnings: Usual CM case stuff described in detail, Sapio intoxicating chemistry, Rossi going wild.

Word Count: 6.1k Dado's Corner: Is it fair for me to say that I'm obsessed with the two of them? Like c'mon get together already. Note to self: never study for your history of architecture exam again while being obsessed with a crime show, even if this dream I had inspired this chapter. I am afraid of my own mind. Enjoy these bigger breadcrums while you can

previous part ; masterlist

Thesis - Hotch’s smile widened, his eyes crinkling in that way that had become increasingly familiar. “Maybe. But we make a strong duo, and I wouldn’t change that."

•

Gideon appeared in the doorway of his office, his usually calm demeanor slightly more tense, he scanned the room, his eyes settling first on Hotch, who was engrossed in a case file, and then on you. There was a look of deliberation on his face, as if he’d been weighing this decision for some time.

“Hotch, Y/N,” Gideon’s voice cut sharply through the bullpen, laced with urgency that left no room for hesitation. “I need you both at the train station in 30. Grab your go-bag, there’s no time.”

Hotch’s head snapped up, a flash of confusion in his eyes that matched your own. You exchanged a fleeting look, a mix of surprise and adrenaline sparking between you. It was only your second time being directly pulled into one of Gideon’s cases, and you couldn’t deny the rush of nerves mingling with excitement. This was what you had been working so hard for: to be trusted, to be out there on the field.

You didn’t waste a second. Hotch nodded at you, a silent agreement to move quickly, and the two of you scrambled to collect your go-bags, the weight of the situation palpable. Gideon was already halfway out the door, and you barely had time to sling your bag over your shoulder before sprinting after him, Hotch close on your heels.

The ride to the station was a blur, Gideon’s SUV tearing through traffic as if the urgency of the case had seeped into the very engine. The city whirled past in a smear of lights and noise, each stoplight feeling like an eternity as the clock ticked down.

“We’re cutting it close,” Hotch muttered under his breath, his gaze locked on the navugator as he calculated every second lost to traffic.

You glanced over at him, his usually calm demeanor strained by the pace. “We’ll make it,” you said, more to convince yourself than him, feeling the SUV lurch forward as Gideon pushed the gas harder.

The station finally loomed into view, the blare of train horns filling your ears, Gideon pulled to an abrupt stop, the SUV barely parked before you and Hotch were out the door, sprinting towards the platform.

“Which track?” you asked, your voice edged with urgency as you scanned the sea of people.

“Track 4,” Gideon called out, his tone clipped as he led the way, dodging through the crowd with a precision that only came from years in the field. Hotch was right behind him, his stride purposeful, and you kept up, adrenaline driving you forward.

Inside, Rossi was already seated scooted newt to the window, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he flipped through a stack of manila folders filled with crime scene photos. He looked up as you, Hotch, and Gideon rushed into the coach, sarcasm lacing his voice. “Well, well, look who decided to show up. Another minute later, and you’d have had to wait six hours to catch the next train by sheer coincidence.”

Gideon ignored the jab, his focus entirely on the case as he took the seat beside Rossi. Hotch gave you a quick, knowing glance, Rossi’s dark humor was just his way of dealing with the tension, and you both settled in, bracing for what was about to unfold.

Rossi slid thefolders toward you, each one packed with gruesome crime scene photos, autopsy reports, and detailed maps dotted with red marks. The images were laid out in stark, brutal clarity: victims of varying ages, genders, and backgrounds, each one more unsettling than the last. It was clear from the first glance that this was no ordinary case.

Gideon broke the ice, addressing you all. “We’ve been tracking a series of murders across five states. Each one is escalating in both violence and complexity. The victims seem random: different ages, genders, backgrounds. But there’s a pattern here, one that’s been slipping through the cracks.” He pointed to a topographical map spread across the table, each crime scene marked by a pin as the locations created a road map of horrors that the unsub was crafting.

“We’re missing something,” Gideon continued, his eyes scanning the photos again. “And we need to find it before this turns into something even worse.”

Rossi leaned back, his eyes narrowing at the map as he considered the gruesome puzzle before them. “Hope you two are ready,” he added, his voice losing the sarcasm, now laced with a hint of urgency. “We’re running out of time, and this guy isn’t waiting around for us to catch up.”

Gideon continued: "This unsub is not just killing for the sake of it, he’s making a statement.”

Hotch studied the pictures in his file intently, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the data. “What kind of statement?”

Rossi leaned forward, setting down the photos. “He’s treating these murders like a grand design, but what that is, we haven’t figured out yet. That’s why we need fresh eyes on this, someone who can see what we might be missing.”

Gideon’s gaze shifted between you and Hotch, and you could feel the unspoken pressure settle over you. “That’s why I’m bringing the two of you in on this, we need different perspectives: Hotch, your tactical and organizational expertise and Y/N, your philosophical insight. We believe this unsub’s actions are possibly influenced by a deeper intellectual motive, they are too calculated.”

Your heart quickened at the prospect of tackling a case of this magnitude. You had been itching to prove yourself on something more complex, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. Hotch, meanwhile, maintained his calm, analytical demeanor, though you could tell by the way he was already flipping through the photos, his fingers on his right hand fidgeting, that his mind was churning with possibilities.

“What do we know about the victims?” Hotch asked, breaking the silence.

Rossi clicked again, bringing up individual profiles of the victims: names, ages, occupations. “They range from college students to retired professionals, all abducted within a few miles of their homes and found in remote locations weeks later. Cause of death varies: strangulation, blunt force trauma, some even poisoned. The one constant is the way they’re buried: each positioned carefully, with their hands folded as if in a state of peace.”

Hotch glanced at you, his eyes flickering with a hint of something, was it respect, or perhaps curiosity? “What do you think, Y/N?”

You leaned in, your eyes scanning the screen as you absorbed the details. “This isn’t just about control. He’s performing, staging these bodies in a way that reflects some internal logic or belief system, making each victim part of a larger narrative.”

Hotch agreed, his voice firm. “We need to visit these sites. We can start with the most recent site. We need to get ahead of this guy before he escalates again.”

As you arrived to the police station, you immediately gathered your notes and headed out to the SUVs, your mind racing with theories and questions. The drive to the first burial site was tense, each of you lost in your thoughts. Hotch was focused, his eyes fixed on the road, while you sifted through the case file, trying to absorb every detail. When you finally arrived, the scene was breathtaking: a hillside with a clear view of the surrounding landscape, marked by the telltale signs of the unsub’s careful work.

You and Hotch began analyzing the site, marking the locations of the victims and sketching the layout. It was slow, painstaking work, but every detail mattered. The entire time, you felt Hotch’s eyes on you, analyzing your every move, testing your instincts. You overcompensated by diving into every bit of evidence, pushing yourself harder than usual. You wanted to show them that despite your academic background, you could handle the practical side of profiling just as well.

“What do you see?” he asked, crouching beside one of the markers. “Anything that stands out?”

You squinted at the slope, trying to piece together the bigger picture. The way the victims were positioned, the spacing between them: it wasn’t random.

“He’s not just picking random spots,” you said, more to yourself than to Hotch. “The bodies are placed with a purpose, almost like... coordinates on a map.”

Hotch looked up, intrigued. “Coordinates?”

You nodded, pointing to the markers. “Think of it like a blueprint. He’s not just killing; he’s mapping something out. The hill, the elevation, even the orientation of the bodies, they all look like elements of a larger design.”

Hotch studied the scene, his expression intense. “A design that only he understands.”

You stood side by side, feeling the weight of the case settling over you both. And as you exchanged a look with Hotch, you realized that whatever this unsub was building, you were determined to tear it down, together, even if this was only the beginning.

By the time you returned to the accommodation that night, you were beyond exhausted, but rest wasn’t an option. The case had drained not only your energy but also the BAU’s humble budget, most of the funds had gone to buying last-minute train tickets to get the team out there as fast as possible, leaving little room for comfort. Rossi’s expectation of privacy had taken another hit, and at that point you were convinced the Bureau was skimping on accommodations just to see how long it would take for him to snap. At this rate, if they kept pushing, being aware of Rossi’s sassy side, you were sure he’d threaten to leave the BAU over it.

“You’ll be sharing with Hotch,” Gideon had said without much ceremony as you stood in the cramped hallway, barely keeping your eyes open. “Rossi and I have the other room.”

You exchanged a quick, knowing look with Hotch, both of you too worn out to even joke about the fresh material handed to you on a silver platter: Rossi and Gideon sharing a room yet again, practically married at that point. But the urgency of the case weighed heavily on everyone’s shoulders, and you didn’t have the energy to tease, not when the job ahead was still so daunting. You both simply nodded, both of you being aware that it wasn’t the best time to make light of the situation. Hopefully there would be time for that later, if you ever got a chance to catch your breath.

When you and Hotch arrived at the room, he carried himself with the same cool composure he always did. "You can take the bed by the window," he said, setting his go-bag down on the other bed. "I don’t mind."

"Thanks," you muttered, grateful for the small gesture. You unpacked your things in silence, acutely aware of every sound, every movement as the daunting images of the day still haunted your mind. Hotch didn’t seem bothered at all, which you found almost impressive. He had this remarkable ability to compartmentalize everything, to keep his personal and professional lives neatly separated, while you were still trying to learn that.

The night stretched on, but sleep remained elusive. You and Hotch sat in the dimly lit hotel room, the hum of the overhead lamp the only sound besides the steady scratching of pen on paper as you pored over the case files. The victims’ faces stared back at you from the photographs, haunting in their stillness, each one a piece of the gruesome puzzle you were trying to solve.

"We need to reconsider the pattern of these burial sites," Hotch said, his voice low, as though speaking too loudly might disturb the dead. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his eyes tired but focused. "There's something deliberate here."

You nodded, flipping through the photos. "It’s too precise to be random."

Hotch spread out the map on the desk, meticulously marking the locations where each body had been found, his movements precise and controlled. “If we can figure out the geographical connection, we’ll be closer to understanding the unsub’s mindset. He’s organized, methodical. This guy sees himself as superior, smarter than everyone else. But it’s not just about the killing. He’s making a statement, flashing his intellect.”

You studied the photos and map intently, feeling a strange pull as you tried to make sense of the unsub’s pattern. “It’s intellectual arrogance,” you said, your voice edged with conviction. “He’s not just trying to get away with it; he’s challenging us to keep up. He wants us to see how clever he is.”

Hotch glanced at you, he could sense you were onto something, something that went beyond the surface details.

Meanwhile, your focus returned to the crime scene photos, and your attention locked onto the contours of the hill where the bodies had been buried. The arrangement was far from random, there was a disturbing intentionality in the layout, as if every placement had been meticulously planned.

“The hill’s shape,” you murmured, more to yourself than to Hotch. “It’s not just any hill. There’s an intentional pattern here. It’s like he’s using the terrain itself to say something.”

Hotch leaned in, catching the shift in your tone. He was intrigued, but he knew better than to interrupt your thought process. “What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice low, patient, almost coaxing you to continue.

Without responding directly, you grabbed a blank sheet of paper and laid it flat on the desk. Hotch watched as you began sketching an axonometric view of the hill, marking each burial site with quick, deliberate strokes. His brow furrowed as you connected the dots, each line revealing something more intricate.

“You’re mapping it topographically?” Hotch asked, leaning closer, the shift in his body language showing his growing interest. “Like a three-dimensional geographical profile?”

You nodded, the thrill of discovery pushing you forward. “Yes. The placements aren’t just random; they’re about the shape of the land. Look here.” You pointed at the locations marked on your sketch. “If you connect the burial sites, they form a spiral, a descending path down the hill.”

Hotch’s gaze sharpened as he traced the spiral with his eyes. “A spiral… That’s deliberate. It’s not a shape we see often in criminal cases. It suggests precision, control, narcissism. He’s not just killing, he’s orchestrating a narrative. He’s not just above everyone but also he’s putting himself on display, like an artist with his masterpiece.”

You nodded, and a familiar philosophical concept began to take shape in your mind. “This isn’t just about his ego—it’s about his worldview. It reminds me of Hegel’s dialectics, which are often geometrically visualized as a spiral. Think of it like climbing a mountain: each step forward, the thesis, faces resistance - the antithesis - and then finds a way forward, the synthesis. The journey isn’t linear. It’s about overcoming obstacles, each one contributing to a higher level of understanding.”

Hotch’s expression tightened, understanding where you were going with this. “But he’s twisting that. Instead of climbing, he’s descending. He’s turning the idea of progress on its head. This isn’t evolution; it’s devolution. He’s rewriting the narrative, making his own rules.”

You paused, something clicking into place as you stared at the drawing. You turned the page slightly, looking at it from a new angle. “But why a spiral? Why this particular hill?” you murmured, almost thinking aloud.

Hotch watched you closely, seeing the wheels turning in your mind. “What do you see?”

You flipped the drawing around, angling it from his perspective. Your pulse quickened as the shape of the spiral took on a new form, one that tugged at your memory. “Look at it upside-down.”

Hotch tilted his head, his eyes following yours as the spiral transformed before him. It wasn’t just a path on a hill—it was something far more deliberate and grandiose.

“This hill…” You traced the lines again, pointing out the specific angles, the calculated precision. “The way the bodies are arranged, the proportions between the hight and the width of each turn, the precise slope that the path follows. The way each of these elements have been designed in a human scale"

"It's architectural, something grand and of cultural importance, like a temple, a church, a museum..." Hotch finally understands.

"Yes, you're right! Wait, what if it resembled the structure of the Guggenheim Museum in New York? Wright designed the volume of the main exhibition hall as an inverted hollow truncated cone, the distribution corresponds to a ramp spiraling upward. But our unsub has flipped that idea on its head.”

Hotch’s brows shot up, surprise flashing across his face. “The Guggenheim? You’re saying he’s mimicking Frank Lloyd Wright’s design?”

“Not exactly,” you replied, your excitement spilling over. “It’s not a copy, but it’s inspired. Think about it: the Guggenheim is all about ascension, showcasing art as you move upward. But here, the unsub’s using the land to create a reverse. The bodies are placed almost like the artworks displayed on the walls of the museum, but instead of ascending, they’re spiraling down, each one a grotesque ‘exhibit’ in his twisted gallery.”

Hotch looked at you, a rare smile tugging at his lips, something warmer than his usual stoic demeanor. “Are you sure you secretaly also don't have an architecture degree?”

You laughed, caught off guard by his sudden lightness, you teased him starting an over the top philosophical rant “Nope, just psycology, linguistics and philosophy. Although architecture and philosophy aren’t so different. For Hegel, architecture represents humanity’s attempt to impose order on the natural world, creating structures that embody collective meaning. It’s not just about function, but about revealing the spirit of a specific time, showing how men connect with their environment through design and symbolism.”

Hotch chuckled softly, the sound low and unexpected, and it made you smile wider. “Keep talking like this, and I might have to suggest you take up teaching. You’ve got the lecture style nailed.”

Feigning mock offense, you shot back, “Careful, Hotch, or I’ll end up rewriting your whole syllabus."

Hotch’s eyes softened, a playful glint flashing in them, something uncharacteristic but welcome. “You rewrite my syllabus, and I’ll make sure to audit your classes. Fair trade?”

You shared a brief moment, the light banter cutting through the tension that had weighed on you both throughout the case. It was quick, but it left a lingering warmth, a connection that felt deeper than the job itself, a quiet intimacy that spoke volumes without needing any more words.

You cleared your throat, bringing the focus back. “We need to verify this before we present it. I need to check the actual measurements of the Guggenheim floors, just to be sure we're not reading too much into this.”

Hotch glanced at his watch, calculating the remaining hours of the night. “There’s a library a few miles from here. If we hurry, we can make it before it closes.” He grabbed his jacket, already moving toward the door, pausing only to look back at you with a determined expression. “I’ll drive.”

You smirked, brushing past him as he held the door open. “You always do.”

It was nothing grand, just a small, familiar gesture in the stillness of the night, but it carried a weight that lingered in the air between you, subtle yet undeniable.

Walking side by side, you couldn’t quite pinpoint the shift, but it was there, a quiet, unspoken connection that felt like uncharted territory. This case, and whatever was unfolding between you and Hotch, was leading you somewhere neither of you expected.

The drive to the library was filled with a comfortable silence, Hotch’s expression still carefully composed, but there was a softness in his features now, a slight relaxation in his usually tense posture. It was a small change, almost imperceptible, but you noticed, and though neither of you would acknowledge it, something was shifting.

Arriving at the library, you quickly located a book on modern American architecture and flipped to the section on the Guggenheim. You traced the diagrams and floor heights, your finger running over the details as you compared them to your axonometric drawing of the hill. But as you scanned the measurements, your heart sank, the pieces not fitting the way you’d hoped.

“The measurements don’t match,” you murmured, the weight of disappointment settling in. “We were wrong.”

Hotch stood beside you, close enough that you could feel his presence, grounding you. He didn’t seem fazed by your frustration, instead, he studied the diagrams with calm determination, his brow furrowing slightly. “Wait,” he said, his voice steady. “What if the unsub isn’t using American measurements? What if he’s thinking in meters instead of feet?”

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his as the realization clicked. There was a spark of something that passed between you, lingering longer than it should. “Of course. If he’s from a country that uses the metric system, he’d think in meters.”

Your fingers moved quickly, recalculating the heights and converting them into meters. As the numbers shifted, everything started to fall into place: the spiral, the Guggenheim, the inverted truncated cone. It all made sense. The measurements lined up perfectly with the victims’ positions on the hill, validating the theory that had seemed so impossible just moments before.

“We were right,” you whispered, relief and amazement flooding through you. “He must have studied or lived in a country that uses the metric system. His entire design is based on that.”

Hotch’s eyes met yours, a rare warmth flickering there as he gave a small nod of approval. “Good work,” he said softly, his voice carrying a note of pride that sent a flutter through your chest. “We’ve got the final piece.”

As you left the library, the first light of dawn painted the sky in soft hues, a quiet promise of a new day. You and Hotch exchanged a glance, something unspoken passing between you. The night had been long and exhausting, but the shared victory left a sweet spark lingering in the early morning air. Neither of you could put a name to it, not yet, and neither of you seemed ready to let go of whatever was unfolding.

As you and Hotch entered the hotel lobby, Rossi and Gideon were waiting, both looking ready for the day’s briefing despite the early hour. Rossi leaned against the reception desk, watching the two of you with a bemused expression.

Gideon glanced at his watch and then back at you both, his eyebrow lifting in mock surprise. “Did you two even sleep, or are you trying to set a new BAU record for consecutive hours worked?”

Rossi smirked, shaking his head as he took in the sight of you and Hotch, the unspoken exhaustion clear in both of your eyes. “I’m starting to think you two don’t even know what a bed looks like. Or maybe you’re just having too much fun playing detective all night?”

You and Hotch exchanged a knowing look, a silent acknowledgment of the sleepless night. The bond between you had been growing steadily, marked by subtle shifts and stolen moments, and while neither of you would admit it, you were becoming more in tune with each other’s rhythms, especially when it came to the job.

“Not exactly,” Hotch replied, his tone dry and laced with just the faintest hint of a smile. You couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, the way he carried himself: focused, determined, and maybe just a touch lighter in your company. “But we cracked the code.”

Rossi chuckled, crossing his arms. “Next time you two decide to pull an all-nighter, let me know. I could use your room and finally get some privacy around here.”

Gideon’s usual sternness softened slightly at Rossi’s jab about the lack of personal space, though his focus remained sharp. “So, what’s the breakthrough? You’ve been at this all night.”

You and Hotch launched into your explanation, laying out the theory behind the inverted spiral, the Guggenheim, and the unsub’s likely academic background. As you spoke, you couldn’t help but steal glances at him, noticing the way there was a certain intensity about him when he spoke, an underlying passion that only surfaced when the pieces of a case started to align.

Hotch continued, drawing the connections between the spiral and the unsub’s obsession. “We read at the library that Frank Lloyd Wright’s designs are not just architectural; they’re philosophical. Wright didn’t just build structures, he crafted experiences, integrating his work with nature in a way that transcended the ordinary. Our unsub is attempting something similar, but in a twisted, lethal manner.”

Rossi leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “So, he sees himself as an architect of death. He’s not just killing, he’s designing each murder, making it a part of a grand, dark statement.”

“Exactly,” Hotch agreed, his voice steady yet charged with conviction. “He believes he’s creating something monumental. The spiral is his signature, an artistic flourish that he believes sets him apart. And the use of the metric system? That narrows our pool of suspects significantly. He’s likely foreign or has spent a significant amount of time studying abroad, probably in Europe where Wright’s influence still holds sway.”

You nodded, and as your attention drifted to Hotch, you couldn’t help but notice something captivating; Every time his gaze shifted toward Rossi, standing in front of the window with the morning light filtering in, the usual dark intensity of Hotch’s eyes softened, revealing an unexpected depth. What you had always thought of as a near-black now transformed into a rich, warm chestnut, flecks of amber catching the light. It was a subtle shift, but one that unveiled an unexpected beauty you hadn’t fully appreciated until now.

As your mind kept wandering, another thought emerged - one that eroded the edges of your consciousness. “There’s one more thing,” you said, your tone laced with urgency. “If the unsub is using the spiral as a symbol of his intellect and superiority, he’s not finished. He’s building toward something, a final project. If we can figure out what that is, we can anticipate his next move.”

Hotch exchanged a look with you, as if you stole the words that still hadn't left his mouth yet, a flicker of shared understanding passing between you both. You had spent enough time working together that night you could read his thoughts before he spoke, and he could anticipate yours.

“We need to revisit the burial site” Hotch said, his tone thoughtful yet precise. “Pay close attention to any symbolic references, especially those linked to architecture. He’s not just mimicking Wright’s designs; he’s embracing Wright’s philosophy. Y/N pointed out that Wright believed architecture was an extension of the self, an embodiment of personal ideals. This unsub sees his work the same way.”

“Wright’s designs were about breaking the mold,” you said, adding to Hotch’s theory. “Wright was a revolutionary who viewed his designs as more than just buildings, they were personal expressions, challenges to traditional norms, and a reflection of his unique vision of the world. He wanted to create spaces that defied conventional expectations. Our unsub has a similar mindset: a desire to be seen as intellectually superior, someone whose ‘work’ can’t be understood by the average person.”

Rossi leaned back, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "Did he work on residential projects or did some urban planning of his has been realised by any means?"

You understood where Rossi was going “What about the Usonian Houses project?" You turned to Hotch, eager to know if he thought the same thing as well.

He nodded, his focus sharp as he continued explaining to the seasoned profilers. “Usonian Houses were Wright’s vision of the future, simple yet sophisticated homes designed to revolutionize American living. Each one was crafted with meticulous attention to detail, they weren’t just houses; they were statements. Wright designed each to be unique, tailored to the landscape and the needs of the homeowner. If our unsub idolizes Wright this deeply, it’s likely he lives in one of these homes himself. To him, it would embody everything he values: elegance, meticulous control, and the feeling of being distinctly set apart from everyone else.”

As Hotch spoke, his voice steady and assured, you couldn’t help but be drawn in, not just by his words but by the way he delivered them. There was a quiet passion in his explanation, Hotch’s understanding of Wright’s philosophy wasn’t just an analytical connection; it was something he seemed to grasp on a deeper level, and as you listened, you couldn’t help but feel captivated by when he hit on something that truly fascinated him.

“He’s not just living in a house,” Hotch continued, his gaze flicking to you for a brief moment before returning to the team. “He’s living in a symbol of his superiority. A Usonian House would be his sanctuary, a place where he can manipulate, control, and perfect every detail, just like he’s doing with his crimes.”

You watched him as he spoke, noting the way his hands gestured slightly when he was particularly engaged. It was easy to get lost in his presence, to feel the pull of his passion for the subject as much as the pull of the case itself.

The realization struck you like a jolt of electricity. “And the Usonian Houses were Wright’s vision of perfection. Our unsub is killing according to those values. His admiration for Wright is more than just an interest, it’s a driving force in his crimes.”

Gideon, who had been listening intently, chimed in. “Then that’s where we start. We need to find any Usonian Houses in the area. Let's also focus on finding previous owners, or people curating them.”

The team moved swiftly, sifting through public records and historical registries. It didn’t take long for Hotch to uncover a promising lead: a privately owned Usonian House on the outskirts of a nearby town, linked to a man who fit the unsub’s profile perfectly. He was a reclusive former adjunct professor of architectural history, Victor Langley, with a history of erratic behavior and academic conflicts.

Rossi scanned the details, his eyes narrowing. “Victor Langley. Let go from his teaching position two years ago for increasingly bizarre behavior and clashes with his colleagues. Neighbors say he’s practically a ghost, only seen when he’s making strange modifications to his house.”

Gideon hung up the phone, his expression grave. “He’s barely seen outside. This house isn’t just where he lives, it’s his world, where he feels in total control.”

Hotch glanced at the three of you, his gaze intense, his determination unmistakable. You noticed the set of his jaw, the unwavering focus that drew you in every time he spoke. “This is his base, where he plans everything. Just like Wright used his designs to reshape the world, Langley is using his house to orchestrate his murders, and that’s where we’re going to find him.”

As Hotch turned to you, his eyes locked on yours with a newfound intensity. The nature of the sudden shift you had on him was becoming impossible to ignore, but for now, there was a job to finish before you could tackle it with some healthy dose of introspection.

The team mobilized quickly, setting up a perimeter around the property. As you approached, the Usonian House loomed in the distance, its low-slung roof and natural stone walls blending into the landscape. It was a beautiful, breathtaking reminder of Wright’s genius, but now, a testament to Langley’s horrors.

Rossi led the team as you breached the property, moving swiftly and silently. The house was meticulously kept, with architectural books stacked neatly on shelves, blueprints scattered on a large oak desk, and walls adorned with sketches of spirals and complex designs.

As you watched Langley being taken away, you couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of finality. The case had been riddled with the unsub’s twisted interpretations, but you had seen through his façade, piecing together the puzzle of his mind in a way that Wright himself might have appreciated, if only for the sheer madness of it all.

Back at the precinct, the team gathered for the debriefing, dissecting every detail of Langley’s motives and the psychological profile that had driven him down such a twisted path. As each member contributed their insights, you found your gaze drifting toward Hotch more than once, catching the subtle way he absorbed every detail, his mind always one step ahead. As the meeting wrapped up, Hotch made his way over to you, his usual stoic expression softening as he nodded in approval.

“You did very well on this one” Hotch said, his voice low but carrying a rare warmth.

You felt a flicker of pride, buoyed by his words, and met his gaze with a smile. “Thanks, Hotch. But honestly, I was amazed at how much you knew about Wright. The way you absorbed everything at the library and explained it with such passion… it was impressive.”

Hotch’s lips curved into a rare, genuine smile, one that made his eyes light up in a way you couldn’t help but notice. “Guess I’m a quick study, or maybe I had a great teacher last night” he replied, the faintest trace of humor in his voice.

Before either of you could linger too long in the moment, Rossi strolled over, wearing a teasing grin. “You two are becoming quite the dynamic duo. But if you keep pulling these all-nighters, it’s gonna be the death of you both. I’m starting to think you two might need separate rooms next time.”

Gideon joined in, smirking as he gave you both a knowing look. “You work well together. Almost too well, if we’re not careful. The sleepless nights aren’t exactly in the job description.”

Hotch glanced at you, a glimmer of humor in his eyes as he replied, “Guess we’ll just have to be careful not to wear each other out.”

Rossi walked by, overhearing just enough to join in on the banter. “You two keep up these all-nighters, and one of you is bound to keel over. I’m starting to think you two might need separate rooms next time, I don’t think the Bureau’s budget covers whatever happens if you both get too lost in academic theories.”

Gideon, passing by with a knowing grin, chimed in. “Or we’ll have to start charging for private architecture lectures. Next time, just tell us before you decide to pull an impromptu masterclass, you work well together. Almost too well, if we’re not careful. The sleepless nights aren’t exactly in the job description.”

You laughed, sharing a quick look with Hotch that spoke volumes about the night spent working side by side, both of you pushing the boundaries of professional detachment. “Yeah, I guess we need to make it a rule: no more overnight research sessions unless we’re getting hazard pay.”

Hotch shook his head, a soft laugh escaping as he tucked his hands into his pockets, the moment light but undeniably intimate. "I’m starting to think we’re a bad influence on each other.” You affirmed

Hotch’s smile widened, his eyes crinkling in that way that had become increasingly familiar. “Maybe. But we make a strong duo, and I wouldn’t change that.”

The words hung between you, and as the team dispersed, you and Hotch headed to a quiet room to finish filing the last reports. The precinct buzzed with the usual post-case atmosphere, but as you worked side by side, the world seemed a little quieter, the connection between you both impossible to ignore.

Meanwhile, back in the main room, Gideon leaned against the wall, his eyes fixed on you and Hotch through the glass. A faint smile crossed his lips as he watched the two of you working seamlessly together. “They remind me of us, don’t they?”

Rossi glanced up, following Gideon’s gaze, and let out a low chuckle. “Oh, absolutely. But let’s get one thing straight: I might love you, Jason, but I promise I’m never going to end up jumping your bones. That’s where the similarities end.”

Gideon rolled his eyes, unable to hold back his laughter. “Relax, Dave. I think we’re safe there.”

Rossi clapped him on the back, still grinning. “But hey, they’re young and still full of energy. Let’s hope their late nights together work out better than ours ever did.”

As you and Hotch finished up in the other room, you both instinctively glanced over your shoulders, catching the tail end of Rossi and Gideon’s playful banter. Almost at the same moment, you felt the warmth of Hotch’s chestnut eyes searching for yours, a silent connection sparking between you. Without saying a word, you both knew exactly how the next five minutes would unfold - the lingering of your inside joke used as a comfortable distraction to brush aside the undeniable chemistry that was quietly growing between you.

[brucewaynehater101]

Talon Dick via Tim AU

@hisaribi came up with the initial AU and helped flesh this idea out!

To start out, most of the timeline is the same up to just before Jason comes back as Red Hood. Here are the two main differences to the OG timeline:

Before Dick's parents died, the Court of Owls experimented slightly on Dick. He was a candidate they were considering for the Talon program. They injected him a few times to monitor results before deciding whether to initiate fully. They brainwashed him with some latent codes and were planning to take him after his parents' deaths. Obviously, Bruce stopped the second part of their plot. The codes and serum still existed in him as he grew up, though.

Tim's parents were invited to the Court of Owls. Due to their travels, though, they weren't able to meet membership requirements. Tim thus knew about the CoO but wasn't a part of it.

Here's where the timeline starts to diverge. Tim's been Robin for at least a year now. Bruce and Dick are somewhat talking again. Everything is okay (not necessarily great, but Tim hopes one day it could be).

Then Bruce causes Dick to die (dealer's choice on how deliberate it was).

A second son of Bruce (and perhaps the last child he actually considers as his own) dies. Obviously, this man tries to reenact his brutality boogie through Gotham.

Tim believes it's his fault that Bruce caused Dick to die (if Tim had done his self-assigned job better, if he had healed Bruce more, if he kept a tighter leash on that man, maybe Dick wouldn't have died).

The techniques Tim had used before to pull Bruce from that ledge aren't working. The teen is barely able to restrain the Batman's more violent tendencies. He's trying, in the midst of his own grief and self-blame, to do what he became Robin for. He's really really trying.

Tim, the lovely little rascal, gets the brilliant idea to use the CoO resources to bring Dick back to life. Perhaps he can fix his failures, prevent Bruce from drowning, and have his brother back.

It somewhat works.

Due to the shit in Dick's system before he died, more injections are able to receive Dick. It changes him, but he's alive. That's what Tim cares about.

Yet, the CoO find out about their shit being used and steal Dick away.

Tim then spends almost a year rescuing him from the CoO, trying to fix all the brainwashing, and reforming Dick's sense of identity. Dick isn't fully himself, he follows orders too readily, and he spends a lot of time dissociating. He has some physical traits of Talons, but he also has more autonomy and resistance than the others.

Tim can't quite present Dick as a fresh Talon to Bruce. That wouldn't work and might make Batman even more violent. Thus, Tim spends that year juggling his mentor and Dick's wellbeing. That poor kid is stressed and going through it (he's also fighting off the CoO alone and has to hide Dick). At the very least, Talon!Dick cares for Tim. They are close, and Tim gets showered in affection by the older one.

Unfortunately for the teen, a certain red helmet starts popping up in Crime Alley.

Jason is high key pissed at Bruce. He is raging and foaming at the mouth because Dick died (and no one but CoO and Tim know otherwise). Jason has let go of some of his hatred for Dick. He's able to remember the better times and that the man was his brother. They didn't have a perfect relationship, but they were siblings.

Bruce killed him (Jason's perspective on it regardless of how purposeful Bruce was in orchestrating Dick's death). Bruce killed Dick, the original Robin, and he's got a placeholder still prancing around in stoplight colors.

So, Jason goes to beat the shit out of Tim to prove to Bruce that he obviously can't protect anyone.

When he gets to Drake Manor guns blazing, a very angry and protective Talon!Dick starts beating the shit out of him. Only by the grace of Jason's helmet being removed mid-battle is Jason saved.

Later, when a cold Dick refuses to stop hugging Jason, Red Hood raises an eyebrow in Tim's direction and asks what the fuck is going on.

Tim wants to ask him the same thing.

More snippets for this AU:

Because Dick is immortal as a Talon, he's forever as he is. One day, all of his younger siblings will grow older than him

Jason and Tim will teach each other not to base so much of their life off of Bruce. From opposite ends of the spectrum (devotion vs malice), they base their choices, demeanor, and paths according to Bruce.

Dick oscillates between the two during their arguments about Bruce (especially due to his Talon state being more or less present)

Dick struggles with his memory. Both recent and pre-Talon memories can be harder to recall some days

Jason is chill with killing, but Dick despises it. He doesn't want to kill, but, due to his programming, he's been forced to.

When Dick is forced to follow an order, he has two reactions. He either blanks out and wakes up with no memory of what he's done, or he is mentally present the entire time as he screams at himself to stop :(

When Bruce gets lost in the timestream, Jason believes Tim. However, he wants Tim to let Bruce die

I think I covered everything we chatted about! If not, I'll add more ^^

[fictional-orphan-smackdown]

ROBIN VS. ROBIN, GO!

All propaganda and what each competitor is from under the cut

Dick Grayson (DC Comincs)

So a bunch of Robins are orphans or orphan adjacent but Dick has the strongest case in his birth parents, whom he was raised by, being very very dead. The kind of orphanhood that sticks in the characterization marrow. Plus in some versions he was carted off to the orphanage and everything, starting his "what if I fist-fought my parents' killer myself" arc early until Bruce ultimately decided to pluck him off his warpath and adopt him.

Dick Grayson is truly the orphan of all time not only is he the ward of another famous orphan (batman) but he really was able to surpass his mentor after being orphaned and used that anger towards his parents death to immediately start fighting crime under the Robin Moniker. The other orphans in dc wish they could do it like him. Plus his name is Dick which is objectively funny.

Dressing like a stoplight and kicking people in the face under a bat furry's direction was the MORE reasonable coping strategy than his original plan. Of singlehandedly taking down the entire mafia even though he was a baby.

Think Batman had issues? Well, consider what happens is he raises his mini-me. This guy is waaaayy too tactically driven and ambitious for a thirteen-year-old. And awesome. And the adult version is —- somebody append a photo.

Okay I submitted Bruce Wayne but like I can’t not submit my beloved boy as well! Anyway his parents have the nebulous honor of being so fucking dead, like literally never coming back to life ever. They died in that circus and the only time I can possibly think of them as ‘coming back’ in any way is in Darkest Night, where there were zombies everywhere. So even when they return to the story they’re still fucking dead! Anyway Dick is like super orphaned, I love him but you look at him and you know his parents are dead.

Please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please

Trust me bro

Tim Drake (DC Comics)

An early reader-insert character, Tim had all the traits the average comics fan at the time wanted: money, martial arts skills, cool skateboard tricks, lots of girlfriends, secret knowledge about Batman and Robin. He volunteered to be Robin, because what comics fan wouldn't in his place? Continuing to be relatable, he's now bisexual, depressed, and living in a crappy apartment. Which is also a boat, because comics readers think it would be cool to live in a houseboat.

His biological mother, Janet Drake, was murdered in the carribean. In the same attack his biological father was hospitalized for injuries and in a coma. Janey Drake was buried on Christmas Eve. During the period that Jack Drake (his biological father) was in a coma he was temporarily under the care of Bruce Wayne. When Jack got out of the coma he was confined to a wheelchair while he went through physical therapy. He would meet his future second wife, Dana Winters through the physical therapy. The two would get married later, Tim having a good relationship with Dana. Her mediating between the father and son during some of the misunderstandings. Jack would find out that Tim was Robin, then realize Bruce Wayne was Batman, threaten Bruce with a gun, and order Tim to quit being Robin. Though later, Tim would get approval from his father to be Robin again and the two would start improving their father son relationship. During the event of identity crisis Tim's indenture would be at stake and Captian Boomerrang would break into the Drake's house and murder Jack just as Tim arrived. Tim having heard his last words over Comms. His stepmother Dana Winters would be hospitalized in Bludhaven for the mental trauma this inflicted on her, and would soon find herself a victim when Bludhaven was bombed/nuked. Tim would then be adopted by Bruce. Though in 2008 Bruce would be supposedly killed by an Omega Beam, leaving 17 year old Tim as a three times over orphan. Though Tim didn't believe Bruce to actually be dead, but lost in the timestream and would go on a Brucequest to get him back. On this trip he would lose his spleen, and nearly die multiple times.

Doomed by the narrative to become an orphan. Tim had a good thing going for a while, but after he started getting involved with the Bats, his life went downhill from there. He became Robin on the day of his mother's funeral. (I should note that the racism I mentioned in her cause of death is that the person who kills her is an awful racist caricature, NOT that she's canonically a POC.) From there, he spent a while balancing Batman (mentor) and his biological father (who was rendered comatose in the incident that killed his mother, but woke up not long after). Both the Robins that came before him were orphaned. As one Tumblr user put it: while Tim Drake managed to beat the odds and remain not an orphan, eventually, the writers succumbed to the calls of orphanhood. His father dies after he finds out Tim's identity, and it is because he knows the secret that he is ultimately targeted and dies. In the aftermath, Tim attempts to get revenge by assassinating the culprit, but ultimately is unable to betray his personal values and go through with it. He has one of the more realistic parent-child relationships among the Bats because it is down to earth in spite of the eventual doom. Really, it comes down to this: Robin isn't just Batman's sidekick, he's Batman's child. And that meant it was only a matter of. time before Tim Drake was orphaned

[ghostaholics]

I had a dream about your enemies with benefits ghost x reader where the reader had a cryptic pregnancy. She kinda just doubled over in pain randomly and BOOM. Baby.

HE'S A LETHAL PERFECTIONIST TO THE CORE: rigid expectations impressed upon everyone; it's what makes him a first-rate soldier – grit factor and an appetite for excellence in everything he does.

(The thing is, Ghost doesn't make mistakes.

Of course, there's a first time for everything.)

It's chaos walking in Bangladesh, guerrilla warfare against an AQ cell weaseled away in Dhaka because the shiteheads have business with the organized crime bosses here. It's a city jam-packed with civilians, innocent lives. No open-fire allowed. A place like this means guerrilla warfare. Hit-and-run tactics. God knows he's not trying to start an international incident by blowing up half the bloody capital.

Cloak-and-dagger: they're picked off one-by-one. It takes a full day. A mess to be cleaned up, and he does it exceptionally well.

Ghost doesn't get any reports outside of the mission until he relays his total kill count.

"Good work," Laswell radios in. "We need you on the first flight to Oslo."

He lets out a slow exhale while jumping into the driver's seat of the vehicle he commandeered a couple blocks over. Time to make his way to the airport, then. They need his back-up. He knows what that means. But he's not going to think about the fact that the rest of the One-Four-One are there for a completely different ops and whether things have gone south if they're calling him in. He was supposed to be their fallback plan. "Everything solid?"

"It's Mav."

His grip around the steering wheel tightens. If he starts speeding through the streets, then he doesn't notice, too tuned in to the conversation at hand. "Fill me in."

"Landed herself in the hospital."

Again? Christ. It's the second visit in six months. He was there for the first one. Damn near had to stop the bloody doctors from calling out her time of death. Fuckin' tossers.

"What's the damage?"

"Well—"

"Alive?"

"Yes," she says quickly.

"Then quit beating around the bush. The hell's wrong with her?"

"All in one piece. Just get here when you can."

Right, so no helpful answers from the Station Chief. And Ghost tries to contact the others, but gets the same fucking silence. Not Price, not Gaz, not even Soap who always answers just to take every opportunity over the comms to blather about anything and everything in real time. He's not sure why he's being kept in the dark like this, but it's definitely putting him on edge.

The only other message he receives from Laswell: Oslo University Hospital. He'd combed the website for information in between stoplights. It'll do, he supposes. Their services don't seem subpar, which at any rate sounds far better than fucking Moscow; he still gets sick thinking about it.

So he checks in, gets his visitor badge. It's a whole ordeal that takes a lot longer than he likes. They tell him what floor, what room. That's the Gyneacology and Obstetrics Wing. He triple-checks, making sure nothing gets lots in translation; doesn't sound right to him, but he'll tear up the place later if they gave him the wrong directions. He memorized the hospital layout already; it'll take him approximately three minutes utilizing the right staircase, or seven minutes if he wants to take his sweet-fucking-time with the elevators.

"Our gift shop is around the corner," they tell him in a thick Norwegian accent before he makes his exit.

Odd.

She doesn't like flowers or cards or sentimental things anyways. Calls them impractical. Would rather hoard his jackets or other belongings of his that she finds useful, so the gift shop would be a waste.

When Ghost finally gets to where he needs to be, 2 minutes and 45 seconds later (skipped every other step just to shave off time), he finds everyone sans Mav waiting outside the room. It's not a happy reunion, despite Soap's grin. Everyone's intact, nobody's dead or anything that would excuse their silence during his trip from Bangladesh. Ghost is extremely unimpressed with their lack of communication and promises that he'll deal with their sorry arses later before shoving his way through the door.

—only to be met with the sight of her sitting up in bed, a tiny newborn bundled in her arms.

... whose fucking baby is that?

And when his eyes snap up to hers, she's glaring at him with a positively seething look that could kill.

[royaibrainrot]

What is!!! Your favorite Royai fanfic????

Hello! Excellent question! I have a couple all time favorites, which you may have already read since they’re some iconic pieces of Royai history imo ;)

delicate by @lantur (ao3): A wonderful, long, in depth riza character study, with some lovely royai on the side. My unofficial canon, because of how perfect the characterization and writing is.

We That Are Young by Stoplight Delight (fanfiction.net): a super old fanfic I read when I first joined the fandom that I still love :) it’s a sort of canon divergent sort of canon compliant account of Roy and Riza’s lives, spanning from when they were children to the start of the anime.

Buried Alive by @rizahawkaye (ao3): another one I read when first joining the fandom. Riza fakes her own death to infiltrate a terrorist organization. The storytelling is incredible and there’s lots of great twists and turns (as well as some delicious royai drama ofc)

And lastly Cessation- also by @rizahawkaye (fanfiction.net): a haunting little oneshot that has always stuck with me, about riza and roy reuniting one last time before roy is executed for his crimes in ishval.

Thank you for the ask! (Love your art btw!) :)

[on-poetry]

30 Prompts for NaPoWriMo

Taken from my article on having a successful NaPoWriMo :)

Write about an object that has a lot of nostalgic value for you. As a bonus challenge, try to write about this object without directly stating what it is in your poem.

Write a poem about your hometown: how you feel about it, the connection you have to it, how it has shaped you (for better or worse).

Collect scraps of “junk writing”—spam mail, credit card bills, newspaper clippings, billboard text, etc. Stitch those texts together into a poem.

Write a poem about a piece of clothing that reflects something important or essential about who you are as a person.

Find something dark and hidden inside your brain, your body, your heart. Shine a light on it. What do you see?

Think of a memory where the details aren’t clear. Fill in the details in a poem.

It’s spring! Write about coming out of a long hibernation—either literal or metaphorical.

Flash of lightning. Crack of the baseball bat. Stoplight turns green. Write about a time when a seemingly mundane event created a stroke of inspiration.

You look into the lens of something—a camera, a telescope, a pair of binoculars, etc.—and something strange peers back at you. What do you see?

Write about an event that you might interpret as a sign from a higher power. This higher power could be a god, aliens, the universe, etc.

Write a poem in which two people begin as lovers and end as enemies. OR the other way around.

Write a poem about what keeps you warm. Perhaps it’s a hot cup of tea, the glow of a happy memory, or the light at the end of the tunnel.

Write a poem that involves diametrically opposing views about something simple. For example, two people might bicker over the proper way to brew coffee, or whether a hotdog is a sandwich.

What do you see in the mirror? Write a “self-portrait” poem.

Spend some time listening to other people talk. It can be in a public space, a voice on the radio or TV, or outside listening to your neighbors. (Just don’t get caught!) Use a line from someone else’s conversation as the starting place for a poem.

Write about two opposing yet co-existing realities.

Write about an important realization you had, at a time when you felt particularly alone.

What’s something you’ve seen hundreds, even thousands of times, but has never lost its beauty? Write an ode to this thing’s beauty.

“Apophenia” is the human tendency to see patterns in random information. Write a poem about patterns that seem to be connected, even if they’re completely random.

Write a poem in the form of a letter, addressed to a specific person.

Write a poem from the perspective of a detective. They’re not solving crime, necessarily—you might write about a detective for lost things, for past emotions, for new opportunities, etc.

Explain something to a younger version of yourself. How to survive heartbreak, solve differential equations, drive, avoid bad people, etc.

Write about a mundane task that (secretly) doubles as a magical ritual.

Smells are one of the most powerful triggers for memory. They also make for impactful imagery. Write a poem that begins with a smell. Let the smell waft into memory, then write from there.

Write a poem that uses all of these words: chartreuse, guide, safe, sweat, wall, presentation, manor, perfume.

Close your eyes, flip through a poetry book, and put your finger on a page. Whatever word you’re pointing at, use it as a title for your poem, and write from there.

Write a poem about family traditions: keeping them, breaking them, or anything else you can do with them.

Write a poem that begins at the end of something, then moves backwards.

Write a poem inspired a certain genre of music. Try to write in the style of that genre—for example, pop is rhythmic, rock alternates in staccatos and riffs, etc. (You might be interested in Jazz Poetry for inspiration. Learn about it here.)

“If _______ didn’t exist for a day.” Fill in the blank, and write about the results of something not existing – but only for 24 hours.

[drdemonprince]

Story in regards to lying being good.(Aka how I may have managed to make a cop feel bad with it?)

I was walking home, it was raining and I was cold, so obviously I was in a hurry. I came by a street that is now only for pedestrians and public transport, but it used to be a regular street, so it still has stoplights installed. The one for pedestrians was red, but like I said the street isn't allowed for cars, so I didn't think anything about ignoring it.

In my hurry I totally managed to miss a cop, who was a good 150ft away from me on a motorcycle. Instead of simply ignoring me(like any reasonable person would in a big city) he turned on his blue lights and siren and drove after me. He actually broke the speed limit and when I didn't stop walking started driving ON the thin walkway forcing pedestrians to make space. That whole thing is ridiculous enough tbh. I was terrified because theoretically I could lose my license over this(certain traffic laws are weird in my region). He behaved utterly ridiculous, couldn't have been older than early twenties, and obviously got a kick out of humiliating me(group of people was watching and laughing).

My only option was to lie my ass of and pretend like I got a super important doctors appointment and really needed to catch my bus. He didm't believe me but relented to giving me a 5 bucks fine instead, which I payed because I don't want him to take my license instead. But as soon as I gave him the money I started running after a bus that I could have theoretically missed because of this assholes antics.

He was super confused and tried to give me proof of payment. I just screamed "I didn't lie about the appointment, that's my bus" and kept running after the bus. But I did look back one last time and it was worth it because I could see everyone now visibly angry at him and him looking like a kicked dog. Visibly a head smaller looking. And I felt good because what an asshole. He stopped someone visibly younger and smaller, in a student frequented spot, filled with people who are poor and decided now was his time to humiliate and give a ticket for "jay walking" ON A PEDESTRIAN EXCULSIVE STREET. While doing so also endangering pedestrians because he sped OVER THE FUCKING WALKWAY.

This turned away from a "haha he felt bad" to a rant but I still want the takeaway from this to be that cops are clowns(and that's an insult to clowns actually) and lying to them is always good, even on incredibly small stake things.

Not to mention that jaywalking is a crime invented by the auto industry to penalize pedestrians for their role in needless deaths.

Thanks for the story, anon! A friend once got out of a ticket when a cop pulled her over by cutting her finger with a pocket knife, shoving it under her skirt, and then when he approached the vehicle, pulling her bloody hand out of her crotch and screaming that she was speeding bc she was bleeding. good times. lie to the cops folks

[steppingstonesuniverseguide]

Deleted Scene from One Step At a Time Ch 36: The Curator

I'm going to be posting a One Step At a Time entry soonish and I'm deleting a bunch of things because it got very *silly* and kind of interfered with the whole *vibe* of the chapter. That being said, I do love the silly, so enjoy an exclusive Ch 36.0 from One Step At a Time.

(Also Techno does say a thing that's might come off as way too rude, but, like, Wilbur doesn't mind. He watched his dad mourn him for years. He knows he's wanted and both he and Techno are 100% aware of this.)

“We are we going?” Tommy asked for the 5th time in as many minutes. This trip was always too long even without a Tommy in the car.

"We already told you,” Wilbur said, sounding grumpy. (Probably because he’d been demoted to backseat. Usually, they’d make Phil sit in the back during civilian outings in revenge for all of the years they had to allow him to drive, but Tubbo was also sitting in the back seat and putting Phil back there seemed like a poor decision.) “We’re going to the library.”

“We are not going to the library,” Tommy said. “All three of you brought your costumes and you brought us masks.” He reached forward to poke Phil. “Phil where are we going.”

"We’re going to the library, mate,” Phil said with more patience than the child deserved today. “It’s just a special library.”

“Is it a crime library?”

“It’s a…” Phil said.

“Yes. It’s a crime library,” Wilbur cut in.

“Technically, it does house books considered illegal in current society,” Phil said.

“Like Animal Farm and The Lorax,” Techno contributed.

“What is a Lorax?” Tommy asked.

“We’ll check it out for you,” Techno said.

“Will you read it to me?”

“I promise you can read The Lorax yourself well enough at this point, but I will read Animal Farm to you if you’d like.”

“Anti-government bedtime story with Techno hour is starting up again.”

“Eventually we’ll get to The Communist Manifesto and What is Property?”

“God please, I don’t want to hear any more about 1800s relationship drama between Marx and Proudhon. This is all your fault.” Techno didn’t see it since he was driving but considering that Tommy make a squeaking sound and having sat in the backseat with Wilbur himself plenty times, he assumed Tommy had just been elbowed in the ribs.

He then heard various slapping sounds.

“Boys, please stop fighting,” Phil said.

“He started it,” Wilbur claimed which was not exactly true, but also Tommy had been being annoying for the entire car trip.

“I didn’t start shit. I just asked a normal fucking question about where we were going.”

“You-”

“Tubbo is sitting in the front on the way back,” Techno said just to Phil. “There is no other option at this point. We have to have an adult sit between them.”

“I’m older than you!” Wilbur declared, too close to Techno’s ear. Luckily, they were at a stoplight and Techno could reach back blindly to shove his head back into the backseat where it belonged.

“Phil,” Techno said. “explain to me again why you made him.”

“Tech-”

“Oh, that’s right,” Techno said, glancing into the backseat. “You were an accident.”

“Unlike you,” Wilbur said, “who he consciously decided to adopt as his itty bitty baby child.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you!”

“Boys do I need to turn this car around?”

“How?” Techno and Wilbur said as one.

“This is why we don’t go on road trips anymore,” Phil sighed.

“Yes,” Techno said.

“Exactly,” Wilbur agreed.

“Also, he almost drove us off the Grand Canyon.”

“That too.”

Phil just rolled his eyes and turned to look out of the window.

“Okay, but are we almost there yet,” Tommy asked.

Wilbur groaned. “You’re such a child.”

“I’ve never been on a car ride this long,” Tommy complained. Which… now that Techno thought about it was a good point. They probably should have thought of that before putting him in the car.

“Tubbo’s fine.”

“Tubbo’s been asleep for an hour.”

“We’re almost there,” Techno said. “10 minutes.” Well, it was about 10 minutes to the entrance of the library, but he thought Tommy would probably be entranced by that.

[tanalogyosc]

"The organization system in this place is rather messy, I guess I'll force those lazylots to actually do their job."

Name: Stephen Lloyd Age: 40 Object: Stoplight Gender: Male

A detective and officer who was transferred to Fosemori after he had outed his superior as corrupt. In an attempt to reduce the attention to that district, Stoplight was forced to be removed from the area.

20 years ago, Stoplight was investigating a crime scene of a break-in. A couple was murdered in the process, leaving the three children they had traumatized as they were hiding in a closet.

After the whole ordeal, he decided to adopt the children as they had no relatives living nearby. While is merely a single father, he has tried the best he could to take care of them to the best he can.

Fun fact: He's very tall, the same height as Allium who is 2m+

[trashbag-baby666]

It’s Always Been Just Him and Me-Buck/Bucky

Summary: Buck keeps needing an out from his dates and Bucky is always a call away.

WC: 3,430

C/W: Bucky says a slur, mentions of drug use (weed), slight mentions of Bucky having an ED.

MOTA Masterlist!

Buck felt as if he was finally able to breath as he opened the door of Bucky's car. He was finally free of Curt’s strawberry vape and Nicki Minaj’s Pink Friday Two blasting through the speakers.

Truth be told he would rather be stuck in the car than having to go inside on this date. Buck always had a hard time telling people no, one of his downfalls. So when this girl from school kept asking out Buck and he finally had given in. He knew it was going to be awkward and uncomfortable.

“Goodluck, Buck!” Curt clapped him on the shoulder as he got out of the back to get in the front.

“Remember don’t fuck on the first date.” Bucky leaned over to the open door to look at him, “If it goes bad you can give me a call. I’m gonna take Curt to work then just drive around till you’re done.”

This was something that happened a lot, almost like a pattern Buck could recognize. Giving into someone asking him on a date, he’d go and get uncomfortable and text Bucky to call him so he could leave.

“You need any?” Curt opened up his wallet showing Buck the condoms tucked in by the dollar bills.

“You just carry those with you?” Buck furrowed his eyebrows looking down at Curt.

“You don’t?”

“No…?”

“Your loss,” Curt chuckled and elbowed Bucks side, “Have fun though, really.”

“I’ll try my best,” Buck clenched his teeth sucking in a breath nervously, his hands jammed into his jacket pockets. He was weighing his options of just jumping back into Bucky's car and telling him to drive away like this was a crime.

But then he remembered then he’d have to come up with some story of why he couldn’t make it. Sorry my bird died? Sorry Bucky got a flat tire and we were stuck on the side of the road? But then he’d have to defend his answer of why Bucky was giving him a ride and he wasn’t just taking himself there. So into the shitty Olive Garden he went taking one last glance at the silver SUV as he opened the door going in.

Bucky was serenading his heart out to All American Bitch as he drove down the ‘speed bump road’ gunning down on the gas pedal everytime he hit one. He was almost expecting it as his music stopped and the obnoxious ringtone came through. Bucky quickly picked his phone up from the cup holder. “Well it's been almost 20 minutes. Are you ready for me to come back?”

“Please, I’m hiding in the bathroom.”

“That bad?”

“That bad.”

“Alright, I just dropped Curt off. I'll call you back when I'm in the parking lot.” Bucky sighed as he hung up and whipped an illegal U turn at a stoplight. Waving his hand a little as a car honked at him.

Buck sat at the table keeping his eyes focused on the half eaten, stale breadstick in front of him. He was uncomfortable and could feel the girl's eyes on him, his heart skipped a beat as his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. Buck scrambled for his phone out of his bomber jacket.

“Hello?”

“Hi, sweetie, it's your grandma. I fell while fetching myself some candy and I was wondering if you’d come help me up.” Buck turned red as he heard Bucky's voice on the other end putting on his best female voice. But alas he played along with it because this certainly was not the first time this happened. One time Bucky went as far as coming into the restaurant and saying that his dog got out. When the girl offered to help Bucky blurted out ‘oh he hates women’ then tugged Buck right out of the situation.

“Of course Grandma, I’ll be there soon, I love you, bye.” Buck hung up fast and met the girl's worried green eyes, “I gotta go, my grandma fell and I gotta help her up. But I’ll text you when I get home?”

“Oh yeah, sure I had a good time.” The girl with the auburn hair smiled awkwardly as Buck got up and set a $10 bill on the table for the waiter. Buck offered a smile before making a beeline for the door.

Bucky sat in his car laughing like a crazy person as Buck walked over and shook his head with a smirk opening the door. “I’m gonna call my actual Grandma next time if you keep doing that.” Buck snickered as he buckled up.

“Oh poor Grandma Ethel will be so disappointed you’re leaving a date with a girl to go play with your best friend.” Bucky teased poking Bucks' side. Buck rolled his eyes, swatting at the others hand, “Maybe she’ll call you a faggot to your face this time.”

Bucky felt the air get a little tense as he glanced over at Buck, he wasn’t wrong by any means. His grandparents were very active in the church and it was true his grandma had called him that

“Well did you get a chance to eat?” Bucky glanced over at him as they came up on a red light.

“No, I kept stalling so I could leave.” Buck shrugged, “I don’t like pasta.”

And Bucky could’ve told him that.

“I know, well do you wanna get something? I don’t necessarily want to go home tonight.”

And Buck knew what that meant, his parents were probably fighting again.

“Yes please, I’m starving.” Buck had finally become aware of the grumbling in his stomach and remembered the two joints in his pocket.

“Well where do you wanna go?” Bucky knew the answer as soon as he looked over at Buck. His head leaned back against the headrest that stupid guilty smirk on his face.

“Jesus christ,” Bucky rolled his eyes as he took the next turn back in the other direction, “But I am not eating that.”

“I’ll pay for your food?” Buck smirked, but Bucky knew that was just a ploy to get him to eat. So if he was going to eat he was going to get something he enjoyed.

“No, I’m getting Taco Bell.” Bucky shook his head as they turned into the Chik Fil A parking lot. It was Buck's favorite, guilty pleasure food and even if Bucky didn’t agree with that he was here to make Buck happy.

“Are you going to do your Grandma Ethel impression again?” Buck asked as they pulled into the Taco Bell drive thru.

“Should I sing instead?”

“No.”

“Fine.”

“Welcome to Taco Bell, order when you’re ready.” Curts voice came through the speaker full of annoyance that certainly made this a hundred times funnier to Bucky.

Bucky cleared his throat, “Hello can I get two doritos-”

“Locos tacos, nacho fries and a large baja blast freeze?” Curt finished his order.

“How do you know every damn time!?” Bucky grumbled as they pulled up to the window.

“So the date didn’t go well?” Curt asked as he snatched Buckys card from him looking over at Buck. He also knew just as well as Bucky that Buck didn’t like these girls; he just felt bad saying no.

“No, I think I really should just stop going on dates.”

“Or maybe you can take me out for a nice meal!” Bucky put his hand on his chest smiling his cheesy smile, “Since you always end up back in my car eating your stupid Christian chicken sandwich.”

“Take us both out for a nice dinner. If I have to eat fucking Taco Bell for dinner one more fucking time. I’m gonna fucking lose my shit.” Curt grumbled as he handed the card back. Curt knew if he didn’t eat at work though he’d probably go hungry for the night. He didn’t come from much money and he worked to help keep a roof over his mother and little brother's head.

“Hey who are we mind fucking?” Dickie poked his head around the corner from the kitchen.

“Dickie!” Bucky cheered unbuckling and basically leaned his entire body inside the window.

“What’s up? Oh my god it’s Buck and Fuck!” Dickie jogged over to the window shouldering Curt out of the way, “Hambone!”

“The whole team is here I see,” Bucky snickered as the other blonde came over, “This place wouldn’t run without you guys.”

“Yeah, literally our manager quit this morning. So yeah Curts in charge of the evening shifts.” Hambone clapped him on the shoulder then took his hat running off to the front.

“Fuckin’ hell!” Curt grumbled, “Would love to continue our conversation but I gotta go play fuckin’ boss.”

“Enjoy it, Curt. Make them your bitches!” Bucky laughed as he took the drink and bag of food from him, handing it off to Buck.

“Now get the hell out of my drive thru!”

“Love you too Curt!” Buck yelled as Bucky drove off.

“That place would burn to the ground without him. Dickie would leave something somewhere and walk away from it next thing you know the best Taco Bell around exploded.” Bucky laughed as he made an exploding sound popping his lips.

“Maybe, or they could hire a competent adult to manage it.” Buck shook his head as he chewed on the straw of his drink.

“But what's the fun in that? Think about how funny it is to hear that Taco Bell is run by three high school boys who barely know their left from their right.”

“This is the economy we live in now.” Buck shook his head, “Are we going to the usual? I got some joints with me?”

“Yep, do you wanna smoke first or eat?” Bucky hummed as he pulled into the big empty parking lot of what once was a KMart. This had become their spot of escaping Bucks dates and eating shitty fast food and just talking.

“Eat, I’m too hungry.” Buck unbuckled his seatbelt and moved his seat back, getting comfortable.

“Sounds good to me,” Bucky shrugged as he turned the car off and Buck was finally able to have a break of what had been Nicki Minaj song after song. Bucky reached over the center console and grabbed his Taco Bell bag off the floor.

“So what were the fatal flaws of this girl, Buck?” Bucky asked while fishing a taco from the bag.

She wasn’t you.

“I don’t know, she just kept talking about herself. I don’t know, I only said yes to her because I felt bad saying no.” Buck couldn’t explain to anyone in particular why he never was really interested in women. Sure he’s had his fair amount of sexual encounters and lots of kissing with them. He thought it was just because he hadn’t met the right one. “And yeah I know I need to learn to say no it’s just hard.”

“I’m not used to being the level headed reasonable one here, but it’s not fair to you or the girls.” Buck knew that Bucky was making sense and he had fallen into some alternative universe where Buck and Bucky swapped bodies.

“I know this is weird for me, it’s like Freaky Friday.” Buck just wanted to get off the topic of his botched dates. He just wanted to enjoy his chicken sandwich and smoke a joint with his best friend.

“I’m gonna be Jamie Lee Curtis then, you can be Lindsey.”

“I’m too sober to think about this.” Buck set his half eaten sandwich down and pulled the small plastic tube out of his pocket.

“You used the pink paper I got you?” Bucky perked up excited seeing the two joints with the pink wrapping paper.

“Why wouldn’t I? Pink makes everything better.” Buck glanced over at Bucky; everything was dark besides a lamp post in the parking lot slightly illuminating the car; Although, Buck believed Bucky's big, silly smile illuminated them. When he looked at him it was just this different feeling, but he didn’t know what that feeling was.

Bucky watched as Buck put the joint between his lips and fought with his lighter to get it to go. But then it lit and he watched as Buck closed his eyes and took a hit waiting a moment before exhaling. “Okay, don’t hit it too hard, okay?”

“I know,” Bucky stuck out his tongue at him like a child and took the pink joint. It never took much to get Bucky high, he rarely smoked and if he did it was with Buck. He’d get fidgety and nervous around others then start to panic the few times he smoked at one of Bucks parties.

Buck took the joint from Bucky fast as he exhaled and the coughing began. Bucky's face turned slightly red as he coughed into his elbow.

“Here, take a drink.” Buck grabbed his water bottle off the floor and opened it for him.

“No, I'm still choking.” Bucky's voice raspy as he continued coughing, opening the door to spit out the nastiness, “Let me have another hit.”

“In a moment, after you drink some water.” Bucky took the water bottle reluctantly, taking a few sips of water and settling himself, “Okay now just take it easy.”

Bucky swapped the metal water bottle for the joint back and took a smaller hit. Buck almost had forgotten his sandwich as he just watched the other. Buck could watch him do anything and be amazed. There were so many football practices or games where he just would get so distracted from just watching Bucky. His large, veiny hands gripped around the football. The way the football pants really accentuated his ass.

“Wow,” Bucky handed the joint back, coming to full realization he was stupid high from three hits. He rubbed his eyes and Buck could see the redness already setting in.

“I’m gonna finish this off now and eat your tacos that Dickie slaved away making for you.” Buck snickered as he relit the joint, “How’d your test go?”

“I dunno, I don’t do fractions, probably not good.” Bucky rambled through his bites of taco, “Do you want some nacho fries?”

“I don’t know how you eat those.” Buck pushed away Bucky's hand that was holding out an orange fry with too much seasoning on it.

“These are so much better than your church fries. Oh my god the body of christ.” Bucky laughed, grabbing onto Buck's shoulder and shaking him a bit, “Listen if these are the body of christ I’m going to start going to church with Croz.”

Both had finished eating and Bucky reclined his seat back, his hands behind his head as he stared out the sunroof, “Do you think we’ll get married someday?”

“What?” Buck felt his heart skip a beat as he reclined his seat back and looked over at Bucky.

“No I mean like…I don’t know I meant like what if by the time we are 30 and were still not married we should marry each other. Like for the benefits you know?”

“Okay,” Buck snickered, “Would we still have a wedding?”

“I think we should, why waste the opportunity. But I don’t think Grandma Ethel would be very supportive of it. She’d probably say something silly about you starting on fire if you ever entered the church again. Would we get married in a church? I don’t think we should…well I guess if you wanted to or well your parents would want maybe? We could go to one of those progressive churches, like the one Croz goes to that has nacho fries communion.” Bucky rambled with no particular thought behind him.

Buck stared blankly at Bucky. He was absolutely gorgeous, his jawline sharp and that silly, goofy smile still spread on his face.

“I think Croz should get ordained too then he can marry us, or maybe by the time 30 were 30. Dogs can be ordained ministers then Meatball can marry us, he can wear a little suit.”

“I don’t know if Meatball will still be around by the time we're 30.”

“I’m telling you he’s a vampire, he’s gonna colonize Mars.” Bucky hummed, “I’m gonna sing at our weddings too you can’t tell me no, what should I sing? Maybe a love song? I got my drivers license last week.” Bucky started singing and Buck reached over cupping his hand over his mouth to shut him up.

Bucky laughed as he pushed off Buck, “Just like we always talked about!”

“I’d rather listen to Croz sing.”

“You’re such a liar I can see it on your face,” Bucky rolled his eyes poking the others cheek and rolled back onto his back and let his hand linger a little before finding Bucks and interlocking their fingers, “So maybe if we're married we could save some more money and buy a house together. I mean we don’t have to share a bed or anything like that but we could maybe get one with the in-laws sweet. I can live in the in-laws sweet, it’ll be like a bachelor pad. Or we could just live in a house with separate rooms I don’t know. Do you think Croz and Bubbles are gonna get married?”

“Definitely do you say the way they look at each other. Everytime Croz sees him his pupils turn into hearts like a cartoon.”

“For sure, Bubbles is probably the best guy to ever be in a relationship with. Croz tells me that he brings him flowers when they go on dates. You know what if they become our neighbors? They would be like a nuclear 50’s couple. Except I don’t think Croz would be a housewife? But I bet they would buy a house together, that's the house next to ours. But they would for sure have like two ankle biters and live this life. Croz would for sure be in the PTA.” He stopped as Buck gently cradled Bucky's face and ran his thumb over his bottom lip gently.

Bucky felt his cheeks turn bright red as he stared into the others beautiful, blue eyes.

He felt the butterflies beginning to slap around in his stomach as Buck leaned over. He could feel Bucks' breath as their lips were dangerously close.

Then his phone began to ring.

“Shit, it’s my mom.” Buck rolled his eyes, sitting up and answering it. Bucky felt like he had lost all the heat and he was cold again. They’d only ever kissed once before. It was while they were high one time out in the woods behind Bucks house. There was a little creek with a small bridge. They were sitting on the bridge and it had just happened. It wasn’t anything long, but Bucky wanted to do it again and again.

“Sorry I lost track of time, I'll be home soon. Okay bye.” Buck let out a sigh and rubbed his eyes, “How’re you feeling? I can drive, it's worn off for me.”

“I’m feeling fine, do you have eye drops? There’s Axe in the glove compartment.

“Only time your nasty boy perfume comes in handy.” Buck handed the eye drops over to Bucky.

“See you’re thanking me now and you’ll thank me later when Mary Cleven doesn’t know you were off smoking weed with me.” Bucky rolled down the windows and dropped the eye drops into his eyes.

“Don’t count on it,” Buck sprayed the air with axe and then himself, “God it reeks of teenage boy.”

“Not all of us can afford Johnny Depp Dior cologne.” Bucky started the car and turned on Drivers License. Look it was stuck in his head

“Goddamnit,” Buck tilted his head into the headrest.

“You know you love it!” Bucky laughed as he began to sing and Buck couldn’t help but sing along with him.

“And I know we weren’t perfect but I’ve never felt this way for no one!” The two sang Bucky with one hand on the steering wheel, the other conducting his imaginary band as they drove back to Bucks. He knew he’d probably get chewed out by his mom but it was worth it in his opinion to get to spend time with Bucky.

Sure they hung out all the time but no one knew him the way Bucky knew him. They had become each other's safe spaces. If Bucky needed away from his parents he could go to Buck.

If Buck needed a break from studying and doing homework all the time he knew who to call. And maybe he could call if he needed a good someone to kiss.

[seat-safety-switch]

Folks who were born in this century might be surprised that the Chevrolet Corvette was ever considered to be a beastly sports car. To be honest, I’m a little bit surprised, too. It’s probably like when everyone realized that eugenics was actually super bad, and they should stop doing it.

Of course, I don’t intend to compare the C4 Corvette to a crime against humanity. For one thing, the C4 Corvette makes you look cool, even if it is a dated, abstract kind of cool. Although there are certainly some adherents to the dictator-chic aesthetic, there is certainly not a growing fan club for genocide. Wait, there is? Fuck. Maybe it’s because the new Corvette doesn’t come with a manual transmission anymore.

There’s a million reasons why we all thought the Corvette was super cool. Predominantly, though, it was accessibility. While it was certainly expensive, it wasn’t Ferrari expensive. The weird bachelor dude on your street could afford one if he did well in business, and a Camaro if he didn’t do well. And you’d see the same switch gear and parts on both of them, which helped lend a sort of proletarian, shared-values good vibe cloud to the fact that he probably did well in business by exploiting the guy in the Camaro.

Nowadays, sports cars are meant to be inaccessible. This happens because the everyday, average car makes the same horsepower as a base C4 Corvette. Let’s take the ‘93 for example. Three hundred horsepower. Sounds big, doesn’t it? Not anymore: not in a world where the Toyota Sienna Hybrid makes 245. Even when you go up to the rare-as-hen’s-teeth, ultra-racecar-spec 405-horsepower ZR-1, you’re still going to be fighting off BMW X3s and mid-tier Cayennes at the stoplight drags. And that’s before you add up the compression loss that several decades of those stoplight drags have whacked into the poor car’s engine. Sports cars of the modern era need to have a truly eyewatering amount of horsepower to create that margin. Six hundred! Seven hundred! One thousand fucking brake horsepower! Eat shit, Suzette from Accounting! I can run a traction-limited deep 12 second pass and all it cost me was two family homes! See? You sound crazy, and not likeable, not like Corvette guy.

So take it from me: don’t buy a new car. Buy a thirty-year-old Corvette. Just wait until after I’m done shopping, I don’t want prices to start climbing before I’ve gotten one.

[perpetual-canon]

Perpetual Canon Chapter 1. Light in The End of The Rabbit Hole

before / 8. axe rockstar / next where it started / navigation / about the story

We present to you - Ace’s misconceptions about the life of a rock star

OR: Welcome to The Spirit House Where Dreams Break Every Day.

Expectations: riding around town, hanging from a sunroof of a cool car, having a nice time in the cool night air.

Reality: driving to the grocery store in Russell’s rusty old truck. And Noodle throws a smelly old jacket over your head when someone with a camera looks at you funny at the stoplight.

Expectations: you slide in the life of the gorgeous singer like honey over toast. You sweep him off his feet, make him question his sexuality and seduce for the life of crime (but not like, major “Law&Order” crime) until he falls for you like rose petals fall under the wind.

Reality: Stuart 2D Pot have been blankly staring at the wall most of the day, for most days of the week you were in the house. You never saw him move. Or eat. Or talk. Or react to anything beside Noodle shaking half full cereal box that one time.

“Honestly, same,” - She said with a hint of warmth in her tone, ruffled Stuarts hair, and placed a full bowl in front of him. - “That’s bi culture”.

So, you sign quietly, no “questioning the sexuality” part then.

Expectations: partying!

Reality: Noodle going “No, Jamie, we’re not going to that event now, that’s a waste of time” over the phone about 3 times a day since you moved in.

Expectations: now you can finally rock this Axe Rockstar image, gonna bathe in it! And the Band, they even have it stocked in the cabinet! Just like your sweaty teen self imagined back in the day.

Reality: everyone is looking at you funny for a couple of days until you find out that The Band uses Axe Rockstar as an air freshener in the bathroom.

Expectations: everyone is saying to watch out for the producer, Hewlett, because he’s a creep and generally a really nasty person or something.

Reality: Jamie is actually a polite, calm individual, really, an absolute champ! Very supportive, and is always interested in learning more about you and your gang. He never gets tired of going over the family photos in your phone, and that’s a rare trait.

Expectations: doing celebrity interviews for Big Channels or fashion magazines, dropping one-liners like you drop your fur coat on the floor, being suave and charming with the fans.

Reality: Noodle very hesitantly agrees with Jamie to go on one (1) radio podcast. The host immediately notices your sweaty teenage Axe aesthetic, and ironically notes how “you can always smell the bassist outta the band”. On air.

And for the next 40 minutes you’re stuck in the tiny room with everyone, answering an array of hosts armed with ridiculous twitter-submitted  questions.

Expectations: having a nice car and a private driver to get you to places.

Reality: you’re the driver. Again. The designated one too, since Russ “can finally take a break from babying this kindergarten and enjoy his evening beer after work”. His old as balls truck scares you more than the haunted Fiesta you jacked that one time, but you decide not to argue. Maybe, if you’re driving, Noodle will not risk using that horrid jacket to hide you again.

Expectations: making meaningful connections with everyone in the band.

Reality:

1) After you get everyone home safely after the interview (despite Noodle tucking you under the steering wheel and driving the car herself for very scary 15 minutes) you smell more like old musty leather jacket than Axe now.

(You’re not sure which one is better by this point)

2) In the kitchen you find Stuart, calmly drowning, face in the full cereal bowl. You panic and freeze the milk, and then panic again, because the whole bowl got frozen to 2D’s face and he still can’t breathe. While you run around filling cups with hot water, Stuart tries to lift his head but ends up banging the bowl over the table hard. This should’ve given him another concussion, but at least the iced bowl breaks. You and Stuart both take a relieved breath to celebrate that.

(2d still remains as unresponsive as ever, and your subtle worry grows)

3) Later at evening very tired looking Russ finds you in the living room and presents you with a big box. “From all of us,” - He says. - “A housewarming gift.”

Box is stuffed to the top with Old Spice “Arctic Force”.

“Axe,” - adds Russell, looking you straight in the eyes, - “Is banned to bathroom use only.” He lets go of the box only after getting a hesitant nod in response.

(Next day, you feel very adult using Old Spice for the first time)

[potterandpromises]

sorry for not winning you an arcade ring: chapter 1

I had Thoughts™ on a potential Theobel fake engagement storyline in season 3, which delightfully morphed into this.

Also on AO3

Secretly, Mabel had suspected her next real conversation with Theo would be when the bodies began to pile up again.  

The first ASL words she googled, late one night in her aunt’s apartment, were ‘blood,’ and ‘stab,’ and ‘gun.’  As a visual thinker, she noticed the similarity— although extremely slight— immediately. Fluttering fingers, blood and glitter. Dripping.

At the stoplight, Theo watches her. “You okay?”

“Just thinking,” she signs back, and smiles. It shouldn’t be this easy with him.

What happened with Zoe was an accident, she’s almost entirely sure. And she doubts letting Oscar take the blame was his idea.

But how much does she care that he tied her and Oliver up, gaged and blindfolded them, put them in the back of a van with a bunch of corpses and drove around all night? However much she cares, she should care more.

(Probably.)

For a minute or two, she’d thought he would murder her and Oliver in the basement of that funeral home. Then he shoved Oliver against the wall, started to bind his wrists. Surely, it would be easy to kill two people in the building with the drain in the floor and human sized refrigerators. He would not go through the pointless trouble of kidnapping them if that were the plan.

(He hadn’t seemed all that confident in himself, though, had looked almost panicked grabbing for spare cloth while she stood by, her instincts screaming at her to freeze, her learned memory saying something about secondly locations.)

One (normal person) might say that seriously and completely believing someone was going to kill you should be enough to disqualify the two people involved from ever dating. Yet, she could counter that statement. She is a true-crime addicted, New York millennial woman for fucks sake. She regularly thinks random men are going to kill her and prepares accordingly. So, there.

Theo pulls up outside the Arconia.

Mabel turns to him. Dajia vu sets in as she thinks through the correct signs. (‘it’s a callback!’ Oliver’s voice rings in her ears.)

“Thank you for helping me steal a dead guy’s hair.”

He grins at her, shakes his head.

(She knows she got it right.)

Winter breeze bites Mabel’s cheeks. She shuts the car door, flings her bag over her shoulder.

She glances back as he drives away.

If her life is going to be full of murder, who better to share it with then a reformed grave robber?

—

Nobody on the internet cares why her and Theo were dressed in all black. Nobody guesses their bags were full of PPE. At least they were caught, via unnoticed IPhone flash, in Manhattan, and not anywhere close to that funeral home in Connecticut.

No, the internet doesn’t notice what points to the weird, weird truth. The internet cares that Bloody Mabel Mora was seen with Theo Dimas, a man she accused of two murders, standing by a street light pole, perfect smiles painted on as they looked at each other.

“It could’ve been worse?” It comes out soft and uncertain. She scrolls through #bloodymabelandtheo.

“No, this is fantastic!” Oliver exclaims, somehow with complete sincerity.

“How is it ‘fantastic?” The disgust in Charles’ voice sets off a tiny, easily ignorable ping in Mabel’s chest. She gives him points for his correct use of air quotes, though.

“Because we need a big event in order to lure the killer out from the shadows, a party everyone will be talking about.” Oliver’s hands shake with excitement, or with something he should see a doctor about. “Honestly Charles, we were just talking about this.”

“I’m also not following,” Mabel says, although in the back of her mind, she already has a guess as to what he means.

“Star-crossed lovers, a couple who takes everyone by surprise with their passion, the wedding of the century—“

“Are you suggesting they get married?”

Mabel chokes on her gut milk.

“Well,” Lucy says, “you do look sort of cute together. Oh! What should your ship name be for the tag? I’m already seeing Maeo, Theobel…”

“Of course I’m not saying they should get married, Charles, I’m saying we should host a wedding.”

The plan makes an unfortunate amount of sense.

—

Lying atop his comforter, the afternoon sun an annoyance he won’t bother to close the blinds for, Theo considers moving back to the Arconia.

He’d been back to the apartment a few times since his father’s sentencing. He’d cleaned out the fridge, wondered why the freezer was full of steak, dusted.

Three years, maybe less if Teddy behaved himself, or the prison got too crowded. It’s almost nothing to the people whose loved ones passed through the funeral home, or so he’d read. Probably, it’s almost nothing to Oscar Torres.

To Theo, though, it’d been a gut punch and the first time he realized his dad is old.

There’s that background dread. One more thing he can’t change. Another guilt to wrestle with when his body is still.

He forces his thoughts from his previous crimes and shortcomings to the crime he committed just last night, in the name of truth, justice, and not-quite-friendship.

Mabel had shown up at his door with an apprehensive smile and a detailed note explaining the twist in the case and what she was asking of him. (After he read it, she ripped it up into tiny pieces and dropped them into his garbage disposal.)

He didn’t even hesitate.

I’ll go with you, he wrote, and replied to her questions about security cameras in mortuaries and obtaining hair samples useful for DNA analysis.

He still has her white coat in his front closet. Soft dry cleaning plastic brushes against his hands whenever he gets the broom. Her knitting needle, too, is stashed in the back of a drawer.

They’d exchanged greetings about half a dozen times since their shared day at Coney Island, but it’d never been a good time to bring it up. Even in the elevator, just the two of them, when his cheeks hurt from smiling.

He’d meant, somewhere in the back of his mind, to reach for her things when she showed up at his door. They do have each other’s phone numbers now, but it’s probably too late to bring it up. It’ll definitely be too late whenever they see each other next.

Does she still have his coat? Or rather, what had been his coat? He’d found the beanie she’d borrowed on the floor of his car. Does she also not know what to do with her incidental souvenir?

The residents of the Arconia didn’t notice him before and they don’t notice him now. It’s not like he’d be subjecting himself to constant glares for the occasional smile. Hell, he shared an elevator with Oliver once and the man hadn’t reacted at all. Though, he’d been engrossed in a phone call at the time. The only person, aside from Mabel, who treats him differently is Lester, his subpar ASL replaced with tense gestures.

Does Theo want to live in his childhood home again, with all it’s secrets and dark corners? Does he want to live here, among a revolving sea of neighbors? Does he want to sleep in this bed that came with the place, and dream of Mabel?

Just seeing her face makes his day and that’s… pathetic. He’s completely, painfully aware of why it took them a year to exchange phone numbers, why they can’t ever—

But she’d surprised him by signing sentences, had said it just seemed useful to learn ASL. Useful, and fun.

Maybe if he lived in the building again, the label ‘friends’ would become less dubious.

The light by the door flashes. Theo isn’t expecting anyone and a non-specific suspicion takes hold. He checks his phone, but he hasn’t received a text saying: flee, all is discovered.

A pause. The light flashes again.

He crosses the apartment, checks the peephole.

Mabel.

He opens the door, blinks. Her expression is sheepish, almost apologetic.

“I need your help again,” she signs, “please.”

“Anything.”