ummm the one shot you just posted was amazing like seriously obsessed w your writing. can we get some soft hotch w his girl just cuddles and kisses.
Aww! Thank you! You are too kind! I really appreciate that. Thank you for being so supportive.
[Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]
A Saturday with no work? Jack was off at a friend’s house for the night? Were you dreaming? It sure felt like it.
The two of you laid in bed that Saturday night after spending the whole day...well--making up for lost time, let’s say. You were basking in domestic bliss--something that felt so natural with Aaron.
You had a book in your hands, and Aaron had some paperwork he was finishing up on his lap. The content silence was comforting. Just knowing he was there was something that made you feel whole.
Looking at the time, you saw it was a little after ten. Closing your book, you wiggled your way down under the blankets, making yourself comfortable. You reached, put the book on your nightstand, and turned the light off before curling on your side.
It was no surprise to you who Aaron Hotchner was. You knew going into a relationship with someone like him; work would be a priority. That was something you loved about him so much, though—his passion for helping people. Besides, being his coworker--well, his subordinate, you knew first hand just how hard he worked.
You never felt bitter or hurt when nights like this happened. You would never ask him to choose between your relationship and work--both priorities, along with Jack, but incomparable, separate priorities.
Your eyes began to fall heavy; sleep would take you soon, but you felt the bed dip and move. You smiled, hearing the light behind you shut off, leaving you both in darkness.
Curling behind you, you felt Aaron pull you close. He hummed, feeling you near.
“Hi,” You said softly, snuggling yourself closer to him. Goosebumps rose on your skin as you felt him run his fingers up and down the side of your arm.
“Hi,” He said, his tone low in your ear, “Today was a good day.”
“Mmm,” You hummed, “A very good day.”
“I’m sorry I can’t give you more days like this.” You frowned in the dark, not liking the sad tone you were hearing from him.
Turning in his arms, you faced him, wrapping your leg over his hip. Still holding him close.
“Why would you say that,” You tilted your head at him, the light from the moon outside illuminating his face.
“Because,” Hotch sighed, “You deserve someone who can give you this every day. You deserve this every day.”
You gave a small scoff, “I wouldn’t want this every day, Aaron.”
Hotch frowned now, “You wouldn’t?”
“No,” You shook your head, “These days we have are special because of how few we get.” You started, “You and I would be miserable if we were not productive and not feeling like we were at least trying to make a difference.”
Hotch listened contently to you speak, his face softening.
“You love your job; I love my job...I love that you love your job,” You said; you leaned up and pressed a short kiss to his lips, “And I love you—more than anything in this entire world.” You kissed him again; you felt him smile against your lips. “I would not change our life one bit.”
“I love you,” Hotch said, kissing you again...and again...and again.
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okay so letters from l'manberg did Not get posted, but let's run west did so! i'm giving that to y'all instead. pounded out ~2.5k words and this is the result for a songfic competition :P
inspired by west by radical face
link to the ao3 fic in the notes
“You know,” Tommy grouses, “I can't see a thing with my hair all in my eyes.” Tubbo just laughs at him, while Niki hides a gentle smile behind her hands.
Jack rolls upright, and the crown of foxgloves tilts dangerously. There's a very dangerous way to how he’s puffing out a chest, a suggestion of I’m about to enter this argument and win and you’re not going to like it.
Eret has a sixth sense for when this trouble starts brewing, it seems. They scoot backwards, minding the cape slung haphazardly over their shoulder, and bump Niki to do the same, out of the line of fire.
“See, this is why short hair is superior. Your hair’s a sanitary hazard- actually, just a hazard all around.”
“You’re a hazard all around,” Tommy snaps back. He pushes the hair out of his eyes- and grumbles as it flops back in. This time, the titters around the group echo louder. Eret has the grace, at least, to hide their laugh behind their hand.
Tommy rounds on the nearest offender; Niki, as it happens, and backpedals as quickly as he starts when he sees the set to her hip. That’s a straight ticket to one of Niki’s I’m not mad, I’m disappointed, really, you can do better lectures and Tubbo still hasn’t let him live down nearly crying after that lecture. She's terrifying, okay? She’s terrifying, and he’s not ashamed to say that. (He’s told her that exactly once; she had laughed gently as she’d drawn a warm loaf of bread out of the furnace. She hadn’t contradicted him, though. So: no thank you.)
Jack is next in his line of fire.
“What’re you laughing at? ‘least I’ve got hair to impress the ladies with- oh, have you seen Tommy Innit’s hairs? luscious, luscious locks, look, healthier than me!”
“The ladies like my hair,” Jack protests. “Makes him right spiffy, they do say, right spiffy and proper; that Tommy Innit looks like a hooligan who’s just crawled out of the woods. Jack Manifold- now that’s a man of esteem and grace.
“Esteem, grace, oh what lovely qualities,” Tommy parrots back in a voice pitched four tones too high. “They look at you and say oh my, where has his honour gone? He’s got none, just a patchy head of fuzz and glasses that look like they’ve just been dug out of the bin-”
“You take that back- these glasses are top of the line-” Jack’s hauling himself up, and Tommy’s squaring his shoulders, and Tubbo’s laughing hard enough to be doubled over in the grass, despite the gentle shove from Niki and the cautious look from Eret. He’ll get to Tubbo next- it’s not like his hair is much better, kept out of his eyes only by sheer force of will.
They get to about three steps within each other when Wilbur's voice cuts through the argument.
“What's all this, then?” Tubbo's still choking down his laughter, and Jack's sputtering something about high tech, and they’re all really being incredibly useless, so Tommy asserts himself as the loudest. (And most correct. Obviously.)
“Jack Manifold is insulting the honour of my hair,” he proclaims, drawing himself up. Chest out, shoulders back, head high- just like they were taught.
Wilbur must notice this, because he musses Tommy’s hair gently, not a minute later. Or maybe it’s to prove a point, because it falls back over his eyes, to Wilbur's laugh. Traitor.
“There's enough here to make a shag carpet, Tommy. I don't know if he’s wrong.”
Tommy folds his arms, and- okay, he doesn’t pout. He just… lets his face settle into something more disgruntled.
“I've had bigger things on my mind. things like incredibly important-” incredibly important wars, he realizes he was going to say, moments before the words spill out of his mouth. There’s a line of tension in Eret’s shoulders where there wasn’t before.
He clamps his mouth shut.
“I’ve just been busy, and so have you, and you’re the only one who knows how to get our trim decently,” he finishes.
Around Wilbur's eyes, the exhaustion softens.
“C’mon, Tommy.” Wilbur gestures to a nearby chair, dragged out to the shade. “Sit down, we’ll trim it up to something more respectable.”
Tommy squints at him. He's not sure if the effect comes across the same way, obscured as it is. Which- may be proving Wilbur’s point. Damn it.
Begrudgingly, he slinks over to the chair of shame, letting his steps fall a bit heavier. Niki pats his knee gently, while Eret calls over to Wilbur. “You might need to do Tubbo’s next. goat boy’s going to start bumping into things.”
“I’ll just go around the circle,'' Wilbur laughs. “We all need a little trim and care.”
Reaching up to poke at the curls hanging around Wilbur's face, Tommy arches an eyebrow. “Are you planning to cut your own hair?”
Wilbur waves a hand, before he takes up his position behind Tommy. His fingers are gentle as he sorts through the long mess, a soft snick echoing as he starts cutting away at it.
It's a familiar sound, and Tommy lets himself relax as Wilbur continues combing through the tangles.
“It’s not the first time I would've done that. I can take care of myself too.”
“Doubtful,” Tommy huffs at the same time as Eret murmurs. “That's what they all say, don’t they?”
Wilbur pauses in his actions. Tommy darts a peek at Eret underneath his hair. Niki and Tubbo, engrossed in their debate with Jack, aren’t paying too much attention, but niki sends a fleeting, if concerned look, their way.
They’re technically not wrong. Wilbur can roll his shoulders back and step with military, practiced precision, and it won’t hide the bruises under his eyes that grow by day.
It won’t hide the ever-lengthening shadows on his face, the ink-stains on his fingers that never seem to wash out.
But if Wilbur says not to worry about it- well. There's already a lot on their plate. He knows what he’s doing.
So Tommy squares his shoulders and grins at Eret. “He's a disaster, isn’t he?”
Eret hardly smiles at that. Niki, Jack, Tubbo- they’re all listening now. Tubbo meets his eyes, and sits up fully, rolling his eyes. Silently, Tommy thanks prime.
“There’s a saying about glass houses,” he begins, and Tommy splutters, retracting any and all thanks.
“Oh, don’t you go pulling out the wise shit on me now- I’ll have you know I’m the best around here at-”
“At raising the disaster rates? Yes, yes you are.”
“You’re lucky I'm stuck on this chair,” Tommy points threateningly at Tubbo. “when I’m off of it-”
Tubbo simply pulls out a sword with the same shit-eating grin. “You’ll give me the beating stick?”
“You’ll wish you had the beating stick.” With that lovely parting line, he sticks out his tongue, only to immediately hiss and spit into the grass to the side. Jack cackles.
“Shouldn’t have opened your mouth while your bird’s nest was getting cut!”
“Oh, you-” Wilbur clamps a hand on Tommy's shoulder. He stills immediately.
“Stop wriggling. Your hair doesn’t need to get any worse.”
Tommy narrows his eyes in Wilbur's general direction, but he does settle down. The tension’s dissipated- somewhat, at least. They should be okay.
(Later, he’ll look back. He’ll wonder what Eret saw before them; he’ll wonder if it was the sleepless nights, or the way that Wilbur shies away from a blade outside of dinners and nights reserved for haircuts. He'll wonder if it’s the ashes of letters that pile, and pile.
He’ll wonder if that’s what scared Eret away, and goaded him into lacing the very ground that they had rolled in a play fight on just days earlier.
When he hears it was never meant to be, he’ll wonder if it was a threat. Later, he’ll understand it was the writing littered on crumbling walls. But for now, they sit, and they laugh, on the home that they built.)
There is, quite simply put, too much happening.
Tubbo sits to his side, kicking his feet over the ledge; Tommy’s insisted they both sit by a railing to hold onto, one of the few that they’ve diverted Wilbur's attention from.
Below them, the ravine buzzes.
Techno is not in the farm- hasn’t been for a bit, in fact. This is the first they’ve seen him around Pogtopia in days.
He's facing Wilbur, in the far corner. Tommy doesn’t take his eyes off of him, while Tubbo nudges him, attention elsewhere.
“Fundy’s arguing with Quackity in the corner,” he mutters. “Think they know something about the Schlatt situation?”
Tommy spares the two a quick look. Fundy's ears are pinned flat against his head; quackity’s eyes are obscured by his sunglasses, but even his printed smile seems strained.
“Could be worth checking out,” Tubbo presses.
“I’m more worried about whatever those two have going on in the corner,” Tommy says tersely. “Wilbur’s not in his right fucking mind as is- and Techno’s not good fucking company.”
“nobody here is,” Tubbo replies, and doesn’t elaborate.
Which is. just fucking great, honestly. Everybody here is either stressed out of their mind, scared out of their mind, or both. This is fine. This is fine.
He forces out a noisy breath that does nothing to calm his racing heart.
“It won’t matter in a few hours,” Tubbo finally adds. “The waiting’s the worst part.”
Tommy forces the image of Tubbo staring down the crossbow, waiting, out of his head, and folds his arms.
“It’s the aftermath that sucks the most, innit?”
“Not really. By then, it’s happened. You can’t change it. There’s no what-ifs. You just move forward. You can’t move while you’re waiting.”
Can they stop with the fucking metaphors?
He works his jaw free from where he’s clenched it tight enough to crack a tooth.
“Think Schlatt’s going to pussy out of it?”
Of course it can’t be that easy.
Tubbo leans back, mindful of the bandages winding up his arms. He keeps an ear tilted towards Tommy.
“It depends on how much we corner him,” he amends.
“If he can run to preserve himself? He will. If it’s a last stand? He’ll take us down with him.”
Plant his feet and lower his head for the charge. Great. Just what they fucking need, with Wilbur ready to plant the button, and a trigger-happy anarchist.
Is this how Wilbur felt? ready to scream ‘til his voice cracked, as it kept piling? Tubbo, as schlatt got louder and angrier?
He hates it, honestly.
“Great. So we don’t give him a chance to do either.”
“Easier said than done.” There’s a thoughtfulness to Tubbo’s voice. “Doable, though. The night of- you didn’t see him. If Wilbur’s a mess… Schlatt’s not better.”
Tommy cuts a sideways look. Tubbo's still staring down, not a single emotion escaping the neutrality he’s plastered across his expression.
They’ve all gotten rather good at their masks. Some more than others.
“Hardly coherent. Passed out on the speech he was writing.”
Making a face, Tommy scoots back to fold his legs upon the ledge as well.
“That place sounded like it reeked. It lingered on you for ages.”
“You get used to it,” Tubbo replies. “You get used to a lot of things.”
Down below, someone’s raised their voice. Judging by the stuttering speech- they both swing to look as Wilbur’s voice bounces off of the walls.
A summons, then.
“Techno said he had something to show us, before… before.”
Tubbo’s expression doesn’t change. Tommy doesn’t need it to, as he watches Tubbo’s ears carefully press against his head before forcibly relaxing again.
He makes sure he steps first into the vault.
Takes the first step towards Schlatt.
(it still doesn’t matter in the end.
it was never meant to be, a sovereign once said.
Tommy’s beginning to think it was an apology.)
“You know,” Tubbo says. “This would be L'manberg's last life.” He laughs a little as he says this; Tommy can't bring himself to laugh with him, the words sour on his tongue.
They've always held themselves differently.
Tubbo laughs even as he aches, shrugs it off while he bleeds.
Tommy rages, and he rages loudly. He grieves- though he grieves quieter, holds on to his hurt tight enough to bleed.
They have that in common, he guesses.
“You sound like you're already burying it,” he settles on. Tubbo slants a sideways look at him. The fringe of hair curling around his face isn't obscuring his eyes yet; Tommy catches every sharp thought flicking through Tubbo's eyes, and a few that he doesn't know how to read yet.
(This concept of unfamiliarity sits awkwardly in his hands; he's not sure how to hold its weight, so he sets it aside. He can't help but pick at the splinters that it leaves behind.)
“I'm preparing to,” he says simply. He doesn't have to say why. The angel's shadow hangs heavy on their doorstep. So efficient. So practiced. The memory of building their country's coffin lies engraved in their muscles. They sing its funeral hymn in their sleep.
“You're killing it before it's had a chance.”
Tubbo doesn't answer.
A whetstone passes over the sword glittering in his lap once, then twice more. Tommy turns back towards the grid hanging over them.
“Like Schlatt? Or like Wilbur?” Tommy flinches, unexpectedness slamming bodily into shame, a full-body reaction that unbalances him from where he's kicking his feet over the dock's edge; he pulls himself back.
Out of neglect, or out of fear? Do you think it’s because I never understood what L'manberg stood for to us, not like you did? Or because I was too afraid to hope, and look what that did to us, Tubbo doesn't say- or maybe Tommy's just filling in the blanks with fear and a memory of two exiles.
Maybe Tubbo really does just sound tired. Maybe they're all just tired. He swallows hard, and this time reaches out first, to bump Tubbo on the shoulder.
He forces out a breath, and forces them out of his head.
“You were better than either of those two bastards ever were.” Tubbo only raises an eyebrow at him.
He doesn't argue, though, and so they sit. Axe at Tommy's side, sword in Tubbo's hands.
At midnight, the angel's- the blood god's- the smiling god's- hounds bay, a resounding death knell. At midnight, the angel's wings darken their skies.
“It’s not- it’s not dawn,” Tommy shouts to empty air. Around them, the streets murmur, crescendoing to a wail as a wither, then another, then another barrels through their streets. “It’s too early! This isn’t fair!”
It’s too early.
They hadn’t said good-bye.
“This is war, Tommy,” the skies tell him. (At least they graced him with a reply, the tone suggests.) “War isn’t fair.”
None of this is fair. None of it was meant to be, none of it will be.
At dawn, the sun finds them at the bottom of L'manberg's grave.
(What do you do with a country taking its last breath?
You bury it where it can’t hurt.)
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