thinking about the idea that all of vox’s relationships are parasocial… like when someone kisses him they’re literally kissing a tv screen like how a fan might kiss their favorite tv show character on the screen or a photo in a magazine
When you escape your abusive boyfriend Loki's compound, you flee through the streets of New York only to be found by his rival. Caught in the middle of the war between HYDRA and the Norns, you agree to give James Barnes your body in exchange for protection.
Note: This is a dubcon/noncon fic! Heavy violent content and smut will be prevalent. Read at your own risk and mind the warnings at the beginning of each chapter. [Dark Mafia Romance] [Corruption!Kink]
The chapters titled below are already written and ready to post. I will update each time I finish one.
Chapter 1 - The Escape | Posted 11/1/22
Chapter 2 - The Proposition | Posted 11/2/22
Chapter 3 - Breakfast with the Enemy | Posted 11/6/22
Chapter 4 - Seal the Deal | Posted 11/11/22
Chapter 5 - The Full Sweep | Posted 11/18/22
Chapter 6 - Don't Fight, Doll | Posted 12/1/22
Chapter 7- The Red Room | Posted 12/9/22
Chapter 8 - Million Dollar Nosebleed
Chapter 9 - The Amendment | Posted 1/31/23
Chapter 10 - A Strange Affection
Chapter 11 - Sleeping with Monsters
**if you would like to be on my Marvel taglist, please send me an ask letting me know!**
thinking about how absurd it was the amt of authority middle/high school teachers had? if a class looked tired one morning they’d be like “everyone get up and do 15 jumping jacks!” and no one argued we all just did it.
but now if my college professor told us to get up and do jumping jacks i’d be like, there’s no way i’m getting out of my chair
Guilt by association - Chapter 3: Chilling Developments
Aaron Hotchner x OC
warnings: stressed-out oc
word count: 2.5K
summary: the end of term is near, but it seems Ida will have more to worry about than just turning in papers.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2
December arrived without fanfare, bringing chilly gusts and freezing rain that slowly overwhelmed the once sunny days.
I had gotten through most of the parent conferences, fully accepting the chaotic schedule that now ruled my life. I only had a couple of conferences left, and with winter break just a little over a week away, I was more than ready to step away from my kindergarteners for a while and focus on my own classes.
As I sat in the classroom at the end of the school day—Brad left before me these days since the study was coming to a close—I opened my overfilled online planner again. I checked it and updated it obsessively. I knew myself too well to allow myself to lose track of appointments, and I couldn't afford to miss any advisor meetings or grant proposal hearings, much less be late to them.
I had my second-to-last parent conference in half an hour:
Wednesday, 12/8 3:30 p.m. Meeting with Anna's parents — Marc Orly and Fiona Orly
We were supposed to have met a week ago, but unsurprisingly, Hotchner had rescheduled.
I decided to call him to make sure that he still knew about the conference. Not because I hadn't seen him in three weeks and wanted hear his voice.
"Hello?" His tone was impatient, as if I had just interrupted something.
"Hi, Mr. Hotchner," I spoke in what I hoped was a friendly but efficient tone. "I wanted to call to confirm our conference for tomorrow at seven p.m."
"I'm going to have to reschedule, Ms. Nott," he said without missing a beat.
Again? Should've figured.
"Mr. Hotchner, the end of the term is next week, and we really would like to—"
"I will contact you tomorrow to confirm when I will be available, but right now I have urgent matters to attend to." His voice sounded strained, as if he were under duress. Then he hung up, without even a good-bye.
Is he serious? In the three months I had known Jack's dad, I had never known him to be rude.
By eleven p.m. the next day, I still hadn't heard from Hotchner. Brad would be furious. Parent-teacher conferences were not just for updating the parents about their children's educational development, but they were an opportunity to gauge the relationship between the child and parent by evaluating how they responded to hearing about their children's progress.
On my way to school the next morning, I decided to call him myself. The first time, the line rang until I got to voicemail. The second time, however, he picked up after the first ring.
But no sound came out of the other end.
"Hello?" I spoke into the phone.
Still no answer.
"Hello? Mr. Hotchner?"
What game is he playing?
"Mr. Hotchner, are you there?"
Finally, someone spoke. However, it was not Hotchner's voice on the other line. It was the voice of a younger man, and his tone was cold, laced with a raspy edge that made me shiver.
"Agent Hotchner is unable to come to the phone. And you'll never talk to him again, unless you give me what I want," said the chilling voice.
I froze in the middle of the street. Who is this? Is Hotchner in trouble?
Before I could respond, the speaker hung up, and I remained glued to my spot, unable to move.
What is going on? Is this a joke?
The entire day, I was on edge. I couldn't get that cold voice out of my head.
During recess, I was on duty, and I took the time to gather my thoughts. Jack was at school today, so whatever had happened to Hotchner, his son was safe.
But who had gotten him ready for school? He had been on time today, like always, and nothing had seemed out of the ordinary about his behavior. If I hadn't called Hotchner that morning, I never would have known that anything was out of the ordinary.
The playground looked the same as always. The ground was slightly blanched and damp from the remnants of morning frost. The kids, their noses pink from the chilly air, ran and ducked under the slides and around the bare bushes. From my usual spot under the tree near the building I had a view of the whole playground and the parking lot beyond it, and my gaze fell into the familiar pattern of tracing the students' movements across the yard.
Then, something appeared in the corner of my vision. Something out of place. A large black SUV pulled into the parking lot and skidded to a jolting halt just behind the playground fence, and a large man exited the car as soon as he had parked haphazardly across the asphalt.
Parents generally signed in at the front office before visiting during the school day. This back parking lot was for buses and pick-up only. I called to the other teacher on recess duty to let her know I would go talk to the man.
Huh. I don't recognize him. He must be the parent of a student in another class.
At least, I hoped he was a parent. The man was intimidating to say the least. His biceps bulged out from under his dark gray shirt with the edge of a large tattoo peeking out from under his left sleeve, and his shaved head emphasized his dark, menacing brows.
"Hi, can I help you?"
The man flashed me a badge. "Ida Nott? I'm Derek Morgan with the FBI. I need you and Jack to come with me."
"What's going on? Is Mr. Hotchner okay?" My head started to spin. The handle of the man's gun glinted even in the scarce sunlight.
"We'll explain everything later. But right now, I need you and Jack to get in the car."
Still not quite processing, I handed over my shift to the other teacher and called Jack. He bounded over with his usual quiet cheerfulness.
"Hi Derek!" the boy said.
"Hey little man," Derek smiled. "We're gonna take you and Ms. Nott to your dad's office, alright?"
"Okay."
Jack was calm as ever during the ride to Quantico. He must be used to it.
About half an hour later, I found myself sitting in what felt like a conference room with a cup of coffee warming my hands. A few minutes later, a tall man in a sweater vest came in to lead Jack out of the room, giving me a tentative wave. Derek came in shortly after, seating himself directly across from me.
"Ida, we think you're the last person who spoke to our unit chief Aaron Hotchner."
The blood drained from my face. "What do you mean? What's happened to Jack's dad?"
"We traced his cell phone activity, and it looks like the last time his phone was active, he was on a call with you."
Oh no. I should have known something was wrong when he didn't pick up. My skin prickled, anxiety crawling up the back of my neck.
"What's wrong, Ida?"
"I—," I stammered, then gulped down a sip of coffee to ground myself. "When I called Mr. Hotchner this morning, he didn't pick up, which I thought was just him being rude, considering how he hung up on me last night—we've been trying to find a time for a parent conference before the end of the term. But when I tried him again right after, someone else picked up."
I shivered, remembering the strange man's voice. "It wasn't anyone I recognized. His voice was... cold," I said, for lack of a better adjective.
"You're sure it was a man?"
I nodded.
"Do you remember what he said?" he asked.
So it wasn't a joke. "Um," I started, my voice beginning to shake. "He said I'd never talk to Hotchner again unless he got what he wanted."
This was bad. I felt sick at the thought of Hotchner in danger. What would happen to Jack? Was he safe? Was I safe?
"Ida, I need you right here," Derek said firmly, gripping my arm to steady my nervousness. His hands were strong, and I caught a faint whiff of patchouli and orange spice, and suddenly I found myself longing for the more familiar scent of nutmeg and pine—Aaron Hotchner.
When I had imagined myself at the FBI headquarters—and I had imagined it, more times than I'd like to admit—it was always with Hotchner. But today, when I finally found myself at the Bureau, it was under hardly favorable circumstances. For all I knew, Hotchner was missing, or worse, dead, and the last thoughts I had associated with him were only negative ones.
Derek's grip on my arm tightened, bringing me back to the present.
"Think back to the call. Could you hear anything to identify where he might have been calling from?"
"I don't know," I said meekly.
The tall, weedy-looking boy peeked his head into the room again.
"We got the recording," he said. Then turning to me, he added, "You can come with us, if you'd like."
I was led down the hall and into an open work area filled with desks and monitors. where I saw several agents gathered around one monitor—seated in front of the computer was an oddly dressed blonde woman. She wore a brightly patterned dress with a matching pink satin headband, her hair teased out in an '80s style pouf, with sky-high pink stilettos with what I could only describe as furry pom-poms attached at the heel.
"Oh, hello! You look young for a teacher," she said in a bright, friendly voice.
Derek pointed out each of the agents who were now staring up at me with piercing eyes that looked as if they were taking apart each microexpression on my face.
"Ida, these are Agents Garcia, Prentiss, Jareau, and Dr. Reid, who I think you've already met," he said.
Garcia pressed play on the recording, and for some reason I hadn't expected to hear my own voice as well.
"Hello? Hello, Mr. Hotchner? Mr. Hotchner, are you there?
Agent Hotchner is unable to come to the phone. And you'll never talk to him again, unless you give me what I want."
I hadn't realized I sounded so... timid. Had I known something was wrong before even hearing the man on the other line? Or was I just that afraid of provoking Hotchner? Through the recording I was able to hear the sharp intake of my breath in response to the man's words, which I didn't even know I had made in that moment.
The agents began to discuss the implications of the man's message, taking apart the lexical nuances and unconscious stress syllables, but I hardly heard any of it. It was hard to think of Aaron Hotchner as missing. He was so solid, immutable, not just physically, but in all aspects. I suddenly remembered our conversation from two nights ago.
"I spoke to him two days ago," I spoke up. "I didn't notice it then, but he sounded sort of strange."
The agents thought this worth tracing as well, and soon they pulled up the recording of what was possibly the last conversation I had ever had with Hotchner.
Something about my face must have given away the fact that I was on the verge of hyperventilating, because one of the agents—Jareau? I think?—came to my side with a concerned expression.
"Ida? Would you like some more coffee?" she asked.
I nodded, grateful for the offer of escape. "That would be great, thank you."
Once she led me back to the conference room, I could somewhat relax. This agent seemed to be the only one who wasn't trying to peer into my mind each time I caught her gaze.
"Agent Jareau, was it?"
"You can call me JJ," she smiled.
"Can you tell me what's going on? What's happened to Hotchner?"
Her large blue eyes looked troubled. "We can't really say. Right now, we know just about as much as you do, which is why we were hoping to get your help. What I can tell you is, we're doing everything we can to bring him back."
"What about Jack? What are we supposed to tell him?" I asked.
"Jack's a tough kid. This isn't the first time his dad has been in danger. He'll be just fine."
Look at me, less emotionally stable than a five year old.
When JJ spoke again, there was that look of searching in her eyes that I had noticed in the other agents. "Ida, can you tell me the relationship between you and Aaron Hotchner?"
"We don't really have a— a relationship," I stammered. "I mean, he's visited my apartment but that's not what it sounds like... I might have had a crush on him at some point, but..."
The agent smiled, a charming, genuine smile. "I just meant professionally," she said. "If you could tell me more about your job and your role in Jack's life."
"Oh," I said, embarrassed, then began to explain quickly. "I'm a graduate student at the School of Education and Human Development at George Washington University. A part of my research is studying the behavioral development of children aged five to seven, so my advisor thought the best place for me to do that would be as an elementary school teacher."
"And what is your relationship with your students' parents like?"
"They know that they're a part of the study, and they also know that their kids' education will always come first, and that the study is secondary. We do keep files of all the parents in addition to the kids because we have to take all variables into account."
JJ seemed troubled by this, but quickly hid her frown. "You've already helped us a lot, Ida. Agent Prentiss and Agent Reid are going to head to your school to interview some of the other teachers, but we think it best that you stay here for now."
"Agent, it's still the middle of the school day. I need to get back." Brad was on my back as it was, and I couldn't afford to miss a day of school, especially with my research grant on the line.
"Seeing as you've had contact with a potential suspect, we believe it would be safest for you to stay away from your usually frequented locations, including your home."
"I can't even go home?"
JJ's tone was sympathetic but firm. "If we want to find out where Agent Hotchner is, we can't have you becoming the next victim."
So Hotchner really was missing. I couldn't help but feel that it was my fault. If I had just called him sooner, or if I had been mature enough to go talk to him after the apartment fiasco... It was hard to imagine Hotchner, the big, strong agent, Jack's superhero, losing control, or even, losing at all.
Does he know where he is? Is he in pain? Is he unconscious? Or awake, thinking of his son?
And even though I had no right to, my heart ached for Aaron Hotchner.
@maiden-of-asgard / sorry i haven’t finished the comic I was doing but I’m in a contest at the moment so I don’t have time:(, so I did this really quickly😳 I’ll finish the comic as soon as I can, love you❄️💙
im don’t feel smart enough so im baking to cope while i write my paper on the iliad. this is my life now. anyways, go read as cherry wine pls, i wrote it at like three am.
i just put my chocolate chip shortbread cookie dough in the fridge to chill bc i don’t want to discuss this appellate case about why gay couples don’t deserve cute wedding posters
dropping another plug for my hotchxoc fic “Guilt by association” (ch1 and ch2 up) and also my ao3
funny how the reid one-shot i wrote in a matter of hours has almost (EDIT: MORE THAN) 3x more hits than the complex hotch fic i’ve been working and plotting for weeks haha
Guilt by association - Chapter 2: Petite Boulangerie
Aaron Hotchner x OC
warnings: still just language
word count: 2.7K
summary: another run-in with Hotchner makes Ida realize he might not belong in her life after all, but she can’t help but long for that smile.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 3
The rain continued to pour down.
As reluctant as I had been to take it, I was grateful for the wide, black umbrella over my head, as I had promised my roommate I would pick up tampons on the way home, and the drugstore was four blocks away from the metro stop closest to my apartment.
My roommate Camille and I had met in a biology class. It was one of the only courses cross-listed between her program in anthropology and my program in childhood development. We weren't exactly the likeliest of friends, but we ended up at the same station in lab, and as luck would have it, we had both been looking to sign onto a new lease for the academic year.
Camille was a D.C. native, and she had introduced me to her wide circle of friends as well as an array of bars and clubs in the area. I had never known the sociology-major-type queer girls to drink so much, but if Camille's friends were any representative sample, they certainly didn't let their weekends go to waste.
I had gone out with them fairly often at the beginning of the year, but I had always been more of the stay-home-and-read type, and especially once I had begun my teaching job, I found that I couldn't keep up, both physically and mentally.
But club or no club, I was certainly looking forward to the weekend, when I wouldn't have to wake up before seven a.m.
They say time flies when you're having fun, but it also does when you're unspeakably busy. After school, I had about an hour and a half to get something to eat and run errands if necessary, then class until six or seven p.m., depending on the day of the week. After class, I would grab a quick dinner and then fall asleep doing homework.
And so the weekend was upon me, mercifully quick, and as soon as I got home from classes that Friday night, I promptly passed out, not even stirring awake a few hours later when Camille was getting ready to go out.
This is how I ended up waking up early on a Saturday. Even though I had slept for nearly twelve hours, my body felt as if it had been pummeled by a stampede of bulls. I slowly blinked awake to a quiet house. None of Camille's characteristic snores could be heard, which probably meant that either she was out cold from a heavy amount of alcohol or she was spending the night at her girlfriend's place.
On the weekdays when I rose early, I never had the time to admire how the morning light bathed the apartment. But today, as the fresh autumn rays streamed in through the large windows, the house seemed softer—the edges of the messy surfaces blurred, the clothes on the floor smoothed into coziness.
It was going to be a good day.
I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, stretching as I bent to pick them up from the floor—for someone who spent most of her time on her feet, my back was always in some sort of pain. I was out the door in a matter of minutes, smiling inside at the prospect of coffee and fresh pastries.
The bakery was a weekend ritual I had established since the very beginning, when I moved into the apartment and discovered this perfect boulangerie just around the corner from my building. They were strictly a bakery, except for the drip coffee and scalding milk they kept flowing back in the kitchen, which I suspected had originally been intended for the workers. But somehow word got out to the regulars about their comfy, strong, and impeccably French cafés au lait.
It was fairly warm for a November morning, so the doors of the boulangerie were wide open. I waltzed inside, greeting the French owner and baker with a cheerful "Bonjour!"
I wasn't usually in this early, and it seemed that most of their business came from the later weekend brunch crowd, which is why there was only one other customer in the bakery. He was standing at the counter, engaged in a friendly exchange in French with the owner. Tall, dark hair, strong posture—the man looked familiar.
"Mr. Hotchner?"
I had hardly recognized him in a sweatshirt and joggers. His hair was relaxed, the short strands at the front falling onto his forehead, slightly shifting when he inclined his head in agreement at something the man at the counter said. He looked so open and casual, almost boyish, without his tie or buttoned up collar.
Then, I remembered my own state of dress, and I wished I had allowed myself to go unnoticed. I was only here for my weekend baguette and pastries along with an extra large café au lait to take back into bed, which meant I was dressed in my comfiest sweats, my hair thrown back and away from my face, without a touch of makeup.
At least I had washed my face, which was more than could be said on some of the rougher weekends.
"Ida?" He turned around. "Good morning. It's good to see you."
"You too," I said. "You come here often?" Nice pick-up line, slick. Obviously, I needed coffee ASAP.
Hotchner shook his head graciously. "I came out for a run and thought I should stop by this place. One of my coworkers has been talking about it for a while."
"I recommend the pain au chocolat. I've tried it all, so trust me."
"Everything?" His brows shot up as he looked around at the formidable selection of pastries.
I smiled sheepishly. To be fair, I was known for having a sweet tooth. "Another secret I'll let you in on—this place has the best coffee in the neighborhood."
"Coffee?" He asked.
"Shh, keep it down," I said playfully. "Only for the regulars."
"Good to know. Thanks for the tip." He turned to the baker. "Deux pains au chocolat, s'il vous plaît."
"Et pour moi deux pains au chocolat, deux croissants, un chausson, et une baguette," I said, adding to his order. "Et aussi deux cafés, merci."
"That's quite the order," Hotchner said.
"Those," I said, pointing to the pastries that the baker was gathering into a paper bag, "are my weekend plans."
Hotchner only smiled and shook his head as he reached for his wallet.
"No, it's on me." I stopped him quickly. "It's the least I can do to thank you for the other day."
The good thing about authentic bakeries is that they know exactly how good their products are and how much they ought to cost, which means they don't overcharge—ideal for my student budget. The whole thing only came to about fifteen dollars.
Then, I don't know if it was my pre-caffeinated state or the way Hotchner looked in joggers, but I was somehow emboldened to say:
"Actually, my apartment is just around the corner, if you want your umbrella back."
I tried to keep my voice as even as possible. Professional.
Hotchner checked his watch, then seemed to decide he could spare a few minutes.
"Alright. Lead the way."
Since I had already paid for his breakfast, it was a lost cause to stop Hotchner from carrying my overstuffed bag of pastries.
Fortunately, it was a short walk to my apartment, but since my social ability had failed me the last time I had covered a short distance with Jack's dad, I kept my mouth occupied with trying to sip my hot coffee while in motion.
As we walked up the stairs to my apartment, I felt a rush of panic as I realized that my apartment very much looked like the home of a university student. That sinking feeling intensified in my chest as I gave it more thought—I was inviting homeowner and father Aaron Hotchner into my 900 square feet apartment.
"Are you alright, Ida?"
I had stopped in the middle of the steps, and Hotchner was looking up at me in concern.
"Yeah! Fine, sorry." I'll just grab his umbrella, then he can leave. He doesn't even have to come in. Would that be rude?
However, Hotchner was right behind me as I unlocked my door, and despite my reservations, I invited him inside.
"Come in, sorry for the mess." I quickly peered into Camille's room. It was empty. She had slept over at her girlfriend's after all.
"You said you were out here for a run? Can I get you some water?" I asked, making my way into the kitchen. When I looked back, I noticed that he was still standing by the door, observing the items on the small table that was by the entrance.
I wasn't necessarily a hoarder, but when you were running around most of the time, things tended to... pile up, to say the least. Bits of mail, odd papers, scholarly journals Camille and I subscribed to but never had time to read, and, of course, the occasional glittery trinkets that somehow tagged home with me from the classroom in my bags and pockets.
Hotchner picked up a small pink dinosaur made of play-doh and held it out to me.
"This is Jack's, isn't it?"
I took it from his hand, surprised at his uncanny guess. "Yeah, how'd you know?" I asked.
He smiled. "His favorite color's pink," he said, shifting the large paper bag to his other side.
"Oh, here, you can put that down on the counter," I offered, clearing a space on the kitchen counter, which was also cluttered with my schoolwork. "Thanks for carrying them—you didn't have to."
"Not a problem. This is a nice place you've got, Miss Ida," he said politely, glancing around the room in a sweeping gaze characteristic of a detective taking in a crime scene.
I blushed, avoiding his gaze. The place certainly looked chaotic enough to be a crime scene. I knew this was a bad idea. Stupid, uncaffeinated Ida. "I think you can call me Ida at this point. Especially now that you've seen where I live."
Another small smile appeared on Hotchner's face. It was cute, the way the corners of his mouth lifted just slightly, the ends of his brows coming together and rising just a fraction of an inch. What I would give to see that man fully smile. I found myself wondering about the tenor of his laugh, whether his eyes would close or just crinkle enough to line the edges.
It was definitely rude to daydream about a man who was sitting just a couple of feet away from you. I shook myself out of it and focused on the task of pouring water into a glass.
"Thanks, Ida," he said as I handed him the glass.
"Feel free to sit down. Dig into a croissant," I said. "I'll go grab your umbrella."
That was easier said than done. Even though it had only been a few days since our rainy encounter, the living space clutter had piled up, and though I could have sworn I had placed Hotchner's umbrella right under the window, it was nowhere to be seen.
I started moving piles of paper around, looked under the couch, checked both bedrooms. Still no dice.
"Mr. Hotcher, I'm sorry, I don't think I can—"
"You're not just a full-time teacher, are you?" Hotchner was holding one of my scholarly magazines. Journal of Child Psychology and Psychiatry.
"Uh, no. I'm a graduate student, and teaching is a part of my research," I answered as I ducked under a pile of hanging fabric to check behind the coatrack again. I guess he really did work for the government, if his deductive skills were any indication.
Finally, I gave up and joined him at the kitchen counter. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hotchner. I thought I had it around. I'll get it to you as soon as I find it. I'm planning on cleaning the place tomorrow, so hopefully it should turn up then."
Hotchner still hadn't touched any of the bags.
"Can I get you a plate or something?" I asked.
His tall form was hunched over the counter, his hands clasped in front of him. His head was cast downward as well, but his eyes were directed upward, his gaze darting around the kitchen. His brows furrowed as they took in the mismatched tea tins, the cheap, branded mugs acquired from university events, the uneven paint on the shelves chipping away.
I looked away, giving the rest of my apartment another pathetic glance. It looked in even poorer state than before, since I had rummaged through it, and the sun's rays were sharper now, with none of the gray softness of the morning to blur the imperfections, the stark light now highlighting all the mess and clutter.
In that moment, it hit me how wrong this all felt. The parent of one of my students was in my apartment, sitting at my kitchen counter, on a Saturday morning, and I was wearing clothes that could pass as pajamas.
And I could tell that Hotchner felt it too.
He cleared his throat and made to get up. "Thank you for the water, Ida. Don't worry about the umbrella—consider it yours."
"Oh," I said simply. "Are you sure?"
"I should get going," he said, checking his watch. He grabbed his own small bag of pastries. The crinkling of the paper was too loud in the quiet that had fallen over the tense atmosphere. "These were for Jack. I should get back to him."
"Right."
"Enjoy your weekend, Ida."
Then, he was gone. His long strides had carried him out the door before I could even try to walk him out.
I grabbed my coffee and pastries and trudged back into my room. It was too bright. The brilliant sun was mocking, so I shut it out with my dark green curtains. I felt hot, but I couldn't bring myself to lose the comfort of my sweatshirt, so I instead burrowed into my bed covers, the crisp fabric providing some cool relief against my hot skin.
Why did I think that I could bring Aaron Hotchner into my life? What right do I have as his son's teacher to be a part of his life? I hardly knew him, and he was more than twenty years my senior. Now not only did he think of me as a pathetic kid lusting after him, but on top of that, irresponsible and unprofessional, and probably unfit to be his son's teacher.
"Ida?"
Camille was back. She was wearing a long-sleeved rugby shirt with her girlfriend's jersey number printed behind the collar and the same jeans she had worn yesterday. Her short bob was perfectly tousled, her eyes tired but bright.
"Some guy I've never seen before just left our building, is he yours?" she asked, stopping at my bedroom door with a crooked smile.
That smile faded when she saw what state I was in.
"Oh, hey. What happened?" Her face grew concerned. "He didn't do anything, did he? I fucking swear, I'll smash his wrinkly face in with my cleats if—"
"No, nothing happened," I said with a weak attempt at a smile.
Camille didn't seem convinced. "Okay," she said. "I just stopped by to grab my bag—Rina and I are getting breakfast. But the offer still stands."
"Thanks."
I settled back further into the blankets, holding my cup of coffee close to my chest, hoping to find some solace in flaky pastry. Even behind my dark curtains, I could tell that the unusually hot winter sun was cutting its way through the frigid sky, warming the air and earth and everything else outside.
It was almost December, and the school's second parent-teacher conference of the year would be taking place soon, which Brad had told me was my responsibility. For whatever reason, he avoided interacting with the parents whenever he could, even though he seemed plenty friendly with them. Lazy bastard.
Parent conferences also signaled the end of the term, which meant loads of work, not to mention data compilation from the study. And on top of my own term papers—Ugh. I groaned just imagining how the next few weeks would feel.
So much for having a restful weekend. I had work to get ahead on. And a house to clean, I reminded myself.
But for now, I just held onto my coffee, pulling the blankets higher around my shoulders in an attempt to shut out my worries and shield myself from my problems, one of which was a certain Aaron Hotchner.
When they say they’re “going to bed” do they actually mean they’re going to sleep or do they mean they’re going to read/play on their phone/etc in bed for a while?
What do they wear when they sleep? (if anything at all)
Do they watch/listen to anything to help them fall asleep?
Do they sleep with a night light on or prefer total darkness?
What position do they sleep in?
Do they cuddle/snuggle with anything while they sleep?
Do they have insomnia or do they fall asleep easily?
How many hours of sleep do they get?
Are they a heavy sleeper or a light sleeper?
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