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Incendiary

pairing: ⸝⸝ Diluc Ragnvindr x Fem! Reader ⸝⸝

word count: 2.1k (2,158)

warnings: SMUT ahead, explicit depictions of oral sex and suggestive themes, power dynamics, public/semi-public s3x, alcohol consumption, dubious consent, size difference, rough intimacy (he's down bad for you), secret relationship(?)

The moon hung low and heavy over Mondstadt, a silver coin tossed against the raven black of the night sky. Behind the Angel’s Share, the world felt smaller, reduced to the rough texture of brick against your back and the overwhelming heat of the man pressed against you. The muffled sounds of laughter and clinking glass from inside the tavern were a distant sound, drowned out by the heavy, uneven thrum of your own heart and your shared breathing.

#diluc ragnvindr #reader #Diluc x reader #fem! reader #diluc x fem! reader #mondstadt cast #smut #drunken shenanigans #alleyway #workplace tension #friend to lovers #I wrote this instead of sleeping #genshin diluc #diluc genshin impact #genshin impact #genshin impact smut

✦ PULSE POINT ✦

PULSE POINT • 15 • NOTHING CHANGED

Summary: Back in the hospital, everything looks the same—and nothing is. They fall into perfect rhythm under pressure, holding the line exactly where they’re supposed to. But restraint has a limit, and by the end of the shift, something has to give.

Warnings / Content Notes:

workplace power dynamic (attending / resident)

medical trauma/emergency scene (non-graphic but intense)

emotional tension and restraint

sexism/authority dismissal (handled, non-graphic)

physical intimacy (intense kissing)

high emotional stakes

Recommended Listening:

Reader's Song: Gold – Kiiara

Jack's Song: Human– Rag'n'Bone Man

Bonus Track: Dangerous Woman - Ariana Grande

Chapter 15: Nothing Changed

Abracadabra, My Heart

✧ 🪄 𝐹𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝒲𝑒𝒶𝓈𝓁𝑒𝓎 𝒙 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 🪄 ✧

Summary: In this Muggle AU, Fred Weasley works as a stage magician, hiding a little real magic behind his tricks. You become his assistant, and between smoke, glitter, and constant flirting, the line between act and reality starts to blur.

Warning: Features the idiots in love, workplace tension, slowburn with accidental pining, flirty banter, stage mishaps, and one dangerously charming magician who uses real magic for fake tricks — and one very real kiss.

You hadn’t expected the flyer to be real. “Assistant needed — must be good with glitter, not afraid of smoke, and willing to put up with terrible jokes.” It was taped to the noticeboard outside the café, half-hidden under a poster for lost kittens. You’d laughed, snapped a photo, and sent it to your friend with the caption this sounds like my kind of disaster. Two days later, you were standing backstage in a community theatre surrounded by fake top hats, silk scarves, and one very real red-haired man arguing with a rabbit.

Fred Weasley looked like someone who belonged on a stage — all restless energy and lopsided grin. His sleeves were rolled up, his wand-thin fingers twirling a deck of cards as if they were alive. “You must be the brave soul answering my ad,” he said, flashing you a grin that made it sound like a dare. “Hope you’re not allergic to smoke. Or frogs.”

“I thought this was a magician’s act,” you replied, eyeing the chaos. “Not a zoo.”

“Ah, but the line between art and madness is terribly thin,” he said solemnly, then ruined the effect by sneezing as the rabbit kicked up hay. You tried not to laugh and failed, which made him beam as if he’d already won something.

Rehearsals were… unpredictable. On your first day, the bouquet you were meant to pull from a hat turned out to be an entire handful of confetti that exploded in your face. On the second, his disappearing-coin trick somehow swallowed your bracelet, only to have it appear three hours later in your cup of tea. “I swear, I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he said, eyes dancing. “The tea part, at least. The vanishing bit went perfectly.”

You learned quickly that his charm wasn’t just for the audience. Fred flirted like it was breathing — constant, easy, reckless — yet there was warmth under it, a genuine joy that made it hard to stay annoyed. You told yourself you were immune. You were not. Every rehearsal left you grinning, glitter-covered, and slightly more intrigued by the boy who could make playing cards dance through the air.

The first real show was a disaster in the way only his shows could be. The lights flickered, the music skipped, and halfway through the levitation trick, the rope holding the prop snapped. You squeaked as you nearly fell, but Fred caught you, one arm around your waist, the other still holding his wand-like baton. The audience gasped. Fred looked at you, smirked, and whispered, “See? You really do take my breath away.” You rolled your eyes, but your pulse betrayed you. When he finally set you down, the applause was deafening, and you couldn’t tell if it was for the trick or for the moment that felt dangerously real.

Afterward, as you helped him pack up, you found yourself laughing over every mistake. “You’re impossible,” you told him. He grinned, tucking a stray bit of glitter from your hair behind your ear. “And yet, you keep showing up.”

He had a way of blurring the line between rehearsed and spontaneous. Sometimes he’d practice late at night, muttering to himself as cards hovered in the air — you never noticed the faint shimmer that wasn’t just stage lighting. Other times, he’d bring you coffee with your name spelled wrong on purpose. When you teased him about his handwriting, he said, “I like keeping you guessing.” You didn’t tell him you liked it too.

Weeks turned into months. The two of you moved from small cafés to proper stages. His shows grew more elaborate, your part more central. Once, when the smoke machine broke, he conjured a shimmering curtain of sparks behind you with nothing but a flick of his wrist. The audience gasped; you swore you’d seen genuine magic. He only winked. “Trade secret.”

He had dozens of lines ready — some ridiculous, some sweet — but sometimes he’d look at you like he’d forgotten the script entirely. Those were the moments that lingered. The way his voice softened when he said your name, the way he stood too close when showing you how to hold the prop wand, the way laughter always dissolved into something quieter, something almost fragile.

One rainy night after a show, you stayed behind to help him clean up. The theatre was empty, echoing with the sound of rain on the roof. Fred was unusually quiet, twisting one of his cards between his fingers. You nudged him with your elbow. “What’s wrong? You finally run out of terrible jokes?”

He looked up, smile crooked. “Just thinking. All this time I’ve been trying to make things appear out of nowhere — doves, flowers, whatever — but you…” He hesitated, then shook his head, chuckling softly. “You’re the only magic I can’t explain.”

You tried to deflect, to tease, but your voice came out smaller than you meant. “You’re laying it on thick tonight.”

“I mean it,” he said simply, stepping closer. “Every trick I’ve done was to get you to laugh, to look at me like you do when the lights hit and you forget the crowd’s there.”

You felt your heart trip over itself. “You don’t need tricks for that, Fred.”

He blinked, and for once, he had no comeback. The rain pattered harder, and the smell of smoke and stage paint hung between you. Then he reached out, his fingers brushing yours — hesitant, almost shy. You caught his hand before he could pull away.

The kiss wasn’t planned. It wasn’t grand or dramatic. It just happened, the way his best tricks did — effortless, startling, inevitable. You tasted rain and laughter and the faint tang of sugar from the sweets he was always eating. When you finally pulled back, you were both grinning like idiots.

“So,” he murmured, thumb tracing your cheek, “does this mean you’re finally falling for me?”

You laughed, breathless. “You’ve been trying for months. It’d be rude not to.”

He leaned his forehead against yours, whispering, “Guess the trick worked after all.”

“Which one?” you asked.

“The one where I make your heart disappear,” he said, then grinned as you swatted at him. “Straight into my hands.”

You groaned. “You ruin everything with your lines.”

“And yet,” he teased, voice low, “you’re still here.”

You didn’t bother replying — you just kissed him again, and this time he didn’t need smoke or mirrors to make the world vanish. Only Fred, his laughter against your mouth, and the kind of magic that didn’t need wands or words at all.

Part II _ Protocol: Protecting Connor

Connor RK800 Detroit:Become Human Words: 1789

*Trigger Warnings* android discrimination, workplace hostility, emotional manipulation, existential themes, CyberLife control/coercion, implied deviancy, tension/anxiety, mild verbal aggression, hurt/comfort, slow-burn romance, identity crisis, emotional vulnerability, brief mentions of violence/threats, software instability/malfunction themes

The Zen Garden appeared in fragments now.

Not because Connor’s systems were failing — CyberLife would never allow something so inefficient — but because something inside him had begun interrupting the clean perfection of the simulation.

The water should have reflected the evening sky flawlessly.

Recharge Deferred

Pairings: Starscream/Reader (Y/N)

Summary: Working late in her dimly lit quarters, (Y/N) barely looks up when Starscream storms in to vent about Megatron. But when his rant dies mid-sentence and his servos find her hips, neither of them can explain why this feels different from anything they've known before. He runs before he can explain. She's left wondering if there'll be a next time.

Warnings: None / General audiences. Suggestive tension, mild intimacy (hand on hip). No explicit content. Slow-burn.

The glow of the neon screen painted (Y/N)'s faceplate in shifting hues of cyan and violet, the only light source in her quarters save for the dim strip of illumination running along the floor's edge. Her (e/c) optic flickered—just once, a barely perceptible stutter in its brightness—as it darted across line after line of data scrolling down the monitor. Evidence, plain as polished chrome, that she was long overdue for recharge. The kind of recharge that came with a locked door, a darkened berth, and absolutely no further obligations to anyone wearing a Decepticon badge.

Three more files. Just three more and I can power down.

Her pointed digits moved across the keypad with practiced efficiency, each press accompanied by the soft click of mechanisms engaging beneath the tips. Click. Click-click. Click. A rhythm as steady as a sparkbeat, the only orderly thing in an otherwise chaotic evening. The overhead lighting was off by choice; the screen's luminescence was enough to work by, and it kept the headache behind her optic sensors from sharpening into something truly unbearable.

"—and does Megatron listen? No. Does Megatron even pretend to consider an alternative strategy? No. It's 'Starscream, your aerial assault lacks vision' this, and 'Starscream, I do not require your input on troop deployment' that, as though I haven't been leading seekers since before half this army was forged—"

Starscream's voice cut through the relative quiet of her quarters like a null-ray through rusted plating. He was pacing. She could hear it in the way his pedes struck the floor—three steps one direction, sharp pivot, three steps back—the cadence of a mech who had been stewing in his own frustration for the better part of an orn and needed somewhere, someone, to pour it into. She'd become that someone without quite meaning to.

"Megatron this and Megatron that," Starscream went on, his tone climbing into that particular register that earned him his name, "as though his every word were gospel etched into the walls of Kaon itself! I could run this faction twice as efficiently with half the casualties, but no—no—because he has that voice, doesn't he, that voice and that fusion cannon and that—"

"yeah?" (Y/N) said, not looking up from her screen. Her digit hovered over the next key. "tell me more."

She typed another response into the communications log, replying to a query Starscream hadn't even realized he'd asked her to file earlier. The Decepticon network required constant maintenance, and someone had to handle the busywork that the Second in Command couldn't be bothered to track. That someone, apparently, was her. She didn't mind. It was quiet work. It kept her out of the corridors when the higher ranks were at each other's throats.

Though 'out of the corridors' clearly doesn't mean 'out of my own quarters,' she thought wryly.

"Just once," Starscream continued, his pacing growing more agitated, "just once I'd like Megatron to do as I say. But no. He gets everyone to listen to him without a second thought. One word from him and the entire ranks fall into line like freshly minted vehicons off an assembly line. And me? The one mech in this miserable ship with an actual tactical education? I might as well be a background prop in his glorious war—"

He threw his servos up into the non-existent air in exasperation, the joints in his shoulders whirring with the force of the gesture, and let them drop back to his sides with a hollow clang of plating meeting plating. The sound echoed briefly off the bare walls of her quarters.

"are you even listening to me!"

The sharp spike in his voice—pitched higher than it had been even a moment ago—made (Y/N) jump in her seat. Her wings twitched hard behind her, the mechanisms in their joints snapping taut in an involuntary startle response, the tips lifting several inches before she caught herself. Her digits slipped on the keypad, producing an errant clack that broke her rhythm entirely.

Primus, he's loud.

She swiveled in her chair to face him, and the motion brought her faceplate directly inline with—

Oh.

—Starscream, who had closed the distance between them without her noticing. He stood directly in front of her chair, close enough that she could see the fine etching along the edges of his nasal ridge, close enough that the heat radiating from his vents brushed against her chest plating in faint waves. The S.I.C. of the entire Decepticon army, inches from her. Her spark gave a single, hard thump against its housing.

"o-of course I was, commander," she managed, her voice climbing an octave against her will. She cleared her intake, trying to bring it back down. "and I understand what you mean."

Understand. Sure. Understand that he's a clicks away from combusting and you're the closest thing to a sympathetic audio receptor in three sectors.

Her cheepplates tinted a faint, unmistakable blue—the Cybertronian equivalent of a blush, the thermals in her face plating spiking despite her best efforts to keep them regulated. She leaned back in her seat as far as the chair's backrest would allow, which wasn't nearly far enough. The distance between them had collapsed to something intimate, and every sensor in her frame was screaming about it at once.

What is wrong with me?

This was... new. Unsettlingly new. Back on Cybertron, before the war had scattered her across the stars and deposited her, eventually, aboard the Nemesis, she'd had plenty of mechs get close. Too close, usually. Most of them overcharged on high grade, their processors swimming in contaminated energon, their servos wandering where they weren't welcome. She'd learned to handle that. Handle them. A firm shove, a sharp word, sometimes an elbow to a sensitive joint if they were particularly persistent. She'd never felt this—this strange, fluttering heat in her spark chamber, this hyperawareness of another mech's proximity, this absurd impulse to not pull away.

Why is it different this time?

She'd only been aboard the Nemesis a few weeks. A transfer from a remote outpost, a seeker with a useful skill set in communications and data management, nothing remarkable. She'd expected to be ignored at best, mistreated at worst. She had not expected the Second in Command to take notice of her within her first cycle and proceed to seek her out, again and again, with increasingly thin excuses. I need these files cross-referenced. Lord Megatron requires a status report on the eastern relay—see to it. Your quarters were on the way.

Her quarters were never on the way.

He's just stressed. He's always stressed. This is what stressed mechs look like when they—

Her thoughts dissolved.

Starscream was staring at her. Not at her, exactly. Into her. His crimson optics had locked onto hers with an intensity that had nothing to do with annoyance or impatience or any of the emotions she'd learned to read on his faceplate over the past few weeks. His rant had trailed off mid-sentence. His mouth had parted slightly, the corners slack, and his dermas pressed together as though he'd just realized he'd been speaking and had forgotten what about.

He's not blinking.

Why wasn't he blinking?

The truth—and Starscream himself was only dimly aware of it, the way one is dimly aware of a fault line shifting beneath one's pedes—was that he was faring considerably worse than she was.

What am I doing.

He'd known, from the moment she'd spoken her first word to him—a calm, clipped "yes, commander, I'll have that sorted within the joor"—that she was a problem. A weakness. A vulnerability in his plating he hadn't asked for and couldn't afford. He was Starscream. He did not have weaknesses. He had ambitions, he had grudges, he had plans layered atop plans layered atop contingencies. He did not have feelings about femmes who typed efficiently and smelled faintly of ionized coolant and looked at him with those (e/c) optics like he was just another mech with a job to do rather than the most important mech aboard this wretched ship.

She didn't flinch when I raised my voice. She never flinches. Everyone flinches.

He'd told himself he was just checking in. Routine. The communications log needed verification; she was the one handling it; it was his responsibility as S.I.C. to ensure the work was done. Perfectly reasonable. The fact that he'd walked halfway across the Nemesis to do it in person, rather than simply pinging her over the comms, was—

Inefficient. It was inefficient. That's all.

Except now he was standing close enough to count the individual micro-etchings along the edges of her optic housings, and the reasonable, efficient, tactical part of his processor had gone very, very quiet, and a different part—a part he did not acknowledge in daylight hours—was supplying him with increasingly inappropriate observations about the curve of her waist plating and the way her wings angled when she was startled and the soft whir of her cooling fans cycling up behind her cheepplates and—

Stop.

He didn't stop.

His thoughts, unmoored from his better judgment, drifted. Her frame, so much slighter than his beneath the similar seeker architecture. The way the dim light caught the edges of her (s/c) plating and turned it almost luminous. What it would be like to press his palm flat against the plating of her back, between her wings, where the heat sink vents pulsed with her spark's rhythm. What it would be like to—

Stop. Stop. Stop.

"starscream?" she asked.

His name, in her voice, snapped him back like a rubber band stretched past its tolerance. He blinked—once, twice, rapidly—and the haze in his processor cleared enough for him to comprehend what he was seeing. Her faceplate, tilted up toward his. Her (e/c) optics, wide and searching and uncertain. The blue tint bleeding through her cheepplates, unmistakable.

Oh no.

Oh, no, no, no.

His own cheepplates burned in answer. He could feel the thermals spiking beneath his plating, his cooling fans kicking on with an audible whir that he desperately hoped she couldn't hear. He looked away. Looked at the wall. Looked at the floor. Looked at anything that wasn't her.

She coughed—a soft, deliberate sound, not the result of a faulty intake but a signal, the kind of polite, restrained indication of discomfort that a well-mannered femme used when she didn't want to outright say you're standing too close, back up.

She's uncomfortable. You've made her uncomfortable. Smooth. Excellent. Very tactical of you, Commander.

His servos, which he had not consciously commanded to do anything of the sort, had settled on her hips. Slim hips, beneath the curved plating of her seeker frame. His digits had curled against the metal—light pressure, barely there, but there—and he could feel the warmth of her chassis bleeding through the seams where his fingertips met her plating. The contact sent a shiver through his own struts, involuntary and damning.

She shivered beneath his touch. A fine tremor that ran through her wings and down her back struts, visible in the way the tips of her wings fluttered.

When did I—

He tightened his grip. Slightly. Just enough to feel the give of the plating beneath his digits, the subtle shift of underlying mechanisms.

Let go.

He didn't let go.

Let GO.

He let go.

His servos retreated to his sides as though burned, fingers curling into his palms hard enough that the joints creaked. He took a half-step back. Then another. The distance between them widened, and the air that filled the gap felt cold, somehow, despite the regulated temperature of the quarters.

"my apologies," he mumbled, the words coming out half-static through a vocalizer that had momentarily lost its composure. He cleared his intake. "I— that was— I didn't intend to—"

He didn't finish the sentence. Couldn't, really, because to finish it would require acknowledging what that was, and he was not prepared to do that in front of her, in front of anyone, in front of the silent walls of her quarters that were absolutely going to remember this and judge him for it forever.

He turned. Briskly. The kind of turn that said this conversation is over and we will never speak of it again. His wings hitched high on his back, rigid with tension, their tips nearly vibrating. He moved toward the exit of her quarters with long, clipped strides, pedes striking the floor with more force than strictly necessary.

(Y/N) opened her mouth to say something—she wasn't sure what, only that the words were forming somewhere in her vocal processor and wanted out—starscream, wait, it's——but the berthroom door slid shut with a soft pneumatic hiss before she could give them voice. The latch engaged with a click. Then silence. The kind of silence that pressed against the audio receptors and made the absence of another presence feel like a physical weight.

She sat there. Staring at the closed door.

He left.

The fluttering in her spark hadn't stopped. If anything, the absence of his proximity made it worse—the beat of her spark against its housing unsteady, irregular, chasing a rhythm it had almost synced to. She pressed a servo to her chest plating, over her spark chamber, as though she could physically still it.

What is wrong with me.

The answer, had she been honest with herself, was lurking somewhere in the back of her processor behind a barricade of I'll deal with that later. She'd felt it building for weeks. Every time he'd shown up at her quarters with another flimsy excuse. Every time his optics had lingered a klik too long. Every time he'd said her name in that particular tone—half-annoyed, half-something-else—and she'd had to pretend it didn't make her cooling fans kick on.

She leaned back against her desk, the edge of it pressing into the small of her back struts, her computer still humming softly behind her. The screen's glow had shifted to a screensaver—slowly rotating Decepticon insignias, purple on black—and she watched them spin without really seeing them.

Her wings shifted. Settled. Shifted again, restless, the mechanisms in their joints twitching in small involuntary adjustments. She couldn't get comfortable. Couldn't find the angle that would let her frame relax into its usual idle state. The ghost of his grip lingered on her hips, a phantom pressure that her sensors insisted on replaying.

He grabbed me.

Starscream grabbed me.

And then he ran.

She shook her helm, a sharp, definitive motion, as though she could physically dislodge the memory. It didn't work. The image of his face—cheepplates flushed blue, optics wide and startled and hungry in a way he clearly hadn't meant for her to see—stayed stubbornly fixed behind her own optics.

He looked at me like—

She didn't finish the thought.

A long vent of warm air escaped her intake, fogging briefly in the cool recycled atmosphere of her quarters before dissipating. Her wings finally settled, drooping slightly in a posture that, to anyone who knew seeker body language, read as something between disappointment and exhaustion.

Maybe next time he'll explain what happened.

The thought was small, tired, more hope than expectation. She reached back over her shoulder and flicked off the computer's main display. The room plunged into near-darkness, lit only by the thin strip of floor lighting and the faint, persistent glow of a status indicator on her console. Recharge. She needed recharge. Her optics were dragging, her frame heavy with the accumulated debt of too many late cycles spent hunched over a keyboard.

She pushed off from the desk and made her way toward her berth, pedes heavy, wings low.

Maybe next time.

The berth's surface was cool against her back plating as she lay down, and her optics dimmed, and the hum of the ship's systems filled the quiet with a sound almost like breathing, and somewhere—several corridors away, behind a door he'd locked twice for good measure—Starscream was leaning his helm against the wall with his servos pressed flat to his own spark chamber, wondering exactly the same thing.

What is wrong with me?

⠀ roses n thorns ⠀⠀﹒⠀　a.h x reader

this work includes / may include : rossi!reader, age gap (8 years), reader was born in 1979, aaron was born in 1971, reader is heavily italian, reader works at the bau, angst, rude!aaron because hes a sucker and doesnt know how to come to terms that he likes Y/N, fluff at the end, canon typical violence, fem!afab reader, reader is literally a ball of sunshine, religion mentions.

summary : when Y/N Rossi joins the bau at the recommendation of her father; aaron hotchner cant possibly see past the fact that she is far too happy to be in this field.

wc: 11.2k

The first thing aaron hotchner notices about Y/N is the smile plastered on her face and the box of canolis’ in her hands as she greets her new coworkers; he stares from his office window, arms crossed over his chest.

When the girl makes a b-line for his office a heavy grumble leaves his chest, he expects her to barge right in, but instead; she knocks and waits there patiently, holding the box of canolis’ in her hands.

He answers the door and she looks up to meet his gaze, that same sickly sweet smile plastered on her face, it makes his stomach turn and his chest feels like thousands of thorns are encircling it; he had only ever felt this way about Haley, and that was when he was in private school.

“Ah! SSA Hotchner right? my father said you’re the boss of this place.. he also told me that you like his canoli recipe.. so i uh, prepared a box of them last night” She smiles, and he can recognise that heavy twinge of italian in her voice, much like he can her fathers.

“Yes. That’s me, and you’re Y/N Rossi, correct?” He grumbles, and she notices how uncomfortable he looks, her brain flooding with thoughts before she stops herself; she’s not even been in the building an hour and she’s already accidentally profiled her new boss.

“Yes sir, that’s me.. where should i place these?” She squeaks, almost nervously, the confidence she once carried herself with dissipating into nothing, the smile also dropping from her face, in exchange for a nervous bite of her lip.

“The break room fridge, agent. it’s down the mezzanine to the left.” His arms still crossed over his chest, his eyes scanning the woman in front of him; watching as she walks away.

“Thankyou sir, i’ll be on my way now, goodbye” She mutters, and he could wear he heard her voice crack as she left.

He starts to feel bad, but he can’t place his finger on why, but when you leave, the thorns in his chest slowly unwind themself, and he’s at ease once more.

In the roundtable room, you take your seat inbetween your father and your newfound friend Emily Prentiss, you engage in friendly chatter as everyone filters in; and eventually the brightly and beautifully dressed tech analyst, Penelope takes the remote, clicking it to show the photos of 4 men, all without their eyes and a cross carved into their left thighs.

“These men were found in alleyways all over arkansas last week; the local PD didn’t think much of it until they got.. this letter” She pauses before a note on worn lined paper flashes up, an intricate rose stamped onto it.

You speak up, gesturing to the crosses on the men’s thighs; your father looking at you approvingly; “Those aren’t christian crosses.. they’re upside down those are petrine crosses, more recently dubbed the saint peters cross, it’s possible the killer believes he’s not high enough next to god to carve a christian cross; as peter crucified himself upside down because he believed he wasn’t as worthy as jesus..”

Hotch only stares as Spencer nods at youe statement, chiming in “Y/N is correct; he may believe that these killings are for god, and that they’re messages.”

And then penelope shows something else on screen; “Well.. it gets so much worse, my religious geniuses, because their eyes were found near them with bronze chains next to them..”

Hotch finally pipes up, asking the table for input and he rolls his eyes when you pipe up again.

“That’s similar to Jeremiah 39:7.. Zedekiah watched his sons be put to death and then his eyes were put out where he was bound with bronze chains and he was dragged to babylon..” You wince at the cold eyes of hotch as you look at Emily; she only shrugs her shoulders.

When you and Emily arrive at the latest crime scene of the victim, you lift the tape; stepping under it and holding it for your partner, you greet the local detective at the scene.

“Hello i’m Agent Y/N Rossi, and this is Agent Emily prentiss..” you smile, though it’s not as bright as the ones you extended to your coworkers, afterall you’re at the resting place of a victim.

“Detective Peter Warner, Fayetteville PD.” The slightly shorter man speaks as he shakes your hand.

“Do you know anything about who found the body, and when? we weren’t briefed on that..” Emily asks, and you nod, crouching down at one of the evidence cards, shifting one of the bronze chains, your eyes widening.

“Emily! cmere look, theres.. theres a- oh holy fuck!!” You jump when you realise what you had touched was a slab of skin, specifically with a rose tattoo on it.

“What?! oh what the.. is that the victims skin??” She crouches next to you, picking up the dirt and pebble covered flesh in her hands.

“Yeah- it it’s.. wait a second; let me call up the office real quick..” You mutter, stepping back to make a call as emily requests an ice bag.

“This is SSA Derek morgan, what’s poppin’ sweetcheeks?” His voice rings out, and you roll your eyes softly.

“Ha-ha Derek.. anyway, do you know if any slices of flesh where found at the crime scene.. or if any of the victims had rose tattoos?” You ask, looking back as Emily holds up the bag with the flesh in, you grimace.

“Uhh.. yeah; they all had rose tattoos.. why’d ya ask?” Derek chimes over the phone, you can hear the chatter of the department over the phone.

“Well me and Emily just found a piece of flesh from the victim, with a rose tattoo on it.. i believe this might mean something to the unsub, maybe something religious again.. we’ll be back at the station soon” You walk back over to Emily, sighing softly as you get back into the SUV.

Back at the station you lean over the files, biting your lip softly; staring at the tattoos of the victims, all cut off with a razor blade.

“Hey, papa can you come over here for a second?” You call out to your father, and it feels like recently everywhere your father goes that pertains to you and the case, Hotch follows.

“Which bible verse was about roses and brides.. was it Song of Solomon 2:1-2?” You mutter softly, tapping the end of your pen on your lip.

“Why yes Picolla Mia; it does.. the bride replies-”

“I am the rose of Sharon and lily of the valley..” You cut him off, immediately dialling up Penleope; your brows knitted together tightly as you exhale.

“Office of Unfettered Omniscience. Penelope Garcia is in. Speak, oh fortunate one.” Penelope Answers, and a small giggle escapes your mouth.

“Hiya penny it’s Y/N.. can you search the names of the wives of all four men for me?” You speak, hearing her hum in approval.

“Sunshine, I can run marriage certificates from here and still participate in simultaneous Tetris tournaments.” She hums, you snicker again.

“Okay.. are any of them named Sharon and Lily?” You ask, and Garcia gasps.

“Oh my god what a freaky coincidence.. yes- All of them are named Sharon and lily..” She sounds scared, and you look at the brooding figure of your boss behind you.

“and where they married for number’s with 1 & 2 in them?” Your voice quavers softly, writing it down quickly in your cursive handwriting.

“yes.. victim one- Hector Mariposa was married to Sharon Mariposa for 21 years.. victim two- Nikita Ivan was married to Lily Ivan for 12 years.. victim three- vitores fausto was married to Sharon Lily Fausto for 1 and 2 months at his time of death. and victim four- Abram Katz, to his wife Lily for 12 years..” She sounds like shes going to puke.

After 6 more gruellingly tension, religious and gore filled days you finally caught the unsub, Brian Vitores; a schizophrenic tattoo artist and ordained officiant.

He would tattoo the men he killed, and them weasel his way into the lives, and he had in turn ended up officiating their weddings, because he was close to them; at first it was a coincidence they all had rose tattoos and wives named Sharon and Lily, and their dates contained the numbers 1 and 2.

But when his religious psychosis began, he believed he should kill them for god, because only god would bless them with such wives.

On the plane back home, you slumped into your seat, staring at the roof as you hear Hotch over the other side of the plane, you frown softly as he seems so free and happy with the others.

You stand and pour yourself a glass of red wine, sitting back in your seat as you sip on it, starting to read your book with your headphones in.

And before you knew it, you had landed; you pick up your bags, but not before Hotch stops you, you look up at him, not with the same smile you once had during your first encounter.

“Agent Y/N, we need to talk about your workplace condcut. you cannot be laughing during such a serious moment, especially not in the middle of the station.” He says to you, and you feel tears well in your eyes, you dab them away subtly.

“Yes sir, I apologise.” You speak solomnly, and you push past him, walking to your car in the parking lot, quickly sliding into the seat, turning it on and beginning the drive home.

In your head you can’t tell yourself why your boss seems to dislike you so much, you can feel your phone buzzing in the cup holder, it’s JJ.

“Hiya JJ- i’m on my way home, what’s wrong?” You sigh, pulling up into the driveway of your home, locking your car as you sit and talk to JJ.

“We were going to invite you out for drinks, me and rest of the team but we couldn’t find you anywhere.. are you okay?” She asks, her voice concerned and confused.

“Y-yeah.. i just, had a bad encounter with Hotch on the plain, he uhm. doesn’t seem to like me all too much.” You whimper, tears smudging your mascara down your face.

“Yeah.. me, em and spence noticed that, i’m not sure what he’s doing at all.. i’m so sorry girl..” She say’s empathetically.

“I don’t know either, but he got quite angry that i laughed at how penelope answers her phone so i just left without a word..”

At your fathers house, it’s a pasta night and everyone from the BAU is gathered in the kitchen, you however already know how to cook this meal, and so you’re upstairs getting ready for the night.

You walk down the stairs, adorned in your designer attire, your hair curled, everyone’s eyes land on you as you pad over to stand next to Penleope.

By the time everyone has finished the pasta and a the glasses of whiskey and wine are flowing, you can only fees his eyes on you, and by his you mean aaron.

Being followed to the bathroom and cornered by him was also not on tonights bingo card but here he is, cornering you in a hallway.

“Listen Y/N you’re driving me crazy and i- i wanted to apologise for how horrible i’ve been toward you..” he mutters, his big hands moving to yours.

“It’s quite alright sir-” You mutter, desperately avoiding the eye contact he’s trying to engage in.

“Please, call me aaron..” He speaks, his voice softer now, he squeezes your hand gently too.

“I haven’t felt this way since i was a dumb teenager in private school.. and by this way i mean that i like you, Y/N Rossi.” He blurts out, and that makes you look at him now.

“I- i’m inclined to say i like you too, aaron.. you’re extremely handsome..” you admit, blush coating your face in a deep red tone.

“If you’ll allow me.. i’d like to take you on a date soon.. possibly wednesday, next week.” Aaron speaks, now holding your waist, his hands bigger than your waist by a long shot.

“Yes- i’d love to go on a date with you, Aaron.. wednesday sounds perfect.” You smile, and then it was set, you figured out why your boss hated you, he didn’t, he was just lovesick and confused.

Authors note: Hello my lovelies, this is my second fanfic in two days.. i’m finally out of writers block; so here’s something for my coworker enemies to lovers fans and my aaron fans :3

Hidden in Plain Sight: The Exquisite Tension of Bond/Q's Secret Workplace Romance

There's something uniquely compelling about James Bond and Q's dynamic that goes beyond the typical spy thriller fanfic romance. Their relationship exists in the space between professional necessity and personal desire, creating a tension that's both subtle and electric.

Most workplace romances involve the risk of HR complaints or awkward team meetings. Bond and Q's potential relationship carries the weight of international security and literal life-or-death consequences. When Q hands Bond a new gadget, he's not just doing his job, he's putting Bond's survival in his own hands. When Bond checks in from the field, he's not just following protocol, he's letting Q know he's alive. This transforms every professional interaction into something intimate. An equipment briefing becomes a moment of tender care disguised as technical instruction. A post-mission debrief becomes a quiet confession of relief that they're both still here, still whole.

What makes their dynamic so charged is how much they can't say or do in their professional environment. MI6 isn't exactly known for its progressive workplace policies, and both Bond and Q understand the risks of exposure, not just to their careers, but potentially to their lives and the lives of others.

#00q #james bond #q quartermaster #workplace romance #secret relationship #bond meta #skyfall #spectre #workplace tension #ship analysis

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60130975

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Agatha All Along (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Agatha Harkness/Rio Vidal, agathario - Relationship Characters: Agatha Harkness, Rio Vidal Additional Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, workplace tension, Police Procedural, Detective/Coroner Relationship, Verbal Sparring, Hurt/Comfort, Underlying Sexual Tension, Professional Rivalry, Light Angst, Found Family (Implied), Subtle flirting, Fluff, Softening Edges, mutual respect, First Meeting, Falling In Love Series: Part 2 of Agathario AU: “Secrets I have held in my heart are harder to hide than I thought.” Summary:

New coroner Rio Vidal’s flair and humor clash with Chief Detective Agatha Harkness’s no-nonsense attitude, fiery rivalry is born. But as sharp words leave soft edges, turning to unexpected connection, their professional bickering reveals a chemistry neither can ignore.